This post is rough and unedited and may lose you at some points, but it is one of the most important things I have to say. - I
usually speak about my struggles with my own mental illness. But,
lately, I've been feeling the strong need to address those who have
friends, family, or other loved ones who have an illness, and to
speak from the perspective of someone who is surrounded by others who
deal with various struggles. This post is dedicated to six simple
words that come together to make one serious statement that everyone
should know – whether you suffer from mental illness or know
someone who does (or even someone who doesn't). I hope that these words stick with you and that you
know that nothing can make them false. They are as follows:
You
have the RIGHT to SAFETY.
Physically.
Verbally. Emotionally. Sexually. You have the right to be safe. No
matter what.
Never
listen to anyone who tells you or makes you feel otherwise – even
if the person making you feel otherwise is yourself.
Never
be guilted to enter into or to stay in a situation where you are
unsafe.
For
twenty-three years, the words 'they're trying their best' have
haunted me and invalidated my pain. The worst part is that those
words hold true with some members of my family. Others, no so much.
My mother, a woman undiagnosed with something,
uses her mental health as an excuse to take advantage of those around
her. (Note: This is NOT always the case when it comes to other
people. Most people who struggle with mental illness do NOT use their
poor health to take advantage of other people. Mental illness is a
disease, and living with it is akin to living in Hell. People like my
mother are simply a special kind of awful.) By remaining undiagnosed
and insisting that she is sick, but not sick enough to need help, she
has found how simple it is to manipulate others – especially her
own children.
Now
let me take a step back to bring my family as a whole into the
picture, because I want to briefly speak about several of the
situations I have come to deal with.
In
1991, I was born into a situation that still occasionally blows my
mind. My father, a gay man with Bipolar Disorder who chose (and still
chooses) to self medicate with alcohol, and my mother, a manipulative
woman who victimizes herself in order to draw in the attention of
others, a match made in Hell, had a baby. That would be me. Despite
that I was planned, to start off their life as parents, they never
made a mental note about which day I was born – spending the next
eighteen years convinced that I had been born on the 8th
while my birth certificate (which they must have never looked at)
says the 9th.
But I was born. And seven years later, so was my brother, to the same
parents.
Both
of my parents spent their childhoods in less than ideal situations. I
don't know much about my grandparents on my mother's side, even
though I did grow up knowing them. My grandfather had an alcohol
problem – and at some point, he divorced my grandmother and moved
back in with his mother – where he lived for the rest of his life.
My grandmother remarried a man with leather belts that weren't just
for holding up his pants. He was still probably a more suitable
parent than she ever was. She spent her life struggling with anorexia
and an alcohol addiction, and at one point, she attempted to run over
her three children with a car. She has since tried to make amends
with her children, though has no desire to get help for her issues.
My
grandparents on my father's side, who I lived with after being
abandoned by my own parents at the age of seven, were a whole
different level of complicated. Though recovered now, my grandfather
had an alcohol addiction while raising his children. He continues to
struggle with extreme anxiety. My grandmother is a controller with a
hot and cold switch that turns automatically. I am not a doctor,
though if I had to guess, I would say my grandmother is a poster
child for Borderline Personality Disorder. One day, you can be her
perfect little angel, and the next she is standing outside of your
bedroom door rattling off every single reason she thinks you should
be completely ashamed of yourself for at the top of her lungs. There
is no warning which woman you will see from day to day, and stability
is non-existent.
My
entire life spent in turmoil, I was told to believe that because they
were trying their best, I was a bad person if I voiced that I did not
feel safe. I was unappreciative if I voiced when my needs were not
met. And I was a liar if I brought to light the terrible things that
happened behind closed doors. I learned to feel guilty for having
needs, for wanting stability, and for not feeling safe around people
who emotionally tore me to shreds. Because they were trying their
best, even though their best hurt me, I had to deal with it. Even as
I type this, there is something inside of me that tells me I am
wrong. Even though I know that my mother is not one of the people who
tried their best, I struggle with guilt as I finally break away from
the pain that she causes and cut her completely out of my life.
Like
I said above, I was seven when my mother abandoned me. My brother had
just been born and our father had just left to go live his own life.
It finally seemed to sink in for both of them that having children
meant giving up a large portion of their lives, and neither of them
were ready to do that. So they left my brother and I with our
father's parents. My father moved around from state to state, and my mother
moved just down the street from where I lived. Being away from her
left me with complicated feelings that I couldn't really manage to
express. On one hand, I missed living with my mom. I felt unwanted
and unloved. On the other hand, my earliest memories involved hiding
under a bed while she and my dad fought, so getting away from both of
them was a relief. It didn't make things any easier that she lived
just three blocks away.
I
visited my mother often during the day – even though for some
reason, I was afraid to stay the night with her. While visiting her,
I spent most of my time utterly alone. I don't remember if this was common in my early childhood or if this was a new development. It became common knowledge that
if I wanted her to stay awake, I shouldn't talk to her though. Saying 'Mom'
could lead to an explosion of yelling about how she didn't want to
deal with whatever 'it' was or didn't care about what I wanted to
say. So I took care of my brother and watched The Care Bears Movie
and Clifford on repeat all day. On days when I was particularly in
need of attention, even if it was negative, she yelled at me for
awhile then shut herself in her room to sleep – and I was alone
again. As I grew older and my brother threw tantrums so he wouldn't
be made to visit her, it was almost like having an apartment to
myself – as long as I didn't make a mess or too much noise, which
would cause her to send me back to my grandparents' house. While I was there, she slept all day long.
I
was told that even though she either yelled at me or ignored me
completely, I had to visit her. She was my mother after all. She loved me. I should
feel ashamed of myself for not wanting to be around her.
The
neglect wore on for years. She would make plans to spend time with me
then break them because she didn't feel like it. If I was sick, she
would drive me to the ER if my grandparents couldn't then wait in the
waiting room because she didn't want to deal with a crying child –
she would spend her time angry that I was such a burden and tell the
nurses that I 'always acted like this'. If we went shopping, she
would give me $10 to go buy myself a toy and stay in the toy aisle so
she didn't have to keep an eye on me. She stayed in the car during my
ballet practices. As I got older, I needed to see a therapist, but
she stopped taking me after only a few appointments because waiting
on me while I was with the doctor made her bored. She showed little
interest in my life – only acknowledging me when she was bragging
to her friends and family about what a great mother she was. During
those times, she would let me sit on her lap, do my hair, and speak
to me. She was good at convincing those around her that she was the
perfect mother, and if I acted out to try to bring light to the
truth, it was simply because I had behavior problems – something
she used to gain sympathy from others. To those around us, it was a
shame that my mother 'tried so hard' and I was so unappreciative.
Those
who knew the truth still continued with their mantra. I should feel
ashamed of myself for not wanting to be around her. She was my
mother. She loved me. She just didn't know how to show it.
I
was about ten when she finally found a reason to take interest in me
– or, well, convince me to take interest in her. My grandfather,
her father, gave me his old computer – and the only place there
happened to be room for it was in my bedroom. I discovered Neopets
and became perfectly content playing it 100% of the time my
grandparents sent me to visit her. I actually started to want to be
at her apartment, just to play on Neopets. I even began to stay the
night – as I didn't have a bedtime and could play all night long.
During the time I wasn't at her apartment, she discovered Yahoo
Instant Messenger's chat rooms on the computer. It soon became a battle over whose
turn it was the play on the computer. More often than not – she
won, and I played with toys on my bedroom floor while she sat beside
me virtually playing with men. All I could think was, 'At least she
isn't yelling or sleeping'.
The
first time she wanted me to 'read something' online, I was confused.
At a certain point, I became no stranger to how she spent her time on
the internet. She bought a mic and spoke to men who had webcams.
Their conversations were weird and disgusting, and didn't really hold
my interest. I began to lose interest in her. But it was sparked
again when she wanted me to read something online with her. I
remember the first conversation between her and a guy that she had me
read. She wanted me to give her 'suggestions' on what to type to him
as he spoke about wanting to lick her face and various other parts of
her body. The conversations multiplied – and often, she was talking
to more than one man at a time. I soon was not only giving her
suggestions, but typing to them as she got up to use the bathroom or
check on laundry. Sometimes she would want me to pretend to be her.
Other times, I would talk to them as me. I helped her spell words and
began to type what she wanted to say for her once I started typing
faster than she could. I hated talking to them, but talking to them
made me feel as though I was finally behaved and wanted. I was
finally pleasing her. In school, I had learned that sexual abuse was
if an adult touched you or another person touched you without your
permission, but had been taught nothing about this kind of
thing. So I shoved how dirty I felt away and tried to forget about
it.
Soon,
the men she was talking to online began to show up in person. She
found entertainment in making out with them in front of me or telling
me to watch as they touched tongues or licked each others faces. They
spoke graphically about sex, having no qualms with describing to me
exactly how it was done. My mother, the woman who slept entire days
away so she didn't have to speak to me, was suddenly spending hours
telling me about the time she forgot she had a tampon in when a man
attempted to stick his penis into her. And I did not like it.
Partially, because I was a child. Partially, because I knew I was a
lesbian since third grade, and if I wanted to know how anything about
sex worked, I wanted to know how it worked when you both had the same
damn parts. It became my turn to ignore her, to walk away, and to
lock myself in rooms so I didn't have to hear her speak.
The
tables turned, and she was not having it.
I
remember the day that I came to believe no one could ever love me. I
was somewhere between 11 and 12. She and one of her boyfriends sat me
down to have the 'talk'. It wasn't really the 'talk' as I knew what
all of that stuff was and how it worked by then. This talk was about
how much disgust I showed toward the topic of sex, and about how I
began to adamantly claim that I never wanted to have sex. This talk
began with the topic of how good sex felt and how I didn't know what
I was missing out on, and that I would change my mind eventually. I
would realize how much I liked the male body and how good it would
feel with a man inside of me. I had to have sex, according to my
mother. And I had to do it with a lot of men. If I didn't, I wouldn't
be experienced, and if I wasn't experienced, a man would never fall
in love with me. If I was 'bad at it', I wouldn't be enough and the
man would leave. It was unacceptable for me to claim that I was
completely fine without a man in my life. I had to want a man in my
life. Multiple men even. And I had to want to have sex. Especially if
someone were to ever love me. It was enforced that they wouldn't be
mad at me if I decided to have sex. My disgust only grew. I hated her
for her 'talks' and myself for no longer being able to please her,
and I began to isolate myself from my mother and from everyone else
around me.
I
also developed severe anxiety and behavioral problems – which led
to no one in my family wanting me around anyway. I 'belonged' in my
room. I only caused trouble when I came out.
My
mother began to form more serious relationships with men –
especially with men who couldn't stand her children. After being
locked out of the house by one of these men, barefoot in mid-winter,
I finally stopped going to see her almost completely. The same
boyfriend would take my brother, a toddler at the time, out of the
room my mother was in and mock him for crying and yelling for her.
She would return and scold my brother for crying. Her boyfriends
didn't want me or my brother around, and she was able to to please
them while gaining sympathy from others by telling them her children
had abandoned her and didn't want to see her. She began to tell
friends and family that my grandparents and father had begun to
brainwash me and my brother, convincing us that she was a bad mother
and preventing us from visiting her.
I
began to have panic attacks whenever my grandparents would make me
speak to her on the phone or she would show up at our house. She did
not take being ignored well, and would begin to make an effort
whenever I stopped vying for her attention. I decided that I did not
want to see her or talk to her anymore.
This
caused major turmoil in my family.
As
a child, I was not allowed to have rights nor privacy nor respect. It did not matter that I had become terrified of even just the thought
of my mother. It did not matter even to the people who knew how she
treated me. If I locked myself in a room to get away from her, they
would take the door off the hinges and physically pry me out of the
room. If I didn't want to speak to her on the phone, I would be
cornered and the phone would be pressed against my ear until I spoke.
It was drilled into my head that she was my mother and to not talk to
her was rude. I should be ashamed. I should feel guilty. I should
feel like a bad daughter. It did not matter that we had to talk about what she wanted and I was not allowed to talk about anything else (because anything I might want to talk about was boring or stupid); I should feel guilty for not talking to her. (It did not make things easier that my
mother soon became my 'punishment'. If I did something wrong, I would
have to go stay with her.) My fear and discomfort and anxiety
worsened, and I came to learn that I was not important. My feelings did not matter, my interests did not matter, my fears and likes and dislikes did not matter, and I did not matter.
I
was thirteen when I was first hospitalized for self-harm and wanting
to kill myself. My behavioral problems had worsened due to bullying
at school, and I had been sent to stay with my mother for the night.
And I couldn't take it anymore. I drew cuts across my arm with a
safety pin then stood at the top of the stairs and wondered how much
force it would take to kill myself by throwing myself down them. -
She drove me to the hospital, claiming that she 'couldn't take me
anymore' then called my father to come handle me.
Things
continued how they were until I was eighteen and moved in with my
father – hours away from her. She began to text and call me
continuously at all hours, becoming angry if I didn't answer my
phone. Suddenly, now that I was away, she wanted to talk to me
non-stop. During points when I was in college, she would purposely
call me during class, then let messages in my voicemail about how she
was my mother and how she was important enough that I should leave
class to answer my phone for her. After I left college, out of
nowhere, she began to send pictures of naked men to my phone. After
getting word that she was doing the same to my brother, who was about
eleven at the time, he and I both had our numbers changed.
I
managed to block her out for a number of years, though dealt with
unimaginable guilt as people told me I was doing the wrong thing. No
matter how she treated me, she was my mother after all. I was
required to talk to her and to love her. I shut myself down to the
situation, pretended it didn't exist. Or tried to. Being away from
her, I finally felt safe from her, but I also felt guilty for that.
It was enforced so often that she was my mother, that she carried me
for nine months, that she had gone through giving birth to me, and
that I owed her for that, that feeling safe from her was just as bad
as allowing her into my life. I no longer had to deal with her, but I
had to deal with everyone who knew her admonishing me for blocking
out my own mother. What kind of daughter was I to do that to my
mother?
A
year or so ago, I finally caved under the pressure. Though I refused
to give her my phone number, I friended her on Facebook and saw her
on a visit back home to my grandparents. (It wasn't quite so
willingly as my grandparents told me that I had to go see her and
drove me to her job despite my protests. Visiting her at her house
was impossible, fortunately, since her now fiance banned me from
their trailer.) The moment I decided to allow her into my life via
social media, a loving mother that I had never seen before jumped
into the public's eye. Her Facebook statuses were suddenly nothing
but how much she loves her children and would do anything for us. She began to claim that we were stolen from her rather than abandoned by her, that she tries to do so much for us, and that she just wishes we would accept her. I
did all that I could do and ignored the messages. For a year, I managed to
live peacefully by allowing her to post message after message on
Facebook – dealing with her without really dealing with her. The
24/7 messages she sent me begging me to talk to her were a small
price to pay compared to years of guilt placed on me for ignoring her.
Outside
of Social Media, however, my brother, now 16, became a target for her
and her fiance. At some point, my brother gave her his phone number,
and suddenly became bombarded by her text messages. He, much more
blunt than me, called her out on her words and her actions. This has
since turned into our mother attempting to manipulate him with money
and sending him threats of violence. She had been insistent he
apologize to her fiance for being a bad child, a man that has thrown
him against a wall, and is now threatening him, telling him that her
fiance is going to show up at our grandparents' house and beat the
shit out of him. One day, she will claim that she loves him. The
next, she tells him that she is no longer supporting him financially
and is going to punch him. She has placed my brother, a child, in a
situation where he is no longer safe.
And,
suddenly, there is no amount of 'she's your mother's that can justify
the pain she causes. Suddenly, from an outside view, I see what I
should have seen my entire life. No matter what, my brother has the
RIGHT to SAFETY. I have the RIGHT to SAFETY. YOU have the RIGHT to
SAFETY. Anyone in an abusive situation, no matter who the abuser is
in relation to them, has the right to safety – without guilt,
without shame, without consequences. There are people who understand
out there. There is support out there. And anyone who tells you
otherwise is wrong. It is normal to feel conflicted, guilty, ashamed,
and feelings there aren't even words for. It is normal even to feel
as though you are betraying your abuser (that is how I
feel all the time). But none of those feelings, nothing you may
think, nothing other people may tell you, take away your right to be
safe, loved, and happy. You are so important. Never let anyone
convince you that you have to take being hurt because the person
hurting you is family, is sick, has done so much for you, or any
other reason. Never let anyone convince you to live your life in pain
and guilt. If you're worried about hurting the person who is hurting
you (it's a normal feeling, trust me), the best thing you can do for
that person is to get help – let someone know about the situation.
Call the police. Call a hotline. And, if you can, get out whatever
situation you are in.
It
is a dark tunnel at first, but there will be light at the end.
And
there will be people there waiting to help you develop healthy
relationships and to show you what you were really missing all
along.
Resources for Help:
http://www.safehorizon.org/
http://www.thehotline.org/