Things that influence my thinking...
There are many things that influence my thinking, my feelings, and the decisions I make. Those influences comprise such variables as observation (my own or other people’s), past experiences, instinctive reactions, television shows, not just the news programs, and things that I read, whether they be the newspaper, magazines, fortune cookies, or works of literature.
Yesterday, in a moment of weakness, I suppose, I let myself get down in the dumps, for no tangible reason. There’s just a bit of a learning curve in this for me, as I often take things personally when I shouldn’t. My bad. I’m sorry.
My father was an abusive alcoholic. No, I guess that he still is. Growing up, I was rarely allowed to leave my bedroom. As a teenager, I was not even allowed to eat with the family. In eleventh grade, a teacher reported his/her suspicion that I was being abused to social services. That was when mandatory reporting finally hit. A social worker came to school to talk to me. She then told me that she would have to talk to my parents, and that, if anything happened, I should go to the local police. That weekend, my father’s rage was far worse than usual. After sitting on me and holding me by the hair to pound my head into the floor, he pushed me down the stairs. We had a split-entry house, and he walked down the first flight, after me, to push me down the second. My sleeve caught on the banister, so I didn’t fall the way he wanted me to, which made him madder. Then he said I had to walk to work (about 7 miles away). Instead, I walked to the police station, in my Ponderosa Steakhouse uniform. I only had to tell them my name, and they knew what to do, as the social worker had spoken to them. I was made a ward of the State of Minnesota. My parents and I only reconciled briefly in 1984, between that day and the spring of 1988. Since 1988, thanks to one of my sisters, who brought us all together that Thanksgiving, we have remained consistently more or less on speaking terms.
The point of that little bit of history is that, throughout all that time I found solace in art and literature, both enjoying that of other people and creating my own.
That is also the reason why I have always been uncomfortable with people touching my hair or the back of my head. My sisters are the same way, for the same reason, although they were not as abused as I was, being the “smart, evil one,” and all. Once, though, my father did pull out a handful of my sister's hair. He took her on a guilt-induced shopping trip to Burnsville Center, after that.
Now fast-forward to a few years later….
I started having some health problems when I was about 18. At least that is when I first started going to the doctor, with relatively ambiguous complaints. I wound up having endometriosis, ovarian cysts, funky-assed cells growing in different parts of my body, damage to a number of organs that had been fused together by endometrial tissues, etc. That trouble was compounded by a c-section with numerous complications, pre-term labor, toxemia, and then an induced premature delivery, a mini-stroke and left-leg paralysis during labor, a massive hemorrhage, etc., when Morgan was born, a botched hernia repair, DVT, chemotherapy to bring on artificial menopause, many surgeries, etc., to finally be mostly cured in April, 2001, and “completely” cured in February, 2002.
As I felt worse and worse, physically speaking, I became more and more depressed as well, and more and more fearful. I spent almost all of 1999-2002 without leaving the house, except to go to the doctor. At the beginning of that time, I was working, and I would just go to work and the doctor. After a while, I was so sick, and in and out of the hospital so frequently that I was on disability, and rarely left the house. After the botched hernia repair, when I couldn’t walk, I stopped even going upstairs to bed, preferring to sleep on the couch, which was easier than crawling upstairs.
My “boyfriend” stayed with me. Partially because I was sick, I am sure, to his credit. But that was a pretty toxic relationship. We brought out the worse in each other. We weren’t physically intimate for the last four of the six years we were together, because of the pain I was in, but, even more, because we didn’t like each other anymore. I broke up with him, but he wouldn’t move out. We were renting my father’s house, so I thought that illogical, but, nonetheless, as I grew better and more confident, I decided that I would move.
Along the way to feeling better and becoming more self-assured, I re-read a book of poetry that I had bought the winter after I left home in high school. That was one of those books I bought because I liked the title: My Song For Him Who Never Sang For Me.
On that day, at the end of 2001, I decided that I needed to do what was suggested in one of her poems ~ I needed to change my life, and, to do so, I needed to change my mind. So, that’s what I did. But, it really isn’t always easy. Back then, I did what I had to do to get my life together again physically, emotionally, and otherwise, culminating in my moving back to California and going back to MIIS for my second Master’s degree. Rebuilding myself psychologically has taken a bit longer. I didn’t have a basis for comparison and didn’t know how to do so many things, not having had any positive examples until the age of 17, after I got out of foster care, and lived with my then-boyfriend's family, in Stoughton, Wisoncsin. They were wonderful people. The best "parents" I ever had. I've only having had a fewsuitable role models or examples since then.
I do falter at times, feeling good really isn’t a one-time accomplishment. Like the saying says, you can’t live your life in one day. I was recently asked if I really dislike myself. I told that person that I do. That wasn’t right. I don’t dislike myself. Not really. I know what’s inside of me. And I know I am a good, kind, caring, and compassionate person. But it is hard to undo years and years of abuse, neglect, and criticism. I sometimes lack a little bit of confidence. But, ultimately, not only does my father not know enough to support his claim that I am evil, he doesn’t even know me, at all. He only knows the image of me that he has created in his own mind. And, just because he says something, even to me; just because he asserts that I am a bad person, does not make it so, does not make his proclamations any more true. I know that I am not what he says that I am, and so, I choose to live a life that is true to my personal values and how I think people deserve to be treated in life........
Mostly, I strive to act with kindness and respect in all things and to all people. I don’t always do it, but I try.
I don’t ever completely forget that poem, though.
There are a few very important people in my life. They are very precious to me, and I don’t want to miss a thing I can experience with each and every one of them. My relationship with each of them is different from my relationship with any other. But the feelings feel for any one of them, or the time that I share with any one of them, are not superior to those particular to any other. They're different, that's all. I treasure the time they have to share with me, and I am sincerely thankful.
Yesterday, in a moment of weakness, I suppose, I let myself get down in the dumps, for no tangible reason. There’s just a bit of a learning curve in this for me, as I often take things personally when I shouldn’t. My bad. I’m sorry.
My father was an abusive alcoholic. No, I guess that he still is. Growing up, I was rarely allowed to leave my bedroom. As a teenager, I was not even allowed to eat with the family. In eleventh grade, a teacher reported his/her suspicion that I was being abused to social services. That was when mandatory reporting finally hit. A social worker came to school to talk to me. She then told me that she would have to talk to my parents, and that, if anything happened, I should go to the local police. That weekend, my father’s rage was far worse than usual. After sitting on me and holding me by the hair to pound my head into the floor, he pushed me down the stairs. We had a split-entry house, and he walked down the first flight, after me, to push me down the second. My sleeve caught on the banister, so I didn’t fall the way he wanted me to, which made him madder. Then he said I had to walk to work (about 7 miles away). Instead, I walked to the police station, in my Ponderosa Steakhouse uniform. I only had to tell them my name, and they knew what to do, as the social worker had spoken to them. I was made a ward of the State of Minnesota. My parents and I only reconciled briefly in 1984, between that day and the spring of 1988. Since 1988, thanks to one of my sisters, who brought us all together that Thanksgiving, we have remained consistently more or less on speaking terms.
The point of that little bit of history is that, throughout all that time I found solace in art and literature, both enjoying that of other people and creating my own.
That is also the reason why I have always been uncomfortable with people touching my hair or the back of my head. My sisters are the same way, for the same reason, although they were not as abused as I was, being the “smart, evil one,” and all. Once, though, my father did pull out a handful of my sister's hair. He took her on a guilt-induced shopping trip to Burnsville Center, after that.
Now fast-forward to a few years later….
I started having some health problems when I was about 18. At least that is when I first started going to the doctor, with relatively ambiguous complaints. I wound up having endometriosis, ovarian cysts, funky-assed cells growing in different parts of my body, damage to a number of organs that had been fused together by endometrial tissues, etc. That trouble was compounded by a c-section with numerous complications, pre-term labor, toxemia, and then an induced premature delivery, a mini-stroke and left-leg paralysis during labor, a massive hemorrhage, etc., when Morgan was born, a botched hernia repair, DVT, chemotherapy to bring on artificial menopause, many surgeries, etc., to finally be mostly cured in April, 2001, and “completely” cured in February, 2002.
As I felt worse and worse, physically speaking, I became more and more depressed as well, and more and more fearful. I spent almost all of 1999-2002 without leaving the house, except to go to the doctor. At the beginning of that time, I was working, and I would just go to work and the doctor. After a while, I was so sick, and in and out of the hospital so frequently that I was on disability, and rarely left the house. After the botched hernia repair, when I couldn’t walk, I stopped even going upstairs to bed, preferring to sleep on the couch, which was easier than crawling upstairs.
My “boyfriend” stayed with me. Partially because I was sick, I am sure, to his credit. But that was a pretty toxic relationship. We brought out the worse in each other. We weren’t physically intimate for the last four of the six years we were together, because of the pain I was in, but, even more, because we didn’t like each other anymore. I broke up with him, but he wouldn’t move out. We were renting my father’s house, so I thought that illogical, but, nonetheless, as I grew better and more confident, I decided that I would move.
Along the way to feeling better and becoming more self-assured, I re-read a book of poetry that I had bought the winter after I left home in high school. That was one of those books I bought because I liked the title: My Song For Him Who Never Sang For Me.
On that day, at the end of 2001, I decided that I needed to do what was suggested in one of her poems ~ I needed to change my life, and, to do so, I needed to change my mind. So, that’s what I did. But, it really isn’t always easy. Back then, I did what I had to do to get my life together again physically, emotionally, and otherwise, culminating in my moving back to California and going back to MIIS for my second Master’s degree. Rebuilding myself psychologically has taken a bit longer. I didn’t have a basis for comparison and didn’t know how to do so many things, not having had any positive examples until the age of 17, after I got out of foster care, and lived with my then-boyfriend's family, in Stoughton, Wisoncsin. They were wonderful people. The best "parents" I ever had. I've only having had a fewsuitable role models or examples since then.
I do falter at times, feeling good really isn’t a one-time accomplishment. Like the saying says, you can’t live your life in one day. I was recently asked if I really dislike myself. I told that person that I do. That wasn’t right. I don’t dislike myself. Not really. I know what’s inside of me. And I know I am a good, kind, caring, and compassionate person. But it is hard to undo years and years of abuse, neglect, and criticism. I sometimes lack a little bit of confidence. But, ultimately, not only does my father not know enough to support his claim that I am evil, he doesn’t even know me, at all. He only knows the image of me that he has created in his own mind. And, just because he says something, even to me; just because he asserts that I am a bad person, does not make it so, does not make his proclamations any more true. I know that I am not what he says that I am, and so, I choose to live a life that is true to my personal values and how I think people deserve to be treated in life........
Mostly, I strive to act with kindness and respect in all things and to all people. I don’t always do it, but I try.
I don’t ever completely forget that poem, though.
There are a few very important people in my life. They are very precious to me, and I don’t want to miss a thing I can experience with each and every one of them. My relationship with each of them is different from my relationship with any other. But the feelings feel for any one of them, or the time that I share with any one of them, are not superior to those particular to any other. They're different, that's all. I treasure the time they have to share with me, and I am sincerely thankful.
posted by Nana @ 14:40
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