"Suicide doesn't take away the pain, it passes it!" Stop Saying This!

I was going to simply post on Facebook my reaction to someone's meme of, “Suicide doesn't take away the pain! It passes it to someone else!” Instead I feel it needs to be a blog post, because there is a lot to explain about this phrase.

“Suicide doesn't take away the pain! It passes it to someone else!”

We've all seen the memes, heard the phrase, and nodded in agreement about true how suicide effects more than the person taking their life. But for the love of god I HATE this statement. I hate everything it says, and all the guilt it brings down on a suicidal person. Like we don't have enough stuff to feel shitty about, lets guilt the fuck out of them to keep suffering. This is not me supporting suicide, death is a very permeate thing, and even when life sucks it's worth waiting out the storm for bluer waters.

I will admit this idea of guilting into living is what kept me alive. When I often came close to ending my life I realized that if I died—if I disappeared from the world—my family would suffer. I couldn't handle that, so I wouldn't go through with driving my car off a bridge into the river. Or walking into traffic. I had no one that said this to me, it was something I came up with all on my own. I'm sure most suicidal people have thought about the pain their family would feel, acknowledged it, and feel great remorse for what they are leaving behind, but it doesn't stop them from ending this. All it does is pile on the guilt for a bigger crash. It could also be the final stone that crushes them.

Here's why.

People that think about killing themselves are suffering, we are in emotional pain. We battle it everyday, and most days we can conquer it. However, when it feels like the world is falling apart around us, when everything is going to shit, aka a bad day for an average people, our strength dissipates. There is nothing left to hold our most intense suffering back, our mind grows tired and allows the pain in. We feel it deep, to our souls and in those moments rational thoughts vanish. Often the sense of being a burden is present, that everyone would be better off without us around. We could end their suffering of having us around by simply ending our own suffering. That brings the guilt. We feel guilty for living because we are making others suffer. I only touched the surface on the range of messed up shit and pain we feel in those moments, but you get the idea. Now on top of all that you're going to add “Suicide doesn't take the pain away, it only passes it to someone else!”

How fucking compassionate are you?

First off, the pain suicidal people feel, well it's completely different. Yes, the loss of the loved one is devastating and when you feel that loss maybe you could get a quarter of the way to the level of anguish a suicidal person consistently exists in. Some do manage to get to the level of a suicidal person and that's awful, and heartbreaking. No one should be that lost in pain to take their life, but don't be a prick by guilting someone into living, trust me. We don't need any help getting our guilt-trip on. We are packed and ready for the journey long before you come along with your memes.

Instead, why not show compassion and say something like, “I can't begin to understand your pain, but I'm willing to listen. I'll always be here.”

That's what most suicidal people want to hear, that we are not alone. We are not a burden, and that our problems are not all consuming. Show us some light at the end, give us a glimmer of a blue sky, and we will respond.

Last Sunday, I wanted to kill myself. For the first time in a long time I was thinking about ending my life. Why?

Well, I woke up feeling shitty. I had dreams about my mom and her bullshit, which put me in a sour mood. I wanted to go out to eat, be around people to take my mind off things. My husband didn't want me to go out because he didn't think I would enjoy myself in my current mood. Understandable since most of the time when I'm upset first thing in the morning I don't want to be around people. He didn't understand that me asking to go out for lunch was my way of trying to pull myself out of my mood. I wanted to feel like apart of the world that day, but he didn't get it and that was lack of communication on both our parts. Instead of explaining it to him I went down an old path destructive path, and started doing things to increase my shitty mood. I told him I didn't want to cook because the kitchen was a mess. Really it wasn't, just some dirty dishes but when my depression kicks in. Well, it might as well be a war zone. That's how different my perception of things are from non-drepessed me, to depressed me.

Just a few dishes, or fucking World War lll. Fun, right? (hint: it's not. Trust me.)

Things progressed, I got a shower still trying to shake my mood, husband started the laundry and when he came back up I told him he didn't have to start the clothes I could do that. His response of, “I got it” sounded annoyed, and that's the moment my day fell completely to shit. Right away I was pissed off at myself for being such a fucking loser. Letting a few silly dreams get to me. Then I hated myself for putting my wonderful and patient husband into a foul mood, and my thoughts went to, “if I wasn't around he wouldn't be in a shitty mood. I'm ruining his weekend!”

Which makes me feel even worse because he works during the week, and while I'm at home working on freelance designs/illustrations and my novels, I still feel like I don't actually work. Like nothing I do is as valuable as him going out to his job and making money. (Thank you mom for putting that value system in my head). This deepens the shit-storm. After that I break down, make him food because I have no right not feed him, it's my wifely duties. Yep, I fall into these old-fashion gender roles, why? Because that's what Dani taught me. I tell myself this is my purpose in life, to serve him. Do what he needs because my husband is so much better than me. I don't matter. Because without him I would be nothing. Then I start to realize that if he's pissed at me I don't have anything left in life.

There is nothing keeping me here. I don't have any family, at least none close and none that I'm close with. I don't have any place to go if I leave my house or if my husband finally wakes up and realized how much of a loser I am and kicks me out. . . and really there is no where I want to go. I mean without my husband who else is going to put up with my shit, but really sticking around is making him go through things he doesn't deserve. After all these are my problems, not his.

(I want to make it known I don't think like this all the time. Usually only when I have a rough day. If I don't catch it this is the irrational and honest path my line of thinking takes. Sorry if it's upsetting.)

And that's when the first thoughts of killing myself come to mind. Inside, my head is telling me my husband—humanity would be better off not dealing with my bullshit. I'm weak, pathetic, I'm such a loser. I'm not talented at all, and sickness follows me everywhere. Over and over these thoughts come until I'm broken. . . completely shattered and I want it to end. The pressure of the burden I bring is. . . there is no word for it. It's one of those things you simply can not put into words because unless you feel it for yourself you can never understand it.

Now James, my husband, never lets me get that far. Usually, but sometimes I'm good at hiding how far down the rabbit hole I have fallen. Even then he'll keep pushing and pushing until I tell him wants wrong—what's going on inside my head. He knows better than to leave me alone when I start spiraling, and he always pulls me back from the edge.

Guess what?

He never says stupid shit like, “suicide doesn't end the pain, it passes it on to someone else! Do you want me to suffer?”

Because he knows I don't need anymore of a guilt-trip than I'm already on.

Okay, let's switch gears here. Guilt-tripping aside I want to show you how damaging this statement is beyond the guilt can be.

Like I said I came to the realization that if I took my life my family would suffer. While it kept me dying when I was 19, it also created a hideous monster inside me. It actually made me a more willing slave to my abusers. See, Dani has used me as far back as I can remember. That's what she does, being a narcissist and boarder-line. When I had reached the peak of my emotional pain, and had no idea how to express it I wanted to end the suffering. Like when you get a deep cut, you want the pain to end. My family life sucked, I was getting called names, told how incapable I was, how stupid I was, how lazy, sad, pathetic, weak, ect. Yes, Dani said those things to me. Well, she yelled them at me. The camouflage of an insult held inside a compliment was gone, it was out right verbal abuse. All while she showered my brother and sister in compliments and praise to keep their love over their father, but that's another story.

So I was torn down at home.

My so-called-friends were no better. Well, it wasn't all of them but most of them. The main offender was my ex-boyfriend who I remained friends with after we broke up, best friends in fact. (NEVER do this.) He was dating someone else that he often flashed in front of me, allowed his boyfriend to belittle me, antagonize me, ect. Didn't help we all worked at the same place either. There was no escaping the torment. On top of that my ex wasn't a very good friend. I was there for him through his relationship problems, his drinking problems, and when I hit my own relationship problems, well. I got dropped. Hard! My ex was more interested in a MMORPG we played together than me crying my eyes out over some guy.

My other friends gave me shit. Like a lot of shit, but that's not completely their fault. They saw me as a tough chick. A bitter, honest bitch that did what needed to be done. None of them actually knew me because I never let them see. Honestly, I don't even really know who I am to be fair. I'm discovering as I go. Still, no one stopped to ask if I was alright. If I was hurting or if anything my ex did was bothering me. Instead, it was business as usual. I was taking shit from all sides, so yeah. There was no escape for me but one.

Then I reminded myself if I took my own life it would be selfish. “Suicide doesn't end the pain, it passes it to someone else!”

In that twisted line of thinking I took upon myself a rationalize—found a messed up reason for me to keep going. To battle foward. Are you ready for it. . . Are you ready to know why I didn't end my life at 19?

It was my duty to suffer.

Yes, that's right. My sole purpose on this earth was to suffer, be in agony because I could take it. I found my pain noble because I noticed when I suffered everyone else smiled and felt good. I took everything anyone had to dish. I was the defender for my family and friends, the shield they stood behind. I took on their problems and helped them through rough times, I let them abuse me if it made them feel better, and in the end I lost any little part I had of myself.

I fell so far into depression it took me a decade to crawl back out. Ten years of my life to get out of my hole, and I'm still not completely out. I stopped writing, listening to music, drawing, I didn't watch movies anymore. I stopped feeling and put myself in a neutral state. A lot of people thought I was smoking pot because I was so chill. Nope, it was self-inflected. I wouldn't allow myself to feel anything because if I did then I would have to feel it all, and I couldn't handle that. I cried at night for no reason, and often had long explosive conversations with myself. I honestly thought I was going mental, but I fought through because I needed to go on. For my family. . . for my friends. . . for the world so it could be a better place by putting all it's burdens on me. I could carry it.

Fuck, I failed at everything else. I couldn't fail at this. No. It was my only reason for living. . . it's why I was put on this earth. To suffer, live in agony and push through so I could take on the next load and the next. I fought for my family, my abusers, and the ex who trashed my spirit. Then. . . then I crashed. There is always a crash right around the corner.

It wasn't pretty, far from it. When the load overtook me. . . the pain I felt ran deeper than ever. I felt double shitty because not only did I now have all this stuff pressing down on me, but I had the added guilt of failure.

I failed at my self-destructive task. I failed my family—my friends—the world, I failed them all! I really couldn't handle all the burdens, and while it was years down the line I started to seriously think about killing myself all over again.

“Suicide doesn't take the pain away! It passes it to someone else!”

That wonderful statement that people share around did the job. It guilted me into living. For awhile, and then it drove me closer to the edge than ever before.

Instead of having random, half-hearted thoughts on my commute home from college about driving my car into the river, I got serious about ending my pain. I spent days researching to make sure I truly died. I didn't want to fail at this, I had failed enough for one lifetime. I knew I could never get through the full pain of cutting my wrists, and thought pills would be the best way to go. I researched common household items, over the counter medication, I wanted my life—my suffering—the suffering of life-times—to finally be over. Most of all I wanted the world to be rid of such a failure—a plague of uselessness. Fuck who mourned me because I already failed to keep them from feeling pain.

Know why I'm still here today, even after I thoroughly plotted my suicide?

One compassionate person that said, “Yeah, your life is a mess but I'm right beside you. I'm with you, and I'll hold you until your ready to let me in. You are not alone.”

Damn if his pushing and probing don't annoy the fuck out of me sometimes, but James does it because I mean that much to him. Now, when I'm standing at the abyss I don't think about the guilt of my death or life. I don't think about how it's going to effect other people. Instead I think about myself and what I have to live for. I know that no matter how far I lean over the edge someone always has my hand.

I live for the sake of living, not out of the fear of guilt. That's the way it should be.

So the next time you want spout this bullshit to someone in crises, no matter how true it might be, please keep it to yourself. Suicidal people don't need any more fuel for their internally anguishing flames.

Instead let them know you are there. You are willing to listen, and they are NEVER a burden.

If you believe someone you know is in crisis or if you feel you are in crisis please reach out and call the Lifeline. 1-800-273-TALK (8255). Or if you're like me and don't like talking text: 741741. Reach out, don't be alone. You're worth sticking around!

#Suicide #MentalHealth #Crisis #Compassion #SaveALife #Depression #Anxiety #OnTheEdge

~Jax~

The Breakdown: Mental Health Evaluation

Yesterday was. . . a royally hot mess for me. I don't know why, but there are a lot of factors. Two days in a row I dreamed about my mom. In my husband's theory, Saturday I had a fun day so then I usually crash the next. Which is very likely, but I don't feel like that's the case this time. Also, it's been over two weeks since I've seen my therapist. I really should be going every week, I feel better when I do and I need the encouragement, but. . . sadly like most people here in the states, I don't have the money for that. So I go every other week. It works out alright, but I canceled last Monday because I felt the need to work on commissions than take care of my needs. Dumb, I know.

Anyways, after I stopped being a stubborn ass and allowed my husband to feed me, (I went a good 13+ hours without eating because I felt I didn't deserve food since I was depressed) my anxiety kicked in. I went on a hunt for a lab-work paper I needed to get my blood done this morning. You know, since my doctor sent me the wrong one when I asked for a new one for my new appointment, and hasn't sent me the right one I asked for. I figured I could use the old one because the only thing different was the date scheduled. Unfortunately I couldn't find it. I would like to think I didn't toss it once I realized I was going to get a new paper, but who freaking knows with me.

I spent about an hour going through every piece of medical crap I had, and I came across my mental health summary. In 2016, around October, I finally broke down and went to the doctors for a four year long ear infection. Yes, you heard that right.

FOUR YEARS I suffered with an infection in both ears because I was afraid to leave my house, go to the doctor, or anything. I was afraid of what the course of action would be, would we have the money (we don't have insurance and make too much to get any kind of medical help). For four years I had shit coming out of my ears, pain, loss of hearing, sinuses headaches, extreme colds due to congestion, and a lot of other problems. I still have lingering effects from all this, but it's slowly healing.

When I went to the doctor, you go in and they ask you a bunch of questions and we all know at least one of them is, “Have you suffered from depression or think you might be depressed? Have you had thoughts of hurting yourself ect...”

No matter what they asked or how much it applied to me the automatic response was always no. Even when I was having suicidal thoughts and I would go in for a cold at Dani's insistence so my new born nephew wouldn't get sick. I always said no. Inside I would chuckle to myself in a twisted dark humors way while thinking, “you have no idea.” But this time. . . this time I said yes.

I don't know why I said yes or choose that moment to be honest. Maybe it was my final cry for help—a last chance to reach out and hopefully get some much needed help. Whatever it was I said yes, and thus began the longest year of my life.

The doctor came in and talked in length with me about how I didn't need to suffer alone and that there was help for me. She gave a little push and said that at least get an evaluation done so I would know what I was dealing with. Again, for whatever reason—timing, intense emotional pain, ect—I went and had the evaluation. For three long sessions I sat with a stranger and answered questions, uncomfortable and thinking twice about letting anyone that close to me, I suffered through the memories he triggered and completed the evaluation. On the last visit he went over my results, which were. . . heart breaking.

I knew I was fucked up. I figured a little anxiety with a sprinkle of depression, but for the most part I figured that was the way people were. Everyone has their problems, mine weren't that bad. Boy was I wrong.

I went into his office and for a long while we sat there, him looking over my results stumbling to find the right words. Yes, stumbling. According to my doctor this guy was very professional. Came highly recommended and dealt with a lot of extreme cases, yet he didn't know what to say to me. Yeah, it was that bad.

Finally, he came out with it. Gave it to me straight and I respect that. His first words were, “I've never seen scores like this. You measure off the carts for anxiety and depression. . . How do you live?”

A guy—a professional—that has dealt with extreme abuse and neglect cases was amazed I could make it through a day.

Well, shit!

Right?!

From there I barely listened to what he said. Up till this point I knew my life was messed up, but damn if this didn't throw me. I wasn't simply a little rattled from my past. Now, I was grade-A fucked up! The winner of the mental illness world cup, and right there I had to come to terms with the fact that everything I thought was normal—everything I passed off as being, okay—wasn't. Till that point I figured I had a rough life, but abuse? Me? My mom, abused. . . me?

No that couldn't be right. I couldn't, wouldn't, accept that.

Life was just. . . rough. . . I mean that's life. . . we surviv. . . oh fuck. I was abused. My life wasn't normal, not a single thing about it was.

It's a lot to take in for an hour long session while facts are being thrown at you. My mind shut down, and I cried the whole way home (the hell I was going to cry in front of a stranger I still don't let my therapist see me cry). I was a mess, and it took me months to actually seek out treatment of any kind after this.

One of the things I did do when I started on medication was get a copy of my test results, but I never looked at them. Never read them, and last night while I was looking for my lab-work paper I stumbled cross the brief summary of my results (not the in-depth one that got passed over to my therapist. Can't stand to look at that one). So I read it. This is what it said word for word:

Jacqulene was administered the Millon Clinical Multiaxial Inventory, 4ed. (MCMI-IV), which is a standardized test of personality while also providing a diagnostic assessment of psychiatric functioning. Her responses produced a valid profile which is strongly indicative of major depression, anxiety, and PTSD. These are manifested by chronic, recurring depressive moods, fearfulness, and pessimism. She notes deep-rooted feelings of guilt, isolation, and undesirability. She expresses feeling trapped with anxiety-producing and painful memories that are easily triggered by social demands. She is intimidated by people or situations that could produce confrontation, either real or imagined. Also notable are features of an avoidant personality which reflects her negative beliefs of herself with regard to insecurity, past humiliations, and personal inadequacy. She has a distinct tendency to magnify her most undesirable traits and expresses disillusionment in feeling that life is empty and meaningless.

An eye-opener. . . I look at this and I'm overwhelmed. I think “what the hell did I do to deserve this?” In my messed up way of thinking I answer back with, “I must be the most awful person in the whole world. . . I deserve this.”

Problem is, I don't. I have done nothing to deserve any of these daily struggles. I mean, have I snuck a smack in on my sister because she was being a brat, sure. Have I teased my brother when we were little? Yeah. Refused to clean my room, sure. Lied, well yeah. It was the only way to get through the day in my household. I drank with my friends when I was 19, I had sex before I was out of my teens, never did drugs though. Hated cigarettes so never took up smoking. Made crude jokes with my friends. Swear. . . a lot (it's like a second language to me). Drove too fast, kept money I found on the street, stool coins from my mom for lunch money, watched porn. Told my sister the man that lived in our closet wanted to eat her, introduced my younger brother and sister to horror movies wayyy too early in life, but I feel like this is standard stuff. Things the average person growing up might have done.

So why. . . why was I punished. . . why am I still being punished?

Because my mom, for some twisted strange reason, didn't like me? Because I might be better than her? Because people thought I was an adorable baby, or my grandfather paid too much attention to me and not enough to his own daughter?

Is that really the reason I'm so fucked up? Because one person was so damn petty in life they needed to rip apart of a child? Train them to feel lower than scum so they will never strive for anything? To my an innocent suffer?

Try to get your mind around that, because I haven't been able to. I struggle everyday with it, I haven't come to the acceptance that Dani, my mother, would want to bring me so far down because I got all the attention. I know that level of pettiness is out there in the world, but for it to hit this close to home—I don't know. My mind can't process that, so I'm left with anxiety, depression, a feeling that I'm often a worthless piece of shit. Fear of anyone noticing me, or achieving anything, and a nice big helping of PTSD that's so bad I get panic attacks when I hear shouting, loud noises or any type of conflict. I grow tense at the idea of walking into new places, and often have irrational fears about my future. In fact, in all honesty, I don't know what to do with myself at this point in life because I never thought I would live to see this age.

Yes, I often thought and sometimes even strive to have my life end long before my 30s. I wanted to go into police work in the hopes of getting shot. I sort out programs for law enforcement that would put me in the most dangerous areas, because I didn't want to live. If this is what life is, I didn't want any part of it. Not to mention I often feel like a big burden on the world, that the simple act of breathing imposed upon the happiness of everyone on this earth. I have a firm belief, that I still struggle with, that everyone would be better off without me here.

It's beyond sad or tragic—honestly, there is no word for it—that a child is born. Fresh, untainted by social presses, unburdened, pure and free of anything. Complete and utter innocence. An untouched piece of clay that can literally be anything. This child—this unformed person—will carry your lessons and teachings. Be shaped by you, its' parent. You can show it wonders, give it passion, develop its' skills and watch it turn into a masterpiece and instead. . . you shatter it. I often feel less than human because of my past, and the worst I have to live with is this was done to me. I was made to feel this way, but someone I loved, trusted, and held my future in their hands.

#MajorDepression #Anxiety #PTSD #Abuse #Survivor #MentalIllness

~JAX~

Tattoo Meaning, Heart Break

There are always signs pointing out a persons real nature. Some are big red flags blowing in a storm, and others are extremely small, but they are there. For people trapped in an abusive relationship of any kind (spouse, parent, friend, ect.). . . we are blind. Blind fools. Yeah, we see the signs but not really or worse yet we can justify them. It's how the abuser trains us, their victim.

We are told love is painful, and if something is good than is should hurt because that's life. We're told to be grateful for what little twisted compassion we get from our abuser because no one else would put up with us. They, the people that tear us down, are our only fans in the whole world, and because of that we see the signs—the warnings—and turn a blind eye. Because we believe the rules—situation—life is different for us. (Not in a good way).

What does this have to do with tattoos, right?

Well, now that I can think and see things more clearly than when I was growing up. I have noticed all the small signs of my mother's destructive personality I never took into account before. They are simple, small, and some would even call them petty things that have my mind in a tangle. Things that don't even make sense why they would be so important, and yet for me, looking back, they make my wounds deeper. I strike out at myself for being so damn blind, as most victims of abuse do.

We can't help it.

Most of us are told over and over again everything is our fault, and we believe it. Down to our last fiber, we believe everything is our fault. We—I'm—always in the wrong.

Knocked a drink over. . . I shouldn't have reached across the table.

Forgot to take out the trash. . . Fuck, why am I so damn lazy?

Meteors are pelting the Earth. . . Shit, I should have seen this coming!

Every little thing is my fault. So when I glance back into my past, or more accurately it jumps into my present, guilt is the strongest emotion I feel. Along with shame for thinking such a small moment in my past means as much as I feel it does.

Here is the small thing I'm ashamed I feel hurt over today!

Around the age of 33-35 Dani went through this mid-life thing. I wouldn't call it a crises so much as a, “it's all about me” vein streak. She started tanning everyday, got her nails and hair done every week, spent a good amount of money on looking all polished up. Everything from makeup to hiding the gray hairs that were starting. Every woman deserves to spend some time for herself, but Dani took it really far during this time period. I was with her on most of these pampering outings. Often I received a lot of back-handed compliments from Dani when the laddies at the shops commented about how much we looked a like. Dani always hated to hear how I looked like a younger version of her.

My therapist firmly believes Dani has been jealous of me from birth. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the idea of a mother feeling so competitive with her child they would destroy their self-worth, but back to the main point.

One summer day, Dani comes home after tanning and says, “Let's go, I'm going to get a tattoo.” Me being a teenager, was super excited. A tattoo was something I wanted for ages, sadly I couldn't talk her into letting me get one too. I mean I was only around 13 or 14 at the time, but it wasn't like I didn't try. No, instead she wanted me along so I could see how painful it was, and would never get one of my own.

I went along, of course. At the very least I got to see all the cool artwork in the shop. We arrived at the little place and that's were I found out she had already been in to talk to the tattoo artist an hour before. She stopped in on a whim and asked for something special to be designed for herself. Something that she could live with for the rest of her life, since she wanted to knock off tattoo on her to-do list. Settling on a theme she wouldn't regret later in life, Dani got a tattoo that represented her children.

Nice, right?

The artist put together a sample. The design was to be a teddy bear (for my brother who we called Chetty Bear), holding a rose (my sister was all about her middle name Rose), and behind all that was suppose to be a Dallas Cowboy star for me.

Alright, alright before you kick me out the door for my choice of football team let me explain. I never liked football or Dallas. Dani was and still is the Dallas fan. I simply went along with it. I requested Dallas jackets for Christmas and stuff so Dani could borrow them, and because I thought it made her like me. Excited about a football game, not me. While I threw myself into pretending to love Dallas at a young age, at this point in my life I was not a fan of football anymore and Dani knew that. Still, she thought I loved Dallas to my core, so there was a cheesy as hell Dallas star behind the teddy bear. Honestly, I believe she requested it for herself.

Well, the Dallas star was simply awful. Not the artist fault, it didn't fit with everything over all, so Dani cut it from the design and into the tattoo chair she went. She promised me that later, after this tattoo healed, she would go back and get a unicorn on her hip for me.

Yes, I loved unicorns. I still like them but I'm not insanely in love with them anymore. I'm more of a dragon person now.

Her promised thrilled me more than the lame Dallas star, and it fit me better. Dani even said I could help her pick the unicorn out. This kid right here was thrilled!

Only. . . she would never get that tattoo.

Nope, after she got the bear holding the rose she went on for months showing it off to friends, family, co-workers. Saying, “She got it for her children.” With a bright smile and deep joy she explained the meaning of the sweet little bear and the rose which made people go, “awwwww.” Followed by comments on what a good mother she was to go through the pain of a tattoo for her children.

Sometimes people would ask, “what about your oldest?”

For awhile Dani would tell them she was going back to get one for me, but that didn't last long. Instead the story changed, as it always does with her. One day she looked at the tattoo when someone asked what part of it was for me, and said the heart on the teddy bear represented me. The tiny tiny heart that was already part of the artwork was me.

Doesn't that say it all.

Me, the after thought. The part of the drawing you never noticed or cared about until someone pointed it out. A forced piece in a puzzle I don't belong in. That's what it feels like—that's what it felt like the first time she came up with the lie. I felt the hurt then, as a teenager, in the moment it happened but I let it go. I brushed off my intense disappointment and shook my head telling, myself it wasn't what it felt like. It wasn't Dani putting me off in the distant of the family, or shunning me. No, Dani wouldn't do that. She was my mother. She loved me. . . She's a good mom—the best mom ever!!

So then why did I mean so little to her? Why does it hurt so much if the abuse wasn't real?

Later, somehow, I mustered the courage to ask her why she lied about the heart inside the bear. Dani said, “oh honey, I can't go back and get another tattoo. It just hurts too much. You understand, right?”

Fuck, I hate that question/statement.

You understand?

Understanding. . . I hate that word with a passion. It was her weapon against me. To make sure I was complicit, and I was just that. . . understanding.

I realize it's a silly tattoo, some ink on skin, but what is symbolizes—what it means to her and people that see it—well, that makes it more. That tattoo is a slap in my face that I took with a bright smile. When I think about this small gesture—a simple tattoo—my heart breaks. The tears well up in my eyes, and I feel like a child left out in the cold. Discarded by the person they worshiped—begging to be loved, accepted—to be apart of the family I was born into, here I am. Still the outsider, and it's a feeling I can never get rid of.

It doesn't matter who welcomes me into a group, or how warm and loving the place is. The stigma of being an outcast among outcasts haunts me. It's the scars I wear and can never be free of. Thanks mom.

#tattoos #outcast #victims #warningsigns #littlethingsmatter

~Jax~

"Think Something Else" Yeah, Right!

It's been awhile. Honestly, I've been isolating. My mind has been a nightmare of tangled thoughts lately and all I want to do is hide. Not the healthiest thing in the world, but it's better than some of my other coping methods.

Today, however, I feel the need to vent—rage even. See something happened at the wrong time. I tend to avoid my feelings, and they build, and build. . . and, you guessed it, build. Usually they start as anger for what has transpired in my past. Don't let my laid back, mellow exterior fool you, I'm often extremely angry. With good right to be, that's something I'm working on. Allowing myself to feel anger. As I said, usually I let it build and fester until it turns inward and forms into a nice ball of depression.

HOWEVER, there are rare occasions while my internal anger, annoyance, general pissy nature is stewing that someone or something happens that sets me off. Enter rant mode!

My therapist would say this is a good thing, and while it's going to feel really nice to rant right now, I know later I'll be feeling guilty for being bitchy. Anyways, here it goes.

My thoughts are my fault. . . Yep, my mental illness is, and I quote, “In reality is 'your fault'” as someone commented on a post/graphic I shared on Facebook. See this guy's theory is that I think too much, which I'll admit I do, but he seems to believe that my extreme anxiety and depression is my own fault because all I have to do is think of something else. Let new thoughts enter my head.

WOW!!!!

Fucking, WOW!!!

It's so simple, I mean—there it is. The answer to all my problems! The solution to a lifetime of suffering, a way to never have to worry about suicidal thoughts ever again! Just think something else. . . Let it go. Move with the flow of life, man. Note the sarcasm

I get what this person is trying to say, but dude while some people do simply over-think, mental health is more than excessive thoughts. It's more than lingering on one thought or a series of thoughts. I am not in control of what I think! I can not control when my trauma is going to pop up or what daily thing is going to trigger me. That's what my therapy is for, to help me retrain my mind and thought patterns to better deal with my past and the trauma.

Telling someone to go with the flow or think something else when they suffer from mental illness is like telling a deaf person to open their ears. Man what I wouldn't give to snap my fingers and switch my thoughts, fuck if I never entertained that idea.

And telling someone that in reality it is their fault, you just devalued their feelings—their illness. You belittled their experiences, and their illness, you lessened them, and you should be ashamed. By stating this ignorant statement you have said to people struggling with mental illness, “Yeah, it's all in your head. Get over it. Move on” AKA you're feelings don't matter. . . YOU, don't matter.

While that might not have been this person's intended meaning, that's what it comes across as. Hence why we need better education for mental illness. Not to say everyone is going to be as compassionate or understanding about mental illness with education or more awareness. I mean some people are just assholes, but couldn't we show a little acknowledgment and remove ignorant statements from the majority? Sure, with proper education.

Now, I'm going to be posting this reply on the post that originally started my need to write this, and I can see/hear the rebuttal already. Before everyone crucifies me with the, “I'm being too sensitive” here is why the post sets me off.

I was born to a woman who instantly thought of me as her competition. I looked up to my mother, Dani. I worshiped the ground she walked on, all the while she was grooming me to be less than human. To have the thoughts and self-worth of a slave. Since I was young I got backhanded compliments such as, “yay you finished a drawing, it would look so much better if you stayed in the lines. Oh well, this is the best you can do.” Up to the point I graduated college with a BS, “I'm so proud of my daughter. I could never do online schooling. I get too distracted by a dirty house, I would have to clean it. Not Jackie. She is focused on her work.”

At one point in my life the formality of covering the insults with a compliment stopped. There were days Dani yelled at me straight with things like, “How stupid are you? Why can't you do anything right? You're fucking lesbian, aren't you? Worthless? Pathetic? Druggy, alcoholic, lazy. . . ” The list goes on.

By the time I was able to work up the courage, mainly borrowing if from my husband, to go to therapy I felt like pond scum. That is not an exaggeration. I hated myself, I still hate myself most of the time. I feel as if I have no right to be angry, upset or hurt by the fact Dani abused me—tore me down, and let her boyfriends' use me for their sexual pleasure, while she turned a blind eye. My upbringing is nothing short of a crime documentary in the making. How I didn't end up a mass murderer or serial killer I'll never know.

I have been trained, by Dani, to not acknowledge or value my own emotions. I don't feel validated in feeling things, in fact I often try to avoid feeling all together that way I'm not internally conflicted about whether or not I should or shouldn't be feeling something. However; through therapy I'm slowly learning to come to terms with my emotions, and feeling validated with them.

So when some ignorant ass says something that devalues my illness—my new found beliefs—and things I'm trying to get my brain to understand are real. It pisses me the hell off. Seriously, I'm pissed off.

In no fucking way is my mental illness my fault, I can't just think a new thought because evil people—awful people—a woman that was suppose to love and care for me put nasty, unhealthy, and sick thoughts into my head. They were drilled into me over and over again, beaten into my skull daily to make sure I never rose above anything more than being a helpless child.

Go with the flow of life, you say?

If I went with the flow of my life I would be dead, JOE! DEAD!

I would have taken my life after my step-father first laid his hands on me, instead of eating the doughnut shaped like a man he bought me. I would have driven my car off a bridge on my way to class the morning I heard my mom fucking the man that sexually assaulted me. And two months ago, if I went with the flow of life I would taken all my pills and ended my suffering. Because every statistic—mental health professional—therapist I've seen has said the same thing, “It's remarkable you're doing as well as you are. You should be dead (suicide) or a have an addiction problem.”

Not all of us can have a supportive family and friends, not all of us are as lucky as you, Joe. So the next time you open your fucking mouth, open that closed mind of yours first and do some research.

That was suppose to be the end of my post, but I need to address something else. Joe thinks thinking of something else will make it better. In other words, avoiding the subject/bad thoughts. Yeah, I did that for years. I hide and ran from my past and trauma. You know what happened?

October 2012 my husband came home from work. The house was a mess, pictures and my old artwork thrown all over the place. Pictures were burned and cute apart. Empty bottles of wine, and beer and there I was. Passed out on our bed, drunk to fuck with my left forearm mangled to hell. Carved, burned, and bleeding. He was lucky he didn't find me dead that day. That's what ignoring the problem does. It allows all those nasty thoughts to pile up until one day the pile topples over.

Everything comes crashing down, and recovering from it. . . well, it's taken me years. So while Joe seems to think smiling, laughing, and moving on with life is the best medicine for mental illness. I know for a fact, avoidance can be far more dangerous, and in some causes deadly.

So, Joe. You can take your overly positive avoidance personality disorder and shove it. Because some of us only get to live in the darkest depravity humanity has to offer.

#MenatlHealthAwareness #Ignorance #Compassion #Education #ItsNotYourFault

~Jax~

A Mother for Mother's Day

God, this week. Really the last two weeks, have been intense. Everything around me feels like chaos. Things spinning this way or that, the world moving forward while I'm stuck in one place—it's insanity. The only thing I can give as an example would be the seen from the original Poltergeist, with all the children's stuff flying around the room. That's how life is for me right at this moment. Which is. . . super annoying.

I say annoying because I'm sick of these rough patches, of saying “this time of year is rough for me.” At this point I'm pissed off because what time of the year isn't rough for me? What do I have left if not awful memories? And I find myself teetering between complete dissociation—numbness—and full acceptance that growing up my life was. . . in a word, fucked!

Old, bad, habits have come out in me these last two weeks. I've hurt myself and the little whisper of suicidal thoughts have kicked in. I'm not proud of either, I truly thought I was past all this but I'm starting to realize I may never been past it. My diet has gone to hell, I'm sleeping an average of 12 hours a day. I have no will to do anything I love doing. I avoid anything that brings me joy, and I'm apologizing every damn second of the day for things that are not even my fault. I'm back in hell.

No, this is worst than hell. This is reality, pure ugly reality. The truth of what a childhood of bad parenting can result in—what our society allows to happen to innocence. For those that know me, even if only online, I know this blog has been a shock to you guys. That you had no idea I suffered so much or that someone as 'goodhearted' as you call me, can be this way behind closed doors, but I am. It hinders every aspect of my life.

I hate saying this, but it's true. This time of year is a struggle for me. 3 years ago in April I reached my breaking point with my mother, and I wrote her an email to tell her I no longer waned her in my life. Before you say it was cowardly to send an email think on my reasons for sending it. I broke up with my mom in an email because I couldn't face her. Dani's hold on me was too strong—it's still too strong—and I knew if I stood face to face with her she would talk me down. Manipulate me into going back on my mission to break free. One look, one word and I would bow before her. My hope is one day I can stand in front of her, without crumbling, and say everything I did in that email. At the time, the email had to do.

Nearly a month went by with no response or backlash. I thought, for a moment, she was actually respecting my wishes, until the Friday before Mother's Day when she texted my husband. She wanted to surprise me with a breakfast or lunch or something. My husband thinks it was all a scam to get me back, me. . . I don't know what I believe anymore.

What happened next was. . . awful and heartbreaking.

I texted Dani and told her to stop contacting my husband, and that it was all explained in the email I sent. She stated she never got the email. Funny, since we sent emails back and forth often, and never one did she miss an email. This email—this important earth-shattering email, she did not get.

While at the grocery store, the Friday before Mother's Day, I had to break the news to her for the second time. I tried to explain why it was happening, how neglected I felt but Dani made it all about her. She said I was mental and needed some serious medical help. She said I was sick and wrong. I don't know how I survived the guilt. In that moment I felt like the most self-centered, rudest, coldest child in the world. I wanted to die for the sin I had committed, but with my husband I got through. Doesn't mean that every year around this time I don't feel guilty about casting my mom out right before Mother's Day. Especially since I'm the only one that ever made it special for her.

Seriously, I gave some insanely awesome gifts. My co-workers, who were mothers', were jealous, and everyone wanted to adopt me. Here's a few examples of my careful thought and planning.

The first Mother's Day I had a job, I went out with my friends. Drove all over hell looking for a coffee table my mom loved that my brother and sister had destroyed a few years before. I finally found it, bought the pricey table, took it home, put it together, and then placed flowers and a card on it. Now, I had to leave for work but I left everything set up for her to find when she came home from work.

Another year I pulled together all my resources and bought her a side by side fridge with the freezer draws in it she wanted. It was a black KitchenAid, because Dani loves KitchenAid. The year after I got married I went on the internet hunt for a special crystal butter dish she once had but was broken. It matched her set of nice dish-ware and crystal. Paid a small fortune because it was discontinued item and hard to find, but I got it all the same.

It was never about the price though, it was more about the thought. I wanted something that would mean the world to her, and while these gifts seem like just that. Dani often forgot who gave them to her, or more often than not, she claimed she had bought them for herself. When I heard her say things like that it crushed me. But enough about gifts, you can now see why this time of year is rough on me. This year it's so much worse.

I don't feel guilt over what I did. Okay, maybe a small amount of guilt because that's who I am. I often feel guilty about things that are not even my fault. This year, more than anything, I feel grief. Loss. . . deep pain.

I've come to realize that I've never had a mother. Yes, Dani provided me with a roof over my head and on most occasions food, but in the times that mattered—those special moments—lessons—between a mother and daughter, I never had her. Instead I learned the lessons of life on my own or by watching other people.

My first period my friend's mom helped me through, and my friend taught me how to shave my legs and under arms. Dani's friend helped me with my acne and makeup, which is probably why I never wear any makeup. Not really sure what to do with most of it. My friends taught me how to drive. Dani tried, but she explained the only way she could handle me driving was when she was taking strong pain pills for a spider bite she suffered. I learned to cook from a variety of Dani's friends, my aunt, and trail and error growing up. And then there is the famous sex talk.

This was Dani's sex talk to me, no lies. This is exactly how it went. While watching a R rated movie there was a suggestive sex scene, Dani says, “Do you know why she puts his dick in her mouth?” I shook my head no because I didn't understand why. “Sometimes you have to suck on it to get it hard so it can go in you.” End of talk.

Yeah. . . Let that sink. I was 11ish at the time.

Instead how I learned about sex. . . well, I would rather not talk about the long list of sexual abuse and rape in my past, but you get the idea. Life is a cruel teacher.

So here I am this Mother's Day, watching daughters—children—thanking their mothers for being there in the special—important—moments. Being there when it counts, and all I can think about is how much I missed out on. The fact that I never had someone take me to salon to have my nails done, (Dani said it would be a waste of money since I had a nail biting problem. She took my sister instead.) Never had a special 'girls day' or felt pretty and like an adult with Dani. I didn't have someone that made me special meals when I was sad, or came by with hot chocolate to smooth a broken-heart. A shoulder to cry on, a woman to confide in. Nor someone to tell me it wasn't my fault when adult men took advantage of me.

Instead I'm remind of how much I was expected to not be girlish at all growing up. It was like Dani gave up on me, and focused on my sister who was far more a social butterfly. More like Dani when she was younger. Instead I got days like my wedding, where I was suppose to be the star. Dani spent more time getting my sister ready for the wedding than me, the bride. I wanted to go get my nails done, didn't happen. I wanted to get my hair professionally done, didn't happen. I had to do my own makeup, put on my own corset and dress. I had to wear a veil I didn't want because she insisted, and when I refused to wear pearls Dani threw a fit. My big day and all I have is those awful memories.

The only time we ever spent together that felt special was five hour long shopping trips when my brother and sister went to visit their father. Dani didn't like being home without them, so we would go to the mall and shop, for my brother and sister. So they would have something nice to come home too. My feet would be killing me, I would be tired, and the stores about to close but I sucked it all up. Never complained, because it was the only special time I had with her. I was a desperate child for any form of affection.

Looking back. . . I can't explain the anguish. My chest gets choked in pain, tears fall without restraint, and the sense of unfairness I feel. . . well, I swear it kills me a little inside.

I'm reminded of a scene from Ever After with Drew Barrymore playing the role of Cinderella who is confronting her stepmother, Anjelica Huston. The only thing she's ever wanted from the woman is a mother's love, and Huston replies with, “How can anyone love a pebble in their shoe.” That line sums up my life, that whole scene is me and Dani.

Ever since I can remember I've always wanted a 'real family' as I often thought of it. A dad, brother, maybe a sister, and a mom I could go to. Talk to, open up to, but I never got it. Not even now. It's the only thing I've ever wanted—what I still want. I would give up everything I own to have that, and here's the most tragic part of this.

I can wish for this every damn day of my life—I can try to make a new relationship with an older female in a mother like role, but it will never work. I can never had the type of relationship I want with anyone, because I'm too fucked up. I don't trust, or reach out when I should. I can't confide in someone like that. So even going forward with my life I'll never have the one thing I've wanted—needed.

Yes, I can try and mend myself, but it will never be what I want it to be. Here I am, suffering through another Mother's Day, thinking about the child I was missing out on having a mom. Knowing the woman who gave birth to me could have given me these things, but for some reason refused.

#MothersDay #NoMom #Mother #Abuse #Lonely Child

~Jax~

A Mother's Prisoner

Surprise, I'm having a bad day. Woke up and out of no where my mind is in a bad place. No dreams, or event happened. Nothing triggered me, instead it just popped up. This is the worst kind of mental anguish in my opinion, because I don't get a chance to sidetrack it or try to save myself from falling into the pit. Instead, I wake up and there I am. At the bottom of my world looking up from the pitch-darkness.

Today, it seems, is random memory day. My thoughts appear to be focused on random moments in my life that sucked. The first thing that came to mind when I woke up this morning was how nice and cool it was compared to yesterday. Yep, like we thought summer came without spring having anything to do with it, and it's been hot. Hot, hot! We don't have AC, only a window unit we put in when we can no longer stand the temperature. It's far too early to put it in now, and I told myself I could handle the heat.

Growing up we never had AC, well once, but that didn't last long. Instead, if we were lucky, we had window units but for the most part we suffered through it. I was the worst off in the house because my brother and sister got to go to their father's where they had AC. Dani got to go to work where there was AC. Me, I stayed home during the summer in the insanely hot house trying everything to stay cool. I lived too far off in the middle of nowhere to visit friends, so I suffered through the muggy hot summers. Then I remembered how the year after I moved out Dani suddenly decided to splurge on central air.

Yep, she went through the whole process of getting a unit put in, ducks put in, the whole nine yards. Funny considering the summer she had it done was the mildest I ever remembered, but she stated she couldn't handle the heat anymore. We lived in that house for more than 6 years, and suddenly she couldn't stand the summer heat. I know it's reaching and I shouldn't feel like she got it done just because I moved out, but the mind does tend to wander.

Then there is the fact that the second I moved out and was no longer paying for the cable internet, Dani suddenly had the money to pay for the internet. Along with a full cable package she refused to get for more than 15 years. Yes, that's right people. I went through my teenage years with no cable or local access TV because there was no single where we lived. No news, no shows, the only thing I had to fall back on were movies. Ones I often watched on repeat. Her reasoning for never paying for cable was, “if we had cable you would be a lazy bump.”

I guess she didn't want to lose her live-in housekeeper/babysitter/everything.

Okay, maybe I'm reaching with both of those but it still stings a little. I never understood why Dani was against these things when I lived there, but was all for them when I moved out. Odd, right?

Now add in the hornet incident.

I'm allergic to wasps, more so than the average person. wasps have powerful stings anyways, but when I get stung I swell up super bad. Stung in the right spot and I'm in the ER. So when something goes buzz around me, I FREAK!!! (I was stung a lot as a little kid, so irrational fear of intense pain is stuck in my head.)

Taking that into account, both my fear and allergy, when we moved into our big blue house I was given two options. Take the biggest bedroom and share with my sister, or take the smallest room for myself. I took the smallest room. While my sister never slept in her own room, like ever, she tends to let it turn into something that's right out of hoarders. I shared a room with her for years, not going through that aggravation again. Especially not since I was getting ready to go to college and she was only just starting middle school.

Without complaint I took the smallest room, which wasn't even really a room. My bedroom was an upstairs porch the former owners had enclosed for a very small play room. Yep, no insulation in that bad boy, and it slanted to the one side for water run off. My bed barely fit in the small space, but I didn't care. It was better than sharing with my sister. I would have lived in a closet before I shared a room with her again.

Fast-forward a few years, I'm dating the guy that would later be my husband. I'm in the middle of finishing college, working on finals late into the night. Working full-time to pay mine and my mother's bills, and out of no where the largest fucking bee (I classify wasps, bees, ect as bees) I've ever seen starts attacking my overhead light. It was strange for many reasons.

One, it was almost midnight. What bee is out at night? At first I thought it was a big bumble bee, but it was far too big. Yes, it was that freaking BIG! I went to Dani to have her kill it but she refused, so my brother's friend who was staying over killed it for me. After that heart-attack inducing moment I went back to work, and thought nothing more of it. Okay, that's a lie. I thought about it enough to have paranoia for awhile.

Then another one showed up a few days later, and another, and another. Dani would kill one for me, my brother got a few, and finally when my boyfriend killed one he doubted it was a bee. He spent a whole weekend looking for the nest that had to be close by if they kept getting into my room. He found it, in the outer corner of my room in the hollows of the wall. They were going between my wall and the house siding, and had a nice little nest. I told my mom about it, and my fear because I am allergic. Last thing I wanted was to get stung in the middle of the night and have to be rushed to the ER.

She didn't care. Told me I was being over-dramatic about the situation. She also wouldn't let me sleep downstairs on the couch, even though my brother and sister did all the time. I was trapped in a HUGE bee infested room. It got so bad that I started having night-terrors. Yes, at 22 I was having night-terrors due to stress. Still Dani didn't give two shits.

It wasn't until one of them got into her room that she called someone to come look at the nest. You know, because what if one stung my sixteen year old sister's baby. Can't have the baby getting stung. Didn't matter that I had been living in fear for weeks.

The pest guy came out, looked at the nest and said, “Those aren't bees they are European Hornets, which are a cross between a yellow jacket and a hornet.” In general, nasty fuckers. They are nocturnal hence me not being able to work on class work at night because my light attracts them. They eat other bugs that swam lights during the night. They are also hot tempered and they not only sting but bite like a mother.

Yes, the girl that has a serve reaction to stings is living with a large nest of some of the nastiest bastards in the world in the corner of her room. Dani still thinks to this day I over-reacted about the whole thing. My husband assures me that wasn't the case, that I was valid in my stress and even diminished how much this event affected me. Needless to say after that Dani began a summer long campaign to rid the house of these jerks. Not for me, no. It was to protect her grandson. That hurts, more than words can say.

There are other situations much the same. Like for the longest time the roof leaked into my bedroom. It got so bad that my one wall would turn into a waterfall if it rained just right. I told my mom and she brushed it off. So I took matters into my own hands and put buckets up in the attic above my room. Problem was it would leak from a new spot every rainstorm, so I had to keep going up and adjusting the buckets. Dani would yell at me when I did that, told me I was making a big deal out of nothing. I guess it didn't bother her that the wall that the water was running down was the same one my computer cables were at. Since my room only had one electrical plug it wasn't like I could move it. Instead I went to work or class worrying about ran, and if my room would catch fire or short-out because of the leaks. Once Dani's room started leaking she pushed to have the whole thing replaced.

The windows in my room were old, heavy wood, with glass that didn't fit right into the frame. They were tricky to open, tricky to keep open, and even worse to close. Couldn't slam them closed because the glass might break so you had to push from the top while supporting it from the bottom to ease them down. One morning the window slipped and my finger got wedged. I was stuck and everyone had left the house for the day. The windows were too heavy to push open with one hand, and even if I could my finger being wedged made the window close tighter than ever. It was with a boost of adrenaline caused by pure pain that allowed me to open the thing. Luckily my finger wasn't broken, but my nail and finger were badly hurt. I had to take care of it myself, and when I suggested some of the contractors I worked with at the local hardware store could replace my windows for a few cases of beer, she said no. I even offered to pay for it out of my small earnings.

Two months later she let a salesman talk her into replacing the downstairs windows for an insane price. Then she got her own bedroom windows replaced. The summer after I moved out (I moved out in December) she replaced the windows in my room, even though no one was currently using the room. She did plan to turn it into a sowing room for herself though.

There are so many more moments like this in my life. I can't begin to count the times Dani has called me overly dramatic. I often thought there was something wrong with me, that I was too emotional for the world—defective. I believed I was a drama queen, overacting at every turn. It's only now I'm learning I wasn't, still I struggle with it. When I get upset I wonder if I'm justified in my feelings or if I'm overacting. I question my own emotions every damn day, and it sucks.

I'm even questioning myself right now, as I write this. Thinking over the past, am I overacting? Am I letting something that is nothing get to me? Am I just being pathetic or am I justified in feeling emotionally shitty? Did I do the right thing cutting my mom out of my life?

I struggle with that one most of all, especially this time of the year.

It was drilled into me we never turn our backs on family. Family is blood, blood is everything. It doesn't matter what family does, you stick with them. Is that the right mentality to have, though?

Am I being a low-life daughter for breaking free?

Am I being selfish for thinking of my own mental health?

The healing part—the rational part—of me says, no. I have every right to feel and do the things I've done. That I'm better for cutting ties and accepting Dani is no mother, but the other part that has been held captive by a woman that should have never had children. Tells me I'm an awful human being. That I'm an awful daughter. Evil. Hateful. . . The lowest form of life in the world. A disgrace, undeserving of my life, and from there I begin to hate myself. I loath each breath I take, because I was taught to—I was trained to—by a monster of a woman that still holds my mind prisoner.

#Prisoner #ChildAbuse #Neglect #SelfHate

~Jax~