there are things I do not know.

I wonder how young I was when the abuse began. I wonder if I was abused in foster care, or if my adopted parents started in on me. 

 *** 

The first time I remember completely losing my shit as an adult was when my oldest child was an infant, not older than six months. I was a complete disaster, crying, depressed, total postpartum depression case. I packed up all my clothes, left my kid with someone who was not insane, and drove away. I was really, really going to never come back, but in my confusion, I could not decide where to go, so eventually I went home.

 *** 

 I did a lot of babysitting when I was a teenager. The easy money outweighed the nagging voice in my head that told me to make babies cry so that I could comfort them so they would love me. At the time, I realized how horribly fucked up that is --that was-- and I never did anything to them. I couldn't imagine hurting someone on purpose. Who DOES that? 

One of the kids I watched was about three years old. She would hide behind the couch with a container of Vaseline and touch herself. I wondered how she knew to do that, and who was touching her. I am horrified that I was too frightened to say anything to her mother. I hear she grew up to be a pretty promiscuous young lady. That makes my heart hurt. 

 *** 

I wonder if I will ever tell my family about the abuse. I think I will probably not. My therapist gave me a book to read, and the checklist to help determine who is (or is not) a good candidate to tell, and nobody -not my mother, not my brothers- is someone I trust, or cares about my feelings, or fits any of the other criteria. 

So why are they still in my life? GOOD. QUESTION. Can I please be unadopted? I would rather have nobody than have Mother and Michael. I suppose I could keep my younger brother, as he does not actively seek to be a brutal person. I get that Michael is broken, too, I suspect that he is a victim as well. I know that both my brothers were kicked and beaten. I remember being glad it was them and not me. Every time,I would think of helping them, but if I got involved it would have been worse. I feel guilty not for not helping, but for being glad I wasn't getting beaten.