You Hate Yourself, but I Hate You More

Before you dive too deep into my past, I must warn you that this piece is an emotional one, and it is a true story.

I don't get the opportunity to discuss my childhood much. I mean, upon meeting new people, I assume that the last thing they want to hear is my sob story. I don't have too many close friends that I am comfortable carrying on personal and disturbing conversations with, and I learned firsthand that my experiences cannot be trusted with the men that I engage with, as it's the first thing they love to turn to the moment I upset them. And let's face it, therapy isn't cheap, and the thought of having to pay someone to listen to my problems is depressing all on its own.

I have social anxiety to the extreme. I get so nervous when I'm forced to meet new people that I almost faint. Hell, for that matter, I have fainted, numerous times. I always hear from the doctors, "Yep, you're perfectly healthy! I can't see any other reason for you to faint other than experiencing a panic attack."

Thanks, doc. I could've told you that and saved myself a ton, but yet every time I faint, I'm rushed back to the ER. I'm also squeamish, meaning that I have such an intense fear of blood that I experience a panic attack upon seeing it. In some cases, thinking about it too hard is enough. I've learned in my studies that fears are taught behaviors, so I'm extremely curious about where I had learned such behavior. I haven't found the answer yet. Much of my childhood is a blur; insanely vivid memories with blotches of time blacked out. It sucks.

I have, however, formed an educated guess regarding where my social anxiety originated from. We'll get to that in a bit. You see, I faintly remember the day that my mother left my father. I was young, around four years old or so.

She was pregnant with my baby sister. I remember seeing her run out of our front door, as if she was being chased, yelling at my older sister, my half-sister, to get me in the car and lock the door. I remember her, being four years older than I, pushing me into the back seat of our car, slamming the door, and cuddling me.

That's all I remember. I can't remember hearing anything, seeing anyone else, or even where we went. It's blank. I can only safely assume that she left him that day, as my next memory is visiting my father every other weekend. Granted, I'm in elementary school by now. I remember him picking me up from school and taking me to an ice-cream place close by.

It was so often, I grew to look forward to it. I don't remember much else of my weekends with him, but I do know that these ice-cream trips came to an end, and so did my weekends with him. Sure, he still picked me up simply to drive me and my little sister to our grandmother's house, his mother's, for the weekend. This quickly became routine.

He then got re-married. I don't even remember his wedding, nor do I even know if I was invited. I just remember that suddenly, we stopped going to my grandmother's and started staying with him again on these weekends, in some woman's house that I barely knew, my stepmother. She was strange, much older than him, quiet, but sweet. So I thought.

My father became "overly" religious. He started fasting, going days without eating, reading the Bible repeatedly, and dragged us all into a church. He even condemned himself for being divorced and convinced my mother that he needed my little sister and I every Wednesday evening and Sunday so that we could attend church.

He convinced her of even more, as next thing I knew, I'm being yanked out of my elementary school and told that my new stepmother is now doubling as my teacher. She was not equipped to teach, especially a young child as myself. She hated me and worse than, she didn't even try and hide it.

I can understand why my mother would be easily persuaded to allow for my homeschooling, as she worked two jobs at the time, and was still financially struggling. Of course, at the time, I couldn't grasp this concept. I just went along with whatever. Mother knows best, no?

My sister and I were dropped off at my father's house every morning; I couldn't tell you what time it was, but I can tell you that it was fairly early. She then wouldn't pick us up until late that night. Again, I couldn't tell you what time, just that it was dark out. To me, one day felt like weeks. The exception was Wednesday nights when we would stay the night at our father's to attend church.

The other exception was every Saturday night so that we could attend both morning and evening sermons, but mother always came to get us Sunday nights, even just to return us the following morning. No matter how tired she may have been or how long she had worked that day, she still wanted to be with us every second possible.

The moment we were dropped off, we were separated. I have no idea what my little sister was able to do with her day. I was sent down to the den, handed my lesson plans, books, and quizzes, and left be. What else did I have to do but to study?

So, that's what I did, over and over again. I couldn't understand why I was left down there by myself. The only logic that I can come up with today is that she simply couldn't stand to look at me, but I question why not the both of us, why single me out?

The way that den was set up was that there were stairs leading up to a door, a door that allowed entry into the main home. I remember banging on that door, crying out that I was both hungry and bored, informing her that I had finished all of my homework, pleading with her to let me play. She didn't hit me, no. She didn't emotionally abuse me, no. She was intelligent with her torture.

At the bottom of those stairs, you could either take a left, which would lead you into the den, or you could turn right, which will leave you staring at the door leading out to the garage. If you face forward at the bottom of those stairs, you were staring at a wall. She put me to that wall, measuring me almost. She drew a circle and demanded me to place my nose in that drawn circle and not to move. I must have stood there for hours, but it felt like weeks.

She enjoyed this, I can only safely assume, as it became routine. Screaming and crying did me no good, as it was if she couldn't even hear me. I was too petrified to defy her demands, to sit or lay down, to go into the den, to do anything outside of what she told me to do, to stand there, day in and day out.

I remember crying out that I had to use the bathroom, and she would be generous enough to let me do so every so often, but she would watch me. She let me know why she'd watch me, she coldly stated that she is "making sure you aren't lying just so you can sit down." Of course, I tried lying about having to go so to enjoy a few minutes of sitting down, but she was smarter than I. If I didn't "go" within a few moments, I was left to sit on the toilet for what had to have been hours. It was extremely uncomfortable. I'd almost have rather stood.

My father had to have known the extent of what was going on, as he worked, but he was not gone for the duration of the entire day. I remember her complaints about me, telling him that I am an awful and disobedient child. She had even recorded my previous fits for him to hear, so to justify her discipline. He hadn't questioned her again, that I know of.

On the nights that we stayed, I actually looked forward to going to church. It was a little over an hour that I was able to sit; although, it made me sick to hear my stepmother pretend to be the loving and devoted mother that she claimed to be.

I especially enjoyed Sundays, when the church would often cater its members to lunch. She would barely feed me, a bowl of corn flakes once a day, if I was lucky. To this day, I haven't eaten corn flakes since. The church sermons never did last long enough. I was brought back to my designated spot on the wall at its conclusion.

I remember being so tired once that I fell asleep at the bottom of these stairs. I didn't think too much about what would happen had I got caught, nor did I care too much. She didn't come to check on me throughout the night too often, as I'd imagine she simply slept, peacefully. I'm not sure if it were the following morning or in the middle of the night, but sure enough, she caught me asleep.

I remember waking up to her, calmly stating that it's okay, I could go to sleep, just not there. She opened the door to my right, led me into the garage, which became my new bedroom. I remember how cold and filthy the floor was, how uncomfortable it was, and how I just wish she had given me a pillow or blanket, at the very least.

It took a while for my mother to catch on; what felt like a lifetime. As I got older, I tried to explain to her, but I guess I wasn't too sure how to explain it. I would tell her that she would make me stand "in a corner," even though it wasn't a corner at all, but rather a flat wall. Maybe I was too young to vocalize the extent of my experience, or maybe I was brainwashed.

Either way, my mother didn't see any harm in putting me in a corner. I'm unsure if she discussed it with my father or let it be at that point. I couldn't even tell you how she finally uncovered the truth, but she did, eventually. I remember being dragged in and out of court, seeing a pediatric Psychiatrist, and having child services come to my father's home to investigate my stepmother.

They didn't do too much, as a religious couple living in a two-story, three-bedroom home didn't seem like a threat to them, I assume. They had bigger fish to fry.

After numerous court appearances and a bunch of time, my father's rights had finally been terminated. It required my psychiatrist testifying on my behalf, according to my mother, for the courts to rule so harshly. Now that I'm older, I question what my psychiatrist had said about me for the courts to jump right past supervised visitation, etc. to terminating a father's rights outright.

Either way, I got out. He never calls me on my birthdays, sees me on holidays, nor is aware that he has two grandchildren—a grandson and a granddaughter. I am aware, however, that I have a little half-sister that I'll likely never know. I just only hope that she can love her more than ever tried to love me.