I’ve been avoiding writing a real entry here… for 3+ months now? And I guess it’s because I haven’t had anything uplifting and positive to say specifically from the perspective of my own life. The only feeling I have had since returning to the subject of my faith and abuse has been to confess my pain, trials and changes. The darkness I brought back into my life is something I’m still fighting; That, and the circus that is my family. 

Part of these experiences might help to put into perspective my struggles with suicide, fear and faith… And maybe somebody out there can relate and know they’re not alone in their struggles.

So this summer my mom tripled her prescription drug abuse: All of her words slurred, her hands dangling like loose hinges on tiny wrists and, as usual, her eyes wildly gigantic as if trying to take in a visual she isn’t comprehending. The peak of her insanity was reached when she near-lucidly retrieved a sledge hammer from our basement, walked up to the second floor of our already battered house and violently attempted to beat down my little brother’s locked bedroom door. Her theft and plagiarism was as expected; having stole my oldest brother’s bank card and, once again, putting him in the negative. She’s done this countless times with my dad. In turn, we had to ditch our home phone number a long time ago because debt collector’s called, literally, by the half-hour. My friends could never get a hold of me because we eventually stopped picking up the phone. My mom would say when we picked up, to “tell them I’m not available.”

I had never realized there was something wrong with my mom until 7th grade. My oldest sister sat with me at UDF when she told me that mom had to take medicine to be “normal.” That she lost her nursing license for a long time because she stole a prescription from one of her patients. I still didn’t understand even then, but when I started going over to more and more friend’s houses, I started to believe that something with my world wasn’t right.

That moms don’t strangely sleep all the time during the day. That moms don’t frequently accuse you of not loving them. That moms hug you and tell you they love you. That moms teach you things. That moms can see when your sad. That moms want to take you places you’ve never been before. That moms don’t talk to their children about divorce and suicide. That moms don’t typically ignore their children.

Some days, I believe I’ve come to accept the differences that are in my family compared to others. But that foreign, invasive, and uncomfortable display of affection between a mother and her daughter/son (which is so hard to avoid having college roommates) throws me across that border of normality and leaves me feeling like a freak.

It’s taking time, but I managed to read a little bit out of the scriptures in the media lab hours ago… I’m starting to understand again. Hopefully I try again soon.