[Highway.Sounds]

One of my earliest memories is of my mother beating me with a clothes-hanger. I was bruised on my legs and the side of my arm. She and my father boiled an egg and held it to my wounds to circulate the blood and made it heal faster. I must have been about 3 or almost 4 years old at the time.

All throughout my life, I never told anyone my story, I felt like I needed to hold it in. I was scared.

My mother had many mood swings and an incredibly short temper. She seemed to switch personalities in seconds. I have memories of running downstairs to my grandparents' part of the house, so that they might shield me.

She'd use rulers or clothes-hangers or whatever else that was in her hands. Whatever was closest.

Her expectations for me were too high for any human to accomplish. I was already trying my best at school. I was already trying be a good daughter and care for my siblings. To appease my parents.

As I grew up, she became verbally and emotionally abusive, or perhaps, she had always been that way and I was just too young to comprehend. I was sent spiralling into anxiety and panic attacks.

By 6th grade, I was caught in loops of general and social anxiety. I had friends at first, I hung out with them in moderation. But soon, my mother would tell me that I was being selfish, she'd say that I would "never come home", though, even knowing at the time, I only left home to be with friends about once a week or so.

I began to lose friends after making the decision to distance myself.

Then I just felt alone. I had no one. I felt desolate and terrible all day, every single damn day. Social anxiety began killing me and I couldn't bring myself to talk to other kids. I felt useless in school. I could never concentrate. I began having anxiety attacks every week or two in classes. I begged guidance to keep from telling my parents, especially mother. I knew she would hate me if she heard her daughter wasn't competent enough to function in school. Eventually, they concluded that I needed to see a therapist for my extreme anxiety at school, as I would end up scraping at myself while I was in panic mode. To them, it was a method of self-harm. They told my mother.

I come home and go about my day as usual. My mother comes home from work and immediately I saw that there was fury in her eyes. She screamed at me for crying at school, for breaking down in classes.
I finally gained the courage to say that I believed I had a lot of social and general anxiety. She didn't have any of it. Even though, after years of my reclusive behavior, it was clear that I needed therapy.

I mustered the courage to tell her, later, that I was having self-harming thoughts. They buzzed in my mind like flies over the dead.

And she told me to go kill myself. She told me to go die.

My father worked 10 - 10, 5 and half days of the week. He knew what was going on. Failed to act on it. He tried to normalize it. He told me "That's just the way she is. That's just way she talks. It's just the way our family is." How much he had loved her, to withstand her day to day torture. And to see his children suffer, and take no action.

After that I spiraled day after day, contemplating death. I fought it pretty well. I went into emotional shutdown. I went into a deep depression. The hitting, the yelling, it stopped bothering me. I just went through the motions of living day by day. That's how I got through 7th grade. I didn't need too many friends. I socially outcasted myself. I bothered no one, no one bothered me. No friends, no drama, nobody, nothing.

In 8th grade, I found a group of friends that were righteous and good. I loved them, I still do. After being with them so long, they began to show me how wrong my life was. Being exposed to what a good home environment looked like, I began to realize what my mother had been putting on me was emotional and physical abuse.

It became less of "make mother happy" and more of "make sure mother doesn't get angry". I hated being at home. I'm quite sure there's an issue when you enjoy being at school than in your own home. Home became less of "home" and more of "house". The only thing I really felt love for was the music and the piano, my cats, and, my twin siblings.

I love my little sister and little brother with all my heart, whatever is left of it, anyway. We were never very attached to each other. My sister had her friends. My brother was always on his video games. Mother always made sure that if anyone was punished, it would usually be me. I was supposed to be the model sister. I was supposed to their role model. And if she broke me, they would never dare to step out of their place. And she did, in a sense, break me. Some points in my childhood, she would make me hurt my siblings. She would tell me to beat them with a hanger. That was ****ed up. I never hurt them hard, but it was painful for me. I hated it. I hated it. I hated so much.

It got bad in my freshman year of high school.

I was being hit, punched, slapped, pulled, kicked at home. For simple things, like forgetting to drink the soup in the kitchen, or forgetting to send an email, or walking too loudly, or not shutting the door gently enough. By December, I was close to a mental breakdown. The day of my 15th birthday, I was in my guidance counselor's office begging for therapy. Begging for someone to make me better. I was hurting in my own mind. I was hurting everywhere. I was hurting so badly and I needed something to make it stop. I started to want death.

One of my best friend's family, I had known for years. They were about to move away. I took care of my friend and her twin brother like they were my own siblings. I made breakfast for them some mornings and made sure that she was on track with her homework. A week before they left, I paused and froze in their kitchen. I just stopped moving. Her mother asked me if everything was okay. I broke down in tears and admitted, after years, that everything wasn't. She asked what happened. But nothing had changed. Nothing had "happened". It was always like this. Everything was the same. I needed something to happen. So I told her everything. I told her the truth. They were about to leave, but they did me an amazing thing that I will forever be grateful for: they landed me with a social worker who landed me in therapy.

Therapy helped, in a way. I wanted to focus on myself, and not my home issues. I talked about my sexuality, my erratic empathy, my tendency to feel too much. To be too sensitive. I wanted to solve my anxiety and depression without regarding the source of my problems, I had no intention to get my parents in trouble. Finally, my therapist realized that there was something terribly wrong going on at home. After all, when you spill your woes to someone, your true colors start to show. Once she got the information out of me, she was a mandated reporter and had to report it. My mother got a call from Child Services. She screamed at me and yelled and told me that I've betrayed my parents. I was sent back with lies to tell Child Protective Services, that my mother hadn't hit me with an object in over three years. The report was screened out and I was pulled out of therapy. What kind of ******** is that?

I was left all alone again. I felt alone again. But therapy had helped me somewhat, I became a little more confident. A bit more independent.

Then, near the end of my freshman year, I fell in love. I still am. He is handsome and kind and brave and selfless and forgiving. He picked me up and taught me to forgive myself. He taught me, slowly, to learn to love myself. He gave me his everything. He gave me love. And for the first time in forever, I felt loved, I felt wanted. I felt free with him. I feel free with him. I love him. I love him. I love him. The Universe shall curse me so if I hurt him.

Despite everything, my mental health began deteriorating again. Mother had learned not to hurt me with objects after the scare with DCF. The emotional abuse got worse. And worse and worse and worse. I was shamed for being chubby, because I had to choose between exercise and schoolwork, I chose school. I had no time for gym, I needed to focus on grades. And with general anxiety, I was slow at homework. But it at least gave me a distraction, it gave me an excuse not to come out of my room, sometimes. So I was also shamed for being stupid. For spending too much time on homework. I was told that I'd try to anger her. I was told that never, once, in all her years, there was a day when I didn't make her angry. She told me that I was a "****ing *****".

As my siblings grew older, my mother began going after them, too. I could take it when it happened to me. I told myself to stick it out for another two years, I'd go off to college and never need to deal with this **** again. School and scholarships would be my escape. But who would my mother take out her anger on when I left? It would be my siblings. I feared for them. By the end of my sophomore year, I was mentally close to breaking, I was about to have enough.

One day, I broke. It was a simple mistake. I accidentally brought up wet laundry. I brought it when I felt groggy and exhausted in the middle of the night after waking up in cold sweat, realizing I had forgotten to bring it up. She screamed at me, asking why I did it, if I knew the clothes were wet. She called me stupid and useless. It was stupid, I didn't respond, because I didn't know, I didn't remember. She hated the answer "I don't know." She slapped me. I stumbled back and tripped over the laundry basket. She called me a fake and an actor and a pretender for falling. She called me a liar for telling the truth, as usual. She then took away my books and laptop, so I was unable to do any work to distract myself.

Now, if you have anxiety, you know you need something to distract yourself, to keep yourself from spiraling. My heart sank and I went into a panic attack. I cried so hard. I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop. My mother kept screaming at me to SHUT UP and told me I was crazy. She threatened to send me away to the hospital. For an anxiety attack. She pulled me out of my bed and forced me down the staircase. Then told me to get outside, "So the world can see I crazy [I] am." I struggled to stay inside. But when I finally got outside. A force moved my body. It was as if I was me, but not really. I told myself I couldn't be here. I can't stay. I need to go. Somewhere. Anywhere that wasn't here. And with every step, I made my way away from my house. With every step, I flashed back to a horrid memory of being hit and belittled and degraded.

It took every nerve not to turn back.

I arrived at my best friend's house. I had known her well since I had moved to town 8 years ago. The first thing I told her mother to do was to let my mother know where I was. Her response? To send me back because I was setting a bad example for my siblings. That made me sad and angry, but mostly just sad. It was the first time I had ever left. And hopefully, the last. And she was not concerned for my well-being, my safety, but rather, that I was being a bad role model for my siblings. I had walked out of that house without glasses. I can't see more than about a foot or two in front of me. So she wasn't worried if I was okay or not, she was worried her other children might leave her the same way I had. My friend's mother heard out my story. She had known it for a long while now, and it seemed that I was finally more or less ready to say something.

My best friend's mother went to negotiate terms with her at my house. My mother had told her that she hadn't slapped me, but rather, tapped me to get my attention. And that, she hadn't laid a finger on me since I was 4 years old, and when she did, she felt so bad that she called DCF on herself.

All my suffering, and all the times she had called me a liar. I am frustrated and sad and disappointed.

It was decided that I would stay with my friend for the time being. I later released more information that made her mother feel that it was unsafe to send me home. DCF got involved.

My mother was sent out of the house, so I could visit. She attempted to take her life. She was sent to a psychiatric ward. I later hear that she may be diagnosed with psychosis. They say she sees things. I remember hearing that she was abused as a child. I understand her actions now, due to PTSD from her childhood. Why would she ever put that on her children?

My life is now upside down. I don't know what to think. What to feel.

I sometimes question whether I've made the correct decision, but my heart feels like I have done the right thing. It's torn.

I am 16 years old in 10th grade. I am Chinese American. I hope that doesn't make you see this situation any different than it is. Some hear it and go, "Ah that makes sense. It's culture." But culture shouldn't have anything to do with this. It's wrong in all ways. If this is the culture of my family, then I want no part in it.

I have the courage to speak up. I have the courage to see the truth and speak the truth. The road is hard and I am blind but I know all will get better from here. My mother will get better. To whoever else is going through this, have faith in yourself.

I hate them so much. I love them so much.

[PumpkinPieHead]

Welcome to PC! Hope to see you around sharing!

I am so, so sorry. What they are doing is wrong. You deserve help and protection. None of this is your fault. You deserve to be taken care of. I wish I could make it better for you.

https://www.discussingdissociation.com/?s=abuse

I dont know if this will help or not- but my friend has a blog for people goung through trauma.
here are some of her articles on abuse. Maybe it will help some to read.

[PumpkinPieHead]

I suggest this site for a teen like you, hon: nationalsafeplace.org