More from the book im writing about depression

Trigger warning: this is part of an extremly intence inter view. read with caution.

 

alright well my name is Cleo im 45 years old and im originally from New Mexico in the Four Corners area. I was born in 1970, May 25, it was a rare, stormy evening on a Monday... No! 23:50 hours. 11:50pm.

                        Anyways, so, my mom was 18 when she had me, she already had two kids. She was a full-blood Hispanic, she married a Native American man, and so three of my siblings look very Native American. My youngest brother is full-blood Hispanic, he's six years younger than me, and I showed up white with blonde curly hair. I am the product of a rape, apparently by a white man.

She was an extreme abusive alcoholic, and I was a constant reminder to her of her trauma and you know, I was a human being, so she couldn't just lock me in a closet and forget about me. So she was extremely abusive and she took it out on me, you know, punching, slapping, kicking, you know, "I should have aborted you, I found you under a rock, I found you in a trash can, you're not my real kid."

My brothers and sisters learned very quickly that if they did anything wrong, they could blame it on me and I'd get the shit kicked out of me, even if I wasn't there. You know? At random times, she would just decide that I didn't get to eat dinner that night and I remember my sister sneaking in slices of bread to me at night in my room.

When my sister was 3 she saw my mom smoking so when mom was outside, she went into my mom's room and she took a cigarette and a book of matches and she took me by the hand and took me into the bathroom and she closed the door and she put the cigarette in her mouth like she saw my mom doing. And she's trying to strike the match, but she's four and it wasn't really working too well, and just as my mom came in—she heard the screen door slamming—she got the match lit. And she got scared and she dropped it into the trashcan and lit stuff on fire, the shower curtain on fire, so she blamed it on me, and so, to teach me a lesson to not play with fire, my mom sat me down and held me down and went through an entire book of matches one by one, lit each match and burnt the back of my left hand, through the whole book of matches.

I have a third degree burn scar on my neck. It's covered up with a tattoo now, so you know. A couple of years ago I took a book of matches and I struck a match and I counted how long it took to burn out. About fifteen seconds, and there's twenty matches in a book, and so that's about five minutes of burning. And so I was terrified of fire, still am, actually, even though I smoke. I won't let many people light my cigarette, you know. Make sure it's completely out. She would make me light the gas stove because she knew I would be scared of the flame coming up, she would hold my hand over it and just, you know, stuff like that.

I was a bed wetter for a long time, because of the abuse, and apparently—I don't remember this—but my sister has told me that I was sexually abused and molested by one of our uncles on her dad's side, because he's not my dad. But when I would wake up in the morning and I would have pee-soaked underwear my mom would get just furious and she would make me take the underwear off and she would rub the pee-soaked underwear in my face, and she wouldn't let me wash my face. She'd make me go to school like that, no shower or anything, call me Pee Pot.

So I started learning if I get up early and hide my pee-soaked underwear and change them, you know, she won't know. So I would get up early and change my underwear and ball up the pee-soaked ones and hide them between the mattress and the wall. Of course the smell started getting pretty bad and she found my stash and I was severely punished, so also when I was three, you know, she was tired of waking up with a hangover on Sunday morning with four screaming kids, a different man coming out of her room every weekend. So she called all the local churches to see who ran a bus to pick up kids for Sunday School and church, and it was the First Southern Baptist Church.

 

 

        -Want more of her story message me i also need more personal storys about self harm so if you want to help message me your story.