I recently wrote a confession about my problems with my stepfather. (I seriously recommend reading it before continuing with this post.) Some people commented that my mom was pretty fucked up for allowing such things to happen. Which is a completely, perfectly reasonable and expected response. Only I didn’t expect it.
Because I don’t blame her.
I used to; I used to be bitter towards her and wonder why she never did anything to prevent the damage that was done to me or step in when I mentioned the horrible things her husband had put me through.
But then I grew a little older and got to know her, and him, and myself better. Now I have nothing but love and admiration towards her. I’m amazed by her.
My mother and I are similar in many ways. We look the same, we pick through trash, we’re creative, we’re both a little wacky in our beliefs and demeanor and are very loud (though that’s a family trait). But we’re also incredibly different.
This confession comes to us from another blogger, sonicspenny from STAY AWAY, SWEET MISERY.
Here’s an excerpt:
Never have I felt the inarguable injustice of the truth getting slapped to your face and there’s nothing you can do about it but nod and express your agreement. And I know that these things are new to you and that these things are happening way too fast and that it’s just all too overwhelming and you are so fucked up, kid. you are so full of shit. And no matter how much you deny to yourself about what you really feel, there is no escaping the fact that you are so fuckity fucked up and that it’s too painful to let it all go and forget.
Head on over to the original post to read more!
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People have become so conditioned to keeping important shit bottled inside that they now hesitate to believe anyone who talks openly about their bad experiences.
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My stepdad used to sleepwalk into my room, naked, and sleep in my bed when I was little. I mention it a lot. It kinda screwed me up.
My stepdad also used to attempt to have sex with me when I was a teenager. I explode and scream the truth at him whenever we get in a fight. I try to talk to my friends about it. It did screw me up.
But because I talk about it, the people closest to me have started to overlook it.
As I think about all the possible aspects of my inner life that may end up in this blog, and undoubtedly my book (if I ever finish it), I realize I have to face writing about us. Which is fine, by me, but it’s also something delicate that I feel has to be approached the right way.
So I decided to start like this. Bearing my inner-most feelings and voicing apologies never said directly to you and explaining how you hurt me, too.
Let me begin by saying I know I was wrong. I take full responsibility for how very wrong I was. I can say I was young and stupid and heartless and so blindly in love I couldn’t say no (and I’m sure you’d at least kind of understand those points), and they’re all the truth, but it’s still my fault.
I slept with your husband. I tore your family apart far too many times. I did it, I know I did it, I admit to doing it, and I am sorry. There aren’t many words that can assist you in getting inside my head to truly understand, but know that I did not set out with the intention of harming you. And my apology is real.
Twice. I tried it twice.
The New Oxford American Dictionary for suicide: the action of killing oneself intentionally.
I was living in Bristol at the time, unemployed and had recently moved into a flat which I shared with a couple. I had the room at the top of the stairs. Mostly, I cried a lot. I would stay up through the night and just listen to the house, its creaks and groans and my breathing. Depression, for me, was an ever-present presence that never let me rest since I was twelve so I didn’t think it was all that serious.
Injuring myself was a usual happening and it only worsened when I became involved in an abusive relationship. A month before I started seriously considering taking my life, I went to the medical centre just down the road. Since I had no family or friends about to nag me to go to the doctor, and as a very conscientious person, I took myself to see the doctor. The doctor was incompetent. It was my first time there, and looking back I probably should’ve started with complaining about the flu I was battling but instead I dived in and said I was depressed and would like help. I’d had anti-depressants before and requested to be prescribed more, hoping to ward off the swelling depression which was steadily consuming me.
He gave me pamphlets with information I already knew about.