Hi!
I'm Malik, or, that's my last name. I prefer it to my own because it has the strength of generations of others behind it; most of them marines.
I'm a 22 year old woman, just now finding what I want to do in life. I was diagnosed with PTSD in 2015, and have been bumbling my way through it since. Here's my story I guess.
When I was about 6, my parents divorced. My brother, though younger, was the same height and weight, and far stronger than me. We've been that way all our lives, but when he started to beat me in his anger against our parents, the reply I got to my call for help was "He's younger than you," and "boys will be boys". No one seemed to realize that he was learning a behavior that would span the next nine years.
My brother went from calling me names and acting out, to beating me with chairs, remotes, choking me, threatening to kill me, beating me bloody until I was screaming in anguish and confusion and hurt. He was an expert gaslighter- convincing me as I cried and wiped blood from my cuts that it was my fault, and I'd only get worse if I kept making noise.
I'm sure he learned his manipulation from our mother, who never wanted kids and often reminded us of that. She called me ugly and stupid, and went so far as to say I wasn't her real daughter because my eyes "weren't green enough" or because I cried. "Vialpando's (her maiden name and my middle name) aren't weak. You must not be one of us if you're crying." Was her favorite line. She adored my brother, and still sweeps his actions and hers under the rug. As I grew older, she used me as a pawn in her game against my father and his wife, and her poor body image led her to live vicariously through us: feeding us very little and encouraging fitness to an unhealthy degree. She was emotionally unavailable to us, and claimed any of my small victories for her own.
One year when my brother and I flew to California (from Virginia), to meet our dad and stepmom for christmas, my mom called us on the day before we were to fly back home to her. She told my dad we were his problem. We were left with one suitcase between us, and had to share one room, one bed, one bathroom. My stepmother was fighting cancer, so my father's attention was drawn away. My stepbrother was going through is rebellious teenage stage, and thus couldn't be bothered with what was going on at home.
My brother beat me still in our new home. He had me sleep on the floor with no blankets, and I shivered through those two years. We both were 20 pounds underweight, and had a terrible fear of asking for anything we needed. We watered down our shampoo in secret and ate food late at night so we wouldn't give off the impression that we were burdensome. This unhealthy relationship with food led me into a poor cycle of binging and purging through high school and college, and I'm only just now realizing how bad my eating habits were.
When I was about 15, my brother began to stop taking his anger out on me. Things were better and we were both busier. I was extremely withdrawn, and was constantly harassed in school for flinching and shying away from fast movements or human touch. I didn't have many friends until senior year, where I received a scholarship to an arts boarding school- a place I'm convinced saved my life.
There, I began to look into my issues, as I had finally met a counselor I clicked with. We discussed my nervous ticks- beating my head against walls, or pulling out hair, etc. He tried EMDR therapy with me and it really seemed to help. We slowly started to peel back the scar tissue, and I began to discover myself.
However, when I came home, I was not ready for college. I took a gap year and told my parents I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety, and showed them my meds. I told my mom how it felt to watch her stand by as my brother beat me, and I was angry for a long, long time with both my parents.
I tried dating again around fall of my gap year, and met a young marine. He came off as sweet and boyish, shy and endearing. And I fell all too willingly into his subtle manipulative practices.
I'd hang out at his barracks room most weekends, and we'd watch tv or just hang around. But it became apparent he was getting bored. He took my virginity one night with force, holding me down as I cried and told him to stop. He remembered I liked to fall asleep to thunderstorm sounds, and played that as he did what he wanted. I haven't been able to listen to them since.
Unfortunately, I had grown up around manipulators, and I sought approval from anyone and anything. And so I fell into this sham of a relationship that lasted eight long months. In the course of those months, his boyish act quickly dropped, and he became petulant, underhanded, and downright cruel.
When he had duty on the weekends (which he never planned ahead for, thus he had me over), he'd lock me in for the twenty four hour period. He'd lock me in the dark, confined to one small and cold room, without access to a computer, phone, nor any source of comfort or warmth. I was not to touch anything.
Anytime I was over and it was time to eat, he'd run to the chow hall and grab a carryout. Then he'd eat the lot in front of me, stomach rumbling. He had me eat his scraps or lick the box. He wanted me to lose weight- and I did. He did not speak to me, nor ask if I needed anything. He kept me as a downright animal.
Eight months, 15 more pounds, and dozens of rapings later, he was set to be deployed. This perhaps saved my life, as he only grew crueler. I am sure if I had stayed a moment longer he would have started beating me.
He left for god-knows-where, with a video tape of him taking me against my will as blackmail. I left anyway, confident that I'd be long gone by the time he returned. And I was.
I was diagnosed the following summer, while holding the hand of my then-fiance. He didn't take it seriously, but moved to Salt Lake City to be with me after a year of trying long distance. (I had gone to college)
We clicked so well because our pasts were the same, and I don't think I'll ever find someone who understood me as well as he did. But he became critical once he moved. He left his life to be with me, and did not want to seek help for his own demons. He fell into drinking heavily and trying new drugs, which led to his sour mood and my unfortunate near death incident last year. He had eyes for another woman- one without seizures or issues, one who didn't get paid more than him, one who was prettier. He left in the night and I've been healing since.
I don't talk to my mom anymore. Or any of my exes. My stepmom became my mother figure, and while she was here on earth, I learned the most important lessons a woman should learn. I am dating a wonderful man right now, and have found spirituality and a depth of understanding within myself.
I still struggle so f*cking hard. I struggle and sometimes I fall into pits that can last for weeks or months. But I have my art. And I know I've seen the worst I'll have to face. But it's a long, long lonely road.
I'm Malik, or, that's my last name. I prefer it to my own because it has the strength of generations of others behind it; most of them marines.
I'm a 22 year old woman, just now finding what I want to do in life. I was diagnosed with PTSD in 2015, and have been bumbling my way through it since. Here's my story I guess.
When I was about 6, my parents divorced. My brother, though younger, was the same height and weight, and far stronger than me. We've been that way all our lives, but when he started to beat me in his anger against our parents, the reply I got to my call for help was "He's younger than you," and "boys will be boys". No one seemed to realize that he was learning a behavior that would span the next nine years.
My brother went from calling me names and acting out, to beating me with chairs, remotes, choking me, threatening to kill me, beating me bloody until I was screaming in anguish and confusion and hurt. He was an expert gaslighter- convincing me as I cried and wiped blood from my cuts that it was my fault, and I'd only get worse if I kept making noise.
I'm sure he learned his manipulation from our mother, who never wanted kids and often reminded us of that. She called me ugly and stupid, and went so far as to say I wasn't her real daughter because my eyes "weren't green enough" or because I cried. "Vialpando's (her maiden name and my middle name) aren't weak. You must not be one of us if you're crying." Was her favorite line. She adored my brother, and still sweeps his actions and hers under the rug. As I grew older, she used me as a pawn in her game against my father and his wife, and her poor body image led her to live vicariously through us: feeding us very little and encouraging fitness to an unhealthy degree. She was emotionally unavailable to us, and claimed any of my small victories for her own.
One year when my brother and I flew to California (from Virginia), to meet our dad and stepmom for christmas, my mom called us on the day before we were to fly back home to her. She told my dad we were his problem. We were left with one suitcase between us, and had to share one room, one bed, one bathroom. My stepmother was fighting cancer, so my father's attention was drawn away. My stepbrother was going through is rebellious teenage stage, and thus couldn't be bothered with what was going on at home.
My brother beat me still in our new home. He had me sleep on the floor with no blankets, and I shivered through those two years. We both were 20 pounds underweight, and had a terrible fear of asking for anything we needed. We watered down our shampoo in secret and ate food late at night so we wouldn't give off the impression that we were burdensome. This unhealthy relationship with food led me into a poor cycle of binging and purging through high school and college, and I'm only just now realizing how bad my eating habits were.
When I was about 15, my brother began to stop taking his anger out on me. Things were better and we were both busier. I was extremely withdrawn, and was constantly harassed in school for flinching and shying away from fast movements or human touch. I didn't have many friends until senior year, where I received a scholarship to an arts boarding school- a place I'm convinced saved my life.
There, I began to look into my issues, as I had finally met a counselor I clicked with. We discussed my nervous ticks- beating my head against walls, or pulling out hair, etc. He tried EMDR therapy with me and it really seemed to help. We slowly started to peel back the scar tissue, and I began to discover myself.
However, when I came home, I was not ready for college. I took a gap year and told my parents I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety, and showed them my meds. I told my mom how it felt to watch her stand by as my brother beat me, and I was angry for a long, long time with both my parents.
I tried dating again around fall of my gap year, and met a young marine. He came off as sweet and boyish, shy and endearing. And I fell all too willingly into his subtle manipulative practices.
I'd hang out at his barracks room most weekends, and we'd watch tv or just hang around. But it became apparent he was getting bored. He took my virginity one night with force, holding me down as I cried and told him to stop. He remembered I liked to fall asleep to thunderstorm sounds, and played that as he did what he wanted. I haven't been able to listen to them since.
Unfortunately, I had grown up around manipulators, and I sought approval from anyone and anything. And so I fell into this sham of a relationship that lasted eight long months. In the course of those months, his boyish act quickly dropped, and he became petulant, underhanded, and downright cruel.
When he had duty on the weekends (which he never planned ahead for, thus he had me over), he'd lock me in for the twenty four hour period. He'd lock me in the dark, confined to one small and cold room, without access to a computer, phone, nor any source of comfort or warmth. I was not to touch anything.
Anytime I was over and it was time to eat, he'd run to the chow hall and grab a carryout. Then he'd eat the lot in front of me, stomach rumbling. He had me eat his scraps or lick the box. He wanted me to lose weight- and I did. He did not speak to me, nor ask if I needed anything. He kept me as a downright animal.
Eight months, 15 more pounds, and dozens of rapings later, he was set to be deployed. This perhaps saved my life, as he only grew crueler. I am sure if I had stayed a moment longer he would have started beating me.
He left for god-knows-where, with a video tape of him taking me against my will as blackmail. I left anyway, confident that I'd be long gone by the time he returned. And I was.
I was diagnosed the following summer, while holding the hand of my then-fiance. He didn't take it seriously, but moved to Salt Lake City to be with me after a year of trying long distance. (I had gone to college)
We clicked so well because our pasts were the same, and I don't think I'll ever find someone who understood me as well as he did. But he became critical once he moved. He left his life to be with me, and did not want to seek help for his own demons. He fell into drinking heavily and trying new drugs, which led to his sour mood and my unfortunate near death incident last year. He had eyes for another woman- one without seizures or issues, one who didn't get paid more than him, one who was prettier. He left in the night and I've been healing since.
I don't talk to my mom anymore. Or any of my exes. My stepmom became my mother figure, and while she was here on earth, I learned the most important lessons a woman should learn. I am dating a wonderful man right now, and have found spirituality and a depth of understanding within myself.
I still struggle so f*cking hard. I struggle and sometimes I fall into pits that can last for weeks or months. But I have my art. And I know I've seen the worst I'll have to face. But it's a long, long lonely road.
