Are you real?

When I was 9 years old my parents picked me up from school with trash bags full of clothes for my brother and me. I remember feeling relieved that there was finally an end to the fighting and arguments I had to see growing up. Relieved that my parents would finally get treatment for their addictions. There was shame with it too, because I knew that calling the police when my parents got into physical fights contributed to CPS knocking on our door a couple of times. 

The last straw was my baby brother being born addicted to a cocktail of drugs I’ve never heard of at that age. The following day, an anonymous, emotionless court of judges and social workers deemed my parents unfit and unwell. All of this was loosely communicated to my young mind as a good thing because there was hope my parents would pull it together, take their parenting classes, get clean, and get us back in time for christmas. But 6 months turned into a year, then six, and then eight years. 

I spent eight years in the foster care system; from the ages of nine until I emancipated at seventeen and went off to college. I consider myself lucky I made it that far despite the immense odds stacked against me. And yet the shadow of my past still keeps me in the dark. I see how much emotional and social intelligence I lost thanks to the years of depression I struggled with growing up. How my worldview was hardened and shaped by all the evil that I grew accustomed and thrived in during my youth. But the thing that has stifled me the most is a conversation I had with myself at 12 years old alone in my room. 

With a knife under my pillow and the subtle glow of a TV across the room, I remember marking that night as the most alone and sad I’ve ever felt. All the praying and begging I had done for the past 3 years was for nothing, I thought. My parents wouldn’t rescue me, they couldn’t even save themselves. There was no God to rescue me either, so I stopped praying and lost hope that this nightmare would end. I took the knife from under my pillow, lifted it above my skinny stomach and let it drop. Pain erupted from my abdomen and wiggled its way into my brain but apart from a small stream of blood, I was ok. I was grateful, ultimately, that my first suicide attempt failed thanks to a dull knive. But I grew addicted to the cathartic sensation I got by putting myself in danger. So years of cyclical self harm followed. First with knives, then fire, and once I got older, alcohol and drugs. 

That night, at twelve years old, I lost hope in the goodness of the world. Something in me snapped and split my mind in two and something dark emerged from the catastrophe happening in my head. I call it ego death spurred by immense sadness. I struggled to accept this new alter ego but it quickly became useful in navigating the world I grew up in. Whenever my abusive mom would show up to berate me for who knows what reason, I wore this darkness like a cloak and it gave me strength to stand up and advocate for myself. Soon enough even my own bully was afraid to cross me. There was no love left in my heart. Not a drop of love, even for myself. Do you know what that feels like? I felt awful but powerful. Like I had taken back my agency from the adults that put me in danger. 

As I became a teenager, that darkness festered into an angry phantom that followed me everywhere I went. Truthfully, I loved the confidence that came from it and I thank that part of me for pulling me out of depression long enough to get a full-ride scholarship to a great school. But the problem is that I never healed that internal split. Years of court mandated therapy were not helpful because I had no privacy and everything I said would end up in notes delivered to a courtroom every few months. So I never felt safe enough to let my guard down and let go of this self-destructive ego I had forged from many fiery arguments with myself and others. 

During her two years in hospice, I saw the woman that birthed me wither away into skin and bones. Regretting and lamenting all of the evil she had done. I felt sorry for her, because at the end of it all she was just a really hurt person hurting others because that was all she knew. I spent countless days and nights reminiscing with her, listening to stories of her youth, taking notes of all she had been through. In her, I saw a future version of myself. And the thought of ending up on my deathbed filled with immense regret shook me to my core.

She passed away on an early spring morning. I know the exact time because I felt her presence walk into my room to wake me up at 5:42AM. I sobbed into my pillow knowing that the person that seemingly loved me the most had left me alone once again. An hour later, I got the call from the hospice center to make funeral arrangements. She was gone. 

Having spent those two years confronted with my own mortality shaped into the form of the woman that birthed me, I still had to finish my degree because the alternative was ending up homeless without a scholarship to pay for my housing. I struggled a lot in school, barely graduating and a semester late. But that same darkness that carried me through my toughest times was still there to pull me out of bed every morning. I persevered even when every fiber of my being told me to end it. It’s strange to think that I owe my life to this darkness within me. 

Do you see, dear reader, why I have struggled to let go of this alter ego? Even when my present life is so much kinder, loving, and sweeter than anything I've ever experienced before, do you see why it’s hard for me to let go of the part that used to make me feel stronger than everything and everyone? Would you let go of such an integral part of your identity? How??

That’s what I struggle with now. How do I grow out of this; how do I get better? My current therapist, who is so awesome and helpful, suggested writing all of my thoughts down. So here I am laying out just a short snippet of my tired life. What do I get out of this? Empathy? Understanding? Sympathy? Condolences? Not a clue. 

All I know is that these stories play infinitely in my head, berating me for all the evil I have done. Telling me that I am a broken, hopeless basket case unworthy of love and kindness. Sometimes it feels like I'm far too damaged to make considerable progress within one lifetime. Sometimes I am far too tired to even try to mask myself. Sometimes it feels easier to isolate myself to protect others from me. None of that  feels right, though. None of that feels like me anymore.