I written before about my Mother saying that I must have liked being abused or I would have told someone, and a whole host of other hurtful things.
But the other day, I’m sitting on the side of my bed, and the whole memory came to me like a movie playing in my head. Thank you, PTSD, for the constant reminders of how crappy my life was in those days.
I was home from the “Resort” (psychiatric hospital) for the weekend, a day or two after the disclosure of abuse by a family member. My parents were upset and angry that I disclosed to a hospital staff and not them.
Mom comes in and sits on the side of my bed next to me. She’s talking loud and sort of crying and talking at the same time. She was always dramatic when she got upset. She says to me that I must have enjoyed what happened to me. She said that I let him do it. She said it was my fault. She talked about how much it had impacted her life and how she will never be the same. She told me that my issues made her so sad and that she would probably have another “nervous breakdown”.
I’m sitting there trembling but never made a sound. I didn’t dare speak back. I didn’t dare cry. I kept wishing she would talk lower so that my stepdad didn’t over-hear her and get angry also. He was always her protector. He would always say, “Why are you upsetting your mother?”.
The only thing that gave me a little bit of comfort was knowing that I would go back to the Resort on Monday and that I would have the comfort of a few people who cared about me. Little did I know that that would change also. My parents, with the help of my doctor, instructed the staff that I wasn’t allowed to discuss the abuse or my parents with them. I could only talk to my parents about it.
But what really happened that Sunday was life changing. My will to live died. My very small amount of self-esteem faded away. My tiny sense of safety, however small it was, was gone. My desire to look at myself in a mirror was gone forever. To this day, I struggle with it.
All I could think is thank God she doesn’t know about the other abusers.
I decided to draw this moment of my life. Below is my rendition of that conversation. It definitely was a challenge to recreate it. For the most part, I am still numb about it. I was 15 when this happened and, in some ways, I’m still stuck at that moment.
Until next time, I am being MJ every day.