Diary of an Anxious Millennial #7- My Story
Like all my writing this is extremely personal. I am writing as a part of therapy in hopes to help with healing. This article I will be talking about my personal experience with domestic violence and abuse. These stories I will be sharing how I remember them from my childhood-self perspective. This maybe an article some people choose not to read. I am sharing these things as I remember them and learning to speak my truth. In this article I will not be using the abusers name but referring to them as the nickname that my sister gave them to add some light to how I feel. It will likely be seen as rude or offensive but in all honesty I can’t even write their name. With all this being said I am ready to finally share some of my experiences. I realize that this could have a sad impact on my parents who tried their best to be my protectors and who both love me deeply. However, this is my story and I need to be open and honest about the things I saw and the things that happened.
Many people know that I experienced abuse as a young child and witnessed a lot of abuse. Which has led to me suffering from PTSD. I have in the last few years tried to be more open about why I suffer from PTSD. It also has taken a lot to admit the real reason we moved from Florida to Maine. Even to this day I catch myself saying “Oh my mom just wanted a change” and that is why we moved almost 2,000 miles away from our home in Florida. I know that this is nowhere near the truth but I have always struggled with opening up about the darkness that hides in the closet of my life.
I believe I was around six or seven years old when my parents marriage began to fall apart. My mom had introduced her new female “friend” into the family and we spent a ton of time with this person. I’m not gonna say it caused my father to leave because I was six I have no idea, but I understand how it added to the reasons for leaving at the time. After my father was gone life changed a lot. We moved out of our home and into a really small apartment. My moms “friend” came around a lot more, and at six and seven I had no idea about the concept of romantic relationships between men and women let alone between two women.
This woman got closer and closer to my life and her children began to become somewhat of step siblings but the kind that you really don’t want and honestly the spawn of satan that “could never do wrong.” We spent every waking moment with this woman and her family. I never understood the things that happened where wrong until I became an teen.
Here is where we get into the honestly sad story part of this. I only remember a few stories and I have been told by my sister that she doesn’t even think one happened the way it did even though she was there and I remember my mom taking pictures. I will start with the first incident I remember and move all the way through to the very end.
The first thing I ever remember was being over at the Great White Hippo’s house. We basically spent all our time there. My sister at this point was a teen and didn’t have to come with us ever. It was always known that the Great White Hippo hated my sister with a passion. To me my sister was and will always be my world. I was seven years old, my sister was the coolest person in my life at that point. It was around my sister’s birthday, my mother and I had picked out this awesome David Bowie shirt. My sister LOVED David Bowie so I felt super cool that we had found the perfect gift. I don’t know what set it off but all the sudden screaming and yelling occured. They were wrestling with the shirt and she tore it to pieces. My mom and her tusselled and my mom tried to save that shirt. I remember screaming and crying as they beat each other up over this shirt that was now destroyed. After this my memory goes blank. I don’t know how, or when we left, or how we got to the emergency room. I just remember being in the car and my mother saying “I broke it by hitting it with a hammer.” My mom’s pinky finger is completely broken even to this day. That is where some of the PTSD comes it. Every day I saw that finger I was reminded of this battle over a T-shirt. I remember the extreme pain in my chest that someone could hate someone so much. Even when I see my mom now that finger crushes a little part of me. I know what happened because I was there but I have to pretend like a simple broken pinky finger doesn’t bother me or remind me or that I don’t even know what happened.
The second extreme incident I remember is the one that everyone involved sees differently. At this point I was 11 years old and my sister was about 18. We still lived in our little apartment and my sister had a friend over. It was really late so we had all been in bed. Out of nowhere screaming, pounding, yelling, all comes from the front door. It was the Great White Hippo freaking out over something. She was trying to break into the apartment. Saying “I’m gonna kill you, you are all dead to me” things along that nature. She completely tore the screen door off, and demolished the one piece of my Grandfather my sister and I had kept. A wooden well that he had made. I remember she reached her arm into the door when my mom opened it with the top security lock. Her arm reached in and started grabbing and hitting and trying to break her way through. Complete terror was in my heart and writing this I remember exactly how I felt. At some point the door ended up opening. I remember my sister running out and trying to fight off the Great White Hippo and getting punched in the face. She denies that that happened so that is a part of the story I don’t know what side is true. Later the police came and she was told to leave and not come back. My mom at that point said that we were not going to be dealing with her again and it was really over this time. My 11 year old self wanted to believe that but I know it wasn’t true. I know my mom was going to go back. As an adult when I asked my mom why the Great White Hippo was never arrested my mom said she didn’t want her to get arrested.
Shortly after that incident my sister ran away. Without saying good-bye. Without warning. I knew at that moment I was completely alone. I had no one there for me. I was angry for a very, very long time.
After my sister was gone, we ended up back to our routine of my going over to the Great White Hippos home and spending all our time there. My mom got a blood clot in her leg which hospitalized her. That created an utter nightmare for me. My mom was no longer there to buffer any form of hatred this woman had for me. I was told how worthless I was, how hated I was. I was locked outside for the whole day in the heat to try an entertain myself. I remember having enough of it and I had gotten my hands on a flip cell phone and called my God parents and begged and pleaded for them to come get me. I wanted to stay there. As I was on that phone call she came up behind me grabbed my wrists so hard, tore the cell phone out of my hand, and snapped it in half. She kicked me back outside and I just waited. Luckily my God parents came and got me. I never told my mom what happened because I was too afraid and didn’t want to get in more trouble. I have honestly kept my mouth shut for so many years because I am afraid of getting in trouble.
The last story I have to share is the real reason we moved to Maine. The real reason I never got to say goodbye to my friends. Shortly after turning 12 my grandmother got into a severe car accident and died months later. When we returned home from the funeral in Maine, the death threats and actual fear of death became more real than ever. My mom broke off ties and really swore this was it. I remember my mom and I went to lunch together at TGI Fridays, which was a place we liked to go often. We ate our food and then went to leave the restaurant. On my moms windshield was a little pamphlet. It was the ones that have stories that churches pass out. This one was of a man who shot someone and how what he did was wrong and how he didn’t regret it but found God and was forgiven type thing. It struck us both that we were the only car that had this pamphlet and that the subject matter was really odd to just randomly appear. After that the phone calls came in. At this point I had gotten a new flip phone. Everyday all day it rang. Message after message “I’m going to kill you, you little cunt!” “I’m going to shoot you in the head!” “I’m gonna shoot your mom and sister and you!” Threat after threat after threat. I have never experienced fear that intense ever in my life. I constantly had nightmares of being shot in the head, of not being able to run away, of everyone I love being killed by this monster right in front of me.
We ran, and we ran far. But sadly the threats didn’t stop for a good year. I think I was 15 when we received a letter. It contained an image of my mother with bullet holes riddled through it. “Target practice”. She knew where we lived and the nightmares she would show up at our glass door any day plagued me.
The nightmares really have never stopped. I still have nightmares to this day. Where I am shot in the face or I just can’t run away. I panic every time I see a fat blonde woman from behind because I am terrified that when they turn around it will be her. Her face is imprinted in my brain and it has taken 10 years so far to recover from the fear of a single person. I have control now and she can’t hurt me, but there is a large part of me that won’t rest until I know she is dead, or in prison forever.
Today, I hold no resentment towards my mother, my father or my sister. Everything was out of anyone’s control. My father had no idea abuse was happening. My sister was a person just as afraid and she saw her opportunity to flee. My mom never knew abuse extended beyond what she experienced.
If you have made it to the end of this I just want to thank you for taking the time to read this far. I also don’t need any I’m sorry’s. Trust me I have heard plenty of them in therapy. I also want to provide numbers to Domestic Violence Hotline.
I am lucky to be alive. I am a survivor.
Photo One: Me and my Mother
Photo Two: Me and my Mother
Photo Three: Me around age 7
Photo Four: Me and My Grandmother