I Don't Know Who Needs This

The blackness from my mascara streams down my face

It happens without fail, twice a week, for over a year- like if shame had a color

A few years prior, I’m convinced I hit rock bottom as I suggest to my therapist I don't want to be here anymore

When I started collapsing inward, I did so only in secret

As my mother modeled disordered eating and maladaptive coping for me my entire life, I began to self-destruct very early into life

The first official diagnosis at age 4 would build on one another over time

My mother would say later “You’ve ruined my life since you were 2.”- the worst thing she’s ever convinced me of

I was 25 when that fatal conversation took place, and trying again to explain why I had reported her second husband to the police

It was becoming more and more clear, like I was finally waking up

She didn't love me unconditionally

A part of me absolutely died that day

The realization sunk in heavily, just like my eyes did when I had been awake for over 72 hours

I was so upset from the pain I was potentially causing my family, even though none of them believed what I said happened to me

I thought perhaps making the police report was the wrong turn

Did I go left when I should have gone right?

I didn’t want to hurt my mom

I wanted to feel safe and ensure no other child would hurt the way I did because of him

He lost his job and still my mother chose to believe that his actions were my fault

Trying to bring justice to myself was not something I was familiar with and I was sure after not sleeping for 3 days that it was going to kill me

I laid in bed thinking I wouldn’t make it to see the sunrise

My partner laid next to me asleep, as I stared at the ceiling for hours on end; I felt defeat engulfing me

A strange feeling of nothingness

Aware I was drifting but sure I was dying

If I believed in God, I’d thank him, because I am still here

I had come close to death a few times before, but that was the most terrifying

It took time for me to be able to accept that my mother was an abusive parent, she went so far as to have me convinced she was the victim

I understood quickly that her second husband groomed me when all I wanted was help before I killed myself with an eating disorder, but was shut down over and over again for coming forward with the truth

My mother would prove herself blind to reality by creating her own to fit whatever fantasy life she wanted

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I’d gamble with my life and stare death right in the face for the first time at 16, the same year I met him, then again at age 17

Looking at the floor I’d think: “My grandma will be so upset that I ruined her white carpet.”

It sounds insane

And maybe it was, because to be worried about ruining carpet when I was so depressed that being dead in the ground before my abusers felt like the right answer, probably meets some diagnosable criteria

But I’m trying not to live by labels anymore

Some of what I do in therapy now is grief work for the mother I deserved but never had, and for the one I did have, but lost the second I started speaking up for myself

I don’t know what my mother thinks of me now or what she does day-to day, and I’m getting better at using my voice regardless

I’m convinced I am here still to write about my journey

To share with people how I made it through horrifically confusing and painful abuse

To convey a message with each passing day that I am here

Because although parts of myself died with the loss of my mother, I get to do more than just survive now

I get to thrive