Start Somewhere
My brother recommended this community and I've been waffling on posting for a few weeks but here I am.
My abuser was my step-mother. It ranged...from physical attacks, verbal lashings and mental games. For years I let it fuel me. The hate, the adrenal rush, the gnashing of teeth and clenched fists. It's just a disease she left in me. I'd rather die trying than give into her.
So I took risks, placed myself in situations that would have provided a "honorable" death, if that was my fate. I felt suicide was securing her victory. It was an insatiable hunger to reach the brink and scream back.
But I question myself, even to this day. "Am I really just a liar? Broken and deluded?" "Did I make it all up?"
I know it's her voice, or at least the voice I created from the moment, but it remains on loop.
Few were there for me, most of the struggle I carried alone. Either consumed in their own material world or wrapped in the web my step-mother spun, loved ones and friends did not rescue me. My father, a coward. My mother, consumed by her own turmoil and consumerism.
Survival was the priority and while it has conflicted with my growth as man, it's has been the only existence I know.
A liar, a troubled boy/man, inherently aggressive, emotionally compromised. The product of a greater lie.
But I persevered and found success. I found love. I've brought children into this world. I've found my calling. I continue to climb, even with the weight, fueled by emotions.
This all changed in the summer of 2018. My brother (mentioned above) reached out, hoping to talk...run some things by me. What transpired was the crack in the dam. Outside of a few specific differences in timing and circumstance, he and I shared a similar fate. While I was (mostly) aware of my outcome, he was not and it had taken a toll on him when the world came down around him. We found respite in each others stories and he is the reason I sought professional help again. I had tried in the past but I was never in the proper mindset or they had nothing for me to gain.
Unfortunately, thought this work, I've realized the abuse I once knew was like a white sheet over abuse, sexual in nature. I wore the physical and mental side as a badge of honor. I overcame this. I survived and I will conquer it.
The sexual context, I was unprepared for. As if a lake was turned over, dredging up experiences that my brain tried to hide. There is no banner to wave, no primal cry.
I struggle with knowing how to tell my story, the things I'd like to say to her, the way I can explain my hate and fear to the family I've made.
It's an albatross we carry, the shame and hate that weighs down our neck, keeps us facing the dirt.
Frankly, I don't know what I'll get from this. Refuge? Comfort? Communal aspects? I'm not sure. Regardless, if not spoken into the universe, it will only eat us alive.
My abuser was my step-mother. It ranged...from physical attacks, verbal lashings and mental games. For years I let it fuel me. The hate, the adrenal rush, the gnashing of teeth and clenched fists. It's just a disease she left in me. I'd rather die trying than give into her.
So I took risks, placed myself in situations that would have provided a "honorable" death, if that was my fate. I felt suicide was securing her victory. It was an insatiable hunger to reach the brink and scream back.
But I question myself, even to this day. "Am I really just a liar? Broken and deluded?" "Did I make it all up?"
I know it's her voice, or at least the voice I created from the moment, but it remains on loop.
Few were there for me, most of the struggle I carried alone. Either consumed in their own material world or wrapped in the web my step-mother spun, loved ones and friends did not rescue me. My father, a coward. My mother, consumed by her own turmoil and consumerism.
Survival was the priority and while it has conflicted with my growth as man, it's has been the only existence I know.
A liar, a troubled boy/man, inherently aggressive, emotionally compromised. The product of a greater lie.
But I persevered and found success. I found love. I've brought children into this world. I've found my calling. I continue to climb, even with the weight, fueled by emotions.
This all changed in the summer of 2018. My brother (mentioned above) reached out, hoping to talk...run some things by me. What transpired was the crack in the dam. Outside of a few specific differences in timing and circumstance, he and I shared a similar fate. While I was (mostly) aware of my outcome, he was not and it had taken a toll on him when the world came down around him. We found respite in each others stories and he is the reason I sought professional help again. I had tried in the past but I was never in the proper mindset or they had nothing for me to gain.
Unfortunately, thought this work, I've realized the abuse I once knew was like a white sheet over abuse, sexual in nature. I wore the physical and mental side as a badge of honor. I overcame this. I survived and I will conquer it.
The sexual context, I was unprepared for. As if a lake was turned over, dredging up experiences that my brain tried to hide. There is no banner to wave, no primal cry.
I struggle with knowing how to tell my story, the things I'd like to say to her, the way I can explain my hate and fear to the family I've made.
It's an albatross we carry, the shame and hate that weighs down our neck, keeps us facing the dirt.
Frankly, I don't know what I'll get from this. Refuge? Comfort? Communal aspects? I'm not sure. Regardless, if not spoken into the universe, it will only eat us alive.