The ramblings of an abused kid (trigger warnings galore)

[GoSlash27]

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror today, averted my eyes. I forced myself to look at my reflection, directly in my own eyes. All I saw was me.
 I chuckled at how silly all of this has been. I'll be alright.

[GoSlash27]

Today was a busy day.
 I managed to positively identify the "scene of the crime" of my first ordeal. I may have also found associates of the woman who intervened on our behalf (confirmation pending).
 I will soon have reliable dates and locations for nearly everything within this 15 month span, save a motel room I'm resigned to never finding.
 Examining all of my memories of "the scene of the crime" caused some anxiety, but not as bad as expected.

 I feel like my cPTSD ordeal may be over. I'll check with my T. There are no more secrets. No unknown triggers. My "monster" has a face and it has been slain. I'm free.

[GoSlash27]

 Heavy spoiler warning. I'm in an evil mood.
I'm sitting here this morning filled with impotent rage.
 My mother died peacefully in her sleep, oblivious not only to what she did to her own children, but unaware of the fact that she ever even had any.
 She died alone and unloved and it's not enough for me. I don't want explanations or reconciliation. I want revenge.
 People will give me excuses for her behavior or defend her or even attack *me* for being unforgiving, but I'm having none of it. She was a manipulative duplicitious selfish * who literally took her own children hostage. Abused and held us captive for months for the crime of merely existing as helpless toddlers. Children who were tortured and ruined for the crime of being offspring of a woman who didn't want us and was enraged by any reminder of our existence but also didn't want to let anyone else take us away from her. And she got away with it.
 I was ruined to the point of needing rehabilitation just to walk and speak again and suffered lifetime cPTSD and a bizarre infallible memory that I can't access at will. A literal silent witness to her crimes.
 My baby sister, I can't even rate the damage to her. But my brother... He lived his life filled with the same anger I feel now. He never dissociated. He lived a lifetime of anger and behavioral problems. He passed on the abuse to his children and hung himself in a closet. It was her fault.

 It is not enough. If I could I would bring her back to life and force her to suffer eternal torment, unable to escape or deny her guilt for what she had done to us. Locked away all alone in a stuffy room in a tower while I'd be off partying pretending She had never been born.

 She deserves far worse than she got and the tragedy is I can't change it. There's no justice.
    

[GoSlash27]

Rant continued.
 And the system! They were complicit.
 All those petty bureaucrats and caseworkers. They typed out reports but never read them. Had they done so they would quickly realized the kind of selfish manipulative liar they were dealing with, but they were all biased toward her and against anyone who reported what was going on. Rehabilitating and returning custody to her should have been out of the question. She shuld have gone to prison like she deserved.
 I wish she had. A very special kind of prison where she couldn't see out of her cell and had no circulation and would be too scared to make a sound or draw attention to herself. A solid blank door and a window to gaze out of and watch normal people leading normal lives.
 Until she went catatonic and lost her ability to speak and walk. They would rehabilitate her and throw her back in.
 That's what she deserved. It doesn't matter that it's cruel and unusual. It's what she did. It doesn't matter that she wouldn't understand why she was being abused like that. She did the same thing to toddlers and *we* didn't understand.
 And as far as the "eye for an eye thing", My sister carries the scar on her eye to this day. I want *her* eye in return.
 I'm so furious!!    I can't even enjoy a *joyous* memory these days without bursting into tears.

[HannahOne]

Your rage is valid.

[GoSlash27]

 I thought it would be impossible to find the motel we were holed up in from January 24th through 27th, 1974. But I found it!
https://www.thirdstopontheright.com/penn-irwin-motel/

 It turns out that there were so many unique and distinct details I could recall that they converged (once again) to only one possible place. The honeymoon suite in the Penn-Irwin Motel. US-30 in Irwin, PA.
 Looking at the photos is jarring. Exactly as I remember when I was 2, down to the concrete stoop at the entrance and the salmon pink heart shaped jacuzzi. That's why the carpet in the living room was crimson red shag. It was the honeymoon suite.

 I've actually tracked down everywhere I've been during that 15 month blackout, including somewhere I didn't have any immediate recollection of.

 I took a random stab at an address in my record and checked it out. 1211 Wood St, Wilkinsburg, PA.
 Nuthin'. Didn't recognize the house at all. But once I panned around, I was stunned. I was in this *exact spot*! I quickly realized that it wasn't the house that was my vantage point, it was the church!
 The daycare I lived in for a month was in the basement of that very church. Bathroom and crib upstairs. Looking at the church, all of the memories came flooding back to me. A month of memories I had lost.
 When the Wilkinsburg police sent someone to take us to McIntyre Shelter that first time the experience was the opposite of what happened in Northview Heights. They sent a single unmarked sedan with a man in a suit. We all went together. It was very calm and friendly.
 Northview Heights was traumatic. A sedan and 2 paddywagons. We 3 were ripped apart at the scene and I made the trip in the back of a paddywagon, terrified and screaming.
 

[GoSlash27]

I don't know how much of this needs to get the "spoiler" treatment. So out of an abundance of caution I will block all of it. Trigger warning.
I almost got into an altercation with a homeless guy yesterday.
 I was so filled with anger and rage.
 I was leaving a convenience store with a pack of Newports and this guy spotted me carrying it, made an obvious move to block my path, make himself appear as an obvious threat, and "ask" (really a thinly veiled demand) for a cigarette.
 Something in me popped. Normally I would defuse the situation but not yesterday.
 I issued a polite but resolute "no, Sir". Squared up with him just in case he wanted to find out how far I was willing to take it. I had perfect clarity in the moment. I was aware of the razor- sharp knife I carried clipped in my back pocket which I regularly disassemble, clean, reassemble, and sharpen to a mirror finish as a self- soothing exercise. The feel of its exact location in my pocket, the mechanical "snick" of opening it and locking it in place, and the exact location of his jugular. "Columbia River Knife & Tool. Carson Design". AKA my "Cricket".
 I was ready. Stared him down, silently daring him to escalate. Until he stood aside, gazing sullenly at me like *I'm* the problem instead of him.

 It wasn't his fault, but it wasn't exactly not his fault either. He had instigated the confrontation, not me. I was just some old dude with a pack of smokes who wanted to be left alone. This isn't my normal behavior. I'm not "confrontational", I'm avoidant". He was the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time and I was in the wrong mood. I *wanted* him to escalate. I was ready for it. I was looking forward to it. Not fearful, but *furious*. I wanted him to give me a reason to take it out on him.
 
 He never did anything but try to intimidate me. He's not who I wanted to dismantle, but he was available. He had shopped for an * whuppin' and had found a bulk rate bargain.  The person who deserved my wrath was inaccessible. Dead. Beyond retribution. But he would do in the meantime.

 I am not that guy, but I was yesterday. I understand in that moment how my brother felt his entire life. The rage, the "behavioral issues", the violence. The ultimate crashout. He did not dissociate as I had. He remembered all of it and he was *pissed*. I was reminded of it half a century later and now *I* remember and I'm pissed too.

 My brother spent his life trying to find peace and tranquility and found occasional refuge in flying kites; a hobby he taught me and I share with my son. For me it's "roller disco". A throwback to when I was a carefree and unfettered kid gliding around a rink to cheezy disco and funk in 1979.

I know it's just an emotional phase in a process, but for that one brief moment I was not "me". I was "Derek". I don't want to be "Derek". It's jarring and upsetting.