I am realizing that there is a pattern to my writings; at first I explain the heartache, the pain. Next I destroy the patterns that enable my current paradigm to continue (victim mentality; accepted patterns from childhood). Third, I search for a new identity. I feel like I am in a mix of the first and second stages. Perhaps I have gone dove into creating a new identity a bit through goal setting and visualizing the future (in my personal, private journals). I am beginning to separate what I want to share publicly; to what I want to keep private. I am learning what is truthfully and genuinely me; and what is of my past, what is of my parents patterning. It's an organization of thought, before order appears in my life. What's above is what is below. This dishes are clean today, William and I have been working together to keep a system going. I am no longer happy inside a messy household. Additionally, I have begun making my bed, daily -- regardless of the time.
Today I focused on breaking that childhood patterning that existed -- that still exists in the minds of my mother and father. I cannot convince them otherwise. I have struggled for years in attempt to get them to believe me; to listen to who I really am. I have wrestled with their minds, trying to subjugate their thoughts to parallel my own. Through this process, I am learning that regardless if they change; I can change. Even if they do not believe me; it can still be true. And even though I love them; and they love me -- it does not mean they "know me" better than I know myself and my own motives. They are not me. I cannot keep leaning on them to tell me what is best. Or, I will get the same result. And I do not want my father's life; that is not appealing. I do not want my mother's life; that too is repulsive. I want to live my own life. So, I am unraveling and unwrapping these ribbons they once tied to me -- for my own protection. Because what does that really mean? I struggle against them in order to find myself; please don't tell me who I am.
You don't know me.
I barely know me.
And I am, me.
I alone define my truth;
That is the quest I am on;
To write about who I am to be;
about the mysteries of the universe inside me.
Dear L*,
[former therapist; to protect your identity of course].
My birth; I felt ripped out of the narrative of my own story that day. Everything I ever imagined about that day, changed; I had imagined that day for a long time. It felt eerily similar to the fated day when I was ripped from my bed and taken to a far off land; to be helped by "experts" that knew my body better than I, (apparently).
My parents believed that the rebellion was one in the same as my personality. They could not separate my trauma induced behaviors from the genuine me. I cannot blame them; it has taken me 28 years to full come to grasp on what is me — and what was acquired patterning and conditioning. Then one day I asked for the awareness to turn on; it was far too painful to live without. And I began to recognize myself in nature. The changing of the seasons, the changing scenarios of life. It reminded me that I had to let go. That it was okay to change and grow. The growing plant; me, growing too. My child is learning to walk, growth is everywhere. And so is death. My grandparents dying, my potted plants dying; realising I too will die. So will my parents. Recognize nature in oneself is the key to helping stimulate awareness. I was unaware, because I couldn't stand the light upon my eyes. The sun hurt my soul; it burned through the darkness that I held close. It wasn't me, but it was comforting. It comforted me from the unknown, from death. Once I looked at death, I was able to separate myself from unnecessary anxiety. I was able to see the patterning and conditioning that had overtaken my mind. I was once a child, a seedling, a sprout. That I am no longer. The seasons have changed, I too am an adult.
They are stuck in a paradigm of how abuse looks; not how it actually looks.
My parents over simplified my problems. And made the solution obtainable with the proper experts, money, and time — I was young, the path was stopped early. Whew! "Treatment wasn’t a punishment, it was help." They said, "It was for my child’s benefit". And they could not see how they were hurting me trying to help me; that was sad. That hurt the most, their unawareness.
How many times can I talk about my past? How many stories can I tell to get someone to feel as I did? How many times can I explore the horrors? How many times can I cry over the girls that died? How many times can I yell at my parents for not helping — as I believe they should have. As they ironically believed they did? Treatment centers were not help. It was another trauma I’ve had to heal from. In your expert opinion, L* — when was I supposed to go home? As I believed that they once wanted. Why was I so alone? For five year? Tell me all the benefits in hindsight? Tell me that I could have potentially die in a car crash while sneaking out? Tell me I won't die in a car crash, now? Because I've been afraid of an untimely death for so long. Tell me how locking someone up because of a parents intense anxiety is beneficial for the child; in your expert opinion, of course. Tell me I could have gotten pregnant in high school? Like it was the flu, or a virus -- just an accident, right? I refuse to accept those answers as sufficient answers to result in being placed in a glorified foster-care system for five years.
I refuse to believe in this system and how wonderful it is for children.
I refuse to believe that if you spend a shit ton of money; you can just cure people of addiction and mental illness. Because that works, right?
I could die now — how much fear surrounding death do I need to take? I could have died in high school, sure. And I could have very well lived. I was bombarded with fear and death. It was constant, what wasn't I going to die of? Where was the trust? Where was faith? Where was God? Was Jesus inside these treatment centers? What Jesus inside doctor's mind as he gave me pill after pill? Why did my parents never talk to me about all the things they read in my journals? Why did they never warn me about potential actions that they would choose to move forward with if I did not stop? Why did it happen so fast? Why did they believe this was best? Did you tell them that? Did other experts tell them that? I didn't think ever in a million years they'd pay someone to house me, to care for me, to discipline me. And they would have done it for all three children. The only thing they could not pay someone to do -- is love me. Who was paid to love me? Who was paid to hug me at night when I cried? Who was paid to comfort me when I was scared. I might have acted tough, but I was only sixteen. I wanted my mother and father. Where were they? Divorcing? Because that is what I felt deprived of -- their love. Why was the best action — the most extreme, the most expensive, the most intense? Why did they just not see me when they stared in my direction?
I was traumatized.
I wasn't bad.
I believed my parents should have wanted me; regardless of my problems. I suffered extreme abandonment as a result of these long term placements. At night, I’d lay in bed wondering, “When would their money run out? When will I be free from the prison of my father?” I stared at them inside my memories, I saw there faces on the backs of my eyelids. I would pretend I was really home, in bed -- tucked in; when my eyes were closed at night. When the lights were out, I could live in my head. I could be anywhere I wanted to be; and I wanted to be home. I missed my family. They way they left me in Utah; the lack of communication, the extreme isolation — I was lonely. They talked to me once per week via a monitored phone conversation. They spoke to me another time in family therapy and letters. All monitored, all the time. How could I begin to trust myself when I was being held captive “from myself”? How could I learn to love myself; when I was being held against my will? Is choice not important in therapy? Was I in prison? It sure felt like it. I was so lonely that if I died; I thought that would be okay. I was told I chose this — this was because of me and my actions. But the consequence did not equal the behaviour I displayed; period. If a judge caught me with everything I was doing; EVERYTHING — I wouldn’t have been taken away from my nuclear family. I would not have gone to juvenile detention center. The research is clear; taking children out of a nuclear family is not healthy; only in extreme circumstances is it necessary. The court systems know this! Proceed with caution. And yet, as an educated woman — I am suppose to believe what was done to me when I was younger was okay? That they were protecting me? From who? Growing up being brainwashed to believe it was good; and it was because of me and my action — led me to a life where I constantly need to rely on others opinions on how I should go forth. Who could I trust? I had lost all trust in myself; why was I the only one fighting for my sanity?
These systems have been defended to me over the years; how could they not? You’ve both dedicated much to believe in their efficacy. I believe that some teens do need to be taken out of the homes, yes. Not all, and not to the rate and duration these program manipulate rich parents. Maybe when I was being accused of manipulation by others (when I asked for a different therapist); it was projection.
I didn’t really know what these treatment centers wanted from me? My parents letter was full of oral sex; was self destruction was sex? Was second nature imprinting family values of abstinence? Was it “bad” I had oral sex in high school; it was consensual? Was fourteen too young to touch another’s penis? Was my inner desire for sex bad? I was sixteen, a virgin — reading my impact letter about what sexual activities I had performed. Why was this not labeled, normal? I was sixteen experimenting with oral sex; is that unheard of?
In my impact letter, at the end of the long excerpt on all of my sexual activities that my mother read about in my private diaries; she makes a note of concern that I could get pregnant. Why was that her biggest concern? She draws a parallel to a time when I lied, being fourteen and walking with a bunch of guys to WaWa. Insinuating she wanted to believe I was doing nothing -- until she read my diaries. My was she disappointed to learn I was a sexual human being. The confusion and bewildering part was — I simply lied to walk and get ice cream at WaWa. I lied not because I wanted to give secret blow jobs; I lied for freedom from the constant supervision and paranoid anxiety. However, I did have sexual interest that did begin budding around that time period. At fourteen; I was a child, getting ice cream with friends that happened to be boys. And my mother freaked out. Sure, there was a sexual comment every now and then — but is that not realistic and normal? I couldn't distinguish the difference between normal and abnormal sexual relationships. And no one would have "the talk" with me. Just be a good christian and don't have sex until marriage.
That is not helpful, research proves this.
Should you not talk to your child about sexual relations?
I was being shamed for my own sense of self, my own consent. And when I express signals of distress about boundaries that were being sexually invaded; blind eyes fell upon me. The paradox was stunning; what reality was I living inside? What boundaries did I have? I once belonged to my parents, that I knew. If my behaviours did not sync to my mothers impossible expectations of both herself and thus her offspring; I was bad, wild, a slut. And yet, still a virgin? And slut shamed? It was this awful contradiction I endured — I wasn’t bad enough to fit into the treatment centers, I was a monster in the eyes of my mother and father. “Who even am I?” Back then, I had no idea. My sense of self scattered when my personal boundary ripped open; I could be anyone.
I was incredibly impressionable.
I was incredibly lonely.
I was incredibly broken.
And the help I received came in the form of more medications.
The experts sent me here; this is what the experts want me to do.
And if the experts announced lobotomy --
what would my parents have done if this was the 1950's?
Would they have trusted the experts, still?
Question modern medicine, question everything.
It will not be modern in 200 years, wake-up.
I am beginning to question who I am --
Who am I, really?
Because who you say I am:
Mother, Father -- I am not.
I alone can define myself.
You do not know me;
I alone am getting to know me.
I wish you would have fix yourselves;
before you focused on fixing me.
Hope this letter finds you well,
P.S. I am changing and that is okay. I am undefined, only to later define myself and my own body. Because, I own that. Only I own myself; I believe that. I believe in myself. I believe in my words alone, and even if it's just me -- that's plenty. I am my own best friend, I am my own.
Who am I?
I alone can answer.