Drive-ins, Swimming, and All Things Summer

I'm not an easy person to like. I say that a lot. Most people see that as fishing for a compliment. I say it with the self realized evidence of the past several years. The one thing my Husband has admitted about first meeting me? He didn't really like me. He thought I was a "know-it-all". Most of the friends I have that stuck through the awkward stage? They'll say it took some time to "warm up" to the idea of being my friend. Most people will confess to me that they weren't certain about whether or not they could deal with me when we first met. . . Let that sink in for just a moment. Imagine being told for the better part of your late 20's early 30's that you are not the ideal, personable human being people befriend. Imagine being told regularly that you're "difficult" to enjoy. Now think about how that sits on the psyche. There's a good reason I don't reach out to people. There's a reason I don't go out of my way to go places, or throw parties, or even attend parties. Several reasons actually. The big ones come from what happened to me in my early 20's. The "little" ones come from the fact that I can't even get my own family to enjoy me, let alone strangers; so I just stay home. My children are difficult to like as well. Mostly because we spend so little time with people outside our own home. It's difficult to have play dates when no one wants to sit and talk to you as the adult. I stopped pretending I understand people in the middle of what was going on with me before. I stopped paying attention to whether people mattered when the Major was selling me as a commodity. It makes me difficult to like. I don't understand the purpose of small talk. I don't really care about gossip. I'm not all that interested in fashion, and the latest craze ( which should be evident by my inability to dress myself.), I don't know how to not be awkward. Awkward is kind of my default setting. I am out of place in the world. I don't fit in. I do better when I keep my mouth shut, but I end up dying a little inside because no one really knows who I am. I get an uncouth exuberance when a subject I know about is brought up. I feel personally insulted when people won't let me help them; because it happens so rarely that I can be useful. I feel a great deal of pain at the fact that my children are the wierdos because I can't make enough friends with children their age for them to have playmates. My heart breaks when they desperately want to play with someone, and I have made that impossible. There is a silent amount of guilt killing me because I am difficult to like. Yet if I pretend, and become likable, I also die a little inside. So, Parenting catch 22. Do you die inside because your children are lonely and unlike, or do you die inside because you're faking it? Maybe someday I will know the answer, and my children will forgive me for failing them in this area. Maybe.

Hot Chai and Chocolate Croissants

I've spent a good portion if my life trying to make a name for myself. Which has always really bothered me. I have a name. My mother gave it to me at birth. It's written on a certificate that's got a Washington state seal on it. So why do I care how people use that name? Why do I feel like that name is not name enough? And why, instead of declaring that we want a reputation for ourselves, do we request the option of "making a name for ourselves"? What's the difference in the long term if no one remembers you? Why does the idea of flying through life on someone else's coat tails unacceptable? What makes someone who is a "self-made man" so much better than the man who wisely used a predecessors reputation? I pose this as the argument in favor of the self made man. Do you know your place? I don't. I've never belonged. My family said I was weird. My friends left me and did mean things to me because my brother died. My church peers couldn't stand me because I was "the teachers pet"( actually I just paid attention). My boss thinks I'm expendable and totally replaceable. My teachers found me overly inquisitive and annoyingly curious. My co-workers see me as a know-it-all who is better left alone. My in-laws.... Well, we already know that they find me less than amazing, and we all LOVE being compared to the ex-girlfriend. So where do I belong? Where is my island of misfit toys to call home? What's my place in life? Will I ever find a niché? What is the purpose of me being here on this earth?! See. . . It's hard to not have a name. To not know your place. Some of us have been so long without a place that we'll accept any that is given. I spent 6 years in an emotionally and physically abusive relationship because it was a place. If I was there than my name, my place was his punching bag. It wasn't a nice home, but it was mine. It wasn't the right one, but it was mine. I've seen more than one person walk away from what they COULD have become because they couldn't get anyone to reassign their place. Sometimes we have the fight within us to be great. We don't have the permission to belong. There is such a sense of loss, of chaos, of utter and total despair! You have nothing. No home, no name, no place, no label, no direction, no end, no beginning. There is nothing in your life that will feel like it fits. It's like walking around in someone else's skin; Only you can't give it back, or exchange it, or even grow into it, or ever fit! you change, and it just changes too! NEVER fitting properly.All in all it is one of the most annoying situations to be in. You never stop feeling depressed, or hurt. You always feel lonely. People accuse you of being short, curt, sassy, or withdrawn. They tell you that if you'd just "try and be more friendly. get to know people" it would be better. Problem is that there's nothing about you to get to know. You have nothing to offer because you don't, by social definitions, exist. You are not His ex-girlfriend, and you never will be. You're not the pretty smiling dutifully graceful woman she is. You wouldn't know how to be that passive if you tried. And it's not like you're intentionally trying to confront people, you're simply being honest. You're doing your best to make sure that you are clear, direct, and concise as possible. To avoid the long awkward conversation they don't really want to be having with you anyway. It always backfires. And reality sets in... you will never have a home. So how do you deal with people like that? I'd be grateful for a place. A role in life in which I can be the best at whatever it is I'm supposed to be good at. Sometimes, simply having someone look at me and accept the truth as it leaves my lips is wonderful. Being able to simply give you the best description I happen to have is relieving. It's also nice when people dont take it so personally. So my life is no fairy tale. Accept that my reality is far more harsh than yours, but that I have come from a very dark place to the bright light of day through a LONG arduous journey that, despite almost killing me, has left me with both a very literal view as well as a fantastical one. Not an excuse, just an explanation. I just get really tired of not belonging anywhere. I just want to find my home and not have to leave. Not have to be judged, or explain myself. I just want to be loved, and appreciated for what I have to offer. To have someone acknowledge the value in what I'm doing, or saying. To know that the hard work I do day in and day out means something to the world. That it hasn't all been for naught. But isn't that what we all want?

Naked and Famous

And I quote: " deb you are the most selfish person I know. You don't let anyone in or let anyone get to know you. You hide who you are and they deserve to know. . . " Ok, I'm selfish because I hide a large chunk of time that happened to be the most informative development stage of most of our lives. I have secrets, things about me that no one understands, but you know there's something just not right. It's not like I enjoy hiding these things. I would love nothing more than to share the story and tell it to someone who would listen. I'm smart enough to know that if you are watching you'll know when to ask and it will be because you're ready. I don't find it selfish, I find it a matter of self preservation. There are somethings that can't be taken back. Pieces of facts that once known create an awkwardness almost worse than the unknown. We all know I'm a little off my rocker, a little eccentric, and I am often known to do brash things I later wish I'd held back and only thought about. Let's add this one to the list shall we? You want to know what I'm hiding; here it is. I was 16, as most of us have been, and I didn't want to have sex. He did. Things ended badly and I went looking for a mans approval that this horrible situation wasn't all that bad and I was still worth loving. A man, we'll call him the Major, showed up. Recognizing an opportunity to capitalize on a vulnerable teenager a 32 yr old man convinced a 17 yr old girl she should date him. Disaster ensues and just a hop, skip, and a jump to 23 yr old from 17 we have a girl living in a basement in Colorado praying that today is a good day and that the frying pan isn't in her future. After several months in and out of the ER "falling" and "running into doors" it's evident we're losing steam. The beating and insults just aren't working anymore. The thrill is gone. How do we remedy this? Let me tell you by asking another question; Have you ever wondered what it's like to die? I've been almost there. I've had the room go fuzzy and suddenly realize I'm probably not going to be alive much longer. Just on the verge of "giving up the ghost" I get a reprieve. Ghastly way to do things really, but this is survival we're talking about. While the rest of you were learning how to interact and be "cool" I was trying to figure out how to make the perfect roast so I could avoid having my head slammed in an oven while the gas was running, and my back side whipped with a cricket bat. Gas makes you really sick you know. There are bad people out there. I know. I survived by running away one night. After months of trying to convince my best friend she wanted to come live in Denver I had an out. I would HAVE to be left in an apartment I'd been paying for but never really lived in. I would HAVE to be given some freedom to keep up the facade of "normal healthy relationship". As much as I hate myself for having used another human being like that I could see no other way. Every phone call to the cops had been explained away and ended in another trip to an ER with an assumed name. Did you know I have 37 alias's? nifty huh. I can remember every single one, and the character's back story too. You must have a good back story if you're going to keep a nurse from checking up on it. Thankfully, when you've been sold to a guy who lives in St. Louis you don't see the same nurses as the ones in Colorado. Thankfully. Either way I figured out how to get out. Mostly. I was still so terrified I couldn't seem to get further away than an apartment with a friend. Another pawn. Not that I'm proud of it, nor that He was any better than the Major, but it was something I needed to survive and finish getting out. When you're finally allowed to have a real job and your boss is asking about the hand prints around your arms you have to think fast. I was working as fast as I could. Almost not fast enough. Long story shortened by a few years and paragraphs, I made it out. I don't really remember the details of how I ended up in the Major's bedroom. Mostly because I'd really rather not remember any of it at all, but I was there. Every time I went for the door he stepped in front of me and got another hit in. ( nice thing about being a military intel guy is you know how to ask questions and get answers without leaving visible marks. Nice tricks they learn.)I was thrown into one of those nice big floor to ceiling mirrors that covered half a wall shattering it. Then I had hands around my throat and all I could think was " yup, I'm gonna die.". Boring I know. Why couldn't I have thought something profound, or interesting, or captivating. Sorry, I'm not creative like that. As the room is going fuzzy and I'm giving up I have this sudden urge to go for the door. Don't ask me, I wasn't exactly in the best place to be thinking logically with a guy's hands around my throat more than half starved of oxygen. I went for it. Amazingly I got through it. First time in three hours I'd made it through that door when I went for it. The Major had 2 very nasty knee injuries and his stair case was one of those with a landing halfway down. I jumped, He had to take each stair individually. I jumped again and made it to the ground level. I'm doing good so far right? I throw open the garage door and get in my car. Bottom line, I was halfway to Limon Colorado before my brother-in-law convinced me I couldn't drive to Nuavoo, Il. My mother wishes he'd let me drive, I'm glad he didn't. I had blood and glass in my hair and I really needed a hospital. I called the Pawn. He picked me up and drove me back to my apartment where a couple of cop cars, and an ambulance were waiting. I didn't get out of the car and asked to be driven someplace where I wouldn't have to talk to anyone. So, avoiding the authorities ( this is a habit now and I don't really know what to do, and I'm scared as all get out. . . so no judgement on that decision) we drive to the local airport and the Pawn cleans glass and blood out of my hair and we wait for a bit. I finally go home and the first thing to greet me when I walk through the door is a roommate who say's " who the F&$% called the police?!". Peachy. I've just survived someone trying to kill me and the most important thing is that your phone call got put on hold for 10 minutes while the cops tried to figure out if I was still alive. By the way; I'm alive. I have a bad head injury, bruising and edema of the hydoid muscles, but I'm alive. Just incase you were concerned. I hate hospitals. I hate them because they remind me of having to lie to a nurse when all I wanted to do was scream for help. That there are injuries no one will ever find unless I tell them where to look. I hate being alone. I hate being alone because it reminds me of spending night after night in a cold cement basement not knowing who was coming next, and what they were going to do to me. And that everyone I've ever truly cared for has left me. I hate trying to make friends. I hate trying to make friends because you people scare the hell out of me! I hate that all I want is approval from someone. I hate wanting approval from someone because I'm too strange to get it. I hate being awkward. I hate being awkward because I don't know how else to be. I don't understand the social rules, and norms, and all the stuff I'm expected to know. I was a little busy just trying to stay alive, and figure out how to avoid another beating. I hate being strong. I hate being strong because I'm not. I survived years of that abuse. What more do you want from me? I hate being vulnerable. I hate being vulnerable because that is what got me into this mess in the first place. I am not strong. I am not confident. I am not socially acceptable, and I am most certainly NOT okay. Honestly; do you think if you'd had your head knocked around that many times you'd be okay? I know I don't always get it. I know I'm a little strange. I'm trying. I'm doing the best I can to make-up for the years I lost. I'm sorry if I cling a little too tightly. I'm sorry if it seems like I'm obsessed. I'm just terrified. NO one was nice to me for years. I don't understand "nice". I'm sorry if I had to use you to get out of that situation. I only hope you'll understand why I did it. Hopefully this wont change things too much. Then again it probably will.