Thinker. Dreamer. Lover

It’s been 8 months. 8 months since I lost the anchor that kept me from drifting out to sea, lost, hopeless and without any chance of finding myself home. I lost my home, never to return again. I have no direction now, no idea where I am going or what I am doing or what the point of it all is. I was already pretty confused and adrift before, but now it’s like I have been permanently forced onto a complex maze and the door behind me has been shut. I’ve been catapulted to some middle point, where I have no idea how I got there, or what step or turn to take next and the way out is indomitable.

Except, I didn’t get catapulted. I put myself in this mystery maze of confusion and chaos from all the years of aimless wondering. I am responsible for having lost myself and I take ownership and accountability for the actions that led to me being in this state. Still, the rope that tethered me to sanity, that kept me connected to love and hope has been permanently cut and I can only assume once more that I am to blame for it.

I’ve always been a tortured soul, a human brought into this world with no ties. Although most people don’t have good reasons for having children, other than they are married and love each other and it is the natural evolution in the relationship- my parents were not most people. My father was already a rudderless ship, having been discarded by his own family and abused and tortured by stepparents; he was no model parent and he did not even want to have a child. Conversely, he met my mother and I don’t even think there was love. How can a man who was never been loved or cared for as a child, grow to be a man that is capable of love? Especially in those times, and of that generation, who was and is so wontedly disconnected from their emotions and feelings. My mother avows she did indeed fall in love, but hers is also a troubled childhood. The middle child, only daughter of an alcoholic father and two brothers who were always getting in trouble. She had to learn how to care and nurture herself as her mother, my grandmother, was too busy looking after all the men in the family who demanded of her time. She met the afflicted soul that was my father and likely thought it was a project that called close to home. She was also superficial and vain and my father presented as a handsome, well established business professional, so the trap was easily set.

I was not a witness to their history, I only have the stories they each told me and an understanding of each personality, character and ego. My father, when I was 11 years old, came and found me to tell me his truth. He shared that he never wanted to be married, have a family and even less a child. He told my mother as much, with clarity and emphasis on not being convinced otherwise. He looked me in the eye and was brutal and honest and stated “I never wanted you”. He explained this is why he did not recognize me as his daughter for the first 2 years of my life. I didn’t know the full story until then, and to be fair at that point I only got one half. It did however shatter all my fantasies and illusions of a father who was in a land far away, and from whom I had been taken from unfairly to live in a foreign country. I used to daydream that one day he would come and save me, like the white knight in shining armor told in all the fairytales that I so gullibly believed. Instead, at 11 years old, I was confronted with a reality that was harsh and cruel but also transparent and undisguised. As it was so unpleasant, why would anybody lie about such a story? At that age, I believed my father, as I knew nothing about the man, other than he came to lay it all on the line. Over the years and now as a mature middle-aged adult, I know a lot about him. Not because I spent time with him or got to know him, but rather because of the further stories I heard from my family and more profoundly because I am exactly like him. Authentic to a fault; incapable of being anything but genuine even if that means that the truth hurts. I would rather be up front with people, especially in personal relationships whether friends, family or romantic ones, it was often said I had no tack. The fact of the matter is that as a child, I did not have a tie with my father, not in any sort of familial connection, beyond my delusions. Once he shared his truth, even that tenuous fibre of what I thought to be real, was permanently severed. I came into this world unwanted by one parent. The parent that in a cruel twist of fate, nature had molded me to be most like. I am unwanted by him and hence I don’t love myself.

The story with my mother is more complex and more traumatic since I did grow up with her until the age of 12. She always romanticized how much she wanted me and was happy in her pregnancy and at my birth. She claims she loves me and I guess if narcissists are capable of love, then she does in her own way. The truth is that she wanted to be married to my father and to have a family and despite being told not to get pregnant by my father, she did it anyway convinced that he would eventually come around. This is not the story that she shared, but knowing exactly who she is and how she is, I am convinced that this is the truth. My mother is self serving. She does not take no for an answer, she always thinks there is a way to manipulate a situation and work things out in her favor; she has done this with me her entire life, including conceiving me and bringing me into this world. After my birth, she waited for 5 years for my father to come around, always thinking in her neurotic, ego-maniacal mind, that he would change his. When I turned 2, my father finally did recognize me as his daughter, but this didn’t mean he wanted to be with my mother or have a family. In recognition of her effort, she waited 3 more years patiently, before immigrating with me to the USA. Of course, her heart was always set on getting married and having a family, so not even 6 months after arriving in Miami she met my stepfather. Within the year they were married and 3 months later she was pregnant with my sister. As for her first child born out of wedlock, I was relegated to an unwanted stepchild. I was never integrated into the nuclear family she created and instead it was the opposite, I was abused and tortured, just like my father had been. There were no ties to family for me, having been incepted as a pawn to fill her needs, and when I failed in that endeavor and she succeeded in creating her own family, the life line that connected us became a chain. Helpless as a child and needing to be fed and sheltered, she provided that, but she gave me no home, no family, no stability. From an an early age, I was like a tug boat floating out alongside the mothership, undesirable and unwanted unless she needed to escape, in which case she would call on me. I left my mother and stepfather’s home at 12 years old to live in foster care and with an adopted family for 3 years. At 15, my maternal grandmother came to take care of me and I began working full time. My mother was mostly absent in my life, until I turned 18 and was an adult and could be considered a financial asset, which for many years is the only relationship we had. She would take money from me and provide nothing in return. It was almost as though she had cunningly and cleverly managed to turn the tables, from being the responsible and mature provider and carer, what a parent ought to be, to being taken care of my her own child.

Nonetheless, I never had a home or an anchor. I was out in the murky waters of life on my own, always, navigating sharks and tidal waves, drowning, found nearly lifeless on shore and getting myself up to do it all over again.

My twenty’s were a struggle and a nightmare, especially through my university and graduate school years. I did not have many relationships, friendships or otherwise. The people I met were always fleeting and no roots were ever put down. I never knew what stability was, nor ever experienced the kindness of others.

Then thirty happened, and it seemed that there might be hope after all. I finally started an adult job at a rather mature age, I had begun to make connections in a city that I had lived in for 4 years and it started to feel like a place that was familiar to me. I was able to create meaningful connections, or so I thought. I was stable and my heart was healing and open. At 32, I met my husband. For me, it was love at first sight. The first time we saw each other in person, it was like I had finally come home. It was the feeling of being seen and understood and in turn knowing and accepting someone. It was our souls speaking to each other and our minds connecting. It was our hearts that were touched by the sensitivity of the other. I will never forget our first date, it was the best night of my life which ended sweetly with a nervous peck, lips barely grazing each other. Could this be real? Had I finally found the person to whom I belonged? Love is not rational. It is not something you equate or can quantify into a checklist of items that meet your needs. It is a beating of the heart, unsolicited; an apprehensive energy at the thought of losing someone you’ve barely just met; a buried yearning deep down that finally seems fulfilled. This is what I felt towards my spouse from the start. I have loved him from the moment I saw him. For me, it is a sentiment I cannot control and one that I was convinced that regardless the challenges put before us, would never change because to have found this love, was the greatest gift of all.

Unfortunately 8 months ago, my husband ended our relationship. Perhaps it was over for him before then, but it was communicated to me for the first time 8 months ago. To say it was devastating would be an understatement. I lost my home – the only home I had ever known. The circumstances that led to that day and to his decision were so many and so vast over several years and potentially the entirety of our relationship. For my part, I had grown increasingly restless and desperate for wanting a stability that, despite being married, I felt I did not have with him for many years. In my state of agitation, I was not able to solve my problems on my own. Whereas my whole life I had, because of the effort it took for me to care for him, particularly in the past couple of years, I was no longer capable of caring for myself. I was useless. Depressed. Anxious. Unsure. Lacking confidence. Flighty. Erratic. Angry. Sad. Depressed. All of these things did not bode well for our relationship and in particular fo my spouse. For him, the months of me struggling were too much. He was doing better, he was healing, his life was coming into order and I was losing it. I know it. I realize that I was weak at the most inopportune of times.

Consequently I have lost everything and find myself staring down the path of a what seems to be a perilous road. I can turn left or right, but when I look down again, that same visual haunts me. There is no clear way through the haze. There is no home at the end, and no whimsical yellow brick road to meander on to get there. Instead it is just a tornado of confusion and uncertainty that has transplanted me to a land far away, where I still don’t know who I am, or where I belong. The only thing that seems for sure is that I am not worthy of love.