TRIGGER WARNINGS: Childhood SA and Abuse, Childhood Neglect, Animal Abuse, Religious Indoctrination, Suicide Attempt Mentioned, Blood, Self-Harm.
I did not come from a decent past. Please read trigger warnings before continuing.
When I was a little girl, I wanted to discover a world that was safe. Born into an unjust existence, I was desperate for the freedom to express myself without being punished for the way that I felt. My own needs danced between unmet and unsafe, forming a deep pit of disgust inside of me that never left my side though, it did leave me unable to emotionally connect with others as I continued to grow.
Back in the early 2000’s, my family made quite a few large-scale moves and, according to Mother’s version, that was due to a family friend’s divorce that she was getting dragged into. However, when I piece the timelines together, that’s when I, as a six-year-old child, began having sexual relations with my best friend after my sister had molested me, “taught me how” and then, a lot of grown ups might’ve gotten in trouble.
Back then, instead of seeking help for the sexual abuse that both children were subject to, mine and my sisters’ parents chose to “up and leave”, forming my first solid memories into: when things are hard, we don’t ask for help. We leave and start anew elsewhere.
Unfortunately, things got worse after the move to Pennsylvania and I turned 8 years old in a new place while my sister spiraled further into psychotic and predatory behaviors. Killing my first pet, Sparky the hamster, she laughed about his poor, helpless body dying by her hands but simultaneously convinced Mother that it was an accident. And Mother always took my sister’s side, no matter what, labelling me the liar and manipulator from a very young age.
And it wasn’t just Sparky. I don’t remember a time when my sister didn’t hurt me, it was a daily thing. I had to tip toe around her moods so that I didn’t get slapped, kicked or punched and then, laughed at for trying to ask Mother for help (who had already labelled me the liar).
At first, I didn’t stay quiet. Every time my sister hurt me, a whole day fiasco would break out and given my sister never would tell the truth, we’d be forced to sit nose-to-nose with each other and sometimes, even hug or kiss. This always happened because it became a “she said, she said” situation that Mother was too busy to actually pay attention to and for me, it was physical abuse, emotional and physical neglect and learning how unfairness prevails most days. Not to mention the two times I remember that my sister molested me, who knows what happened before I was old enough to form memories.
Mother has let me in on a few of those memories over the years. See, when I had my son, she decided to tell me about how I, as a 1 year old child, had to learn to “cry it out” because she had farm chores to attend to and no one to help her raise her children.
Now, it’s long been proven that babies don’t “cry it out” because they learn to self-soothe. Instead, they become so terrified of being alone, they simply pass out. I’ve never let my children “cry it out” and was devastated to find my own Mother offering it to me as if it were advice. “Mother to mother”, a “heart to heart” like - hey, honey, I completely neglected you from the moment you were born and that’s why you are hyper independent and have raging trust issues but it’s okay, none of that was my fault and now, we can be great mommy friends.
Mother also let me in on a few other things. How scared of everything I was as a child. How she couldn’t remember the pure rageful tantrums I threw that I could remember clearly. I was the “perfect" and “quiet” child as she’d describe proudly, as if neglect and abuse were honorable trophies to claim. As if making me quiet were somehow a goal accomplished.
Instead, back when I was growing up it was easier to let her oldest child prey on me than it was to actually be a stay-at-home mother. While she forced us to stare into each others eyes and she finished her day, claiming some “great mother award”, what she did is fuck up two children who had a good shot a life, that she had to steal.
My mother’s inability to pursue truth, fairness or take responsibility for the fact that she chose parenthood is detrimental to the way that I started to see the world from a very young age. In fact, for years, I searched for partners with those exact flaws.
Mother was too busy to keep me safe and the god she claimed was watching, was letting this evil happen daily. Further, Mother would remind me of my humanly and Christian duties to be honest, to honor my parents and that god would punish even a child who lies. I was constantly told how I’d be burned forever for these lies, punished for things I didn’t even do which only furthered my hatred for organized religion as I grew. Fear was used as a means of control but it was sold to me, as a child, as if it were morals.
But I never saw my sister get punished once. In fact, she enjoyed hurting me both physically and emotionally and Mother’s “discipline” always fed right into what she wanted. I never saw anything other than the opposite of god’s involvement in protecting the innocent, in justice and in being a safe place.
I remember days sitting eye-to-eye with my evil sister who would mockingly say,
“Just tell the truth, you know you broke your own Wizard of Oz VHS.” She’d stomped on it not five minutes prior and then, forced me to go tell our parents that I’d done it out of “anger”. She pinched my arm, slapped my back and pulled my hair until I complied.
This was nothing new, just a single example of what happened every day. Sometimes, she’d offer a smirk after her hateful comments. Sometimes she’d remind me of Sparky and how he looked as he was gasping for air that wouldn’t enter his lungs ever again.
Other times, she’d just tell me that if I didn’t take the blame, she’d kill me later. And I really did believe her. To this day, I still believe she wanted to kill me.
According to Mother, when I was four years old, I was separated from sleeping in the same room as my sister because she’d been caught trying to smother me with a pillow. She was 11 years old and no one ever sought help for even her.
From the moment I came into this world until the moment my sister was kicked out as a rebellious teenager, I fully believed every day that she wanted to kill me and would at any ripe chance. So what did I do every time she hurt me and told me to go lie and say I did it to myself? I’d cave in. Claim I lied and take the punishment for “lying”, ending her fiasco and accepting that in the end, I was just the one who took the blame. Oftentimes, I’d be spanked fairly hard for having “lied” about my sister hurting me. But the truth is she’d hurt me, then my parents would hurt me in retaliation for speaking up. They never cared to really know the truth and instead, they pushed me into becoming the person I am today while still claiming to have no clue why I didn’t ever find god or a man or a good life (according to them).
Hell, just last year, when I briefly spoke to Mother about my childhood (wounds were surfacing again, don’t judge me for breaking no contact for a few months), she mentioned that she wished I could’ve just found the right man early on, one who wouldn’t have hurt me.
“Did you ever consider that being a lesbian has more to do with loving women and less to do with men at all?” I asked her. She never responded and then, changed the subject.
Well, given all I’ve already said, you can see that I had one hell of a time growing up. Dad was out working for this nuclear family dynamic and Mother resented her own daughters, creating more turmoil instead of seeking resolutions, peace. I brewed up an inescapable need for freedom, independence and safety while the rest of the family just simmered in their own shit for as long as I knew them.
But my story isn’t over yet. I only left off about halfway through, let’s continue.
When I was 11, my grandfather (who had gotten his hands on every little girl in the family) got his hands on me and I was molested by a male for the first time. My mother allowed him to stay at the house out of saving face even after catching it happening.
Using Christianity as a mask, my parents chose to cover everything up with this rug of “god will have the final say” but it smelled more like avoidance. After that time of being left alone inside with a known pervert at only eleven years old, I decided that it was best if I just stayed quiet. A few times, Mother would try and talk to me about it. But that was it – I was silenced. I had taken on the role of the silenced child. Why would I not? I knew that the only feeling at home that was safe was no feeling at all.
Since I became quiet and my sister had been kicked out for having a thirty year old boyfriend at seventeen, Mother decided to finally seek help for me. Or better, seek someone to pry information out of me.
But after two therapy sessions, the therapist held a family meeting and I realized that until I was an adult, there was no safe place for me. The therapist told my parents aboout everything I’d said in a single sentence…that I was mad that they didn’t protect me from anything. She looked at my parents with judgment and honestly, any rational human being would. That pissed Mother off. That pissed Father off worse. He was “working his ass off in the Florida heat” to provide for a family that was ungrateful for his monetary presence. (Yeah, we’d moved again after my sister started claiming to see “demons” in her room and failed some teen help program that they finally sought out.)
Mother pulled me out of therapy, isolated us further and quit being emotionally responsive to me in the slightest. Having been homeschooled my entire life, I was pretty used to being alone. For five years, I spent less and less time with our homeschool groups and more time suppressing feelings.
Finally, I was allowed into the real world at age 16. Once I had a job and some influences who listened to me (shoutout to Carissa and Arty), I began to see things for what they were and that… hurt. That made me angry.
The world wasn’t as evil as mother had described. The non-church goers were the sanest people around. The “lowlifes” listened to me because they knew what it was like to be unheard. The Blacks, Hispanics and Gays saw me because they knew what it was like to be unseen or worse, hated for their simple existence. I knew all about both.
So, I started to cause some trouble at home. I started questioning. Talking back. I started sneaking out of my window at night just to walk the dark streets and feel free.
A few times, I crawled into my sister’s Ford Explorer and went to her apartment. She always was thrilled when I wanted to become a delinquent. But it wasn’t that way for me. See, I’d always thought that my sister had been through hell, too and that somehow, if she could own up to her truths, we could fight the system together. I still had hope. I thought we’d be strong as a unit – finally sisters and finally able to stand up to our parents who’d never protected us at all. Only, she was my first abuser and I was still chasing her love and protection, too.
And in case you’re wondering, she never changed and she never owned up to any of what she did, claiming as a 36-year-old woman still that she “couldn’t remember” the things she’d done as a teenager. Instead, she trotted right back to christianity which somehow, welcomed her and washed away her sins.
But anyways. Sadly enough, once my parents caught wind of my teenage delinquency, they kicked me out and my journey into adulthood began officially. At seventeen years old, I was tossed aside by my own “family” with my childhood photos burned. My items burned. My baby book burned. I’d finally gotten the good ole family fling and was discarded, told that I was no longer a welcome member of the family and I’d been exiled.
The people who brought me into the world taught me how to toss someone aside as if they were worth nothing and for that, I chose to not forgive them. Because no one deserves to be treated like that. I didn’t deserve to be treated like that and when you become a parent, you sign up for all of it – not just what makes you look good. Not just what feels easy.
I didn’t know how to process the fact that I, “the good kid”, was kicked out for smoking cigarettes at 17 years old. I couldn’t process that level of hatred, rejection and... narcissism. It was a lot and so, I turned to drinking and drugging. Partnered up with my first heartbreak at 20 years old (and finding out I’m a lesbian), by the time I was 21, I could drink a bottle of vodka a day and be “fine”.
I spiraled into addiction so far that I landed in dangerous situations repeatedly, crashed each car that I owned and finally, ended up in trouble with the law. No one came to my rescue and while I should’ve seen it coming, the whole time I was begging for attention from my parents - begging them to see what they’d done. Using the idiocy of my behavior under the infuence as evidence of their neglect, I was really expecting rehab or phone calls or an intervention or… something.
But no one ever came. No one ever called. I was truly disowned, flippantly tossed aside. What kind of a parent can do that to the flesh and blood they chose to create? A narcissistic one. One that doesn’t care. One that can live in delusion for their entire life.
I think that everyone is capable of facing the truth and honestly, that’s why I’ve decided to start this blog. I gave up on the hope that my blood family would ever come around, apologize, change and instead, now I hope to find a family that has always existed for me outside of blood limits. My hope is to share my story and somehow, by doing that, create a safe place for all of the other grown silenced children. I hope we all start finally speaking up, choosing ourselves and accepting only what we deserve.
Our traumas are so unique but a lot of our core wounds look the same. I’m the unloved child and the unheard child deep inside, those are the wounds that I carry. Which wounds shaped you?
If you don’t want to comment, don’t feel pressured. It’s taken a very long time to get to the point of being able to be open about my trauma in a way that isn’t self-abandoning.
How have I gotten myself to here? Well, in my healing journey, this is what’s been going on:
For an entire year and a half, I’ve walked myself into each memory and held myself – from the little girl who wasn’t allowed dinner because she “lied” and had to listen to her sister (who lied) have dinner with the family… all the way to the twenty-year-old that experienced her first heartbreak and didn’t know how to process it…. I went back and I held myself through each one, processed each one decades and years later. I’ve literally visualized the most traumatic and heartbreaking moments of my life and held the smaller version of me through it. (It’s not exactly “fun”.)
And I’ve hated every second of it. But in the end, the things that I’ve learned were this: time is not linear and instead, it is cyclic. We are capable of going back to painful memories and holding our own hand through it. It can be extremely healing, very therapeutic. Life changing, no matter what your beliefs. In fact, I remember so many times, as a child, praying to a god I never believed in and feeling that someone was still watching over me. A womanly presence. A real mother. It only dawned on me when I was in that specific memory and I told myself exactly what I remembered hearing as a 6 year old child in my mind that maybe, just maybe, I’d actually experienced a future version of me helping me through.
Even if it’s just wishful thinking, it’s healing something in me that was dead for far too long. It’s given me hope again in love and not in the romantic kind… in self-love. In the idea that I loved myself so much that through the most traumatic times of my life, I found some way to get myself through.
I swear I’ve felt myself save me more times than I could count on both hands and both feet. I remember waking, at 23 years old, in a pool of blood on my kitchen floor after another failed suicide attempt and while I still bear the scars to remember it, the presence that held me is more memorable than any wound or white line across my skin. As I bandaged my cut-up arms and legs, I remember touching myself so delicately and talking to each part as if it had its own feelings.
“I’m so sorry that I did this to you,” I spoke to the deep wounds on my right thigh as I wrapped them gently, “I promise that I’ll never hurt you again.”
Never again did I attempt suicide and never again did I cut myself. Instead, I made a pact with myself – I was going to find a way to escape the situation I was in (an abusive relationship, surprise, surprise!) and I was going to sober up. And it took a while, but I did. I first became sober at the age of 24, relapsed at 26 and then, stayed sober since. I turn thirty this year so, don’t clap yet.
When I look back on my childhood dreams, I smile at the idea I had when I was fourteen that I could be the first female Navy Seal or when I was nine and I thought I wanted to be a soldier… I realize that those were never the dreams I was supposed to be chasing. The only dream that matters is finding safety in a world that was unfair from the moment I arrived. I have to create my own justice by building a life that I love and by tending to myself with care, compassion and honor. I have to build safety, a support system, a life outside of the limitations I was taught to impose on myself.
Honoring my past means that I respect that little girl who needed safety. Honoring my future self means remaining disciplined in the things that are important to me. Honoring the present means that I’m finally sharing my story in a way that might be helpful for someone else, not trauma dumping just for the sake of it.
I’m a grown woman now with a child inside that refuses to be silent. By sharing my story, I allow her to see that there’s safety in the world, even if it’s an uncomfortable first step.
Thank you for hearing me.
PS: Where was my Father in all this? Stay tuned for the day that the compliant parent wound hits harder than I'm expecting!
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