Author: KJ

Food issues revisited

~ KJ ~ 1 Comment

My eating habits have been so poor lately.  They’ve always been poor, but the medication I’ve been on is just reinforcing my bad habits.  While Topamax is great for curbing my desire to smoke and drink, it also curbs my already low appetite.  That, combined with nausea, has made it very easy for me to go a day, often longer, without eating.  It doesn’t even take any effort to not eat.  I know it must be affecting me because my roommate made a comment that I looked like I was losing weight, but not in a good way.  I’ve been consuming more Pepto-Bismol than food the last two weeks, so it makes sense.  Part of me doesn’t want to risk making a medication change because the medication is working in other ways.  Then part of me (in a sick way) likes the fact that I don’t have to put forth any effort into keeping up my eating disorder.

My food issues came up in therapy today.  My therapist always e-mails me on the weekends to check-in, and she gave me a list of favorites to fill out and reply back to her.  One of the favorites was food, to which I responded: “Hardest question ever, because food is the worst.  I guess rice.”  I figured she was going to bring it up at our session.  I’ve only briefly mentioned my issues with food because there’s always been so many fires that needed to be put out, that I’ve had very little time to actually sit down and delve into my real issues.  She did bring it up towards the end of our session, about why I think food is the worst, and out of all the foods I could have picked, I chose a food that people find the most bland.  I asked her where I should start.  I told her about my constant nausea, my dramatic weight loss and subsequent malnutrition and hospitalization.  I also told her about my food aversions, which she seemed to understand somewhat, as she is a picky eater herself.  Then I told her about my childhood, how my mother would take away food in order to punish us, how I got used to being hungry.

I told my therapist that I think a lot of my starvation issues in adulthood stem from food being taken away in childhood.  I use starvation as a form of continued self-punishment.  I don’t know.  I just don’t think my poor relationship with food came out of nowhere.  It’s probably a multi-faceted issue.  Who knows.  Then my therapist asked if I could be doing it in a way of being indirectly suicidal, knowing that continuing down this path could eventually kill me.  That hurt.  As much as I’d like to think it’s not, deep down, it probably is.  The self-destructive part of me always seems to be working, even when I’m not conscious of him.

I had to make a promise to my therapist that I would work on at least getting myself vitamins.  I think she’s worried about me, especially with my past malnutrition issues.  She suggested Ensure, but I told her I don’t want to spend $10 on four bottles of shakes.  I don’t even want to spend $10 a week on groceries.  She brought up getting financial assistance to buy food and supplements.  I don’t want assistance.  I’d rather starve.  I made the decision to up and leave.  I got myself into this mess.  That’s not the government’s fault.  I’ll figure shit out.  I’m not in a dire need right now, just overly cautious.  Food is not a priority for me.  It never has been.  I never learned that it should be.

As I was getting my stuff ready to leave, my therapist told me, in her serious tone, “if you ever come to a point that you really can’t afford it, you need to tell me.”  This woman already knows so many of my secrets.  I wouldn’t want to burden her with my shame.

Maybe one day I can have a healthy relationship with food.  But I also need to have a healthy relationship with myself and with my parts first, and I don’t even have that yet.  One step at a time.

How my mother portrays “reality” versus actual reality

~ KJ ~ 4 Comments

Sunday afternoon, I received a text message from a friend back from my old life (one of only two that I remain in contact with).  At the end of the text, she asked me if I had called my father.  Apparently my mother had told my friend how my father was oh so worried about me, oh so concerned, and how he was counting the weeks and worried that I wasn’t going to be coming back home.

There were so many things wrong with this situation.  In fact, let me use bullet points.

  • Why is my mother mentioning my father’s worry and concern and not hers? Answer: Because my mother knows that I know she doesn’t have feelings.
  • If my father was so worried and concerned, wouldn’t he have reached out? Answer: He has my cell phone number.  I haven’t blocked him.  I have not once received one phone call or one text message from him in the six weeks I’ve been gone.
  • Why is my mother telling this person this? Answer: Because this is the one person she has continued to manipulate, despite my efforts to show this person my mother’s true colors.  My mother also more than likely knows that this person keeps in contact with me, and knows it’s her only way to get through to me to try to manipulate me still.  Even a distance away, this woman will still try to fuck with my life.  She knows what she is doing.  She has been doing this for 29 years of my life.  She lives and breathes manipulation likes it’s necessary for survival.  My friend is just an unfortunate pawn in my mother’s game.

I immediately became overwhelmed with feelings upon reading the text.  I responded that my father had my number and had not made an effort to reach out, so I doubt that there was any genuine concern for me.  I continued to tell her that I do not trust anyone in my family, that they haven’t cared about me for the last 29 years so why would they start now?  Her response showed me that she didn’t understand where I was coming from at all.  My heart sank.  I responded “they can find someone else to abuse” and I just stopped responding after that.  Now I’m left questioning whether the relationship is worth fighting for.  As much as I love her, she doesn’t see my mother for the monster she really is; she still falls for my mother’s manipulation.  I can’t risk all the progress I’ve made on a relationship that may put that in jeopardy.

It’s not like I blame my friend.  My mother is great at portraying her own version of reality versus what reality actually is.  To be clear, for my own sanity, I decided to verify with someone who had some inner knowledge if my father was indeed concerned or worried about me.  My suspicions of a complete lack of concern were confirmed.  The only thing my father is worried about is getting rid of my stuff.  So much concern, right?  It doesn’t sound at all like the father my mother was portraying in her story to my friend.  Maybe she just forgot to leave out a few (thousand) details.

My mother always has a story for everything.  When outsiders would question why I seemed so distant and unresponsive, my mother would tell them “oh, she’s just sensitive” or “fragile.”  The reality: I was a broken child, trained not to speak to outsiders and living in fear of nearly everyone and everything.  When doctors questioned why I had so many UTIs, she ‘d make up these elaborate stories.  The reality: things were in my vagina that should not have been there.  To add on to that, she’d also often switch doctors, to which she’d blame on insurance problems, yet I was the only one who had to change doctors so much.  In my adulthood, my mother would tell people I was Bipolar and had a lying disorder.  The reality: I was struggling with PTSD and beginning to open up about the CSA and MDSA, and she felt threatened.  By saying that I had a lying disorder, she protected herself by creating a veil of doubt over anything I said.

The scariest part is that she has always been so convincing.  Sometimes I wonder if she believes her stories are real.  She’s that good.  I can see why so many fall for her lies.  I think many in my own family have.  It’s unfortunate, but what can I do?  I guess the most important thing is that I know what reality REALLY is, and it’s NOT her reality.

Six Weeks

~ KJ ~ 3 Comments

It has now been six weeks since my escape.  I’ve made it six weeks.  In some ways, it feels like time is rushing by me.  Six weeks?  I just got down here!  Where has the time gone?  I should be further along by now.  What am I waiting for?  But then, when I really sit back and think about it, I’ve done a lot in six weeks.  I’ve managed to keep a job for the past two weeks.  I managed to meet a few people and possibly make a few friends.  Yes, I ended up being hospitalized, and yes, I had a breakdown on a bus in the middle of the day.  But I came back.  Both times.  You can’t choose when and where your PTSD will affect you.  I can’t wake up in the morning and say “You know what, PTSD ain’t gonna bother me today!”  That’s not how it works.  The day can be going great and BOOM.  Flashback.  It just happens.  That is life with PTSD.

It has also now been five weeks since I started this blog.  I started this blog not really knowing what to expect.  I wanted to write about my journey, about my escape from a life of pain into a life without hurt.  I also wanted to give others a glimpse into the world of mother-daughter sexual abuse and how it has affected not only my past, but my present and my future as well.  So many people are afraid to speak up about it.  I was afraid, too.  But I’m not anymore.  As much as I want to spread awareness of MDSA, I cannot expect people to understand an issue if there’s no one there to speak up about it.  I need to be one of those people.  And I will be.

I did not go into this expecting my blog to reach so many people in such a short amount of time.  Within five weeks, I have over had over 200 visitors, and over 1,000 views.  It means a lot to me.  Even if someone has only read part of my story, I hope that part has stayed with them.  I am especially grateful for those that have continued to follow my story, and those that take time out to comment, even when I may not respond back.

I have also noticed, in the little over a week that I have been writing about my battle with a dissociative disorder, my followers have more than doubled and my visitors have increased significantly.  While I went into this originally planning to focus on MDSA, I also plan to write more on my journey with DID.  I believe this blog will be changing, just as I am.  And it’s for the better.

I also noticed, in reading over some of the comments and going over my recent posts, that I’ve let my recent issue with dissociation overtake my emotions.  I intended this blog to be hopeful for others, and instead it became the opposite.  I lost the sense of hope I had before.  A DID diagnosis isn’t going to change who I am.  I can’t let it change who I hope to be; that isn’t going to help others.  For all of the shit I’ve been through, a diagnosis will not change me.  I let a label define who I was and who I would be.  For that, I apologize.

To end on a good note, tomorrow marks the final day of my undergraduate career.  I have two papers due, one of them being my thesis.  I haven’t really worked on them much (procrastination seems to be a characteristic of any college student regardless of age), but I have actually passed the classes even without the last assignments.  All of these years, I have always been about perfection.  This last year, I have been on academic survival mode, doing whatever I can to get by and graduate.  I’ve been hospitalized five times (four for psychiatric, one for pneumonia) in the last year, I’ve juggled multiple jobs, and managed to plan my escape AND move all while continuing to go to school year-round.  And you know what?  Through it all, I still managed to get a 3.9 GPA.  I will be graduating with honors.  I did it.

Misplaced blame

~ KJ ~ 6 Comments

Last week, one of my therapists gave me Beginning to Heal: A First Book for Survivors of Child Sexual Abuse.  I read through it rather quickly, as it’s a small book.  Parts of it were difficult for me.  The hardest part was on page 38:

“When children are abused, their ability to say no is severely damaged.  So even if the abuse continued into adulthood, you are still not to blame.  There is no magic age when you suddenly become responsible for your own abuse.”

I struggled with this most of my adult life.  I still struggle with it to this day.  My mother remained physically and emotionally abusive until the day I left home.  But that didn’t bother me as much as living with the fact that she sexually abused me until I was 28 years old.  And I let it happen.  Every single time, I let it happen.

The sexual abuse wasn’t consistent.  It stopped being consistent when I turned 14/15.  But every time I got sick, which unfortunately for me was quite frequently, it was like she preyed on that, and I became like a child too weak to say no.

“You can’t bathe yourself, I’ll do it.”

I didn’t fight back.  She’d undress me and make me stand in the shower as she washed me down.  Then she’d lead me into the bedroom and dry every last part of me.  Then she’d dress me.  I couldn’t go to the bathroom myself.

“I have to watch you.  Keep the door open.”

And she would sit right beside me.  I didn’t fight back.  Why didn’t I fight back?  My arms weren’t broken.  My legs weren’t broken.  I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself.  But I couldn’t say no.  Here I was, a mentally competent adult in my 20s, letting someone take advantage of me.  How can I expect anyone to feel sorry for me when I chose not to stop this woman from continuing to abuse me?  I made the choice to let her.  I had a choice.  I could have said no.  I could have stopped her.  I could have left.  But I didn’t.  All of those times it happened, and I didn’t.

My own bad feelings about the situation were magnified when someone who I thought was a friend blew up on me, and said I was a grown ass woman who could just leave, but that I was “scared of my mommy”.  She then continued to call me derogatory names for not leaving, and that I just kept letting it happen and so it was my fault.  It was one of the worst verbal attacks I have ever experienced in my life, made even worse by the fact that it occurred on a public forum.  I was ashamed.  I was already feeling like so much of this was my fault, and she only confirmed by beliefs.  I was acting strong on the outside, but on the inside, I was breaking apart.  What kind of person lets their mother abuse them?  She’s right.  I must have issues.  Something must be wrong with me.

Except not.  Why are we victim-blaming?  The person responsible in this situation is my mother.  Not me.  When she abused me all of those times in adulthood, I was not an adult.  I was a scared child, afraid to go against her mother for fear of being hurt or killed.  Same situation, just a different age.  How should I have expected my response to be any different?  For so long, I’ve blamed myself for letting the abuse happen.  I blamed myself for what happened in childhood, but I especially blamed myself for what happened when I was an adult.  As if a magical cloud of knowledge and responsibility appeared before me on my 18th birthday and gave me everything I needed to know any better.

I should have known better.  But I couldn’t have.  I never had the opportunity to learn what was normal.

Why am I so unstable?

~ KJ ~ 3 Comments

I accomplished something today.

Then it all went downhill from there.

I was sitting in a coffee shop before my therapy appointment.  I looked up from the table and noticed a vehicle parked right outside.  The vehicle was the exact same make and model of my family’s vehicle, the same color, everything.  I immediately went into panic mode, put my head down and hid behind my bag.  I closed my eyes, as if that would protect me from anyone seeing who I really was.  I started talking to myself, trying to rationalize with my logical half that the likelihood that this was in fact my family was just too small.  But my panic wouldn’t have it.

I sat there for five minutes struggling to breathe, wanting to crawl inside myself and hide.  Continuing the conversation with myself, I eventually arrived at the logical conclusion to look at the license plate.  I peeked out from my self-made protective cocoon to make out the last half of the plate, and realized that it was not the same vehicle.  Then I started to calm myself down.  I brought myself back from an episode of panic.  It may have taken some time, but I did it.

Then I went to therapy.  I was still a little shaken up from the prior incident and I told her that, but I also told her how I managed to overcome what could have turned into a disaster.  Then I talked about my incident on the bus the other day.  Then I’m not sure where the conversation went because I don’t remember much after that.

Apparently I dissociated.  I really wish I could know when the hell it’s going to happen.  I really wish I could know what happens.  I came back to my therapist sitting next to me, holding my hands and asking if I was me.  Of course I was me, who else would I be?  Then I asked her what happened.  She asked me if I remembered anything.  I didn’t.  My memory sucks in general.  I don’t even remember what I typed at the beginning of this post.  Then she told me what happened.  How the tone in my voice changed.  How she had to hold my hands down because I kept trying to hurt myself.  How I resisted her holding me.  There was clearly an angry part of me that decided to show up today.  I wish it didn’t.  Now all I feel is embarrassment over how I acted.  Part of me doesn’t even want to go back to therapy.  Then part of me is wondering what else I have done to people and I don’t even remember doing it.

There’s no more room for doubts now.  My therapist began asking about how I viewed my parts, if I had named them, etc.  I turned my head away and tried to hold back tears.  She asked me what was going through my head, and all I could say was “I don’t want to be crazy.”  I think she may forbid me from using that “c” word from now on.  I use it a lot.  She said a lot of reassuring things, but it was difficult for me to take.  She told these parts are what helped me survive. They helped keep me alive. I don’t know. This whole diagnosis is hard for me to accept.  I need time.

Meeting people

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

In general, I have a hard time meeting new people.  A lot of that comes from growing up and being conditioned not to speak to anyone outside of our inner family circle.  Some of it is this underlying fear that people can see right through me and know all of the disgusting truths that lie within.  And then a small part of it is just lack of social skills, which sort of ties back to my shitty upbringing.

Even though I’ve been down here now almost six weeks, I have, for the most part, actively avoided meeting people.  I haven’t really had the energy to expend on others because I have been so preoccupied trying to keep myself together.  Luckily, I haven’t been approached by anyone, so it hasn’t been an issue.  Until yesterday.

I clocked out of work at one o’clock and went to the lounge to grab my things.  I sat down at the table to make sure I had everything before I left to catch the bus, when a man’s head popped out from the couch in front of me to say hello.  I recognized him from having briefly been introduced the first day I started.  He immediately struck up a conversation and I found myself sitting there, listening intently.  Then he said “I don’t even know why I’m telling you so much, I just feel really comfortable talking to you.”  I get that a lot.  Which is weird to me, because I also have been told by a few that I am completely unapproachable due to my permanent resting bitch face.  Even so, most people have felt that same inexplicable comfort in coming to me with their problems; I’ve been “counseling” people since I was in high school.  I always found it ironic because my greatest desire was for someone, anyone to help me, and here I was helping everyone else.

Back to work guy, he started asking me questions. Not in a pushy way, just general curiosity.  He knew I just moved here (I had mentioned it in our brief introduction), and he asked me where I moved, if I had a roommate, etc.  I explained I had a roommate I just met.  He was a little shocked, so I explained that I moved here on a whim.  He seemed naturally curious and asked why someone would do that (which I should have expected, I didn’t think that through).  At this point, I’m playing out all of the scenarios in my head.  What do I tell him?  Do I make up a story?  Shit, I should have come up with a cover story beforehand.  I don’t have enough time now.  I can’t tell him the truth, these people won’t understand.  That’s way too much to throw on someone I just met.  My head was spinning.  I just went with what came out.  “Have you ever just been around toxic people?  I was, and I just got to a point where I knew I needed to make a change, so I did. And I left.”  I’m pretty sure I panicked the ten seconds between my last word and his response.  But he didn’t freak out.  He said “I understand toxic people.  That was a big risk you took.  I don’t think I could ever do that.”  Whew.  Crisis averted.

Here we are, now 35 minutes into a conversation, still going well, still not needing an Ativan to keep it together.  Then he asked about my duck.  The duck I carry around to help keep me grounded.  The duck I held close to me that day like it was worth a million dollars because I was still so unstable from the day before.  Why did he have to ask about the duck?  I turned my head away from him and said “It’s stupid.  I’ll tell you another day.”  But he persisted.  “I won’t make fun of you or judge you,” he said, “I really want to know.”  There went my head again.  Cue hurricane of scenarios spinning in my mind.  I couldn’t be rude.  This guy seemed really nice and genuine.  But there’s only so much people can understand.  I know for sure he wouldn’t know about DID.  PTSD?  Maybe.  Let’s go with that.  So I told him I have PTSD, and I carry it around to keep me grounded in case I start having flashbacks.  His head dropped and he apologized, but he had nothing to be sorry for.  He knew what PTSD was; he knew a few people who had it.  He asked me what caused mine.  I said I had a really traumatic past.  At this point, I didn’t even hesitate or overthink on what to say.  My response just came out.  Then he opened up about his childhood and how he has dealt with his stress.

We talked about Superman (he noticed my bag), the movies (we both like going), about people who drink and smoke too much, and then about crazy customers.  Before I knew it, an hour had passed.  He was about to go punch in for work and asked if I was on any social media.  Fuck.  Everyone is on social media.  Unless you are in hiding from your abusive family.  FUCK.  The reality of my situation really set in at that point.  I realized that even though for the last hour I felt almost normal, I was still living the life of a person in hiding, because I very much am a person in hiding.  I said “Well, I did.  I do, but it’s under a fake name.”  I looked to the floor like I was ashamed.  He said “That’s alright.  I don’t know much about you, but from what I do know I’m sure you have your reasons for it.”  What is wrong with this person?  Why is he still talking to me?  And then…THEN…he asked for my number!  Even worse, I gave it to him.  I don’t know what is wrong with me.  Fuck this human connection shit.

Superman

~ KJ ~ 3 Comments

The other day, one of my therapists suggested that I buy a stuffed animal to comfort my child self.  I never had a stuffed animal.  If I needed to hold onto something, I’d use a pillow.  I’m usually compliant when it comes to therapy, so that night, I checked online to see if there were any stuffed animals that caught my eye.  After ten minutes or so, I came across the perfect bear – a brown teddy bear dressed in a blue sweater with a lightning bolt, red cape, and eye mask.  It was the teddy bear version of Superman.

I knew I had to have it, so the next day, I trekked to the nearest Toys R Us and searched frantically for over a half an hour for that bear.  I even went to customer service, who could only tell me that they had it in stock and that it “must be somewhere in the store.”  I was minutes away from breaking down and crying before I finally found it, stuffed behind a bunch of ballerina bears.  I hugged that teddy bear so hard, right there in the middle of the store.  No fucks given.  That bear was mine.

You might be wondering why it was that particular bear that I needed.  As a child, I would close my eyes and hope that Superman would fly down and defeat my evil mother and save me from ever having to be hurt again.  I would look out the window, just waiting for him to fly through, at the same time trying to distract myself from the pain of the abuse.  Superman never came.  But that never stopped me.  Superman gave me hope in a hopeless situation.

Now that I am older, I know that Superman can’t save me.  I have to save myself.  In a way, I had to become my own Superman.  I took on a Superman persona.  I wore my Superman pajamas every night to bed.  I wore Superman t-shirts all the time.  I even wore a cape (out in public).  People that knew me associated me with Superman.  During a group therapy workshop a few weeks back, we had a body image exercise in which other members and therapists wrote messages on traced images of our bodies; my therapist drew the “S” and wrote Superman on mine.  Among all of the messages, it stood out the most.  I knew I wasn’t Superman.  I just needed to feel like I was in a theoretical sense.

My coworkers used to call me Superman because I could do anything.  I could unload trucks, answer any question, and complete any task with ease.  Little did they know how weak I really was.  I could lift a 200-lb grill by myself, but I didn’t have the strength to fight back my abusive mother.  While I may be physically strong on the outside, my inside is completely shattered.  There’s no point in having physical strength without the support of an internal structure.

While I have escaped, I still don’t see myself as strong.  I didn’t confront my mother.  I didn’t stand up to her.  I didn’t stand my ground.  I left in a weak way.  There was nothing Superman about that.  I’m still so broken.  Why didn’t anyone save me?

Five Weeks

~ KJ ~ 3 Comments

As I typed in the title of this post, I wondered when (and if) I would ever stop labeling the weeks of my life based off of the time I escaped my ‘old’ life.  I’m sure there may come a point in the future when I will be so occupied with my new life that I will no longer need to base it off of the old.  For now, I feel that each week that goes by is an accomplishment.  I came here expecting very little of myself.   I’m not even sure I expected to make it one week.  Now I’ve made it five weeks.  So what’s stopping me from making it six, seven, eight weeks?

I probably shouldn’t even be writing this blog post right now.  I have a thesis that is not writing itself.  Chapter 5 was due last Sunday while I was hospitalized and I have yet to hand it in.  Honestly, I haven’t even started it.  I’ve been so preoccupied with work, so exhausted with adjusting to a new schedule, and so many things on my mind that I just haven’t been able to sit down and focus.  It will get done today, I promise..right after I finish this post.

I can’t believe I have one more week of school left.  One. More. Week.  I have to give myself credit.  In five weeks, I have moved/escaped, got a new job, started therapy, gotten hospitalized, and still managed to write 60 pages of a thesis on a topic that I unfortunately live with every day.  And in one more week, I’ll have my 120 credits (121 actually) for my BA in Psychology.  I don’t know that many others would have been able to do what I’ve done.  I have fallen, but I’ve also gotten right back up.

In my previous post, I briefly mentioned the possibility of a DID diagnosis.  For me, it was hard to swallow.  That whole experience was hard to swallow.  I was dissociating so badly, it was out of control.  I could have been hospitalized again.  The other therapist brought up the possibility of putting me in IOP and my heart sank.  For me, I see that as a failure.  I am in no way saying those that go to IOP are failures, I am saying for me personally, it is a failure.  I want to be as normal as possible.  I want to be able to go to work every day.  I want to function.  I feel like IOP takes that away from me.

At the same time I understood where she was coming from.  I can’t put them in a position where I am a danger and it comes back on them.  They are only equipped to do so much.  I told them I didn’t want to do IOP.  I’ll do whatever it takes not to do IOP.  But to do that, I need to accept that I have a dissociative disorder and focus my treatment on that, instead of trying to cover up my symptoms and having it blow up in my face like it did in therapy on Thursday.

I think hearing those words hurt more because I knew deep down that I had a problem with dissociation.  I was familiar with DID from my courses in psychology and through meeting people with DID through trauma support groups.  I always felt that so many of the symptoms rang true for me.  But I didn’t want them to.  No one wants DID.  No one wants a lifetime of therapy, a lifetime of misunderstanding from others (although I sort of have that already).  There’s no cure.  DID won’t go away with a pill.  A lot of therapists won’t even acknowledge its existence and therefore won’t treat it.  It’s a complicated diagnosis.  It’s a complicated disorder.  I don’t need any more complications.  Why can’t life be simple?

Maybe I am just overwhelmed right now.  I’ve always wanted answers, and now that I have them, I am pushing them away because they are not the answers I want.  Why is it that now that I have escaped the horrible abuses my mother had been committing against me for so so long, that I am still being affected?  Why couldn’t everything just become normal once I left?  Why do I still have to suffer? She should be the one in the hospital (or better yet, in prison).  She should be the one in therapy trying to figure out why she does the fucked up shit she does.  She should be hurting.

Instead she’s living her life day in and day out like it’s nothing, like everything is okay.   Yet here I am, physically and emotionally in pain.  Here I am paying for therapy instead of groceries because my mind is going to kill me before hunger does.  And here I am struggling day in and day out trying to keep it together, not only for myself, but for those out there (my friends, my readers, my therapists) who are pulling for me.  This shit is backwards.

There is a part of me that is strong, that knows I can overcome anything and do great things.  Unfortunately, a lot of times, that part goes into hiding and I am left with my fearful, anxious self.  The self that doesn’t want to get out of bed.  The self that is so scared just to take a shower.  The self that fears mother is coming to hurt me.  I almost enjoy when I’m not myself because it gives me a break from living in fear for a while.  Or maybe it’s not even myself.  Maybe it’s another part of me entirely.  How do I even know?

Maybe I understand myself a little more than I like to acknowledge.

Resilience

~ KJ ~ 3 Comments

Some would say it’s a contradiction for someone with PTSD to refer to themselves as resilient, since PTSD itself contradicts healthy adaptation to stress.  But you know what, I am resilient.  I don’t care who agrees or disagrees with me.  It doesn’t matter.  I’ve made up my mind.

With less than a day of being released from the hospital, I started my job.  I called them as soon as a got out of the hospital to find out if I even still had a job.  Luckily my roommate called them while I was in the hospital so they were somewhat aware (though they do not know the circumstances).  I woke up at 4:45 in the morning so I would be able to shower and get ready in time to make it to the 6:00 bus.  I was tired and in pain, but I managed.  There were a couple of times when I just had to go to the bathroom to decompress for a few minutes.  I also lost myself for I don’t know how long.  When I came back to reality, it took me a few seconds to even realize where I was and what I was doing.  I don’t think anyone noticed, thankfully.  It’s not something I wanted to happen on the first day, though.  I’m so scared of someone not understanding what’s going on.  Why can’t I just be normal and not dissociate and not have flashbacks and not have breakdowns?

Regardless of all that, you know what?  I still went to work.  I functioned like a normal human being.  I would bet my savings that a good portion of the other patients that were discharged either went right back to drugs or right back to another hospital (most of them admitted that they would).  I’m not about that life.  I want to function.  I’m fighting my hardest to be normal despite all this bullshit I have to deal with.  How is that not being resilient?

Even in childhood, I managed to adapt quite well despite everything that was going on.  I received excellent grades.  I rarely got into trouble (except the rare instances when I was tremendously bored out of my mind).  I wasn’t a complete social outcast, though I was definitely socially inept.  Perhaps being resilient hurt me in a way, because no one suspects anything bad is going on when a child is acting relatively normal.  Maybe if I did act out, someone would have noticed something was wrong.  Resiliency seems to have been a double-edged sword for me.  While it got me through to adulthood alive, it also quite possibly prolonged the abuse and trauma I experienced for so long.  But I can’t do anything about that now.

I know a lot of people think I am weak for not being able to handle myself all of the time.  My strengths far outweigh my moments of weakness.  Maybe that is my fault for not talking as much about my strengths as I do about my faults.  I believe people can learn more from me if I talk about the things that so many others don’t want to talk about.  No matter what people say, no matter what people think…I am strong.  I am resilient.  I am me.