Victory in Progress?
Where do I even begin? I've given my testimony several times at recovery meetings but a couple of issues have surfaced that virtually guarantee NO good, sane, healing, imperfect, or otherwise woman would EVER consider me a contender as a suitable helpmate.
My mother was always unstable and craved to be the center of attention before I was even born. There is a WHOLE OTHER Kardashian-worthy saga on that branch of the family tree. My father apparently saw fit to carry on infidelities with other women, I have a hazy memory of him taking me along on one of his trysts. There was also a male sitter who may have done things I've buried so deep, IDK.
Before the age of 4, my parents were living apart off and on. A memory of just my mother and me sitting on a couch, watching TV maybe, out of the blue the back of her hand connects with my abdomen! Between the pain of the impact and the shock of what just occurred the wind was knocked out of me. She must have thought I was about to "code" right there, she became 'circumstantially remorseful'. Another time my dad was bringing me back from visitation, or I was supposed to go with him, and they had an argument that accelerated to my mother throwing tumblers at his car, the glass shattering on the pavement.
To be fair, I was easily curious and under-stimulated, I often found ways of getting out of the house and wandering while my parents were asleep, to the point of having to install a latch at the top of the door jamb, which I actually once defeated.
In time, my parents got back together and found a house closer to my dad's parents (my saviors). My dad had younger brothers who were starting to drink and mess with drugs, so they would spend a lot of time "babysitting" me at our place. Most of the time it was actually fun, but 1 uncle in particular fell into the trap of a local pedophile and started saying "weird" things to me, though he never actually did anything physical. A couple of particularly memorable holiday parties - one where it was at my grandparents' house, we weren't there maybe 10 minutes. My mother made us leave, then halfway home she jumped out of the car and my dad followed her for several blocks pleading with her to get back in. Another; all my uncles at our house, drinking as usual. A couple of them started fighting with fists until one of them pulled out a knife. Cops came, people went to jail. Others crying, yelling, puking. My grandpa swore until his death that my mother spiked PCP in the punch bowl. I was, what? 5,6?
Amongst all this, my mother was convinced there was something developmentally wrong with me. Further back than I can remember, she was dragging me to specialists. She didn't like that 1 doctor said the "A word" (autism), then another one said Hearing Aphasia, another said Retardation. She settled on "Hyperkinesis" (ADHD) for my time in school until she attended a seminar on Asperger in my mid-20s and said it surely must be that. Hyperactivity was just the thing though to trigger bullying by classmates since I had to go to the Nurse's Office twice a day to get my "hypo pills". School was its own set of triggers but I'm narrowing it all down to the source.
I should probably give praise to God that I haven't seriously entertained urges to pick off innocents in a public space and am only a cross-dressing diaper lover who SMOKES!
One of the other survivors' stories mentioned being a "backup child" - this happened to me about 6 weeks before my 7th birthday when my brother was born. We get along OK now but his allegiance is first and foremost to our mother. Throughout his early years he was in and out of hospitals and our mother spent most of her time with him - not like ME when I ingested drain cleaner and she left me with strangers who told me to lie still while they poked me. I used to see her going off to visit him as abandoning me (AGAIN) while lately I'm thankful for the extra time with my grandma. As part of "school phobia" someone tagged the classroom wall with graffiti when I was in 2nd grade, I was convinced whoever did it was still around waiting to hurt me, so I became afraid to go to the restrooms. It NEVER occurred to me to ask someone to go with me, but it sure seemed like a splendid idea to try to hold it all in. Partly desperation, partly mischief, I tried to use a baggie but they weren't that great at holding liquids then, I flung it on the wall which turned into a chant-fest by fellow students. Compounding this fear of anything outside the classroom, a student in another class had that Rocky Dennis condition where his face was enlarged, I saw a silhouette of him on the playground from about 20 feet away and I was overcome by terror. Later on I got to make his acquaintance and things were
good, but at that particular time...
So I'm pretty much the outcast of 2nd grade, things at home aren't much better, The Graffiti Incident took its toll when I couldn't (wouldn't) void my bowels in the appropriate place. That course arrived at a pediatrician violating me with his index finger and saying "bet you won't poop your pants now."
My dad would spend most of his free time drinking and smoking pot with his coworkers, whenever he was around he was usually quiet or angry. It's like he resented having to spare a moment of his time for anyone else. Occasionally my mother did grumble about him spending time with his family. Well, there WAS the time when my mother started going to church and had everyone else going as well. I got dumped off in the children's ministry, all the other kids a year older than me, and they all seemed rather cliquey. My mother must have only heard the "Honor Thy Mother" and "spare the rod" parts of the sermons and completely missed the "Do not provoke your children" parts. All of the toys and gifts I'd gotten to that point were thrown IN THE TRASH, NOT EVEN DONATED after one particular message or self-help book she read. My parents had a Renewing of their Vows at that church with the pastor; I was forced to sit outside in a hot car while one of the rehearsals was going on. This happened again when she attended her first day of nursing school.
When I was 11, I told my mother I wanted to live with my grandparents. Her reply: "If you do that you're DEAD to me." When I ended up in a psych hospital at 12 to 13 (as a result of school bullying and the counselors asking loaded questions) she visited maybe once or twice and was critical during those times. One day, my grandpa showed up to visit (he and my dad had the same name) and I can only think how I should have let him sign me out that day. While he was alive, my mother without fail would call him a crook and a cheat behind his back, but since his death he is a saint who taught her everything about life.
During one of her refusals to participate in family gatherings (unless they were HER family) she stayed home while the rest of us were out at my grandparents' - and went through my room, finding my stash of girls' clothes. She ambushed me, demanding to know where they came from and threatened to get the police involved (to this day one of her tactics is to threaten law enforcement or institutionalization) I felt forced to lie and said they were in the garage left by a previous tenant.
Following a childhood of feeling like I was being sabotaged socially, I reached the age of 18 with no real foundation to speak of, my parents had split up when I was 15 after she began an affair with a coworker of hers who was barely out of his teens. I began to be pressured to get a job or move out. Since any support services were related to school and that had recently ended, and I had no driver's license (she refused to sign the permission slip when I took Driver's Ed) I had virtually zero prospects. I managed to secure a job at Taco Bell that lasted a week and a paper route that I had to give up when she and her boo moved out of that county, and further geographically isolated me from my grandparents.
She married that Mr. Wonderful who turned out to be a con artist, as well as subjecting me and my brother to locker room language whenever our mother was out of range. He did get little side jobs here and there that gave me a chance to do something productive, but I wonder if that was worth the remarks and the occasional displays of rage, as well as the connotations of my supposed sexuality.
These days a lot has changed, but some hasn't. I've had several chances to aspire to independent living, but I'm here again after being guilted back after each attempt. I did manage to get a wonderful position at a shop dealing with a hobby that turned into a passion but that got taken away in 2009. My brother who had 2 DUIs and several jail terms is looked upon as better than me since then.
The urges to dress came back with a vengeance in 2011, probably after realizing that online dating would never be successful no matter HOW much I overcome and reinvent myself. The diapers went from fleeting curiosity throughout that punishment episode, through puberty and occasional online image searches, to full-blown acting out (obtaining and using) in 2013. Everything I study online about wives of CDs and ABDLs leads me to suspect any relationship I try to nurture will always lead directly to a trainwreck - this ain't going away no matter how much I want it - but that yearning burns in the pit of my stomach for someone to share life with. Let alone finding a Christian soulmate whose background would mesh with these quirks.