Growing Up With Trauma

From before I can remember until I was 19 years old, I experienced a lot of trauma.

The Beginning

All of this started before I can even remember. I believe, and the evidence supports, that I experienced a lot of trauma before I can even remember.

Psychogenic Seizures

The first clue that tells me I experienced trauma at a very early age is that I had psychogenic seizures. These were some of my earliest memories and lasted until I was 20 years old. Psychogenic nonepileptic seizure (PNES) involves attacks that resemble epilepsy-related seizures in symptoms and signs, but abnormal electrical activity in your brain doesn’t cause them. Instead, the seizures are a physical reaction to underlying psychological distress.

A number of factors support the fact that these were in fact psychogenic. First, after several EEG’s and MRI’s there were no abnormalities in my brain waves or brain structure. Second, I was unable to gain control over my seizures through medication, even after trying numerous different medications. Third, these seizures went away on their own, without the help of medication, and after I was removed from the traumatic environment. Fourth, during the time in my life when the psychological distress was the most extreme my seizures were also at their peak. 

Childhood Depression

I’ve suffered from depression throughout my entire life. I was officially diagnosed at 19 with major depressive disorder. But before my diagnosis I would get into states of mind where I would just feel overwhelmingly sad. I would cry and cry. When questioned by my mother I was unable to provide her with a reason for my sadness. She would frequently react with anger and frustration. 

These were most likely either emotional flashbacks (which bring you back to the emotional states experienced from trauma without a specific memory of the trauma) or signs of emotional dysregulation (which is the inability to control your emotional state).

Attachment Disorder

Attachment type is typically set before the age of 2 years old. My particular attachment style is Anxious-Avoidant, or Disorganized Attachment. This attachment style is the result of your caregiver being both nurturing AND the source of trauma. 

People with this attachment style both long for and crave love and intimacy (some would label this as being “needy” or desparate”), while also showing signs of extreme distrust once they do become close to someone. 

Hypersexuality

From a very young age I was interested in both sex and love. Many times I would obsess and fantasize about both. I remember being interogated by my step father in elementary school, after the neighborhood children tattled on me and informed my parents that I had wrote a boy a note that said “I want to have sex with you”. I was forced to explain what sex was, and I knew. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. I was then told that I was disgusting for having those thoughts. 

This did not deter my sexual promescuity. I was giving BJ’s at 12 years old and I lost my virginity at the age of 13 to a boy that I didn’t know and only met once before. I never understood why I wanted sex so much, or obsesses about it, I just knew that I did. 

Traumatic Childhood With my Mother and Step-Father

From the time that my Mother first started dating my step-father, until the time I was removed from their house, I was exposed to extreme fights between the two of them. At least once a week they would have screaming fights. Many times I would hide in my room and eavesdrop on their fights, listening to see if they were fighting about me. 

They had 2 children together. My sister is 8 years younger than me and my brother is 12 years younger than me. During my childhood I had numerous adult responsibilities, and after their births I was responsible for taking care of them.

Many times I would get in trouble for not doing my chores to my step-father’s standards. He had very specific procedures for doing everything, which I had to follow precisely. If I didn’t complete the task perfectly, I was screamed at, criticized, ridiculed, and forced to repeat the task until it was “done right”. 

Many times, I was also punished for things my brother and sister did wrong, simply because I was not “watching them”. 

By the time I left my parent’s house I was tasked with getting my brother & sister up and ready for school & daycare. It was also my job to put them to bed at night. I was responsible for washing the dishes, cleaning the bathroom, doing all of the families laundry, vacuuming, sweeping, mopping, raking leaves in the fall, mowing the lawn, and shoveling the stone. 

In addition to all of this I was expected to maintain straight A’s in school, which I was almost never able to achieve. Although I did extremely well in school, with mostly A’s and 1 B being my typical report card I was always scolded for my B’s and never congratulated for my A’s. I loved school though, as it was typically the only break I received from my violent and abusive household. 

As I became older, the fights that my parents had weekly began to spill over to me. Many times I was screamed at for hours, and physically assaulted. If I tried to defend myself I was punished for “talking back” and if I continued my step father would choke me as a method of getting me to shut up. I can’t remember how many times I spent sitting at the kitchen table for a “family talk” that ended on my step dad rushing at the chair, tipping it backwards slamming my head on the floor, and then choking me. 

During these discussions about my behavior I was repeatedly told that I would never amount to anything, and called various names, his favorite of which being “punk kid”. 

My mother never protected me from this abuse. Many times she was right there, arms crossed, and scowling at me. 

My mother was also physically abusive. Her favorite was to grab me by my hair, holding my head down, and punching me on the back of my neck and head. One time she pushed me down the basement stairs, and then ran down the stairs so that she could continue beating me. 

Most times I would just take the abuse. Trying to remain as quiet as possible, just hoping it would be over with quickly. As a child, I dealt with it by trying to “be good”, doing whatever I was told without argument, and eventually started fawning, where I would just do everything I could think of before I was told in an attempt to avoid interacting with my parents at all. 

At the age of 12 I started becoming defiant. I started to fight back every time. I damaged property. I stole from them. I lied and snuck out frequently. I remember a specific moment in which I just did not care any longer what was done to me. It was during one of these discussions at the kitchen table. My step-father once again attacked me, knocking my chair to the floor with me still in it, and began choking me. But instead of being afraid I just looked him dead in the eye and said “You don’t scare me”. I think he was shocked by my reaction, because I was told to go to my room and the violence ended. 

This was not the end of the violence though, and for the next two years the frequency increased, along with the severity of the attacks. 

I never turned my parents in. Although I did see school counselors beginning in elementary school. I didn’t want my parents to get in trouble, I didn’t want to break up our family, and I was also scared that if I did tell I would be even more severly punished. Plus, my parents were very good at abusing me in ways that never left a mark or evidence of their abuse. 

This all ended when I was 14. I remember I had been sick and missed a number of days of school. I was stressed about all of the homework I had to make up. My boyfriend at the time (who was also extremely violent, controlling, and abusive) had bought me a box of my favorite cereal, Apple Jacks, to help me regain the weight I had lost from being sick. It was 10 at night and my little brother was up and making every excuse not to go to bed. Eventually, he asked for a bowl of Apple Jacks, which I refused. 

Since I had so many responsibilities, between household chores and caring for my brother and sister, I usually had to wait until they were in bed before I could finish my homework. My step-father was irrate that I wouldn’t give my brother some Apple Jacks. Labeling me as being selfish. I told him I didn’t care if he ate my cereal, but I was not going to be the one to feed it to him. He was free to make his son a bowl. Hell, he could eat the whole damn box for all I cared. I wasn’t going to do it because I had hours of homework ahead of me.

This particular fight took place in my bedroom. Eventually, my step father had me backed all the way into the corner of my bed as I was trying to put as much distance between us as possible. I’m not sure what exactly I said that triggered him, but it had enraged him so much that he came across the bed and punched me in the face several times. My mother was standing in the doorway the entire time in her typical pose, with arms crossed and scowling at me. It wasn’t until my eye started to swell shut and turn black that she started to show concern. 

This concern wasn’t for me though. She was worried that I would report the abuse. Which I confidently told both of them that it was exactly what I was planning on doing. The next morning I reported the assault. My step father, who was a charismatic man and a good manipulator, was never arrested. He was charged with 5th degree assault, served no time, and was to complete anger management classes. I remember coming home from school after the assault and finding my step father there with a smug look on his face. No one from child protection made any effort to contact me or question me, and the abuse continued where it left off. 

I began to rebel more. My grades plummitted for the first and only time. I no longer cared about getting in trouble. I no longer cared about being good or gaining their approval. I did whatever I wanted and dared them to do something about it. 

I confided in my boyfriend that I couldn’t wait for the next assault, because I planned on turning him again. I planned on turning him in every time it happened. He told his mother, who spoke to my mother. 

Then one day my mother asked me to get into the car. She was silent about where we were going and refused to answer any questions I had. I rode in silence for 4.5 hours as she drove me to Northern Minnesota, and to my aunt and uncle’s house to live. According to her, I was out of control and this was the best option for everyone. 

I was angry and I was crushed. My mother had chosen my abuser over me. I was tricked into being abandoned and didn’t have any of my belongings, not even a change of clothes. I hated her for many years after that. Every phone conversation with her was a screaming fight. 

The plan was to send me there for the summer, but after my time with my aunt and uncle I didn’t want to go back to that abusive enviroment and refused to go home.