Feelings, Realizations & Resolutions

Raise your hands if you cry tears of joy at commercials that show soldiers coming home from war. Or when you see people perform good deeds, and when the underdog wins? Raise them if you have tears of sadness when people die in movies, when you see images of people or animals suffering, and when you get a glimpse of just how evil people can be. I’m an emotional person with a lot of feelings. I tend to absorb whatever emotions are around me. This all causes me to feel intense and extreme emotions.

When I was a kid, having too many emotions was considered a bad thing. Crying was definitely unacceptable, even when justified. If we were hit, we were told to stop crying or they would hit us harder. Once when I was crying because my dad wasn’t going to see me on my birthday, my friend told me that crying was bad for me and to stop. She told me that her parents had told her that crying wasn’t good for you health wise. It’s funny I was watching my family’s reunion video two years before I was born and in the video you hear one of my aunts telling my cousin, “Go away, cry baby. Get out of here,” because he was crying. In her defense in the video it sounded more like him whining, but still, I haven’t heard an adult call a child a cry baby since my childhood. Nowadays, kids in tears are scooped up by their parents who tell them it’s going to be okay.

Presently, I still have moments of shame when I cry or feel too much. I try to hide it, or shrug it off to someone who might see, saying repeatedly, “I’m not crying.” My boyfriend has unfortunately had to see me cry through commercials, movies, horrible events, etc, and he seems to enjoy when I show this type of emotion. Probably because a majority of the time, I show him my strong and funny side. So, these minor breakdowns make me appear more human. He is very open with showing me a lot of his emotions, so sharing emotions with him, is important to him.

People at work and friends tell me they can’t picture me crying. It’s rare that I cry in front of people, so it’s understandable they can’t picture me crying. However, when I insist that I cry quite frequently, their usual response is along the lines of, “I don’t know, you just seem really strong and I can’t picture you crying,” or “You just seem to make jokes all the time, even in tough situations. I can’t see you showing an emotional side like that.”

I just laugh. It’s nice to feel like people think you’re some super human who doesn’t feel sadness enough to cry or show what would usually be defined as weakness. I think I’ve put forth this image on purpose because that is exactly what I want people to think of me. To describe me as some strong individual who has it all together and can get through anything. However, I am not always all these things, and putting forth this image has had many negative outcomes. One being that, people never know the real me. Another being that people think you are in some way better than them or they think you believe you are better than them.

A long time ago, one of my best friends and I got into an argument. It was one of my first adult arguments with a friend and something she said stuck with me and changed my perspective on how I wanted others to view me. She said to me and I’m paraphrasing here, “You think you’re so stoic and better than everyone else. You’re not. You judge everyone else who doesn’t have their life together and you act holier than though…” We’re friends now of course, and I tell her how right she was when she said that. She was right, I did try to act like I had my life together. As if I always diligently tried to make the right and best decisions. I did judge everyone who I felt could’ve been doing more with their lives and I still have a lot of judgments now. As much as I come off as having it “together,” I don’t. I need a lot of help in almost every aspect of my life. I’ve got issues like everyone else and I realized a lot of people didn’t know or think this because I withheld truths about myself from them. When I had hard times, I kept them to myself or acted like they didn’t phase me, when they did. I avoided sharing things and this kept everyone in the dark as to what was going on with me. It was maybe over a year ago I started opening up about real things I went through and was going through, in this blog. When people started reading it that knew me, they would send me texts/emails, telling me they had no idea about a lot the stuff I was blogging about. I started to let people in. It felt nice to have people out there who knew the parts of me I had been so reluctant to share. Moving forward, my therapist is challenging me to express my feelings more with friends and family. She thinks it could be good for my emotional health. We’ve decided that my outbursts of emotions could be lessened by merely expressing myself more with others. Bottling it all up can lead to more intense breakdowns, so we’ve worked on getting to the root of the issue.

In therapy, I discovered that I tend to avoid people who challenge me. Now, don’t get me wrong, my friends and family challenge me in many ways, but I mean in a more critical way. I’m so fortunate to have so many people in my life who are supportive and loving.  However, I have noticed I get defensive and incredibly upset when I am criticized. I believe this is because I’m not used to it anymore. In college, that’s all there was, constant critique with a little bit of praise. Nowadays, I’m covered in praise and support and lacking in the criticism. Now you might think I’m some masochist who loves being called a failure, but that’s not necessarily what I’m talking about. It’s that whole “tough skin” routine that you always hear about in older movies or remember from your childhood. A father/mother will yell out to their child, “You’re too soft. You gotta toughen up.” Well, that’s what I need a little bit of, because lord knows when my mother criticizes me, whether it’s accurate or not, I fall apart like overcooked potatoes. With that said, I need to rebuild communication and put myself in situations with people who are hard on me in a positive manner. I’m not going to obviously hang out with people who tell me I should lose 40 pounds because I’m fat, but instead email that one writer friend I have that is always questioning all that I do (love you, man, you know who you are). He has a tendency of making me feel like I should be doing more with my life, mostly because he is. I’m already pretty tough on myself, but I also am quick to defend myself. Here’s an example, “Geez, Estela, you didn’t do yoga today, it’s only an hour, why did you have to watch the season finale of “Master of None” (Please watch the second season of this show, it is fantastic, still no regrets but it could have waited)? Then my defense will respond, “You had a busy day, you were running errands, studying, and setting up your mom’s printer. You can skip one day of yoga, you did exercise when you walked your dogs around the block! Atta girl.”

See my dilemma?

Anyway, that’s my homework assignment from therapy: to put myself in more challenging and vulnerable situations more often.

Criticism is healthy when it’s constructive and challenging. I’ve realized I need a lot of this in my life. Now, I just have to be brave enough to reach out for it and learn from it.


WRITTEN BY: Estela

The Past Haunts

It happened again.

I screamed at my mom for telling the two plumbers she met through a friend to come while she wasn’t home. “I don’t want strange men in this house at all hours of the night.”
My mom straight faced, “They’re contracted plumbers, Linda. What’s the problem.”
“I don’t want strange men in the house, that’s the problem. You’re just going to trust them in our house?”
My mom was slowly realizing what I was really saying between my frantic shaky voice.
“You don’t trust them alone with you, is that what you mean.”
I began crying, sobbing really.
“I just don’t want them here when I am here. Please I am begging you, I don’t want to be alone with them here.”

Had I blocked something out? Or did this fear all stem from the last man who I was alone with in this house?

That man was 23 and the son of my mom’s contractor. They had been referred to her by a friend at work.

I was fourteen and we didn’t necessarily look like adults but we didn’t look Hannah Montana at fourteen either. We were top heavy and probably could have dressed more like 14 year olds. Anyway, I got home from school one day and my mom was in one of her manic moods. She rushed at my friend and I before we could put our scooters against the side of the house. She took us to the back room that led to the back yard. It was then that I saw him, the grown man who at the time to me looked 18 maybe 19 in a white tank top and fitted, disheveled  jeans with paint on them. He was attractive. I found him attractive, like those strong handsome men in the magazines pretending to work on cars or those presumed faithful husbands mowing the lawn while their photoshopped wives drank lemonade.
When he came in the house my mom told me to offer him water. After a few short encounters, he started to stop by my room. Sometimes as my friend and I giggled about the funny shit someone said in class and other times when I was alone writing in my journal. He’d say good bye and hello through the crack in my door, every time he came over. They were remodeling our laundry room and bathroom, so it took several weeks.

In those weeks he moved in on me and I allowed it. For a long time, I blamed myself. How could I have been so rapped up, so stupid to not recognize him for what he was–a pedophile. I was a young girl caught up in some romantic idea of this guy who was so “mature,” a guy who could have had anyone but wanted to be with me, a guy who loved me. It was all crap. None of it was okay and thinking about it makes me sick to my stomach.

3 of every 10 statutory rape offenders were boyfriends or girlfriends and 6 in 10 were acquaintances.

He was my “boyfriend” for two years. People knew about it, we hid it as much as we could but it ended up getting out.

It became scary and real to me when two police officers showed up at my house around 8pm on a random weekday. They said that someone had reported an inappropriate relationship between an adult and a minor. I panicked. They walked through the house, looking for him I assume. At the time, I was glad that he hadn’t been there because God only knew what would have happened to him if he had been. Looking back now, I wonder how different things would have been if he had been there. Would he have been arrested? Would I have come to the realization so much sooner, that what was happening was wrong? Could this serial statutory rapist been put behind bars like he deserved? I wasn’t the first under-aged girl he preyed on. However, I was the youngest of his “exes,” one was 15, when he was 19 and the other barely 17 when he was 21.

I’m sharing this very personal story because I don’t want anyone else to go through what I went through, because what happened is not okay. Because this still affects me today and I have to live with this terrible part of my past. While he is living his life with his wife, a child (who is a little girl), and the religion he found after he impregnated this woman while he was still in a relationship with me. Who knows, maybe he does regret his past, maybe when he found religion it changed him.

By law, I’m past the statue of limitations. For me, for those other 2 girls, there will not be any justice. He will never serve time for the crimes he committed. But maybe you can help a friend or yourself, come to the realization of just how wrong a situation like this is. I don’t blame my friends, at all, but I do wish I had read something like this when I was that age. It wasn’t until after the whole ordeal that I began reading books about girls who had gone through this similar situation.

I was young, so naive, but no one else has to go through this. No one else has to be a victim. Help them, help yourself, if you can. I hope that this can help someone going through this and give them the insight I lacked then.


WRITTEN BY: Estela

Self-Worth

“one thing is important.
one thing does matter.
the way you see yourself,
the way you believe.
the way you make others
believe.
all else changes,
all else goes on.”
r.m. drake

There’s a moment in your life where everything becomes abundantly clear, and that moment is usually one that hits you like a semi-truck. That moment where you see yourself for who and what you are. For me, it was two moments, one affecting the other.

People always say it doesn’t matter how others see you, only how you see yourself. But when something so heartbreaking happens, your perception of yourself changes. When someone else sees you as an object, you start to see yourself that way. For a long time, I’ve measured myself based on how men see me. It’s a sad truth that’s all too common with women. My confidence is directly linked with the male species’ perception of me. I’d like to think I’m strong, but when it came down to that moment which matters more than all the rest, the one moment that defines me, I turned out to be weak. I let him win. He had the power and he got to choose what to do with me. As much as I didn’t want it, it was his choice, not mine. Every time I said no, he came up with reasons to say yes. I tried to push him away, but I was weak; I had no real strength. I saw myself as unworthy and didn’t respect myself so why would I expect someone else to respect me? There were a thousand things going through my brain. I just wanted him to leave, I wanted him off me and in that moment everything went numb. I closed my eyes and lost the last morsels of strength that I had left. All I wanted was to open my eyes and to find myself alone again. I was weak and only growing weaker. I couldn’t get him off and I couldn’t get him to see my worth. I was his to play with, I was his toy.

After having your heart ripped out, it’s hard to feel anything after. It’s hard to see yourself any other way than through his eyes: a weak worthless object. I went numb for a long time. I shut everyone out, still equating myself to the worth of how others saw me, mainly with how he saw me. There is a part of me that will always belong to him, a part of my heart and soul which he stole from me. I try to grow and learn from what happened. I try to tell myself every day that I am worth more than how he saw me. Most of the time I believe what I tell myself, but there are those fleeting moments that you try to ignore that creep back up on you making you believe all over again, that you are worthless.

After time goes on, you start to piece yourself back together, not to a full version of yourself, but as a broken being, forced to move forward. I wanted to respect myself so nothing like this could ever happen again. I almost started to forget, but things have a way of coming back around. I took each day to get in touch with who I am, not how others see me, not how he saw me. I wanted to see myself as strong again. I wanted to take back what he stole from me. I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back but I know I’m closer to it. I’ve found strength. I’ve learned to say no with power and persuasion.

And right when you think things are getting better, you’re given another test.


WRITTEN BY: Charlotte