I am not normal. George Floyd called for his mother when he thought he was dying, and I don’t get it. I guess I never will. To be fair, normal people don’t get me either.
If I ever believed in my parents, I can’t remember it. My mother couldn’t protect herself from my father’s verbal/physical/sexual abuse, much less my sister or myself. I’ve come to realize there is a disconnect in my psyche between “authority” and “safety.” Anyone who tries to control me is immediately relegated to my mental trash can. Since I was old enough to reason, the only higher power I’ve placed stock in was my teddy bear (warm, soft, good to cry into).
I haven’t believed in god since my early teens. What kind of higher power would permit such awful things to happen in front of an innocent child? TO an innocent child? If such a deity exists, I feel it’s my duty to spit in their smiling, beatific face when I arrive at Saint Peter’s gates. If there is a god, he is bad, and he should FEEL bad. I’d happily spend eternity burning in hellfire, as long as I have the opportunity to make my point first.
I’m thirty-five years old. To date, I’ve had three kidney stones, I was involved in a horrific sledding accident, I’ve recovered from invasive abdominal surgery with insufficient pain medication. On more than one occasion, I have been in so much physical pain, I expected it to kill me. In all cases, I would have preferred death to living with such pain (temporary though it proved to be, the circumstances at the time were literally intractable). I’ve called for help in such situations, I’ve pleaded and begged for it, but never have I EVER called out for anyone specifically when I was scared for my life. Not god, not my mother or father or husband. The only person I’ve ever been able to rely upon is myself.
This is not a good thing. At the end of the day, I’m nothing if not unreliable.
For one of my kidney stones and the aforementioned abdominal surgery, a number of doctors/nurses were in the room, along with my husband. I didn’t specifically call for any of them. I didn’t pray to god or ask for my mother, because neither of those entities ever brought me succor. I only wanted the pain to stop. If death was the only way to accomplish that, I was onboard.
I should probably have a therapist, but I don’t. The only therapy session I’ve ever attended was mandated by the court during my parents’ divorce in the late nineties. I was thirteen-ish. I don’t recall the guy accomplishing much. It was imperative that I seem normal, that the truth NOT be spoken. I must have pulled it off. I was never taken from my home or put into foster care, even though (factually/retrospectively) I should have been.
Under my roof, I was treated like the stereotypical redheaded stepchild. In sum, nothing about me was appreciated, by any parties involved. I was deemed self-absorbed, retreating, aloof. Book-smart rather than street-smart, offensively rational. I inherited a wicked combination of my mother’s staggering intellect and my father’s cold ruthlessness. On a typical day, after my chores were done (washing dishes, mowing the lawn [because my fragile mother and sister couldn’t possibly handle such tasks]), you’d find my teenaged self buried soul-deep in a romantic fiction novel. I was never happier. In my younger days, Trixie Belden was a staple. I used to dream I’d find a Jim Frayne or Henry Huggins of my own. Later, stories by Nora Roberts and Candace Camp became lifelines. My real life sucked ass. Who wouldn’t want to escape that, by any means necessary?
At school, I graduated valedictorian of my high school class. I was saxophone section leader for 2 years. As some (maybe many) abused children do, I turned to my educators for the validation and encouragement I failed to receive at home. I never precisely fit in with my classmates, MANY social missteps were made, but my intellect was respected (along with my musicality). English and band classes were my escapes. In music, I found the closest thing to belonging that was possible for a child of my weirdnesses. If not for band, I don’t doubt I’d have killed myself long ago.
I didn’t get married until my late twenties. One of the reasons I was so eager to get married was to change my last name, thus severing ties with my worthless forebears. I doubt I’ll ever overcome the internalized shame about where I came from, from whom I came. Surnames like Cable, Edwards, Cory, Workman, Kaiser, and Prescott impacted me beneficially. My own surname only brought shame and bad memories to the forefront.
On my hard drive, I have a copy of the “emancipation” paperwork that was filed on my behalf in a court of law when I achieved age 21 (the terms of which were entirely unknown to me until a decade-plus after the fact). My younger sister’s incredibly expensive private college education was fully provided for. I was to be kept on my abuser’s health insurance, the use of which was never explained to me. Any healthcare expenses I incurred during my college days were paid out of my own pocket, to avoid causing my abuser any semblance of inconvenience (financial or otherwise). Money is not a problem for me anymore. But to this day, I am afraid to seek medical treatment, I’m terrified about the possibility of medical billing confusion/errors. Whether or not it’s a manner of cost, the mental barriers preventing me from tackling such problems head-on seem insurmountable.
Who am I now? It’s hard to say. I can boil myself down into a few nouns/adjectives, none of which even begins to describe the full picture. A capable colleague, a people-pleaser, a devoted reader and unpublished writer, a fearful misophone, self-sabotager extraordinaire. I’m selfish, mired in the past, a mediocre wife, an alcoholic who is ultimately unmotivated to embrace the actions needed to make positive changes in my life. I don’t wear makeup, I don’t blow-dry or straighten my hair, because fuck you. I shouldn’t need to look a certain way to do what I do.
At the end of the day, I’m just Rachel. And this is (one chapter of) my story.
