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Thoughts 2: I Apologize

I apologize for the long lapse in writing. I have been told to share my story for a long time because others and myself know that it has the potential to help others. I have waited for years to share because I wanted to be emotionally and mentally prepared for writing and essentially re-living what I have gone through. I thought I was ready, but after some of my first chapters I felt myself feeling pretty overwhelmed.

I took a few weeks to process how it made me feel. I would just like to recognize the importance of self-care. For the first few days I just let myself cry mostly because I felt sad. Then, I took time to think about why it made me sad and prepare myself for how the rest of my chapters would potentially make me feel. Many of us have experienced trauma and it is so important to take time to process and address the feelings associated with that trauma. I do feel that I have overcome what I have gone through, but there is certainly something powerful about sharing.

I am ready to continue sharing my story. More than anything I want to be able to help and empower others. I would feel many days of sadness if I knew I could help at least one person. Mostly, that we have the ability to move past what we have gone through and live a wonderful and fulfilling life. For those who face adversity I want to provide resources a give them a better chance of succeeding. With my willingness to make a difference I will share my story. ❤

Chapter 5: Stuffed With Pills

I was my mothers scapegoat. It was easier to blame me then to take any responsibility for all the troubles in her life:

Lived in poverty. No job. Mental health issues. Drank and smoked. Shut out her family. And-on-and-on.

My mother has Bipolar disorder and has been heavily medicated almost her entire life. As young as I can remember she also had me taking pills for Bipolar disorder. For the first few years I never saw a doctor, she diagnosed me herself. I am telling you, those pills messed me up, in fact I think they gave me Bipolar. I say that because when I went into foster care (Chapter still to come) and I wasn’t forced to take those medications anymore I was a completely different person.

Yes, forced. It didn’t take me long to realize that my mother was giving me half of her prescribed medications when I was 8 or 9. When I became a teen she was able to get a doctor to prescribe me my own. That woman had me on every single depression medication that had ever been invented. I call my mom the master manipulator for lots of reasons, but she would do anything to keep me on those pills. Any chance I could get a hold of the pill bottles I would throw them down the toilet. When I was a teenager I found out she would slip it into my food and chocolate milk. She would buy me a gallon of chocolate milk and would put a bunch of medication in it… great idea. I was taking unequal and irregular dosages of depression medication which made me absolutely out of control.

It gets worse, when I was 14 she called my job and told them that I was not mentally stable enough to have a job, so they FIRED me. She took privileges, friends, and just about anything away from me to get me to take those pills.

Putting me on medication that I didn’t need for years damaged me. I remember when I was younger I would slam my head against the wall because the medication was so powerful it made me hallucinate. It messed with my memory and my health overall.

 

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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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