Have you ever felt guilty for existing? I’m not talking about survivor’s guilt in the sense that the bad thing should have happened to you but it didn’t. I’m referring to a more, existential issue where you feel as if you shouldn’t be here at all but here you are and the world hates you because your existence is a burden.
Where do these thoughts come from? It took me a long time to understand this and to realize that this guilt I’ve felt all of my life isn’t my own. It was planted.
This is going to get deep and dark pretty quickly. So if you’re not into that, I’d suggest you come back when I write something more lighthearted.
I remember when I was a child, my mother’s relatives would tell me that I shouldn’t be here. I was hated and could hear the loathing in their voices when they spoke to me or of me.
I remember my mother telling me that her family hated her because she chose to have me. She would always say that she loved me very much but with a tone of voice that was choked with her tears. She’d often say that I was the only reason she lived.
It’s why we moved to another state when I was so young. It’s why I never knew any of my family. Yet my mother was so broken but trying her best to do right by me. However, the lens of trauma and PTSD from what happened to her was thick, and sometimes, she blamed me. Most of the time the blame was unintentional.
I remember hating her for blaming me and lying about what a bad daughter I was. However, upon learning of the circumstances surrounding my birth, that agonized animosity transformed into compassion and deep-seated hatred for myself.
She had every right to feel as if I was an intrusion into her life. I was. No, I didn’t ask to be born, but she didn’t ask to be raped either. And there it is. The reason for the guilt.
I never knew about the rape until years after her death when one of her family members confessed to why I was hated. They wanted her to abort me because surely I would turn out like my father, an evil person whose mind was fucked up by drugs.
Wading Through The Guilt Gently
I created this private blog to really explore my own issues, voice them in a safe place where I won’t be judged and hated and where I won’t be pitied. For most of my life, I’ve been the one in need of help in some way or fashion.
Often, my mother would complain about how needy I was as a child. And I was needy. All children have needs. And my mother was unable to meet a lot of those needs. We lived on the streets, in cars, in abandoned houses here and there.
When she moved us to another state, she found the help that her own family refused to give her. She became stable and landed a job. However, she didn’t have the safe space to focus on her own healing as I did when my ex did what he did to me.
She had to survive, go to work, and raise a child. There was no time for healing from the years of trauma that had built up. And her cries for help would include telling her bosses and coworkers what a burden I was to her.
There were times that her boss would have sidewalk talks with me. These talks consisted of us standing in public on the sidewalk with him yelling at me about what a bad child I was. I would often leave in tears and want to die. It’s a miracle that throughout my entire life, I’ve only made two suicide attempts. And it’s a miracle that both failed.
This guilt I so often feel even still now is painful and I honestly don’t know how to shake it.
I Hate Asking For Help
I do not like to draw any attention to myself when I need help. There are several reasons for this. When I was first diagnosed with asthma, I was bullied in school every time I had an attack. I was accused of seeking attention when the truth was that I was coping with my own PTSD and the fact that I literally couldn’t breathe.
My mother, teachers, her boss, and so many others believed I was faking to get attention. To this day I don’t like people seeing me ill or sick. I don’t like going to hospitals because on some level I feel as if I’m being judged.
And if I am in need of something, I would rather go without than ask for help. When my ex kicked me out leaving me homeless, I gratefully accepted the help from new friends in an online community yet felt so guilty and unworthy. This is why I would rather people buy my art than just give me something. I feel guilty for receiving and on some level, feel as if I am not worthy.
Logically, I know that none of this is my fault, but trauma, like any emotion, is a program, and removing those programs requires you to face the emotions and heal. And that shit is hard. But this is what I am attempting to do here.
Writing has always been an outlet for me. And here with this anonymous blog, no one knows who I am and they can’t judge me.
One Step After Another
I’ve had miracle after miracle happens to me over the past four years. I’ve been placed in a position that many, including my own mother, would have thought was luxurious.
No, I don’t have a fancy car or home, but I do have stability and this is something my mother never really had. I also have the space to focus on my own personal healing and this is something too many don’t have the luxury of. Yes, it’s a luxury because this world is a really harsh place.
We mock people who seek out safe spaces, call them wimps or whatever, and we make fun of people who believe in others — calling them simps or bootlickers. Society has trained us to tear down those who want to better themselves while praising hate culture. This is why I say that what I have is a luxury.
I don’t know what the next step for me to take is here. Writing is a form of release and it helps me to reconnect with myself. And it grounds me.
