"Why don't you start buying your own damn food?"

In 2012, my daughter's father and I broke up after he cheated on me. This man had been my whole world, and when we broke up, I was not in a good place. I was barely eating, and was lucky if I was able to keep down a small snack. I lost 25 pounds in a month and was crying all the time. 

I was living with my family, in a house with two hungry teenage boys. My dad came home from work one day, looked at me, and said, "I'm sick of you eating all the fucking food. Why don't you start buying your own damn food?" 

That one sentence, revealing that he didn't care enough to notice that I was clearly not the one eating all the food (or any food), and that I was currently very broken, destroyed our relationship. 

It took me four years after that to finally manage to let go of the toxic man I call my father. I may have cut him off, but his words have still stuck with me. They will always be a reminder that family is not always there. 

"Why did she get in the car with him?!"

I had a summer internship in college at a summer camp. The boss was terrible to work for and always felt off, and a news story eventually revealed him to be a pervert who had groomed, molested, and raped one of the campers, a 14-year-old girl. He had given her a ride home one day, but instead of taking her home, brought her back to his place where he sexually assaulted her. 

I told my mom about it and her immediate reaction was, "Why did she get in the car with him?!"

This reaction irreversibly changed the way I saw my mother: as the kind of woman who would blame a 14-year-old girl for being raped. 

To this day she still does not understand why I don't want to put that internship on my resume.
 

"Suck your stomach in."

When I was in 5th grade, we took a class trip to Canada. 

While we all walked around a beautiful mansion/ castle, my best friend's mom looked at me and said, "Suck your stomach in. In a year you will lose some inches off, and you won't look as fat."

"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.
 

"...when she doesn't get her way."

When I was 14 or 15, I tried to kill myself. 

I woke up in the bathroom of our trailer park, covered in blood, with a razor blade in my hand. I had shallow and deep cuts all over my arms and legs. I grabbed my cell phone from the bench next to me and called my mum, crying. She walked down from our trailer and flipped out when she found me. She called an ambulance and my dad. 

When the paramedics arrived, I was drifting in and out of consciousness. I remember being strapped to the gurney and loaded into the ambulance. I could hear my mum talking to one of the EMTs. When they asked her why I would do something like that, she said, "She does this when she doesn't get her way."

I have never forgotten that night and the betrayal that I felt.

"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.
 

"Not until I'm finished."

My pregnancy was not easy, and afterwards we followed the doctor's orders to abstain from sex for six weeks after I delivered. We waited like eager teenagers, and once I was cleared by the doctor, we could hardly wait to get our hands on each other. 

The sex was painful. I tried to get through it, but couldn't, and finally I had to call it quits. "Stop," I said.  

"Not until I'm finished."

I hear it every time now, in the back of my mind. A growl of need I couldn't meet, but had to anyway. 

"Not until I'm finished."