Woodsgnome's New Life Journal

[woodsgnome]

Fear seems to envelop my every action; then it filters into thought, where it's conceptualized into logic that screams "I'm bad; so different; never will I make it"--even if I wasn't sure where I was going in the first place.

I keep regurgitating the old hurts. And everywhere I turn I can sense how the hurt is forever with me, how it resists all attempt to dislodge it. Soon I'm left wondering, should I just quit? End the search? Yeah, maybe that's my surest safe escape route, anyway. But wait--maybe there's some solidity to hope, after all? More than mouthing the words? As in...it's real, kid. Even through the tears that are ever ready. Even when I resist their relief. Say it again--it's real, kid; even for you. Even now--it doesn't have to feel like it to be real, either. You don't even need to try--inside you really are the love you want to find out there. How will you ever find the real world if you don't start where you're standing now?

So maybe that's my realization--I try too hard. I should relax into what is, to 'the now' that's become mainstream pop psychology; the newest catch-all phrase. Perhaps it should be; but I resist following crowds to anything, as I've seen the harm that can result from that, to myself and others.

Still, whatever I call it--search or accept--is only yet another concept. The only true concept that ever appealed to me is called peace, but even that needs the negative of non-peace to make sense. See how maddening this gets?

Lots of avoidance; it's my old reliable habit--perhaps not as strong as what's called addiction but not so bad as I imagine it to be. And I can change the imagination easier than an ingrained habit. Eventually it might even wear that down, and won't that feel good.

So maybe it's time to post these random thoughts in 'recovery journal' format. Uh-oh; an immediate red flag emerges in the form of "recovery from what?". I feel like an inner child who's never arrived close to finding anything worth calling adult. Or am I avoiding, again, by yapping at myself  'til I can't stand the agony of it all?

But imagination of all sorts is still creative. I like that, and feel oddly safe there--creativity was once my surest outlet for escaping all the pain that I'd accumulated. I think I know now what I couldn't fathom then--a lot of that pain only got covered over, hidden so I could function. Thank you, imagination--you did get me through many crises.

But now it's like I've tripped on a rock, and I see what was unseen then.  I can point a finger back and say "what a fool" I was or I can just relax into what is, now. Even fools can make sense. No longer conceptual, no more do I just see a desperate search for peace; only know that it was a step beyond all that; one I needed to take, apparently. The search has held me hostage before, and now I'm free to be 'me'. Maybe it's the first time I can truly say that it's happening. Ah, right--maybe 'recovery' itself is false; maybe it's 'discovery' that describes what's going on now.

Here I can shed the defensive posture I easily adopt, and keep my eyes set on even new discoveries to come. Looking forward, and that is sign of recovery. Autumn leaves all around me, and I can feel a part of the beauty--no concept there, just real. First time for everything, I think the saying goes. Cool breezes to enjoy...like those discoveries...

[radical]

 

[Jdog]

I can relate to the need for many words shrouding my feelings and to the confusion that comes from wanting to forge one's own path but not easily seeing a handrail or ways to avoid falling into snares.

You are very creative in ways that have allowed you to come to your own rescue time after time.  No reason to think this will change, and the discoveries yet to come may provide even more sparks for your bright flame.

Don't forget to check a Tara Brach talk or meditation now and again.

[woodsgnome]

I wrote of discoveries to come. That sounds pretty and optimistic...just like I used to write in so many journals before. Bromides like "time to ratchet up to recovery"..."Onward"..."Almost there"...on and on. Pep-talks about the happiness to come.

So here's a discovery I've already made, but it seems too deja vu, too old hat, to qualify as a discovery. Says I to myself (via Inner Critic). Discovery is all new, right? So what's wrong?

It doesn't seem right/wrong, just disappointing. Because when I look around, I still see all the same-old, and then I hit on the sore spots of that childhood filled with hopelessness they say a child shouldn't have. Whoever the 'they' is that said it, they missed my life. All I can legitimately hope for now is to chuckle at the 'they say' crowd and see through the illusion not to what was wrong, or right for that matter. Just to see what is there.

And that's spooky. Do I turn back? Did that lots, those ruminations about the lost childhood repeated over and over. Self-regret...but what? Digging around, my 'self' didn't inflict the damage. If anything, it stood up fairly well, all things considered. But I must have absorbed the guilt that was always poured on top of the other things that tortured my being in so many awful ways.

In my imagination, I embarked on several trips to rescue that Inner Child, hidden in a spooky fog-enshrouded house of horrors. And each time I'd retreat, back to the safety of the present...not totally safe either, but with all the elements of solitude and such as to resemble the peace I wanted (peace being my only-ever goal).

Until once I made the visit to the old haunt, and this time decided to take the forlorn Inner Child along with me. All metaphor, I know, but does that make it less 'real'? Of course, there are so many who would call me crazy that my little trip back, and out, remains my secret. Some secrets are good that way; when the other pieces of relief don't fall in place. Best thing about the rescue--I did it myself, in my own way. That's perhaps just a confidence-booster bringing me to the point where I can even consider myself as okay. Still, I'll take it; granted 'my own way' can also mean becoming a narcissistic raging rat who preys on others. I guess I know that, apparently; and that's 'my own way', hurting no one else via haughty attitude games but in turn helping myself. Wow--and in saying that I see, again, my defensiveness. No explanation needed--I'm proud I was able to do it my own way, period.

Wandering here, per my usual. A trait that I trace to some sage advice I once heard (alas, not 'til I was in the adult world): "play with options". Needed that advice; and I'm not often open to advice, growing up in a den of authoritarian rule on the part of adults (parents, teachers, all of 'em) who only pretended they were dispensing advice, and calling it god's orders when they felt my resistance to their demands, accusations, hypocrisy, beatings and far worse, then beyond that--utter abandonment. A mix of shame, guilt, doom, and hopelessness.

But my adult advice to "play with options"? What could sound so sweet to one's Inner Child...permission first, allowance to be a child, beyond cliches; just to claim and use imagination for my sake; and for the world's sake, really. No wonder I was drawn to the words of Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw: "Some see things as they are and ask why...I dream things that never were and ask why not?"

So my first discovery is a re-discovery, I guess. This is hard, and memories can flood in, jam the system (literally--I never sleep well, and last night was a doozie), and in your weariness the only voice that makes it through is: "you're still no good; a loser; don't deserve;"...the litany starts to scream; you cover your ears and curl up in all-too-familiar agony. Crying helps; but in the shock the tears often don't make it out, nothing does, and I'm left all alone with no one and no place to turn to.

Discovery #1, then--it's not easy, this 'new' way; makes me want to stop.  That's life's story--start/STOP; start/STOP. So I guess my doubts about calling this journal a 'new life' journal is an unconscious riff on that. Only this time perhaps I can turn it around into START/stop. 'Let it be' must be the soundtrack. 

[woodsgnome]

Page 3--new life or just more doubts?

When I started these reflections and decided to tag them as a new life journal, who knows what was really going on with the mind/spirit behind it. Even the word spirit can conjure up horrible memories of abuse suffered at the hands of people who considered themselves as highly 'spiritual'...so yes, that word sends me shivers first. But now I think I understand better how what the abusers left me bore no resemblance to so-called spirituality. The definition might change, but a lot of my angst about life stems directly from that.

A part of me getting these thoughts into a journal would enlighten my search for 'the fix"; giving me a chance to tie loose ends together from this long so-called recovery trek. Whatever that means. Or is it just another cover hiding my core insecurities behind more layers of words? So I donned the optimism glasses and dove in, without even knowing what I might be in for.

Talk of vulnerability! Any true search might uncover who knows what, but the first thing it grabs is..."wow, you've only stepped in more muck" (oh wait; whose voice is that? Inner Critic sneak attack?). Wanted a challenge? What comes to mind are the lyrics of an old favourite song (Fly Away, Kate Wolf, 1980's):

Well, you said it would be easy
A place where you had been
Just grab the rope and climb the tree
And swing out in the wind
And you know I must be crazy
It's the hardest climb I've made
But here I go, jumpin' off
About to fly away
Fly away...
Spreadin' out my wings
Fly away...
Ridin' high again
And you got me up a tree, out on a limb
Just to fly away
Listen to the wind

The melody matches the words beautifully--flowing and elegant, perfectly setting the mood of the journey to the unknown. And...just like creating the song wasn't easy; so pouring into a journal the ins and outs swirling inside from years of swaying in the wind is more than just feeling vulnerable. In comes the shame and confusion, too. Oh shucks, maybe the 'fix' just moved further away. That's been my normal, though; please not again.

If so, the temptations are the usual, starting with 'give up'. The easiest easy. How much reserve can one draw on anymore? Until maybe riding on the wind ends up the only way. Whatever I care to speculate about why I ventured into this 'new life' journal, here I am beside myself. And I'm not at all sure what 'myself' means, either. There's a lot of wind currents, is all I know.

Speak of having a shallow support system...all I have is what's called 'me'. What a fragile backup that is! Reminds me of my 'fix' of a couple years back. Having read Kristin Neff's book (and the companion CD course) SELF COMPASSION, I agreed with so much of it, and have yet to 'feel' any of it. Even went to her website the other night, took the self-compassion quiz, and yup--still about as low as I can be. 

The words of self-compassion didn't make the transition. If anything, they've just propped up my doubts, and given the lie to just moving on down the river of life while I'm desperately trying to patch the leaks as I swoosh through the currents. Trouble. Or challenge. The bold thing, of course, is to say I want the challenge. Umm...

No, I really don't. Had enough of those. Tired, not energized. Ready to fly away? Hardly. But the song starts "you said it would be easy". Oh yeah. The idealism and hope for the 'fix' out there, again. Meanwhile, I don't even have a good clue as to 'who' I am, either. I'm not religious, but it's definitely from something not apparent. Not a deity, per se, but from within (perhaps the 'secret' location of any deity anyway). Logic sure wouldn't have me up on a tree, ready to fly away. Which also points to something else--vulnerability is along for the ride. It can be an unruly passenger or just what is, I guess.

In North America's Great Lakes region, there's the phrase 'the gales of November' which were made famous in a song after a ship's disaster. It, too, captures the rolling, troubled seas in foreboding melody. That's like what I'm hearing now--as I stretch, with minimal self-esteem, to head into yet another gale. "I thought it would be easy"; just another sign--by a tree, dangling over a cliff.

[woodsgnome]

Page 4...therapy's interlude, a child's dreams...the first time.

This probably needs a trigger advisory, at least for the second paragraph (marked with *** before and after). Also a note for anyone else reading this...to this day I cannot comfortably refer to the parents as other than the f and m.

Around age 9, I think, I had my first therapist. The f, in retrospect, seems to have initiated that, probably against the wishes of the religious school I'd been sent to and perhaps the m as well; both the latter had been involved in some hefty abuse too painful to go into except in passing here.

***The f, reacting in large part to my very pronounced upset, fear, and even anger at the prospect of returning to school for the next grade year (lots of abuse the previous grade), appears to have initiated the therapy...following a fierce beating/assault from the school principal on day one (ironically, or not so, the principal was a cousin of the m). The f's abuse was less overt but definitely, how to say--guarded maybe? At any rate, the school episode resulted in the f taking me to a secular guidance therapist or counselor or whatever title was involved. I stayed there perhaps a couple of months, mainly seeing just a single therapist, plus some home release; the latter was uncomfortable, but one thing at least had changed in that the m's abuse had shifted from overt sexual sorties to an increase in flat out emotional abandonment. Something had happened in the meantime, I'm still foggy on what, and have stopped trying to figure any of it out--there is no logic to be found, from my viewpoint. But somehow the f, maybe through the therapist, seems to have ended the m's overt abuse, which often took the form of extraneous bathroom visits I can never dwell on without wincing in pain, risking obvious panic, even gagging or worse. It was just...bad...***

***post Trigger interlude***

Back to the therapist. He was so...cool! My first ever experience outside the limits of immediate family and that dreaded school. Not much other to relate about that therapist beside the joy and comfort I experienced being with him...followed by the wrenching experience of it all ending too soon, a couple months after it had started. I'm not sure how or what the therapist was empowered to do; at the time, the abuse and reporting laws were radically primitive compared to now. And all the parents wanted was to know...that I was declared to be normal! That was it...was I gifted, as the therapist suggested? Didn't matter...we want normal. Was I talented? Who cares? Normal was the only criterion, I guess. And normal is definitely not my favourite word.

Aside from the m's altered shift in her abusive pattern, there really wasn't a hugely discernible thaw in the overall chilling environment I lived in. The emotional abuse was elevated, if anything, on the part of both parents; although it seems the f sort of meant well--he just didn't know...recalling the emotional distance between him and his parents, well it probably reflects some of what was going on; but I also no longer care to dwell on it...really, there's no excuse and even less understanding to be had for this--it's now only my recovery, solo, that I can afford to dwell on. The 'others'? Well...bottom line, it's not about them. Only the Inner Critic would want me to care, and hey, Inner Critic--you're not exactly on my list of advisors--your time is done and I'm acutely aware of your tricks. I know you'll try, though; and I know I'm stronger than you, too, and my scars show my resilience, not the weakness and guilt you'd like to lay on me. 

While especially the m's abuse reverted to extreme emotional abandonment (bad enough!), the school people's abuses continued as if nothing had intervened. I was drawn back into a world that now seems absurd, maybe even surreal. Now it looks that way, for sure; then it was worse--as I saw the hope I'd found around the therapist vanishing as if I'd returned to a dark, dingy world where the only given was that I was found to be normal. And that normal...still hurt!

But I always smile    when I think of that therapist. I don't even recall his name; but always I hear his patient encouragement, the allowance to play, to draw, to wonder and talk about who I dreamed of being, or becoming. The tears are streaming at that gentle memory of someone who believed in me for the first time.

Often those other memories wash in, and I lose the sense of security I'd felt from him. So wherever you are, old pal, thank you for what I can't fully even say. And wherever you are, I know you'll maybe smile too, and remember that shy little kid you once rescued from hopelessness. Thank you...I love you still. I promise--I won't forget. Okay?

[Three Roses]

This made my eyes water.

[woodsgnome]

This much I know so far--writing journal-style about my 'issues' is like pumping a yo-yo and thinking the next movement will be different...up/down, up/down, and again and ... huh? 

I'm beginning to laugh at the working title I gave this journal experiment--'new life'. Albeit I cried about the same thing last night, as in 'what's new?'.  Hmm, seems like new words on old scars, but I suppose that's better than nothing? Wonder on, I'm good at it.

Wears one out like a strenuous workout, except it seems more like a 'work-in'--as it reinforces the bad; maybe if I'm lucky I'll spot a ray of hope in life's old movie. Something I'd ignored or forgotten, but the circle game keeps churning back to the start and I forget to turn the projector off.

Maybe the yo-yo metaphor isn't apt; probably this is more like spinning a top, re-cranking the object until it inevitably slows down and needs another boost.

At least the playing part--the toys--I like that. I think I get caught up in the adult need to analyze, critique, search, and set unrealistic goals ('new life'); when there are already huge piles of old answers lying out in what I call my 'graveyard of lost illusions'. With toys, I can back off the adult self as little or as much as I feel like doing (spinning the top harder, slower, etc). No wonder it's the toybox in my therapist's office that can spark my full attention, with no dissociation (that big adult word) in the way.

Rescuing the inner child in more ways than one. Except that's my analytical adult droning on. 'New life' needs a toybox, apparently.

[radical]

You are not droning, Woodsgnome.
I can relate to everything you've written here.  I feel stuck!
It's hard for me to hear you putting yourself down, especially so cleverly, adroitly (not sure if that's a word, but you get the point).
Why so harsh to you?  I have my own "graveyard of lost illusions", I'm still looking for a silver bullet that I know doesn't exist.
I wish you had someone there being kind to you, appreciating you, believing in you, like your old therapist once did.
I have a feeling you haven't experienced anywhere near enough kindness, and kindness is what you deserve. So much!

[woodsgnome]

Thank you, radical--kindness, especially accepting its reality, is central in my current therapy as well. It starts with my therapist, who in many ways resembles my first one way back as a kid. Especially in the realm of pointing out what I can't see.

It's a riddle, not being able to accept kindness, even when it once seemed so off-the-radar. One would think that when it did eventually happen, that very rarity would serve to make it more noticeable and easier to accept. My own rejection ride left over from the kid years always seems to overtake my ability as an adult to accept kindness even when it falls right into my lap. I have many appreciative tokens from people I touched, gifts crafted specifically for me, notes about how I'd touched someone's life.  I have lots of them, but I don't feel them, if that's the right word. In turn, I've given the other way, but that almost seems more acceptable to me; the outward seems easier than the inward acceptance that anyone else would dare to be kind to me.

Because of my inability to accept kindness as well as I'm told I express it outwardly, it's as if I carry the belief that kindness isn't really for or about me. It seems like I can appreciate, but not fully absorb that I even deserve anything; that there's got to be a catch...if they only knew my bad side, etc. It's easy to see how a kid can collapse into this denial of self-worth, and the I'm-no-good syndrome settles into scar tissue that's hard to heal.

I've spoken of my present therapist's role in working with me to re-orient this one-way notion, which keeps me on the edge of crippling self-hatred. She gets a little frustrated when I continually ask her what this good is she sees in me, and always patiently points me to consider what she sees that I don't. I'm noticing how my dissociative style kicks in when she does that, when I can retreat into my defensive bubble as if the kindness I'm being shown might kill me. I squirm as if I'll need to make a quick exit. Oh, how awful that is; but usually she expertly coaxes me back into present awareness. In my experience, that's a rare gift my previous therapists didn't have. So I guess I'm learning some taking-in-kindness traits in that regard. The hope is to be able to translate that progress to the world ouside the therapy room. 

I would be remiss not to mention your own encouragement in this regard, Radical, and so many others who almost daily express kindness via their words in this forum. Many here share similar roadblocks around kindness. The starting premise seems to be: Kindness isn't just for others? Really? I can share in it? People even...like...me? That's okay? I'm not selfish to be kind to...me? Deep sigh. Quite the task. It's still easier to mouth the words than feel the feelings...hard to see progress, the habits (inner critic's office) rise up with their not-for-you repeating messages. Only now I'm beginning to see we do have our own power to turn the inner critic's 'never gonna make it' babble into a confidence that the once impossible is now, at last, in view. The mirage is that it could never be found.

Thanks again.

[radical]

It is such a relief for me to hear you express this.  Sometimes I feel so alone with the particular ways cPTSD affects me.

I tend to freeze, fawn or completely dissociate from kindness, as if it were a threat I need to escape from.  It's so hard to long for connection and find myself running, in one of those three ways when others try to give me what I want and need.  With my therapist I still cant maintain eye contact when she is kind and responsive to me, as if I were deeply ashamed.  I feel so bad when I shut down, as if I were throwing her gift back in her face. I think I've done that a lot in my life. I don't want to be this way. I like to believe I'm getting better at staying present, but it's hard.

I really value being able to come here.  When people are kind and respond with warmth to my feelings, I feel afraid and I usually stop reading.  But I can come back to it in stages, like a kind of graduated exposure therapy.  I can be touched by kindness and absorb it at a pace that is manageable for me.

I've never heard anyone describe this before.  I'm grateful to you for putting it in words.

[woodsgnome]

Forward/back; push/pull; up/down; in/out. Dizzying. Terrifying. Tiring. And achingly familiar. 

All of those describe the aftereffects that commonly accompany what feels like progress. Take yesterday's therapy trip. In general, it was typical--we tend to have a pretty thorough give-and-take session, with emdr as an option at any point; but we often don't get there, which seems along the lines of Walker's (echoed by my therapist's) suggestion that jumping into emdr is not necessarily the ideal option. In my therapy, this seems to have worked well so far; interestingly, the therapist was able to incorporate some emdr when I wasn't aware she was doing it (non-mechanical finger-moving sort).

We covered a bad flashback incident since I'd last seen her. But mostly, it turned to progress, partially based on a written list of what I see as progress, compiled in reaction to the previous session where she pointed out what she sees as progress...not that I questioned what she said she'd observed, but there's always my nagging doubter/inner critic to satisfy.

Giving her my list, it just seemed so puny, so tiny, so achingly familiar. We're both musical, so we touched on lyrics from a familiar singer--Ann Reed--whose output includes one ("Every Long Journey is Made of Small Steps") that touched on the immediate progess push-and-pull. Per usual, my dissociative reaction popped in, but we have techniques in place to pull me back to focus when that happens.

So far, so good; and yes, I have to admit I left feeling that I was indeed experiencing s.l.o.w. forward motion, though it more often is better reflected in my horrid gait of several years (bad knees). The mental state broadcast via a wobbly if steady, hesitant walking pace (surgery might help; but I resist it, almost like I'm telling myself 1)I don't deserve better and 2)I'm so tired of it all, I'd rather quit--I CAN live with it, have done so, and...).

Again...therapy went 'fine'. And then.

'The voices,'--as I call them for lack of better description--entered at their usual entry point, when I attempt sleep. But last night they were ferocious, as if in bloody reaction to the notion of progress. As if to say--NO! NEVER! YOU'LL NEVER...fill-in-the-blank. I reacted with the usual litany of responses; curling up, covering the head, and finally...SCREAMING as loud as I can (I live in an isolated locale; no people around for a mile or so; and the resident cat is 'used' to my stuff). I tried my usual self-soothing--soft music which tends to stem the emotional tides sweeping over me, but...but...it was still hours to sleep, including a horrid dream where 'they' had caught up with me, familiar but terrifying each time it happens; this ended with an image I won't/can't describe here. No matter what, I can't seem to get out of the feeling attacked mode; it's unbearingly sad, and even crying (if I can) doesn't seem to bring relief ('you don't deserve relief').

"New Life" says the title on this journal. No magic, I tell myself; play elaborate mind games like seeing that word 'magic' within imagination (I-magic-observation). More comfort. Progress? Deep breath, doubts...hopes want in, too; but must it always be pushed over to some day?

*this is a link for the song that often soothes me:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42vwy6KMtVo

the lyrics:

Every long journey is made of small steps
Is made of the courage the feeling you get
When you know it's been waiting, been waiting for you
The journey's the only thing you want to do

We cannot know what you go through or see through your eyes
But we will surround you, the pride undisguised
In any direction whatever you view
You're taking our love there with you

In every long journey what drives you to go
It's half what you know and half what you don't
The secret's been waiting your heart's got the key
The secret's the only thing you want to see

Every long journey begins with a dream
A spirit with courage to make it all real
The dream has been calling, been calling to you
The dream is the only thing you want to do
---------------------------------------------------------------
There's always one line that breaks me..."But we will surround you, the pride undisguised". Who? Where? Where were they before? Why didn't they help? I still cry out for that.

[woodsgnome]

Alright, then. Love now, be now, am now, etc., ad infinitum--I get it already. And still have this awful inside gnaw of where to go from here. Why must it still seem so lonely? Must I have this constant cheer up chatter to convince myself this is real and/or okay? That I even belong in this life?

Desperately I look for the next turn. Turning corners seems like destiny instead of the promised recovery, with its implications that I'm returning to some life I never had to begin with. Makes for a pretty small horizon, all these corners. I kind of get it, then plunge into looking for the next wholeness revelation. Sure, that's alright, just like the rest of the jagged journey. And still there it is--all the old hesitations, regrets, wonderings (mostly how do I get outta here), and permanent sense of frustration.

Let 'em go? Yeah right. More word games, same old blah feelings. I don't want constant excitement or novelty--just contentment; maybe confidence to know that I am okay, secure instead of scared of unseen monsters ready to pounce on me. Or is this sense really all I'll ever see around those corners? 

[woodsgnome]

Stark but true.

I hate myself. Whatever the reasons or explanations, my 'recovery' starts and returns there, and I go mad with its steady reverbation no matter what I do.

When I take away all the basic insecurities of how I feel about this, what's always left is this self-hatred. Not as in 'sense of' self-hatred or 'imaginary' or any of those qualifiers; always I'm left with this raw and shameful notion backed up by all the 'I'm not okay' messages spinning so far back I could never pinpoint a starting point--it feels like I just came this way. I can think it wasn't so but the only convincing feelings (when I even feel and not 'numbed out') speak louder and more convincingly.

That's what it always boils down to. With things that deep, raw, and basic I'm highly discouraged about ever fully digging out. I get bits and dabs of life outside the bubble. But as sure as the sun rises in the east...

Disappointment that knows no bounds just sits and stays. And then I revert to beating up on myself yet again, which reinforces the self-image as a castaway, someone rejected and not close to finding a way. How many times and years must the trying go on? Fear has never given up its hold on me. What's different now? Fear stops me short of expecting that it can/will be any different, as if to say nothing has changed. Self-doubt joins self-hatred to where I'm a mess in the world around; my only salve being retreat. But even there the thoughts of self-anger and shame follow right along. All my work for change seems frozen in place.

That's the gruesome reality; it sits behind and pounces on every glint of happiness, contentment, or peace I reach out for. Backed into a corner of despair, I say I can accept that, in lieu of any other choices. It's just...finding enough daylight in the cracks to ever hope for a way out of that ominous corner. And then having the courage to follow that light without falling into the sure darkness of living in old pal fear.

I can mouth the words "I am lovable...I deserve love," even "I AM love." Still it seems I only reach a sense of awe, and that's primarily when I see it displayed in others, as love is more of a foreign country to my experience. It's still a wrenching disconnect with the love I see in others. I tell myself I'm working on it, and I'm trying. There's a problem with that--what's in the way is a lifetime of conditioning that brings me back to self-hate. Sure, I now understand "it's not my fault." Sadly, that doesn't fully turn the page. It sucks to have self-hate as the only steady pattern that seems real. The thought of staying trapped there terrifies me even more.

[radical]

It's a tough one, knowing the feelings have been conditioned into you, even a sense they don't have a solid base in reality but being enslaved by them.

One thing that made a big difference to me, was over a few years, opening up to my T, and coming to see and feel her genuinely glad to see me when I arrived. I'm very sensitive to facial expressions, most painfully, negative ones.  I feel I can read them well.  The problem with negative ones is the disproportionate affect, and the fact that the may not be related to me in particular, or may be about passing thoughts. Over time, the consistency of that look of my Ts gladness became solid enough the penetrate.

The lack of loving looks affected me as a child as much as cruel words and actions, maybe even more.  It is a pity we can only express that gladness in words here, because facial expressions can carry more weight in the heart.

When I saw your handle in the list of 'recently updated' I felt glad to see you here.