Comment by K3 on 16 Aug 2009 at 8:33 pm

I was born in 1963 to an alcoholic mother and a paranoid schizophrenic father. I was raised with one of my sisters, who was also diagnosed as an alcoholic and addict by the age of 16. As most children who grow up in a dysfunctional family, they believed that their lives were normal. I grew up just thinking we were poor.

I know now that I lived in a very abusive, chaotic, and sick household. I know now that I spent many nights sleeping in hallways, closets or basements just to escape my mothers ranting, screaming and fighting with my father over getting more alcohol. I was always excited to spend time with my mother when she was sober and when she would go downtown to job hunt I wanted to go with her. And then I remember how I would be left on curb after curb as she had to stop a lot to use the restroom. The restrooms though were always in a bar.

By 1973, when I was only 10, my sister 14, I was left home alone with her a lot. My sister had runaway. Records and letters from relatives show that she had been sexually abused by my father since around the age of three and had left in order to seek help in getting me removed before any further damage to could be done. But by the time she could get anyone to intervene, I had runaway too.

My sister and her husband introduced me to drugs. My brother in law would beat on my sister a lot. I would jump in all of 100 pounds wet just to distract him away from her. Over the next several months, I continued drinking, using drugs.

In December of 1981, I had lost my mother to her disease and my foster brother to a drunk driver. They died two weeks apart. Then, I had two of my friends brutally murdered. I was coming unglued. By this time, the drinking and drug use was becoming an everyday thing.

By late 1984, I was so far out of control; I was hospitalized for an attempted suicide and again a few months later for chemical dependence and suicide ideation. It was then for the first time I decided to really try to accept my disease. I got a sponsor and was going to meetings.

By last September, I went back to work. All people were telling me was that if I got back into a normal routine things would be better, but that wasn’t working either. When I got home I would retreat to my room and drink until I fell asleep. The depression only worsened. I was drinking so much I couldn’t keep enough around for the next day. I began hoping that death was going to just be a matter of time.

Dear K3,

Thank you for sharing your story. You certainly have gone through quite a bit of hardship but at the same time you also had to overcome and accomplish a great deal to get back on track.  In your story there is always a next step, some good, some not so good.  Awareness of what once happened means that you have learned a lesson, acknowledged your pain, and can now move forward.  You had so many hard lessons to learn.  I understand how that can sadden you. That’s reality, and unfortunately, for us who have been abused, it’s a very difficult reality to face.

I admire your decision to join the military. That in itself was an amazing thing to do despite all that you had gone through.  It must’ve been initially hard joining the service and going through boot camp.  I’m not sure how well I would’ve done having someone tear me down and build me up while yelling at me.  I believe you are brave.

I am amazed at how much you were able to share of your story.  That’s incredibly therapeutic, whether you think so or not.  Writing down my life story is part of how I healed.  I wrote myself to wellness.  I wrote every single day, pouring my heart, soul, thoughts, and feelings down on paper.  Some pages were even tear stained.  Journaling saved my life.  It is such a relief to vent on paper.

Keep writing, and one day I believe you will feel a sense of calm as I have.

I believe in you. Have faith and your healing will follow.

Karen