Learning what “Abandonment Issues” means:

I had/have so many different avenues of anger, hatred, and pain. I truly believe that after the age of 6, I completely forgot what love meant. What it felt like. What the “myth” of it was. I was completely filled with a beast. A monster. An anger, a force that no-one, nothing could reckon with. By this age, I was a monster no one in town wanted to deal with nor mess with. Teachers cringed at the thought of my name on their roster. By this point in my life, that was something that made me absolutely 100% proud. I had control over something. Finally.

I couldn’t control anything at home. I couldn’t control much in my head. So, this. This gave me power. To be a beast. A force no one could handle.

Unfortunately, that beast came with rage, anger, fear of nothing anymore, someone who would rebel, just to do it because I knew, I could control, ME. I could control how I respond. How I react. How I handle things. I chose to fight back instead of being weak. I chose to be rebellious instead of falling in line. I chose to be stubborn, hard-headed, and fight until death if need be by this age. But even though I could control all of those things. There was still one thing, I could not control.

The Rage. The Beast. My inner self. I thought I had control over it.

I remember the first time my great-grandmother, on my mother’s side, walked into the deli.

That is the reality of small towns. People run into each other whether they want to or not, here, there, everywhere. Unfortunately, this deli happened to be one of my grandfather’s favorite places to eat. So almost daily, my great-grandmother, who was essentially a stranger to me, would walk in, pick up her food, say a few short, distant words, and leave.

Each time she came in, I felt more anger building inside of me. Anger. Pain. Frustration. And then. The Rage.

How could this woman, who was supposed to be my great-grandmother, be so cold toward a child who shared her blood?

But she was. Every single day.

And why did I show her even a small ounce of respect? I didn’t owe that to her. I didn’t owe her to be cordial. But I was taught, to respect my elders by my foster grandmother and my foster parents. They taught me right from wrong. Even though everything I was taught after leaving them, was the complete opposite. However, one day, everything changed. And I realized, I don’t need to respect this woman. She didn’t deserve my respect.

She stood there in front of me, her soft white hair puffed around her head like pillow fluff, forming a perfect moon shape. For the first time, she actually spoke directly to me.

“How was your Christmas?” she asked.

I remember feeling stunned by the question. I hadn’t heard from her for Christmas, except through the Christmas card my grandfather would send, always with money that I was never allowed to hold, let alone spend. Last week, when she came in for her food, she didn’t even say Merry Christmas. She just threw down her items, said, “hello.” paid her money and left.

“I saw all of you, enjoying yours from my bedroom window, that’s how.” I replied, my voice flat and dry.

“Well, maybe you should have brought yourself over,” she said. “It’s your responsibility to call your mother. It’s your responsibility to ask her to pick you up for these events. You choose not to. You show no respect for that woman who gave birth to you. I find it very disrespectful that you do not reach out to her more, and show her the respect she deserves.”

That was it. The beast was stirring.

The anger inside of me erupted. There was no stopping it. No slowing it down. My ears burned hot, like an oven set too high. My cheeks flushed. My hands clenched into tight fists at my sides. Rage kicked in.

In that moment, the beast inside me was fully awake.

“How dare you,” I remember thinking. “How dare you come in here day after day, pretending you don’t know I am being held hostage. Pretending you don’t see that I am living like a prisoner. Pretending not to know she has been kicking me around since I moved in that prison. Pretending to not see how tired I look every time you come in, because I have no peace. Pretending to not know I am not even allowed to take a phone call, let alone make one. Who are you? I sat there watching every single holiday since my 8th birthday, as you and your precious granddaughter and her precious other children enjoy your holidays while I sit in a dungeon watching, crying, wishing, imagining.”

The anger, of remembering that pain, in my chest, in my core, still hits me. Every single day. I push it down. I push it back. I would sit in what felt like a princess tower, watching through my window as my siblings, my cousins, and my own mother celebrated holidays together. I watched them carry gifts into the house, then carry them back out again, everyone smiling, everyone laughing. And then, once they were gone. I was sent back to stand in the corner, for another 10 hours until morning, when school began.

And every time, just before the celebrations began, she would send me to my room. She would tell me she was “sick of looking at my face.”

But deep down, I knew she understood exactly what she was doing.

She knew I would not be able to resist standing at that window, watching the life I was never allowed to be part of. She knew the pain it caused. And somehow, that knowledge seemed to bring her satisfaction. It gave her joy. Revenge against my parents.

She never intended to let me go freely.
She never intended to let me build real connections with my own family.

On the rare occasions she did allow me to attend a family event, there was always a final act of control before I stepped out of the car, a pinch, a slap to the head, a punch. Some small but powerful reminder of who was in charge. “Don’t let me get a phone call.” she would spew as I closed the door. A silent message meant to follow me into every room I entered. A message saying they better not see me cry. I better not tell them anything or I will pay for it.

So standing there in the deli that day, watching my great-grandmother present herself with confidence, money in hand, and an air of superiority, something inside of me hardened. I truly think that was the day, something inside of me snapped.

Who did she think she was?

In that moment, she felt like no one to me.

The kind of anger that can take hold in a single moment can stay with you for a lifetime. Even now, as I write these words, I can feel it in my chest. I can feel it in the tightness of my stomach. I can feel it in the force behind each keystroke.

That is one of the hidden realities of being the child born into complicated circumstances the unspoken consequences that follow you long after childhood ends. I was a product. A product of an affair. An affair I had nothing to do with. An affair, I wasn’t even born yet for. So why, why was I the one punished, for their mistakes?

That day, I decided I would never speak to her again. Matter of fact. I was going to be a whole different person. Fuck anyone who thought they could speak to me that way. Treat me this way. From now on. They will see, the beast. No matter how old they are. Who they are. If my own blood treats me this way, then I am done. I need no one. I need nothing. So, I became the beast. Every day, all day.

If she came into the deli, I would ring up her items silently and point to the total, my expression making it clear that no conversation was welcome.

I have never been very good at hiding my emotions. Even now, my face often speaks before my words do.

But in a strange way, that became a kind of strength.

It became a signal to the world:
Do not waste your time trying to break me.
Move along.
Find someone else to challenge. I am unbreakable. I don’t care who you are, what you are, how strong you think you are. You will never hurt me. I went through the fires of hell. And I am still standing here.

That, sadly, is what you become. When you are the product of an affair. The child no one wanted. The child that embarrassed people. The child that no one cared if she existed. That is what you grow up believing, thinking, dreaming and knowing. You are just, the product.

-Raven Sapphire