Recent posts
#1
Recovery Journals / Re: Starting my journal
Last post by TheBigBlue - March 14, 2026, 11:36:59 PMQuote from: holidayay on March 14, 2026, 04:07:00 PM... I wonder, for those of us who have come out the other end - what does that look and feel like?I hear you, and I don't know the answer (yet). But below I'm quoting a response I received from Kizzie earlier this year that I found very comforting.
Quote from: Kizzie on January 03, 2026, 04:56:41 PMI'm so sorry to hear this BB. Just my thoughts here but the fact that you know you have borrowed regulation to me sounds like you know what is the problem and by facing it and the pain and fear you are on the road out the other side.Talking with people here on the forum who are, or were, in a similar place - people who understand without many explanations - makes a huge difference for me.
I say from experience that some of my most painful moments came from seeing clearly what I had lost in my life, what I could not depend upon, and what I had to do to carry on. Looking at that led to looking at myself clearly, with compassion and shushing the negative voices. Slowly I came to realize I could depend on myself. Fear and pain became a feeling of freedom and trust in myself, however wobbly at first.
I hope this is helpful
Thank you. 💛
#2
Recovery Journals / Re: Living As All of Me
Last post by HannahOne - March 14, 2026, 11:25:11 PMTalking with some friends today about food got me thinking. I have mini potatoes and broccoli in the air fryer right now and I just mixed up a Greek yogurt sauce with lemon juice, garlic and salt. I'll swirl the yogurt sauce on the plate and put the vegetables on top. Yum.
I can make what I want. I can buy what I need. I can have my yum.
Growing up there wasn't enough food. A few red delicious apples in the fridge, a head of iceberg. A bag of white bread. I'd eat the bread one raw slice at a time, rolled up into a ball so it had more bite to it. Eat the head of lettuce for dinner watching Popeye. It didn't make me strong. Eat the apple, hoping another would magically appear before I got hungry again.
After my sibling was born when I was almost 7, there was more food. More often a PBJ or a bowl of cheerios with milk poured for me. And more to forage from as needed. The occasional chicken and rice left me sitting at the table in the dark till 9 pm, refusing to eat it. I don't know why. Once I sat there till midnight.
Sometimes I still ate the dog biscuits for old time's sake.
By the time I was twelve the fridge was generally full and more meals. I didn't like the meals. After growing up on raw cereal and apples, a big bowl of chili was revolting. I started making my own meals from what we had. Or didn't eat.
In college appeared the miracle of the cafeteria. You could push your tray down a line and rows and rows of steaming hot food, take as much as you want, only what you want. I lived abroad for a year in England and France. The figs! The goat cheese! The Indian curry! The BREAD! Picking rosemary off the mountain side right before a goat went to grab it, and putting the leaves of it in my tomato sauce. That was the life.
I got married a month after graduating. I walked to the grocery every day. My poor partner was subjected to a variety of awful dishes but ate without complaint. I learned over time. When the kids came along it was breastmilk, then homemade sweet potato puree, organic everything. As they grew, chicken pot pies, homemade chicken noodle soup, and their favorite, tacos. We followed Ellen Satter, division of responsibility. I chose where they ate and when, at the table at meal and snack times. They chose what to eat and how much. Always deconstructed meals, with the chicken pot pie always bread, salad, always a "safe" food." No one left hungry. No one sat there for hours alone in the dark. I ate what they liked. Tacos, ok fine.
A few years ago a friend hosted me for lunch on a regular basis. I loved the food and started making it myself. She ate Mediterranean style, for health, but it was so delicious. Lentil soups, goat cheese salads, salmon and potatoes, steamed green beans with garlic. Hence this yogurt and vegetable meal I'm having now. Very South of France. Thank you, kind friend, for feeding me so many lunches. I guess part of me was still a hungry kid.
All grown up now, my kids male their own meals. Today I entered the kitchen to find the oldest singing opera and frying up a steak. The youngest was fake crying loudly, apparently to make the dog feel guilty. I had to check it wasn't real crying. Nope. No crying here. That one opened the fridge and started pulling out vegetables. I had plans for those vegetables... I kept quiet. Half an hour later she presented a stir fry. Yum.
I can make what I want. I can buy what I need. I can have my yum.
Growing up there wasn't enough food. A few red delicious apples in the fridge, a head of iceberg. A bag of white bread. I'd eat the bread one raw slice at a time, rolled up into a ball so it had more bite to it. Eat the head of lettuce for dinner watching Popeye. It didn't make me strong. Eat the apple, hoping another would magically appear before I got hungry again.
After my sibling was born when I was almost 7, there was more food. More often a PBJ or a bowl of cheerios with milk poured for me. And more to forage from as needed. The occasional chicken and rice left me sitting at the table in the dark till 9 pm, refusing to eat it. I don't know why. Once I sat there till midnight.
Sometimes I still ate the dog biscuits for old time's sake.
By the time I was twelve the fridge was generally full and more meals. I didn't like the meals. After growing up on raw cereal and apples, a big bowl of chili was revolting. I started making my own meals from what we had. Or didn't eat.
In college appeared the miracle of the cafeteria. You could push your tray down a line and rows and rows of steaming hot food, take as much as you want, only what you want. I lived abroad for a year in England and France. The figs! The goat cheese! The Indian curry! The BREAD! Picking rosemary off the mountain side right before a goat went to grab it, and putting the leaves of it in my tomato sauce. That was the life.
I got married a month after graduating. I walked to the grocery every day. My poor partner was subjected to a variety of awful dishes but ate without complaint. I learned over time. When the kids came along it was breastmilk, then homemade sweet potato puree, organic everything. As they grew, chicken pot pies, homemade chicken noodle soup, and their favorite, tacos. We followed Ellen Satter, division of responsibility. I chose where they ate and when, at the table at meal and snack times. They chose what to eat and how much. Always deconstructed meals, with the chicken pot pie always bread, salad, always a "safe" food." No one left hungry. No one sat there for hours alone in the dark. I ate what they liked. Tacos, ok fine.
A few years ago a friend hosted me for lunch on a regular basis. I loved the food and started making it myself. She ate Mediterranean style, for health, but it was so delicious. Lentil soups, goat cheese salads, salmon and potatoes, steamed green beans with garlic. Hence this yogurt and vegetable meal I'm having now. Very South of France. Thank you, kind friend, for feeding me so many lunches. I guess part of me was still a hungry kid.
All grown up now, my kids male their own meals. Today I entered the kitchen to find the oldest singing opera and frying up a steak. The youngest was fake crying loudly, apparently to make the dog feel guilty. I had to check it wasn't real crying. Nope. No crying here. That one opened the fridge and started pulling out vegetables. I had plans for those vegetables... I kept quiet. Half an hour later she presented a stir fry. Yum.
#3
Emotional Abuse / Re: Death by a Thousand Cuts
Last post by Blueberry - March 14, 2026, 08:01:00 PMQuote from: HannahOne on March 09, 2026, 02:23:28 AMHi Mia, late to the thread here, wanted to add that many of us what caused CPTSD was more a traumatic _environment_ than specific events. If it's one event, there's no discrete beginning and ending to the danger, we never get away from the people who did it, we live with them, so we don't recover from the trauma. Or it's hundreds and thousands of events, so again the trauma doesn't end. Either way, our nervous system stays on alert.
Quote from: MiaBailey on March 12, 2026, 06:28:17 PMInteresting that you all experienced similar mental life rafts in noticing the decency and kind acts of others. Yes, it was something simple -- that man probably never gave it a second thought and had no idea that that act of kindness would be an example of goodness for a neglected little girl. It was a gift.
I really like the way you expressed this here and that you point out the simplicity of these actions. I bet the Greyhound bus driver never gave it a second thought in my case either and would especially never have imagined that I'd remember it decades later.
I love that it was a gift for you
#5
Emotional Abuse / Re: Death by a Thousand Cuts
Last post by Whobuddy - March 14, 2026, 06:15:54 PMQuote from: MiaBailey on March 07, 2026, 05:22:58 PMI attempted to share that first memory with a therapist and she insisted that early memories such as this usually were from trauma. She didn't like that fact that I disagreed with her. I said that actually, I had been so neglected that witnessing someone acknowledge that I existed, acknowledge that there was something that I may want or need that could bring a smile to my face, was wonderful -- I absolutely cherish that memory.
I do hope you have found a better therapist since this happened. Or at least, stopped going to that one. I, too, have a few very early memories of people being nice to me. People who were not my FOO. I find myself still being astonished when people acknowledge and listen to me - especially in group settings.
#6
Recovery Journals / Re: Starting my journal
Last post by holidayay - March 14, 2026, 04:07:00 PMQuote from: TheBigBlue on February 24, 2026, 10:28:41 PMThis resonates deeply with me. That in-between place where old ways of finding safety no longer work, but nothing new has taken their place yet. The loss of enclosure, the absence of joy or silliness, and the way exhaustion opens the door to old pain all feel very familiar. There's such a deep loneliness in realizing you're exposed without shelter, still carrying hurt that hasn't eased, and not knowing yet how to care for yourself in this new terrain. I'm really glad you wrote this - it helped me feel less alone in that space. 💛
You have phrased this so eloquently, so beautifully. This is exactly it - and I wonder, for those of us who have come out the other end - what does that look and feel like? Is it inner peace and more joining of the 'self'? That's how I imagine it may be. The same life, experienced differently. Because that's all it is at the end of it all, how we individually experience life is really down to how the inner digests with and interacts with the outer. Two people, vastly different on the inside, can experience the same life completely differently.
#7
Recovery Journals / Re: Living As All of Me
Last post by HannahOne - March 14, 2026, 03:15:41 PMThe Pilates class was AMAZING and I am going back on Monday!
There was a male teacher and two men in the class. The teacher was humble and made jokes throughout. He stayed on his mat and corrected verbally when needed. The room was beautiful and light. Everyone was kind. A woman handed me a ring when I needed one.
Afterward I felt so alive. Not exhausted and sore like after weightlifting or elliptical. Just alive. I have been reading a bit about Joseph Pilates and his method is very interesting. It's about opposites, balance, vitality, mind-body connection. I was a bit dubious about Pilates as in the last I associated it with my time in LA and the "keep it tight" ladies. But it's nothing to do with appearance actually. It's about presence and a way of being alive, like an animal. Joe even talks about animals and "pandiculation" which is somewhat akin to Peter Levine's animal post-trauma tremors. I'm here for it.
New obsession unlocked. Dopamine and happiness ensues.
There was a male teacher and two men in the class. The teacher was humble and made jokes throughout. He stayed on his mat and corrected verbally when needed. The room was beautiful and light. Everyone was kind. A woman handed me a ring when I needed one.
Afterward I felt so alive. Not exhausted and sore like after weightlifting or elliptical. Just alive. I have been reading a bit about Joseph Pilates and his method is very interesting. It's about opposites, balance, vitality, mind-body connection. I was a bit dubious about Pilates as in the last I associated it with my time in LA and the "keep it tight" ladies. But it's nothing to do with appearance actually. It's about presence and a way of being alive, like an animal. Joe even talks about animals and "pandiculation" which is somewhat akin to Peter Levine's animal post-trauma tremors. I'm here for it.
New obsession unlocked. Dopamine and happiness ensues.
#8
Art / Re: And some watercolours
Last post by Hope67 - March 14, 2026, 02:29:07 PMHi Teddybear,
I love your watercolour paintings, they are lovely. Thank you for sharing them.
I love your watercolour paintings, they are lovely. Thank you for sharing them.
#9
Letters of Recovery / To my niece
Last post by GoSlash27 - March 14, 2026, 01:30:40 PM K,
I wish I could reach out to you, to tell you that everything really *can* be okay again, or at least manageable. I know how you can be "fixed" because I did it myself. But I can't. My presence in your life would be too upsetting for you. You wouldn't want me around and I get why. I look and sound too much like your father. I'm a constant reminder of dark times and past traumas. There was a time when I felt the same way. I don't blame you for it.
Still, it pains me. I remember only happiness with you. You and my son, bouncing happily up and down the street and in the house, playing together. Little toddlers, my favorite niece.
I remember that one time you and C ran into a water pipe in your father's computer room and ruptured it on Voskamp. It was a crisis, but I couldn't quite be "mad" at you. You were toddlers. Running around and breaking ish was your specialty. It was a serious situation and I was the adult in charge, and you two were comically "serious" as well in the moment.
I fixed it and wondered why that dumb water line was even there in the first place. It's an odd memory to cherish, but I do cherish it.
There was a time when I was your favorite uncle and C was your favorite cousin. I never hurt you and I loved you very much. I do still love you to this day. But then life intervened. Trauma and dysfunction. I fled. You fled. Your father, your husband. All that ugly ish. I loved your cousin C as much as I loved you. I couldn't do anything for you but C was my son. I had to go away for his sake, but couldn't do anything for you. You were not my child.
Crazy as it sounds, I can relate to what you went through and how it impacted you. I was never your abuser, I was just a fellow traveler. You associate me with your memory of them, but I'm not them. It's very frustrating from my perspective. Again, I understand. Not your fault.
I hope I can help you someday if you ever reach out to me. I'm willing to do that for you. But I cannot reach out to you in good conscience. You're not in a good place for it. If you ever are and reach out to me, I'll be there for you.
-Your favorite uncle
I wish I could reach out to you, to tell you that everything really *can* be okay again, or at least manageable. I know how you can be "fixed" because I did it myself. But I can't. My presence in your life would be too upsetting for you. You wouldn't want me around and I get why. I look and sound too much like your father. I'm a constant reminder of dark times and past traumas. There was a time when I felt the same way. I don't blame you for it.
Still, it pains me. I remember only happiness with you. You and my son, bouncing happily up and down the street and in the house, playing together. Little toddlers, my favorite niece.
I remember that one time you and C ran into a water pipe in your father's computer room and ruptured it on Voskamp. It was a crisis, but I couldn't quite be "mad" at you. You were toddlers. Running around and breaking ish was your specialty. It was a serious situation and I was the adult in charge, and you two were comically "serious" as well in the moment.
I fixed it and wondered why that dumb water line was even there in the first place. It's an odd memory to cherish, but I do cherish it.
There was a time when I was your favorite uncle and C was your favorite cousin. I never hurt you and I loved you very much. I do still love you to this day. But then life intervened. Trauma and dysfunction. I fled. You fled. Your father, your husband. All that ugly ish. I loved your cousin C as much as I loved you. I couldn't do anything for you but C was my son. I had to go away for his sake, but couldn't do anything for you. You were not my child.
Crazy as it sounds, I can relate to what you went through and how it impacted you. I was never your abuser, I was just a fellow traveler. You associate me with your memory of them, but I'm not them. It's very frustrating from my perspective. Again, I understand. Not your fault.
I hope I can help you someday if you ever reach out to me. I'm willing to do that for you. But I cannot reach out to you in good conscience. You're not in a good place for it. If you ever are and reach out to me, I'll be there for you.
-Your favorite uncle
#10
Art / Re: And some watercolours
Last post by Teddy bear - March 14, 2026, 05:29:53 AMThank you, guys
I actually struggle too, but I've bought two watercolour sets lately and started to practice. New materials are inspiring for me, especially mono pigments (but I don't have any yet).
Also watching videos of different watercolourists is interesting and helpful.
I actually struggle too, but I've bought two watercolour sets lately and started to practice. New materials are inspiring for me, especially mono pigments (but I don't have any yet).
Also watching videos of different watercolourists is interesting and helpful.