Since I have been pregnant, I have spent a great deal of time thinking about my childhood and my parents. I didn’t have it easy and both of my parents made a lot of mistakes, to put in gently. Ours was a house of anger and fear and torment.
My mother was filled with awful body complexes and strange ideas about sex and sin. She taught me to fear my sexy bits, life, men, work, authority, my neighbors, food, and children. She ruled by fear and manipulated those around her with speculation of possible danger and doom. She was never interested in my life and made no effort to raise me as she was far too busy watching television. I was left to my own devices, and my own horrible mistakes, with no more guidance than to be punished for doing what was wrong. I haven’t spoken to her since March of this year.
My father was a marine in Vietnam. He enlisted and served four years. He may as well have stayed in a fox hole. He was never given the sort of treatment that he needed for post traumatic stress disorder and we all suffered for it. He was mean, loud, violent, and crude and had no tact. He beat my brother near to death and screamed and fought with my mother. Furthermore, he was addicted to several pain and nerve pills, which he abused. I haven’t spoken to him since I was about 22.
My sister moved out when I was 4 and my brother left with my father when I was 9.
My sister and I are seldom talk and my brother turned into a violent criminal. I have spent most of my life trying like hell to pull myself out of the muck of low self esteem, anxiety, and crippling fear. I haven’t ever really had any sort of relationship with either of them.
I don’t ever want a family like mine.