MickeyBatory
New Member
- Nov 16, 2025
- 4
Hi. The text below reflects my personal feelings and thoughts. I may touch on difficult and distressing topics (self-harm, sexual abuse and others – please be careful!)
I remember seeing a long, reflective piece here about how the pain inside us stems from our inability to cope with grief. And that's the most accurate description of how I feel; it's such a relief that someone can actually understand it.
I hate the feeling of helplessness. I feel as though I've been ill ever since I was born. I used to have constant nightmares about rape, murder, mutilation and dismemberment when I was a child. My family believes that there is something wrong with me, rather than acknowledging how I was treated from the very beginning. I feel like a puppet in the hands of adults who never really cared about me. I'm stuck in the mind of a small child. That very same pre-school child whom my brother used to beat when our parents weren't there and who took away all my means of communication. A child whom family members threatened to cripple and leave to die a tortured wreck, even if it meant they'd spend the rest of their lives in prison. What have I done in my life to deserve this? Why can't I remember what happened after my drunken father was banging on my door and I was so scared he'd break it down and kill me that I opened it myself? These dreams of being raped feel so real. I don't feel like a human being. I've had nightmares my whole life; the adults around me never really cared about what was going on inside our family. I don't blame them, because we've worked hard to create (or at least try to create) the image of a normal family. I know that nobody believed me when I told others about it. I remember that the only adult in my life who I once felt safe with – my aunt, a psychologist – betrayed me, sided with my family and told them everything I had confided in her. I don't hate the adults around me, but I can't understand: is there something wrong with me? Maybe I really am too bad and don't understand how things work? I live in constant terror. To everyone, I look like a psychopath, a 'freak' of a child and a 'moral cripple' from a perfectly normal family. I wish my parents hadn't just beaten me up after my suicide attempt, but had beaten me to death. Perhaps then they would have had a chance to end all this horror. Perhaps I should have asked for that. 'I don't want to suffer, please, I'm so tired.' I should have died in a pool of blood when I slit my throat and nearly severed my carotid artery. I should have choked on my own vomit or at least died in A&E after an overdose. I should have jumped then. Perhaps I should go back even further. Sometimes I think about how she used to look at me when Dad came home drunk again and deliberately egged him on to punish me. She'd deliberately say something bad about me, deliberately complain to him about me. She knew he couldn't control himself when he was heavily intoxicated. She remembered how badly he'd beaten her until she had a concussion. And yet she kept turning him against me. Mum, why? What's wrong with you? Or is the problem with me? She always puts on that innocent face, as if she were the victim. No one ever tried to notice my tears; I stood on the sidelines, like an emotionless doll, like a bowling pin. It wasn't just them who saw me as a doll.
Sometimes I think about how destructive anger can be. Even if we leave aside other people's moments of rage. When they stopped bullying me constantly, I realised that I would either kill them or go mad. We're told, 'allow yourself to be angry' – but what if I try to vent my anger safely (self-harm, though I can't do that anymore, exercise, etc.), but it doesn't help? It's as if it only makes me angrier, even though I'm trying to let it all out. I try and try, and still I come across as 'wrong, irritable' and rude, an ungrateful child... Everyone who could ever have helped me has simply walked away. I don't blame them, but I get triggered every time I see them (I'm forced to see them sometimes). I'm afraid I might do something dangerous if I finally lose it completely... But, to be honest, I want to allow myself the pleasure of doing to them what they once did to me.
I remember seeing a long, reflective piece here about how the pain inside us stems from our inability to cope with grief. And that's the most accurate description of how I feel; it's such a relief that someone can actually understand it.
I hate the feeling of helplessness. I feel as though I've been ill ever since I was born. I used to have constant nightmares about rape, murder, mutilation and dismemberment when I was a child. My family believes that there is something wrong with me, rather than acknowledging how I was treated from the very beginning. I feel like a puppet in the hands of adults who never really cared about me. I'm stuck in the mind of a small child. That very same pre-school child whom my brother used to beat when our parents weren't there and who took away all my means of communication. A child whom family members threatened to cripple and leave to die a tortured wreck, even if it meant they'd spend the rest of their lives in prison. What have I done in my life to deserve this? Why can't I remember what happened after my drunken father was banging on my door and I was so scared he'd break it down and kill me that I opened it myself? These dreams of being raped feel so real. I don't feel like a human being. I've had nightmares my whole life; the adults around me never really cared about what was going on inside our family. I don't blame them, because we've worked hard to create (or at least try to create) the image of a normal family. I know that nobody believed me when I told others about it. I remember that the only adult in my life who I once felt safe with – my aunt, a psychologist – betrayed me, sided with my family and told them everything I had confided in her. I don't hate the adults around me, but I can't understand: is there something wrong with me? Maybe I really am too bad and don't understand how things work? I live in constant terror. To everyone, I look like a psychopath, a 'freak' of a child and a 'moral cripple' from a perfectly normal family. I wish my parents hadn't just beaten me up after my suicide attempt, but had beaten me to death. Perhaps then they would have had a chance to end all this horror. Perhaps I should have asked for that. 'I don't want to suffer, please, I'm so tired.' I should have died in a pool of blood when I slit my throat and nearly severed my carotid artery. I should have choked on my own vomit or at least died in A&E after an overdose. I should have jumped then. Perhaps I should go back even further. Sometimes I think about how she used to look at me when Dad came home drunk again and deliberately egged him on to punish me. She'd deliberately say something bad about me, deliberately complain to him about me. She knew he couldn't control himself when he was heavily intoxicated. She remembered how badly he'd beaten her until she had a concussion. And yet she kept turning him against me. Mum, why? What's wrong with you? Or is the problem with me? She always puts on that innocent face, as if she were the victim. No one ever tried to notice my tears; I stood on the sidelines, like an emotionless doll, like a bowling pin. It wasn't just them who saw me as a doll.
Sometimes I think about how destructive anger can be. Even if we leave aside other people's moments of rage. When they stopped bullying me constantly, I realised that I would either kill them or go mad. We're told, 'allow yourself to be angry' – but what if I try to vent my anger safely (self-harm, though I can't do that anymore, exercise, etc.), but it doesn't help? It's as if it only makes me angrier, even though I'm trying to let it all out. I try and try, and still I come across as 'wrong, irritable' and rude, an ungrateful child... Everyone who could ever have helped me has simply walked away. I don't blame them, but I get triggered every time I see them (I'm forced to see them sometimes). I'm afraid I might do something dangerous if I finally lose it completely... But, to be honest, I want to allow myself the pleasure of doing to them what they once did to me.
