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Sufferer Ptsd - csa, severe physical child abuse, emotional abuse...now fighting a court case

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I cannot remember a time in my life when I was living with my mother and my father where my days were free from any type of abuse.

Abuse in my family comes in many forms. I do not remember when I realized how wrong these abuses were, but I do remember when I was 5 years old saying to myself “I will never become someone like them.” I believe that I always had an innate feeling deep inside that told me what they were doing was not right…but again that was all I knew. I didn’t have anything else to compare things with.

I have very few memories of me actually being called by my given legal name. Instead the names I always remember being called by my mother are bitch, dumb-as, f*cker,ass whole, ass wipe, numb-nuts and other such names. My mother called all of us, my sister, my brother, and my father these names, but it seems that my mother had a few special names that she only called me. I remember them clearly because they are the names that have scared me so deeply. Those ‘special’ names are Demon-child and queen bitch.

One of the memories that stand out in my mind the most relating to the ‘special’ names my mother called me was in July of 2016.

I had just recently been discharged from Whitepine in Saginaw, MI – just fresh out of the hospital that week. My mother and I had gotten into a fight because my mother wanted me to try to complete a half a year of Algebra 2 in a matter of 3 days. In three days, I was supposed to be going down to the High School to try to test out of Algebra 2 that I was going to take in the upcoming year if I did not test out. I had reasoned that it was impossible for me to do that much coursework in a matter of 3 days thus I was not going to.

My mother got into my face and screamed “you never finish anything,” “you are never going to succeed and life,” and “you will always be a failure and piece of crap…you can’t even argue with me because you keep proving me right.” At this point, I foresaw that things might get physical real fast, so I started walking out into the garage and out into the driveway. All I wanted to do was go for a walk – I knew there was no use trying to get away because that always turned out in me return to the house and being further abused, so I decided to at the least get out of the house for a while and come back. Hoping this would give my mother sometime to calm down.

Less than a minute after I walk into the garage my mother comes out with the home phone in her hand and says “if you don’t come back in here in 10 seconds I am called 911 and reporting you as a runaway.” I turned around and said to my mother, “I am not running away…I am taking 15 minutes to walk down Oakcrest in the left direction to calm down and will come back to the house.” My mother continued to threaten, so I stormed back into the house through the front door and yelled at my mother saying “okay I’m in the house, good enough.”

My mother continued to say belligerent things about me for 15 minutes as I am washing and drying dishes. Finally, I turned around, went into the living room, in front of the couch and looked my mother in the eyes and said “why do you beat us and abuse us…please at least give me an answer why!” My mother looked into my eyes and in a low voice said “if you weren’t such a demon-child I wouldn’t have to.”

With tears running down my face, I turned around and went back into the kitchen. I believe this was one of the few times I did not have any words to express to my mother. I often had words I would like to have said to her, but often held my tongue because I knew better, but for once I didn’t even have anything that I would
have liked to same to her at that time. Nothing…just numbness and hurt.

When I was young – young enough to be picked up I remember my mother and father playing “catch” with me. We had a long hallway in our house and one parent one stand at one end of the hall and the other would stand at the other end of the hall. They would take turns picking my up and literally throwing me to down the hall to the other person. I do not have any explicit memories of the “reasons” that caused this to happen.

I had long hair most of my childhood and most of the years living in that house. My mother always liked to grab a clump of my hair and pull me around by it, and my mother also liked to – after she had somehow gotten me to fall to the ground – drag me around by my hair while I was still on the floor. One of my most explicit memories was when I was in 4th grade. I was supposed to be writing a paragraph for Language Arts. Somehow, I was writing the assignment wrong according to how my mother was telling me to write it. After three attempts to write it according to her standards I was still failing to do so. I was in the office, and my mother walked into the kitchen and set the stove timer for 2 minutes. She said that if I did not complete my writing assignment correctly by the time the timer went off that she was going to
kill me.

Despite my best efforts, I still failed to complete it. She screamed at me to go get the butcher knife that was in the kitchen drawer on the right side of sink if you were facing the sink. I went into the kitchen to retrieve the knife…I then tried to slide the knife out and quickly put it into the cabaret that was right beneath the drawer. Thinking I could buy myself some time. My mother stormed in and caught what I was in the middle of trying to do. She took me by my hair and kicked me in the chest which resulted in me dropping to the ground. She then continued to kick me around and pull me by my hair while I was still on the ground. She kicked me into the living room up against the wall and pushed the adman into me. My mother then screamed for me to get up and go get my father up out of bed (he slept during part of the day because he worked 3rd shift at the prison).

As I went to get him, my mother when and got the knife. At the time, in our house at the end of the hall we had a chicken wire contraption of a door held to the wall by metal hooks and shoe laces (this was separating 4 of the cats from the rest of the other cats who often got in fights). I woke my father up through the “door” and then started back down the hall.

My mother met me with the knife half way in the hall way right in front of (my brother) room. She was screaming and yelling and waving the knife around. She pushed me into the wall and held the knife at my throat and put a little pressure. At this point my father is trying to untie the gate – and he sees how extreme things have gotten. After my father gets out he runs up to my mother and tries to get wrestle her for the knife. My mother then starts going after my father…a just stand frozen so to speak – terrified and watching.

My father tried to reason with my mother and say “enough is enough…you were about to kill her. Then how are we going to explain that.” She yells at him saying things about him always “siding with us kids,” and he yells at her. I escaped at some point in that time. This was the one of the many times that my life was put in lethal danger, but this was the only time she put a knife specifically to my neck which is why I believe I remember it so clearly.

One of my mother’s favorite tools that she used to hurt me and my siblings was with the black soup ladle that was frequently kept in the kitchen drawer left of the sink if you were facing the sink (it was only not there when I chose to try to hide it so at least it was one less tool available to hurt us with).

Oh, how many memories me and that black soup ladle have together – unfortunately none with ladling out soup. My mother – for no known reason given to me – liked to take that soup ladle and while making me (through her words that instilled fear) place my hands on her desk down stairs on the porch, beat my hands with the ladle. If I was to flinch or cry or move my hands in any way I would only earn myself more strikes. It would hurt so badly.

My mother and father also used this same black soup ladle to beat our butts (clothed and unclothed). Often my mother struck us until she got tired and my father would strike us until it satisfied my mother. So often we did not walk the same after and surely, we were bruised. This happened as often as multiple times a day to as little as once a day. It seemed as time went on the fun was lost in it for my mother, so we graduated so to speak from that to something worse. My mother would have us lay down on the ground where ever she wanted (but it often was in the laundry room, full bathroom, or on the porch). With our pants and underwear pulled down to our ankles or often completely removed, my mother and father would force us (again through words/fear) to spread out legs apart. For my sister and I, they
would beat our thighs, inner thighs, and back of our upper legs (until things went from bad to worse again) and for my brother they would strike his penis with the black soup ladle.

As things again did go from bad to worse again my mother decided at for my sister and I that she needed to up the game. She would have us hold our legs up and wide open (as if we were getting a cervical exam) and she would take the black soup ladle and strike us in between…right on the vagina. If we moved, or screamed…more specifically cried or pleaded, we only got more and more strikes. My mother really only stopped I believe when she got tired. My mother only got
more specific about positioning as we got older. It hurt just the same…unbearable.

One specific time my mother had gotten so angry for some apparent reason I cannot remember and had taken the handle of the black soup ladle and kept trying to jam in up into my butt…kept pulling it out and doing it again…trying to deeper so to speak every time. Yes, indeed that black soup ladle got much use – just not for ladling soup …we had gone through 4 in all the years.

I never was able to keep still or keep quiet as my mother or father was beating me in those ways. I tried my hardest, but unfortunately, I just couldn’t. Because I could not stay still, my mother would often bring in my father and my siblings to hold down my legs as she wanted them so she could still strike her target and also hold down my arms. She often didn’t duct tape my mouth (although she sometimes did) because I believed she liked to hear me plead in many ways for her to stop. She seemed to enjoy the more I pleaded and hearing the helplessness and
pain in my cries.

One specific time, she had put me in the office on the table that was in there. She beat me in the way she always loved to (inner thighs, vagina, ect.) I decided to try to grab the black soup ladle and hold it so she could not use it. She then bit my wrist and I let go immediately. This was not the end of my consequence. She pushed me off the table and then moved the table. She screamed for my father and siblings and when they came she instructed them to pick me up. My father holding my arms and each of my siblings holding a foot/leg with them spread open wide. I was young enough and weighed so little they were able to, but oh do I remember my shoulder and really my whole body screaming in pain. My mother continued to
try to beat me in between my legs…unfortunately it was even harder for me to stay still than it would have been if I was on a flat surface. That day did not go well for me.

My mother always seemed to dream up new ways to cause us pain and harm. At some point she turned to fire. She mostly used a lighter, occasionally she used matches. She would always threaten to light us on fire (and make us feel what hell will be like because that is where one day we will spend eternity). She did on many occasions have us pull down our pants and underwear and she would hold the flame right to our pubic areas. When we had hair, she would literally burn it off…most of the time she stopped once all the hair was burnt off. It hurt badly.

I remember one specific winter night before 2008 my mother had gotten upset because things were not cleaned to her standard. We were woken up at 2 or 3 in the morning getting screamed at. She had proceeded to beat us in the lower areas and then decided that she would take a roasting knife (again out of the top drawer to the left of the sink) and poke (stab) us with it.

My sister had been the. First victim that night while I had been exiled to the garage. My sister came out with nothing but her underwear and she was bleeding. I then was summoned and had my turn where she did the same thing…then sending me again back out into the freezing, dark garage with nothing but my underwear. I remember my sister had taken pictures of our injuries the next day, but they were destroyed before anyone of real authority could see them.

My mother had thought up something she decided to call knuckle busters. We had tiled flooring in our kitchen – grout included. Some day she decided it would be fun for us to get down on the floor in that kitchen. With our hands in a fist like manner, we were to put our outward knuckles into the grout line and hold our self in a push-up style blank position. We were not allowed to rest our fist forward nor back – it had to rest fully on our knuckles. We were given time limits – 5 minutes was her favorite – that we were expected to hold our selves perfectly on our 8 knuckles combined. One minute was added every time we fell so to speak. If you need clarification please let me know. It was impossible and impossibly painful to do what
she commanded. There was never a win for us. She also occasionally had us do this on the patio in the back yard. They had “grout lines too.” Equally painful if not more.

For my sister and I, we never really had a bed room. Sure, the room was there…all nice and perfect for when people – especially CPS came over, but most often our sleeping area so to speak was the cold, hard living room floor of the living room or the garage.

With much embarrassment, I admit I had a chronic problem of wetting “the bed.” We didn’t often have beds, but I say that because it puts things in a perspective most people hear. When I went to sleep I always woke up wet - meaning I had peed all over me and the surrounding area. So, I often got to sleep naked in the full bathroom tub. Freezing cold, but I guess it was so “it” if you know what I mean would go down the drain.

I was so often not allowed to bathe, so I would walk around all day with the smell and the uncleanly feeling. I often, if I had been wearing clothes that time, was not allowed to change so I was also wet until it eventually dried. I was publicly around the house and to other family members humiliated for my problem.

At one point my mother went to the length of getting cloth and making it into a “diaper” for me held together with safety pins…every night before I was allowed to lay down where ever that was I had to come to my mother with the cloth diaper while she would make me take my clothes off and she would pin it around me. She did this all out in the open – everyone could see. The next morning – when it was wet – I would have to go back to her for her to “inspect” it (as if I did not know). Then I was to take it off myself because I was to nasty for her to touch and then I would have to hand wash it. If it was not air dried by that night then either I was not allowed to sleep or she would deliberately make me “go” (pee) soak it and then put it on myself. I would have to wear it all night and most likely would have a bigger mess in the morning to clean up because my problem reoccurred in my sleep.

Shamefully and embarrassed I admit, although I do not have this problem occur every night, I still to this day still struggle with bed wetting despite my disliking and efforts to figure out how to stop it. I was and am a very light sleeper…waking up to anything and everything (despite that kids who wet their beds are often characterized to be deep sleepers – well that’s not me yet I still did). My sister on the other hand was and probably still is a very deep sleeper (interesting how she never “wet the bed”). My mother would often try to wake my sister (and me too but I
was always awake even though she didn’t know it) with a broom or a baseball bat. My poor sister still didn’t always wake up.

My mother used brooms and baseball bats and shovels for a lot of things…a.k.a. causing us more pain, harm, and injury. My mother never told me what a period was, but when my started when I was around 9 or 10 years old she used that fun thing to humiliate me even more.

At first, she didn’t even give me anything to take care of it, if fact I didn’t even know periods where a common thing and that there were products to care for it until I was in the hospital and they have in interduce me to pads (still didn’t explain what a period is). My mother knew good and well because I bleed through a lot of clothing and made a lot of messes. She always would say to me and the family “look how bad she/you is/are…demon-child.” Periods were my punishment for being bad.
Finally, she did supply me with products but only when she was feeling generous.

But, I still every time I need one pad I had to come to her and tell her “I was bad and know I am bleeding, can I please have a pad.” Every time…she only gave out one at a time. She also sometimes placed it on the calendar on the fridge for all to see.

I still don’t quite understand what a period really is…not one has explained it. Not really a topic anyone wants to have. But, I have figured out that periods are fairly normal as there is aisles in the store dedicated to this. And I have figured out I am not bad because I get it. Maybe one day I ask someone (who the heck who).
and get some answers…or I supposed I could look it up. One day…I have a special hate for periods, I do.

My father was and probably still is very quiet around everyone else, but…When I was 4 years old I was in the full bath banished to the tub because of my problem. My father had come home around 06:00. No one else but me was awake. He had come into the bathroom where I was at and decided to pick me up. He proceeds to go to the toilet, pulled his pants down, and started to go to the bathroom with me on his lap. Apparently, I had pointed to his penis and asked what that is. How the story goes…he had to show me what it is and what it does because I asked about it. My mother had taught me the word consensual a very young age…so as she
says I asked therefore I consented for all that happened from that day forward.

There is so many horrific memories…general ones are what I say for now. My father did many things…and I guess so did I. It leaves me now so full of shame and disgust of myself.

My father liked to play with things down there. He spent a lot of time gently, ever so gently rubbing his hand in between my legs. So much like he was barely even making much contact. It sent so much really weird sensations through me... especially in that area. I felt wrong…but somehow there was an excitement of some sort. Like an enjoyment that I hate. Sometimes he liked to use his hand roughly, pushing force between my legs and then slowly moving his hand up and down, back and forth slowly. He often did this while I had comfortable pants on – over the clothing. Again, some weird crazy stuff my body did. Enjoyment that I didn’t enjoy but seemed to in a way I can’t articulate. He would just touch me and touch me.

He also through the years taken picture of me…naked. As I had gotten older the more he had made me pose in certain positions and wear certain things. My father also had me rub him…up and down his penis until it was different. Never did I enjoy any of this…really, I didn’t. My father did this for years…from 4 all the way until I left.

He did not things too. This stuff had come out of him, out of his penis…he would make me eat it. He had also put his penis in my mouth and made me suck it. He did so many things. He would take the stuff that came out of him and smear it all over me…in my hair.

He did this a lot while I was in the car or van with him when we supposed to be actually doing something. He would do this when my mother left (often with my sister) for a couple days “to cool off.” He did this anytime and any day that he could. A lot of times my mother would make him babysit me everywhere I went in the house because I always was trying to say or do something to get out of there.

My mother and brother were fully aware of what was going on, my sister on the other has had little to no knowledge. They are smart.

A lot of times my father was in charge of my bath time so guess what we got to “do.” He also thought it would be great for him to come in to the bath tub with me and take a bath so we could save water. Basically, he would lay down first and I would lay on top of him. My butt or back against his penis. Or his penis between our legs while I had to touch it. I hate it. I hate it all. I didn’t want it…really, I didn’t. I know I said there was an enjoyment that I can’t explain or understand but I really didn’t want it or like it. I didn’t.

My brother started doing similar thing to me as my father when I was 9. In fact, my
brother started on my 9th birthday. I didn’t want that either. I hated it. I hate it. My body did a lot of more weird stuff then too. This time it was worse. My body shook. My breathing was crazy. My heart crazy. He says I loved and I wanted it and I consented.

But, aside from my own body…Thinking and writing this stuff is scary. My body seems to be feeling it all over again.

Weird, horrible stuff. I try so hard never to think about any of it. I hated it. I hate this. I never want it to ever happen. Crying…
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Do you have legal counsel? I’d highly suggest not posting further details of matters involved in an ongoing court case publically online without consulting your attorney. Lawyers have ways of presenting info in court that helps their client maximize the chances of winning the case.

If you don’t have an attorney, then I’d suggest at least consulting with one or asking one to coach you through the case. This is huge stuff to take on yourself.
Yes, I am not posting anything about my court case. I am just looking for support as I battle PTSD and am on my journey of healing.
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