Migraines and malnutrition

These past couple of days have been rough on me. I’ve had no energy, alternating fever and chills, and a pounding headache that would not go away. At first, I thought I was coming down with the flu. I stopped in the drug store before therapy today and looked at the OTC flu medications, and realized I didn’t have most of the symptoms. I had no cough and no more congestion (I had some the day before, but it was probably allergies). Then I looked at the pain relievers. On a whim, I picked up some extra strength migraine medication. I took it, and within an hour, I felt substantially better. The pain in my head is still there, but the sensitivity is gone and I feel like I can actually do something more than lay in bed in the dark.

I completely overlooked the possibility that it could have been a migraine. I haven’t had a migraine in awhile. I used to get them often. Headaches were also a huge problem for me. I remember I had one a couple of years ago that lasted for a month. I was miserable, and nothing I took helped. Then one day I woke up and it was gone.

I’m sure my diet doesn’t help my situation, either. I was so scared I was going to pass out at work yesterday that I ate a half a banana. I don’t think I can adequately explain how hard that was for me. I’ve mentioned before that I have a lot of food aversions and issues with taste and texture. The texture of banana is so off-putting to me. It took me 10 minutes to eat it and I tried very hard not to gag. In that moment, I was desperate.

My therapist has been aware of my eating issues and my previous hospitalization for malnutrition. We’ve only talked about it briefly, but she seemed a little more concerned given our last couple of sessions. Last week, I couldn’t even focus in session because I hadn’t eaten. In today’s session, I told her what happened with the banana and while she was happy that I took that step and ate something “new”, she was worried about the path I was going down. She asked me if I thought there was a possibility I could be hospitalized again. I hesitated. I’ve been taking some vitamins, but I’m afraid it’s not enough. I’m losing my hair, my energy levels are shit, I have regular muscle cramps and I have the all-too-familiar beau’s lines on my fingernails.

I wish it were easier for me to eat consistently. Some days are good for me. I feel hunger; I eat. Other days, I don’t feel hungry; I find excuses not to eat. I try to rationalize it in my head by going over all of the reasons I don’t deserve to eat. It’s horrible. It’s twisted. I admit it. I feel like I am repeating bad childhood habits and experiences, but instead of my mother being the critical one, it’s me. I have a lot to work on. I know that. My therapist doesn’t want me to end up in the hospital; I don’t either. So we’re going to tackle my eating issues a little more in-depth. It’s my fault for brushing it off for this long and pretending like everything was okay.

I have a lot going on this week. I have a full work schedule.Therapy again on Thursday, and a meeting for PAFPAC on Friday. I also need to make sure I have everything I need for grad school next week. I just hope this migraine subsides so I can get everything done.

6 months

Six months ago today, I left my abusive family and gained my freedom.

I had no idea what my future would hold. I left everything that I owned (with the exception of two bags of clothes and shoes and my computer) and everyone that I knew and loved to move somewhere completely new and unknown to me. I had low expectations. I was scared that I would not be able to make it very far on my own. I realize now that those beliefs were part of my programming. I was made to believe that I could never thrive, or even exist, apart from my ‘family’.

But I have existed, and I have thrived. And I couldn’t have done it without therapy. It’s amazing how much time I’ve spent in therapy just in the last six months. Over 50 individual sessions and two six-hour sessions of group therapy, with thousands of dollars spent. I wish I could send the bills to my family. Even though it is a significant financial strain on me, I can’t be without therapy, so I make things work.

During my therapy session yesterday, I told my therapist that I expected more…I didn’t even finish my sentence. My mind got lost for a minute and I told her “nothing, never mind.” She asked me what I was going to say. I told her nothing. “I don’t know how you would finish that sentence,” she said, “because you’ve done so much. You got a great job within weeks of being down here, you’re starting grad school in two weeks, you’re building an organization and helping people. You’re doing awesome.” I knew that already, but that wasn’t where my mind was heading. I expected to have closure.

I didn’t approach dealing with my family in the way I idealized it in my head. I wanted to confront them somehow, but I didn’t. I never even sent the letter I had written to my mother before I moved.  I wanted to get everything off my chest. I wanted my parents to admit to what they had done. I wanted them to be sorry. My therapist quickly reminded me that, even if my parents did admit their wrongs (which itself is a stretch), they would likely never be sorry.

She was right. My mother is a narcissist who never believes she does any wrong and my father is just…I don’t even know. They’re both too fucked up for words. I have to tell myself that I will never get what I need from them. I never have before, so why would I now?

I decided to celebrate my six months of freedom in my own way. After work today, I went to the movies and then went for ice cream. Then I stopped at the Disney store and picked out a dinosaur toy (one of my littles is dinosaur-obsessed – s/he hasn’t stopped talking about dinosaurs for days now).

I went to the bookstore and perused the children’s section for an hour looking for some books. I found a book on courage, but in a quick scan of its content, I noticed it mentioned being with mom, and quickly put it back. Then I found a book about feelings. It was really colorful and described all of the different feelings and reasons and all that good stuff. Feelings are something that I struggle with and I imagine the inside struggles with as well due to our upbringing. It seemed like a good book to let them know that it’s okay to have feelings and to talk about them. I also found a book about not being afraid to be who you are, even when people say or do mean things to you. I just want them to know that they are safe now. I hope getting these books will help us all just a little.

I am looking forward to tomorrow. I have a lot of sleep to try to catch up on. I am going to stay in all day and try to do fun things – color, work on puzzles, write – all of the things I haven’t had much time to do lately. I’ve been ignoring my parts. My therapist has been encouraging me to reconnect with them, so I’m trying to do what I can. It’s exhausting just to care for myself, and I often neglect those parts of me when they may need me the most. I’m still learning. I’m not perfect. But I am going to be okay. We all are.

[For the first time, I am going to share my blog on my regular social media account. I realized that, in a weird way, I still felt like I needed to protect my mother and my family’s image by hiding the blog from people that know her and I. But why am I protecting her? She doesn’t deserve my protection. I should not be the one hiding. She can’t hurt me anymore.]

Pardon me while I rant

There’s been a story going around on social media about a woman who makes her son take her out on a dinner date and pay as a way of showing her son how to treat a woman.

The story bothers me for a few reasons. One, I don’t think it’s right to impose expectations of sexuality on a young child. She is telling her son he has to grow up and take women out on proper dates. What if he doesn’t want to date women? What if he is gay, or even asexual? She’s not giving him that option; only that he must date women and treat them this certain way.

I could go on. But what bothers me the most about this story (and others) is that focus is centered on teaching boys how to respect women. We don’t teach girls how to respect men. Instead, we teach them what to expect from a man, as if they deserve something greater just for being female. Respect is not gender-specific. We should be teaching children to respect other people, regardless of their gender.

Most people ignore the fact that just as many women perpetrate domestic violence against men as men do against women. Or they say that men are stronger, so their violence is obviously much worse than what a woman could do.

This sentiment makes me want to put my head through a wall. Yes, I’ll agree that in general, men have the capacity to be physically stronger because they can develop more muscle mass. It doesn’t mean they all are. And it doesn’t mean that women are weak little creatures that couldn’t hurt a soul. I can easily overpower most of the men I come into contact with on a regular basis, and I (unfortunately) have before.

I watched my mother beat my father. I watched her hit my brother. I, too, was a target of her violence more times than I could count. It doesn’t take much strength to stab someone, to set them on fire, to beat them with a hammer, or to shoot them with a gun. My mother used her hands, paddles, pans, or even rolled up magazines if she was desperate (though those were mostly for beating the cats and the occasional whack to the face). She wasn’t gentle. She caused damage. My mother is not a fit person by any means. She hadn’t exercised in all the years I knew her. But she hurt. Just as badly as any man would hurt. Angry people like her find strength wherever they can pull it from. She didn’t need a penis.

Outside of my family, I’ve come to know many male victims of female-perpetrated violence. Very few of them ever admit in public what happened to them. Why? Because of that sentiment I mentioned earlier. Men are strong. You can take it. It was a woman. It couldn’t have been that bad. Suck it up. You’re just a wuss. Meanwhile they suffer in silence, not only from the physical damage, but from the psychological damage initially caused by the female attacker and perpetuated by society’s gender-biased views.

This exact sentiment and attitude pours over into female-perpetrated sexual abuse. It was a woman? It couldn’t have been that bad! I bet you enjoyed it! She was probably gentle. Women don’t do that. You just misunderstood. It couldn’t have hurt. You should feel lucky. I could go on, but I don’t have to. If you don’t get it by now, you won’t get it at all.

I can only speak of my own hurt from my experiences opening up about the abuse from my mother. Some therapists ignored it entirely. Other therapists outright denied my experiences as abuse. “She’s your mom and she cares about you, you’re just misunderstanding everything.” Yep. That’s it. I just misunderstood. All mothers should bathe their children into double digits and have special nighttime sessions. My bad. If I said it was a man doing it, or my father, EVERYONE would say “that’s abuse!” before I’d even finish my sentence. But for some reason, when a woman is involved, people automatically jump to the gentle, nurturing view of women and deny the legitimacy of the abuse. It was aggravating, disheartening, and saddening to have my reality denied by other people for years. I can’t even begin to imagine how others, including men, feel when their experiences are denied.

Woman continue to get away with domestic violence and abuse because of the attitude that women are weaker, more gentle, and less violent. I am telling you now that women are just as fucked up as men are. Stop letting women get away with crimes that any man would be imprisoned for years for. Stop making victims feel ashamed for being victims of :gasp: a woman. It happens. Let’s acknowledge it. Let’s deal with it accordingly. Because if we continue to teach girls what to expect from others, they will continue to feel entitled to things they don’t necessarily deserve. And if we don’t teach boys AND girls respect, women will continue to think they can get away with whatever they want to because they are a woman.

Perhaps I should have been a man, because women are going to hate me for this and see me as anti-woman. I am not. I am for equality.

PAFPAC Support Forum

The PAFPAC support forum for survivors of female-perpetrated abuses is up and running. There are a few members, but no one is really comfortable with posting yet. If you are a survivor of any type of female-perpetrated abuse, please consider joining the PAFPAC Support Forum.

It is a private forum, so you will need to ‘apply’ – I receive a notification and can approve you the same day. This is so members feel more comfortable sharing and it helps weed out people who may be there for the wrong reasons. The forum is really for anything, not just talk about abuse, but also healing and everyday struggles.

If you or anyone you know can benefit, please pass on the information.

Thank you.

 

24 weeks (and a trip back to that place I came from)

I survived Christmas.

I worked Christmas Eve morning, left at 10 AM and caught the train up to that place I came from. I wasn’t alone, though. Courage (the stuffed lion my therapist gave me a couple of months back) came with me and was right by my side through the entire train ride. I didn’t care how weird it looked. I needed him.

Then I thought to myself, if I can handle this train ride, I can handle anything. So I went to my old neighborhood. Then I went to my old workplace. With Courage riding on my back and a hoodie hiding my face, I walked into the building unsure of who would be there. I went to the back where I could hide in safety. I felt a rush of emotions, both good and bad. I saw my old coworkers, my old friends. I realized how much I missed them.

So many people were excited to see me. They were shocked at how different I looked (my hair is now black and I’ve lost 60 some odd pounds over the last six months). Even more noticeable was my demeanor. I was happy. I wasn’t stressed. Everyone could see the difference. I was a different person now, not only in physicality but in emotion.

One of my coworkers commented how I didn’t lookvstressed at all, and that time away from the job must have been good for me. Before I could even answer, my friend (whom I’ve written about before, about her not fully understanding why I cut contact and left) said “it wasn’t the job that was doing it to her.” In that moment, I felt like maybe something had finally clicked with her. I think she was starting to understand. It took her seeing the changes in me in person for it to click.

I was treated like I had never left. They welcomed me and gave me food. They hugged me. Most importantly, they respected that I needed my mother not to know that I was there. I had people protecting me there regardless, but there was no need. I didn’t even have to see that woman’s face. Instead, I could enjoy the dozens of faces of people I hadn’t seen for half a year.

Christmas day was simple and relaxing. My friend and I cooked a nice dinner in our pajamas. We watched a marathon of Catfish on TV and took a lot of naps. It was enough just being together. Neither of us were alone. I went home later that night (as I had work early the following morning) feeling validated in my decisions – my decision to visit for Christmas, and my decision to move away. Even though I miss people up north, I’ve changed for the better since I’ve been here. I wouldn’t have been able to do any of this had I stayed. I wouldn’t be smiling. I wouldn’t be healing.

I’ve changed.

For the better.

Christmas

In a spur-of-the-moment decision, I have decided to spend Christmas with a friend from back where I came from.

I’ll be taking a train for the first time tomorrow morning, so that in itself is a little anxiety-provoking for me. This will also be the first time going back to that place and seeing someone from my old life, so I’m not sure how I will be emotionally. I am hoping I will be able to manage everything well.

I think I overpacked. It’s really only for two days, but I’m overly cautious. I also packed some comfort items, and things the other parts of me may want: my bedtime story, a coloring book and colored pencils, Courage (the stuffed lion my therapist gave me), and a notebook to scribble our thoughts in. I can’t possibly fit anymore in my bag. Poor courage is hanging out of the front pocket because my bag is so full.

I’m nervous. I’m excited. I’m anxious. I’m scared. I’m a little bit of everything right now. I just hope this doesn’t turn into a disaster.

It’s different

When I escaped nearly six months ago, I envisioned a life of being a nobody.

I was going to get a minimal job just to fit in with the rest of society (and to help pay bills). I was going to be average. I was going to fly under the radar. I wasn’t going to do anything more than I had to to get by.

I never imagined I’d be going to grad school. I never imagined I’d be a mental health blogger. I never expected my face to come up whenever someone google searches my name. This is not flying under the radar. This is not doing the bare minimum to survive.

I never expected to be a person that people look up to. I’ve gotten a lot of opportunities recently, most notably guest speaking. While I’m honored to have such opportunities, I also need to remind myself that I can’t do it all.

In the last few days, I’ve had many people thank me for my work in starting up PAFPAC. I know I am doing something great. But I never expected to be doing this at all. A part of me still feels like none of this is supposed to be happening. I can still hear my mother’s voice telling me I’ll never amount to anything. Sometimes, it hooks in me and I start to doubt all of the good I’ve been doing. Maybe I’m not worthy of this work. Maybe I really can’t do it.

I came here wanting to be a nobody and I’m turning into a somebody. This is not at all what I had planned. She would never want this for me. I’m going against everything my family set for me. And I feel horrible for it.

Is it over yet?

The stress of the holidays is starting to sink in, and I just want December to be over with already.

As I sat and waited for the bus earlier today, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to smoke a cigarette. I haven’t picked up a cigarette in months. I miss the way it calms my nerves. I don’t miss the damage it does to my already damaged lungs.

I had my therapy session today. I was on edge because I will be missing the next few sessions due to the holiday and scheduling conflicts. I have never gone without therapy for that long since I’ve moved here, and I’m scared.

I shared some of my more recent Christmas experiences with my therapist, what my mother did and how she reacted. My mother turned everything around and made herself the victim and me the offender. My therapist called it gaslighting – a term I have heard before. At the time, it was difficult for me to see her behavior for what it was. Now, I understand it more clearly. It still angers me.

I’ve been having trouble with intrusive memories and flashbacks during the last few days. I think I inadvertently triggered myself with last week’s focus on gifts. It was a memory I never had before. I don’t even want to bring it up for fear of going through it again. I told my therapist the details of the memory and I could feel myself slipping a little. Even though on an intellectual level, I know that gifts aren’t meant to be taken back and aren’t meant to be a tool to use someone, there is still someone inside that is scared that it is going to happen again. My therapist said I wouldn’t have to worry about that happening anymore.

At this time, I was still on shaky ground and I started to lose focus on what my therapist was saying. All I could hear were the cries of a child asking if mommy was coming back and I started to lose it. My therapist could tell I was struggling to stay present and asked if it would be better to talk about my organization. I couldn’t even answer her right away. All I could say was “I can’t deal with this right now” and try to bury my head in my sweatshirt.

My therapist asked me what was going on and I told her what was happening inside. She walked me through explaining that we were safe now and that I was trying to protect everyone. I tried so hard not to break down and cry. I have a such a difficult time when it comes to the littles. I’m not good at being a parent. I’m not good at soothing younger parts because the whole concept is foreign to me. After a few minutes of my therapist trying to calm us down, the crying stopped and I was able to focus again.

I’m not looking forward to the next week. None of my parts are on the same page. Christmas is traumatic for some of us. Some of us don’t understand why we’re not home. Some of us are excited and want to do Christmas-y things. I just want to bury my head in the sand until Christmas is over.

I wish other people would understand why I am so back-and-forth about Christmas. I really just want to stay in my room the whole day and sleep. I don’t have a family now, and I don’t want to pretend to be someone else’s family. I don’t want to have any more flashbacks. I don’t want to fear checking the mail and finding a Christmas card from my family.

Christmas isn’t joyful for me. It’s terrifying.