Ever again?
#(I realized this journal is disturbingly without updates, so I decided to throw something on here. For those not up to speed: my mother has left her abuser of 15 years. I'm 21. My father got me when I was 11~12. If you do the math, you'll figure out my brother and I had to live with him for quite awhile, too.
By the way, I don't enjoy talking about this. It wasn't a 'relief' to get it all out. In fact, it made me physically sick to dwell on it enough to write it. But, these things need to be said.)
I just had a nightmare where Steve and I were little kids, running from Grandma's house because of the terror that is Tim. No matter how much we ran, we just couldn't get away. I think that is a good metaphor for the living hell we were put through as children.
Children don't get to choose where they live. They don't get the choice of running away-- they have to do what their parents say. And what do you do when all your parent wants is to stay with the abusive, terrorizing asshole, with seemingly no care or abandon for her children? Absolutely *nothing*. You can't do anything; you're a child! You're trapped in this world.
I feel like that dream was reminding me that it's not over yet, at least for my mom. It has been over for me since around 2001 or 2002, when dad got custody of us. Thankfully, he didn't take mom's advice and just "forget about the kids". If we hadn't have had him being proactive and taking custody, the nightmare wouldn't have ended until we were old enough to escape. It would have been a mandatory sentence to stay another six years-- something that I, personally, could not have taken.
I harbor a lot of bitterness and anger for my mother for putting us through this. I know she was blinded by abuse and alcohol, but that is no excuse for putting your children through it. We were human beings, something I think she forgot along the line. Even though we were young back then, we were forced to grow up at a disturbingly young age. Even the psychologist said it in those papers-- "They need to learn how to be kids and let their guard down".
It's not surprising that the psychologist would say something like this. We always had our guard up, because it was impossible to not be guarded when we lived with a terrorist. This is a man who thought it was okay to beat our mother up in front of us. A man who is obviously mentally unwell, for whatever reason (I really don't care why, honestly.)
Let me briefly tell you about one little night in what Steve and I had to come up with. I remember it well: it was towards the end of the nightmare, because we were living in Riverside, at the house that was on top of the garage. Steve and I sat in absolute fear as the terrorist chased our mother around the house with a crowbar. Our mother had hidden his gun from him, underneath his car seat, and I believe he was trying to figure out where his gun was.
Does this scream 'normal' childhood to anyone? Probably not. But the answer from us as kids probably would have been 'yes'-- This was our reality. I don't know why I remembered this night in specific, because they were pretty much all like that. Our reality was waking up every day and escaping to school, and then coming back home to someone who terrorized for fun. Even if we tried to hide away in our rooms, he would come and find us. Whether it was to bang on bongos, or to drag us out to the living room to listen to the blasting music, or try to get us to drink at age 10 or 11... We never got a moment of peace.
Unless we were with our dad.
Our dad was the only moment of peace that we were afforded. We could go over to his house and just get away from it all. He would take us to the movies or let us play games without worry. We wouldn't have to worry about him getting drunk and wreaking havoc. We could just worry about being kids, and for a minute, we could just be kids.
But then it was all over: once the few days were over, and we had to go back to that household-- back to being adults trapped in the bodies of children, back to putting our guard up and trying to tune things out.
Every negative thing that I am today, that terrorizing has made me: neurotic, lack of coping skills for small things, easily bothered, self-conscious, withdrawn, anti-social, depressed. I cannot stand even the littlest of things bothering me. I think I used up my entire lifetime's worth of "patience" and "tolerance" quota when I lived with tim and mom. Now that I'm an adult, little things get to me a disturbing amount.
All of these things are not a natural state of mind for a person. There's no doubt in my mind that going through that mental abuse while I was a child crafted me into that sort of person.
My father has always been supportive of my brother and I. We are very lucky to have someone who cares as much as he does.
My mother? She might have been blinded by the alcohol and the abuse, but in my mind, that does not absolve her of all responsibility for her actions. She kept us children in a negative and abusive environment. Not only that, but she personally thought it was okay to tell me that it was my fault she was in jail, my fault for everything. When my father wasn't the punching bag, I was.
Why? It doesn't make any sense to me. I have no regrets; I would never do anything differently. Am I sorry for "getting her arrested" at Van Andel Arena? Fuck no! Am I sorry for the "stairs incident"? Hell. No.
I was finally old enough to view and realize the world around me was fucked up, and I was a child doing what I could to get myself and my brother out of a really bad situation. I only have praise for my childhood self; miraculously, I was strong enough to defend myself. To sit in court and testify-- at the age of 11-- against the terrorist who had been living in our house for more than five years at that point... That takes a lot of strength.
All of this comes back to my first point... Children cannot do anything to get themselves out of that sort of situation. No matter how strong, no one is going to take a child seriously without an adult by their side. They need help. I'm eternally indebted to my father for providing that help when we needed it. I'm also indebted to all the social workers who helped us out when we were in need. That kind of help is making me consider going into social work.
But to my mother? I think I'm going to need a little more time to heal. When I was younger, before my mom and dad split up, I used to call her "mama". In my mind, that person, "mama", isn't here anymore.
"Mama" didn't drink and did her best to raise her kids in as positive an environment as possible. "Mama" was still a young mother, untainted by the physical and mental abuse of that terrorist. But... That person hasn't been here since 1995. I'm not sure if that person will ever be back.
Will mom ever be "mama" again? Time has yet to tell.
By the way, I don't enjoy talking about this. It wasn't a 'relief' to get it all out. In fact, it made me physically sick to dwell on it enough to write it. But, these things need to be said.)
I just had a nightmare where Steve and I were little kids, running from Grandma's house because of the terror that is Tim. No matter how much we ran, we just couldn't get away. I think that is a good metaphor for the living hell we were put through as children.
Children don't get to choose where they live. They don't get the choice of running away-- they have to do what their parents say. And what do you do when all your parent wants is to stay with the abusive, terrorizing asshole, with seemingly no care or abandon for her children? Absolutely *nothing*. You can't do anything; you're a child! You're trapped in this world.
I feel like that dream was reminding me that it's not over yet, at least for my mom. It has been over for me since around 2001 or 2002, when dad got custody of us. Thankfully, he didn't take mom's advice and just "forget about the kids". If we hadn't have had him being proactive and taking custody, the nightmare wouldn't have ended until we were old enough to escape. It would have been a mandatory sentence to stay another six years-- something that I, personally, could not have taken.
I harbor a lot of bitterness and anger for my mother for putting us through this. I know she was blinded by abuse and alcohol, but that is no excuse for putting your children through it. We were human beings, something I think she forgot along the line. Even though we were young back then, we were forced to grow up at a disturbingly young age. Even the psychologist said it in those papers-- "They need to learn how to be kids and let their guard down".
It's not surprising that the psychologist would say something like this. We always had our guard up, because it was impossible to not be guarded when we lived with a terrorist. This is a man who thought it was okay to beat our mother up in front of us. A man who is obviously mentally unwell, for whatever reason (I really don't care why, honestly.)
Let me briefly tell you about one little night in what Steve and I had to come up with. I remember it well: it was towards the end of the nightmare, because we were living in Riverside, at the house that was on top of the garage. Steve and I sat in absolute fear as the terrorist chased our mother around the house with a crowbar. Our mother had hidden his gun from him, underneath his car seat, and I believe he was trying to figure out where his gun was.
Does this scream 'normal' childhood to anyone? Probably not. But the answer from us as kids probably would have been 'yes'-- This was our reality. I don't know why I remembered this night in specific, because they were pretty much all like that. Our reality was waking up every day and escaping to school, and then coming back home to someone who terrorized for fun. Even if we tried to hide away in our rooms, he would come and find us. Whether it was to bang on bongos, or to drag us out to the living room to listen to the blasting music, or try to get us to drink at age 10 or 11... We never got a moment of peace.
Unless we were with our dad.
Our dad was the only moment of peace that we were afforded. We could go over to his house and just get away from it all. He would take us to the movies or let us play games without worry. We wouldn't have to worry about him getting drunk and wreaking havoc. We could just worry about being kids, and for a minute, we could just be kids.
But then it was all over: once the few days were over, and we had to go back to that household-- back to being adults trapped in the bodies of children, back to putting our guard up and trying to tune things out.
Every negative thing that I am today, that terrorizing has made me: neurotic, lack of coping skills for small things, easily bothered, self-conscious, withdrawn, anti-social, depressed. I cannot stand even the littlest of things bothering me. I think I used up my entire lifetime's worth of "patience" and "tolerance" quota when I lived with tim and mom. Now that I'm an adult, little things get to me a disturbing amount.
All of these things are not a natural state of mind for a person. There's no doubt in my mind that going through that mental abuse while I was a child crafted me into that sort of person.
My father has always been supportive of my brother and I. We are very lucky to have someone who cares as much as he does.
My mother? She might have been blinded by the alcohol and the abuse, but in my mind, that does not absolve her of all responsibility for her actions. She kept us children in a negative and abusive environment. Not only that, but she personally thought it was okay to tell me that it was my fault she was in jail, my fault for everything. When my father wasn't the punching bag, I was.
Why? It doesn't make any sense to me. I have no regrets; I would never do anything differently. Am I sorry for "getting her arrested" at Van Andel Arena? Fuck no! Am I sorry for the "stairs incident"? Hell. No.
I was finally old enough to view and realize the world around me was fucked up, and I was a child doing what I could to get myself and my brother out of a really bad situation. I only have praise for my childhood self; miraculously, I was strong enough to defend myself. To sit in court and testify-- at the age of 11-- against the terrorist who had been living in our house for more than five years at that point... That takes a lot of strength.
All of this comes back to my first point... Children cannot do anything to get themselves out of that sort of situation. No matter how strong, no one is going to take a child seriously without an adult by their side. They need help. I'm eternally indebted to my father for providing that help when we needed it. I'm also indebted to all the social workers who helped us out when we were in need. That kind of help is making me consider going into social work.
But to my mother? I think I'm going to need a little more time to heal. When I was younger, before my mom and dad split up, I used to call her "mama". In my mind, that person, "mama", isn't here anymore.
"Mama" didn't drink and did her best to raise her kids in as positive an environment as possible. "Mama" was still a young mother, untainted by the physical and mental abuse of that terrorist. But... That person hasn't been here since 1995. I'm not sure if that person will ever be back.
Will mom ever be "mama" again? Time has yet to tell.