You know, between the fog that is most of my childhood, there is one question that I always agonised about, and that is: throughout it all, how did I survive?
Because there was,,,, a lot to survive through, from my first death threat & proceeding phycological torment from my brother at age 5 to metal objects flying dangerously close to my head during abuser tantrums to family tragedies to chronic gaslighting to suicide attempts and episodes of physical violence in the later years.
I look back on it and there it lies, as clear as it can with my only memories being from trauma processing when triggers and flashbacks happen and those rare times when a memory decided to resurface all on it's own to go off of: the overbearing truth that I was abused since the time I was at least a toddler.
But there had to be something to keep the illusion going, the facade slowly cracking but not breaking, and it had to be there for a long, long time. And all I can do right now is wait out and try to piece together a puzzle with a thousand lost pieces. Which is all to say,
I unlocked a rare positive memory today - fragmented, but still.
It's something about movies - how my mother & brother wanted to drag me to some catastrophe film about an alien invasion and instead I convinced them to buy me a ticket to some animated mostly marketed towards girls movie.
It started 40 minutes after their's did, so for the first time in... A while, I was left alone (which was a rare occurrence), sitting on some couches, with nobody paying any attention to me.
I had a journal with me.
At that time I always had a journal with me, because my phone was ancient and your girl had to entertain herself with something. It had a lot of shitty ideas, and my (very unsuccessful and rare) attempts to learn how to draw, because for some reason being able to draw prettily was a beauty standard for the girls around me and my inability to do so led to,,,, a fair amount of comments and disgusted glances thrown my way (Ironically enough, now I draw much more than I used to, but for med school reasons. The drawings still suck, but for some reason, now it's much more socially acceptable. Probably because I embrace it. Though ppl who can draw well do get a bit of privileges™ in the anatomy class), and a lot of half-baked writing plots that usually went nowhere. One of them had a whole ass spread for my depressive thoughts which I put there when the trauma was a bit... Too much. I know that because I stumbled upon it before during one of the many cleanouts I did after being in extreme dissociation, every day, for 6 months. Honestly shit was terrifying to read but hey, it helped 12 year old me cope so ig it's fine.
I think I wrestled with myself about buying popcorn when they left, because my mother never allowed me to since it was too "unhealthy". I'm pretty sure I did, because I seem to remember the feeling of uncomfortable sugar-induced thirstiness at the back of my throat as we drived back from the theater, but I'm not sure. If I did, I probably spent the entire pre-film time on high alert, careful to hide it from passer-bys in case either of them decided to leave the theater.
I was bored, at first, with no way to tell time, but then I started thinking and doodling and at some point, inspiration struck - something about ocs and evil scientists and their horrible horrible experiments - and I spent the rest of the time creating, high on the euphoria of privacy, of not having to check my back every seven seconds to see if someone's watching.
I didn't even get to finish the scene, but I was still so proud for writing it.
It was so simple, but I was so happy.
I was so happy.
Because there were no abusers. Because, even for just half an hour, I was able to put my guard down and purely enjoy myself.
And it's like this for every positive memory I have - all of them happen when they are not in sight. Reading fanfiction at 2 am, feeling proud after composing my first guitar arrangement, jumping around the flat I was alone at in happiness because my favourite comic updated, learning to drive a hoverboard with my friend, feeling joyful because all of them left and now I could watch a show in peace, celebrating my birthday without them...
I guess that's the answer for me - the only reason I survived for so long are the times I could take a break from them.
Huh.
Well that's fucking depressing.
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one of the things about having an unstable parent is that it can so easily ruin your future. you want to get out, but getting out takes having agency. it takes the resume and the grades and the stellar community service history.
but you have to choose your battles. you know if you sign up for an after-school activity, it'll be okay for a while, so long as the activity is parent-approved and god-fearing. over time, like all things, it will become an argument (i can't keep carting your ass to these things) or a weapon (talk to me like that again, see if you get to go to practice). sometimes, if you love the thing, it's worth it. but you also know better than to love something: that's how they get you. if you ever actually want something, it will always be the center of their attention. they will never stop threatening you with it. telling you of course i'm a good parent, i came to all of those stupid events.
you learn to balance yourself perfectly. you can either have a social life or you can have hobbies. both of these things will be under constant scrutiny. you spend too much time with her, you should be at home with family is equally paired with you're acting like this because you're addicted to what's on that goddamn screen. you cannot ever actually win, so everything falls within a barter system that you calculate before entering: do you want to learn how to drive? if so, you'll need to give up asking for a new laptop, even though yours died. maybe you can work on a computer at the library. of course, that would mean you'd be allowed to go to the library, which would mean something else has to bleed. nothing ever actually comes free.
and that bitter, horrible irony: you could be literally following their orders and it still isn't pretty. they tell you to get a job; they hate that your job keeps you late and gives you access to actual money. they tell you to do better in school; they say no child of mine needs a tutor. they want you to stop being so morose, don't you know there are people who are really suffering - but they revile the idea you might actually need therapy.
you didn't survive that fall the way other people would. you've seen other people scramble and get their way out, however they could. maybe you were made too-soft: the answer didn't come to you easily. it wasn't quick. it was brutal and nasty. some people even asked you why didn't you just work hard and escape during school? and you felt your head spinning. why didn't you? (they control your financial aid. they control your loan status. they love having that kind of thing). maybe in another life you got diagnosed sooner and got the meds you needed to actually focus and got attention from the right teachers who helped you clear hurdles to get up out of here - but for now? here?
the effort of trying. the effort of not-dying. that kind of effort was absolutely agonizing.
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"Being poor is a choice, you can get out of it if you work hard."
I live with 4 people, one of which is a child. I work a full time job. So does another. And the third works two part times.
We have no heating. Our electric keeps getting shut off. We didn't have anything AT ALL to drink for 3 days.
You REALLY fucking think we choose to live like this? You think I want to fucking FREEZE right now as I type? FUCK all the out of touch lucky people saying this shit.
Is it possible to get out of a poor family? Yes. But the majority of the time your area of living is what predicts your wealth.
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