Unpacking the Past- Case 1

Sometimes the past haunts you more than you expect it to. Part of me wishes that somehow, magically when I turned 18 everything that made childhood hurt would be wiped clean and I could forget all the hurt, and words, and the messy negative feelings of my adolescence. But as we all know, we don’t get an emotional memory wipe when we become legal adults. We have to carry around our emotional and psychological baggage just like everyone else and unpack it and sort through it if we ever want to take care of it.

So today I am taking that step of unpacking my baggage. There are going to probably be several posts that deal with me processing my past, all in an attempt for me to heal. This is me showing my metaphorical injuries that have been festering and, currently, infecting my current day to day life. And I refuse to let the infection continue to spread. So it’s time to metaphorically cut out the bad tissue, let myself be vulnerable and exposed, and let my tribe of friends and family support me while I heal. 

So today's surgery is delving into some things that I have kept hidden for years. 

I was verbally abused all growing up. 

I’m not talking about the occasional yelling by a parent who has lost all patience.

I’m talking about being called a piece of crap and trash for every wrong doing. I’m talking about being shouted at until I cried because I broke a toy or spilled something. I’m talking about hour long lectures about how I was a terrible child because I didn’t stop my siblings from hitting each other, or not cleaning up their toys, or if they ruined a nice thing.

I’m talking about feeling like you weren’t allowed to eat, because if you ate too much bread, or used up the last of the peanut butter, or went through the packages of ramen "too fast", then you got a lecture about how expensive food was. If you opened another package of something when another bag was already open, then you could expect a yelling match and being sent to your room for the rest of the day, with my dad possibly hiding it later. If you touched one of his favorite foods, or something he planned on using for a meal a week down the road, another lecture. If I was cooking and I wasn’t doing it exactly how he did it, I would get shoved aside and told exactly how I did everything wrong.

Nobody could do anything right, in my house. And for almost half my life, I believed that I deserved it. The yelling, the threats to drop kick us, slap us silly, lock us in our rooms for weeks, the complaining about how we never listened or did anything right, that as soon as we were 18 he’d kick us to the curb… I believed that my siblings and I were the most unruly children to ever grace God’s green earth. I honestly thought that we must have been terrible burdens not only to my parents, but to everyone around us, if we needed to be yelled at and threatened so much.

I was responsible for my siblings… that philosophy was drilled into me so much that it is now an essential part of my character- I am responsible for everyone around me. But most importantly, I was their protector from my dad. When I finally realized that this behavior was not just awful but abnormal- normal dads don’t make their children cry for opening a bag of cheese, I started to talk back. Yes I was a moody teenager. And oh boy did I have a beef with my dad. So I called him out on it. Often. I asked him hard questions… like “if we’re so awful, why did you have six of us?” and “why do you live with us if you hate us so much?”

Of course, a 13, 15, 17 year old didn’t deserve an answer. I was a moody, disrespectful teenager. Who was I to question his authority? And I would often be told after an argument like that… that I was just like my mom. And no, I never took that as a compliment. Not when he complained about my mother to my aunts and uncles for getting distracted by reading. Not when he condemned my mother for being a terrible mom because she played video games – the same video games he played right along side her. Not when he belittled her in front of me and my siblings. Telling me that I was like my mother only drove in the mentality that I was an annoying burden in his life.

I would like to say that I treated my siblings with kindness and love, and sometimes I did. But often I was just as angry and yelled at them too- because in my mind I was far less scary and mean than my dad. That really was the scariest thing; saying “Do I need to go get dad?” because getting dad meant a shouting match that would make you cry, a prison sentence in your room, and a possible physical punishment as well- usually spanking.

But you know what the hardest part about the abuse was? The fact that my dad could be so kind to complete strangers. The fact that he could be charming, and funny, and sweet to everyone but us- his own flesh and blood- made me feel like I WAS the complete garbage I had been called all my life. I can recall a good friend of mine and a coworker of my dad that said: “He must be so fun to be around at home.”

Boy did I want to correct her and tell her everything… but I couldn’t. Why make people think less of my dad when he hadn’t done anything mean to them. They wouldn’t believe me. They’d think it was the complaining of some angsty teenager. Nobody would believe that my sweet, charming, kind dad was a raging man who belittled and verbally tore his family to shreds.

So when we got kicked out of our house right after Christmas my senior year, I moved out. My dad may have been “joking” every time he had threatened to kick me out as soon as I was 18, but I didn’t want to find out. So I beat him to the punch. I lived with friends for a few months, and then with my Uncle. And boy did I learn… learn that I really couldn’t have cared less about finishing high school, or musicals, or anything else. Because no matter what happened, I was stupid and a burden to everyone around me. A lot of my social anxiety comes from these years of abuse. Because if I was a burden and inconvenience then, it still must be true now.

Thankfully, my friends and family did help me. I learned a lot of self confidence and I learned that I didn’t have to be around people who made me feel small or worthless. It took me 17 years of listening to that kind of talk to believe those lies and it might take me another 17 to unlearn it.

So why am I writing today? Why share all this, today of all days?

Because I am angry.  Angry, that the man who called me garbage for a majority of my life, wants everyone to forgive and FORGET the pain he inflicted for 24 years. He wants people to be happy that he’s making positive changes and pretend that the past never happened- that the hurt will just magically disappear. And that makes me angry, because deep down, it makes me cry. Because the apologies I received growing up- still made his anger my fault. There was never “I’m sorry, what I did was wrong.” It was always- “I’m sorry, but what you did was wrong and I was right to yell at you.” I can count on one hand the times my dad has attempted to apologize.

The only real apology he gave me was at the beginning of June this year. And this was the first time that he had asked for my forgiveness.

Now I am a believer in change. People can change. The person I was, the yelling 13 year old big sister, is not the woman I am today. And I did forgive him. I forgave the man that was sitting on my couch that asked for forgiveness- because I knew he was trying. And I really do forgive the man who is working on becoming a better person. However, I did not forgive the man I think of when I hear the word “Dad”. I did not forgive 17 years worth of abuse in that moment, because I am still working on letting it go.

In order for me to let it go… I need to write it out. I need to let my tribe know what I’ve gone through. I am done letting the dad of my past hide behind his charming exterior, because I no longer feel a debt to him anymore. I no longer feel like I need to please him, because I’m never going to receive his praise or approval- so why should I need it now? My pain is just that- mine. Hiding my pain for the sake of his reputation will only continue to hurt me.

So this is step one in my process of healing. And this is the hardest thing I have ever felt compelled to write.  

This Is Not A Fad

I’m going to come right out and say it- I am butt hurt about the people who call the rise of women telling their sexual harassment/abuse stories as a “trend” or a “fad”. That implies that it started out of the blue, and will disappear just as quickly. Sure, the hashtag #MeToo may stop being shared or used, but that doesn’t mean that the events that happened in women’s lives just disappeared and the world is going to go back to the place where men’s behavior is rarely questioned, and women are always seen as liars and attention seekers.

I didn’t choose to share my stories with the hasthag because at the time, I was never physically assaulted. But oh boy, do I have stories about harassment and just outright sexism. And it’s not just in my teen years. So let’s take a walk down memory lane and I’ll show you how these stories have impacted me- because these instances didn’t happen in a vacuum. Some of these stories still impact my daily life.

Elementary School

My first encounter that I can recall of sexism I was sitting in my new small town 5^th grade class. I am one of three girls in a class of twelve. Not only that, I am the new kid, so I throw all these kids for a loop. 

We’re doing our U.S. History and Government unit and discussing rights. The example of equal pay comes up and I kid you not, my male classmates turned to me and said, “Women don’t need to be paid the same as men, right?”

The group of four guys didn’t like my outright “Heck yes they do!” response. It boggled my mind that they thought I would just sit there and agree with them.

Another instance, 6^th grade at the same school. I’m sitting on a bench during recess with a friend. Up walks two boys from the other sixth grade class. One proceeds to get down on one knee, and says in the sweetest voice, “Daria, I just wanted to let you know,” making sure he has my full attention before he jumps up to his feet and getting right in my face to shout, “I f&$king hate your guts.” He and his friend then burst into laughter and walk off as though telling me this was by far the best joke ever told. I remember just sitting on that bench with my friend. Both of us speechless. I don’t remember doing anything in particular to either of these boys, let alone doing anything that would warrant an excuse to be told that. Now don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a complete angel in 6^th grade, but when was the last time a stranger walked up to you and told you that they hated you?

6^th grade really was just full of crap from boys. Letters telling me I was the ugliest person on the planet, that I should go die in a hole. All of which  were signed with a loving “from your ugly butt.” Because preteen boys are so creative at their insults. 

I had snowballs with rocks in them thrown at me. I was tripped into a huge puddle of mud by a boy I knew didn’t particularly like me. 

One guy thought it would be funny to follow me around and terrorize both me, my sister (who was in 3^rd grade) and her friends. 

During a dance I had a handful of guys come up and tell me that “Victor” wanted to dance with me, but I just couldn’t believe them at this point- because I knew that I was going to be the butt of yet another joke. 

I remember being dragged to school because I hated going to school- because as much as I had good friends, it was still a nice little slice of hell. I even got to sit in front of the Principal and was asked by him why I didn’t want to be at school. But I knew he wouldn’t believe me if I told him. He was there at a school bowling activity when I slipped and sprained my ankle and thought it was an April Fool’s Day joke- because every kid wants to skip school and then sit there while everyone else has fun.

Would you want to go to school where you felt singled out by a male population that was 3 boys for every girl?

Middle School

Oh boy middle school.  My 7^th grade locker neighbors were boys that thought it was funny to spray my stuff with their Axe body spray and close my locker while I was still rummaging through it. My good guy friend was friends with a guy who constantly told sexist jokes, and was just generally menacing. Greatest feature of this guy was him telling me every day on the walk home from school that my boobs needed to be bigger- because my young teenage body was there for him to appreciate, obviously.

High School  

Thankfully my later teenage years were much better, at least at school. But I will never forget the summer before my Senior Year. 

I was talking a rather long walk home from a Church Carnival. I’m about halfway home when this white car slows down and seems to try to keep pace with me. I glace at the car to see if it’s someone I know, maybe if they were a friend messing with me. But I don’t recognize these guys. Both are skinny, wearing white wife beaters and staring at me like I am the juiciest steak they’ve ever seen. I quickly look forward and keep walking. Somehow that ticked them off so they speed up, and go around the block- and I’m hoping that they will be going off to where ever they were heading.

I cross the street and I see something white out of the corner of my eye, and it’s the white car again. The guys roll down their windows and are just staring at me. One starts talking but I am so terrified I’m having a hard time catching what he’s saying. I just shake my head and pick up my pace, terrified because at any moment, the one in the passenger seat could reach out and grab me. I was terrified of reaching the end of the block because they could have turned and blocked me from crossing the street toward home. But I guess they got frustrated with me and sped off, swearing loudly at me and calling me very unpleasant names.

But I didn’t know if they were going to circle around again, they’d done it once already. So before I waited for them to drive around I back tracked and took the longest and most complex route home that I knew- making the average 30 minute walk an hour. Every single white car that passed me terrified me. I remember getting home and telling my parents why I got home so late. And only my mother was sympathetic. My dad asked me why I didn’t do “this or that?” And my sister just younger than me laughed and thought I was making a mountain out of a mole hill.

While working at a theme park and riding the bus home, I remember guys giving me those similar “you are a big juicy steak” look following me off the bus.

Conclusion

So what does all this mean?

It means that I am still uncomfortable walking by myself and a white car slows down.

It means that during high school I wore pajamas and baggy shirts so nobody could see my body because if nobody could see it, then they couldn't comment on it.

It means that I grew up thinking that the only men that would ever want to marry me were either crazy or extreme perverts. Luckily that is not the case… well he’s a little crazy but not in a negative way.

It means that I rarely trusted the men around me because they either hated me for simply existing, or only saw something they wanted to play with- I wasn’t a person.

That messes with you! And it’s taken years to get over this. But I still feel like I must ask my husband whether he hates me for doing/not doing x, y, or z.

Now that I’m a mother, with both a daughter and son, I don’t want that to be the world they grow up with. I don’t want my children to think it’s acceptable to tell people how they should look, or shout rude comments to complete strangers (in person or on the web). I don’t want either of my children to think that no one will believe her when she’s facing bullying or he’s being harassed. 

My hope is that I teach my children that respect means treating every person they meet with kindness and civility.

Dear readers, I don’t tell you these stories to make you feel pity or to demonize men. (If I thought all men were evil I would NOT have gotten married, let alone had children). My point is to tell you that the women who are putting their reputations on the line and their hurt out in the open to spread awareness- that’s not a fad. That’s not a trend. That’s a cry to be heard and validated that they are humans with experiences that affected their lives. Whether or not you agree with how they handled things, doesn’t matter- they aren’t asking your opinion. They are asking you to say “I see you. I see that your experience was real.” You can have whatever opinion you want, I can’t control your mind. But I ask that you show more kindness, both to the men and women who have taken the brave step to speak out. We've all been vulnerable once, remember how you wanted to be treated.  

In the words of a good friend of mine, "Be excellent to each other."