Monday, November 27, 2017

Under brain floods; clings to buoy

I missed a call from theboy asking for me to get him with the trike; he was walking home. I didn't realise because I didn't have my phone on me and the last news was he'd be at an after school thing until pick up. I found out when he walked through the gate.

He was fine with it; my not getting his text and call and walked home all the same. I said sorry, that I didn't have my phone, that I would have come and got him the moment he asked if I had realised because I never wanted him to feel abandoned.

Then my under brain flooded and I had to excuse myself because fight flight kicked in, extreme distress washed over and I ended up clinging to the stand up boxing bag as if it was younger me telling him I was here and we were okay. My legs got rubbery so I held tighter like the bag was a buoy as the tears flowed as screaming into my mind were all the times my parents had abandoned me or threatened to do so.

It wasn't often but they were searing moments of childhood pain; a dagger to the heart of feeling safe, valued and loved which I never gained again until I had a family of my own.

Life is full of horror and my childhood was blessed with prosperity even as my head was in a prison of malformed flesh that drew rebuke and ridicule from parents and peers alike. 

You can have all your physical needs met yet still feel like a sick, useless fuck that should have done the world a favour and actually drowned all those times they thought I had. That's especially enhanced when you're sent into an environment where you are destined to fail then be held up as a failure by the rest when that certain failure occurs.

My child is fine; he was okay with my missing that call. But there were times when I walked home instead of taking the bus to avoid being exposed to chronic bullying from the Catholic high school kids who got the backseat because they got picked up first. But often I'd tire and go to the house of a family from our church and phoned home to ask to be picked up. My mother would come, eventually, but pissed at me for forcing her to something she didn't want to do. So I got to enjoy the passive or active hostility that came with having asked them for help when she picked me up.

That stayed with me for life; that expectation that my parents would be pissed off at me if I asked for help. They made me feel shit about money, assistance with moving furniture to student housing and even use of computer discs—I once took one from the presumed-for-family use box of discs only to have my mother shriek I was a thief and emasculate me in front of my friend. Before every term exams they threatened to no longer fund uni if I failed a single course even though they could have signed the paperwork for financial emancipation where I could have then got the exact same amount of money from Austudy—the then scheme that funded students—but without the threat of withholding it or destroying my future on whim if I dared fail a single course. How's that for fucking motivation?

The chemistry has passed, torment has eased. Writing this helped—it always does. But I hope to get to a point soon where I don't relive a horror memory that is tangentially related to what my son experiences then suffer an acute chemical reaction where I cry and have to cling to something lest I fall down with grief.

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