pity party*

So much of the time, I seem to be angry.

The world is on fire; the president of the USA is a rapist; and so much of the time, I seem to be angry.

It does not seem to ease or to wane. In fact, with time it simply seems to encompass more.

I have gained other emotions alongside, over the years.

I have learned to love and to forgive and and and . . . and yet, this anger is ever-present. Co-mingled.

Being a parent myself has made this anger thicken.
Burned the water from the sap.

Was I so impossible to love?

Were the signs my parents needed help too quiet?
Did they need support, or were they bad people before I arrived?

Did I MAKE them bad people?

Do I blame the times? The government? Society?

What do I do with all this anger?

I survived the home of an abusive alcoholic who did not hesitate to raise his hand to his wife or his children.
I survived a childhood with a mother who never completed a maternal task in her life and regularly used me for her own gains, even if it meant letting others use me.
Two of my siblings survived to go on to be rapists and pedophiles — one awaiting federal sentencing and one in his 30s with his freshly 18yo bride whom he groomed beforehand.
I find photos of myself from my childhood and am transported to a nightmare, because the outfit I am wearing is one I had been abused in.

So much of the time, I seem to be angry.

I don’t feel like this anger even belongs to me; it was given to me.
Handed to me softly or thrown against my body.
Ripped stitches.
Off-color comments.
I received it wrapped and with blood and with smiles and with silence.
And I don’t want it anymore.

My parents used every opportunity they had to call me ‘entitled’ and ‘ungrateful’. That I was disrespecting them by not showing appreciation for what they had given to me (which was not even consistent food, medical care, or shelter, folks) so I finally decided this: I am no longer undeserving of them.

They are 100%, no cap, frfr, undeserving of me.

The narrative that somehow in this equation I would always come out lacking for admitting it is laughable.

Why is it always, “but they’re your parents!” and not, “but they’re your kid!”

I desperately hope this generational mindset in which children exist only to benefit the mother and father dies with my parent’s generation. Them being upset in their old-age that I am not upholding my side of the ‘deal’ and care for them no matter what is a hard pill they will have to swallow. They did not raise children on intimacy and closeness and trust and safety, so why they expect it in their final verses makes me very uncomfortable.

I am giving my children everything I can while simultaneously building myself a Fountain of Youth so I can help THEM into THEIR old-age. One of the things I cry about as a parent is that no one will love my 80-year-old babies like I would. I want to pre-pack a whole house for each of them with all the clean laundry and food they would need.

If I gave my parents in old-age what I received in childhood, their days will be very dark, very painful. They will have no blankets nor food. They will not be allowed to speak. They will watch what I put on the television, or listen to what I put on the radio. They will sleep in pissed sheets and bruises. They will be told not to tell anyone — what happens in my house, stays in my house.

I deserved better, and because of that I also feel like my children deserve better.

Thanks, Mom and Dad ❤

*Tonight’s Pity Party Post was brought to you by: days of cyclical depression, CPTSD, and the letter ‘Y’-the fuck didn’t you love your kids, Parents of Mine? Let’s see if I feel comfortably unhinged enough to write another.