**Trigger warning: this post talks about parental abuse and pregnancy loss**
I think the worst betrayal is from my mother. She allowed him to take that baby, even assisted him. How can you be a mother and do that to another mother? How could any human being do that, take someone’s child away? She was my mom, she was supposed to protect me. As bad as it would’ve been for her image for her 13 year old daughter to have a baby, she should’ve protected my child too. I don’t even understand how she let it happen. It’s probably because she’s selfish, and they were afraid if the baby lived, that the truth would emerge. A DNA test would’ve showed that one of the pedophiles involved with my parents was the father of my child.
As I work on accepting these memories, parts have given me more details. They showed me a memory I had forgotten that hurt a lot. It was probably early April of 1994, and I noticed I had a little belly. I noticed my body was changing, and I didn’t know why. It wasn’t enough that anyone else would notice, and I was still wearing sweatshirts at this time of year because spring doesn’t feel like it starts until May where I live. Then on June 23rd, 1994, my parents moved me from the town I grew up in to a new town where I didn’t know anybody. The parts told me they took the baby very shortly after we moved. They waited until school was over and brought me to a town where I was isolated. They couldn’t wait much longer, that baby must have been between 16-18 weeks from the sad images I have burned in my brain. (I know from my pregnancy with my daughter that I didn’t start showing until I was about 5 months pregnant. I remember sitting in the waiting room of my ObGyn’s office for an ultrasound, and a woman asked me how far along I was. I told her 16 weeks, and she said, wow you can’t even tell. A lot of women don’t have the obvious baby belly until about 5 months. Before that, it can just seem like someone gained a bit of weight). Anyway, back to my childhood… The house they bought in this new town was set back from the road. My dad always loved how private it was; you couldn’t even see the neighbors through the trees. He always said he bought it because of how much land it had. It was on a lot of about 4.5 acres and was next to 80 acres of conservation woodland. This is where the trees shared my grief. The dark memories of my childhood were usually located in basements and his dimly lit workshop, but my painful memories as a teen often happened in those woods.
When I was still married, before I had my daughter, my mother said something that enraged me. I had to sleep at their house while they were away to take care of their dogs. I said that wasn’t necessary, and I’d take them out multiple times a day. That wasn’t good enough for my neurotic mother. She insisted that they needed company, so I stayed with the dogs even though I couldn’t sleep in that house. That morning my ex wife woke up to some horrible news. Her cousin gave birth to her first child, but she was stillborn. She posted pics of her beautiful, full term child, but the pictures triggered me because she was dead. At that time, I had remembered my loss, but it was held by other parts, so I compartmentalized it. The pain seeped into my consciousness however. I told my mom what happened to my ex wife’s cousin when she asked why I was so gloomy after they got back from their trip. At first she showed sympathy. Then I said something about how that’s got to be the most painful thing ever, for a mother to lose a child. She said to me with disdain, “She’s not a mother.” I was stunned, and all I said was, “What?!” She repeated it, and said something about her not being a mother because she didn’t have a child. I was enraged inside, but I stuffed it down somehow. My mother actually seemed angry when she said those words. Now I know why. The only way for her to somehow manage her guilt was to deny my baby was my child, and to deny that I was a grieving mother. As I said, she betrayed me in the worst possible way, and she wouldn’t allow herself to think about what she did to her daughter and a baby that could’ve lived. She wouldn’t give me, or my wife’s cousin, the title of mother because we somehow didn’t earn it if our babies died. And yet she gets to be called a mother?! This piece of shit human being who ended a life and almost ended mine through grief- she gets that title?! This monster who knew her daughter was being prostituted to other pedophiles and helped facilitate that? She is not a mother. She is a selfish, cruel, greedy, heartless pedophile. She disgusts me. She used to tell me I was disgusting, she even said it when they took my baby from me. No bitch, you are the disgusting excuse for a human being. I was just a victim; I was a child with no basic human rights, betrayed by her own parents since birth.
Today a news story triggered me, and then more memories about my mom surfaced for me to have to realize. These aren’t new memories, but they hit me much harder now that I’m able to comprehend and accept them. A British lady who helped Epstein, a rich pedophile who abused young women and teens, was arrested two weeks ago. Today she was ordered to be held without bail. In the details about the case, it said she helped him run this sex trafficking pedophile ring. Other prominent members of society, including Prince Andrew, were possibly involved. (Another piece of shit British person, which is triggering for me because at least half of my abusers were British or Scottish). Epstein was born the same year as my dad. I don’t know why, but that just creeped me out. I bet my dad would hang himself in a jail cell if he ever had to face justice. I know he can intimidate children, but I guarantee he would be a coward when dealing with adults.
For a long time I hated myself for not pressing charges on them, but when I was younger I was terrified because they threatened my life. That’s what this British lady did, she threatened to kill some of the girls or destroy their careers. Sometimes I hate myself because their victims eventually spoke up and did something about the abuse, but I didn’t. I have to remind myself that Epstein’s victims were older and probably don’t have DID, which made my memory awful. I’d keep forgetting the abuse over and over again. I was abused since I was a baby, so my mind shattered early. It took me decades to function on my own and then face the abuse. Now that I’m ready to face my parents, the statute of limitations are up. And I still have parts that are afraid they’ll kill us. The legal system is a nightmare for children who were abused by their parents. They always told me they would kill me, and that no one would believe me. My mom started working at my school when I was young. She was a pedophile working with 3 and 4 year olds with speech difficulties. I shudder when I think about it. She always told me she was watching me. I didn’t have a chance, there was no one safe I could talk to. She was friends with all my teachers, and they loved her. Everyone always loved my parents and their stupid British accents. I knew that no one would help me. Also, both my parents almost killed me. I really believed I would die if I told.
There are two poems written when I was younger about my mom trying to drown me. One of them talks about bloodshot eyes and eventually stopping the fight against my inevitable death underwater. For some reason I survived, and my mom decided to let me live. Another poem talks about soap stinging my eyes and water spilling over the tub, probably because I fought for my life at first, before I stopped struggling. Perhaps that’s why I lived, because I stopped moving, so she thought it had worked and stopped holding me down. Either that, or she changed her mind at the last second. I think the soap in my eyes and the pain of having a mother do that to me is why I wrote a poem that said, “the stinging does not leave,” at the end of it. That line stayed in my brain for decades. I remember that my honors English teacher loved that line in high school. She’s the one who finally did something for me. She told the guidance counselor about my poems, and I was forced to go to therapy. This is why writing is so important to me, because it’s always been my lifeline, even today when I feel like this and there’s no one to talk to. My daughter is on vacation with her other mom, and I feel the separation heavily. I miss her, but the pictures of her looking happy at the beach help. I’ve never been separated from her for this long before, and it hurts my heart. I’m getting through by writing. Also I’m going swimming later, which helps. Since I’ve almost drowned, you would think that swimming would scare me, but I won’t let my mom take my love of water away from me. I feel empowered when I swim, because I feel strong and safe. The fact that I’m good at it makes me feel mastery over drowning. Being in control in the water and swimming fast makes me feel liberated from those old memories of powerlessness.
Both my parents almost killed me. It hurts. It makes me feel like I am worthless, like I was something to be used and then discarded. My mom once said to me in a public parking lot that she wished I was never born. She always blamed me for the abuse they put me through. She said I was disgusting many times, even though they’re the ones who did disgusting things to helpless children. It hurts me so much that they got away with it. People don’t think these things can happen, or that they happen to people they don’t know. The truth is, most pedophiles get away with it. Epstein was high profile which is why the feds went after him and it made the news. I only wish my baby had gotten justice. It’s hard for me to accept. It’s also hard for me to accept that she probably would’ve been abused had she lived. I was powerless in my situation, and I would’ve been unable to protect her.
I grew up surrounded by people who used me and crushed my soul. The emotional abuse was almost as bad. I have spent decades undoing the ideas my mother implanted in my brain. She projected her sins onto me, and she made me feel evil, disgusting, and worthless. She made me hate myself. She was the one who hated herself, but I took on her shame thanks to her angry projections. I have to work with parts that want to die because they think we deserve it. I tell them over and over that we did nothing wrong, we were children. It takes a long time to undo what my parents did to me. When my mother had breast cancer, I was there for her. I took her shopping, talked to her, and cleaned her house. I brought her flowers and food. I knew she had abused me, but I hadn’t realized the extent or accepted the gravity of it yet. That’s the sad thing about DID. We forgot so we could survive, but our amnesia protected the abusers. We put the pain and excruciating memories in boxes and hoped they didn’t spill over. We did this to function and to not lose our family. As I have healed, I’ve realized that there is no chance I can be part of the family I was born into. As much as I hate my mom, I really hope she doesn’t get cancer ever again. If she does, I won’t be there for her this time. I don’t care anymore what she says to the rest of my family. I don’t care what they think of me, or if they think my mom is a good person. I know the truth, and it haunts me every day.