I like Irish music

I’m trying to get the emotional intelligence thing. Or emotional maturity, or whatever.  God this is disgustingly self-reflective. Oh well, that’s the way it’s gonna be. That’s why it’s called “personal drivel.” This is hard. I think this is the kind of thing you’re supposed to learn as a little kid. I didn’t. I wasn’t even aware of what it was possible to feel, until some time in the past two years. I used to be fairly numb, feeling only fear and some gloom, and brief moments of a faint version of happy. I would say “I love you,” to my family, but felt nothing. Until recently.

When I was a kid, my parents would never discuss feelings. My dad would scream at me to “STOP THAT NOISE!!” if I got upset and was crying. For god’s sake, I was just a little kid. It’s normal for kids to cry.

He was pretty much silent most of the time. I would try to talk to him and he would either not respond at all, or just turn up the radio, sometimes to levels that were literally painful to my young ears. It was either classic rock, or jazz. That’s what he liked. Guess what? Now those types of music make me feel sick to my stomach with rage.

But then, sometimes, he would explode. He’d turn bright red and scream and scream for what seemed like forever. He’d get into a low crouching posture, like he was about to spring at me and kill me. He’d punch holes in walls. All this, over something like… one time I didn’t go outside when I said I was going to. Big fucking deal! I mean what the fuck? “YOU WILL NOT LIE TO ME!!” he screamed, over and over and over. “I wasn’t lying! I just changed my mind!” I was sobbing. I begged him to stop calling me a liar. But he wouldn’t stop. He just kept screaming, and looking more and more like he was going to strangle me. Slowly, he came towards me, a step at a time, shouting “LIAR!” with every step. I was cowering on the couch where he had forced me to sit down, so he could scream at me better. I was terrified. All this screaming woke my mother, who was sick with the flu and trying to rest. She came down to try to make him lay off me, and he shoved her. Knocked her into a chair. She was sick, and he shoved her. That was the first time I saw that he could be violent with her, but it wasn’t the last or the worst.

He’d be “normal” for months, and then the same thing again. It didn’t get easier. Every time he blew up, it was MORE terrifying, not less. He only physically hit me once, but that wasn’t what I was so scared of. It was just the rage, and the feeling that my father hated me. It was the worst feeling in the world.

More and more I shut down. I didn’t know how to care about anyone or anything but my own inner life. When I was 11, I made up a fantasy world to escape into. I’d spend all day outside in the woods or in the horse’s field, pretending to be someone else, with a different life. In my fantasy, I was a boy with psychic powers and a bad leg, and both my parents had been murdered when I was a baby. Whatever that says.

I developed an anxiety disorder, manifesting itself in panic attacks and the certainty that I was dying and no one would notice. My mom took me to three different shrinks. They all said the same thing, all tried different ways to fix me. I’m not sure what finally worked, but I think I just squashed those thoughts in a repressing kind of way. The guy who stuck electrodes on my head wasn’t much use.

Eventually, I went to college. Well, first I went to a local community college to get the hang of the classroom environment (I was homeschooled, I forgot to mention that). My father would demand to know where I was going when I left the house for class, not ever having bothered to learn that I had a schedule, and it was the same every damn week. When I told him, he would get angry and as I walked to the car, he’d slam open a window and keep on yelling at me. I had no idea what I had done to make him mad. I still have no idea. Anyway, I hated it, it sucked.

But then! I went to real college. I moved out of that damn place. Away from him. I met people who could talk about feelings. I still can’t manage it for long without crying, but I think I’m getting better. One of my professors told her class  to open up and really allow themselves to feel, and I took it to heart, and did. It’s been over a year since then, and I’m still not sure what to do with these feelings. But at least I have them.

My mom kicked my dad out after he got violent with her again… he finally crossed a line that he couldn’t step back over, I guess. Thank goodness. It was hard, realizing last summer that I was never going to see my dad again. I cried every night. But really, it’s for the best. He wasn’t a healthy influence, to say the least. It’s best that he’s gone.

So now I’m trying to feel like a normal, emotionally balanced and not screwed up person feels. Trying to put on the act, at least. Trying to deal with stuff the way a normal person would. I’m pretty much failing, I think. But, at least this time, I’m trying. Every other friendship that dissolved, I just let it go without even trying to work things out. I just shut down and went numb. This time, I am TRYING to work things out. I’m trying to talk about what’s happening and find some kind of solution. I don’t know if it will work out… if I’ve screwed everything up too badly… the other person has unintentionally hurt me so much… but it’s not something that SHOULD hurt. Not if I were functioning like a NORMAL person. But I don’t think I am. This feels awful. Absolutely awful. I have no idea if I’m doing this right or not. I don’t know how to resolve conflicts in a healthy way. I never learned this stuff. I’ve read self-help books and websites… I try to do what they say, and end up sounding like… a self-help book or website. “‘I’ statements only – ‘I feel___’,” “Do not blame the other person, it will make them defensive,” etc. What is one supposed to do? How is one supposed to feel?

I’ve been so frustrated. I was punching walls, but my dad did that. I don’t want to be anything like him. So I’ve started beating my bed with a fireplace poker. That’s different, right? Damn it. Help?

I might have just screwed up the best friendship I ever had. I hope not. Shit.

I hate this thing. The & # 0 3 9 ; thing. I wish it would go away and turn into an apostrophe like it’s supposed to be. Which it does here, if I don’t put spaces between its characters.

Edit: I have changed the name of this blog just to avoid that stupid thing. Well, also to add a small amount of more anonymity.

Testing the wordpress app on my iPod Touch. Nothing to see here.