In my previous blog posts, I’ve used a similar “essay” style to help organize my thoughts onto paper, and even did some research in order to help compile my viewpoint so I can seem educated and versed in the topic I wrote about. However, this topic is coming straight from my heart, and is just a post regarding my biggest addiction I have carried throughout my entire life: my family.

Early in childhood, I already felt unheard and misunderstood as I would say words without form or language, and my siblings dictating what I meant without fully being able to express myself, and succumbing to the eventuality that unfolded based on their understanding of my wants and needs. However, I have clear indications in my memory of being able to speak with others my age, especially in pre-k. I remember talking about how I believed in “recycling spirits” to the mass of children my age as they knew little of what I was talking about. I learned new things alongside them, but I had a level of comprehension they didn’t. In kindergarten, I remember purposely pooping my pants in front of a computer screen in order to rebel to the idea that I had to hold it before finishing something on the computer. However, throughout my life, my biggest struggle has been spelling and grammar. Even recently, with my last job I quit, I was reprimanded for improper spelling and grammar, being told that the way in which I write wasn’t understandable.

The dynamic of my family has always been a tough conversation for me. “Are you close with your family?” “What is your family like?”; questions like these are met with difficult meanderings and short responses. They were there most of my life, and every moment without them has been better than moments with them. I learned that being close to them would make me feel better than the latter. I am now unlearning this.

My mother was a alcoholic, chain smoker and drug user who took care of her three children in the way I can only describe as a “lazy dictator”. She made very bland, heartless meals. She abused all of us, emotionally, physically and mentally. She never did any cleaning and never worked, so anything that was broken just stayed broke unless she was able to save money to pay a friend to get them to fix it. Our sink in the kitchen never had proper plumbing, and in order to wash our dishes, we had to use totes of water and carry them outside and dump them out. And, to be very clear, she never took accountability for the state of our house; it was always our fault, the children she “selflessly” carried into the world. Whether it would be a leaking room, a broken AC, even a hot day, it would always be our fault. She might have taken more accountability now than she has in the past, but I have learned recently that even though she is changing, I do not need to let her into my life more if it doesn’t provide positive emotions for me.

My dad is a narcissist and was an workaholic. He did the bare minimum my mother asked of him in order to help her take care of us: $300 total a month in child support, having us on some holidays and some school breaks, clothes and shoes. Having shoes I could call my own was nice, but I ended up “inheriting” clothes my brother could no longer wear. And every time he had us, the most important thing we did wasn’t to enjoy his presence or talk about life. It was cleaning. Chores are typical for parents to give to their children. But, cleaning my dad’s house is most of my memories being in his company growing up. I’m not saying there were not good moments. A board game here, a vacation there. But, looking back, it felt more like a façade than actual love. He needed to believe he was a good father to all of us, and he did just enough so that if we had any issues, he didn’t have to take accountability. It was our fault for having negative feelings for him because “he was a great father who provided everything for us”. He owned a home with AC, a pool, and all the newest technology of the era. He was a successful business owner with a wife who was a manager of several retail stores. But, even while he had us, he spent most of his time playing video games with online friends and rarely spent those hours playing with us; the most he would do is let us watch. Peeling back his control over his narrative is something I have been doing more recently, and while it does feel like I am villainizing him, understanding everything is required to make a full judgement.

Both of my parents failed to execute fundamental conversations necessary to feel safe and understood. They both failed to even give gifts from themselves to us honestly: my mom would claim gifts my great aunt would buy and my dad would attach his name to gifts my step mom would buy. My great aunt and step mom provided for us more than my parents did, seeming as how most of my food was provided by my great aunt or the school, and almost all of my clothes and gifts were bought by my step mom, except for shoes and perhaps the gaming handhelds me and my brother had.

Being poor while looking well off was always a struggle I dealt with and it had some awful side affects. For one, communicating to people about my experiences felt so much to them like a lie that I just started lying in order to at least control how people viewed me, even though the lies catered to how them already viewed me and always made me look worse than I was. Like in high school, I would lie about using drugs to avoid using them because I didn’t want people pressuring me into using them when I didn’t want to. I would tell them I didn’t like them, or they didn’t make me feel good, when I never even tried them in the first place.

Being the youngest of three children, based on research, usually makes them more catered to or more likely to get attention from the parents. My mom favored my oldest brother for reasons I never understood other than him being the first, and my father favored my sister, and I suspect it was due a closeted pedophilia. Because of the favoritism they received, I was left neglected. I listened to my siblings whims and wishes because at least they listened and understood how our parents treated me, though they never stepped up to acknowledge it in fear of losing their favoritism. I was left doing the majority of the chores in both households, basically acting like a butler for everyone who entered and exited my mom’s house and, when my brother and sister started doing drugs and drinking, felt extreme pressure to do well in school as a way to “take advantage” of the situation to “earn” the attention from my parents I never received.

When my brother was caught smoking weed for the first time, my mother didn’t punish him, but instead decided to create a “safe environment” for him and his friends to “experiment” with weed and alcohol. This idea turned into weekly house parties at my house, cultivating an environment were kids and adults were all partying together. This period of time left me to eventually start sleeping in the living room, partially because my brother would be jacking off and would lock the door when I felt the need to sleep, and also because he would bring the environment of the house into the room we shared and I needed my own space. But, even in the living room, I had no sense of privacy as people would come into the room without warning for various reasons. I had no peace. Then, I started jacking off and due to being in a room with no lock, I was constantly interrupted. My presence was never respected.

Before this time, when we would be with our dad, he would have moments where he couldn’t hire a babysitter and thus had each of us in a cubicle in the middle of the mall. However, he constantly had my brother and sister help him with his work, and when I tried to help, I was in the way. So, he had me sit inside of a tuber ware tote underneath one of the merchandise displays. This lasted until I was 12, when my siblings had friends and no longer had interest in going to the cubicle to work. That day, I remembered I saw a blue watch that caught my eye that I very vividly remembered admiring. My dad gave it to me, saying it wasn’t selling anyways and even helped me fit it onto my very skinny wrists. I still have it in stashed away to this day. It was one of the only times I can remember that a parent actually gave me something from them. One of the only presents my mom bought was a Bible, ironically enough, and I still own that too, despite me being an atheist.

When I think about whether or not I love my family, I think about all of this I have written. But, I always neglect to mention my great aunt and step mom. My great Aunt Olean is one of the kindest humans I have ever and probably will ever encounter in my life. She retired at a younger age and, ever since her husband died, she spent most of her disposable, passive income on us 3. She sent my mom money every month and helped paid for the utilities most of my life, and would come around very frequently to deliver groceries and supplies we needed to survive. My step mom, Michelle, had a similar generosity in her, always using her discounts at the retail store she was working at and her income to provide use with clothes and even taught me how to have a sense of style. She let my dad determine how to raise us, but she was never cruel to us. I’m pretty sure she paid for the majority of the vacation expenses as well, but this isn’t something I can determine without a proper conversation. However, one time in my early 20s, I tried to establish platonic intimacy with her but ended up feeling horny and ever since then, our relationship has been weird.

The only family member I had close relations with was my cousin, Dakota. Unfortunately, our relationship growing up was spent me dictating our time together and when I was in an antisocial phase in my teen years, I tried to film her friends dressing in her room and ever since then, our relationship kind of drifted. I blame that on myself, my feelings and my actions regarding those feelings.

At the end of everything, it is still kind of difficult to determine how I feel about my family. In this present moment, they are all better versions of themselves and I am proud of that. But, I spent most of my time helping them in the state they were in than I did experiencing life with them. And, to my own fault, I grew into antisocial tendencies and now unlearning things I taught myself as a result of my neglect. Currently, as I write this, all I want to do is distance myself with with as I go to therapy and learn to establish boundaries so I don’t get affected, manipulated or convinced into anything that isn’t who I am at my core. But, at the same time, I still want to be present in their life. But, me being present only results in negative feelings, regret, and a repetition of the bad behaviors I once had. With them, I am not truly present and without them, I feel like I am nothing. I need to work on being present and establishing myself so that I can be present with them and without them I can be at peace.