Honor thy Father and Mother?

The Bible says to honor thy Father and Mother so it will go well with you in the land. It’s in Exodus 20:12.  When I was a tween and a teen I did NOT honor my Father and Mother.  I was a serial runaway that also got into promiscuity.  I talked in low class slang to anger my Mother’s upper middle class sensibilities.  I wore jeans all the time, did not do my hair, nor wear makeup.  I told them I thought I was adopted. etc etc etc…Now that I’m older I feel guilty for all this but wonder were my parents being real with me, even?  A child can feel love, and I never felt it from them.  I felt like I was being kept at home for some reason but not because they loved me.  They managed to get rid of me in 3 different “placements” besides all the running away and attempting to leave home legitimately by age 21.  I stopped running at 17 but got placed in a “halfway house” for the “mentally ill” at 19-20.  I celebrated my 20th birthday there. They surprised me with a decorated cake and presents.  It was first birthday party I had since age 10 and have had none since then. When I turned 10 all my “guests” at the party turned on me and made my life miserable, ahhh memories.  Later, my folks would take me to a restaurant on birthdays, however, they DID do that.

My sister got all the love.  I sometimes wonder if I was “handled” for the bad guys until my gangstalking started in earnest at the “legal” age of 22.  Handled by my parents.  They did not want me to have friends, were hypercritical of everything I did, were distant (very few hugs, physical contact), and they fought with me all the time.  Every conversation with either or both of them ended up in a fight.  I spent from age 12 on hiding in my room and using music to fuel fantasies until I finally was “allowed” (I swear to God) to leave at 26.  I don’t want to unjustly diss my folks who MAY have loved me growing up because that would be a sin: but, what if I was merely handled and not raised.  I knew NOTHING about people and the world when I left home and even earlier on people would remark on my ignorance.  I considered my running away escaping…it was like being in the real world for a while.  At home I felt I was being kept in a box on the shelf collecting dust.  Has anyone else had that feeling?

When I was placed in a sleep away physical hospital for awhile as a youngster (not the mental one at age 16) the counselors came in my room (age 9) and told me they were sorry to see me go the last night I was there.  They told me they did not like the way my parents treated me and thought I really acted better away from them.  I wonder if they had called Social Services then if I would have gone into foster care.  Probably not.  Everything looked FINE on the surface. A regular Beaver Cleaver family, right?  The perp staff at the mental hospital made me out to be a deviant manipulative monster with saints for parents.  RIGHT UP THEIR ALLEY.  My father bragged after I got out that he did not have to pay a penny to keep me there, that insurance covered it all–guess he wanted me to go back.  In the diary I wrote I read that the senior staff member over my case wanted me to go back in there for more “treatment”…no way Jose.  The staff member said I’d never get “well” outside the hospital…I demurred and said I’d take my chances.  I think I made the right choice.  Inside, staff used to threaten us that if we misbehaved we’d be sent to the Adult Units when we turned 18 and kept there for life.

Were my folks handlers?  Did they need that extra money to survive?  Were they blackmailed into it?  Was my father in trouble?  Had he had an affair?  I remember my father sort of being my friend until about age 8, then he did not want much to do with me.  We did not spend much time alone together until I was over 30 and before he left to go to my sister.  Why did I get handled and my sister loved?  Were my folks told I was “dangerous” and needed discipline and not love?  They were too quick to believe whatever shrinks told them.  My mother’s father was the Mason.  She got loved growing up, but she just seemed weird to me in many ways.  She never seemed happy.  She was always complaining of her lot in life even though she was not poor or abused. She wanted to keep up this act like we were rich.  She would only listen to Classical music.  She always wore dark clothes that covered her all up even in Summer when she suffered until they got the a/c.  She never wore bright colors until the last year of her life.  Was she “told” what colors to wear like me?  I’ll never know.  Maybe she was a proto Goth.  My folks seemed to have almost NO friends and would blame it on me.

My father made me anxious.  I did not like to hang around him.  He thought very little of me and I knew it.  He would even make fun of me saying YOU my daughter?  What a daughter!  Hello DAUGHTER!  I never really liked him, and still don’t.  Once,when someone called and I was at his apartment and I had to go get him, he introduced me as his housekeeper.  And on and on.  It’s like he resented me being alive.  Like he resented having to HANDLE me for his enemies.  What happened to the parent taking the rap?  What happened to courage?  Family unity?  My mother always harped on LOYALTY but I never got any towards myself.  Later, as an adult, I thought my parents and I might get on better together but it rarely worked out.  Even if my father and I had what seemed like a normal conversation it always felt to me like I was being interrogated.  The perps would perp right in front of him when we went out anywhere and he’d ask me what I was looking at and if I was sick in the head.  When my father got together with my sister and then with my sister and her husband, he treated her with respect and consideration.  They had adult conversations.  They enjoyed each other’s company.  It was like watching “sis” and my mother all over again being buddy buddy and going shopping together and me getting…fights.

When I was a teen and early 20s I would sit in my room with my records and later with homework (had a deal with my father to keep up my grades) and hear her for hours talking on the phone in her room on her very own separate line.  All the laughs and giggles were like knives, I who always had few to no friends all my life.  I wondered if she was talking about me.  I hardly ever tried to listen.  Maybe it was for the better since what if I heard what she really thought of me.  I now know since she has not spoken to me in six years and even before then it was rare.  We never were friends after I was in junior high and my mother would keep us apart for the most part,it seemed, as if she did not want my POISON to get onto her.  Yeah, my parents were complicit.

Please forgive me God, if I was wrong.


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