Because We Love You

When I was younger, I learned to be ashamed of everything.

I was always “too nervous”, “too quiet”, too ME. At the time I never fully understood why I couldn’t sit still no matter how hard I willed myself to. I couldn’t concentrate in class, and that made me a bad child, because I would finish my workbooks before everyone else and doodle in my binder.

I couldn’t remember to write down the homework in my agenda. I couldn’t even remember what the teacher said five minutes ago.

As I grew older my memory sharply declined.

I couldn’t explain why. I was just child. I couldn’t articulate it. Everyone around me was just getting angrier and angrier.

I should have been able to remember. I should have gotten better grades. I should have. But I didn’t.

It’s only when I had, for the 5th time in a row at recess, tried to get to the ball shed first, that I realized how helpless I was. It was only when, for the only ball I wanted to play with, was taken away by a little boy named Santiago and his friend Marcell.

It’s only when, instead of chasing them fruitlessly, I sat on the ground in the corner of the playground and cried.

I just wanted that one ball. The dark blue one with Tommy and Chuckie from Rugrats printed on the front. I wanted to play with it by myself on the blacktop, and hear its bright, echoing bounce.

But I gave up. My legs just wouldn’t work. I couldn’t chase after them anymore. I sat in the corner and cried because at 8 years old my legs hurt for no apparent reason, and I couldn’t play with the one thing I wanted.

I probably should have told my family I was being bullied.

But as I would come to learn, they were the worst bullies of them all.

When you have good parents...

a lot of things become pedestrian. Hugs goodnight. A warm bed to sleep in. Plenty of food. Support for your passions. Kind words.

All of these things have been distorted and broken up for me.

When I try to express how I feel, how I hurt, I am attacked. The amount of times I admit to not wanting to interact with my parents, to the shock of others, is numerous. But more often than not it is followed up by the inevitable, insensitive accusations.

• "Your parents tried the best they could! You're just ungrateful!"

Yes, I respond in my mind, but they could have done that without abusing me, emotionally and physically. When someone says this, I just wonder...if someone simply just tried not to abuse you, but continued to fail, over and over, without remorse, would you want to be around them?

• "I'm sure they were just stressed! Parents have to deal with so much these days!"

Stress should not be an excuse to abuse a child. And, most know that children are a source of stress. Most know that raising a child is extremely difficult. However, using that to excuse abusive behavior is wrong.

• "Maybe if you behaved better..."

I'm sorry, but I was very well behaved. To this day I am afraid of even talking to my peers because I am afraid of inciting unwarranted physical and verbal backlash. I analyse everything I say to ensure I try not to offend, or create a violent atmosphere. The most rebellious thing I ever did was to flee their household and strive to live on my own. I was made to feel as if I could not exist without them, and in many ways they did hinder my independence.

If you have not experienced such things, trying to justify the actions of a parent you have not met nor interacted with seem extremely presumptuous. If you had the privilege of having tender and kind parents who did not strike you in anger and resentment, then I will most certainly tune you out.

It all comes down to:

1. Were you a good child?
2. Even if you were, your parents could not help themselves. Parents are blameless, because my parents were exceptional.

It's a Feedback Loop of Pain

I fight with myself every day. The inner voice that was shaped by their constant, overbearing ways is my own personal demon that plagues me non-stop.

I tell myself that I am being irrational, but that never accomplishes anything.

I hinder myself daily. All I have to do is think "but what if..." and the yelling, the awful cacophony of criticism begins. I truly don't know what I should do in some situations, because my family always wanted to dictate that for me.

The most hurtful way, I believe was when I was 12, and we had just moved to Georgia from New York. The first thing my aunt commented on was my weight. For the years to come, it was the top thing she would harp on. Once, I restricted my diet to one orange a day for a whole two weeks.

I lost some weight, but immediately she was upset with me, jealous, even.

"How did you lose it?!?" she would ask harshly. And I merely would shrug. No one ever noticed when I stopped eating a sustainable amount. I would feel so faint during school I would have to walk slowly to keep from falling over. Water was my best friend, for it kept me from being hungry.

My brother never had such severe scrutiny. Even more astonishing, they were always asking if he had eaten. They would never ask me if I had, but I always knew he never would let himself go without food. Every few hours, like clockwork, I would see him raid the fridge. And yet, every time I would try to go and do the same, I was scolded and belittled.

However, I could not sustain that diet, and I gave up. The weight came back as quickly as it left. And again the cycle would repeat.

Even now, I still restrict my food severely, and it all started then. I struggle with eating enough to sustain myself, and yet I still do not lose any weight.

I remember this every time I eat.

"You're fat," says the food, staring back at me. "You don't deserve to eat."

I remember how my family would even stop me from eating as punishment.

"Yeah, you don't get any dinner tonight."

I remember how they would force me to cook huge amounts of food, and they were allowed seconds. I was not. In fact, some times they would finish the food before I even could eat. By that time, I would lose my appetite and go to bed after cleaning up the kitchen.

It was pain, rejection, restriction, over and over and over.

I was just so sick of it. I was sick of them. Which is why I had to escape.