Dissociation, a side effect of Malignant Narcissist Psychopaths and other Abusers

Dissociation is a psychological term used to describe people who disconnect from their surroundings. I can be akin to daydreaming while watching TV or reading a book to more severe forms such as amnesia and multiple personality disorders.  It is often brought about by severe childhood trauma such as physical, psychological, and sexual abuse. These children have experienced severe abuse and violence.

I dissociate and I have amnesia. Along with the descriptions of dissociative disorders I experience depersonalization, and psychological numbing. Traumatic abuse which brings about these disorders/symptoms also appear in conjunction with anxiety, PTSD, low self-esteem, somatization, depression, chronic pain, interpersonal dysfunction, substance abuse, self-mutilation and suicidal ideation or actions (Wikipedia).  I have or continue to experience the items in bold.

I dissociate. What does that mean? How did/does it happen? When did it happen? Do I know when it happens? How often does it happen? Am I crazy? So many questions. The mind is very mysterious in the ways it tries to protect itself and preserve the life of the person in who’s body it resides. Yet the way it tries to protect the person also ends up harming them. Strange, isn’t it?

Dissociation is a defense mechanism where people are being severely abused. It often goes undiagnosed, as it did in my case. My problem was I was abused as a child, or had depression, or drank too much, or was unhappy in my job or in my marriage. I went to doctors and counselors and not a single one was able to differentiate between abuse and sever abuse. There was agreement that I had PTSD but no one had any solutions or even seemed to be concerned about it. Get therapy was sometimes the only answer I got. So I got therapy. It never addressed the issues I had. What were the issues? The issues were the damage done to my mind by the relentless evil done by a malignant narcissist psychopath mother. They therapists talked about the abuse, how it was not my fault, about trying to forgive, but never about what it had done to me. How my brain was now wired incorrectly, how my thinking had been altered, that I had anxiety because I lived in a constant state of fear and the radar was running constantly. That I had obsessive thoughts because of the fear. That fear manifested in anxiety and made me sound angry. That I have no self-esteem whatsoever, that I was having anxiety attacks. That I lived a life of co-dependent behaviors that denied my needs. My children might disagree with that statement because I know it appeared different to them. It is much more complicated than appearances. They never told me that my suicide attempts, self-harm, and insomnia were all part of the abuse and gave me pills for depression. They did not clue in to my stomach, heart, and bowel problems that they were related to the abuse. I had to wait until I was almost 60 years old to find the connections and it makes me angry.

Dissociation. Defense. Interesting. What am I defending when I do nothing physically? I am there passively, and not doing anything to defend myself. Well, I guess the mind goes to battle for you by creating ways for you to not be there mentally, or to numb you emotionally from what is happening, and in worse case scenarios it wipes it from your mind or even creates another persona who lives the memory for you. It sounds really crazy, but you have done it yourself when you have been driving, and sort of zone out and then wonder how you got to where you are.

I was beaten physically and emotionally every single day. I was physically beaten with a 4 – 5 inch wide piece of conveyor belt. Bare bottom, over the knee. A predetermined amount of strikes would be decided and if I moved or put my hands over my bottom, the count would start over. The highest number at one time that I can remember was 30. By the time the 30 were given all at once I was hit many times that number. At a point you become exhausted, you cannot feel anymore, you have no more tears. You have nothing. Nothing. Absolute emptiness. It was during one of these times that I dissociated. I left me and went up into the corner of the room and it was like I was watching myself on a movie screen. I wasn’t there. It happened many times after that. It is a strange experience. I don’t know if I really wasn’t there, or just sort of numbed the experience, because I still felt the blows; but it was like it wasn’t happening to me. I was disconnected and like two people.

When I am very afraid or anxious today I still look in the direction of the corner and can still go there. These repressed emotions come manifest in fear and anxiety and can result in self-harming and suicidal thoughts and attempts. I didn't know I dissociated until it was pointed out by my therapist. He raised his voice and two fingers and pointed to his eyes and said, “Stay here! Look here! Focus your eyes on mine.” I tried to relay what I had been saying to him while looking him in the eye, and I was overwhelmed with emotions. Pain. Grief. Sadness. Anger. Rage. I cried. Emotions I had blocked by dissociating had begun to come to the surface. I told him I couldn't talk about it anymore. I’m not so sure that I’m liking this a whole lot. It feels like I don’t connect with my emotions for a reason, but at the same time I’m feeling lighter. Happier and angrier, peaceful and agitated, mad and glad. A seesaw going up and down. Like a boat tossed in the ocean being tossed here and there. A literal roller coaster of gut wrenching emotions that feel that the are simultaneously setting me free and tearing me apart at the same time.

I know I have amnesia over certain events as I can only remember parts of them. Just recently I have discovered that I have amnesia over even more. After a bad time with my MNM I started to see and hear shadowy figures in my mind. They are telling me something but I can’t hear them. I don’t know who there are because I only see dark shadows. It’s important. I feel that. I sense that. They scare me, but I am assured by my professionals that I needn’t be afraid.

I want to know why my MNM wanted to kill me that one particular day. I want to know why she stopped. I need to know. When I try to remember or talk about it hysteria and bile rises up in my throat and such panic and fear rises and I’m on the verge of losing my mind screaming in my head, my insides, out loud, “I can’t remember! I can’t remember, I DON”T REMEMBER!” I am absolutely frozen in terror and I want to know what it is that I can’t remember.

I depersonalize. Sometimes I feel that I’m watching myself like in a movie. I feel disconnected and unable to connect. To people. To myself. To my surroundings. At times I feel invisible. I don’t exist. It’s an alternate reality that I don’t like and I don’t belong there. I want to be connected with the world. It is like there is an invisible wall that prevents me from connecting. I feel numb and I find it difficult to be completely present. I hide in my mind. I close the doors. I zone out. I lose hours and hours of time in my head. I may write more on this later.

The damage from these evil people is so deep that it sometimes cannot be undone. I am so angry. How could I know? People ask me “How could you?” when they look at some of the mistakes I have made in my life. My children ask, “How could you?” when I was angry, or when I tried to commit suicide. My counselors ask me, “How could you not?” People asked me why I drank and my counselor asks, “How could you not.” My family wants to know why I didn’t do better at life than what I did and my counselors ask, “How could you?” I tear at my arms and people ask "How could you?" and the professionals say "Why wouldn't you?" Finally, I thank God that finally, someone gets it. They know what it is like to be me. My God I cry, they get it!

As I learn of the damage done to me I am learning to forgive me. I used to wonder all the time, “How could you?” The voice of my evil, critical MNPM asking me over and over “How could you? You have yourself to thank for this!” and she would swing the strap at me. Many times in the humiliating position of pants down and over her knee, or my stepfathers. Many times, totally naked as she had ripped the clothes off of me. In front of my stepfather who molested me.  In front of my brothers, my sister. “HOW COULD YOU? YOU USELESS PIECE OF S***! YOU’D BE BETTER OFF DEAD! I SHOULD KILL YOU! WHAT DO YOU SAY TO THAT? NOTHING! OF COURSE NOT, BECAUSE THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN SAY. YOU ARE USELESS. YOU DESERVE THIS. YOU ASKED FOR THIS. I HATE YOU. YOU ARE LUCKY YOU ARE STILL ALIVE! NOW BEND DOWN!”

Shame, guilt, humiliation, and tears were the clothes I wore. How could you? How dare you ask me that. Indeed, how could I have been anything other than what I was. I feel sad for that girl, for that mom, and for me. I tried really hard to be everything that my MNM wasn’t. I was nothing like her, but I still failed. I forgive myself  for not being perfect. I’m told I had to. I was deceived and deeply damaged. The majority of people in the same situation end up dead, or drug addicts, homeless, in jail, living on the street. They are unable to have long term relationships, keep their children, and many end up in psychiatric hospitals and unable to function with any normalcy in society. Looking at the statistics, I did well. If God can forgive me, I can forgive me.

I long for my day of maturity when I will no longer be tossed about by my emotions and I hold tightly to God’s promise:

Ephesians 4:14 Then we will no longer be infants, tossed back and forth by the waves, and blown here and there by every wind of teaching and by the cunning and craftiness of people in their deceitful scheming.

My clothing of shame and guilt have been traded in and my God dresses me as he pleases for His glory.

Isaiah 61: 10 I will rejoice greatly in the LORD, My soul will exult in my God; For He has clothed me with garments of salvation, He has wrapped me with a robe of righteousness, …

The Narcissist Ballet

The narcissist always has a force of flying monkeys at her disposal. They are always ready to do her bidding. Many are willing victims and others are deceived and have no idea the role they play in the narcissist's life. I am dismayed at the knowledge that even I have been a flying monkey. They are artfully and skillfully manipulated by the Narcissist.

If I were a dancer I would create a ballet about this delicate dance of doom. I wanted to dance when I was young. I brought home ballet books and when my MNM was not around I would practice the difficult foot positions and imagine myself dancing for crowds of adoring fans. There was something so pretty and beautiful in this dance. It was the stuff of fairy tales for me. My mother said she sent me to tap dance lessons and I cried and had no talent so she never sent me again. She said if I had wanted to dance I would have danced when I had the opportunity to do so. I guess it never occurred to her that maybe at four year of age I may not have been ready. My sister was the one who got the dancing lessons and she suffered horribly as the favoured daughter. I would not have wanted to dance in her shoes.

My ballet would have me, as the heroine; dressed in white. I would be on the stage, a wisp of being, very ethereal and delicate. I would be running hither and thither trying to escape the flying monkeys and my evil mother. The monkeys would be a dark grey and would have green faces. They would have big scary wings that they would flap at me and I would be scared and run and jump away from them. I would hide my face with my arm to protect myself from their onslaughts. I would look over my shoulder in fear.

My MNM would have a mask. One side would be beautiful and it would be the side that she would show to the flying monkeys. They would love her, pity her, help her, believe her, and adore her. What a beautiful woman she is, and that is how the narcissist gets her victims. I would see the ugly, green, jealous, envious, evil side of her face. The true face. The scapegoat child, me; always sees the truth and becomes the truth teller if they survive. She turns to me in her macabre dance and you can see her mouth moving to spew out words of hate and destruction. Her fingers are pointed in bony accusations towards me. Her dress black and tattered with decay.

She then spins and pirouttes towards her monkeys and swoops with and adoring arms wide open welcome. They dance a celebratory dance in their mutual admiration for one another. I run all over the stage looking for escape as I watch in mute silence, knowing what will happen.

The flying monkeys and my MNM nod and laugh in agreement and move in on my. I am tossed like a ship in the sea, and I flounder trying to get away. My evil MNM is directing them, arms waving madly in the arm, swooping her and there, commanding her army. The monkeys spin faster and faster. Their arms stretched out they knock me from side to side. Their legs come up as they pirouette faster and faster, arms and legs flying.

I dance faster and faster. The fear is in my face and I know my fate. I am caught by the leg of one of the monkeys and fall crashing to the ground still and silent. Crumpled, broken, and dead.

Soul murder. You can only withstand the onslaught of such evil for so long. When you are attacked from all sides and there is no way to escape you will fall. When you are so ripped apart and you have nothing with which to compare the truth, you believe the lies.

"You deserve to die."
"You don't deserve to live."
"Why don't you kill yourself."
"You'd be better off dead."
"You useless piece of s***. You'd be better off if you were out of all our miseries."
"Tell me why I should let you live."
"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you."
"You're a coward and suicide is the cowards way out. Why don't you try it?"
"It would be better that you killed yourself before I do it for you."
"Why do you want to live? You aren't good for anything."
"Do you know how much I hate you and want you dead?"

The first time I can recall trying to take my life I was about 12 years old. I ended up in the hospital for about 2 weeks. I drank almost an entire gallon jug of vinegar. It said pure alcohol on the side and I heard my mother talking about people dying from drinking alcohol. It didn't work. I gave myself a case of pancreatitis which puzzled the doctors. I was too young. I didn't dare tell them why.

When I was about 13 I tried to hang myself. It didn't work. I told my stepfather and he told me not to do that again. No help from the flying monkey. Not even a bit of concern.

When I was thirteen I drove a big rusty nail through my hand hoping to get tetanus and die. We took it in health and I learned about it. I didn't die. Didn't even get infected.

Stupid things. Desperate things. I made more attempts, the most serious when I was 17, and the last one when I was 39. I fight suicidal thoughts all the time.

I will dance a new dance now to my God. The old dance is no longer who I am.

Psalm 30:11  You turned my wailing into dancing;
you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,
12 that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent.
Lord my God, I will praise you forever.

I am thankful that I now know my worth as well. This is what the Bible tells me I am worth:

Matthew 10:29-31 Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.
But the very hairs of your head are all numbered.
Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.

Isaiah 13:12 I will make a man more precious than fine gold; even a man than the golden wedge of Ophir.

I Don't Like the Dark

Evil grows in the dark
Where the sun it never shines
Evil grows in cracks and holes
And lives in people's minds
-Poppy Family

I don’t like the dark. I don’t think I am afraid of the dark, I just don’t like the dark. Bad things happen in the dark. My mother’s mind is dark. It is shrowded and covered in the mystery that is her, and nothing will penetrate that darkness. Not even love that conquer even the hardest hearts. She keeps who she is closely guarded and will not let anyone in to see who she is besides evil. She tells this person this much, and that person that much, and much of the much is lies. Dark is evil.

My MNM did bad things in the dark. When I was about 6 years old we moved into a house that had a cellar. A dark, damp, decaying, that smelled like decay and damp earth. I think it would smell like that if you were buried alive. There were big spiders under the stairs and in the corners. There were some wet spots where water dripped and they held salamanders. One little light with a pull chain barely lit this dark place.

Somehow or other, in my MNM’s brain, she decided this was a good way to punish me. To place me in the cellar and drop the trap door on my head and fingers as I tried to claw my way out. I could scream as loud as I could, until I had no more voice; and no one would hear me. I would cry until I had no more tears and no more voice. I even fell asleep sometimes. I don’t know how long I spent down there. Then one day I realized I could turn on the light. I would hear the footsteps across the floor and know when she was coming and turn it off again.  What a small relief! At least I could see where the spiders and salamanders were and keep my eyes on them. It was no less frightening.

One day I was tricked. I guess perhaps I hadn’t been screaming or crying enough so she tiptoed to the cellar door and pulled it open and caught me red-handed. That day the light bulb was removed. I hated the cellar, I hated the dark, I hated the person who put me there, I hated myself for being unlovable, and I hated God for making me. Yet I prayed to him to make me loveable and to make me good.

On this same property we had some outbuildings. One was a coal shed where the coal for our stove was delivered. If you have never experienced coal, well; it is very dusty and it is very black. Dark. The dust is everywhere and the smallest breeze stirs it up. One of my MNM’s gleeful punishments was to place me in the coal shed and tell me to stand there. It was always in the summer and I only remember it being done when I had my white socks and black patent shoes on. Prairie summers can be oppressive and in a coal shed with one closed window, it was sweltering. I would be told to stand there and not get dirty, that if there was any coal on my socks I would be in so much trouble. I would stand there for what felt to be an eternity. I don’t know sometimes if it was 5 minutes or five hours. Little kids fidget. Gosh, adults even fidget if they are hot and have to stand in place. But I couldn’t even shift my feet because of the dust that would come up. Black, dark, dust. I hate coal and the blackness, and the dark.

Bedtimes. Again the dark. I slept in a bed with two brothers. I’d be sent to bed and be told not to make a sound and go to sleep. She’s always hear something. Sometimes she really did, but many times she imagined it. Those times were really hard for my punishment wasn’t justified. I really disliked bedtimes for a number of reasons. This one was plain crazy. I’d have to sleep on the chair. If I didn’t want to sleep in bed I’d have to sleep on the chair. That was the reasoning. You see, if I wanted to sleep in bed, I would have gone to sleep and not talked, therefore I didn’t want to sleep in bed. I would get so cold on the chair as the coal in the stove would burn down. I would itch. Sometimes I fell asleep and then sometimes I fell off when I fell asleep. I’d cry and only get yelled at. “Maybe next time when I say go to sleep you’ll listen. You have yourself to thank for this!” I don’t know how many times my head cracked the floor and it really hurt. I learned not to cry because then she tied me into the chair with a large tea towel. That was horrible because I could move around, or fidget to well, or scratch places that itched. The nights were so very long, and dark. I really don’t like the dark.

So much more happened in the dark and many things happened that we were told to keep in the dark. Don’t talk, don’t tell, don’t remember, don’t bring me shame, don’t embarrass me, don’t make me beat you…..just don’t. Don’ t live, don’t think, don’t care, don’t feel, don’t love, don’t hate….why don’t you just stop existing.

I know that it wasn’t me now, and yet that doesn’t make the damage to my mind and my body go away. I understand, I get it; but it doesn’t make me better. I am angry and I want to cry and cry and cry. I spin in circles and don’t know which way to go or what to do. I want to hurt my MNM and I want to help her. I want her to suffer and I want to save her. I am double minded and tortured. I want to rage, but at who? My MNM doesn’t even get that she has done anything wrong and will make me the crazy person. God? What does he have to do with this except to hold me close to his heart. My life is my gold that God will use to help others. If I let him. Of course I am. Something good must come out of this because I do not want my entire life to be nothing but sadness.

My MNM wants to keep her secrets and she wants me to keep her secrets and others don’t want me to tell my story, but God is compelling me tell it. I heard him very clearly one day tell me that I had buried my gold and I must dig it up and use it. My life is my gold and God and I, with his help; will use it for good.

Genesis 50:20 You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.

Ghostly memories

For three days I have been troubled I have been tortured by not knowing. In front of me things are clear, but my past, which I thought was clear; is now shrouded in foggy shadows. Foggy indistinct shadows, silent, or with unintelligible whispers. It's like a scene from the Twilight Zones. Who are these people and what are they doing in my head. What are they saying and why can't I make it out or see them?

For years I prided myself on my memory. My siblings had great lapses in theirs and I could proudly fill it in for them. I thought I had it all. I was the eldest, the scapegoat, and the story teller. The truth teller. It didn't matter that I don't remember being eight. I don't even like the number of 8. It reminds me of orange and I don't like the color orange either. Strange connections and perhaps they are clues to the shadows in my mind.

In the wonderful blog Sanctuary for the Abused, she writes:

Almost all Victims report impaired memory; this may be partly due to suppressing horrific memories, and partly due to damage to the hippocampus, an area of the brain linked to learning and memory.

Not only do I have that, but every single item on the page. Our abuse was severe, prolonged, horrific, and it changed all of us as human beings. I often wonder who I might have been had I not had this to deal with.

So, how did this happen. Well my MNM was on the phone with and quite skillfully and insidiously eroded my defenses until I was a quivering ball of clay in her hands, to do with what she wanted. What I had forgotten was that I had God on MY side. He is my potter and I am his clay. He reclaimed me and I was able to pull back and end the conversation. Wow! That was close! In the meantime I was crying like I hadn't since I was a child. Deep wracking sobs that came from some wear deep, dark, and hidden. I could almost hear the echoes of years of hidden sobs. I was shocked and unprepared.

While I was crying I saw people in my sobs. Shadowy figures. I could reach out and almost touch them. I could hear psst, psst sounds of their speaking and the whispery words disappeared like vapor. They were familiar, but I didn't know them. Who were they? And I became distresses. More and more distressed. Who are these people in my head. My heart pounded and raced. Who are you? It seems I was invisible to them.

I visited with my counselor on Thursday and told her about this new  experience. We talked about it a bit and I started to cry. Very emotional tears for me. I KNOW I don't remember. WHY can't I remember? WHAT is it that I don't want to remember. WHY is it blocked. WHAT is so frightening?

At the same time I tremble and shake and want to put my hands in my face and cry "Oh God, please don't make me remember. I don't want to remember. I can't do it God. Oh God please help me. I don't want to remember". I am absolutely petrified. More than terrified. Petrified. Frozen. Crazy with fear of what I don't remember.

It may have something to do with the sexual abuse, or it may have something to do with the violence. My MNM would do despicable things while being violent. Like making us be all naked in front of one another. Calling our body parts by filthy names. Telling us all to "LOOK AT IT!!" to "PUT YOUR HANDS DOWN IF YOU WANT TO KEEP THEM!" I'd feel so bad for my siblings. I just wanted to cover them up. For me, I felt humiliation and shame. I felt guilt if it was something I had done that brought this one, or if I could have done something to stop it and didn't. I was embarrassed and I felt rage. I wanted to hurt some people very badly, and instead I would pray to God and ask him to help me to be a better girl so my mom would love me. Then I have my sort of bad prayer when I asked god to not let me wake up in the morning. I would as "God can you make me die in the night or maybe just put my in a coma until I'm old enough to leave home." Then my mixed prayer, good with really bad, "God, came you my my mom love us? and if you can't god could you make her die tonight? I know that is a sin god but we just don't want to be beaten any more. Help us god."

I also asked God for strength to not kill her, as I really wanted to. In fact, at times she even dared me to. She would hand me the knife and scream and scream and scream "Stick it in me! Stick it in me!" Then call me a coward, a baby, a crying sniveling good-for-nothing. Then she said that if I really wanted her dead that I would have killed her, therefore; because I didn't, then I knew she was right and I was wrong. Otherwise I would have killed her. Her crazy making logic at work. Right now I want to scream. I want to scream at this memory, I want to scream at the injustice, I want to scream for the tears  never cried, I want to scream because now I know I too have memory blanks. Part of me is missing. What did she steal? What happened to me! I don't know if I can bear this.

One of my night terrors, which is about one of her murder attempts, I wake up screaming because I am about to die as the knife comes to me (which happened in real), and then it is all blank. I don't remember. I wake up sobbing, I don't remember, I don't remember, why can't I remember. Oh God, I just DON'T remember. Obviously she didn't take out life that day, but what happened to causes me to wake up to this day in the middle of the night, holding my head, screaming, and shouting "I don't remember!"

I am grateful for Psalm 139. I will remember when the Lord thinks the time is right and he will be with me. In the meantime I will take comfort in these words.

Psalm 139
1 Lord, you have examined me
    and know all about me.
2 You know when I sit down and when I get up.
    You know my thoughts before I think them.
3 You know where I go and where I lie down.
    You know everything I do.
4 Lord, even before I say a word,
    you already know it.
5 You are all around me—in front and in back—
    and have put your hand on me.
6 Your knowledge is amazing to me;
    it is more than I can understand.

No More Tears

You had me crying again. Crying because I wasn't loving you enough. You felt I loved others more than you. What is really sad is that I don't think I did. I should have loved everyone more than I loved you. I loved you so much and kept trying to love you more and more that you really got the most of my love. I never tried to love anyone and show someone as hard as I tried to show you. And yet, you feel I loved my SOB (your words) of a father more than you. Someone who never beat me. Someone who made me laugh. Someone who made it fun to be a kid. Someone I couldn't wait to be with. You knew that and took him away. Your jealousy and unhappiness sent him running for the hills to escape from your wrath. I can still see the bacon and eggs sliding down his windshield. I recall on the mountain highway when you pulled the keys out of the ignition and threw them out the window. I think there is a reason that car manufacturers make it so you can't do that anymore while the car is in gear. We ended up crashing in the side of the mountain. You, dad, and four kids. You were willing to risk anything, because to you weren't any"one". We were just things to be controlled and manipulated. Like chess pieces on a board and when you didn't get your way, you'd knock us all over.  I remember when you jumped out of the moving car. I was screaming at you to not do that. "Don't mommy, don't mommy". "Mommy, please don't. We're scared". "Mommy, we love you, close the door." At times I had very dishonoring and evil thoughts and wished you had died.

Your little pawns in your game of life. That's all we were. If you could make us look bad to make you look good, well game on. You did not care about the level of shame or humiliation you brought on us. You had us steal for you and told us not to get caught. Good one there. If we got caught you would berate us and shame us in front of the authority and play the poor single mom, or the poor struggling mom with some terminal illness. How you tried so hard to keep your kids in line but they just won't listen. Oh, the tears came so easy. They'd be so suckered in and feel so sorry for you and they'd look at us with disgust. We would have to make apologies and retribution to them. We'd work for free, cleaning yards, houses, whatever they needed. All the while filled with shame and embarrassment for something we did not do on own accord. I hated my life so much. I really hated it.

Then the knocking the pawns over. The rage that would take place because you had to act your academy award winning part due to your nacissist injury. We would have to be humiliated even further for doing you bidding. We would have to be "punished". Not punished for stealing, but punished for getting caught. "Didn't I tell you not to get caught?" Thwack! "What are you crying for? I haven't even hit you yet!" Thwack! "You brought it on yourself so don't cry to me!" Thwack! "Pull your pants DOWN!" Thwack! "What does "Don't get caught me to you"?" Thwack! "So what are you going to do next time?"

It would go on sometimes for an hour or more. I'd cry and beg "Please don't hit me." She'd laugh and say "Take it like an adult. You're such a baby. Can't even follow the simplest instructions. How are you ever going to make it in life if you can't do the simple things?" And the conveyor belt would lash out over and over on my bare bottom, my back, my legs, my shoulders. She'd pull my hair if I tried to move off her lap and slap me in the face if I wasn't responding to her in the correct tone of voice or the right words. When she was all done I would have to tell her I loved her before I could leave the room. Sometimes that would entail more beating before I would break down and say "I love you mom."

Shortly after that we'd be sent out again to raid gardens, steal pop bottles, a carpet sweeper once and a carpet, apples off trees. We'd get home and MNM would demand "Did anyone see you?" We'd say no and she would exclaim that they better not have because you know what will happen if they did. Next we'd she in doo doo up to our necks because we didn't get enough of this or that. Then we'd have to decide which us useless ones would do without since we hadn't thought to bring enough for everyone.

I cried then. Every day. Every night. All the time. I cried the other day. It washed away some of the blindness I had for you. I don't think I will cry because of you again. My heart is drying up.

I await the blessed return of Jesus and believe and live in hope of his words:

He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death' or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." Revelation 21:4