Public Enemy

Growing up my home was highly dysfunctional. As a child I thought my upbringing was rather normal, all things considered, but that was not the case. Divorce was unheard of and I was in the midst of the unspeakable with my parents. I struggled as a child, never voicing of the troubles my parents were going through. Never speaking of the troubles I went through as a child, everything was a secret, my closest friends, my mother, no one knew what I was going through, my struggles.

Feelings were something you did not have and did not share in a dysfunctional home. For years I held my deepest secrets until someone close to me said I needed to let it out, stop holding in my demons. That point on, I reveled in being myself, in being honest, albeit bold, the uncanny ability to be direct, having a backbone to stand-up for myself, others, what was right. I refused to deny my feelings for the sake of image and normalcy and “never rocking the boat,” “never upsetting other people’s feelings” when mine were in turmoil, I stopped pretending that I did not feel. When I embraced who I was born to be, embracing my feelings, embracing how I felt, speaking up, speaking out in a way to that was/is direct, bold, honest, heartfelt and vulnerable, I became a public enemy.

People love to keep secrets because of the impeccable farce of an untainted image. Devoid of judgment and the “will not” (or cannot) deal with the minutiae of issues. Today, social media perpetuates this problem even further, the fantasy world of “look at me and how awesome I am” by only sharing praise worthy events, snapshots, portrayals. When truly, we are dealing with demons, issues, minutiae, pain, hurt.

I too am guilty of the social media champion posts of look how awesome. Some things do not need to be shared publicly, however I am also criminal of using my blog to share brutal honesty to a fault. Sharing my feelings, my thoughts, my experiences, often hurting others in the process of the sanctuary of mental debriefing. The genesis of this blog, my site, was to unload what was in my ever racing mind while rearing twins plus one. Giving birth to two little people simultaneously and raising three little humans at one time is nothing short of “tough” for lack of a better term. Fits of crying, screaming….that is just my experience. Agoraphobia became my reality, I was terrified to be in public, around people, talk about how the needs of two people wore on my existence because no one wanted to help, knew how to help. Assistance and help came in the form of spectating the carnival awe of life with twins. Perplexity and lack of understanding had people dumbfounded by my reality. Writing became my way to escape the bitter solitary confinement of my mind.

Sarcasm helped break barriers. Yet sarcasm came across that I was a bitch and cruel, hurt feelings to my circle, even though life was about sharing my experience, not to hurt others, but to release my branding hurt of loneliness in my struggle. So I opted for comedic satire, poking fun at life as a mother, woman, having twins; less feelings were hurt for those going with the flow. My chamber of secrets began to build again, stronger, more painful; “Karie can’t feel or have feelings,” because in light of sharing my feelings I might hurt others even though the hurt is never with a malicious intent.

Slipping into the darkness I feared and knew intimately, the darkness of retreat into my head where I am on my knees writhing in agony, self-deprecation, the personal lambasting was worse than any outside audience. Dressing myself, disguised drowning, in food, narcotics, alcohol, a pretty facade of lies for those who struggled to handle my sting. All the while I was dying inside trying to cope with my reality, my struggles, the hollow of my secrets.

I feared writing because of those who would be offended by my ability to challenge secrets; my bluntness was mistaken for bitterness, my honesty for cruelty, observation for hate, my directness for drama.

Until one day I found my tribe. Women who were just like me. Alpha females who had twins. I joined the mothers of multiples group and each month I had a decompression of normalcy. Forgetting pains and woes, sharing our like experiences, releasing the struggles that I had been feeling in my world that NO ONE but they could understand or relate. Friendships bonded in our ability to connect on a deep level. These women helped me find myself again, the light in my darkness, supporting me in my writing endeavor, how my words were inspiring to others who experienced or were experiencing similar events. Good things end their season in life, the tribe waned as my sisters moved and I struggled to connect with others who were like me. The dark hollow began to creep, I dove harder into the writing, my vilified status exploded.

The asshole. The bitch. The narcissist who could care less about anyone else.

Reality of my writing was that others never crossed my mind. Not that I was inconsiderate, I wrote as a matter of reflection, deep thought, of self-growth, evolution, blunt observation. Sharing to release the tensions of womanhood, twin motherhood, life provides challenges, uncomfortable moments and opportunities to grow and learn. Writing was a vulnerable way to share my reality in a way that resulted in consideration of how these moments in life, these events impacted me and how they could impact my children. Call it cheap therapy to unload thoughts and feelings, plus my therapist retired and finding a good therapist is tough.

As the threesome began to grow up, I too was doing a bit of growing up. Perception of how I was sharing my children changed, how I was sharing their antics, my antics, my feelings, their experiences as a matter of my perception. A bit of selfishness took hold and I no longer wanted to share my children with the world, but I wanted to share about motherhood, feelings and experiences that would profoundly affect them because I was affected by these experiences, moments. More so I saw that I could share our lives without them being adversely affected as they became more aware of our world, their world. Recently I have debated the revelation that The Five Fish has been more of KariewithaK. I have debated sharing more about how as a woman, as a mom, we carry history with us that affect our children; how we raise our children, how our truths can transform and influence a child’s truth, all impacted by the origin of history. From family to friendships, feelings and solitude, living to please others or living for yourself.

My hope is that one day my children could come back to this site and see all the wonderful stories I share(d) about them, the stories of what I shared about life. My hope is they can appreciate these web logged moments in time, they might reflect on these stories and see that they might relate or understand decisions I made in this life. Hurt feelings or joy, sadness or laughter, right or wrong, my intention was to never be a public enemy through my online diary, my weblog (blog). Writing was about unloading my brain for a sense of “normalcy.” A partial hope that maybe somewhere in the world, someone who was feeling alone in their thoughts, their experiences, they would have the moment of relief in their feelings when reading a post. My hope was that they would say, “YES! I know exactly how that feels” or “I am so glad I am not alone,” because I know that feeling, I know how gratifying the experience when you can relate. Suddenly you find your tribe again when you find another person like you in a sea of loneliness. Suddenly you know feelings are okay, to feel is okay. Sharing those feelings may make us a public enemy but that also provides opportunity to break the barrier of secrets, facades and evolve into the functional from the dysfunctional.

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