For those unfamiliar with my story, Screwed Up: My Life, please start at the beginning here. The purpose of me writing this intimate account of surviving a difficult childhood is explained here. This story in its entirety can be found at Blurb.com and is available for purchase for $12.95 plus shipping and handling.
So you can imagine my sadness when it was time to move to a more permanent place.
It was a sunny, Saturday morning when I moved in with the next family. I was determined to be a good family member and I told myself that this new family was going to be a great family to live with. I wrote in my journal that evening, “I am determined to be a good ‘daughter’ to these people and to be nice to their mom, even if she is a mom.” I never gave that sentence much thought until several years later when I realized what I meant by that statement. I had a difficult time showing affection towards women because I was so angry at my own mother.
You see, I had been hurt too much by my mother. I didn’t want to have anything to do with her. I loathed her with all my being. She had betrayed my trust, abandoned me, and given up on me and I hated her for it. I thought of her as a hypocrite, because she had betrayed all the values she had taught me. I was angry because she seemed to love other men more than she loved the children she brought into this world. I gave up all hope that she would ever love me. I certainly didn’t want to love her back.
Looking back, I realize that my hate for my mother revealed itself in how I treated other women mother figures in my life. For instance, I loved this new family’s mom, but I couldn’t tell her that. To tell her that I loved her was to admit to myself that I could show warmth to a mother–even if she wasn’t my own mother. I wanted to prove to this new mother figure in my life that I loved her, but to do so was too mentally and emotionally difficult–it was almost like torture to me.
Furthermore, I didn’t trust anyone. Getting tossed around like trash has a way of doing that to you. I had moved so many times in the previous two years that I didn’t think of any one place being permanent. The thought of having my heart ripped out because I had to move again was too painful for me to think about, so I detached myself from others.
I was depressed. I went to counseling at my own request, but I didn’t even want to open up to my counselor. I knew I needed the counseling, but sharing was tormenting. My counseling sessions were unproductive. One day, I lied and told the counselor that I didn’t need counseling anymore–I was healed. I think he knew better, but what can you do when the patient doesn’t want to talk, right? So, I never went again.
I sunk deeper and deeper into a depression.
I don’t know if anyone could ever tell I was depressed. I tried to hide my feelings. Every once in a while, I would have panic attacks–my hands would begin to shake uncontrollably. Then my body would tense starting at my stomach and working it way into my throat. I felt like I could hardly breathe as my heart pounded faster and faster, so hard I could hear it in my ears. I still have panic attacks to this day, although not as common as they were when I was a teenager. Talking about the past usually brought on the panic attacks.
At one point the depression became all encompassing. That was the day I attempted suicide.