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@copingwithbullshitparents
The sole purpose of this blog is to vent about my parents and probably other people around me during my childhood.
No crimes were committed, but I believe what happened in the past is responsible for how broken I feel today. Often I find myself doubting wheather I may call it trauma, if it really was abuse or inappropriate behaviour
Please, if you read any of these stories, leave a message. I could really use some reassurance, that I am not making this pain up.
recently realised I didn't even experience any common sibling shenanigans in my childhood
if I wanted to play with my older sister I had to follow her every whim unless I were thrown out of the room and she locked it. ocationally she would introduce me to games and bands she liked and I tried hard to copy her and like/dislike what she liked/disliked without understanding. just getting her attention was enough for me. I thought it was love. but bringing up anything that was importantant to me was usually disregarded, ignored and swept under the rug with a simple "hm".
she doesn't care to talk to me nowadays, even though I'm trying to keep contact in some way. I still get nice presents from her, but the feeling is off...
it was much harder to get my younger sister to agree to anything. at first I was always on duty to play with her (my older sister never had to do that with me), then she seemed to hate me. sometimes she said she needed help with homework, but when I wanted to help, because I knew how to do it, she would scream and PUNCH me. she was VICIOUS and called me an ugly cow and such. and every time I defended myself (because she wouldn't just let me go away) she started to "cry" and ran to mommy to get me in trouble.
one time she even stole money from me and was allowed to keep it
my father gave me what I was missing, but it felt so wrong.
talking to her now is like talking to a speaker with a podcast running. she can listen for a few minutes, but then it's about her and her friends and she doesn't even understand what I say.
when you have to fight for every scrap of attention as a child and whatever you do only earns eye rolls or "you can do better"s or getting kicked out of a room or actual physical pain...
... then it won't be easy later to find any motivation to do anything in your life or to get out there and show your true self to strangers.
all you learned was "if I do one wrong move people are going to hate me"
there was a year I really wanted to have a light table. I talked about it all the time, asked how I could build one, tried engaging my parents to find something that works. in the end, nothing came of it and I never got one.
then christmas came around a few months later, the light table wasn't forgotten, but I had sort of given up on it. so I'm unwrapping my presents. I still remember what I wore and the dim lighting and where I stood, when I saw what my little sister had gotten: a small light table. she had mentioned that she wanted to try drawing manga, that was it, that was enough. I hadn't known that these existed back then. meanwhile I stood there, an obvious "filler present" in my hands, a gimmicky fake rose with an LED.
I was devastated. my mother was confused why I would be hurt and angry. my older sister pointed out that it should be very clear as to why, but she just countered with "I thought wanted to build one?"
and that was it, no sorry and no light table for me
I wish I could say this with less certainty… but my mother is most certainly watching that new Harry Potter show.
Makes me want to vomit.
my mother had a breakdown when I randomly signed my email with a different name
I'd never signed my emails before that
because I hated my name
I never got to get to know my aunt and my father barely ever saw his sister, because my mother thought she had "slandered her children" and wouldn't stand for that.
well, she seemed cool when I met her briefly much later, like a normal fucking person.
I also never got to make a connection with my uncles for whatever reason I don't really know. My mother just really loves cutting people out of her life.
strange that she is so unhappy about me cutting her out of mine.
I may be too used to censoring myself and too afraid of making a single mistake
it could be related to my mother exploding on me and/or threatening to take her own life because I've voiced a problem. it could be. who knows...
anyway, I'm bad at communicating what I really mean and just shut down for a day when someone found my words misplaced. I'm totally normal
I don't mean to be rude, but somehow I am, and I hate it I hate it I hate it so much and I wish the earth would open up and devour me
made the mistake of looking at emails that still keep coming from my mother, emails I don't usually read. she hopes to hear from me through my sister, so I can't tell my sister anything... I don't want my mother to sneak into my life through others.
her mails are either dry or feel sad, like she's talking to the dead, like it wasn't her fault that I had to stop talking to her, like it wasn't her disrespecting me and trampling all over my boundaries, like she doesn't owe me a few appologies.
maybe one actually needs to be complimented when they're a child to learn how to trust and accept them.
chasing the kid through the room because it is apparently "too cold" for them to wear their favourite tshirt does not help.
looking pained first before giving a "no, looks good" that sounds very very fake, does also not help
"are you sure?" is another, doesn't help
"you can do better" when they've done better than ever before? nope, doesn't help
Yesterday I really wanted to talk to "my parents"
I was so drained and exhausted and just really needed someone to love me and tell me everything is fine.
Then I thought about my actual parents and how they'd react. My mother would probably tell me that I shouldn't be exhausted from social interactions, because I'm not her or something. My father wouldn't understand at all and stay silent.
I wouldn't expect any comforting hugs. My mother doesn't really hug at all, only with great preparation, reluctantly and awkwardly. It wouldn't make me feel better. My father used to hug me, though, when I came into the kitchen with a problem or just feeling down. But I didn't like those hugs either. They were uncomfortable in ways I don't remember much. One thing I remember for sure, though, is the smell as he always used too much deodorant. Or maybe it was a normal amount, but neither of them ever understood that I don't like certain smells that they found pleasant. At some point my fathers hugs started to disgust me.
I told my partner all this.
He proceeded to search stock images to make me new parents to talk to.
He chose a picture of three laughing older women, because they looked like they were having fun.
😭
When I was small
around 7 years old maybe I used to lie in bed and imagine objectively horrible things to fall asleep to for comfort.
I remember vividly how I wished for a fire to burn our house down. Then and there. I would manage to escape the flames and for whatever reason have to be separated from my parents. My child brain didn't think about my parents or siblings potentially dying in the flames it just wanted to go away, leave, be elsewhere.
Other times I imagined the big evil villain of my favourite show to break through the window and abduct me and to put me through whatever he'd do to the hero and his friends every episode. It didn't seem so horrible to me really. I would be confined in some way, but ultimately have a chance to sleep peacefully. The villain didn't scare me at all. He was so strong and I felt I could trust him.
Just what does this say about my childhood.
Father
We were on a 14 day vacation as a family, staying at a sort of bungalow, my room was home to a worrying amount of flies.
Around a week in, he got a phone call: his own father had passed away. It had been a long fight already, now it was over.
I don't remember seeing him cry or even be sad. We didn't go home immediately after, we stayed for the remaining days we had payed for. I remember going to my room, that was full of flies, sitting down on the bed all miserably and crying for my grandfather that I barely had a connection to, because someone had to cry for him. There was only me and maybe my grandmother at home who would.
I didn't love my grandfather, I didn't even like him. He had just been a person that occationally visited, said hello and good bye and never has had any interest in me.
But he had loved his son and his son had loved and admired him, but he didn't cry for him.
There was no space for me to grow at my own pace.