Hello, friends. I’m offering up a weird confession today to help give a glimpse into what it’s been like to recover from childhood emotional abuse—an incredibly private battle that is not typically shared with anyone, usually because skeptics and deniers are plentiful due to abusers’ devious skill at pretending to be other than they truly are. I have written a lot of abused characters, but after living enmeshed with lies for so very long, truth is an astonishing breath of fresh air. By acknowledging these things, I’m hoping to help others identify their own inner struggles and ways to combat the destructive forces imposed on us against our will. Please remember, even if no one else is fighting for you, you can always be your own hero. I’ll be here to cheer you on.

Growing up, I didn’t understand my situation was abusive. I blamed only myself for the many things that were wrong or dangerously askew. I was not spoken to with love, compassion, support and kindness, especially by my mother, and I was made to understand this was entirely my fault. I did not, however (thankfully), buy that, because I could *see* what a raging, evil bitch she was. There was never doubt for me as to that being the real her, which is why I was always stunned by the way she spoke to strangers and people who barely knew her. She would be friendly, her tone light and charming. Believe me when I say she has NEVER spoken to me with that voice, except for one condition. It’s her mask. It’s a lie. It’s her devil’s lure, intended to snag more prey (read: souls) to feed upon.

The one condition? If we were with strangers who were actively listening closely to what she was saying to me. Only then would she pretend to be a loving mother. There was even a particular forced grin she would give me—ear to ear, showing all her teeth, eyes squeezed into narrow slits—while batting her eyelashes. Creepy as fuck? Oh yeah. It had all of the warmth of a badly-painted $2 Halloween mask.

As soon as we were alone, or at least back in her circle of enablers, the real her would return.

She has always spoken to me with only condescension, coldness, critique, and emphasizing with the full force of her will that there were many things I failed at, though I could never hope to know what specifically they were or how I could ever possibly correct my behavior. It was manipulation. Mind control. It was the way she beat me down to make herself feel bigger.

That was every day, since birth.

Her enablers mimicked this behavior, icing me out, leaving me emotionally and psychologically isolated by my entire family. Anyone close who wasn’t an enabler was too distracted by their own constant psychological battle with her to be able to notice or help.

There have been consequences, for me.

I now have a voice in my head—a devil—that viciously belittles, mocks and scorns all of my decisions and ways I try to pull myself up. I know other people probably question themselves at times. This is not that. This is also not typical anxiety or depression or anything of the sort. This is the result of 37 years of constant brainwashing by the one person in this world who, above all others and all else, was supposed to care for me. This is the seed of abuse trying to grow inside me. Yes, I have begun to break away from the source, oh-so-happily so. My boundaries are all solidly and effectively in place, with the help of my wonderful support system and amazing husband. But her work has been thorough and effective. Now my own head tries to abuse me for her.

My fight against this voice started subconsciously, strangely enough. I didn’t even realize I was doing it. To anyone else, it sounds crazy, but the first thing I began to do—reflexively, instinctively—was chant/sing the word “blue” over and over again to drown out the voice. (Why “blue”? Well, let’s just say it’s something that has profound symbolic meaning for me, but it’s a long, even weirder story.) And it worked! It worked amazingly well. The voice stopped short every time, instantly shutting up.

Again, I had no idea I was doing this, or why it helped me feel better. Not until a few months ago.

Recently, with the many ways I’ve been working to break free, heal, and understand what happened to me, the voice has gotten more insidious and persistent. So have my defensive tactics.

Again, lovely people reading this, I *know* how crazy this sounds, so bear with me, but I mutter “fuck off”, aloud (though under my breath), in a very Tourette’s sort of way, as soon as I feel the voice start to say anything to me. Because the voice usually only appears when I’m alone (again, no idea why), I will flip it off, giving the empty room one or both middle fingers. The funny thing is, I don’t *decide* to respond this way. It happens automatically, like a tic. Like who I am on the most fundamental levels is fighting back in ways I can’t scrutinize or debate. And you know what? It works like a fucking charm! Why? Who the hell knows! I just like that it does.

Because the voice isn’t just sound. It’s feeling. It’s a huge rusty hook buried just below my sternum, trying to yank out my insides. It’s a cringing self-hatred physically crushing your bones to make you smaller. It’s a burning doubt that heats the underside of the skin to cook you alive. It’s that terrible feeling in your gut moments before you vomit uncontrollably.

And it can fuck right off.

I know what the voice is. I know where it comes from. But how do you fight something that comes from within?

I have no tolerance for it. It will not get the best of me. It will not break me down. It won’t win.

Fuck off.