Someone once told me that the cruelest thing you can do to another human being is to label their suspicions as false when you know them to be true.
It would be impossible to count the instances where my questioning led to the same responses: You’re crazy. You made that up. Stop trying to manufacture chaos. It’s in your head. I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Something inside of me shattered each time these sentiments were hurled at me. My self-esteem, confidence, and sense of self were deeply compromised- crushing to my spirit. The continued touching of me left me confused, unwanted contact in place of connection- resulting in lifelong emotional deprivation, self-doubt, fear, disordered sleeping, disordered eating, and trust issues that defy articulation.
When I threatened to tell on her, she laughed- boasting how nobody would believe me. She made sure of it.
Since I’m Not Gay, I Couldn’t Have Done That
She spent a fair amount of talking to me about friends of hers who were or seemed gay or butchy, and how repulsive it felt to her, while simultaneously feeling generous that she was friends with them. Like always trying to convince me she wasn’t gay—because in that logic, if she wasn’t gay, she couldn’t possibly have done what she did repeatedly. But being gay does not make someone a predator.
She dedicated her life to making me feel crazy and afraid, while simultaneously offering intermittent reinforcement as my heroine—the only person who could understand or protect me. She made it clear that she would be in charge of my relief and my punishment. Like any child looking to assign reasons to that which they cannot control, I blamed myself and spent my life trying to get worthy or at least pretend to.
Identity Theft
My personhood was snatched–erased. I could not count on myself to know what I felt or wanted, what I needed, and what was true. Whether it was my favorite color, or if I was hungry, tired, or cold, these things were either criticized or treated as debatable.
I lost touch with my ability and confidence to know what was true, important, and real.
The Fast Track to Addiction
It makes sense to me now why I started so early using alcohol, food, drugs, shoplifting, sex—literally anything to alter my brain chemistry for even a brief respite. To feel better. To feel different. To feel nothing. There was never enough. Addiction, impulsive, and compulsive behaviors. A lifetime of instability, insecurity, and unsafety at a cellular level. A systemic disregard for my well-being.
I had so many self-help books, so much therapy, 12-step programs, journaling, and any kind of exercise to try to unlock the secrets of how to just fucken be—or maybe even just how to pretend to be better than I actually am.
How Are You?
For more than forty years, the question “How are you?” has felt like a trick. I always answer “Super duper.” I would say that if I won the lottery or if I crashed my car, because legit nobody actually cared, but also—how am I? How should I know? Hold on let me check with those who have a monopoly on my truth.
As I look back, realizing that I can only remember what I remember how I remember it, I was in no way groomed for success, self-mastery, or even self-sufficiency. In fact, the opposite- I was dismantled. And then I was judged for the exact outcome that was engineered for me. Constant messaging:
“You are fundamentally different, and nobody has any interest in building a bridge to where you are.”
