When She’s Gone

I heard on the grapevine that my mother has been to hospital again, one of a number of recent visits, and scans have found ‘shadows’ on her lungs. These shadows can be indicative of serious diseases such as lung cancer, and heart disease. It occurred to me that she could die at some point in the near future. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if she did, given that one of her lungs is collapsed and she managed to drink enough alcohol to rupture her spleen. Is it wrong that I don’t think I’ll miss her when she is gone?

I have no positive memories of my mother, no happy moments, no birthday songs, and no loving hugs. Nothing. At best, I can recall a few neutral events. I ask for a Panda Pops drink at the corner store and she relents and buys it. After hours of crying for attention she finally relents and gives me something of a hug to shut me up. That’s it. Looking back on my relationship with my mother is like looking into a void, where the occasional bad thing appears, at least until I turn fourteen and then it’s all bad. I don’t know why my emotionally absent and neglectful mother, decided to become actively abusive. Maybe keeping her words and hands back didn’t benefit her anymore.

Death isn’t anything to celebrate and is often painful and messy. That said, when she is gone she won’t be able to hurt anyone anymore. Sometimes my mum pretends she is interested in making things up to my sister, the one who ran away down south, and then doesn’t turn up to meet her. At other times my 13 year old sister cries and worries that my mum will hurt her pet dog. The social services remind my dad  Bad things keep happening, even now. Is it wrong that I think my brothers and sisters will hurt less when she’s gone?

I can’t say I am happy that my mother might die, but I can’t say I am sad either. Honestly, I don’t think I am attached to my own mother. When she threw me out after I defended my dad, who she hit and strangled for months, I didn’t miss her. Not once. We haven’t spoke to each other for seven years and she tells her friends that she only has five children. When I look bad, I feel like she wasn’t there. I’ve told my dad, that if she ever does die, I won’t go to her funeral. Why would I? How can I say goodbye to someone who was never there? How can I celebrate the life of someone who caused so much hurt?

I don’t think that makes me a bad person.

me and the cat
The only picture of me and my mum together


How Child Abuse Liberated Me.

This post concerns how the experience of something very prolonged, multifaceted and negative can be transformed into a sort of psychological strength, or drive. Again, this post might be a little abstract.

Child abuse liberated me, because I have known a point wherein I had to do something, that is I was either going to kill myself or I was going to find a way to overcome its consequences. Back in 2013 I was very sick, much sicker than I am now, hideous, essentially poor, isolated and unable to conceive of how I would find happiness in a world that seemed to want to destroy me. I simply could not imagine how things would get better, when everything seemed only to rapidly disintegrate. It was then in the stairwell of a dilapidated tower block that a series of vague longings, I had long since had in a dispersed fashion, convoluted together to form a promise and a plan.  I promised myself that I would not kill myself without doing everything in my power to alter my situation and fate. Only after demonstrating that there was indeed nothing in the world for me could I allow myself the option of suicide. After considerable reflection I broke the different ways in which I was damaged into categories, assigned each category a year and order, and gave the associated year a title. Each year was made up of a series of main goals, broken down into subgoals and assignments. And, so it began.

I did many things, so many I cannot remember, in following my pursuit. There are of course the main things like arranging the funding for my dental implant in January, completing accutane, laboriously putting together a skin care routine, changing my diet, changing my oral posture and whatnot, but there were other things too. These smaller activities often resembled everyday life activities  that those who were not neglected as a child who were the around the same age as me, had been able to do for a long time. Generally I pursued my goals in isolation and with little to no input from others.

In pursuing my goals I was able to realise the latent strengths in myself, I was able to actively create my own practical strengths and happiness, and take control of my life. In a sense I was free to realise myself. In my isolation, enforced by both myself and the world, I found freedom from the rules and values of my immediate world. I was free to look at the world and see it in a way that may not be available to those who participate in it. I saw its contradictions and falsities and in doing so I liberated myself from some of the hold these falsities had over me. I saw that unattractiveness was not in fact an absolute barrier to the acquisition of love, and merely required a change in tactics. I used to believe that for my peers, ignorance was bliss. In fact the very reason they were ignorant, meant that they were unable to prevent and work around many of the negativities that affected them in their lives, which caused them continuous grief. In fact, they often experienced more everyday suffering and drama in time than me.

In the end I was liberated from many of the beliefs that haunted me and caused me despair. While, I am not immune to the affections of others, I became better able to manufacture of my own accomplishment, esteem and happiness. Because other people did not appreciate me, I was free from them, and from there I was able to create and appreciate myself. In defining who I wanted to be, and pursuing my hypothetical future self, I developed my own standards against which to weigh myself. My understanding of the ways in which I had been damaged, my analysis of my experiences, and my desire to know myself such that I could fix myself allowed for personal depth. I began to embody a sort of authenticity that in time became known and appreciated by others. Individuals began to see me as interesting, self aware, determined, resilient, much more confident and invulnerable than before. Humans tend to recognise strengths irrespective of their form. Soon I began to see myself as occupying a privileged position, of being able to view a rarely discussed,  rarely seen, facet of human existence, and use that experience to bare witness to different levels of human reality. The paradox is that the very crimes committed against me are to a great degree, the source of my strengths today.

In this sense, my ‘mother’, who I believe is a psychopath or a sociopath has ultimately failed. Her desire for dominion, ‘vengeance’, and willing victims, is partly unfulfilled. While she may have those who believe in her, despite the contradictions she makes, the lack of empathy she shows, and the impulsiveness of her actions, she has ultimately failed to crush those closest to her. Me and my father are ever growing in resources, health and confidence. Although damaged not a single one of her children have succumb to despair or believe in her. In the sphere of psychological dominion she has lost. She has failed to crush the spirits of her own vulnerable and dependent children. The cards she plays are slowly being used up, and the pillars of her power continuously crumble.

How Does it Feel to be a Neglected Child?

The physical abuse of children is a lot less common and talked about a lot more than child neglect, even though the consequences can be disastrous in either case. I have found very few personal stories concerning child neglect on the internet, and I hope today by trying to explain how I felt as a child, to help fill that void. This may be more abstract than you think, as though I am spreading the consciousness underpinning memories  out, and dissecting the associated cognition and experience.

In my earliest memories my ‘mother’ is either not there at all, or about to smack me for some infantile transgression. In one memory she is about to smack me for putting pennies into the vent gaps on a TV. I do not have a single happy memory of me and my ‘mother’, no where in my mind has she wished me happy birthday,  has she hugged me, or tucked me in, or said she was proud of me. I think she has complimented me regarding my appearance on a number of occasions, but I believe that the compliments were an externalisation of a way in which she is disturbed. That is to say, my ‘mother’ has a strange sort of sexuality, and that this sexuality sometimes extended to how she viewed her children.

She did not sexually abuse any of her children, but she did do things that were in inappropriate like taking her underage daughter shopping in a sex shop. When I was a child she would make comments regarding my ‘good figure’ which I thought were creepy. After  I lost my virginity she bought me a pair of earrings and congratulated me. She attempted pathetically to bond with me over sex toy catalogues at one point, most likely because my father threatened to leave, in part because she kept arguing with me. My dad saw my ‘mother’ as the aggressor and did not really see our fights as ‘arguments’ at all. One time I did something strange while we were shopping, I was about 7 years old, and I lifted the back of her shirt and stroked her back while she wasn’t looking. When she asked who it was, I said it was a stranger man, and she was pleased. When I was very small my mother committed a Class B sexual offence, as she had sex in front of me and my siblings. I was maybe 4 or 5 years old, and I remember wondering what she was doing. In my view my ‘mother’ is either morally blind and horny, or sexually disturbed.

So, any nice things my ‘mother’ said or did, did not seem nice at all. When I remember her, I see her living a life I was not part of, I see her walking past me, eating cheese in the kitchen, playing on video-games, and reading books. Because there was little interaction, my life seemed empty, and because it was empty there was neither a conceivable past or future. I wasn’t sad per say, and I certainly wasn’t happy, but I knew something wasn’t right. I was simply too young to figure it out. There were fleeting feelings of resentment, I knew something was wrong, and the adults that were supposed to fix things were not fixing it. I was confused by how different I was to the other children, I couldn’t quite verbalise it in my mind, and simply experienced shock at how different I was. I sort of knew that other children had better faces, were less sick, and had very different lives. At the age of 7 I came to the conclusion that my ‘mother’ was mean and bad. Before that realisation I already had a strong preference for my father. One time, at about the age of 3, I ran across a road in front of traffic to join my dad on the other side, and in doing so I ran away from my ‘mother’. I said I wanted to “be with daddy”.

In primary school I cried a lot. I cried because I wanted friends, I cried because I lost games, I cried because no one liked me, and I cried because I was different. I think I was really crying because of weakness, because I had come to exist in a form that people could not appreciate. In this way, I knew that I had become damaged because of the mysterious thing, that wrong thing. During school I was tired all of the time. I walked the playground endlessly alone, sometimes in circles, watching the leaves fall and feeling the wind on my face. I didn’t feel lonely, but the experience of being alone is remarkably similar to how it feels being a neglected child. Being a neglected child is like being trapped in a room with no understanding of how you got there, whether you will ever leave, watching yourself degenerate while being unable to stop it, and feeling that there is some ominous problem that you can’t place.

In my opinion the real pain of child neglect manifests later, in fact it is sort of like a delayed version of physical abuse. The physical pain comes from the subtle damages caused, that become apparent later, and way the world treats you because of it. The pain of the illnesses that afflict you, the physical decay that haunts your body, the anguish of the opportunities you have never known, and of those you never will. It becomes extremely visceral, most likely in adolescence. The feeling of anguish regarding what has become of your body and life is so great it cannot be expressed in words, it cannot be held consciously in your mind, and you can only cry. Those feelings of pain must be translated into forms that are containable like words and action, because there is nothing else that can be done with them.

In 2010, when I was about 15 years old, I wrote the following.

“I’ve long since adopted the concept that I must be a stone, cold, smooth and strong. Wrapped in a warped sense of apathy I edge towards you; a swaggering step and a solid brow. You should know you need to turn the world against me to dent this callus.

Mulling alone encased in the solitude of a lone shade on a summer’s noon, I wondered why if what words had left my mouth were false you still acted so deliciously defensive. Wetting my lips in a daydream I watched and listened. There she is. Trouble. You bring your army, who bicker and bitch below the ruckus you hear and await a bloodbath while wearing sadistic sneers. I grin into the heat. Hit me. A swarm of locusts consume the surrounding space then gnaw my mask like hungry rodents; cursing the air I breath.

Extraversion has been leaking from my pours since the first day of school, dirty and foolish. I was wearing my scabby knees, haystack locks and crumpled cloth carelessly. Strutting in my squalor. I once read that mothers and fathers keep their most prized, most beautiful, genetic material close; allowing the homely to wander into the mist. You have your priorities and I have my pride. Sitting with my swollen eyes, bloody knuckles and undeveloped mindset I fell into fantasy. I counted the gaps in the fence, collected the dry autumn leaves, dissected worms, traced patterns in the mud and hummed to the whistle of the wind. I am the lonely child, the taunted one with blood shot eyes who you buried in the snow and slammed into the wall.”

The Pets are Dead.

one of the many kittens
One of Panda’s many kittens.
One of Panda’s kittens called Jasper went to live safely with my previous boyfriend. Here he is being inspired by gerbils.
My 'baby' Whiskers. He cuddles up to me every night and follows me around the house affectionately. He lives happily with me and dad.
My ‘baby’ Whiskers. He cuddles up to me every night and follows me around the house affectionately. He lives happily with me and dad.
I found Sooty II starving outside The House, on a bin.
I found Sooty II starving outside The House, on a bin.
Starving Sooty.
Starving Sooty II.
Sooty II was moved to a temporary house a week after been found. He is safe at last.
Sooty II was moved to a temporary house a week after been found. He is safe at last.
Sooty II is safe
Sooty II is safe

My ‘mother’s’ cruelty was not just reserved for my father, or her children. It is more the case that it radiated out from her in all directions. This will be a brief post, and it concerns the direct and indirect pain my ‘mother’ has wrought on animals. It also briefly mentions the fate of the pets in the old house, and how my mother viewed animals.

In the old house, that is house where I was for about a decade, where my mother and father lived together since I was seven years old there were many pets. At one point we had either 12 or 13 cats and a dog. I’ll be talking about the younger pets, because I don’t remember too much about our first two cats, Sooty and Susie. At one point we had the following pets, cats including Chocolate, Sooty II, Panda, Patch, Socks, Tiger, and a dog called Toby. Most of the pets were young to sort of middle age by the end of our time at the house, which I will now refer to as The House.

Generally the pets were well fed, but infested with fleas, and worms. When I was really young and my siblings used to throw the pets and swing them about as part of an imaginary fairground for cats, we were not stopped, and I think we might have traumatised Chocolate some. Some of the pets, especially Sooty II suffered with some untreated skin lesions that oozed and caused bald patches. Note the word, untreated. Chocolate appeared to have some sort of mammary tumour, that was also untreated. My ‘mother’ was quite strange when Chocolate was in heat and would masturbate the cat, in a way that strikes me as mildly disturbed. One of the cats, Panda had a heart murmur and needed to be neutered as having kittens would overstrain her heart, however she was left unneutered. Panda had many litters, perhaps four or five in her short life as she had a docile demeanor and was a doting mother for her many kitten litters. She did not die during her pregnancies and births but it was a possibility all along.

My dad was generally at work, and the cleanliness of the house sort of depended on my ‘mother’. One summer the house was infested with fleas. Panda had two kittens at the time, both would have lived had the fleas been dealt with, but instead they bled to death.

Her kittens were generally given away haphazardly and were usually passed on multiple times between people in a concerning fashion. I doubt they were treated well in any case. My ‘mother’ gave many of the kittens to a friend, who in the end, kept none of the kittens in the long term for various obscure reasons. It was always the kitten’s fault, even though she had many of our kittens with their different temperaments , and never due to an incapacity to cope with the demands of ownership.

Toby, the dog was an overly friendly creature, who was utterly harmless. We were once burgled in the night, and Toby sort of rubbed up to the burglars, and licked them. They gave the dog a stroke and put him in the kitchen with the door closed. Unfortunately it is Toby’s  harmless nature that makes him a bit of a victim. My ‘mother’ reserved some of her direct cruelty for the dog, and would jam his jaws shut and kick him. Sometimes one or two of the children would hit the dog, and were allowed to do so. When struck Toby would yelp and cower under the sink. Later he would emerge at friendly as before I miss him.

Patch had her tail broken when it was accidentally slammed in a door, perhaps by me I was young and don’t remember, and it was untreated. The bone reset in a bent broken form.

Socks was my dad’s favourite pet, after Sooty died, and would follow my dad all over the place. He would jump to the curb and wait near where my dad parked his car after work, when the car was parked, he would jump on the roof and be stroked by my dad. He followed my dad to karate and into the dojo once, and had to be carried home. Sometimes he would partly follow my dad to the shops. As much as a cat can, Socks loved my dad. Weirdly, he once ejaculated on my dad after he sat down on the couch with a towel having been in the shower. My ‘mother’ attempted to use Socks as leverage to upset my dad. When she was abusing my dad, she would claim that she wanted rid of the cat, for my dad apparently loved Socks more than her. When my dad was made homeless by my ‘mother’, he was not allowed to see Socks, and my ‘mother’ apparently moved Socks away so he couldn’t see him again. That said, ‘mother’ attempted to use the possibility of my dad seeing the cat again as persuasive leverage whenever she wanted something from my dad.

Tiger, and a young cat or kitten called Whiskers, were procured from my ‘mother’ before her spleen ruptured and live happily with us. When my mother’s spleen spontaneously ruptured, and she went into a coma because of her alcohol dependency, the pets had to part ways. Panda, Patch, Toby, and Chocolate were taken away. Toby and Patch found new homes but the other two were put down in part because of untreated medical issues. It is also possible that Chocolate simply ran away, but I know that at least one of them died. Sooty II was not taken away, he was not caught, and I found him starving outside of The House one day when I was nostalgically passing by. He made strange strangled cries, he was choking on nothingness, his fur was brown were once it was black, his frame was disturbingly boney,his teeth sort of gnarled, and he had cuts on his nose and body. Sooty II was starving to death. Of course, I fed him, and with the help of a friend and volunteer at Cat Protection he was relocated to a sort of farm refuge. The journey to one the way stop houses was awful, we had to carry him in a cage, but he pulled up the base and had diarrhea which coated all the bars. We arrived covered in feces, having been asked by passersby whether we were animal abusers. Sooty lives happily on a farm with lots of other animals today. I am forever grateful for the actions of that friend. Socks was either run over or moved away. My dad was driving past one of Socks’ usual haunts and passed a familiar looking ginger corpse on the roadside. He didn’t speak for a while.

My mother did not love the pets so much, for the most part they were objects with utility, that proved to be of some amusement. She did not stroke the pets, or care for the pets, my dad fed the pets, and cared for the pets as was the case with the children. In other words my mother cared for neither child, spouse, nor pet.

A Statement of Intent.

My mother, by texting my sister and talking to another, has stated the following;

  • She would like to stop my father from seeing his children (they visit near every Saturday, and some of them stay over night)
  • She would like to take me to court
  • She states that she would like to stop me from seeing my siblings

This is because of my blog content, which she has discovered. In other words, individuals have found my Facebook page were some of my posts were previously linked, and notified my mother of the content. Or she has found my page herself despite supposedly blocking me. But, I am not denying that she has not blocked me.

Because there is no evidence stemming from an objective authority such as a solicitor or social worker saying that my blog posts must cease, there is no reason for me to cease activity. However should a valid authority tell me to remove my blog or specified content, I will do so graciously.

In the interests of all parties I have double checked anonymity, removed an image, and removed mentionings of some of my siblings forenames. I do not wish to make my mother identifiable or incite any harm towards her.

I have also altered my Facebook privacy settings and removed some of the post links for my psychological comfort.

However, I do not see why the person who abused me as a child should prevent me from expressing my perspectives on the internet. In continuing my blog I chose to exercise my right to free speech, and I am prepared to go to court to defend it.

That said, I would also like to apologise for any psychological distress this blog may have caused readers. I am not intending to cause problems or harm. I simply intend to express myself, to share my story with other people who have been abused, and make sense of my experiences.

I may in the end move my content to another blog, but that would probably not secure privacy as I will not delete content unless given impetus from a valid authority.

I will give my mother the opportunity to discuss and negotiate matters pertaining to the blog with me, via indirect means such as phone, email, text, or video call.

For now, I will proceed in creating my posts in a more cautious fashion,

Toys, Cakes, Child Neglect and Domestic Violence

When I was younger, I generally had just as many, if not more toys and games than other children. There was a great deal of treat food in the house too, the cupboards were generally well stocked. I think it is possible that when one social worker visited, she mistook how the children were pleased with their new shiny toys for a sign of domestic harmony and happiness. Most children from neglectful households stem from even poorer socioeconomic groups, and most likely had less material possessions than me and my siblings. So, how does this work, how is it that children with so many things can be neglected and emotionally abused? I would like to add at this point, that me and one of my younger sisters, if not more of us, have been inappropriately struck by our ‘mother’. But, physical abuse of children was not common in our household. No, my dad received the worst of my ‘mother’s’ physical aggression.

Well, unlike many neglectful households, we had a father and a nice one of that. He knew things are were very wrong, and knew that things were unsustainable, whilst also knowing what would happen to the children if he left my ‘mother’. My father tried desperately to financially support the household, as my ‘mother’ had long ceased to pay her way, and instead she spent a massive portion of our income on alcohol and cigarettes. She drunk so much that she managed to make her spleen spontaneously rupture after he finally decided to leave. If, you could call it that. My father was in a horrific situation, he was working increasingly absurd hours, driving home in a fit of exhaustion, doing his best to clean the house some, feverishly attempting to prepare the children for school, and scoffing down whatever was at hand, before collapsing into bed. It was worse too, as my ‘mother’s’ drinking worsened she became progressively more and more aggressive.

At some point she had started to mock him, to deride him, to walk into the kitchen where he was pushing down food and verbally abuse him. Perhaps she would call him selfish, perhaps she would confront him over the dire financial situation the house was in, or for some mysterious reason accuse him of drinking too much or cheating, both of which she was doing at the time. He was doing neither, of course. It was a slow process. In time she began to throw things at him. The children would put their ears to the floor and hear shouting, screaming, and the crashing of objects. Most of the children, some were only about 5 or 6, did not understand what was happening. Their voices were characterised by confused trepidation, “why are mommy and daddy shouting?”

Of course, it was only a matter of time before my ‘mother’ was striking and attempting to choke my father every night for months. Sometimes the children would walk downstairs in the middle of night, most of the time my father tried to defuse the situation, and told them to go to bed or they would get into trouble. But, sometimes, especially towards the culmination of the situation, the older children with their narrow tear stained faces would actively try and stand in the way of my ‘mother’ as to prevent her from hitting my father. It is a bit of a blur, but I think I remember my closest younger sister trying to push my ‘mother’ away from my father. When I stayed at the house, and usually my ‘mother’ would not allow me even though I technically lived there, I would to interfere as much as possible. She didn’t want me there, as I would require funding and care, which would detract from her alcohol funds. Whether or not that was the right decision, I do not know, my father was a martial arts instructor and so he was unlikely to be harmed. Surprising, I know. The older children and me might have actually caused my father further stress, because he was trying desperately to protect us from the reality of the situation.

On one occasion my ‘mother’ picked up a plank of wood, one of the beds was broken, and began to chase my father with it. I attempted to disarm her and called the police. They arrived and she sunk into her bed upstairs and sobbed uncontrollably saying she was depressed and drunk. The police did nothing. In trying to intervene during the abuse I was scratched, bitten, had my hair pulled, my limbs pinched and pressed, and had objects thrown at me. My ‘mother’ tried to strike me on numerous occasions but she did not succeed, either because of my father’s intervention, or because I outmaneuvered her. At one point she raised her fist in preparation to punch me in the head, and I sort of palmed her in the face  Some time later my father finally struck her back, he punched her a number of times in the early hours of the morning. Her eye was blackened and she seemed apologetic. They had strange emotionally charged sex.

The next day, I had stayed at my previous boyfriend’s house that night, I was on the phone to my father. He explained that my ‘mother’  had gone somewhere and not returned. He had had to pick up the children from school. While we were on the phone, there was a knock on the door, and I heard the voice of a police officer. My father did not hang up for he was soon handcuffed and I listened as he was taken to a police station. He had been accused of assault and domestic violence. My mother told our neighbors, her friends, and some school teachers that my dad was a domestic abuser and rapist. She said that my younger siblings were a product of rape. Eventually my dad was released from the station and he had nowhere to go. My ‘mother’ had been to a solicitor and had a restraining order placed on the house so he could not return. He was homeless, she would not allow him to have his property, and soon I was to join him. I visited my ‘mother’ and she told me that she had given my room away to one of siblings, when I asked where I was to sleep, she replied “not here” and went back indoors. She closed the door on me. I had dared to call the police regarding her, and I had fervently defended my father.

You see, the root of the matter is that my father did not want the children to suffer. While he was working my mother would essentially neglect and emotionally abuse her children. Sometimes she wouldn’t prepare meals, often the children were ill but uncared for, she would not interact with them, they were left to stew in squalor and filth, there were maggots near the sink, the pets had fleas and parasites, food rotted on the floor, parents evenings were unattended, and birthdays were ignored. The children wandered about the house with their hair infested with lice, with cavities, with their mouths hanging open, with infections, and raw  scratches. They were behaviourally defunct. My dad tried his best to remedy the situation, he took the children to the GP if he wasn’t working, he attended the parent’s evenings that could fit around his work, sometimes he would cook, often he would clean what he could, and he dealt with all the birthdays to the best of his ability. When I struggled at school because my language skills were essentially delayed, and I had emotional difficulties, he would work through my homework with me in the evening. He bought me books on science, chemistry sets, art sets, and unlike my ‘mother’ he was actually nice to me. I didn’t see him as often as I would have liked but I was always happy to spend what time I could with my dad. If my dad had left my ‘mother’ earlier, and I had not have hypothetically gone into care, I honestly feel that is possible that I would not be here today.

What is interesting is that the worse the situation became, the less money my dad had spare, the more he tried to give. There is sort of a positive trend between how elaborate our Christmases were and how abusive my mother was. I imagine that the toys were my dad’s way of apologising for the lives we lived, even though it wasn’t his fault. Strangely, when I was a child the more stressed I became with my ‘mother’s’ shouting at me, the more toys I destroyed.

The Confident ‘Two-Face’.

Hello there,
I have decided to go into more depth regarding the structural damage to my face, which means this isn’t going to be pretty. If you recall, and I hope you do, my mother abused and neglected me as a child. Consequently I lost some of my teeth, primarily on the right side of my face during puberty. For a very long time I compensated for the weakness in the right side of my face by using my left side. The consequences:

  • Loss of jaw length primarily on the right
  • Loss of jaw width primarily on the right
  • Loss of facial support primarily on the right
  • Migration and extrusion of remaining teeth primarily on the right
  • Loss of muscle tone primarily on the right
  • Loss of pressure, and therefore bone structure primarily on the right
  • Deviation of septum to the right
  • Eyes and nose appear strange due to lack of structural support
  • Complete loss of facial symmetry
  • Damage to left teeth due to compensatory wear

It follows that:

  • For some reason the middle section of my face (the maxilla) is at an angle, as is the roof of my mouth which slants down towards the right side of my face
  • It, the maxilla, is also further back in the right side of my face which makes it appear flatter
  • Additionally my upper and lower dental arch are narrower and flatter on the right side of my face
  • This is made worse by the inward slant of the teeth on the right because of the narrow arches
  • The narrow arches cause my front right incisor to extrude forwards more than the left

    dental extraction
    This image shows how the development of the face is affected by dental extractions.
nutrition and facial development
From Weston A. Price’s Nutrition and Physical Degeneration: It shows how nutrition in childhood can influence facial development

Yes, it is pretty awful. Absolutely it is a terrible that a mother would allow this to happen to her child, but is it really that surprising?

“In comparison to the general population, adults who were harmed as children are 103 per cent more likely to smoke; 43 per cent more likely to become suicidal; 103 per cent more  likely to become alcohol dependent, and 192 per cent more likely to develop addiction to drugs. And they are also more likely to become teenage parents, develop mental health problems, be obese; develop diabetes, cardiovascular disease etc; use more health and social care resources.” (The ACE Study)

The reality is that generally the strong become stronger, and vice versa. Disadvantages cluster in the population in certain subsets of people. As is the case with most ‘neglectful’ families, my family had a low socioeconomic status. Additionally but this is more the legacy of my family, my mother was abused on multiple levels when she was a child, my grandfather was a murderer, my grandmother is something akin to a pedophile, and my cousin is something like a prostitute. Like most ‘neglectful’ families the family was closed off, secretive and my mother is partly characterised by an inability to cope. But do not think she deserves compassion, for she is a sociopath if not a psychopath. I’ll explain another time. I would like to add that I have long ceased communication with my mother’s side of the family. I have not connected to them since the dawn of my adolescence. At the moment I live with my father, which serves to incubate me while I do my best to mitigate the damages. My father is an intriguingly intelligent man who makes poor decisions and has little assertiveness. He is pleasant but does not understand me nor want to.

In Psychology we learnt that  newborn monkeys separated from their mothers and other monkeys developed serious behavioural problems. They held themselves, rocked themselves, withdrew from all contact, had abnormal sexual relations and killed their own children.

Is it really that surprising?

So how bad is it? From the left, I look decent, from the front I look unattractive and from the right I look hideous. See for yourself.

The horror!  This is the part where you realise I wasn't joking about being mildly disfigured.
The left side.
THE HORROR! This is the part where you realise I wasn’t joking about being mildly disfigured. Essentially there isn’t enough bone or otherwise to support my lips, my eye, my cheek and my nose.
My face is May 2014, note the all inclusive asymmetry, lack of jaw, and how flat the face is.
My face is May 2014, note the all inclusive asymmetry, lack of jaw, and how flat the face is.
Here's a picture of me now.
Here’s a picture of me now.
As you can see, although my skin and hair is much improved, I still look very strange. Furthermore in bringing my mandible (lower jaw) forward, my face looks very long due to vertical jaw development.
I think my face looks fuller and less flat than it did in May, but progression is miserably slow.

I would like to state that this is not a ‘confidence’ post, I acknowledge how  very unappealing the right side of my face is, and so it should be, it is not supposed to be like this. Strangely I am not so disturbed by my unattractiveness. In fact in I think it is in a way quite appropriate, if you recall I have previously spoken about how my personality is a fusion of disposition and adaptive modification to extreme circumstances. I think it is fitting that I have two faces and two interlinked parts to my personality. This is going to sound strange but please understand, I am the hero of my own story and it is fitting that I should forsake many of life’s little pleasures in pursuit of a greater accomplishment. In fact I find it very interesting, for you see I have read that the development of different parts of your face corresponds to brain usage and development. The implications of this I cannot quite place yet.


  • My mild facial deformity is rarely noted in interaction, at least consciously
  • It has not prevented me from forming meaningful relationships, though it may have reduced the probability of this
  • My face has improved fairly quickly with modification to my habits
  • I am having a dental implant in my right lower jaw in January
  • I am also having endonasal balloon therapy
  • I may have dental arch expansion in the years to come
  • My wisdom are yet to fully come through, and they will help fill the extraction gaps
  • My wisdom teeth will push extruded lower molars forwards, which might improve my bite
  • There are still ways to modify my habits to a greater extent

I do not need to fear the damage. The reason humans have propagated so rapidly is because of their ability to deal with situations as they present themselves in an opportunistic manner. The solution is control and the idea that your face is fixed is illusory. Furthermore humans tend to appreciate goodness in all its forms. I see unattractive individuals in the street who are extraordinarily stylish and I appreciate that. I know individuals who are unattractive, insightful, and intelligent and I appreciate that. One key is to hold a realm of efficacy that others might appreciate you for.  However I also acknowledge that I am at a particular disadvantage being a slightly disfigured twenty year old woman. It is the case that I cannot calculate nor conceive of what I have lost because of my face. Additionally I know that much of the damage is permanent, but that doesn’t mean I can’t improve my face. In other words why should I fear, when the future is indeed brighter?

On another note there is a strange and quiet corner of the internet devoted to facial development in adults, where you will find images like this one.

This strange and daring human condones something called face pulling. Check out his website: http://www.jawpain-tmjtreatment.com
This strange and daring human condones something called face pulling. Check out his website: http://www.jawpain-tmjtreatment.com

Check these out, essentially the woman below was instructed on how to retrain her oral posture and facial muscles. After 2 years of practice she looks quite different.

before and after myo myo before and after 2 myo before and after 3

The capacity for human change is something I have held to since the beginning and I believe that is this determination that has allowed me to survive physically and psychologically. My ability to conceive of multiple possibilities and use a sort of logistical thinking has allowed me to create plans and complete them. So, I am in a sense psychologically blessed in that I have this sort of personality. It is merely time, resources and energy that separates me from getting what I want.

On a brief additional note I remember reading about how the length of the philtrum, the indentation between the septum and upper lip, is a prediction of facial beauty in a forum. I hypothesise that when the maxilla moves outwards as in face pulling of posture correction the philtrum appears to be shorter. This is because of additional tissue support. So, the forum members were really talking about how dissatisfied they were with their facial structures. Do you see what I mean in the different before and after pictures?

Do you remember how far I’ve come already?

My face in August, by then my face was quite clear. I still had poor oral posture and my face was still collapsing.
My face in August, by then my face was quite clear. I still had poor oral posture and my face was still collapsing.
December 2014.
December 2014. It’s winter, and my face is unfortunately super pale.