Tag Archives: emotional abuse

The Only Thing A Bad Man CAN Do, Is Keep A Good Man Away

2 Jun

Dear Cunt,

This is the absolute very last bit of time and energy i will ever waste on you.

You never deserved 5 minutes, let alone 15 years, of the very best of me. My time, my affection, my love. I literally gave you everything i am, everything i have, and you pissed all over it. It was meaningless to you.

I imagine you think i’m gonna cave sometime soon, like always. Think again. I can feel it; this time it’s different. I’m different. I’m not missing you, pining for you, building up a picture of you in my head that is a complete mis-representation of who you are, and what we were. You can no longer let me down and disappoint me, because i see you exatly as you really are. So keep checking your phone. There will never be another text from me again.

I am finally free, not just from you, but from the Love that bound me to you for what might have been the best years of my life. It’s as if i have woken from a very long, very disturbing dream. I am left shattered and broken after everything.

But i am still here, stronger than you thought, aren’t i?

One thing comforts me. I will never be alone like you are.

You might be able to charm, to fake, to play at being a good guy. But people sniff out the dog in you soon enough.

You are incapable of any kind of love, except for yourself. No one wants to be  around that.

It’s better than before; this time i know i have not lost anything. Last time i felt like everything precious was gone.

Now i know you aren’t worth the paper you’re written on.

I don’t morn you anymore.

You were always nothing. Now you are nothing to me.

Rearview Mirror – Part 1

13 May

I was born in the south of England in the 1980’s. My dad was 27, born and raised locally, his dad Irish, his mum an local. He has 2 brothers, 2 sisters. Although their family was relatively poor and (I think) my granddad struggled with alcohol abuse at sometime in his life, there was, by all accounts and certainly my own experiences of my nan and granddad, a lot of Love in their family. My mum was born in Ireland under the British flag, because my granddad served in the army there. She comes from a poor, uneducated family with a history of abuse (every kind you can imagine, and to extremes), neglect and alcoholism, and although I have reason to doubt everything she says, I think alot of what she has said about how she was raised is true, mostly because I’ve seen history repeating in her brothers and sisters, and because it goes some way to explaining why she is the way she is.

She was 17 when I was born, I imagine she met my dad, 10 years her senior, and thought he could be the escape she needed from the miserable home life she knew. He was freshly divorced from his first wife (who I don’t really know much about, except that she had mental health and drug abuse problems and was unfaithful to him) and dealing with the heartbreak of little contact with my older (half, technically) brother. From what I understand, dad fought for him in court, but paternal rights are insufficient now, so 30 years ago, I think they were pretty non-existent. So I guess both of my parents were a bit lost in the world when they met, had me, and married. In that order.

My memories pre 13 are pretty sporadic and hazy, to say the least. I dunno if that’s just how I am, a result of the amount of weed I’ve smoked, or that I don’t want to remember, or a combination of those things. It certainly wasn’t all bad, and in many respects, we were very fortunate and there were happy times. One of my earliest memories is dad letting me paint anything I wanted on the outside wall of out house, as he was painting over it. I can remember dad taking us out on a homemade sledge one winter when we had decent snow (big deal down here on the island, a bit of snow). Dad taking us swimming and ice skating, and later, me to Glastonbury festival.

Its funny how when you want to remember stuff, you cant…im trying to think of happy childhood memories that involve mum, I know they exist, but now I cant think of any. The nice memories of mum I can recall right now, seem to be tainted sad. Like, I can remember pretending to be sleeping as she stroked my hair…but oftentimes this was accompanied with an apology for loosing her temper or whatever, in the day. Did she know I was only pretending to be asleep? I didn’t think she did at the time, but with my adult eyes now, I cant imagine being that young and that good of an actress.

She used to spend a shed load of money at Christmas, buying us near enough anything we wanted. She did feel guilty. I know that she did, and does love me, in her own way, as best someone like her can love. I do believe she did try her best, even though she fucked up. I want to make that clear now. She’s only a product of her environment. To be frank, it’s a fucking miracle she did as well as she did, and we have only the medium debilitating psychological disturbances we have! It is a testament to how hard she tried…I often think, I could easily have been born as my cousins, her sisters kids, who had it infinitely worse than we ever did. Then I feel guilty and disgusted with myself for being so ungrateful, whiney, and pathetic. I try to remind myself that its all relative, and my suffering, the way I felt and feel, the negative impact it has and still has on my life, on the (stupid?) people that have had or have the misfortune of trying to love me, and try to remember, reassure myself, that my feelings are valid.

So I don’t really remember that much from childhood. I can remember being very lonely, walking around the playground looking at the leaves and my feet, at about the age of 5? 6? When I think of that time, I get a visualisation of leaves, woodchip and the concrete playground. I always felt sad, different, isolated, even then. I remember having friends, but I think I was always on the edges…I’d get invited to birthday parties (paranoid adult head: cos their parents made them invite me?), but I don’t remember playing at school much. Maybe I did, and just can’t remember?

I can remember being oddly interested in boys at that time, which is weird, cos I know I didn’t know what sex was. Once, me and the boy I fancied thought we had ‘done it’…but he had only laid on me, fully clothed. I ‘loved’ Daniel Attwood all through primary school. Maybe that’s normal? But it seems weird, I never think about it, only thinking about it now as a necessary bi-product of writing this, but for a 7 year old, I had really strong feelings for the poor sod! For a sustained amount of time (years!). Maybe, even then, I was desperate to be loved, a feeling that has never left me. Needless to say, the affection was never mutual, I was never his girlfriend, though lots of other pretty girls were.

I spent a lot of time at this age (as much as I could, infact) staying with my paternal nan and granddad. I felt safe and loved there. They were so kind to me, I feel so lucky to have been able to have that relationship with them, and I wonder what might have become of me if I hadn’t had their loving refuge to escape to. Ive tried to tell my nan (sadly, granddad died when I was 10) through a letter, but I don’t think she will ever really understand what she means to me, how much I love her for all she did for me back then, how much I always will.

I was not happy being at home. Even then, I felt like mum hated me. Nothing I ever did was worth anything, or good enough. Everyday, she would call me names I didn’t really understand until a little later (‘stupid bitch’ etc), half the time I never knew what I did wrong, and she would be screaming at me.

It felt like she only ever spoke to me to tell me to do something, or to tell me I didn’t do something right. I can vividly remember thinking ‘I bet she doesn’t even know what my favourite colour is’ I know that’s trivial, but the point is, she never bothered getting to know me, wasn’t interested in me at all, except for what I could do for her. Mostly, that was cleaning.

She has a severe (undiagnosed) OCD, probably because of her own filthy and neglectful upbringing (im talking literally shit on the walls). Every weekend, both days, my brother and I would have to clean for hours before we were allowed to do anything that might’ve considered usual for kids of our ages, if we were allowed (probably not, probably did something wrong or not good enough or complained too much so would be refused even after the work was done, as punishment). I literally cleaned our kitchen, countless times, with a toothbrush. Every day in the summer holidays, or half terms, we did this. Mondays was housework day: school nights, we’d clean from when we got home, until bedtime, and in the holidays we’d simply clean all day, from when we woke up, to when we collapsed in our beds, tired and miserable, at night. We knew we were missing out. The other kids never had to do anything like it, and so whilst we were cleaning, we could think of all the fun they were having, that we were missing out on (specially my bro, who was a popular kid).

My overriding memory from this time is of literally crying myself to sleep in the dark…’why does nobody love me?’ I feel sorry for that little girl, who doesn’t feel like me now.

There were only a few occasions when she was really physically abusive, that I can remember. I have felt so confused about it, for so, so long, because its really hard to put your finger on, to describe how my mum was cruel and hurt me, when she rarely actually was physical. I felt ( and sometimes still feel – it’s a constant battle) like I was just a whiney, whinging, ungrateful, spoiled brat.

The public face of my mum is very likable. Even to this day, very few people know what she is really like behind closed doors. On the face of it, if you had seen us or met her, you would have no reason to doubt she was anything other than a good wife and parent. She was even a foster parent for many years (that hurt… you’ve got the time for other children, to be patient and kind to other children, what’s so hideously wrong with me?). I can still see her eyes, the angry eyes she’d flash you when you had annoyed her, but other people were there, so she couldn’t deal with you in her usual way. I used to love it when social workers (for the foster kids, not us) were round, and mum would be so nice.

My mums forte is power games, weird manipulation and lies and tricks, but she was physically abusive a few times.

Generally though, mums abuse was cold and cruel and emotional – I honestly believe she probably, for the most part, had no idea she was doing it. Though some things do seem too premeditated, or to sustained, to excuse as impulse or anger. When I was about 9, I can remember her sticking my dirty knickers to the front door, with a sign saying ‘fringewalk’s pissy pants’, to humiliate me. I can’t remember what I had done wrong.

Its hard to explain how things were. Mum and her depression were the domineering factors in all our lives. Everything the family did was mums will, no one else was considered; mums happiness (which never, ever came) was always paramount.

My dad worked shifts and nights a lot back then. For a while, as much as I completely love and respect him, and as painful as it was to have the thought, I did wonder how he could have let it go on. As an adult, I’ve concluded it was a combination of factors; he wasn’t there much, he didn’t want to see it, he was probably just about managing with the responsibility of putting food on the table and, mainly, he was dominated and emotionally bullied by mum too. He is a very lovely, family orientated man, easy to take advantage of. Apart from a few mistakes he made not controlling his temper when my bro was a very difficult adolescent, I cannot fault him. If I had a choice; him and mum or completely different parents, I would choose him and mum all over again, so that I could have him in my life.

In the last couple of years he has *finally* divorced her, and is now recovering from the aftermath of the years of abuse he suffered.

Its taken a long time for me to allow myself to say I had an abusive childhood, for a number of reasons. Maybe in the last year, I’ve come to terms with ‘admitting’ it.

Firstly, so many people have it infinitely worse, it seems selfish and ignorant to moan about what happened to me.

Secondly; loyalty. I love my mum, in spite of her behaviour, I always will. Even more than that, I understand why she was how she was (and still is), and I feel sorry for her, she never really stood a chance, and as I have said, I do believe she tried. She was abused in ways I (thankfully) cant even imagine, she was very young when she had me and married dad, she got diabetes (and very fat) as a result of her pregnancy with me and her dad died just a few months after. She must’ve had severe post-natal depression, but back then it wasn’t really a known thing. It must’ve been incredibly difficult for her. Maybe it’s why she hated me. Her life strikes me as very tragic and sad.

I still wish I could help her, and it is with great sadness that I try to accept that I can’t, and never will be able to. It goes against everything that I try to believe in, but sometimes, it really is just too late. She is still exactly the same, and it is to dangerous to have her in my life. She will only use and hurt me, all the while pretending to be my friend. I’ve had very minimum contact with her over the last couple of years, and the one time i did se her and speak to her properly, it was a series of lies followed by manipulation and problems that followed. So i can’t let my gaurd down.

Thirdly, because of the public face, because it was only me she treated like that (not my bro really, except the cleaning), for all my life, I thought it was me, my fault, something wrong with me. No one else seemed to notice. Was I imagining it? Remembering it wrong? Attention seeking (which I am prone to)? Later, she turned out to treat my sister (who is 15 years younger than me) in the same way, so now i wonder if it’s just the girls?

It has only been these last few years, when everything has unravelled, that everyone has seen her for what she really is. The mask hasn’t just slipped; it’s fallen clean off, at least for those of us close to her. It wasn’t me, wasn’t my fault, and there is nothing wrong with me.

I still don’t feel this is the truth, the lessons she taught are very deeply entrenched in my psyche, so I try to be logical, look at the facts, and remind myself it is the truth.

Not that it matters all that much now. It is a relationship i will never understand despite continued effort, and one that haunts me. But I am grown, responsible for my own choices, my own sucesses and faliures. I need to accept and find worth within myself, i need to not just know, but realise that self-worth is not something to be given to me by anyone else, but something i scuplt for myself .

I know this, but i cannot realise it, it is not true for me, i still seek it else where because i cannot find it inside, i’ve been hardwired from an early age not to. And even that belief  is yet another excuse/self-fufilling prophecy/obstacle to self-esteem. Grrrr. It is very frustrating.

I think i started smoking weed aged about 16. It’s weird, cos I was always one of those ‘say no to drugs’ kids, and I never smoked cigarettes. I was a bright-ish kid, I got a few As in my GCSEs, I was involved in the school community (student rep, ran tuck shop, always involved in music/drama productions) etc.

When I was 16, I was dumped by the first boy I had ever ‘loved’. It was teenage, all encompassing, need-to-be-with-you-all-the-time, deliriously happy kind of love, but when I look back on it know, I am think I did love him, albeit in an immature way. Anyway – I didn’t take the rejection very well. I almost turned into a crazy stalker for a while, i was kind of in limbo, and heartbroken.

When I did finally realise it was definitely over, I kind of fell into a black hole. Its sort of embarrassing now, all melodramatic – but the pain was unbearable, and it affected my whole life. When I think about it now, I try to understand why it effected me so much – plenty of teenagers get their heart broken but they don’t self-destruct like I did. They cry and listen to music in their rooms, then they get over it and move on.

I tried to commit ‘suicide’, taking loads of paracetamol and my parents’ Prozac and hip-replacement medicine. I don’t think it was too serious an attempt, the infamous ‘cry-for-help’ more likely, but it was enough to give me a kind of lock-jaw for a couple days when the muscles in my jaw were almost locked closed and my legs were all tense and shaky, and I threw up a lot. It felt like really horrible flu, and it scared the shit out of me. What if i really fucked myself up?

Maybe quite tellingly, my parents didn’t notice. To be fair, I lived in a mobile home at the bottom of their garden by then, my sister was only about 2, and they both worked, so it’s easy to see how; they were busy. To this day they know nothing about this. They knew that I was a self-harmer after a teacher at school got in touch with them when I was about 11 (I think), but to this day I don’t think they have any idea how isolated and alone and miserable I was at this time and through most of my childhood. Most of my life. Ungratful twat.

After the ‘suicide’ attempt (feels weird seeing that in black and white, even though i know it wasn’t as bad as the words implies), everything was the same. I started drinking vodka a lot, straight from the bottle. I slept with 6 people in a few weeks, some whom I did not know and have not seen since, some of which were supposed to be ‘friends’.

My ex-boyfriend, G, (not the one who had broke my heart, but one who’s heart im sure I broke), who remained my good friend, took care of me, and drove me about for hours on end. I only felt ok when we were driving, I don’t know why. I suppose when we were driving I wasn’t sat around trying to deal with the feeling in my stomach.

I owe a lot to G and the compassion and love he showed me during that time – he was the only person who was there for me, and im very lucky to have had him, even though i didn’t deserve him and ultimately, i think i used him and treated him badly (which i have since profusely apologised for). He was my boyfriend off and on from the age of 14 to 18, it was a serious relationship, but i think i would have had anyone who would take me, i was so desperate for love. I never really considered if i felt it or if it was real. I don’t know why i didn’t fancy him that much, he’s a great guy and he’s very good looking. Maybe it was because he treated me so well.

I asked G to get me some hash during this time, i just wanted to get out of my own head. I had been with him and a few of our friends when they had smoked before, but up until then I had always refused it and made them promise not to go onto harder drugs (which is funny now, given my drug experiences). G was at university at the time and got an eight of hash from his friend there. We had one of those pipe/tube things you can attach to a beer bottle and make a bong from- neither of us smoked baccy or could roll. That first eighth lasted agggggeeesss.I would have a little pipe every now and then, nothing serious. I couldn’t roll a proper joint then, i had to use a rolling machine on the odd occasion i did smoke one. For a while, i was an occasional smoker, until i began probably my most significant (and damaging) relationship with a full time smoker.

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