Original post 11/2014

 You receive from the world what you give to the world.  Oprah  

My maternal grandma died this week. I have no emotion. I would like to tell a story of a grandma and her granddaughter bonding and building memories. I can’t write about bonding because booze was her best friend. My grandfather an alcoholic as well, I can’t recall his voice. I walked into their house, the smell of Scotch over whelmed me. I wanted to get sick. My grandfather always sat at the dining table, a tall glass and bottle of J&B no more than arms length.He stared ahead and didn’t participating in the conversation.

My grandmother verbally abused me every time I visited or talked to her. I have no ill will for her, I live in the present. As a teenager, I felt cheated not having a relationship with them. Everyone carries baggage. She has to account for her choices in life before our maker. She birthed my abusive mother. My grandma had pent-up anger and aimed for me. The ones I heard most often “it was my fault my mother got pregnant” or “I ruined my mother’s life” or the most painful “you were a mistake” I lived for years hearing those words repeated, I felt so small.

I’ve struggled for days deciding if I wanted to acknowledge her life and death. I believe every one deserves acknowledgment at death.

I hope my grandmother is at peace, the angels helped her unload the anger inside and she no longer blames others for her issues. Rest in peace. 

M/Warrior

Original post 1/2015

I found photos of myself beginning at birth. As I looked at each photo my mind was asking who could hit this child. I began to sob, continuing to look at each as I grew older. The question of who could hit this child grew louder in my head. People who don’t know are probably thinking I was crying for myself. The truth is I didn’t think about my circumstances once. I looked at each photo as if any child was being abused, not even seeing myself in the photo.

I knew logically they were me but my mind turned off. I had a similar experience after seeing a news report of a 9-year-old girl abused, starved, and killed by her parents. She died chained to a post on the front porch. I was heartbroken and wished someone could have helped her. There were no tears at home. Several days later I started talking to my Therapist about the girl. I cried, expressing a range of emotions, it took a few minutes to compose myself. I asked my Therapist if the emotions were suppressed, but I didn’t think so.  After 16 years she knows me and explained I feel deep compassion for others. 

I read my Baby Book, and I wanted to show that abused children and abusers don’t look any different. The parents can say sweet things to cover the abuse at home.   

My Mother’s Message To Her Child

To my beautiful young lady. I wish you all the happiness and grace to you. May God fill your life with all his richness and love. May your path be filled with roses and your heart be filled with the pureness of God. 

New mothers often write their child’s milestones in a Baby Book. Here are my Mother’s observations and comments from mine starting at birth.

Lock of hair from first cut at 12 months old

First baby ring at 18 months

Right hand and footprints at 8 months and right foot at 3 months

The first toys were a baseball bat and glove from my Gramps

I learned to ride a bike without training wheels at 4 years old

Started walking at 8 months, potty trained at 19 months

Notes: Happy birthday my sweet little kitten, who likes to blow bubbles with her food, first school play at 5 years old, I was so proud I cried. She has a little temper, she has a big beautiful smile, at 16 months loves music and dancing

The entries stopped but the abuse didn’t.

Original post 5/2014

We do things for people we love not for those who do not deserve love.

I woke today with a tug, my introspective mood. I save difficult post for days like this. It’s not depression or sadness more logical than emotional. Dissociation is a conversation my therapist and I have talked about for 15 years. When I talk about child abuse at the hands of my mother and stepfather my mood is flat.

One of the ways I survived was putting each memory in a box to deal with later. After awhile some memories fade. Other’s are  yearly reminders. My mother still sends Birthday and Christmas cards. About 15 years ago she sent a Birthday card triggering the last blow. She basically said “I’m not the only person with problems get over it.” Nothing ever changes, everything is about her. I had not thought about my mother yet would send thank you notes for Christmas gifts.

I didn’t think about it, just on auto pilot. This Birthday card was different, it pissed me off almost to almost losing it which I rarely do. I took the card to my next therapy appointment. I sit down and Diane knew something was very wrong. I handed her the card and the inscription written in the book. Diane was a cool therapist, she knew me well. She could tell the anger was building and ask what was my next step. I throw them in trash and send her a thank you card.

She pulled my reins in and asked why I would thank my Mother for kicking me in the gut. She helped me see I was being polite, acting the way my grandparents taught me. Diane turned around throwing them in trash saying my mother didn’t deserve me. Did I want to send a card? Was I doing the expected? I realized two things: I would no longer have contact with my mother, not open the cards, throw them with the $25 check in the trash. She helped me see I was in my own chains.

I felt much lighter after making that decision. The other lesson learned: I’m not flying auto pilot anymore. I thought about the waisted energy and looked forward to my liberated self. I didn’t have any contact with her again until my brother’s wedding. Years had past, the older me asked, I would not look back and know I missed his wedding because of her. It was uncomfortable seeing my other grandmother and her. I answered the obligatory “fine” then turned my chair so she could see my back. It sent the message, I was not interested in talking. Flash forward to May 22, 2014. Karma. My mother told me at least once a day how stupid I was. I laughed when I receive notice my Andy Warhol “So Smart” shipped today.

My father sexually abused me, estranged from the age of 14. We saw each other some holiday gathers. My father was belligerent, anything could push him to out of control crazy. He would get so worked up, my grandmother would tell him to go outside. The smallest detail could get him to a point of making him sick.

I now realize this behavior was part of his mental illness. He was my grandmother’s only child, in many ways she still treated him like a child. I didn’t learn how sick my father was until he committed suicide in 1992. Ten years before his death, one of his roommate’s committed suicide in the bedroom he rented with my dads gun.

My dad was distraught and my grandmother didn’t want him to clean the room. She called me at work to tell me what happened and they were going over. Here is where the two situations are dramatically different. Horrified at the thought of my grandmother cleaning up the blood. I said I would meet them there. My grandfather tried to redirect my father’s thoughts. We cleaned and packed his room for family.

Cleaning after a suicide brings many emotions out. My grandmother and I worked without talking, it didn’t occur to me that he could have HIV/AIDS. It was a couple of days when my brain thawed, the question crossed my mind. My grandmother cleaned houses to have money, She wanted me to have nicer clothes for school. She knew how to clean anything from house cleaning.

We had to decide what to do with the mattress. Answer’s don’t roll out to questions like this. We could not leave it in the house, my grandfather took the blood soaked mattress to the curb for city to pick up. The image of neighborhood kids playing seeing the blood, ate at me but I had bigger things to do. I brought black trash bags in for his belongings.  It was difficult going thru his dresser, I found 14 pennies which took my mind to a dark place. This person was alive yesterday and today his parents are picking up three trash bags, all their son owned. I fixated on the 14 pennies. He didn’t have any money in wallet, was 14 pennies what it came to? Is all that’s left of this person’s life, three trash bags? The thought of handing trash bags to his parents bothered me for days. Was this it? Someone’s life could come down to three trash bags.

I thought about how any times I attempted suicide. My mind switched to what I would leave behind. I don’t want my family to see? After the brain thawed, I started going thru my house throwing items in the trash. Mainly my journals, my grandparents did not know about the sexual abuse and they would go to their graves not knowing.

For a time I was outside of my body, the only way to describe is dissociation. I knew if my grandmother knew it would upset her. The same way we dealt with my father’s death. I believe this is one of the reason it took me 7 years to grieve before packing the feelings away.

I realized this was unconditional love coming from me. Arriving at the house after my father shot himself, I wanted to see the bathroom. In the bathroom was proof he is dead. I knew having a closed casket would cause my grandmother more pain than I could understand. Thinking I could handle anything, same as today. I’d planned to tell her I forgot something once we got outside. Then open the bathroom. She was to smart for that, she said if you’re going in I’m going with you. There was no way I would let her in the bathroom. I think any parent would break beyond repair seeing their childs brains on the wall. My love for my grandmother came before my wish. I knew it would be difficult to reconcile death with a closed casket.

I stopped by after work to get her mind on something else. It didn’t make it less painful just a reprieve from the pain. I never let her see me cry or it would set her off. The long grieving process was in part due to pushing feelings down for my grandmother.

Some people never give or get unconditional love. I’m blessed with unconditional love with my grandparents. With anyone. Love has everything to do with it.

Warrior

I started Looking for the Light on 2-22-2014, exactly 22 years after my father’s suicide. Every year on the date, my emotions/logic are so conflicted. I stopped drinking years ago but every year I get drunk, my coping mechanism. I thought my dad was cool as a child and we had lots of fun. My father had no clue how to parent, it was scream or give in. My brother and I where seeing my father every two weeks.

My father (married) had a girlfriend and liked to party, 8:00 p.m. on Saturday nights he would head out. We were left with our step mother and step brother. It was boring for me. I remember the weekend well. I got dressed, put on my stepmother’s make up and said I’m going with you. He said no at first but it was the well ask me again type of no. I said I had to get out of the house.

I’m 9 years old but I looked older, not that much older. I received a lot of attention from the guys and it made me feel good. It made me feel pretty, when I got older the memories screwed up my view of relationships. Being the life of the party was great. I know there were several men who would have slept with me if I’d let them. My dad had one club he liked, I became a regular.

He would find a couple of women he knew and asked if they would keep an eye on me. They did, asking what I wanted to drink, do you want black molly’s or ludes? My dad was dancing all night so we only saw each other when we danced together. My father had a warped sense of being proud by showing off his daughter. I’m 9 years old, people must have thought he was crazy. Those who had any sense.

He was an alcoholic, I’m not sure he thought anything was wrong. Eventually it led to parties after closing time. I saw an orgy while walking upstairs looking for a bathroom. People were everywhere. I had to step over people on the stairs. People saying take off your clothes and join us. There was all types of sex going on and some in a group. My mind could not process. I knew nothing about a mans dick let alone what to do with it. I’m 9 yrs old, a child but no longer a child. At parties my dad would get a couple of joints for me, he knew I was smoking pot. I was having fun, my dad was cool. It became our weekend ritual, sometimes not coming home until four a.m., crazy. My dad’s nick name was Foxy, I was Foxy Jr. I believe his mental illness was driving this madness.

Another memory my brother has to live with, I’m thankful he doesn’t know the worst. I went to live with my father at 12 years old. We continued to go out until I met my boyfriend, 21 years old. This guy must have had big problems. I’m no prude but a 12-year-old doesn’t date, let alone a 21-year-old drug dealer. You can read ” I Almost Killed My Father” and get a bigger picture.

My father was jealous of Sterling. The relationship with my father started a tumble. This is when the sexual abuse escalated. It started with him kissing me, slightly pushing himself towards me. I pushed him away saying “I’m not your girlfriend”. I never imaged where it would go from here. This was the beginning of the worst to come. My therapist is the only one I’ve told. Sexual abuse left me with warped ideas about sex and relationships as I got older.

Those were visible scars, there was an iceberg below. I don’t know how long it will take for me to process this time of my life. Those are the only words I can say out loud at this time.

I want to thank G, his courage has gave me the strength to wipe dust off my box. If you are in an abusive relationship, please reach out. There are many survivors of every type of trauma who will gladly hold your hand or lend a shoulder. This is a place where you can remain anonymous and no questions asked.

Warrior

Original post 5/2014

I had to buy this Warhol because it was the complete opposite of my childhood. I saw the happy little girl and thought about me in kindergarten. She’s carrying a bag of candy and a good report card, again not me. What makes it so special is my mother told me I was stupid all the time. I began to believe her. You look in the corner and see “So Smart”, words I love to hear. I wasn’t stupid, just carrying a heavy load. No kindergartener can handle the burden of that secret.

Warrior

Original post 6/2014

It’s interesting the events our mind suppresses or forgets. I have no emotion talking about the physical and emotional abuse at the hands of my mother and step father. I have disassociated memories of sexual abuse by my father. I know it. My therapist and I have talked about it, she doesn’t push and knows if the door opens I’ll talk. What I will not do is force my mind and body to endure pain it’s not ready for. I have a good perspective on what I’ve survived and the methods our mind uses to deal with our deepest pain. I’m not sure if this particular memory was forgotten or suppressed. I had no emotion as my therapist was almost brought to tears.

I saw a story on the news about a 8-year-old girl tortured by her parents in some way. I don’t recall the circumstances. I always plan what I want to talk about but this day was different. I sat down and the memory of the little girl crossed my mind. I asked her if she had heard the story then adding my thoughts. I started to cry which I do easily for others in pain. As we talked about what type of parent would do that, a childhood memory flooded over me. The tears dried and it was if I was talking about someone else. When I was 8 years old I started having terrible side pains and daycare called my mother. She didn’t take off early and it was maybe 3 hours before she arrived. At that point I could barely walk and could not walk and breath. The supervisor thought I had an appendicitis attack and should get to the hospital right away. It was Halloween night and I didn’t want to miss out on the candy but pain was taking over my small body. My mother was angry for ruining things for my brother, nothing new about that. I guess we did not have insurance since the first hospital turned us away. We are talking early 1970’s. She drove to the county hospital and I waited on a bed until the people bleeding and dying received treatment. Halloween night is one of the busiest nights of the year with more shootings than normal. The emergency room was full and I was outside a mans curtain to wait my turn. During this time my mother left to take my brother to trick or treat. I didn’t realize until a nurse asked where she was. I said she talked to a nurse and went home. She was a big woman and I knew nobody gave her any shit. Asking why in the hell my mother would leave me there. My answer did not sit well with her, I knew a beating was in store for me. One thing to keep in mind is the county hospital is in the hood in one of the worst areas of Dallas. This is not a place an adult would feel comfortable let alone a child. I was on my side crying in pain and saw the man thru the curtain. He was an older man and he had what looked like wires coming out of several places on both arms. My eyes caught his, I ask does that hurt. He was a kind man saying not as bad as my pain did and then where was my mother. I told him how upset I was that my brother would not share his candy with me. He looked shocked my mother would leave me there. My mother eventually came back in the greatest of moods and was raising her voice at the big nurse. I was rooting for her to punch my mother if the mouth or grab her by the neck. I have no doubt it happened many times getting drunks under control.

The doctor didn’t think I needed surgery, just to stay overnight for observation. For a second I was glad until rolled to my room. The hospital was so overcrowded I hade to sleep in a baby bed. That is the last thing a kid (big girl) wants to hear. I cram myself in the bed and they pull the side up. It was so dark in there I thought I was alone until babies started crying. Which made it much worse for me. Not only did I have to sleep with my legs pulled up, babies are crying and my mother is home in her comfortable bed.

You would think at this point in the story I would feel some emotion but my mind switches back to the little girl. My mind turned a switch, my story was over, no big deal, that was my mother, that was my life. I couldn’t help but cry for the other girl. How can people do that to their children. As I’m talking to my therapist my story and pain never crosses my mind again. That was several years ago, it’s buried and popped back up last week.

Xx M   aka Warrior

Original post 11/2014

I’ve reposted several post, most from 2014, WHY?

Two reasons: I have new followers  who aren’t familiar with my background. Maybe I could help?

The second: My father committed suicide 9/22/1992. I want to change the mixed emotions this day brings. I’m not getting drunk, a big step starting this year.