39-Year-Old Virgin

Most people have some kind of midlife crisis around 40, and, in this at least, I am like most people. Instead of getting a surgery for some drastic physical change, or taking a laughably young lover, or blowing all my savings on something shiny; I instead decided to look inward and make some life changes that are both cheaper and less (physically) painful. (NOT that there is anything wrong with the other ways. No shade here.)

I found I have wasted 39 years of my life caring for other people. While I cannot, in good conscience, regret all the good I have done, I DO regret the fact that I have not cared for myself along the way. I have spent my entire life locked away in my own head, in a broom closet covered with flaking yellow wallpaper and my heart beating under the floorboards; my ill spirit sobbing where no one can hear. I spent a great deal of my 39 years blaming others for my imprisonment, only some of those years rightfully so.

It only recently occurred to me that I could simply open the door and walk out.

When I was a child, this would have been impossible. As an adult, the only person keeping me there was me.

The most frustrating part of this revelation was that I had given this exact same insight to many others. I had helped them escape the cave they were chained inside. I had motivated them and lifted them up while not even considering doing the same thing for myself.

It's hard not to feel like a complete idiot, even if that disappoints my counselor. And I really hate disappointing my counselor; even more than I hate starting a sentence with 'and', and run on sentences and not using an Oxford comma when appropriate.

I decided that I didn't want to turn 40 still trapped in that horrible closet. Problem was, I just couldn't care about myself. I never had before, so I just didn't know how.

I have always cared FOR myself, but it’s an important distinction. There's a huge difference between me changing my own diaper and me caring what happens to me.

The main reason I took care of myself was so I could better take care of others, after all. My mother, my sisters, my daughter, and a variety of others depended on me, so I needed to survive. I existed for them, not for myself.

Looking back, I can't really regret what I have done. My mother has survived and was able to retire young thanks to my ministrations. My sisters could have suffered so much more than they did if I wasn't there to care for them. My daughter would certainly have suffered greatly if her grandmother's would have raised her instead of me. I can count at least a dozen young girls who would be dead if it weren't for my meddling.

I mean, it sucks that all people I cared for every moment of my cognitive life cannot even stand me, but that’s more their problem than mine, or so my counselor assures me.

It more than sucks, really. It is an absolute nightmare. More awful than my actual nightmares.

Even worse, though- the more I separate myself from the people who hate me while I care for them the more I realize how much I want to die.

It sounds so...peaceful.

Turns out, my whole reason for living was hinged on my usefulness to others.

Every time someone asked me how I was, what I liked, or what I was doing, the only answers I had were the likes, interests, and activities of my family. When I tried to think of what I really wanted, my first thought was always death.

I'm just so damn tired.

If I was going to be something other than a punching bag for angry women and a doormat for needy men, I would need to find something of my own. I would need to find that with zero will to do so as well.

I decided that, by 40, I would fix the glaring problems in my life.

First problem: I couldn't look myself in the mirror. Eventide I did, all I saw was my first abuser staring back at me. I hated the way I looked, but not because I was fat and plain. I just...wasn't me. I was HER. Man, how I hated that.

So, I got new glasses. Something I would never have gotten before because I would joke that it was 'too cool' for me. I really liked them.

Then I tried to figure out what to do with my hair. It was long, and I always tied it back. I hated it down. So I wondered- do I even LIKE long hair?

I used to like it. At least I thought I did. It was just societal expectations. Long hair made you pretty.

I hated being pretty.

Being pretty got you hurt.

After all the years of straightening my hair and pulling it back tight, I decided to let it do its own thing. It's own crazy, curly thing.

I chopped it all off.

There was no controlling it now.

I absolutely loved it.

I no longer saw my mother when I looked in the mirror. I saw me.

I was starting to feel really good about myself.

Then I went to jail.

Yes. Jail.

You can look forward to THAT story soon. I call it Not Quite Nellie.

Basically...I asked my daughter to clean up after herself and she freaked out and called the cops when I tried to stop her. She had me arrested for assault, then slept comfortably in her own bed, not a scratch on her, while I spent the night in jail.

I spent the whole time worrying about her. Then, when I was finally able to see the judge

20 hours later, I found out she lied to them.

When they released me a few hours later, I checked myself into a mental institution for 3 days.

I was broken. Again.

You'd think I would be used to it, but I wasn't.

My daughter had to everyone I had abused her for her whole life.

She kept making crazy accusations.

She drove my best friend and me apart.

She did her best to isolate me.

If it weren't for my husband, I would have never made it to 40.

I tried to be there for her, and help her, without reducing myself like I used to. She wasn't interested in the new me, however. If she couldn't dictate my life, she wanted no part in it.

I had to say goodbye to her, the person who I love most in this world. I had lost my third child. I was no longer a mother.

This would have to be my new identity. Nothing I could do about it but move on and accept.

It brought up a huge problem though. I let my family treat me like shit. All of my family. Hell, I practically BEG them to. My sisters had a tough life, and I want them to have someone who they can depend on. I didn't care that I had a tough life too.

I never wanted my daughter to have the life we did, so I gave her everything, and did my best to teach her how to be self-sufficient. I never taught her to respect me, because I assumed she would if I acted respectable. Instead, I just taught her that I wasn't good enough.

It's what I do.

I didn't want to be garbage anymore.

I didn't know how to stand up myself though. I didn't do so great of a job with my older sister. Over Christmas, she was awful. Made everything about her, as usual, and hurt herself in the process. It was painful to see her do it, but I love her and tried to support her wishes. I tried to make it special for her. It was hell for me.

The day after Christmas I invited her to breakfast before we went to the spa day she insisted on. She ignored me. When I saw her at the spa, I asked why she didn’t respond, and she laughed in my face.

I lost my temper and insulted her.

I shouldn't have done it, but a lifetime of insults from my sister had broken me.

Plus I didn't know how to properly stand up for myself.

My poor, broken sister didn't deserve that, but I don't deserve to be treated like I don't matter just so I can make sure she feels loved. Besides, she has never once shown any sensitivity to MY pain. Never once cared for ME. She always had me. Who did I have?

Standing up to my younger sister went better, as in I didn't snap and yell at her. We are still trying to figure it out, but have a long way to go.

Thankfully, my husband and my dad support me. Things with my dad have been awkward most of my life, but it’s the one relationship that had actually improved over time. He's also the only one who has ever apologized for the horrors of my youth. He's a keeper.

My husband has been there to comfort and motivate me as well. In a fit of catharsis, I cleaned house, and spent money I would have spent on my daughter to better our living situation. I threw out the broken furniture that we made due with for decades and replaced it with new-ish. For the first time since my illness caused our eviction from the townhouse (another story for another time), I was comfortable where I lived. I wasn't tripping over shoes or reminding my family they had to clean up after themselves. I was no longer drowning in the messes of others. Just my own mess.

Next problem to deal with: I had nothing of my own. I put their wants, needs, feelings, hopes, dreams, and interests first. So much so that I didn't have any of my own.

At one point I dreamed of being a dancer, singer, and actor. That was impossible now. Too much physical and mental damage. The emotional damage would have helped me succeed, though! Everyone knows the crazy actors are the best actors.

Even my current job at a bank was obtained only because I needed to support my family.

Turns out, though, I LIKED banking. I was pretty good at it. It felt strange to not take care of people with every ounce of my being. It was a little boring at first, and felt fake.

I soon learned that I could still help people in my role as a teller. People other tellers wouldn't help, or treated badly. Plus, I wasn't burnt out emotionally and physically at the end of the day.

I remembered back in the day, way back in 5th grade, I loved math. I was good at it. There was something calming about having numbers reconcile on a piece of paper. Numbers never lied, or hurt you. If they didn't work, you knew it was you and what you needed to do to fix them.

I grew up in a time where girls were discouraged from many careers, however. I was told girls don't like math. That we aren't good at it. I was beaten down by society’s expectations until I believed it myself. By the time I was in High School I was no longer interested in math.

Maybe I should try it again. Go back to school for an accounting degree. So long as it didn't involve imaginary numbers, I may actually succeed!

This brought me to my next hurdle. Gonzaga. They were holding my transcripts and degree hostage for reasons they would not explain to me. This one strange act had all but destroyed my adult life. I couldn't use my degree to get a job. My credit was destroyed. I could not pursue my college goals without starting from scratch. I was stuck, professionally and financially. Seven years of college turned out to be a huge waste of time and effort. I went there to better my life, and they broke what little I had.

All attempts to contact them to resolve the issue were either met with insanely violent anger, or cold indifference. I tried for years, but got nowhere.

I finally decided that one more desperate act was necessary. I swallowed the small amount of pride I kept reserved for my work appearance and wrote a letter my step mother would refer to as a 'sob story'. I sent it to anyone I could think of at Gonzaga who would listen. I even included the Jesuits.

The latter made all the difference. Those priests really saved me. I should have asked for their help long ago.

Man, we're those snobs in the financial department MAD at me. But it got results.

Using my misfortunes to manipulate a situation to my benefit is something I've always been afraid to do. I still don't like it. However, I also didn't like letting a school sweep me under the carpet and ruin my life for no reason. I had to make a choice, and I chose my future. I needed to move on, and I was holding myself back over my own need to not be seen as a whiner.

Thanks to my complaining, I am now free to move on and explore college again. Maybe move up in the banking world...

...which I actually did. I applied for another position at the bank, and was hired! Now, I work as a teller in the afternoons, then drive downtown to sort checks and calculate long strings of numbers. I also have my own desk, dual monitors, and wacky coworkers half my age. I actually feel like a part of something, where I can grow and become successful. Plus, I can join in and volunteer my time using the banks resources!

I could really get used to this.

So, here I am, on the eve of my 40th birthday. To be honest, I never expected to live past 25- but I have not only survived but have managed to thrive. I have spent many decades working through some serious mental, physical, and emotional damage. I have known every type of abuse, and have suffered more losses than the average cat. I have bounced back every time. I still have a lot to learn about loving myself, and knowing who I am and what I want.

I can take pride in the fact that, in just one year, I have learned to look myself in the mirror, stood up for myself, become gainfully employed, made the first steps to fixing my credit and educational mishaps, and actually have a future ahead that may very well benefit ME.

My life will finally begin at 40.