A stripper shoe? What the hell? Why am I feeling like that, you may be wondering. Well, it’s quite profound, if I do say so myself. A stripper shoe is hella uncomfortable, amiright? And talking about this garbage makes my stomach clench. Stripper shoes are sky high and uncomfortable, but you walk around in them with a smile and a bunch of ones in your g-string. (OK, the ones don’t apply, but I need to paint an accurate picture.). Those shoes hurt. And they are clear. So, even if you are smiling, you can still see those poor toes squished in there. Those toes with the chipped polish and the callouses and ingrown nails. Sweating and squished. But still, you smile. That’s me in a nutshell. Squished on the inside, smiling with a crotch full of ones on the outside.
Let’s back up a bit, shall we? No one acquires all of the baggage and amazing shoes out of nowhere. There had to be a beginning. Where did I begin? Well, it all happened on a probably horrifically cold February day in Illinois. I came into the world as what looked like a fat, Asian baby according to my pictures. And this is why I continue to assume that my REAL parents must be royalty and switched me at birth. I would love to find my Asian parents some day, but I digress.
Growing up in the heart of Illinois, cornfield land, the land of butter and cheese and emphysema, was not so bad. I loved my little town of Washington. I was able to ride my bike wherever I wanted and spent all of my time with friends. I loved being outside and playing sports and laughing. Always laughing. And at home, I spent my time more quietly. Reading and being alone. I turned down the laughter until I needed it to lighten the mood. My father was very much a perfectionist. He wanted a perfect family, and he got us. Me, my brother and my mom. About as imperfect as you get. But, we tried hard. We did everything we could to keep him happy. Because when he wasn’t happy, nobody was happy. Staying under the radar was my way of coping. Making myself small and quiet. Trying not to be seen, and definitely not heard. Getting good grades and never complaining or rocking the boat. And it seemed to do that trick, because I became the “good child”. My brother? The “bad child”. And I can tell you, those roles are very difficult to shake. Even now, as a 44 year old woman, I strive to please and to stay under the radar.
But, as I’m learning, my soul, my personality, my heart doesn’t want to be quiet. It wants to shine and smile and be seen. Being invisible has been my life. My father and my ex never saw me. They never heard me. But, fuck that. I want to be seen and heard. I have things to say! I have shoes to wear and they will not be quiet! Those babies sparkle and shine. They insist on attention…That’s what I am trying to do. Hey everybody!!! I’m here! I actually matter, for Pete’s sake!
One thing that I’ve learned recently is that my coping mechanisms are super common for children of narcissists. And, lucky me!!! Make me a prime target for future narcissists! Please enter…The ex.
Now, this guy was someone who would not be quiet or fly under the radar. He was smart and tall and important. His words meant business. He took no shit. He was the boss. And he liked ME! Stupid me with a degree in math and a nerdy personality to match. I sat behind my computer for 40 hours a week programming a database to profile customers of catalogers and predicting future customers so as to optimize mailing lists. Now, if that’s not fodder for entertaining dinner conversation, then I don’t know what is!!!
This guy took a liking to me. We bonded over Stephen King books and beer. We went to happy hour and I fell like a ton of bricks. He was successful and handsome and smart. He quickly removed me from one life and inserted me into another. Just like that. Boom. (And now, I’ve learned that his behavior is called “love bombing”. And he bombed the shit out of me!)
The funny thing is that I willingly went into this relationship with a sigh of relief, thinking he was exactly the opposite from my father. This guy really gets me. But, as time passed, I was crushed to realize that I, in fact, married a clone of the man who didn’t see me or hear me. I slowly because invisible.
I gave birth to our first child, a daughter, in 2004. Our son followed in 2006. And these two souls are my reason for living. I couldn’t love them more and everything I do is for them and their happiness. They are going to see their mother pick up her pieces and come out of the shadows. They are going to know their value and their place in the world. They are going to be seen and heard. (Even if what I’ve been hearing lately is less than optimal. Thank you 11 year old boy and your poop humor. Keep it coming!)
Separating from the EX was the most difficult thing I’ve EVER had to do. (And please keep in mind that child #1 was a 10 pound 4 ounce hoss of a baby. And her Asian influences were clearly visible at birth. If my real parents are reading this…come find me!)
As time progressed, my two kiddos and I became a team. The EX was there in body, but not as a partner. The three of us were a force! We were always together and we continue to have a bond that is my greatest achievement.
I began to have concern around the time that child #2 was 18 months old or so. I always wanted a son, since the EX was an athlete in college and I assumed that he would be out throwing the ball around and doing all sorts of “boy stuff”. Well, I assumed wrong…by a mile. I would ask for help and get scoffed at. I would continue to spend time with the kiddos while he golfed. Priorities clearly in place…not!
It was around this time when I wrote my first email to the EX. Since he had a habit of not hearing me, I determined that email was the best route to take. So I took it. I wrote an email begging him to be a part of our family. Trying to encourage him to interact more with the children and give me some help. To join our team. Begging. Pleading. What did I get in response? Silence.
And so it began. My life of being squished on the inside, but dammit, all you could see was the smile.
Finding My Other Shoe 