I was born 24 years ago to a woman and a man who had fallen in love while in high school. Not at the same school, mind you. They had already had one child, he had been alive during their wedding. The 3 of them had lived through 3 and a half years before I came along. When we were little my brother and I spent a lot of time together. I didn't start talking until much later than normal because my brother would always answer for me. I didn't walk until later than normal because my brother would carry me around. Once, when our father was at work, our mother was cleaning the house and I was in my play pen, I started crying. At that moment our mother had taken a load of laundry down to the basement, where our washer and dryer were. So my brother picked me up out of my play pen, carried me to the top of the stairs, sat down and put me on his lap and bum scooted down to the basement just to bring me to our mother so she could "make me happy again". It looked like it would be a good run for me.
And it was, for a while. Started school, made some friends, ran around a lot, climbed tree's and watched cartoons. In the summer we spent a lot of time at the park in the middle of our neighbourhood or having neighbourhood wide water fights with all the children that lived around there.Our mother had developed a specific set of whistles to call us in when it was time for dinner. It was nice.
We had had a cat my entire life, a pure white Turkish Angora complete with two different coloured eyes. She really fit into the family. When I was 7 we begged dad to let us get a dog. He was a mutt we got off a farm and the only thing we knew he had in him was some German Sheppard. I liked to imagine he was part coyote because of the way he walked. Animals have always loved me and though both the cat and the dog were family pets they always felt more like they were mine. The cat slept on my bed more often than not and the dog was my best friend. I'd take him for off leash runs and he'd never run too far ahead of me. When he did he'd always look back and realize he was too far and wait for me to catch up. We would wrestle and play a lot. Life was good.
And then I got older fairly suddenly. Our parents started fighting a lot, and loudly. They wouldn't do it in front of us, but we didn't have a big house and sound carried. It was mostly our mother, yelling at our father about something. I don't remember the words, I just remember how it made me feel. My most vivid memory is of my brother and I sitting in the living room while our parents were up in their room and the yelling started. I was on the couch, my brother was on a chair and once the yelling started he got very quiet. He didn't even look at me. I felt like we were both in our own worlds suffering in silence alone. Our dog came running through the house and once he found me, curled up on the couch silently crying as our parents shouted at each other, and though he wasn't usually allowed on the furniture, he jumped up on to it and cuddled up with me.
Looking back it doesn't seem like it took long from once the yelling started until my dad moved out, but at the time it felt like that was all my life had ever been and would ever be. My parents shouting at each other up in their room. To this day I don't know exactly what happened between them, but it doesn't really matter now. I remember when our dad left. It wasn't so much of a leaving as it was a being kicked out. But I didn't know that at the time either. I thought he was leaving. I sat at the top of the stairs and cried for him to stay, but he walked out that door and never moved back in. I hated him for that for the longest time. He moved into a shitty apartment in a shitty part of town, it was the only thing he could afford. He was paying out his ass in child support and alimony. Eventually he couldn't even afford that place and had to move back in with his mother and step father, into his childhood home. We didn't see him much, and I blamed him for that. Over the years I went from wanting his love and attention to hating him for not having more time for me. I thought he wasn't making the time, I thought I wasn't important to him. It wasn't until recently that I learned it wasn't his choice. He had to work even more than he had before to make enough to pay our mother and still survive on his own. But I didn't know this then. I didn't know anything except what I felt and so when he started seeing my step mother I hated him. When I found out she had a daughter, I hated him even more. I felt like he was starting all over again. A new family, a new daughter, a new life. I felt abandoned and replaced and it hurt.
But that wasn't fair to him. Looking back I put him through a lot of shit purely because I didn't have the whole story, I only had my perspective on it.
As we got older, my brother got meaner. He stopped being the caring big brother who carried me around to being annoyed and angered by my presence. When our father moved out he was placed in the role of "man of the house" and he was a tyrant. I hated him. He would boss me around and when I didn't obey or listen to him he would hurt me. Our mother was barely scraping by, but she had to work longer hours which meant coming home from school and being alone with my brother for hours until she came home at dinner time. And while it was just him and me, he was in charge and he abused that. Now, I know it doesn't sound like it was that bad, especially since he never did anything that left marks. But that's the thing. Just because someone isn't making you bleed it doesn't mean they're not still doing damage. He would put me in wrestling holds that had me convinced he was going to break one of my limbs, and he would tell me things like "if I did this, I could snap your arm in two" while he was doing them. He would hold knives so close to me I thought he was going to cut or stab me, to this day I panic when he's got a knife in hand. It was a combination of mental and physical intimidation. One day he pinned me to the stairs by kneeling on my diaphragm and I couldn't breathe. I thought I was going to die. Then the phone rang and he had to get up to answer it because our mother would sometimes call from work and she would get absolutely pissed if we didn't answer. But the moment he got off me I bolted. I ran out of the house without shoes on and ran away from him. I ran to a friends house who lived just a block away. When our mother came home and I wasn't there she was worried and she was pissed. When I told her I had run away from my brother it didn't make anything better. Sure, he got in trouble, but that only made him smarter about how to hurt me. It wasn't until he was in junior high that he changed. He found religion and he became a completely different person. But the damage had been done. It would take us years to reconnect and become close again, like we were in the days when he would answer for me and carry me around.
There's a lot I could talk about when it comes to my childhood, but this isn't what this blog is about. This is just the beginning. The introduction to my life. The basics to help you understand that maybe my issues aren't purely chemical. What are my problems? Well, to start, I've been diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety. The diagnosis came a couple years after I had my son. And that is a story for another time.
And it was, for a while. Started school, made some friends, ran around a lot, climbed tree's and watched cartoons. In the summer we spent a lot of time at the park in the middle of our neighbourhood or having neighbourhood wide water fights with all the children that lived around there.Our mother had developed a specific set of whistles to call us in when it was time for dinner. It was nice.
We had had a cat my entire life, a pure white Turkish Angora complete with two different coloured eyes. She really fit into the family. When I was 7 we begged dad to let us get a dog. He was a mutt we got off a farm and the only thing we knew he had in him was some German Sheppard. I liked to imagine he was part coyote because of the way he walked. Animals have always loved me and though both the cat and the dog were family pets they always felt more like they were mine. The cat slept on my bed more often than not and the dog was my best friend. I'd take him for off leash runs and he'd never run too far ahead of me. When he did he'd always look back and realize he was too far and wait for me to catch up. We would wrestle and play a lot. Life was good.
And then I got older fairly suddenly. Our parents started fighting a lot, and loudly. They wouldn't do it in front of us, but we didn't have a big house and sound carried. It was mostly our mother, yelling at our father about something. I don't remember the words, I just remember how it made me feel. My most vivid memory is of my brother and I sitting in the living room while our parents were up in their room and the yelling started. I was on the couch, my brother was on a chair and once the yelling started he got very quiet. He didn't even look at me. I felt like we were both in our own worlds suffering in silence alone. Our dog came running through the house and once he found me, curled up on the couch silently crying as our parents shouted at each other, and though he wasn't usually allowed on the furniture, he jumped up on to it and cuddled up with me.
Looking back it doesn't seem like it took long from once the yelling started until my dad moved out, but at the time it felt like that was all my life had ever been and would ever be. My parents shouting at each other up in their room. To this day I don't know exactly what happened between them, but it doesn't really matter now. I remember when our dad left. It wasn't so much of a leaving as it was a being kicked out. But I didn't know that at the time either. I thought he was leaving. I sat at the top of the stairs and cried for him to stay, but he walked out that door and never moved back in. I hated him for that for the longest time. He moved into a shitty apartment in a shitty part of town, it was the only thing he could afford. He was paying out his ass in child support and alimony. Eventually he couldn't even afford that place and had to move back in with his mother and step father, into his childhood home. We didn't see him much, and I blamed him for that. Over the years I went from wanting his love and attention to hating him for not having more time for me. I thought he wasn't making the time, I thought I wasn't important to him. It wasn't until recently that I learned it wasn't his choice. He had to work even more than he had before to make enough to pay our mother and still survive on his own. But I didn't know this then. I didn't know anything except what I felt and so when he started seeing my step mother I hated him. When I found out she had a daughter, I hated him even more. I felt like he was starting all over again. A new family, a new daughter, a new life. I felt abandoned and replaced and it hurt.
But that wasn't fair to him. Looking back I put him through a lot of shit purely because I didn't have the whole story, I only had my perspective on it.
As we got older, my brother got meaner. He stopped being the caring big brother who carried me around to being annoyed and angered by my presence. When our father moved out he was placed in the role of "man of the house" and he was a tyrant. I hated him. He would boss me around and when I didn't obey or listen to him he would hurt me. Our mother was barely scraping by, but she had to work longer hours which meant coming home from school and being alone with my brother for hours until she came home at dinner time. And while it was just him and me, he was in charge and he abused that. Now, I know it doesn't sound like it was that bad, especially since he never did anything that left marks. But that's the thing. Just because someone isn't making you bleed it doesn't mean they're not still doing damage. He would put me in wrestling holds that had me convinced he was going to break one of my limbs, and he would tell me things like "if I did this, I could snap your arm in two" while he was doing them. He would hold knives so close to me I thought he was going to cut or stab me, to this day I panic when he's got a knife in hand. It was a combination of mental and physical intimidation. One day he pinned me to the stairs by kneeling on my diaphragm and I couldn't breathe. I thought I was going to die. Then the phone rang and he had to get up to answer it because our mother would sometimes call from work and she would get absolutely pissed if we didn't answer. But the moment he got off me I bolted. I ran out of the house without shoes on and ran away from him. I ran to a friends house who lived just a block away. When our mother came home and I wasn't there she was worried and she was pissed. When I told her I had run away from my brother it didn't make anything better. Sure, he got in trouble, but that only made him smarter about how to hurt me. It wasn't until he was in junior high that he changed. He found religion and he became a completely different person. But the damage had been done. It would take us years to reconnect and become close again, like we were in the days when he would answer for me and carry me around.
There's a lot I could talk about when it comes to my childhood, but this isn't what this blog is about. This is just the beginning. The introduction to my life. The basics to help you understand that maybe my issues aren't purely chemical. What are my problems? Well, to start, I've been diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety. The diagnosis came a couple years after I had my son. And that is a story for another time.
