Jane Doe's Story

February 13, 2019

You know I’ve been thinking about writing this post. And not because it’s crazy planned out in advance type stuff, but because I wanted to share with you some of the realizations that I’ve come to over the last few days/hours. As much as the events that were happening around me were traumatic when I was younger, they never happened directly too me.

Let me explain, for the most part when I was growing up I was in a loving and caring home. While there was the occasion where we would be injured due to clumsiness, and there were times when we “accidentally” tripped and went head first down the stairs I never really saw this as abusive. Please don’t miss understand, it wasn’t right either, but I never felt like it was abusive. And for the most part I never felt like it was directed at me.

Mostly I got the impression that I just happened to be in the right place at the right time to help my Mum vent some steam. If I got injured then she would also get her dose of adult acolaides from what ever doctor we would go see for “keeping me safe”. And I never argued, nor did I protest the story she would tell them about how it happened even if it was the farthest thing from the truth.

One of the other things she would do is tell me stories about how she grew up, mind you these were not the happy ever after type stories either but from a young age included graphic descriptions of things like attempted rapes and physical beatings.

Of the two types I thought for the longest time that I prefered the stories, the mental and emotional abuse was “easier” to handle.

In reality it’s not. It’s to a point harder, because it becomes so embedded in our brain that we can’t get away from it. At my age well over a decade after moving out of my childhood home, I am still dealing with the consequences of the stories I was told at the age of 5. And quiet frankly I belive that my first and failed marriage had more to do with the mental and emotional damage I endured as a child then any true desire to have a realtionship with that human.

But getting back to my point, a good amount of the trauma I dealt with was my Mothers. Told to me in a way that made me feel like it was mine to claim. And until recently did not realize that I could separate myself from my Mother’s experience of abuse.

What angers me most now is that my mother tried to make me into her friend, instead of letting me be a kid. I grew up quick, because I had to watch after her, I had to be aware of her moods and temperment. But mostly I became the dumping ground for her crap that she didn’t know how to deal with. And it makes me mad that not only did I not have any control over it then, but now I still feel a lack of control when it happens now.