Chapter 2: That’s Not The Way To Manage Things

PART 1

This is one of the most difficult chapters I will write because it is the hardest to admit.

A few years ago I met my biological father. He’s not an important part of the chapter, but what I learned from him is – he helped me learn more about my mother.

Both my mother and father have some serious control issues. When my mother was pregnant my father wanted to move to another town a few hours away because of a job opportunity, but my mother wanted to stay in their current house because she liked the location. Did I mention they had control issues? My father decided to move to the other town despite how my mother felt. One night my mother called my father and said she was going to kill herself, which forced my father to drive back. My father said he never drove as fast as he did that night, and by the time he got there the police and his parents had arrived. My mother was fine and my father moved back.

When I was young it was common for me to hear “your mother tried to kill herself.” The first time I remember hearing those words was when I was about 5 or so, after I walked into the bathroom and saw my mother laying on the floor vomiting. My substitute father (read Chapter 1) pulled me away and shortly after the medics came and took her away.

Once when I was seven, I came home from school and a police officer was standing outside of my home. The police officer asked, “do you live here?” I nodded and he said, “your mom is not well, and…” the police officer was interrupted by my mother who was screaming out of the window: “SHOW ME THE MONEY,” “I WANT TO FUCKING DIE, YOU WANT ME TO FUCKING DIE,” “COME ON JUST GIVE ME THE MONEY, GIVE ME THE MONEY.”

The police officer looked at me and said, “Do you have somewhere you can go?”

As I got older my mother would occasionally drink too much and take too many pills. She would be in and out of the psychiatric hospital, and I became unaffected by the words, “your mother almost died.”

My mother taught me that trying to commit suicide was the only way to handle problems and cope. At a young age I internalized that dying was the only way to handle difficult feelings. Life truly felt meaningless.

 

PART 2

I was 10 the first time I tried to kill myself because I was being severely bullied (Full story in Chapter 4). Life was loosing meaning fast. I went into my hall closet and tried to drink bleach and other household cleaners. Before anything serious happened I got sick, but I never went to the hospital. After that I regularly tried to choke myself with a belt or a scarf hoping one day I wouldn’t wake up. As I got older and things got tough I tried it all; pills, hard drugs, strangulation, running in front of moving cars, driving recklessly, cutting myself, trying to overdoes on water, alcohol, sitting to close to the edge on rooftops, slamming my head against the wall until I would blackout, and thinking about all the possible ways I could die . I felt desperate, out of control, and numb because all I thought about was how I would die.

Eventually, when I got older I met someone that helped me realize death wasn’t a way to handle my issues. Most importantly this person gave me patience to work out those emotions. Hugged me when I felt like dying, never judged me when I felt like giving up, and loved me unconditionally. This person gave me what my mother should have. However, 18 years of thinking about dying made those habits hard to break, it took me years to stop wanting to die and to start wanting to live.

Without this person, I wouldn’t be alive today.

 

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Chapter 1: You Should Be A Stripper

I was 9 years old when my mother said that I should pursue stripping as a career. “It is the only way you will make a lot of money,” she told me. Caregivers influence the way their children feel and think about themselves. I didn’t know any better at the time, but that comment changed the way I thought about my worth and guided the choices I made as I got older. That statement haunted me.

Stripper.

My mother met him when I was three, I called him my substitute father. Not really my father, but when my mother overdosed on pills or was having a mental breakdown he would pick me up. My mother and him would do drugs and drink. When they were out of their minds it was the worst. If I asked for something my substitute father would say, “well what’s in it for me?” as he stared at my chest. Little by little I began to feel my worth slip away and it started from my caregivers.

Stripper.

After a few years my mother didn’t want to be with my substitute father anymore, but he knew she couldn’t take care of me on her own. So he stayed in my life to help take care of me. After they split my mother started seeing random men. Sometimes my mother would disappear for days, but I am not sure what was worse – her leaving or the men coming over. When the men came over my mother would lock me out of the house. It was almost like a do not disturb sign on the hotel room door. A locked door meant her and her boyfriend were busy getting drunk and having sex, so they didn’t want to be disturbed. Except, it was where I lived and I had nowhere else to go.

Stripper.

My mother’s behavior with men shaped my relationships with others. Can you imagine? The impression of sexuality that I had at 13? How I thought I was suppose to use my body and interacted with partners or men who wanted something sexual from me… How I valued sex and my body as a tool to get what I want and nothing more, all because my mother said I should be a stripper.

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I’m Finally Ready To Share My Story

My story is a tumultuous one and my stories evoke heartache and pain. I want to share experiences with others so some know they are not alone and for others to realize what some are capable of.  I have chosen to move forward from my past it will never be separated from the person I am and will be. Day by day, week by week, I will write to try to make sense of who I am by what I have gone through.

The chapters will not be in order and will be written randomly. None of the chapters that I will share hold any more value over the others, but at this time in my life I am starting to realize what and how things affect me and how they relate to my past.  I am constantly questioned about how I could still be standing after all that I have gone through. Honestly, it’s not easy but it is possible. I want to provide a space where my words can make others feel hopeful and strong. I would like to instill the will to be compassionate and understanding toward others. We are all capable of making a difference and that’s what I hope to do with this blog.

***Please read the ‘about’ section before reading my chapters.

**Trigger warning the content of my blog my trigger memories of adverse experiences that some of you may have had. If so, please remember to self-care. Take a moment and remember where you are and how you have overcome it. Try not to ignore the way you are feeling instead take time to acknowledge it.  I will admit that sometimes I cry when I am writing because I remember what I felt while going through those things and it’s sad. But, it is a healthy cry and it helps me cope and appreciate everything that I have now.

Help me, help others by re-posting my link http://www.paigeway.com