I was telling a coworker once about how my dad wanted to sleep with me (my father has secret and pathetic dreams of being a pimp), and the guy, who wanted to go into medicine but was working fast-food while he was in school, stared at me with the strangest expression on his face.
Victor, Where Is Your Personal Filter?!
I couldn’t tell if he was appreciating his not-so-dysfunctional life, or if he was trying to figure out why I looked so normal (look at me! I’m the poster child for resiliency!).
No Really, I Am
Then he got sort of sober, and put his knife down (because kitchen, you know), and said, “Victor, you’re a good person.”
Well, Thanks, Awesome Co-worker!
I adopted a couple of twenty-somethings (they were near my age at the time), and made sure they weren’t going to do anything supremely stupid while they were transitioning into I-don’t-live-with-my-abuser-anymore mode. I count the one kid as a win, because I got him through his suicidal phase (he’s got emotional tools now, so I think he’ll be fine–severely emotionally blocked, but not dead), and the other kid is at least aware now of the extent of the interpersonal abuse, which is sort of progress.
Silly Victor, You’re Too Young To Adopt People!
I don’t think I’m ever going to have friends (aside from my gold-star spouse), because the people who have been misused as extensively as I have are too screwed up to have friends. I stopped having a social life a few years ago, because I was spending so much time fixing other people’s dysfunctional patterns of relating to others that I never got around to looking at my own.
Bah! You Hypocrite!
I’m really good at fixing people. Ah, the sweet hubris of youth, right? But I am.
Whatever You Say, Victor
I have a closeted abusive uncle (he married a religious woman and pumped kids out like a pneumatic factory of squishable humans) who has a doctorate. I remember being at some large gathering (before I was old enough to cut the fuckers off) and hearing him talk about how professional graduate degrees are like a holding tank for age, because no one wants to listen to a squeaking eighteen-year-old prodigy diagnose their life ills.
What Do You Mean, Closeted?
I used to feel sorry for my siblings (because they’re all too dumb to realize they should get out); then I got older, and they turned out badly, and married equally-miserable abusers. They are, altogether, a miserably-enmeshed group of psychos.
You’re Really Judgmental, Victor Poole
I turned out well (and married a good person), but I’m tired. Fuckety McFuckerson, but I’m tired.
You Are Swearing A Lot Today, Aren’t You?
All of this to say, I may or may not be writing regularly on my blog while I sort out my own life ills. I am giving myself permission to miss blogging days. If you get a deep hankering for more of me, I wrote the series about Ajalia for just such a time. (Because I’m so damn tasty, I know.)