He told me he loved me but he lied

I was always someone that craved love and attention. This is not to say that I accepted love willingly—quite the opposite, in fact. I had been told I was loved but that was a lie.

If someone decides to like or even love me they have to pass through a path of obstacles, being pushed pulled and tested at every corner. Only then, upon arrival at the finish line, would they gain my acceptance.

The root of my inability to accept love easily stems back to my childhood.

Growing up my parents made no effort to hide their disappointment and wish that I were something different. Five kids and I was the one that could never prove I was worthy.

So when my father’s friend would stay over for the night I would eagerly soak in the attention he would lavish me with.

According to him I was the prettiest of my sisters. I was smart. I was everything that made up the definition of being a good girl. I never got tired of hearing him these things. I’d never heard them before.

He smiled at me as I jumped up and down on my bed, wearing nothing but underwear and a skimpy night shirt. He grabbed my ankles and pulled my legs from beneath me making me fall to the bed and engage in laughter.

He then straddled me without putting any weight on me. He looked down at me, smiled and said those three words I had craved for so long. I love you.

It wasn’t too long after that I needed to prove my love. According to him the only way this could be done was through sex. This is how people show love. We’d moved past oral sex and were now rocketing toward the ultimate proof of love. Actual sex. I was ready. At 13.

He loved me so of course I did what he wanted. I never said a word to anyone because if I did I wouldn’t be a good girl anymore and he told me he’d hate me. I didn’t want to lose what I though was love. Soft moans, closing my eyes and biting my lip was what I could do to make it a more loving experience.

One night he had my sister bailed up against the wall. I was mad at him because he’d told me that she was boring and even though my parents loved her dearly that he could never love someone that boring.

I was mad. Here he was showing ‘love’ to my bitch sister who I lived in the shadows of. That love was mine. Not hers.

It was when I confronted him about this that my head was slammed into the dashboard of a Ute. I now have a chipped front tooth that reminds me of that day. My world fell apart this day. He told me that he was using me. That I was pathetic for falling for such a trick. How could he love me. I was a failure of a person. I was gross, dumb, and ugly.

I was his property at this point and whatever he wanted he could take. If I put up a fight I’d be punished with a fist to my stomach or somewhere else that couldn’t be seen. I spent my summers in jumpers and long pants.

He told me he loved me but he lied.

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My first seizure. What a treat it was

First. Every single day we are experiencing something for the first time. The first page of a new book. First cake not burnt. First cinema experience. First online purchase … of the week. First seizure.

A month ago I experienced my first seizure. I was interstate, at a work function and it scared me out of my mind. On my way down I hit my head hard, ripped my earring out of my ear, bruised my shoulder, tore my knee open and forgot who I was.

The whole ambulance trip was me connecting the dots. I have kids. Two of them but what are their names. I don’t live here but where do I live.

Sometime in the ED, a CT scan and I was out the door – still fuzzy on the who I am but reasonably okay.

Getting back home and I chase up the results. This means a trip to psychiatrist who is $10 a minute and I wish this was me exaggerating. The man is smart and can block every attempt I make to bring his guard down. He is also so very old and talks non-stop about Freud.

It was at this appointment he promised me some he would work out what was going on as he was positive it had to do with my medication. I have been chasing him now for weeks. Daily phone calls and he won’t return my calls.

I have developed pins and needles in my hands and feet, I’m having insane headaches specifically on the right side of my brain and I’m having involuntary twitches.

I have some rich white douche telling me that I’m not handling it and that maybe a phone call from him will speed the process. I had some weird guy smell my hair while travelling home on the bus. I have zero independence at the moment and the rest of Abby-life.

I am feeling victimised by life a little, want someone to hug me, reassure me that it’s all okay and then – this is the bit that nobody can do – make it all go away.

If someone out there has an Abby voodoo-doll and stabbing it with zest, please stop. I’ve got the point.