How the Entitlement Game Cost Me My Sanity

I know many regular readers of my blog are sympathetic to my situation: someone who had horribly abusive parents, who ran away from them, who is tormented daily by the severe psychological distress resulting from her parents’ abuse.

And yet….

And yet I might have been years ahead in dealing with my issues were it not for one thing:

People who believed that I was merely acting entitled. People who believed I was spoiled. People who thought that all I was thinking about was myself, and so that meant I had no right to leave.

One would think, one would hope, that these people believed such things because they didn’t know the horrific extent of the abuse.

No. They knew the extent. They knew my parents starved me, beat me, poured boiling water over my hands, threatened me with knives, threatened me with open flames, ran doors over my toes, rammed my fingers in desk drawers, and controlled almost every aspect of my life.

They were among those to whom I chose to relate these stories, weeping and crying, so entirely unlike my manic self that many were shocked.

That was the horrifying thing to me: that someone could know all this and still decide, still judge, that I was doing the greater wrong by leaving my parents.

And act upon that judgement. I changed my name once. They gave my parents that information along with my suppresse’s phone number and address.

This happened multiple times with multiple names, in fact.

Why did they believe I was merely acting entitled when I ha no right to be, why oh why on the face of knowing what I had gone through? Because the following, to them, invalidated any sympathy I “deserved”: my parents let me go to college, even funded my first two years with the assistance of scholarships and grants, despite my family living at the poverty line.

And because my parents had spent money—the gods only know why—on me, for this long, without me leaving despite what they did to me, obviously the abuse was something that not only could I afford to stand until my parents died, and after all, if my father had really wanted to kill me, surely he would have done so instead of sending me to college.

And so I was hounded. Do you know how hard it is to get a job when you’re on the run, when your name changes, when you can give no references because those references were among those who gave your parents the ability to trace you?

Some would view the hell of the Years of Zorn and Tharn as my just Purgatory for what I did to my parents.

Some would view the hell of my PTSD, not as evidence that my parents abused me, but as just desserts for leaving them in the lurch.

And now I’m putting the iPhone down (another sign of my entitlement: surely if I’m sane enough to make enough money to buy an iPhone I should support my parents) because I am just so angry and sad right now.