A raw, personal reflection on growing up without safety or sovereignty — and learning to exist in my own body, voice, and truth.
Family in Name Only
So the way that I was handled by the people in charge of taking care of me—whom I will refer to as Family—though really just associations by coincidence of birth and genetics. As my mother’s daughter, and a sister, granddaughter, niece, cousin, whatever—I was not allowed to be dependent or expect/count on them to comfort, nourish, protect, guide, or love me. I could rely on them only for shaming and intermittent reinforcement. They could be counted on to take charge of reducing or rescuing me, but not to simply see and accept me—as I am—my own unique set of feelings, ideas, desires, preferences, and personality.
They never accepted me as one of their own, yet they also denied me the space to stand on my own. At 56, I’m still fighting to claim the sovereignty they never allowed me- Self actualization, I think it is called.
The Sound of My Voice and Scent of My Skin
Still recalling how my mother would please herself and her company by reporting, “Oh, how she loves the sound of her own voice.” — I do not love the sound of my voice, or any other thing about MY self. I never fully felt that I was real, like my very own entity. That I had a self. I often sensed that I existed only as a character in someone else’s dream—and when they woke, I would be gone. And I very much wanted them to wake up.
As a young adult—college and after—when I had my own answering machine and would hear my voice in the recording, I just… I couldn’t believe it was me. That I had a voice, that could be heard. It hit with something like disbelief. Like: I exist, but not really. I guess there’s a difference between existing and mattering.
And also—once, I found a scent which was soothing to me and felt like self-expression—a custom blend of oils which people recognize and enjoy (those who are for me). And sometimes I would sit and sniff my wrist, marvelling that I was here. Like I have a voice. And I have a scent. And sometimes I see my hands and can’t believe they belong to me.
I think this is known as disembodiment.
The Ill-Fitting Life
This disembodiment delivered me to relationships and jobs and even clothing that never fully fit.
Jobs that bummed me out. Ill-fitting clothing. Mismatched relationships. Because—like—when you don’t matter, when nobody can see or hear or feel you in a way that affirms your realness and value, you must be grateful to even have an outfit. Or any person at all willing to stand in the place of a friend or a relationship. I was always being encouraged to show gratitude in the form of pretending to want and feel what I did not. I was judged harshly for said lack of gratitude, as evidenced by my own highly punishable unique wiring and needs- and the audacity to express them.
