Curate, connect, and discover
*Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of physical abuse, mental abuse, emotional abuse, parental abuse, verbal abuse, child neglect, threats, anxiety, panic attacks, violence towards children.* Monday, June 19th, 2023 6:32pm
Today, we’ll be diving into the wonderfully enraging topic that is my stepfather.
It is truly baffling yet underwhelming that a man such as he, exists. And till the day I die, I will continue to wish the most ruthless hell for that man. So, let’s start from the beginning…
The thing about James is that he’s a deceiver. Someone with many masks, with two sides like a coin, a shapeshifter, if you will. I will never forget the first night I met James, I was only 7 at the time. You could feel the dishonesty in every breath he breathed, with words that hid his true identity. I remember telling my mom I didn’t like him when she asked, after he left. Whether fortunate or unfortunate, she remembers too.
I learned the context for his odd behaviors long after the time, but he always hated the house we lived in at the time. He would always come home irritated for some unknown reason, acting in very brash ways. My mother would inform me years later that he hated living in the same house, sleeping in the same bed, eating at the same table, as the boyfriend that came before him. So, I guess the only logical solution would be to move, right? At least partially, no?
We had a wonderful 3-bedroom, 2-bathroom house, around the corner from my Nana. My younger brother and I had friends in the neighborhood, and would scooter around the corner to see our Nana, Grandpa, and Uncle. We went to a science academy, and my mom was doing absolutely marvelous as a single parent. But we moved. To a 2-bedroom, 1-bathroom house, 20 minutes to the next state, infested with roaches and mice, all for a little over $500 a month because dear old stepdad had a friend! And as a bonus (which was really the whole point), he got to call everything his! And did!
Anthony and I are almost 4 years apart, so I was almost 8 and he was 4. We moved churches, and it was like you were a completely different person. You would smile and laugh and joke and would be affectionate. But then again, there were people saying, “Oh, look at well behaved your boys are, James!”, “Your boys are so handsome, James!”, “I know they’re going to grow up just like their daddy!”. Umm… excuse me miss, sir, I’m standing right here and THAT is not my dad.
We would go to our local BlockBuster and would be so excited to see the amazing place that brightened our eyes every time we went. You know, because every kid loves an outing. But, of course, it wasn’t for us. Ever. We weren’t allowed to look at the kids movies, weren’t allowed to ask to see the games they had, just wait for James to pick out the 4 or 5 movies or tv shows that he and his fiance (our mom) get to watch. Thank the universe for Nana for getting us a Wii, because all there was before that was trying to find ways to play with each other or watching wildly inappropriate TV with our “two parents”. Because seeing nudity and sex scenes are important for 8 and 5 year-olds to become men, right James?
Remember that time when me and Anthony were giving each other wedgies because we thought that shit was hilarious? Then, you punched me in the face so hard I flew into and broke our bookcase? Remember that time I stayed up all night playing video games, and you held and choked me against the wall? Remember that time when we lost one of the games we rented from BlockBuster, and after we found it, you threw every single toy, movie, book, game we had in the dumpster? And if not, oh well, because it didn’t stop there!
After my little sister was born, time sped up real fast. All of a sudden, they’re getting married, while just the five of us are standing in the pastor’s office, and I’m holding Malia and deemed “best man”, the day after my birthday. He said to me, “Well, now when you’re grown, you can tell your girlfriend that we got married right after your birthday!”. Then, we’re changing the house layout to where their bedroom and the living room are switching places because we need more space. I’m, now, given the esteemed responsibility as “baby-sitter” at age 8. My mom was pregnant again, and my sisters were going to be 10 months apart. Oh! And the most important bit, Anthony and I were now, “not his kids” (trademark it), and the violence got so much worse.
So, as he built himself a kingdom amongst rags instead of riches, where he is the sole king (without a queen), everyone else became his servants. Everything in the house now had the possessive “my”, every single thing done in the house needed to meet your standards, everyone had to heed your requests and desires, no matter how untimely, and everyone had to be your audience as you spoke of promises for better that never came.
Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
*Trigger Warnings: Details and Descriptions of su*c*d* attempt, su*c*d*l ideations, emotional abuse, verbal abuse, mental abuse, drug use, guilt, anxiety, bipolar depression, PTSD symptoms, eating disorder, passive aggressive humor.* Sunday, May 28th, 2023 Part 7
12:06pm
So yeah, I tried to kill myself. Emphasis on “tried”. I packed up all my shit, so that you and Gem wouldn’t have to touch it or look at it. I took those pills, all of those pills, because I couldn’t and still can’t cut myself. And, I waited in an alley 2 blocks from your apartment in the biting cold for 3 hours, so I wouldn’t die in the apartment, your home.
That slap must hurt, doesn’t it?
Then… nothing.
Nothing happened happened that is. I waited 3 hours, watching Steven Universe to leave with my last chance at happiness and nothing fucking happened. “Oh well”, I thought.
So, I got up, walked back to the apartment, called an ambulance because I took a shit ton of medication that was going to do something other than k*ll me. Went to the hospital, told them not to call you for a few hours because I didn’t care to. The drugs kicked in and I was high out of my mind, couldn’t even walk by myself (HA! LOL), and then… there you were.
I only remember two bits from that conversation. 1.) That you got me food because I realized I hadn’t eaten in however long I was there. And 2.), That you were kicking me out, said I couldn’t come back, that first you felt guilt that switched to anger, that you're "shipping me back to my mom", that what would I think if Gem found me dead in my room, and what would it be like for you both to have to find a new place. And I said, “I’m sorry”.
And I still have more sorry's to give. I know that what I just said was hurtful and unfair and completely victimizing myself, even if it is my side of the story. I’m so sorry for that. Genuinely, I’m so sorry.
I’m sorry that me arriving came at a time, where you and Gem were struggling with new jobs and the eventual lawsuit possibility. I’m sorry that I was another person with damaged mental health added to your household, when you felt like you were the only one keeping everyone afloat. I’m sorry that I never just told you the truth, my truth. Of how I was feeling and how much I was struggling.
I’m sorry that things never went the way we expected. I’m sorry for not being there for you and Gem, the way you both were for me. I’m sorry that I “fed off the energy in the space” and “exacerbated what was already in the space”. I’m sorry for not seeing the obvious signs that you both needed space.
I’m so sorry for not being able to leave the house or eat without being told. I’m so sorry for not being able to find an out-patient program or a job fast enough. I’m so sorry for making you be my one and only protector and supporter.
I’m so sorry for becoming your and Gem’s suffering, instead of just my own.
I’m so sorry for putting myself in your hands when you weren’t prepared.
I’m so sorry for making you take responsibility for me.
I’m so sorry for sharing more with Gem than with you.
I’m so sorry for not making my choice to say, “Yes, I’ll come stay with you”, shown and worth it.
I’m… so sorry… for putting you and Gem through the trauma of me attempting su*c*d*, and the strain that must have caused.
I’m.
So.
Sorry…
For Everything.
Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 -- Part 4 -- Part 5 -- Part 6
*Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of su*c*d* attempt, su*c*d*l ideations, emotional abuse, verbal abuse, mental abuse, guilt, anxiety, bipolar depression, PTSD symptoms.* Sunday, May 28th, 2023 Part 6
12:06pm
I’ve realized that I wasn’t broken or shattered when I came to you. I was cracked. Hundreds of jagged lines waiting to be smoothed over. But from Langone to those next 6 weeks, pieces were starting to fall faster than the cracks were sealed. The first hospitalization at Emory, moving to New York, our fights, my Granny passing, more fights, my birthday, to that last Monday that I saw the apartment, to the last time we were together. Everything in-between was beautiful and warm, and those specific moments were pain and suffering.
I thought I had reached my breaking. But the truth is, my breaking point was 100 times higher than I ever thought. My mask was too thick, right? So thick that as tears rolled down my face onto the floor and as “I’m sorry” rode along my shaky breaths, the splashes and shakes couldn’t be heard.
You know, it was the smallest thing that pitched me off the tallest cliff that is my breaking point. It was another of your fights, another “open conversation”. I bought my tickets to go see our cousin for Christmas, something that you not only suggested, but I informed you that I decided upon the week before. And, as I listened to you say it yet another slap to your face (this should be a new record at this point, what’s the count, 6?), as I felt the quivering of my anxiety claw at my lungs, as you brought up trying to buy my tickets as if it wasn’t the first time I was hearing it, as I felt a good moment fade… I knew I needed to leave.
To rid you of my presence, my two suitcases, of my laptop, of the heels I bought as my birthday present to myself that I returned because you suggested (another irresponsible spend), of the list I made you of all my favorite foods of me washing the dishes and cleaning the bathroom and staying home and watching the cats as you and Gem traveled on a trip that I was invited on first and of the packet that you and Gem promised you would help me with but didn’t and of me with my angstand my sorrowand my guiltand my anxietyand my depressionand me…
Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 -- Part 4 -- Part 5 -- Part 7
*Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of su*c*d*l ideations, emotional abuse, verbal abuse, mental abuse, guilt, anxiety, bipolar depression, insomnia, PTSD symptoms.* Sunday, May 28th, 2023 Part 5
12:06pm
I was hiding my anxiety, my depression, my rage, my insomnia under my mask that I guess was too thick. So thick that it shadowed the drips and drops of the truth, my truth, that I hoped would grow into waves large enough to show on your radar. That I was not okay. Not okay at all. But okay enough to manage, right?
My world was changing so fast and everything was too much, yet slow enough and just not enough that I could see my only motivation to even have a world, flickering in and out with every interaction. With every text left unsent. With every phone call unrung.
I thought things were getting better, I thought I was getting better. But how could I with no therapist, no meds, no one to help me sift through that packet, no one to talk to? All I had was that packet, my laptop, and two older sisters that switched from laughter to comfort, to withdrawn to frustration. From me being there, to me wanting anything but anywhere…
The way you spoke, the way you acted, the way you looked, set me on edge. I felt like an intruder in your home, and during some of your “open conversations”, I felt like you thought so too. There were lines drawn in the sand, when you said you would always prioritize Gem over me, when there shouldn’t have been. There were so many contradictions, “We’re not roommates in college” vs. “I’m not your parent”, or better yet, “You’re an adult who can make their own decisions” vs. “You should at least inform me of what’s going on, so I can help you”, that should have been cut and dry. There were assumptions, so many assumptions, “I think you look for drama” vs. “I think you were trying to be insensitive”, that could have been questions.
So many times, we had “open conversations” that were plainly and painfully, just one-sided. In which your claws were out, and I cried and apologized. Even the one time I found the strength to stand up for myself, I ended up saying “I’m sorry”, drowned in tears enough to last a lifetime.
Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 -- Part 4 -- Part 6 Part 7
*Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of su*c*d*l ideations, hospitalizations, emotional abuse, verbal abuse, mental abuse, guilt, bipolar depression, anxiety.* Sunday, May 28th, 2023 Part 4
12:06pm
My resolve sparked the shift. The shift from watching my pieces scatter from me sporadically to gluing them back together. By the time I landed, I knew there were expectations for me, whether they were from you or my friends, or even myself. Everything was still moving too fast, I really couldn’t keep up, but all I could think about was that I had to and that you two were there to help me.
But only half of that was true.
After I landed and we went to Langone (hospital), I think both of our expectations broke and we didn’t know what to do. I was in an unfamiliar place (New York City) with a deadline of January 1st to move out. I was losing myself throughout that entire time, and instead of finding hope, I found rejection immediately. Langone was the destination in my mind that would turn the tides. I would be able to heal and receive the treatment that I needed to kickstart the right kind of growth. I was ready to let go of my control of myself and release my inhibitions in the hope of something great… for me.
But instead, I was rejected and I walked away with a packet of every out-patient facility in the NYC area.
Everything was too much. I was broken and was fighting myself to not to want to give up, for you and everyone else, and I decided to keep saving face and see it through. Then maybe, it would be for me too.
After Langone, you were upset, it was nowhere near the plan of me staying in the hospital for 2 weeks. I think that’s when I shied away from you and confided in Gem. I was upset too that Langone didn’t work out, but I was so tired, too tired, of trying to lift off the ground and take flight. I needed time to gain more energy, to repair my mask that was so close to completely breaking. Because if I wasn’t okay enough to manage, then all of your efforts and money would have been wasted. So, I did just that. I rested for almost a week, and felt strings lifting me to dance a song I didn’t know.
You guys did your best to pour into me. By telling me to journal again, to eat, drink water, to get outside. Despite all that was on each of your plates, you made sure I knew that you were there for me. But, how you specifically did it took much longer to understand.
I felt like I was an intruder in your home. A parasite taking what you had for a gain I had not identified or knew existed. I was trying to be so careful; not to do something wrong, to upset you, to make you question if bringing me there was a mistake…
You asked me to wash the dishes, I started washing them almost every time, so you wouldn’t have to ask again. You got upset that second week that I didn’t take out the trash and recycling on time, I made sure to take them out by the end of each day. You told me to clean the bathroom on the weekends, I put time aside to clean it on Sundays. You told me y’all like to spot clean throughout the week, as soon as I saw cat litter on the hallway floor, I was sweeping and moping the whole house.
You told me that I was irresponsible with money, that it was a slap to the face, even though it wasn’t with your money. I stopped buying things that was just for me, bought groceries for the household, and occasionally bought a coffee.
You told me that you expected me to go back to school in January, then when I said that I didn’t want to, you only said okay. I started looking at colleges and scholarships and made a list.
You told me that you didn’t have the space for me to regularly let you know the progress I was making, even though I was putting in all this effort for you, for you to keep seeing me alive and well. I stopped talking because there was nothing left of me to pull from and share.
Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 -- Part 5 Part 6 Part 7
*Trigger Warnings: Mentions of physical abuse, mental abuse, parental abuse, verbal abuse, manipulation, PTSD symptoms, anger, and anxiety.*
Saturday, Feb. 11th, 2023
9:55pm
Today has been so difficult. Well, really just the past few hours, but still. My family and I went to the store for shopping and groceries. I had an amazing haul of clothes from Wal-Mart (it was so good!!!), but it was filled with anxiety and self-doubt. It took me a really long time to calm myself down from that, which I am really beating myself up over. However, the main thing that has me upset is after we got home, where my younger siblings and I had to rearrange the room for our other brother, Anthony, to come back home.
My sisters needed to clean out from under their beds in order for me to move them to make space for Anthony’s bed. It took them literally 2 hours to do it, and it was not only frustrating, but unnecessary. I was put in charge of “managing this project”, and they made the process take so much longer than it had to (4 HOURS!!!). Plus, James (my step-father) had to keep receiving “updates” or involving himself every 30 minutes, which made it even more difficult. The girls just kept making excuses, getting distracted, or asking me redundant questions, and I was running out of patience. It takes so much energy to deal with them, and it just has to be my responsibility to micro-manage them.
My problem is that I am constantly the fall-back for James, and my mom supports it. Not only did I have to “run this project”, but James had the audacity to say that he’s “giving” me the responsibility of supervising the kids regularly clean the room. I have raised those kids in his stead. He hasn’t been a parent to them, he’s rather paying child support and free-loading around the house than actually stepping up. He stays in his room, keeps to himself, and uses us as free labor.
I’m not their parent! I shouldn’t have to look after them the way that I do. I am consistently present with them, checking on them, teaching them, helping them, feeding them, and he does none of that. It’s not fair to me, and I can’t even draw a boundary to separate myself from it. I get sucked back into parenting them to where I literally can’t make time or space for myself.
There’s a reason that I don’t come home that often. This household and this family is a trap.
James and I were talking the other day, about a couple of things. He repeatedly said that he’s an “observer” and “picks up on the things he sees”. It’s so full of shit. He asked me why I never come home and why I’ve been gone for so long (3 years for college), and I had to scramble for a half-truth to save my skin and give him such a vague answer. That it’s because growing up here in this area was rough. He’s so perceptive, but can’t see that the problem stems from HIM. His abuse and how inactive he is as a father and how he walks around as if he’s a king.
I stayed away to avoid him, and being here now is just as hard as I thought it would be. I hate interacting with him, I’m tired of the anxiety from being around him, and I hate how he treats me. You know, he was like, “I can see that you’re pretty responsible, so I wanted to ask if you want to be back on our car insurance?”. Why do you even feel the need to comment on my responsibility? I’ve been responsible for years and it’s not a show for your approval, and has absolutely nothing to do with you. It’s patronizing and belittling. I’m an adult now, I want to be treated like one, and I’m going to treat myself with responsibility. Yes, I’m back living at home, but I’m clearly pulling my own weight by buying the groceries for the whole household each week. And, so much more. So much more!
I’m not your solution to your issues of being a neglectful, abusive parent. I’m not an in-home nanny, a maid, or a butler that caters to your every request. It’s not my responsibility to cover your tracks and then, be a stand-in for you, because you are too tired from work or annoyed or because you want to “watch your football”. Those aren’t my kids, they’re my siblings. And, it’s miserable. I just… can’t take it.
I’m literally draining myself for this family, and I can’t ever have the time or space to myself to recover, because it’s constantly filled with their needs and wants.
I’m exhausted, and I want it to stop. Please.
Sometimes I just remember the one moment when I felt really cared for after a year of abuse from my 'best friend' and months of strained relationship with my parents after I had pushed them out during that year, then left them with the broken aftermath of their very traumatized, very expensive, daughter.
I was in the ER. Not a rare occurrence at the time. It was before one of my inpatient stays that year, but I'm not sure if it was the second or the third, they all blur together. I usually would have to spend a night there and wait for a bed to open up before being admitted, and that was how it went this time. In the middle of the night, I woke up with a nosebleed from the dry hospital air. I didn't really know what to do. Any normal person would get up and go to the nurse's station and get some tissues or something, but being a mentally ill child who was just yelled at by her mother the day before for saying she needed help because the hospital bills were already stacking up and going to the ER cost a lot of money, not to mention the inpatient stay, I didn't want to inconvenience the nurses (it's literally their job) so I just laid back with the back of my hand over my nose while I waited for it to stop. Swallowed a lot of my own blood, but I was already in such a horrible mental state, broken to my core to the point I wanted to leave mortality, that I could care less as long as nobody else was affected.
The bleeding stopped and I did the best I could to get the dried stuff off my hands by licking my finger and rubbing it off, but it was dark, so I couldn't really see if it worked. I went back to sleep and then woke up in the morning and did my usual ER routine of sitting in the dark because I didn't want to have to go out to ask the nurses to turn on the light (lightswitches weren't in the rooms for safety reasons or something idk). When one of the nurses came in to bring me breakfast, she turned on the light, but I didn't notice there was still dried blood on my hands and just ate my breakfast in silence because I never asked for them to turn on the TV. I always waited for them to suggest it since I didn't want to inconvenience them (again, it's literally their job to do that but I still felt bad asking). When she came back to take my tray, she noticed the blood and asked about it. It was only then I realized that blood on the hand of a mentally ill child in the ER because she could hurt herself is easily interpreted as literally anything other than a nosebleed. I panicked and started explaining myself, and to my relief she believed me and I wasn't put on a 1 to 1 (I had to experience that at some point later and it sucks). She left to go get me a wipe to clean it off.
She came back and I was sitting on the floor next to the weird little plastic round side table thing. I was expecting her to just throw it at me or something and leave me to clean myself up, but to my surprise she sat down in front of me and (after asking permission to touch me) started wiping my hands for me. She was just so careful and sweet about it. She called me 'honey' and it left me with a warmth in my chest that I hadn't felt in over a year.
It's kind of odd but I just look back at that memory with a weird sort of fondness. To her it was probably just a normal day on the job, but for me that moment meant so much. She was also probably just using it as an opportunity to look me over and make sure I was telling the truth about the nosebleed, but still. I was just this scared kid who felt like she was so worthless that she couldn't even ask a nurse to turn the TV on for fear that she would be loathed, and this woman went out of her way to lightly scrub the blood out of my nails.
Nowadays I'm doing better. My mental state has improved and I've been working on moving past that all, but I think that some time this past week was the 2 year anniversary of that day, and it just goes to show how far I've come. From being surprised and comforted by a psych nurse's gentle touch on my hands (the first human touch I had felt in months), to casual hugs with my friends and a year and 7 months out of the hospital as of yesterday.
After spending so much time with either the absence of kindness from others, or with kindness always being conditional, you tend to forget the feeling of having someone truly care about you and be kind to you.
Depending on the situation, my brain will go into one of two modes when being showed kindness. I will either immediately become paranoid and worry about what I will need to do to repay it, or just completely short circuit and become confused.
The urge to repay tends to come when it's someone I don't know very well being kind, or when I'm given compliments. I start to wonder how I'm supposed to make the miniscule amount of energy that they need to use to be nice worth it for them.
When I react with confusion, it's usually either with someone who I know well or it's a really big gesture that means a lot. After being treated horribly for so long and having my sense of self-worth chipped away at, I sometimes have trouble comprehending why someone believes I am worth caring about and going out of their way to be nice to me.
Most of the time for them it's just something casual and simple, that they just feel is good to do, but for me it's a whole new healing experience every time. Getting past my initial confusion is hard, but it's worth it because once I can accept it, it opens an amazing point of view and helps me truly understand the fact that I am worth caring about (which is something people tell me and I try to tell myself, but is still hard to fully grasp)
The kindness of all these new friends I've met since I started high school is one of the biggest things I have to thank for aiding my recovery. Whether they've helped me through hard moments, or have just been a good friend to talk to and hang out with, these people and their kind gestures mean so much to me.
*Trigger Warnings: Mentions of parental abuse and physical abuse. Descriptions of threats, violence, verbal abuse, mental abuse, emotional abuse. Mentions of Bipolar Depression, anxiety, PTSD, self-deprecating thoughts, self-esteem issues, people pleasing, rage. Saturday, Jan. 28th, 2023
2:16pm
My dad texted me early in the morning,
-This is my response to very bluntly and directly tell him off
and here’s what I said to him:
To Dad,
“Listen. I did disrespect you and I did curse at you. I’ll admit it, and I’m taking accountability for that. I don’t like being upset and I certainly don’t like yelling and cursing. However, what I did that day was lesser than what you deserved, you deserved worse. Now, I’m taking the time out of my day to respond to take another chance for you to take this opportunity to hear what I am saying and make a change. But, to be honest, my hopes and expectations for you aren’t high.
First, I want you to understand that you will always be my dad and I will always love you. I care about you deeply, but it will have to be at a distance. Your behavior in how you treat Angel and I is deplorable and disgusting. You are selfish and narcissistic. You are controlling and manipulative. And, you don’t have proper self-reflection skills or any empathy for your kids. I’m sick of it, and I don’t have the tolerance for your behavior anymore.
Time after time, you and I have had conversations, where you never ask me what is going on in my life in full. Every single conversation consisted of talking about yourself, or offering advice that had no relevance to anything that was happening for me. You constantly talk about how much you want to be a part of my life and how you wanted a “seat at my advisors’ table”, but you don’t deserve to because you never showed any real care or interest or attention to me and my life. This “highlights” thing you have is the only thing you care about when it comes to Angel and I, but that’s now what being a father is about. Being a good PARENT (not just being a father) is about raising your child to be their own individual, while you as the parent, help them along the way. It’s not just giving me money, “slapping rocks”, working out, and “highlights”. You should be there to listen to your kids, to tend to them, to be there when they fall, and to correct them when they go wrong. You do none of these things. The year that I was starting college, I had to continuously remind you of what my majors were because: you 1) never asked what they were, and 2) never listened and remembered. And that’s the SMALLEST example of how you treat me that I could think of. You have threatened to kill me, called me embarrassing, tried to tell me that I’m not man enough, and god forbid, try to manipulate me to turn into you.
You never want to hear when I’m struggling or in a dark period, yet you think that you should be an “advisor” for me. What do you plan to advise me about then? You have never ever been there for me when I’m going through a hard time, but you think I should lean on you for what? Support? No, for money, right? Because that’s what you talk about all the time.
I want you to sit and think about what you ACTUALLY know about me and my life because I guarantee that it’s not as much as I know about you, and what you SHOULD know about me. I feel like a prop for you to make yourself feel and look better. Either that, or you’re living through me vicariously with all the “highlights” you receive from me. And you expect me to not be hurt by all of that and much more from you?
Did you know I have Bipolar Disorder? Did you know I took a break from college? Did you know I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from you and every other excuse for a father figure in my life? I bet you didn’t.
I CAN”T HANDLE YOU BEING IN MY LIFE BECAUSE YOU. ARE. TOXIC. When I’m not feeling like you’re “molding me into your image” (which is something you have said out your mouth to me, by the way), you’re sucking all of my energy by me just trying to have a relationship with you. All these years, I’ve tried to adapt and change myself and “just deal” with you because anything with you is better than nothing. But, I realized after EVERY falling out we’ve had, you never sat down and thought about what YOU DID to ME. I was the only one trying to change and make things work, while you just waited for me to come crawling back to Daddy. I DESERVE BETTER THAN THIS. AND, I don’t owe you for anything that you have done for me, you’re a parent. You signed up for this. So, going forward, I think you should go to therapy. I think you need professional guidance to realize how you treat people, especially your family. And, until that happens and you experience change, you and I will continue to not have a relationship. I love you to the moon and back, always will, but I will no longer tolerate your vile treatment of me. I am not just “your offspring”, I’m my own individual. Please, do me the favor of not contacting me again until you’ve grown.”
*Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of verbal and emotional abuse, su*c*d*l thoughts, PTSD symptoms, self-deprecation, anxiety, and depression.* Monday, Nov. 7th, 2022 Part 2
4:37pm
Here’s what I would say to her:
“To Angel,
I would like to have an open conversation please… I’ve been holding in a lot of stress and anxiety surrounding you, that I just don’t know what to do with. I feel so stifled, and like I’m only able to say or do certain things to avoid any negative responses or retaliation from you. I haven’t appreciated the way that you have spoken to me lately, when you are bringing up issues that you that you want to address with me. It comes off as condescending and that there’s no consideration for me in the “conversation”. And while mentally, I know that you are not coming from an ill place, emotionally and how I respond physically, I can’t tell whether or not I should be guarded with you. Because I’m scared… of what and how you will say things.
When you are trying to give me advice, you don’t ask for consent, or if I have any experience in the matter. When you’re trying to teach me, it’s very abrasive and as if I’m dumb to not have known it before. When you are telling me to fix something or reminding me or helping me, it never feels like just that. It’s as if I’m being scolded like a child, or that I need to meet your standards and expectations of me. I’m starting to react to you talking to me as if I’m on the watch for an ambush.
There are better ways to approach these “conversations” that will be easier for me to receive, but I hate feeling like I’m walking on eggshells with you. I have processing issues that affect my memory and I’m recovering from severe, disordered eating habits, and it’s going to take a lot longer than 3 weeks for me to learn all the ways you like for the house to be maintained. So, instead of speaking to me in such a brash manner, I would greatly appreciate and prefer if you could change how you bring up issues or topics with me. Especially so that it comes off in the way you intend.
I feel like you disregard how many times I have said that I feel that I have to make myself small in a way that is so far from what I mean. I don’t feel like my being here in this place and this new facet of our relationship has really cemented yet, but you have fallen into this pattern of interacting with me as if you know me so well. It’s not the same for me, not even close. I’ve not started feeling like myself again like I should, and while my days here have been lighter and easier to deal with, it’s only that and nothing more.
You have no idea of how I am actually doing or feeling or thinking because I don’t feel comfortable sharing it with you, nor do you properly check-in with me. At least, without it being in comparison to yourself. I’m literally alive only because you want me to be, and yet, I feel like I’m being picked apart and belittled for not saying or doing things the way you would. It’s controlling and does not make me want to approach you for anything other than what you must know.
Like, I feel like I am just now learning who you are, and that you don’t feel the same because you keep saying that “you know me so well”, but you don’t. Not with us only building a relationship 3 years ago because, remember, we grew up on opposite sides of the country! There’s so much you don’t know, and it doesn’t feel like you even notice that you don’t. Yet, you jump to speaking to me in ways that I don’t need or want at this time.
I just need a gentler deliver that isn’t accented with a vicious tone to then be excused by saying you want to continue these “open conversations” when you’re finished, when it has NEVER FELT MORE ONE-SIDED.
And, if it feels like you have to change the way you communicate, in order to talk with me, then I’m really sorry to have asked for such a truly difficult task like this, but I really need this at this moment in time.”
Part 1
Had my first PTSD flashback that I actually knew was a PTSD flashback. For the past like, 2 years, I've been having these random panic attacks where images of bad things that have happened to me pop into my head and feel so realistic.
Somehow I didn't realize it, but those are definitely actually PTSD flashbacks. And I didn't figure that out until last night, when I had the first big one I've had since I got diagnosed. Then it all clicked and I realized that like, half my panic attacks have actually been caused by PTSD flashbacks. So now I know I definitely filled out a few questions wrong on the questionnaire.
Trauma anniversaries are a hard thing to deal with. They can come from any sort of trauma/traumatic event, but mine are from my hospital stays and large arguments or events with my abuser. The hospital ones definitely suck, but they don't affect my everyday life as much as the abuse ones.
The hospital ones are mostly restricted to the past. I remember how I felt, or certain events that happened. Occasionally I get quick flashes of images in my head of what the place looked like. Yet overall, it's confined to the past and if I can manage the feelings or distract myself, I usually will be able to reduce the suffering until it goes away.
The abuse anniversaries are a whole different type of hell. Unlike the hospital trips, the events from the year or so with my abuser bother me constantly. Year round, 24/7. Not confined to moments of struggle or anniversaries, I get memories and bad thoughts all the time.
Anniversaries take that base level and crank it up to 1,000. My reactions to triggers get more and more violent, usually toward myself, but sometimes toward others. Any little trigger can set off my brain into unimaginable terror. It also affects my thoughts on myself and how I act. I become more startled by people treating me nicely, and just have the feeling that I don't deserve anything other than emotional torment from others.
These anniversaries affect my emotional health and my social life horribly. One specific example is the time I went on a midnight walk with some friends at a sleepover. We passed by my old middle school, where most of the events took place. This was on or near the anniversary of one of the worst fights I had with my abuser. When we got back to my friends house, I was a little stirred, then two hours afterwards, I had a terrible meltdown. Everyone around me was very kind, but it definitely felt horrible.
This time of year, I'm dealing with the anniversary of the day I fully fell into my abuser's trap. I'm questioning all my interactions with others and scanning my every move as to not bother anyone. If someone around me feels bad, or apologizes, or seems off in any way, I put the blame onto myself.
I wish I could frame this one as a more positive, uplifting, never-give-up type of post, there isn't really a way I can do that in my current stage of recovery. I guess all I can say is; trauma anniversaries are valid triggers, and if you know a friend or loved one is approaching a hard time of year for them, be kind and supportive. Trauma affects many people in many ways, and not everyone experiences it the same way, but the best thing to do is show kindness and compassion.
Due to my abuse coming from someone who I considered my 'best friend', as opposed to a partner or family member, after I broke out of the cycle of abuse, I had troubles with friendship.
I had become pretty separate from my friends I had before him, and I never thought I would ever actually need someone other than him anymore, so I didn't really try very hard to have other friends. At the end of that friendship, I had just entered a new little friend group because of my boyfriend, and I was also in a musical where I had found three people I really vibed with. Two of them are still some of my closest friends to this day.
Regardless of my shaky little support system, I still had a lot of trouble navigating friendship. I'm autistic and had just gotten out of one and a half years of covid isolation before I dove into an abusive friendship, so my social skills were not very great. The only two roles I knew in a friendship were leader and follower. As I tried to navigate friendships that weren't meant to hurt someone, I found myself making people uncomfortable a lot. I didn't know what to do or say, and I would go between either being really self centered or obsessing over the other person. I would hurt people without realizing and I became pretty isolated.
I spent most of the one year after leaving my abuser like that. I desperately tried to reach out and get people to enjoy my presence, but nothing I did seemed to work. It didn't help that I had gotten a silent reputation the year before when I pushed people away and blindly followed and backed up someone who everyone else could tell was a complete dickhead.
The one person who stuck by my side was my best friend. She took me under her wing and taught me some of the ways that friendship was supposed to look. I still have the memory ingrained in my mind of the one day we were in her basement building things with Lego, and she referred to me as her 'bestie'. I nearly broke down crying. My abuser had weaponized that term against me near the end of our friendship, saying that he hated when I called him my best friend. Hearing her say that was one of the most blissful moments of my life.
The next year, I decided to go to a different high school than pretty much everyone else from my middle school, including all the people I was friends with. I felt that I needed a clean slate, but I didn't really give myself one. I tried making friends, but after feeling even the slightest amount of push back from anyone, I would retreat. This left me with some people I didn't vibe with that well, but wouldn't reject me.
I stayed like that for a while, and was slightly miserable. I'm still not sure how it happened, but eventually near the end of the school year, I found my people. My friends right now are absolutely amazing people. I still mess up a bit, but I'm finally learning how real friendship works.
Navigating non-toxic relationships can become really hard after being in an abusive situation. It takes years, and many screw ups, but it's possible to become a better person surrounded by good people. As I continue to try and improve myself, I find that more people want to be around me. Improvement is possible, and will bring so many amazing new things into your life.
Recently, I've been finding myself thinking about the concept of 'tough love'. That is one of the terms I used to describe the abuse and manipulation before I fully accepted that I had been abused. But the thing is, what he did was not love.
Love is not being judgemental. Love is not being brutally 'honest' about someone else's flaws because they should fix them.
Love is making sure someone is cared for even if they don't ask for it or are a bit apprehensive. Love is when my friend noticed I was acting a bit different and asked me when I last drank something. After I told her I didn't know, she told me I should drink something. I refused and said I was fine, but she still went and bought me a bottle of water and made me drink it in front of her.
I feel like the term 'tough love' isn't really a term that should be used in the first place though. Even though there are situations like that, where it seemingly fits the term and is actually okay, it's still a slippery slope into justifying abuse.
If people would point out that my abuser was being really harsh to me, I could say it was just because he cared. It was because he wanted me to improve as a person so I could do better. His punches and kicks and yelling and degrading were just his way of saying he cares. It's 'tough love'. This term helped catch me, and I'm sure many others as well, into the cycle of justifying the actions of my abuser. It let me believe it was my fault for feeling hurt from what he did.
I think it might be time to retire this concept. Yes, sometimes you need to be a little pushy to make sure someone you love is cared for, but even then, you still should be kind. Honestly, that doesn't need its own term. It's just being caring. We don't need any more ways for victims caught in the throes of abuse to try to justify it.