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judecorpMy world opened up soon after my 18th birthday.
I had spent a significant portion (read: almost all) of my sentient life, at that point, mastering the art of emotionless living. The times I gave into my emotions were very painful, and overwhelming, and frightening, and as I grew older and more "mature," those times became fewer and farther between. By the time I reached junior high school, I was well on my way to being a certifiable ice princess. When my brother left for college, there really was nothing (or no one) worth the vulnerability and I closed up altogether.
My father was dating a woman who had three children close in age to my brother and me. I don't know when their relationship began, but I know when it became serious. She and her two younger children moved into my home, and the youngest, a 13-year-old girl (I was 15ish), moved into my bedroom. The experience can be summed up succinctly using the word "nightmare." The one period of peace I remember from that time was the year and a half or so that my stepmother wasn't speaking to me. At all. On the up-side, she couldn't ask me to do things for her. Mostly I tried to revel in the peace and quiet, because when she /was/ speaking to me, really interesting things came out. I remember the time she screamed at me because "my innocent act wasn't working with her, even if I had fooled my father." This was when she insinuated that I was a druggie slut, age 17. The funny thing was that at the time, not only was I a virgin, I had never tried an illegal drug, and had drunk alcohol to excess one time. When I laughed at her, I realized that I wasn't upset. And then I realized that I couldn't remember the last time I had been upset. And then I realized that I had, somewhere, began manipulating people. I once drove, in the middle of the night, to convince my then-boyfriend not to break up with me. He hugged me, apologized, told me he loved me. Three days later, I dumped him in school. Our "relationship" totally sucked - I just didn't want to be the dumpee.
When I was in the tail end of my senior year of high school, I began a very close and very intense friendship with a boy in my class. We spent the nights laying awake, on opposite ends of a long-distance phone line, pouring our lives on each other like molasses. He convinced me that my lack of emotions was not helping me. His adolescent psychology pushed him to advise me to feel, to give weight to all of those things I had repressed for so long. I cared for him, I trusted him, and I thought he was right. I let my guard down, and almost drowned.
Suddenly I was spending all waking hours alternating between crying and shaking. When the crying stopped, I became consumed with an anger that was as integral to my existence as my heart beat. I had been the kid that everyone brought their problems to, the one who always had a smile and a level head. I became Alanis's Jagged Little Pill on legs. For my valedictory speech, I even concealed a clever "Fuck You" message to my classmates and family. I smugly patted myself on the back for my wit. Now I cringe at the thought of it.
One day in early 1994, I was sitting in my high school friend's college dorm room, waiting for him to return from class. Wasting time on the internet, I started up a conversation with a man I'd chatted with from time to time - a man old enough to be my father. For some reason that afternoon, I decided to dump my struggle on him - the shaking, the rage, the inconsolable feeling of loss. I must have been really desperate at that moment, to pour my heart across the screen in the middle of someone's work day.
He told me, and I will carry this with me as long as I live, that the only person my anger was affecting was myself. He told me that I could sit and seethe at my father, my stepmother, my grandparents, my exboyfriend, the boy who forced himself on me, and anyone else I was pissed at, but that it wouldn't do a damned thing to them. He gently let me know that being angry was destroying myself, and reminded me that I had tried so hard to survive to mess that up. He spent his whole afternoon with me, confiding in me shades from /his/ past that had taught him these lessons. He had spent years in bad relationships and long therapy sessions, he said, and he'd rather that not happen to me if he could help it.
He said, "If you want to get better, you have to make the conscious choice to not be angry about it." I protested. I pleaded. "I can't help it!" I insisted, and he told me, "You can." He told me over and over, as often as I needed it, "You can't keep blaming your childhood."
I can't believe that was nearly 10 years ago. My life changed so dramatically on that day. I had been an "adult" for less than three months, and I grew up. His name is Byron Howes, but some of you know him as Nimdok. You wouldn't have recognized me then. I will never stop loving him, if only for that.
I had spent a significant portion (read: almost all) of my sentient life, at that point, mastering the art of emotionless living. The times I gave into my emotions were very painful, and overwhelming, and frightening, and as I grew older and more "mature," those times became fewer and farther between. By the time I reached junior high school, I was well on my way to being a certifiable ice princess. When my brother left for college, there really was nothing (or no one) worth the vulnerability and I closed up altogether.
My father was dating a woman who had three children close in age to my brother and me. I don't know when their relationship began, but I know when it became serious. She and her two younger children moved into my home, and the youngest, a 13-year-old girl (I was 15ish), moved into my bedroom. The experience can be summed up succinctly using the word "nightmare." The one period of peace I remember from that time was the year and a half or so that my stepmother wasn't speaking to me. At all. On the up-side, she couldn't ask me to do things for her. Mostly I tried to revel in the peace and quiet, because when she /was/ speaking to me, really interesting things came out. I remember the time she screamed at me because "my innocent act wasn't working with her, even if I had fooled my father." This was when she insinuated that I was a druggie slut, age 17. The funny thing was that at the time, not only was I a virgin, I had never tried an illegal drug, and had drunk alcohol to excess one time. When I laughed at her, I realized that I wasn't upset. And then I realized that I couldn't remember the last time I had been upset. And then I realized that I had, somewhere, began manipulating people. I once drove, in the middle of the night, to convince my then-boyfriend not to break up with me. He hugged me, apologized, told me he loved me. Three days later, I dumped him in school. Our "relationship" totally sucked - I just didn't want to be the dumpee.
When I was in the tail end of my senior year of high school, I began a very close and very intense friendship with a boy in my class. We spent the nights laying awake, on opposite ends of a long-distance phone line, pouring our lives on each other like molasses. He convinced me that my lack of emotions was not helping me. His adolescent psychology pushed him to advise me to feel, to give weight to all of those things I had repressed for so long. I cared for him, I trusted him, and I thought he was right. I let my guard down, and almost drowned.
Suddenly I was spending all waking hours alternating between crying and shaking. When the crying stopped, I became consumed with an anger that was as integral to my existence as my heart beat. I had been the kid that everyone brought their problems to, the one who always had a smile and a level head. I became Alanis's Jagged Little Pill on legs. For my valedictory speech, I even concealed a clever "Fuck You" message to my classmates and family. I smugly patted myself on the back for my wit. Now I cringe at the thought of it.
One day in early 1994, I was sitting in my high school friend's college dorm room, waiting for him to return from class. Wasting time on the internet, I started up a conversation with a man I'd chatted with from time to time - a man old enough to be my father. For some reason that afternoon, I decided to dump my struggle on him - the shaking, the rage, the inconsolable feeling of loss. I must have been really desperate at that moment, to pour my heart across the screen in the middle of someone's work day.
He told me, and I will carry this with me as long as I live, that the only person my anger was affecting was myself. He told me that I could sit and seethe at my father, my stepmother, my grandparents, my exboyfriend, the boy who forced himself on me, and anyone else I was pissed at, but that it wouldn't do a damned thing to them. He gently let me know that being angry was destroying myself, and reminded me that I had tried so hard to survive to mess that up. He spent his whole afternoon with me, confiding in me shades from /his/ past that had taught him these lessons. He had spent years in bad relationships and long therapy sessions, he said, and he'd rather that not happen to me if he could help it.
He said, "If you want to get better, you have to make the conscious choice to not be angry about it." I protested. I pleaded. "I can't help it!" I insisted, and he told me, "You can." He told me over and over, as often as I needed it, "You can't keep blaming your childhood."
I can't believe that was nearly 10 years ago. My life changed so dramatically on that day. I had been an "adult" for less than three months, and I grew up. His name is Byron Howes, but some of you know him as Nimdok. You wouldn't have recognized me then. I will never stop loving him, if only for that.
