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To Past Self,

I think I understand you a little bit better now. At times, if I squeeze my eyes tight enough and take a slow exhale I can still recall the pressure building inside with no release. That faint, dizzy expression of confusion and slow-building panic. As if my body was a house, and that house was slowly catching on fire. The bones of the structure bending but unable to break (no matter how desperately you wanted them to), the insides filling with smog and dark matter. One steady breath, and it can take me back there.

Most of the time, I don't care to remember. I like moving forward. I like running. I like making goals. I like meeting those goals and making more goals. I like looking forward to mornings with my coffee and taking the dog for a walk (when he's willing). I like my job. I like my friends.  I like my family (now THAT took a LONG time to say!). I like the space I am in. If I look back on the growth, physical - mental - spiritual, I can grow uncomfortable with the memory of how crazy I felt in my own skin. How the traumas of the past were invisible scars etched into the fabric of my organs and bones. The shame of not liking who I saw in the mirror. The confusion of my image reflecting back not meeting the mental picture in my head. Like I was body snatched into an overweight and depressed meat suit. Who I wanted to be and who I believed I could be - did not match reality.

We were defragmented pieces. These pieces were beautiful, but they were sharp and jagged and required slow work to be placed back together. Patience is not a virtue of mine. I wanted to put the pieces back in a matter of days but managed to grow frustrated with the work at every attempt. It took months to put those pieces back together. I am still putting those pieces back together, but the sides have dulled and I've learned to be kinder to myself and the process it takes when you realize with a house on fire, you have to slowly extinguish the flames in order to re-build.

And this time, for the love of all, re-build into an image you can smile at in the mirror.

Love,

Me.

I've worked really hard in the last 7 years to create a home and a place to live that I am proud of. Making a safe space isn't always easy, especially when building out of nothing. I've become very protective and proud of the place I live in - the work it took to afford many deposits, upgrading furniture and decorations over the years. It didn't happen overnight and it wasn't easy. I always had the lease under my name until recently my landlord wanted my roommate (who's been living here about a year) to also be on the lease.

As soon as she signed the lease for a year things turned south. We're battling over the thermostat since she can't afford the electric bill so she wants it set at 80 degrees during the day (uhh it's florida girl??). We've gotten into tiffs about bills, about feeling it's rude of me to text her in the middle of the day when she is working with an update, to refusing to communicate, refusing to problem solve and compromise. It got so toxic so quickly I informed her this was the last year we would live together and when the lease is up we can go our separate ways. To which she told me "That's fine, you can move out. I'm comfortable here."

Re-living the conversation has me shaking. I've lived here three years longer than she has, with just my name on the lease. I've paid over $2,000 in deposits from the house to pet fee, and deposits on utilities. ALL of the furntiure and decorations are mine. I made this place my home for several years before I talked with her over a roommate app and decided to live with her (a horrible choice). I now feel like I have this poison living in my home I can't get rid of. I know it defies all logic that at the end of our lease the landlord would pick her over me (the rent has been reliably coming out of my account for the past 4 years and all the fees and communication are done by me). I have done so much hardwork on my ED, Anxiety and Depression and I refuse to let her set me back but I am so anxious over how the next ten months are going to play out.

Maybe it's her age and maturity, I just can't believe with how long I have lived here, she would have the pure audacity to tell me to move out because she's comfortable. This is my HOME. and I know for anyone who's had to fight for a place they feel safe, HOME is something they will defend.

To my bestfriend:

I fought so hard to keep you in my life. After college, when we were at our closest and all the possibilities in the world open to us, I excitedly made the leap to move 1400 miles away from my family and past life. We were everything to each other, sharing stories and secrets that nobody could understand except for us. We laughed until we cried every night for 6 years. We got each other through college. You were the very best part of my life for several years, and I seemed to be yours. I asked how you'd feel about moving to the same state, of basking in the same warm light more often like when I visited during spring breaks. You were as excited as I was ( i think ), we would be closer than ever ( or so i thought ). The first year moving near you was the hardest. Admittedly, I had more expectations that we would see each other more often, play tourist and continue to co-write our books as we had done for the last 6 years. Every time you drew away, I tugged harder. And as soon as I feared the tether between us would snap from the pressure I applied and loosened my grip, you would suddenly tug back as if lost without the weight and burden of my desperate grasp. In my darkest time, reaching out to ask you why we were seemed to be falling apart, you texted back "sometimes people change" and I wondered had we really changed that much? Did you not miss me? Did you not need me? Was I a burden? Had I reached out too much? Was it annoying? Was I annoying?!

The next year was hazy, I think depression funks have a way of clotting out all your thoughts and memories. We drifted apart and I ungraciously pulled and clawed and bargained away every iota of self esteem and self worth to keep you interested. I abandoned everything I needed if it meant you would stay my best friend. I stopped applying pressure but would quickly respond at the slightest tug of the rope from you. No demands. No expectations. No weight. You were free to be my friend or leave and I told myself that was 'true' adulthood - you let things go and if they're meant to be, they come back. And you ALWAYS came back. It could be weeks or months, but always, a text would crop up "sorry! i know i am a horrible best friend! love you! we should write together soon!" and my hope would leap, and my heart would grow and for another 6 months I would convince myself that you needed more time, but we were destined. I convinced myself to be the friend I would want to have - who fought each and every last disappointment, who always came through, ready to go that extra mile. I did my best to be the friend I thought you wanted, to mirror the friend I thought I deserved. I want you to know that. At every obvious sign that I needed to let go....I held on tighter to be whoever I thought you needed. Anything for your approval and attention. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes you would come back and re-ignite the spark of hope that what we had wasn't dead but just needed a few sparks of a resurrection. It was just enough to keep me around, to feel like cutting you out of my life was akin to slicing off a limb. I couldn't stand the thought of cutting you out - it created instant panic. I always steered away, told myself I just had to be stronger for you. I just needed to hold out, just a little longer. You would come back, because again, you always did...

And then, through all the ups and downs and waiting on texts from you or giving space or pushing forward and checking in to see if you were still breathing...something unexpected happened.

I got better. Like, really better. I got stronger and healthier. My mind became clearer. My heart stopped wheezing with every pulse. I kicked old habits to the curb. I hung up my depression and anxiety. I kissed my body dysmorphia and bulimia to the wind. I slept real sleep, for the first time in years. It didn't happen over night. It didn't happen in a week, or a month, or even a few months. I put in hard, glorious work that slowly paid off over time. I made changes of what I accepted into my life, and what I did not. I hope you understand, I wanted the dream we used to giggle and talk about to come true. I wanted that life of growing old and causing mayhem in nursing homes and still writing our same stories and characters together. But you were causing me so much pain. Our friendship made me feel crazy. One minute you're telling me how much you love me, and the next you can't answer a simple text for four months? You'll text me that you're at the same amusement park as me and ask what I am doing...but won't respond when I ask if you want to grab a drink? You cancelled every last plan we had in the last two years. You started writing again...but it wasn't with me. I had always believed you in the past, when you told me you loved me.

But once I learned to love myself, I realized this wasn't the love that was meant for me.

- Your CI Twin 

(( TW is brief, I don't have a lot of detail so this obviously won't go into detail )).

I've never had any memories of being molested - but I've had a slew of symptoms that are all very text-book appropriate for someone with childhood sexual abuse. I've been so hung up on the emotional abandonment abuse and the fear from the shouting and some minor physical abuse that I contributed my in-tolerance to random touch, avoidance of relationships and trust and general anxiety when becoming close to men physically (I always cut it off when it starts to get to a place where I know physically touching each other makes sense). I just never even questioned having amnesia from childhood sexual abuse, which I know is extremely common if you did experience it.

((IF anything is TW it be this next paragraph!!)




I've been doing a lot of healing work and working on body/sensory type stuff with my therapist. I was in yoga and just finishing up the last part of the meditation. The instructor sometimes goes around and puts a blanket on us if we have it out with a permission stone and will lightly touch our feet - this touch (along with 'expected touches' like pedicures, and getting your hair done I tend to like because as a human I do crave physical connection but this is very, very safe in terms of knowing exactly what to expect and when to expect it). Anyways, during the meditation portion, the blanket was on, I was sinking into the trance and I swear I felt a hand on my foot. My entire body leapt into fight/flight/freeze. I felt sheer panic that as it melted away in a few seconds, could very visibly see my biological father's face and my childhood bedroom. I haven't seen my biological father in over fifteen years. I can barely recall what he looks like, but it was really clear in the image. I always have memories from a third person POV, so seeing it from an outsider perspective doesn't surprise me. Later I processed just saying the words of what I saw out loud. The first time I did it was intense emotion waving over me, I had to pause and take a breath. I repeated it a few more times with kindness to myself and seemed to shift into a better head space.

I'd hate to be giving myself false memories. I'm frustrated that I can't trust what's real and what's not real. I want to remember so I can heal and move on. I've spent twenty eight years of my life being miserable over my childhood, repressing and dissociating.

I'm having great difficulty in determining with the kind of friend I seem to attract, where I am maybe being unrealistic in my expectations due to past childhood abandonment and over sensitivity vs. acknowledging and validating that the person is being a jerk and should be held accountable. I'm one of those 'always there for you' reliable sort of people. You need a ride? If I can do it, i'll be there. Having a bad day? I've got a good ear. Send me a text? I'm gonna respond. Call me and leave a message? I'll call you back when I'm able. Birthday? I got you.

I've got two very, very close friends. I've shared my history of my biological father after 13 years of being present and raising us deciding to peace out and cater to his depression. I've shared my depression and anxiety with them, over the course of years i've always considered them to be my 'exceptions'. I'll cut people out of my life and INFJ door slam when necessary, but they've always been my exception to the rule - because cutting them out of my life would be like cutting a piece of me out, and I don't want that pain. But for over the past year they've really let me down. One of the girl's has been my best friend for well over a decade. We used to talk every single day. And of course people grow and relationships change, but she'll go 2-3 months not talking to me, not getting back to my texts, only to pop up and go 'hey sorry! miss you! love you! just in a bad headspace and taking a break from social media!" Uhm. Yo. I was worried. I was plotting my travels to your house to knock down the door and make sure you're alive?!?! What the heck man.

My other friend who's always been an exception is also very, very close to me. I supported and was there for her in breaking up, kicking out and divorcing her abusive ex. When she called me nervous that he was coming to get the last of his stuff, at the drop of a hat I drove out there, sat with her through it all so she didn't have to worry about him doing something regretful and foolish. I saw her through the months coming out of the bad relationship, and saw her through the months of starting to date again. She found a great guy and i'm really, very excited for her. Except I don't really exist anymore. The minute he proposed, our wine nights stopped, answering my calls stopped, the only way I get to see her now is if I swing by her department at work (since we work at the same company). Literally, if I didn't occasionally go to check on my client's and run into her, I would  never see her, she's incapable of planning an evening away from her new fiance. She's blown off every plan we've made and turned down every invite i've given her because of this new relationship.

I want to honor and validate how I am feeling, but it's nagging at the back of my mind when other people have told me my expectations on other's is simply too high. Which breaks me to the core, because I genuinely feel my expectations are to be kind and compassionate to one another, to attempt best as possible to do no harm and be supportive. It kills me to think my expectations to return text messages and phone calls (I'm talking like...once or twice every few weeks here). If I am to lower my expectations as I've had people suggest...then what am I okay with allowing? Because the behavior above makes me feel like crap, and being told that I should accept and expect this behavior makes me feel like double crap.

Due to my CPTSD, I think part of me has always felt if I give 100% of everything I possibly can, and give no reason to be abandoned then I can avoid being left behind. When my father abandoned me, there was no warning and the only rational being his personal mental health. Logically, I know that, but it feels like being on a human-size hamster wheel trying to accept that I cannot change the behavior of other people (my career choice of a behavior analyst suddenly makes so much Freudian Sense!) but ultimately, will have to carry the price and the pain of it. I think that's why knowing when and how to set boundaries has always been so tough. I either have a brick wall, or it's a free pass everywhere so I can feel there's less of a chance of being neglected again. And it's not the easiest conversation to say "Hey when you act like a jerk, it trigger's my C-PTSD left to me by my absent father so tread carefully.

I'm done playing games. The ones I play, trying to make things better but only succeeding in setting myself up for failure.

I am done playing the game where I count how many days pass by until family decide to call me. Reinforcing that I could be dead for a month and they'd never know. That's not a game I'm going to play anymore. I don't win. They don't win.

I am done playing the game where I give and give and give, because I think if I can lodge a certain amount of favors and debt owed, a person can't leave. I am done where I surrender EVERYTHING, my values, my self-esteem, my individual needs, all for them in some desperate ploy that I won't be triggered through repeat abandonment. I don't win at this game. I don't want to play it anymore.

I am done playing the game where I feed my loneliness through food. I pamper and coddle my food-addiction, because in the moment it feel's better that the depression, the anxiety, the quietness. This game will kill me if I don't get out now. Maybe not now, maybe not in twenty years, but eventually it will catch up to me.

I am done with the game of doomsday. Where I build every situation up in my head, think of worst terms possible and decide I can survive that and hope it won't end up being worst of the worst. I am done living in terms of what I 'chose' to think I can survive and what I can't. I will let the universe be and find a way to flow, to be flexible - to bend.

I'm done with the game of feeling sad and romanticizing the thought of people around me dying. Because then it's over. The relief that comes with the games being over, with finally having a reason to be sad over something tragic and human, something tangible for other's to see. I am not interested in this game. I will due to other's what is due to them. I will own the feelings. I will no longer protect them from the damage they have done. I will knock down my walls to build a more flexible barrier - that allows for more options than a simple 'all in' or 'all out' function that no relationship can survive through. I am very much done with this game. It only hurts me.

I am through with these games. I am through with them because they create fronts and distractions so I don't feel the real emotions attached that I need to feel, so I don't gather the confidence to confront and have conversations that need to be said. I have always glorified the ability to door slam, that I believe many of us adapt to and build through the manifestation of our post-traumatic stress disorders. While door slams hold a purpose, and each must decide the right path for themselves, I am old enough and capable enough to have the hard discussions, to stand my ground and at least communicate my needs and see if the other person is receptive and respectful that I deserve these needs to be met, and to decide the outcome from there. I am tired of 'all' or 'nothing'. I can't survive it. I'm not sure anyone can.

My journey of healing starts with ending these games, with no longer condoning these self-destructive behaviors, this self-sacrifice in relationships that in essence, is selflessly tied to manipulating people to stay. I'm embracing the fear, so I can find the courage to move forward - towards tomorrow. I hope it's brighter. I chose to believe it will be.

I play this game.

I don't know I play it. There's no winners.

I like to wait out my mother, see how long it takes her to wonder how I am doing. Sometimes it's a handful of days, a passing of a few weeks, as long as two months once. I could call her. That would make the most sense. I'm the one who's noticing her absence, who want's to talk. I should make the call. But I don't. I'd rather keep a track of days, almost in survival mode (Look! YOU only called me twice in the past three months! I didn't need you!).

To clarify - I don't like this game. I hate this game. It's worse than being dragged into a three hour Monopoly game with your brother who cheats because he called being the bank.

The last therapy session I had, my therapist suggested I work out a day with my mother once a week, where we'd agree to call each other. I was horrified by the idea. Every inch of me rebelled and instant protection and defiance wrapped around me "No. I don't think so." and placed up my roadblock.

It's really tough, against all my instinct. I try not to play this game anymore. With every painful memory of emotional neglect and disappointment, I shuffle through the deck in my head, try to pull out a sweet one, something to leave me with a gentle reminder that nothing was done intentionally. I wish that made it better. I wish knowing good intentions or at least neutral intentions took away the exhausting years of developing am ambient attachment.

I was doing really well for a few weeks. I read Journey through Trauma and I built up my basecamp. I worked the change triangle out of It's Not Always Depression and I really felt prepared for the annual visit when my FOO visited - just the girls, a fun 'girl's weekend'. Seven days here, and I was unmade. My security fell apart. By the time they left, it felt like I had been unwillingly dragged back into the trenches. This endless loop of re-trigger after re-trigger is maddening and exhausting.

I started playing the game again, and I don't know how to quit. All I do know, is that I lose.

I feel as if I've fallen down the rabbit hole again.

Back in 2015 I was so distressingly depressed and anxious that I gave myself an impossible task to complete without feeling better. I told myself I had to train and complete a marathon. After, if I was still numb and feeling worthless and isolated, I could look at alternative options. So I started to train, and something quite miraculous occurred. I shifted. I did yoga. I worked out. I lost weight from a HEALTHY stand point, not the yoyo diets my mother had placed me on since I was 14 because she was so panicked about us gaining weight (didn't matter, I just learned to binge eat when she wasn't around - a learned behavior as an adult I have great shame and difficulty with now). For the first time, in 25 years, I loved myself. I loved all my imperfections. I loved my reflection. I loved my thoughts. I was blooming, it was spectacular. I dated, for the first time in 25 years, I dated.

And then a week before I was about to run my marathon, I was a scapegoat at my job for an incident that I was indirectly involved in and lost my job. I ran my marathon, got sick with a really bad case of pneumonia, and over the course of a year, stopped running, stopped working out, started binge eating again, gained back 40 pounds and all of the symptoms of C-PTSD that I had managed to shed. It it wasn't for those 6 months of being in a sense of recovery, I would have believed my state of anxiety, chronic isolation and distrust and feeling of self-worth were normal, that that was my normal.

I am struggling with finding my way back to recovery. My self-worth is very much tied to my self-image. I have a loathing of my body. I do believe I am good looking, just don't feel it on the inside. I tend to skip over my better attributes and zone in on the features that make me recoil. I've failed to lose weight because I struggle with being consistent on a diet and exercise regime that is healthy without tipping over on too much. I've started to run again, but can't seem to out run my anxiety like I used to. All my old tricks that worked for the first round seem to be ineffective, as if the illness has adapted and manifested into something stronger.

Frankly, I'm at a loss on what to do, except to keep trying.

I've always had great difficulty sharing my life with others. It's why I've pushed myself to come here. To tell someone.

For years I considered my childhood to be standard, even above average as my mother and step-father spent most of my high school and college years lavishing gifts, expensive trips and money on me. It only occurred to me after college, after I moved 1400 miles across the state, because I had this indescribable need to get away, to run but with no concept of what I was running from, that my childhood was not typical - not acceptable. At 27 I am coming to terms that my father was emotionally abusive and neglectful, that he was verbally abusive, and the signs of violence I saw - although never specifically aimed at me - shaped the way I viewed the world as a threat. That my loving mother had a price tag to her love - with narcissistic tendencies that leave me avoidant and constantly re-triggered by her.

I can't trust. I can't connect. It seems to have been drilled out of me and everything I have is spent up. I have nothing possibly left. You would never guess that my inner world feels empty and lacking. I have a wonderful job. I have clients who absolutely adore me, co-workers who admire me, a management team who supports me. I have a year left of my Masters in Clinical Psychology with my company pushing to pay for me to get a second masters in Applied Behavioral Science. I practically own half a Sephora store and spend an hour in the morning before leaving the house, because I use make up like camouflage in gorilla warfare.

I am trying to grasp and figure out what it means to carry a traumatized heart while still feeding and helping it grow. I've seen a therapist twice and am nearly in a frenzy waiting for her to give me the diagnosis of C-PTSD. It's the only disease I've found that I feel explains why my head feels broken all the time. I've never received validation from my FOO for what i've experienced watching my father walk out on us with no warning, knowing I was 13 and still had his birthday present wrapped in my room, that sat undisturbed on a shelf for three months until my mother removed it. I've never been able to figure out why I wasn't worth staying, and how to carry the knowledge that while my biological father hasn't asked about us in over a decade, he continues to work in the same building as my mother.

I've been holding all these scars and bruises on the inside of my organs and bones - and I just want someone else for once, to see them. To know I'm not going crazy, that these demons are real and need to be conquered and that I don't have to do it alone.