Abuse

Growing up the biggest type of discipline was whipping by belt. I can still hear the snap of the leather. I can still feel the sting across the back of my legs. I can still notice the fear if someone comes near me with a belt that is half looped. I can feel the fear of sleeping as a kid while a parent creeped in whipped you awake. No one deserved this not even us.

#PTSD #Abuse #MentalHealth

After suffering years of narcissistic abuse at the hands of my now ex-husband and his psycho girlfriend, I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided to end my life.  I wanted to see the ocean one last time, so I drove to Galveston.
It was everything I had hoped it would be. I watched the sunrise as I sat on the beach, and I marveled at God’s creation. The sunrise was magnificent, with dark pinks and oranges mixed with light blues and grays streaked across the sky. I cried when I saw the big orange and red orb of the sun peek over the horizon, as if mocking me with its brilliance. It was truly majestic. The water was green and crystal clear that morning and I could see so far out. I sat with my toes curled into the tawny, wet sand, the warm breeze blowing my hair across my face, and I cried. I cried for the stupidity of the whole thing. The needlessness. It didn’t have to be this way.  He didn’t have to treat me like he did, I lamented to myself.  Why is he so cruel? Why is she so broken that she helped him, I wondered. But here I was.  Homeless and alone, truly alone for the first time in a very long time.  I couldn’t hear God’s voice like I normally could. Only the sounds of the waves lapping at the beach and the distant sound of children’s laughter could be heard.  The silence was deafening, as if God too, was angry with me.  Sad, resigned and defeated, I made my plans.
This was it. Today will be my last day on earth, I thought to myself, as I gazed at the sunrise.  The weather couldn’t have been better for it, especially for an August in Texas. It was still early, and the temps were only around 78 degrees. It was a good day to die, I thought sardonically.   Still determined, I made my plans.
I went to the store and bought a utility knife with razor blades, a green utility rope, like the kind you would use to tie down things and a 12 pack of Corona (must keep hydrated, I wryly thought to myself) as I brought the items back to my room and spread them out onto the bed.
As I surveyed them, I cracked open the first beer, and it tingled on my tongue and tasted so good as it went down.  Crisp and cold, just the way good beer should be on a hot summer day in Galveston.   As I drank the beer, I perused the items I had purchased and thought about each one analytically.  I had to think things through and not go into this half-baked, or I knew it wouldn’t work.  I could be very impulsive, and this had to work on the first try, I   thought.
I first started with the green rope.  I googled how to tie a noose and quickly ignored the messages that popped up from the suicide prevention places.  Tying the noose was easy, it turns out.  I could hang myself, but where, I wondered as I looked around the room.  No good, I deduced. The doors wouldn’t hold rope and the closet rod and shower head seemed too flimsy, and I figured it would only break and cause damage to the room, so I checked it off of the list.
Next, I eyed the utility knife warily.  Nope, I quickly shot this idea down, as I don’t do pain (I had had enough pain in my life lately, and this was not the way, I firmly told myself) as I nixed this idea altogether. Too messy anyways. I would be terrible, and this had to work.  I couldn’t handle the idea of the mess I would be leaving for the poor maid, either.  Also, what if I missed the veins altogether? This stopped me in my tracks. So I checked this idea off my ever-growing shorter list.  What can I do that doesn’t hurt, I wondered, as I cracked open the third beer and feeling slightly buzzed by now.
I decided to drive around and think things through, so I packed everything into my car and drove aimlessly up and down the Seawall, looking out into the water,  beginning to fill up with the families out playing with their children in the surf, enjoying the fine weather, and having a happy vacation.   I wish I had taken more vacations, I thought, as I watched them play.
Finally, I had an idea that I knew would work, and didn’t hurt at all.  I would put socks in my exhaust pipe and give myself carbon monoxide poisoning. The exhaust would back up into my car. It was perfect, and painless, and I knew just the place.
I turned my red Honda CRV into the hotels front entryway, and made a sharp right and went down into their parking garage. It was small, and very quiet down here. Apparently, some people used this for cruise parking, so there wasn’t a lot of in and out traffic down here. I knew this was the place.   Somewhat excited now, at the thought of going home to heaven (I hoped anyways) I hopped out and grabbed everything I would need: three socks, composition notebook, pens, my phone and charger.   Looking around nervously to make sure it was clear, I used a pen and jammed three socks into the tailpipe, stuffing them in tightly then started the car.  I ran back to the exhaust pipe and tested it to see if any exhaust came out of it. It did not, so I knew it would back up into my car and kill me rather quickly.
I hopped back in, this time into the back seat. Comfort was a must, you know.  I grabbed my water and kicked back in the seat, my head on the pillows I had brought from home and began to watch movies on my phone.  I could smell the exhaust filling my car, but it wasn’t terrible like they show in the movies. In fact, I really couldn’t tell much difference other than the slight exhaust smell, like when you ride motorcycles. It was perfect, and I knew it.
The only concern I had at all, was that even with my lights on “off”, they still came on in the dimness of the garage and I feared I would be spotted. Then, I thought about it some more.   People are so busy with their own lives that they wouldn’t even notice me, I had said  to myself. I was correct about this assumption.   Only two cars came in or out of the garage that night and no one looked my way twice.   No one even gave me a second glance.
I cried a little at the unfairness of the world, felt incredibly sorry for myself, and attempted suicide notes. In the end, I decided to forego written notes altogether.   I made a few drafts of suicide notes for my family in my TikTok drafts folder.  There were no words anyways.
The one constant in my mind was Cami and Amee and Colton.   This was going to be so hard for Cami, and I knew it. Guilt would wrack my body each time I thought of her, yet my determination never wavered. I figured my two other kids would be relieved I was gone.  They both had me in their phones contact list as Batshit Crazy at one point, so I figured I was doing them a favor by ending it.
This was it, and soon I would be free. I was really doing this.   The car was quite comfortable, with the air blowing high. The silence from God was deafening, however,  so I assumed He agreed with me.   It’s time to come home, I thought, as I settled down to watch Marley and Me.   Resolved in my mission, I kept on going.
By the time the movie was over, I could tell the carbon monoxide was working.  I hopped out quickly, but only pee beside my car.  Hopping back in quickly, my limbs begging to feel oddly light, like Jello and I didn’t seem to have much control over them, so I laid down to fall asleep. This was it, I thought. Goodbye, cruel world.  Then, as I drifted off to sleep, I heard God speak to me.  He said, “You’re divinely protected,” as if a tired parent would say to a child who was doing something that the parent knew wouldn’t work.  My eyes snapped open, and I retorted hotly back out loud to Him, “I’m doing it anyways, and I will see you soon! Tell Steven to pick me up!” Steven was my little brother, two years younger than me, who had taken his life in 2004 when he was 32, and I was 34. I was so excited to be able to see him again.

Art therapy continues to be this piece of trying to process the extent of the abuse from my parents. C-PTSD is this overwhelming part of life. One obscure thing can trigger a thousand flashbacks. That panic and fear that you might not be safe in that moment can debilitate you. #PTSD #Trauma #Abuse #Art

It is so easy to be caught off guard. Last Thursday should have been just another nice summer day. July 29th just another regular day. Although the week before I started feeling a sense of unnamed dread. Then I was reminded of an upcoming anniversary date.

Last Thursday was the 4th memorial of my father’s passing. I thought I had come to terms with it. Unfortunately there was still so much anger and resentment that came to the surface. This was in addition to the regular sadness of loss. Oddly enough the anger and resentment is not directed at my father. It is directed at my mother and 3 older siblings.

I have come to accept that my father is in a better place. Where he no longer has to fight the symptoms of diabetes and all the complications that came with it.

While my father had a grandiose narcissistic personality style. I have come to forgive that while he was alive he did not have the capacity to know how to show and express unconditional nurturing love. He was an emotionally broken man who managed to accomplish quite a bit in the 81 years he was on this earth. I’m still working on forgiving that he did not figure out how to heal enough to at least try learn healthier ways to love his wife of 59 years, 4 children and 2 grandchildren. I’m starting to focus on the more positive memories than the negative ones.

What I’m still so angry and resentful about is how the rest of my family of origin behaves, especially towards me. I did not receive even one direct message from my mother or 3 siblings to check in last Thursday or in the last 3 years. You see my family does not know how to communicate or show emotions in healthy ways. I had to see WhatsApp pictures of my mother, sister and 1 brother at my father’s grave site. You see they did not even think to communicate with me and let me know. Even in this I blame myself. It must be my fault since I did not go out of my way to find out if there was going to be anything specific going to take place. A part of me wanted to see if even one member of my family would take the initiative to reach out to me.

Seeing another example of how I’m always excluded within my family is the norm. If I do not always take the initiative I would never know what is going on. This was just another example of how I’m always made to feel separate and isolated. It took a friend to mention and validate that this behaviour is cruel continually excluded me in these physical and emotional ways.

I still need others to point out all the unhealthy behaviours my family of origin continually exhibit towards me. For what I take as normal behaviour others around me help to validate how unhealthy they really are. How their emotional abuse and neglect is unfairly cruel and unjust. Supporting me to understand I truly do not deserve this unjust treatment.

A few years ago I believed there was something so fundamentally wrong with me that I somehow deserved their continual criticisms and judgements. Deserving of their unprovoked attacks of my character. You see I have been the family scapegoat since the day I was born. I was continually gaslighted at every turn. I’m always in the wrong. I had been so conditioned to believe I was the common denominator to being always the problem. That I was the one who never made sense and did not know how to communicate. I’m too “sensitive”. That I continually blow things out of proportion and bringing up uncomfortable situations and emotions for no reason. Always trying to make everything about me because I’m so selfish and self absorbed. I was so convinced of their opinions of me that I doubted my own mind, I had almost no self-esteem, self-worth or self-confidence.

So that would mean my anger I still hold for the past 4 years is completely unwarranted. Feeling anger for being made to sit outside of the hospital by myself for 5 hours while my father was connected to tubes, was not a big deal. That for 3 days I watched my 2 brothers and 1 sister be allowed to see and talk to dad while he regained consciousness. That by day 4 when he passed I was not supposed to feel resentment and hurt for not being given the opportunity to say goodbye. I had to accept the conversation I had on Father’s Day was going to be the last 1 on 1 connection we had. At least I had made my peace during that conversation. I accepted that while he spoke about his legacy of his work, even though he had been retired for years at that point. I accepted he was not capable of seeing his wife of 59 years or his 4 children and 2 grandchildren were not part of his legacy. I could accept my father for his limited capacity to show and express love. I forgave him for only being able to be who he limited himself to be. It was not my fault for his limited capacity.

I’m learning my feelings are valid in spite of the rest of my family deny my perspective and lived experiences. It still takes others to validate that my feelings make sense based on how I’m unfairly treated by my family. I have come to understand when there is never any repair for each emotional wound they remain open to fester. I can say almost every single emotional wound from my family of origin has been left to fester since the day I was born. I only beginning to learned the complexity of being raised by emotionally immature parents. This has left me with so many festering wounds which have become so infected and extremely hard to heal. I have been struggling to figure out how to heal from decades worth of blood poisoning. How does one heal from so many wounds that had been left untreated and unattended for decades. By 56 it has become so complicated in figuring out how to treat and recover from these wounds. That there is not a straightforward treatment plan.

It is only because of my years of therapy. My determination to keep going inspite of my latest diagnoses of #complexposttraumaticstressdisorder #ptsd #majordepressivedisorder #dysthymia #anxiety #adhd #autism #highlysensoryperson . The clarity I have gained with understanding my diagnoses has finally allowed me to begin to heal.

I’m learning to become my own loving parent. Taking on the responsibility that I have to find it within me to heal. Internal Family Systems (IFS) has helped me find the tools to accept all my parts. I’m not perfect, I’m human and deserve to be seen, heard and understood. I can learn to to see hear and understand myself first and foremost. I also now know I love myself enough to only look to, and surround myself with people who see, hear and understand me. Right now none of those people are my mother, sister or brothers.

I can love my family but hate their behaviour. I have even come to terms of the grief and physical loss of my father. I’m now learning to grieve and accept the emotional loss of what will never be. My mother, sister and brothers do not have the capacity to express unconditional love. I have proven to myself I have the capacity to learn to love myself. That I’m worthy to only surround myself with those who prove in their actions and behaviour that they love me and have my back no matter what. I will no longer waste my energy begging to be seen, heard and understood. I’m worthy to just be. To live by my own values and principles.