That's like rape..
That's what my therapist said in response to an incident from my teen years I'd been talking about. I don't know how to come to terms with applying that label to that experience, much less coming to terms with the experience itself.
I so want to pretty the story up, add flare to it, but you can't gild abuse to make it palatable can you?
I was a young teen living at the local youth shelter because I couldn't live with the abusive egg donor, aka my mother. She'd bought me a new pair of sneakers shortly before I was sent there to live for a bit. I had needed new shoes so ya get the kid some shoes, right? Once you give the shoes to said kid they belong to the kid yeah? Especially if the kid needs them.
There came a day when the egg donor was visiting me at the shelter or something and we'd had an argument or something, the details are beyond foggy. She flipped out on me and insisted I give the sneakers back. I refused. She demanded that I give her the sneakers immediately "or else". I refused again telling her they were my shoes and I needed them.
Voices were obviously raised by now and a staff member or two got involved. They told me to give her the shoes back, taking her side. I was beyond indignant, incredulous, and pissed off by now and I dug my heels in and absolutely refused.
The egg donor knelt on the floor and tried to remove my sneakers while I stood there wearing them. I refused to budge. I was stuck in a corner between the staff members and the egg donor-big mistake. The staff members lifted me up so she could remove the shoes. I was writhing, kicking, fighting, and yelling "NO!" but no one helped me, no one was there to take my side or to be a voice of reason. No, the egg donor had worked her
victim magic and the adults believed I was the horrible abusive kid and she was the poor put upon single mother trying in vain to obtain obedience from me.
Once she'd gotten the shoes off of me the staff put me down, I was crying. They'd done all of this in sight of the rest of the kids there and a few other staff members. Not a one lifted a finger or a voice to help me.
I was violated by adults who were supposed to protect me against the abuses of the mother who never wanted me. It was supposed to be a safe place but it wasn't, I wasn't safe anywhere as long as the egg donor could work her
victim magic, plying the people who were supposed to help me with lie after lie about me. I was violated yet again by the egg donor, of course.
I couldn't figure out, until my most recent therapy session, why this incident was stuck in my head and caused a very visceral, emotional reaction whenever it popped up out of my subconscious. I didn't really know
why I got so angry and upset when someone used something that was supposed to be
mine.
Growing up, nothing was ever mine. Not birthday gifts, not clothing bought because I needed it, not my time, not my space, not my body, nothing was sacred. All was subject to be taken away at the whim of a madwoman. If I did something that upset her she flipped out and took away my clothes, the stereo she bought me for my birthday, anything she knew would hurt me the most.
It's no wonder I get a bit pissy about ownership of my body, my shower time, and my "stuff". It seems silly looking at it as an observer, watching me get upset over something as minor as my husband using my Hello Kitty pen. Only until you know the back story, and even then it may still seem silly. *shrugs*
My whole life with that woman was a series of mental abuses, violations, and yes, non-sexual rape.
How do you even wrap your head around it? I thought I'd healed from most of the abuse trauma but this one came out of nowhere and knocked me down.
Awareness is the first step. I can at least communicate now why certain things upset me so badly and I can ask that certain items or activities be respected as being mine. That's something isn't it? I think so.
