I’ve veered off course again; blame the ADHD.
Anyway, I got out of the house, got one of two buses to college, and went on with my day, eagerly awaiting the piss-up that night. I was sitting in social studies, half-listening, half-asleep, when our lecturer began speaking of children who grow up in addictive households. It’s safe to say that got my attention.
He explained the three types of children that come out of these households: the caretaker (the eldest), the rebel (the middle child), and the lost child (the youngest). He started with the eldest, obviously, and worked his way down. I couldn’t help but think that he was bang on with his deductions of the twins, Michael and Anthony, or, as I call them, the test tube babies.
Michael moved out at sixteen, worked his arse off, and went to university in England; he could not get away from Tallaght quickly enough. My relationship with him is the most strained and the most distant. He moved out when I was only eight, and I barely saw him after that. He was too busy working for a better life for himself, earning degree after degree—of course, he’s Mam’s golden child, and she makes a point of telling us at every opportunity. “My Mick” could never do anything wrong. “My Mick” couldn’t wait to get away from you, you stupid bitch.
Anthony assumed the role of the caregiver within the family. He, too, left home at a young age, though two years after his twin. Anthony took me to my first concert—Westlife obvs! He took me to the hospital when I broke my foot in threeplaces, and he let me stay with him when Mam was being a particularly nasty piece of work.
He and his girlfriend, now wife, Louise, got married early; he was twenty-one and Louise was nineteen. They got pregnant soon after, and now I have two nephews, Liam, and John.
I think Anthony was so desperate for stability that he wanted to create his own family as soon as possible. He saw the opportunity to provide the love and support he may have felt was lacking in his own upbringing. Becoming a father and husband at a young age allowed him to establish a sense of purpose and responsibility that gave him the stability he craved. I just fear he may have rushed into things.
The rebel, Ciara, on the other hand, was not ready for such commitments. She preferred her freedom and independence. She got to work as soon as she was old enough and has been trail-blazing ever since. She was the first one to go out clubbing every weekend; I helped her with her tan and makeup before she left. Ciara is six years older than me, so unfortunately, I was not old enough to join her in the club scene. She was the first of us to travel and the person to teach me everything I needed when puberty hit, because, God forbid, the beast that bore me did it.
Then there is the lost child—me.
This is about the time I became grizzly as hell. According to studies, being the “lost child” in an addictive household meant that I often felt neglected and overlooked. It was a lonely and isolating experience. The lost child is known to make up elaborate stories to make their crappy life look more exciting and meaningful. The lost child is also the one most likely to commit suicide or engage in self-destructivebehaviours as a way to cope with their feelings of emptiness and isolation.
That class floored me, but somehow the follow-up class was the one that kicked me in the metaphorical bollocks.
Did you ever wonder how criminals seem to pick out their perfect prey? How they identify vulnerable and isolated individuals? It turns out that, due to their desperate desire for acceptance and connection, criminals and narcissists frequently target the lost child archetype. It’s like we are a giant magnet for those who seek to exploit our vulnerabilities.
I was numb. Silently fuming that I had an invisible target painted on my back that only the most sinister of individuals could see.
Were my emotionally abusive relationships all just a coincidence?
Surely my being assaulted on several occasions throughout my life was sheer bad luck.
Yet that bastard lecturer went and said something that made me feral.
I ended up in a cycle of abusive relationships because men are scum. I have been raped and assaulted throughout my life for those very same reasons, and he was telling me that I’m more likely to have it happen again because… I give off some fucking pheromone that attracts predators. That was victim-blaming at its finest—he can go fuck a goat!
Those two classes have stayed with me since I was eighteen. I’m now thirty-three, and it still haunts me.
It was the very moment I made up my mind. It’s not going to be me. Not again. I’m not going to be another fucking statistic. I’ll make sure of it. I refuse to be a victim ever again.
Unfortunately, I was still in denial about what had happenedto me. I wanted to move forward but refused to look back long enough to release the chains binding me to that life.
It took another eight years of stumbling before I shattered into a million pieces on the shop floor of the Boots Store, where I used to work. It took a breakdown that took me four years to fully recover from to look back and finally confront the painful truth of my past.
I was a victim.
I had no control over what happened in my past, but I sure as hell had a say about what happened in my future. I cut ninety percent of my “friends” from my life and worked my arse off, saving up enough money to buy my own house.
Little old me is now a homeowner, and I did it all by myself.
How’s that for a lost child, bitch?
“Katie?” I feel a light nudge, and my eyes flash open. Cillian’s warm smile greets me, and I realise I fell asleep. “All done, pet.”
I look down, still shocked that I passed out. I hope I didn’t snore.
Cillian offers me a hand and brings me to the mirror, where I look at the finished result. Medusa in all of her splendour. She was once a victim too, just like me, but now she stands as a symbol of strength and resilience. I can’t stop smiling at the reflection staring back at me. “I love it!”
Cillian chuckles and says, “I’m glad you’re happy with it. You wear it well.” He lets me stand there, staring at her for a moment before he comes back to wrap it. “You know the rules at this stage. And no Hanky-Panky with himself for a day or two.”
I throw my head back and laugh somewhat manically. “There is nohimself,so that won’t be a problem.”
