Softly Unseen

It was the dreaded Friday. The Friday that I’d have to get in the car with my mom and drive to go visit my dad. It wasn’t my dad that I dreaded seeing, it was the way I felt when I was there. I was the poor, dirty little girl that didn’t fit in that fancy family. The girl from ‘yucky’ valley. My clothes weren’t nice enough, my feet were too big, and my mom was the devil.

My stepmom made sure to make that very clear. Never to hurt me, of course.

I was the poor little girl who was never taught how to properly wash dishes, I couldn’t create the proper lines in the carpet and who in the hell thought it would be ok to wear a long sleeved sweater with a pair of Jean shorts.

‘Oh, honey, that looks ridiculous. Go change! I won’t be seen with you in that!’

And the one line that never stopped coming:

“Did your mother teach you that?”

Every time I heard it, something cracked a little deeper. I started to wonder if maybe they were right. If the person who loved me most was somehow the one ruining me.

When I was a little girl, I had a pair of red cowgirl boots and a horse book I knew by heart.

Every page. Every picture. Especially the Appaloosa. I dreamed about that one the most.

I imagined myself riding the horse in my backyard because in my mind it was a big enough yard and I could most definitely take care of that horse by myself. I would sit and dream about that horse and what my life would look like taking care of it. We’d understand each other and it would be exactly like the movies! I don’t remember ever asking my mom and step dad for a horse. I don’t know if they even knew this was something I dreamt about. Somehow, my dad and stepmom knew. Or maybe it was just what every little girl wanted at my age. Either way, one day they came to me and said that if I would live with them full time they would get me any horse I wanted!

Leave my mom? My siblings? My best friend down the street?

Live full-time with the woman who never let me forget that I wasn’t enough? Not clean enough. Not classy enough. Not her enough.

To be an outcast full time instead of every other weekend? All of a sudden I didn’t want a horse anymore.

I wasn’t a daughter they wanted to love and spend more time with. I was an object to be won from the person they hated. Even as a little girl I knew that.

When I was five, we used to meet at a church parking lot to do the exchange…mom on one side, dad and my stepmom on the other. That lot became the handoff for my childhood.

If we’d been out for the day, maybe the mall or a restaurant, somewhere “nice”and I was wearing clothes from their house, the change had to happen before I could cross over. Like clockwork, I’d be stripped down in the backseat. Barrettes pulled out. Shirt, pants, even socks switched out for the clothes my mom had packed. The poor girl clothes.

They didn’t say it outright. They never had to. Her condescending voice echoed all of the thoughts she never tried to keep quiet.

There was no way I could show up in anything from their side of the line. Like if I stayed in their clothes, I might carry some of their world back with me. And that wasn’t allowed. My mom might benefit from that too much.

At that age, I didn’t really understand what I was feeling.

I just started to notice that things went more smoothly when I behaved a certain way.

When I was helpful. Quiet. Polite. Dressed nicely.

When I did things the “right” way.

Smiled when I was supposed to. Stayed out of the way.

It seemed like love came a little easier then.

I didn’t think of it as performing back then but looking back, I can see it.

I was learning, in small and quiet ways, that being “good” made everything feel safer.

More peaceful.

More like I was wanted.