My Story

I like to think I'm writing this because I want to reach out and help others who are also suffering but the reality is that I'm writing this because I'm hoping it will help me. Maybe if I publicly write it'll help me heal. Maybe being slightly more open about my pain will help me find some sort of healing. I don't know.

What I do know is I'm in my 20s and live in my home town where I attend university. I know that I enjoy Netflix, drinking, and napping. I know my favorite food is sushi and I've never been known to turn down anything with chocolate. I know that I am safe. I know that I am a survivor. I know that I am a swimmer. I know that things always work out in the end. I know that I can overcome this too. I know I am a co-dependent addict.

If I allow myself to start from the beginning, I'm not sure if I'll be able to come back to reality. I discovered this morning that my struggles with separating reality and the past are more than likely due to PTSD caused by years of abuse from partners, family members, and toxic friendships. The past week or two I've had almost nightly nightmares where I relive the abuse in various forms. For example, last night I dreamed that I was living at home again as a kid (late teenage years) and one of my parentals and I got in an argument. I vaguely remember the argument being about them wanting me to do something I wasn't comfortable with (I think they wanted me to steal or something, which doesn't make sense in reality because they are law abiding citizens) and when I said no, they grew very angry. We were standing in my parents old living room and the moment I said no, the argument turned ugly. They rushed me with a wine glass in their hand. They screamed in my face that I would do what they wanted. I said no again. They threw the glass and it shattered behind them. They continued to scream at me. I coward inward to myself. They went to throw a punch. Before the punch hit I woke up; safe, unhurt, emotionally drained, and a 12 hour car ride from both my parents.

Dreams like these were incredibly frequent when I first moved out of my parents' home. They would get so bad sometimes I would wake up with panic attacks. They started in the waking day. I would see someone make a movement but not the full movement and I would cringe and cower or I would hear a noise that was used to strike fear at home (the stomping down a hallway, the slamming of a door, ect.). The most noticeable flashback was when my then-boyfriend want to shake an avocado near my ear and I flinched so bad I was bent over on his kitchen floor trying to avoid what my mind had said was a swing at my head. It took me a moment to bring my mind back to where I was and to reality. When I looked up at him he was standing with the avocado still raised near where my ear had been with a look of total shock and sadness on his face. Events like these I try to shake off with a simple, "I'm sorry, I'm just jumpy," or simply shrug and ignore the situation all together, never actually addressing it. This time though, I knew I couldn't hide it from him. There had been no reason to flinch. I loved this man, he was kind to me. He had never even raised his voice to me. Yet, there I was, on the kitchen floor in a total panic. As the look of shock turned to pure sadness he placed the avocado on the counter and helped me to stand, then just held me there for a while. That was the first time someone saw the scars that were left.

Most people don't want to see the pain. They don't want to see the scares and the bruises. They don't want to get involved so they'll accept what ever story you feed them. They don't want to "stir things up," besides, you're probably lying anyways. When I walked around school with a black eye for two weeks in eighth grade, no one questioned my story about how my brother hit me with a door knob. They all knew it was false, but no one questioned it. Social Services were never called. There was no home visit. There was just us.

I know what you're thinking, "Why didn't you just run away? Why didn't you call the cops yourself? Why didn't you fight back?" What you don't understand is that these aren't options when you're in it. The abuser controls every aspect of your life. My phone was constantly and randomly checked both on the device and on the monthly bill. My room would be randomly tossed while I was away at school and searched for diaries or other "contraband." Diaries were the most dangerous because anything you wrote would be thrown back at you randomly. If you wrote out of anger, you WILL hear the words said back to you. If you write of breaking the rules (such as riding in a friend's car) you WILL be punished and it will be at random with little to no explanation. A diary from 5 years previous was found once. This diary contained all of my pre-teen hormonal urges and angsty dreams (I thought of myself as a bit of a scene kid even though I was not allowed any of the clothes, haircuts, or makeup associated with the group). I was removed from school for the day without warning only to be brought home and screamed at and punched for having sex with a former friend of mine. Now, none of that had actually happened. The abuser had simply found the old diary and assumed all of the things I wrote about my then crush (who was actually another boy at my school) I had actually done with a very close friend of mine. This is why I was pulled out of school nearly 5 years after I had written in that particular diary.

My phone would be taken for random things and given to my younger brother or vice versa. There were no secrets in this house. The abuser took total control. I was not allowed to have my own money. If you were caught attempting to horde money, you would be viciously and mercilessly ridiculed for years (as I discovered with my younger brother). I was allowed no allowance and no job. Even if I had escaped, where would I go? They convinced us that no family would take us in and any friends we were allowed to keep, their parents would turn us over in a heart beat. I actually almost lost a friend when her parents found out and they attempted to shield me. Of course, when I told them and they asked my parents, they became convinced I was lying or making things out much worse than they were. My best shot at being saved was dashed with a single phone call.

I had been brainwashed into thinking that should Social Services ever randomly appear not only would we ALL play the part of a perfect family but on the off chance you were taken, things would be much worse somewhere else. I was told repeatedly that in foster care I would be rapped, starved, and beaten regularly, at least at home they beat us out of love and fed us every day.

This was my life from ages 13 to 18. At age 18 the physical abuse stopped but the mental did not. I still struggle with the emotional scars that were left from those 5 years. I still have dreams about the abuse. I still flinch when I see someone raise a hand near my face or head. I still lock all my doors at night just in case. My heart still races when I see my phone ring and it's my parents. I can still hear the voices chanting at me "You're a lukewarm bucket of piss. You aren't even good enough to be a warm bucket of piss" (direct quote). Even writing this now I fear that the abuser will see it and come for me. I fear that even though we are 700 miles apart now that they will know and they will seek revenge. This is my life. This is what I live with on a daily basis. This is me.

Keep an eye out for my next post. Life did/does get better. Have faith my love boats. With time and a lot of hard work and distance, things do get better.