Context

I always knew I was fucked up, but I didn’t think about it all laid out. I thought I had this shit on the right path; I was going to sort through it all eventually on my own. I should have known better than to make such careless plans. I never learn, do I? It’s never been that simple.

I’ve been treating my issues like they’ve just been a few here and a few there. The reality is, though, I’ve been drowning in them. For decades. Today, I may hardly think about some of the looming horrors of my past, but that doesn’t mean the underlying damage isn’t still there, festering. Oh, it’s an absolute clusterfuck….

The kind of clusterfuck where I have to be clear - in order to put everything into context, there is some dark shit. General distress and distrust, self-harm, suicidal thoughts...etc. Buckle up. It’s a rough ride. I’ve taken it before in life, and I’m not keen on this walkthrough after the fact. No wonder I only ever thought about a bit here and there.

No wonder my dreams are so dark.

Right. So I am 30. “Middle” child between a sibling 13 years older and one a year younger with special needs. I’ll start there.

“She’s a hugger,” my mom will say with an almost embarrassed chuckle when I give her a hug around people. It’s started to dawn on me that I’m usually the one to initiate and that her hugs are fleeting compared to someone like one of my aunts; I’m not denied the hug, I just don’t get long. My brother isn’t the only one she’s distanced herself from.

There’s technically another sibling; a half-brother 20 years my senior (I know the first name and last known state and am not interested in connecting at this time, sorry). He was born when she was 14 - kind of a love child - and she wanted to keep him, but was made to give him up as she lived in the small, gossip-ridden town she grew up in. My half-sister, 13 years older than me, was from her first marriage. There were no children in the second marriage. Then there was me.

I was the one she considered aborting. So there’s that.

My dad is 16 years younger than my mother. She came in to apply for a job at the fast food joint he worked at, and he told his best friend working with him, “I’m gonna marry her.” She was his first real love and he was smitten from the start. However…

My grandma - dad’s mom - didn’t enjoy that age difference. Some questionable, stalker-esque behavior ensued. Drama abounded. Mom and grandma don’t get along to this day.

My dad was 18 when they found out mom was pregnant with me, and he was excited, as my mom likes to tell me. Mom was not so thrilled. She worked for a Catholic paper, so her two divorces caused chatter. That she was involved with a younger man outside of marriage and now expecting caused more. She wasn’t so sure she wanted me. But dad was so excited, and it would cause more strain at work, if not get her fired if she didn’t have me. And then - it has been explained this same way twice, “Oh, and I wanted you, of course….” Always in that order: what dad wanted, what her workplace would think, and then that. The first time she told me, I think I was 14. Second time, I was in my early-mid twenties. I didn’t even bat an eye at 14.

I’ve known since I was a small child that I did not want children. I think I recognize that I lack something for it, maybe? I haven’t pinpointed that part yet. But growing up helping with my brother, I just knew I didn’t want kids. I kinda knew, “Hey, someone has to take care of my brother in the future and guess who’s a likely candidate?” even very young. Kind of a, “I don’t want kids - I’m gonna have to take care of him my whole life already,” kind of deal. As I’ve gotten older, yeah, no - still not interested. It’s among my worst nightmares to fall pregnant, and the times I've had a stray thought about nursing… ugh, makes my skin crawl. Not for me, no. So I didn’t blame my mom for wanting to abort me.

I think I would have gone through with it.

Knowing that, though, it makes me wonder what she was thinking in the pictures taken after my birth; she looked so grim. Maybe it was from pain. Maybe it was the circumstances of my birth; I was 3 weeks early, weighed 3 lbs and something-odd ounces. While my dad attests the birth was so quick that the nurse barely caught me - he hadn’t even finished filling out the paperwork - I was born breech (feet first) and, as my mother tells it, I came out so bruised that I looked black. Maybe she realized having me wasn’t what she wanted. I’m fine wondering - I don’t want to have that conversation.

I also wonder if my birth started a butterfly effect for my brother’s. Since I was premature and small, I was kept in an incubator for about the first month of life. A few things about this make me wonder. First, if I was kept in an incubator the first month, I was probably formula-fed. And if nursing doesn’t occur or stops, the body assumes there is no child that needs the milk, and the body starts to go back into reproductive mode. So my premature birth may have caused my mother to get pregnant so soon after my birth. And once a premature birth has occurred, it’s more likely that subsequent births may be premature as well. Even if that wasn’t the case, because she became pregnant so soon after my birth, her body hadn’t had time to recoup and build up resources for my brother’s development. I wonder if the circumstances of my birth disadvantaged my brother.

Maybe he would have been better off if mom had….

Whatever the case, my brother was born 3 months premature. He weighed 1 pound, 6 ounces. He was killing mom and she was killing him, so he was born via emergency C-section. His first 3 months were also spent in an incubator, and while it was determined that he had several disabilities, he was never given a life expectancy.

Part of me thinks she never really bonded with my brother; maybe she thought they were going to lose him when he was born and didn’t want to get attached. Or maybe the fact that they both nearly killed each other during his birth caused a rift. Either way, the maternal instinct displayed to my brother and I was and is… kind of detached. I think she knows it; her way of showing affection is giving things. She’ll buy some of my groceries or office supplies, or a piece of clothing we find while out browsing. I’m grateful for the food and supplies, don’t get me wrong. I just kinda wish I’d get some genuine emotional support and non-judgemental guidance every once in a while. I wish I could trust her, but she’s proven I can’t.

If only I could make a career out of all the things my parents think I don’t do the right way….

My first memory is okay. It is my 4th birthday; my sister got me my beloved stuffed polar bear, Klondike, named for Klondike and Snow from the Denver Zoo. That’s really all I recall - that I got the bear.

But the second and third…. My second memory is from the day my grandpa - dad’s dad - passed away. My grandparents were watching me and my brother. I heard my grandma scream from the backyard, and I curiously wandered out onto the back porch. I would’ve been five. Grandma stood with hands on either side of her face; the laundry basket was at her feet and the dogs were swarmed around her. I turned to look at what she was looking at. It was grandpa, and I was confused.

From where I was, I could see he was laying on his back on the couch on the back porch. There was a bubble coming out of his mouth, and I didn’t understand the alarm. Grandma told me to go back inside, and I did. A short while later, I heard the dogs making a commotion and heard the side gate open. I ran to the back, looking out the door.

Four people carrying a stretcher. They all wore deep navy outfits. I recall the lady on the front corner nearest me as they passed; her hair was such a richly beautiful color of brown. I never saw my grandpa again.

The one after that, I got into some trouble after school. Must have been kindergarten, as I never went to preschool. It was time to get on the bus to go home, but I’d been upset about something. It’s hard to recall what…

But I remember being held down on the floor. Must’ve been quite the tantrum, but I was too young to recall much of it. I’d think little of it, but I think I recall that bit alone for a reason.

Then there was the time another kid found my uncle’s gun. My aunt and uncle were having a party, and I was supposed to stay overnight after. For once, there were other kids to play with. Us kids were sitting on my aunt and uncle’s bed, talking or something, when one of them found my uncle’s gun. He was a cop.

I was immediately uncomfortable and was trying to get them to put it back at first. However, my discomfort turned to pride as the other kids began remarking how cool it was and I was proud of my uncle for a moment.

And then my aunt came in. Saw the gun. Freaked out, understandably. Party was over, and she brought me straight home. That part felt unfair, but I assume a lengthy discussion was had after that between her and my uncle. I never asked if the gun was loaded; I don’t want to think about it.

My sibling situation didn’t help much. By the time I was 5, my sister was 18 and moved out, leaving me and my younger brother. It was different from growing up with able siblings. Different from an only child. So I didn’t grow up with the usual sibling banter - or connection. So I didn't know how to communicate well with my peers.

I was both bullied and bully. I was a loner and outcast, so got picked on, which in turn made me lash out and act aggressively. I tried to get into groups, but usually just ended up making a fool of myself. Like the time I decided to race a member of one group; if I won, they’d start to include me. The field was wet and I slipped and fell on my face on the first step….

It was terrifying growing up like that. The most harmless thing was that I was mooned. I question what the motive was of the kid who kept holding me underneath the water at the pool down the street until I thought I’d drown; I stopped going after that. I never told my parents much; they had plenty to worry about already. I didn’t want to tell adults anything, and I didn’t trust adults with anything.

I received detentions for some stupid shit in elementary school, like not lining up immediately to go in one day. It was after one such detention for a completely stupid fucking reason that I met the slightly older kid.

I don’t recall the name, but there was a boy a year or two older who ran into me as I gathered my stuff after detention. We started chatting and I started walking with him. Later, when I told my parents about this, I think they took it as a way older kid; they thought someone tried to abduct me. I then received endless, “you need to be careful and not follow strangers” from my family. But it was just a friendly kid I was walking with. Later, I’d come to wonder if he was someone who became much more important to me, but I will never find the answer to that now.

I eventually made friends with the person I considered my best friend for 17 years, but we were quickly placed in different schedules in high school, so I was once again left a loner. I hated high school. Hated school. The teachers, the classmates. Especially the classmates.

My first week of high school, I went for a walk with my dogs after school. Some other girls were having a picnic by the creek at the park blocks from my house, and somehow the oldest one and I got into an argument. I was all bark until she proceeded to dump a pitcher of water on me, to which I immediately started crying. Only one of the girls - one in my class who had always been a little mean to me herself - yelled at her for it. I never respected that classmate so much.

Since I never really made many friends, I cozied up to teachers, staff, bus drivers. Any adult I could so that if shit hit the fan maybe someone would do something. I became really good friends with my bus driver. She also handled the route for my brother, since he went to a different school and had a different schedule. That’s not to say my brother riding the same bus didn’t cause issues.

Despite the different times, someone figured out it was my brother who rode our bus and thus created an issue. The bus is supposed to have room for a wheelchair, but since my brother was in one and rode everyday, another seat had to be removed in case someone else in a wheelchair needed access. This meant there was less room on the bus, and I got the brunt of it. Me against a whole busload of angry teens.

The bus rides themselves were stressful; if I didn’t board immediately and claim my usual spot, no one would let me sit with them, even if there was room. I was reminded of this once when I was late getting on after school. I admit, my leather trench coat didn’t help matters, but still - I asked over half the bus before the driver told me to sit down so we could go.

One kid took a liking to me, and I would let him sit next to me. I thought he was just chatty. Turns out, he liked me. He liked me so much, in fact, that he found my house just on the fact that I mentioned my dad worked on cars. Suddenly he showed up at my house, and dad made me go with him on walks, even though I had absolutely no inclination to do so. I eventually really screwed up; he once handed me his number, and at my disinterest, a classmate asked for it. I didn’t think anything of it when I gave the paper to her. Turns out she called and harassed his family for years after that…. Not a proud moment, but how could I have known?

Home was little better to me, and I hated going home after school. By 7, I was helping with my brother - watching him while dad did extra things for cash. I can’t say exactly what led to it…

But I started wanting to kill myself at 7.

I didn’t think much of the thoughts; I always chalked it up to a bad day. I didn’t realize that wasn’t a normal thought. I didn’t realize it wasn’t a normal thought until about 3 years ago.

I’d wound up seeing a school therapist in 3rd grade briefly, I think. Never understood the shit - why was I being pulled out of class?

In 6th grade, there was an assignment with an “about the author” bit. I had a shitty day the day I was working on it and confessed I wanted to kill myself. I learned after that that we don’t write that. We don’t say that. Adults will freak out and make me do weird shit. I was no stranger to hiding things from adults, but especially after that….

Like when I managed to go to Italy and Greece with classmates. When I asked my parents, I 100% expected them to say no. When I got the okay instead, I couldn't believe it. But the trip wasn’t so fun.

I wound up in a room with three other girls, none of which liked me. The first night, my stomach was upset (nervous from traveling and being away from my family), so I stayed in the room and took a shower. I expected them to be gone for a while, and I guess I took a longer shower than I thought. Upon their return, they were mad at me for using up the water and it started a 3 on 1 argument, wherein I compared the bitchiest cunt to a horse’s ass.

Well, the next day we were taking a ferry from Italy to Greece, and they beat me to the room and locked me out. The teacher was a guy, so I couldn't go stay with him, and I didn’t know anyone else. I wound up curled on the floor in a hallway, scared and sobbing. Fortunately, two older women - along as chaperones to our group - offered to let me stay with them. I guess they thought it was just for the night - they seemed surprised I came back after that too. One even sent me her extra pictures since my camera malfunctioned on the trip and I received none of the pictures I took personally. Nice places, but the trip left a lot to be desired.

Going home sucked as much as school; there was never any time to just be left alone. At school all day it was everything everybody else demanded. Come home, same thing. Watch your brother. Help with dinner. Come do this, come do that.

By the time I was a preteen, my parents had started taking my brother and me with them when they went up to Central City to gamble. Mom frequently had comped rooms, and I spent several years of weekends stuck in the hotel rooms with my nonverbal brother. We’d take snacks and mom and dad would come and bring us food, but there were a few times I was so over having to wait to eat. We weren’t allowed elsewhere in the casino, so there was nowhere to go.

I didn’t mind staying in the rooms per se. I’d take books, stuff to color with, games...etc with me. But spending weekend after weekend after weekend in a hotel room with no one to talk to for years….

It’s no wonder child services nearly took me and my brother away.

It started, of course, at school. We had a substitute teacher for a class that day, and the class was completely out of line. I felt so bad for the sub. I wrote her a letter to apologize about the class's behavior, but of course one of the bitchy girls noticed and started giving me shit for it. As it happened, there was an extra credit assignment. Extra points for a poem. Well….

I knew a few weeks later when I was called into the counselor’s office that I was probably there for that poem. I was upset after my classmate’s behavior and had written something alarming again. That’s what it had to be - I had never gotten that extra credit assignment back. But that stupid counselor never asked me about the poem or school.

No, they asked me about home. And I answered, waiting for the questions about the poem. They never came.

Instead, my mother let me know that my brother and I had nearly been taken by child services. She was upset and drinking, but I still remember her yelling at me how she wished they had taken us.

The next day…

The next day was good.

By that time, I was 15. I had a crush on an older boy - the one I now question if he was the boy I followed years ago - and he had been MIA for weeks. That day, he was back, and I was so happy to see him. I was so enamored by him, I think I misconstrued a few things….

I think kissing him - my first kiss - was the first time I had acted on vulnerability to that degree. Of course I liked him - I knew that for months. But I think I acted that day because I felt vulnerable after being yelled at by my mother the night before. At first, things went well. I had 3 blissful days on cloud nine.

And then it went to shit.

While I had acted, one of his classmates he’d grown up with had feelings for him as well, and his classmates were getting on him for it. As such, after avoiding me for a week, I was left heartbroken and wondering what I had done wrong. I knew the second I saw my friend’s face after we exchanged Christmas gifts; I knew he was behind me. Just like I knew what he was going to say by the look on his face.

I didn’t know about the extra chaos; I just knew I’d felt the best I ever had and now I was having everything taken away again. I did not handle it well. In fact, I displayed obsessive, worrying behaviors for years after. I’ve since reasoned out that while I did like him, the real thing I was after was how he made me feel. He was the first one to make me feel like I belonged. He understood. He wasn’t mean to me or tried avoiding me before I went all psycho on him. I was desperate to feel welcome and safe, and he had been the only one to offer those without it feeling like pity.

I drove my friends crazy for years because of him. Eventually, they stopped reaching out and so did I; I didn't want to bother them anymore.

But 15 was a shit age for me, and there was one more nasty incident before I turned 16. A senior about to graduate led me outside, where a group of my classmates were, before slipping his hands under both my shirt and bra to begin groping me in front of everyone.

That one kind of broke me. I froze, but my mind wouldn’t stop. It’s been 15 years and I’m still struggling with that one. I wanted my friends to jump in and stop him, but I also didn’t want them to get expelled. So I endured in absolute mental hell for who knows how long before the bell rang, he stopped touching me, and we all went to file a report. Even with video evidence, nothing came of it for what was done to me.

I still have the shirt; can’t bring myself to do anything with it. Can’t stand the words, “tits” and “titties” - I wish I would stop flinching and tensing. My boyfriend of 7 years can’t enjoy me the way he wants because that day still screws with me.

After the incident, I again was left feeling ultra vulnerable. My dad did ask if I wanted to talk about it right after it happened - like seriously, right after - but I didn’t. I locked that shit up and threw away the key for over a decade.

But I started acting on that vulnerability. First, I started making out with my friend’s brother the day after; I’d spent the night. But they didn’t live very close, so before long, I stopped seeing him. And then my cell phone rang.

A guy friend who had been there at the groping incident was calling. I was known by a nickname, so when I entered my real name, he was confused, and tried to figure out who it was. By this point, I was staying home to watch my brother when our parents went gambling; it was their only form of date night and I was happy to have a little more choice as to what to do while at home and have the house mostly to myself.

We found out we both lived in the same neighborhood; hardly anyone did, so I literally had no friends in the area. He came over, and we started to chat. It became very obvious that he was motivated by sex.

The next time he came over, I didn’t understand why I was doing the things I was. While I was curious about sex, I didn’t really want to sleep with him. I’ve since realized that, once again, I felt vulnerable after the groping incident. I wanted someone in my corner. Here was the only guy in the neighborhood - all I had to do was get him in my corner. All it would take was a little fooling around.

And so started a two year friends-with-benefits situation. It was good while it lasted. Eventually, he fell for another girl and, amid a bunch of drama, our friendship ended badly. Again, I realized well after the fact that I didn't want to lose the only person in my corner. But I did, and he told me to suffer in silence. Little did he know how long I already had.

Between suicidal thoughts by 7 and the incident, I guess it’s no surprise I eventually took up self-harming. The first cuts at 16 were out of curiosity. A few classmates did it, and I wanted to understand why. Funnily enough, the first cuts are the only ones I can still find the scars of. Six lines over the front of my right shoulder. They are pretty hard to find now, though.

By chance, a few days later, my sister asked to take me to a pool. It would be out of character for me to decline, so I said yes. I managed to avoid her finding out by claiming I was too self conscious to remove the t-shirt I wore to cover the cuts. Later, when my dad first saw them, they looked similar enough to stretch marks my brother and I would get, so at his, “What are those? Stretch marks?” I just said yeah.

The next ones… I was not doing well. I was still heartbroken. I’d been groped and no one had done anything about it. I’d wanted to kill myself for years - and I only wanted to more throughout high school. So I cut words into my thighs and between my breasts. “Failure. “Worthless”. “Bitch”. “Useless”. “Stupid”. But as bad as the self-harming was….

What my parents did made sure I never trusted anyone in the family with anything ever again. I had already avoided telling them anything for years, but this….

First, they found and read my diary. While reeling from that information, they then started pressing me if they needed to throw me in “the looney bin”. Mom took me to the bathroom and had me strip and show her the cuts. I never hated my parents more, and I dunno how I ever came to love them again after it.

But that night wasn’t over.

As I lay in bed that night, crying and listening to my parents downstairs, I really started to think. I had vitamins and OTC pain meds in my room that I used appropriately, but that night….

I wondered what I could swallow enough of that would kill me.

The only reason I didn’t start taking everything all at once was that I knew I was likely to make myself start getting sick if I did. And if my parents were able to get me medical attention in time, I’d have to deal with the ramifications of surviving a suicide attempt. My parents would send me to a “nut house” if I wasn’t successful. I started thinking of what else I could do to end it.

Three things, and only one a really solid one. I talked myself out of it because I had written a bunch of dark shit and I didn’t want it to be found and taken out of context. I didn’t have a way that I could end it that particular night without fear of surviving.

And baby brother. I hated my parents that night and I didn’t care if they would fucking hurt if I killed myself; I didn’t care after that night. But who would take care of my brother after them if I took my life?

I stayed. For baby brother, and baby brother alone.

But it didn’t end there. No. Mom told one of her gambling friends about my cutting at least; I know because the next time I saw that busybody cunt, she tried to shame me for it. Fuck you, Barb - you didn’t know jack shit.

Maybe that’s why it didn’t even phase me when a classmate told me to, “Go commit suicide”. I wish I had told her how often I thought about it - I’m sure the look on her face would have been well worth it. Hindsight.

The job world was as unkind as the rest. The worst was during my first job.

I was 18 or 19. I worked at Subway for my aunt. There was a high school nearby, and one night me and my only other coworker were handling the giant party subs for the school’s after prom. But we were unusually busy for that day; I managed the normal line while he rushed to finish 4 massive subs. With an hour before closing, we were running behind, so I was rushing to clean the store when a couple and their kid came in.

Kid had a McDonald’s happy meal and sat down while the “adults” came to order. The woman tells me she wants a cold cut sandwich, and I’m really rushing to get them through because there is a lot of work to get done before we leave and my dad was going to be waiting out in the lot.

“That’s not chicken,” the woman said sharply. I looked up from my task like a deer in the headlights.

“Hm?”

“I wanted the chicken breast, not cold cut,” she snapped. Her partner told her that she had ordered the cold cut. “Well, I wanted chicken.” Okay, sure, not a big deal. I got the chicken breasts. But I was moving quickly, and the bitch didn’t like that.

“Is there a problem?” she bitched. I shook my head and started explaining about how crazy the night had been- “Well, that’s not my problem!” Fucking cunt.

I finished handling those two asshats and disappeared in the back to start sweeping up. Suddenly, I heard an argument break out out front. I saw my coworker going at it with these two fucking psychos, and I’d had enough that day - I ran into the back and tried calling my aunt to tell her I quit on the spot, but I was too upset and she couldn’t understand my sobbing. My coworker eventually came back, took my phone, and explained to my aunt.

My coworker had gone up front to get more tomatoes for the party subs, and the couple had started bitching about me. I can’t say all what was said, but the guy found one of the plastic wet floor caution signs and chucked it across the store at my coworker. And of course there was no tape running that day. Fuck those people - then folks wonder why I hate the people of Highlands Ranch. I served enough dickheads out there to know they’re a bunch of snobs I’d gladly do without. Worst fucking people in Colorado.

But that night wasn’t over yet. Oh no. My coworker and I finished up, leaving nearly an hour late. I climbed into the car, still crying, and explained the whole thing to my dad on the way home. A few minutes from the house, when I had finally just started to calm down, a car pulled up behind us flashing its brights. They then pulled ahead of us, and my dad didn’t let the behavior go; he flashed his lights too, irritated. Next thing I know, this car flipped around and followed us on our way home. Eventually, the lane opens into two, and once it did, this asshole slammed his car into ours and drove off - hit and run.

By the time I went back to work at Subway the next day, I had forgotten I’d tried to quit; my male coworker from the previous night was amazed I showed back up. But I worked for my aunt, and she had me for another month before I took a full time position at my second job, so I came to finish out my last month. I kinda hate how I do that. I’ll go through shit like that and then come back the next day like nothing happened.

My other two retail jobs were equally shitty, but nothing tops that night at Subway and the crazy car ride home.

There’s plenty more I could mention. There’s plenty I've probably forgotten. For years now, I’ve only recalled bits and pieces, so I hadn’t thought it all that bad. But to see just some of it laid out, in context….

How’d I ever think I could handle this shit on my own?

There’s not a person in my family I trust with anything personal. I hardly have any friends - much less good, close ones. It’s just been me and this mountain of shit for decades. I’ve tried to tell myself I can handle it on my own….

But it’s not just been a handful of traumatic incidents. It’s been me, not able to talk to or trust adults to the point that I’ve felt I had to take it on alone. It’s been decades of pining for death. Decades of hiding myself from my own parents. Constantly apologizing and over-explaining to my partner. There's so much, and it's so intertwined....

I hate to admit it after some of my former encounters, but….

Maybe I do need some help with this. I don’t want to talk to a shrink. But I don’t want to struggle with this myself for another 3 decades either.

I just had to put it in context to see just how much was fucked up. What else lies beneath the surface?

Playlist.

Thank you for reading - I know it wasn't a fun one! If you'd like to send help, tips are appreciated as I work myself up to seeking therapy!