why am i like this?
I’m back with something interesting to write about, but it’s not really that great of a thing given the context of why I am writing.
I want to understand why is it that I had to have lived the life I lived… Bore the trauma that I’ve been through, and why I have to continue to live, having it affect me the way it does in everyday interactions.
I had a really shit night with some rude old people working at the place I went to with my sister and sister-in-laws sister. Lots of sisters here… but anyway, I got the worst customer service I think I’ll ever have in my life, and the situation has left my mind disconnected from my body. Everyone has to deal with some shit service at some point in their life, I know. But something so normal, still affects me to my core. I’m not hurt by what happened to me, I’m not even angry with the staff. But I’m crying and snotting all over the place currently because for an unfair reason I just feel like I’m 15 again.
I hate it when older people yell at me, and I especially hate when older people belittle me and gaslight me. When they imply I’m stupid. Treat me like I’m something other than a human being who has lived through enough shit.
Obviously, I have parental issues. I guess everyone does, right? Especially when I was a teenager, so, I know that is why I feel the way I feel. But I struggle to accept the fact that this will always be how I react in these scenarios I am in. That I will always regress back into the girl that sat in the back of the car, sobbing until she puked because of the things her father screamed at her. That I will always be that girl that blames herself for how she was treated, and fear the concept that I was just unlucky in who my parents are.
I hate even just the thought crossing my mind that there’s an alternative reality where I was loved and appreciated by my parents. Because I know it doesn’t exist, and I know I’ll never know what it feels like.
I wonder how is it that there are people that will always know what type of person I am before they’ve interacted with me.
Knowing that when they push me down, I won’t get up. I won’t even ask them why they did it.
How do they know that before I’ve even made eye contact with them?
I’m compliant in the way I get treated by people, and I wonder if there will ever be a time when I will actually and truly believe that I deserve to be treated better.
For now, I’m just crying at my desk, writing this post up, already forgetting the details of my night each letter I press on my keyboard. At least in the trauma that my body remembers, it also remembers how to repress.
⌂