"I guess I did screw up minorly."

Ever since I can remember, I had difficulties in school, and I was always really socially awkward. Starting in second grade, I was severely teased for being different. 

My second grade teacher was so supportive and kind, and he advocated that I get tested to find out why I was different from everyone else. But after I was tested, my mother, who I refer to as "Birthgiver" made sure I never found out the results. 

I used to come home in tears, begging to know why I was so different, and she would say things like, "What did you do to them first to make them tease you?" "You're lazy and don't apply yourself." "The only way I can get through to you is by hitting you." "You need to stop being such a baby." 

By high school, I finally just stopped asking why I was different. Stopped telling her in detail about how cruel kids were to me. I just started saying "I'm fine," and, "School was fine."

I started dating someone at age 19, got married and divorced, and didn't speak to my birthgiver for eight years. 

When I finally reached out to her, I hoped that she had realized her faults in our relationship.  Instead of taking accountability for what she did, she just said. "Oh, yeah, I guess I did screw up minorly by not telling you that you have autism."

That has always stuck with me. If I had known I had autism sooner, and she had gotten me some additional help from outside school, maybe I wouldn't have struggled for so long.
 

"Sometimes I think he did too good a job."

At some point early in our marriage, I happened to mention to my ex-husband that my dad had made a point to raise independent daughters, and something in regards to the benefits of this. My husband replied, "Yeah, I know. But sometimes I think he did too good a job." 

At the time I brushed this comment off, but looking back now (and after a great deal of therapy), I can see this as a portent of things to come. 

Throughout our marriage, my independence increasingly became an issue for him. It meant that he and his wants couldn't always come first in our relationship, or that sometimes he might have to take someone else into consideration when making decisions about something.  When we got into arguments, my ability to stand up for myself became a tool he used against me. When I would bring up something he'd said in the past, he would either deny having said it, or accuse me of twisting his words. Throughout all of this, he cast himself as the innocent bystander, or even the victim, making me feel guiltier and guiltier. 

I eventually started to doubt myself, all the time, about everything. Rather than reaching a mutually satisfying compromise over an issue, I found myself just giving in to his demands, or letting him talk me around to his point of view. I began to view my independence as a negative trait and a selfish behavior. I remember telling my therapist I felt like I was going crazy because I was never sure about anything anymore and didn't feel like myself. 

Thank goodness my independence never fully left me, because I never stopped fighting, and finally asked for a divorce after about 3 years. I have a wonderful new partner in life who loves me as I am, and sincerely appreciates my independence and self sufficiency. He never questions my desire or need to do something on my own, but gently lets me know he's there if I need him. I revel in the life I have built for myself. 

But there are times, in my most anxiety ridden moments, when I hear my ex-husband's voice in the back of my head and start to doubt myself again, and just for a second I wonder if my independence won't also be my downfall. Then I remember how f*cking amazing I am, and that he is just a selfish narcissist who doesn't believe that white, male privilege exists.
 

Do Over

My dad and I never really had that great a relationship. He always thought I was weird, and not what he imagined when he found out he was having a girl. 

At one point in my twenties, I was working three jobs, about to buy a house, owned my car, and was working on a nursing degree. I guess subconsciously I didn't want to be a disappointment anymore. 

One night I came home after a long night shift and was in the bathroom taking off my makeup. I overheard him telling my mom that he wanted to have another baby, because he "wanted a do over."

I don't think he ever knew I heard him or that I was even home, but those words always messed with me, because I never could understand what it was about me that was so bad in his eyes.

"She's YOUR problem now!"

My mother and I have never been close. The older I get, the further apart we grow. She's very ugly towards anybody who is different from her, degrading anyone who is black, homosexual, has tattoos, mental disorders, is poor, addicted, atheist, agnostic, drives the wrong car - the list goes on. I fit into most of those categories, but I live a fully successful and happy life. 

At my wedding three years ago, my husband made a funny remark during our toast about my parents raising a "wild" girl. I laughed because it was cute. Then my mother, in front of everybody, replied, "She's YOUR problem now!" 

That was the only thing she said to either of us during our entire wedding. My husband's remark was teasing in a cute way. My mother's response, dripping with hatred, left the room a dead, awkward silence. 

I wish I could say that her frequent stabbing remarks don't affect me, but I would be lying. I can hardly do anything without hearing her voice inside my head, putting me down and reminding me that I'm just a "problem." 
 

Smart

When I was in school, teachers didn't know about dyslexia, ADHD, or PTSD. They didn't understand my stutter, so I stopped talking, and just did the best I could to keep up and not get noticed by my teachers anymore. 

They did notice. All through my youth I was told I was "stupid," "deliberately acting dumb," and "failing tests on purpose." I was told I would never graduate. I got lumped in with the bad crowd, and wore my "dumbness" with pride. Until I met my 8th grade math teacher. 

Math was always my worst subject. Dyslexia turns timed multiplication tests into an instant panic attack. My former math teachers told me that they let me pass their classes just so they wouldn't have to deal with me again.
 
But this one teacher. He kept me after class and helped me with homework. He walked me through tests so I would slow down enough to finish them. And then one day, out of the blue, he told me I was smart, and that my brain just worked too fast for anyone else to keep up.

In all of my 15 years, nobody had ever called me smart. 

With that one little comment, I started passing classes. I ended up graduating not only high school, but college, too. My stutter slowed, and now, years later, I still truly believe that I'm smart.  

That one math teacher that took time out of his overworked days to tell the dumb kid she was smart. That's what stuck with me.
 

"Why is Pooh black?"

Junior year of high school, we put on Winnie the Pooh as our spring play, and we performed the show at all of the local elementary schools. 

Our cast was mostly black, as is the population of our town. When we brought the play to schools that were also mostly black, the children adored us. We were big, fuzzy rock stars! 

However, when we brought it to the suburban and private elementary schools, the little kids were fearful of us. They would ask their teacher, "Why is Pooh black?"

My cast-mates were uncomfortable. The kids didn't laugh very much. Our director blamed it on low cast energy, but we knew him too well to know that he was just trying to ignore the obvious. Those kids didn't see themselves represented for probably the first time in their lives, and they didn't know how to deal with it. I learned a lot about racism and media representation that day.

Now whenever I hear someone complaining about a fictional character being non-white, I always think back to those little suburban kids, confused at their lack of representation for the first time and not knowing how to handle it. Except the people I'm referring to are grown adults with access to plenty of white characters to relate to.
 

"What the HELL did you do to your hair?!?!"

I got married really young, and it took me six years after our divorce to realize that it was an abusive relationship. 

One of the first hints was when I went to visit a loved one in Alabama without my husband. During the trip, I got my hair cut from shoulder-length to pageboy cut, and I absolutely adored it. I thought I was beautiful for the first time since my son was born.

I was gone for a full 10 days, and as I got off the Greyhound I heard my husband call to me. He didn't say, "Hi." He didn't say, "We missed you." He didn't say, "Welcome home."

All he said to me was, "What the HELL did you do to your hair?!?!"

The whole ride home he went on and on about how I shouldn't have cut my hair, how I didn't even talk to him about it first, how awful I looked with short hair, and how it made me look slutty. 
 

"Johnsons don't cry."

I grew up without much physical affection, so I was unusually attached to my first boyfriend. When I was 16 and we broke up, I couldn't accept the fact that this breakup would be our last of many. To me, the daily sex, hugs, and kisses were an addiction. I needed them to feel loved.

When I finally processed that this was final, I was sobbing in my room. My father - drunk, as was typical of him - might have thought he was comforting me when he saw me and said, "Forget him! Johnsons* don't cry."

After that moment, I was ashamed to cry. I was ashamed to show any emotion other than hostility. 

I'm 21 now. And I'm still not able to let myself cry. I fight the tears until I have mental breakdowns. My sadness now automatically converts to rage.

I have some joy and love, thanks to my fiancé, but I fear I'll never be normal again. I'll never be able to cry openly and easily.

Because Johnsons don't cry.

*Names have been changed. 
 

"You need this."

Growing up, I was never really big, but compared to my 5'4 120 pound mother, I was enormous. 

For Christmas in 5th grade, I received a beautiful box wrapped in red paper from my parents. I excitedly opened it in front of my entire family. It was the Richard Simmons Deal-a-Meal diet program. I was absolutely humiliated. My mother's only explanation was, "You need this." 

I look back on my childhood and I can remember the comments from them about how big my arms were and how fat I looked in my clothes. I remember my mom saying once that she didn't understand why I was so fat because I didn't eat any more than she did. These things stuck with me. I don't think my parents intentionally tried to hurt me, but their words are burned into my soul. 

I'm now 33 years old with a 10 year old daughter of my own. I go out of my way to build up my daughter and to let her know that she is perfect just the way she is.

"What IS it?"

As a kid, I had short hair, played sports, and was routinely mistaken for a boy. We moved when I was 10, and I started a new school. I kept wearing androgynous clothes and flattening sports bras. I was self-conscious not only of being the new kid with no friends, but of being one of the only kids wearing a bra. I had short, short hair and "boy clothes," but breasts. 

It wasn't until high school that I started dressing girlier and growing my hair out. In homeroom one day, a male classmate gave me an unsolicited compliment on my new look. 

He went on to describe how my appearance used to freak him out because he couldn't tell what I was. The clincher, though, that stuck with me? "I remember when you moved here...I was like, 'Is it a guy or a chick? What IS it?'"

I replied with a sarcastic joke, but in reality, most sentient beings probably wouldn't like being labelled as "it."