Who I was, Who I am and Who I Want to be (Part three)

At barely 19, I started out in this new, parent-free phase of my life. They didn't contribute anything to my life, material or otherwise at first. It's actually sad how easily detached we all were. But again, there I was, starting an entire life over with new people and new responsibilities. I was overwhelmed and that's when the depression really started to grow. It was like a snake, each stage of my life it shed its skin, but only to grow and change slightly, just enough to keep me off balance. I remember when I was really young, learning the concept of suicide and thinking that was actually a good idea. I became obsessed with the idea of what happens after we die. It's the great mystery that nobody knows until they experience it. The first time I tried to commit suicide I was twelve. My mom had sent one of her BS "I care about you enough to guilt you" letters. My dad had me write a letter stating exactly how I felt then throw it away. It was later that night. It was dark and I was in the living room. Crying quietly enough not to wake someone, but loudly enough that anyone who was awake with concern over me could hear. I wanted to be held, I wanted comfort. But I couldn't go ask for it for fear of rejection. I realized my entire life would feel like this, over and over. So I wrote a tearful goodbye note and placed a plastic bag over my head. I lasted until I was very close to passing out, then ripped it off in fearful panic. I crawled into my bed, huddled in the fetal position and cried myself to sleep.

That's who I am now, still. Hurt easily by those I love, afraid to ask for comfort because I am certain it will lead to more rejection and pain.

We went through a year of college. I paid for the first semester on my own, by the second I had earned my financial aid back. At the end of the year, we decided we were in love and didn't want to be separated for the summer. We decided to get an apartment. I suppose I should have seen the sign that he was reluctant to be with me when he drove off with a friend the day of the move leaving me to move the contents of our dorm rooms to our apartment all by myself.

I got a job at the local fabric store and that when the see-saw of bills and resentment began.

I don't think that at this point in my life it is productive to go over what happened in my marriage. I just know that I built on old patterns over and over again. I expected and hoped for love and compassion from someone who couldn't give it to me. I was afraid to ask for it because of rejection and because I believed that showed me as weak, yet another awful trait I wanted to erase.

Even now, I ache to be held but hold myself back from asking and reaching out. I tell myself not to be a burden only to find out that's all I am. I haven't grown much past the 12year old that was convinced life was pain, love was a hopeless dream and she was worthless.

I have felt successful as a mother. There I have been able to give all the love I know how to and have it reflected back to me. Where I stumble is falling into the pattern of being one of my parents. And the guilt from doing such wonderful souls wrong. They started out pure, lit with love and needs. I try to keep them like that for as long as possible, yet my own past gets in the way. I hate one more thing about myself, just because I fear my past is making their future.