Every so often in the middle of mundane, monotonous tasks in my everyday life, I come across leftovers. Some say leftovers are even better the next day. My opinion? Not so much. Really, never.

I guess you can't escape abuse completely unscathed. Don't we wish we all could?

"Leftovers" is my term for the residual debris that remains even after we heal from abuse. They surfaced just when I thought I was finally whole. They find me when I'm not even looking for them. Even worse, they haunt my dreams. Certain smells, sounds, and tastes take me back to times I thought long-gone. Why can't they just stay behind, where I had left them?

I would bury them in a box in my back yard if I could. Rest assured, I'd NOT plant flowers over them, nor would I EVER return to visit them. I've heard it said, "out of sight, out of mind;" if only that could be the case...

I invite you to walk down memory lane with me now. At the tender age of 6 or 7, when I lived under my parents' roof, I never knew what I would face when arriving home from school each day. More often than not, I would wet my pants as I waited to be let inside because when mother had a bad day, I took the blame, then the heat. I had to stand in place and listen to who made her the victim, how horrible they were, and how they must be mentally ill. Her rants often lasted for over an hour; she got louder as she became increasingly frustrated, often weeping, even wailing. I soon learned my role in these episodes was to condemn the offender to the "mentally ill section of society," tell mother she WASN'T the one with the problem, then wait until she picked up the phone to call her long list of friends who were not yet on her mentally ill list. When she began rehashing the story ad nauseum to the first friend, that was my chance to RUN! I would go to my room and stay away from her until dinnertime. Sometimes, things didn't work out as planned. If she weren't happy with the responses she got (aka her friends didn't soothe her fragile, narcissistic ego), she would angrily summon me back downstairs. When I heard her screaming, "Get down here you little bitch," I knew there was more hell for ME to pay. Worse still, if I couldn't summon the right words she needed to hear, I was sent back up to my room, and told, "crawl out of my sight!" I was well-trained. I learned that there would be no way ever to make things right, as there were no consistent rules. "Fair" was not a bargain she could embrace. Sadly, the only consistency I found was inconsistency.

I learned early on that in her heart I was never safe. Her love was conditional (and almost non-existent,) her issues always stemmed from me, and nothing I could ever do was right or good. Soon she adopted another abuse tactic; she made sure to insist I remain in her presence while she took the phone and called numerous friends and relatives to tell them IN FRONT OF ME how "stupid and hated" I was. Sadly, for years to come, her desperate, hysterical screams evoked the same reaction in me; my body became increasingly numb, I discerned nothing, became cold with fear, and felt as though there was a big black bag over my head. I was rendered incapable of connecting any thoughts, let alone defending myself.

Moving forward into motherhood, after finding the strength to pull away from my mother/abuser, I yearned for contact with others. At that point, I had our first two children and would take them to the park where we would meet other moms and their toddlers. My boys loved these outings, but as enjoyable as it was to make contact with the outside world, my insides were anything but "there." Of course, I was there in person, but my soul was elsewhere. I was constantly in flight mode, waiting for the bottom of my world to drop out. I began to see patterns and intuitively knew I needed to eradicate the demons that dwelled deep inside my soul. While additional therapy had helped me understand their origin and potential implications, I will always need to be diligent and steadfastly guard my healing heart. Even after years of therapy, while I see how successfully I have mothered and loved our five children, these leftovers still threaten to overflow my plate...

Leftover #1- Fatally flawed
This buckshot she blew into my soul remained there- as a reminder that you are fair game for anyone to hurt, and you never really know where you stand with others. This uncertainty affects me to this day. As soon as there is any inkling that there is anything awry, I will be first in line to claim the prize. Mother told me I was a mistake and she planned to abort me. She reminded me daily that my IQ was the lowest in my family. With healing and therapy, I learned this was NEVER the case, yet I continue to stand on uneven ground. Fortunately, I have learned to surround myself with others who have genuine intentions.

Leftover #2- Forever seeking validation:
Along with constant rejection and belittlement, I soon learned to find acceptance and belonging elsewhere. Sadly, this, combined with my naivete led me into many lions' dens. My deep-seated and insatiable need to be loved and validated superseded and overruled my safety instincts. Anyone who actually reached out to show kindness was given carte blanche to my heart. Thankfully my husband Will recognized this and has always been there to save me. He frequently steps in to help me understand how to love and honor myself. Our five children regularly validate my worthiness and express their undying love for me.

Leftover #3- Finding truth and trusting instincts
The only way an abuser can continue to feed their insatiable need is to convince the victim they are wrong and only imagine their mistreatment. I was so confused and always needing to seek answers. Being told "We cannot love you unless you change," only led me to wonder who I was, what I was supposed to be, and how even to know when I became that person they COULD love. What a huge burden for me to bear. Mother rendered me a carcass once the vultures are long gone. Yes, healing has helped me to regain my worth and value, but it remains a real struggle. It is exhausting to continually validate both your position in your surroundings and the true intentions of others.

Leftovers aside, let me share with you how healing has significantly impacted my life and the lives of my loved ones. Healing allowed me to revisit my abuse as a child and young adult, grasp how wrong it was, then assimilate it with who I now am. Healing helped me to release the almost insurmountable pain, and let go of what never was, to claim what can be! Healing taught me I had no responsibility to bear the burden of my abuser, and that I held no responsibility to forgive her. She decided that unleashing her anger on me justified the onslaught on my soul. This very action invalidated my obligation to forgive her. Healing taught me apathy; I neither love nor hate my abusive mother, but I do embrace how she taught me everything NOT TO BE!

More than anything else, this I know:
While we never asked to be abused, it did happen. While we are not responsible for fixing our abuser, we ARE responsible for fixing ourselves. It is up to us to break this horrible, destructive cycle! Therapy is a MUST! On our own, we cannot repair what was crushed, broken and remains under layers of scar tissue. That is a therapist's job.

Finally, as we heal, we release the anger and pain, making room for love, contentment, and happiness. Even better, we find immeasurable clarity in our lives and learn to assert healthy boundaries.

Best of all, we learn for what we hunger. As for these leftovers? Once we heal, there is always an abundance of happiness to satisfy our hungry hearts. Sure, there are bound be leftovers, but our contentment gives us the strength to keep them in check.

Bon appetite, my friends. I offer a heartfelt toast to your healing!