Out of the Storm

Fear seems to envelop my every action; then it filters into thought, where it's conceptualized into logic that screams "I'm bad; so different; never will I make it"--even if I wasn't sure where I was going in the first place.

I keep regurgitating the old hurts. And everywhere I turn I can sense how the hurt is forever with me, how it resists all attempt to dislodge it. Soon I'm left wondering, should I just quit? End the search? Yeah, maybe that's my surest safe escape route, anyway. But wait--maybe there's some solidity to hope, after all? More than mouthing the words? As in...it's real, kid. Even through the tears that are ever ready. Even when I resist their relief. Say it again--it's real, kid; even for you. Even now--it doesn't have to feel like it to be real, either. You don't even need to try--inside you really are the love you want to find out there. How will you ever find the real world if you don't start where you're standing now?

So maybe that's my realization--I try too hard. I should relax into what is, to 'the now' that's become mainstream pop psychology; the newest catch-all phrase. Perhaps it should be; but I resist following crowds to anything, as I've seen the harm that can result from that, to myself and others.

Still, whatever I call it--search or accept--is only yet another concept. The only true concept that ever appealed to me is called peace, but even that needs the negative of non-peace to make sense. See how maddening this gets?

Lots of avoidance; it's my old reliable habit--perhaps not as strong as what's called addiction but not so bad as I imagine it to be. And I can change the imagination easier than an ingrained habit. Eventually it might even wear that down, and won't that feel good. :bigwink:

So maybe it's time to post these random thoughts in 'recovery journal' format. Uh-oh; an immediate red flag emerges in the form of "recovery from what?". I feel like an inner child who's never arrived close to finding anything worth calling adult. Or am I avoiding, again, by yapping at myself  :blahblahblah: 'til I can't stand the agony of it all?

But imagination of all sorts is still creative. I like that, and feel oddly safe there--creativity was once my surest outlet for escaping all the pain that I'd accumulated. I think I know now what I couldn't fathom then--a lot of that pain only got covered over, hidden so I could function. Thank you, imagination--you did get me through many crises.

But now it's like I've tripped on a rock, and I see what was unseen then.  I can point a finger back and say "what a fool" I was or I can just relax into what is, now. Even fools can make sense. No longer conceptual, no more do I just see a desperate search for peace; only know that it was a step beyond all that; one I needed to take, apparently. The search has held me hostage before, and now I'm free to be 'me'. Maybe it's the first time I can truly say that it's happening. Ah, right--maybe 'recovery' itself is false; maybe it's 'discovery' that describes what's going on now.

Here I can shed the defensive posture I easily adopt, and keep my eyes set on even new discoveries to come. Looking forward, and that is sign of recovery. Autumn leaves all around me, and I can feel a part of the beauty--no concept there, just real. First time for everything, I think the saying goes. Cool breezes to enjoy...like those discoveries...

 :bighug:

I can relate to the need for many words shrouding my feelings and to the confusion that comes from wanting to forge one's own path but not easily seeing a handrail or ways to avoid falling into snares.

You are very creative in ways that have allowed you to come to your own rescue time after time.  No reason to think this will change, and the discoveries yet to come may provide even more sparks for your bright flame.

Don't forget to check a Tara Brach talk or meditation now and again.

I wrote of discoveries to come. That sounds pretty and optimistic...just like I used to write in so many journals before. Bromides like "time to ratchet up to recovery"..."Onward"..."Almost there"...on and on. Pep-talks about the happiness to come.

So here's a discovery I've already made, but it seems too deja vu, too old hat, to qualify as a discovery. Says I to myself (via Inner Critic). Discovery is all new, right? So what's wrong?

It doesn't seem right/wrong, just disappointing. Because when I look around, I still see all the same-old, and then I hit on the sore spots of that childhood filled with hopelessness they say a child shouldn't have. Whoever the 'they' is that said it, they missed my life. All I can legitimately hope for now is to chuckle at the 'they say' crowd and see through the illusion not to what was wrong, or right for that matter. Just to see what is there.

And that's spooky. Do I turn back? Did that lots, those ruminations about the lost childhood repeated over and over. Self-regret...but what? Digging around, my 'self' didn't inflict the damage. If anything, it stood up fairly well, all things considered. But I must have absorbed the guilt that was always poured on top of the other things that tortured my being in so many awful ways.

In my imagination, I embarked on several trips to rescue that Inner Child, hidden in a spooky fog-enshrouded house of horrors. And each time I'd retreat, back to the safety of the present...not totally safe either, but with all the elements of solitude and such as to resemble the peace I wanted (peace being my only-ever goal).

Until once I made the visit to the old haunt, and this time decided to take the forlorn Inner Child along with me. All metaphor, I know, but does that make it less 'real'? Of course, there are so many who would call me crazy that my little trip back, and out, remains my secret. Some secrets are good that way; when the other pieces of relief don't fall in place. Best thing about the rescue--I did it myself, in my own way. That's perhaps just a confidence-booster bringing me to the point where I can even consider myself as okay. Still, I'll take it; granted 'my own way' can also mean becoming a narcissistic raging rat who preys on others. I guess I know that, apparently; and that's 'my own way', hurting no one else via haughty attitude games but in turn helping myself. Wow--and in saying that I see, again, my defensiveness. No explanation needed--I'm proud I was able to do it my own way, period.

Wandering here, per my usual. A trait that I trace to some sage advice I once heard (alas, not 'til I was in the adult world): "play with options". Needed that advice; and I'm not often open to advice, growing up in a den of authoritarian rule on the part of adults (parents, teachers, all of 'em) who only pretended they were dispensing advice, and calling it god's orders when they felt my resistance to their demands, accusations, hypocrisy, beatings and far worse, then beyond that--utter abandonment. A mix of shame, guilt, doom, and hopelessness.

But my adult advice to "play with options"? What could sound so sweet to one's Inner Child...permission first, allowance to be a child, beyond cliches; just to claim and use imagination for my sake; and for the world's sake, really. No wonder I was drawn to the words of Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw: "Some see things as they are and ask why...I dream things that never were and ask why not?"

So my first discovery is a re-discovery, I guess. This is hard, and memories can flood in, jam the system (literally--I never sleep well, and last night was a doozie), and in your weariness the only voice that makes it through is: "you're still no good; a loser; don't deserve;"...the litany starts to scream; you cover your ears and curl up in all-too-familiar agony. Crying helps; but in the shock the tears often don't make it out, nothing does, and I'm left all alone with no one and no place to turn to.

Discovery #1, then--it's not easy, this 'new' way; makes me want to stop.  That's life's story--start/STOP; start/STOP. So I guess my doubts about calling this journal a 'new life' journal is an unconscious riff on that. Only this time perhaps I can turn it around into START/stop. 'Let it be' must be the soundtrack. 

Page 3--new life or just more doubts?

When I started these reflections and decided to tag them as a new life journal, who knows what was really going on with the mind/spirit behind it. Even the word spirit can conjure up horrible memories of abuse suffered at the hands of people who considered themselves as highly 'spiritual'...so yes, that word sends me shivers first. But now I think I understand better how what the abusers left me bore no resemblance to so-called spirituality. The definition might change, but a lot of my angst about life stems directly from that.

A part of me getting these thoughts into a journal would enlighten my search for 'the fix"; giving me a chance to tie loose ends together from this long so-called recovery trek. Whatever that means. Or is it just another cover hiding my core insecurities behind more layers of words? So I donned the optimism glasses and dove in, without even knowing what I might be in for.

Talk of vulnerability! Any true search might uncover who knows what, but the first thing it grabs is..."wow, you've only stepped in more muck" (oh wait; whose voice is that? Inner Critic sneak attack?). Wanted a challenge? What comes to mind are the lyrics of an old favourite song (Fly Away, Kate Wolf, 1980's):

Well, you said it would be easy
A place where you had been
Just grab the rope and climb the tree
And swing out in the wind
And you know I must be crazy
It's the hardest climb I've made
But here I go, jumpin' off
About to fly away
Fly away...
Spreadin' out my wings
Fly away...
Ridin' high again
And you got me up a tree, out on a limb
Just to fly away
Listen to the wind

The melody matches the words beautifully--flowing and elegant, perfectly setting the mood of the journey to the unknown. And...just like creating the song wasn't easy; so pouring into a journal the ins and outs swirling inside from years of swaying in the wind is more than just feeling vulnerable. In comes the shame and confusion, too. Oh shucks, maybe the 'fix' just moved further away. That's been my normal, though; please not again.

If so, the temptations are the usual, starting with 'give up'. The easiest easy. How much reserve can one draw on anymore? Until maybe riding on the wind ends up the only way. Whatever I care to speculate about why I ventured into this 'new life' journal, here I am beside myself. And I'm not at all sure what 'myself' means, either. There's a lot of wind currents, is all I know.

Speak of having a shallow support system...all I have is what's called 'me'. What a fragile backup that is! Reminds me of my 'fix' of a couple years back. Having read Kristin Neff's book (and the companion CD course) SELF COMPASSION, I agreed with so much of it, and have yet to 'feel' any of it. Even went to her website the other night, took the self-compassion quiz, and yup--still about as low as I can be. 

The words of self-compassion didn't make the transition. If anything, they've just propped up my doubts, and given the lie to just moving on down the river of life while I'm desperately trying to patch the leaks as I swoosh through the currents. Trouble. Or challenge. The bold thing, of course, is to say I want the challenge. Umm...

No, I really don't. Had enough of those. Tired, not energized. Ready to fly away? Hardly. But the song starts "you said it would be easy". Oh yeah. The idealism and hope for the 'fix' out there, again. Meanwhile, I don't even have a good clue as to 'who' I am, either. I'm not religious, but it's definitely from something not apparent. Not a deity, per se, but from within (perhaps the 'secret' location of any deity anyway). Logic sure wouldn't have me up on a tree, ready to fly away. Which also points to something else--vulnerability is along for the ride. It can be an unruly passenger or just what is, I guess.

In North America's Great Lakes region, there's the phrase 'the gales of November' which were made famous in a song after a ship's disaster. It, too, captures the rolling, troubled seas in foreboding melody. That's like what I'm hearing now--as I stretch, with minimal self-esteem, to head into yet another gale. "I thought it would be easy"; just another sign--by a tree, dangling over a cliff.

Page 4...therapy's interlude, a child's dreams...the first time.

This probably needs a trigger advisory, at least for the second paragraph (marked with *** before and after). Also a note for anyone else reading this...to this day I cannot comfortably refer to the parents as other than the f and m.

Around age 9, I think, I had my first therapist. The f, in retrospect, seems to have initiated that, probably against the wishes of the religious school I'd been sent to and perhaps the m as well; both the latter had been involved in some hefty abuse too painful to go into except in passing here.

***The f, reacting in large part to my very pronounced upset, fear, and even anger at the prospect of returning to school for the next grade year (lots of abuse the previous grade), appears to have initiated the therapy...following a fierce beating/assault from the school principal on day one (ironically, or not so, the principal was a cousin of the m). The f's abuse was less overt but definitely, how to say--guarded maybe? At any rate, the school episode resulted in the f taking me to a secular guidance therapist or counselor or whatever title was involved. I stayed there perhaps a couple of months, mainly seeing just a single therapist, plus some home release; the latter was uncomfortable, but one thing at least had changed in that the m's abuse had shifted from overt sexual sorties to an increase in flat out emotional abandonment. Something had happened in the meantime, I'm still foggy on what, and have stopped trying to figure any of it out--there is no logic to be found, from my viewpoint. But somehow the f, maybe through the therapist, seems to have ended the m's overt abuse, which often took the form of extraneous bathroom visits I can never dwell on without wincing in pain, risking obvious panic, even gagging or worse. It was just...bad...***

***post Trigger interlude***

Back to the therapist. He was so...cool! My first ever experience outside the limits of immediate family and that dreaded school. Not much other to relate about that therapist beside the joy and comfort I experienced being with him...followed by the wrenching experience of it all ending too soon, a couple months after it had started. I'm not sure how or what the therapist was empowered to do; at the time, the abuse and reporting laws were radically primitive compared to now. And all the parents wanted was to know...that I was declared to be normal! That was it...was I gifted, as the therapist suggested? Didn't matter...we want normal. Was I talented? Who cares? Normal was the only criterion, I guess. And normal is definitely not my favourite word.

Aside from the m's altered shift in her abusive pattern, there really wasn't a hugely discernible thaw in the overall chilling environment I lived in. The emotional abuse was elevated, if anything, on the part of both parents; although it seems the f sort of meant well--he just didn't know...recalling the emotional distance between him and his parents, well it probably reflects some of what was going on; but I also no longer care to dwell on it...really, there's no excuse and even less understanding to be had for this--it's now only my recovery, solo, that I can afford to dwell on. The 'others'? Well...bottom line, it's not about them. Only the Inner Critic would want me to care, and hey, Inner Critic--you're not exactly on my list of advisors--your time is done and I'm acutely aware of your tricks. I know you'll try, though; and I know I'm stronger than you, too, and my scars show my resilience, not the weakness and guilt you'd like to lay on me. 

While especially the m's abuse reverted to extreme emotional abandonment (bad enough!), the school people's abuses continued as if nothing had intervened. I was drawn back into a world that now seems absurd, maybe even surreal. Now it looks that way, for sure; then it was worse--as I saw the hope I'd found around the therapist vanishing as if I'd returned to a dark, dingy world where the only given was that I was found to be normal. And that normal...still hurt!

But I always smile  :) :yes:  when I think of that therapist. I don't even recall his name; but always I hear his patient encouragement, the allowance to play, to draw, to wonder and talk about who I dreamed of being, or becoming. The tears are streaming at that gentle memory of someone who believed in me for the first time.

Often those other memories wash in, and I lose the sense of security I'd felt from him. So wherever you are, old pal, thank you for what I can't fully even say. And wherever you are, I know you'll maybe smile too, and remember that shy little kid you once rescued from hopelessness. Thank you...I love you still. I promise--I won't forget. Okay?

This made my eyes water.

This much I know so far--writing journal-style about my 'issues' is like pumping a yo-yo and thinking the next movement will be different...up/down, up/down, and again and ... huh?  :stars:

I'm beginning to laugh at the working title I gave this journal experiment--'new life'. Albeit I cried about the same thing last night, as in 'what's new?'.  :aaauuugh: Hmm, seems like new words on old scars, but I suppose that's better than nothing? Wonder on, I'm good at it.

Wears one out like a strenuous workout, except it seems more like a 'work-in'--as it reinforces the bad; maybe if I'm lucky I'll spot a ray of hope in life's old movie. Something I'd ignored or forgotten, but the circle game keeps churning back to the start and I forget to turn the projector off.

Maybe the yo-yo metaphor isn't apt; probably this is more like spinning a top, re-cranking the object until it inevitably slows down and needs another boost.

At least the playing part--the toys--I like that. I think I get caught up in the adult need to analyze, critique, search, and set unrealistic goals ('new life'); when there are already huge piles of old answers lying out in what I call my 'graveyard of lost illusions'. With toys, I can back off the adult self as little or as much as I feel like doing (spinning the top harder, slower, etc). No wonder it's the toybox in my therapist's office that can spark my full attention, with no dissociation (that big adult word) in the way.

Rescuing the inner child in more ways than one. Except that's my analytical adult droning on. 'New life' needs a toybox, apparently.

You are not droning, Woodsgnome.
I can relate to everything you've written here.  I feel stuck!
It's hard for me to hear you putting yourself down, especially so cleverly, adroitly (not sure if that's a word, but you get the point).
Why so harsh to you?  I have my own "graveyard of lost illusions", I'm still looking for a silver bullet that I know doesn't exist.
I wish you had someone there being kind to you, appreciating you, believing in you, like your old therapist once did.
I have a feeling you haven't experienced anywhere near enough kindness, and kindness is what you deserve. So much!

Thank you, radical--kindness, especially accepting its reality, is central in my current therapy as well. It starts with my therapist, who in many ways resembles my first one way back as a kid. Especially in the realm of pointing out what I can't see.

It's a riddle, not being able to accept kindness, even when it once seemed so off-the-radar. One would think that when it did eventually happen, that very rarity would serve to make it more noticeable and easier to accept. My own rejection ride left over from the kid years always seems to overtake my ability as an adult to accept kindness even when it falls right into my lap. I have many appreciative tokens from people I touched, gifts crafted specifically for me, notes about how I'd touched someone's life.  I have lots of them, but I don't feel them, if that's the right word. In turn, I've given the other way, but that almost seems more acceptable to me; the outward seems easier than the inward acceptance that anyone else would dare to be kind to me.

Because of my inability to accept kindness as well as I'm told I express it outwardly, it's as if I carry the belief that kindness isn't really for or about me. It seems like I can appreciate, but not fully absorb that I even deserve anything; that there's got to be a catch...if they only knew my bad side, etc. It's easy to see how a kid can collapse into this denial of self-worth, and the I'm-no-good syndrome settles into scar tissue that's hard to heal.

I've spoken of my present therapist's role in working with me to re-orient this one-way notion, which keeps me on the edge of crippling self-hatred. She gets a little frustrated when I continually ask her what this good is she sees in me, and always patiently points me to consider what she sees that I don't. I'm noticing how my dissociative style kicks in when she does that, when I can retreat into my defensive bubble as if the kindness I'm being shown might kill me. I squirm as if I'll need to make a quick exit. Oh, how awful that is; but usually she expertly coaxes me back into present awareness. In my experience, that's a rare gift my previous therapists didn't have. So I guess I'm learning some taking-in-kindness traits in that regard. The hope is to be able to translate that progress to the world ouside the therapy room. 

I would be remiss not to mention your own encouragement in this regard, Radical, and so many others who almost daily express kindness via their words in this forum. Many here share similar roadblocks around kindness. The starting premise seems to be: Kindness isn't just for others? Really? I can share in it? People even...like...me? That's okay? I'm not selfish to be kind to...me? Deep sigh. Quite the task. It's still easier to mouth the words than feel the feelings...hard to see progress, the habits (inner critic's office) rise up with their not-for-you repeating messages. Only now I'm beginning to see we do have our own power to turn the inner critic's 'never gonna make it' babble into a confidence that the once impossible is now, at last, in view. The mirage is that it could never be found.

Thanks again.

It is such a relief for me to hear you express this.  Sometimes I feel so alone with the particular ways cPTSD affects me.

I tend to freeze, fawn or completely dissociate from kindness, as if it were a threat I need to escape from.  It's so hard to long for connection and find myself running, in one of those three ways when others try to give me what I want and need.  With my therapist I still cant maintain eye contact when she is kind and responsive to me, as if I were deeply ashamed.  I feel so bad when I shut down, as if I were throwing her gift back in her face. I think I've done that a lot in my life. I don't want to be this way. I like to believe I'm getting better at staying present, but it's hard.

I really value being able to come here.  When people are kind and respond with warmth to my feelings, I feel afraid and I usually stop reading.  But I can come back to it in stages, like a kind of graduated exposure therapy.  I can be touched by kindness and absorb it at a pace that is manageable for me.

I've never heard anyone describe this before.  I'm grateful to you for putting it in words.

Forward/back; push/pull; up/down; in/out. Dizzying. Terrifying. Tiring. And achingly familiar.  :stars:

All of those describe the aftereffects that commonly accompany what feels like progress. Take yesterday's therapy trip. In general, it was typical--we tend to have a pretty thorough give-and-take session, with emdr as an option at any point; but we often don't get there, which seems along the lines of Walker's (echoed by my therapist's) suggestion that jumping into emdr is not necessarily the ideal option. In my therapy, this seems to have worked well so far; interestingly, the therapist was able to incorporate some emdr when I wasn't aware she was doing it (non-mechanical finger-moving sort).

We covered a bad flashback incident since I'd last seen her. But mostly, it turned to progress, partially based on a written list of what I see as progress, compiled in reaction to the previous session where she pointed out what she sees as progress...not that I questioned what she said she'd observed, but there's always my nagging doubter/inner critic to satisfy.

Giving her my list, it just seemed so puny, so tiny, so achingly familiar. We're both musical, so we touched on lyrics from a familiar singer--Ann Reed--whose output includes one ("Every Long Journey is Made of Small Steps") that touched on the immediate progess push-and-pull. Per usual, my dissociative reaction popped in, but we have techniques in place to pull me back to focus when that happens.

So far, so good; and yes, I have to admit I left feeling that I was indeed experiencing s.l.o.w. forward motion, though it more often is better reflected in my horrid gait of several years (bad knees). The mental state broadcast via a wobbly if steady, hesitant walking pace (surgery might help; but I resist it, almost like I'm telling myself 1)I don't deserve better and 2)I'm so tired of it all, I'd rather quit--I CAN live with it, have done so, and...).

Again...therapy went 'fine'. And then.

'The voices,'--as I call them for lack of better description--entered at their usual entry point, when I attempt sleep. But last night they were ferocious, as if in bloody reaction to the notion of progress. As if to say--NO! NEVER! YOU'LL NEVER...fill-in-the-blank. I reacted with the usual litany of responses; curling up, covering the head, and finally...SCREAMING as loud as I can (I live in an isolated locale; no people around for a mile or so; and the resident cat is 'used' to my stuff). I tried my usual self-soothing--soft music which tends to stem the emotional tides sweeping over me, but...but...it was still hours to sleep, including a horrid dream where 'they' had caught up with me, familiar but terrifying each time it happens; this ended with an image I won't/can't describe here. No matter what, I can't seem to get out of the feeling attacked mode; it's unbearingly sad, and even crying (if I can) doesn't seem to bring relief ('you don't deserve relief').

"New Life" says the title on this journal. No magic, I tell myself; play elaborate mind games like seeing that word 'magic' within imagination (I-magic-observation). More comfort. Progress? Deep breath, doubts...hopes want in, too; but must it always be pushed over to some day?

*this is a link for the song that often soothes me:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42vwy6KMtVo

the lyrics:

Every long journey is made of small steps
Is made of the courage the feeling you get
When you know it's been waiting, been waiting for you
The journey's the only thing you want to do

We cannot know what you go through or see through your eyes
But we will surround you, the pride undisguised
In any direction whatever you view
You're taking our love there with you

In every long journey what drives you to go
It's half what you know and half what you don't
The secret's been waiting your heart's got the key
The secret's the only thing you want to see

Every long journey begins with a dream
A spirit with courage to make it all real
The dream has been calling, been calling to you
The dream is the only thing you want to do
---------------------------------------------------------------
There's always one line that breaks me..."But we will surround you, the pride undisguised". Who? Where? Where were they before? Why didn't they help? I still cry out for that.

Alright, then. Love now, be now, am now, etc., ad infinitum--I get it already. And still have this awful inside gnaw of where to go from here. Why must it still seem so lonely? Must I have this constant cheer up chatter to convince myself this is real and/or okay? That I even belong in this life?

Desperately I look for the next turn. Turning corners seems like destiny instead of the promised recovery, with its implications that I'm returning to some life I never had to begin with. Makes for a pretty small horizon, all these corners. I kind of get it, then plunge into looking for the next wholeness revelation. Sure, that's alright, just like the rest of the jagged journey. And still there it is--all the old hesitations, regrets, wonderings (mostly how do I get outta here), and permanent sense of frustration.

Let 'em go? Yeah right. More word games, same old blah feelings. I don't want constant excitement or novelty--just contentment; maybe confidence to know that I am okay, secure instead of scared of unseen monsters ready to pounce on me. Or is this sense really all I'll ever see around those corners?  :spooked:

Stark but true.

I hate myself. Whatever the reasons or explanations, my 'recovery' starts and returns there, and I go mad with its steady reverbation no matter what I do.

When I take away all the basic insecurities of how I feel about this, what's always left is this self-hatred. Not as in 'sense of' self-hatred or 'imaginary' or any of those qualifiers; always I'm left with this raw and shameful notion backed up by all the 'I'm not okay' messages spinning so far back I could never pinpoint a starting point--it feels like I just came this way. I can think it wasn't so but the only convincing feelings (when I even feel and not 'numbed out') speak louder and more convincingly.

That's what it always boils down to. With things that deep, raw, and basic I'm highly discouraged about ever fully digging out. I get bits and dabs of life outside the bubble. But as sure as the sun rises in the east...

Disappointment that knows no bounds just sits and stays. And then I revert to beating up on myself yet again, which reinforces the self-image as a castaway, someone rejected and not close to finding a way. How many times and years must the trying go on? Fear has never given up its hold on me. What's different now? Fear stops me short of expecting that it can/will be any different, as if to say nothing has changed. Self-doubt joins self-hatred to where I'm a mess in the world around; my only salve being retreat. But even there the thoughts of self-anger and shame follow right along. All my work for change seems frozen in place.

That's the gruesome reality; it sits behind and pounces on every glint of happiness, contentment, or peace I reach out for. Backed into a corner of despair, I say I can accept that, in lieu of any other choices. It's just...finding enough daylight in the cracks to ever hope for a way out of that ominous corner. And then having the courage to follow that light without falling into the sure darkness of living in old pal fear.

I can mouth the words "I am lovable...I deserve love," even "I AM love." Still it seems I only reach a sense of awe, and that's primarily when I see it displayed in others, as love is more of a foreign country to my experience. It's still a wrenching disconnect with the love I see in others. I tell myself I'm working on it, and I'm trying. There's a problem with that--what's in the way is a lifetime of conditioning that brings me back to self-hate. Sure, I now understand "it's not my fault." Sadly, that doesn't fully turn the page. It sucks to have self-hate as the only steady pattern that seems real. The thought of staying trapped there terrifies me even more.

It's a tough one, knowing the feelings have been conditioned into you, even a sense they don't have a solid base in reality but being enslaved by them.

One thing that made a big difference to me, was over a few years, opening up to my T, and coming to see and feel her genuinely glad to see me when I arrived. I'm very sensitive to facial expressions, most painfully, negative ones.  I feel I can read them well.  The problem with negative ones is the disproportionate affect, and the fact that the may not be related to me in particular, or may be about passing thoughts. Over time, the consistency of that look of my Ts gladness became solid enough the penetrate.

The lack of loving looks affected me as a child as much as cruel words and actions, maybe even more.  It is a pity we can only express that gladness in words here, because facial expressions can carry more weight in the heart.

When I saw your handle in the list of 'recently updated' I felt glad to see you here.

My life as a semi-colon (;)...

One of the worst features of this cptsd journey is the tendency to over-analyze the shock of 'what happened' :stars:. I try to understand the people and events only to find that there isn't any logical explanations that make any sense--so much was so cruel as to be beyond the pale of there being any rhyme or reason to what happened. Then I try to critique why I did or didn't do this/that/other and not something else. And conclude that I'm no good, never was, and I can't break the pattern of blaming myself when there's no way I caused any of it. Analysis seems built to end in failure. Why/why/why? So often I've felt closer to the abyss, with thoughts of ending life; instead of living with hope, however dim, that feels real and I can sense light ahead.

There are no answers. One of the most salient points made in Pete Walker's book "From Surviving to Thriving" is his observation that cptsd recovery becomes a lifelong task. That can sound utterly discouraging in a society built on instant gratification and sure answers, but accepting Walker's take seems more sensible by far. And strangely less stressful, once one accepts his honest assessment.

Every answer I've ever come up with has been upended at some point. It seems safer to back off grasping at any one-size-fits-all approach en route to the happy ending and settle in for the ride. The nice thing about dead ends with answers is that they do establish an informational backdrop that might hold nuggets of still useful material, even if not the be-all end-all solution. In other words, reinventing one's life becomes ever more appealing, maybe even necessary. Sounds radical, but after reaching bottom, one looks for unorthodox means of escape from the box of pain and grief. Parts of this or another approach may still prove helpful, but it becomes apparent the one-stop answer doesn't cut it.

The 'why' is surprisingly easy to discern. None of this ever made sense to begin with. The much-talked of 'normal' didn't exist for people with cptsd, if indeed it's at all true that many people's lives can be considered 'normal'. The comparison game of normal/abnormal may be interesting, but hardly conclusive when it comes to truly feeling better about one's individual journey and needs.

I've been fortunate to be working with a therapist who doesn't hide behind her degrees, reputation, or status within a certain expertise. She knows a lot, for sure; but remains flexible and states openly she's not about dispensing therapy to her clients, but working with them in creating safe ways to redesign one's recovery. It took me a while, but after years of uneven therapists, it's remarkable to find someone like this. The trick, as always, is to apply the recovery pattern to life outside the individual sessions.

All of which leaves me still roiling with pain and angst over the old story, and I remain horribly susceptible to emotional upheavals. And no how or why has ever caught up with the residual wounds. Despite some notable creative success over the years, I keep dwelling on the hurts. Influenced by my interest in theatre, I sometimes regard life as an act of sorts, along the lines of the famous Shakespeare line: "all the world's a stage; and we are but actors in the play." I'm still emerging from the old play, slowly but more surely these days. What I seem to want is a blank sheet again, with empty spaces for creativity to flow once more. Including creatively transforming my life's tragedies into at least tragi-comedies, if not a heroic love story.

One of the hardest realizations is that this play is ongoing. I have helpful metaphors (old life/old movie script; new one--new screen and script). Or, as my therapist pointed out, "Life is like a semi-colon; when one uses a semi-colon, the sentence never really stopped, there was something yet to come. So it is with life; even with cptsd. Eventually one finds a way to continue and add something better."

I'm still writing that sentence, past the semi-colon; it speaks of possibilities, not absolute endings. For me, it's funny how that little grammatical symbol can translate to hope. Then it's my turn to help create that something and reinvigorate the search; not for answers anymore, but for ways to be, not just do.

Circling back to Walker's statement--yup; cptsd recovery is lifelong, but in a way that builds on hope for a change; putting meaning back in the word re-new.

It's weird, all the places one's Inner Child can choose to materialize. But I know the feeling better now than I used to; and am pleasantly surprised by what I discovered about myself. Then the weirdness even begins to make sense. I'm so glad to have the Inner Child now; a wonderful foil for the inner critic as well, I've found. And I know how the Inner Child first made contact; while I didn't know it then, it sure seems obvious now. And it was via my vocation that I discovered how the Inner Child was there all along, like a hidden helper keeping me from dropping off the edge.

What's a person's vocation got to do with cptsd anyway? I used to think it was irrelevant--that it really didn't matter what or how one makes a living; that it was always just the person underneath that somehow rose to the surface. That may even be true; but what if that inner core had been ripped away from one early in life? Who is left to rise to the surface? Who wants to even try when life seems stacked against you?

Having served stints in various jobs, one stands out--my in/out years in performing improv (unscripted) acting gigs. Mostly with a small core theatrical group in which I became the main creator/supervisor/performer; plus a little bit of administrative drudgery, if there was no one else and it had to get done. Looking back, it's apparent to me that became the dominant influence in my starting to heal, if not find a cure, from the after-effects of cptsd.

I'm retired now, and I miss the creative parts more than I thought would be the case. In retrospect, one of my better 'creations' was 'myself'.  That statement right there is one reason it's so hard to explain. Acting already has some built-in difficulties that are prone to misunderstanding, but how on earth did I invent (or re-invent) myself? Fair question, and one I didn't understand myself 'til after the fact; although as the years flew by, I realized more and more what had happened.

The first bit is that I never intended to get into acting; it was pure accident/coincidence--happened once when I was around a group of adolescents and was asked my opinion on a topic I was very familiar with. Reluctantly I agreed; but within seconds started 'dissociating from myself', if that makes sense. Main thing is I didn't feel right about a straight-on delivery style, but fell into an on-the-spot character who told the story in a much more animated and entertaining direction. My body/voice were still there, but suddenly 'someone' else--almost like another part of 'me'--was telling the story. Afterwards, I reverted to 'same old me'--hyper-alert towards people, extremely shy/vigilant and all the rest of my 'normal', but something powerful had shifted during that first unintended performance. I'd never spent a minute with any acting training whatsoever, but there I was pulling off quite the show while still being informative.

Why'd that happen? To me, it's obvious, now--I was young (early 20's), barely having survived bad childhood history of cptsd, somewhat ashamed of 'myself' with the resultant ultra wallflower personality, rock-bottom self-esteem, etc.; an attitude reinforced following an assault in young adulthood which almost drove me to suicide (hopeless, worthless, etc.)

Being asked to speak that day--umm, well, okay; the character seemed to come to me, instantly; it covered over, as it were, my self-perceived lack of 'real personality' and my improvisational performance was a smash hit. It was like my speech had turned into a solo mini-play and 'someone else' took 'me' over. (sorry to surround so many words in quote marks, but along with this comes a feeling of unreality so I use them to describe better...I hope). Nowadays I regard that original character as my Inner Child escaping, as it were (although I pooh-poohd the existence of an Inner Child as pure fantasy until recently). It wasn't like I invented the character--it just 'appeared'. Not spooky at all, it just seemed part of the flow.

Okay, suffice to say that I was sought out afterwards by an outfit needing such an actor, and things snowballed from there. The income usually hovered on the low side (very few actors make much money), but the creative part was what kept me rolling; with ups and downs it had a nearly 40-year run. Not bad. Back to its effects per cptsd--it covered up lots of the old pain, to the point where I felt I'd passed through that crucible. But...but...no--the inner pain, it turns out, never really left me. But at least I'd acquired a new 'persona' to help cover it better. Which was alright socially, to an extent; inwardly, though, I remained a wreck.

These thoughts come back to me after seeing some recent interviews with the American stand-up comic Maria Bamford. Turns out she appears to have experienced a form of what I'm trying to describe. As she admits, her personality offstage usually doesn't match what her onstage presence projects, which of course can disappoint her fans as they sense a disconnect; even though she feels her onstage presence IS the real inner person, which to me resembles what I'm calling the Inner Child at work. I know exactly where she's coming from--it may seem out of synch to many observers, but the performer knows it well. It fits how the acting often felt. Most people who know me offstage would never guess that I was an actor, similar to Banford's experience (at least before her fame skyrocketed).

This surprises many, but she feels it's entirely natural. Here's the difference--onstage gives the performer a form of control they don't experience off, and the scary audience becomes less relevant. So it's odd--you're being yourself in that you're drawing strength from within. This feels as real as anything, but offstage (or even on if you glance at the audience for just a second) old habits kick in and all the people seem like potential judges and harsh critics. My original cptsd-induced personality can overtake the presentation persona if I'm not careful; if that happens, I feel like shutting down, running away, etc., just as if the audience were abusers-in-waiting. I sometimes see faces or discern small movements which threaten instant EFs if I don't stay focused on performing. Almost as scary as trying to describe it in writing on this forum, LOL.

One difference between what Bamford says and my situation--she readily admits that dysfunctional as her FOO was/is, and as she often depicts in skits, she does feel some support from them nonetheless. I didn't have that, my FOO were so awful I went NC on them early into adulthood; literally had to invent a FOC--family of choice, and they were drawn from my acting troupe, some of them with similar backgrounds to mine. But without them, I can still be wildly lost...the question of self-identity remains nefarious at best; especially the early 'me'. This has affected my personal philosophical take, though--more along the lines of what some call zen or advaita in the East, known in the West as Perennial Wisdom or Non-duality (off topic slightly, but I mention it in hopes of explaining some of my mind jolts)

I'm very hesitant to explain this via OOTS, especially as I had a previous major misunderstanding with someone on the forum who invalidated me to the point of causing a major EF on my part. With that in mind, I'm a little reluctant to mention it again, but since the Bamford interviews, it's made me aware of just how large an effect this all had on my route to and with recovery from the traumas still haunting my everyday life. Hmm...maybe the cptsd years even did their part; after all, one learns how to try avoiding abusive people by acting as best they can; using acting like an avoidance technique, the worst of which can lead to lots of dissociation. Which is why I'd never consider any of that pain, grief and anxiety as a 'gift', like some people suggest.  :stars:

Bottom line #1--I was able to literally create a new personality. The original, from which I do derive some good things via Inner Child work, was pretty much destroyed by multiple abuses. Bottom line #2--vocational choices can and do have unseen consequences not apparent until one journeys further down their recovery road. While I still carry the effects of the early cptsd, it feels good to look back and know that my acting helped me create a semblance of healing, if not feel cured. Regarding the latter, I have doubts that a real fix is possible, which is what Walker suggests when he hints that the road to 'thriving' with cptsd becomes one's true lifetime pursuit.

Everyone's journey is different, but i'm always reminded of Shakespeare's line: "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women ... players". And here's what my Inner Child reminds me: be ready to surprise yourself. I had no idea until well after-the-fact how much my own bit in life's play was sort of a play within a play. Doesn't sound very logical to some, I suppose or even contradictory, or perhaps more evidence of a real dreamer. Guess what? I've apologized for being me too often in life already; but Inner Child has this habit of seeing the unreal and reframing the whole scenario. So, Bottom Line #3--be willing to surprise yourself.

Theories aside, the play continues...surprises (good and bad) included.

There's an old phrase which suggests that you should follow your highest desires, wishes, bliss, or whatever you choose to call it. So in my own quest for relief I've tried lots of visualizations involving what I'll call 'wishcraft', with only one consistent result--the urge to just cry.

I mean, one is supposed to expect better, it's said, but the crying urge is always my result--like I'm in this pocket of mist, within cloud vapours that never fall as rain. I really tried to picture those other outcomes; but they always seemed to recede further down the road. Maybe the urge to cry really is my 'better', highest desire.

Why is this, I ask myself, sometimes endlessly. Sure there's lots of bonafide reasons I can come up with for this feeling--one therapist even suggested that of course I was this way, as I was carrying so much grief. But do we always need reasons? While I'm not prone to instant gushing or full-fledged cries, it's essentially what I feel like much of the time. On the edge of tears, almost wanting a flood that will only cease...who knows when.

This has been with me forever and a day, as the saying goes. It's more like a part of me, as much as anything else that identifies me to me. All the rest seems like ego-talk, although I've learned the ego is either the home to or a close friend of the inner critic. With no human friends, these mind monsters tend to rush into the void, like the awful voices at night that seek to disrupt any notion of rest. Sigh.

Sure there's times I have cried, many times in response to hearing or reading about some result of something involving deep-seated love; or even just reading words like 'you deserve love'. There have even been times when I did burst into tears when I felt loved, which ended up distressing the other person. I knew--it was my 'don't deserve love' notion--but only scared the other person. A truly awful feeling--to feel shattered when someone tries to express love for you, as you don't feel deserving of it. And when you show emotion, it then scares people further away.  :no:

There's an angry side as well. Just hearing a report of war or reading, say, about wars in history--that brings instant tearing as well. To think that people have to butcher and damn each other. Oddly, I'm considered quite the historian; true, but I skip right over the wars  :bigwink: . It bugs me to know there's people who proudly march around today re-living those horrors  :stars: . 

I used to regard this edge of tears feeling as yet another weakness to be overcome. I'm better with it now, more accepting, but it still causes enough wonder to discuss it in this journal.  I've reached the point, though, where  I'd rather not try to understand it, as it's derived from what happened when young and the effects that settled into my core being. It's a lonely task to always be at war with inner demons on top of the outer sort. 

Like so many aspects, there's few options to find people who'd understand. I don't want sympathy, not sure that's something that can be given to another--or should; sometimes it only reinforces the pain. Compassion maybe; understanding, sure, but maybe it's all just asking too much when I don't understand much beyond the incessant ache behind the urge to cry. Re-winding the mind and thinking I could have done more or shame that I couldn't help myself--those memories only hold me back. But if a crying parlour existed, I'd be its best customer.

I do think maybe I've arrived at an answer for my own question. Why do I want to cry? It's really all that makes sense. Like so many other searches, there aren't answers; only these tears.  :'(

Frantic, I am. Yet I treasure relaxation; yearn for it...built my life around creating conditions of peace and tranquility. I shouldn't have to strain to relax, but I fall into frantic remorse that people won't like me, never did, that I've been passed by, and all my life amounts to is a long narrative of pain, defeat, resignation, shame, and apology. Just ego-talk? Perhaps, but don't know for sure. Maybe not knowing is now being replaced by not even caring. It only seems contradictory if one still buys the notion of finding some perfect way out, until one finds that all that hope was yet another false lead.

I might not want to know, as I'm weary of thoughts, tired of the troubling game of pleasing others, of living my life in re-action instead of pro-action. As if I have to earn love; as if deserving it isn't enough, or has to be justified.

I deserve love; I shouldn't have to work to realize or remember those three little words. I deserve love. I worry incessantly about how I'll ever feel that way, beyond the words. Where's it going to come from--but that's 'futurespeak' instead of true surrender to this moment. Vulnerability is harsh, but I should be well used to it by now. Bottom line...no one should have to plead and beg and wonder if they're worthy of love; love which doesn't come from somebody (parent, teacher, lover, etc.) but forms a mutual bond  that builds instead of rips people apart.

It's sad/mad but not bad to live that way. Still I deserve better, and need to keep at the notion that it's more real to realize that as a truth than see it as some fantastic far-out dream that's out there in futureland. The tragedy is that what was left behind included nothing that I can take hold of that can be called love. I heard the word; but it never matched the actions I saw around it...just words in a hollow vacuum chamber, echoing to sounds of distress and agony instead of what they called love (if they ever wondered anyway).

Today I read a meditation that speaks of "giving up the hope of a better past". It's about the most practical thing I've ever heard. This isn't the old "just get over it" line in disguise--it's built on taking responsibility for what truly could or could not have happened any differently. It's about dissing the self-blame and knowing you did your best. Guilt-free instead of hammering out the details of the could-have-beens.

I don't care about the childhood people anymore, but I do hate their ignorance. Hate what they did, hate how I've had to spend a lifetime battling back. Hate it like little else. My reason can start and end with not being loved--sure it didn't happen then but that doesn't cancel out the present. I don't even know the form that love might take--expectations only get in the way.

I deserve love--my Inner Child sure knew that, all along. But I had no connection to him. Now I do, after a powerful visualization that took me to the haunted house where I found him...hiding, sad/mad, numb and cold; huddled by a roaring fireplace that still didn't warm him. He was, though, almost mindlessly ripping old photos from a school yearbook and tossing them in the flames; eventually he just tossed 'em all in--which did lighten his mood as well, and I even detected a small smile. It was all he could really do. Where it's taken me years more to reach the same discard mentality, he knew what was needed. Though I'd made the visit before, this time I took him with me, so now he can be my own best teacher.

[***trigger in this paragraph***] Just a story, they'd say...no more, no less than any story, including those on which whole religions are founded. Including the religious people whose idea of love for children included molesting them, screaming that they were doing so in the name of their deity as they pillaged an innocent who so badly wanted the peace they said they represented. So I hate that too, and always will; and they can damn me for my stories and go back to lying about theirs.

I deserve love really can't be said too often. Of course--but at last I feel like including myself in that statement. But in doing so, it will eventually be absorbed into the beautiful person I am, that my Inner Child has taught me about. Eventually even the words won't need saying; I'll just know it's real, and I'm okay...and finally safe. 

It's not a mental trick. How do I know? They're called scars--they have a truth that no words come close to matching. They, and I, deserve love. Even these tears will never make me ashamed again.

Woodsgnome,

I feel I'm intruding somehow, responding to this, but I wanted you to know that I was moved by your words.  I feel relieved because there don't seem to be any words that can break through when there have been so many words and actions that oppose love.   When we are most receptive  we can so easily come to believe the things that take love's rightful place, and I know how that can feel like any impenetrable barrier, worse a terrible truth about ourselves.  In some it seems to cause a blight to be taken out on the world.  In others, maybe the most tender and sensitive, it seems to have the opposite effect.  The best hearts refuse to harden, they wait for us.

I ran across the following recently in an article about finding a new way:

..."as Einstein is purported to have said, no problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it." Aha--so that's another take on why this is so hard...it'a all about reinventing, upping the ante to another level; and all we have to draw on is the old experiences which tend to make us want to stay in our caves. So where's the magic wand?

The journey of recovery becomes more like traveling into space, with no gear to speak of--other than what we might have read or heard about the trip--plus one hardly feels safe when their trust level in other people starts from zilch anyway.

Lots of these instructive 'manuals' ("7 steps to a better life; fix everything with my proven method, etc.,  :blahblahblah: ") are written by people who've never made the trip themselves. They're easy to spot with their insistence that all is forgivable, you suffer from self-inflicted 'woundology' and like being hurt (welcome--guilt trip/blame the victim), etc. That said, there are notable exceptions such as Pete Walker's materials on cptsd--the difference is he did travel the route he's describing.

Thinking about this self-help advice overload, I'm reminded of a cartoon that once pictured two dogs in outer space, looking back to Earth. One mutt says "I think I hear a can being opened" to which the other replies..."Let's go back!"  The familiar seems more reliable than exploring the new territory.

That's where I'm at these days--wandering the planets, finding an uncharted route to an unknown destination. Some call this recovery, but I have huge doubts. Why does it feel so much like endlessly recycling the grief? I can give myself pep talks, read how the rest of my life will be perfect once this, that, and the other happens; or...

...just keep on keeping on; in hopes I have built enough strength to do even that. Even "stay on track" doesn't apply; it's all too strange to find any track, yet alone stay on it. And the hope seems more like a rickety swinging bridge suspended high over a canyon where one misstep... :blink:

Woodsgnome: I can relate to the feelings you've described. Lately it seems like I have made a slight improvement and I now view my suffering as growing pains. Just this change in belief has had a positive impact on me.

As I noted in another post today, it's easier to endure the downs when you can see the ups in life.

About perfectionism...surprises...and the Inner Child.

When dealing with cptsd symptoms and/or memories, I used to strongly believe that if I only found the perfect technique/system/teacher/program/book/group, etc., all would be well and the happy cart would take me on as a rider. Oh shucks, it doesn't seem to be that simple. I mean, all the pop psychologists who write the self-help books preach otherwise, and imply that 'if only' you do this/that/other all will be well with you. And for heaven's sake, stay away from surprises.

Surprises can, of course, hurt. I know so much of my cptsd feels that way. Now I'm surmising that perhaps that was more a severe imbalance, not a consistent injury that will always prevail and ruin my life. Maybe some surprises are okay?

Quote: "An individual dies when he ceases to be surprised"--Abraham Heschel. Hearing that sentence grabbed my attention. Surprises that are good--that you 'die' without them? Can even bad  surprises be re-oriented to be a positive, even if it originated as a negative? Maybe it's premature to have to always be ready to judge the positive/negative equation. Like so many labels, they never seem to fit precisely or consistently. So much for perfectionism, I guess.

Some surprises I've experienced per cptsd:

...The persistence and flexibility of symptoms; it's like a revolving jackpot wheel that spins on its own; once one thing is 'dealt' with (you think) something else happens that says not quite, or it shape-shifts into something you didn't suspect. The "I thought I'd dealt with that" notion is turned on its head. Unfortunately, it can set off more depression (negative), but maybe there's even something to learn from it (positive). Weird stuff, this life business. Learning from all this crap? Why not...and while it's surprising, it does carry a glimmer of hope if one puts a new frame over the old picture.

...How reframing what I'm doing is a perspective that feels better than frantically trying to tamp down all the inner torments at once. I keep hearing that positive thinking at all costs is a winner. But it makes me feel as full of doubts as anything else, as it sets up useless expectations, and the grand outcome--happiness--turns out to be yet another illusive 'out there' hope. Stuff happens--being positive at all costs is impossible anyway, without a negative to oppose it (otherwise it wouldn't be truly positive). My take on this has changed from 'you should' (should-ism) to 'maybe'. And the maybe isn't permanent, it's just a normal pattern in life's ever-changing cycle of surprises. The challenge is gaining some balance surrounded by all the confusion and lingering hurt of cptsd.

I certainly wish for positivity, and perfectly happy outcomes, but it's okay if I follow my own drummer, and I'm not a bad dude for accepting that there is positive and negative aspects to all this perfectionist striving. While surprises can hurt, they can also change into positives. So I'm caring less about the labels and more about what my heart is telling me; and that says that even I, who grew up with so much embedded hurt and anguish, am worthy of love; that it hasn't passed me by entirely. That's a giddy surprise I'll accept anyday.  :cheer:

Some who would read this might be prone to critique all this theory and prefer 'for sure' steps on the route out of this * we call cptsd. It's certainly what I wanted--get me out and get me out now. Yet theory isn't a monster for someone trying to reassemble their life. Yes, there are action steps to take. My starting step, though, turns out to be discovering a childlike wonder and willingness to accept surprises. Thinking back, I'm surprised/shocked that I even survived what was happening to me. Only now am I finding the Inner Child's resilience (another surprise!) as something with real meaning for me. Surprise is no longer always a bad word, and the Inner Child considers it a way of life. Surprise is only a word, don't trip over it and let it ruin your life (again).  :bigwink:

Funny, another huge surprise was finding myself on a forum with others who went through a lot of what happened to me. Had I not been willing to be surprised, I wouldn't even be dabbling at the possibility (and surprise) of experiencing anything close to recovery. I'm still not sure what that really means either, but I'm more willing to let it surprise me.

A letter at 3 a.m., during another bout of sadness washing over me.

Hello, friend. Yes, come in; make yourself comfortable. I won't try and chase you away anymore. It was just a natural impulse, those times before. You have to admit, you do bear a sense of prickliness about you, though it's not your fault. In that way, you're as innocent as the sweetest child. Perhaps I need you more than I ever knew. So--welcome, sadness.

All these years I've fought you, I don't think it was justified. Sometimes, like now, you've been my only friend. I think many are afraid to call you that. I know I was; I tried to tell myself that no, you came from a past I wanted to deny. My journals are filled with peptalks about how I'm getting bettouer, every long journey begins with small steps, one thing at a time, and all the usual good-vibes wishful thinking. It seemed like the thing to do; cheer myself up, all would be well.

But you never left, did you? And here we are, with nothing left to figure out, too tired to cover our relationship with empty words that don't lead to anything but more frantic ideas about improving. As in what's to improve anyway?  You're here, and why not? You've turned out to be the most faithful friend I've ever had.

They'd call me weird, or odd, if they ever knew. I have this happy demeanour, after all...in public. I got paid to be that way those years as an actor. Sometimes I'd tell myself I really was that happy character, but in private--there you were, steady friend come to pay a visit. Instead of chasing you away, I might have known you were just looking for your rightful home. And maybe I'm okay to thank you for always coming back. I'm sure some would hate me for that, think I'm giving up something--perhaps a better life without you, in that land above the rainbow or however it's expressed. All the world's messaging says you're bad; I'm no longer sure of that, at all.

I can't play the game anymore. Of denying you. Of telling you you're not wanted. What's desire to do with any of this? Must it all seem logical? Strange, isn't it--maybe I like having you around, as my last faithful friend. I keep wanting friends...and you keep coming around. Pretty coy about it, even, you don't jump and stomp in desperation to gain my attention, but you keep hanging around, like a lost and awkward child.

So that's two of us--lost, awkward, and finally I'm feeling okay to have you. I think you have more to teach me if I don't resist you so harshly. Maybe I have to fully welcome your embrace, rough as it is at first. Here's an odd one--maybe if I finally surrender to you, I'll be surrendering to other goodness all around me--earth, sky, woods, the moon, stars, deer, eagles, and the coyotes whose plaintive calls create a musical interlude to many lonely nights.

All of these, and more, were a big part of my seeking solace in the lonely cabin where we are tonight. Like those others, you are a natural part of the landscape, older too. Sometimes that hurts, but I think by trying to shut you down so often I've missed your mission to keep me alive to all of life. Even the tears--as only becomes apparent after, their release has been essential and they come from...? Yes, you--sadness.

Many would say, for instance, that because of you, sadness, I'll never get better, or be able to discover that elusive promise called recovery. Your persistent presence kind of puts the lie to that. But your being here isn't indicative of failure or mean I'm bad or weak. None of that--all it means is I'm alive and yes, you have played a large role in that life; no amount of work or self-improvement mantras will eradicate that. Learning how to be--that seems an important part of what you're telling me; that maybe, just maybe, it's a sign of strength to accept you, sadness, as the dear companion you've been.

You, sadness, are not my enemy. You're only like a lost and lonely child, wanting to be held, not rejected. Remember that, so many years ago? We both know that other lost/lonely child, and we've been together ever since. You bring a tenderness I thought I'd lost; it's foolish to deny you any longer. It's okay to cry together, and this time not to freak out and try for a quick fix. You're here, with me, and I'm not weak to hold you. Thanks, friend...you do make me stronger.

What a strange sense of relief that last tearful journal entry provided...to accept a quality--sadness--that I've always fought so tirelessly in frantic attempts to fend off, diminish, defeat. Every day, especially at night, it seems to try again, and always I succumb to the notion of finding yet new ways to rid myself of this supposed pest. If only I'd be rid of it...and...I'd struggle until it was just an old song of false hope. Each time, I resigned myself to sadness as a sign of failure, not of strength. It's not supposed to be that way, I thought. Now I think I've turned to a new realization of sadness' part in my life.

In desperation I wrote the little note to my sadness, as if it would listen. I equated sadness as being like inner critic, but turns out it's not the same at all--sadness is just a fellow traveler who shows up, and most importantly doesn't want anything in return--is just here, with me; wanting to be held. Nothing to provide for it, no expectations it will change, it still will come round but now it might even be my most powerful, if once unwanted, friend.

Sadness, exactly like my own childhood self, was blamed for what wasn't its fault. Scapegoated. Maybe sadness is a key component of Inner Child after all. Just allowing the sadness to be present, without judging why it comes or goes or stays; but just accepting it has made today feel more peaceful. Nothing to figure out, but I'll accept the peace that's followed. I always need peace, no matter how it materializes. Even unexpectedly--maybe it's even better that way, it loosens the tension around trying to always bring these demons under control.

Last words to sadness--you came, and come, when you're needed; I could not ask for more.

"If only" rhymes with lonely. And it still hurts.

I live in a sparsely populated area, but we do have an interesting arts/history museum based on some local happenings of note. Actually, I was instrumental in getting it started and in seeing it progress over the years. If I were into self-congratulation, there's lots there I could draw from. What I can't stand, and what freaks me out--is when my role in this is pointed out to me by others. I can't stand it, want to run, and frankly, usually do...from any accolades or even faint praise. I can only conclude that I hate myself...and can't escape its drag on my life. Nothing new, same old, and it still hurts. These self-hatred roots were planted so deep I can't pull them out, it seems.

What brings all these feelings back was a little talk I was invited to give for a retirement 'roast' in honour of the recently retired museum director. I have lots of stories about and with that fellow, so it was obvious why they asked me to chime in. Oddly, I have a long history of public speaking, despite my enormous people fears stemming from my cptsd. Still the old self-hatred stays put, regardless. This self-depradation flies in the face of the socially amiable (if private) person I'm apparently regarded as and am able to project. Yet it also makes me cringe--please, I don't want that, can't stand it runs my inner self-talk loop. Inner critic will cruelly cut me down, and I readily accept that instead of the good vibes I hear from others. Fine...I'll just hate myself, something I'm well-versed in, even if others don't know; it's a secret I can't share and that stuff builds up.

I tell myself I deserve love, that I won't be freaked out anymore. Rather it's just...I really don't know any of the why--I've worked hard to overcome this, and all I get is this "if only" message of hope that I'll ever feel anything besides numb. And that spirals into more self-hate; soon in comes the familiar depression and here I am, back in the land of the lonely.

At the event I mentioned, my talk was well-received, and lots of people seemed genuinely happy to have heard it, and mostly to see me again. I did have a huge effect, apparently. But...but...and it also scares me. I want the closeness, but can't 1) fully believe I'm worthy, and 2) am scared if I dare poke out past my numbness. Most, I think, are alright with that, too--they see it as an admirable trait of mine, or so it seems in my clouded, confused vision.

So I'm still highly dissociative, I found out. Sure I'll probably keep plugging away at it, inwardly--maybe understand it better, but who cares when I can't break through and feel--as in how I seem to have touched people out there but won't let them in here, to my heart. Outwardly, I can't seem to make it past wondering the "if only" implications. And it's all still so lonely. Go figure? I know why, and of course that's extremely dangerous territory--all the old demons, and the voices...you're really no good, never were/never could be, won't be...aaargh, I want to scream, stamp my feet, punch a wall; but all that comes is more self-hate. Then I just want to numb out, curl into a tight ball, go rigid, wear the body armour to keep the danger away. Even the people with compliments--no, I can't trust, can't accept, can't/can't/can't. Go away--and if they don't want to, I'll make my own escape; at least I'll feel safe.

These aren't the people who turned on me as a kid, but my inner mind seems to regard any and all with that same suspicion, fearing that it will turn out the same. Illogical as it is, those decades-old emotional chains still drag me down and I've lost the key to unlock them.  :'(

If only I could laugh, like I made the people in that room laugh..."if only" again. If I could accept better...could, would, if, should...no wonder I succumb to the urge to numb out.

No point to all this rambling; just grief...like sadness, my only steady friend. Story of my life.."if only". And the sequels keep coming.

Re-framing forgiveness. Still troubled by the glibness with which that word is used.

I can see the utility of cutting emotional cords that way. But the snips have to be precise and not subject to slip and re-injure. So it's more fragile than the easy-come, easy-go, quick-fix forgiveness formulas currently in vogue. In that sense forgiveness--cutting cords--is more art project than casual and simple letting go. We're talking deep wounds here. I'm not sure any one word can suffice to describe what needs to happen.

This is too radical to readily discuss with many people who just go with the language flow and don't care what or how they do cut the cords. Nor is it complicated; albeit more individual than the easy all-conclusive one-word fixes suggested by just forgiving. My own take is further blurred by the misuse of the word by my religious zealot parents (especially the m) and teacher/abusers at school. They literally screamed forgiveness but neither demonstrated how to use it and/or what it even was; it was some holy word but durned if I knew what it meant. It was said (and felt) with wrathful; not peaceful, intent.

It sounded to me like one of those scary god-words to stay away from, be afraid of, not comforted or supported by. Forgiveness actually became a word I associated with punishment in that environment (you are bad and need forgiveness, but not 'til you're beaten for...being you). Nowadays, I can say I believe in the concept of forgiveness but can't use the word without walking on the edge of trigger-land. What seems like just word-games to some rubs raw on some of my deepest scars.

On my adult side, this is an attitude with a lot of flux in my shaky self-care, it seems. I lurch all over in ways to tackle it. But I've come to regard acceptance as key--stuff happened, and is over. I deal with the effects as best i can, but I can't hop on a time machine and literally fix what went so horribly wrong. Nor can I panic whenever the old film reappears in my mind's theatre. The panic-and-never-again vibe tends to reinforce the fear, instead of regarding it as part of the now discarded memory set I'd prefer it be.

So for a while I may thrash about with it; beat myself up; rant, rave, cry, and rage at cruel fate and how I can't forgive. That's alright, and also needs acceptance--THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH FEELING BAD--IT...WAS...BAD. End of sentence. End. It's still there, I'm not...I'm over here now. Hooray! I survived!

Do I call it forgiveness, though? Like so much, since when did forgiveness become a prescription instead of a re-framing that includes letting go, but doesn't even need be inclusive of the socially acceptable word for it. Any comfort level I attain with forgiveness I owe to myself, not to what society prescribes for me.

Walker said that recovery becomes a lifelong job, not a passing fancy. So it is with forgiveness--I've changed with regards to how I let it ride in my life, and it may change again. What I do know is that no one's couple-easy-step method will work for me; instead I'm finding my own way through this wilderness and, like the rest of the journey, one step at a time seems to get me closer to where I need to be than rushing in by the carnival sign promoting "forgiveness! -- step right up here and be cured by the magic word..."

So I'll take the first step--acceptance. Wow--now these new roads are visible--they were hidden before because my frame of view was so cluttered with the anxiety of 'am I doing it right?'. Doing isn't the key; being is...and I choose to be within love, which already includes forgiveness that doesn't need naming.

Another lonely gambit, though. Not everyone will understand. It's like that old saying of Emerson's: "Do not go where the path may lead; go instead where there is no path and leave a trail." Hmm...leave a trail? Ah, not for others--it may or may not matter to them--but I'll need to find my path again and not be distracted. Perhaps I'll find a nameless forgiveness. Beyond any understanding--just soft breezes bringing peace and love.

I seem to have a natural curiosity, which must translate via my agreeable persona--many seem to enjoy my unique, often whimsical viewpoints. That of course is the public view, without knowing the pain from which it springs. The quandary is I'm too scared of people to allow anyone to get inside my protective bubble for very long. I of course grant my therapist such access, but that's more on the order of a controlled experiment.

I spend a lot of time wondering about this life--in general, as to what's going on in the first place; but also those unanswerable why questions regarding how/why this personality drew into the life I did. No one in any reasonable frame of mind would ever have picked a route that started within a milieu of abuse on all sides--parents, siblings, teachers, peers.

From a comfort level, there for sure is no sense to having landed where I did. While there may be logic to overcoming difficulties, no one would see as a good beginning point to be born into a situation so stacked with impossible odds; starting with a m who was simultaneously cold/distant and sinister/invasive and, objectively, absurd if not insane.

No wonder I actively turned to wondering how to get adopted, to the point of once going to a convent and asking them to take me in. Knowing what I've learned about nuns, not sure of that logic, but as a kid it at least made sense in being with someone, anyone, else.

As I enlessly turn all these wonders around, I get tired. All this thinking, mostly about things in my past movie, many vile and awful in the worst ways. This can induce sadness beyond comprehension, but often it just heightens the sense of numbness. Really, I'm still just that stunned little kid who didn't know what they were doing to me. The only logic coming out of that is anger. Yet I spend oodles of time wondering how to tackle this forgiveness 'they' all say everyone needs and can benefit from. Some even get antagonistic--'you must' forgive, at all costs. Trouble with that? I tried! Often. Maybe I'm dense, but instead of relief i kept coming up with more grief, just in a costume that said 'forgiveness'.

Here's my current take, what I want to do once I feel bold enough to get on my new raft for the voyage back to life. I want to ban all definitions of where I've been; for that matter where I am.

I want to, for the first time, wake up and just breathe in this life, minus the encrustations weighing me down on every turn. When the question as to goals is put forward, it ends up like those inane power-point presentations; just more bunches of words designed to look nice, but devoid of meaning. I want meaning, but I'm also sick of working and straining for it. And of making words about it.

I know there's an Inner Child waiting to bust free; maybe the waiting is over...I think it's called recovery. I think that, but Inner Child doesn't care for the words and runs to embrace the breeze.

I don't think I've ever heard anyone else talk about curiosity in trauma.

Like you I was always curious about many things, including things that no-one i ever met was curious about.

The weird thing is that it has been with me in some form during the darkest times.  It is strange to say, but it may have been my most faithful companion, the only part that never entirely abandoned me.  It feels like it has always been there, a place inside that was almost dispassionately interested, observing.  By dispassionate I mean interested without a particular stake in how things turned out, but somehow compassionate despite that. 

I think the purity of curiosity comes from its separateness and lack of entanglement and the way it is a part and also apart.

I want to, for the first time, wake up and just breathe in this life, minus the encrustations weighing me down on every turn. When the question as to goals is put forward, it ends up like those inane power-point presentations; just more bunches of words designed to look nice, but devoid of meaning. I want meaning, but I'm also sick of working and straining for it. And of making words about it.

I know there's an Inner Child waiting to bust free; maybe the waiting is over...I think it's called recovery. I think that, but Inner Child doesn't care for the words and runs to embrace the breeze.[/u]   :hug:

edited to add - I wanted to separate this reply from the above

Thanks for your observations, Radical.

Seems like how I use my curious sense makes a lot of difference in how I perceive how to handle the long road out of trauma. One bit of curiosity keeps me stagnant; the other seems an open-ended invitation to consider where I am now, where I can be, and who I really am without the traumas trapping me.

The curiosity that feeds the stagnant feeling is the past sort--the why and how this/that/other happened, the analytical critique that always comes up with the same answer--there is no answer. This can scare me and entice some pretty hefty self-pity, which to an extent is alright, even natural, but of course has its limits beyond which the hurt one would rather not have just kind of sits there. It's the same-old syndrome run riot.

The other sort of curiosity points away instead of towards the trauma residual--the latter is still present, but more in a peripheral way. The curiosity factor is always there, as you say; but it gets disguised, too, I suppose--hides because the storm of recall can rush in at anytime. Keeping it accessible involves work, especially at first; the next problem is how long and painstaking it can be to see anything else but this box of pain I drag around.

But it can be achieved. As you described it, curiosity is an observer with no stake in outcomes; it frees up so much of the mind-clutter weighing us down. If is the operative word, but curiosity remains the quality. That's why it fascinates me--as a pointer to hope--almost as a last chance to really break free. Hope for me always seemed scary; starting with devil's advocate caution reinforced by the screaming outside voices pounding their message that I'm no good, evil, a dreamer, stupid, and worthless.

And yes, the Inner Child is a huge part of any curiosity; and then, less so--because ideally its wordless joy and exploratory nature can blend with even the old parts of me that resist outside help (even from an "inner" state). Seems like that's recovery, but it starts with curiosity to plant the possibility that yes, there is a different way to re-frame this moment and those that will follow. And to finally realize that NO--the past can not be readjusted or analyzed to any useful purpose. Might happen--the mind will want to wander back of its own accord--but once the curiosity of what's now and up ahead is strong enough, it lessens the desperate backward looks, the what/if thoughts, the permanence of feeling stuck.

Curiosity is a good thing. Without it, who would even be using this forum? Even when it all seems hopeless, curiosity can help switch the focus to now, beyond the storm(s).

Re-framing instead of recovery?

I tend to find thinking outside-the-box my preferred method for what's called recovery these days. I mean I tried so much over the years; so I look for alternatives in lieu of the failure to figure out what recovery really means. Thinking differently about something pretty much defines how I've chosen to alter my view of recovery.

To the extent that I'm no longer of the opinion that recovery is find-able  anyway. How would I know--recovery implies a return to some sort of normalcy and I never had that. So what would I be recovering and where would I go to find it?

Something that fits better is the word re-frame. I'm of a creative bent anyway, so I feel more comfortable using that term to describe what's really happening. If I can't recover peace I never had, what's the alternative? What this journey involves, after all, is not just painting over life's old canvas, but re-framing it, so to speak, so it honours the new creation I'm crafting, the life path I want to choose as I create the new picture. Putting that new frame on seems more meaningful than recovering the old pain and angst. It helps to see the new image emerge.

That's a minor word change to some; but a huge shift for me. Earlier in these journal jottings I expressed the notion of being open to surprise, to new discoveries, towards horizons I didn't know how to find. Lately I mused on where and how curiosity played any role in this. What it all amounts to is this re-framing of which I speak.

Here's the trick, though--not to get so hung up with anticipation that I waste my new discoveries dreaming about where I'm going instead of enjoying where I'm at. It's the familiar one step at a time advice. Dreaming is great, actually; but I want to incorporate the right now moment(s) into my ongoing someday, too--if my new picture includes finding ways to reach out, deal better with dissociation tendencies, and live with ef's and triggers better--I can start to turn the corner now, instead of waiting 'til all is perfect later. Perfectionist that I tend to be, I want to know my new painting and re-framing will be perfect, while forgetting the perfection I can have right now. And not beating myself up if I blotch a section...I can repair, and it might even turn out better.

It's like the old Japanese art of kintsugi--repairing shattered pottery with gold to craft an entirely new vessel out of the broken. Recovery is still an unknown for me; but re-framing makes more sense--finding even the tiniest of strands that can build the new art piece.

Makes me sound almost uncharacteristically optimistic; when in fact I've felt pretty blue the last couple of weeks. Therein lies the caution--labels aren't going to do a thing, attitudinal shifts will. Starting now, not someday. Even down the road, someday will still be now. Over the rainbow is fine; but maybe I'm also in the rainbow and don't even know it. If I remember to stay curious about where I'm headed, and start to re-frame all that pain with gold, the past can recede a bit further, and I don't have to wonder if I've recovered. It will be perfect, because its fragile beauty grew from imperfection. Who'd a thunk it?

About power, vulnerability, and seeing through the tears.

Believing in myself isn't a simple matter of full-charge ahead, or believing anything I find will result in a surefire fix for all this pain.

There is no fix--until and unless time travel is truly possible. Science fiction aside, that's not likely, so a fix isn't doable there. While the past I hate so much can't be fixed and it causes sadness to know how those bad times were too real, the power to re-frame all that is almost antithetical. Instead of donning time travel gear and returning to subdue all those bad times, one has to take stock of the now, and tone down the urge to vanquish the past. With all its demons and memories burned into one's soul, it's definitely not easy. Imagination helps, a lot; but isn't the answer either.

With no possibility of a fix or a means to definitively alter the past, what good is all this power, then? Why talk about it, if it can't fix the back story? I look around, and have begun to realize that the cultural use of the term power has it all wrong. As shown in movies, books, TV (even the news!) and more, power as some bold smashing of an opponent, of whoever is in the way to whatever it is we're after. Pursuit is another popular theme, and then the vanquishing of the enemy, with celebration at the end.

When I step back, that description of power loses its meaning, if I can see through the tears that the same power also induces. The powerful? Most of those I saw--they're called abusers, and I generally I just reference them as monsters. Their power had no aim other than to brutalize, use, and abandon. Respect power? If that's what power is, then I want whatever its opposite is, not only to balance some equation between abuse and sharing unfiltered love, but as a topsy-turvy version of true power. Yet the cultural images keep churning out these triumphant images of control. Show your power and you're worthy of praise, otherwise you're a weak loser.

Believing in myself, the saying goes. To what end? To destroy and snuff out enemies? Of course that indicates that, if none are around, it would be nice for my self-belief to find someone, invent them even, to vanquish with my wonderful power. Huh? I just don't get it.   

What I do get is that power isn't like it's usually portrayed. Perhaps being vulnerable, often considered the opposite of power, is more indicative of a person's true strength. Yet it's sad to have to experience  so much grief and pain to find it, but however it comes about vulnerability has allowed me to see power in a different light entirely. Even if it does take the grief and pain I'd like to avoid, going low allows me to rebound and stand tall, too. Maybe it's not even just about opposites--instead of black/white, right/wrong notions, maybe there's a third way wherein what's called power is incorporated into what's known as weakness/vulnerability. A strange but wonderful tango might result if we allow that third way to emerge.

I like to play with breaking down words, and there at the end of vulnerable I see the word ability leap out, incorporated into the full expression. One dictionary definition insists on vulnerable as meaning weak; thus we're able to be weak. Fine. But I see that word ability tacked on behind, and to me it's like an invitation to look beyond the standard take. In this new sense, the power is there, it's not so obvious, hidden as it is behind all the cultural messaging and pomposity of how power is portrayed in warrior imagery. Win at all costs, that kind of thing heard daily. Really? And do you know all those costs? Are they ever along the lines of destroying the 'other', then going beyond to inflict shame, produce guilt, and then abandon the victim of your supposed "strength"? Athletic competitions, to which some inevitably point, are diversions--not indicative of how life should be lived. Life is more than these stupid winner/loser extravaganzas.

To those who used me as their toy, who harmed, shamed and abandoned me--go ahead, celebrate that sort of action if you want. I prefer to cry at the cruel way power gets twisted that way. The powerful will laugh and mock and cast me aside. I'll cry so hard I can only let go; more than they could ever do--they were too busy gloating at my utter pain. When all is said and done, I'll find the power in those tears they mock, in how they were so sure I was worthy of abuse only because I was so vulnerable, and after to reinforce their power to make me feel even worse. Angry, but powerless to fight back, I ran away; in a sense, I'm still running, but in my vulnerability there's a peace I could never find back in their clutches. Tell me that was wrong, and weak. I'm used to hearing that, too; and I don't care either. I survived.

It did play with my mind to where I sought ultimate escape in ending life. I may have clung to life by a thin strand, but I did...maybe that's power, and incredible strength besides? Strength I didn't consciously realize most of the time. Believe in myself? It didn't take belief; if it had, I wouldn't have made it as the mind told me I was worthless, just like the powerful told me I was. I truly didn't find a way forward by declarations of belief, in myself, in power, in anything. It was more like abandoning belief per the cultural hypocirisies about what power and strength are supposed to look like. 

Power is not about vanquishing or slaying. Call me a weak whatever. I've never known what love is, either; until I found it, inside. Now I can share it better, knowing that love is another of those misused concepts. How odd that humans consider themselves so uppity but unless one becomes vulnerable to the point of being hurt, the images of power and love are so distorted as to be meaningless.

I used to make it a point to hide my scars from people. After all, isn't "just get over it" another of those mottoes unthinkingly accepted, when in fact it's its own dodge. I know, now, that any power I have resulted from deep scarring. I'm willing to be vulnerable about that...now. I'm willing to cry, not in shame anymore either. Just vulnerable enough to allow those tears to be healing emblems.

"Go ahead and cry" was a phrase often hurled at me when young--yes, now I think I just will; and I'm proud not to hide that I hurt, all the while looking for the essence of being vulnerable enough to know my power to heal. Believe in myself? Yes, I think so, and seeing through those same tears I have the joy of finding new ways forward...to peace...and love; in some ways, for the first time. Believe it? Maybe just BE, allow my healing scars to show, be vulnerable, and even happy to have the ability to cry. Just BE...more power than I've ever had, in two words.

Just BE...more power than I've ever had, in two words.
:hug:

You are not weak - your heart survived intact.  That, to me, is the ultimate strength.

I believe there is a third way, but it depends on finding other people who are also, genuinely, seeking that path, otherwise it is a solitary one.

We all have a personal kind of power, one we should never have to give away. Sometimes we can be forced to, temporarily or permanently, but just as often, as adults in the west, we just hand it over in memory of a past in which we had no choice.  It doesn't have to be used to abuse or to win.  It can be used to protect, nurture, to give and receive love and to honour our own and others' dignity.  The fact it isn't usually used that way in this crazy world, doesn't mean we can't use it that way.

But if we give it away, it is more likely than not, going to be used to exploit or abuse or just added to a stash used to meet another's goals, because picking up or taking someone esle's power, even if the other has offered it in supplication, is rarely an unselfish or benevolent act. There is a responsibility to be aware of, and be discerning in knowing, holding, using, and giving away, our own power, imo.

QuoteGo ahead and cry" was a phrase often hurled at me when young--yes, now I think I just will; and I'm proud not to hide that I hurt, all the while looking for the essence of being vulnerable enough to know my power to heal. Believe in myself? Yes, I think so, and seeing through those same tears I have the joy of finding new ways forward...to peace...and love; in some ways, for the first time. Believe it? Maybe just BE, allow my healing scars to show, be vulnerable, and even happy to have the ability to cry. Just BE...more power than I've ever had, in two words.

Beautifully said Woodsgnome.  Just to be happy to have the ability to cry.  I thank god I can cry.  Just be....

QuoteIf that's what power is, then I want whatever its opposite is, not only to balance some equation between abuse and sharing unfiltered love, but as a topsy-turvy version of true power. Yet the cultural images keep churning out these triumphant images of control. Show your power and you're worthy of praise, otherwise you're a weak loser.

The abusers had power over us and we have to take back that power but not by being what they are.  To me their kind of power is sick, twisted.  Unfortunately, like radical said we have so many terrible reminders of the abuse of power everyday in this world.  We have to somehow reconcile that lots of powerful people resemble our abusers in their misuse of power.  There has to be better examples of power.  I am on a search for those better examples.  I don't want to be cynical.  I want to believe that some use power for goodness and dignity for everyone.

Trying to fully understand myself as hard as I've pursued that path has often just made me feel worse. I still see the flaws and not the contribution I've made in spite of the terror I lived with as a youth. When I tone seeking so hard down, it eases the tendency to fault-find when indeed the evidence runs contrary to the core belief that underneath it all I'm still no good, useless, don't matter, and all the rest I heard endlessly.

That all this negativity stuck seems more illness than disorder derived, though. How can reactions of fear and terror be a dis-order? Seemed pretty natural to me. While I sensed it wasn't the norm, I still felt trapped and reacted accordingly. What good is a norm when one's life is in peril?. I can only accept and go from there, trying to avoid succumbing to the traumas. Who would want that? But wondering does no good; if those traumas are my only starting point, all I can do is keep traveling as best I know how. Whether I'm truly progressing or not--please, I'd rather not judge anymore. 

Feeling worse can be relative, in the sense that one absorbs the pain. But what about just labeling it as life? Positive/negative, it all happened. What would over-critiquing that do in helping the pace towards healing? And/or even help me find it now, inside where it's always been?

Even being hung up on understanding, then absorbing other's pain can turn when one realizes from where it grows: Compassion. It's been easier for me to have it for others and not believe I'm worthy, however. It's why I could act, work in hospice and with pre-school kids as effectively as others said I did. The I-did-this part escaped me; I'd learned to expect the other shoe to drop, as it were, and was petrified that I not accept credit for being a good person--incredibly it was accolades that scared me, a lot. I've won 'compassion awards' and couldn't accept that I deserved them. Sadly, those sorts of things could even trigger me back to those times when such recognition I'd suspect could only be a set-up for retribution in the form of abuse that was sure to follow. 

That's the way it had been so often in my development; more arrested development, perhaps, but what else can it be called? Anyway, when things seemed the least bit better back then--boom, the sky fell again and I felt worthless. In fact, I was sometimes punished for doing good deeds! Sometimes the very things I was told I should be doing blew up when I did them. Now I see that the abusers couldn't stand seeing me in any other light than the trash heap they preferred for me. Now I can see that; then it was mostly just pain and confusion.

So I guess I came to regard myself as being without merit, and it scared me that what might follow would harm me. Somehow I had enough inner strength to keep on doing what felt good, and something I grew to love (in my world devoid of love) was helping others. It almost felt like an experiment; and it felt good to help. Now I think I have an answer--partly I wanted to do the reverse of what I saw. When I saw and experienced hypocrisy from the supposedly religious people surrounding me, something inside led me to the opposite, including the compassion and service I've been noted for...by others; even if I couldn't fully accept credit and didn't seek it, it was there, in the mess of my life.

This started with the negative reactionary need to do for others what those who mouthed the holy words couldn't do--reversing their hypocritical model. The other part of this is why I was so strongly pulled in that regard when others weren't. Sad but true, I think even the abuse might have induced a resilience, even rebellion, simply by having compassion for others. Go figure, how an utter lack of compassion from others can still produce the same in reverse. Figuring it out, though, doesn't come near producing the vibes of being compassionate without regard for credit.

Even today, I prefer working behind-the-scenes, especially if what I do draws notice. I do know the why to that, I think. Being noticed still seems like I'm in danger. The early people I was around turned on me consistently. My learning curve has been to find truly compassionate people for me, for a change. In that I haven't succeeded, but I'm not giving up, either. Sometimes it seems that the arrested development side of me has won out, though. I'm going to resist judging that--otherwise I feel worse when in fact it's not me, it's what happened to me, for reasons I'll never know; never want to know. I'm angry about it, cry about it, but all I can do is keep on.

I want nothing other than peace with all of this. It obsesses me, draws me to its beauty. I don't have to ever fully develop the missing ingredients called arrested development if I can hold to that. Beauty is its own reward, and free; I want to take it and treasure it.

QuoteBeing noticed still seems like I'm in danger.

:yes:

"I want to stop transforming and just start being."
~ Ursula Burns

This quote resonates deeply with me. My ego-intellect didn't care for it much; it's always in for striving; this just sounded too, well, simple. Too bad--I'm always perusing these sorts of snippets and aphorisms, or short pithy statements. Some are more pointed and meaningful than 500 page books (albeit you need to read the books to know that  :doh:.) That's how this quote has been for me; to the point of serving as a mantra for where I feel I'm at right now. And need to be.

I've been down many long, wandering trails in the aftermath of cptsd. I no longer think I'm past the danger zone with some of its freakish side effects--EF's and triggers being the most obvious, plus personality quirks like a desperate need to keep people contacts at a minimum. What some consider mere shyness encapsulates much more; I'm talking crippling fears, although I do usually manage to function okay. But I'm hampered trying to start, nurture, and maintain appropriate relationships, inability to reach out for help, and keeping out those who say they'd like to know me better.

Along the way I've tried numerous strategies for coping, mind-altering, and healing; even held onto hope for a transformative, earth-shattering cure (still makes for a nice daydream  :) ). I've tried approaches ranging from atheism to other 'spiritual' isms and back again across a wide spectrum of philosophies East and West. Friendly, familiar, foreign, and near, mine was a constant frantic search in naive hopes of finding sure answers to the miserable person I felt inside.

The term 'spiritual bypass' covers a lot of how I learned lots of information, all of which did little to change or soothe my core wounds and crippled feelings (or more, my inability to feel). No spiritual system or philosophy could bandage or cover over those wounds, I found. They stepped around the pain, to the point of feeling I couldn't get it right (shame on top of shame). For a time I was in and out of therapy with many therapists, but they were so ineffective that I often fell back into an anti-therapy stance, seeing it as just another attempt at feel-good, shallow happy talk. While I currently have an excellent, with-it  therapist, neither am I relying on her to change or transform me--that, with her help, I can only accomplish on my own.

Always I had an eye out for the transformation or series of transformations that would do the trick. Yeah, right. It's hard enough to navigate past the senselessness of a trauma-filled youth followed by some adult versions of emotional abuse; let alone land on THE one answer to it all; the route to the promised land, to borrow a religious metaphor.

This is beginning to sound peevish, or at least poor-me defeatist. It really isn't, though (and wouldn't be WRONG if it was). It's my way of stepping back from the seeking to appreciating JUST BEING, as the quote that started this entry suggests. Or, in reverse, am I perhaps falling upwards :bigwink:--to the next level? It's not like all the seeming dead-ends I sought to improve myself were abysmal failures. Many carried unique seeds. And seeds take time to germinate, you have to be patient and nurturing with them, and not even be 100% certain some event (storm, animal, etc.) won't alter all of it by harvest season.

Full of words, I am. Still looking outside myself, but if I truly accept the power of just being, they fall away; while I fall upwards, as it were--with the side effect of furthering the distance between painful past and just being, now, and in the future.. Funny fleeting thought; but I'll take it--after all, I'm still adjusting to this new landscape where the past is over there, still lurking; but over there isn't here, either. Small seeds, patient if unseen growth, and no desperate searches for transformation can stop and be replaced by just being. So simple as to sound ludicrous--thank you, mind/ego/self-critic, you may now shut up and go play cards for your amusement.

Transformations do happen. They always are happening--even when the seed is in the ground, I trust it'll make it; I'm struggling, but still trying, to make it. The seed, just by being itself, will transform to a new form where I can hold it, cherish it, and in turn just be with its graceful elegance. It seemed to do this all on its own. Who planted the seed, though? Transforming is never done, but being is always here. "Just start being" becomes "just be". It's not where I want to be; it's where I am.

Quote from: woodsgnome on April 16, 2017, 11:00:57 PM
... personality quirks like a desperate need to keep people contacts at a minimum. What some consider mere shyness encapsulates much more; I'm talking crippling fears, although I do usually manage to function okay. But I'm hampered trying to start, nurture, and maintain appropriate relationships, inability to reach out for help, and keeping out those who say they'd like to know me better.

I can't even make the effort. Being with most people just makes me tired, because it's an acting job. I thought "fake it until you make it" might be good for me, but it isn't.

QuoteNo spiritual system or philosophy could bandage or cover over those wounds, I found. They stepped around the pain, to the point of feeling I couldn't get it right (shame on top of shame).

No. I believe there is such a thing as a transformative point of view (such as Eckhart Tolle's, for instance), but that we don't get there until we get there. It comes from within... or it doesn't. I feel enthusiastic, even excited, when I read this kind of stuff, but it soon fades back to the misery I've been accustomed to for so long.

QuoteFor a time I was in and out of therapy with many therapists, but they were so ineffective that I often fell back into an anti-therapy stance, seeing it as just another attempt at feel-good, shallow happy talk.

Yeah, that too. And now I'm waiting for the next round.  :doh:

QuoteThis is beginning to sound peevish, or at least poor-me defeatist. It really isn't, though (and wouldn't be WRONG if it was). It's my way of stepping back from the seeking to appreciating JUST BEING

I'm peevish and defeatist these days, and too bad if it were wrong because I can't help it. Can't appreciate just being either.

QuoteFull of words, I am.

I noticed. :wink: But it does sound as though you've found a comfortable way of Being.  :) Will watch this space!

Heading off into darkness...not knowing...

I signed up a while back for a 5-day 'intensive' workshop that starts in 8 days. I attended a couple of these years ago--limited to at most 8-12 people, they were characterized by very powerful personal/interpersonal insights. The facilitator is very skilled with what's called attitudinal healing, but her intuitive senses also allows the event not to be wrapped around her and her ideas, but be truly driven by the group energy.

She's also very attuned to providing a safe atmosphere for an event that can touch on raw and vulnerable feelings. It's not like those old-fashioned encounter groups I've heard about, but as all of life's pitfalls and potentials are fair game, there can be rough patches en route to discovering inner strength.

This event is a giant and scary leap out of my comfort zone. There are days when I don't see a single person, being 10 miles from even a tiny town. Which is what I wanted when I chose this way of life--pure escape from being around people. While my vocational life brought me in contact with lots of folks over the years, trusting anyone beyond surface niceties has been difficult. I learned early not to trust, period. The couple of genuine friends I had have died. My extreme isolation has thus grown.

The first time I attended the intensive workshop, 20+ years ago, I was mostly in awe (and of course inwardly scared; aware of details like exit doors, etc.). The biggest hurdle was sharing with real people in meaningful ways, beyond what I usually experienced. Lots of dissociation, but I hope to lessen that 'freeze' instinct this time.

So it could be a launching pad for my experiment in finding life again. It's certainly not about finding a giddy happiness-is-all outlook. The downsides become as apparent as the up in this sort of event, reflecting real life's daily positive/negative pulls. Personally, while anytime would be good, this one seems ideally scheduled in the midst of large efforts (especially therapy) to leave my old life's movie script behind; or alter it to where it feels better suited to my being. The scenes are still on the film, but the mind/spirit's theatre has switched to a new show--and I'm needing to adjust the focus forward, starting at this moment; not some time down the road, when I'm supposedly more "ready". I can change or redraft life anytime; daily even, until I don't even notice it, and exist in the flow of being instead of expectations/rewards/goals or any of the buzzword subterfuges I'm over-familiar with. And sick of.

Unmasking and re-framing so much of 'me' in 5 days seems daunting, but worth the experiment. It seems good to anticipate magic, but not glorify it to heights I can't attain. Better yet, undo all words and just settle in for an adventure in living, free of concepts but open to whatever comes. Most important--it's safe.

So I'll light the candle within, then shelter it as indeed I am entering the darkness again, but where it can merge with a  greater light once the door is fully opened. That sounds bold. Maybe it is, but inside I'm also scared--of fallback into a disbelief that any of this will really turn a corner for me; and by extension for how I can meaningfully connect with others. Part of me steps back and says, "Oh?--nice try, but this isn't for you. Your time is done and frankly, you don't deserve this either." Well said, inner critic...now,  :thumbdown: SHUT UP!    

Really stepping beyond mere words will be a key. All I know--I want to try. I've been disappointed so often, but I want to try. Sometimes this doesn't even make sense to me, but I'll take the candle stub yet again, journey into the dark, and see what I find. It will take loads of internal, and perhaps external, support. Words are nice, but at this end of desperation they don't cut it as much as...exploration, discovery, and freedom to enter lands I have yet to fathom.

This is so immensely brave.  It is so important to be able to respect and express our disenfranchised grief and to be safely 'met' by others in doing so.  It can be a transformative experience. 

I know how frightening it is to do this, allowing ourselves to be seen and responded to.  For CPTSD, finding safe places in which we can show our authentic selves, and to have our selves reflected back to us  be others as being okay and welcomed, is to be allowed to be.

I had this experience yesterday, and the feeling of freedom, of being released from shame - I can't express what it has meant to me.

I will be with you in spirit, Woodsgnome.  Your light shines brighter than you know.  It has helped light my path, from thousands of miles away.  I'm lighting a candle for you.
:bighug:

Re-framing; soon to include the new picture?

A major stumbling block for me at this stage of wanting to forge a new outlook as I continue to move through the swamp of life post-cptsd is believing in myself. Except I swap out the belief word for trust. Believing holds too many trigger potentials as that word was misused by the religious GAWD-awful abusers of my rough up-bringing (or lack of same) spent in their clutches.

Even on OOTS, where it felt safe...lately I've often agonized over the right way to say things, and often withdraw entire pieces, feeling I won't be understood anyway. I'm sensitive to being misunderstood, even without evidence that such is the case. I realize I'm wordy and that's scary to some, but that's part of the problem--feeling misunderstood unless I thoroughly explain.

There's an automatic assumption going on in my mind that I don't matter. The understanding part is that of course--when I was a kid (a pattern repeated in adulthood) it seemed that the most innocent things I'd say or ask about had a put-down retort from an adult attached, and it was basically simple: You're a bad person; your only hope is listening to us tell you g's plan, etc.,  :blahblahblah: yippity yap yip.

I understand, ten times over, and am thoroughly sick of being unable to stretch beyond the understanding level only. As in--wouldn't it be cool to really feel good about where I'm at? Like floating on a pure cloud, supported by whatever I consider my spirit base. Excuse me, I may have to break for a daydream about that, it's so peaceful.  :zzz:  :disappear:

While that's the background, the anxiety still seems ramped up. It's like I'm still seeking approval to be me. Still wading through the grief of being set aside as an unwanted, unloved/unlovable nothing, and abandoned; the latter with the proviso that anything wrong with anything is always my own fault. Wow--what a monstrous start in an atmosphere of being stifled daily, if not hourly...oh *, it was just constant.

Lots of 'shoulding' still prevails; as in the catch-all should be goal...you should be better. What a loaded term that can be! Anxiety finds a new horse to ride. Miles to go before I sleep--ha ha, can't do that well either.

At least, or at last, I'm now willing to gamble. Next week's 5-day intensive gathering I've signed on for bodes well, if I tamp down thinking of that as some desperate act to get my life together. I had some wonderful vibes coming away from these in past years (albeit the last time being 12 years ago). I love how it's facilitated by someone well-versed in attitudinal healing. Boy, do I need that!

Hopefully it will be worth the stretch it's taking me to get there. Trip to the big metro hub of the region, having to find a ride to/from, billeting with a host family (I freak out with triggers/efs in real family situations, but...attitudinal healing, right?), and a host of other roadblocks I've overcome because I have such a strong pull to this event. I just used the word overcome, I notice--aha, a sign of attitude shifting if not healing.

In this journal I've written about re-framing. Seems like this workshop has become my frame. Now I need to paint the new picture. There, I feel better all of a sudden. Accepted the anxiety, but brushed it aside for some thoughts pertinent to my real goal: re-framing my life's story from one of absolute defeatism to one of ongoing strength and beauty--an art project. Stepping beyond the knowledge-only parts of life to, dare I say, living. And about those dreams...

...despite last night's nightmare, I recall it ended with promise. Full of metaphors right now. I need 'em. Next, it's finding ways to live them out. And without realizing it, or being anxious about it, I'll look up and see the new picture.  :cheer:

So okay, this is what it feels like to be mellow? It's all better now? I'm cured?

Those reactions swivel through the mind, now and then. Following this recent 5-day experience of intensive group work, those self-same questions matter less than they did only recently. I have to say that by staying alive for this, I feel a shift that I've been waiting for (or pushing back for too long).

Here's the trick--keep moving ahead, and I'm trying not to let it become a cliche. I don't need any more of those. I have a tendency to fall back into just surviving, instead of thriving. Keeping it going will present its own challenges, but I know what I need better than ever. That need is...

...people. And what's been my biggest phobia in life? People. Everyone I encountered in my youth, and well beyond actually, seemed ready to pounce on me physically, emotionally, or they just abandoned me as a used-up toy. All people, all the time...even when my career involved huge amounts of working with people, that phobia never was loosened.

Now it has. I now know I need people. Slowly I think I can fix that, that I can believe in myself enough to turn towards that need. Isn't going to make me a social gadfly, that I know--I still have my personality and my boundaries. But I feel less fearful; and there's nothing wrong with that--those with no fear are in trouble all the time. It's just that my hyper-avoidance can be diminished, if not eliminated. Again, it's alright--as long as I don't dwell on it, ruminate it over and over, know myself so well that I end up hating myself again.

But it's easier when I reflect on what were the strongest moments for me in this recent intensive workshop. When I was helping people, and in reverse when I received help, the relief gates were wide open. It was powerful, to say the least. Yet it was swathed in love, something that I thought had passed me by, and was maybe just a forsaken dream anyway. It was definitely misunderstood.

That's a big takeaway for me, to realize that all those tears and all that pain didn't happen in a vacuum or in vain. Sure it hurt, but avoiding it never did me any good. I wish I had someone in the group--from whom and with I shared these lessons-- who lived closer to me, but alas I'm on my own again. Still I have discovered a new road, with people who will help me; because, for the first time, I think I really do deserve love. Even me. We're talking the deep layers of love that defy words, from which all can draw mutual strength and support. One doesn't give love; they share and experience it in its totality. Unconditional love? I think I finally understand what it feels like, not just what some self-help 'expert' says it's supposed to be.

I used to rely on saying well, I never had a good experience with love. Kind of my ongoing excuse, mostly to myself. I never got over the early poundings and worse from those who misused the word love, and twisted it to their own forms of hatred and lies. But even 'never' can be left behind, I'm discovering. Paradoxical but true. There really are people who get the idea of love; I hope to find some more.

What a lovely post! Thank you, woodsgnome ♡

When? That little word tantalizes, teases, prods, and answers itself with a "you'll never make it" response. Over and over, I've tried to be social, and relaxed when doing so. Letting go to be me, as it were.

This weekend I had 2 of the most loving visitors I could. And spent so much of the time anxious--what will they think if I do this, say that, or reveal an opinion without gauging it's effects on them first.

Ugly stuff, to have to pay such close attention to everything one does, says, or even thinks about. Strains all the reserves, it seems. And yet letting go would be just as easy. There are times when I feel its lack and it seems almost too free. Not allowed. Pay attention, strain to know if these kind people might turn on you, is what the inner critic whispers continually. Then the painful self-judgements mount in an awful sense of defeatism. Why joins when in its self-attack mode. 

The frustration mounts with this sort of crap. The 'when' question becomes irrelevant, as the repetitive false belief of "I'm no good" seems settled firmly in place and I'm helpless to budge it.

When? I'm so lonely, know I can reach out, but if I can't relax in doing so, everything comes back to bite and haunt, make me want to give up again. All I do know is how sad/angry I am about this. I know I can relax, but can't. It seems like others have a high opinion of me, and I can't take it in; won't accept it. Or I deflect it as if it's not real, and I deny my own strength. Again.

When? I don't want any more of this self-sabotage.  :'(

Hi  :wave: Read your previous post for the answer to "when?", you've got it right there. It's when you'll be ready for it, not before.

Anxiety criples me too, but we can work it out. :hug:

Traveling off the edge of the known map...

For a lot of this life, I've been searching for answers, then techniques, surely to be followed by peaceful conclusions (the happily ever after syndrome). What I've run into has involved far more questions than answers, techniques that can be stifling rather than liberating, and in looking for peace out there ignoring its residence inside me, right here.

It's said that being open with all of this helps. But what that truly means can seem scarier than the original injury--even calling cptsd an injury runs counter to its definitive clinical label as a disorder. That's useful, as far as it goes; it defines things that perhaps eluded understanding before. But definitions don't heal, they only point some things out.

I'm at a point where okay, none of the standard stuff worked (the happy ever after part never showed). So what's left? Being open. May sound redundant, but it's really all there is, beyond being trapped in endless agony over the usual who, what, why, when questions.

This includes being open to the astonishing notion that all those old enemies (fear, longing, self-hate, etc.) are still with me, even or especially those I've tried so hard to eradicate, send away, demolish. Uh-oh, does that mean I'm giving up? Surrendering? Partially maybe I am--giving up the notion that some grand fix will make it all better, now and forever.

Surrender gets a bad press in this culture. Winning is everything, it's said. But that's about as ephemeral and temporary as any joy can ever be. Where's the fix in that?

This only seems strange. Even in winning one needs to appreciate the enemy first. And maybe in that process one discovers something useful, painful and paradoxical as that sounds. If the enemy had truly been vanquished or eliminated, its secret might never have occurred to you. So even a no-no like self-hate can lead me past mere despair to realizing that I was greater than the sum of the self-hate; that the decisions I thought were wrong and self-deluding not only weren't my fault, they show a strength, a resolve, to mix in the mud that once bid me do myself in, all the way up to ideations of suicide. The latter wasn't a solution, it merely prevented my noticing the trail around the muddy sections. Hard to see it, harder to start, still more difficult to stay on track, but that trail exists. Except I wouldn't have noticed it without the friends disguised as enemies.

I could go on...and on, as I'm fascinated by the idea of befriending my once sworn enemies. It doesn't change the stark gloominess of my past, but it lessens the present tension about it; and the monumental effort to fight them all the time. Most of my enemies come in the form of  thoughts, but that's as important as trying to quash the interpersonal hurts--those are harder to deal with, for sure (at least it's been so for me). Befriending my thought-enemies also doesn't mean dwelling on them; it mostly indicates accepting that I can maneuver around them, even learn from them, in the process earning a victory more precious than mere winning. I can travel through their roadblocks, back to the peace inside, which is my truest friend of all.

One other note here--it seems critical to resist the notion to regard this discovery of a new map as good/bad or assign it a certain quality. I could pat myself on the back and tell myself I'm being socially nice and above all positive, but it wouldn't be true. Wallowing around with those enemies is just what it is--difficult, awful, frightful, but yes full of hope, even optimism. That good/bad up/down feeling isn't the point; what makes for more peace is. So throwing out those definitions and judgements can indeed work, but one needs to know them first.

Knowing them first? Painful. Not knowing them? More painful. And so I travel on, exploring without a map, creating my own. Isn't that what's meant by life's potential? I don't especially care; just sense the new territory seems fresh and inviting. Over there are the old stale places. Key words...they're over there.

I'm only here, exploring life anew, but including the old enemies/friends too. I'll forget to notice, probably. I'll be tempted to figure things out again; in will come sadness, grief, anger, rage. Maybe I'll realize my old enemies are friends, come back only to invite and help me rediscover the one truth I have left--to live from a place of peace where I can even dare to relax, and know I'm okay. And always was.

Your honesty is an inspiration, Woodsgnome.

You're right, there is no grand fix.  Wholeness = peace, imo.  We can't leave any part of ourselves behind.  Trying to fix ourselves is part of the paradox.  We didn't need to be better or different to be loved, we don't need to be better or different to accept ourselves.  We need to love and accept all of ourselves to experience peace and wholeness.

Sending you love

I've often wondered what it would be like further down the road to recovery. I'm not sure there's a solid answer; less sure that recovery really exists. What can a person recover when the starting point was so grim anyway? Recover that? Yuk.

Maybe it's more about attitude than anything? That's part of it. Adjusting an attitude isn't like just changing a light bulb, though; it's more akin to building an entire new house. But one that's never truly finished; and is always being retrofitted to meet current needs. So again--no recovery there; just building a new structure. From scratch. I don't want to, but I have to. I'm tired; doesn't matter.

Will the source of all the problems (the abuse/abusers/memories) disappear? How could they--what happened wasn't derived from false memories. But the reality is they're now in the rear-view mirror, and it's time to remove it, or better--smash the mirror and stop staring at it. It's a traffic hazard on recovery road, especially when tears obscure the clarity. The only thing is to pull off the road. And TAKE CARE of myself. Nothing to fix, can't change what happened, but also can't help being angry--I still hold so much within. Symbolically, it's only an old story, and I'm well into the new one already. But I'm also afraid to turn the page after so much disappointment.

The anger is deep and hard to release. I recently was able to attend a group activity which included an anger release, which helped a lot. Can I take the feeling of peace that followed releasing the rage along with me now? This isn't tit-for-tat; I'd never be able to truly express all the boiling rage I feel within. Overcoming shouldn't be a question--1)it's over; 2)there's too much to overcome. But after releasing some, I'm eager for other ways to continue venting out the leftover anguish. It's like freeing up disk space on a computer, "de-fragmenting" or whatever the term is.

I sense I can do more with this gnawing anger. Funny, how so much of the abusers side I don't understand, but fully know where I'm coming from. Good; there's just no way ever to understand any of what they perpetrated on an innocent kid who only wanted to be loved. And really, who would want to know more about the abusers? That they did horrible things is no longer my concern. It's truly odd how much I've tried to understand the old story, but not fully live in the current one. Shouldn't this be easier? Guess not. And I still feel shame just having been around them, to have to refer to them as--gulp--family. Yuk; that hurts. My big prayer--that no one asks.

I have to take care of myself. In that sense alone this is a new journey; taking care of myself seemed an extravagance while in the old attitude, which was basically one of continuous shock and reaction: "It still hurts? I still don't want to face the world? Do I have to? The world consists of relationships; and that still scares me more than anything...I don't want to risk trying...I want to quit". As they say, turning this ship around won't be easy.

Which leaves me...? Suffering--too easy and familiar, though. I get stuck there, it feels. As usual, the sure answers elude my ready grasp, though I continue to reach for them or, more often, dream about them. It's okay to still reach for love; even when it wasn't there so often, the ache of rejection and finally abandonment never erased the love longing. But I need to love myself first, always. No one out there can do it for me. Except--I've tried, desperately tried, and still come up short.

Self-care, self-love, self-compassion; almost sounds brutally narcissistic, like someone obsessed with self. But it isn't that sort of me-me attitude at all--it's called survival. It's the foundation of accepting that even I deserved the experience of love brutally denied me then. Cptsd as an injury is readily apparent in that regard--and injuries do happen, daily. Turns out this one needs  extra bandaging of the self-regard variety. So now I at least recognize the road I'm on. But I'm also sick of roads--I want to find the garden.

Finding the courage to go further is problematic. I tire easily, and am discouraged by the work required. So often in my abuse times I worked to please in hopes of eventual reward, but the reverse was the norm, and sometimes all my effort seemed to make things worse and more futile than ever. I was teased into thinking the abusers might give me a chance--it wasn't in their makeup to do that, I now realize. But I didn't know that then. Unfortunately, it all but quashed my ambition and/or motivation to find that new attitude. It only reinforced the notion of "get me outta here!" I'm still running.

Is this changing? Why worry about it anymore? It will always be sad, I guess. Acceptance, I tell myself. That's when just crying seems the only true response. All the pep talks about improving and recovery seem irrelevant when the tears say it better. I'm hopeless, habitual, or at a crossroads to something truly new. I'm also sick of traveling this way. When does hope for the new attitude become reality? Must it always be a mirage, a glimmer always too distant to find?

I want to say YES to every sentence.  It's so valuable to me to read the words of those who find the words to say it.

I suspect everyone's attempt at loving comes up short time and again, and the real key to love, whether for ourselves, for others, or  for the world is the strength of the commitment to keep persisting and learning.  For most of us with developmental trauma persisting with self-love is hard work, it's not automatic - the signal gets lost and we are inclined to give up on ourselves.  We were trained to do that.

Learning self-love feels narcissistic, but learning anything takes deliberate attention, and consistent effort, especially with the amount of unlearning that is required.  Overcoming the shame of feeling satisfaction when that learning means, like a kid learning to ride a bike, we find ourselves 'flying' for short periods, the fear of what we might be becoming in letting go and handing it over to the laws of nature to hold the bike up and to turn the wheels with little conscious deliberation and control. Letting nature provide the momentum. 

That was so perfectly written. It is so amazing to read someone put to words how I have felt time and time again.

woodsgnome, I am so sorry that you understand this feeling. I wish no one had to feel it ever, but thank you so much for sharing that so openly. Your words have trult touched me this morning. You have made it this far, and it is exhausting work I know. You will make it thought, we both will. I am right there with you to take breaks as you need.

If you wan them here is a nice set of warm comforting hugs. You can have as many as you want as long as you want.  :hug:

"Tears are words that need to be written."
― Paulo Coelho

Dear Sadness,

Countless times you have stopped by. I've ignored you, avoided seeing you, tried to distract myself, distract you, and even considered the ultimate ending of this life where you can't find me anymore. I didn't want to see you ever again; wanted not just to run, but somehow seal the door to where you'd never be able to enter.

And...you always found a way. I'm tired--what if I stopped running from you? But that's more a question for me, not you. You're only doing what sadness knows how to--and you have no explanation either--you just are. Still...

Still, what? Still I'm bothered that you're doing all you know of--how to be sad. At least you're being fully you. I'm not so sure about me. I guess I've learned that I can't avoid you anymore. Is that so bad?

Here's the deal, Sadness. I've never taken you in before. I've always associated you with the people who used my innocence in sordid ways, slyly treating me like some toy, then just abandoning me when they tired of doing bad things to me.

Come to find out I wasn't alone--you, Sadness, were there, every time. I came to feel that no one wanted me, and yet you came, wanting me anyway. You showed up so often; I blamed myself, as it was explained that I was always the fault of my own misery. You came, I hated you too, yet you persisted.

What if...I just accept you, for a change? It's about all I have left to try. What is it you have to tell me? Your innocence reminds me of my own somehow. You're confused even as I am. And...somehow you've come to...? Have a pal also in pain? Befriend someone also set adrift? These and more, and you keep knocking at my door. Who are you?

Not 'what' are you--maybe you're even a piece of what's called 'me'? You seem too real to be considered as just my imagination. Wondering gets us nowhere; but it happens too. Only playful wonder was chased away too, if not even destroyed. I know a lot of my wonder was drowned in the repeated and insane cruelties that happened. While wonder ceased, you remained, Sadness. And you've stayed, even while I've tried barring that door again, ignoring your repeated knocks to be let in.

Now I see you as a child, much like my own inner child--innocent and worthy of love. I'm not going to fight you any longer. At times you were my only companion. Friend? I didn't see that either, but all I do know is you kept coming around, as if you at least heard my cries, felt for my pain, and were confused by my fear of you. Didn't I have enough to fear already?

All I can say is I was in panic mode--and you were included. You were there...I didn't care why. I just wanted you--all of you--gone from my existence. Now I see it wasn't your fault, either; that you only knew to come with me, be with me; not to harm me, but just be with me, when no one else wanted me. I resisted, you persisted; until I don't see you as different anymore. I've no need to figure you out.

There was this odd twist I've had, to somehow be able to appear as a funny person, a stand-up comic many called me. What many never realized was the painful parts from which that humour sprang. It was a saving grace, I felt; yet without you, Sadness, would it have seemed so? Humour derived from pain?

In all the laughter--there you were too. This doesn't make sense, but I can accept it as one of those ever-present mysteries that also are...just here, just part of being. Tears and laughter are so close. There's a song I like, and the best line: "think I'll just let the mystery be."

Sadness...there was never anything to understand about you. You're not one of those cuddly friends--it's not your forte. You never go away, but you're just there. Here. Now. I can't deny your influence; can only accept your endurance. You can't hurt me, I'm realizing. I have lots of fears and attitudes I'd like changed, but you're not one of them.

Even if you're not one of those cuddly sorts, I know now you're a friend. In a strange way, you may have even steadied my despair, made the pain bearable, and so much more. I never liked you; maybe I should have accepted you better, though. Without you, Sadness, the trail would have likely been even more cruel, and definitely lonelier. What an odd thing to say, but still I thank you for being there. I may not like you, ever, but it's also true you've befriended me when I had no one else.

You gave depth to my being when I had no strength left. I could only be sad--and there you were. At a time when I felt most inhuman, you showed up and begged to differ. In a most human/humane way.

Think I'll just let the mystery be.

It's often noted that it's a long process to get out of these cptsd after-states. That's scary, as it's suggested that all things wrong have a cure. So we set off searching and get so hung up in the search we never come across anything we could feel comfortable calling a cure. And that's scarier still.

Patience is cited as an essential quality in the pursuit of relief. Except the counter to that--pure fatigue--gets overlooked. And then, desperation sets in, the fear that I'll never get out of this crap; why me, why so long, why, why, why.

Wanting answers, and I've barely gotten into the questions as of yet. I'm scared again; I see so much (happiness, contentment, motivation, etc.) out there, but learned early that perhaps I don't deserve those things either--they're strictly for other people. That they were right when they dismissed me as a loser, sinner, irrelevant dreamer.  Just--bad.

Recently I've come to realize how often I've turned to ritual in trying to cope. I'd write letters to my inner child expressing empathy, compassion, and understanding. Or I'd recall a painful incident, individual, or example of past abuse on a piece of paper and then burn it; this is symbolic but also tactile, in that at least in one respect I was able to destroy one source of pain. The crumpled, then destroyed paper is physically destroyed, which at least aids in feeling rid of some of the painful memories.

What I've learned from that process, though, is the need to build a resistance to the many times those painful memories or feelings will attempt their return anyway. No matter what I did or how powerful the symbolism was, there seems to be this secret trap door from where the old stuff bids to reappear; like a haunting presence with a will--to still seek and destroy me.

So besides patience, resilience seems another quality to build on. It's pretty easy to be disappointed when one thought they'd rid themselves of those burdens. Didn't I burn that image once already? Well, then do it again...and again. Commit to at least one thing daily. Eventually the pain will subside, and one will feel free again.

That's what's surprised me the most about cptsd--how persistent it is; how its most awful effects can return and seek to destroy all that I've tried to do in overcoming so much grief. Well, I guess in turn that grief never does wholly escape. But I'm done considering that as a defeat--rather it's just a signal that, even if I need to repeat a ritual, it's worth it and who knows, may be effective this time. At the very least it reminds one to be diligent and not give up.

It does take patience--and grit. May there be strength left to stay with those and cherish the ability to foster the remnant of a shattered life, repairing it to a point where who knows, it might even result in something better than ever seemed possible.

This journal pondering the new seems pointless, given what I've felt lately (which just reflects how I've felt for most of life). So here's the flip side to all my strivings to hope I'll ever be any better or, as that silly slogan has it--in recovery. Except the flip side is more of my ordinary plodding in place.

I'm mad/sad--usual. Feel trapped--usual. Can't sleep most nights--no different. Hopeless--usual.

The only unusual is that I don't know this and would be better off to stop pretending I'll ever find change that matters. Drop the endless pep talks about being open to the new. So? If I'm truly open to changing, then why aren't I as open to accepting what's in place? Maybe I'll just find a new way to mad/sad and the rest of the usual.

In other words, I'm lost. Maybe giving up will be my big change.

 :hug: don't give up. Take a rest, take a vacation from CPTSD for a few days. We'll be right here to listen when you want to talk more.  :bighug:

Thanks, 3R's.

My troubles aren't with cptsd and for sure not with this forum. Being here is indeed an oasis in helping me know there's others struggling as well; and that maybe even I can occasionally assist.

My current frustrations are, however indicative of how I'm feeling about recovery at the moment. It's just as Pete Walker pointed out when he wrote that cptsd recovery is really a lifelong project. And that includes these hefty bumps in the unpaved road.

Boy, did I need that hug...thanks again! With seatbelt adjusted and goggles in place, I know it will still be rough but I can stay the course, including these times when the unraveling string holding my inner self together has worn to one very thin strand that needs repair and protection. 

:umbrella:

Quote from: woodsgnome on August 13, 2017, 12:56:25 PM
...when the unraveling string holding my inner self together has worn to one very thin strand that needs repair and protection. 

Makes two of us atm. At least two. Probably more lurking on here.

Quote from: woodsgnome on August 13, 2017, 12:56:25 PM
It's just as Pete Walker pointed out when he wrote that cptsd recovery is really a lifelong project. And that includes these hefty bumps in the unpaved road.

Good way of putting it. I haven't bought Pete Walker's book yet. Tried to get it via inter-library loan but that didn't work out. I don't like the way it appears online, that puts me off reading it. Atm I also feel really put off that recovery from cptsd is a lifelong project and that I have to take my own steps daily to keep on the right road.

Quote from: woodsgnome on August 13, 2017, 12:56:25 PM
:umbrella:

Your emoticon seems hopeful, so is your avatar and I like your writing. It helps me a bit, sometimes. So yeah, you assist. Don't you have a pet too? Who assists you and you him/her?

Blueberry, I guess I do tend to find some way to include hope even in these frequent laments. Thank you for noticing and pointing it out.

It's as if my hope is sometimes more of a desperation practice allowing me to see if there is such a quality as hope that I can find. That probably sounds mysterious, and I think it is. Lots of times the mysteries appeal more than the seeming reality. If I went by the latter, I wouldn't be alive anymore.

Without the mystery of even the thinnest of hopes, I have nothing...for my heart, at least. And that is what I'm seeking to nourish and protect. Although I was often lied to about hope, it still seems valid to regard it as deserving a role in this life. And yes, recently it has seemed in steep decline, yet again.

I do have a lovely cat (once had 3 husky dogs and more cats as well), as you wondered. I live in a circumstance many envy--alone in a self-built cabin built 30 years ago, during my first escape from my hurts. My motto was "meditation as a way of life".

Makes me sound anti-social, but in fact during all that time I performed social service jobs ranging from improv acting gigs to hospice worker to pre-school teacher/mentor, for starters. Even had 4 friends from an acting troupe I was active in. "Had 4 friends"?--they died within months of each other a couple of years ago. Yet another blow to believing hope was meant for me.

I have 3 prospective friends right now, who've somehow found and have supported me emotionally, but my hopes are, as usual, coloured by the many dashed ones of years gone by. My mistrust of all of this is easy to see--when life starts under a cloud of abuse on all sides from FOO, teachers, clergy, all supposed caregivers--why would I risk hope?

I'm hypervigilant even here in what many consider an ideal life--forests all around, daily wildlife sightings, domestic pets (just the cat at present), music, books, all those supposed great things to have.

Great list, eh? But did I forget--I also have my aching heartbreak for a life that started hopeless. Not sure I'll ever catch up to what I couldn't have, was told I'd never have, and didn't deserve to have.

What's wrong with me? There goes my instinctual inner critic's voice again. So if I can somehow hang onto the tiniest shred of hope, I'll go there, even if it seems like I have to pretend. It's definitely mysterious, and intriguing how my heart could have ever returned to regarding hope as still a possibility. Even for me. Even if it's just an emoticon expression.

I see a lot of this in what you've been saying, too, Blueberry (lots of wild bb's around here, btw). There is a hope, or you wouldn't be reading this or the other posts on here, and contributing the meaningful voice of your own heart. So call it what we will, the mystery of hope may yet guide our days.

Quote from: woodsgnome on August 13, 2017, 01:10:28 AMCan't sleep most nights...

This jumped out at me, because it's my present Big One.  I too am hypervigilant.  There's no threat whatsoever in my life, but my inner world is dangerous, and I know it.  That's what CPTSD does to us. 

QuoteThe only unusual is that I don't know this and would be better off to stop pretending I'll ever find change that matters. Drop the endless pep talks about being open to the new. So? If I'm truly open to changing, then why aren't I as open to accepting what's in place? Maybe I'll just find a new way to mad/sad and the rest of the usual.

In other words, I'm lost. Maybe giving up will be my big change.

You sound exhausted, to me.  Obviously I have no answers, but I want you to know your posts here are much appreciated.

I want to repeat this:

QuoteIf I'm truly open to changing, then why aren't I as open to accepting what's in place?

I truly believe it's only in "accepting what's in place" that we can begin to change things. "What's in place" is all the resources currently available to us.  It's all too easy with CPTSD to see pretty much everything in a poor light.  It's as if we're surrounded by no-choice choices. As far as I can tell, accepting What Is and how I feel about it gives me a chance to grope my way.

I've been pushing on a lot of doors in the past few months, some of them doors I'm (to put it mildly) unenthusiastic about.  I keep going until it becomes clear this is Not For Me.  I'm not a woman who trusts easily, but I'm trusting myself more these days (largely thanks to the forum) and that helps.  Well whaddya know, my gut feelings are right! They always were!  My instincts are brilliant -- I just got way too good at over-riding them.

For me it's not as complicated as trying to over-ride the over-ride, it's just about noticing what feels good and what feels bad.  Maybe I've simply got better at accepting what's good and walking away from what's bad.  For way too long it was the other way round.

But seriously, a sleep debt makes everything look bleak.  We both have to find a way to get our zzzzzzzzzz.  A  :hug: from me, too. 

What do I connect with these days--the falling apart, habitual stuck pattern, or is there indeed anything I can find in all this cptsd strangeness? Anything that is indeed new, as in positively new; as in a feeling that my core values are being allowed to surface and rise above the pain which has held things in place for so long? More questions than answers, per usual.

The key might be to not be so bothered by the questions, but start balancing the frustration and disappointment of the land from which I'm coming with the promise of really, really, really being able to turn towards the new, embrace it, and live in a fresh mental/emotional/spiritual home. An elegant place that was always there, but was frightened back every time before.

One way to find balance might be to readjust words like wonder and why. As in, endlessly wondering why things happened as they did, why me, why so severe, etc.--endless whys (or whines?). Looking, searching, probing, contemplating, and...failing, falling apart. Finding sensible answers to senseless abuse and abusers is impossible. It's natural to want those answers, but impossible when the starting point is shrouded by an intense fog called bordering on insanity.

Memo to self--so STOP, then.  :yeahthat:.  Stop beating yourself up, it only emulates what they did to you before. Stop agonizing yet again over the disappeared landscape. Turn around--see, there's the huge open blue sky, waiting for me. And it's free; just like my heart has always known.

Take from the memories what I can't avoid. Forget the ideal that there would be a way to truly forget. Don't worry about the forgiveness card everyone tells me I have to have. I...just...can't...do...it. Sorry! All I can do is increase the distance as I move away from those storms still rattling behind me. Isn't that actually a form of forgiveness, minus the groveling and mindless "understanding"? The latter I've tried, endlessly, and I still understand only one thing--I want to cry an endless river of tears to float all that pain away.

Instead of lamenting the why unanswerable questions, I can begin to cast my wonder in a different direction--forward. I can wonder if the capacity I have for love and compassion and empathy can truly be my reality; replacing the anger, pain, and grief of the old road. Oh wait--I've my doubts they can be replaced en masse; but I can yet wonder and find ways to incorporate even the painful parts into a present new wholeness.

Maybe pain was my friend--protecting me, in an odd but effective way. But it doesn't know that I don't need it as much anymore. Like a lost child, I can reassure it that it did what it was supposed to do and redirect it, starting by telling it to relax, and (gulp!) thanking it for the times it really did protect. I'll never understand that, either; but will just wonder, not scream out the why question again. But notice a new, for real, part of this life emerging.

New is a word batted around lots in many contexts. I have to embrace it as something I deserve. For starters, I can take the following words of the poet Rainer Maria Rilke in his Letters to a Young Poet, grasp them and let them go again. As he said:  "...the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer."

Maybe I'll even experience this sooner than the 'far in the future' range suggests. Instead of wondering why, I'll just wonder, do my best, and keep traveling. And notice--finally, I will have stopped desperately scanning the rear-view mirror for those monsters who sought to snuff out my promise, even when I was so young. Glancing beside me, I see it--the stub of the emergency candle...finally it's time to reignite the flame. Not so much for escape now, but for guidance on the road ahead.

Traveling on. Into the questions...beyond them...free at last. Still the dreamer they accused me of being. Those taunting angry voices...fading, fading, gone...

This is pretty bad. Or wild or...?

It's this fiction I tell myself of being open to the new. New outlook, new this, that, other. So what? In one sense, how can I not be open 100% of the time? But I do feel like something's accelerating in my coming to grips with where I'm feeling stuck. And one of the things I'm accepting is that I might have that feeling for a long time, if not for the duration of this limited existence between birth and death called life.

Having grown up amongst people who had all the answers, I've come to regard questions as an antidote to blind certainty. I feel better that way; as I saw the dishonesty, ripe hypocrisy, and twisted minds of so many in the church crowd I got tangled up with just by being born into a FOO with similar entanglements. But the FOO didn't question, they participated--especially the m--in the hypocrisy full tilt. I'm fortunate to ever have made it away from that with any of my being intact. Some would call that last bit my sanity but I'm not sure of that or if it makes a difference.

My being is such a fragile thing, though. It scares me daily how close I can come to either edge--sensing the 'new' or succumbing to the 'old' and admitting I didn't belong and never will. I have one ace in the hole there, though--healthy cynicism. I've heard that it's not cool to be cynical, but being so allows me to see the hypocrites for who they were, and are; and makes it easier to realize that succumbing to defeatism (suicide, madness, and other forms of hopelessness) is indeed their game.

And all I ever was to them was a toy; succumbing to hopelessness gives them the smug satisfaction of knowing they were right to shame. humiliate, beat, molest, ignore, and abandon me, until I was next needed for another appearance as their personal rag doll. Stop me before I gag. It's already too late to ease the pain; sometimes it just seems to grow even more intense.

Mindless cynicism would be a bit over the top--UNLESS it involves them, as they were exemplars of the mindless life. Their own cynicism, cleverly disguised, allowed them to run roughshod over innocent youth. They may have hid behind their holy words, but once they got into their flow of rampant abuse, there was only rage and sinister hatred behind their sickly smiling, holy facades which sought to destroy me. So now I'm left with the ashes of mourning, or the choice to further destroy myself, continuing the wreckage begun by them.

I boldly tell myself I will never give up to what would give them glee. Aha--that's something new I've discovered--dignity. I'm finally finding the grit to travel into this 'new' territory feeling alright to be vulnerable, sad, melancholy, and yet somehow willing to stumble, and get up again; stumble, and get up again; stumble, and do it again. It's all I have and I will do it. There's no audience to please here; no one will applaud, or think it's remarkable; I'm utterly alone in this.

Here's the rub, though--I'm comfortable in the ashes of mourning. It's all I've ever known.  :'( Despite the brave talk, I tend to fall back to the certainty of an anguished soul who's losing the will to go on fighting. I don't know any of the why and don't care. But I know this sad landscape as home. Do I want to leave home for the complete unknown? That seems to be the ultimate question I'm faced with. And I'm scared.

QuoteMy being is such a fragile thing, though. It scares me daily how close I can come to either edge--sensing the 'new' or succumbing to the 'old' and admitting I didn't belong and never will.

Feeling this strongly today. Hugs to you woodsgnome.

The More Things Change...stay the same...grrrr

My social life never was much, ever since I went mostly hermit following high school. And yet I did develop some good acting skills which I used to good effect in a modest career built around an improv character I portrayed quite well.

You'd think that would have aided my intense people fears following all the emotional freeze-ups of my earlier years. My character had no problem with words or people--but the reverse was true when I'd revert to 'normal' afterwards. So there's this split--or was, so I've had hopes of overcoming it.

Recently asked to organize an informal discussion group, I set up a speaker I knew of and headed out for the evening. And plummeted from then on, to where I felt like a bumbling idiot by night's end. And it wasn't me who was the focus, I was just another audience member. And self-conscious as in mega hyper-vigilant.

Used to be, when acting, I was in control all the way through; it was definitely a 'performance' as my natural self was the frozen persona who'd rather get away from people than be a part of a group. It's a phenomena American comedian Maria Bamford has noted as well, how her on-stage controlled but hilarious character can revert to an insecure self-conscious individual after a show who just wants to get away from people.

I've had years of that sort of Jekyll/Hyde experience. But it's a strain to be that way. Wanting to change, I've worked hard with my therapist to get a handle on this. "Just be, people love you as you are" she gently reminds me. That might be so but it also scares me. So yet again, last night--another crash through the floorboards of insecurity. I don't hate myself over it--just feel sad and deflated, again. And trying to resist my inner talk of don't even try anymore.

When the heart opens...I'm ready to listen. I wasn't always ready, though. Still learning how.

Contradictions bother me, but without them I wouldn't even have made it into adulthood without having fallen victim to the suicide option. I didn't feel wanted, cared for, or loved (the latter word I never heard when it wasn't contradicted by the actions of those using it).

Baffled, battered, humiliated, molested, and abandoned--isn't this contradictory to what life is supposed to be like? Any signs of hope or even curiosity on my part were quickly smashed. It's a wonder--and for sure a contradiction--that I survived to tell the tale. Unfortunately, the tales are of the sort too familiar to people on OOTS.

They also happen to be the tales one has learned not to be too open about. Those who haven't been abused in these ways have no reference point. Even if they exhibit empathy, one is left with the impression they're only doing it out of a sense of pity, either for what you do tell them, or just as confirmation of the oddness they say they've noticed about you (after the fact of hearing what you have shared--a piece of your woundedness, but to them a mere curiosity). It's then easy for them to assign you to the off-kilter, if not the reject pile. In other words, better be careful--don't get close--he's an oddball.

Then the damned-if-you-do/damned-if-you-don't syndrome kicks in. Tell others, face the difficulty of explaining the inexplicable (e.g. the multiple assaults at the hands of both women and men in a religious school on top of what happened in the FOO). So the only  option is to just hold everything inside. Then you accept the lesser of evils, it seems; easier not to tell (and feel better) than to hold in (and feel trapped). Wanting the comfort of acceptance and validation gets blown up by the fear of rejection. In my case, I just draw further inward. It's not even frustrating so much as it is draining--knowing what's at the core of this heartache but not daring to share it.

Enter the contradictory next step, to perfectionism. If I just get this right, the thinking went, I'll feel okay. I think I'll feel okay, anyway--how would I truly know, though? I'd never  been treated as okay when young and it was beaten in that no, I really wasn't okay, and never will be. Still the hope lingers that if I find the perfect way...it's gotta be here, some place; the world can't be as bad as this. I see others and I notice, even resent, that there seems to be that elusive love ingredient in their lives. But, true to my training, I go on feeling not okay--I don't know any different and it's guaranteed I can't get there, don't deserve it, etc.

I tell myself, another contradiction--that, after all, I don't really need people, at all. Any relationship beyond the surface was always the sure route to more rejection. But there's still this glimmer that wants that; contradiction for sure. I sense something haywire with this push-pull around people. Something--who knows what--inside says you actually do need others. I try and it just seems so difficult outside of my bubble. Retreat sets in--yet more contradiction. Worry takes over--when will I learn to do this right? There are no teachers when you live in the safety of not risking to look (besides not knowing what or where to look).

So the contradictions repeat themselves and grow bigger even as I sink further into discouragement. Then I realize that maybe there isn't a right/wrong to any of this. Maybe I can stop blaming myself for all those times I felt alone and stranded (including right now!). If it's a contradiction, what does my heart tell me?

Elsewhere I felt drawn to write about that--how the heart means more to me than the mind. The latter is sort of a pointer but I don't have to accept its conclusions. Even the heart, though--do I want to assign a status to the heart, that it's always right? How dumb is that--if I let the mind take over the question, but don't surrender to the heart? Contradictory, yet again.

Sometimes I resist feeling good. Like--can love really pertain to me? Surely there's a catch, goes the thinking, and I'll be let down again. But not including the heart means I'm letting my self--the entire package--down. And then I shut down; and the mind seems happy, even though the full "I" doesn't.

A few weeks back I was returning from a therapy session, hoping for a sign that I'm alright, that everything is okay, that I'll still work it out; and then...a magnificent bald eagle appeared. And the message was so clear; the heart resonated, the mind said wait a minute, don't go supernatural on me. Well, mind, you did your best, alright; but these tears tell me the heart knows that eagle's appearance was no contradiction, or happenstance. I may be a skeptic, but this time I left the heart open. And if I keep it open, even the contradictions won't drive me back to the need for the perfect answer.

As of now, the heart knows the what/where/how of what I needed that day, and these times that have followed. It's so funny, and contradictory. It's like the old tale of the ancient gods who were trying to decide where, after creating humanity, to store all the wisdom they knew humans were needing. They also knew that humans were gullible, though; so better not make wisdom too obvious.

One deity figured hey, if we find a star, maybe we could store wisdom there? Another pointed out all the other hiding spots, even on earth but still difficult to find. Until one came up with the idea of putting wisdom deep within each person's heart. They'll never think of finding wisdom there, but it'll mean more if they do.

I was called a dreamer for liking stories like that once (and punished for liking them--they contradicted the GAWD stories I was supposed to believe instead). Well, guess what--I'm still a dreamer, and it's more logical (if contradictory, of course) than not, so it's where I'm at now...leaving the heart's lantern door open, and noticing how the candle inside is finding the courage to keep burning, stronger even (contradictory) than before. Tipped the other way, maybe even those pesky contradictions that have so bothered me will be burned away.

The heart needs its room, and I think I now know where to look for the wisdom I've always sought 'out there'.

Hi Woodsgnome,

I want to share something that is making a big impact on my healing.  I was thinking about the idea of self-nurture of being my own best friend, - sounds like a good idea, but how?  I thought how I'd always been good at being a friend to others, but didn't really know how to be a friend to myself.  So here's what I've found allows me to be loving and kind to myself:

I write, as I've always done, expressing all the parts of myself as honestly as I'm able.  Then, I respond as a best friend to myself. I start off  with something like "My dear friend Radical......"  I address myself by name and imagine the kindest, most helpful, heartfelt, responses I can give, as a loving friend who believes in me.  I reassure, suggest possiblities, encourage, love. So my writing is now a dialogue. Sometimes I just leave messages to my friend, sometimes other writing prevails.

I'm finding this healing, as I said, but know that it certainly won't be helpful for everyone. 

Sending love and warm wishes

Radical, your reflection on what you're doing per pouring on the self-love as a friend to yourself was something I sorely needed to hear; desperately is the better word.

***Unfortunate TRIGGERS next 4 paragraphs***

I had a nightmare tonight; not unusual (when I do sleep at all), but this one was a bit vicious. It's coming on autumn here in the northern hemisphere, a time when schools resume. And hence a very melancholic if not horrific time for me, a time when I need my guard up. So upon waking, I recalled--self-love; self-compassion...go there. There's no school now, no one there to hurt me anymore. Not that the FOO, especially the m, was much better, but school meant added fears.

That fear came early, actually on the first day of kindergarten. It was then that the female teacher hauled me to a bathroom, did things I won't name (didn't have a name for them then, won't honour her actions that way now), then dragged me out  into a hallway and left me there, screaming in terror. People in other rooms had to have heard me; no one came...no one. Little did I know how often that would recur in the future, and in subsequent grades. Welcome to school; yeah, right.

Eventually my f caught on as to why I might resist so strongly the school resumptions each year, and during grade 4 took me, against the school's wishes, to an outside child psychiatrist/therapist (the school--a religious outfit--didn't even have anyone called a counselor).

My visits to that beautiful gentleman were some of the best times ever and where I felt like a human, where I was encouraged and more important--allowed to be me, a beautiful child who just needed love. But after he declared I was 'normal', I was sent back to the school anyway. All the parents wanted was that decree of normalcy. Child protection laws being what they were then (barbaric), i guess my gentleman helper had no say, and I had to leave what had been my only refuge.

***End of TRIGGERS***

Alright, I didn't mean to venture that far into these slimy memories but I use them as preface to the kinds of things that form part of the mind-storms that often torment me this time of year. Tonight was not that different, but I'm awake now, and recalling your words on self-love...I needed them tonight, they felt wonderful, and I intend to cultivate self-loving/compassion to a higher level from now on.

Thanks for that, Radical, as in ten times over thanks...I often lack motivation, but knowing that you've turned a corner this way encourages me to do the same. I've tried, lamely, to incorporate self-nurturing but it seems to not take hold to the extent I want it to; it's like I fear success--I suppose it's the old 'I'm not worth it' feeling yet again.

All I wanted to say; just know that I appreciate your sharing what you've been up to on that score...so happy to know it's helping you; it's deserved, always was, no matter when it finally comes. I hope you can keep going in the direction of being there for you, even when no one else ever truly was. It's allowed, as you point out. Allowed!

                                    :bighug:

                                 

Woodsgnome,
Only too glad that the idea of self-love and compassion found you at the right time.
What is nurtured and loved, thrives.  It is so hard when we weren't given that nurture when we needed them most.  My heart hurt  reading of you screaming in terror and no-one coming.

I can't do emoticons on this machine, but imagine a big hug from me.

Normal. Everyone seems to want that. Sometimes desperately. But what is it? Is it even consistent? And who sets the parameters? And why is it so bad to not be normal--who decided that?

These are questions that have rattled around in my mind's cobwebs for a long time. Everybody's urged to want a normalcy that's totally elusive when I try to break it down. So maybe I'm just coping by saying this? Kind of hoping I'm right but still fearful of not being normal?

I know that what I was told was normal as a kid had no bearing on what was happening around me. Indeed to be normal seemed more frightening than something to emulate. Take love, for instance. While I could discern a general meaning from what was said about it, I didn't feel loved, don't recall seeing it modelled for me, and it just seemed like some empty, or at best vague, value floating around; reserved for some place called heaven that no one had ever seen, only speculated about. I came to decide that for me love wasn't part of my normal, perhaps never would be (althought I hoped for a while).

For many years I was proud not to be considerred normal, given those circumstances. But it's more like I just have a different normalcy. Maybe that's the twist--what's it like if this, that,or the other didn't happen?

I can see the other normal--I still tear up when I see genuine love being expressed; and it still feels foreign, not normal--or not my normal anyway. My tears are a mix of regret and joy, I guess...except the joy is always for the others. Which is alright, but old. I wonder what it would have been like...I probably idealize it all the more, having never experienced it firsthand.

If love even happened to and for me, would I even recognize it? Some have tried, I know that; but couldn't get through to where I felt it, or didn't run from it as if it was a trick. My normal is that good things like love are found over there, not here. Oh, I know, love is supposedly from within, too, but what's it like for another to love me. But when my normal is that it's abnormal for me to receive love, I shut it out as a pipe dream, I guess.

So when i grasp at normal, I still come up empty. This mad journey with cptsd seems to require lots of creative ways to deal with the normal out there, and the normal in here. When that ends, is there a new normal?  I'm beginning to have doubts, so maybe it's time to stop worrying about finding it and just living. Change will happen; I'll just never be normal in the sense I once thought. That leaves me lonely, but still me. And sad--my one consistent normal.

QuoteNormal is just a setting on your dryer. ~Patsy Clairmont

It seems like I'm at war with myself, per usual. Or perhaps it's just the inner critic stopping by for a visit? One of my big projects of late has been dealing with ye olde IC. I even wrote a post somewhere on OOTS referring to befriending the old tart, thanking him/her/it for services rendered, and how it's not necessary for ye olde IC to run my life anymore--I've grown enough to have control now.

Looking around, I see I'm the adult in the room now, and I'm supposed to be here. It's still a tad scary to admit to being an adult and/or in charge, but IC seems relieved to be free. Maybe these doubts of late are just the IC's way of challenging my willingness to live without its presence.

The scenario that's really bothering me, though, is familiar. Having done so much inner work, I still have this hesitation about calling any of it recovery. It's like true recovery would be so new, I'm actually afraid to call it that. And how would I recognize it anyway? I'm sure that as soon as I'd claim something so lofty as recovery or healing, it would be taken from me, wrenched out of my hands. Not worthy of it.

I expect failure--or I convince myself to be ready for it, and con myself into thinking that's clever. I've tried labeling it re-framing, and have to say that's helped to get a different perspective. Still I'm overwhelmed--there's so much and it gets to where I question what or if progress is real, because something else seems to pop up to reinforce the doubts. I suppose that's normal for many. More coping--ye gads I'm tired of coping.

And then I stop and realize--if I'm in new territory, whatever recovery is won't necessarily be obvious, with a big arrow pointing to the 'living happily ever after land'. Here's where the re-framing is handy. Yet it also only reconfirms my suspicion that see, I can't/won't ever make it, and I resent that I have to work so hard to find alternate ways to feel alright about myself. Perhaps I don't even want it--it's too scary. Other 'normal' people don't have to be so hyper-aroused and careful. The perfectionist streak runs close to the surface, and I'm afraid of messing up.

I guess a part of this is knowing that even if the 'happy ever after' card came up, it has to include grief, as I don't sense an end to that. It's not that I'd miss it; but it seems impossible to stop grieving. Tears seem always at the ready, held in reserve. It's not the sort of grief that echoes all the old pain, but wants to clean the system, like a waterfall clearing the river. That's what my tears portend--that ultimate, thundering release.

And here I go, into the language of ambivalence again. I guess the ultimate acceptance might indeed include ambiguity; and never that sure end point, when I pull the curtain back and see recovery first-hand.

Pull the curtain? Did this old actor just say that?

Maybe that's how it really works in my life? So I picture a stage performance. If it's a matter of pulling the curtain back, and I'm onstage too...there's a next act? That symbolism I can relate to, and it makes me feel better. So yes, I can be on the edge of profound grief, stuck in my confusion, and somehow also it was/is a part of whatever the recovery script is, and that it's ending.

And recovery was always there, behind that thin curtain, awaiting the next act, the new performance. Wherever it goes--the ultimate improvised act morphed into reality.

I ended my last journal posting by wondering: "This mad journey with cptsd seems to require lots of creative ways to deal with the normal out there, and the normal in here. When that ends, is there a new normal?"

I think I've just answered myself.  :doh:

i'm smiling right now at your last statement.  i think you have, too.

i love that you found an analogy for all this that you can relate to.   the curtain falls several times during a play depending on how many acts there are.  we get thru one and get ready for the next.  take a little break in between, maybe.  sometimes we're our own director, sometimes we follow direction.  it depends, doesn't it.

we also often go from play to play, changing the dynamic of the part we're playing, the work we're doing.  we have input in order to see which way a scene plays best.  we rehearse in order to feel more comfortable in our role. 

in real life, i think a lot of this works as well.  i play a different role when i'm with my daughter than with my friends than with a lover, etc.  not that i'm being fake, but each role calls for different perspectives, different actions, and different dynamics.

so it is with our role in recovery.  we recover in our own best way, rehearsing at times for what might become a changed part, destroying parts of a script that don't serve the story we are creating anymore, or even missing our mark at times.  all of it is part of recovery, tho, just different facets of it.  i would say that you are definitely in recovery, finding your way thru the director's notes.

i don't know if any of this makes sense, but it was such a wonderful analogy, i just kinda ran with it.  if this is off the mark, wg, just, please, ignore it.  but thanks for letting me wander thru your world for a bit.  warm, loving hug of recovery to you,

Sanmagic7, the only answer for your wondering "if any of this makes sense" is: you are spot-on, and I love it; it's exactly the discovery I ran into as I was writing that last bit. One reason it hits me that way stems from my former life working in improv theatre. Improv is of course scriptless and that's exactly what this recovery play seems like.

In fact, it's becoming clearer to me that there is no road to a single destination called recovery. And we all need to build our own recovery road from scratch. It  can seem endlessly frustrating, but then we lift the next act's curtain, and there it is--recovery in all its raw newness like we never anticipated. It's both scary and promising. I've been down all the scary ones, so I think I know which way I want to travel.

Thanks for your insights, Sanmagic7  :hug:

whew!  i was really nervous that i was just sounding silly.  you make so much sense about a scriptless recovery.  i think that is spot on in itself.  that, in essence, is what makes it so personal, isn't it.  we're getting there, wg.      :applause:

Disclaimer--this runs long but it's a journal, not a give/go sort of posting. I try not to be wordy, but also feel a need to fully express what I have to say that's important to my inner being. In the nature of journals, it's a self-conversation with the understanding that others may be able to relate.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Everybody prays, right? No, I used to insist, covering my ears and cupping my mouth, doing anything to avoid those awful petitions to an angry deity from the hypocrites I knew too well as a youth imprisoned in religous schools. Now though, I've come around to regarding prayer as a wish, not a petition or laundry list of things to the mad dude in the sky.

So here I am, writing about prayer? I mean, some of my worst abuses--sexual, emotional, physical--came at the hands of people calling themselves holy, or best buddies with gawd, or just know-it-all adults who never tamed the spirit I'm finding within me. What's that all about, and how on earth did it survive being attacked by those monstrous adults hiding behind their sacred garb?

But prayer? Wasn't that their deepest disguise? They even prayed before molesting me. I mean, praising a deity to help teach me a 'lesson'; in fact the only lesson I ever came away with was to tremble in fear at the prospect of living another day.

Everything became snagged in fear, starting with the deity but including all the people I call the gawdawfuls, those in my FOO who played the same games--primarily the m, and more; to where I just feared people, period--the saddest being what I did to myself, from fearing that I was  the sinner they told me I was; to hating myself and wanting to end such a miserable life; even trying to disfigure myself to make me less appealing to them ("you're just so cute and cuddly").

A year ago this began to change. It's a mystery still, what the turnaround moment was. Some credit has to go to a wise therapist who pointed out some things I might not have considered by myself. One suggestion was that she saw in me someone who had survived with a strong spiritual essence intact that exceeded that of the abusers. When it was threatened as a child, it went underground, to what can only be called the heart (wordless really, but heart remains the best metaphor).

Before that even, I'd found an online group (OOTS) where other people described that they, too, had somehow survived treatment that makes one lament for humanity. But there they, we, were...on various places in our journeys, often blind with rage about what happened, but behind it all is something that could only be called love, peeking out of a rough landscape; and growing in beauty out of bleakness.

Love--the very word I've always had the hardest time understanding, but expressed openly in the lives of people sharing their struggles while trying to make sense of what can't be made sensible. This is honest love, emerging through rage, grief, and self-hatred. All of which is raw material for these new beings we're striving to become. Raw material ready to be transformed to something better; but we don't know how to bring it out yet.

Alright, so along with all of this I took another look at this spiritual essence my T assures me was my strong suit. Not because of any overt signs, she observed, but more of how I expressed certain attitudes that could only be called spiritual (not the optimal word, but in this realm precise descriptive words are elusive). Minus the doctrinal overlays of religious belief systems, but 'spiritual' nonetheless. No creeds or beliefs to gum up the works, I guess. Leading to my own view that all life is all spiritual, no matter the belief systems people hide in (my abusers loved their disguise as holy ones).

My T even gave me pointers to some materials she'd found helpful to encourage me to see what existed, beyond the lies of that horrid youth spent amongst the gawdawfuls, as I still call those people (at least when I'm being polite  :bigwink: !!!). Working from a base of skepticism, I'm beginning to see what can best be described as an inter-spiritual, mystical view in lieu of the often syrupy categories of spirituality. In other words--I can find good stuff buried in various approaches  blending indigenous Native views, Christian takes, Buddhist and Hindu variants, and Islamic mystic groups such as the Sufis. In the end, there's heartfelt messages in each regardless of the outward belief distortions that are common.

I've discovered (although I always suspected as much) there's more commonality and oneness tying them together than meets the eye (but can't hide from the heart). The mystical sense of union (vs. separation) with the divine characterize these inner approaches. They provide me with a gentler view, in stark contrast to the strident chest-pumping self-righteous sorts selling themselves as the purest or only way to a deity who I'd come to despise, given what religious/holy people did to me in the very name of the being they called god.

Yet here I am, of late even devising prayers, which I've come to understand in a different light than was once the case. I'm starting to unlearn those old shrieks to the mad deity in the sky, and come to regard prayer as just another inner discussion. And one that fits better than those with the inner critic--who I since realize is actually the remnant of the gawdawfuls shouting at me about how bad I was, etc.

I even took a stab at devising a prayer:

UNLOCKING THE HEART

May my heart open
to reconsider the past
only as an old movie...
...as a faded, crackly background to today's script.
May the locks fly off the doors of my heart
making more room for the Mystery to write the new script.

Hey woodsgnome, I love how you're able to find a healthier way of seeing spirituality despite your abuse.

I remember seeing a blog called Ancient Wisdom Project that feautured similar ideas. It had a man who went and researched several religions and philosophies — and to live its beneficial teachings in his everyday life. He didn't need to believe in the supernatural parts of them but some of the advice they allow in life can apply to anyone of any religious upbringing. I found this idea pretty revolutionary and it supported me in healing.

I remember a story of a person who stopped believing in God in a forum I've seen before. When she was young, her parents often prayed whenever an ambulance came by to pray for that person's healing. Even when she stopped believing, she still prayed. Why? Because while she didn't believe it would create any difference to the person or the world, it would create a change in her. To wish more for others and someday being able to change others with that motivation too.

In a way, I guess prayers can be like a wish. A way to thank life. A way to allow hope. A way to emphasize a desire in yourself so you can be more motivated for it.

Hope you enjoy your prayer, w.g.

that's a beautiful prayer, wg.  very heartfelt, very spiritual, very self-less, but in a wondrous way.

(i've also loved some of the sufi stuff.  it made sense to me as a spiritual essence.  same with some of the other practices/beliefs you mentioned.)

i'm very glad for you that you are releasing the 'god' of the gawdawfuls and finding your own.  i have long disagreed with so much of organized religion and people who hide behind it.  i've never discovered greater hypocrisy in all my years.

i think what you are discovering is recovery at some of its best.  sending a warm, loving hug to you.

I was moved to read this.

Finding a path back to that essence; for may of us it must be one we carve out for ourselves. 

Namaste, WG (said in the hope that the word has not been cheapened or degraded by your experience of it)

Today would be the m's birthday, though she died way back when I was a teen.

**TRIGGER** She was a huge enigma for me--my first memory is of being molested by her. Trouble is, that set the pace for the next 9 years; I can't recall a day she didn't visit me in the bathroom and, well, it's way too painful to bother describe anything beyond that awful intro to 'life'.
**END TRIGGER**

I think the endgame was a major flare-up with the f (no piece of cake either) when he figured it out (although my mind is in a huge fog with details of how the years of abuse ended--I don't care anymore, only for the mess it made of my 'formative years'. While the m probably missed her daily joy in humiliating me, she turned from that to major league abandonment. The f did, too, but to a lesser extent than her. When she did die, the funeral was like that for another person--and in point of fact, was more the case than I then realized; I never knew who that person was.

I've tried unsuccessfully to wipe out the memories...one time a T even tried to draw out some positive memory that I held, and I just couldn't find one. Not even a genuine smile--hers were pathetic as they only happened during abusive incidents.

Here's the current deal, the only one that matters. I've tried forgiveness, understanding, crying, raging, and all the other natural reactions; although it took some while to consider it natural; I was the defective one, all was always my fault, you know all that. I've been making peace with myself thanks to being able to (painfully) share how common this is within this forum, for instance. Here there's others who've run this same tortured path, and I never found that sort of community anyplace else.

Today there was a thread by JamesG on OOTS touching on how victims responses are natural and not off par. It hit my m button once more, only this time the lightbulb was--yes, that's it--I suddenly realized I was dealing with a m who herself never grew up...I became the unwitting victim of that heritage. I can see it all over her family as well; an odd and very foreboding crew of people. Comedic if their actions hadn't been so very tragic. There's more to it, but that's the huge tip of a deep and gigantic iceberg.

This hasn't led to my calling this stuff about the m forgiveness, and I'm not convinced that's necessary. I've tried that, too, and mouthing the word doesn't do a thing for me. Actually all I get is kind of a sense of  dissociation--even with myself; I fade badly into that void of nothingness. The only thing that bothers me about this is all the 'professional' self-help squawkers who insist that doing this grand formality called forgiveness would make me feel better. Guaranteed. Their grand pronouncements have only tended to further my sense of failure when I can't reach the holy grail of forgiveness.

I still can't use the word forgiveness in a way to where it's not just a blah statement that doesn't ring true. But maybe I have come to a radically different space from what the 'experts' advise (my own T being an exception to that :)). End game for me now is that I didn't have a m except in title. And now I can walk on, knowing but not understanding, stepping past the hurt but natural reaction to her own abhorrent and unnatural treatment of an innocent child.

Maybe in a way I've forgiven without using the word? Maybe the word just seemed too easy, and why should it be that easy? All I know is I feel better about realizing that the lack of a m doesn't make me unique or a failure.

There is no understanding, and maybe that's my own way of acknowledging forgiveness, but finding it via my own trail. Nothing on the new path undoes the horrors of the old, but it doesn't matter. What does is that I've been able to get this far without fearing that the next step I'll slip back into the rotten mess I once felt trapped in. Some call this progress, but whatever the name it's been a relief to have found it.

I Love this! I, too, have found something that stops short of forgiveness; I called it understanding in another post but that's not accurate and acceptance doesn't ring true, either. I tried briefly to find a synonym that works, but they all have an inference of agreement or compliance, which also won't work for me.

The closest I could come was the word 'discharge', which implies that the offense is recognized but retribution is waived.

I hold my right to recognize the abuse that I suffered was wrong, that I was hurt, that I am angry it happened and don't wish to have any contact with the surviving abuser. But I relinquish my right for retribution. I discharge that person from having to "make it right" for me, releasing them to the judgment of the universe and the consequences of their own karma. I leave them behind me.

Forgiveness is a concept that's strangely controversial in many of our lives. What is it? What does it mean to forgive? Is it worth it?

In one hand, there's this group that heralds forgiveness as something miraculous. Pure. Ideal. Everyone needs to be forgiven, even those who have done wrong, in their eyes. For many of those who don't forgive, some may even look down on those who don't, which is rather hypocritical for them to do.

In another hand, there are people who heralds forgiveness as naive. People who have done wrong have to be punished, hurt or taken revenge on. This tends to cause a cycle of pain and hurt over and over again — not just in physical wars, but in emotional wars with others too.

But maybe what's ideal for us is somewhere in the middle. Remembering, but never forgetting. Not entirely forgiving them for what they've done wrong but never made up for, but at least forgiving yourself.

I think of it as a hole in your heart. The hole will never go away, but rather than tying it up close, it's better for your heart to go bigger, to expand around it, so it doesn't seem to take as much space as it has before.

Take care, w.g.

As pointed to by both ThreeRoses and DecimalRocket, the art of forgiveness isn't so much about a word as it is about inner release. Like letting go of a balloon, perhaps; you hold onto it, then realize it was meant to fly away.

What really bothered me about the 'have to' form of forgiveness was its resemblance to that awful saying: "just get over it"; a phrase both trivializing and dismissive of the work it might entail to untangle the nightmare.

Whatever any individual ends up calling it isn't the point; it's how whatever you do the heart-hole isn't just patched, but restored to flourish and thrive as one travels the new way. It wasn't easy, enduring not just the original abuse but the many facets of remorse for so long after. Then self-compassion provides the key to unlock the door. Whatever one chooses to call it, the fresh air is welcome.

I often wondered about calling this a "new life" journal. As it moves along, I am noticing more fresh air driving away the stagnation of where I was with so much of the old life's patterns. 

Quote from: woodsgnome on December 16, 2017, 03:49:36 PM
I often wondered about calling this a "new life" journal. As it moves along, I am noticing more fresh air driving away the stagnation of where I was with so much of the old life's patterns.

That sounds excellent woodsgnome!  :cheer:

Fatigue. Usual after therapy. This one -- deep and touching. There's lots to analyze, maybe; but why would I want to. I just want to rest, knowing that I've been there for me, and that my T is a sterling example of someone who can be not only highly professional, but coming from a depth of caring.

This is a rough ride; always was. Seems like I've grown, though, especially within the last year. One year ago, the ending of life seemed to appeal more than slogging along. That changed one day when my T suggested something simple but profound that activated my will to continue. I also got better at catching the many lapses into dissociation. I even began to solidly identify feelings I'd stifled for most of my life (which has its up/down side--avoiding feelings made me think I was also avoiding the pain).

Toting up advance and retreat scenarios isn't fully relevant--they're only game markers. The final verdict on what therapy does it seems comes only from the heart's view. Do I seem better able to withstand the deep dives of depression and who knows what else will probably come along? And sometimes 'better' can be a narrow guage anyway.

There's a wholeness factor, and in that sense yes I'm doing much better. And wholeness isn't just about progressing; it can take in and acknowledge the times when all went crashing, falling away to where hope is lost. It goes against the notion of constant progress that includes only the happy smiley sort; but also the tough slogs when my only friend is the desperate loneliness.

I'm trying my best to avoid that territory, but know too well how often words like try and hope and the best is yet to come turn meaningless. All I end up with is empty slogans. The heart knows when it feels nourished, and that's how this therapy is going right now. It doesn't seem wise to analyze (been there, done that, over and over), only to draw into my being and accept its resonance of peace.

I used to think peace was something like a concluding statement--a goal. It's certainly a devout wish, but trying so hard to find it is counter-intuitive. I can just choose to be, without the strain of trying so hard. When I do that, there's lots of peace already to be had, and what's to come will come of its own accord. My part? To be more than to do.

Not in withdrawal from being open to what I can do, but realistic in knowing 1)what I have done already; and 2)I am worthy and deserving with nothing to prove but miles to go before I sleep. Even I can thrive, not just survive. New stuff, lots to take in. In that sense still a beginning step, so I take a beginner's mind with me. It's all about reframing/unlearning and discovering/learning to live a life worth living.

Hugs.

I love your way with words. Some deep thoughts, I'll reread when I'm fully awake. Thank you my friend. A safe  :hug: if you want.

I think I understand what you're learning here.

Peace seemed like a destination. But we're always moving in life, and so peace has to be something moving along with us as well.

I remember a certain metaphor I remember when studying Taoism, a Chinese philosophy. It's like lakes upon lakes from the top of a rugged mountain going downwards and streams of water flowing downwards in smooth waterfalls into the ground. The water doesn't fight gravity. It acts with gravity, and so it moves with a certain effortless peacefulness to it.

It accepts what cannot be moved by obstacles such as boulders or fallen trees and yet it has the courage to continue on when it has a chance to.

your voice here seems different, wg.  stronger, more sure of yourself, more whole.  more comfortable in your skin, maybe. 

for myself, i've decided to let the powers that be worry about forgiveness.  that took a whole bunch of struggle out of me, a lot of battling energy that just wasn't getting me anywhere pos.  i'm dealing with my experiences as best i can so they don't continue to run my life, but i'll leave forgiveness to an energy beyond mine.

so very glad to see you like this, wg.  big hug.

Thanks, friends...

Radical...you've had a huge role in turning my view towards new horizons of healing with your sharings here.

3Roses..Perhaps the "way with words" only represents the lost ramblings of an injured soul struggling to find a way to stanch the wounds still so deeply felt.

Decimal Rocket...thanks for pointing out the lesson that peace isn't static, but moves along with life's tumbles. And somehow it stays in the flow, finding its own way as in the Taoist story you recalled.

Sanmagic7, If I do seem more secure, along with it comes the realization that recovery is never a done deal or that it will look or feel exactly as one thought it would. It's a challenging trip full of obstacles like EF's ready to test one's stamina and will to stay on course when all ahead is still hidden in fog.     

good observation about recovery, wg.  i completely agree with you that the challenges will always be there.  i believe our strength comes from knowing that, as you said, yet still willing to move forward.  challenging the challenges, so to speak.  right on, brother! (fist in the air).  big hug to you.

It's all been pretty wild lately. Kind of a steady slide backwards, vaguely and uncomfortably familiar, cascading into a tunnel of pain. It's like having to go through a dark cave to get to where you want to be, except it's never been a smooth ride and you're frantic but still can't do anything about it. I just hope it doesn't last too long; and that I can get through without waking the spooks again.

The haunting 'voices' returned a few weeks back, and dominated many sleepless nights. Nothing was happening, but it all was happening...again. No one was there, but all the abusers--somehow they were. It was all induced via memory and the mind's tricks, but that didn't  dull the intensity. Contradiction doesn't always apply when the mind's storms rattle all the senses.

Fragile minds easily feel the real/unreal effects of long passed threats. 'Long ago' doesn't cut it when it feels like right now...again. Armed to the hilt with preventive measures, they all fade quickly when the unseen assault hits.

This stuns me. I've worked very hard on deflecting my leftover terrors. All I can say now is...it hasn't ended. It's like a brand steamed into me and its painful impact flares up not just the emotional/mental memory cauldron, and in addition to mental woes come the physical lameness the med professionals call 'inflammation' or 'arthritis'.

Whatever the name, they view it as purely medical, but I see more beyond that surface appearance. Deep in my being this stuff erupts periodically. It hurts in ways no medication can reach, trapping all the senses that are felt with each movement (the body keeps the score). No denial or logic seems able to withstand the onslaught.

Usually a therapy session can help. I'm sure yesterday's probably did, but nothing obvious says that it did, this time. I felt awful the whole time, not trying so much as hoping for some insight to come, or at least some tangible refief. Not this time. My mind splattered in all the usual dissociative patterns and my focus blurred.

I don't know what to make of that. All I know is it feels lonely to be like this. I'm used to and even sought my solitary way of living but this loneliness on top can crush even the noblest intent. Somewhere there's light to be shed on these moments. But actively searching for it? No, experience tells me I'm in a storm, that I've been there before, and while all storms diminish they're fierce and unwelcome travail. Telling myself that it's all temporary doesn't quell the storm, just creates an illusion, because in this moment the storm swirls on at its own pace.

QuoteWhatever the name, they view it as purely medical, but I see more beyond that surface appearance. Deep in my being this stuff erupts periodically. It hurts in ways no medication can reach, trapping all the senses that are felt with each movement (the body keeps the score). No denial or logic seems able to withstand the onslaught.

I relate to this very strongly. We need better treatments! I believe that we can experience healing, but present-day approaches fall way, way too short.

Let's go for a walk in the woods together and see what treasures we can find.  Bring your camera. ☺ You're all invited!

Quote from: woodsgnome on February 24, 2018, 04:28:22 PM

I don't know what to make of that. All I know is it feels lonely to be like this. I'm used to and even sought my solitary way of living but this loneliness on top can crush even the noblest intent. Somewhere there's light to be shed on these moments. But actively searching for it? No, experience tells me I'm in a storm, that I've been there before, and while all storms diminish they're fierce and unwelcome travail. Telling myself that it's all temporary doesn't quell the storm, just creates an illusion, because in this moment the storm swirls on at its own pace.

Hi Woodsgnome,
I know you're feeling lonely to be like this at the moment - but you also spoke of there being light to be shed on these moments, and although you're feeling like you're in a storm right now, I hope you'll feel some protection from the harsh winds and rain with a protective coat, and whatever might help to give you the protection and strength - and I hope that the storm won't swirl too long - and you have some peace and respite from it -  :hug: to you, if that's ok.
Hope  :)

I recently rediscovered something I've experienced before. Sadly, it isn't a cure or even a partial healing from the left-over anxiety that seems to run my life, even on a wonderfully serene day. I'm perfectly alone in nature here; just where I always wanted to be, but still anxious.

Go figure--no, don't...there's no sense to it; the journey is pathless. Enduring this wilderness becomes the ultimate survival skill.

I've had a horrendous few months, predictably tied to the moon cycles (I never used to believe this); but also to the sudden reversal of recovery from a surgical procedure performed last year. The latter resulted in excruciating physical pain, while the former led me emotionally to the brink of ending it all. The details are too grisly to dwell on, an almost expected consequence of suffering from the living remnants of a misdirected youth who never found solid ground.

Navigating the cycles of the moon isn't new, nor is it truly what seems to have flipped my anxiety this time. But something unexpected, and inspiring, experience within the last days, preceding a cathartic followup at yesterday's therapy session--well, something seems to have indeed flipped forward, taking me ever further from the damage towards...???.

All that seems ultimately different is, however...nothing. Using an action term, it involves my falling into a way of rest. At its simplest, this may have started only by reaching bottom emotionally and physically. Unexpectedly, as I thought I was "doing well" in December and crashing since then.

True shift or not, I hope it's the ultimate letting go, if that makes sense. I've lived with this cptsd aftermath so long I've given up true hope of righting the old ship. Instead I need to be designing and building an entirely new sea-worthy craft, with a little cabin reserved for the old horror show. Or something akin to it, as truly ditching all those old pangs doesn't seem possible. It would be nice but alas, I'm also tied up in fear that nice doesn't always exist for me without accompanying suspicion. It's hard when this becomes one's normal, but it did. I may be more aware of it now, but not sure that truly makes a difference when the distrust of niceties started early.

The wonder is more that I have indeed made it this far past those times, which in retrospect bear all the torments of feeling like I was trapped in a cavern full of twisty, creepy walls leading only to dead-ends or worse, switchbacks to previous horrific episodes. At least I've found one route out, and on days like today seem worth the pangs it took to arrive here; despite the mental and bodily aches that always ride along wherever I am.

The only sure road to achieving bliss would involve no more memories. Wrong! A sure way forward. Wrong! As it says in this journal's title--Woodsgnome's New Life. Wrong! Memories will ride along, they just needn't rule my life anymore. But do I truly know this is a good way forward? That seems a cliche, and sure sign that the illusion of perfectionism is yet another remnant of trying to climb back from the early haunts, from those underground caverns. While I used to fear the climb, now it's the falling from having finally seen, though still far above, "Mt. Recovery's" summit.

But I'm still scared. How would I know I'm not in just a false mirage? All I can do is live as best I can. In that sense it's always new life.

i really love the image of building a new ship for yourself, while keeping a small space available for all that went before.  there's more than one way the past has shaped us - we're more than our anxiety, fear, dread, wounds, etc.  we've also shown ourselves to be courageous, determined, intelligent, creative, strong, among other things.   we really are the cream of the crop, and some of that is due to what we've endured and survived.

embracing, in a way, what's been done to us, is an acknowledgment of the wonderfully amazing people we are.  i'm glad you're not just going to toss all that overboard.  what a great idea.   love and hugs, wg.

Thanks, Sanmagic7.

It took some years to realize that no matter how hard I tried to shut the door on the old story, it kept spilling out in unexpected and frightening ways--emotional flashbacks, etc. would remind me each time I thought I was 'in the clear'.

So instead of giving in, I felt it was better to acknowledge that much as I abhor the old story, I can't force all of that stuff to just go away. While guarding against letting the pain, angst, and grief dominate so much of my current life, I can glance at the old, wince a bit at the memory, but remember I'm only here, now--continuing to build the new ship.

:hug:

..... but remember I'm only here, now--continuing to build the new ship



It is courageous to continue to build the new ship.  It's something that is seldom understood, because it's not visible - the hard, brave work of doing that.

When I was a kid, one of the neighbours literally built a ship in his front yard.  I think it took him many years, but it's hard to translate a child's sense of time (and size).  I had a sense of wonder about that ship, because I could see it.  I . The evolving ship was incredible to me.

I think what we here are all doing is more than that because it is so much harder and more complex. There is no blueprint, no way of knowing when or how things will turn out, there is no finishing line, nothing to show ourselves or anyone else, parts vanish and rappear in a different form, suddenly it seems we are back at the start and everything is gone, other times we are in that boat in uncharted waters.  It takes so much faith and yet the principles are the same; one step and then another.  Doing our best and finding it in ourselves to believe that our best is good enough, often in the face of what seems like contrary evidence.  Getting things wrong and not giving up on ourselves.  Carrying on.

We are never projects.  Ship building is us.  It is so personal, yet what life dishes up, goo or bad,  is not personal.

Sorry to go off on my own tangent, WG.  Somehow those words were exactly what I needed today.  I've been stuck.

I'd like to say congrats to finding new insights and strength w.g .  :applause:

You said you envied how I'm willing to ask for things I need w.g, but I envy your willingness to think deeply and reflect on your own. I think deeply too and spend more time in solitude than others,but it seems not at the length you do.

Alone time doesn't mean reflection. It could also mean being distracted by other random activities to occupy my mind with. Hey, you live in a literal cabin in the woods.

I don't think my attention span can live farther from the big city here where wifi connection is the fastest in the country, bookstores are filled with novel books, and the variety of places to go to is vast.  :blink:

So cheers to your wonderful ability to reflect and find peace in utter silence, as well as your unique eloquence in expressing your thoughts.   :bigwink:

Hi Woodsgnome,
I would also like to wish you continued strength to build the new ship -  :hug: to you.
Hope  :)

Words I'd like eliminate from personal use in 2019. Note to inner critic ... so if I do use them, it's not a failure and I'm still alright. I always/already have been anyway -- please accept me the way I am...thanks!

It's likely these words will still pass through the mindscape, but it also feels useful that I quit focusing in on them. By themselves they're not resolutions, but appear more along the lines of the only resolution I want this year: to love myself more. So the words are:

...struggling -- this will probably still seem operative at times; but absorbing it to where it consumes me is something I'd like to diminish. I tend to live in a bubble, but struggling makes it seem more like an endless fogbank, too.

...seeking -- this can be okay, but often it feels like kicking my life further down the road. I'm always/already okay, it's my only life, have escaped some brutal times, and now there's a new horizon, starting now/here, not out there, someday.

...shoulding -- an old one, but it seems to isolate me in place; even constrictive and tight zones hard to work free from.

...ultra-analyzing (especially the past) -- like the others, this is easier said than done. If not aware of my tendency to want to endlessly figure it all out, I'll end up with the same I've always found -- mystery and horror, but no intrigue, only destruction. Mystery is actually fine, it's when it leads to endless rounds of what-if scenarios that gets me stuck in an endless loop, like being lost in a maze. A subcategory here would be the tendency to take it all too seriously. It actually is, but playing with options can lighten things, too. I don't think there's any true potential to flip the mind's script from tragedy to tragicomedy, but I can continue learning to get my own character out of the tragic parts (inner child rescue).

Uh-oh; I just came close to over-analyzing my own critique. Ah, but I noticed; 'tis a good sign, that one; and I wasn't even looking for one.

One word that seems potentially useful is imagination. Without it the walls do close in. My only problem with imagination is direction -- when I can only visualize being trapped inside instead of finding cracks in the wall by which to find the daylight. And beyond, imagining that I'll be okay, because I'm safe now. 

There's no doubt many other words that will come to mind, but these seem okay for starters. After all, the only intent is to lighten the load, play with options, and be radical, or at least different, as I continue the trek out of the pit. Which reminds me of one last word combo --

...disappointment/discouragement. Now that would truly be remarkable, but it cutting those out of my usual vocabulary seems reasonable. I mean, I've lived my whole life with those words at the forefront, often like a prophecy heralding my distrust of all.

Onward. For the moment, loading up on courage (what happens when I take the 'dis' out of discouragement. After that, more of the same; it's all I have, always/already.

that's a great list of words/ concepts/ mind-states, Woodsgnome
I can recognise their relevance to me, also
a challenge, but of the best kind
:)

Thanks, sj. Something your encouragement reminds me of is another word that I hope to tap into more often -- perseverance. It'll be handy for all those times I suspect I'll run into where the challenges threaten to overtake my heart's desire for peace. 

Woodsgnome-

Ah, perseverance.  That may be the key element in remaining stable in 2019.