Love, Hate, and All the Feels
****WARNING: My family should consider very closely and very honestly whether they want to read this. There is truth here that could break your heart. Or start an honest conversation. The only one who may be immune to this warning is my sister, with whom I've shared so much****
Like every depressive ever, I have always believed that I Feel Too Much. It's probably true. I know that I reach levels of depression and anxiety that I can't possibly explain to people who do not have a foundation in feeling either of these things chronically. Often, I get from my beloved, "I'm sorry that you're having a rough time"....though, that is after several attempts to raise me from whatever depth that I've reached and has run out of ideas or things to say, and I can't blame him. I don't offer much help. I can't help him understand, except through this blog, I suppose. So, I'm writing this post on the hardest thing ever for me - feelings.
Feelings are...hard. Obviously. I was talking with my sister about complicated relationships, and I won't share her views, but I'll certainly share mine. Because, it's healthy, or something. To start, my relationship with my parents has never been a simple one.
I was Daddy's Little Girl. He coached my softball team when I was in elementary school, he fostered my love of reading and writing, challenged my critical thinking skills from a young age, held me when I cried about stupid bully girls not liking me for no discernible reason, fostered my adoration of the pun (much to the chagrin of many people who are close to me), and introduced me to role-playing (and by extension lent me to meeting all of the amazing people that I have around me now) - basically, made me who I am, developed the very traits that people tell me that they adore about me. He also caused me all sorts of damage. I was never quite inclined to crying, but he taught me that crying was...wrong. Crying for physical pain was melodramatic, crying for emotional pain was acceptable for a certain amount of time. But it was to be only done in private, and it's an embarrassment if one goes sprouting tears out in front of public, God, and everyone. Somehow, that made it easier to disassociate when the worst of it happened. Super vague, I know, but I can't post so publicly about it, yet. Some of you know, some of you don't. Just know that it was awful and he shattered my trust, expected things from me that were not appropriate for any situation ever, and left me with a *lot* of ridiculous damage. So. There's that.
My relationship with my mom is...also weird. She and I never had problems being quiet together. I didn't have a problem talking to her, either, really. We were just never...close. We never quite understood each other, and Dad's rearranging of things didn't help. Things are even more difficult, now. I don't fault her for her decisions, and she truly did the best that she could with the tools that she had. Honestly, I loathed myself for not being able to protect her or my sister. Crazy, right? So, we've moved passed it. Sort of. I still don't talk to her often, and the more educated I become, it seems that we have fewer and fewer things to talk about. It's not so bad when there's a group of us, or an activity (like sewing lessons or something to actively focus on), but....we talk on the phone for 10 minutes every month or so. She lives 10 minutes from me. Don't get me wrong, she's not dumb. She just...I don't know. We don't have anything in common, it seems. I'm scared to talk to her about things, especially past things. Sometimes, I feel like a 16 year old, sitting awkwardly with my mom with nothing to say. I guess that's really not much different than reality, only I'm 12 years older and have an advanced degree. I really love her, and she's an amazing person. I invite her and my stepfather to the parties at our house, and everyone has a great time hanging out between 7p and 11p (sometimes as late as midnight!) before Mom and Step-dad turn into pumpkins and head home. But...feelings are hard, and I can't pretend that I don't have mixed feelings about any of it.
Including Step-dad. He is a great guy who treats my mom well. He and I can (usually) have drop-down, drag-out political debates and still be civil to each other later. This is important, because we often have exactly not the same views. About anything. You know: different generations, different education levels, different socio-economic statuses, different genders, different experiences, different interpretations of all the things evar. And he doesn't get it. I might be able to view him as a father figure for about ten minutes at a time (yes, that *is* an important length of time for me...because, you know, constantly going back to it, I guess), but that role has been filled. With a lot of things. With love and betrayal and shit and blood and tears and medications and terrible relationship skills and not being able to accept any self-worth and pain. So much fucking pain. I have learned to actually accept feelings as remotely valid things for the first time in my life, and I don't have room for that trust right now. Or maybe ever. And, you know, I'm pretty okay with that.
Like every depressive ever, I have always believed that I Feel Too Much. It's probably true. I know that I reach levels of depression and anxiety that I can't possibly explain to people who do not have a foundation in feeling either of these things chronically. Often, I get from my beloved, "I'm sorry that you're having a rough time"....though, that is after several attempts to raise me from whatever depth that I've reached and has run out of ideas or things to say, and I can't blame him. I don't offer much help. I can't help him understand, except through this blog, I suppose. So, I'm writing this post on the hardest thing ever for me - feelings.
Feelings are...hard. Obviously. I was talking with my sister about complicated relationships, and I won't share her views, but I'll certainly share mine. Because, it's healthy, or something. To start, my relationship with my parents has never been a simple one.
I was Daddy's Little Girl. He coached my softball team when I was in elementary school, he fostered my love of reading and writing, challenged my critical thinking skills from a young age, held me when I cried about stupid bully girls not liking me for no discernible reason, fostered my adoration of the pun (much to the chagrin of many people who are close to me), and introduced me to role-playing (and by extension lent me to meeting all of the amazing people that I have around me now) - basically, made me who I am, developed the very traits that people tell me that they adore about me. He also caused me all sorts of damage. I was never quite inclined to crying, but he taught me that crying was...wrong. Crying for physical pain was melodramatic, crying for emotional pain was acceptable for a certain amount of time. But it was to be only done in private, and it's an embarrassment if one goes sprouting tears out in front of public, God, and everyone. Somehow, that made it easier to disassociate when the worst of it happened. Super vague, I know, but I can't post so publicly about it, yet. Some of you know, some of you don't. Just know that it was awful and he shattered my trust, expected things from me that were not appropriate for any situation ever, and left me with a *lot* of ridiculous damage. So. There's that.
My relationship with my mom is...also weird. She and I never had problems being quiet together. I didn't have a problem talking to her, either, really. We were just never...close. We never quite understood each other, and Dad's rearranging of things didn't help. Things are even more difficult, now. I don't fault her for her decisions, and she truly did the best that she could with the tools that she had. Honestly, I loathed myself for not being able to protect her or my sister. Crazy, right? So, we've moved passed it. Sort of. I still don't talk to her often, and the more educated I become, it seems that we have fewer and fewer things to talk about. It's not so bad when there's a group of us, or an activity (like sewing lessons or something to actively focus on), but....we talk on the phone for 10 minutes every month or so. She lives 10 minutes from me. Don't get me wrong, she's not dumb. She just...I don't know. We don't have anything in common, it seems. I'm scared to talk to her about things, especially past things. Sometimes, I feel like a 16 year old, sitting awkwardly with my mom with nothing to say. I guess that's really not much different than reality, only I'm 12 years older and have an advanced degree. I really love her, and she's an amazing person. I invite her and my stepfather to the parties at our house, and everyone has a great time hanging out between 7p and 11p (sometimes as late as midnight!) before Mom and Step-dad turn into pumpkins and head home. But...feelings are hard, and I can't pretend that I don't have mixed feelings about any of it.
Including Step-dad. He is a great guy who treats my mom well. He and I can (usually) have drop-down, drag-out political debates and still be civil to each other later. This is important, because we often have exactly not the same views. About anything. You know: different generations, different education levels, different socio-economic statuses, different genders, different experiences, different interpretations of all the things evar. And he doesn't get it. I might be able to view him as a father figure for about ten minutes at a time (yes, that *is* an important length of time for me...because, you know, constantly going back to it, I guess), but that role has been filled. With a lot of things. With love and betrayal and shit and blood and tears and medications and terrible relationship skills and not being able to accept any self-worth and pain. So much fucking pain. I have learned to actually accept feelings as remotely valid things for the first time in my life, and I don't have room for that trust right now. Or maybe ever. And, you know, I'm pretty okay with that.
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