Scholastic Book Fair!

Everyone remembers the Scholastic Book Fair, that was the big thing in the fall. It was one of the first school events to look forward to aside from Santa's shop opening up in December. When you are going to school in the middle of nowhere the book fair is an even bigger event, because there's not much else to look forward to. It all starts a week in advance when they send you home with the catalog so your parents can plan how much money they are going to send with you the following week. Each class has their own set time to go down and shop, and then there is lunch time and recess to look through the goodies.

Yes, a truly wonderful time of year. . . except for me.

I must admit I used to get excited about the book fair, because excitement is very contagious when you're a kid. Energy spreads like wildfire through a classroom, teachers will understand what I'm talking about. Getting that paper catalog with all the well designed covers and goodies to look at only made it worse. By the time we left school kids were riding a high that rivaled Christmas morning. The BOOK FAIR!!!

The fact I was infected with all the good feelings only made it worse when I arrived home. I would show my mom the catalog, having already circled the items I wanted, to which she would laugh. Yes, she would laugh at me and say, “why do you want this stuff? You don't read and I'm not wasting money on you.” She was right, in some regard, I didn't read. Reading in my household was a chore—a punishment—not something you did for enjoyment. I struggled at a young age learning to read, mainly because I switched schools so often. Dani didn't have the patients to teach me how to read either. Four stumbled words in and she would throw her hands up in aggravation, declaring that I wasn't trying at all. How I managed to make it through my school years, I'll never know. I learned how to survive—how to make it through trails when everything was working against me. For that I feel little pride, but a whole lot of sorrow for the child I was.

Why am I writing about the book fair, right?

Because it's that time of year when everyone is posting about it. They are remembering the joy and delight of seeing those mobile book shelves full of wonderful fantasy tales and stationary goodies. The loot they often came home with and cherished for weeks after, little treasures tucked away in their desks and reserved only for special occasions. I. . . I never got to experience that joy. Dani never gave me any money for the event, it was a waste in her mind. Nothing. . . not a single penny to even buy a pencil. When our classroom's time came to visit the fair I stood off to the side, watching as kids pillaged the pop-up shop. They picked out their sparkly pencils and chocolate scented erasers, and filled bags with books I envied they could read and understand. I had to watch as their parents showed up and helped their kids shop, writing checks to large amounts for books to help their minds grow—books that inspired imagination and creativity.

To me those kids came from a rich family, and Dani reinforced that idea over and over again. I lived in a household where it was us against the world, or more pointedly, the upper middle class. So now, when I see posts for the book fair I'm reminded of that heartbreak. The deep pain of knowing I was less than even as a child. The memory of being mocked for my interest in books—which were looked down upon in my house—still haunts me, and I hold myself back from reading even now. Even though I have found I enjoy it a great deal. I've recently discovered my love for books, and the one thing I want to do around this time of year is crash a book fair. Buy every last book I ever saw that I wanted, and spend a month reading them all. It's an insane idea/desire, but it's better than crying every time I remember how restricted I was as a child. How my natural creativity and imagination was stifled and joked about. I'm not the black sheep in my family, far from it. I'm the purple sheep with the mohawk, and most of the time I'm okay with that but. . . sometimes it's really hard always being on the outside of. . . well, everything.

#BookFair #HelpChildrenRead #BookLover #PainfulMemories #BadMom

~Jax~

My Mom, The Bully. . .

I've been avoiding things the last few months. By not writing on this page and trying to put on a brave face—pushing through my memories—I've been avoiding what my head is trying to work through. I can lie to myself and say that it's because I'm busy, I have projects to finish. My workload is increasing, ect. That's not the case, I'm simply sick of dealing with all this mental stuff. Basically I'm sick of being sick, but avoiding makes things worse. The last few days I have felt my mood declining, and I know I'm heading for a big crash if I don't do something. Enough excuses, here we go!

What has been on my mind? Well, with a good portion of my big traumatic events sorted through a lot of little stuff has been coming up. Things my mom used to do to me under the mask of being a fun playful mom, paired with dreams of me screaming at her that this stuff is not okay. No exaggeration, I have woken up screaming at her. That is not something I do when I sleep or have nightmares. Generally I wake up, slow and easy even from a bad dream. I don't jolt awake or scream as I come to, this is a new thing for me and it's a bit unsettling. Sleep used to be my escape, people didn't mess with me while I was sleeping or at least I could pretend they didn't. While asleep I had my own world that I could control. It's where my creative mind takes form, and to have it disrupted this last year is upsetting for me. I'm not sure how to function in a place where my waking hours are better than my asleep ones. It's like having your security stripped away from you in the most trying moment of your life. I'm off balance because of it, but moving on.

The last month or two little things have been popping up in my head. Randomly, of course, while I'm listening to the radio or watching My Cat From Hell. No real reason or method to this madness. Memories simply come up, and I force myself to share them with my husband for one big reason. I want to make sure I'm not mental.

What I mean by that is Dani, my mom, is a narcissistic and very good at making me feel like I'm a complete nut-job. Like everything that happens to me is my fault, and I'm trying to skirt responsibility by being offended or hurt when say I was molested in my sleep by a grown man. With Dani it's never her fault or anyone else, it's mine. I'm to blame 150% of the time, and up until a few years ago I firmly believed that. As I understood the world, all the shitty things that happened to me: Having a boyfriend that verbally/emotionally abused me and cheated, my so called friends using me as a verbal punching bag, Dani's boyfriends sexually assaulting me, the fact I never had any money though Dani often took it all; was all my fault. My world was shitty because I—Me, myself—was an awful person. Those who know me now will say this is not the case, and I still wonder how I came from such a self-absorbed family being as thoughtful and caring as I am.

I still struggle with apologizing for everything, just ask my husband. I say I'm sorry about things so far beyond my control it's insane, but that is how I was raised. To feel guilt about everything bad in Dani's life so she wouldn't have to be held responsible. So when I remember these little things—these moments of her being a pure bully—I want to make sure I'm not over dramatizing what happened. Thus I share it with my husband, and if he says it's fucked up. I know it's fucked up. So far not a single thing I have shared with him hasn't been fucked up, so what does that say about my childhood? That right when I think it can't get any worse, it does? Or that I was so blinded by my love for the woman whom gave birth to me, and society's ideal that mother's are to be worshiped, that I allowed all this to happen unchallenged?

Really, when it comes right down to it, either reason is fucked as hell. Now, I'm going to share with you some of these moments—memories—little things that Dani used to do when I was a child, and sometimes even after I grew up. Look at these moments, these small little events and I hope you have none of them in your life because they are just as harmful as the big things.

* I have a fear of 9V batteries, even to this day. I love the fact not many things use 9Vs anymore, and wish they would disappear completely because Dani would make me lick them. Some of you might not know what I'm talking about, but the two prongs on the battery if you stick your tongue to both of them you will get a nasty shock. Dani used to make me do this to get a laugh. Often she was at parties with her friends, or at a local bar one of her friends owned. Randomly they would start having a good laugh and Dani would says, “watch this!” Then call me over to put my tongue on the 9V. I hated doing it, and when I refused she would use her 'mom' voice. The one that said I was going to be in trouble if I didn't get over there and put my tongue to the battery. She did this so often that even now I won't get near the business end of a 9V. I hate changing the one in my clock and will often pass it off to my husband to do. I also have a big fear of a electrical currents in general because of this. My mother used me as a party trick, how nice.

*I was slapped in the face with a fish. Yes, a fish. A real, live, fish. Every summer for five years or so we visited my grandfather and extended family. My grandfather is BIG into fishing, and the best part about the visit was going out on the lake on grandpa's boat. I love to fish, but Dani put this fear into me that fish will hurt you if you touch them. That the fins will cut your hand open so damn bad, so taking the fish off the hook or touching them. . . Yeah, not doing that! After a weekend of fishing Dani wanted to get a picture of me and my siblings holding the fish we caught. At this point they had been in the fridge for a day or two, not yet gutted, but very much dead! I refused to hold the fish, I was too scared. My brother and sister didn't have any problem because Dani didn't scare them to death about the deadly fins. It went into a long draw out thing, me in tears with Dani thrusting the fish at me. I refused one too many times and that fish flew across my face. Yes, I was fish-slapped. I was shocked, Dani thought it was funny as hell. She laughed, so did my brother and sister. Because people were laughing with her, Dani kept slapping me with the fish until I finally mustered up the courage to take the damn thing. I figured I ran more risk of getting hurt being slapped with the fish than holding it. Dani took the picture with me crying and red cheeks from being slapped around, and till this day I still won't touch a fish.

*Making me chase the car, I hate this. Yeah, in movies it's kind of funny but when your mom does it to you, all the freaking time! Not cool. You know how it goes, kid gets out of the car to drop something off. On the way back they reach for the door and mom pulls the car forward a little. Each time they go to reach for the door the car movies a little more. She did this once or twice to my brother and sister, but they would start crying so she stopped doing it to them. Me, on the other hand, it never mattered if I cried—walked off in anger—or dropped my head in defeat. She would make me chase that damn car for a block if my siblings kept laughing. Sometimes I even had to open the door and jump in while the car was moving. She would do this in front of my school on the rare occasion she would pick me up. In front of my friends, as if I wasn't enough of a dork. It was all for laughs, and if I got upset or pissy then I got in trouble—yelled at for having emotions or feeling hurt—humiliated. One time I even was being a grumpy kid ( I don't remember why but I was about 12), she made me get out of the car in the middle of downtown. I started crying when she threatened to leave me and come back when she was done visiting her friend. I told her I didn't care, being the mad kid I was at the time (she did something to upset, and I was just throwing a fit. Which never happened often). Instead of deal with my fit or letting me cry it out, Dani pulled away and left me there in the middle of downtown on a Saturday. A 12 year old kid, alone, in a city crying. She didn't come back for over twenty minutes after she went to her friends house to drop something off. Afterwards when she picked me up she wanted to lighten the mood by making me chase the car. I pouted the whole way home.

*I'm a square. Dani called me that at a party with a ton of popular kids from my school. Kids that would have no problem mocking me for the next three years of my life. Why? Because she wanted to look cool. I played softball from seventh grade onward, and around here softball is the shit! Seriously, next to football, if you play on one of the school teams you are a star. Now I didn't play for a school team, hell I sucked at softball, but I loved to play. Instead I played on one of those community league teams. Most, if not all the other girls on the team were stars. Popular girls with things going for them. One of the most popular was our first basemen, and she was super nice too. Love that girl, and even though I didn't run in her social circle I was invited to her 16^th birthday party. It was a big event, full of people I didn't know. Teenagers that were in the now while I was playing Pokemon, lol. Instead of dropping me and leaving, Dani stuck around with my brother and sister at the party. Why, I have no clue, but long after I wanted to leave Dani insisted we stay. At one point I was talking with another girl from my softball team at the party, and I suggested once it got dark enough we go play flashlight tag in the woods. Dani loudly proclaimed I was a square, and lame. She even put her fingers to her head in the shape of an 'L' and called me a loser. My own mother, mocking me at a party full of popular teenagers I went to school with. Thanks. For the record, I still like playing flashlight tag!

*No butterfly clips for me. Yeah, I grew up in the 1990s when Brittany Spears was a big thing, and everyone had those little sparkly butterfly clips in their hair. Secretly I always wanted some of my own. Not in pink, but maybe in purple or blue, even a pretty green. I mean, I'm still a girl but Dani often told me they were silly and childish. So I avoided them and said they were dumb as she told me they were. When she started buying them for my sister, and doing her hair pretty I wanted some too. She told me no, because I never let her touch my hair and used to call the clips dumb (to be fair Dani started it). Mainly I wouldn't let her touch my hair because every time she brushed and blow-dried it she would burn my head. Thankfully she gave up on doing my hair with a blow-dryer, but that meant she also gave up on doing my hair all together. Even when I wanted her to french-braid it for me. Eventually I learned how to braid on my own, but moving on. The butterfly clips became a big thing in my household and I wasn't allowed to touch them, it was more of unspoken rule. When we often went to get-togethers at Dain's friends houses the women would ask if I wanted to have my nails done or have my hair done. To which Dani would laugh and say I wasn't into those things, she was raising a boy or I was too piratical for such childish things. I was never allowed to be anything other than what she wanted me to be, and if I strayed from this tomboyish adult persona she mocked me.

I have trust issues when it comes to food, and trying new things. It's not as bad as it used to be, but there are times I don't trust when my husband asks me to try something. Why? Because Dani is a mean bitch. I developed this extreme dislike of seafood, anything that comes from the ocean. I'm slowly getting over it, because I think most fish looks tasty. Dani knew I would freak or gag if she gave me anything that tasted remotely fishy, so she would often go around at parties, or at her work in a grocery store, sometimes even while we were shopping, and find the most disgusting thing in the world. She would then tell me to try it, and before I could refuse she would pop it into my mouth. Sometimes she even resulted in lying about what it was to get me to eat it. The second it hit my tongue I was always ready to throw-up, but she would put her hand over my mouth and yell at me not to spit it out. It wasn't a playful, joking “don't spit it out”. It was always a “you're going to be in big trouble if you spit it out.” If we were in a store or at the mall when this happened she would make me walk around holding the item in my mouth or even in my hand as it melted down my arms for the whole world to see. People would be laughing at me, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. The worst was at parties, were her friends—people I knew too—would laugh and slap their knees like it was a good time. It was never a good time for me, and now I have trust problems. Thanks.

*Fireflies, I used to be terrified of fireflies. Yes, they were pretty to look at and I enjoyed sitting on the porch and watching them, but catch one? Hell no! Dani told me that most of them bite/pinch like pincer bugs, and according to her they hurt like the dickens. So I avoided them and have since childhood, until my husband told me otherwise. He even caught one on his hand and showed me there was no way it could pinch/hurt me. Last summer I actually carried one out of the house that had gotten trapped inside, no fear because now I know they can't hurt me and are wonderful little bugs. Here I was as a child watching kids catch fireflies thinking I was a pussy for not doing the same, because Dani often laugh and said I was. I simply figured I wasn't cut out to be a play in the dirt, bug loving kind of girl.

*Fingernails, yeah I was a nail-biter. Do you blame me? All through my childhood into a adulthood. I think it's been about five years since I broke the habit, and I have nice nails now. Nothing special just normal fingernails, not chewed to the bone. There was a period where Dani really started taking care of herself, right about the age of 33-35. She started tanning, buying nice clothes for herself, going out more with friends, and getting her nails done every week. I mean, every freaking week we were at the nail shop in the mall. She had them airbrushed and everything. I remember wanting to have my nails done soooo bad. I wanted the pretty airbrush designs, and instead of helping me with the nail biting she made fun of me in front of the girls in the nail shop. Saying, “I'm not paying for anything on those nubs.” She even started taking my sister to the shop and had her nails done because she wasn't a nail-biter. I would have to sit there, be good and watch them get their nails done together while the laddies looked on. When the workers would feel sorry for me they asked if they could at least paint my nails. Dani would say no there was nothing to paint. That I was nasty and had dirty hands. Now I'm too scared of people to go get my nails done. Even though I have nice nails now, and I really can't see spending money on something like that for myself. It's also the reason I haven't had a haircut in a really long time.

These are only a few memories I've been battling through, there are many more. My past is littered with things like this, small things that show Dani viewed me as a slave—something beneath a human-being. My own mother, a person that was suppose to love, cherish, and protect me. It's one of the biggest things I struggle with. Coming to terms with the fact that just because she is my mother, doesn't make Dani a perfect person. In fact she hide behind the title of mother and parent, but she was neither and I get to live with that. I get to live knowing my mom hated me for some unknown reason. When I wasn't being abused I was being bullied, because these things are something a bully would do. If a child did these things to another child we would call them a bully, that is who my mom is. A bully.

#StopBullying #Bullies #AdultBullies #ChildAbuse #Abuse #BadMom

~Jax~

Therapy Sucks, So Do It!

Yep, it sure does. Therapy is the most shittiest thing I've ever undertaken. It strips you down, bares the raw ugly. You cry, you relive the past, start to question your life and if the therapy is really working. You suffer doubt like never before, and you start to come to terms that not everything you thought—what you thought was normal—isn't normal at all. In most cases your idea of normal is really messed up, and your way of thinking is even more distorted. See are brought before all the awful in your life, it's paraded out in front of it.

AND. . . It's worth every awful, sucky moment. It's worth the hard work, the mental struggles, the tears, and the pain. Therapy is the shitty conflicted middle of a great story with a contently ever after.

The first day I walked into my therapist office I was hopeful. Relieved, even. No more suffering for me. No more of battling day in and day out to survive, the reinforcements were here. I was ready! The disillusion that I would show up, talk and then everything would be better in my life was taking away the pressure of my anxiety. Compared to what I lived through therapy was going to be easy.

Yeah, no.

Don't get me wrong, I felt great for the first few months. Every week I went to see my therapist, I talked, she listened. Gauging my emotional range, my thought patterns, ect. She offered advice here and there. Nothing major. Then the work began. My therapist became more involved in our sessions, asking me questions. Saying things that made me look at my life—the world—my thoughts—differently. It was a new perspective I wasn't used to, and my head did not like it. In fact, it rebelled.

Six months in to almost a year I was miserable. Not sleeping, nightmares, awful thoughts. I had serious bouts of awful depression, everything seemed to trigger me and old memories I never wanted to deal with popped up randomly. Honestly, more than once I wanted to stop. It didn't feel like anything was getting any better, instead I felt worse. There were long stretches of depression brought on by reclaimed memories, and exhaustion from battling my evil mental self. I thought, “I'm worse. Everything is worse. Therapy, what's the point.”

I forced myself to go, every week, every other week. Have there been days I've canceled because I haven't felt up to it?

Yes.

I've canceled because I don't see the point in therapy, which is an old thought from my family that believes therapy is for the weak. Well, I have news for them. Therapy is fucking hard!

Not everyone can go through therapy, it's a journey. Like a fictional story, there are ups, downs, loop-to-loops, cliffs, waterfalls, and so much more. It's a pilgrimage to a better life that isn't happy, because lets face it do you really want to be happy all the time? That would be exhausting. It's about finding balance and contentment.

Therapy sucks, yes. It's not for the weak or faint of heart, it's for survivors—for warriors—that strive for betterment, and once your on the other side you can see how the pain is worth it. The rewards are in-measurable.

For example, two Saturday's ago I had my first panic attack in over two years. At first I saw it as a defeat, but no. It's a lesson. I have triggers, I will always have triggers but I was strong enough to test my boundaries without second guessing myself. I went into the small store that was crowded to see if I could fight through the anxiety. I did for awhile, but in the end it was too overwhelming. Now, I know where my challenge line is, AND I was quick to recover from the event. I didn't shut myself away all weekend. Nope! I was out and about later that day, not hidden from the world.

WIN!

Then there is something that took place a few weeks back. I cut a toxic friend out of my life. Instead of keeping myself in an exhausting and draining relationship I pushed past my fear (I'm always afraid of having no one to hang with or a friend close by). I realized our friendship wasn't serving me at all. Cass, my friend, would take from me everything. She exploited our friendship, and by remaining friends with her it was doing damage to me and to her. She needed it pointed out that what she was doing isn't right. So I broke things off, and honestly I felt great afterwards. Best part, I feel no guilt. I wasn't even upset when she acted like a four year old and bashed me online, and screamed that I attacked her (verbally), which I didn't. I simply wrote her a message outlining why I wasn't able to be friends with her any longer. How it was hurtful to the both of us.

Two years ago, hell a year ago, I would have never been able to do any of that. Or if I did it would have been a major traumatic event filled with shame, guilt, and regret. Today I sit here writing this and I feel none of those things, because I know I matter. My feelings matter, and I have a right to be content, unburdened, and not stressed. I have a right to cut toxic people out of my life because I'm worth better. Being an abuse victim, and living through what I have makes this is all very major. . . like supernova major!

I would have never made it to this point without therapy. Sucky, difficult, shitty therapy. It pushed my limits, helped me work through my past—my trauma—and all the damage other people have done to me. Therapy gave me, me back. A person I was unfamiliar with, but I love her now. I still have a lot of work to do in therapy, but looking back to a year ago—seeing the awful state I was in compared to now—Yeah, therapy is worth every painstaking moment. I encourage everyone to try it, even if only for a little while. It's worth breaking your destructive and negative self-cycles, and you can do it. You guys are already warriors for being here. Never stop fighting!

#Survivor #Warrior #Abuse #SelfPower #Depression #AnxietyWarrior

~Jax~

Savage Sister: Abused By A Child

At a young age I had one dream, it was the same thing I wished for every year when I blew out my birthday candles. It's the one thing I asked Santa for every Christmas as long as I believed in him. I wanted a family, a real family—a close family—the type where I could talk to my mom about anything. Where I had a brother or sister and we were super super close. The type where we all took care of each other, and even though we had our differences all of us would come together in a time of need.

I was 9 when I stopped wishing for this. The reality of what I actually had was as good as it was going to get, and I tried to make the best of it. Which in my world meant I let my family use me for whatever they wished, and complained the least I could. Holding onto the hopeful ideal that we could all grow into the family of my dreams.

When you think about it I had, in some sense, what I wanted. I had a mom, who liked to abuse me and let her husband do whatever he wanted to me. A stepfather, who reminded me daily I wasn't his child and would never be apart of his family. A brother, who I loved and often got a long with, but if I made him cry his father would come down on me. Also a sister, the baby of the family. I like to think of her as my arch nemesis, there really isn't any redeeming quality about my sister. From a young age she was a royal pain in the ASS!

I know, it sounds like I am being a jealous or annoyed older sister but hear me out. Most of you already know the double standards that went on in my childhood, and Sam benefited the most from it. While my brother was laid back and went with the flow, Sam. . . Well, you know that kid in school that was an awful person just to be an awful person. That sums up my sister.

Here are some examples of her behavior before she even reached the second grade.

-Hitting me while I'm napping and then getting me yelled at for yelling at her to stop, because she was board.

-Turning off our brother's video game right in the middle of a level because he won't play with her.

-Hiding toys in my bed and telling our mother I stole them from her.

-Crying to her father that I yelled at her when I didn't, which then got me in trouble.

-Hitting herself to make a mark when she often got mad at me, then running to her dad so I would get in big trouble.

The list goes on, and like I said this was all before she reached the second grade. I often had her screaming at me that her father would put me in jail (he was a cop), or—the most hurtful thing she's ever said to me—“You don't have a dad because no one loves you.”

Fat, stupid, idiot, dumb-ass, loser, faggot—just a few names she called me, and here is the worst part of all this. I wasn't allowed to fight back.

If I told on her I got in trouble for being a tattle-teller. If I called her a name back or told her to knock it off, I got in trouble for trying to boss her around. If I told her to shut up, or hit her—yes I did try to hit her a few times because I was a kid and that stuff happens—I got in even more trouble because she would run and tell her dad. Who would in turn yell at our mom, and then would yell and punish me.

By the time I reached the magic 13 I learned to ignore her the best I could. I took her verbal and physical abuse like I did with the adults. Sometimes it would anger her even more and she would grab my arm and dig her nails in until I would bleed, or find an object to hit me with. She even threatened and abused my animals. My stuff. . . yeah, nothing was safe from Sam's rage. I lost count how many stuffed animals she disemboweled, or dolls she ripped the heads off. The number of CD's she snapped in half and tapes she has unraveled in furry over my ignoring her. Frankly there was no ignoring Sam. I lived in terror and anger at my sister, and our mother's lack of care over the situation resulted in pent up rage on my part.

Often, my anger at Sam was so intense I had dreams of strangling her. I know, this makes me look awful, but it's true (that's all I'll ever give here. The truth). As a teenager, with raging hormones and repressed anger, I dreamed almost nightly about strangling my sister. How messed up is that?

But it kept me from yelling at her, calling her names, and hitting her when I often wanted to

Why am I recalling all this?

Well, I was watching a clip of little kids overreacting to life and it triggered a bunch of hurtful memories between me and my sister.

Our relationship was not what I wanted between us, and I tried through everything to have a close and loving bond with her. It never worked. Even through my rage at her actions and abuse, I held onto the hope of her growing out of it—of us becoming real sisters. I'm sad to say it never happened. I cut her out of my life because I don't need manipulative, nasty people in my life. She is also one of my top abusers. Yeah, a kid nearly seven years younger abused the shit out of me. Laugh if you want, but it's true and it happens a lot more often than people want to believe.

Today a memory popped into my head while watching the clip. It was at one of my sister's birthday parties, a bowling party. Man do I love to bowl, so a party was awesome. I was there, so was my brother, along with my sister and all her girlfriends. When it came time to set up lanes and what not Sam got pissed off. She started pouting and crying, and hiding in the bathroom. One of her classic tantrums.

After a long while Dani managed to get her out of the bathroom and sat her down demanding to know what was wrong. She yelled, at the top of her lungs, “I don't want Jackie to bowl!”

Dani said, “she's not going to bowl with you girls. She will be on her own lane with your brother, ect.”

Sam: “No! I don't want her to bowl at all! I hate her!”

I hadn't done a single thing to her. In fact I had been too busy helping Dani set up for the party that day. Things like putting out the table clothes, making sure we had enough plates for pizza and cake. Seeing all the gifts get to the right table, and all the guests get their gift bags. Basically, catering to my sister's every need for her party. Dani, told her what she said wasn't nice, but Sam still refused to take part in her own party if I got to bowl. Needless to say I didn't bowl that day, but more to the point I was destroyed. Missing out on bowling wasn't that bad, I could always go over the weekend with my friends but my sister's words. . . those cut deep. I feel them to this day. It wasn't the first time she said she hates me, that was actually a daily statement, but up till this point I ignored it. Played it off as her unusual rage and anger which always seemed to be present with her. That day, however, I realized how much she really, truly hated me. There I was, made to feel like the outsider at a party by my own sister. I sat there and watched everyone enjoy themselves. I was left alone at the table with empty pizza plates and drinks as everyone else, adults included, bowled.

It was from that point on I realized how much of a shitty person I was, or rather believed I was. My own family hated me, and in my brainwashed state people weren't hated for no reason. So this had to be all my fault. I now know that it wasn't my fault my family treated me like the purple sheep with a mock-hawk and piercings in the family. It was them. A bunch of narcissistic control freaks. They are insecure about themselves, and all the craziness of the things going on around them, they needed to put someone down. That someone happened to be. I was the easy target, easy to blame, easy to shame, and easy to abuse. I realize this now because I'm healing, my mental state is improving, but it still hurts. The pain is there, and I still grieve for the close bonds I will never have. I cry and mourn for my failed childhood dream of a family, but honestly. . . I'm better off without them.

#SavageSister #SiblingAbuse #QueenOfTheHouse

~Jax~

Best Anniversary Gift

It's been awhile, a lot has happened. Mainly around the house. We got a new furnace put in, which lead us to wanting to make some changes downstairs, and has now turned into a slight overhaul of our basement. Anyone that owns their own home knows what I'm talking about. Despite all the chaos going on right now I wanted to share something. This is something I have been wanting to sit down and write since it happened, but I haven't had the chance until now.

A few weeks ago it was the 11th anniversary of the day I met my husband. That weekend was already insane, what with a birthday party, and a girls' day planned the day before. Still we like to make the day nice. I know it's not our wedding anniversary but it's special to us, as it would be to two people that thought there were destined to be alone in life.

Things were going good. We met with my friends for their daughter's birthday lunch request, and afterward we went to the humane society to hold kittens. What else could make a day more perfect, right?

After we parted ways with my friend and her family we headed home for a little relax before we headed out to do some errands, and that's where shit went all wrong!

I was tired—exhausted—from all the peopling I was doing, but I was fighting through it because I didn't want to have a negative day on our anniversary. My husband had other plans. When we got home he started a conversation, that lead into a debate, that lead into a mild argument for the next two hours. Before he even opened his mouth I was already at my limit, but still I humored him on his little rant. See my husband is someone that needs to talk it out, everything, anything. He's a very logically guy with an intelligent and scientific approach to things. It's a nice to have in a relationship. Very few fights in the 11 years we've been together, but sometimes it's also annoying as piss. This was one of those times.

To sum up what happened, the night before I took one of those silly internet quizzes. “See if you can answer these questions that special FBI agents have to answer.” I got them all right because I watch wayyy too many crime documentaries. When I asked my husband if he wanted to take it, he was game. We often take these quiz things together, a fun little thing we do. I wasn't expecting any problems, but question two had other plans. He said the wording of the second question made it impossible to answer correctly (he had trouble figuring it out, which I have since found out many have had trouble with that question), while I stated you had to use the information in the question and the accompanying picture to get the correct answer. He still stated that even with the picture the wording of the question made it impossible to answer correctly.

I shrugged and said, “fine, whatever it's just a silly test thing. Maybe I got it right because my brain thinks differently.” Meaning I lived a messed up life, and I see the darker side of people. Not a good thing but it has it's benefits.

Over 20 hours later he was still hung up on the fact I saw nothing wrong with how the question was worded, and I didn't understand where he had the problem with the wording. He explained his perspective, and I humored him and explained mine. That's how our disagreements go, we state our different standpoints and then work from there. Thing is he wasn't budging on his point of view, and I wasn't going to relent mine (that is something I would do often in my life before therapy). Half way through the two hour back and forth I tried to end the debate with a simple, “let's agree to disagree. You have you're view point of this question, I have mine.”

It wasn't the end of things. In fact the simple debate quickly escalated from there because I was growing more exhausted and hungry at this point, and my husband would not let me end the matter. He went on, and I started getting pissed off. It was our anniversary, I had made it through the rough part of the day, and all I wanted was to have a nice evening with my husband. Instead he was going on and on about a STUPID question. One he got wrong, so it made this whole thing seem like him trying to save his wounded pride. Which pissed me off even more because I couldn't believe he was being so ridiculous.

Finally, I just said, “Enough!” I got pissy, I stopped talking, and began to shutdown as we went out to finish our errands.

This is the point where I would sit, staring out the window while he drives, stewing and turning my anger inward. Punishing myself—hating myself. Why? Because I see my husband as the most wonderful person in the world. I feel lucky to have him tolerate me because people in my past never did. Also, I've been brainwashed to think everything is always my fault. I'm wrong, I'm bad. . . I'm an awful human being, and I have no right to feel anger at someone far superior to me.

That didn't happen. For once in my life I let the anger stew instead of turning inward on myself. I sat there and thought—really thought—about the conversation we just had, and how insane it was. A random question, on a silly internet quiz. . . why? I mean, am I alone in seeing the nuttiness of this?

The more I thought about it with a rational mind, again another first for me, the more upset I got at my husband until we returned home. I had made up my mind in the car that if he asked me if I was okay, or if I was upset, ect. I was going to let him have it. Something I've never done. Sure enough he asked me a question, and I did what I had made up my mind to do.

I let it all out.

There were tears, out of aggravation more than anything else, and I did raise my voice. I flat out said, “What the hell, man? Why do you care about a stupid question so much? You ruined our special day over a silly, meaningless question and I tried everything I could to get you to drop it. I was understanding, and let you rant on about it but this is too much. Now I'm pissed at you. You ruined the day I was trying so damn hard to make pleasant.”

From here I expected the same reaction I always got in the past. A yelling match, a fight to the bitter end, and me tucking tail and giving in out of pure exhaustion. That didn't happen. Honestly, I was shocked by my husband's response. Humbled, sadden, and deeply regretful he said he was sorry and admitted he was being stubborn (understatement).

Standing there shocked by his reaction, he went on to ask me what I wanted from our night. If this whole thing hadn't happened, what did I hope to do. I told him I wanted to go out to dinner and sit and simply be together with him. He hugged me, tight as hell, and said “then we'll do that.”

It was in that moment, stunned by my husbands acceptance of my anger, that I started to understand all the things my husband and therapist have been trying to telling me through the years. I matter, my anger is valid. More than anything I realized my husband isn't going anywhere.

For me I've felt my relationship is a waiting game—a test—how far can I push him until he gets tired of me. How much of my shit will he put up with before he runs away screaming. . . where is his limit with my bullshit (I believe myself to be an impossible burden). Because that's what I'm used to, people turning away from me.

That day, though, I actually believed what he often tells me, “I'm not going anywhere. No matter what. You're my everything, and I love you.”

It took me 11 years to trust that declaration, but I have more faith in him than I ever did before. I trust him wholly. It's the most priceless gift he could have given me on our anniversary.

#Anniversary #Lovers #BestHusbandEver #MyHero #GreatestGiftEver

~Jax~

I Want To Burn Myself

I'm having a bad way of things this week. Between dreams, lack of sleep, my medication, and work I'm overwhelmed and swimming in depression. I should be happy. I should be dancing around and excited it's Friday. Tomorrow we have plans to go to a local farmers market, get some awesome ice cream, have amazing food but all I feel is awful. Awful isn't even the right word for what has come over me. Right now, at the very moment I'm typing this, tears are rolling down my face and I have no idea why. I can't hold back, there's no stopping them. I'm not thinking any one thought that should be making me cry, but here I am. Crying. Hurting.

Which only makes me feel worse about myself—weak—pathetic. Terms I use often to yell at myself mentally because growing up crying wasn't allowed. Dani couldn't handle tears, I think they made her feel guilty. If I cried first she tried to smooth in a soft voice for all of three seconds. After that didn't work came the yelling, name calling, berating comments. She doesn't need to be here for me to feel awful about crying, I do it to myself now. Not that I want to make myself feel worse. That's not something I need any help doing, but it's a programmed response I live with. It's in the very fiber of my being and I can't turn it off.

It's at these moments, when I'm sinking under the waves and welcomed into the deep blues of shadows, that I want to reach out. I need to write about this stuff and post it, but I don't. I'm too ashamed, and like many people with depression I get a sense I'm being a bother to everyone. I'm fully expecting to post this and get eye-rolls from people saying, “Oh god, here she goes again. Can't this girl move on from this shit?”

Problem is, I can't. Moving on—living a real life—that would be ideal, but I can't. I'm not using the “I can't” as a grounds to hold myself back, I really can't. There is too much, the pain runs too deep. I called this blog Scars From Mom, but really nothing has scarred over yet. It's still all bleeding—festering in the depths of my being. Nothing has dulled, the stings are still fresh.

Currently I'm at a stand still in my life. I'm wandering around in circles and can't find my way out. People tell me how jealous they are of my life—of my abilities—how talented I am. I hate when people say that because it makes me feel even worse, like I don't appreciate what I have. I know that's not what they mean, and it's good to hear compliments I'm just not used to them. All week I haven't felt talented, skilled, lucky. . . Right at this moment I have the thought stuck in my head that I'm the biggest failure in the world. Everything I've ever tried to do I come up short, and it's simply fulfilling my mother's ideals that what I like to do will never bring me success.

Do I like drawing, yes. I used to enjoy it very much, I could lose an entire day sketching. When I pick up my pencil I'm in my own little world, beautiful, lively, and all mine. Not anymore. Now when I pick up a pencil or open a file I think of all those artist infinitely better than me. People that are able to dedicate themselves more heavily to their passion. People who have followers that pay to see their work, buy their prints, and share the crap out of their work. Artist that have fan bases who love what they do. I've been drawing and sharing my work for two decades and I don't have that. I make next to no money for my hard-work because I'm uncomfortable with my skill level, and awkward about charging clients what I should. I don't have fans willing to tip me, or pay to see exclusive content. Dani was right, I will never make any money with art.

I do other things, sure. I make jewelry that no one buys, and little crystal and wire trees. I've created coloring book pages no one really buys either. I write books that never go anywhere because I'm too scared to do proper marketing, and wasted my money on people that took advantage of my timid nature. Leaving me with nothing. I can't put together two sentences without feeling crushing defeat.

I paint, sew, garden, cook and yet I feel so damn useless. So worthless that as I was cooking breakfast this morning I wanted to lay my arm against the burning hot pan. I wanted to feel something other than this misery and physical pain was my first choice. I didn't, so don't worry but the thought is still lingering away in my head. I still want to burn myself, a quick thought of taking a serrated knife to my wrists crossed my mind. Just a thought, not an impulse to do. Yes, I'm currently having suicidal thoughts, but I'm no where near the point I would actually try. If I was I have people I will call.

Today, I'm sick of trying. . . I'm tired of keeping my head above water and looking back to see little to no progress. I'm sick of being sick—mentally—physically. I don't want to take any more pills, I don't want to put on one more fake smile. I don't want to be pleasant so people don't see how awful I am inside. My mind is in turmoil and my body heavy with distress. I don't know what to do with myself, what do you do with a useless pile of shit?

#Depression #SelfHarm #IWantToBurnMyself #Struggling #Failure #Loser

~Jax~

Fingernail Ridges

Ugh, two days this week with shitty dreams. To be fair just about every night I have shitty dreams, but I'm talking about the ones that have extended effects on me and my day. Last night was another round of bullshit. Didn't help that I stayed up wayyyy too late waiting on my husband to come to bed. I can't fall asleep most nights unless he is in bed with me. A nasty side-effect of a bank robbery I was taken captive in. Not something I'm proud of, but there you have it.

When I woke up this morning I already felt tired as shit, could barely stay awake long enough to get my husband's stuff ready for work. Before he even left I was right back to sleep, couldn't keep my eyes open for nothing. You would think with the amount I sleep I would feel amazing. WRONG!

It's like I didn't sleep at all. Instead my whole body feels dry, tired, and strung out like I pulled an all nighter back in college. I've felt better coming off a major project that kept me up for 37 hours straight. This is what it's like for people like me—for those of us suffering from past trauma, depression, anxiety, PTSD, ect. We sleep more than average but we never get any rest. You should see me when I'm in the throws of restless sleep for a few days. I look like death, my brain can't function. Simple tasks are near impossible, and my moods are on a hair trigger. That doesn't even account for the body aches, like right now, at this very moment. My neck, back, shoulders all ache and my right boob is killing me! I think I slept on it wrong, or you know it hurts because I'm a female and I have boobs.

One of the things I hate most about these restless periods is I can't control the anxiety. Pushing down irrational thoughts is futile when your tired and worn out. There's no energy left to stop the irrational ramblings, so I find myself doing stupid shit when I should be working on projects. Yep, like this morning I wasted an hour thinking there is something wrong with my thumbnail because it had a ridge in it. The first half of the hour was spent wondering if I always had it and just couldn't remember, while the second half was spent worrying if it meant I had some kind of weird affliction.

Wonderful way to spend my time.

I've moved passed that now and am focusing on what the dream was that is causing me so much stress. For the life of me I can't remember. . . perfect. How can I address the source of my problem if I can't remember what it is, so that's were I am right now.

Too tired to work on anything productive. Don't want to sleep despite the fact I need it, because then I won't be able to get to sleep tonight. Stressed because something upset me, and annoyed because I don't know what it is. Not to mention freaked out because my anxiety is running wild and telling that the discomfort in my elbow isn't from working at my computer late last night, and is instead some serious medical condition. All while thinking I have breast cancer because my boob hurts.

Just a little insight into what it's like for people that suffer from mental illness. This is what we battle every damn day. Some days we rock it, and others. . . well we spend an hour obsessing over nail ridges.

#Anxiety #Depression #PTSD #ShowCompassion #EmotionalExhaustion #BeSupportive #MentalHealthWarrior

~Jax~

Friendships That Kill

I've been trying since I woke up to get work done. I have illustration requests piling up and I need to get sketches out, but no matter how hard I try I can't. My mind is elsewhere, and while some aspects of illustrations I can do with a distracted mind, sketching is not one of them. To create something out of nothing, turn lines into artwork, it takes brain power. An anxious mind makes it impossible. Instead of fighting it any longer I'm going to write about it. Get this feeling out into the world, and hopefully I can save what is left of my day.

Yesterday was my therapy session, and sometimes I come away feeling amazing. I walk out of the office with a different perspective, I see life in a new way, and all is good for the next two weeks until my next visit. Other times I come out feeling so-so. Not good, not bad, if anything I have some serious food for thought, but yesterday was one of those rare days when I leave feeling blah. It could be the nasty wet weather we're having that has put me into a yucky mood. Whatever it was I wasn't feeling like a go-getter when I left yesterday. I was just *shrugs.*

It wasn't until this morning I realized why I didn't feel oh-so-good when I left. One thing that happens in therapy, and on the path to mental healing, is shit gets ugly. I mean, washed-out road, mud-slide, you just got fucked by a falling tree, ugly. Things come up you never wanted to touch on or remember, but that's what works. Turning up that messed up stuff—seeing it—feeling it, and learning to move on afterward. Very easier said than done. Trust me, I'm living it. Healing is not for the faint-hearted. It's a battle—an epic battle that no one else can see you waging. Every step is a victory, and every stumble feels like you got thrown off a cliff.

What has me worked up today? What battle am I fighting?

A dream—I feel like a broken record saying that, and I'm really starting to hate sleeping because of the stuff that pops up. Dreams are the way your head works through things, it's how it figures out the turmoil we sometimes avoid. Last night I had a dream that brought up an extremely sour subject for me. I work up around four in the morning with tears in my eyes. That's extreme for me. I hide my reactions to things well, too well in fact. When I wake from something awful I don't let any outward signs show, I hold it back. It's not till later when I realized how much the dream has effected me that I let my husband know, or allow him to see the side-effects. So waking up crying, BIG deal.

That goes to show how deep the pain runs on this subject, and now you're all probably wondering what it is. Most people know part of my past with verbal abuse, neglect, sexual assaults, but it was none of that.

What then? What was it that brought me to tears this morning?

Being forgotten—left out—off stage in the shadows while people I called friends laughed, joked, and at times mocked me while singling me out for their own amusement. People I willingly brought into my life causing me pain on a level that causes me suffering till this day. I'm tearing up now writing about it.

Growing up we moved a lot. Two years was the max I stayed in any one school till I got to the tenth grade. Friends have always been a sore subject for me, I've lost so many to distant and my mother's selfish-desires. I was so desperate to make friends in every new place that I often came off like a hyper-active chihuahua on speed. Here and there I made friends, nice kids that were okay to me. Better than my family at least. Most of them were annoyed by personality and I was picked on a lot. . . I mean ALOT! To the point I became the walking joke in every school I went to.

The knives in my back from people I called friends, well I could start my own cutlery shop. It's not wholly their fault, by the time they came into my life I was used to being a doormat. It's where I feel comfortable, with mud on my back. I didn't realize, however, how awful people could be until I reached high school. The transition for me from ninth to tenth grade was. . . tragic. I see that switch as the point I gave up—the very moment I threw my hands up and said, “I give. I can't do this anymore. . . I'm tired of fighting it.” Because no matter how hard I kicked or screamed, argued, rebelled my entire world was working against me. I resigned myself to fate.

When I started at my new high school I didn't rush to make friends, hell I didn't even care. I went from class to class doing what I had to. At lunch I sat at a table and ate a lone, or did classwork. I didn't fucking care, what was the point? I was going to lose those friends anyways, I was going to have to go to a knew school. My happiness didn't matter to Dani. There was nothing left in me to want to try, but like with every new school I did make a friend. Then I made another friend, and even more friends until I had a small group.

At first we were all nice to each other, we laughed, had a good time at lunch and in class, but like all things, that changed. I'm not sure when it changed, but it did. High school was pretty okay, it wasn't ideal by any standards, it was between 18 and 22 I had problems. What started as a solid group of friends turned ugly.

We are all going along, doing our thing—college, work, hanging out—then I'm on the outside looking in. I get off work after a long shift (most of us worked at the same restaurant) and call up my buddies to see what's happening for the night, and they are at a club. No one thought to say word one to me. No one thought to ask if I wanted to go, even though they knew I wanted to go dancing. Nothing. Of course if it had been one of them at work the group would have waited, and have waited for them to get off so we could go out. It wouldn't be ab-normal for me to be sitting at home, bored, waiting for my friends to get off work. No call when they said they were getting off, but being the person I am I wait a little. You know, because no one gets off when they say they are going to. Shifts can run long. An hour later I call one of their cell phones, they are out having a good time at a place five minutes from my house. No text message, no call to come meet them even-though we had plans. . . nothing.

I know what you're all saying to yourself s, “well they aren't your friends then.”

You have to understand, they were all I had. At home Dani was being more and more verbally abusive, at work my bosses walked all over me, and all I had was the time I spent with my friends between the two places. I was so desperate I would take any scrap of attention, and they played off it. My ex-boyfriend, especially. Him, and his boyfriend were probably the instigators of most of it, what they called 'light teasing' or a 'joke' destroyed me. You can't say whatever hurtful thing you want and add, “just kidding” to make it okay. It's not okay! I have wounds over this that hurt me more than any of the sexual assaults I have survived.

To sit there, wondering if your friends are alright because they are late or you haven't heard from them. Only to get a call full of laughs, giggles, and cheers because they are out having a good time without you, is shattering. To add more salt to a festering wound, when I would express my anger over what happened they judged me—ridiculed me—and shamed me for being upset. What?! They didn't venture of a thought my way—didn't think twice about me. How would that make you feel to know you didn't even cross their minds. . . no one is thinking of you. . . you don't matter to them. . . you just don't matter. It strikes deeper than I can describe with words. It's one of those experiences I wish on no one, ever. The wounds something like this creates. . . well you've heard of the rise of suicide among teens due to bullying. This is a form of bullying. Things like this drive people to kill themselves.

In this dream last night I was at a diner, having a lonely meal. When in walks my group of friends from high school, you know who you are. Laughing, carrying on and my brother and sister are there, because my mind can't screw with me enough. No one even looks my way as they pass by. Not a single one of them notice me, alone. . . eating. When they do finally notice me I get sneers, and no one asks me to join them. Instead they laugh at my heart-broken expression—they find joy in my pain. I have to leave the diner because I don't want them to see me cry, and I know I'm going to cry. I told myself a long time ago no one would ever see that side of me. . . tears are for the weak, but I do cry over this. It's raining outside, I lost my car keys and can't leave. Outside everything is in shades of blue, while inside there are warm reds and happy faces. Pulling up the hood of my sweater I cross my arms around myself and start to walk home. The tears fall with each step, and I try to tell myself, “I'm walking home because it will be good for me. Even though it's impossibly far and it's late at night.” Because I can't face the fact that no one is there for me. . . I have no one.

When I woke up the feeling stuck with me, the pain fresh and throbbing. I'm hurting now from the memories, and realizing how little I mattered to them. I gave them my all, let them in when I had every caution in my life not to, and yet again I became the walking joke. The bitter bitch, when I expressed my hurt at their hands. I was mocked, laughed at, and judged, by friends—by my life-lines. No wonder I wanted to die back then, what did I have to live for?

Things are different for me now. I have a few friends in my life that I can proudly call friend. They don't leave me out in the cold, and I have distanced myself from those in my past. I don't want to associate with people the bring up awful memories. It's my right not to have them in my life, but it doesn't stop the memories. Or the phantom emotions that drag me into dark waters. A word of advice to everyone, be kind. Just because you think something is a joke, or you do something in the name/spirit of humor, doesn't make it right. Your words and actions effect the people around you. Take notice, and never leave anyone out in the cold. There is enough of us out here that need to brought in.

#BeKind #Friendless #FriendEnemies #Betrayal #MeanSpirit #Alone

~JAX~

P.S.

To the people this entry is in reference to. Screw you. I was your support and your legs when you needed it, and just because I came off strong didn't mean I didn't need support in return. You turned me down when I reached for help, and vilified me when I was suffering at your hands. I hope the world is as cruel to you as you were to me.

(What, I'm a writer not a saint.)