I won't go.

Also copied from my livejournal:


My mother is huffing around because I don't want to go to a performance at the theatre I used to go to. Not shouting at present because she is 'too ill'.

I used to go there until I gave up because I wasn't enjoying it anymore. I was far too busy being worried I would be assaulted again.

Even if he still goes there and is in the cast I see, I would be unlikely to see him. 

I still don't want to go. I wouldn't want to go even if I was the only person in the building.

My mother doesn't know and she booked the tickets after a fair amount of guilt tripping. So "Well, you told me you wanted to go" doesn't hold up because I explicitly told her I didn't. Many times.

She won't just accept "I don't want to" and has turned it into some sort of "Well, next time you want me to go and see something with you…" followed by how selfish I am and how she doesn't want to see anything I want to.

Which isn't true. She's always been enthusiastic about musicals we've seen and my mother decidedly isn't enthusiastic about things she doesn't like.

I am aware that if she doesn't know, she can't do anything about it, ect.

The time I tried to tell her I'd be assaulted (a different time to the above), she told me I didn't know what the words I was using meant. The time after her sister (who used to be my mother's ex-boyfriend's boss) accused my mother's ex-boyfriend of watching child porn, I got yelled at for suggesting that he might because no way would he do such a thing. Admittedly, I didn't think it was abuse that the time but I was 11? 12? She should have known.

So. I'm not telling her.

Even if she did believe me - which since it wouldn't incriminate her in any way is possible, though I'm not sure how the time when I was 13 would either - she'd just use it as an excuse to shout at lots of people, guilt trip me and whine about how I don't trust her.

For the time being, she is going to take her best friend and godson. I'm not allowed to stay here for the weekend when I could go to my fathers and if I'm behaving selfishly I don't get a choice. Now I'm supposed to phone him and explain why I have to go.

I understand that it is hardly a bad punishment but I don't think it should be a punishment. Or, that she could at least deliver her disappointment (anger? It's hard to tell.) differently. It shouldn't be a shock; I told her months ago that I very much didn't want to go.

Edit: My father has refused to have us because he doesn't want to get ill. So, we're staying here.

This post is like my head: a mess - Part Two

Part of Christmas Eve was spent sleeping on the bathroom floor because my mother insisted she'd share the bed my brother and I had and I couldn't bare the idea, even though I don't think she'd sexually abuse me (again). She would wait until we were almost asleep and then wake us up with yelling.

Cruel words fire out of her twisted mouth, as she leers over my stepfather who kept his eyes shut. I grab my brother and ran into the bedroom. I'm still not strong enough to hold the door shut. My brother begs me to open it as her fists pummelled the door. He wants Mummy back. He wants nobody to get hurt.

He puts himself out there to stop it, shaking as hard I do. I covered my head with my hands. I cannot protect him. I have failed. I am a failure.

We attempt to comfort each other later that night. But we barely hug. If I hug him, I might cry more and I might be heard. I wish I could stop shaking enough to save him.

Another night I attempt to push her out of my room.

The shouting continues. It starts in the mornings and tapers off and then starts up again.

My stepfather calls her a horrible woman. Tells her she uses us as pawns.

My mother will later pretend nothing has happened, just as she has before.

I argue back for the first time in years. I want her to hurt, but ultimately she will hurt me more. I want to show my brother that he shouldn't copy that behaviour.

Later, I manage to keep my brother in our room by pointing out that "If anything does happen [stepfather] is stronger than either of us." I stare up at the ceiling, waiting for the shouting to end. He later asks me if he can leave to go to the toilet. I feel cruel because I have detained him.

My mother doesn't want to ski, she doesn't want to stay behind and she doesn't want to be alone. She sleeps peacefully and then jumps up and begins her shouting tirade. My brother was getting his shoes but now feels compelled to stay. I grab him but realise he doesn't have his shoes. I try to get his shoes but my mother launches herself towards me and I put him down quickly. She grabs my hair and the back of my coat - though it doesn't hurt - and shoves me towards the fridge. My stepfather must have stepped in because I didn't hit the fridge.

We leave my brother behind because he won't come, go to meet up with friends. I am ill and worried. His phone is turned off so my mother can't get through to him because she called and yelled down the phone. She claimed they had no money (though she did) and that we were being cruel to my brother. I had to deal with the rude text messages because my stepfather was driving.

My brother showed me the missing part of her phone case, broken from where she had thrown it against the wall.

We go out for dinner with my stepfather's friends and she transforms herself into the perfect mother.

I cannot split 'Mummy' and 'The Mother' - named so after I read that someone abused did that with theirs many years ago, though I do not remember its title - without knowing what I am doing. I have recently made an attempt to merge them. I now see everything my mother does as a plot to keep me quiet.

I tell my mother of her shouting and how I used to fear coming home (when I was younger and things were worse), how I wasn't allowed to smile. I do not mention that one occasion she sexually abused me, nor how she used to laugh when her ex-boyfriend used to sexually abuse me or the dozens of other things.  She tells me my memories are warped and that she is not a superhuman. She asks me, still shouting, what I want from her, but I do not say because I can never have what I want.

You cannot change who people are. - My mother

She asked me if I forgave her, though she didn't accept my memories or apologise. I told her "No." She tells me I can talk to her, strokes my cheek and tells me she loves me. She asks if I love her, I say I do but I cannot trust her.

She returned to her shouting tirade the next morning. To her mocking and snide comments.

I am terrified that she will become more angry when social services question her. I am filled with doubt about speaking out. Things aren't so bad now. I am mostly haunted by my dreams, my fears and memories.


For reference, I have been sexually, emotionally, and physically abused as well as neglected  inthe past. I know this post probably seems as though nothing has happened. This post covers different times of day and different days altogether. Nor is it exhaustive.

This post is like my head: a mess - Part One

I wrote this, yesterday. It remains unfinished because I couldn't bare the pain. I wrote it while trying not to pick up a knife:

I texted my friend to tell her I was back in England and asked her if she wanted to do anything in study leave, unless she was actually going to study for the entire thing in which case afterwards (I have no exams until June but I intend to do the work I should have done over the holidays).
It was more pleading, actually. Since I offer to give up my free ticket and pay for someone else if we went to the cinema. I gave the reason for this that my mother is still being an arsehat. My friend picked up on this, phoned me, explained that I shouldn't come into school tomorrow because it is study leave and asked me what was wrong and was I okay. I told her I was fine and it didn't matter.
I don't think she believed me because I don't even believe myself.
I'm not accustomed to being phoned, or people who in real life seeming concerned who aren't being paid to.
But I hit the same block as I usually do. My mother could probably have heard through the walls, though I could have gone downstairs.
If I start speaking rather than typing, I feel like I might fall to pieces or never stop crying or that my room might just suck me in like a big black hole. I want to speak almost as much as I don't want to speak.
I want to tell her that one of the reasons I'm a bad friend is because I feel as though I'm constantly keeping a secret, but there are other reasons. I want to explain why she shouldn't be my friend because I am bad at it, but I don't want her to lie and tell me otherwise and I don't want to lose her as a friend.

I had returned from a holiday to Canada earlier that day. Skiing is one of my favourite things to do, however my holiday was tainted by all the arguing.

I do not know.

I do not know if I have autism anymore. I have met my psychologist. I have another appointment in February.

I have since reported child abuse.

I cannot tell where my problems start and end.

It is possible for both to exist together.

This blog will probably talk about child abuse now because I feel am damaging my online life by keeping it on my livejournal.