The Depths of Cruelty (Father Reconnect)

I wanted to talk about my father, a lot of things happened around the holidays and with everything settling I feel now is a good time. It's going to be a long post, but heartbreaking stories usually are. So hold on to your butts!

A little history, I didn't meet my father until I was eleven years old. It was an awkward and strange little meeting that last about an hour or so at a park. When you're eleven you don't know how to act in that type of situation, and the adults didn't help. Though, I need to give credit to my stepmom, Paula, she did amazing. Bright, inviting, and very open. She's a true delight.

After that first meeting my father was still not really in my life. Living a few states away can make it hard, but then I was told by my mom that he wanted nothing to do with me. He never called or sent me letters, or anything like that for about a year. Really, when you're that age it falls into the back of your mind. I mean, I had other things I was worrying about. Like junior high. I did, however, hear stories about my dad from my mom. She would often tell me how they met while she was working at Denny's as a waitress.

She was nineteen, he was thirty-two (or so she says). He came in with his buddies from work in suits, and Dani flirted with them like she did with everyone. Things happened, they ended up dating. Boom! She's pregnant with me. The standard young love story, but here is where things take a left turn.

According to Dani, my father's family hated her. Thought she was a loser because she came from a broken home (my grandparents were divorced for some time at this point, and my mom was emancipated at 16). While they should have been preparing for a baby Jeff, my dad, was busy taking advice from his judgmental family. He started getting distant and even asked my mom to get an abortion. (Yes, these are things my mom told me even before I was 11. In fact she told me this story at age six/seven when I asked about abortion protesters outside a hospital).

Refusing to have an abortion and bullied by my dad's family, my mom moved back to California and had me. In the way she puts it, “she gave up on the man she deeply loved because she would never do anything to harm an innocent child. Her words,” not mine.

How twisted. . . right?

I can not tell you how many times I wished Dani had got an abortion with me. Those were thoughts I had as far back as age 12. How awful is a child's life that they think about never being born?

Every chance she had, my mom would tell me how much Jeff's family hated her and hated me. I never understood why. . . I take that back. I knew why they hated me, it was the same reason they hated my mom. I came from a broken home, I was low class compared to them. Dani would tell me stories about how rich and well off they were. How my father never wanted for anything, and how they looked down on me and her. My father was a prince and I was a gutter rat, that's how my mother made it sound to me.

Dani often said nasty things about my dad. About how he wanted me dead before I was even born, and that after meeting me that day he denied I was his. I had to take a DNA test to prove I was his daughter. Which I found strange, considering Dani also liked to tell the story how Jeff named me.

I guess in his family everyone's first name starts with a “J” and my name had to start with one as well. BUT, he didn't want a standard “J” name. So he came up with, “Jacqulene” which is pronounced: Jack-Leen. It's different, I'll give him that and over the years I grew to hate the name. Because he gave it to me, and I would never be good enough for him. (Again, this all comes from my mother).

Plus, no one can say my first name right right.

(Don't get me started on my middle name.)

After the DNA test came back I was 99.9999% his, my father started sending me cards randomly throughout the years. Maybe something for Christmas, certainly something for my birthday (When I would get a card for my birthday she would kill my excitement with this comment, “of course he's sending you a birthday card. He knows just how old you are because he's counting down to 18 so he won't have to pay child-support anymore).

I didn't always believe her when she said things like that, and held out hope it wouldn't happen, but the cards stopped after I graduated high school. I was eighteen.

I grew to hate the man over the years. Well, that really isn't right. How can you really feel deep hate for someone you don't even know. The concept of a father was a shadowed thought in the depths of my mind. Besides I was a college student. I had important things going on.

Like three am coffee with the guys watching the drunk grandmas are Denny's. Real important stuff. LOL

Besides, I knew how for sure how my father felt about me.

Sometime before I turned eighteen I had sent my dad a letter, I wanted to spend a week in the summer with him. I wanted to be around my other brother, Kevin, and feel apart of his life. With the letter finished I gave it to my mom to send off, and in a few weeks I got a reply.

It was a letter that ripped my heart out. It said, in summary, that I was a dark mark on his life. That he never asked nor wanted me. I was not his daughter and to never contact him again.

Whatever hope I had been holding onto for having a father were killed that day. Thinking about what was in that letter still makes me cry to this day, it was. . . awful. My mom made me ribs for dinner that night to make me feel better. Looking back I should have suspected something then, but I didn't. What kid thinks their parents would do anything to intentionally hurt them. I mean, I was considering the strange fact she already had the ribs cooking that morning. Or that she bought them the day before, like she was per-paring for this sealed letter from my father with no return address label on it.

Age twenty, I wrote my father a new letter. A rather nasty one asking for $500 to fix my car so I could restart college. At this point in my life I had dropped out of college, paid off a $1,200 fee to my school, to go back to the college. All on a dishwasher's pay. Oh, and supported my mom and family.

I worked a lot!

But I didn't have enough money to get my car fixed on time, and I was desperate. I figured, that asshole had money and he owes me. This time I sent the letter myself, addressed it and everything because my mom couldn't be bothered to do it.

In a week I got a reply from Jeff with a money order for the money I asked for. I thought it was wonderful, and we started talking back and forth. Sadly, I didn't use the money to get my car fix. Dani talked me into using it for a bill she hadn't been paying. My car never did get fixed, and I ended up having to trade it in for a newer car and a car payment. Yay! (man did it feel good when I paid that car off. Did it all by myself too, but I still miss that car I traded in.)

In-spite of the car not getting fixed, me and my father started exchanging letters back and forth. . . emails. He even invited me to come out and spend Easter that year. He bought me a plane ticket, and I went to stay with them. It was. . . extremely awkward.

Here I was staying with a man, and a family that was—as Dani would say—insanely well off. He had a nice clean house, with nice stuff. A loving family, they all got along. They had stories, and history—memories that were wonderful, and I was the outsider. Even though I knew I was his daughter, and he invited me to be apart of the family I still felt I didn't belong. I wasn't good enough to be among them. They weren't my family, no matter how much I wanted them to be.

This awful string of feelings is something my mom put in me. She nourished these ideas of me not being good enough to my father—that I was beneath him—and wasn't part of his rich world. So while I was in the dark place at the time of my visit, and I wanted to reach out and embrace him as my father. I didn't. . . I couldn't. How could I tell him about all the neglect and abuse, about the sexual stuff without feeling like a whore?

Dirty thing that was so far beneath this perfect family.

At this point in my life I was programmed to be a good little abuse victim. Don't talk about what goes on in the house, and I believed my father to be a man that was simply doing the right thing by having me there. See, my brother, Kevin and I had been chatting a lot online at the time. Kevin always wanted a brother or sister, so he wanted me in his life and this is where my mother stepped in.

Dani explained the reason my father asked me to visit like this, “Kevin wants to know about you and for you to be apart of his life. Paula loves Kevin deeply because it's her only child, and Jeff loves Paula. So he's just trying to keep the rest of his family happy. Once they get board with you, it will stop.”

Ouch, love you too mom.

As my brother got older and moved on with his life we stopped talking. He got busy, and the only time I heard from my father was Christmas and my birthday. Not that I cared. For all I knew I didn't matter to him. So, fuck him.

Fast-forward to this summer. I started therapy, and began facing a lot of hard things. I cut my mother out of my life, and wrote her a letter highlighting the reasons why. She responded as a child, not that it surprised me. I'm doubtful she even read the 20+ page letter I sent her. That's fine, the letter I wrote was more for me than her. I said everything I needed to. The truth and my feelings about it were out there, and that's really all that mattered at the time.

In September I came to realize putting all my hatred on Dani wasn't fair. While my father was never there, he still had some responsibility in the awful things that happened to me. He left me with the woman who neglected me, and who let her boyfriends have their way with me. He needed to know what I had to live through to get to this point in my life. Also, I wanted Jeff to know how much of a fighter his daughter was.

I sat down that day and wrote a gut wrenching letter. I assigned no blame, simply told my life story. Straightforward and to the point. I wanted him to know what happened to me when he wasn't around, and how I felt about it. Even if he never replied to me I knew this was a step in the right direction, I started to heal that day.

I said, “Hey, this messed up stuff happened to me. You and mom left me to this life, but I'm still here and I'm going to keep going.”

It was an amazing feeling, but to my surprise a reply letter showed up in my mail box the Friday before Halloween. Oh lord, I have never been so afraid of an envelope in my life. The second I pulled it from the mail box I dropped it. Honestly, it fell onto the ground like it bit me.

After laughing at myself for being stupid over a piece of paper, I came inside and put it on my desk. It was a thin letter, thinner than mine. Couldn't bring myself to open it. Usually I tore open letters right away because mail is fun, (so long as it's not bills). Not this time, it sat there and I thought about not opening it. That Friday was an extremely busy day for me, I didn't need to be upset for it. The thought came to me to wait until I got home later that night when my husband was around to open in. Staring at the thing I came to a decision.

Fuck it, I was opening it.

It's just a letter, and if anything it's probably like the response I got from my mom. That I was prepared for, being told I needed therapy—a mental hospital—and to be drugged. Yeah, I can handle all that none-sense.

I was wrong. . . There as no preparing for what my father's response was. . .

The contents changed everything, and I mean everything. My world went upside down, flipped inside out, and then plunged into the depths of the ocean. . .

Even now. . . I c-can't. . .

. . .I started this entry back at the end of last year. My intentions were to post it on January first, but I had to stop. Somethings are too hard to face, and you need to build up the courage. That's what I've spent my time doing, building up my courage to face this monster of truth. Sadly, it sent me into a depressive spiral which was exaggerated due to my birthday. That's over now, and it's time to move on to the second part of this post. My courage is shaky, but I'm ready.

The easiest way to tell you want the letter said would be to copy and post it, but it's not my letter to post. There are things in it I'm sure my father would like to keep between me and him, so I'll sum it up for you.

The remorse that poured off my father's words hit me the hardest, it bleed from the ink. I could image what he must have looked like reading my twenty page confession, witnessing first-hand what his daughter had suffered. The guilt of a father that was never there hitting deeper knowing he could have ended my anguish. He was honest with me, and that's all I asked of him. That's all I ever asked of anyone, including my mother.

Honesty, it's a simple frail thing. Straightforward. There's no illusions to hide behind, no half truths. That might seem rather black and white of me, but when you've lived through what I have and existence in a world filled with grays. Black and white is the best thing for healing. No excuses, or reasons. No, should of, could of, would ofs. Just cold hard facts mixed with raw emotions. That's all I ask, and he gave me that.

My dad explained his fears about his struggles at the time my mother was doing her thing with me. Told me how much he regretted not being there more, and letting his anger at Dani effect his relationship with me. Then I came across a paragraph, a sentence that destroyed and soothed me all in one.

Jeff, that man I never called by Dad—the first of many men that I thought had abandoned me—hurt me, and left me to a world that is. . . awful. He wanted me. He wanted custody of me, but at the time he worried over the type of life I would have with him if he was struggling. He also didn't want to take a child away from their mother, but if he only knew the type of mother Dani was.

I don't fault him for not trying to get custody, I understand the complexities of life and wanting a good future for your children. I get that, and while we can sit around and say “what if,” it changes nothing.

Instead, what I took away from that confession was, he wanted me. I was wanted. . . He wanted. . . me.

Sitting in my desk chair I broke, but in a good way. I crumbled under the relief of knowing someone out there—my blood family—a parent—wanted me. I was wanted. I was good enough for the first time in my life. For someone that has been told throughout their life that they're a burden, made to feel unwanted, that's. . . Well, earth shattering.

My dad goes on to say he would never turn me away, or not want to hear from me. He even said he was proud of what I've managed to do, and the hardship I've faced. It's awkward to hear those compliments but at the same time it's the first time one of my parents have praised me, and I knew they meant it.

I sat there for a few stunned moments, smiling like a fool. I'll admit, I giggled as happy tears rolled down my cheeks. It felt good—I felt whole for the first time ever, and then it hit me. . . the truth. . . the honest truth of the car-wreck that is my past.

How much can a mother hate her own child?

How far would they go to destroy any hope in innocence?

Apparently, Dani's cruelty had a new level I discovered in that letter. As I said before she often told me how my father abandoned us—that we—I—wasn't good enough for him. I was just a bastard poor child, with a fucked up mom. That was me. I never asked for that life, nor wanted it. I tried like hell to change it, but it never worked. All this time she made me think she was the only one that loved or wanted me. Over and over again I heard the stories about how she gave up college for me, my dad, her husband, boyfriends, even jobs. I was made to think I needed to be grateful for every crumb she threw my way because I had no one else who cared, but that wasn't true.

It wasn't fucking true at all. My father loved me, he wanted me. All this time.

This epiphany lead me into the worst panic-attack I have ever had. I couldn't breathe, think, all I felt was intense anger. In that moment I hated Dani, for once I didn't put the anger on myself. I was flooded by emotion, but for once I didn't want to hurt myself. My anger was firmly placed where it should be, I was actually pissed at the person that deserved it.

See, even after I cut Dani out of my life I still felt bad about doing it. I had the idea stuck in my head that I was being a bad daughter, because that's how brainwashed I am. I thought of myself as one of those ungrateful kids that blames all their problems on their parents (I still do at times). I've been trained to think I'm always wrong, but none of that mattered this time. My rage broke the programming.

She had lied to me. . . my whole life! I started to wonderful how much of her stories were true about my father, and other men, other people in our life. The awful things she used to say about them.

It took me an hour to settle down, and when I did the only thing I wanted to do was make the two hour drive to Dani's house and confront her. I wanted answers, I wanted to know what the hell my father was talking about. . . What bullshit had she pulled. . . Did he really order that DNA test when I was 11 or did she?

I wanted to know it all, but because I couldn't trust my judgment I stayed home, and got ready for my event that night. For the next 24 hours I numbed myself. I drifted back and forth on the edge of completely losing it. I knew I was going to crash, and hard when I did allow myself to feel once again, but before then there was one more question I needed answered.

While the truth was written out in a letter right in front of me, I still had a fingertip on the hope it wasn't true. That Dani wasn't the woman this information suggested she was. That those first seven years of my life we spent together, me and her against the world, actually meant something. That she loved me for real. I even overlooked that asinine reply she gave me by email when I asked her about what my dad said in his letter. (It was another three lined childish reply suggesting I needed therapy).

So I message my father, I asked him about the letter I sent him when I was a teenager. The one where I asked him to spend the summer. I didn't tell him that I gave it to my mom to send out for me (teenagers and sending letters, yeah we are not good at that). I asked him outright why he didn't want me to come that summer to stay with him?

He replied back that he never got a letter like that, and he never sent a response. I believed him, he's never given me any reason not to, and he wasn't gaining anything by lying to me. There is nothing I can give him that he doesn't already have, there is no reason to be dishonest. With is reply, I knew.

Cruel, brutal, cold-blooded, heartless, sadistic. . . There are so many words in our language, but none of them. . . Not a single one touch on what my mother did.

She took a child—fresh and new to the world—and crushed their spirit, brainwashed them, psychically hurt them, mental destroyed them. Let her boyfriends and husband kill their soul, and when I thought I was free—when I saw light at the end—hope within reach, she delivered another blow.

My entire life was a lie. . . One of the biggest heartbreaks of my past is not true, and now I'm left to wonder how often she told me lies. How many times was she dishonest? I know she can lie like the best of them, I've seen her do it to others, but to me. . . her daughter?

I would have gone to hell for my mother. I gave her my undying loyalty and bought her anything she wished. I turned my back on my own sexual abuse just so she could continue to have a relationship with those men. I let her use me as a verbal punching bag when she was said, and I watched countless Christmas mornings as my brother and sister opened gifts knowing there was nothing for me because my mom didn't have the money. Still I smiled and made it a good time for everyone.

I cooked, cleaned, washed clothes. . . I—I was a slave to her, and I was rewarded like this.

So here I am entering into 2018 a shattered woman. The fabric of my life left in ruins. Yes, my relationship with my father is going down a wonderful path, but on the flip side I have to deal with this. . . This betrayal that I can't fully grasp without wanting to hurt myself to release the emotion agony.

What do I do now?

Where do I go from here?

How many lies are there?

My mind goes to dark places when I think about it, one of the darkest thoughts is—

Did my mother's boyfriend randomly sexually assault me, or did she give me to him?

I don't know, but one this is for sure. I'll never trust her again.

#FatherlyBond #MotherBetrayal #Lies

~Jax~

A Birthday Wish

The last two weeks I've been in a deep depression. I've slept 13+ hours a day, I've had dark dark thoughts, and the idea of harming myself has come to mind a few times. These depths are something I haven't seen in well over a year's time, and never have they lasted this long. At least not in the last five years. To say 2018 started out rough, would be a big understatement. Especially when I had such high hopes for this year.

No, I'm not giving up. . . Far from it. A few awful days don't ruin a whole year.

Those that are close to me have been asking the same questions they always ask when this mood sets in—why?

What's wrong?

My therapist asks the same thing, or rather she asks why I think I'm having a hard time. Analyzing your feelings and reasons for depression is. . . upsetting. . . overwhelming, and it forces you to face a lot of things you've been running from. However, these things need to be felt. The wound needs to drain the infection before they can heal, and while I spent most of my life running from the depression—the emotions: Pain, fear, shame, betrayal. For me to continue to heal, I can't run anymore. I need to feel these things, and it sucks ass!

But I'm stronger for it.

So why have I fallen into the worst depression in five+ years?

My only conclusion is that with therapy a lot of crap comes up. Memories I never wanted are coming back to me. They've been manageable the last few months, but with my birthday looming it's simply too much.

I've become flooded. Which is never a good thing for someone like me. Or anyone really. Emotional flooding is. . . Well. . . Imagine the most intense emotion you've ever had, whatever it is. Happiness, joy, grief, ect. Now let it consume you until you can't breathe—until your heart stops and you become disoriented. Up is down, down is up. Good is evil, and nothing makes any damn sense. The world stops, the world speeds forward. All you want is for it to stop—to escape the awful sensation.

That's the whole I've been in, when not sleeping.

Tomorrow is my birthday, which has been a wonderful day since I married my husband. He always makes it special, but this year the only thing on my mind is the past. Those phantom thoughts of all the birthdays I put behind me are clawing to get out. They want to be remembered—they want me to grieve all those moments where others tried to break me.

That's the heart of my depression. . . my past. . . my anger that I hold in until it comes out in sorrow and pain.

There is one birthday—one memory that is playing on repeat this January 12^th.

~My 15, it was a small event. Me, my mom, and her boyfriend, Dan. I liked Dan. He restored my faith in father figures. At this point in my life I left like the father was overrated in a family, all a child needed was their mother. This is because my mother, Dani, made me believe my father wanted nothing to do with me. ( I have since learned otherwise. Her cruelty knows no limits.)

We had a wonderful coffee chocolate cake Dani made, super rich. The kind you need a full thing a milk with. We laughed and had a good time, no gifts. I often didn't get gifts because Dani never had money to spend on gifts until after tax season. Even then the gifts were. . . “family gifts”. Nothing just for me. Not that I cared that much. I liked spending the time with Dani and Dan. I loved Dan like he was my father, and I hoped him and my mom would get married. She was less focused on me when he was around (meaning she didn't yell and neglect me when he was around).

That autumn (months after my birthday), on a Sunday, Dan sexually assaulted me while my mother slept with her head in his lap. He touched and groped my breasts pretending to be interested in my Japanese symbol necklace I got from a 25cent machine at the grocery store. He told me to keep playing the video game I was playing, and that everything would be alright. “It's all good,” I hate that phrase till this day. Within minutes he was moving to my pants and to my panties. I felt his fingers brush the waist of my underwear, and I hated that I felt excited—turned on. I wanted him to stop. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't. In my mind if I sat still—if I closed my eyes and ignored it, it wouldn't happen.

It would be okay, but it wasn't.

My mother woke up, Dan stopped his assault and they both left the house. I didn't say anything, like all the other times in the past when I was sexually assaulted. But this wasn't like all those other times, the trust I placed in Dan. . . It was like a father trying to rape me, and I called my best friend for comfort.

So why does this memory come up on my birthday if it happened months after?

When I told my mother what Dan did, at first she thought I was lying. That I just wanted to ruin her happiness with her boyfriend. Then, she started to believe me and asked if he raped me—if he took my virginity.

I told her no, and this is exactly what she said. I can never forget her words.

“Thank god, I could never forgive him if he did that to you. If he took that from you.”

Let that sink in for a second.

This is where I feel shame about calling myself a sexual assault victim, because I wasn't raped. In my mind, and Dani's, it's not that bad because I wasn't raped.

From there things went mental. We were at the police station, men were surrounding me, demanding to know what happened. All that awful stuff. It was. . . There are no words for how awful it was. . . how awful it was handled. There was no compassion.

Later that night, after my mom and I returned home, the detective called and informed us Dan had been charged, but was released. He confessed to assaulting me, but at first he lied. Said he thought I wanted it, and I was 18.

It was in that moment—that second when he told that—lie betrayal cute me to the bone. I thought back to my birthday that year, how he sat there and smiled at me. I had to reevaluate every hug—every look, smile, well wish. I had to rethink everything and face the fact a man I trusted completely had lied. . . betrayed someone who admired him. My hatred for males, mainly fathers, reached a whole new level.

A few months later my mom was seeing him again, I guess she couldn't forgive him if he raped me but touching was fine. She forgave him awful fast, and restarted her relationship with him. Or rather her affair. See, this whole time Dan had a long time girlfriend.

What a wonderful birthday memory to have—a great series of thoughts. This is my world. . . My hell.

Here's the thing. I never asked to be born—I never wanted to be in this world, and Dani throwing me to her lovers (this wasn't the first time one of her boyfriends abused me). I never deserved that, and I don't deserve these memories.

The only thing I want for my birthday this year—the one thing I want to do more than anything—is to drive to Dani's house. Charge in, and rip her a new one. I want to yell, scream, and blast her for all the shit she made me live through—all the times she put herself before the welfare of her children. I want to ask her how she could let a man that sexually assaulted her daughter—a man that would have went farther had she not woken up—back into a room three doors down from his victim!

I want her to feel a fraction of the pain, betrayal. . . soul deep agony I live with every day.

I want my mom to know she's a piece of shit, but most importantly I want everyone around her to know how much of a piece of shit she is.

Because despite all this truth—this reality of past events, she thinks I'm the fucked up one. That my mind is twisted, and I don't remember things correctly. I will admit for most of my teenage life I thought just that. I honestly believed my memories were messed up, but there is one thing you can never distort or alter.

How you feel.

The emotions that boil forth when I remember these periods in time are the only honest handhold I have. They are real, true, and un-waivering. They speak the truth when my lips can't.

So while I want to see sorrow and pain in my mother's eyes as I tell her all these things, I will never get it. To this day Dani will tell you I'm overreacting. That she did nothing wrong, and was the greatest mom ever. All I want is some acknowledgment she fucked up, but she will never give me that. Because that's the woman she is.

#BirthdayWish #MothersDenial #SexualAssault #FeelingTheTruth  

~Jax

I Want To Disappear

Last night I had some serious thoughts about harming myself, and even thought the world would be better off if I simply disappeared. It's been awhile since I've been that low, last night I was low. . . Falling deep into depression. In fact I've been circling the depression drain since the turn of the new year, and yesterday it came to ahead. I didn't have the strength to fight anymore.

You'll be happy to know I didn't harm myself and my suicidal thoughts were thrown away after I confided in my husband. That alone is something that takes a lot of strength for me to do, because when I'm in the mood I was last night—when the depression takes that strong of a hold—all I want to do is be left alone. I want to wallow in misery because I feel I deserve it. The belief that I'm no good sticks inside my head, and I hear my mother's voice telling me “you're just fishing for compliments.” And that's why I'm depressed or say negative things about myself. I'm simply looking for a compliment, but the truth is compliments make me feel worse than the degrading self-talk.

I cringe when my husband calls me beautiful, sexy, talented, amazing. They make me awkward and sometimes they depress me even more because I feel as if I'm tricking him—like I'm conning him into seeing something that isn't true about me.

How I see myself, especially on bad days, is a dirty, ungodly fat, lazy ass worthless artist following a broken hopeless dream. A disillusioned dreamer that is a selfish bastard, and at every turn finds a new way to fuck up despite knowing what they should be doing. A talent-less fraud. . . pathetic.

Someone not worthy of the man I married, hell not even worthy to live a day without being abused.

That's the woman my mother raised. Someone who believes her only purpose in life is to be used as a doormat and to suffer. A woman that tries to fight her way out, but does everything to keep herself falling backwards. It's a life of contradictions. . Utterly maddening.

So this first week of 2018 has been a struggle. . . A big struggle.

I want to write and work on my books, but I can't. The mental monster of my mother is there telling me I got lucky winning the award on my last novel. It tells me I lost my talent for story telling. . . That I suck at everything and will never make any type of living from this. Trying to sell your creative works is hard enough without internal slings.

Of course all this has been made worse by two things.

1. My one goal this year is to be running a mile by the end of the year. I've always loved running as a child, and I was fast. It was a joy I lost over the years, and one my mother often hammered down. So that is something I would like to work towards getting back. I started out trying to walk for ten minutes a day. This resulted in my Achilles tendon flaring up. I can now barely walk and I'm in pain all from a little walk. Not a good way to start the year off. Plus I hate myself for allowing my body to get this out of shape over the years. My husband tells me it really isn't my fault, that depression and anxiety has had a tight hold on me, and simply getting out of bed has been a battle since 2012. But that's not good enough for my internal critic.

2. My birthday is next Friday, and that is. . . No matter how hard I try to alter my way of thinking—of telling myself I no long live in the hell I once did—my birthday continues to be an awful time for me. In my family the one day of the year I looked forward to was my birthday. It was the one day my mom had to be nice to me, and the day was all about me (those were the house rules). However, that stopped being the case after I turned 15, and even before then I didn't get a birthday party. I ended getting a dinner out and that's it. My 16^th birthday. . . nightmare. No one ever made my birthday special, generally I got a “Happy Birthday, sorry I don't have money for gifts or a party. I'll make it up to you around tax time.” But my mother never did. That day has always been a big disappointment to me, so now my mind naturally prepares for it.

The gifts never mattered to me, the amount of money didn't matter. What I wanted—what I've always wanted was simply to feel like my mother gave a damn. . . That for one day I was a special person. A nice breakfast, a day out shopping or just window shopping, spending time together. Getting our nails done, getting our hair done. A nice surprise dinner with a few friends and cake. You have to have cake.

For my birthday I want to be surrounded by laughing and good times. Friends, family. That's all. I've never gotten any of that. Instead my birthday has always been as cold as the month it's in. Lonely. . . My husband tries but the damage has already been done. Now, if I actually got what I wanted for my birthday, I would feel very uncomfortable and awkward. I can't stand to have a day where I am in the spotlight, and yet that's what I want. It's a hell of a way to live.

And that's where I am right now. Between complete depression and wanting to be happier. It's miserable and I want to disappear.

Happy Birthday to me, and all the awful memories it brings up.

#Depression #SelfHarm #Suicide #2018 #SucksSoFar

~Jax~

The Power of Nightmares

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's where I am today, shattered.

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

#SexualAbuseVictim #Fighting  

~Jax~

My Scars

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#BeautifullyScarred #Warrior

~Jax~

Playing Santa

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

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

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

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

Why would I hate playing Santa?

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

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

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

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

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

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

#LittleThingsMatter #SmallMoments #BigImpact
~Jax~

Thankful To Be Alive

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

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

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

I'm thankful to be alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#Thankful #ToBeAlive

~Jax~