when i cry in front of my parents, it’s always only out of frustration. i hate crying on front of them. tears make me weak in their eyes; tears make me worthy of nothing but belittlement and further infliction of pain. but i can’t help but cry when none of my words or reasons or any of my logic can even begin to budge them, not even a little. i can’t help but cry when there is so much emotion that i am not allowed to show, merely because i am their child and a girl.
because when i am not allowed to let out my anger and frustration and desperation in any way, i don’t know what else to do but cry. i guess i’m weak.
i don’t think either of my parents ever realized i was depressed. they never knew how badly i itched to cut or to drown or to run away. when my mother told me about my brother, i told her i had been there before, too. and she told me she never really knew, but of course i’d be mature enough to handle it on my own. the truth is, i couldn’t handle it on my own. the ways i kept myself going are shameful, to say the least. i used people and developed terrible habits. i’ve always thought of myself as weak. i knew i wasn’t strong, but i hadn’t given in yet.
but yesterday, in the car, i told him about how my parents’ fighting started right after my brother was born, and how i took care of my brother and mediated fights and emotionally supported my mother. and i was kind of close to crying because thinking about all that and how my brother thinks i’m out to kill him or something, everything all at once again, is just so draining. i told him how i almost gave up once, and he tells me, “you’re strong. you’re so much stronger than you think.” i nearly cried into his neck.
no one has ever believed in me like that, not to my knowledge, at least.
when i was younger, i used to wish i’d get cancer or some terrible disease because i wanted love and attention from my parents. because i thought that if i was sick, they’d love me a little more. i thought that they’d care a little more, that maybe the urgency would make them care if i was alive or not.
i live at a seven. because on a scale of one to ten, where one is pain-free and ten is passed-out-because-it-hurts-too-fucking-much, my life is like a constant seven. there are days where i’m happy and days where i’m not, and some days when the pain escalates to an unbearable point. in the end, i realize that i’m still hurting. the pain is still there. happy moments are those moments where i forget the pain, where i pretend it’s not there and succeed for a little while.
and i’ve realized that that is why it’s so easy for my parents to hurt me. that’s why i succumb to my insecurities and the cruel stories of my imagination. that’s why i am so easily hurt. because that underlying pain is there, even when i think it’s gone. and it’s just so easy for the wall of pretense to crumble and let all that pain back out. fresh, raw, and abrasive pain.
i try to keep everything inside for as long as i can before letting anything out, especially when it’s pain and tears. i know it’s bad, but i can’t help it. whenever i don’t, someone leaves me. and i don’t think i can handle another one leaving. so i keep it all inside, hoping that i’ll be able to hide it away and pretend that i’m okay, if only to keep yet another from turning and walking away.
when i see daughters talk about their beloved fathers or watch movies with weddings with father-daughter dances, or even if it’s just when i hear about how great of a relationship someone has with their dad, i die a little on the inside because what i have with my father is so broken that sometimes we go for days without talking, because it’s just so much easier that way.
when i walk down that aisle, i’ll know he’s the right one because i won’t be worrying about whether or not i’ll trip, or how badly my expressions will turn out in the photos, or how many people are watching me. because all i’ll see is him looking at me, and all i’ll be thinking about is how lucky i am that he loves me the way i love him. and i can only hope that he’ll be looking at me, thinking about how lucky he is to have me. i can only hope that he’ll be looking at me with the love i’ll have waited my whole life for.
and all i want from a wedding is a marriage. and all i want from that marriage is love and laughter.
they say that premature babies who were put into incubators and weren’t handled by nurses or their parents very much are the ones who end up craving attention and physical contact.
so i guess that would be me. i can’t live without physical contact. no, not the dirty kind. but just holding a hand, hugging, touching your arm. i need it. i need to touch and be touched. i need it. it’s so hard for me without physical affection. or contact. anything.
maybe i really was one of those abandoned premies. feels like it. but that’s why i’m so afraid of long distance. i don’t know if i could do it.