Tuesday, January 16, 2018

Innoncence Lost

Stolen Innocence

I was molested. I was molested by more than one person. What is it about abused people that make them prone to abuses by predators. Is it because we are so eager to please and receive love? I was molested by strangers and family. People in the family knew. It had happened to them to, but as is so prevalent in families, we don’t talk about. We don’t air our dirty linen in public. So, it is kept secret and the violations and abuses continue. My grandfather and stepfather molested me. And the man at the post office. My mom knew  there was someone molesting children and said, “You must tell me if he touches you, or you will be in so much trouble.”  Huh?? I was six years old. When she told me, it had been happening for months. I couldn't tell her now because I'd be in trouble. I cried every time she sent me for the mail. I couldn’t tell her because the man was going to hurt me and my family. AND, this is the big one; if a parent knows there is a child molester, why would you send your child out to be molested and then have the “tell you” if you were. Would you not say or think that you would not let this happen to your child?

When we were punished we were beaten. Brutally. Violently. Uncontrolled rage. Our clothes had to removed so we were completely naked. If we did not do it willingly, they were ripped and torn from out battered bodies. The last time it happened I was 17 years old. In front of my siblings, and my molesting stepfather. Shameful, humiliating, painful life-altering abuse. That is also a form of sexual abuse and shaming. Oh my God, this still causes such pain in my soul. Then this freak, this creature that shared in shaming me in my nakedness, and helped beat me, or hold me down while my mother beat me, would come into my room and molest me. And I let him because he wasn’t “hurting” me. Plus, I was really afraid that if I resisted, I would be hurt again. What the fuck did I know? It didn’t physically hurt like the razor strap, but it made me feel dirty, and filthy. It reinforced my mother’s words that I was a slut and would spread my legs for anyone. Then I was just 13.

You never touched that little girl
and she’s safe somewhere in another world.
I kept her safe from your prying hands
and the things that she can’t understand.

The things you did, she had to endure.
I felt the pain that you meant for her.
You took the child away from me
And made me older than I had to be.

You showed me things I shouldn’t see
and put your parts all over me.
You touched me lips, you touched my face,
you touched my skin all over the place.

Daddy did this to my mom
I saw them once and had to run
It’s not supposed to happen to me,
And I close my eyes so I can’t see.

So I locked her somewhere safe inside
and taught her how to run and hide.
Well, she hid so well I can’t find her now.
I’d like to get her, but I don’t know how.

Yet, I have a key to set her free
And let her become a part of me.
But I’ve lost the key and can’t let her out,
Now she’s alone and I’m without.

Katie (Vinjette) Kristoffer
1989

Wednesday, December 6, 2017

Two Years Later and a Lot of Water

The words today are not what I imagined I would ever write, or would ever come out of my mouth. I wanted to rage, to be bitter, and to be angry. I wanted my mom to suffer, as she had made me suffer. I wanted her to hurt, much more than she hurt me. I wanted her to feel everything she inflicted on me by at least a magnitude of 10. Well, in my journey to discover, to heal, to live what days I have left, just being okay with me, I discovered my mom. I see her with different eyes and a different heart. I think God softened my hard and cruel heart. I could not have done that on my own. I love my mom. I don't love what she did. But I love who God intended her to be. That was my mom. This may turn out to be the reason she existed. To let people know that you can heal, and forgive. That you will live again. I still have bad days when I am so out of control, and then others where  I experience great peace. I lived long enough to experience that. Praise God.

I could have been nicer mom, More gentle and softer. I could have given you a soft place to fall. So many things I could have done, but didn't. I wanted to be nicer than you could ever imagine, but I don't think you could picture those things. You could only imagine the past and what it should have looked like. I looked at the past and got more angry with you. Both of us hurting by looking backward and not seeing today.

I should have been nicer than I was too. I mean, I was nicer than I wanted to be most of the time, but most of the time wasn't nice enough. Even when I was nice, I should have been nicer. I was always guarded and ready to fight and defend. Ready for what might be launched from your mind next. I was never ready though. You always got me. Yet, by not being nicer, I see where I added to your imaginings and longings for what life should have been. I didn't fit into that picture when I was angry at you. I see that now. Your visions and dreams of life and mine were the same mom. It looked the same and it wasn't the way it was supposed to be. I understand that.

Gentler. Yes, I do wish I had been gentler. Perhaps to awaken the sense of being mothered and loved within you. I was harsh and spoke with words of steel at times. Words that shattered your heart and mind like daggers of ice. From my own broken heart, I spoke words that did the same to you, as you did to me. The same that was done to you, long before I came in to being. Mothers, daughters, families destroying each other.

Softer. I wanted to be that. I wanted to be your shelter. To be your safety and your haven. I felt rejected when you refused and constantly cried for your son and your daughter despite me being the one standing in front of you. All over again, or still, I just wasn't enough for you. Now I get what you meant. I was right when I thought I wasn't enough, but it wasn't about me, was it mom? You wanted the whole picture. The entire family. The way it was supposed to be. You were always looking at what was missing. So, in my rejection, I removed myself at times from your picture so you had more to miss. I'm sorry for that.

I understand you more in death that I ever died in life. Why is it this way? But I get it. I do and I agree.  No mama, it was never supposed to be this way. We both had different visions and different dreams and life left us wanting. But was it ever supposed to be any particular way mama? Or were we just supposed to do the best we could and learn to adjust and adapt? We both went about it in different ways and it didn't do either of us any good, did it? Guess we still have some learning to do.

Mama, I know in your crazy world you chose life. Like me. Therefore, we did what we had to do to live. We fought and made mistakes. Sometimes terrible mistakes. You were quite the fighter and I learned a few skills from you. But I also learned that we are the same. The one that I fought hardest in my life was the one most like me. Our hurts were the same. Our desires, our dreams. The same. But our lives were quite different, weren't they? You kept looking for what you didn't have. Your idea of family, vacations, and all the regular kinds of celebrations. I was looking for what I didn't have too. Love and acceptance.

Our pain made us who we became. I'm so sorry mama. I really understand why you kept saying "It's not the way it was supposed to be." The words of love you could not say by themselves were hidden inside things you said. Your cryptic messages, which were meaningless at the time, said them.

I do miss you. With all my heart. I miss our talks, laughter, tears, hugs. I miss the mom I didn't have, and I miss hearing about the girl you might have been. I miss all the memories we never made. I don't miss any of the bad stuff, which is pretty much all of it, but I miss you. The person. The woman. The mother. The child that God calls his daughter. I felt his tears for you mama. Did he tell you? I heard him calling you to come home. I know you believed in Him and you were so angry at Him. I know that you believed you had good reasons. We all believe that. I hope you're happy. I am trying to be. I think of you almost every day and your pictures are on my wall and on my shelf. I wear your sweater when I get cold, and I put your nighties in a pillowcase and when I am lonely for you, I bring it to bed and hug it. Like our sleepovers. You really loved those and I was terrified. I was so afraid of you. I wear your purple shirt (because it fits now) that we wore that day to the Cancer Clinic. The best day I ever had with my mom. I use your dishes, towels, and see the depression glass it's beautiful colors on the window ledge. I am thinking of writing our story like I promised but I don't know if I can mom. Will it help anyone? I no longer wish to hurt or shame you, but you said you wouldn't care. So unlike you. My head still hasn't stopped spinning with that one. Well mom, wish you were still here. Don't miss the tangling but do miss the softer moments. Wish we had more of them. Oh, I have tried (a little) to keep in touch with Stevan. I tried calling him a while ago but there was no answer. The few times I did talk to him, he doesn't seem like he wants to talk. He misses you too.

I'm reminded of the promise to restore the years the locusts have eaten. It had great meaning during this process and I came across this blog God Can Restore Your Lost Years. Colin Smith explains so well exactly what that verse means. If our story helps just one person, then her life was not in vain. It did have value and meaning. May God perform a miraculous healing in all of us broken people and for the MNPD people in our lives. I believe they too were broken by someone. Theirs manifested in a horrible and destructive way and I am reminded "There but for the grace of God.." My mom could not be anything other than what she was. Do I believe she was evil? Not any longer. I believe she did evil, but don't believe that she was evil. Would I stay around an MNPD today? Absolutely not! Not for one blessed second and neither should anyone else. My position is after a lifetime of therapy, healing, searching, fighting, struggling, screaming, losing my mind, meditation, etc. etc. etc. I am now in my mid 60's and feel peace for the first time ever. It is a very foreign feeling. 

Saturday, January 28, 2017

Black is Never White, Up is Never Down

My malignant narcissistic sociopathic mother had ways of doing things to get to you. To teach you, not to do what was right, but to teach you to cater to her needs and moods. Somehow, I was supposed to have a mind connection to her so I would intuitively know what she felt, thought, and needed. If I didn’t, the punishment was swift and severe. Before she died, we had a conversation. She said she wanted to help me deal with my childhood issues. LOL! That should have been a red flag! But I took the bait. I bit in the insane hope that this time she meant it. That this time, she would be honest. That this time we would understand, and heal. How incredibly foolish of me. I was still dancing at the end of the marionette stings she was pulling.

“Mom, do you remember when I was nine, and you made me sit on the chair, with the threat of death if I got off it, and made me watch you die. You know, when you took all those pills?”

                “Yes, I do.”
“Mom, did you stop and wonder what that would do to my 9 year old mind? You made it my fault for some silly infraction I no longer remember. Maybe because I didn’t sweep the floor proper, or I didn’t properly make my bed, or forgot to comb my hair. You told me, that because I disobeyed you, you no longer wanted to live. You told me that if  I loved you, I would have followed your rules. Since I did not follow the rules, that meant I did not love you, and if I did not love you, you did not want to live any longer, and since it was my fault you did not want to live, I could watch you die.”
               
                “Yes, I do. You know what you did.”
“Mom. I was 9. What did I do that was so horrible that I had to go through that? What? Not brushing my teeth? Not picking up my dolls? What merited that kind of punishment?”

“Well, you need to understand what I was going through at that time. You never once stopped to think what I was going through, did you? You never stopped to thing about me once. It was all about you. You didn’t care that my marriage was falling apart, did you. No, you didn’t!!”

“Mom. I was 9. I’m supposed to be playing with my dolls and not worrying about my parents martial problems.”

“Well, then that’s the problem. If you only put yourself in my position then you would know and understand.”
_____

My mom’s marital problems at the time were of her own doing. She was having affairs and my father had left. He later sued for divorce and cited adultery with multiple men. He was granted the divorce AND custody of his children.  I have his divorce papers. My mother insisted the papers were fake. She claims the Catholic Church granted her an annulment due to my father’s desertion. This is after she had 4 children by him. Of course, it is not true.

Another time, I had really annoyed her. She was getting more and more violent, crazy, and impossible to please. The rages were frequent. She claimed that I was incorrigible and had proof that I was taking drugs and was promiscuous and asked for a commitment to a mental hospital. It was granted. I was 17. There are no words to describe the horror of being committed to a mental institution when there was nothing wrong with you. That the truth was you were being abused, mistreated, bullied, humiliated, tortured, shamed, and living in absolute fear!! Well, after all the assessments I was declared sane and a motion was made to make me a ward of the court due to the “psychopathic nature of the mother”. My mother fought it. She claimed the doctors were biased against her and demanded new doctors. The court granted her wishes so I was reassessed by more doctors. Their findings were the same. She fought again, and again. It took seven months before I was legally allowed to be released into a foster home. The court ruling was she had 7 days to comply with signing her parental rights over to the court of be committed herself. She signed. I was legally free of her, but I have never been free emotionally. She is there constantly, denying my reality. She visits my dreams and I wake up screaming. I dream that I am in a court, or in front of accusers showing proof of what she has done. I show pictures, documents, and testimonies and she and they laugh and deny it. Call me delusional. Call me evil. Call me wicked. Say I have a vivid imagination. Say I live in a fantasy world. That black is white. That truth is fiction.

While I was there. Committed against my will as a minor, my mother added shame and humiliation. She told my grandma, aunts and uncles, cousins, and schools that I had been committed due to drug use because I had destroyed my mind with them and was basically a vegetable. She told them that I was not allowed visitors. So, she cut me off from everyone. Imagine my surprise when I found out what she had done. I called my aunt up one day and she said "I am so glad that you are out of the hospital and doing so well now. Your mom said you were even unable to communicate. You aren't going to do drugs again, are you honey?" I was like "What?" I never did drugs. Not ever.

My adrenal glands produce too much adrenaline. It happens in some cases of PTSD. Some cases the adrenaline just spikes in certain situations. Mine stays up constantly. It is damaging my body organs. My doctor says it will take my life eventually unless I find a way to reduce it with meditation or reprogramming. My psychiatrists have said mine is among the worst of abuses they have seen and in cases like mine, it is very difficult, if not impossible to turn off the flow of adrenaline.

My mom made me promise before she died that I would tell our story. She did not want me to tell it while she lived and I wouldn’t have dared to speak a word of it. I lived in fear of her anger. She told me, that after she died, she wouldn’t care and just maybe, she said; it might help someone. That was the first time that I heard my mom consider somebody other than herself. A little glimmer of the possibility that there was a heart in her. That there was a little tiny bit of compassion and made a little understanding. I don’t know. I never could figure out her mind or what her needs were and if I did, the way I addressed them was always wrong.

I spent the last two years of her life being there for her. I bought her things, visited her, stayed with her. I encouraged her, forgave her, loved her. I cooked for her. And just about every time I was there, she would ask about my sister, about my brother, why they wouldn’t come, why they didn’t phone, why, why, why. Not “I’m so glad you are here.” Always, where are they. I was never good enough for her, even at the end when I was the one who was there. She wanted my other siblings. The ones who made her shine for a moment with their fame and talent. She longed for the spotlight to return. I couldn’t give her the fame so I was inconvenient.

I am glad that I worship and follow a God that accepts me.
“Therefore, accept each other in the same way that Christ accepted you. He did this to bring glory to God” (Romans 15:7)

I am also so extremely grateful that I have a God that allowed me to forgive my mom, and that he too forgives my mom. I don’t believe she ever asked for forgiveness because she does not think she did anything wrong, but have prayed and asked God to forgive her. I believe he answers prayer.

Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours. (Mark 11:24)

I believe I will see my mom in Heaven. I believe that all the things that happened here in this fallen world will fall away and we will we see each other as God intended. With Love.



Tuesday, December 13, 2016

Who and What was I meant to Be

It'as a year and bit since my mama died. I am still trying to find a place of peace and rest in that and still fail. Nothing was ever finished with her. And so it is that way in her death. Her ashes still resided in my living room. I don't want her here but I have not a place I can bury her and no money to do so.So she stays. The elephant in the room. The source of a majority of my pain and grief. 

I wonder who I was before I was able to remember. Before people told me who and what I was. I wonder who I was when the good Lord says that he “knew me before I was born.”. Who did he see and what did he know? Did he know the word would change me? Oh to lay my head against his chest and to feel that goodness that I cannot remember. Who did you see me as Lord?  Did you see me as an innocent baby or as an antisocial, bitter, old woman. One who wishes Christmas, and life itself was over? Yet my very numbered seconds are still here. I am something other than what you desired me to be. The ones I love have come to hate me, and ones I never knew have come to love me, yet my heart wants the haters. The haters that threw away my will to be anything at all. The haters took away my will to breathe, and to wake up. Nothing is done through my own will but through God's. You, my gentle creator wake me, and force the air into my lungs and get me moving with great proclamations and songs such as “This is the Day that the Lord has Made”, ….let us rejoice and be glad in in. How Lord? When all my gladness is gone and only sadness remains. When the only desire I have is for a visit from Morpheus who will wrap his arms around my shoulders and walk me across Valley of the shadow death. Away from everything that no longer means anything. For Christmas, I would like to be in heaven. I want to be with Abba, and have him tell me who he saw me to be. I would not do my life over. None of it. I would chose not to exist in order to not experience the pain, panic, and fear that permeated everything I ever did. There was never anyone to comfort me or to hold or console me in those moments. I did it all by myself. Inappropriately, but I did it. Alcohol was my medicine and over and over I hoped it would also take me life. Alchohol let me forget. There was never anyone who loved me enough to care about my fear, panic, or anxieties. They only thing they did was made me feel worse and give me more guilt to carry.. There was never a dad or mom who encouraged or cheered me along the way. No grandparents, or aunts and uncles. I existed only by myself. No one cared. Yes, sure I made mistakes and spent 3 decades trying to made things right and my words landed on their deaf ears. My heart was never seen with their sightless eyes. All of these people beat the me out of me. With objects that would inflict pain and scars and with words that cut right through the middle of me and let all my life force and will draining out. At times I've tried to hurry it up by cuttinng myself. Nothing of what you saw in me remains my Lord. Death would be preferable now, It would have been better for the world and my family if I never existerd in this cruel bitter world. This place that is not my home. God, I want to go home. To go peacefully in to that Silent Night and just maybe  I might be blessed enough to hear the angels sing.



Sunday, September 11, 2016

Suicide and a Life of Abuse

Suicide and a Life of Abuse

Suicide. A word that nobody wants to hear. An event that nobody wants to witness or go through. Suicide. A word that evokes so many thoughts, emotions, and opinions. Many people who comment really have no idea what suicide is about and perpetuate myths and misunderstandings about it. Suicide, for me; has never been about dying, but about stopping the pain. For just a moment. For just one moment to have a mind and a body that feels and thinks like normal people.

I started to attempt ways to harm and or end my life when I was quite young. Many were amateurish and didn’t stand a hope in hell in succeeding. The point is, it shows my mindset from an early age. From as early as I can remember, I didn’t want to be conscious. That’s right. Not dead, just unconscious. I wanted to be unaware of my life and the terror and the never ending brutality of the punishments exacted on my young body. I just wanted it to stop. For a moment. Not ever forever, but if that was the only way; I would take it.

I was 4 when I purposely ran through a thistle patch. I had heard my mom talking about someone who had got a thorn in his finger, which had gotten so infected; this gentleman nearly lost his finger and apparently could have died. So, in my four year old brain; I thought perhaps I could get this infection too and just maybe, I could die. Instead, I had about a bazillion thistle thorns that my daddy pulled from the bottoms of my tiny little feet. I was about 6 or 7 when I went and layed down in the road waiting for a car to run over me. We lived in a little prairie town of about 100 people and the odds of someone coming down the road and doing just that were about .001%.  In fact, I could still be waiting. Then I was about 12 when I drove a nail through my hand. It was rusty and rusty nails could kill you. I guess I have strong antibodies in my body. It didn’t even turn red. I stepped on nails too. Too many to count. No infection. Nothing.

When I was thirteen, the thoughts became stronger. I prayed and I cried for God to change my life. To change my MNPD mother. I asked him to put me in a coma from which I would never wake up. I asked him to put my mother in coma, from which she would never wake up. I pleaded and I bargained. My prayers all seemed to fall on deaf ears. Yes, thirteen.  If I thought I had it bad before, I had no idea just how bad it could really get. I fell asleep and the nightmare entered my life. The nightmare that plays over and over and over in my mind. The nightmare that wakes me from the deepest sleep with bloodcurdling screams that the neighbors must surely hear. The nightmare that makes me want to run and run and run. But to where? The nightmare that makes me want to be unconscious. To not be present. To be absent from this life. It walks with me everywhere I go, it’s there with every word I speak, every thought I think, everywhere. All the time.

At thirteen my mother became even more violent and murder and threats of murder were an every day event. One particular occasion, she grabbed me and was about to plunge the butcher knife into me and I screamed and screamed and screamed. I don’t remember her letting me go, but she did. She didn’t gain control of any of her senses. Instead she said, “Fine. I’ll start with your sister and save you for last. You can watch me kill your sister and brothers.”  What kind of person does that? Who in their right mind does that? I cannot describe the terror, the horror, the fear, the desperation. There are not words for it. I screamed from the bottom of my toes, and my screams rose up from the depths of hell where I had been placed. I don’t remember what happened or why she stopped but I remember her telling us to think of a reason why she shouldn’t kill us, and it had better be a good one. Then she announced, that if we couldn’t come up with a good reason, then it would be better if we killed ourselves rather than have her do it. In fact, she said “It would be better if you kill yourself, because if I have to do it, you’ll wish you had.”

There I was. 13 years old and in a bedroom with five of my siblings. The youngest was only 6 weeks old. And we were analyzing the possibility of dying in the morning. Unless we came up with a really good reason why we should live, or we end our own lives overnight. How does a child process that? I still have no way to describe that.

I went to the kitchen to start the dinner preparations. In our house, whether or not you just had to fight and beg for your life; the daily things proceed as normal. I peeled potatoes, made the salad. Mom did the meat. We sat down and ate. Just like a normal family. While doing the after dinner dishes and putting things away, I had to move the gallon jug of vinegar. I happened to notice on the back that there was alcohol in it. Very small amount, but that didn’t mean anything to me at the time. I recall mom telling my stepfather about someone who drank so much alchohl that they died of alcohol poisoning. I knew that I could never come up with a reason good enough for my mother to let me live, so I chose taking my own life. I knew that her way would be brutal, slow, and painful. I drank just about all the vinegar hoping to die of alcohol poisoning. Hours later my abdomen started to hurt. It hurt so bad I could only roll in a fetal ball. I wretched and wretched. My narcissistic mother thought I was trying to play on her pity and smacked me around and told me to stop faking. I wasn’t. I ended up in the hospital for 2 weeks on IV’s. I had pancreatitis. I never told anyone what I did, but the doctors were quite puzzled as to how a 13 year old got pancreatitis. I know.

Day after day, the beatings, the terror, the bargaining, the pleading, the crying, the abuse, the shame, humiliation, mortification. I just didn’t want to exist. I tried hanging myself, strangling myself. I took my mother’s pills. Nothing was successful. I wasn’t very good at this dying thing. Until 17. I almost succeeded. I did not have a plan to die that day. In fact, I never had a plan to die on any given moment. The moment would arrive, or happen; and then I would attempt something. I did not plan to die that day. I just wanted the hell to stop. Please God, just make it stop! I took every pill my mother had and took a trail in the bush and sat down to die. So, how in the hell did someone find me? Ambulances, hospital, stomach pumped. I didn’t die. It didn’t end. I’m still in hell.

In my life now, whenever I am afraid, uncertain, uncomfortable, sad, unhappy, or angry; the first thought that comes to mind, is I just want it to stop. Just stop! Now! Along with the just stop is the feeling of unease. My mother’s words come unbidden into my head, “Just do it. Do it now before I do”, “You’re a waste of space.”, “Nobody wants you.” “You’re nothing, do you hear me? Nothing. Why don’t you fucking do us a favour and end it for us.” They tumble and fall over each other. It becomes impossible to distinguish her voice from what I am feelings and the fear gets so intense that I do something to make it stop. To make it end. So my adult life has also been marred by suicide attempts. Even though I try to live.

It has progressed to self-harming. I will slash at my body until my skin is shreds. I want to rip it all off, like removing it will removed all the dirt that has been piled on me. All the shame, humiliation, and pain. Maybe it will all come off with the shredding of my flesh. Of course it doesn’t. My pastor explained this to me in a way that really makes sense for me. He said if someone is hurt, or sick; you can watch them get better, or watch the wound heal. With emotional pain you can’t, and by creating a wound, you can then watch it heal. Makes sense to me. What I HAVE noticed it that when I harm myself, the voices stop. Just for a while, but they stop. I know that if I didn’t harm myself, I would be attempting suicide and likely would succeed. What it feels like to me is like a bottle of soda that has been shaken up. The pressure builds and builds and if something doesn’t happen, it is going to explode. I will explode with a sharp object in my hand, or a bottle of pills, or something else. Self-harming keeps me alive.

Suicide is NOT a permanent solution to a temporary problem. If my problem was only temporary I would not have had it for 62 years. Just try living in my head for just one hour. I bet you couldn’t do it. The panic that wells up at least a dozen times a day that send me spiraling in to a miasma of fear and dying. It’s like a quicksand and it keeps pulling me down, deeper and deeper and deeper and some days I just want to sink fully into that blackness. So I fight to stay alive. Poorly. But I am alive.

Do not tell a person who struggles with suicide that they are selfish. Oh my God, if you had any idea. If you had any bloody clue at all, you would not say that. It’s just a word that gets added to the head noise of loser, worthless, fuck up, waste of space, don’t deserve to live, hopeless, ugly, stupid, not worthy anything, and now selfish. Like I need to carry around more dirt. To me I am selfless. I am staying alive for you, despite my pain. And I hate it. Almost every moment of it. I do not experience life like you. I am seldom happy but can fake it. I don’t look forward to things. Things always came with a price tag that I was never able to pay, or they were taken away. Sometimes they were used against me in a way that I ended up hating them. A dress comes to mind. I got this dress that I absolutely loved. I was in heaven. My mother made me wear it to school everyday for months. Without washing it. Without letting me have a bath. Punishment for not washing the floor perfect. Her reasoning was I must like being dirty, otherwise I wouldn’t have left that mark, that spot, that flaw, that only she could see. I hated that dress. I hated me with the greasy hair and smelly body. I hated the shame and the humiliation. I hated being me. So I don’t look forward to things. I don’t get excited. I don’t like crowds. I like some people but don’t like being with people. I’m afraid they will see what my mother saw. Some fault or flaw in me. And if they do, the battle over life and death begins anew.

I haven’t sat on my laurels and done nothing in these 62 years. I have had more couselling and therapy than I can remember. I have worked very hard to appear normal and do the normal things that everyone else does. My psychiatrist told me that the fact I was married, had 3 children, kept them, stayed married for 17 years, held a jobs for just as long, shows the strength of my character. He said people with my history often die in their early 20’s from suicide, alcohol, overdoses, prostitution, and other unhealthy life choices. I made healthy choices and did them poorly. But I made it. To 62. Today I wonder if I will make 63 because the noise in my head is strongly pulling me to that dark abyss. And people say I’m selfish. Selfish that I overcame the odds? Right. Walk in my shoes. See if you could fight as hard.

I came home from school one day. I was so excited because I had done something really well or got a really good mark or something like that. What is was is completely gone from my mind. I was so happy and thought, “My mom and stepdad are going to be so proud of me. Finally.” I ran all the way home. My stepfather hears my news and looks at what I had achieved and said, “You think your shit doesn’t stink, don’t you? Well, let me tell you why your shit doesn’t stink. You are Queen Shit of Turd Island. Your shit does stink, but you can’t smell it because you wallow in it. So what do you think of that Queen Shit?” That was the last time I was excited. I still hear those words, “So what you going to do now Queen Shit?” No one can stand the stink of Queen Shit, with her one outfit, greasy hair, and smelly body.” “No one can stand the sight of Queen Shit in her nakedness while being beaten.” “Hey there, Queen Shit, no one gives a fuck about what you feel, or think.” “What a waste of space you are Queen Shit.” “Why don’t you do us a favour and kill yourself Queen Shit”.

So, please, I beg you to think twice before you call someone a coward for attempting or committing suicide. Think before you tell them it’s a permanent solution to a temporary problem. 62 years is a long time for a temporary problem. My psychiatrists have told me, that with the level and degree of abuse that is often impossible to recover from it. I have learned tools along the way that help and keep me among the living, but sometimes they don’t work. Sometimes the noise in my head is greater than they are. Sometimes it just doesn’t work. Maybe you have the answer for me.

I remember being 4 and being tied to a chair while my mother built a fire on the floor in the kitchen. She was going to burn the house down. I could see those flames getting higher. I could feel the warmth from the flames. I could visualize my body catching on fire and I imagined how much it would hurt. I wondered how long it would hurt. I willed myself to die before the flames got to me. I screamed and pulled at the cords holding me to the chair. Then, at what seems the last moment, my captor sets me free. Not really free, but just from this one moment for now. She tells me to think of a reason why she should let me live. If I can’t think of a good reason by morning, she will finish what she started.

I have insomnia. Bad insomnia. I can go for days without sleep. I am awake thinking of a reason why I deserve to live. I can’t turn it off. Then after a few days of no sleep; your thinking gets more skewed. I just want to close my eyes and sleep. I want the noise to stop. I want the fear to stop. I want to be adequate. To just be okay. Normal. Just stop. Now. Three or four days without sleep usually culminates in an episode of self-harm or a suicide attempt. What do I do? How do I stop it? How do I get to sleep? Do you know that sleeping pills don’t work on me? Guess my adrenaline is flowing all the time, according to the docs. It’s damaging my body, my internal organs and I will likely die from the effects of it. Tell me again how I am a coward and selfish. Perhaps it is you who is selfish asking me to hang on to a life that is no life at all.

I am suicidal. Very suicidal. I am giving things away. I am putting things in order. This is a new departure for me and it is scary. I am facing the winter of my life and must get my affairs in order in any event. So, I am going through the junk I have accumulated over my lifetime and getting rid of it. Rid of memories. They are only sad and hurtful. Rid of anything that says I existed. I never wanted to just exist, I just wanted to live life like a normal child. A normal adult. A normal senior citizen. There is more sand in the bottom of the hourglass and I for one will welcome when time runs out. I will be free.

I wait for the Lord to restore that which was stolen from me.



Joel 2:25 ESV
I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten, the hopper, the destroyer, and the cutter, my great army, which I sent among you.






Monday, April 11, 2016

Mama's Gone

luckyottersheaven.com
My mother died 4 months ago and it was her birthday a week ago. Both dates went by with very little recognition or notice from her family or the world. My sister and I were the only ones that really noticed or cared. Her long time friend was one other who also mourns her passing although their friendship is something I would class as unhealthy. My mother would yell, curse, and order him around like a slave, and he was someone who enjoyed being bossed around. Now that she is gone, he can’t make the smallest of decisions.

I spent 2 years with my dying MNPD mother. I was advised by my psychiatrist and counselors not to do it. “Do not go into the dragon’s den! She will eat you up and spit you out!” The warning came faster, more frequent, and even more dire. I didn’t listen. I wanted a mom. I wanted my mom. I wanted to find her. I was determined and certain that armed with foreknowledge that I would be safe. How delusional I was. The unicorns and rainbows I saw in my eyes were really spears and fire from the fire breathing dragon. Less than one-quarter of the way through the journey I had a mental breakdown.

You would think that one would stop at this point. Take heed from the wiser experts. But no. My mother raised me well. She needed me, and I thought I needed her. Now that I knew what the dragon could do, I went back in armed with my salt shaker to sprinkle on her tail. I was hardly equipped to say hello, let alone have anything more meaningful or lasting. The dragon was nice for awhile. She was warm and not breathing fire for just the right amount of time for me to put away the salt shaker. Then a blast of her fiery wrath came while I was unaware and unguarded. I spent more time on the floor in a sobbing heap of jello than I did on my feet being the woman I should have been. The attacks were constant and accurate. She knew exactly when and where to hit.

I was deteriorating. Just like in the video games when you have to destroy the big monster at the end of the level, I was getting weaker with each attack. My therapist said I had to stop, to let her go. I said I could not do it. When asked why I could only speak from what I felt and from no place of logic. I said that I would feel guilty leaving a dying woman to die alone. I couldn’t do it. She tried to explain that this dying woman tortured me. That she made me beg to live with the knife held at my throat. That she made me beg again with the gun loaded and pointed at us. That she made me watch her die as she overdosed on pills and made sure that I understood that it was my fault as she lay dying. What is there to feel guilty for if I should walk away. This woman you feel guilty over disappeared for 25 years. You owe her nothing. Not guilt, not love, not anything.

I could not see it. The though of turning away from my mother made me feel like I would be less of a person. If I walked away from her and left her to die on her own, I would be as heartless as she had been in her life. I was better than that and I would show her. I was dancing on the end of her strings just like I had been programmed. Mother did not have to do a thing. She just had to exist and I was the puppet. She made me feel like maybe she cared, and then pushed me away. She complimented me and then shut me out. She would call from the hospital and ask me to come and see her. When I reminded her that it was a two hour drive one way, and the last time I did it she refused to see me, she then started to scream on the phone that I was killing her with my words. That her doctor said she shouldn’t be upset. How could I do this to her? My mouth was hanging on the ground and I was wondering what the staff must be thinking of me.

I went to the Cancer Clinic with mom for her bone marrow biopsy. She was in such terrible pain and didn’t want to go alone, so I went with her. After the biopsy, she could not lay still so I climbed on the stretcher with her and held her in my arms and tried to comfort her. We both fell asleep. I treasure that moment. The next day she refused to see me.

Two months before my mother died she called me from the Cancer Clinic. She had been in pain for a number of months and a new cancer and new metastases on her nerves had put her pain over the top. I grieved her pain. I am not my mother and cannot stand to see any human being suffer. Such terrible pain that I still can’t bear to think about it. So, I get this call from my mom. In retrospect I know it was meant to be the final call. In this call, my mother managed to give me a glimmer of the mother I wanted. It made me both happy that I saw it, and cheated that I didn’t get more of it. In the end, it left me empty and so sad. This is what my mother said to me, her daughter; that she brutalized, tried to kill, and shut out of her life for 40 years.

“ I love you Vinjette. I want you to know how much I love you and have always loved you. You were my baby. My precious beautiful baby and I loved you so much. You were so adorable. I want you to be happy. When you are sad and you cry I want you to feel me kissing your tears away and my arms wrapped around you and holding you tight to my heart.  I LOVE you. I have always loved you. I want you to know this.”

Beautiful. Brings a tear to my eye. No sorry. No regret. No remorse. No acknowledgement of wrong doing. I feel cheated. But I did get to hear my mom say she loved me for the first time at 61 years of age. Then she refused my calls. All of them. I never heard her voice again.

My therapist said I did not go into the dragon’s den because of my feelings of guilt of not being there for a dying person. She said I was trying to find myself in my mother and I was not there. I don’t know where or who I am.


After her death I really unraveled. I started rocking, twitching, disassociating. The nightmares and night terrors came back. I was so angry at her and then I loved her. I loved her final words. An Oscar winning act indeed. She hooked me. I fell for it. She loved me the best way she could, but her best way was never acceptable in any society. While going through her things afterwards my sister and found a machete, a gun, a switchblade, and the razor strap she used to beat us with until we bled. My blood was mixed with her vows of love. I remain her victim.

Luke 23:34 And Jesus said, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." and they cast lots to divide his garments.

I believe God forgives my mom. I believe she is in heaven and I will see her again. The world broke and created the mother I had. Just as the world has broken me. I am not my mother, nor will I ever be, but I have caused others harm. At times, I needlessly provoked my mother in her illness because I was so angry and felt I need to extract my pound of flesh. I am ashamed of that. I wish I was a better human being. God forgive me too.


Sunday, April 10, 2016

The Ocean Knows

(c) The Integration Project


Again I have been depleted.
Emptied and poured out.
Left in my wilderness
alone and defeated.


What is this leaving
and going away from me?
Alone again with my thoughts
and silent grieving.


Thoughts that tell a lie
of worth and value.
They cut me from the inside,
and skills don’t satisfy.


Be mindful and breathe,
Be present and grieve,
Lies that deceive.
All of them thieves.

They have stolen my hope
That had started to grow.
I now have a noose
Hanging from a rope.


Bright and shiny mornings
become dark and grey.
The light I glimpsed is
darkened with mourning.


You will find me by the sea
Wild and crashing with fury.
It alone understands me
and what lives inside.