When I was a young child, I was taught from an early age to not talk about what went on at our house.  Ever.  For years I heard those words over and over.

"You do not talk about what goes on at our house!" said Mom.


So that's what I did.  I kept most of those secrets throughout my adult life without even thinking about it.  That's just the way it was.  Silence!

Sure, I talked some about all of the husbands and boyfriends my mom had, the moves and the number of schools I went to.  Even when I did talk about the past, at times I felt some guilt.  I was giving away family secrets.

I did not talk about the sexual, physical or verbal abuse.  I repressed most of the horrible memories.  File the ugliness away in the back recesses of my mind.  Just don't think about it.

Until I turned 51.  That's when the floodgate of my sickening childhood started spilling out.  I will talk about my subsequent nervous breakdown when the memories surfaced.  Just not now.  Now I want to focus on silence.

When I started recovering my repressed memories, my friends tried to be very helpful.

"Just don't think about it!" 

"Don't think about the past.  Look to the future!" 

"Forget about it!" 

"So you're sitting home feeling sorry for yourself?" said an ex-friend.

As in my childhood, my friends were encouraging silence.  Ouch. 

For years I drank too much.  I suffered panic attacks at night.  I had severe insomnia.  Depression.  Anxiety.  And the list goes on.

All because I didn't think about it.  I couldn't think it.  It was just too frightening and painful.

My friends, don't you see?  In order to move forward with my future, I have to deal with my past.  Facing the grief, the horror and the sadness of my childhood has helped me immensely, as hard as it is.  For 18 years I was abused to varying degrees.  Now, that's a lot to process.  I will be dealing with that for the rest of my life.

Thankfully, I rarely feel a need to drink now.  The anxiety and depression that were my constant companions almost on a daily basis for years have significantly decreased.  Panic attacks at night are minimal to non-existent.

I still struggle with insomnia some nights.  But it's much better.

If you know of someone that is dealing with abuse, whether present, past or both, please do not tell them not to think about it.  That is one of the most painful and hurtful things that can be said to a survivor who has suffered in silence most of their life.




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The first time I got drunk I was 14 years old.  I was at my friend's house, and her brother had bought us a bottle of Tickle Pink.  Her parents were gone, and we had the house to ourselves for the evening.

My friend and I did not have to drink very much of the syrupy sweet wine for the alcohol to work its magic.

First the giggles started.  Then the uncontrollable laughter.

I fell to the floor, laughing so hard with my friend that my stomach hurt.  My tight muscles unclenched.  I was able to forget, for a short time, the ongoing sexual abuse, verbal abuse and physical abuse I endured at my house.

Laughter, which was so rare at that point in my life, came easily when I was drunk.

I felt truly happy!  Carefree.  My anxiety, depression and loneliness were temporarily gone.

I wanted this feeling to last forever.

Many, many times throughout my teenage years, my friends and I would seek out liquor.  Too many drunken parties and fierce hangovers to count.

Fast forward through the years, college, career, marriage, children, drinking was always my go-to drug of choice to relax at the end of a long day. 

As the years flew by with the increasing stress from my career, major financial concerns in my personal life and the ending of my marriage, and, unbeknownst to me at the time, I was suffering severe PTSD from my childhood, I always had my friend, a bottle of wine, patiently waiting for me at the end of the day to offer comfort and solace.

After the repressed memories came out and my acknowledgment of the abuse, and a lot of counseling, I have learned more about myself and substance abuse.  Some days are good days, and those are the days that I do not feel like drinking.  Some days are not so good, and I feel the painful depression and anxiety trying to rear their ugly heads. 

I recognize the feelings and try to deal with them in a productive way, meditation, riding my horse, playing with my dog or working out.  Sometimes I am successful; sometimes I am not and have a glass or two of wine in the evenings.  Recovery is definitely a work in progress.

I have an amazing counselor who is helping me deal with my past.  More good days than bad days now, thank God.  I have no idea what life will throw my way as life progresses; but for now, I am looking forward to the future with anticipation and eagerness.