The Journey of a Survivor

I have blogged about various times in my life. This blog is a short autobiography. It does not cover every detail of my life but it gives you a better idea of who I am. It kinda pulls the pieces together.

I am 36 years old I struggle with depression, anxiety and PTSD. Oh, and I am also a recovering alcoholic and addict.  Right now life for me is pretty good—I have a steady job, house, car, college education, boyfriend of 7 years…I would call myself fairly stable. But, life has not always been this way.

My mother left when I was about 3 and did not come back into my life until I was 13. I stayed with my biological father, my grandparents and occasionally with aunts and uncles. The adults in my life were mean, nasty, violent alcoholics. They were either beating us kids or each other. I was emotionally, physically and sexually abused. The neglect I suffered was horrendous. When I think of my childhood, I think of loneliness, fear and hunger. I also have a bit of shame attached to it. More than once I heard a parent say, “don’t play with her—she is dirty.” 

The sickening emptiness of a stomach is a pain I will never forget. It was a pain that drove me to steal and fight—often my brothers and I fought over food or tried to hide food so we would have it for later. Although in many ways we tried to watch out for each other, we also had to compete with each other to get enough to eat. Love only goes so far when you are starving. I would like to think of myself as such a morally upstanding individual that I would have freely given my little brother the last hot dog, but I would not have survived—that was not my reality. I always did what I had to do to survive. Lie, cheat, steal, fight…whatever. That was a rule in our world—never show a weakness because the weak would be devoured.

I tried not to cry when I was beaten because I did not want them to think they were winning. If I cried they would beat me for crying and being a “baby.” So crying got you beat more…but, really, it did not matter because they kept beating you until you broke down and cried anyway. I like to think that I had my pride and I tried to maintain my dignity even in a world that was totally insane.

The sexual abuse started when I was in the 1^st or 2^nd grade. One night when my uncle was molesting me my grandmother came into see what all the noise was about…she turned on the light looked at him under the covers with me and then turned off the light and went back to bed. Nobody protected me, people took from me whatever they wanted—including my innocence. What saved me from going insane was my ability to disassociate. That was a gift straight from the gods—in a split second I could be somewhere else—I never had to be present for the most severe beatings, rapes or verbal abuse. I don’t remember most of my childhood.

I consider age 11 to be the starting point of my depression. At that young age I sat with a loaded shotgun in my mouth trying to get up enough guts to pull the trigger—I was afraid of the noise, so I took a drug overdose. I really did want to die because I saw no way out. I remember thinking that god had abandoned me. To deal with the pain I started huffing gas. I was an addict by the time I was 13 and used any drug I could get my hands on. That is when I stopped giving “free rides.” I actively sought out men who would give me money or drugs for sex. I was running the streets—I did what I had to do to survive. That lead to my second drug overdose when I was 15. I don’t think I wanted to die—I think I wanted a way out—I wanted off the crazy train I was riding. The overdose got me 2 months in a locked rehab unit. I met my husband when I was 16, moved in with him when I was 17 and then soon married him. I never went back to the prostitution.

My 20s where a blur…I had periods where I was completely dysfunctional and unable to cope with life. At times I abused alcohol and drugs. Sometimes I just locked myself in my house and never came out. I had a few years where the depression and anxiety let up and I was able to get a college degree. Shortly after that I got hooked on crack. It seemed like I would get myself pulled together, get my life in order and then the depression would hit me and I would get pulled back into the world of drugs. All and all, you can say that I never gave up. I have been to alcohol/drug rehab 4 times—each time I tried to keep it together. Each time I fought my way back to the real world.

Now, I have problems with depression, PTSD and anxiety, but I have been on a good run—I have not had crack in 6 years and have not had a drink in 15 months. Weekly therapy and daily meds have helped a great deal. Sometimes, I still become depressed and I struggle with severe intrusive thoughts of self harm. Suicidal ideation has become a way of life. I consider it a good day when I only think about it a few times. I am hopeful about the future. I have never had this long of a period where I have been sober, medicated for depression and able to work. I have had the same job for 6 years. I really hope that my life is turning around and that things will continue to get better. I hope that some day I am strong enough to help those who are struggling with issues similar to mine.