So, my intentions were good, I started a blog with the ‘intention’ of posting once a week, dipping my toes into the blogosphere and seeing where it took me. That lasted all of one post, because that very same week my life apparently decided it was time to switch things up and see exactly how much I could stand in one hit.
That said, I’m trying to cope now with my new ‘normal’ and decided that maybe it’s a good time to talk about things and see if I can’t take back my life.
Don’t for one-minute think that I’m saying my life is worse than many others in the developed world. I know I have a home, friends, family, I mostly have my health (full disclosure, I have diabetes II, hypothyroidism, severe depression, anxiety and PTSD), so I know that have things a lot better than many of you.
But it’s my story and I know that there are many of you who have had similar experiences and if I’ve learned nothing else it somehow makes it better if you talk about it.
It’s a long and twisted tale so I may as well start way back in the beginning, so you have context of what my world has consisted of up until now. My earliest memories aren’t the happy things you would expect, I remember sitting on a mat in my parents living room. I must have been 4 or 5 years old and being terrified to move because my mother told me not to move. I remember being dragged from a shopping center by the arm and beaten (with a wooden spoon around the thighs) for sitting and reading a book.
I have a younger sister (she’s 6 years younger than me and has similar mental issues) and a baby brother (I was fifteen three months after his birth). Don’t get me wrong, there were happy times, they’re just hard to remember amongst the blinding terror that was my youth. You see, my mother was an undiagnosed bipolar schizophrenic. I say undiagnosed because both of her physicians (the ones since I was old enough to be taken seriously) tried repeatedly to have her submit to testing but she always refused. There was nothing wrong with her after all, it was everyone around her.
Mum left our father when she discovered she was pregnant with my brother. Telling my sister and I that our father didn’t want another daughter so had sent us away. We drove to a different state to live with what I now know was her lesbian lovers (yes there was two). What we found out later was that she had told our father that the child wasn’t his (I’ve learned now that there was a procession of lovers through our childhoods). I had spent my childhood under the misconception that my father’s family had spurned us because I was the first child born to the first child in fifteen generations that wasn’t a boy (that was all a lie, we’ve since built a lovely relationship with our paternal relations).
We came back in time for my fifteenth birthday because my brother was born with a rare tumor that would have killed him without specialist treatment. When I was enrolled back in the same school as I had been prior, I was ignored by all my previous friends, I couldn’t understand why. What I didn’t know at the time was that my mother had told all her friends (my friends’ parents) that she had gone interstate because I was pregnant and now, she was raising the child as her own to spare me.
As she aged, her health failed. Against my better judgement, I quit working to care for her and became so deeply depressed that for the final year of her life I can’t remember a day that didn’t start, or end (or both) in tears at her hateful spite. She told us our entire lives that she had me to care for her in her old age, my sister to pay for her and our brother for her enjoyment. She was the kind of bad-tempered person that if she didn’t like the food you put in front of her for a meal, she would stab your hand with her fork (I have the scars to prove it).
That’s my backstory so you have some context. What I didn’t realize when I started my blog was that I was starting on July 1. The problem with that was that in the five years since her passing, I have never once reacted well to the anniversary of her death. Even though I joke about there being a reason she died on Independence Day it still affects my mental stated badly.
Added to that were a couple of other incidents that tipped me over the edge. Our brother was diagnosed with cancer (a rare tumor) that required ten hours of surgery and follow up care, that thankfully seems to have resolved with a much better prognosis than was initially suspected. He is also in the middle of a custody battle with his ice addict partner for his two toddler sons (he has custody of her three teenaged children that are no relation to him but they wont give him the boys), and finally we run a small cat rescue that was set up incorrectly by a former housemate who has decided to turn her talents towards trolling us on the internet and forcing us to close the rescue (long twisted story but if you’re interested I’ll tell you sometime).
All of that has added up to me essentially not leaving the house for almost eight weeks, barely touching my authorly social media and burying myself in my World of Warcraft account beating the living beejeesus out of anything that got in my way.
Good news is that I am back. Slowly dipping my toes in and determined not to let my mother win.