[Part 21] The Art of Breaking

(October 23, 2009)

Ok, let's face the facts, my parents weren't the most affectionate people in the world.

I came to this conclusion when I realized that my brother and I actually tucked them in to bed each night and then ran down to our own room. Or maybe we just snuck out and would run down to their room and tell them “sleep tight, don't let the bed-bugs bite!”

Either way, after the age of five or so I was never hugs, kissed or received anything encouraging along those lines. Instead, I was tickle-tortured until I almost threw up, I was disciplined with the belt, or in a perpetual state of war with my brother.

Where am I going with all this?

Well, I think my self-proclaimed emotional detachment stems from my childhood. There's something inherently wrong when you can't cry at the thought of losing someone you know.

I feel like I'm nowhere near the level of emotional response I should be or would at least like to be just to make even myself happy. Sometimes I cry if I'm watching an especially good movie or TV show. But why can't I cry when it actually counts?

I feel like there's this great disconnectedness between my brain and my heart. Between the way I want to feel and the reactions I actually express. And I don't think it has anything to do with boys being “tough” or anything along those lines.

It might be a wall I've built up ever since elementary school since everyone used to tease me. There was never a sense of belonging in school. I wasn't the best reader, I wasn't tough enough to hang out with the boys, I wasn't athletic enough to play sports, I wasn't cute enough to have a girl like me, I wasn't rich enough to attract any attention, and the list goes on.

But at the same time, I've never even once struggled with suicide. I keep reading about how much higher the suicide rate is among the homosexual community and it boggles my mind.

Did God keep me from the feeling of hopelessness?
Even my struggles with depression have been barely more than a blip on the radar. It's almost as if I've been intensely optimistic even from the beginning. I knew I didn't have much but God was teaching me that there's always more he's wanting and waiting to give. So I've know some small glimpse of his faithfulness even from the time I was a child.

(to be continued)

[Note: I never followed up with this entry in my journal but I find I have more to say on the subject right now. I've been hit recently with the realization of extreme bitterness and anger towards my brother and father, something I thought I had moved past. I think part of the problem for me was that I made an intentional decision from the very early age of five or six that I hated my family and consequently wasn't able to receive any love from them whatsoever. It didn't help that no one offered me love in a way I could accept anyway. I remember countless arguments over things that seemed petty to them but were fundamental to the core of my heart.

I've always felt so incredibly fragile, like a glass object trying to live and grow amongst boulders and steel. I was always the one who ended up internalizing the pain and brokenness. They were the oblivious ones upon which all things simply glanced off. In a strange sense, I understand what it must be like to have a terrible illness like "brittle bone" disease. You try so hard to fit in with the world but it breaks you down by its very nature. Can the two ever truly coexist?

Only now has God begun to reveal to me the benefits of being emotionally sensitive and fragile. Glass has valuable properties when used correctly. God created me with a purpose.]