F*CK NORMAL

For years, I’ve questioned my memories. I’ve second-guessed myself whenever thoughts of my childhood came up. Was it really that bad? Did it all really happen, or have I dreamt it? Perhaps I filled in the blanks with horrid, fake details and, worst of all, maybe I deserved it? One of the many reasons I hid my story for two reasons: 1- I was afraid that I’d say something untruthful. 2- Perhaps my story isn’t as bad as I think it is. I have trepidations putting my story out into the world, partly because there are so many of us survivors in this world, I am afraid my past won’t be as heart-wrenching as someone else’s. I’m afraid I will be scoffed at and ridiculed for sharing. Isn’t that so stupid? I clam up and silence myself because I’m ashamed – not because my story is horrendous -but that it’s not horrendous enough. As if I must have the worst story in this ugly competition. This kind of thinking can only occur within our society today. With all the #metoo’s circulating social media, and the legal catastrophes replaying over every news station, it seems as if every American woman has been raped. It’s so common, it’s the new normal. I understand that it is a horrible epidemic, but with so many dramatic let’s-get-on-the-bandwagon individuals, I truly wonder if the statistics are skewed a tad bit. <Before anyone gets offended, please note that I would NEVER question anyone’s story> I’m only referring to society as an organism. .

            My childhood experience was scary. Even now, as I grow older, I am constantly surprised my mother would allow ANY of it to happen. As my own children age, I remember myself growing into each stage of life, and the incomplete, terrified, confused thoughts I had. The abhorrent actions I took. The petrified feelings I felt. The knowledge I had at those ages is one I NEVER want my children to understand! I look at my children now, and smile at their innocence. I am convinced this is what was taken from me. To be honest (TBH), I don’t know if I ever had innocence, or if it is something that can be taken away, but I know I can’t remember a single memory without some negative feeling attached to it. The feelings of fear, guilt, anger, anticipation of pain, expectation of death… they appear in each and every memory as I age. They melt into each other: the teenage-me, the young-adult-me, the me as a friend, a co-worker, a partner, a mother… the me I am now becoming. Each stage of life is measured by some sort of trauma. WHY? Why do I do this? Maybe it’s a comforting habit that I continue to uphold because I feel as if I deserve it? I don’t know (IDK) why this monster is attached to my memories, I just know I am forced to beat it back frequently.

            As I’m sure many of you were, I was raised by a single mother. I was raised amongst drugs and their dealers. I was removed from my home and sent to live with strangers. I was abused physically, mentally, sexually, and of course, emotionally. For more than a decade I’ve searched for information and have been helped by a plethora of mental-health professionals. I’ve tried to kill myself more than once and fight the monstrous voices in my head almost daily. I set ridiculously high standards for myself and fail frequently. I have no assets, no forever home and no stability. I question myself about everything, and make the wrong decision, at least 50% of the time. My childhood cost me any self-confidence, any sturdy morals, any acceptance and most of all, any love. It’s also enabled me to be empathetic, supportive, understanding, persistent, stubborn, competitive, sympathetic, strong, independent, creative, brave, dependable and loving.

I’ve learned, despite of -or maybe because of – my past, I am an individual package. I have insights no one else has. I am accepting of everyone, and understand ‘things happen’.

I have good.

I fight the bad.

I am a survivor.

*Nix