It is a brave and wonderful thing for all those who have shared their stories here. There should be honors all 'round. You all are the soldiers, the heroes, in the struggle for health, against tremendous odds.
I want to tell my story here. I will tell as much as I can at a time, which may not be much b/c it stirs up too much and my insides are already torn up like new ground.
I want to add the warning used by others here. This is not a story for anyone who is triggered easily. There are some graphic details. Even I have a hard time writing this, so I can imagine what it could do to a dear, fragile person who is struggling. Please read with caution.
I was born while my father was in WWII overseas. We lived with my mother's parents. My mother's older brother, the family favorite (justifiably), had just been killed in action, jumping on a grenade to save his fellow soldiers in a fox hole. I was born the day after the notification came. So I was born into a void. My grandfather immediately placed me in the empty hole in his heart; my mother, it seemed, used me for blame. When I was a month old, my mother tried to commit suicide. Otherwise, my time in my grandparents' house was a warm, loving experience. I have some memories of it - I know I slept in my grandparent's room - I guess so my mother didn't have to get up at night - and frequently in bed with my grandmother.
My father returned from the war when I was 14 mos. old. I vaguely remember seeing him walk into the bedroom and took an immediate dislike to him, based on nothing more than a toddler's radar. I later learned that he had returned home to learn that his brother-in-law and first cousin had not made it. They were both Rhodes scholars, sports Allstars, and generally very well-liked and kind. His first thought was why he'd survived and they didn't - he had no honors to his name - ONLY his name b/c his father had been a federal judge and a US Senator.
We moved to a house just the three of us. My mother attempted suicide again. I had the chicken pox and was in bed. I remember all these people trooping past my room down to her room and not one of them stopped to see how I was. I thought it was b/c I was disappearing, a feeling which was to stay with me the rest of my life. By now, my father was extremely jealous and defensive about my grandfather & grandmother who tried to help. He ran them off. M hired a nanny for me and I loved her. She was all I had. One morning I woke to find her bed empty. There was a note on her pillow. I was 3. Mother read the note and told me she was gone b/c she "had gotten in with a fast crowd." I asked her to explain and she never did. I always thought it was b/c of me. Secretly I thought it was b/c my M was mean to her as she was to me. It was the only experience I had of my M at that time.
My father started law school and became unpredictable with rage. Neither of them ever held me or rocked me or told me stories - only my nanny, when she could get away with it. Still limited contact with my grandparents. My mother would frequently retreat to her room and lock the door. She hired a housekeeper who was also mean but never replaced my nanny. She could afford a housekeeper but frequently all I had to eat for supper was grits mixed with spinach. Lots of liquor for their cocktail parties but the icebox was mostly empty. She had begun sexually abusing me by age 3, which continued til I was 9-10.
A few months after I turned 3, my mother was pregnant again. My brother was born and his crib and the cot for his nanny were set in my room. I have to mention here that my mother developed oral herpes at the age of 13. From the time I was born, she was having outbreaks at least twice a month which lasted for 3-4 days. She could not eat, could barely swallow, and her favorite thing was when I aped her look of pain - she thought that was "so sweet" like I was sympathizing with her. I wasn't - I was responding to her silent demands that how dare I be happier than she. I had no childhood then - if I cried she slapped me or withdrew; if I tried to do something nice for her (my creativity was limited so I imagine my efforts were crude), she ignored me and belittled my efforts. I was very obedient and began my lifelong vigilance for something I could do to make her happy (happier). [I equate this early complusion to the difficulty I've had breaking free from her as an adult. I see and feel my childhood longing for some approval from her in every act I have performed for her.] I remember my home feeling dark, like a tomb. In my imagination, I colored the days of the week (as I was learning in kindergarten) darkening as the week went on, so that Monday was white (I could go back to school) and Sunday was black (the whole family was forced to spend the day together as per my father's orders). I had to have my tonsils taken out at that age and I know it was on a Wed. b/c Wed.'s were green and it was a green day. I had also lost all hearing in one ear due to very high fever and infection prior to that.
I was punished repeatedly for disobeying orders when in fact I couldn't hear correctly. Both parents would fly into rages at me for no reason I could discern. I could never see it coming - the unpredictability left me with very little knowledge of social clues later. I remember lots of times being in a dark closet, hiding behind whatever I could find, crouching in terror. They always argued loudly and violently when they weren't turning it on me.
The birth of my brother revealed to me that now I could officially be their target and only watch as they showered affection on the first son. My mother attempted suicide again when he was less than a month old. His nanny ignored me. Then M hired another housekeeper who took over my brother and treated me horribly. She made up stories about things I'd done to him for my mother and I received punishment; she cooked special foods for him and refused to give me any. It wasn't until I was about 9 that my mother finally saw evidence of her lies and let her go. By then the damage was done and both my parents permanently branded me a liar, a thief, and capable of violence. My role as the scapegoat was secured.
By then, any punishment I received - beatings, being locked in my room or a closet - were mysteries to me. I continued as much as my little mind could to try to discern what I had done wrong and never could. To this day, I always, always try to find what I did wrong in any situation.
By the time my 2nd brother was born, I was once again happily spending time with my beloved grandparents. I adored this newest boy; he slept in my room and I got up for his 4 am feedings and changings. My M had developed a community "service" sense and was mostly gone from home. She traveled, chaired committees, was president of this and that, and we were left to the care of the housekeeper. Eventually, when he got a little older, she could tolerate him and took over his care again at times.
My father was sadistic and liked to play games in which he could inflict harm, laugh, then blame it on me when we cried or complained. He said, "Oh, for crying outloud! It's just a game!" Over and over. I was so terrified of him that I became stone. M had already started her routing of beating me with a hairbrush when I was wet b/c "it will hurt more", but my father used his belt.
That's all I can write now. I'm shaky and need to go.
towrite
