It’s dark down here

My throat tightened as my doctor looked with pity and said the words, “cope and function”. My hands clenched and I held my breath as I processed those three words. COPE. AND. FUNCTION.

There’s a fear that goes through you when you are told that the end goal is to give you tools to help you cope and function. Nothing more can really be done. You’re lost. Too broken.

I frowned before looking up and into her watery eyes. I took a heavy sigh as I let the truth of my diagnosis sink in.

Growing up I knew my life was different but I believed that good things were on the horizon. I believed that once I left that house I would suddenly be rid of the dark demon that filled me.

Physically, yes. I couldn’t be pushed into furniture or held down. Emotionally, well that is a different story.

For all these years I have lived with dirt under my fingernails as I stumble, struggle and crawl my way out of the hole.

My version of recovery is not at all possible. My version doesn’t have me taking 14 odd pills a day. My version doesn’t involve being lonely. It doesn’t have me rocking myself to sleep or becoming so upset that my hands shake.

So, as my doctor gravely said those three words I realised that I’m not the survivor I thought I was. I’m still very much living in the depths of that hole where there is only a small light to be seen while looking up. And the worst part of it is that I feel like I’m alone.

I haven’t given up but I really need to see some more of that fucking light.


I wish it rained bullets that year

There is not a person in the world that could pick up a gun and not feel powerful. I was 11 years old when I held a rifle for the first time. My hands were shaking around the cold slender body and I smiled as I imagined my father standing in the cross-fire. This wasn’t the first time I’d thought about killing my father. It was a regular thought that I indulged many hours with.

This man in my cross-fire is not a good man and he is not the hard-working family man the community would have you believe he is.

I didn’t always fill with rage when I thought about him. There was a time when that little girl with dark brown eyes, olive skin, cheeky smile and bright red boots would scowl a crowd searching for ‘her’ daddy.

I began to hate him as he began to reject me. I had gone from the apple of his eye to the fly in his soup. I always wondered what I did wrong to provoke this. Did I smile too much? Did I want too much? Or was it merely that our family had just welcomed a new baby boy into the family – the boy they had been waiting for.

I can honestly say that I’ve never had a conversation with the man. It’s always been him barking orders and shaking his fist when his words couldn’t be deciphered through the slur of many drinks that night.

He is the king and the rest of the family are forced to obey. I was terrified of him and would berate myself when I did something wrong and received whatever punishment was quick to hand whether that be a string of unkind words or a fist made through gritted teeth being shaken in your direction.

I was scared of him.

I look at my kids father, my husband, and can’t help but feel jealous that they got a good dad and I didn’t.

My daughter will never be told she is stupid. She will never be told she is lazy and fat. She won’t be told she is bad or that she was a waste of space. She won’t hear the word useless and automatically link it to herself and she won’t ever be scared to drop a fork.

I’m a gun-hating vegetarian but If I could go back to that 11 year old shaking and holding that rifle I would probably shout at her to pull the trigger.

Who the hell do you think you are?

I used to have a blog. I kind of miss it but had to shut it down because of the evil-ugly sisters.

Today is my son’s birthday and in the mailbox this morning was a brightly red coloured envelope with familiar writing on it. I turned it over interested to see who this letter was “from”.

It’s been eight odd months since I have had anything to do with my family despite the Postman Pat communication they’ve been trying to have with my kids. I don’t let my kids have the letters and anything they send, they don’t get.

This sounds harsh but really these people should have been out of my kids lives before they were both born.

I am the person I am today because of my parents. I am a monster. I am the person that doesn’t fit in, the person that can’t sleep without nightmares, the person that hurts so much on the inside that then feels she has to hurt on the outside. That girl that stands on the side of a road hoping a car might jump the curb and take her out. I am that intense girl with the brown eyes that unsettles you and makes your eyes dart around looking for an exit. I am that girl that is fun in extremely small doses.

I am that broken and very poorly glued together ornament that sits on a mantel alone and gathering dust.

Biologically I have a mother and a father. In the way having parents matters though, I don’t. I am so starved for a parent to love me that I once advertised for a parent. That brought some interesting characters to the surface!

The thing that hurt most about growing up wasn’t the physical, sexual and verbal assault. It wasn’t the prison-like solitude where I wasn’t allowed to leave the house. It also wasn’t the years of neglect and not knowing that I had an eating disorder. It’s that I was never good enough to protect. I was never smart enough. Pretty enough. Kind enough. Not someone you that was deserving of any closeness. I just wasn’t enough. An idea I can’t seem to let go of.

So, as I read the back on this envelope that has my mother’s details (she’ll often send it from my brother in the hope of a response) I think to myself, what makes them feel entitled enough to be in my precious children’s lives. Nothing. Fucking nothing.