A year ago today my daughter and I were in a grocery store parking lot when the U.S. Marshals showed up to catch a fugitive. The young man they were after decided to use his car as a battering ram so the Marshals were forced to open fire on his vehicle. When all was said and done the young man was dead and I had a bullet hole in my car that could have easily hit my daughter if it had hit the car 12 inches to the right. My inlaws came to pick up the baby while my husband and I stayed behind to give our statements. I was a wreck. I could not stop sobbing and shaking. I was baffled at the reactions of those around me. I felt I was the only who was freaking out. I asked my husband what was wrong with me, was I just overly sensitive to things like that? As he took me in his arms he gently reminded me that because of the violence I lived with as a child I tend to have stronger reactions to it. For days after the shooting I didn't want to leave the house. If a car door slammed I jumped a foot in the air. I was having nightmares so I had trouble sleeping. After about a week I started to calm down. It was then that I realized my husband's words to me were true.
As I have said before when my mother is clean and sober she is a wonderful person. Sadly, most of my life my mother has not been clean and sober. When she is using drugs and alcohol she is a monster. She is violent and uses her words as weapons. No one is safe with her under the influence, not even her children.
My brother and I lived in a constant state of fear. We never knew what would set our mother off. One night I was in the kitchen preparing to make dinner for all of us. I had the skillet on the burner as it heated up for hamburger. I'm not sure exactly what happened but the next thing I knew my mother was screaming at me. I tried to figure out what was going on while at the same time trying to make sure my mother's attention stayed on me. She kept screaming and yelling at me for things I had no control over or that I didn't do. Out of nowhere she started hitting me. I learned early on never to try to fight back or defend myself too much. That would just spur her on. So I just took the beating. At some point she grabbed the skillet off the stove and threw it at the wall opposite the stove. It hit the wall then the floor landing right side up. As my mother continued to rage I tried to calm her down. At this point she grabbed me by the hair and threw me across the room. I hit the wall and when I landed on the floor my hand came down inside the skillet. It was still hot from the stove and immediatly gave me blisters on my palm. As I grabbed my hand I cried to my mother I was burnt. She kept screaming she didn't care and that I did it to myself. I kept asking her to stop and to help me but my mother had been replaced by a monster. She screamed at me to get out. To leave and she didn't care where I went. All the while my little brother was sitting on the couch in the living room. He was quiet through the whole thing. Probably hoping the monster in the kitchen would run out of steam before she noticed him there. As I tried to get the pain in my hand under control my mother kept screaming at me to get out. That she didn't want me anymore and that she never did. The only thing to do was leave. If I stayed she might have killed me. So I went to the one place I knew I could go, the neighbors. Their daughter was my best friend and they knew what happened in our house. I ran over there to find my best friend's grandma home alone. She let me in and asked what happened. I told her I burned myself but I needed to get my brother. She put some burn creme on my hand and that was when I hear more screaming from my house. It was my mother again only this time the screaming was directed at my brother. As I got out the front door I saw my little brother running down the street away from me with no shoes on. He had no idea where I was so he made for his dad's house down the street. I managed to grab him and take him to the neighbors with me. The grandma would not let me go check on my mother no matter how much I begged. Even at the age of 11 years old I already knew that there was a difference between my mother and the monster that threw us out of the house. I knew that drugs and alcohol made my mother crazy.
A few hours later my friend came home with her parents. When they heard what happened they decided we were staying the night and sent their oldest son next door to make sure my mother was at least alive. He found her laying in the hallway passed out. He moved her to bed and let her know where her children were. The next morning she came to get us. Naturally my brother and I were iffy on going near her but when I looked into her eyes I saw no trace of the monster from last night. My mother seemed remorseful about what happened the previous night. She cried when she saw my hand and apologized. She hugged and kissed my brother and I. Just like that things were back to what they were. The monster was sleeping again.
This is just one story of many. The monster showed up at least once a week, sometimes more. I never felt safe with my mother because she fed the monster. It is because of these acts of violence against myself and my brother I react the way I do to it. I still suffer flashback nightmares of the things my mother has done to me or my brother. When I was in my early twenties I decided to get some help and talk to someone about all this. I was told I suffer from mild PTSD or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. This is the same things soldiers suffer from when they come home from war. I never thought that it was something I could have. I've never been to war or saw anything overly traumatic. However it was explained to me that my childhood is considered traumatic and therefore it is not surprising I would still feel the affects into adulthood. Since I was told about PTSD I have done my best to try to control it. I did not want it to rule my life.
I can proudly say that I don't have nightmares every night. Not even once a month anymore. Last year's shooting caused nightmares for a while but that was the exception and not the norm. This is the reason I am telling my story. I want people to know just how far addiction reaches. I have not seen my mother in 12 years and haven't been under her care in 15. Yet I still have to live with the aftermath of the first 12 years of my life. I may not be able to change that period of time in my life but I can change how it affects me. I want people to know that children of addicts need just as much help as the addict themselves. Just as much love and support in the many years it takes to heal.
Taya
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