I just replied to a forum post. In doing so I managed to reminisce myself ‘raw’ again, heh. As I noted there, my youngest brother played a huge role in my well-being, however inadvertently. It’s a bittersweet realization. I really loved spending time with him as a child. The games, the pretend adventures, even the scrapes and falls. They were some of my fondest memories (most documented by AWFUL photographs).

So why are they bittersweet? Well, they made me realize that despite my failed attempts at stifling my maternal instincts, they remain alive and kicking. I’ve always told friends and acquaintances that children ‘scare’ me. And they do … but not because I was sexually molested as a child. Because of that molestation and abuse I was rendered infertile. Children frighten me because they are an ‘unknown’ to me.

I don’t like to be around them for too long. Strangely they seem drawn to me. My friends joke that children are like cats. If they sense you’re wary of them they’ll cling to you. They can sense deep down that you do in fact like them. Obviously I’m in denial. I do like children … somewhat. They break down that façade and before I know it I’m making up games and arts and crafts for them. They like my stories. They like my healthy snacks. They like to be around me, even though I’m stern with them if they misbehave. Admittedly, I like them too … but I die a little inside when they leave. Because I feel as though I’m being cheated. Nothing hurts like having an unsuspecting friend gush, "You'd make a great mom!" Or an idiot relative asking for the umpteenth time "Why don't you have a kid yet?"

I had my little brother before to quell these urges, the ‘mama-cooties’. He’s a young man now. He no longer needs his big sister to scour the mall with him for the newest video games. He plays sports with his high school friends now. I’m still his best movie buddy though, so I’ll take whatever I can get.

I feel the tears coming on, so I’ll veer towards my usual defense mechanism. Humor. I love when toddlers wobble towards me, even upon our first meeting, and grasp at my legs for dear life. Or hold out their little arms in that universal demand to be picked up. I love the way they smell too. Dreft, cookies/fruit snacks, and dirt. I wouldn’t mind being exposed to that potpourri more often. I love that children are prone to spontaneous bouts of affection (or maybe not so spontaneous ... if you're holding candy).

On nights like this, with thoughts in my head such as these, I sometimes wish I’d never been born. If I’d never been born, I wouldn’t have grown into a child. If I weren’t a child, I wouldn’t have been abused. I wouldn’t seethe with this hatred and longing either. More importantly, I never would have lost myself.

This sudden bout of ‘mama-cooties’ makes me wonder if I weren’t a rabbit in some past life.

Insomnia calls!

I thought I would begin a journal in an attempt to ... I don't know ... gauge(?) and chronicle the issues of which I have to deal.

I think the brunt of my frustrations arise from my family situation. I show them respect, I show them consideration, and I show them sympathy. I get none of this in turn. Absolutely zilch. Its very frustrating to hold another person in high regard and in turn have them treat you as if you mean absolutely nothing. I take a lot of criticism from my mother. I suppose one might ask, "And? Don't we all?" Of course we do. I think it is their way of further honing you into the best person you can be. However, my mother knows nothing of kindness nor subtlety. She, and my irritating sister, mock me for being a 'geek'. My mother also blames my love of learning new things and having an excess of hobbies as why we can't 'relate'. I have an expansive vocabulary and admittedly I sometimes forget the simpler word to use. That's actually a running joke amid my circle of friends. We are the goof troop of semantics. She hates my sense of humor, which she used to hurt me during another of our idiotic arguments. She can be hateful, say vile things, and even purposely try to hurt one's feelings. However my off-color jokes and blunt observations are just intolerable. Out of the four children she has 'raised', I am the only one, and the oldest of the four, to never curse before her. I show her respect at all times. In turn, she seems to take a sick sort of glee in being malicious. I'll be honest, I'm sick of the bi-polar 'excuse'. Yes, you're bi-polar. That doesn't give you free reign to be a horrible person to others.

I've come to feel as though she simply hates my personality. She can only offer snide input. If I say my humor is what some consider a comedic sort of snark, she goes on a rant as to how 'snark' must just be so beyond her comprehension. It must be because I'm so 'SMART' that it goes right over her head. I don't think I've ever felt so bad because I enjoy learning more. I find myself constantly changing how I would say something, or simply not speaking around her at all, just so another argument doesn't ensue. Do I really have to forfeit my self-worth just to be acknowledged by this woman? Do I really have to change who I am, just so my mother will treat me as if she does love me?

For nearly all of my young life I felt I couldn't trust my mother with my feelings. The most frightening realization of these past two years is that my fear then was likely warranted. I can't trust her with my softer side. Now that I finally attempt to show emotion, I'm accused of being overly-sensitive. Why can't she see that those horrible years of abuse changed me? I've gone from barely displaying any emotion, other than a facade of content happiness, to finally being privy to a bank of emotions and perceptions that I'd never before let myself feel? If I am sad, I can now cry without feeling as if I'm weak. If I am lonely, I try to seek out company. If something hurts my feelings, I'm no longer worried that admitting this makes me seem thin-skinned.

I think its rather sad that I'm more comfortable with online anonymity, showcasing my pain and need to the faceless masses, rather than attempt to connect to a woman who birthed me. Why is it less of a heart-rending feat to love a favorite book, a stray animal, an old cable-knit sweater, or a song than to try and show my love to my mother?

I discussed a novel little quote I ran across with a friend:

"A mother is god in the eyes of a child."

Without missing a beat this man, who knows me so well, quipped:

"Well, that's one way of explaining why you're an atheist."

It was funny ... for a while. Sometimes the truth stings a bit.

Honestly, I'm tired of finding myself stressed over this relationship. I think its time to part from my family and live a life very far away. I don't fit in here ... and I'll be damned if I change...

[ Continued ]