Going to college introduced me to the fact that most other people had normal families that at least gave them an ounce of love and care. My dad was a serial abuser of all types. My mom was his enabler, and when they got divorced when I was 11, I was still required to spend weekends with him where the mental and emotional abuse continued. When I returned "home" to mom, she started to feed me alcohol and weed to help me "cope".
I was homeschooled up until the divorce. Looking back, I believe my mom homeschooled us to shield us from the public so no one would discover just how awful our home life was. When I entered public school, I had no socializing skills and struggled with making friends, until weed and drinking in middle school became a way of attracting others. My mom would let us do it at my home all throughout high school, under the guise of "I'd rather you do it safely at home instead of out in the streets".
But it was so much easier to do it at home, where it was borderline encouraged. My therapist says that this was "diabolical sabotage" by my mom, setting me up for the failure I am today. I continued to smoke and drink excessively through college, but controlled it when push came to shove. having practically raised myself, I graduated Cum Laude and emerged as a leader in my class, having distanced myself from the trauma back home. Still, my family drove 2 hours to my university to attend my graduation, but I found out they actually stayed in the hotel for the ceremony. What a tease.
I made the worst decision of my life by moving back home to complete my graduate degree and internship. I remember having a morbid sense of danger when moving back in. It was during COVID, and my mom further isolated me due to social distancing and kept me from my classmates. She kept a fridge full of beer and asked me what type of beer I wanted, even after I expressed to her that I wanted to stop drinking. But the past trauma and continued abuse ate me from the inside, so I drank and drank until I was blacking out almost every day.
I became manic for the first time then. I had delusions of grandeur, but I felt as if my family was out to get me - I still don't know if this was true or not. My mom kicked me out during COVID and an unpaid internship, and I couch hopped for 6 months in the midst of drink induced mania, gradually pushing away my network from undergrad and those that cared about me. I found out I needed a spinal surgery after a car accident and my mom invited me back in, but our relationship was too far gone then. I felt unsafe returning, and changed my phone number so I could escape the abuse for good.
But I continued to drink. And somehow, I managed to graduate from my internship and graduate program and was invited back to my undergraduate school as a PhD research assistant. This lasted all of 6 months until they ushered me out as I was having schizophrenic delusions and frightening a lot of people.
I stopped drinking and quickly returned to sanity, working in my field now, but the grief and gut wrenching shame from how I acted in mania led me to being riddled with anxiety and depression. I managed to last 1.5 years sober before I began drinking again to "celebrate" my move into a new apartment. I quickly spiraled and began drinking a 6 pack of tall boys every night, and within a month I had an outburst of mania following a school shooting down the road from my workplace. I threatened my supervisor with "going to the media" with her negligence, I terrified my good coworker friends with belligerent drunken manic rants about how right I was.
I didn't lose my job but was relocated. I'm sober again, spending time in an outpatient program for 3 months and now attending AA multiple times a week. I have a sponsor. I'm doing all the right things.
But I have a nagging sense that I am too far gone. At 29 years of age now, I feel like I squandered every opportunity I had built for myself to succeed and flourish. But it isn't my sole responsibility to bear - if my dad didn't molest and belittle us, if my mom didn't feed me drugs and drink, would I have acted the way that I did? I wonder. I am barely scraping by and only have one close friend who stuck with me through it all. And my dog.
I just don't know if I can keep trudging along while facing the "what ifs". What if I was raised correctly. What if I pursued hobbies instead of drugs & drink. What if I could find love instead of delving into porn and masturbation. What if I was able to love myself.
But I feel as if I can't love myself. Because I'm too far gone, I'm broken, I'm unfixable. Why bother continuing to suffer?
Thanks for reading if you did. I love you all, but I don't love myself.
I was homeschooled up until the divorce. Looking back, I believe my mom homeschooled us to shield us from the public so no one would discover just how awful our home life was. When I entered public school, I had no socializing skills and struggled with making friends, until weed and drinking in middle school became a way of attracting others. My mom would let us do it at my home all throughout high school, under the guise of "I'd rather you do it safely at home instead of out in the streets".
But it was so much easier to do it at home, where it was borderline encouraged. My therapist says that this was "diabolical sabotage" by my mom, setting me up for the failure I am today. I continued to smoke and drink excessively through college, but controlled it when push came to shove. having practically raised myself, I graduated Cum Laude and emerged as a leader in my class, having distanced myself from the trauma back home. Still, my family drove 2 hours to my university to attend my graduation, but I found out they actually stayed in the hotel for the ceremony. What a tease.
I made the worst decision of my life by moving back home to complete my graduate degree and internship. I remember having a morbid sense of danger when moving back in. It was during COVID, and my mom further isolated me due to social distancing and kept me from my classmates. She kept a fridge full of beer and asked me what type of beer I wanted, even after I expressed to her that I wanted to stop drinking. But the past trauma and continued abuse ate me from the inside, so I drank and drank until I was blacking out almost every day.
I became manic for the first time then. I had delusions of grandeur, but I felt as if my family was out to get me - I still don't know if this was true or not. My mom kicked me out during COVID and an unpaid internship, and I couch hopped for 6 months in the midst of drink induced mania, gradually pushing away my network from undergrad and those that cared about me. I found out I needed a spinal surgery after a car accident and my mom invited me back in, but our relationship was too far gone then. I felt unsafe returning, and changed my phone number so I could escape the abuse for good.
But I continued to drink. And somehow, I managed to graduate from my internship and graduate program and was invited back to my undergraduate school as a PhD research assistant. This lasted all of 6 months until they ushered me out as I was having schizophrenic delusions and frightening a lot of people.
I stopped drinking and quickly returned to sanity, working in my field now, but the grief and gut wrenching shame from how I acted in mania led me to being riddled with anxiety and depression. I managed to last 1.5 years sober before I began drinking again to "celebrate" my move into a new apartment. I quickly spiraled and began drinking a 6 pack of tall boys every night, and within a month I had an outburst of mania following a school shooting down the road from my workplace. I threatened my supervisor with "going to the media" with her negligence, I terrified my good coworker friends with belligerent drunken manic rants about how right I was.
I didn't lose my job but was relocated. I'm sober again, spending time in an outpatient program for 3 months and now attending AA multiple times a week. I have a sponsor. I'm doing all the right things.
But I have a nagging sense that I am too far gone. At 29 years of age now, I feel like I squandered every opportunity I had built for myself to succeed and flourish. But it isn't my sole responsibility to bear - if my dad didn't molest and belittle us, if my mom didn't feed me drugs and drink, would I have acted the way that I did? I wonder. I am barely scraping by and only have one close friend who stuck with me through it all. And my dog.
I just don't know if I can keep trudging along while facing the "what ifs". What if I was raised correctly. What if I pursued hobbies instead of drugs & drink. What if I could find love instead of delving into porn and masturbation. What if I was able to love myself.
But I feel as if I can't love myself. Because I'm too far gone, I'm broken, I'm unfixable. Why bother continuing to suffer?
Thanks for reading if you did. I love you all, but I don't love myself.
