Go mother figure
Aw. My head hurts! It would be nice to talk to someone about this. If they knew what I was talking about, that is. Or maybe it wouldn’t be nice. And maybe it isn’t supposed to be nice. You know what it is, though? Addictive. Being truthful - or maybe I should say honest or sincere - is addictive once you’re making a conscious effort to do so. I have to keep an eye on myself, but generally speaking it’s addictive to be writing like this and I haven’t come up with any excuses yet as to why I wouldn’t be able to write a certain night or day. I feel this unrest when I think I’m not going to be able to because of other engagements. I do stuff in my head (Wow! That sounds real-ly sophisticated!) and make notes for when I’ll be able to again. But I think I will make time, I will find a way to do this every day.
Except when I’m not meant to and the computer starts dicking around again, the computer also has this virus which makes it believe it doesn’t have room for storage and mucks up the hard drive. So, not very unlike us.
Right. Don’t have much time, physiotherapy in a bit, so let’s get going. My mother. And the way she is with men and how that rubbed off on me. I thought I was mostly over the guilt trips, but when she asked me if I was coming to her birthday I felt guilty for saying no and explained why I couldn’t and that it was too expensive. I was defending myself. It felt so different from how I usually feel lately that it was unmistakable. And I think she knew I wasn’t coming, we would have discussed it at an earlier stage if that was the case. Does it make me mad? A bit yeah. I know she’s wired this way and can’t help herself, but she’s a big girl now and should know better. And you should decide that for her? No. I’m saying that because I don’t want to be bothered by that stuff anymore, I’m tired of having to defend myself and my choices to either of my ‘parents’. They have their stuff to deal with and I have my own and just leave me alone and stop asking me the same questions over and over. She’s so helpless, or rather, that’s how she comes across to me. Because I know why, others just see a bit of a cookie woman. A bit off. Like me. I have no idea what she must have been through, how it must have been like to live her life. I’ve had a lot of crap on my plate, but what happened to her… I’m apprehensive about writing it down here. I haven’t got much time left for this bit and it’s a hell of a thing. I’m just saying I can cut her some slack, I can hold off on the rage and remind myself what she’s been through, whenever I feel like screaming at her or telling her off. I breathe, slowly, calm myself down and try again, carefully. Maybe there is still anger though, because she did put us in harm’s way, having a psycho live with us. We had to run several times, the house was always covered in a thick blanket of aggressive energy, an air of expectancy but in the worst of ways, explosive anger and rage, him screaming in my face and she let him. She let him because he fixed the house and took us places with his cars. She was a single mother and we were poor. He gave her some security. He gave us hell. That screwed us up good. She put us in harm’s way. She still has coffee with him, still listens to his wise man’s crap. How can she be so blind? How can she not see? Because he is a man. My mother has been fooled by men her whole life, been dependent on them. Now she is alone which is probably best for her. I’m trying not to be angry with her and we get along, but the guilt inducing behaviour sends me into a flying rage. Sometimes I tell her off, but in a decisive voice, without resentment. Is there resentment? Is there something that needs to be cleaned out? She could have had us killed. When he left us in the mountains she should have accepted a ride from that kind Frenchman. She knew he was coming back for us. She should have agreed with him and told him he was an asshole, so he would have driven his car through that wall in front of the ravine. But you do know it was a show right? He wasn’t going to do that even if she would have, you know that right? He was playing her like a violin. I was small. I wished him dead. I wished she would say “Yes! You’re an asshole!” and that he would get in the car again and drive himself into oblivion. She had a choice. Or so I thought in that particular moment. And any time he left us, I was glad and wished he would never come back and she ‘consoled’ us by saying he would come back. What the hell? I didn’t want him to come back, why did she think that was a comforting thing to say?? She was comforting herself. And then I was comforting her too, just a little girl, putting my arm around her because she was crying. Like how I went looking for food when he left us in the heat of the mountains. That’s when I started to feel responsible. She was just sitting there, staring into nothingness and it was hot and we didn’t know how long we were going to be there (because she didn’t want that ride from that Frenchman) and when I found a walnut I was so proud to have found food even though it was just a nut. And yes, I feel anger, a hot anger in my belly. How the fuck can you leave your kids to suffer like that? My little tiny sister almost got raped on another occasion when we ran away from the house and my mother thought it was a good idea to ask the guys from the snack bar for help. No, people, having a little girl rest, get some sleep, is not the same as getting in bed with her and showing her what sperm looks like. She was only four, five, six, whatever. But she still remembers. And I remember. And mother dearest still has coffee with that peace of shit mean-stupid son of a bitch. She should have killed him and protected us. And she’s not accountable because she’s so fucked up. And I was so sensitive as a baby in her womb, and as a little girl (“you were always crying,” oh really? How odd!) that I inherited her behaviour and thought all I had to offer was sex. I didn’t know how to connect with women and girls, because sex didn’t matter to them, coming from me. I didn’t even know what I was doing, but was always looking guys in the eyes, checking to see what effect I had on them. Not knowing why I did it and how other girls got away with not doing it. How else can you get attention from boys and men? How else can you be friends? So fucking screwed up. I didn’t know what sex was, yet let guys rub up against me like horny dogs, finding the warmth enjoyable but feeling dirty at the same time. I didn’t even know what sex was and what was happening. I did know it was the only way for me to get noticed. I didn’t know there was an option where I could say no when they started touching and groping and shoving their tongues down my throat. I hadn’t learned “no”. I’d seen my mother take it all. She took all the crap that asshole had to give. And passed it onto us. So I’ve taken a lot of crap as well. I gave when asked/told, assuming there was nothing else I could give them. Ask for something in return? Are you kidding? I never saw my mother ask for anything.
She just obeyed. Cried, played the guitar. Played guilt trips on us. Still does.
I feel sick to my stomach. I think I’m going to leave it at that, for now, and continue later.
Except when I’m not meant to and the computer starts dicking around again, the computer also has this virus which makes it believe it doesn’t have room for storage and mucks up the hard drive. So, not very unlike us.
Right. Don’t have much time, physiotherapy in a bit, so let’s get going. My mother. And the way she is with men and how that rubbed off on me. I thought I was mostly over the guilt trips, but when she asked me if I was coming to her birthday I felt guilty for saying no and explained why I couldn’t and that it was too expensive. I was defending myself. It felt so different from how I usually feel lately that it was unmistakable. And I think she knew I wasn’t coming, we would have discussed it at an earlier stage if that was the case. Does it make me mad? A bit yeah. I know she’s wired this way and can’t help herself, but she’s a big girl now and should know better. And you should decide that for her? No. I’m saying that because I don’t want to be bothered by that stuff anymore, I’m tired of having to defend myself and my choices to either of my ‘parents’. They have their stuff to deal with and I have my own and just leave me alone and stop asking me the same questions over and over. She’s so helpless, or rather, that’s how she comes across to me. Because I know why, others just see a bit of a cookie woman. A bit off. Like me. I have no idea what she must have been through, how it must have been like to live her life. I’ve had a lot of crap on my plate, but what happened to her… I’m apprehensive about writing it down here. I haven’t got much time left for this bit and it’s a hell of a thing. I’m just saying I can cut her some slack, I can hold off on the rage and remind myself what she’s been through, whenever I feel like screaming at her or telling her off. I breathe, slowly, calm myself down and try again, carefully. Maybe there is still anger though, because she did put us in harm’s way, having a psycho live with us. We had to run several times, the house was always covered in a thick blanket of aggressive energy, an air of expectancy but in the worst of ways, explosive anger and rage, him screaming in my face and she let him. She let him because he fixed the house and took us places with his cars. She was a single mother and we were poor. He gave her some security. He gave us hell. That screwed us up good. She put us in harm’s way. She still has coffee with him, still listens to his wise man’s crap. How can she be so blind? How can she not see? Because he is a man. My mother has been fooled by men her whole life, been dependent on them. Now she is alone which is probably best for her. I’m trying not to be angry with her and we get along, but the guilt inducing behaviour sends me into a flying rage. Sometimes I tell her off, but in a decisive voice, without resentment. Is there resentment? Is there something that needs to be cleaned out? She could have had us killed. When he left us in the mountains she should have accepted a ride from that kind Frenchman. She knew he was coming back for us. She should have agreed with him and told him he was an asshole, so he would have driven his car through that wall in front of the ravine. But you do know it was a show right? He wasn’t going to do that even if she would have, you know that right? He was playing her like a violin. I was small. I wished him dead. I wished she would say “Yes! You’re an asshole!” and that he would get in the car again and drive himself into oblivion. She had a choice. Or so I thought in that particular moment. And any time he left us, I was glad and wished he would never come back and she ‘consoled’ us by saying he would come back. What the hell? I didn’t want him to come back, why did she think that was a comforting thing to say?? She was comforting herself. And then I was comforting her too, just a little girl, putting my arm around her because she was crying. Like how I went looking for food when he left us in the heat of the mountains. That’s when I started to feel responsible. She was just sitting there, staring into nothingness and it was hot and we didn’t know how long we were going to be there (because she didn’t want that ride from that Frenchman) and when I found a walnut I was so proud to have found food even though it was just a nut. And yes, I feel anger, a hot anger in my belly. How the fuck can you leave your kids to suffer like that? My little tiny sister almost got raped on another occasion when we ran away from the house and my mother thought it was a good idea to ask the guys from the snack bar for help. No, people, having a little girl rest, get some sleep, is not the same as getting in bed with her and showing her what sperm looks like. She was only four, five, six, whatever. But she still remembers. And I remember. And mother dearest still has coffee with that peace of shit mean-stupid son of a bitch. She should have killed him and protected us. And she’s not accountable because she’s so fucked up. And I was so sensitive as a baby in her womb, and as a little girl (“you were always crying,” oh really? How odd!) that I inherited her behaviour and thought all I had to offer was sex. I didn’t know how to connect with women and girls, because sex didn’t matter to them, coming from me. I didn’t even know what I was doing, but was always looking guys in the eyes, checking to see what effect I had on them. Not knowing why I did it and how other girls got away with not doing it. How else can you get attention from boys and men? How else can you be friends? So fucking screwed up. I didn’t know what sex was, yet let guys rub up against me like horny dogs, finding the warmth enjoyable but feeling dirty at the same time. I didn’t even know what sex was and what was happening. I did know it was the only way for me to get noticed. I didn’t know there was an option where I could say no when they started touching and groping and shoving their tongues down my throat. I hadn’t learned “no”. I’d seen my mother take it all. She took all the crap that asshole had to give. And passed it onto us. So I’ve taken a lot of crap as well. I gave when asked/told, assuming there was nothing else I could give them. Ask for something in return? Are you kidding? I never saw my mother ask for anything.
She just obeyed. Cried, played the guitar. Played guilt trips on us. Still does.
I feel sick to my stomach. I think I’m going to leave it at that, for now, and continue later.
posted by M. at 2:18 PM
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