Hi guys. Today's itinerary in my quest to heal my wounded inner child, is to explain why I talk about so much bad stuff from my childhood. And the answer to that is both simple and incredibly complex. Simple answer: I'm talking a lot about the negative stuff now because I never did then (or anytime really, during the last 59 years). And the complicated answer is the same. I never looked at, admitted to, acknowledged or shared how much bad stuff was happening to me. I didn't ask for help because I didn't know I could, because I was gaslit into believing nothing was wrong and if it was, it was my fault and/or I was exaggerating, lying, too sensitive or showing off. Sound familiar? Yeah, that's the narcissist's creed.
I should, I was taught, just mop up all the crap and keep it to myself. My poor brain is an over-saturated sponge, filthy with all the awful memories, with no room for much of anything else. It leaks out, as sponges do when they're too full, in the constant nightmares of CPTSD. Which are what finally started me really seeking help. Which led me to cease covering up, making excuses for and defending the perpetrators (my two parents and later their partners and children) and discontinue believing their gaslighting. Which led me to start being honest about what actually happened, what was done to me, what I experienced and was not protected from, how I was exploited and parentified, how my basic needs were neglected and how I was harmed and manipulated. Which led me to admit that I had dealt with all this alone, without help, support or validation.
And that led to talking and writing about it. Which is what I'm doing now. What you've been reading in the last months is 59 years untalked about stuff. Stories not told, abuse and neglect never reported, love and care not received, shaming, harsh punishment, being hit, kicked out of my bedroom so that my uncle and his girlfriend could have it. Of being made to care for foster care kids so my mom and her boyfriend could play house in the basement. Of being kicked out of the house, by my mom's lazy, chronically unemployed new husband while they lived off my child support. Of being abandoned by my dad then being left with strangers on a remote island by my mom.
Of used as a servant, being sexually harassed and shamed for telling, of being mocked for my breast size and for sleepwalking, by my mom's boyfriend. Of being screamed at, called names, threatened with violence and finally harmed. Of being made to sleep with babies and little children and care for them as if I was their parent. Of doing without Of being made to do other people's work that they were too lazy to do for themselves. Of being so scapegoated that I began to believe I was the problem and not fit to live. Of being miserable but faking happiness so no one else would feel uncomfortable.
And so much more.
And so I'm starting to talk about it. It doesn't fix anything that happened but it at least helps clear my head of some of the lies and brainwashing. But only with trusted people who are few and far between. But even the unhelpful ones, the toxically positive, the minimizers and gaslighters help. I'll blog more about how in a future post. When one of my inner circle expresses shock I realized my story is shocking. When they show disgust and anger at my family for treating me this way, I learn that it's okay for me to feel disgust and anger too. When they label these things as wrong, it shows me they are. When I hear from them, that they've never heard anything like my experiences, let alone experienced them, it validates just how bad things were.
Why do I need others to do this for me? Because I'm brain damaged and don't know how to think, let alone feel about my experiences because I was not allowed to. I need healthy examples because I didn't have any. I need, if not permission, at least reminders that I can and should be honest about what happened. And yes, maybe for a time, even permission. Because for all these years, I've never had that. I was scolded and shamed for even asking or mentioning things that happened. And they shut me down so much through my childhood and teen years that they got very good at it. They got so used to ordering me around and shutting me down that they just kept doing it for the rest of my life. Till I decided enough is enough.
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