Needing a Mother’s Love

Lesson:   A Bad Home Lasts Forever

            I was a depressed child, and have grown up to be a depressed adult. 

            I was abused by my mother both physically and mentally, and every time I was beaten up, I was told that it was because I was a bad girl… I ate too much chocolate… I wasn’t doing well in school… I played too much sports, was rude, or something to that effect. To top things up, she’d call me names -- mean names I don’t want to mention and I try hard not to remember. The one I do remember though, which she called me all the time, was “the devil incarnate”. Whenever chocolates from the fridge were eaten and I insisted it wasn’t me, she’d first say the devil took it. Then she’d continually beat me until I reached a corner and continue even more, harder this time. With all the energy she could muster. I’d admit to the imagined offense to make her stop. She’d hit me a bit more (another 10 minutes perhaps), call me the Devil, and then stop.

            I may laugh and smile and people do think that I’m happy and jovial. Behind closed doors, I’m a wreck.

            I started cutting myself up at age 10, smoking by 11, and by the time I was 13 I decided I wanted to die. My first thoughts of suicide date way back to when I was 8. I still have an earring hole I pierced myself with a needle, slowly. I started having a dream of beating my mother and making her bleed the way she made me bleed when I was 7. Murderous thoughts at 7. 

            My confidence is at an all time low, even now that things are put behind me. The questions I keep asking myself like “Why me?” come up all the time. I have no answers, though I’m trying very hard to help myself. 

            I was 18 when I first stood up for myself. I was hit very badly on the head by my mother with a rolled up newspaper after I came back at midnight from a movie. That was the first time I went out for a movie with a friend. She warned me I’d be in trouble when I came back.

            I ran away. I didn’t want to stay anymore because other than putting up with her, my brother started hitting me as well. He broke my nose once because I put on the radio, and that upset him.

            When I confronted my relatives about my reasons for leaving home, they told me that I was lying. That I was accusing a very nice woman and a really wonderful brother of things they never did. That took away more of my confidence – how do you tell someone who was beaten all their life that they were wrong to have come forward, that these things don’t exist? Or that it was my fault, that I probably was spanked a bit as a child, but it was nothing serious? 

            That made me feel that there was no one out there to listen. Surfing into your website today showed me that there are people out there who do care and who are concerned. Please keep up the good work and continue helping people in need, no matter what age.

            Somebody should listen to the children. We were all once kids.

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