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I was born to two fresh college kids who didn't mean to make me, my mother was the type to get around without caring if her boyfriend or husband would be hurt by it, and funnily enough, I when I was born, they thought a pedophile that my mother was sleeping with was my father, violating his parole just by being around me, sending him back to jail, and my dad is the classic Christian raised guy who didn't even know what sex was really. My dad married her, went off to the Air Force, and she sent him the divorce papers while he was in the military hospital, literally about to die from pneumonia. Luckily, he lived, and he went to go see me. My mother's side of the family is completely psychotic, so it's no wonder how I'm like the way I am. My grandma, her mother, wouldn't let my dad come near me, saying that my mom had to give him permission, which, the papers weren't even signed, so they were still married, and he just calmly called my mother and got permission from her. Over the next couple of years, my mother has gotten around to quite a few guys, but she married my step dad, who didn't like me. At all. She gave birth to my sister while with him, and my baby sister then suffocated to death in front of my 3 year old eyes while everyone else was asleep. I couldn't do anything, the bassinet fell over and she was underneath the mattress, know I was 3. I know I couldn't have possibly done anything. I know that. But still. And it doesn't help that my brother blamed me for it even though he never knew her or remembered her. I remember just sitting there, thinking she was just sleeping. The next morning, my mother and step dad wake up, call an ambulance, and two weeks later, my step dad hits her over something that I can't remember, and she divorced him, going back to my dad. Using him for rent money and free babysitting. Because what father, that isn't abusive, wouldn't want to spend time with their toddler daughter? He loved having me around, at his work, his apartment, just around him. I was a very quiet and obedient child, so I was easy and manageable, which was a behavior I developed because my mother used to scream and throw things around when I'd cry or get upset. My mother started taking my siblings and I to her friends house for babysitting a lot. I hated them, but of course, of I said anything, it'd end up with a wood paddle full of splinters and that room in their house that they sent the sick people to. Which my dad came over once to pick me up, but had a awful fever, and what did they do? They suck him in that room, barely feeding him and not trying my mother that he even came by, let alone was still there. Plus, their oldest son almost raped me, and I was only 4. I still have nightmares about that. Fast forward through all the attempted brainwashing, gaslighting, and other manipulation my grandma and aunts put me through, everything changed. I was 7, coming home from school on the bus, and my dad is sitting on the front porch, looking blank, like someone took his whole being out of his body and left the shell. I get worried and run up and start checking his temperature, as he'd had a seizure a year earlier, so I thought it was a health thing. He looks at me and tries to tell me that my mother is dead without actually saying the word dead. I didn't cry, if I did, it must have been maybe one tear, and we got money from the guy who was driving while drunk, catching the accident. I missed half of the 1st and 4th grade because we had to move around so much. YEARS after the fact, my school tried to put me in grief group, and it was completely involuntary on my part. It was awful. All those other kids, sad, heartbroken, affected, by their loved ones recent death, telling their story over and over and over and over again. And I'm just standing there, holding the conversation dice, feeling like I'm being stabbed over and over again for being such a horrible human being that I couldn't care less about my own mother's death, wondering why the actual *** I'm even there, as if I have the right to feel any of it as if I feel empathy for any of them. I remember getting extremely angry, launching the dice as far from me as I could, and running off after harshly shoving people out of my way, just needing to get out. After that, the school assigned me several personal counselors. It didn't help, I just got really good at evading or making up answers. I made several counselors quit their jobs. They then called my dad, and being the kid that just wants their parent less stressed and happy, I pretended to be fine. Even though every day for 3 years until I was 12, my brother was hitting me, emotionally, physically, and mentally abusing me, and then turning around and making it seem the other way around, using our dad's trauma with our aunt as a cover, my dad naturally being biased from that trauma to believe my brother over me. I'm going to stop here for today, it's late and I'm too much of an insomniac to sleep, but I'm going to try regardless, I'll write the rest some other time.
