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Growing towards the sun
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Humph...you'll never get to do that
Do anything..not when you come from THIS family
And I listened to Mum,  I heard, absorbing it
Mutely, like osmosis it crept and spread
Those words threading through
My being, like letters shot through
Blackpool rock, evidence of where you've been
And what your means are limited to.

You like THIS...don't you?
He said, And I did, I liked it,
The way a starving child
Likes a spoiled, crumbling pork pie
Feeling it's tainted, unwholesome
But lacking anything else
She eats it, and is grateful
So I welcomed his touch, that would made me sick

You'll never be anything,
Not in THIS family! Maybe?
I am nothing...but my children sleep safe
My daughter is confident, unacquainted
With the fear of men
My son  does not apologise for life.
They unfurl towards the sun laughing,
Fizzy and refreshing as lemonade

You'll never be anything,
Not in this family!
Maybe. But I am better than YOU were
My childhood, my suffering, my life
Is but a rich loam mixed...churned..  with
Anguished rumination, not a memory
I can bear, but when my children blossom
Who cares if the soil feels dirty!

You'll never be anything, not in this family.
And what am I? I'm not sure,
I'm better than THEY were...Im not nothing
My children are happy and young by right!
Unfettered by the weight of adult wrongs
I don't like me, but my friends do
So I try to absorb, soak up any drops of love
And inspired by my children, I grow towards the sun

The years the memories oozed back
Like raw sewage on cream carpet
Reluctantly I said the thing out loud,
In my head, tried it on for size, uneasily
Un comfy like a new-old  coat
Ever conscious of its shape
I catalogued how I'd been hurt
By who and when
Charted on the map of my body
And mind, the few places
I HADN'T  Suffered


The years the feelings swept in
A tsunami of trauma
A destructive waterfall
Of  despair and grief
The surge of fear that took my breath
My unaccountable urge to speak
To tell, throw my bitterness
In peoples faces, like sand
Till shame took over, squinched my face
Eyes tied, gaze lashed to the ground
The sickness of having said too much


This year I swept together
The broken pieces of my self
The shattered shards of my feelings
Acknowledged the things that are broken
And lost, beyond finding or repair
The birds are singing more now
It's a side effect...a result
Of the pills I hate to have to take
But so is the fact
I cant feel it, or anything else
I'm receiving the birdsong
As information only, it's spring, 
But it does nothing in my heart
———————-
Again, not sure if this is quite finished, it may need a little rejigging at some point. But I wanted to share,

Love unconditional passed me by
The closest I get is 'Regard',
Which is positive, it's only conditions
Are that it's paid for, and time limited
A second best cold comfort
Treating cancer with aspirin
But I cannot do without it
I don't fall with relief into open arms
I make an appointment and be grateful
Though my bones are sick with grief.

Love unconditional passed me by
Wish i could say the same for fear
Which grows within me, an affliction
I was born with, it shapes my being
Colours my thinking
Puts its stamp on every aspect
Every child I bear, the man I sleep with
The friend I meet for coffee
No bond is secure,
Or goes untouched by this shadow

Love unconditional passed me by
That vaccine that mitigates trauma
I was left to grow twisted with the full brunt
Of the many hurts that came my way
To suffer sickness  of others forced upon me
From ones who should have cared, but didn't
Some days i look in perfect health
But I'm only in remission, because
I didn't feel safe in my Mothers arms,
Theres no safety for me anywhere .

Dear special friend.
Please could you be my actual Mum? And your husband be my Dad. I want to be in your family so so much. I promise I won't be a nuisance or anything.
I want to live in your house and say it's my home. I want to tell people about my parents and it be you I'm talking about.
I want to be able say Mum and it's not a nasty word, cos I'm talking about you.
I really love you and I want you to like me.
I wish I could tell you this. I can't because you might be cross at me.
I'm not scared of you. I'm nervous  of my real Mum, because she's scary but I'm not scared of you.
Your the people who I'm most comfy with.
I wish I could have been born into your family and not mine.
   Lots of love and kisses
Mary-ann

To the people who did stuff.
I know some of this mess must be my own fault. What are the chances everyone I've come across is a nasty person? Some of it has to be me....but not all of it.
I'm messed up....and you've all contributed to it.
You came into my bedroom and hurt me. You did it many times over many years. You were supposed to love me, but that can't be true. Unless your just selfish? But you can't have cared about me much.
I felt dirty and degraded and ashamed, and it hasn't got better, I still feel like this, even though I pretend everything's ok. I'm still scared of you. I wish I could tell people how you were, I wish I could talk about those times but I can't, and I suppose you counted on that didn't you?
I just wish you could know you really hurt me in the deepest ways and now I'm broken.
Mother, you should have looked after me. You didn't do it properly. I had to look after you.
Or perform and entertain, I wasn't a child....I was a service dog, or a slave, or an object.
You should have kept me close and safe from bad people when I was a kid but you were too wrapped up in yourself.
I was scared of you. I'm still scared of you. You make me feel yucky and uncomfortable and embarrassed to be alive. I wish I had a Mother I could love. I wish just once I could say the word Mum...and say it to my older lady friend who I love dearly. I want her to be my Mum. Not you.
You hated my friend because you were jealous of her.
Big sister. ..I really loved you. Even though you didn't want me.
I know it wasn't your job to look after me, but you should have left me alone then, instead of doing it begrudgingly, because you were cruel and harsh.You hurt me. You frightened me, You forced me to do stuff that I was terrified of and I loved you. I thought you were the best person in the world.
I remember how disgusted your face looked when you looked at me. You used me to get back at our parents, or to vent your own bad feelings on. You left me with your H who you knew was sexually attracted to kids. You saw him be inappropriate with me but you didn't do anything about it.
When I told you how he molested me when I was a kid, you said you always suspected he was like that!
Maybe you exaggerate...but I have to believe what you say!
To H.... Your a nasty yucky horrible man. I was happy you were being nice, but you took advantage of me...I bet you were laughing about it...and you knew there was no one I could tell...
Dad....I loved you. But you loved Mum more, and she behaved so badly and you just let her do it.
You betrayed me, and now our relationship is broken to bits.
You didn't make sure I was safe, or happy, or even ok, just left things to Mum and she was mental and wasn't bothered who she left me with.
To all of these people...there isn't a woman in my family who hasn't hurt me.
There isn't a man in the family I trust not to be weak...or to let me down. I don't trust any man not to take advantage and hurt me sexually whenever they feel like it...I don't trust any of you.
I wish I had a different life. A different family. All of you were supposed to love me, and take care of me. ..your my family....and you broke me.

I can't meet my own eyes,
Or even glance in the mirror
Without a tide of revulsion or disgust,
A flood of fear that one day, I'll squeak away the steam,
And it'll be her eyes glaring back from my face.
A shadow of her, crept up on me, progressively,
In my features and form, a sickness that only I can see,
An ugly code, laid down long before my birth
Crippled with a destiny I cannot avoid,

Her face, eyes, her movements,
Wits even, were heavy and dull as lead.
Skin just this side of gray, like suet pastry
Over worked by a grubby hands.
Face flat and dour, slow moving almost bovine
Till she sprang, changing gear, a different creature now.
Intense and sharp, voice sneering and bitter
With hands that could hit,
And words that hit harder.

Solid feet, square as blocks
Stout legs, unshaven thick columns
With a pouch of fat, just inside the knees
Which cause no end of complaints
Up on the sofa, where she drapes herself on Dad
Eating constantly, belching in frowned defiance
Her sticky glass always full,
But her eyes dead and empty.

'Why won't you look at me! Do I disgust you!!
Her insecurity speaks with angers iron voice..
Formidable and squat like a great fleshy fortress.
Blue veined breasts, downturned and pendulous
Wide, flat, rolls of fat corrugate her waist
One for each baby, she sighs bitterly.
Shame keeps my eyes tied captive, I Don't look at her?
I can't  feel my own body or even look at myself!
Yet  i know her bulk, the shape of her pubic hair
Better than I want to..I'm confronted with it daily.
And she's the only mirror I have.

She was the template, the paper pattern,
For what it is to be a woman,
The word Mother makes me sick, or desolate with grief
For the Mum I should have had, and need to be.
So I've  used a borrowed pattern,
Read stories, played games, rode bikes, pushed swings
Picked up conkers, and splashed in puddles,
Performed surgery on  toys loved and worn with play.
And we've cried and laughed, on a good day.
But even on a bad one...I look  at HER in the mirror
With my own eyes, I'm staring my destiny in the face,
And I'm saying No.

This is written about my friends home.
My friend is an older lady...who's really looked after me, I always have room in her house.
I'm grateful to have such a good friend....but I also feel grief that I wasn't born to this couple, who are old enough to be my parents, but far more functional than my family ever were.
I wish I could say this to my friend, or let her read this...but I can't, I'm too scared.
I'm going to worry after I post this, in case she or anyone reads it and knows who I'm speaking about...that she'd be unhappy with me for writing it...

      The house where I'm home:
I hadn't been for a few weeks
To the house where I'm home,
And I'd missed it...missed THEM,
I can explain, if asked, the long dead pictures on the walls
Pour out stories rich as wine,
Holidays I never went on, dogs I didn't walk
Re telling with relish, this history, not even mine.
And yet I wear it with pride, and gratitude
Like borrowed clothes,
Of a warm fine fabric, I could never afford
When my own are ripped and filthy, a thing to be ashamed of,
And even on a good day were ugly, never fitted
So for this I will always give thanks.

I love my room
In the house where I'm home..
The brown dimpled bed smells of washing powder, and safety,
It stands under shelves of books and albums,
Full of smiling gap toothed children that aren't me
With eyes of a different texture to mine
With a simpler cleaner story.
Only my axe in the corner, my toothbrush
Shows I live there sometimes, hide even.
Yet they refer to it as —-xxx— room
And for that I will always give thanks.

He was driving back
To the house where I'm home,
And he saw me and waved, smiled absently, thinking of breakfast.
It made me sit up gladly,
Taller on my bike, back straighter,
Heart lighter, though we didn't even speak.
I'd wanted him to see me, and he had.
Mistakenly people say 'your Mum' or 'your Dad', meaning them
And smiling, I put them right, or I don't,
I allow myself to wonder what my life would have been,
While I try, but fail to give thanks.

The woman at the heart of the house where I'm home,
Is small, she seems smaller every month
Yet she's woven through the fabric of that family,
Or like letters shot through Seaside Rock,
Pink letters spelling out nothing but good,
And I watch her carefully, waiting for the bad
But it doesn't come! Undemonstrative, even tempered
She gets anxious, but not bitter,
I find it strange, she just accepts how people are.
Her lipstick is plain, pinky beige, almost dull,
But it's the ONLY thing about her that is!
Tastefully quirky rainbow buttons,
Appliqué flowers, woven  with beads.
And I watch with wonder, in the pause of the morning,
As she paints her chipped nails Parma violet, to sixties sounds.
Always cooking, still always busy,
But she stops to listen..she sees me!
And for this I will always give thanks.

I hadn't been for a few weeks
To the house where I'm home
And I'd missed them...missed HER
With a scary, fierce kind of longing,
Didn't dare to think of them, or picture her face,
Out of fear that the scalding tears would come,
Or the beast in my head would wake, snarling.
I found her in the kitchen, as always,
Her silver hair, dyed blonde and going limp in the heat,
She turned and faced me, a bowl in her hands
'What you making?' I asked quietly, eyeing the custard and fruit.
'.....Trifle? But it's Wednesday!'
'Well....' she smiled at me, almost modestly
'It's your first Wednesday back......' the words hanging
Like the steam in the air
Sponge smothered in Sherry,
Thick with cream and topped with almonds.
He would eat it mostly...it wasn't really for me!
Yet the softness in her face, her eyes was.
After tea, I fled..lump in my throat,
And there, into the pillow
Smelling of soap powder, and safety,
I cried over a trifle.

Sometimes sadness gets the best of me,
Seeping in as subtly as the sighing summer tide,
A murmuring presence in the background, unnoticed
Till it's grown to a roar, my feet are wet and cement heavy, there's no going back
'What do you like about your Mother?'
'Your Dad?'....I ask my friends, trying to sound casual
Past the tightness of grief in my throat
But I'm not fooling anyone, it's indecent
This craving for details,
I'm embarrassed by it
Like a teenage boy caught with the bra catalogue
Peering in from every angle,
'Your Mum played games with you?
Did she get angry? How would she be?
What food did she cook?
What if you were crying? Cranky? What then?'

Sometimes fear gets the best of me.
Twisting like an eel in my middle
Sending flashes of current streaking to my chest and guts,
An electric ell perhaps?
This mythical creature has powers
That it gives to keep me safe....to remember details
And search for meaning, in faces not just words,
To see what you need and do it, before you even speak,
Thoughts racing, too fast for words,
Speech and feelings trail behind.
Give the eel its voice and it's hissing,
'Her face...why's she looking like that? You must've done something bad?'
(The possibilities are endless here)...but how to put it right?
What do they want me to say....Do?
What will happen if I say that, will anyone still want me?

Sometimes anxiety gets the best of me
A chain reaction that lasts for weeks not days
The critical mass depends on the fuel,
And there are many types and sources of this
So the amount needed varies.
A room FULL of people
Or just ONE hand on my thigh,
A street with MANY watching eyes,
Or that ONE appraising, expectant look
When it's almost bedtime.
As light and suffocating as swallowed cotton wool,
Makes voices louder, movement faster
Air thinner, pain feel less...
Till spent it collapses, almost mellow now
Like the harmless rays of the sun,
Rather than Chernobyl
The certainty of annihilation
Reduced to a constant rising and sinking cycle of 'what ifs'.

Shame has always had a grip on me
Cringing, wailing, I was shoved into her disdainful hands
And she's never let me forget it...never let go.
I'm swathed in an ugly, stinking, ill fitting coat
That I can't shake off, a stain I was born with,
When people come near enough to see
They should be as disgusted as I am
And if not....there must be something wrong with THEM!
She speaks almost kindly, using HER voice
'Well! That shows what sort of person YOU ARE...darling'
Too big to hide,  too loud, too visible by far
I'm an embarrassing burden, but she looks after me because others won't.
Or it's HIS voice, low as an oily whisper..
'You like This...don't you?'
And I played along with him in the dark,
My face hot, a plain child not able to say no.
But what would you expect? This is ME...
And now everyone can see it!

The catch in the back of my throat at the smell
Of coal smoke and expectancy in the cold thin air
The rooks in the trees, giving solemn voice to my dread
Of feeling dirty and not like anyone else, but it's family
Not just belonging...they own me and everyone can see
Fear, longing and hero worship, all in the same shaking breath
Heart bursting with love, and anguish,
Carefully hidden disgust, eyes down face stained with shame

The safest places are the scariest, and it's costly when
Comfort is tinged with danger, and ever present fear
Like the paraffin heater that could catch fire and engulf me,
Destroy me as I slept
But I loved the smell, craved the warmth
In the fabric strewn rainbow cave of her room
Till my being there provoked anger
As bitter and corrosive as the salt wind off the sea.

I feel the numbness descending  in the dark by the shore
Or rising like a tide  of stupid to steal away my thoughts,
Makes my eyes feel meltey and the cold not there
As I watch the lights form strings of amber
Across the black obsidian bay
Hear the sighing, smell the water
I drift inward to nothing
And this is what comfort feels like.

I longed for his voice
Craved his approval, however thoughtless and absent
His words, throwaway phrases which seemed clever to me
And which I stored up and held
Close to my heart like a talisman against evil
To be unleashed in triumph in my desperate need
But I was laughed at for them, ridiculed
My only defence used as a weapon to be flung back against me

I wore my depression like a cloak,
My anxiety like a shield against harm,
In anticipation, no in the certainty of hurt
And the ever present push pull
Of my dearest loves being my darkest griefs,
In my terror of life, I envied the old
Who had no expectations laid upon them
Only that they'd die, and deaths embrace meant safety.

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I wrote this when I was visiting a place I'd lived when I was a kid, it was on the coast.
The smells of coal smoke in the cold provoked lots of feelings which took me back....and so I did a bit of writing.

When I was in my mid teens, I had an eating disorder.
Gradually over time, I became more and more restrictive,  till I was mostly living on water and teeny amounts of food like half an apple here and there.
My hair fell out and went extremely thin, I stopped getting my period, I was so tired and spaced out I could barely function.
My Mother would buy big bags of chocolate mishapes which she knew I liked, and I'd go several weeks of starving, then I'd steal these bags of chocolates and binge.
I'd bite each one searching for a certain flavour, then discard it, throwing it in the bin. I'd empty cold cups of tea and bits of dirt on top of the binned chocolates, but a couple of days later I'd go back to them.
I'd kneel on the floor in my room, eating these wet dirty chocolates straight from the bin, scraping of the dirt and fluff and cramming them in my mouth. ...I'd then feel sick, and disgusting.
I'd starve again for weeks, then repeat. These are memories that come with a lot of shame for me.
Though my grown up siblings kept telling my M I had depression and was drastically underweight, no family member got me any help.
I remember my Mother holding me by the wrists and forcing me to stand on her scales.
She'd mock my response to being offered food.
Finally she got extremely angry towards me, and it's almost like my fear of her overrode my eating problem....I was so scared I slowly ate a little more.
Only the problem hadn't gone, it had just changed.
I started to binge eat, huge quantities of sweet stuff, and fizzy drinks, and I hid all the evidence.
I put on a lot of weight....from this point I really yo yo dieted up and down, any time I felt the need to lose weight I starved, till it crept back up. You know the cycle.
The best thing about when I was seriously underweight is the spaciness.
I felt floaty and light, and out of my body, which I now realise was dissociation, which I've done all my life, but it was for long amounts of time here.
Fast forward to now, and I'm realising I've got a binge eating problem, but eating dysfunctionally is so built into the fabric of my being it's like I don't notice...so I'm making an effort to pay attention to what I do.
I'm overweight. The things I binge on (I don't like that word) are odd.
Yes sweet stuff...but the thing that brings me real comfort is milk, and bread.
So I'll eat bowl after bowl of cereal in the evening, but what I'm really relishing is the milk.
I also have the milk alone, but it has to be slurped slowly, off a small spoon, in fast tiny gulps.
When I was a kid, my M used to get the milkman to give her the left over milk from the local school...small glass bottles, and these were half drank, but my M always wanted anything for nothing, and so our family had them. I'm now repulsed by the thought of drinking milk left out all day, and slobbered into by classes of kids, but then I just drank it.
It felt comforting to drink it through a teeny straw, slowly, mindlessly,  lying on my bed in an empty house....that was as good as it gets for me at the time.
I think the milk thing now, is me recreating that. ..and as a kid, who knows?
It was said as a new baby, my M had tried to breast feed me, and was angry because I wouldn't (my daughters rejected me even then! she said)
The milk thing felt soothing, it sort of turned my mind off? Only thing comparable was as a kid I rocked from side to side (still do) and it made my head empty (don't know if this makes sense)
   As a kid, my grown up sister often criticised my Mother in front of me, for giving me too much sweet stuff. She lectured my M for letting me get fat (though I wasn't)
One weeks holiday, my sister made me run everyday up a steep hill behind the family car till I could get to the top without stopping. When I'd stop out of breath, she'd imply that it was my lack of character....quite sad that a small kid was running behind a car full of adults, daily  and no one said anything .
The binge eating really spiked when I was around 10, because my 'caregiver' older sister who was a real attachment figure moved away. I couldn't even speak to her on the phone.
I've brought up the binge eating briefly with my T, but not really gone into it.
She seems to have the opinion that out of the stuff I have done (sh sometimes) that eating is reasonably harmless.
But I'm getting bigger and bigger...and I can't stop.
I can't even look in the mirror, or touch my own body without a really bad reaction.
Another side effect of having abusive family members....in the mirror it's like I'm growing into them, and I can't stand it!
I think I need to think about this, revisit this again....because its no good.
I want to be a better example to my kids.

Up to the age of seven I wouldn't have appeared neglected.
My older, mentally unstable Mother dressed me in fussy expensive dresses which she thought cute.
If you looked past the frilly dresses and knee socks though, you'd see my teeth were neglected.
I was given a diet of sweet things, and M didn't ever insist on proper foods, or make me clean my teeth. Small children need supervision for things like teeth brushing, or at least reminding, but that never happened. I had fillings in my teeth by seven (with no pain relief...whole other story), and gum disease by eight.
You could say when I was small, she gave attention to the things that were visible and that she was bothered about, but not the important stuff.
I was given calamine lotion to drink because my M didn't read the label on the bottle.
I had an injury that should have had medical attention, but I wasn't taken to a doctor.
Between age 7 and 9 or so, I was often left alone in the house.
At times my grandma lived with us, but she was elderly and seldom even spoke to me, and it was always implied that I had to keep my eye on HER.
The day she fell in the garden, I didn't know what to do. I was scared, she was lying on the ground moaning and couldn't get up, and at nine I felt like I'd be in trouble if an ambulance came, or if my family came home and she'd gone to hospital.
Because my grown up sister lived with us for a while, she at least reminded me to clean my teeth and cut my nails at this time.
I was an extremely anxious child, and clingy, but I was left locked in cars alone and left on board a train in a busy city centre station while my 'carer' disappeared off into the crowds...the train almost left without her.
Because I only had a bath perhaps once a fortnight, I was dirty, my hair was often slick with grease.
Once I got my period, the hygiene got really bad.
I knew about periods, but no one had explained that you had to stay clean and change sanitary products. Because of this, and because my underwear was too small and tight, it rubbed and I got sore irritated skin. When I bled on my school trousers, I just dried them overnight and wore them next day. Luckily they were black, but sometimes they'd get stiff and obviously they smelled.
Once time and only once, I went for a sleepover at my friends house.
I remember I wouldn't take of any of my clothes, I slept all night fully dressed in school uniform, because if I took anything off, I was worried she'd find out how dirty I was.
My school clothes were mens...I wore my dads shirt, and old fashioned mens trousers, my Mothers bras. Most clothes came from jumble sales or were handed down.
It's amazing, because my Mother would spend money on drink, ...but she also let me have horse riding lessons....but my clothes were appalling. Most parents would make sure the kids have good shoes and coats before they'd spend money on treats, wouldn't they?
Because I was passed around to absolutely anyone who'd babysit when I was young, I was left with some unsafe people.
From eleven my parents went away for 4/5 days at a time and left me home. This happened regularly several times a year..
At first, an elderly neighbor came to spend the night....8-8 in the morning....then she'd leave till next night. It was the school holidays, and so I was alone for entire days...cooking for myself.
By thirteen, no one checked in on me...I just stayed alone.
This was the kind of care you'd arrange for a pet cat! Not a child. Someone to check in on it....every so often.
At ages 9/10 and up, my Mother worked a lot, so noone was home in the morning or when I returned from school. I'd get up and go to school without seeing anyone, sometimes I ate breakfast or brushed my hair but not always. When M worked during the school holidays, she'd leave me jobs to do in the house.
One family member who no one trusted, was trusted to take me on a long journey....5 hours by car...
We were a hundred miles from my home when he stopped in an isolated place to sexually assault me.
I was about 12, and I thought he was going to kill me.
In my mid teens, I developed an eating disorder and suicidal ideation, it was obvious I was depressed.
(No surprise looking at the abuse really)
My parents didn't take me to a doctor....I had no help at all.
My Mother told her friends she'd got me help, but she didn't....I mean, she didn't take me to a dentist after age 8....so a doctor or therapist was certainly out of the question!
(I had absolutely no dental care between ages 8-26! when I got pregnant)
When I disclosed previous  sa during my teens, my parents never sought help or advice or reported it.
As a small child, my toys were thrown away, I got home from school aged 6/7 and my pet rabbit was gone. She'd given him away to a family up the street. I was upset, but I couldn't act as upset as I felt because she'd be angry with me. When I tearfully asked if I could have him back, my Mother said she'd given him away because I didn't clean him out ( small kids can't do this alone!)
She also said that the kids he'd been given to would be upset if their new rabbit was taken away.
I recalled this day to my grown up sister when I was a teenager. Heartlessly, she told me the rabbit had been found starved to death in its hutch, because the new owner hadn't looked after it.
Mum told her not to tell me, so she'd waited till I was a bit older....
It's hard to explain to someone I feel neglected. Because I had food, and a house, and clothes even if it was inadequate....I didn't starve.
And it all depended on the age I was and the mood of my Mother, whether she could be bothered or not. At several points my grown up sister was almost my main caregiver, she was certainly a real attachment figure...though often hurtful she was consistent.
When she left home and moved away, I was left alone with a mother who was really unstable and who I was scared of. She moved out of the family home and then back into it after several years a few times. I remember the feeling of utter desolation as a tiny child that she was gone.
Looking back this was as much abandonment as if she'd been my actual Mother.
I could go on, but it's boring, and not cheerful.
It's certainly left me feeling like I'm not like other people, there's shame, I don't like what I was and am or where I've come from.

There are no words for how this feels,
Which is strange when words were my life.
I was the kid who read too much, too earnestly
I spilled my thoughts onto cheap lined paper
To have them rummaged through, picked at and used against me
My thoughts felt dangerous, in those senseless hands
A weapon of my own making. Clear evidence of my crime.

There are no words for how this feels
Or none that come close to do justice
Justice? What for! They did nothing wrong, it was me!
My head is revving up, as tender as a chainsaw
And I can't find the off switch, never could!
The only words left to me now
Are corrosive, ugly destructive ones
Turned in against myself as always
I'm eviscerated by my own thoughts

There are no words for how this feels
Strange when I delve into the past to my teens
When I'd hide in my head, behind a curtain of silence
Build a fortress of words, so no one came near
And I cringe looking back at the curly haired kid
Chattering with a weird, fixed desperation,
Trying to entertain people, or distract
Hoping it would be enough...it never was and I hate her for it.

There are no words for how this feels
Or the ones that I have don't seem adequate
For a childhood that was more wasteland than landscape
And people are exotic creatures, even now,
To be viewed with caution, from a distance
Still needed, longed for, but feared
I remember the past, in huge sick feeling technicolour
So grotty I want to cover my face
The present is a gray, nebulous nasty with no name
No words for it...or none that I'd choose.

When there were no words for how this felt
I did the only things I felt left open to me
I fantasised about and anticipated death
Like booking a fortnight in Italy.
I would die as I'd lived, causing trouble to no one.
Lacking courage for that, I banged my head against walls
In despair, frustration, and something darker I couldn't name.
I starved and diminished, grew less, but the pain never did.
Sat wrapped in a towel, gripped the white dimpled skin
Stroked the wafer thin blade across and I marvelled
At the bright ruby beads, iron scented
Spilling and rolling like ripe pomegranate seed
Deep enough to feel, not enough to scar..to much
The nebulous gray nasty with no name
Focused sharply into three stinging crimson lines
Another secret in silence that feels good but shouldn't
They say there's comfort in the familiar.

There were no words for how it felt
When my hips and back and jaw were stiff,
And my body sore and muscles tense
From sex I didn't know the name for, or say yes to
Only a dark, heavy..shaky feeling
That made me move carefully, not meet peoples eye
Cry quietly, in private unheard, unseen
With thoughts like grenades, hidden in my head
Waiting to detonate out of sight, hurting no one but me.

This silence was like some devilish investment,
And it's paying dividends now
In feelings I can't name that swamp and overwhelm me
Inevitable and scary as brown envelopes in the letterbox
And things get more complicated, more frightening not less
The sad thing was, I always had the words
And words are powerful If your allowed to use them
I had plenty of words, that strange little kid
But there was no one I could tell, or who would listen.

My parents are in their eighties.
About four years ago, I came to it that I couldn't continue seeing them anymore.
My Dad was round at my house, my Mum was home and she'd told my Dad to go round and ask us for tea. I'd refused the invitation many times already at this point , so he'd been sent in person.
I told him I didn't want to go and eat with them, because my mental health was suffering because of how Mum had treated me as a child. I pointed out how abusive she'd been not just to me but all of my siblings and it was better if I didn't see them.
He stood and agreed with me, telling me how unstable she'd been, he seemed to support what I'd said, but if I had a problem I should take it up with her.
He said this, because he didn't expect me to do just that.
We went to their house (they live only a five minutes walk away)
I said the same thing to my Mother, and I was terrified.
She's an old lady sat in a chair, and my heart was absolutely crashing, I was shaking.
I told her how I felt, and I gave her examples of her past behaviour.
She made the excuse that people didn't used to show love in the old days...
She then turned to my Dad and asked him ..did he think she'd been unstable and volatile as I'd said.
Dad have given me the impression he'd back me up with this, but when it came to it he said
'Well.....you were a little bit EMOTIONAL....sometimes....probably because of the menopause'
I felt completely let down, betrayed.
I again said I wanted little to do with them anymore.
She then said 'what about the food we've got for when you and the family come for tea? Will it freeze?'
Over the next few years they kept turning up at my home unexpectedly, phoning repeatedly, telling people in the wider community that I wouldn't let her see my children.
I pointed out that no one had ever apologised or taken responsibility for the past.
I got a begrudging apology, but only because I'd absolutely insisted...I mean really insisted.
My Dad actually blamed my siblings for any abuse I'd experienced.
When I was a teenager, I'd told my parents about an incident where I'd been abused sexually by a relative. I'd only mentioned one incident though there were many. My Dads response had been I should have said something cos it's too late to do anything about it now.
So as an adult, I brought this up, saying they could have done something about my struggles with depression and it had been linked to that.
He denied I'd ever told him about it, insisting that if I HAD told him, he'd have reported it to the police.
Because he hadn't reported it...it means I HADNT told them.
They carried on trying to make contact over the years.
My Mother said 'well....the pasts the past...but I'm very happy with myself now...thank you'
And Dad said stuff like 'well....everything's abuse nowadays, and I had terrible things happen to me....much worse than anything that happened to you but I don't talk about it'
You get the idea.
I was left feeling like it had been my fault as a teenager, I should have said more....
Maybe the incident I told them of wasn't bad enough ...stuff like that.
Finally after several years, my Dad did genuinely say he was sorry, but still it was followed by him saying he had no idea anything ever went on, and he again blamed his other kids.
I also broke contact with my older sister, who'd practically brought me up.
She was an adult when I was born, and abusive in her own right.
I told her I was suffering with my mental health, because of SA I'd experienced as a kid.
She then said...'oh, I thought such and such was like that!  I walked in on him once with you...behaving very inappropriately....he accused me of being paranoid, so I didn't say anything else'
She then listed all the ways her life had been hard, and how she'd suffered.
I tried not to keep in touch but she kept calling and texting, which I ignored.
Finally I had an aggressive text from her.
She said I understand you've been struggling....I've given you time to GET OVER IT and pull yourself together....but I now have to ask...WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM!'
Every now and then I have a text from her still. At Xmas  had a text and she was outside my front door.
No warning, she just appeared...but I was on holiday visiting friends. It freaked me out.
I'm scared of my family. I'm scared every time I tell someone, or write something about them, even anonymously. I'm grieving for the family I thought I had but I've lost.
I'd like some sort of relationship with my Dad, but it's all too scary and difficult because they are all enmeshed with each other.
I suppose I've gone what you'd call low contact.
I wish I was braver, could speak and not be consumed with anxiety.
If I have anything to do with them though, it makes me really ill, the depression/anxiety Si ...it all comes flooding in.
I feel guilty because I did love my Dad, it's not a case of me holding a grudge.
It's more like self preservation.

On Wednesday I hit a wall of anger, and I didn't see it coming
I had broken my heart trying to please everyone, I'd had no choice
I'd given Mum my time and effort, imperiously she'd demanded it
Obedience, attention, love and silence
She devoured it all, insatiably like it was hers by right
And left me drained and lacking, a lesser person
Like some twisted sort of parasite or vampire.
But it was never enough, no matter what I did
I was still 'as bad as your sister'..that was her insult of choice
Or a B———-, pathetic, painful or shy
All said in tones that ranged from sweet to bitter
More dependant on her mood than any crime I'd committed

I wasn't allowed to be sad or angry,
Or even happy if she wasn't
Feelings were not mine to have, that was her privilege
And she could behave as badly as she liked...with confidence.
I wasn't permitted to think badly of her though,
She could almost tell if I did...and that meant trouble!
When I quietly risked a complaint to Dad, he'd sigh heavily
Shake his head wearily, eyes half closed....
'Take no notice..you know what she's like'
'She gets like this when she's been eating chocolate'
Like some raging colicky infant, that had to be indulged,
And I should be tolerant, in silence, and know better
Even the thought of me making him trouble
Made his face sad, and hurt, disappointed with me,
And I was sorry I'd grumbled...sorry for him,
He should be disappointed with her really, or himself,
Because it's hard to take no notice, when all I had was fear.

My friend told me her Mum made dreadful stew!
She laid out her clothes though she was old enough to choose.
Warmed their slippers at bath time, putting talc in each pair
Small, motherly acts of comfort,,,but done with such love
My Mum burned with resentment even as I slept,
Pulled me out of sleep at night,
To be hissed at, slapped and cried over.
I didn't have to do anything wrong, not really,
Her anger was already there, primed and ready to go
I just got in it's way, wasn't useful enough,
No longer cute enough, not rewarding enough I suppose.
I should have sad sweet, talc scented memories
Or times to roll my eyes at, laugh at wryly
But my Mums not just mad, she's mean...and selfish
There's no comfort in nostalgia, just ugliness and shame.

On Wednesday I hit a wall of anger, I think that's what it was?
And I don't know how to explain,
How it's hard to know a feeling you were not allowed to have.
Like describing a colour to a person born blind, but
I want to blab to strangers...invent a whole new swear!
Cos there's no words big enough, hard enough, strong enough
I want to burn the whole world down!
It's either them or me! Dare I say it?
Some of the stuff she did, it's abuse, I hate her,
Or do I? Who knows when it's your Mother,
It's disgusting! She's disgusting! I'm disgusting!
I want to kick both of her creaky old knees,
Scream in Dads face Are you happy now?
You didn't want a family, you wanted living human sacrifices
To offer at the alter of that monster you worship!
My childhood squandered, poured out like an offering
Wasted, I've suffered from its loss,
We paid the highest price, and it wasn't enough!

So, to give context, this is about my passive Father, who overlooked my Mothers abuse and neglect...and pretty much everything else, but I thought the world of him as a kid, felt sorry for him even.
The way our family looked was very important to my parents, they thought we were better than everyone else!

DAD.
'My Dad would go MAD
If I wore a skirt like that!'
'....So would mine' I breathed fervently,
Meaning and believing every word
And it was almost true in its way,
Because people can SEE a skirt.
It's length, and the way I spoke
Broadcast what my parents were,
Which was clearly better than everyone else,
And so I spoke respectfully, almost quaint
So old before my time
Never answering back, or saying No
Wouldn't dare to use an adult's first name
It was 'Auntie', or 'uncle', even strangers to me
Or Randy old men, unworthy of respect
And who cared about Randy old men?
I sounded right and seemed ok
If you didn't look too closely

I loved my Dad so much I wore his shirts to school.
Not that it mattered,
My own were mens, and not new
From big black bin bags
Of jumble sale cast offs
Dreary leftovers from someone else's life
But if my shirts were Dads, then my bras were all Mums
Beige, middle aged, broiderie anglais,
Too big for me, too tight...un comfy for her
And so itched as I wore them
Like lamb dressed as mutton.

I loved my Dad so much I wore his shirts at home
Flannel ones, checked, for work
Still smelling of oil, diesel and him
And when I traveled a long and lonely road
Tense, with a grown man with too many hands
And great expectations, for a lay by in the dark
It was Dads shirt he undid,
Unbuttoning it desperately, urgently,
Clumsily, like a child unwrapping a gift
Only I was the child, in a middle aged bra
And I laugh looking back at the irony
Dad asked no questions about where I was
Didn't even ask who drove me there
He'd sigh when I took his work shirts
But I'm not sure he missed me at all

Mum always wanted something, everything!
Weeping and sulking, a demanding child,
But with God like powers,
She'd control the very climate with the weight of her mood,
And Dad kept a different face for her,
A wheedling, cajoling, pacifying  one
Quite unlike the haughty face he wore outside,
Like shoes he changed when he went indoors
But he was as scared of her as I was,
Only with more face to loose

I loved my Dad with a bright fierce love
Based on the fact that he wasn't Mum
And that he told me stories when I was small
He liked my company well enough,
But to me...God wore his face!
I've never had a hug, or a kiss,
Or was told well done
He's never once used my name!
But I loved my Dad with a bright fierce love,
And if pushed I would say he was 'fond' of me.

So, my kids are teenagers, and the oldest is on the autism spectrum.
He's leaving the local school this summer, which is only round the corner from our house (we live in a very small town) and he will be going to college in the next town over.
Because he has special needs, I spend a lot of time trying to teach him the things that my other child just seems ok with doing, automatically.
So stuff like catching busses, speaking on the phone, buying things in shops, it all needs to be taught purposefully  like learning a new language.
He's doing really well with these life skills, making some progress and I'm so proud of my kids.
I find it hard though, because social skills were something I just didn't have as a youngster.
Independence outside the home just wasn't encouraged in my family.
I left school at sixteen, in the grip of an eating disorder, crippled with depression and anxiety, and unable to even maintain eye contact with others.
The eating disorder wasn't all about me being thin, it was more that I didn't want to be alive, but wasn't brave enough to do anything about it.
I hadn't been taught about personal hygiene, and so I was dirty, wearing mens clothes, or old lady ones my Mother got from boot sales or charity shops.
I'd been badly bullied at school and the hygiene really didn't help.
My school trousers were mens, and when I got my period, the seat on those black trousers were stiff and shiny because I'd bleed on them but dry them overnight to wear next day and the next, till they stank. I felt ashamed of myself and dirty, but somehow I didn't make the connection between bathing more or washing my clothes!
Once I left school, I was stuck at home a lot with my controlling, abusive Mother.
I tried to work, but I was consumed by anxiety and the women I worked with looked down on me.
The manager would watch me work, and call me pathetic, and painful, (pretty much confirmed what I learned from my Mother)
The eating disorder was really making me Ill, and I left the job.
Trouble is, I was trapped with my Mother all the time then, with absolutely no way out, no friends, nothing.
She would speak to complete strangers, telling them embarrassing private things like I wasn't there.
She'd tell people how little I'd earned and that she kept me.
My days were spent working in the house with her, cleaning and cooking but only ever feet away from her. If she stood up to do a job like hang washing, then I had to do the same job also, not a different one...but that...alongside her.
When she sat to rest and watch tv, I had to sit next to her as well. When she lay on the sofa for a nap, I would lie on the floor in the same room.
She needed constant company, so if I wanted to spend time alone in my room away from her, she would be very very angry with me, and say I was a *.
It wasn't like my room was private, it had no door anyway, and she would come in to rummage or throw things out, especially while I'd still been in school, or just walk in anytime she liked.
I wasn't allowed to catch a bus, or go to places without her, though to be fair my social anxiety was so bad I couldn't buy a bar of chocolate in a shop without shaking and sweating.
At a time when you are supposed to be learning more independence, finding your own preferences and making friends, I was completely trapped...More dependant, not less.
My Mother told her friends she'd got me some 'help', because people outside the family were saying I was depressed, but she never did.
She wouldn't admit I had any kind of mental health problems at all.
Looking back, all the anxiety and depression was because of emotional and sexual abuse I'd experienced.
Why am I writing this?
Because it's hard to teach my son independence when I wasn't allowed to be a teenager myself.
I was never a child...I certainly wasn't a teenager.
Things like public transport, and banks, or coffee shops terrify me even now.
Every time my teenage daughter picks out an outfit or wears make up, I'm both triggered and proud.
Because she's a teenager, with school friends, and music and art.
Trying to help my son be less anxious about the future, and life skills is uncomfortable, because where it comes to this stuff, I feel like a frightened kid myself, but I'm proud of him.
Writing on a forum is a whole new thing for me.

Hello.
I've spent months reading peoples different posts and I've finally taken the plunge to register myself.
I've never taken part in any forum before and so I'm really quite nervous about this.
I was told a while back when treated by a clinical psychologist that I had cptsd, and I've been in therapy for several years.
I'm the youngest child in my family, and all my siblings were teenagers or young adults when I was born.
My Mother has always been mentally ill and unstable with an unpredictable volatile temper.
Because of this I experienced neglect, physical and emotional abuse, and was passed around to anyone that would have me.
I experienced bullying from my siblings, particularly my grown up sister, who was left in charge of my care a lot of the time.
A lot of her behaviour towards me was harsh and even cruel looking back, and she was more of a caregiver/attachment figure than a sibling to me.
I was sexually abused as a child and as a young adult by several people both inside and outside my family.
I was also severely bullied by other kids throughout my time at school, and this included being hit, spat on and punched.
When I was a small child my sister moved away for a time, and I was left entirely to the care of my volatile older Mother.
It's a weird paradox, because sometimes she showed me off to her friends, rather like a child with a new doll, but at times I was neglected and left to be looked after by people I didn't know.
Once I was not cute anymore, but old enough to be useful, I spent most of my time trapped with my Mother, cooking, cleaning doing whatever work she had to do, she was so controlling by then, if she stood up to work then I had to work at the same task, if she sat down to rest I had to as well.
She got angry if I wanted to spend time alone away from her.
I also had to listen to all her problems while trying my best to manage her moods, but what child can ever do that!
Like a lot of people from a complex trauma background, I thought my family life was pretty normal.
It wasn't until I married and had children myself that I saw that it wasn't.
Though I often worry that I'm going to pass this stuff on to my kids, thankfully they are happy, healthy teenagers, who've been able to act like kids.....because they are.
Because my symptoms of anxiety and depression have been so unmanageable, I've recently started taking medication alongside the therapy, and I'm hoping that this means I've turned a corner.
I'm feeling very scared that I've written all of this stuff, it makes me feel like I'm going to get in trouble somehow, it feels like something bad is going to happen.
But I'm also fed up of being paralysed by my own fear....so here goes.
Sorry for the long rambling bit of writing...