While victim-shaming myself and trying to figure out how to navigate the world, I was trying to figure out why people disrespect boundaries. In part, I realized disrespecting or ignoring boundaries comes from a place of privilege.
Meet My Imagined Imaginary Friend
I was embarrassed with my self-talk. Or maybe I didn’t want anyone to know that I talked to myself—least of all, my mother. Even though she hadn’t identified me as the scapegoat, I still didn’t trust her.
Clutter, Clutter Everywhere
I am always worried about how much stuff I have. Currently, I think I have too much. I get curious looks from people when I say that. Apparently, others don’t see what I see. This should not be a surprise to anyone—least of all me.
Tossing Pebbles
There has always been that oppositional defiance within me that wants to keep poking at the things no one wants to discuss. Because I know that when terrible things are going on, and no one speaks about them, it gives leeway to abusers to continue.
The Sacrificial Lamb, er, Goat
I would have understood my mother’s behavior if we were still living out on the plains, having to survive, and she threw me to the saber tooth tigers circling. That would have been an easier death too. I would never know that there was something wrong with me. Just instant…nothing.
Destroy the Scapegoat, “Save” the Family
As my family’s scapegoat, everything was my fault. I was the sacrificial lamb or goat in this case. I was someone to blame for the ills of the family. And to “protect” the family, I had to be destroyed. Clearly, that did not work.
Choices Were Made
I believe people choose to be good or bad, abusive or not. It is extremely disappointing to watch the wrong choice being made. It was certainly devastating to me.
The Dark Anger of Emotional Abuse
I still think that it would be “easier” if I had the scars to show the years of abuse I endured. If I had some external marks, it would help me to know that it wasn’t all in my head, even though I know it wasn’t.
Shouting Quietly: Writing as an Introvert
Writing. It is somehow in my DNA. Even though I ignored that part of myself for many years. Stating (and writing) that I am a writer. It is key in leaning into my future.