Friday, November 21, 2014

Things you'll Never hear Me say.

When I was little (read: naive and still blissfully innocent), my father was the parent I got along with. Sure, I got along with my mother--she home schooled my sister and me, took us shopping, made us breakfast, etc.--but my father was who I did more things I really enjoyed with. We'd play outside, build forts and tree houses, we'd play hide-and-go-seek, bike ride, go to the park and the beach. He was the parent with whom I was able to express all my pent up, wild-child energy.

I have my mother's spirit, but still to this day I conclude that I am not built to sit still.

Which might've been what lead me to write this post.

I remember the day I stopped talking to my father, stopped interacting with him as I had when I was a child. It was November 11, 2002--just over 12 years ago. I was sick with the chickenpox, stuck at home to do all my 4th grader homework. It was allergy season, of course, and my parents are notorious for suffering through the winter months as they sniffle and cough.

It's petty.
I've always had an aversion to sounds--especially ones that come in repeated, continual waves like tapping, coughing, sniffling, or another pattern that I can begin to predict and expect. And I've always had an aversion to math--which my father spent most of that week I was sick working with me on. It was then, upon having to listen to the sniffling, that I really began to pick up on other attributes about my father that I just...had never realized I didn't like before.

His stubbornness, his condescending attitude whenever anyone challenges his beliefs or actions. His insistence to be right--all the damn time. The way he talks to my mother, which I promptly realized I had also picked up (something I've been running from and fighting against ever since). He is wise, patient, intelligent, and a God-fearing man--I can't deny he has his good qualities, and likely would've ended up being nowhere near the type of man if my mother hadn't introduced him to Christianity.

Nonetheless, I slowly started involving him less and less, speaking to him less and less. As time passed, we rarely got along anyway--every time I try to have some sort of conversation with him, he either leaves me infuriated or frustrated. We don't talk--we argue and struggle for our stubborn dominance.

It was years until the real problems started; my grandfather (my father's father) has lived with my family since my grandmother (ever sweet, loving, generous, and patient) passed away several years ago. My grandfather is the complete opposite of my grandmother; he is selfish, he is self-centered, crass, rude, stubborn, narrow-minded, and careless to anything that doesn't revolve directly around him or his wishes. My father is nothing like my grandfather, somehow having escaped the "seed falling far from the tree" concept of children becoming their parents.

My grandfather doesn't know my mother's name (after my parents have been married for almost 40 years), he doesn't know the birthday of anyone in the family, doesn't know my niece's name, and doesn't offer to help out or support himself as he mooches off of, complains about, smothers, and ruins the already-fragile structure of my family.

And my father has flat out told me that I remind him of my grandfather. And the first time that it came dripping, hot and bloody, of my father's tongue, was the first time I truly felt cut to the very core. The man I used to play outside with (something my mother and older sisters would never do with me), the person I laughed with and looked up to had hit me in the emotional gut with an insult far worse than the cruelest insult anyone else could possibly ever come up with.

It was a sign of distrust, a statement of shame and declaration of dishonor. A comment of proof that I have no real value or purpose, and would thus be better to disappear entirely. Which is interesting, because since then I've had an inexplicable, sometimes overpowering drive to starve myself into nothingness, a fine powder that can just as easily blow away into the wind without leaving a trace of my toxicity behind.

We were okay until my grandfather came into the picture--and sometimes, I find it tempting to blame him for my estranged relationship with my own father.

Sometimes I question with whom the problem truly lies:
   My grandfather and his self-absorbed parasitism
   My father and his unrecognized, product-of-love verbal abuse
   Or myself, a weak, naive, reckless kid who's just as stubborn and passionate about things she
          doesn't know how to handle yet.
I'm still struggling---I'm stronger, I can tell, but...nothing feels normal. 

The days pass from one 6th hour to the next, and the hours between those mile-markers seem to drag by. Or, if I'm alone, they pass in a silent storm of darkness and fury. I hate being home by myself, because I still can't trust myself. When I'm alone, I don't like the person I am and proceed to try to punish that person through whatever means I have at my easiest disposal. 

I'm exhausted. I'm still fighting, but I feel whatever strength I have left dropping rapidly. 

This week had more good days than bad, fortunately. 
And hopefully one day, there will be more and more consecutive weeks that have more good days than bad. 

One day. 

Thursday, November 20, 2014

Watching someone you've been so close to for so long go through something so difficult and so horrible is a challenge in itself.

And while, all along, you might've been under the impression that you gave them enough time and attention, showed them enough concern and support, after being let in on a piece of information so raw has a certain way of jolting you awake, dragging you into reality and forcing your eyes open.

I woke up gasping for air a few nights ago, experiencing empty flashbacks of fog and a humid haze that clung to my crawling skin.

Over the past few days, I haven't been able to focus, I find my thoughts remaining concretely floating above nothingness. It seems to stay fixed on nothing in particular, determined to prevent me from settling on any one thought. 

Even being "apart" from someone whose lives you've each drifted in and out of over a decade can bring you closer to them, upon something serious happening. 

I knew I cared, but I myself didn't even know how deeply my care, my concern and compassion went before this. I'm feeling things down in places of my chest and stomach, across the corteces and surfaces of my brain, that I was never even sure could exist. In light, I feel emotionally violated, all on account of someone else that (in terms of blood and relativity) isn't a part of my life. 

What's the point of forming bonds and friendships with people who have no relation to us whatsoever? Why do these seemingly random people come into our lives and make us feel and experience things, learn and grow from their ideas and spirits. Why do they come crashing into our lives, burning across the skies of our emotional atmosphere, leaving nothing but awe and adoration in their wake? Why do they hold us up, piece us back together, and carry us home at no benefit of their own?

Why does the heart feel, even on terms that are unimagineable and can never be fully understood by an outsider? 

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Sunday, November 16, 2014

Why am I the one cursed to suffer such a toxic relationship with eating?
It's time for healing time to move on
It's time to fix what's been broken too long
Time make right what has been wrong
It's time to find my way to where I belong
There's a wave that's crashing over me
All I can do is surrender

Saturday, November 15, 2014

I'm fairly certain my mother called me fat today.

It was discrete, indirect, but it was there.

I hate that this is happening still. I thought I had finally overcome what I spent my teenage years running from, what I assumed was the past lying dead behind me.
But I didn't think to check the map for upcoming detours.

I hate myself.
I hate my body.
I hate my feelings,
and I hate my mind.

But mostly I hate that I'm not as strong as I thought I was.

And to top it all off, my other tendon is giving me problems. So I won't be running for a while. I could probably replace running with some of my handy-dandy Jillian Michael's DVDs and a few of my weights until--like last time--it healed up. Which will probably be around the time finals are finishing up, just in time for the Santa Hustle 5K! And that week I plan on doing an extreme "cleanse" to (hopefully, if everything goes as planned in the mean time) drop the last few pounds that I have yet to get rid of.

I'm just glad I caught it in time, and don't have all that much to lose. 6-7 pounds. But at my height, it looks and feels like I've got 20. -_- And one thing's for sure, I started out at 30lbs and that will NEVER happen again.