The Roots of My Intuition and Empathy

The Hard-Earned Gifts I Learned to Harness

Photo credit: Emily Rios Photography

More than a few times in my life a man close to me has said some version of these words to me—“I love you but I am frustrated by your intelligence.”

Though their agitation is evident, these statements baffle me. The first thought is always—am I? Am I intelligent? More than others?

I didn’t grow up being told I was smart. I grew up being told I was unhappy and sullen. I didn’t feel unhappy or sullen though. I felt quiet and lost and unsure of what to do if I wasn’t told what to do. It is true that if I didn’t have instructions or wasn’t interacted with, I often sat quietly. Perhaps that still solitude could have come across as unhappy or sullen but I was not asked what I was feeling. I was told by my mom what it looked like and how it affected others. These supposed “others” never voiced anything to me about this.

To these statements, I always replied with a slow but smooth head turn to look up into her eyes that perfectly communicated what I felt in hearing them—blank. My mind felt blank. My heart felt blank. My body felt utter nothingness to point of a constant buzzing sensation in my skin. My soul? Well, that was on fire, a phoenix in a continual cycle of death and rebirth. But the upshot was, I was a blank canvas upon which anyone could present stimulus to gain whatever response they desired. The price for this was always mine to pay.

I cannot fathom labeling and chastising a child who was so clearly despondent without ever asking what was behind her behavior. Unless of course, you weren’t all that interested.

I think it was easier for my mom to blame me for not being the son she would have preferred than to adjust and raise me for who I was. I think it was easier for her to see my femaleness as some sort of commodity than to not project her own insecurities and frustrations with life onto me. And I think it was much easier for her to endure my presence in her house if she could keep me on a very short and tight leash. Which she did with great success.

From the age of four, I was preoccupied with learning to read in order to find an escape from chronic abuse by my mom’s sister and youngest brother. And though it may seem that I was often lost in my feelings, I was, in fact, lost in those of others.

What being sexually abused as a young child led me to believe was that my purpose was to make others happy and to feel better about themselves. The price of this was that my happy arrived in the wake of others’ happiness and rather than try to feel good about myself, I chose to feel nothing at all. I was a young girl raised in a rural town entrenched in a patriarchal society; in a conservative religion with traditions intended to keep women silent and distracted with being overworked at home; and in a family in which multiple generations either weren’t watchful enough or outright tolerated sexual abuse of their young. The messages from most everyone I looked up to minimized and marginalized my most troubling experiences.