Want to be done now

February 23, 2011

This hurts. And it’s tiring. And it requires lots of medication. And it’s lonely. And it plays with my head. And it’s scary. But mostly it hurts.

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My oldest daughter has taken care of a stuffed baby this week for Health class. She had to sew the body, draw a face, choose a name, and carry it with her everywhere. She also sewed a blanket for it, drew on an anime face, and decided her baby is Buddhist, too. She hasn’t taken the entire project seriously, she’s hired her sister as a babysitter several times, and I found out why this morning. She can’t imagine being responsible for such a tiny, fragile person and keep it safe, fed, and happy. At 12 years old she understands that at least she is not ready for such responsibility.  A lot of the kids doing this project thought it would be great to have their own baby for real, and she is telling them “No, it would not be great. It would be a lot of work and I want to be a veterinarian first.”. I know it’s a 12-year old realization, but I’m proud anyway.

That brings me to an obvious point. My parents should have never had children. If I had the choice I would rather not have been born. I’m not happy here and I don’t function well. So many things are a struggle and I can’t seem to get it right. I work, work, work, inside and out and I’ll be dead before I can sort things out. My parents didn’t keep me safe, fed, or happy. I am the bane of their existence, as they have reminded me. They couldn’t look at a little baby in wonder and love, but rather in disgust and anger.

These birth and responsibility thoughts I have aren’t new. I keep coming back around to see them from a different point of view every so often. When I was 14 my parents forced me to have an abortion. I didn’t know I was pregnant and we were just learning about female reproductive stuff in junior high. I found out I was pregnant shortly before I had the abortion after school one afternoon. In the very short amount of time I realized I was pregnant (and subsequently threatened if I told anyone) I knew I loved and could care for that baby and give it a better life than I had. Later, while recovering, I swore that I when I was ready to have a baby I wouldn’t let my parents have anything to do with it – my pregnancy or raising my baby. I know a baby at 14 would have made my life even more difficult, and I had no idea how to care for a baby, but I still loved the baby as intensely as a hormonal pre-teen could.

I’ve been thinking about this over the past two weeks. I was 25 when I felt ready to have a baby, and I did make sure my parents were not involved in any way. Part of it must have been subconscious knowledge because I remember freaking out if my mom or dad tried to be alone with them without knowing exactly why. I brought this up (the abortion) in therapy many months ago, but just started discussing it the past two sessions. It was such a relief to get it out. The body memories that always accompany this are gone and I can look at it from this other point of view and see what a good, healthy mother I am.

Looks like I’m rambling again. I feel okay today and I felt okay yesterday afternoon after therapy. It was a bit depressing talking about the abortion, it was my mom’s birthday (which I don’t acknowledge), so when I got home I went in one of the girls rooms and just cleaned and cleaned (and had a discussion later about how to use the garbage can). Feeling okay is nice. I get work done and cook fantastic meals. I draw pictures on fruit to make people laugh. I vomited up that incident and that part feels clean inside. The rest of the house needs some cleaning, though, so it’s time to wrestle with my vacuum.

Love at the moment

February 14, 2011

At this moment in time love is –

Getting a valentine from your daughter

Getting a black rose from your other daughter who is not celebrating Valentine’s Day but doesn’t want you to think she doesn’t love you

Being patted on the head by your cat as you walk past the staircase

Sharing a granola bar with the dogs

Planning the garden and knowing how lovely it will be

Looking in the mirror and feeling okay about the way I look

Feeling confident to tell a doctor that I’m not happy about the way I was treated at my last appointment

Sharing the Hero chest in the Sacred 2 video game with hubby even though he’s only a level 7 character and I’m level 21

It’s not much, but it’s a start.

Febuary 9th Was a Long Day

February 10, 2011

Step 1. Ask therapist to PROMISE not to get mad at you before you even sit on the floor.

Step 2. Hand her suicide kit containing 40-50 narcotic pain killers, X-Acto knife, and alcohol pads along with note for her that reads “I’m really, really, really sorry”, etc., and expresses urge to self-harm while she watches.

Step 3. Let it all fall out. Don’t think about anything. Just let it fall, fall, fall, fall out.

Step 4. Buy a Caramel Mocha at McDonald’s, after she feels you can drive, with the window down, so that freezing cold keeps you aware all the way home.

Step 5. Don’t stop at the grocery store. That is a bad idea.

My brain separates mom’s abuse from dad’s. Dad’s abuse has few problems being remembered. Mom’s is under different layers, or at least filed in a different way. The first layer is her basic disdain that I was born a girl instead of a boy that would carry on the family name. Another is about having red hair and her disdain (jealousy? Hard to tell the difference. I’m not good with emotions). Another is about having long hair as a child because dad liked it, so she had it cut into a page boy haircut when I was nine. Another is about neglect – physical and emotional. Another is the conflict between “good” mom and “mean” mom, which is further divided into physical, emotional, and sexual abuses.

The parts that were created to protect me from dad have a much smoother time revealing themselves and accepting that it’s safe now, it can never happen again, etc., and it’s easier to figure out what they need to create a space inside for them.

The parts created to deal with and/or protect me from mom feel more complicated. Memories of her abuse are more linear, so I can think back and know what happened, but I always wonder why, what did I do wrong, why does she do that to me, why does she say that, why does she like so-and-so more than she likes me, why doesn’t she love me, what can I do to get her love………

I was going over a list about the effects and/or signs of incest a while back and I was saying to myself, “Oh yeah. Dad did that. And that. And that. Oh, that was Mom definitely…”, but I ignored what mom had done and only focused on the father-daughter incest.

I know my mother is a wrong creature, but I also divided up what she did into a few categories: she was jealous that dad had sex with me (without stopping it or getting help), she was an RN so she needed to try the new medications to make sure they worked (She said I was her guinea pig.), and if she couldn’t stop dad from doing what he did she could watch and laugh (which is what she did, and still does, when I’m hurt, in pain, having a bad day, out of a job, spill something on me, fall down, etc.). For whatever reason this made some sort of sick sense to me and I never thought of it as sexual abuse. I thought she was simply a souless, empty, pathetic, fucking bitch from Hell. Another question that plagued me was why am I the one being put through all of this. She spoiled my sister rotten and I couldn’t figure out what I did wrong besides not being born a boy (something she recently reminded me of again).

So the more I learned about myself, how my System functions, the difference between right and wrong behaviors, healthy versus unhealthy, the more I saw that besides the emotional and physical abuses I suffered at her hands the more many of them fell into sexual abuse as well. They usually overlap each other, which makes it more confusing. Many things she did were only sexual, and often that felt like some revenge or payback I don’t understand.

The threats and consequences about telling anyone what she was doing are also there, just like dad’s. Recently I’ve met two alters who were created to kill if I told. The one created by my father’s threats is called M, and his job was to make sure I commit suicide before telling anyone the horrible things dad did, especially the things that have surfaced over the last 15 months. The alter created by my mother’s threats is called Andy, and his job is to kill me, like a hitman. I thought that was an interesting difference. M makes sure I commit suicide, while Andy actually kills me. I’m not exactly sure what that means or if it is common to mother-daughter sexual abuse (MDSA) survivors.

Writing this out is conflicting for me. I feel an inner sigh of relief, ashamed, and scared. I still don’t know where to go with this subject and I hope I at least shed some light and understanding on what happened and what is happening at this point. Please don’t be afraid to ask anything. Comments and suggestions are always welcome.

This blog has been immensely healing, informative, and just plain healthy for me. I’ve been blogging here for over a year about child sexual abuse, DID, and fun stuff like that. One subject I have not written about is mother-daughter sexual abuse (MDSA).

From my memories and experiences it always felt like a revenge tactic or a “power-over” trip. Her abuse, whether sexual, verbal, or emotional always feels like that. Whatever it was about my mother works very hard to shove her negativity down my throat to be free of it and then walk away in disgust of me. That’s from my perspective.

Thanks to serendipity, when I decided to work on this issue I found some support and information and feel less like a piece of garbage than usual. I’ll add websites, blogs, books, and other pertinent resources as I find them.

I’m not sure what to write, or what I want to write about MDSA. It simply feels right to acknowledge it here.

Any information, insights, or questions are welcome. Next week in therapy I’ll be bringing this subject up again. I mentioned it about 8 months ago, but didn’t discuss it because of shame and the fear I wouldn’t be believed.

Thanks for reading.

A couple of incredibly important Tuesday happenings here:

1: R. Lee Ermy hangin’ with his real buddies (thanks to my youngest daughter):

 

2: My road went bye-bye this morning:

 

No school for the next two days. I’m hoping that the inevitable distractions my children provide will prevent the panic attacks that have been plaguing me. That, and I get to play with R. Lee and the Barbies, too. He is my doll after all (he autographed the box for me and everything!). I will NOT let her play with my 30th anniversary original Star Trek Barbie collection! I’m hoping those will help pay for college someday.

I called my therapist last night concerning these panic attacks which accompany a new person inside. This inside guy is angry, threatening, scaring myself and younger ones, and wreaking havoc in general. I’m not entirely sure if he is the cause of the panic attacks, or if there is a trigger I’m missing here. Just talking to my therapist helped me sleep last night. I’m sure I won’t be able to see her this week because of this snowstorm. She wants me to work on distracting myself until my psychiatrist calls and see if that helps with the panic crap.

Take care of yourselves.