Reviewing an Old Journal: Rediscovering the Manipulation of My Sister and My Mother

Here’s another old post. Not the best night for this reminder but wanted to reblog anyway, since I read through the whole thing.

Sleeping Tiger

I finished my ‘to do’ list yesterday, except one thing. I wrote that I wanted to get through an entire notebook (journal) yesterday and that didn’t happen. It was the last thing I did from that list and it wasn’t until about 8:00 pm that I started.  But what I did do was to get through a section of a three subject notebook. I don’t have much doubt that’s contributing to my feelings of depression this morning also.

I didn’t find anything pertaining to the time of my father’s terminal illness. I didn’t think I would though because that particular journal dates back to 2009. It was on top of the pile though so I figured I’d start there to minimize the overwhelm.

It’s alarming to see the same basic themes running through me and my life back then as today. I struggled with authenticity just like I still do…

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Reviewing an Old Journal: Rediscovering the Manipulation of My Sister and My Mother

I finished my ‘to do’ list yesterday, except one thing. I wrote that I wanted to get through an entire notebook (journal) yesterday and that didn’t happen. It was the last thing I did from that list and it wasn’t until about 8:00 pm that I started.  But what I did do was to get through a section of a three subject notebook. I don’t have much doubt that’s contributing to my feelings of depression this morning also.

I didn’t find anything pertaining to the time of my father’s terminal illness. I didn’t think I would though because that particular journal dates back to 2009. It was on top of the pile though so I figured I’d start there to minimize the overwhelm.

It’s alarming to see the same basic themes running through me and my life back then as today. I struggled with authenticity just like I still do today. I struggled with depression, as I have since I was 18 but probably long before in reality. I struggled with communicating with my family and being treated with respect.

One particular thing that stood out was my sister’s treatment of me.

I took her dog in a couple times while she and her family went on vacation. Both times she promised to pay me for it. Both times she broke that promise. The second time I did it I was still angry about the first time. But instead of speaking up I kept silent.

I know there’s people would probably say, “It’s your sister, you should do it for free.”

Well I would disagree in our situation. Besides that, she’s the one who insisted on compensating me. She’s the one who initiated the topic of paying me. Whether it was all planned to manipulate me into taking her giant Rottweiler into our small house, I don’t know. But it was her husband who dropped off the dog with her young son. Pretty much assuring I wouldn’t bring up the subject of payment. Then when they got back, the husband picked the dog up again.

Later when I spoke to sister on the phone she told me ‘We’re going to do something for you. We just don’t know what yet.”

It breaks my heart that my sister could treat me this way. I’m also angry. I had actually forgotten about that until I read it last night. I want to go back in time so much and tell her how shitty that all was and that if she can’t come through on something, don’t fuckin’ promise it. It’s not even the not getting money that hurts and disappoints me. It’s the fact that she thinks and feels so little of me that I’m not worth much but to lie to and manipulate.

Makes me even more confident in my staying away from her and cutting her out of my life.

I’d also written some about my parents and their neglect and abuse from childhood. In fact one incident effected me so much that I wrote about it twice.

Between last night and this morning, I got into a small battle in my mind about writing about all this. And then I realized, one of the big reasons that adult children hesitate to write and sometimes never write about it is because we still want to protect them.

The other big reason we hesitate to write about what happened is because of shame.  Our own shame and the fear of being judged for what they did to us. Somewhere along the way, society has brainwashed many of us into believing that if we got abused, or hurt in any way we must have deserved it.

Last night I kept thinking about how I still want to believe my father loved me. I think he believed he loved me. But I don’t think he really knew how to love. Abuse can be confusing because I wasn’t abused continually every moment of every day. My father and I had some fun times together too.

When I was younger, I believed my mother was the good parent, the nice one, the patient one. The one who didn’t yell. (My father didn’t yell either, he bellowed.) My mother was the one who let us do things that my father didn’t. We didn’t have to walk on eggshells when he wasn’t home. She was less drama and I could be a kid for the most part.

But there was neglect too. I did have friends and spent quite a bit of time playing with them, but when I was in the house with no friends, I played alone a lot.

When I was 9, one of my small pets died because my mother hadn’t been keeping an eye on my sister who was 3.

I went to school without homework being finished when I was just in first grade. And was abused by the teacher for it.  I went without a Winter coat one year in high school. And where I’m from, a Winter coat is a necessary item. I compensated with a sweat jacket underneath a jean jacket. And then there’s the enabling of the abuse my father inflicted most of the time.

I list those things above because I do see most of them as a mom’s responsibility for the most part. But it’s really both parents who were responsible for these things. I don’t hold my father too responsible for the death of my small pet because he was at work. My mother was home. She was just downstairs, while my sister was upstairs.  The homework was an issue because my father was abusive when he “helped” me. Simply avoiding him wasn’t always possible when I was six.

In the end, while my father was dying, my mother teamed up with my sister to triangulate and manipulate me. She had me believing she validated and understood me during one particular conversation between the two of us, then threw a dig in as well as excused an incident of my brother raging at me as “just an emotional reaction.”

In my opinion I waited too long to sever ties with these people.

I’m also questioning this healing capability of journaling. I posted a video where Dan Mackler talks about it here.

I’ve journaled…a lot. Not recently, but I used to. So why am I not healed?

One reason I think is because I allowed my family to still be a part of my life for so long. I allowed them to treat me like a dumpster and a doormat and I allowed them to manipulate me. But in my defense, I really didn’t know what exactly was going on. I can’t even be sure that if I had been so aware in my 20s, 30s and even part of my 40s that I would have severed ties.

I knew something was wrong. I’ve known since at least from my early 20s that there was dysfunction in my family. I know now it was a lot more than dysfunctional. It was toxic. But each time I attempted to confront something or resolve something, I walked away feeling like it was me who was the problem. Because, if only I could let go of the past.

Even when later I would feel the anger again. Or the confusion or sadness or depression. I would at times feel so astonished and perplexed after a confrontation or an attempt at discussion because I would walk away from it feeling beat up.

Dysphoria and Shoes Dropping: A Connection

too-happy-charlie-brown
Googles definition of dys·pho·ri·a
disˈfôrēə/

noun

Psychiatry
noun: dysphoria
  1. a state of unease or generalized dissatisfaction with life.

What sucks about dysphoria is that there is no real enjoyment to life. Nothing that really gets me up and at ’em.

The times I’ve felt that way were when I was anticipating getting together with friends, going on a date or I had a job where my crush worked too.

I don’t remember getting excited all on my own or inventing my own reason to be excited from within.

In my last post I talked about wanting to create some excitement for myself by getting into the storage bin with all my old clothes that no longer fit. And it was fun to check them all out and I even felt an underlying determination that I will fit into them again. But excitement? Not really.

It’s sad. I used to think it was depression, that depression was the name of what I had. But then I started seeing a therapist again after an excruciating break up and I was told I probably have PTSD. The break up contributed, but the trauma runs a lot deeper. I grew up with an emotionally abusive father and my mother enabled it and she was emotionally apathetic and neglectful.

Now that I spend a lot of time alone and don’t have much of a social life, I’m sure that has much to do with the dysphoria. I like talking to others. I like to learn about other people. Of course I like people who listen as well and those who can help me create a balanced conversation. It doesn’t even have to be one where we agree. In fact disagreements can be fun and interesting, as long as everyone stays civil and there’s no name calling.

Thing is most of my friends are drinkers. So for the time being while I know I’d be weak and would probably “do as the Romans do,” I feel the need to stay away.

Another reason for the dysphoria, I believe, is that I’m now conditioned to believe that any excitement that I feel will be spoiled. Have you ever been in the middle of screaming with delight over some really great news or some great trip you’re planning, only to be told your dog just died or something equally devastating?

Or how about this?

You’re a little kid, sitting at the table with your family having dinner and you start laughing at something. Something really funny someone just said or maybe a funny face one of your siblings just made. Then suddenly, in the midst of your joy, your father bellows in a loud, sudden and deep voice, “SIT UP STRAIGHT AND EAT YOUR DINNER!”

You are startled. Suddenly the food in your mouth no longer tastes very good and you feel shamed. You can barely chew and the thought of helping it out with a gulp of milk (as the only choice of liquid) makes your stomach heave a little.

This happens often and your mother does nothing to put an end to it. She might say something like a long drawn out, “HuUuUUuUn!” But in reality she has no power and he doesn’t take her too seriously, because he continues this and similar behavior every time he feels the need to control any situation. There seems to be such a thing as having too much fun.

It’s become an expectation now that joy will be turned to sorrow or excitement to shame.

It’s conditioning.

I miss joy and excitement. But have I ever really truly experienced it in the first place?