When I'm with them, a switch gets flipped and I am in happy mode.
At the moment, they are 6 and 4, and all they know of my past is that mommy is an orphan who was adopted.
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They teach me how to be capable of joy.Īnd there are my sons.
The dos and don'ts of getting close to me. Intimacy is really tough-both emotional and sexual-so I set limits. One doctor told me, "You're a 23-year-old with a 53-year-old's body."ĭating is terrible for most people, and I'm no different. I've battled cervical cancer twice, and because my joints didn't develop correctly, I already have arthritis. You may wonder about my health, considering the complicated web of a gene pool I came from. Any diseases that were in my dad's side of the family I have a high risk for, because I have so much of his DNA. I've always loved animals, and I volunteer as a vet tech in my spare time. If I have a panic attack, he will locate pressure points and push his giant head into them until my breathing returns to normal. He's a big, fluffy Saint Bernard who is trained to know my triggers, and will sit on my feet to literally block them from me and calm me down. We will chat for 45 minutes while I calm down, and then I'm like, "All right, let's walk into the store." Instead of glossing them over, he pushes me to deal with them-if we decide to go shopping and then all of a sudden I can't get out of the car, he just sits next to me and waits for the panic to pass. Then there's my roommate, who is aware of my anxiety triggers. She visited me in the hospital and brought me drawings from our sons. My husband and I divorced, but oddly enough I wound up bonding with his new wife. I have several really supportive friends. I still read those journals when I'm having a tough day, to remind myself of how much I've overcome.
I wrote nonstop, in my room, around others, in the cafeteria during meals. So I started talking, and I started journaling. When you're in a mental hospital, you can either talk about your problems or color with crayons in the recreation room. I was even institutionalized for a time after a suicide attempt. Throughout these years, as a stone-sober working mother in her late teens, I struggled with intense anxiety and the fog of depression. We had another son, and my husband entered the Marine Corps. I married my high-school sweetheart, the father of my child. I graduated valedictorian of my high school class. She reminded me that my bad behavior was because I was a "child of Satan.Īfter that, I had some semblance of a normal life. My son and I were sent to a foster home, but the social worker assigned to my case was the same one who had helped my mother and brothers all those years ago. When I gave birth, the doctors took one look at a pregnant teen covered in bruises and reported me to social services. I stopped drinking and smoking the second I found out, and all my focus was on giving this kid a better life than I had. I got pregnant with my high-school boyfriend when I was 16-and my child finally changed my life for the better. My fury was huge, and I sought refuge in prescription painkillers and pot. Many teenagers are angry, and many experiment with drugs and alcohol and sex. When I did something that displeased her, she reminded me that my bad behavior was because I was a "child of Satan." So she regularly beat me, and peppered me with constant psychological abuse. She wasn't mentally stable herself, and she saw me as the love child of her husband's infidelity-to her, my mother was the other woman. I was sent to live with my grandmother, who had been a silent witness to the horrors her husband performed. My mother hanged herself on August 7, 1996, when I was almost 5. One of my earliest, haziest memories is being sent to my room for the night because I resisted, and in another I refuse to give her boyfriend oral sex.
She got a new boyfriend and would use me, a toddler at the time, as a part of their sexual activity-she filmed and photographed me in these situations and sold them as kiddie porn. My mother started doing drugs, and continued the cycle of abuse. Unfortunately, we weren't suddenly safe just because my dad was behind bars.
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