Recent posts
#1
Recovery Journals / Re: The ramblings of an abused...
Last post by GoSlash27 - Today at 05:05:40 AMLast area is the "interview room". That's where they brought me to meet my new foster parents. It was like the yard, but darker and tiny. Same chairs, different table.
They pulled me out of the yard and changed my clothes, brought me to this room.
The interaction itself is a whole story, but the upshot is when you go to a shelter and visit the dogs, I know exactly how the dogs feel.
I think that's it. I'll recount more details if I remember any.
They pulled me out of the yard and changed my clothes, brought me to this room.
The interaction itself is a whole story, but the upshot is when you go to a shelter and visit the dogs, I know exactly how the dogs feel.
I think that's it. I'll recount more details if I remember any.
#2
General Discussion / Taking part in a research
Last post by Teddy bear - Today at 04:52:19 AMHi everyone 
Just decided to share that I am taking part in a psychiatric research as a participant now.
I am so excited, and that so interesting!
Couldn't keep quiet ☺️
Looking forward to the results which they are happy to share.
While we still have some work to do together
A very life-asserting and stimulating experience
Just decided to share that I am taking part in a psychiatric research as a participant now.
I am so excited, and that so interesting!
Couldn't keep quiet ☺️
Looking forward to the results which they are happy to share.
While we still have some work to do together
A very life-asserting and stimulating experience
#3
Symptoms - Other / Re: Complex Relational Trauma,...
Last post by Teddy bear - Today at 04:43:26 AMQuote from: Armee on February 13, 2026, 08:35:48 PMYeah that's true Teddy Bear. I do wonder what causes one person to head toward a CPTSD presentation, one toward personality disorder, one toward schizophrenia, and one toward psychopathy.
Exactly, and some comorbidities are also possible, which makes it even more complex...
Probably genetics, epigenetics, environmental factors etc
And also misdiagnoses...
As for me most of that labels are kind of outdated: imho most of the conditions are connected with trauma.
#4
Recovery Journals / Re: The ramblings of an abused...
Last post by GoSlash27 - Today at 04:32:45 AM There were only two other scenes I can recount from my time there. They may have been separate buildings or subdivisions of the others.
The "induction area". I think I've already recounted this area. I'll check and come back.
*Oops*, I guess not.
My baby sister (age 2) went first in the back of a white sedan driven by some lady in a black dress with a briefcase. I assume she was a caseworker. My brother (age 4) instructed me to do as the adults said and everything would be okay. I (age almost exactly 3) went next in the back of a police paddywagon , screaming and crying all the way.
When I arrived, they put me in a bassinet in a large dark room full of bassinets, but I was the only kid there. Same layout as the "yard", but with the same security area I described with the dorms. The bassinet was too small for me and I was in full freakout mode. The only light was from the security area and the security lady cocked back her fist and threatened to punch me in the face if I didn't shut up.
I think this event is linked to the song "Jet".
The "induction area". I think I've already recounted this area. I'll check and come back.
*Oops*, I guess not.
My baby sister (age 2) went first in the back of a white sedan driven by some lady in a black dress with a briefcase. I assume she was a caseworker. My brother (age 4) instructed me to do as the adults said and everything would be okay. I (age almost exactly 3) went next in the back of a police paddywagon , screaming and crying all the way.
When I arrived, they put me in a bassinet in a large dark room full of bassinets, but I was the only kid there. Same layout as the "yard", but with the same security area I described with the dorms. The bassinet was too small for me and I was in full freakout mode. The only light was from the security area and the security lady cocked back her fist and threatened to punch me in the face if I didn't shut up.
I think this event is linked to the song "Jet".
#5
Recovery Journals / Re: The ramblings of an abused...
Last post by GoSlash27 - Today at 04:25:18 AMMcEntyre Shelter main building, ca 1974.
I don't know what word to use to describe this facility. It was like a gymnasium, but much larger. The shelter was functionally a "kid prison", so the best word to describe it would be "yard". Except it was indoors. We were never allowed to be outdoors.
We spent most of our time in this area. It was subdivided by tan tweed accordion fold dividers. Large institutional "prison" space. laquered salmon colored cinderblock walls, large inset windows reinforced and barred, too high to see out of.
Each sub- room held kids of the same age, carefully segregated from siblings. They served as nurseries/ preschools/ schools appropriate to age.
The rooms contained long white tables. Almost like party tables but bigger. And instead of typical school benches, they had separate pastel fiberglass chairs.
Everything was done at those tables, including meals.
There were toys, coloring books, a mobile blackboard, Little Golden Books, etc.
Contact between siblings was strictly forbidden, but just as I could defeat the latch on my crib, my brother found a way to work around the restriction. He checked on me and showed me where my sister was kept. Sometimes when the partitions were half open I could spot her.
Eventually both were gone and it was just me.
I don't know what word to use to describe this facility. It was like a gymnasium, but much larger. The shelter was functionally a "kid prison", so the best word to describe it would be "yard". Except it was indoors. We were never allowed to be outdoors.
We spent most of our time in this area. It was subdivided by tan tweed accordion fold dividers. Large institutional "prison" space. laquered salmon colored cinderblock walls, large inset windows reinforced and barred, too high to see out of.
Each sub- room held kids of the same age, carefully segregated from siblings. They served as nurseries/ preschools/ schools appropriate to age.
The rooms contained long white tables. Almost like party tables but bigger. And instead of typical school benches, they had separate pastel fiberglass chairs.
Everything was done at those tables, including meals.
There were toys, coloring books, a mobile blackboard, Little Golden Books, etc.
Contact between siblings was strictly forbidden, but just as I could defeat the latch on my crib, my brother found a way to work around the restriction. He checked on me and showed me where my sister was kept. Sometimes when the partitions were half open I could spot her.
Eventually both were gone and it was just me.
#6
Recovery Journals / Re: Living As All of Me
Last post by HannahOne - Today at 03:59:04 AMMade both kids a Valentine bag, even though one's 18 and off to her boyfriend's for the weekend. Want them to have love no matter what. Felt flat all day and did nothing else. Laid in bed and looked at the wall. Didn't put on clothes. All the clothes look like someone else's closet. Maybe some emotional flashback, maybe some depersonalization going on. Can't imagine ever wanting clothes, putting on any of those clothes, whose clothes are those. Stuff on the floor looks foreign, who ever wanted a suitcase full of wool and sporks? Zero interest in painting. Responded to zero texts, screen a column of green circles. Hand looks far away, why is arm so long? To do list is undone. Who wanted to make appointments, resolve X issue with IEP team, and send a thank you note? Whatever. No appetite. Partner brought dinner home for kids. Half-heartedly pet Frank, who ever wanted a rabbit? Asked kid to feed and water said Frank, went back to bed. Writing to keep faith with process. Tomorrow another day. Sometimes it's like this. Sometimes this is what it's like. Made both kids a Valentine's bag. Wanted them to know they are loved.
#7
Recovery Journals / Re: The ramblings of an abused...
Last post by GoSlash27 - Today at 03:54:41 AMThe dormitory bays at McEntyre Shelter ca. 1974:
Narrow rooms containing 8 cribs each. Cribs abutted the walls. Stainless steel crib bars and sky- blue walls. Nylon waterproof mattresses. Reinforced window with bars at one end of the room, steel door with small reinforced glass window at the other.
I did not know how to unlock the bars when I arrived, but another toddler showed me how. A small rotating lever at the bottom near my feet. I could just barely reach it and lower the bars without making noise.
The door opened into a dorm "common area".
After bedtime, we would hide behind the door and observe the adults in the common area. The motif was very 1960s. Faux cut stone hallway, shag carpet, sixties style couches and TV.
The hallway ran left and right by our door. To the left were more bays on the left hand side and the bathroom on the right. To the right was at least one more bay on the right and a security station on the left.
The security station was sort of an alcove. Brightly lit with a counter that faced the common area.
The grownups knew we weren't in our cribs and watching them, but they'd mostly let us do that so long as we didn't annoy them. But occasionally we *did* annoy them and that's when they shut the doors.
I didn't mind the crib because I knew how to get out of it. I very much *did* mind the closed door because I couldn't open it.
It was very dark in the bays with the door closed. Lonely, isolated, trapped. There were other toddlers there, but none of them were my family and my parents were gone.
Sometimes I would cry myself to sleep or hear another little boy doing that and I could hear the toot of a switching locomotive in the nearby railyard in the night. It was such an incredibly lonely feeling!
I've only recently pieced together the memories of the dorm area/ experiences. I've realized that the "toot" in the middle of the night is a trigger for me. I instantly bolt awake, flooded with adrenaline.
I remember that there was a bathroom and its location, but no memory of the interior. I don't remember how we bathed, dressed, or did any of that stuff. I don't remember what clothes we wore.
Narrow rooms containing 8 cribs each. Cribs abutted the walls. Stainless steel crib bars and sky- blue walls. Nylon waterproof mattresses. Reinforced window with bars at one end of the room, steel door with small reinforced glass window at the other.
I did not know how to unlock the bars when I arrived, but another toddler showed me how. A small rotating lever at the bottom near my feet. I could just barely reach it and lower the bars without making noise.
The door opened into a dorm "common area".
After bedtime, we would hide behind the door and observe the adults in the common area. The motif was very 1960s. Faux cut stone hallway, shag carpet, sixties style couches and TV.
The hallway ran left and right by our door. To the left were more bays on the left hand side and the bathroom on the right. To the right was at least one more bay on the right and a security station on the left.
The security station was sort of an alcove. Brightly lit with a counter that faced the common area.
The grownups knew we weren't in our cribs and watching them, but they'd mostly let us do that so long as we didn't annoy them. But occasionally we *did* annoy them and that's when they shut the doors.
I didn't mind the crib because I knew how to get out of it. I very much *did* mind the closed door because I couldn't open it.
It was very dark in the bays with the door closed. Lonely, isolated, trapped. There were other toddlers there, but none of them were my family and my parents were gone.
Sometimes I would cry myself to sleep or hear another little boy doing that and I could hear the toot of a switching locomotive in the nearby railyard in the night. It was such an incredibly lonely feeling!
I've only recently pieced together the memories of the dorm area/ experiences. I've realized that the "toot" in the middle of the night is a trigger for me. I instantly bolt awake, flooded with adrenaline.
I remember that there was a bathroom and its location, but no memory of the interior. I don't remember how we bathed, dressed, or did any of that stuff. I don't remember what clothes we wore.
#8
Recovery Journals / Re: the next step
Last post by HannahOne - Today at 03:48:39 AMIt's ok to push back if something I say isn't helpful. I have no way of knowing what anyone "should" do and yes, sometimes even encouragement can feel like pressure, a demand, or a criticism. Sometimes people caring for us can feel like too much, or like control, or just not validating. I'm glad you spoke up and said what you think is true, that you know where your boundaries are and right now you think you're doing what's within your means to do. It really is up to only you how you live your life! Only you know what makes sense to do in the moment. I know I've extended myself for my kids in ways other people criticize sometimes. Sometimes that's part of being a parent, I get that aspect of it for sure.
Hooray for speaking up and saying what you feel!
Hooray for speaking up and saying what you feel!
#9
Letters of Recovery / Re: to the ones that raised me...
Last post by asdis - Today at 01:34:02 AMD-
I can't escape what's all over the news and the internet. Going offline leaves me genuinely, 100% alone for 10-12 hours a day. Unfortunately, staying online means I am still mostly alone and left to process things on my own. And in trying to navigate finding a middle ground where I'm not inundated with retraumatizing materials but also not 100% alone, I've had some new questions pop up.
I know that you were sexually abusing me. I know that your D did too. I know that the neighbors were.
I know that you, bare minimum, allowed me to be trafficked. I know that both you and M had to work hard to keep it under wraps. Your image was (is) everything. This is where most of my questions are.
What happened to my g-d father? It feels weird to call him that now, but I've always wondered why he disappeared and all contact was ceased. I don't remember how old I was, but I know I was 7 or younger. He was your best friend. I think I still have the shelf he made for me that you never hung. But he was such a big part of our lives before he disappeared. You refused to talk about it, about him in general.
I know you had a lot of hobby friend groups while I was growing up. I know there were lots of people with secrets and that those secrets were regarded more as "jokes" when certain company (usually M) wasn't present. I remember your CIA friend. I remember your "secret society" friends. I remember your secret phones and never ending cash. I remember how you'd switch up between having all these hobby friends and having "no friends". I want to know what really happened. I want to know why you had those friends. Why did I always know about your CIA friend? Why did you have so many "secret society" friends? Why was I "part of it" until suddenly I wasn't? Were the cop friends yours? Or M's? Were they the neighbors friends?
You were the one pushing me into sports. I did dance for what, two, three years? I did t-ball. I did gymnastics. Was money really the reason I was pulled? We never seemed to be hurting for money, but we were always "too poor" for anything you didn't deem immediately necessary or a good investment. Or when you'd give us apology gifts.
This all ties back in to the abuse I experienced in religious spaces and school as well. Because the common theme amongst all of them is you pushing me into these spaces, vocally praising and building them up, only to turn around and vocally hate and distrust them.
I want to know why. I want to know why my brain can't separate these things now that I can know them all at the same time. And I want to know why it all stopped. What happened? How did I get out?
I've been trying my whole life to understand your constant 180s, contradictions, and hypocrisy. To understand how you could go so smoothly between extreme invasions of privacy and a refusal to acknowledge my existence. To understand why nothing I do or don't do matters, why you can only see me through a lens I can't access. I have so many questions for you, if you could just be honest with me. If you could just stop being so reactive and defensive.
I don't want any of you in my life anymore. But if things were different, if I could talk to you, really, actually talk to you openly and honestly, maybe it'd be different. I know it sounds crazy. Even if that was the only change, even if being able to talk to you that way confirmed everything, even if it meant knowing worse things than I know now. Being able to talk to you that way is a luxury I've never had. It was always the rest of the family against me unless I was the one keeping us together. My honesty regarded as lies and exaggerations, my feelings regarded as threats or impositions. Is it really too much for me to ask for the truth?
Don't you see this is killing me? Not knowing, not being able to ask. I can't remember a time where my trust in you wasn't rooted in a fear of something worse than you. Do you even know how many times you've admitted the physical abuse to me? That you still swear never happened?
When I'm forced to process my flashbacks, my childhood, I can't separate you or M from what happened. Because what happened to me was done by your hand, ignored by your eyes, covered by your words and lies. I know I'm not lying. My body remembers more than my brain and I refuse to shut it out again. It always comes back to you two. You "didn't know" so you punished me for nothing? You "weren't aware" so you called me a liar for bringing it up? You "never did anything" but only respect my physical boundaries in the presence of my husband? You'll "do anything" for me, so long as it suits your story.
I just wish you were capable of seeing me. Really, truly seeing me. Maybe then you'd answer all these questions.
I can't escape what's all over the news and the internet. Going offline leaves me genuinely, 100% alone for 10-12 hours a day. Unfortunately, staying online means I am still mostly alone and left to process things on my own. And in trying to navigate finding a middle ground where I'm not inundated with retraumatizing materials but also not 100% alone, I've had some new questions pop up.
I know that you were sexually abusing me. I know that your D did too. I know that the neighbors were.
I know that you, bare minimum, allowed me to be trafficked. I know that both you and M had to work hard to keep it under wraps. Your image was (is) everything. This is where most of my questions are.
What happened to my g-d father? It feels weird to call him that now, but I've always wondered why he disappeared and all contact was ceased. I don't remember how old I was, but I know I was 7 or younger. He was your best friend. I think I still have the shelf he made for me that you never hung. But he was such a big part of our lives before he disappeared. You refused to talk about it, about him in general.
I know you had a lot of hobby friend groups while I was growing up. I know there were lots of people with secrets and that those secrets were regarded more as "jokes" when certain company (usually M) wasn't present. I remember your CIA friend. I remember your "secret society" friends. I remember your secret phones and never ending cash. I remember how you'd switch up between having all these hobby friends and having "no friends". I want to know what really happened. I want to know why you had those friends. Why did I always know about your CIA friend? Why did you have so many "secret society" friends? Why was I "part of it" until suddenly I wasn't? Were the cop friends yours? Or M's? Were they the neighbors friends?
You were the one pushing me into sports. I did dance for what, two, three years? I did t-ball. I did gymnastics. Was money really the reason I was pulled? We never seemed to be hurting for money, but we were always "too poor" for anything you didn't deem immediately necessary or a good investment. Or when you'd give us apology gifts.
This all ties back in to the abuse I experienced in religious spaces and school as well. Because the common theme amongst all of them is you pushing me into these spaces, vocally praising and building them up, only to turn around and vocally hate and distrust them.
I want to know why. I want to know why my brain can't separate these things now that I can know them all at the same time. And I want to know why it all stopped. What happened? How did I get out?
I've been trying my whole life to understand your constant 180s, contradictions, and hypocrisy. To understand how you could go so smoothly between extreme invasions of privacy and a refusal to acknowledge my existence. To understand why nothing I do or don't do matters, why you can only see me through a lens I can't access. I have so many questions for you, if you could just be honest with me. If you could just stop being so reactive and defensive.
I don't want any of you in my life anymore. But if things were different, if I could talk to you, really, actually talk to you openly and honestly, maybe it'd be different. I know it sounds crazy. Even if that was the only change, even if being able to talk to you that way confirmed everything, even if it meant knowing worse things than I know now. Being able to talk to you that way is a luxury I've never had. It was always the rest of the family against me unless I was the one keeping us together. My honesty regarded as lies and exaggerations, my feelings regarded as threats or impositions. Is it really too much for me to ask for the truth?
Don't you see this is killing me? Not knowing, not being able to ask. I can't remember a time where my trust in you wasn't rooted in a fear of something worse than you. Do you even know how many times you've admitted the physical abuse to me? That you still swear never happened?
When I'm forced to process my flashbacks, my childhood, I can't separate you or M from what happened. Because what happened to me was done by your hand, ignored by your eyes, covered by your words and lies. I know I'm not lying. My body remembers more than my brain and I refuse to shut it out again. It always comes back to you two. You "didn't know" so you punished me for nothing? You "weren't aware" so you called me a liar for bringing it up? You "never did anything" but only respect my physical boundaries in the presence of my husband? You'll "do anything" for me, so long as it suits your story.
I just wish you were capable of seeing me. Really, truly seeing me. Maybe then you'd answer all these questions.
#10
Please Introduce Yourself Here / Re: My Story
Last post by TheBigBlue - Today at 01:25:57 AMWelcome Dandelion 
Reading this felt uncomfortably familiar to me. High-functioning on the outside, while growing up as the scapegoat of a narcissistic father and a mother who leaned on me as her regulating container (parentification/horizontal enmeshment). Like you, it was much easier for me to recognize the overt abuse - the neglect and parentification took far longer to really see, even though it likely had more impact.
I minimized a lot of it to survive. From the outside, my life looked successful and intact; inside, there was no internal safety, no solid sense of self, and a lot of shame I assumed was my fault.
Coming to consciousness about this in the late 50s (for me that was less than a year ago) is disorienting - grieving what didn't happen while realizing how much was carried alone for decades.
Wanting to be around people who get this - without having to explain or justify it - makes complete sense. I'm glad you found your way here, and I hope this space helps you live more fully.
Reading this felt uncomfortably familiar to me. High-functioning on the outside, while growing up as the scapegoat of a narcissistic father and a mother who leaned on me as her regulating container (parentification/horizontal enmeshment). Like you, it was much easier for me to recognize the overt abuse - the neglect and parentification took far longer to really see, even though it likely had more impact.
I minimized a lot of it to survive. From the outside, my life looked successful and intact; inside, there was no internal safety, no solid sense of self, and a lot of shame I assumed was my fault.
Coming to consciousness about this in the late 50s (for me that was less than a year ago) is disorienting - grieving what didn't happen while realizing how much was carried alone for decades.
Wanting to be around people who get this - without having to explain or justify it - makes complete sense. I'm glad you found your way here, and I hope this space helps you live more fully.