The ramblings of an abused kid (trigger warnings galore)

[NarcKiddo]

That's very sad. Thank you for being brave enough to be so honest. I don't stand in judgement. The ripples from abuse spread far and wide. Sometimes relationships that in theory could be salvaged, in fact can't. I think many of us here, if not all of us, have learned the hard way that the only person who can keep us safe is ourself. When we eventually find a way that we can live with, it is what it is.

[GoSlash27]

 I've figured out the root of my heightened anxiety these past few weeks. It's my decision to request the records from my time in foster care in '74. It ramped up when they e-mailed me back and said they had retrieved them.
 Sleeplessness, unrestful sleep, loss of appetite, gimpiness, jumpiness, emotional instability, loss of focus, tremors...
 I'm not afraid of what I may find in that file. I have enough episodic memories to know basically what happened. I'm excited to learn the details and fill in some blanks. Names, dates, addresses, circumstances.
 But my subconscious is *terrified* that I'm asking questions, actively digging, and finding answers. I'm not supposed to do this. I'm supposed to drop this matter and carry on, stop being so nosey. After all, my subconscious screwed up my memories for my own protection. 
 My T told me that "letting it go" is what a lot of people do. They hang onto the memories they retain, heal, grow, and move forward. But perhaps due to my innate inquisitiveness or fractured sense of "self", I cannot.

 I've been living with cPTSD since I was a teenager and my adult life was pretty much normal (for me) up until 3 years ago. I had all the hallmarks of it, but I didn't know. It wasn't until I found out that I had it that it got really bad.
 It's like a scab that won't heal because I won't stop picking at it. I don't know what will happen from here. Maybe I'll get my answers, maybe I'll crash out.   
   
 
 

[GoSlash27]

Point is (in response to Narc Kiddo) I'm not on a course to a way I can live with. Or maybe I am. I dunno. 
 I'm just on a course to... something. Ol' Charlie's stole the handle and the train won't stop going. No way to slow down. This isn't the way "recovery" is supposed to work as I understand it.
 
 To be clear, I'm not in crisis. I'm not suicidal or anything like that. I don't need intervention. It's just a very stressful time for me. Just venting.

 Best,
-Slashy

[dollyvee]

say all that to illustrate how deep my sense of self protection runs.
 So I'm not negating or minimizing anyone's quest for forgiveness or reconciliation. It's just that I cannot even remotely relate to such concepts. Most people don't get a first chance from me, let alone a second.

Hey Slashy,

I wanted to say that I don't think you're a "bad" person for this. A lot of the times I feel like the "burden" of forgiveness is placed on the victim in order to ease the burden or the consciousness of the other person. For me, in my family, I was expected to forgive people who didn't see a problem in how they treated me because that's just how they were. To me forgiveness is also something that's wound up in the fawning trauma response where you are pacifying or appeasing to survive. Not that that's the case all the time for forgiveness.

I just wanted to say that I can understand why you might have that response to your brother.

Sending you support,
dolly

[GoSlash27]

Perhaps not McIntyre Shelter after all, ca 1974.
 I've been digging up what I can about McIntyre Children's Shelter, and the photographs/ experiences of others who were there in that period do not match mine. McIntyre was old, stately architecture. Mine was more institutional. They describe "cottages", I remember dorms. They describe their classrooms as "trailers", mine was as described as above.
 So now I don't know *where* I was.  I suppose I'll find out shortly.

 Another memory that's occurred to me that I have to attribute to the shelter is what I'll call the spare crib storage room. I and a few other kids got in there and played peek-a-boo, hide and seek, and hid from the adults. What I remember is it being large, brightly lit, and semi-transparent blue... I dunno. Curtains? Visclean? was hanging from the cribs, which were higher than the ones we slept in. It gave the room a blue "forest" vibe.

 I played with other kids, but I never befriended any because they were always leaving and being replaced by others. The staff only very rarely mistreated us, but they were also detached and clinical. I suppose for the same reason.

[GoSlash27]

I found "Hingepin Manor"! 
 Searching through newspaper archives for legal notifications related to properties and then translating the "lot/parcel/etc" to a street address revealed... An empty lot. But going back in time on Google Street view showed the house before it was demolished.
 I'm hoping that the picture will trigger some new memories, because all of my memories of this place are happy.
 
 My dad brought me with him once when I was 2 years old while he was fixing it up. I have many memories from that day. I woke up on a PCC trolley. It was very weird, the only time I've ever been inside one. Dim round lights in the ceiling, wooden seats, all the grownups (mostly men) dressed very smartly. The ride had a rattly, bumpy quality.
 We got off the trolley downtown and it was only then I realized it was a trolley. The steel wheels rattling as it turned the corner, commutator sparking in the dark.
 I asked my dad what time it was, and he said it was 9:00! It looked like nighttime and the streetlights were on, but this was normal for downtown Pittsburgh in 1973. We got on a bus and I was disappointed. I really liked the trolley. Apparently I was used to riding buses.
 My dad sat me in the kitchen, told me not to go anywhere, and went off to do some work...
 The door to the basement was missing, and I got to playing with random stuff, including a couple hinge pins I found near the doorway. There was a gap between the stairs and the wall, so I played "bombardier". 
 Dad came back later and asked me what happened to the hingepins. I blinked (I had no idea what hingepins were). Where are the hingepins?
 "Hingepins" is a hilarious sounding word. I didn't know what it meant, but it sounded funny. I started giggling, then doubled over in gales of laughter, tears streaming down my face. "Where are the hingepins"? "Hinnnngepinnns"!
 And the more I laughed and squealed "hingepins", the angrier and more frustrated he got. He went off and came back with another pair of hingepins, but they didn't look like the ones I had dropped. 
 So he put me in a high chair and gave me some cheerios so I'd stay put. The high chair was *very* high and unstable and I was afraid to move for fear it'd fall over. I sat there quietly and watched Dad work. He did find the pins in the basement and hang the door.
 On our way home we stopped in a bar (definitely a bar) and dad got me a slice of pizza to eat. while he talked with his friends. I asked about the pepper flakes and he told me they were hot. I put them on my pizza and sat there in a booster seat on a high backed barstool and munched on my pizza. It was spicy, but I ate it all anyway. Not out of fear of dad being gruff, but because I didn't want to admit that I'd used too much pepper.
-------------------------
 I have many "random polaroid" memories in that house. No signs of DV or anything like that. Mom and Dad seemed very happy with each other. We were there from Summer '73 to at least January '74. I know this because I remember my baby sister and I ruined my brother's brand new drum set playing "diner" in the basement. The drum heads were made out of paper and my sister and I had been placing cups of water on them pretending we were serving customers. "more water, they need more water"! It was a busy shift at the diner...
 So we destroyed his brand new drum set, which he would have gotten either for Christmas or his birthday (end of December).
 That's my last known memory of "Hingepin Manor".   

[GoSlash27]

 After my last memory of "Hingepin Manor", my memories become much darker and sporadic. We (my 2 siblings, grandmother, and mother) are holed up in a garishly decorated motel room. Red shag carpet, curtains closed, a linoleum area at the other end of the room. Mom is injured and we're not allowed to go outside. A strange man comes to the door and brings us food and says "He's out looking for you".
*Snip*
 Living with our babysitter Miss Pat, our next door neighbor from our (currently unknown) residence prior to Hingepin Manor. Mom and Grandma are gone and Miss Pat shouted and hit us a lot.
*Snip*
 The night they took us to the shelter and my experiences in the shelter related above.
*Snip*
 Life with my foster family, some of which I've related previously.
*Snip* back with Mom, my Grandma, and my brother (sister is gone).
 Hingepin Manor, the previous residence, and my foster home hold a lot of positive memories for me. I'm looking forward to learning more about them. The shelter had many unhappy or neutral memories, but I'm curious to learn more about that too.
 After Foster care, I clearly remember the addresses and appearance of every house I lived at.