I’ve been lurking on the sidelines trying to be supportive. I do this to distract myself through anxiety & loneliness. Mental illness has a way of making you isolate. You have people in your life that you don’t share your struggles with. I have a list of things that I keep private. Most of all what led me down the road of anxiety and depression. Today I’m ripping off the bandaid with you. I’m sick of pretending to be someone I’m not. My secrets and scars are dark, ugly and consuming. They are part of me.
I was born to a narcissist mother. I was not the golden child. For 50 years she lied and would not say who my birth father was. I found out last year thanks to ancestry DNA. I grew up in a home that appeared picture perfect. Upper middle class, mom dating a state senators son, good schools, beautiful home. On the inside of that home? The state senators son sexually abused me from age 7-9. My mother told me that I was ruining her happiness because I cried about him hurting me (I didn’t know what to call the foul things he did to me). After that point she eventually kicked him out for better things. I had to listen to my mom having sex at night with strangers she brought home. Stuffing anything I could find in my ears just to muffle the noises. In the morning I never knew if she would be locked away in her room or if some strange man would be wandering around our home. I would go to school and be bullied. Biting my lips till they cracked and bled. I didn’t dare tell my mother because that would just be another reason for her to disapprove of me. I would listen to her on the phone with friends whispering about my poor grades. I fell asleep at night dreaming about a father who could save me. I didn’t have many friends, they weren’t allowed to visit and it was always a clear reminder to me of what I didn’t have. As I grew older I lied about home to make it sound grander and better, not to be deceitful but out of humiliation. I escaped by becoming pregnant at 17. Becoming pregnant and being thrown out. I had to learn to fight, work and be a mother. More & more shoving the real shame of myself deep inside. I turned 50. The patches on my soul where I’ve hidden away so long keep cracking, my pain and tears keep surfacing like a vile bile rising in my throat. I have to heal and learn to move forward. Right now I’m spinning trying to find a way to begin my healing.