I am convinced I am not, nor will I ever be pretty. You can call me anything you want. You can compliment me until you run out of words but I will never believe I am pretty. I always assume you probably are either being overly kind, want something from me or aren’t really seeing me clearly.
It’s not that I don’t want to be pretty… I really wish I was. I think I’m an average looking woman. I will never be a beauty queen or a model or a star. I will never be the most attractive woman in the room. There is nothing special about the way I look. I put on makeup and think “well, that’s the best it’s going to be today”.
When I pass a mirror I try not to really look too hard. I only see ugly. I only hear my mothers voice saying Some of my favorite lines from my mom are:
“don’t be a Loretta lunch mouth” (don’t eat so much you big fat cow)
“god doesn’t like girls who try to be pretty” (self explanatory)
“a pig in a dress is still a pig” (underneath the dress you’re still a pig)
“if you wear “x” no one will ever love you” (self explanatory).
“don’t try to be too pretty” .. this actually meant several things in my mom’s fucked up psyche 1) everyone knows I can only fake being pretty, 2) don’t divert attention away from me and 3) my favorite - if you try to get people/men to look at you you’re a whore.
Awesome.
This is my actual process and though pattern before I go out somewhere.
1) put on dress and makeup.
2) have anxiety attack
3) put on different, less attractive dress.
4) look at hideously ugly pathetic person in mirror.
5) take off dress.
6) put on pants and hope no one looks at me.
7) put on minimal makeup so no one looks at me.
8) sit on my couch and debate staying home and faking sickness.
Optional 9) have a quick drink and put original dress back on. Beer bravery works sometimes.
Optional 10) put on p.j.'s and crawl into bed.
Just once in my life I would like to take someone's breath away. Just once.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Saturday, November 15, 2008
I’m so very tired today. I’m having a lot of pain which just adds to the stress of the changes that are already happening. It’s always the way it goes with me.
Writing it down helps me process, so here I am. … writing like a freak. Remembering shit I don’t really want to remember but HAVE to in order to be whole. I don’t think I’ll ever be normal, whatever that means. All I can do is try to do the best I can with what’s left of my little broken girl heart.
I’ve been going back to the beginnings of my memories to try to put stuff back in order. My earliest memory is of my mom pushing me down the stairs on my trike. I remember being underneath the trike on the landing, maybe 8-10 steps down (wood) and having her glare down at me with her hands on her hips and then walking away. I don’t know how long I was down there but I remember my older brother helping me carry the trike back up. I think I was between 18 months and 2yrs. We left that house when I was 2 ½ so prior to that (and I was wearing red corrective shoes - strange the things that stick). I know she pushed me down there more than once and I was terrified of stairs for a long time. They still freak me out a little.
I remember being locked in the closet for hours on end… sometimes sleeping in there. I was almost three when my mom gave me to my older brother to take care of. My younger brother had been born and she was done taking care of me. So, since I was 3, I’ve never had anyone to count on. I was never hugged or kissed or loved by my parents (I was by my Grandfather, and I think that‘s why I‘m still here). I never got to be a kid.
This is where it starts to get foggy …. There are specifics I remember (my brother trying to drown me, trying to kill my cat, running me over with his bike - repeatedly until I was unconscious, and generally beating the living crap out of me any chance he got, without censure.
One specific incident of him running me over was when I was maybe 5 or so. Walking down our gravel road and he is coming for me… I try to run but I’m not fast enough. He hits me. I’m down but he’s circling around and coming for me again, this time he runs me over and slams my head into the ground, closely followed by one of his friends driving his bike over me like a speed bump. I’m out cold. One of the neighborhood dads scooped me up and carried me inside my house, my nose and head bleeding, and sets me on the couch. My mom flirts with him and sends him home, then promptly yells at me for embarrassing her and trying to get all the attention and STOP BLEEDING ON MY SOFA. My brother was not in trouble, I was just really clumsy.
I thought this was how all families were. I never knew this was not normal until I was in college. I told some of the stories of my brother/mother and the horrified looks of my sorority sisters was completely perplexing.
I don’t think it’s so important to rehash all the crap they did to me. Right now it serves me better to feel it and let it go. Know it happened, know it can’t change but that it’s over. Deal with the blocked out stuff as it comes, feel it and let it go. I can’t help but feel sad - sometimes I wallow in my own little pile of pity - and mourn the little girl I didn’t get to be.
One day at a time. One prayer at a time.
Writing it down helps me process, so here I am. … writing like a freak. Remembering shit I don’t really want to remember but HAVE to in order to be whole. I don’t think I’ll ever be normal, whatever that means. All I can do is try to do the best I can with what’s left of my little broken girl heart.
I’ve been going back to the beginnings of my memories to try to put stuff back in order. My earliest memory is of my mom pushing me down the stairs on my trike. I remember being underneath the trike on the landing, maybe 8-10 steps down (wood) and having her glare down at me with her hands on her hips and then walking away. I don’t know how long I was down there but I remember my older brother helping me carry the trike back up. I think I was between 18 months and 2yrs. We left that house when I was 2 ½ so prior to that (and I was wearing red corrective shoes - strange the things that stick). I know she pushed me down there more than once and I was terrified of stairs for a long time. They still freak me out a little.
I remember being locked in the closet for hours on end… sometimes sleeping in there. I was almost three when my mom gave me to my older brother to take care of. My younger brother had been born and she was done taking care of me. So, since I was 3, I’ve never had anyone to count on. I was never hugged or kissed or loved by my parents (I was by my Grandfather, and I think that‘s why I‘m still here). I never got to be a kid.
This is where it starts to get foggy …. There are specifics I remember (my brother trying to drown me, trying to kill my cat, running me over with his bike - repeatedly until I was unconscious, and generally beating the living crap out of me any chance he got, without censure.
One specific incident of him running me over was when I was maybe 5 or so. Walking down our gravel road and he is coming for me… I try to run but I’m not fast enough. He hits me. I’m down but he’s circling around and coming for me again, this time he runs me over and slams my head into the ground, closely followed by one of his friends driving his bike over me like a speed bump. I’m out cold. One of the neighborhood dads scooped me up and carried me inside my house, my nose and head bleeding, and sets me on the couch. My mom flirts with him and sends him home, then promptly yells at me for embarrassing her and trying to get all the attention and STOP BLEEDING ON MY SOFA. My brother was not in trouble, I was just really clumsy.
I thought this was how all families were. I never knew this was not normal until I was in college. I told some of the stories of my brother/mother and the horrified looks of my sorority sisters was completely perplexing.
I don’t think it’s so important to rehash all the crap they did to me. Right now it serves me better to feel it and let it go. Know it happened, know it can’t change but that it’s over. Deal with the blocked out stuff as it comes, feel it and let it go. I can’t help but feel sad - sometimes I wallow in my own little pile of pity - and mourn the little girl I didn’t get to be.
One day at a time. One prayer at a time.
Monday, November 10, 2008
childhood history and the loss of the happy
I am a woman of few spoken words and many, many written ones.
And I am changing my life. Or, rather, my life is changing me.
Here's a brief history of my time (which doesn't follow an exact timeline, bear with me):
My beginnings on this planet were harsh. Unwanted, unwelcome. I was not the cherished gift that my brothers were, but a burden and a scourge on my mother. My brain does not let me remember what is too hard to see… but lately things are seeping through…
In May, I met someone that I didn’t want to meet. I knew he would change my life and I’ve been so angry at him for being a catalyst to my changes that I haven’t given him a moments peace. Poor guy. The details are less important than the fact that he defines himself as a Christian man. And then I come along, Buddhist-pagan-weirdo-arty me challenging his beliefs (not very nicely I might add). We still connected somehow. Got along well when the topic wasn’t religion.
I find myself loving him. FUCK! This is not fitting into my life plan. Turns out that he does not wish to pursue me as a wife.. I am unworthy. He tells me this after we spend the night sleeping naked together. I want to die. I was not being cherished. I thought, foolishly, that I was being loved. But no, I am the throwaway girl (and a fool).
Then 10 years of suppressed memories start leaking through…. Giving me the reasons behind my fear and anxiety relating to churches. Why I've always hated going to church with my parents, my mother especially. They just keep rolling on through my head and rather than shrinking from them, I’m feeling them… experiencing them and letting it happen.
The more I pray in church, the more I remember.
I remember the pastor hiking up my dress to put his hands in my tights. I remember him hiding me under his desk when the secretary came. I remember him forcing my face into his crotch and the awful sick old man smell and trying to choke down the vomit while I cried.
I also remember my mother catching him with his hand up my dress and calling me a whore. I was maybe 7? 8?
She blamed me. Blamed me for trying to be sexual. Said I was trying too hard to be pretty so that all the boys would look at me. Made it be my fault because I was wearing a dress. Dresses were for the pretty girls and who do you think you are trying to be one of them?.
The only constant truth of my childhood was that I was never going to be pretty, I should stop trying and everyone could see how ugly I was. I wasn‘t fooling anyone by putting on a dress! What a fraud! My mother fancied herself as some sort of a beauty because she was the ‘spring princess’ or something in college. There could only be one pretty female in my house and it wasn’t going to be me, that’s for sure. It made my mom crazy to have me get more attention than her. Even crazier if that attention was from my dad (but that is a whole different blog topic).
I was a little kid. A KID.. How profoundly mentally ill is my mother? So ill that her little girl had to carve out a space in her brain to hide her memories from herself to survive. Very, very ill.
So now I see why it is that I am nauseous if I have to go to church with them. Why I love dresses, LOVE dresses (I have 30 or 40) but have a hard time just getting out the door with one on. I have huge anxiety attacks and can’t look in the mirror. It’s easier if I’m going out with girlfriends or with men who I’ve known for a long time. Or if it’s a costume (then I can pretend I’m someone else). I feel the most vulnerable of all when I’m in a dress and that everyone can see that I’m just pretending to be pretty.
It’s much easier just to tell people I hate wearing dresses. Which isn’t really true. I hate that when I wear them I hear my mothers voice in my head saying “a pig in a dress is still a pig”. I hate that I am afraid to feel attractive. One of my beefs with the guy was that he always wanted me to wear dresses… it was a thing for him and I was constantly angry about it. My little kid brain was interpreting that as “I want you to look like a whore-pig-fraud-ugly person”.. yeah... not so fun.
I feel much more free that now I know where some of this comes from. I just have to take the memories as they come and process. The memories that I’m letting go of are being replaced by the divine. I am back at church, on my terms and in a place I love. The last two weeks have been so very hard - between dealing with these memories and having probably the most painful rejection of my life (not worthy of being pursued as a wife because I don‘t have enough Jesus) - I’ve been at the cathedral every day and I go to two services on Sunday. I just want to be there all the time and I’ve never felt like this before. I’ve never wanted to go to church, ever.. now that I know the cause of that, it‘s all I want to do. Hang out with my invisible giant.
It’s time for me to do the work. Will the “guy” believe the change and now consider me wife material? No. men don't change their minds. On the off chance that he does believe me he’ll most likely think I’m doing it to win him back. I'm not.
I will still love him but will probably have to do it from far away. I made such huge mistakes because I SOOOOO did not want to change and was an obstinate mean bitch. Tried to ask for forgiveness in my way (I felt like God told me to wash his feet, so I did) but the words just didn't come out in any kind of way that made sense. I had hoped he would understand but I don't know. It's just so frustrating when you can't get the words out OF YOUR OWN HEAD. argh. makes me cry.
Not that he is blameless in this (though he has said he was sorry and I think he meant it) far from it. It’s just all so unfortunate and sad. My heart is broken.
My cup runneth over and My tank of suffering is indeed full.
And I am changing my life. Or, rather, my life is changing me.
Here's a brief history of my time (which doesn't follow an exact timeline, bear with me):
My beginnings on this planet were harsh. Unwanted, unwelcome. I was not the cherished gift that my brothers were, but a burden and a scourge on my mother. My brain does not let me remember what is too hard to see… but lately things are seeping through…
In May, I met someone that I didn’t want to meet. I knew he would change my life and I’ve been so angry at him for being a catalyst to my changes that I haven’t given him a moments peace. Poor guy. The details are less important than the fact that he defines himself as a Christian man. And then I come along, Buddhist-pagan-weirdo-arty me challenging his beliefs (not very nicely I might add). We still connected somehow. Got along well when the topic wasn’t religion.
I find myself loving him. FUCK! This is not fitting into my life plan. Turns out that he does not wish to pursue me as a wife.. I am unworthy. He tells me this after we spend the night sleeping naked together. I want to die. I was not being cherished. I thought, foolishly, that I was being loved. But no, I am the throwaway girl (and a fool).
Then 10 years of suppressed memories start leaking through…. Giving me the reasons behind my fear and anxiety relating to churches. Why I've always hated going to church with my parents, my mother especially. They just keep rolling on through my head and rather than shrinking from them, I’m feeling them… experiencing them and letting it happen.
The more I pray in church, the more I remember.
I remember the pastor hiking up my dress to put his hands in my tights. I remember him hiding me under his desk when the secretary came. I remember him forcing my face into his crotch and the awful sick old man smell and trying to choke down the vomit while I cried.
I also remember my mother catching him with his hand up my dress and calling me a whore. I was maybe 7? 8?
She blamed me. Blamed me for trying to be sexual. Said I was trying too hard to be pretty so that all the boys would look at me. Made it be my fault because I was wearing a dress. Dresses were for the pretty girls and who do you think you are trying to be one of them?.
The only constant truth of my childhood was that I was never going to be pretty, I should stop trying and everyone could see how ugly I was. I wasn‘t fooling anyone by putting on a dress! What a fraud! My mother fancied herself as some sort of a beauty because she was the ‘spring princess’ or something in college. There could only be one pretty female in my house and it wasn’t going to be me, that’s for sure. It made my mom crazy to have me get more attention than her. Even crazier if that attention was from my dad (but that is a whole different blog topic).
I was a little kid. A KID.. How profoundly mentally ill is my mother? So ill that her little girl had to carve out a space in her brain to hide her memories from herself to survive. Very, very ill.
So now I see why it is that I am nauseous if I have to go to church with them. Why I love dresses, LOVE dresses (I have 30 or 40) but have a hard time just getting out the door with one on. I have huge anxiety attacks and can’t look in the mirror. It’s easier if I’m going out with girlfriends or with men who I’ve known for a long time. Or if it’s a costume (then I can pretend I’m someone else). I feel the most vulnerable of all when I’m in a dress and that everyone can see that I’m just pretending to be pretty.
It’s much easier just to tell people I hate wearing dresses. Which isn’t really true. I hate that when I wear them I hear my mothers voice in my head saying “a pig in a dress is still a pig”. I hate that I am afraid to feel attractive. One of my beefs with the guy was that he always wanted me to wear dresses… it was a thing for him and I was constantly angry about it. My little kid brain was interpreting that as “I want you to look like a whore-pig-fraud-ugly person”.. yeah... not so fun.
I feel much more free that now I know where some of this comes from. I just have to take the memories as they come and process. The memories that I’m letting go of are being replaced by the divine. I am back at church, on my terms and in a place I love. The last two weeks have been so very hard - between dealing with these memories and having probably the most painful rejection of my life (not worthy of being pursued as a wife because I don‘t have enough Jesus) - I’ve been at the cathedral every day and I go to two services on Sunday. I just want to be there all the time and I’ve never felt like this before. I’ve never wanted to go to church, ever.. now that I know the cause of that, it‘s all I want to do. Hang out with my invisible giant.
It’s time for me to do the work. Will the “guy” believe the change and now consider me wife material? No. men don't change their minds. On the off chance that he does believe me he’ll most likely think I’m doing it to win him back. I'm not.
I will still love him but will probably have to do it from far away. I made such huge mistakes because I SOOOOO did not want to change and was an obstinate mean bitch. Tried to ask for forgiveness in my way (I felt like God told me to wash his feet, so I did) but the words just didn't come out in any kind of way that made sense. I had hoped he would understand but I don't know. It's just so frustrating when you can't get the words out OF YOUR OWN HEAD. argh. makes me cry.
Not that he is blameless in this (though he has said he was sorry and I think he meant it) far from it. It’s just all so unfortunate and sad. My heart is broken.
My cup runneth over and My tank of suffering is indeed full.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
I love
I love someone. Oh baby. love. big freaking love.
I am terrified.
I gave up everyone for this, and it's not in my hands anymore.
I am terrified.
I gave up everyone for this, and it's not in my hands anymore.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
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