Danielle’s in my head this morning, nagging, pestering, and generally reminding me that I do not matter. Not to her or the world. For years I talked to myself in a negative voice without even realizing there was such a thing as an inner voice, then I became aware of it and all the heartbreaking things it said to me. They are not my words or thoughts, not truly. The negative chatter which springs up inside my head is Danielle (my mom). When I started to listen, really listen to my self-talk, I realized it sounded familiar. The bad stuff at least. They were words and phrases Danielle said to me on a daily basis. She is my brutal and cruel negative voice. A phantom of verbal agony she put me through as a child, and now I do it to myself just like she trained me to do back when I was a child. Because as a child I took everything she said to heart, as pure untouchable truth. The result is days like this.
I wake-up and start my day grumpy--upset--emotionally pained because of a dream or a thought, and boom! She’s there. Danielle and her bullshit rattling around in my head. She’ll be there all day, pestering me. Yelling to be heard and informing me how I’m less than in every way a person can be. Hell, she never treated me as a person. I was a slave to her and her family.
This used to be my life every single day. No breaks, only Danielle and her brutal slings. Her voice the loudest in my head, screaming and raging about, dragging me down to the lowest point. Now it’s about every two or three days. An improvement, but mornings like this I know I’m in for a struggle. Today will be long and exhausting. Each project or ounce of work I do she’ll be there with her cirtizing notes, not that any of them make logical sense. They are meant to wound and they do just that.
Have you ever felt left-out?
Not a little bit left-out, like everyone got chocolate ice cream and you ended up with strawberry. More like Cinderella getting ready for the ball all day and still having to stay home, left-out. My life, right there, Cinderella. Not that I feel comfortable comparing myself to a princess or a fairy-tale. In my mind I’m not good enough to be Cinderella, a sad but true reality of how I think, but I imagine the hurt is the same.
Can you imagine, as a child, watching a parent do something. Say going hunting, fishing, or going out for a girl’s night with a bunch of friends. Each time your there, enthralled as they ready themselves for this event. Your little body bursting with excitement, because they tell you each time that one day you will be old enough to go with them. As a child you want nothing more than to be with your mom or dad. To do the things they do, and grow into an adult so you can go out and take part in all those fun things adults do without us children. You want to matter.
Danielle always promised I would go out with her when I was old enough. She would talk about epic girl’s night outings, how much fun they had. Hanging out in a restaurant or bar, doing slightly naughty things and being among a dozen friends. Dressing up and looking your best for no one but yourself. Oh, man! I wanted to go out with her and her friends (most of which I knew as well as she did). When I was a child she gave me the standard “when you’re an adult,” but once I reached my teens it became a countdown. She would remind me, “You’re 19, just a few more years!”
Talk about suspense building!
“20 years old, next year you’ll be coming with me around this time.”
Yes! Just what I wanted. To be a part of the girls. . . The big kids.
It got to a point where she was telling me all the plans she had for my 21 birthday. About going bar hopping late into the morning, and grabbing crappy breakfast from a local diner. How we would go with all these laddies and have a huge night of fun. I would be special--initiated into adult-hood!
That’s not how my birthday ended up. It’s not how any of those moments ended up. There was no tagging along for me. . . ever. Nope, I was stuck at the kid’s table and the wait of disappointment forbade me from progressing to “cool kid” status. Yes, by my own mother.
A few months before I turned 21, a friend of Danielle’s daughter turned 21. Danielle got off a long day of work. Dropped my brother and sister off at their father’s, came home and got ready, and went to meet her friends and the birthday girl two towns over at midnight. She wanted to be there when the girl took her first legal drink. Oh, man. I couldn’t wait for that to be me! So special!!! Needless to say, I was ready to turn 21. Not because I was looking forward to getting trashed or having a wild night. I wanted to be special--I wanted to feel special--I wanted Danielle to include me. It’s all I wanted for my birthday. In truth, it’s all I ever wanted from her.
As the day approached (which I believe was a Thursday or Friday), it was one disappointment after another. My friends had all made plans without me, or picked-up shifts at work. Danielle didn’t talk about taking me out much, but she promised we would still go out because it was a big night. I wasn’t too upset, I really thought they were all trying to surprise me. They knew how much this meant, and I made all their 21s special. (I was one of the youngest in the group).
The day came, and I worked a 12 hour shift as a dishwasher. I figured why not make some money in the morning, the fun was going to happen at night. I got off at 5pm and called my friends (the ones I knew weren’t working). They were all busy even though I told them, and they knew it was my birthday. None of them wanted to go out or they were already out with other people. Okay, friends were a bust. Whatever. Danielle, my mom--the woman who birthed me--had to have something awesome going on for the night.
I called her to see what the plan was for the evening. She replied, “I’m going out to dinner with so-and-so, then I picked up a shift at Denny’s (where she worked when she wanted a little extra cash. I believe she did it because she couldn’t stand to be around me or the empty house when my brother and sister weren’t there.)”
There it was. Me, ready and dressed, brimming with excitement for my big day. . . The moment where I was going to the ball, only to find out I wasn’t. It was as if I didn’t matter, no one cared it was my 21st birthday. I was to be included not feel left-out.
What I did do that night was treat myself to Wendy’s and then headed over to the liquor store. I bought a bottle of rum because I could, and when the old men who run the place checked my I.D. they asked what my big birthday plans were. I told them there was nothing planned. I was going home to drink alone and eat my chicken sandwich.
“What, no cake even?”
“Nope, everyone is busy. That’s life,” I responded with. Giving a shrug and trying to push down the hurt. It’s what I do, it’s what I’ve always done to survive my life. Mininuzim. Make it seem not all that bad, and move on.
I don’t recommend doing that. It’s internally destructive.
The 50+’s at the liquor store felt so sorry for me they sang “Happy Birthday” and threw in a free mini. That was my 21st birthday. My big day to hang out with the cool kids, something that built in excitement since I was a child. I went home, ate, and cried myself to sleep alone in an empty house. I didn’t even touch the stuff I bought at the liquor store. I didn’t want to drink, and honestly I’ve never liked drinking. It wasn’t about going to a bar or taking my first legal drink. It was about being included, feeling special, accepted. . . loved. Even if only for one day.
Danielle tried to lessen the blow when she got home in the morning, telling me we would go out one day soon with all the girls. It was more cruel than comforting because I’m still waiting for that day. It has never happened. Sure, I’ve watched her continue to run off and celebrate her friend’s kids birthdays. Important birthdays, not so important birthdays. Even complete strangers she met for one year while working at a local college. She didn’t hesitate to run off and celebrate with them, and I was never included in those celebrations either. I was of age, but I wasn’t invited to any of them. No tagging along for me.
The blows didn’t stop there. When my little brother turned 21 I was excited because we were all supposed to go out. The big people crowd! Hey, I might not be the birthday girl, but at least I was going out with people. We had made plans, everything was set and work never went so fast. The second I got off at 4pm I called my brother for a meeting point. No answer. . . I called Danielle, no answer. . . I called the family friend that had driven over an hour to come for the big day, no answer. . . I called Danielle again and this time she picked up, a lot of noise came through the line. My heart was already filling with disappointment. When I asked her where we were meeting up, and what the plan was, she said.
“Oh, we already left. Been at the casino for over an hour.”
“Okay, which one?” (most of them are an hour away from where we lived, but I was willing to drive.)
“Oh, don’t bother coming out. I don’t think we are going to be here much longer and I’m not sure where we are going to end up. Chet’s the leader today. Whatever he wants to do.”
Don’t bother. . . you’re not important. . . you don’t matter. . . you are not special. . . you’re not apart of this family.
That’s what those words meant. Don’t bother. . . because you’re not worth it. Let down again--not even let down, more like thrown down, skidded across the assfault, and crashed into a dumpster. It’s close enough to how I felt, how I continue to feel on days like this. Mornings when I wake up from a dream reminding me in vivid detail of how little I meant to the most important person in my life. How worthless I was to someone I saw as a savoir. . . my mom.
These are only a few instances where Danielle played me, built me up and let me fall. I have a library of more, and I have to live with all those memories--their emotions--and the echo of her phantom voice talking lies to bring my self-worth down.
Most days I’m brave, and I can manage. Today. . . I feel the devastation.
~Jax~
#LonelyChild #CruelMom #Abuse #Devastation #MakeItStop
