I ran across this blog post today and appreciated the two questions she poses to homeschoolers at the end. I decided I wanted to answer them too.

As a former homeschooler, I am noticeably capable and mature because:
I grew up with a lot of responsibility that by necessity taught me many practical skills. I read copious amounts of books. I quickly learned to read another’s emotional state and intuitively guess what they need as a necessary survival skill. My performance level is high in most sorts of pressured or crisis circumstances. My communication skills, mostly verbal, were sharpened by constant high -pressure communication through my growing up years.

What I wish people really knew about me was:
I can find almost no motivation to do anything without a crisis. My health and current emotional weakness (Panic attacks, PTSD symptoms) are proof of the many years that I was strong in extreme circumstances. In spite of how it may look on the outside, I am unsure and insecure in all my social interactions. My ability to read and respond to someone else’s emotional state is almost to the level of compulsion; sometimes, I don’t know if I’m doing it out of care for the person, or to protect myself, or only out of habit. The only relationships I feel I have a good grasp on are ones with authorities or subordinates. I don’t understand people who don’t have a strong survival instinct, or don’t seem to think about survival one way or the other. If I dropped you as a friend, it isn’t because I didn’t like you; it’s because I literally do not understand how people are supposed to make, keep, or interact with friends.This is one of my greatest regrets and it constantly haunts me.

I remember that bruising after spanking was considered an unfortunate accident and often blamed on the child. “Your poor little legs! If only you wouldn’t have danced like that, the switch wouldn’t have hit them.”

Bruising was a fairly often occurrence, more so for some kids than others. Ellen and Gracie were “easy bruisers.” I had no idea until this week, as a 25 year old woman, that it was possible to spank and never bruise. I thought it was a random reaction that was basically uncontrollable. I thought all parents that spanked sometimes bruised their children. I had no idea that it was considered proof of abuse.

I remember that we weren’t allowed to wear makeup until we turned sixteen. When Julia turned sixteen, she was happy to start wearing it, but when Ellen turned sixteen she was only interested in wearing it some of the time. I remember many Sundays after Ellen turned sixteen that Mom would say, “Aren’t you at least going to put on some lipstick?!” This translated as a non-optional command.

I was usually shamed for going out of the door with wet hair. "You can't go out looking like that! You look like an orphan!"

I remember the first time Dad admitted to me that he and Mom were having problems. I was 18 and we went on a walk around our extensive, six and half mile, country block. He walked and jogged and I was on my bike. I said almost nothing because the information he was giving me was so much to take in.

I was grateful, at first, that he was being honest. Finally, I was being given the respect and decency of knowing the truth about the situation I was forced to live under. I was also terrified. My entire world felt like it was crumbling around my ears. What he said was not very surprising on the one hand because it fit my reality a lot better than the basically good marriage I believed existed. On the other hand, I had honestly believed my parents were doing pretty well, and our family was overall normally healthy.

Since the conversation encompassed all six and a half miles, I’m guessing it lasted between one and half and two hours. He went all the way back to when he and Mom were dating and told me what seemed like everything. He told me he should have realized when they were dating that he shouldn’t have married Mom, and told me their marriage got worse as soon as Julia was born. He told me that their sex life was never good. He told me so much that I am having to censor it here.

I just tried to process it all. I was honored that he was sharing with me, and thought that maybe this meant he would let me help him.

I felt confused, trying to figure out where the truth met between the dire story he was telling me and the face that he and Mom put on to us kids and the world. I wished the block wasn’t so big, so the conversation would end. By the time we were almost home, I felt so sad for him and Mom.

It made me really uncomfortable that he talked about their sex life. I also wondered if he really didn’t realize that his confiding in me about his unfulfilling and disappointing sex life made me feel like I was supposed to offer him sex. I knew, at least I was almost sure, that he would be horrified by this suggestion. But, on the other hand, I felt like he should have known that it would make me feel like that.

This was the first time that we had this ‘conversation’ of him listing all Mom’s faults (largely sexual in nature) and the ways he had been wronged in their marriage. He technically admitted to having some faults as a husband; but, while Mom’s faults were shared in specific detail, I never figured out what he thought his were.

At first, I tried to give him counsel. I wracked my brain for the right thing to say that would save him and Mom both. After hearing his exact same story with all the lurid details too many times to count and realizing that he didn’t want and wouldn’t receive anything from me on the subject, I refused to listen to it. At the time, I didn’t realize that what I was experiencing was verbal sexual abuse.

Sometimes, he changed it up a little by interjecting into his saga of marital abuse, strong advice about how I should and should not treat my future husband. He would use Mom’s actions against him as examples of how I should never treat my husband. I wish I could say that I didn’t take any of this skewed situational advice to heart, but I did. I still find it cropping up sometimes in how I think about myself as Jon’s wife.

One night, he took me out to eat and started talking about Mom again. I told him that I was unwilling to listen anymore and we needed to talk about something else. He tried to say a few more things about her, but I politely and firmly cut him off. I could barely eat, my stomach was so tense. Once he realized that I really wouldn’t listen to him talk about Mom he had nothing more to say and we ate our entire meal in silence.

That meal marks the point for me when Dad and I stopped talking. Once I didn’t allow him to talk about Mom, he basically stopped talking to me altogether. The few times that we have had private conversations since then he has mostly talked about his current girlfriend or again, Mom’s failings.

Only within the last few years have I learned the technical term for the kind of relationship I was taught that God wanted me to have with my Dad: Emotional Incest. Where his emotional needs would be met by his children.

I remember watching Ellen and Mom have a "discussion" in the laundry room under the stairs. I must have come in to get something and had to stand there and wait for Mom. Our laundry room was tiny, and you couldn’t really pass someone in it without squeezing. Ellen was trapped, further in than Mom. Since I was behind Mom, I could see Ellen’s face. It was obvious to me that she was in quite a bit of pain. Must be another of her headaches. Her face was a little pale and wore that tensely-trying-to-relax look that I have come to recognize on someone still functioning under a massive headache.

Mom was telling her that she didn’t understand why she always had a bad attitude. She didn’t understand what was wrong between her and Ellen. She needed Ellen to communicate more with her. And why didn’t Ellen ever smile? I think Mom was crying.

Ellen was trying to explain that she didn’t have a bad attitude, she had a headache. She didn’t smile because she had headaches. There wasn’t anything wrong between them. Ellen was trying to communicate. She needed Mom to quit assuming what Ellen was thinking and feeling.

I think I remember this instance in particular because it was the first time that I realized Ellen was making sense and Mom wasn’t. All I had to do was look at Ellen’s face, and I knew what was wrong, more or less. But Mom didn’t. She looked at Ellen and saw a bad attitude, resentment, and a cold shoulder, even though she knew that Ellen had headaches almost constantly. I didn’t process it right then because I didn’t know what to do with the information that Mom couldn’t understand what was obvious to me.

I remember when Mom would tell Gracie, “Go do something with your hair. It looks like a mop.” Every. Single. Day.