This first post is my way of laying the foundation and giving a short backstory into the beginning of my Journey.
I was born in March in the mid-1970’s on Galveston Island, Texas. It was a typical rainy spring day. Whatever truthfully transpired when I was born, I will never know. The story my mother told me growing up was different from the memories that my father told me about what he remembered. I didn’t start learning my father’s side of history until I was in my early 20’s. Through the years, he has filled in some blanks from his point of view. These stories differ so greatly from the stories I was told growing up that they are the opposite. I feel like my whole life has been one big lie. I don’t know what the truth is. The little fact-based information I do have comes from legal documents.
My biological parents divorced sometime before I was two. My mother remarried when I was about 3½ years old. (Looking at this in black and white, I have been hit with the epiphany that she remarried really fast.) I was somewhere between 3 and 4 when I was sexually abused by a nephew of my new stepdad. Before I started kindergarten, we moved into the tiny house that my new grandparents lived in and owned. It was a 2-bedroom home that was less than 1000 sq ft and was built in the mid-1950’s. I stayed in that house with my family until I was in my early 20’s. It was me, Mother, Dad, Billy, and Leve. My grandparents wanted to be called by their nicknames because they didn’t want to feel old. I didn’t care what I called them, the love they had for me was the same; endless, and unconditional. I was 16 when part of the garage was finally converted into a bedroom for me. Before that, I slept mainly in the living room.
My father remembers having a few visits with me after the divorce. I have no memory of these. All I remember is being told about how my father abandoned me and my mother. How he threw us away to start a new family. When I was 17, I was able to meet my father, again. After that, we had on and off communication. I have my theories as to why, but those are theories for later.
I grew up steeped in confusion. Mother’s family was very dysfunctional. I figured that out when I was young. Dad’s family wasn’t dysfunctional. They had problems, but it was normal problems. They were close, understanding, loving, and hard working. They believed in taking care of each other out of love, not obligation. Mother’s side of the family would back-stab, lie, cheat, and never hesitate to throw each other to the wolves when it benefited them in any way. But my mother, aunts and uncle loved each other, in a weird kind of way that I don’t understand.
Mother is different even among the dysfunction of her family. Mother is a narcissist, and a scary one. Narcissism isn’t a diagnosis, it’s simply a series of characteristics for a personality type. I remember growing up and everyone saying how kind, compassionate, loving, giving, and on and on, that she is. I was constantly preoccupied with wondering why I couldn’t see it. What was I missing? Was something wrong with me? Was I that broken or evil, or whatever, that I just couldn’t see it? I never understood. As an adult, I thought that maybe I wasn’t trying hard enough, that maybe I wasn’t good enough, that I was ungrateful, that I was being too selfish with my own needs to see her for all the amazing things that she is to everyone else. Mother has been called a saint, a Godly woman, as selfless as Mother Theresa, an angel. I was constantly told about how lucky I was to have such a wonderful woman for my mother. In the dark recesses of my mind though, I knew something was wrong or just not right. That thing that eats at your subconscious. Even long into adulthood, I thought it was my fault she treated me the way she did because I was eternally flawed, just like my father. That I would never amount to anything and that I was never as worthy of love and admiration as my mother. Mother was the only one who knew how to take care of me, that she was the only one who would always be there for me, and she knew what was best for me.
This is where the shit starts to get deep. When I was 16 or 17, Mother tried to put me in drug rehab. She didn’t have proof that I was doing illegal drugs, or any drugs. I have never had alcohol or any “street drugs” (I hate that term). I understand now that she tried to do this because she believed these were the reasons I had high energy, zeal, and happiness for being with my friends, and that I was rebellious. I was later diagnosed in my late 20’s as Bipolar. Then in 2011, I was told I was schizoaffective. I suffered from chronic anxiety that would leave me crumpled on the floor in minutes, often with no discernable trigger. I was in and out of therapy trying “fix” myself, to be a better person. I even spent a week in a mental institution at one point. I never finished trade school. I was in a 12-step program for several years to treat my Sex Addiction, never getting past Step 4. I am proud to say that I have been sober since 2013. I tried nearly every psych med out there. I did become addicted to an ADHD medication that was prescribed to me to stay “focused” so I could get through trade school and still be everything to everyone, including Mother. Some of the meds left permanent damage to a few of my organs and all my front teeth. I now understand why none of them ever worked. They just made me numb (the “zombie effect”) to the bullshit, so I could go back into battle and take more bullshit and punishment.
By 2022, the meds weren’t working anymore. I was out of medication options. The one that did keep me numb enough was the one that did the most damage to my body and I was told to stop it in 2019. The few that I was still on weren’t enough to keep me holding it together. I was mentally and emotionally broken, and I had hit a new bottom.
The end, or the beginning, came when I replied to a text from my mother. She wanted me to drive 45 minutes out to her house in the Texas Hill Country and “help” her clean, yet again. The reply was simply that I asked for $40 for gas, a boundary that I had set before she and my father had moved out there. The lengthy text I received back was that she had already given me too much and a list of every time with how much she had given me over the last four to six months. I snapped. I was consumed with guilt, then anger and confusion, and finally courage and resolve. I didn’t reply. I just blocked her. And cried. I couldn’t take then insults and minimization anymore. I didn’t have the strength to subject myself anymore to constant self-sacrifice mentally, emotionally, and financially. I told my kids (who were all over 17) that if or when she asked them why I wasn’t talking to her, that I didn’t care what they told her but to make it very clear I had no intention of talking to her ever again. I was done. She messaged me through social media, I replied letting her know to leave me alone and that the only thing she could ever do to begin to repair the relationship was that she needed therapy and that she needed to get right with her God, whatever that may be. I then blocked her from every other way that I thought she could possibly use to contact me. I will go into this in further detail in the future.
After I went “No Contact” from Mother around Halloween 2022, I went back into therapy in early December with a former therapist that I genuinely trusted. Unfortunately, I don’t trust anyone, not even myself. Especially myself. She can’t diagnose me, but we use CPTSD as a starting point. As of January 2023, I was able to stop the last of the psych medications.
Progress, not perfection. I will never complete this Journey I have embarked on. The goal is not to find the end of it, but to find me.
I want to use this space to break down my Journey, to share my research and insights, and to shine a light on being a childhood trauma Survivor. I invite everyone to join me as I look for answers and understanding. And we should all keep Graceful Dancing.
First published September 5, 2023