My Long Road

I wrote a long post about the things I have lived through in my life, and was trying to explain how this played a role in who I am. It got tedious and I didn’t want to write a novel, so here’s the short short version.

I had:

  • seen my mother held at gunpoint by the man I called daddy (my stepfather)
  • been thrown across the room trying to save my mother from that man as he straddled her and slapped her like a rag doll
  • been molested by that man from ages 5-9
  • been petted and degraded by his friends for favors
  • been held at gunpoint by policemen as our house was raided for a drug bust
  • lived in poverty for all of that time. We didn’t have phone services, occasionally ate Hamburger Helper without the hamburger, lived on government commodities and goodwill baskets.

  • Moved across two states with nothing more than what could fit in a minivan
  • struggled with leaving a small quiet country town for a urban school district with racial tensions
  • been molested by the brother I moved in with
  • been molested by the uncle I moved in with
  • listened to my grandmother call my mother no-good trash and say that I was raised by wolves
  • lived in a one-bedroom apartment with 6 people and a baby
  • shared a bedroom with my abuser until I was 13
  • sliced my abuser with a steak knife in a desperate attempt to avoid another beating
  • suffered through three years of attending a school in which most of my classmates had seen naked pictures of my mother screwing various items and men (not my father)

  • tried committing suicide twice before the age of 16
  • started drinking at the age of 13
  • started using drugs at the age of 13
  • started cutting at the age of 13
  • laid stoically through an attempted rape
  • suffered through my parents’ various mental illnesses and irrational fits of rage, which included throwing a stereo, scissors, booster seat, and various books at me at random times
  • listened to my mother swear she was going to kill me because I had the nerve to call her counselor and alert them to her being crazy again
  • deal with my father kicking in my door (and removing the lock for the rest of the time I lived with them) because I had locked it before I left for school to stop my parents from stealing my babysitting money
  • Sit through a long screaming lecture from my mother about how the cops said all the abuse I endured was my fault and that I didn’t love her anymore because I reported the abuse and neglect
  • Ran away from home after my mother and father got into a screaming match and my youngest brother was knocked over in a fit of rage
  • Was denied treatment for my mental illnesses (depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation and PTSD) because my mom felt the therapists were blaming her for my condition.
  • Sit through another lecture from my mother in which she informed me that *when* (not if) I got knocked up, I certainly wasn’t going to get any help or support from them, including having a place to live. That’s rich coming from a woman who had her fist child out of wedlock at the age of 16 and her second at 19. She also refused to give me access to birth control.
  • never learned to: drive, balance a checkbook, drink responsibly, apply for a job, apply for college, or have a meaningful relationship with a partner

Given all of that (and more that I just don’t feel like thinking about or writing about) it is no wonder I ended up in a halfway house for a week while my meds and treatment were ironed out. I spent four years in therapy, 5 years on medication. By the time I was able to get the help I needed, I had internalized the constant stream of negativity and abuse from my family into an auditory hallucination. I thought I could hear people’s thoughts about me, and it was *never* good. It was actually the negative feedback loop I had grown up with, being projected onto others to save my self.

And for once, I can say I am truly past that. I am whole and sane, with many interesting scars and stories to tell about them. I am a complex slave to own, with a trying and tricksy history that makes even the most normal of situations into a challenge at times.

It is that history that makes me confident in saying I know what abuse is, and how N and I live our lives is nothing like abuse. It is that history that makes me confident in saying I can fully offer my consent as a sane adult, because I know what it is like to be an impaired adult. It is that history that makes me able to fully appreciate what I have now: security, love, appreciation, and happiness.

I have walked through the fire, scraped my knees on the jagged edges of insanity, and am whole and pure in the face of the future. I am battle-hardened, sharpened to a wicked point by pain and endurance.

I am, who I am, and I love myself for who I have become.

Am I Really (Still?) Submissive?

A little background before I move on to the main premise:

As a child I was fairly submissive, eager to please, and easily cowed. I was a happy child, but it didn’t take much to have me positive bad things would happen to me if I didn’t listen to whomever gave me orders. I lived in situations where this “natural” submission was consistently abused and over-used…and as I grew older it got worse. I routinely caved to the unhealthy and downright vicious demands of some of those around me, right up until I slashed one of my constant assailants with a steak knife after being cornered in the kitchen one time too many. After a few more incidences like that I began to build a new persona; a loud-talkin’ in your face bitch who was down to scrap and didn’t take shit from anybody. I drank, I smoked, I did bad things with boys way before it was considered okay. I created some pretty fuckin’ thick walls to keep everyone out of the really soft weak spots of my brain that still looked for peace in submission. I had learned submission was nothing but a flaw, a fault to be used against me. Those walls, those protection measures, have become more fortified and dangerous with time.

Stay the fuck out. For realz. *ps: Hai!*

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On a thread on Fetlife today there was a discussion about whether property is default dominant, and also whether properties have self-protection mandates. While discussing this with some very interesting, thought-provoking people I started to feel a bit of unease. Talking to some very submissive people, discussing examples of others…I started to wonder if I am really submissive anymore.

Very few people would even accept the description of submissive when talking about me. You’ll hear bitch, cunt, loud-mouth, abrasive and weird (among other, more colorful phrases) from the folks who aren’t fond of me . To those who are close to me you’ll hear I’m tenacious, loyal, loving with a tendency to turn vicious if badly hurt.

It is that last line that fucks with my definition of submissive. I can hardly be submissive if I go through life gladly mauling (mentally or physically!) the people who trod on me, try to hurt me, or use/abuse me. I understand the whole “submissive to one, not to all” theory, and yeah, it works for me, but a long time ago I defined myself as a normally submissive person. Now, not so much, I’m just about as likely to let someone walk on me, take advantage of me, or to go out of my way to please a random stranger beyond my comfort than I am to walk naked through the corridor of an ol’ folks home. there’s a happy mental image for ya.

So I guess I am wondering if I have let my normal submissive tendencies atrophy, if they have gone into hiding, have then been narrowed into a spotlight focus on N. Or, most distressingly, was the act I put on so good at hiding my submissive nature that I have convinced myself of my non-submissive stature? Has the actress become the character?

I don’t have the answers. A new friend kindly gave me some supportive statements to chew on, but I haven’t been able to determine top and bottom, left and right in my mental maelstrom. I’ll get there the same way I always do, in typical Taurean fashion by plodding, methodical work and steady bull-headed *:)* determination.

I hate “Who are you, really?” questions. Rullyrully. :\