In this house…

There is no respect for any of my decisions in this house.  Today everyone here has belittled me and/or rebelled against me. My mother has treated me much disregard. My children have ignored my instruction to the point of open defiance, forcing me to discipline them, which eventually brought them to tears, which infuriate my father who actually had the audacity to question if I knew any other method of getting my children to do anything other than spanking them. 

He who spanked me until I was 14. He who broke the paddle on my butt. He who repeatedly used the OH so despised line “This hurts you more than it hurts me.” He who spanked me for voicing my opinion, claiming it was “talking back”. He who took belt, switch, and paddle to me for the tone of my voice or a C in math class. This man DARES to ask me if I know no better way to control my children than to spank them.

I am rebuked for raising my voice to my children, yet he does so both to them and to me. I am preached to about how time outs don’t work time and time again when I choose that method of discipline. He asks me repeatedly if I enjoy hearing my children cry. They’re almost 4 and 5. They’re going to cry some. Over and over again I am made to feel like I am a horrible mother… in THIS house.  And yet, at church I am praised for how I handle my children. E’s mom has humbled me more than once by saying I am a wonderful mother. Even my ex-husband praises my parenting. When I’m out of this house, I can almost believe them, but, when your own parents so disdain you, it makes it difficult to believe. 

Sometimes I feel as if this house is consuming me. Every episode of this evident display of scorn, trapping me a bit more, more firmly ensuring my position here… Sometimes I feel like Cinderella. 

“Do the laundry. Make the dinner, but do it MY way. Sweep the floors. You missed some here. Take out the garbage. Wash my car. It’s streaky; do it again. Beat the rugs. NO, like this. Where’s your dad’s other sock? Dust the furniture. There’s dust on the floor, sweep it up. That couch is too far to the right, move it back. Mop the floors. You put the chair back in the wrong place, fix it. Hang the clothes, no not that way. That shirt’s backwards. These pants are on the wrong hanger. This shirt is wrinkled; did you leave the clothes in the dryer again? YOU HAVE TO DO BETTER.” All still circling in my head. Never good enough.

I still have the time my mother made me scrub the bathroom floor with a toothbrush vivid in my memory… and I’m still waiting for it to happen again. I’m 25 years old and my parents alternately treat me like a troublesome preteen, a lack wit servant, and an utter failure and disappointment. Ever so rare is the shining jewel of a grudging compliment… usually on my food. My mother has even deigned to call me a whore simply because I’m fond of high heels.  

If I decide to pursue school again, I am told that I don’t give it my all and that I should try harder. If I decide to not to pursue school again, then I’m told that I’ll never make it in life. I’m repeatedly told that I’m lazy and selfish and sometimes I just want to evolve into the doormat they attempt to make me, but I know how that ends. 

Six years ago I made a foolish attempt at marriage to escape this, and yet found the same, but worse, in the man that I had chosen to marry. I divorced him so that my children could grow up without seeing their mother put down every day. I divorced him to spare them the anger and the violence in their father’s derision of me. I fled so I could stop being the doormat, and yet here I am again. 

If I leave this house, my parents’ financial support stops. They’ve made that clear. I have no job. No degree. Little in the way of income from child support and I know of no other relatives that would take my children and myself in. My mother has come to recognize that their behavior is affecting my children and has done a bit better, but my dad refuses to admit that he has anger issues. He rejects the idea that there are other ways than his that are affective. 

I don’t know how to alter this situation. Some days are actually nice. Some months are actually pleasant… and then I do something to set things off again… either that or they can no longer ignore my blatant incompetence. I try to keep the kids shielded from it as best I can and they seem to only know that Grampa is angry and shouts a lot. I didn’t want this for them. I didn’t want this for me. Acknowledging that I’ll never make my parents proud is hard enough without my children having to witness their grandparents’ disappointment in me. 

I count the days and the pennies now…  Two years. Just two more years. Please GOD just two more years until we can escape this house, finances right now just won’t allow it… hopefully by the time my son is in kindergarten that won’t be so. 

P.S.: Yes, I know this is a rant, but I had to get this out and just leaving it in a Word document on my computer didn't seem like it was enough.