I’ve had PTSD for quite a while now. I guess I didn’t realize how my brain changed during my traumatic experiences growing up. And after I grew up… (*kinda*)

I have always wanted to be better than I was. Thinking that I was still 15 years old, I saw everyone as not liking me. Or hating me. Or even disapproving of everything I did. I’d reject compliments – I felt like I was just being told a nicety to … show how average I was/am. I feel like people pretend to like me. That after a given amount of time, I’ll no longer be an option for friendship. For love. For employment. I would be a temporary person in everyone’s lives. For one, they’d die. Or for two, they’d realize how much better they are/were than I was/am. Everyone was/is a threat to me. I’ve had plenty of good experiences with humankind as an adult. And somehow, I just pass the experiences off as … a fluke. Not to get used to it. Then when I’m accepted, BAM! I want nothing more than to hide. To not be seen. Disappear.

I have tried to realize that so many of the things that happened to me were past tense. I am no longer the 15 year old girl that felt shit on at every turn. I am a woman who has potential. I went to the beautician to get my hair cut. I hadn’t gotten my hair cut since … well, two years ago. I didn’t value myself enough to get a nice do. And after I did, I felt amazing.

Religion is still a stumbling block for me, hard core. I cannot – during my massive period of deconstructing from Christianity – understand how it is intrinsically good. So many people are hurt through religion. And not just Jesus/God…. through others as well.

A parent is supposed to guide a child through their life. Help them be the best that they can be. To discipline the child if need be. I know my dad had it tough. No one, likely, envied him for his life. He had a lot. And then so much was taken. Not just from my mom, my brothers, and I. For my dad too. Everything was fucked.

I’ve been seeing Robert (my therapist) on zoom for possibly three years? I’ve wanted to fire him so many times. I couldn’t understand why I felt like I wasn’t believed. Why I was supposed to be smarter than I was/am. Or even how he felt like I didn’t deserve to be treated like shit. I was shunned. And the parenting I got was lack luster at best. Again, I realize now why, but emotional neglect is apparently hard to get over. And losing both of my parents, it’s hard. I see people with their children, parents, grand kids, etc. I don’t have the ability to formulate an adult relationship with my mom. And no relationship with either one of my kids. The one child that remains alive loathes me. I did not do for her what she felt she was deserved. She told me she didn’t give a shit about my mental illnesses. She called me and my husband ‘murderers’ because she’s angry – because of her own mental health issues. To her, I am a liar. I never loved her, never wanted her, and I just treated her like Rich’s kid.

As far as I understood, children are different than one another. So, it is inevitable that the parents will treat each child differently. Tastes, likes, loves, hates, and so many other variables. And while I was trying to protect her from herself and protect myself from her physical and emotional abuse – I was trying to protect Darrian and Eric from her too. Even though we didn’t know what her diagnosis was at the time, we tried. And when Ashleigh called Child Protective Services on us, it backfired.

Ashleigh was required to have therapy (family and individual), as well as see a psychiatrist, doctor, and dentist. She was required to take medication to hopefully calm Ashleigh’s mental illnesses down. This way she would be more comfortable with herself. Ashleigh had been abused. Her biological father left when she was 3. This was after he had neglected and allegedly abused her himself. Ashleigh was removed from his care then and … it got sticky. Rich (bio dad) had tried to say that Eric had taught Ashleigh how to smoke out of a bong. And for this reason, we had to wait to get Ashleigh back ourselves. She was placed in foster care in Harvey, Michigan. It was some of the worst pain I’ve had. I had to prove myself to the prosecutor and the state of michigan and their employees in general. And that’s not to say that Eric didn’t either. We got Ashleigh back, finally and went about our lives. Ashleigh had a speech delay at 3 years old. She didn’t talk much and really got frustrated because she didn’t have the words. And when she would say something about herself, Ashleigh would refer to herself in the third person. She told me, verbatim. “Mommy, Daddy hurt Ashleigh”. I tried to ask some open ended questions, but it didn’t work. Ashleigh just couldn’t communicate those things. Or she wouldn’t. After that, Rich tried to call my dad’s house and then my apartment I shared with Eric and the kids. He wanted to talk to Ashleigh. And I was shocked. Ashleigh refused to talk to him. Rich didn’t call after that. He didn’t visit. He barely sent child support. I think his now ex girlfriend had paid more of his child support than he had.

I had a lot of pressure to adult after I had both my kids. When I left my fathers’ home, I had no idea how insurance worked. How little money I would receive from my own hard work. I had no idea about how much rent was. Or any basics. I needed to be with someone to make sure to manage that. Honestly, I’m still not the best with money. I’m getting better though.

Ashleigh went back into foster care after all the interventions we tried, failed to produce positive results. I think she was 16 years old, maybe? I remember Andra and I were out at Renee’s that day. I got the call on my cell phone from one of the social workers, Rick. Rick told me that Ashleigh is at her foster home in Pulaski, Wisconsin. She is living with a registered nurse and her spouse. They’re older and have worked with difficult foster kids before. They would be a good match for this situation. When the foster parents got Ashleigh placed, they were given the opportunity for respite care.

If you’re unfamiliar, respite care is a service through the government. They have certain individuals or families qualify to take care or children as a baby sitter for a few hours. Give the foster families a break. Respite was NEVER offered to us. We just had to wait till Ashleigh’s next suicidal ideation report or abuse situation that needed the non emergency police to be called. Ashleigh could have gotten us kicked out of our apartment for having the police called so many times. We could have been considered a nuisance tenant. And as far as I understood at that time, we could have been evicted. And that would have hurt all of us, greatly. Fortunately, our landlord didn’t seem to care, or want to involve herself.

I didn’t understand what the Crisis Center was for. I felt like the Crisis Center was specifically for suicidal ideation. For harmful situations. When Ashleigh would call them, I felt like she was probably wasting their time. I would come to find out that – for all the reasons Ashleigh called, the staff was more than willing to talk to her. Even if nothing they said alleviated the symptoms Ashleigh was experiencing at the time. I feel really bad that I made Ashleigh, likely, feel as though I considered her calls a bother. I didn’t understand. I didn’t have family involved a lot in my life. Or the kids. Tim was hardly ever around. And Brian was… generally disconnected from me, altogether. I didn’t know how to connect with him. The worse Ashleigh got, the more family tended to turn away from Ashleigh. And I tried. I didn’t get the parenting I needed when she needed me. I powered through to every end I thought would help. I did night classes for a time trying to learn sign language to communicate with Ashleigh since she didn’t talk very well for … until she was a little over 3-4 years old. We tried potty training. It did not work. She’d have accidents. We got her to a urologist. We got her put on DDAVP. A medicine specifically meant to deal with nighttime enuresis. Ashleigh was emotionally and physically abusive to Darrian. Emotionally and physically abusive to both Eric and I. And we dealt with that on a fairly regular basis. Everything. And I mean everything was harder with her. She peed the bed, often. She wouldn’t listen. She slept on clean clothes and peed on those. Then wore the peed on clothes to school. Ashleigh wouldn’t take showers. No matter how kind the school was in recommending it to her. Ashleigh swore she was afraid of water. Yet, she was like a mermaid in the Lake in Upper Michigan at my niece’s grad party. We got laundry done as much as we could. Ashleigh would have a disgusting room – which Darrian had to share. Bad food was in there, peed on clothes and bed, dirty… dirty… dirty. Ashleigh would take hats out of the lost and found. She’d get lice. Over and over… and over again. And her hair was thick. THICK! We had to get the Brown County Health Department to help us tackle it. Ashleigh would eat flour. On its own. She was always hungry. She refused to clean up after herself most of the time. I think the easiest thing about Ashleigh was the fact that most of the time, she went to bed without argument.

I wanted to know how to combat everything that she had going on. I wanted to be victorious. I wanted to embrace an amazing relationship with her and my eventual grandchildren. I wanted to have phone calls with her. I wanted to hear about her job. Her life. So many people have been unjustly mean to me in my life. And while I still experience PTSD over Ashleigh and the idea of taking care of anyone’s children (with fear it might just be like it had been for her). I wanted to give her the chance I wasn’t given. Sure, we didn’t have a lot of money. And we didn’t have the greatest apartment. We did try. I’d tell her she was beautiful. That I loved her smile. She would barely ever really smile. It was truly sad.

The day Ashleigh went into foster care, I brought Darrian to her friend Randi Jo’s parents duplex in Green Bay. I was so far gone, mentally – that we almost got side swiped by a car. I felt horrible. I hadn’t seen the car. And I was still carrying precious cargo. I got home after dropping Darrian off, and cried. My life was completely falling apart. I had no control over anything.

All of this time, I’m seeing my failings. As a mother, lover, person, employee, daughter, sister, friend. I got addicted to World of Warcraft for years. I didn’t want to deal with the real world because everyone was going to treat me poorly. And while I did not have any real world proof of that, aside from the past, I KNEW with conviction that it was true. Eric was easier to talk to – for most people. I came laden with trauma and depression. Even animals liked Eric more than me (for the most part). I didn’t feel loved, accepted, safe, needed, or … anything. I just felt like a burden to everyone that I loved. No matter how hard I worked… I had to work harder. Every compliment felt disingenuous. Reality was not now. Reality is … 15 years old in 1992-2025. You know how many people say they’re turning 29 for the 5th time? Well, I (in my head) replayed situations in my head that had happened a long time ago. As if the result would be the same with different people. I had people telling me they loved me. And I’d ask… why? And they’d give me reasons, and I’d shrug it off. You’re just saying that…… Anything positive fell on deaf ears.

If someone was kind, I wanted to be kinder. Yet being more kind is…. mental. At that point, you’re getting run all over. You’re being taken advantage of. And the fact that your kindness shows a negative…. it reinforces exactly what people had done in the past… present… and no doubt – future. Just buckle up, buttercup. Shit is your life. You deserve nothing more. You were a mistake. A result of my parents relocating. I broke the proverbial mold. I tried to have friendships. I really did. When I started going through a lot, the friendships really changed. I accepted a pubic hair from a classmate that eventually became my best friend Lesley’s boyfriend. He was a rebel. I wanted to be like him. From that point on, my rebellion became more out loud and bitter.

I needed someone to try to reach me. And again, now I have difficulty seeing my improvements. So, there is a possibility I would have been too much for most. The fact that so few, if anyone tried – the message I received was clear. I was not worth the time of day anymore. My cousins, I’d only see at church now and at obligatory holidays. Mind you, I loved seeing my cousins. Those relationships changed too. They saw me acting out, rebelling. No doubt they were told to keep their distance. I know my one cousin was forbade from spending time with me.

I’m 48. I walk in my town, in the building I work, in the stores I occupy. If someone isn’t looking at me, I feel like it is on purpose. If someone is looking like they’re looking at me – even if they’re looking past me, I think they’re thinking something mean about me. If two people are together and they’re looking and/or pointing in my direction (even though it may not be at me) anything they show nonverbal makes me think they’re laughing at me, or making fun of me. I don’t have proof. You’re right. I also didn’t feel like I needed to have proof. What I thought – it was right. And no one could tell me otherwise.

I have been having to reframe how I’m thinking about things. When I walk the community I live in, I don’t look for unforgiving faces or judgmental looks from people or passers by. I just try to mind my own business. I’ll smile if we walk past one another. And if they have a dog – that’s my safe opening. We have something in common. And I will schmooze.

I am terrified of the world because my world did not acknowledge my pain and my rebellion as a problem that could be worked out. Sure, I went to a therapist. I didn’t know how to talk about my feelings about this. It was too much! And I just wanted to try to pretend that things were okay like I had seen everyone else do my entire childhood. I wanted to ignore everything and just see the beauty in the world. After losing my sister, my niece, my mom, and my home – I couldn’t see beauty anymore. I just saw loss. And eventually, it would be me. It would come to claim me. Death.

For a minute, Death did have me. And I came back. I have hardware in my chest to protect me from “the next time”. Everything that I was afraid of, to large extents were happening. When Darrian died, I think that’s when I just stopped. I couldn’t communicate with people. I didn’t trust people. I just wanted to not be alive after 8 pm. I just wanted to cease to exist.

Being poor, you find yourself worthy of very little. Can’t go to a dentist on Medicaid. There are none. You don’t deserve good teeth. Doctors, nurses, gas station employees, other customers, grocery store employees and their customers might judge you because you have financial assistance from the tax payers. And believe me. It wasn’t just complained about on the news, in the news papers, or in social situations – so here’s another failing. Another reason why I suck. I don’t deserve good care. And thank goodness Eric left the working world. He could take care of the kids so we didn’t have to lose it all by paying for child care. I’m the only person driving. The only person working, the only parent that feels like she’s exhausting herself over Ashleigh’s care (regarding professional stuff).

My dad helped us out when we asked. I don’t think there was ever a time my dad said no to offering monetary support. Emotionally, he still wasn’t there. And I was intimidated by my dad. It had been a long time, but I’d seen him angry. I was worried that if I called him, he’d express himself through a sigh and an “I guess”. Something that would express to me that he was disappointed. I couldn’t do it. I had checks bounce because I didn’t make enough money. Car problems and no money to fix it. Everything felt bad. I was locked in to my own head. My insecurities ruled everything consciously and subconsciously. The only way to really turn off was to play a game. TV. Movies.

I am trying to look at myself with compassion. With acceptance. I went to Sturgeon Bay with Eric today. Last weekend we went to Maribel to walk some trails. I’m feeling more connected to him and to myself than I ever have.

I’m starting to learn that my perspective is deeply flawed. That I deserve a lot of wonderful things. And at this point in my life, I’m finally seeing no overdrafts. Money in the bank. Money to pay for food, utilities, gas, and a few niceties! I’m even saving some money for a rainy day. I’ve bought a new tv to replace the one my dad had. It’s starting to wear itself down.

There is a lot of learning I’m doing about the way I react every day. How to know whether this is me or not. And the fact that I have happiness at all seems bewildering and undeserved. I’m feeling like someone is going to take me down a notch. Yet, no one has.

Learning about perception vs reality with PTSD and other mental health struggles is taxing. It’s blown so much of what I knew out of proportion. I’ve always been reacting. And I need to somehow tell my 15 year old self that she’s safe. No one is going to rape her, hurt her, or leave her as a punishment. Her adult self has a home, a car, a loving husband, and a lot of other things going for her. So, she can put the kleenex down and celebrate a long deserved victory now. My life is going to be worth more than I ever hoped it could be.