This is How I Grew Up

A blog where I talk about the many parental abuses I grew up with and how they did (and may still) affect me.

[thisishowigrewup]

For so many kids and teens, teachers are the best equipped to see signs of potential abuse or mental illness. They’re often mandated reporters and can really change lives, especially of abuse victims who don’t know what they’re dealing with is abuse or are so isolated they have no one to go to.

That wasn’t the case for me, though. I didn’t move around and I went to rather small schools, often having the same teacher multiple times. These were adults I spent anywhere from a couple hours to several hours a day with for sometimes two or three years. Even if I didn’t have a class with them, I’d still see them in the hall and say hi and such.

Yet no one, no one, said anything.

Looking back, it really should have been obvious I was going through something. Perhaps not abuse (I didn’t realize at the time what I was going through was abuse despite being trained to never say or do anything that may harm my mother’s image), but there were so many signs something was up.

First, nearly every report card say the same thing: “[thisishowigrewup] is smart and talented but does not apply herself.” AKA when I did work it was good, I just didn’t hand things in if they had to be done at home. That should have at the very least caught someone’s attention as it is on literally dozens of report cards, many by the same teachers. At the very least, someone should have thought to maybe ask about ADHD as that is a classic sign, though it can also be a sign of an unstable home environment.

Next there was all the parent-teacher interviews or other events where parents were invited to meet and talk with teachers. Most of the time, my mother didn’t show. I would spend the day sitting in the corner nibbling on cookies and sipping juice watching as other kids’ parents were super kind and involved in their kids’ education and lives. And of course this happening multiple times a year with the same teachers present never set off any warning flags.

Though that was still preferable to when she would show up. In those cases, if the teacher had anything good to say about me, my mother would claim the praise as her own and bask in it. If the teacher said anything else, my mother would jump on it and agree that I’m a lazy child who cares more about doodling and daydreaming than school work. And I would have to site there as no one defended me as one or two adults talked about me being a failure.

And of course it wouldn’t end there. Afterwards, after other people weren’t around, she would yell at me for being such a bad student and lazy and a disappointment, often grounding me.

There was also the after school program for kids whose parent(s) worked until later and couldn’t pick them up right away. I was the only kid who was in it permanently from the time I entered the school until I left. I was also the only kid whose parent would never show up earlier than 5:30. Most often I would help the teachers clean up and put things away and wait with them after all the other kids were gone. Neither of them ever took a moment to wonder why it was I was treated in such a way, or if they did they never said anything or did anything.

They did try to make me feel better by giving me certain responsibilities because I was a “senior” kid of the program, but all that did was make me have to take responsibility for other kids. I was already isolated enough, and that just served to further isolate me from my peers.

Teachers are human so sometimes they miss things, but looking back, some adult should have been concerned enough to say or do something at some point in the 13 years of schooling I had. There were so many signs something was wrong, but no one did anything. I’m not going to lie, that’s one of the reasons I have trust issues with others, particularly those in positions of authority.

I was young, vulnerable, and had to go through so much alone because no one stopped for a moment to so much as ask me if I was okay. Even now, it still hurts to think of how certain teachers I was close to didn’t pick up on things, or say anything if they did.

(note: that said, if you’re a student and dealing with abuse or other things, if you have a teacher you trust enough to talk to, I do recommend considering doing so. I never spoke up because, for me, what I was going through was normal and because I was trained to never do or say anything that would make others think negatively of my mother. You know your life and situation better than I do, but if you can get help, as scary as reaching out to someone is, it’s worth considering.)

[thisishowigrewup]

Yikes it’s been a while

So I haven’t posted anything in quite a long time, which I’m sorry for. I turned notifications off while I dealt with some things, and I see the people following this blog has increased a lot. I did not mean to just disappear.

That said, I am still struggling a lot with depression and suicide ideation/suicidal urges. The latter hasn’t been as bad lately, but the depression is extremely bad. Therapy didn’t really help (turns out growing up abused and having your emotion regulations completely stunted/warped makes therapy pointless when therapists expect you to respond like NT folks who were “normal” at some point) and I’m still living with my mother, so there’s really no point in it since I can’t actually do anything in a safe space.

And yes, I am still unfortunately living with my mother because I have no one to stay with and have no income to get out. Between depression, anxiety, and a permanently injured wrist, I can’t work at places that are hiring even when it’s something I could do if it was modified. Yet I don’t meet the criteria to apply for disability, either, so I’m stuck in limbo and it takes a major toll mentally. And orgs that help people out of abusive living situations tend to only focus on teens, which I haven’t been for a long time now (plus the focus is always on physical or sexual abuse, not emotional and verbal when the abuser is able to switch to being charming and nice when others are around. At least where I am that’s the case -- it’s worth looking into if local orgs for you are better if you need to get out).

So yeah. A lot has and continues to go on and so much stuff has had to be put on hold or was forgotten because I simply do not have the spoons to deal with much right now, and this blog has been one of the unfortunate victims of that. I’ll see if I can’t post a bit more than a handful of times a year or so, though.

Y’all be safe and may this year be a better one for you <3

[thisishowigrewup]

It’s kind of strange not being quizzed all the time on random things. For a long, long, long time (and still sometimes now) my mother would just randomly ask me what X is or when Y came out, quite often about songs from the 70′s and 80′s. If I didn’t know it (what 8 year old knows detailed stuff about songs from the 80′s, especially before the internet was really a thing??) she would mock me for not knowing something “so simple” or otherwise go “lol ur stupid.”

If I did know it by chance, she would say “Wow, who made you so smart?”

Not that I was smart in knowing it, but she was awesome for having a kid that knew a random piece of trivia, so she’s the one who deserves the praise and I just lucked out in knowing whatever.

As a result of this, I had (and still have some) anxiety over people randomly asking me things, especially if the radio was on. I thought it was normal to ask people things and try to catch them not knowing said thing. Turns out most people give zero fucks if you can name other songs by a band, and certainly won’t ask you about it out of nowhere.

I also tend to be very into knowing things before answering or even asking a question. I’ve gotten better about it, but for a long time I would try to memorize things so I could answer my mother’s questions, to the point it really wasn’t healthy, what with all the stress it caused me. I have to wonder if one of the reasons why I avoided music for such a long time was because if I had been into something, she would have quizzed me all the time about what I liked (she wouldn’t have known the answers, she just would have fished until I couldn’t answer, at which point I would prove I wasn’t smart).

But I realize now it was never about me. It was never her being interested in what I knew. It was only ever about her. If I didn’t know the answer, she got to tear me down while feeling good about herself in “proving” how dumb I was. If I knew the answer, she took credit over having raised me/imparted knowledge. Essentially, she applauded herself and I was just the vehicle for her to do so without seeming conceited.

(BTW: I eventually started answering “who made you so smart?” with “I did.” She was not happy once I stopped being coerced into praising her and  stopped asking it shortly after. Go figure.)

[thisishowigrewup]

i think my parents are abusive but i feel like i'm not 'abused enough' to call it that. i'm not bruised, i have food to eat, i have clothes, and that's supposedly the only criteria that parents must fit but fuck they scare me. manipulative, cruel, narcissistic bullies. i'm reporting them soon, but i may wait a year so that i can get out safely, and be able to help my siblings better. i'm sorry if you don't accept asks, but idk where to go ya know? do u have any advice..?

Unfortunately I don’t have any advice other than to stay safe. As tempting as it is to get out immediately, if you have no where to go and no way to support yourself (or no one willing/able to support you as you get your footing), laying groundwork and preparing tends to be recommended when there’s no risk of life. If you leave and things don’t go well, either you’ll have to come back and things will get worse, or you won’t be allowed back. And social safety nets are full of holes or non-existent.

It’s really up to each victim to decide whether it’s better/safer to stay longer to have a better shot at getting out or if getting out regardless is the best option. Every situation is so different, there’s no one thing that fits everyone.

When there siblings or others you want to get out, too, that also complicates things. I don’t have any so I’m not comfortable commenting on what you should do, but there are communities out there with people who have been in that situation. I’m not a big proponent of Reddit by any means, but the subreddit raisedbynarcissists might be a good place to check out/ask if anyone there has any advice. Obviously things can be triggering there and I don’t always agree with the hivemind, but the people there have grown up with abuse and could maybe help you out. If nothing else, if it’s not triggering for you, it can be cathartic.

And for the record, that is abuse you’re going through, plain and simple. It sounds like you know it is, but as a fellow abuse victim I get that there’s always that feeling of “sure it’s bad, but it’s not really abuse” as a way to cope and because we’re taught that as long as a parent doesn’t let us starve and only hits us on the butt, we have nothing to complain about. But that’s a lie. So much abuse is verbal and “little” things that don’t tend to register to people on the outside.

I still often start second guessing whether I really was/am abused or not, because it fucking sucks and there’s still part of me that wishes I had a decent relationship with either of my parents. What I found helped was making this tumblr. Writing it down cemented it and made it real. It’s hard and not for everyone, but it forced me to accept that yes, I wasn’t beaten and I had food and clothes, but I was put through hell the moment I was born. A child should never be afraid of their parent and constantly walking on eggshells while reading every vowel and every twitch to get an idea of what kind of mood their parent is in.

If I start doubting things, I can just look back at this and see a snapshot. I have memory troubles because of the abuse, so having it written out helps me remember and not fall into the trap of thinking it wasn’t so bad. If the personality disorder, depression, anxiety, and a whole host of other problems caused directly from my mother’s abuse don’t do that first, that is. Of course writing it out is risky, but making something physical (and not linked to your parents/abuse visually because safety is paramount) could help.

Anyway, while I can’t really help, I can wish you the best of luck and hope you (and your siblings) are able to find a safe place and escape.

[thisishowigrewup]

Mother’s Day

Just a reminder that you don’t owe your mother anything.

It’s absolutely fine if you don’t want to join in on celebrating someone who abused you, manipulated you, isolated you, fucked you up, or even someone you just don’t like. There’s nothing wrong with that and just because someone gave birth to you doesn’t mean you owe it to be nice to them.

It’s also absolutely fine if you go along with it and pretend things aren’t as bad because it’s easier than not doing anything and being labeled as ungrateful and uncaring. Sometimes it’s easier to pretend, especially if not doing so could cause increased amounts of abuse and people judging you for it rather than examining why you didn’t do anything.

Take care of yourselves first and do what’s right for you.

[thisishowigrewup]

There’s often talk about how abusive parents can mess with someone’s relationship with food -- especially if the abuse has food/weight components to it. I never see talk about how abuse can influence one’s relationship with time and space.

(and for the record, I am not at all discrediting food abuse or any of that. It’s horrible and my heart goes out to people who went through it and may still be dealing with the fallout. I’m just using it as a parallel and way to better describe what I’m about to).

Some parents are strict about food. What you can eat, when you can eat, how much you can eat, they dictate it as if you are an object that has no needs or preferences of your own. My mother had this a little, but surprisingly it’s one of the few things I managed to mostly escape. No, what my mother was strict about was time and controlling what I was doing.

I had to follow her schedule, do what she wanted, do it how she did it. It’s one thing to tell a child “this needs to be done by X time” or “could you do Y for me?” or “here, let me show you how to do Z”, but of course my mother was never like that.

I had to do what she wanted when she wanted it done, and when she did it. When she told (or yelled at) me to do something, I had to drop everything I was doing and do it right that instant. Didn’t matter if I was doing homework or playing a game with a group of people or actually going to my job (yes, she forced me to call into work because there was something she wanted done and god forbid it happen 4 hours later), I had to do what she said. And if she was doing something, by the gods I had better be doing something; I got called lazy and screamed at so many times because she decided to do laundry or paper work and I was watching something or playing a game.

Before I just gave up trying to deal with her, I always told my mother I would do other things but I would not touch the kitchen because it was disgusting since she never made an effort to clean it and used the skin as a garbage can (week+ old organics mixing with stagnant water creating slime and an ungodly smell was so fun to deal with). What happened? She would always yell at me to clean the kitchen. I could do other things -- hell, I could clean the entire house -- but if there was one thing I didn’t do that she wanted done, everything else counted for nothing and I would get yelled at.

She also never asked me to do something; she told (or yelled at me) what to do. She also never said a word, and not being psychic, things would seem fine until she’d explode about how lazy I was by not doing X, Y, and Z right that instant.

My mother never showed me how to do stuff. She would mock me and tell me how to do stuff in a super patronizing tone. If she saw me doing something that worked (sometimes better) in a way she wouldn’t do it, she would yell at me to get it “right” even though I wasn’t harming anything or any one and the way I was doing it was easier or made more sense to me.

As a result, if she’s around, I am constantly stressed and on edge. Even if she’s not home right then but will be later in the day, I am still stressed because I never know when she’s going to yell at me and know no matter what, she’s going to find fault with what I did.

This lead to me “hoarding” time for myself. If she’s not around or is asleep, I will do absolutely nothing except watch stuff, play games, or other things that are fun. It started when I was way younger, but it continues to this day. I never knew when I’d have time to myself or for how long, so I binged the fuck out of what time I had. Even when I want(ed) to clean or organize things, I wouldn’t because it would cut into what leisure time I had. Plus I would get yelled at for doing it wrong or not doing it well enough, so why bother when I could do something else?

Even when I wasn’t enjoying what I was doing, I was still compelled to do it because I never knew when I’d get a chance again.

It wasn’t healthy and I still am stuck with it.

The only time I feel free is when my mother is out of the house for at least a few days. I can do what I want, when I want, how I want and not have to worry about her blowing up at me. I don’t have to worry about dropping everything to cater to her whims, and I don’t have to worry about being criticized for any little thing. I can actually get shit done I’ve wanted to get done forever!

I don’t know if others have similar experiences, but it sucks and just further destroys your self-esteem having stuff that needs to get done -- that you want to get done -- but can’t because you have to make every moment count when you’re alone, and can’t do it when your mother is there because who knows what kind of storm will blow in when you start.

If I have the house to myself or am staying with someone else (who isn’t family), things instantly change. But otherwise, nope. Because when that’s been your life for how long and was how you survived, it’s hard or impossible to change when you’re stuck living with the person who caused/causes it in the first place.

[thisishowigrewup]

“You are so lazy and disgusting for wetting the bed.”

That’s what my mother always told me.

There’s nothing disgusting about wetting the bed past an arbitrary age. Plenty of people do it, though no one talks about it. Except in the mind of my mother, who thought it was a moral failing and a way to spite her on my part.

I don’t care to admit just how long I went the bed -- I actually have never told anyone before, so congrats, tumblr -- but it was long enough that it was beyond the tail end of what was “normal.” It was so entwined with how I grew up that I literally just had one of those moments where you suddenly realize one of the “quirky” or “unusual” things from your childhood was actually pretty damn abusive. I’ve known for a long time that bed wetting is a sign of abuse or otherwise troubled childhood, but it took me this long to realize just how my mother twisted that and made itself a beacon of abuse and something to give her power over me.

A kind parent, a concerned parent, would have taken their child to see a doctor and/or a therapist to find out what was wrong. But my mother is neither of those things. Not once did I ever see a doctor or therapist about it. Partly, I believe, because my mother truly thought I was just being too lazy to get out of bed and wanted to make her was my sheets, and partly because there was a chance it would lead to her getting called out on her shit.

The only three things she ever did to “help” me was buy a picture book that basically came down to not drinking anything after a certain time, those diapers for kids older than 6 or 7, and a waterproof mattress cover that screamed bloody murder if it got wet.

The idea behind the mattress cover was that it would wake me up and I would connect full bladder to instantly waking up, but that negative feedback and punishment doesn’t really work too well and can make things worse. I take a certain joy in that it actually made things worse for my mother. See, it woke me up at first, but then I adjusted (which can happen when it happens every. fucking. night.) and would sleep through it, leaving it to wake my mother up and have her storm in angry that her sleep was disturbed. Once that started happening, the mattress pad just kind of disappeared for ~~*mysterious*~~ reasons.

But to get to the insidious part of the abuse, my mother used it to isolate me and always have it as a threat if I didn’t behave. See, I was never really able to have sleep overs at friends because I was terrified of them finding out I still wet the bed. A fear my mother encouraged by always talking about how gross I was, and making snide, mocking comments whenever she bought a new pack of the diapers. If there was a chance at a sleep over, she would always ask “are you going to tell them you pee the bed?” in just a really rude and patronizing way.

And of course if I was playing with a friend and she was around, there was always the unsaid threat that if I did anything she didn’t like, she would let it slide just how gross I was. I actually wouldn’t be surprised if she told the parents of some friends without my knowledge or consent.

To this day, I have severe anxiety around having friends or partners around my mother because if she doesn’t say that, there are so many other things she could say to make me look bad. (also I don’t want anyone else to have to deal with her, and if she did say anything, it could create a situation). 

My mother would also take great glee out of saying “thisishowIgrewup can’t go on a sleep over because she can’t sleep without her mommy” whenever the chance presented itself. I wasn’t allowed to speak up, and as usual, she made it about her while putting me down. I had to go along with that narrative that I was so attached to my mother I could never spend a night apart. Which, of course, lead to it getting around that I was super shy and scared and stuff like that.

Not to mention complaining about me to my family, and throwing another wedge in there.

For a very long time I had convinced myself that my bed wetting was because my body grew faster than my bladder (which was probably true) and I was just such a heavy sleeper. But no, bed wetting is a classic sign of abuse and that the adults should start paying attention for any signs of mental illness starting. Of course instead of getting me help, my mother just used the sign of abuse to further abuse me, which just made it worse.

I did finally stop, literally overnight, but the comments didn’t stop for probably around a year as my mother was convinced I was so gross and lazy that I would inevitably start again.

And really, there shouldn’t be any shame attached to bed wetting. It can be an inconvenience, sure, but that’s no reason to insult or put people down. Sleep is the most vulnerable time for people, and not all brains or bodies let a person retain a certain amount of control during that time. All insulting people -- especially children! -- does is make it even harder for them to get help and creates anxiety around sleeping and/or sleeping around someone else.

And by furthering that stigma, it makes it easier for child abusers to continue their abuse, as it is a good sign that abuse could be afoot, but a child won’t come forward when they know it’s something shameful to admit.

[thisishowigrewup]

is it okay to reblog your posts?

Yup, by all means feel free to reblog :)

[thisishowigrewup]

So what the heck is going on?

Is this blog dead?

Nope, but I have had so much shit going on and been so depressed that I have no energy to go through the archive and then write new posts.

When will you update?

After this, I don’t know. Things still haven’t improved so consider it on hiatus until I have energy to spare. There may be an occasional post here or there, but don’t expect steady posts any time soon.

What the heck happened to you?

I don’t know what all I’ve posted so I’ll go waaaay back to the summer.

First, my mother sent me a text early one morning after I had crashed at a friend’s house. In it, she said she was kicking me out because I didn’t have a job and “wasn’t contributing” and that we would “discuss” it when I got home. Of course there was no discussion and she didn’t say anything until out of the blue she started yelling at me about why I wasn’t doing everything she wanted.

I tried to walk away but she wouldn’t let me, and eventually she kept yelling and pushing and I told her I was severely depressed. Well, I was right in that despite over a decade of obvious and classic signs of depression, she thought I was just lazy and a slob because she was shocked for all of 4 seconds. After those seconds, she started yelling and making it about her and “why didn’t [I] come to her for help?!?!”

Yes, the abusive person who is a large reason why I’m depressed and have other mental health issues and who always disregarded my feelings, emotions, and told me to shut up/called me stupid for my entire life wondered why I never went to her for help.

Anyway, things calmed down a bit and I wasn’t kicked out. She also didn’t think things through in that if I wasn’t here, she wouldn’t be able to go on trips without hiring someone to watch her dog.

Of course that’s just one thing that happened.

Another is I ultimately ended up failing all my college classes because my depression got so bad. I didn’t return for the current semester and I don’t know if I’ll go back for spring, but I also have to go back otherwise I’ll start having to pay back my student loans and I have no money for that (I think I may be fucked for the future, too, because the government isn’t happy when you fail courses after taking out a loan).

Speaking of money, I am down to a few hundred dollars for both myself and my cats because I still cannot find a job after months of looking. Everything requires things that would immediately trigger a panic attack, or years of experience, or a car, or a mix of all three. But of course I can’t move to somewhere with better job selection because I have pretty much no money and have no one I could stay with rent-free anywhere.

Then there’s how I’m still stuck living with my mother, and she’s renewed her plan to kick me out. I don’t know when it will happen, but it will at some point. And again, when that happens, there’s no one I’d be able to stay with so may very well end up on the street. Hopefully the weather warms up a bit more before that, but the weather has been super funny this year because of climate change.

Also despite trying, I cannot make any friends, let alone find someone to date. No one wants anything to do with me, and even my current friends have withdrawn a ton. It’s not uncommon to go days without talking to anyone, and weeks between seeing people (always in a group, because apparently no one wants to be alone with me?).

Now, for the big thing.

Just before Christmas, I was about to commit suicide. I had been thinking about it for days and decided I was going to do it. I mentioned it to a friend as a way to say goodbye, she intervened and acted as an intermediary between me and a group that deals with that. Ultimately I went into hospital overnight, which really sucked. Not because of what I was going through but because I was told to sit in an uncomfortable chair for 4 hours (from ~11:30PM-3:30AM). In that time, no nurse so much as acknowledged me or offered me a blanket, or even let me sit in a better chair.

When I did finally see the doctor, she decided to make me involuntary (which is now in my file. Joy). In the morning, after maybe an hour of sleeping under my jacket (the room was freezing and they only gave us one thin blanket), I saw a psych. A psych that basically told me to get over my anxiety and kicked me out after setting up an appointment with a psych/therapist team elsewhere.

Been seeing them for a couple months now and all that has happened is the psych seems most interested in getting me on meds, and the therapist in the last session told me she can’t help me.

So I’ll probably stop going. One of the reasons why I agreed to go to the hospital in the first place was people were saying how it would fast-track me to see someone who would be able to help. Except the meds don’t do much and the person who supposedly would be able to help me just told me she can’t and to GTFO.

What next?

I really don’t know.

[thisishowigrewup]

Are you okay? You haven't posted in awhile...Is this blog dead?

I wouldn’t say it’s dead, but currently I have a lot going on and writing this stuff tends to be triggering (if cathartic), so it is on hiatus until I am in a better spot to write about all of it.

I may go into more detail at a later time, but for the moment I will say that there was a massive depressive episode, I wasn’t able to complete my classes for the semester because of it, and I was hospitalized overnight because I was going to kill myself. (and of course my mother has no idea about any of it because she doesn’t care)

I’m in a bit of a better place mentally right now, but I still have to deal with the above, as well as finding a job and place to live. And when it comes down to it, I need to focus on minimizing triggers and anxiety attacks and such. For the time being at least.

[thisishowigrewup]

In highschool I had this friend who one day punched a locker full force because he got hit in the balls.

This caused one of the bones in his hand to snap and poke out of the skin.

Obviously this was super concerning and a Big Fucking Deal, so me and the other person there grabbed all our stuff and set out to find a clinic because bones should not be poking out of the skin (though there surprisingly little blood).

I was probably supposed to call my mom or something, because partway to the clinic she called my cell (back when flip phones were the thing) and started yelling at me for not doing what she wanted. I told her that X had at least one broken bone and I was trying to get him help, but she yelled at me how she didn’t care and to get home that instant, even though it meant leaving my injured friend.

I didn’t listen, of course.

When I got home around 7 or so, she instantly blew up at me, yelling at me for being horrible and irresponsible and not listening, etc. etc. Even when I said that my friend had two broken bones and would need surgery ASAP, she didn’t care. I didn’t do what she said or wanted, and she was the only one who mattered.

I think I got grounded for 2 or 3 weeks for helping a friend get medical attention.

[thisishowigrewup]

The previous post reminded me of something while I was writing it.

I was yelled at so often and called a wimp whenever I showed any sign of pain. This especially came through when I would limp, for whatever reason.

I would limp and either wouldn’t be able to keep up or do something, and my mom would yell at me to stop being a wimp and to stop faking it because I “wasn’t limping properly”. Even when my knee was injured, my mom would yell at me and say I wasn’t actually in pain because how I limped did not match her idea of how limping worked/looked.

One time I asked why she thought I was faking and she gave some vague answer about how she never limped that way so obviously I was faking it.

I never understood it, and still don’t. I would move in such a way to minimize pain, and how she thought I should move just caused more. And now that I’m older, I realize just how fucked up it is to yell at people for “faking” pain. It’s no wonder I never go to her with health stuff and actively try to hide it in general. Especially with limping -- surprise, surprise -- I do everything I can to keep a regular gait and for me to visibly limp means I’m probably in a hell of a lot of pain.

People experience pain in different ways, and just because it’s not visible or they don’t act how you think someone in pain would act doesn’t mean they aren’t in pain. So don’t invalidate them and tell them they’re faking it.

[thisishowigrewup]

Who needs doctors?

For a period of years when I was younger, I had a rash or something on my scalp that caused sores and constant flaking. I have no idea what it was, though, because my mom insisted it was ring worm and refused to take me to a doctor about it.

Even though I never lost hair in the affected areas (something that does happen with ring worm), she was convinced it was ring worm and that it was because I was “dirty” or morally failed at something. So without taking me to a doctor, she decided to buy anti-fungal cream for it, which of course didn’t really do anything. She would force me to sit down and rub it in really hard, and sometimes it would burn because the skin was sensitive/broken. For years.

I don’t know when it stopped, but I think around puberty it became less obvious -- mostly just tons of dandruff and less sores. Eventually my mom stopped yelling at me about it and making me put cream on it, but she never stopped insisting it was ring worm and bad-mouthing me to the rest of my family over it. To this day she probably would still insist it was ring worm and all my fault.

That’s not the only time she has insisted something while refusing to take me to a doctor to actually get a diagnosis.

One time I slipped and banged my knee hard on the corner of some tile stairs. I don’t know how long I lay there in pain but it was a while, and I couldn’t bend my knee at all for two days. I wanted to see a doctor. My mom told me it was fine and to stop being such a wimp. It took over a month until I could walk without a limp, and even longer to be able to walk without pain.

It took years until I could sleep through the night, as my knee would start burning and wake me up. It ended up with me taking 2-3 ibuprofen a night to try to deal with the pain/sleep (ibuprofen tends to knock me out) for months, which probably has caused heart damage (which is a whole other thing).

To this day, my knee often acts up and is painful. There are times where going up stairs is something I can only do slowly and with putting both feet on the same stair before moving on to the next one. And in a nice fucky twist, painkillers often set it off, so when I have a headache or cramps or something, I have to calculate whether the pain I’m in now is better or worse than the pain I’d be in if my knee starts burning. There have been many times where I just sit there and have to deal with pain because it’s not worth the risk otherwise.

I don’t know what, if anything, a doctor could have done, but it couldn’t have resulted in anything worse than this. I wasn’t even given a chance because my mom insisted she knew best and that I was just being a wimp. Now I probably have arthritis in the knee and some in the hip, plus possible heart damage. All because she couldn’t be bothered to take her crying kid who couldn’t bend their knee after a pretty traumatic injury (the tile corner was sharp and hit the soft area right below the knee cap) to even a clinic to get checked out.

[thisishowigrewup]

Know what really helps with parent-child bonding? Forcing your child into baths that they tell you are painfully hot for them.

Which is what my mother did to me until I was old enough to draw my own baths.

Every time I needed a bath, she would inevitably make it too hot because her idea of hot and mine are different. I would stick one foot in and rapidly pull it out -- it instantly becoming bright pink -- and say it’s too hot. If I was lucky, she would grumble but put cold water in. But most of the time she would tell me to “stop being such a wimp” and force me to get in even though it was extremely painful and my skin would instantly be pink bordering on red.

This would often be followed by something along the lines of a condescending “see, it’s not so bad” as I’m sitting there feeling like my skin is burning.

Of course this made me really reluctant to take baths so she would yell at me about that. Funny that a kid doesn’t want to do something that is physically painful and is told they’re just being too sensitive about it. And then she’d yell at me to get out because by the time it was over, the water had cooled enough that I could enjoy it and didn’t want to come out.

To this day she still comments on how I always fought bath time but was impossible to get out. She also routinely tells me to stop being a wimp when I don’t want to deal with scalding hot water until it cools down or I have gloves or something so I can, you know, not be in pain or burn my skin.

[thisishowigrewup]

I hate small talk. Not so much the act itself (though I do wish silences were more acceptable, especially if you barely know the other person) but because I can't do it myself. Unless the other person is able and willing to carry the conversation, I pretty much can't do it. I wish I could, but I can't. Not being able to have a voice and use it does that to a person. I could never have any sort of conversation with my mom. She wasn't interested and I was far too worried about her yelling at me and possibly grounding me for something I might say. There would be some talk, but nothing of any depth. That's still the case to this day. The rest of my family wasn't much better, either. There was less fear of being yelled at, but they also didn't talk to or ask me a whole lot, and my mom would often butt in and speak "for me" (often saying rude things and shutting me down). It was very much a "children are seen but not heard" situation. A side effect of this was that I never learned how to really talk to people. I was an only child with few friends and spent more time talking to my toys than with people because there was rarely anyone around I could actually truly talk to. If someone asks me something, I can respond and possibly go on for some length depending on the subject, sure, but asking people things? That is completely foreign to me. Even now, I have to mentally prepare when I know I'm going to have to talk to someone and consciously make sure the conversation is being split well. There's also plenty of awkward pauses because this is not second nature to me and most people expect a bit more fluency. I can't even talk about myself at any length. I had an abuser say I talked too much about myself at a time when I was severely depressed and was already thinking that/I was too worthless to talk about myself, and that fear stuck. (Looking back I realize that I barely talked about myself a whole lot anyway, but he had been grooming and gaslighting me for years at that point). Obviously my mom also heavily influenced things, but that was the catalyst. And it really sucks. As much as the media plays up the shy, awkward girl, it's not a fun part to play and it's hella obvious most people are unsure of what to do in response, which just makes things worse. And I know I always have the fear that I'm going to be boring, seem uninvested and uncaring towards the other person, or just come off as bad and incapable because people are largely judged and valued on how the converse. Especially by strangers. It's one of the reasons I can't go into a customer service job -- customers want to chat but I can't do that. Let your kids have a voice and be free to use it. There's a lot of factors for me, but not having one or a place to use it are huge reasons why small talk and conversations are difficult and stressful for me. I'm always thinking about how things are going (read: how badly I'm fucking up) and worrying about whether I'm showing the proper amount of interest or if I need to up it. Even when I'm interested, because I sit there quietly it's easy to assume I'm bored. It's a lot of energy I need to spend on basic human interaction. It's easy to assume some seemingly insignificant thing won't harm a child, but it can have cascading effects which last a lifetime. Especially when it comes from parents or families. I doubt I'll ever reach a point where talking to someone isn't somewhat stressful and where I don't have to think about how to keep it going.

[thisishowigrewup]

When you're little, trips to see your grandparent(s) are supposed to be fun, right? That's what media and society wants you to believe, anyway.

For the most part, I did like going to see my grandma. She had a big house and a yard way bigger than anything you'd find in the city, and a lot of old toys that were fun to play with. There were two downsides, however.

One is that she's very much religious. This wouldn't have been a problem if my mother had stood up for me. See, even when I was little, I was not into religion. I respected it and was agnostic, but Catholicism was definitely not for me. Yet my grandma would always want me to go to church with her when I was there, as well as my mom. My mom of course would refuse to go herself (opting to sleep in), but even when I asked to not go and begged a few times, her response was essentially "too bad, deal with it." Her view was she had to deal with my grandma talking about it (my mom was never forced to go to church), it was only fair that I be forced to go.

Luckily my grandma was somewhat understanding that a church where the median age was 60-70 wasn't interesting to a kid, so I was allowed to bring a book to read (shoutout to reading Animorphs in a church mid-sermon!). If there were enough kids, there'd be a separate Sunday school for us but that was not my cup of tea. It would be maybe 6 of us at most and I'd get weird looks for not knowing stories or verses and such. I’d also be the oldest by a couple years and not “proper”.

The other downside was that at least once every day or two, my mom would blow up at my grandma (her mother) over something. It could be something as small as my grandma asking a question a second time, and suddenly there’s my mom yelling about how rude and overbearing my grandma was being. My mom would be the same with me, too, of course. The end result always ended up being both my grandma and I would be walking on eggshells constantly since neither of us knew what would set my mom off. It's kind of fucked up that a kid ends up having to think that it would be better if they took all that anger and hate because it's too painful to see someone else take it.

Even when other family members were around, they wouldn't say anything or call my mom out on it. Looking back, it's no wonder why I learned to never say anything or ask for help and have trouble calling people out on stuff. No one ever did that with me so even into my 20's, I didn't realize that was an option.

It's also no wonder I haven't seen my grandma in the better part of a decade. It's not that I don't want to see her or she doesn't want to see me, it's that neither of us want to deal with my mom.

[thisishowigrewup]

Note #2

The past few weeks have been interesting, to say the least. Shit hit the fan and one morning I got a text from my mom telling me she was kicking me out. No previous mention or even going "we need to talk", just a text text going "you have to find a new place to live".

She has since backed down on it, but the writing's on the wall. My mental health has also been steadily deteriorating and this is not a place I can remain if I want to start doing anything to try to change that. I am about to start some counseling but this place being so utterly toxic will negate most of the good from that.

However, I'm absolutely broke and no one I know is looking/able to have roommates, and anxiety/living in an abusive house my entire life makes it really hard to consider roommates I don't know even if through a mutual friend. Couch-surfing is also out. I don't exactly look like the best roommate right now, either, considering I'm unemployed.

I've been trying to figure out my options and will most likely bite the bullet and apply for a large student loan and hope future me will have the means to pay it off.

I just have to get out of here. Or try to.