Posts Tagged 'verbal abuse'

Creeping Into Sadness

This is the time of year it gets bad for me.  The holiday season.  October through at least Februay. A reminder of how screwed up I am, how much of an idiot I am for wanting to be loved especially by my family, how I’ve failed at everything, how I’ve deluded myself in thinking that I’ll ever really be good at anything.

I still don’t have a new job but then I haven’t applied to any because I don’t want to be fired again. But I hate relying on my parents for help and they hate helping me. I’m the failure and the lost cause.

And I keep thinking that if I could fully internalize and believe that I am this horrible, miserable failure, that if I could just get it then my parents would love me. And God would love me or at least notice me. I would finally be doing things right. I’ve worked so hard at doing things right and yet I never seem to get it right. It’s like I’m missing some big, important piece that if I just figured it out or found it then everything would be perfect. I would finally be loved and acceptable. Or if I could just say the right words, be the right way then things would be perfect.

Like, after Mass on Sunday I went to the health fair they were having and had my blood glucose/cholesterol tested and my blood pressure taken.  I only really wanted the blood glucose taken and which came back okay but the cholesterol was supper high as was the blood pressure.  But I was sleep deprived and they said that affects pressure. But the cholesterol had me worried but reading the release form I figured it wasn’t that much of a worry. And I checked the my last cholesterol test results and they were much, much lower. But I’m still worried because it means that I really do need to lose weight that still won’t have any long term effect on my health. I should add more fiber and try to move more but that’s really it. But they also said to get it tested a few more times so I shouldn’t worry about it. But I still am because I only know how to worry and not let go.

And I’d like to exercise more but with the GERD and the damage I did to my right arm over a year ago (something so bad that I’ve lost function and mobility but without insurance I can’t do anything about) I can’t do as much as I like.

And trying to fix my sleep schedule is hard because except for Mass and Adoration I have no real reason to get up early. And sleeping for more than two hours at a time just isn’t happening righ now. And sleep aids just don’t work for me.

Add in the attacks after my last few posts which don’t help either. I hate trolls because they sound so “right”, that really am the idiot and moron they say I am and that I need to shut up and put up because I deserve it.  It’s how my mother and others treated me and repeated to me growing up.

So yeah, bad time of year. And no meds though I didn’t have them last year at this time either.

Liar, Liar

This is not a Jim Carey movie post.

So the friend that I no longer want to be friends with, who shall henceforth be known as Wannabe Fundycath, was at Mass Sunday and her and her husband invited me to breakfast.  I know I shouldn’t have gone since I am working on distancing myself from them but we were out at a restaurant and it was only going to be about an hour in their presence.

Wannabe Fundycath first can’t make up her mind what to eat, going on about how all this food is going against her diet (what diet though as a morbidly obese diabetic she needs to be on a diet but can’t follow through because she has no self-control) and  her husband is set on ordering half the breakfast menu.  At the same time, they are also talking at the guy at the next table (he doesn’t hear because of earphones or is smart enough to ignore) and judging the people walking into the restaurant.  The husband is also texting his brother and his daughter at the same time.

We finally order.  So I hear again about Fundycath’s surgery that didn’t happen.  And the various personal reasons why it didn’t happen.  I also get very personal intimate details about the daughter I really thought crossed the line and flat out violates her boundaries and privacy.  Fundycath has no respect for a person’s privacy and will violate it enthusiastically. 

What really appalled me was the judgementalism that colored what she said about her own daughter.  Since I refuse to violate the daughter’s privacy or share any personal info without permission, it’s hard to convey how really painful and cruel were the words I felt she was saying about her own daughter.  The impression I got is that the daughter was to blame.  Can’t get into details but HELL FUCK NO she wasn’t at fault.  (No, this has nothing to do with sexual assault or rape)

Thankfully I kept my shock at that to myself but judging your own daughter for something you have experienced….wow.  I knew Fundycath was narcissistic but this blew up the cake. 

Side note at to why her pseudonym is Wannabe Fundycath:
-She talks like a fundamentalist
-She is judgmental like a fundamentalist with the condescension dripping with honey and how because she is just so holy she has to set everyone on the right path to God by judging them because she isn’t judging, she’s correcting
-She may be a Catholic but her actions, words and behaviors are more in with Protestant Fundamentalism
-She has a very narrow view of who is acceptable and what is acceptable and if you don’t meet that stringent criteria then you’re damned and lost but you better not judge her because she is perfect, well nearly perfect and has God’s blessings

The conversation turned to what they did at Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Now I posted that she told me she wasn’t do anything for Thanksgiving, there absolutely no plans because everyone was working, and how that sent me into a depression spiral that week. I find out that was a big fat lie.  I already knew she has lied to me about other things but this was the first time it was a deliberate lie to my face.  I find out that they had planned to get together weeks in advance and had.  No one was working. 

So yeah, I was pissed but kept my mouth shut.  Fundycath doesn’t think lying is wrong so me pointing it out to her wasn’t going to do any good.  And they never even bothered to tell me about Christmas but then they were never at Mass until the last Sunday of Advent and I was avoiding them.  But a phone call, hello.  No, my feelings didn’t matter.  I’m glad I planned on being alone for Christmas.  I was way better off.

If they didn’t want me around, they didn’t need to lie to me.  And considering they’ve told me multiple times that I’m family, they could still have mentioned it was family only and I wouldn’t have been offended.  Hurt but not offended.  Lying to me not only hurts it also means I can never trust a word you say to me because I’ll always have to assume you’re lying.  I hate liars.

The husband continued texting throughout breakfast.  He apologized but I could tell he didn’t really mean it.  His actions were more important than my feelings.

Then they asked if I had a job yet.  I didn’t (but I’ve applied and am waiting to hear back).  So I got condescending looks and an offer to work at a crappy minimum wage job.  No thank you.  I have standards.  Minimum wage isn’t a problem but crappy jobs are. 

Thankfully it was a short time.  Bearable but wow.  The lying, judgementalism, violation of privacy, and repetition of the conversation just reinforced why I should not be friends with Wannabe Fundycath and her husband.  Her narcissism doesn’t help either.  She wants me as an adoring audience and I’m not obeying which is pissing her off.  Which means she avoids me. 

Her narcissism doesn’t like the fact that I’ve refused to be at her beck and call for medical appointments, that I don’t have a job, that I have told her no, that I have depression, that I refuse to be her blind adoring audience, that I refuse to allow her to know my most intimate secrets or any really personal information.  I refuse to listen or accept her lies.  I refuse to let her dictate my choices.  I refuse to let her verbally and emotionally abuse me through name calling and gaslighting.

I don’t need a narcissist in my life and I don’t have to allow her into mine.  I can choose my friends.  She doesn’t get a choice.

Why Yes…

I am fat.

There.  I said it.  I’ve admitted what everyone else has seen. What everyone else has said is the worst thing about me.  About how ugly and stupid I am for being fat.  How everyone has judged me and found me worthless.

Why am I fat?  I am not a pig.  I don’t gorge myself.  I don’t eat that much sugar.  I don’t drink soda at all.  I like certain veggies and I eat protein.  I don’t eat cereal or pasta or prepackaged foods.  I can’t stamd potato chips. I rarely eat candy. 

But I’m fat.

So of course I’m doing something wrong.  It must be too much sugar or eating portions that are too big or too many calories.  Remember, being fat is a moral failing.

But I’m fat.

I’m fat because I really am ugly.
I’m fat because I really am stupid.
I’m fat because I don’t want to be thin.
I’m fat because I was abused.
I am fat because food never made me feel ashamed of myself.
I’m fat because food is constantly being used as a weapon.
I’m fat because I’m unlovable.
I’m fat because I was not loved.
I am fat because I was bullied in school.
I’m fat because I never fit in.
I’m fat because I want born a girl and not a boy.
I’m fat because I’m surrounded by fat people who hate me because they hate themselves.
I’m fat because my mother constantly told me I was fat growing up.

I am fat.

Do I need a reason?

Remember, being fat is a moral failing so of course I need a reason, need to explain myself.

But do I hate my body? 

It isn’t perfect but I’m used to it. 

I think pretty is overrated.  I refuse to wear makeup to cater to a sexist agenda of beauty and youth. What you see is what you get. 

I think the BMI is useless and worthless and way too judgmental. 

I think fashion designers and celebrities get it wrong. 

So yeah, I’m probably only good enough to be the evil and ugly step-sister and even then I’m too ugly.

Guys aren’t interested in me. 
Women ignore me or hate me. 
People don’t want me around.

But food doesn’t care.  It has no vested interest in anything.  So it’s easy to go to for soothing.  No judgments, no shaming, no name calling.  It he’s no agenda, no politics, no meaning.  Food just exists.  It’s just there. 

In the end, I’m still fat.

The Paddle of My Memory

Over at Homeschoolers Anonymous, they’re doing a series on spanking and corporal punishment.  Never having been homeschooled or part of a fringe religious group or just fringe, I haven’t submitted a story.  But I did want to write about my own story of spanking.

What I remember most is the fear.

I know I was spanked and I think it started very early.  Everyone spanked.  It was the 80s.  Child abuse was barely a blip on the horizon and even then only the really horrific cases made the news.  Child abuse, as we understand it today, didn’t exist.  It was just discipline that got out of hand.  Everybody hit their kids.  Nobody thought it was wrong, as long as you didn’t break a bone or unless the parent was a drunk.  And even then it wasn’t that big of a deal.  God wasn’t involved in my spankings.

The paddle sat in a large ceramic jar on the kitchen counter along with other kitchen utensils.  It was always there in easy reach for my mother.  Easy reach, easy threat, easy use.  And I was the easy target. 

I can only really remember one time being spanked.  I’ve repressed a lot of my past.  The past was painful so forgetting it was better. 

The paddle is what I remember most.  That, my own fear because I just knew my mother was going to carry out her threat of spanking, and my mother’s rage. 

Rage seemed to be my mother’s default emotion.  Anger and rage.  The nice parts only came out when other adults were watching and she wanted to be seen as the perfect mother.  And with my stepgrandfather, it was the sycophantic worship that largely threw me under the bus.

I only remember the one spanking and even then only in pieces.  The paddle.  The pain.  My mother’s rage.  My bewilderment and anger.  
But that paddle loomed all the time.  It was a visual manifestation of my mother’s rage filled threats.  And my mother loved to threaten me with that paddle.  She didn’t need to hit me with that paddle, just mentioning it was good enough. 

I was terrified of my mother.  I was the only one of us four girls. My sisters were rarely spanked, if ever, and any punishment was meted out to me instead of them.  I was the one at fault in my mother’s eyes.

Verbal rage was much more useful to my mother.  Threats, name calling, insults went a long way with me.  And my grandparents reinforced them. 

I was a bad girl going to Hell.

I was never going to amount to anything.

I was too fat.

I was too stupid.

My sisters were smarter.

I was always “You’re S’s sister” never bothering to learn my name.

I wasn’t an individual.

The paddle disappeared after we moved from Phoenix to Yuma.  I honestly don’t know what happened to it.  I was nine.  The spanking threats had stopped but that didn’t matter much.  I was still terrified. 

My mother was like a bomb ready to explode but you didn’t know what was going to set her off.  And anything could set her off. And I was the target.

Empty threats worked on me. There were even times she didn’t need to threaten.  I punished myself.  I still do that.  If I just punish myself, them everything will be better.  The pressure will have been let out. 

Punishment makes sense.  Mercy and forgiveness do not.  I think they’re just traps to mess me up so that I can be punished as I deserve.  Punishment is love.

That’s what spanking teaches.  Violence is love.  If I’m being hit, it’s because he/she loved me.  Because I deserve it.  Hitting is familiar.  Being called names, threatened, insulted is familiar.  It’s love.  Real love can’t be nice.  Real love is mean and vindictive and punitive and based on fulfilling specific conditions.  If people are nice, it’s all a lie and they’re just waiting for you to mess up to really show you who they are.

I don’t expect love.  I expect threats and insults.  I will punish myself to make me feel better, to ease the pressure, to make things right. 

God doesn’t care.  He’s waiting for you to fail as well.  His love is only for a select few.  And most of us aren’t it. 

That’s my headspace.  That’s what’s running through my head many days.  Counseling, living far away from my parents have helped.  But my issues with this,one friend are bringing some of this back.  Being unemployed doesn’t help either.

Where’s the Line?

Yesterday (Sunday) was a freaking long day.  Way too long and too many hours spent with The friend.  Except, I don’t think she’s much of a friend.  More of a leech.  She certainly sucks the life out of me every time we meet.  I either end up with a headache or in tears after interacting with her.  I’m not uplifted, I’m torn down. It’s like dealing with my mother but much worse.  Much much worse.

Yesterday it started off with me having to “choose” to drive even though she had told me weeks before that I would be driving. 

Then it was telling me I was going the wrong way (the place where we were going is nowhere near where I live).  And she’s lived in Oregon longer than I have.

I’m following the directions to the shower but missed a turn.  No big deal to me, we weren’t that far off, and we only lost a few minutes.  But no.  We were so lost as to be hours late and I was being disrespectful to her because I was getting her there late.  So she called her daughter (the bride to be) to tell her we’re going to be late but even the daughter hasn’t gotten there yet.  I used Maps with the Navigator telling me directions and we were only five miles off and not quite ten minutes late.  People still showed up after us so it wasn’t that big of a deal to me.

The shower was good.  I didn’t really know anybody beyond the bride to be, The friend, the friend’s granddaughter, and the granddaughter’s mother.  People were friendly if really loud and extremely extroverted.  My gifts were okay. Everyone else gave better gifts but then they know the bride better than I do.

Then I drove back with the friend and her granddaughter.  Of course, the friend doesn’t like the direction I took (I made one minor wrong turn but quickly corrected it but again I’m an idiot) which was the exact direction we had come. 

I turn into the street that leads into the housing complex where she lived and she’s already got her seatbelt off and her hand on the door to open it.  Two more turns and maybe 500 feet before I pull into her driveway and yet she’s already to jump out of a moving vehicle.  I tell her not to open the door and she snaps back at me she hadn’t opened it yet.  Remember, I’m the idiot because I’m trying to be safe.

Drop her and granddaughter off, she hugs me three times too many and kisses my hair which means I’m ready to punch her because I just feel violated.  I leave since it’s after 3:30 and had spent too many hours with her.

Did I mention I did all this on two hours of sleep?

Made it to Confession and stuck around for Spanish Mass (I did stop for food before that since my blood sugar was dropping and I was getting a headache).  Didn’t understand much of Father’s homily but the baby girl two pews in front of me was soothing to my frazzled emotions.  Her older sister was ridiculously cute as well.

I didn’t get pissed at the friend till after I got home.  So my quiet evening and exhaustion were interrupted with anger. 

I am not sure talking to her would do any good.  She’s so scatter brained and just bulldozes over people when she feels she has to say something, when she disagrees, or when she thinks she hasn’t done anything wrong which is most of the time.  Honestly, this friendship isn’t much of a friendship.  It’s mainly her getting her way and me giving up my voice and decision making because I’m scared she’s going to hurt me.  She certainly uses the same tone of voice when telling me I’m wrong.  And far more condescending than my mother ever was. 

I feel like ending this friendship more and more after spending any time with her.  She takes and takes and takes.  I feel like her claws are stuck in me and she refuses to let go.  That she won’t ever let go and that I belong to her.

Here’s where alarms are blaring.  I feel like the friend’s behavior is abusive, well at least a type of bullying, and violates my boundaries.  I don’t feel good or happy when I know I have to deal with her in anyway.  I always feel like she’s prying into my personal life, wanting all the juicy details and uncover all my secrets.  I don’t feel like I’m a person to her.  I’m an audience that’s there to worship her.  I get headaches or end up in tears after spending time in her presence.  She’s very triggering.  All these issues I thought I had dealt with or were under control are not any time I’m around her.

Tell me, is that how a good friendship is supposed to work? 

More Poems

Drowning

You crash in
Carrying the ocean of your emotions as if a hurricane has sucked them all up.  You release them not caring about the consequences, the blown down trees, the ripped roofs, the shattered windows, the complete destruction of a town.  For you it’s all about
release
about you sharing
when nobody wants you to.  The winds keep howling but you don’t hear them.  You’ve moved on while I drowned. 

I couldn’t breathe under that deluge.  It may not have lasted forty days but it certainly felt Biblical. 

Then you were back again, that ocean,
that hurricane
winds and rain and destruction.  I still have water in my lungs from the first drowning.  I can’t survive a second but that doesn’t matter to you.

It’s the same stories, all centered on you
When you aren’t sharing secrets that shouldn’t be told
You violate people, talking about them out of turn, saying things they’ve said in secret that you blare out for a wink and a smile.

Your own flesh and blood and you cut it mindlessly
because it serves to promote your superiority. 
At least you don’t drown them in hurricanes,
just monsoon rains.

They’re used to it:
The cuts
The gossip
The lies
The inferiority
The second class civilization
The making it all about you

They’re living their own lives which you abhor.  So you seek out others to control

Drown

You do to them what you did to your own flesh.  Cuts and lies and gossip.  But the hurricane as well.

I drown every time we meet.  You love seeing me fade out of life.  Your love is for you alone.  There is nothing for me.

You drown me and take from me at the same time.  I’m just food to you, a mindless snack that you’ll complain about later.  But you’ll do it all again and again and again.

Drowning because you pull out the fear and the snake.  Then it’s old time religion and snakebites and demanding me not to tell but only to protect you.  But I keep drowning.

You keep the hurricanes moving but stationary.  The floods amuse you.  Watching me drown is your favorite show.

I know how to swim but you keep pushing
Me
Under
Drowning
Water in lungs
No chance
No air
Water, water everywhere

But it ain’t to drink

I see your face through the surface ripples.  You’re smiling in glee.  I’m drowning and it makes
You
Ecstatic

This is religion for you.  Hurricanes and drowning.
+=+=+=+=+=+=
Heat

I’m not talking about the sun or the oven or a kitchen after a mad round of baking.

It’s the anger.  The anger you engender in me.  It burns through my veins, leaving me incapacitated

Impotent

Not able to act or react
Cracking my teeth

Leaving me in pain, my jaw hurting and I can’t figure out why

I am stopped in my tracks, unable to move except to punish myself.  Because I am not allowed anger nor rage
Those are YOUR emotions
My feelings are not to exist

You hit and scream and yell
And all I can do is take it
Thinking silently that one day I will get to do that to my own kids
Today I know that’s wrong but then it was comfort
Adults could hurt kids with impunity
Kids had to take it
Abuse only happened in other homes
So I took the screams that hurt my ears, the names the scored my skin, the violation of my boundaries just so you could rule your little dark kingdom

Waiting to grow up so I could finally hit back
Hit someone who couldn’t hit back themself
Someone weaker than me

That’s why I took my nails to my sister’s arm over a fight about dinner
Not that she was weaker  She was more loved than I, well
Actually
She was loved and I wasn’t and I knew it
So striking Mother’s favorite was a way of striking back at Mother (not that I knew that then; all it got me was more screaming and pain while Favorite got her way, again)

But the anger and rage are still there
But now I can’t take them out on anybody
Well except myself which is what everybody wants
I am to be punished
I am told my anger and rage are unimportant
That they are made up
That they don’t exist

That if I act on them I’m only making things worse for myself
That if I feel them or acknowledge them in any way then I am an offense to God

Remember

I Am
Not
Supposed
To Be
Human

I don’t exist except at their pleasure

Feelings only matter if you are a select group of people
Otherwise you are supposed to buy the lies and obey their demands

Remember

Feelings are BAD

Bad things will only happen to you if you feel them.  Well happiness and pleasure in limits are okay but anger and rage and frustration and disappointment are illegal except for those in command
And you always bring them out in them

Maybe if you weren’t so useless
Maybe if I could actually hit back
Forget stupid convention
I just want to hit
To be in control
To not be the victim
To not be the unloved and unwanted child
To not be the ugly woman
To not be the subject of shame
To just not be

But that will never happen

#=#=#=#=#=#
I Said It

I hate you
There
I said it

You think I’m lying
You won’t take me seriously
But I tell the truth

I hate you

I hate your voice and the stupid way you dress (hello not a teenager any more so grow up)

I hate your favoritism and how you made sure you knew I knew that you wished I didn’t exist

I hate your double standards that only applied to me

I hate your stupid rules that were only about control

I hate how I’m not even a person to you

I hate how you praise and promote irresponsibility and immorality and put down self-control and respectability

I hate the put downs and name calling and just plain shaming because I didn’t fit your plans and didn’t make you the center of my life

I hate the screaming verbal abuse that made sure all I knew was fear and to be permanently jumpy at loud noises.  Or even just hearing my name.  My own name.  Cringing and flinching which I have to hide.  Remember, according to you and everyone else, I wasn’t abused.  I was just a bad girl going to Hell

And I’m not talking about Hell, Michigan

I just wasn’t good enough

I hate how all you thought me going to college for was to get an MRS degree

Which I didn’t
I got a real bachelors with real weight
Then I got a second

So maybe I’m in debt that I currently can’t pay but I have real degrees,
traveled in foreign countries on my own,
worked in a male dominated industry,
gained respect from people who didn’t give it freely,
learned to do without and be happy,
can deal with emergencies without panicking,
can jumpstart a car and diagnose many car issues,
am willing to learn about fields and subjects outside my comfort zone,
can work with a disparate group of people,
have been sought out by my coworkers due to my abilities especially in problem solving and dealing with cranky individuals,
have been recognized for my abilities to do my job above and beyond and to take initiative,
am recognized as being a good listener and not taking sides in a dispute between two people,
am willing to take time to learn not just something new but also how to do something better,

Well you don’t care but I’ve done more without you than with you. 

I still hate you

But I’m learning to love me

Actually, you don’t exist to me.  You’re not worthy of my hate.

Being Forgotten

I’m seven
Another Friday afternoon
Going to the office, having to call you, again, to come pick me up, pick up S

You say, voice distant on the telephone and not because of actual distance, that you didn’t forget, sounding airy and yet dismissive of me stating the facts
The secretary listening in but not caring, shifting papers, just wanting to go home herself

I don’t figure out until years later that if you could leave me and just pick up S you would

You didn’t want me but I didn’t understand that then
It was you and another baby sister you would pit against me and a father that preferred his computer and TV over everything else and a stepgrandfather who stomped most everyone down, except maybe you and S and K and G but everyone else was just garbage because we wouldn’t worship his lies and hate
Mostly it was about not rocking the boat and having you explode over the tiniest thing

You made sure I was afraid, afraid of you, of myself, of everything

Sometimes I think I’m still that seven year old little girl who just wants her mother to remember her but is aware at the periphery that it will never happen

Abandoned though picked up from the lost and found after being stuck behind a smelly, grubby sweater and held between two fingers as if touching me would infect you with some horrible disease

The stinky sock loved me more though it kept searching for its pair

Dust bunnies cried tears for me but all that dust covered up their caring

Silent walls rattle with your rage but I couldn’t hide from you, fear pressing from every aside

Sophia accidentally hitting me in the nose makes me proud of the one and only nosebleed I’ve ever had because it was something the other kids had done.  I fit in even though I felt and knew I really didn’t.  It was nice while it lasted.

But then I’m eight and another year and the girls have abandoned me as well because boys have cooties which I don’t believe exists so I played with boys instead
They were nicer and treated me better even if they were stupid for tearing the arms off their Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

There’s still screaming at home and Willow can’t hide and the Killer Tomatoes have vanished and the Odd Couple take psychiatric advice from Bob Newhart while awaiting triage at the 4077th but you still expect the Waltons but have ended up with the Bundys more like the Buckets but without the flowers and accents

And then change and hell and yelling

But that seven year old is still waiting, hoping, barely, not to get thrown out with the crushed milk cartons and moldy bread and the crumpled napkins


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