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How I remembered what memories I do have that are written in my childhood stories was affected-infected by the obsession my mother had with ‘telling the truth’.  Her perception of every experience involving me including those she added to ‘her abuse litany’ involved somehow involved a deception and a lie.  Because she continued to repeat these perception-lies verbally every time she ‘punished’ (beat) me for the rest of the years of my childhood, not only were her versions of the events kept alive, but also mine because my version and her version simply never matched.

How was it that I, a child that had never been affirmed by my mother as ever existing at all as a human being but rather as a nonhuman child of the devil, could so clearly KNOW the truth (my truth) about what had ACTUALLY happened every single time my mother repeated her attacks on me through the years because of my supposed transgressions that existed only within her distorted mind?

It is affirming to me at this moment to recognize that as far back as I can remember my own memory of what actually happened for each of her twisted abuse litany versions of my actions was carried forward in time within my own mind-self intact.  Nothing my mother ever said or did to me changed the truth of what I knew.  I find comfort in realizing that obviously Linda WAS present.  I WAS there as a glimmer of a reflection of a self within my own experience of my own life.

I was the one being viciously verbally and physically attacked without having any possible way of avoiding, escaping, preventing or of understanding what was happening to me.  But I WAS there, in my body, having my life experiences.  I had them.  I knew what they were.  I knew the truth of what actually happened, and I remembered the experiences intact – every single one of them – in spite of how my mother twisted the facts and in spite of what she did to me along with twisting the reality of the facts.

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At this moment I am also detecting where one of my biggest problems originated.  As the brain-mind-self grows and develops, a person’s memory abilities are supposed to expand and become more complex and advanced.  When I say I had no ability to THINK about myself in my life in any kind of self-reflective, awareness-based way for the 18 years of my childhood, what I realize I am actually saying is that within the horrific abusive environment I was developing within, I could only go so far in my development and no further.

There is something called ‘semantic memory’ which is a term that “refers to the memory of meanings, understandings, and other concept-based knowledge unrelated to specific experiences.”  Tied to the development of semantic memory abilities is a following stage of memory development called ‘episodic memory’, a term refers to “the memory of autobiographical events (times, places, associated emotions, and other contextual knowledge) that can be explicitly (consciously – which is versus ‘implicit’ memory that is unconscious and exists in the body but is not accessible to the brain-mind) stated.”  Not only did I not develop this remembering ability at the appropriate age, but I have only with effort been able to exercise it in my adult life.

As memory abilities develop in the body-brain from birth, they form what I think of as links in a memory chain.  The next stage of memory ability development I should have been able to obtain was nearly completely obliterated by my mother’s abuse of me.  ‘Autobiographical memory‘, is not a simple process.  It is meant to allow us to connect our self from the inside out not only with the experiences of our life as we have them, but also involves being able to experience our experience (having a self to remember having an experience).  Then, we are supposed to be able to remember our experience of our self having had the experience.

We can refer to the end result of the abuse my mother did to me ‘dissociation’, but what I know is that her abuse interfered with my brain’s development, including the development of memory abilities.  I had a deadly predator in pursuit of me throughout the 18 years of my childhood.  I never had the luxury to pause for the length of time it would have taken to consolidate my memory of my life or of myself living it.  I certainly was never allowed to pause long enough to form the ability to remember myself having an experience, or to remember myself remembering having experiences.

The reality of my abusive childhood resulted in such profoundly altered brain development that I simply managed to escape my childhood with the memories of my own reality that were directly tied to the incidents my mother repeated over the years in her abuse litany.  Even then, it was only because I had been able to develop some version of semantic memory abilities so that I could not only recognize certain literal facts in the world, I could remember the details of my experiences that were directly associated with these remembered facts.

My mother always had an altered version regarding the facts than I did.  I did not think in terms like “My mother is lying” so that I could have evolved further into thinking about “Why is my mother lying?” or “What is wrong with my mother?” or “Gee, I am so angry at my mother for lying.””  I simply knew for a semantic fact that what had actually happened on each abuse litany-included occasion factually happened as they did in fact happen.

The truly strange addition to this entire pattern was my mother’s insistence on every occasion that I was lying to her if I tried to contradict her version by daring to assert myself and tell her the facts.  I never thought of these facts as real, or as being something so abstract as ‘the truth’.  I learned very young as a child, certainly by the age of six, that not only could I not ‘make things right’ by trying to tell my mother the simple facts of what happened, but my trying to do further fueled her rage like pouring gasoline on a roaring fire.

But – and this is extremely important to me – I always remembered the facts of every event she ever attacked me for the way things actually happened.  Every single time my mother viciously attacked me, verbally and/or physically for one of these events (or for her later recalling of these events), I COULD NOT LET GO OF THE FACTS as I knew them to be.

I did not recall the facts with emotion.  I did not recall them with any sense whatsoever that either the original experience of the experience belonged to me, or that the facts of the experience were a part of me or of my life.  Facts were facts.  They existed like physical objects exist in space and time.  They were literal realities and were nearly as physically tangible in my mind as any object can be.

These fact-objects only reappeared to me when my mother brought them up again and again over the span of my childhood.  They had nothing to do with me that I knew of.  I just simply and clearly recognized them as if they were a fork or a spoon or an automobile.  Although I can be grateful that at least physical objects existed for me with words attached to them, and can be equally grateful that at least I retained the facts-as-objects with names for each incident my mother kept remembering for me, I cannot be grateful for the fact that objects and object-facts had some existence in the world while I, as a human being did not.

All I was, all I knew, and all I continued to be for 18 years was a one single fact-object:  I was the devil’s child.

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How a person begins from infancy to recognize and develop their individual self is dependent upon their ability to be seen, heard and responded to by others in their environment.  This begins with the earliest primary caregiver, usually the mother, being able to recognize the needs of her infant when they are expressed, mirror back to the infant its own emotional states, and appropriately respond both to the infant’s emotions and to its needs.

Thinking this through is a strenuous exercise for my mind.  From the first instants in my infancy that I should have been having my own self recognized and responded to appropriately as my brain-mind-self was forming in relationship to the world through the interactions my mother was having with me, I was fed the opposite of the truth about who I was in the world.

My mother could never respond back to me by mirroring my own existence, my own emotional states, my own needs and desires because I was ALWAYS invisible to her from the moment I was born.  She could not reflect ME back to ME because all she ever saw when it came to me was her own projected reflection of badness that her mind had split away from itself and cast onto and into me.

I did not exist.  No infant can exist to itself fully and automatically from the time it is born.  Everyone requires this mirroring of the self back to it for the identification of self to be made.  Now that I understand how the nature of caregiver-infant mirroring interactions actually physiologically determines how an infant’s brain and nervous system develops makes my effort to understand what happened to me because of my mother’s madness even more scary.  I understand how profoundly her disturbed mind affected the development of everything about me from the ground on up.

The truth is that everything that ever happened between my mother and I was based on a lie.  Because I was at ground zero, because I not only existed at the center of the lie but actually WAS the lie my mother’s deranged mind created, I never had a chance or a way to gain an alternative perspective about what was happening to me.

When I say I spent 18 years being the center of my mother’s psychosis and being the target of her hatred, rage and abuse, I mean this as a literal fact.  I WAS the target and nothing else but a target.

That target came into the world not as a human being, but as the spawn of the devil who tried to kill my mother while I was being born – because the devil sent me on a mission to do just that.  I was raised knowing not only that I was owned by the devil, that I belonged to the devil, that I was not human, but also that the devil had given me the power to ‘take’ my mother’s other children ‘to the devil’.

The last time I heard my mother verbalize her unwavering beliefs about me was on the telephone when I was 30.  She launched into her abuse litany in our conversation as if a switch had been flipped on.  The words she used in her litany were always the same.  They would defy belief it I didn’t have the continued ability to recognize facts when I encounter them.

What I never had in my entire life until the moment in that conversation when I was 30 — as these exact familiar words yet again spewed out of her mouth and into my ear through my telephone’s receiver, “The devil sent you to kill me while you were being born and because I survived, you have been nothing but a curse upon my life ever since” – was the ability to do what I did on this day.  I suddenly recognized the lie in the span of a heartbeat and just as quickly in the next heartbeat my finger flicked through the air as I pushed the phone button that hung up on her.

In that span of a heartbeat, for the first time in my life, I caught a glimpse of a glimmer that my mind existed separately from my mother’s.  It took that long, 30 years, to begin a process of differentiating my own self in my own mind from the mind of my mother that should have started when I was born.

Before this instant there had never been a boundary formed between my mother and myself so that I could have been on one side – busy developing my own self in my own brain-mind – while she was on her side of the boundary dealing with her self within her own brain-mind.  I was included as a part of her mind from the time of her difficult and near-death labor with me.  I was nothing but her mental projection of ‘evil’ before I took my first breath.

I was a captured and encapsulated part of my mother and could not escape.  I was not allowed to form a self to escape with even if escape had been an option.  And that option did not really appear for me until I was already 30 years old, 12 years after I had walked out my mother’s front door into my adulthood.

I believe my mother suffered from just about the most severe case of Borderline Personality Disorder possible, and she forced me to share the turmoil of her mental experience with her as if I was an incorporated part of her self.  She kept me on the psychotic side of her Borderline mind for my entire 18-year childhood and for the rest of her life from the time of my birthing.  I was not born free.  In fact, until I somehow managed to step across the line out of her Borderline lie and into my own reality during that telephone conversation, I had not been born as a human being at all.

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