Saturday, February 4, 2012

heartbreaking find-childhood journals

I was going through some old boxes I hadn't even thought of going through for years and found an old journal(I had lots of those). I can't write in cursive... years on medications and I stopped trying for so long, I must admit I have to re-learn.

I ran into some things... some written before my mother died, some after... much of this was used in school for assignments. My mother had been teaching me cursive... so I... some words were written by her and not myself.

Scattered in this book... I honestly thought it would have been destroyed. must not have been able to... mama's handwriting was why i wanted to learn it. to me... she wrote beautifully curved words that looped and... well... now I realize my mothers handwriting wasn't the best... but then it was the greatest to me.

Their are things written from before the mental health system... I have entries after.

It was not as if I wasn't making it obvious something was wrong.

The things I wrote... it makes sense to me now as to why they wanted to advance me. I was advanced.

After CPS came in and took us... I was responding in what I now know is a normal fashion for a child to respond to such things... they opened the door to my personal hell. when my mother told them I was autistic they didn't listen, when she told them I didn't need the crap they wanted me to take, they didn't listen. she took me off of the medications because she knew. For all the times my mother didn't notice when something was wrong... they had to be blind to not see what even she could see.

I have entries into a SCHOOL journal detailing past abuses, and when they didn't, asking for help, pleading... saying I needed "help to get away from the 'help'" I was getting... that I liked being the way I was. As time went on... my writing digressed. My ability to retain information and express became challenged... my grammar, instead of improving, goes back levels as does my spelling... everything. And I write asking for help, expressing that more than one "me" is inside.

My mother protected me from the system as she should never have had to... but when she was dead my grandmother was more than willing to use it as a weapon. When I wrote about the abuse... asked for help... it was discounted as "crazy" or a "side effect of the medication" or "vivid imagination"... "attention". I have scars on my body. It was not any of those things... and the ones who dared to look close enough to see(basically not blindly listen to my grandmother) and actually checked, were promptly removed from my life, and if that wasn't possible, I was removed from theirs. My abuse was real.

I was a child asking to be killed... despairing over lack of love, life, help... because I knew what was happening was wrong. I watched other kids fall to my fate, some because they were abused too, some because some "helpful" organization such as cps had insisted their parents have them "seek help" for their children. I had been responding as any normal HEALTHY child was supposed to... was expected to... and though my words were mature, they had held a child's voice to them... some part of me hadn't given up on papa's dream yet. I believed people could be amazing. The abuse never once took that from me. With or without abuse... the words I wrote were older sounding than they should have been but rung with the sweetness of a little girl naive enough to believe all that was said with every fiber of her being.

The heavier the medication... the darker my writing, not just in the words... at first, I had held out hope and had trusted it was for the best... they killed that naivety. No matter how many times I spoke up, no matter how many times I let them KNOW I needed help... they thought they knew better. their solution was more of the same, therefore making matters worse.

From what I can see, I had retained information very well before and was actually ahead of my age group as far as I can tell(and since an advancement and participation in the spelling B had been discussed prior to my mothers death...) yet after.... everything... I must admit it is painful to look at.

What and who could I have been if they had just left well enough alone?

I remember being in my own body... so numbed with medication I had to struggle just to write. I got in trouble for writing the way I did, but it was the best i could do the way I was... it effected my fine and gross motor skills. My ability to retain information... even my bodies ability to keep me at a healthy weight.

I lost my memory in total several times. The last when I was 17... the time before that I had destroyed every old journal I could find. I should tell you... reading these I understand why. the time before I was 14. the time before I was 10. I should tell you I know what caused it, and it was deliberately done by another. It was periodically done... I will not state the reasons I managed to figure out... to me they are not good enough reasons. it was horrible.

Despite my unnerving maturity at times and my trauma in the past,  I was a normal, healthy child with a bright outlook on life, a sweet disposition and a stubborn streak from absolute hell... but... they changed that. it took years. I can tell by reading. even when my mind was torn to different pieces and everything was gone from me... I still was a hopeful child who believed. By age 12 I had made an attempt on my own life... but wasn't as serious about it as the next time... to be blunt, even then I still had a shred of hope.

while on the medications I wrote about their being more than one me... about not being loved... about mean words being said... my expression was very basic while on the medications. It is one thing to remember the horror, another to see just how obvious it should have been.

My school journals are like... I will be blunt. Nobody should have ignored the change. I should have been left as I was.

Do you think now that I am grown I will be listened to?

I do not see anything not their, I do not hear anything not their. I wish harm on none... though a hostile thought rises when harm is brought on me and mine.

On medication I put up with abuse... off of it I was able to stop putting up with it... all on my own.

When I asked for help I didn't receive it, when I wanted them to leave me alone... they decided I needed help.

These writing are from a child... yet I have had to double check both my memories and the few dates uttered on these pages just to get over the horror of it. No child should be writing such things and be so left to deal with it alone. I have been saying since I was a child that I was not sick unless they gave me medications... but they didn't listen.

Now I face those who will not listen once again... even my religion is put under debate to these people... they truly don't listen. The cry for help I uttered then is so similar to the one I utter so often now.

My understanding is fine... but what do you do when you know nobody is listening?

I found these journals while doing a little inventory to organize better(those boxes were not packed well this I already knew-they were just thrown together and I was organizing them)... I tend to do that when I become comfortable enough with a place to get attached... it take me awhile to do that, years... this place... I will stick through and make sure it is as it needs to be. Someday maybe I will have enough money to buy this place.

The building is old and I am sure I would need to save for a long time... but... this is where me and my family belong.

acknowledging this feeling in my heart... I was rearranging those things to make it better... more... settled? I could truly imagine my children growing up here... even if I have to fix it's problems myself(though I will have to ask permission of course) but I have experience with such things. I didn't even realize learning them was a big deal... just like sewing. she taught me how to do basic tiling too... the grouting was a pain though... I ruined my favorite pair of jeans doing the "Arizona room" with her. My grandfather cut some of the tiles and we even made an area with designs. I helped lay down the tiles int he kitchen that were just sticky types... I even did landscaping type things... trimming the pom tree... gardening...  fixing leaks(though I would first call someone for that-I was never good at it as anything but an assistant.

speaking of which... they were supposed to have someone come out on Friday... to fix stuff. yet... here I am still sitting here with a leaky faucet and a leak under the sink... hmm... maybe if I wrap duct tape around the bottom of the sink? actually that type of thing i was good at. it is done with PBC pipping... I worked with that in high school too... sprinkler systems use it(FFA-agriculture program), and I was in nursery management... so sometimes we had to fix those. I was quite good with it... the piping isn't my problem... it is the finer points of the leaky faucet. I messed up once and never did it again... I messed up REALLY bad... actually so bad I wasn't allowed to touch it for any other purpose than to use it, no fixing was allowed... not to say I don't know how... just... I REALLY don't wanna screw up again.

besides... the faucet we can live with. I am honestly thinking something temporary like duct tape should work. I don't have the parts or the tools to fix this anyway... so... duct tape fixes everything? as of now it has a temp fix I didn't put on it, and makes me uneasy... not right to me. a diaper... but it does work. actually for that reason I am afraid to touch it... again, afraid I will mess up.


when it rains it pours... well anyway, I gotta go finish up in that endeavor for the night...



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