That’s what I call it when I go behind closed doors and don’t really respond to requests.  I’ve already done once since becoming a parent and I kind of expect it to continue.  I’ve been through these kinds of super intense freak outs before.  I did a few while I was dating Tom.  And I wrote about them then.  I need to go read my archive again.

Everything is all jumbled up right now.  I’m sad about my uncle dying.  I’m sad that I didn’t know it was time to say goodbye because no one thought to tell me.  I’m sad that my mother used his death as a chance to ambush me so that she could try to get her own needs met.  I’m proud that when my mother called me I told her she needs to go to therapy and say out loud many times that she sent me to my father so he could rape me.  She did that.  She has to say out loud, “I sent my daughter to her father so that her father could rape her.”  She has to say that.  If she doesn’t say that, there is nothing.  Ever again.  I cannot acknowledge that she is alive.  Until the day my mother can say, “I allowed my daughter to be raped” I have nothing to say to her.  It is her fucking fault.

I called my mother in the middle of a horrific sexual assault and begged her to come get me and she told me no.  She bears the burden of that guilt.  I want to punch her in the face.  I want to run her over with my car.  That fucking horrible disgusting repulsive excuse for a mother.  I think she should be dead.  I hate her so much.  My mother sent me to my father over and over.  The custody agreement said he should NEVER BE ALONE WITH ME.  And I was.  Repeatedly.

My brother told me that our father didn’t explicitly say it but he made it very clear it was perfectly ok for my brothers to have sex with me if they wanted regardless of whether I wanted it or not.  Let me say that another way.  My father told my brothers that it was ok to rape me.  My brother told me that it was very understood in the household that if my mother wasn’t up for sex my dad would fuck my sister.  If my sister wasn’t up for sex… guess who that leaves.  Me.  I was three years old when my parents divorced.

What the fuck happened to me.  I can’t remember it very clearly.  I was too little.  There is court documentation of my fathers confession.  The detective on my case told me that my father confessed to far more than I remember and he was horrified by what my father said.  Let me say that again, a professional police detective who works on many many many abuse cases.  That is his job.  He was horrified by what happened to me.  But I don’t remember it.  It scares the shit out of me.  What the hell other memories are lurking in my body and in my brain.  When I am 75 years old will I wake up and say, “72 years ago my father raped me and I’m not over it.”

I am so fucking pissed off at my mother.  She wants to deny that it happened.  She doesn’t want to admit her guilt.  It is her fault.  She was my mother.  Her whole job was to ensure that I reached adulthood in relative safety and she failed.failed.failed.  I get to be angry about that.  I get to take her to task for that and no one gets to intervene.  No one, including my co-dependent, enabler, abusive sister, get to tell me that I have to change how I feel about my piece of shit mother.

Abusive.  My mother told me that if she hadn’t been Catholic she would have aborted me.  My sister told me that my mother was packed and ready to leave my father when my mom turned up pregnant with me.  There was always the very clear implication that it is therefore my fault that my sister was raped for three more years.

Maybe that is why that stupid, worthless piece of shit never said anything about my mom sending me off to my father’s for the weekend.  Maybe she just thought it was my turn.