MichelleMillen
Bronze Member
I am going to tread very carefully with this; please know that first and foremost I do not wish to offend or challenge anyone's faith or religious beliefs. This is just the true story of what happened to me.
I grew up in an abusive, dysfunctional family. My father was a bigot, a xenophobe, and sexually abusive toward me. He was also extremely religious. He was well-respected in the church I grew up in, and from a very early age I knew that being a good Christian was the only way to gain his approval. However, being extremely involved in the church throughout my teenage years failed to impress him at all. I led two different lives--church life, which was more of a social outlet and rewarding in helping others, and my home life, daily facing my father's hatred and disapproval of me and my mother's neglect and failure to defend me. I worked like a dog on the farm, selling sweet cherries among many other daily tasks. The only thing that brought my father and I together was that I was very good at customer service and running the retail sales outlet. I was making him money. When he threw me out of the house at 18 based on accusations of something I did not do, I unconsciously abandoned my life as a Christian. The church I grew up in, people who helped raise me, all my friends, completely abandoned me. I had a two dollar bill in my pocket and an old hastily packed suitcase. I walked to the neighbours who gave me a ride to my boyfriend's house. He was not there, he had taken a summer job up north. His father took me in and let me use their car to go to a summer job I had lined up earlier. From there I moved to London, Ontario and worked in clothing retail. At this point I was hiding severe depression and my one thought of God was that he didn't want me anymore.
Fast forward: I married my boyfriend against my father's wishes at 19 and by our first anniversary I was nearly due with our son. Two and a half years later I gave birth to my daughter. With restricting contact with my parents, my life seemed idyllic. I was in love with my husband, and my main focus was my two children. I was a good, loving mother.
The first sign of physical abuse came about 7 years into my marriage, when my husband threw me to the floor the day I came home from knee surgery. By this time we were all involved in a new church near our home, and like before, I filled a hole by becoming very involved. Secrets began to creep into my life again, my home life vs. My church life, and everything spiraled downward from there. The physical abuse turned to many other forms of abuse. He was in control of the money and unbeknownst to me, he filed personal bankruptcy and stopped paying the mortgage. His weekly wages went to renting a house close to where he worked where he would hold regular parties with coworkers, which included drugs, alcohol and other women. I broke my silence with my father-in-law, whom I had always been close to, and all hell broke loose. It was out. In response to a confrontation with his father, my husband said I was delusional and schizophrenic, violent and hearing and obeying voices. I refused to take my medications, he said, preferring listening to the voices. ALL of this was completely untrue. I was not on any medication except for the pain of fibromyalgia, I had never been violent in my life. It literally exploded from there. He researched schizophrenia on the Internet and convinced my family, friends, and church that I was mentally ill. I lost everyone I had ever known. He even reached out to a childhood friend I had not seen since high school. My new church abandoned me and the pastor presented me with a legal document that if I came on the church property I would be arrested for trespassing.
The Children's Aid Society got involved, and I lost custody of my two reasons for living, my children, then only 10 and 13. I spent a month in a psychiatric hospital just to prove to the CAS that I was not mentally ill. I left with no diagnosis at all, but it was too late. My daughter was placed in my brother's care and my son was put in a foster home.
PTSD pulled it's arm back, and hit me hard in the heart and mind. I was living on welfare in an apartment for abused women, with one hour a week supervised visits with my children.
For the next ten years they were surrounded by dozens of people, their father in particular, who convinced them I was all my husband said I was: violent, delusional and dangerous.
One night I hit rock bottom. I felt I had a choice between razor blades and calling my mother. I called my mother, who was at my apartment within an hour. She saw immediately what condition I was in and said she was taking me home with her. I did not tell her my biggest secret; that about a month before I had started hearing voices and was living in a complete world of fantasy psychosis. I had been able to hide it from people as soon as it started but when I was alone I spent hours, perhaps days in complete disassociation from my body. My hallucinations involved all five senses and centred around fantasies of father-daughter sex. The experiences comforted me. One of the voices claimed to be my real father, and that he loved me. I believed I had a second, beautiful, magical body inside my physical body and that one day it would be revealed.
I stayed at my parents' house for nearly six months, coping by avoiding my father as much as possible. During this time he groped my genitals twice and there were many incidences of sexual impropriety with me. He continental to hate me, and one morning told me I had 15 minutes to get out of his house. I was sitting on the back deck when he physically attacked me dragging me by my leg into the house. I passed the phone, knocked off the receiver and dialled 911. He was so shocked that he dropped me and hurriedly hung up the phone. When the dispatcher called back my mother answered and said nothing happened. The police came, my father was not charged, and they gave me a ride back to my apartment.
I ran, like a little kid, I ran. I went to social housing and was given bus tickets to Niagara Falls where I found a nursing home that would take me in. For the next ten years I had almost no contact with my children, and lived in almost 100% psychosis. I was wrongly diagnosed with split personality disorder, put on several medications and disability. Sheer hell for over ten years.
Then one day my daughter called. I'm pregnant, Mom, I need you. Please move to London. My son-in-law took over when they found out I had no resources to move and arranged everything, found me an apartment, helped with the paperwork and gave me what furniture they could spare.
Even though I was happy to be out of what had been a toxic environment at the nursing home, and was grateful and happy to have a home of my own for the first time in my life, the psychosis persisted and within the first month, greatly increased. I had stopped all medications when I moved and did not seek out a psychiatrist. The voices had convinced me I did not need the medications and they had no effect on me. Within the second month of moving, I had a complete psychiatric breakdown. The once comforting voices became persacutory and evil. They threatened me with unspeakable things. I called 911 and was admitted to the hospital. I spent a month there, getting good counselling and medication which completely eradicated the delusions over time, but the voices continued. I was diagnosed with PTSD with psychosis and when I went home, I had to face reality for the first time in a long time.
This is where my story begins to turn around. I was treated with medications for severe anxiety and depression. I could not cope with reality, I think, and despite increases in my medications anxiety and depression stayed at a 10 every day. Then my prescription ran out for clonazepam and I had a meltdown this past Christmas day. 911 again, and a dose of clonazepam and a prescription to hold me over. The next day, everything changed. This has been a brief synopsis of my story; there are much worse things that happened that I am uncomfortable sharing.
The voices began to back off. No change in circumstances or medications. Today they are nearly non-existent. Anxiety is 0 every day and depression seldom and passing. My relationship with my daughter is being restored and is flourishing, with lots of hugs and "I love you"s. I am the proud grandmother of Emily Rose, and my son, who I am trying to restore trust with, is moving to London with his girlfriend to further his education, which will give us some real face time to undo the lies they have been fed for so long.
I am beginning to take joy in the smallest things. Treating myself to a Coke Zero and a bag of popcorn and a good movie on tv; appreciating a sunny day, a surge of pure joy when my son or daughter texts me, the companionship of a sweet kitten new SugarPaws. I am looking to the future with a lot less fear for the first time in my life, and I'm beginning to believe that God may be restoring my life. He did not spare me unspeakable trauma, but there are many things happening in my life that can't be explained away. Countless "coincidenses" that show he is guiding my decisions, not the voices. My doctor told me there was nothing he could do about the voices, yet they lessen every day.
I am not a Christian, I will never be religious again, but there is a tiny thread of peace in my heart that perhaps he still wants me after all.
I grew up in an abusive, dysfunctional family. My father was a bigot, a xenophobe, and sexually abusive toward me. He was also extremely religious. He was well-respected in the church I grew up in, and from a very early age I knew that being a good Christian was the only way to gain his approval. However, being extremely involved in the church throughout my teenage years failed to impress him at all. I led two different lives--church life, which was more of a social outlet and rewarding in helping others, and my home life, daily facing my father's hatred and disapproval of me and my mother's neglect and failure to defend me. I worked like a dog on the farm, selling sweet cherries among many other daily tasks. The only thing that brought my father and I together was that I was very good at customer service and running the retail sales outlet. I was making him money. When he threw me out of the house at 18 based on accusations of something I did not do, I unconsciously abandoned my life as a Christian. The church I grew up in, people who helped raise me, all my friends, completely abandoned me. I had a two dollar bill in my pocket and an old hastily packed suitcase. I walked to the neighbours who gave me a ride to my boyfriend's house. He was not there, he had taken a summer job up north. His father took me in and let me use their car to go to a summer job I had lined up earlier. From there I moved to London, Ontario and worked in clothing retail. At this point I was hiding severe depression and my one thought of God was that he didn't want me anymore.
Fast forward: I married my boyfriend against my father's wishes at 19 and by our first anniversary I was nearly due with our son. Two and a half years later I gave birth to my daughter. With restricting contact with my parents, my life seemed idyllic. I was in love with my husband, and my main focus was my two children. I was a good, loving mother.
The first sign of physical abuse came about 7 years into my marriage, when my husband threw me to the floor the day I came home from knee surgery. By this time we were all involved in a new church near our home, and like before, I filled a hole by becoming very involved. Secrets began to creep into my life again, my home life vs. My church life, and everything spiraled downward from there. The physical abuse turned to many other forms of abuse. He was in control of the money and unbeknownst to me, he filed personal bankruptcy and stopped paying the mortgage. His weekly wages went to renting a house close to where he worked where he would hold regular parties with coworkers, which included drugs, alcohol and other women. I broke my silence with my father-in-law, whom I had always been close to, and all hell broke loose. It was out. In response to a confrontation with his father, my husband said I was delusional and schizophrenic, violent and hearing and obeying voices. I refused to take my medications, he said, preferring listening to the voices. ALL of this was completely untrue. I was not on any medication except for the pain of fibromyalgia, I had never been violent in my life. It literally exploded from there. He researched schizophrenia on the Internet and convinced my family, friends, and church that I was mentally ill. I lost everyone I had ever known. He even reached out to a childhood friend I had not seen since high school. My new church abandoned me and the pastor presented me with a legal document that if I came on the church property I would be arrested for trespassing.
The Children's Aid Society got involved, and I lost custody of my two reasons for living, my children, then only 10 and 13. I spent a month in a psychiatric hospital just to prove to the CAS that I was not mentally ill. I left with no diagnosis at all, but it was too late. My daughter was placed in my brother's care and my son was put in a foster home.
PTSD pulled it's arm back, and hit me hard in the heart and mind. I was living on welfare in an apartment for abused women, with one hour a week supervised visits with my children.
For the next ten years they were surrounded by dozens of people, their father in particular, who convinced them I was all my husband said I was: violent, delusional and dangerous.
One night I hit rock bottom. I felt I had a choice between razor blades and calling my mother. I called my mother, who was at my apartment within an hour. She saw immediately what condition I was in and said she was taking me home with her. I did not tell her my biggest secret; that about a month before I had started hearing voices and was living in a complete world of fantasy psychosis. I had been able to hide it from people as soon as it started but when I was alone I spent hours, perhaps days in complete disassociation from my body. My hallucinations involved all five senses and centred around fantasies of father-daughter sex. The experiences comforted me. One of the voices claimed to be my real father, and that he loved me. I believed I had a second, beautiful, magical body inside my physical body and that one day it would be revealed.
I stayed at my parents' house for nearly six months, coping by avoiding my father as much as possible. During this time he groped my genitals twice and there were many incidences of sexual impropriety with me. He continental to hate me, and one morning told me I had 15 minutes to get out of his house. I was sitting on the back deck when he physically attacked me dragging me by my leg into the house. I passed the phone, knocked off the receiver and dialled 911. He was so shocked that he dropped me and hurriedly hung up the phone. When the dispatcher called back my mother answered and said nothing happened. The police came, my father was not charged, and they gave me a ride back to my apartment.
I ran, like a little kid, I ran. I went to social housing and was given bus tickets to Niagara Falls where I found a nursing home that would take me in. For the next ten years I had almost no contact with my children, and lived in almost 100% psychosis. I was wrongly diagnosed with split personality disorder, put on several medications and disability. Sheer hell for over ten years.
Then one day my daughter called. I'm pregnant, Mom, I need you. Please move to London. My son-in-law took over when they found out I had no resources to move and arranged everything, found me an apartment, helped with the paperwork and gave me what furniture they could spare.
Even though I was happy to be out of what had been a toxic environment at the nursing home, and was grateful and happy to have a home of my own for the first time in my life, the psychosis persisted and within the first month, greatly increased. I had stopped all medications when I moved and did not seek out a psychiatrist. The voices had convinced me I did not need the medications and they had no effect on me. Within the second month of moving, I had a complete psychiatric breakdown. The once comforting voices became persacutory and evil. They threatened me with unspeakable things. I called 911 and was admitted to the hospital. I spent a month there, getting good counselling and medication which completely eradicated the delusions over time, but the voices continued. I was diagnosed with PTSD with psychosis and when I went home, I had to face reality for the first time in a long time.
This is where my story begins to turn around. I was treated with medications for severe anxiety and depression. I could not cope with reality, I think, and despite increases in my medications anxiety and depression stayed at a 10 every day. Then my prescription ran out for clonazepam and I had a meltdown this past Christmas day. 911 again, and a dose of clonazepam and a prescription to hold me over. The next day, everything changed. This has been a brief synopsis of my story; there are much worse things that happened that I am uncomfortable sharing.
The voices began to back off. No change in circumstances or medications. Today they are nearly non-existent. Anxiety is 0 every day and depression seldom and passing. My relationship with my daughter is being restored and is flourishing, with lots of hugs and "I love you"s. I am the proud grandmother of Emily Rose, and my son, who I am trying to restore trust with, is moving to London with his girlfriend to further his education, which will give us some real face time to undo the lies they have been fed for so long.
I am beginning to take joy in the smallest things. Treating myself to a Coke Zero and a bag of popcorn and a good movie on tv; appreciating a sunny day, a surge of pure joy when my son or daughter texts me, the companionship of a sweet kitten new SugarPaws. I am looking to the future with a lot less fear for the first time in my life, and I'm beginning to believe that God may be restoring my life. He did not spare me unspeakable trauma, but there are many things happening in my life that can't be explained away. Countless "coincidenses" that show he is guiding my decisions, not the voices. My doctor told me there was nothing he could do about the voices, yet they lessen every day.
I am not a Christian, I will never be religious again, but there is a tiny thread of peace in my heart that perhaps he still wants me after all.
