It’s ironic and sad that I can remember when I used to have an innocent and fantastical perspective about life, despite how very long ago that was for me. It has systematically been eroded over the course of my 43 years.
The very first “scary” incident I remember happening was when my brother fell over the side of the road that my parents were repairing in Moab, Utah. It led up to “The Mesa” (what we called our homestead). At the time, I thought it was this massive chasm of doom that swallowed him up, when in reality (as I learned much later) it was not that far down (think 12 feet-ish?), he was wearing very puffy clothing – as it was fairly chilly – and landed in bushes that broke his fall. He came away from it without any significant injuries. I didn’t really understand the depth of what could have happened and the scariness of it wore off pretty easily. I was about 3-4 years old at the time. The remainder of my days, before and after, in Utah were filled with adventure and I have random memories of that time.
Fast forward to Kent, Washington. Mighty Mouse was my hero, I was proud of and loved my father, I ran away from school in Kindergarten due to embarrassment and again from home with a neighbor girl to find adventure and fun, fell out of a 2 story treehouse and gained my fear of heights, experienced chicken-pox, and repressed the memory of my father beating the shit out of our wolf-hybrid Ch’Komi. Good times were had in the years I lived there.
I was about 7 years old when we packed up two large Uhaul’s with all our stuff, Ch’Komi and our two cats (Jack & Jill), and traveled to the place we’d call home in a small town in Arkansas. 15 acres of land, a brick house for the grandparents, and a modular home up the hill for our little family. It was so new a different, not without it’s own adventures and charm. However, the slow erosion of my wide-eyed and ingenuous outlook on life began. As time passed, my father changed. At first, he would become irritable, then prone to outbursts of anger, and finally physically, verbally, and emotionally abusive… to the point that I lived in fear of my life and livelihood. His ideas of “funny” traumatized me – like trapping me inside a sleeping bag, kicking, screaming, crying, and begging to bed let out. That gained me claustrophobia.
Despite my best efforts to escape reality (pouring myself into Piers Anthony’s Xanth novels, fantasizing about magic and adventure), my innocence and wonder were systematically abused out of me. My maternal grandfather passed away (his wife, my grandmother, 3 years later), Ch’Komi grew old and had to be put to sleep, and many, many incidents of abuse riddled my and my brother’s lives until we both became old enough to move out.
These years and the ones that followed, the prevalent abuse from my father, neglect from my mother, ignorance (or decisive blindness?!) from the rest of the family, and the myriad of events that caused other kinds of trauma… stole away my innocence and happiness. While I feel like my perspective has been shaped by all of this, I also know that things could have been so much better OR worse. I still believe in the good of most people, but that humanity in general really sucks. I am patient, understanding, and kind – because these qualities were withheld from me. I have a deep and permeating hatred for my father, but also understand that he, too, was abused and grew into the exact opposite of what I became – despite similar upbringing. I believe wholeheartedly that most people can change, and choose to stay mired in their bullshit or to grow beyond their shortcomings and faults.
As for myself… I’ve lost and missed out on so much that hope is now a four-letter curse-word. Each significant “romantic” relationship I’ve experienced has caused trauma that I have to try and repair on my own. My body has slowly degraded over the last decade, and my peace of mind with it. I am a shell of who I used to be, no matter how hard I’ve fought against losing myself. I truly believe that I am a good egg at the end of the day, but… existing the way I do is fucking hard and seems impossible on the worst of days.
At this point in my life, I’m not sure that I have much to look forward to. It’s fucking bleak, honestly. I have no designs towards any sort of “retirement” – I can’t work any more anyway, so that’s right out the window. I survive one day at a time, rather than thrive and live my best life. I’m in constant physical pain that drugs don’t do shit for and I’m exhausted. All I really want is for this Anhedonia to go away so I can feel literally anything positive again. I want my “regular” depression back, so I can do things I used to enjoy and actually enjoy them. I want allt he pain to go away so I can exercise, lsoe weight, and go on adventures again. Romantic shows/movies make me depressed. I want to feel wanted, loved, and cherished… to the extent that I used to be capable of giving, to the extent that these things I watch go to. I don’t need fantasy levels of love, just something real and unencumbered. And I want these things with The Boyfriend.
So yeah… many significant life events and the passage of time have changed my perspective on life in a plethora of ways… some good, some bad.
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