I Didn't Know How to Say No

I’m just an awkward kid, painfully shy, saddened by my parents hating on each other, or frustrated at how my siblings see me. I’m vetoed from having a strong voice of my own by my parents’ need for control, more than likely because of their own emotionally immature wounds. My mother reigns by manipulation, and an ability to shout and scream — loud and effortlessly.

“Don’t talk back to me!” (dominate)

“God is upset with you!” (manipulate)

“Be quiet!” (control)

I always felt I was bad, unless I was being good. And that would have meant I was doing what I was told, either by being quiet, doing my chores, or deep cleaning the house every Saturday morning. I fucking hated it. I was a mannikin, doing my duties, but never knowing who I was. I could dream, and I did. I banged my head to music — it soothed and numbed me out. I would dream I was normal, along with a normal family.

With my actual family, I felt like I was never taken seriously — just placated. In ways , emotions weren’t accepted or valued. I recall hoping I was adopted, just like my three siblings who were removed from our family, my mother unable to cope. Was I too dangerous for my mother, an angry, freethinker?

Her strict religiosity cast a net over my life up until my middle-aged years, escalating into hexes from Yahweh, Himself. God wasn’t happy with me — I’d disobeyed perceived prophesies. I was doomed (according to Mum). I eventually stopped talking to her altogether. Had to be done. It was me or my sanity, whatever is left of that fragmented illusion.

****

I was fifteen. I looked in the mirror for the hundredth time. I’d borrowed my friend’s Crimpers. Wow, I look okay. I look cool. Normally, I thought I looked weird, with my strange, tanned skin and strong nose. But with my hair all bushed out from the crimping, I looked pretty cool.

I was young, a juvenile, starting to blossom and starting to show my rage. I tried to smoke cigarettes, which only made me want to vomit. I’d stick at it for a few more years, though. I’d starve myself so that I could be really thin, somehow that was cool, noticeable — edgy. I’d cut myself with razors and throw punches at my face, hard; even gave myself some bruises. Probably for some attention. Has to be for attention — doesn’t it?

I was troubled and lost. But as soon as my sister said I could go stay with her, I was on my way — just fresh out of doing my finals and not quite yet sixteen.

The thing was, as much as I wanted to get away from my mum and her weird new husband, and their disgustingly loud sex noises, I had little choice. My father wasn’t interested. That left my sister. She’d just had a baby. She’s only eighteen. Her boyfriend is much older than her! I have no idea why she’s with someone so old?

They have loads of friends visiting, and they seem so much older. I’m shy but pretend to be cool by putting on a bravado. They watch a lot of porn and have it around the flat. I pretend I can deal with that, as I know no different. I never saw my mum with anyone, just arguing and hating my AWOL dad, then meeting her weird husband a short time ago. I never saw connection or intimacy. I never saw love.

I loved my Labrador: Solomon — Solly for short. I loved him so much. I knew that love.

My sister’s boyfriend keeps giving me compliments, and as awkward as that is, I giggle. I thought I was ugly as my father was always cold to me; told me I was on my own when I reached sixteen. He gave me plenty of shame.

My sister’s boyfriend talks too openly about sex, and women’s intimate parts. I compare mine to the porn films they play.

I pretend I am an adult, yet all I know is that I have to please others, because who the fuck am I? I’ve never been mirrored my specialness and never been shown. Just shown what I shouldn’t be:

“Do as your told Chantal — shut up!”

I don’t even know me, so how can I be me. I’m just gobby, but deep down I am so sad my father doesn’t love me.

My sister has to go into hospital. I’m left behind with her boyfriend and the baby. The baby is fine, it’s the boyfriend I’m nervous of. I have a weird feeling.

We drink alcohol, and chat, and I pretend I’m a grown ass woman. He’s a grown ass man, and suddenly out of nowhere, he strides towards me, it only takes a few steps, and he rips my tights apart at the crutch at the same time he’s pushing me back.

I’m dominated by his older years; me sixteen — him thirty. Seemed like he told me I wanted to do it. I didn’t. I just didn’t know how to save face — like I needed to be cool or something. I just went along with it and ignored the screams that I pushed back down, somewhere inside. He looks like Peter Sutcliffe, that horrible beard and shit brown eyes.

I see now all those decades back; he wasn’t a man. How can you be a man to want to do that to a child? Yet he blamed it on me and wore it like a badge.

When it was over, I followed him through to their bedroom and climbed into bed with him. I watch myself from the outside in, asking myself what the fuck am I doing! I’m acting a part. A grown-up. I roll into the fawn response, a submissive, co-dependent spare, and devalued part.

That wasn’t the only time I allowed this to happen. That assault took precedence for more to come. More devaluing and abusing me as a child by adult men in their thirties, forties, and even older. Partly my innocent submissive co-dependence. I had no idea I was loveable without their one-sided selfish shit.

And each time, I buried myself even deeper, as my rage bubbled away, all because I didn’t know how to say no.

****

PsychCentral (source)

“Research suggests that a history of abuse (emotional, psychological, physical, sexual), domestic violence, trauma, poor attachment, and parent-child conflict can affect the development of appropriate boundaries.”

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