As I continued to throw the ornaments, enjoying each crash to the ground, the rage began fueling every ounce in my body.
I was just so excited to actually feel. At first, I loved the numbness. I was overwhelmed by losing the most important being in my life. My mother. And I didn’t lose her to the silent killer or by a sudden tragic accident. I lost my mother because her love for me was beyond nonexistent.
My mother, Rhonda, chose her husband over her daughter. Tim, my mother’s husband, was also my adoptive father. He was the only father I’d ever know until 2 years ago, almost 3.
So Tim raised me as his own and decided he would strip me of my innocence before I even knew what sex was. And Tim didn’t stop there. He then decided for who knows how long to videotape me nude. And September three years ago, my adoptive father, decided to upload those videos for my eyes to see.
And my mother chose that man over me. She knows what he did. However, she desperately pleads to me that I was just different. Whatever the fuck that means.
Which is why I loved feeling numb. I couldn’t handle losing my mother. How could a mother not choose their child? How could a mother not love their child?
After several and I mean several months of walking through life without a blink to my eye. I looked at myself in the mirror, on a random morning, and missed me. Even depressed me. I tried to force those snowball eye drops from my eyes. But nothing seemed to come. And when I went to smile, I felt ugly.
I just didn’t know how to feel…
And once I heard Pretty Little Liars this November morning a few years back, my mind snapped. My body was full of hatred, shame, guilt, and loss. So much loss.
And that show, that I use to love, was on the day the videos surfaced on that Rush2112 desktop screen.
And that 4ft Christmas tree with all my ornaments was only the first victim I snapped on. My photos soon followed.
I couldn’t handle looking at the “perfect family.” My brother never gave me the opportunity to explain. So each picture ripped and burned. Tim’s family acted like they cared and disappeared after told. So each picture ripped and burned. My own family. My blood. Manipulated and destroyed my heart. Ripped, burned, and spat on.
And my mother, oh my mother’s photos. Some survived. Some I crumbled in my fists. And some I ripped to many, many shreds.
But for some strange reason, I always seem to protect her no matter how angry I become.
And fuck man, once again I wish I could go back to my past self, and scream at her to just again chill the fuck out and THINK.
If I would have expressed my anger in the correct light, instead of being ashamed of my world, the outcome of my story would have definitely been different. Less pain. Not as much loss. I chose denial over life.
I was beyond scared to leave my life behind, even if it was toxic. I still loved those around me, and I knew the pain that was to become. But eventually, I realized the only person I need to truly look out for is MYSELF. And myself always needs to come first. And yes I know life is full of sacrifices and that’s the harsh reality of lessons. And fuck when hardships arise to learn from them and conquer them. Be that badass human we all know you can be.