I've pretty much given up hope that anybody will ever "get" what I'm going through, because my situation and experience have been pretty unique, but I figured I'd give it a shot.
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A lot:
I have a severely mentally disabled sibling. He's entirely nonverbal and unable to communicate or be communicated with in any meaningful way. He's also obsessive-compulsive and routine-oriented, and prone to violent outbursts when routine is broken. He cannot be reasoned with, because he cannot be communicated with. Typically he directs his violence at my mother, father, me or himself. My parents, who both understandably have CPTSD themselves from the situation, get upset if I try to intervene because they fear the state will misinterpret this as abuse, declare them unfit as guardians and put my brother in a facility that will mistreat him (we live in a state where assistance is abysmal and mistreatment and abuse isn't unlikely). My parents have accepted the eventuality that my brother is going to beat my mother to death someday. It has been this way most of my life.
Due to the demanding nature of the situation and the need for adherence to routine, from the age of about ten my needs took a backseat to my brother's, and my role in the household effectively became to stay out of the way and not cause problems. My wants and needs were largely met with exasperation, which trained me to neglect them or take care of them myself, and never ask for help. The best thing I could do in those circumstances was nothing, and I basically spent a decade living like Anne Frank. I developed a debilitating fear of making mistakes, as minor and arbitrary mistakes often lead to violence. It was more important to pretend things were okay than to actually make them okay, so I developed a habit of lying to avoid conflict. I developed hypervigilance to anticipate conflict, and turned to alcohol just to be able to relax and disengage. I escaped into video games and fiction. I was not allowed to tell anyone how bad the situation was, because my parents feared CPS would take my brother away.
When I was fifteen, an authority figure at school showed concern for my well-being, but either through incompetence or adherence to protocol, when I admitted passive suicidality she had me involuntarily committed to a psych ward over Christmas. The psych ward was a joke, over the course of two weeks I spoke to a single mental health professional for fifteen minutes who was a pharmacologist only interested in prescribing me an SSRI and maximizing throughput, and I was effectively advised to pretend to get better. This experience absolutely demolished my ability to trust or accept help, especially from authority figures and mental health professionals.
Following this and other experiences of failed intimacy, I essentially gave up on anybody ever understanding. I sectioned off the parts of myself that were vulnerable and built walls around them, and constructed someone charming and funny and interesting to present to people instead. I turned to romantic love and sex, and more broadly approval and admiration, to replace the love I didn't get. Eventually I started actually taking the SSRIs and they gave me the push to fake my way through education and employment, albeit with nearly debilitating anxiety to the point of health problems. I moved out in my early twenties, and although it took years of living on my own, I was able to unlearn some of the behaviors from my childhood: I stopped lying, developed a strong moral compass, and distanced myself from escapism, although the debilitating fear of making mistakes remained, as did the hypervigilance, and with it the drinking -- though I didn't recognize any of this as PTSD or even abnormal at the time. I was able to maintain a healthy relationship, and felt loved and able to love and be somewhat vulnerable for the first time, though still not fully.
Then in my mid-to-late twenties, still not aware or willing to admit that I was traumatized, I made the mistake of believing I was stable or strong enough to reenter the circumstances that traumatized me. My brother's health declined, as did both my parents, and I began taking care of him in their home -- my childhood home -- part time, getting paid by the state to do so. Without being aware of it, I slipped back into all the behaviors I had unlearned. Any walls I had torn down were built back up, I regressed into pretending to be okay and avoidance and escapism and self-neglect, and eventually full-blown alcoholism and infidelity. I destroyed my relationship and lost everything.
I have since undergone a period of serious self-reflection. I quit taking care of my brother, quit drinking, and started attending counseling. For about six months I lived in my car, self-isolating and treating my mental health like a full-time job. I looked into a number of different hypotheses before eventually coming to terms with the fact that I have CPTSD.
Unfortunately, now that I'm equipped and motivated to address it, I have nowhere to stay except with my family of origin. Living in my car is no longer viable, and I don't view any of my former friends or family as any less detrimental to my mental health for a number of reasons. I haven't been able to hold a job for more than a few months without falling apart because I'm in limbo between tearing down the walls I built up to fake my way through adult life and actually healing enough to integrate meaningfully into society.
=====
I'm currently nine chapters into CPTSD: From Surviving to Thriving by Pete Walker, and it's been helpful in a lot of ways. Much of it aligns with conclusions I arrived at independently, and many of the prescriptive elements match up with things I've already been doing that have proved helpful (running, meditation, breath work, progressive relaxation). Still, much of it refers to situations that are incompatible with mine, specifically in that:
- my situation is ongoing, and
- there's nobody to blame.
I really believe my parents did their best. Our lives just suck anyway.
I'm not really sure what I'm looking for here. I guess understanding. One of the benefits I've experienced in drug and alcohol recovery groups is the company of people who understand a struggle most don't. It feels like I've spent my whole life working on something most people never have to, with nothing to show for it; like I'm running miles just to get to the starting line. And even if I get there -- if I manage to separate myself from the situation and recover -- it's incredibly difficult to care about personal pursuits when the people I care about the most, and the only people who understand what I had to go through, are miserable, and probably always will be, and there's nothing I can do about it. It's incredibly difficult to be pro-social towards a society that frankly hasn't done me any favors, and concerns itself with frivolities farther up the hierarchy of needs than I've probably ever been.
Anyway thanks to anybody who read all this, believe it or not it's the short version.
=====
A lot:
I have a severely mentally disabled sibling. He's entirely nonverbal and unable to communicate or be communicated with in any meaningful way. He's also obsessive-compulsive and routine-oriented, and prone to violent outbursts when routine is broken. He cannot be reasoned with, because he cannot be communicated with. Typically he directs his violence at my mother, father, me or himself. My parents, who both understandably have CPTSD themselves from the situation, get upset if I try to intervene because they fear the state will misinterpret this as abuse, declare them unfit as guardians and put my brother in a facility that will mistreat him (we live in a state where assistance is abysmal and mistreatment and abuse isn't unlikely). My parents have accepted the eventuality that my brother is going to beat my mother to death someday. It has been this way most of my life.
Due to the demanding nature of the situation and the need for adherence to routine, from the age of about ten my needs took a backseat to my brother's, and my role in the household effectively became to stay out of the way and not cause problems. My wants and needs were largely met with exasperation, which trained me to neglect them or take care of them myself, and never ask for help. The best thing I could do in those circumstances was nothing, and I basically spent a decade living like Anne Frank. I developed a debilitating fear of making mistakes, as minor and arbitrary mistakes often lead to violence. It was more important to pretend things were okay than to actually make them okay, so I developed a habit of lying to avoid conflict. I developed hypervigilance to anticipate conflict, and turned to alcohol just to be able to relax and disengage. I escaped into video games and fiction. I was not allowed to tell anyone how bad the situation was, because my parents feared CPS would take my brother away.
When I was fifteen, an authority figure at school showed concern for my well-being, but either through incompetence or adherence to protocol, when I admitted passive suicidality she had me involuntarily committed to a psych ward over Christmas. The psych ward was a joke, over the course of two weeks I spoke to a single mental health professional for fifteen minutes who was a pharmacologist only interested in prescribing me an SSRI and maximizing throughput, and I was effectively advised to pretend to get better. This experience absolutely demolished my ability to trust or accept help, especially from authority figures and mental health professionals.
Following this and other experiences of failed intimacy, I essentially gave up on anybody ever understanding. I sectioned off the parts of myself that were vulnerable and built walls around them, and constructed someone charming and funny and interesting to present to people instead. I turned to romantic love and sex, and more broadly approval and admiration, to replace the love I didn't get. Eventually I started actually taking the SSRIs and they gave me the push to fake my way through education and employment, albeit with nearly debilitating anxiety to the point of health problems. I moved out in my early twenties, and although it took years of living on my own, I was able to unlearn some of the behaviors from my childhood: I stopped lying, developed a strong moral compass, and distanced myself from escapism, although the debilitating fear of making mistakes remained, as did the hypervigilance, and with it the drinking -- though I didn't recognize any of this as PTSD or even abnormal at the time. I was able to maintain a healthy relationship, and felt loved and able to love and be somewhat vulnerable for the first time, though still not fully.
Then in my mid-to-late twenties, still not aware or willing to admit that I was traumatized, I made the mistake of believing I was stable or strong enough to reenter the circumstances that traumatized me. My brother's health declined, as did both my parents, and I began taking care of him in their home -- my childhood home -- part time, getting paid by the state to do so. Without being aware of it, I slipped back into all the behaviors I had unlearned. Any walls I had torn down were built back up, I regressed into pretending to be okay and avoidance and escapism and self-neglect, and eventually full-blown alcoholism and infidelity. I destroyed my relationship and lost everything.
I have since undergone a period of serious self-reflection. I quit taking care of my brother, quit drinking, and started attending counseling. For about six months I lived in my car, self-isolating and treating my mental health like a full-time job. I looked into a number of different hypotheses before eventually coming to terms with the fact that I have CPTSD.
Unfortunately, now that I'm equipped and motivated to address it, I have nowhere to stay except with my family of origin. Living in my car is no longer viable, and I don't view any of my former friends or family as any less detrimental to my mental health for a number of reasons. I haven't been able to hold a job for more than a few months without falling apart because I'm in limbo between tearing down the walls I built up to fake my way through adult life and actually healing enough to integrate meaningfully into society.
=====
I'm currently nine chapters into CPTSD: From Surviving to Thriving by Pete Walker, and it's been helpful in a lot of ways. Much of it aligns with conclusions I arrived at independently, and many of the prescriptive elements match up with things I've already been doing that have proved helpful (running, meditation, breath work, progressive relaxation). Still, much of it refers to situations that are incompatible with mine, specifically in that:
- my situation is ongoing, and
- there's nobody to blame.
I really believe my parents did their best. Our lives just suck anyway.
I'm not really sure what I'm looking for here. I guess understanding. One of the benefits I've experienced in drug and alcohol recovery groups is the company of people who understand a struggle most don't. It feels like I've spent my whole life working on something most people never have to, with nothing to show for it; like I'm running miles just to get to the starting line. And even if I get there -- if I manage to separate myself from the situation and recover -- it's incredibly difficult to care about personal pursuits when the people I care about the most, and the only people who understand what I had to go through, are miserable, and probably always will be, and there's nothing I can do about it. It's incredibly difficult to be pro-social towards a society that frankly hasn't done me any favors, and concerns itself with frivolities farther up the hierarchy of needs than I've probably ever been.
Anyway thanks to anybody who read all this, believe it or not it's the short version.