Lengthy

This is going to be rather long. Forgive me as I am feeling rather chatty. Yeah, let us go with chatty. An adjective that I have never once said aloud. Excuse me for a moment...(chatty chatty chatty). Okay, all better. Onward.

Normalcy. This is what my mother wanted, rather expected, from me. And good grades. Ha. She never intended for her reactions to hurt so much, you know? She tried and tried and tried to help. But the disappointment was very apparent. The way that she looked at me as she asked "Why don't you invite someone to sleep over?" to the less pleasant "What is WRONG with you?!" whenever I displayed a behavior that was less than satisfactory...which was often. Third grade was when the chronic disappointment began. The end of 8 until the beginning of 9. I began to hate myself. Wish away the difference that, until that year, had not really been anything worth worrying myself over.

Kindergarten through 2nd grade, I went to the same school. That was the longest that I would remain in any school until high school. Being around the same group of people for so long, it only made sense that I would make a reputation for myself. I was strange. A few kids would approach me at the beginning of the year to appease their curiosity and kick me to the curb soon after they realized that I was a "Do Not Touch". Social pariah. Mock at a distance, she bites. During P.E. I ran in circles and screamed, which wasn't uncommon, just to hear the different ways that my voice echoed off of objects (which probably was). I "hogged" the swing and repeatedly jumped of higher and higher and bellowed "I am trying to reach SPACE!" to the reprimanding teachers. The kids did not like me. That was upsetting, but otherwise okay. Who needs them when you have grandparents that love you to PIECES even when you weird them out at 4AM with tears and shouts of "I DON'T WANT TO HEAR MY THOUGHTS! I DON'T WANT TO HEAR MY VOICE THINKING IN MY HEAD. I want QUIET! HOW DO I TURN THE THINKING OFF?!". But the disappointment that followed ate me up inside.

When I was younger, before the sullen apathy of my teen years settled in, I wanted very much for my mother to like me. More...I wanted to be her favorite person in the world because, at the time, she was mine. Perfection, thy name is mother.I wanted my parents to know me and feel like I was good enough. But that never happened. I was never able to feel okay around her. She was always so miserable about the fact that I wasn't making any real attempts at being social. Kids weren't inviting me over. I wasn't bringing them home. I wasn't invited to parties. I thought very negatively myself by the time I was 9. I felt like a loser. I was a failure.

My mom compared me to her friends kids...my cousins. Whoever. The message was always the same. "Why can't you be more like (so and so's) daughter?"I compared myself to the kids at school and her expectations. It sucks when you can never measure up. Especially when you really want to. I think that is when the self confidence began to crumble away. You know? When the ground started to shake beneath me and fall away in large chunks until I was left stranded. When I started to check for others when I made up games with my imaginary friends.

All of the things that were slightly off or "worrisome". Me throwing up before school, getting nervous about a class and throwing up DURING school, crying and trying to negotiate on the way to school, punching myself in the head, talking to myself at night when I should have been sleeping, freaking out over high pitched noises. I was "weird to the point that it [was] upsetting". And all the while the response was the same. That awful look of disappointment as if I were the worst thing ever. The questions. "What did I do to deserve a child like this?" as she stared into the heavens. And I hated that. It made me feel unworthy. I tried to will myself out of existence. I wanted a do over. Let me be born as a better kid, you know? I wanted to scream for the injustice of it all. Get out all of the sadness and frustration, but I never really knew what to say so I just...bottled it up until the middle of my teen years.

My mom never knew about the vomiting at school. It was yet another secret that I kept before they finally called her to come get me. The teacher were sick of the routine. "Why are you doing that? Stop." It's kind of hard. Eventually the nausea engraves itself in your mind. Imprints itself on those muscles...whichever are responsible for propelling it's contents upward and out.

My senses have always been a pain. The issues tend to change over time. Like, I haven't always had an issues with high pitched sounds. Until I was about 10 I took pleasure in hearing them. Making them. I was the kid that would scratch the chalkboard and smile. I rocked in my desk and relished the squeaky sound that followed. And then, suddenly it seemed, those sounds became painful. They made my TEETH hurt. Mosquito was the bane of my existence for a time in high school. I was a very huggy feely child. I don't know what happened to that. Maybe it was the lightness of the touch. It started out really firm. Like a hug from either grandparent could pop my back. But as I got older the contact became less tolerable because the weren't giving me that pressure. It started to make me feel ill. A pat on the back...gentle but it echos inside of you . Into my spine. And it grows there until you feel creepy all over. Like waves of sickness washing over you until you finally puke all over the place and people wonder if you ate something bad. Haha. No. Just very VERY tactile defensive.

And here is where the contradiction comes in. High school. You want a boyfriend and you get one but the physical contact is overwhelming. The gentle touches, the rub rub rubbing, the awkward kissing and hugging. You actually TRY to explain that the whole touching thing makes you extremely nervous but he is still dumb founded when he rubs your leg and you scream. His reactions to your reactions scare you. What if he breaks up with me? That would make sense wouldn't it? That is one of the things that these sort of relationships are founded on. Contact. So you play the part and try to pretend that it doesn't bother you until every so often when you explode with "Stop fucking touching my NECK!!!".

You can never put up with the facade for long. Eventually you slip up and have to wonder in this tiny voice in the back of your head (where you shove everything that is painful): Why can't I just be normal?

So, anyway, my mother. Our relationship is hanging by a thread and rapidly deteriorating. She still cannot stand the fact that I did not meet those expectations that she had when I was born. That every parent has. She worries that I will never "function" in society. I thought about mentioning Asperger's. You know? Kind of like "Hey mom, remember that time that you took me to a shrink because I was too crazy for you to deal with? No, no, the second time. Yeah, well she thought that I may have Asperger's." but no...that would never work. There would likely be much yelling soon after and I really cannot deal with the loudness these days. I already see how hard it is for her to realise that I am not meeting her standards of "normal". She is just now getting to the point where she does not simply deny my experiences as "You're just exaggerating." or "Oh, Dramatica (and....affectionate? nickname). Now she is to the point that she listens and stares and says things like "I just cannot believe that there is anything wrong with you... Well maybe if you'd just...." or she makes this elephant-giving-birth sound and says "I can't deal with this! I have taken you to doctors, psychiatrists, and everything else that I can think of!! Why don't you just TRY to stop being weird!!".

It sucks when you feel like, for the most part, you can never explain what's going on in any coherent manner. And when you make an attempt you are met with hostility and resentment. And, of course, the word of the day: disappointment. Like I am a failed experiment or something. It was just too late to terminate by the time anyone took the time to notice.

Anyway, enough of the blah blah blog.