To Be Free

I am not a jealous person by nature. I don’t spend my time worrying about my partner’s exes or ruminating on whether he still thinks about them from time to time. I do notice tinges of jealousy, though, when I log on to social media and see acquaintances going on lavish vacations, or buying a beautiful 1.2 million dollar home, sharing posts of their perfect family, and how happy they are in their marriage. But then I remember, these posts are a facade, a partial and oftentimes inaccurate portrayal of what is actually happening in their lives. That beautiful family and home, well, the husband actually lives in the basement because they are no longer together; he has a girlfriend and was cheating during the entirety of their marriage and pregnancy.

But I am envious of artists, authors, comedians, politicians, poets, musicians, actors, and even academics. I envy them for putting themselves out there with their thoughts, their opinions, their ideas, and especially, with their feelings and emotions. I admire songs with lyrics about their mistakes and regrets, the rawness of their internal world exposed. I am envious of people who always speak up at meetings, not concerned with taking up too much airspace. Or those who participate in classroom discussions, freely offering their opinions, even as their ideas are often half-baked. I am envious of those who announce that they will be celebrating their birthday every day during their birthday month, claiming the whole month, not just the day, as a celebration of themselves for just being born. I am envious of the people who tell others that they got their name wrong and there is no one by that name because they misspelled Sarah as Sara, without the H. 

I wish I could be that free. I’ve never experienced that level of freedom before; the freedom to just be me, with all my flaws and imperfections. Not having anything to prove to anyone, but celebrating and honoring myself for being Julianna, nothing more and nothing less. From the outside, I may look accomplished and confident, but my internal world is much more dismal, beaten to a shell of myself. Shame is the fluency of my psyche. I was the one who retreated after defending my PhD dissertation, not wanting to celebrate or let anyone know of my accomplishment. Of course, my committee only passed me because they felt bad for me. Seven years of work, with a Dr. title in front of my name, and all I felt was dread for being an embarrassment. 

Growing up, my dad had a few CDs that he would play on repeat: Bob Marley, the Beatles, Cats Original Broadway, and the Gypsy Kings. Bob Marley was always my favorite out of his repertoire. In high school, the cool thing to do was be a Bob Marley fan. But for me, it wasn’t a fad or a phase; Bob Marley was my mentor, my teacher. His words would penetrate my soul, accessing the darkness inside me that I would rather deny. The song that always hit me the hardest was Redemption Song. I would ponder on one line over and over again in my head, “Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our minds.” I held these 12 words so tightly and close to my chest, where no one could see, and no one could take away from me. Bob Marley was my compass, even at 12 years old. He taught me that no one could save me but me. But how does one do this? That was the question that lingered as a painful reminder of the challenging quest that awaited me. 

Love in my home has always been conditional; it had to be earned. But there was no blueprint or instructional manual for how to earn it either, no point system. We were blindly and naively trying to figure out the rules of the game, all while attempting to avoid the shifting landmines surrounding us, which accentuated the severity of the consequences. The game was corrosive but also confusingly exhilarating. As a naturally competitive person (with myself), I tried my best in this game for admiration and attention. I would do anything to try to please him, even if it meant sacrificing who I was. My needs did not matter; actually, my needs were a nuisance, getting in the way, a problem that had to be eradicated. I was to be a blank canvas for my father, a bare piece of clay sitting out to be molded by him. When I didn’t take the form he wanted, he would press and pull me apart to remind me who had the authority and who was the maker. He would place the ball of clay down, roll me out, and intently knead me to remove the defiance out of me. The attention was humiliatingly welcomed, even if painful. Slowly, I would take shape again into something that he could admire. I could see the pride in his eyes for a few fleeting moments; proud of his brilliance, not of his daughter. The cycle would repeat itself as I innocently and stupidly assumed I was enough. I was never enough, no matter what I did. 

I feel so silly for how unaware I was of the extent of damage he caused. At 40 years old, I feel like an archaeologist, excavating the remnants of my abusive past. Shocked at how profound and intricate the ruins are. I am slowly finding broken parts of my younger self, abused in such deviant and calculated ways only a psychiatrist could pull off. Unlocking memories and finally bearing witness to how fucked up it all was. Drowning in sadness, for her, for me, for what was, and for what could have been. Desolate, from the awareness of how my father branded my neuropathways, leaving permanent imprints that would take a lot more than therapy to undo. How long will this take? How much more can I endure? I struggle with this pace of discovery while continuing to live my life, pretending like everything is normal at work and with my friends and family. All I want to do is crawl into the darkness, shrink myself so small, and cry myself to sleep. Maintaining this illusion feels too oppressive for the first time, no longer having the aptitude for performance. I wonder if this unearthing is healthy for me. Doubting the odyssey I have embarked on, questioning if it's easier to live a life of ignorance and denial. That’s when I hear the soothing melody and his voice, "Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our minds.” So I keep going, hoping that one day I will finally be free.