Who Am I? : Welcome to Hell

Ah, I can remember the year things went to hell in a hand basket so clearly. I was twelve. It was a rainy day. My mother walked out the front door and broke her leg, both bones into three pieces, one a spiral break, a couple inches above the ankle. Now, a broken bone can lay up a person for several months. In the case of my mother, it was a permanent lay up. See, my mother has MS or Multiple Sclerosis. So, a broken bone isn’t the injury to deal with when you are losing the ability to feel the limb that has been injured. Still, despite the pins, she healed.

Now, I had already started doing chores. It wasn’t anything that would have been considered oppressive. However, when my mom broke her leg, I pitched in more like a good girl. My father couldn’t be bothered to do much and neither of my sisters would pitch in or frankly, keep from making a mess. In fact, they found great joy in making more and more mess than usual so I would have to do the clean. Anyway, my mother didn’t do much of anything and that included keeping the peace and making my sister’s behave. If something was done, I got yelled at. I was 12 and doing all the cleaning and cooking for a family of five, plus taking care of a cat and dog, fish and I think, at the time hermit crabs.

Many of you are probably going that’s not fair, but livable under the situation. Well, here’s a kicker for you. My mother took her Girl Scout troop camping with a cast up to her hip, but she could not do a single thing around the house. Yeah, makes you wonder doesn’t it? Oh, to top that off, whenever I wanted to do something, I got some guilt trip story about how things were for her growing up and how she didn’t want to do what she was doing to me. Funny, she put me through more than her guilt-laden stories.

Even after the bones had mended, my mother gave up pretty much all responsibility for anything around the house. She only did something when it suited her and for herself. Otherwise, it became my place to make sure everything was done. I was 12. I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere until things were finished, which basically meant, I went nowhere. I went to school. I went to the library to volunteer because it made my mother look good. I got a two-week reprieve at summer camp, which my mother bragged about being able to send me. And summer camp stopped when I was 14, so then I spent all summer being on call.

My mother’s MS got worse. Of course looking back over this time period, she would haven’t gotten worse if she just took care of herself like she was telling her doctor she was. My mother didn’t exercise. She did not eat a balance diet and she did not regularly take her medication. I had to learn how to mix up the solution and give the daily injection. Yes, I know how to give a shot and the proper places for a tissue injection. I learned because there was days when she could not make her hands behave to do it herself. However, even on days when she could, my mother refused to take care of it herself. Often she would blame me for missed doses. Then something called the Auto jet came out. This made giving the whole injection easier, but still my mother kept missing doses, not because she wasn’t able, because she could still play video games, hold books, do puzzles and craft, it was because she was lazy.

My mother refused to fight for physical therapy. This meant her body got weaker and weaker. She didn’t even have the common sense to exercise on her own until she could get physical therapy. This meant her ability to walk became a bit of a challenge over time. For a time my mother refused to walk with a cane, despite the fact she couldn’t get very far without one. So what did she do, she would take my arm and use me as a cane. I was willing to help my mother then, however, knowing the damage she did to me, I would not be so willing now. She then started to walk with a cane, but sadly by that time, it wasn’t enough, she still clung to my arm or occasionally one of my sister’s. Then there were the frequent falls. Helping someone stand up that weighs more than you without the proper support isn’t good either. However this happened more and more as things progressed. There came a point where my mother could no longer walk long distances or actually walk around the block or even half that. She started taking to a wheelchair. This meant pushing her everywhere because she would not wheel herself, despite she was capable of doing it, and it took a very long time for her to get an electric wheelchair. However as soon as she took to a wheelchair when long distances were involved, she stopped walking the short ones. She literally stopped walking, so her legs atrophied.

So, by the time I was 19. I had been used as human cane from about 13 to when she stopped walking. I was a wheel driver for many, many years. I was also a sort of forklift from when my mother fell. At 20, I was lifting her in and out of bed to and from the wheelchair. I also did all the maneuvering in a small ill equipped bathroom. My sisters started helping more, but the bulk of lifting went to me simply because I was stronger. Add in the fact that I was working full time and making dinner and doing the chores. My life was hell.

This is just part of it, a set up if you will.

At puberty, my father started sexually abusing, molesting me. I told my mother. She didn’t believe me and would do nothing about it, despite the fact that she knew what my father was doing. In fact, she made my life more of a nightmare. My father and mother could be physically abusive. I got hit for things that I did not do. I got physically punished for things I did not do. My father would get angry with my sisters for being wild and loud. I would get punished because I should have been the one keeping them tame. I still want to know how I was supposed to tame my sisters when neither one of my parents disciplined them, in fact they rewarded them by getting them whatever they wanted. I was punished harshly for the tiniest of things and constantly watched my sisters get away with whatever they damn well pleased.

Hell, it is the place of my memories.

My father nearly broke my arm, a couple of my fingers, tailbone, and nose; that I can recall. I had bruises on my shoulders and my arms where he would shake me for emphasis at the scolding I got for not being able to read his mind. My mother did this as well. My father sexually assaulted my body and acted as if it was my fault that it was happening. My mother made my life difficult by stacking on the chores and taking what few privileges away from me. Instead of taking care of herself, it was ok to use me in place of developed health aids. I was locked in the house and unable to go play with friends. If I so much as slipped grade wise from having A’s or at least B’s I was grounded. Mind you, I watched my one sister fail out of high school and for the longest while was my mom’s pride and joy. I essentially was forced to watch my sister’s twenty four/seven and basically do the work to up keep a household of five with pets.
Modern Day Cinderella. ::shrugs:: I am no princess and frankly, not looking for a prince. I do however know what it is like to be the scapegoat, the slave, the sometimes servant, the object that made my parents look good and so forth. There are memories I have blocked or tried to eradicate from my memory banks. There are times when I will go to recall something and can’t. It is annoying, but I know deep in my heart it is probably good that I can’t clearly recall those nightmares. As curious as I might be to know what they are, I am not stupid enough to want to be balling my eyes out for hours. There are still memories I wish would disappear. There are things I wish would just go away. Sadly, that is not the case. I just keep dealing with those demons the best I can and one day, hopefully soon, I will win the war and not just battles here and there.

Fallen Angel