I demanded to live with my father when my mom married my stepdad and moved us away from my hometown, where everyone was. I thought it would be just my dad and I, and it would be great. Independence. Being left alone. I thought it would be everything I ever wanted. I was wrong.
My dad didn’t move me into his house. He dropped me off at his parents, my evil grandparents. They made me sleep in the back house in a bedroom with a bathroom and they never bothered me unless it was dinnertime. I thought this was awesome. I was like a grown-up. I stayed up as late as I wanted and no one would tell me what to do. Be careful what you wish for.
My dad virtually stopped coming to my grandparents. I was alone. Like, alone alone. It wasn’t independence. It was solitude. I remember laying on my bed for hours at a time replaying Pearl Jam’s “Ten” on the tape player and knowing deep in my heart this tape was created for me. Imagine my shock when I studied the liner notes for the song “Why Go” and found “4 Heather” at the bottom:
she scratches a letter into a wall made of stone
maybe someday another child won’t feel as alone as she does
After a month and an episode, my mom came to the rescue (as always) and I stayed with her for good (More on my dad can be found here if interested). Before that I was a normal kid. I never really had issues other than normal twelve-year-old issues. But something about that month broke me. It was almost like the my childhood ended the month I was there.
My teenage years were saturated with music. Sometimes it felt like it was the only thing keeping me from killing myself. No album ever packed the punch that “Ten” had. It was everything to me. I’ve even told my family that when I die, I want the song “Release” to be played at my funeral:
I see the world feel the chill which way to go windowsill
I see the words on a rocking horse of time I see the birds in the rain
Oh dear dad can you see me now? I am myself like you somehow
Today I sit here, in a dark room overcast by clouds outside, and I feel the exact same today as I did when I was a little girl. Lost. Alone. Trapped. Broken. Thinking that everything would get better, but instead got much, much worse. I even lay down on the floor, with “Once” blasting, and I’m looking through the same eyes of that girl that once was something.
Once upon a time, I could control myself
Once upon a time I could lose myself
Once upon a time I could love myself
Once upon a time I could love you
I’m extremely unhappy. I feel that all the pills throughout my life to “make” me happy have in reality zapped all of my happy chemicals. I have no joy. Even the small things that would one time bring a smile to my face mean nothing to me. I want to go home, but am constantly reminded I have nothing to come home to. I sold everything I own when I moved to Australia. I’m pretty much waiting to die. I belong nowhere. I see pictures of myself and wonder who that person is or where she went. I’m dead inside. I have no hope anymore.
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2 comments:
And then who would I have to call me their U.S. Mom? You have much to offer the world young lady. You just haven't figured out what yet. Perhaps its writing? Perhaps its something down the road that will happen to you to make an "Aha moment". You are a special person...that is for sure. Home is where YOU make it. It's not the sweet happy memories of what used to be.
Wow! Just WOW!
I really don't know what else to say. I know this is an old post and you're obviously not posting here anymore, but I've never met anyone who was as moved by Ten as I was and related to it the way I did when I was 18 and I heard it for the first time. I listened to it all the way through, over and over and felt like it was made for me. My name isn't Heather though. LOL Oh well. I know that it would seem from my blog that we have nothing in common and maybe that's true right now, but I can tell you that I understand all you have shared more than you could possibly know. I'm trying to move on from the "darkness" in my life for the sake of my son, but it is truly a daily struggle. I have to keep a strict routine or it'll all fall apart. I'm a little OCD, I guess. I never wanted to be a mom because I didn't think I'd be able to handle it due to my mental health issues. When it came down to it and I ended up pregnant my husband had to practically force me to have our son because (as you know) when you've felt the deep, unpenetrable darkness raging inside you, you don't want to pass that on to an innocent little person. But, I've surprised myself. I've taken all the meds and they zapped me as well, so I had to stop. I want to LIVE, not merely exist in a haze. Honestly, I don't know if I really have mental health issues or if I was just under-loved from the very beginning of my life, but I was told throughout my life that I did. I know I did a lot of self-destructive things and definetely suffered some real depression. I was sent away to a home for troubled girls when I was a teenager, then spent some time in a psych ward when I was a little older and that song, "Why Go Home" really resonates with me to this day. I tried to commit suicide more than once growing up, and I know that I truly did want to die in those moments, but I'm not sure if that was a learned coping behavior because my mom tried to do it a few times when I was young and I found her in a coma the last time - when I was 5. Sometimes I wonder how I'm going to explain the scars on my wrists and arms to my son when he gets older.
I guess I'll just be honest with him. Maybe it will help him have a better understanding and compassion for people he meets throughout his life who are dealing with similar issues. I want him to be a compassionate and understanding, non-judgmental person.
I don't know why I'm pouring my soul out to you here. I guess it's nice - after 36 yrs on this earth - to read about someone elses's thoughts and experiences and find that they understand you so well, without even knowing it or knowing you.
I truly thank you for sharing so much of yourself, Hed. I shared a post about my younger days on my blog the other day, (it was about my year in the girl's home) but I'm sorry to say that I deleted it after only a few of my closer blog buddies read it and commented. (Including Barb, which is how I found you.) The truth is, I've come to realize that some people are really uncomfortable knowing the truth. They want to see me as a one-dimensional happy chic because it's safe, it's easier. My in-laws read my blog too and I don't want them to be fearful of me raising my son because of my sordid past. I don't want to be "The Monster", which is how I think some people see me, because they have no comprehension of what I've been through.
I never thought I'd be a conformist, but these days I really have to think about the image I project because my son's little eyes are always watching and taking everything in. He's learning how to be from watching me and I refuse to fail him the way I was failed by my family. No way! He's worth every bit of my effort. I think he saved my life. Nothing ever mattered so much to me.
Big Hugs to you, Hed!! Keep up the fight! I know it seems impossible sometimes, but you are worth saving. You are worth fighting for.
~jennifer
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