TLDR: My Childhood Fucked Me Up

19/04/24 

Somehow, EH leaving has taken a wrecking ball to the barely functioning dam that was holding back the flood of shit that is my past. 

Quite honestly, at times, there’s so much stuff rushing out, I feel like I’m drowning. I swear, one of these days I’m going to go under and not bob back up. 

Obvious. But it’s not always easy to get out.

Here’s an example of what’s surfacing:

Way back, when I was maybe 10 years old, I got taken to see a child psychologist.  This was because my behaviour was so terrible. 

I’d been stealing bits and pieces of cash so I could buy sweets.  I wet my bed every night, but would try to hide it.  I lied a lot. 

I was a demon child where once I had been an angel and everyone needed to find out what was wrong with me so I could be fixed. 

Nobody seemed to put the pieces together at the time, and I’ve only done so in hindsight but what started my descent into broken rebellion was an incident at a family therapy session. 

My older brother (Mike), my baby brother (Dean), mother and step-father (Rassgat) were there (my older sister, Lena, had somehow escaped). 

I can’t remember what preceded it, but part way through the session the therapist turned to Rassgat and said, “Who do you consider to be your family?”. 

Mother’s husband, the man I called Daddy, gestured to my mother and baby brother and said, “Her and Dean”. 

In that moment my entire world imploded. 

Once upon a time we’d been best buddies, he’d treated me differently to my siblings, I’d been the ‘favourite’.

I didn’t recognised that aspect at the time – I just felt loved and adored. 

Then, when I was nine, my younger brother, Rassgat’s biological son, was born. Rassgat literally, that day, started to withdraw from me. 

When I began to feel it, I thought I needed to be ‘gooder’, and I tried.   

Within days of the birth, Rassgat’s mother (Kat), who until then had treated me like a golden child, also completely rejected me. 

She was particularly callous.

I had always called her ‘Aunty’ even though she was technically my step-grandparent.  I was too young to have thought about it at all. 

When Dean was born, she came to visit and there was much discussion about what she would be called – Grandma? Nanna? Eventually Granny was the chosen moniker. 

Listening to that discussion was the first time I had an uncomfortable inkling that I was being pushed to the outside of something that I was used to being inside of. 

Not long after, I was (rare occasion) being allowed to hold baby Dean. Cooing to him I remember saying, “Shall we go and see Granny?” 

Kat’s immediate response was to snap at me, “I’m not your Granny!” 

There were three other adults in the room, including my mother, and not one of them said a word or moved a muscle, despite my obvious confusion and distress. 

So, fast forward a year or so and I’m having regular sessions with this psychologist. 

I liked her.  I wish I could remember her name.  She was a little bit hippy, wearing wafty clothing, and her ear piercings fascinated me – her heavy amber bead earrings would drag the piercing hole into a line and I’d wonder how it didn’t hurt.   

She did interesting activities with me. I’ve since realised that part of what we were doing was Rorschach ink blot tests – I’d love to know what I was telling her without knowing it.   

She was kind to me, encouraged me to draw pictures, and seemed to be interested in what I thought and felt, without getting cross.   

I was under no illusion that it was anything other than a ball ache for mother to pick me up from school (weekly? fortnightly?) to drive me the 18 miles to the appointments.  I’d better damn well sort myself out so all this trouble was worth it. 

The day came when my lovely therapist asked mother to sit down for a chat about her assessment of me.  Mother was the picture of concern, and “What can we do to fix her?” 

My therapist looked her square in the eyes and said, “Jessica’s not the one with the problem, you are.”   

Oh, my word. 

Wow. 

Mind blown.

A grown up had just said I was ok. 

I was promptly sent out of the room. 

A short while later mother and I were in the car and on our way home.  I was being berated. 

What a manipulative, deceitful little cow I was.  What had I said to pull the wool over that woman’s eyes? 

I never saw that wonderful therapist lady again. 

Now here’s the thing that’s only recently dawned on me – if a 10-year-old can manipulate a qualified and experienced mental health professional to that extent, then either that person should not be doing the job, or that 10-year-old is a terrifying psychopath. 

I’m pretty sure that, despite my numerous issues, I’m not in psychopath territory.

I don’t believe the therapist was incompetent. 

The manipulation was not mine; it was being practiced on me, by parents.  They convinced me that I was bad so they didn’t have to look at themselves.

I’ve only just come to see this. 

For all these years I’ve believed what they told me. I’ve taken their views and accepted them as the truth of what I am. 

I’ve carried all the shitty stuff, all the things repeatedly told, directly and indirectly – you’re bad, you’re manipulative, you’re disgusting, you can’t be trusted, you’re not worth loving, people will always see your true colours and leave you. 

It’s very disorientating to suddenly not be sure what is true about yourself. 

I guess this childhood rejection is the root of why I pushed so hard early on in my relationship with the EH – actually, why I’ve done it in all my intimate relationships – the glomming on has been an attempt to avoid being abandoned. 

I’d be all cool, independent woman about town, until there was an indication I was liked and wanted, then I’d immediately go into “How much?” mode.   

Unacknowledged fear would kick in and I’d need ever more proof that the person hadn’t seen the ‘real’, inside me; that I wasn’t going to be abandoned.

Move in with me, get a dog with me, marry me, have a child with me, tie yourself to me in every possible way so I can shut down the terror of being actually unlovable. 

I’d stop even considering if I wanted this person. All that mattered was that they wanted me. Once they liked me, I had to make sure they never stopped.

As a tactic it’s been a spectacular failure.

The thing that I’m finally recognising, is the somewhat ironic fact that anyone willing to rush into tying themselves to me in such a short time is putting up huge red flags.

Clearly I’ve been exhibiting that red-flag behaviour too.

It has to stop.

Little Jess can’t continue be in charge of grown up relationships.

Before I go into another intimate relationship, that fucked up kid has to have been consoled and made to feel safe.

JP