Hidden Pieces ~ Sexual Abuse ~ Subtleties

***TRIGGER WARNING*** ***TRIGGER WARNING*** (Sexual Abuse)

I decided to begin retelling what I wrote to my therapist and I in the Winter/Spring of 2007 after four years of intense flashbacks and repressed memories emerging. [Current commentary is in brackets.] I wrote my seventy page "biography" because I needed to write out what I remembered and what I experienced to make it more "real" rather than a "story." I am ready to take the next step and putting more of it in my blog. This was the original reason for starting my blog and using my journal as a starting point. I am still struggling with believing that the following is the truth of my life:

When I was a preteen and teenager, my step-father stopped raping me, but looking back there were more subtle things and in light of what I now know occurred it makes sense why I was so bothered by some of them. He was at least extremely inappropriate. He began to tickle me to the point where I would urinate on myself which was humiliating and I know it continued well into after I started my period as I remember being afraid that my pad was going to move or that I would “leak.”

One of the few times I had a friend over, she told me that his tickling me made her uncomfortable. He also teased me about my body including the size of my breasts and my pimples. I remember gaining weight the last two years in high school which was the highest my weight [except for now] has ever been and I didn’t care much how I dressed, jeans and a knock off polo shirt untucked which I owned in every color of the world. That is what I wore everyday, in contrast, my first two years and in junior high school I cared very much about what I wore and how my hair was styled. I wore dresses and skirts and went to every single dance in junior high school and none in high school. Maybe, partly a symptom of a major depressive episode?

Also, I never thought this was important, but when I was 18 and in college, I went for a job interview. By this time my-step father and I were barely talking at all. But, I was wearing a dress and heels. He stopped and seemingly checked me out, look at me up and down, and said that I “looked really good.” I don’t know if at this point I was just paranoid, but I remember feeling uncomfortable about it…still do. These things have always bothered me, but I thought I was making a big deal out of minor comments and incidents.

I remember, for some reason, I had to shower in my step-father's and my mother’s shower and came into the dressing room where they could see me because they were in bed. He began to tease me about my weight and about my breasts being two different sizes. My mother also began to tease. I felt so humiliated and realized that maybe it wasn’t appropriate for me to be seen naked by them. Even while I write this, I am extremely embarrassed and feel like I should have known better because I was older.

Also, my step-father used to change down stairs in the laundry room that was directly adjacent to the television. He would then run from the television upstairs naked. Sometimes, my mother would pull his pants and underwear down in front of me and tell me to “look at the naked buns” or some other euphemism. I was so embarrassed and they seemed to have fun with it. In writing this, I’m realizing that they were sadistic in these events as well.

He also insisted on using my restroom unlocked even though it was mine and there were two other’s in the house. I wouldn’t know he was in there and would often walk in on him, which was quite embarrassing, and made me angry…never realized that it made me angry. Maybe, because he was intentionally exposing himself to me…again…which is how it started when I was younger. I also remember him watching the adult movies late at night and sometimes into morning…I could hear the movie and hear him making noises…I’m pretty sure he was masturbating.

[The day following the session where I read the above.] This morning I woke up tearing up and almost crying. My feelings were hurt yesterday in session. I felt misunderstood, cut off and like I did not get a chance to explain myself because you started talking. I felt a little something in the session, but just ignored it and it went away until this morning. They weren’t such a big things. And, I know I’m being ultra sensitive and fragmenting. But, when I was talking about my mother and my step-father teasing me in more sexual ways and feeling that it was somewhat “sadistic,” I felt like you immediately cut me off and told me that was too strong of a word. You actually cut me off in middle of my sentence. But, to me, I thought about it for a long time as to whether to use that word or not and was proud of myself that I actually used such a harsh word.

It seemed to fit because the type of teasing about Gene’s behind and my body, I felt the same type of humiliation and shame that I did with the other teasing and I felt that they were teasing me just for their enjoyment and to hurt and humiliate me, which is why you stated that their teasing and taunting was sadistic. To me the feelings and reasons for doing it were the same. Sometimes, I even asked my mother to stop, but she kept teasing along with my step-father stating, “I was being too sensitive and couldn’t take a joke.” If I said anything, they continued to tease me more about my body and other things that they taunted me about before, so I stopped saying anything. The teasing about my body and/or exposing his rear to me happened at least two to three times per week and possibly several times in one day. I guess, to me if you called the other teasing and taunting sadistic, this word would also seem to fit unless I misunderstand the meaning of the word or what you mean. I’m feeling really confused and hurt and feel bad and wish I would not have said anything…like I made too big a deal out of it. Along with all of that the flashbacks with Frank and Richard [I write about this later] are really disturbing to me. I’m feeling really bad and the suicidal thoughts are increasing and I’m really wanting to cut or bruise. I just want to die right now. (What you actually stated was not what I remembered…you said that you were not sure…flooded with too much…fragmenting…defensives way up…normal…extra session tomorrow.)

I now realize that I was directing my anger toward my therapist and not clearly seeing or hearing things as I was fragmenting.  Welcome to Borderlineville.

Hidden Pieces ~ Sexual Abuse ~ The Garage

***TRIGGER WARNING*** ***TRIGGER WARNING*** (Graphic Description of Sexual Abuse)

I decided to begin retelling what I wrote to my therapist and I in the Winter/Spring of 2007 after four years of intense flashbacks and repressed memories emerging. [Current commentary is in brackets.] I wrote my seventy page "biography" because I needed to write out what I remembered and what I experienced to make it more "real" rather than a "story." I am ready to take the next step and putting more of it in my blog. This was the original reason for starting my blog and using my journal as a starting point. I am still struggling with believing that the following is the truth of my life:

Sometimes, my step-father and/or his father would lock me in the garage to rape me in the more sadistic ways…with objects. If my step-father was really angry with me, he would either beat me and/or rape me there. I felt so trapped and scared…you needed a key to get out of the garage and I just felt sick when I would hear the door lock…I knew that I was in trouble and there was absolutely no way out…I was being held against my will and it seems like some of the things that were done to me was a form of torture.

Sometimes, they would rape me vaginally and anally while lying on the concrete floor or while on the ping-pong table which I was always afraid that it would break and then I would really be in trouble. I remember the tool bench and everything being neatly arranged…I was absolutely terrified to even look at it. Even as I think of it now, I feel really sick and am closing my eyes. Even though it hurt, sometimes I would have rather just had a beating…sometimes I was both raped and beaten.

My step-father always did the beatings with his belt, ping-pong paddle or extra pieces of wood from projects that were worked on in the garage. He would hit until I started to bleed. Also, it really hurt when they inserted objects as they would clean them before and after with rubbing alcohol. The alcohol caused so much more pain…it felt like my whole insides had open cuts with the alcohol being poured on them. I have no idea if they even knew how much pain it caused. I usually went away the moment I heard the door lock…like I floated out of my body. I remember how much the whole process hurt and that I wanted to move and pound my fist on the ground, but I couldn’t…was too afraid that my step-father would hurt me more or kill me. As it was sometimes, he would hit my head on the floor or threaten to bash my head into the ground or to strangle me. I just remembered that…I’m feeling sick.

For several years, the men visiting in the house would also come and rape me with my step-father and/or his father watching me. Sometimes, my step-father would put a sock in my mouth or hold me down. At my step-father's parents, there were multiple men over several years including John who I thought was a friend because he used to take me places and bring ice cream just for me. He also raped me in his car during a trip at Magic Mountain. Felt like I did something wrong for him to turn on me.

During outings, there was also a day care worker that did the same thing. Special things, followed by locking me in a classroom with a friend of his and raping me and with his friend using a broom handle. The day care worker started by taking me out of sight behind heavy bushes or trees. First, he began just to touch my body and insert his fingers into my vagina and later began to rape me. Always, afterward he would purchase me ice cream or a popsicle. I thought, I was bad and did something wrong to change the relationship. Felt like I was bad to like the special treatment and still do.

This was again extremely difficult to write.  I can't believe this really happened, but it did and it gets worse.  One part that I journal about later was that on the floor I was held down, but on the ping-pong tables I was tied down.  I write about the garage later. Remember what I am writing was over a four year period  ending in 2007.  I am only now really sharing with others what I experienced.

Hidden Pieces ~ Sexual Abuse ~ Incense

***TRIGGER WARNING*** ***TRIGGER WARNING*** (Graphic Sexual Abuse)

I decided to begin retelling what I wrote to my therapist and I in the Winter/Spring of 2007 after four years of intense flashbacks and repressed memories emerging. [Current commentary is in brackets.] I wrote my seventy page "biography" because I needed to write out what I remembered and what I experienced to make it more "real" rather than a "story." I am ready to take the next step and putting more of it in my blog. This was the original reason for starting my blog and using my journal as a starting point. I am still struggling with believing that the following is the truth of my life:

.....I had new flashes during session and after that I don’t feel safe enough talking about. One is of my step-father's mother grabbing my wrist and forcing me to put it on my step-father's father's  privates and then moving my hand up and down and prompting me to watch because I kept closing my eyes. She was telling me that this is all she could do, but men needed more, so they needed my help. When he ejaculated, it scared me and I felt like I did something wrong.

She also had me touch myself and her privates including insertion of my finger and her's.  She said that this is what men are going to do to me and that I need to do to them.  It was part of "purifying" me of the evil within me.  I also have this flash of a stick of incense being inserted into my vagina and being told that incense keeps the evil spirit and the devil away that is why they had to burn it when I was around. I also physically remember being burned in my privates.  [I now know that she was grooming me and was actually coordinating my abuse in her home.]

My step-father's mother did tarot card readings.  Two cards that my mother kept leaving in my room were the death and devil cards. I don’t think I understood the meaning, but the pictures themselves scared me. My hunch is that she told my mother and I different things about the cards. The death card was that I need to die and the devil card meant that I was evil.

My mother used to light incense after a fight with my step-father and smoke.  Both calmed her down.  I hated the smell and was so afraid it woundn't work and she would come after me...I just stayed quiet in my room...the incense scared me with her. (I had a flash of her holding my left hand and taking it and burning the top of my hand.) When she would light it during neutral times, she would be listening to music or reading or cleaning.  Sometimes, I would purposely burn my fingers. [My first known incident of self-harm and burning would continue to be a difficult area for me.]

I also remember if it was after a fight, I would peek around the corner to make sure my mother was okay and that the incense or cigarette hadn't fallen because I didn't want anything to get burned or for a fire to start...because sometimes she would fall asleep because she had taken something or was drinking either beer or vodka.  I knew not to try to interrupt once she lit the incense because she just went into her own world. The one time that I remember trying to comfort her like I did during other times, she burned my hand, but not to badly because it healed quickly.

This was extremely difficult to rewrite as I don't want to remember and I am projecting that you don't believe me and that I am making it up.  I also feel sick to my stomach and buzzy.

Hidden Pieces ~ Sexual Abuse ~ Continues

***TRIGGER WARNING*** ***TRIGGER WARNING*** (Graphic Sexual Abuse)

I decided to begin retelling what I wrote to my therapist and I in the Winter/Spring of 2007 after four years of intense flashbacks and repressed memories emerging. [Current commentary is in brackets.] I wrote my seventy page "biography" because I needed to write out what I remembered and what I experienced to make it more "real" rather than a "story." I am ready to take the next step and putting more of it in my blog. This was the original reason for starting my blog and using my journal as a starting point. I am still struggling with believing that the following is the truth of my life:

Somewhere during first or second grade, I began spending more time at my step-father's parent's home. Neither worked, I know she had a neurological disease and was paid as a psychic reader, so there were a lot of “hippy people” in and out of the house. The radio or the television was extremely loud to the point that you could hear details before you got out of your car. My step-father always liked the radio or television loud and spoke very loudly. There was so much noise at their place between the television, radio and the number of people speaking loudly it was really overwhelming and hurt my ears.

Along with that was too much perfume and cologne that my step-father's parents wore along with the smell of incense and marijuana. At home, it was hidden cigarettes that my mother smoked and incense and sometimes marijuana. I wonder if that is why I am so sensitive to odors especially the ones mentioned. Marijuana makes me really nauseated and I have thrown up before. [Currently, I cannot be around anything secented with out getting sick. My allergist said that I just need to avoid almost everything. This creates much anxiety when I have to be in places where they are people. At the very least, I get a sinus headache and migraine.]

At first my step-father, began raping me at home and in his van when my mother was not around. He was quite rough and seemed like he just really wanted to hurt me. It was almost like all of his anger and hatred of me went into every thrust he made…felt like he was actually trying to physically cause me as much pain as possible. He was assaultive and sadistic and raped me numerous times.

While in the van, my step-father would sometimes forcibly hit my head on the windows and the engine cover. It was like the more pain he thought I was in the happier it made him. I was really afraid he was going to kill me or that I would die. Sometimes, I wanted to die it hurt so much and I just wanted it to stop. But, I still never made a sound, cried, fought back, said anything to stop it or told anyone about it.

Soon after, my step-father and his father began raping me in a much more sadistic and humiliating ways. They began to penetrate me both vaginally and anally with their penis and objects including a hammer, screwdriver, brush, broom handle, kitchen utensils, and maybe other items. Sometimes, he would have me stand which was more painful as it seemed harder for him to insert either himself or the objects. Some of the time, he would have me lie face down on the bed with my legs hanging from the bed. I can feel the tearing of skin and blood especially at first.

At home with my step-father, I remember feeling the pattern of the bed spread on my face and sometimes, I would bite into it because it hurt so much I wanted to cry, scream and tell him to stop, but I would not dare to do so…too afraid that it would just enrage him more and that he might kill me. At his parents’ house, sometimes it was on my step-father’s bed with the blue comforter that didn’t have a pattern. I remember in both settings that I not only bite into the bed covering, but I also dug my nails into it. It just dawned on me that maybe this is why I dig and dug my nails into my own skin…it makes it easier to endure even just talking which is extremely painful at times.

Also, I wonder if this has to do with my arm being grabbed by my father, my mother, my step-father or his father  either while being verbally or physically assaulted, beaten or sexually abused? My mother says that I have always had problems with constipation for which she never took me to the doctor. My first exam regarding constipation was when I was an adult and completely responsible for my own health needs. I also have never been able to urinate if I am not comfortable with the environment no matter how much pain. (After sharing this, I immediately felt bad and angry at myself for letting them do those things to me…you said that I was forced, not a willing participant…also, that sometimes you just cringe knowing what I am going to need to say next. Felt comforted and understood.) [Currently, I do not blame myself most of the time. I am beginning to accept that there was nothing I could have done. Yes, the reality of possibly being killed is real.]

Hidden Pieces ~ Sexual Abuse ~ The Beginning

***TRIGGER WARNING***  ***TRIGGER WARNING***  (Graphic Sexual Abuse)

I decided to begin retelling what I wrote to my therapist and I in the Winter/Spring of 2007 after four years of intense flashbacks and repressed memories emerging. [Current commentary is in brackets.]  I wrote my seventy page "biography" because I needed to write out what I remembered and what I experienced to make it more "real" rather than a "story."  I am ready to take the next step and putting more of it in my blog.  This was the original reason for starting my blog and using my journal as a starting point.  I am still struggling with believing that the following is the truth of my life:

When my step-father began living with us, he started to molest me. At first, he used to purposely leave their bedroom door open [when I opened my bedroom door I looked directly into their room].  I would see him sitting at the end of his bed masturbating. At the beginning, he made me touch him until he ejaculated which scared me and he would say, “see what a mess you made”.

Then, my step-father started to force my head down, and tell me to open my mouth and put it (his penis) in my mouth as he ejaculated into my mouth. He would hold my head there until I swallowed which he demanded I did. I felt so nauseated as I do while writing this. [Currently, the idea of oral sex or my face coming toward my husband's penis triggers flashback and really freaks me out.  Sometimes, I feel nauseated thinking about it or when I smell something similar.]

When my-stepfather bathed me, he would put his fingers into my vagina and sometimes would come into my room and do the same at night or after my mother left for work. By this time, I was so terrified of him that I would do anything he told me to and not tell anyone and definitely did not cry and tried not to make a sound. [Remember the death threats.]

I wish I could say that it ended at that, but my step-father only grew more violent and sadistic, at times almost verges on torture. [my therapist says it was torture.] There was an incident when he wanted to play Monopoly, but I didn’t. I wanted to play with my Barbie’s. He began to scream at me and called me spoiled and that I need to do what he tells me to do. He pushed me to the ground and pulled my pants and underwear off and shoved one of my Barbie’s feet first into my vagina and then removed it and shoved the second one in…it felt like he was intentionally trying to hurt me and like he shoved it in as far as he could while turning it. I felt like I was going to pass out it hurt so much.

I also remember the green carpet and my trying to dig my nails into it because it hurt so much. I remember the feel of the shallow pattern on my hand. Then, later on my face, I could feel the carpet. Then, he had forced me on my stomach and began beating me with his belt. I wanted to die…felt like he was going to kill me. When my mother came home, she immediately began yelling and hitting and slapping me. I was assaulted and raped by my step-father with my Barbies and then assaulted by my mother. [To this day, I absolutely hate Monopoly and I am triggered.]

I remember being in bed at the duplex and was inserting my Barbie into my vagina. Also, used to push ice into my vagina or anus, but it wasn’t to soothe me as it was so cold that it actually hurt, but I made myself hold it in while holding onto a pillow or blanket, sometimes biting into it. I don’t know why I used to do this.

I think, I know why…When my step-father and his father used to lock me in the garage with them, sometimes, they would insert a Big Stick popsicle into my vagina or anus, turning it occasionally. It hurt so much because it was wider and longer than the other popsicles and his father seemed to shove it in as hard as he could. I always thought of him as gentler than my step-father, but the things that he did in the garage was just as aggressive and could cause the same degree of excruciating pain.

My step-father's father would always insert and my step-father would hold me down pinning my upper body to the concrete floor, which made it seem even colder. And, always that look in his eyes. I had to lay on the concrete floor on my stomach or back completely nude, so not to soil my clothing…so, I was told. It was so cold or hurt so much that sometimes, I felt as if I were going to pass out.

Sometimes, ants started to crawl on me, the puddle and the popsicle, so I was feeling really creepy and was afraid that they would get inside of me. I had to stay still and not touch anything; otherwise, my step-father said that after he was done doing what he wanted to me that since I disobeyed him that he would give me a spanking. This meant with his belt or a ping-pong paddle and that he would hit until I bled. I had to leave the popsicle in until it completely melted…sometimes they would then leave me alone and let me lay there, but always eyeing me and periodically coming back to push it in further and to turn it. Turning it caused more pain as it made it feel colder. But, sometimes they would touch me all over my body, rubbing me. Sometimes, either one or both would straddle me and make me put their penis into my mouth and swallow when they ejaculated. [Today, when we have problems with ants, I can't handle it.  I have to leave the room and my husband takes care of it...I have such vivid flashbacks still.  My therapist said that I need to deal with my rage in order for them to stop.]

I just realized and feel really bad, but I liked it when they did other things because it was warmer…I hate myself for it and feel like my body betrayed me. There was always a sticky puddle and they would wash it up and hose me down with the garden hose. Needless to say I would “disappear,” so I didn’t feel the pain all the time and it helped me to stay still. Sometimes, it seemed like I could float above myself and watch it happen…really disconnected. I wanted to die. I felt humiliated, enraged, terror and excruciating pain. I was also afraid that my mother would find out and that I would get into trouble for doing such a bad things.

Sad thing is that Big Sticks were my favorite popsicle, so I would always get it from the ice cream truck. I liked the flavor and it had a different texture when eating it. I stopped getting those, but knew if they purchased one that they were not going to eat it…I just hoped that they would use it that day rather than waiting several days with my anxiety growing. Sometimes, they purchased one that I was unaware of, so I was taken off guard. I started getting Bomb Pops. Thank God, they didn’t start using that because that is even wider…hurts just thinking about it. It wasn’t as bad as some of the other stuff as it happened less frequently. I’ve never told anyone…I didn’t have enough to say. At least, I thought I didn’t, but as I begun talking and writing I remembered more details.) I really feel sick to my stomach and remember some of the physical pain and terror and wanting to die. [This was the first time I wrote it and the first time talking about it to my therapist.  With each flashback, it was if I was reliving all over again. My therapist said that it looked like that to him.]

Also, my dolls were physically abused, raped and suffocated. Also, in playing house with my friends, we would act out being beaten and locked in a closet. Sometimes, we would actually give each other real beatings with usually a piece of wood, belt, a switch or whatever was lying around or at the house we were at with no parents home. I’ve always been embarrassed to talk about this. [and still am...I wanted to delete this part.] Although, I do realize that children who are abused often reenact their abuse in play, which is what I used to do when I was alone. But, I still wonder if something was wrong with me and am extremely embarrassed to tell this to anyone.

I am becoming more anxious as I get into more of the details of my sexual abuse because there is much more. I hope that you will continue to "listen" even if you do not leave comments.

Hidden Pieces ~ Hypervigilance

***TRIGGER WARNING***  ***TRIGGER WARNING***

I decided to begin retelling what I wrote to my therapist and I in the Winter/Spring of 2007 after four years of intense flashbacks and repressed memories emerging. [Current commentary is in brackets.]  I wrote my seventy page "biography" because I needed to write out what I remembered and what I experienced to make it more "real" rather than a "story."  I am ready to take the next step and putting more of it in my blog.  This was the original reason for starting my blog and using my journal as a starting point.  I am still struggling with believing that the following is the truth of my life:

By the time I was a teenager, I was really numb most of the time and barely present, but was hypervigilant and was an expert on suppressing the tendency to duck, run, cover myself, scream or anything else that would protect me some. When we [my therapist] spoke about this, I realized that I’ve done this all my life and that it does take tremendous energy and control to do this. Even when I was in excruciating pain, I never made a sound and learned to stand still when I saw my mother come at me with her hand, fist or object to hit me even in the face…no reaction before, during or after no matter how searing or radiating the pain was even if she drew blood. I had the same reaction with the things that my father, my step-father, my step-father's father and the other men did.

I think part of what is making me extra hypervigilant is that it seems like it is part of the flashbacks. I think, I’m feeling and reacting the way I would have if I didn’t keep everything in so much control. I feel like I’m going crazy because every sound is making me extremely anxious… Last night, I had to ask my husband to stop cleaning the kitchen until I went into a quieter part of the house…I felt like I was so on edge I was going to explode either into tears because I was so anxious and tense or start yelling at him for making so much noise. Today, I ducked when the doorbell rang. What would be helpful now? To just let it happen or try to control it? (Suggestion: not to focus on the hypervigilance, but to still let my reactions happen naturally because I was unable to do so before.) I always needed to be on guard listening to every sound and if there was a subtle difference anticipating a fight and my then trying to hide, but being aware of when I needed to respond to my mother which was usually never timed right.

But, my mother and I used to argue too. I don’t really remember what they were about, but I don’t think that it was significant, maybe normal teenage stuff, or abusive. But, she was really critical which is why my aunt taught me to drive because my mother and I fought about my driving. She kept pointing out what she thought I was doing wrong to the degree that my aunt would tell her, “S, just shut up and let her drive!” I also find it interesting that somewhere when calling her, “Mommy” didn’t seem right that I stopped calling her anything. I always referred to her as my mom or my mother, but they didn’t feel right to me. She never responded to me anyway, at least, on the first attempt. my aunt and I used to joke and still do to this day that you have to call her name or ask your question at least three times before she even acknowledges you or answers. Yelling, “S” works the best.

With my mother, sometimes it started with her cleaning the kitchen or dusting or another household chore. I had to listen to how she was closing the drawers, windows, the trashcan and cupboards. I listened to how she walked, breathed, put things away or down on the counter. How she washed the dishes and put them away…literally every sound she would make as well as my step-father. How the doors were opened and closed, how they walked up or down the stairs. How they changed the television channels and the volume. How they drove the car into or out of the drive way…just everything. I was absolutely terrified and constantly on edge.

Also, trying to anticipate when my mother was going to demand my help, but I couldn’t offer sooner because she would immediately become angry…but, she would become angry if she had to call for me…usually yelling my name even if I was standing in the same room. If she did this, I, at the very least, would get slapped and my step-father would begin yelling at me for not listening to her. I felt so crazy and confused. Everything noise scared me and made me want to duck because once this cycle started it was inevitable that I was going to get at least slapped and screamed at. This was almost always started by my mother cleaning house, having an argument with my step-father, him being angry, her being angry or either one being angry with me.

My mother was could always be angry with my step-father as he did not help with cleaning the house, with the laundry, fixing things around the house or with the yard work. Yard work, even with my allergies, always ended up as a punishment for some excuse to be angry with me or a way for me to earn allowance. My friends even asked about the yard. His friends even came over unannounced several times to do the yard work for him, which ended up in a fight because my mother was embarrassed. He mostly spent time watching television, playing video games, playing with the little race cars that spanned four ping pong tables in the garage, played with the remote controlled cars which he used to race in this club, played basketball, went out with his friends to drink or played with the neighborhood kids with his “toys.” All the kids in the neighborhood thought he was great because he entertained and played with them…he had the really neat toys. I’m feeling really sick right now and how awful I felt then…really angry, anxious and somehow…it is painful…don’t really know why. (I can’t believe that I’ve never shared any of this with anyone before…feels weird.)  [It still feels uncomfortable because I really don't want to admit how awful it was.]

Hidden Pieces ~ Arguing

***TRIGGER WARNING***  ***TRIGGER WARNING***

I decided to begin retelling what I wrote to my therapist and I in the Winter/Spring of 2007 after four years of intense flashbacks and repressed memories emerging. [Current commentary is in brackets.]  I wrote my seventy page "biography" because I needed to write out what I remembered and what I experienced to make it more "real" rather than a "story."  I am ready to take the next step and putting more of it in my blog.  This was the original reason for starting my blog and using my journal as a starting point.  I am still struggling with believing that the following is the truth of my life:

My step-father and my mother used to argue and fight a lot, at least three to six times per week. You asked me how bad it was. I was really taken off guard by the question…no one has ever asked this, so I really never thought much about the question. But, the question added other flashbacks of them fighting and arguing.

It was really horrible and the reason that I got physically sick when I needed to go home, dreading each step as I got closer to home or dreading rounding the corner if someone was taking me home. Friday’s were really bad. Sometimes, I just wanted to sit on the corner one street over on the curb and cry and stay there. Sometimes, I wanted to scream. I was terrified to go home because of what they might do to each other or to me…I was always afraid that my mother or myself was going to get really hurt or killed because it could escalate really quickly into physical violence.

Sometimes, I thought I’d rather die than go home. I did threaten to run away, but that was turned into a joke and I was teased about it…and they continued to bring it up. I wish I could have told someone why I wanted to run away instead of feeling humiliated.

I was absolutely terrified to go home especially if it was one of my step father’s days off. As I got closer to home I felt almost immobilized…kind of like when I’ve been going to work. And my anxiety was really, really high…I stomach would start to churn, hurt and become upset. I’d become nauseated and have a migraine headache and go to this place where I really wasn’t present. My chest would be tight, I’d get light headed and I’d have a lump in my throat. I really wanted to die or felt like I was going to do so. I felt so overwhelmed, trapped and knew sometime during the weekend that there would be at least one fight. Sometimes, I threw up before I got home. Right now, I want to scream don’t make me go back there…I don’t want to remember how awful it felt. But, it is much like I’ve been feeling the past three years. [During this four year period of therapy, I was having the same feelings which is what I am referring to in this text.]
The arguments and fights included loud yelling and screaming that would sometimes especially at the duplex escalate into physical fights mostly with my step-father hitting her with his fist or open hand or grabbing her and pushing her into the wall or almost throwing her into the wall. Things were also thrown…small objects breaking them, and larger things like a chair, wall picture or a birdcage. Sometimes, they were thrown outside. One fight broke the duplex screen door and our second home they fight cracked a window that was never fixed until we sold the house. I really wanted to try to protect her and felt like I was bad because I couldn’t and also terrified because I was so afraid someone was going to get really hurt or get killed. [One incident, my birdcage was thrown out the front door and my birds flew away and never returned.  I was quite upset.]
Afterward, usually my step-father or my mother would leave…sometimes, my mother would take me and sometimes she would leave me alone. Eventually, he always left and if he left first, my mother responded only in two ways. The first was for her to start crying and then I would comfort her and reassure her that everything was going to be okay.

The second was for her to start raging at me usually beginning with it being my fault for some reason she picked…it would start with her screaming at me and slapping me. I was lucky if it stopped there, but, often times, especially at the duplex she would start hitting or beating me. Or she would suddenly get into these cleaning fits and I would have to help and do it exactly like she wanted or I was going to get, at least, screamed at and slapped or possibly hit with her fist or she would start beating me.

My mother and my aunt said that their first year together was okay…then, it got bad. When I was older, either her anger was directed at me verbally and physically & she would get into a cleaning mode, or she would drink and smoke and throw her wedding ring across the room not caring where it went or what it hit. Sometimes, especially before tenth grade we would go out to eat and shopping, but there was always the unpredictability of going home. When my aunt moved to the area, we mostly went out to eat…and had favorite hole in the walls...where everybody knew our name.

Hidden Pieces ~ threats and control

***TRIGGER WARNING***  ***TRIGGER WARNING***

I decided to begin retelling what I wrote to my therapist and I in the Winter/Spring of 2007 after four years of intense flashbacks and repressed memories emerging. [Current commentary is in brackets.]  I wrote my seventy page "biography" because I needed to write out what I remembered and what I experienced to make it more "real" rather than a "story."  I am ready to take the next step and putting more of it in my blog.  This was the original reason for starting my blog and using my journal as a starting point.  I am still struggling with believing that the following is the truth of my life:

My step-father was quite demanding that I do exactly what he asked or he would tell my mother that I had misbehaved and then I would get yelled at by her and at least slapped/hit/kicked and sometimes beaten with whatever she found handy. She never did ask for my point of view…it did not matter because he was angry. He always called me a spoiled brat who didn’t do what I was supposed to because my mother spoiled me.

My step-father would also threaten me that he was going to kick me out of his house or send me to live with my “father even though he doesn’t love or want you anyway.” When I was a teenager, he told me to get out of his house, so I walked barefoot out of the house after dark and had no idea where I was going. My aunt picked me up and I slept at her house that night. [She also asked my mother if I could live with her and my step-father said, "no!"] I never cried, just kept quiet. No one ever talked about it either…just pretended it didn’t happen. I just realized that my mother was right there and did not intervene…my aunt did.

At the beginning with my step-father also forced me to eat the tofu out of the miso soup that I didn’t want to eat and it had soapy dishwater in it and had been retrieved out of the trash by him who shoved it into my mouth while he held my mouth and the back of my head until I swallowed. I also hated hot cereals, eggs, apple juice and apple cider, but was “forced” to eat them and, often times, it was the only thing to eat even though my mother knew I didn’t like them. [Probably adds to my issue of control which partly developed in my eating disorder]

After the tofu incident, I learned to eat quickly and drink lots of water. I also had to make sure I ate at a pace quick enough for my step-father not to become angry. He also threatened my life when I was six, by placing the blade of the chef’s knife to my neck stating; “you know I could kill you anytime I wanted.” If had said something, he would really become angry with me. Another time one of his odd jobs was selling home fire safety supplies, so he practiced his pitch with me listening and I got bored and wanted to play. He became angry with and demanded that I listen; otherwise, he said he would take the “fire extinguisher and bash it into my head.” (Assignment: write what I fantasize my mother would have done or said and/or I would have done or said. – too overwhelmed to do so.) [If I had said something, either no one would believe me or there would be much chaos and I didn't want to upset things more.]

Im having difficulty believing that it was this bad.  I feel kind of buzzy and numb.  I don't want to believe this.

Hidden Pieces: Floating & Confusion

***TRIGGER WARNING***  ***TRIGGER WARNING***

I decided to begin retelling what I wrote to my therapist and I in the Winter/Spring of 2007 after four years of intense flashbacks and repressed memories emerging. [Current commentary is in brackets.]  I wrote my seventy page "biography" because I needed to write out what I remembered and what I experienced to make it more "real" rather than a "story."  I am ready to take the next step and putting more of it in my blog.  This was the original reason for starting my blog and using my journal as a starting point.  I am still struggling with believing that the following is the truth of my life:

March 6, 2007

Just doing nothing is very difficult for me. It just doesn’t feel right. I know there is a part that needs to just let the reality of what has happened in my life sink in especially the things we’ve been talking about that were apparently quite traumatic along with just letting the words and feelings come in their own time.

I also think that talking with my pastor, who has known me since high school first as the youth leader, made me realize how constant and horrible the arguing between my mother and my father or step-father was and all of the consequences. I was a witness to violence and could not comprehend it, but was extremely protective of my mother…unlike how she didn’t protect me.

I feel like I really need to talk about the flashbacks, but not sure about what to say or what I’m thinking or feeling. Never was able to before. But, I do know that part of what I’m feeling emotionally & physically and the suicidal thoughts and wanting to cut and bruise is both what is going on now and part of several different flashbacks.

I feel like I’m really shut down like I used to be. I’m feeling really depressed mixed with rage, homicidal thoughts, sadness, disbelief, confusion, betrayal, lack of trust, humiliation, terror, wanting to die/not exist, overwhelmed, feeling like I just can’t go on anymore, lack of motivation & stamina, fatigued and deep pain where my whole body just aches.

I just feel like I’m floating sometimes. I remember feeling like it was a struggle to get through the day, felt like I barely made it most days and then the night was something else…would I sleep well or not. Feels the same as now…I guess that is part of major depression. Also always, feeling like I never belonged, fit in or was wanted anywhere by anybody. Constantly, feeling that something was wrong or defective about me.

Feeling, all the time, overwhelmed emotionally, physically and with all types of thoughts just bouncing around my head. I remember really being confused, agitated, and like things were constantly spinning around. I was really miserable all the time and felt hopeless, trapped, betrayed, disappointed, rejected, like something was wrong or defective about me and humiliated. I also felt deep rage, but at the time did not know that was what I was feeling, let alone express it to anyone…just self-destructive. I was really confused, had lots of thoughts, lots of questions…all a secret from everyone including myself sometimes.

I remember feeling this way most of my life…everything just feels unreal…I feel unreal. Reminds me of the Velveteen Rabbit, he became real because he was loved enough. I guess, I don’t feel like I was loved enough or by the most important people in my life…rather, I felt hated and that they did not want me and wished I were dead. I felt like I was bad all the time. All the time, I also felt terror, in fear for my life, panicked and on edge and on guard, anger, suicidal, extreme emotional pain and confusion.

To add to that was not being able to cry which I really wish I could let go right now. Also, extreme aloneness with no where to turn to, no one to talk to and no one to listen…feels like I forgot how to talk or never learned…to talk or cry, at the appropriate times. I never knew what trust was…if I did trust someone, they always ended up hurting me, so I kept my distance. But, this I could fake some…I learned to give someone just enough information for them to feel attached, but I really wasn’t sharing.

I’m feeling really sad right now and on the verge of tears, but they are stuck in my throat and stinging my eyes. This is what I always did. Shut down and numb out. The depth of my sadness and pain starts to feel overwhelming to me, but my whole body feels it. Scares me too because it feels so deep…a dark place I’ve never been before that I can’t go on my own…I need your help.

Just letting things sink in is difficult because I start to go to this dark place. I know I need to go there, but not on my own. The other day was a bit frustrating because I started to touch that and the session ended, so I cried some alone…not much…it was easier to turn it off and numb out. I feel it building inside. Just like growing up, it just kept building and building.

So much not remembered, so much not felt and so much not said or shared with anyone ever. I’m glad I finally feel safe enough with you to share when I feel safe enough with myself…really hard to go where I’ve never been before and the feelings go really, really deep…no one has been there before with me. I haven’t even been there myself. I think, I need to hear from you that you will be there for me, will help me, will take me slowly, that I won’t die, that you won’t leave me in the middle of this and that it is okay to share with you my tears and feelings that I haven’t felt before. Longing to hear I’m important, I’m proud of who you are, I want to be with you, I want to hear, listen and understand you. Constantly craving the ever-elusive bit or morsel of encouragement and praise for just being myself…not for anything I’ve done or accomplish…just wanting to be liked…love.

I was at the beginning of a long season of flashback and wasn't liking the process, but couldn't stop the flashback.  I was having such a difficult time. I am grateful that my therapist has stuck it out with me for nineteen years.  As you read this series, I think, that you will have a better understanding of why it has taken sooo long in therapy.

Hidden Pieces ~ Noise

***TRIGGER WARNING***  ***TRIGGER WARNING***

I decided to begin retelling what I wrote to my therapist and I in the Winter/Spring of 2007 after four years of intense flashbacks and repressed memories emerging. [Current commentary is in brackets.]  I wrote my seventy page "biography" because I needed to write out what I remembered and what I experienced to make it more "real" rather than a "story."  I am ready to take the next step and putting more of it in my blog.  This was the original reason for starting my blog and using my journal as a starting point.  I am still struggling with believing that the following is the truth of my life:

In general, noise really agitates me or I have panic attacks. Which is mostly due to the noise that was violent and usually meant I was going to get hurt from before I was born until I moved out of the house as an adult. Additionally, any power tools are extremely difficult for me to handle due to the frequency of them which is the same or very similar to the Kirby vacuum. Also, idling of cars brings back flashbacks especially the anxiety I felt. Just thinking about these sounds makes me feel like I’m leaving my body. [Some of my physical and sexual abuse occured in my step-father's van.  I write about this later.]

I always had to assist my mother with vacuuming from the time I could had her things until I was out of high school. Vacuuming or house cleaning, in general, always meant that I was going to get yelled at and/or probably hit or slapped in the face for not being quick enough or doing something that was not to her liking. Kirby’s have lots of different attachments and my mother would ask me for different ones. I tried really hard to remember, but I couldn’t remember what they were all called. If I gave her the wrong one, she would start to scream at me, “that I was stupid” and it would escalate into her throwing the attachments at me, to hitting me with the vacuum tubes on the head, shoulders and back.

If she did a through job of cleaning the house it would be four to five hours of this. But, it was hard to determine when she was going to clean house and she would not tell me ahead of time, but somehow I was expected to know. If I heard the vacuum start, I would hurry to get ready or I’d get screamed at and possible slapped in the face or slugged in the back. Or the worse one was being awakened by her suddenly throwing my bedroom door open and screaming at me to help her.

It did not matter if I had a guest, one time, a friend spent the night and we were woken up to this and I immediately got dressed and my mother began screaming at me, so my friend packed her things and walked home. I never did ask if anyone could spend the night after that and never asked anyone over to my house. I was so embarrassed and humiliated, but too scared at the time to feel this. My friend and I have never talked about this to this day. I guess in some ways I am afraid of the vacuum and have not been able to vacuum much, hardly at all, since the memories began. My husband does it when I am not home.

Cleaning house in general brings up so much anxiety. My step-father and my mother used to argue about him purchasing the pay per view boxing matches for which he would invite all of his friends and expect my mother and I to clean for the day, clean up after and purchase the snacks and drinks. There was arguing which my mother directed at me. There was agitation and arguing leading up to the purchase, once the purchase was made, about how many he was going to invite, how many he invited, the food purchases, the cleaning the house before the match, cleaning up after the match and for having the party in the first place.

This occurred quite frequently and I had to stay to help clean up before, during and after which also meant listening to my mother complain and take her anger out on me. This made me extremely anxious due to the arguing, waiting for my mother’s anger to become directed at me, and the “sport’s” type yelling and loudness during the match and people becoming drunk. After the match, while my mother and I cleaned, Gene and his buddies would go out to a bar or play basketball and then to the bar. I hated boxing matches and still do.

The sound of cars idling flashes me back to many different things including my father’s car, my mother’s car and my step-father's van. Vehicle's idling always meant someone was angry, arguing, wanting me to hurry up or being trapped in the van with my step-father.

[To this day, I still have difficulty with any type of noise.  I am getting better as I work through issues in therapy.  The more stressed I feel or if my senses are overstimulated, I have more difficulty and become fragmented.]

Hidden Pieces ~ Teasing

***TRIGGER WARNING***  ***TRIGGER WARNING***

I decided to begin retelling what I wrote to my therapist and I in the Winter/Spring of 2007 after four years of intense flashbacks and repressed memories emerging. [Current commentary is in brackets.]  I wrote my seventy page "biography" because I needed to write out what I remembered and what I experienced to make it more "real" rather than a "story."  I am ready to take the next step and putting more of it in my blog.  This was the original reason for starting my blog and using my journal as a starting point.  I am still struggling with believing that the following is the truth of my life:

In 1971ish when I was around five or six years old, my mother met the man who would become my step-father.  He was not working at the time, and they began living together. When I was in first grade, they married when I was in fourth. Because he was not working, he stayed with me, as my mother was working.

My step-father was okay as long as I did what he wanted me to do and when I was a child and liked to play. With him, both he and my mother were aggressive, attacking and assaultive toward me. The yelling and screaming with each other and with me increased and my step-father absolutely terrified me…I really thought he could kill my and threatened to do so.

What made it worse is that my mother used to tell me that I had “better watch what I do and say because Gene could kill me.” [This continued throughout my life until they divorced.] By then, I had stopped talking about important stuff.  I withdrew even more into my own head and thoughts. And it is extremely difficult to talk and cry, as it is automatic that I don’t talk or cry about the really important stuff. It is very painful and terrifying to just talk. I wonder if my talking more recently is why my voice has been going in and out. At times, I begin to lose my voice even when I haven’t been talking much. [At the time and even now, it is difficult for me to write or talk about.  Kind of like denial, but not so much in that I know what really happened.  But, I don't want to look at the reality of my life.]

When I shared something exciting about school, about a television show, my feelings being hurt or being teased at school, or receiving the only gift I ever received in the mail from my father which was a stuffed frog, I was teased or taunted. [Some of what was said to me, my mother continues to this day.  Even when I do/did tell them to stop, it just added fuel to the fire and they teased more.] 

I hate frogs and also for some reason I was always terrified of snails. My mother and step-father would begin to taunt me about the same things and come up with new taunts and teases. I felt humiliated and sorry for talking at all and afraid to share anything even exciting or fun things especially hurtful things. They began giving me frog and snail stuff and my step-father would chase me around with a snail or twig pretending to put it in my shirt or would line them up in the walkway or place them on my bedroom window. My mother would become angry at me and or tease me.

My mother either just laughed or asked, “Why do you have to be so sensitive, it is just a joke. Can’t you take a joke” Sometimes, I felt like they hated me and I know that, at times, Gene wanted me dead.” I remember when I was around seven or eight years old that they gave me some alcohol, to get me drunk to see what I would do, then later even to this day my mother teases me about it and tell others the story of my taking a drink. I still feel humiliated when she tells the story to others and she omits that they were the ones who gave me the drink.  It feels like I’m just coming up with more things to stack the deck, but they really are just thoughts, memories or flashbacks that just seem to fit into what I’ve written. 

My aunt and I have always been huge Olivia Newton-John fans and my mother used to say that she hated her and would make faces or derogatory comments about her or me for liking her when her music came on. As an adult she told me that she actually likes some of her stuff and just did that to bug me. They seemed to get so much pleasure out of teasing me, which is sadistic, as you [my therapist] keep telling me.

[I became tearful in writing this.  I still feel a bit of pain.  In contrast, I am able to take and be the butt of a joke now, but not with my mother.  I even will laugh at myself with the things I do or say, but not in a self-deprecating way.  However, I am very hesitant to share with others my feelings even happy ones. Through therapy and my relationship with my husband and with God, I have made some progress.  Currently, it is allowing myself to feel what comes up, but choosing to act differently.  Sounds so easy, but we all know how very difficult this is.]

 

To be continued.......

Hidden Pieces: Always Second

***TRIGGER WARNING***  ***TRIGGER WARNING***

I decided to begin retelling what I wrote in the Winter/Spring of 2007 after four years of intense flashbacks and repressed memories emerging. [Current commentary is in brackets.]  I wrote my seventy page "biography" because I needed to write out what I remembered and what I experienced to make it more "real" rather than a "story."  I am ready to take the next step and putting more of it in my blog.  This was the original reason for starting my blog and using my journal as a starting point.  I am still struggling with believing that the following is the truth of my life:

When I was a teenager and my aunt, who was more like a sister or mother as we are only ten years apart, was over frequently, sometimes, she would physically intervene. I remember her getting in front of my mother or grabbing her arm saying, “S, calm down! Stop it!” Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. I appreciate my aunt for trying.

[I also know now that I hated to be teased.  When I was younger and living with my grandparents and my aunt that it would get to the point where I would cry and start to kick.  My aunt said that she had to pull me away and then ask me what I was upset about and comfort met.  However, the teasing even continued even when she moved me away from the situation..."I was to sensitive."]

Whenever my mother was angry with me, my step-father would also be calling me names and telling her that I was a spoiled brat and needed to be taught a lesson. My mother would joke about slapping me the next morning showing me how her hand had been bruised “by me.” She would also without warning assault me by slugging me usually in the back knocking the wind out of me.

The last time she slugged me was when I was in college. Again, just continued doing whatever it was I was doing, didn’t make a sound or even begin to cry and never spoke about it. Also, she would beat me with my bottom bared most of the time, or on my back, legs, shoulders or head with an electrical cord, a piece of wood, ping pong paddle, vacuum parts, yardstick, wooden spoon, etc…scared me so much I thought that she could kill me as she seemed so full of rage and out of control…it was like I didn’t exist anymore. This stopped somewhere near the end of high school. The height of the verbal and physical abuse was between three to eight/nine years old.

When I was older, my mother continued to slap me in the face, slug me and scream at me or throw things at me. And, she last spanked me with a yardstick with my pants down when I was fifteen. I’m still embarrassed talking about it or even putting it down on paper. We were all playing Monopoly and I did not want to negotiate with Gene, so he became angrier and angrier as each turn I wouldn’t negotiate, he began screaming and me and told my mother that I was a spoiled brat and that she need to teach me a lesson.

They both sent me to my room and my mother later came up with the yardstick and demanded that I take my pants and underwear off and turn around. I think, I was more humiliated than hurt. But, it did hurt. At this, point I gave up any hope that she would ever choose me over Gene. Not that I had much hope at this point, but I realized that even though at least a few times per year she would talk to me about needing to move and change our life style as she was going to divorce Gene was never going to happen.

My friends no longer believed me anyway because I had talked about it so much; however, each time my mother would talk about it, I would become excited, anxious and sad. Felt like an emotional rollercoaster and everyone stopped listening to me and I stopped talking. Everything else felt like a roller coaster too. I felt very alone and had no one to talk to or help me sort out my feelings…I don’t think I really knew what feelings were.

(“My fantasy of her choosing me over Gene was annihilated. Wasn’t for attention…deep depression...Major Depressive Episode at fifteen without any support, resources, help and was not talking to anyone.”) I felt humiliated and betrayed which I had felt most of my life about her.

I was really, really angry, and sad, confused, overwhelmed and felt so alone. I ripped to shreds one of my favorite t-shirts that I was wearing at the time. That evening all I could think about was killing myself. I bruised my leg with a piece of wood and my fists, used razors to cut my legs and started to make lateral cuts on both my wrists which were just superficial.

I told myself that if I did not feel better by the next morning that I would take the Tylenol. Any hope that I had left that she would ever choose me over Gene was annihilated. I felt so absolutely alone and hopeless that she would ever intervene, protect me, comfort me, be able to talk to her, that she would ever really listen to me, that she would want to do so, ever understand my side, or want to, or really care about me. Right now, I’m feeling an overwhelming sense of grief, loss and sadness. I lost all trust in her and knew that she would never have the strength to divorce him…I felt so trapped. It also confirmed that she would do to me whatever my step-father told her to do…maybe even kill me. She was still threatening to do so, at times.

[I don't know if I write about this later or not, but I'll explain a bit about my taking the Tylenol. It was really a clumsy attempt, but I thought I could at least harm myself.  I took them in the morning and then my friend and her mother picked me up for church.  I told them in the car and was taken to emergency.  When my mother and step-father arrived, they began yelling at me about how stupid I was, etc.  My mother asked it the school would be notified because she didn't want anyone to know...more explanation in a later post.  I saw a therapist once and said all the right things and never had to see him again.  It never talked about it again....again my pain goes unnoticed or ignored.]

Hidden Pieces ~ Who am I to my Mother?

***TRIGGER WARNING***  ***TRIGGER WARNING***

I decided to begin retelling what I wrote in the Winter/Spring of 2007 after four years of intense flashbacks and repressed memories emerging. [Current commentary is in brackets.]  I wrote my seventy page "biography" because I needed to write out what I remembered and what I experienced to make it more "real" rather than a "story."  I am ready to take the next step and putting more of it in my blog.  This was the original reason for starting my blog and using my journal as a starting point.  I am still struggling with believing that the following is the truth of my life:

In my last entry, as I wrote, “I know that she loved me,” it did not seem to ring true to me. I just could not actually look at that “she might not love me.” I can’t seem to let that thought in my head…I go away. But, in discussing this, she only relates to me and everyone else through her projections. I’ve always been her idealized, “over achiever, never had to worry about you, demand to get my needs met by you,” or all bad, unavailable, withholding, cause of all problems,” projections. I have all sorts of mixed feelings about this…and I can’t seem to comprehend this…makes my head hurt or makes me tear up. You [my therapist] asked about my anger, regarding the above incident, and what I really wanted to do is scream as loud as I could, “Stop hitting me! I hate you.” I also really wanted to bite her and dig my nails into her as hard as I could breaking skin…making her bleed. I also wanted to kick her, hit back and scratch her. I think, my answers in the office were safe and I was guessing, but it allowed me to think about how I was really feeling. I was also embarrassed and felt like I was wrong to say that, “I feel more love from you than my mother.”  [I actually feel more loved by my therapist in that he gives me more or what I need and knows who I really am. I know now that somewhere I do love her, but I'm not there yet.]
Then, I am having difficulty with making her responsible for her behavior. She did what she did because of Grandma, so what she does is not her fault. But, she chooses not to get help, but what if her illness prevents her from doing so? (But, she is not so sick as not to obtain help for herself. Yes, she was encouraged to do so, but did not and still will not. She is not that sick for her not to have some self-awareness or insight.) [She has had numerous opportunities to obtain psychotherapy services and life changes and problems that indicated her need for it.]


I am beginning to feel like it is starting to sink in that my mother knew and did nothing to stop it…she actually did things to facilitate the abuse [from my step-father that I discuss later...if you want to know some now, on the left sidebar click on the pictures of "Letter to my mother," or the "About me" link below the header] continuing and also abused me. I want to die…I feel, at times, I am just so angry I don’t know what to do or I feel sad, depressed or confused. The suicidal ideation and wanting to cut and bruise is really loud. [Always increases during moments of strong feelings especially anger or when telling the truth.] Feels really crazy emotionally, in my head and even physically. How do I live with knowing that she never loved me and knew about the abuse, but did nothing to stop it and actually facilitated it continuing and also abused me. She could have stopped it, but denied everything and still does. How do I continue with this? What do I do with it? I think, the whole circumstances surrounding the Tylenol thing told me that she knew at least some. [My suicide attempt at 15 years old which I write about later.]


I feel like I’m going crazy. I keep flashing back and forth between the two incidents, my mother beating me and the whole Monopoly/Tylenol thing. In the background is that my mother did not love me. I’m remembering how I felt physically and emotionally and the thoughts running through my head at the time. I feel really stuck like I really need to cry, but can’t…feels really crazy right now. At times with the flashbacks, I feel a little bit of the depth of my anger, aloneness, pain (still not the right word), terror and depression. I’ve also been on the verge of tears since Friday, but I can’t seem to cry and I just ache all over sometimes. Really feels like I need to talk about what is going on inside, but I’m not sure of what to say…words are difficult to find. Feels very overwhelming and my head feels like it is spinning.

My mother doesn't love me in the sense that she doesn't know me and relates to me through her projections.  I know that she actually does love me, but is extremely ambivalent about it.  It is difficult knowing that she actually loves her projections of me and not for just me.  This was an extremely difficult time for me.  I think, I was seeing my therapist eight hours per week.  From January 2003 to the present, I have seen him regularly anywhere from eight to three hours per week.  Some of this was to prevent hospitalization or because I was really needing to talk about my flashbacks, in which, there was always something new to talk about for about four years.

Hidden Pieces: Mother's Abuse

***TRIGGER WARNING***  ***TRIGGER WARNING***

Well, I made a decision after much thought and prayer, I decided to begin retelling what I wrote in the Winter/Spring of 2007 after four years of intense flashbacks and repressed memories emerging. [Current commentary is in brackets.]  I wrote my seventy page "biography" because I needed to write out what I remembered and what I experienced to make it more "real" rather than a "story."  I am ready to take the next step and putting more of it in my blog.  This was the original reason for starting my blog and using my journal as a starting point.  I am still struggling with believing that the following is the truth of my life:

Grandpa always told me it was my job to take care of my mother and that is exactly what she demanded from me. However, I felt like I was going crazy with her and I was really terrified of her. Sometimes, I was fearful that she would kill me. She would seem to suddenly become full of rage, out of control and begin taking it out on me by yelling at me, screaming at me, blaming me and hitting me. I was attacked and assaulted by her slapping me in the face, so hard, to bruise her hand or knock me off of a chair while I was dusting, hitting me on the back/shoulders/head with her closed hand and kicking me. With the dusting, I just waited until she was done and got back on the chair and started dusting again. Never cried, said anything to her, never talked about it and like most things pretended that it never happened. [I do the same thing now, but am getting better about expressing myself and a bit better about not ignoring myself and feelings...tough lesson when that was what I used for so long to cope.]

The first time that I really remember my mother beating me was while we were with living with Grandma and Grandpa and she came home and was angry. I was about three years old. When she got to the bedroom door, where I was inside coloring, she immediately slapped me in the face and then starting hitting me with her fists on my shoulders and back areas. I was so surprised because she had never done that before.

 Then, she took a wooden stick off the window sill and without any clothing on my bottom half began to hit me over and over again on my bottom and the back of my legs. I still didn’t say anything or cry even though it hurt. It felt like she was trying to really hurt or injure me, which is exactly what I say I feel like doing when I fragment. [I have internalized her projection that I am bad and need to be punished.  My self injury is a result of this and those are some of the thoughts that run through my head.]  The pain was really awful and seemed to radiate all over my body.

During the time, she kept screaming at me that I was “the reason that she couldn’t find a job, needed to find one and that everything was my fault.” I didn’t quite understand, but knew that I was bad and to blame for the problems. This event was also the last time that I was excited as the time approached for her to come home. Previously, I was always happy when she was going to come home. From this point on, I became increasingly anxious when the time came as I did not know what type of mood she was going to be in or what was going to happen to me. [I learned to listen to how she drove into the drive way, the way she closed the care door, her footsteps, her opening the door to the house, walking in, and her face.  A bit hypervigilant.]

“Lost fantasy that she was happy to see me and wanted to be with me.” I completely lost trust and a sense of safety from my mother. From that point forward, she was really unstable and unpredictable and would rage at me verbally and physically. I felt absolutely trapped and really confused and terrified of her. I remember trying to hide when I heard her come home in an angry mood. In my head, I just kept saying, “I need to disappear…go away, just go away…disappear.” [I still tell myself this which at times can mean suicidal thoughts that have always seemed to have been with me even before I could verbalize it.]

Of course, she found me and in my head I was saying, “Mommy, don’t, please don’t…I’ll be good, I promise…no not again…what did I do this time.” At first, it was maybe one time per week and no one, but maybe my aunt or uncle was home…I don’t know if they heard or not. I certainly didn’t make a sound or talk about it. Then, it was at least two to three times per week.

Sometimes, on the weekends because she wanted to go out with her friends and she made sure that I knew I was interfering in her life and that she did not want to have to stay home with me. Other times, she would just take off and leave me with whoever was at home…didn’t ask them, just took off. (I thought she was leaving because I was bad. I now know that this is not true, but that was how I felt then.) I know that she loved me, but I never really felt like she loved me or was a source of comfort. I felt like I was never good enough for her to love me. Grandpa, my uncle and definitely my aunt was where I went to for comfort. I know that my mother is really angry with me for shutting her out which she says, “I’ve done my whole life.” Thing is that she never was safe to let in…even now which just makes me sad. I had to disconnect from me in order to stay attached to her.

[From what I now know, her rages have to do with her projections that I am all bad or all good.  I either meet all her need or I meet none of them which is a classic borderline personality trait.  At this point or before, the thoughts of dying, being bad and being so hypervigilant became a way of life.  This tells me that my mother is really sick and was not equipped to take care of a child. My family has told me that when she would go out with her friends that I would cry for her to at least say goodbye or reassure and comfort me.  My grandparents would get into arguments with her about her going out too much and just wanting her to come hug me or something as I was crying for her.  My aunt ended up comforting me...I really thank God for her.]

Hidden Pieces: My Father

***TRIGGER WARNING***  ***TRIGGER WARNING***

Well, I made a decision after much thought and prayer, I decided to begin retelling what I wrote in the Winter/Spring of 2007 after four years of intense flashbacks and repressed memories emerging. [Current commentary is in brackets.]  I wrote my seventy page "biography" because I needed to write out what I remembered and what I experienced to make it more "real" rather than a "story."  I am ready to take the next step and putting more of it in my blog.  This was the original reason for starting my blog and using my journal as a starting point.  I am still struggling with believing that the following is the truth of my life:

During this time and through elementary school, I saw my father sporadically. There were always arguments when he would come pick me up and, often times, my mother’s anger would be taken out on me. Or I would end up comforting and telling her that “I understood that he is busy and that it is okay that he doesn’t see me.” I could never talk about him with anyone in my family as it would always make someone angry, so I just stopped bringing him up and stopped being tearful. Some of the visits with my father were overnight. Always before a visit I would be anxious about would he cancel, how would my mother take her anger out on me, he felt like a stranger, I was afraid of him, and wanted to see him. I was really confused. I really wanted someone to just listen to me, accept me and comfort me like I comforted my mother.

During a couple of visits with my father, I remember having him become really, really angry with me to the point where he pulled my pants and underwear down and beat me on my bottom and the back of my thighs with his belt…didn’t cry or make a sound. The first incident, I was probably around four and had spilled my Cheerios on the floor. Immediately, began telling him that I was sorry and that I would clean it up. I kept repeating it. But, I still remember the look in his face and knew that I was in a lot of trouble. I felt like a rag doll as he grabbed my arm, pulled my clothing off, and threw me face down on the black leather couch. I remember the smell and feel of it on my face and uncovered body. I remember hearing his taking his belt off and hearing it hit my body and feeling the impact and the radiating pain. I felt like I couldn’t breathe and was going to die. When it was over, I got dressed and I just quietly began cleaning up the mess then eating breakfast like nothing happened. I was really terrified and it hurt to sit down. On another occasion, I was probably around seven…this time I was swinging the doors back and forth.

My father was really hypercritical of me. He also had some OCD issues that he expected the same detail in things that he did, from me. He criticized my mother in what she was teaching me and with just the way that I was. He criticized how I spoke, had my hair done, brushed my teeth, walked, that I spoke too much, how I ate, how much I ate, my grades, how I rode a bike…basically, seems like everything. He slapped me in the face frequently too if I was doing something improperly according to his standards. I remember my hand being slapped suddenly, when he felt I was using the chopsticks incorrectly and because I was supposed to eat only one french fry at a time…I was eating two. He always made promises that he was “going to call every week and see me every other week,” but it never happened. Not a telephone call, not a visit, not a card…nothing. The contact I did have was initiated by my mother who didn’t ask me first. I last had contact with him in sixth grade and at high school graduation.

I stopped trusting what he told me and hoping that things would ever be different. Never could talk to anyone about it…kept it all inside…just made everyone angry to bring him up. The last visit I did not cry at all, but I felt like I was so close to crying…no one ever asked how the visit went, so I never told anyone. I learned to stop talking and not to let anyone in. Also, I stopped asking questions and tried to obtain information from other sources. I always assumed that each visit with him would be my last. Somehow, I knew that after this visit, I wasn’t going to have any contact with him again.

[It was to be my last contact of any type with my father.  My conclusion was that everyone abandons me (borderline personality feature).  I actually recently was in a heated discussion over this issue because I have always said that "he slowly drifted out of my life.  My therapist is trying to make me realize that he actually abandoned me.

Due to this and my mother's abandonment, I have insecure attachments at best.  This is one of the borderline features which effects how friendships and romantic relationships can be so stormy.  One wants to be close, but one doesn't trust enough to be close.  This puts others in a "I love you. Please don't leave me to I hate you. Go away."  This is preemptive in that one leaves a relationship by making it all bad before one has a chance to be abandoned.  I have worked through these issues with my therapist and husband, but it still difficult.

I thank God for my therapist and husband.  Also, for my Grandparents, my aunt and uncle for they were my primary positive attachments especially my Grandpa and aunt. Grandpa served as a father for me and my aunt emotionally was my mother.  If it were not for all of these people, I am positive that I would have succeed in killing myself.]

To be continued...

Hidden Pieces ~ infancy

***TRIGGER WARNING***  ***TRIGGER WARNING***

Well, I made a decision after much thought and prayer, I decided to begin retelling what I wrote in the Winter/Spring of 2007 after four years of intense flashbacks and repressed memories emerging. [Current commentary is in brackets.]  I wrote my seventy page "biography" because I needed to write out what I remembered and what I experienced to make it more "real" rather than a "story."  I am ready to take the next step and putting more of it in my blog.  This was the original reason for starting my blog and using my journal as a starting point.  I am still struggling with believing that the following is the truth of my life:

I was an abused child and the abuse started at a very early age, infancy or earlier. From the earliest time I can remember, I was in fear for my life and thought of dying or killing myself on a daily basis. I lived in terror all the time until early adulthood. I experienced neglect, emotional, physical and sexual abuse. Many may not believe my story, but it is my story and it is the truth. Although, sometimes, I have difficulty believing it myself, but it is what I have been reliving and piecing together my past since January 2004 through flashbacks, therapy and from what others have told me. [including family] This is very difficult to write as it definitely makes the truth more real as I created an alternative reality in order to just survive. My mother has a borderline personality disorder, my father was very strict, ridged and narcissistic, my step-father and his father were sadistic and narcissistic. Everyone was so unpredictable, full of rage and there was no real escape.

My parents married because my mother was pregnant with me. (For many years, I thought that it was my fault, but no longer believe this is true) and definitely no one was happy that they were getting married especially them. [When looking at my mother's wedding pictures, with my father's side and him being cut out, which is such a borderline action, my therapist and I noted that they seemed like they couldn't stand to be even near each other.] I was blamed for being born, that they had to drop out of college and all the other goals that they were no longer able to accomplish because they had a baby. At first, we lived with my mother and father and his father. There was constant arguing, loud shouting and physical violence toward my mother. Reportedly, both hated my mother and blamed her for getting pregnant. All were extremely ambivalent toward my birth and life. I probably felt hated and wanted to not exist.

Everything was unpredictable, as we would often end up at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Sometimes my father would follow, in anger, then everyone would be yelling and sometimes the police were called. My family all hated him and reports that he was violent, yelled loudly, was too strict with me and ran over the family dog with his car intentionally killing her.

My mother has always told me that I was a quiet baby and didn’t cause any trouble and did not get sick that often. She said, I stopped crying at six months old, which I know is not normal. I have an automatic reflex that when I begin to cry, I stop it usually without anyone noticing. As an infant, no one especially my father’s father could stand my crying. As a result, I was suffocated by having a hand placed over my mouth, a pillow covering my face, pinched on my right thigh and slapped in the face by my mother and father. Feeling like I couldn’t breathe scared and panicked me. I came to associate crying with physical pain or feeling like I was going to die. I also learned not to cry when being attacked or assaulted by someone inflicting pain. Sometimes, I feel some sadness when I think about how old I was. Now, every unexpected sound, loud sound or voice makes me immediately tense and fearful and on edge…sometimes causes panic attacks. It is awful. Sometimes, I think they really hated me and wanted me dead.  My aunt, who is only ten years older than me, and my uncle, who is fifteen years older than me, lived there also and were teenagers. 

[Borderline personality disorder has its roots in early abandonment.  Mine was at least from the time I was born. I was abandoned early by my parents not wanting me, the household environment, my mother walking away from me when I was crying or becoming abusive.  I know that she walked away during the most important time of my development from infancy through being a toddler.  I didn't receive the vital emotional needs that an infant needs to survive and develop a sense of self and security. 

Much of this time period resulted in my hypervigilance, "silent crying," PTSD, depression, anxiety and wanting to die thoughts.  Basically, I have been depressed, anxious and ambivalent about living.  Being ambivalent about almost everything including relationships and with myself is a borderline personality trait.  I internalized my not getting my needs met and the ambivalence that my parent had about my being born.  Infants will often "play dead," when their emotional and physical needs are not met.  So, my primary dilemma is really "to be or not to be."

One happy thing and one of the things that probably contributed to my being alive today is that my Grandpa wanted me and wrote in his "biography" that "it was a great day when Coleen (me) was born."]

To be continued...