My Peelings
A Personal Experience of Childhood Trauma
I created this space to share my personal experience with childhood trauma and its effects. AKA my peelings. 😜 This isn’t to shame anyone, or even to validate my feelings. I simply want to give back what was given to me—personal experience.
It’s because others were so open and vulnerable that I was able to identify my own experiences with trauma and how they were still affecting my daily life. Had it not been for the brave individuals who chose to be honest, I’m not sure where I would be.
I sincerely hope none of this resonates with you, but if it does, you’re in the right place. 💜
My Roots
I grew up on a family farm in a rural area. We went to church on Sundays and spent holidays and birthdays together as a family. From afar, you could have mistaken us for a wholesome, loving family. Actually, on second thought, I’m not sure we were as good at hiding the chaos as we thought we were. But we were trying, SO hard.
There were many factors at play when it came to the neglect, abuse, and traumas I experienced growing up—a lot of which I didn’t consider until I found myself in healthier environments surrounded by healthier people. If I wrote for the rest of my life, I could never explain or encompass all of it, but I’m going to try my best to break down the significant parts, starting with Alcoholism, and who knows where it will end. This space, like me, is a work in progress.
Alcoholism
The bugaboo, the forbidden secret, the shame that enveloped our household and extended family—alcoholism. Growing up, I thought being an alcoholic was one of the worst things you could be. Aside from breaking the law, this was the second most moral failing of all. At least that’s what it sounded like to hear my family talk of it.
My father was a functional alcoholic. His father was a functional alcoholic. And probably his father, too. Because it, “runs in the family”, it’s “genetic”, it “gets passed down.” At least that’s what they told me. “They” being my mother, aunts, and maternal grandparents. I appreciate the sentiment, I do. And honestly, it probably did save me from a world of hurt. But it also instilled a lot of anxiety, and at the end of the day, I still tangoed with it.
I watched my father go to work every day, never taking a sick day. In my whole life, I don’t think I’ve seen this man take a sick day. Not until his health finally forced him to retire. But with the same type of work ethic, he drank. Every afternoon, sometimes before he got home, he would start drinking. He did (usually) manage to throw something together for dinner before he passed out, even if it was just pintos and cornbread. Another thing I’ve come to appreciate.
In my earlier years, my father would be missing for hours, and we would drive around to look for him. His substance misuse led to a lot of arguing between him and my mother. Their screaming matches could be heard from 50 yards away, maybe further, but I didn’t check beyond that.
Nights often ended in slurred words, broken promises, and the quiet tension of waiting for the next outburst, from him or my mother. I learned early how to read the room and how to shrink myself to avoid becoming a target. I learned how to care for the adults around me and manage their emotions. Which brings me to my next part, mental illness.
Mental Illness
It may have been more prominent in some, but from my perspective, mental illness was present everywhere. From chronic, disabling depression to addiction, to agoraphobia and mania, mental illness was ever-present, and an ever-challenging terrain to navigate.
Some days. I was met with bone-chilling silence. One that left me feeling abandoned and filled with a sense of longing, desperate for connection. Other days, stress erupted into verbal and sometimes physical attacks that left me feeling small, unworthy, and afraid. And just when you thought it couldn’t get worse, things were perfect. For two days.
I remember walking into church on Sunday mornings with swollen, bloodshot eyes, still burning from the tears I shed just minutes before. My father’s face would still be distorted, eyebrows furled, and eyes still angry. My mother’s face wore a scowl that could produce silence and fear with half a glance. Their faces would relax a little more with each handshake.
Some addictions were coddled, some were praised, and others were shamed. My father’s addiction(s)? Terrible. Absolutely shameful. But my aunt? She’s sick. My brother’s video-game addiction? Lazy. Again, very disgraceful. But my great uncle’s addiction to work? Inspiring.
Not only was I getting mixed signals about the behavior of those around me, I also grew increasingly confused about how to cope with any of it. And I wasn’t exactly getting the help I needed. That brings me to my next point, medical neglect.
Medical Neglect
One summer, when I was younger, I was playing in a creek across the road from my house. Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain in the bottom of my right foot by my pinky toe. I looked around and didn’t see anything. No snake, no spider, no glass, nothing. It rapidly grew more painful so I scurried back to the house. My grandma flagged me down as I passed the chicken houses and asked me to turn off the lights at one of the houses.
I didn’t even mention it to her, I just did what she asked as fast as I could and rushed home. At home, my mother seemed unconcerned. I needed to get ready for vacation bible school. By the time I got ready, my foot had began swelling. When we got to the church it had swollen so bad, one of the moms insisted I prop it up. Mind you, I’m still in pain. They convinced my mother to seek medical attention, but it wasn’t until that next day.
When I was 16, I made the mistake of trying to “tan” like the other girls and I lathered myself in baby oil. I ended up with second-degree burns on my right breast. Another bad decision on my part, and one that didn’t necessarily warrant medical treatment. At least not until my aunts spoke up. I still have a scar to remind me and the all too vivid memory of trying to change the bandage in the bathroom of my high school.
I learned it was okay to put things off, to live with discomfort, that I’m “not worth the trip.” Thankfully, I also learned to wear sunscreen, but the idea that my health isn’t worth the cost of what ever treatment I need lived in my head for far to long after that. And that leads us to financial struggles.
Financial Struggles
Money was always tight. And for this part, the saying “they did the best they could” rings the loudest. It was less about poverty and more about mismanagement and their relationship with money. There was a lack of literacy; couple that with dopamine seeking, and you have the perfect recipe for financial mismanagement.
Sometimes we had TONS of groceries. All kinds of snacks, cereals, and steak for dinner. Sometimes, we had moldy cheese and crumbs from an eight-month-old bag of stale tortilla chips. Sometimes we got new toys, and sometimes our power was cut off. The only thing consistent was inconsistency.
Bills piled up, needs went unmet, often replaced with wants. And boy was I aware of it. I got to witness argument after argument and tried to skirt by the dance teachers before they could ask for payment.
I even drafted a budget; the only thing missing from this plan to financial freedom was two willing participants. And financial literacy…confidence…and the space to move beyond a scarcity mindset. But other than that, it was all set. 😜
By no means did I experience intense hunger, lack of shelter, or lack of most of my basic needs. I was very fortunate to have as much as I did and to have extended family to fall back on. But I cannot deny the effect it had.
Being exposed to inconsistency, mismanagement, and poor relationships with money instilled in me the same anxiety, scarcity mindset, and dopamine seeking that caused all of it to begin with. Below, I will discuss the impact these parts had (have) in my adult life and how I’m healing and rewiring the destructive pathways they created.
The Impact
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My Healing
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Essays
Writing helps me to process my emotions and experiences. I have included below some of my essays, which were formed from fear, vulnerability, and hope.
“There are no villains in my story. There are, however, a lot of victims. Bad people didn’t do bad things to me. But bad things did happen to me, often by the direct hand of another.”
The Compass of Fear: Doing it Scared
“I’ve lived in a constant state of fear. Fear of failure, fear of success, fear of abandonment; fear is in every decision I make, and especially the ones I don’t. Fear keeps me frozen in time. For my entire life, I have altered my actions and behaviors out of fear of not being accepted by others. I never stopped to question whether they were people by whom I wanted to be accepted.”
