I’ve been sitting in front of my computer for the last hour, staring at the blinking line on my screen and waiting for my fingers to type my thoughts out.
Except nothing happened.
I am so weighed down by intense emotions that my heart actually hurts. Yet I find myself completely unable to express anything.
I’ve been doing such a great job of pretending I’m okay.
But I’m not okay.
I’m not even sure what okay is.
Today marks 14 weeks of freedom.
Sometimes I still question what the hell I’m doing here. I wish I could say my situation is ideal, but it isn’t. I’m living on savings. I’m still paying off my family’s debts. I made the decision to apply to grad school for the spring semester so I can take out loans to help support myself. It was one of the options my therapist brought up to me, and the most doable. I will still have time to manage my own mental health without completely exhausting myself. I can start trying to relate to those parts of me that need attention, attention that I just haven’t had the energy to give. I just need to stay on top of myself and make sure I finish the application in time, because otherwise I’m screwed.
My living situation is a mess at times. There are times when it’s okay. Then there are times when I am scared to be here. My roommate got herself into a situation the other night and yelled my name out to help her. It was the middle of the night. I had already heard them fighting before that and tried to keep myself grounded. When she yelled for me, I froze. Then I realized I had wet my pants…something I hadn’t done for weeks and had just told my therapist about it like it was the biggest accomplishment ever. In that moment, I’m not sure my mind knew that I wasn’t a child, that I wasn’t back at home, and that it wasn’t my mother yelling my name. I was in fear. So I cleaned myself up and left without saying a word. I didn’t even check to see if she was okay. I wasn’t even okay.
I guess I should be grateful to be out of my previous home situation, but I never intended to throw myself into a different unsafe situation. Maybe this is just the norm. Maybe my hope of one day living in peace is just a dream that can’t be fulfilled. I don’t know. I’ve been through enough already. Why do I keep getting hit with more? When do I get a break? Sometimes it seems more worthwhile to end up in jail. I’m already used to it. For now, I’ve resorted to wearing a Superman beanie to bed. I realize it’s a very child-like response to the things that have happened, but it’s a false sense of security that is working for me in the moment. Superman will protect me.
Today also happens to be my brother’s birthday. I’m not even sure why I care. Perhaps because it was so hard to ignore the disparity between how my brother’s birthdays were celebrated and how mine were. My brother always got what he wanted. He still does. My mother always forced me to buy him a birthday gift, even though I never wanted to celebrate him. I hated him. I hated how he was honored, yet when my birthday rolled around, it was just another day. I actually grew to hate my birthdays for a while until my friends at work started celebrating it like it should have been celebrated by my own family. Then, it didn’t matter to me how my family treated me on that day, because my friends and coworkers would always do enough to make me feel wanted.
I almost feel bad for my brother. Here he is now, in his mid-late 30s, still being controlled by our mother. He doesn’t understand that there is life without her. She doesn’t own him. She is not his wife (though she continuously acts as if she is). He is still following mommy’s orders like he is six years old. I will admit, his willingness to comply likely saved him a lot of pain in childhood. I got the brunt of the abuse because there was always a part of me that wanted to rebel, that wanted to go against my mother. I think my mother knew that, which is why she kept me under such tight control, yet allowed my brother a little more freedom. My brother did whatever she would say. He would believe anything she said. If she claimed the sky was green, he would eagerly agree with her. I could never do that, even as a child. It ended up causing me a lot more pain and anguish. Perhaps it would have been better for me to just comply like a good little soldier. But then where would I be? Like my brother? My brother is not free. He may very well never be free until the day she dies.
But I’m free. My mother no longer controls me. I may have a lot more scars than my brother, and a few more (diagnosed) psychological problems. But I’m free. I’m intelligent, I have a decent head on my shoulders, a good moral compass, and a sense of responsibility; all things my brother lacks. While the lack of those things may have saved him from some pain, it has only prolonged his prison sentence. I’ve been exonerated, and I’m never going back.
Today’s therapy session included quite a bit of discussion about my mother. Fortunately, I was able to stay present through the entire session. Progress.
My therapist asked if I would have ever started this blog while I was still living with my family. I quickly answered no. The risk was too great for my mother finding out, and when she did find out, I would have had nowhere to hide. I knew there was spyware on my computer; that had been an ongoing practice for a long time. I learned to do most things on my phone so she wouldn’t be able to trace anything.
Then mentioning the phone led me to bring up the first time I tried to have my own phone. I was in my 20s, and didn’t want my mother knowing everything I had done and everyone I had contacted on my phone and going through interrogations about it, so I bought a cheap Tracfone and did the majority of my texting and calling on that phone. I thought I hid it well; I actually bought a phone small enough that I could hide it behind my other phone and have them both in one holster case. But then one day, I went with my brother to pick up food after work and he said “we know you have another phone; we found the empty package in your room.” My heart started racing, because I knew this meant trouble. My mother was not going to be happy. I was in for it. What is even more sad is that I became angry with myself for not hiding the package well enough. It was wrapped inside of plastic bags, then put inside of a book bag underneath some other things, which means my mother had to go through several obstacles just to find that empty phone package.
My therapist seemed surprised at first that my mother would go to such lengths. But this was a regular part of my existence. She would inspect my room and my things regularly. My brother participated right alongside her, as if he were her sidekick. I always knew when they were in my room because they could never put anything back right, and it annoyed me just as much as them going through my things. My desk, drawers, bags, and my nightstand. They would even go through the clothes in my dresser, and my laundry hamper; even my trash was inspected. I tried to hide things wherever I could. I’d cut sections out of books to hide cash in. I’d stuff things inside of pillows. I had to get creative. When I wanted to throw something away and needed to avoid interrogation, I’d hide it in my purse and bring it to work to throw away there. It was an exhausting way to live. It was, almost literally, a home prison.
After I disclosed some of my mother’s controlling ways, my therapist seemed to understand where my fears of my mother finding things out came from. My therapist told me that a few of my parts have this intense fear of mother finding out that they’ve talked or that they’ve done something, and now she sees exactly where that stems from. My mother has been that way for as long as I can remember. As an adult, obviously I knew how she found everything out because I knew more and was aware of her ways. As a child, I believed she had some magical power that caused her to know everything I said or did. It’s why I was so fearful. I’m guessing that’s why my parts are fearful, too.
My therapist asked if I see my mother’s seeming ability to know everything differently now than I did as a child. Obviously I don’t think she has magical powers anymore. Looking back, I have to wonder if she just got lucky those times she did find things out. There were so many times she falsely accused me of talking or of doing something that I never actually did. Did she just consistently make accusations and when they happened to be true, they stuck with me? I’ll probably never have a real answer to that question. I’m forever trying to rationalize the irrational.
I woke up this morning thinking about my mother.
That’s never a way I want to start my morning, but unfortunately I’ve been stuck in a place where her words have become heavily involved in my current self-perception. I’ve been trying to overcome the feelings of being inherently evil, but nothing has worked.
While in therapy Monday, I was discussing people who call their children names and how they might grow up to become that name; it was sparked by something I saw on social media, completely unrelated to me. As the conversation went on and I continued to color my butterfly (we’ve been coloring a lot to keep my hands busy) I said “that’s why I’m evil.” My mother said it so many times, that it came true. I remember feeling nauseated and not wanting to talk anymore. I don’t remember much after that.
My therapist has been trying to help me come up with statements I can use when I feel myself slipping into that self-blaming or evil mindset. I admittedly haven’t done much myself because I’ve been so drained physically and emotionally. But I need to. It’s so strange because on one level I know I’m a good person, but those beliefs get pushed away so easily by self-blame and the belief that I am, in fact, evil.
I thought about what my mother’s intentions were when she said those things to me as a child. Did she genuinely believe I was evil? Or was she telling me I was so I would think I deserved all of the shit she was doing to me? For a while, I believed her reasoning was because she knew I was evil. I never once considered that she used it as a way to manipulate me into accepting the abuse. If I had to decide between delusional or manipulative, my mother was definitely the latter.
Why is this even important? If she believed I was evil, it’s harder for me to believe the opposite. She must have known things I didn’t. If she manipulated me into believing a lie, I just need to remind myself that it was her manipulation and not the truth. I’m not quite sure which side of the fence I stand on. I’d like to be on the side of manipulation, but there’s also a part of me that believes my mother hated me for a reason, and I don’t know what that reason is.
I have a lot of questions that I know will never have answers. Some questions are more concrete. Is my father really my father? There are some genetic improbabilities that have put doubt in my mind for a while now. Is that why I’m evil? But then, what does that matter? That doesn’t excuse her behavior. Am I looking for answers or am I looking for excuses? Then there are the abstract questions. Am I evil? What is evil anyway? Why should I care?
Something has been bothering me for a while now, and it has come up quite a few times in the last week or so.
Whenever some people talk about my mother, they feel the need to mention “she’s sick” or “she’s mentally ill.” Well, first of all, do we really know that for sure? Has she been diagnosed? No. She hasn’t. I’m not saying that she isn’t, I just don’t see the point in jumping to that assumption, as if it was supposed to be comforting to me or something. My roommate mentioned it the other night when I was having my breakdown. “Your mother is sick, you know that right?” So what? So what if she’s sick? Is that supposed to mean something? I don’t get it.
My therapist also brought up the likelihood of my parents being mentally ill. Again…so what? Is that supposed to negate all of the shit they put me through, my mother especially? Regardless of mental illness, my mother knew right from wrong. She knew what she did wasn’t right. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have tried so hard to hide it. She wouldn’t have lied about it. You don’t cover up something unless you know you’ve done wrong. So what difference does being mentally ill make? I’m mentally ill. I’d like to think I would never physically, sexually, or emotionally abuse another human being, especially an innocent child. My illness doesn’t change that.
Being sick or mentally ill is not an excuse for what my family did. Yet every time someone says something like that, it seems that they are trying to find an excuse for what happened to me. There is no excuse. There is no reason. There is no logic. There is no explanation.
If I turned around and did some horrible shit to my parents, I bet I wouldn’t be hearing “she’s sick” or “she’s mentally ill.” But that’s okay, because I wouldn’t be acting out because of any illness. I’d be acting on the pure hatred and evil that lives inside me. And I’ll readily admit that. My illness doesn’t control me. Her illness (if one exists) didn’t control her. She made those choices on her own.
I wasn’t even going to make this post. But then I can’t break tradition, can I?
I’ve been free 12 weeks now. Am I different? Sure. I’m 35 pounds lighter. My hair is a foot shorter and forty shades darker. I’ve got a tan.
Mentally, I’m no different than I was before. In some ways, I feel like I’ve gotten worse. I lost what little support system I had before I ran away. I’m alone here. Scared and alone.
There’s nothing to celebrate anymore.
I fell into a dark place while in therapy yesterday.
I’m still sort of there, hanging on with one arm, with my head turned over my shoulder and looking into the darkness, waiting for the moment I lose my grip.
My therapist asked me to come up with some positive things I could do for myself, and some things we could do in therapy to help transition from dealing with trauma to going back into the real world. My mind just went blank. I looked around the room aimlessly, stared at my hands, stared at the floor…I even closed my eyes hoping an answer would come into my mind. But nothing came. This wasn’t the first time. Any time she asks me these types of questions, I draw a blank. It shouldn’t be this hard to come up with answers. What is wrong with me?
After several sighs and “I don’t know”s, my therapist finally asked me if I believed I was worthy of these things. No. Sometimes I struggle with believing I am worthy enough to be breathing, let alone to be engaging in any remotely positive things. Then I felt myself sinking. I managed to stay grounded for the most part, but I felt like I reverted right back to being my mother’s child. I apologized profusely, which is a habit of mine. I feel like I am constantly bothering other people, and am compelled to apologize for it. I just kept telling my therapist that it was all my fault. Something was wrong with me. Something must be wrong with me. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. My therapist kept trying to convince me that it wasn’t, but I know it was. She mentioned the possibility of my parents being mentally ill. Could a person (specifically my mother) be mentally ill and still appear so normal on the outside? That doesn’t even matter anyway. It was still my fault. I was the only one treated that badly. The defect lies in me.
I grew up believing my purpose in this life was to be abused. I had no self-worth. I have no self-worth now. It’s hard for me to accept when people say something positive because I question their intentions; it’s just not something I’m used to. My therapist asked me if I believed the things she said about me. I said she had to say those things because she was my therapist. When she said that she said those things because they were true and because she cared, my immediate response was “please don’t care about me.” I don’t want people to care. I needed people to care years ago when I was a child in desperate need of saving. Now I am adult who has lost the ability to trust people. Part of that is due to being raised to believe no one could be trusted, and part of that is due to witnessing the actions (or lack thereof) of people in my life when it came to what was happening to me.
Trust no one, fear everything, don’t talk, you’re evil…these are programs that have been downloaded into me since childhood that I have yet to be able to delete. They are like those programs on your computer that run in the background and you don’t even realize that they’re there; they are automatic, and they’re always taking up space. How can I ever feel like I am worth anything when these thoughts are constantly running in the background of my mind? How can I be worth anything when I am so incredibly damaged?
When I first moved here, I would go out on my back porch every night and sit and look at the stars. It was something I was never able to do back home. There was just something so amazing about looking into a vast sky with millions (billions?) of stars, wondering how many people were out there looking at the same stars as I was. But I don’t go out on the porch at night anymore, and I stopped looking at the stars.
In the beginning, I was full of hope and excitement, and running on a rush of adrenaline. Now, I’m coming to realize all that I’ve lost along the way during this transition. Pieces of me are missing. I feel incomplete.
It may be hard for some to understand, but when I was at home, I always held out hope that someday something would change…that someday, my family would become different people and the void in my heart would be filled and I would finally be whole. But now that I’ve moved away, I’ve lost that chance forever. I’ve been trying to fill the void with things that just can’t occupy that space in someone’s heart that is meant for family. I left them. I walked away and I took that chance to fill that void away from myself for good.
It’s not just the loss of my parents. It’s the loss of my entire family. It will never be the same again. I can never see my grandmother; she’s already fallen for their lies about me. My brother is too far brainwashed. Other members of my family don’t want to get involved. They don’t come to visit me, even if they are a quick drive away. I feel incredibly isolated from the people I should be closest to. Your family makes up part of your identity. So what do you do when that part of you is gone? I don’t even feel like I belong in this name anymore.
Then there are my friends. The ones I was closest to back home. The ones that now barely reach out to me, and the ones that haven’t bothered to visit me. I can feel what were once my strongest relationships now fading farther and farther away into the distance. I didn’t expect our friendships to remain the same, but I didn’t expect them to grow so far apart so quickly, either.
Then there are the quiet supporter friends: the ones that support me in private, but when I need them to stand up and fight with me, they are nowhere to be found. Then I am left alone to fight battles I don’t want to fight. It reminds me of the people in my life that knew I was being abused and chose to do nothing because they “didn’t want to get involved.” Not getting involved never solves anything.
People have changed the way they treat me. I’m not a child. I’m not made of glass that can be easily broken at the slightest touch. I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions. I haven’t been able to make real decisions for the last 29 years of my life. Now I want to make them. I need to learn for myself how to make them. It doesn’t matter that they aren’t all good; no one’s decisions are all good. That’s called life. I’m no different from anyone else; I just have a little catching up to do.
It’s a little sad that the only person that I’ve come to depend on (aside from my therapist) is my roommate. My roommate…a woman I met off of Craigslist right before I moved. She barely knows me. She has no obligation to know me. Yet hers is the shoulder I cry on when I become overwhelmed. She is the one who holds my arms down when I dissociate and start scratching myself. And she is the one who sits with me when I don’t feel safe enough to be alone. She, a person unrelated to me and completely unknown to me until a few months ago, now burdened with dealing with me.
The nights that my roommate is not here, I have no one. Those nights are the worst for me; tonight is one of those nights. I often wonder if this is what my life will be like forever. Loneliness. Even Charlie is quiet. It makes me miss his angry ramblings just a little. He probably feels just as lonely as I do.
For so long, I defined myself based on the relationships I had with others. It was part of who I was. Those relationships mattered. And now those pieces of me are going missing, and I don’t know what to do. No family, dwindling friendships, and a lack of identity. I feel empty. It’s no wonder I don’t know who my parts really are. I don’t even know who I am.
I am 11 weeks free today.
I wish my mind could embrace that concept. Freedom. But there is still a huge disparity between what intellectually I know to be true and what my mind believes is going to happen. I still jump at every noise: every creak of the kitchen table, every knock at the door, every honk of a horn. It doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing; when it happens, I go into panic mode. My heart races, the nausea kicks in, the crying starts, and the intrusive thoughts flood my mind. It’s an exhausting way to live.
I also wish the people close to me would understand me better. It doesn’t matter where I am. I could be five miles away or five thousand miles away from my mother, but my brain will always be on constant alert. I’ll continue to have that fear, even when intellectually I know that it’s not possible that she’s here with me. I also wish some of my friends would stop being so critical. I had enough criticism in my old life. I don’t need criticism in my new life. It bothers me when people ignore every positive step I’ve taken and only point that time I took a sip of alcohol. Just because you don’t agree with a decision I’ve made, doesn’t mean it’s a bad decision. I find myself torn between keeping these people in my circle because my circle is already so small as it is, or ridding myself of them and becoming even more alone.
I’m physically and emotionally exhausted. Sometimes I feel like I’m running on autopilot, and I don’t know how I make it through the day. Something in me has gotten me out of bed each morning, allowed me to take a shower, gotten me dressed, and pushed me to get to work every morning. But I’m tired. As weird as it sounds, living in my old life wasn’t nearly as exhausting as this. I dealt with the abuse, but I always expected it. Now, even though I’m in a safe place, I am constantly on alert. It’s draining. The human body is not built to handle being under stress 24/7. I’m not superhuman. I can’t be expected to do this much longer. I’ve already been through enough. Sometimes I wonder if this life is really better, because in many ways, it feels worse.
But I’ll keep pushing forward. I don’t really have any other choice. I won’t get to finish telling my story. The world won’t know who my mother really is. I won’t be able to help others fight the good fight. So far, I’ve managed to have just over 450 people read at least part of my story. That’s more than I could have ever imagined. Four-hundred and fifty people now know part of my truth. That’s a powerful thing.
If I give up, my mother wins. I can’t have that. Not now.
Life Without Hurt 