How man of you out there suffered from unknown, or undiagnosed ailments?
I you do, I feel your pain and have an immense amount of sympathy for you! My entire life I have struggled with one ailment after another.
In my first post I mentioned a nasty skin condition I had at the age of four. This was my first memorable mystery medical issue. I had developed rashes of blister all over my hands, feet, and back. I had to be carried from one place to another because of the blisters on the bottoms of my feet. My skin was so damaged it was bitterly falling off of me.
I went to so many doctors! One specialist after another. Multiple and extremely painful skin scrapings, blood drawings, and pokes of needles. All to no avail. The doctors finally threw their hands up and said, "It's stress. That's all that is left for a cause." My parents reaction was, "What kind of 4-year-old has so much stress their skin falls off?"
I can tell you what kind...The kind that is beaten by her mother, tortured by her two older sisters, and raped by her father! All with not having one friend in the world, and no one in the world to turn to.
I spent my entire summer with this skin condition indoors because my tender skin could not be in the sun. I spent endless hours by myself inside watching my cartoons, visiting with the unseen spooks of our home, and playing with my lovely dog. She would even let me ride on her back to get to the bathroom. Good thing she as a BIG dog.
In the first grade I began getting open sores on my scalp. By this time, my family was living in town, and the beatings had stopped for fear the neighbors would, heaven forbid, see my mothers true side. And my father was no longer a normal accessory in the home. In the garage yes, but not in the house. Even though, he was never around too much before.
I, again, was sent to specialist, only to no avail. My hair (which was beautiful, brown with natural blond highlights, and wavy and thick) began to fall out, and some sores even oozed. But, all I could do was wait it out. It took almost two years to be completely gone, and I still, to this day, suffer from breakouts every once in awhile.
Then, in the third grade, I was struck in the head by a flying kickball on the playground. The ball was kicked by a kid named Nick who was, with no doubt and exaggeration, the biggest kid in the whole 7 grades of our elementary, and he was only one grade above me. With his strength behind the flying missile, I was in for a hell of a bang.
I stood there talking with a friend waiting for the bell to ring for us to line up and minute, and BAM! I heard the tonk of the ball, that strange ringing sound kickballs are able to make, and everything went black.
I woke up to find the playground attendant, a lovely, mousy, college student who was extremely kind and a friend to all of us students. She had a worried look, and then I looked around to see a blur of student looking at me in astonishment. In the background I heard Nick, "Oh my God, oh my God! I am so sorry!"
I slowly stood, and felt an overwhelming wave nausea, and the whole Earth seemed to be tilting oddly on its axis. I was guided to the office, holding my now broken glasses in my hand. All I could think of was how furious my parents would be over my glasses. I remember being sat in a chair and hearing the secretary calling every number she could find to contact my parents. Finally, my mother called back from work only to refuse my leaving of school. She could not be bothered to leave work, and did not think the state I was in (which was short of passing out once again) was worth leaving over.
From this event, and the lack of care I received I believe my incessant migraine developed. I have yet to find a medication that limits the pain from my headaches.
I suffer from digesting issues, recurrent infections throughout my body, pelvic pain, and even swollen lymph nodes in my abdomen. All with no medical explanations. But, as I look back at my childhood I find all of these incidents, like the kickball incident, that seem to tie to a cause for my issues.
I am so sick of being sick. I cannot tell you of one year, shit... one month of my life where I was not sick, or in chronic pain of some sort. But, even with all of the pain I find I get a different look on life. I take full advantage of my good days, and I look at my past differently. I remember my good moments, yes, but I find a strange comfort in being able to tie this ailment to that event. At least when I cannot find a medical explanation.
It is amazing the impact our emotions and state of mentality has on our physical state. So, if I cannot find a treatment, I can at least understand my life a little differently.
Monday, March 30, 2015
Saturday, March 28, 2015
Dreams are not mine alone
I have often heard other victims of abuse say they find it hard to dream. I understand this, but it makes me so sad.😥 To live with out dreams of what-might-be.... That is the same as living with no hope, and I cannot imagine this.
My councilor once told me she was concerned because I could not think of one thing I wanted just for myself when asked what I wanted to do just for me. I guess that is as close as I have ever come to feeling hopeless. Simply because, I have never lived with the thought of how to help only myself. I do not have kids, and have been asked how I can be so consumed with others' needs when I have so little to do in my life. I just laugh at these critics.
All of my dreams, and hopes are for myself, but I also think of how my actions will benefit those around me. When I plant my flowers, I wonder how they will be pleasing to others. When I began college, I thought only of how it would benefit my family. I know this might sound like an exaggeration, but it is true.
I never used to dream for myself. I never had a moment for myself. I was treated as a slave by my family, and whenever I attempted to act selfish I was reminded how worthless I was. But, my husband faught against my punitive side and I am grateful. Without him, I would be one who can't dream and hope.
Instead I am able to dream of a big beautiful greenhouse as I make plans to build and begin my little starter greenhouse this year. This, in fact, is what made me stop and think of how my husband has brought dreaming back for me. This greenhouse is my first solely selfish act for as long as I can remember. And, I do not think I have ever been more excited.
If you find trouble dreaming, please find your way back to hope. Reach out to those who care, and reach out for their support. We are all worthy of dreams... Even if we know they will never come to fruition. Our dreams are only part of who we are, but it is one way we show ourselves love. And, no matter what we have been told, no matter what people have done or said, we all deserve love.
My councilor once told me she was concerned because I could not think of one thing I wanted just for myself when asked what I wanted to do just for me. I guess that is as close as I have ever come to feeling hopeless. Simply because, I have never lived with the thought of how to help only myself. I do not have kids, and have been asked how I can be so consumed with others' needs when I have so little to do in my life. I just laugh at these critics.
All of my dreams, and hopes are for myself, but I also think of how my actions will benefit those around me. When I plant my flowers, I wonder how they will be pleasing to others. When I began college, I thought only of how it would benefit my family. I know this might sound like an exaggeration, but it is true.
I never used to dream for myself. I never had a moment for myself. I was treated as a slave by my family, and whenever I attempted to act selfish I was reminded how worthless I was. But, my husband faught against my punitive side and I am grateful. Without him, I would be one who can't dream and hope.
Instead I am able to dream of a big beautiful greenhouse as I make plans to build and begin my little starter greenhouse this year. This, in fact, is what made me stop and think of how my husband has brought dreaming back for me. This greenhouse is my first solely selfish act for as long as I can remember. And, I do not think I have ever been more excited.
If you find trouble dreaming, please find your way back to hope. Reach out to those who care, and reach out for their support. We are all worthy of dreams... Even if we know they will never come to fruition. Our dreams are only part of who we are, but it is one way we show ourselves love. And, no matter what we have been told, no matter what people have done or said, we all deserve love.
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
My Earliest Memory
I often wonder what people's first memories are. Are they happy, sad, confusing? Are you five, eight, or even three-years-old?
My earliest memory is when I was three. I remember my age because I was three. I remember the age, because when I was four I came down with a very strange skin condition, and doctors were unable to find a cause or a cure. This event I will recall happened when I had chicken pox, previous to my mystery illness.
It was a warm Autumn day. My sisters had recently started school, and I was home alone with my mother. My father, as usual, was no where in sight. Whether he was toiling in the garage, or at the restaurant having coffee with friends, I am unsure. But What I do know is he was not at work, since he only worked when absolutely necessary.
I had a doctors appointment because of my chicken pox symptoms. I dreaded going to the doctors. My mother would act phony, and make me act like a perfect little child. I was not allowed to complain of boredom, and had to sit quietly seen but not heard. This was a favorite expression of my parents during my first six years. Until they finally realized there was no taming my mouth.
It was a very warm day, almost shorts weather as I recall, and my mother packed away our summer clothes. This was a yearly ritual we did to make room in our dressers for our seasonal clothing, and it was often performed too early. This year, 1991, was no exception. So, I was forced to stuff into hot denim, with my pox itching and burning, only the pants I had in my dresser where all too small for me.
My mother made me squeeze in and out of each pair of pants we could find. All the while she is growing angrier with each change, and I begin crying, afraid of what her anger will result in.
After a few changes my mother began yelling, "Quit that damn crying! If you would quit gaining so much fucking weight we wouldn't have a problem."
(You may wonder how I can remember and event from such a young age with so much accuracy... Well, the answer is simple: This was not a one time occurrence.)
I began to cry harder. Now, not only was I scared, I felt guilty. Devastated I was so fat, and was causing my mother so much grief. This only agitated her more, and I saw a change in her eyes. Almost a blackness that seeped in.
She thrust another pair at me, "Here," she scowled, "you put these on, and you make them fit."
I tried my hardest. I pulled until I pinched myself to the point of bruising pulling up those pants with no avail. I began to cry so hard I was hyperventilating. My mother began to scream at me, and quickly became incoherent. I tried buckling the pants, which I still could not do with ones that fit, let alone these ones where the buttons were not even close to one another.
With my nervous energy, my mother continually yelling and blaming me for being a growing child, and the squeezing of my stomach, I wet myself.
"Oh you dirty little brat," she scorned in a low, guttural voice.
I was quickly thrown to the floor on my back, and the pants painfully ripped off of my legs. As I attempted to get up and go to the bathroom to clean myself, as at the age of three my parents thought it fitting for me to bathe myself. My mother pushed me down again, and began to whip me with the wet pants.
At first I was in such shock I did not realize what she was doing or that I was being hit by the buttons of the button-fly-pants. One hit to my legs, another to my head, and she reared her arm back as far as she could, and hit my side. I now felt the pain, and howled for her to stop.
"Mommy, I'm sorry," I wailed to her, but she was beyond hearing me at this point. I knew the routine by know, and knew it best to curl in a ball and ride it out. Only, this time she pulled me up, and took off my shirt to whip me all up and down my back. A place no one would see.
I do not know how long this torture continued, but I do remember crying so hard, my tears dried and my sobs hurt my chest. The damage was done, and there was no hiding it this time. She sent me to the bathroom, and canceled my appointment.
When I entered the bathroom, I walked to the sink, grabbed a washcloth from underneath, and gave myself a bird bath after removing my soiled underwear. I knew with my beating, a bath would only cause me more pain. I then wrapped in a towel, and walked to my bedroom which was next to the bathroom on the east side of our house, directly connected to livingroom.
My mother was sitting in her recliner smoking a cigarette, her face red and sweaty from her efforts. I tried not to look at her. More ashamed of myself, then angry with her. I did not know yet this was not a common occurrence. Although this is my earliest memory now, I do remember having the know-how of this event being a repeat.
"Go in there and put pajamas on," she sad quietly, almost a whisper. "Your not going to the doctor; you're going to bed."
I did as she told me putting on my softest nightgown, and when I crawled in bed, belly-down to avoid pain, my best friend, our dog, crawled in with me and kissed away my tears. I don't think I would have survived if not for our Great Dane/ Boxer who was my greatest companion.
I quickly drifted off to sleep, only to have my sisters come home from school, enter the bedroom all three of us shared, and ask what I did to be sent to bed. My mother was at the doorway, covered by an old quilt hung on the door frame, and said I was sick and needed rest... nothing more, just needed rest.
There was never a word uttered about this incident, until 12 years later, I had the nerve to confront my mother of her abuse. She, of course, denied ever laying a hand on me in such a manner. and her response was, "I can't remember anything from being so young, so neither can you."
But, I do remember. Scientist have proven our brains retain negative memories better than positive. Maybe she did not have such negative memories as I have to this day.
My earliest memory is when I was three. I remember my age because I was three. I remember the age, because when I was four I came down with a very strange skin condition, and doctors were unable to find a cause or a cure. This event I will recall happened when I had chicken pox, previous to my mystery illness.
It was a warm Autumn day. My sisters had recently started school, and I was home alone with my mother. My father, as usual, was no where in sight. Whether he was toiling in the garage, or at the restaurant having coffee with friends, I am unsure. But What I do know is he was not at work, since he only worked when absolutely necessary.
I had a doctors appointment because of my chicken pox symptoms. I dreaded going to the doctors. My mother would act phony, and make me act like a perfect little child. I was not allowed to complain of boredom, and had to sit quietly seen but not heard. This was a favorite expression of my parents during my first six years. Until they finally realized there was no taming my mouth.
It was a very warm day, almost shorts weather as I recall, and my mother packed away our summer clothes. This was a yearly ritual we did to make room in our dressers for our seasonal clothing, and it was often performed too early. This year, 1991, was no exception. So, I was forced to stuff into hot denim, with my pox itching and burning, only the pants I had in my dresser where all too small for me.
My mother made me squeeze in and out of each pair of pants we could find. All the while she is growing angrier with each change, and I begin crying, afraid of what her anger will result in.
After a few changes my mother began yelling, "Quit that damn crying! If you would quit gaining so much fucking weight we wouldn't have a problem."
(You may wonder how I can remember and event from such a young age with so much accuracy... Well, the answer is simple: This was not a one time occurrence.)
I began to cry harder. Now, not only was I scared, I felt guilty. Devastated I was so fat, and was causing my mother so much grief. This only agitated her more, and I saw a change in her eyes. Almost a blackness that seeped in.
She thrust another pair at me, "Here," she scowled, "you put these on, and you make them fit."
I tried my hardest. I pulled until I pinched myself to the point of bruising pulling up those pants with no avail. I began to cry so hard I was hyperventilating. My mother began to scream at me, and quickly became incoherent. I tried buckling the pants, which I still could not do with ones that fit, let alone these ones where the buttons were not even close to one another.
With my nervous energy, my mother continually yelling and blaming me for being a growing child, and the squeezing of my stomach, I wet myself.
"Oh you dirty little brat," she scorned in a low, guttural voice.
I was quickly thrown to the floor on my back, and the pants painfully ripped off of my legs. As I attempted to get up and go to the bathroom to clean myself, as at the age of three my parents thought it fitting for me to bathe myself. My mother pushed me down again, and began to whip me with the wet pants.
At first I was in such shock I did not realize what she was doing or that I was being hit by the buttons of the button-fly-pants. One hit to my legs, another to my head, and she reared her arm back as far as she could, and hit my side. I now felt the pain, and howled for her to stop.
"Mommy, I'm sorry," I wailed to her, but she was beyond hearing me at this point. I knew the routine by know, and knew it best to curl in a ball and ride it out. Only, this time she pulled me up, and took off my shirt to whip me all up and down my back. A place no one would see.
I do not know how long this torture continued, but I do remember crying so hard, my tears dried and my sobs hurt my chest. The damage was done, and there was no hiding it this time. She sent me to the bathroom, and canceled my appointment.
When I entered the bathroom, I walked to the sink, grabbed a washcloth from underneath, and gave myself a bird bath after removing my soiled underwear. I knew with my beating, a bath would only cause me more pain. I then wrapped in a towel, and walked to my bedroom which was next to the bathroom on the east side of our house, directly connected to livingroom.
My mother was sitting in her recliner smoking a cigarette, her face red and sweaty from her efforts. I tried not to look at her. More ashamed of myself, then angry with her. I did not know yet this was not a common occurrence. Although this is my earliest memory now, I do remember having the know-how of this event being a repeat.
"Go in there and put pajamas on," she sad quietly, almost a whisper. "Your not going to the doctor; you're going to bed."
I did as she told me putting on my softest nightgown, and when I crawled in bed, belly-down to avoid pain, my best friend, our dog, crawled in with me and kissed away my tears. I don't think I would have survived if not for our Great Dane/ Boxer who was my greatest companion.
 |
| Found at http://www.dreamstime.com/stock-image-artistic-crying-girl-image21896401 |
I quickly drifted off to sleep, only to have my sisters come home from school, enter the bedroom all three of us shared, and ask what I did to be sent to bed. My mother was at the doorway, covered by an old quilt hung on the door frame, and said I was sick and needed rest... nothing more, just needed rest.
There was never a word uttered about this incident, until 12 years later, I had the nerve to confront my mother of her abuse. She, of course, denied ever laying a hand on me in such a manner. and her response was, "I can't remember anything from being so young, so neither can you."
But, I do remember. Scientist have proven our brains retain negative memories better than positive. Maybe she did not have such negative memories as I have to this day.
A Glance at my Life
When I look back at my last 27 years in this life, I find it amazing the things I have endured, fought for, and fought against in order to be the person I am. I do not want to sound like I have a large head, and am a huge egomaniac... But, I am a good person. I love whole heartedly, I care for everyone and everything, and do the best I am able to do.
Sure, I am not perfect! I will NEVER in my life say I am perfect, because I do not think there is one perfect person on this Earth (Yes, even the Dalai Lama himself has faults). But, I live by the Five Precepts as best I can, I meditate, I do for others when I can, and I, of all things, did not turn out like my family (but this is a whole other topic for many other posts).
Today I live in a quaint, but in need of repair, home with my wonderful, loving, and supportive husband, and our three dogs. My husband is the smartest, most capable person I have ever known. I love him so much, that sometimes it hurts. We have one of those almost fairytale love stories. Boy and Girl meet, Girl's horrible family hates Boy, love endures and Boy rescues Girl from the terrible "What Could Have Beens". As much as I may hate marriage sometimes, there is nothing that will ever make me stop loving him.
Our dogs are an odd mix of characters. We have a Mini Dachshund, who was our first dog of the bunch. She is loving and needy at the same time, loves to give kisses and be held. She is a wonderful and compassionate companion on the days I am sick. Sometime, even t the point of mimicking my symptoms. Everyone loves her, and she loves everyone.
Our Parson Russell was the second to our horde. He is a high-strung energy machine, who has very little patience for those who go against his wishes (this is becoming more relevant with our latest addition). But, he is a baby, and I love him. We have a special bond, unlike any I have ever had with my pets, and it started right from the moment I held him. After he fell asleep in my hands, that little bundle of fur would not leave my side. He, truly and honestly, is a baby; he even lays in your arms like one, and if he is sitting with you while rocking, he conks right out.
The Pit Bull is our latest addition (the one that tests the Parson's patients). She is rambunctious and pushy, and bull-headed like a Pit bull should be. She also loves to rough house, lay in my lap, and loves her brother and sister. Everyday she gives them kisses, and cuddles with the Dachshund at night. She is a lover of all lovers, and I am so proud of the dog she is. She is smart, inquisitive, and gives wonderful hugs. At eight months old, she is wise beyond her time, and is we're working on controlling her rambunctiousness.
In a nutshell, this is my life today. I attend school online, my husband and I are both on disability for multiple reasons (please do not judge us for it, we worked hard to not get to this point), and love gardening. I am very close with my husband's side of our family, and have no contact with anyone on my side after the demise of my grandmother. I am in counseling for my traumatic childhood, but have finally gotten to a point where my every thought is not consumed by nightmares.
As time goes on I will share more details of my life, but I wanted to give you a glance of where I am today. The point of this blog is not to make anyone feel sorry for me, not to justify the things that have happened to me or anything I have or have not done. It is simply to spread word that we, those who have been abused in any way, are not alone. We are not responsible for what happened to us, but are responsible for what we do with the pain, sadness, and heartache the abuse causes us.
Please, follow me on my journey through my life. Some days I will discuss my past, some my present, and some my hopes for the future. But, most of all, I will be healing through my words. Letting go with every keystroke... and hopefully it will allow those of you who hold it all in, like I have been doing to let it go as well.
Sure, I am not perfect! I will NEVER in my life say I am perfect, because I do not think there is one perfect person on this Earth (Yes, even the Dalai Lama himself has faults). But, I live by the Five Precepts as best I can, I meditate, I do for others when I can, and I, of all things, did not turn out like my family (but this is a whole other topic for many other posts).
Today I live in a quaint, but in need of repair, home with my wonderful, loving, and supportive husband, and our three dogs. My husband is the smartest, most capable person I have ever known. I love him so much, that sometimes it hurts. We have one of those almost fairytale love stories. Boy and Girl meet, Girl's horrible family hates Boy, love endures and Boy rescues Girl from the terrible "What Could Have Beens". As much as I may hate marriage sometimes, there is nothing that will ever make me stop loving him.
Our dogs are an odd mix of characters. We have a Mini Dachshund, who was our first dog of the bunch. She is loving and needy at the same time, loves to give kisses and be held. She is a wonderful and compassionate companion on the days I am sick. Sometime, even t the point of mimicking my symptoms. Everyone loves her, and she loves everyone.
Our Parson Russell was the second to our horde. He is a high-strung energy machine, who has very little patience for those who go against his wishes (this is becoming more relevant with our latest addition). But, he is a baby, and I love him. We have a special bond, unlike any I have ever had with my pets, and it started right from the moment I held him. After he fell asleep in my hands, that little bundle of fur would not leave my side. He, truly and honestly, is a baby; he even lays in your arms like one, and if he is sitting with you while rocking, he conks right out.
The Pit Bull is our latest addition (the one that tests the Parson's patients). She is rambunctious and pushy, and bull-headed like a Pit bull should be. She also loves to rough house, lay in my lap, and loves her brother and sister. Everyday she gives them kisses, and cuddles with the Dachshund at night. She is a lover of all lovers, and I am so proud of the dog she is. She is smart, inquisitive, and gives wonderful hugs. At eight months old, she is wise beyond her time, and is we're working on controlling her rambunctiousness.
In a nutshell, this is my life today. I attend school online, my husband and I are both on disability for multiple reasons (please do not judge us for it, we worked hard to not get to this point), and love gardening. I am very close with my husband's side of our family, and have no contact with anyone on my side after the demise of my grandmother. I am in counseling for my traumatic childhood, but have finally gotten to a point where my every thought is not consumed by nightmares.
As time goes on I will share more details of my life, but I wanted to give you a glance of where I am today. The point of this blog is not to make anyone feel sorry for me, not to justify the things that have happened to me or anything I have or have not done. It is simply to spread word that we, those who have been abused in any way, are not alone. We are not responsible for what happened to us, but are responsible for what we do with the pain, sadness, and heartache the abuse causes us.
Please, follow me on my journey through my life. Some days I will discuss my past, some my present, and some my hopes for the future. But, most of all, I will be healing through my words. Letting go with every keystroke... and hopefully it will allow those of you who hold it all in, like I have been doing to let it go as well.
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