Sunday, October 11, 2015

One Year, One Day, and Vera

Trigger/Content Warning (TW/CW): this blog post contains mentions of ableist slurs, domestic violence, suicide, child abuse, and rape.  Reader discretion is advised.

On October 1, 2014 I moved from my parents' basement (to which I dubbed "Troll Central Station") to my current location, a tiny studio apartment on the other side of the county.

Since then, I have kept communications cut from my parents and my sister.

Do I ever miss them? Absolutely. Behind the violent nonsense, there were good times and amazing lessons learned from happy experiences.

One day, I was taught 1+1=3.

Who in the hell taught you that, Vera?

My father.

So he wasn't good in math?

Actually, he was a very good mathematician. He made sure his employer didn't get into trouble as a quality control inspector. If a product was off by, even, 1/32 of an inch, he would label it defective. Because when a company builds parts for top manufacturers like General Motors and TRW, your products better be top quality.

Besides, he and one of his former good buddies taught me how to play a card game called cribbage. You make various combinations of 31 and 15 to gain points on a peg board. The first one to reach 120 points would win. If you beat an opponent by more than 30 points, your opponent was "skunked."

Outside of that, I was more of a daddy's girl than a mommy's princess. I got along with my father better than I did with my mother; then again, EVERYONE got along with my father better than they did with my mother.

However, in order to stop my father from losing his cool whenever my mother got pissed off because he didn't understand what she was saying, I learned how to "translate," if you will, from "English" to "(My father's name)." This way, whenever I explained things to my father, he understood the way that he comprehends information; something my mother could not wrap her head around.

It was no surprise in 2012, my father came out saying that he, too, was autistic. It made perfect sense to me.  To my mother, it just meant that she "married a retard," in her own words.

Sounds like your mother was a piece of work, I see.

Yeah, she was. Both she and my father have refused therapy numerous times because they felt they could handle the problem themselves.  However, with my mother's constant berating and my father's short temper, problems just got buried with the other stuff underneath the proverbial rug.

One day, she taught me to be independent.


By learning how to ask for help, I was able to get things I either needed or wanted. Which is ironic, considering my mother never practiced what she taught.

I remember my mother and I going to KMart when I was about 7.  I got lost and was worried.  I had remembered seeing a sign saying to call for help. So I went up to an employee and had her ask for my mother to come meet me near the toys section.  It was one of the few times she said that she was proud of me (the other times were when I graduated high school, got hired at Elyria-Lorain Broadcasting, and got hired by Defense Finance and Accounting Service).

Every other time, it was either a guilt trip of how people make my mother feel that she did everything wrong or she made you feel like you were a failure in life because you "didn't do what she told you to do."

One day, I was the coolest kid on the block.

How so?

On my 11th birthday, my sister pulled me out of school so that I could celebrate it with her. It was an uncommon thing for her and I to do; bond as siblings. As I entered my teen years, my sister would invite me to age appropriate events; help out with the residents of a group home on events and outings, going to Cedar Point, and having dinner with her and her significant other at the time. Even when I got the Madamobile, her gift to me was $500 for the insurance premium.

Then one day, I started to question everything.

Why would my sister try to "train" me on how to defend myself from a potential rapist when I was 7?

Why didn't my sister get along with my parents? Why didn't my parents get along with each other?

How come after every "argument," both parents would tell me that they are going to get a divorce and never go through with it?

Why does everyone hate each other?

How come I can't see relatives from my mother's side? What did I do to my relatives that make them hate me so much?

Why does my mother want me to have children?

Are the names of the doctor and the hospital of where I originally received my autism diagnosis the correct names?

What was up with all the pornographic material (videos, magazines, books, etc.) during the 80s before moving to my grandparents' house?

Why was I forced to hug and kiss my parents?


And then one day, I left.

But the memories, both free and suppressed, and the flashbacks, the nightmares, and the trauma didn't want to leave me. They had ingrained themselves into me like latched on parasites, feeding on every part of my body.

These parasites especially feed on memes I see on social media, saying to "call your mother; this may be the last time you ever do so," or something of that extent. I see them, and I get super pissed. And the parasites start feeding.

So just call them and get it over with!  Damn, it's not that hard.

I have absolutely no fucking reason to pick up the phone and call either my parents or my sister. Let them enjoy the sunset of their lives without me. They are not actively looking for me, wanting to "talk," because they don't care.  In August, I saw my parents drive in their van past an ice cream shop I happened to be in. They didn't see me, and the looks on their faces told me all I needed to remind myself of whenever I find myself missing them or seeing another "motherly" meme: it was another Sunday joyride through the city, not having a care in the world.

All the good memories I had with them have been almost for naught if I hadn't learned anything from them.

So yeah, I will keep myself estranged from my own family, fuck you very much.

Are you sure? I know your parents are still friends with your ex, the one who raped you, but everyone deserves a second chance, right?

It's best this way. Not because of what my parents and my sister would do to me. But because of what I might do to them. Preventative measures, you know, to keep me legal and out of jail, heh.

1 comment:

  1. Well I did try to follow you on Twitter and you seemed real upset. Remember you asked us to leave you alone or you would press charges. So will keep reading from afar and hope that you are well and safe.