Left Out

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

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

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

Have you ever felt left-out?

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

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

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

Talk about suspense building!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, no cake even?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~Jax~

#LonelyChild #CruelMom #Abuse #Devastation #MakeItStop

Scars From Mom-Book

I've been having some crappy mom dreams the last two days, and instead of allowing it to spiral my mood downward. I've been responding by working on my book outline. Venting through my writing on a bigger level. The thing about my dreams that always hits the hardest is my voice is stifled. In some I'm yelling at Dani so much I no longer have a voice. The main theme is I'm voiceless, unheard. So working on this book helps by knowing I will be heard. One way or another. I'm going to scream about the things forced upon me. The life I survived. Mother be damned. 

As I worked on the outline this afternoon I see the chapter headers and general info laid out and think, "Damn. . . DAMN, just a year of my upbring is more messed up than Jerry Springer special."  

Here are the first 30 chapter titles. They speak volumes on their own. 

Women’s Conference

Chapter 1 (Being laughed out for my depression and beliefs)

Life of The Party

Chapter 2 (Young Party Mom)

First Heartbreak

Chapter 3 (Bring ripped away from Nana)

Shitty Green Carpets

Chapter 4 (Sleeping on Motel Room floors (1st sexual abuse))

A1

Chapter 5

(Our apartment the contained hell)

The Girl In Fourth Grade

Chapter 6 (Second sexual abuse encounter)

Trust Mother

Chapter 7 (New brother and sister, no marriage, I mysteriously get sick after eating at moms)

Pennsylvania 

Chapter 8 (Moving 3,000 miles away from family.)

Alone In the Dark

Chapter 9 (Left alone, outside the room and family)

Our Family, Our Business

Chapter 10 (Beaten into keeping my mouth shut about abuse)

The Academy

Chapter 11 (Stepdad goes to the State Police Academy, becomes more of an ass)

The Year I Can’t Remember

Chapter 12 (Major sexual abuse/rape. 1st time I think about suicide. I was 10)

A Cry For Help

Chapter 13 (I tell the school something sexually awful happened to me. Mom allowed a doctor to rape me to prove otherwise)

Another Move

Chapter 14 (We move from that school district when they start asking too many questions. Now I know not to say anything.)

Hello Dad

Chapter 15 (Meet my dad and mom tells me he hates me.)

Split

Chapter 16 (Mom and stepdad split up, I become mom's lifeline to what sanity she has left)

I Understand

Chapter 17 (The kids start to get gifts, goodies, and more to help deal with their parents breaking up. Mom says I don't need that stuff bc she can't afford it. I tell her I understand. I don't though.)

Over the Mountain

Chapter 18 (Sam and Chet can do no wrong, we move again for them)

What Does She Look Like?

Chapter 19 (Mom avoided me for months while living in the same house. I forgot what she looked like for a long time.)

Blame Game

Chapter 20 (It's always my fault. Everything. Every. Last. Thing! My fault)

No Dreams For You!

Chapter 21 (Mom breaks me down. Tells me I'll never be anything because I'm fat and lazy)

The Chosen One

Chapter 22 (Samantha, the queen of the house. My sister is not just the baby of the family but the monarch)

A Scream For Help

Chapter 23 (I breakdown and cry in my mom's arms, telling her I don't know why I feel so upset all the time. She does nothing)

Dan

Chapter 24 (Sexually assaulted by mom's boyfriend.)

For A Mother’s Love

Chapter 25 (I refuse to press charges and when mom asks, I allow her to bring Dan back into the house)

The Limit

Chapter 26 (New school, sexually assaulted, living with abuser, mom degrading me more. I have nothing left)

The Art Life

Chapter 27 (I find comfort in art, and finally in online fantasy role playing.)

Fear of Fantasy

Chapter 28 (Mom doesn't like me role playing, she fears my creative nature, and bans me from all creative outlets. Art, computer, music, drawing, ect.)

Senior Year

Chapter 29 (It was hell, no one cared what I wanted. It was all about them.)

Another Move

Chapter 30 (God, I hope it's the last one.)

And that's all I got so far. There are still a lot more to go, probably another 20 chapters. Not sure yet, but damn. Isn't that enough?

#SurvivorTale #Abuse #SexualAbuse #BadMom

~Jax~

Lonely Mother's Day

My last post was fairly intense, to be fair I was pissed beyond rationale. Afterwards came the sadness, questioning my existence, ect. It was rough all the way around. I learned some very hard truths about my mother, her past, and how full of shit she really is.

However, this event—these things I’ve uncovered—have done something very positive for me. The last tether that has kept me clinging to Dani has been cut. Destroyed, blown to hell. I no longer have guilt when I think about her, and coming up on Mother’s Day that’s a big deal. This time of year I would generally be having a difficult time, fighting my shame and guilt over telling my mom to get lost. No matter what she put me through—what she’s done to me—I couldn’t shake the feeling of being an awful daughter. I still held onto the hope that maybe she wasn’t as bad as I remembered. Yeah, she was awful to me, but maybe not THAT awful. It’s an old thought pattern of mine, one Dani put into my head.

The thing that kept me bound to my mom—that held me trapped by her—was knowing she was a different person when I was a child. That for a few years things were good, or at least I thought there were. I can’t remember back that far, and I took Dani at her word. Then I started asking questions and found out she’s always been a piece of shit. It freed me, because I know there is no hope for her. No loving mother at any point in my life. She’s always been out for herself, and I can accept it. The evidence too clear to ignore.

This Mother’s Day there is no guilt or shame knowing I cut my mom from my life. The woman deserves a lot more than a simple “see ya”, but I am sad. In fact I’m hurting. My heart and soul aches to the point I’m not sure if I’m still alive. I’m not grieving over losing Dani, (fuck her) I’m grieving because I never had a real mother. I’ve never known that relationship, the care, or love. My father wasn’t around when I was growing up, and we have only now started to mend our relationship (this is all due to Dani pitting us against each other). But growing up I held onto the notation I had my mom—I had one parent—and to realize, at this stage, it was all an awful lie. That my family wasn’t different, there were completely messed the hell up, it strikes deep. I feel more lonely than ever this year. It’s as if I came from nothing, and I know there are people out there who will spin this as a positive.

Saying things like, “Look what you did without her,” “You raised yourself, be proud.” ect. But I never asked for that. The only thing I’ve ever wanted—since I was 4—I dreamed about a family, a loving mom I could talk and depend on. A fun father to guide me through life, and I had—I have none of that.

This Mother’s Day I’m grieving for all the things I never got to have. The standard that most people are born with, and it has pushed me to start writing a book about my mother, me, and all the awfulness in-between. It’s an extremely difficult process, I’m about half way through the outline, and for those interested it’s going to be named after this blog. Scar’s From Mom, is too fitting not to use. I’ll make sure to post updates and parts of my process as they come along. This book is going to be a fast write, but a horribly challenging one. I look forward to it.

For those of you with wonderful mothers, give them a hug for me, and for those like me. We’ll get through this together, honor yourself. Because you survived, but cry if you have to. There is no shame in it.

#AbusiveMom #Depression #PTSD #MothersDay #Grief

~Jax~

*Beep, Beep, Beep* Mother the Con-Artist!

I don't usually write a blog post and respond to things that happened right away. I like to give myself some time to chill, get the emotional stuff out and think it over. I'm used to measuring my responses, and being careful with what I say.

FUCK THAT!

I'm pissed. . . beyond pissed. Every freaking truth I've built my life on has been a FUCKING lie! But let me start at the beginning.

My mom, Dani, has shared with me stories about my father. They were great stories, even the ones where she claimed he was a bastard. I was a kid clinging to every word about a person I never met at the time. At first she used the stories as a way to settle the inquiry of a child curious about her father, and why he wasn't around. She told me how they met at Denny's, where she worked for years, and how they flirted. She talked about them selling insurance together, and how happy they were. How he named me Jacqulene, something unique and oh-so-different. Then they turned into a way for her to make me hate him, telling me about his parents hatting us because she came from a broken home. Dani told me how they ran her off, and kicked her out while she was pregnant with me. Things went south, my dad wanted an abortion, but Dani put her foot down and had me anyways. Dani made herself into a hero—my hero. That's what I thought for fucking years (yes I will be using a lot of fucks until I get it out of my system) up until just today. I allowed her to use the, I had you despite the burden, to guilt me into doing anything and everything! Now I find out none of it is true. Not a damn one!

Okay, back up. I'm getting ahead of myself.

After years of believing all this stuff about my father, and allowing Dani to turn it into this him vs us idea, I contacted him the same time I told Dani to fuck off. I sent him a similar letter detailing how my life has been a nightmare, I told him the truth. While he was off playing happy family with his wife and kid, I was suffering. I got a letter back, a very heartfelt letter back. I realized I never gave my father a chance. I met him a few times in my life, like three maybe five times, and each time it was very pleasant. He always seemed like an awesome guy, but I never gave him a chance because Dani always had these stories of him abandoning me. Not wanting me. . . Telling me I wasn't good enough to be apart of his family. I believed what my father said in his letter, because besides the stories Dani fed me, my dad had never been dishonest with me. Never. With the questions I asked as a child, ect, he has always been honest and straight forward with his answers. So when I sent him a letter earlier this month asking for what happened between him and my mom, asking the hard questions about me and if he ever wanted me, I believe everything he has to say in return. He didn't sugarcoat anything, he was straightforward and as far as I can tell, honest.

On the flip-side Dani's lied me to a lot through my life, over big things, little things. I trust her very little, my dad on the other hand has yet to give me a reason not to trust him. This letter I got back, I know it was tough for him to write, mind FUCKING blowing for me.

I know, I shouldn't be too surprised about anything Dani did or might do. My therapist has told me time and again how she's a narcissist and borderline, but until you see it—until you are face to face with the lengths someone is willing to go to—your mind doesn't fully accept it. My mother is a con-artist, a criminal, a lying bitch that doesn't care who she destroys as long as she gets what she wants.

First off, my parents did not meet how she said they did. Yes, they met at Denny's but my father never lived in California like she said. My dad did not flirt with her, in fact his boss flirted with her and hooked them up. He also never sold insurance, like she said. They were never in love. Instead my mother purposely got pregnant to rope my dad into marrying her. They didn't even have a serious relationship, it was a causal thing where they went out once or twice a week. She wanted someone to take care of her, so she mouthed off to girls at his work that she got pregnant on purpose to force him into marriage. My father was scared, and pissed (rightly so) but never confronted her about what his co-workers had told him. He kept this to himself because he didn't want problems between them, he was going to try and make this all work. He was going to take care of his child. She told him she couldn't have an abortion because her uterus was all messed up from an abortion she had before. Dani told me she didn't believe in abortion and never, EVER, has had or considered one. Also, to add some fuel to this fire, she DID go to see about having an abortion with me once she discovered my father wasn't going to marry her. She has used this, I had you despite the burden, guilt thing against me my whole damn life. I felt like a owed her and had to do everything to make her not think twice about having given birth to me. It was my father that didn't believe in abortion, which makes sense because he is really catholic, so this claim of him wanting the abortion never sat well with me.

When their jobs fell through my dad moved them into his parents until they got back on their feet, my dad worked while Dani sat on her ass all day wanting his mother to wait on her hand and foot. Yes, she was pregnant, but Dain always told me stories how she was a hard working single mom. That she worked up until the day before she had me waiting tables, bring in the money. I looked at her as a superhero because of this. Guess what, it's a LIE!

My dad's mom asked him to talk to Dani about it, see if she wouldn't mind at least helping out a little. Like folding clothes while she sat on her ass. Dani got pissed off and attacked my dad over it, things went from bad to worse and Dani wanted to go live with her mom. She wanted to move to California and stay there with family, so my dad bought her a plane ticket and tried to stay in touch with her. Dani, went on her way along with unborn me, AND my father's credit card and SSN. Which she used both to spend a considerable amount of money. This is why I'm certain she didn't work up until my birth, she was living the high life off my dad's credit. She did stay in touch with my dad for awhile, told him that she was giving me up for adoption which is fucking news to me. Do you know how many times I've wished Dani had put me up for adoption? Do you know how awful my childhood was that I wished like hell I lived anywhere else but with her? This adoption thing never came up in all the stories she told me about younger me, and how it was me and her against the world when I was born. Fucking lair!

Then she disappears from my father's radar. She up and vanishes just before giving birth. She didn't send any word to my father, nor told him where she moved to until years later when he got a letter from the California courts for child-support. My father responded by requesting a DNA test, which never bothered me. He had every right to want a DNA, even as a kid I never thought it was a big deal, just a fail-safe. Dani didn't see it that way. She doubled down on her, “your father hates you, you're not good enough, he's an awful man.” Which, as a child I believed. I really don't blame him for wanting a DNA test, even if their relationship wasn't casual better safe than sorry. Cover you ass people! Dani was clever with how she went about all this. We were living in Pennsylvania when she went after my father for child-support, but since I was born in California she was able to use their court system to cover her tracks. My father still couldn't find us, and he didn't have the money for a legal battle to get more information. I understand that, I truly do. I realize the courts and rules are there to protect people, but they really do more harm than good when it comes to father's rights. I see all too often and I don't even work within the legal system. So I don't fault him for any of this. I mean yeah, I'm slightly upset he didn't fight for me, but it's a very small anger. I know the deck was stacked against him. When we did have little meet-ups, my stepfather threatened my father, and Dani would often make time and dates for a meet-up my father couldn't make, then blame him.

So yeah. . . I'm pissed. No, this goes beyond pissed. Never in my life have I wanted to seek out my mother and yell, scream, and demand answers. Honestly, I'm not above driving the two hours to her work, marching into her very public office, and demanding to know the truth. I'm seething, which is out of character for me. Ask anyone that knows me in person, I don't show anger and I don't feel rage but today I do.

The one good thing that has come from this revelation is, I now feel NO attachment to Dani. I still had some guilt about cutting her out of my life, that maybe I was being too extreme. She did do the best she could with the life she was given. Fuck that! If anything I haven't done enough to get her out of my life. Her mental abuse still lingers in my head, but not anymore. I don't believe a damn thing she has ever said. I'm not the lazy loser she has made he out to believe I am. I am not pathetic, and there is nothing wrong with my creative mind. There is something wrong with her. I mean, shit. How do you deal with things like this. . . these insane atomic-bombs of truth?

Why would she do these things? For what fucking reason? Who does things like this?

I still had trouble seeing myself as having an awful childhood, or seeing my mom as a 100% bad guy, but today—now—I'm openly accepting her villainy. My childhood was fucked. . . beyond fucked, and how I turned out as the nice person I am, I have no damn clue. It's a mystery I don't have nor want the answer to. I'm done with Danielle Dabrowski, and her bullshit.

#MotherLies #Conartist #Abuse #ManipulativeMother

~Jax~

Mother On The Outside, Hag On The Inside

I spend a lot of time watching crime documentaries. I know, I know. Both my husband and therapist don't see it as a constructive or good way to spend my time, listening to a bunch of people talk about the awful things that happened to them. Triggers let and right, but I watch them for two reasons. 1. I think they are interesting and educational. 2. It's the way I look for answers my abusers can't or won't give me. Maybe if I understand the mind of people like my mother than I'll know why she did the things she did. So far it hasn't worked.

Anyways, that's not what this post is about.

I'm sitting here watching, Your Worst Nightmare, and it's an episode about a girl that was kidnapped and held for 3 months. In a rare moment there is a happy ending and the girl survives, grows up to have kids of her own and talks out about abuse, ect. On these shows you hear from the victim and the family and friends. This woman's mother was. . . she was amazing. Man, she fought for her daughter every second she was gone. Never gave up on her. I'm not saying that type of person is rare, I believe most mothers would be that way if their child was taken. I've seen it—witnessed it, and it got me thinking. That would never be my mom if I was the one kidnapped.

Okay, yeah. On the surface she would have acted concerned and try to find me, because it puts the spotlight on her. However, outside of the public eye she would have no concern for me—not a single worry. It's always been an act, and I know friends of my family are screaming right now. “No, not Danielle. She loves you. She would be so worried, she would turn over the world looking for her. She's such a wonderful person, so caring. You don't know what you're talking about!”

I get it, I understand where they are coming from because Dani would do those things since it wasn't any good, caring, loving parent would do. Behind closed doors the concern and worry would magically vanish. Once the limelight dimmed she wouldn't give two shits about me or my well being. Like all my thoughts I try to find evidence for or against my opinion, it's how I undo the twisted way of thinking Dani implanted into my head. That's when I started thinking back to one event.

Right after I got married and moved into my own house the bank I was working at got robbed, at gunpoint. I was taken hostage, a gun shoved into my side and stomach, and told to empty all the teller stations. The whole thing took over a minute. Seemed faster than that, but also longer. As I was the closest to the door when the men left, I was the one that had to get the key and lock the door per company procedure for robberies. They don't tell you in bank robbery training that when you do that the men are only feet from you outside, a thin glass door the only thing between the two of you. It was. . . devastating, but ask any of my co-workers or boss who was there, and they will tell you I was stoic. I cried a little, but after that nothing shook me. We processed everything like we were suppose to, talked with the cops and FBI, and then closed down the bank. Our bosses had us contact our family to make sure all these people didn't come swarming to the bank worried about us.

I told my husband very little on the phone (didn't want him to worry about me), started with the most important information. Said I was okay, unharmed and to stay at work. I would have felt so damn guilty if he left work early for me. Then I called my mom because she lived 15 minutes from the bank, and news travels fast in small towns. Dani wasn't worried or anything. She just said, “well you're fine. But stop by after work. We'll all go to the fair to take your mind off things (she wanted me to pay to get everyone in bc she was out of money), and you shouldn't be driving all shook up.”

I agreed because being with family sounded good after what happened. After closing the bank I headed over to my mom's house. I walked into the kitchen and no one even acknowledged me. Dani didn't look up from the salad she was making, by brother barely gave a nod my way when I came in. They knew about what happened. Dani can't keep stuff like that to herself, and it was all over the news about the cops looking for the one suspect who escaped. Still, no one asked if I was alright, what happened, if I needed a drink, or if I even wanted to sit down. Not one word.

It was like they didn't care, but I gave my family the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they didn't know how to start the conversation? Maybe they didn't know what they should or shouldn't ask, so I started talking. I told them, in general, what happened as we moved into the living room—me following them—as if it was a normal day. Dani sat in her red recliner watching TV, never once looking at me, too busy eating and watching NCIS (she loves that show). Halfway through my retelling my brother makes a sound of disbelief, and in all his teenage stupidity asks, “How do you even know the gun was real?”

If I would have had the energy right then—I won't lie—I would have marched across the living room and slapped the shit out of him. Doesn't matter if the damn thing was real or not. Three men, in masks, ran into a bank waving guns in the air. They grabbed me up from the ground and pushed a gun into my side and demanded money. Doesn't matter if the weapon was real or not, the terror was. Of course, because of the build up of emotions I jumped to anger and responded with, “it felt real enough when it was shoved into myself, smart-ass!”

I got yelled at for calling my brother a smart-ass.

Then we all sat there, watching TV like every other day in the life of my family. Not a one of them comforted me, it was very much like no one gave a damn. This big thing just happened in my life, and it meant nothing. I don't know what I was expecting, this was how every major event has always been treated in my life. Well, events that happen to me anyway. My sister had to have her ACL repaired because of a sport injury, and you would have thought she was going in for life threatening surgery. (For the record she continued to do dumb shit her Dr. told her not to and tore it two more times afterwards.)

I sat there with them, watching TV, dazing off and trying not to think about what I lived through—how victimized I felt—how it brought me back to all the times people abused me. I lost it when my husband arrived. I took one look at him and broke-down. In that moment I felt relief, everything let go all at once and I reached for him and cried, damn near hysterical. Between sobs I heard Dani tell my husband, “they took her hostage.” As if excusing my emotional outburst. There—in that moment—in my family home—I was made to feel like a weak-ass loser for breaking down after the bank robbery. It got so much worst in the months to come, I developed full blown PTSD (I had small hints of it all my life). I couldn't sleep without an knife under my side of the mattress, and a lot of times I needed a light on. That fall my husband took a trip with his father over a long weekend. Now, I grew up alone in houses, doing my own thing. I was never frightened until after the robbery. At night I turned on every light in the house, made all the animals sleep in bed with me and even then I couldn't fall asleep. That whole weekend I stayed up all night, and slept during the day. When I would call my mom, Dani, and tell her I was scared she would brush me off. She would say I was being ridiculous, so I felt ridiculous. My world was falling apart, and all I felt was utter shame about it. That's when I started having panic-attacks.

It got near impossible for me to get up to go to work, I didn't want to leave the house and everyone scared me. All this came to a head a few years later when my brother and sister accused me of awful things from when we were little. That was it, I reached my damn limit and that October my husband came home to find me passed out, photos all over the place that were burned and cut into pieces, my arms covered in blood and cuts. My breaking point had been reached.

When I told my mom about my breakdown (over a month later) she rolled her eyes at me, and said I was nuts. That I needed to pull myself together. When I tried different things to fight my depression she criticized me for it.

So that mother on the show, in my mind, is the most wonderful woman ever. That level of support and dedication to her daughter. . . I can't fathom that. To me it's the most foreign concept in the world. Since the robbery and my breakdown I've come a long way, there are a lot more good days than bad. My husband is here with me, giving his support in every way imaginable, but I still get to the live with the fact that my mother—the women that gave birth to me—who said it was always us against the world—whom society tells us to warship as the essence of our lives—cares more about a salad and NCIS than her daughter after a violent crime is committed against her. How do you live with that? How do you go day to day and not suffer seeing people having a relationship you can NEVER have, all because of the selfishness of one person?

It's where I struggle most. I don't miss my mom, I miss a child's fantasy of a mom or even a father. I grew up with neither.

#ViolentCrime #Survivor #MothersNeeds #Abuse #Depression #PTSD

~Jax~