by Band Back Together | Jan 26, 2016 | Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Anxiety, Bullying, Child Sexual Abuse, Childhood Bullying, Obesity, Social Anxiety Disorder |
I’ve never spoken about any of this. I’ve always been afraid that my secrets, the ones I knew I’d take to the grave would get out and tear my world apart. But as I get older I’m starting to see that my world is falling apart anyway, so here goes nothing.
I think there’s something wrong with me (I’m so annoyed that it sounds cliche). What I mean is that, while growing up, things happened, things that I was never helped with and things that I didn’t deal with. Now that I’m older, I feel like my walls are closing in on me and I don’t know what to do. I come from a family of 12. I’ve never been the one to give my parents any trouble. This means that they don’t have the time to know whats going on in my life and I’m so glad I’m not a burden to them. Sometimes though I wish I had a bit of guidance on the more trivial things.
When I was younger my older brother used me to masturbate. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I know I felt sick writing that sentence, but I think I’m just scared that people will know. I don’t talk about it, I’ve never told anyone. I’m not really sure if that’s abuse or not. I’ve heard stories far worse then that and I don’t think it would be fair to say that I’ve been through the same thing.
I guess I’m a little angry at my family. I know they all knew. I remember telling my older sisters and watching them giggle. (they were young so I don’t blame them). The problem is life went on like nothing happened. To this day. That wont change because if I tore my family apart like that, I don’t think they would ever forgive me, I would never forgive me. In spite of everything I still love my brother and I think that’s enough.
Next was primary school. I didn’t have a single friend, I remember trying to hide from the girls who used to hunt me down for fun. They were always coming up with new names and new games, they picked on the way I looked mostly. At home it was the same, I have four sisters and for some reason I didn’t fit in, when I was home they used to play tricks on me like tying me up in our bedroom and leaving me there for hours or pretending to make me a drink when I was sick only to spit and put detergents in it. They would tease me about my weight a lot, about how I was getting bullied at school, about how I was different, odd and disgusting. What I never understood is why. I would always try to be so nice, why was that the thing that made me so vulnerable. These were the worst years of my life.
High school was pretty much the same right up to year 9. I was the outsider. In year 10 I thought “Screw it!” I’d rather not have friends then surround myself with people that would bring me down. Ironically, while alone, I made some pretty wonderful friends that year.
Now I’m 22, still living at home and I feel riddled with insecurity. I’m embarrassed to be seen in public, I try not to be noticed, when I do get out and socialize, I’m awkward, nervous and my words get jumbled up.
I’ve been dieting since primary school and in spite of all my good and bad choices I’ve only ever gained weight. I’m a size 12 now. I don’t wear clothes that show my figure or skin above my fore arm or even my legs. That is something that has gotten worse in the last year. I used to at the very least wear dresses. It was over 40 degrees yesterday and I couldn’t take off my jumper because I didn’t want people to notice me. I don’t go swimming anymore and I tend to avoid parties. I have the most wonderful friends in the world but I find it hard to get close to them, or to feel entirely comfortable around them.
I study Architecture at university. Its a grueling course that requires me to present my work to people who will exploit my weaknesses. I should be getting stronger and developing a thicker skin shouldn’t I? Instead I feel like my confidence in presenting is getting worse. I’ve developed a stutter and I always go blank.
I’m scared that I’m spiraling, I’ve researched psychologists but the ones I’ve found are expensive and I’m worried someone will find out. I don’t wont to be the girl with “emotional baggage”, but I don’t want to be completely shut out either. This is all I think about now.
I’m sure I’ll work it out but if you have read this, thanks, and I wish you so much happiness and healing on your own journey. God bless.
by Band Back Together | Jan 4, 2016 | Codpendence, Depression, Emotional Abuse, Psychological Manipulation, Stalking |
I would just like to start off by saying I am majorly, supremely, unbelievably fucked up. Now that that’s understood, I always got what I wanted. Since the time I could walk, I could manipulate people. I’ve always understood thought processes and emotions, and I guess that paired with the fact that I had a natural talent for bribery and puppy dog faces resulted in a little girl who didn’t know the meaning of the word “no”. I did know pain, though.
My parents divorced when I was two, and I grew up spending 50% of the time with an extremely abusive (emotionally and verbally but NOT physically) mother, until I was 12 and realized I’d had enough. I cut her out of my life and have seen her very few times since. You see, I did what I wanted. I got what I wanted. I didn’t mean for the lie to become so huge. It started one day in science class, my friend and I were comparing problems and fighting over who had it worst, as preteen girls tend to do. Well, the problem with emotional abuse is that even though it hurts, it doesn’t hold a lot of punch on paper. My friend didn’t believe that I had it bad (but believe me, I DID), so I did what many girls would have done: I lied. I said that she hit me, my mom, and my stepdad too. I justified it to myself in that it wasn’t far from the truth, the things they did to me hurt as much as punches, after all. And after that, my friend comforted me, pitied me, and never questioned my pain again. I got what I wanted.
After I realized that all I had to do to get affection was stretch the truth, I did it with everyone. I never saw it as a problem, justifying it as I explained before, until one day I met a girl and I took it way too far. The Sister, as I’ll call her, was someone I met who soon became the most important person in my life for two years. Unfortunately, she was one of the people to whom I told the lie. In later years, I often wished I could take it back, and wondered if anything would have been different if I had. Would I have gotten what I wanted? The Sister came in to my life when I was in the deepest pit of my self-inflicted depression from the situation with my mother. You see, I had become addicted to the affection I was receiving, and had spiraled out of control creating more reasons for people to pity me. The Sister came and “fixed” me, helped me to stop cutting myself (a habit I had taken up), and even mostly out of my depression (at the time I didn’t realize that’s what it was).
In the next few years we became inseparable, talking every day. She was ten years older and I saw her as a mother, a sister, and a best friend. I considered her opinion fact on everything, and consulted her on every event that took place in my life, not once stopping to think that maybe a 23 year old wasn’t on a place to mother a preteen/teenage girl, because hey, I got what I wanted. That’s all that mattered. And now the story gets interesting… I’m not at liberty to share her secrets, but The Sister had a lot of “problems” of her own she was dealing with, and as I grew up I started becoming a moody teenager, and took it out on the parent I depended on most: her. Needless to say, the combination of both of these factors and the fact that we were both drama queens, led to a very unhealthy relationship. Not just unhealthy. Toxic. I won’t go into the details because it still hurts too much, but I’m sure you can imagine the fights, the codependency, the stalking.
I didn’t know what to do, I was losing the person that mattered most to me on the whole world, and I tried every kind of abuse to force her to stay with me. I had to get what I wanted. And then, one day, after years of getting everything my heart desired, I didn’t. She found out that I had lied to her, and she gave up. Obviously, that wasn’t the only reason, but I sometimes wonder what it would be like now if our relationship hadnt been formed on a lie.
Of course, it left me all kinds of broken when she ended our friendship (I phrase it as “one day” but really it was quite a messy process), but in the end I’m thankful. Because that’s when my story begins. For a few months, everything was black. For those of you who have read the Twilight Saga, it was like the part in New Moon where every page was a month. Time flew and I felt nothing; there goes November, December, January. I did a lot of stupid things to try to make myself feel, things like drinking, drugs, and stealing. Needless to say, the only results this gave me were being grounded more often than not. But then, in about February, or March (it’s kind of a blur…), I started to heal. With the help of my friends, and family (both amazing, wonderful people whom I am blessed to have in my life), I started to build my own person. The Sister had made up my character, choices, and opinions before, and now I was left with nothing.
It’s still an ongoing process, reforming my whole person, but I’m proud of myself so far (especially my kickass style). I haven’t talked to her yet, The Sister. I hear bits and pieces about her sometimes. Usually those days aren’t very good. But luckily I’m now at the point where I can wish her the best. I don’t know what life holds for us, in terms of a relationship. I know it’s not just up to her, or me, it’s up to God. I know there’s a lot of things we’re going to have to talk about one day, but I know that day won’t come for years (if not just because we’re not ready, but also that I’m not allowed to talk to her until I’m 18). In a perfect world, after that day, when we’re both older and independent, we’ll be able to begin some sort of….civility, and maybe eventually a friendship. But if not, she’ll always be My Sister. I’m not sure why I wrote this. Maybe in hopes that she’ll read it (she introduced me to this site), maybe in hopes that it’ll help me move on. Maybe so that someone out there can relate to the loss I went through. Just kidding. That’s a total lie. I’m just hoping she’ll read it. I love you, Sister. I really do.
by Band Back Together | Jan 1, 2016 | Autism, How To Help A Parent With a Special Needs Child, Special Needs Parenting |
I hate skiing. I really do. I don’t like the cold, the snow or the clunky equipment. Still, some eight years ago I brought Sam up to the mountain to attempt skiing with Special Olympics. Truthfully, I was kind of hoping he would hate it. I could then say we tried and move on with my good mother halo intact.
The plan for the first night was to get a feel for the equipment. Sam popped his boots into the skies and intuitively bent his knees and found his center of gravity. I remember saying, hey that’s great, enough for today, we’ll come back another day. But Sam looked up at the big mountain, “Want ski!” That isn’t the kind of statement you can ignore, particularly when it comes from a kid who barely talks. That began eight years of the mad Tuesday night dash to Wachusett Mountain where Sam worked with wonderful volunteer coaches like Melissa, John and Dave and in earlier years, Maureen, Lynn, Kevin and Ken. Each taught Sam something important. With their help Sam quickly progressed to the chair lift.
I remember the first time he fearlessly skied down the mountain sporting a grin bigger than his face all while reciting “Green Eggs and Ham.” Everyone cheered. And so we continued. Saturday we completed our eighth finals at Wachusett with teams from all over the state. The waiting room was noisy, confusing and congested with people: your basic nightmare for a kid with autism and lots of sensory issues. Somehow Sam rose to the occasion, displaying a tolerance he typically can’t master. He patiently waited in the start position at the top of the hill for over 30 without loosing his cool. He cheered through endless awards despite the background din of a few hundred people and the reverberations of a noisy microphone.
I mentioned to one of the other moms at the beginning of the finals that Sam really didn’t care about the metals or winning. We participated for the weekly ski practices. But I watched Sam as the day progressed and I saw something different. I saw tolerance and perseverance. I saw pride. It is true Sam wouldn’t mind if everyone in the room got a medal except him. It wouldn’t even slightly dent his self-esteem. But that isn’t to say he doesn’t like metals. This year he won three. A bronze, silver and finally a gold. Each time he went up to retrieve his medal he stood on an increasingly higher pedestal. Each time he smiled more broadly. By the third trip up he glowed.
To every coach, volunteer, mom and dad who offered kind words or an encouraging smile over the last eight years: You’ve converted me. No, you’ll never see me anywhere except the base of the mountain, it’s true. But you have made every trek to the mountain worthwhile. And I can’t thank you enough.
by Band Back Together | Dec 31, 2015 | Adult Bullying, Adult Children of Narcissistic Parents, Estrangement, Family, Parenting Teens, Poverty, Economic Struggles and Hardship, Things That Are Bullshit, Unemployment |
This is my first visit to the Band. I looked for this site because, at 54, I am still struggling to understand why my father won’t acknowledge my professional successes. I sent him an email last week asking about his holiday plans and mentioning that I am having a book published (we live about 5 hours apart, driving). I’ve been working on this goal actively for nearly a decade, and dreaming about it since I was in grade school.
I’ve nearly raised two children (they’re teenagers), I have a good marriage, and I’ve supported my family financially through my husband’s 5 layoffs. Don’t I deserve a pat on the head (realize this is an infantalizing image) for also pursuing my own dream all these years, while still doing all that was “expected” of me? My mother died many years ago of cancer. In fact, she was 54, the age I am now.
I signed this book contract six months ago but never mentioned it directly to my Dad, even though we shared a rental house for a week in the interim at a family vacation. Last week, in an email, he praised my daughter for academic persistence in high school, and I felt as though I should point out that she was taking a page from her Mom (me). I’ve written 4 book proposals, each 50-60 pages of work, and finally I made a sale! But, this revelation was met with total silence from my Dad and step-mother. I’m pathetic to still care and need and want this acknowledgement. I shouldn’t even ever have tried!! I should just admit that I’m invisible and stay that way. Why do I keep trying for normal?
I have a lovely mother in-law who takes pride in my accomplishments, all around: wifely, motherly, writerly. My husband does, too, as do many friends. I should be grateful. I AM grateful. I still want to make my father normal! Oy. Hopeless. I am grateful that I woke up from this crazy relationship in time to raise my kids without a narcissistic or victim-mongering mother. But there are bits that won’t go away.
by Band Back Together | Dec 30, 2015 | Alcohol Addiction, Anxiety, Depression, Help with Parenting, Postpartum Depression |
The life I’ve been living for over eight months now is an ugly one. A lonely one. A dangerous one.
Night after night, after my son is in bed – sometimes earlier, if his father is home – I pour my first drink. A strong one. I recoil from the sharp taste of vodka or whiskey, both of which I’ve grown to hate. Sometimes it makes me gag, almost comes back up. But I never allow that to happen. I suck the drink down through a straw. Make another. Then another. My body relaxes and my mind becomes fuzzy. I grow sociable and talkative. Rarely do I become an angry or depressed drunk. Rather, I become the person I feel is the best version of myself, the one I used to be while sober – cheerful, fun, laid-back, interesting. My social anxiety dissipates. Things become less irritating to me. My frustrations, fears, and that unnamable empty sadness I carry around are buried – or more accurately, soaked – in a poison that is killing me.
I sit in a blue rocking chair where I tried and failed to breastfeed my son less than a year ago. It emits a maddening repetitive squeak as I rock and drink, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. I just want to get to that far-away, mellow state where life seems good, hope still exists, and I can tell myself that tomorrow, I will give up the bottle and make a fresh start. Lately, more often that not, I pass out in that chair, sleeping so deeply I cannot be shaken awake.
In the morning, I’m shaky and nauseated and dehydrated. My partner – I’ll call him Steven – is the one who gets up with our baby, feeds him breakfast, plays with him while I sleep off hangovers. I groan in protest when Steven wants to make it to his very flexible job by earlier than ten o’clock. We might have had whiskey-soaked sex the previous night, but now I want nothing to do with him. Together on-and-off for more than ten years, we’ve ceased to become a romantic couple. Now he is merely my co-parent, my roommate, my financial support, and my enabler.
I muddle through the day trying to be the best mother I can even though my hands shake as I guide spoons towards my son’s mouth and I have to listen to him wail in protest when I must run to the bathroom again with digestive issues. When you don’t have a gallbladder, and your liver is constantly busy trying to process toxins, the bile needs somewhere to go. Forgive the unpleasant image, but it’s something I’ve dealt with every single day for nearly a year.
I never vomit, and I rarely have headaches. But my body temperature is irregular; I have hot flashes at thirty-three. I can’t eat regular-sized meals anymore, and I’m very particular about what foods I can tolerate during the day – often chicken soup or broth is all I can manage. I’m always tired; I don’t sleep so much as become unconscious for five or six hours a night. My body is worn down. I lose my breath easily. I have coughing fits from the permanent lodge of mucus in my chest. I’m overweight, not from eating but from liquid calories. My muscles ache, and I struggle to heave my 25-pound child into my arms.
I say a few things on Facebook, read aloud and talk cheerily to my son, and spend the day lonely, wanting a drink, aching for something better. I don’t know how to regain the joy I used to have.
When I was twenty-one, I rarely drank. I wasn’t a partier. I was beautiful, thin, and blonde. I worked, and went to classes, and danced, and sang, and laughed, and threw Frisbees and footballs, and rollerbladed, and painted my fingernails, and flirted, and kissed, and was always surrounded by friends. I didn’t need to drink. Life itself was enough.
At twenty-two, I met Steven. It wasn’t his fault. I didn’t become an alcoholic because of him. The shitty fact is, it was likely always in my brain chemistry to become an addict. They run rampant on both sides of my family. It was always there, waiting. All it took was a relationship with a “social drinker” to change my attitude about alcohol. I saw that it made me freer, bolder, less shy and anxious, relaxed, witty, more fun. And from that point on, it took over my life.
By twenty-five, I was doing shots before going in to work my job as a jewelry seller at K-mart. By twenty-seven, a counselor told me to go to AA. By twenty-eight, I was drinking at every family gathering, every social function, every holiday, and often alone. By twenty-nine, I was living back at home with my parents, drinking secretly up in my childhood bedroom every single night.
I’m not even sure how my body was even healthy enough, at age thirty-one, to conceive a child. And here I have to apologize to the infertile couples who are hating me – I know I didn’t deserve him. I didn’t deserve a beautiful, full-term, perfectly healthy son. I did not drink after discovering I was going to be a mother, but I drank during the first weeks before I knew he existed and worried throughout the pregnancy, turning to Google countless times trying to determine how much damage I might have done. The answers were frightening. I almost expected a miscarriage throughout the first trimester, but my son was a strong one from the start. I felt him astonishingly early for a first-timer. Later, he kicked me with such force I almost expected him to emerge alien-style from my belly. He kicked until he broke the amniotic sac, forcing his birth five days before my scheduled induction.
He was pink, and wailing, and alert, and utterly perfect. The only issue was that he had breathed in some of the amniotic fluid and needed to be suctioned. I was stunned at my new role, but I loved my boy and wanted to protect him with a fierceness I’d never known before.
I had hoped motherhood would be enough motivation to keep me sober.
It wasn’t. By the time he was three months old, I was back to nightly drinking.
When I’m sober, my brain is my worst enemy. It prevents me from sleeping peacefully. It tells me what a failure I am, what a mess I’ve made of my life. It regrets everything I missed out on when I was younger. It berates me for being fat, ugly, socially awkward, useless. It panics about the future. It worries about money, my health, my wasted potential.
To quiet it, I drink.
Nobody but Steven knows. It’s my secret. We live hundreds of miles from our families. We have no friends in our current location. It’s just us, estranged partners struggling to raise an energetic, happy, rambunctious almost-toddler. He works long hours, and after the baby goes to bed, I’m alone. In my rocking chair, with a drink at my side.
