I got asked by a friend the other day, how I could manage to get up every morning, not being bitter about my life. Well...
Sometimes I am bitter, sometimes sad, but mostly I don't think so much (at least not any longer) about how my life has been earlier on. Of course I go through bits and pieces in therapy, sure, but our angle there is more often about the problems I have now, and where these problems have their roots. And we change how I look at things. (Yes, I know that I wrote that like it's a walk in the park, but of course it isn't. Many times I'm truly exhausted when I get home from these sessions, but for every month, I get better and feel brighter in my mind, so it's so worth all the hard work.)
Many of those who have had similar lifes know that the past can affect the present. In my case, I have, for example, more or sometimes less troubles letting others help me (even if I really need help), saying nice things to me, show me appreciation of any kind. I also can get stone cold and act rather mechanical in situations others find chocking or hard, but I think that's a good problem to have, because I often have no problems acting correct in crisis, accidents or any other traumatic happenings (thankfully enough those things rarely happen in my life now adays..)
I do not go around feeling miserable all day long, or feeling sorry for myself day after day. What good would that do?
On my sad and hard days I often choose to stay inside, writing it off. I tend to shy away from going out among lots of people, I prefers taking walks in the woods or just strolling through parks and nature. To be honest, that don't always help either, but at least I try to get some sunshine on my nose and fresh air in my lungs, focusing on the fact that I am still alive.
Writing helps, and for some reason it's easier letting go of hard thoughts and feelings when all your words is down on a piece of paper instead of in your head. I really think that we people are a bit afraid of forgetting, and because of that we refuse to let go of sad, angry and hurtful things. What if we forget? What if someone can hurt us like that again? No no, better not forget, better keep everything inside, going on and on over how bad we feel.
....and we end up bitter as rotten lemons. Not good.
On a good day, I write too, but maybe from a different angle than when feeling sorry for myself. The good days, I have no troubles being social, not at all. But if it gets too much, I usually need to spend an hour or so all by my self, in silence. (There was a time when I was terrified of silence, but now I really enjoy it a lot.) The best thing about breaking down completely is that I get to know my self better and better, and learn how to respect my own needs before I fall over the edge again.
So how do we dandelions get up? We just do it. We know that rough times ends sooner or later, we now that there will be time to rest, somewhere in the (hopefully near) future. We know that the troubles will fade away eventually. So we get up, feel the warmth of the sun, and we keep on growing and building our roots in the concrete.
Guestblogging today - Why am I in pain?
I got the oppotunity to write on the beautiful, most inspiring LeAnns blog today. You can find her at memyselfleanne.com. Let me first of all say that it's an honor, thank you so much! I came in contact with LeAnne through instagram, and let me tell you, she is so inspiring, educating and honest. Just a truly lovely girl!
And here's what I wrote to her blog.
Why am I in pain, is it real?
Many of us who live with chronicall illnesses have probably met all kinds of characters in hospitals (such as doctors and nurses) or/and in healthcare of any other kind (such as physical therapists, lifecoaches etc..). And we all know there is both water and wine in that pot, right?
I don't really know how many times I've heard the words "It's all in your head" - "Try to relax, and you'll feel so much better, have you ever listened to those relaxationcd:s, they're really good" - "Have you heard of the word psychosomatic?" - "Have you tried working out or just taking walks? Seems like you mostly sit inside, and that it self can cause depression, and depression can give these kinds of physical symptoms" - "Do you want me to remitt you to a psychiatrist?" Yadda yadda.......
Everytime you leave an appointmet with one of those so called educated people (and maybe a prescripiton for some new kind of painkillers) you're a bit... devastated. You feel, once again, that nobody believes you, nobody truly listens to what you say, there's never going to be a change.
The pain is real, the pain can be overwhelming, the pain can prevent you from being able to live the life you should be able to live. It is real. No doubt about that.
Yes. I do however believe in the word psychosomatic. I do believe that you can make yourself worse. I do belive that bad happenings can be manifested in your body as pain and other symptoms. I do believe that a change sometimes is possible. I do believe that we can make ourselfes better too.
Sometimes. Not always. Because everything surely isn't a product of our own minds, no.
I can here only speek for myself, and tell a litte bit of my story. I ask you to remember, that my point of view is just one of many, many opinions. Everybody have (or has had) different lives with different problems and illnesses.
My problems with persistent pain started somewhere around my early teens. I remember as a ten year old, not being able to get out of the bed because my body hurted too much. I rembember my neck being stiff, like molded in concrete, and I remember that everytime this occured I didn't really have a clue on why (unless I hadn't been beaten up again).
Several times at school I fainted, several times my teacher thought it was from low bloodsugar, and yes, sometimes it was. But sometimes it was from pain and overexertion. (As you can read in my blog later on, my childhood was nothing but ordinary and easy, although I didn't realize that back then). This affected me on many levels off course. As a child, I often was a bit affraid to go out and play with the others when I had my days of pain, but when I was painfree, I was a pretty wild kid, much more of a overactive boy than a wellbehaved, cute girl. And of course this led to grownups being convinced that I lied or pretended being in pain on some days.
Pretending to be ill is something that I've heard a whole lot, far too many times. Depending on who's saying it, I get really devastated some times. My own family (here i mostly refer to my mother and sisters) has never believed in my physical problems, although they've seen it every day, and seen what it's doing to me. That has been especially hard on me. Being called a liar, trying to get of the hook, hiding from commitments because of laziness, all that and more, that is most hurtful when the words comes from those living under your roof , and are those you love the most (not to mention you'd do anything for them, even though you don't really have the strength to, although your "no" have been ignored by them far too many times). Not being able to depend on your family when living with illnesses really tears you up, inside and out.
I too have tried to keep up with the rest, doing the same as everyone else, although I didn't have the full strength. Much because I didn't want to look weak, didn't want to be yelled at, beaten, didn't want to be looked down at... For many reasons, I have refused to take my "resting time", the time I really needed to maybe get back a bit on my feet, just because of the opinions of others.
Nobody wants to be looked at as weak, lazy, or someone not to be counted on. So. I grinded my teeth, put my head down and went for it. A lot. For far too long.
What I didn't understand then was that it was my mother who should have cared for me. She should have respected my problems, and helped me. But that was never the case. Being raised like I was, I learned at an early age to not respect my own feelings at all. I learned to push every bit of "weakness" (my mothers words) aside, not caring at all for my self. My "no" was never, ever accepted, not during high fever, not when having my arms in bandages, not when being hospitalized, not ever. And that is very dangerous. Instead I was forced into something most similar to "battlepreparation".
Among the first things I got to learn in therapy as an adult, was that a body always being on this "battlepreparation" is tense 24/7, and it is sooner or later going to crash. It took my body and mind over 30 years to break down, and when I finally hit the famous wall, I hit it hard. Everything in my life litterally came down on me, everything that I've been through so far just caught up with me in what felt as seconds, everything I'd tried to keep a big distance to, everything I'd forgotten about. That...was....hard.
Right then and there I never expected myself to live through it all. I was down, deep down, never saw a light anywhere, never understood how this so called life was ever going to be ok again. When I was at my deepest darkest, I never thought this (being able to write about it from a different angle and level) was going to be possible.
But the life came back to me, if ever so slowly.
Now I understand where some of my bodys problems comes from. The perspective has changed a lot (thank God for that). I've had some really good therapists and physiotherapists along the way to guide, educate and inform me about all this.
Always tense in my case means never relaxed, not physically, nor mentally. This leads to that the muscles in the end are cramping, leaving very little room for my blood to pass through. That leads to (amongst other problems) that my muscles were wasting, dying from loss of blood and lack of oxygene. And due to all this, my levels on adrenaline was shooting so high that my body constantly thought the war was upon us, and reacted, both mentally and physically, after those signals. Me not knowing or understanding this (until the age of 36), not being able to do anything about it, ended up in severe pain, cramps and deep depression for numerous of times, and so the black circle went on an on. Until about four years ago that is.
It took me one year to be able to leave the house without severe anxietyattacs (I really don't remember so much at all from that year). It took me two years to be able to take a walk in the woods and not being terrified of sudden sounds behind me (here I remeber more, I also wrote dairy). It took me three years to finally try to work again (oh, the relief when I finally got my first paycheck and could pay my own bills again...).
The tension and the pain slowly becomes smaller and smaller, but I still have to work on it pretty much every day, but I'll be damned if I'm not getting there eventually.
Off course I sometimes feel that my childhood has been wasted, it could have been lived so differently. On the other hand, I've learned a lot. No, not the learning I would have preffered if being able to choose, but this is my life, can't change the past, can however change my way of looking at it and what to do with all this further on. This is one of the reasons I blog about it, hopefully it can help others with similar lives, hopefully I can make someone see that there is a brighter future ahead if you work hard for it.
This is my first year without me having to take medications on a regular basis. I eventually take painkillers to be able to get some sleep, but far from the amount I ate earlier on.
Yes, I still have fibromyalgia, I still have arthritis. But they are not having me. Not yet...
And here's what I wrote to her blog.
Why am I in pain, is it real?
Many of us who live with chronicall illnesses have probably met all kinds of characters in hospitals (such as doctors and nurses) or/and in healthcare of any other kind (such as physical therapists, lifecoaches etc..). And we all know there is both water and wine in that pot, right?
I don't really know how many times I've heard the words "It's all in your head" - "Try to relax, and you'll feel so much better, have you ever listened to those relaxationcd:s, they're really good" - "Have you heard of the word psychosomatic?" - "Have you tried working out or just taking walks? Seems like you mostly sit inside, and that it self can cause depression, and depression can give these kinds of physical symptoms" - "Do you want me to remitt you to a psychiatrist?" Yadda yadda.......
Everytime you leave an appointmet with one of those so called educated people (and maybe a prescripiton for some new kind of painkillers) you're a bit... devastated. You feel, once again, that nobody believes you, nobody truly listens to what you say, there's never going to be a change.
The pain is real, the pain can be overwhelming, the pain can prevent you from being able to live the life you should be able to live. It is real. No doubt about that.
Yes. I do however believe in the word psychosomatic. I do believe that you can make yourself worse. I do belive that bad happenings can be manifested in your body as pain and other symptoms. I do believe that a change sometimes is possible. I do believe that we can make ourselfes better too.
Sometimes. Not always. Because everything surely isn't a product of our own minds, no.
I can here only speek for myself, and tell a litte bit of my story. I ask you to remember, that my point of view is just one of many, many opinions. Everybody have (or has had) different lives with different problems and illnesses.
My problems with persistent pain started somewhere around my early teens. I remember as a ten year old, not being able to get out of the bed because my body hurted too much. I rembember my neck being stiff, like molded in concrete, and I remember that everytime this occured I didn't really have a clue on why (unless I hadn't been beaten up again).
Several times at school I fainted, several times my teacher thought it was from low bloodsugar, and yes, sometimes it was. But sometimes it was from pain and overexertion. (As you can read in my blog later on, my childhood was nothing but ordinary and easy, although I didn't realize that back then). This affected me on many levels off course. As a child, I often was a bit affraid to go out and play with the others when I had my days of pain, but when I was painfree, I was a pretty wild kid, much more of a overactive boy than a wellbehaved, cute girl. And of course this led to grownups being convinced that I lied or pretended being in pain on some days.
Pretending to be ill is something that I've heard a whole lot, far too many times. Depending on who's saying it, I get really devastated some times. My own family (here i mostly refer to my mother and sisters) has never believed in my physical problems, although they've seen it every day, and seen what it's doing to me. That has been especially hard on me. Being called a liar, trying to get of the hook, hiding from commitments because of laziness, all that and more, that is most hurtful when the words comes from those living under your roof , and are those you love the most (not to mention you'd do anything for them, even though you don't really have the strength to, although your "no" have been ignored by them far too many times). Not being able to depend on your family when living with illnesses really tears you up, inside and out.
I too have tried to keep up with the rest, doing the same as everyone else, although I didn't have the full strength. Much because I didn't want to look weak, didn't want to be yelled at, beaten, didn't want to be looked down at... For many reasons, I have refused to take my "resting time", the time I really needed to maybe get back a bit on my feet, just because of the opinions of others.
Nobody wants to be looked at as weak, lazy, or someone not to be counted on. So. I grinded my teeth, put my head down and went for it. A lot. For far too long.
What I didn't understand then was that it was my mother who should have cared for me. She should have respected my problems, and helped me. But that was never the case. Being raised like I was, I learned at an early age to not respect my own feelings at all. I learned to push every bit of "weakness" (my mothers words) aside, not caring at all for my self. My "no" was never, ever accepted, not during high fever, not when having my arms in bandages, not when being hospitalized, not ever. And that is very dangerous. Instead I was forced into something most similar to "battlepreparation".
Among the first things I got to learn in therapy as an adult, was that a body always being on this "battlepreparation" is tense 24/7, and it is sooner or later going to crash. It took my body and mind over 30 years to break down, and when I finally hit the famous wall, I hit it hard. Everything in my life litterally came down on me, everything that I've been through so far just caught up with me in what felt as seconds, everything I'd tried to keep a big distance to, everything I'd forgotten about. That...was....hard.
Right then and there I never expected myself to live through it all. I was down, deep down, never saw a light anywhere, never understood how this so called life was ever going to be ok again. When I was at my deepest darkest, I never thought this (being able to write about it from a different angle and level) was going to be possible.
But the life came back to me, if ever so slowly.
Now I understand where some of my bodys problems comes from. The perspective has changed a lot (thank God for that). I've had some really good therapists and physiotherapists along the way to guide, educate and inform me about all this.
Always tense in my case means never relaxed, not physically, nor mentally. This leads to that the muscles in the end are cramping, leaving very little room for my blood to pass through. That leads to (amongst other problems) that my muscles were wasting, dying from loss of blood and lack of oxygene. And due to all this, my levels on adrenaline was shooting so high that my body constantly thought the war was upon us, and reacted, both mentally and physically, after those signals. Me not knowing or understanding this (until the age of 36), not being able to do anything about it, ended up in severe pain, cramps and deep depression for numerous of times, and so the black circle went on an on. Until about four years ago that is.
It took me one year to be able to leave the house without severe anxietyattacs (I really don't remember so much at all from that year). It took me two years to be able to take a walk in the woods and not being terrified of sudden sounds behind me (here I remeber more, I also wrote dairy). It took me three years to finally try to work again (oh, the relief when I finally got my first paycheck and could pay my own bills again...).
The tension and the pain slowly becomes smaller and smaller, but I still have to work on it pretty much every day, but I'll be damned if I'm not getting there eventually.
Off course I sometimes feel that my childhood has been wasted, it could have been lived so differently. On the other hand, I've learned a lot. No, not the learning I would have preffered if being able to choose, but this is my life, can't change the past, can however change my way of looking at it and what to do with all this further on. This is one of the reasons I blog about it, hopefully it can help others with similar lives, hopefully I can make someone see that there is a brighter future ahead if you work hard for it.
This is my first year without me having to take medications on a regular basis. I eventually take painkillers to be able to get some sleep, but far from the amount I ate earlier on.
Yes, I still have fibromyalgia, I still have arthritis. But they are not having me. Not yet...
About this dissociative disorder diagnosis
I promised to tell you a bit about the dissociative disorder that I was diagnosed with earlier. And remember this - I can only try to explain how it was for me, what happened in my body, mind and emotionally. So this is my personal experience of this diagnosis.
I never really had several different personalities. I had more like different kind of moods, and acted on those without further reflections. Much of this, I (yes, I say it again) came aware of in therapy.
In the first months with my therapist, she often pointed out that I was "double". At first, I was terribly affraid that she would diagnose me with schizophrenia, oh the horror! Was I getting convicted as a mentally sick woman now?
But along the hours at her clinic, I relaxed more and more. She still hadn't really gotten a hold of all pieces, but then suddenly one day it happened. She is really talanted, this one. Instead of just bringing me this diagnosis and dump it my lap, she made me come to the conclusion by my self (still don't know how she made it, skillfull lady...) I remember shivering all over, deadly scared. She calmed me down, gave me a couple of texts to read through, and that whas an eyeopener in many ways for me (as soon as it had sunken into my mind that I wasn't all buttcrackin' crazy.....).
So. What was this new thing? How did it affect me? And, most inportantly - How was I going to get rid of it?
It soon what obvious to me that all my defenses were on red alert... Let's say.... Always. I never let the guard down, always preparing for battle. And there I really mean always. Although I felt calm, I had an underlying feeling of anxiety, of crisis preparation. Didn't know how and why, still had no thoughts about that my childhood had caused me this unpleasantness.
It became clear that the chapter "dissociative amnesia" was my biggest problem. That, and the fact that I'd completely cut of most of my feelings.
Regarding the non-feeling-thing, I was fully aware. When I first came to the clinic, I thought for real that I was a psycopath, because I couldn't feel just about anything. The exeption was my children, there I felt a lot.... But I remember saying to my therapist "I think I am numb, inside and out, and I am terrified of who I might be, please lock me up!" Need I tell you that she had a hard time not laughing at my worries? She just answered "No, you're completely healthy and normal, otherwise you would not have seeken help dear, trust me on this one".
And I trusted her. And I read my material. And I searched through our local library for more information. And I read that too. And I purchased books. And I read them.
Then I calmed down, as the months went by. Now I know that this disocciative thing can be healed if given the correct treatment. I know because I now have access to my feelings (overwhelming but oh so good!), and I feel pretty normal for the first time in years.
The months went by, and the more we dove into this, the more I understood about defence mechanisms and human ways of handeling traumas. Imagine when I fully understood that I was pretty normal? That I had survived because of my strong, well functioning senses? Freedom is one of the words. But.... Rage towards my mother is another.
Repeated traumas in my entire childhood had caused me to become another than who I was in order to survive. Crazy. Sick. Appalling. But more about that later on, let's focus on this diagnosis.
I chose to link to wikipedia for further information for those of you that want to learn a bit more. It might not be the happiest, cheerful reading in your life, but it is truly really interesting I think.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dissociative_disorder
I never really had several different personalities. I had more like different kind of moods, and acted on those without further reflections. Much of this, I (yes, I say it again) came aware of in therapy.
In the first months with my therapist, she often pointed out that I was "double". At first, I was terribly affraid that she would diagnose me with schizophrenia, oh the horror! Was I getting convicted as a mentally sick woman now?
But along the hours at her clinic, I relaxed more and more. She still hadn't really gotten a hold of all pieces, but then suddenly one day it happened. She is really talanted, this one. Instead of just bringing me this diagnosis and dump it my lap, she made me come to the conclusion by my self (still don't know how she made it, skillfull lady...) I remember shivering all over, deadly scared. She calmed me down, gave me a couple of texts to read through, and that whas an eyeopener in many ways for me (as soon as it had sunken into my mind that I wasn't all buttcrackin' crazy.....).
So. What was this new thing? How did it affect me? And, most inportantly - How was I going to get rid of it?
It soon what obvious to me that all my defenses were on red alert... Let's say.... Always. I never let the guard down, always preparing for battle. And there I really mean always. Although I felt calm, I had an underlying feeling of anxiety, of crisis preparation. Didn't know how and why, still had no thoughts about that my childhood had caused me this unpleasantness.
It became clear that the chapter "dissociative amnesia" was my biggest problem. That, and the fact that I'd completely cut of most of my feelings.
Regarding the non-feeling-thing, I was fully aware. When I first came to the clinic, I thought for real that I was a psycopath, because I couldn't feel just about anything. The exeption was my children, there I felt a lot.... But I remember saying to my therapist "I think I am numb, inside and out, and I am terrified of who I might be, please lock me up!" Need I tell you that she had a hard time not laughing at my worries? She just answered "No, you're completely healthy and normal, otherwise you would not have seeken help dear, trust me on this one".
And I trusted her. And I read my material. And I searched through our local library for more information. And I read that too. And I purchased books. And I read them.
Then I calmed down, as the months went by. Now I know that this disocciative thing can be healed if given the correct treatment. I know because I now have access to my feelings (overwhelming but oh so good!), and I feel pretty normal for the first time in years.
The months went by, and the more we dove into this, the more I understood about defence mechanisms and human ways of handeling traumas. Imagine when I fully understood that I was pretty normal? That I had survived because of my strong, well functioning senses? Freedom is one of the words. But.... Rage towards my mother is another.
Repeated traumas in my entire childhood had caused me to become another than who I was in order to survive. Crazy. Sick. Appalling. But more about that later on, let's focus on this diagnosis.
I chose to link to wikipedia for further information for those of you that want to learn a bit more. It might not be the happiest, cheerful reading in your life, but it is truly really interesting I think.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dissociative_disorder
When the safety net fails the children
There are times when society fales children. We all know it.
The neighbours of the unfunctional family, friends, maybe relatives, are sometimes (quite often I would say) afraid of sticking their nose into "non of their business", afraid getting into uncomfortable situations them selves, maybe afraid that they've gotten it all wrong (and wouldn't that be embarrassing..?), so they ultimately chooses not to do anything about what they suspect or even see with their own eyes. They talk about it during dinner, gossip about it at the store and at cafés, but do someone actually do something more than that? The answer is no. No one wants to feel blamed.
I had a few strong souls around me as a child. I had my angelic neighbour Monica, always there with a warm, safe embrace. I had my first grade teacher, who actually went home to my mom, putting her against the wall, demanding her to take better care of me (and my sisters). Least but not last, I had my aunt, my mothers younger sister. She is really something, even today it's by far the strongest woman I've ever met. She wouldn't go into direct conflicts with my mother, but she brought me home with her as often as she possibly could, all year around. Only problem was she didn't live in our small town... But though she was far away, her care was always sort of with me anyways.
So I was not all alone in the world. Locked up, beaten up, I went inside my head, knowing that at least there were souls who cared about me. Of course I was angry, I dreamed about that someone would ultimately adopt me, someone that could love me, and care for me. A new mother would be great, but no, I knew that would never happen to me.
I also had my grandfather and his wife (who were as much of a grandmother as my biological granny would have been). They were the ones to whom I escaped from the age of four. They also knew how my mother treated me, but at the same time, they chose to do nothing other than letting me stay with them for a few days every now and then.
Before my granny died, we had a good, long talk about why my mother had been treating me the way she had as I grew up. Her answers were, at first, "Oh, I don't really know why, she is just not healthy minded like a mother should be. Perhaps she would have been better off without any children at all".
I wasn't satisfied with that answer, since she adored and cared for my younger sisters, but in the same sentece made a complete mental mush of me, humiliatingly laughing over my entire presence.
So she gave in a bit. Her inference was that mother was a bit jealous of me. I couldn't believe my ears. "Say what?!" I remember halfly shouting out. But she thought I was nothing, an insect, a nobody, a retard.
"No, she might have said that at times" my granny said. "But the truth is that everyone adored you. And, you were your fathers daughter. You loved your father above all. She couldn't accept that. You were her firstborn. In her mind, you should admire and depent solingly on her. When you turned to your fathers shoulder instead of hers, she took that as a rejection. I think that was what happened. She has always lusted for adoration, from everybody. Maybe she felt abandoned by you, I really don't know. I don't know."
Bam! That hit me right in my soft spot. Although my granny told me not to give that anymore thoughts and energy, I dove into this, for me, new information with my entire soul. Now I know that the old lady was quite on spot with her reflections, she was damn near parts of the truth. I understand what lies beneath all this as well, but I think that was one of the "kick offs" that made my mind start to work differently about my childhood.
Now, as a grownup with four kids of my own, I never ever hesitate to interfere if I get suspicious about children being abused or badly treated. I think that is both a blessing and a curse. I am pretty fearless when it comes to conflicts, not afraid going up against others if I see that they act mean or just plain stupid and hurt others. It's a curse because I always think I could do more to help more children. For some strange reason, any idiot can produce children, although they are not capable of taking good care of them, but not anyone can get a drivers license... You know what I mean here, right?
My wish to all of you is this - Do not be afraid to take action if you see that things are wrong. We are our childrens safety net. Maybe nothing happens, maybe the bad stuff keeps on happening, but the child at least knows (and will remember for the rest of their life) that someone tried to help them. That their well being mattered to someone out there.
The neighbours of the unfunctional family, friends, maybe relatives, are sometimes (quite often I would say) afraid of sticking their nose into "non of their business", afraid getting into uncomfortable situations them selves, maybe afraid that they've gotten it all wrong (and wouldn't that be embarrassing..?), so they ultimately chooses not to do anything about what they suspect or even see with their own eyes. They talk about it during dinner, gossip about it at the store and at cafés, but do someone actually do something more than that? The answer is no. No one wants to feel blamed.
I had a few strong souls around me as a child. I had my angelic neighbour Monica, always there with a warm, safe embrace. I had my first grade teacher, who actually went home to my mom, putting her against the wall, demanding her to take better care of me (and my sisters). Least but not last, I had my aunt, my mothers younger sister. She is really something, even today it's by far the strongest woman I've ever met. She wouldn't go into direct conflicts with my mother, but she brought me home with her as often as she possibly could, all year around. Only problem was she didn't live in our small town... But though she was far away, her care was always sort of with me anyways.
So I was not all alone in the world. Locked up, beaten up, I went inside my head, knowing that at least there were souls who cared about me. Of course I was angry, I dreamed about that someone would ultimately adopt me, someone that could love me, and care for me. A new mother would be great, but no, I knew that would never happen to me.
I also had my grandfather and his wife (who were as much of a grandmother as my biological granny would have been). They were the ones to whom I escaped from the age of four. They also knew how my mother treated me, but at the same time, they chose to do nothing other than letting me stay with them for a few days every now and then.
Before my granny died, we had a good, long talk about why my mother had been treating me the way she had as I grew up. Her answers were, at first, "Oh, I don't really know why, she is just not healthy minded like a mother should be. Perhaps she would have been better off without any children at all".
I wasn't satisfied with that answer, since she adored and cared for my younger sisters, but in the same sentece made a complete mental mush of me, humiliatingly laughing over my entire presence.
So she gave in a bit. Her inference was that mother was a bit jealous of me. I couldn't believe my ears. "Say what?!" I remember halfly shouting out. But she thought I was nothing, an insect, a nobody, a retard.
"No, she might have said that at times" my granny said. "But the truth is that everyone adored you. And, you were your fathers daughter. You loved your father above all. She couldn't accept that. You were her firstborn. In her mind, you should admire and depent solingly on her. When you turned to your fathers shoulder instead of hers, she took that as a rejection. I think that was what happened. She has always lusted for adoration, from everybody. Maybe she felt abandoned by you, I really don't know. I don't know."
Bam! That hit me right in my soft spot. Although my granny told me not to give that anymore thoughts and energy, I dove into this, for me, new information with my entire soul. Now I know that the old lady was quite on spot with her reflections, she was damn near parts of the truth. I understand what lies beneath all this as well, but I think that was one of the "kick offs" that made my mind start to work differently about my childhood.
Now, as a grownup with four kids of my own, I never ever hesitate to interfere if I get suspicious about children being abused or badly treated. I think that is both a blessing and a curse. I am pretty fearless when it comes to conflicts, not afraid going up against others if I see that they act mean or just plain stupid and hurt others. It's a curse because I always think I could do more to help more children. For some strange reason, any idiot can produce children, although they are not capable of taking good care of them, but not anyone can get a drivers license... You know what I mean here, right?
My wish to all of you is this - Do not be afraid to take action if you see that things are wrong. We are our childrens safety net. Maybe nothing happens, maybe the bad stuff keeps on happening, but the child at least knows (and will remember for the rest of their life) that someone tried to help them. That their well being mattered to someone out there.
Clearing up my grounds
As I started this blog, there was so much I wanted to write about, preferringly all at the same time. But I'll try to slow my tempo down a bit, taking each and every subject and session one at a time.
What do you need to know to be able to understand? What do I write to, as much as possible, strengthen others that have had similar lifes?
For me, the easiest is to write from my perspective here and now, from where I am today. Thoughts of today, uncensored. So I'll start with a introduction of what changed most of my way of living, emotionally and in my mind.
For three years ago, I broke down. I hit the famous wall, and it was then and there I started really wanting change. Although I was a successfull, middleaged woman, a strong single mother running my own buisness since eleven years and had a rich social life, I was never satisfied, never really happy. I was proud of my kids, of course, they to have grown up to be strong, caring humans although having to face tons of quite dramatic things in their lives. But for me, as a woman, I was always aiming for more, I could always do better, always be better. I never gave myself a break, in my mind I repeatedly slapped myself around for not ever being good enough, ever.
One of my employees (who became a good, dear friend by time) used to tell me to slow the heck down, breath, give myself credit. But no, I couldn't. What if someone saw the truth? What if someone discovered that I was useless, a lower kind of being? No, that could never happen, I wouldn't allow it!
So. Therapy - again - it was. As always I thought there would be a couple of months with a nice curator, turning myself inside and out, and then off to meds again, but not this time. Things changed for real, for life.
Somewhere in my mind I knew that I was fully enough. I was (and still am) a really good mother, and only that should be encouraging. I am so happy and proud that I haven't followed my mothers footsteps, not in any way. They say abusers bring up new abusers. Alcoholics raise new alcoholics, you know?
That never happened here. I thank any invisible god and power in the universe (no, I'm not a beliver really, but someone must have had my back and sent me a guardian angel from early age, otherwise I would have been dead by now...) for not going down that ugly road, for always loving my kids and treating them like any mother should.
It's not until recent years, and specifically the last one and a half year, that I've come to understand that I truly am amazing and quite unusual. I must also say, that any of this might not have been so obvious to me if I hadn't fallen into the care of my therapist. Maybe my life would have been ok without all this "selfdiscoveringchitchat", but I don't really know that.
Since early age 12, I've been to numerous of curators and psycoligists, eating one antidepressant medicine after another, always running straight down in the black hole if I stopped in therapy or with meds. Always hoping that this time would be the last, but always falling back in depressions.
But this time things are different. I've also chosen to surrender to "the big psyciatric investigation" whish gave a really good answer to just about everything. I have no diagnosis but "traumatized from happenings in childhood". I have also had, in my past, dissociative behaviours, but I've healed from that (that diagnosis I'm going to write a special chapter on here later on...) and no longer do I have different levels of emotional defence and "EP:s" (that is when you develop layers in your personality to soothe your feelings and all that). But again, more about that later.
I am considered really healthy, although my psyciatrist was stunned and happily amazed (her own words, spoken with big admiration in her eyes) that I've not ended up as an outcast drugaddict in the park. (Hm... It was kind of heartwarming to hear that, but confusing, because that has never ever occured to me to take on that road in life). The key to my, shall we call it success, was (according to her) my couriosity and ability to raise above and look at situations from above. That, and that I am unbelievably stubborn. Well. Thank you for those nice words!
For years (as I wrote in the chapter before this) I was convinced that I was stupid and disabled. What I didn't wrote was that I also thought I looked like a monster, a freak. Yes, for real. My posture made Quasimodo look like a ballerina, my entire being always tried to hide, to not being looked at. Ugly. A fear to the eye.
My first grade teacher (bless her) always told me to straighten up, to speak up, to keep eyecontact. To clean up my pretty face, to five myself a pat on the back for being so intelligent. She never gave up on me. But I never understood why I should straighten my spine and speak forward, instead of whisper to the ground. I can still hear her voice as she encouraged me not to whisper, but to speak louder, clearer.
There's nothing wrong with me and my looks. Not to my voice either. And even if there was, I would still be a good person, I would still have human rights. I would still be worthy of living a real life. Not a life locked away, not a life spitted on just for being alive. I am enough. I know that now, at age forty.
So. What changed me? Partly, I myself changed me. I also got a good amount of help from dynamic therapy and part of the way from mild antideppresant medications as a crutch along the road.
Could I have done all this emotional work all by my self? Maybe. But I wouldn't have allowed myself to feel so good about my own being, I wouldn't have seen the whole, nasty picture as it really was. Denial can be a strong force. Although knowing that my mother was wrong, I somehow had my doubts that she was entirely right about this freak to a child of hers...
What do you need to know to be able to understand? What do I write to, as much as possible, strengthen others that have had similar lifes?
For me, the easiest is to write from my perspective here and now, from where I am today. Thoughts of today, uncensored. So I'll start with a introduction of what changed most of my way of living, emotionally and in my mind.
For three years ago, I broke down. I hit the famous wall, and it was then and there I started really wanting change. Although I was a successfull, middleaged woman, a strong single mother running my own buisness since eleven years and had a rich social life, I was never satisfied, never really happy. I was proud of my kids, of course, they to have grown up to be strong, caring humans although having to face tons of quite dramatic things in their lives. But for me, as a woman, I was always aiming for more, I could always do better, always be better. I never gave myself a break, in my mind I repeatedly slapped myself around for not ever being good enough, ever.
One of my employees (who became a good, dear friend by time) used to tell me to slow the heck down, breath, give myself credit. But no, I couldn't. What if someone saw the truth? What if someone discovered that I was useless, a lower kind of being? No, that could never happen, I wouldn't allow it!
So. Therapy - again - it was. As always I thought there would be a couple of months with a nice curator, turning myself inside and out, and then off to meds again, but not this time. Things changed for real, for life.
Somewhere in my mind I knew that I was fully enough. I was (and still am) a really good mother, and only that should be encouraging. I am so happy and proud that I haven't followed my mothers footsteps, not in any way. They say abusers bring up new abusers. Alcoholics raise new alcoholics, you know?
That never happened here. I thank any invisible god and power in the universe (no, I'm not a beliver really, but someone must have had my back and sent me a guardian angel from early age, otherwise I would have been dead by now...) for not going down that ugly road, for always loving my kids and treating them like any mother should.
It's not until recent years, and specifically the last one and a half year, that I've come to understand that I truly am amazing and quite unusual. I must also say, that any of this might not have been so obvious to me if I hadn't fallen into the care of my therapist. Maybe my life would have been ok without all this "selfdiscoveringchitchat", but I don't really know that.
Since early age 12, I've been to numerous of curators and psycoligists, eating one antidepressant medicine after another, always running straight down in the black hole if I stopped in therapy or with meds. Always hoping that this time would be the last, but always falling back in depressions.
But this time things are different. I've also chosen to surrender to "the big psyciatric investigation" whish gave a really good answer to just about everything. I have no diagnosis but "traumatized from happenings in childhood". I have also had, in my past, dissociative behaviours, but I've healed from that (that diagnosis I'm going to write a special chapter on here later on...) and no longer do I have different levels of emotional defence and "EP:s" (that is when you develop layers in your personality to soothe your feelings and all that). But again, more about that later.
I am considered really healthy, although my psyciatrist was stunned and happily amazed (her own words, spoken with big admiration in her eyes) that I've not ended up as an outcast drugaddict in the park. (Hm... It was kind of heartwarming to hear that, but confusing, because that has never ever occured to me to take on that road in life). The key to my, shall we call it success, was (according to her) my couriosity and ability to raise above and look at situations from above. That, and that I am unbelievably stubborn. Well. Thank you for those nice words!
For years (as I wrote in the chapter before this) I was convinced that I was stupid and disabled. What I didn't wrote was that I also thought I looked like a monster, a freak. Yes, for real. My posture made Quasimodo look like a ballerina, my entire being always tried to hide, to not being looked at. Ugly. A fear to the eye.
My first grade teacher (bless her) always told me to straighten up, to speak up, to keep eyecontact. To clean up my pretty face, to five myself a pat on the back for being so intelligent. She never gave up on me. But I never understood why I should straighten my spine and speak forward, instead of whisper to the ground. I can still hear her voice as she encouraged me not to whisper, but to speak louder, clearer.
There's nothing wrong with me and my looks. Not to my voice either. And even if there was, I would still be a good person, I would still have human rights. I would still be worthy of living a real life. Not a life locked away, not a life spitted on just for being alive. I am enough. I know that now, at age forty.
So. What changed me? Partly, I myself changed me. I also got a good amount of help from dynamic therapy and part of the way from mild antideppresant medications as a crutch along the road.
Could I have done all this emotional work all by my self? Maybe. But I wouldn't have allowed myself to feel so good about my own being, I wouldn't have seen the whole, nasty picture as it really was. Denial can be a strong force. Although knowing that my mother was wrong, I somehow had my doubts that she was entirely right about this freak to a child of hers...
A small introduction of me, the sad monster
I was a happy baby, so I was told. I was beautiful too, big blue eyes, the longest, black eyelashes and blond, curly hair. From the pictures of me as an infant, I see that too.
I don't really know when I started being unhappy and ugly, I have no other memories than mostly not so good ones. What I do know, however, is that I work my ass off trying to get back to life, get back to knowing who I am, to know my rights as a human being. For years I was ashamed of myself, now that's beginning to change. Some days I'm even proud of who I am.
It's Wednesday. I have finished yet another session with my therapist. It's my third year in therapy (this time around), and I can honestly say that I'm doing good. No medications, and my boat is floating just fine right now, in fact it's floating better than ever before.
I'm going to be very straight forward here, and if things sound odd I promise to explain later if there still remain question after I've told my story.
It took me nearly thirty years to discover that I'm not retarded. I'm not handicapped, neither mentally nor physically.
For many years I lived with rage, hate, frustration and, off course - with that comes odd and strange behavior and severe anxiety. Never understood what was wrong, why my life seems to never work smooth and painfully. Others seemed so happy and unaware of all dark sides there was to life. Not me.
Always confused and pretty frustrated. On the other hand I had accepted that this was my life, this was who I was, a paria, a lonely outsider, the girl who never fitted in anywhere with anyone. My mother had told me that I was very special. Special as in bad, something to be ashamed of, something not to brag about to the other mothers. Something to hide. Something. Not someone.
Today we (my therapist and I) explored some of my earlier problems with anger. Hard, exhausting. But now adays I'm never angry though, and as strange as it might seem, that too is a problem.
As a child I was goldenharted and nice, but in my teens and for years after that, I was angry most of the time. Not angry as in irritated or mildly annoyed. Angry as in furious, breathing nothing but hatred and mistrust.
Did anyone go up against me? Yelling, threatening and screaming. For days.
Did anything go wrong, if yet so invisibly insignificant? Anger, frustration, shame, feelings of total failure. For days.
Did someone ignore or dislike me? Hate, rage and revenge. For months.
Did someone do me wrong big time? Rage, complotting, revenge. For years.
Always rage, anger and frustration, never, never, never tears. Never ever sadness or emptiness.
And now to the complicated thing. I always forgave them who hurt me the most. At least for a long period of time.
If someone accidentally lightly stepped on my toe, I'd bury them. If someone cut of my entire foot, I forgave them (many times around) and probably offered them the other foot too. I could let some people (never figured out why really) hurt me so severely, for a long time.
In fact they probably got used to me taking loads of shit, but.... When I reached the bottom, all hell broke loose on them and everybody who were with them. Sometimes the revenge hit them so fast and hard they never really understood how or even why. And there I was, getting al fingers pointed at me, the crazy girl who went bananas over nothing. You who have been bullied knows what I'm talking about here. When that little drop in makes the glass too full... Well yes. Suit your self bullies. You had it coming. An eye for an eye. Seems very biblical, right...?
The problem was unfortunately that I often turned on those who could have been my friend as well. My whole world was upside down, both mentally and emotionally. I was sailing with very broken sails and no keel.
I never understood it then. I just couldn't figure out why most things in my life seemed to go in the wrong direction, why people always turned against me. I never understood that this was what I was brought up with, a social heritage.
Now I got the whole picture, the puzzle is soon finished, and I do understand who I am now. Of course I knew who I was earlier too, but it's a big difference between understanding just logically and gthen understanding with feelings and mind, all together as one unit. Yes, I did feel that things were wrong when I grew up, but that I never understood until now exactly how utterly wrong. I thought that all families worked pretty much like mine. So I was told. I was always the one to blame. I too blamed me, because I was, after all, retarded. Off course I did things wrong, off course it was ok to be ashamed of me, off course it was ok that my mother laughed and pointed at me in public. Retard.
My awakening from this was (and still am) cruel. It hurts to see what damage a bad mother can do to a child. Now I know why and how I behaved and lived as I did. I know that I was crueler to myself, and put more blame on myself than any child ever did. So many years of my life destroyed, never coming back again, they can never be relived again.
The truth hurts. I was a product of living in a dysfunctional family, with a mother that makes Caligula seem like a fluffy little lovebunny. This is my story of coming back to life again.
I don't really know when I started being unhappy and ugly, I have no other memories than mostly not so good ones. What I do know, however, is that I work my ass off trying to get back to life, get back to knowing who I am, to know my rights as a human being. For years I was ashamed of myself, now that's beginning to change. Some days I'm even proud of who I am.
It's Wednesday. I have finished yet another session with my therapist. It's my third year in therapy (this time around), and I can honestly say that I'm doing good. No medications, and my boat is floating just fine right now, in fact it's floating better than ever before.
I'm going to be very straight forward here, and if things sound odd I promise to explain later if there still remain question after I've told my story.
It took me nearly thirty years to discover that I'm not retarded. I'm not handicapped, neither mentally nor physically.
For many years I lived with rage, hate, frustration and, off course - with that comes odd and strange behavior and severe anxiety. Never understood what was wrong, why my life seems to never work smooth and painfully. Others seemed so happy and unaware of all dark sides there was to life. Not me.
Always confused and pretty frustrated. On the other hand I had accepted that this was my life, this was who I was, a paria, a lonely outsider, the girl who never fitted in anywhere with anyone. My mother had told me that I was very special. Special as in bad, something to be ashamed of, something not to brag about to the other mothers. Something to hide. Something. Not someone.
Today we (my therapist and I) explored some of my earlier problems with anger. Hard, exhausting. But now adays I'm never angry though, and as strange as it might seem, that too is a problem.
As a child I was goldenharted and nice, but in my teens and for years after that, I was angry most of the time. Not angry as in irritated or mildly annoyed. Angry as in furious, breathing nothing but hatred and mistrust.
Did anyone go up against me? Yelling, threatening and screaming. For days.
Did anything go wrong, if yet so invisibly insignificant? Anger, frustration, shame, feelings of total failure. For days.
Did someone ignore or dislike me? Hate, rage and revenge. For months.
Did someone do me wrong big time? Rage, complotting, revenge. For years.
Always rage, anger and frustration, never, never, never tears. Never ever sadness or emptiness.
And now to the complicated thing. I always forgave them who hurt me the most. At least for a long period of time.
If someone accidentally lightly stepped on my toe, I'd bury them. If someone cut of my entire foot, I forgave them (many times around) and probably offered them the other foot too. I could let some people (never figured out why really) hurt me so severely, for a long time.
In fact they probably got used to me taking loads of shit, but.... When I reached the bottom, all hell broke loose on them and everybody who were with them. Sometimes the revenge hit them so fast and hard they never really understood how or even why. And there I was, getting al fingers pointed at me, the crazy girl who went bananas over nothing. You who have been bullied knows what I'm talking about here. When that little drop in makes the glass too full... Well yes. Suit your self bullies. You had it coming. An eye for an eye. Seems very biblical, right...?
The problem was unfortunately that I often turned on those who could have been my friend as well. My whole world was upside down, both mentally and emotionally. I was sailing with very broken sails and no keel.
I never understood it then. I just couldn't figure out why most things in my life seemed to go in the wrong direction, why people always turned against me. I never understood that this was what I was brought up with, a social heritage.
Now I got the whole picture, the puzzle is soon finished, and I do understand who I am now. Of course I knew who I was earlier too, but it's a big difference between understanding just logically and gthen understanding with feelings and mind, all together as one unit. Yes, I did feel that things were wrong when I grew up, but that I never understood until now exactly how utterly wrong. I thought that all families worked pretty much like mine. So I was told. I was always the one to blame. I too blamed me, because I was, after all, retarded. Off course I did things wrong, off course it was ok to be ashamed of me, off course it was ok that my mother laughed and pointed at me in public. Retard.
My awakening from this was (and still am) cruel. It hurts to see what damage a bad mother can do to a child. Now I know why and how I behaved and lived as I did. I know that I was crueler to myself, and put more blame on myself than any child ever did. So many years of my life destroyed, never coming back again, they can never be relived again.
The truth hurts. I was a product of living in a dysfunctional family, with a mother that makes Caligula seem like a fluffy little lovebunny. This is my story of coming back to life again.
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