As a child, I never wanted to be home. My older brother and I didn’t get a long even before he molested me. My mother favoured him above the rest of us (it’s well known) and she always seemed to be cross with me. I relied on a few of my neighbours for safe places where I could escape.

When I was a little girl, every Sunday my family would drive our next door neighbours to church. And every Sunday I would ask them if I could come to their house for a little while. They always said it was fine if it was okay with my mother. She usually said yes and so I would stay at the neighbours house and play for hours. It was so nice and quiet there.

They didn’t have indoor plumbing, instead they had a pump driven into the ground for household and drinking water, and an outhouse for a toilet. They had an old fashioned wood burning stove for cooking (sometimes they’d let me put a stick on the fire) and let me tell you, it made the best fish and chips I’ve ever tasted.

A little further up the road lived my God-father, and a little further again was where my God-mother lived (and still does live). They were also good to me. There was no harsh criticism, no judgement, no fear of being punished and I didn’t seem to have accidents when I was visiting them. I’m not sure why that is exactly but I think it was because I had access to a bathroom at all times, I wasn’t told to hold it, to wait a minute, I wasn’t out in public where I couldn’t find a bathroom right away, I don’t think wetting myself was trauma induced so much as resulted in trauma…but I digress.

I wasn’t very old when I started running away from home and I always stopped in at the neighbours, my God-father’s and God-mother’s homes to say good-by forever. My parents had a pretty good idea of where I went any time I took off, usually after a fight with my mother or brother. Between my neighbours and God-parents, they would delay my departure by offering me something to eat before I hit the road. They just couldn’t let me leave on an empty stomach. This gave my parents enough time to come get me, usually that fell to my dad, I wouldn’t go with my mom.

Later on, when I got my horse, I would take off and go to the woods alone. Another safe place for me. I would confide in my beautiful animal and just hang out by the small river that flowed there. A peaceful refuge from the worries I had at home.

When it comes to washing dishes I admit, I procrastinate, a lot. I always thought it was because I was just too lazy but that’s not the case. In one of my groups we talked about why we procrastinate in general and that is when I learned that procrastination has nothing to do with laziness. It’s the result of having negative emotions about a task or action. I’ve learned I have really negative feelings about washing dishes.

We all had chores when I was growing up, and instead of going to the barn (I didn’t want to go) like everyone else, my chore was to wash the dinner dishes. I had bladder control issues resulting in having accidents. Washing dishes could make me suddenly have to pee urgently, as running water can often do, and I had accidents more than once.

There was one time I was so afraid I would be punished for wetting myself that I deliberately broke a dish and scattered the fragments around the stool I was sitting on. I can’t be sure but I think it might have even been a dish from Mom’s good china set. It didn’t take a detective to see the broken dish on the floor was deliberate.

When my parents came back from the barn I was still on the stool with my wet pants, hoping they would see that I had an accident because I didn’t want to cut my feet on the broken dish. But because the the scene was quite obviously staged they could see through my bullshit. In end I was punished for both breaking the dish and having an accident.

Punishments for wetting myself are one source of my trauma and washing dishes is something that could lead me to wet myself. I also have too much time alone in my head to ruminate while scrubbing the pots and pans. And so I will let them pile up, and then it becomes an overwhelming task I avoid for a a couple more days.

I do get to them eventually but it can take a couple of hours to get them all done and put away. A couple of hours where I need to listen to music of a podcast or something that will sufficiently distract my mind. I’m grateful my partner is very understanding when I say we’re ordering in because of the kitchen.

The people I meet must automatically like me and want to be my best friend or I will literally die right there on the spot. I know it sounds a bit dramatic but that is the feeling I get with every introduction.

Like everyone else in the world, I want to be accepted by my peers but I am hyper-sensitive to any form of rejection. I have a habit of internalizing it and taking it very personally. I don’t even have to like someone to need their acceptance. I believe it’s leftover effects from my youth when I was bullied mercilessly, plus the rejection I felt within my own family.

If I am not liked it means there is something wrong with me, that I am not likeable enough. I’m not pretty enough, slim enough, funny enough, I’m just not enough. Maybe I talk too much or too little, or maybe nobody cares about what I have to say. I know it is all negative self-talk in a voice that’s not my own but simply trying to ignore it doesn’t help me. I’ve tried, believe me. Responding to it is what helps me.

I take a deep breath and remind myself that I am likeable because I have a partner and friends who love me; and generally speaking, people like me when we meet. I recognize that I am not everyone’s cup of tea and there will be people who don’t like me. I also know there is nothing wrong with me, anyone who has been through what I have might have the same outcome in their lives. My disorders do not define me, I define me. This knowledge has kept me from drowning in feelings of inadequacy many times.

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At seventeen my boyfriend introduced me to the guy he bought his drugs from and who I ultimately ended up going to live with. He was the scariest man I’d ever met. It wasn’t just his huge mass that made him terrifying, it was the abuse and the sadistic threats he made.

My parents couldn’t force me to come home even though they tried calling the police; plus my father tried to come get me once when I was willing to go home. The drug dealer arrived home just as I was collecting my things to leave, flew down the stairs and proceeded to put my head through a wall. I went and told my dad I changed my mind, I wanted to stay.

It was the very first abusive relationship and I was scared. In addition to the beatings I took he threatened to tie me up and do unspeakable things to me like letting his friends all take turns fucking me; and he threatened my life more than once. I had every reason to believe he would make good on them. I needed to get out and badly but how? He had me practically chained to his hip all the time. Then something happened.

Remember the boyfriend I mentioned earlier? Well, the drug dealer threatened his life and had to do thirty days in jail. If his homecoming was to be anything like when he came home from the hospital after recovering from pneumonia, it was going to be a beating for me for sure. The night before I was supposed to go with his aunt and uncle to pick him up from jail I packed up the four joints I had, the one change of clothes I had with me and the last ten bucks I had left to my name. I waited until everyone was asleep and I hit the road.

I hitch-hiked all the way to Toronto. Lucky for me, I hitched a ride with a couple who was traveling to Toronto so they took me the whole way. They made sure I was fed and gave me some helpful tips on how to stay safe in a huge city. I got in touch with my parents and from there I moved in with my older sister and her new husband in a tiny little community in Ontario.

My older brother back in New Brunswick was followed for a year because the drug dealer thought he would lead him to me. He managed to somehow track me down and get a letter to me through my brother-in-law’s cousin (she has a similar name to my sister’s). It scared the hell out of me and I did not go home for Christmas that year.

I had a falling out with my sister some time after that and moved out but the whole time I was still living with her, I was looking over my shoulder not knowing if he would actually come after me. A few years later I moved back to the Maritimes and any time I had to go near the town where I used to live with him I’d become hyper-vigilant. I got word a few years later he died while traveling between Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, and that is when I took a big cleansing breath knowing I was finally safe from him forever.

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I left husband number two in 2013 and by that time I was suicidal. Fifteen years with a narcissistic control freak really did a number on me. I don’t want to get into a rant of all things he has done but I will mention the top four.

One thing he did a lot was gaslight me thus making me question my reality. He would tell me I didn’t remember things right, that I was making up stories and telling lies. He was the only one who could remember anything accurately.

He was so controlling sometimes during an argument he’d corner me in a room and not let me leave, he’d block my way. He’s forced himself in to a room I was in before I could lock the door, he’s stalked me and even chased me down the highway for an hour before I could lose him.

He was so dismissive of my needs he wanted to abandon me on the day of my grandmother’s funeral to go list a house (he’s a successful realtor). When my uncle was dying and the family was called in, I was asked by my cousin to watch her kids so she could say her good-byes. That was a no-no, so my was going to see him before he passed away. I went anyway but it was a huge fight.

There’s much much more but this post isn’t about all the wrongs he’s committed. This post is about how, in spite of his manipulation, I resisted the urge to go back to him for a third time. He’d always been able to manipulate me into coming home in spite of me knowing the mental and emotional abuse would not get better.

The final straw was when I punched him in the face as he was driving down a busy street with my infant granddaughter in the back (that’s a whole story in of itself and maybe one day I’ll post about it). Suffice it to say that one punch in the face potentially put us in danger, pedestrians in danger and other drivers in danger. I couldn’t let him push me that far again, what if there’s a next time and I’m holding her?

I needed to be cold and unfeeling towards him or I knew I was doomed to repeat the past. I needed a little ice in my veins to ignore his overtures of love, affection and his promises to be a better man. I had to remain stoic in the face of his tears. I’d heard it all too many times before and each time, things ended up back where they were and then would get worse. I had to be firm in my resolve, there would be plenty of time to fall apart later. Leaving him was step one on the road to better mental health.

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