Mind Blown

Recently, I’ve been what feels like bombarded with memories. My therapist said it is probably because seeing J last week has caused my brain to remember new things. Whether or not I’m remembering trauma is another thing entirely.

I learned when I was 14 that the things I had endured were considered abuse. And at that time, I hadn’t disclosed even half of what really happened to me. It took me about 4 years after that to even add the word abuse to my vocabulary. Abuse is such a harsh word, definitely not something that ever happened to me. Everyone gets hit every now and then. Sure, the frying pan incident and maybe a few others were a bit over the top, but she was REALLY mad that day. So I basically deserved it.

It wasn’t until I was 20 that I was even diagnosed with PTSD and then at 21 a new therapist told me about Complex PTSD. After learning about CPTSD (I haven’t been officially diagnosed because it is not yet a recognized mental illness in the DSM-5) I learned just how much of what I endured was wrong and not normal. My 2 close friends have told me that their mothers never hit them. I just thought they were lucky… not the majority. I literally learned this past April that being slapped or hit in the face and mouth is considered abuse and is not a normal thing to happen to kids. When I tell you my mind was blown- Holy Cow! My mind was BLOWN. I literally thought everyone was hit on a daily basis. Just writing this out now, I’m still finding it hard to believe that this isn’t something everyone went through.

So if something that I considered to be so trivial, was wrong and abusive… what else was wrong and abusive that I experienced? Was my entire childhood just one big episode of abuse and I was completely oblivious to it? I question every memory I’ve been bombarded with on whether or not it wasn’t normal or if I’m just overreacting to it.

Luckily there are people in my life, who I am close to and can go to with questions about what was normal but I always feel ashamed and embarrassed of needing reassurance on whether an event was bad or not. I texted my best friend a few weeks ago and just out of the blue said- “Do you think it’s normal that J gave me sleeping medicine every night for like 16 years so I wouldn’t wake her up?” Something I never in a million years questioned. To which my best friend just replied, that’s probably not a good thing… and I mean she’s right. If I heard of that happening to someone else, I’d be appalled. Somehow, with me I have to question it. I still think there’s a part of me that truly believes I deserved everything that happened to me.

But that’s drama for another day.

Can’t sleep…

I literally just posted something like an hour ago… but I’m back for more trauma fun.

I can’t sleep. It’s almost midnight on a work night and I was supposed to be asleep over an hour ago.. but I can’t sleep. My anxiety is through the roof and I feel like I’m going to have a panic attack. The best part is, I have no clue where my PRN sleeping pills are. So you know, this week is already off to a great start.

Now. My anxiety could be from the fact that I didn’t take my meds today…. and you know, that’s a problem. Or it could be just because I endured years of abuse and I’m home alone and night time is the right time for memories and intrusive thoughts to sneak up on you. regardless of why, the point is… I can’t sleep. My brain is going about a million miles a minute and I’m shaking and low key freaking out about literally nothing.

What really sucks is the fact that I am tired. Like I’m genuinely tired. I’m yawning as I write this post, I feel my body getting tired, and my eyes feel heavy. Yet every time I get under the covers and close my eyes my brain says- “nope! You haven’t obsessed over X, Y, or Z, therefore it is not time to slumber.”….. my brain and I don’t always get along too well.

Lately I’ve been dreaming about J… and on nights when I don’t dream about her, I wake up about 57 million times or wake up feeling absolutely terrified but not remembering any dream I had to make me feel such a way. I’m not sure if I’d rather prefer not knowing about what I dreamt or knowing. With knowing, comes irrational fears. And almost more of a sense of panic because you know what you’re scared of… but when you don’t know what your scared of, you either feel crazy for being scared of literally nothing or your brain goes into overdrive thinking of a million things you might or should be scared of. But either way, it’s a real blast to go through.

I’m trying so hard not to do my old OCD rituals tonight. Have I mentioned before I have OCD?… well, I do. Anywho- before mid August, I had to tap at least 500 times every day. Tap my fingers that is. Whether on my thumbs or on a surface. At least 500, but there were days when it got as high as 10,000. The reasoning behind that, is if I tapped, nothing bad would happen to me or to the people I love and care about… it’s hard to explain but if you know about OCD, you’ll know that it’s a pretty tricky disorder.

This past August. I stopped tapping. I forgot one day and then realized that nothing bad ended up happening and it kind of clicked. However, tonight I’m having an overwhelming amount of instructive thoughts and paranoia and feeling like if I tap… even if it’s just to 500, I’ll be safe tonight.

I know that’s not rational thinking… but there’s a part of me that believes I can control my destiny just by tapping. I’m trying to do self talk and self soothe. I’m trying to calm myself and remind myself that I don’t need to tap and that I’m not powerful enough to control the universe… I don’t want to give in and start tapping because then I’m scared it will become a daily ritual again….

I’m rambling. Sorry I was kind of all over the place. I needed to do something to calm me down.

I’m going to try for the billionth time tonight to try and sleep.

S-T

Considering this blog is about childhood trauma, every entry could probably use a trigger warning- however, this one I’m going to put right here that if you’re sensitive to things involving sexual abuse or still on your own journey of recovering from such things… here is your trigger warning-

I mentioned before that I work with kids. I didn’t get into too many details. However, the children I work with have emotional disturbances and/or trauma. To protect students’ anonymity of what their struggling with, we use many abbreviations. This way, we can discuss things in front of other kids, or visitors without everyone knowing everyone’s business.

For example- PA means physical abuse or physical aggression. DV means domestic violence. OHI means other health impairment and blah blah blah- You get the idea. Some we use more than others- depending on the child and their needs. An abbreviation that I am thankful we don’t use too often but it unfortunately still comes up every now and again is ST.

ST stands for sexual trauma.

As soon as I typed that last sentence out, I felt myself starting to dissociate.

Last week… wasn’t easy. Work was really stressful and I had trauma therapy on Wednesday night where I disclosed Tuesday nights flashback (the one I didn’t write about) which lead to me completely dissociating and then having an incredibly vivid flashback where I was truly convinced I was 8 years old and it was happening again. The ST.

Somehow, calling it ST, makes it… easier and more secretive. I’m not ready to look it in the eye and call it what it really is… kind of like how some people can’t say their abusers names… I find it hard to say what ST stands for when referring to my own story.

I’m in complete denial. I’ll be the first to say that. I only just remembered it in the beginning of July… before then, I never once even considered myself as being a survivor of sexual abuse. The night I remembered what had happened to me at 8 years old could probably be a whole separate blog in itself. But to sum it up… I basically ended up in a different state at 4:00 in the morning. But you know- trauma for a different day… back to denial:

Since remembering, I have been trying to make sense of something impossible to understand rationally. I try to make up some sort of answer to questions where no answers exist. I’ve been making excuses to even asking momma bear tonight if she would even classify what happened as ST…. which I shouldn’t even be questioning because it obviously was.

ST…. is horrible.. it’s unspeakable. Whenever I hear it at work, or honestly anywhere in my life, my heart shatters for the victim. For the longest time I couldn’t even imagine what that must be like…. the brain is an insanely powerful thing and for 15 years after the trauma, my brain completely blocked it out until 2 days after my 23rd birthday…. I was sitting in my room, doing nothing triggering and BAM. Out of nowhere I remembered something that I never ever ever wanted to believe could happen to me…. but it did. And I’m still struggling everyday to come to terms with it and accept it for what it was.

“The Most Awesome Patient”

I wasn’t going to write today. Not for any particular reason I just couldn’t think of anything worth writing about. Which is silly because we’ve just dipped our toes into my story. But I just got off the phone with everyone’s favorite momma bear and I randomly remembered something midst conversation.

I like stickers. They make me happy… they genuinely make me happy. I can spend hours in the sticker aisle at any craft store and just look at stickers… I thought this was just one of my weird quirks but I realized why this might be just minutes ago.

I was in and out of the hospital a few times when I was around 4 or 5 because of a skin infection. Every time I would see my dermatologist in the hospital or for a follow up exam in his office, he would pull out a stack of stickers from his shirt pocket… and like most 4 or 5 year olds, I was a BIG fan of stickers. He told me that most kids only get 1 sticker but because I’m the most awesome patient I can pick 3 or 4. Looking back, he probably said that to every kid he saw, but as a 5 year old, I felt like I had won the Ms America Pageant.

WOW! 4 stickers?! He would fan them all out like a magician with a deck of cards and I would pick out my treasures. I took my job as “the most awesome patient” very seriously and took careful consideration in what stickers I picked… you’d think my life depended on it. These stickers were my favorite thing. I remember on the car ride home, I’d cradle them in my hands like a baby bird and as soon as I got home I’d run into my room and stick them to a shelf I had.

I wanted to save them and I wanted to be able to look at them everyday. They were my prized possessions… I truly thought they were the greatest thing in the world and every time I saw them, I was reminded that I was Dr. A’s most awesome patient… which, as a little girl being abused nearly everyday, had a pretty profound impact on me. At 5 years old, these measly stickers gave me some sort of glimmer of hope that maybe I wasn’t a mistake or an awful child. I looked at them and felt SO incredibly special.

Until….

J found them. I’m not sure if she really found them or just noticed them. Honestly, she could have been aware of them all along and this day, she just needed something to be angry about. She saw them stuck to my shelf and ripped them all down. My precious stickers. My small glimmer of hope. Ripped off my shelf. She then proceeded to scream at and hit me.

Because they were stuck there for so long, they had left a residue on the wooden shelf. And I got in big trouble because “stickers don’t belong on shelves and I have now ruined my shelf.”…. I don’t think it was ruined, but at 5 years old, I believed I had messed up again… I made J angry, and I “ruined” my shelf therefore I deserve to not have my stickers anymore.

J then made the decision that I “wasn’t responsible enough to have stickers.” And just like that, no more stickers for Maggie. If I went to school one day, and a teacher put a sticker on my shirt, I would have to take it off before getting home because They weren’t allowed. I remember I got a worksheet back with a sticker of a blue and yellow star on the top that said “great job!” And I tried so hard to carefully peel that star sticker off of the worksheet. I’m not sure what I planned on doing with it but I just remember wanting to keep it.

So now….. here I am. 23 years old. Laying in bed. Typing the most pitiful story… and crying about it…

Crying. About. Stickers. It doesn’t get much more pathetic than this.

“Diagnonsense”

I’ve always been given the title of “troubled” growing up. I always had some sort of issue. I was the kid who cried every single day in school. I was the sensitive kid who cried over every little thing. I was always terrified of everything and everyone. It’s clear now, that I was this way because I was being abused but at the time, it wasn’t known by literally anyone how I was being treated therefore nobody knew what my problem was… so I was just “troubled”

Eventually I was given the diagnoses of anxiety, and later depression but something was still “off”. Lots of kids have anxiety and depression but lots of kids weren’t 10 years old and having a full blown panic attack when their teacher scolds them for calling out in math class… lots of kids don’t flinch every time someone moves suddenly or tries to touch them. But a lot of those kids aren’t being abused everyday.

Looking back, it’s truly incredible that I could be viewed as so troubled and problematic by teachers, friends, and other adults yet nobody questioned abuse… and then when I was 13, the idea of abuse left everyone’s mind because I finally had a “diagnosis” as to why I act the way I do… or did. Or so everybody thought…..

Before I tell this exciting story- it’s important to know that from the time I was 10 until I was about 15 or 16 I was hospitalized in a psychiatric facility 19 times. Yes. 19 times. The first 5 or 6 times were because of suicidal thoughts along with symptoms of psychosis. But by the time I was 13/14 I became so desperate to escape my home life and get away from J, that I learned to manipulate the system and knew exactly what to say to the doctors so I could be admitted for a week or more. I didn’t view it as lying. Part of me really was depressed and suicidal. The other part was just begging to be heard. I’m definitely not proud of being so manipulative and lying, but I was so beyond desperate and grew to love the hospital because I received the attention I craved so badly at home.

***So. Now you know that and even though you’re all a bunch of strangers, I feel ashamed and fear of being viewed differently…. by strangers. But we don’t need to get into that today. Just know that this isn’t super easy to write about. ****

When I was 14, doctors became suspicious. So my psychiatrist ordered a series of intensive psychological testing to be done. Things like ink blots, IQ tests and other things to determine why I was having such a difficult time. All together, I think I had close to 30 hours of testing done. I recently learned it was the same testing given to people who commit horrific crimes like murder to see if they are capable to stand trial. That is neither here nor there just thought it was a fun fact.

Now- what I was told is very different than what the truth is.

So the doctor had a meeting with my parents. I have no idea what was said because I wasn’t allowed to be there. I also wasn’t allowed to see my file. So I was going by sheer trust that J would tell me the truth… because why would a mother lie?

J told me that the doctor diagnosed me with borderline personality disorder. THAT was why I was suicidal and had trust issues, and was scared all the time. BPD. So there was an answer. Alas. She’s not crazy. She’s not troubled. She has borderline. So now we know. And like any other diagnosis- the next step is treatment… because with treatment, you get better. So— I was put in group therapy and given medication and was in 1-1 therapy with someone who specialized in borderline personality disorder. J and my father went to support groups and conferences. And everything was great because NOW we know what’s wrong with Maggie. Anytime I had a problem, whether I was sad or angry or even happy, it was blamed on BPD. If I was “acting troubled” it was because of BPD.

The problem with borderline personality disorder is that society still has a very warped view of the illness. Society still has a pretty warped view on every mental illness in general but especially borderline. A big thing that was ingrained into my mind was whether or not I was always telling the whole truth. Or if I was exaggerating the truth. I don’t know much about borderline personality disorder and I’ve never gotten a chance to meet someone who has it but I was told by many medical professionals as well as my parents that a common symptom of borderline personality disorder is exaggeration and lying. Again, I don’t know if this is true or not I’m just going by what I was told.

Because of this fact, nothing I ever said was taken seriously. I was being bullied in school so badly that I eventually had to change schools. But when I told people of what was happening it was never taken seriously because of my BPD diagnosis. I was no longer Maggie, I was Maggie who has borderline personality disorder. Everything I said and everything I did was taken with a grain of salt. To this day, there are people in my life who question the amount of truth in things I say.

Fast forward to January of 2020. I have lived the past 8 years believing I have BPD when I come across a file on my laptop called- “Maggie Bakers medical files” and in that file was my medical report from The psychological testing I had eight years prior. Remember? The one that was kept from me?

So I sat there and read the entire file from start to finish. The doctor wrote how I was outgoing and had a positive personality but was unsure and scared of a lot of things. Things that normal teenagers aren’t scared of. He said I was terrified of making people mad the fact that is still true to this very day. I wasn’t shocked reading any of this until I got to the last few pages and realized something I wasn’t expecting-

Nowhere in the file…. was borderline personality disorder mentioned.

Do you want to know what was mentioned? What my true diagnosis was at 14 years old? The one that was kept from me? The one that now at 23 I am trying to convince doctors is the real truth and I’m not just lying again?

Childhood trauma and emotional neglect.

Hating Hate

I work with elementary age kids. I refer to them as my tiny humans. They are the greatest and make my heart so happy. I’ve always loved kids and I love teaching them things even more. I live by the quote “Be the person you needed when you were little” and that is exactly what I strive to do every single day; whether at work or just in my day-to-day life.

Something I notice a lot of my tiny humans do is use the word “hate” willy-nilly. I hate…. the word hate. I really do. I think people use it without realizing how strong of a word it is… so much in fact that it has lost the true power of its meaning. For me, hate is the epitome of dislike. It is the peak of dislike. If you hate something, it’s impossible for you to dislike it anymore… because you hate it… (I’m rambling. This is going somewhere just stay with me.) So people will say something like- “I hate Mondays.” Sure…. ok. But do you really hate them or do you just have a strong dislike for them?

The reason why I’m so passionate about this word is because when my kids, or really anybody uses the word hate for something as trivial as a day of the week, it diminishes the effect the word has when it’s used correctly. For example- I could say that I hate Mondays… but I don’t hate Mondays anywhere near as much as I hate coleslaw, and I don’t hate coleslaw as much as I hate airplanes. So I (and everyone) has a whole totem pole of things they hate and the rankings of hatred… but nobody will know the ranking because we use the word hate to describe the dislike for all of them.

Because of this, I don’t exactly hate many things for the exact reasoning listed above. I tell people I truly hate 3 things- Snowstorms, Donald Trump, and J…. and while I truly hate with a passion the first 2 things I still don’t hate them anywhere near as much as I hate J.

I recently became aware of this feeling I have towards J and was able to identify it as hate. And after that discovery, I felt horrible. You’re not supposed to hate people but you’re especially not supposed to hate the person who birthed you… but here I am. Hating. I hate her with a fire that burns brighter and hotter than any other emotion I’ve ever experienced. And as strongly as I feel about the word hate, there are days where I am unsure if it’s even strong enough to explain how I feel about J.

I am a loving person. Like genuinely. That’s not me tooting my own horn, because I don’t always feel that way. However, I’ve been told by many, many people that I am a loving person. I like to think of myself as optimistic and caring. I always ALWAYS try to see the best in people even when it may be a struggle. I am constantly trying to see things from others’ point of view before deciding to argue.

So without sounding too full of myself, I’m a relatively positive individual. Any person in my day-to-day life would probably be shocked and taken aback to know I’m capable of harboring such dark and angry feelings towards another person… It’s not something I like to admit or even think about too much, because I’m almost disappointed that I can feel this way. People say anger and hatred isn’t healthy or that it’s a waste of time and energy… and maybe that’s true.

The truth is- it has taken me a great deal of strength to not only feel this way, but admit to myself and others that I feel this way. I’ve been told that I shouldn’t hold grudges, or I should forgive J “for myself”… and that I say a big, fat NOPE. I can’t forgive J for myself because the way I view this is that I am hating her for myself. She was in control of every aspect of my life, including my feelings. Having this hatred, as dark and disgusting as it may feel, is my way to take control back of so many things that she took from me.

I question and minimize a lot of my trauma. A lot of times, I’m unsure if it really was traumatic or “bad”…. but the part of me that keeps the hatred is the part of me that KNOWS without a doubt that it was bad and traumatic… so for right now, I need to feel this hatred as a way of reassurance that my childhood was in fact bad and quite traumatic.

A Hairy Situation

Well I had 2 random and untriggered (I don’t think that’s a word but I just made it up… call Webster.) flashbacks today. One earlier at work and one about 20 minutes ago. If you’ve followed along with my categorizing of traumas, I’d probably put both of these in the “horrific” box…. but the second one is just a bit more triggering than the first and if I write about it, I’ll probably dissociate. So let’s talk about the first flashback.

Since I was a teenager, I’ve had long hair. Currently, it’s the longest it has ever been. But ever since I was about 12 or 13, it was either to my shoulders or below. I probably don’t need to mention that with long hair, comes tangles and sometimes knots. Which in itself is enough to cause a stable person a lot of anxiety.

I’m not too sure why, but my hair has always been something that I always need to be on top of or else I get an overwhelming sense of panic. Whether it’s a knot, a tangle, feeling like it’s unclean, or needing to touch up my roots. The second I feel unhappy with something with my hair, it’s all my mind consists of. I thought it was an OCD thing but thinking about it now, I remember when I was very little, J always had a weird obsession with my hair looking neat and perfect. My part always had to be straighter than a ruler and my ponytails were often so tight I couldn’t bend my head a certain way without it causing me pain. If I went to school with my hair a certain way, and came home with it out of place or not looking the way it did when I left that morning, I would be in massive trouble.

Getting my hair done in the morning always consisted of lots of yelling, hair pulling, and screaming. Eventually resulting in me crying. So really, I haven’t even gotten to the traumatic event of this entry and you can see that maintaining my hair has always been quite a stressful feat.

When I was 15 I went out to dinner with J. My hair was down and in a headband. My classic hairstyle all through out middle and high school. I went to run my fingers through my hair and felt a knot in my hair and immediately felt a sense of panic. I ran to the restaurant bathroom and looked in the mirror to see if I could untangle the knot myself using my fingers but I couldn’t. The panic became worse and tears soon started to well up in my eyes. I wasn’t crying crying. But I was obviously upset enough for tears to form.

After maybe 10 minutes in the bathroom, trying to get the knot out and feeling sheer panic, J came storming into the bathroom yelling. “Maggie! What the hell is going on?” Not knowing what else to do, I just said “Theres a knot in my hair and I can’t get it out.” J saw the tears in my eyes and by her face, I knew I had messed up yet again… crying is almost never allowed.

“Jesus Christ Maggie I thought you were being raped! Why are you screaming about a f-ing knot in your hair?!”

Mind you- I wasn’t screaming. I wasn’t even talking loudly. I don’t even know if you could classify it as crying. It was like a tear or two. But in classic J fashion, she took something relatively small and turned it into something much more than it needed to be.

She came over to me and asked me to show her the knot. It was relatively small. Maybe the size of a pea. But J took a clump of hair about 4 or 5 times the size of a knot and pulled as hard as she could. As she was doing this she shouted “now you can shut up and eat.” The sound of my hair ripping from my scalp sounded like paper ripping out of a notebook and is something I just remembered today… it’s funny how these small details of trauma somehow sneak up on you out of the blue. The sound of my hair ripping was never something I remembered. I only could recall the pain and the feeling of the hairs separating from my skin… but today, I was at work sitting at my desk and randomly remembered that horrid sound that came with the pain.

My scalp was burning and bleeding. I went through the entire dinner feeling as if the right side of my head was on fire.

I went to school the next day and asked to go to the nurse. I said my head was hurting and asked for an ice pack. When she asked what I needed an ice pack as opposed to ibuprofen, (she was assuming when I said my head hurt, I meant a common headache) I simply said- “my mom pulled a chunk of my hair out last night and it’s still pretty sore.” As someone who is a mandated reporter, I know that this statement coming from any minor needs to be reported. However, it never was. I was given an ice pack and sent back to my History class… the skin on my head still rae and sore. But off I went, to learn about Babylonia holding an ice pack to my head.

Like it was just an everyday occurrence.

The Bad News About Good News

Complex PTSD means ongoing or repeated trauma. And 19 years of abuse means I’m lucky enough to fall into the category of Complex PTSD instead of just your run of the mill PTSD. Like everything else, my mental diagnosis also has to be extra.

At 14, my father was kicked out of my house and 2 weeks later I was kicked out; due to the fact that if J had to look at me any longer “she’d just kill herself.” But that’s drama for another day. The point is, up until I was 14, I lived with J. So while the abuse happened for 19 years, for 14 years it was every single day. Whether physical, verbal or sexual, I endured some sort of abuse just about every day for 14 years.

Writing that… is highly depressing. I’ve never put it into that perspective before… what a turn this entry has taken.

So needless to say, I was used to “bad things” happening. I expected it. Even when good things happened or were supposed to happen, something bad would almost always either override the good or cancel it all together. I learned from a very young age that it’s easier to just expect bad things to happen rather than get your hopes up for the good things. At 23 I still struggle to get my hopes up in fear of something bad disappointing me. I struggle to let people in or get excited over things that are not 100% certain due to the fact that people can leave or things can be canceled or ruined by something worse.

So when something good does happen to me, I question it. Like meeting momma bear. I questioned her love for me and why she wanted to take me in as her own for the longest time. I refused to believe that someone would just want to be nice to me without a catch. When I got my current job, (something I had wanted for the longest time) I didn’t get excited until the 3rd or 4th week working there because I had convinced myself something would go wrong and I’d lose another good thing.

Now, I’m starting a new stage in my life. Come November, I am moving about 1100 miles away from where I’ve lived my entire life to be closer to my father and momma bear and to get away from this hell hole of a town that’s filled with memories and trauma. While I’m truly excited to be moving and starting this new chapter of my life, I have been anticipating many things to go wrong. I’m expecting this whole thing to be one big stress party. I was saying this a few weeks ago to momma bear and she responded with- “but what if it all goes smoothly?” Which never even crossed my mind. It might go smoothly… but if I think that way, and it doesn’t go smoothly, I’ll just be let down and have gotten my hopes up again for nothing.

Until yesterday, I got a call that I was approved for the apartment I wanted. The second one I applied for and only 10 minutes down the road from momma bear. Literally the most perfect scenario. I applied last week, called the property manager chick and she said it’s mine. Just like that. To say I was excited is an understatement. I literally couldn’t believe this good news I received. I still am having a hard time believing it if I’m being honest. I didn’t doubt I would be able to find a place, I just seriously doubted that it would happen this quickly and go this smoothly.

Now, if you’ve been paying attention, you’ll know things like this happening the way they did is very much out of the ordinary. Therefore, I’m sitting here wondering what the “catch” is. I’m waiting for the property manager to call and say there’s been a mistake and I in fact didn’t get the apartment. Or if finding a place to live went this smoothly, maybe finding a job will now be 20 times more difficult and stressful than I originally thought.

I truly HATE that my brain thinks this way. I wish I could think in a more optimistic way. Everyone views me as a go with the flow, positive, and optimistic person and I am with everything that doesn’t involve me. If a friend of mine were in the exact same situation, and thinking the same way I am, I’d hype them up and tell them how everything is going to work out in the end. However, I struggle to convince myself of that.

Am I making any sense? I feel like these blogs are just endless rambles that end up making any sense… but I mean they’re low-key helping me, so that’s a good thing, right?

I feel like everyone reading this is probably thinking- “Damn, that Maggie girl is real crazy.” But that’s probably just my overthinking making a guest appearance.

I feel like I need a tagline to close every entry…. But I have yet to think of something creative enough to use…

Blocked.

You know what’s so great (sarcasm) about having PTSD? complex or not? This newly found phenomenon that I have literally been doing for my entire existence without even realizing there was a name for it. Yes friends, I’m talking about the wondrous world of trauma blocking. Lately, I’ve been calling out other people when they’re blocking their trauma without even realizing I’ve been doing it myself.

I’m not even sure I really understand the entire concept of trauma blocking. All I know is about 90% of the time when I have a memory or a trigger or something as a lovely reminder of my past trauma experiences, I immediately suppress it and push it down. I try to think of anything else or minimize whatever I’m remembering by convincing myself there’s no need to be upset over this. Why? because it’s about 20 times easier to just act like everything is fine than to come face-to-face with whatever is bothering you. If you face your pain it will be… well, painful and I’m not one for pain. Pain is unpredictable, with pain comes hurt and feelings of weakness. Pain is painful.

If you ask me, emotional pain is sometimes worse than physical pain. Personally, I’d rather just be physically abused again than have to remember the pain of being physically abused… if that even makes sense. I survived it. I survived horrific things, but sometimes the healing is worse than the actual event itself. I’m 23 now. And I know that you’re not supposed to hit your child, or throw things at them, or call them names and say their birth was a mistake. I know that now.

Surprising to most, I realized it incredibly recently. I just learned this past April that it’s not normal to be hit/slapped in the face or mouth and I just about fell out of my chair when I was told this. It was so much easier to be 6,7,8 years old and be miserable but thought that the abuse wasn’t wrong than be 23 and realize how horrific it really was and now have to heal for the little girl who thought it was ok.

But we don’t need to get into inner child work, today.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve gotten a whole lot better at coming to terms with trauma and looking it dead in the eye, but if I’m being completely honest, I’m just tired. I don’t want to play this whole healing game. I tell other people in similar situations that they need to face it because while it will be painful, and messy, and horrible, it will be worth it in the long run and they won’t be holding onto so much pain. However, I can’t do the same with myself.

The ironic part of this entire entry is- I’m writing about trauma blocking as a way to block out something that happened at work that was astronomically triggering….

—Go figure.

Never Again.

Well it’s 10:15 and I’m realizing that I have yet to blog today. Not that it has to be an everyday thing, but seeing that yesterday was… well, what yesterday was I thought I should probably write something even if it’s short.

Yesterday… was… the only word I can think of is exhausting. Mentally and physically. However, if I’m being honest with myself, exhausting is a better word than the words I thought I would be using.

I’m genuinely happy for my sister, it was a lovely wedding for the average person attending. I tried not to show how constantly triggered I was the entire day. But J was there (obviously) and I had to put on my “everything is perfect” face. I couldn’t be the survivor of child abuse who’s terrified to be spending an entire day with their abuser. I had to be the sister of the bride making sure everything is perfect and is thrilled to be spending the day with her family. Which is not the truth… but if you’re familiar with my story, you’ll know that faking the truth is something I’ve grown good at having to do.

We were able to sneak out of the wedding an hour early. And I was prepared for that night and today to be horrendous. After the bridal shower, I was an emotional wreck and ended up getting in my car and doing my version of running away where I just drive aimlessly around my town until I’m able to get my emotions in check. I broke down and freaked out and my paranoia went into overdrive. I was a few steps away from going back into the hospital. Luckily that didn’t happen, but I was terrified it would be so much worse than that after the wedding.

Yet that’s not the case. I haven’t cried once. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. A million questions have gone through my head about this fact. Am I stronger than I thought I was? Was she really not that bad of a mother? Have I been blowing this whole abuse thing out of proportion? Why am I not freaking out? Am I just trauma blocking this whole thing and I’m just going to break down at a later date? Am I healed enough that I don’t need to cry? What does this mean?

As you can probably see, I’m quite fabulous at overthinking things. I also excel at minimizing my trauma. Which is probably evident by some of those questions… I know none of these answers. I also have no clue how I feel… or how I’m even supposed to feel. I’m just tired and I know I never want to be put in a situation where I have to spend the whole day with J again.

With all that said, I can say this— it’s over. I never have to see her again. I am no longer J’s daughter. I never have to fake my emotions for her convenience and pretend everything is ok. She’s not my mom. She’s NOT my mom.

Momma bear is my mom. J is some horrid, awful, monster, who just happened to birth me. That does not give her the qualifications needed to be a mother. I have a mother and it’s not J. And the most painful realization that I’m still coming to terms with is I don’t thing it ever even was J to begin with.

And with that said- I’m going to bed.

Create your website at WordPress.com
Get started