I’ve been a little sassy lately on my blog, and I think that’s just fine. The reality is that my life tends to be edgy and somewhat intense. Three of my four girls have their own set of special needs, and from the moment I arise in the morning until the moment I lie down at night, I don’t stop moving. Not once. My brain has to parallel process on at least five levels at all times; this causes me to remain in an almost hypomanic state most of the time. I feel incessantly hyperfocused, and, when my concentration breaks, I might cry for a few seconds, take a few deep breaths, and then find my focus again. A great deal is expected of me in my life. All the time. It never stops. I need to know my limits, but even they have to be flexible.
I’ve worked extremely hard to achieve my state of mind. I finally have a measure of peace, but that has not always been the case. I have not always known my limits. Frankly, I haven’t always had limits, or what I would call ‘boundaries’.
I have not mentioned my family of origin on this blog. That has been a deliberate choice. I don’t want them here. In this case, however, my family, my mother in particular, is pertinent to the discussion. Why? Well, we don’t self-originate, do we? Our sexuality, sexual identity, and something as basic as asking for what we want and even need begins in our family of origin. The first sense of who we are as individuals, if we are even allowed to separate and individuate, begins in our families. You would not be who you are today–mentally, emotionally, spiritually, intellectually, and, yes, even sexually–without the profound influence of your family. In my case, because of the deeply malignant influence of both my mother and father coupled with my experience with human trafficking, I was left with a shattered sense of self at the age of 18. To put it another way, I lacked a sense of self. The only sense I had was that I was worth less than nothing. Quite literally. I could attribute this to my captor, but he just sealed the work that my mother had painstakingly done over the first 18 years of my life. Unfortunately, she is mentally ill, and I was her victim.
When it comes to rebuilding an identity, it’s vital to address the person who stole that identity from you in the first place. One can go back and do years of work around trauma, anxiety, victimization, and PTSD. One can do exposure therapy and healing of memories. There’s even EMDR. In the end, the people that victimize us so thoroughly are the ones that teach us not to speak in the first place. They are the ones that tell us when we are children to go hug Uncle Earl because it’s what “good little girls” do. Never mind that Uncle Earl gropes us when no one is looking. Never mind that little girls aren’t responsible for the feelings of adults. Never mind that adults do not own the bodies of children, and children should be able to decide whom they hug…and do not hug. Never mind that boys are rarely told to do that. Girls are simply socialized differently.
- “Hug Uncle Earl. He always says how much he loves to snuggle you.”
- ”Sit next to Mr. Harris; he looks sad. That’ll make him feel better. He likes sweet, little girls.”
- “You need to wear something nice so you look pretty for our guests. You want to keep the men interested. It’s never too early to learn–even if you are just 12.”
- “Stop crying and smile. You won’t look pretty with tears on your face will you now?”
- “Better not have that extra piece of chocolate. No one likes a chubby girl.”
- “Your bottom looks a little chunky in that skirt. You might want to consider some support panties. The boys don’t like a fat rear end.”
- “Too bad your breasts aren’t bigger. You don’t look very womanly.”
- “Never appear more intelligent than your date. Men want to know that they’re smart. They hate feeling inadequate.”
- “It’s too bad that you’re tall (or some other quality). It’s such a mannish quality. Women should be small, feminine, and dainty.”
To some people, these are criticisms and forced social interactions. To others, this is a very normal way to socialize a girl. There are expectations that are a part of cultural social mores to which all girls and young women are expected to adhere. I was. It’s just the tip of the iceberg.
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Defeating my mother was the turning point in my process of differentiation, and the aftershocks have been rippling throughout every part of my life and identity since. This happened only a few months ago.
I’ve written in-depth about this on my other blog, but I haven’t written about this particular event. I don’t know why. I’ve carried it around with me, held it close, and protected it. At the time, it felt like a hassle more than anything, but now I can see it for what it is. I slayed the dragon. The Dragon.
Essentially, after giving my mother very strong boundaries and eliminating her presence from my life (because she is dangerous to me, my husband, and my children), she ignored me. This isn’t a surprise. I was raised to be a non-entity. I was the perfect victim for a predator. I was already a non-entity when he found me. It didn’t take much to break me. Just so you truly understand the depths of my father and mother’s mental disease, I’ll give you one example. When I was 2 years-old, my father burned me on the cheek with a cigarette lighter. He’s a sociopath, a true sociopath. He thought that it was amusing. He laughed. When my mother saw what he’d done, she screamed at him, “How could you? She isn’t perfect anymore!” She didn’t take me to the doctor. There was no medical intervention. She only saw me as an extension of herself. And, I still have a small circular scar on my face that looks exactly like a branding mark from a car’s cigarette lighter. Giving my mother boundaries wouldn’t make a difference to her. I am not a human being in her eyes. I am only worth what she applies to me at any given moment. This is what a mind ravaged by Borderline Personality Disorder, Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and Sadistic Personality Disorder (although that’s not in the DSM-IV anymore), is like.
So, I was not surprised to find a package from her on my doorstep on Good Friday. It was for me and my daughters. I had specifically told her to cease and desist all contact. No gifts. Nothing. She is to be under the care of a clinician, and all contact is to come through her therapist. Apparently, she didn’t feel like complying.
I sat there on the steps for a while with that package. A lot of thoughts went through my head. This is where it all became clear to me. In a moment, my sight was no longer blurry. There was no grey. I could finally see myself. I watched every instance of her abuse pass before me, and it was horrific. I watched my captivity play out before me. I started to sink. I watched the years of therapy run like film on a screen. My heart beat so fast. I pondered the last three years. Every moment in my bedroom where I fought so hard to speak. Every time that I did. Every little victory that felt so monumental. Every celebration that was rooted in months of blood, sweat, and tears in the presence of long-suffering therapists who waded through all this shit with me. Was I going to sit with this package and do nothing? Was I going to let her win again? I either follow my training and bow down to her, acknowledging yet again that I am worthless, completely and utterly devoid of all value, solely dependent upon her for everything. Or, I take that package and send it back.
I sat outside next to it. I looked at it. I stared at my feet. I trembled.
I picked it up with shaking hands, and I drove to my local post office. I asked the postal worker what I needed to do to return a package to sender. He took it from me, and I left without my mother’s package. I sent it back to her.
I have not been the same since I sent that package back. Something shifted. I was released from something. Something very dark and oppressive. In doing that, I finally found my voice. It’s quiet, and I don’t quite know how to use it. But, it’s here. She had been holding it hostage, and I had to rescue myself in order to learn to speak again.
I have finally started speaking up in the bedroom in the past few weeks in ways that I have never been able to do before. There is a new level of intimacy and playfulness between my husband and me, and I can feel more sensation in my body, too. Some of my shyness is beginning to wane in my husband’s presence, and I feel more settled in myself.
Sometimes the limitations that we face in our present circumstances are rooted in much bigger and much deeper things. Things we don’t like to think about. Things we don’t want to face. Things we shouldn’t really have to in the first place. Because they’re right here. So close to home.
