Disclaimer. This post speaks truthfully and honestly about parental abuse and its long term effects on our development and BPD.
My Mother Stole My Identity. An Open Letter to the Woman who Ruined my Life.
People often say they (or someone they know) are “having an identity crisis”. The true meaning of an identity crisis though can mean different things for different people.
Usually it means a period of uncertainty and confusion in which a person’s sense of identity becomes insecure, typically due to a change in their expected aims or role in society.
What if you’re me?
I have not had a “period” of uncertainty and confusion, it has been a long-standing thing which has been plaguing me since I was born.
Sure, I did not have a very good upbringing (to say the least), which could have had something to do with my identity (or lack thereof) being shaped the way it has, but realistically, as you become older, should you not “grow out” of that pattern of thoughts?
I never did, and I still have not.
For me to explain where my identity became lost, I must take you all back in time some 35 years, to when I was perhaps four years of age, living in New Zealand, with my parents and older brother. He was nine.
I was cursed from birth, really when you take it all in – born sick, and with a (then) unknown condition.
Because of these unnatural early beginnings, I was always “different”, and my parents both made sure that I felt that way.
From my earliest memories (of 3-4 years old), any and all photographs taken of me were kept away in an old biscuit tin in the top of my parents’ wardrobe.
My brother’s face was plastered across the house on walls, on top of the old analog TV set, on my parents’ bedside tables… I was hidden, I was the sick secret, the child that my parents referred to as “him” or “sick one” when asked about me.
CUT TO when I started school in Australia at age 5. I was relatively shy, introverted, and did not like or understand the other children who were in my class. My birth-condition had now been diagnosed as Noonan Syndrome, yet I would not be told this for another 10 years.
At school I was constantly bullied, made fun of, ridiculed, and avoided as if I had leprosy. The few children who did go out of their way to speak to me probably did so out of sympathy, or perhaps they really did “see something” in me which they felt like they connect with?
At six years old I developed Perthes disease of the left hip, and was forced to wear leg braces, the old styled ones which had two bars running through the middle of them and forced me to kind of walk sideways.
School tables/chairs etc. needed to be modified accordingly. I did not feel “special” because of this, I felt ridiculous and just wanted to be like everyone else. Even though I was only 6 at the time, I knew that I most definitely was not ever going to be like anyone else.
At 7 years old, I began to exhibit behavioural difficulties, in align with self-harming. I would poke and cut myself where people would not see, because it somehow made me feel slightly more “normal” to feel pain. The pain served very quickly as a numbing gel for the inner turmoil that I was dealing with.
I was often referred to by my mother as “mongoloid”, “Spastic”, “Fucktard”, “Faggot” and “little pussy”, regardless of what I did (or said), I gave up trying to impress my mother very early on, and developed a deep-rooted hatred for the woman which I hold true still to this day.
Along with my mother’s verbal (and very physical) torture, I was also subject to ongoing sexual abuse at the hands of my lovely father. His actions were never “answered for”, and to this day, he lives a very refined and full life.
I digress, this is about stolen identity, and why this has occurred.
Along with photographs of me kept hidden away, my school reports, birth certificate, passport, and all other identifying information was kept from me (I want to say by my Mother, as it was her who had majority of control in our household, even though my Father was aggressive, he allowed her full control of us kids).
When I was old enough to begin asking questions about my identity (like, “where is my birth certificate” etc.), I was back-handed very swiftly by my mother and told never to ask for that, that it was her property, because I was her son.
I learned very quick to begin my journey of self-hatred. Self-discovery also began, but that was quickly stopped by my parents and I was cautioned to never question my gender, or sexuality, or way-of-life. I was told to never question or “tell” about anything that went on in our home, because it was “our business”, nobody else’s.
As I became older, I have developed health problems (probably due mainly to things being left for so long), and I have no record of my previous medical histories, apart from tiny snippets which I remember, and the few little details I have been able to obtain.
My mother confessed to me when I was a teenager that I would never be able to review my medical files, that she had put “precautions” in place so that I could not.
To my mother – Fuck you, you whore. I need help, and you denied me that, both as a child, and now as an adult. You pretended when around people to be the “perfect” mother, and then once you got me home, I was beaten, verbally abused, and left in my room for nothing.
You failed to protect me when my father abused me, you stood by and let it happen, and then when I asked you years later why you did that, you were so fucking selfish in your answer.
“I was scared he’d beat me again”.
You were a useless mother, you failed to protect me when I was bullied at school, and instead sent my brother down to fight for me, and to abuse and beat the bullies, when you could have easily spoken to someone and had the problem sorted out.
I despise you, and everything that you are – you’re a pathetic worm who wallows in the shit of everyone’s pain, you enjoy causing pain to children, and you enjoy inflicting pain throughout their lives.
You also enjoy controlling children, because it makes you feel powerful and mighty, and it feeds your need and hunger for acceptance, when you cannot accept yourself and what you do, you inflict your anger and pain on the innocent.
You have pretended to be dying more times than I can count, and each time I prayed (even though I am not religious) for it to be real. I went to your hospital bed when you had your stroke and spat at you, telling you exactly what I thought of you. I asked you to apologise to me for everything you did, your response was “I’m dying”.
You care only for yourself, and expect everyone to do the same, you pretend that you are a loving, caring and giving individual, and behind closed doors you are a sadistic monster.
When you divorced my father (finally), you deliberately went out and found a very kind, sensitive man (the total opposite to my father), in order to control and manipulate him.
I loved this man from the first time I met him, because he accepted me, but I begged him not to marry you. He was just too kind, and you’d won him over soon enough.
Another fly for your very poisonous web.
When he accepted me as his Son (he knew I had disowned my real father), and allowed me to call him Dad, you hated this. I remember you argued about it with him when I was in bed, and you made him cry when you told him that I was “unlovable”.
He did accept me though, that much is certain, and we had a great bond, yet I knew what you were trying to do to him.
You began your severely twisted manipulation game on him as well, removing him from his three sons, forcing him not to see them, you wanted this poor, defenceless, good man for yourself.
I remember you used to hold onto his arm so tight and introduce him to people as “YOUR man”. You left it up to him to name himself to people, and towards the end, he didn’t even bother, you’d won again.
You’d reeled this poor lost soul in, hook line and sinker (this is a very curious thing to say, as he used to adore fishing!).
His identity was soon stolen too.
Why did you do it, Mum? Why did you steal my identity, and not my brother’s?
I know why.
I was weak, I still am, and you saw that and quickly honed in on it like a viper.
I firmly believe (and I am no psychiatrist), that you emotionally, sexually and physically got “off” on stealing your youngest son’s identity, and that of your poor new husband.
He is dead now, I miss him, but I am glad. I am glad because he is free from your fucking clutches. He is free from you beating him emotionally, and physically (remember the time you pushed him over, drunk in the shower, and he broke a bone in his arm, bitch?)
He is free from your control, but you kept him from his Sons, and from me. You never explained why, but you didn’t have to – I knew what a sadistic cunt you were – I’d grown up with it.
When I reached my mid-twenties, I was diagnosed with various mental-health related things – PTSD, Complex PTSD, Dysthymia, Depression, Clinical Depression, Severe Social Anxiety, etc. It was not until 2009 that I was finally given a proper examination and given just one overall diagnosis – Borderline Personality Disorder. The other diagnosis was not ruled out, but they were explained by my prominent diagnosis of BPD.
It was discussed with me that my Mother (and Father), if you can call them parents at all (I would not, personally), most likely had a significant impact on my diagnosis, due to the style of upbringing I had. I tend to call it down-bringing more so than upbringing.
But, when all is said and done, can I blame you?
I blame you for certain aspects of my life turning out the way they did, but I have also been weak enough to allow it to happen, to allow it to overtake my existence for so long, and to keep on letting it happen.
As a “parent”, you took the role to the absolute extreme, and so did my father, yet you really only did it with me. Because my brother fought back, I never did. I cowered in the corner, like your good little bitch boy, and suffered in silence (shhh, say nothing!).
I am a parent myself now, and even though I am not physically with my daughter, I do my fucking best to communicate with her, show support and encouragement, and love her the way a true parent should. Where did I learn do that?
Self-taught, bitch. You certainly didn’t teach me, nor did my father, nor my brother, who turned out to be violent and sadistic just like you, Mum.
My daughter comes first, I don’t verbally, sexually, or physically abuse her like you did, Mum. I cherish the small conversations and laughs that I share with her, and we are growing closer every day after so many years apart.
I am so glad that she is not in your life, Mum. You’re not her grandmother, as far as I am concerned you’re not even my mother.
You’re a woman who fucked a man, nine months later spreading your pathetic legs to let a child slide out, deformed emotionally and physically. You then chose to abuse that child, with no thoughts of how you’d fuck its future up.
You confirmed to the child all throughout its life that it was worthless, good for nothing, deformed, and “different” to everybody who surrounded it, and the child began to believe this and take this role on for eternity.
I was created by you, and forced into a lifestyle of inner torment and pain, because you chose to do that. I had no fucking choice, and you knew that. You took that choice and ran with it – the choice to abuse your child and torment it. The choice to follow on and continue doing this, whilst even on your fucking death-bed.
Still, I wish for your death, for the demise of your existence, in the hope that it can somehow bring closure to me. For some, this is hard to swallow. My whole fucking life has been hard to swallow, but I’ve done it, choking and gagging all the fucking way, but I have DONE IT.
I continued because I wanted to try and be a better person. Through numerous failed suicide attempts, you were always the one in the back of my mind, taunting me – “Do it then, cunt!” “Ahh, you’re fucking weak!!”.
I wanted to die for you, to give you what you wanted, but I stayed in order to torment you with my words now.
Even though I am not religious (quite the opposite), I know that you are, and I hope that you believe that you’ve “done everything right” in your life, with the false presence of being sent to a beautiful Holy Afterlife in your mind.
When it’s all over, as you take your last pathetic dying breath – remember my face you bitch, as you travel down to burn for eternity.
It’s not up to me to decide your fate, Mother, but if your “God” is a good one, one of fairness and respect, he’ll see your judged accordingly, and you’ll fry.
I hope you look back on everything you’ve done one day and can finally see the error of your life. I hope that somehow you beg for forgiveness from me one day, only to have it thrown back in your face, for I will never forgive nor forget how you stole my everything and shaped it to yours.
I remain a person with no identity (or at least feeling like a shell, without identity). I have no gender which I am comfortable with, I am confused, and am a walking ghost.
I will haunt you til your dying day, Mother.