Celebration of Fear

 First off, if you haven't noticed I'm bring back this blog. It's been years since I posted, but I feel like now is the right time to start posting again. I'm in a better place now in my life, however there is still a need to "vent", or share my stories with everyone. So here we go.

All last week at work people (both customers and co-workers) have been asking if I had any big plans of the 4th. To which I respond, no. My husband and I have spent the day cleaning our house and relaxing in-between. Nothing major, and then they ask if I'm going to watch fireworks? 

No, no I am not. I am so over fireworks for many reasons. First off, there is really nothing much to celebrate right now with the current state of things. Second, fireworks are loud and alarm my cats. Third, again loud and I have PTSD, loud noises and bangs really amp up my anxiety. Mostly, though, it has to do with my childhood, and you guessed it. My mother.

So let's begin.

I don't like fireworks, or even balloons for that matter, because my mother would encourage people, friends, family, ect. to torture me with both. Starting when I was very little, like five or six, my mother and stepfather went to watch fireworks in the parking lot of a local zoo. In the parking lot on the other side were a group of young men setting off bottle rockets. Well one got away from them, and it came right at us. I freaked, and my mom, who was pregnant at the time, got hit by one. It burned her pretty good. Up till that point I never saw the harm in things like fireworks or sparklers. After that I was warry of them. 

Fast-forward to another July 4th, at a BBQ everyone was playing with sparklers, expect me. I was afraid of them, and my mother knows this. What does she do? Gives sparklers to my little brother and sister, and tell them to chase me with them. Not thinking anything was wrong, they did so. In fact they chased me for hours with sparklers. I wouldn't even get close when they did the little worm thing, where it burns and makes a black worm or snake looking thing on the group.

Aside the 4th of July there are other times my family has played with fireworks. Mainly when we would visit from out of time, and impromptu family reunion would take place. Complete with fish fry, guns, and lots of fireworks. Oh and add tons of alcohol. Things always got crazy at those gatherings, and when the fireworks would come out, I would go hide inside.

Then came the discovery of the Bang snaps. Those things you throw on the ground and they make a little spark and snap sound. Yeah, not a good time for me in the least. See my mother would give these to my little brother and sister. I'm talking when they were three and four. Which I find far to young to be playing with those. Well, they thought it was hilarious to throw them at me. My mother encouraged this behavior, and the more I disliked it the more they would do it. The more Danielle (my mother) would laugh. For the record those Bang snaps hurt when they go off on skin. This ended up becoming a 4th of July tradition for my family. Torture Jackie with Bang snaps. I mean anytime of year they could find them, they would use them on me.

Not a fun time at all!

Then there were other times when fireworks have gone wrong in my household. Including the mortar shell that blew up right in front of us, nearly took out half the party we were having. The miss-thrown set of firecrackers, smoke bombs gone wrong, and my brain child of siblings using upside down can of air to make a flame thrower.

As you can see, I don't have a good history with fireworks or things the go bang in general. Growing up in a household with a lot of strife and yelling, loud noises really make me uncomfortable. Add up the years of torture at the hands of my family, and yeah. I just don't like fireworks. Sure they are pretty to look at, but that doesn't detract from the bad effects of them for me. 

So, be safe out there tonight. Don't torture people, and enjoy your Fourth!

Subconscious Truth

I’m haunted, more so than usual. Generally I spend my days avoiding my memories or truly thinking about anything that will cause me distress. On days when the memories get especially hard, I double down and do twice as much work. On those days I’m like a zombie, mulling around from task to task with no clear direction. If I stop--if I take one second to sit down--that’s when the pain creeps in. The memories over take me, and my mind will focus on things I never wanted to remember in the first place. The mind is like that, it doesn’t give you a choice about what it forgets or what it wants to remember. It does what it wants--what it thinks you need--but I don’t need or want the memories it’s bringing up.

I certainly don’t want the nightmares.

That’s all I have anymore. Vivid, awful, non-fantasy related nightmares. It would be a blessing to dream about murderers or awful monsters chasing me. I’ll take vampires, mutants, ghosts, crazed homebodies that feast on human flesh. Anything other than moments with Danielle (aka my POS mother). 

I’ve always been a vivid dreamer, then again I’ve always had anxiety. For those that don’t know high times of anxiety causes vivid dreaming. I often had the “Scooby Doo” dream, when me and my friends are in a haunted house being chased by monsters, ghosts, ect. There were the random ones of me choking my sister when she was being overly bratty. Yes, I used to dream about choking my sister, not killing me, just choking her. Hands around her neck, shaking her while yelling for her to stop being such a bitch. (My sister has always been a spoiled bratty bitch. It started before she could even walk.)

Now my vivid dreams are disturbing on levels that leave me hollow, exhausted, and in the case of last weekend, devastated. 

I grew up without a voice. Danielle never let me talk about the awful things that transpired in our home. Behind closed doors anything was possible, and you didn’t talk about what happened in the family. Everything, down to the smallest insignificant detail was taboo to speak about. Outside or even among the family. You don’t talk about how your parents discipline you, if they fight, what they fight about. You don’t speak about money problems, how your brother or sister abuse you, and you never. . . NEVER. . . talk about anything sexual. Doesn’t matter if it’s right or wrong. DON’T talk about it. 

It’s in the past. . . We don’t talk about the past, because it doesn’t matter.

I followed those rules because on the rare occasion I didn’t the punishments were scarring. Physically. . . Emotionally.

Even when injustices happened in the moment I was not allowed to speak out about them. I wasn’t allowed to say something wasn’t fair, or tell either parent (mother & stepfather) if my brother and sister were picking on me. It didn’t matter what it was, I was always wrong!

You know the term, “I can do no right.” I lived that, 100% of my life with Danielle. She let my brother and sister get away with murder, but most of the time she simply didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want to face anything negative or fighting of any type. If she was pushed to her limit I would be thrown against a wall, or pinned against some object while she yelled and spit in my face with pure unrestrained rage. I was Danielle’s outlet for. . . well, for everything. If her job sucked, it was my fault. If her health was awful I had to pick her up, and when she made suicidal comments I, as a child no older than 12, had to find a way to keep her from spiraling into depression. 

It’s no wonder I now dream about situations where I simply yell at Danielle. Of course my dreams are very vivid and scarcely accurate, because I wake-up annoyed as hell since Dream Danielle doesn’t give a single shit of what I have to say. It’s honestly nightmares about me emotionally venting, yelling, and expressing years of repressed feelings only for zero reaction. It’s tiring, and honestly, I don’t think I have had a single restful night's sleep since last year. That’s a whole year of awful, emotionally fueled dreams of screaming, yelling, and getting nowhere! 

Fun times.

Over the last six or seven months the dreams have shifted a little. Instead of simply yelling at Danielle and taking her silence in aggravated strides, dream me has begun threatening to move out. To leave Danielle with her two children that are a life suck, and stop being the support of the whole family unit. Dream Danielle would laugh at me, or shrug her shoulders because, like in real life, she knows I have nowhere to go. They has never been, at least in my mind, a way out of my situation with Danielle. 

Shit, I mean, the first time I tried running away I was five. . . FIVE!

And it wasn’t one of those, “you said I couldn’t do this, so I’m running away!” type of child’s temper tantrum. No.

I would pack suitcases and hide them in my room or little overnight bags. When Danielle found out what I was doing she took them all away. So I resorted to filling shopping bags with clothes. I would horde change, so I would have money to run away and I would wait until Danielle was away. Such as when her boyfriend was supposed to be watching me, but he was sleeping. I would try to sneak out with my bag or suitcase, but I always got caught. Then punished, usually spanked or something along those lines and grounded, of course. 

As I got older and smarter I realized where I was going to go? We had moved away from all our family and now lived around my stepfather’s family. None of them I trusted or I knew would take me in. According to Danielle, my dad wanted nothing to do with me at all. In her words, “he’s embarrassed by you. He never wanted you to be born, and he hates me.”

At the age of six who am I not to believe her. It doesn’t matter how wrong, messed up, violent, or abusive your parents are. When you grow around them, and only them--when there is no other example of how things should be--they are your gods. You will do anything they say whether or not your heart tells you otherwise. You will believe anything and everything that comes out of their mouths. Parents, to a child, are like cult leaders. Charismatic, lovable, untouchable, and 100% unquestionable. 

Dream me, at 35, still believes the things I was raised to think. All the lies and abnormalities I know now to be wrong, I’m still clinging to them. Danielle is still very much in my head, and my dreams symbolize the struggle between letting go and still holding on to a lifelong belief that I’m shit. I know it. The wanting to get away is real. The yelling and screaming to be heard--to get a reaction--of notation of some type of love out of her. It’s all real life intruding in my dreams. It leaves very little time for actual rest.

I fight unseen battles every day while I’m awake, and now I’m fighting while asleep. But I believe I am winning, and I latch onto that idea. It’s my hope in a dark and exhausting situation.  Every morning I wake up struggling to open my eyes to face another day--when my head is pounding from a night of sleeplessness--and my emotions are raw, I repeat to myself. “It’s only this bad because it’s getting better. The old mindset is desperate (like Danielle) to keep control of me.”

“I’m winning. . .”

At least I really hope I am. If this is all for nothing but endless suffering, then I don’t know what will happen when this all ends. If it ever ends. 

I look to the progression of the dreams to know how far down the healing highway I’ve gone. Like I said I dream about yelling at Danielle desperate to get a reaction out of her. About three or four months ago, instead of stomping away and threatening to leave, knowing I didn’t have anywhere to go. Dream me starts to make plans. Actual action to go along with my threats. That’s where the violence started. 

Dream Danielle, and real Danielle, do not like being turned away. She acts like a child when denied what she wants, and if someone gets the upper hand. Well, they magically disappear from her world, or they become the devil incarnate. In my dreams, when I can no longer yell--as I realize she doesn’t care what I have to say--I calmly tell her I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to scream, or yell, or be angry. I don’t want to feel like shit, so I turn to get my small amount of things to leave. 

When she comments I have nowhere to go, that no one wants me. I shrug and tell her I’ll figure it out. This is a BIG win, my subconscious is breaking free. You would think this would be the end of my nightly battles, but no. Like all abusive controlling people Danielle is not going to let me go. This is where the violence starts. As I turned away Danielle attacks without relent. She has tried to murder me in every way possible. Poison, shoving stuff down my throat, beating my head off the wall, stabbing (the one I hate the most), and even choking. The whole time she’s smiling, repeating that no one wants me. I have nowhere to go. Then, I wake up because why wouldn’t I. Sometimes I wake up in a panic, gasping for air. Other times I slowly slip away into consciousness and think to myself, “I’m getting up. It’s less stressful than sleeping.” 

This has been my life. Vivid, violent dreams where I work out my childhood trauma, but hey. I’m winning, right?

I’m nearly through the awfulness, what else could there be? How else can Danielle destroy me? She can’t. I no longer have contact with her, I’m simply fighting her phantom, as powerful as it is. There is no new torment from real her, no more fuel for her war inside my head, and yet I came to my limit. . . Right when I believed I had reached the end of my suffering. . . when I believed nothing new could strike my heart I got leveled. 

Last Saturday I woke from a brand new nightmare, a devastation I never imagined. Dream Danielle had brought me to my knees, literally. 

As I slept it was the usual, a random ranting, raving, screaming to be heard. I believed the only usual part of the dream was the fact my sister was in it, and it was about me trying to show Danielle how shitty my sister was being. Danielle didn’t care, told me to mind my own business. This was all standard stuff she has actually told me in real life when I often tried to warn her my sister was doing something self-destructive. Like dating boys years older than her when she was 12, and kissing them. . . and her sexual bragging. Danielle never wanted to hear it, to her I was being a tattle tale. As the dream often goes I made my case but part way in, instead of throwing everything I had into the argument, I stopped. I had reached my limit early. Yay, another sign of growth and healing. 

I told Danielle if she didn’t care what I had to say then I wasn’t going to do it anymore. I wasn’t going to live in her destructive household where I meant nothing, and I stormed away, a winter coat in hand (I have no idea why I was holding a winter coat, I just was). Stomping down a hall with my head held high, refusing to let her see the hurt in me, Dream Danielle muttered something that cut so damn deep. It hit at my core and sent the pieces of my already shattered heart scattering across the world. 

“I never wanted you anyways. . .”

One sentence. . . five words.

I made it around another turn in the hallway and I hit my knees. It’s an image burned into my head even a week later. I see it when I close my eyes, feel the deep wound it made in the dark of night before falling asleep, and I think about the truth in that statement in my waking moments. 

I’m there, crumbling under the savage verbal attack but keeping my spine straight with defiance. Then, as the corner is turned, my strength reaches its limits and I fall. Devastation isn’t a strong enough word for it. . . anguish. . . agony. . . none of them touch how I feel, how I continue to feel. After all the abuse, the physical and emotional pain, five words have broken me. 

Yes, Dream Danielle said this not the actual person, but that isn’t true. Danielle, the real Danielle, might have never said those words, but she said it in many different ways. Her actions screamed the truth I never wanted to face, and I still don’t want to face it. How can I? My god, the center of my world. . . the person I clung to for everything. . . I mean nothing to them.

She said these words when she dragged me along to drunk parties when I was 3-5, to gain attention. 

She said it when she made me sleep on a motel room floor while she had sex with her boyfriend in the bed above me. 

She said it every time she bought food for my brother and sister and gave me table scraps I hated.

She said it every time she told me to hide from my stepfather, and made it clear if I didn’t then it was my fault for his rage. 

She said it when she took back the man that sexually assaulted me, and allowed him down the hall from me. 

She said it with every insult she lashed at me, and with every shortcoming she pointed out.

She said it with the lies she told me about my father.

She said it with every dream of mine she crushed.

Every-time she called me stupid. . . slow. . . lazy. . . incompetent. . . perverted. . . sick in the head. . . 

She said it when she didn’t want to hear the sexual abuse and rape her husband put me through, and she said it when she allowed a doctor to rape me to teach me a lesson.

“I never wanted you anyways. . .”

She never said it out loud but the message has always been clear. It’s a truth I’ve been running from for my whole life, and now it’s here and I can’t handle it. My soul can’t handle the devastation, the words have been said. Maybe in only a dream but they cut deep, and I can’t stop the bleeding.

~Jax~

Spanking A Child, Extreme or Not?

Growing up in my generation kids got spanked. Yes, there were those abusive parents who went too far, but usually you only got a swat when you are misbehaving or acting out. At about age 10ish the idea of “hug don’t hit” your child came in, and this new ugly view of spanking as discipline really took hold. I consider Danielle to be in the middle when it comes to spanking. It’s was more of a last resort for her, my stepfather, CJ, on the other hand loved to dish out belt whippings. I avoided them at all costs.

Me? I feel discipline is necessary for children, but outright hitting your child in anger or frustration is damaging to the child. It teachers poor anger management to the child, and they are more likely to lash out as they grow up. I mean you are teaching them, when you get mad you hit things or people. If you are going to use a spanking to punish a child it should be done in a more calm disciplinary manner or not at all. 

Okay, why am I talking about spanking? Because I’m on the fence about something. I don’t have a normal--what would be considered normal--scale of which to compare the messed-up-ness of parts of my childhood. Was it extreme? Was it abusive? Over the top? Average? Standard? I simply don’t know because I grew-up in a different world than most people, and I’m on the fence about this memory. I think I deserved half of what I got because I did do something wrong. However, when I told my husband this story he said it was all extreme and brutal. Why not put it out in the world and see what everyone else thinks. For me, I believe I truly deserved it because I was raised to believe I was a troubled child. An awful kid, problem child, ect. Felt like I was always in trouble for something, even if it wasn’t my fault. I grew up on eggshells, and this is an example of why.

It was summer and I was about seven years old, we lived with CJ’s parents while he was attending the police academy. It was kind of nice, different because I was used to living in California, but CJ’s parents were nice people and he was gone most of the time. Danielle started working at a nearby Denny’s. I don’t believe she did it so much to bring in extra money, as to relive the boredom and stress of taking care of three kids. Plus, built in babysitting living with grandma and grandpa. At this point my brother was nearly 2 and my sister not even 1 yet. They had these big piggy banks, plastic, in the shape of Big Bird and Cookie Monster. Coins and change that the grandparents gave us went into them, and Danielle would empty all her change from waitressing into those piggy banks.

I had one too. Not anything special, just a pig shaped bank. I don’t even remember what color it was, but I do remember begging Danielle for some change to put into my bank. She never gave me any. Nope, all of it went to two babies that knew nothing about money. Like a 7 year old has a grasp on money, even though I thought I did and it still stung that they got all the change coming into the house. How was a girl supposed to save money in a house like that? Their banks were so damn full I could hardly lift them at that age, and Sam and Chet only played with the banks because they were Sesame Street characters. Silly babies, you don’t play with piggy banks.

I’m not saying I was right, but some background was needed before I tell you that I did take money out of those banks. When no one was paying attention I would sneak whatever coins I could out of those banks and into mine. I wanted to have a heavy bank too. A 7 year old is not a criminal mastermind, and it wasn’t long before I got caught. In the dumbest way too.

Danielle was off on a Saturday, it was hot and the middle of summer. Luckily CJ’s parents had a pool, so I pestered Danielle to invite the cousins over to swim. I was bored. While she was in her room getting the babies ready before our guests arrived, she noticed that Chet’s piggy bank was lighter than usual. Normally he could barely move it while playing, now he was picking it up. I said, “Oh, yeah. It is light. Here, he can have some of mine.”

I went down to the second story to my room, brought my piggy bank back up to their room on the 3rd floor, and gave (gave back) some of the change I snuck out of his piggy bank. Danielle confronted me about my, now, heavy bank and I crumbled to a confession in seconds (the woman terrified me my whole life). I admitted to taking the money from the babies, and when she asked why I told her. “I wanted a heavy bank too. I just wanted some change too.”

To which she responded, “That’s not good enough, Jacqulene! You’re a thief! Criminals go to jail!”

I begged her not to send me to jail. She had no sympathy or understanding as to why I took some of the money. It’s not like I took all of it, and I had no were to spend it. We also never got allowances. Danielle’s waitress change was all we ever received, besides the random couch cushion change. 

Danielle scream, yelled, and scolded me until the cousins arrived. Then she asked them to watch my brother and sister downstairs in the living room. I was taken to my bedroom, ordered to remove my shorts (I was wearing a pair of shorts over my swimsuit), and spanked my ass until her arm was tired or her anger waned. Not sure which it was. Afterward, me still in my swimsuit ready to put the whole thing behind us, Danielle picked me up and threw me on the top bunk of my bunk beds. I was ordered to stay on that bed until she came back for me, then she took everyone else outside to go swimming. 

I screamed. . . cried. . . screamed some more, and at some point I started wailing about how I wanted to die. Yelling through sobs about how sorry I was, and I didn’t want to live. When I heard Uncle Chet (CJ’s father) come home, I screamed louder hoping he or anyone, would save me. 

No one came. . . no one cared. 

Instead I cried and screamed myself into exhaustion, and fell asleep with puffy eyes and a throbbing headache. It was after dark when Danielle woke me up for dinner. The straight lines on her face let me know she was still mad about the money. She spoke softly, and lead me downstairs to eat a plate of macaroni and cheese. When I asked for milk to drink with it, she growled and said, “you get water,” (I was never really allowed to drink milk or much of it at least, because it was for my brother and sister.) She acted as if getting me even a glass of water was a big inconvenience for her. 

I ate my food and drank the water all while she sat across from me staring daggers, no one else in sight. I knew I was in trouble, even more trouble than before but no idea why. After I was finished she made me brush my teeth and then she took me back into my bedroom, and watched me dress for bed (I was still in my swimsuit). Her facial expression never changed, with each second I was growing more and more scared. I went to put my night pants on and she told me not to, then she closed my door and leaned in really close. 

If there was one thing I disliked more than disappointing Danielle and getting in trouble, it was her breath. Danielle always had nasty breath, not as bad as CJ’s but still nasty. She was a smoker but chewed gum all the time to hide the smell. It didn’t work, you couldn’t tell her that though. To Danielle her breath was perfect and she farted roses. 

In a calm, even tone, Danielle explained how extreme I had acted with my tantrum. She said that Uncle Chet had to hear all of it after a long day of work, and that was not acceptable. We do NOT draw attention to our family problems, even though we all lived in the same house. Aunt Joan and Uncle Chet were not to know what goes on in ‘our’ family. Then she ordered me not to scream or make a sound as she vented her anger on my ass for the second time that day. 

I did my best to keep from crying out, and she mocked and shamed me when I started doing that crying hiccup thing kids do when they are really upset. Like it was a normal, average, everyday thing she helped me with my pajama pants and tucked me into bed. She opened my bedroom door, made sure the hall light was on, turned mine out and said she loved me and good night. I cried myself, silently, into exhaustion. I didn’t speak for two days afterward. Not even in school did I say a word, I simply sat there with an achy butt wondering why I was such an awful kid. I avoided Danielle as often as possible, and only came out of my room when she wasn’t around.  

I started this entry wanting to know what people thought about this, if Danielle’s punishment was too extreme. I went into writing this with a defensive stance for Danielle, but why? Because she conditioned me to defend her, to not see these things as problems. To me, while I was in the throws of my old family--living with this abuse and Danielle--I saw her as a fair mom because she didn’t hit me every day. Things like this didn’t happen all the time, but they did happen. As I write this all out and look over it I realize, she was wrong and this is fucked up!

What parent makes their child feel the way I felt. Alone, left completely out. An outcast in a new house, with new people by their own family. By their own blood, by their mother. Singled out for some unknown reason while the other children are spoiled, fussed over, and can do no wrong most of the time.

Danielle would often say she loved all her child the same, that we were all equal. No, she didn’t. A realization I came to by age 10. When I would foolishly correct her and say something silly such as, “but Chet’s your favorite.”  I was punished, so I tried to twist things to where her statement made sense. Telling myself she did love me equal to my brother and sister, and I told myself the punishments--her always being angry with me--the tough love and harsh standards I was given to live up to was how she loved me. I was special because I was singled out. How twisted is that?

Man, don’t I sound like a battered woman? Someone who gets trapped in an abusive relationship? Only instead of a spouse it’s my mother.

Don’t you often here abused women say, “he doesn’t hit me all the time. . .” That sounds like me with Danielle. 

I started this entry not knowing if Danielle’s punishment was extreme for the crime I committed, I found my answer. 

#abusiveparent #badmom #childabuse #spanking #punishment #domesticviolence #hardtruth 

~JAX~

Another Year, Another Birthday. . .Why?

It’s one week until my birthday. I’ll be 35, not that I really care how old I am. Most of the time I forget how old I am, about 6 months ago a slight mental hiccup occurred and I thought I was 25. Age, the passage of time, are not things I’m very good at keeping track of. However, this year I stopped and thought about it, holy shit! I’m going to be 35, what happen to my twenties and then the depression set in. 

Everyone starts their year out by recalling their previous years or decades, now with it being 2020 everyone’s doing the decade in review. What was I doing 10 years ago? Life, is that a good answer? I really don’t like seeing those things about reflecting because I start to think back and reflect, which is good in some ways. The distant I’ve come since my breakdown in 2012 is amazing. Yeah, it took years to get me here, but damn. I made it through alot, and I celebrate that. Hey, I don’t stay in bed all day even though I sleep far too much. I get up every day, whether I want to or not, I take a shower (something I would go days without doing before), put on something other than pajamas or lounge stuff. Then grab a little something to eat. That’s a major thing! For a normal person, sure, they are rolling their eyes thinking that’s nothing. For someone with major depression, PTSD, and other mental illnesses, that is HUGE!

I’m proud of myself for this progress.

Looking back and reflecting is a double-edged sword for me. Especially this time of year. The holidays have wrapped up, and there is a slump in good-will and uplifting moods. Then comes my birthday and the standard upset that comes with it. I know I’ve written in the past about being depressed over my birthday, how they were nearly always shitty, and trying to make them special now. Last year was a wonderful time, but this year. . . It’s hitting me hard, what with all this reflecting shit.

I look back and have tried--searched until I have a migraine--for some twinkle of a good/positive memory of the birthday from my past--my childhood. There is none. Yes, there are pictures of me from my early--I wouldn’t call them parties, more of family outings--to Disneyland and Knots Berry Farm. Pictures with my five cousins, my aunts, and Danielle (mom). Happy smiles and goofy poses, but the only thing I can remember from those birthdays are Danielle dragging me around the park making me stand outside a ride I was too small for, because my cousins wanted to ride the scary rides. Danielle liked to take all the cousins to the parks because they thought she was so damn cool, those parties/outings were never for me--they weren’t for my birthday--they were for Danielle to show off what an awesome mother she was. She’s closer with my two older cousins than she’s ever been with me. I don’t understand it.

The year she started dating CJ (future stepfather dickhead) I can’t remember a party, a cake. . . A gift. Nothing. My mind is blank. No family or friends, not that I ever had many friends. Once we moved to Pennsylvania it turned into birthday dinners. I was 7 years old, and instead of having an awesome party full of all the family in the area, or my many friends at the time, Danielle talked me into a nice dinner out with CJ’s parents. I was upset over it, but she said over and over again how grown up I needed to be, and a grown up goes to a nice fancy dinner. I guess it was an okay dinner, there is nothing I truly remembered from it other than cutting the cake they gave me at the restaurant into too large of pieces for everyone, and that I developed a serious fear of balloons. 

Yes, I am scared of balloons. Not the balloon itself, I’m okay in a room of balloons, it’s the idea or thought that they are going to pop and make a loud sound. I don’t like the sudden pop/noise. PTSD from growing up in a violent household, and this birthday. Danielle had the waiters tie a bunch of balloons onto the back of my chair as they sang Happy Birthday. As the song came to an end they popped two or three right next to my ear. Danielle found it hysterical, I wanted to crawl under the table and cry. I really don’t like balloons, and if you want to see me get ridiculously nervous, give a kid of balloon or a dog/any animal. With the increased risk of the balloon popping makes me panic like crazy!

The year I turned 10. . . Blank. I can’t remember a damn thing, but I know it wasn’t good because home-life at the time was. . . the best way to put it into words is the worst abusive home you’ve ever witnessed on television. Between the fear, yelling, violence. . . God, there was nothing good about that year. Not a single thing. 

From then on it’s a blur of half-assed birthday dinners with my siblings, no gifts, no cakes, no being special for a day. On the rare occasion I did have something like a sleepover (it happened three times) Danielle spent the time degrading me around my friends (in a joking playful manner). Picking on me, and playing the “Cool Mom”. 

It’s the worst, to have a “cool” awful abusive mom. To my cousins, people in her social circle, friends, extended family Danielle comes off as mom of the year. 100% the most loving, caring, bend-over-backwards arms tied behind her back, kind of mother. None of it’s true. None of it’s reality, it’s an act for the outside but behind the family door--behind the wall of silence--It’s very different. Every birthday was a chance to remind me I owed me, and she owned me. . . Owned me very much like a child slave.

Danielle usually started the day by telling a story about how I came to be. The false labor she went into on Christmas Eve, the way my father wanted her to abort me, and the noble way she took on being a single mom. I’ve come to learn in the last few years a lot of it isn’t true.

You guys want to know the truth?

I’m an anchor baby. Yep, Danielle had a casual 80’s relationship with my father. They went out a handful of times even though he wasn’t interested. They had sex, Danielle told him she was on the pill (remember this is the mid 1980s, men didn’t know better), then he didn’t hear from her for weeks. Magically she showed up at his work declaring she now worked there AND she was pregnant.  My dad had a stable, well-paying job, comes from a nice family, and she milked the hell out of that. I get it, she wanted someone to take care of her. She had, probably still has, daddy issues. I understand, but roping a man into taking care of her by getting pregnant? Pathetic, and when it didn’t work out she stole his credit cards and SSN. What The FUCK?!

Didn’t stop her from turning my whole birth into a noble thing--a sacrifice on her part. This endured me to her. There wasn’t a day I didn’t feel like I had to pay it forward to her for not aborting me as a baby. For giving up her life for a mistake (aka me).  I felt awful for Danielle, and when she asked me to give, I gave. When she asked me to make my own sacrifices, I did without hesitation. 

When my birthdays turned in Danielle pity parties, I didn’t complain. I did without because Danielle made me feel I wasn’t worth it. She made me feel guilty for being alive when none of it was my fault. My birthday has never been a celebration, it’s a reminder that the only purpose I have for being in this world was to trap someone into a life they didn’t want. When that didn’t work I bore the punishment of it’s failure for a lifetime. 

So yeah, I hate my birthday. Especially this year because all I have is lonely, cold, dark, and painful memories of birthdays pass. Combined with the agonizing truths I learned about my entrance into this world, the reason Danielle choose to bring someone into this world she hated, I can’t. I have no happiness for myself or what another year living means. And the pain. . . man, the pain I feel over those birthdays, my life, and reality of my own mother not giving two damn shits about me unless she’s getting public praise. I don’t see any reason to celebrate. 100% honesty right now, I’m really finding it hard to locate a reason to live or not physically harm myself. I’m in too much damn emotional pain, I would rather be bleeding than feel any of this. 

I hate you Danielle. . . I hate you, and I hope you feel agony because you more than deserve it.

#EmotionalPain #Depression #SelfHate #AnchorBaby #Suicide #SelfHarm #Agony 

~JAX~

Left Out

Danielle’s in my head this morning, nagging, pestering, and generally reminding me that I do not matter. Not to her or the world. For years I talked to myself in a negative voice without even realizing there was such a thing as an inner voice, then I became aware of it and all the heartbreaking things it said to me. They are not my words or thoughts, not truly. The negative chatter which springs up inside my head is Danielle (my mom). When I started to listen, really listen to my self-talk, I realized it sounded familiar. The bad stuff at least. They were words and phrases Danielle said to me on a daily basis. She is my brutal and cruel negative voice. A phantom of verbal agony she put me through as a child, and now I do it to myself just like she trained me to do back when I was a child. Because as a child I took everything she said to heart, as pure untouchable truth. The result is days like this.

I wake-up and start my day grumpy--upset--emotionally pained because of a dream or a thought, and boom! She’s there. Danielle and her bullshit rattling around in my head. She’ll be there all day, pestering me. Yelling to be heard and informing me how I’m less than in every way a person can be. Hell, she never treated me as a person. I was a slave to her and her family.

This used to be my life every single day. No breaks, only Danielle and her brutal slings. Her voice the loudest in my head, screaming and raging about, dragging me down to the lowest point. Now it’s about every two or three days. An improvement, but mornings like this I know I’m in for a struggle. Today will be long and exhausting. Each project or ounce of work I do she’ll be there with her cirtizing notes, not that any of them make logical sense. They are meant to wound and they do just that. 

Have you ever felt left-out?

Not a little bit left-out, like everyone got chocolate ice cream and you ended up with strawberry. More like Cinderella getting ready for the ball all day and still having to stay home, left-out. My life, right there, Cinderella. Not that I feel comfortable comparing myself to a princess or a fairy-tale. In my mind I’m not good enough to be Cinderella, a sad but true reality of how I think, but I imagine the hurt is the same. 

Can you imagine, as a child, watching a parent do something. Say going hunting, fishing, or going out for a girl’s night with a bunch of friends. Each time your there, enthralled as they ready themselves for this event. Your little body bursting with excitement, because they tell you each time that one day you will be old enough to go with them. As a child you want nothing more than to be with your mom or dad. To do the things they do, and grow into an adult so you can go out and take part in all those fun things adults do without us children. You want to matter.

Danielle always promised I would go out with her when I was old enough. She would talk about epic girl’s night outings, how much fun they had. Hanging out in a restaurant or bar, doing slightly naughty things and being among a dozen friends. Dressing up and looking your best for no one but yourself. Oh, man! I wanted to go out with her and her friends (most of which I knew as well as she did). When I was a child she gave me the standard “when you’re an adult,” but once I reached my teens it became a countdown. She would remind me, “You’re 19, just a few more years!”

Talk about suspense building!

“20 years old, next year you’ll be coming with me around this time.”

Yes! Just what I wanted. To be a part of the girls. . . The big kids.

It got to a point where she was telling me all the plans she had for my 21 birthday. About going bar hopping late into the morning, and grabbing crappy breakfast from a local diner. How we would go with all these laddies and have a huge night of fun. I would be special--initiated into adult-hood!

That’s not how my birthday ended up. It’s not how any of those moments ended up. There was no tagging along for me. . . ever. Nope, I was stuck at the kid’s table and the wait of disappointment forbade me from progressing to “cool kid” status. Yes, by my own mother.

A few months before I turned 21, a friend of Danielle’s daughter turned 21. Danielle got off a long day of work. Dropped my brother and sister off at their father’s, came home and got ready, and went to meet her friends and the birthday girl two towns over at midnight. She wanted to be there when the girl took her first legal drink. Oh, man. I couldn’t wait for that to be me! So special!!! Needless to say, I was ready to turn 21. Not because I was looking forward to getting trashed or having a wild night. I wanted to be special--I wanted to feel special--I wanted Danielle to include me. It’s all I wanted for my birthday. In truth, it’s all I ever wanted from her.

As the day approached (which I believe was a Thursday or Friday), it was one disappointment after another. My friends had all made plans without me, or picked-up shifts at work. Danielle didn’t talk about taking me out much, but she promised we would still go out because it was a big night. I wasn’t too upset, I really thought they were all trying to surprise me. They knew how much this meant, and I made all their 21s special. (I was one of the youngest in the group).

The day came, and I worked a 12 hour shift as a dishwasher. I figured why not make some money in the morning, the fun was going to happen at night. I got off at 5pm and called my friends (the ones I knew weren’t working). They were all busy even though I told them, and they knew it was my birthday. None of them wanted to go out or they were already out with other people. Okay, friends were a bust. Whatever. Danielle, my mom--the woman who birthed me--had to have something awesome going on for the night.

I called her to see what the plan was for the evening. She replied, “I’m going out to dinner with so-and-so, then I picked up a shift at Denny’s (where she worked when she wanted a little extra cash. I believe she did it because she couldn’t stand to be around me or the empty house when my brother and sister weren’t there.)”

There it was. Me, ready and dressed, brimming with excitement for my big day. . . The moment where I was going to the ball, only to find out I wasn’t. It was as if I didn’t matter, no one cared it was my 21st birthday. I was to be included not feel left-out. 

What I did do that night was treat myself to Wendy’s and then headed over to the liquor store. I bought a bottle of rum because I could, and when the old men who run the place checked my I.D. they asked what my big birthday plans were. I told them there was nothing planned. I was going home to drink alone and eat my chicken sandwich.

“What, no cake even?”

“Nope, everyone is busy. That’s life,” I responded with. Giving a shrug and trying to push down the hurt. It’s what I do, it’s what I’ve always done to survive my life. Mininuzim. Make it seem not all that bad, and move on. 

I don’t recommend doing that. It’s internally destructive.

The 50+’s at the liquor store felt so sorry for me they sang “Happy Birthday” and threw in a free mini. That was my 21st birthday. My big day to hang out with the cool kids, something that built in excitement since I was a child. I went home, ate, and cried myself to sleep alone in an empty house. I didn’t even touch the stuff I bought at the liquor store. I didn’t want to drink, and honestly I’ve never liked drinking. It wasn’t about going to a bar or taking my first legal drink. It was about being included, feeling special, accepted. . . loved. Even if only for one day.

Danielle tried to lessen the blow when she got home in the morning, telling me we would go out one day soon with all the girls. It was more cruel than comforting because I’m still waiting for that day. It has never happened. Sure, I’ve watched her continue to run off and celebrate her friend’s kids birthdays. Important birthdays, not so important birthdays. Even complete strangers she met for one year while working at a local college. She didn’t hesitate to run off and celebrate with them, and I was never included in those celebrations either. I was of age, but I wasn’t invited to any of them. No tagging along for me.

The blows didn’t stop there. When my little brother turned 21 I was excited because we were all supposed to go out. The big people crowd! Hey, I might not be the birthday girl, but at least I was going out with people. We had made plans, everything was set and work never went so fast. The second I got off at 4pm I called my brother for a meeting point. No answer. . . I called Danielle, no answer. . . I called the family friend that had driven over an hour to come for the big day, no answer. . . I called Danielle again and this time she picked up, a lot of noise came through the line. My heart was already filling with disappointment. When I asked her where we were meeting up, and what the plan was, she said.

“Oh, we already left. Been at the casino for over an hour.”

“Okay, which one?” (most of them are an hour away from where we lived, but I was willing to drive.)

“Oh, don’t bother coming out. I don’t think we are going to be here much longer and I’m not sure where we are going to end up. Chet’s the leader today. Whatever he wants to do.”

Don’t bother. . . you’re not important. . . you don’t matter. . . you are not special. . . you’re not apart of this family.

That’s what those words meant. Don’t bother. . . because you’re not worth it. Let down again--not even let down, more like thrown down, skidded across the assfault, and crashed into a dumpster. It’s close enough to how I felt, how I continue to feel on days like this. Mornings when I wake up from a dream reminding me in vivid detail of how little I meant to the most important person in my life. How worthless I was to someone I saw as a savoir. . . my mom.

These are only a few instances where Danielle played me, built me up and let me fall. I have a library of more, and I have to live with all those memories--their emotions--and the echo of her phantom voice talking lies to bring my self-worth down.

Most days I’m brave, and I can manage. Today. . . I feel the devastation.

~Jax~

#LonelyChild #CruelMom #Abuse #Devastation #MakeItStop