This is rather difficult to write, but I will try my best. It’s not that I want this blog to be filled with dreadful accounts of my personal life, but this is what I grew up with, and I want it somewhere of my chest.
Life became difficult for me, when my parents divorced. It was a time when the teacher asked how many kids parents where divorced that I was the only one that put up his hand. I was an outcast just by the fact that my parents didn’t love eachother anymore. Nobody in my class then could relate to me, not even the adult in the room.
I first noticed my mom’s terrible behaviour when I was 24, when I got my second girlfriend. My mom was very possessive of me. I was her “boy”, her “son”. She always said to everyboy whom would listen that I got everything my heart desired. Well, this is my account of how it really was.
My sisters and me were told to visit my dad every other weekend. Most times it went fine, although when we were there we had to make sure we had something to do all day long, because dad would be working in his shed all day, or take us over to a clients house, so he could fix the lock (he was a locksmith).
After my sisters had the appropriate age, I had to go alone, although there was a time that my dad didn’t want to pick me up anymore, because it hurt him to much to bring me back at the end of the weekend. I get it now, in retrospect, to have to give someone back at the end of a very pleasant day, and see them leave. I get that now. To me the most difficult was the telephone calls. My mom dialed the number, and I had to call myself. Ask my dad, myself, as a little boy… why he wouldn’t pick me up. Mostly I got the answering machine. I never said anything to the machine. Even now, I still don’t like talking to answering machines, but when he did pick up the phone, and I, in tears, asked him, why he didn’t pick me up were for me the most difficult thing to do. I must say that I blamed my dad for his outbursts on the phone, when he used to yell at me, but I see now, that he was cornered. He was like a tiger, in a cage, being pushed back against the wall, and because I was doing the pushing, he had to lash out at me.
My mom orchestrated the calls. She pushed me to do it, and actually I still don’t like to call with a landline up until this day, because of this fact.
I blamed my dad for a lot of things. Many, many things. But only a handful things were his fault. Most things, a lot more things that happened after my childhood, were his fault. My mom kept me disfunctional most of my life. I can’t clean properly, I can’t wash my clothes. I can do the dishes. I can cook, but I learned those things on my own. I don’t think I learned anything from my mom.
You have to know that my mom lives on wellfare. She collects money every month to do absolutely nothing. When I went back “home” after my suicidal stunt, my sister lived in our old home. My mom went on to live with her husband, although her address was still registered in our old home, so she could collect her money, but thanks to the paycheck my brother-in-law and my sister were getting, her pay went down, and everything my mom lost, they had to pay up. No saving for them.
When they were thrown out, I lived there. When I was jobless and collected very little money, she left me on my own, to make very, very little money, enough to eat a whole month, but I couldn’t do anything else. When I had a job and my mom got less money, I had to pay up everything she lost, even if it was most of my paycheck, so I went to work a whole month, and got as much as not working at all. Fair, right?
I will tell you more, later perhaps.