voicelessagony2 journal

[voicelessagony2]

When I was 18 or 19, my mother took away my house key and told me that if I ever stayed out all night again, I would not be allowed to return home.

Of course, probably the very next weekend, I stayed out, knowing that I did not have anywhere to go, no place to live. I slept in my car the first night, then I reached out to the only 2 friends I had, and one of them let me stay the next night, but she was in a new relationship and they wanted their privacy.

The details are fuzzy after that. But that was how my "adult" life began, on my own with no job, no home, and no turning back.

I was alone, adrift on the ocean of life, surrounded by predators who repeatedly abused, robbed, and violated me. Rowing my little life raft madly in whatever direction my emotions led me in, desperately trying to escape the predators circling around me, condemned and terrorized by the critic inside if I dared to stop rowing for one second. I'm so far behind! I'll never catch up! I must look my best at all times!

Earlier this year, after my last consulting job ended, I told that critic to F- off and leave me alone. I was tired of - no, I was fed up with - the cycle of fear-induced adrenaline, do-whatever-it-takes to get a job, gotta be the bestest of the best and maybe they will give me a forever home, and then the soul-crushing rejection when they say, "no... it's not you, it's us." The cycle of severe diet and exercise to return to an acceptable size and weight, according to my absurd standards, measuring myself against only the most impossibly perfect images on magazine covers.

So here I sit, oars in my lap, staring up at the sky, listening to the sounds around me, and the voices inside my head. Feeling the tug of emotions and noticing when I go numb. Wondering why I am still alive. Thankful that I am. Eating whatever I want, and not exercising very much at all. Ignoring the calendar ticking past month after month, bank account evaporating before my eyes. I'm not well, and I know that now, but I cannot continue to pretend I belong in a world that I am unequipped to survive in.

Last week, I decided I had all the pieces I need, to my 10,000 piece jigsaw puzzle that is my mental illness. Right now, they are all in a mixed-up pile on the floor, and I am beginning to turn each piece over, looking at the colors and patterns, putting a couple pieces together here and there. This puzzle has my full attention now, and even if it takes the rest of my life, I will not stop working on it.

I know I will begin to get better soon.

[voicelessagony2]

I guess the reason I began that story with how I left home, because I still have that panic feeling every single day. I feel like I'm walking a tightrope without a net. I feel like I'm living life like a skittish horse with the whites of my eyes showing, a nervous wreck trying to figure out how all this works... like do you remember not knowing how to drive a car, did you ever have scary dreams that you had to drive & the car was out of control?

I am still just a child playing grown-up, and it's exhausting, and I'm not doing it right.

I love watching these "Kid Snippets" videos for a giggle, it makes me wonder if they know how I feel???

http://youtu.be/lQxHfeawb1k

[schrödinger's cat]

Mine feels more like a merry-go-round filled with impossibly competent, successful and pretty people, and it's turning too fast, and I have to jump on but I can't. And I've always felt like I'm with my back to the wall, only there isn't even a wall, so anything might attack me at any time from any direction.

Sorry I didn't reply to your initial post. Your story made my brain bluescreen. I've got kids myself, and your mother's callousness - I just couldn't even begin to find words for it. No wonder you can't feel safe. I guess that event (where she took away your key) was only the tip of the iceberg, and that life wasn't precisely all roses and unicorns for you before that happened. And, like I said, I don't have words.      

I'm glad you're here. Hang in there. I hope the wind will soon be at your back again.

[voicelessagony2]

Mine feels more like a merry-go-round filled with impossibly competent, successful and pretty people, and it's turning too fast, and I have to jump on but I can't. And I've always felt like I'm with my back to the wall, only there isn't even a wall, so anything might attack me at any time from any direction.

Sorry I didn't reply to your initial post. Your story made my brain bluescreen. I've got kids myself, and your mother's callousness - I just couldn't even begin to find words for it. No wonder you can't feel safe. I guess that event (where she took away your key) was only the tip of the iceberg, and that life wasn't precisely all roses and unicorns for you before that happened. And, like I said, I don't have words.      

I'm glad you're here. Hang in there. I hope the wind will soon be at your back again.

Thank you, cat... you have no idea - well, maybe you do - how much it means to be validated for a change. 

My mother had the outward appearance of a saint. When I was going through my teens, I transformed from being a terrified little girl, into a raging, drinking/drugging delinquent, but all people saw from the outside was my poor victimized mother, and me, the out of control teenager, and nobody ever knew or cared about the abuse I had endured when I was defenseless. I tried to tell a cousin once, and she verbally *-slapped me, telling me how wonderful my mother was and how ungrateful I was, and how dare I say such horrible things that just weren't true. 

[schrödinger's cat]

That reminds me of a few things I read about from people with narcissist mothers. Several people here mentioned how difficult that is, to have people go "oh, your mother is such a wonderful woman". Do you think your mother could be a narcissist? I'm not saying she is, I don't know narcissism from a hole in the ground... but I'm assuming you could probably tell if a list of symptoms sounds familiar? There's a lot of stuff out there on "narcissistic mothers" or "narcissistic parents", so you probably stumbled upon it already?

[voicelessagony2]

I don't know, she may have been, but she has changed a lot. She's 75 now, and for years has been taking prozac, and we really have a good relationship finally after all the pain. She does not act like a npd now, and from what I have read they are unlikely to ever change. So my guess is BPD or CPTSD, but since she keeps things so tightly bottled up, I may never know.

There are some scary skeletons in my mom's family closet. I just learned 2 months ago, that a cousin of mine was sexually abused as a child by one of our older cousins, and my mom recently casually mentioned that her older sister who passed away years ago, had a "nervous breakdown" back in the 60's before I was born. That would be the aunt who spawned the abusers. It really makes me wonder what other secrets have been swept under the rug??? What happened to my mom when she was young that messed her up & she will never talk about it?

[voicelessagony2]

I went for my bloodwork yesterday, and confessed that I had already given up on the zoloft, as it made me too sleepy without my ADD meds and too aggravated with them. She very kindly, but firmly recommended that I keep trying, because it takes time for it to take full effect. So I decided to try taking zoloft at bedtime, instead of in the morning with my other meds. I don't know for sure because it's only been one night, but I woke up late today, 9:30-ish, and felt really rested (such a rare feeling!) and all day I have felt ... almost like, happy or something! I'm in a really good mood today, and I feel like doing stuff! Like maybe I'll put some christmas decorations up or something even! I really hope this continues!!

[voicelessagony2]

I am so lonely.

Knowing what I know today, having experienced life with mental illness, and with increasing understanding about what it has done to me, I can truly say with complete sincerity that if I were somehow able to choose between mental illness and any one or more physical impairments, I would prefer anything - I would gladly exchange my sight, hearing, speech, or any other combination - for having a sound mind and a chance at real happiness. Disabilities and diseases that affect the physical body are usually not dismissed as hypochondria, or shamed and shrouded in mystery, and there are plenty of examples like Helen Keller who actually go far beyond basic functionality and become sources of inspiration. When has anyone with mental illness been a source of inspiration, rather than an object of pity and judgment?

For 47 years I have been judged by others and myself as being lazy, self-indulgent, self-pitying and under-achieving. I have been mostly silent about my internal struggles because I have learned over time, that nobody will understand, even if they want to. More often than not, they don't. They told me I was fine, and nothing is wrong with me, and wondered why I fell apart over every relationship disaster, why I have no stability, or why I seemed determined to self-destruct with drugs and alcohol in my youth.

I also became skilled at minimizing and suppressing what I think I know about myself in order to fit in, and besides, I had no understanding of how others experience their internal world. I could never articulate, at any level, what I struggled with, because the vocabulary did not exist, and I had no other way to demonstrate or illustrate what I struggled with. So I concluded that there must not be anything "really" wrong with me, and any perceived failure in life must be caused by lack of willpower, lack of discipline, and weakness of character.

Only now, after learning about complex PTSD, do I finally get some validation and evidence that maybe I'm not just a failure. Maybe this is why I've been tapping into the only resource I know about, which is a limited supply of adrenaline fueled by fear and panic and self-loathing, and the well has run dry. This is why I have never stopped seeking encouragement and inspiration from Tony Robbins-style "You can do it! You can be anything!" and part of me has formed a permanent internal dialogue that is simultaneously optimistic and unrealistic. That dialogue has literally saved my life, but it also provides a scaffold that holds my own performance expectations impossibly high. Combining that with with a complete disconnection / dis-association with the passage of time, I am stuck in a persistent state of anxiety, frantically searching for my glass slipper so I may join in the dance with everyone else.

I am so lonely. Loneliness is my twin, conjoined at the heart. I am an only child, raised in an unimaginably remote part of the country. I failed to develop the vital necessary social skills needed to survive in modern society. As much as I was aware of and resented being isolated, it nonetheless became part of who I am. I do not know how much of my current state of loneliness is voluntary. At least some of it is. I find myself more and more easily and unemotionally severing every social connection, one by one, and finding an odd but very real comfort in my self-created isolation. I see clearly that I am re-creating my childhood state, and I know it can't be healthy, but I am stuck in it like quicksand up to my neck. I'm not struggling any more, though. It's like I've realized that I'm not going to sink any further, and I can still breathe and see, and the quicksand is actually warm and comfortable. I will get out someday. Just not today.

[Rain]

When has anyone with mental illness been a source of inspiration, rather than an object of pity and judgment?

Marsha Linehan is a hero in the psychology world as she is the creator of DBT.   She is self-acknowledged BPD.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/06/23/health/23lives.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0

And, many people are successful.

http://www.wcvb.com/health/14414700

[voicelessagony2]

Thank you Rain.

I guess I knew about some of these people. I have not seen Unbroken yet, but maybe today!

The judgment still hangs over me, I can't shake it easily. Here is why: I started my usual practice of starting with a link someone shared here in OOTS, and pursuing the author or whoever (can't remember at the moment) and following links to see who they are connected with, etc., and ended up finding a question on a blog that just NAILED a topic I have been wrestling with. How to address, or more specifically, how to decide whether or not to address, mental illness in one's professional life and career. The advice given by the blog author, who is a seemingly successful professional in my line of work, communications, who also has mental illness, was to NOT reveal anything because they would definitely be judged by those who are screening candidates.

While I understand why she said that, and I suppose it is sound advice, it still leaves me with confirmation (in my mind, anyway) that there is still shame and judgment about mental illness, and it feeds right into the ongoing dread I feel about my professional future.

Don't get me wrong, it's not like I want to make it part of the title of my resume. "Voiceless Agony - Communications Consultant/CPTSD Advocate" I just want to be unafraid to speak up about it and not have to hide my identity out there in the real world. I want to explain myself to my LinkedIn contacts, why I occasionally go offline. I want to explain my erratic job history and tell those who have worked with me in the past, that there is a real reason for my bizarre behavior, and I am working really hard at getting better.

It seems like all of the examples out there, are people who managed to survive in spite of mental illness, but their primary identity is established in other ways FIRST. Dr. Linehan is awesome, but she is not a household name.

I'm sorry, if it seems that I am just determined to be negative right now. I guess I am just really wrestling with this right now because of my own situation. I am having the mother of all identity crises. How can I sell myself as a professional when I don't even know my favorite color? At this moment, my illness really does define me. It is the only thing I am certain of, and in a weird way if feels kind of good to FINALLY be certain of something!! For the first time, ever!

I just feel like, if I can figure out a way to articulate our experiences in a way that "normal" people can understand, THAT would be an awesome thing for someone who calls herself a communicator to do. Exactly how Helen Keller figured out how to explain to the rest of the world, what it's like to learn to communicate without the benefit of basic senses.

[voicelessagony2]

And you summarized it best, voiceless when you write, "my illness really does define me."

It does, and I know that sounds like a bad thing, but it's not. I don't see it as a permanent label, just a snapshot of where I am right now.

[schrödinger's cat]

Voiceless, ---- oh hey, it's in your user name too, isn't it? The fact that CPTSD makes such a large part of our lives invisible to others, I mean, and what you said about not being able to just say the (full) truth about how we are. --- sorry, I broke off what I wanted to say - I'd typed out your name and went "oh wow". What I wanted to say was, I relate to that. To the loneliness, too. I've let several social connections die down, mostly because I had to avoid triggers, and I'm without friends at the moment. I was so afraid of that while it was starting to happen. But now that it has, it's not as bad as I feared. A bit like you said: that's simply the way it is, right now.

About CPTSD defining us: it's like coming from another country. It's where we start out from, where we live, and what we cope with. Would that fit?

[Kizzie]

Hi VA - sending you a BIG    I loved the Helen Keller story and if you want to make a similar contribution to raising awareness about CPTSD (making it relatable, understandable), I'm happy to support you.  I started the site because like you I was lost and voiceless for so many years, decades really and I kept thinking of all the others out there who had no real recourse.  Here we are no longer alone and can make our voices heard.

[voicelessagony2]

Voiceless, ---- oh hey, it's in your user name too, isn't it? The fact that CPTSD makes such a large part of our lives invisible to others, I mean, and what you said about not being able to just say the (full) truth about how we are. --- sorry, I broke off what I wanted to say - I'd typed out your name and went "oh wow". What I wanted to say was, I relate to that. To the loneliness, too. I've let several social connections die down, mostly because I had to avoid triggers, and I'm without friends at the moment. I was so afraid of that while it was starting to happen. But now that it has, it's not as bad as I feared. A bit like you said: that's simply the way it is, right now.

About CPTSD defining us: it's like coming from another country. It's where we start out from, where we live, and what we cope with. Would that fit?

Ha, I understand about the name. Your name just struck me too, as schrodinger's cat is there and not there, until somebody looks... my voicelessness would be best illustrated by the character Neo in "The Matrix" when he was stuck in that room and they made his mouth disappear... that's exactly how I feel when I get triggered, in arguments with boyfriend or in interviews when they take an aggressive attitude.

I'm also more or less comfortable with the loneliness, although I am quite sure it would be different if I was not in a relationship. I feel like a snake shedding its skin... I'm shedding a worn out, useless persona that is holding me back from my healing journey. Cutting ties this time is not my usual bridge-burning, black and white judgment of people. It's deliberate, and motivated by self-compassion.

[voicelessagony2]

Recently I have been having unwelcome thoughts and feelings about myself. I can't even describe it; it comes on quite suddenly, a horrified gasp, and there is an entity posing as "sanity" or "reason" that asks, "What if you are exaggerating all of this? Your childhood was really not that bad. You were not sexually abused by family. You were not beaten. Why are you dwelling on this so-called "trauma" What if none of this ever really happened? Why are you accusing your loving mother of being so horrible?"

Deep breath.

I know that is my critic. He is getting sneakier.