My First Bullies
My childhood bullies were my parents.
My parents were the first two people to reduce me to nothing but flaws and mistakes, then gawk and point and laugh. The first to mock the way I spoke, the words I chose, even the way I walk. I walk just like my dad. My mom liked to call it, "walking with your feet pointed out like a duck."
Christmas break, 2014. I was thirteen years old and had gotten some Christmas money. My mom mentioned we could make the drive from Michigan to Indiana to go to a strip mall. I was so excited! I loved to go for car rides and spend one on one time with my mom, because between work and other obligations, it happened so rarely.
I felt sometimes when it was just me and her, she would see me for me and remember I was just her baby. I just wanted her to accept and love me. That has always been at my core, so one of the hardest things for me to accept was that she didn't like me in hindsight. Anyone can make whatever arguement suits them about how all mothers inherently love their children. I do not know if she "loved" me. Objectively, the way she treated me was consistent with a high school mean girl.
The shopping went well. My mom didn't drink that day until we got home, so she was sort of fun to hang out with. We even shopped at Barnes & Noble and I purchased a Charli XCX and Panic! At The Disco album.
Add a new blazer, knock-off Converse, and an adorable phone case? You couldn't tell me I wasn't a whole new girl. A sophisticated teenager whose mom supported her interests and took her shopping. I still remember how that felt in my chest, driving home, feeling safe and satisfied.
The other shoe always drops when it comes to my parents, though. I know this essay is focusing on my mom, but it can't be understated how they both could be casually cruel. My dad was more physical, often the back-up for my mom. My mom could cut on all levels, but she got to me when she humiliated me.
She got a few drinks in her, probably a Coors Light or an Angry Orchard in that era. And she started talking about our day. She had lightly picked on me for the Converse, as well as the blazer. It wasn't so bad, though, and we were having such a good day anyways. So I brushed it off. But at home, she intensified.
"Show them your new shoes, Samantha," She motioned toward the shopping bags. I happily brought all my new stuff to the living room.
My mom picked through it all, making commentary that stung. Poking fun at my taste in style, making me feel like the whole day was a lie. Some kind of sunny utopia where she was more mother than tormentor.
Then she put my new outfit on. The blazer, the Converse, even held the phone case.
"Look at me, I'm Samantha," She laughed. I sat on the couch, furiously biting the inside of my cheek. My family giggled at her show quietly. My cheeks were on fire.
"I walk with my feet pointed out, like a duck's!" She threw her head back and turned her feet out like a ballerina, laughing like this was the best joke of all time.
I begged for her to please stop, please give my things back. I wasn't excited anymore. My dream day, this fantasy version of my mom, she was gone. She kept parading, only stopping when she grew tired of the bit. I jumped up to grab my soiled items and take them to my room, where I planned to bury my face in the nearest pillow and bawl. That's when I noticed something.
Under the sleeve on the right side of the new blazer, there was a huge rip. I could not even wear this now if I wanted to. In one big sweeping "joke," my mom had shown me three things:
1. Never trust her when she seems nice.
2. Never start to believe she actually cares about how you feel.
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3. Try to point your feet forward when you walk even though it is uncomfortable and makes life harder. How you look is more important than how you feel, always.
As I write this, another example comes to mind. Sixth grade. My middle school was facing a bullying problem amongst the students, so they brought in one of those programs where they show videos and give speeches about bullying. I remember hearing this:
(This is a mega paraphrase. Sixth grade was so long ago!)
"Bullies are so exhausting. You do all this work to build yourself up, just to get knocked back down again. Over and over."
I teared up. Not because some girl named Amanda was pulling my hair, or because some Cooper dude was kicking dirt into my eyes. It was because my own parents, the people I was meant to look up to, those were my bullies.
The orator advised us to stick up for ourselves, attempt to resolve the conflict. If that didn't work, find a trusted adult. I knew what I had to do.
I mean, it was totally possible my parents made it be grown adults with full-time jobs and for them to not know they weren't supposed to mercilessly "tease" their child. Right? At least that's what I thought.
I genuienly believed they would recieve this "new" information, take it on board, and treat me better. After all, even for all my flaws, I had to be lovable AND likable somewhere deep, deep down inside. They were grown ups. They had to see that. I would help them.
So that very night, I stood in front of the TV. I told them they were being bullies to me by definition, based upon what I had just learned.
"I keep building myself back up again," I explained, voice trembling, heart racing, hands shaking. "And you guys knock me back down again."
There was a beat of silence. I tensed for my mother to roar at the injustice of being seen by her 11 year old. I tensed for the tell-tale clink and leather-on-denim slide of my dad's belt as he raced to his feet to beat this insolence out of me.
Instead, they burst into uproarous laughter. They had never heard such a funny joke! What had taken me years and a middle school bullying assembly to say was hilarious to them.
"Oh please, Samantha," My mom waved her hand as if fanning away an annoyance, a pest. "You don't know what bullying is. Now move, you make a better door than a window."
I stepped away. They went back to their beverages. My dad alternated sips between Jack Daniels and Coke. My mom sipped a beer. I slipped away, unnoticed, burning like the liquor in my dad's throat. I buried my face in a pillow and sobbed, hopelessness like a brick tied to my ankle, pulling me down down down into an abyss of existential lonliness.
This bullying behavior never left. They kept drinking. Nobody came to rescue me from that. I took it, over and over again, but it's funny looking back. They called me too sensitive, overdramatic, coddled.
When I began to develop my own personal political ideology, I became a "special snowflake." Nothing about me was embraced, celebrated, or cherished unless it helped boost the family image.
The bigger picture is this, however: the failing was never mine. I never deserved to be bullied like that on my worst day.
This essay is still just a small glimpse into what my childhood was like. I like to write these when they come to me, and they show me I wasn't wrong. They show me I tried, even when that wasn't supposed to be my job.
There is a cruelty in the expectations placed upon estranged adult children. Forgive and forget. Well, I tried. And I got knocked back down again. Until I was too tired. Then, it was kill myself eventually attempting to fit in. Or.... leave. Take my fucking blocks back and go build somewhere else.
