‘Your makeup looks like you worship Satan. Your entire appearance disgusts me.’: Abuse victim proudly says, ‘I am so much more than she said I was going to amount to’

“There is a distinct difference in how I present myself online and how I look in real life. Filters are a bit of a habit of mine and if I can slim down my face, I will jump all over the chance. But is that really me? That’s a yes and no kind of answer. The photo itself is of me but it’s so heavily filtered, it is almost hilarious how different I look in person. I only feel comfortable posting these types of photos of myself for the world to see. There should never be shame in what one does to feel comfortable. Filters, surgery, wigs, makeup–it’s all the same and the before is just as beautiful as the after. You are you underneath the layers. It’s strange how I can feel so strongly about the matter when it comes to everyone but myself. Every tree has its roots, though.

The pressure to be someone I’m not began at a young age, with the woman who birthed me. Her consistent critical nature left an already-fragile youth completely shattered. There was rarely peace in my home and despite my will to carry on through it, it still left scars deep in my soul. It had a small start and grew into this malignant thing shackled my self-esteem and drowned it in the depths. I describe it so heavily because that weight has ruined me. There are more days than not that I feel like a shell of a woman.

It wasn’t just insults she poured into my soul. It was the physical scars she left on my body as well. Rebelling usually ended with a handful of hair being grabbed and a beating to my face. If that wasn’t effective, she would break out the large stitching needles and sit on my tiny form, peeling my fingernails away from my flesh. The worst was the brutal murders of my pets, one after another. If I acted up, they turned up ‘sick’ and were dealt with accordingly with a gun. If they were too small, it would be a pillow she smothered their life away with. The same drumbeat over and over throughout my developing years. While my father watched on, she steadily dove into the madness.

The madness manifested as her absolutely favorite punishment. Even as an adult, she still tries these tricks like that control is still somehow there. In many ways, it is. Starting at the age of nine years old, she began emptying her pill bottles into nooks and crannies of the house and tossing them at my face. I can still hear her shrill voice haunting my nightmares as she would tell me she was committing suicide and it would be all my fault. I would beg on my knees as she smirked down. I would plead and negotiate for her to live. If it took degrading my very existence, I would do it. I insulted myself to the soul in an attempt to save hers. She loved the thrill of having those shackles on her adolescent daughter. So, in the end, it was always about her and her need to be on top of the household.

It didn’t matter what it was, she insulted it: my weight, my hair, my makeup, my very existence. My mother would mock and sneer until I turned tail to run. Even at my back, she would hurl insults like knives that sliced through my flesh and into my psyche. The words were like fire at my feet, burning me alive but with no way to cut that ropes that bound me to the stake she built herself. I was the black sheep, the witch to purify by flames. From physical to verbal, she had all of the tools to break me.

‘You look like a streetwalker.’ I heard this about a pink tank top when I was twelve.

‘You’re a wh*re just like your sister.’ This was tossed my way when I changed middle school boyfriends.

‘You should have died with your father.’ A nice one given to me on Christmas day around friends. Unprompted.

‘I should have aborted you.’ I was talking back.

‘Your makeup looks like you worship Satan.’ In ninth grade when I slapped on too much eyeliner.

‘Your entire appearance disgusts me.’ When I walked out in popular Goth pants for the first time.

‘You just keep gaining weight, you’ll look like your (obese) father soon enough.’ I was 97 pounds at 5’8’.

‘No one likes a fat b*tch.’ Talking back, again.

‘You will die alone.’ When I mentioned being in love with a girl.

‘You’re a disgusting sl*t.’ When she found out I was having sex (with one man.)

These aren’t even the tip of how many she has given me over the years. Once puberty hit, it was game over for me. I couldn’t win no matter how hard I tried to please this hateful woman. It was at least once a day and never failed to leave me crying in my closet or bathroom. As I searched my soul to find who I wanted to be as I grew, she stifled the flame I was nurturing, and she took joy in it. What made these insults especially hard was just how happy she was to offer them. I could see in her nearly-dead eyes, she enjoyed inflicting this pain on her second born.

For years, I chalked it up to her projecting her own insecurities, but it wasn’t that. It never was. It was about the thrill of having complete control of another human, much like a doll she could tear and break to pieces. She was the little girl who took pleasure in ripping her toys apart, limb by limb. Everything she did and does to me was and is about control on her part. She’s a true-born psychopath with a taste for destruction. She is the real reason I developed anorexia at thirteen. She’s the cause of my deeply rooted issues about my appearance. If you hear something enough, it can, in a twisted way, become your truth.

My twenty-seven-year-old self may be able to maintain a steady job, pay bills, and keep healthy relationships, but inside? I am broken. That little girl never knew a mother’s affection, and in the way I present myself, it shows. My fear of being perceived as not good enough is prevalent. My desire to be accepted as someone I am not is a problem. Therapy has shown me that my mind is wired to think the worst. I am working towards not relying on other peoples’ perceptions for my ego to feel fulfilled. It doesn’t matter how many likes my filter frenzied photos may get, it doesn’t replace that love I needed and need.

I look back at photos of myself from years past and my first words are always the same, ‘Wow, I was so skinny!’ This shouldn’t be the initial thing that comes to mind. I really am more than my weight. I’ve been through unspeakable traumas and yet, here I am, still living and walking towards a tentatively planned future. I’ve survived multiple suicide attempts and still stand here. It may be in pieces, but I still wake each morning and look up to my ceiling, telling myself, ‘Come on, Virgo, let us make today all yours!’ The words at the forefront are not my own, they are hers. I am not who she says I am. I work hard and play even harder. I’m happy and alive. The pounds on a scale may make a difference in my health but they don’t define my entire existence. I am so much more than she said I was going to amount to, and I am so proud of that.

I am a successful paralegal in a joyful committed relationship of twelve years. I own my own home and have dreams of my own daughter and son, and how I will be the best parent I can be. This woman works hard and plays even harder. I find joy in spite of her. She is not me and her own shortcomings cannot always define who I was and who I will be. Finding that little spark of love for myself has made me who I am this day. Not a single human can take that from me. I have the will to fight now.

Will I cry? Of course. Will I be hurt sometime? Well, yeah. Will I let my past write my future? No way in this universe. I write all of this to my fellow adults and teens and even children. It does get better so just hold on a little longer. Look forward to what comes next. It isn’t as predictable as a book but find love in the words you write with your beautiful heart.

Regardless of what anyone has said, you are beautiful on the outside so long as the inside matches. We will all make mistakes, but we’re human. Some of us are skinny, some of us are chubby. Does that mean we deserve any less? Of course not. Did some of us deserve the failures we had as parents? No, we didn’t. So show yourself some kindness We, you and I, are worth more than the insults slung our way.”

Courtesy Skyler Donaldson

This story was submitted to Love What Matters by Skyler Donaldson. Do you have a similar experience? We’d like to hear your important journey. Submit your own story here. Be sure to subscribe to our free email newsletter for our best stories, and YouTube for our best videos.

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