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~