Getting Out

Facebook
Twitter
Telegram
Reddit
Email

There always comes a time to “get out” of a place or a perception. A right of passage to either accountability or technicality. Blaming the technicalities that gave us the places and perceptions that we adapted to will never lead to true passage into another reality. A better, valid reality. The lies that abused children are told later become truths, from our perception, embedded into our nervous system. Every person who majorly affected me in a negative way as a child had a mentality of blame and avoidance, and still does. The full extent of the truth was always off limits. Distracting from the full truth in any situation creates complacency of the lies and manipulation. It makes a home for more manipulation even into our adult years, sometimes without even realizing it at the time.

 

I conquered getting out of a place before I could get out of the perception it gave me. Actually, two places. A violent home and a violent city. There’s your local “hood,” and then there’s “the hood.” Our hood was top in it’s class nationally for theft, gun violence, trafficking and murder. The city I grew up in was featured on news specials as being the most murder-y city in the nation. When people get famous and say that they never thought they’d get out, they mean it. I was clueless if, or what, my future would be. But “getting out” was a priority, maybe the only priority. The city was gloomy even on a sunny day. Reminders were on every street of the decay and abandonment. Every few habitable houses were matched by a few burned down houses with the frames still standing, scorched and taken over by gangs, thieves, or murderers. It’s hard to imagine anything different when you are surrounded by decay and abandonment. It becomes your world view until you get a better glimpse of what else is out there, but as a child it was hard to imagine things I’d never seen such as neighborhoods of community and accountability. Bodies were just left in vacant homes and no one bothered to investigate crimes that affected what they considered the “class of people” living there. It’s hard to imagine a world where the little things in life matter, especially when the big things like human life is treated as trash. Businesses had mostly left town. Criminals thrived in the collapse of a once saturated economy that had become a point of interest nationally for its job market. My adopted German great-grandmother did not give a damn about the change of scenery that left most people fearful and uncertain, she was no stranger to survival. Moving was not an option. This all seems like a distant yet haunting past in the rear view, luckily there’s also a front windshield.

 

The last two years brought an unfamiliar tide. As if I’d spent my life on the beach and I just witnessed my first tsunami. This tide is ..different. But it’s a lot like “getting out.” And that takes time, preparation, and a bare minimum plan. Getting out physically or getting out mentally is celebrated like a rare party because it is in fact rare. Those who do get out find themselves recommitting to their own goal for the rest of their lives. The mentality of decay and abandonment became my factory settings, without daily customizing the way I function, that is my default. And that never fully goes away. It takes true commitment to no longer reside in the abandoned homes we were raised in, mentally. There is no blueprint to truly and fully “get out” of where we are or why we are. The determination to get out can move mountains that are not even within the parameters of our “plan.” It’s important to stay flexible with a plan while being rigid with determination for the goal. The plan is not the goal. More importantly, the plan will never go as planned. Remain committed, reassess as many times as needed. Just don’t give up.

 

The experience and the memories I have of childhood is a very distant past and something I did not exactly dwell on until the last two years when a sudden tsunami brought in a new tide. Not like this at least. I’ve always known just how rare my situation is, while also being more common than the general public is aware of. When I think of being a child there’s one specific memory that always has been very clear, as if it just happened. All other memories from back then are in the peripheral view of this one exact moment. The worst memories are not attached to physical abuse, instead, the mental and emotional abuse left more vivid reminders. I’ve always viewed this memory as a third party. Not as myself or as my adopted mother, but as someone looking in and observing.

 

My adopted mother found out that a few people were encouraging me to ask her if I could go to school. This was a problem for reasons they had no ability to fathom, but I went through a short phase of briefly entertaining these ideas. Until she found out. The people who “leaked the information” did not understand the gravity of our life or the insanity of my adopted mother. They were her own friends, but from the outside world she wasn’t seen as the person her immediate family experienced. She backed me into a corner of her living room when she found out, with her face an inch from mine, sporting the “I’m going to dismember you” look. I had a feeling she found out and I remained silent unless cued to agree with a “yes.” Because in deranged households children must respond with a “yes” or “else.” She began listing the reasons why I was not allowed to go to school, in the most chaotic and rage filled voice and expressions. I assumed this was it, this is where my life ends. She started with the “fact” that she was protecting me from myself due to my own incompetence to learn. The embarrassment would be more than I could take, according to her. She listed each reason like she had a checklist bookmarked in her brain, and she did. Each reason was more gutting than the next. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard her say these things, but it was the first time she did it and I truly feared she’d kill me. The violent rage in her voice left me hanging on every word and inflection of that word in case I needed to run for my life. The possible need to run for my life crossed my mind daily. I knew her anger would be uncontrollable. I dwelled on those words for a long time and it is still my most present memory of being a child. She looked like she was going to kill me and in ways she did, those words played out in my life for decades. Parts of me spent years trying to determine if I was unable to learn, all while learning a multitude of technical skills and clearly having a grasp on how to reason with even my own situation. Conditioning before the age of 12-years-old is most definitely an attempt on a child’s life and future.

 

Until two years ago I tuned this out as much as possible. Then my biological mom died and seemingly changed my life in ways a mother typically affects their children in life, but in death she taught me how to live again. Now? I have sat with it. Felt it’s sting. And grieved it’s influence on my life. It’ll never go away, but I’ve come so much farther than just “getting out.” I’ll dwell on that also.

 

Growing up in a hypercritical environment will often make a person hypercritical of themself. This works well for social and professional self improvement but not so much for personal growth and healthy perspectives. Healing takes time and it takes phases. I love and hate this phase. It’s a personal wealth and a disturbing confirmation that it wasn’t all a wild tale. That was reality. And it impacted every step I took thereafter. It’s difficult for an independent person to accept that another human changed their life. Setbacks require renewed commitment to the goal of getting out and staying out. Physically and mentally. Of all the places our past would prefer to take us, we have to continually reassess and renew where we actually want to go in life, even down to the most basic things that the average person does on a daily basis.

 

Realizing the need to loosen my grip on my own existence was pivotal while also being too late. There is a physical price for early childhood trauma. Severe trauma can cause health conditions that are difficult to diagnose, treat, or manage. And if it is left untreated, it can turn into even worse illnesses that again threaten the longevity of life itself. Enduring abuse leaves wounds and scars throughout our body and brain by holding on to dysfunction, perceived as normalcy, we tightly hold on to what is not meant to be. Muscles tire and strain, the body becomes increasingly riddled with physical signs of exhaustion. The sooner we accept that “this happened” in our own life, whatever the events were that affected you, the sooner we can loosen our grip on our self worth, physical health, emotional safety, and willingness to lean in to the things that are meant for us and, overall, the truth of who we are. Being hypercritical of all the wrong things can inherently teach us to be self critical of all the wrong things as well.

 

Pleasantries, rehearsed conversations, and monotony is not something I typically enjoy. But, where is the surface? People say they like to “go beyond the surface,” but that can also be a statement of manipulation for someone who might not have your best interest in mind. I believe a hard lesson taught me that the “surface” is a matter of perception, self reflection, emotional intelligence and personal interest. Generalized statements should never be trusted, instead it’s better to observe a persons behavior to know what they are really interested in. I’ve learned that cliché statements mean nothing and everything, all at the same time. Strength and bravery is a choice, not a birthright or a persona, nor is it a conclusion. Being present with ourselves and others is the only healer for abandonment. Genuine presence that does not just feel like you are filling a time gap. The small things actually matter. I had a future whether I accepted that or not. It’s ok to not know if what I’m doing will get me where we want it to, but it’s vital to keep doing it. And survival is meant to be lived in a moment, not a multi-decade marathon. The fact that these principles are subconsciously engrained in some, and completely lost in others.. it’s maddening. To miss out on being present for such basic life concepts is a disservice in and of itself. So we wait; we learn the hard way; we become rigid from years of coerced flexibility and, at times, we overestimate our own perceived control of life events. Over analyzing and denying ourselves presence, over and over. We wait for a return to unguarded flexibility that should have been experienced in childhood. A looser grip on the little things and a tighter hold on ourselves.

 

A lack of flexibility when handling myself certainly compromised a lot overtime, mostly my health. This is why I do not just move on after a missing person is found. It’s important to continue on to true help, in any way possible. To lessen the years someone spends in survival is equal to lengthening their life. At times, a trip to the doctor feels like a visit to my lawyer. Explaining the details of how I obtained concussions that started at 3 months old; how I encountered certain injuries that appear to have left many scars neurologically; or why I have signs of prior malnutrition is a never ending reminder of where I came from and why I had to “get out.” I’m still “getting out” daily, mentally. I always will be, after spending 28 years “getting out” in layers of years; moments; lessons; and realizations about myself and others. That’s the beauty of flexibility. It allows me to face the person in the mirror that I’d sometimes rather punch. I can look at her and know that while I’m not experiencing life as many do, overall, I have cleared a path in a once dark and untenable forest. There’s life there now, dwelling amongst the simplest of nature’s offerings. There’s reasons to relax, to loosen my grip and just be. That was never the goal and I could have arrived here much sooner had I realized how rigid survival made me handle myself. While giving others compassion and presence, I now give myself that as well. People considered me a “saint” for my ability to abandon myself and be present for others in ways no one else would. I am not a saint, I was conditioned to do exactly that and I will never stop. Being present for those society leaves behind is my favorite part of my life. And with small but continually steps, I also show up for myself in the same ways now. It took time to get here but this mountain is worth climbing, some of the most beautiful views can only be seen from the mountain top.

 

Child Abuse is Attempted Murder

Buy Me A Coffee
Thank you for visiting. You can now buy me a coffee!