This particular crime is part confession, part validation of partial innocence, and more typical slander tactics of the pathological narcissist.
Woke today reflecting relentlessly on another “crime” of mine that my oldest threw in my face after her 4 day Bash and crucify Momma pow wow with her dad and my mother while I was burying my dad. Seems the past few weeks I’ve been obsessed with getting the truth out there…good or bad…right or wrong…
I’ve the feeling that getting the truth out after the chronic senseless cruel and discompassionate persecutions I’ve endured at the very hands of my worst abusers, might be my life’s mission for the remaining time I have. Boring and redundant for readers perhaps, but I feel fervently compelled regardless.
Being “grounded” in my house meant no friends, no after school activities, no phone calls, and no television. By the 8th grade, I had been grounded since the autumn of my 7th grade – well over a year. My previous crime had been that I had two friends over on Halloween night of my 7th grade year to play video games when my mother wasn’t home. Yes, I was guilty of that crime. I did invite two people over to play video games while my mother was at a Halloween party. And I was punished for it.
Isolation (photo from Getty Images)
In the winter of my 8th grade year, I had been grounded for well over 365 days. I had missed any friend or fun time my entire 7th grade year, one entire summer break, and had missed half of my 8th grade. Needless to say, I was suffering from severe depression and chronically suicidal thoughts after over a full year with no contact outside of a cruel, bullying narcissistic mother. The only thing that prevented me from attempting suicide was a lack of access of how to go about it and a terrifying fear that if I tried something and failed, that mother’s fury would grow even bigger. I prayed nightly to not wake up the next day. I had withdrawn a great deal even at school where I was “free” from the narcissist’s fury and criticism. I just no longer had anything in common with my peers. In all this time isolated, I had become weird, withdrawn, desperately self-hating, and painfully self conscious of my lack of worthiness. My former friends had stopped even inviting me to any social activities, as it was common knowledge in my school that I was always “grounded” anyway.
Finally, I was invited to a friend’s house for a sleepover and braved to as my mother to please consider releasing me from my restriction to go to this sleepover. Shockingly, mother agreed! I could not believe it!
Oddly enough, at this point, my mental health had been so adversely affected from isolation and too much self-critique time, that I immediately saw this night of freedom as my one and only chance to try to escape…by suicide. Dr. Orndoff, my very brief psychiatrist from earlier, had once told me about a childhood friend of his who drank so much alcohol that he vomited and choked on his own vomit and died. This was the only suicide method I knew of at this time in my life that was effective.
This was my plan. I would somehow get alcohol when I was at Cassie’s house and drink until I died. I was so excited all week knowing it was almost over. I could escape her and the temple of doom which was my house, forever. I would never have to go back to that place or spend hours crying and wishing I wasn’t so horrible of a person that my mother hated me and my friends thought I was weird.
Cassie told me she had found someone to buy alcohol for us! I told no one of my plan. I wrote one letter to a friend at a different school whom I hadn’t talked to since being grounded, saying goodbye. I hid this letter inside the pillowcase of my bed. I was very excited that it would all soon be over. This was my first and only “happy” time since the video games on Halloween fiasco. I eagerly awaited Friday night.
On Friday, Cassie obtained the alcohol and we started drinking. I had received two bottles of Strawberry Hill Boonesfarm wine. I felt confident two full bottles of wine would be more than sufficient for my escape. I drank them as quickly as I possibly could. I was scared choking would be painful and I believed the faster I drank them the faster I would choke and die. I drank them very quickly.
And BAM! I was deliriously intoxicated. I couldn’t walk or talk very well. I threw up all over myself and I peed my pants. I was embarrassed, so I went outside and got into a car to sit by myself, try to sleep, and wait to choke. Someone came out to the car though – a friend of Cassie’s – and sat with me. They had called me mother, but I was too drunk and uncoordinated to even think to try to run from the furious punishment that was sure to come. I just kept thinking to myself, please, please PLEASE let me choke and die before mother gets here so I don’t have to cope with the insults and berating that’s inevitable. PLEASE??
Nope. No such luck. Mother arrived and took me to the hospital emergency room. They observed me for awhile, not making any sense when I tried to talk to the nurses and doctors, then released me. I remember mother going irate and hysterical when I heard them tell her, you can take her home now. She’ll be ok.
Mother screamed right there in the emergency room, PUMP HER GOD DAMNED STOMACH! SHE NEEDS TO BE TAUGHT A LESSON!
I had my eyes closed, but I heard a man’s voice say, “Ma’am, she’s vomited out the entire contents of her stomach. There’s no need to pump it and to do so would be unreasonably painful and cruel”.
Well this infuriated mother because she wanted “unreasonably painful and cruel” measures to be taken. She continued to demand they pump my stomach. The doctor continued to refuse. It was quite a ruckus. After all, NO ONE dared to deny or defy MY mother!
The doctor won this one though and finally, mother agreed to take me home.
I had a few brief moments alone with a nurse while that argument had been going on outside my room. I was still too intoxicated to make much sense, but I said to her, Please help me? I want to die. Please don’t make me go home?
The nurse ignored my drunken words; she just continued to help me get dressed. And home, I went… I had screwed up my one chance for escape and I knew there would be HELL TO PAY. Worse hell than what I’d been living in already. I’d not only blown my one chance, but now my prison would be even tighter and I knew I’d never have the freedom to attempt another escape again…seemingly for the rest of my life, is how it felt at that moment, at least.
I’ll skip the gory, but dull details of the punishments which ensued. Fast forward to March of 2012. I’m a single mother to two girls and I’m burying my father.
Mother decides to tell my children (when I’m not around of course) that their mother “gotten so disgustingly drunk when she was 14 that she had to have her stomach pumped”. Of course nothing was mentioned about me being suicidal and depressed. After all, I was NO victim of ANY abuse whatsoever. I’d been given a perfect childhood; I had simply been an impossibly awful child.
The infamous night that my oldest attacked me verbally calling me a slut and a liar, she was sure to throw this newly discovered insult in for good measure.
I found it curious that mother had altered the story in telling it to my children to give it the ending she had wanted and been denied. Because even if she didn’t have her way, she can always just change the story to better suit the dramatics and persecution she originally wanted and had been so wrongly denied.
If it doesn’t go the way you think it should, just change the story.