Archive for November 12th, 2015

Mommy issues – or, who doesn’t have ‘em?

I’m not going to kill myself, because if I did, that would mean hate and apathy win and I’ve never been a gracious loser.

I nearly had a complete mental breakdown a couple of years back when I realized just how much trauma I’d been carrying around without realizing.

Somehow, I didn’t realize it until something  I said to the therapist triggered in my own ears and I realized I was sounding completely insane.

“It was a punishment. I deserved it.”

But I didn’t.

I didn’t deserve to be punished for who I was. I didn’t deserve to be whipped with a bamboo cane until I had to go to school with knee high socks in the tropical summer heat because I had bruises all over my legs. I didn’t deserve to be told that the reason I was being ripped away from the only world I knew was because I was disobedient. I didn’t deserve to be told over and over that I wasn’t the ideal child, that I should remake myself so I was more like my sweeter, demure, obedient cousin. I didn’t deserve to be dragged out of the car and left behind on a deserted road in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t deserve to have my mother feign death on me. I didn’t deserve to have my grandmother tell me that she’d never forgive me if I made my mother sick from anger and die (and that I was doing it just by existing as me). I didn’t deserve to be slapped in the face as a two year old just for fretting. I didn’t deserve to be told that the reason I’d been taken out of the good school and put in a terrible one for rejects was because I didn’t have good enough grades when the truth was that we couldn’t afford it anymore. I didn’t deserve to be told that if I got less than a B in any course in college I would get yanked out and brought back to China when I explicitly said that I’d throw myself off a building if I had to stay in China for college. I didn’t deserve to be told not to smile because it made my cheeks puff up more and therefore looked fatter. I didn’t deserve to be told not to laugh because I didn’t laugh in a suitable fashion.

I didn’t deserve lots of things, but I’ve been taught over and over that I did. That I do deserve it when people disappoint and hurt me. That being hurt means I was being entitled, that nothing is guaranteed and nothing on this earth is truly yours.

Be grateful that you aren’t suffering more. Be grateful that we’re just negligent and slightly emotionally abusive rather than physically abusive drunks who try to sell your virginity. Be grateful for the things you do have and don’t mention what you don’t.

Lately the refrain is that I should just get over things. Get over my aversion to people. Get over my inability to be flexible. Get over my anxiety. Get over the hyper-sensitivity that makes me ill when people are upset around me. Get over my sadness. Get over all of the broken things in my life.

Thene said something, and I realized that the reason I’m like a radar endlessly trying to pick up unhappy vibes is because I had no security as a child.

My mother was capricious in how she doled out punishments. I likened her to a volcano when I was eight, citing the fact that she would just blow up out of nowhere and something that was perfectly all right two days ago would suddenly be the reason for an all out screaming scold. She would come home, vibing strangely, and then deliberately go and open my room door so she could have a good excuse to scream at me. Other days, she’d just put up with my room and its messiness.

My father is shit at communicating. He simply doesn’t convey disapproval or upset. He just gets quieter and quieter and then does things like suddenly storming into your room and smashing the CD player that he bought for you into pieces because the fact that your room is a perpetual mess must mean that you don’t care about your things and he’s therefore justified in breaking them right in front of you. This when you always thought that your mom was the crazy one about tidiness.

So essentially they broke me. And now they complain that I’m broken, that I can’t help but be on edge, that I can’t help but always be looking for danger, always knowing that I’m not enough, always aware that I could be sacrificed upon the altar of their lives without a second thought.

So maybe I don’t have avoidant personality disorder. Yes, Thene and I totally had a looong “discussion” about this. Maybe I don’t have it, but if I did… If I did, it would likely be because of my parents.

Hypersensitivity to rejection/criticism
Self-imposed social isolation
Extreme shyness or anxiety in social situations, though the person feels a strong desire for close relationships
Avoids physical contact because it has been associated with an unpleasant or painful stimulus
Feelings of inadequacy
Severe low self-esteem 
Self-loathing 
Mistrust of others
Emotional distancing related to intimacy
Highly self-conscious
Self-critical about their problems relating to others
Problems in occupational functioning
Lonely self-perception, although others may find the relationship with them meaningful
Feeling inferior to others
In some extreme cases, agoraphobia
Uses fantasy as a form of escapism to interrupt painful thoughts

Maybe I don’t have a disorder, but I do have issues. And how.

I’m not sure what to do with this.

I’m living with my parents right now because I have no other choice. Odd how being nearly bedridden half the time can fuck with your options. I don’t know how to insulate myself when being inattentive might mean that I could draw their ire on me. I don’t know how to shield when being less than completely compliant/agreeable might mean another huge eruption.

And I’ve lost almost all the buffers I’ve ever had. I can’t eat my feelings because I need to lose weight. Drowning myself in reading is harder with no income. I can’t escape home because this is where I live now. I can’t hide behind my friends because the only person I really trust is half a globe away and I’ve misplaced everyone else along the way.

I don’t know what to do. I can only remind myself that this is my life and I can’t let anyone other than myself win.

In further news of life’s not fair

Also known as “no one ever asks me what I want”.

I was fourteen, maybe fifteen.

Sophia was my best friend. She was pretty, popular, slender (but with tits), and she liked me. She was also just this side of worldly and cynical without being mean about it. At least not ever overtly that I can remember. She treated me a bit like a younger sister, perhaps a bit like a pet, and that was all okay because I adored her. Not the least because I’d never gotten along with other girls. I didn’t really understand them and they didn’t like me.

I was heartbroken when I was pulled out of Shanghai American School, in part because of her. She was my only friend and I’d lost her to time and space and money and all those realities.

I had another best friend, Phil, but he was a guy and there were some things that he didn’t get. Sorry, Phil. But I wasn’t about to talk to you about period pains and accidentally getting blood on my white pants or being heckled because the maxi pad I was using was visible through the too-tight/too-white/too-something pants.

So when SAS had a fair, I pleaded with my mom to let me go. The school was about an hour’s drive away from my home and I’d have to take a taxi there and I had to plead with my mom to pick me up after, but it was completely worth it to see my friends again.

When I arrived, Sophia wasn’t there yet, but Phil was. We hung out, rough-housed, talked smack, got physically violent — and ended up with me chasing him around trying to dump ice water on him.

Cue Sophia’s arrival. And she was livid. Absolutely livid. She was upset with Phil and she was furious at me for “flirting”.

The day ended poorly, with Sophia running off in anger the moment she arrived and her boyfriend Phil chasing after her to make things right and my standing alone, completely bewildered at what had just happened and sick to my stomach.

I never wanted Phil. I had never even thought of wanting Phil. I would never have come between Sophia and Phil for the world.

But it didn’t matter what I wanted. I lost two friendships that day, but I never factored into any of it.

Just as it doesn’t matter now what I want.

If someone had asked me; if someone had cared; I would have told them this:

  • I’m not a home-wrecker. I don’t wreck homes. It’s not in my nature and it’s not what I do.
  • I’m not interested. I’m also not interested in a relationship right now completely asides from not being interested in this friend that way. I need friends way more than I need another romantic experience. The latter which I need like I need a knife to the gut.
  • I don’t go for married men.
  • I don’t go for men who are nearly twenty years older than I am. I don’t even read May-December romances and I read freaking alien sex.
  • I don’t go for men who are literally halfway across the globe from me. Believe me, if I’m putting forth everything necessary to sustain a relationship, I better be getting real, physical cock out of the deal.
  • I’m almost weirdly affectionate to people I like. It doesn’t mean I want to fuck the person in question.
  • I have no TMI filter. This means that it often seems like I’m trying to create emotional intimacy when I’m not. Not in the romantic fashion anyway.

But it doesn’t matter.

And this is why I actually really loathe reading best-friends-to-lovers books and why I’ll hate them even more now. It doesn’t matter if there is or isn’t the possibility of sexy love there – the chances of a male-female friendship surviving a marriage is almost nil. So why not just go for it? It doesn’t make any sense to delay. Might as well go out with an explosion rather than wondering what if.

And no. That was not an admission of interest. That was a “well, you’re probably going to be fucked anyway if you’re het and you have a friend of the opposite gender so you might as well enjoy being fucked before you’re reamed up the ass”.

Cue Fifty Shades of Roza, she of “you can’t talk to this chick and ask her how her day is going and how she’s feeling because that’s emotional intimacy that should be reserved only for the girlfriend” beliefs.

And cue another blog post about friendships, love, what you would or wouldn’t do for those you love and how unfair and unsustainable our current paradigm of marriage is, but that’s all for another day.

Farewell, Wolfe, it was nice knowing you and I wish you nothing but the best. You’re a good man, and don’t let anyone tell you different.