TW: Bermuda's journal of memories.

[Bermuda]

Words, I struggle with words. My coping mechanism was invisibility. As a child I was a master of invisibility. My siblings hated me for it. I had it easy. I was invisible.

I want to speak up, but can't. I was not permitted to speak unless spoken to, and so much as a crack in my voice could have been taken as insubordination. I'm 33 years old, and still cannot voice my opinion, not even that, often I don't even REALISE I have an opinion until hours later.

I want to journal my memories as they come to me. I think the urge comes from a deep feeling of wanting to believe myself, my own brain. It was real.

Today I was flooded with a memory. (TW)

My brother, a year older than I. He had many problems, he had asperger's syndrome (I may as well). My mother bullied him relentlessly, called him terrible names, and one day he snapped.
He ran away, and my parents called the police. They hunted for him with dogs into the night, and found him hiding in a field.

I was hiding in my bedroom peering through the crack in the door (we were not permitted to close doors, not even bathroom doors) when there was a knock at the front door. I peered from down the hall.

My father opened the door, the police officer had my brother by the sleeve. The officer asked if my brother shouldspend a night in a jail cell to teach him a lesson, to which my father grabbed my brother, threw him down and began kicking him in the stomach. The officer said to my father, well, I see you have it from here. My father said yes, and closed the door.

I hid, I didn't sob as not to make a noise.
After that my brother was locked in a room for two years.

I realise I am getting less articulate.

I don't know why the amnesia wore off now, today, but I know this event impacted me deeply. It taught me that no one would save me, that what was happening was normal, that I was a sissy, and simply overreacting. It taught me not to trust people, especially not police.

I'd like to think I have mostly healed from those thoughts, because I have had more trusting interactions. Maybe that's why I am remembering this now. ...But today I feel dizzy, and sick to my stomach, and can't tell my husband why.

[owl25]

What a horrible experience, for both you and your brother. That should never have happened. That is just terrifying for a child to witness. Your sense of safety was completely demolished. Not even the police was safe. Maybe you can try to breathe a little, to help cope with this memory having come back, or some other soothing activity. You are very brave for putting words to this.

[Not Alone]

I am struggling with words too. Shocked and mortified at your father's behavior and the police officer's reaction. Terrifying.

[Bermuda]

Thank you for taking the time to read my extensive posts. I appreciate any feedback.

The memory; The memories always come with a TW:

I was emotionally detached from my primary caregivers for as long as I can remember. I learned that if I didn't cry, flinch, or fight it, it would stop. My brothers fought back, which gave validation to our parents. Seeing my brothers in distress meant the punishment was working, and you don't stop something that is working.

I, being the youngest, having had the most observational evidence, never cried in pain, I just fell limp and waited. Not a murmur. This caused my mother to get creative for my punishments. The worst of my abuse was psychological and emotional.

My mother loathed me, thought I was secretive, and that my face alone was reason enough for me to deserve reprimanding. She knew how to break me.

She often punished me for things my brothers did, and when I pleaded my innocence she assured me with a smile that she knew all along who had actually done it.

She started getting creative about the time I started kindergarten, age 5. The first time, when my mother was feeling particularly ruthless, she pulled me off the living room floor where I slept in the night, and called two of my brother's in from their bedroom. My mother turned to my third oldest brother (brother A) and explained to him that I hadn't properly finished my chores, and because I hadn't properly finished them, my brother (b) would require a beating. She forced me to watch as Brother A happily beat Brother B to an acceptable degree on my behalf, while my mother laughed about it not even being illegal.

I cried.

Because I cried, this became standard protocol. She learned that to really hurt me, she needed to hurt others. So she did.

---

[Snowdrop]

Your experiences sound horrific, Bermuda. I'm so sorry you went through that.

[owl25]

That was really cruel of your mother. How anyone can deliberately and willfully want to hurt a child in that manner is beyond me. I'm so very sorry that was how she treated you.

[Bermuda]

Obligatory TW, a short story and recurring dreams:

This is the story I was told, and it presents as a memory, but like many of my memories, I can't be too certain about which parts are true.

This part I do not actively remember. I was told I was potty training, and while my mother and aunt were in the kitchen having a coffee, I came out of the bathroom at the top of the stairs with my pants down asking for help wiping. Then, I remember falling down the stairs. I was bleeding, my vulva was ripped.

My aunt accused my mother of child abuse, and called the police on my mother. I had to be examined. This sort of thing happened on at least one other occasion, but my aunt is not particularly trustworthy either. I have a scar.

The dream: As a child I had this recurring dream that I climbed the same staircase banister and gracefully dove off like a swan. It was both a peaceful and terrifying dream.

I am the sort of person who tears paper into little bits, folds napkins, or doodles while talking to people. As an adult, maybe 13 years ago, a roommate pointed out to me that I seem to doodle the same person who appears to be falling off a mountain. Oh, I said, and looked. I guess I had never noticed WHAT I was doodling, but I explained she wasn't falling, but that she was rather flying.

The second dream:
As an adult I have had this reoccurring dream. Something terrible is always happening, and someone wants to hurt me. I manage to escape wherever I am in the dream, once outside, I run at as steady a pace as possible, spread my arms, and try to fly away. It's always a struggle, and I don't always get high enough off the ground. Sometimes I get high enough to glide for a moment.

Someone is shooting at me. I am struggling, exhausted, and someone is shooting at me.

I wake up, and try to imagine a different ending.

[Bermuda]

Two posts in a row, I know. The topic of dreams is like opening pandora's box.

However, very different scenario.

I startle very easily from sleep, don't sleep deeply, have very vivid dreams, and sleep walk.

As a young adult my life was very stressful, and I had very unhealthy coping habits, as most people with cPTSD can relate to, which led to more night terrors.

Sleep walking to me is strange, it's like being awake, but you see what is really there with kind of an overlay of imagination, like a double exposure of reality and fiction.

One early morning I had a night terror. I was sleeping on the floor in the living room, and my roommate was sleeping on the sofa. I jumped up thinking someone was in the flat, and ran to escape the person chasing me. I woke up after climbing a fence, I was outside, the sun was up, and I was wearing only my underwear.

I ran back to the flat door, the door was LOCKED. I panicked thinking my roommate locked me out. He opened the door, and told me he had awoken because he had heard the sliding screen door open.

In my sleep, I had jumped off a second story balcony into a bush, ran, climbed the fence by the pool, and climbed the other fence to the main street out front. ...All in just a thong... Even typing this it sounds unbelievable.

I was MORTIFIED. I was SHOCKED. I thought I was completely cr*z* (I no longer use that word.) My roommate was super supportive at the time, meanwhile I was questioning whether I should be institutionalized.

I told no one, and we ignored it. Nothing so severe has ever happened since.

[Not Alone]

Sounds terrifying and exhausting.

[Bermuda]

Yes, notalone. It's sometimes terrifying to know what we are capable of, and especially the things we cannot control. I rarely feel shame, but I felt deep shame and fear.

[Bermuda]

My secret life:

For the past couple of days I haven't had access to my memories. When I try to think back on anything, my mind goes black. I once felt that unlike most cPTSD sufferers I remembered everything, but that's at least recently not the case.

I'm getting older, and the pervasive memories are locked up somewhere with the looming threat of surfacing at any time. But now, in this moment, I hardly existed *then*.

So, instead of sharing a memory, I'll share a thought and feeling. I'm not sure this requires a trigger warning, however I may reference religion. This post may also be all over the place, and far too long.

I was very sheltered. I travelled a lot growing up, was not permitted to engage with other children, and was taken out of public education at around 11 years old. Although well-traveled, I had very little knowledge of the world aside from what I was told of it. To me, the world was evil and dangerous.

My only time out of the house was for church. I never believed in God, but was fascinated by the concept of religion. I went to church wilfully, although I always stood out. My family used religion to mask abuse, and spoke openly about this while at home. My parent's had a team of supporters to offer them guidance on punishments for their unruly sinful children.

I absorbed a lot of messages about what it means to be born female. A man's job is to blindly obey and serve God, and a woman's job is to blindly obey and serve men, and a child's job is to blindly obey and serve their parents. The umbrella effect, as it's called.

I was taught to marry as a teenager, and produce as many children as possible. From age twelve I attended classes to prepare myself for life as a wife. I remember being showed a video. It showed tribal 'biblical' life, and how a woman who is pure, serves her husband, and keeps tidy, is a woman worth more cows, and a woman who can be traded for more cows means a family that can provide for more children of God. Anywho, at this point I was already only worth a chicken at best.

Now onto the actually story I want to share, because I never have.

As an adolescent I lived in a fantasy world. I couldn't escape my home, so I simply imagined a different life. Not in a day dreamer sort of way, but in a full creating a new existence way. I made it habit that when I was locked up, or hiding, or before bed, to continue the story of the world that I had created for myself, and to create a new day. In this world, I had a boyfriend, his name was Angel, who protected me from my parents, he was far older than I. We were deeply in love, and he ran away with me. He was a famous musician, and everyone wanted him. In this world, he cared about only me, and we didn't care about the world. We had a baby that we took on tour together.

I am sharing these things together, as I feel like they belong together. The really unhealthy dreams of a child who is trapped and has learned nothing of the world, and the world she was really in.

It's an uncomfortable thing to write about.

[Bermuda]

Non-traumatic memory

It's always those little things that catch you off guard and remind you that you are different... That I am different. I prefer to sleep on the ground. Nothing weird about that.

The story:
It's much more of a trigger when other people notice my quirks and point them out in good humour. As a (half) functioning adult, I had quite the learning curve.

I was dating someone when I was 22 or so, and we had woken up in the morning together and I had gone into the bathroom to brush my teeth. He pointed out to me that it is weird that I took so little toothpaste and spat into the toilet.

I looked puzzled and said, well, I don't need more, and spitting into the toilet is more sanitary. My insides were churning.

I learned it was weird that I wasn't permitted to use very much toothpaste, and that I wasn't allowed to close doors, or spit in the sink, and being restricted to two sheets of toilet paper, also weird. His simple observation, came at me, and changed my world.

Not an exaggeration. As a child I didn't realise I lived in an abusive home, and as an adult, all it took was a few observations from people to realise that it wasn't just me.

I spit in the sink now, just so you know.

(If anyone can relate, I'd love to hear stories. It happens to me ALL the time, and can really send me into a spiral.)

[rainydiary]

I also didn't realize until I was an adult (and it was really only within the last year that by brain was ready to recognize it) that I grew up in an abusive home.  The abuse I was experienced was emotional and psychological so it was hard for me to realize it wasn't ok (other than I always felt like garbage about myself and didn't understand why).  Reading your post I thought of one moment where I was telling a coworker about my parents reaction to some plans of mine and he said "That doesn't sound very supportive."  In that moment I realized that my parents had never acted very supportive so it wasn't anything new but it was a shock to hear someone say my parents should be supportive. 

I'm still working my way through this experience.  It hurts me a great deal to acknowledge abuse in my past.  I wish I had realized it sooner so that I could have worked toward healing sooner.  Yet it is also empowering to have this understanding of myself.  It explains a lot and I hope I can one day accept that this wasn't my fault and that I am worthy despite the wounds from my childhood. 

[Not Alone]

As an adolescent I lived in a fantasy world. I couldn't escape my home, so I simply imagined a different life. Not in a day dreamer sort of way, but in a full creating a new existence way. I made it habit that when I was locked up, or hiding, or before bed, to continue the story of the world that I had created for myself, and to create a new day. In this world, I had a boyfriend, his name was Angel, who protected me from my parents, he was far older than I. We were deeply in love, and he ran away with me. He was a famous musician, and everyone wanted him. In this world, he cared about only me, and we didn't care about the world. We had a baby that we took on tour together.

I am sharing these things together, as I feel like they belong together. The really unhealthy dreams of a child who is trapped and has learned nothing of the world, and the world she was really in.

It's an uncomfortable thing to write about.

Brave to share this. Your fantasy was a coping mechanism. Brilliant.

[Bermuda]

Rainydiary, thank you for sharing. It's such a struggle when what we're told about abuse in school and on billboards doesn't reflect what our abuse actually looks like. Emotional and psychological abuse is also often not taken seriously, or recognised at all, and as I wrote earlier in my journal, it was the WORST.

I hope the world changes, and that definitions of abuse are also broadened. Sexual abuse is also not only physical contact, and physical abuse isn't always hitting.

Maybe my next post will be a bit of rant about that. 

Thank you Notalone for reading my story. That makes me feel more existent.