Impulse Control Disorders & Abuse

I was inclined to reseach the following after speaking to a friend about her childhood. I thought I had it bad when I was growing up; looking back now I didn't know what bad was. I'd like to thank my parents for working so hard to raise me and give me what I needed. I love you.

Below are essays which she wrote as a child. She is now 20 years old.

Aggression and violence are symptoms rather than diseases.
In the USA, a significant proportion of all violent deaths are alcohol-related.  Amphetamines, crack cocaine, and other stimulants are frequently associated with aggressive behavior. Phencyclidine (PCP) is a drug commonly associated with violent behavior,  due to lowering of the pain threshold. Please note that not all cases are drug related.  Impulse control disorders are characterized by physical abuse, usually of the aggressor's domestic partner or children, pathologic intoxication, impulsive sexual activities, and reckless driving.
Acceptance of  aggression leads to more, with the most severe aggression being murder—20–50% of murders in the USA occur within the family. Police are called for domestic disputes more than all other criminal incidents combined. Children living in these types of  family situations frequently become victims of abuse.


May 12, 1992, Age 13

While, on a typical camping trip with my mother and some family friends, my mother's new boyfriend made a
late appearance. Assertively expressing my disapproval to my mother of his unannounced intrusion, I was
abandoned at the campground, alone, overnight. As you read...note that the references to the calendar refer to the fact that I had no idea of the time...'chamber' refers to a make-shift shelter I made, hoping someone would find me.

Into The Night I Ride
In a swollen chamber I wait.
I wait and I watch the stars pass by,
Changing, moving, while remain still.
I follow my heart, even though my heart leads me nowhere.
Capture the light, follow the dreams…
No matter how elusive reality or happiness becomes.
 I pray to unknown Gods.
I plead to phantoms lurking in the shadows of my pain.
I know contempt well.
He rests upon my shoulder in a crowded movie
He sleeps in my bed, underneath my pillow
He whispers, softly and yet with force
Into the night I ride
On unicorns and caramel camels
Away to my castle in a Candyland with lollypop lakes and fudgesicle forests
I'll plant a purple rose and wait until spring, yet I have no calendar
I'll wait until the birds sing loudly and the rains bring green
Only now the wind is dry and the sun is hot against my neck.
Spring is far away, I think.
Then again, I have no calendar.
Snow falls next
Cold and damp
With ice on my face I will write
Until my hand can not move,
Or my eyes start to blur and the paper and pen flood together,
Together into an endless mass of confusion and frustration
Until the ink runs dry and the paper wrinkles from the snow
I will write until I can no longer distinguish the pen from the paper
And when I can write no longer
When the ink taints my hands
I will ride into the night
Into the night I ride
Gumdrops flood my path
Bitter to my travel, sweet to my taste
Isn't it ironic, don't you think?
I will take the shortcut
The road less traveled
The one that no one ever takes
So alone, so deserted, The road has no passengers
Watertaffy weeds inhibit my path
While black liquorice vines tangle my hair
I now understand why this road is less traveled
Only now it's too late I've already chose this path
I suppose I could wait for spring,
Only I still have no calendar.
Into the night I ride
Only now I must get back to the chamber
I must be back before the sun rises and the stars
Are destroyed by the sun's fury
Into the night I ride, chasing the dawn
Hating the dawn and scorning the sun
My unicorn vanishes into the clouds and fog
And my palace seems as far as the closest star
Now I am in place far from home,
Yet more familiar than any known residence
Here contempt waits for me
He greets me and welcomes me back
Gazing at the sky the stars are gone
They are no longer visible, no longer awake
Yet I know they are there, dancing under the sky
Carrying my dreams and my beloved home
They remain silent, and smile down at me through the light
The stars wait for me, and I wait for their return
In a swollen chamber I wait.

3/17/94... Age 15
Woke from a restless sleep to unwholesome activities across my corridor.
The horrors that are unimaginable to anyone- yet conceivable by most. I
have to stop caring about her. She will only hurt me in the end. She IS
evil. I'm sure of it now. No human being could do these things without
malice. How could you? Today is different. Yet in the scheme of reality it
is actually all too familiar. She has another man at the house. This time
he is some bum-literally, quite the step down from the Marine of last
quarter's escapades. . This…all…in my house. When I opened the door once I
arrived home, the stench was unbearable. It smelled like a dead animal only
worse- an accompaniment of body odor and cigarettes littered the air. I
wonder if these smells existed in the real world. Or perhaps these we just
icons of my imagination. My subconscious visioning this smells of disgust
to illustrate my situation. I have to clean. I feel so dirty. I have to get
everything clean. I need to get bleach, comet and the soap….
God, I just want to die sometimes. No, no- I just want her to die- which
could be seen in context as a part of me- unfortunately. And it isn't
sometimes like how I used to think when I was a child. Now, I want her to
die all the time. It is like I can't stop wishing it enough. And then I
think- Oh God. I am going to wish and hope and pray that she is going to
die- and what if she does? Would I be able to escape guilt? Would I be able
to cope? Would it then be my fault? I would be willing to take that chance.
I would be willing to prefer her die and to compensate for it all later.
Instant gratification? Maybe I'm just 14 and this is a teenage phase of
parental contempt…or maybe it's that I'm through with this lifestyle. That
the prospects of life out there…in the real world are less abridging than
those that wait for me here. Maybe loneliness is in fact a virtue. A virtue
which is muffled by such ideals as instant gratification. At this point I
am willing to try anything. MI Alma, MI cortazon, toda miya se duele mal. I
am in pain and I need to find my virtues. Virtues which are scarcely seen
here. Te J'amie ma grandmere. Allons y...si vous plait

 

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