I've had it since somewhere between Jan 1, 1976 and Dec 31st, 1977. I'm afraid that that's about as close as I'll get to an exact date without checking with my parents, and that simply isn't going to happen. That means I've had it almost 40 years. I still can't quite wrap my head around it sometimes:
Since I was ~4 or 5 yrs old, I've had something wrong with me that's normally associated with combat soldiers, urban police, and firefighters. It's hard to explain, but it's almost like I feel that I don't 'deserve' the diagnosis, that I must have something else wrong with me and I'm just not trying hard enough to find out what it really is. That there's not enough damage.
I don't know what, or how much, damage there's 'supposed' to be, but I'd like to think that your average soldier/police officer/firefighter would agree that sexually touching a ~4-5 yr old child is pretty messed up and that it's wrong. So, I guess I do. The difference is when they have a rough day, people tend to lose their lives. I lost mine on a rough day 37 yrs ago, and I've been trying to get it back ever since.
There's only ever been one person with whom I could imagine speaking about it, but we lost touch before my diagnosis. I guess it's just as well. His nightmares involve small children being tortured and threatened with death. In mine, I'm the one on the ground, looking up at the guy with the weapon. I don't know that we would have been able to talk about it after all, assuming we were ever to re-connect. Besides most people don't really think of a pillow as a weapon... unless you have one pressed on your face, keeping you from breathing, from making a sound.
Once upon a time I wouldn't have been able to type those words, let alone get through it without tears. Yet, here I am, tear-free, typing them. While I know the diagnosis isn't a panacea, that this isn't a magic thing that makes bad things go away like a big final boss in WoW, it's nice to finally have a logical place to start chipping away with more specialised tools. Until now we've been doing talk therapy, learning to communicate, learning to recognise triggers, practising what to do when I feel a panic attack coming on. Stuff has been working, but I think we've felt that there was still a piece that didn't quite fit. I literally made the decision about what to do while I was in the shower.
I realised that everything has been symptoms. Even the things that, when dealt with singly, looked like totally different diagnoses. Why on earth would I have 2 professionals who both tentatively, almost trepidatiously, give me Bi-polar diagnoses when they seemed to be more certain about everything else they diagnosed, which were the same things when comparing the 2 professionals? It didn't seem to make sense to me that we keep addressing it, plus the inattentiveness (possible ADD), the communication issue, plus that random element that noone could seem to put their finger on. The one thing about which both Drs. agreed, with the same certainty and vehemence, was the PTSD. So why weren't we tackling the PTSD.
Then I thought..."because you've been avoiding it. That's why."
I didn't know that's what I was doing. Because I kept refusing to recognise what I'm dealing with as PTSD. I don't know if my feeling of 'unworthiness' was the main factor, or if it was because admitting I had PTSD meant I really was a 'victim' of someone else's abuse. I've always tried not to refer to myself as a victim. It's not a word that elicits pathos much anymore. Now it's usually a term used with contempt, derision, accusation. It's become an epithet one flings at someone we think is trying to 'pull one over' on others, or trying to play The <insert attribute here> Card. I didn't want people to have any more reasons to roll their eyes at me as I believed I was giving. If I wasn't a 'victim', I'd look stronger, like I was able to brush it off, 'cause I'm a tough cookie.
I finally broke down and did some reading about PTSD to see if I was even on the right track. I'm sad to say that I was cynical enough that I was braced for disappointment. Turns out I might be on to something, whether I like it or not.
Sadly, there are symptoms of PTSD that are almost exactly like the symptoms of long-term childhood neglect.
(From the Mayo Clinic website:)
Intrusive memories
- Recurrent, unwanted distressing memories of the traumatic event
- Reliving the traumatic event as if it were happening again (flashbacks)
- Upsetting dreams about the traumatic event
- Severe emotional distress or physical reactions to something that reminds you of the event
Avoidance
Negative feelings about yourself or other people
- Trying to avoid thinking or talking about the traumatic event
- Avoiding places, activities or people that remind you of the traumatic eventNegative changes in thinking and mood
Negative feelings about yourself or other people
- Inability to experience positive emotions
- Feeling emotionally numb
- Lack of interest in activities you once enjoyed
- Hopelessness about the future
- Memory problems, including not remembering important aspects of the traumatic event
- Difficulty maintaining close relationships
Changes in emotional reactions
I know it sounds a tad dramatic, but that actually is a pretty good summary of my childhood and about 1/2 of my adult life. It totally explains a lot of the reactions I'd have to things that happened to
- Irritability, angry outbursts or aggressive behavior
- Always being on guard for danger
- Overwhelming guilt or shame
- Self-destructive behavior, such as drinking too much or driving too fast
- Trouble concentrating
- Trouble sleeping
- Being easily startled or frightened
I know it sounds a tad dramatic, but that actually is a pretty good summary of my childhood and about 1/2 of my adult life. It totally explains a lot of the reactions I'd have to things that happened to
me. Every time my dad laid a hand (or foot) on me, he was making it worse. Making me feel like the only safe place to be was curled up in a ball in the corner, not making any sound, not getting in the way, something kickable. I would always blame myself and pray that I'd be a better kid the next day.
Every time I'd have horrible nightmares, or fall off the top bunk and end up bleeding (no rails...why on earth would anyone in my family think of safety rails?), I'd wake up looking for help or comfort or reassurance that I was safe... and I was usually yelled at, or mocked by the others who lived with us. Sometimes I'd be stuck watching my mum and her man fucking like horny teenagers on the living room carpet, right outside my room. RIGHT. OUTSIDE. (I am not exaggerating.)
I didn't want to be home. But I was miserable at school too. I felt like I didn't belong anywhere, that nowhere was safe, and that everyone you trust will hurt you in the end, like that's what my dreams had been about, showing me why I didn't fit in, that I wasn't going to amount to anything, that nothing I ever did was going to matter, and that I really was going to be a waste of space like people kept telling me.
I was 9 when I started thinking in depth like this, staying up late at night unable to sleep because my Evil Brain was letting me relive everything I'd done wrong that day, that week, that year. When you're a kid, every mistake you make seems big. They seem even bigger when you're always waiting for a shoe to drop somewhere. In the dark. Alone. Knowing tomorrow probably isn't going to be any better. A 9 yr old who tried to tell her mum that she wanted to go see a shrink. (I was 6 when I knew what a shrink was, what it was short for, and that I might like to talk to one because she/he would be getting paid to listen to me if I talked about being scared all the time.)
I should also point out here that my father often used to 'joke' (when I'd try to engage him) by saying "here's a dime, go call someone who cares". He made it clear that he didn't want to be around me much, that if he was going to spend time with me that I'd better keep up or I'd be left behind, that I was a pain, that I was too expensive, that I shouldn't talk back, that I was really cramping his style, and I was only entertaining when I was cute. He was even meaner when he was drunk.
What did you think about when you were 9 yrs old?
EDIT: Sorry this is so rambling. I'm still processing things, myself. I started therapy with a PTSD specialist and my 1st visit was going into my mental health history. It was... intense, to say the least.
Apparently there's going to be at least 2 more visits where I'll be answering questions (and hopefully not crying) about my past. When I have to get into specifics, it's REALLY hard not to have the events replay in my head. ("Let's go to the graphics!") It's pretty tricky to stay coherent and and cogent when your sinuses are filling like bathtubs and your eyes are stinging from the saline assault. But, I have to start somewhere. It's the only way to lick this.
Hi, my name is Zoe and I'm tired of PTSD kicking my ass. I think I'd like to start kicking back now.
