My Fight to Not Destroy Myself

I first went to a therapist in the early 1990s. That was when I found out I was an alcoholic and had clinical depression. Through therapy, I always vented and talking about the very person I could not get far away from: my mother. She was horrid and groomed my 2 older sisters to be her thugs. I was the youngest, and with those three constantly ganging up on me, I stood no chance. If mother wasn’t around, they always rose to the situation, no doubt making her proud, knowing they would thoroughly punish me for the slightest mistake I made. I bet she could not wait to get home to hear all about how they tortured me.

I remember mother wearing her favorite leather belt; it was the one she beat me with. When I think of Mother, the image I see is her standing in a doorway, looking down. She didn’t even make eye-contact with me. I remember her looking dark and livid, with that big leather belt hanging at her side. That filled me with dread because I knew what would happen next.

My self-destructive self-loathing was born in my childhood from the putrid toxic waste my mother and two older sisters saturated me in. I still fight it even though I worked hard to face my fears and what fueled my overeating on October 17, 2012. I faced them head-on. The roots are so deep; I fear I may not reach all of them in time for them to heal. I pray to God; I beg God to heal me. I am exhausted from fighting them.

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