Sometimes I think about how I wish I was dead. Not legitimately, I don't think so anyway. I guess it comes from believing, or being led to believe that my self worth is limited to my usefulness. I was also led to believe that I was in no way useful to anyone, in fact, I was constantly in the way and I would be more useful dead than alive. If I was dead, at least I would be out of the way. Recently I told my aunt about a new job I got, a job I was excited for. I asked her for help figuring out schooling, since my new job is part time and I would have the time. Her response was "If you can live off part time, that's fantastic!". This hit a nerve for me, and I didn't understand it at the time. Recently I thought more about it, and realized that this limits me to my usefulness yet again. She had never done this to me before. She had never made me feel this way, at least not as directly as this. Instead of being happy for me for finding a job I enjoy and that I'm excited about, and being thrilled that I'm thinking about getting an education, she diminished my excitement by doubting my ability to manage my own life. She limited my success by questioning the financial aspect of something I accomplished, limiting me to my successes through my abilities. My self worth is yet again limited by usefulness, by my ability to make money, rather than my interests and ideas. The notion that my self worth is limited to my usefulness has instilled this standard in me that nothing is worth it, and I might as well give up before I begin anything. Believing that I would never be good enough for anything. With my mom, this was true. Nothing I ever did was good enough, because it was never about what it was that I was doing. It was about me, and it was about her. She despised me, for whatever reason. Maybe its because she couldn't tear down my core beliefs, the ones she did not instill in me, the ones she could not tear away from my core. I believed in fairness, I believed in logic. She could not follow logic due to her insanity, and she could not be fair due to her sadistic nature. She loved to hurt us, to emotionally torture us, in a way. And sometimes, it felt like I was her main target, as sometimes, my stubbornness out matched hers. Something she didn't know about me
was my resilience. My ability to be torn down consistently and still get back up. I was told I was weak because I wasn't. I was told I was lazy
because I didn't do things her way due to my own challenges that came with birth. I was the only one who could stand there and take it, and
still tell her to her face that she was wrong. She hated it. She didn't want children, she didn't want love because she had no love to give. She
wanted power, and of course she had it. But in some ways, little ways, I had power too. The times where she screamed at me to clean the whole house by myself while other perfectly capable people were available to help, not out of punishment, but out of hatred. During those times, I talked back.
I told her it wasn't fair, and that other people could help. She refused the mercy I begged for, so behind her back I recruited those perfectly capable people.
When she found out, everytime she felt the excitement and thrill that came with the new excuse to punish me. Now she had me, she baited me into punishment.
And everytime, regardless of the knowledge of possible punishment, I would go out of my way to make things fair. And in turn, I was not useful to her. I did not do exactly as she said, and in turn I was not useful in her sadistic plot to punish, to hurt, to hate. She had a harder time controlling me than with the others for
a multitude of reasons. My room was always messy, more than other kids. I have ocd, and due to the stress and anxiety my mother so graciously provided me, my ocd hoarder response kicked in at a very young age. My biological mother killed herself, and my biological father was an abusive drug addict. My mother never got us help. So leaving a dysfunctional home and coming into a new one so similar, this hoarding response was inevitable. She could not, for the life of her, get me to clean up. Even when I did clean, in a sobbing fearful panic, the mess would soon come back. This shouldve been her first sign not to fuck with me. Of course,
there were many many times where I had to back down, to put my tail between my legs and to just quietly do as I was told. As I got older, however, I demanded my voice be heard. If it wasn't for my insistence on fighting for my advocacy, I wouldn't have gotten the medical care I needed. I desperately needed glasses for years growing up, getting constant migraines and headaches, and not being able to see in class. I came to her with these issues for years, explaining the research I had done, and regardless of the reason for these issues, I needed help. She refused to help me, she told me I was wrong, and that she didn't believe that I was really having headaches. In fact, she didn't believe that needing glasses could cause headaches at all. She claimed that I just wanted glasses for fun. I sent her link after link from medical websites explaining how and why I was right. She didn't talk or look at me for three days after I did that, and months later she took me to the eye doctor. It turned out, I was right, and as the doctor explained this to her, I was elated. Now I had her, I baited her into being a mother. The strange thing is,
she seemed to despise me from the moment I entered her home as her new child, when I was the age of three. Night after night I was not fed, bathed, or really taken care of. I've always wondered why, but recently it has come into light that my sister does not remember missing a meal, in fact, she never knew I wasn't being
fed. My mom would often use food withholding as punishment, only for me. She thought I was a fat kid, she even told me so, and she believed that she was in some way doing me a favor by not feeding me some nights. That in some way, her cruel and unusual punishment was for the greater good. I don't actually think she
believed this, I think this was something she told herself to maintain the delusion that she was a good person, that everything she does is right. The irony here is that she is not useful to anyone, in fact, she would be more useful to everyone dead, as she would be leaving behind people who are only forced to be
with her out of fear and the governed conception of necessity. If she were dead, they would be free. They'd be free to be the same bad people they currently are,
but they'd be free to grow without her. As right now, she is the concrete that covers the roots that is her family, leaving them no room to grow.
