The Power of Nightmares

Things have been going good for me. My moods have been in order, I reconnected with my father (more on that later), work is picking up, and everything is good. Not perfect or ungodly wonderful, just good. Then in comes the nightmares.

I never had nightmares before, well I did. Thing is my nightmares have never been normal. Scary things like murderous teddy bears and vampires I have never classified as nightmares. To me they are simply a new creative idea to write about. They don't scare or frighten. What does effect me is the normal stuff, the bad dreams that awaken old wounds. They reach deep within and pull out the terrified child I once was—warped and distorted by sorrow and tragedy—and bring her to the surface. These nightmares play on my darkest fears of returning to become an abused slave to my family. Nothing stalls my heart more.

Last night I suffered from one of those dreams, and every time it happens I'm amazed at the effect they have on me. A simple fantasy movie playing outside in my head has the ability to alter my mood—shift my perspective on the world, and bring me down into the deepest depths of my own personal hell. It's not fair, but then life often isn't.

Usually, when something like this happens I spend a day trying to avoid it. Tired as all hell, I busy myself with silly tasks like cleaning, dishes, projects that I shouldn't be working on. Anything that takes actual mental power I avoid. I'm simply too tired to do it. After a day of being blah, I then finally start to tell my husband what my dream was about—what caused me to sleep without resting. I downplay the events per-usual. He hugs me, I continue to feel like shit for a few more days before the memories fade from my mind.

Today, I'm going to try something different. Today I'm posting about my nightmare—facing the events. Maybe that will shorten the length of my suffering. I doubt it will, but I'm stepping out into new territory. As I write this I'm debating erasing it and going back to house cleaning, but I refuse to run away.

Last night I dreamed I was being molested by family members while I slept. This has actually happened to me. Waking up and finding yourself in a sexual position with another person is one of the most. . . well, there is no words to clearly express how horrifying it is. Paralyzing, is a good way to put it. You freeze and wonder what you did to urge this person on to touch you in that way while you're most vulnerable. Knowing you're not safe while you're sleeping in your own bed. I wish that on no one.

That wasn't the worst part of the dream, nope. It gets so much worse.

When I went to my mom to tell her about what happened, she blamed me for corrupting the people that were touching me—for making them a sexual deviants. Then, she told me to get over it and grow up, it wasn't like I was raped. Just touched.

Saddest part is. . . My mother has actually said those things to me. I feel guilt over my own emotions because I haven't actually been raped by most of my abusers—it's like being half a victim. Not enough for people to give a full shit about. The middle ground is an awful place to be.

The dream went on from there with me trying to get out of my mom's house—trying to break free and having no where to go. Knowing I had no money, little to no real friends, and no one that could help me. . . I'm all alone in a horror movie—trapped by the people that are suppose to love and protect me—told my emotions—my pain, doesn't matter. It shatters the soul.

That's where I am today, shattered.

Cast against the rough shores of life, bloody, broken, and hurting in places no one can see. I'm in anguish. While I can have good days, far more than I used to, there are always these awful ones. The nightmares that plague me while I sleep, making me a victim all over again. I will continue to relive my past for as long as I live, but it's the hope and memory of better days that keeps me going. That makes it a battle worth fighting, even when I'm broken.

#SexualAbuseVictim #Fighting  

~Jax~

My Scars

Confession time. I don't claim to be a saint by any stretch of the imagination. I don't even consider myself a great person, though many would argue that I am. While I've had a lot of wrong done to me, and been put in situations that for most would be a nightmare, there are things I've done—things that I think of that make a lot of people stop and say, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Tonight I've had one of those thoughts as I sit here at my desk looking at the fading scars on my left forearm. I used to hurt myself. No, I don't cut in the way most people think. There's no razors involved, or knives, glass. . . Instead I run my finger nails, or a wire brush, or even a screw over the flesh of my left forearm. I run it over and over again digging the item deeper until the skin starts to break away. It's like a self-induced road-rash. Very painful even when it heals. Every time I've done this to myself it's weeks worth of healing—painful healing. There's the itching, the tightness when the skin gets dry, then the scabs. . . It's not pretty. A lot of people confuse the wounds for burns. Like I had some accident in the kitchen. The reality is a lot less pleasant.

You probably wonder why I hurt myself. It's complicated, but the main thing that triggers my self-harming behavior is the flood of emotion—emotions I didn't process when messed up shit happened to me. I get just that, flooded by everything and it's so overwhelming that I want to rage. I want to scream, and yell, and hit things. I want to put my fist through the wall—I want to break shit, but growing up that type of reaction would have landed me in a bad place. Beaten and tossed in my room to cry myself to sleep. So I turn my rage inward, blaming myself for my own emotions—for not having control of myself. As an adult when I turn my emotions inward I punish myself for the way I feel. I hurt myself.

I'm not happy about it, and I don't like to hurt myself. I don't like pain but physical agony is a lot easier to deal with than emotional agony. At least for me.

This behavior has changed in the last year since I've been working with my therapist. I rarely feel anger toward myself, and instead place it where it should be. On those that hurt me, and it's coming up on a year since I last harmed myself. Yes, last Christmas I had to wear long sleeves because I had a fresh bleeding wound on my arm. I had to hide myself away because I was ashamed of what I did, but even more so because I lost control and hurt myself.

Tonight as I look at the scars that are fading the fact struck me that in another two years those scars will be gone. I won't have blotches from my wounds, and that saddens me. I know, that's weird to confess even in writing. But I will miss my scars and I want them back. It's enough to almost want to hurt myself again—to relive the pain so the scars back.

But why? Maybe I'm just fucked in the head, but hear me out.

I want my scars, the visible ones, because I'm wounded. No one sees the damage beneath the surface—the ugliness behind my smile—they don't know the battles I've faced, and how much courage it takes for me to open my eyes every morning. If I wore my every wound on the outside I would be covered in scars. . . I would look like the warrior I am, and that's what I want.

For people to see my damage and know I've survived, but more than anything, I want to see it. To be able to look down and see my past laid out before me—all the horror of it and know I survived the darkest of times. I don't want to forget how strong I am when I start to doubt myself. I want my scars—They are mine.

#BeautifullyScarred #Warrior

~Jax~

Playing Santa

Memories are funny animals, they pop up whenever they please. Maybe memories are cats? 

Either way you can never seem to get rid of them. You can try to forget and they might even disappear into your mental chatter, but they always find a way back. Even the silliest of little details pack a punch upon return. I know I've said this all before, but it still impresses me what the mind is capable of.

While wrapping gifts this afternoon I ran into a problem. We were out of tags, and it brought back the memory of what I used to do as a kid when I ran out of tags. Or because I was a kid, poor, and didn't have money to buy pretty Christmas tags. Instead I would cut a square piece of paper and tape it, white-side-up, to the gift. Then write on it. It made me chuckle at how clever I thought I was as a child, and for some reason the memory shifted to Christmas Day. Reading those messy written tags. 

I'm sure everyone plays a version of this game on Christmas, where you have one person play Santa. They're the one that hands out all the gifts under the tree. My mom always picked me to play Santa, every year. I hated it. Now you might think that's silly.

Why would I hate playing Santa?

I had a BIG problem with reading and writing growing up. I muddled together an ability to read on my own, but up until high school reading simple things was very difficult for me. At times it's still difficult, but it doesn't stress me out as much. My husband is very supportive of my struggles. My mom on other hand. . . Not so much.

She knew I had problems readying the labels, and reading handwriting was even worse for me. So in front of the whole family she would declare I would be the one to play Santa, and while I stuttered along trying to read the tags the best I could everyone would laugh at me. I would struggle and struggle or give people the wrong gifts until someone got upset and took over. Every year—every damn year I played Santa, and I still hate it till this day.

Why shame your child like that? Why make a public mockery of them?

I don't have a clue, but it wasn't just at Christmas this happened. This embarrassment is something I had to live with in other areas of my life. Mainly in school and when my mom would volunteer me to do the readings at church on Sundays. The only time she ever put the spotlight on me was when she wanted to embarrass me.

I believe this is the reason I stress myself out about being perfect—I avoid awkward or embarrassing situations like a plague. Which is sad, because I used to be a goof ball. I would do the silliest things, jump into any new experience and if I made a fool of myself. I didn't care. I had done something new and exciting. Now, new things scare me. The idea that I might not be good at something paralyzes me with fear. 

Little things—the smallest moments in life make a big impact. A distasteful joke, a second of wrong action—they matter so much. Being embarrassed by my mother on Christmas Day doesn't mean much on it's own, but when you look at all the other times. . . When you take a look at how often she teased me, embarrassed me—they add up, and they matter. I'm a damaged person because of it. I hold myself back because I'm mortally afraid of making a fool out of myself. If you live in fear, it's not a life. My mother took that from me, and now I fight every day to get it back. Piece by piece.

#LittleThingsMatter #SmallMoments #BigImpact
~Jax~

Thankful To Be Alive

It's the big turkey day, and while I've never done this in the past this year I want to tell everyone what I'm thankful for. Usually I never play along with this game because I feel it's such common practice that people spew something out. They don't really mean what they say, instead it's more of an expected response.

However, I have no doubt there are those that mean what they say around the dinner table. People whom are actually thankful on this holiday, even if they are going to go knock down a grandma later for a cheap TV. (I know, bad joke.)

Without farther delay here is what I'm thankful for. . .

I'm thankful to be alive.

No, not in the sense that I love life. Honestly, sometimes I really hate life. In fact most of the time I hate life, my memories don't make it easy at all. What I mean is I'm actually thankful to be breathing air right now instead of being worm food.

There were times in my past—dark times. . . Moments when I believed things couldn't possibly fall any farther down, and then they did. It was those periods I thought about ending my suffering. Yes, I have planned my own death. I have been suicidal.

No, no-one knew. My husband knows now because I told him, and I believe it shocked and horrified him. I'm sure if any of my family or friends from that time are following this blog, they will also be shocked. See, I wasn't what everyone thinks a suicidal person should be. I didn't acted depressed, in fact I didn't believe in depression at the time.

My mother would dismiss depression and other mental illness as teenagers wanting attention. As losers who were not strong enough to deal with life, and I refused to be that. Little did I know I was depressed, and even if you have it in your mind that depression is not a real thing. It can still take you over. I was so far in it's grasp no one, not even me, saw it. Behind my bright smile, my jokes, and the playful banter among friends I was suffering. My soul was crumbling piece by piece. Any subtle movement—any light tremor of negative emotion sent another bit tumbling down into dust.

No one knew that on my drives to and from college in Harrisburg I often wanted to drive off the bridge, and disappear into the Susquehanna river. It's waters always looked inviting, tranquil and peaceful. Those chilly winter waters, and glimmering early spring waves promised such peace. The end to all the pain I felt but never understood. I wanted that peace. It was never about death for me, I didn't want to die. In fact dying scares me. It was about being so overwhelmed—so plagued by emotions. . . anguish, rage, shame, guilt. . . that you simply want it to stop.

You feel mental—a basket-case—completely crazy and you want it to end. You want a break. A moment where nothing feels like it's consuming you. You want out. That's what I wanted.

I never did drive my car into the river, as tempting as it was. Especially when they were doing construction on the bridge and portions were missing. Driving pass I could look down and see the welcoming waters, but I never gave in. I did nearly let myself drift off a different bridge but I jerked back at the last second. In order to overcome my suicidal thoughts I talked myself into continuing life by making my emotional suffering justified. Noble, even. I told myself that I was suffering so those around me—those I loved—wouldn't have to. I took their abuse with pride at that point in my life, but it didn't last.

Again the suicidal thoughts came when my brother and sister betrayed me (I don't feel like talking about it now, but just know they said nasty things about me to their policeman father that nearly ended my life).

When that happened it took away my reason for living through the suffering. The people I was protecting had stabbed me in the back. There was nothing left for me, so I planned my death yet again. I researched pills I could take. Poisons I had access to so I could end my life. I didn't want to live, my family had turned against me. The people I loved. . . the people I sacrificed for. . . suffered for. . . defended, shielded. . . They wanted to destroy me. They took away my messed up rational for living, so I wanted to end the suffering. After all, what was the point to it now?

My husband pulled me back from the edge. He didn't know it at the time, but if it wasn't for him I wouldn't be here. I saw the hurt in his eyes at the prospect of losing me, and I wouldn't be able to handle hurting him like that. I went on for him, and I won't lie. There have been times in therapy where the emotional pain becomes too much. My husband has found me in the bathroom late at night with my arm scratched to hell (yes, I used to harm myself. It's been a year since I last did anything). Or walked into the bedroom and found me with a knife ready to plunge it into my throat.

Each time I find a little bit more courage to continue on. . . A little more will to keep fighting. Doesn't mean I'll never face this demon again, I'm sure I will but I'm better prepared for it.

So this Thanksgiving, while the holidays sadden me, I'm thankful to be living.

I'm thankful for my scars to show I was stronger than my pain.

#Thankful #ToBeAlive

~Jax~

Cold Holiday

Told ya I would only use this blog when I needed it, and right now I need it. I thought yesterday was simply due to stress, I started feeling frantic. . . overwhelmed, but really it was the holiday depression settling in for a nice long haul.

I don't do well around the holidays, last year was the worst. It was the first year after I told my mom to take a long walk off a short pier. Not that the holidays were any better when she was around, but family. . . ya know?

Growing up in California there was always family around, everything was a big event. I miss that, and even when we moved to Pennsylvanian my stepdad's family was the same way. Everyone came together contained within a single house, and it was beautiful chaos. Kids ran around and played, the guys sat on the couch and watched football, and the women gossiped in the kitchen. The house was full of life, warm and inviting. Also, when other people were around I felt free. Dani (my mom) never yelled at me or said nasty things to me when other people were around. I knew to behave, but it was nice not being the center of negative attention. For a few hours, with my cousins, I was free—I was a kid. A normal kid.

I miss the chaos—I miss the endless roars of men cheering for their teams, and the laughter. The silly fights over favorite toys, and clanging of wine glasses from the kitchen. The pointless topics of conversation, speculation for the coming year, and plans for the next big family event. I miss it all, even if it was only a few moments in time where Dani and CJ wore a mask as a happy family. These were moments when I felt as if I was getting everything I ever wanted.

At the tender age of about 5-6 what do you think a kid wishes for more than anything?

A new bike, the latest toy on the market, cake?

(Okay, to be fair I think we all wish for cake no matter our age... I mean, it's cake!)

There was one very detailed thing I wanted. . . A simple child lost in an abusive world they didn't understand. I wanted a family, a real family. A mom, dad, maybe a brother, and some kind of family pet. In my dreams the mother was loving and did everything they could for their children. The mother was a person you could talk to about anything, a confidant to share girly secrets, and help through those hard times in life. The father, a tough but loving man. Someone who protected and cherished their family. A man that offered guidance and taught courage.

Yes, at 5 years old that's what I thought about. Those were the things I wanted and secretly asked Santa for every year. I even prayed, nightly, for god to grant me those things but it never happened. Instead I was delivered into a nightmare where my mother consistently competed with me for some reason, and when she didn't feel she was winning. . . Well, then I was given a disadvantage. Usually in the form of verbal abuse. I lost count how many times I was called lazy, worthless, and told the stories about how she sacrificed for me so I should be grateful for the scraps I got. All the while her loving husband, friends' children, and later boyfriends, sexually abused me.

I lived through nightmares holding onto a dream, and waiting for the next family dinner—my break from awful reality.

That's what I miss every holiday season, not my mother, brother, or piece of shit sister. I miss the warmth of people all around me. The security they brought, and the relief I felt on those special days. Now, for me, the holidays all feel cold. Lost to winter's embrace, because now the torment of my once living nightmares are locked away inside my mind. There is no way to escape them, and the holidays seem to intensify their hold on me. Dani's conditioning of how she thought I should act effects me still. I feel like an ungrateful daughter—an awful daughter for cutting her out of my life, but then what was I suppose to do? Continue to let her abuse me? Allow her to break me down, and prove time and again that I was nothing unless she had no one else to turn to?

I know I did the right thing cutting Dani out of my life. I'm mentally healthier for it, but like someone brainwashed by a cult her control still lingers. It makes me hurt and long for an actual mother. . . a real family. When I think about that it drives the pain deeper because I realize how fucked up my childhood was.

I just want warmth in the cold, a home to fall back on—I want connections to people—to my blood I never had before, and Dani denies me that. Her cruelty knows no bounds.

#Holidays #Family #LoveThem

~Jax~

Outsider

Funny thing about memories, they come whenever they damn well please. I've had ice cream trigger an awful event from my past, try explaining to a bunch of parents and kids why you're breaking down in the middle of an ice cream shop. One time my husband and I were looking for a tack strip at a hardware store, and when I found them I had a panic-attack. Random.

Like today, while I'm doing better than yesterday it's still a struggle. Fresh off a depressive mood each step-forward is a shaky one, and memories wait for me at every turn. Growing up I was always the outsider, not by choice and I didn't isolate myself. (I did later in life around the teens, but I had my reasons).

Before then it was a gradual thing. See, after Dani, my mom, had my younger brother and sister, and married their father, my stepdad. Things started to change. For starters, I was the only one with a different last name. You wouldn't think that would make a difference, and at first it didn't. We lived in California around other family that shared my last name. I had my aunts and cousins. No big deal.

But when we moved to Pennsylvania and we were surrounded by strangers that were meant to be family(stepdad's family)—strangers that shared my family's last name but not mine—I started to feel like an orphan. An extra wheel that was tagging along. I despised my last name and how it made me stick out among the people I called family. I was treated different, not by my extended family(my stepdad's family are wonderful, cheers to my Aunt J & Uncle C). No, it was my mother, her husband and their two kids that treated me. . . different.

Everything I did pissed off CJ, my stepfather, and that would cause him to yell at Dani. Who then would turn on me. Try being a 4^th grader in a new school, a new town, and every little thing you do is wrong. Not just wrong, but apocalyptic wrong. Destruction of life wrong. Live like that for a few years and you start to get jumpy. I second guessed everything I did, and resorted to locking myself away in my room. They couldn't blame me for something if they didn't see me.

When the two of them divorced, and Dani became a single mom I thought for sure things would change. . . They did. Somehow I became even more of an outsider. Believe it or not things got a lot worse.

As I look back I see all these small events, big blow ups, and all the stuff in between. The bigger picture is laid out before me, and what I see breaks my heart. This is what I was reflecting on in the shower this afternoon. I played through the times I was left out of the family—when I was cast aside, and I realized that there is more of those moments then I care to ever admit, but there is one that stands out today.

A single moment that has me feeling sorry for the little girl I was. It brings tears to my eyes even now, and I can feel the slow crack of heartbreak forming inside my chest.

After Dani kicked CJ out she kept my brother and sister close to her. They slept every night in her bed, falling asleep as they watched TV. This continued well into their late teens. Hell, my brother is now about 26 and I wouldn't be surprised if he still sleeps in her bed. (no, he does not have a mental handicap. He's your standard twenty something guy. Messed up, right?)

Most nights I tried to join them, but Dani would always send me packing, using the statement, “there's no room for you.” So I would slink back to my room holding back tears. Crawl under the cold empty covers and snuggle with whatever I could. There I would fall asleep, alone in the dark. Listening to them laugh and talk about the characters on TV.

At one point I started waiting till they fell asleep. Then, with pillow and blanket in hand, I would make myself a little bed beside my mom's on the floor. I would snuggle close against the base of the waterbed just under the edge so I could be as close as possible. The oldest child reduced to sleeping on the floor to get some recognition they belonged. How sad is that? My heart quivers and bleeds for any child that needs to live through that—a child that is forced to feel those type of emotions.

Sleeping on the floor didn't last long, Dani would wake up every morning and yell at me. So I stopped sneaking into her room to be apart of a family that didn't want me. Instead I isolated myself. I learned to become my own best friend and family. I lived alone in a full house, and cried myself to sleep often.

Today, as I sit here writing this, I ask the same maddening question I always do. Why?

Why was I forced to live like that?

I'll never get an answer, I know that but I still can't help but asking. . . Why?

#HugYourChild

~Jax~  

Struggle

I hate myself. My looks, my body, my attitude... everything. I feel like a worthless piece of shit, talent-less. Pathetic. Unfortunately, this is an all to familiar thing for me. While these painful days of feeling like complete shit are less now, I used to feel this way all the time. Daily, even. You know how people talk about low self-esteem or self-worth, mine aren't low. They are non-existent. I've been broken down to nothing, and even though I have a supportive husband that tries his hardest to counter-act these negative self-thoughts. On days like these I still stall. No work gets done, I'm tired beyond belief, and all I want to do is hide from everyone and everything.

It's awful, and I don't wish it on anyone. It's difficult when your mind is your own worst enemy, but this isn't something that I was born with. I didn't pop out of my mom having these thoughts, and they didn't get this powerful all on their own. See, my childhood—my life, has been. . . Well, there are no words for it, and a writers gift of exaggeration couldn't create a backstory anymore horrifying than mine.

A lot of people have an awful past and they don't struggle like I do. In fact, I'm sure no two people struggle with a situation exactly the same. Everything is individualized, even our pain. But what makes mine different. . . What makes it so much more nightmarish is the person who wore me down. The woman who took an innocent child and reduced them to this. A shell of a human-being wallowing in self-pity and hatred for themselves. A personal everyone else loves and adores, and complements but only gets an awkward sensation that they are a fraud. A joke to the mass public, and that no matter what they do they will always be less than another human being.

My mother this to me. The woman who gave me life took it away and left me living in hell.

God, the number of times I've started a blog to help me vent these things is countless. I've even tried to write a book about my past, but organizing a life of mental, emotional, and physical abuse is difficult. Scratch that. It's near impossible.

So here I am, starting yet another blog to help me down a healing path—creating an outlet for all my hurt, and honestly this is the farthest I've ever gotten. Usually I chicken out before my first post, but not this time. While I might have days where I feel like a single cell organism crawling around in scum, there is a growing part of me that wants to do away with these days. To free myself of such awful thoughts, and that's what this blog is for. Yes, it's to vent and I will probably only post when I need it—when my thoughts and memories overtake me, and that's okay.

This is my chance to put a story out into the world that is raw, dented, and broken just like me. It'll come organically as my nightmares and thoughts do. Some topics maybe hard to read, but you don't have to read them. In fact, I won't care if a single person ever sees this because this isn't for anyone else but me.

This blog is my voice and my stand against the abuse I suffered. It's my sounding board, and I'm not doing it for recognition or sympathy. I'm doing it because I matter—I matter to myself enough to speak out about the things that happened to me, and my voice won't be silenced anymore. Not by my mother, not social expectations, or by my own fear. This is me, being me, and dealing with all the messed up shit that happened in my thirty-some years of life.

#IMatter

~Jax~