On Recovering from Childhood Abuse

When I was little, I always felt like my childhood would never end. It always felt like there was no end to the sadness, no end to the unfairness, no end to the fear, to the yelling, to the beatings- no end to the shear dysfunction that blanketed the entire house.

Night was never truly the end of the day either. Sometimes it was just the beginning of a whole new set of fears, and of a new set of obstacles that had to be beat. And on the nights where it seemed calm, and no one came to bother you, there was still no true peace.

It was there in the dark that I would imagine and dream of the life I always wanted, and of the person I always wanted to be. In my dreams I was talented, athletic, liked at school, and loved at home. A life where my mom was excited to see me, interested in what I was doing, and happy to have me around. It was a life full of “I love you’s” and all the positive encouragement one could hope for.

Emotional abuse doesn’t end, even when you are all alone. When my mom wasn’t home, I still felt apprehensive and anxious. It felt like even the walls in the house were watching me, waiting to betray me, and tell her all my secrets once she got home.

It felt like I was living the same day over and over again, a feeling I constantly battle with now as an adult. Every day I would wake up to the same dirty house, the same empty fridge, the same old clothes, the same yelling, the same fighting, the same fear, and the same disappointment. Each day took on its own kind of dismal rhythm, and all you could do was follow it. You did not enjoy it, you did not like it, but after a while you also didn’t really think about it. You just mechanically adjusted to the chaos of the day, and prepared yourself to go through it, repeatedly.

When I was a child, I always felt like my life would never end, and now as an adult I feel as though my life will never begin.

As an adult, I feel so busy, like I never have any time for myself, but when I look up and around me, I realize that I am not doing anything. It’s not like I hang out with friends, go to the gym, talk on the phone, I’m not involved in anything that I have to be committed to regularly other than work. I am married, but I have no children, no pets. My time is essentially all my own, and yet I always feel so overwhelmed. I always feel as though I have no time for myself, when the reality is I have nothing but time for myself.

I think subconsciously I’m overwhelmed and afraid, and this fear is overflowing in unseen ways in my waking life. I have free time, but I don’t ever feel free or fearless to use it. When I find myself with nothing to do, I’ll often watch tv– reruns, and pour myself a drink or two.  

Not too long ago, I was going through some old things in my house, and I found a picture of my sister from a few years ago, from before her depression and alcoholism. I pulled it out and left it on the counter, but every time I would walk by it and see it, I would feel so upset. Upset that she’s not the girl in the picture anymore. Upset facing the reality that she may never get better, that life robbed her too, and she may spend the rest of her life suffering as a dark shadow of what she could have been, but never was.

And in that same moment, I also thought of my mother, and couldn’t help but feel anger towards her. She did this to us. I know you can’t hate your mother, or you’re not supposed to, but at least I can say it here, where I am safe, even if it is quietly and to myself, “I hate my mother,” or at least sometimes I do… It’s hard not to feel that this is all her fault. That the seeds of our own destruction were planted years ago in the tumult of our childhood.

Yes, we are all adults now and are responsible for our own decisions, some cruel observer might say, but anyone who’s ever been abused as a child knows that there is always more to the story. They know that not everyone makes it out okay. They know that the ones who do make it out into an okay adulthood, are just one story in the midst of a thousand who did not.

The whole, ‘beat the odds,’ and ‘pull yourself up by your own bootstraps’ philosophy isn’t for everyone. We are all different, we all struggle in different ways, and have different obstacles to overcome. We all have different stories to tell.

I grew up in a household that made me feel like I wasn’t good enough, and in a lot of ways I still feel this same way as an adult. It’s hard to feel good about myself when I haven’t overcome all the pain from my past. It’s hard to ignore the constant social message that if you’re not happy, then it’s directly your fault. A social conscious that seems at times to be okay with leaving children in abusive homes, only to scorn them as adults for not having figured a way out on their own sooner.

Most do not have the genuine patience, empathy, or courage to look childhood abuse in the face and let the story be told exactly as it happened. I think I even have some of this avoidance ingrained in me as well. Maybe this is a part of the reason why I always feel so overwhelmed and impatient with myself. Why I am always filling my time with tv, internet, and alcohol. It makes it harder to see that deep down I am still hurting.

I feel like it’s so hard to be anything other than who I am. The more I try to read, write, go to therapy, avoid drinking, make my to do list of all the positive things I’m going to try to accomplish this week– the more I feel defeated, because my best self doesn’t seem to come naturally to me. I have to fight to be the version of me I want to be, and I must admit, it can be tiring at times.

Even though I was raised to believe there is nothing worthwhile about me, I still choose to believe there is, and will keep trying to find it. I want to keep trying; for me, for my husband, for our love, and for the life I want. I know what my beginning was, but my ending has not yet happened. That is why I am still here. That is why I am still writing. That is why I am still trying.

—

Hi Guys,
I know this piece is very different than my usual posts, but I wanted to share something a little more personal this time. I wanted to share and try to capture the raw emotion that I sometimes feel, and I know many of you feel when trying to recover and heal from a painful past. Even in the midst of recovery, some days are great, and other days can be painful reminders of how far we still have left to go. In sharing this, I hope there is someone out there who can relate to the message that sometimes we still deal with strong emotions when thinking about our past, yet despite the more difficult days, we haven’t given up, and are all still trying, and still pushing forward.