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Rated: 18+ · Book · Biographical · #2128782
I'm a Survivor of Abuse. Hiding it almost killed me.This is my Journey.
1 Birthday Cake

Most, if not all of our deepest hurts comes from relationships. And ironically, so does most of our healing.
Weather that relationship is romantic,parental,familial,peer,friend, or from those awesome ones that just flow gently or blow into our life like a hurricane, where they awaken the inner "us", empower us to see good in ourselves and others, and then, they leave...like Mary Poppins, off to do good elsewhere.
Looking with the gift of perfect hind-sight, I see the "awakener/healers" that the LORD has placed in my path when I could not bear it alone any longer. Even though we have friends,family,clergy, they may not always see or want to be a part of our hurts. And that is when something in the sir changes, colors change, sounds change, it's as if the vibration life in God's Earth itself is making a path for them to come to us. You can sense it.
I was born into a "delightful and colorful" toxic,dysfunctional family that seemed very "cool" to outsiders who didn't know better. I was often ridiculed,mocked,punished. I wasn't naughty, quite the opposite, but according to Mom, I was always just like so-and-so, and why couldn't I be more like so-and-so instead? I never measured up from the time I didn't even know what a measurement was. My Mom was raised by a malignant narcissist,pedophile,alcoholic father, and an anxiety-ridden,depressed,abused alcoholic mother. They raised traumatized,abused alcoholic narcissist children who grew into what I called Mom and her Brothers, my Uncles.I should say one uncle out of three was the odd-ball, an empathetic,kind,and funny man, but he was the target of my excuse for the word grandfather and I rarely saw that Uncle. He preferred to hide out elsewhere.
Life was never boring living in the Contala-Manhart Hostel. Lots of yelling in Slovack-Russian, embittered responses in the form of flying bowls of soup du jour went hurtling into the wall or the head of one not ducking fast enough. Then there was the "fun" times, when drunken men would pick on the women and children, making a sick game of abuse. Fart-n-Suffer was a popular one, they would sit on your face, pass gas, and laugh, forgetting to get up off you while they were laughing. I remember Uncle Pete doing this until after what seemed like a lifetime, because my life did flash in front of my eyes, squashed into the couch cushions, no air getting into my lungs because they were sitting on my tiny 4-year-old face, and compressed my nostrils closed.I lost consciousness from no air. But being almost smothered to death and revived while scared-spitless guilty parties looked on has great advantages..."Hey, why don't you go and grab that big piece of birthday cake with the pink rose on it?". Oh, the one I wanted before they almost smothered me to death and my hair was soaked in sweat from struggling to get air? The piece that was too nice to "waste" on me? Nothing like a big slice of you-almost-killed-me-cake to cure what ails ya. Cake and torture, they go great together! I was groomed by this kind of abuse-reward actions, when I got a little older, it was all abuse, and no rewards.
Then Albina Baboo came into my life. What's a "Baboo"? it's a name that belonged to a rotund,rosy cheeked, raven-haired Assyrian woman who took me under her plump and ample wing. This woman was who I thought of as my adoptive grandmother. She was the only person I ever remember getting compliments or hugs from. I can honestly say, I do not remember my mother hugging me as a child, not once. A person give what they do not possess within themselves, and my Mother is a panic-stricken narcissist. She was abused by my grandfather too, which is why I blame her all the more for leaving me around him unchaperoned, because she knew what he was. A normal,healthy mother does not do that to her child.
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