by Band Back Together | Oct 12, 2010 | Anger, Borderline Personality Disorder, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Child Sexual Abuse, Loneliness, Sadness, Substance Abuse, Suicide |
My mom was 14 when she had my sister. Together, they struggled through life and became best friends. When my mother was 23, she met my father, 22 years her senior. After a whirlwind courtship, they married and divorced six months later when he announced that he was going back to his first wife.
A few weeks later she found out she was pregnant with me. She told no one that she was pregnant. She starved herself so that she didn’t gain weight. I was born full-term weighing a whopping 4 lbs 12 oz.
I don’t have many memories from childhood, except for being by myself. Starting in kindergarten, I walked home alone, where I stayed, alone, until my mom came home around 7 pm. What I do remember is being sad, lonely, and ANGRY. I had no idea who my father was, my mother was never around, and my sister resented me for being born and taking away her best friend.
The first time I tried to kill myself, I was only eight years old. I wrapped a phone cord around my neck until I passed out. My mom found me when it was time for dinner, but she never said anything. A teacher told a school counselor about the bruising on my neck and I was called into the office. I laid it all out. I told her about how sad I was because no one wanted me and I knew it would be better for everyone if I just wasn’t around.
That’s when I started therapy.
After a couple of months in therapy, my mom stopped taking me as the appointments greatly interfered with her work schedule. I got sad again. I learned that pricking myself with needles felt really really good! I would carry safety pins and sewing needles with me at all times. I got into sports, made a few friends and got to spend more and more time away from my house. I managed my depression, by myself, and kept my “pricking” private.
But just as things were turning around for me, my mom decided to move to Pennsylvania to be with some guy I’d never met before.
I was 11 and she moved me across the country to an alien nation. I was more alone than ever. Stranger in a strange land. People made fun of me for my “Texan accent.” I listened to classic rock and everyone there listened to Hip-hop. It was so hard.
I finally managed to make a couple of new friends but the depression grew worse. My safety pins no longer did the trick. I needed something else. I discovered cutting. It felt even better than pricking, and the euphoria lasted far longer. Unfortunately, it was harder to hide. The school nurse saw my cuts and called my mom who then had me committed to a psych ward.
I was 12.
After my release things got even worse. My mom’s new boyfriend was drinking more than ever and he started getting physical with me. In a 6 month period, he broke four of my bones, and fractured two ribs. The school nurse called the authorities. After an “investigation” it was dropped, because I was a “clumsy” child and hurt myself. I started cutting again, this time on my legs, because it was harder to see that way.
From 1998-2000, I tried four more times to kill myself. Finally one of my friends’ mothers (after seeing bruises from my mom’s boyfriend) marched into my house and packed me a bag. She told my mom that until she was ready to be a real mom, I’d be staying with them.
I lived with them for three months. During that time, they paid for my therapy and my medications. She took me shopping and we had girl time. I wasn’t so alone anymore! Then they moved… Her husband’s company was relocated to Florida, and of course I couldn’t go.
My mom finally got her shit together and we moved into a small cottage. She still worked all the time, and I was alone. I did drugs, primarily heroin. I became angry and defiant. I was expelled from three different schools. My cutting got worse.
I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder.
I met my first husband when I was fifteen and a few months before my seventeenth birthday I found out I was pregnant. By that time I was on a LOT of heavy duty meds. I was drugged constantly, either by pills prescribed to me, or the drugs that I chose to take. I quit everything, cold turkey. No more anti-psychotics, antidepressants, pot, heroin, cocaine, not even a cigarette.
My daughter gave me a reason to live. She saved me.
It’s hard for me now (nine years later) to wear shorts or short sleeved shirts, because my scars are still very visible. My kids haven’t really asked me about them yet, but I’m preparing for the day. I don’t know how to tell them about what I went through. I do know that I can tell them that they have saved me, in so many ways.
I can’t say that I haven’t been through some rough patches. And honestly cutting and suicide still weigh on my mind, but I fight the good battle every day and I will continue to do so. Borderline Personality Disorder doesn’t just go away, so the only thing I can do is work on myself every day. But coming here, and seeing what EVERY ONE OF US goes through, gives me hope.
Every amazing person that posts on this site is my hero, THANK YOU.
Thank you for giving the misfits a place to lay our weary heads.
by Band Back Together | Oct 10, 2010 | A Letter I Can't Send, Abuse, Addiction, Adult Children of Addicts, Alcohol Addiction, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Psychological Manipulation |
“Mommy Dearest,”
First off, I would like to thank you. Because of you, I know what kind of mother NOT to be.
Now, let me be blunt. You are not the June Cleaver type of mother you have created in your head. Growing up, my life was not normal. It was not okay that you spent pretty much every day of my childhood intoxicated in some way. It is not okay that you bought wine coolers at the grocery store would drink them on the way home while you begged me not to tell my daddy. Going to three different doctors to get Xanax, and then taking 12-14 a day at your peak was bullshit.
Then, you had the nerve to blame all this on me. You said the reason you became an addict was so that you could cope with doing things normal mothers do everyday. You said that in order to tolerate taking me to dance or attend my chorus concerts you had to get shit-faced.
Well lady, I call bullshit. Really. It is not okay to blame your insanity on a child.
While we’re at it, it was crap that some of my first memories are of you telling me you were going to kill yourself. You would whisper this in my ear so that Daddy wouldn’t hear you. You once told me right before a vacation to the beach that you would die there. You said that you were going to walk out into the ocean and never come back. You also seemed to go particularly crazy at holidays. Why? I don’t know. The thought of Christmas still makes me panic.
You have called me things like “whore,” “slut,” and “worthless.” You have told me that the only reason I am here is because of my Daddy. You said if had been up to you, you would have had an abortion. In what world is this considered sane? You wondered why I rebelled as a teen. Well hell, I was crying out for help.
Now, you have the balls to think that should I allow you in my life because you finally decided to get sober? You expect that we should be friends and I should help you?
Let’s get this straight: I don’t owe you a fucking thing.
You have never apologized to me for being a shitty mother. You’ve never apologized for the psychological damage that may never go away. Not only that, you don’t even acknowledge that you ever did anything at all. The things I have listed here are just the tip of the iceberg. Conveniently, they seem to slip your mind.
You have nothing now because you left daddy. You wasted every cent that you got in the divorce. It’s your fault that you have nothing. It’s your fault you have no one. It’s your job to make a life for yourself. It is not my job to fill your life with happiness. God knows, you never filled mine with any.
You, as a mother, are supposed to be there to lift me up. Not the other way around. Our roles have always been reversed and our relationship beyond dysfunctional. I may have had to take your crap when I was little, but I sure as shit don’t have to live with your insanity now. I will not give you the chance to poison my four precious angels the way you did me.
You may be sober, but you are still the same selfish, self-centered person you always were. Unless you can prove to me that you deserve another chance in my life, I will always resent you and keep you at an arms length.
Get over it.
I had to.
Your daughter (in name only),
Kelly
by Band Back Together | Oct 10, 2010 | Abuse, Anger, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Coping With Domestic Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Emotional Abuse |
My abusive ex is controlling me through my kids. He knows that’s my weak spot because I would do anything for my kids. It’s a power play.
He only takes the kids to spite me. He was uninvolved in their lives from the second they were born until the day he walked out the door. But, as soon as he left he decided he wanted to be a parent. Well, he wanted to portray the image of being a parent. He wanted the kids because I wanted the kids and he could never stand to give me what I wanted.
When he has them, they don’t eat lunch, they don’t sleep well, he emotionally abuses them. He leaves them with complete strangers so he doesn’t have to “deal” with them. He has told my 6-year old daughter that she is fat and ugly. He allows his girlfriend to call her a fucking liar (she’s not a liar). My 2-year old son has been strapped in his highchair for hours in time-out, not because he was bad, but because he was acting like a normal 2-year old boy.
It sickens me.
I know the emotional abuse that he is capable of and now I am required, by a court order, to send my children into this nightmare.
How to you explain that to your children? What do you say when they are begging you not to send them? When they tell you daddy is a bad person? How do you respond when they ask you to make it stop, make it better and you can’t?
I have escaped but I feel like my children suffer in my place. I am their Mommy. Mommy makes things right.
But how?
I have a contempt of court hearing at the end of October. He has been violating the custody arrangement for quite some time. I am terrified of this court date. I have witnesses who are going to testify about what they have seen. I hired a Private Investigator who has documentation and videos that show him willfully breaking the court order. But, what if! What if I don’t win? What if he still gets custody? How do I explain this to my children?
I have tried everything in my power to help them but it seems like everything I do makes things worse. The more I fight for them the worse he gets. I have even tried getting them counseling but state law requires BOTH parents to consent to counseling.
How is that right? It seems crazy to me. My children are being emotionally abused but I need the abuser’s signature to get them help. That, to me, is equivalent to asking someone who is physically or sexually abusing someone to give them consent to get help. No abuser is going to admit to abuse.
It angers me that the court isn’t acknowledging the long-term affects of emotional abuse. I may not have been beaten, my children may not have bruises but, we are hurting. Emotional scars don’t ever completely heal. I know that my children will suffer from what they are experiencing now and I can’t do anything.
We have so much love and support from family and friends but I still feel alone. No one can help me.
I just want to fix it and I can’t.
by Band Back Together | Sep 19, 2010 | Abuse, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Coping With Anxiety Disorders, Emotional Abuse, Generalized Anxiety Disorder Resources, Preventing Child Abuse, Psychological Manipulation |
I carry too much pain. The person who birthed me didn’t want me and told me I was worthless, from a young age, as early as I can remember. There are not words enough to describe the amount of negativity that was heaped on me for so many years. And there is no way to describe how deeply embedded in my psyche is the pain. Without even getting into the physical abuse, I’m already too full of pain to comprehend it.
When I first started having panic attacks, first experienced that all-consuming terror, I wondered why it was all so damned familiar. I couldn’t comprehend why I felt like I knew this, recognised it… WHY? And then I realized that I had felt like this before; for all the years that I was abused I felt this constant terror, in a muted sense. It got to the point where I was utterly used to it, similar to how you become habituated to the whirring of the fan or the sound of the rain. It was there, but I didn’t really notice, almost took it for granted. It’s been there ever since, and last night it all blew up in my face. Again. Suddenly I was four years old again, and totally immobilized by abject terror. I took my Ativan, but it didn’t seem to be working. It was still there, spreading slowly through my mind, causing me to shake with such force that my muscles were aching with the strain of it.
Then I remembered the words, the only antidote to mental suffering is physical pain, so I dug my fingernails deep into my skin. I hoped that I could focus on the pain, that I could somehow start to breathe again, that I would survive. And I can’t help but think that it’s not fair… I shouldn’t have to live like this. Ambushed by fear I can’t see or name. The kind of thing that creeps in at 4 am when sleep would be such sweet relief, but closing my eyes just isn’t an option.
This is the aftermath of child abuse that nobody can truly understand unless they have been there themselves. How can you pick up the pieces of an ordinary life you never really knew? How do you move on? It’s been so many years. I wish I could say, “I am OK,” but I can’t. It is a long, difficult road to being OK.
I hate being this person. I hate living on this roller coaster, with no warning when the track is going to plunge into darkness. I hate not being able to breathe, not being able to see clearly, not being able to believe that things will ever get better. I hate that I sound like this. I hate that I am ashamed to write these words. I hate that I’m afraid someone will find out.
What if I really am worthless and unlovable?
