#dysfunctional me

pro: people around you keep going “wow you’re such a good listener/ wow you’re so mature!”, you’ve got the scoop for all the family drama, plus a good chunk of your childhood makes so much more sense

And then the anxiety hits, and when the air pressure is heavy, im also reminded of the floating rib, the cracked tarsels, the migraines that focus behind my eyes, my vision blacking out when it gets hard to breathe, how exercise feels like sharp needles of pain, the list of problems go on.

How that the reason why I don't do the laundry all the time or check the cat boxes is that the location for these things is in the basement, and it hurts to go downstairs. That standing to do dishes makes my lower back hurt, and my feet go numb.

I can't sit on the floor, I'll dislocate my hips again and spend days in misery until I can get them popped back into place.

For years, I’ve suffered intended and ‘innocent’ verbal and emotional abuse from both of my parents. 

Whenever I do something my father deems remarkably stupid, he’d always wait until it was just the two of us before letting loose this barrage of insults. He’d call me all sorts of things but always meant idiot in one way or another. He’d make me feel inferior and worthless. He’d make me feel guilty too for some obscure reason. He knows what he’s saying and he wants to make sure I know it too.

My mother, on the other hand., has a rough tongue. She’s frank in the sense that her criticism isn’t meant to be constructive. She knows that what you did is stupid and she’ll point out all the reasons why it’s stupid, regardless whether you accept it that it’s stupid or not. It’s not that she’s tactless or anything. In fact, she can’t say anything negative towards my sister no matter how much she royally fucks up. 

I am twenty years old. I have an IQ that is above average. I graduated from college on time from a prestigious university. I don’t do drugs, I don’t smoke. I drink on occasion and I don’t stay out late. I don’t hang out with the bad crowd and I practice my degree.

I am also suicidal. I have so many scars littered on my body I can lose count whenever I try to count them. I have all kinds of drugs underneath my pillow so I can choose to overdose anytime I deem it as ground zero. Everyday, I pass through a main highway where buses and cars zoom across at 60 mph and each day, I imagine what it must be like to step in front of them. Everyday, I pass through a walkway right above the underpass and I think on how it’s so easy to climb over and just fall.

I am twenty years old and I suffer from anxiety. There are days I bolt upright from sleep, tears falling nonstop because of phantoms that pull at my hair, grasp at my neck and squeeze my heart. There are days I cripple in the bathroom under the pretense of my bladder bursting because this intense fear crawls up my spine and I can feel the world spinning. On these days, the only thing running through my mind is ‘God, please don’t let my parents know.’

I am twenty years old and I am ready to die. I look at myself in the mirror and I don’t know what else to see because I don’t know who I was before. Or if I ever had an identity that was solely mine before I was ruined. I look at the mirror and see a girl who’s a hundred pounds overweight. I see a girl with hips too wide and thighs too round and cheeks too round. I see dull eyes and a broken heart. Do you know how it feels to look at yourself and see rejection in your own eyes? 

This is the result of almost fifteen years of abuse from the very people who gave me life. All forms of abuse leave marks on the victims. When you emotionally and verbally abuse someone, you are an accomplice to whatever physical abuse they do to themselves. You are just as responsible, even if it’s not your hand.