Down The Rabbit Hole Of My Trauma And Nightmares (Chapter 2)

(A break from the narrator POV because I don’t quite have the sanity to edit right now)

So, moving on to the parts of the sibling portion of my trauma, I’m dividing it into portions because I have 2 siblings from outside my biological family adopted into my adoptive “family” (I will name them Michael (m)and Kayla(f)), I have 2 siblings that are my adoptive parents biological children (I will name them Peggy (f) and Gremlin (m), I have one half-sister
conceived by my biological dad and some lady who told everyone he was dead for no apparent reason (I will name her[my sister, not her mother] Carla(f)), I have two half-sisters and one half-brother who were all adopted into the same family as me ( I will name them Jonathan, Sierra, and Catelyn). Finally, I have two more half-siblings that barely come into the story, so I won’t bother naming them. Both were adopted into a different family, but they were kept together. The count of siblings in total is ten.
The count of siblings in one household was seven, plus me is 8, plus the parents is ten, plus the six cats 5 dogs 2 birds and a large tank of tropical fish. Needless to say, though I did, it was a total clusterfuck.

Returning to the vent I desperately need to get to. When I was still a baby and being thrown between homes, “Peggy” was my favorite sister. The sun shone out of her face when she walked in the room. I remember to this day how happy I felt to see her. At that point I was about 1.5 and hadn’t begun walking yet, because my biological mother, who I’ll call out by name( *my real name is Tamara, hers is Tia, and I want to stab her in the face for letting her sister name me, but honestly she would’ve named me the same, knowing her, if you need a reference to the Tamara/Tia thing, ask anyone but me, I’m so done hearing their names it’s not even funny; don’t get me wrong, I do love them, but because of their names, I’ll need to pay for a new one, because the last thing I want is anything tying me to my bitch mother, whether a name is insignificant or not*) used to just leave me laying in my crib or stroller all day. A few months after the age of two, according to them anyway, is when they finally succeeded in getting me to walk. I had never felt that childlike glow of happiness more than when they looked so proud of me. I still couldn’t see straight and I couldn’t process everything because I was dissociating, but I started reading before I started walking. I memorized a whole Pippi Longstocking book at six, WHILE I was being raped ( it took a long while to get my mind past anything but the pain,but I needed to try to focus on something other than what was happening on the exterior, or I would just keep wishing for my heart to finally beat so fast that it would just stop) . I know I used to have a great capacity for intelligence. Peggy used to spend all her time with me when the DSS worker would bring me over. Skipping ahead a bit, after my adoptive father began to hurt me and his wife enabled him/ beat me for it, Peggy was the last one on my side. Every last person, from the aunts and uncles to the nieces and nephews and grandparents and grandchildren and friends on the adoptive parents side, turned against me, because my adoptive parents would finish their punishments and then bolt my room and set the alarm, which was openly known to be placed there because I was always “stealing”food in the middle of the night”, as if they weren’t starving me for me next ambulance trip to Four Winds, Katonah NY. It would be a surprisingly upscale mental hospital, what with the video games, and the swimming pool and the movie theater, and the art room with the kiln, and the buffet-style cafeteria, if it weren’t for all the extra trauma that place affords you, what with the multiple cameras spread across campus, and the inattentive staff who are severely UNDERstaffed, with the 60 year old ACTIVITIES COORDINATOR standing in for highly illegal, 80-hour shifts, because he knew that if anyone looked into how that place was staffed, the hospital would be shut down. Every time I went there, I would pack on every fucking pound I could for when the sent me back to my adoptive parents so they could repeat the cycle from square one.
Peggy was the only one left who made cases for my previous sexual abuse, perpetrated by my biological mother, and I don’t know what she said in my defense, considering every conversation not made to hurt me was made outside of thick wooden door with the constantly, quietly beeping alarm outside of it. Whatever she said obviously didn’t work, because no sooner was she five weeks pregnant with her long-ago ex boyfriend than her biological mother ( my adoptive mother, sorry there’s a lot of people, just trying to keep things clear) shoved me and my spinning head straight into Peggy’s back, throwing her stomach-first into the wall. From then on, she was just as foul as her disgusting mother. I can’t remember too much of what she, specifically, did to me,  because apparently, when you’re traumatized like I’ve been, you forget a lot of it as a defense mechanism or something, but one memory poked through just last year. I’ve only had a few new ones come through in my whole life. The bitch tried to kill me by putting me in the dryer with the help of her biological brother, Gremlin.
He was known by me for his temper, rivaled only by his mother. Remember that four weeks of depression I mentioned in the last entry? His solution was to lose his patience, grab me by my throat, drag me to the kitchen, and slam me up against the fridge while whispering shit in a vicious voice that only made me process “All I want to do is make you suffer.” He and Peggy spoke in such voices while they tried to stuff me in. The problem was, I was too fat to go in. After the first few attempts to stuff my me in and muffle my voice so as not to cry out while the metal dug into my akin, they gave up, and the only thing to do after that was to walk really slowly back  to my room while they laughed at me for being so fat that I couldn’t even do them a favor and die.
Well, Gremlin died a few years ago, of type 1 diabetes like his mother did. Yeah, I shed tears over my adoptive mother’s death, partly from the pain of the circumstances of her death being out of my hands, because I would have relished torturing her, but also from the pain of ever convincing her that I was worthy of her love. I always thought that if I could just explain it to her correctly, she would believe me. But I know now that she knew exactly what her foul husband had been doing to me. I did cry for Gremlin, but more from rage than anything. I’m still not quite sure why. And yesterday morning, my younger half-sister Catelyn calls to tell me that Peggy has died in her sleep. They don’t know what happened yet, went to sleep, didn’t wake up, needs an autopsy. I have not shed tears but I do feel a far more than hysterical giggle rising in my esophagus. I think it might be excitement.
This is nowhere near the end. More when I can stomach it.