emptiness: IX

emptiness (noun) -  the quality of having no value or purpose; futility

//hello, it's been a while. this might not make much sense and may just be a word dump. who knows.// 

there has been so much noise going on inside my head, but at the same time, complete silence. i've been in a constant state of feeling everything and nothing simultaneously and it's frustrating and upsetting and mind numbingly pointless. 

for so long, i've been running on pure hatred and resentment. towards my abuser, my mother and her family. towards myself, and my feelings. the only feeling i've ever felt about myself is hatred. i've hated myself for as long as I can remember. feeling like a disgusting, used, impure, weak, waste of space is something that has been a norm for me since I was in kindergarten. 

that poison ebbs and flows in my bloodstream, in every crevice of my mind. it covers my eyes when I look in the mirror. it drips over my thoughts, and warps them. 

sometimes, I think that maybe I'll be able to find someone who loves me. someone who will look at me and think I'm beautiful, and worth it. but then a droplet of that poison falls down. the nice hopeful thoughts start to sizzle, then melt away, and all that's left is an ugly disgusting bubbling puddle, and bitterness towards the fact that I even had the audacity to think I was worth something in the first place. because who in their right mind would even consider loving me? I don't have anything to offer. I don't have anything at all. 

it's hard to try and make something of myself when I don't think I'm even worth the space I take up on this planet.

I don't know how to love myself. I don't even know how to like myself.  i'm locked in a constant cycle of building myself up, just to immediately tear myself back down again.

an emptiness has settled into my bones, and in my chest. and it hurts.

it doesn't even make sense. how can I feel physically hollow? and why is it so painful? 

I don't know what to do about all of these feelings, and thoughts. they're a part of who I am. they've eaten up my hopes and dreams, and left nothing in their wake. not even a small crumb to go off of. 

I'm completely and utterly lost. and I have been for a very long time.

every time I think I'm worth saving, that maybe I should try and find a map out of this void I've trapped myself in, I second guess myself. the truth is, I don't even know where to start, or if I'm even ready to begin.

it's embarrassing to admit that I'm this lost at sea. that I'm afraid to try and love myself because I'm afraid to fail at it.  

all I've ever done to myself, is bring myself down. I want to defy gravity, but the heavy feeling that has made its home in my bones and chest keeps me grounded. every time I think I can fly, I fall. each time harder than before. to the point where I gave up because the constant failures just cemented the thought that I'm worthless.

falling is so easy, but unfortunately there's only one way up.

narcissism: VIII

narcissism (noun) - selfishness, involving a sense of entitlement, a lack of empathy, and a need for admiration, as characterizing a personality type.

my mother was beautiful. it’s true. a real bonafide beauty queen. armed with poise, grace, talent, natural beauty, carefully practiced soft spoken words, and a constant polite smile. 

so shiny and perfect and wonderful. on the outside.

on the inside, however, she was one of the ugliest people to have ever stepped foot on this earth. she was mean, vindictive, manipulative, vain, narcissistic, cruel, selfish. ugly.

another doll in the dollhouse. fooling everyone she came in contact with, having them all think that she was so demure and innocent. 

when I was 11 and finally came forward about being repeatedly sexually abused for 6 years by my own grandfather (my mother’s father), my mother decided to sacrifice my safety and well being in order to protect her “Christian reputation.” 

“this is embarrassing” “what will the rest of the church think of us?” “Lindsey don't say anything to anyone about this, it’s shameful and gross” “I cant believe this is happening to me”

she never told me that it wasn't my fault. because she blamed me for ruining her perfect world. her perfect family. her perfect image. 

instead of blaming my abuser, she blamed me, the terrified and lonely 11 year old victim.  

she made the abuse that I had to endure, about herself. her permanent victim mentality bled through into everything, even her own daughter’s sexual abuse. she decided to stick her head in the ground like a coward and pretend like the abuse didn't happen, and if I ever tried to bring it up or exhibited a behavior attributed to PTSD she would cry and make it all about herself. because everything was always about her. always. 

more often than not, I find myself wishing that I had a mother that loved me. but she never did, and she never will. so I've decided to lay it all out in the open here and write a public letter to her in order to obtain the closure I need to move on with my life:

Dear Stephanie,

I would like to start off by saying that you lost the right to refer to yourself as my “mother” the second you decided to protect the man who destroyed my childhood instead of protecting me. because of you, the monster that ripped away any sense of safety, happiness, comfort, trust, and humanity from me didn't go to jail. he wasn't even registered as a sex offender. a cretin that sexually abused his own granddaughter from when she was the ages of 5-11 wasn't even registered as a sex offender because YOU and your wretched family cried to the judge and prosecutor because you wanted to protect your false pious reputation. what you did was beyond the realm of evil, and I hope you feel shame for it for the rest of your empty pathetic existence.

when I was 13 I overheard you while you were talking to your morally bankrupt mother on the phone. you were complaining about how I “wasn’t getting any better.” and how “it was embarrassing that I couldn't just let the past go.” well, while you tried to pretend like the abuse just never happened, I couldn't. you don't know what it’s like to have someone hold complete power over you. you don't know what it’s like to live in desolation as a child, fearful of being trapped in a room alone with your grandfather because you know he takes pleasure in hurting and destroying everything that you are. you don't know what it’s like to have your innocence and childhood completely ripped from your tiny fingertips before you even know how to spell your own fucking name. you never even bothered to try and understand the pain and suffering I had to endure. you didn't care about anything other than yourself, and your public image. 

you never apologized. and you never will, because you’re too far gone to even begin to understand the calamity of your shitty parenting, and your heinous decisions. you created your own false reality, and separated yourself from the true world because all you wanted was attention. me being the victim of sexual abuse was just too much of the “spotlight” not being directed to you, so you decided to make yourself the victim in all of this. any mention of what I had to endure and you’d cry, asking why this happened to you. your reputation, your family, you you you you you you you. 

a few years after the “scandal,” as you so gracefully put it, happened, you and I were shopping at the mall. all of a sudden you pulled me aside into a store, giggling as you did so. when I asked what was going on, you pointed across the hall and there he was. the monster that tortured and molested me for six years, walking with his enabler of a wife, hand and hand, shopping at the same mall as us. he was free because of you. and you were treating it as if it were some kind of innocent game of hide and seek. acting as though me having to see the embodiment of detrimental and ground wavering fear and pain was no big deal. you got angry at me when I started crying, because I was ruining your shopping trip.     

you’re impossible to reach, because you don't even exist anymore. you just don't get it. you’re not even human. you’re just a phantom, remnants of some washed up beauty queen who was so narcissistic and vain that she couldn't stand her own daughter surviving life destroying trauma at age 11 because it drew attention from you. 

you were my biggest bully throughout the entirety of my life. no matter what I did, it was never good enough for you. or maybe it was, and you just thought it was fun to build me up one step, then cut me down five steps. I was always too ugly, too fat, too smart, too stupid, too untalented, too poorly dressed, too bad at makeup, too this, too that, not enough this, not enough that. it was exhausting, talking to you. being around your suffocatingly negative and jealous aura. you were so insecure about yourself and your fading beauty queen looks that you took it all out on your only child, like a miserable old hag. and yet you wondered why I never wanted to cultivate a relationship with you. 

I still vividly remember the moment I realized that you never loved me. it was June 2010, I was 15, and you and my dad were in the midst of a stressful divorce. it was stressful because you refused to leave the house, even though you weren't welcome, because you just loved to make everyone around you completely miserable; but I digress. we were sitting in your car in front of the house, and I told you that when the divorce was finalized I wanted to live with my dad full time, and for him to have full custody of me. it was then that you turned, looked directly at me, and said, “Lindsey that’s not fair. I don't want to have to pay child support.” you truly are a miserable monster, just like your mother, and just like your father.     

there aren't enough words in this galaxy to explain how much you completely and utterly failed me in every aspect of being a mother. and honestly, I just don't have the time to waste on you anymore. I'm writing this to fully stop all of these thoughts, all these words left unsaid, from continuing to circle around in my brain. you aren't worth the stress, you really aren't. I cant even remember the last time I spoke to you, or saw you, because I cut off all contact years ago. maybe once upon a time I needed you as my mother, but when I realized that you were never one to begin with, that need faded. I grew strong on my own. I am who I am because I made me, and I did a hell of a good job. you don't get to take any credit in my successes, in my life, in my survival, because you are nothing to me. 

congratulations, Stephanie. you finally get what you’ve always wanted, the unwavering heat of the spotlight, because I'm exiting your stage for good. 

I don't forgive you, I'm not sure I ever will. because you don't deserve it. saying, “I'm sorry for whatever I may have done to upset you,” is NOT an apology. it’s not even a small step in taking actual accountability. but I don't expect much from someone as selfish and fake as you.

before you try to pretend to cry and say that I'm being mean to you, just know this, you aren't a victim. I'm not your true adversary here. you are your own worst enemy. these are just the consequences to your own narcissistic and evil actions, and you have to live with them forever in your empty, loveless, fake life.

you’ve always preached about how much of a “good christian” you are, and threw me away in order to protect that precious reputation of yours, so I'll end with this: I hope you’re somewhere praying. 

Sincerely,

The Daughter Who No Longer Thinks Of You

love: VII

love (noun) - an intense feeling of deep affection 

it’s strange, the thought of somebody caring about me. 

before this blog, when I kept all of my feelings and opinions about myself bottled up inside of my head for 20 years, I managed to convince myself that my abuser was right; that nobody would ever be able to care about me, or even look at me, after they found out what he had done to me. 

he ruined how I view myself. he still continues to alter my view of myself, even from beyond the grave.  

after all, my own mother couldn't even bring herself to love me after she found out. but to be honest, I don't really think she ever loved me to begin with. 

when I was 11, terrified and alone and completely void of any kind of positive emotion due to the six continuous year of sexual abuse I just had to endure, my mother and her family abandoned me in favor of protecting the monster that broke me.

nobody ever taught me how to manage all that burden, but they still expected me to have it figured out.

I didn't think I deserved any kind of love. I still don't sometimes. more often than not, I feel as though it would be impossible for someone to love me. why should they? there’s nothing special about me, I have no real talents, my dreams and goals have gone off the trails - some lost forever, some just completely given up on due to my own frustration and crippling self doubt. I thought that nobody would want to listen to me, because what happened to me, and my feelings about everything are so wretched and disgusting, and who would want to waste their time with something and someone so ugly?  

but recently, I've been learning that I'm wrong. people do care about me. people do want to listen to me. since I've started this blog, and built up the courage to shed my insecurities and share it on twitter, Tumblr,  and instagram, the sheer amount of support and love I've received is overwhelming. my own view of myself may still be somewhere dark and negative, but that doesn't mean that it’s how the rest of the world views me. 

in myself, where I see hopelessness, others see courage. where I see weakness, others see resilience. where I see ugliness, others see beauty. where I see a burden, others see a dependable friend, or a brave stranger, a loved one.

my journey to self-love isn't going to be easy. but, that’s okay. because I know I won't be alone for a single step. no matter how long my walk my be, how many times I may falter, or regress, I'll always have people to keep me held up, because they care about me and want me to feel loved.

I have my friends from college, who text/snapchat me when they see something funny that reminded them of me, send me postcards in the mail, invite me to be a part of their special wedding days, and tell me fun secret things about their super cool job that they work so hard for out in LA. 

I have my fellow council members in Chicago, who have been with me during some of the most uncertain times in my adult life. sharing daily memes and tiktoks, helping me when I've been in tough situations because they’re some of the most selfless people I've ever had the blessing of meeting, being my support pillar so I don't crumble. 

I have my friends from high school, who still reach out to check in from time to time even though we’ve all gone our separate ways.

I have my dad, who will forever love me unconditionally. And his entire side of the family, who constantly believe in me and build me up, because they’re proud of me, and because they love me.  

I have people who love me for me. I have people who believe in me. I have people who are proud of me, proud of what I've accomplished as a survivor of something so life destroying and traumatic, because that’s what I am. a survivor. 

my abuser has none of that. no love. no support. not even an obituary as remembrance, because his false pious reputation means nothing as he’s rotting six feet under. he’s gone. and he’s nothing. the world won't even remember his name. with each day, each week, each act of love shown to me from my true family and friends, each word I type out to share for this blog, each moment I learn how to love myself, I free myself bit by bit from his phantom grasp over my soul. 

I'm proud of who I am.

he did not win. he will never win. because I am loved, and he is not. 

loneliness: VI

loneliness (noun) - sadness because one has no friends or company

I never got to be a kid. 

I never felt safe, or secure. I never felt joy. I never felt excited for anything. I never felt free. when the terrible reality of my situation of repeated abuse set in, the only things I truly felt were fear and sadness. 

I couldn’t relate to the other kids in my elementary school class. one time when we lining up to go to lunch in the 4th grade, the girl in front of me was talking about how she was so excited for the weekend because she was going to be spending it at her grandparent’s house. I remember thinking to myself, “I wonder what it’s like to be excited to spend the night at your grandparent’s house.” 

being repeatedly sexually abused and tortured and verbally berated for the entirety of my childhood left me completely empty and detached from the world. 

instead of worrying about what to bring for show and tell in kindergarten, I was worried about the wandering hands of my grandfather and how they hurt me. instead of worrying about learning how to tell time correctly in the 1st grade, I was worried about what my grandfather would do to me the next time he trapped me alone in a room with him. instead of worrying about losing my last baby tooth in the 2nd grade, I was worried about my grandfather sneaking into my room at night. instead of worrying about how to complete one pull-up for the PE fitness test in the 3rd grade, I was worried about whether my grandfather would bruise the skin on my legs again. instead of worrying about learning my multiplication tables in the 4th grade, I was worried about whether my grandfather would scream at me again or not if I cried when he put his hands on me. instead of worrying about getting braces in the 5th grade, I was worried about how the abuse I had to suffer through would probably last forever.

I wasn’t normal. I wasn’t a kid. I was so lonely.

completely isolated in an endless and miserable circle of abuse.

I still am sometimes. 

he’s gone now. the world has been free of his pathetic wretched existence since 2018.

he cannot hurt me anymore. there is no possible way he can ever physically hurt me again. I am finally safe from his hands. 

but despite this, I still feel so terrified, and disgusted, and ashamed of my childhood. it’s really scary writing all of my feelings like this out and sharing them. 

will people be disgusted with me? will they see me how I see myself? will they think I’m just too damaged? will they think I’m not worth all of the effort that this baggage may bring? will they blame me and think that the abuse was my fault? will they abandon me like how my mother and her family did? will they listen to me? will they think I’m just weak and whiny? will they care? 

am I worth it? am I worth anything at all?

he may be gone. the threat of any physical harm may be gone. but the psychological damage he did by ripping away my childhood, my innocence, my freedom, my happiness, my security, my trust, and my humanity continues to fester. 

I’m trying my best to make it through. to breathe each day. I really am. but it’s a lifelong process. and it’s hard, and scary, and lonely. 

the delicate glass full of carefully built up self confidence, happiness, and courage sometimes slips through my fingers and shatters at my feet with no rhyme or reason. 

I’m constantly caught up in this swelling storm.

it’s frustrating. it comes and goes in waves. but I need to be patient with myself.

  

because I survived. he cannot take that away from me. and I will forever continue to survive.

unbreakable: V

courage (noun) - strength in the face of pain or grief

I’ve never really viewed myself in a positive light. my grandfather liked to remind me how weak I was whenever he got the chance. 

“you’re useless” “you’re just a toy” “you mean nothing” “you are nothing” “you are a child whore” “you’re disgusting” “you will never be loved”  

that mantra beaten into my brain, repeatedly. poisoned words invading my every thought. day after day, for six years. 

after hearing those things for so long, I started to believe them to be true.

he was right. I was weak. I was powerless. I was an object. 

I was a child. and he was the boogeyman.

I thought that when it finally came out that he had been sexually abusing me he would have his power stripped away. I thought he would go to jail. I thought he would pay for the atrocities he committed, that he would be held accountable for each mark he left upon my skin. each piece of innocence he stole from me.

that did not happen. 

my mother and her family betrayed me, an 11 year old child, and chose to protect my abuser. 

he repeatedly sexually abused his own granddaughter for 6 consecutive years but he did not go to jail. he was not registered as a sex offender. he was free. and I could do nothing about it.

my abuser thought he had won. he thought that he had taken away any kind of fight from me.

but that was then. and this is now. 

as a child I did not have the strength, or courage to take back the fire he stole from me. as an adult, however, I can use the building resentment, fear, hatred, and anger to turn the tides and split the sky.

when I was a child, nobody fought for me. so as an adult, I will fight for myself.

in 2016 I took the first step in taking back my power. I sued my grandfather, my abuser, in civil court. I also sued my grandmother, his enabler, in civil court.

assault and battery. intentional infliction of emotional distress. negligence.

it was terrifying. but it was liberating. this was my fight. 

no matter the turn out in court, I had already won the war against my abuser the second the lawsuit was filed. 

I was now the one standing over him. in power. tall, looming, and unshakable. my shadow, dark, casting over his entire miserable existence.  

my message to him ringing out loud and clear:

as a child, you may have stolen everything from me. but I am unbreakable, and I will rise from any abyss you try to drown me in.

reputation: IV

façade (noun) - an outward appearance that is maintained to conceal a less pleasant or creditable reality

“you’re so lucky to have such a good grandfather” 

“your grandfather is a perfect example of how a Christian man should be”

“your grandfather is so loving and attentive towards you” 

I heard things of that nature for the majority of my childhood. my grandfather was heavily involved in the Southern Baptist church that my family attended. he was a well respected member of the community. everybody knew him. everybody liked him. everybody thought he was wonderful. 

he had them all fooled.

he was not a “good christian man.” no good man, christian or otherwise, would repeatedly molest his own granddaughter when she was the ages of 5-11. 

he was a monster that used his false pious reputation as a weapon to gain power and status in the church community.

christianity was not his guide, it was his shield. 

since he was such a respected member of the community, he could get away with anything. the congregation would never suspect that he was a pedophile. in their eyes, someone as religious as him could never do such a thing. he had the ultimate immunity. and he knew that. 

in Alabama, the Southern Baptists reign supreme above all else. even the law. if you had a good church reputation, you had power and influence. you had the benefit of the doubt in everything.

church was not a place of worship for my grandfather, grandmother, mother, and aunts. it was a social club. and they spent their whole lives climbing up the social hierarchy. cultivating a “good christian” reputation. charming people with their pretty smiles and soft southern accents. the only thing they cared about was maintaining that carefully crafted lie.

when I was 11 and finally had the courage to tell my mother and her family that my grandfather was sexually abusing me, when he admitted his guilt, I thought that things would get better. that my family would help me. they didn’t.   

instead, they instantly went into damage control mode. they tried to keep this “situation” quiet. their christian reputation was more important than my safety, my security, my life. they could not let anybody know that their perfectly cultivated false image of a happily functioning loving family was an intricate illusion.

I was a child, and I posed an extreme threat to their made up world. I was real, and what had been done to me was real. they needed to stomp out the fire already threatening to burn out in my eyes before I ruined them for good.

And so they went to work. fluttering their eyelashes, crying crocodile tears, managing to convince the rest of the family members to not report my abuser to the police. “this should be handled within the family,” they said. “we can’t let this get out,” they said. they worked out a deal with some loser psychiatrist. he would take on both me and my abuser as patients, and he wouldn’t report the abuse to the police.

sometimes, the psychiatrist would talk to me about his sessions with my molester. “your grandfather sat on that couch yesterday and cried because he’s so sorry for what happened.” “you should forgive your grandfather, it wasn’t his fault. he is a good christian and made a mistake.” “sometimes you need to take responsibility too.” 

He never told me it wasn’t my fault. Nobody did. 

the only thing he made me realize was that the man who had sexually abused and defiled me, the man who had ripped my innocence from my hands, was free. the monster that inhabited my bed was as free as I was. 

he lived in the same city. he knew where my house was. he knew where I went to school. he knew where I took dance lessons. he knew it all. and he was free. 

he molested me. he threatened me. and he was free. he was capable of anything. he molested his own granddaughter for six years. his hands were grotesque weapons; there was nothing they left untainted or unmarked. and he was free.

the monster that repeatedly tortured and molested me for the entirety of my childhood was walking around freely, disguised in the skin suit of a “good christian man.” 

my mother, grandmother, and aunts sacrificed my safety and well being in order to protect their treasured “christian” reputation.

fear: III

fear (noun) - an unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something is dangerous, likely to cause pain, or a threat.

“why do victims of sexual assault just not report it right away?” “why do they let it happen to them?” “if it were me, I would have reported it to the police instantly” 

If you have never been sexually assaulted, and still ask these questions, stop. it is so easy to say what you would do in a situation that you’ve never found yourself in. instead of getting combative, I ask for you to please just listen to us. just once.

I wanted my grandfather to stop sexually abusing me. obviously. I cried and begged and clawed at his disgusting hands. leaving ugly scratch marks that would draw blood along his arms. screamed at him. tried to run away from his grasp, anything to put distance between us. but nothing was ever enough to get him to leave me alone.

he threatened me to shut up. a wide array of threats were thrown at me, all of them being equally terrifying to a five year old child. he told me that he would kill my father, and my mother if I told. he told me that he would kill my dogs. 

he told me that he would kill me, and nobody would care if trash like me died.

once, when I had to stay over at their house for a weekend I locked the door to the guest bedroom the first night. I was 6 and this was the only solution I could think of. the next morning he told me that if I ever did that again, he would rape me with a knife. 

I did not know what “rape” meant, he enjoyed informing me.

threats of physical violence weren’t all that were used. he broke me down emotionally too. he told me that nobody would believe me. that my family would disown me. they would be ashamed of me. because I was a whore. a disgrace.

he was the puppeteer and I was the puppet. the strings he pulled had me in a chokehold.

he was in control of everything. my body. my spirit. my mind. all of it. 

nothing belonged to me anymore. I was an object, gross and used and powerless.

“why didn’t you report it straight away?” “he was an old man, surely you knew he couldn’t kill you?”

he was sexually abusing his own granddaughter. hurting me. leaving bruises on my skin in areas where nobody else could see. he was torturing me. he was capable of killing me.

he was a monster. capable of unspeakable evil. and he had me fooled into believing everything he said. 

I was a child. vulnerable and alone. hearing his threats and his taunts about how my life meant nothing were all I had known. he broke me down piece by piece. stealing any kind of fire I might have had in my eyes. he said I didn’t matter - and I eventually believed him. he broke my spirit. 

I hated him. and I hated myself too.

I was trapped in an endless cycle of abuse. and I spent the years of my childhood wishing that I would die, because if I died I wouldn’t have to be violated anymore.

I knew what his hands were capable of, and the pain they could bring. I was terrified of him.

as a child I was quick to discover that the true monsters don’t hide under your bed. instead, they creep under the covers in the dead of night to rip away your innocence piece by piece until the only emotion you know is terror.