Proceeding With Caution: A Journal

[Just Hatched]

I was going to start from the start, with my first memory, but have found myself triggered by a current situation so perhaps I will start with that instead.

Angry: annoyed, bitter, enraged, exasperated, furious, heated, and indignant. Add to that ignored, disregarded, and feeling small and too helpless to do anything to improve the situation, to get what I ordered and paid for. Yep, I ordered something over a week ago, paid for it and my order still hasn't been processed. When I checked the status of my order, expecting is was about to be delivered any day now, pure fury erupted in my body at the realization that it hadn't even been shipped.

Obviously an over reaction, very unpleasant, not something I want to be experiencing, but there it is, a remnant from my childhood when I was often disregarded, ignored, and silenced when I tried to get my wants or needs met.

Anger was a capital crime in my family, unless you were M, and D wasn't home. M frequently erupted into rages, especially during the early years of my life. She became angry at anything she considered to be disobedience, even if it was a natural expression of justified emotion. But she didn't always explode into a rage, sometimes she just ignored me, other times she would burst into song, singing at the top of her voice to drown me out. Often I would end up crying in frustration, my last ditch attempt to get some help for whatever I was struggling with, which would get me sent to my room, until I 'learned how to behave properly'.

The thing is, there was no one there to teach me how to behave properly, all I had was her, who really didn't teach me anything but how not to behave, how people really couldn't be trusted and how the world wasn't safe. That's what I learned. I also learned that the only person I could turn to for help was myself, and I wasn't to be trusted either.

It doesn't feel safe to be angry, that's the worst offense, bringing with it shame and the threat of all kinds of horrors. So allowing myself to feel angry now, is both frightening and relieving. I'm still not comfortable with this strange experience, and I don't feel confident with how to express it appropriately, but I'm learning.

I located the message/contact section of the website I ordered from and started the process of finding out why my product hadn't yet been sent. I was angry while I was typing, but restrained myself somewhat, trying to give them the benefit of the doubt, trying to be both polite and professional, but feeling a torrent of suppressed anger bubbling up from my past wasn't helping me to behave in a rational manner.

After my message had been sent, I was overwhelmed with feelings of helplessness, imagining I would be ignored, or gaslighted or that I would receive a hostile response, denying any accountability. My mind was replaying an old script, which I recognized. It was painful, I was re-living my emotionally abusive childhood in the present moment, trying desperately to stay afloat, not wanting to drown again.

As bad as my mother was, I don't believe she was the primary cause of damage as I was growing up. She neglected a huge part of her responsibility as a parent, and had anger issues, which leaked out onto me, but I do believe that she cared about me, in her own limited way, she tried to love me, in the only way she knew how. She also made occasional, weak attempts to protect me from my father and his pathological need for total control. It's taken me a while to come to this conclusion, but I now believe he's a narcissist, undiagnosed of course... and M is his co-dependent enabler. My role in the family evolved over time, but I think I roughly fall into the category of scapegoat. My sister came along when I was 5 and she became the golden child, somewhat, but not always. Sibling rivalry soon started to flourish, it was inevitable really, when parents use whatever means are easiest, to manipulate and control children, playing them off against each other,  using unhealthy competition and shame to effect behavior without having to enter into direct conflict. Conflict was bad, especially the emotional kind, especially if D was home. The rules changed when when D was at work. M had several personalities, depending on who was around, it was very confusing to me back then, and my personality developed based on that confusion and instability, I became insecure and developed abandonment issues. D had two personalities, his family one which was alternatively controlling or shut down and distant, and his outside personality which was full of energy, engagement, charm and enthusiasm. As a child, that was confusing to me also, I blamed myself for not being good enough or interesting enough to get his attention when we were at home, without company. But now I understand what was going on, its taken decades and lots of painful research and honesty to get to this place of realizing that there wasn't anything wrong with me, it was him and his inability to see me, to love me because he is a narcissist who sees all other people as objects to be used, to satisfy his own un-met childhood needs. Both of my parents were abused as children, worse than me, but neither of them has recognized this, acknowledged it or taken responsibility for its effect on them or their own parenting skills, and so the tragic legacy was passed on to another generation.... but stopped with me.

I was traumatized, not from being beaten, starved or raped by my care givers, but by being ignored, disregarded, lied to, shamed, blamed, threatened, and being denied my basic human need for love, comfort, support, help, respect and consideration. I was an object, to serve their emotional needs at worst and at best, to not get in their way or be an inconvenience.... which I was, or seemed to be a lot of the time.

There were a few random incidences of physical abuse, mostly from M, she had been badly beaten by her own mother when she was a child. She tried to do things differently, I know she did, she knew it was wrong, because she controlled herself when D was around. But for me, the few times when she did attack me with various objects, it was preferable, the physical pain was welcome, the energy from her felt more honest, more vibrant, there was a more genuine connection. Being chased around the house and swiped at with a horse whip was better than being locked in my room and being ignored for hours.

I remember the solitary time when D had hit me. I was about 14 I think. I had reached an age when I was actively rebelling from the abitrary control and lack of consideration for my emotional needs. I had been shut in my room and grounded for several weeks for what I considered was a minor transgression, so I climbed out of my window and escaped. When I returned, D was angry, grabbed me and gave me a half hearted swipe on my bottom, I was shocked, he had never raised a hand towards me in my life. I was also filled with something I'd never felt before, it was a kind of victory, like as if I had finally been able to get an honest reaction out of him. I had moved him, connected with him in a genuine kind of way. But then he burst into tears and left me and I was engulfed in shame and guilt, which was later reinforced by M when she shamed me more for being so disobedient and making my father cry. That was the only time I had ever seen him cry, up until that point anyway. I felt bad, very bad, I had driven my father to tears and that was a very bad thing to do. I decided I would try harder to not cause trouble, to be what they wanted me to be. It was never spoken of again. But things got worse.... much worse, for me anyway.

[SharpAndBlunt]

Hi, I think you write so eloquently here. Recognising your responses to your order are a replay of childhood pain is so insightful. I recognise much of what you write as there are so many similarities to my own childhood.

[Just Hatched]

Hi, I think you write so eloquently here. Recognising your responses to your order are a replay of childhood pain is so insightful. I recognise much of what you write as there are so many similarities to my own childhood.

Thank you SharpAndBlunt for visiting my journal, and for your encouragement, I'm sorry you're childhood was like mine, but glad you are here, recovering. 

~~~~~~~

When I was very young, before my sister came along, I was often left with other people, while my parents went out at night, or away on vacations. I remember feeling very anxious and unsettled when this happened. I especially didn't like  being taken care of by strangers, who M would find through an agency. For a while she had an older girl come over to watch me/play with me while she did housework. This girl was mean to me and would hurt me physically, but when I told M, this girl lied and denied doing anything wrong. I was scared a lot of the time, I don't think my parents protected me in the way they should have done. I was left with a loud, violent aunt one year, D's sister, she was physically abusive to her daughters, my cousins, but I was left there for 2 weeks while my parents went away on vacation to Morocco. I liked being with my cousins, but was terrified a lot of the time when my aunt would start screaming and beating my cousin with a hair brush. I thought I was going to be beaten. I think I'm particularly sensitive, but this wasn't taken into consideration and there was no one in my life who seemed to understand or care enough to get to know me and treat me appropriately, to help and answer my questions.

There was one aunt who I liked staying with, she was M's sister, unfortunately, she died fairly young, but she had a gentle personality and was kind, quite different from M, she laughed often and wasn't overwhelmed with stress, well, early on anyway, she developed problems later in life too, her husband, D's brother, was rather narcissistic too. I think all the siblings in that family turned out with some kind of personality disorder, they are a bunch of cluster Bs, some worse than others. Although one of D's sisters was a bit different, not hostile or abusive, but she married someone with a gambling addiction and her son became an alcoholic.

One of my first memories is staying with my favorite aunt, M's sister, and being taken out in a stroller by my cousins, who were quite a bit older than me. We were walking down the street and suddenly came to the burned out shell of a house that had caught fire. I remember being shocked at the sight of it and frightened. One of my cousins was a lot older than me and was dating a boy who rode a motorbike, I remember being frightened of the sound of it, probably because whenever he came in the house, he would grab me and pretend to hang me on a hook in the ceiling. Everyone thought that was funny, except me, but no one seemed to notice or care.

As a young child, I remember being scared of almost everyone, the man who delivered eggs, the vicar and his wife who lived next door, my pre-school teacher, the school gardener, my parents friends. I think I may have experienced some physical abuse very early,  before I have memories. I was left with enough strangers and harmful family members, so its quite possible. I remember being particularly frightened at night, alone, in the dark. I couldn't sleep if my closet door was open. I had a hard time soothing myself enough so I could sleep. D used to read me frightening stories about witches and monsters at bed time, that book was kept in a long book case in the hallway and I was scared every time I had to walk past that book, I knew there was all kinds of evil lurking within those pages, and it was going to get me if I let my guard down. I sucked my thumb until I was 8, I just wasn't able to soothe myself any other way, enough so that I was able to sleep at night.

Both of my parents had experienced lots of trauma while growing up, they were both children during WW2. D had been sent away to the country because they lived in London and it wasn't safe for children. I remember saying that he preferred the family he stayed with, because they were nice to him. M had stayed at home, because they lived a bit further out, but she lived through bomb raids, having to run down to shelters at all hours, fearing for their lives. Hearing bombs dropping close by.  Neither of their parents fought in the war, for various reasons, but D joined the army as soon as he was old enough, I think it was probably a way to escape from the family. M's escape from her family was marrying D. She openly admits it, along with admitting that my sister was a mistake, and that she tried to induce an abortion with alcohol and rolling down a hill.

My paternal grandfather had been an alcoholic, prone to violent rages, D claims to have been scared of him most of the time, never knowing when he was going to explode. From what I've been told, he seems to fit the narcissistic profile. He had a kind of mental breakdown at one time and was hospitalized. He died in his 60's from a heart attack, my paternal grandmother was nice, kind and lived into her 90's. Unfortunately, our family moved to Australia when I was 9 and I never saw her again, along with most of my extended family.

My maternal grandmother was an agoraphobic, prone to violent rages, seemed to have OCD regarding housework and took out her anxiety and anger on M and her siblings. M remembers her mother leaving the the house one time in her whole life. She would send the kids out to do shopping and errands. All of her 9 children were born at home, so she never needed to leave the house. Both of my parents came from very large, very poor families. There was a lot of shame and nowhere near enough love to go around. So I don't blame them for becoming inadequate parents themselves, they were both just trying to survive and build something better than what they started out with.  But that doesn't change the reality that I was emotionally abused and neglected and it wounded me, preventing my normal development, causing a lifetime of struggle and suffering as I tried to live up to their impossible expectations. They provided materially, there was always food, clothes and an adequate house to live in, any extras were for their benefit, to make them appear like good parents, to make us look good, so that they looked good. I rarely got what I asked for. Where we were concerned, they lived like they were still poor, money was god, it was the basis of every decision. But when it came to D making himself look good, he would buy expensive things, status symbols, anything to increase his image of success. Sometimes M would get expensive clothes or jewellery. Me and sis were supposed to enhance his image of success, be part of his picture of a respectable and successful family. Compensating for the family he was born into. I understand it, but it doesn't repair the damage he caused by using me as an object in his own drama, for refusing to see me as an individual with needs of my own. With a life of my own, separate from his needs. He had no love to give me because he was still trying to fill his own unmet needs from his own deficient childhood, through me and anyone else who came his way.

I wish I knew then what I know now, then I wouldn't have taken it all so personally, blaming myself, believing I was not worthy of love or consideration. I grew up believing I had no value and didn't deserve anything good, so that's how I treated myself for years. I'm glad I stumbled onto the truth eventually, started putting the pieces together, before it was too late. I feel sad for all those who don't, who spend their whole lives running from the shame, fear, sadness and anger planted in them, never escaping or discovering the truth about who they really are.

It was something of a relief when I was thrown out of home at 16. That sounds pretty harsh, and it wasn't quite that bad. I was asked to leave and M did help me find somewhere else to live, I wasn't out on the streets. But she didn't let me take any of my things with me, well nothing they had bought for me anyway and they didn't help me move, I remember walking down the road to my new house with a few possessions in a cardboard box. She had talked the local butcher into letting me stay with him for some rent, he was needing some extra money to help with his mortgage. So I left school and found a job as a waitress. It was such a loss, I was an A student and could have become almost anything. But there was too much stress and trauma in my family for it to have worked out in my favor. So I dropped out of school at 16, moved in with a guy who was about 7 years older than me, who proceeded to attempt to seduce me, get me drunk and get me into his bed.

By this time I had already been raped once, when I was 15, by the friend of a boyfriend I was seeing, while my boyfriend was in another room. Well I thought he was my boyfriend, but it turns out he was married with a couple of kids, so was his friend. I was very naive, innocent and didn't think much of myself, I would do anything to get some affection and attention. I was emotionally starved, desperately trying to fill the void in my heart. I never told anyone about the rape, figuring it was my fault anyway.

I got a new boyfriend after that, he was nice, slightly older than me. I would go out in a group with my girlfriend and our boyfriends, who were cousins. They were all older than me, my friend was one year older. I had a very strict curfew, they all didn't, it made things hard, for all of us and sometimes I wasn't able to make it home in time for my curfew. I felt awful a lot of the time for restricting my friends fun because of my parents extreme control issues. So I caused more problems in my family when I came home a bit late at night. I was told I was going to give D a heart attack and that it would be best if I leave. It seemed like they were giving up on me, my sister was still being very compliant at that stage and maybe they figured she would fulfill their expectations, and no longer needed the inconvenience of me. So that's why I was thrown out at 16, because I sometimes broke my curfew.

[Three Roses]

Nothing to say yet but I want you to know you've been heard.

[sanmagic7]

hey, just hatched,

i really related to the whole - i wasn't physically abused, etc. but was neglected . . .part.  very similar to my history, especially not to be an inconvenience or get in their way.  also that my parents were limited in their knowledge and emotional outreach.

i, too, have overreacted to situations because of that foundation.  i've been working on that lately, and it's been helping.  i have no doubt that as you continue in your healing journey, you'll find resolution as well.  i get how something like a late delivery can stir up all those feelings.  it sucks.

thanks for being here, for sharing w/ us.  sending you love and a hug, if you're ok w/ that.   

[Not Alone]

Just want you to know I read your journal. Sending care your way.

[Just Hatched]

Thank you for the comments and encouragement, I really appreciate anyone who reaches out with support, but please don't feel like you need to respond, unless you really want to. I'm mostly writing here for my own process, to consolidate my story and to dig up and work through old, painful feelings.

~~~~~~~~

Private journaling has been a tool I've used my whole life, well through most of my life, apart from the 13+ years I was taking antidepressants. Those are what I think of as my numbed out, crushed, compliant years. When I was 30 something I asked my doctor if I could try antidepressants because after being exposed to some advertising, thinly veiled as a documentary, I believed that I had an anxiety disorder, caused by defective brain chemistry. Of course I know now that wasn't true, my brain was working just fine, doing the best it could to protect me and help me survive in difficult circumstances, but it was too late, I got on the drugs and couldn't get off them, no matter how many times I tried. I didn't like what they did to me, my personality changed, my creativity, passion, values and optimism disappeared, along with the overwhelming anxiety I sometimes felt. I was still anxious though, it had just been turned down a few notches I was still programmed with a lot of dysfunction, not at all fixed, but I no longer cared, that's what changed, I just didn't care much about anything any more. Self discovery stopped, hope stopped, growth stopped and I became the complacent, compliant, robotic blob, playing my role silently, like it seemed everyone wanted me to do, especially my abusive husband who's personality was like a clone of D, but even worse, he wasn't only narcissistic, but at times his behavior was sociopathic, he once boasted about how he could easily make women cry, especially his own mother and he seemed to enjoy making me cry too, and once I figured that out, promised myself I would never let him see me cry again. It was like my childhood repeating itself all over again, but in a weird, twisted kind of way. At that point, I hadn't yet learned about narcissism and personality disorders, I was still stumbling around in the dark with a paper bag over my head.

I was an attractive child, well, I started out that way, cute, blond curls, dark blue eyes and a baby face, which has remained baby-like. But I was overfed, that was the way M showed love. Food stopped complaining, treats were bribes for good behavior, cakes and chocolate were medicine for everything from headaches to scraped knees. So I got fat and learned how to soothe myself with food. Its something I struggle with to this day, I gain weight very easily and have to work very hard to lose it, even a little bit and while being on antidepressants, it got worse. I packed on the pounds and no amount of dieting or exercise would shift them. So my self esteem plummeted lower than it already was, giving my husband even more fuel for his cruelty and justification for his many affairs.

When I was about 12, I fell off my bike and chipped my front tooth. For some reason, my parents decided not to get it fixed, I was self conscious about my broken tooth and stopped smiling. I had previously only been teased and bullied about my weight, but now I got called 'chippy'. My hair had grown darker, becoming a kind of mouse brown, I had inherited those prominent freckles, or moles, from D's side of the family, and had a lot of them on my face and I was short, very short. I stopped growing at 10, probably because I was overweight and puberty hit early.

I was so miserable during my early teens. I think a lot of kids are. I didn't fit in anywhere, I had a few friends, but I wasn't close to anyone, I was being bullied by one of my friends, that's the kind of friends I had. Since our move across the world, I had pretty much fallen off my parent's radar mostly. I stopped trying to get help from them and learned how to lie in order to get some of my needs met outside of the home. They had weird ideas about most things and believed that if children were not exposed to any information about something, then it wouldn't be real, wouldn't have to be dealt with. So when I suddenly became a woman, at age 10, I thought I had injured myself, was shocked, frightened and had no idea what was going on. I guess M was a bit surprised too, not expecting to have to deal with it so early. I remember being overwhelmed, embarrassed, in denial and in pain as I was bundled up with one of those horse saddle like things, a tight elastic belt and told to stop complaining about my stomach ache because I was making a fuss, it wasn't that bad. Maybe not for her, but I was in agony, the pain was bad, really bad, close to child birth pains and I can say that now after giving birth to my daughter, but there was no compassion, no celebration, only shame and embarrassment and being shoved in my bedroom and told not to tell anyone about it, especially not my father.

A couple of years later, when notes came home from school, requesting parental permission for sex education classes, my note was sent back with a no. My pleas for reasonableness were ignored and so once a week I suffered the shame and humiliation of sitting alone, outside my classroom as my classmates learned the basics of human reproduction and safe sexual practices. The irony of this wasn't lost on me, even at that early age. Here, I was probably one of the few kids who had actually reached that vulnerable age, needing the information, and yet I was the only one denied what I needed. And it wasn't that I was given any alternative information at home. There was nothing, I was an object, a thing, a non-human, non-sexual, non-emotional nothing, to be controlled and manipulated into whatever they wanted. I didn't exist. But I did... and eventually my anger and rebellious spirit exploded enough, as it often does in adolescence, when there isn't enough respect, consideration and sensible encouragement towards individuation.

I starved myself, exercised like a maniac and dyed my hair blond. Started wearing skirts that were too short and shoes that were too high. I started getting the attention and affection that I so desperately needed, for the first time in my life I had a little bit of power to get something which looked like what I needed. But the price I paid was awful, I wasn't getting loved, I was being used, but I didn't know any different. Sure, I met some nice guys, they bought me flowers and wanted to take me to expensive restaurants, wanted to hold my hand and introduce me to their parents, but guys like that made be feel strange, uncomfortable and physically sick. Being disrespected, used and abused was what felt right, striving to be good enough to get noticed, was what I was used to. I knew I was worthless, broken, damaged, and that my new, pretty exterior was just a facade, so I couldn't let anyone get too close, even though that's what I desperately needed, to be seen, to be known and understood. But if anyone saw the real me, they would run away, screaming in horror and disgust. That's what I was inside, a shameful, horrible, disgusting worthless nothing with a pretty exterior which I now had to keep patching up and improving so that my insides wouldn't show through. For years after that, my only value laid in my appearance and most of my energy went into maintaining my normal weight, my hair, skin and make-up. It was all never good enough, because I compared myself with the cultural icons in magazines and on TV, so I was never able to relax and feel good about myself, not even my appearance. I was one big flaw, inside and out.  When I was 17, my parents decided to get my chipped tooth fixed, they found a dentist who would do it cheaply, D always liked getting a bargain. I got a cap, it didn't quite match the color of my other teeth, was too white and it wasn't a great fit, so there was a gap between it and my gum, which over the years turned black.... so I still couldn't smile without being self conscious about it. But it was better than it was, at least I had all my teeth again.

After the fiasco with not being allowed to take sex-ed classed, and the reality that being denied information doesn't stop normal human development, I realized that I needed to get some information from somewhere. I was curious, it was normal, even though my curiosity added to my shame, along with being denied the information I needed I was told I was bad for even wanting it or needing it. But there it was, curiosity grows until its satisfied, so I bought a book about sex from my local book store and hid it under my bed. It was an educational book, not porn, so I thought it wouldn't be too much of a problem if found, but I underestimated the dysfunction of my parents. It was found, because one day it was just gone.  I remember suddenly feeling ashamed, again, ashamed that I had bought it, ashamed that I was curious about sex, ashamed that they had found it, ashamed for having feelings, ashamed for even existing. Everything bad which happened was a reflection of my own intrinsic badness. Nothing was ever mentioned about that book, and I didn't say anything. But years later, many years later that book appeared on their book shelves along with all the other books they had collected over the years. It's probably still there right now. 

[sanmagic7]

may i second that statement - your curiosity was normal.  the shame belongs to others.  we have too often carried the shame and guilt for others' transgressions, and it takes a while until we are able to give it back to whom it belongs.  thanks for sharing.  sending you love and a hug filled w/ shame-away spray.

[Three Roses]

I met some nice guys, they bought me flowers and wanted to take me to expensive restaurants, wanted to hold my hand and introduce me to their parents, but guys like that made be feel strange, uncomfortable and physically sick. Being disrespected, used and abused was what felt right,

This was me, still is to some extent. People who seem to genuinely want to get closer to me feel strange and untrustworthy. I suppose this is why all my best friendships are rather distant and even my marriage is uncomfortable when we are close.

[Just Hatched]

Thank you sanmagic and Three Roses, it helps to have some validation and encouragement.

~~~~~~~~

Update on the missing order.

It had been over 24 hours since I provided the  order number, which had been requested, so when I opened the messages window, I expected to see some kind of response, but there was nothing. So once again, being ignored and disregarded triggered old emotions from my past, not that some frustration wasn't warranted by this current situation. I'm a paying customer, the company has my money and I don't have the product I paid for, I deserve a response.
So, I started typing again, asking for a response, feeling a bit silly, if they were ignoring me, then this was also likely to be ignored. But I posted it anyway and then received an automated reply, apologizing for the lack of response, saying it was because they were dealing with an unusual number of messages. Well, this was different from my childhood experiences. They were admitting mistakes, apologizing, being accountable, even if it was an automated response, it was better than what I used to get from my parents.

I calmed down slightly, but was still frustrated, I wanted an answer and I wanted it now, not later, not tomorrow, not when they got around to it. So, I phoned and didn't have to wait long to be given an explanation, by a real human, an apology, an admitted mistake and told when I can expect my order to arrive.... Another week, but at least I was treated with respect and consideration. This isn't my childhood anymore, I'm an adult, I have more power than I did back then. Most people I deal with these days are not like my parents, they treat me with basic human respect, mistakes are usually admitted, there are apologies and attempts to make amends.

I still left them an unfavorable google review and my comments were honest. They messed up my order, didn't notice it until I contacted them, and their online contact system is terrible. I'm still annoyed that I must wait another week, but I'm no longer being triggered by stuff from my childhood, this is different, this is now. This experience has been one more tiny step towards healing. I checked their google reviews and learned this is a common problem with this particular company, they take orders, but for various reasons don't ship right away and don't contact customers. I had checked product reviews before ordering, but not google company reviews.... oh well, that was a lesson learned.

Talking about mistakes, apologies and making amends, I don't remember my parents ever admitting mistakes or apologizing for anything. Thinking about it now, it seems so strange. Mistakes and getting things wrong are such a normal part of life, it's how we learn, grow and improve, by trying, getting it wrong and then learning from the mistake and trying again, doing something different. I learned two very dysfunctional lessons from this issue, first that my parents were never wrong and so everything that went wrong or caused a conflict between us was always my fault, so I learned to automatically take the blame for everything which went wrong in my life. Secondly, I didn't have a healthy role model for trying, failing and trying again. Mistakes were something to be ashamed of, so I learned not to try anything if I thought there was a chance of failure.

How could two people who suck so badly get together and combine their suckyness into one big sucky system, pass it onto me and expect me to succeed in life? But that's what happened. I don't exactly know what it means to succeed at life, I'm still alive, still trying, still learning and much more in control of myself than I've ever been, maybe I'm succeeding at life in spite of the bad start.

I wish I could go back in time, knowing what I do now. I would have made different choices, treated myself with respect, expected so much more than I did, but mostly, I would have had confidence and courage and would have taken healthy risks, stepped out of my comfort zone and headed towards achieving my highest potential in life. But doesn't everyone wish that? Maybe not everyone, but probably everyone reading this forum.

For years, I've believed I was a failure, that I just wasn't as good as most other people, that I was defective, broken, weak, useless and that this was somehow my fault for not trying hard enough, because I was lazy, unmotivated, or intrinsically bad. It's difficult to pin down exactly what was wrong with me and why it was my fault, why I was to blame. If I could have just figured it out, I probably could have done something about it. I guess that's why I fell for the 'faulty brain chemistry' lie, the theory used by advertising companies in promoting the sale of medications. It was a perfect collection of answers all rolled up into one perfect solution. My brain was broken, so it wasn't my fault and here is the solution, take this pill and your brain will be fixed and you will be normal, just as good as everyone else and your life will work and you will be happy. Only problem was, it wasn't true, but I so wanted it to be, so I clung to that delusion for a long time, taking my pills, believing I was ok, in spite of feeling worse a lot of the time, until it was too late, my brain had adapted to having them on board and I couldn't stop taking them without being thrown right into the depths of * as soon as they were out of my system. I didn't know about tapering or withdrawal or that they were never designed for long term use and that many people had a hard time when they tried to stop taking them, even if they hadn't helped all that much.

Getting off antidepressants nearly killed me, and that's not just a metaphor. I started taking them for what I would now call mild to moderate anxiety, but withdrawal from antidepressants took me to the depths of * and held me there for a long time. My nervous system went into chaos, hardly anything in my body functioned normally, I lost my ability to sleep, to think, to talk, to go outside and I experienced terror like I've never known before, terror that never abated. My body was stuck in fight/flight from the moment I was slammed awake during the early hours until it started getting dark at night, and this went on for years. I didn't leave my bedroom, had my windows blacked out because I couldn't handle any light. The slightest sound felt like a physical blow to my body. It felt like there was an electric current running through my body, or like I was being cooked in a microwave on low power. When I did go out to do some shopping, once a week, everything looked distorted, colors were wrong, it was like everything was in slow motion and my brain wasn't working properly, I couldn't make sense of anything, couldn't make decisions, couldn't remember anything and the constant terror made it very difficult to stay calm and do what I needed to do. Having a shower was a nightmare, it felt like being the woman in the psycho movie, like as if I was going to be killed at any moment, so I would leave it as long as possible, the fear was so intense, I sometimes went several weeks without showering, waiting until my skin got so sore and itchy I couldn't stand it any longer. I used to be a daily showering kind of person, sometimes multiple times a day when it was hot, it's unbelievable what intense fear can do to a person.

It took about 3 years of being drug free before I started recovering, I finally started noticing some improvements in my symptoms. Thankfully I had found some information and support online, so I knew I was going to recover, eventually, but it took a long time and the suffering was so bad, for so long I became suicidal for the first time in my life, and trying to go back on the pills just made me worse. I lost faith in doctors and medicine, they couldn't help. If it wasn't for the help I found online, I don't think I would be here today.

I wasn't planning on writing about medication and my horrendous experience with it, because apparently, it helps some people, but not everyone. For a while I thought it was helping me too, but in the end, it caused way more harm and nearly ended my life.... And I'm not the only one. During my bed bound years, I worked as a moderator on a forum like this, helping people safely taper off psychiatric medications, unlike the way I did it...too fast. I saw so much suffering and many suicides, not from the illnesses that the medications had been prescribed for, but the horrors associated with trying to come off the medications once the brain and nervous system had adapted to them.

I've survived a lot of adversity in my life, emotional abuse and neglect from people who were supposed to care for me, bullying, abandonment, sexual abuse, rapes, violent crime, being relocated away from everything I knew, ongoing abuse from every relationship I chose to stay in. Medical abuse, abusive marriage, horrendous divorce, no social support, no real friendships, loss after loss after loss and then the final straw was being driven to the brink of suicide by years of indescribable suffering after coming off medication which I never should have been taking in the first place.

I'm still not completely recovered, but much better than I was and not sure what causes what these days. I'm actively working on recovering from my deepest childhood wounds now, like I should have been doing before I started taking medication.  My nervous system is still vulnerable from the chaos of coming off medication. I'm almost back to pre-medication level of stability, but not quite and I still have to build up my strength and stamina after 3 years of being bed bound and another 3 years of limited functioning. Its been a bit like waking up from a coma and venturing back out into the world, everything is different, and I must catch up, but its quite overwhelming and I don't always like what I see now.

I'm more sensitive than I ever was, but now I'm able to honor that about myself. I don't see myself as intrinsically broken any more, I was injured by other people, people who didn't know any better. It wasn't my fault, but it wasn't theirs either. Bad stuff happens to good people, it's not personal, the universe is impartial, it doesn't care what happens, or who it happens to, life is a gift, but it doesn't come with instructions or a guarantee. If we are lucky, we are born into favorable circumstances, surrounded by people who are able to love us, help us and teach us a bit about how to live well, the rest of us have to figure it out the best we can, survive long enough to find that help somewhere else. I'm grateful I was born at a time when we have the internet, finding good help and reliable information locally, where I live is near impossible.

[sanmagic7]

 

[holidayay]

You are such a good writer.

And this bit, wow, its a perfect little summary I needed to read right now:

'Bad stuff happens to good people, it's not personal, the universe is impartial, it doesn't care what happens, or who it happens to, life is a gift, but it doesn't come with instructions or a guarantee. If we are lucky, we are born into favorable circumstances, surrounded by people who are able to love us, help us and teach us a bit about how to live well, the rest of us have to figure it out the best we can, survive long enough to find that help somewhere else'

[Three Roses]

I agree! I like how you write, and your insights are clarifying. 

[Just Hatched]

You are such a good writer.

and 

I agree! I like how you write, and your insights are clarifying.

Thank you holidayay and Three Roses, 

These somewhat triggering compliments are more grist for the mill for me. Some compliments are fine, but others seem to go straight to my dysfunctional core, like this one. I'm not sure why, but I will share a related experience from my childhood, maybe there's a connection.

In grade school, English was my favorite subject. I would often stay up late at night, writing into the early hours for my assignments. I would be so inspired and passionate about writing, that I didn't get tired, it was like something else took over me and I would keep going, until I was finished, often being shocked to see it was starting to get light outside. Then I would start to feel weird, like as if it wasn't even me who had been writing.

One particular assignment was going to be rated from 1 - 28, or however many there were in the class. It sounds cruel now, but that's what was going to happen. Our teacher was going to read them out in order, from worst to best. I'd been working on my essay until the early hours, and had been in my trance like state while writing. When finished, I though it was ok, but couldn't really judge, it didn't feel like it had been me writing, I guess I was in a bit of a dissociated state.  A few days later the readings began and it got to the top 3, and mine still hadn't been read out. I was starting to panic, these last few essays were really great, it didn't make sense, I was starting to think mine had been lost. My teacher announced number 2 and it wasn't me. I felt surges of panic, my mind went blank and my brain shut down. I wasn't even there while he read number 2 and when my essay was announced as being the best in class, it didn't make sense, I completely shut down and didn't hear another word. My essay had placed first, it made no sense at all and I felt so embarrassed and ashamed to have all that attention directed at me.

When that assignment was sent home, with my top mark and comments. I noticed my teacher had remarked that I was extremely sensitive, I think this was supposed to be a good thing, but in my family that was bad and I could feel my parents disapproval at that comment. From then on, I felt ashamed in my English class, and had weird feelings about my teacher. I knew I wrote well, or that some, dissociated part of me did, but I was ashamed of it and tried to tone down my writing a lot of the time, I didn't want to appear better than anyone else, didn't want to stand out, didn't want attention.

When I was young, I used to write poetry, it was a safe way to express my feelings. I decided to enter a poetry competition, not expecting anything, but I got third place. Our family was invited to the presentation award ceremony. I didn't really want to go, but had to. I was in a state of panic the whole night and wanted the floor to open up and swallow me the moment I had to walk up and collect my prize. If I had been asked to speak, I would have died. I'm so glad I didn't get first place because that woman had to read out her poem. That was another one of those times when I had disappeared and 'something else' had written through me. I guess I felt like a kind of fraud.

Sometimes I would give my poems to my parents to read. M would usually hand them back, saying she didn't understand what I was talking about. If D would read them, he wouldn't say anything to me, not a word. But sometimes later, M would tell me that my poem had made him cry, like as if it was a bad thing, and I usually felt bad about it. So I started keeping my writing to myself.

I wrote a poem about my loneliness when I was about 13. It was a cry for help, I suppose. I felt so desperately alone, misunderstood and abandoned by the whole world. I didn't think much about the poem after I had written it, not expecting anyone would care, I was used to writing my feelings out onto paper. I think it was how I survived and stayed sane, mostly just for me. But one of my parents got hold of that poem, I can't actually remember the details, but somehow it got published in a local newspaper. I remember reading it years later and thinking how sad it was, a young girl so lonely, expressing her feelings, to the whole world, but no one caring, not one person attempted to help me, neither of my parents showed any interest or compassion, their only concern was that I had got something published in a newspaper, so they could brag to friends and family about it. I remember the last line of that poem "Now weak from fighting loneliness, I soothe my scars alone'.  It's beyond my understanding how any parent could read something like that, written by a 13 year old, and not do something to try to help.... three years later, I was thrown out of home, but that's another story.

They still think I'm like them, wanting external approval, admiration, and respect for socially approved accomplishments. They like to look good, on the outside and they projected this onto me, completely blind to my inner feelings which were at the core of that poem. It was another example of being invisible, being used and invalidated, adding to my growing feelings of shame. My feelings of loneliness were nothing but a means to getting some recognition by being published.

Just recently, both my parents got a bee in their bonnets about another of my poems, one written for M years ago, on mothers day. He had it read out at his seniors club, taking credit that 'his daughter' had written it. M had it published in their local senior newspaper, so as not to be out done by him, but she framed it as if she was doing me a favor, helping to get my work 'out there'.

The ironic thing is, that poem wasn't anything like my own mother, but an idealized version of what I didn't have. I didn't see it at the time and remember feeling a kind of dissonance between what mothers were supposed to be and what my experience actually was. Of course, I blamed myself, thinking there was something wrong with my own perceptions.

As a child, one of my goals was to one day write a book, but I never did, feeling like I never had anything worthwhile to say, that no one would be interested in anything I had to write. These days, its fairly easy to write a book, and get it published. My daughter has just self published the first of a series of novels she has written. She's a great writer too, but unlike me, she had one good enough parent who saw her, encouraged her, and guided her towards fulfilling her own potential as an individual. I'm proud of her, but it's a bitter sweet kind of feeling, she was able to accomplish one of my life goals, at such a young age too, because I was able to give her something I never got.

I'm just starting to realize that my voice has value, that my words might have meaning for others, and right now I'm struggling to overcome the feelings of shame and expectation I get, whenever my writing attracts any attention. The shame comes from the expression of anything emotional and the expectation comes from my parents wanting me to 'succeed', to make them look good.

I don't want to look good, not for me or anyone else. I just want to be me, with all my human emotions, and have that be acceptable. I want to be included and feel like I belong, that I have value, just for being alive. I want to matter, not for what I can do for someone else, but just because I was born, a unique expression of life. I think I have a right to live my life in a way that's right for me, as long as I don't hurt anyone else.

I'm happy my writing has meaning for some of you, this is difficult for me, and may take some getting used to.   

[Snowdrop]

 I get it. 

One thing that occurs to me from reading this is that perhaps posting here might be a way of claiming your writing back for yourself? You're in control of what happens to it here. Just a thought.