“Peeping thru my Window pt 3”
I’m a boy.
Relationships, where do I even start with that vast term? Do kids even consider family and friends as relationships these days? I don’t remember that being a thing spoke about, I only believed relationships was a girlfriend-boyfriend, husband-wife type thing.
I knew nothing of relationships, believing that I could have them by just being the best version of myself while hiding my worst, clueless of the inevitable implosion. There was a rage that I had no clue had festered so deeply becoming something so void, dark and wounded, that would expose itself at unexpected times, mirroring those very people and things I deep down hated, wanting to be nothing like.
I blurted this out one day to my best friend on the phone, maybe because I had never said it out loud, but I told her about one of my foster homes. How I used to get tormented in that home. I was punished with crazy labor when I got in trouble. I had to carry a wheel barrel, digging dirt and dumping dirt for hours, or walking stairs for hours. If not just beat before or after (sidenote, it helped me become a pretty physically strong kid!).
I remember one day, I needed to use the bathroom while we were at the park. My foster brother and sisters wouldn’t take me back, so I defacated myself. They rode me on the bike with me sitting close to the tire ripping at my shorts and smashing it all over me. Once we got home, I got beat for shitting myself and for my foster mom having to clean it. I walked stairs on my toes up and down from the dark basement for hours where I was told werewolves were,(my worst fear) and that staying on my toes would keep them away since I’m walking like them. (upside is that I’ve been fast with big calf’s and quads since a kid) I still walk on my toes to this day, ha.
My foster brother would tie my socks together at the toes and spin me around upside down on his shoulder as I cry out upside down. Then he’d put me down and make me walk, laughing as I fell. One day I busted my chin real bad and got stitches, obviously the why was lied about. To make it worse, it was Christmas Day, where they gave me diapers as a present, get the joke?
At that same home, the foster brother had me have sex with his two sisters, (my foster sisters) while he watched and kept an eye out for his parents outside. They were years older than me and I was told to go from bed to bed. At that age, I began to think that this was the thing to do, they liked me when I did it and I didn’t get messed with as much when I did. So I liked making them feel good because it made them like me. Obviously, I became hypersexual before fourth grade. I started seeing women and sex as things to make people feel good and like you.
So I looked for sex in all my relationships, even when I was too young still. It wasn’t for myself, but for them in my head. As I got older I noticed sex didn’t solve life stresses, it was just another mask. I had so many by then, I could find more.
But then that inner rage came bubbling up when things got too overwhelming. And those angry outbursts turned to verbal onslaughts, and later on, physical abuse. It wasn’t that I took to hitting women, that was isolated occurrences, I never desired to hurt anyone, especially women. But it was a respect thing. It didn’t matter who it was, once I’d had enough, I blew! Because I never handled my disagreements assertively, I was a passive people pleaser. I just agreed, stuffed it, and got past it, not realizing that I was just stacking it all up. That rage was colorless and sexless, I saw nothing but searing white light. Scars from being made fun of when I was little made me self-conscious and real sensitive to certain words and actions. That led to abuse with my first son’s mother.
I’ve been apologizing for those days since it happened in every relationship and interaction with a woman. To this day I’m so disconnected in relationships, scared and passive because I face those ghosts of what I went through with her and never want to do that again, knowing that I may never be forgiven nor deserve to be. The only time I’m not sensitive in my relationships is when I’m actively sabotaging them, pushing them away because after so long, I feel too dirty and unworthy of having someone. You know when someone’s so far out of your life but still control it in a way and don’t even know it, they may still be wounded by you but your shame from them rules your life? Yea, that’s me. So I emotionally detach at random. I’ve always feared hurting women because what my mom went through just to get me in this life and the abuse I witnessed her go through as well. Aand I ended up doing the same thing.
One day I’ll have to tell my son what I did, because that accountability is mine alone, though it affected his life. My distance from him was a result of my own guilt and emotional turmoil, how selfish we parents can be. He has barely had a father because I ran away from my mistake. Me and his mother, we were both kids with a kid and being kids when we had to be adults. I was older, I was the man, I should’ve been one, but I wasn’t, see why I said I’m a boy?
How can I even be a father when I had no real understanding of family and parenthood. Most examples were of crippled and fractured love, foster families getting divorced, fighting each other, or getting rid of me. I believed nothing lasted; everything eventually would fall apart.
This is just a little peak at what formed me, I don’t know if I properly correlated how former traumas became emotional with relationship identity. I’m not really trying to prescribe a definite reason or way in any of this. It’s still a blur to me. Putting these pieces together while imprisoned just seemed like a logical thing to do, though what I feel I am is illogical because I think and see things too different from most. But given my life, embracing the dark times is as stress-less as walking in the sun with a cool breeze.