“Morgan is just different”

When we were adopted, we got to change our middle names.  About a month beforehand, all my siblings had their names picked out.  I was struggling to find a name for myself.  One that I could be proud of, because I was going to be stuck with it for the rest of my life.  The thing was, I was like nobody.

All my siblings had other family members they were naming themselves after.  Dean changed his name to our adopted dad’s name.  Patience took after our adopted mom’s name. Breanna named herself after my adopted mother’s biological daughter.  They all made jokes how the name changes fit the kids because they acted just like the person they were named for.  Well, I was just different. 

My difference was always noticed.  I was hard headed and stubborn.  So, I wanted to name myself after someone who was the same.  I looked and looked.  Finally, I found a name.  One that  I am still proud of today. LaShaye, which means, “You have an executive ability, you are a leader. You are moral, balanced, honest and intellectual, and you may attain spirituality. You are wise and practical with an appreciation of beauty. You always think before you act. You are bold, independent, inquisitive and interested in research. You know what you want and why you want it.” That is according to seven reflections website.

However, I was still deemed different.  Different is OK, as long as you are not constantly reminded of it.  It gets offensive to be at family reunions and everyone asks why I didn’t name myself after someone else.  I picked someone who was strong and had a good head on their shoulder. 

I was different because I wanted to leave.  I counted down the days until I could leave.  I hated being there.  For my hate, I got ridiculed.  All my siblings want to put  trailers in my parent’s field and live their with family’s all together.  I thought it sounded like a cult compound.  I wanted to travel, go to college, and experience life outside of them.  That made me different.

Different to them was wrong.  Different was opinionated.  Different was argumentative.  Different was stubborn and hard headed.  Different was dangerous.  Different got punished because we all had to be perfect cookie cut outs of each other.

I mean, being grounded from reading is an example enough of how dangerous different was.  My wanting to leave and get an education was a hard pill for my mom who didn’t complete school because she dropped out to get married.  My inner strength that it took to get through being molested by my uncle and mom just confused them.  My mom did everything she could to break me, but I am unbroken. 

I never really saw my difference as a problem like they did.  When they would joke and pick on me about it, I would comment that at least I was making my own way, I wasn’t following a path someone else made.  I was cutting my own through the wilderness of life. 

To me different was strong.  Different was unique.  Different wanted more than what they thought I should have.  Different stands up for the weak because she knows how if feels when no one does.  Different wants to make the world a better place.  Different wants to love rather than control.  Different is good.  Different is special.

Being different is probably what made me a target to my uncle.  I didn’t fit in my family and he knew that.  He was my confidant.  I told him my secrets, during those few times we were not yelling at each other. Being different drew creeps who knew that I was alone.

I try not to blame my younger self.  I just want to go back in time and wrap my arms around her and tell her that she is strong.  I want to tell her all the things that no one except for her uncle told her.  I want to tell her that she will blossom like a flower in spring.  I want to tell her that being different made her better than them.

Being different showed me that what they were teaching us was a lie.  Being different helped me escape.  Being different made me stronger than anything they could have done.  Being different helped me see that I can make a difference even though they put me through hell for sick pleasures.  Being different makes me better than wanting to be like them. It makes me beautiful and strong.

 

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My beloved Brother

One of my earliest memories was of my biological mother taking a pregnancy test.  I was standing at the bathroom sink with my little toddler hands laced and prayed for a brother.  I got a sister.  I desired a brother so bad when I was younger that when he came along, I took care of him. 

I can clearly remember making him bottles and changing his diapers.  When he was 2, he would hum everything he wanted and I was his translator.  I guess being 6 years older than him, I kind of thought of him as my son in a weird way. 

Dean and I were really close.  We could look at each other and start giggling.  I could never lie to him and he knew that.  We took up for each other as much as we could without getting in too much trouble.  

When he was really little, I would wrestle him.  It was our favorite game.  As we got older, we started playing video games together.  I treasure those memories. 

One time I was reading Dean and Moses the story of Tom Sawyer.  We would play out the book in the yard and pretend we were on an expedition like they were. 

I read a book about a navy seal and told Dean all about it.  He was 8 years old when he decided to become a navy seal.  I helped him with research and encouraged him along the way.  As far as I know, he still wants to be a navy seal. 

When I left to go to school, I missed him so much.  He was the main reason I went home for visits.  Actually, he was the only reason.  I couldn’t imagine a day without him in my life.  He was my June-bug.  A nickname I dubbed him with when he was a tot.  

When I got married and moved away, he called me and told me that I really hurt him when I left and that I needed to get my life on track.  He was spewing out the same vile doctrines that I was taught.  That God would only wait a little while for me to come back to the truth.  I chuckled because I knew he just loved me and missed me.  The next thing he said struck me to my core.  He told me he got on drugs when I left.  He went on to tell me about the role he was playing in the youth group and that he was off the drugs, but he just wanted me to know that I hurt him really bad.  Later I found out that it was just smokeless tobacco that he was calling a drug.  I desired that day to tell him why I left and never looked back, but I couldn’t.

On July 23, I set a text message to my mom and the woman that is married to my Uncle.  I will post it later because it is really awesome.  Basically, I said that I couldn’t allow them in my life because they were protecting a rapist.  I asked them to tell my siblings the truth of why I left, but they are too coward to do that.

They told my beloved brother that I was making up a lie and doing everything I could to protect it.  In reality, I am doing everything I can to make the truth be known of this really sick family. He is so trusting and has such a good heart that I hate to think of him being manipulated by my adopted parents.  I don’t blame him, he doesn’t have a choice but to believe them, he never got to hear my side.

I called him for his 16th birthday in December.  It was all I could think about for a week.  I couldn’t wait to tell him happy birthday.  I called the house first and got my dad.  I basically kept the conversation really short because the last thing I heard him say was he wanted to un-adopt me.  I want to be un-adopted by them.  I remembered that I had my brother’s cellphone number, so I tried that next.

He didn’t answer, but he called back less than 5 minutes later.  I said, “Hi, it’s me, Morgan.”  The next thing I heard was click.  That sound resounded in my heart.  It was like yelling across a canyon and hearing the echos.  It was like a shot to my heart.  It was like electricity pounded through my veins.  All I could do was cry.  The one person I thought in the world that would have my back wouldn’t even let me tell him happy birthday.

The heartbreak that I faced from that was heart wrenching.  I just was dazed.  My beloved brother whom I basically raised, turned his back on me.  It hurt, well hurts, more than I can say.  

I think it is just a side effect of speaking out against the abuse that they made us face.  They are horrible people and that need help.  They have brain washed their kids into believing that I am a horrible person when I did what I had to do to survive.  I know one day that the truth will be known, but until then I know that all I could do was keep loving my brother.   

“You’re going to meet many people with domineering personalities: the loud, the obnoxious, those that noisily stake their claims in your territory and everywhere else they set foot on. This is the blueprint of a predator. Predators prey on gentleness, peace, calmness, sweetness and any positivity that they sniff out as weakness. Anything that is happy and at peace they mistake for weakness. It’s not your job to change these people, but it’s your job to show them that your peace and gentleness do not equate to weakness. I have always appeared to be fragile and delicate but the thing is, I am not fragile and I am not delicate. I am very gentle but I can show you that the gentle also possess a poison. I compare myself to silk. People mistake silk to be weak but a silk handkerchief can protect the wearer from a gunshot. There are many people who will want to befriend you if you fit the description of what they think is weak; predators want to have friends that they can dominate over because that makes them feel strong and important. The truth is that predators have no strength and no courage. It is you who are strong, and it is you who has courage. I have lost many a friend over the fact that when they attempt to rip me, they can’t. They accuse me of being deceiving; I am not deceiving, I am just made of silk. It is they who are stupid and wrongly take gentleness and fairness for weakness. There are many more predators in this world, so I want you to be made of silk. You are silk.”
― C. JoyBell C.

Strength is blooming like a tulip in the spring

I went to therapy on Thursday to deal with what is probably the most stressful and traumatic thing I ever went through. This person that I trusted had just raped me.  Both of my parents told me not to tell anyone that all my friends would blame me. That his wife, a sister to me, shouldn’t know that her husband was a rapist.

I was raped the first Sunday of August 2010.  My parents were on their 25th anniversary trip to the mountains.  We went to church and he is a Sunday school teacher of 6-7 year olds at that time.  My parents had dropped us off and hit the road like a bunch of giggling teenagers.  We were all so excited about their trip and the fact that we could go camping for a whole week. I was upset to know that I would have to spend a week with my uncle, but he promised to leave me alone.  That night I was sleeping when he came in the room I was sleeping in and raped me.  Afterwards, I had to spend a whole week in the backwoods with him.  He begged me to have sex with him, but I always said no.

After my parents came home, I started hiding knives around the house when I was at home alone.  I even told my mom that if he tried it again I was going to stab him before he could do it.  I was terrified, but my mom told me that I had to get over it.  My dad even told me that I just needed to drop it.  My dad who people claim is a good man, he looked his daughter in the eye, his daughter that he adopted because he loved her.  He looked at his daughter who was in pain and crying and told her to stop talking about it.  They would later call it an affair, but it wasn’t.  An affair doesn’t entail coming into the room of your trusting friend, ripping their pants off, when I tried to get away, he grabbed me by the ankle and pulled me back to the other side of the bed.  Sometimes, I can still feel his hand on my ankle.  The next morning, I had to throw away my pants because they were torn too bad to wear.

I move off to college and come home for my younger sister’s birthday.  She had a party at the church gym and my uncle invited me to go to a football game with him.  So, my parents told me that weekend that I needed to spend more time with him and that I should go to the game with him to spend good family time together.  So, he brought two of his daughters and we had a blast. I got to talk to some of my school friends and find out about their college experience.  I felt like I could finally trust my uncle.  I felt like maybe I could get better.  I felt like maybe I wouldn’t be afraid of being alone anymore.  I was wrong.

What happened next is the single most traumatic event that I experienced.  We loaded up the girls in the back of the truck.  They were talking about how good the game was and I was laughing.  Suddenly, it started again.  I tried to take his hand out of my panties and cross my legs, but everything I did, he made me participate.  His daughters were in the back seat the whole time.  I was terrified.  I didn’t know what was going to happen.  He took the long way home and stopped at the lease.  Which is where we had camped a month before.  He said that we could have sex and no one would know.  I felt sick.  I was terrified.  Most people have the flight or fight, but I freeze.  I freeze like a deer in headlights.  All I could think was that his kids were in the back seat asking if they could go swimming.  It felt like forever and I was in so much physical pain from what he was doing with his finger.  I just said no.  I found the last shred of common sense and refused to have sex with him voluntarily.  There was no way I would do that to myself.  On the way home, he kept his finger in me.  He dropped me off at home.  As I walked in front of his truck, he rolled down the window and said these haunting words to me. “I had a great time.  I love you, Goodnight.”

For years that was just like a broken record in my head.  Like a scratched cd that keeps skipping to the same lyrics, my mind would play this instance.  Every time it would traumatize me even more and it got to the point that I couldn’t drive.  I would have flashbacks every time I got behind the wheel of the car.  It was always so vivid and I would have horrible panic attacks just thinking of driving.

During my therapy session, my therapist asked me to talk about how I felt.  I was speechless at first.  I put myself back in that situation and the emotions came pouring out.  I was angry, outrage, furious, saddened, betrayed, used, sickened, disgusted, vengeful.  The list went on for a page or so.  Every time I said an emotion out loud and it felt so good to let it go.  I trusted my parents to keep me safe and protect me from people like him and they just put me in the position for me to be raped again.  I didn’t even tell them about this because there was no point.  I couldn’t trust the people who claimed to love me more than anything in the world.

After therapy, I cried.  It was only a few tears, but it felt great.  I was worried about the dry sobbing in the shower, as I turned the water as hot as I could stand and scrub my skin clean.  A clean that I would not feel as long as I had flashbacks and panic attacks kept happening. A clean that only would come when I could finally let it go.

Letting it go, is there really such a thing? Maybe.  I once read a quote, that I may have put on here, it said that the mark of a true survivor is that they can say thank you for making me a stronger person.  I don’t know if I am at that point, but I feel like I am close.

What I can say to my rapist and my parents is, “Thank you for giving me a passion”.  Thank you for giving me a burning passion that no matter what people will think about me, I will stand up to abuse and violence.  I will not standby and allow abuse to happen around me.  I am stronger because of what happened to me and for that reason I refuse to let other kids or women or men to lay their heads down at night and feel how I felt.  No one deserves that.  Thank you for opening my eyes to the evilness of the world, because you gave me the weapons and know how to step out and stop it.  Perhaps I am at the point where I can say, “Thank you for making me who I am today.”

I am talking with the local Center for Rape Survivors.  I feel like my calling is helping others who are facing the same things I am.  Every day is a struggle, but for the first time in a while, I can breathe.  I know that I am healing.  I know that the strength that got me through that horrible time is still there and that I can only get stronger.

What is Self-harm? 10 common methods

Day in the life of a Busy Gal...

There are many ways people can harm themselves, usually people assume ‘self-harm’ is referring to cutting this is just one of the many methods.  Here I explain about this and some other common methods all of which I have some personal experience of and I will give brief details of my own experience to help with the explanations…

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