Everyone has a story. Every single human that exists has a story of their own. Today, I am going to share mine. I will spare a lot of the details, otherwise, you'll be reading a 30-page autobiography, and that isn't the reason I am writing this today. In one of my future posts, I will be discussing my relationship with anxiety with the intent to hopefully help someone with the relationship of their anxiety. This is sort of a premise, it lays the groundwork for my lifelong battle with depression and anxiety. It does have some trigger warning things. I'll leave it up to you to decide, childhood trauma affects everyone differently. There is mention of abuse, drugs, etc.
I was a meth baby, I'll start here. After three years of tests, and therapies I was officially diagnosed with Autism, and ADHD, (at birth I was diagnosed with FAS which is Fetal Alcohol Syndrome), and a few other terms were thrown into the mix. My grandmother who I have only ever known as Mom was told I would be sitting in a corner drooling. She did a lot in my early years. Doctors, medicines, therapies, water therapy, crystal therapy (probably why I am so spiritual). Group therapy. She read every book imaginable. She took notes. If it wasn't for her I wouldn't be able to pretend I am so functional all the time. Or that situations aren't overwhelming me. It wasn't completely her fault, public education and my peers taught me I was too different, so I started “masking” trying to be normal, fit in, and be average. Having special needs was not special to me, it truthfully still isn't. It's a walking, living, 24/7 nightmare. My favorite was always the whispers “She's too weird, don't be friends with her.” yeah... I still remember.
Around the age of five years old, my biological father, the son of my grandmother/mom started to leave the picture. We learned of his sexual assault, the dreams I had of “a monster holding me down.” were him. Those started around the age of two or three. Child protective services were involved. There was a brief period where I was taken for 21 days, I didn't have my meds. I wasn't in school. They almost dropped my open enrollment in kindergarten. I saw him literally beat our mother within an inch of her life. I will never forget her bruises. Or her strength when dealing with that Monster.
After all of that, I was adopted by my mom and dad. The biological sperm bank was out of the picture, failing to register as a sex offender. He made a wonderful appearance at my school once. We went on lockdown because of him, imagine how humiliating that was, knowing that you are the reason the school day is disrupted. That is a feeling of shame, and guilt I will never forget. I know some kids knew, and some teachers definitely did... a small world, things get around. Things weren't the same after that. Not that things stay the same, that would be silly.
I was diagnosed with PTSD. It's still taking me a long time to truly understand what that means. My mind cannot do firework shows. It cannot. I fail every time to stay normal. If the fireworks are loud enough, close enough, rapid, or in succession I break down, I freeze, tears start flowing and I can't control them. If I don't divert my attention immediately, or remove myself from the situation it escalates. It's like my mind shuts down but starts working at a thousand miles an hour. The walls start to close in repeatedly. I find myself hyperventilating. Probably because I haven't stopped crying. It's so dumb because if it’s around “firework” season, or I see them in the sky, I can feel my body start to stiffen, like a deer knowing a hunter is close by. Once the night sky gets dark I'm more alert, my adrenaline is higher, blood pressure spiking. It is my constant hanging enemy. I like shooting guns, I can do that no problem, please do not confuse the two as the same. They are entirely different sounds, my anxiety, and really sensitive ears will tell you that. Sensitive ears are a perk of Autism I learned, as a kid, I thought my eyesight and ears were like a superpower because I was able to see/hear things others couldn't until getting closer.
To top all the actual issues of my childhood, I was raised in a world of adults and by people not born anywhere near this generation. We are talking 1930s for my dad and the 1940s for my mom. My biological parents were at least in the 60s but they don't count not to me. (I love humans, but these two in particular are garbage humans.) So between not having much of a childhood, and maturing fast, I never stood a chance at the whole “friend thing with peers.” I got by with the few random souls who chose to stay for when they did. I'll always remember them even if my short-term memory and headaches keep me from most of my memories. My dad was diagnosed with cancer, I was pretty much doing everything I could between the house and the school. My mom's physical condition was worsening, a lot of it due to being the thing that cleaned off the entire island by a Meth Monster (part from earlier).
Once my dad passed, my mom gave up. Growing increasingly dependent among a lot of other things… Her anger would sometimes turn to her calling me by the name of the person who abused us both. Telling me I was just like him... A thing I think a lot about now, especially since I became aware of the fact that I think my face looks really similar to his... it makes me wonder what my mom saw, maybe she truly saw him in me... and that scares me. I want nothing from him, not even to share blood.
Even after all the therapy, and becoming more aware of my thoughts and feelings. The trauma still creeps up. It creeps up when I am weak when my confidence is low, it shows up when my stress is high when major life changes are happening. It comes when I am learning about new issues. Like the ones I never knew about until I knew more about myself and the world around me.
It is sort of how my little ticks with ADHD and Autism and other stuff appear from time to time, it's usually because of something else. I am not sure if you ever saw Doom Patrol, but the scenes when Rita isn't able to keep her powers in check are what I feel like when I can't keep my mask on... I have to tell myself sometimes, “Hey where is this coming from, what's up?”
This is not something I even fully understand, I feel like I still have years to go through before I understand everything. There will be years this won't bother me, there will be times I will remember something that will drudge something up from the depths. After meeting others who have their stories, I know I am not alone in these feelings... but by god, I feel like it sometimes.
Sometimes I look back and feel like everything was normal, because of the consistency and being in a bubble, or prison however you want to look at this. To me, it was a prison, but I would rather call it a bubble. Maybe to some kind of degree it really was normal, just normal to me at the time. And now that I have a new normal I see that none of my past is normal to me now. I feel like I still have to learning to do. Hopefully, by reading a little of my story it helped you in some way. There is a lot I haven't revealed. There are some things you don't need to see, things I wish would have remained unseen. We all have our own fair share of horrors.
Should you ever wanna know the rest of my story, I'm open to disusing it. In truth, I'd rather hear yours. I've been running from myself for a while, I need another perspective, another person's story. It's abundantly clear everyone has different lives, and I find it easier to live mine if I live vicariously through the lives of others because of how little direction I've had. Most of the time I feel like a toddler navigating through life, naked, afraid, always looking over my shoulder. Your story helps make mine less scary. Tell me your tale. Tell me how you got to where you are. You're not alone.