The House

I was driving to meet a date a few nights ago, and while following GPS realized I would be a few blocks from the house where the worst of it happened. I was early so I decided to drive and look at it. If you'd asked me to describe it I would have said it was a steely blue, dark, ominous and gloomy. I'm sure the sun shown many a day when we lived there, but even if it did it never seemed to permeate the other darkness surrounding it. 

I pulled up at dusk with the sun setting and their lights starting to turn off. They didn't have window coverings hiding anything so I could see into the living room where a light shown brightly. I looked up to the top window where my room was. It was dark but I didn't sense the desperation and sadness that I felt when I'd look out. It wasn't the house of horrors in my head. It was a cute little house where a family appeared to live a happy life. Perception is everything.

I was looking around my own place today and reminding myself that I owned it and did all this completely by myself. I don't have a showplace by any means; there are bright colors of red and yellow everywhere, my style is eclectic and even eccentric, and it's a bit ticky tacky odd but it's me. I worked hard on it today and decided I'm going to go even farther with my creative (outlandish) ideas and stop making feeble attempts to fit into the mold that society thinks I should be in. 

It's hard though. I love my space yet I see some gorgeous new home with all the special features, the neutral colors, the minimalist vibe, and I find I hang my head and feel ridiculous. Yet ridiculous is who I am. It's who I was born to be. I've never liked mainstream shit, I've always been a little "off", a little loud, a little obnoxious, a ton of not fitting in. 

I would have thought by this age that this internal battle would be done. That I could own who I am without feeling the shame of being different. I'm fighting this with everything in me. I fight it when I paint a wall a color that others would find too much. I fight it when I don't "act my age". I fight it when I go against what they tell me to do. I've always related to women like Betsey Johnson and Cyndi Lauper more than Coco Channel and Anna Wintour.

What's actually helped is being invited to a Facebook group called "I'm high on DIY decor". So most everyone is high AF and decorating. I'm seeing designs and ideas that I've wanted to do but felt it wasn't allowed. I'm seeing rooms that I'd love that most would find hysterical and distasteful. I'm seeing I'm not alone.

My home is fully my own. It's only me and Teddy and we do what we want. Though I still look outside to make sure I'm safe, I do know I'm OK. Maybe one day I'll ultimately give zero fucks and step completely into who I am.

Talking about it

When you're upset, shit goes down and such, everyone says they are there for you if you want to talk. It's a kindness of course. For many things; hard day at work, a breakup, bad news, then talking about it might be exactly what you need. Yet when you are having flashbacks from traumatic events there really isn't anything to talk about. To talk about it only exacerbates the feelings you are trying to control. Unless it's a controlled environment, such as with a therapist, talking about it can feel like pouring gasoline on the fire.

There is a second level to talking about it and that's when it involves the people supposedly closest to you. In explaining my past the selfishness, and abandonment, of my parents has to come out. I have found that in sharing this people want to express their rage and horror on my behalf at what went on. They then begin processing their own feelings on what I've told them, and their astonishment and words only make matters worse for me. Now I have to field their questions: "How could your father do that? What kind of mother would allow that? Why didn't they care about you?" When you've experienced a lifetime of shame and embarrassment for not having the supportive family system that you feel most people have, it's exhausting and defeating to hear the confirmations of just how bad it really was.

So except in my writing I don't talk about it. I allude to not having the same experiences others have but I don't share the graphic details. The worst question for me is one that most people consider a basic get to know you pleasantry, "Where did you grow up?". I hate this. I don't have a home town. We moved a lot. I'll say this and they won't let it die, "Well where did you go to high school?" I went to 3 high schools. I'm not from anywhere. One of the C-suite executives in my company asked this and I did my usual stammering and he said, "You should just make something up." It's good advice; just name some dumb town, smile and walk away. Yet being so truthful I can't do it. I'm sure this a large part of why I hate small talk.

Even as I share in my writing I find I'm being careful so as not to have to field some of the comments that may come out, or perhaps only my fear of them. I overshared this week, and with my goal of wanting to eventually publish a book, it was a good taste of "How much do you really want this? Can you even handle what might get said?". I'm looking inward and asking myself if I'm truly as strong as I believe myself to be.

But as of right now....I can't talk about it.

Not OK but surviving

Rather than respond to individual messages I thought I'd simply write a post as it's actually easier for me in some respects. First, thank you all for your kind words of support. To say it means a lot to me doesn't sufficiently cover my depth of gratitude. Again, thank you. So am I OK? No, I'm not. Not in the slightest. I may have told you I was OK, or that I'll live, or one of my usual responses but the full truth is I'm not OK right now.

Yet in the name of asking for help; what do I even need? I don't want to talk about it. I've talked about this for over 25 years of therapy, thought I was at the other side at least with this portion, and now it's as if the old fires are burning before my eyes. I nearly took the post down as I sat on my couch sobbing, but I reminded myself that posts such as these were what I wanted. I want a life of transparency, honesty and to say the words that others just can't say. I see the views increasing every hour so I take deep breaths and assure myself that having people know my secrets won't kill me.

I'm crying tears that were never shed at that time. Other than breaking down at the height of the most horrifying moments I didn't cry. I didn't tell my friends what was happening, I held in all the pain and I somehow kept going.

My dear friend, who has lived through some serious hell herself, described it well:

Darling, your fear is present, palpable and completely valid. Trauma alters the way the brain physically processes neurological response, making a current situation feel exactly like a past one. Same sympathetic nervous system response. Same emotional reaction. Same panic. What you are experiencing is fucking real.

The people in your family are also responding in the only way they know to cope: avoid. Your trauma piques their own fears.

I can tell you I'm safe; though my body isn't feeling this. No one in my family has reached out to me though this was expected. I have yoga later, maybe a hot bath, and likely too much wine. Yes, I'm numbing myself and I don't fucking care. I need my crutches right now until I can feel steady again.

When the past comes back to haunt you

The past can come back to haunt you when you least expect it and that's a part of what makes it so terrifying. It's like in the horror film where the person is running, sweating, and fearing for their lives and they think they got away. They stop, calm their breathing, maybe even smile and that's when the killer jumps from out of nowhere. 

I had one of my worst PTSD episodes in over 20 years yesterday. I received a message request on Facebook from someone I wasn't friends with and I assumed it was a random person or even a scammer. I didn't immediately pay it attention but then I looked again and once I took in what name was my blood ran cold. To top it off I reached out to my family to figure out what was happening and found that a relative friended his brother. I feel completely exposed and violated. I begged him to block him and instead he sent me a screen shot of a Google name search, showing how anyone can find you anyway. I've been shaking uncontrollably. On the edge of telling my entire family to fuck off and walking away forever

This is what keeps people with PTSD hyper vigilant even when ridiculously significant amounts of time has passed, as they fear, even know, that the past can still come back. Though my own PTSD is complex and spans large amounts of time, events, and trauma, the worst of it came when I was in my teens. You'll be told, and tell yourself, that you're safe, it's over, you'll never ever see these people again, and out of nowhere they are back.

I'm not prepared emotionally or otherwise to share exactly who this person is to me and what went on, though I've alluded to it in past posts. I don't believe they are coming to get me, or at least that's the hope. Yet every safety precaution I felt I had in place, from them and others, feels yanked away from me as they now know my name, what I look like, and possibly much more. It feels like a rape and I've been raped enough to know this feeling well. It's been 35 years and I'm still not free of this.

Digging deeper this feels like abandonment. Though I told a few friends who did check on me, I've spent the day alone with this. No one in my family, knowing I was in full freak out, has said a word to me today. All the old messages are screaming in my head "you weren't wanted" "no one cares" "you're the disposable one" "the nightmare will never end". A few years after we were able to escape that situation we were put into another on that was just as violent. The song "Me against the world" came out and I sang and recited it to give me strength as there was nowhere to turn but myself.

No cute conclusion here where I say I'm trying and there might just be hope on the horizon. This moment is only hot baths, wine and forcing each next breath. And I don't want pity. I know there are no good words to say and fuck anyone who throws out some well worn cliché. I'm safe but preparing for another night of nightmares. 

The Box

It's 3 weeks and 4 days since I was last face to face with him. I've seen him in public since that day but the anniversary of our last time together has been hanging over me for nearly a year. I remember dates for things good, bad and otherwise, so this focus isn't out of character for me, but it's arguably not healthy. Not that anything will happen on this day but I've told myself this story that I "just have to get past that date". 

A year away from his voice, his touch, his lies, his anger, and his energy. I'd gotten rid of anything in my home with a memory of him but kept a small box of some things I just couldn't give up at that moment. I put the box in my garage storage area, as I didn't want it anywhere near me, but obviously still holding on. My homework from my life coach was to look at what's in the box and ask myself the hard questions as to why I was keeping these things.

I knew of some professional pictures of the two of us at my work's holiday gala that were in the box. I knew that night that we'd never last but wanted the moment anyway. I'd never been to prom or homecoming, I hated my wedding, and at any formal party my ex-husband would always whine about everything and ruin it for me. So I'd wanted to have this experience even knowing the ultimate end would be bad. My life coach asked, "You have the memory and that can't be taken from you. Why do you need the pictures?" I suppose the pictures felt like part of the event for me though I'm seeing it's a little ludicrous when they are stashed far away from me. And would I ever be able to look at those pictures and smile for the good times? Not at this point. 

So I got the box and opened it...

Taking a deep breath I reminded myself I'd opened a box before which felt scary and was actually pleasantly surprised. I also consoled myself with the fact that he wasn't here watching me do this, no one was, so I was allowed any feeling or emotion I wanted to express. The box was much heavier than I expected and this sent fear through me as I couldn't imagine what else was in there besides pictures. I opened it to find that I'd kept what I felt were my best memories of our time together. Ticket stubs, a rose, room keys from special occasions, and a container of bubble gum that he'd randomly bought me one night after I told him I loved the smell of it. 

After looking at the pictures I began ripping them up and in one noticed how tightly my hand was gripping him. I could see muscles were clenched in hopes of grasping this one last time before the end. Perhaps even clutching so tightly to an improbable hope that he'd change and there could be a happy ending.

Before fully demolishing all the pictures I carefully cut myself out of a few key ones where I looked delighted and having a great time. I decided that his horrifying behavior to follow wasn't going to ruin it all for me.

I put everything flammable in my burn bowl (You don't have a burn bowl? Oh I'd highly recommend it!), tossed the rest, and put it on my porch with plans to light it up on April 9th. Though I don't really believe in luck or fate, I'm thankful that on this day I have a hair appointment, a massage and my favorite band is playing! Taking the day off to give this all one final reflection and release (hopefully...I know how shit can come back).

Reclaiming who you truly are

When I finish a yoga class with my hands in prayer position, I place them on my forehead and say, "your thoughts", place them on my mouth and say, "control your words", place them at my heart "decide your actions". I'm not sure where I learned it but this has been part of my practice for at least 5 years. Now digging into manifesting/intentions, it's the same vibe. Yet if I take a hard look at my thoughts I see I do little to control them, and thus my actions and outcomes show this.

After meditating today it occurred to me the words I use around what I consider to be my role in my family. Some of the things I've frequently said over the years: "I got all the bad traits in the family" "I was the one they didn't want." "No one cared what happened to me" "I'm alone in this world." This was further triggered as my mother bought my brothers and myself DNA kits. Our results just came back and I found myself jealous over various percentages where I got less and my brothers got more. Again, feeling that if it's something that was passed down through heredity, and it sucks, then I got it. I have a lifetime of people telling me how great looking, successful and talented my brothers are only to then look me up and down and force a smile. 

I've of course been told those people were rude, my father was a dick, and all other statements made to me weren't true. Yet how many times can you hear something and not believe it? Typically you're told "You just have to love yourself and not listen to anyone else!" with no real way to undo that deep neural pathway you've dug in your brain that tells you the opposite. For someone with decades of their self deprecating beliefs, it's not at all helpful to spout out some cute cliché and think that person will somehow magically achieve this. 

Now I've attempted affirmations for years and have an app that sends me one each morning. "I feel great about myself and my life." "I deserve to have a healthy relationship." "I boldly go after what I want in life." "I love and respect myself." These are tolerable and I half-heartedly believe them. But when attempting hard core self beliefs I crumble. "I am beautiful." "I am talented." "I'm perfect as I am." My body starts to recoil when I say these things, the voice in my head screams "this isn't true and stop saying it or you'll only get hurt". 

"you'll only get hurt" I feel those last words are key here. I don't want to even allow myself such beliefs as then I feel it prevents someone telling me I'm wrong and wounding me deeper. I don't need a therapy appointment to know whose voice this is; it's my father's. I can hear him smugly laughing at people, including me, saying what they felt wasn't true. He somehow associated the "sin" of lying as meaning you need to bluntly give any opinion you want no matter the consequences. When I first heard the song "Beautiful" by Christina Aguilera I pictured myself singing it to my father..."words can't bring me down....so don't you bring me down today...".  Getting over my relationship with my father may be more pivotal than even my relationship with myself.

Despite all evidence to the contrary I do try. I do the daily affirmations, I meditate, I do yoga, I *like* every positive post you can conceive of, I cheer others on, I see the worth and beauty in all things. I've written so many life affirming intentions and manifestations that I have piles of notebooks with them everywhere. And there will be moments where I think, yeah I'm sorta OK, only to have it later crumble before me. Last night I went out and looking in the mirror before leaving I felt cute enough, just had my hair done, the body parts I despise decently hidden or disguised, make up seemed on point. I tried to take a selfie and each one in my head got progressively worse. So I let it go and had a great time. The next day there were pictures of the fun night out and I looked like hell by anyone's standards. I'm likely the least photogenic person alive and 99% of the time I'm the one ruining a picture with my eyes closed (or worse, half open liked I'm stoned out of my mind). I again crumbled. 

Life is so funny sometimes. As I was writing this post, hating on myself pretty hard, wiping tears, a friend posted another picture of me (eyes amazingly open!) where I kind of liked it. She did this to counter the rips I was giving myself on a previous picture. So now as happens so often I'm forced to face that just maybe my father's words weren't true. Maybe the ways I slam myself to avoid future pain isn't helping. Possibly, just maybe, I've never allowed myself to be who I truly am, claim who I truly am, and certainly accept who I truly am. 

Pulled a card...well fuck. OK, universe, though I think you're a bitch most of the time...one more try.

Extreme Independence

The inability to receive support from others is a trauma response.
Your “I don’t need anyone, I’ll just do it all myself” conditioning is a survival tactic. And you needed it to shield your heart from abuse, neglect, betrayal, and disappointment from those who could not or would not be there for you.
From the parent who was absent and abandoned you by choice or the parent who was never home from working three jobs to feed and house you.
From the lovers who offered sexual intimacy but never offered a safe haven that honored your heart.
From the friendships and family who ALWAYS took more than they ever gave.
From all the situations when someone told you “we’re in this together” or “I got you” then abandoned you, leaving you to pick up the pieces when shit got real, leaving you to handle your part and their part, too.
From all the lies and all the betrayals.
You learned along the way that you just couldn’t really trust people. Or that you could trust people, but only up to a certain point.
Extreme-independence IS. A. TRUST. ISSUE.
You learnt: if I don’t put myself in a situation where I rely on someone, I won’t have to be disappointed when they don’t show up for me, or when they drop the ball... because they will ALWAYS drop the ball EVENTUALLY right?
You may even have been intentionally taught this protection strategy by generations of hurt ancestors who came before you.

Though trauma feels like the word of the moment; just like trigger, narcissist, and processing, but these words are also around because we are gaining a greater understanding of them and their impact. I'm seeing more how the trauma I experienced shaped my perception, but more importantly still control my actions. It's painful to read pieces like the one above, but also so helpful as I need things told to me many times, and many ways, before I take them in as truth. 

I am extremely independent and wear this like a badge of honor. I don't like help even when I desperately need it. I will not ask for help unless I've truly exhausted every option I can manage on my own. I don't want to need anyone. I detest anything that I can't do on my own. Yes, I go to the doctor but I seethe inside that I need them. I take my car to a mechanic but I spend the entire time fearful as they can easily manipulate me due to my not being able to do it on my own. 

When I was moving out of the home I'd lived in for over a decade, as I was getting divorced and going to live completely alone for the first time in my life, I wanted to do it alone. I had friends asking for help and I turned them down. Finally one said, "You are hurting me to not accept my help." That stopped me cold. I never want to hurt anyone. I accepted but it's still in the back of my mind that I owe these people who helped me. I can easily give but I don't like to receive. If there is too much help, gifts, even love, showed to me then I get panicked and fearful. 

There are two things at the core of this: survival and shame. My protector self feels if I have to depend on anyone for anything then they might let me down and I won't survive it. My mind is continually in hyper drive looking for ways I could be lead to my doom. Yet there is also so much shame in the things I can't do. One area I suck at is anything having to do with home maintenance and repair. There are so many things that all other adult seem to manage and yet I just can't do it. Painting, hanging curtains (blinds, shades, etc...), installing anything, measuring, leveling, I suck on every level and it eats at me. 

The obvious work around answer here is to pay someone to do these things. Yet there is terror that they'll screw me over in some way. Fear that they'll shame me for not being able to do basic stuff. Ludicrous because customers like me keep them in business but this is how my mind works. I get scared to make the call, scared I won't say the right words, scared I'll explain it wrong, scared I'll look stupid. I even had a friend tell me her friend's husband does side work and I could pay him to do all the things. Yet I feel so dumb and immobile.

Working from home for the past year my office has become the place I'm at constantly. This also means my cat wants to be by me. He managed to destroy my curtains and I was left with windows with nothing on them. So put something up, right? Well I can't. I fuck it up. I don't know how. In one of Facebook's better moments I found some curtain hooks (wrong word, I don't know the right words) that you could nail into the window frame and not deal with drilling into the wall and whatever other nonsense is involved with putting up a curtain. I bought them. Well again, my measuring sucks and I bought them too small. Returned, bought new ones, and amazing grace I actually did it. 

I did it by myself. While I'm a little proud of this minor moment it also makes me sad and ashamed. This feels like something "normal people" can do. This feels laughable that a grown ass woman, who has owned many homes, would consider this an accomplishment.

Extreme-independence is a preemptive strike against heartbreak.
So, you don’t trust anyone.
And you don’t trust yourself, either, to choose people.
To trust is to hope, to trust is to be vulnerable.
“Never again,” you vow.
But no matter how you dress it up and display it proudly to make it seem like this level of independence is what you always wanted to be, in truth it’s your wounded, scarred, broken heart behind a protective brick wall.
Impenetrable. Nothing gets in. No hurt gets in. But no love gets in either.
Fortresses and armor are for those in battle, or who believe the battle is coming.
It’s a trauma response.

Creating My Life

I use this blog to process trauma, process life, and let my shit out. If you were only reading these excerpts of my existence it would appear that I'm in continual emotional agony. But the truth is that my life is pretty great! I have worked hard to construct the life I want. I've made monumental mistakes, I've fallen hard, but at my core is my resilience and tenacity to keep moving forward. 

I made these realizations in a therapy appointment yesterday. My therapist was asking what was true to me when the voices and opinions were gone. Initially I said, "I don't know." but then it came to me that though I don't hold onto hope for things like a soul mate, wealth, or fame, there is still something in me that wants to fight past it all and find freedom in being myself. 

Oscar Wilde said, "To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all." When I left my marriage nearly 4 years ago I decided I wanted more. This wasn't a completely selfish act as I knew my husband wasn't happy and I wanted more for him as well. I left with not a lot more than my clothes, shoes and makeup. I left to create a life I wanted. I left to find happiness. And it was terrifying. The first few months I spent every night sitting alone on my porch, drinking wine, eating tortilla chips, and staring out as far as I could see. 

I'm making it on my own. Sometimes I look around my little condo and say out loud, "You did this. All you. You can be proud." I've had this picture on my fridge the entire time and it could easily be my life mantra. Because I'm not okay with a life that is merely okay. I want more. And this more may mean heartache, suffering, and even dying alone, but it's all my own creation and this makes me happy.

Risking absolutely everything you've got for the smallest chance that something absolutely amazing could happen.