Leaving A Life Behind

I am 18 years old again. I live on the farm. By now I have begun to rebel, and am no longer helping with the farm work. I hardly spend any time with my horse anymore. Instead, I focus on rugby, my friends at school, and any time I can get away from the farm…

***

I’m away for the weekend, coincidentally in the city I now live in, visiting my parents. We’re having dinner in some restaurant downtown and I proclaim that I’m moving in with them in two weeks to which they agree. We are all determined, but disconcerted…

***

I’m afraid. There is a constant thrill of fear in my chest. I have only a week and a half before I’m leaving the farm and I haven’t told my dad. I have to tell him, to wait any longer would be unfair. I work up the courage to. I don’t even remember what he said to me. I don’t think he believed me…

***

One week to go. My best friend won’t talk to me anymore. She’s been moved around to different schools all her life and has lost so many friends. We were going to be different, best friends forever, and now I was leaving her to live 4 hours away. It broke my heart….

***

I tell my coaches that I won’t be playing rugby or hockey anymore because I’m moving. They’re all sad to see me go, but understanding because most of them know at least a part of the atrocity that is my home situation. I’m in love with my teams. They have been my source of self esteem, of growth as a person, of pride, of friendship…for years now. I KNOW these people so well…I’ve worked so hard…I’m finally captain of the rugby team, I’ve worked so hard to earn it. All to be lost soon because I can’t live another minute on that farm….

***

I tell Her. Antichrist. She makes some nasty comment that bounces off of me because I don’t care anymore. I’m leaving, and I don’t have to be afraid anymore. Or do I? Is it possible that she may do something to me in the week before I leave? Now I’m living in even more fear than usual. My dad hasn’t even talked about it since I told him…

***

It’s the night before I leave…I’m in bed early, just waiting for the morning. I hear a knock at the door and A enters. She comes and sits on the edge of my bed as I move away from her, repulsed and scared of her. Her speech is long and eloquent. Her main point is to tell me that she believes I have depression. She is disgusted with the way I’m leaving, but that’s right. I’m leaving in the morning. She’s closing the door behind her, and I’m hugging Stitch, terrified in the dark, awake until dawn…

***

I’m mucking out stalls on the morning I leave. My stepsister comes down to the barn to say goodbye. “How could you do this to you dad. You’re killing him by doing this. Goodbye.” she says coldly and leaves. I eventually turn and continue mucking, tears falling silently to the shavings…

***

I’m in my room and I find a note on my desk from my dad. It says he can’t bear to be there when I leave and that he’s gone to work. What a selfish coward…

***

My Mom is pulling up in the van at last. We’re loading things into it. A watches as I walk by with a fan from my bedroom. “I don’t fucking think so, that fan doesn’t belong to you” she says. I put it down and pack the rest of my things. I ask Mom if I can drive. I want it to be ME who leaves this place. I’m pulling down the driveway and everything is surreal…

***

I’ve been driving for about 15 minutes now. We’re in the next town and I’m pulling over because I’m crying. And then my Mom is holding me and I’m crying my heart out. I’m crying with joy for saving myself, and I’m crying with grief for giving up the people and the things that I love. I’m crying for my dog and my horse who I’m leaving behind. But I have just accomplished the bravest thing I’ve ever done in my life…

Showered in Success

As you may already know, I have a phobia of the shower. This was one of the places that my dad abused me when I was little and for a long time now, whenever I get near the shower, or think about having one, I panic. Even baths can be traumatic, see here.

Yesterday evening, hubby asked earlier on if I was interested in attempting a shower. He said we’d do it my way and he only wanted to help me in any way he could. I asked him to stay in the bathroom with me, but to stay fully clothed and be prepared to help me if I needed it. Before I got in the shower, I said over and over inside my head “This is MY bathroom. This is MY shower. You CANNOT hurt me here.” All in all, it wasn’t that bad – as long as my eyes were open. As soon as I closed my eyes to rinse my hair, my imagination came into play and I was sure he would be right there, naked and waiting for me when I opened me eyes. I was almost sick. I began to panic. I opened my eyes, despite my face full of soap. Of course he wasn’t there, but my eyes burned like hell for a while. I asked hubby to promise he would protect me, while I had to keep my eyes closed. Just a silly formality, but it comforted me. Of course he said he would. I felt a bit more comfortable after that. So really, my shower was a success! I have some more to work on, but at least I can have one. I’m sick of baths.

Tonight, or early this morning I should say, after weeks of sweeping my hair from my eyes, I’d finally had enough. I went into the bathroom and cut my hair in front of the mirror. I’ve only done this once before, and it turned out much better and much easier this time. Then I remembered I had some colour pulse semi-permanent hair dye, plum colour. It only took 30 minutes to set, so I did that too. In the process, I had to shower off, which I did all by myself, thank you very much, although it was quite creepy seeing all the purple water everywhere. I’m glad I didn’t get red. ;0) I’m now sporting a funky purple fauxhawk.

So now the sun has risen, not even my dog will get up yet, and I am all alone and wide awake. Not even the birds are singing for it’s raining. Maybe I’ll just stay up and take a nap this afternoon. My parents are coming this evening to help watch Munchkin while hubby goes to pool, so that should be fun. We have lots of catching up to do, even though we’ve been seeing so much of each other recently.

To my family in the Woods…I love you and will see you soon. Send me an e-mail when you get the chance. Maybe we can just chat back and forth about this and that like the good old days…

I couldn’t do it

I just branded my arm. I hate myself. I’m so weak. So fucking weak. Such a fucking failure. Why do I feel this way? Why did you do this to me dad? I loved you so much. I was daddy’s little girl, and you loved me in so many wrong ways. Why would you put that on me daddy? WHY? I just wanted to be a normal girl. I just wanted to fit in with everyone and I never did. I was missing something. I was missing my innocence. You took it from me, you stole it from me, with your honeyed tongue, and I believed every word of it because you loved me. And I loved you. I thought it was me. I thought it was my fault that you stopped. Why didn’t you explain it? Why did she hate me forever after that? Why didn’t you stop her from hurting me all those years. She tortured me! I fucking hate you. I fucking hate you more than I hate myself. I never want to see you again. I never want to talk to you again. You will never see my beautiful baby boy. You will never touch him again. He won’t even be at your funeral. You sick, twisted, pathetic excuse for a human being! I hate you so much for what you did! So why do I still love you?

Whatever it takes…

Today was another bad one. I did however, whenever I felt the need to self harm, force myself to go to bed, cuddle under the covers and cry and tell my teddy bear all about everything. Stitch has been my faithful companion since birth. Now tattered and more delicate, he still lives on my bed. I was thinking today…imagine if he could somehow come to life. The things he would be able to tell us. That bear has seen a lot of things, many of them bad. He has always been my source of comfort, and while I know that Stitch is just a teddy bear, just an inanimate object, that bear is an entity to me. Maybe not a person, but I have poured so much of my soul into him over the years, there must be something special about him.

The bad news however, is that I ran out of Seroquil (I take 2 pills every night before bed), and the pharmacy couldn’t advance me any because there was a mistake on the computer saying the prescription was canceled. No way. I’ve been on this stuff for months, they don’t cut you off, they wean you off, but this is an addictive drug, and so the pharmacist just couldn’t give me any, despite my history. I just need to survive tonight without it, and I can get it fixed tomorrow. If the anxiety gets really bad, I may take an extra dose of Clonazepam, but only if I absolutely need it. I’m also planning to take two Gravol, which should knock me out in a manner similar to the Seroquil.

Last night was the best so far out of the past few days, so maybe I’m coming out of this. I hit bottom, and I have a long way to climb up. I’m so tired. Tired of being afraid all the time. Tired of the sucking feeling in my chest. Tired of the pain in my heart. Tired of the chaos inside my mind. I can’t keep things straight anymore at all. Last night, after taking my pills, I watched the latest Harry Potter film, The Order Of The Phoenix (yeah, I know, it fits, right?). I found it distracted me well and I was able to escape to their world for a few hours, at the end of which I could hardly keep my eyes open…which meant no self harm last night.

I saw a prevue for a movie we have available to rent off the TV. It’s The Seeker: The Dark Is Rising, a flashy looking, adventuresome, Indie film, which IMDB gives a whopping 4.6. But for me, it may be just what I need to distract myself from my pain until I can sleep.

From this post, you may deduce that I’m a different person that the one who wrote the last two, or that perhaps I have more than one personality, but the truth of it is, I was inspired today. Not just a little inspired. A lot inspired:

Today my baby boy’s face glowed when he saw me. He clumsily stumbled across his playpen and kissed me. He made the weight lift. He made my heart glow. He made me swell with the kind of love that conquers all.

Now I’m trying so hard not to self harm. So hard. I’ll do whatever it takes to get through this. For myself, and for the amazing people who are a part of this battle with me.

To those people: Fear not. Even when times seem at their darkest, just remember how my spirit always shines, and that I have amazing courage. No matter what knocks me down and out in life, I’ll always get up.

If this is what making progress feels like, then my world is upside down.

* I feel I owe You a Warning: This post contains Self Injury details and Mature subject matter. Please don’t read it, if this would disturb you.

Today has been worse than yesterday. Although I haven’t felt in the least compelled to write all day, I’m forcing myself to DO SOMETHING. Good news: I didn’t SI last night. Not by choice though. With the dosage of Seroquil that I take at night, I have only about an hour before I’m falling asleep sitting, in the middle of typing, or playing a game, or doing a puzzle, or…self harming. Seriously, this drug knocks me right out. I wanted to self harm last night, but by the time I got to it, I could hardly keep my eyes open. As a result, I was a mess today, and M having an equally bad day only added fuel to the flames. I held off until early evening before I exploded. M and I had an argument, stomped away from each other. He went to the kitchen to crash and bang anything he could, I went to the bedroom, closed the door and headed straight for M’s late Father’s knife collection. The Bowie knife that started it all (the first tool I used to SI myself, but have not used since) came back into play. I’ll only say that it’s on my arm, next to all the burns. I don’t want to get into the severity of it. I was afraid to tell M, eventually did, it’s very noticeable. He said, “Oh, that’s not bad at all.” This is the worst thing he could have said to me at the moment. I had just expressed my pain and anguish and grief and confusion and anxiety as well as I could with an almost dull blade. And he made it sound as if it was nothing. I know he never meant anything by it. He was probably trying not to react to it to help me, but it didn’t matter at that point. The next chance I got, I was sobbing once more in the bedroom, pulling out the knife and bloody towel and cutting again and again and again, that stupid dull blade making me push so damn hard. Apparently I was meant to really work for this one. Really mean it. Lots of blood, I let it stream down my arm. I was faint, but that soon passed. Then I was cutting my stomach, but the dull blade only left a few scratches. I wept and wept, then I pulled it together, cleaned up, and went back out as if nothing had happened. M and I made up, I’m still a wreck, and he still gets angry the odd time, but we salvaged our night somewhat, while somehow cooperating to have a very fun play session with Munchkin. I would do anything for him, and I will not let him suffer because of things his father and I are going through. He is the most beautiful, sweet person I’ve ever met, and I will do everything to get better and to be a better Mom for him. God, please just let this constant anguish end. I know that somehow I’m making progress, but I feel as though I have been half trapped inside one of Dante’s circles of hell.

Make It Stop

*THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS DETAILED CONTENT ABOUT SELF INJURY.*

*PLEASE DO NOT READ IT IF THIS WOULD BOTHER YOU.*

I feel terrible right now. Not even provoked or triggered, just general, depression/anxiety terrible. My heart is pounding, I’m terrified and on the verge of tears. At the same time, I feel as though I can’t go on anymore and just want to give up for the day. But I can’t get myself to go to bed yet either. I’m restless. I’ve wanted to self harm all evening day and have held off so far, but I’m feeling so weak and tired right now. The pain just never ends. It’s like having constant pain for 8, 9, 10, 11, 12…hours. You’re almost insane with having to stand it for so long. Only there’s no pain pills for this. Sure, I take my antidepressants and my anti-anxiety meds, but they’re just enough to get me through the day. Without them, I’d be a quivering, blubbering mess, who never bathed nor left her room. I’d be a sham of a person, hollow and without hope. I know these pills help me, but sometimes they’re not quite enough. Sometimes the only way to get rid of this terrible pain is to create pain more immediate and more terrible. I choose to brand by lighter. It hurts like hell for about 10 seconds. I have to grit my teeth and squeeze something in the hand of the arm I’m burning. I don’t cry anymore. As the pain subsides, I let all my anxiety and internal pain subside with it. I feel much better mentally. I have much more control of my emotions. It’s wrong and it’s a temporary solution, but it’s one that I will continue to use until I no longer need it. I don’t enjoy it. I loathe it. On good days, I look down at my arm and I hate myself for the scars I’ve made. For the section of my arm missing, where I burned over and over with open flame, until the burn reached third degree. I stopped then, and helped it heal as well as I could. Sometimes my husband and I joke about it. The lighter brands make horseshoe-like scars and we joke that it looks as if a tiny horse went crazy on my arm. Sometimes I catch myself staring at my arm, I can’t tear my eyes from the wounds. It’s as though I can’t believe it, and I’m grieving for my arm. I know only too well though, that by the time you get to the point of Self Injuring yourself, you are well beyond caring about scars. Sure, have it in your head to keep it somewhere you can cover up, but you need the release. Your body needs it, your mind needs it, your soul needs it. If this helps me to get through the horror that is working through sexual abuse at the hands of my father, then I know that I won’t care some day down the road when I’m playing with my Son and I look down and see those scars. They are my battle wounds. I will carry them proudly because I will have beaten depression.

Remnants from the Dustbin

Usually, when I sit down to write a post, I have some idea in my mind of the direction my writing will be taking. Most of my posts are neat, complete little packages, which can be read by themselves, or grouped together with the rest of the posts to tell, what is ultimately, my story. This time however, I feel compelled to warn you as a reader that I have no idea at all about what I should or might want to write about. This post may wander all over the map as far as subjects go, but I’ll try to keep it as concise and flowing as possible, for your sake(s), if not my own.

I’ll start with the highlight of my day, when I got to see a raccoon family of four bed down in a tree right near our balcony. I went outside to watch them, and none of them seemed to mind my being there. Seeing raccoons again reminded me of my Grandparents, who used to feed a few strays some dog kibble until one day they found themselves with no more lawn, and around 30 hungry raccoons clambering to be fed. These days, it’s a different animal, same story for them, they now are the proud supporters of a large herd of deer and some wild turkeys to boot, also fed on their front lawn…their back lawn…their driveway…who really owns that place, that’s the real question

On to new topics…I’ve been blogging for about a year now, and have had several blogs, some describing my own life, and some the antics of my son. I never seemed however, to have the staying power to keep on writing. While I turned out some fantastic writing, most of it was forced and over-edited, without that natural flow of words that comes with the freedom of thought as we put our fingers to keys. In the end, all of these attempted blogs fizzled out. I took some time off from writing. I wasn’t ready to deal with the world, let alone write each day, feeling as though it was chore of some sort. Since I’ve started therapy, I’ve been encouraged to write and express myself, which I found impossible to do for a long, long time. And then one day, bam! The words just started to flow out of me. I guess I was finally ready to share. The things I love most about this blog are a) It’s anonymous, b) I can write about any subject I choose, without having the feeling that I have to pander to my audience (mostly family) and c) It has proven to be very therapeutic and has helped me to discover and come to more understandings about my situation, than I ever thought possible. Cheers to WordPress for hosting and powering this blog.

P.s Happy 4:20 ;0)

Intro to the Tag “stepmom a.k.a Antichrist”

I started this tag because there are several incidents that happened with my step mom, (hereafter known as Antichrist, or just A, depending on my level of laziness) that I seem to be so caught up on that I repeat these stories often to those around me. My hope is that by writing some of them here, I can be rid of them for good. Some of these stories may amuse you, some may shock you. For me, they were bad moments in my life that have stuck with me all this time. Here’s to turning these stories to ash, to be blown to the corners of the internet, allowing me to be reborn in life without them plaguing me.

As for A…it’s too long and nefarious a journey to venture into the horror-personified that was my stepmother. I say was, because she is dead to me. I lived with her for 15 years, and in that time she mentally and psychologically abused me maliciously and mercilessly. She also knew about my depression long before anyone else, and instead of getting me the help I needed, took advantage of it to hurt me more, and to exercise even more control over me. She is proof that you don’t need to lay a finger on a child to break them.

Family Therapy

Today my Parents came to my therapy session with me. They suggested this to me a few weeks ago, in the hopes that it would help my therapist understand me better, and possibly help them find more ways to help me. Aren’t they great?

The session was a success. I believe my therapist was able to gain some good information about me as a child, that I had not been able to provide. It’s very difficult to provide someone with insight into a time you hardly remember and when the snippets you do remember come with childish thoughts of the young.

Afterwards, we walked a few blocks to a favourite coffee place. I was nervous being out in the streets, which were busy, but the sun was shining, and I had my Parents at my side so I was OK. We sat and had great conversation while we sipped our various beverages, before they dropped me off at home and we parted ways.

Tonight, I’m feeling pretty bad. After therapy, I usually do. Not bad because therapy was bad, but because I have to explore those dark places and bad things that happened to me, and it always leaves me feeling weak, exhausted and overwhelmed.

All I can do is just keep putting one foot in front of the other. One day I will look up and see that the sun is shining, my family is at my side, and I no longer hide in the shadows with the Black Dogs at my heels.

Bath Horror

Since remembering some specific things about my dad abusing me in and after the shower, I have been anxious and afraid, and unable to have a shower. No, don’t worry, I do bathe, but I use the tub or I wash in the sink. I had recently picked up a kind of special bath foam that my Mom used to use and allow me to use on special occasions. I thought this would encourage me to get back into the bath/shower mode. Last night, as a beautiful surprise, M ran me a wonderful bath with my special bath foam. I entered the bathroom alone, M was supposed to come sit and chat with me while I bathed, and said he’d be there in a few minutes.

Upon entering the bathroom and closing the door behind me, it seemed as though the place shrank around me. I panicked immediately and began ransacking the cupboards for anything sharp I could injure myself with. The best I could come up with was a dull pair of hair cutting scissors, which I opened and scraped one of the blades as hard as I could across my face. I don’t remember how many times I did this, but it left only scratches and didn’t even draw blood.

After this, I felt somewhat calmer and foolish about panicking about something as simple as a bath. I slowly got into the water bit by bit, and was doing ok. M was busy for a while longer and by the time he got into the bathroom, I was a huddled mess in the corner, sobbing and shaking. I had been having flashbacks of my showers with my dad and was in mid panic. M helped me get out of the bath, I was a shaking, blubbering mess. He wrapped a towel around me and began to dry me off, starting with my feet and calves. As he rose up to my upper thighs with the towel, I panicked. I screamed at him to stop and not to touch me.

I finished getting dressed, a mess, then M held me and I cried and cried onto his shoulder for what seemed like forever. A while later, after having calmed down a bit, I begged M to never let my dad near me again. He promised to keep me safe. We also decided what M will say if he calls again: “M does not want to talk to you, please don’t call here ever again.” then hang up.

I managed to get my anxiety over the experience down the to point where I only self harmed once. I’m very proud of that. After a horrible night full of fear and terror, I pulled through, and while I felt weak and lost and hopeless, I know that that was progress I just made, and it heartens me.