On Resilience

                I pride myself on having patience. I feel like I can handle situations pretty well. I’m good with empathy, I am very conscious of other people’s feelings and opinions in conversations and interactions. I try very hard not to let people get on my nerves. However, there are a few topics, a few things that I cannot abide.

                I was in on my mom’s computer a few nights ago; I was trying to put new music on my ipod without her having itunes [it didn’t work] and she was telling me about a family I used to be very close with. The daughter used to babysit me and the son was one of my best friends for years. As she was talking I was doing my running commentary, making little points as she was talking. With most of my family this is the only way you get any words in, more so other family members than my mom, but the fact remains.

                My mom was talking about this family, and I was making comments as she went. Most of the comments centered around the fact that the family was stuck-up, bratty, mean, and self-centered. Finally my mom responded, “Well if they were so mean why did you play with them? Huh?”

                “Because I had no other friends. No one liked me.”

                “Oh you always say that! You always thought everyone was just so mean to you!”

                I finally looked at my mom, and after years of her making comments like that, I said, “Well that’s because they were. When I was a kid everyone was mean to me.” And she changed the subject.

                The fact is that my childhood was sad. It was filled with loneliness and anger and pain. Everyone goes back to those moments and thinks about what they should have said, what they’d do differently. After thinking about this exchange, I think my new response would have been something like, “Everyone WAS mean to me, why do you think I went through friends so quickly? Why do you think I was suicidal by the time I was four years old? Why do you think I’ve suffered with depression my entire life?”
                I remember when our neighbor Betty died, she was my friend. She invited me in, gave me cookies, and even gave me presents on special days. It wasn’t long after that, I remember lying in my bed crying and pleading to God to just please kill me. Just please end it all. I didn’t want to be alive anymore. My mom heard me crying and came into my room, and asked me what was wrong, my response, since I was a quick thinking kid, was, “Why did Betty have to die?” and I kept crying. Years later I finally asked my mom how old I was when she died, so I could have a time frame on my suicidal thoughts, and she told me I was four years old.

                Adults like to try and sweep things under the rug. My mom always had a hard time dealing with the idea of me having clinical depression, being a cutter, or my rough childhood. I don’t have a problem with the fact that she has trouble dealing with it, but when anyone tells me that I’m lying about what’s happened to me I get angry.

                Children used to kick me when I sat down at the lunch table, I got called horrible names, and I didn’t have any friends at school until I was in the third or fourth grade. When I did get them, they weren’t very good friends. My best friend in high school was abusive, emotionally and on a few occasions physically. I’m still dealing with the mental scars he gave me. Why don’t I answer my phone when someone calls? Because I’m still afraid. He would call and yell at me for hours, telling me how horrible I was and what I did wrong during the day. He would tell me at the beginning of the school day that he had to talk to me about something, or tell me something, but would wait hours and hours to drop the bomb of whatever unforgiveable thing I had done. If anyone says those words, or alludes to something vague to this day, I have a panic attack.

                My husband and I were in the mall a few weeks ago, I was looking for some good work shoes, ones I liked but were suitable for church, and I was already getting frustrated because I couldn’t find anything. Then someone’s arm brushed mine. I was wearing a shirt with sleeves that only went to my elbows [I have worn long sleeve or ¾ length sleeves every single day I go into public now for nine years], and this guy’s skin brushed my skin. I put down the shoes I was holding, went to Rick and told him we needed to leave. In the car I started shaking and crying for the entire 15 minute drive home. Because someone accidently touched me, skin to skin.

                Lynda Barry is a comic author who does stories illustrated in water color. The one that resonated with me the most was called “Resilience”. It was about an experience she had when she was a child, something she can “never remember, but never forget”, and she details all of the repercussions that had on her [read it here]. The point of the strip was about how even if you forget things, or shove them to the back of your mind, pretend they don’t exist, they don’t go away. They still affect you, no matter what parents or adults want to think, no matter how thick the rose colored glasses are, you can’t wipe away the truth, the pain, or the loneliness. She said, "This ability to exist in pieces is what some adults call resilience. And I suppose in some way it is a kind of resilience, a horrible resilience that makes adults believe children forget trauma."
                I guess I’m trying to put the pieces back together finally, trying to feel like a complete person with the ability to heal, the ability to deal with the trauma and experiences. When someone tells me that “it wasn’t that bad” or “you’re making that up” or “that can’t be true” I want to make them hurt. It makes me feel like what I went through didn’t matter, that what I’m trying to do now is in vain. I love my family very much, this week I’m on vacation with them, but I can’t be me. I find myself needing to be resilient again, needing to fake always being ok, always being the perfect little Christian, daughter, or person. Under their scrutinous microscope I need to be walking on eggshells all over again. I’ve already been told once this week to shut my mouth and just deal with it when someone treated me like crap. Pretending it's ok for someone to treat me like that, being resilient, is getting harder and harder to do.

Pictures via here and here.