mental health word cloud, including words like trauma, grief, stigma, genetic, clinical, bipolar

Guest Post: Until Next Time

Today’s guest poster is an idol of mine and I am thrilled to be able to share her story with you. You will know her as Vintage Vixen and Blogging Pin-Up Lottie Loves, but today she is stepping out of her comfort zone. Lottie tells a tale of life with a parent who suffers OCD, depression, paranoia and psychosis and how it affected her life.

 

‘Get Up!’

 

I look fuzzy eyed at the figure before me and try to adjust to the bright light coming from the ceiling light.

 

‘Get Up! Now!’

 

When he shouts at you like that you don’t take long to come round from your slumber. That sleep which forms your only escape, your only peace, your only sanctuary.

 

I get out of bed, pull my nighty straight and follow him padding along in my bare feet.  The floor’s always freezing due to the lack of heating and my chill blains itch having come from the cosiness of sleep into the bright light and freezing cold of the hallway.

 

I follow him down to his room.  The room we rarely see the inside of, unless it’s for this.

 

I’m waking up now, swiftly becoming aware that I was dreaming but that this nightmare is real.  He has me up, in the middle of the night. Again.

 

‘Sit there.’ I sit down. The cushion is oddly comfortable under my now tense body. I sit straight backed, knowing what’s coming next.  I’m not scared. I’m past scared. My consciousness can’t cope with another night of this so I sit and I wait, and I don’t feel. I look at him, wondering.

 

I wonder what I did in a former life to deserve this?  I can’t think of a single thing I’ve done in my 17 years on this earth to warrant this.  I don’t understand it, I can’t comprehend it and yet I’m here and I’m living through it. Again.

 

“Where were you on Friday night? (It’s now 1am on Monday)”

 

“At Nicki’s house”

 

“Don’t lie to me”

 

“I’m not lieing to you”

 

“What were you doing there?”

 

“Watching videos, chatting, just stuff”

 

“What stuff? What video did you watch?”

 

“Dirty Dancing”

 

“What time did you start watching it?”

 

The questions go on…

 

“What time did it finish?”, “Who was the lead character?” “Why don’t you know their name, if you were watching it like you say you were why don’t you know it?”

 

Two hours later and he’s still grilling me about the movie…then it changes.

“You’re a slag”

 

I blink

 

“You were out with those boys, I know you were you dirty slag”

 

I have no idea what to say at this point.  I’ve been questioned all through the night like this for the past two nights.  I’m not allowed to go to bed.  I’ve cried, I’ve pleaded, I’ve begged, I’ve answered all the questions, the same questions, over and over and over again.

 

“Do you think they like you you slag?” “Do you think I don’t know what you are and what you do?”

 

It’s 3am, he’s questioned me again and again about the movie.  He’s getting angrier. I can’t win. I can’t say the right thing because I haven’t done the crime I’m accused of.  I don’t know what the answer is because I don’t understand what he’s talking about.

 

It can’t go on forever right?  I sit there and wonder if my life will always be like this, if I will?can ever escape.

 

I hear him shouting but I’m not there anymore. I can see a family, a happy family, a family in which I am Mum and my children smile and love me and want to be with me.  I see myself happy and smiling.

 

‘Why are you smiling?” “You dirty slag don’t you dare smile at me, don’t you dare ignore me”

 

No sleep for me that night and for the following two nights.  I’m not allowed to sleep. I’m deprived of my sanctuary, of my peace, of my escape. He puts me in the dining room where I doze off only  to be shouted awake.  I’m not allowed to turn the light off on pain of a beating.

 

“Don’t you dare go to sleep”

 

No one helps me.  Why don’t they help me? They’re scared.  Not half as scared as I am.

 

It has to end doesn’t it?  He can’t question me forever, he can’t shout at me forever.  Even the beatings can’t last forever.  It will end.  I’ll either die or escape but it will end.  But when…

 

I can’t hear any more.  I can’t feel any more.

 

She intervenes. It takes five nights but she puts a stop to it. She’s heard and seen enough.

 

“You’re not going to get anywhere” – she tells him.

 

I’m allowed to bed.  I’m allowed my peace, my escape, my sanctuary.  Until the next time.

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