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This turned out a bit long  ; but I can't master sound-bites and would never make it on twitter. I'm also just always insecure about 1)being understood and 2)being judged. In person, I can drive people batty 'cause I don't speed-talk; one reason I enjoyed stage acting—the audience had to hear me out—slow/fast, ponderous/witty. Funny how in that setting they can accept you better, though.  Enough explanation...here's my version of one surprising step I took along this long trail called recovery...

One of the mysteries on my recovery road has been finding a way to bring the earlier version of 'me' forward into the current situation. After several tries at revisiting 'the past', writing letters, that sort of thing, I always got stuck. Venturing near that child's pain, even if only in the mind, brought up so much associated grief that it only created overwhelming depression—no relief for either the inner child or the current self. Those  attempts seemed more like visiting an old neglected prison(er). And after a trip to the past, it was shut the doors and leave him alone in that hostile place. Inner child work, as it's called, still fascinated me, but I was at a loss how to find a way that would mitigate my previous stumbles.

Then one day I hit on this approach—bring the abandoned kid into my present world, not the other way 'round;  this leaves the past—his and mine--behind, out of reach where it belongs. This tale is my mind's view of that story.

To start the journey back, I allow my imagination to undertake a visit to some dimly lit rooms of a spooky fog-shrouded place. Perhaps its musty rooms are really metaphors for memories in need of wholesale cleaning—lots of dust and eeriness in there. On second thought, why clean them? It seems better to just let them rot away, seal the doors, and get out, post-haste. And continue the  task of unlearning what happened there. Alas, it seems like all the energy expended revisiting cycles back to more anxiety, pain, and intense grief. I need to leave this place, not feel obligated to go back there and figure it all out. I just need to get out. But...

...in the process of leaving that place for good, within the gloom I see a crestfallen boy, probably in his mid-teens, but whose exact age would be hard to figure, given the forlorn character I now find beside me. He's wary of me but seems to desperately need a kind and gentle person to trust. I can sense that need, he can't—he appears to have had any faith in humans destroyed. He'd be terrified of even the slightest of hugs or any touch, for now. My adult side has carried that reluctance forward, so I get it. Within his extreme shyness I surmise a strong but battered soul, almost bereft of hope that there are people who are kind, encouraging, enabling, smart. His natural childhood curiosity seems to have barely survived, as he's retreated into a hyper-vigilant distrust of anyone.

I notice he's been absent-mindedly clutching an old photo. Perhaps it explains the dark torment hovering  in his eyes. As he sets the photo down, I ask "Mind if I see?" He shrugs a timid assent; or was it a "who cares"?. Hesitating a moment, I pick it up and see it bears his likeness, shown standing with a group of young teens, and he looks pathethic, almost ghoulish. The others appear 'normal', and slightly amused by his sorry stature.

I've rarely seen such vivid sadness in a person as evidenced by this photo. He stands in precise and stark contrast to those around him. The image reveals a weariness/anxiety that bids to sink any spirit left in him; he doesn't just look lonely, he personifies it...someone ready to cry, but not fully; it already hurts too much.

The photo's glossy feel indicates it may have been ripped  from a high school yearbook. Hmm...did no one notice this lad's desperation, I wonder? Did anyone reach out to a youth showing such obvious distress? Who would even see fit to include such a picture in a volume of supposed treasured memories? It's almost like piling on another level of shame. Seeing how the boy winces at my even viewing the photo, I gather he probably had no help. I lay the picture down again, but he grabs it, rips it, and throws it into an unlit fireplace. That decides it--I cannot leave this bedraggled kid here; I could never forgive myself knowing that I'd left him in such misery.

Reluctant as he is, I sense that he's unsure if I'm worthy of trust, for once. My reluctance matches his—but then I've never seen such intense pain/grief in anyone before, either. And so I ask him if he'd like to go with me. The slowly-built trust level allows for his affirmative, if whisperlike, response...without uttering the actual words, his weary eyes are witness to what he can't put in words: "please...help...please...be gentle...don't betray me...I need you, whoever you are".

To truly help him, I must take him beyond, without drawing attention to us. Dimly moving down a long hall past all those musty rooms, we find what looks to be an unused door; carefully creaking it open, we see a  trail leading out of a fog towards a steep riverbank, with a canoe seemingly ready for departure; a scene beckoning us to a new adventure. It feels like we're time travelers, eventually arriving at a forest clearing where I live, in present time. Home.

The trap would be to retreat; I'd be ensnared by the same gloom of that musty place. So I need to bring him forward too. He still seems wary, if vaguely  hopeful, as I'm probably different from the others—the ones we leave in the dust of his/our sad past; in those dank, dust-choked rooms. He is no longer destined for all the confused agony of that place and its inhabitants. I know this was best, for him and me, to have rescued him from their smirking, brutal hypocrisy. I feel my hand being squeezed tighter, unusual for a teen, but this is no usual guy.

Oh, that this might be real...and not some cruel trick. But even if it's just imagination's fancy, it can at least reorient my adult self to incorporate this child's interrupted promise into the process of recovery. I'm rather friendless as it is these days, and here he is, at my door, as if to say, "I need you, too...thanks, fella". Is that a twinkle in his eye? He's already changing...

And so it goes; I'm not even sure if I still make the distinction of then/now in this 'relationship' with that part we call the inner child. Rather it seems to be about becoming a whole person, no matter how the psyche differentiates the roles we play on the stage of one person's life story.

Yes, I too feel the 'silent BPD' pattern fits my steady 'inner burn', and my tendency to absorb triggers inward and then find myself unable or unwilling to release the tension. So it sits inside, silently burning.

Something that confuses and bothers me somewhat, though, are all these descriptions/prescriptions and that this or that condition is conclusive--do this, that, the other, and all will be fixed. So I'm always a tad cautious when the labels go on as conclusive, and not as pointers to recovery. Because each recovery, I'm discovering, is one's own, and can't be forced via a cookie-cutter one-definition-fits-all approach.

I've been with some t's where that seemed the case--they had me pegged into a certain box or, in one case, tried defining me per their doctoral dissertation's thesis. "I" was sort of a statistic, not a person, a category that just needed placement; and I wasn't confident whether the placement was for her purposes, mine, or (preferably) ours. This last is critical—it's not just 1-way from the therapist; maybe at first, but then the work should be more mutual...just my take, though.

I will be seeing a new t next week, so I'm getting a bit anxious myself or maybe it's just, as Alan Watts once called it, the "wisdom of insecurity".

Beta, this is somewhat familiar; I'm older now but at your age felt totally alone. I wish I'd had the friendship/mom base you mention, but alas such was not the case. But I can relate to the "shame of having emotions" well, even with some you think might understand. The 'getting through' to them about what you truly feel is discouraging, as you've indicated.

In my case, the discouragement caused me to isolate further--part of me needed that as it felt safer that way; but other issues like 'dissociation' snowballed to where the original 'good' sense of escaping my pain resulted in some habits and patterns I didn't recognize were even present.

As an 'older' person, it can even be trickier as the habits settle in, but if you stick with listening to your 'best' friend--YOU--that could be what's most needed; not just now but as a general principle. So by your taking time off to consider a little bit where you're at seems very apropos; interestingly, many don't or can't take that time for themselves; and that can feel worse.

Visiting here fits well into your search to discover what's going on inside that you can't share with friends or mom, for the reasons you indicate. This is like landing in a spot with fellow travelers who know the struggles firsthand. There aren't easy or apparent 'answers' all the time, but it might be easier to relate those feelings you can't get out otherwise. And there doesn't seem to be a 'perfect' way, either; which means risking more discouragement, but we're still here, still trying, however our path unfolds.

You didn't mention if you have a therapist. Perhaps one might  available through college? My experience with t's is mixed, but they did (sometimes) provide one outlet when I had no other--one mistake is in college I got into the solo trek exclusively, and didn't trust any outsider, including t's, as an option for help. I was so discouraged I could trust no one.

So here's hoping you do feel safer here, in whatever way you choose to use these resources--by reading, contributing, or just realizing that yes, you're not alone with this.

The ICr is only a visitor, chirping away whatever comments it's heard from any and all. It functions kind of like a 'devil's advocate' and likes donning the robes of a judge as it thinks you might have needed its presence. Unfortunately, the ICr rarely leaves on its own volition.

Once you know your way, the judge/ICr isn't needed anymore, but hangs around just to be sure. They've been with us forever and a day, it seems, but there comes a time when it's alright for them to find the exit door. Once you calmly assert yourself, the judge knows to back off and retire, reassured that you're now safe and no longer needs a 'devil's advocate'.   

Waterman said: "I believe there is no such thing as overly sensitive." 

This entire post says it so beautifully--something to absorb, to realize that true sensitivity is a strength to be treasured.

Thank you!

1Life68 wrote: "I just don't have any emotions about it [the past]".

That's reminiscent of what happened with me. For years I walked around feeling 'close to tears' but whenever the past stuff came up, I'd get mad, anxious, ashamed; extremely sad but never to the point of releasing tears.

Not until, in therapy first, and later in a group setting,  something happened not directly tied to the past. Let's just say it felt like I was releasing from the present, not the past. It was like the burdens of the present moment triggered this flood of tears. Not any memories as much as the accumulation that hit me at that moment. Maybe it came about more from a twinge of hope than grief that it happened. The grief was just sort of 'dead' whereas the tiniest spark of hope was allowing some peace at last. Sound easy. Isn't.

But it did, and also since then, only in the present sense--thinking about the past it never happens, as all the numbness still overrides.

I guess not trying, giving up expectations of what should/shouldn't be is part of it. Instead of feeling for my pain back then, when I felt the accumulated emotions of NOW is when the tears flowed, perhaps from sheer exhaustion--inherited from that past but coming from the present.

I hope this makes a little sense--it was harder to describe than I thought it would be. For me, it was only when I gave up on ever crying about a past I can't change, and my grief settled into just the current effects of that past that any release via tears happened.

[welcome]

 Hi, GarlicMaster, 

Having never been on a forum of any sort, I had no idea what to expect here, but what I found was people who can relate, for a change, to what this crazy struggle is really like. And who are willing to share what they know and eager to learn from others about this otherwise lonely trek.

So welcome...there's lots here, and a variety of ways to scope it out...besides the daily postings, there's a plethora of topics, observations, and suggested resources dating back well over a year. I've been amazed at the depth--old and new--of info and heartfelt sharing that already exists, and look forward to hearing more from you, should you choose to do so.

I seem to have 2 types of triggers--those that affect me immediately and that I'm conscious of; and those unconscious sorts that I realize later created something I notice about how I'm feeling, even after the immediate trigger--almost like the trigger happened in trance 'cause it was too painful so I ignored the 'first wave'.

In the case of the first, I indeed do as you indicate--retreat and not deal with anything. With the second, it just seems to drag me down until the self-realization of what happened hits.

Sometimes, given how isolated my life has been (even when I had 'social' jobs and at least a couple friends), it seems like my whole life has been one solid trigger and I just vary my responses to it. Kind of like a huge reflexive reaction to a lot of hurt. Not a lot of logic to it, just like so much of this condition. Or is considering it as illogical kind of a gallows humour wish to avoid the sadness?  ...'cause if it were logical it would seem worse.

While I agree with the premise of acceptance as described in the linked article, the last sentence hit my emotions lever with a jolt. Nothing wrong/right, not a specific disagreement; but I'd just like to share a reaction to the words the author concluded with. Let me explain.

Quote from article posted by Dutch Uncle: ..."you must admit your efforts were in vain, your losses permanent, and when you accept the truth it is going to hurt."

I know, I'm quibbling over words, taking them out of context even, but they still triggered an intense reaction on my part. Reading between the lines I can understand  that 'going to hurt' phrase within the article's context. I'm just hyper-sensitive to the strangle-hold those simple words have on my fragile psyche.

Once I might have wholeheartedly nodded at the "it has to hurt" part; not so sure if it belongs in my 'truth' anymore. Maybe this only reflects my gut reaction to how words like that were used to justify those who abused me...e.g. "this hurts us more than it hurts you".

Just an example, I guess, of how pervasive even well-intended words can jolt one's vulnerable emotions. Or how one's inner child still cringes on hearing certain phrases, no matter who utters them and no matter the context.

Again, no judgement call—the article reflects a lot of my thinking; but I was stunned when the 'has to hurt' phrase echoed what still gives me chills. Or hyper-vigilant blues...or...I accept whatever it is. Whew. 

Samantha19 wrote: "I love the comic villian idea."

I'm reminded of a book I first read years ago, still in print, with lots of illustrations depicting its own comic villain--the gremlin. One of my faves from it was a drawing where an on-stage actor is bowing for an appreciative audience, but all the actor sees in the crowd is the grinning, sarcastic, slimy-looking gremlin's disapproval.

That sort of thing, along with a friendly commentary. It's fun to look at for a more lighthearted yet insightful approach to one of our more insidious inner characters (see below).

Your intensely honest journal expresses so well the heartbreak we all feel, or have felt. One way to react is to reflect on how your words touch me deeply, having been on that trail too. But what comes through loud and clear with this latest entry is something you can never get enough of, and fully deserve:

                       

                         

The two sets of abusers in my situation were those in what's called the FOO and the people typically known as teachers in religious schools.

The family figures I usually reference as "the" combined with a solo letter to indicate the role; e.g. the m, f, s, b., but I rarely refer to them as "mine". One therapist wanted me to change this; I think she was fishing for the difference in how or what I called them to see how ingrained it had become or what the difference was if I used the traditional "my" preface. Result: it's ingrained, and I'm more comfortable saying it that way.

With my other set of abusers, the so-called teachers--given their religious roots, I just call them the GAWDawfuls, reflecting their always-angry deity and their abuses in its behalf and with its name attached to their horrors. Even other names--love for instance...their actions associated with that word only taught me that "love hurts"; and its counterpart, "trust kills".

I can have strong reactions to even the most innocuous use of words like family, religion, and love. In certain situations, they can trigger me if I don't get a grip on the automatic tension that arises within. Alas, those aren't mere words to me. The best I can do is remember that it's not always that way for others. Humour helps a lot on occasion--fortunately, I can access it, even if I have to sometimes hide it. Parts of my life are tragic, for sure; but I've sometime been able to see it as a tragicomedy too--and it's helped to weather the hefty emotions that seek to overwhelm.

That's the thing about a lot of cptsd--needing these constant numbing strategies to counter simple things like common words and names.     

"The Sinking Feeling" seems ever with me, always within arms reach of discouraging me, yet again. I pin my hope on my own words "seems ever with me" as that leaves an opening, but every time I reach for it, it recedes again, disappears. It's mental/physical repercussions are huge and all-encompassing, as GettingThere and Yvette have shared.

I call mine "The Ache" and described it here:

http://outofthefog.net/C-PTSD/forum/index.php?topic=2224.0

Therapy is a tricky business, but look who's talking--I've had 9 t's if I've counted right. Some were longer duration, the best one left the region. My severe dissociation and other habitual responses as a 'freeze' type (per Walker's 4f/cptsd typology) makes for a bumpy experience(s) with therapy, and I tended to bail either via spirit/dissociation or right out the door a couple of times.

But I've circled back to where you seem to be--I felt enough confidence in the therapeutic setting to miss it when it's not available. So I too have decided to head back to see a t, thanks to a medical center's expanding its offerings and making a t available through a local med clinic (I live in a fairly remote backwoods/rural area). After some brief vetting about the new t's knowledge, I've decided to jump back in, but like you I'm also ambiguous (and a little fearful) as to what lies ahead with this route.

The counter is I've done even more, albeit not always well focused at times, self-work without a t. At least this one says she isn't 'top-down' but 'partnership-oriented'. Good words, but we shall see (always skeptical). It will take discipline on my part to keep from drifting into my natural dissociation and bail-out pattern, but I'm going ahead as I need the potential boost a new t might help me achieve. Realizing, of course, that the most critical work remains my own, with the t's input.

All of which cycles back to therapy being a tricky business. There's so many levels to a good match--my last one was high on folksy good vibes but low on what he seemed to know--I'm not interested in someone 'acting' the part of a jovial buddy; I want/need competence, as you do. Which is why I fear but also anticipate the process ahead of me.

As you point out, "trauma is such a delicate field, and I don't want to have to educate a therapist into it." I hear you, but I too am at a point where I'll hazard the waters with this new t and ride with what happens.

'Educating' the t a little might even be useful, as it reinforces what you know on your own and might (big IF) click with what the t does know. Those of us with our own experience have insights a t doesn't necessarily have. In therapy we can meet and maybe serve both parties. So it also depends on how flexible the t is, to the point of acknowledging that you come with a depth of knowledge and experience, too.

So, to your question: "Does the therapist have to have a background from trauma/PTSD/C-PTSD to be effective as a therapist when you have C-PTSD?" It would be preferable if they did, but it's also a fine line as to whether they have enough other expertise/smarts in their toolbox to provide you with sufficient grounding to ignite the spark you need.

May your next steps on this path bring you the good you are seeking. 

 

GettingThere wrote: "Have other survivors with female abusers not been taken seriously?"

Sadly, yes  .  Abuse--especially sexual/physical--is taken by many as almost a given if the perpetrator is male; the heads start nodding. It's another story when an abuser is 1)female and 2)one's mother. Well, I definitely had male abusers later, but my very first memory involved the m, and it got worse from there...finally when I was 9 the f somehow figured out what she was up to and it stopped after that. His own form of abused mostly took the form of neglect and/or belittlement; I was emotionally abandoned by him too. Even after he seems to have stopped the m from continuing her actions, he turned around and made it sound like it had all been my fault. 

But mine wasn't a tale of abuse just from the m; not by a long shot--I was also molested by female teachers in k, and grades 3 & 4; there the perpetrators were well protected in their 'sainted' role as teachers in religious schools. Oh, and I haven't mentioned my older sister in this...I won't; even what I've reiterated is enough pain for this moment. Only a couple of therapists have ever heard the full skinny (or most of it).

In certain circumstances, I have blurted things in this regard, but can sense the disbelief factor kick in from the listener(s), and I generally just stop when I know it's futile. No one wants to believe these women were that bad; or worse, that perhaps I was at fault (shades of what the f said). Or that surely I must have imagined it all. Followed of course by the classic "oh, just get over it!" This kind of thing makes me so mad I can hardly stand it , and of course I have to bite my tongue and keep it all in, to be nice and civil, all that rot.