CallaFirestormBW
Posts: 3651
Joined: 6/29/2008
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Am I damaged? I'm betting some folks would think so. The truth is, though, I am pretty much not damaged. I am just plain twisted, and I'm pretty sure that I was born that way.
I was raised in a dysfunctional family by today's standards. When I was growing up, though, it wasn't called dysfunctional -- it was called "strict". My dad worked hard, my mom kept busy and took outstanding care of us. She was a phenomenal cook (and mildly schizophrenic, a condition that she refused to treat and passed on to my brother). My twin brother died at birth. My younger brother was mentally ill because my mom's generation didn't believe in psychiatry or psychology, so her own illness was untreated. I worked my ass off from the time I was 3 years old and my mom sat me on a stool to dry dishes because "everyone who eats and is old enough to talk back is old enough to start pulling their weight!" (that's as far back as I can remember, though I remember my brother, as soon as he could walk, being told to pick up his toys and put them in the toybox). My mom was discerning, and things had to be done a certain way. I was (and am) a messy, chaotic person, and never did grasp the ideosyncracies of "if I do this mom's way, I won't have to do it over and I won't get a beating." I did it my way, did it -again- her way (bitching under my breath the whole time), and took the beating. I was born with a congenital immune disorder, but my mom and dad didn't believe in running to doctors for "every little sniffle", so I learned to push myself until it was obvious that I couldn't go any more, or until one of the teachers or the school nurse -made- my parents take me home. Once I started loving school, sometimes I'd even -hide- being sick so that I could stay for some favorite part (usually English, which was in the afternoon). I even remember being sent home from the end-of-the-year summer picnic in 4th grade... I'd had "spots" for 3 days or so, but covered them up with my mom's makeup, long sleeves, and tights (girls didn't wear pants to school back then, except for snow-pants in the winter) so I could finish the year -- but I got sweaty at the picnic and rubbed the makeup off, and the teacher sent me to the nurse, who declared that I had the measles and was burning up with a fever and packed me in ice until my mom could come get me.
When I was growing up, I thought that this was -normal-. Everyone I knew had one parent who was a flake, one who was driven, siblings who were a pain in the ass, got their asses whipped and their stuff taken away when they screwed up, and started working from about the time they could walk. I grew up in small town America, in the Great Lakes region of Upstate NY. Everyone knew everyone in our little town, and pretty much everyone who was worth hanging around with according to our mutual parents worked hard, played hard, and occasionally screwed up badly enough to merit the weeping willow switch, Dad's belt, or a shoe upside the head (thrown by mom because you weren't close enough to reach).
I was raped three times before I reached adulthood. I had a couple of boyfriends and a girlfriend who drank to much and got their rocks off by beating the crap out of me -- at least they did until I called the cops and packed my shit (which took 3 times the with the first boyfriend, four times with the girlfriend, and ONCE with the second boyfriend! I -do- learn... *LOL*) I did stupid stuff like driving while st*ned. I had a baby stillborn at 8.5 months pregnant, and a set of twins stillborn at 6 months less than a year later. I got pregnant out of wedlock and married a man that I didn't really want to be married to (though I liked him well enough) because I lived in a small town and didn't know that it was possible to be with someone, get pregnant, and -not- get married.
I grew up knowing I was strange -- but not because I lived in a dysfunctional family or got whipped or had a psychotic brother or had really crappy experiences. I was strange because, as long as I can remember, I've had stories running through my head about places and people that could never really exist, and I've been compelled to bring them to life in writing.... people on strange planets... people with weird ideas about how many people can love one another at a time...people who had powers and who used those powers out of expedience and/or compassion -- but who didn't really judge the tool by any set morality. I was weird because, even though nobody where I was from -ever- talked about alternatives to the 'status quo', I always believed that I belonged somewhere that nobody from my hometown would ever understand. I was anything but popular at school. I have fingers left over on one hand when counting my 'friends' during my school years -- but that was at least partially my fault, since I took so damned long to do the chores my parent set that everyone in the neighborhood had to go in for the evening before I finished (because I had to do everything at least twice -- sometimes three times if I was feeling stubborn -- until I would finally do it the way my mom wanted.)
I grew up equally attracted to men and women. I grew up fascinated with muscle, sinew, blood, and pain... sometimes my own, sometimes other people's... and I grew up bossy as all get-out (a talent that my ex can certainly verify that I am in full and active possession of).
Some folks might think that I should have been damaged by my life, or that I'm damaged but in denial, but you know what... when I was growing up through it, all I knew is that I got straight A's because my parents expected that -- but I knew that I was stubborn and chaotic, and I appreciate the -hell- out of my parents' persistence, because without some pretty heavy-handed discipline, I might never have developed a life-long love for learning. Sure, my mom was the occasional nutter, and when she got going, she was damn scary. I remember describing our (Sicilian and Irish) household to a friend as being "like growing up on Mt. Vesuvius.  However, I also remember her being warm, and compassionate, and talking to me about things that were really freaky that I experienced -- because she had weird experiences, too, and I knew she'd understand and not laugh at me. I did freak out about some of the stuff in my life, but I faced it and moved on, and came out of it with a greater measure of compassion and very little self-pity. I stopped being a victim when I was 8 and realized that the reason I was getting beaten was because I was -choosing- to do exactly what my mom told me -not- to do... and that I wasn't going to stop doing things my way until the parental units 'got it' that my way worked as well as her way (and I liked it better), so clearly, this was more my issue than hers. (Oh... and beatings back then, at least the ones I got, hurt like hell, left marks, but were considered a normal part of growing up, not "abuse". I definitely learned from them -- if I didn't learn not to disobey my mom, I at least learned that if I was willing to accept the consequences, I could make pretty much any choice I wanted!)
I've been to doctors. It was part of my required training in pastoral care to spend a year in therapy. My doctor was a hoot. She said I was the most well-adjusted flako perverted freak she'd ever had the pleasure of knowing. Yes... I'm weird and my life has been -really- -really- hard, but damaged? -- nah, just high-mileage.
Calla Firestorm
< Message edited by CallaFirestormBW -- 8/4/2008 4:27:13 PM >
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Said to me recently: "Look, I know you're the "voice of reason"... but dammit, I LIKE being unreasonable!!!!"
"Your mind is more interested in the challenge of becoming than the challenge of doing." Jon Benson, Bodybuilder/Trainer
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RE: Facing your own damage ... and embracing it. - 
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