Trained To Not Make Choices (possibly triggering)
I had a realization last week that I was brought up not to make choices except in a limited range. Like in the sense of "I am offering you ice cream. Chocolate or vanilla?"
When I was a child, for instance, I had no choice when my ranting crazy mother demanded her visitation, screaming at the door. I remember that occasion vividly. Without excuse for being hours late, by which time I had wanted to stay with my dad, who made other plans.
I had no choice when my father remarried, insisted.that I call the new woman mother, and was often left alone with this abusive and cruel woman. I had no choice when she insisted that I not focus on areas of study I was interested in. I had no choice when, on long car trips, she insisted that I sit still without activity. I could not tell my father that I was not safe. At school I had no choice but to either be bullied or react viciously in response. The teachers and counsellors were useless. Those in my family could not protect me. My father, who was away for work a lot, was ignorant and just wanted his family to get along. I did not have the choice to tell him the truth, because I knew he would not listen.
Because this became so ingrained, and because I could see people around me were either willfully ignorant, malicious, indifferent or helpless, I tried to just get lost in books while always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I knew explanations never led to understanding for mistakes or confusion, just to punishment and accusations of lying. This is why, when my father was on a business trip, I was in a dark basement while my stepmother had a dinner party. I was often kept hungry so I crept up out of the basement after she had gone to bed and ate the remains of the dinner from the trash. Again, I had little sense of choice.
When my stepmother accused me of sexually abusing my half sister, I desperately denied it. I could not defend myself. When I was sent to the mental ward, my examiners never even tried to believe me. For months I denied it until I was told that I wouldn't be able to go home unless I confessed. I was told that I was in denial of what I had done. That I had to confess to the group of other youth I was with, since I was in my early teens at that time. I felt I had no choice.
Later, this went on and on. At times I look back and see a ghost of what my life could have been. But the main thing is that I was never brought up to choose, learn to fail or succeed. I'm trying to move my life together, attending university, but in reality I'm just plugging along. In many respects nothing has changed, I've simply gotten better at keeping it together. I live very deliberately but it is still very hard to make choices.
I have realized that the exhaustion I feel at school is partly because I am sad that I missed so much, and that many opportunities are gone. Part of it too is that I don't really have any passion save one: to help and encourage others affected by injustice. The problem is that that concern as a wider movement has no real commitment to justice. They are generally biased in favour of acceptable victims, so I hate being around them.
But as I say, I was not raised to make choices, so I need to find a way forward. It is exhausting living by courage and steadfastness alone.
When I was a child, for instance, I had no choice when my ranting crazy mother demanded her visitation, screaming at the door. I remember that occasion vividly. Without excuse for being hours late, by which time I had wanted to stay with my dad, who made other plans.
I had no choice when my father remarried, insisted.that I call the new woman mother, and was often left alone with this abusive and cruel woman. I had no choice when she insisted that I not focus on areas of study I was interested in. I had no choice when, on long car trips, she insisted that I sit still without activity. I could not tell my father that I was not safe. At school I had no choice but to either be bullied or react viciously in response. The teachers and counsellors were useless. Those in my family could not protect me. My father, who was away for work a lot, was ignorant and just wanted his family to get along. I did not have the choice to tell him the truth, because I knew he would not listen.
Because this became so ingrained, and because I could see people around me were either willfully ignorant, malicious, indifferent or helpless, I tried to just get lost in books while always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I knew explanations never led to understanding for mistakes or confusion, just to punishment and accusations of lying. This is why, when my father was on a business trip, I was in a dark basement while my stepmother had a dinner party. I was often kept hungry so I crept up out of the basement after she had gone to bed and ate the remains of the dinner from the trash. Again, I had little sense of choice.
When my stepmother accused me of sexually abusing my half sister, I desperately denied it. I could not defend myself. When I was sent to the mental ward, my examiners never even tried to believe me. For months I denied it until I was told that I wouldn't be able to go home unless I confessed. I was told that I was in denial of what I had done. That I had to confess to the group of other youth I was with, since I was in my early teens at that time. I felt I had no choice.
Later, this went on and on. At times I look back and see a ghost of what my life could have been. But the main thing is that I was never brought up to choose, learn to fail or succeed. I'm trying to move my life together, attending university, but in reality I'm just plugging along. In many respects nothing has changed, I've simply gotten better at keeping it together. I live very deliberately but it is still very hard to make choices.
I have realized that the exhaustion I feel at school is partly because I am sad that I missed so much, and that many opportunities are gone. Part of it too is that I don't really have any passion save one: to help and encourage others affected by injustice. The problem is that that concern as a wider movement has no real commitment to justice. They are generally biased in favour of acceptable victims, so I hate being around them.
But as I say, I was not raised to make choices, so I need to find a way forward. It is exhausting living by courage and steadfastness alone.
