Words, I struggle with words. My coping mechanism was invisibility. As a child I was a master of invisibility. My siblings hated me for it. I had it easy. I was invisible.
I want to speak up, but can't. I was not permitted to speak unless spoken to, and so much as a crack in my voice could have been taken as insubordination. I'm 33 years old, and still cannot voice my opinion, not even that, often I don't even REALISE I have an opinion until hours later.
I want to journal my memories as they come to me. I think the urge comes from a deep feeling of wanting to believe myself, my own brain. It was real.
Today I was flooded with a memory. (TW)
My brother, a year older than I. He had many problems, he had asperger's syndrome (I may as well). My mother bullied him relentlessly, called him terrible names, and one day he snapped.
He ran away, and my parents called the police. They hunted for him with dogs into the night, and found him hiding in a field.
I was hiding in my bedroom peering through the crack in the door (we were not permitted to close doors, not even bathroom doors) when there was a knock at the front door. I peered from down the hall.
My father opened the door, the police officer had my brother by the sleeve. The officer asked if my brother shouldspend a night in a jail cell to teach him a lesson, to which my father grabbed my brother, threw him down and began kicking him in the stomach. The officer said to my father, well, I see you have it from here. My father said yes, and closed the door.
I hid, I didn't sob as not to make a noise.
After that my brother was locked in a room for two years.
I realise I am getting less articulate.
I don't know why the amnesia wore off now, today, but I know this event impacted me deeply. It taught me that no one would save me, that what was happening was normal, that I was a sissy, and simply overreacting. It taught me not to trust people, especially not police.
I'd like to think I have mostly healed from those thoughts, because I have had more trusting interactions. Maybe that's why I am remembering this now. ...But today I feel dizzy, and sick to my stomach, and can't tell my husband why.
What a horrible experience, for both you and your brother. That should never have happened. That is just terrifying for a child to witness. Your sense of safety was completely demolished. Not even the police was safe. Maybe you can try to breathe a little, to help cope with this memory having come back, or some other soothing activity. You are very brave for putting words to this.
I am struggling with words too. Shocked and mortified at your father's behavior and the police officer's reaction. Terrifying.
Thank you for taking the time to read my extensive posts. I appreciate any feedback.
The memory; The memories always come with a TW:
I was emotionally detached from my primary caregivers for as long as I can remember. I learned that if I didn't cry, flinch, or fight it, it would stop. My brothers fought back, which gave validation to our parents. Seeing my brothers in distress meant the punishment was working, and you don't stop something that is working.
I, being the youngest, having had the most observational evidence, never cried in pain, I just fell limp and waited. Not a murmur. This caused my mother to get creative for my punishments. The worst of my abuse was psychological and emotional.
My mother loathed me, thought I was secretive, and that my face alone was reason enough for me to deserve reprimanding. She knew how to break me.
She often punished me for things my brothers did, and when I pleaded my innocence she assured me with a smile that she knew all along who had actually done it.
She started getting creative about the time I started kindergarten, age 5. The first time, when my mother was feeling particularly ruthless, she pulled me off the living room floor where I slept in the night, and called two of my brother's in from their bedroom. My mother turned to my third oldest brother (brother A) and explained to him that I hadn't properly finished my chores, and because I hadn't properly finished them, my brother (b) would require a beating. She forced me to watch as Brother A happily beat Brother B to an acceptable degree on my behalf, while my mother laughed about it not even being illegal.
I cried.
Because I cried, this became standard protocol. She learned that to really hurt me, she needed to hurt others. So she did.
---
Your experiences sound horrific, Bermuda. I'm so sorry you went through that.
That was really cruel of your mother. How anyone can deliberately and willfully want to hurt a child in that manner is beyond me. I'm so very sorry that was how she treated you. :bighug:
Obligatory TW, a short story and recurring dreams:
This is the story I was told, and it presents as a memory, but like many of my memories, I can't be too certain about which parts are true.
This part I do not actively remember. I was told I was potty training, and while my mother and aunt were in the kitchen having a coffee, I came out of the bathroom at the top of the stairs with my pants down asking for help wiping. Then, I remember falling down the stairs. I was bleeding, my vulva was ripped.
My aunt accused my mother of child abuse, and called the police on my mother. I had to be examined. This sort of thing happened on at least one other occasion, but my aunt is not particularly trustworthy either. I have a scar.
The dream: As a child I had this recurring dream that I climbed the same staircase banister and gracefully dove off like a swan. It was both a peaceful and terrifying dream.
I am the sort of person who tears paper into little bits, folds napkins, or doodles while talking to people. As an adult, maybe 13 years ago, a roommate pointed out to me that I seem to doodle the same person who appears to be falling off a mountain. Oh, I said, and looked. I guess I had never noticed WHAT I was doodling, but I explained she wasn't falling, but that she was rather flying.
The second dream:
As an adult I have had this reoccurring dream. Something terrible is always happening, and someone wants to hurt me. I manage to escape wherever I am in the dream, once outside, I run at as steady a pace as possible, spread my arms, and try to fly away. It's always a struggle, and I don't always get high enough off the ground. Sometimes I get high enough to glide for a moment.
Someone is shooting at me. I am struggling, exhausted, and someone is shooting at me.
I wake up, and try to imagine a different ending.
Two posts in a row, I know. The topic of dreams is like opening pandora's box.
However, very different scenario.
I startle very easily from sleep, don't sleep deeply, have very vivid dreams, and sleep walk.
As a young adult my life was very stressful, and I had very unhealthy coping habits, as most people with cPTSD can relate to, which led to more night terrors.
Sleep walking to me is strange, it's like being awake, but you see what is really there with kind of an overlay of imagination, like a double exposure of reality and fiction.
One early morning I had a night terror. I was sleeping on the floor in the living room, and my roommate was sleeping on the sofa. I jumped up thinking someone was in the flat, and ran to escape the person chasing me. I woke up after climbing a fence, I was outside, the sun was up, and I was wearing only my underwear.
I ran back to the flat door, the door was LOCKED. I panicked thinking my roommate locked me out. He opened the door, and told me he had awoken because he had heard the sliding screen door open.
In my sleep, I had jumped off a second story balcony into a bush, ran, climbed the fence by the pool, and climbed the other fence to the main street out front. ...All in just a thong... Even typing this it sounds unbelievable.
I was MORTIFIED. I was SHOCKED. I thought I was completely cr*z* (I no longer use that word.) My roommate was super supportive at the time, meanwhile I was questioning whether I should be institutionalized.
I told no one, and we ignored it. Nothing so severe has ever happened since.
Sounds terrifying and exhausting.
Yes, notalone. It's sometimes terrifying to know what we are capable of, and especially the things we cannot control. I rarely feel shame, but I felt deep shame and fear.
My secret life:
For the past couple of days I haven't had access to my memories. When I try to think back on anything, my mind goes black. I once felt that unlike most cPTSD sufferers I remembered everything, but that's at least recently not the case.
I'm getting older, and the pervasive memories are locked up somewhere with the looming threat of surfacing at any time. But now, in this moment, I hardly existed *then*.
So, instead of sharing a memory, I'll share a thought and feeling. I'm not sure this requires a trigger warning, however I may reference religion. This post may also be all over the place, and far too long.
I was very sheltered. I travelled a lot growing up, was not permitted to engage with other children, and was taken out of public education at around 11 years old. Although well-traveled, I had very little knowledge of the world aside from what I was told of it. To me, the world was evil and dangerous.
My only time out of the house was for church. I never believed in God, but was fascinated by the concept of religion. I went to church wilfully, although I always stood out. My family used religion to mask abuse, and spoke openly about this while at home. My parent's had a team of supporters to offer them guidance on punishments for their unruly sinful children.
I absorbed a lot of messages about what it means to be born female. A man's job is to blindly obey and serve God, and a woman's job is to blindly obey and serve men, and a child's job is to blindly obey and serve their parents. The umbrella effect, as it's called.
I was taught to marry as a teenager, and produce as many children as possible. From age twelve I attended classes to prepare myself for life as a wife. I remember being showed a video. It showed tribal 'biblical' life, and how a woman who is pure, serves her husband, and keeps tidy, is a woman worth more cows, and a woman who can be traded for more cows means a family that can provide for more children of God. Anywho, at this point I was already only worth a chicken at best.
Now onto the actually story I want to share, because I never have.
As an adolescent I lived in a fantasy world. I couldn't escape my home, so I simply imagined a different life. Not in a day dreamer sort of way, but in a full creating a new existence way. I made it habit that when I was locked up, or hiding, or before bed, to continue the story of the world that I had created for myself, and to create a new day. In this world, I had a boyfriend, his name was Angel, who protected me from my parents, he was far older than I. We were deeply in love, and he ran away with me. He was a famous musician, and everyone wanted him. In this world, he cared about only me, and we didn't care about the world. We had a baby that we took on tour together.
I am sharing these things together, as I feel like they belong together. The really unhealthy dreams of a child who is trapped and has learned nothing of the world, and the world she was really in.
It's an uncomfortable thing to write about.
Non-traumatic memory
It's always those little things that catch you off guard and remind you that you are different... That I am different. I prefer to sleep on the ground. Nothing weird about that.
The story:
It's much more of a trigger when other people notice my quirks and point them out in good humour. As a (half) functioning adult, I had quite the learning curve.
I was dating someone when I was 22 or so, and we had woken up in the morning together and I had gone into the bathroom to brush my teeth. He pointed out to me that it is weird that I took so little toothpaste and spat into the toilet.
I looked puzzled and said, well, I don't need more, and spitting into the toilet is more sanitary. My insides were churning.
I learned it was weird that I wasn't permitted to use very much toothpaste, and that I wasn't allowed to close doors, or spit in the sink, and being restricted to two sheets of toilet paper, also weird. His simple observation, came at me, and changed my world.
Not an exaggeration. As a child I didn't realise I lived in an abusive home, and as an adult, all it took was a few observations from people to realise that it wasn't just me.
I spit in the sink now, just so you know.
(If anyone can relate, I'd love to hear stories. It happens to me ALL the time, and can really send me into a spiral.)
I also didn't realize until I was an adult (and it was really only within the last year that by brain was ready to recognize it) that I grew up in an abusive home. The abuse I was experienced was emotional and psychological so it was hard for me to realize it wasn't ok (other than I always felt like garbage about myself and didn't understand why). Reading your post I thought of one moment where I was telling a coworker about my parents reaction to some plans of mine and he said "That doesn't sound very supportive." In that moment I realized that my parents had never acted very supportive so it wasn't anything new but it was a shock to hear someone say my parents should be supportive.
I'm still working my way through this experience. It hurts me a great deal to acknowledge abuse in my past. I wish I had realized it sooner so that I could have worked toward healing sooner. Yet it is also empowering to have this understanding of myself. It explains a lot and I hope I can one day accept that this wasn't my fault and that I am worthy despite the wounds from my childhood.
Quote from: Bermuda on June 22, 2020, 10:53:58 AM
As an adolescent I lived in a fantasy world. I couldn't escape my home, so I simply imagined a different life. Not in a day dreamer sort of way, but in a full creating a new existence way. I made it habit that when I was locked up, or hiding, or before bed, to continue the story of the world that I had created for myself, and to create a new day. In this world, I had a boyfriend, his name was Angel, who protected me from my parents, he was far older than I. We were deeply in love, and he ran away with me. He was a famous musician, and everyone wanted him. In this world, he cared about only me, and we didn't care about the world. We had a baby that we took on tour together.
I am sharing these things together, as I feel like they belong together. The really unhealthy dreams of a child who is trapped and has learned nothing of the world, and the world she was really in.
It's an uncomfortable thing to write about.
Brave to share this. Your fantasy was a coping mechanism. Brilliant.
Rainydiary, thank you for sharing. It's such a struggle when what we're told about abuse in school and on billboards doesn't reflect what our abuse actually looks like. Emotional and psychological abuse is also often not taken seriously, or recognised at all, and as I wrote earlier in my journal, it was the WORST.
I hope the world changes, and that definitions of abuse are also broadened. Sexual abuse is also not only physical contact, and physical abuse isn't always hitting.
Maybe my next post will be a bit of rant about that. :blahblahblah:
Thank you Notalone for reading my story. That makes me feel more existent.
So, I wrote a long ranting post. It made me feel very uncomfortable, and somehow vulnerable, so I deleted it right away.
It's easier to explain how I feel by sharing stories rather than feelings. And although it had stories, they were just snippets, which makes me feel dishonest or misleading.... And being told that I am lying is something that has happened a lot in my life, that's maybe one reason why I tend to over explain. ...Which also comes across as rehearsed, AKA lying. There is no winning. This is another reason why I wonder if I am autistic like my brother. Too much eye contact, too little, too much emotion, not enough, not looking at people's faces, wringing my hands, crossing my arms... I don't know how to convey honesty, or anything else to people, so I focus on articulating myself properly... Which, as I explained, is a loss... Then everyone will only try to interpret my words with emotion rather than the actual literal meaning behind the words. ...
Anyway, I deleted the post. It made me feel ill.
I still cannot access my memories. Which is fine. Somehow I feel oddly obligated to write something, so I'm rambling words out into the void.
A story, which is too complicated to share all the details of, which relates to my feeling of inability to express myself.
I was kicked out of home as a teenager. My mother was controlling and manipulative. She had told me my whole life that she would kick me out, so I was prepared for it. When it happened, I left, emotionless, cold, unmoved. That was not my mother's plan, she wanted proof that I NEEDED her. She needed that power over me. She wanted me to beg.
I lived on the streets, which was amazing. Eye-opening, freeing, the best time I had had in my life. I met people, other homeless kids, we looked after each other. Someone I met wanted to see where I had lived, we went by my old house, with no intention of stopping by.
I had been homeless less than a month. The house was empty, a for sale sign out front. I later found out they had moved to another country.
Meanwhile, harassment. This is really it's own topic, there were some truly horrific things that happened... But there was a lie about me, and a private investigator looking for me. I couldn't have any normal life, a home, a job, for fear I would be found. I feared for my life.
My mother had me listed as an underage missing person, I was not underage. She started a FB campaign phishing for information on me, and a YT channel as well. All with this lie that I had been a runaway, and that she feared I could be in danger. Any time I applied for a job, this came up.
I have spoken to lawyers, and reported the content, but I can't get it removed. Lawyers won't work on the international case because of the specific country they were in.
The point of the story, my mother posted a video around Christmas, and my husband and I saw it. In short, it said my father had died.
We went on, I didn't cry, I felt like I was supposed to, but I didn't. I felt weird to bring it up to anyone. How does anyone just interject such a thing in conversation, especially if they're not mourning? So, the next day we went to his family's for the holiday weeks, and it was never mentioned. No one knows, no friends, no one.
My father is dead.
**[Edit] That ending sounded dramatic. I'm not saying this for attention, not that I think that seeking attention is bad either. I also think I may sound sociopathic, and I'm not. I feel a lot of things, but sympathy for *them* is not one of those things. I'm writing it, because I feel the urge to exist. I want my story to exist.
It was shocking to read your parents had moved to another country, when you went by to see your home. It was bad enough your mother threw you out. But that on top of it, that's just adding additional abandonment on top of all the other trauma.
I'm sorry for the loss of your father. For the father he never was and should have been. This stuff is really tough.
Thanks for replying owl25. It feels good to know that someone knows, and that someone read my words. I just want to tell you that I have also read yours. I didn't comment because it was too hard for me to find words. It must be hard for you right now, and I hope my story wasn't triggering. I hadn't considered that before posting. I don't want to project my feelings onto you, but I agree.
The loss of the parents I never had is something I mourned while they were both still living, and something I will probably mourne every holiday, every family themed commercial, or major milestone in my life that I achieve alone, despite them.
...But maybe death can be closure. It is truly over, and they have lost. Their power is gone, their money, their leverage.
CPTSD is all ghosts.
QuoteEdit] That ending sounded dramatic. I'm not saying this for attention, not that I think that seeking attention is bad either. I also think I may sound sociopathic, and I'm not. I feel a lot of things, but sympathy for *them* is not one of those things. I'm writing it, because I feel the urge to exist. I want my story to exist.
Bermuda, thank you for sharing your story. I'm sorry you had to go through that. I'm sorry you were abandoned but as you' suggested it sounds like it was for the best.
I don't think you sound sociopathic at all. I can relate. When I initially started therapy, I thought I was a sociopath. I was devoid of emotion. No joy, no happiness, maybe anger but mostly complete apathy. I always found it disturbing. During my childhood a lot of people in my family died. Not once had I shed a tear. Even for my own grandmother and grandfather whom I was close.
Even in the moment I found it odd but I could never let the sadness come in. I know it's a slightly different circumstance but I guess what I'm trying to say is I understand the feeling.
Thank you Buddy9832. I also went through that phase too. For me, I think it was actually a deep dark long term depression. My emotionlessness was just desperateness, grabbing at anything trying to get myself out of the dark hole. Perhaps it looked like sociopathy at the time. For me it changed when I *finally* got a break of luck and my life stabilised.
It's only these topics, these things are unmoving. I can't live a normal life and give power to them, to that.
It's ok you didn't reply - we do what we can at any given moment. There are enough members here for someone to respond to any given post. Your story wasn't triggering to me, so don't worry about that. CPTSD is indeed all ghosts. We need to transform them somehow, I think by grieving the past, and somehow building up a better life now.
I am exhausted.
I say that a lot. My son was born two months early, so we lived in the hospital together for a while. Everytime a nurse came by and asked how I was, I replied with, "Exhausted." They always gave me sceptical typical German look of "Oh, c'mon!" and wrote it down in their notes as if to warn the head doctor that I may have post natale depression. What a bother. I didn't then, nor do I now.
I'm just exhausted. Life is exhausting. Motherhood is exhausting.
I'm exhausted.
I still don't have access to my memories, and it's becoming uncomfortable. I don't think I've ever had an amnesia cycle (just made that term up) that has lasted this long before. It's uncomfortable.
I wrote in another thread about being inconsistent. I am so inconsistent. I have this feeling like I am surfing a wave. When my body and mind are cooperating, I'm like wonder woman. I *know* not to take any moment for granted. I am able to accomplish anything and everything... And then, crash. So quickly as the momentum built, it ceases, and it's like being thrown forward off a surfboard that's crashed into a rock. My body hurts, locks up, I get sick, and I get tired. All in very real ways that seem random. It could be a spider bite that turns into a massive blood infection, a cold that turns to pneumonia, unexplainable arthritis that leaves me unable to bend my leg, oh, and my personal fave, bleeding intestines. Always the bleeding intestines.
Sarcasm helps me cope.
I'm crashing. Things were going so well, and my body is crashing. I can feel it. My hands and feet start getting pins and needles in midstep, and I get stomach cramps.
And I'm exhausted.
The worst part is when you always have something wrong with you (c-PTSD, autoimmune disease), no one is there for you when you are unwell. Maybe the first time, or even the tenth time, but not when it's persistent. Love really is conditional.
I only lived in the hospital a month, and if the nurses were not required to ask, I'm certain at some point they would have just stopped.
No one wants to feel burdened by the feelings of others.
I have no memory. I feel concerned about it. I also feel sick to my stomach, and exhausted.
So there.
Taking care of young (or any age) children is exhausting. They need you constantly. Add to that the physical issues you are dealing with and cptsd . . . wow. That is so much that you are carrying.
:yeahthat:
Diddo! I can sympathize and I feel your pain, child care can be beyond exhausting. I have a 2.5 year old who is wonderful but always testing the waters and a 5 month old. It's perpetually tiring. I'm sure you are doing the same thing, just trying so hard for them not to have the life that I had.
I can also relate to the riding the wave though usually I don't get an physical ailments. It's definitely cyclical though I can't predict it. There are highs wheee everything seems in sync and then the crash.
TW despair: I have so many feelings. I don't know how to articulate them. I don't know if I could say things balanced, because I don't want to try to just 'get my point across', I don't have a point. I would want be fair to the situation. So, I can't talk about it, because I can't do that. I cannot be fair.
I am confused. I don't know what to do. I don't know if everything is my fault or not. Sometimes I wish I could erase myself, not death, but really erase that I existed.
I feel trapped. I always feel trapped. I feel small.
Sometimes I lay in the dark on the cold closet floor and imagine that that's it. There is no me in the world, no eyes to see through, and world never saw me.
I know I am fine, everything is fine, but I don't know when everything isn't fine.
I'm not meaning to sound cryptic like an angsty teen. I'm not eluding to anything either. I am just confused, and probably unwell.
I can without a doubt say that everything isn't your fault. Feeling like it all is is part and parcel of CPTSD. We blame ourselves because if we're at fault, that means we can change things. I'm sorry for what you are experiencing right now. I think many of us here have experienced similar feelings. It sounds like you are feeling really overwhelmed. Do you by chance have a therapist to talk to?
I found trauma therapy compounded my issues. My therapist made me feel lots of things, but better was not one of them.
Judged.
This weird feeling that she was projecting, and trying to make my symptoms fit an existing profile. ...Her pressing assumption that I have outbursts of rage really got to me, since in reality I have trouble being angry, ever. It causes me real issues navigating the adult world.
Unsafe.
Self-doubt.
Cynical. My therapist was always focused on my feet being firmly on a pillow on the ground. (I'm petite, my feet don't touch the ground while seated.) She had Buddhist paraphernalia, and a 'calming' fountain.
She always made me remove my shoes, sit, and wait for her. I paid her 50EUR an hour, to wait for her to have time to make sure I am sitting properly...
She never asked anything directly, aside from how my week had been, and therefore she actually never knew anything about me. I think she couldn't be bothered, and found it easier just to collect money and leave me in a wreck.
...
So, now I'm in a new country, and must get a referral from a general practitioner first, but first I have to get a general practitioner. I'm interested in EMDR, but am a 33 year old wife, and a mother of a young child, and a full time university student. I don't have a year of my life to dedicate to 'recovery'.
Without me, no one eats.
And like most CPTSD liver-withers, there is no support system. Any support my husband had wore off at least five years ago.
So, I live secretly trapped on the inside while my physical self is trapped on the outside, albeit differently.
My therapist didn't like me to speak of my brain and body as if they were separate entities. *Add that to my list of complexes.
I appreciate you sharing these thoughts - the list of words you shared about your experiences with therapy resonate with me. I found therapy to make me feel worse too especially for the amount of money I was paying. Also they just became another voice in my head putting pressure on me that I didn't need. I think it is ok for that to but be a good fit for us all.
I appreciate all that you are doing for yourself and for your family.
That's tough Bermuda. I've had issues with therapists in the past as well. Similar to you, part of it was a trust issue, he didn't make me feel comfortable. I felt like the T was just trying to earn a paycheck and wasn't vested in helping me heal.
I expressed these concerns to my psychiatrist who I built trust with. She was able to find a T that met my needs. I hope you can find one that will be a good fit but I certainly understand it's difficult spot to be in. It's tough essentially putting your healing on the line in hopes of finding a T that is a good fit.
It's been a while, I know. I am so busy. I am currently in University studying International Human Rights Law. I'm on break now from a lecture discussing statelessness.
I broke down. Of course, we talk about a lot of very sensitive topics, and a lot of us studying are people they hit very close to home with, that being said...
It hurts, and I feel ashamed that people can read my upsettedness. It's difficult to be human, and be objective.
I never thanked those who replied up there for replying. Thank you. Even if I don't thank you at the time, I am thankful. It's hard for me.
Someone over the weekend asked about my life. I'm not used to being spoken to at all. I was supposed to be studying over coffee. I paused, and asked her if it was okay if I went on, and that my story is very unpleasant, and that I don't want to bring her down. She said that she really enjoys listening to people's stories, if I did't mind telling it, and so I spoke. I don't mind speaking. I always want to tell someone. It's like my life is secret I have to keep sucked inside of me to protect myself and others from my truth.
Afterward, I feel a lot of self-doubt and vulnerability. I do not have friends, as I had explained to her, I never really learned how to do things that other people take for granted, like maintain a friendship. We were getting along well, and I hope that talking about myself didn't ruin it, at least not until after I have mastered Swedish prepositions and learn more about these strange Swedish gnomes that like buttered porridge.
When I wrote my first post on this forum, it was about isolation. Sometimes I wonder if all of my posts will in some way be about isolation. I am isolated by my silence, by that will which was thrust upon me, and by my own voice. I feel segregated from society, and I speak so desperately to be heard, and my very words are the things which make me so unrelateable, like a wedge between myself and others. Even reading over this THE WAY I speak is odd. This is not how others speak.
I probably sound lonely and desperate. Which I have always been.
I wrote about my trauma here, because I want to tell people. People who don't know me. People who are anonymous. People whose reactions I cannot see. I want my story, that I feel is my entirety to exist publicly, at least in some minute anonymous sort of way.
...I was going to type that it would also be nice to know someone, but then the thought of it made me shutter.
I know this journal of memories hasn't had memories in a while. One of the stories I shared, that this person had asked about are the things that led me to realising that things weren't normal. I talked about a very benign incident of disobeying my parent's wishes, and doing something that was very normal, going to someone's house, not having any terrible things happen to me, and returning completely unnoticed.
The thoughts you shared around friendship, loneliness, and anonymity really resonate with me. They describe my experience too. In many ways it helps me to know that there is another person (and probably more) that feels that way too and wouldn't expect me to act or change myself. I often wonder if given my history if I can overcome the deep feeling that I am alone. I am sending you a wish for ease as you find your way.
It seems I delete more of these than I don't delete. So, it's very likely I will delete this.
Rambling:
I don't want to share too many details of my situation, but I am not at all a child anymore. Despite this simple fact, my childhood is still following me. I mean this in the most literal sense. I have people who I haven't seen or spoken to in nearly two decades that are still trying to intrude in my life. Legal avenues have failed.
The technique that they're currently employing is seeking forgiveness, which is in no way to be construed as an admittance of guilt. I see it as a way to mirror their guilt and shame and a way to gain power. I admittedly haven't read much on this topic, and it (forgiveness) hasn't been anything I would consider. I don't believe in forgiveness as a concept. If I did, I may not be alive today. I also realise that their choices have been shameful. As an adult, I realise that there is no amount of manipulation someone could do to make me trust a parent whos children have no contact with them.
But now, here I am, not making any considerations for those who haven't for me, but just contemplating the idea. What is forgiveness? I am perfectly justified in the wall I have built to protect myself, and now that I am a mother, if anything that wall should be built even higher to protect my son. I don't want him to get any secondary affects of my trauma, or primary, if they had their way.
The lengths I have gone to protect myself are great. I have gotten comfortable. I know logically, at this point and at this time, I am safe. I am physically safe here. ...But I feel still deeply violated, and I feel violated by the intrusion into my life. If someone cannot see how these actions are violating, than they to not deserve forgiveness, because they haven't changed. My chilhood would playout again the exact same way.
What do I have to do to be free of it? Forgiveness is not the answer. These are not the things that will haunt me in my old age.
Hi Bermuda, I'm sorry to hear it that's tough. I'm no expert on forgiveness, I definitely have a long way to go on my journey to be at that point. I suppose the way I've looked at forgiveness is in if it would serve you? Obviously your son and you are the priority. Please take what I say with a grain of salt, but if forgiveness is an avenue that will eventually let you heal then that's one consideration. But if it will only bring you more pain and suffering then perhaps it's not in your interest.
Thank you buddy for writing me. I think I am just confused about what forgiveness is. I think growing up in a certain religious environment has made me think of forgiveness as an act, a conscious thing that you do.
...But then I think of my husband, and I forgive him for things he does unintentionally, or that he genuinly feels remorse for, of has at least some reason or degree of understanding why things were wrong... These things do not apply to my former life situation.
That being said, if forgiveness is just passive and not an action then I have no forgiveness to give, because my past is not something I am dwelling on. It dwells on me. Haha, CPTSD is a funny beast.
I am irritated at the constant reminders, and the constant effort I have to put on that make me unable to lead a normal life. I had an employer post a bio of me with my CV on a website once years ago, and I had to explain why they must take it down immediately. That's just one of several examples I could have used.
But I am not mourning anything. I am not in agony over having a terrible life and being thrown into the streets as a teenager. I am happy. My current state isn't enough to exonerate the wrong doings of others though. I haven't moved forward enough to move backward, if that makes sense. ...And there can never be a low low enough to make me step backward either.
When she said she never wanted to see my face again. I just said with resolve. "Ok." There was never a bond to break. That is why I say it is not me who will suffer in old age. I am not burdened, and don't feel the urge to unburden those responsible either. That's not anger or malice. To unburden the narcissist is to empower them to hurt others. The should carry a shadow of doubt and shame with them.
That was a really long explanation, and I totally understand that it is a lot to read and a bit of a tangent. I guess I just really want to talk about my feelings right now, and don't have any other outlet. I feel confused. Even the people who are the most predictable confuse me immensely.
I want to post about my feelings.
I've been having a difficult week, as it seems everyone is. I feel bad for posting so much on this forum. Subconsciously it seems I've been trying to reply to others rather than focus on myself. I haven't been posting here because I have a deep fear of embarrassment and not being replied to, and I don't want to steal anyone else's attention.
...I'm having a hard week. I think I put on a good face for the world, and I've gotten through it. I don't know where to begin... Last year the male person who created me died at around this time, it didn't really effect me then, except not telling anyone. My husband's family don't know much about my life except that I grew up in an abusive situation and it just doesn't seem like a normal thing to interject into conversation. So, I never did. This year, the other person who aided in making me has found me, and is trying to scare me. My husband is the only one who knows, because how would I even tell a friend that casually? I would sound completely ...different. I don't have anyone who has known me my whole life, or even from back then... So, no one knows. Other than that I traveled to Germany this holiday to be with my husband's family, they haven't seen their grandchild in ages. I messaged someone that I was here and asked if they wanted to get together and they got really angry and accused me of being the reason everyone is dying. I lost a friend a few days ago, which leaves me with one.
I spent a day crying in secret. I've been feeling very physically ill. To be fair, I need to go to the doctor to get hormone medication altered but the thought has caused me so much anxiety, because every time it's adjusted my body has a two month adjustment period. I don't have two months to lay around in pain.
I said I would talk about feelings and didn't. I feel like a ghost. I feel like I always feel like a ghost, although that's probably not true. I say the same things a lot of this forum, I feel like a broken record... I'm so lonely, and I don't know what it feels like not to be lonely. I just want to whisper all the terrible details to someone. I want someone to get emotionally invested in things just because I am. I just want to fully exist as one person, with real passions. I want to have a personal style, and ambitions... But I'm just a ghost.
I am beginning the process of legally changing my name again. The name is quite random that someone on a forum thought of for me. I quite like it. My birth name was quite the family scandal, and it holds a lot of baggage. Maybe this is offensive to say, but I've always referred to it as my slave name. Whenever anyone says it it makes me feel nauseous and anxious. I took forward to something with no significance that just sounds nice.
That was long, but I think I managed to cry out all of my feelings into useless mutterings.
Bermuda, I’m glad you were able to post. And know that I’m sorry you’ve been having a difficult time, my heart goes out to you :hug: You’re not taking up space or stealing attention, you deserve to be here on this forum with your own place to share. Every comment is your own, and everyone deserves to share their story.
I know how lonely it can get (although we’re in different situations with different pasts). I know the feeling of just having someone that will listen to you and emotionally be there for you. I wished for that my entire childhood, but never got one. Only now do I have some, but at the end of day, they will never replace the emotional need and support I needed when I was little. That is something that cannot be filled.
I wanted to congratulate you on starting the process of changing your name, that is a big step towards your well being :) I also understand your feelings of “being a ghost”, and having nothing for passions, it’s a horrible feeling when you feel so hallowed out. But sometimes I find that my inner critic exaggerates and makes me feel that anything I say is needless, which is not true. You might feel like a broken record, but what you say always has meaning behind it. And so a reason to exist.
Sending you my support and care, and hugs too (if it’s ok) :hug: :hug:
P.S. You don’t have to be self conscious of posting too much, this is a place for people to share their stories buried inside, and anyone can do it as frequently or as little as they like. :)
Thank you Marta. Your words really meant a lot to me when I read them. I was so touched I was unable to type it out. :grouphug:
Trigger Warning: Violence and the "R" word
I am in full retaumatization mode. I have been doing really poorly since the unexpected intrusion into my life from my abusers, that coupled with this time of the year, changes in my routine and everything else... I am only functioning at a very basic level right now.
I had a terrible terrible dream last night. It wasn't a dream, it was a night terror. I woke up having to vomit with my brain running through all the ways I should of/could of changed it, reinstilling all of my CPTSD behaviours.
The dream: I was a child in a large outdoor covered auditorium in a field where there were other auditoriums. The auditorium was filled with childen from my school year, and the other auditoriums with children in other grades. We were listening to presentations from our teachers, and I was eagerly sitting at the very front taking notes, trying my best to not miss anything. The teacher who was presenting suddenly stopped and checked her pager (those were a thing once), she looks up at us on the risers and said in a very serious tone that there were a group of people with guns who were about to come in, and that we should do anything they say or they will shoot us. I was stoic, watched the reactions of others, and just a second later five or so armed gunmen came in, and they started handing out tasks we had to do, some chemical work, and some electrical. Some students were really panicing and unable to do their work and I just happily took mine, and starting doing the electrical work I was assigned without having emotional attachment to it. I finished it first and smiled as I handed it to the gunman who gave me the project. He smiled back, and after that he took notice of me, and gave me extra work to do. It was at this moment that I realised that I was helping to construct a series of small explosives. I thought about the other gunmen who must be in the other auditoriums, assessed that there was nothing I could do, I continued my electrical task. I noticed that some other people had been given dummy tasks that would never actually work, I couldn't think of why but I said nothing. In this moment, two young boys came up and without saying anything handed their project that they didn't even start back to the gunman and turned to walk away. The gunman looked down at it baffled and lifted his gun and shot the two boys in the back of their heads. I watched emotionless as they fell, and I looked around at everyone elses emotions, and then I smiled at the gunman as he handed me yet another project. As other people in the auditorium started panicing and the other gunmen circled, I thought that there must be police in the area, since the teachers were able to page eachother, and nothing bad had happened to them...
At this point I woke up.
This dream has really made me feel ill, and I think it describes my CPTSD brain so well, even in my panic after waking I was thinking of ways I could have escaped, things I could have done better... People pleasing is very often a theme in my night terrors. I use manipulation of the attacker to try to escape, or to lessen the situation. Ex: It's not rape if I pretend I enjoy it. They're not beating me if I don't cry in pain. If I help them, they will not see me as someone to harm. (I realise this is not true in real life, but this is how my dreams often work.) It does emotionally bring me back to being a child, and having to use these strategies to cope, because escaping was not an option, and I would have taken love and appreciation from anyone who would have given it to me. I would still be in the front row of the auditorium, working hard.
I just wanted to write this dream out. My dreams effect my daytime life a lot, they mirror eachother.
Quote from: Bermuda on January 04, 2021, 12:45:22 PM
It does emotionally bring me back to being a child, and having to use these strategies to cope, because escaping was not an option, and I would have taken love and appreciation from anyone who would have given it to me.
Those were things that you had to do to survive. Amazing that as a child you were able to have those thoughts and behaviors in order to make it through. You absolutely needed love and appreciation. Heartbreaking that you didn't receive what you needed and deserved. Bermuda, please be kind to yourself and bring yourself what comfort you able to; hot tea, soft blanket, safe T.V., stuffed animal, music, etc.
My mood has been all over the place lately. I don't really know how to describe what I am feeling today. Maybe the current situation leaves me feeling uncertain. I wish I had plans and goals, and right now life just feels like treading water with my eye's closed. I need things to anticipate.
The other day I hade an intrusive memory while brushing my teeth. I guess I should feel happy that I had a memory at all. The memory caused me lots of strange feelings. I was deeply saddened, and it effected my mood as well as my body the whole day. Rationally, it seemed like if I told the story to someone it wouldn't even sound like a big deal. Somehow to me it was a very big deal.
The memory as always comes with a trigger warning. It relates to shame.
Backstory: I never had many major moments of disillusionment as a child. I never believed in magic. I was quite possibly the most cynical toddler one could meet. I was however terrified of my parents. When I was four my mother was teasing and patronizing me and I replied with, "But there's no such thing as Santa." It seemed like the logical thing to say at the time to prove I wasn't stupid. I was wrong. My mother started first by laughing, and then punishing me, and then she made me go outside and followed behind me, made me knock on all the neighbour's doors, and tell them one-by-one that I didn't believe in Santa. I was mortified and did this while sobbing of course as she stood from afar watching.
This memory triggered a host of other memories along the same principle of public shaming and exhibition all the way up until I was homeless actually. This was one of my mother's cruel and unusual punishments which was very effective on me. I would crumble. Her favourite, I would beg.
These memories are very confusing for me. They're so troubling because I can't understand it. My mother did a lot of horrible things motivated by her own narcissistic objectives, but what does a mother gain in this case? Did she truly just want to watch me in pain? To weaken me?
I suppose I just answered my own question. This forum is helpful. :yes: It worked, I mean the hurting me to weaken me. I was terrified of everthing and everyone. I had crippling social anxiety, and I still struggle with this now to a lesser extent. I also don't attempt social interaction, so that helps.
...I feel snarkier than I usually do today... :Idunno: Thanks in advance to the replies that I will probably be late in saying thank you for, but they mean I lot. I would really like to hear if anyone else went through this kind of abuse.
What happened to you had a major impact on you. Your memories and your feelings are significant and worthy of care.
TW, this memory is especially sensitive in nature and deals with mature topics.
At this point I've shared a lot of my story, but mostly my childhood trauma. Unfortunately for many of us the trauma we experienced as children sets us up for trauma as adults. For me I have written vaguely about my time homeless, and I also write about being stateless, and I wrote about being coersed into military service but then deleted that post because it felt too personal. This is an adult memory that takes place somewhere between homelessness and military service.
Backstory:
When I was homeless, I met lots of other homeless youth. We helped each other out a lot. One person I knew had a car and would occasionally let me sleep in the car with her. She gave me a pair of socks, which was a huge deal at the time. One day she told me that she used to be a bartender at a strip club and wanted to try to get her job back and asked if I wanted to go with her. Me, being niave and sheltered was really curious. So, she let me borrow something to wear and I went with her. I just kind of walked around while she spoke to the manager. I had never been in a bar of any kind in my life.
After a while she came out and the manager asked us both to come in to the office. He said angrily at her that she could only have her job back if I stripped. She cried and looked at me. I didn't want to be a stripper. I told him that I looked like a 12 year old boy... I had no idea that was a marketable asset at the time. I felt obligated to help her because I didn't want her to be homeless. It took me YEARS to realise that was a set-up.
I wouldn't get any other job. I still couldn't have a place to live or anything else normal because I was undocumented. I worked there for a considerable about of time, and made "friends" with the managers.
The memory:
One day a manager from another branch was hanging out at the place I worked. I was sitting in the office chatting with all the managers, and he asked if I wanted to go to the neighbouring city with him and see what it was like and just hang out and after closing up he'd drive me back. I thought it sounded nice, so I said yes. So one morning he came and picked me up from the club I worked at, and drove me an hour and a half away to this other city. We walked around a shopping centre, we had absolutely nothing in common. He was trying on expensive perfume and gucci shoes and I was generally uninterested in shopping. We had ice cream, and then in the evening we went to the club he managed. Of course, in hindsight I realise he was probably trying to buy me things as some sort of leverage.
I just hung out at the club, and after closing up and counting the registers I sat at the bar with the general manager who had invited me and the floor manager, we were drinking and chatting, everything was completely normal. It was the middle of the night and the floor manager said he was going to go pick us up some fast food, also hindsight here, this was a set up. The general manager called me upstairs to where the office was, and when I got to the top of the stairs he grabbed me and attempted to pull me onto his lap onto a chair grabbing at my inner thigh.
I managed to get away, ran down the stairs, out the fire exit, across the parking area, and hid between two giant rubbish bins. I hid there for seemingly ages. I heard the general manager searching for me, and the floor manager did not come back for probably two hours. I watched him pull up and talk to the general manager. He didn't have food.
I had my phone, and when it felt safe I quietly called a friend in the city I lived in. He drove in the middle of the night to come get me. By the time he picked me up the sun was up and I had been hiding between these rubbish bins the whole night.
I told no one. My roommate was the only one who knew what had happened. I returned to work the next day and went on as usual. About a week passed and while I was working, the general manager from the other branch came in and was talking to the manager at my branch. I went up to the manager at my work and told him in a very serious tone that he needed to ask the other manager to leave and that I couldn't tell him why right now, but that he could not be there. The manager did not like that, and eventually I raised my voice and said, "You need to kick him out, he tried to rape me!" So, that manager then told the manager of the other branch to leave. The next day the district manager showed up, and asked me to come into the office and explain what had happened. I told him, and showed him the claw marks on my body. My hypervigilence is like a superpower, and I told him that the cameras would have caught it, because there was a camera on the bar that had a mirrored backdrop that faced the stairs and also a camera on the emergency exit. It would have confirmed my story. His response was, "I looked for the videos, but they're somehow missing, but you're not the first person that has told me something like this about him." "Are you going to sue, what were you even doing there after hours?" I said, "Of course not, I'm not stupid, I need this job, I have nothing else." I knew with absolute certainty that if I had gone to the police, an undocumented stripper, who had been drinking after hours, in a club, with two men, in a city I didn't stay in, that only bad would have come of it. No one had to tell me that.
The general manager later told me that both managers never showed up to work again after that happened, that they never said anything, they just never came back. Months later they start showing up where I work again, and I know they were working the same jobs. I ignore it for the sake of professionalism and keep going on like nothing happened.
That's the whole story. This memory was triggered while I was with other students and the conversation went in the direction of feminism, rape culture, and consent. It's hard for me to participate in these conversations. My only imput was that sexual assault is largely under reported because it's just one part of a much bigger issue.
Sometimes I have mentioned that my CPTSD has saved me from real life danger. This was absolutely one of those times. I had super human strength, speed, and was already completely aware of my environment even though I had been drinking and had never been there before.
This post has been so long, so I don't want to reflect on this memory much, I'll let it speak for itself. :yes:
Bermuda, I read what you shared. It makes me sad.
Thank you notalone for reading my really long post. It means a lot to me. I'm sorry that it may have upset you. It is upsetting. I understand that now.
:hug:
Memory and realisation.
Today I was sitting down with my toddler before school. He was watching videos on my phone. I was playing with his hair and found some crusty food in it so I started gently picking it out. I noticed his hair looked quite dry so I grabbed some lotion and his little hair brush, put some lotion in his hair and starting combing it through gently. After the lotion was spread out evenly I set the hair brush down on the bed.
My little one immediately, without looking away from the screen, passed the hairbrush back to me and patted his head to tell me to keep brushing. I smiled and said, "Aww, that's sweet, so many people love getting their hair brushed. I never really liked having my hair brushed."
That's when the memory struck me. Parenting is really triggering.
Backstory:
I was never taught anything related to personal hygiene or grooming, but was rather simply expected to do it, and when I didn't do it well enough or when my mother was feeling unkind, hair brushing was something that was used as punishment. My son's hair texture is ultra fine and delicate, fluffy, and dry. It's like candy floss/cotton candy. I imagine my hair texture was much the same when I was little. My mother has very straight oily hair. She complained often that my hair looked like I lived in a pigsty and I was the pig. When I brush my hair, it does not get flat and smooth, and one cannot simply brush through dry, fine, fluffy hair. It just doesn't work like that.
The memory:
One time we were on a roadtrip, I was maybe 6 years old, and we had stopped to have breakfast at a restaurant. After ordering food, my mother suddenly looked at me disgusted, tells me I look like a street urchin and accuses me of not having brushed my hair, grabs me by my hair and pulls me out of the restaurant. Everyone's eyes (I thought at the time) were on me, I was so ashamed. She pulled me to the car, and preceded to forcefully brush through and rip out my hair while I am crying in pain.
The realisation:
This happened so many times. My mother also complained about her hair regularly, saying she wished she had curly hair, and yet she hated me. She hated everything about me. My face, according to her, made her sick.
Now, as an adult, I don't like being touched and have kept my hair shaved or in a men's cut most of my adult life. I've never been lovingly groomed, not even by myself.
That's a horrible memory Bermuda, I'm sorry. It is great that you are doing so much better than your mother did though, despite it being triggering. Good job! :)
A very sweet moment with your toddler, although sad that a flashback intruded.
When you told about the restaurant, my thought was that the people were looking at your mother with shock at the way she was treating you. Of course as a child you thought they were looking at you with judgement.
Quote from: Bermuda on March 09, 2021, 09:03:27 AM
Now, as an adult, I don't like being touched and have kept my hair shaved or in a men's cut most of my adult life. I've never been lovingly groomed, not even by myself.
I don't have an answer to this, but I wonder what it would look like for you to do something kind for yourself in that area?
Thank you Jazzy and notalone, I wrote a long reply over-explaining why I have difficulty treating myself, but then I deleted it. It triggered another memory, and just seemed like waffling anyway. I'll write about that/those memories in my next post.
...but Jazzy thank you for telling me I am doing better. It's hard to see that sometimes. And thank you notalone, it was really a sweet moment. :)
The backstory:
I have a difficult relationship with stuff. We were not allowed things as we were mere squatters in my parents' home. We moved a lot growing up, my siblings and myself were all responsible for our individual things, which were subject to immediate expulsion at any time. When we moved, we had to box up our own things, and unbox our things. Our things were not supposed to me seen in the home. Children were an insult to the home. All surfaces were to be clear. If we failed this, the things were destroyed in front of us or removed without word. It was only logical to have no more than a suitcase of items. Later in life I was homeless, and in the military. The military rule of being able to carry your own personal effects was never an adjustment for me. As an adult I do not have sentimentality and have had terrible panic attacks about owning things. After moving in with my husband it took me six months until I unpacked my one suitcase, and when I needed to buy more weather appropriate clothing the sight of those items had me in a ball crying in fear.
The memory:
My aunt was an artist. Since I was a baby she made porcelain figurines for me, and some we made together. One day, spontaniously, my mother decided that my room was below standard. My (first as I'd previously slept on the floor) bed was not made with hospital corners, and she could see dust on my floor. She made me redo it. I spent a minimum of an hour redoing my room, I arranged my collection atop a shelf, tightened the blankets on my bed to the best of my ability, checked my right angles, and did the floor as well as an eight year old child can. As I wasn't to be caught sitting and was not permitted to leave the room until finished, I called to my mother to tell her I had finished. I was quite proud and thought my room looked really nice. She stormed through the door, immediately stuck out her right arm and swiped across the shelf shattering my porcelain figurines, she ripped the blankets from the bed and threw them to the floor. She pulled the drawers from my chest and threw the items across the room. ...Then she smiled at me and told me to start over and this time to do it correctly.
That was the last time I felt sentimentality. Even then I knew that this had nothing to do with my room... That it had been her plan all along, but I had no choice, so I started over again but this time resigned to whatever fate should befall me, emotionless to the consequences.
Thank you for sharing, Bermuda.This resonated with me on a level. I was a military dependent as a young child and I well remember having to choose what possessions to keep based on what would fit in a 55-gallon shipping drum. I think I've gone the opposite as an adult, as I find it hard to get rid of things. But back then? It hurt to prioritize what I cared about.
:hug:
Sage
CactusFlower, I'm sorry that you had to experience something like this too. It's so interesting to see how us survivors take similar input and turn it into similar but often opposite output. You mentioning that you find it hard to get rid of things made me think about how as an adult I don't clean. I always equated this to my childhood in which I was often told that the purpose of having so many children was to outsource the chores. My brain has shunned tasks that were required of me as a child and has learned that possessions are a burden, but it could have easily been the opposite.
Thanks for the hug. :)
The cruelty of your mother is heartbreaking. Her reaction did not have anything to do with your room. Amazing that as a child you knew that. Makes sense that you don't clean.
This memory doesn't have a backstory, or any reason for it being triggered either. It just showed up to say hello. TW for emotional/psychological abuse.
The Memory:
One weekend morning, some money went missing in our home. Our mother brought us siblings into the family room, and started screaming and threatening. I don't really remember the specifics of the threats now. That's probably likely due to the fact that we all knew who took the money. There was only one particular sibling who would do such a thing. The scene was very dramatic, and we were all to be punished equally if one of us did not appear with the money. Us siblings confronted the one sibling, but they said they had nothing to do with it, of course. We searched to house for hours. The mood in the house got worse and worse. My mother became a tyrant and made further threats. At this point the sibling (whom we knew was guilty), declared loudly, "I know who did it! It was YOU Bermuda! I bet you hid it under your bedroom rug!" Then that sibling proceded to go into my room, lift my rug, and *wow* what a surprise, the money was indeed hidden under my rug. Now, we had searched the house for hours, of course that rug had been lifted several times, and we all knew it. That didn't matter, my mother decided to punish me publicly. I don't really remember what my punishment was, but I was screamed at and called names, while that sibling smirked. I was eleven years old, and I cried and pleaded during my punishment. After this, probably only 20 minutes after this ordeal ended, I heard my mother outside laughing with the neighbour. I broke the rules, and went out of the room to tell my mother again all the facts of the case, and prove to her that it wasn't me. She cut me off and turned to me with her twisted smile and said, "Of course I know it wasn't you, now get back in your room now."
I was continually punished for this event, and in front of my siblings the story was told repeatedly that I had done it, and that's why I was being punished. My siblings also punished me believing that I was the reason that it all happened.
Conclusion:
Because beating doesn't work the best way to torture a Bermuda is though social injustice, social ostracism, creativity and spontaneity.
...Since posting this about an hour ago it's as if my mind is rapid firing memories at me. I can't sleep. I feel so sick to my stomach.
I'm sorry Bermuda, and I hope you feel better soon. It's so difficult when things are overwhelming like this.
I have a lot of memories right now that flood my mind, I haven't had time to write them, because they flood my mind in the evenings when my little one wakes up in the night and I lay by their side.
I have been so anxious lately. I just feel like a ball of bad juju. I suppose that's a good metaphor, because sometimes it's as if I'm cursed.
Trigger warning: Animal abuse.
These memories are so triggering for me. Maybe it's as if these victims of my family were the least deserving. I felt that I was bad, and my siblings had certainly done bad things, but non-human animals could not do bad things deserving of harm.
The Memory:
The first memory that just repetedly bombards me is of my father. I don't speak of my father often, because typically he took the inactive role of accomplise, abettor, or instigator. This wasn't one of those times. We were on a roadtrip, the family dog was with us, and our dog travelled often with us. They were a former victim terrible abuse when we abused them. They had at lot of quirks. One was not relieving themselves at all during roadtrips. Even week long trips. Well, we checked into a hotel, and the dog deficated on the carpet. My father strung into a rage and started kicking the dog in the stomach at full strength repeatedly.
We all watched on, too afraid to try to stop it.
My brother abused animals from the time we were very little. I remember him laughing and showing off his lizard kabobs in the garden. I will not go into detail.
My mother often punished our animals on my behalf. I had kittens that I had rescued that she would have otherwise drowned. Because I had rescued them, they had to stay in my bedroom, and could never leave, and if they came into the home, or if she smelled them, they would be punished. I will not go into detail here either.
We had so many animals in our home who were witness and subject to abuse. We kept birds that were so stressed they plucked their own feathers out.
Often times I still feel like I'm the birds, like I'm the dogs, like I'm the cats, the ferret, the fish, the snakes, the iguana, the rabbits, the squirrels, the hamsters... Sometimes I find it difficult to tell if this is a ghost feeling, or if I'm still trapped albeit differently. I have this sick feeling like someone is kicking ME in the stomach.
TW: I mention blood.
I'm currently having a mild panic. I am managing it, and I'm fine. My partner came into the bathroom behind me while I was bathing my little one. He stepped around me and I saw he had cut his hand, the surprise and sight of which made my heart sputter and my stomach turn. It was just a small cut.
The memory: My brother, the one I speak about most often who had the most difficulty... We were all playing separately one day. I was in the house. My brother outside. Our old house had decorative iron bars on the outside of the windows. My brother came in, he was bleeding seriously from his head. He was not crying, he was very quietly looking for a towel and going to hide. Another brother and I went to him. He had been climbing on the bars and was flipping upside down, and his hands had slipped, landing him head-first on the paving stone below. He told us not to tell.
My mother came in looking for us wondering why it was so quiet. She saw my brother covered in blood with a bath towel on his head and went into a rage. How could he possible think it's ok to use one of HER towels on his head? This towel is ruined, and he is going to have to work off his debt.
Thoughts: I don't actually remember what happened after the rage, I was only 5 at the time. It's just one of those life lessons that really stick with you. The fact that my brother knew he would be severely punished is so telling.
...So I haven't been posting, a lot has been going on in (my past) life, but I don't feel safe enough at the moment to talk about it. Maybe eventually, after I determine how it is I feel about it.
Another post back to back. No trigger warning on this one.
I just kind of want to ramble and share a short story. After posting yesterday, I filled out this c-PTSD research questionaire and it made me feel a lot of things. As I worked through my thoughts throughout the night, this is what I concluded. My c-PTSD had nearly nothing to do with large traumas. Infact, it existed long before I experienced those events and when those events occurred they were not processed properly.
I have this memory that replays for me constantly that I want to preface with. It's not what anyone would typically consider traumatic, but for me, it was. My parents and I were shopping. My mother needed a new dress and my father needed something else, so they separated. Although my parents remained together until death, saying my parents did not get along is an understatement. My mother was angry and complaining about how horrible my father was, and me wanting to mitigate things, replied with an innocent smile, "Yes, those things may be true, but you love eachother." I grew up being taught very traditional family values and it shocked me so deeply when my mother turned to me in her straight emotionless stare and said sharply, "Who said I ever loved him?" It was the facial expression that terrorizes me now, and terrorized me many times in the past.
This replays to me constantly as a deep traumatic event. The traumas that are listed in online questionaires, don't apply to my c-PTSD because my brain was conditioned for trauma at an early age. My c-PTSD undoubtedly stemmed from a lack of a consistent feeling of being loved, cared for, or having fundamental needs met, a lack of socialization, and a conditioning to minimize myself. In this way, I grew into a person who (in a sense) allowed other "big Ts" to happen to me because I couldn't even register them as traumatic. When life only gives you pain, you don't see pain in the same way. What is normal treatment to receive from other humans, how do you know what your needs are, and how do you advocate for yourself as a survivor or long-term mistreatment and abuse? Doesn't everyone face constant hardships? I know now nearly 20 years later, they don't.
I also now know that the things that happened to me, the big things, are big things. That's why those pop up from time to time, but mostly I am haunted by little things that shaped me as a person like, "Who said I ever loved him?"
Quote from: Bermuda on May 02, 2021, 12:24:23 PM
my brain was conditioned for trauma at an early age. My c-PTSD undoubtedly stemmed from a lack of a consistent feeling of being loved, cared for, or having fundamental needs met, a lack of socialization, and a conditioning to minimize myself. In this way, I grew into a person who (in a sense) allowed other "big Ts" to happen to me because I couldn't even register them as traumatic. When life only gives you pain, you don't see pain in the same way. What is normal treatment to receive from other humans, how do you know what your needs are, and how do you advocate for yourself as a survivor or long-term mistreatment and abuse? Doesn't everyone face constant hardships? I know now nearly 20 years later, they don't.
I also now know that the things that happened to me, the big things, are big things. That's why those pop up from time to time, but mostly I am haunted by little things that shaped me as a person like, "Who said I ever loved him?"
Hi Bermuda,
I wanted to say that I found what you wrote to be very poignant and meaningful. I related to it, and I wanted to send you a supportive hug, if that's ok :hug:
Hope :)
Bermuda, these are really tough memories to be reliving and I can totally see why the "small" stuff is as difficult as the big stuff. :hug: