it’s hard to love

Most days I feel as though on some level my parents hated me. As though they were happy just having my brother and I was this giant mistake that they never really wanted. I feel like I’ve always somehow been a disappointment to them. Like I will always be a disappointment to them.

I was never the little girl who followed the path of what was considered ‘normal’ little girl behaviour. I wore bib overalls, t-shirts and sneakers. Dresses, nail polish and makeup were foreign things for me. My body was covered in bumps and bruises, my face in dirt and freckles. I was the one who got picked first for the baseball team and other sporting teams. I wore hockey skates and cleats and broke more pairs of glasses then I can count. When my grandmother got cancer, I was the one who shaved my head.

Time and time again my parents would say things to me about how they thought I should be different; ‘why can’t you act more like a girl‘ or ‘you’d be so much prettier if you grew your hair and wore makeup and put away the jeans and sneakers‘ and ‘you know, no boy is going to want to be with a girl who is better at sports and covered in dirt all the time‘. It didn’t matter that I stayed out of trouble and didn’t party or give attitude like most teenage girls give their parents. It didn’t matter that I worked hard at school and while I didn’t get the best grades, I did okay. All that seemed to matter was that I didn’t fit the mold that they had created for me.

I never felt like I was enough. I never felt special. I always felt like I was chasing something but I don’t know what. I still feel like I’m chasing something from my mother that she just can’t give me.

There is a part of me that thinks my parents knew some of what was going on, but chose not to intervene. Comments that my mother makes will leave me questioning things. The problem is, she won’t talk about anything with me. Most often, I’m simply left with more unanswered questions.

I know my parents failed me. I know that a lot of my family failed me. I know that it’s not okay–the things that happened–and that most people would not blame me if I chose to walk away from my family. But for some reason I have yet to understand, a part of me holds on to the hope that one day things will be different. I do hate my family most of the time and feel awful for it. But a part of me doesn’t. Not really.

Loving is hard. I’ve just never felt equipped to love or be loved. To be able to do a good job of it. To feel that I love enough or that I love the right people.

I know there was some love when I was small….at least for a little while. I just don’t remember what it feels like. That’s what I want back. To feel that it’s really okay to love other people and that they can love me too–just as I am.

Otherwise, what’s the point in any of this?