part 77

So calling my mom a mind-fucking bitch in a blog appears to be crossing some sort of line that has never been crossed before - and will probably never be possible to uncross.

I have these moments where I think about my mom and get all anxious and then think about publically calling her that and take on a kind awe. Not of myself or anything, but of the concept of saying something so bold and crude and true about my mom. And saying it to the world.

It is so weird. Maintaining a relationship with her and getting her love and approval have been goals of mine that I didn't even realize were etched so deeply into my brain, probably at birth. I imagine this is a basic human thing, but a lot of mothers don't use their child's need for love and protection to manipulate them in very negative ways.

One of the things I get very angry about is remembering how it felt when I was back there, in that house, on that street, completely shut off from any external source of hope. I felt so devastatingly alone and sad. I remember thinking about how many years would be left before I could leave there.

When I was five, being big enough to leave there seemed like an entire lifetime away. When I was 14, it still seemed like an entire lifetime away.

Actually, now that I think about it, I started trying to leave that place before I was even in grade school. I started running away when I was four or five years old. It felt so powerful, just leaving like that. Then it felt scary not having a home. Then it felt like crushing grief because I didn't have a family anymore.

That really sucked. No matter how much I knew I had to get out of there, once I was gone I would fantasize about my bed and how the blanket smelled, and eating whatever my mom would make for dinner, and just being home.

The back porch, the hammock, my roof outside my window, my closet, my stuff, the fireplace, the stairs, the closet under the stairs, our dog, my brother and sister, my mom - even my dad.

I would get pictures in my head of the whole family just hanging out around Christmastime, playing Uno and laughing, feeling the comfort of having a fire going in the fireplace - love, safety, and acceptance. I would get terribly sick for the place and people I felt so desperate and relieved to get away from.

Then some adult would bring me back home, or my mom would find some way to contact me and tell me to come home, or I would go home because I didn't have any place else to go and was hungry and dirty and it was so cold or so hot outside.

The especially shitty part is knowing that our family did really have Norman Rockwell moments. There were times my dad was protective and friendly. There were a lot of times my mom was a comfort just to be around. There were times my sister and I would agree on something and resist tearing each other down any way possible. There were times my brother was not getting beaten up or teased or tortured by me, and he was just a cute little kid who was fun to be a big sister to.

Acknowledging all of the abuse and bad things is not the most difficult thing for me - acknowledging the sense of belonging and of being loved - even fleetingly - at all in my childhood is the most difficult thing for me.

There is no way to deny that my mom nurtured me and protected me and took care of me. There is no way to deny that resting my head against my dad's shoulder was one of the most wonderful feelings in the whole world. There is no way to deny that my sister and brother and I knew we had each other's' backs when things got scary.

All of these things definitely existed in my childhood. What do I do with all of that stuff? What do I do now that I know those things will never be enough to make up for or excuse the things my parents did to me?

And now I've gone and called my mom a mind-fucking bitch on my blog. There is no turning back from that. It was a horrendously painful cut to make, that one between my mom and I, and I know I would have to do it again and again and again if I didn't so definitively sever the tie.

I feel like I'm realizing for the first time that I've been trying to gnaw off my umbilical cord to get away because she never allowed there to simply be a clean cut. I guess I had to grow up and learn how to cut it myself - but as an adult, there is a lot of pain in turning my back on my mom. She's been my mom for thirty five years, and I miss her.

It was not very complicated to sort out that my dad was a really, really, really awful person and to see that the relationship I had with him had been so twisted and harmful. I was able to go ahead and let who he was go and to grieve the father I wished he'd been.

But I like my mom.

Although I see her now much more clearly than I have in the past, it is not so easy for me to just let go of who she is and to grieve the mother I wished she'd been. In a lot of ways, she WAS the mother I'd wished she'd been. She came to the school productions and soccer games and softball games, she made dinner for me and my brother and sister every night, she tucked me in and brought me a cup of water when I couldn't fall asleep (I'm not sure why the water was such a great salve for my anxiety-produced insomnia, but as a little girl it really did the trick).

She took me to the dentist the doctor and the dermatologist and even a shrink. She took me shopping for clothes and she came and got me when I threw up or had a panic attack at school. She waited on me when I had chicken pox and strep throat. She was right there by my side the whole time I was in the hospital when my ovary was removed. She was there when both of my babies were born. She was at both of my weddings, and really supported me during my one divorce.

Umbilical cords don't heal and grow back. After they have been cut, they shrivel up and die and fall off and are discarded and forgotten. I don't know why or how I have been part of this purgatorial relationship with her. All I've ever known is that I have been absolutely terrified to do anything that would make me shrivel up and die and fall off and be discarded and forgotten.

Calling my mom a mind-fucking bitch is a line I've crossed. It's the line that held me in her life, and now I'm on the other side of it. I mean, purgatory sucks. Breaking off my relationship with my mom and realizing and liking the person I am now sucks less than purgatory.

But is still miss my mom, mind-fucking bitch or not.

part 76

So I got a good start on my new novel. Then I got an email from my mom, and got a bit derailed.

I hadn't heard a single word from her in two months, and then she emails me to let me know that I should have confronted her face to face about the things I was telling people she was doing. I wrote an email back describing exactly what she had done to me, and reminded her that I have been trying to confront her about this shit for years, but she gets so aggressively defensive at the slightest suggestion that she could have been anything other than an unwitting young mother trying to survive being married to a monster that there is no room at all for discussion.

I also asked her not to contact me anymore, so she wrote me back telling me that she didn't do anything and I had to deal with it, and it looked like she was going to be the one who finally confronted me about my memories, and that I was definitely having "false memories," and that I was obviously very angry at her and what I thought I was remembering was actually a projection of my anger, and now that she can see how angry I am, she can see my perspective so much more clearly.

So I wrote her back to let her know I would be applying for a restraining order if she tried to contact me or my husband or my kids at all.

Jesus fucking Christ.

It was exactly what I expected from her, but it still felt like she kicked me in the stomach. I felt pretty stunned for that entire day, and just sad.

It has been very strange to see the woman I wanted to be my loving mother without the filter of my needing her to be my loving mother. That need for her love and approval is probably one of the most powerful things I can imagine ever controlling me and distorting my view of reality to see only what I want to see - and what she wanted me to see. It is very similar to the way my dad was able to control me.

I do want to interject something very important at this point: my mom is a professional and she is very good at her job. She helps a lot of people - kids and families and individuals. I am in no way attacking her ability to be good at what she does professionally, and in no way want to take her ability to help away from people who benefit from it.

But on a personal level, she is a mind-fucking bitch.

I think a lot about my intentions in writing this blog.

If I idealize my intentions, then I my purpose for writing the blog is allowing the world to see me going through this very intimate and difficult process of recovering from torture, rape, exploitation, and all of the other ridiculously fucked up shit I grew up experiencing - and, in turn, helping other people who have experienced that same kind of shame and loneliness and pain and just letting them know they are not alone.

If I don't idealize my intentions, then I am writing all of this down and putting it out there because it makes me feel better. It's MY story and actual things that happened to me and my real emotions and thoughts and fears and triumphs, and maybe I am simply an emotional exhibitionist, but by god it empowers me and makes me feel stronger.

If I totally demoralize my intentions, and myself, then I am writing all of this to get attention and to hurt people I have been angry with my whole life. I am using this as a vehicle of retaliation and destruction, and am being juvenile and histrionic and just plain mean.

If I am as honest with myself as possible, I can consider that any of these explanations of my intentions holds truth. I like to think that my writing and exposing my pain and progress helps other people get through their own pain and progress a little easier. I don't mind thinking that my writing this is solely to make me feel better about all of it - which it does. I really don't like thinking that I am trying to underhandedly ruin people's lives in a campaign of subterfuge and revenge (even if it means that I get to use the phrase "campaign of subterfuge and revenge").

I can think about my intentions and make myself feel like a saint, and I can think about my intentions and make myself feel like the tiniest piece of shit that has ever walked the earth.

But I know I am not a saint, and I know I am not the tiniest piece of shit that has ever walked the earth. These are things I KNOW. They aren't things I would like to think about myself, or really don't want to think about myself, or even just don't mind thinking about myself. They are true statements rooted strongly and deeply in reality.

I don't think it is a good idea for me to try and define myself in any way - I'm not always the same person to myself, or to other people. I change and grow from my experiences, and I experience new things every day.

But I KNOW that I am a good person. I KNOW that I have been through a lot of really fucked up shit. I KNOW that my pain is valid and real. I KNOW that when it comes down to it, I am writing all of this and posting it on the internet because it is what I CAN do.

One of the really empowering things about putting it all out there is that I know people can all have their own interpretations or reactions or think whatever they want about my words, and I have no power over that.

It feels really good knowing that I can say what is true and what is real, and that anyone who wants to can try to encourage or undermine that, but it is just as true and real as always.

No matter what anyone else thinks or believes or does, I feel peace about my own sanity. I don't think it is relevant if I can take a beating or not, mentally or physically, I can just see that getting beaten is not really relevant. My fear of what other people might think or believe about me does not change who I am. It can change how I act, but I am who I am. Like Popeye.

If I was a house, people could plant flowers around me or bombard me with paintballs, or break my windows, or lovingly restore my weathered parts. None of those things would make me NOT a house.

And if my mom wants to explain to people that I have gone off the deep end, am somehow living in an alternative psychotic reality, that the things I remember are real unless it makes her look bad, that she really does love me and want the best for me, then she can do that all day long.

I don't have to listen to that shit. I know who I am - much more so now than four and a half years ago. As with my dad, I would really prefer to be bat-shit crazy than to have all of the things my mom is denying be real.

But I'm not crazy, and by continuing to try to make people believe that I am, my mom is doing nothing different than she ever has done. All that has really changed has been my ability to recognize her for who she is, to come to the point where my own sanity and peace of mind are more important to me than her love and approval.

FYI

I finally got a review on my novel. It was disappointing and surprisingly insightful. It was written by someone who reads my blog and they felt I was really holding back and not being vulnerable enough in my writing, and some other stuff. That's what I got out of it anyway.

This review really made me take a hard look at myself and what I am doing and what I want to accomplish in life. I personally like my novel, and am proud of it. However, it is a fairy tale version of real experiences. I know my writing can be more powerful if I allow more of the reality I feel into the process.

I guess I've known that for awhile, but it is really scarey to even think about tapping into all of that pain and history and survival and everything else I would need to do in order to write a good book.

But I want to write a good book. No wait - I want to write an EXCELLENT book. So that is what I am going to do.

I'm still in school, so between writing a new book, doing homework, and doing all of the other things I do, this blog may take a back seat. But, hey - it will give some people an excellent opportunity to catch up from the beginning, right? I mean, there is A LOT of writing here. It's nearly ridiculous.

Anywho, here is a link to the above-referenced review of my novel (the review is down at the bottom), and to the place you can download the whole book for FREE:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/83822

p.s. I don't know who wrote the review, but I congratulate and appreciate whomever it is for helping me to get off my writing ass :)

part 75

*****TRIGGER ALERT*****

I remember so much about the first time my dad pimped me out. Well, I remember so much about the first time I remember my dad pimping me out. I remember being in a canoe out on a pond with my dad and the man, them smoking a joint, me sitting between them wondering what the hell was going on.

It's been more than thirty years since then.

There were a lot of lily pads on the pond. I had never seen real lily pads before, and I was surprised to find that they looked just like cartoon lily pads.

I remember getting to the dock and almost falling into the water when I exited the canoe. My dad thought that look of fear on my face at the moment when I felt myself falling was hysterical. I felt like an idiot.

The man had on a baseball cap. He seemed really dirty to me. In my memories, his face is a shadow under that hat. He was skinny and he smelled bad, and when we got back to his cabin on the pond and my dad said to go with that man, every fiber of my being screamed, "no!" I guess my voice was not a part of the fibers of my being, because I only screamed in my head.

I did tell my dad that I wanted to stay with him. He was sitting on a couch or something, and he was still taller then me standing up right next to him. I leaned into his leg and tried to stick to him like glue.

But the man kept standing there outside the door of this room, and my dad gave me the look that meant he would have no qualms beating the shit out me if I didn't do what he said. So I did what he said.

The man ushered me into the room, closed the door, and then did things to me, and he posed me, and he took pictures, and he smoked cigarettes, and I don't remember him ever taking that ball cap off.

Just now I was thinking about how my dad used to scare me so badly when he wanted me to do something I didn't want to do. I felt like I had to do it, or get killed by my dad. I experienced that look so many times with him throughout the years, but at that time in that cabin it was unfamiliar to me and newly terrifying.

When I would get angry at my dad about things, he would either give me the death-look to shut me up, or he would make me feel sorry for him, and convince/remind me that the things he made me do were part of our greatness.

And he would remind me how lonely it was to have greatness, to feel separate from those around us who were just "normal," and at those moments I was feeling lonelier than anything in the world, and so how could I not agree with him?

He had a way of taking what was real and sliding it away from me and then twisting and turning it into the shape he wanted and then telling me that's how it was all along. It is a scary feeling to not know what is real and what is not real. Yeah, my brains and perceptions of reality got pretty scrambled in the days my dad ruled my world.

It is easy for me to remember vividly what it felt like to be under his power. I really am so glad he's dead now, because I was always afraid that if he came back into my life he would be able to convince me to go with him again. That's where the idea of killing him took shape - I didn't want revenge, I didn't want him to suffer, I didn't really want anything except for him to be dead.

It was much easier to focus on how I was going to kill him than to even consider the idea that he might come back here and take me away with him.

But now I remind myself that he IS dead, and feel grateful that I was not the thing that made his heart finally explode inside his body.

I feel much safer remembering that right now, because it has been really frightening to remember this shit and to type it out.

I also know the man who lived in that cabin is dead (I didn't kill him either). I don't know if I ever came across him as I got older - it seems like somehow I did, but that is pretty fuzzy.

I remember enough from the original incident to have pieced together who the man was, how he knew my dad, which pond that was, and where that cabin still sits today. Actually, I don't know if the cabin actually still sits there, or if there was something else built in its place. The only visual reference I have is via Google Earth, and that only gives me an aerial view.

But the docks are still there and the lily pads are still there, I can see that clearly with the images Google Earth has so considerately supplied me with.

I spent a lot of time and energy and life trying to figure out exactly who this guy was, and to gather the facts necessary to corroborate that this man did exist and did know my dad at this particular time, and that he did own a cabin on this pond at this particular time, and which particular cabin it was and who owns it now.

It is not very far from here. It's actually only a few miles. The land around the pond is guarded with gates and thick woods, and the public road to gain access to it has been officially cut off.

I could go to the edge of the neighborhood across the pond and try to see the cabin from there.

It has been so important to me to find out if all of these things were real, and to know where that man did those things to me, and if I would be able to go there or not.

I actually could most likely arrange with one of the owners of that land to meet me and allow me access to the pond. I actually could go to that neighborhood across from it, and instead of trying to see between the trees and vegetation while sitting in my car not even completely stopped on the street alongside it, and ask the people who live there if I could go in their back yard and look across the pond.

But now that I know that it is real, I somehow don't want to have anything at all to do with it. I don't want to look at it, I don't want to visit it, I don't want to learn anything else about this person. I guess I learned what I needed to know, and now I don't want to know any more.