Evelyn’s Story

I am a thirty year old woman who has stifled my voice for my entire life. I come from a long line of abusers; physically, emotionally, mentally, and eventually self-abused. Growing up I lived in constant terror of my mother. She beat me and my sisters with wooden spoons, her hands, staplers, and anything else she could get her hands on in her moment of rage. She pushed me down the stairs, hung me upside down by my feet and banged my head against the floor, pulled my hair and knocked me against the walls. She kicked me, slapped me, and punched me with her free hand while driving the car. She told me I was stupid, that I ruined her life, that she wished she never had me. My father completely disassociated himself from all of this and didn’t protect us. He left the house and drank, and although he didn’t beat me, he once chased me through the house with a knife and broke into my bedroom, splintering the door frame into pieces as I cowered in the corner with a pair of scissors for self-defense. There is a part of me that doesn’t believe that all of this happened, that I am making it up, even as I write these words, my body shakes and tightens and tears are in my eyes. Is this my story? Did this really happen to me? Was it really that bad? It all seems like lifetimes ago, like a really bad nightmare I had in the past. The reality I have is how I now abuse myself, how I wake up with anxiety, tell myself I can’t do things, am unable to express my feelings in a healthy way, how I shut out the people in my life who love me, leak my rage out onto my loved ones, how I hate myself and stop myself and refuse to grow up and become an adult woman. I haven’t spoken to my father in over a year, my sisters in 6 months, the last thing my mother said to me was, “Evelyn, you are born alone and you die alone.” They can’t touch me now that I live so far away and they have no desire to see me, yet I’ve lived my entire life in their shadows, being a vampire to their zombies, wanting to suck the life out of them so I feel worthy, as they go deeper and deeper into outer space. There is nothing left of them to hold onto, and I struggle every day to get out of bed, pasting a fake smile over all of the pain, chasing their ghosts. Afraid of speaking my truth, afraid of being pathologized, afraid of being made wrong in a society of drugs and anger management and fake spirituality. My truth is that I’m in pain all the time, that most days I power through to get to the next one, that I’ve never really made love with a man, that the little girl in me still lives in a fantasy that my parents will wake up one day all Norman Rockwell and take me into their arms. That I have enough rage in me to kill them all. That I can – and do – disassociate myself and fly into outer space just like them. That I try to be good and nice so that people won’t know how angry I am. FAKE FAKE FAKE!

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