First off, this post is horrifyingly long. Second, this post is unedited. Believe it or not, my job involves a great deal of writing. But this, this isn’t earning me a salary. This is thoughts on paper (or my iCloud notes) at worst and a trauma dump at best. I’ve felt a lot shifting in my life recently. I don’t like change, and yet I throw myself into it because I am convinced I have something to fucking prove every second of every heckin’ day. (Former gifted and talented kid here).
Those close to me have known I spent much of my life fighting. That I’ve “overcome so much.” But fuck, I am tired. I am exhausted from being the poster child for inner strength. I’m tired of so many viewing me as a person who is formidable simply because my story involves a fair amount of pain. I want to be known as a fucking dragon who will burn a city to the ground, not because I have a tortured, character arc of a past, but because I give so many fucks about people. My people. The world. Myself. So I’m taking a step.
That being said, this is not a call for help. For once in my life I am safe. I feel safe. I feel loved. I’ve been so ridiculously fortunate to have my circle of people, my chosen family by my side. I am simply trying something new. Taking a big girl step. In an effort to heal, accept, and ascend into whatever dragon queen being I can, I am writing bits of my life down. Im doing this for myself. Because I need to be vulnerable. I need to speak it, write it, feel it, accept it… and then let it go.* I am also doing this for anyone out there who might need to know that even after everything is all right that it’s okay to still feel like you are struggling. Your progress is not diminished because you have a bad day. It is not erased because you are still feel afraid or hurt.
Before we go further TW to all. Descriptions, language and scenes of physical, emotional and verbal abuse; narcissism; domestic violence; sexual assault; suicide; guns; mental illness; familial trauma; religion used as a manipulative weapon; and probs more but those are the biggies. If there are others you feel I should include please let me know.
If you read beyond this, thanks for coming to my TED talk.
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All of my life I’ve had to get up. Claw. Climb. Scream. Rage. Fight.
Some of my earliest memories are of my family in chaos. Pain. Today, I know that is because I lived with a narcissist. An abuser. A predator. Someone who was supposed to be my father. I did not get to be a child. So many people saw what was happening. So many people could have asked the right questions, should have asked the questions, and did not. I had teachers, friends and even coaches who viewed me as a troubled person. Who viewed me as less, because the signs they saw, the ones they chose to ignore, were character flaws. They were weaknesses to exploit. I have been told a lot of things about myself throughout my life… from people who were supposed to protect me.
YOU ARE AN EMBARRASSMENT.
Is what my father said when I didn’t want to take the picture for my “album cover.” He was a “musician” always days away from his next big break, his next tour. He “gave up his life and to give me one.” He said it so often I should have had it memorialized on something. He was convinced that if he pushed me to sing, to the play piano, that I would be his in to the music industry. His final big break. He’d decided we would take pictures for my upcoming album? Yo, I was seven. I wanted to literally just study for my second grade spelling test. We took his pictures first, myself and my mom. He was writing a new album so, he needed promotional photos too. I was up next. I had long brown hair. So long I could sit on it. We took a few with my hair cascading down my back and me smiling a toothless grin. I’d just lost two of my bottom teeth. Then he pulled my hair forward, and told me to take my shirt off. I didn’t want to because it was cold. He said it was “part of the artistic vision.” My mom looked uncomfortable and I didn’t know why. They pulled my hair forward to cover, took my shirt and took the photos. To this day I don’t know where the photos are or what was done with them. I don’t remember ever seeing them. It took me until I was twenty seven to remember that night. In the past few years, I learned that he’d sexually abused my sister when she was a child. And that my other sister had become prey for my paternal grandfather. I personally don’t remember of any other instances happening to me beyond those photos. I do however, remember that I was seven and that I was cold.
YOU ARE NOTHING.
Is why my father said to me when he set his 40 caliber handgun on the oak, pullout TV tray and stared at me. Once again, my mother and I had done something wrong. I can’t remember what as there were so many times. So many times I’d been beaten. So many times he’d dragged me by my hair from one room to the next. Once, I’d kicked him, trying to get him to release my hair. My mother begged me, sobbed, to get me to stop. To end it. Because clearly, I was in control. This particular time, the gun was not a threat to me. But a “come to Jesus moment.” He’d declared (for the third time?) he was going to shoot himself. He would end his life and it was my fault. I’d become so awful in my 14 years that the only thing or situation to rectify it, was for him to leave me on this earth “alone.” “This is the only way your mother will truly be a mom to you,” he said. “You deserve this, you are wicked and god will remember the blood I spill from myself because of you.” So, feeling overwhelmed with guilt, I asked him whether he wanted to be buried or cremated. He smiled, praised me for my strength. Told me I’d need it to get by without him. He did not kill himself. Two days later, he took me to get ice cream.
YOU’RE DOING GREAT. (TW sexual assault)
Is what my then boyfriend said when I put the red colored, flavored? condom on him. I’d gone with him to the movies to see Inception in theaters. It was Halloween. Halloween was my favorite. He’d talked me in to going home with him to watch movies instead. My mother knew I was at the movies. His mom was going to drive us. My father was on a hunting trip. I had one parent in the mix who said it was okay. So, I felt it was safe. No chance of my father finding out. His mom let us go in his room to watch paranormal activity. She let him close the door. I’d never been in a room with the door closed before. I wasn’t allowed. He said it’s because we were 15. And he’d promised not to be loud. I giggled. 30 minutes later he showed me how to put a condom on. It wasn’t my first time having sex (my 2nd - rip to my first love and summer romance) but it was the first time I did that. I was okay with it. Excited even. I’d known him since middle school. Liked him too. At this point, we’d been together an astounding 2 weeks. I felt like he wanted this so I wanted it to. It was fine at first but when I went to lay on my back he grabbed my waist and flipped me on my stomach. “What are you doing,” I asked suddenly nervous. “Shhhh. I got you.” I decided I didn’t want it. I had heard about it, but I didn’t want to do it. Anal was not something I thought would be fun. I sat up, said “I don’t think I want this anymore.” He kissed my shoulder and pushed me back down. “It’s okay. It’s just me. You’re doing great.” is what he whispered over and over again in my ear while my hair blocked my sight. My hair was so long it got wrapped around my face. I struggled to breathe through it. I was frozen. I didn’t say anything. When we got dressed to leave he kissed my head and his mom drove us back to the movie theater. He dumped me a week later.
YOU ARE WEAK.
Is what my father said when I’d screamed loud enough for our neighbors to hear, “leave her alone!” He’d gone after my mother again. Hitting her. Shoving her. He was 5’ 11” and 280lbs. She was 5’1” and at the time, 140… maybe. I’d had it. I was 16, and all my life I remember a handful of days that were good. So good that I felt like daddy’s princess. Everyone who “knew him” outside of our household or circle, thought of him as an upstanding, god-fearing man. To us, he was a monster behind closed doors. One that was a fucking bomb that could blow up at any second. And then there were days like that night. He’d hit her, dragged her by her hair and into her room before slamming the door. Her screams and sobs grew louder. So I screamed. He was in a rage when he opened the door. He came after me, and she’d come out of her room saying she was so sorry, to stop this. He’d turned to hit her until I stepped in front of him and he hit me instead. I felt power in that moment. But it was fleeting.
YOU ARE NOT A TEAM PLAYER.
Is what my cheer coach told me when I asked why I wasn’t eligible to be a candidate for cheer captain as one of 3 varsity seniors. I’d put in the work for three years. All the events. Car washes. Practice. Games. But I was laughed at when I asked why. The week prior, I missed a special stunt group (Saturday) practice in preparation for state comp because my father locked me in a closet for getting a B in my math class and C on a chem test. They called again and again. I was allowed to answer the third time they called. “Where are you? Why would you do this? Do you understand that you’re hurting the team?” My father said it was a privilege to be at practice… that I didn’t deserve it. So, I wasn’t going. I simply told my coach and stunt group I couldn’t make it. When I couldn’t give a reason why, he hit me for my bad grades. He hit me for crying during the phone call. Two days later, he hit me again for losing my spot on the stunt team. I had the poorly covered bruises to prove it. They didn’t ask if I was okay after an out-of-character no call no show. They whispered when I walked into practice. My coach said people who aren’t team players don’t get opportunities.
YOU WILL NOT FUCK THIS UP FOR ME.
Is what my father said after he woke me up to hand me the college acceptance letter I’d received. The one and only I was going to receive as I’d only applied to one school. The one that he’d already opened and read without me, because my accomplishments were never about me. They were a means to an end for him. “You will not date,” “you will not impregnate yourself,” and “you will not embarrass me” were next. When the time came, he drove me up to school - 300+ miles north, but still in the same state. He and my mother dropped me off at school saying that despite my failures, some admissions counselor had taken pity on me. That I was an Alvarez. That I would not fuck this up because my family needed me.
YOU ARE DEAD.
Is what my father said on his 1,949,373,678 voicemail after I walked out of a restaurant, got in my best friend’s car and left him (and my mother) behind. Two days before, I’d told him I’d changed my major, I’d gotten a job and I’d be living in my college town from now on. As a 19 year old, this was legal… normal even. For a narcissist, an abuser, this meant he was losing control of me. This wasn’t in his plan. He threatened me and my mother and told me I had to make the 300+ mile trip home to get all of my things because they would throw them out. All in all I should not have gone. But I went anyway, and my best friend drove me across the state. The moment I got there, the threats and the violence promised over the phone were washed away with hugs, kisses and laughter. He was a completely different person. So glad to have his daughter back. The second I could get a moment alone with my mother, I said “he has no intention of letting me leave. He’s never going to let me go is he?” She wouldn’t say anything. Wouldn’t make eye contact. I knew. I was in a panic. There wasn’t a way out. We’d gone to dinner, and I’d told my best friend to make the trip back without me, that I’d figure it out. Instead she walked into the restaurant 20 minutes later with a smile and all of the power of a warrior goddess. She smiled. She charmed. He melted. She was always his favorite of my friends. She used this to conjure up an excuse to get me outside. It worked. We ran.
YOU ARE A DISAPPOINTMENT.
Is what my father said when I refused to come home for holidays over the next few years. It’s hard to disconnect entirely from an abuser. Even harder when they are your father. He said I was the reason my mother cried. It’s definitely not because she is bipolar and is married to an abusive narcissist who had ruined all of their relationships with every one of their six children. After everything, I had agreed to weekly phone calls. Mostly to make sure she was alive. If I missed one, there was hell to pay. If I missed Christmas, he said god would make sure I regretted missing it. When I missed their wedding anniversary, I was told I was the scum of the earth for not sending a gift or saying anything. There was never a moment in my life that I ever saw, remember or even heard them mention celebrating their anniversary. To this very moment, I don’t know what day it is.
YOU ARE NOT MY DAUGHTER.
Is what my father said when I cut him out of my life entirely the day I told him I didn’t want him to come to my college graduation. I’d just spent 4.5 years earning my bachelor’s degree and putting myself through school, and I wanted it to be about my accomplishments. I’d been accepted into a masters program and was ready to grow. I knew the second he stepped foot on campus, I’d return to that closed-off caged person. That my day would belong to the narcissist that he is. I told him not to come. The fear I felt was astronomical. He of course told me “I was nothing.” That I’d done and earned nothing without him. In asking him not to come, I’d lost my mother too. Today, it hurts to hear my siblings talk about her. Saying it’s her fault they were hurt. They knew her in another life, before me. (I was born a month after my closest sibling turned 17). They watched her give everything to him and never stand up to him. I recognize that as a mother, she should have chosen her children. She should have chosen me. But I know she was a victim too. I can’t resent her for what she did or didn’t do. She never had the strength to step away. He owned every part of her. She believed it to her very soul. As far as I know, to this day she still does. So, I received my diploma, I left my father’s abuse behind and I lost my mother. But I never really had her.
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You will always have people who will tell you who and what you are. But you have the power to change that. You can make that choice for yourself.
The point of this is not to tell you I had a shit childhood. It’s not to gain pity or support. I have built my family and support system over the years. Without them, I wouldn’t be here.
In a way, this is my own form of therapy. This isn’t the first time I’ve told someone different parts of my trauma. However, it is the first time I’ve written it down or told complete strangers. Fuck, this is my first post on tumblr… so, yay! Gold star for me.
I hope that sharing my experiences might help someone else. Someone who is maybe still struggling with the things that have happened to them. I hope that if you read this, that you share it so that they might someday know that the things/situations/moments that happened to them don’t have to be used as a weapon. That they don’t always have to be strong. People will always try to explain away your ticks. Your mannerisms. Your emotions. Your reactions. They might roll their eyes when you say you can’t eat that food, watch that movie, visit that place. I hope from the bottom of my heart that if you take anything away with you from this horrifyingly long, and incredibly vulnerable piece of me, it’s that what happened to you is REAL. Your response and feelings are real. They are valid. Someone else’s experience does not make yours any less valid, traumatizing or painful.
Amid it all, I got up. I clawed. I climbed. I screamed. I raged. I fought.
I still I get up. Claw. Climb. Scream. Rage. Fight.
I recognize that I am the vessel for my own darkness. I am the host for my trauma. All that I have experienced has made me, me. I have made peace with that. And, I can acknowledge that my trauma built me into someone I love today while also acknowledging that what happened to me was PREVENTABLE. It was FUCKED UP. IT WAS NOT OKAY. That does not mean I have to allow my trauma to control me or anyone else.
*Here it is. That little asterisk that was included at the top of this novel. If you were wondering where the fuck it was or why it was there - you have arrived* I wrote this to help myself be vulnerable. To heal and to let some of this shit go. Please keep in mind that letting go, does not mean forgiving. There are some things I have, and some things I. Will. Not. Before y’all say “forgiveness is freedom” please btfu. If there is a higher power, forgiveness is for them. I can let go of what I need to let go of. I do not need to forgive things to feel at peace. That is my choice. For those of you who need it, more power to you. But for anyone who may never want to forgive, that does not make you a bad person.*
My trauma is with me everyday. Whispering. Begging. It’s in the days I can’t wash my hair. It’s in the food I can’t taste or won’t eat. It’s in the bed I can’t move from. In the air I can’t breathe. And still, it does not own me. I will not let it. Because when I have the strength again, I will get up.
I will claw. I will climb. I will scream. I will rage. I will fight.
And so will you.
@againstacecilia thanks for walking into that restaurant. You are my hero. I am forever in your debt.
@heathermysoulchildwhoistoocoolfortumblrandpostsherbadassfanficsonao3instead thanks for teaching me that family is built and that am worthy of love.
@mycutiepatootiehusbandwhoisaredditshitposterandpossiblyscaredoftumblrasheshouldbe thanks for choosing life and love with me everyday.
