anyway here's wavewave

Favoritism, emotional abuse, and bitterness.

So this is going to be kind of a long, personal post. But suffice to say, I’m interested if anyone has had a similar experience to mine, or feels sort of the same emotional turmoil that I do? I just really want to know I’m not alone. 

Right now, I’m feeling kind of bitter, and sad, and unhappy. You know, that feeling where your chest tightens up when you see some injustice or unfairness, and there’s nothing you can do, so you just sit there feeling both frustrated and powerless? And it all started with one thing. My parents happily told me that my stepsister, who is 5 years younger than me, just got a letter from Yale inviting her to tour the college because they’re impressed with her SAT records. 

Now I’m sure we all know that twinge of envy when someone much younger than you ends up being more successful, but this goes much deeper than that. You see, she was always the favorite. She was my stepdad’s real daughter, and thus he cared about her more than he did about me. And honestly, that part never bothered me too much. At least, it didn’t for the first few years our parents were together. 

Now, I’m going back to some kind of triggering memories right now, so I’m sorry if my writing seems a little jumbled or disorganized, but I really want to get this out, so I’m going to try anyway. 

The trouble started when I was about 12. That was when my mental illnesses starting showing through, and since I was under a lot of stress, I was acting ‘more autistic’ (even though I was undiagnosed at the time). That was about when the abuse started. Now, I hesitate to call what I went through abuse, because my parents never physically assaulted me. There was no real “evidence”, per se, that anything was wrong. But because of the deep psychological scars it left, I’m going to call it abuse. Basically, from the time I was 12, till I was about 16, I was emotionally abused and neglected by my parents. I almost have the urge to say “Well, other people have it worse, so you can’t claim it was abuse.” That’s what people always told me when I confided in  them, anyway. But I know plenty of other people have been through the same thing, and I wouldn’t ever minimize their suffering, so I won’t do it to mine.

So basically how this all started, was my mom just out of the blue took away my antidepressants, took me out of therapy, and just basically ignored the fact that I had depression for almost a year. I say this is when it started, because I had only just started treatment a few months ago. I had gotten my diagnosis of depression when I was just miserable and numb all the time, I had meltdowns often, and I wanted to die at 11 years old. I’m saying all of this so you understand that after I had no treatment, I went back to being depressed.

Most of the abuse I went through, was specifically related to, or because of, my mental illnesses and my autism. I’m not going to go too into detail about my abuse (that’s for another post, if I ever get around to making it), but I’ll give you the basics: I was yelled at or punished for showing pretty much any signs of autism (having a meltdown, expressing sensory sensitivities, trying to avoid overload, or not getting facial expressions), showing any symptoms of depression (being yelled at or punished for not being able to get out of bed, not being able to do my chores, being slow at understanding things or responding, self harming (the only one that’s really understandable), or expressing that I was unhappy at all. I just want to make it clear that most of the things I was abused for were not things I could control. Now I was a teenager, and there were times that I actually got into trouble for legitimate reasons. But most of the time, I was punished for things I didn’t understand and couldn’t control.

The neglect showed through in other ways. Like most families, we were pretty tight on money, but I call it neglect because I was never considered a priority. For example, being autistic, I can only tolerate certain foods, (and my list of foods I could eat was even shorter back then). About 80% of the time, my parents would go out of their way to NOT bring back anything I could eat. The only way they got food for me, was if I agreed to go grocery shopping with them (which was sensory hell) and basically begged them throughout the store to get at least 1 or 2 things for me. It was bad enough to the point where I would only eat maybe 2 or 3 meals a week, and even then they were usually things that had me gagging or crying because I hated them so much (on the inside of course. I would be punished if I dared to gag or cry in front of people). When I needed things, like clothes or school supplies, I rarely got them. I was stuck in a catch 22 where if I only told my parents about it once, they would often forget I had asked. But if I asked them more than once, I was yelled at for “nagging” them. I remember one instance in particular where I needed clothes for school, because almost everything I owned I had either outgrown or had holes in it. I was told we didn’t have the money for it. LATER THAT SAME WEEK, my dad buys a membership to Farrel’s (you know, that workout place) that costs $300 dollars. I’ll never forget the feeling of absolute betrayal. The knowledge that even after bills, even after food, even after all the necessities, when I specifically put in a request, my actual needs were considered less important than his vanity. He lost 15 pounds. I’ll remember that till the day I die, and I hate it.

Now, to describe how he treated his daughter. She was his princess. I used to (and still do, sometimes) call her “Her Highness”, because that’s how he treated her. If she wanted anything, anything, she got it. She needed 1 pair of shoes? He’d buy her two. She lost her coat he bought her a week ago? He’d buy her another one, just as expensive as the last. He bought her as many school supplies as she could need, every year. I remember 1 year he bought her 3 separate pairs of glasses. Because she kept losing them. If she was coming over that weekend, the house had to be spotless. Instead of eating the cheap food WE were stuck with, we always had either fresh ingredients, or we’d eat out. It got to the point when I could reliably count on eating like a normal person on the weekends she’d come over, because he would never in his wildest dreams think of forcing her to eat the same stuff I did. She got piano lessons, violin lessons, tae kwon do lessons, she went to an expensive summer camp nearly every summer, and she always went. Even if that meant pulling money from what was supposed to go towards our bills, she always got what she wanted. Fancy dresses, new books, all the supplies she could need for her hobbies.

And the emotional treatment was even more of a gap. If I brought home a report card with all A’s and one D, all my parents would do is berate me for the one bad grade, and threaten me that it had better be higher next time. If she brought home a report card with all A’s and one D, she got $20 for every A. I’m not even exaggerating, that LITERALLY happened. I was called basically every name in the book “Lazy, stupid, ungrateful, not trying, condescending, a fucking bitch, crazy, a bad person, faking, a burden, impossible.” When I asked for help with my depression, I was told that it was all in my head, that I was making it seem worse than it was, that I could get over it anytime I wanted. When I talked about things I was struggling with in school, I was told that it was obvious, that I was stupid for not getting it, that I just wasn’t trying hard enough. When I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do in life, I was told “You’ll never be able to do that. We can’t afford to send you to college. Scholarships won’t help you. You won’t be able to make it through.” I was basically told that I was inherently a bad person. That I would never be able to achieve anything because I was bad. And even if I tried my hardest, I would never be able to be any better than I was. And when I did succeed? When I got good grades, when I was able to fight through my depression to do my chores, when I actually did something I felt proud of? Silence. Well, most of the time. Sometimes I got criticized for it not being good enough, “You can do better. You didn’t even try!” Eventually, I pretty much gave up trying to impress them, or earn their love and respect, because I knew it was never going to happen. I gave up a lot of my dreams, because either they didn’t approve, or they convinced me I wouldn’t be any good at it anyway.

Which brings me back to my stepsister. You see, we both had basically the same grades in school, before I dropped out. We were both really smart, we both were the highest in our respective classes. Intellectually, we were both equal. We both had the same potential. But she had more resources than I did. She was encouraged and praised and accepted. She had everything she needed to be at her best, and everything she wanted to keep her happy and focused. She never had to go through the abuse I did, the kind that beats you down every day until you feel like you’re a worthless speck of nothing. She didn’t have two parents who picked apart and exaggerated every flaw or mistake until she felt like she would never be able to do anything. She never had to go to school with the kind of hunger that only comes from not having eaten for several days. She didn’t go to school wearing clothes that had holes in them causing her to get made fun of by all her peers. 

Look, I get that life isn’t an even playing field. I have a developmental disability, and she doesn’t. I have several mental illnesses, and she doesn’t. Our lives would never have been perfectly equal. But much of her success is directly tied to my lack of it. So many of the things she got, she didn’t just get, she got them because they were directly taken away from me. They money that should have gone towards food for me went to violin lessons for her. The money the should have gone to clothes for me, went to expensive clothes (that she didn’t need) for her. The money that could have been used so I could practice my art, which I’ve always wanted to do, went to horseback riding lessons for her.

So much of the success she’s had in life is directly tied to everything I didn’t get. And it hurts. There’s the pain of realizing something’s been taken from you, something you can’t ever get back. There’s the guilt that comes from realizing you should be able to be happy for your little sister’s success, and instead you’re a bitter mess. And there’s the injustice of having it not be your fault. If I had spent my teen years drinking and partying, and I had thrown away my own future, I would be fine. I would write that one off under “oops” and move on. But I can’t. The future I could have had was stolen by parents who didn’t care about me, and basically did everything they could to make me feel like garbage. And there’s the frustration of not being able to talk about it. I can’t tell her I’m not happy for her because my parents screwed me over to make sure she succeeded because then SHE’D be guilty, and I don’t want to put her through that. My parent’s have made a commitment to doing better, and I’d no longer classify them as abusive, but I’m not allowed to bring up anything they did. Anytime I try it’s “Why are you bringing up the past?” “It’s different now.” “Just let it go.” They’re willing to treat me better, as long as I don’t get any closure. 

It’s just not fair. It’s not fair how two people who you trust and rely on can just decide to ruin your mental health, and leave you with psychological scars that will last a lifetime. And then they get to move on while you’re stuck holding the bill. I’m still dealing with the consequences of those 4-5 years, and they get to just pretend they never happened. 

And now I’m the terrible person who hears their little sister got an invitation to Yale, who’s dreams are starting to come true, and can only think “Fuck you.”

my first post.

I’ve finally started. I’ve been thinking about doing this for a few weeks now and I decided I should get it over with. This is a stream of consciousness kinda thing for the most part. I’ve got some problems and I’m not sure if they’re justified or if I’m just being a bitch, but they’re there nonetheless. I’ve been depressed for fucking ever and used to have really bad OCD and anxiety. Pretty shit childhood I think as well, father is emotionally unavailable and mother is fucking narcissistic or some shit. Even writing this down I feel like I’m just going for pity points here, oh poor me my childhood was so bad. I didn’t die of cancer when I was 10 or something so it clearly could’ve been much worse. Maybe I am being a bitch, maybe not, who knows? I’ve got stuff driving me absolutely insane right now though that much is certain. Maybe if I write about it and get it out in the open it’ll help. So i think I would’ve been depressed and shit even if my parents weren’t idiots. Apparently when I was like 6 I wrote in my journal that the only reason I hadn’t killed myself was because I knew it would hurt my parents too much. I don’t remember writing that or really anything from when I was 6 but apparently it’s true. I think I’m a pretty strong willed person, when I put my mind to something I usually get it done. I remember I was having really bad feelings of “guilt” when I was young, from the OCD I think. I had symptoms of anxiety too I assume but I can’t remember what those were. So I went to the local childrens hospital and was diagnosed with depression, anxiety and OCD. Real shit hand but that’s the way she goes. My mother was diagnosed with the same things at the same time because she recognized so many of my symptoms in herself. I couldn’t even begin to imagine living for 30 years thinking you were just insane, not know what was wrong with you or how to deal with it. I think that would drive anyone crazy, it certainly did her. She always had problems, so did my father. Neither one of them had good childhoods, mother was raised by a father with an un-diagnosed brain tumor and a mother with the same problems as her. My father was put up for adoption because he was born out of wedlock, and was adopted by some very odd people who liked to help kids who had problems. He grew up with foster siblings and the few permanent ones were fucked up with fetal alcohol syndrome and stuff. Basically, I can’t blame them for not knowing how to act properly, or raise a kid well, they never had good examples to learn from. However, that didn’t help me at the time because I didn’t understand all that stuff. My mom was pretty severe in her visible symptoms, she wouldn’t sit on a bus seat or touch an elevator button, weird stuff like that. I can’t think of anything worse and that sounds pretty tame but she was just, off, I guess. My father was almost if not completely emotionally unattached to me, part of that being his upbringing and part of that being his job I think. I can remember him saying I love you and stuff but I also remember from a young age that I felt uncomfortable calling him daddy (I never really called my parents mom or dad, weird I know). It seemed to, informal? he wasn’t a “proper” type of person, didn’t care about elbows on the table and shit, so it wasn’t weird because of that, I think I just didn’t have a proper relationship with him. He definitely tried to do the right things. We used to go out to the workshop and make stuff. We did that a lot, he loves to try weird shit. He’s recently gotten into knife making. Anyways, he definitely tried to “bond” and did all the regular stuff like teach me how to ride a bike. But he was also kinda crazy I guess? I remember two specific incidents when I was less than 10 years old where we would be driving somewhere and get into an argument and he would just start screaming and screaming. Not just regular shouting but with rage, almost aggressive. I don’t remember ever being scared for my safety I don’t think, although maybe I was. I’m pretty sure this happened more than twice because one of the times I remember forcing him to pull over so I could walk home, as we were about 2 blocks away. That’s not the kind of coping mechanism an 8 year old develops on his second try I don’t think. Writing all of this I just noticed I wrote much more about him than about my mom, I’m concerned that I have attachment issues or something with him, maybe seeking his approval. Well, I know that I have issues with his approval. I feel very strongly that I was made to be felt I was never good enough as a child. Not that he ever said that directly, but it felt obvious. I remember one time I came up with the idea of a snowblower, basically thinking we should use a ride on lawnmower to shoot the snow away from the road or whatever. It’s obviously not an original idea, but I remember him immediately saying something along the lines of “nope that’s been done” and then very specifically “all the good ideas have been thought of”. He didn’t say hey good idea or anything first, just shot me down. Many of my ideas were like that. I should talk about my mother, I thought of a good example of how she affected me. I remember that growing up I was never ever allowed to sleep over at other kids houses. I had and still do have one friend I would genuinely describe as a brother, and he was allowed to stay at our house, but never me at his. It wasn’t a genuine safety concern, I grew up in a fairly affluent neighborhood for the time, all of my friends were typical good kids, parents knew each other very well. I think this was her anxiety, but I wasn’t allowed to stay at someone elses house until I was probably 11 or so. That may be normal to other people but in this area with these friends it was weird, and didn’t go unnoticed. I think the biggest thing she did though, which is very hard for me to talk about, is this. When I was in grade 3, she was having a particularly hard time with things I guess, and was binge drinking to cope. She would binge drink in the morning, get super drunk I guess, call the school to tell them I was going home with her friend and their family, and then make herself throw up and sober up so she could come and get me. I was going through basically the same thing, I had panic attacks weekly and was really fucking struggling with my anxiety and OCD, and just wanted to go home to her, but she was doing this. Some days it was so bad that I would go home early, or she would call me in sick. Anyways, the family friend. The mother was normal-ish, kind of hillbilly I think, and the father was notedly weird. The kids were on another fucking level though, two of them ended up being autistic and one of them is just weird I think. So grade 3 me was getting sent to their house maybe once or twice a week, not knowing why and hating it so so fucking much every time. I would cry when I got called down to the office or when she would get me when school was over. I always had a hard time showing emotion in front of people. even then, so I hid most of it. It was insanely difficult to cope with all my problems, plus this, plus the fact that I felt I had to act happy and behave well. I didn’t know why I kept getting sent there either, and thought it was because of me I think. This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me though I think. One time when I was there, the sister and younger brother were playing in the parents bedroom. I saw and was already freaking the fuck out because they weren’t supposed to be in there and I had this huge problem with guilt and doing the right thing still. The sister is in probably grade 6 or 7 or something, and the brother was a year or two younger than me. Point being, she’s big, he’s small. So they were rough housing and she had this game where she basically molested him. It didn’t seem sexual from either party, but he definitely didn’t like it and cried for her to stop. It took all of the courage I had but I said something like “hey you shouldn’t touch him there” because obviously everyone’s taught that that’s a bad place to be touched. She justified it by saying she wasn’t actually touching anything, just going around it. basically cupping his junk in her hand. He seemed genuinely uh, perturbed? by this. It clearly wasn’t a small thing to him. I didn’t ever mention it to anyone. Not to his parents, or a teacher or my parents or a councilor. I just blocked it out. I completely forgot about it until grade 8 or 9 I think. But I spent the rest of that year seeing him and feeling so fucking guilty that I didn’t have the courage to help him, and knowing that all I had to do was say something. I don’t know why I didn’t, I think i was afraid of people not believing me or being told I was exaggerating. I don’t think it fucked the kid up too much though, apparently hes doing pretty well for an autistic kid. I remembered all of this because for whatever reason it was explained to me what was happening in grade 3, about my mom drinking and whatnot. This was during the summer and I was going to a science summer camp at a university, and so all these fucking emotions got brought back up and guess what happened? I was told I was overplaying everything and was still sent to the fucking camp. Again I had to pretend like nothing bad was happening to me for 6 hours a day. What the fuck is wrong with them that they did this too me twice. I know they didn’t know any better but how the fuck does a child deal with this shit. It wasn’t fair. I felt like my whole fucking world was falling apart, that this was the literal end of life as I knew it, and I was sent to fucking summer camp. Also when I was 10 I was diagnosed as type one diabetic, I forgot to mention that. So that was pretty tough. I learned how to deal with trauma well though. The day I was diagnosed I had been suffering from a high blood sugar and dehydration for so long that I was told I couldn’t wait for and ambulance to take me to the hospital and that my dad had to drive me. Then they spent about 45 minutes trying to give me an IV. I counted 17 different needles, but most of those they dug around in my arm for a bit first, before taking it out and trying somewhere else. I was always good in high stress situations like this so I wasn’t too too freaked out, but I again felt like life as I knew it was over. I mean I guess it was, but I had this insanely strong sense of impending doom, same as when I was told all the shit about grade 3. This seems to be a reoccurring problem and I think it’s related to the fact that I don’t like change, or maybe I don’t like change because of all this shit. Whatever. I had a few really close calls and more recently honestly almost died twice. the last time was the worst I guess. I have this problem of refusing to do my insulin, I always have. It’s so fucking dumb because I know it’s literally killing me and I’m a full grown man but yeah, sometimes I just don’t do it. I think it’s either a self harm thing or me trying to forget that I have diabetes or something. Anyways, the last time I was hospitalized I woke up and felt sick and I would normally in this situation, so I did some insulin and drank a bunch of water and shit but it was just getting worse and worse. It’s hard to describe but it gets so bad that you feel like you literally do not have enough energy in your body to do anything beside lie still. Even breathing was hard. It’s not like being tired but it feels like someone chemically prevented your body from making or using energy. This time was so bad I couldn’t drive myself to the hospital as I previously had, so I asked my mom to call 911. She did and as she was on the phone I really felt like I was dying, so I told her to ask them to hurry. I didn’t want to say more because I didn’t want to freak her out, she was pretty calm as this wasn’t the first time I’d been hospitalized. She got off the phone and told me they were coming from a neighboring city, which concerned me very much. I really didn’t know if I was gonna be able to like, last, until they got there. I did, and they got me to the hospital just fine luckily. I was given an IV with a whole bunch of stuff, insulin and supplements I think. I was still so fucking concerned that I was gonna die, still felt very strongly that I was dying. I wasn’t scared though, it’s weird. I don’t mean that in a “oh I’m so tough I don’t fear death” kinda way, because I do. But I just understood that there wasn’t anything I could do at this point. Either I made it or I didn’t. After my ketones went down and I got whatever supplements in me, the doctor told my mom that I had in fact just about died. I don’t think he said any percentage or bullshit like that but he said I was super fucking lucky, and also an idiot for not doing the insulin, which I knew already. Allrighty, I’ve been writing for like 70 minutes, this was pretty nice actually. I’ll return here tomorrow. 1/3/2018