Sometimes I Still Get Pissed

Sometimes, I think back to when I was being molested and how things were handled when it all came out, and I get pissed. Really pissed off.

One of the things about growing up in a dysfunctional home is that when you’re in it, you don’t realize it’s dysfunctional. You might notice things that don’t seem right or ok, but when you are little and dependent on others for survival, whatever the fuck is going on is your “normal.” It wasn’t until I was in my late 30’s and seeing a therapist that I understood this.

I didn’t realize how absolutely fucked up my home was when I was growing up until I was almost 40 years old!!

First of all, I now know that my mother was never really “right,” but I finally noticed her starting to really spin out about the time I was in junior high school. In response to her diving deeper and deeper into mental illness, Dad moved out. My mother was seeing a psychiatrist at the time who believed he could psychoanalyze her out of being bipolar. She was taking no medication.

About that time, my mother’s shrink told her that if she didn’t get my younger, hyperactive, brother out of the house, he was going to drive her insane. So, he was shuffled off to boarding school during the week. He got out. And about a year later Mom went insane anyway.

That’s about the time my older brother decided that it was perfectly fine to rape his sister on a regular basis, sneaking into my bedroom late at night, waking me up, again and again. It went on for a few years until I got pregnant. He had groomed me for years and knew that I wouldn’t tell for fear of getting in trouble. He made me think that it was my fault.

When it came out that I was pregnant, that’s when the shit hit the fan. And what was done about my older brother? Not much. My father put a latch on the inside of my bedroom door to protect me at night from my rapist who still lived under the same roof. Then my father created the biggest secret of my life, which most of my family to this day does not know. The wall of secrecy got so thick that it suffocated me. I was hidden away in shame, in a home for unwed mothers, where I lived until I secretly had my daughter and gave her up for adoption. Stories and lies were created to “protect” me. They imprisoned me.

I gave up my daughter. I wasn’t even allowed to claim her as mine. My heart still breaks for her sometimes. Breaks because I never got to know her, to see her grow, to love her.

Sometimes I get so pissed. Pissed at my father for making us all keep the big secret. The lie. Pissed at my brother for molesting me, for impregnating me, for ruining my perfect young body, for violating my trust in him, and for a life where he has chosen to keep living his lie. His family has no idea. And if I spill the beans, I will look like the bad guy. Fuck.

I get pissed off at my mother for all of the years of neglect and for verbally abusing me instead of being there for me. I get pissed that she wasn’t properly taken care of during the years that I needed her most. I get pissed that by the time she was actually medicated and stabilized for the first time in her life I only had one year left of high school and was out the door. It was too fucking late.

Too fucking late.

Imprisoned by lies.

Shamed into silence.

Sometimes I think it’s a miracle I survived.

I honestly don’t know how I didn’t end up an alcoholic or a drug addict or worse. I was certainly set up for all of that and more. In fact, during the years of hating myself, I dabbled in binging and purging. Couldn’t do it. Spent times here and there drinking too much. It made me sick and I couldn’t keep it up after a while. Dabbled in sexual conquests. After a few months, I was done and over that too. I never tried any drugs other than pot, and all it did was make me sleepy and give me the munchies. That didn’t last. I have a feeling that if I’d ever tried coke or heroin it might have been over for me, but I never got my hands on any.

My drug of choice ended up being food. Because of using hypnotherapy to explore the why’s of food, I’ve discovered a lot of why food became my go-to drug. I’ve been able to see how it saved my life when I was little. I’ve healed a lot of it, but I don’t know if I’ll ever have a free and easy relationship with food.

If I had to guess why I’ve survived as well as I have, I’d have to say it probably has to do with my connection to the Divine that I didn’t realize I even had all those years. I never knew how connected I was all the time (and still am). I never knew how intuitive I was from the very beginning. But having my guides, angels, beings in spirit, and God whispering into the back of my head on a regular basis, is the only thing I can think of that kept me here this time.

I was able to hear the Divine enough times to make a difference. I was able to follow my heart when it really counted. That has to be it.

My parents are now both gone. And I’ve done a lot of healing around my growing up with a mentally ill mother. I spilled the big secret to my younger brother a few years ago. And my older brother still lives with his big fat secret, with his twisted head and no sense of self. He has created a life with a completely co-dependent relationship that allows him no room to breathe or grow. Things might look pretty good on paper, but he’s still the same person with a box of rocks for a brain.

He can suck it.

It doesn’t sound like it here, but I’ve actually done a bit of healing around this relationship as well.

Even with that, there are times that I still get pissed.