N
nevaehniko
Guest
I’ve been reading though a few post tonight, and unstable, mentally ill mother’s seemed to be the theme.
I want to say first, that my heart goes out to the people who are dealing with that situation and situations similar.
I want to write down here the reasons that it took me so long to accept God. I do not write this for sympathy, but simply in the hope of letting others in similar situations know that they are not alone in their struggles. Because I know what it’s like to feel alone for most of your life and no one deserves that feeling.
I grew up as close to poor as you can get without being homeless. We rented an old house and we were on government assistance. My brother and I went to a Weslyan church and we were happy. My life changed forever when I stayed the night at my grandfather’s house when I was 7 years old. Long story short, I was molested by my grandfather. Apparently, he had secretly abused my mother when she was a girl, but they had forgiven him and did not think he would do that again. Naturally, no one else in the family believed me except my parents, and so began my mother’s resent towards me.
Even though I knew what I had been through was serious, I was happy. I was a kid with a huge imagination and I was constantly drawing, singing, and playing. I loved God. Then, I came home from church to see an ambulance in the road. My mom wanted a divorce and my dad took a whole bottle of pills. I started to notice that the world was not safe, that adults were not always right, and that people I cared about did not always care about me. I wondered why God was mad at me.
When I was a teenager, I started to remember things that I had blocked out of my mind as a kid (about my grandfather and that night). My mother would not talk about it with me. I began to notice how she talked to me much different than to my brother. The things she told me as a kid that I believed (that a 60’s rock star was in love with her and was going to come rescue us from being poor)… well, I began to realize that they were lies. She told me a lot of very strange things about God and her and my brother and I secretly discussed with each other that our mother was crazy. She would preach to us constantly and we barely had food. She would buy new clothes for her and I had to wear old, ratty clothes to school (which caused me to be picked on constantly). She would tell me these crazy things so much that I (and I feel bad for this now), but I hated God. I wanted nothing to do with him and did not think he was real.
I wanted to still feel the love of a diety, so I thought maybe Wicca was the way. Other girls at school were doing it and I wanted to feel accepted in a group. But I didn’t really believe any of it and I gave up the idea.
I became anorexic after a while. It was so easy to do when you already don’t get enough to eat. Everyone commented on how skinny I was, like it was a good thing, and I finally felt like there was something I could control in life. I felt that being skinny was my religion. Honestly, I think that I was starting to lose my mind due to lack of food for so long. I stayed anorexic for many years.
Mom had everyone fooled. Everyone loved her. She was so sticky sweet to everyone she talked to. No one but my brother knew how she talked once the door was closed.
I moved in with my first boyfriend a couple years after high school. I wanted to be loved. After a few years of engagement, I ended our relationship. He was on drugs very badly and would not quit for me. I just wanted to be happy, and I wasn’t happy. I had to move back in with my mom.
Only a couple months of living with my mom again (I had no where else to go), on a whim I went to stay with a friend in another state. And being the emotional wreck that I was, I ended up pregnant and abandoned in the airport, trying to find a way home.
Back again to mom’s house. I thought, ‘why does God hate me’… ‘what had I done to deserve this?’. I thought that I was pregnant, unmarried, and alone as a punishment for my sins.
If I was being punished, then God must have had mercy on me, because my baby saved my life.
I had to eat for the baby, so my anorexia went away without a second thought. After he was born, I got a job and my own place. It was all for him, not for myself. He taught me to love and to be loved unconditionally. It was hard, but it was wonderful. And I knew that I wanted my child to know about God the right way, not the way I had known as I had grown up.
It still took me some years and some struggles to get where I am today, married with 2 children of my own and two step children, one of whom lives with us. We have our own little place and I am very, very grateful. My mother was diagnosed about 8 years ago with scitzophrenia and periods of mass delusions. We do not visit her anymore, as the result was always horrible. But I do try to talk to her daily online through mail or chat.
It’s difficult to find your way through the storm. And even though I did not know that God was with me, he was there the whole time. There were several times that I should died or come to serious injury… yet I made it through. I’ve been blessed with my little family, the only thing I ever wanted, and I am so grateful to God for that.
It is my deepest wish right now to continue getting to know God and to find him through the Catholic church. I hope to get passed the anxiety attack and finally step foot in the local parish.
This ended up being a long, badly written novel. I’m sorry! lol
But please, if anyone needs to vent or talk about anything, please PM me. I am here to listen. Well…to read.
I understand the struggles. Even thought I believe in God, a little voice in my head tells me I’m crazy like my mother. We all have bad moments of doubt or frustration, but I tell you, since I began the Rosary, my doubts have been less and less.
I want to say first, that my heart goes out to the people who are dealing with that situation and situations similar.
I want to write down here the reasons that it took me so long to accept God. I do not write this for sympathy, but simply in the hope of letting others in similar situations know that they are not alone in their struggles. Because I know what it’s like to feel alone for most of your life and no one deserves that feeling.
I grew up as close to poor as you can get without being homeless. We rented an old house and we were on government assistance. My brother and I went to a Weslyan church and we were happy. My life changed forever when I stayed the night at my grandfather’s house when I was 7 years old. Long story short, I was molested by my grandfather. Apparently, he had secretly abused my mother when she was a girl, but they had forgiven him and did not think he would do that again. Naturally, no one else in the family believed me except my parents, and so began my mother’s resent towards me.
Even though I knew what I had been through was serious, I was happy. I was a kid with a huge imagination and I was constantly drawing, singing, and playing. I loved God. Then, I came home from church to see an ambulance in the road. My mom wanted a divorce and my dad took a whole bottle of pills. I started to notice that the world was not safe, that adults were not always right, and that people I cared about did not always care about me. I wondered why God was mad at me.
When I was a teenager, I started to remember things that I had blocked out of my mind as a kid (about my grandfather and that night). My mother would not talk about it with me. I began to notice how she talked to me much different than to my brother. The things she told me as a kid that I believed (that a 60’s rock star was in love with her and was going to come rescue us from being poor)… well, I began to realize that they were lies. She told me a lot of very strange things about God and her and my brother and I secretly discussed with each other that our mother was crazy. She would preach to us constantly and we barely had food. She would buy new clothes for her and I had to wear old, ratty clothes to school (which caused me to be picked on constantly). She would tell me these crazy things so much that I (and I feel bad for this now), but I hated God. I wanted nothing to do with him and did not think he was real.
I wanted to still feel the love of a diety, so I thought maybe Wicca was the way. Other girls at school were doing it and I wanted to feel accepted in a group. But I didn’t really believe any of it and I gave up the idea.
I became anorexic after a while. It was so easy to do when you already don’t get enough to eat. Everyone commented on how skinny I was, like it was a good thing, and I finally felt like there was something I could control in life. I felt that being skinny was my religion. Honestly, I think that I was starting to lose my mind due to lack of food for so long. I stayed anorexic for many years.
Mom had everyone fooled. Everyone loved her. She was so sticky sweet to everyone she talked to. No one but my brother knew how she talked once the door was closed.
I moved in with my first boyfriend a couple years after high school. I wanted to be loved. After a few years of engagement, I ended our relationship. He was on drugs very badly and would not quit for me. I just wanted to be happy, and I wasn’t happy. I had to move back in with my mom.
Only a couple months of living with my mom again (I had no where else to go), on a whim I went to stay with a friend in another state. And being the emotional wreck that I was, I ended up pregnant and abandoned in the airport, trying to find a way home.
Back again to mom’s house. I thought, ‘why does God hate me’… ‘what had I done to deserve this?’. I thought that I was pregnant, unmarried, and alone as a punishment for my sins.
If I was being punished, then God must have had mercy on me, because my baby saved my life.
I had to eat for the baby, so my anorexia went away without a second thought. After he was born, I got a job and my own place. It was all for him, not for myself. He taught me to love and to be loved unconditionally. It was hard, but it was wonderful. And I knew that I wanted my child to know about God the right way, not the way I had known as I had grown up.
It still took me some years and some struggles to get where I am today, married with 2 children of my own and two step children, one of whom lives with us. We have our own little place and I am very, very grateful. My mother was diagnosed about 8 years ago with scitzophrenia and periods of mass delusions. We do not visit her anymore, as the result was always horrible. But I do try to talk to her daily online through mail or chat.
It’s difficult to find your way through the storm. And even though I did not know that God was with me, he was there the whole time. There were several times that I should died or come to serious injury… yet I made it through. I’ve been blessed with my little family, the only thing I ever wanted, and I am so grateful to God for that.
It is my deepest wish right now to continue getting to know God and to find him through the Catholic church. I hope to get passed the anxiety attack and finally step foot in the local parish.
This ended up being a long, badly written novel. I’m sorry! lol
But please, if anyone needs to vent or talk about anything, please PM me. I am here to listen. Well…to read.
I understand the struggles. Even thought I believe in God, a little voice in my head tells me I’m crazy like my mother. We all have bad moments of doubt or frustration, but I tell you, since I began the Rosary, my doubts have been less and less.
We’ve struggled at times in our marriage, we both came with a lot of baggage. But we’re still going strong. Our daughter has truly been the rose among the thorns in my life.