A small introduction of me, the sad monster

I was a happy baby, so I was told. I was beautiful too, big blue eyes, the longest, black eyelashes and blond, curly hair. From the pictures of me as an infant, I see that too. 
I don't really know when I started being unhappy and ugly, I have no other memories than mostly not so good ones. What I do know, however, is that I work my ass off trying to get back to life, get back to knowing who I am, to know my rights as a human being. For years I was ashamed of myself, now that's beginning to change. Some days I'm even proud of who I am. 

It's Wednesday. I have finished yet another session with my therapist. It's my third year in therapy (this time around), and I can honestly say that I'm doing good. No medications, and my boat is floating just fine right now, in fact it's floating better than ever before.
I'm going to be very straight forward here, and if things sound odd I promise to explain later if there still remain question after I've told my story. 
It took me nearly thirty years to discover that I'm not retarded. I'm not handicapped, neither mentally nor physically. 
For many years I lived with rage, hate, frustration and, off course - with that comes odd and strange behavior and severe anxiety. Never understood what was wrong, why my life seems to never work smooth and painfully. Others seemed so happy and unaware of all dark sides there was to life. Not me.
Always confused and pretty frustrated. On the other hand I had accepted that this was my life, this was who I was, a paria, a lonely outsider, the girl who never fitted in anywhere with anyone. My mother had told me that I was very special. Special as in bad, something to be ashamed of, something not to brag about to the other mothers. Something to hide. Something. Not someone.  
Today we (my therapist and I) explored some of my earlier problems with anger. Hard, exhausting. But now adays I'm never angry though, and as strange as it might seem, that too is a problem.  

As a child I was goldenharted and nice, but in my teens and for years after that, I was angry most of the time. Not angry as in irritated or mildly annoyed. Angry as in furious, breathing nothing but hatred and mistrust. 
Did anyone go up against me? Yelling,  threatening and screaming. For days. 
Did anything go wrong, if yet so invisibly insignificant? Anger, frustration, shame, feelings of total failure. For days.  
Did someone ignore or dislike me? Hate, rage and revenge. For months. 
Did someone do me wrong big time? Rage, complotting, revenge. For years. 
Always rage, anger and frustration, never, never, never tears. Never ever sadness or emptiness. 

And now to the complicated thing. I always forgave them who hurt me the most. At least for a long period of time. 
If someone accidentally lightly stepped on my toe, I'd bury them. If someone cut of my entire foot, I forgave them (many times around) and probably offered them the other foot too. I could let some people (never figured out why really) hurt me so severely, for a long time. 
In fact they probably got used to me taking loads of shit, but.... When I reached the bottom, all hell broke loose on them and everybody who were with them. Sometimes the revenge hit them so fast and hard they never really understood how or even why. And there I was, getting al fingers pointed at me, the crazy girl who went bananas over nothing. You who have been bullied knows what I'm talking about here. When that little drop in makes the glass too full... Well yes. Suit your self bullies. You had it coming. An eye for an eye.  Seems very biblical, right...? 

The problem was unfortunately that I often turned on those who could have been my friend as well. My whole world was upside down, both mentally and emotionally. I was sailing with very broken sails and no keel.
I never understood it then. I just couldn't figure out why most things in my life seemed to go in the wrong direction, why people always turned against me. I never understood that this was what I was brought up with, a social heritage.

Now I got the whole picture, the puzzle is soon finished, and I do understand who I am now. Of course I knew who I was earlier too, but it's a big difference between understanding just logically and gthen understanding with feelings and mind, all together as one unit. Yes, I did feel that things were wrong when I grew up, but that I never understood until now exactly how utterly wrong. I thought that all families worked pretty much like mine. So I was told. I was always the one to blame. I too blamed me, because I was, after all, retarded. Off course I did things wrong, off course it was ok to be ashamed of me, off course it was ok that my mother laughed and pointed at me in public. Retard. 
My awakening from this was (and still am) cruel. It hurts to see what damage a bad mother can do to a child. Now I know why and how I behaved and lived as I did. I know that I was crueler to myself, and put more blame on myself than any child ever did. So many years of my life destroyed, never coming back again, they can never be relived again.
The truth hurts. I was a product of living in a dysfunctional  family, with a mother that makes Caligula seem like a fluffy little lovebunny. This is my story of coming back to life again.