I've been doing some soul searching of late for a variety of reasons. I'm starting to wonder if I ever stood a chance of having anything approaching a normal life. They say family is the single biggest influence on who a person grows up to be. I'm starting to understand how absolutely true that is. I think a lot of people when they say that are thinking positively; if you bring a child up with love and respect they will go forward and love and respect others. But I think that's the optomist talking. I think reality is something far darker and twisted and upside down than that. I think the reality of families is what makes us who we are; and that reality is far from being the result of positive outcomes.
I grew up being bullied by a sister two and a half years older than me. My mother encouraged her to be strong and independant and to have a take charge attitude. And inadvertantly my mother encouraged her to walk across people in the process. In raising us my mother only had her role models to work from, which is probably why my brother remains fairly removed from the insanity. My mother had two sisters growing up and no brothers. In short, she didn't know how to screw up a son, but she knew how to make sure her daughters didn't get along. She raised them as she had been raised by her mother; a woman who'd herself had a highly chaotic childhood lacking in stability. Grandmother's parents were killed in a tornado when she was young and she and her siblings were shuttled from relative to relative till she married a much older divorced man at 16 or 17. She must have a had a very hard upbringing, and I'm sure she survived it by being tough as nails, competitive, strong and independant. She taught her daughters those skills without knowing I suspect how to teach them to be friends as well. That I saw, my mother and her sisters were never terribly close.
So I grew up being criticised at every turn. I was slapped, pushed, kicked and verbally and emotionally abused by my sister. To this day I don't think anyone saw anything terribly wrong with it. I know they didn't then and don't now understand how crucial that was in my turning out the way it did. Why should they? I didn't figure it out myself until this week. What do you get when you criticize everything someone does? You wind up with someone who communicates as little as possible in order to avoid criticism. You wind up with someone who will empathize and sympathize with the oppressed absued discounted and marginalized people of the world. Yeah, you wind up with me.
The flip side to that is that I idolized her at the same time. Some part of me knew she was being unfair and cruel but I would have done anything to win her approval and friendship, so I buried any negative feelings. I kept hoping someday she's like me. Someday we'd be friends. Someday she'd respect me. I kept trying to figure out what I could do, how I could make that happen. As a result I also grew very good at gauging how people were feeling, what they needed to hear at that moment and how to communicate something important to them. Those were all skills that came to help shape not only who I am, but what I've done for a living.
I made excuses my whole life for her. I rationalized the way she treated me, or believed that I deserved it. I rationalized or ignored the way she treated other people. She told me I was fat. I not only believed her, I ultimately became fat. Keep in mind we're about the same size now, as we were then. I get now that she pushed the worst of what she believed about herself off onto me and then ridiculed me for it. All this time I thought all my negative beliefs about myself came from my mother. While she had something to do with it, an awful lot of it came from my sister.
So I "got" all this with sudden clarity the other day. I thought she and I had been forging a new relationship with elements of mutual trust and understanding for quite some time now. I thought that my sister and I would one day be on equal footing and be friends. I thought one day I'd make her proud of me. I know now that could never have happened. I can never make that happen. Nothing has changed. Well, not true; I have changed.
She went off on my on my facebook page. Yes, I now understand one shouldn't have relatives on your facebook page. Anyway she did that in front of all my friends, real and cyber. It was pretty vicious. I cried for days. Then very early one morning I got it. Nothing has changed and she's a bully. I suddenly saw all the connections I'd missed all these years. I suddenly understood what a lifetime of bullying had done to me. It was a light bulb moment. I've been trying to win from her the one thing she would absolutely never give me, becuase to do so would be to give up her power over me. That power she believes she has is part of what keeps her propped up and going . . . at my expense. I wasted 47 years searching for an approval I was never going to get. That's all.
I still don't know if there's any value in trying to communicate any of this to her. She'll deny she was every a bully, and most likely will just call me worse names than she's already called me. Insert eye roll here. I don't know. I'm still thinking on it.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
I'm an Alien, That Must be It
As I was laying in bed this morning crying, that's the realization I came to, however impossible; I must have been left here by an alien race; designed to blend in and pass for the real thing. I look too much like both parents and my siblings to be adopted or otherwise conceived so what does that leave? I've felt a good part of my life like an alien, surrounded by another species, not at home in the environment I'm in.
I am incredibly unlike my siblings in emotional temperament, political outlook, religious beliefs and on down to the clothes I wear. I don’t consider NASCAR t-shirts a fashion statement. Call me weird.
I’ve tried, Gods knows I’ve tried to find a way to fit in somehow. I once sat through two hours of NASCAR conversation with a brother and sister. I didn’t understand a word of it and could have cared less, but damnit, I faked interest, I nodded, I smiled, I laughed. I can’t see that it got me anywhere, those two hours of “bonding”. There’ve been other attempts. There has been lots of nodding and smiling and ignoring barbs and jabs and stabs in the back and I think I was run over with a 18 wheeler once, or was that a bad dream?
If our parents were still alive maybe they could have been a buffer of sorts, a common ground as we got older. But they passed away over twenty years ago when I was still in my twenties. I’m 47 now and the intervening years have not given me a single clue as to how to fit into my siblings alien world. I don’t say my family’s world because I don’t believe my parents were this radically different. My father was a fair man to a fault. My mother, well, she was a narcissist who really didn’t give a crap about anyone and was mostly just angry at everyone because she was not the center of the universe. Yeah, I know, crappy role model from day one. Don’t think I don’t know that.
The thing is there is this person inside of me, you know. I know who I am, I’ve lived my inner life and brought it out into the open. I’ve crawled into the dark places and made it a part of my reality. I can’t pretend that their reality is mine. And that ought to be okay. I don’t understand why it’s not okay for me to be who I am. I don’t understand the hate directed at me for being who I am. And yet I do understand.
Years ago I read a book by John Bradshaw, On the Family. Light bulbs went off and bells began to ring. Years? Um, decades now that I think about it. I am the youngest of four children. Yes, sigh, the baby. I prefer youngest, but people think it’s so freaking cute to call me the baby . . . I’m 47 and my breasts are dropping down to my navel. . . whatever makes you giggle people.
Bradshaw related a scenario that stunned me. He said something to the effect that all family members have roles and if a child acts outside of that role they will most likely be ignored by the family. The family will literally not hear or see that child when they are not playing the proper role. He gave an example and it floored me. His were the first books I ever highlighted that weren’t text books. I kept coming back and coming back to that highlighted page. And each time I read it I was angrier and angrier and angrier. All that time I thought it was me. All that time. Twenty some odd years, all my growing up years I thought it was me. God damn I thought it was me. I was supposed to be cute and funny and the baby for the rest of my life. I wasn’t supposed to have a serious thought in my head or contradict anyone or be anything other than what the family role dictated for the rest of my life.
See, they used to ignore me when I spoke. We’d be talking about something and I would make a comment and they’d ignore me. Sometimes I thought maybe I said it too softly and they didn’t hear me. Sometimes I‘d say it again louder. But most of the time I thought they were ignoring me because what I’d said was stupid. But they literally didn’t hear me. I conducted an experiment one night; an impromptu one. I was dishing ice cream out of a carton and it slipped. My response was unprintable here. My mother, I swear to the Gods, looked around in confusion and said to my oldest sister “Did you hear something?” My sister said “Oh it was nothing, no, didn’t hear anything. This wasn’t a sarcastic “Did you hear something”, this was an honest statement of confusion. Just for the heck of it I tried that experiment several more times in vary degrees. Their response was almost funny. Almost.
I think I was 22 when I did that. It was all downhill from there.
There is a part of me that still looks up to them, my siblings; that wants their approval. It’s inevitable I suppose, being the youngest. Well, how do you secure the approval of someone who feels that your entire life is unacceptable? You can’t. But it doesn’t stop that part of me from continuing to hope. I wish it did. It makes no sense to hope. My siblings are not my friends, they never will be my friends and they’ll never be proud of a single thing I’ve ever done with my life. They can’t accept who I am, not one minute not one second.
So who am I that’s so unacceptable? I’m a liberal single Pagan female. I’m socially and politically fairly liberal, though others stand further to the left than me. I’m Pagan, this means I don’t believe in the bible as a frame work for my beliefs about the Gods, life, the afterlife or the point and purpose of living. That's it. Haven't killed or maimed anyone. That's it.
That I didn’t turn out like my siblings who are right wing republicans appears to be a major source of discomfort and unhappiness for them. I can’t say I’m thrilled about their point of view, but they are who they are and if it makes them happy so be it. I don’t believe I’ve ever condemned them for their beliefs or practices. I learned long ago and I continue to relearn and relearn that what you do comes back to you. Condemn others and it will bounce back at you. But just being who I am seems to be condemnation in their eyes. There’s nothing I can do about that. The old if you’re not with us you’re against us theory of life. Gods, but that paradigm so needs to die out. How many people have been hurt killed maimed and abandon by that power over point of view?
So I’m crying again. I’ve been called self centered, myopic, unrealistic, irrational and uncaring. And that’s all in the last two hours. The words and the hate hurt, but what I hear from the words is “You’re not anything like me and you frighten me.”
I’m sorry, I can’t help you there sis. Your fear is not my responsibility.
So, if my real parents would be so kind as to beam me up now I’d really appreciate it. I’ve had enough and I want to come home to my real family; the ones who understand me, love me, believe in me and want me in their lives as a friend and sister. I’m a pretty amazing woman, damned intelligent and insightful if I do say so myself and I think you’ll be proud of me. Ready for beam up anytime now . . .
I am incredibly unlike my siblings in emotional temperament, political outlook, religious beliefs and on down to the clothes I wear. I don’t consider NASCAR t-shirts a fashion statement. Call me weird.
I’ve tried, Gods knows I’ve tried to find a way to fit in somehow. I once sat through two hours of NASCAR conversation with a brother and sister. I didn’t understand a word of it and could have cared less, but damnit, I faked interest, I nodded, I smiled, I laughed. I can’t see that it got me anywhere, those two hours of “bonding”. There’ve been other attempts. There has been lots of nodding and smiling and ignoring barbs and jabs and stabs in the back and I think I was run over with a 18 wheeler once, or was that a bad dream?
If our parents were still alive maybe they could have been a buffer of sorts, a common ground as we got older. But they passed away over twenty years ago when I was still in my twenties. I’m 47 now and the intervening years have not given me a single clue as to how to fit into my siblings alien world. I don’t say my family’s world because I don’t believe my parents were this radically different. My father was a fair man to a fault. My mother, well, she was a narcissist who really didn’t give a crap about anyone and was mostly just angry at everyone because she was not the center of the universe. Yeah, I know, crappy role model from day one. Don’t think I don’t know that.
The thing is there is this person inside of me, you know. I know who I am, I’ve lived my inner life and brought it out into the open. I’ve crawled into the dark places and made it a part of my reality. I can’t pretend that their reality is mine. And that ought to be okay. I don’t understand why it’s not okay for me to be who I am. I don’t understand the hate directed at me for being who I am. And yet I do understand.
Years ago I read a book by John Bradshaw, On the Family. Light bulbs went off and bells began to ring. Years? Um, decades now that I think about it. I am the youngest of four children. Yes, sigh, the baby. I prefer youngest, but people think it’s so freaking cute to call me the baby . . . I’m 47 and my breasts are dropping down to my navel. . . whatever makes you giggle people.
Bradshaw related a scenario that stunned me. He said something to the effect that all family members have roles and if a child acts outside of that role they will most likely be ignored by the family. The family will literally not hear or see that child when they are not playing the proper role. He gave an example and it floored me. His were the first books I ever highlighted that weren’t text books. I kept coming back and coming back to that highlighted page. And each time I read it I was angrier and angrier and angrier. All that time I thought it was me. All that time. Twenty some odd years, all my growing up years I thought it was me. God damn I thought it was me. I was supposed to be cute and funny and the baby for the rest of my life. I wasn’t supposed to have a serious thought in my head or contradict anyone or be anything other than what the family role dictated for the rest of my life.
See, they used to ignore me when I spoke. We’d be talking about something and I would make a comment and they’d ignore me. Sometimes I thought maybe I said it too softly and they didn’t hear me. Sometimes I‘d say it again louder. But most of the time I thought they were ignoring me because what I’d said was stupid. But they literally didn’t hear me. I conducted an experiment one night; an impromptu one. I was dishing ice cream out of a carton and it slipped. My response was unprintable here. My mother, I swear to the Gods, looked around in confusion and said to my oldest sister “Did you hear something?” My sister said “Oh it was nothing, no, didn’t hear anything. This wasn’t a sarcastic “Did you hear something”, this was an honest statement of confusion. Just for the heck of it I tried that experiment several more times in vary degrees. Their response was almost funny. Almost.
I think I was 22 when I did that. It was all downhill from there.
There is a part of me that still looks up to them, my siblings; that wants their approval. It’s inevitable I suppose, being the youngest. Well, how do you secure the approval of someone who feels that your entire life is unacceptable? You can’t. But it doesn’t stop that part of me from continuing to hope. I wish it did. It makes no sense to hope. My siblings are not my friends, they never will be my friends and they’ll never be proud of a single thing I’ve ever done with my life. They can’t accept who I am, not one minute not one second.
So who am I that’s so unacceptable? I’m a liberal single Pagan female. I’m socially and politically fairly liberal, though others stand further to the left than me. I’m Pagan, this means I don’t believe in the bible as a frame work for my beliefs about the Gods, life, the afterlife or the point and purpose of living. That's it. Haven't killed or maimed anyone. That's it.
That I didn’t turn out like my siblings who are right wing republicans appears to be a major source of discomfort and unhappiness for them. I can’t say I’m thrilled about their point of view, but they are who they are and if it makes them happy so be it. I don’t believe I’ve ever condemned them for their beliefs or practices. I learned long ago and I continue to relearn and relearn that what you do comes back to you. Condemn others and it will bounce back at you. But just being who I am seems to be condemnation in their eyes. There’s nothing I can do about that. The old if you’re not with us you’re against us theory of life. Gods, but that paradigm so needs to die out. How many people have been hurt killed maimed and abandon by that power over point of view?
So I’m crying again. I’ve been called self centered, myopic, unrealistic, irrational and uncaring. And that’s all in the last two hours. The words and the hate hurt, but what I hear from the words is “You’re not anything like me and you frighten me.”
I’m sorry, I can’t help you there sis. Your fear is not my responsibility.
So, if my real parents would be so kind as to beam me up now I’d really appreciate it. I’ve had enough and I want to come home to my real family; the ones who understand me, love me, believe in me and want me in their lives as a friend and sister. I’m a pretty amazing woman, damned intelligent and insightful if I do say so myself and I think you’ll be proud of me. Ready for beam up anytime now . . .
Saturday, March 28, 2009
On Having
I've been struggling ever since Jessie died. There's been one or two days that we okay, but most of them have just been hard. She passed February 14th. In some ways I think that's just one very cruel vicious joke: Valentines Day. It gave me pause. I wondered if the Gods really did love me. If they did how could they do that? Why take my best friend from me on that day? You could call it coincidence, but I tend to think there are none. Taking her from me on that day so suddenly is hard not to take personally. It's one of the few slights in life that didn't make me angry but just hurt. It still hurts. It's not like there's a man to bring me flowers or children to buy me useless things on Valentines Day. All I had was a dog okay. Some kisses and a cuddle here and there.
I've been trying for the last few weeks in earnest to find another dog. Nothing seems to be working. I thought I'd found a local breeder who's dogs I liked and could afford but it turns out the breeder doesn't OAF or Penn her breeding dogs. If I were to adopt a shelter or rescue dog I wouldn't know diddly about their parents either, but I can't bring myself to buy from a breeder who cares so little about the puppies she might be bringing into the world to suffer short painful lives because of hip dysplasia.
The way I found out pissed me off beyond words. I'd joined an email group of large shepherd breeders figuring that would be the best way to find a local breeder. What I forgot, or chose to forget from previous experience is that breeders are the most inbreed, nasty tempered, suspicious, back stabbing sniveling bunch of pantie wastes on earth. Dealing with them one at a time ain't so bad, but get a group of them together and watch the knives come out and the blood spill. Given that they create soft fuzzy life out of that never ceases to amaze me: how absolute opposite they are of that which they give to people. Had someone simply said "Have you asked about hips yet" I would have been fine. That was on the list to ask about, but I hadn't gotten that far yet. But some smarmy little backwoods breeder had to insinuate that breeders dogs all had bad hips. This is the same shit that privately contacted me the week before wanting to sell me one of her puppies from all the way over in freaking West Virginia. So I walked quietly out of that group and left them to their backstabbing and I declined to buy the puppy.
I tried going back to the rescue where I got Jessie from. They keep precious few dogs in their rescue now and seem to prefer to dedicate their time to a permanent facility for unadoptable dogs. I got no where with the volunteer who contacted me. When I asked about cat friendly dogs I was told to "Just come on down some Saturday and meet the dogs." It's a three hour drive to just come on down. The idea of spending three hours in the car to see dogs who may or may not be cat friendly is not appealing. Why they don't temperament test the dogs is beyond me. Perhaps I'm the only person on the face of the planet who wants a German Shepherd and has cats? Yeah, but that's the way they make you feel when you ask. I've since come to realize that attitude is pretty common with breed rescues. I tried another breed rescue in another part of L.A. and that hasn't gone much better for the same reason. As I told a friend the other day, it's far easier for Madonna to adopt another child from a third world country than it is for me to adopt a dog.
That leaves me with county shelters. There's a cheery place, a county dog shelter. My fear with going into one of those places is how many dogs I'd walk out with, "Excuse me but is there a limit to how many dogs I can't adopt at one time?" If you've never been in one, county shelters are the most dismal hopeless places on earth. That any of the animals ever get out of there alive and rebound in spirit from the experience is a miracle.
I know, yes, I know it's not supposed to be this hard. If it's this hard I'm doing something wrong and the wisest thing to do is step back and take pause. I realize that. But there's the thing, grief makes it hard to accept that.
Alright, wait, slight tangent here. Dinner tonight was miserable. It sucked. It didn't turn out right. But then I was trying to make egg rolls with rice paper yet again. I want to track down the tramp on the gluten forum who claimed you could bake them. Uh, no, you can't. The texture turns to plastic if you bake them. First I tried frying one of them tonight and it stuck to a non stick pan and came apart. I gave that up and got out the steamer. You are supposed to be able to steam them. The other three fell apart when I took them out of the steamer. I had deconstructed rice paper egg rolls. I'd have killed for proper egg roll wrappers. I've tried repeatedly with rice paper. This is the fourth or fifth attempt. Mercifully I used up the last of the package tonight. If you make them light enough and you're lucky you can pan fry them but they're a freaking mess. Make them too big and the weight of the filling tears the paper and you have what I had for dinner. I was furious by the time I was done. Not mad at the wrappers mind you; that would be pointless. But mad at life, mad at fate, mad at the Gods because I can't walk into the fucking supermarket and buy egg roll wrappers like most everyone else on the planet. I was mad all over again that it was taken away from me; other people can have it but I can't. THAT is what gets to me every single time.
And I'm angry that other women have husbands and children and grandchildren. I can't. And it's as much grief as anger that all over this planet men and women met and fall in love and have children; billions of people do that every single day and I can't.
Sense a pattern here yet? All I want is one relatively young cat loving german shepherd to take into my home and love and spoil and take on walks and watch tv with and I can't have it. Truth be known I don't even want that. I want Jessie back and I can't ever have her either.
I don't entirely understand what it is that set my life apart from what is normal. I haven't a clue actually. Not a single clue why. Most days I can ignore it, and can focus on everything else that works and be happy, but some days I just can't see the light no matter how hard I look. And unfortunately its mostly been like that since Jessie left. Yeah, other women get men and children; I got a dog to love.
I've been trying for the last few weeks in earnest to find another dog. Nothing seems to be working. I thought I'd found a local breeder who's dogs I liked and could afford but it turns out the breeder doesn't OAF or Penn her breeding dogs. If I were to adopt a shelter or rescue dog I wouldn't know diddly about their parents either, but I can't bring myself to buy from a breeder who cares so little about the puppies she might be bringing into the world to suffer short painful lives because of hip dysplasia.
The way I found out pissed me off beyond words. I'd joined an email group of large shepherd breeders figuring that would be the best way to find a local breeder. What I forgot, or chose to forget from previous experience is that breeders are the most inbreed, nasty tempered, suspicious, back stabbing sniveling bunch of pantie wastes on earth. Dealing with them one at a time ain't so bad, but get a group of them together and watch the knives come out and the blood spill. Given that they create soft fuzzy life out of that never ceases to amaze me: how absolute opposite they are of that which they give to people. Had someone simply said "Have you asked about hips yet" I would have been fine. That was on the list to ask about, but I hadn't gotten that far yet. But some smarmy little backwoods breeder had to insinuate that breeders dogs all had bad hips. This is the same shit that privately contacted me the week before wanting to sell me one of her puppies from all the way over in freaking West Virginia. So I walked quietly out of that group and left them to their backstabbing and I declined to buy the puppy.
I tried going back to the rescue where I got Jessie from. They keep precious few dogs in their rescue now and seem to prefer to dedicate their time to a permanent facility for unadoptable dogs. I got no where with the volunteer who contacted me. When I asked about cat friendly dogs I was told to "Just come on down some Saturday and meet the dogs." It's a three hour drive to just come on down. The idea of spending three hours in the car to see dogs who may or may not be cat friendly is not appealing. Why they don't temperament test the dogs is beyond me. Perhaps I'm the only person on the face of the planet who wants a German Shepherd and has cats? Yeah, but that's the way they make you feel when you ask. I've since come to realize that attitude is pretty common with breed rescues. I tried another breed rescue in another part of L.A. and that hasn't gone much better for the same reason. As I told a friend the other day, it's far easier for Madonna to adopt another child from a third world country than it is for me to adopt a dog.
That leaves me with county shelters. There's a cheery place, a county dog shelter. My fear with going into one of those places is how many dogs I'd walk out with, "Excuse me but is there a limit to how many dogs I can't adopt at one time?" If you've never been in one, county shelters are the most dismal hopeless places on earth. That any of the animals ever get out of there alive and rebound in spirit from the experience is a miracle.
I know, yes, I know it's not supposed to be this hard. If it's this hard I'm doing something wrong and the wisest thing to do is step back and take pause. I realize that. But there's the thing, grief makes it hard to accept that.
Alright, wait, slight tangent here. Dinner tonight was miserable. It sucked. It didn't turn out right. But then I was trying to make egg rolls with rice paper yet again. I want to track down the tramp on the gluten forum who claimed you could bake them. Uh, no, you can't. The texture turns to plastic if you bake them. First I tried frying one of them tonight and it stuck to a non stick pan and came apart. I gave that up and got out the steamer. You are supposed to be able to steam them. The other three fell apart when I took them out of the steamer. I had deconstructed rice paper egg rolls. I'd have killed for proper egg roll wrappers. I've tried repeatedly with rice paper. This is the fourth or fifth attempt. Mercifully I used up the last of the package tonight. If you make them light enough and you're lucky you can pan fry them but they're a freaking mess. Make them too big and the weight of the filling tears the paper and you have what I had for dinner. I was furious by the time I was done. Not mad at the wrappers mind you; that would be pointless. But mad at life, mad at fate, mad at the Gods because I can't walk into the fucking supermarket and buy egg roll wrappers like most everyone else on the planet. I was mad all over again that it was taken away from me; other people can have it but I can't. THAT is what gets to me every single time.
And I'm angry that other women have husbands and children and grandchildren. I can't. And it's as much grief as anger that all over this planet men and women met and fall in love and have children; billions of people do that every single day and I can't.
Sense a pattern here yet? All I want is one relatively young cat loving german shepherd to take into my home and love and spoil and take on walks and watch tv with and I can't have it. Truth be known I don't even want that. I want Jessie back and I can't ever have her either.
I don't entirely understand what it is that set my life apart from what is normal. I haven't a clue actually. Not a single clue why. Most days I can ignore it, and can focus on everything else that works and be happy, but some days I just can't see the light no matter how hard I look. And unfortunately its mostly been like that since Jessie left. Yeah, other women get men and children; I got a dog to love.
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