The Fakebook Experiment

I'm a fraud

How did I get here?

with 2 comments

So the thought of even trying to explain how I arrived here is overwhelming. I’ve started a couple of post to my FB account that is an attempt at explaining what I’m feeling inside. After some self reflection, I’ve come to the conclusion that I have PTSD. Crap…I thought that was a temporary condition. I don’t know why at 42 it never occurred to me before, but somehow in the 24 hours since I deleted my “real” identity, it came to me that to look this up….and I have lots of the symptoms. So what the hell was so traumatic in my life? I must confess that at 42, I’ve forgotten much more than I will ever remember. My first memory must have been around age 3 or 4. I was sitting on top of my grandfather’s shoulders and there was some terrible fight going on between my mom and dad. That’s all I remember about that. The next thing I am aware of is that me, my sister, who is 2 years my junior, and my mom are living on our own in the same town. My mom is a hysterical mess and crying non-stop. I remember trying to comfort her and tell her that everything is going to be ok. I’m trying to do something no 4 year old should ever be asked to do. I remember my mom saying that my grandmother and granddad were passing by the house and “spying on us” and the resentment my mom had towards them for doing that…..I have to just jump forward from there because events were either so tragic that I have blocked them from my memory or I have some physiological reason for having such a blank when it comes to my childhood. Unfortunately, that doesn’t extend to the horrifically traumatic. My mother suffered from what I can only guess was tremendous depression. I remember the horrific outburst of uncontrollable sobbing…..like the world was coming to an end. I remember that irrational arguments. I remember the hours of beatings with a leather belt for every infraction. The worst beating I remember was one day when I came home and she accused me of telling someone that I didn’t love my step-dad as much as my real dad. HONESTLY….I never recalled saying such a thing. I was beat for hours until I finally just confessed that I said it so that she would stop beating me. I will never claim to have been perfect. I was a child of divorce at 4. My mom had emotional problems. My dad…an alcoholic. The only thing I felt was fear and helplessness of the next outburst. There was no one to encourage me to to explore my interests….no one to teach me what it meant to be a contributing member of society. There wasn’t even any food in the house. We lived in government assisted housing and received assistance from my grandparents for school clothing and who knows what else….It wasn’t my mom’s fault completely. It was the 70’s and she was a woman trying to raise 2 kids on a secretaries salary in a very typical sexist Texas town. My dad paid minimal in child support, even though I’m told he paid consistently. So here we have a very young woman with clear emotional problems, two kids, an alcoholic ex and limited prospects. Through the years she would be married six times. We would move, even within the same town, so many times that NOTHING seemed permanent to me. The guilt I carried with me over the conditional love I received as a child, really screwed with my head. Until recently, I hadn’t recalled this, but something brought this to my attention….by Junior High, I remember feeling like I was the “leader” (for lack of a better term) of the outcast of the kids I knew. A pattern was already immerging by which I was acting out in ways that got me in trouble. By junior high, I was having sex, experimenting with drugs, sneaking out at night and drinking. I once went to confirmation at Church so drunk that I puked. The pastor took me home. Luckily (or not) for me, my mom wasn’t home and he left me there with 2 other friends to wait for my mom. Somehow, she never found out that alcohol was the reason I had puked all over the pew. How did we get here? Needless to say, I was a kid without direction and without discipline. By the grace of God, the trouble I got into was only self destructive and wasn’t behavior that harmed others……ok, I was sleeping with other girls when I was in 7th grade…I wasn’t a saint and we’ll leave it at that. At the point that my mom was telling me to “pull down my pants” so that she could beat me with a belt and I was too modest to comply and got beat anyway, it was time that she pawn me off on my sperm donor.

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Written by fakebookexperiment

November 9, 2011 at 11:15 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

2 Responses

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  1. So many similarities to my youth. My mom wasn’t depressed, she was just drunk. So was my step dad and real dad. At 13, I stole my step dads car and went joy riding down country roads. Drinking straight scotch whiskey. Of course, I didn’t know how to drive either. I often wonder how I survived.

    Daphne Rays

    November 10, 2011 at 12:01 am


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