I used to have a blog. I kind of miss it but had to shut it down because of the evil-ugly sisters.
Today is my son’s birthday and in the mailbox this morning was a brightly red coloured envelope with familiar writing on it. I turned it over interested to see who this letter was “from”.
It’s been eight odd months since I have had anything to do with my family despite the Postman Pat communication they’ve been trying to have with my kids. I don’t let my kids have the letters and anything they send, they don’t get.
This sounds harsh but really these people should have been out of my kids lives before they were both born.
I am the person I am today because of my parents. I am a monster. I am the person that doesn’t fit in, the person that can’t sleep without nightmares, the person that hurts so much on the inside that then feels she has to hurt on the outside. That girl that stands on the side of a road hoping a car might jump the curb and take her out. I am that intense girl with the brown eyes that unsettles you and makes your eyes dart around looking for an exit. I am that girl that is fun in extremely small doses.
I am that broken and very poorly glued together ornament that sits on a mantel alone and gathering dust.
Biologically I have a mother and a father. In the way having parents matters though, I don’t. I am so starved for a parent to love me that I once advertised for a parent. That brought some interesting characters to the surface!
The thing that hurt most about growing up wasn’t the physical, sexual and verbal assault. It wasn’t the prison-like solitude where I wasn’t allowed to leave the house. It also wasn’t the years of neglect and not knowing that I had an eating disorder. It’s that I was never good enough to protect. I was never smart enough. Pretty enough. Kind enough. Not someone you that was deserving of any closeness. I just wasn’t enough. An idea I can’t seem to let go of.
So, as I read the back on this envelope that has my mother’s details (she’ll often send it from my brother in the hope of a response) I think to myself, what makes them feel entitled enough to be in my precious children’s lives. Nothing. Fucking nothing.