The Story of a Mess

I felt compelled to write this.

Because I feel like I portray an image of myself online that…isn’t the full substance of me. To you, I may seem…strong…confident, sure of myself…put together…I may seem like I know what I am doing…

…but that is just the image that I have crafted and perfected over 20 years so that people don’t know how much of a fucking mess I really am. That is the mask.

And now I am here to take it off completely.

As I sit here, writing this, I want to give you a picture of my brain…of what is going on inside of it right now.

I wonder if people will think my story is ‘not that bad’ or that other people had it ‘so much worse’…I wonder if people will think I am just writing this for attention…I wonder if I am even important enough to write about myself and expect people to care. I wonder if I can even write my story good enough so that you understand…I wonder if anyone will even give enough of a shit to read this.

My inner voice says to me “why do you think people want to know about your issues”…and it says to me “no one actually likes you, so why bother”…it says “you’ve already said enough about yourself, don’t seem so desperate for attention”……

…and at one point I would have listened to it.

I always hear people call themselves the outcast…the loner…and I try to resonate with that…but it never feels completely accurate. I feel like an outcast knows who they are. They know why they are an outcast.

Me? I have no fucking clue.

I have always felt like I am that person in the background that chimes in once in awhile, but am otherwise invisible to everyone. I am never fully allowed in, I am just occasionally noticed. And then when that moment is over, everyone forgets about me again.

Here is the point where I am going to actually start talking about real events.

I was born to parents who already hated each other by the time I existed. My mom and dad were never married. They had broken up a good six months before I was born. My mother was 19 when she had me. My father was 22.

My dad didn’t want me for the entirety of my mother’s pregnancy. My grandfather (my dad’s dad) begged my mother to get an abortion. She didn’t, obviously. About a year before I was born, the cops got involved between my parents due to a domestic violence incident.

My mother, previous to even meeting and dating my dad, had already experienced very heavy trauma from several different angles. I am not going to talk about them here, but I will say that they trouble her to this day. My father was used to always getting what he wanted. He was used to only doing things for himself, and my mother was used to never being provided for by anyone.

Back to when I was born. To my mother, I was the greatest thing that had ever happened. To my father, I guess you could say the same thing…except there was always a part of him that wishes…to this day, in fact, that I had never existed. I essentially ruined his life, and made his life at the same time.

(Not that he had any plans to do much with his life. He tells me all the time that if he could do it all over again, things would be “so much different”.)

Right off the bat, I was in an incredibly unstable environment. For the first three years of my life, I lived with my mother in an apartment. For that time, she was on and off drugs of all kinds, but she took care of me the best she could. Eventually her drug use and partying lifestyle took over to the point where she could no longer be a mother, so she handed me off to my paternal grandparents.

I know what you are thinking. “She must have had it so much better there.”

Yes and no. My grandmother, Sandy, was the sweetest most loving woman that I have ever known. She was really the first influence I had that shaped me. But the other side of the coin…her marriage, was something that I had to watch and work out on my own. My grandfather was a working man, and a traveling man. He was at home rarely, and when he was home, his main hobby was criticizing my grandmother at every possible opportunity. When he wasn’t doing that, he was handing her his company credit card.

I guess to buy her loyalty or something. Even at the age of six, I could tell something was wrong there. It was always “oh, this food could be better” or “oh, why isn’t this part of the house clean”…he always had an issue with her.

She quit her full time job to take care of me. She got me up and off to school all the way through fourth grade.

I spent preschool through first grade with my grandparents. My grandfather made upwards of 120k a year being a sales representative at General Electric, Plastics division. Because of that, I had nice stuff. Nice clothes, nice toys…my grandmother’s favorite thing to do was dress me for school. She would do my waist length hair up in braids and whatever other hairstyle she managed to cook up that day…she would put me in dresses…

As you can imagine, this did not paint a pretty picture for the rest of the kids at school. I was bullied for being the “rich kid”…I had no friends, and I was called a spoiled brat every five minutes…so being alone was what I grew used to in the early years of my school life.

A lot of kids who are “spoiled” end up acting spoiled forever…and that might have been me, but I got lucky.

My other grandmother, on my mom’s side, was a thrifter. Whenever I went to their house for the weekend, we would always go, what I called at the time, treasure hunting. It was also called junking.

We went to garage sales, and thrift stores. I got a lot of second hand clothes, toys, trinkets, and whatever else I could find.

My paternal grandfather, Larry, hated it. He hated that I liked “used” things. But that didn’t matter to me. I never saw the difference between “used” things and “new” things. As long as it worked, it was good enough for me. (As a result, I have grown up liking antiques FAR more than I like brand new shit.)

Anyway, we have now arrived at second grade. I moved from my grandparent’s house to my dad’s house. I was going to a new school.

I still had no friends. I was still the spoiled kid, and I was still that “weird girl”. From second grade to the end of third grade, really, Sandy got me off to school.

That changed half way through fourth grade.

I am going to take this moment to explain something about my dad. If you recall, I mentioned that he was used to only giving a shit about himself. Well, he was also very obsessed with the idea that he wasn’t a man if he didn’t have a woman in his life.

Ever since I can remember, he was always more interested in whichever girlfriend he had at the time than he was in me. At one point, he decided to go out with his girlfriend instead of bringing me to the doctor. (I was sick with a cold or something.) But that prioritization has continued to this day.

He always made sure to do whatever was necessary to keep his various girlfriends happy…and I was always “well if I have time”.

Halfway through fourth grade, he up and decided to move to his girlfriend’s apartment…an hour away. So I moved schools yet again, and yet again, I was still the weird kid with no friends.

Besides that, this particular girlfriend (I know now, anyway) was a narcissist, or at the very least, abusive. She made sure her daughter got everything I wanted, her daughter got to go first for everything, and her daughter got the bigger room…etc. And my dad never had anything to say about it, because it kept her happy.

They always got in awful fights (I saw all of them) that resulted in my dad storming into wherever I was and screaming at me “let’s go, we’re leaving”…only for him to change his mind once we got all of our shit in his truck.

This went on up until the beginning of sixth grade. Then they finally separated, and it was just me and my dad again.

Great, right?

No.

He had verbally abused me before, but it had escalated at this point. Every time I fucked up (like forgot to fold laundry, or left a crumb on the counter), he would launch into a “you stupid kid, I hate you, I wish I didn’t have you” tirade. And that went on all the way into 11th grade.

At the beginning of sixth grade, and all the way to twelfth grade, I was left to get myself up for school, because he had to be at work at 6 AM. I learned how to be self-sufficient very quickly. I had to figure out my own homework, I had to make my own food, and I had to get to school by myself.

And I still had no friends. No real friends. I had people I could sit with at lunch…I had “friends”.

Due to this isolation, I spent much of my time in my room for six years. And I liked it. I liked being alone. It was comfortable. I didn’t have anyone interrupting my thoughts. I didn’t have anyone to stop my mind from wandering, from thinking.

So, lets recap for a second.

We are in the beginning of 11th grade. I am going to briefly mention a few things here that I alluded to but didn’t explicitly say.

Up to this point, I had experienced rape (not me, but someone else), verbal abuse, physical abuse, being abandoned, drugs, alcohol…I had experienced being shuffled around to different places frequently…I had experienced being bullied…I had experienced suicidal thoughts, depression, anxiety, etc. etc.

(Between my dad and his brother, they have 10 DUIs. Ted, the brother, rolled three cars, my dad had been in a snowmobile accident…a lot of alcohol related issues.)

I say all of that like I am reading a grocery list…but each of those things happened, and each of them fucked me up.

After this, I had experienced two traumatic…losses. My “best friend” I made halfway through 11th grade revealed to me at the beginning of 2016 that she had always hated me, but was just too afraid of confrontation to tell me. She called me a sociopath, she said I was selfish, ungrateful, rude, unfriendly, inconsiderate….etc…

And then I had a guy cheat on me in 2012. Long story. Basically it kicked my anxiety and self-hatred into high gear.

So, why did I tell you all of this?

Several reasons.

I have a desperate need for validation. Because without it, I recede right back into that “no one gives a shit about you, you don’t matter, you have no friends, and you need to stop trying” place that I live in. I am convinced most of the time that all of you are only pretending to like me, that you talk about how much you hate me when I’m not around…or that you forget I exist unless I make enough of a scene to be noticed.

I think everything I do is way more shitty than I think it is, and I feel like I am never quite good enough.

Constantly, regardless of how much I want to do something, I always think “what’s the fucking point, no one gives a shit anyway”.

And it doesn’t really matter what you say to me, how you act…I will always think that because it has been drilled into me… the idea that I am alone…for my entire life.

I constantly compare myself to all of you, and always come to the conclusion that all of you are so much better than I am…that I am back to being the weird kid that is tolerated sometimes…

I live in a cesspool of self doubt, self hatred, depression, anxiety, obsessive thoughts, ruminating, suicidal thoughts…and I probably always will.

So.

Basically, behind my “good comebacks”, my “good writing”, my “good selfies”, or my support for Johnny…lives a person that doesn’t feel like any of that is good enough or even good at all, that is constantly trying to be good enough…behind all of that lives an absolute fucking irreparable mess.

I may be smart, I may be pretty, I may be whatever it is that you have called me, but I am also very very broken.

And I have only covered the tip of the true depth of hellishness that makes up my mind.

I was made by two messed up people, I lived with messed up people for my entire life, and that created a messed up person. Me.

That’s who I am. A mess.

But I guess I turned out alright for the most part?

I don’t know.

 

 

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