09/02/2026
Continued from Monday's post...
When I was eleven and my body started changing, my mom made me lift my shirt in the middle of the living room—in front of my brother—to inspect whether I needed a training bra.
When I started menstruating, she wouldn't give me my own box of pads.
Instead, I had to report to her each time so she could dole them out.
To avoid that humiliation, I concocted my own makeshift pads from toilet paper.
Naturally, they leaked and stained.
To keep from having to deal with her, I hid my soiled underwear deep inside a drawer of an old dollhouse in the back of my closet.
I came home from school one day to find her dangling those panties from her index finger.
She had gone into my room, dug through my closet, and found them.
"I have a bone to pick with you," she threatened.
I was a good kid.
I gave her no reason to distrust me.
Yet, she constantly snooped through my drawers and wastebaskets, and read my diaries.
Once, while loading the washer, she picked up a pair of my underwear, examined the discharge, and accused me of "having my times with boys"—with my dad and brother sitting next to me at the table.
I didn't even understand what that meant, but I was mortified.
Even though we had plenty of shampoo and running water, she restricted me to washing my hair only once a week and forbade me from shaving my legs.
After my classmates commented on my greasy bangs and spider legs, I shampooed and shaved anyway.
When she noticed, she raged an inferno.
Her version of "love" repelled me.
To protect myself from her rage and icky invasions of my body and personal space, I built a fortress.
I became hypervigilant, guarded, constantly on alert for whatever wackiness was coming at me.
My system adopted one primary rule: Shut down, brace yourself, keep that crazy sh*t out at all costs.
No wonder I struggled to open up to receiving later in life.
To be continued....
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