Recent posts
#2
Ideas/Tools for Recovery / Re: FREE Excellent Online Yoga...
Last post by Kizzie - Today at 12:06:21 AMWow indeed! Tks for this Armee 
#3
Recovery Journals / Re: Post-Traumatic Growth Jour...
Last post by HannahOne - January 26, 2026, 11:53:22 PMThere's something profound about stepping into what you know and need when what you know and need is adequate compost to grow a garden!
#4
Recovery Journals / Re: Post-Traumatic Growth Jour...
Last post by TheBigBlue - January 26, 2026, 11:47:23 PM 
#5
Recovery Journals / Re: The tipping point…
Last post by Chart - January 26, 2026, 09:52:53 PMThank you everyone, thank you so very much. I'm back at work today. It's hard, but peanuts compared to Cptsd.
The Alan Schore video helped me "see" the baby I was. Incidentally, I'm wondering at the possible under-estimation of preverbal trauma... It's not even repression... the memory systems just don't exist. So, seeing the extent of toxic behavior, it's conceivable that that toxic behavior was in function from the get-go, that is to say from birth. Toxic parents aren't going to "wait" until the infant is more fully developed to start their toxic shenanigans... Anyway, maybe not exactly my place to "suggest"... Everyone's experience is unique. The idea's a can of worms actually... Sorry, I'm tired.
In-utero to age three/four... attachment... unconditional love.
There's no substitute.
I didn't have safety.
My boundaries weren't anyone's particular priority...
Love? My older sister was happy to have me as a friend. More and more I'm coming back to that fact. That's not nothing. My sis... she sent me a video today, of her, digging her car out of the snow... I joked with her... Please be careful with the ICE... Come to think of it, it's not a joke...
The Alan Schore video helped me "see" the baby I was. Incidentally, I'm wondering at the possible under-estimation of preverbal trauma... It's not even repression... the memory systems just don't exist. So, seeing the extent of toxic behavior, it's conceivable that that toxic behavior was in function from the get-go, that is to say from birth. Toxic parents aren't going to "wait" until the infant is more fully developed to start their toxic shenanigans... Anyway, maybe not exactly my place to "suggest"... Everyone's experience is unique. The idea's a can of worms actually... Sorry, I'm tired.
In-utero to age three/four... attachment... unconditional love.
There's no substitute.
I didn't have safety.
My boundaries weren't anyone's particular priority...
Love? My older sister was happy to have me as a friend. More and more I'm coming back to that fact. That's not nothing. My sis... she sent me a video today, of her, digging her car out of the snow... I joked with her... Please be careful with the ICE... Come to think of it, it's not a joke...
#6
Recovery Journals / Re: Living As All of Me
Last post by HannahOne - January 26, 2026, 09:36:29 PMTalking to my therapist about making a morning routine.
I get up. Get the kids breakfast, pack their lunch, get the dogs breakfast, the rabbit breakfast. Walk the dogs.
What about your breakfast? What would you like to eat? the therapist asks.
Oatmeal, eggs, I say.
And what to drink?
Water, I say.
Water, ok, she says, and coffee?
I don't drink coffee, I say, the last thing I need is more anxiety.
Ok she says, juice?
I don't drink juice.
How about tea? she says. Tea is nice in the morning, nice and warm.
Ok, ok, I say, I'll have tea.
!
!
!
!
!
I start to laugh. I'll have tea? I laugh hysterically until I cry. At the least pressure, even in complete safety, I cannot not give in. Sure, I'll have tea. Bring on the tea.
*******
I hate conflict. I don't want to argue. How many times have I said that to her? I hate conflict. I don't want to argue.
We have a big snow where I live. It's rare. It's beautiful. It's triggering. My kids want me to come out with them in the snow. "Nope! Mom doesn't like snow." I watch from the window briefly. When I was a kid, building a snowman would often devolve into a snowfight. It ended with me red faced, face down in the snow, mouth full of snow, his hand on the back of my head. For too long. He always had to win. The winner takes it all.
One day we walked miles in the snow to skate, because driving was impossible, and because it would be fun. Huge flakes coming down, my snow pants creaking against themselves, trying to walk in his steps as the snow was past my knees. I was exhausted and freezing, but terrified to keep up. He couldn't carry me, he had his hands full. We got to a small pond. I collapsed into the snow to rest. The tree branches were heavy with snow, bending down to touch the surface of the frozen water, also covered with a foot of snow. He began to shovel the snow off the pond. He never tired.
It was silent. It seemed we were the only two people in the world. Time slowed down. Big flakes falling. Would it ever stop snowing? Would the world ever reappear? If I screamed, would anyone hear? What if the pond wasn't fully frozen? If he fell in, what would I do? It would take me an hour to "run" home in snow past my knees. He made his way to the middle of the pond. "Please don't!" I screamed. "Are you crazy?" he yelled. "It'll be fun!"
After a time a clearing was made and he took off his boots and put on skates. He seemed like a god, hands behind his back and gliding along on the reflection of the slate gray sky. He called me out to the middle of the pond. My stomach sank. I didn't want to argue.
If I died, I died. There was no alternative but to go. I had only my boots, and slipped and skittered to him. Would I fall through? Was it solid? I couldn't trust him to know, couldn't trust my own feet. I grabbed onto his mittened hands and he pulled me along, skating backwards. Thrilling, terrifying, surreal. Everything with him was thrilling, terrifying, surreal. Always the manic high, and the stomach sinking feeling.
I question myself. There are different perspectives. He was unaware of how scared I was on the ice, or just knew better? Wanted me to be brave, tough. He thinks he is generous and kind. He could've been watching TV instead of taking me out in the snow. And I didn't fall in, did I? Did I? No I did not. He would never put me in danger. Would he? The ice was solid, if it held him, it would hold me.
It's a no-win situation.
I'm ungrateful. Hysterical. Shame to keep me small and quiet, to make sure I don't argue, to keep my words stuffed into my throat, melting away like snow.
***
Ok, ok, I'll have tea.
My acquiescence kept me small. Shame and fawning allowed me to survive many storms. Fighting only led to being held down longer. Refusing only led to being dragged. He was going to take me out on the ice whether I was tired or not, had skates on or not, and he was going to spin me around until I was dizzy whether I cried or not. I know this.
Because I wasn't an adult who could speak up, negotiate, or refuse. Or scream.
Because he thought it was fun, fine, that I was tough, brave, that he was kind, good.
Yet I excoriate myself. I hate myself. I hate that I'll agree to drink tea because my kindly therapist wants me to have something more than just plain water, wants me to think about what I want, wants me to want it and take it. Wants me to win, win the morning at least. Wants to win me back to real life where things are solid under my feet and I know it, where I'm not walking on ice cold water, where I can walk across the kitchen floor and know it's not going to give way, can take my time to make tea instead of grabbing water and running back to bed. Wants me to know I'm somewhere that someone will hear me if I scream. That screaming could be brave, too.
I get up. Get the kids breakfast, pack their lunch, get the dogs breakfast, the rabbit breakfast. Walk the dogs.
What about your breakfast? What would you like to eat? the therapist asks.
Oatmeal, eggs, I say.
And what to drink?
Water, I say.
Water, ok, she says, and coffee?
I don't drink coffee, I say, the last thing I need is more anxiety.
Ok she says, juice?
I don't drink juice.
How about tea? she says. Tea is nice in the morning, nice and warm.
Ok, ok, I say, I'll have tea.
!
!
!
!
!
I start to laugh. I'll have tea? I laugh hysterically until I cry. At the least pressure, even in complete safety, I cannot not give in. Sure, I'll have tea. Bring on the tea.
*******
I hate conflict. I don't want to argue. How many times have I said that to her? I hate conflict. I don't want to argue.
We have a big snow where I live. It's rare. It's beautiful. It's triggering. My kids want me to come out with them in the snow. "Nope! Mom doesn't like snow." I watch from the window briefly. When I was a kid, building a snowman would often devolve into a snowfight. It ended with me red faced, face down in the snow, mouth full of snow, his hand on the back of my head. For too long. He always had to win. The winner takes it all.
One day we walked miles in the snow to skate, because driving was impossible, and because it would be fun. Huge flakes coming down, my snow pants creaking against themselves, trying to walk in his steps as the snow was past my knees. I was exhausted and freezing, but terrified to keep up. He couldn't carry me, he had his hands full. We got to a small pond. I collapsed into the snow to rest. The tree branches were heavy with snow, bending down to touch the surface of the frozen water, also covered with a foot of snow. He began to shovel the snow off the pond. He never tired.
It was silent. It seemed we were the only two people in the world. Time slowed down. Big flakes falling. Would it ever stop snowing? Would the world ever reappear? If I screamed, would anyone hear? What if the pond wasn't fully frozen? If he fell in, what would I do? It would take me an hour to "run" home in snow past my knees. He made his way to the middle of the pond. "Please don't!" I screamed. "Are you crazy?" he yelled. "It'll be fun!"
After a time a clearing was made and he took off his boots and put on skates. He seemed like a god, hands behind his back and gliding along on the reflection of the slate gray sky. He called me out to the middle of the pond. My stomach sank. I didn't want to argue.
If I died, I died. There was no alternative but to go. I had only my boots, and slipped and skittered to him. Would I fall through? Was it solid? I couldn't trust him to know, couldn't trust my own feet. I grabbed onto his mittened hands and he pulled me along, skating backwards. Thrilling, terrifying, surreal. Everything with him was thrilling, terrifying, surreal. Always the manic high, and the stomach sinking feeling.
I question myself. There are different perspectives. He was unaware of how scared I was on the ice, or just knew better? Wanted me to be brave, tough. He thinks he is generous and kind. He could've been watching TV instead of taking me out in the snow. And I didn't fall in, did I? Did I? No I did not. He would never put me in danger. Would he? The ice was solid, if it held him, it would hold me.
It's a no-win situation.
I'm ungrateful. Hysterical. Shame to keep me small and quiet, to make sure I don't argue, to keep my words stuffed into my throat, melting away like snow.
***
Ok, ok, I'll have tea.
My acquiescence kept me small. Shame and fawning allowed me to survive many storms. Fighting only led to being held down longer. Refusing only led to being dragged. He was going to take me out on the ice whether I was tired or not, had skates on or not, and he was going to spin me around until I was dizzy whether I cried or not. I know this.
Because I wasn't an adult who could speak up, negotiate, or refuse. Or scream.
Because he thought it was fun, fine, that I was tough, brave, that he was kind, good.
Yet I excoriate myself. I hate myself. I hate that I'll agree to drink tea because my kindly therapist wants me to have something more than just plain water, wants me to think about what I want, wants me to want it and take it. Wants me to win, win the morning at least. Wants to win me back to real life where things are solid under my feet and I know it, where I'm not walking on ice cold water, where I can walk across the kitchen floor and know it's not going to give way, can take my time to make tea instead of grabbing water and running back to bed. Wants me to know I'm somewhere that someone will hear me if I scream. That screaming could be brave, too.
#7
Recovery Journals / Re: Living As All of Me
Last post by HannahOne - January 26, 2026, 09:08:18 PMSanMagic7 
I can't grow even weeds. Thanks for the support!
PapaCoco, your experience is very interesting. I had not thought of it like this: "But when we cried out for help and our caregivers either ignored us or hurt us, then the natural flow of energy to our survival mechanisms were pinched off." That's it, a flow of energy is blocked.
With the horse it was all about getting them moving, trotting, so the energy could move, even though moving often led to exploding at the end of the rope, bucking kicking galloping. After a time, the trot would become more rhythmic, the head would drop, shake the neck, snort.
I am trying to move more, physically move. And also move through the world, try on outfits, try things out, try talking, try writing, try cooking new things. Trying to get the energy moving after about five years of not moving, hunkering down, freeze. Trying to help that flow of energy complete the circuit.
I can't grow even weeds. Thanks for the support!PapaCoco, your experience is very interesting. I had not thought of it like this: "But when we cried out for help and our caregivers either ignored us or hurt us, then the natural flow of energy to our survival mechanisms were pinched off." That's it, a flow of energy is blocked.
With the horse it was all about getting them moving, trotting, so the energy could move, even though moving often led to exploding at the end of the rope, bucking kicking galloping. After a time, the trot would become more rhythmic, the head would drop, shake the neck, snort.
I am trying to move more, physically move. And also move through the world, try on outfits, try things out, try talking, try writing, try cooking new things. Trying to get the energy moving after about five years of not moving, hunkering down, freeze. Trying to help that flow of energy complete the circuit.
#9
Recovery Journals / Re: Dalloway´s Recovery Journa...
Last post by SenseOrgan - January 26, 2026, 06:46:09 PMCongratulations Dalloway. For receiving the compliment and really letting it land. This is very brave. You can only see the true face of the neglect/abuse by your own mother if you connect with the little one. I'm very sorry you are feeling the heartbreak now, but I am cheering you on for finding your way back to yourself. That compliment wouldn't have landed if you hadn't worked up to this point. It hurts to get what you didn't get as a child. That happened to me for the first time not long ago. The contrast is very painful. There isn't only pain on this side of what was dissociated. This is also where your strength and dignity are. Much respect for going there Dalloway!
Much love [especially to the little one]
Much love [especially to the little one]
#10
Recovery Journals / Re: Post-Traumatic Growth Jour...
Last post by SenseOrgan - January 26, 2026, 05:55:59 PM
Papa Coco
Thanks for sharing that. It's awful to feel so ashamed that even stepping outside feels dangerous. It's been like this forever for me. I'm tired of it. I'm sorry this is your reality too. HUGS back atcha my friend
HannahOne
Yes, the nervous system does this under perceived threat. Sometimes I feel like I have a bit of a choice in going along with it or not, other times it's overhwelming. It's the former moments I'm after to use to my advantage. Like just happened today.
Marcine
Rarely have I felt more validated and supported. Thank you my friend. The allure to standng on that other leg is strong. Good
Much love right back atcha.sanmagic7
Yes, this takes persistent small steps towards a new normal. No problem. I'm not a revolutionary. I'm an evolutionary. Thanks for sharing that intriguing experiment. That's learned helplessness taken to the extreme. I think our version can be deadly too, to be honest. Albeit less overtly.
I'm not sure if I had that insight after somthing started to shift in me or the other way around. In any case, seeing this clearly almost feels like I have no good reason to hide myself in interaction with others. There's something about that visual representation of that change triangle that's lovingly relentless to me. Am I going to keep hiding, or am I going to inhabit my rightful place in this world? It has to be the latter. I owe it to myself.
A few days ago I got a mail from the community garden. We could order compost. There was a limited quantity. First come, first served. I rushed to fill out the digital form. Hesitated a bit with the amount I needed, since it's a significant chunk of what's available. Is it greedy? I didn't change the amount. That whas a bit of a hurdle to take in my mind. But it felt good too. This is the amount I need for the way I kick off a garden. Considering the amount of compost that's offered, that's not what people seem to do around here. But I do.
Today I verified if the amount was granted to me. It turns out I got only half of it, because I was just in time for the last bit. And the person asked me to consider if I even need such a big amount. So clearly I'm doing something that wasn't expected. I felt an impulse to make do with what was granted to me. Then changed my mind. I wrote an e-mail in which I said I'd like to have 3 extra m3 of compost delivered to the terrain, and asked if that could be done using their contact. I went on to say that a proper layer of compost is the backbone of the no-dig method of gardening I have good experience with. And that a start like this will be well worth it for me, especially with soil that's filled to the brim with weed seeds. I didn't fawn. I owned what I know works and how I want to do this. No apologies, no shoving me aside myself, no regrets. It's like I shifted gears and stepped into the person I want to be. Am, without toxic shame.