Worthy

My parents were my first bullies. I was my second.

I grew up thinking it was extremely normal to say awful things about myself. Swearing was also perfectly normal in my household. We practically lived in a bar, after all. Even when I wasn’t being insulted, I was also not being praised for anything. And I don’t mean anything absurd like being put on a pedestal. I couldn’t even get a “Good job” or “Wow, Aim!” when I got straight As or accomplished something, or got my art displayed in the library, or won the co-ed three-point shooting contest. Nothing I did could make up for “What are you—stupid?” and “What the fuck is wrong with you?” or “I knew I didn’t want you.”

The thing is, my parents were very unhealed people. They both came from having previously been married. My father was married twice before my mother; my mother once. My mother met both of her husbands in a bar. My father seemed to make kids and run away. Except for some reason he stayed with my mother, until she left him.

My father had awful PTSD. He would also drink until he blacked out, something I also enjoyed doing later in life. My father and I had a lot in common, but I wish I had realized that while he was still living.

My father was very physically abusive towards my mother and us kids. Sometimes I watched the abuse happen; sometimes I was being abused; sometimes both happened in the same night. I had a routine. I hid with my younger brother somewhere until things seemed calmer. When my parents fought, they seemed to forget we existed. So long as we were out of the way, we would usually be okay. Still, there were some nights when my father’s rage took over for a longer time and it would spill over onto us.

The lights in the hallway upstairs flickered. I could hear the switch turning off and on as my father flipped it back and forth to warn us that he was coming.

“Quick, hide,” I would tell my brother. He always went under the bed, where my father always found him. No matter how much I tried to get him to go somewhere else, he didn’t listen.

I could hear the stairs creak one by one as he slowly ascended the staircase. The creaking got louder and louder. Then suddenly I could hear him snapping his belt. I got into position—lying on my stomach with my pants pulled down—so that my father wouldn’t get angrier. If I fought it, I would get more. The belt buckle stung on my bare ass, and I tried to pretend the sting was cold instead of hurt. It was the only way I could get through it. And of course, I had to make sure he knew I was hurt so he could stop at some point.

I was in a dilemma because I had a choice: if I took more of a beating, my father would tire out and my younger brother wouldn’t get so much, and sometimes nothing at all. But sometimes I really didn’t want to get beat any more. I felt like a bad sister when I chose to let him finish on my brother instead.

How could I have developed a self-image that was positive? How could I have thought that I’m smart or pretty, or even a good person? My parents made sure I got mixed signals about who I was and what I was worth.

When I did something my mother liked, it was “That's my girl.” Which isn't exactly a compliment so much as it's her taking credit for making me. But when I did something she didn’t like, it was “Are you stupid? What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m smart, your father’s smart, you should be smart, too, but look how fucking stupid you turned out to be.”

No matter what I tried, I couldn’t ever actually be good. When my mom said “that’s my girl,” it was usually because I did something for her that had to do with going behind my father’s back, or something illegal, or when we would make up names for her court papers for Alcoholics Anonymous. (The court ordered them both to go to comply with DYFS, and they give you papers to get signed by the people chairing the meetings. My mother had us make up names and write them in all different fonts so they could present the false data to the court.)

I didn’t know my worth because of my parents. They tore me down and only built me up to manipulate me. Everyone always wondered what’s wrong with me, as if I were the problem. But the real problem was that I had parents who didn’t want kids, who didn’t actually want me, and who really only cared about making sure no one around us knew how they treated us or each other. They made sure we did and said all the right things. We were trained to exist only exactly how they wanted us to.

I was just another puzzle piece in the picture which they convinced everyone around us was a perfect, beautiful masterpiece of a happy family.

The problem was that I was a piece that didn’t go to their puzzle, and for that, my mother resented me.