4/24/00
Just as I predicted, the guilt set in around 5:15 Friday evening. I didn't call either of the sisters because (1) I was feeling too guilty and (2) I was in a crappy mood and (3) I'm no damn good in a crisis. Honestly, if you're ever having some kind of trauma in your life, I'm the last person you should call. I either freak out or just say something stupid because I can't think of anything comforting. So I waited until Saturday. First I called the younger sister. Apparently she of the impregnated state has experienced "abdominal cramping and slight bleeding." (Eeew, ick. This is one of the many reasons why I will never reproduce. You can't discuss it without being gross.) She was told by her ever-so-sweet-and-caring doctors that "well, you could be miscarrying, or you could have an ectopic pregnancy, in which case you run the risk of your innards exploding and rendering you infertile, or it could just be nothing. Why don't you come back on Monday after the holiday weekend and we can discuss it then. Oh, but don't worry too much." I hate doctors. Who the hell tells someone that? Anyway, we've all determined that it could also have something to do with the fact that she quit taking her several prescriptions cold turkey as soon as she found out she was knocked up--the antidepressant, an antacid (which I took years ago and know that one of its nasty side effects is constipation and abdominal cramps--eew, ick), and who the hell knows what else. So she's supposed to go back to the genius doctors today to find out if she is, indeed, still pregnant. And I really hope she is, because that would really suck if something happened. Of course, it would be typical--nothing good ever happens to our family! Yesterday was Easter and we did the whole familial get-together, and she just didn't look too whippy in general. I felt really bad because I would like to be the kind of person who can say one thing and make your entire outlook more positive, and make you feel completely confident that you will prevail in your situation, but I'm not. So I didn't mention it. That seems to be how she wants it, though. I did call her on Saturday and she seemed to want to keep things from getting out amongst the fam. I can relate.
So I'm debating whether or not to go to therapy this morning. I don't particularly want to. I'm in a bit of a foul mood and I'm seriously tired today. Some damn dog kept barking all night, and then my phone started ringing at 6:00 this morning. (I don't get up before almost 7.) A word to the wise--don't ever, EVER call me before 8:00 a.m. It just freaks me out and unless something really major is going on, it really pisses me off.
(Later) Therapy sucks. Still. Now we've moved on to my fucked-up childhood and oh, joy, oh, bliss! What fun this is!
Probably the biggest problem I've had in life is with the whole fucked-up childhood issue. I've had it drilled into my head from day one (mostly by my family but also by society) that--and I admit this--my childhood may not have been Disneyland, but it was a far cry from the horrific experiences that some people can recount. My entire life has been a contradiction in terms. In the same week, my mother would cluck her tongue about those poor little kids whose parents abuse them and then call me a stupid ugly little bitch and smack me upside the head.
"You can't talk about it because you're following a code...you're never going to lose the anger, you just deal with it a different way...and isn't it a kind of madness to be living by a code of silence when you've really got a lot to say?"
That was the way of my family, and still is to a large extent--keep your damn mouth shut. Nothing that's going on here is of that traumatic a scale, so if you can't deal with it, there must be something inherently wrong with you, not us. And that has caused me so much guilt and shit my whole life, and especially in trying to sort through all of this--I can't bring myself to admit that anything I've ever experienced has been bad, because there are scores of people who have been through so much worse.
But I know the truth. I know that I may never have gone to the emergency room with a broken arm, and my father may not have spent his nights merrily screwing me, but I know that I lived in absolute fear of the old lady for a good many years of my life. I know that I grew up thinking horrible things about myself and that I was worthless. I know that my house was a place I dreaded being in because of the absolute unpredictability of the place--you never knew what was going to happen. Will it be a good day? Will things go flying across the room? Will YOU go flying across the room? What will it take--a look? A question? A comment? None of the above?
At the same time, it's hard to consider that my childhood was anything short of a fucking tea party because WHO IS THERE TO BLAME? I can't blame my parents. Like I've said before, I highly doubt they intentionally set out to fuck my siblings and I over. Additionally, I have a real sore spot in my mind for people who blame their entire lives on their parents--I've always believed that a time comes when you have to stand up and accept responsibility for your own actions. (I'm primarily talking about people who murder and rape and rob banks because "momma didn't love me." You know the type.) But I questioned today why I wouldn't--because it just seems like it would be so much easier overall to blame the fam for screwing me up. Then my darling therapist pointed out, "but doesn't that contradict what you've always been told?" Hmm...what have I been told? That there's nothing wrong here. That our family is perfectly normal. That only bad people and trashy people are child abusers. That you don't have it so damn bad, missy, you've got it a hell of a lot better than most kids do. Hmm. That means the only person left to blame is...me. Gee, I'm beginning to see a pattern here. (Nice girls aren't raped, only trashy slutty ones--must be your fault.)
It still feels so dirty to admit that something was fundamentally wrong with our family dynamic. I'm supposed to spend some time thinking about "the fox hole" and what it means and how it's relevant to my situation. Well, it's pretty obvious, isn't it? What is a fox hole but a safe place? A place to hide until it's safe to come out? My fox hole was my own creative genius. Let's face it, I was a miserable kid. From the get-go, before any of the family crap, I wasn't like the other kids. I was the only kid in my kindergarten class who could read. And teachers love to make examples of "the smart kid." "Angela's going to read us a story." "Angela, show the class on the blackboard how that problem is solved." "Angela, we're going to put you in a reading group all by yourself because the rest of the class is so far behind you." (These are actual examples, and believe me, I'm not bragging. I hated the attention.) So right away I was a geek and the other kids hated me for it. To a point, I think my mother hated me for it, too. (More)