Tag: #separation #abuse

Mental Health

Jesus take the wheel…

beingmesober

This song by Carrie Underwood, Jesus take the wheel, I feel that song any time I hear it come on the radio. It brings me back, as a lot of songs resinante with us, takes me back to that day on the highway going to pick up my kids from their fathers. I was so hungover and desperate to get sober. Stop drinking and stop the chaos, stop the madness and shame and overwhelming feeling of anxiety and feeling so alone.

I was crying, ugly crying, and singing and begging all at the same time. Holding the steering wheel, white knuckle, shaking, hoping Jesus would step in and take me or help me.  Begging to be forgiven for the mess I made the night before. I couldn’t keep doing this to myself or the people around me. I was destroying everything good that came into my life and my childrens lives at 36.

It’s like being in an abusive relationship, but it’s only you against the voices, the fight to not drink, the fight to get better, the fight to save the road we are on.

As I write this I pause and think of the turmoil I was in. That awful feeling of dispair and hopelessness. The hate I had for the people that got me where I was in my life. The divorce, the abuse from my ex husband, my mother, my father, my so called friends that were no where to be found, living their own lives and struggles. The one question we always ask ourselves, “How did I get here?”

I do know how I got to that point in my life. It started when I was an infant. It started when I was old enough to see what abuse was, to fear the people that are suppose to love you the most and protect you. It started when I was with my friends as a teenager drinking and not realizing the consequences of what could be. It started by not having any understanding of who I was becoming, what I was trying to sort out in my life and head. It started because I was never out of chaos, never away from the abuse, physical and  mental. Starting from my mother abandoning me for years on and off. The verbal abuse and physical abuse from her. My fathers abusive ways with women in his life and him leaving us for another family.  My stepmother had enough of his abuse and cheating, he begged me to come with him but I could not go with a man that hurt woman, who found someone new and just thought I could leave everything behind. NO! I knew at 15 I couldn’t live that way. I was angry at him. I was hurt my family was splitting again.  To then be kicked out by my stepmother for no reason at 18. To then marrying an abusive man to me and our son. A cheater, a liar and an abuser. Just like the life I escaped from. Just like the father I had, the mother I had, the stepmother I had. Where was the love, the support, the way out.

The escape was in the wine, the rum, whatever I could drink to get out of my head. The drunk haze to be able to cope and get through the days, to forget the bad not knowing that the bad always surfaced because I was in a state of fight or flight my entire life up to the day I got sober. 39 years. 39 years of chaos, some points were of course amazing. My kids, buying our beautiful new home, making memories and trying to be normal and hide away the pain that wanted to be free from me.

Jesus take the wheel. Jesus took the wheel when I allowed him to take the wheel and succomb to the one thing that was keeping me in this state of flight or fight. He took the wheel and steered me to freedom, to let go, to live. With work on myself, AA, therapy and proper support, but most of all love. I was with people that truly loved me in a way that allowed me to feel safe. I know my parents love me and they did the best they could with what they were dealing with from their past traumas. I forgive them but I’m also grateful for the chaos because it showed me strength and showed me what I am capable of and who I really am. I’m not what people say I am because of their own demons. I am a good mom a good wife and a good person. I love the life I have alcohol free and living the life I choose to live with the people I choose to have in my life, but most of all I love what I have learned and accepted so that I can love unconditionally with understanding, patience and support, for myself, my husband, and children and grandchildren.

This is, Being me sober

Mental Health

Chapter 1….Just the 2 of us.

beingmesober

So this is how it began. I was 5 and it was just me and mom. After leaving my aunts we moved into an apartment.  I remember it being so bright. We sang all the time, on a little navy blue suede 2-seater love seat,  “Leaving on a Jet Plane” that was our favorite then, and laughed like 2 kids. We shopped and played. We had a black cat named Sammy whom we adored. I remember being very happy with our little life together and my mom seemed happy too.

Every night my mom put rollers in my long blond hair so I looked my best for school. I had all the fashion a girl could want, toys, and a pet. A roof over my head and a sound place to sleep. I sucked my thumb still and had horrible nightmares and terrors. I would run into my moms room when I got scared, sometimes I could sleep on the floor, other times she would just tell me to go back to my room and go to sleep, or some nights I couldn’t move and would just lay there and scream and cry until my mom came in and tried to sooth me and tell me to go to sleep and don’t be silly. I had to learn to be with the monsters and ghosts and fall back to sleep under the covers. I didn’t want to be silly.

We had a dog when we lived with my dad, her name was Bonnie. She was a Sheppard/Collie mix. Bonnie was an amazing dog. She loved my mom and protected us. True story about Bonnie, when I was 4, she actually walked me to my school bus stop every morning and was there waiting for me when the bus dropped me off from school. My mom or dad never accompanied me to the bus stop. Dad worked and Mom well, I don’t know why. I must have been missing Bonnie so much then, as she was missing us wondering where we went, and as I write this, I’m noticing I’m frowning and my heart aches. Even at 55 years old.

I missed my playroom where I would have tea parties and play with my dolls, and my friends at my house where my dad lived, where I lived.

It was a challenge for my mom. Being a single parent, working full-time, having no help, no money, and dealing with babysitters who said I was a handful.  I learned that what I saw and how I was treated was how I dealt with matters or people that hurt me or I didn’t agree or understand how to react. I can remember my mom having a very bad temper, a fast hand, and being very angry, but also happy and fun too. I was blamed for things I know today, had nothing to do with me at the time, I was an outlet for her frustration and resentment for the life she had and has had. You see, my mom was one of many brothers and sisters. They had no food, barely any clothes, a house that was so small there were 5 in one bedroom, boys and girls. She was molested by her brothers and abused by her own mother, Her father, an alcoholic, was at War and they were all left to fend for themselves. My mom doesn’t speak of her childhood very much. She’s learned to live with it, to bury it deep in her mind. Alcohol was a big part of her upbringing. The Friday night card games with her brothers and father when he was home, they all turned into nasty nights of fists flying, yelling, and the house getting torn up, or her brothers tearing up the streets drinking and driving.

We moved 3 more times before we moved into a townhouse but this time we moved in with her boyfriend and his daughter. I had my own room and we had a pinball machine in the basement. It was bigger than any of the apartments we had lived in.

My stepfather owned all the properties we lived in over the short years. When we moved to the townhouse I was sick a lot and couldn’t quite make it to the bathroom when I had to and would be sick all over the carpet. My mom would yell and curse asking why I just couldn’t be good, why I always have to cause problems. I was so apologetic, so sorry for making her work and waking her up. I tried so hard to make it to the bathroom. I was sick a lot then, because my stepfather cooked with spices and it didn’t agree with me. I also believe it was because I was so unhappy.

I was 8 the day I had had enough and wanted to leave and run far away. I was getting ready for school, but the night before my mom said, “Don’t you dare make a sound in the morning!” Of course, when I pulled out my drawer to retrieve my socks, the drawer came right off the rails and BOOM, hit the floor. Oh my gosh, I thought. My mom came running into my room, grabbed a hanger and started hitting me, telling me how bad I am and I couldn’t keep quiet. I yelled, screamed, cried, I hate you, and said I wanted to live with my dad. I called him that morning and he was there at the end of school to take me. I don’t recall any of those events when he picked me up. I remember my father and my stepfather yelling at each other and the next thing I remember, I was at a hockey game with my father. I was happy and excited to be with him. 

I will always remember that night, it was and still is, so special to me.