An Open Letter

Hey (again). I wanted to write a bit about the thing I steered away from earlier, specifically about the difference we hold on the topic of looking at the things people make/say/write.

When I was growing up, I adopted the view that my family couldn’t handle me and my sister, since she would constantly rampage over us with my mom. As a result, I learned to just bottle things up and behave as well as I could, to make their lives easier. This didn’t actually help me with any of my own issues, so I would just bottle things up as much as I could – at one point my plan was to become an “emotional punching bag” by listening to as many problems as possible from the people around me, and then kill myself so all the pain goes with me. I think I was around 7th grade here.

When I got older, I didn’t know how to reach out for support or anything like that since I never did earlier. What I would do was post on a private Instagram account I had, and at one point I even made a fully anonymous one with the unrealistic hope that my BFF at the time would somehow find it and help me (she didn’t obviously).

I evolved into setting my statuses to vaguely cryptic things reflecting how I felt – including when I would struggle and wanted people to reach out to me. I never felt comfortable asking people for support, so this was my way of leaving out cries for help hoping people would see it and reach out to me. There are plenty of problems with that, but the biggest thing is it’s unreasonable to expect people to do that for me, no one wants to jump through hoops for that.

In some ways, this blog is a manifestation of that behavior, but I’d like to think I’ve corralled it into a manner where I don’t expect anyone to read this. I still feel incredibly loved when someone does, but I’ve gotten to the point where it doesn’t really bother me when friends don’t read it, even if I ask. But to me, when someone reads it it’s essentially giving me something to hold onto as evidence to try to unlearn scars from childhood. To me, it’s a sign someone cares enough about me to go out of their way to take an interest in how I’m doing, or what I’m thinking. It’s a concrete way to show myself that some people do like me, enough to want to know more about me, and that’s an endearing feeling.

I’ve been trying to unlearn the only things I’ve known growing up, and it’s one of the hardest things I’ve faced. I can’t even say “the hardest thing I’ve done”, as good lord it’s been about 4 years, and feels like there’s barely any progress. I think writing like this resonates with me, and potentially other neglected kids – so I kinda wanna explain something that feels obvious to me, just for catharsis's sake.

Imagine growing up with no love. No hugs, words of affection, praise, sympathy, or even physical contact for that matter. As a child, you don’t really know what you’re missing, especially if you don’t get to see other families with their dynamics. It’s a very strange way to grow up, reaching the point where you realize it’s better to be alone rather than to be around family – at least that way you don’t have to act as a mediator for issues or have to tolerate various different things. This goes fundamentally against biological instinct, the urge for maternal love and parental care.

I don’t think that’s a good way to raise a child, and while there are some benefits – the cons heavily outweigh them. Growing up starved of love makes that the baseline. As you get out of that household, you start to realize how much you’ve been missing – when you see relationships, friendships, or whatever other love exists out there. The cruel part is you still can’t internalize the fact you are loved, because your brain is so locked into the mental patterns of that lack of it.

That’s why to me having that quantifiable measurement of “Hey look, this person went out of their way to show they care about you” is so important. Somewhere inside me is a child who wants desperately to be seen.