Tuesday, December 6, 2011

The Psychiatrist

Today I met my Psychiatrist and spent 45 minutes talking to him about myself and my history.  I was  honest.  Not always an easy task for me.  I lie.  I exaggerate to entertain or tease people.  Or to get a point across.  This is a big problem between me and my young Autistic "concrete" thinker son.  Or I lie because the truth is too painful or I'm afraid to tell people the truth.  Or I don't want people to know the truth.  Or maybe I just can't help it and it is part of my illness?  At this point I'm not sure about anything.  He is a man.  Strike one in my book.  And he has an ego.  Strike two.  But maybe I need a psychiatrist that I don't trust or like.  Might keep me honest and anyway, it will not be him that I end  up "talking" through this with.  But he's interested and that is what scares me.

I'm suppose to find a new M.D. or O.D. and/or get my medications changed within the two weeks until my next appointment.  

And get my thoughts in order.  Beginning with why I hate my recently deceased mother and estranged elderly father.  

My mother tells the story of how she began to tell me all her problems (all supposedly due to the realization that she married a violent tempered alcoholic) as soon as I could sit up in a high chair.  My mother taught me how to lie.  I always knew she was a martyr and that she lied to people to always make herself look like the martyr, but I didn't know she was a vicious back-stabbing liar until the past 10-15 years.  My first indication of this was when she got in trouble at work for not being sympathetic toward her geriatric patients and their families.  Part of her therapy seems to have been to write her childhood history and it was nothing like what she had been telling everyone since I've known her.  She wrote of an angry mother who got in trouble and had to marry a man who was fine to sleep with, but could do no right as a husband.  My grandparents fought constantly and my grandfather would stay away from home and the nagging as much as possible.  My mother wrote of four, not one, men that she slept with before my father.  And admitted that she was sleeping with, in fact he had moved into her apartment, with my father before they got married.  On their wedding day she handed him her diary to read and that is how he found out that she had been with more men than she had told him about.  It explains why my dad would cry and tell me how she, my mother, tricked him into marrying her and that he never should have married because he beat my mom.  All this my mother denied even when I confronted her with the notebook with her handwriting in it.  My mother was a liar.  

My mom says that I waited for my dad to come home every day looking out the door for his car to drive up and would be so excited to see him.  I always thought that my mom was so disgusted when she said this because she didn't think my dad deserved such adoration.  Now I think it may  have been jealousy.  Growing up my mom and dad's sex life was very obvious to all of us kids.  She worked nights and sex was frequent and in the afternoons or early evenings with the kids watching t.v. in the next room.  For a long time we thought that he was hurting her, but she never cried and screamed for me to come help her so I didn't dare try to save her.  When she got pregnant with my youngest sister I was 10 and between that and sex ed at school I finally figured out that he wasn't hurting her.  

My earliest memories are of my dad crying and swearing that my mom "made" him hurt her.  She would scream and cry out for me to come save her in the middle of the night and I would open the doors to see her on the floor and him with his hand raised to slap her.  Once he had his hands around her neck.  But I don't remember having to save her after I was big enough to get the beatings.  Me and my brother.  I'm the oldest and I took it upon myself to take care of my younger sisters and protect them.  When we would hear the gravel crunch under my dad's tires we would pile toys into barrels and I would tell my little sisters to get in the closet and be very quiet until I came to get them.  My brother would run to water the chickens if he had not already done so and I would start doing the dishes if they were not done.  Before we had chores I think we all hid in the closet.  I know I was getting beat before I went to Kindergarten.  I remember taking my blanket and pillow to sleep in the hallway so that I would know that my mom came home from work (3-11).  I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world and I was so afraid that she would run away and leave me there with my dad.  

He could have been sexually molesting me during that time and I may have blocked the memories.  

I was a bossy older sister and had no shyness with my siblings, but when I went to school I refused to talk to anyone until I was in the second grade.  I wouldn't play with the other kids and kept close to the female teachers.  In the third grade my mother made me wear hand me downs from my cousins who were 10-13 years my senior, but I was plump and they were thin.  I had hip huggers and mini skirts.  I got in trouble for wearing lip stick to school that year.  I remember crying when the teacher read Charlotte's Web and The Boxcar Children to us.  

I thought I had good grades in grade school, but recently I saw my report cards and there were always unsatisfactory behavior problems.  I stole a girl's bracelet out of her desk in the second grade.  As soon as I hit the high school in the seventh grade I was boy crazy.  If I had met up with boys who were less ... sensible? I would have been in trouble because I was hot and willing to go  all the way.  Rubbing myself on their legs and crotch.  Perhaps these boys (at 14 I was with 16 year old boys) slowed me down because I would make out but always said no after the first couple of boy friends in 7th and 8th grade.  Until the summer after I turned 15 and I was carried away.  I was sure I was pregnant.  My mother told me that was my problem, not her's.  But she did take me to the OBGYN.  He offered to put me on birth control pills to make my periods regular and she said NO.  I didn't bleed.  Cum was all over my panties, but not a speck of blood.  I knew this was the first time so if asked if I bled, I lied and said yes.  

The guy who was my first was a friend's 20 year old brother and I was asleep in the back seat of a friend's car a couple of weeks later listening to him tell them how he told me to put out or walk home.  I told him to go to hell the next time he tried to pick me up and did my best to stay out his way.    I was at his house for a party a couple of months later and in front of a dozen people he dragged me (hanging onto the stairway railing and saying no, stop, leave me alone, help me!) down the stairs and raped me.  Once he had my pants off and got my legs open I gave up and just lay there not responding and crying.  The creep asked me why I didn't cum (I had a huge wonderful orgasm the first time.  The pain melted right into fireworks and ecstasy).  No one even protested.  No one wanted trouble and it was his house.   I guess word got around though because a few weeks later he tried to drag me out of a van where I was getting high with other people and a big guy told him to get out of the van and leave me alone.  He did until the next May when he and two friends caught me walking alone after dark and forced me into the car then a trailer and first he raped me then the second guy beat me black and blue but I had my legs crossed and wouldn't open them.  I had two black eyes, a bloody nose, cut lip, and bruises all over my arms and upper body.  In the little town I grew up in you didn't go to the police.  You would be hurt a lot more if you did.  That guy is now in prison for life for repeated rapes and assaults with deadly weapons.  He started going out of town to pick his prey.

I wanted to make a timeline here, but it never seems to work out.  

My father tried to kill me when I was 12.  My mother said that he came after me intent on killing me because she told him that I was developing breasts and was growing up.  He called me a whore while he was strangling me.  My mother said:  Howard, you are going to kill her and he let go of me and left the house to get drunker I guessed.  My father told me a few months ago that my uncle told him that he and my aunt had sex and that is why he was never welcome when he came home.  My father said that my mom told him that I was down in the cellar having sex with my brother in front of my sisters and that is why he tried to kill me.  I believe him.  And that is why I refused to see my mother while she was dying and didn't go to her funeral.

My best friend in 7th grade told me that she was being sexually molested by her step father and her mother doesn't believe her.  I told my mom.  My mom told my dad and my dad went crazy on me again.  I was use to being slapped way too hard and too many times.  I was use to being pushed down and slapped all over by body.  I was use to being beat with boards or whatever was handy.  But I knew when he was going to kill me.  This was the second time.  My brother and I were sacrificed so that my mom would not be beat.  I always justified this because she had to work or we couldn't have a house to live in or anything else.  After I left my first husband I knew that my mother was a coward and a self made martyr.  But I was dependent on her to help me raise my kids and she had me so convinced that if I didn't take her help that I would end up losing my kids.  I have a lot of anger issues with my mother.  I spend most of my adult life hating my dad ... now I feel nothing for him.  I won't let him come around me or my kids, but my husband checks on him and takes him to church.  Now I fear I will die with anger issues toward my mother.

When I was in 8th grade my social status blossomed.  I was invited to skip school with cool older girls and I went.  I was rarely at school unless I couldn't find a ride away from it.  I rode the bus to school and home, but was not inside the school at all in between.  We went to older married siblings homes to get high.  We went to deserted farm land to party.  We went to the airport with drug dealers to pick up trunk loads of hash or pot.   Even though I couldn't legally quit school until I was sixteen, I was rarely there from 14 to 16.  I was high every chance I got.

I was 16 when I ran from home and lived where ever I could find to stay.  I slept over with girl friends who could come and go as they pleased from their homes.  I stayed with nice girls who had parents who cared and had curfews. I got a job waiting tables and stayed with my ex-boyfriend's family and my mom says she gave his mom money to let me stay there if I needed to.  I slept with her son when no one was home or awake.  Sometimes his younger brother watched, I found out later.

I never thought I was beautiful by any stretch and I needed to lose 20 lbs.  The year I turned 17 years old I lost those 20lbs.  I got a car with my college fund that matured that year.  I got an apartment and a job.  I found out that Stix Baer and Fuller had a basement outlet and no one cared if you left it with 2 or 3 outfits in your pants and purse which led to a love for clothes and shoes I had never known before.  I filled my closet.  I also had a makeup demonstration done at Macy's which taught me a lot about makeup and to my surprise I was actually kinda pretty.  I got involved with a 30 year old married man.  I read The Sensuous Woman by J and learned how to fake orgasms that I was not having since the first time I had sex.  I became sexually active, but with the same guys over and over again.  I had a car accident and ended up taking Darvon constantly (I learned how to take the prescription to three different pharmacies and get it filled three times) and I slept with my best friend's husband.  That was a low point.  By November I had one, maybe two miscarriages and I was always doped up on Darvon and pot.  I couldn't work and my rent was two months behind.   In November I took 90+ Darvon and intended to die.  In a drugged stupor I started yelling to the apartment upstairs that I was dying.  My Bible was open to John, my mother said.  I guess I wanted to die, but not go to hell.  My heart stopped 3 times on the way to the hospital.  My mother made my dad come up there because they didn't think I would last the night.  I was in the hospital for 3 days and I don't remember the first few days I was at home.  I slept and got up to go to the bathroom or get a glass of water then went right back to sleep.  

My days as a drug addict and street urchin were coming to an end. My mother moved me back home while I was sleeping life away.  I gave my life to Christ and stayed away from my old friends and hang outs.  I got a job at Olan Mills selling portrait plans over the phone, then setting up appointments for those plans.  I started studying for my GED and thought I was on the right track finally.  I was so in for a surprise.

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