RealMental

I’ve decided that my 30th birthday present to myself is going to be a tattoo. To some, it seems like an odd choice because I waited until I’m 30 to do it – not in my early 20s when everyone else was getting them done (though, technically, I’m getting it two days before my birthday. That way, I can say that I did it back in my ‘wild and crazy’ 20s. Not like I was wild and crazy in my 20s, but it’s a good thing to say, I think.)

I’ve just been feeling the urge to mark this occasion – to mark myself to commemorate all that I’ve been through in the past 30 years. The urge is very strong. I guess you can’t help but look back on the past when you hit a milestone such as this.

I once went to a therapist during a stressful time in my life. She asked for my life story and I gave it to her. At the end, she looked at me with wide eyes and said, “You have how many degrees and you work where??”

Apparently, people who have lived through the kind of childhood and adolescence that I did don’t usually make it to where I have in life. They end up with drug problems; they end up on the streets. They don’t get university degrees and good jobs.

“You’re the resilient child,” she said. “They write textbooks about people like you.”

Of course, you can’t live through that kind of a life and end up entirely unscathed. All my scars are on the inside.

I remember when I was 14 and everything that happened in my childhood started sinking in. I suddenly had labels for all that had happened: sexual abuse, physical abuse, alcoholism, dysfunctional family. The pain at that was so intense that I didn’t know what to do with it. I was this peppy overachiever on the outside but no one knew what was going on inside. I remember wanting to cut myself so that I could feel some pain on the outside to distract myself from the pain on the inside. I remember doing just that – scarring up my wrists just so that I could feel something and know that the pain was real.

But this marking – this 30-year-old urge to mark is different. I want something that I can look down on and say, “I made it. And I’m going to keep making it.”

Republished from Saviabella, September 2005.

It was a Sunday morning and I was sneaking out of the house. I was six and desperate to try out my older sister’s kite. I had to sneak because they wouldn’t let me play with it willingly.

My mom was in her bedroom sleeping so I had to be quiet.

I pulled a stool over to the front door in order to unlock the locks. I was terrified that I would wake my mom up.

All I wanted to do was to fly the kite. They never let me do anything. They were always bossing me around, not letting me do anything.

Once outside and trying to fly the kite, a man walked over to me. He asked if I needed help flying the kite.

Wow, I couldn’t believe my luck! I sure needed some help to fly the kite. I had no idea how to fly a kite so I was thankful this stranger was going to help me.

In hindsight, I felt like something was weird about him. Maybe it felt weird because I knew I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to do.

After a short time, the man led me over to the side of a house. There were two cars parked end to end. He walked over and leaned on the back end of one of the cars.  He said, “since I helped you fly the kite; I need some help from you.” I was indebted to his kindness, and I thought that sounded fair.

He began to unzip his pants, and my heartbeat sped up a zillion beats. Something was wrong here, but I couldn’t pinpoint it and after all, he was an adult.

I am not supposed to talk back to adults. I am supposed to be seen and not heard. He pulled his privates out of his pants and held it.

He told me that he wanted me to hold it. I froze. I dropped the kite and ran home. It was that slow motion running, the kind that seems you will never get to your destination.

Once on the carport, I opened the green door and closed it. Then climbed on the stool and locked all the locks and ran into my room.

It would be a little while before I realized that I dropped the kite. I was going to get in serious trouble for losing that kite. Maybe I could just act as if I had no idea what happened to the kite, maybe it just disappeared or something. Yes, that’s a plan.
My mother heard me come back in the house and wanted to know where I’d been. She said I looked like I’d seen a ghost.

I told her what happened and later when my dad got home, Mom told him about it. I got into trouble for the kite situation.

My dad packed my sisters and me in the car and went looking for Mr. helpful. We found him standing on a street corner holding a bible. Dad stopped the car, and got out. He told Mr. helpful that he had better believe in that book he was holding because if he ever came near any of us again he was going to need that book.

I was in shock at the time and unable to retain any information. The only reason I remember what my dad did is because my sisters told me.

Things like this continued to happen to me, and I never told anyone. Not sure why, perhaps I thought it was my fault and it served me right.

This is a problem, children thinking perversion and abuse is their fault. In order to protect myself and not make people do bad things, I tried to be invisible. I was invisible for many years.

I covered up with clothing. To this day, I can go into a panic when trying to decide what to wear.

There are a few behavior patterns that were implanted on this day. Abnormal fear of making mistakes, not trusting myself which led to “checking” behavior (OCD), do not under any circumstances ask for help, or receive it.

The effects of abuse will always be a part of who I am.

My job is to not let it take me over.

It was 1986 and I’d just graduated from high school. I was seventeen years old. Within one week, I moved out of my mother’s house. She was kind enough to buy me luggage as a graduation present.

I was thrilled, excited, and scared with finally being free from my mother’s domain. Despite my sheer joy from being out of her house, I had no idea what to do with myself.

My three of my best friends (two girls and a guy) and I drove to the beach after graduation. I had serious plans for the trip, to get as drunk as humanly possible and to stay that way for a week.

Somehow, we managed to procure some wacky weed from a Burger King along the way to the beach. (We had no previous knowledge of this Burger King with a wacky weed salesperson inside. It was luck.)

One night after we’d been there a few days, we were all at the pier and we met some guys. Before long, these boys followed us girls back to the condo. (Our guy friend was straight, so no boys for him!)

I was beyond drunk and out of my mind. I was fighting the establishment and man was I pissed. Funny how my anger only served to harm me, never anyone else.
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