Resentment and worthiness

These are the two words that encompass my current battle. The worthiness is the easier one, so I’ll cover that first. I realize I “give” myself a lot of things because I’m worth it. I’m not talking solely about food either. I mean stuff. Amazon, Home Goods, all of the house stuff. I see something and I want it. I deserve it. I’m worth getting this for. This one will definitely be a therapy topic this week. Am I compensating to make up for all the no’s I heard growing up? Does telling myself no mean I’m not worth it? Definitely not. There’s definitely something deeper in there.

Resentment is a sudden surge, brought on by conversation Friday night. After having dinner for my brother and sister in law’s anniversary, we went back to their house for cake and visiting. As the night went on, it was just my brother and sil, two couples they are close to and me. The guys in the group are childhood friends. They went to school together and have remained lifelong friends.

Talk came around to growing up and them visiting our house way back when. We are talking 1960’s to early 70’s. They graduated high school in 1973. I was born in ‘68, so I don’t remember them as teens. Listening to them talk about mom, dad and our home environment was interesting. All talked warmly about Dad. What a great man he was, so kind and lovable.

Then there was mom. Straight forward. No hesitation to tell you what she thought. Didn’t hold her opinions back. Vocal about telling you what you should do. Not warm. No sense of humor. Emotionally distant, pretty much emotionally absent. They talked about how they came to our house and it was so quiet, so clean to the point of being sterile, and you would not guess kids lived there.

They spoke of the things they instinctively knew coming to our house. No running around. No rough housing. No being loud. No making a mess.

Oh you mean no actual being a kid?

I’m crying again writing this because the flood gates of memories have come rushing back. I remember the quiet. I remember being chastised for making noise. I have no memories of a play area. I remember that if I didn’t put my toys away there was a chance they’d be gone. Every memory of playing is of me, quietly playing with my dolls. The most rowdy thing would be playing records and dancing. Even that was low volume with the door to the room shut.

Eventually I grew too old to play and I fully lost myself in reading. I know I have always been a reader. One of my earliest memories is of Dad taking me to the library. My biggest blessing in life was living a few blocks from the library. It was my safe haven, my comfort, and it saved me at home. A kid reading in her room doesn’t make a mess.

So with all this coming out, plus a lack of sleep Friday night, yesterday was a shit show. So much fuck it eating. Eventually I was able to say “what are you running from?”

Resentment. The anger of being raised in that sterile environment. Being reminded that other families spent time together, having fun and making memories. It isn’t that I don’t have memories, I have many, but most are just me. Me doing this. Me doing that. The few memories I have of “us” time is not a positive memory.

I remember being around 8 and on a summer vacation with my parents and my youngest brother. We went to the west coast to see my Dad’s family. On our way we stopped at Crater Lake. We were dressed in our summer clothes, as it was late June, but there was snow in the mountains so when we got out of the car my brother and I started a snowball fight. Immediately we were chastised. Angrily telling us to stop, to behave and reminded we were not dressed for snow. Just like that, a happy memory was destroyed.

Dad’s family was everything our family wasn’t. Loud, silly, affectionate, and totally present in each other’s lives. Oh how I loved being there! It was the only time and place I was ever just expected to be a kid.

Of course all I heard was mom’s endless criticism of them. They were hillbillies. They weren’t refined. Basically they have no class and were lesser people. All my life I heard how they weren’t good enough people.

I didn’t realize it then, but part of her problem with me was I am like them both physically and mentally. Of my Dad’s family, we were most familiar with one of his brothers and one sister. Those are the ones we saw the most. Looking back I see where I am genetically connected to them. I look like them. My sense of humor models theirs. I know I am a quick thinker and often blurt out smart ass comments that create laughter. That was my Dad. Dad plus his brother John was one of the funniest duos ever. Heck, Uncle John himself was the funniest man I knew!

Shit, I just remembered how she would call him a show off. Judge him for his humor and how he’d always go for the laugh. He had the quickest wit and he’d just say things that would make you laugh until your sides ached. She always talked about him with judgement and shame. Right now, as an adult, I’m having a full blown fucking epiphany.

I get where he was coming from, because I am so like him. He loved to make others laugh. Not because he felt better about himself, but because it made others feel better about themselves. Because when people are laughing, they forget the pain of the world.

Mom called that being an embarrassment and seeing myself in him was just another layer of shame and not meeting her standards.

I see now that I was raised in the bubble of her world and that meant being exactly who she wanted. I see where every step outside that bubble was met with disdain and harsh judgement. “You are not conforming to who I think you should be.”

Resentment. Again, the words in my head are “how dare you!”

But she did. And she still does. And she’s still so very wrong.

Another thing that came up Friday was the telling of how my brother was ruining his life getting married and having a child. 50 years later, he has a family so different than what we grew up with. He was an involved parent and now is an involved grandpa. His two oldest grandchildren are getting married in the next couple years and he’s looking forward to being a great grandpa. You can see the joy in his face at that prospect.

What a ruined life!

Me? I was fat, then I had a devastating car crash, so she told me how my life was ruined.

Here I sit, 55 years old, surveying my “ruined” life.

Sitting on the couch in my house. Listening to Corinne Crabtree coach. Corinne, who actually knows me by name. Writing because I am able to let this all out and sharing because maybe it will resonate with someone else and help their heart.

Thinking about the changes I’ve made, the changes I’m going to make, and the amazing people I’ve gained as found family. Anticipating retirement in 2025. Looking forward to September’s camp to see treasured friends face to face. Planning the next Beloit Blondies date.

I have best friends who love me. I have a tribe of women who lift me up and allow me to lift them up too.

Ok, the resentment is slowly being released.

It wasn’t the childhood I deserved, but it’s the childhood I had. I made the most of it and much to her dismay I never did fit in her bubble. I am who I am, not who she wants me to be. That is a celebratory thing!

Where yesterday I ate to keep from facing those feelings, today I will be proud that I have climbed another mountain on my adventure.