Why was I born?

I never mattered. My family ensured I understand this. I figured this out early. My brain became dizzy and lost and alone. Early on I didn’t know suicide was an option. I thought I had to stay on this very horrific planet where life didn’t make any sense to me.

I was the 3rd child in my family, the first two being older brothers. My parents tell the story that they wanted a girl, which is why they had a 3rd child, and I naively thought for years they wanted a girl for the “normal” reasons families typically want a certain gender. I was wrong.

What I could never understand is why if my mom wanted a girl, then why did she hate me so much? And why did everyone in my life treat me so poorly, and it seemed to be ok, and my role in the family.

From as far back as I can remember, my mom was always upset with who I was and how I looked. She would yell at me in her bathroom making me look in the mirror and tell me all the things wrong with me. One thing that especially infuriated her was that I didn’t hold in my stomach all the time like a proper young lady. Otherwise, I was showing the world I was fat. The fact that I was malnourished and skin and bones didn’t enter into this repeated criticism.

I was born into this family, never to understand it. I never understood why my older brothers who were constantly in trouble were treated special and as if they were loved, but I hardly existed as a wanted child in my family. Well, at least not the right kind of wants.

I don’t ever remember being loved or cared for by this family as a child. No one cared where I was, what was happening to me, or whether I had appropriate food or medical care. I was always more of a burden expected to keep my mouth shut under every circumstance. No one wanted to hear or cared what I had to say.

Love in any kind of normal way did not exist for me. As close as I have to love in some kind of caring way was once in a while my middle brother would pull off my older brother for things he was doing to me.

I didn’t have any caring neighbors, relatives, people at school, or anywhere else. It was as if I was a ghost, and didn’t matter to anyone.

No matter how many times my therapist explains it to me, I can’t seem to comprehend that my parents would intentionally have a baby to harm it for their sick, personal gain. I know we all see stories of this kind of stuff on the news from time-to-time, but this can’t be my story, despite all the evidence that says it is.

I guess it seems incomprehensible to me partially because I am a mother of two, and I just can’t imagine harming them in any way. I would step in front of a train for either of my children, whereas my family of origin was the train coming right for me all the time.

I suppose I have to explain I was born to two active alcoholic parents , and my two brothers became alcoholics/drug addicts at a rather early age, and later drug dealers. This alone brought in lots of violence to our home, but it also brought in lots of other strange and sick people, amongst other things.

When I tell people this story, which I actually never do outside my therapist’s office, people assume I grew up in poverty. I guess to be correct, my family lived in an upper middle class neighborhood, but I did live in poverty in my own little world.

My mom was President of the Junior Women’s Club and pack leader for my brothers’ Cub Scout pack. She entertained lots of hot shot business men at fancy parties and over cocktails at our house. From time-to-time, she would be in the newspaper for her fancy parties and philanthropy work.

My brothers were in the newspaper twice as children, once for taking an overdose of my aunt’s “diet pills,” and the second time because they intentionally lit our house on fire in the middle of the night. The fire story leaves out that they left the family for dead, and many fire fighters endangered their lives looking for them in the fire. The story also leaves out that my drunk, passed-out parents were more annoyed with me than anything for waking them to tell them the house was on fire.

My father was missing a lot from the house. He just wasn’t there. I believe this was part of the dark life he was living. When he was home, he was drunk and my parents fought a lot after their drinking buddies left.

My mom grew up during the depression, and has several siblings who I would describe as all mentally unstable in a religious kind of way (like psychotic). All of my cousins on my mom’s side were drug addicts and some were mentally ill in scary ways, all except two, and those two cousins were adopted, but still describe their childhood as something they had to escape from.

My mom was by far a very attractive woman, and she used this to her advantage her entire life, and wasn’t afraid to tell you so. To this day she looks about 20 years younger than she is. She also says she was sexually abused as a child.

She is a classic narcissist. Everything is about her. No matter what is happening, she manages to turn the story back around to her. She requires constant attention, and has no respect for anyone’s wishes but her own. Just tonight my mom called and I told her I had neck surgery this week, and there were some complications with the anesthesia. Without a beat, her reply was to tell me she has red dots on her leg and wants me to come up with some type of solution for her problem, and my issues never exist unless she is blaming me for a problem.

But here’s the key, to everyone on the outside we were this upstanding family mostly respected in the community. No one would ever guess what went on behind closed doors unless they were participating in it.

My mom has been called a sadist, too. I grew up in a fairly large beach town, so there were always a lot of transient or seedy people around. I wandered among them and received my share of abuse from them. But my mom liked to do a special thing to me. When I was about 5-6 years old, she would drive me about 5-10 miles from my home and leave me there. At that age, I didn’t have the wherewithal to know what to do, so I would just sit and wait for many, many hours. Usually by nightfall my father would find me and bring me home. We never spoke of this, but I was always terrified to be left somewhere. My sick mother thought this little joke was funny. I don’t know what my father thought, but I know at the end of the day he always picked her over me.

My life growing up from a very young age was nonstop physically, sexually, and religiously abusive, neglectful, and psychologically torturing. As a result, my mind decided to survive by creating Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), which was formerly called Multiple Personality Disorder. I developed “parts” or other inside people to break up my life and handle things I couldn’t. I didn’t do this consciously, it just happened. It is what allowed me to survive.

As an adult now, my mind is filled with “parts” or other people. Some have more expansive identities than others. Though it helped me survive my childhood, it is by no means an easy life, and many days I have thoughts of suicide. My memory is severely impaired due to the DID. It is something I try to hide everyday. I have to negotiate between the parts of me who will be “out” on any given day or moment. As a result, this body has no clear sense of who it is. Not having a cohesive sense of yourself is a depressing predicament to be in for your entire life.

Loneliness is the prevailing feeling when things are good. Because if you don’t have this disorder, it is not something the rest of the minions on this planet understand, or even believe in.

Being Bad

Today I went to see a guest therapist as my therapist is recovering from surgery. I trust the guest therapist–a combination of my instinct and the fact that she works a lot in the church. I can tell by her actions and words she is a good person. Not perfect, but one I can trust. It is ironic that her interwoven religious work with her therapist background makes me trust her when I have so little experience on trusting church or religious people. My history should tell me to fear them, but I trust my instinct more. Hopefully it won’t backfire on me.

I was nervous and confused about why I decided to go there. Maybe because we had unfinished business, or maybe I thought I could trust her to give me some support and insight on some issues floating around in my head. Either way, I am glad I went as she was very nice even though I was so scattered.

I tried to stay on one topic, but the voices in my head tried to distract me whenever she said something that could be meaningful to my system. For me, when I am trying to talk with someone on the outside and start hearing voices in my head at the same time,  it is very hard to follow what either of them are saying. I just try to get the jist of what each is saying. Today was especially frustrating because both the voice outside and the voices inside were unlocking a year long mystery problem and I couldn’t catch it all in my brain.

My mystery problem for the past year plus is that I can’t get out of bed to do anything except go to appointments, and only then can do it if the day isn’t too overwhelming.

I went from being totally normal looking—social and very successful at work and other areas of my life, to not wanting to leave my bed. It is not that I sleep all the time, I just have a feeling of safety when I am here. I really can’t explain it, and I call it a mystery because I have been desperately trying to solve and correct this problem for over a year now. I haven’t had much luck. Mostly theories, with no real solutions.

Today, the guest therapist asked me some questions about it and approached the subject just slightly differently than others in the past had, and low and behold I heard new voices talking about “the why” inside my head.

From what I could take and didn’t lose in trying to follow two conversations at once is that the parts inside said I did not deserve to be successful and working, and that I was “bad.”

I am very familiar with the I am bad belief. When you go through what I have been through, there is just no other logical explanation other than I must be so bad that I deserved all of it to happen to me. Especially if you believe in God, how else do you rationalize it. What kind of God would allow this to happen to a child?

I know some good adult explanations on why this happened that are probably the truth, but the way my mind works is that I share it with other parts who are literally stuck in time, so their minds may work like 4 or 5 or 8 year olds in trying to understand life.

In my recovery process, I have what I call other parts bleeding into my space and thinking. On this issue, this happens, so even know I accept and understand as an adult the truth of my life, my younger parts influence my thinking and I walk away with the conclusion and feeling that I am bad, and always will be know matter how hard I try to be good.

So, to relate it back to today, my core belief is that I am bad. A little over a year ago something really bad (at least in my world) happened to me that was earth shattering and heart breaking to me. The only explanation is that this happened because I am bad.

I don’t want to keep getting hurt, so I have learned that if I stay home in bed, it is less likely that will happen. Because remember, no matter how hard I try to be good, I always end up getting hurt, which means I am being bad again.

I think I am a good person, but the universe or God or whatever keeps sending me a different message. Yet, I keep trying to be good enough to not get hurt….