Time to do some more monitoring...
Monday was... interesting. After church on Sun. night, and the knowledge that it's okay to be where I'm at and I don't have to freak out about fixing myself/being all better right now!, I actually felt almost courageous facing group Monday night. The past month or so, I've been rather habitually dreading group, because I just feel so empty, so weak and broken. It's like, what can I possibly share with these girls? I think just being there is enough, though. Just being there with them... sometimes it's all I can do. Because I've got so much crap of my own swirling around in my head.
So, this past Monday, I felt good about group! Like, yeah, I can do this... I think. Let's do it. And then we ended up sharing our stories, why we were there, and it was really emotional and charged, but really good, you know? Like purging. Like popping a pimple, I guess. (You know those really nasty blackheads where you immediately think, Wow, gross! I'm SO glad I got that out! Like that.)
And then, that night... I had an anxiety attack of sorts. I woke up at 4 a.m. because of stomach and arm pain, and I couldn't fall back asleep. I was jittery, nervous... anxious. Worried. About... something. Something vague and lurking and dangerous. Poor C was sick and getting sicker by the hour, so he was awake, or woke up shortly after I began stirring around.
I began a mantra quietly to myself, trying to self-talk, self-soothe, whatever. Trying to get some sense into my head. "You're okay. You're safe, and you're okay. You are safe here. You're safe. You're okay."
After coming back from the restroom, the bedroom was pitch black to me, and I was again engulfed in a wave of... foreboding. Fear. Nervousness. Something that feels much like the word bile sounds, but I don't know what to call it. I stood frozen beside the closed door, acutely aware of the rustling C made as he shifted around in bed. I'd been standing there for far too long, but I couldn't bring myself to move. The mantra began again, but louder, whispered to myself.
Suddenly, a hand touched my arm- C had somehow slipped up on me- and I lost it. Backing into the corner, my hands flew up in front of me, feebly trying to defend myself from the unknown terror that surely intended my complete obliteration and humiliation. Words slipped gutturally and reflexively from my lips as I sought refuge from the fear.
"Don't touch me!"
A heartbeat later... much too long. I am in danger. I have to get OUT. Now.
Yanking open the door, I scrambled to the equally dark living room, collapsing on the floor in a heap of wrecked perception and mantras, this time mumbling audibly to myself, "You're okay. You're safe, and you're okay. You're okay!!"
Several moments later, C approached me as one might approach a wild animal-- slowly, hands outstretched, moving cautiously, as if any sudden movement might send me scampering further into the darkness and fear. (It would have.)
He held me, smoothed back my hair, and repeated my mantra.
"You're safe here. You're safe. It's okay. You're okay."
As weird as it sounds, the fear, the anxiety, the deep foreboding... it was almost like a high. I didn't completely come down off of it for another twenty minutes or half hour after he groaningly laid his sick self back in bed. I was, eventually, able to sleep again.
I realize now, in the aftermath, that my mind (inner child?) recognizes that I'm in a safe place, and it's allowing me to feel the emotions of the abuse again, and some that I never allowed myself to feel. All those years... just surviving. It didn't matter how I felt, so I tried not to. (A hard thing for me-- anyone who knows me can tell you that I'm quite emotional.)
I've been doing very well with the "don't bite off more than you can chew" plan. Now that I'm simply tackling a few things at a time and not overwhelming myself... I find that I get more done! I'm actually running out of things to do. I do the few things I assign myself, and think, "Hmm... what else can I do now?"
I've felt a little out of sorts since the anxiety attack, but group last night was good. It was enough just to be there.
I've had a strong aversion to spending time with my grandparents, or interacting with them at all the past month or so... that broke a little this morning. Talked with gramma a little, and it was good. I don't know what's causing it, but I've noticed it building and building to the extreme point that I'm not really living there right now... I go back to get stuff I'll need for the next day or two at C's, do some work on the room or whatever, and then disappear as soon as possible. (It could be that I fear how they'll react if they really "see" me, esp. where I'm at spiritually. They're so Adventist, it's hard for me to be around them without feeling... like I've betrayed them?) I don't feel like it's a safe place right now. Gramma is very critical, and that's been wearing on me. But it's a passive-agressive type, most of the time. That's hard. I feel like I never know if she really means it when she says nice things. Plus they kind of bicker, and that's been increasing in frequency and intensity lately.
Today, I read the story of another abuse survivor. I think it was a mistake. Now I feel... I feel like I'm unjustified in having problems, because her story is so horrific. It's like, how can I even have issues when I didn't go through anything near that traumatizing and soul-withering?
Yet, on the other hand, I resonate with her descriptions of DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder). I've always remembered some of the molestation, though I've tried so hard to block it out that I did in portions. (There are times when I know stuff happened, because I can remember right before and right after, but not what happened.) But there's glimmers of stuff from way back, and there's chunks of my life that are just gone... and I don't know if that's normal? I just feel like there's stuff I'm supposed to know that I don't. It's gone. And it bothers me.
So I'm feeling... blech.
Like I should be better, because my life hasn't really been that bad, comparatively.
Like I'm unworthy of love (for some reason).
Like I'm worthless.
Like I'm just hopeless for thinking/feeling those things, because that's all a buch of malarky and I know it intellectually...
(The hard part is when your mind knows better, but it's kind of splintered... so the rational part is saying one thing, but the other parts are insidiously whispering other things.)
Monday was... interesting. After church on Sun. night, and the knowledge that it's okay to be where I'm at and I don't have to freak out about fixing myself/being all better right now!, I actually felt almost courageous facing group Monday night. The past month or so, I've been rather habitually dreading group, because I just feel so empty, so weak and broken. It's like, what can I possibly share with these girls? I think just being there is enough, though. Just being there with them... sometimes it's all I can do. Because I've got so much crap of my own swirling around in my head.
So, this past Monday, I felt good about group! Like, yeah, I can do this... I think. Let's do it. And then we ended up sharing our stories, why we were there, and it was really emotional and charged, but really good, you know? Like purging. Like popping a pimple, I guess. (You know those really nasty blackheads where you immediately think, Wow, gross! I'm SO glad I got that out! Like that.)
And then, that night... I had an anxiety attack of sorts. I woke up at 4 a.m. because of stomach and arm pain, and I couldn't fall back asleep. I was jittery, nervous... anxious. Worried. About... something. Something vague and lurking and dangerous. Poor C was sick and getting sicker by the hour, so he was awake, or woke up shortly after I began stirring around.
I began a mantra quietly to myself, trying to self-talk, self-soothe, whatever. Trying to get some sense into my head. "You're okay. You're safe, and you're okay. You are safe here. You're safe. You're okay."
After coming back from the restroom, the bedroom was pitch black to me, and I was again engulfed in a wave of... foreboding. Fear. Nervousness. Something that feels much like the word bile sounds, but I don't know what to call it. I stood frozen beside the closed door, acutely aware of the rustling C made as he shifted around in bed. I'd been standing there for far too long, but I couldn't bring myself to move. The mantra began again, but louder, whispered to myself.
Suddenly, a hand touched my arm- C had somehow slipped up on me- and I lost it. Backing into the corner, my hands flew up in front of me, feebly trying to defend myself from the unknown terror that surely intended my complete obliteration and humiliation. Words slipped gutturally and reflexively from my lips as I sought refuge from the fear.
"Don't touch me!"
A heartbeat later... much too long. I am in danger. I have to get OUT. Now.
Yanking open the door, I scrambled to the equally dark living room, collapsing on the floor in a heap of wrecked perception and mantras, this time mumbling audibly to myself, "You're okay. You're safe, and you're okay. You're okay!!"
Several moments later, C approached me as one might approach a wild animal-- slowly, hands outstretched, moving cautiously, as if any sudden movement might send me scampering further into the darkness and fear. (It would have.)
He held me, smoothed back my hair, and repeated my mantra.
"You're safe here. You're safe. It's okay. You're okay."
As weird as it sounds, the fear, the anxiety, the deep foreboding... it was almost like a high. I didn't completely come down off of it for another twenty minutes or half hour after he groaningly laid his sick self back in bed. I was, eventually, able to sleep again.
I realize now, in the aftermath, that my mind (inner child?) recognizes that I'm in a safe place, and it's allowing me to feel the emotions of the abuse again, and some that I never allowed myself to feel. All those years... just surviving. It didn't matter how I felt, so I tried not to. (A hard thing for me-- anyone who knows me can tell you that I'm quite emotional.)
I've been doing very well with the "don't bite off more than you can chew" plan. Now that I'm simply tackling a few things at a time and not overwhelming myself... I find that I get more done! I'm actually running out of things to do. I do the few things I assign myself, and think, "Hmm... what else can I do now?"
I've felt a little out of sorts since the anxiety attack, but group last night was good. It was enough just to be there.
I've had a strong aversion to spending time with my grandparents, or interacting with them at all the past month or so... that broke a little this morning. Talked with gramma a little, and it was good. I don't know what's causing it, but I've noticed it building and building to the extreme point that I'm not really living there right now... I go back to get stuff I'll need for the next day or two at C's, do some work on the room or whatever, and then disappear as soon as possible. (It could be that I fear how they'll react if they really "see" me, esp. where I'm at spiritually. They're so Adventist, it's hard for me to be around them without feeling... like I've betrayed them?) I don't feel like it's a safe place right now. Gramma is very critical, and that's been wearing on me. But it's a passive-agressive type, most of the time. That's hard. I feel like I never know if she really means it when she says nice things. Plus they kind of bicker, and that's been increasing in frequency and intensity lately.
Today, I read the story of another abuse survivor. I think it was a mistake. Now I feel... I feel like I'm unjustified in having problems, because her story is so horrific. It's like, how can I even have issues when I didn't go through anything near that traumatizing and soul-withering?
Yet, on the other hand, I resonate with her descriptions of DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder). I've always remembered some of the molestation, though I've tried so hard to block it out that I did in portions. (There are times when I know stuff happened, because I can remember right before and right after, but not what happened.) But there's glimmers of stuff from way back, and there's chunks of my life that are just gone... and I don't know if that's normal? I just feel like there's stuff I'm supposed to know that I don't. It's gone. And it bothers me.
So I'm feeling... blech.
Like I should be better, because my life hasn't really been that bad, comparatively.
Like I'm unworthy of love (for some reason).
Like I'm worthless.
Like I'm just hopeless for thinking/feeling those things, because that's all a buch of malarky and I know it intellectually...
(The hard part is when your mind knows better, but it's kind of splintered... so the rational part is saying one thing, but the other parts are insidiously whispering other things.)
0 thoughts: