My Name WAS Renee " This is my story"

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Since: Sep 10

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#1 Sep 24, 2010
My name was Renee. Once upon a time I was Renee. That all changed. I became someone I didn’t know. I was “reassigned” a new name and a new life. It was not the life that my mother would have chosen for me. Had I been old enough, it is not the life that I would have chosen for myself. This is my story. The story of a little girl, once called Renee who had the “fortune” of being adopted and being “ wanted” into an abusive family.

Once upon a time, there was a husband and wife who were unable to have children. They applied to an adoption agency and were approved and received a son. He was a six-month-old bouncing baby boy. He was the joy, the light of their life. He was the fulfillment of all of their dreams. The sun rose and set on this baby boy. He would fulfill all of the unfulfilled desires of their lives. A few years passed and they realized that they had not completed the American Dream. They had a house, a car, he worked, she was a housewife and they had a son. The one thing missing was a daughter. Once again, they went fishing in the adoption pool. Instead of pulling out another prize winning bass, they pulled out what they thought was a carp. They decided to keep the carp instead of throwing her back in.

My life began as dramatically as it has progressed. My mother was sixteen back in1957, when things of this sort were neither accepted nor allowed. Her upper middle class family sent her off to the “fictional” aunt in another city to spare their shame and embarrassment. This “fictional” aunt was in reality a home for unwed mothers where I was born. Imagine if you can, in today’s society, this scenario taking place. It really blows your mind doesn’t it? I was placed into the system against my mothers’ better wishes.

Did she have precognition as to what would happen to me or was it simply young motherly love? She spent eighteen months trying to keep me. Even after another failed relationship and another child which in today’s society is laughable. It happens all of the time. However “the man” that was willing to marry her was not willing to take on the extra baggage of not just one child but also two. In between and my father and “the man” she had had another child.

I went through five foster homes. The reason for the five foster homes was that my mother would come for visitation, pick me up and not return me. I was eighteen months old and my half brother was three months old when her husband to be refused the responsibility for us, and she finally signed the adoption papers.

Thus begins my life. Or what I have been told of it to me by my adoptive parents. Through the adoption agency, I was brought on “new home visits”. These “new home visits” were to acclimate the child and the new parents to one another. Upon one of these said “new home visits” in December of 1959, four days before the “official” adoption was to take place,(as I was supposed to be a birthday present for my adoptive mother). I was dropped off for my visit and then became snowed in. The social workers were unable to come back to pick me up and since the official adoption was only four days away, I was allowed to stay.

When I came to them as an eighteen-month-old toddler, I am told that I had diaper rash from my knees to my neck. That I was terrified of a male figure; that I would scream, cry and run behind my adopted mothers skirt and apron. Until such time as my adopted mother would relate to me, my adopted father took things in hand, took me from behind her apron, took me, an eighteen-month-old child over his knee and paddled me into submission. Once my submission was obtained the rest of my life until young adulthood had been set.


Since: Sep 10

Location hidden

#2 Sep 24, 2010
I will continue my saga here on Topix if enough people choose to hear it here, prior to the publication of my new book. "I WAS Renee".

MY story is a true story. As a result of my abusive parents, I have PTSD and OCD. At the recommendation of my therapist I have compiled my experiences and choose to share them. I am posting an abridged version of my book here on Topix. I do this to possibly help others who share similar experiences and let them know that they are not alone.


Since: Jan 10

Charleston, WV

#3 Sep 24, 2010
Wow, so far.Just wow.

Anonymous Proxy

#4 Sep 24, 2010
Yes, wow. You certainly have a gift with words. Please continue.

Since: Sep 10

Location hidden

#5 Sep 25, 2010

It was now official. The American Dream had been realized. Mother, Father, Son, Daughter, cozy home in an upper middle class neighborhood. Other families living the American Dream surrounded them. If you rode with me up that dead end street in the comfortable neighborhood you would see mothers gathered at the edges of the yard for their afternoon chat. You would see kids playing ball, tag, make believe games and fathers in their shirtsleeves or shirtless mowing lawns, trimming hedges or washing cars. Brightly painted houses with the warm glow of lights shining through their windows in the evening. How could you possibly know what was going on behind one particular closed door.

What is a hog trough you ask? Well Webster would say something like “ it is a feeding bin on the ground for pigs”. One of my earliest memories as a toddler was the shame and humiliation of being sent to the “hog trough”. Let me tell you about the “hog trough” and my experiences. It’s close to suppertime. The great smells wafting from the kitchen made all of our tummies grumble in anticipation.

The kitchen wasn’t large but it was a perfect 1950’s kitchen. A modern electric range, gleaming Formica counters with a canister set and matching cookie jar. A tall chrome metal stool with a padded seat and back sat next to a metal three-tiered utility cart. The stool had pull out steps that allowed the children to reach the drop leaf table attached to the wall when cookies were being made. The stool was a good thing. It was a warm and happy thing. If the stool had feelings it would be horrified to have to sit next to the monster in the kitchen.

I’m four or five years old. I’ve proudly help set the table and present the meal to the family. Nervousness and fear causes my stomach to flutter like a moth caught in a light fixture. All of the enjoyment and anticipation of the preparation and serving has fled.“Please God, Please God don’t let it happen tonight. Please don’t let me be clumsy. Please don’t let me drip gravy on the tablecloth. Please don’t let a pea slide off of my plate onto the floor. And above all please don’t let me spill my milk.”

Of course that unhappy moth fluttering away in my stomach has made my little hands unsteady. Once again a drop of gravy on the clean tablecloth and the looks and the ridicule begin.“YOUNG LADY you’re old enough to not spill anything. You’re nothing but a slob.” Across the table my brother begins to oink at me. I stutter out my apology, promising I would be more careful.

However my clumsy hands, a few minutes later, seal my fate. There it goes and I can’t catch it, I can’t stop it from tipping over. There goes my milk all over the table. A fresh chorus of oinks and grunts emanates from across the table. A chant of “ Hog Trough, Hog Trough she goes to the Hog Trough follows the oinks and grunts. My mother and father are out of their seats in an instant. He grabs me by the back of my neck, snatching me out of my chair. While saying “You God dammed little pig, you don’t deserve to eat here at the table with civilized people”. She picked up my dripping plate and carried it to the kitchen while I follow receiving a swat on my butt for each step that I take. My tears are pouring down my face. The tears are a mixture of the humiliation of what I had done and the pain of my father’s large hand on my butt.

The lecture begins.“Anyone who can’t sit up, behave properly at the table and act like a civilized human being is nothing more than a hog and deserves to be fed at the “Hog Trough”. At this point the metal monster looms in my vision. The three tiered serving cart. My plate goes on the bottom shelf, a mere foot off of the floor. I sit on the floor with my back to the dining room to finish my supper in pain and abject humiliation. The rest of the American Dream family finished their repast at the dinner table. I was not allowed to rejoin them.

Since: Aug 10

Panama City, FL

#6 Sep 26, 2010
That's it? more, more, more! I read every bit of it! You are an awesome, very articulate, gifted writer. God bless you!

Since: Sep 10

Location hidden

#7 Sep 26, 2010
Thank you so much for the compliments. I am posting each evening so that it is easier for folks to follow the story. As I said before, this is just an abridged version, excerpt taken from the whole book that I have written.Again, many thanks for the compliments and tonight's excerpt will be posted later.

Since: Sep 10

Location hidden

#8 Sep 26, 2010

What do a hairbrush, a flyswatter, a ruler, a book, a hand, a belt, a razor strop and broken paddleball bat have in common? They are all implements that have been used in my corporal punishment.

Most of these when used with enough force can and will break trust me I know from experience. Who would think that such innocent seeming household items could be utilized to inflict pain? Who would think that these innocent seeming items would be used on a young child for any infraction no matter how small? Worse than the physical pain was the terrifying anticipation of the next infliction of the punishment, with the words “Wait until your father gets home and you’ll get it again!” which I did. My father’s anger and temper were legendary both at home and in the community.

Both at home and in the community my father was notorious for both his short temper and the intensity of his anger. Any imperfection of behavior would set the very short fuse on his temper. When the short fuse burned to his temper, vehement anger would erupt whether it was directed at a co-worker or a member of his family. I vividly recall my mother bearing the brunt of his verbal abuse at home. Although she was very good at standing up to him and firing right back, a child did not have that recourse. Often various objects would fly through the kitchen and her strident voice could be heard saying “ Now there’s no cause for that! Why don’t you go out to the garage and find something to do!” This was usually followed by the sound of the back door slamming. I never knew whether my father physically abused my mother. I’ll leave it to the reader to draw that conclusion.

Now add to the arsenal of weapons “You’re the slowest thing God ever put on this earth.”“You’re lazy”,“You just don’t care”“You’re stupid”.“Why can’t you be more like your brother?” The physical pain of being beaten pales in comparison the heartbreak of feeling that I’m not good enough for my adoptive parents sets in. With the physical and verbal abuse at home, I become a shy child, socially backward, wishing for friends, yearning for friends but not knowing how to make them. My continued lack of coordination leaves me chosen last for any schoolyard games. My social awkwardness makes me a prime target for the schoolyard bullies. Once again, I don’t fit in. It was never so clear to me as that day on the school playground.

I was in first grade. We had all gone out for recess. The swings were full. The jungle gym was crawling with little human monkeys. A game of kickball was going in the grass. On the blacktop one of my favorite games, foursquare was in progress. I joined the line of children waiting to take their turn in the foursquare game. As the line moved forward, with dread I see that I’m in the group of four children that includes my schoolyard nemesis.

The infamous first grade bully Joey, was the redheaded terror that made my life miserable. When our turn arrived, he faced the other children in our group and said,“We need the next kid, we can’t play with her. She’s no good, she’ll make us lose”. A light ripple of jeering begins among the other children. With that encouragement he’s off and running with his daily taunt of me. As the words fly from his mouth and the encouragement of the others becomes greater, he flings the sharpest barb of all at me.“You need to just go away, can’t you see that we don’t want you? Don’t you know that nobody wants you? Even your mother didn’t want you!” In tears and disgrace I wandered to the far edge of the playground and sit among the bushes with my back against the fence where I stayed until the end of recess. No foursquare game for me today.

Since: Sep 10

Location hidden

#9 Sep 26, 2010
We only lived a few blocks from school. Walking to and from school daily was part of our routine. That afternoon, as I slowly plodded home alone, being passed by groups of laughing children freed from the chains of school, I labored to push down the shame and disappointment of being unpopular. I worked at fixing the expression on my face to appear “normal” instead of being stressed so that I would not face questions when I got home. Times like that were when I started building what I called my “Ice Wall”. Building the “Ice Wall” inside of me that the real me could hide behind and leave all of the hurt and pain on the outside became my own personal haven.
However my day of anguish was not over. Entering the house I put my books in my room and went outside for my afternoon break. Mom always gave us a break between school and afternoon studies. After an hour of playing with the neighbor kids, running off pent up energy and actually having fun, it was time for the afternoon study session.
School was very important to my parents. They were very involved in our education. They took the time from their busy schedule to work with us to enable us to make the most of our abilities in school. Though my brother and I would both groan at the “drill time” secretly I think we enjoyed it. We would get out our daily work sheets; our weekly spelling words and it would begin. We would review our math, mom and or dad throwing out verbal math questions and us giving the answers. We did this with all of our subjects.
This particular day it was just mom at home. Dad was still at work. As it came time to do the spelling bee, I realized I had left my spelling words at school. That was a serious offence for my parents. I was in for it now. There was no way to recover from such a mistake. I knew what was coming and off I marched to the kitchen, the room that could somehow hold both wonder and terror. What weapon would it be today? My mind overflowed as I mentally inventoried the arsenal of weapons kept available on top of the refrigerator. As I tried to mentally choose the one that hurt the least, my mind settled on the hairbrush. I started pleading “Not the hairbrush, not the hairbrush”. I was hoping that mom would be fooled into choosing the hairbrush. Instead she reached to the top of the refrigerator and down came the ruler. The ruler was one of the things that left welts across the back of my bare legs.
Then came the words that I dreaded even more.“You will go stand in the corner until your father gets home.” The corner was probably the most terrifying place I have ever been in my life. To this day I can still smell wet plaster. I can feel the suffocation and oppression of the heavy winter coats and clothing. I can close my eyes and see the inky blackness as I was mercilessly shut into the hall closet.
In the closet behind the heavy woolen winter coats, was the corner. I stood in the inky darkness crying piteously as a disembodied voice from outside of the closed door floats to me “Stop that bawling right now or you will get it again!” As I stifle down the wails my tears still silently fall. My little hands swiping at the tears on my face and I lean damp hands against the wall. I have no ability to tell time in the darkness but after what feels like hours, I hear heavy footfalls coming towards me outside in the hall.
The door opens, the clothing is pushed aside and bright light stabs at my darkness-accustomed eyes. There He stands dad is home. As he orders me out of the closet his eyes are trained on the corner.“Look what you’ve done young lady, just look at it! Just look at the filth on that wall!” I hear his belt buckle clink as he undoes his belt. I hear the leather hiss menacingly across the fabric of his pants.“March yourself to the kitchen right now! In a hurry and I don’t mean maybe!”

Since: Sep 10

Location hidden

#10 Sep 26, 2010

I rush to the kitchen and go directly to the cabinet under the sink without being told. I drag out the bucket, the soap and the scrub brush. Before I can get the bucket into the sink the first whistle and crack of the belt comes accurately landing across my back.“That water’s not hot enough, turn the cold water off!” I know I’m in even more trouble for trying to cheat his rules and put warm water into the bucket instead of hot. I take a dishtowel and carefully wipe the bottom of the bucket so that I don’t leave a water ring on the floor as I set it down.
As I go to fold the towel and hang it back by the stove the whistle and snap comes again. He feels that I’m not moving fast enough. The step stool has looked on in horror and goes back in place next to the monster. I make sure that it’s placed just right in order to avoid further wrath. I grab my bucket, soap and brush and head back to my dungeon. My bucket, soap, brush and I are securely ensconced in the darkness behind the heavy winter clothes once again.
The closet door closes with the admonishment “There better not be a streak of dirt left on that wall!” As I scrub the walls with soapy hot water with my brush the smell of wet plaster nearly makes me sick.

Since: Sep 10

Location hidden

#11 Sep 26, 2010
I apologize for breaking these stories up into pieces, however Topix only allows 4000 charaacters per post. My thanks to my editor for finding coherent break points for each post.


Since: Jan 10

Charleston, WV

#12 Sep 27, 2010
Sorry this had to be your life, but this makes and interesting story. It's hard to write this for you and healing all at the same time.Do or have you kept a relationship with your brother from this house?

Since: Sep 10

Location hidden

#13 Sep 27, 2010
Dear Honestiam, Thankyou for your words of concern and support. Writing this has been a catharsis for me, ridding myself of the poison that has festered throughout my life.Please read this evenings post it will give you the answer to your question.

South Africa

#14 Sep 27, 2010
Mosheim Country Girl - you are extremely gifted. You write beautifully. What a life story you are letting us have an insight to. I look forward to reading more. You should be very proud of yourself that you are able to put your story and feelings down onto paper. I was never that lucky. Please continue with your story.

I am sorry to hear of the hardship during your life but you are very gifted with your writing ability.

I look forward to reading more.

Take care

Since: Sep 10

Location hidden

#15 Sep 27, 2010

For all of the horrors that I have related so far there truly were good times. In my innocent young eyes, money never appeared to be a problem for our family. The highlight of our week would be accompanying mom downtown for trips to the stores. At this time, there wasn’t a shopping mall in our town. At age seven, it was difficult to decide which of those wonderful stores was my favorite.

There was the Homestead Dairy with its display of goodies in the window. My brother’s and my personal favorite was what they called “Half Moon Cookies”. A Half Moon cookie apiece was our reward for being good during the shopping trip. Being sent to the car to wait without a cookie was our punishment for misbehavior.

Kresges five and dime store was also a favorite. There were the wonders of the glittering costume jewelry on display, the toy department and the soda fountain in the store where we would have our lunch. Probably the most fascinating of all the stores we visited was Montgomery Wards. It was a huge building. There were three stories, three floors of wonderful excitement and adventure. We were allowed to roam freely, as in 1964 the terrors of today did not exist. If you became separated, or if you lost your parents you simply went to a nice clerk at the counter and they would announce over the public address system that you were at the service desk.

As the Christmas season approached, my brother and I both worked diligently to insure that we both had the best behavior that we could possibly have. Each day on our return from school we were filled with the anticipation that at least one of the new catalogs would have arrived in the mail. Oh, the raging battles that my brother and I had over who would be first to get their hands on the Montgomery Ward, J.C. Penny’s or Sears catalog. Excitedly we would flip through the pages and circle items and in a childish scrawl we would scribble our names next to the items that we wanted Santa Claus to place under the tree for us.

One of my brothers’ dearest wishes for Christmas that year was a portable tape recorder. His imagination overflowed with the ideas of what a nine-year-old boy could accomplish with such a modern technological device. Christmas day came and under the colorfully adorned tree was that wonder of technology, a portable tape recorder. That single innocuous device was the seed of my betrayal by my brother and once again my downfall.

What glee he got out of recording household conversations and family disputes. The tape recorder followed him to the dining table, to the living room. He would record conversations he would record TV programs. It all appeared to be in fun. Little did I know that he would also record the blowups and punishment sessions that would occur in the house. Never seen during these traumatic moments, he could be under the dining room table or behind a doorframe recording these incidents. Like most children who get a new “toy”, the tape recorder accompanied him wherever he went for a while. There was no surprise that at times he would catch me unawares in the back yard or in my room and replay the latest of my transgressions and punishments for me. Allowing me to suffer the humiliation and shame all over again.“Ha Ha you got in trouble again!” Was his jeering chant.


Since: Sep 10

Location hidden

#16 Sep 27, 2010
On the days that he was being nice to me, we would sit and giggle and talk nonsense into the tape recorder. Then came one disastrous day that he had his best friend over. By this time I was seven and he was two years older than I was. My brother and I knew every cuss word in the book and some that weren’t in the book. After all we had learned most of them at the knee of our father, so to speak. As I sat playing alone in my room I could hear sibilant whispers and giggles from my brothers room next door.

Being a little sister I was naturally curious and nosey as little sisters are often wont to be when their big brother’s affairs are concerned. I went to the door of his room to find out what was going on. How surprised was I when my brother and his friend John invited me in to join them. As I sat on the floor with them, I watched in awe and I must say, not just a little impressed as John and he took turns saying cusswords into the microphone. Each one of the boys was trying to outdo the other. I spent a short time watching them in awe. Then my brother turned to me and said to me “OK, now it’s your turn. I know what we haven’t said yet, say Oh Shit.”

I hung back reluctant to say a word that I knew was an adult word and not a word that a seven year old should say. John’s giggle floated through the air as he encouraged me.“C’mon you won’t get in trouble say Oh Shit.” In a quiet little voice I managed to squeak out that one bad word.“ No no, louder my brother said. You’ve got to say it louder so that the tape recorder can pick it up.” Encouraged by the grins on their faces and the feeling of camaraderie with them at the time, I spoke a little louder. Once again my brother said,“Aw c’mon that’s still not loud enough you can do better!” Hauling up all of my seven year old courage and bravado and getting into the game I loudly blurted out the words I had heard my father say so many times “OH SHIT”.

I felt my face flame with embarrassment at what I had just said and the boys’ laughter floated through the room. My brother said “Wow, I think we better stop, mom might come into the room at any time.” I took myself back to my room, feeling quite proud that I had finally shared a moment of friendship and fun with my brother and his buddy. If only I had known how it would play out later.

That evening after dad returned home, supper was finished without incident. The dinner dishes were washed. It was just before family TV time when my brother dropped the bombshell.“Wait until you hear what she said today!” He played the tape of me saying “OH SHIT” for my parents. The evidence on the tape confronted me. I knew that any pleas of innocence and excuse would fall upon the deaf ears of my parents. I knew of the imminent punishment coming from saying “OH SHIT”. That foreknowledge was nothing compared to the pain of and sorrow of the betrayal by my brother. His betrayal became the base of our relationship that extends to this day.

Sandusky, OH

#17 Sep 27, 2010
wow what a story i cant wait for the book to com e out

Since: Sep 10

Location hidden

#18 Sep 28, 2010

The number eight to me now as an adult holds equal connotations to 666, which everyone knows, is the number of the beast. Year eight of my life took the humiliation and punishment to the level of sheer terror for me. I thought my “Ice Wall” was complete but it was not strong enough to hold back the fresh horror placed upon me during this year.

I was a willowy blonde child, fair of face. Even at this young age I was already forced into a demeanor of submission. By this time, other family members had noticed the partiality of the treatment of my brother and I by our parents. Resentment of my brother grew among the other family members. Caring, nurturing and protection of me began by aunts and uncles. Repeated requests by aunts to let them raise me, citing “you don’t need her, you already have everything with your son” were ignored and in actuality may have inadvertently sparked the next wave of terror.

By this time my brother had outgrown his room on the ground floor and was granted the attic dormer room as his abode. The attic dormer was large and spacious with twin beds. It was also equipped with his growing sports trophy and equipment collection and his study center. I moved into his old room and my old room became the music room. Since by this time he and I had both begun music lessons. There the large upright piano proudly sat with its array of sheet music. Life became very busy. My brother and I were both involved in music, dance and sports.

All of the neighborhood kids had outgrown individual yards. We had grown and after a rash of power hitting and the subsequent broken windows, playing ball was relegated to the end of the dead end street. Life actually seemed to be getting better. I was starting to outgrow my clumsiness and some of my social awkwardness. I had friends at school and in the neighborhood. My brother and I remained worlds apart but we could still play together with the neighborhood group.

The holidays came and our house became the hub of activities for the extended family. Aunts, Uncles, Cousins all descended upon the house. Baking was done in advance. The basement was prepared to welcome the arriving horde of people. Extra tables were pushed up against the ping-pong table. Sheets of plywood were laid on the tables. Gaily decorated tablecloths covered the now enormous single table. Large tables were created and placed kitty corner from the ends of the main table. One of the tables moaned after being overloaded with all of the food created for the wondrous holiday feast. The other was reserved for pre-teen children.

As the family all gathered around the tables, all of my cousins and my brother jostled for a prime position at “our” table. I was in the procession along with my mother and aunts, who brought the food down from the kitchen to the table. I was not playing childish games with my cousins; I was helping. Oh how that basement held the same joy and terror as the kitchen. The basement that was so full of family love and good will also had become my own personal prison.


Since: Sep 10

Location hidden

#19 Sep 28, 2010

Ten years ago, I met the love of my life, my soul mate and my best friend. This was at long last the one person who I could finally trust with the beauty of my heart, my soul and also my ugliness. The one person whose love, compassion and understanding and love finally allowed the “Ice Wall” to begin to melt.

The wall, the barrier, the protection that for so long had held the terror at bay was getting soft, was beginning to melt and was beginning to leak. It was allowing terrors and memories to leak through, ones that I thought had been banished so many years ago. I will now allow my wonderful husband to relate why I hate the number eight.

First of all, I met her on the Internet. I lived hundreds of miles away from her and was brought to her by a power that is beyond us all.

I am a Viet Nam vet and have seen and dealt with people who have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Not long into our relationship I recognized that there was something she had buried deep inside, something truly ugly. I waited patiently until the demon raised its ugly head and could be dealt with by her, along with my assistance.

Over the years, with patience and understanding, the “Ice Wall” slowly but inexorably melted away. The “Ice Wall” finally collapsed one night when she dropped into her first flashback.

The reason that I am relating this is that she has no direct memory of her flashbacks. The only memory of the flashbacks that she has is what I have related to her. This is common with PTSD victims.

As with most flashbacks, the most terrifying memory comes to the surface first. While most people associate PTSD with the military, police or firemen, it may surprise you as to how many women suffer from the effects of PTSD.

Many people, both men and women, recognize that they have “something wrong” inside of them. The trauma in their past is buried deep inside. Their psyche is not able or equipped to handle the trauma. Consequently it is buried behind their own personal “Ice Wall”.

In this manner, many people afflicted with PTSD go unrecognized.“I wasn’t in the military, how can I have PTSD?” This is a very common reaction, however PTSD is more prevalent than most people realize.

This particular flashback turned back the clock to when she was eight years old. She and her father were in the cellar. They were hot and sweaty. There was a shower in the bathroom in the cellar. Her father got undressed and undressed her. He took her into the shower and there sexually abused her.

During the flashback she kept fighting and thrashing, saying “ NO I DON’T WANT TO”“NO, THIS IS WRONG”“NO I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS”. The flashback continued for over an hour. At first I tried to comfort her. I quickly realized however that while she was physically with me, her mind had gone away to many years ago, she was in a flashback state, her first.

Eventually the flashback ended. She collapsed on the floor and I picked her up and placed her in bed. In an hour or two she awoke, terrified that there was a blank in her current memory and highly upset. So upset in fact that she demanded to be taken to the local emergency room. The local hospital transferred her to a local mental health facility where she was diagnosed with PTSD and recommended for out patient therapy.

With the help of a therapist we have and are working through her PTSD. Now that she has a memory of this terrible event I’ll let her continue with her own words.

If you are a trauma survivor, I strongly recommend the book “I Can’t Get Over It a handbook for Trauma Survivors “ by Aphrodite Matsakis. This book is and has been a great help to us. Thank you for bearing with me during my digression.


Since: Sep 10

Location hidden

#20 Sep 29, 2010
Prior to your reading the conclusion of this chapter, I must give fair warning that this contains graphic content. If you are working through your own healing process please understand that I have had over a year to come to terms with this horror. This however is part of my story, no matter how disturbing the reading might be for some.

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