I don’t believe in love, and the negative emotions are difficult for me to deal with. All I feel is anger and fear, mostly aimed at myself.
I have vague memories of my abuse.
Mostly done by my stepmother….She tried to kill me several times. I was under the age of 3.
- I went to visit my grandmother who noticed that I had marks around my neck. I said that Kay strangled me.
- I remember standing at the top of the long steps and suddenly I was at the bottom in a heap.
- She used her dogs to terrify me. They were attack trained German shepherds.
- One day I thought I was helping to beat the rugs and was using a broom. She tore out the door, grabbed the broom out of my hands and chased me around the yard, hitting me on the head, neck and back.
- Gave me dog tranquilizers to keep my quiet when my grandmother came for a visit.
- Couldn’t tolerate combing through my long curly hair (it was down to my waist) So she used the dog clippers to shave my head bald.
- She beat me for any supposed misdeed. Even for things that her son had done. I got the blame and beat for it
- Every time she gave me a pill, I’d spit it out and it would fly across the room, she’d smack my face and force the pill down my throat.
One of my dad’s other girlfriends also tried to kill me one night when I was staying over so he could have his “visit”
She came in to tuck me in while I was already asleep…..placing the pillow over my head and tucking the sheet and blanket in tightly. I woke up and panicked. I cried for my dad and he undid the blankets. We left soon after that.
I remember the things happening but nothing of what happened afterward. I have huge memory gaps.
I eventually went to live with my grandparents. My grandmother would tell me I would be sitting on a rolled up rug that was in the living room, watching tv and I’d just pass out suddenly into my cereal. I don’t recall this.
Things weren’t necessarily better. There was no such thing as mental illness unless it was profound retardation. With my grandparents and family it was all solved with church, the bible and prayer. None of this worked for me.
I hated church. I was different (now finding out about aspergers) I didn’t fit in there because it just never felt right. I was bullied by the other kids, and ignored or blamed by the parents. The other kids would make fun of me because I was different and always trying to fit in but they wouldn’t let me. Some of those same kids went to my school which is a whole different level of torture. But I never felt safe in church. It all felt so fake. I no longer have anything to do with religion. It’s not a safe place to be.
School: What a living nightmare. I couldn’t escape the bullies because they lived down the street, they lived next door. I was a walking target from the moment I left the house. Yes it was mostly name calling and that may seem trivial, but it never let up. Every day all day long the names would flow. Or I’d get shoved, or tripped on the steps. My hair pulled, my cloths pulled and undone. They made fun of the way I looked, the way I dressed, the way I talked, the way I walked, how my hair looked, my glasses, my weight was the biggest thing. I got made fun of for the lunches I brought from home. The lunchbox I used, the way I decorated my notebooks.
Maybe I was too sensitive. I was awkward I didn’t mix. I didn’t get invited to people’s houses. I was terrified to have people come over to mine because my grandmother would start preaching at them. No one wanted to hear that. I had no friends. No one who had my back.
Lonely. All alone.
And then the family…. the moral, upright christians who would give the shirts off their backs to anyone but me. I was an unwanted accessory when I had to live with my grandparents. My aunts and uncles treated me like a slave. I wasn’t allowed to play with their children’s toys I wasn’t allowed in their room, unless the kids were there of course. I wasn’t trusted. Had I done anything? No I just existed. They didn’t like my mother, so they didn’t like me.
I had to beg to visit on sundays so I’d have someone to play with. or beg them to come visit me. I didn’t have much so not many wanted to come to my house.
At the family gatherings I got put to work setting things up or washing the dishes all by myself. They didn’t involve me in the games and discussions. So I’d sit at the table and pick at the left overs. Only to be accused of stealing food.
But if some missionary or downtrodden person needed help they were first in line. Completely ignoring the ghost in the family. They even had a meeting one time *unknown to me* where they sat down and tried to decide what would happen to me if the grandparents were to die while I was still young.
Not ONE of those so called loving christians wanted anything to do with me. I’d have probably been left to live on the street. Underage. They didn’t care as long as they weren’t stuck with me. I was told this to my face at one holiday gathering by one of my cousins. I was gutted. I knew my place in life and it was not with them.
I never received hugs and kisses. No affection at all.
So yeah I don’t believe in love. I do the best I can with my son but I know it’s not enough. But I was determined that he wouldn’t grow up like I did. Every one tells me how loving and caring he is so I guess I managed it.
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