I’m still trying to make sense of what has been happening in Minneapolis. In bits and pieces, how I feel has been coming out of my hands.
It’s not a great photo. Probably because it’s hard to take great photos when I’m this depressed.
So far, I’ve quilted around the pieces. I plan on using my embroidery machine to quilt, “You have not silenced us.,” “Can I help you?” “8 minutes left to live,” “I’m a doctor let me through.”
What I haven’t figured out is if I want to add one more thing: Chinga tu madre la pinche migra.” I’m not sure of the grammar. Google Translate won’t help because this is border Spanish. Literally: Fuck your mother the fucking immigration. What I mean is: Fuck you, fucking immigration. I’ve got a text in to a bilingual friend to see if I’m actually saying what I want to say.
I’m severely depressed at the moment. I lived through 16 years of child abuse. Fifty-three years after the last event, I still have flashbacks. When the flashbacks and repeating nightmares first started, they were debilitating and there was no help for me because what I was experiencing had no name. It would be another 15 years before the name Post Traumatic Stress Disorder came about. It would take another 25 years for anyone to realize that child abuse causes a particularly hard to treat version of PTSD – complex PTSD or cPTSD.
Three times, starting in elementary school, I got sent to the school psychologist. None of them did anything to help me. They tossed me back into a sea of misery; apparently, helping me would be too much work.
I had no words to describe what was happening to me. I had no idea what a normal family looked like so I had no idea my family was abnormal. No one bothered to ask me enough questions to figure out why I was so severely depressed. No one who should have helped me offered any help other than to tell me I didn’t know what love was before tossing me back into a sea of misery.
People who were supposed to protect me didn’t.
My grandmother blamed me. I deserved what happened. She said there was no abuse and if there had been, she would have known. “The first time I tried to kill myself, I was 11 years old. Did you know that, Grandma?” She didn’t answer. Nor did she admit she was wrong.
I sat through a class earlier this week where the subject of child abuse came up. One person, a teacher, said that child abuse doesn’t happen and it’s just an excuse for young adults to have no contact with their parents.
I felt a hole inside of me grow until there was no room left. All the people who refused to help me, all the people who refused to believe me, my grandmother blaming me for being abused, my mother blaming me for everything that happened all came rushing back in a giant wave of hurt.
I’ve had time to think about what happened and how I felt. The worst thing, even worse than the abuse, is not to be believed.
I don’t know if I will ever be able to make a quilt about that.
I’m linking with Nina Marie here: https://ninamariesayre.blogspot.com
My Spoonflower shop is here: https://www.spoonflower.com/profiles/deb_thuman
My store, Deb Thuman Art, is here: http://www.DebThumanArt.com
Deb's Art 