We live in a world where if it isn't written down, if nobody else knew or saw, did it really happen? People always tell us to speak up and 'just talk', but what use are words when you have no witness to your pain. An observer is different to a witness. A witness knows, they can say 'I was there, I saw it'. An observer is there after the fact. Everyone's just watching.
People don't understand how difficult it is to say someone hurt you, to spell it out. You want it to be real, but at the same time it's so humiliating saying aloud how people mistreated you, you feel pathetic. What's also true is that whatever you say, as soon as you say it, the truth is not your own. People will make assumptions and judgements. And there's no bringing it back after that.
There's no space for nuance or contradictions in this world. I spend every day trying to make sense of things in my head but after one discussion, one comment, people think they have it all figured out.
All my life adults have disappointed me. As a child you look up to them, and you think they'll keep you safe. Children are always held up as the epitome of innocence, the one group that should be protected at all costs.
My family isn't good with emotions. They run riot and cause so much pain in our house. We hurt each other more than anyone else. My parents aren't bad people. They love me, they follow the rules, they work hard. But it all falls down when it comes to feelings. Nobody can handle feeling anything.
At the same time, my parents hate each other, as many parents do. But combined with the explosive feelings in our family, every day is a constant battle. One small thing can lead to broken items. People talk about domestic abuse being one way or another, but it's a two way street with my parents. Since I was little I'd be torn about who to go and comfort after they'd finished arguing. Do I go to my mum screaming and crying inconsolably, or so I try and stop me dad driving off in an angry rage, worried he'd crash his car and die and it would be all my fault because I chose my mum over him. Sometimes I'd try and stop the arguments, getting in between the two of them and pushing them off each other. But when they're angry they don't see anything or anyone else around them. They'd end up hitting me or hurting me without realising. Then they'd argue about who did and I'd chide myself for making the situation worse. Then my brother would drag me away and tell me to sit in his room and be quiet until it was over. I never understood how he blocked it all out, but seeing him as an adult I can see he didn't get out unscathed. It makes me angry for him because he deserves to be happy. I love my brother, and I have a soft spot for him. I forgive him for hurting me because he was just a child. He copied what he saw. He didn't know how to handle any of it.
I love my family so much. My entire life is dominated by rituals I feel compelled to do everyday because I don't want them to die. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt the way they hit me. There was something so easy about it. Like they were letting off steam. Like it felt right, as if my purpose was to be a rag doll, a punching bag for all their frustration. It made me angry at them and the rest of the world because I kept asking myself why the world had to keep stressing them out so much. Why did everything have to keep getting them worked up because it always ended the same way, with us hurting each other. I feel bad for hurting them. Sometimes in self defence I'd try to fight back. Sometimes it was purely out of desperation. My mum said herself once that my brother 'could have killed you' but then followed that with 'you shouldn't provoke him like that. Your words hurt.' I've lost all sense of proportionality. I can't tell anymore if I really was that annoying to live with that all the beatings were justified.
Sometimes I nearly enjoyed it because in a twisted way I felt useful. If I let them get it out of their system, they'll be happy again. And of course, their happiness is my responsibility. I'm sad for my younger self, who felt the weight of the world on her little shoulders. At secondary school I got comments about scars on my face. People don't beat about the bush and they would say 'why do you have so many scars on your face?' The most prominent one ironically has nothing to do with anyone else. I slipped as a baby and hit my head on the bath. But others, on my face and body, tell the story of every argument, every unnecessary altercation, every breakdown in my family. My skin is like paper. I struggle a lot with skin picking because I want desperately for everything to be clear and smooth again. When I'm anxious I just pick and pick, like I'm in a trance. Then I snap out of it and
Soon I learnt that the way to take back control is to hurt myself. How can it be fair that others can hurt me but the line is drawn at me doing it to myself. It's not just me making a political statement though about autonomy and freedom. It's a safety net. Whatever the world throws at me, I can do better. You can hurt me, but so can I. People have suggested writing down my feelings as an outlet. But it always reminds me of that children's book: 'We're going on a bear hunt'.
It goes:
'We're going on a bear hunt, we're going to catch a big one, I'm not scared…we can't go over it, we can't go over it…we've got to go through it'. That's what writing about your feelings is like. You have to go through them to feel them. You don't know what you've got yourself into until you start thinking as you write, and then it's not out of your head, is it? You're right in the thick of it. So no I don't like writing unless it's to document something. Writing to process isn't good.
There are a few instances that stand out in my mind. Ones that I can't stop replaying over and over. One is when my mum strangled me. She pinned me against the wall, and put her hands around my neck. They just got tighter and tighter and I genuinely thought she was going to kill me. I managed to break free from her trip and get my phone to call the police. Long story short they took me to a friend's house. After a week I went back home because…well you have to. The first thing my mum said to me was 'I hope you had a nice holiday'. Swiftly following this was an in-person performance of all the nasty messages she sent me whilst I was gone. The usual things about me being a disgrace and an embarrassment. Little did she know that the entire time I just wanted to be back in my bed. I was wishing none of it had happened. I was so angry at myself for yet again bringing pain to my family with my actions.
The other instance is one evening when my brother got angry at me arguing with my mum. He just lost it and started punching and kicking me. He kept hitting my head against the stove. Then my mum came along and looked at me, having watched the entire thing unfold, and gave me a disgusted look. She said I bring it upon myself and that my words hurt.
Having said all that, I can't be bothered to go into the third time. But the gist of it is my mother injuring me, then me going to school, unable to take part in PE because I can't life my shoulder. My teacher screams at me when I tell her, saying she has 28 other children to think about. Every time I think about it, I'm taken back to 8 year old me, who couldn't find any compassion anywhere she turned. I wish I could give her a hug and tell her she's not a bad person, that the way the adults around you treat you is not a reflection of your value as a human being. Adults take out their own problems on you.
It's actually not surprising that I don't trust anyone these days, and I'm sensitive to any perceived slight. I've been accused of lacking self-awareness. I am acutely aware of what I say and do, most of the time. If I say something hurtful it's because I want the person to feel the intense pain I think they've imposed on me. I'm not saying that's right, but nobody's ever shown me another way.
Then there's the social worker who, after one of the occasions I ran away, told me to next time think about the paperwork she has to fill out. Because that's what I am to people. A waste of time and resources. I was reminded of that today when I received a letter from the NHS. The Chief Nurse was responding to a a complaint I made. She basically said I misused (and wasted) resources. I don't know which resources she's talking about. The digs just don't stop coming. I was just starting to move on from the whole ordeal but it's all so vivid again in my head. Because people forget that it's not just what you endure that causes pain, it's the way people respond to it. Nobody has ever said that the way I was treated was wrong. Everyone has called me abusive when I get angry, but nobody acknowledges the pain I endured. I'm not saying one cancels out the other. But people don't want to know. People want you to be sad and self-deprecating about it all, but when that sadness turns to rage, you're the villain.
I've been thrown out by my parents more times than I can remember. One time was after the incident I mentioned earlier, when my brother hit me and my mother told me it was my fault. Then my dad came and hit me because I was crying too loudly. He just lost it and told me to get out. He threw me out with nothing. No money, no clothes, nothing. Again I blamed myself. Why do you keep doing this? Why do you keep provoking people? Nothing will make you feel as worthless as being thrown out into the street by your parents for making people hit you. I was bleeding but didn't realise until I got to the police station. I didn't know where else to go. They took me home and when we got there my mum had emptied out all of my razor blades and bloodied tissues onto the dining table. She was ready to perform for this police officer. She said to him absolutely nothing had happened, and that I had 'issues'.
Social services ditched me at 18, stating that my parents didn't want to engage and that they'd been told physical violence isn't acceptable. Although they're actions said otherwise.
And today. Today, 4 years later, as I'm in the midst of trying to create a life for myself, I get a letter essentially telling me the same thing I've been told my entire life. That it's all my fault, I'm a terrible person, and I'm a burden. This coming from the same organisation where their consultant psychiatrist told me that it was 'understandable' that my mum would hit me because I'm 'difficult'. What are you supposed to think when even healthcare professionals say you deserve it? Where do you turn? Nowhere. There is nowhere. I hate it here. And that's far from everything, but I should save my words because up until now, they really haven't mattered all that much to anyone.
People don't understand how difficult it is to say someone hurt you, to spell it out. You want it to be real, but at the same time it's so humiliating saying aloud how people mistreated you, you feel pathetic. What's also true is that whatever you say, as soon as you say it, the truth is not your own. People will make assumptions and judgements. And there's no bringing it back after that.
There's no space for nuance or contradictions in this world. I spend every day trying to make sense of things in my head but after one discussion, one comment, people think they have it all figured out.
All my life adults have disappointed me. As a child you look up to them, and you think they'll keep you safe. Children are always held up as the epitome of innocence, the one group that should be protected at all costs.
My family isn't good with emotions. They run riot and cause so much pain in our house. We hurt each other more than anyone else. My parents aren't bad people. They love me, they follow the rules, they work hard. But it all falls down when it comes to feelings. Nobody can handle feeling anything.
At the same time, my parents hate each other, as many parents do. But combined with the explosive feelings in our family, every day is a constant battle. One small thing can lead to broken items. People talk about domestic abuse being one way or another, but it's a two way street with my parents. Since I was little I'd be torn about who to go and comfort after they'd finished arguing. Do I go to my mum screaming and crying inconsolably, or so I try and stop me dad driving off in an angry rage, worried he'd crash his car and die and it would be all my fault because I chose my mum over him. Sometimes I'd try and stop the arguments, getting in between the two of them and pushing them off each other. But when they're angry they don't see anything or anyone else around them. They'd end up hitting me or hurting me without realising. Then they'd argue about who did and I'd chide myself for making the situation worse. Then my brother would drag me away and tell me to sit in his room and be quiet until it was over. I never understood how he blocked it all out, but seeing him as an adult I can see he didn't get out unscathed. It makes me angry for him because he deserves to be happy. I love my brother, and I have a soft spot for him. I forgive him for hurting me because he was just a child. He copied what he saw. He didn't know how to handle any of it.
I love my family so much. My entire life is dominated by rituals I feel compelled to do everyday because I don't want them to die. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt the way they hit me. There was something so easy about it. Like they were letting off steam. Like it felt right, as if my purpose was to be a rag doll, a punching bag for all their frustration. It made me angry at them and the rest of the world because I kept asking myself why the world had to keep stressing them out so much. Why did everything have to keep getting them worked up because it always ended the same way, with us hurting each other. I feel bad for hurting them. Sometimes in self defence I'd try to fight back. Sometimes it was purely out of desperation. My mum said herself once that my brother 'could have killed you' but then followed that with 'you shouldn't provoke him like that. Your words hurt.' I've lost all sense of proportionality. I can't tell anymore if I really was that annoying to live with that all the beatings were justified.
Sometimes I nearly enjoyed it because in a twisted way I felt useful. If I let them get it out of their system, they'll be happy again. And of course, their happiness is my responsibility. I'm sad for my younger self, who felt the weight of the world on her little shoulders. At secondary school I got comments about scars on my face. People don't beat about the bush and they would say 'why do you have so many scars on your face?' The most prominent one ironically has nothing to do with anyone else. I slipped as a baby and hit my head on the bath. But others, on my face and body, tell the story of every argument, every unnecessary altercation, every breakdown in my family. My skin is like paper. I struggle a lot with skin picking because I want desperately for everything to be clear and smooth again. When I'm anxious I just pick and pick, like I'm in a trance. Then I snap out of it and
Soon I learnt that the way to take back control is to hurt myself. How can it be fair that others can hurt me but the line is drawn at me doing it to myself. It's not just me making a political statement though about autonomy and freedom. It's a safety net. Whatever the world throws at me, I can do better. You can hurt me, but so can I. People have suggested writing down my feelings as an outlet. But it always reminds me of that children's book: 'We're going on a bear hunt'.
It goes:
'We're going on a bear hunt, we're going to catch a big one, I'm not scared…we can't go over it, we can't go over it…we've got to go through it'. That's what writing about your feelings is like. You have to go through them to feel them. You don't know what you've got yourself into until you start thinking as you write, and then it's not out of your head, is it? You're right in the thick of it. So no I don't like writing unless it's to document something. Writing to process isn't good.
There are a few instances that stand out in my mind. Ones that I can't stop replaying over and over. One is when my mum strangled me. She pinned me against the wall, and put her hands around my neck. They just got tighter and tighter and I genuinely thought she was going to kill me. I managed to break free from her trip and get my phone to call the police. Long story short they took me to a friend's house. After a week I went back home because…well you have to. The first thing my mum said to me was 'I hope you had a nice holiday'. Swiftly following this was an in-person performance of all the nasty messages she sent me whilst I was gone. The usual things about me being a disgrace and an embarrassment. Little did she know that the entire time I just wanted to be back in my bed. I was wishing none of it had happened. I was so angry at myself for yet again bringing pain to my family with my actions.
The other instance is one evening when my brother got angry at me arguing with my mum. He just lost it and started punching and kicking me. He kept hitting my head against the stove. Then my mum came along and looked at me, having watched the entire thing unfold, and gave me a disgusted look. She said I bring it upon myself and that my words hurt.
Having said all that, I can't be bothered to go into the third time. But the gist of it is my mother injuring me, then me going to school, unable to take part in PE because I can't life my shoulder. My teacher screams at me when I tell her, saying she has 28 other children to think about. Every time I think about it, I'm taken back to 8 year old me, who couldn't find any compassion anywhere she turned. I wish I could give her a hug and tell her she's not a bad person, that the way the adults around you treat you is not a reflection of your value as a human being. Adults take out their own problems on you.
It's actually not surprising that I don't trust anyone these days, and I'm sensitive to any perceived slight. I've been accused of lacking self-awareness. I am acutely aware of what I say and do, most of the time. If I say something hurtful it's because I want the person to feel the intense pain I think they've imposed on me. I'm not saying that's right, but nobody's ever shown me another way.
Then there's the social worker who, after one of the occasions I ran away, told me to next time think about the paperwork she has to fill out. Because that's what I am to people. A waste of time and resources. I was reminded of that today when I received a letter from the NHS. The Chief Nurse was responding to a a complaint I made. She basically said I misused (and wasted) resources. I don't know which resources she's talking about. The digs just don't stop coming. I was just starting to move on from the whole ordeal but it's all so vivid again in my head. Because people forget that it's not just what you endure that causes pain, it's the way people respond to it. Nobody has ever said that the way I was treated was wrong. Everyone has called me abusive when I get angry, but nobody acknowledges the pain I endured. I'm not saying one cancels out the other. But people don't want to know. People want you to be sad and self-deprecating about it all, but when that sadness turns to rage, you're the villain.
I've been thrown out by my parents more times than I can remember. One time was after the incident I mentioned earlier, when my brother hit me and my mother told me it was my fault. Then my dad came and hit me because I was crying too loudly. He just lost it and told me to get out. He threw me out with nothing. No money, no clothes, nothing. Again I blamed myself. Why do you keep doing this? Why do you keep provoking people? Nothing will make you feel as worthless as being thrown out into the street by your parents for making people hit you. I was bleeding but didn't realise until I got to the police station. I didn't know where else to go. They took me home and when we got there my mum had emptied out all of my razor blades and bloodied tissues onto the dining table. She was ready to perform for this police officer. She said to him absolutely nothing had happened, and that I had 'issues'.
Social services ditched me at 18, stating that my parents didn't want to engage and that they'd been told physical violence isn't acceptable. Although they're actions said otherwise.
And today. Today, 4 years later, as I'm in the midst of trying to create a life for myself, I get a letter essentially telling me the same thing I've been told my entire life. That it's all my fault, I'm a terrible person, and I'm a burden. This coming from the same organisation where their consultant psychiatrist told me that it was 'understandable' that my mum would hit me because I'm 'difficult'. What are you supposed to think when even healthcare professionals say you deserve it? Where do you turn? Nowhere. There is nowhere. I hate it here. And that's far from everything, but I should save my words because up until now, they really haven't mattered all that much to anyone.
