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

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

FUCK THAT!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#MotherLies #Conartist #Abuse #ManipulativeMother

~Jax~

Mother On The Outside, Hag On The Inside

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~Jax~

Why I Hate Mommy

I have been hiding, old habit. But there is more to it than me avoiding, I got sick of people who are friends with my family—who know my mother, telling me I need to forgive and forget. Or that my mother had her reasons for doing what she did in the past, even going as far as to blame her own past trauma for her behavior toward me. It's all bullshit.

Yes, forgiveness does bring you peace from the trauma/past, but you're not forgiving the person who did you wrong. You're forgiving yourself. Abuse victims play the blame game, we're very good at it, and the #1 person we blame is ourselves. Forgiveness of the past is for the victim, not the abuser, and forgetting is a band-aid. Let me tell you, when that bastard comes off in hurts. It's why people end up having breakdowns, or hang ups. It's why a victim's world crumbles while they smile and bare it. As for Dani, my mother, having her reasons? I would really really like to know what they are, because I can't come up with any good reasons—not even a bad ones—for allowing my daughter's sexual abuser back into the house. I truly can't. Whatever the reason, it doesn't justify her actions, and poor parenting doesn't even touch it. Nor does her childhood traumas. I've lived through a lot. When I reached 15 I became exhausted by life, I wanted it to be over. Too many things had happened, but do you see me being an asshole? Am I out there inflecting the same thing onto other people?

NO! And there is a lot of victims out there that never become an abuser. Most victims shy away and hide from everything, we don't take it out on other people. We already feel like enough of a burden, why spread the hurt?

These reasons are weak, at best, and I got tired of explaining myself. I shouldn't have to defend myself when I say my childhood was shit—it was the stuff of nightmares—but here we are. Instead of telling people in private messages and so on, I figure, why not make a post? It gets most of it out in the air, and if I still need to defend my choices, my feelings, and the fact I'm a victim. Well then just fluff-off. Because you are part of the problem, not just for me but people like me. People who have fought and survived too many battles, we don't need another one.

Why I hate mommy (I felt a list would be easier and more to the point).:

~ My earliest memories are of crappy by the night motel rooms, sleeping on the floor at the foot of the bed, while Dani gave her boyfriends blowjobs. I wasn't even in kindergarten. Wrecked parking-lots with low-lives on every corner, filled with broken bottles and sometimes syringes, was how I remember my life up till 1^st grade.

~ I have attended over 13 schools in my life, between kindergarten and 12^th grade. In the beginning it wasn't unusual for me to start the year at one school and finish at another. I never had friends longer than two years. My education suffered, my reading skills the most. Dani simply labeled me as learning disabled, and often said I was slow and in subtle ways (at least at first) that I was stupid.

~ Dani, her friends, and boyfriends loved to party. I was at many of these parties that always resembled a college party. Complete with cases of beer, a house full of smoke (cigarettes), and a lot of sexual immature pranks. (How I'm not completely messed up is beyond me.)

~ Dani took me away from my Nana and the rest of the family. I lived so close to my cousins when I lived with my Nana. I had family—community—and I didn't want to leave, but she pulled me away kicking and screaming. All of which for childish reasons (my family didn't like her boyfriend).

~ She brought an abusive sexual predator into my life, and I lived in fear for the rest of my life. My stepfather sexually, verbally, and physically abused me. I feared him—I still fear him. I isolated myself in my room, and when she kicked him out for cheating on her I thought life would get better. It didn't. He still controlled her, and by extension, me.

~ Dani used me as her emotional support. I was a child, and she used me to get through all her rough patches. A child. I didn't know what the hell was going on, but it felt good to be needed. Only problem was the second my brother and sister returned from visiting their father (my stepfather) she didn't need or want me anymore. I was pushed aside and left alone.

~ She abused me, verbally, emotionally, and neglected all my needs. The physical stuff was bad, being grabbed by my arms, jerked around, slapped across the face. . . poked. But the emotional stuff hits far deeper. She often asked me “Why are you so damn stupid.” I actually started to believe I was stupid.

~ She crushed every dream I ever had. From becoming a writer to wanting to work for NASA, she shot them all down. Telling me I was too lazy, too stupid, that my grades sucked, that I sucked. I had too much of a disability. I wasn't smart or pretty. By the time college came I wanted to be a cop so I could get shot and never have to live long enough to acknowledge how much of a failure I was.

~ Her boyfriend sexually assaulted me (someone besides my stepfather). We reported it, he was arrested, and we went to court. She talked me out of testifying—rather she guilted me out of it. He walked, and a few months later he was back spending the night two doors down from my bedroom.

~ She took every penny ever stored away for my college, or given to me on birthdays, graduation, ect and spent it on bills she let pile up while she spent money on herself or my brother and sister.

~ She brainwashed me into thinking she was the sun, the moon, and the stars when in reality she was an ugly hag training a slave. She allowed my brother and sister to abuse me as well, and often labeled me the outcast in the family.

~ I was guilted into not taking part in school programs or sports. While I played softball, it was the only thing I was allowed to do. For those few months of softball season every year all I heard was bitching, yelling, and abusive digs thrown my way. But I needed to play softball, it was all I really had.

~ She shamed me for being creative. She hated that I loved to draw, thought it was a waste of time. Dani wanted me to go to a real college, told me I would never make money in the art world. When I never succeeded in traditional school she criticized me, called me stupid. After I finally worked up the courage to apply to art school and got accepted, Dani dumped all the college paperwork, taxes, finical aid on me. Up till that point she had handled all of that, since I was no longer doing what she wanted she left me high and dry. I had to do a crash course without any help.

~ She constantly competed with me. I never understood why, but if someone at the church or school found out I did artwork and asked me to create something for them. She would also create something, and present only her work, saying that I was too lazy to get to it. That hers' was better. Same with cooking, sewing, anything. . . everything.

If these reasons are not enough to understand why I hold a deep anger for Dani, my mother, then what is? What level of depravity must she reach before people start seeing her for the awful, sick person she is? I don't care if there are people out there whom choose not to believe what I'm saying about her, and I don't care if you still want to remain friends with her. That's your choice, but victim shaming me—calling into question my emotions—or devaluing the things I've lived through because of that piece of shit, is not going to fly.

And before people start talking about, “Don't be angry. . . free yourself by releasing it and forgive.” I have to feel it first. No one can process emotions, heal, and come out the other side without first feeling all the things they avoided before. I have no doubt one day when I think of Dani I won't be pissed off. I will not longer feel the deep pain of rejection from the woman that gave birth to me. I won't want to put my fist through a wall when I remember how she threw things at me, bruised my body, and handed me over to her boyfriends. That's my goal, to glance back into my past and not feel devastated by every single memory. Until then I need to feel the anger, rage is healthy and needed. It gives me strength to move on when all I want to do is stand still in emotional anguish.

To those who think Dani's an angel, a woman who helps everyone and puts her self before anothers. Believe what you want, but here's the truth. This is why I hate her, and why—no matter the amount of time that passes or the healing I do—will I ever. . . EVER, allow her back into my life.

#TraumaWarrior #Abuse #Victim #WhyIHateMommy #BadParent #BadMother #StopShamming

~Jax~

Low As Hell

Hey guys, it's been awhile. . . A long while. Sorry about that. It's just. . . *sighs* life, not in a good way either. The awful part about it is I needed this blog, and I didn't use it. This is my place to vent, rant, and open up—here I speak out into the universe, and though it never responds I feel better knowing it's no longer inside me. So why haven't I used this wonderful tool since October?

Punishment. . . It's the only thing I can come up with. I do, after all, have masochist personality disorder, and in some way I'm sure I was punishing myself—keeping myself away from the good outlet so I could wallow in bad habits. I'll admit it, I'm not ready to let go of old comforts no matter how self-damaging they are. I can feel myself getting close to letting go, my mind and body are moving toward better habits but I'm not there yet. One day soon, hopefully.

It's truly a struggle trying to do the right thing for yourself—loving yourself—when you have been taught to hate every last thing about yourself. Being told you're not worthy of—really—anything. It's my biggest struggle, not only loving myself, but not believing all my life lessons. To me normal is messed up. Not just a little messed up either.

You know how I came to like chicken lo mien?

I used to have to walk to my mom's work behind my high school, and wait in the car in the parking lot till 6pm when she got off. My school let out at 2:30pm. 3 ½ hours I would sit in the car, often times in the freezing cold (she would leave it un-locked but not leave me a key or give me a spare. Most of the time I spent half an hour looking for the damn car because it was a factory with a full lot). By 6pm, when Dani got off, I was usually starving, not because I was used to an after school snack. We never had after school snacks or anything like that. Nope, I was starving because a lot of the times I wouldn't have eaten all day. My school lunches were reduced but not free, and if I asked for the 10cents to buy lunch, Dani would freak out on me. I wasn't allowed to pack lunch because that would cost too much (my brother and sister always packed unless it was pizza day. They also got free school lunches by the way, but still packed.)

So what does all this have to do with lo mien?

Well, I would be so hungry by the time I left school I would search the floor of the car—which always looked like a trash truck—for anything I could eat. My brother and sister were very messy, and often left food in the car. Dani was too busy to tell them to clean it up, and she rarely got around to it herself. I ended up finding a Chinese takeout bin Dani must have had for a late dinner one time. Score, there were noodles left in it. Not many, but it was something. I downed those noodles and licked the damn thing clean. Before that I would always cringe when Dani got lo mien. All those things mixed in sauce you couldn't tell what they were, but I was desperate and it tasted so damn good. I've been a lo mien fan ever since.

I randomly told my husband this story—meant to be a childhood funny story sharing moment—one night when ordered takeout. I gave my usual chuckle that I've used to mask the awfulness of my past, then I looked over to my husband expecting him to do the same. Instead he looked horrified. He said, “you realize that's not normal right?”

I often don't know things like that aren't normal, because that was my normal. I never knew anything else. Okay, that's not 100% correct. If another person had told me this story about themselves I would have said the same thing to them. I would have believed it was horrid for them to have to shift through trash to find a scrap of food. I mean—fuck—it's really messed up, but because it was me—because it was my life—I didn't think there was anything wrong with that. Why? Because I was trained not to see myself as human—as worthy. Instead I was always grateful to be alive, just happy to be in the world. As a result I go without—I punish myself even though I have done nothing wrong. I have guilt about everything! It makes recovery—healing—difficult on the best of days, and when my world starts getting hit by outside awfulness it becomes impossible.

End of October I pushed to get coloring books out, working myself into exhaustion because I'm always worried about money—about being a failure—and not working a 'real' job. It's something Dani would criticize me for, and now my brother in-law does too. (That's another can of worms to open another day). On top of that my mother in-law started dealing with some health problems, it ended up being a rare form of cancer. Something no family is ready to deal with. Since then life has been a blur, but I can feel myself slipping into old habits. Working far beyond my healthy limits, nightmares, irrational fears, ect. All the awful stuff I've fought against this last year or so is coming back, and it makes me wonder what's the point? Why do I suffer tons through healing when I end up right back where I started? Instead I could kept doing what I was doing and only suffered a little at a time.

I know these are all lies. I'm better for the battles I've won, and people tell me I'm doing better all the time. Problem is, all I feel is chaos. Wild, unrestrained chaos, and I don't know where to start putting the pieces back together.

The last week of December and first week of January I've been feeling more suicidal than I have in a really long time. Every second there's regret weighing me down, and it's all because of my asshole brother in-law and his harpie. It's brought me back to remembering things like the first time I tried lo mien, and other truly low moments in my life. Then comes the thoughts, “maybe my mom was right in the way she treated me. Maybe I should just be happy with being allowed to live as long as I have, because I don't deserve anymore than that. I'm worthless, pathetic, this lowly thing rolling around on earth. . . Everyone would be better off without having to deal with me.”

To keep myself grounded while these thoughts race through my head I've come back here—back to the thing that might just keep me moving forward. It doesn't change the way I feel right now, or how low my opinion of myself is, but maybe it will help something. Give me something to grip while I struggle. Oh yeah, my birthday is in two days also. Great time to feeling like this, but then my birthday has it's own awful memories. So, yay for me! Welcome to 2019.

#Failing #Struggling #Abuse #Depression #Suicide

~Jax

Scholastic Book Fair!

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

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

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

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

Why am I writing about the book fair, right?

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

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

#BookFair #HelpChildrenRead #BookLover #PainfulMemories #BadMom

~Jax~

My Mom, The Bully. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~Jax~

Therapy Sucks, So Do It!

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

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

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

Yeah, no.

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

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

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

Yes.

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

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

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

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

WIN!

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

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

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

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

~Jax~