Original post 3/2014

It’s been an emotional month with thoughts of my father’s suicide and writing about him for the first time. I never grieved my father, the emotions caught me by surprise. It’s been very confusing because my father was one of my abusers. I am having health issues which is stressful. The Black Dog has come to see me. I have seen a Neurologist for three months, having test after test with no answers. This weeks appointment was no different, no diagnosis. I understand there is not always a clean answer. Three years ago I started down a similar path looking for answers to my heart issues. It was an extremely stressful two years looking for an answer. I laid my folder aside to give thought to my next step. At the moment I’m thinking of doing nothing. I have spent 9 years out of 13 years taking care of my grandparents until their death. Months after my grandfather died, I became suicidal and spent close to a month hospitalized. I want to know who am I now. I would give everything for my grandparents and trying to stay alive. My husband thinks I worked so hard for so long my body crashed. My mind did to. I can’t think about doctor’s appointments week after week. I want to live! I’m 50, the slate is clean. I’m ready to find me. I haven’t had my hair cut in 8 months, rarely leave the house and could not tell you for a million dollars the last time we ate out. Those were my decisions, my husband is extremely supportive. Everyday he comes home amazes me. Life with me is not easy. I have abuse issues and Bipolar Disorder. I don’t smile much anymore, just realized while writing this. I want to move forward rebuilding my life. I want to smile and take time to smell the roses with my camera. I wore the same mask in 10th grade. The difference is I was an alcoholic. It was easier to hide behind a bottle. I could always blame my behavior on being drunk.

Original post 4/2014

I’m writing the post with the outcome first. It made sense to me when reliving it.

The tides turn

It’s beyond comprehension why my probation officer saw hope in me. I gave her no reason, I had lost hope in myself, in life for that matter. I didn’t speak one word to her for seven months. I attended weekly meetings for possession of a handgun. I was a bad ass in my mind. I had to see a psychiatrist several times. I was smarter than my age at 12 years old. The psychiatrist asked me how many children I wanted. Without blinking I said none. “I wouldn’t take a chance on beating my children”. She said statics show abused people are less likely to abuse their children. I’d been sexually abused and beaten all my life. Stats meant nothing to me. The State wanted me in a boot camp type facility. My probation officer fought hard to find a less destructive facility. She felt a boot camp style would make me worse. She was right, I was wound very tight. If I can plan my father’s death what stops you from hurting a stranger. My grandmother knew about a convent that was for bad girls when she was younger. My probation officer Ruth Barrier agreed it was a better environment. I might reform in this setting. The down side, it cost $2,000 a month back in 1975 and my grandparents didn’t have the money.

I don’t know the details. I became a Ward of the State who would pay the monthly fees. My grandparents had to buy all my uniforms, towels, a very specific list of items required and not allowed. I know giving custody to The State was the hardest decision my grandparents had to make. I arrived on February 10,1975, my brother’s birthday. For the first three months you are a minnow. No privileges, random room checks, reading your mail, no phone calls and you can’t go home for three months. Only allowed 10 cigarettes per night, a coke and candy bar. The risk of harassment from established girls was a given. I stayed for a year, a year of hard lessons, one’s that made me the person I am today. I am forever grateful, counting my blessing often. I saw the alternative. I have to thank Ruth Barrier, she set the bar high. She was a strict but caring with me, teaching me respect and other ways to live. I will be forever grateful for the Nuns who gave me positive reinforcement and the rewards of doing the right thing.

Why the above happened

I moved in with my father in the summer and didn’t know anyone. My father knew everyone hung out at the 7-11 down the street. He went there daily to call his girlfriend. One night he dropped me off at the 7-11 to get to know the gang. That is a proper word for the bunch. They were a gang of drug addicts, only a couple were close to my age. I fell for the 21-year-old dealer, lucky me. The first night I met Sterling, he went to jail. Doing drugs was not new, I took my first pills at 8-9 years old and smoking pot shortly after. In junior high we would cross the street to huff paint before school.

In 8th grade I was selling pot to my friends right in the classroom. The timer on a bomb started counting down. The relationship with my father was toxic. I spent several nights in juvenile hall for skipping 38 days of school. One night while riding home with some friends, we got pulled over. Lucky me, the driver had several stolen credit cards. Off to jail we went. I was free to go home but my father would not come get me until noon the next day. I’m so broken by this time, thinking only death sooth me.

It didn’t matter if it was me or my father. One evening we were at home watching a movie. My father comes over unprovoked pointing the 357 mag at my head. He told my boyfriend to leave there was a restraining order on him. I ran away. He drives around pulling the gun on my friends. He had sexually abused me several times by this time. Tick..Tick.. I met with Sterling the next day and we made plans how to kill my father. We had a perfect plan. I was dead inside from the years of abuse from both parents. He deserved to die. Something clicked in my head, I realized how far gone I was. I was a difficult child to handle due to the circumstances. I wasn’t a killer. The next meeting with my probation officer, my first words where “get me out of here”.

Warrior

Original post 3/2014

Both of my parents and stepfather abused me. We’re not talking spanking, we’re talking banging your head into the wall. I am 100% for discipline, accountability and house rules. You see children who have involved parents and the childs demeanor. I see parents yelling at the child while grocery shopping, belittling them in front of strangers.

What we can’t see is child abuse. Child abuse is a taboo topic for most. My mother physically and emotionally abused me. I never told anyone, not even close family. I walked on eggshells at home. My first attempt at suicide was at 9 years old.  One morning I went to make breakfast and my mother told me I could not wear those jeans to school. This was the early 1970’s I was in 7th grade and probably argued with her. All the years my mother abused me, I never hit back.

This morning was different. She started calling me a slut. She came to grab me and I hit her in the face. We were fighting and my stepfather walks in. Picture a 100 lbs. 12-year-old with braces getting hit in the mouth with a fist by of grown man. The inside of my mouth was bleeding from the braces breaking the skin. I had a bruise from nose to chin and some blackness around the eyes. I was not allowed to go to school for several days.

When I returned most of the bruising was still visible. I was a pro at making up reasons for the cuts and bruises in the past and made one to use for this if asked. I almost made it thru the day when my Music teacher asked me to come in the hall. I swore by my story like the best lair you’ve seen. She probably knew long before that day, today it was the bruises on the face.

She made me go to the school counselor and tell her what happened. Before saying anything, I ask to call my grandmother. I told her what was going down and it was going to get ugly. I didn’t say anything when I got home and went straight to my room as usual. The next day I entered hell. I arrived at school, two CPS workers were waiting to interview me. I begged for over two hours crying hysterically not to file a report or contact my mother. They were doing their job, unfortunately it is not always the best solution for the child involved.

A couple of weeks later CPS stopped by unannounced. Fire filled my mother’s eyes. Her story was I lied all the time, had a very low IQ and she was waiting on an opening at the Terrell Mental Hospital. I was no angel but nothing out her mouth was true. I had my head beat into the counter and walls for that smart move. I kept thinking how could any mother watch a grown man hit her child. By end of school year I had tried to kill myself several times including cutting myself at school.

I would feel an obligation to the child if I saw abusive behavior. Thinking about a child getting hit, starved, chained to the floor, all current headlines, are hard to swallow. I question if the shootings and bullying at schools are the long-term effect of children looking for attention or a child/teen at the end of rope. I would like to hear your thoughts on Child Abuse and how it affects school today. I don’t have the answers. After years of therapy, I don’t feel emotion when talking about my abuse.

M/Warrior

Original post from 3/2014

The song “Running to Stand Still” by U2 pierced my soul. I can’t explain the feeling. It describes my life in four simple words. I have fought most of my life to stay alive, many from my own bad choices. In the early sixties my parents met at a party. I don’t know if they dated or a one night stand. At 17 years old she was pregnant and engaged to another man. Women didn’t have the voice we do today so it was a shot-gun wedding. I don’t know what baggage she brought to the relationship. I know both of her parents were alcoholics. I believe one issue was the two kids with picket fence fantasy and displaced anger. I was physically and mentally abused by my mother from birth. We lived in a two-story duplex. One afternoon my grandparents came over. My grandmother learned my mother had left me upstairs in the bathtub at six months old. On another visit in the middle of winter they found me in a diaper,  my high chair pushed up to an open window. I was running a fever and was crying. She opened the window because I was hot. I was not physically able to run but believe my mind started running early. Running from pain, feeling unloved, lack of trust and believed the terrible things said to me were true. It’s been a long  journey to learn who I am. Most days I think positive, keep the pain locked away and maneuver my Bipolar Disorder. I buried the past for survival and to move forward. I’ve learned from years of therapy, pain finds you or effects your health. Both have found me, we work my inner child each session.  

M/Warrior

Reading a post earlier brought back memories of my drug addicted wild child days. My boyfriend was a dealer so I did everything but a needle. Many scary times living with my father. I ran away, he pointing a 357 magnum at the friends he could find. Threatening to kill them if lying. Good thing he didn’t know I was crouched in the front passenger floorboard. I never forgot the music we were getting stoned to.

LET’S ROCK AND ROLL   Xx  M

https://youtu.be/c1Hb9ABpyts