Conditional Love
How family estrangement broke my sex-working heart
A s a child, I learned that love was highly conditional based upon what you could do or how “useful” you were to someone — what you could do for them.
I remember my mostly-absentee father would only come to see me if I would give him money for drugs. He left for good when I was eight, after cheating on my mom with her trauma therapist (how’s that for trauma?); I haven’t spoken to him since I was fourteen, although I have tried many times to create a relationship with him, he just has no interest. I didn’t have a father, no brothers and sisters, no real extended family close by.
My childhood was quite lonely, actually. My mom did the best she could to hold things down and to her credit, I always had food, clothing and a place to sleep. What I didn’t have was the permission to be myself. My role in the family was that of the “fucked-up one” in order to boost my mother’s self-ascribed identity of the victim, the martyr, the selfless mother with the horrible, problem child.
I’m still the bad child. Only I don’t know how to get out of it. I’ve been so defined this way, I have no idea who I am without these identities that were pushed on me for the benefit of others.
