Out of the Storm

I was no longer receiving feedback on my last three journal posts. I suppose I must have reached the limit. So, I've started this journal as a continuation. I think this journal will probably end up with a lot more drivel and less intrusive memories, because that's where I am at right now on my journey.

I talk about about how the seemingly nuanced events have effected me very deeply compared to things that others would classify as deeply traumatic. I mentioned how it's because when you only know trauma, your brain cannot comprehend things as traumatic. At least that's how it feels for me. There's no normal to compare to.

So, here's a story that is one of those things that has been on my mind lately: We were sitting in the back of the car, I was maybe 10 years old. My mother had the radio on and I was staring at my feet mouthing along to the song, or at least I thought. One of my brothers started harassing me about me singing, and then the whole family pitched in and started making fun of me, and my voice, even though I hadn't even realised I had been making a sound. I rarely made sounds.

As an adult I have had so much trouble speaking up for myself, and people have joked about my voice in passing. Nothing serious, but it really hurts me deeply. I have traveled a lot and have mixed unplaceable accent and people say my voice is too squeaky and quiet. When you seem unconfident people think you're lying. My voice on the outside doesn't represent me well. I am in my midthirties, and I have this silly goal that someday I want to go on stage and sing a karaoke song. Not because I want to sing well, but because I want to sing aloud. I envy people with confidence to speak, to be looked at. People who have a style of their own. I am considering getting a voice coach just to learn to be confident. I just want to overcome this very big little trauma.

I do love mice, but I am not a mouse.

Bermuda, that's awful of them to do. Your goal isn't silly- if it builds confidence, I think you should do it. :hugs: Cheers to you! You can do it!

Quote from: Bermuda on May 21, 2021, 12:08:29 PM
I mentioned how it's because when you only know trauma, your brain cannot comprehend things as traumatic. At least that's how it feels for me. There's no normal to compare to.

Hi Bermuda,
I think this is really insightful, and I relate to this very much.
Hope  :)

Quote from: Bermuda on May 21, 2021, 12:08:29 PM
I was no longer receiving feedback on my last three journal posts. I suppose I must have reached the limit. So, I've started this journal as a continuation. I think this journal will probably end up with a lot more drivel and less intrusive memories, because that's where I am at right now on my journey.

Actually there is no limit on Recovery Journals. You can write 35 pages if you like!

If you're not receiving feedback, it could be that there are fewer mbrs on the forum - it does vary here depending on each person's recovery process. It could also be that mbrs are reading but don't have the wherewithal to post, not even an emoticon. 

When I saw Overflow Journal I thought it might be your Journal of overflow feelings - for when things are really bad! I was wrong.

I haven't read the rest of your post, so please excuse me for not saying anything to that.

Thanks all for commenting. I like that my words resonate with others. Oh Blueberry, I hadn't thought of that, but no. It's not an overflow of emotions. Quite the opposite really.

Things have changed, real physical things that have put even further distance between myself and my past. I will be intentionally vague here, so pardon as I am working through it myself, but I am not mourning. I feel a sense of release. I know their real power over me is gone.

Somehow it's easier to live every day with my past when I know that it is really over. They cannot hurt me, they cannot come for me, no one will help them, no one believes them, they have no persuasion left. I could return to the country I come from if I wanted to, but I don't.

I could have at least a level of normalcy from the perspective of onlookers.

It still feels heavy, and I still feel afraid every day, I still have no sense of self, but at least I know that everything is changing and I can too without it being a detriment to my safety.  :yes:

Hi I'm not sure I was seeing your posts pop up in my unread feed!

I relate to what you wrote a lot. I was teased a lot for my voice or for appearing shy and scared even when I didn't know I was feeling that way. I also don't want to speak up, or be seen. I'm sorry your whole family teased you.

I think it's a great idea to get a voice coach, not to change your voice but to feel more confident in using what you have, however it shows up.

I don't know if it will resonate for you but I loved this TED talk by Amanda Gorman about using your voice...she's the young poet who spoke at Joe Biden's inauguration in the US. She has a speech impediment.  https://www.ted.com/talks/amanda_gorman_using_your_voice_is_a_political_choice/up-next?language=en

Thanks for commenting Armadillo. I did watch part of that video, but I had to stop.

Apparently poetry is triggering for me. What isn't?? I will laugh instead of cry this time.  :disappear:

Memory time: I used to write, in secret. I even had some works published as a teenager. Language, oddly enough, has always been my passion. One of the things I was able to sneak away when I was kicked out were my binders. I kept them as a reminder to myself that what happened was real, and to remind myself to keep myself safe in a sense, to remind myself of the horrors. They were my most precious things. When I finally had a place to live, I had an ex boyfriend who got really angry and broke into my home. He stole my computer, took a hammer to the walls and to my furniture, and the worst of it I didn't realise until much later when I went to open my binders. He had replaced the pages with blank sheets.

It was hugely devistating at the time. Although, I hardly remember now any of my words I had memorised then, I clung to those words and thoughts like they would save me... But those words may have saved me for a time, but they would have imprisoned me now.

So, good job narcissistic ex.  :applause: :fallingbricks:

Oh wow. I really wish I could have known and been more sensitive to your trigger. It. Makes complete sense why that would be a trigger for you. Anyway my sentiment was simply that I think your voice is perfect as it is and I hope there comes a time when you can use it as you want.

Hi Bermuda,
I read what you wrote about how your ex treated you.  I don't think he treated you well at all.  Unkind things. 
I hope you don't mind my saying that.

I agree with the sentiment expressed by Armadillo that I also hope you get to use your voice how you want to, and that you can express whatever you want to.
Hope  :)

I haven't posted in a while. Most things are going well, and the things that haven't been well feel mostly manageable.

I am pregnant with my second, and my midwife asked me personal questions about my past, and then about medical history, and asked me several times if these thing effect me now. I said no. That was a partial truth. They effect me constantly in everything I do, but no they don't effect me in the way she would assume. She kindly offered me access to counselling if I wanted, and I assured her again that it's fine. I know it's not fine, but it's fine.

Somehow this assumption and questioning was quite triggering for me. People asking about family medical history is triggering. Asking if I have ever been SA'd is triggering. She asked if the reason I don't know my family medical history is related to childhood abuse, I said yes. (Even though it's much more complicated that that.) That was also triggering. I don't think of these things consciously regularly.

The pregnancy hormones are flowing, and I feel less steady than usual. I know I've mentioned this before, and it's such a guilty thought, but I was playing outside with a little one taking photos together, and I see my abuser in my own face, and in my son's face. It hurts me every time. I have spent my whole life trying to be and do better, and to see it in my aging face every day is hard.

Bermuda, I appreciate you sharing.  I am bothered by your experience with the midwife questioning you the way they did.  I find it challenging when others assume they know what is best for us without asking us.  And then when we say what we need still being met with resistance or push back.  Sometimes we need that outside perspective but not always. 

I feel in my heart your reflection of your face.  I hope that you find some ease and balance and steadiness.  I already said this however I truly appreciate you sharing your story. 

Congratulations Bermuda!!!!

I can understand why you would say you are fine even when you are not, really, fine. Maybe as trust develops you can feel comfortable telling the midwife how you would like to be treated in the course of pregnancy and childbirth, including not being asked intrusive questions.

Hello Bermuda, I'm glad you returned.

You said several things which rang true for me, and wanted to comment on medical history, and face reflections.

The ideal is to  review the record so the patient is spared a  painful recounting. Not everyone approaches it like that, and even with electronic medical records "up the wazoo" people still want to start from Day One. Each time I go in, I'm asked about my pain levels and if I anyone is abusing me physically or emotionally. Personally, I believe the the medical profession is slow on the uptake of reality and this is their effort to "catch" problems early and make referrals if necessary.   I know how hard that is. With each negative response, I'm brought back to the positive memories. 

Face reflections happen so frequently. Daily, if you live with your mini-them or looking at yourself in the mirror. A couple days ago, I saw my "morning face" and thought, "you're so ugly" but recognized immediately that needed revision. I changed it to, "this is what wear and tear looks like." And it does! The eye bags, scars, all of it. Just time passing. Sure I'd like to see my teenage or twentysomething face, but I have photos!  :bigwink:

I often "see" my father and my sister starting back at me. (eyes rolling!) When that happens, I look closer and anchor myself to one or two unique, not necessarily happy or beautiful marks. Then I focus on how I've managed to care for myself and all I've learned so that I can stand upright and see that mirror.

I do the same with my D or my GC who walk and talk like their other DNA half. I choose one facial part, for my GS it's his lips, for my D, it's her smile, she definitely has mine.

Congrats on your pregnancy, that's a mixed bag of joy and suffering. Hormones galore and people like the midwife getting up close and personal, it's a tight-rope walk.  Keep balancing.  :hug:

Thank you for your comments.

Memories and reflection: There were some times growing up that I lived where my family's name is very prominent for all the wrong reasons, and they owned a large portion of this town. Because of my face, I was often asked if I was a [insert mother's maiden name]. The question was never one that was positive, aside from one time when another kid exclaimed that I lived in a castle. My mother was cruel, like her mother. I had teachers who taught my mother, and on my first day of school a teacher had bought me school supplies, because she already knew I wouldn't have any. She had never met me, my mother did not attend any meetings, but she knew. My mother was extremely angry about this. I am accustomed to the pity of my name, and my face, and familial resemblence is hard for me. I spent my whole childhood distancing myself, trying to be better, and to create a new me. When I tell my midwife I am fine, it's because I am. I will never be whole, or normal. I will always be a combination of the past that started before me, the present, and what I hope for the future. The past can't be fixed. My past is not fine. It will never be fine. It is horrible, and I do live with it. I accept that it's horrific, nightmarish, and that it deeply shaped all major decisions I've made. ...But I am winning. I don't want to be reminded of the ways in which I am different and will never be normal, when I have worked my whole life to be exceptionally average. I just want to slide under the raidar, to pass as normal, and surprise questions just remind me of all of the forestated. I freeze when I am questioned, I spoke about this before, and Kizzy explained that it's a normal C-PTSD response, but if someone speaks to me at all unexpectedly, I cannot formulate a proper response I can't even think of a response as if my brain just shuts off, and sometimes I get none out at all. I wouldn't be able to recall my address for example... In this case I said I'm fine. ...Which was true of my present self, or my self before I was asked about my family history.

...Just a sidenote about this freeze response, and a memory that just returned. I have suffered with this "thing" for as long as I can remember, and it doesn't only effect my speech. It effects my memory too.

I remember being in middle school, and all of the class was forced to their lockers. They needed to search them. Although I absolutely had nothing to hide, and although I used the same combination lock the whole year, I suddenly could not recall how to open it. Not even just the numbers, but the sequence twice to the right, once to the left, etc. I suddenly had no idea how to open a combination lock. I stood there, as I always do in these situations, looking extremely guilty as everyone stared at me. Long story short, everyone thought I was daft and my lock was cut off. The weirdest thing is, the memory doesn't return as it was. I couldn't recall it to myself with cerainty the next day.

This is something I have attributed to C-PTSD over the years. It was happening twenty-five years ago, and it still happens now. C-PTSD is strange.

Bermuda,

I'm glad you explained more, what you meant by being fine, until you're forced to be the version that was not fine temporarily by being blindsided by unexpected questions. I relate to that too. I can't be blindsided like that. I freeze as well. Forget things I know and should know. And then the memory is just erased for good.

It sounds like you've been through so much pain and deserve to be allowed to move on without unexpectedly and uninvitedly being pushed back to the past and the legacy of your family.

Onward and upward.  :hug:

Thank you for your words. It really means a lit to me to just know that someone in the world understands.  :grouphug:

Trigger warning on this post: Death/Self harm

I had a dream last night. It was long and vivid.

I had a friend many years ago, when I was still physically in a bad place. He was too. He was like me, it was bad luck for him. He was a great kind, caring, and intelligent person who just had a lot of bad luck.

In my dream, we we had a romantic encounter. It was loving, caring... Toward the end of the dream we were sitting with a group of people, and I had my head rested on his shoulder, when someone else (female) came over and took him by his hand and walked him away.

I woke up, and thought about what he was up to, but then remembered that after I left trying to find my escape, that he shot himself.

He is one of three people I know who did that, but somehow I feel like I should have known. That we could have escaped together.

Bermuda,

I'm really sorry for the loss of your friend. Having a dream of deep connection to him and then him being led out of your life must have brought up so many difficult emotions. As hard as it was, maybe it's also a gift to find that connection to him in your dreams?

It's pretty common with suicide to feel like there's something you could have done to save your loved ones and all of us who have lost people this way wish that were true.

I remember early in therapy my therapist trying to get me to do the "loving kindness" meditation while picturing people I love. It includes a line "May you be safe from inner and outer harm." That line tore me up and we had to excise it from the practice because I just couldn't tolerate at the time the idea that I had no control over someone's inner harm. The "may you be" took all control from me and I fought that with every ounce of my brain and body.

But, even with my kids...I don't have that kind of power to keep them safe from harming themselves. All I can do is love them, get them support, and nourish a strong connection with them. Living in the fear they might kill themselves hampers that connection.

Eventually I found I could let go of my false sense of control and return that line to the meditation. "May you be safe from inner and outer harm." I feel myself giving them a big warm hug now when I think that.

I wish it turned out different for you and your friend, that you could have whisked him off to safety, and stayed so connected. It's a beautiful loving thought and dream to have.

Sometimes little things cause my internal emotional response to spiral out of control. I am going to sound like a nagging housewife for a moment, but that's life.

My partner can be extremely inconsiderate. Since we started dating ten years ago there has been an ongoing issue. It's not a huge issue. I am small. I am very small. He would put the shower head too high so I can't reach it, hang the towels where I can't reach them, expect me to jump or climb to get them. I would love to say that after ten years he doesn't do that, but he does. Today he reached into the top of the pantry, the shelves that I cannot even see let alone reach, and pulled out 2kg of rice. He says, "Look, we do have rice!" ...And then he put the rice back in the place he found it. I had to improvise earlier this week even though I could have sworn that I had recently bought rice. I replied with, "Why is it way up there??" and he said, "Well, not everything can be visible at all times." I went away to fume for a minute, returned and preceded to take a chair to the pantry, climb up there in my third trimester of pregnancy. I pulled everything out, shockingly found many more hidden food items, and then I put them back. Since I cook, I put them on shelves that I can reach, in places where I can see.

Now, I'm sure that sounds petty. He just looked on and said, "You look angry." ...I said I was very angry, and that he constantly says and does things that are extremely inconsiderate. ...That was the whole discussion about it.

Since then, my brain just plummets into all the terrible places it's been before. The big T's. The feeling of being uncared for, unloved, feeling like I've never been loved or cared for in my life. The emptiness, and the helplessness. The feeling that I have no choice. I feel small.

I feel small.

But I will say nothing. I will do nothing. I will jump to get down a towel, and pull on the cord and catch the shower head as it falls, and I will climb on a chair to get down the rice that could have been easily handed to me. I'll listen to excuses about why my needs don't matter. I don't know how not to be small.

I see other people stand up for themselves, but I just rearrange the pantry, make the rice and bake the bread. ...And seemingly let it go as I secretly fall apart.

 :hug:

You don't sound like a nagging housewife. I am sorry you are having to jump and climb on things while very pregnant to reach things. It is very inconsiderate of your partner to continue to put things you need to reach up high. Poo on them.

Something triggered me to think about my time homeless. I want to write about it because it's so far away now, and how I think about how I thought about it has changed. I hope that makes sense. (I am leaving out the terrible details that are not so relevent so hopefully this is not a triggering post.) Brace yourself for long read.

I grew up in a way that I was always on high alert and had to be several steps ahead. Back then I didn't know how abnormal things were, I only knew how I felt. When I was kicked out I left. It was something I was metally prepared for for a very long time. I knew it would happen, and I was ready. Even that day, before the words were spoken I had secretly packed a small makeshift bag that I made out of a piece of cloth that I kept beneath my candles to catch any wax drippings, I cleared my phone, took apart my computer and removed the hard drive completely and put it back together, hiding the hard drive in my cloth sack along with some phone numbers of the couple of people I knew, and my toothbrush. Before clearing my phone I sent my boyfriend at the time a message that it would happen, and asked him to park somewhere around the corner.

She stormed in, confiscated all of *her* things. She forced me into the family room where she belittled me, called me names. I never spoke back, I never argued. I never fought. She hated that. She pushed me verbally with all her best ammunition. I remember just muttering, "You don't understand, I can hear your words in my head when you are not there." That is all, I didn't plea, profess my innocence, beg, nothing. So the words were spoken, "Get the f* out of my house, and when you leave I never want to see your face again." At this point I had shed every tear dry, there was nothing to feel at that moment. I just said ok, grabbed my makeshift bag that I had put into a garbage bag and said, "I'll pay you back for the garbage bag." and I left.

My mother's motivations were always control. She wanted me to prove to her that I needed her, that I was useless, worthless, she knew I would be back.

I went to my boyfriend's house, he still lived at home too. He worked for my extended family doing contract work that took him away. His mother agreed that I could stay until he gets his next call to leave. They didn't believe how bad it was, and I didn't talk about it because I didn't know what wasn't normal either. So, when he had to leave he drove me down the street and left me there with my things. I had secretly gotten a job and opened a bank account, this was the catalyst for me being kicked out. So I went to my work, and explained to my boss the situation and asked for more hours. She denied me. A coworker overheard the situation and said that I could stay with her. I didn't know her very well, but I had no options and no one.

After she got off work, she drove me to her apartment. She had two very young children and a boyfriend that lived with her in a small studio apartment outside of town. She made an arrangement with me that I could stay if I help with childcare. I loved children and grew up in a religion with many children so it sounded good. I grew up extremely sheltered and that combined with desperateness I was unable to see any red flags. I don't remember her ever caring for her children, I stayed with them. I went to them in the night. There was no food in the house, so I bought them food with the little money I had. This arrangement didn't last very long. One night, in the middle of the night a strange man started banging on the door trying to knock it down. I hid in the bathroom with the children. This lasted a couple hours, the parents were no where to be found, and this guy looked crazed with bug eyes and was screaming for money they owed him and threatening to kill them. I did my best to stay calm for the kids as we huddled in the shower, but I was terrified. I had no phone or anything. The parents came home, it was shortly after the guy had tired himself out and left. I told them what had happened, and I don't even remember their reaction.

After they had gone back to bed, I grabbed my things and left. It was cold, and I hadn't slept yet. I was in a very bad neighbourhood. I found a 24h laundromat that was well lit despite having nothing around it. It was warm. I took out my small cloth, and went around to the backside of the laundromat where it was still very warm, and laid down to sleep on my cloth as the sun was coming up.

When the sun was up completely, I knew I couldn't stay there that it was too dangerous. I was young, and looked much younger than I actually was. I was small, and this was no place for me to be. I put my sack back together and started walking down the highway to where the nearest city was. I didn't have any food or water, and I walked for two days sleeping off the street in small ravines where no one could see me. The second night I remember slipping down into a ravine crossing some brambles, and finding a small clearing. I thought that was the perfect spot to sleep. I had only a small electric glow stick for light, I turned it on and was surrounded by glowing eyes. This clearing had been made by pigs. I ran at full speed out of there, through those brambles, and up onto that highway. I was covered in small scratches. I decided not to sleep that night, and just to walk toward the city lights.

After walking a while a police car stopped in front of me. I was terrified. I had not seen any good police officers before. This officer asked me what I was doing, and I told him the truth sobbing, that I was walking toward the city lights. He told me how far away they are, and questioned me about how old I am. I wasn't allowed to have any ID growing up, so I had nothing to prove who I was except my job badge (job that I no longer had, because I had no way to get there). This officer asked to go through my makeshift bag, and when he did I think he was heartbroken. He knew I wasn't lying. He offered me a ride to the city and dropped me off at a diner with some money to buy food.

I was very hungry, so I ordered the largest plate of food they sold. I remember the staff staring at me in disbelief as I ate. Unfortunately, half way through eating I got sick. I started vomiting because I hadn't eaten in so long. The waitress told me that my food was free. That money the police officer gave me, along with some money a school teacher gave me who saw me crying outside of a grocery store, lasted me my whole time homeless. Essentially what I spend on two meals these days lasted me seven months.

I stayed in the area of this diner after that. I met other homeless people who gave me tips. There was a shopping mall that after closing gave away their buffet food to the homeless, and the diner gave free coffee. Every day I ate one meal in the evening, and had free coffee at the diner. That was always enough for me, and I was happy. I never told anyone where I slept, and some nights I would ride the bus around in circles and sleep there because it felt safer. At one point I saw some professional homeless people had found my spot and set up camp. I was really scared, and stopped walking down that field at night to sleep.

I met this homeless person, an elderly man, we would chat at the diner most days. He had been homeless 15 years. He always tried to help me and teach me things that make it easier to survive. He gave me a pair of socks. One day he showed up at the cafe with a cell phone. He told me he stole it for me, he had actually stolen a different one but it was a modern one with internet and a GPS so he had to throw it out right away. He gave me this cell phone and taught me that I can use it in emergencies, that you can always call for help even without service.

I met this guy who was my age. He wasn't homeless, I don't know how he ended up there at our booth at the diner. I knew he just had a bad home life, as we all did, but I never asked. He knew that the ants had been biting me pretty badly. He said his parents were really strict but he would allow me to sleep a night in the back of his truck. We drove to his house that night, and I was in the back of his truck with him. He opened up a tool box and started showing me his knives. He collected knives, and demonstrated to me how sharp they were. I just acted unintimidated, although I was terrified inside, and played it off. In the middle of the night it began to rain, and he snuck out to the truck, and asked me to come inside. We snuck up the stairs, and he put a blanket next to his bed on the floor between his bed and the wall for me to sleep. It was out of sight. In the morning I woke up to the sound of him screaming and fighting with the mother and a loud bang. I came out of the room, and his mother was at the bottom of the stairs crying. He had hit her and pushed her down the stairs and left. She asked me who I was, and I told her, and she just apologised to me several times. Not just for her son, but for herself, over and over again. She told me that she had called the police, and that they were coming. She seemed like a really kind person, but I quickly grabbed my things to get out of there before the police showed. I really thought I would be in trouble.

At one point I met a girl, only a few years older than me. She slept in her car. Sometimes she let me sleep in her car too. She gave me clothes to wear, and asked if I would go with her to a strip club where she used to work as a waitress. She said she really wanted to get her job back as she had been fired. (I have written about this before somewhere in more detail) As someone who grew up really sheltered, I found the idea titillating (not sure if that word fits, but it seems apropos)... So I agreed to go with her to see what a strip club was.

This was the end of my homelessness, and the beginning of my struggles for documentation. I guess I wrote this post because I've always thought of homelessness as the happiest time in my life. Happiness is relative. I am glad I left. I am glad I fought. I understand why I am flighty, why I don't react. I understand why I was traumatised and how that trauma just escalated and was constantly reinforced, and this was just 7 months of my life. Not only that, but 7 months that I rarely think about as traumatic but somehow 17 years later they still follow me.

Bermuda, I appreciate you sharing your story.  I can relate to what you mean that a difficult time wasn't traumatizing - in your story of that time of homelessness you listened to yourself, made changes the best you could based on what you needed, and received genuine care from others.  For me, those are things that help keep trauma from becoming too much. 

Rainydiary, I think you are exactly right. That is it. For the first time in my life I experienced people as kind, caring, and helpful. It was a huge revelation to me to realise that everything I had been told about the world and people was a lie, and the bad didn't seem so bad.

Bermuda, I'm grateful you found those folks even in such difficult times.  Homelessness is also really stigmatized in society and I find myself thinking a lot about it.  For me, I tend to reflect as you noticed that many folks experiencing homelessness have/had unsafe living conditions even if they were in homes.  I think addressing this all is very complex.  I appreciate you sharing as it gives me a lot of food for thought.

Bermuda,

Thank you for writing this here and sharing with us.  It is a shame more is not done to help kids in this situation of needing to leave home. My heart hurts for little you. It hurts that home was so painful that living on the streets was less bad. That you had to be prepared to leave. That your mom would be so cruel. And for whatever you went through while living homeless. It's also a good reminder of how a small act of kindness like paying for someone's meal can help.

I've often wondered what my dad went through as I know he left home at 14 and lived homeless as a kid and an adult.

Bermuda, I felt a lot of compassion for you as I read about your time when you were homeless.

Thank you all, really, truly and deeply. Homelessness is something I am so passionate about, but it's also something I can't talk about. People are multifaceted. Even if I had ended up fulfilling a certain stereotype, would I have been to blame? I don't think so. Now I live a priviliged life in a wealthy country, where no one even sees poverty, and I'm just another normal unassuming person. I go about unassumingly as if I was birthed into this life and listen to lectures from pupils and professionals who cannot fathom. I am a professional and never speak out of turn or with passion. I hold back my whole existence every day.

This is a huge part of my story, and it's one that I always just glaze over. There are some news stories that have been forcing me to reflect on these times. I am getting bolder now. I am not afraid to say anything too identifying. I am not ashaimed. I will write here like no one is looking for me. TW: This post contains references to sibling abuse/child sexual abuse/incest/religious abuse.

Understanding the dynamic: Us siblings were intentionally pitted against eachother. I've written about how one of my brother's was forced to be the physical punisher, and I was often forced to be the babysitter or snitch. We all had roles that we didn't choose, but those roles also defined not only how we treated each other and how we responded to our abuse. My brother, the punisher, he endured the worst physical punishment when he was younger. That's what he responded to, what made him suffer. As he got too big, and frankly too big of a threat for that, he became the punisher. He would always tell me that I was a cry-baby. He would deny that anything was ever wrong. He would defend our parents at all cost. I believed him, that I was too sensitive. I endured the least amount of physical abuse because I didn't respond to it. I shut down and left my body. My siblings hated me for that. I was the snitch, and I was rarely beaten. In their eye's I was liked more. They didn't understand that it was all intentional, and that my parents had very different and very cruel ways to punish me in ways that hurt me. I remember one time we were shopping, and my siblings asked for toys. I never would have done that. My mother said to go pick out toys, and when I picked out one she told me to put it back, because I had already gotten sanitary napkins that month. My treatment was different than theirs, but I was never favoured. (I got my first menstruation very young.)

One of my brothers was very disturbed. He was always on the receiving end of the punishment given by the punisher. The worse he was punished, the more the punisher was praised for a job well done. This brother was chosen from birth to be "the one with problems". The pity-me child. My mother spoke of him like he came out messed up. She always said when he was born she knew something was wrong with him because he hated being touched, so she left him alone. All he did was scream. This brother would later be diagnosed with several different things to describe his social and behavioural issues. ADHD, aspergers, etc. He acted out in school a lot doing very inappropriate things, and was ultimately the reason all of us children were taken out of school and further secluded from any onlookers. He spend a lot of time locked up in a room.

The problem child, as I will refer to him, he had a propensity to act out sexually. It started when I was very young, maybe four or five. I may have written vaguely about this before, I can't remember. (Although I have a very early memory about having to have a physical examination as a toddler because I had lacerations on my vulva. That I have written about in my first journal.) So, when I was in kindergarten, my brother told his class for show and tell that he had sex with his sister. Me. There was an investigation, and I was interviewed with my mother standing behind the interviewer threatening me. I said everything I was told to say by my mother.

I can't comment on whether these things happened or not. I was 5. I knew nothing about sex, I just knew it was something bad. I knew that as a girl, that I should especially not do that, and I learned in church that I should be modest. Modesty was most important to make sure that didn't happen to me. I always sat with my legs crossed.

The one with problems became more problematic as I got order. He used to steel my underwear, and my church tights. He would hide them, but sometimes he would leave them intentionally in the shower for me to find... Used. There was no consequence for this. He harassed me, and everyone joined in on the joke. To be female was to be dirty, shameful, weak. My mother instigated this, and both the problem child and my mother called me derogatory names for females from a very very young age. He also stole my mother's things, this did however have consequence. One day, while searching his room she found he had cut open the lining on the bottom of his boxspring and hidden her dildo and underwear in there. She was furious. He was beaten, by the punisher, and locked away. He was never allowed outside of his room after this. He only left at family functions where we maintained an image of normalcy and extremely well-mannered children.

At a family function, when we were a bit older and all very very well aware, the problem child was holding a baby. I remember looking at my mother in disbelief, not saying anything. She just smiled back as if nothing unusual was happening. We had a huge family, and there were many babies and small children. This was my second cousin. The problem child asked to take my second cousin for a walk, an infant. My mother agreed and chatted with everyone around. I sat at the table with the females in shock, as my brother just wandered off with a baby who can barely hold their own head up. He returned maybe twenty minutes later. The baby did not have their nappy on correctly. My brother said that the nappy had fallen off, and that he didn't know how to fix it. (In this time, I had changed many nappies in my life already, and I knew that a baby that young did not pull their nappy off and that the nappy did not simply come undone. Nappies back then were adhesive and would not restick when they were unstuck, they were not repositionable.) I knew what he had done. My cousin had no idea, maybe she still has no idea that my second cousin was molested that day by my brother, and my mother let it happen. When my brother returned my mother just smiled, as my brother handed the baby back over to my cousin.

We never spoke a word of this. Eventually as a teenager my brother got caught. A neighbour had come over for something, and they had two young boys. My brother, who otherwise was locked up and punished almost all the time, offered to show the boys around. My mother agreed and let them leave the house alone. He walked them to the back of the property to an old barn where he threatened them, hit them in the back of their heads where he had learnt left no visible bruises (learnt from the best), and forced them to perform sexual acts on himself and eachother.

The court found him guilty, and as a minor he was sent to a psychiatric institution where he would stay indefinitely. (I know he is out now, but I don't know the whens and hows of it.)

I was often forced to see him in the institution. The worst was on my birthday. He and my mother belittled me, and called me derogatory female names, and I sat forced between my abusers. My brother reported being happy there, that he got lots of food, and foods like pizza. He said they were nice and they had diagnosed him with OCD and bulimia. (Because he was locked up for so long, I don't doubt either of those diagnoses) He had sores all up his arms where he had always picked his skin until it bled, just as I secretly pulled at my hair.

I was triggered because of recent stories in the news about similar topics, cover ups, cult abuse, etc. I've never told the whole story before to anyone. As I write my story in snippets I am beginning to see a bigger picture. A connected timeline. I know now that it was never me, I wasn't a sissy. This was abuse. I grew up in a home with a narcissist, a physical abuser, "the punisher", and "the problem child" who was a rapist.

What you lived through was horrific, Bermuda. That you can write about it now...you must have done a lot of hard hard recovery work. Thank you for sharing here. I'm sorry for what you went through and likely still go through as a result. You were not weak. You were so strong. Stronger than a child should ever ever have to be. I'm grateful you survived.

I have so much compassion for you, Bermuda. Thank you for sharing. I'm sorry you went through those things. You're right, it was abuse.

Armee, it's true. Just simply that I am able to say things in a comprehensible timeline is a huge accomplishment. It's new that I am able to piece things together, as if my brain is just now untangling a thread that has spent my whole life being tied into knots.

Snowdrop, thank you. I remember as a child web-crawlering for help and always ending up on these emergency pages for child abuse, and when I read them they never applied to me. Sadly, 20 years later this is still the case. Was I physically abused? Not really, not usually, not by my parents, not how it's described (especially where corporal punishment is still normal and legal). Was I sexually abused? Well no, not that I know of for sure. ...It took a lot for me to come to terms with my abuse because of this. I am still triggered by things like filling out that questionaire for the trauma study. It was abuse. It was calculated, intentional abuse. I was tortured, and sometimes I am made to feel less validated still.

I can relate, it took me a long time to be able to say my abuse was abuse. You were treated with such cruelty when you should have been nurtured, cherished and cared for.

Bermuda. Without wanting to trigger you, I also want to gently acknowledge that what you shared is unambiguous abuse, including sexual. I know you don't have the solid facts but many people don't.

I also wanted to say that I know what it's like to have your siblings think you were lucky or favored while you know it isn't true.

It's amazing what you've been able to do here this week. You deserve to speak your truth and to see it as a whole.

Trigger warning: Account of physical abuse

One of my earliest memories about "The punisher".

I must have only been five years old. My brother the punisher (who was not yet the punisher for another year or so) was approximately 8 years old.

We weren't typically aloud to snack, and if we did we were only ever permitted an apple or a slice of bread with butter. I hear it in my head quite often now, "If you were actually hungry you would eat a slice of bread!" Well, this day we had snuck food. We had done something very very bad. We took my mother's snacks out of the pantry, and us children secretly ate the whole container of potato sticks.

In the evening my mother always grabbed her snacks and laid on the sofa watching television, and that evening was no different, except that her snack was missing.

She yelled at us all, threatened us, and tried to get us to admit who did it. My brother "the problem child" always told or would succumb to making up a story if necessary under duress. So, he did that. He told my mother we had all done it, but that it was the punisher's idea.

In a rage my mother began beating us. I don't really remember at this point where I am in the room. I always just collapsed and waited, so in this memory I'm just kind of watching from above. I remember the punisher running around and my mother chasing him. She grabbed a broom and started to bat at him with the back end of it. He taunted. The punisher ran faster than she could, and quickly pulled one edge of the sofa out from the wall, and wedged himself into the tight corner he had created behind it. The problem child hid behind him as my mother swung at the punisher. I remember the punisher calling my mother the word for a female dog. She was furious, and the more he fought the harder she swung, as he laughed at her as he cried and she swung harder.

I remember thinking how stupid the punisher was. Didn't he realise he was making it worse? Why didn't he just let her beat him until she grew tired of it? ...Let her call my father to beat him until he grew tired of it too.

I guess this memory haunts me now because I was five. I was five and I thought my brother was stupid for fighting back. In my mind I was blaming him for causing what he went through. I was so broken that I never fought it, I just shrank until I disappeared, until it disappeared. Barely out of toddlerhood and my coping mechanism was clearly deeply established. This event marked a turning point for how we begun to be treated very differently.

That's a painful story, even before getting to the abuse, Bermuda. That she would have snacks for herself and deny you any except bread. We had similar rules in our family and honestly it wasn't until I finished reading your post that the horror of what I was reading for you sunk in as mine, too. So thank you for sharing. When I can see my story in others stories it helps me in my healing. I'm sorry this all happened to you and your family. I'm sorry this was the start of when the roles were established that led to even more abuse.

I also relate fully to the dynamics and reactions. My sister fought back. She laughed and laughed and the punishment and beating would get worse and she'd just taunt my mom on to hit her harder because it didn't hurt. I watched this and saw like you she was just making it worse. I shrunk and dissociated, I accepted every ludicrous accusation and apologized profusely. I took all the rage and hatred I should have felt toward my mom and step dad and turned it in on myself. I hated my sister for making everything worse for everyone. My sister would get hit harder, my mom would get more angry and then more depressed, and I would be scared. I wanted her to stop. I put all the blame on her. A kid. Now as adults I have ptsd and dissociation and have struggled with hating mysf. My sister does not, though she sure can't trust people or get close to them. So who knows which reaction was "right" given the circumstances.

You're not alone in how you reacted and feel about your reaction. We were all just kids. We were trying to not make bad things worse.

:grouphug:

Thank you Armee for sharing part of your story. Like you, it really helps me too. I guess being the smaller child, always being a witness, we learn we can't fight back. I couldn't have run that fast. There is no way I could have pulled the sofa from the wall. I was at the mercy of my abusers and I just wanted them to like me.

Fast forward 6 years when I was being severely bullied in school and my mother's advice to me was, "If you don't give them a reason to want to beat you up, then they wouldn't do it now would they?" That's was what I already believed at 5 years old. She never had to tell me that.

True that. I suppose as a small kid, you did exactly what you could, and needed to do, in order to survive. If you physically can't fight back, fawning is a much more effective and appropriate response, survival-wise. But I can totally understand how that brings you to believe that you can't fight back. It takes time and practice to learn that there's a much wider spectrum of options now, as an adult.

After having a very tough time processing my earlier post, this week I have had so many revelations. I just read a post by someone else on this forum who directed to the page on Disfunctional Family Roles. I don't generally go out looking for information like this because it doesn't typically leave me feeling validated.

However, after reading this page ( https://www.outofthestorm.website/dysfunctional-family-roles ), it's so similar to what I was just writing about. I didn't comment on that person's post because I don't know what to say that hasn't been said.

My mother was the narcissist, but not a very good one. She was extremely emotionally stunted and her reactions were quite often extremely childish and lacked foresight. She was highly reactive and jealous, and told outrageous lies even to people who knew they were lies. Very much unlike what people see in the media about NPD. She always used her own victimhood as an excuse for what she did to us or told us horrible stories about what her mother did to her to justify the much "lesser" abuses that she did to us. There are many things about her that I only recently learned. She was abused, probably all of the types. When she was a teenager she was put on a train across the country with nearly nothing to meet an uncle to live with, who didn't exist. At some point she met my father, he was 18 years older than she was. She was only 17 when they got married. None of this is justification, but it is fact, and it is character building nevertheless.

My father was mostly away. I heard many stories growing up from my oldest two siblings whom I haven't really talked about on here who say that he was much more physically violent with them in a way he wasn't with us younger three. I can imagine his role changed over the years. I always thought he was afraid of my mother, and for the most part carried out whatever she said. (For the most part.) My mother was sometimes physical with him, and their dynamic was extremely unhealthy. He was in some ways the enabler and in some ways the hero. His role switched depending on what was most convenient for him. I suppose he did have the upper hand at some point but 17 year olds eventually grow up.

The roles of my siblings closest to me in age were very much roles they themselves did not select. My brother, the punisher as I call him here, was the hero. He didn't do well in school. He didn't really do well at much, but he was the golden child, and even his very mild successes were praised to an extreme. He was paraded around like he was a genius. His successes were often inflated. Meanwhile, I did everything to try succeed. I tried so hard to be noticed. I was only ever told about my short-comings, about my lack of well-roundedness, how my goals were useless like me. My brother only had to barely pass to be praised, and this really shaped his character. He was an adult by the time I was homeless, and he was not a decent person. He never had to be, and I doubt that has changed. He also downplayed and justified the abuse, even that which was directed toward him. He had a very different relationship to the abusers.

The sibling closest to me in age that I refer to as the problem child was the scapegoat, without a doubt. His real faults were mostly concealed by the narcissist in order to protect her own self-image and he was instead used almost like in the case of munchausen by proxy. When he did have trangressions that came out or couldn't be hidden, the narcissist played the part of concerned strict parent (which was very popular at the time). She behaved again only to serve her own reputation when under public scrutiny. One time she sent him away to one of these child abuse religious work camps that only now are coming out on the news. The problem child talked about how people dressed in military clothing and sprayed him with pepperspray so often that it didn't bother him at all, (a very concerning thing for a sexual preditor to say). He said they forced him to cut grass all day with a machete, refused him food most of the time, and beat him. He didn't seem that bothered by any of this. None of this improved his behaviour, but it did shape his character. If anything it would have affirmed his experiences with adults. That they are abusive, that it's normal to abuse children, animals, and anyone weaker than you.

I was the lost child, but I was never used as a face of the family as the punisher was. A lot of the things I was punished for are directly related to my coping strategy. I wasn't outspoken like the punisher. I dressed in black. I had severe social anxiety and was unable to carry out very normal tasks. I have talked about how my mother used humiliation as a form of abuse for me, really only for me, and she did this often in public. She triggered my c-PTSD responses, and used them against me to prove my inadequacy as a person. She pointed out only my flaws when talking to other family members, and when I would tell them about my accomplishments they would be in disbelief. I went to church willingly, was a published author as a teenager, I graduated early, I volunteered, I tried to do anything to be noticed... but I was scoulded. I was once forced to write an essay about "What I want to do when I grow up" and make a presentation to my mother, only for her to pick it apart and tell me how it would never happen, because I wasn't smart, how I had no money, and how she wasn't going to help me either. I always knew I would be homeless. I was singled out differently. When she couldn't hurt me, she hurt people/animals I cared about to show I was powerless. That really shaped me too.

Hi Bermuda,
I am belatedly coming over to welcome you back to the forum, I've been meaning to say that to you, but somehow time elapsed.  I have read what you wrote in your last entry here, and I was particularly touched by what you wrote in your final paragraph - I wanted to extend a hug of support  :hug: if that feels ok and appropriate. 
Hope  :)

Thank you Hope67, consistency is something I've never been too good at and c-PTSD comes like electrical surges. A hug is greatly appreciated.

Electrical surges is a good way to describe cptsd.

I smiled at how you described your mom.  A  narcissist  but not a very good one.  She sounds like my  mom.  I describe her symptoms as borderline  pd which really just seems like narcissism  but with a different  underlying motivation system. All the damage though.

Hi Bermuda,
I also related a lot to your description of c-PTSD as being like having 'electrical surges' - I intend to write more about that in my own journal at some point, as I really think it was such an apt description.

Hope  :)

Parenting is constantly confronting my experiences. Memories are triggered several times a day, but it's not usually negative.

Little things happen, like my 2 year old coming up to me to point out that he has a hang nail that needs to be clipped. I can't help but think there is no way I would have ever done that with my mother, and it just comes at me like a feeling rather than a thought, a sick hurt feeling.

When I watch my husband tickle my son, I just get a horrible feeling. My son ASKS to be tickled, and when he says, "No!" my husband stops until he wants to be tickled again. It's the cutest thing when he asks to be tickled, but it makes me feel horrible because my parents and siblings never respected my boundries and tickling was not fun and was never something I would have asked for.

When my husband throws my son in the air and catches him, I get a terrible sinking feeling. I just remember being thrown around for fun, like a doll, and as a child really believing the cieling fan would slice me up like in cartoons. My fears were exploited. Because of all this, I'm not really the wild fun parent.

This morning my son really didn't want to brush his teeth before going to preschool. My husband tried to force him to do it. I had to stop, and say that it's not worth it, we will sit and be late if we have to because it's more important that he feels safe and comes to the conclusion that brushing his teeth is the right thing to do on his own. He was only ten minutes late, and it was very worth it.

Last night my son had tried to move a chair to the light switch to turn it on and off, and when the chair was too heavy he got his tricycle and used it to reach the light. My husband laughed as my son flipped light on and off, and recounted how he used to play disco with his grandparents. I just said, "Oh, I never did that. I had to be lady-like." Which led to a discussion about the sorts of things I did do. Climbing, tricycling, these things would not have been included. I can't imagine being allowed to turn lights on and off. I did learn how to cook, and clean, make pottery out of bread, and twirl paper into flowers. When my husband heard that he laughed because that is very much not the sort of adult I have become.

It's hard to constantly be bombarded with these feelings, especially when it's really small things that trigger it. I guess this is one of the positive aspects of C-PTSD though. Everything I do is thoughtful and intentional. I see people carry on doing the same things that are familiar to them, but I never do. Constant self-confrontation can be maddening, but it can also be wonderful and rewarding.

Bermuda, I am just catching up in your journal today. My heart breaks for you and the abuse that you experienced.

It is a beautiful thing that your child is free to be himself and that he is safe with you and your H.

The way you handled the tooth brushing with your son is really beautiful and so balanced. He's lucky to have you and H raising him. I completely relate to what you say about the multiple poignant triggers that aren't necessarily negative in parenting.

That strikes me a lot when my kids want to snuggle or have me stroke their hair. All I wanted as a kid was for her to stay as far away from me as possible. She would touch me and I would just freeze. If she'd offer to help me with some chore I just wanted to be left alone to do it myself because I knew what her help meant.

I still have no idea what causes some parents with difficult backgrounds to continue the cycle and others to approach parenting thoughtfully like you do. But what a beautiful family you are raising. Good job.

Thank you for your replies. I have felt more self-conscious than usual lately and have been deleting more posts than I keep up. The replies really make me feel better about simply writing my random thoughts.

Armee, me too. To all of it. You wrote in your journal about never wanting to ask a question and it really resonated with me. Just simply reminding my mother of my existence was too much, let alone making myself vulnerable to attack by asking a simple question. I remember asking for help understanding a question on a homework assignment once and being berated about how stupid I am the entire evening, and how I would know what the teacher expected out of me if I had been paying attention, clearly I wasn't paying attention. Obviously, I look at this differently as an adult. My parents were projecting. They knew they wouldn't know how to approach the question and it is much easier to tell a child how worthless they are than it is to admit they had no idea. I was their emotional scapegoat or voodoo doll depending on the situation.

I don't know why so many parents just parent blindly. With C-PTSD I clearly have my own issues with emotional regulation, but I break down on myself and become just a void of human mass. I don't lash out. I fall apart.

I haven't been posting very much. I said I had been feeling self-conscious. That is true, but there is more to it.

Two active users on this forum have user names that are names of family members. I find it triggering. I know they are not my family members. It's very obvious in the way they speak and their backstories, but my mind still goes into protection mode. To me that means hiding and expecting the worst. It's not full paranoia, but I feel the need to pull away and protect myself. I worry about the things I've said, and feel the urge to change my user name. I have thoughts like, maybe they don't know me, but who does? What if someone finds me again?

I am 35 years old and still afraid of being found. I still feel like I'm being hunted. I don't know if I am being hunted, and sometimes seeing those user names trigger that reminder. So, that's why I am being reclusive. It's not that I am not struggling.

It's hard to want so badly to be seen, but also to want to remain invisible.

I wish I had a magic wand to help you feel safe and able to post. I don't, but I wish I did.

I sometimes i feel similarly about the real sounding user names. Not that I think someone has found me and will harm me because luckily no one is alive any more. But that it is someone I know and even though I'm not scared that it is anyone who abused me I STILL get a little panicky thinking it is someone who knows me and will recognize my posts. So I can't imagine the fear that arises thinking it might be someone who I have been trying to stay away from.

If it were my name that were triggering you I would change it in a second.

I'm so sorry Bermuda. Please let me know if it's my name, because I guess it could be a nickname too.

I also understand what you mean because even on other forums not even remotely connected to cptsd I get a little shock if I see a name that could come from my FOO.

Thank you both. It makes me feel a bit better to know I'm not the only one who can be triggered by something so simple as a name.

I don't want to say which names, because that feels too personal. In any case, I love blueberries. They're my favourite berry.  :)

I don't want to indulge my cPTSD either. I just want to be honest about my day to day struggles. Today I looked up several FOOs to try to figure out if they're trying to phish information on me, and where they are right now, and all those things. I found nothing new. They are silent for once. I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse. I don't feel one step ahead. It's not relief.

I wonder if I can ever learn to truly have two feet on the ground. I want that. I want rootedness. I want contentedness. (I physically feel like fleeing.)

hi Bermuda,.,
I'd happily change my name (it's just made up) if that helped :)
I too know how it feels to try to hide.

I am writing this on my phone, so please excuse any typos.

I recently realised that I am 17.5 years FOOless. I've been reflecting on what it means to be free nearly as long as I was abused. I have had half a life to live. I can think of it as 17 whole years to heal, or as half of my life up until this point robbed from me along with all the aftermath.

This post will be waffling and I'll let it go unplanned. So, sorry for that too.

Despite what I am about to write, I am a huge advocate for going zero contact. As a child I was made to feel that if I called the police or tried to escape that I would be locked up in an orphanage, go to jail, or starve to death on the streets. I believed that I would die, and that what I lived with was not that bad and that I was just being overly sensitive. It's hard to reach out for help when you don't know what it is you need help with.

I wish I could draw out a timeline here to describe what it has been like being zero contact with anyone from my past. It's been hard. At first, the first years, I mourned. I was a teenager, and I cried about the idealised version of a family. Holidays were horrible. Other people my age were the worst. They did not understand their privilege. I was told so many times, "What?! But they're your family!" I was blamed by my peers as if it were something I had done wrong. It was isolating. I had trouble with basic things people take for granted, even when I managed to get identification. I couldn't get anyone to cosign a lease for me. I had no emergency contacts. I had no safety net. I couldn't fill out university paperwork. I had no one, and no proof of existence. I still am more than a decade behind because of the real technical beaurocratic difficulties with being a homeless stateless teenager.

So, after the mourning the imaginary family phase I kind of went into the emptiness phase. It was the time when having no family meant having no identity. I don't have heritage or traditions. I didn't have anyone rooting for me. I felt like I just landed in a place and time. Someone during this time accused me of being a government spy. Not even jokingly. I had no idea how to behave like others, how to speak, what to say, just how to be. I was figuring out what to call myself, which language to speak, if I was sitting up too straight, what is the correct amount of eye contact... I was lost.

The third phase was the milestone phase. In my thirties some big things have happened. I got married, have had two children. At my wedding I only had one person who came to represent me. My wedding is an unpleasant memory. I feel guilty saying that, but it was a horrible day for me. (Deserves its own post.) I have trouble speaking up for myself and on my wedding it meant that my culture was not represented at all and that my mother in law bullied me out of anything I wanted. When we announced our engagement she turned to my then fiance as said, "Why, is she pregnant??" After that I got the interrogation. Why was my family not coming? My husband had to show them video evidence of what I was going through at the time with stalking. It was embarrassing. Somehow people who have lived ordinary lives look at those who haven't as if there is something wrong with them. I felt humiliated and judged. It was not my special day. My one person to represent me was also from the same religious background I am from, and also did not speak up for me. They were also taught not to speak. Other than marriage, the milestone phase has been a time where I have no one to ask questions to. I don't know how I was as a baby. I knew nothing about recovery from labour. I don't know my family medical history. When my midwives ask I can either be honest and have an awkward moment, or speculate.

Each phase of being singular has been distinct. I don't know if these experiences are degrees of healing. I wonder what phase comes next. All in all I am grateful. I may be lonely. I never learned how to maintain human connection, but I can't fathom what my life would have been. I never would have had the opportunity to be my own person, develop my own opinions, make decisions, or grow. I would exist in secret. I feel like I exist in secret now, but I would really only exist where no one could see. That's a scary thought. I wouldn't have had space to heal, or space to realise there was something to heal from.

:blahblahblah: :yes:

Bermuda, I appreciate you reflecting on this and that I have learned from you and others that zero contact is an option.  I'm not there and not sure I will be, but I appreciate the understanding that I can determine the amount of contact I have with people that hurt me even if they gave birth and "raised" me. 

One of my triggers is gender.

So, I've written about how sexist slurs were used against me by both sexes growing up, but it was more than that. Their was also harassment about menstruation and other aspects of being born female. (I'll share stories when I have more time to write.)

Today I just want to write about every day life and what it meant to be born female growing up. I grew up in a religious cult, but in a way that my family openly used religion and at home voiced their... disbelief. This religion taught me that my virtue was related to my purity, willingness to serve my father and then my husband, and my ability to bear children. Nothing more. Overcoming that has taken me so long. Not just in the obvious ways, but how that mindset corrupted my ideals and what was normative. As an example, It was almost as if I had never questioned whether I wanted marriage because that was simply what I would do. Fortunately, I did not marry young. Yikes.

To be a female was to work. I didn't play. My brother's played. I remember my grandmother constantly reminding me that I was going to regret being active, that my body could not handle it, and I would feel my choice to behave tomboyish when I am older.

While my brother's had toys, I cooked and cleaned. I was so eager to help, until I realised that nothing I did would ever be satisfactory. I wasted too much water while washing dishes, five year old me folded sloppily, and I didn't remember the baseboards when vacuuming. ...At least I could cook...

When I was in 1st grade I threw out all my toys. My mother always threatened to throw all *her* things out, and I think I thought that the things were the problem. She didn't like people to see children or their things, we weren't to be seen or heard. So, in 1st grade I told my mother I was too old for playing, and I stopped.

Now as an adult I constantly question all choices that seem like gender norms, and I am WAY too serious, and I don't clean, ever... and I have no attachment things, only slightly less than I do to people.

Hi Bermuda,
You got me thinking about attachments to things.  I appreciated you sharing what you said about your own attachments.  I was sorry to hear about your experiences regarding gender, and recognise the trigger relating to gender. 

I was sorry to hear that you weren't able or allowed to play, and that your brothers could do that.  It doesn't seem fair.

I wondered if you've allowed yourself to 'play' as an adult in anyway, or whether you don't wish to do that.  I hope you don't mind my asking that - I just wondered.

Hope  :)

I want to play. My grandmother was right in a sense. My body doesn't allow me to be active and wild in the way I would like to be, but she was wrong in her presumption that I am delicate because I am female. I wish I could do all the things that I was taught little girls ought not to. I want to climb a tree, play rough, etc. I AM that person.

When it comes to laughing, smiling, being silly, goofing off, joking, that's where I falter. I don't understand jokes, or when things are a joke. I rarely smile. I even see my partner being silly and playing, and I try to mimic that and be a ferocious tickle monster, but I can't. My little one would stop laughing and look at me weird.

I want to joke. People in the past asked me if I know any good jokes, and I don't know any jokes, and I certainly couldn't deliver one. I know these little things sound trivial, but to me they really are the things that make me feel alien.

I think I am naturally a weird goofy energetic artsy person, but I only know how to express myself as a quiet motivated robot. My outside does not reflect my inside.

I sometimes feel like my outside doesn't reflect my inside, too, and it is not a fun feeling at all. And also physically not being able to do certain things like joke around.

I'm sorry you got all those damaging messages and worse that your instincts were curtailed. I hope it's a comfort to you that you are doing amazing with your own child.

Hi Bermuda,
I hope that you will be able to express whatever you want to, at some point in your future. 
Hope  :)

Thank you two,

Armee, you are really on to something with your presumption about instincts. That is it. People act instinctually, they act and react. I see it all the time when I don't understand why people behave how they do, and it's also exactly what I am talking about here. I don't understand when something is a joke, or know how to just express what I feel would be my natural expression of self. I am missing natural instinct and intuition.

I learned not to react, not to express, and not to desire.

Now that I have made this connection to instinct, I hope it's something I can work toward mending so I can get to know myself better and maybe share that with others. That's all I want after all, connection. ...And how can someone connect to someone who expresses themself so... incomplete?  :spooked:

When everything we did as a kid was potentially wrong or dangerous we stop trusting ourselves, don't we? I'm constantly doing this...doubting myself.  It's interesting that the instinct part called out to you. I think I only meant it about your instinct to play and climb but you are absolutely right about how important instinct is and being able to hear and trust our instinct....how vital that is to everything...feeling our emotions, joking, connecting, maintaining boundaries...everything really. It's almost like that is the bridge piece that connects this all. We learned to not trust our instinct and to shut it down. So we are trying to logically figure everything out and that leaves us robotic and three steps behind.

On the same topic of instinct, intuition, boundaries, and reaction... I can't think of what it is I want to express here, aside from expressing it in a common dialog that has happened several ways over the years. It's something I feel sums up what it's like with cPTSD related to long-term trauma...

Them: Hey, how are you doing?
Me: I'm doing great. [Big smile] Feeling energetic, and I accomplished that thing.
Them: [Looking confused] Are you sure?
Me: Of course, why?
Them: Because that one thing that someone made happen/said/did.
Me: [Realisation and panic] Oh, yes, that. I'm fine.

I walk away shattered, triggered, and shrunken.

I don't realise things are wrong. I may have a feeling deep down, but not a conscious recognition. It's as if I don't have boundaries, because I don't have expectation. I just have my own feelings and they are many and often conflicting anyhow. I am triggered when I have this delayed cognitive recognition. It does seem to have it's foundation in a lack of instinct, or with cPTSD often rather a misplaced and heightened instinct in other facets.

I could probably rewrite this in a more comprehensive way, but I literally have no time these days. I can only hope that this somehow makes sense in the order it naturally came out.

Additionally just wanted to say that the other person either thinks I'm pretending to be OK, or that I am really ignorant or naive when these things happen. I have been told several times that I am the most intelligent idiot someone has ever met. ...It may be true, but I'm neither pretending nor naive.

Hello, I haven't posted in a while. It's a good thing. I have been doing really well. I owe a lot of it to this forum. Sometimes, things happen and I wonder if it was all real, and I can read back over things here and remember.

I just want to get out a memory that just surfaced out of no where. I won't write details because it just resurfaced, and I don't feel comfortable with it. Sometimes I get triggered by things like opening Netflix and they have a clip playing already, and you can't stop it. That happened today. It was a clip from a new docu series which is (seemingly) about cyber sexual extortion. It made me immediately sick, and I closed it. Sometimes I get this feeling like I can relate to people even though I can't recall an instance, I just know it is there. This memory was not like that, it just flooded me in an instant, and I know I will be feeling sick all night because of it. Yes, that happened to me too, and at the time I played along and pretended I enjoyed it, just like I do in my night terrors. I acted and manipulated my way through it.

I also have this feeling lately that I want to write out, maybe someone understands. My son is three, and he is non-verbal. He wanders. I recently got him a bracelet with his name and our phone numbers on it. I live in a very safe country. One time he ran happily out of a shop, and luckily this man unloading a delivery truck caught him and picked him up. My son was so happy, and the man just smiled and asked if he wanted to help unload boxes. My son loves trucks and nodded. I was there at this point, and the guy was being helpful, but oh my goodness. The horror. All of my insides turning all at once. My son loves everyone, and is adventurous and non-verbal. I have started having concerns, extreme worry. He goes to preschool, has a nanny... Any time he is sad and doesn't want to go to school, I have this sick feeling that something terrible could be happening to him and he couldn't tell me. I don't know what I would do.

I'm sorry you went through that, related to the Netflix preview. I relate to that.. pretending to like something. It makes healing really confusing and difficult.

Your son...if something happened to him, he'd tell you through behaviors and emotions. Your mother's instinct and nonverbal communication would carry you two.  :grouphug:

It's almost as if your mind tells you when someone threatens you if you act not threatened and instead play along that somehow you're taking THEIR power over you away... but that's not really true is it? It's just what your mind tells you to lesson the desperate nature of the situation, to save your brain.

Reading that just made me cry (don't worry that's a good thing for me). Yeah, it's like that.

I question myself a lot. I question myself in ways that I don't think other people do. The little things that hinder my progress run so deeply.

An example: I injure myself. I question if the pain I am feeling is actually real. If I am crazy. I seek outside opinion to validate if what I am feeling is consistent with how one should feel in such a situation. I feel dramatic if something presents differently than it "should" so I just ignore it because it's not real.

That's just one example of a really deep rooted issue that I just don't know how to address. I was overhearing a business meeting and a female employee was leading the conversation on a professional topic and I just felt shocked. How is it that other women can voice opinions and speak with authority on anything? That's what triggered this thought. I can't offer my opinion as anything other than just an opinion. I can't present my experiences as fact. It's not that I lack competence in anything, but I just don't know how to speak when I'm not spoken to, to speak when a question hasn't been asked. I don't even know how to feel until I am told how I am supposed to feel.  I don't know how to just be.  ???

Yeah that, exactly, Bermuda. You aren't alone in that. Even huge things...how am I supposed to feel? It's no big deal right so I should be fine? Then i read a book or watch a movie about something similar happening to someone else and i feel sad or angry or whatever for them. Maybe even intensely and I wonder wait...does that mean I should feel that way? Cause all I  feel is numb or "it's fine, I'm ok."

It's protective I guess though we'd do better to be able to feel those emotions. I'm curious if once you know how you're supposed to feel or have permission from someone are you then really able to feel it? Usually that makes me feel ok to feel that way but the feelings never actually come. I dunno. You're not alone.

Weirdly a lot of people saw me as that outspoken person at work even though I felt deeply uncomfortable to the point of needing to SH later. I was often admiringly referred to as a bad a**. The thing was it was because I was speaking up for some injustice perpetrated on someone else. That was how I could use my voice.

Our parents took our own voice away if we ever had one. It was dangerous to speak up. I guess we keep reminding ourselves in other situations that we have a right to speak as much as anyone and these bad things that happened in the past aren't what is happening now.

Hugs to you. You have good things to say. It's sad that the right to say them is one more layer of damage done.

It's true. I also feel deeply empathetic and emotionally invested in the injustices of others to the point that it can feel overwhelming. I can't watch graphic movies.

And like you I have wondered... My own SA is something that I had literally forgotten. Maybe it just didn't make my top 500 worst worth-remembering traumas. At the time I got on with life. My brain filed it in the "Nothing can be done, sort it out later" pile. I always related to that type of trauma, even though I couldn't place why. I couldn't question the situation. I had no power in it.

It's hard to watch other people go through things. I would never treat their experiences as I do my own. "There's nothing you can change, so it doesn't matter or exist, or even effect you at all." ...But that's what my brain reinforces for myself all the time. Sometimes it's the most insignificant things that I wish I could simply let exist that I can't (until the facade crumbles, of course). Medical things, I am so afraid of authority and of someone telling me they see nothing wrong that I would rather not check, not ask, not experience at all. I can't allow myself, or will myself to experience things with certainty, and quite ironically people take me as a liar because of this. I have been accused of lying about the strangest things just because of how timid I am.

There was a fuel fire in the harbour where a boat I owned was. I upsettedly told my coworker that I needed to call and check on my boat, and she looked me in the eyes and told me I was lying and that I don't even own a boat. So many examples of this kind of thing. Every time I am shocked and confused, and you know what, I never stick up for myself either. I just shut up like a good girl and move on. My yacht was covered in black soot but was otherwise fine by the way. What emotion was I supposed to portray, and to what extent? My very presence usually feels like too much. (Just like the length of this text, sorry.)

I look up to people who are unabashedly themselves. People who have a distinct style, or speak up about things they're passionate about even if I am not. I see someone walking down the street with wild hair dancing while they walk, I just want to celebrate, but I am not that. I am wishy-washy, shifty-eyed, I cross my arms (which I've been told makes me come across as arrogant), I speak about myself as if I don't even believe me. I want to be powerful. I want to command an audience... I can't even tell you if my shoulder hurts because that's relative and experiences can never be objective, and I don't want to take your attention away from real people with real problems.

I am heading back to university. It has been causing me a lot of anxiety, and not in the ways people might expect. This will be rambly.

I have studied a lot. It's something I do, but it's extremely difficult for me. I was studying at this university (remotely) during the pandemic, and I stopped for a life detour. Now I am resuming my studies and had to go pick up a new student ID. I put it off for two weeks. I walked into the university and felt overwhelming panic. I am older, but it's not because I am going into my late 30's. It is this extreme feeling of being found out. I am so terrified that someone will speak to me, or ask me a question. I walked the stairs up and down just to avoid orientation. I felt like I was floating, close to tears, close to fainting. I did not orientate myself. I was just breathing and trying to keep my facial expression neutral as I walked up six flights and then directly back down. I just got an email saying my class has been moved to a different university building.

Educational trauma. I tried so hard growing up. I was never the best, and even if I had been it would never have been enough. I had an older brother who was always the smart one, even though he was not at all that. I worked so hard to be noticed and recognised positively. I did everything I was told, even tried to do the things I was told were impossible. I was made to write essays about my life goals only to be told that they were unreasonable and unattainable upon presenting them to my parents, and that I wouldn't be getting any support. I changed my dreams over and over again. I graduated two years early and was forced to apply for my own diploma. I applied to universities internationally but my parents told me to sign for them and refused to disclose any financial information. I had to figure everything out on my own and just make up what I didn't know.

After I had been homeless and on my own a couple years they found me. I was having a police officer escort me to my place to get clothes and bring me to a safe hotel. A note had been slipped under my door. I gave it to the officer and told him to read it for the record and not to tell me what it said. I told him it would likely start off nice and end manipulative and threatening. He told me that was basically correct. He said there might be something important I should know, and that is that I had beeen accepted to two very prestgious international universities. This was years later.

Once I wasn't just trying my best to stay alive, all I've done is study. I keep a binder full of certifications for no reason. I'm not driven. I don't work. I just collect papers, and I'm so terrified that someone will ask me why I am studying, what my goals are, what career I am in, and the thought of walking into a different university building makes me want to vomit. All I can do is try to be invisible like I did my whole childhood and hope no one asks me any questions and maintain a neutral expression. When I am floating around I am like a ghost and cannot reply anyhow.  :disappear:

Best wishes as you embark on a new university journey.  I resonate with loving to learn and getting a lot of knowledge but without a clear purpose or reason that others can see. 

I can't relate to others and especially not to "single path people", but "single path people" are the only acceptable societal normative. They are the ones who have both defined success and assigned that title to themselves. That path was robbed from me and nothing I can ever regain, but I keep trying. My studies are inherently social and I will have to speak about myself. I either have to uncomfortably lie or be exceptionally vague and aloof as not to disrupt the point of the lessons. I am so scared of introducing myself. I am scared of panicing publicly, and freezing when someone inevitably calls me by my "slave name". If that offends someone, I was a slave.

Gently gently present with you, Bermuda. What you've gone through is something most people can scarcely grasp but it's your reality.

You've also put into words something I experience regularly. Even rehearsing professional presentations alone not just at home but locked in my car I stumble and freeze just over the first slide, introducing myself. It's deeply unsettling. You aren't alone even if the severity of your traumas sets you apart.

There are many who are on that single path path, and they may be the producers in this world and we need them but they aren't the change makers. You have that in you.

I guess I find myself wondering with the predicament you are in in class if the teacher feels safe to strategize with in a very vague and general way, how to approach the self-disclosing parts of the assignments. I can understand if there's a well-earned hesitancy to do that knowing that there are many people who are expolitational.

I read a book, heartberries, you might like.

Thank you for the book recommendation. I would love to read a book sometime just casually. I may fit it in just for that in and of itself.

You are right. WE are change makers. I can't help but notice more people talking about how social anxiety and other mental health concerns have been treated, medicated, over the years. This is not just me being anxious. It's not just me being uncomfortable in front of people. It's complex layers of bleh that is intertwined into everything I do. It's conditioning. People are listening, the world is changing. The next generation of people living with complex trauma may be treated differently. They may be heard, helped, encouraged, and not simply drugged and drug onward.

I can relate to the feeling of trying to be invisible, Bermuda.

I think you're right, there are more people talking about mental health concerns now and taking them seriously.

I was recently reading over my own posts as I do far more frequently than I think is healthy.  :wave:

I had this emotional reaction to my posts thinking they make me sound very angry lately, that my reflections on my life are negative. It was odd, I had this feeling that I needed to change how I am expressing myself. I thought this feeling through while I was in the shower...

I spent half of my life in terror, fear, with so much just grief and sadness. I never once reflected on my emotions thinking that they were wrong. I didn't like how they showed themselves (panic attacks etc), but I didn't relate to those feelings like I do the ones I have read in my recent posts. It's strange. I think a lot of it has to do with religion. Growing up in an environment where forgiveness is a necessary act. That even if someone's transgressions were purposefully harmful and without remorse, forgiveness is the only option. In a religious environment in which everything you say and do must be with grace and submission there is no room for natural stages of healing.

So, I've come to the conclusion that what I feel isn't hate, because it was never love. I'm not that empassioned. It's deep resounding resentment. It's anger. It's unforgiving. It's the fuel that keeps me safe, and it's totally fine. It's not only justifiable given the extreme hardship I had to endure but it's also healthy. I feel bitter. I will communicate here in all truthful bitterness, because that's why I use this forum. So, just wanted to say that.

For what it is worth, anger and bitterness are not what come through when I read these. More like reckoning with the truth. Because they are legitimately terrible truths I can see how the negativity would be noticeable when you reread them, but I guess my interpretation is the negativity is the things that happened.. those are what are negative. YOU are not negative. Always looking at the brightside is not healing. Sometimes we have to see the darkness we've been through. I appreciate your posts.

Thanks Armee for saying that. Sometimes it's hard to remember that just because we are the sum of our experiences that doesn't mean we are our experiences. Water ≠ a swimming pool

The equation is more like
Biology + experiences + more experiences + reflections and alterations = humankind

Hi Bermuda,
I related to some things you said in your journal - and I felt emotional as I read some things you wrote. 

I like your equation too.

I'd like to say more, but my words are drying up.  Sorry - but I wanted to just say those things.
Hope  :)

I regularly go incognito to check up on my past life. It helps me to feel safe and it validates my memories and experiences. Unless I discover something concerning safety-wise I don’t tell anyone about it. I really wish I had someone to talk to about these things.

Today I learned where they are currently located and that makes me feel a lot safer. About a year ago my mother had been posting some things about being disowned and saying she was homeless. She had even started a crowdfunding campaign to earn money to relocate. Of course she also used the platform to phish. Now, my mother is not a trustworthy source of information so I have to extrapolate what might actually be true out of these things. What I saw today confirmed my suspicion that it was all likely a lie. I read some product reviews she had written 24h ago, and easily located her. In any case, she is narcissistic and dangerous.

She always posts memes directed toward me, knowing that I will see even though I am completely removed for 18 years from everyone and even geographically so. No one knows where I am. It’s such strange behaviour. She has accounts on various websites dedicated to me. Some to finding her long lost daughter, and others with creepy messages to me that have nothing to do with reality. It feels disgusting. At one point she actually lied about finding me and chatting with me and hoping to meet her grandchildren. I didn’t even have children.

Her current message profile meme: “She left you because you didn’t make her feel she was worth it.”

Something about that feels so deeply disturbing. I think it’s her trying to garner sympathy again, but as always so twisted.

Worth what? Worth the pain YOU went through? Her words to me were, “Get the f out of my house, and when you leave I never want to see your face again!” Worth what? The pain that me secretly making and hiding money from you to try to escape put you through? Or is this meant for me only to read it the other way around. She kicked me out because I didn't make HER feel worth it? It wouldn't surprise me if that's intentional.

I have no one to tell these things to. I brush them off and keep going, but the truth is she is still out there and she is using me to get sympathy, information and money from people to benefit herself without any consideration for me.

I always thought she was purely hateful, but in this I am just nothing. I am the unfortunate tool to get what she wants out of life. Respect. Validation. Admiration. Trust. Security.

It’s the same things I want. Maybe the same things everyone wants… but I try to do well, to be honest to a fault, to be kind, to be compassionate and understanding. She just tries to win at all costs. That scares me. I hate to watch her take advantage strangers.

Many many many years ago I did try to anonymously stop it. The campaign that is. But I can’t.

Now I just watch to make sure that I at least know if I am in danger.

—

Unrelated, I have been reading all the new welcome posts but have been finding it difficult to reply. I want others to know that if it says someone read it was likely me. I’m sorry. You are heard.

She sounds deeply disturbing and deeply disturbed and delusional. It makes complete sense to me that you investigate undercover to double and triple check you are still safe.

Hi Bermuda,
I also think it makes sense that you investigate undercover - to double and triple check you're safe.  I am glad that you are safe, but I can see how you'd feel like things were unsafe - as a result of her behaviour.

I am glad that you are safe.

Her words to you were painful and hurtful.  I am so sorry that you had that treatment from her.

Hope 

Hey Bermuda!

Thanks for sharing that.  I've always hated those kind of people on social media.  I can usually smell them from a mile away, and can hardly believe when anyone falls for their c***.

I hope you feel like you can vent here about these kind of things.  If anyone understands how a parent can mistreat, abuse, and take advantage of others its us, and verbalizing this kind of stuff is much more healthy than trying to keep it in.

I hope you have a good week!

Thank you all for replying.

I just go back to the same thoughts. She hated me for all the behaviours she created in me. Those behavioural patterns have become me, not just my cPTSD, but an integral part of my identity and in the ways I interact with my environment. As much as I heal, and I am clearly healing, I have this voice that reminds me of where I originated. I am the product of her careless design. I am silent. I am withholding. I am just learning to feel outward anger for the first time in my life. It's not that I was bottling things up. There was nothing to bottle up. I was nothing. I was sad and hurt. I internalised everything around me. I tried to create a me that lacked fault in that I still have no sense of self-identity. All I have is her undoing of what would have been Bermuda. I wish I had gotten the opportunity to meet Bermuda.

CrackedIce, you are absolutely spot on. It is shocking to me that people don't see these behaviours for what they are. People take things at such face value, whereas I always see the underlying intent or motive. It drives me insane. It makes normal social interactions extremely difficult because I often get frustrated that others can't read a conversation in the way that I do and may come to conclusions that I find extremely odd as if we were in completely different conversations. I am also poor at understanding non-literally meaning to words or commands. I'm the one on another planet. My husband (then boyfriend) has a friend since childhood, and I remember meeting him for the first time in a group of his other friends and telling my husband that this friend is a bit... different... and I didn't really want to hang out with him. My husband started questioning me as if this friend had said something rude or treated me badly. He hadn't. He just talked about himself differently than the others had and had non-mirroring body language, like sat up, posed. Fast forward a few years, and all the friends were catching up over a Skype call, now adults, and I heard that friend say that he wanted everyone to know he had been diagnosed with NPD, and that he was going to therapy for it with his girlfriend. Everyone sounded shocked. (Me walking around the background, not shocked at all, maybe surprised he willingly shared that and was seeking help. Good on him.)

Imagine your new girlfriend saying she doesn't want to hang out with your childhood friend because he sits weird.

Maybe even it's not that she hates you for the behaviors she created in you, but she is just demented. She would hate you - her daughter - no matter what you did or how you were. Simply because she is who she is. The words I have for who she is are not nice.

I completely relate to most of what you wrote.

Thank you Armee. Really. It might seem obvious in retrospect, but I have never thought of it that way. So much of my journey is about accepting that it was not me. I don’t blame myself in the same way I once did, but I still haven’t put the blame where it belongs either.

I may have written this memory before so I’ll keep it short. I remember my mother once switching faces suddenly in conversation saying very hatefully, “Who said I ever loved him?” to me referring to my father. That really shocked me as a 13 or so year old. I thought she was just being intentionally hurtful… The cold expression on her face is just burned into my mind.

You know, she may not have been exaggerating at all. Maybe she never loved him, nor anyone else. She was different. She is different. She hates everyone who cannot benefit her, and those who benefit her she thinks nothing of. Love or even just caring was never on the table.

Yeah, that's my mom, too. Including the creepy cold expressions. I'm sorry. Kids deserve better.

A memory, a vague mention of bullying, possible trigger.

I was reading over some journaling prompts Kizzie posted, and although I don’t know how to answer most of them one jumped out to me. (Hah! A pun and foreshadowing, two points for me!)

3) When I was sad, my mother would

The memory: I was bullied in school. Jumped, beaten, I was often lured, set up. After a particularly violent encounter and coming home crying I remember my mother calling me to her room where she was laying in bed. She motioned me to sit. I did. She asked me to tell her what had happened, and I did. She told me with a judgmental look that if I didn’t give them a reason to beat me than they wouldn’t. She told me that if I didn’t fight back that eventually they’d give up and find someone else, then she told me to draw her a bath and make her a cup of coffee.

So, according to my mother if I hadn’t given her a reason to bully me than she would never have been my worst bully. I never fought back, and she still hasn’t given up.

As far as the kids, they beat me while screaming slurs about my light complexion. No amount of sunlight could have changed that. As far as not reacting, I never had. I eventually earned quite the reputation for not feeling pain and kids from all over the school would come up and punch me. Some even sheepishly asked to, to find out if it was true that I don’t cry or even flinch. I said yes and instructed them to punch me in the back because I had no boundaries and knew that it wouldn’t hurt at all to have a child relatively my age punch me as hard as they could in my back. How did I know that? Experience.

Anger. I think it makes me feel angry. My mother always exploited me, exploited my vulnerability. I believed her. I truly believed that I was to blame for the horrible things that people did to me.

Bermuda

I know you didn't deserve to be beaten on at school. I was beaten on and bullied also. When I told my mom about it, she said something similar. "They're just jealous because you're better than them. Ignore them and they'll go away." When I tried to tell her they weren't going away she basically told me to stop bringing my problems to her. She told me to ignore them and that was that.  So, I know something about the anger you're feeling. And my bullying was in a cathoic school. I begged her to let me go to the public school where my friends all went. She said, "No matter what's happening to you there it will be far worse in any other school."  Heavy sigh. No-win scenario.

Our moms gave us bad advice because they didn't want to deal with our problems. Or maybe they just wanted to have obedient little patsies for sons. It's easier to control a victim than a self-assured young man.

When MY two sons got into Jr High and started telling me of bullying, I immediately enrolled all three of us into Tai Kwon Do classes. I obviously didn't know how to deal with bullies, so I paid teachers to help all three of us find our strength. It worked for them. The minute they showed up to school with faces that somehow lost their fear, all the bullying stopped. No one ever had to throw a punch and no one ever bullied them again.

That sometimes makes me even angrier at dear old mom who could have found someone somewhere to teach me how to fight so bullies would see the confidence in my face. But no. In her mind, if I were to fight at school, she'd get a call and she'd be humiliated that her son was "being disobedient." She'd most likely have made me apologize to the bullies for having the nerve to stand up to them. It was far more important to my mom to be seen as a good catholic than it was to be a good mother.  If I just took the beatings, no one would ever call HER into the office.

So I feel your anger. I validate that what you went through really was a bad, bad experience. You did NOT deserve it. You absolutely did NOT deserve it. Not by any logic on any scale.

I'm so sorry Bermuda (and Papa coco) that you were so brutally bullied at school. The part of other kids shyly asking if they could hit you to see that you "didnt' feel it or care is so very heart breaking. I'm so angry for little you. I understand your mom was way messed up and expect no better of her sadly. But I'm so angry wondering where we're the teachers? No one can tell me practically the whole school was beating you and no adult noticed. It makes my stomach churn, truly. And your mom...blaming you, and then asking you to take care of her instead of her nurturing you. I know you are a mom and can see how absolutely backwards that is. I'm sorry. Sending out a hug for Little Bermuda. You didn't deserve any of this.

When I reflect on this time I don't reflect on the bullying in the way others might. What I felt was an overwhelming feeling of monotony. Every single day. I would wake up early alone to do my chores, I would be harassed by my brothers. I would leave for school where I would be attacked on my way to school. I would sit in class where I would be made to feel stupid and unprepared. I would skip lunch every second day because I had to save up to earn my lunch. I would be attacked on the schoolyard if I didn't stay in class instead. I would be hit while waiting to leave. I would rush back to avoid giving children the chance to group up. I would come inside to an angry mother, do my chores, to be told I did them wrong and do them again, be disciplined for not doing well enough in school, my brothers who would beat me and torture me. I would go to bed at night sad, lonely, trapped. I would have to get up and do the same thing every single day.

I think about my reactions to the bullying more than the bullying itself. For example I think often about having my head put through a window... but every day the same children would grab me by my hair and hit my head repeatedly against a window. I learned that if I stiffened my neck and tried to avoid it, it would pull my hair more and make the force when my neck gave out so much stronger. So, a limp neck was the best technique. I had my head put through a window, and what I remember is learning to be limp and laughter.

There were adults, but in a way I think they were also powerless against it and outnumbered. I never blamed them, except when they actively participated or added insult to injury. Maybe I never expected adults to intervene. Why would I? I never knew that was a reasonable expectation. I never told anyone. I told my mother that once. Just that once. I remember feeling that was a nice interaction. She was giving me her nice side. I trusted that.

Yes, as a mother myself I would absolutely teach my children differently. I am passive and non-violent, but I am empowered differently.

In my past posts I haven't really reflected on myself in these moments, and I want to really practice that going forward. I don't remember my head hurting as it went through the safety glass. I don't remember shock. I don't think I cried. I don't think I did anything. Maybe I realised that it was over then. Maybe I got up and switched seats as if nothing happened. The hair pulling always hurt, but not stiffening my neck solved that, because then they weren't actually pulling. It was a choice I was making. It's always felt the same. Me going along with it takes their power away, because they weren't forcing me.

I realise that this is a coping mechanism and that I was powerless to stop it, but that is how it was... Always. It was relentless , repetitive, and predictable. This was when I started going to sleep at night imagining a different day in my head every night. A different life. I created a story I would build on day by day, one in which I was someone loveable.

I read your post and appreciate you sharing this.

There have been so many big things lately. They actually feel too big to share. It's strange. I have been triggered a lot lately, and I do think it's important for me to share the things I feel comfortable with, so here we go.

I have so many triggers. It's impossible to just be.

One of my things is writing. I have been complimented a lot lately on my handwriting while I am studying at Uni. It's very nice, I appreciate the compliments, but for me it's a whirlwind in my mind every time someone points it out. Today a professor came up from behind me in the university cafeteria to admire my handwriting and tell me that it looked like it was printed out. I put a lot of focus into my writing. It's to an abnormal extreme.

Firstly, I am lefthanded. I come from a time where people believed negative things about people who are lefthanded, and it was often corrected. In church you only reach out for the sacrament with your right hand, for example. You pass things with your right hand, you eat only with your right hand. Lefthanded people are sloppy.

The memory(s):
When I was little I broke my left arm, twice, and my left wrist, and two fingers on my left hand. One year in school I had casts on my left hand, twice. My teachers were unsympathetic and thought that pairing me with someone else to help me write was cheating. I was forced to do all of my work with my right hand at the same speed as everyone else. Having three broken bones is no excuse in life.

The next school year I had a teacher who made an example of me. She held up my paper to the class and asked the person who wrote it to stand up. She called me to the front of the class and made me write out my answers on the board while everyone laughed at me. I was humiliated, insulted, compared to animals.

My next teacher complained that I wrote far too small. I wrote tiny because that's how I coped.

Later when I was educated at home my made father me write practice CV's and forced to write them only in block letters. I rewrote it over and over in block lettering.

Now as an adult when someone sneaks up behind me to compliment me on my handwriting I think of my broken bones, the teacher who insulted me repeatedly and created fodder for the bullies, my secret writing that no one could see, and my father who didn't think I did well enough.

Last week someone complimented me on my writing and I replied with, "That's because I had a horrible teacher who made an example of me."

Yes, now I write like a printer. I grip the pen so tightly I blister.

That would be extremely triggering to hear that compliment especially snuck up from behind because how can you explain to that person the depth of traumas plural behind that neat handwriting and that it isn't an object of pride but pain.

I don't even know what to say anymore. I have so many new feelings. There is just so much going on in my life that is beyond me. I just don't know where I am going to go with this post.

I think my professor has noticed that I am strange. He has started doing things differently around me, and it's good. He used to stand beside me during group discussions and I think he noticed it made me extremely anxious and unable to speak. No I noticed he now stands behind at a different table to listen to my group's discussion. It really does help me, but I do notice. He used to come up beside me and read my study journal as I spoke, and compliment me on my work. It made me feel horrible, and mortified honestly. He told me that he would make sure to give me more creative outlets. I love writing papers, so it's good, but it's also terrible. I am a student in my late 30's and I am still trying to be invisible. I just read over this and it makes no sense. I am terrified that my professor has recognised my work, adjusted his strategy, and all-together noticed me. He even learned my name.

The last paper I wrote was an ethnographic observational piece about a homeless man I observed every day in the same place. After turning in the assignment I have never seen that man again. I have so many feelings around that. Maybe it's nothing, but I am legitimately worried, and sad.

Sometimes I feel like my existence is too much. Like I simultaneously have poor output, but what I do output takes up too much space in the world. I don't know why I feel like this. I know that my professor doing his job and that homeless person's existence both have nothing to do with me.

It's really scary to be noticed when you've had the life you've had, Bermuda. Being noticed was probably pretty dangerous in the most literal sense of the word. I remember - I think it was you - who wrote about seeing someone walk into a waiting area who reminded you of how you used to feel, and how people who have been traumatized badly can see that in other people too. It sounds to me like your professor might be someone who understands trauma and can see it in other people too, whether that's because of his own experiences, or because he's gotten to know other students or people in his life with difficult histories. He doesn't know what or how much or how bad, but he knows to be gentle and give you space. I believe he sees trauma in you, not strangeness. But even someone adjusting their approach for us can be really threatening feeling, or actually threatening. This makes sense Bermuda.

This is what trauma does. It alerts us to danger nonstop to keep us safe. We learned to stay not just small but invisible. When someone sees even a fleeting glance of us...it's not a good feeling...it's the opposite of what our survival system has tried to accomplish for us.

I think it sounds like you are doing really amazing  and valuable work and that - I know from my own experience - that is scary and threatening too. I know comparing trauma is not generally useful, but my things are not as hard as your things. And yet it was still so bad for me at work that I ran away from a 100% perfect career. I ran because I was doing really good work and people noticed and it triggered trauma. I had to leave because my work was recognized and appreciated. That fleeing served absolutely no one but it made me feel safe, except it made me feel safe in a situation that was never really a threat.

I hope you are able to find a way to calm your nervous system down a little so you can stay and keep putting valuable work out there. It helped me when I could frame it as doing work for others, not for me. You have gifts and people will notice. Do you hide your gifts to stay safe? The most frustrating thing is when we logically know we are safe but that warning alarm blaring can get pretty convincing. You can truly help people with your combination of experience and talent. It's sad it is so hard to heal that the world often loses the talent of people who have been through traumas. I'm thinking now of people like Roxanne Gay who survived trauma and took the risk of really putting herself out there and how grateful I am for her work and voice being available. How helpful that has been to me and others. Many other examples of course.

I hope you catch sight of your homeless person again and can talk to him.  You know so much in the life of someone who is homeless can lead to a sudden disappearance. Because we were given abuse that blamed us for all the bad things around us even as tiny children, we now think we have superpowers that make us the cause for all sorts of bad things happening. I hope he comes back and is ok, but you did not cause him to disappear.  :hug:

Thank you Armee. I think comparing trauma is quite helpful for me. I always want to listen. I know what you mean, and I do it too. I turn down and even avoid opportunities, even though they might be the things I yearn for so badly. I want so badly to follow my passions and be a good role model, and to teach my kids that it’s ok to do things you are not good at or struggle with just because you want it. You don’t have to only enjoy things you find easy. This life lesson is one I try to teach myself every day.

For so long I thought I was stupid. Why can everyone around me just DO things, and I can’t? I know now that I AM slow, but it’s nothing to do with so-called intelligence and honestly I question the meaning of that word to no end. It is a weapon more than a word.

I was recently talking to a friend about how I am so defeatist and I said, “It is extremely difficult to be such a mediocre perfectionist.” That sums it up pretty well.

Today I felt like if anyone talked to me during the lesson that I would burst into tears. I wanted to leave, but that would have drawn too much attention and I would have felt it necessary to excuse myself. So rather than speak, I stayed. With tears in my eyes the whole class. I thought since I have a bit of a cold that the tears could look plausible.

In the past I may not have even attempted to study. I am determined to be strange and mediocre, to be a role model.

But I am struggling.

I know that I am not the catalyst for everything bad, but it feels like it sometimes and other times it’s a sense of looming; a thick fog that could easy harbour bad things.

The fog is the problem and the solution. C-PTSD for you. It's not paranoia in a clinical sense rather just in the senses themselves.

"Mediocre perfectionist" cracked me up. That's a pretty good description. We have to try so dang hard for so many reasons. Many based on survival needs so it has a life or death feel. But it takes so much effort. We do overcompensate so it's like perfectionism but it's not that either really. I too thought I was stupid and when people would try to say differently and boost my self esteem it made it even worse because then I was misleading them and I'd try to convince them harder no I'm really stupid and they'd try to boost my self esteem and inside my survival instincts are screaming run!!! Lord it's almost funny but too sad.

I'm sorry being in class was so hard today.

We are constantly lied to until we internalise it. That Nike Slogan can go fiddle its toothpick.

I am constantly trying not to measure my worth by my output. I know very well that effort ≠ output. That there is no amount of willpower and determination that can actual overcome every hurdle. It is a very damaging lie. There are things I may not be capable of no matter how much, "I believe I can fly."

I am willing to fail, not fail until I pass, but actually fail. I will put in all my *available* willpower and if I fail that is okay. I wish I hadn't had to work this out for myself in life. It's okay to come in last, just as it would be okay to choose not to participate at all, but if it's something I want to participate in than participation is the goal. I chose to be in class today, so I did it.  :applause:

It's hard, the world doesn't agree with me. If I failed this course I may not be able to join another course in the future because Swedish education works on a merit rating, and my merit rating would decline.

It's not a level playing field. We're not lazy nor stupid. We don't lack effort or determination. It's not that we're not applying ourselves. Some people can, "Just do it!" and others can't, or even won't, and that's equally as valid. I just want to be there because I am genuinely interested in the information. It's for me not for my contribution to society.

I am glad I am at a place where I can laugh and cry at the same time. Thanks for your kind words. I do want to contribute to society, someday. I know I have things to offer. I am still figuring out how to do that with what I am able to offer. We all have different and ever fluctuating  complex abilities.  :cheer:

Someone who I haven't spoken to in what feels like a lifetime just messages me and told me that Facebook reminded them that 12 years ago I visited them. I had this friend drive me to an airforce base where I turned myself in and was shipped to and imprisoned in Fort Knox. For this friend it was a happy memory together. For me it's a culmination of memories like a whirlwind starting.

Someone else recently looked shocked when I mentioned something military, and I gave them a quick synopsis. They looked at me in staggering disbelief and said nothing. I don't blame them.

I also wrote about this a very long time ago, but quickly deleted it. It felt too large, too self-identifying, and also so preposterous.

I want to take the time to tell that story, when I have time. Somehow being reminded that there are people in the world who knew and they still know makes it feel tangible and valid.

I'm not ridiculous. People take advantage of people who are disadvantaged, and that is why my life that seems like impossibly bad luck is not. It's real and I am real, and now I can't sleep.

You've been through so much Bermuda, as trauma and difficult circumstances beget more trauma and difficult circumstances. Sending along safe hugs as you get through these latest remembrances.

Well, it’s been a hard week. I feel like I have been constantly trying to swim above all my triggers while fighting my executive dysfunction which is determined to drown me.

I have so much to do and I just locked myself out, so I’m stuck at a cafe for a couple of hours when I desperately need to be writing a triggering paper about happiness. It’s due on Wednesday. I have rewritten it three times. Alas, I only have my phone with me, so here is the story of my military life.

Trigger warning - military, I don’t talk about the actual abuse, but the terrible circumstances.

Breathing. Woo.

It started long before this. I was schooled at home. My mother kept all of my identification from me locked in a fire safe box in her closet. When I was homeless I had nothing, and no address, nor a simple country of residence. I had no proof that I was real, and no way to fix that.

I visited a childhood friend while wandering as I did, he had an empty house he let me squat in for a while. The neighbours called the police on me thinking I broke in when they saw me sleeping on the floor, I digress. My friend was a lieutenant and told me that if joined that I could get a passport, that it happens all the time. He said that he would get a referral incentive and that he would split it with me. All I had to do was lie a bit about pre-existing medical conditions. Well, I went to a recruiter who I was very honest with. He told me the same thing and seemed really invested in helping me get documented. He even tried to search school records for me to prove I was educated, got me an ID and social security card that I could use to get a passport once I had a residence and eventually took me to get a GED. I had become a real life person.

When I joined it was clear my health was not amazing. I don’t want to get too much into that, but I was unfit and deemed so. I was to be medically discharged along with two others. However, my commanding officer refused to sign off on it. The three of us were medically excluded from service, and yet were punished for this. This commanding officer made constant jokes about how there was nothing we could do and that he owned us. The two others who were not trauma survivors were extremely distraught when he made threats to torture them. One of them had a broken leg, and was forced to stand for hours on end.

I told the other two that I had a plan. That we would leave. That we would be fine and I would get us out. When we were escorted to medical evaluations we made sure we were together and there was one other with us who was responsible for us. Military buddy system. We went into the building leaving our buddy waiting outside as she wasn’t permitted inside. Then the three of us left out the back throwing our medical paperwork out into a field and changing into our physical exercise outfits. I helped the girl with the broken leg run out of that open field, leaving behind our uniforms.

I lead them into a forested area with heavy needle trees. The girls were so terrified of what would happen to them. I promised them I would get them out so they could get help.

In the forest I found a small ravine, I picked up some fell tree branches and laid them across and covered it with needles to mimic the ground cover. It was just big enough for the three of us to shimmy inside. We waited for night fall, and then we heard the search. There were dogs barking and people marching around us. The girl who was pressed against me in this ravine started to panic. Someone stepped on a branch a finger length from her face. I covered her mouth so she couldn’t scream if the branch broke.

As the hours went on we heard the search effort die down. We held each other before crawling out of the shelter. The sun would be rising soon. It had been a day.

I told them to act naturally. We went through town, got in a cab and left base. We told the driver we were at a party at our boyfriend’s house. The driver dropped us off at a shop. With my money that I secretly hid, I bought us all new clothes and we changed into it there, stuffing our sweats into a waste bin.

We walked out feeling like we had done it, but terrified. We went to a motel, I booked us a night and we slept, except one girl who looked out the window every couple of minutes and panicked whenever she heard a knock at a door or someone talking outside. I was exceptionally calm. The next day I bought us bus tickets, and we left.

A couples years later, I learned that a had felony warrant for my arrest for desertion. I waited until my contract had expired, went to an airforce base where I knew I would be treated better, and I turned myself in and explained what had happened. I was interrogated briefly, but the officer in charge of me was very kind. He actually took me to a nice hotel where he had to wait outside the door and check on me every hour. He brought me food too, and seemed like he was genuinely interested in what had happened.

The next day I was loaded up and sent to Fort Knox, where my treatment was very different. They tried to force me to do labour, but I silently refused. Honestly, I may have smirked. There was nothing they could do to me that my mother hadn’t done better. I refused to move. I told them that my contract was expired, that they have no authority over me, and that I am medically exempt. It was a taunt, I had nothing to lose. It didn’t take long for them to realise that my behaviour was having an effect on other prisoners, and they released me with an honourable medical discharge that I was entitled to from the beginning.

That's the story of how I became an American Citizen. So, if I ever come across as bitter, it's because I am very much so. I am so grateful to be living as a German citizen in Sweden now.  That would never happen here. Now, to write my assignment on happiness.

Thank you for sharing it Bermuda. It's unconscionable they did that to you. I'm sorry. Happiness is an interesting topic. I actually am happy, I love my life I have now, but no one would know that's how I feel because I look the opposite. I carry a depressed or terrorized look mostly even when I am happy. There's so much locked away that I don't know or see but it shows on my face and in the way I carry myself, which I hate.

I'm sorry this is a hard trigger filled week.

Oh Armee, when I think about happiness I draw a blank. The things that come up are more like very difficult things that I made it through rather than things that brought me joy. Actually when I think about happiness, my mind goes to the worst places. After writing different versions of the assignment I settled on the idea that happiness is not for me to interpret, and that any day can be a good day, to someone else, and that's something we have some control over.

It's not about me. All the things that happen to me are not about me. All I have is what I am able to do. That is where the happiness lies.

I get it. And it's a hard thing to write honestly.

Even the thing that brings me true happiness, my kids being ok, that too comes with immense grief and sadness and fear.

Some people have had such hard lives that you simply cannot imagine a happy or safe place and the world is legitimately filled with triggers.

I feel like I have been especially bad at interacting with other posts even though it brings be so much comfort when people interact with mine. I don't know why I struggle so much with that. I have been reading the posts. I always worry I would accidentally say something offensive, where as here in my little spot my opinions can be wrong and that's OK because it's mine. I also just feel like everyone else is so much better at being comforting, and I don't know how. I want to be more... intimate and personable? I find it difficult to comment. I don't want to be cold and distant.

I have finished my assignment that I was dreading and I feel oddly compelled to post it here. I hand it in tomorrow. I am kind of nervous, but I have had time to come to terms with the things I wrote and I feel ready to take ownership over my words... If that makes sense. So here it is, I am just going to Google translate it to English because I can't be bothered.

The assignment:

Any day can be a good day. It's just a matter of perspective, but I don't mean my perspective. Contrary to popular belief, you cannot choose to be happy, and no amount of smiling will turn a bad experience into a good one. What you give is not what you get. That's definitely not what I mean by any day being a good day.

The day started badly because I slept poorly. After an episode of sleep paralysis, I woke up far too early. I heard a bang outside. I carefully looked out the window, where I saw a child sitting on the street and crying. Someone had thrown his ball on the roof, so I went outside, climbed to the top of the fence and pulled myself onto the roof, then I kicked the ball down to him. I went back inside where my friend Diana was still sleeping. I looked in the cupboards. They were empty except for half a bag of pinto beans, some flour and a potato, but we had no money to buy food. I started cooking the beans and half the green potato. I kneaded flour together with the boiled potato and then I added baking powder, salt, water and vinegar and formed the dough into two small circles. When I put the potato bread in the oven, I burned my hand so badly that it instantly turned black. It didn't hurt at all, but it smelled grilled. I knew it was bad. I added oil and spices to the pinto beans before going outside to cut some aloe vera for the burn. Outside I saw a snake drying out on the gravel. I scooped up the snake with the lid of a bin and moved him to a shaded place where he could hide.

When Diana woke up, we ate beans and potato bread together. When she saw my hand she insisted that I rinse off the aloe vera and put toothpaste on it instead, which I did. Diana spent the rest of the morning painting while I battled my executive dysfunction. I ghost wrote an article for a friend who had too much work to do. It was 42 degrees outside and we had no internet, so I had to go to a cafe and sit outside on the curb to send an email. An employee who was on break came out of the cafe and told me to leave, but luckily I had just sent the text.

Someone tried to get into the car with us while we were stopped at a red light, but we reached around and locked all the doors. Diana had her hand on the hammer and I had the screwdriver that we always had with us, but we didn't need to use them. When we got to work, my boss asked me if I could babysit his baby for the coming week because he wanted to attend a funeral. I said I would help.

Diana had a rough night, although mine was going well until someone made an inappropriate comment. Diana left work early to drive me home because I had a panic attack. I panicked the whole way, and when we got home we noticed we didn't have the key. We had locked ourselves out at night. Diana, without hesitation, wrapped her arm in her dress and punched a hole in the window. She reached through the broken glass and unlocked the door, then went straight to the bathroom and gave me a cold bath and then sat down next to me. I plucked the glass from her arm with tweezers as we laughed and cried. I used the money I had earned to order Diana pozole verde with extra cilantro just the way she liked it, but I couldn't eat.

You would think it was a very bad day. It's easy to feel like every day is bad when we place more value on things outside of our control than things we do control. Although my experience was not positive, an understatement of fact, I made positive choices. For me, for the child, for the snake, for my friend, for my boss and for Diana, it was a better day than it could have been. It's a good day.

Thank you for sharing your assignment with us, Bermuda.  Very well written, I see the beauty in it.  It reminds me I need to see the choices I have made throughout the day and make that the reason the day was good. 

Every time I respond to someone on here I struggle with my response. I have deleted a few of them.  Thank you for having the strength to say it out loud when I couldn't. I think that happens to me alot.  It's like the thoughts are stuck inside me and I don't even know it.

:hug: to you if that's okay, if not please ignore.

Bermuda, it was really nice seeing a response from you in my journal today. It helped me reflect further on what I was feeling and what happened. At the same time, please don't feel like you have to. Your own recovery is most important.  You have a ton to offer the world and I hope you can heal enough to take and give what you were meant to and have the right to.

You're so right in your story and it was so poignant, even when put through Google translate. It must be beautiful in your own words. But yes you are right. Often what we had was the ability to treat others kindly and make the choices we had available in a way that stayed true to who we are despite the circumstances. That's a powerful way to be and I think the rope we've held on to to start to get a foothold out of our pasts. That's what has allowed happiness to take hold in my life. Thank you for sharing this and I know it was hard to put some of that out there. I'm glad you did and I hope the internal repercussions for doing so are bearable. Hugs if they don't feel intrusive or uncomfortable.



:heythere:

Bermuda,

I enjoyed reading your assignment. It is rich with feeling. I believe that the difference between an artist and a craftsman is the artist can embed emotion and thought into the work. As I read your words, I felt real emotion and thought. You truly are an artist with your words. I'm truly impressed.

I agree with Armee, that there is no crime in reading our posts more often than responding. Sometimes I allow myself to feel like I "should" respond even when I can't find the words to respond with. Those forced responses are some of my worst, and most disconnected responses.

Best to respond only when you feel the urge. And if that urge comes rarely, then so be it.  Authenticity comes from only saying things that you truly feel you want to say, and when you want to say them.

Again: Beautiful writing on that story. Thank you very much for sharing it.

Your replies have meant so much to me. I don't usually feel so in need of praise, or I don't know... I tend to the be opposite of someone who likes compliments... But this time I really feel better. It means a lot to me.

It's so strange, I don't write about this period of my life often. It's kind of the half-way point in my escape. I had some rudimentary sense of normalsy but the C-PTSD was extremely pervasive and retaumatisation was constant. When I reread over what I wrote I just have this feeling like every day I was walking through thick wet cement just trying to make it out in time. We both did, no one else I knew did. It's a very heavy feeling.

It seems like a sizeable step in healing that you feel good about having shared!  :cheer: It might mean that your nervous system is calming down a little bit and seeing that in the present it is safe to be seen by select people you've determined can probably be trusted.

I'm so sad others did not make it out of the situations that chase people who get the hardest starts to life. I'm sorry. I know they did not deserve those things that happened and that took them from you.

I'm glad you and your friend made it through that cement though. It took so much strength and will and there were so many obstacles just to survive each day. So many obstacles each day. Also, your friend has very good taste in food. Posole Verde I would order every time and any time. Perhaps you'd be able to treat yourself to your favorite food after you turn this in.

It was really well written and I can't imagine exactly how hard it was to write but I do know it was hard and worth feeling very proud of.

I have been a bit quiet since the group call. I realise it. I realise a lot. I have been very conscious of myself lately, not necessarily in a negative sense. I have finished and passed my exams which has rested my critique a bit. I am critical, but right now it’s more hyper aware. I think a lot about how I’m perceived.

I think about how I was sitting during the exam, how I was sitting during the call. I think about how my body language reminds me of someone I once knew. I don’t think my body language represents me well. I am not sheepish. I’m not shy. I look like a target, but I am not. I can see how some people pray on people who carry themselves how I carry myself. But that’s not me. I can be fierce. I am snarky and aggressive in a fun way. Maybe I can’t remember the last time I was those things, but I feel them inside me.

I know loneliness is on topic on our next call and it hits me so hard. I struggle so much with my identity and expressing that and embodying who I am supposed to be. I am constantly trying to be the right amount of existing, and that’s hard enough without needing to gauge every minute detail of someone’s reaction to me.

I invited someone from uni to a language event with me, and they said yes, but I haven’t written back. I don’t know what the appropriate amount of words for a reply is. I’m also terrified of someone getting to know me. I am terrified that those in the group chat will get to know me. I am terrified my professor knows something about me. I am worried that this person will be in my next course with me, and I’d rather them not know my name.

I will have to talk. The whole point of the event is talking.

It is what I want. It is my hardest struggle. Existing in the eyes of others is being vulnerable enough to bring me to tears.

Bermuda, I resonate with the difference between one's external and internal experiences and wanting while also fearing building connection with others.  I hope you will continue to find adjustments that help you move in the direction you'd like.

Bermuda, I resonate with what you mention about some of the biggest challenges being things that were happening in daily life which are harder to point to and see.  They also seem to be things others could dismiss which makes it harder to be "believed."  I hope that you write until you feel complete with writing and that it is supportive to you in the long run.

Thank you for sharing this Bermuda.

I think you're right. And the "big T" things in a lot of cases happened probably because of that environment you were formed in.

It's really really hard to write the story down. There's so much. Take your time and take care with yourself. Nothing is more important than that.

  :grouphug:

I have been wanting to share random thoughts so badly. Being locked out made me realise how much I depend on this forum for basic human interaction. It's sad. I am sad. I deleted lots of posts. I have been feeling vulnerable.

I realise that posting this is probably going to cause judgement. I usually try to avoid that, and honestly I feel a bit judged on this forum already and I know part of it is me and my hyperbolic nature which is completely CPTSD related. So, judge me. It's fine.


I talked in our private discussion about random social interactions in public and how much they get to me. Another one happened after that. I tried to stand my ground, my quicksand, whatever.

This elderly man stopped me in the courtyard of my children's school which is shared with some flats. A teacher looked on as he stopped me, exaggeratedly looked at me up and down. He appeared to have glaucoma in one eye, so I didn't find it too odd that he was very very close to me. He asked, "What's that?" I thought he was talking about my bike. "Where's that from?" I said, "Italy." Then he said, "No, not that." He poked my chest. I thought he was talking about my purse. I have a special holster style cycling bag. I pointed to the logo and said, "Spain." He got even closer. "Not that. Your shirt." "What is that?" I looked down and saw I was wearing a shirt from the Animal Liberation Conference. I said, "Oh, California." I could see the teacher in the background growing increasingly concerned about this old man. He gave me a very angry look and said, "Good luck with that." Instead of backing down, going away, not replying. I smiled and said, "Thanks."

Thanks.

That's my rebellion, and frankly I'm proud of myself. Finally an appropriate response to a public situation.

Thanks was a very strong response. That jerk was in your space and trying to scare and belittle you. I'm sorry that happened, at the same time I'm proud of you. I'm also sorry you feel judged here sometimes.  :grouphug: 

Thanks Armee. Thanks for reassuring me. It feels silly that I have to congratulate myself on simply being able to reply to something negative in a non-self-depreciating way, or even at all.

This issue has been such a hindrance to me. I am a very small woman, and I look much younger than I am. In my professional life I am always treated like an intern. In the past I have attempted to gently point out to employees whom I trained that I am indeed their superior, but no one ever sees me that way. It's laughable. In my personal life I accept other people's shortcomings as if they were my own. I have no spine. I would rather do everything on my own than face the thought of being looked down on, or looked at at all, as if I believe I am inferior. Often it feels like there can be no positive acknowledgement. In this part of the world we refer to this as "Jantelagen". One part of narcissistic abuse is seeing manipulation and assertiveness as negative qualities. People really do place themselves in the world in the eyes of others, and I don't sell myself as large, as important, as intelligent, as strong. I don't sell myself at all. I refuse to participate. So while others battle egos for a place at the table, I sit sad that no one thought to invite me to conversation. I say nothing, and no one ever knows I wanted anything.

I really hold myself back. I am trying to practice taking up more space. In Uni I quietly explain myself through my work so that I don't feel the need to explain myself, so that I can just exist among other people. It's sad.

Bermuda, you absolutely should be proud of yourself. I think that is an excellent response. And not just from the little I know about you from what you have shared about this topic; I think this would be an excellent response from anyone. Strong, but neutral. The man clearly objected to the shirt and was baiting you to start an argument. But since you (I assume) did not want an argument with some random old man you chose to give a strong, polite and neutral reply rather than appease him in any way or backing off yourself.  :cheer:

I am sorry you have had to deal with these unpleasant interactions, but I hope your handling of this latest one makes you feel a little stronger and better able to deal with the next one. Of course I hope there will not be a next one, but realistically there has to be. There are unpleasant people everywhere, and even the pleasant ones can sometimes be difficult. Especially if they have no understanding of how their behaviour may be perceived by others. We here have long experience of analysing the behaviours of others in minute detail. It is easy to assume everyone has that ability, but they don't. They haven't had to cultivate it to survive.

I'm also sorry you feel judged here sometimes. I doubt anyone here means to come across that way to you and I doubt even more that they actually judge you, although I have not been around these boards all that long or in any great detail so far. And this kind of circles me round to the fact that you should indeed be proud of yourself. Not just of your interaction with the old man, but because you posted here in spite of the fear that the content of the post itself might cause judgement. And you were brave enough to share your vulnerability; your fear that this might add more judgement to the judgement you are already feeling.

I hope you will welcome and accept a hug. :bighug:

I'm very happy for you being able to stay calm and respond in a way that didn't cause more stress for you! It's a really hard thing to do for me a lot of the time so I really admire you being able to do that. Thank you for trusting us with this victory, even if you felt like it'd bring more judgement.

I'm glad you're back into the forum Bermuda and I'm sorry for how long it took to work out how to get in.  I love computers but truly I despise the IT that goes with it. 

I'm sorry some old fellow had the gall to walk up to you and confront you over your t-shirt. You didn't dissolve though, you just kept it on the cool side so well done.  I don't know about afterward but I hope it's not eating away at you.  I say that because we are so alike in this response to judgement.  As I mentioned in the Zoom group my H is the one who kept telling me it wasn't me, the other person was behaving like a jerk or whatever because I would take it completely to heart.  It took awhile but at some point I saw what he was saying and I was able to see it wasn't me finally! It takes a role model or sometimes allies like you have here.

Today if I were to encounter the fellow who was screaming at me for letting my dog pee on the light standard near not even on his lawn I would know it was him having a huge overreaction given my dog wasn't even peeing on his lawn, and I would most definitely walk him along that path. Back then I was completely embarrassed and humiliated and I shrunk down in size to the little girl who had been hurt like this so much growing up. That would not happen today.   

That old fellow thought it was okay to sidle up to you and try and make you feel uncomfortable.  Well screw him, honestly. You don't get to be disrespectful to someone just because you feel like it. But it's true what NarcKiddo said, these people are everywhere unfortunately and they did not learn respect or consideration so they feel okay foisting their opinions or whatever on people.  It's not okay.

Were I with you and it were okay I would give you and younger you a big hug and tell you what my H told me, it's not you and you don't deserve to feel so bad because of some person behaving like an idiot.   :bighug:

PS - Good for you for talking about it!  I can hear how hard it is and how sad it makes you but perhaps beginning to talk about it is you beginning to deal with it?

Thank you NarcKiddo. You are right. As I have expressed before, I often feel confused when confronted. I somehow expect that others process situations like I do, but that is unrealistic. Imagine the whole world being hypervigilant! That would surely be unpleasant.

Talking about it does help Kizzie, a lot. I would also stand beside you and your dog. I have been practicing my glare and I think that would be the perfect situation to utilise it in. When I was younger, when I was teased and reacted displeased. I was always told things like, "Haha, look a little fairy with Napoleon complex, so cute!" One day I will be a little old German lady, so I best practice my glare now.

In all seriousness, it's not eating me up now that I shared it. My loneliness and isolation have just been difficult, always, but lately I feel it strongly. I think part of why these things upset me so much, is that I have so little social interaction that it feels like an overwhelming majority of my interactions outside my home are negative. I'm at the stage in parenthood in which everything is full-on all the time, we're always in the middle of a transition in routine, and my husband and I are busy. There is no "after the kids go to bed" ...That feels like a myth. So, these random acts of anger that I encounter just feel overbearing and remind me of my desperate lack of human connection that I have always bore. No one in the street stops me to complement me on my steadfast adhesion to social norms and societal standards.

It would be lovely to be walking together and turn to each other and say something like, "Well he's sure got his shorts in a knot doesn't he?" laugh and continue on chatting about what a lovely day it is, aren't the flowers pretty, etc?

I think you're right about us each being isolated and not having this kind of connection. When we don't, incidents like your old fellow and my yelling fellow strike straight into the wounded part of us and there is nothing to help us have some perspective, see it's not us that has the problem, and regulate our emotions. 

I suspect that no more silence and connecting with others will equal no more shame in the long run.

Kizzie, You surely suspect correctly. I would leave feeling more isolated, and I would blame myself. I have evidence.

I've been so busy. All I want right now is to hide in my closet and reorganise it. I have simple desires.

It was Midsommar here in Sweden and I was invited to a get together to celebrate. There were many people there, and I had some interesting conversations. In general I think it went well, but I don't feel well. I have a friend who is very good at communicating and I secretly tried to mirror her communication style to blend in, and it really worked. I was able to hold a conversation with someone about themselves, act relatively normal, and project 'active listening'.

We made flower crowns, built and decorated a flower pole in a small village where a few elderly villagers came out, we danced around it while a young family played guitar and sang. We came back and dug potatoes from their garden and harvested herbs. We made a little lunch. We sang old Swedish songs about Spring from a very very old book. We laughed and watched the deer and foxes from the garden as we ate a huge dinner at 9pm in full sun. It was lovely.

...But I haven't contacted anyone since. It was very difficult for me. I felt very much like an outsider, although I don't think anyone could tell. --Lady friends all dressed in floral sundresses dancing around a phallic symbol, and me, the frog. I felt like I was wearing a costume, acting, trying not to say anything telling about myself, trying to avoid conversation about me, participating for the sake of avoiding participation, noticing everyone's emotional states amplified. It was draining,

...And I just want to hide in my closet and sort clothes.

With midsommar over I'm looking forward to autumn coming soon. I want turtlenecks so tall I can actually hide in them rather than my closet. I need to return to university; summer holiday is so unnecessary. Routine keeps me distracted.

Bermuda I can so relate to how your feeling.  In social settings which I currently choose to not take part of now I have often mirrored behaviour as you mentioned.

It's almost too painful to do much of anything I find.

I don't even think I can pretend to be part of so I really admire your continued efforts to go and be with others however difficult or uncomfortable it is for you.

A friend texted me a pic of a cute dress.  She said too short for me but it would be really cute for you.  Yeah, I don't want to be cute, I don't feel cute or anything remotely like it.  I then realized yeah my depression is even showing in how I dress. Her intention was to be encouraging but it felt like a reminder how depressed I am and shame about others seeing me this way.

I hope you get to do something you really want yo do today, whatever that might be Bermuda.

My thoughts are with you and I stand with you.

 :bighug:

Moondance, I can really relate to that. Midsommar is such an overtly 'feminine' celebration and it really made me feel uncomfortable.

It's a strange thing to think about appearance and so-called feminity and the many layers of trauma, expectations, and identity there are. That will surely take a life-time to unpack. I am a woman, but what does that mean? No idea. It was sad at the moment to be around all these well-dressed women with their hair down, and I came home wanting to change the way I express myself outwardly. I dress very modest, but it's not because I am modest. I am most certainly not, not that I am immodest either, which ironically means something entirely different. A strange observation.

I digress.

I am doing something I want today. I have a fear of becoming The Giving Tree. I don't own a floral dress, and I don't want one. I am working my autumn/winter capsule wardrobe into the style Dark Academia mixed with quirky old lady. You know the type with the large bauble necklaces and red plastic-framed oversized glasses? I want that level of confidence. Summer makes me uncomfortable, so I am looking ahead to darker times, thicker fabric, and quirky brooches with dangly lady-bits. Armour.

Sometimes the answer isn't to meet expectations. I will never be the woman in the flowy white dress, and maybe a mini dress isn't for you. Maybe a mildly inappropriate brooch is the answer, or something else entirely. Our feelings definitely show in the way we dress, but also I know that when I wear a collared skirt with a ribbed turtle neck underneath and I button every single button, I feel better. I feel safer. I feel oddly freer.

I wanted to back out. I would have cancelled but I felt like it wasn't an option because they were preparing a plate for me. It was good and bad. If I don't do things that are challenging, I stop doing things, and everthing gets more challenging.

Agree with all you've said andreally appreciate your response.

I will look for small ways to express my individuality whether that be approving to others or not.

I'm glad you're doing something you want, Bermuda. Meeting expectations is usually draining, in my experience. And also impossible, really, since everyone around us has varying expectations. I think I would have had mixed feelings about Midsommar, too.  :grouphug:

I think creating your own style that works for you and makes you feel safe is very brave. I do find the older I get, the easier it seems to be to be allowed to be "odd". And yes, it's much easier to start small.  :hug:

It seems I keep posting and deleting or typing and not posting.

I am going through the last two days as if I'm being squeezed by a python. I feel completely zoned out, shopping and not buying what I came there for. Forgetting which direction I'm walking, where I'm going, forgetting to look up.

Pressure, and lost.

That was my week last week, too. I hope the pressure and lostness and dissociation loosen up for you soon.  :grouphug:

I'm sorry to hear that, Bermuda. If you're zoned out then maybe you need to be, temporarily. Until you are up to processing whatever it is that is getting to you right now. Not that it is very helpful to be zoned out in everyday life. I get that.

I hope things get easier soon.

Thanks for the kindness.

I am writing my story and jumping around a bit adding details and connecting stories as the connections come to, and I suppose this is in very real way connecting the trauma.

Somehow in the way I write about it here it's sliced nicely into digestable little bits, whereas as a whole it's not something I am prepared to confront.

I have lots of very mixed contradictory feelings as different parts of me try to cope in different ways, I suppose... and I kind of don't want to feel it. I just want to get it out and have it be, no emotion attached. No me, no subjectivity, no subject.

I believe it was Kizzie who said something yesterday that my mind has been holding onto. It all stems from neglect. Before I heard that I had been trying to think about how to best describe a neglectful situation (in the more traditionally understood sense) and also maybe the role it put me in emotionally and physically.

This morning I woke up and went into the kitchen, I looked through the fridge and got very excited. I was going to make my kids one of my favourite meals I would make myself as a child, but veganised obviously.

I fried up some hashbrowns, and preheated the oven. I made some vegan egg batter with chopped garlic and chives. I chopped up the hashbrowns. I made some drop biscuit dough. I got out a muffin tin and placed a ball of dough in the bottom of each one, sprinkled potato on top, topped with the vegan egg batter, two slices of smoked vegan sausage, topped with vegan cheese, and put it in the oven to bake. Breakfast muffins!

It was such a muscle memory kind of experience.

At that moment my husband and daughter came in. I was explaining how excited I was, and how this was one of my favourite things to cook when I was... little.

You see, that's when it hit me. Those happy moments experimenting in the kitchen alone when I was still in single digits was not normal. That's not normal. I was looking at my kids, and ... No. That's not normal. I stopped explaining my excitement to my husband.

I don't think of neglect often because we were raised to be extremely self-sufficient, and I was. I more often think of neglect in the emotional manipulation sense, as it pertains to myself... But I guess like all types abuse I went through it makes sense that this one would also be hidden under the guise of resilience and self-reliance.

She made a child who was capable of creating and executing a complex muffin recipe, without a recipe, and an adult who falls apart at the memory of being happily alone in the kitchen, making herself and her siblings breakfast muffins.

I am feeling confused, confronted. The muffins were very tasty. The things that felt happy, when I was alone, were just as bad. I just wish I could hold onto the good. I don't think I will be making breakfast muffins again.

Oh, Bermuda. It's all so sad.

But it seems to me particularly sad that the breakfast muffins experience turned sour for you. Yes, they came out of a horrible situation and yes, it is not normal that a small child should be making breakfast muffins unsupervised. But you invented them. You! As a small child you made a lovely, wholesome and nutritious breakfast for you and your siblings. It came, and still comes, from the love and care in your heart. That is your love and care and she has not been able to take that away from you. Whatever scars she has inflicted, whatever she has taken from you, or spoiled, she has not taken everything. You are too good and too strong and too resilient for her to be able to do that. The excitement at doing nice things for others is still there.

I hope one day you will be able to make breakfast muffins again, and enjoy them. Maybe not for a while, and I get that. But I believe you will.

NarcKiddo, I became a bit emotional after reading your reply. It's true. Excitement is one of those difficult emotions in general.


I was mindlessly swiping, and although I didn't stop I briefly saw a quote. It said at the top Complex Trauma followed by a quote "Who was the first to discover water? It probably wasn't a fish." I only saw it for a millisecond, but yes, that sums it up so so well.

Trigger warning: SA, not graphic.

Today I learned that I was sexually abused as a child. It's not that I had a new memory, but instead I Googled the definitions of SA and CSA. I looked up laws in about 15 different countries and compared them against each other, and against medical guidelines and the WHO. I know that morality is not the same as legality, but the overwhelming consensus is that I was sexually abused. I was sexually abused as it is described by law in almost every country I came across information on.

I was not being sensitive. I was not just complaining over nothing. I was actually being sexually abused.

I feel like this will be one of those revelations that I can distance myself from, but in a week it will crash into my lap and I will fall apart. I was sexually abused as a child, and I was sexually assulted as an adult. I have survived sexual abuse.

Oi. Difficult words to say.

 :bighug:

I'm so sorry Bermuda

I echo that hug, if it feels safe.  :grouphug:

Lots of people on here who can support you through the realization. We are here for you and you aren't alone. I'm so sorry you were abused and assaulted.

What the others said. We are here to stand by you as you process this.

I understand entirely the feeling - even before my abuser was in the picture, a lot of weird things slipped under my radar due to being a child and uninformed. I am wishing you the strength and space you need to process this. I feel like the actual hit of realization and processing always hits you at the worst time.

I guess I am fortunate that I have been extremely busy. This is the first moment I have had to myself in so long. I can't remember the last time I was alone, even to shower or use the bathroom. Wow. Well, just realised the housekeeper is here... But that's still close to being alone. Magical.

I haven't processed anything. I went to a Jul i Juli party (Christmas in July) with a friend, made us elaborate costumes before hand. It was intense. Her and I both felt so awkward the whole time. There was a lot of adult humour. I was quite terrified I would be asked to participate in some of the party games. Everyone was quite animated, and generally having a great time. When we both left, my friend turned to me and said her social battery was at -100. We looked over the pictures everyone took, and her and I look lost, confused, and overwhelmed in every photo. It's because we were.

So, now I have a moment to breathe. Tomorrow I have an important appointment for my son. I am rehearsing my lines, thinking about how to act and dress. It's just over a month now until university starts up again, and I am so happy for that. I am thinking about about studying time and a half again. Routine is so important to my mental health, and it's something I fought so hard against most of my life because I had never experienced it. I just need my routine and reasonable expectations.

Time to process will come however, whether I pause or not.

I'm glad you have got the party over with. I hate those things.

I'm also glad you have today to breathe and decompress. Obviously you need to prepare for your son's appointment tomorrow but I hope you can also find some time just to look after yourself today, too.

I know exactly what you mean about the importance of routine, and also about resenting it in the past. In my past the routine was always imposed by others. Obviously with a job and children and general demands of adult life our routines are also to some extent imposed on us. But we do now have agency and we can decide how we best manage our routines which was not always the case.

Take care of yourself.

OMG Bermuda, that party sounds awful!  At least you gave it a go so kudos.  You absolutely have to drag me to things like that.  It made things difficult being a military spouse because there were always so many social events. Ugh.

I hope the appointment for your son goes well  :hug:

One thing my friend had mentioned that I had noticed too, was how everyone showed up completely sober. They were the sort of people who can just have fun, but not just drunk. I really try to push myself even though I am an exceptionally serious person. I get the impression that people like the people at that party, look at people like my friend and I, and assume we are being judgemental. That's, at least for me, definitely not the case. I say that I get the impression, but it's because people have at different points accused me of being a snob when I am not happily participating. It's not just an impression. In reality I envy people who can be silly. It must be an amazing thing to just let go, and somehow forcing myself to do things that make me uncomfortable is in a way the opposite of that by default.

I haven't been online much at all. I haven't been keeping up with anything on this forum. I haven't been writing. I do wonder whether I am avoiding it out fear of being triggered. I might be.

I wanted to add to my journal today, and I actually thought of creating a different journal for things like this, parenting things. I often think about these things my mother would repeat to me, excuses for her behaviour. She always said things like, "One day you'll understand." There are a lot of things I understand, but senselessness will always be senseless. I have these voices play in my head as I am playing with my children. It reminds me that I don't have a single memory of my parents being with me. Not even playing, but just being there next to me engaging with me. My mother was always so overwhelmed. She micromanaged everything from the way I sat, how I lifted my feet as I walked, if I had my mouth open she would remind me that my soul was slipping out. She controlled my biorhythm, my routine to the second, my emotions, and tried to control my thoughts. My mother WAS overwhelmed. The more domineering her presence became, the more work she had to put in to maintain the level of control she expected to have. She was overwhelmed. What she did was senseless.

I spend so much time every day just engaging with my children. It's not a learned behaviour. I am just interested in them, in their lives, in their thoughts. We play games, sometimes the same scenario 25 times in a row. I don't always have fun, but I do it because I like seeing them happy. I want to know them. I guide my children into doing things that benefit them and society, and I explain why the things we do are important. Aside from the actually important things, like toothbrushing, we don't manage our children. We don't own our children. They are their own people. Seeing them as individuals is a far less overwhelming thing to do. I can't imagine winding myself up in stress trying to break children to my own will, only to tell them they will understand when they have children of their own. It's senseless. It benefits no one. My mother was wrong.

I just wanted to continue. Another thought. My mother created these online accounts to try to phish my location. She lied and had me posted as an underage missing person. On one of these public accounts about me, I remember reading a post she had written. I don't remember the context, but one of the things she said was, "You were always so much smarter than me." This. I am sure to you reading this here, reads much how I read it. Those who are unfamiliar would likely read it very differently.

You were always so much smarter than me.

It says pity me. Feel guilty. I am not sorry, because you should be sorry. It's a public plea that is to be read as survivor's guilt, but it's actually a way to control me. She wasn't a survivor. I have always had to be smarter. I am smarter, and I am the survivor.

When I am parenting and I hear my mother's voice, I even hear her argumentation. "You will understand someday. You think you are so much better than me. I will show what you really are. ...You have always been so much smarter than me."

In the words of my mother, but directed toward my mother. "I never had a mother. Nobody taught be how to be a parent."

I don't want to post much because I want to respect where you are at right now with triggering. I hope it's OK to leave a big hug and agreement that it was senseless and that you are right: your mother WAS wrong.  :grouphug:

Thanks Armee. Sorry about my comment, if it came across as putting you on the spot. What I meant was that until I read your comment that it was triggering me I hadn't even made that mental leap. It's kind of the story of CPTSD for me. After I read your comment I went on a Google quest to find answers to hearing voices of your abusers play in your head repeatedly. It was actually one of the last things I muttered to my mother under my breath. "You don't understand, I hear your words when you are not there." I said that as she called me names, knowing she didn't hear me, just a couple seconds before she told me she never wanted to see me ever again.

After researching and taking time to evaluate what I wrote and what I am feelings and experiencing, my conclusion is that people who dissociate are especially prone to hearing the voice of their abuser criticise their every thought and movement. In a way, it's as if the child who was never allowed to speak can finally respond to my mother, and I know exactly what she would say in return because she was extremely predictable.

So, because I disappeared physically and mentally, I am now battling my mother every day. I just didn't notice it as a symptom until now.

It was funny a little bit in a sad way because you pretty much said directly in your post that you were (avoiding) being triggered. I have a friend who often appreciates me pointing out something only for me to tell her I'm only repeating what she just told me, that I have no special insight. 💛

It is common to hear that voice or adopt it as your own even. I think of it as we have these sections of our brain that hold memories and when something triggers that section of the brain all that information gets activated. So if I start thinking things like I'm disgusting and need to die I know what section of my brain has been triggered and what else is in there more or less. Other times I'm bad and wrong and someone's going to die and that's another section of my brain. Another set of memories. I am not aware that I am remembering things or am triggered but I've learned what these thoughts are connected to by observing over time.  :grouphug:

Well, for me it was actually very insightful! It is funny, but sad. We take so much for granted as normal for us. I hadn't really realised I had been avoiding things until I sat down to post, and I hadn't realised I was already triggered. I guess it's just another one of those things I was talking about fairly recently where I have difficulty knowing what is going on with me. Obviously, once I hear someone else say it I realise it for myself. Yes, I was already triggered and already dealing with a symptom I had yet named. Well, I haven't named it yet, but I suppose it's a form of flashback or re-experiencing. I have so many break through moments on this forum. Hah. I want to say, "What is wrong with me?!" But obviously I know the answer to that.

Kind of like you said, her voice has been apart of my consciousness for as long as I can remember. The way she spoke was just so often repeated and rehearsed, it just made it so easy for my brain to imprint her reactions. I think it was probably quite the driving factor for me early on, to be nothing like her. I know her every thought and move, and I will win, and I am nothing like her. That's what I hear in the words that I wrote, even though I don't have this drive anymore. It's still in me somewhere just like her voice.

I also have that voice of self-harm. Not often at all, but not too long ago it showed up for a couple days out of no where. It was so strange, like a little whisper that turned into an instant snowball. Even in the moment I was able to identify it, and know that it was not my voice, but those intrusive thoughts can be so persistent, and then two days later they just left. It was like they just took a holiday in my head. I don't know what that is about. It is like our brain can have a little blip and transport us to a different time and place. Sometimes the place is dark and our brain tells us that there is only one way out, even if you are no longer fighting that battle at all.

I'm no longer fighting to survive. I am no longer building a wall between the voice of my mother and my sense of self. Yet, here we are!

I am triggered. I feel so panicky. I went out last night to see the Barbie movie with three others. The act of dressing up was triggering, the movie was triggering, I was honked at and cat called, on the way home I was followed for a bit by two men. That was extremely triggering. The conversations I had last night were triggering. It's so hard to talk when people are genuinely interested and want to bond with me. The friends I was with apologised for asking me so many questions about my childhood and my experience with Barbie and everything else. They found it fascinating. The truth is, I want to be able to join in the conversation. I want to talk about me too, but I can never just be because it will always be dark and sad. I can't relate to people. I woke up at 5am feeling like I'm running an invisible marathon. I've been feeling quite nauseous. I hid in the shower a bit while my husband got the kids ready for school. I've come a long way. I don't know if it's a good thing that I can swallow my panic and look somewhat functioning.

(Trigger warning - Blood, not graphic)

Playing with dolls was frowned upon, and I gave away all my toys at a very young age because I was a responsible young woman. I had written previously about a brother injuring himself badly, and hiding it out of fear of punishment. I had a memory of having the exact same behaviour resurface last night. I didn't have Barbies, but I had a secondhand Barbie car. I always wanted a Barbie convertible. I snuck into the kitchen and grabbed a steak knife, hid with the car in my parent's room where I was forbidden from going (because at this time I slept on the floor in the familyroom) and did the only reasonable thing for a five year old to do. I hacked the roof of that Barbie car off with a steak knife. I also cut myself. Other five year olds might have cried, but I knew that I was breaking several rules and no one was going to comfort me. I got up and wrapped my hand in toilet paper, hid all the evidence, and hid until the bleeding stopped. No one noticed.

-I see so much of me, of my character and personality in that memory. It is precisely the loop that my mind is still stuck in. I am still the engineering little kid who is hiding their interests, fears, and injuries.

Oh, Bermuda. That is so tough. Your friends sound like they are caring even if they don't fully get it. I think others do find this sort of thing fascinating if we give them a glimpse into our existence. My training coach does and he feels safe to talk to but there is a very fine line between me feeling able to talk a bit more openly and him asking a question that makes me immediately clam up and deflect.

I am so sorry those men behaved that way. Very, very scary for anyone, let alone someone with your history.

I am very familiar with being punished for getting injured. My mother did it all the time. I also got punished one time my sister injured herself. And the games mistress at school punished me for spraining my ankle in a hockey game because she thought I was making it up. These people are just so awful. As if we go round hurting ourselves on purpose just to make a nuisance of ourselves!

And yet, you know, I really admire five year old Bermuda for wanting that car to be a convertible and making it happen. I would never have had the guts to do that. You are stronger than you think, and you always have been.

I hope you can find time today to rest and look after little Bermuda.

I am over here cheering on little Bermuda making her own barbie convertible. That's a cool kid. And yet there's so much sadness in that one little tiny moment too. So many hints at the abuse and neglect behind it.

I'm sorry that you were harassed last night. It can be so triggering and unsafe feeling.

I completely understand that predicament with sharing. It's like I could just give a tiny sliver of information and then worry the rest of the month or year that I said too much that I was too much that I just need to keep it all to myself or no one will ever want to talk to me. And so mostly it's easier to listen instead.

Your friends do sound ready to start hearing a little - and they are inviting it - when it feels safe to start sharing a little bit of your past.

I have one friend who can hear it all - he's lived a long and interesting life. But even him it has taken me almost 20 years and several work road trips in remote areas, weekly coffee dates for a decade and more to fill in the rough outlines of my life.

It's nice to have a couple people who really understand you and what you've been through. You do deserve some of that understanding and empathy in your life.

 :grouphug:

Crying is good, earned.  :grouphug: 
 

Here I am a professional post-deleter.

I just wanted to talk about how since writing my story to some degree how I've been reflecting on the more challenging aspects and where those aspects originate from. In my story I speak very black and white. I don't include speculation, or complex emotion. I don't dissect motives. I don't add correlation. I don't draw any reasonable conclusions. That's why my text is so long. I have to write it out in order to feel that I am not lying or exaggerating.

Part of my fear of lying is because of narcissistic abuse. I don't want to be her. There are other much deeper issues because I have minimized my suffering, experience, presence, and opinions. A lot of it was because I had to. I had no other reasonable choice in many of the situations I was placed in. I couldn't give myself the feeling of choice. I couldn't take responsibility for all the bad things. Often when I would have conversations with people, especially at where I am in my story, people thought I was daft. They thought me nieve. I wasn't nieve. It was intentional. I wasn't stupid. I was traumatised. Just because I didn't laugh at a punch line, didn't mean that I didn't understand the joke. Just because I didn't act insulted when someone called me simple, didn't mean that I didn't understand the insult. I trained myself not to react and to conceal my feelings and motives. When someone is talking about something I am interested in, I don't ask deeper questions on the subject. It's not that I am unfamiliar. I may very well be much more experienced than they are, but I say nothing. I just listen, and sometimes people think I'm not listening, but I am not spacing out. I am just avoiding eye contact and hoping I am not confronted with inclusion.

Inclusion is terrifying. That's when I go blank. Right Bermuda? ...Mmhm.. It's not that I was not listening. It's not that I am a fraud. It's not that I lack understanding.

I just can't reply. I can't bring myself to express my ego. I fear having an ego. Everyone has one and they are not all disproportionate. Where is mine?

I just wanted to add on to this about how it affects my life now. I don't really have these conversations anymore. I don't live in a country where people joke that way. It's not something I encounter.

Instead I have to write university papers. I write well. It's not something I struggle with. What I do struggle with is what to write. Everyone tells you that university is nothing like traditional school, and in a way they are correct.

A paper is written without fluff. You are not to speculate. I find that very easy, however you're supposed to read various materials and come to a conclusion from those materials that is not explicitely said within the text, and your conclusion is supposed to somehow align with what your professor believes to be a correct interpretation. I don't do that well. I can express the information that I have gathered. I can reframe it. I cannot conclude anything based on my own subjective interpretation. Professors truly believe that social sciences are sciences, and are without interpellation, but that's just blatently false. It's expected, and other people do it so naturally that they don't even realise they are doing it. --And partially because my existence has been extra ordinary, and partially because I have difficulty drawing independent conclusions, and partially because of my internalised minimalism, I don't interact academically in ways that others do. I am not sitting at the table having deep speculative conversations on topics that I am partially versed in. I can recite the text, compare text, compare methods, compare cultures, but I cannot be difinitive aside from my inability to be difinitive. Obviously.

I make it sound light, but in reality it is something I struggle with so much, and I find difficult to explain. I don't inject myself, and sometimes it's the correct thing to do. I don't sell my ego, and sometimes it's necessary. It changes the way people perceive me. I have written about that probably several times in this forum, but now I have something to tie it to. When I was living in Germany it was so difficult. People tend to introduce themselves with their professions and their majors, and I felt so extremely uncomfortable. It caused me panic. Swedish people tend to be a lot more humble, but in academia it's just normal conversation.

I am alienated from social society because of the trauma I went through. I can't express who I am because of what I endured. I have a fear of being overt. I fear being wrong. I lack the ability collaborate socially. I am always concealing my own thoughts and seemingly agreeing. I can't sit down with a professor and exchange thoughts and opinions. Sometimes I listen to students doing that while I am sitting in the university cafe, and it just shocks me every time. Other people do that.

I just read the notes I am given. I don't reply. I don't discuss them. I research the works of my professors, and do my best to come to their conclusions. It's not that I am stupid or even that I agree with them. It's not that I don't have thoughts. It's that I cannot say that 1+x=2, even if it seems reasonable.

That all resonates with me, Bermuda.

At school I was regarded as academically "gifted" up to age 15 and the first set of major exams. I could, and did, get high marks. At that level there generally was a "right" answer. For the exams taken 2 years later (last school exams before university) I struggled a bit, but two of my subjects were languages which made it easier, since there is obviously a "right" answer when translating. Also, I went to a fee-paying school where results were key so they made sure you chose subjects where you could do well, and I had to anyway due to my FOO. Whether or not I enjoyed the subjects was immaterial.

University was completely impossible. I was supposed to do everything from my own initiative. I left before even completing the first year.

I have to feel very safe before I can try to communicate my own thoughts. Like you, I fear being wrong. If I am challenged to explain my view on something I find it really hard. I Google things I know perfectly well just to double-check. Things as basic as the spelling or meaning of a word.

Therapy is helping me massively with this. T never tells me what to do or what the right answer is. Because the answer has to be right for me and only I can decide that. She will make points for me to consider or tell me if she thinks I have overlooked some aspect. She never makes me feel bad for not knowing. I now have one person I feel safe to be wrong in front of. I know I will not be punished or ridiculed. If I am reluctant to share something with her I usually end up sharing it because only by getting experience of being vulnerable and not being hurt can I fully accept this is actually possible. Of course it can be tough to find a good T and I was very lucky with mine. We started out with written therapy only and now do face to face by Zoom. Lots of therapists now do online sessions and I think it works very well. It does mean you are not limited geographically. We don't have public funding for therapy here (we do in theory but the waiting lists are ridiculous)  but I am lucky enough to be able to pay. This also gives me total choice on who I consult and that is very important to me.

If there was * to pay when we as children dared to have a different opinion from our abusers then we quickly learned not to express that opinion. We can often, indeed, persuade ourselves that we don't actually have that opinion. It is possible to go along with things for years, believing that you genuinely enjoy them or think them, because some other person sets value by whatever it is. You know that you have your own thoughts and what those thoughts are. That is good. Feeling safe enough to express them and defend them if challenged is a whole other challenge. I understand the difficulty. But you have identified the difficulty and that in itself is a step in the right direction.

The therapist that the Swedish agency paired me with who specialised in absolutely everything and treated everyone with CBT was going to cost me 1200KR an hour. Honestly, I would rather set that money on fire and dance around it. I have messaged another therapist from a link Kizzie sent me, but I haven't gotten a reply yet. I am open to any suggestions on where do find a decent therapist. I will pay, but not to be told that I should change the way I feel about my feelings. I think I speak for all of us when I say we all have tried that.  :aaauuugh:

It's good to know that someone out there relates to my struggles. Sometimes it feels so silly. I still get this feeling when I am in class that everyone is confused by me. Uni will be starting up again soon, and I'm really excited but nervous. I have been working a lot on being gracious and gentle with myself. I understand that I have strengths and weaknesses, and that my weaknesses may be just as weak as my strengths are strong. I tell myself constantly that I worked hard to me there, and that I belong there. That education is for everyone. That if I were good at everything, than I would gain nothing. I am supposed to be there. I want to be there. It's strange how we live in a world in which we are supposed to have the answers. We're really just supposed to be progressing, or be getting ourselves to a place where we can progress. Failing is not the same as being a failure. I enjoy the process. The social expectation bits on the other hand.... Oi.

I want to have people I feel safe with. I got a bit of a shutter when I typed that, so perhaps it's only a half truth. I don't really open up to people, at least not in this natural reciprocal way that other people do. I had a long time friend who I told once that I think I don't love like other people love, that love for me is rational. She told me that she knows that about me already, but that it's okay. Transactional love. My friendships are ones that I am constantly trying to think about how other people do things. A friend went on holiday and brought me back some chili powder, because she knows that I miss spicy food. I was completely caught off guard and am now thinking about how to express my gratitude for our friendship, how to express that I am listening. It doesn't come natural to me. Nothing seems to come naturally. I am tearing up. My social struggles are the ones that make me feel the most robbed. I mean, my mother robbed me of the money I will be spending on therapy, but deep meaningful interpersonal connection... that...

Hi Bermuda,

Gosh, the very beginning of your post made me chuckle.

I really hope you find a perfect fit for you for therapy. 


I can relate to much of your writing/sharing but in particular "nothing seems to come natural" and "transactional love" really resonates with me. 

So, we have been having issues with our neighbours. I haven't talked about this but we have neighbours who live below us who are difficult. They tend to be loud, they scream off their balcony all night, they don't look after their children, and we hear domestic violence quite often. Screaming, items are being thrown out the windows, furniture slamming, banging against the radiators, the children are locked outside and often are yelling to be let in (I have gone down and let them in multiple times), sometimes they get revenge by locking their mother out on the balcony while she is smoking. Fair enough. It's extremely triggering for me, and I worry about her children, and I worry about my children hearing those sounds at night.

In Sweden there is like a housing agency that manages things, and you make complaints through this agency. We have reported her nearly every day, and recorded from inside our own home her screaming and then we send these files to the security agency that looks over the property. Last night the security agency urged us to call the police, and we did. By the time the police had come into the building this violent episode had of course ended.

The neighbour just rang my door bell. I answered it because it was the exact time our housekeeper comes. Our neighbour was standing there with two of her children. Her grade schooler wearing nothing but a blanket tied around her. She told me that the housing agency has notified her of some complaints and that she wants me to call them and tell them that it's my baby that cries at night, because they think it's her. I told her our youngest is weaning off night time bottles, and she does cry. I looked surprised and asked her if she didn't hear the fight last night, that it wasn't a baby crying. She said, "No." She heard nothing. She tried again to tell me to call the agency and tell them it was us, but I didn't want to give away what I already know. We called. It's corroborated by other neighbours. There is a file. I know she has received two complaints, and with a third she is out.

My husband said I did a really good job handling it, but I feel so intruded on. The second I opened the door I had this panicky feeling like someone is encroaching on my space. I saw my mother's expression in her's and I knew she was just trying to get information. I knew she was trying to see if it was us. I could see the manipulation, and It made me shake. I told her that I had to get back to work...

I am not guilty here. I have a civil responsibility. ...But in this moment, and this time after, I feel like it's me. The child in me feels shame and guilt. I am writing it out here to air that guilt and shame. No one helped me. No one helped childhood me. I will call. Even if it makes me appear a nuisance, I will call. I have civil responsibility. I have very little power over anything, I know this, but I won't be intimidated. I won't be the one who says nothing anymore. I can try, for them.

 :hug:

I'm so sorry you are put in this position and you absolutely did the right thing. I think for so many of us - myself included - the hardest part to look back on is exactly what you say...no one helped us, no one did anything. It is scary to do the right thing. Her coming to the door is scary. It would be scary for anyone nevermind the past traumas. Add trauma and triggers and it was quite brave. Thank you for standing up for the children. Poor babies.

You did very well. I think nearly everyone would have been scared in that situation but you kept your wits about you.  :hug:

Thanks for all the replies. I never know how to reply to replies. I often feel that I speak to bluntly and it's perceived differently than how I am feeling, so often I say nothing. ...But it's not nothing.  :thumbup:

I think writing it out directly afterward really helped. It stopped my brain from getting deep into the cyclone. I saw it, recognised it, wrote it down, and stepped away from it. It worked. It might be in the future that I write down more things like this before the atmospheric conditions collide with the current rising from my overheating brain.

 :hug:

This is just a memory, so I will put it here instead of disturbed relationships.

I recently shared about flying away from a relationship. It triggered this other memory and it's been haunting me. I feel a lot of guilt about this, and that. Sometimes I think I am being ridiculous and that I don't even have CPTSD... but this memory...

I was in a relationship with someone a long time ago. We stayed together. He wanted me to meet his family. His parents were both divorced and happily remarried. We left on a trip where I met his father first because there was a funeral. The experience was positive. They thought me a bit odd. In the neighbourhood no one had seen someone who looked like me. Someone actually shouted at me in the street asking me what I was doing there, but it was more like I was an oddity rather than anything harmful. His father and I played bones all night, and it was generally a good time. Everyone was very nice to me.

When I met his mother the experience couldn't have been any more different. She was new agey and her and her husband had kamasutra statues everywhere, which was quite shocking for me at the time. Her new husband was an artist and they lived in a very well-developed neighbourhood. His mother found everything I said or did odd. She questioned me a lot. I remember distinctly her telling me about her heirloom tomatoes from the garden, and asking me if I wanted to try them. She said she had just baked some nice pumpernickel. I told her how wonderful that would be. Then she went through the fridge getting out lots of cheese and meats, and asking me what I want. I told her I wanted just tomatoes on pumpernickel with pepper. She reconfirmed that I didn't want butter or anything else. She got quite upset and started acting like I had an eating disorder, when in reality I was just really looking forward to the taste of fresh tomatoes.

For a long time I looked back on this thinking I was wrong, but I'm in a place now where I can say that I just love pumpernickel and tomatoes. That's healing for you. That requires no justification.

Anyway, as the day went on we were sitting at the table and I don't remember what it was his mother was saying about me, but it triggered me, so instead of crying publicly, I excused myself to the bathroom. I was crying in the bathroom when his mother and her husband came outside the bathroom and asked me to come out. I told them sobbing that I need a moment. They started banging on the door. I panicked. I had to get out, so I opened the door, and they were blocking my way now yelling at me. I pushed through them, and I literally ran out of that house. My boyfriend at the time chased after me.

He was such a nice person. Extremely kind, and so sensitive... He was crying too, running, chasing me, urging me to stop. I didn't stop. I literally ran away. I never got my things. I never saw him again. I flew out.

I just Googled him, and I see he has an extremely successful career and turned out to be a great person. Somehow I feel like his mother was right about me, that I was bad for him. I didn't know about CPTSD at the time. I don't think I even believed my life was traumatic yet... but looking back, who does that? They didn't like me. They saw I was distressed, and they cornered me.

One of the things that my husband did that was different is that he never chased me, and eventually I stopped running.

I feel a lot of shame because I  know my behaviour hurt people. I know that I wasn't crazy and his mother was wrong, but I did hurt him. I erased my life and created a new one.

 :hug:

It's definitely cPTSD, Bermuda. Pretty bad case.  :grouphug:  It's not a club anyone wants to be in but I know how helpful it is to see the truth and to stop denying it. This is PTSD. Add complexity. Lots and lots of it. You have PTSD for very good reasons. There is nothing wrong with YOU. You are an amazing person who has been hurt and who has turned on all survival instincts to survive. Sometimes that has lead you to fleeing.

I would have fled too. You were terrified and they cornered and chased you. That reaffirms in the brain that there is something to run from. You ran and ran but eventually you found someone who has provided a feeling of safety and acceptance and had beautiful kids. You're safe now. You're safe because you kept running until you found safety. Good job. Your survival skills let you survive.

I feel a lot of shame because I  know my behaviour hurt people. I know that I wasn't crazy and his mother was wrong, but I did hurt him. I erased my life and created a new one.

I so relate to the shame.  I inherently have felt that shame for years, without knowing it.  And then add the continous incidences of shame thereafter is unbearable to think about it.

Thank you for sharing this memory Bermuda - it helps me in my journey.

 :hug:

Cultural identity is formed through exclusion, not through inclusion. It's a counter argument I have posed in my head so many times. Since I never had to courage to state this claim to a professor or as a counter to other students, I will do it here.

Cultural identify is formed through exclusion.

No one is born with a sense of cultural belonging. Rather people are born and develop familiarity, but you are not aware of a sense of commonality or togetherness until you are confronted with something else. We learned who we are through our interactions with others. We learn where we belong by learning where we don't belong.

I know this through trauma. I don't know where I am from or who I am. I am trapped somewhere not quite anywhere. I'm a "fourth country kid" who was told too many lies to distinguish what isn't a lie. I have an accent everywhere I go, and it changes depending on the subject or companion. I am confronted regularly by my strange habits, traditions, and colloquialisms. I am aware of them. I have learned that it is fine as long as I am consistent. I have absorbed so many, but they are not mine. I am an outsider, not because of my cultural similarity to you, but because of the things I do similarly to someone else who you perceive as different to you.

I know that cultural identity is formed through exclusion. I am reminded constantly.

Writing carefully.

Something interesting happened today during my lecture. The professor broke us out into groups twice, and I spoke with two groups about culture. The groups just happened to be of two very different nationalities, and both just accepted me as one of them as we spoke of cultural etiquette. It was so strange. They assumed I was from where they are from, and we spoke about that. It was odd to turn around later and talk to other people about different cultural etiquette, but it was based on an outside assumption. They saw me as from where they are from. I've never had that happen. It's always been that I feel excluded, like I can't speak about these things, or if I do it's safe to use a different culture from my background as referrence, because I don't want to be called a liar. I don't know if that makes sense, but it felt like a big deal.

The professor also called on me to answer a question another student asked. I knew the answer. Did I look like I knew the answer? Was he trying to help me to speak up? He does work to include me, when I don't include myself.

I was a lot less hypervigilant today too. I was actually kind of.. sloppy? I didn't have my books stacked perfectly. I didn't rewrite things several times until they looked perfect in my notes. It was okay. I also didn't do weird self-soothing things under the desk. I was generally okay.

It is interesting what happened with the two groups and that you did not feel excluded. That sounds as if it was a good experience for you.

It also sounds as if being included by the professor was a good experience for you. I am guessing that him calling on you to participate might not always feel comfortable. But you are not saying this experience was unpleasant, and you report in the next paragraph that you were generally okay.

This all sounds like a big deal and it sounds like a big deal in a good way. In which case I am very pleased for you.

No 'weird' self-soothing things under the desk :cheer:  Sounds like you were maybe more relaxed for some reason. Which is good.  :)  :hug:

Thanks for the replies. It really helps me to feel heard. I wish I could communicate these problems more effectively, but they just don't make sense.

I'm feeling a bit afraid. I just handed in a paper that I literally just wrote, again on cultural etiquette. It's posted publicly into a padlet. I have another paper due on Monday, and the worst part is that I have to do a presentation on my paper. It's about cultural averages. So, I am feeling so much like an impostor. These two groups that welcomed me are going to hear me present to everyone at the same time about "my" culture. I imagine them looking at each other confused, because they just heard me represent two different cultures last week.

I feel quite spread thin right now, and I know I am doing it intentionally. I always do. I try to make myself less nervous by making myself have less self. The worst is that it works for the most part, but it's not sustainable.

I kind of got myself into hosting a Halloween dinner party, and it just snowballed and I felt like I couldn't back out. I keep thinking about it like, I want to be the kind of person who throws dinner parties. I want to make that happen, and at least this dinner party will happen, but I feel like a burning incense stick. I am worried that I will be judged. I did a bit of research on how to throw a dinner party, and I have some great ideas, but I am just not a good host. I am so excited about my plans, and I shopped for great secondhand tableware and decor, and I have a great menu planned, a theme that is awesome... but people... They won't know the effort I put in and they might not like my ideas, maybe they won't even show up. They don't know that in hosting a Halloween party, in choosing a theme, in having people over that I am treading gently over all of my sensitivities.

The culture issue - I don't get the impression from your earlier post that you actually "pretended" to be "from" the culture in the group. You may say that you gave the appearance of being a part of that culture, but perhaps that is because you actually are. I think people can be part of more than one culture. I feel a strong cultural identity with England in many ways, but not all. We moved around so much when I was a child that when people ask where I am from, I quite often preface my response with "inasmuch as I am from anywhere, it is England". And then I will usually explain why I think there is some doubt. The groups may not react with any confusion at all and if they do I am sure you will have an opportunity to explain, if you wish. Or could you maybe head the perceived problem off by suggesting in your introduction that people can belong to more than one culture and for the purposes of this presentation "your" culture = x, because y. Sorry, I am relentlessly trying to problem solve here, which is not really the idea of journals. If I am overstepping, I apologise. Anyhow, I do resonate, and sympathise with the difficulty you perceive.

As for the party, I know all about the stress of party planning, too. I can assure you that they will know you put in a great deal of effort. Anyone who throws parties knows how much work is involved. For sure they may not appreciate how much additional effort you personally have had to make to give the party and you may not even want them ever to know the actuality of that. Those who come will enjoy it. That is why they are coming. If any of your guests don't show up that says everything about them and nothing about you. Also, it sounds to me like you are a good host. Look at the effort you are putting in. And you are excited about your plans, which is half the battle, honestly. A bit of enthusiasm goes a long way. It sounds really fun. Also, when hosting, if you start to feel uncomfortable or overwhelmed you can actually disappear to decompress on a pretext of doing some clearing up or organisation or seeing to the children, or whatever. If you think you might need to do that then perhaps you could tell your husband in advance what you want him to do if you go away to "clear up". For instance, you might want him to make sure that he keeps the guests company and forbids them to come after you to help. Or whatever feels best.

You've got this.  :hug:

Thanks NarcKiddo. It's not overstepping at all. It's much appreciated. I guess the difficulty is the explaining and the questions. It's disruptive to the flow. Everyone says where they are from, and when it gets to me the conversation is paused. I take up too much time, and it leads to questions which feel too personal, and everyone is then looking at me and sometimes other people fill in blanks for me. I actually really appreciate that. If I say some place that seems outlandish(irony), and someone else chimes it with "...But actually because of this..." I just need to take someone like that with me everywhere I go. I need more of those people.

No one at university knows. My professor has only read my papers that kind of allude to places elusively. I know he read part of my notes that actually called a city by name.  :aaauuugh:

I have been thinking about things. I think a lot of my difficulty goes beyond what is actual. I don't want to talk about it, not just because I don't want to pause conversation, and that I don't want attention, or to be seen as different. I also don't want to be seen as the same, and if my feelings are not seen as valid I would be devastated. I can't place my own discomfort, and it wouldn't stand up to cross examination. I don't want to be known at all. I have spent so long being intentionally vague, because I don't want people to know my name let alone anything else. I have had people exploit information.

I'm in my third semester of this particular course. No one knows me. I don't group up with others. I have avoided disclosing anything outside the context of assignments. In the beginning of every course there are always three groups that form from the second lecture on. Here I am, in my third course. People know my name. They come to me when they need notes or have a question, but we don't engage. I don't add anything, nor to I ask anything. I came to this conclusion as I was panicking about one of my papers being posted to Padlet, corrected publicly. Everyone saw it, and saw the notation. Maybe no one saw it. I was the first to hand it in, and I have made the corrections. Only two other people have even now handed in their papers (due tomorrow). My worries boiled down to the maple syrup of it, is just being seen. If I fall over in the forest, did I even fall at all?

My issues with self, identity, culture, (the r-word that is not real), and my appearance... It is all just a manifestation of my discomfort existing as anything more than a fallen tree that no one happens upon. I don't want to be identified. I can't handle the pressure that would cause. I can't maintain the expectation of fulfilling the terms of . classification. One day I'm a tree, the next I am fungus, the next I am moss, until I am sod. I don't want to disappoint. I don't want to deceive. Keeping myself invisible is the only way I know how to not disappoint anyone. I've never not disappointed someone.

I understand and resonate with the desire to remain invisible and not to be known.  :hug:

Not here in your journal, necessarily, but somewhere - could you tell me about Padlet, please? The teacher of my art class has set up a Padlet for the class and I am not sure how best to use it. It has all the course work and various resources uploaded to it and we are invited to comment and put our homework on there.  :aaauuugh: Maybe Padlet use is different for every scenario. I could ask her, of course, but - you know...

@Bermuda

 :hug:

Memory - Trigger warning brief CSA mention

My cousin's story.

My cousin, for the sake of writing I will refer to as Jackie. Her name was not Jackie. She was the daughter of my mother's sister. My aunt. My aunt had grown up, as my mother had, but she became quite the opposite of my mother. She was frail, meager, quiet. She went from violent relationship to violent relationship. She kept in contact with her mother, who once tried to kidnap my cousin Jackie. My cousin was about my age. Her father sexually abused her over the span of several years, but my aunt was too afraid to escape. My cousin was blamed for it. My aunt stayed with us in our basement for a while, trying to get on her feet. My aunt went back and forth in the same way her husband went in and out of prison. Eventually she left, she married someone else. He was an abusive alcoholic. He was violent and would throw things. My cousin was maybe 12 at this time, and now had two baby siblings. Jackie still had visitation with her father. My cousin's home life was not good, and she became quite difficult as a result. She was very rebellious and ran away often. She spent nights out, not saying where she was going, and at 15 she fell pregnant.

We had always been taught to believe that Jackie was bad. When she stayed with us, she was always used as an example of how not to be. My mother had always loathed her. When Jackie became a mother, her, my aunt, her two toddlers, and my baby second cousin came and moved in with us. The violence had become too much for my aunt.

Because of the way Jackie was raised, she had no connection to her daughter. To her, her daughter was a mistake, a shame. I was the primary caretaker of my cousin's baby. My mother hated babies, and my aunt was too busy working non-stop trying to rebuild a life for her other two traumatised children.

One day, Jackie told me that she had to go somewhere quite far away to pick up some things from her daughter's father, for the baby he had never met. She left me to watch her daughter. My parent's were also out of the country for some weeks. I grew so attached to that little girl. I cared for her all day and all night. I dressed her, I fed her, I changed her. No one else would.

My cousin never came back.

After some time, family services came to take the baby. They had been notified by a neighbour of my cousin's birth father that Jackie had taken her baby to meet her own father. Mind you, my cousin was forced to live with him for years, and no one seemed to believe her, or care. But family services came, and they took my second cousin away.  I last heard that she was adopted by a distant relative.

On one of my mother's phishing accounts she posted several years ago a message directed at me that my cousin Jackie had been murdered. It took a quick Google search to learn that she had died in a car accident and that my mother had of course lied.

I realised that this was traumatising for my when I was in my early twenties, and while I was working as a dancer, someone told me that family services were going to take she children away. I broke into tears, and she asked me if that had happened to me. I told her the story of my cousin, and of my second cousin.

I don't know why it has taken me so long to write this memory, maybe because it is not my story. It is my cousin's story.

I hope the little girl is happy. Thank you for loving her.

Such a sad story, Bermuda.  :grouphug:

I'm sorry Bermuda - you've experienced such sadness and loss.

Yes, you are part of her story but she is very much part of your story as well imo.

I very much stand beside you in your your nemory of your loss and sadness.

 :bighug:

It was sad. Remembering it made me sob. I don't know where it came from, I think it's just my kids are the age my nieces and nephews were when I cared for them and my second cousin.

Not trying to lessen how horrible my cousin's story is, but I think part of why I managed to recover to the extent that I have from all of this generational trauma, is actually the generational trauma.

I had so many very different characters in my life, and I could clearly see how their trauma shaped them. From a young age I could see my aunt, and her incapacity to say no. I could see my mother, and her incapacity to express kindness or gentleness. I saw how my cousin rebelled. It wasn't because my aunt couldn't tell her no, and couldn't control her, it was that she couldn't control herself. I could see that. Not that I am a super balanced person at all, but I witnessed the more extreme affects, and always told myself I wasn't like them. I was different. I wouldn't be like that when I was a grown-up. I had self-control. So. Much. Self. Control. The double-edged sword.

 :hug:

It's also your story because it wove into your life and affected you. I. Sorry. It's heartbreaking. All of it. It encapsulates so much, Bermuda. You are doing a beautiful thing in erasing the cycle for your babies.

I feel bad for writing about this because it feels like every time I talk about things lately, I'm just rehashing the same old issues over and over again. I want to write maybe something specific about perfectionism for the book sometime, it's just a thought, but I just have zero time lately. So here I am, I'm going to talk about my weekly problem.

University is so triggering. Thanks for the well-wishes, and it went fine. The difficulty was afterward, and I'm constantly being given triggering tasks. I made a joke out of the last task and my professor actually really liked it, but as usual he made an example of my work and urged everyone to read my work. I realise logically that I do it to myself. I find things difficult, so instead of lying, I make work-arounds. Work-arounds draw attention. I can't explain to my professor that I can't write about cultural stereotypes in my home culture, because I don't have one. That just doesn't sound reasonable. ...I wrote about the behaviour of fish in a certain region instead... I know, that sounds like a huge leap but I made it fit the briefing and clearly I did well.

In the next couple of days I am tasked with something that made my insides curl when he announced it. I have to write about the educational system in my country of origin, and in my experience, and write a comparison piece.

I don't have a country. I don't have an education. I don't know. I don't know how to work around this. After he announced this assignment my whole body felt like it shut down, and I had this song repeating in my head as he closed the lecture for today. I didn't know what the song was, but when I came home I Googled it. It's the song, "Soon You'll Come Home" from All Dogs go to Heaven. I just feel like I'm having difficulty being in myself right now. I spent a lot of time waiting for the dream to end and my real family to come get me and I guess part of me is still frozen in 1990 waiting for someone to love me.

 :bighug: I just wanted to send you a hug. As you search for a way to break free from 1990, know that there's love for you here on this forum.

Trigger warning in the last paragraph. Mortality...

I am feeling so defeated. I am overwhelmed. My brain is hardly functioning. It's so hard sometimes.

I never know what the right thing to do is. I know telling someone they are so sure of themself is an insult, but I don't see it that way. I wish I were sure of myself. I'm just at a point that there is so much on my docket, and because there is so much piling up, I can't do anything. I couldn't even get the words out to order coffee at the university cafe, and then I spilled coffee all over my shirt. I know you're not supposed to cry over spilled milk, but this coffee is tipping me over the edge. My cup runneth over.

I am just staring at my work, and I have no idea. It's not that I don't know where to start. I actually have no idea. It all made sense a couple weeks ago, and now nothing. I have a cough, and it just comes when it wants. In 2023, we no longer cough. It's not allowed. I put on a nice autumnal outfit today and freshly braided my hair, I basically rolled myself in cinnamon and nutmeg and it's not helping. Sometimes I can dress myself into the part and act it, but today I feel like a fraud, covered in coffee.

I have less than three hours until class begins, and my professor will want to talk to me, to address my CPTSD. I am so unprepared for today, both for lectures and also for conversation. I tried. I had a choice to stay home today instead of attempting to study. I have a mountain of things to do at home, but I don't want to give up this time. I don't know how I am going to outswim this tsunami.

I have no idea when it's time to not run, to not give up, to not let the world defeat me, and when it's time for self-care, self-compassion, and self-acceptance. There are some things not even a tapestry blazer and a low-bun can fix. There are no straps on my boots to pull myself up with. If I turn my straight face upside down, it's still a straight face, and believe me I am just hanging in there.

I just remembered I woke up last night after having a dream about two friends who are dead. In my dream I didn't remember they were dead. A friend said they were going on a couple dates and they wanted to tell me who they were going out with, they named someone and I reflected on them fondly. I told her that I knew him and that he was a very good person, and then she told me about the second date she had lined up that week and I smiled, and told her about him, and his character, and that she should feel safe and unaffraid. I felt like they were both there and that I was talking to them. It was only after I woke up that I realised that they were dead. That would make another post.

Someone else said to me in my journal that I am doing better than I think because I am retaining my sense of humour. If that is indeed a mark of doing better than I think, then you certainly are doing better too. I feel a bit rotten giving a wry smile at some of your comments, because I know you are struggling, but still you have taken the trouble to write an engaging and amusing update rather than only wallowing in despair (or coffee).

I am thinking of you and standing with you.

One thing I would ask you to try to remember is that you do not have to speak to your professor about your CPTSD if you are not up to it. Of course it needs to be addressed at some stage because that was the whole point of you raising it in the first place (and, again, well done for that). But that does not have to be done verbally and can be done at a time when you are feeling stronger. You can ask him to raise his points in writing. He well knows that verbal communication is an issue for you.

 :hug:

Thanks NarcKiddo. I appreciate the take. I thought of it yesterday during our talk, yet in a negative way (CPTSD  :whistling: ). It was when someone else spoke badly of themself for having to be the one to give the harsher critique, and I thought that they actually were not harsh at all, I thought my jovial demeanor was much harsher and quite childish, that I should be more professional... But alas I was not wearing this magical blazer and was using the wrong camera, disaster. I didn't say what I was thinking at the time.

 You are right. I don't be straight faced. Me laughing things off shouldn't be unprofessional, and childish shouldn't be an insult. I was never supposed to be neutral. Just like if I felt the need to be abbrasive to be understood, that's also OK. It's okay to express things in our own ways, especially when it doesn't harm anyone. I have to remind myself of that. I'll set a notification on my phone every hour.

We are so critical. I have to laugh at my inner critic for its ridiculousness.

Oh poop. Dusting oneself with cinnamon and nutmeg and wearing tapestry doesn't provide sufficient autumnal insulation against the endearing effects of CPTSD??!! <Armee sighs, changes back into all black>

I love your descriptions too, even as I hate the suffering behind them and wish it weren't so hard.

I could be wrong but I get the sense your professor will be sensitive to how when and if he approaches you about what you wrote to him. I like the reminder from NK...even if he wants to talk you don't have to. Sometimes all I can do at therapy even of all places is just shake my head and barely whisper "I cant"

Often after I've made some difficult disclosure to someone I'm worried about how they will bring it upwhen insee them. I get pretty worked up and panicky and then they don't say anything at all. Nothing. Or maybe just "thanks for letting me know." I bet it won't be that bad. Here's hoping it won't be that bad, and that he has an alternate assignment for you that is not too triggering.

I was walking though a shopping centre with a friend when she had a laugh. I asked what she had laughed at and she said there was a buff guy with his protein drink taking the lift up to the gym. She wasn't judgemental, but rather thought it was a great way to be. She admired his decision to take the lift. She is also a member of that gym. Like most people here, she goes to the gym regularly. I don't.

Since this interaction, it's been on my mind. I do things the hard way. I don't go to the gym. I just live life perpetually difficultly. I don't take the proverbial lift. I have had people make comments before, nothing mean, but people notice the strange things I do.

I remember shopping with my son on my back, with grocery bags tied to the front of the carrier straps and large bag of rice over my shoulder. An older woman praised me for doing things the African way. I think I smiled, but didn't reply. In my mind, I thought I was doing things the easier way. You just get on with it. You carry the weight.

Today, after jogging my son to school alongside him riding his bike, I went into a grocery store and saw they had pumpkins in. I have been looking for pumpkins everywhere. I bought six of them, and I got a lot of astonished looks as I carried them two kilometers home. I didn't even feel myself getting friction burns because I was busy getting it done.

I was once given the nickname Mighty Mouse, as I am 150cm of dedication to doing things the hard way, on my own. In all other aspects of life, I don't think I'm a self-motivated determined person. It makes me wonder if my super hero ability to simply do things the hard way without consideration is a trauma adaptation. There are the little things that I can place as trauma, for example I do wear my children. I could afford a nice pram, but I would never buy such a thing. Then I would have to store a thing, push around a thing, and look at a thing. I don't like things. That is trauma. I know where that stems from.

What is more interesting is that I never consider going to pick up my cargo bike and then returning to buy the pumpkins.  I don't think anything odd of hauling a toddler, groceries, and 20kg of rice. I just do it. I don't consider the length of my arms when lifting a box, I will get creative.

I only take note of a choice that I made, when others seem astonished by my choice. I never felt there was a choice. It never occured to me. If this isn't a trauma adaptation, it is still a metaphor for everything CPTSD.

That being said, what I was led to believe was false. Life DOES give you more than you can handle. I once walked nearly five kilometres with a giant watermelon in 40c, because I really wanted it. I really wanted that watermelon, but I needed to breathe, but I needed to make haste because men were honking and shouting at me from their cars. I could have died over a watermelon. The irony of dropping dead from dehydration while running with a giant watermelon is as comical as it is sad.

At what point do you stop pushing yourself? Do you know your own limitations? ...Or are you perpetually running with a watermelon? Are you only made aware of injuries when you glance them in passing reflections?

I wanted to write about death. I wanted to write about people who have died. My husband recently lost his grandfather. It was the first person he had known to die. I can't say that. My grandparents died while I was quite young. My father died a couple years ago, but I wasn't there for that.

So, death list. It's going to be morbid, trigger warning for that. Drugs, suicide, murder, rape, all the things.

Death was a thing that I had known about, there were people who were suspect of killing people within my family. Rumours. I can't confirm, and I didn't know those who had died, so I cannot comment on it. There were lingering suspicions.

Between 19 and 25 years old I lost:

Someone I had befriended shot herself in the head alone in a hotel room, she had even told someone she would. They didn't stop her.

Someone I worked with went missing. I had forgotten about this, probably intentionally. A mutual friend asked me about it a couple years ago. I was the last one to see her alive, the last one to talk to her. I remember the police coming in and asking me, someone had been concerned about her disappearance and called. My friend asked me, "She's dead isn't she?" ...We nodded at each other... We talked about warning signs we were too young and naive to understand. Her life was hard, she had to make difficult choices. Someone had killed her, and there was no one to look for her. She was just gone. That's how it would be if I died.

A mutual friend, acquaintance, was raped and murdered, strangled left in a ditch not far from where I was staying. That one really messed me up for a while.

I had a friend who came from a hard family. He was heroin addict, but had been in and out of rehab. He had just gotten out of a very long in patient treatment program, and he reached out to me, we chatted for hours. I was so proud of him. I was probably the only person he knew who didn't use hard drugs. I just tried to be positive, because his family had disowned him, he had robbed them at one point... His story could be a book itself, it's tragic.... After seeing him that week he had asked me if we could hang out on the weekend, and I was enthusiastic. I told him of course, it would be great. When he called me that weekend, I didn't answer my phone. He took heroin, one last time, and he overdosed and died. I went to his funeral, and it was filled with people who didn't love and support him. And it was so hard. I feel so much guilt because if I had answered the phone, he would be alive.

I had a friend, who maybe I loved, I don't know. We had a lot in common. We were drawn together because we seemed to be both just in a bad place that we didn't belong in. We both were aliens, and in hindsight, probably quite depressed and trapped, and probably both had CPTSD. He was in the middle of a bad break up, with a very nasty narc, and they had raised a daughter together. They had gotten together while she was pregnant, and the little girl was now maybe 13 years old. He felt like he was losing all rights to his daughter, that he had raised, that he loved. I came over after their place was emptied, he told me his life story, he had never told me before. He told me about being a child soldier in El Salvador and eventually escaping illegally. We slept together, just that once. Then I left, the country. I never called him again. I was afraid is his ex. Very shortly after I left, he shot himself in the head. I could have helped him escape. I knew how.

My boss's son that I had looked after died in a car accident. The driver had been drinking.

Shortly thereafter his father, my boss, died of cancer.

...

That's all I can remember in this moment. There were also other horrible things that happened to other people, which affected me deeply that thankfully did not result in death...

I don't know why I felt so compelled to write a list. I guess it's because maybe I feel my life story is also about the bad things that happened around me, not just the things that happened directly to me. I had to be cautious. I didn't want to die. It was like everyone was trying to kill me. I always hid.

Oh, Bermuda, that is so very sad. All these stories, all these deaths. And you carrying guilt that is not yours to carry. I understand why you might think it is yours to carry, but I don't agree.

I am happy that you survived. That you had the strength, and the wit, and the courage. And maybe your pumpkin and watermelon carrying habit is testament to that. You have not let supposed limitations beat you. You get things done. For sure you may benefit from considering whether all things need to be done and whether there might be easier ways. CPTSD must play into some of your decisions. We all understand that burden.

Most of all, I am happy that you are here today and that I know you.

 :hug:

 :hug:

I'm glad you put that list down here to get it out. Those are very very difficult things. The bad things that happen around us do affect us. That's why first responders also get PTSD. And experiencing all those horrific deaths would affect just about anyone but add that to a lifetime of trauma that threatened your life and yes. It makes 100% sense you would come away feeling like everyone would try to kill you. And hiding and running away makes sense.

I'm so sorry you have gone through all this Bermuda. You are one strong person to make it through.

And I agree with NK...it makes sense that you carry guilt but it isn't yours to carry.

And speaking of carrying I do things the difficult way too. I once...well no twice...moved my piano across my entire house alone rather than ask my husband for help.

Hugs to you my dear  :hug: 

Thanks, both of you.

Sometimes I ponder on the ways I survived. Not just my strong instincts, but also luck, and maybe my sensitive stomach helped too, maybe my strong reaction to drugs made them unappealing, and my paradoxical reaction to sedatives. So many times I was drugged... muscle relaxers... I can't relax.

CPTSD really did save me, didn't it? I escaped. No one else did. I cry about it sometimes, a lot today. I met so many people, and despite the stereotype I rarely encountered someone there by choice. It was so hard to see my life as traumatic, or my story as abuse because everyone around me had had it so much worse. I wasn't sold into it. I wasn't drugged and owned. I wasn't a child soldier fleeing capture. The friend who overdosed was given heroin for the first time at 12, deceived. That didn't happen to me. My feelings felt disproportionate. I always thought I was really lucky, but now I am beginning to see just how extremely unlucky I was. Over and over again.

I can really imagine you moving a piano. The piano had to move, and you were right there. Sensible to me. The question of learning our limits is perhaps best left unanswered, as answering it would mean hardship. It seems to be an intrinsic characteristic of beings. A bird leaps from a tree knowing they will fly, eventually, but they don't all dive into the water knowing they can swim. Sometimes I feel like I am missing that distinction. I don't know when I am safe and what my capacities are.

My oldest friend told me that I am one of the bravest people she knows.

She always saw my flightiness, unattachment, and quick action as bravery. It surprised me. I told her she is the most caring and calm person I have ever known. She said it's a mask and that she is always treading water.

People see us better than we see ourselves. We react so differently to our trauma. I appear busy and she appears still. It's all true. She is the most calming person I know, even when she is buzzing inside. I am brave, even if I am frantic inside.

It can all be true. We are complex.

I lived in a world in which trauma was mundane. I didn't view my life as traumatic, because everyone around me had it worse, because trauma was so daily and normal. I have been thinking about what Armee said and it has flooded my mind with all sorts of little reinforcing events.

I always stayed after with the managers, because I would get a ride to where I was staying. I don't drive, and it was the safest way to leave at night. People stole people from the parking lot. I won't talk about that, but the worst kind of bad. So, I had a cab driver who I was friends with, or the managers drove me, or my flatmate and I were walked out of the building into her car by management. One night, I didn't make it into work. I was supposed to. That night a couple masked people came in with guns and led the managers into the room with the safe, but it was a drop safe, they didn't have access to it. The masked robbers locked the managers in overnight, and I only found out when I came in in the morning for day-shift. I remember us all laughing about together, as it was discovered. We came to the obvious conclusion that one of the dancer's boyfriends or something did it, because they had clear knowledge of the layout, cameras, and safe. We just went back to work. In any normal circumstances that would have been traumatic for everyone, but we laughed. We laughed. We went on with it.

At a different club, same management, a disgruntled dancer who was fired poured fuel all over the outside of the building and attempted to set it ablaze while we were inside. She didn't succeed, but it smelled of fuel for a while.

Not everyone was stolen from the parking lot. Some were followed. People attempted to follow us regularly. Someone tried to run us off the road twice, once while waving guns out the window. They didn't succeed, with us. We heard about it the next day, they had succeeded with someone else, and she was in the hospital. This wasn't traumatic at the time. A nuissance. The entirety of it was traumatic. The constant threat wasn't made up because of CPTSD. It was all around me.

Trigger Warning, I will be graphic here, violence.

Someone attempted to grab my flatmate while she was walking her small dog at night, that's when we stopped going out alone and started carrying makeshift legal weapons, hammers and ice picks and the like. We talked a lot about what we would do. We could hit them with the back of the hammer, to the side of their head. We were under no illusion that we were strong, but we were fast and prepared. You don't have to punch someone to the throat hard, you don't have to put your thumb into someone's eye hard, you just have to do it fast enough.

Someone had once followed us home and parked their car so that we were blocked in, locked in the car. They came out and started banging on our windshield trying to get in. I called the emergency number and just recited the plate numbers, and we slid our hands into the car door pockets just waiting for the window to break. Eventually the person gave up, the window hadn't broken, they and left before police arrived. That was the only time we ever called the police.

I wrote a piece before about someone trying to get into the car at a red light, so I won't retell that, but we were prepared. In that case, he is very lucky he didn't get into our car. It would have been a huge mistake.

So, when a manager tried to sexually assult me, he didn't know that I knew my strengths. I was fast. I was prepared. I knew where every camera in that building pointed, every exit, which exits had alarms, and which were broken. I knew not to fight, but rather to suddenly drop. I ran before he even thought that I knew what was happening, what he had been planning all night. All I had was claw marks. It was easy to minimise that, as the sexual assult bit hadn't happened yet. I escaped. I could hear them searching for me, but they didn't find me. I am fast and fit into small unreachable spaces.

Anyway, what was this about? Every day trauma. It was never a question of trauma, it was just life. We were all just surviving.

A customer was being thrown out, and he came at a manager with a gun, the manager picked up a loose brick and hit him with it over the head, the other managers joined in assuring the customer was subdued. He got a spinal injury and was paralysed. I saw it from the front door camera as it happened on the other side of the door. How it works, for those who are unfamiliar, is that as a dancer you pay to work, and you also tip management. It's like paying the mob. The girls who tip better, get better care. If a girl says someone touched her inappropriately, but she doesn't pay well, then a manager is unlikely to intervene. This costumer had messed with a woman who payed well to work, and the management was highly incentivised to keep her safe. The club paid off the managers legal fees. It was fine. In any case, never start bar fights, and don't assult women.  :applause:

So, bad things all the time, every day, but even beans and rice have a price.

I hate what you had to endure to survive, but I am glad you did survive. It is a privilege to know you.

 :grouphug:

I am so glad you made it to here, Bermuda, and am glad to know you as well. I'm not surprised at the atmosphere you describe; I had a friend who put herself through college dancing at a place not unlike that. Thank goodness you did survive.
Gentle hugs if you want them

Oh. My. Dog., Bermuda, your life and your stories are so important to me. I find myself thinking that I don't deserve to be here, because I never went through such things. Except maybe for that time...then a door slams such in my brain. So I don't know.

But I do get is the need to do things, to get things done, simply because they need to be done, and the astonishment that anyone else thinks it's something to praise. It's not that you are looking for a hard way to do things, it's that it's a thing that needs done. Them pumpkins ain't going to carry themselves. It's just work. It's easy compared to emotional desperation and despair. It's nothing compared to forced isolation and abandonment, or a child waiting so long for *someone* to please come help and that help never comes. It's just work. It's easy.

You are a treasure.

You all are so kind.

So, my husband's grandfather died yesterday. We knew he was dying. It was not a surprise. Because his family has a difficult relationship with me, it puts us in a hard situation. We usually stay with his parents, but I will not have the kids stay there anymore. They broke our trust. We can't afford to all go and stay in a hotel to attend a funeral. The logical thing to do is have me stay here with the two little ones, and my husband go to the funeral. The problem is that his mother will say that it's my fault, and that I am keeping their grandchildren away from them. I don't do funerals. The last one was really hard, and I was just chasing the kids the whole time. It's just not for me.

My husband and I have argued a bit over it. He wants to fix things. I tell him that he needs to let go. He cannot negotiate an agreement, and that it would be meaningless because that's just not how it works. His mother thinks she can do terrible things and say terrible things about me the second he turns around, and then just say it never happened and insult me to my husband. He can't fix that. So, here we are and I will be the bad one.

You are not the bad one. A funeral is not the time to try to repair past harms done. You are 100% right to stay home and not add the stress to you, him, your kids, or his parents. No one is at their most emotionally mature during funerals and going right now would probably make the relationship even worse. He can try to mend fences later between his mom and his family  but you're right it has to involve his mom changing and she won't. You don't deserve any more abuse.

I agree with Armee. Besides which the children are not yet at an age where they will understand much about or get any benefit from attending a funeral. It is very normal (at least in this country) for young children not to attend funerals even when the family circumstances are happy and settled and all concerned can afford any attendant costs. So even if MIL was not grim I would not see any reason why you should go.

Hi Bermuda,
I also agree with Armee.  You definitely donb't deserve any more abuse.  I doubt his mom will change as well.

Hope

Bermuda,

I'm so sorry to hear all this.  I wish more people would allow their spouses the space to feel safe.

When my little sister was still alive, she and I, both the two "little ones" in a family of 5 children, would often show up to FOO events without our spouses. We both felt like, as siblings, we were obligated. But our spouses weren't. One day we confessed to each other that we both did it for the same reason: We didn't feel our spouses needed to put up with what we needed to put up with. We made up lame lies that the FOO was too polite to openly challenge, that our spouses had to work that day, or weren't feeling well. Looking back, I now wish I'd have been emotionally healthy enough to just say "I didn't invite her because you're all too mean."

My wife and I married in secret, only 4 weeks after our first date. My family hated every friend or girlfriend I ever had, so I knew that the longer we dated, the better chance they had to break us up...as they'd done with other friends and girlfriends. When I showed up one day with a wedding ring on my finger, my family went into rage. How DARE I marry someone! My selfish mom and narcissistic sister set up a reception for us where they gave us insulting wedding presents to open in front of the relatives and friends. I would hear through other siblings that they were making sure that their gifts would be no great loss when she left me and took everything. Two years later, when we announced we were pregnant with our first child, good old Mom's reaction was "OHHHH NOOOOOOO! What are we going to do now?"

We had the baby and stayed married. Mom started to be nicer. Then two years later we announced our second child, and got the same response. "OHHHH NOOOOOOOO!" Oh. God. What are we going to do now?" was my loving mother's reaction to my sins of starting my own family without her permission.

Little sister and I saw no reason to bring our spouses into our he77. I wish more people would extend that same courtesy to their spouses.

Thanks, all, I attempted too many times to reply but I can't.

I have had so many social engagements lately, and it's really causing my brain to fracture. I feel very socially overwhelmed, but nothing bad has actually happened. I haven't embarassed myself, or spoken too much, or drank too much, or anything like that. It's just inside me.

Last night I had to go to this party that is a yearly glögg taste test. I was feeling self-conscious beforehand, so I put a bit of extra effort into looking festive. I found some holiday bells that reminded me of the round hair bobbles from my childhood. I always wished I could have my hair done like that, so I did it. I sectioned my hair and made three jumbo twists/rope braids, and turned those bells into baubles. I was jingling as I walked, and it made me feel so good.  Served my inner 5 year old.

When I arrived, I lingered outside a long time. Twenty minutes just staring at the snow. I made a couple snowballs, and staired into the lamp lights in the park like a bat.  When I saw my friend arriving I went in with her. Maybe ten minutes into being there, she asked me if I was alright. I was standing at the snack table stairing at the wall. Weird. I told her my thoughts drifted away. She replied with, "Somewhere ...bad?" Honesty, not sure myself. I didn't say that.

I was there a couple hours. I had to taste all the glögg and write notes on their profiles. People around me were having fun, and quite intoxicated. I was not. I left very early, first actually. I said I was really tired to explain that I sat doodling, or staring off blankly.

I walked home in the snow feeling quite hypnotised by the snowflakes coming toward me in the street lights, but I couldn't focus on anything else.

I went to sleep. Today I am going to a Christmas market. It will be crowded. I can't use tiredness as an excuse this time, because my friend knows I didn't really drink and that I went to bed very early. I am in a bit of vortex it seems.

Glögg gives me the heebie-jeebies. I had my first ever hangover after drinking some my mother made for a party. It tasted lovely and went down very well and I got off the scale drunk.

I hope the Christmas market is better than you fear. If you even go - I don't see why you should if you don't feel right about it. It sounds like your friend understands a little, since she knows your thoughts might drift to bad places.

Your hairstyle sounds really fun. You have such lovely hair and the idea of putting the bells into it is great.

I hope you have a nice day today.

I hope the market was OK if you went and that some day you can share enough with close friends that they will understand and you won't feel so alone when those things happen. In the meantime you can hide a lot of the symptoms behind a mad genius persona. 😉

NarcKiddo, the stuff is entirely too sweet for me, and then Sweden is Sweden so they have that with sweets on top, on the side, all around. The velvety feeling in my mouth, ugh. I can imagine how people get terrible hangovers. The Christmas market went well actually. My son has a lot of sensory needs, but I took him with me, and he did SO well. It was so nice to dance with him on my hip, around the tree. He didn't want to hold hands with anyone, of courrse, but he was smiling and enjoying it. He met Santa, and although he wouldn't speak to Santa, he spoke to me so Santa could hear what he wanted, and he wasn't bothered by the people or sounds. It was huge. Absolutely a first. The first steps on the moon.

Armee, the market was good. I had a short conversation at that party about robotics. My friend tried to push me into a conversation with someone who also makes things, and we started talking about our robotic creatures and creations, and he asked me what my field of specialty expertise is, like what I studied and "do", or if I am an engineer. I had such a laugh. I explained that I am an amazing Googler. So, maybe there is a mad genius in there somewhere, sometimes, other times not.

My field of expertise, hah.

 :cheer:

I'm glad you went to the Christmas market and that it went well. It can sometimes be that things one is not looking forward to turn out well - maybe because there is no weight of expectation. It's lovely to hear how much your son enjoyed it and that must have contributed to your own experience.

I came across some terminology today that I had never seen before. It hit home at deep uncomfortable level. It was about social determinants of lifestyle bias, prejudice, and the effects of hypersexualisation on women within the justice system. I'm not good at paraphrasing.

Trigger warning: About my SA (The whole story is somewhere in my journal)

I'm a bit emotional at the moment. It made me think of... that. When it happened, I obviously didn't have this vocabularly to describe what had happened and to defend myself with, but it was a mutually understood concept.

The district manager pulled me into his office when he found out. He made me tell him what had happened. I didn't want to. He asked me if I would sue. I replied with, "Of course not. I'm not an idiot. I need this job." What I was actually thinking, which I knew he understood, was that if I had gone to the police, it would have caused me more harm than good. A stripper. I had been out with a manager that day, as friends, he wanted frozen yogurt. I don't even eat that, but I went along. He had brought me a gift, which I thought nothing of. It was odd, and nothing I would even like. Hindsight is 20/20. We worked that night, and I stayed after, he was my ride after all. We were drinking. I was a stripper, drinking, after hours with two managers, one had bought me a gift. I had been drinking. Clearly, I am not a reliable witness, lifestyle bias. No, of course I wouldn't sue. I don't need more humiliation. If I had been fired, I couldn't pay for the legal fees to contest that, and how would that help me? I trusted more in the district manager's sense to do a decent thing, than I did in the legal system to protect me. His position is to protect the company, and to do that he needs to at least clean up the scene, which he did. He wanted me quiet, and I didn't want to speak anyway. We were on the same team.

The camera footage went missing, which at the end of every night was dropped into the drop-safe where it would be shipped to corporate, odd. Only the district manager had access. The manager responsible never returned, well until months later when the district manager surely thought I had forgotten. I hadn't, but I had to be professional. I had to be the professional one. Anything else and I would be in the streets, again.

Social determinants of lifestyle bias, prejudice, and the effects of hypersexualisation on women within the justice system. That. I know a lot about that actually. I can list so many determinants.

If I ever disappeared in an unwilling way, only the bad people would search for me. I know this. I saw it. Anything that ever happened to me was my own fault.

...I remember telling the district manager the position of every camera in the building. I described the one at the top of the stairs, by the enterance to the office, and the other one on the bar that faced the mirrored backdrop, and the other on the emergency exit. I described that the footage should easily show the manager calling me up to the office, and me running down the stairs passed the bar, and out the emergency exit. That's when he replied that all the footage was missing. That was my first ever time in that building. He must have realised that I was aware enough to know that he was the only one with access to the footage. I didn't say that. I knew he destroyed it, just as I knew he knew I was being truthful. ...But we were working together to save ourselves.

He surely forgot about the incident, moved on. I did forget for a while, but it didn't go away. The footage still plays for me.

Just thinking about that post and how I never consider the perpetrator. I guess what that shows it that the violation is so much deeper than the act itself. What the perpetrator did, although terrible, is not unique or special. He wasn't clever. I do wonder the extent at which he planned it. It was normal for one manager to leave and run to get food, but he was gone a very long time, leaving me with the one who "did" that. It was absolutely planned, and probably between the two of them. They could have targetted anyone, but they chose me. It's probably for the best. I imagine if they had targetted someone more sexual, less inhibited, it would have worked. She may have had a sense of obligation even. The district manager had told me he had heard similar things from other people. This person was a serial rapist. He chose an environment that would protect him, to protect the company, where he could pray on those who are unprotected legally. I think that's the crux of it. CPTSD stems from the deeper messages. Not just the violation of my space and body, but my personhood.

...The repeated violation of my personhood.

The planning part and the deception are really hard. I'm so sorry that happened to you. You didn't ask for it you didn't deserve it.

Ugh. You're right about the violation of your personhood. The whole story is demeaning and upsetting on every level. You have every right to feel all sorts of emotions when remembering that, and I am very sorry you have the episode to remember.

I was so far away yesterday. I'm sorry to everyone in the call. I really do want to participate and say how I am, and be supportive too, but I just don't know.

I would catch myself drifting and pull myself together, and then two sentences later my mind would hear something, and go back to being in space. I didn't seem to have my mind under control. I don't feel anything overwhelming lately, so I don't have a burning issue, but obviously I have issues.  :rofl:


The identity issues are very challenging right now. The owner of the Polish grocer has started speaking to me in Polish. I take it as a compliment to my purchases, but I don't know how long I can keep it up. I'm not Polish. I don't speak Polish. I realise other people would say something, but I will just continue to be Polish. I understand and react properly to her words. I am good at that. I am an imposter.

I have been feeling torn about my existence. I hold a lot contradictory thoughts. Right after our group ended yesterday, I quite impulsively made up a dinner party invite, and immediately got positive feedback. So, I have friends. Not only do I have friends, but the sort of people who enjoy my ridiculous ideas. Even if I can't see/feel it, I am integrated. I am real.

So the event is toward the end of January. I told them that I will be hosting high tea for elegant ladies. I wrote that spring is coming early this year, so florals, lace and pastels are le mode. That they should find the most outrageous secondhand gowns they can find and join me for a picnic on the green. Obviously, indoors. I told them that there would be activities suited to ladies of our class and status, as well as finger sandwiches, scones, petit fours, ors-d'œuvre, crumpets, and pâte à choux.

The activities I have in mind, after much research:
I will buy bags of secondhand plushies, and provide them with embroidery floss, needles, scissors, and hot glue, and we will enjoy the parlour art of taxidermy, by creating exotic unique animals of plush, to demonstrate our wealth and extravagant travels.

Next we will play the late queen's sport, pigeon racing, except ethical using our taxidermy creations. There will be pretend gambling involved.

Then indoor croquet, with wine.


...Not only do I have friends, but the type of people who will enjoy my ridiculous dinner party ideas, and come wearing the worst froufrou outfits they can find. I should feel whole.

That party sounds outrageously fun. I love the idea.

I totally get why it might feel easier to play along with the Polish grocer. But if it makes you feel like an imposter, and if that makes you feel bad, then maybe you could think about saying something? If I found myself in that situation I would probably make up a bit of a white lie. I would learn the Polish words to say something like "I can understand a bit of Polish but I do not speak it. Please could we converse in [language of choice]" She will likely ask why you understand some words but that is probably easiest explained away by having had a childhood friend from Poland. Of course that is my solution and yours may look very different, including continuing as you are. I'm just throwing my idea out in case it helps. There are very nice things to be bought in Polish grocers and I would not like to think of you eventually deciding to avoid that shop altogether because of this issue.

 :hug:

Quote from: NarcKiddo on December 16, 2023, 11:16:19 AMand I would not like to think of you eventually deciding to avoid that shop altogether because of this issue.

How do you already know me so well? Hah.

Bermuda, you know you don't have to apologize to us, right? Struggling to be present is what we all do to some degree or other. We don't have to explain; we get it.

You are delightful wherever you are beaming in from!

Oh my goodness you are adorable and fun! I am quite jealous!

But also you "shouldn't" feel like you "should" feel whole because so many parts of yourself had to be cleaved off to make this version. One day we'll feel whole, I'm sure, and you are still so young. Sometimes I feel normal and whole and sometimes I am beside myself splintered. I think that makes sense.

Trigger warning: Food, behaviours, food insecurity, :blahblahblah:  (Religion too)

I feel quite odd, as everyone knows. I was thinking as I made Christmas dinner today how food makes things make sense. It tells a story about me, but leaves out all the bad stuff. My plate of food always tells a story.

Today I made some stuffed leek triangles, filled with spiced vegan mince, walnuts, shredded carrot and celeriac. I roasted that in a lingonberry sauce. I roasted some parsnips, black salsify and brussel sprouts, and I made a wild rice, toasted buckwheat, and bread stuffing. It was delicious. It's me. It doesn't make sense in one place, but neither do I. I thought about making vegan raclette, tamales, fondue, black eyed peas, vegan roast duck... I thought about lots of things. I feel sad when I think about these things, because I don't have an answer. What do *I* eat for Christmas? I don't know. I combine things that I have heard that other people do, but it still doesn't fit.

I love food. I love food so much, but we've had a difficult relationship. Like lots of my needs, I didn't really see it as a need. Eating was an inconvenience. I skipped meals a lot when I was young. I didn't eat at school at all, to save the little money I had. When I was homeless, and the period after that, food was scarce. I wasn't bothered just to eat once a day. I hear about people suffering with poverty, but I wasn't and didn't. I worried about my safety, and sometimes my health related to my diet, but never about food. Food has always been special to me. Whenever I would get a little bit of money, I would take my friends out to a very fancy restaurant and order everything. I had waiters refuse to serve us thinking we couldn't pay, really looking down on us. I once remember leaving a three figure tip afterward. Little did they know that I could afford it. The street kid could afford it. I could spend all my money there that day, and not worry about it afterward. I would be fine. I'm resourceful and food is not a necessity, it's luxury.

So, after that time, food has always been one of my greatest expenditures. I don't buy clothes. I don't like things. I like food. This Christmas I have been surrounded by evidence that I am living a different life now. We are *not* struggling. I have everything. I don't think twice about the cost of wild rice and chanterelles, not that I ever did, but I will also eat breakfast tomorrow, and then lunch, and then dinner. Every meal for me will be special.

So, my plate of food always tells a story, but it leaves out the sad bits. I make my potato bread differently now, but it's just as good as it was then. Food is special.

*Adding looking at a plate of food to my list of triggers.

P.S. Adding on to the Christmas thought. When I was a stripper, there was this group of women from a church who would come in every year around Christmas. I always hated it. They were horrible, would sit in the dressing room, talking to vulnerable young women and bringing them gifts, offering them salvation, and there were always girls completely destroyed in tears. Every year. I did not cry. I messed with them, egged them on, told them nonsense. I distracted them, tried to monopolise them. I comforted the other girls, told them they were doing what they had to do. This thought came to my mind because of how I reflect on starvation without suffering or sadness. People feed on sadness, on hopelessness. They will call you a sinner, and offer you a solution to the problem they created. They will tell you that you are suffering, when they have no idea the depth of the suffering that you have suffered, and just how much you are not suffering at all. They will feed on your sadness and offer you the support they think you need.

No, I don't want your food. I am fine. My food is great.

Christmas dinner.

 :hug:

Happy Christmas dinner. It sounds delicious and perfectly eclectic.

That sounds lovely. Especially the parsnips. I love parsnips.

 :hug:

I feel like I need an emergency therapy session, but that's not my reality. I don't do that... The wave I was coasting on crashed. It's my fault. I have to keep busy, keep to the routine, or things just crash. My husband says he is worried about me. I thought I was doing a good job of portraying holiday spirit. I guess not. My kids have been sick. Chicken pox, and a stomach virus, and a cough all at once over Christmas. So my daughter is nursing constantly, and I have calluses like she is a newborn again. I guess I have just been hiding nursing her, or just hiding in general.

None of my problems are real. I have lots of food. I am happy, and there is nothing wrong. I did get a letter that a medical appointment was booked for me, which caused me quite some panic. It's for a problem that I had a year and a half ago, and they know it doesn't go away, and it was in the system that I cancelled appointments and didn't go to my follow ups, so they rebooked me automatically a year later. I don't want to go. The answers aren't worth the questions. I am fine. I live with this body.

I am hoping maybe tomorrow or the next day I'll go swim in the sea, and maybe I will come out of the ice feeling better.

 :grouphug:

Don't forget how hard it is to care for 2 sick children and to have an increased nursing demand suddenly. Get lots of fluid and nutrition and be gentle. You'll feel better once your kids feel better and your body recoups from the increased energy needs.  :grouphug:

It's not your fault, Bermuda.

I agree with Armee that it is really tough to look after sick children. So try to take care of yourself. And once you have got this difficulty out of the way you can consider properly whether you are fine and don't need that medical appointment. It is impossible to do much except bat away unwanted intrusions when things are difficult, and maybe there is no need to keep the appointment they have made. I just think now is maybe not necessarily the time to make that decision.

 :hug:

Thanks. I am finally coming out of the funk. Holiday time really felt like a dip in my mood without any external cause. It's hard to explain that to people. My husband had asked what was wrong, and I told him about my food thought. He thanked me for sharing and said that he doesn't understand why I don't just tell him what is bothering me, and that it makes sense.... Although I didn't express it to him, that was a deeply upsetting thing for him to say. The things that are bothering me can't typically be pinpointed or explained with a simple, "I was hungry once, and now looking at food makes me emotional." Obviously, those were not my words, but you get the idea. It's not like that. That is not CPTSD. That is not my problem at all. So, holidays were sad. There is no logical 1+1=2.

I have been quite down about parenting. I try so hard, and I just feel so inadequate. My son has been very sick. He has a delicate health in general, and it is quite upsetting. I try to be everything for him, but I just don't know how. He doesn't like being held or touched, so I just sit next to him. I try to distract him with stories of dinosaurs or facts about dung beetles. I told my husband my worries, and asked him what he would do, and his response was that I doing fine. My daughter has been sick and is quite different. She is demanding and loud, and I told me husband that I am having a hard time coping and he told me that he forsees difficultly between us when she is a teenager. I also didn't express it, but those comments were extremely hurtful and not helpful. My husband gets upset that I don't just tell him what I expect out of him, so I can't tell him that what he says is upsetting. If I wanted something else I should have just told him, or not said anything. ...

Anyway, what I actually wanted to write about is my worry about my son. He was at the doctor yesterday for his sickness that he currently has. I wasn't at that appointment, but I told my husband that I was quite worried that my son is losing weight, and that during his last bath he looked my like a bird than a boy. My husband said that he noticed the same during the doctor's examination, and that the doctor had asked if his weight was being medically supervised. My husband explained that our son has a whole team of doctors. His next appointment is this week, and I am so worried that this is the time he will be getting the feeding tube. I am so afraid that it has really come to that, and that the benefit outweighs the consequences. I can't convince him to eat.

So, I feel that I am failing.

 :bighug:

When our kids are not doing well, it's impossible to feel good ourselves. My kids struggle in their own ways too...different than yours, though the girl sounds similar to mine. All I can say is to just trust yourself. You are a fantastic mom. When they aren't doing well it feels like an indictment of ourselves, but we are the moms they need. Imagine if they were struggling in these ways but had your mom, or my mom? You've got this. It's hard. It's crushing. I know. Just bug hugs from here.  :grouphug:

Lol oops *big hugs* not *bug* but if you're into that, that's cool too. I like bugs

I am so sorry you are struggling. I cannot comment on the issues around your son's health, not having children myself, except to say that I simply cannot imagine how tough it must be at times to care for a tiny human being. I can say that your love and care for your children shines through everything you write about them or say about them, so I cannot imagine you are failing in any way at all. Even if it feels like that.

 :grouphug:

Oscillating between believing that my life wasn't even traumatic and that I'm dramatic, and being overwhelmed by traumatic reminders.

A can't get that mugshot out of my mind.

His face.

He has the same evil twisted expression she would make.

Editting for clarity. I was not being intentionally vague, just that the words that tie these things together are difficult to get out, even in writing. If I tie these statements together it's like tying myself to tracks, or connecting myself to the bad, to the bad people. Yesterday during group I opened an incognito tab and put in my brother's name. His mugshot came up. He had been arrested for indecency with a child with exposure. I think it is safe to say that one of my abusers is in custody and can't harm anyone else. I don't know what the nature of the crime was, so I can't grade it within the local sentencing guidelines. It gets between 2-20 years. I don't know if it is his first offense or if minor offenses can be brought up in this case to show character and behavioural pattern. This would drastically change sentencing. I don't know why my brain works like this. I immediately go into assessment mode. He is probably getting 7, minus 2 for time earned. I have 5 years. The world has five years.

This also aligns perfectly with the time that it's been since I had heard nothing from my mother. The stalking stopped suddenly, and it has been putting me completely on edge because I can't track her. I had no way of telling where she is and what she is planning. Now I have some insight. She moved away, and away from that area, and has been silent. It makes sense. His face was in the news, and she is quiet.

I am probably safe. I am probably safe until this is forgotten.

I think I am going to take a DNA test. Seeings his twisted face made me think again how much I don't look like they do, and how it was always noted in the extended family. They favoured fair skin and blonde hair, blue eyes. Then there was me. I was not the pretty grandchild. In a huge family being surrounded with people, and then me. Homely.

I can understand why you are so upset about this development.

You are safe. You keep yourself safe and you have family now who love you and help keep you safe. I fully resonate with the feeling that you might not feel safe, especially when seeing the face of a past abuser, and I guess that is part of the nature of CPTSD. Never feeling safe. I've been talking about this with my T recently and need to journal some of it.

I also fully resonate with the lack of stalking or other unpleasant attention not bringing relief, but instead a feeling of "what now?". At least you now have an explanation for her silence.I don't know if that helps, but I hope it does.

 :grouphug:

I can see so many many different ways that seeing his mugshot would be upsetting and seeing the similarity between him and your mom would be upsetting. And why it feels like tying yourself to the train tracks to see it because the reality of what you grew up with and what became of the people you grew up with, it makes it hard to brush aside the things you went through and lived with as being "dramatic." It was legitimately bad. Criminally bad.

Periods of intense traumatic reminders often oscillate quickly to denial for me as well. It's a way to protect ourselves. The avoidance symptom.

It sounds to me like your brain is trying to come to equilibrium of knowing the past was bad, without overwhelming you with the knowledge, and balanced with the knowledge you are safe now and the present is different. And if your old family did manage to find you you have ways to stay safe now that do not require you to run away and be homeless. You have your husband you have the law you have money and means and friends. You aren't isolated anymore.

Part of me wants to urge you to wait to do a DNA test until you've processed everything else you already know...that it could be overwhelming and difficult no matter the results.

But then I think back to the things I have done over the years that people would have discouraged me from doing (ordering my fathers autopsy report and viewing the photos being one of a few that comes to mind, also prison records). And I know that even as that brought more up to deal with and was indeed quite difficult to integrate along with everything else, having a more complete story of my past has been incredibly helpful in putting together the pieces. Having a narrative helps. Having a narrative that makes sense helps. Even if it is difficult. Whatever you decide, you have a bunch of friends here to lean on.  :grouphug: 

Bermuda,

That mugshot would be a huge trigger for me too. Last summer, my wife talked me into joining one of those people-find sites to see if we could sense if our oldest son is still alive, still in the area, and still okay. I paid my $30 for a month on the site. The site kept saying that I could look up as many as 100 people during my month. So, sadly, I looked up all my abusers. I couldn't stop myself. The curiosity felt innocent enough. But in the end, after I found where they were and that all of them are still alive, I went into one of the deepest funks in years.

I can't imagine how seeing your abuser's mug shot and reading that he's still an abuser to others would trigger. That is a major trigger. I'm glad to hear you are beginning to get past it. I hope that time will continue to remove his image from your inner movie screen. It took me about two months to get over it after I looked at my abusers.

Personally, I'm not going to do that again. Those broken people need to fall far, far into the past and out of my recent memory.

I'm sending you thoughts and joy: Here's a hug:

  :bighug:

You all are so right.

I understand why my mind is constantly trying to solve a riddle that isn't there. I know it is very much part of my CPTSD flavour. It's like the sensing of footsteps in the hallway, except the hallway is on the other side of the world. I don't need to run probabilities and possible logistics. It's CPTSD. Trying to find the data and answers is not going to make me happier or even safer. They can't get me here. There is no phone call to an agency that can affect me. No manipulation can reach me. No job to lose. They can't do anything to me. I just looked up if he can travel internationally. Interestingly enough, he can't travel to Mexico. That's probably another reason my mother left Mexico. See, I'm still doing it. It doesn't turn off.

I'm not going to do the DNA test right now. I constantly think about it, but I don't know why I think about it. It doesn't change anything. It doesn't even mean anything. I have no intention of ever re/connecting with anyone be it a third cousin, nor a half sibling. I have no issue becoming a fabel. I just wish I could know, without seeing, without details. So much of my life was a lie, and I don't want to suppose. I wish I had the certainty other people seem to.

I am doing fine, anyway. I am not in crisis. I'm just keeping busy. Throwing myself into life, deeply. The deepend of life. Swim swim swim.

I am glad you are sharing this with us, Bermuda. If you decide to do the DNA test at some point I hope you will feel able to share that decision. We are all here for you and are happy and honoured to share your journey and help any way we can.

I sometimes have doubts about some aspects of my FOO DNA, but knowing one way or the other would make no practical difference to me. At least, I don't think it would and I have no practical way to do a test that would tell me what I want to know. I do understand the feeling of wanting to know, rather than merely suppose.

 :grouphug:

CPTSD is really testing me, or happenstance is testing my CPTSD.

I was cycling my kids home on the cargo bike. A car reversed in full speed toward us, hitting and flipping our cargo bike over and continuing into the car behind us as I pulled the kids from their seatbelts and out of the cargo container. The kids were shaky but hopefully not traumatised. No injuries, they were checked out in an ambulance. I have ankle pain, muscle bruises in my leg, and pain in my ribs. My bike is totalled. The police are investigating it as a crime.

So, there's that.

How awful. I am so very sorry this happened to you. I'm glad the children are OK physically and I'm sure you will be able to help them deal with any worries they have so they won't have any lasting mental effects. Children in a loving, caring environment are very resilient, apparently. I am glad the police are investigating and I hope that you feel better soon. Did you get checked out to make sure nothing is sprained or broken?

 :grouphug:  :grouphug:  :grouphug:

Well, they called an ambulance and asked me how I felt, and I answered honestly at that time... Fine. It took a couple hours for me notice things, as these things go. I will be fine though. Just so much more to process now, and my processor was already smoking.

 :bighug:

So much doubt. I'm having a hard time coping. Whenever thing happen in life, I feel so alone. I don't have a place to grieve, a moment to stop and breathe without letting someone down. My husband expressed concern about me getting a new bike. It's a significant chunk of our savings I know, but it's how I exist. It's how I shop. How I take the kids to school and pick them up. It's the only freedom I have. I feel like every step I take for myself is a setback to everyone else around me. This money comes out of the summer holiday plan. So if I get myself a new bike, it's my fault we don't have an exciting holiday this summer. It comes out of our house fund, so then it's my fault we have to stay here. I told an old friend near Vancouver that I could visit her this year, she's the only person who knows me since then, and it's been a decade, and now I am letting her down. I can't rest and heal. I can't cry. All of this is my fault and my responsibility, and I just have to keep going because it's my job, my job that I don't get paid for.

I had to carry my 4.5 year old son to his autism assessment today in a toddler carrier on my back. The doctor commented to him how strong his mother is, and it took all my strength not to say, "Yes, and I got hit by a car three days ago and injured my legs and ribs." Instead, I just smiled and carried him to the shopping mall to where we ate cake together, and the twenty minute walk home.

It's not that I want a medal. I just want people to see me. I don't want to have to steal my needs from other people. I feel like I am just a burden at my best.

Anyway, tomorrow I am going to buy a new cargo bike, whether or not insurance will cover it because I need it to fulfill my job that I can't take time off from.

Dearest Bermuda, of course you must get a new bike. That is not a luxury for you - it is a necessity for the family. I cannot believe insurance will not cover the cost - if the police are investigating it as a crime then I cannot imagine how the driver would not be at fault, and his insurance should cover it. I don't know what the laws are where you are, but here in the UK every driver must have third party insurance so even if their insurance does not cover damage to their own vehicle it does cover damage to anyone else or their belongings. And the insurance industry must also have a fund to pay third parties in cases where drivers have no insurance at all. I would be very surprised if there was not something similar where you are. In due course there will probably also be some compensation due to you for your injuries - although I guess you would have to claim for those when making the claim for your bike and you would probably have to go and see a doctor sooner rather than later so the extent of the injuries can be checked.

But even if for some reason you cannot get reimbursed for the cost of your bike, and have to pay for it out of the family finances, it is NOT your fault if that means other plans have to be delayed.

 :grouphug:

I know that I am not nothing. Somehow people relying on me makes me feel worthless, which means the more normal my life becomes the more worthlessness I will feel because inevitably I will let more people down. I just need to take these moments to look at myself from outside myself and see what the truth actually is, rather than what CPTSD tells me.

I feel bad that my journal has just become a bunch of whining lately. I would like to take it back to memories, but the really bad ones have all been written out.

Yesterday my son was playing and he knocked over a wobbly wooden end table that I had a plant setting on. I gasped at the sound it made when it crashed. My son reacted by making a concerned sad face, apologising and telling me he feels so bad that he broke my table. I replied by telling him that it was okay, and that I wasn't sad, and that the table was already broken. I told him that I knew it was a little broken but I used it anyway because the plant couldn't reach the window yet. I put the wobbly table back together and set the plant back on top. He found a leaf, and was sad that the plant got hurt. I told him it is sad, but the plant will be okay and it can grow a new leaf.

Seeing the sorry look in his face just pulled me back to childhood. "There's no use crying over spilled milk." Growing up, my reaction to having done something like that would have been quite extreme. I would have cried, hid the evidence, and ran and hid. My siblings would have ran and hid. My mother never would have admitted that the table itself was flawed. We were flawed. We would have had to work it off, clean it up, do whatever she wanted until we were worthy of her indifference again. So, the second I saw my son's face I felt bad for gasping as a reflex to the sound. I'm happy that my son know's that he can trust me.

Being beaten for spilling milk, and then being chastised the next time you cry for having spilled milk. Being told that is all the milk, and that there will be no more for anyone. That it's my fault. No one will have milk until I make it up. My reality was very different.

As a child you were put in an impossible position.

I think you dealt with the situation very well. Even people without CPTSD would likely gasp at a sudden crash sound. Your son's reaction is normal, and sweet. Especially being sad for the plant losing a leaf. But you were able to reassure him that the plant was not badly hurt and would be okay. That the table was already broken.

You and your son handled that incident with the table and the plant beautifully. It's a great way for you to remember how different things are for him versus how things were for you as a kid, and for him to metabolize that things can go wrong and it's not his fault and he's still loved and also that things can get hurt but still survive and keep growing.

It makes sense to be in a big emotional flashback right now. Because something like what happened on the bike if that happened as a kid you would have been blamed and made to pay that off too. You would have had to give up money for lunch and clothes and everything else. This is different.

You do need a new bike, absolutely. It is not your fault that you need a new bike. If using the money for a new bike that you use to transport your children means that vacations have to be delayed then that too is not your fault. This is the fault of the person who did this to you and your family and your bike. Same with your visit to your friend.

It's much less painful to focus on feeling like this is your fault than to feel the freaking terror that anyone would feel in this situation. Focusing on feeling like it's your fault and you are bad somehow...it's a way to manage the whole experience. I used to do the same not long ago. It's how we kept safe as kids too so it really serves a useful purpose.

Just please know somewhere in the back of your mind when you are feeling like that...it's not true. It's not your fault. You are not a burden. You deserve a bike, and you deserve a break, even though moms of very young kids don't get them. I wish I were there in person to give you some help so you could take a break.

You are not whining either. You are processing a difficult experience and that is healthy and necessary.  :grouphug:

Blah.  :fallingbricks:

I feel terrible that I am not interacting with any of the posts anymore. I just don't have capacity for that.

Today I ran errands. I got a stamped paper from my bike shop that states that my cargo bike is unable to be repaired and lists damages. I paid him by giving back all the nice parts he had installed on the bike in last year. I got a five page back-and-forth letter from the police. I read it, and although I understand the words, I don't think I understand the subtlety of the language used, so later a friend is going to go over it with me to explain the more intricate meaning that is lost on a foreigner. I filled out an online form for my doctor, and they will call me in the next 24h about my injuries, and maybe there will be an appointment set up. So, I did a lot of grown up things today. I vomitted from pain in my ribs while putting on my socks today. That was surely a highlight.

Now that I did things that stressed me out to do, I feel slightly less frantic. My mind just has too many tabs open right now.

I kind of feel like... You know when you are doing something physical and your heartbeat goes up, and that triggers a flight response? It's like that, but this feeling is very much the feeling I have felt in other, less okay, times. It triggers me.

It's more than masking, it's separating. It's a super-human power. I could build a shelter in a ravine until the dogs pass by overhead. No one will find me here. I could save you, but I see nothing outside of this. I become so capable. So cold. Fearless. I don't like this state. There is no danger, and I don't need to build a shelter. No one is looking for me. I don't need to out-do anyone.

 :disappear:  :disappear:  :disappear:

 :grouphug:  :grouphug:  :grouphug:

Those are very gentle hugs, so as not to hurt your poor ribs any more.

Quote from: Bermuda on January 23, 2024, 11:44:50 AMBlah.  :fallingbricks:

I feel terrible that I am not interacting with any of the posts anymore. I just don't have capacity for that.

You come first!  :hug:  :hug:

I don't have any more capacity atm either but I readd your post and I'm thinking of you.

Hi Bermuda,
I agree with Blueberry, you come first, and I also want to extend some supportive and gentle hugs, if that's ok  :hug:  :hug:

Hope  :)

I am no longer holding it together. I can't keep busy because there is nothing to do. I feel on the verge of a panic attack constantly and I keep checking out. It's the weekend now. How will I do it? I feel ashaimed, attention seeking, self-indulgent, like I talk too much, like I am making it up, exaggerating. I feel ridiculous.

My husband asked me what about the emergency reception made me anxious the other day. I looked at him quite dumbstruck. The loud ventilation system? I don't know. ... Why am I losing my mind? The vents in my mind? I don't know.

It's scary. Checking out is scary.

When I was in middle school I was given an assignment to write a persuasive essay centering around the greatest fear. I remember other children writing about things like spiders. I wrote about astral projection. I wrote this completely non-sense five page piece with a story element about getting lost inside someone else's mind. I thought I was being snarky. My teacher gave me the highest possible marks and had me present my essay to the class. I guess I successfully persuaded my teacher in believing it would be terrifying to be lost in the astral plane or stuck inside someone else.

...Terrifying.

He wrote a note on that paper saying in all his 20 years of teaching that it was the best essay he had ever read. I kept it for a long time.

I have a strange mind. It's slippery. Fear is not a good grounding mechanism. Trust me.

Bermuda,

Your paper sounds so cool. You know that saying, there is a fine line between crazy and genius. I think you are kind of genius. That's just my opinion. I always like your inputs and your non-traditional, non-conforming ways of viewing the world.

If I were your teacher I'd have given you the highest possible marks too. Nothing like listening to 20 children tell the safest stories and finally having one with a new perspective light up the room.

I'm thinking about you today as you struggle with the feeling of panic and ungroundedness. Sending you care and friendship!

Perception is an odd thing. I wrote a snarky piece thinking he would fail me, but instead he smiled and said, "I never said it had to be the truth." Papa Coco, thank you. Really. I always feel so disconnected from other people, and never know how to show kindness like you all do so naturally. It's not because I don't feel grateful, or even included. I know that the short is both at my reciever and transmitter. I am learning that my perception is not the same as it is for others. Sometimes I will not be failed or ridiculed. People care about me, even if I feel alone, even if I can't hear your words in my mind.

I'll probably never have what I am missing, but maybe I can learn to imagine it there, so when I feel insular I can identify it as me rather than objective truth. My internal dialogue is not objective truth, just like my paper wasn't. That's okay too.

It's really lonely in my universe. I feel sad about not having a family, and with my husband's family visiting soon it feels sad that they dislike me so much, and that my husband sides with them because it is easier. Obviously, it's like like he can't let them see their grandchildren afterall, and obviously he is busy, so their visit is my responsibility.

I hate that I am in a place where I am nothing. It doesn't matter how I feel, or how people treat me. I don't have a choice. If I made one then I am obviously the problem. I hate being quiet. Disengaged. My husband is afraid things will escalate between his parents and I again, but when he says that he thinks it's something I did. I didn't do anything. I didn't say anything. I just took the children and walked away. How dare I.

How dare I exist. I am thinking of telling my husband to cancel their visit then. Tell them they can't come. Tell them it's me. I'm losing nothing. I never had anything. ...But then I would be accused of harming the children. They need their grandparents. The ones who undermine and insult me in front of the children. The ones who lied. Who said the most horrible things imaginable...

Maybe this time I should be the bad guy. My husband asked me if I could just go away somewhere while they visit. Well, that's infuriating. Of course not. I am not leaving them unsupervised with the kids. Never. Not happening. That made my husband mad because how will he explain that to his parents? That's his concern.

I'm so sorry Bermuda. You're stuck between a rock and a hard place and without your husband being particularly supportive or understanding and at a time where you are already very vulnerable from the...how do I call this...accident that wasn't an accident?

How long will you have to manage without managing? Pretend to manage...how long is their visit?

I'm so sorry.

I don't know Armee. I don't know. Thanks for the support, even though I know you are struggling too. I'm just spread so thin.

I just returned from the dreaded appointment that I randomly got in the post. My issue that I so successfully ignored was remembered. The doctor who examined me just put me on the waiting list for surgery. So, now I can add that to my stresses. I am so good at ignoring my health. It's so much easier, but I showed up today. I walked to the clinic. Now I am going to have to have surgery.

 :fallingbricks:

Bermuda - you went to the clinic. I don't want to use the celebration emoji because that feels all kinds of wrong, but I know what a big deal it is to have to grit one's teeth and do it. And then have the surgery. Well done. It's a huge deal and I am sorry that surgery is necessary.

I am really sorry your husband does not seem able to be supportive of your family where his parents are concerned. I do understand his difficulty, at one level, because I have always struggled with that aspect of my FOO and it has taken me until my 50s to even start withstanding them. Nevertheless, that does not help you. I think you are being very strong and brave for your children in refusing to go along with the idea that you just go away and leave them to their grandparents. You are a great mother. Maybe you should go away somewhere WITH the children and let your husband entertain his parents! At the very least he should clear his diary to be there for them. They are not your responsibility. My husband has long had a habit of using me to dilute the company of his mother and it really grates.

 :grouphug:

I have said before that my trauma impacts literally everything I do. I even think about breathing. I am categorically an over-thinker.

I want to share how my brain works, by sharing my thoughts this (normal) morning.

I have been doing a bit of online shopping, except I have a really bad habit of not actually buying things. I just research things until I become overwhelmed and close the tabs. It's quite the habit. Shopping in general causes me anxiety.

I talked yesterday with my husband about maybe all wearing yellow on Easter. Not for any reason. I thought it would be nice. Then while I was shopping and looking at the cost of outfits (I'm not poor), I got overwhelmed with guilt. Then I thought about my experiences with people who dress up and parade around to make it look like they have a perfect family. The families who wear matching outfits and take photos together, when it's really an act of control. I got really anxious, and closed the tabs. I thought maybe it would be best if I spent the money elsewhere. I don't want to be like that. I don't want to give the impression that I am like that, and it feels unfair, like I'm stealing from my kids if I buy them matching outfits. So I nixed that idea.

After that I thought about the holidays coming up and then things I need to get and do to prepare, then I thought well I can at least figure out what I will wear. I thought it would be fun to wear nail polish. I haven't worn cosmetics, or done any kind of "beauty" thing in years. My son owns nail polish and make up and sometimes wants to paint me, but that's it. Anyway, I found this lovely shade of brown called Just Fudge, I'm so boring, but then I thought of my mother's face with all her cosmetic surgery. Guess what I did? I closed the tabs.

My kid's needed new shoes, so I started shopping for new shoes for them. My son has sensory preferences and wears nearly exclusively wellies and clogs. Very easy. Except I was looking at Crocs remembering how I would never have been allowed to wear anything like that. I remember the jellies trend when I was little. My mother told me I was very allergic and couldn't touch them. I believed her. Maybe I should get myself some glitter jellies, now that I see what she did there. So, my son wears what he likes, as long as it's not aggressive or problematic. So my daughter at just two has decided she likes pink and purple most. I don't, and I find it hard to look at. There is definitely some trauma for me there. She needed a complete new shoe wardrobe. I got her bright fuschia dinosaur snow boots. (Still relevant here) And also pink dinosaur wellies, and the most obnoxiously pink glittery light up shoes I could find. She is going to be so happy.

There is no way I would have been allowed to wear pink light-up shoes.

I am a very beige person. I think it's really important for me to have a quiet neutral space because of my own sensory overload, but my kids are their own people, and every time I think of them I think about the things I missed out on. I might actually buy myself some glitter jellies. The clear ones with silver glitter. Probably not, frivolous. I wanted to buy myself a hair dryer. I know, I don't own one. I never have... But I closed the tabs because it seemed wasteful. I don't know why my brain is like this.

Then after this I thought about other stuff for myself, and then I closed the tabs, for the same reason. I saw her face looking at me. I don't want to be her.

Then I thought about projects. I can't work right now. My vision is making just typing here very difficult. The guilt of being unproductive, ironically made me close the tabs. I have to be realistic. I can't finish what I have already started. So, now I am sad. Sitting here.

I am at a point with CPTSD that I can clearly see what is happening as it happens, but I can't control it. I still can't stand up to her, I can stand up for them, and when it comes to me I leave. I closed the doors to silence the voice. Otherwise her voice will live in my house in the object. It's like inviting the vampire inside.

Hi Bermuda,
Those clear glitter jellies with the silver glitter sound lovely - I know you may or may not buy them, but I think they sound lovely.
Just wanted to also send you a hug, if that's ok  :hug:
Hope  :)

Quote from: Bermuda on February 12, 2024, 11:48:16 AMI am at a point with CPTSD that I can clearly see what is happening as it happens, but I can't control it.

This is progress. It really is. And it seems to me you are doing more than seeing what is happening - you are also seeing why it is happening. This, in my view, is not just semantics. At least, not in my experience, which was:

1. I am normal and my life and FOO is normal
2. Something is not normal. Don't know what or why. Must be me.
3. My FOO is not normal and I have trauma.
4. This weird reaction is an EF. Nothing I can do about it. Ride it out.
5. This EF is not a weird reaction. Person X did Y and it triggered me because...
6. Someone is doing Y and I can feel an EF starting. Maybe if I respond by doing Z the EF will not be so bad.

The part of your post I quoted reads to me like you are talking about stage 4. I think you are actually talking about stages 4,5, and 6 (and maybe you are; you did not choose to make this numbered list. Sorry if I am being annoying.)

I've taken a very long route to say that I actually think you are close to being able to stand up to her. Closer than you think, anyway. Standing up for them is a huge thing in itself. But once you are consistently analysing why you are feeling and doing what you are to protect yourself it opens the door to considering other ways in which you can still protect yourself but also buy, and enjoy, the nail polish.

Also, I am loving the sound of your daughter's new shoe wardrobe.

 :grouphug:

I agree with NK. You are very far along and that list looks a lot like the steps I've had to muddy through too. For me the hardest to get to and through was 5. That required wrapping my mind around what happened rather than continue to call myself messed up.

I hope you can find a way to buy those silver glitter jellies. ✨️

I have found myself doing the same thing with tabs and shopping and closing things without finishing. Usually it is when I attempt an online shopping errand while I am in an EF and as a subconscious way to take my mind away from the EF. But when I am in an EF and shopping I get overwhelmed too. Close tabs. Go to the bathroom. Get lost there. Go to the kitchen start making something and forget what I'm making and set off the smoke detector. Remember I was shopping and go back to try again and repeat for about an hour.

You aren't alone, though you do have a lot of triggers because of the depth of abuse you went through and the constant-ness of it. It makes complete sense that everything you try to do or buy has a trigger wrapped up in it. I read your story. It makes complete sense to me.

I saw the anaesthesiologist. That was the most horrible medical experience I have had in such a long time, since the last time I was sedated actually. It's so bad. I am in tears, and I don't think I will go through with the surgery.

TW: Medical gaslighting, strong language

I'm just going to say I have a paradoxical reaction to sedation and can't be put to sleep here, for anyone who is just joining us. It's a thing. It's been a thing forever. I'm not bothered by it. It's just fact. Had a presurgical appointment today with an anaesthesiologist. So, I got there and he was leaning over his desk smirking and scoffing at me, quizzing me. Quizzing me! We was trying poke holes in my experiences. He asked about pain, and I told him about how during my second breast surgery the surgeon used injectables as he cut, and just told me to let him know where I needed more as he went. The anaesthesiologist (we will call him Ana for short) said, "Well then he didn't use sedation! That's just local." That's when I went back to the point that that was my second surgery, and I had told him my first surgeon hadn't been able to sedate me, and it was what we had discussed as an alternative if it happened again. It had. Then Ana laughed at me and said, "Have you been Googling this?" And I answered honestly with, "No, not until last week. It doesn't affect me." Ana smirked and asked where I got the term from. I told him about my endoscopy, in which the doctor who also didn't believe me, shouted it at a nurse as she stormed out of the room directly after the procedure. He asked me about if it was the doctor who was giving me anaesthesia or someone else. I told him honestly that I don't really remember. These things were all years ago. He laughed and said that it's probably just alertness and that some people have paralysis but have a state of alertness where they can see what is happening. I then went over again the exact conversation I had with my surgeons as they were cutting me, and how during my endoscopy I was held down by nurses, and when finished I just stood up and left. I had told him my husband was in the room during this. I don't get the impression he was listening. He laughed and said he would Google it, but he is confident that he will get me to sleep. He said they give intervenous medication and then tube me when I am out, and that there is a nurse by my side if I need anything. ...As if that is my concern... And then he said, "Do you feel better? Do you trust you will be put to sleep?" I answered, "No." Obviously, no. What the refrigerator! I told him that I was not there because I was concerned. Now I am super concerned, I didn't say that. What just happened? Did he miss the memo that I had had this conversation several times before?

Do I opt out of surgery now? This is not going to go well. He thinks he's going to just tube me and that this is made up. I am laughing and crying. I'm so angry.

Just because you are a specialist does not make you special.

Oh goodness. No i would not go under the knife with this buffoon.

Does the medical system there restrict you to only one surgeon/anesthesiologist? Can your doctor help you find someone who understands this?

Ugh I'm so sorry. I'd be shaking with anger.

Is it possible to get notes from your previous procedures that would document this? (And not take it to Mr smug&$# but someone else).

So, how it works here is I am on a waiting list for this surgery. I am high up on the list because of my age, health status, and the extent of the "defect". The list is for the whole region, and I am also a last minute fall-back if someone cancels. The surgery should happen at several different hospitals. This guy is unlikely to be my surgeon, because he works here at the largest hospital that is predominently for emergency cases.

So, realistically, it's unlikely that I would be faced with that. However, my medical information is in a shared database, and whatever nonsense he typed up today will be in my medical journal. I worry that if I see another ana who thinks they can simply triple the dose for me, that if it's not working because of damaged seratonin receptors, that there can be very negative consequences for me. Worse consequences than just listening to what I'm saying. People can have depressive episodes, or worse, psychosis. Imagine psychosis on the operating table, and the doctors being unprepared with the medication that reverses the affect of the paradoxical reaction, or waking up completely suicidal after a ridiculous dose. That's a no from me. After my first surgery I was very teary for no reason, and I didn't know until just recently why. My surgeon at the time said it was from the ana and that it's relatively common. Knowing what I know now, and reading what I just read, it's related to this paradoxical reaction and the reason I can't be sedated. I can imagine what that would feel like if an ana tried to be persistent, to be right, just to win.

I am a person. This surgery is supposed to make my human experience better. What is worse, organ prolapse, or risk of my sanity? Tough call, but I have been fine with the organ issue for two years now.

...Just imagine psychosis during intubation... I am rather certain that's nightmare material.

That sounds awful.

Since you know what hospital this horrid guy works at, I guess you can refuse any surgery slot that comes up there? And if you don't feel reassured by the team on the day at any hospital that seems safe, you can walk out.

Could you maybe raise your concerns with the doctor who referred you for surgery in the first place? It seems like you have accepted surgery is a sensible option for you so it would be a shame if horrid guy wrecks that option.

 :grouphug:

Quote from: Armee on February 13, 2024, 03:08:09 PMIs it possible to get notes from your previous procedures that would document this? (And not take it to Mr smug&$# but someone else).

I don't have information from that time in my life, way back then. It's a closed door. Then there was the military, and I can say no there too. The last situation was in Germany. The actually made a snide comment about this asking is this producure was in [redacted country name] while rolling his eyes. I said no, it was in Germany, I am usually all for the snide comments, but this time it was not funny. 7 procedures, by 7 different doctors. In different countries. It's not the medical care.

NarcKiddo, it's difficult. I didn't book any of these appointments. They just called me in because I never followed up, and then I went, and they told me I need surgery, and then I told them this issue, and then they booked this, and I showed it. It's a tread mill that I accidentally got on, and I don't know how to step back. I didn't get here by going to my doctor. It was a postpartum midwife issue.

I am really falling apart. I can't sleep. I am questioning everything. Repeat, rewind, repeat, rewind, 𝄆 ∞  :disappear: I feel I set myself up for this. I put myself in a position to defend my case, and I didn't even have the information that he used against me. I don't know what he knows. So there I was explaining myself like a child. It was all wrong.

It's the treadmill. He could see it.

I did things he said. I didn't ask questions. I replied without insisting. I was concise and unemotional, as I practice to be. I should have realised what was happening and instead completely dominated the discussion. Whenever he would go off course, I shouldn't have gone with him. I should have directed back to what I was saying as if he hadn't spoken. I didn't question HIM. He showed plenty of fault. A good jab back would have been reasonable, especially as a salutation when I had finished with what I had to say.

Imagine if when he cut me off laughing while I was speaking I gently shushed him, and told him in a motherly way "It's my turn to speak." Or, oh man, if I said, "It's really a shame." and then waited for a "Hm?" then continued with "You had such potential in politics, but chose medicine instead." Or maybe just something like, "You seem too young to be a doctor." Oh oh, or when he said he would Google it... "A bit unprepared today, are we? Hmm."

For therapy purposes I am open to any other mockery and snark anyone else can conjur up, just to make my instant replay for the next several years a bit more interesting than the usual rerun of events. Practice makes perfect anyway, and maybe someday I will stand up for myself.

Oh my goodness, I am posting again.

I had a bit of a night flashback for the first time in a super long time. It feels like a huge step backward. I jumped up in bed thinking there were ants surrounding me. I cleared away all the ants and laid back down. I did that twice. It took me a couple hours to realise that there are no ants here. Ants aren't even a thing here. I'm not sleeping with ants anymore. I'm just doing weird things in my sleep.

 :grouphug:

It's not weird at all sweetie. Something about the present moment is reminding you of the past. Imagining ants isn't crazy because it I'd a flashback. You literally slept with ants while you were running away from your mom...being stalked. Perhaps the incident on the bike felt similar to being hunted down, perhaps there's a connection to the surgeon. But I guarantee it makes sense. Your mind is processing the past, not going crazy.

There is truth in that. I have had this feeling that death is chasing me. I'm having a collapse. There is some positive though, it's different than it's been before.

TW: Alcohol

Yesterday was Valentine's Day, and I woke up determined to make it happy and special. I went full organising mode, probably for that sense of control. We had a babysitter in the evening. I really wanted to try with my husband, and it was  successful. We had fun and felt connected for the first time in years. I was definitely chasing the dopamine seratonin happy happy waterfall. I had five or six (dubbel) beers. We were only out between 5-10pm. When I got home our son was still awake, so I tucked him in bed. Usually I lay down with him, but I immediately felt overwhelming clausterphobia. I ran and was sick. I was okay, but the panic had started. I did my mama stuff. I laid awake all night racing.

I'm still racing as I write this. I'm having intrusive thoughts, but since I actually had a good evening, they're easily spotted and discarded, and I know it's because I used up all my happy happy waterfall at once... And the panic attack is very physical. It's odd because when it amps up I can feel it amp up and reduce, then trigger again. I have no emotion attached to it, and I actually wonder what would happen if I actually started running. If I had this at 4am, what if I actually went for a run to convince my body that it's because I'm running? I'm trying to outsmart my panic attack. It's almost 9am, and this panic started at 11pm. I am drinking sleepy time tea and riding along with my racing body.

I don't do this often. Binging is a problem I am aware of. I am aware that it triggers huge problems for me. I'm trying not to let the shame in. I don't want to taint the positive, because I want my relationship to improve, and I know how I handle this is going to be critical. Trying my best with this bombardment of CPTSD. Three nights without sleep. I just wanted to add, thanks. In my mind a jump between feeling like I am making it up, that my life is normal, to thinking well obviously I had PTSD and CPTSD. I only just made the connection that these consuming all-senses fashbacks are the PTSD, the PTSD that was looming dorment.

TW - alcohol abuse

Alcohol is a very familiar subject for me. I am drinking next to nothing at the moment due to my ongoing health concerns. But I am seeing a liver specialist soon, so I have prepared a full record of the actual amounts I have drunk over the last 3 years. I can easily do this as I have counted calories for the last ten or so years and have kept all my records. My records make unpleasant reading, and I hope 3 years is enough because I cut down and don't really want to have to tell him how much I drank before!

I am very familiar with the binge process. I used to drink every day and have found (to my surprise) that drinking nothing is easy enough, but controlling the quantities once I start is a whole different ball game. And if I had been going out for a Valentine's evening and trying to have a good time with my husband, I would have done the same as you.

What you have written made me want to address the panic/racing feelings. Alcohol has a similar effect on me. They say it is a depressant but when I drank heavily every day I also used to wake up most nights with some sort of panic. And one thing I have noticed is that alcohol has a direct impact on my sleeping heart rate. My sleeping heart rate is surprisingly high compared to my daytime resting heart rate (I started taking an interest for my fitness purposes). But when I drink anything, even a small quantity, my sleeping heart rate shoots up. My daytime sitting around doing nothing heart rate is around 58-60. I expected my sleeping heart rate to be maximum 55. But my regular sleeping heart rate is 65. If I have had alcohol my sleeping heart rate is 80. The night time figures are an average for the entire night and there are some pretty horrid spikes in there.

All this is a very long way to say that I think you would not be able to outsmart the panic attack by going for a run (and I, too, would consider such a thing and possibly even do it). If the alcohol is the main culprit then I think your approach of riding it out and drinking tea is very sensible.

I am glad that your evening went well and glad that you are not letting the shame in. What you did was not shameful. You have had a really, really tough time of it lately and I think you are handling things very well.

 :grouphug:

I agree with NK there. Like both of you just a little too much alcohol really shoots up the anxiety symptoms so much. I also agree there is no shame in having drank more than usual on valentines to be able to be relaxed and have fun with your H. You are so responsible and put your kids first all the time. It's OK to have the occasional off night.

Please don't be too afraid of the PTSD starting to show itself more. I think this is a good sign, not a bad sign. This is your brain telling you what is there that most needs to be dealt with right now, the things that need attention and that you are READY to deal with them now. It's overwhelming for sure. But at least in my experience my mind only gave me the amount I could handle and absorb. Now would be a great time to find a good trauma T if you can. Someone who knows complex trauma, and many modalities of therapy. The ones that helped me most were mindfulness or somatic therapy, EMDR, and parts work, but only in the hands of a therapist who did not act like a know-it-all and who listened and learned. It's a long haul better to start as soon as you are ready than wait till half your life has passed by. ❤️

Hi Bermuda,
I'm sorry that you've been experiencing some flashbacks again at night.  You have such a lot going on. 
 :grouphug:
Hope  :)

I don't know what I would do without you guys. I have read over it now, and besides the CPTSD thing, I do realise that my behaviour was not unusual or wrong per say. It's just I hold myself to a high standard, and especially when I know that I have greater consequences for things that are normal to other people. It's hard, especially lately. There have been a lot of social things I have cancelled and avoided because I know I'm not in the right frame of mind to "get away" with things that are basic to other people... Like be in a loud space, or for example I cancelled an escape room "spy" mission with some friends. It feels hard to walk the fine line between taking it easy, avoidance of triggers to an extent which actually creates more fear in a way, and then going in the opposite direction and being "all in". Like my need to hop back on my bike, which did not work out for me. It's not that what I did was socially odd, it's the thing that I can't control, and trying to control it... Endlessly.

I want to be a normal person. I don't want to be a burden. Now that I sleep in my son's room, when I do strange things in the night there's no one to stop me. When I was in panic, it was quiet and alone. That's hard. It's concerning. But it feels better than asking for help or expressing my concern.


I actually talked about getting a therapist on Valentine's Day, but I have no idea where to start. My last search left me empty handed. I may be entitled to a therapist in Denmark too, so I could extend my search outside of Sweden. Otherwise, maybe it's money well spent, or maybe not. :Idunno:

Can I ask in what way you came up empty handed on your last search? I believe it especially if you are limited by government providers, but just curious if there's a chance cptsd is making things seem more hopeless...known to happen. 😀

I wonder if this lady would have connections with someone well-trained in Sweden...she's in the Netherlands but has been involved in the European Society for Trauma and Dissociation.

http://www.suzetteboon.com/en/contact-en/

Well, I went through my search using the official Swedish medical route, and that was quite a difficult thing for me to do. Not in a real sort of way, but an in my head sort of way. I had to make phone calls, and speak to someone, and be forwarded to a service and have them give me referral links, and then I had to individually contact people... and I didn't get a single reply. The service contacted me for follow up to see if I found someone, and I didn't reply. CPTSD. That's how that works. They had only found one qualified person, but they did give me a link to other potential people, and think Kizzie also gave me a link, and I ... I messaged a couple people... but looking at faces kind of freaks me out. Like when the face was added to this homepage it also freaked me out. It's fine now. So, you are definitely right and there is a huge avoidance, fear, sleeping dragons and what not. Blah blah blah.

I might contact that person. I had a rough night with nightmares again, and I'm not feeling so courageous at the moment.

I get it. The hardest thing I had to do was call looking for help when my 10 yr old was suicidal. It was awful to call and have to tell your story only to hear "we can't help with that" or "we can't help with someone so young" or to just never hear back at all. The only thing that made that pain possible to get thru was it being for my son. For myself I couldn't have done it. Then I just sort of fell into working with his therapist when he was done. I gave up trying to get reimbursement for costs because it was too difficult talking to the insurance reps and justifying it. It's hard.

It'll be hard to start therapy too. But you are one of the strongest people around. The good thing is you've written your story so if you wanted someone to have a history without having to talk about anything yet, you have that. And you can go very very slow which is better than trying to go fast which back fires.

I just hate that I waited until I was 40. I feel so much better now 5 years later and wish I could have felt this much better years ago.

I contacted some people, and someone has replied. I will write you in private. I hope that's okay.  :fallingbricks:

I'm sorry there's so much going on internally for you Bermuda, sorry it's so hard. ime it's a sign of healing, a sign of progress but really difficult to feel and know when I'm in the situation.  :bighug:  :bighug:

I wish I could help too sort of the way Armee did but I think you will find your T person in your own country, I mean that contacts I have wouldn't be helpful for a number of reasons.

 :grouphug:

I feel so bad for posting again, especially now that I am out of the deep hole I was in. Now I am in overdrive to compensate for the time I missed, and I feel like I am being the most annoying person imaginable and that I am overwhelming everyone around me, especially here, as I am still socially isolating in the face-to-face world.

I know that I do this. I always do this. I don't want to upset everyone by being too much, all at once. Inconsistent. I can only disappoint or overachieve at the wrong things. I am not looking for sympathy or a pat on the back, and I also always feel like that's what it sounds like, like I am seeking praise. I just want everyone to know, that I realise I am annoying and difficult to put up with.  :grouphug:

You were never ever too much. It's human to lean on people for support. You weren't allowed to be human, back then in the past. You are not too much. Your contributions are amazing. I'm glad you are feeling a bit better.

You are not annoying, or difficult to put up with. Armee is right - you were not allowed to be human. You were not ever given guidance or help or praise or encouragement from those who should have done that. And it seems like now you are doubting yourself and your reactions and behaviour. That is no surprise, given your history, but there is no reason to doubt yourself. Your instincts are working just fine. There is nothing at all wrong with your behaviour. You are a very valuable member of this community. And if I am being annoying and difficult to put up with by praising you when you are not seeking praise - well, hard luck! I've done it anyway. And in your journal, too.  :bigwink:

 :grouphug:

Bermuda,

I personally see you as an amazing and wise person. No matter what mood you are in when you post, I see you for who you really are. And that is a person of high intelligence, excellent communication skills, and easy to share with. I know it's easy to beat ourselves up. I do it too. To show how alike we are, lately I've been horrifically embarrassed by my own posts, and my traumatic self-destructive issues around how I believe the world sees me. All too often I see myself through the eyes of my FOO and my past abusers. They were wrong when they treated me like I was unlikeable, and your abusers were wrong when they treated you that way as well. It's difficult to not occasionally see ourselves through their eyes. I hope you (and I both) can see ourselves through the untainted eyes of those who respect us for being the kind and intelligent people we truly are. I suspect you and I are kindred in that respect.

TW: Talking about food again.

I just grabbed a tortilla and dabbed some Valentina's in there and rolled it up and took a bite as I was in the middle of things.. That bite just teleported me back in time, fry bread and Tapatio. My friend looking at me saying, "You're the only vegetarian I know who doesn't eat vegetables." I don't know how I replied in that moment, or if I did my usual over-explaining, but I don't think I did. I think she knew it wasn't that I didn't eat vegetables. That wasn't a priority. When I could go shopping, polenta, masa harina, beans, potatoes, tomatillas, salsa, usually the kind that comes in the tin. Tapatio would have been a splurge. When I would go shopping I was looking for the food that would make me the most full for the lowest price, and vegetables didn't make the cut. I shared a watermelon story at some point. That watermelon was sacred. I risked my life to bring it back. One bite and I have all these memories.

I eat vegetables. I ate a huge breakfast with vegetable quinoa chili and a rye sandwich with hummus and beets, but just a bite of tortilla and the taste of salty salsa makes me feel like I have to explain myself. Like I have nothing else. Like it will go bad in the sun if I don't eat it now. It won't.

Food. So evocative. I guess it triggers all 5 senses, so there are multiple memory pathways there. Plus of course we are taking the food into ourselves and making it part of us. That in itself may be welcome or may not be, depending on what the food is and who has prepared it, and what company we may have while eating it, but will add to memories and feelings when we eat similar food again.

I do rather wish I could get my hands on a rye sandwich with hummus and beets right about now. That sounds delicious.

NK, you are right. It can be very direct. The smell of roses will always make me think of the little decorative soaps in the dish in my grandmother's bathrooms that were not to be touched. I am fond of that particular smell, of rose soap, and her hair sprayed roller set, the faint burning smell of an old hair dryer... but mostly pungent rose oil. It only makes sense that with positive memories there must also be intrusive triggering ones. I guess the difficulty is in resetting myself back to what is truely happening, instead of justifying or avoiding what isn't even real.

I think I have been a bit triggered since yesterday. It's nothing bad. It's so minor that I tell myself that it's not real, and that I don't have CPTSD, and that I am just being a teenager... I realise logically I am most certainly not a teenager, and that those thoughts sound a lot like CPTSD. The push and pull is very real right now, but I think I have it under control.

I spent the morning trying to explain to someone how to pronounce a Germanic trilled 'r' as it relates to Afrikaans. It was so fun thinking about how to explain this 'r' sound to someone who is only familiar with a Latin American Spanish sound and mouth shape:

Ek roer rooi groente.
Ik roer rode groenten.
Ich rühre rotes Gemüse. (Alternatively 'Grünzeug' in the most unusual use-case of chard or whole rhubarb for the sake of continuity...)
Jag rör om röda grönsaker.

Thinking about the subtle differences in these sentences and how the 'r's are spoken just makes me so excited. I'm excited that I can explain it with examples of different 'r' placement, as an outsider. I am really passionate about languages. I love going out and listening to people speak and understanding what they are talking about even when I don't speak that language. It helps me be invisible too, to camoflage, to control my trauma and my triggers, to feel safe. No one knows where I am from, and neither do I, but I have an invisible upperhand.

Should I study Afrikaans? Do I need another Germanic language? It could be a good thing, if I speak Afrikaans, that will seem like it makes sense to other people. They will have a slot to peg me in, and I don't have to explain. Clearly, I am Namibian.

See, clearly I am triggered. That is such a triggered thing to say.  :applause:

Trying to trace this trigger back to the source and I think it came from an article that popped up somewhere yesterday that I did not seek out, that showed new data on the negative affects of repeated moves on childhood development. I did open the article, and glanced and skimmed, but dismissed it as obvious rather than checking sources and studies... Even though I thought I cached it from my mind, I guess I probably didn't, and that is likely the cause of my dysfunction since.

I love listening to Afrikaans. And I know what you mean about the 'r' - the Scots have a very distinctive 'r' too (my husband is one).

I've been trying to find an adorable video I saw, because your post reminded me of it, but it was years ago and I can't. It was a clip of a huge, bearded, rugged South African man going round an animal park in Australia. He saw a wallaby for the first time and fell in love with it. He got really excited and was pointing like a little kid every time the wallaby moved. Only he could not say 'wallaby' and was saying 'wobbly' over and over.

Lot's of internal conflict lately, so there are two things I kind of want to write out...

Firstly, I am still struggling with the feeling of being completely overbearing and too much. I see that I am doing well in the sense that I am contributing to the group, and I am confident that I can finish a task, at this this task, and it feels good, but because it feels good, it also feels bad. I am afraid I am scarying people away, that I am being too dominant and that my contributions are negatively affecting the contributions of others. Like I am trampling on everyone elses garden. It's such a difficult feeling because I just don't know. I've never worked in a healthy team dynamic before and I'm not sure what that looks like. I feel good about how things are, but that IS what makes me feel like things aren't good... If that doesn't make sense, I know. I definitely know. I am trying to ignore my thoughts and just do everything I am able to because it's important to me, but it's hard, and I might be wrong.

The second thing also social, I have been having a repeating conversation in my head that isn't real, hasn't occurred, but keeps cycling over and over again. The premise in my mind is that my child's psychiatrist, who is doing in an in-school evaluation (really happening this week) speaks to his teachers and they say something about how I don't really communicate with them or other parents, and that I seem odd. In my fake dialogue that I keep having I am explaining to her the reason why behave oddly. It's because I have no facial recognition. So if a teacher talks to me, if she doesn't indicate who she is or something else identifying than I won't know and if I speak to her she will know that I don't know. She will think it's that I don't pay attention or care. There are other parents who are very outgoing and I can feel them trying to make social contact with me, but I have absolutely no idea what to do, or how to engage. There is this one parent in the group from California (identifying characteristic) and she constantly looks at me smiling, and stares oddly long, and says Good Morning, and engages with my kids, and basically everyone. She has walked around the playground and struck up conversations with everyone, but just smiles at me waiting for me to speak, and I just have no idea, and my discomfort must be visible. I smile to try to seem friendly. I think my odd behaviour is obvious, but I also don't know how to fix it, and I am afraid someone will notice and call me out... again, it happened once before like ten years ago. I couldn't explain it then. So, I can't go up to a parent and say, oh is your kid new to the group? Because they probably aren't, and maybe they have said hello every day, and it's probably just me.

I won't type out the imagined conversation, but I do think I have perfected it at this point. Explaining it to professional in a way that I could not explain it in a social setting... But the dialogue is constantly running. Someone will notice me, and they will know.

I think it is great that you are trying to ignore your thoughts and do everything you are able to (as long as this is not detrimental to you, of course, and I sincerely hope it is not). Because what you are doing is good, and helpful. And it is also, I think, very lucky that we have a team member who is able to plough forwards with the work even in the face of personal set backs, problems etc, which you have certainly had more than your fair share of recently.

The nature of CPTSD is that we all have our struggles and often have to take a temporary step back or even a temporary step away. We've always understood this as a group and accepted that progress will take as long as it does. Having you as part of the group has enabled progress to continue faster than it otherwise might have done. So thank you.

Burmuda,

I started writing in my journal today. I deleted it before posting. Then I read YOUR post and saw that you and I are feeling the same thing (again). My post was all about how I feel like I annoy people. I write too much. I say too much. I try too hard. You said it better with your explanation, but dang...I'm feeling exactly the same. I think I'll go back to my journal and rewrite what I've deleted. If you're feeling it, and I'm feeling it, perhaps others are too.

I know that you know that it's our irrational trauma-brains talking. Because I believe that you are feeling how you are feeling. I'm feeling the same way. But I want to make sure you know that I don't see you as overbearing or unfriendly, not even in the least. I like your posts. I like interacting with you. I think you're of higher intelligence than most people I know in my personal community here in Seattle. I hope that you can at least intellectualize the fact that this is our trauma demons whispering mean things in our ears. Making us feel bad about ourselves, because that's what our FOOs did. I call it being comfortably uncomfortable with the demons that I know.

Had all the exact same thoughts for my child's school psych evaluation too. They will see its me. My fault. I'm clearly crazy. Maybe CPS should be called. Also don't recognize people unless they identify and don't talk to parents for the same reason. Prosopagnosia. Live in a town of people with blond hair, generally all look and dress alike. I'm only friends with people who look markedly different from the norm because I can pick them out and say hi in a crowd.

And you're not annoying or any of the things trauma brain is telling you. At least not with us because we are the same mostly.  :grouphug:

I should add the school evaluation meeting was lovely. The team was kind and nobody made me feel like I was a weirdo. I hope yours goes well too.

Thanks Armee, I looked into it and I found this document: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5831923/ It's kind of interesting. There are also some studies involving children that can be found on researchgate. I did a bit of a dive into conversion disorder and saw a lot of ties to disocciative disorder and somatic symptom disorder, and also read about how prosopagnosia runs in families. Their conclusion was that it was genetic which I would have to see evidence on to believe and I haven't come across any at all. As I read I couldn't help but see how there is a huge disconnect between approaches to investigating these symptoms too, and of course the conclusions will be different based on the investigative processes and guidelines. If prosopagnosia is more common in children who grew up in institutions, than is it really only genetic or aquired through physical brain injury? Someone needs to fund my research study. I would look at if from all sides rather than severing human condition at the spinal cord and coming to two different conclusions based on different presenting features.

I just also ran across another article linking it to insecure attachment, and another one to developmental disorders. Have you looked into it? As someone with known DID do you think it is tied to other things, or rather a freestanding phenomenon? The disorders all mentioned have other symptoms that I know we both have, and I won't list them, but you know, those things. I can't help but wonder if all the things are actually the same thing to varying degrees.

Sorry if I sound like I'm grilling you. I have always been so focused on me, acting normal, fixing it, that I never turned around to focus on IT.

Also, I saw the evaluation actually starts now, so I may be distracting myself to cope. His psychiatrist is really kind and certainly sees eye to eye with me and even pushed back against the school policy to make it possible to be there today. So, my fears are unfounded. I know that. I also know that I can tell her that I have my own differences. She asked me about my brother who has autism recently. She tried to get me to elaborate on his education and needs. All I could say is that his experience was very different, and the circumstances were different which exasterated some of his difficulties. I could tell she was trying to get more information out of me, but I don't talk about my family in front of my kids. She asked then, well what about now? As an adult does he need assistance to function independently in society? I replied with a brief, "I would say yes, since he is in prison." No gentle way to answer those questions, but I hope that with the very few words I spoke that my point came across, and I think it did. Yeah, so I don't think she would find my public social skills unusual given the very very brief statements I have made.

Also, NK, it is good for me most of the time. Right now I am emotionally spinning in circles and tasks help. I will be reading or writing no matter what, and it's far healthier to use the hamster that controls me to construct something rather than to deconstruct. I'm talking to you Señor Chuy Velloso!

Gosh I haven't looked at any of that stuff. Proposagnosia is fairly common for people with aphantasia so I assumed that was the link. I have wondered if the aphantasia is trauma based in my case...refusal to see things in my mind seems pretty helpful. Tough to tease out where one thing ends and the other begins. But i think that proposagnosia (and aphantasia) are common in autism too.

OK I have to run or I'd say more. Hope things go well today with the school.  :grouphug:

 :hug:

It seems like lately all my thoughts are kind of repeats of things other people are saying. Like PapaCoco talking about a feeling that I had related to too, and then my mind recalling that feeling I had had that day and fixating on it... Today is no different. You know, a few people have been talking about intimacy lately, and I really want to talk about it but I'm just not there yet. I don't have the vocabulary. I wouldn't even know how to approach it. I don't know what is nature and what is problem. I also feel like it's not my place to complain because my situation was not that bad. The topic of SA within families came up, and I had never thought of it. It's probably not terribly uncommon, but probably not normal to grow up with multiple known... offenders... It makes me wonder how that nurtured the next generation of offenders, victims, and lost causes. I'll never know if it is abnormal. I also don't want to dwell or pick at the thought. I wish I could just a little. I have been thinking of starting a private journal where I could dabble in just brief mentions of things, but in a way I am scared of the personal repercussions. I also feel like my feelings are just copies of other people's feelings and maybe I just have nothing to add to these topics. I don't know. Other people seem to be looking for a way to become more intimate, and I'm not. I don't know if I should be. I don't know if I am missing something, if I am broken, or maybe it's fine to just be disconnected. I've been thinking of this since I was was at the doctor some weeks ago, and when she asked about intimacy, and I told her... years... She looked at me concerned and said, "You know we offer help for that too." And I was a bit confused and I shrugged. Since then the thought, "They have help... for what? Do I need help? ..."

 :hug:

I don't want to trigger in any way. Just...for me...well first I think you have tons to add to any conversation you want to be part of and I know the pieces of the stories you shared and they are that bad. Really. But just in terms of wanting to fix it...I would be happy alone never engaging in it. But just me personally and this is very much a trauma response specific to my own circumstances not a judgment in any way shape or form...it's really really important to me to have a happy healthy family and my husband kind of saved me in a lot of ways and the worst part of this week was feeling like I could never make him happy like I tricked him and he deserved and deserves so much better than me. This is all trauma yes for sure. But it drives my behavior and needing to find a way to fix it so he is not sad and unhappy. That's a trauma thing I need to fix things and make sure everyone is happy or someone will die. So I wouldn't say there's anything wrong with you for not wanting to fix it. I just know that I need to, and not for my own enjoyment.

Don't worry, it's not you, or anyone or anything. It's like little seeds, or landminds, and you know. After so much time, or movement, the earth errupts. Something like that.

Ugh, I am in a pit. I've alienating everyone. I haven't contacted anyone still. I have new memories, and I guess a new connection. I realise a cause and effect scenario with my identity issues, which are huge right now. I can't write or read because I am having migraines. I feel a lot of shame for being so careless. I haven't been respectful of other people. I've just been digging my hole. I know that I am the problem. I don't even want to be a part of this. I want help. I just don't want to see anyone.

I am distracting myself my making sketches of costume ideas. There are no events, so it would be for something in maybe six months, but it makes me feel better... The idea of being someone else, and even in that I feel like I have to make style choices, and I don't know how to represent me, and it's a circle. Be someone else, who am I, be someone else, make a choice. ...

Choices.

I'm in the pit too. I'll wave to you, from mine

 :'(  :wave:

Exactly.

Still a migraine, but a memory to share.

This morning I was using cocoa butter and combing through my kids' hair before school. I was doing this because we got a notification last night that a child in their school has head lice. So I was telling my four year old about these bugs and their eggs, and why we will be combing through his hair carefully every morning before school. He had a million questions. He asked me if I ever had bugs living in my hair, and I said, "No, I've never had them but my brother did once." Right when I said that I cringed. I worry one day he will ask me... You have a brother? He didn't.

When I was in my early teens we were sitting at the kitchen table when an aunt came over. My brother was stratching his head, and my mother said something insulting about his intelligence. That's when my aunt said, "He probably has lice!" I was sitting next to my brother when my aunt started picking her long nails through his very short hair. She said, "Look, head lice!" I glanced at her fingernail without moving and sure enough, I saw it. My mother looked and slapped my aunt's hand away calling her a liar and saying that there was nothing there. She screamed at my aunt for insulting her and told her to leave.

I saw it. I saw the bug. I know my brother had head lice. I said nothing. I quietly left the room before things got bad. No one said anything. I had a brother and he had lice.

 :hug:

I'm sorry for the profound neglect you all experienced.  :'(

:grouphug:

Neglect, yes. I don't think of that one often. As a parent, definitely.

This memory holds a lot of the patterns that persist through nearly every memory.

1: Appearances were above all. How we sat. How we carried ourselves.
2: Her appearance, in this case she felt stigmatised, but deflected the stigma. (I am not teaching that to my kids.)
3: Lying, insisting, denying reality until something goes away or until everyone agrees, or is forced into placation.
4: Controlling the narrative by removing the threat.

My aunt held it up, my brother hadn't seen. I didn't dare say anything. We would have been targeted.

This led to another thought. I was recently following this high profile abuse case and watching some legal commentary, and I heard a phrase repeated a lot that I hear often, and I just don't think it's true. So, in this case the mother hid the child, the scapegoat, which she abused to extremes. So many people, rational lawyers, said things like, "Because she hid him, she knew what she was doing was wrong. It's an admittance of guilt!" When I go over my memories and my mother's horrible unfathomable actions, I don't see an admittance of guilt, or even a coverup. Her actions were much more about her own shame than guilt, and those are very very different things. Her responses were actually always quite childish and reactionary, stunted. She didn't think of us at all, so she didn't feel guilt. She didn't look to see if my brother had lice or not. She didn't care. She cared about her image. This was her golden child. If it had been the scapegoat, she could have used him for pity. "Oh, he has such bad hygiene, look what he has done to himself this time, he's so disgusting, what am I supposed to do bathe a teenager?!" I can imagine that. It wasn't him though, and the golden child absolutely did not have lice, but rather just bad table manners.

She never felt guilt. They don't. The mother in question was supported by her church, and everyone else. Why would she feel guilt?

That's an interesting perspective, Bermuda. My mother certainly has a concept of what society would frown upon. Your comment about your mother's reactions being childish and reactionary resonates massively with me. I feel that my mother operating in apparent obedience to most societal expectations comes from a childish place of not wanting to be caught and scolded. When my father had a colonoscopy which diagnosed his bowel cancer she was summoned to the hospital so they could be given the diagnosis together. She said "I thought I was going to be told off about what I give him to eat." This is completely irrational, not only because it just is, but because she does actually take pretty good care about what he gets fed and makes a great show of that.

As for us offspring, I feel she regards us as her toys. Sometimes I might be the favourite toy and at other times I am flung to the back of the toy cupboard. But since we are her toys she is completely within her rights to treats us precisely as she pleases. A child is entitled to decapitate her own dolls. So - yes. Why would she feel guilt?

That is precisely it. With my own children, I never made a choice to go through their hair, to comb it gently and thoroughly. It was something I did because I care, not because I am their mother. My mother did not make a choice either, and it's because we were hers and she was our mother. Sounds the same but is indeed very different. She created us as accessories to tell the story of her life and we had to act the roles she assigned us. She didn't feel guilty, she felt shame when our acting was bad and it looked bad on her.

My mother would often say, "My mother was evil so I never learned how to be a mother!" and things like that, with the intent to get pity from us little kids. ...No one ever taught me to be a mother, but I care enough about other people to express kindness without forethought, and feel guilt when I have hurt them inadvertently, and I don't hurt people intentionally. My aim is not just to shut people up and build my image however I want it to be. It's difficult to imagine what that's like.

A memory that I didn't share when I wrote my story.

When I left the warm back stoop of the laundromat at the beginning of being homeless, I walked. I just kept walking. I didn't want to be seen or found. Before the officer had found me I had actually tried to climb down a small ravine on the side of the road because I saw a clearing in the brambles. I tried to walk down, but I fell. I was happy to see a surrounded clearning that I could set my little cloth down on to sleep, but I looked up and suddenly saw several reflective eyes in the thicket surrounding this odd clearing. I was surrounded by wild pigs. I ran out of that clearing and up that trench, through those thorny bushes so fast. I decided not to sleep.

I love wild pigs but I don't want to sleep in their clearing. I have been thinking about raspberry bushes today, and ... now wild pigs, scuffs, destitution. It all just topples out.

Your story Bermuda...there's so much pain and suffering and wild twists and plots. You know what I hope for you? One day you are in a position to feel safe sharing your story with the people around you. Snippets without context sure they don't make sense. A dinner party: "Do you eat pork?" "Pork? No, I like wild pigs but I wouldn't sleep in their stomping ground. Do you have any raspberries?"

But you deserve to be known and understood. The full story is understandable. It isn't unbelievable in the literal sense. It's like a choose your own adventure book but your character had to choose all the adventures instead of 1 path.

It is, and I realise it. That's another reason why I don't talk about it. Maybe in the right setting this snippit could be comical. It is amazing how fast I can climb when little glowing eyes are eyeing me. I darted out of there. No one has to know, let them assume I was camping. No I don't eat pigs, and I can tell you that I did not have a hunter's instinct either, fortunately. Hah. I used to love choose your own adventure books. I never felt I had any choices. Probably why I told myself stories of a different reality before bed.

These little bits don't feel significant enough to include. In wasn't traumatic. I wasn't chased. It does affect my choices, and I notice openings in brambles for what they are now. It was never a path for me to go down. I am not a pig. They were bewildered by me and were not looking to adopt a stray.

I see you've left the forum, Bermuda. I hope you're OK and I wish you well :hug:

Hi Bermuda,
I hope you are ok.  I also wish you well.   :hug:
Hope  :)