My Mother Never Loved Me — Part 2

Most people may believe that all mothers love their children. Not true.

When I wrote my first two stories on Medium, I took the MWC Challenge because I thought it would be fun to challenge my writing skills. The first piece of advice I learned about writing was: Write about what you know.

So I did. Except I did not think ahead. I allowed my emotions to spill over into the words I had been swallowing for most of my life.

I wrote and I cried. I cried and I wrote. I wondered if I would ever stop. I realized with my life experiences, I have a great deal to write. Then I thought that maybe I was writing too much. Maybe the words would be boring to others.

The words I wrote were pain I did not want to feel. I wanted to write happier words. My thoughts would not stop their persistent swirling through my emotions, nagging me to continue writing about my pain.

So I decided to jump in feet first.

There was no prelude to prepare others for the intensity of my writing. There was no spoiler alert. I reached the precipice of my feelings and I leaped over the edge.

I described some of the ugliness of my abuse. I wrote with my emotions. I convinced myself that the words could never sound as loud as the screams in my mind.

While I was writing my story, I was overcome by a myriad of emotions.

I believed if I could write about it, I could measure how much I have healed. If I could describe my wounds and my pain, then the poison would begin to dissipate. The poison would subside and it would eventually scatter into remnants of nothingness. That’s what my logical mind thought. Huh!

I was wrong. The poison did not disappear like the familiar magic trick. There was no slight of mind. Instead, I started to binge. Food. Shows. Games. Anything to distract and soothe me. Yet nothing could distract me from the voices in my head.

The Deadly Dialogue was back… louder than ever before!

Suddenly I realized what I had done!

Over the years, I had talked about the incest to therapists and friends. I took the leap of faith when I became convinced that talking helped the healing. More recently, I found a few family members who would listen.

Incest is still such a taboo subject even with all of the revelations that have come to light over the past several decades.

I try to tell my story as if it happened to someone else but the truth of the matter… The truth is that it happened to me, to that little girl. The truth is that the wound remains no matter how much I talk about it.

“It has been said that time heals all wounds. I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.” — Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy

I published my story for the MWC Challenge, then reality hit me.

I had written about the incest in public.

The poison had not disappeared and somehow it felt more painful. My anxiety began to overwhelm me.

Words spiraled out of control. I began to doubt myself. I continued to binge, distracting myself from the emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

“Who did I think I was anyway?” “Was I really good enough to publish my personal narrative?” I could feel the old insecurities threatening to stand up and confront me. I was teetering on the brink of panic!

Fight, flight or freeze is what my trauma brain was screaming.

I knew those options were invalid. I still give in to the trauma triggers sometimes when I am in panic mode. Mostly, I have learned to explore other viable options.

Breathing is always a good choice…

In and out, slowly. Smell the flowers, blow out the candles. I began to calm down. My emotions came back into focus and I remembered why I was writing.

I was no longer that little girl who was the victim of abuse. Now I am a survivor. Now I am the grown-up who can protect that little girl. I can tell the world what happened.

No more secrets. No more abuse. No more worries. I am safe.

If you are interested in reading more, you can find other parts of my story here: Part 1 and Part 3.