misfire -> RE: Going from abuse to conscious slavery/submission (3/6/2006 10:28:29 PM)
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..oh, wow. Funny that this thread would be the home of my very first post here, huh? I was born with a defect that had fused half of my internal organs together. (At least, that's the laymen's version I keep getting.) My dad thought it was appalling, and he didn't want to raise some freak kid, so he bailed, leaving my mom to deal with the situation. Unfortunately for me, my mom isn't good at dealing with situations. The abuse didn't start until three, when I was running around and talking in sentences and parroting behavior picked up at the local daycare. The first instance I remember was when she had a pillow over my face -- I'd lied about something, 'cos one of the boys said it was a good way to get attention, and she'd started slapping me and punching me. I cried, and she put a pillow over my face.. she kept screaming at me to shut up. If my grandmother hadn't been there to pull her off of me, I probably would've died then. The abuse escalated from there; if I overslept, she'd beat me - sometimes with a hairbrush, sometimes with a kitchen knife.. anything handy, really. She'd fling me outside in the dead of winter with nothing on but the tshirt I'd slept in. She'd yell at me, berate me, and make me feel so worthless that I wanted to die before I started junior high. I was raped when I was 13; a friend had invited me to spend the night at her place.. unbeknownst to me, she'd paid her half-cousin to hook up with me because she felt sorry for me. He was my first kiss, but I wasn't even sure I wanted that. I fell asleep that night, only to wake up with him panting and grunting over me, my jeans and panties around my ankles. Looking back, I wish I'd fought; I wish I'd socked the bastard in his pointy little face. But all I did was sniffle and cry and pray that it would be over. At home, things kept getting worse. We finally moved out of our apartment, which I thought would be helpful, but it wasn't. In the freedom of a rental home, she could throw an iron at my head without the neighbors calling the cops; she threw me out at least once a month - I was a fixture on my friends' couches and floors. I always came crawling back, and the violence and namecalling started up again. I've had to stand by and watch as she attempted suicide -- only to throw up and blame me. I've listened to her tell me how much of a failure I am, how I've ruined her life, and how I should've been aborted. The words, the wounds.. they're still raw, and it hurts to type this out. After graduation, I was sexually assaulted twice: once by a peer at my college, and once by the acquaintance of a mutual friend. I've spent all of my 22 years trying to please someone, only to fail -- like it was mentioned above, abusers cannot be pleased. I can bend over backwards and serve as an ottoman, and it still won't be good enough. D/s is reminding me daily that I'm not just some fuckup - that I can do things right, and I do make someone happy. It's not quite a replacement for therapy, but just knowing that, in his eyes, I'm not a failure.. that's enough to get me through the roughest of times.
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