Thursday, July 3, 2008


And it gets UGLIER...
My Life in the Firehouse -
(EDIT: Before anyone else comments for me to "Please not assume that I am the only one who has EVER gone through this", I am doing no such thing. There have been people who have been through much worse. I haven't given you the whole story here. I haven't even given you the worst of the story here. I've only given you what I choose to reveal. Please stop making this about YOUR hurt feelings. I've deleted your comments.)

Before anyone else decides to give me the 'ole suck it up and ignore Dear Old Mom advice... Please don't think that anyone out there can identify with what I've been through. I've NEVER been the "WOE IS ME" type of girl. I've NEVER used my background as an excuse to act badly. BUT HERE IT IS:

I was beaten by my biological mother and grandmother, taken away by the state, spent two years in foster care and passed from foster home to foster home. I was labelled a Problem Child. I was only three and a half years old when I was adopted by this family. Apparently I was sent to a psychologist where I vaguely remember crying my eyes out at EVERY session. I HATED going. I don't remember anything about those sessions. I remember wetting the bed at night which I have subsequently learned is common for abused children. My loving adopted mother used to make me wear very short dresses and diapers and then publicly humiliate me in front of other children in the hopes I would stop wetting the bed. When I was 15 she cried and said she knew I was talking to someone, who was it? When I broke down and told her it was my guidance counsellor, she showed up at school the next day and humiliated me in front of the woman. That day as she drove me home from school she back-handed me so hard in the front seat of the car I saw stars. When I was 17 and she became pregnant with my brother, she used to tell me if she had a miscarriage she would blame me for it. The woman had miscarried five times already (before I ever came into the picture) so I was terrified. She forbid me to touch him when he was born, saying that I was a child abuser - accusing me of abusing children I had babysat. I can't even begin to touch the tip of the iceberg of all the things that she did to me both physically and emotionally in the 15 years I spent with her before I packed so many green garbage bags and moved out of her house. I don't even have the energy to tell you them all. Let's just say I was mentally and physically abused by yet another "mother".

I sucked it up and made it through my life. I'm not saying I did the best things. I coped. I'm not a drug addict. I'm not an alcoholic. I'm not exactly the most emotionally available person you'll ever meet. I'm surprised I have the ability to show emotion at all. But no, you can't possibly IDENTIFY. I know you're coming from a loving place and I appreciate that. I know you're trying to help and give me support. I love you for that. But please. Stop. You can't possible know what it's like to be here. To be me. And I'm so profoundly grateful that you don't. I think I've done a pretty damn good job of ignoring the hell out of it and pretending it didn't bother me so much. I wish I'd been stronger. I wish I'd been able to handle her so that I could keep him in my life. Now I have to see if I can stop myself from killing her long enough to talk to him.

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