45 years of trauma later...

I am learning a lot in school, and it is helping me understand some of my traumatic life better, which hopefully will help me heal. That is, of course, provided I am allowed to heal from the neck surgery I had over 2 years ago. Ongoing stress has resulted in chronic inflammation and the destruction of my immune system.

Anyway, the point of this is to talk about my traumatic life. Whenever I try to talk about my experiences and the impact they've had on me, I feel like I get shut down. But I need to get it out somewhere. So, here it is.

Childhood

When I was born, my birth mom was only 18 and already had a son about a year older than me. She spent a few days loving me dearly before giving me up for adoption. I understand her wanting to name me, hold me, and love me while she had the time. She never wanted to be out of my life in the first place, but the state of Wisconsin doesn't do open adoptions. Unfortunately, I had already started to bond with her. Being taken from her and placed into an unstable situation while awaiting my adoption is something that could very well have a lasting impact on my mental health.

I was adopted by a loving couple who already had a biological son but weren't able to have more children. They wanted a daughter and chose me. Their son was born with the most severe form of Spina Bifida. The doctors told him that, if he survived the night, he would be nothing but a vegetable for his entire life. His outlook was bleak, but he has spent almost 48 years proving those doctors wrong! His journey has been painful, and he had to have 20 surgeries by the time he was 20 years old. I'm not sure if there were times I was hungry, had a wet diaper, or just wanted to be held, and my brother's needs were more serious, but I do know I spent much of my childhood upset that my parents preferred him.

I threw a lot of tantrums as a child, and my parents took me to every type of professional they could think of to get it to stop. Raising an autistic son now, I can empathize with their desperation. I don't remember much about my childhood, but I remember having a hard time getting them to understand that I just wanted them to hold me. The "professionals" they took me to gave them shitty advice, to sum it up. From taking away my favorite stuffy, my emotional support stuffy, to locking me in a bathroom for hours because I was literally crying for attention, it ran the gamut. Some of what I am convinced happened, like being spanked with a leather belt or hit on the hand with a wooden spoon, my parents are adamant that never did. There's no guaranteed accurate way to figure out what actually happened in my childhood, but I trust my parents when they tell me that they love me, only ever wanted the best for me, and only ever did some of those hurtful things because it was what they were told to do to get me to stop crying. None of it ever worked, by the way.

Some of these things still confuse me and probably always will. Like, why wasn't I allowed to listen to the Rock music station, but I was allowed to watch Indiana Jones movies? However, this year my mom gave me a gift that I know will help me heal from more of my past.

I started crying as soon as I opened the box, and when I hugged him tight, it felt like it was the very same bunny from when I was a child, even though that's not possible because it had been thrown away and she bought this one recently. I can't begin to describe how it felt, other than that I wouldn't be surprised if stuffies reincarnated, too. I decided to name him Patches because I intend for him to need them. I have this mental image of me walking around, wherever, holding my bunny. But, in reality, I was raised to be mindful of others' opinions of me, and it would be really embarrassing, as a 45-year-old, to walk around with my stuffy.

First Marriage

I was set up with my first husband the spring before 9/11. I wasn't sure I was ready to be tied down, but he said he was in love with me, and my empathy indicated he was being honest. While he was visiting family up north, I took the time to contemplate my own feelings before settling on love.

The first several months were great. So great, in fact, that when 9/11 happened, we vowed to marry each other in the event he was deployed overseas. Indeed, he received orders, and we married several weeks before he left for Kuwait. When he returned, he was a different person. An abusive person.

While he had been away, I had my own share of mental health issues. Traumatic events from my past haunted me, and I struggled to function. I had furniture blocking windows and stayed awake at night. Although I heard often that it was ok that I wasn't working, it would be held against me on and off for the rest of our marriage.

When I still lived with my parents, it was expected that some chores would be done before bed each night to keep the house looking clean at all times. My ex was raised to have the entire house so clean that no one could be certain it was occupied. Although I do like keeping my home neat and tidy to some degree, I prefer it to have more of a "lived-in" vibe. The way he was raised spilled over into his expectations for my housekeeping. I could spend an entire day cleaning to the point of exhaustion, only to be chastised for forgetting one task. I felt like I was his maid, not his wife.

And then we have the romance factor, or lack thereof. For much of the time, he wanted to be a swinger, and I did not. I was often clear why: he would insult me for my weight but preferred to "play" with women who were even heavier than me. It wasn't that he thought I was fat; he was just looking for excuses to hurt me. Eventually, I decided an open marriage was more my style. We argued about that on and off for years before he finally agreed. It was that which led to the end of our marriage: he decided that taking a once-in-a-blue-moon romantic shower with me was the most appropriate time to tell me he had fallen in love with someone else. It wasn't long after that he admitted he was an abuser and asked for a divorce - just weeks before we were moving back to my home state of Wisconsin together.

The winter after we moved here, I started going to therapy. I remember that, at my first appointment, I told my therapist I was there because I wanted to change to make my husband want to stay with me. Although she eventually discharged me at the worst possible time, I do have her to thank for helping me realize that I should not change for someone else. No one should. And living with abuse was not necessary, either.

Unfortunately, an old knee injury crept up to bite me - suddenly, excruciating pain left me barely able to move. I was told the bone-on-bone arthritis I had required me to get a new knee, but that I would have to wait until I was 50, lost 50 lbs, and quit smoking. Eventually, I had a custom knee brace made to stabilize it so I could walk without such intense pain. Then, when COVID hit, I received word that an apartment was also available, but I would need a job to pay for it. I applied for a job in which I would be an "essential worker," told my still-husband that I would be moving out, and so the light at the end of the long, dark tunnel was finally visible.

Within a year of moving out, I met my now-fiancé, who has shown me what it really means to be loved.

The Latest Trauma - Our Landlord

For this story, please see the related post: Justice Shall Prevail! - Updated 6/7/26