Ever since i can remember, my family has had many issues. I didn't really understand why until now. The fighting between my parents really got worse in the fourth grade, when my dad got promoted in his job. My mom was soooooo mad about that, mostly because he wouldn't be home as often. I heard her in the middle of the night, screaming, "How could you do this to our family? How could you do this?" She repeated this over and over until she was rolling on the floor having one of her "temper tantrums." My brothers were both awake too, I saw them when I was walking past their room to sit at the top of the stairs to listen. I always did this when they fought. My mother heard me at the top of the stairs after a couple minutes, and she called to me, "Rachel, come here. Do you know what your father has done? He has taken a job so that he will never be home. He apparently doesn't want to be around you, or me, or your brothers. How does that make you feel, honey?" By then I was balling. "How could you do this daddy?" I cried, just like my mother had several minutes ago. In those days, I was very angry with my father, but now I realize that my dad was not perfect, but he was a victim of my mother's abuse, just like me. I feel so guilty that I was angry with my father. It wasn't his fault.



These events kept occuring until my dad decided to move to Kentucky with a new job. The rest of us were planning to move down there when my daddy got a house. The weeks went by, then the months, and I was beginning to wonder what was going on. I asked my mom when we were moving to Kentucky. "Rachel, I need to have a very serious talk with you. Let's go outside." I followed her outside, thinking that I was most likely in trouble. "I have decided to get a divorce with your dad. We were already separated. I'm sorry." I started crying. "Why?" I asked."You know what he did to me, Rachel. I am sick and tired of being abused all of the time. You know how he has raped me, kept me from seeing my friends, has a drinking problem, started smoking, and emotionally and verbally abuses me all the time. I deserve to be treated better than that. I am a good mother, aren't I?" "Yes mom." I replied, sobbing.



After my parents were divorced, the abuse from my mother became much, much worse. When my daddy was home, her anger and hatred was mostly towards him, not me. That was, of course, not good, but when my daddy was gone, her abuse was mostly directed at me. Sometimes it would be towards my brothers, but that was very rarely, if ever. I guess she didn't like me because I was the oldest, or maybe because I was more rebellious and independent than my brothers. My brothers were "mommy's perfect angels" and she dearly loved them. My mother and I fought constantly during my middle school years, when I needed a mother the most. Because of this, I moved back and forth between my grandmother's house and my mom's. She would kick me out whenever she was really angry with me. Whenever I did anything remotely wrong, she would fall on the floor and have one of her "temper trantrums" again. I hated it when she did that. It really scared me, it looked like she was having a seizure or something. I think she did it because she knew she could always get what she wanted. In the sixth grade, my mother got very sick with something called GBS. It causes your immune system to attack your nervous system, and she was temporarily paralyzed. She could have died. However, my mother being the fighter that she is, she recovered. As soon as she got home, she researched her illness relentlessly. Of course, one of the causes of GBS is stress. It can also be an allergic reaction or something like that. Right before my mom got sick, she had painted some furniture in my room. She told me, "I got sick because I was painting your desk. If I wouldn't have painted it, nothing would have happened to me." She said this degradingly, like it was my fault. She also said that the stress of my father and I had caused her to grow ill. She said that she would have a relapse if she got stressed again. So then, I really felt like it was my fault. "How could I do this to my own mother? I made her almost die!"

I would always think to myself. Now I realize that it is not my fault she was sick. Everybody can get sick, and nobody really knows what causes GBS, anyway.



Things got worse after her illness. Whenever we would argue, she would say I was going to make her have a relapse. She also said that if she got sick again, she would die, and it would be my fault. This horrified me. I always tried to do what she asked, but nothing was ever good enough for her. I made straight A's. I participated in many afterschool programs. My mother had three jobs at the time because money was tight during the divorce, so she was never home. I would take care of my brothers, try to cook (she never taught me how, lol), clean, and basically be the parent while she was gone. I wasn't a parent. I was a child, only 12 or 13. I would always take the blame for my brother's wrong actions, and I would also get blamed for them, as well. I was most always grounded, and I never really saw my friends outside of school. She has also called the police on me numerous times for things that most teens would not even get in trouble for. She once told me, "You belong in juvy, not my house." I will admit, I did make some mistakes, I am NOT perfect. However, my mom expected me to be, and that was a problem. Sometimes, our fights would get so bad that she would slap me across the face, or scratch me. She seemed to like to through things at me too, lol.



Once, when my daddy had moved back to West Virginia, he came to our house to drop off the money for child support. It was a cold winter night, and while he was standing at the door, my dog, Charlie escaped. He got out all the time, and I was always the one to chase him. So, my mom told me to go get him. I had just gotten out of the shower, so I pulled my hair up and threw on some clothes. I went outside to get him, and my daddy came with me to help. We chased him for at least two hours before we got him. My dad was very angry with the dog, and so was I. I was also very cold and tired. I went upstairs to go to bed; i had school tomorrow. I hadn't even got up the stairs before I heard my mom screaming from outside about how she had no money. Then her screams got louder. I ran outside to see if everything was okay. I found my mom on the ground, and my dad standing beside her. She screamed, "He pushed me down! He tried to run me over with his car! Call the police, Rachel! Right now!" I helped her up and we went inside. I called the police on my own father. At the time, I believed her. Now. I really don't know what exactly happened, but I do know that my father would have never pushed her down or try to run her over.



She always manipulated me. I remember last year when she took me to a phychiatrist's office. My mother had always kept a notebook on all of the "awful" things that I had done. I don't know how my mom does it, but she is very good at making it look like she was always the victim. She gave that notebook to the phychiatrist. They declared that I was "severly depressed" and gave me a prescription for anti-depressants. At first, I refused to take them, but then my mom drove me to the hospital and parked in the parking lot. "Now, here's the choice Rachel: you can either take this pill, or I will get you accepted into the part of the hospital where the crazy people are." Well, I took the stupid pill.



The fighting continued. The final straw of my mother's rampages was right before school one morning. I was not allowed to do laundry in her house, although she rarely did it. I always did it when she wasn't home. The night before I had asked her to do some laundry for me so I could have some clothes to wear the next day for school. She was in a rather good mood, and said yes. The next morning, I went to her room and knocked on the door to get my clothes. It was an hour before school started. She got so mad that I woke her up that she pinned my to the floor and repeatedly hit me. I went to school with a huge bruise on my shoulder. I called my dad and told him what happened, and he was so mad he picked me up that day. It was about a week before Christmas.



I have been living with my father since that day. Since then, she has taken all of my stuff and threw it in trashbags in the garage. My old room is now a computer room for her new boyfriend. I am never, ever, EVER going back to that house. I am done dealing with her childlike personality and her awful temper trantrums. I am sick of her abuse and her controlling attitude. I do not deserve to be treated that way, no one does. I think I could write a book on all of the things she has done to me. However, I feel that her abuse has only made me stronger. I am very relieved that I found a place to write about all of this. My only hope is that one day she will realize how my childhood was ruined by her selfishness. Maybe she will be sorry, one day.