Time to Live

I can remember always telling myself that everything would be ok, once I was out of the house. Well, the day came when I did leave. I was on my way to college, beginning a new chapter in my life...hoping for a new beginning. It was not long that I realized that my baggage was still with me, that leaving home had not solved all of my problems. The pain was still there, the fear was still paralyzing, and the journey ahead was merely beginning. I was like an unfinished art project, the future could be promising, but only if I completed the work. I had to fix me, but where was I to start? Escape became my solution for many years....running from everything....Drinking became a hobby, then a mission. It was a way to not feel the pain of not knowing how to live. It would prove to work for many years, but with every sobering up, the realization that everything was still present, still painful, and a permanent obstacle in my path. I drank until I could not drink anymore...And out of a most profound act from a higher power, I landed myself in a AA program. AA saved my life at that time, gave me a chance to try to let others help, a chance to learn how to heal myself, a chance to trust in something higher than myself. I spent almost 10 years trying to stay sober...battling the demons that lived inside of me. For me, it was the 2 voices of good and evil..my own voices of live or die. I am a firm believer in the AA 12 step program, but for me I needed more. It took me years to realize that I drank because I wanted to...not because I had to...I had to learn to love myself enough to let myself live. AA allowed me the beginnings of this very task, and paved the way for a life time journey of my healing.

My Brother

My brother was my parents' favorite throughout the time I lived at home. He was always very quiet, and we did not get along at all. I would often try to comfort him during all the screaming and violence between my parents, but that was about as close as it got, until now. He was never abused while I lived at home, well not physically anyway. When he became older, mother would make him chase me down, and keep me from getting away. I never knew how this would affect him, until later on in my life. When I left home and went to college, I received a chilling call from my brother one day. He said to me that mother had pulled a knife on him, and that he was sorry for all the times he had helped her regarding me. I remember crying until I could not cry anymore. I tried desperately to get  him out of that house, but could not find anyone to help. My brother ended up living in his bedroom all his life. He went into a severe depression as well as psychosis, from what I can gather. He spoke to noone for years. He recently began getting help for his pain. He called me the other day and for the first time in years, he sounded normal. I have tremendous guilt over knowing that he endured more pain than I ever imagined. He had it worse than me, for he was forced to participate in the violence towards me, and then became the target. I love him with all my heart, and hope one day he can find the courage to live life without pain.

My Father

My father was and still is a master of tuning out the obvious. He always protected mother, and I was never sure exactly why. Most of the abuse towards me happened when he was not at home. But, he was even a victim of mother's abuse. I say victim, evn though he was a grown man. I often wondered why he never stopped the insanity...it was not till years later, that I realized it was because the whole masquerade had become normal to him. He never listened when I begged him to please make it all stop. He never was an abuser until I was in high school. I never will forget that night when he was on his knees doing the knife bit with mother. I decided enough was enough, and picked up the phone to call 911. He immediately hit me across the face and yanked the phone out of the wall. I saw him in a different way that night, and lost the respect a daughter has for her father. His answer to everything was and still is to ignore the reality, and try to buy my silence. Money....I actually learned to hate money, and would have traded it all for love and the abuse to end. Our realtionship today is still strained...we go through the motions because we have to...he is my father, and I love him. We have cried together through the years, but in silence.

My Mother

My mother is like a million people all wrapped into one. She has never been evaluated by a doctor for her problems. All these years, the problems and pain hidden from those who could help. She is basically a recluse, more so when I was young, than now. When I was a kid we were taught to duck and hide if there was a knock on the door. I found it strange to be on the ground, making sure I was not seen or heard. But as with everything else, I dared not question her motive. She did not like people, and especially people over to the house. It was not till I was in highschool that I somehow insisted on having friends over for the night. Those nights were always peaceful, at least for me. No knives, no screaming, no anything, but the silent fear within me about what would happen when my friends left. Then, all hell would break loose....a volcano eruption.

I have often tried to diagnose her myself...schizophrenic, depressive with psychosis, disassociative disorder, bi-polar and so on and on.....She was and is just plain sick. I used to think she was evil...but now as an adult, I can see that she is ill. It took me leaving home at 18 years old to be able to actually allow myself to feel something other than hate and anger towards her. She is my mother, and because of that, I love her.

Watching with Fear

There was not very many days that I can remember where things were what some would call "normal". But, at this time in my life, all that happened in that house was normal for I did not know any different. That's why people stay in abusive environments sometimes, they do not know anything else. I remember from the time I was a child all the way until I left home at the age of 18 years old, my mother and father fought. I can still see the kitchen drawer being opened....the knife being retrieved...my dad on his knees apologizing for things he had not done...my brother and I watching from a corner in another room. Why? Make it stop....This ritual was almost daily, and my fear overwhelming. It almost always would end with the same scenario of mother locking herself in her bathroom, and my dad pleading for her to open the door. How could he care? But, we all cared, and prayed for the day when things would be ok with mother. The few days where she would seem as though she cared for me, cared about my school, cared about my life, without a hitch. But, that was the problem. There was always a hitch...everything I shared with her would eventually be thrown in my face, twisted to make it all be something it was not. But still, I always waited for those moments...when I felt she cared.

The First Memories

I grew up in what seemed to be a normal 2 parent middle-class family. My first memories of what would fortell my future began when I was 4 years old. I can remember that day very clearly, for it was the day my brother was born. Not only was I about to change my only child status, but my brother's birth would be a marking point for the memories to come.

My mother and father are still alive. They are in my life to a certain extent, and I do love them because they are my parents, and that is what you do. My mother was the primary abuser of both my father and myself. She had mental problems that were never treated, and that remains true to this day.

My first memory is being tied up by my mother because I was too hyper, and she was tired from taking care of my brother. I was in a chair, with my hands behind my back, bound to the chair, with a washcloth stuffed in my mouth. I tried not to struggle, but it was just instincts that kept me fighting, making matters worse. This was not the last time this particular situation occurred, and I am almost certain it was not the first time either.

I was too loud, too curious...I was a child.