Work in progress

Childhood.
Adulthood.
This for me?
One and the same.

I never had a capable home life. Born in 1987, born with health issues, so for the first years of my life I have been hospitalised. Then after me being “home” within months my grandmother passed away and the whole foundation she held up crumbled.

After this I was on my own. Dressed myself, fed myself, took care of myself within the capacities I had as a young child, so yeah- it left something to be desired. I was a full blown adult at the ripe age of 5. My father’s one eyed vision only went to my mother. And my mothers.. well that went everywhere but my wellbeing.

I quickly learned to be invisible. Not be seen or heard. Some of my teachers back then made note of this and tried to enlist child services, but in the early 1990s- these efforts did nothing. And I adapted. After my sister was born when I was 7- I saw that familiar love- at least in my eyes at the time- was something possible, just not directed at me. Since I adored her so, I had zero problems with this and lost myself in the love I had for my younger sister. I cared for her, and then took care of her. Same patterns, but different guises. To me it didn’t matter, all that mattered was her. And then I turned 14.

From this moment on, my home life- or whatever you want to call it- became problematic. I had issues securing a roof over my head and something to eat daily became a problem. Problems my parents had in their own lives and couldn’t or wouldn’t direct at each other all came my way and I took the brunt of it all. All their failures and mistakes were mine, and they made sure of that one way or another. And they made sure I paid attention, with the methods they used – how could I not. So every time they went of on me- after, I had to find a place to stay. Roll and roll away with my suitcase I did.

More often than not this was my life. No place was home, nothing was secure, and I was always on guard and securing my next exit and personal wellbeing as best I could. This shit went on till I was 17.

My first real boyfriend and I moved in together- after I have been made familiar with the pavement of my parental home. Me and my boyfriend at the time have been together for only three months- so yeah- trauma bonding and all. And he was my first love. I was his second. So yeah…

After four years we called it quits, which honestly- we should have done at least two years prior, but yeah our lives were intertwined and all. I moved back “home” into my parental home. I was in my second to last year of law school- and since my family lived in the north- I went up and down the country to my university. I had a parttime job next to me being in a very time consuming full-time law education. I was hardly ever home- spent most of time in trains, uni-job or at the local pub, but payed for my expenses for the night at my parental home whenever I would sleep there. Because of this significant rent paying I was doing- I felt comfortable being on the opposite of the country every weekday. The euros I payed at home were more than enough so- there were no complaints about me from that side either. I was a lucrative ghost.

Then something happened in early 2011, and all went to shit. (Or more shit whatever).

Result? When eventually back on national grounds- as soon as I made sure they had my sister back under their roof, my parents kicked me to the curve. They had their object of desire and I for sure as hell wasn’t it. Yeah- that was to be expected sure, wishes and hope however- yeah that was a completely different tale. My sense of self at the time was violated and I needed support. The support I got? Myself. No one to rely on, so I found myself a place, made it a home and tried again.

Then my family convinced me that I had been the problem all along, I went away at 17 to college and live with my then boyfriend (of course no mention how I ended up in that situation in the first place- because they do not recall, I repeat they do not recall!), and after all this then choose (choosed ay) to I lived at an other place. Obviously all of this was all my fault and doing, and susceptible being as I was I agreed. I had to move back to my home town and then I would have a family just like everybody else.

Yeah..

That went as you probably expected. And a couple years ago I went to work on myself. I went to therapy and try to learn. Try to understand my fault patterns, how to see them and navigate them.

My first issue was I never had a fulfilled sense of self, I was always prone to make something of myself was a overachiever (have a lifetime of people who say you are nothing and you don’t matter will do that to you), and I thought to do this as a lawyer. If I’ll be a lawyer my family will be proud of me. But since the 2011 shit happened I never finished my degree. And I drifted for years, did the odd jobs to support myself, but I hated myself more and more. Felt the disconnect from myself more every fucking day. Therapy pointed me straight again. And I learned to redirect my skill set. I am smart, I can write. But I don’t feel law is something I can pursue now, so what then? What else is solely mine? Words. Writing. So I made that commitment and never looked back.

And I am still building and exploring my career now, for example my first novel will be published at the end of this year ( so fucking yeah!) And then I can honestly say I am an author. I have been writing for years and still feel undeserving of the title. Even though I have to label myself one now since my debut novel is coming out soon- but I feel still like I do not fully deserve the fucking title. Yeah self esteem after all this will always be a cunt!

A sense of route and routine made me feel more in control and gave me solid purpose. Something worthy of thinking about and considering before I compromise it. Because..- now I have a secure home that is all mine, I don’t have to pack a suitcase and worry about my next meal or a place to sleep in. And I do something that fullfills me completely.

But I still have certain triggers, that makes me emotionally spiral (out of control) at times. Every thing to do with my family is and I fear will be always be a massive trigger. I feel resentful most days – amongst several other things. All conversations we have are about the problems they have or create. Yeah not much have changed since I was a (young) girl. The talks still- are never about me. And I know they will never be. I will never have a support system in them, but yeah there is society- that shows you family is everything. Something I just don’t have. And that still compels me to make an effort.. yeah I don’t fucking get it either. It is a fucking mess that much I do know.

And I don’t have to tell you when you grow up like this, you will turn out defected- and I am- and that damage will never be erased. No matter how many hours of therapy I did and do, I will always remain defected. My therapist has something else to say about this choice of phrase, but since it is my writing- I am going with- my words. I am defected and I have the tools to navigate most of it, but I am only human, and I will fail this at times. And I will always be a work in progress.