back into the loop again.

I woke up very anxious and stressed this morning. It’s midnight here now. And I’m thinking of suicide again. And murder. My parents’ arguing woke me up. It always bothers me when they fight. Why? Because I have a crazy mother. Yes, crazy. Clinically diagnosed with bipolar disorder or manic-depressive illness. I have seen her at a low level to the highest peak of her craziness. And when she gets nuts, really nuts, I shake like hell. I hate how much I am unable to control it. I always tell myself to toughen up but my body and mind defies me. I put all the effort of reason that I shouldn’t be scared. But I am. Not for me, for my father and my siblings. My father and I have experienced her knife frenzy especially aimed for us. I have seen as a child how my mother beats my father when she’s in a fit. Sometimes I hate my father for being a gentleman or a punching bag! He tries all his might not to physically fight back. Because he knows there is something wrong with her. I can never imagine how he has managed to not leave her for another woman or for any selfish reason. And I would understand if he would. I am waiting for that day to come. If it ever will. I’ll never forget that night. I was a kid in my pyjamas. The first time I’ve seen her threaten him with a knife. God, I was so scared. And helpless. I didn’t understand what transpired that night that had to be so severe that needed a knife. My father told us that ,way back when we were all little, sometimes she keeps a knife under her pillow when she’s mad at him. She wasn’t diagnosed yet at that time. It was in high school that she went to see a psychiatrist. She had post-partum depression after she gave birth to my sister. It was hitting two birds with one stone. It was found that she also happen to have Bipolar. I can’t remember when I started hating her. That hate was building up for years. She was very abusive, verbally and physically. I remember her always putting me [my sisters and brothers] down. That I was dumb. And the ignorant little ol’ me easily absorbed it. Pain. I guess that started it all. Pent up emotional pain as a kid. We had no idea she was crazy back then. So we believed her. Damn. Knife. It was a hot Sunday noon. The day she almost killed me [Sounds really korny in print]. So that was what adrenaline rush felt like. And pure fear too. I was defiant at first of course that if she’s gonna kill me, so be it. But my dad told me to jump out the window fast before she catches up with me. He initially tried to stop her but ran too to preserve himself for us [kids]. He financially supports us all. Human survival. No shame there. Arrogant but scared as hell, I ran to my room and locked the door. The classic trapped mouse. And I can hear her knife knocking on the door. My heart pounds, maddeningly. Father was out the window harshly telling me to jump NOW! I remember clearly that I quietly laughed, crazily, thinking this was like being in a movie. And I heard keys outside the door. She’s gonna open it. My father again. And so I jumped. Ran like the wind as far away as I could without slippers. Everyone in the house ran that day. Except her. I sat down the pavement after I made sure I was at a good distance from the house. I realized I was crying and shaking uncontrollably like I was freezing. That feeling was so new to me, I didn’t know what it was then. I understood what shaken to the core really meant. She was on a lockdown. She still had her knife close to her. Everyone was allowed back inside hours after she cooled a bit. But I was not. It was already nighttime and I was anxious and tired. My father even asked me if maybe I can stay at a friend’s house for the night. I felt so ALONE, ABANDONED and helpless that night. I didn’t want anyone to know what happened to me. I was left alone outside. So, I slowly creeped back to the house. And she saw me. She got her knife and was about to charge but my brother and father stopped her. They wanted me to stay away so that no one would get hurt. But I was tired of running. I wanted it done and over with. I didn’t care anymore. I was drained. I waited again outside. I peeked at the windows and I saw them all settled. My father was fast asleep with my little brother. I knew he was exhausted. I tried to wake him up, very desperately calling him in a whisper, to make him come help me, but it didn’t work. I guess he was really burned out he didn’t realize he dozed off, forgetting me. Again, I cried in silence, suppressing the hurt. I decided to take action on my own. I had exams the next day and I had to study. My attempts at normalizing what happened. That it was no biggie. I silently jumped back in to my room. Minutes later, she opened the door with the spare key. And all hell broke loose in that room. She beat me up with an aluminum-iron kind of rod. She poked me in the face time and again. She happily kicked me. Every time she hit me I endured it. I bit my lip. Closed my eyes or grabbed my bed. I didn’t yell or scream in pain. I didn’t want her to get the idea that she’s won. She said some nasty things while ‘punishing’ me. I fought the urge to retaliate but I promised my father that I wouldn’t talk back to her or fight her to avoid more conflict. But then I looked down, and I saw the dents on my legs. Huge bruised dents. I saw how the straight rod was now all bent and crooked. I waivered. I felt so much pity for myself. And she saw I teared up so she hit me some more till I couldn’t take it anymore. The pain was so great I thought I was going crazy. I screamed like a crazy girl in the night [it was dawn then]. I screamed. Yelled to her that she was crazy! Crazy! Crazy! *****! And my screaming woke my father up. He  and my elder brother rushed into the room. I was screaming, caressing my legs, jumping and throwing things in rage. My father was holding me down. I can’t remember anything after that. They told me I blacked out for a few moments. It took a long time for me to calm down. I cried nonstop. And everyone slept. The next day, I got up and limped my way to the bathroom. My legs were swelling. It seemed like nothing happened. My father was taking her out of the house to assuage her. She was still mad. The nerve. I was preparing myself to go to school. I was determined to show up for exams not minding the bruises. As I watched them out of the house, leaving me. I felt as alone and abandoned as ever. I rationalized that father had to tend to my crazy mother. That she needed more help and understanding. But I couldn’t help to silently cry out to my father. . . what about me? For years, we never talked about it. No explaining. No sorting out. No whatever. I was fresh out of high school when it all happened. Four years, it took it’s toll on me. I broke down. I couldn’t barricade myself any longer. I came home drunk after school. Yes, I had become a bit of a drinker. And I can only remember bits of what happened. But my father relayed the story. He was there when I got home. I still remember when he scolded me though. He was so angry he grabbed me by the arm. And then he said I screamed, he was shocked so he let go. I drunkenly went to my room and tried to change. I was sitting on the floor. And I recall suddenly seeing my mother at the door. After that, Black out. My father told me that she tried to talk to me [yeah, good luck trying to talk to a drunk] and said sorry because she ‘felt’ it was kind of her fault why I’m in such a state. The day after that drunken night, I cried nonstop again. Thinking of the bad things that happened to me [such a loser, drama queen, weakling]. Of how she tried to kill me years ago and how I had no one to really express my feelings with. I kept playing it in my head and figuring out why such a thing happened. Could I have fought back? Could I have been killed or killed her to end the slow suffering? That I felt so alone. Blah blah [it annoys me sometimes]. Depressed mode. I didn’t go to school the next day. Or the next. Or the next day. Until Monday the next week after that. I was so down. I stared out of nothing sometimes. Cry. Sleep. Lie down to try and sleep but end up crying instead. Didn’t feel like eating a lot. But I still ate, I love food. Father was bothered by this. Every time he came and talked to me, I would withdraw. I ignored him. I cover my face and cry. I didn’t want to talk to him. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want him to see me like that. That I was still hung up about the past. I was ashamed for being so weak. And then I finally answered him what bothered me. In between the sobs, tears and snot, I told him I was still stuck to that day. I finally told him what really happened in the room that night. God, it felt a lot of that weight in my chest thrown off. Days and months and years of that heartache and pain lifted slowly. He recommended that I see a professional therapist to help me. I hesitated at first. Saying I didn’t need any of that and I can handle myself just fine. But I agreed eventually. And that’s when I began my therapy sessions and medications. I have clinical depression. Mild [but I feel it’s moderate to major]. I felt shame and guilt that I have depression. That I let this happen. I kind of knew that I had it. I even googled my unusual blue moods but I didn’t quite understand it so I brushed it aside. I experienced what she called PTSD. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder that may have led to my eventual depression. And I asked my therapist/psychiatrist if I was crazy like my mother. Maybe it ran in the family. Maybe I was going crazy. She would have diagnosed me with that If I were. That was reassuring. Seeing a therapist helped me better understand and accept my innermost thoughts. To accept what happened. To understand that it happened and it doesn’t make you any less of a person. My father was also present during my first therapy session. I told the therapist everything. And my father recalled the incident I had when I came home drunk. I listened as he said that the moment my mother stood by the door and opened her mouth, I screamed. An insane scream. Like I was seeing a monster. He said I was backing away from her and saying things like she was a crazy *****. It was just like seeing how I was after I was beaten by her in that room years ago. Screaming loud as hell like crazy. I cried again [I’m getting tired of this shit really but I just can’t help it]. I must be in such a mess that I couldn’t even remember that. That I had been unconsciously damaged by all of that. The therapist explained that it usually happens when the stress is too much paired with the environment of the trauma and the one that caused the trauma. A quick memory loss of the present [short-term memory process]. And the brain triggers that repressed memory [long-term memory] and caused me to act like way back.  Plus the alcohol. I was amazed and distressed at the same time by that experience.  I cried at how the past had such an enormous impact on me. I really didn’t think it had that much effect on me years after as I’ve tried to not take it seriously. I’ve ignored the raw emotions. I’ve filled and buried it with happy moments, friends, fun activities and school. I’ve rationalized that, “Yeah, sure. It’s ok. Just think of how others have bigger problems than you and you’re taking this as if it was something to think about? That it was important? I mean no one even cares it happened, so why would you? Everyone got over it and you’re still hang up about it? Come on! Move on! Don’t burden others or father with your petty emotional drama.” I tried ‘blurting’ it out on my friends and they kind of just laughed. I felt that they were not ready to hear it or talk to me about it. I guess they were scared too. It wasn’t normal. They were close with their moms. So I kept it all to myself. It really is true that no one really understands better than you can even your family. I had this strong conviction that deep emotional problems are ours alone to handle. And I have numbed and steeled myself through the years. Or so I thought. I am ashamed that I have allowed it to turn me into this emo mess. That I let the negative effects get through me. I hate feeling this feeling every time I am reminded of it. Just when I thought I had gotten over it, I am proven wrong every time. I want to rub off these negative emotions and thinking. I try to change and improve my thought patterns, to rise above the past. But I have to also recognize that it sometimes creep its way in. It’s hard for me to truly move on and be free of it because I see my mother everyday. I see her emotions shift from stillness to storm. And I’m constantly vigilant for alert patterns from her. It’s like I’m on tiptoe.  It’s exhausting. She had been admitted to a mental facility once when she refused to take her meds for days. I woke up to find my father pin her down [UFC style – with her screaming she’s gonna kill us all!!],  from getting a knife and go ape shit again. I was shaking when I texted and called for help. And now, when she’s mad. She always targets her medication. She refuses to take them sometimes. I get scared when she doesn’t. It’s like this vicious cycle. Never ending. And we can’t afford to put her in a private mental facility again. My father refuses to put her in a public mental facility. I can see that he loves her so much despite what she has put us all through. And that pains me. To be in this kind of a dilemma. I have thought of killing myself when things turn bad in the house. To stop the dreadful soul-crushing feeling. But I can’t because that rational being defeats me in a battle of morality and consequences. And then I think of killing her along with me. The rational me wins again. Am I gonna be in this loop forever? Even if I go away after college, I know I’ll still find myself in the same loop. She is still my mother. Family. Shit. I’m running out of tissue. Guess you can say that this is my kryptonite.

Thanks for taking the time to read this, if you did. This is the first time I’ve ever written what happened and sharing it to others. It felt liberating, even if it’s only for a moment. Let’s hold strong and hope for the best!