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@GhostlyLilian

no story is ever boring, and every pain felt is equally painful wether its physical or mental, so if you feel like you have a story to tell, you definitely should, and you would have many ears willing to listen to you, even if you dont believe it yet ;>

@GhostlyLilian.

I don't know about everyone else, but I would be honored to hear your story. Whenever you feel comfortable. Just take your time, and remember we're here for you <3

Thanks to you all I didn't expect so many replies! When I'll have time I'll write everything in this same thread

Ok, so.... It's going to be long

The family I grew up in was composed by a mentally and physically ill mother, who never got diagnosed and cured for her mental illness because everyone was in denial and it got progressively worse, a not so sane father that still lives in function of his wife's illness to these days, a little brother, me, aunts and uncles that were little present in our lifes and grandparents who had previously ruined their children's lives so not much to be expected from them. They were mostly distant and cold, didn't care much about us, except my mother's mother, who softened a bit with age, but still has many flaws.

I remember pre-school memories where I didn't feel like other children. They seemed to me smarter, less insecure, more capable. I struggle to locate in time many memories with my parents, but I guess family dynamics were messed up already, because at 4 or 5 I didn't feel good about myself, and I felt the struggle to "reach" other children. I tried and tried but it never seemed to be enough. My father said that one of my pre-school teacher told the that I had an abnormally strong super-ego, you know, the Freud stuff, meaning a super strong sense of duty and of having-to-do, I was too hard on myself. My aunt says that she noticed that at 4 y/o I had already learnt that when I needed something, I had to deal with it on my own, because I never asked for anything. I also remember that when I did something wrong, like breaking a glass, pouring some water or ice-cream I was terrified, but I don't remember exactly why. I aso have confused memories of our parents fighting a lot. They never got violent, but they yelled horrible things and my mother would go crazy, scream at the top of her lungs and cry.

First part of elementary school memories:
I remember I was always very wary around what I did in presence of my mother, because if (she thought) it was wrong (with her random changing logic and common sense, but when you're that age, if mama says it's wrong you've done wrong, she's your everything and your role model, she can't be wrong), if it was wrong she would be furious and have an anger and emotional outburst, where she started yelling things that would make me feel a horrible person, and at some point run away crying repeating how she couldn't deal with such a child. She never tried to mend or say sorry afterwards. My father was mostly apathic when she was like that, but he always took her side. And I did everything I could to do right, but apparently I was so dumb I often couldn't see it coming. And I felt so guilty. My father instead was pretty scary when we did something wrong. His voice would become deep and loud, he seemed to grow bigger and he would yell at us. I always tried my best to do what he said, because he always seemed to be about to reach the point of becoming violent, but he never did. Our parents spanked us and kicked us in the back, but it almost never hurt. It was humiliating though, and it was a way to easily end a debate. When to every rational excuse you tried to bring you receive a spank, it's clear that talking is pointless. Plus, my father exaggerated a couple of times, and I felt sore for like 2 days after. My classmates at school talked with no problems about their parents being angry at them. I didn't understand HOW. They had to be so strong and brave. My parents both scared the heck out of me when they were angry, and I felt so guilty and ashamed afterwards that I would never have told a soul about it. I felt a coward. Plus, none of my classmates ever talked about bringing their parents at the point of tears. How nasty was I? Why couldn't I avoid it? The others seemed not to make any effort not to upset their parents, yet they didn't. I tried my best, but still... what was WRONG with me? Why couldn't I stop causing hurt? But I didn't loose it. I HAD to get better, I HAD to reach other children, I HAD to change. But paying attention at school was so hard for me. I always distracted, although I tried with all myself to do things right. And I was slow, especially in maths, because it required a lot of attention. I understood, I knew how to do it, but it took me a lot of energy and time. I also cried easily and physically curled up in a ball because I was very emotional around others trying to understand the reasons why I was upset. Looking back, I think it made me extremely uncomfortable because I wasn't used to it and I feared that they were just trying to "enter my defences" to strike when I was vulnerable or something. I rarely asked if I needed help. I think these things confused and annoyed my teachers, especially my main one. I also endured some forms of bullying, but in didn't really bother me, except when it was about my inability to be good at sports. I was always left out and mocked. Another thing our parents did, was strict rulse. We couldn't eat any sweet, not even taset if our life depended on that. We couldn't watch or have toys of all the TV shows other kids were into. No videogames. And a part form school and summer camp, we were allowed to exit the house to socialize with other kids like... once every 3-4 months? We did sports for a short time, before my father started cheating on our mother with my spoprtsmates' mothers. But we didn't know that. Officially, we stopped doing sports because I was too slow at doing homework. Angainst my pediatrician's advice. And I got back issues for that.
Oh, I forgot all my mother's diabetes part. It's pretty prominent. My mother doesn't take care of her health. She's always low on bloodsugar. She has like 3-4 low blood sugar crisis a week. Meaning that almost everyday she fell into a coma for several minutes. Mostly at night. My father recognized the symptoms in advance, but she would refuse to accept help and mistreated him every time. so we could just wait for the crisis to happen and try to deal with it (((TW GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION))): She would fall on the graund convulsing with eyes and mouth wide open, making gagging and choking sounds, then clench her jaw with strength, sometimes ripping off pieces of her tongue and blood would pour out of her mouth. Sometimes she would hit her head and bleed from the hit too, and we wouldn't know if she was unconscious from the blood sugar or from the hit. (((TW END))). Our father would have to wait for the convulsions and clenching to calm down, soak sugar cubes in water and put them between her teeth and her cheechs, so that they would melt and not get stuck in her throat, and after like 20 minutes she would wake up and start yelling at everyone to stop asking her if she was alright, that we were treating her like "a handicapped" and that if she happened to have a fatal crisis, we should let her die. Around the age of 6, our father started telling us that when we were alone with our mother (which happened everyday) we had to make sure she didn't die, because if no one helped her when she had a crisis, in 2 hours she would die. Which is not true, but we had no way to know. He also told us not to call the ambulance, but to call him at work (weird, right? I was too little to question it). And I was extremely afraid that 2 hours wouldn't have been enough to discover she'd had a crisis, call my father at work, he had to notice the call, which wsn't to be taken for granted, come home, provide help. So I would have had to check frequently on her. Problem was that we were used to run in our room as soon as we could, when we fifnished our meals, so to avoid our mother's outbursts. If we showed up around the house without a reason, she would immediately get angry at us because she would thik we were "plotting with our father to control her". I was so scared by all the situation and I just couldn't process it. All I could do was pretending everything was fine, nothing ever happened when we were home alone with her, nothing would have ever happened. But inside, no matter how much I tried to suppress it, I was still afraid, and guilty. Because deep down I knew my mother was at life risk and I was doing nothing about it.
And my brother? He's 3 years younger. We always had a wonderful relationship. I've always been very protective of him. I chose his name and I remember jumping around the hospital and telling every nurse that I finally had a little brother when he was about to be born. I was so happy. When my mother yelled at us, I always tried to defend us or him, so thet she would yell at me and he could literally hide behind me. I helped him if he hed issues with schoolwork or with kids at school, I encouraged him when he wasn't sure about doing something he wanted and I liked harvesting wild strawberries and making "jams" for him, and make him drawings and games like puzzles, labirynths, little fun esercises and all kind of stuff. 2 years ago, when I brought my family in therapy, he admitted he has always thought thet if he's still mentally sane it's because of me, that he clearly saw that our parents treated us differently and that I was for him that support that our parents failed to give us that made him feel loved and self sure. It was so sweet. I still struggle to believe it honestly. It's too good to be true.
Specific memories that I think happened around this time:
- Fruits. Damn fuits. Eating one should be simple. My mother used to offer me fruits. I could say no. But then I would be an ingrateful child who refuses what her mother offers to her. Do I despise my mother? What did she do to deserve that despise?! I was cruel and selfish!. I could say yes. And from here, I had two choices: I could pick one myself, or I could let her pick one for me. If I chose to pick a fruit, I had to do so quickly, and hope that what I got out of the bowl wasn't too good, or else I would have been a selfish spoiled little princess who choses the best for herself and leaves the worst for others. Apparently I never knew hunger and I would deserve to be left to die of starvation in the desert. If I let her pick a fruit, she would spend a couple of minutes searching for a friut (because she could choose apparently, but I couldn't) that had a bug or a rotten spot, to then hand it to me and carefully watch my reaction. If I showed a little sign of hesitation or a little disgust, again I was a spoiled selfish princess who deserves to die and I would have brought her to flee in tears. If I passed the test, I had to start eating the friut without cleaning it, making it look like I casually started biting in in a spot where it wasn't rotten, wthout even washing it, until she felt satisfied and left. Then I would secretly go to clean my fruit.
- Bullying, the part I could handle. I took a minibus to school everyday. There were front and back seats. 4th and 5th graders monopolyzed back seats, and all the others had to be massed in the front seats. Nope. Not right to me. They didn't have the right to do that to all the others. They were bigger, stronger, I had no chance to win. But I entered the back seats with older kids everyday. Got beaten up all the ride. Didn't give a f*. Got to school always coming out of the back seats. They got tired of beating me up everyday before I ran ot of stubborness. They proceeded mocking me at school for my glasses and my short height, putting insects on my head, but it didn't bother me and I just played with insects before setting them free. At the summer camp, other older kids had fun chasing me around to lock me in the bathroom. Sometimes I ran, and I was faster then them, sometimes I didn't want to run and I let them put me in the bathroom. So they didn't even get to decide when I ran or when I ended up locked. I had enough imagination to entretain myself even in a bathroom, they would have gotten bored, sooner or later, of holding closed a door that no one even wanted to open. They always did, obviously. Two 12 y/o kids against a 7 y/o one. What bravery.
- Mother. again. She always picked her skin. We were sleeping in the couch together with all the others, because we saw a disney movie and I struggled sleeping. Yup. I must have been 7 and it took me a lifetime to fall asleep. And all I knew were nightmares. I thought it was normal. At some point, I notice a translucent little globe on my mother's face, that was at like 30 cm from mine. All was silent, the liht was dim, and I didn't know what that thing was. I slowly brought my finger near it, and near it... and when I touched it, 2 instant things happened: 1) I realized it was liquid and that it cam from a wound, 2) my mother woke up abruptly, her face upset with anger and despise, and she hissed "what are you touching?! It needs to heal and you touch it?!" I felt so dumb, maybe it shocked me beacuse her face was so near to mine... I felt her breath on my face as she spit out the words, and it smelled. Her teeth were rotting from her illness. She closed her eyes again, but her expression was still angry. I couldn't move. She went back sleeping, always with that angry face, but I couldn't sleep. I felt so stupid.

It's far form over, the worst is still to come, but it's incredibly long, maybe I'll go on in another post