I don’t care who reads this, I treat Tumblr like a journal, like as if I’m telling this to a close friend, but I can’t tell people things, that’s why I remain anonymous. But I need to let some things out.
A portion of my childhood, was growing up with a severely depressed mom. A year after we escaped our abusive dad, she fell into that deep depression.
I was young, 5-11 years old.
I remember, she would lay on the couch all day. In our dark, small apartment. That’s what I remember most, was how dark it was. She barley spoke, she just stared at our broken, blank tv screen, without emotion, with a dead look in her eyes. Being a kid, I never understood why she would lay their for hours, and only get up 3-5 times a day.
Sometimes she would just lay in her room and not come out for days.
At night, I would hear her cry. I used to think it was a ghost until I worked up the courage to run into her bed for protection, and realized that the crying was coming from her.
Sometimes her crying would keep me up, but I grew used to it.
My mom would sometimes get very angry and annoyed. Those were the times she was most verbal and less mute.
She would sometimes hit us with hangers. Or shoes, kitchen cooking utensils, or just anything in her hand, mostly with her hand, sometimes with a closed fist.
It wasn’t abuse, she was just very upset. And I understand that now.
I remember she sent us to live with our granny, and a couple days before we left, we took our photo album and cut out all the pictures of us, and made a collage that she could keep if she missed us. We tried giving it to her before our Granny picked us up.
She got really pissed and told us that she won’t miss us at all, and that she was going to start over and forget about us forever.
I cried for an hour, because being a kid, I thought that was the last time I was ever going to see her…
But of course I saw her again.
She struggled with getting jobs and keeping the rent up. She struggled with depression, and ptsd. She struggled with her self worth. She struggled with keeping hope.
Sometimes i look at the past and then the present moment.
How depressed she was, and now she’s 40, currently in university studying law.
She’s helped hundreds of women cope with abusive boyfriends, she’s had several good paying jobs, she put food on the table every night with no worry, she was once a youth program coordinator and sat on a couple Board of directories, she’s a focus therapist, and spoke about domestic violence, and intergenerational trauma at a few conferences.
She’s a strong, confident, motivated, proud, happy, humble, beautiful and inspiring woman.
If that isn’t proof that things really do get better, then I don’t know what is.