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Old October 23rd, 2015, 01:57 AM   #1
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wisp's Forum Picture
Join Date: October 22, 2015
Gender: Neutral
Exclamation My Story (? I guess)

My story is a long one. It involves abuse, mental illness, and violence, just in case anyone is triggered by those things. Please take care of yourself and leave if you don't think reading this will be good for you. It would make me feel better about posting this.

I'm 17 years old. My life has been pretty difficult, these past 3 years especially, but I'm still here. Soon, I'll be 18, and things will get even better than they've already gotten. I mean, sure, things aren't what I'd call great, but I can say that they're a helluva lot better than what I had been going through. I've started college, got on meds, and moved out, and it's so different now from what I've known my entire life. I feel like I'm actually recovering, for the first time in my life. It's great.

My first abuse was suffered from my father. It wasn't towards me, or any of my siblings, but towards my mother. My first two years of life were spent living in fear of him, and watching my mother being physically abused and stalked. Sometimes he would even kidnap me, because I was apparently his favorite. He was severely bipolar, and completely unmedicated and convinced that it wasn't him, but the world that was wrong. I don't remember anything except a single memory, where I saw my mother being slapped so hard she fell to the floor. I'm not even sure if it's real or not, but it's the only thing I can recall from that period of time. Eventually, we had to move for our own safety. We fled with only a car full of stuff, with my older brother being 7, me being 2, and my sister not quite 1. We moved from domestic violence shelter to shelter, trying to go somewhere he couldn't find us. Finally we just said screw it and left the country for Canada, where he was blacklisted at the border. We were moving around for 2 years, so when we went to Canada, I was 4.

Now, during this time, I was with my mom. This is the real story, I feel like. This is the story that I can remember, however hazy it may be. My mom was, and is, obviously, a stressed out individual. She came from a physically and emotionally abusive and neglectful home, and I believe she was genetically predisposed to being easily overwhelmed. Basically, she had been stressed out her entire life. And really, she wasn't about to stop there. I remember loving Canada, mostly because it was the only period of time in my life that my mom wasn't stressed. When my mom got stressed, she got angry. By angry, I mean abusive angry. While she still got angry very occasionally, you didn't have to feel like you were walking on eggshells. This was a relief to me when I was 4 years old. We ended up overstaying our welcome a bit, and because we didn't have enough in the bank to become productive Canadian citizens, we essentially got kicked out.

From there we moved to Minnesota, which is where my mom could find a job. Things got progressively worse as I got older, where my mom found it more age appropriate to get angrier at us. What started as the occasional criticism or snip developed into giant, drawn out fights between her and my siblings. My brother has behavioral problems, which likely stem from seeing and remembering the abuse of my mother, and he got angry very easily. My mom would respond by getting angry as well and taking away privileges. By this time, our house was a mess. I mean, a literal filthy disgusting mess. Because my mom was always working, she never really had time to teach us to clean up after ourselves. It's something I still struggle with. But as the house got worse, so did my mom's temper. She said things like "I do so much for you, and you guys never do anything in return," screaming. I was 7 at the time.

We moved from Minnesota to Oregon in 3rd grade for me. We could walk ourselves to school, which meant that mom didn't even have to see us in the morning. She has sleep issues, so any sleep she could take, she would take. The house quickly became squalor as well, and no one made any particular moves to clean it. My mom was always working, and she "didn't have time" for anything. We got animals, which were well taken care of and always had clean water and food, but the house became covered in feces which weren't picked up until hours or days after they were discovered. We could never invite anyone over, because our house was too disgusting. My mom never allowed any of my friends inside. Everyone in my family is at least a little bit of a hoarder, so that just made everything that much harder to throw away. And yet, I had friends, and I was clothed appropriately and bathed (most of the time). The real problem was the growing anger. My mom had a terrible boss, and by the time she got home every day she was at her limit. Any time we did anything she deemed "not okay," which could be anything, we got yelled at. We also got blamed for everything. Anything that failed to get done was blamed on us, because she had work, so we should pick up the slack. Sometimes she would threaten to sell our animals if we weren't doing enough, especially if the animal related chores weren't getting done. I felt like she cared more about the animals than she did for us.

We moved again, this time within the same city, for the first time in my life. Once again, the house became nearly unlivable, and we slowly got more animals. The house still smells strongly of animal urine, and there's piles of trash and unsorted paperwork everywhere. There are pathways through the piles to get where you need to go. We got horses, and had to feed them every morning and night, and there were huge fights about that. If it wasn't getting done, or not getting done early enough, mom would threaten to sell them. They were very therapeutic to me, and I always had to talk her down, crying, to keep them. I was the peacemaker in that house. Like a vigilante, hero of justice type. I tried to promote what was right, and sometimes that meant going against my mom. It was always my job to calm everyone down afterwards though. My mom said that I "just prolonged the fights," and that if I "didn't get involved and just let them die out, they wouldn't be so intense," and me "supporting my sister only encouraged her." Many times my sister had her door to her room closed and my mom continued to yell through the door. My sister eventually learned to do the same to my mom. Mom would scream at everyone until they were hysterical, and never, ever, apologize afterwards. I can probably count on one hand the times that she's said sorry to me in my life. She completely thought that her anger and her punishments were justified. So did I, for a very long time. Her criticisms stuck with me, and I began to hate myself. Slowly, I slipped into depression and self-loathing. I had always had anxiety issues, and they continued to get worse as school got harder and the house got more intense. Eventually I started to fail classes, which only incurred more wrath of mom upon me.

Then one of my friends committed suicide. I wouldn't even call her one of my friends, really. Just like a past friend who I played with in elementary school. Her family was pretty religious, and she rejected her faith and began exploring her sexuality, which they all but shunned her for. I could tell at the funeral that they felt terrible about it, and that they really cared for her, but they had 13 children, and they couldn't raise all of them. I knew their family had some issues, but I didn't do anything about it. For me, that was just too much. I became suicidal. My brother was being violent at home, and my grades were in the toilet, and mom was raging nearly every day, and then she died. We went on spring vacation a week or so after and visited Canada, but all I could think of was ways I could kill myself. I couldn't get out of bed. My body felt like lead, and I was too afraid to tell anybody for fear that I would just make someone angry. In my family, only mom was allowed to be angry. If you were angry, you were wrong. I was terrified of her. I had to tell her though, because I knew she loved me, and would be horrified to find out that I had killed myself because she didn't know what was going on. I was worth less than her grief, so I asked for help. When school started back up again, I couldn't go. I had a panic attack trying to walk back in the building. I began staying home all day, doing nothing.

When the option of going to residential came up, even I said that I needed to go. I voluntarily went to a treatment facility, where I was put with a lot of violent kids. Of course, that was the worst possible thing for me. I was there for 6 months, and I only got worse that entire time. After I finally got out, I was accepted at an alternative school which had therapists there the entire time. I was grateful for the chance to learn again, because there was no school in treatment, and I was SO bored. It wasn't very intense, but at least it was something. This was where things began to get better. During residential, I began self-harming during my home visits. After getting so depressed again that I was taken up to a psych ward in a hospital (which turned out to be the best event so far, giving me my psychiatrist), I quit. I was admitted involuntarily a second time to a hospital a few months later because I had lost so much weight, and it was so bad there that I ended up having to go back to the psych ward afterwards, but I got out on new meds.

Since then, I've moved out with permission of my mom to a friend's house, started college and am working towards my GED, and am in the process of finding a job. My mom always controlled the money in my house, so I had never had spending money before until we submitted my application for SSI. I now have it, and am able to support myself fairly well off of it. When I moved out, I felt like crying. I was so relieved. This family that I'm living with has never fought once in the time that I've lived here. It's a much more stable and safe environment, and it's a major component to me being able to heal. While I came out of my home with social anxiety, depression, the internalizing traits of BPD, and PTSD, things are starting to look better. I feel, for the first time in my life, that I actually want to get better.

I've met many new friends which have helped me so much, and I actually have an SO now, which I thought I would never be able to find. I want to become an art therapist, so I can help people express themselves, and maybe get some people out of terrible family situations. I am 247 days clean from self harm. It does get better.

I hope this helps somebody out there who may be struggling with things. If you connect with this, just, know that things will keep happening, and things will eventually change. That's the nature of life. You won't be stuck in the same exact situation forever. I hope you have a wonderful day, amazing person.

I was in an abusive situation for 17 years, and recently moved to a friend's house, began college to become a therapist, and stopped self harming. Things will change.
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Old October 30th, 2015, 02:24 PM   #2
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Name: Kayden
Join Date: September 29, 2015
Location: texas
Age: 18
Gender: Male
Blog Entries: 2
Default Re: My Story (? I guess)

You are an inspiration. You obviously gravitate toward normal and that's the most uplifting you have, it's an inner strength. I know it's going to be difficult but hang in there.
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