The Me Inside My Head

It’s a horrible thing, this feeling like there’s no place in the world where you actually belong.  Like your presence on the planet is only tolerated as long as you are doing what other people think you should; being what other people want you to be.

I want my children to know the me that lives inside my head.

One day, not long before I left him for the first time, I told my husband that I had made a lot of changes for him and given up a lot of pieces of myself because he did not like them, and that I wanted a chance to be my true, authentic self.  He said of course he loved me for who I really am, and that I didn’t have to hide anything from him.  Then he immediately started demeaning and berating me every time I tried to act any differently than I had before.

The me inside my head

My children are white, and male, and being raised with extraordinary privilege. 

My ex does not agree.  Privilege looks a lot different to a middle class white man who has never gone without than to a trailer trash woman who at one point in life genuinely believed that pillowcases were for rich people.

“Going hungry” because you can’t be bothered to feed yourself is a lot different than going hungry because there isn’t any food or any money to get some.  I have had to listen to far, far too many middle class white men start a story with “I didn’t even realize we were poor” and then go on to lament their lack of designer clothing growing up.

News flash guys, you didn’t realize you were poor because you weren’t.

Having to wear shoes from Target isn’t poverty.  Not having shoes at all is poverty.

One of the memories from my childhood that somehow survived the blackout imposed by my brain for its own protection involves shoes.  I was young, maybe six or seven years old.  We had been given a bag of used clothes and shoes by some well-meaning churchy person.  BM pulled out a pair of shoes and told me to put them on.

They were too small.

In an ordinary household, one that was “poor” by the standards of those countless middle class white men, this likely would not have been a big deal.

In my childhood household, this was an absolute catastrophe.  What followed was screaming and blame while bm claimed I was pretending they did not fit because I didn’t like them.  This was then followed by a period of time where she tried to physically force my feet into the too-small shoes while I cried in pain.

Her efforts were for nothing.  The shoes were simply too small.  No amount of anger or desperation would make my feet shrink or the shoes expand.

I don’t remember how the shoe issue was resolved.  Most likely someone else donated a pair of shoes that I could fit my feet into.  I do know that for the rest of my childhood bm only got me shoes that were too big, so there was always “room to grow.”  I was well into my 20s before I learned how to tell if shoes fit properly.

My children will never know what it is to have shoes or clothes that don’t fit. 

Well, at least they will not know what it is to be forced to wear them.  For reasons that I don’t entirely understand, Thing1 sometimes insists on wearing clothes he has outgrown.  Pajamas in particular.  We’ve had to cut the toes out of onesies because he won’t give them up and they don’t make identical ones in his new, bigger sizes.

Actually, I’m pretty sure that’s why he insists on wearing clothes that are too small.  Thing1 has spent his entire life resisting growing up.  He has openly said he still wants to be a baby.  It delights him to be literally spoon fed.  I have no idea what to make of that, or what to do about it.

Thing2 did not even want to be spoon fed when he was too young to hold his own spoon.  That child is independent to a fault, incredibly determined and often downright stubborn.  Please don’t say “I wonder where he gets it from.”

My children are spoiled.  They think doing without means not getting a new toy every single time they leave the house.

This is partly my fault.  After Thing1 was born I fell into a deep depression and tried to shop my way out of it.  I was constantly miserable, feeling detached from everyone and everything.  I decided if I could not give him a happy and enthusiastic mother, the least I could do was give him tons of toys.

Shockingly enough, the constant consumerism did not make me happier.  It did, however, turn my oldest into precisely the kind of mindless materialistic vacuum that big corporations love.

To be fair, that happenstance is not entirely my fault.  Norman and Mrs. Bates definitely played a role, and have been exacerbating the problem since I left, in spite of claiming to be constantly broke.

During my christmas visit, when I refused to buy Thing1 a toy when we went to Walmart to get my oil changed because I was broke as fuck, he threw a huge fit.  The situation got even worse when I had to explain that no, Santa Claus would not magically bring it for him the next day.  It disrupted the whole shopping trip and he refused to pick out any food to eat, only to later demand to know why we did not buy the food he wanted, which hurt my heart all over again.

My mom tried to turn it into a learning experience.  She gave him $5, and told him he could save up to buy the toy himself.  She explained to him that the reason we didn’t buy the food he wanted was because he was pouting and refused to actually tell us what he wanted.  She tried to calm my guilt and assure me that I am a good mother doing the best I can, and that Thing1 won’t even remember the event in the long run.

I dropped the kids off with Norman and Mrs. Bates on December 26.  I didn’t’ even make it halfway back to Louisiana before the child had the toy.  When I made my regularly scheduled Facetime call on December 28, the first words out of Thing1’s mouth were “look what Daddy got me” as he proudly displayed the very thing I had been unable to buy.  He then handed the phone to his brother and refused to speak to me any more that night.  He was triumphant and gloating.  I was hurt and ashamed.  I expect we will both remember the entire event for much longer than is healthy.

Everyone loves a good rags-to-riches story.  No one talks about how alienating it is to grow up with nothing, not even sufficient food to eat, then try to raise children who don’t understand what it is to be denied anything for any reason.

Especially when giving them everything their hearts desire comes at the expense of your own identity.  When being that amazing provider means hiding and denying your own true self.

I invented a person to trick their father into marrying me.  When we first met, he thought I was crazy and embarrassing and only good enough to be his sex toy.  He found my existence in his life so humiliating that a year and a half into our “relationship” he chose to leave me to potentially die in a massive natural disaster rather than let anyone find out he was involved with me.  And instead of telling him to fuck off afterward, I chose to systematically remake everything about myself until I was someone of whom he approved.

The imaginary me was not sustainable.  Somewhere along the line, she died, and I cannot get her back.

I tried.  I really did.  But she’s gone.

A few months ago, it became undeniable that the man who promised to help me build a career outside of the courtroom was not actually capable of doing so.  I truly believe he wanted to.  I believe he saw the me that lives inside my head before anyone else did, and that he genuinely wanted to give that woman a chance to exist.  He simply couldn’t, much in the same way that I currently simply cannot.

At that point, I got desperate enough to take a job as an assistant district attorney.  I knew it was a bad idea from the moment I submitted my resume.  But I was broke, and homeless, and ever since Norman filed for divorce people had been telling me to grow up, stop feeling sorry for myself, and get a real job.  So, I did.

There are an awful lot of people in my life who seem to think “I can’t do it anymore, it’s killing me” is just code for “meh, I’m not really in the mood.

The job did not go well.

I tried.  I really did.  But instead of appeals they wanted me to do trials.  Instead of taking writs I was arguing bonds.  I was working late nights, and weekends, and feeling increasingly trapped and terrified with every passing day.  I was constantly bombarded with horrific stories of suffering and abuse, while listening to a judge literally scream at me from the bench for things over which I had no control.  The flash backs and panic attacks were constant.  My housing situation was unstable at its best, and frightening at its worst.

It was pain piled on top of pain piled on top of pain until it overwhelmed me and turned into anger which turned into rage.  One day it hit the breaking point, I exploded, and the job went away.

It’s almost like I meant it when I said I can’t handle being a lawyer anymore.

So once again, I am unemployed and broke.  I met a woman who is letting me stay with her until the end of the month.  That gives me three weeks.

Three weeks to find a job that doesn’t tear me apart every single day.  Three weeks to find another couch to sleep on, or at least a place to store my belongings so I can have room to sleep in my car again.

I don’t even have the energy to panic anymore.  I just feel exhausted and detached.  I think I might finally be beyond saving.

And yet…I’m still writing.

Maybe that’s all that matters right now.

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