Scattered pieces

I’m writing this entry from a hotel by the beach… Out one window is the view of a bay, out the other is a glimpse of the ocean…  It’s beautiful.

I wish my state of mind matched the beauty surrounding me, but it doesn’t.  Instead it’s a floating mess of past and present memories…  It’s a harsh reminder that no matter how far I run, the problems will follow me until I work them through.

I hate that.

I knew it was risky coming to the beach, but I didn’t realise the memories and issues it would throw at me.  A combination of being in a hotel; by a beach similar to the one where I grew up; and the psychiatric assessment on Tuesday, has opened old wounds.  To top it off, the free cable channels in the hotel are the Rugby ones… just typical!  Why couldn’t they be the kids, movies or arts channels… why????

The fall-out from the psychiatric assessment on Tuesday has been severe.  I made many mistakes, thereby giving ACC lots of ammunition to use as a way of apportioning away responsibility to other issues.  In fairly typical fashion, I’m beating myself up for it.

I won’t know the results of the assessment for several months.  The psychiatrist assured me that he would recommend that I continue to get ACC funded therapy.  But, I was honest about my level of dysfunction and self-injury, so ACC might decide in peer review that I need to be in the hospital system or forced into DBT.  Then there’s the issue of determining my level of impairment… this is a brutal system, and one that has been harsh for me in the past.  I’m expecting it to be just as harsh this time around…  This will have little to do with the assessing psychiatrist, and more to do with the peer reviewers at ACC.

The assessing psychiatrist understood DID, he really “got” it… One of the last questions he asked was how long we’d been talking, B had just come forward again, so thought it had just been a few minutes… it had been over an hour.  B then noticed that the sunlight had moved across the floor… she forgot to check the agreed upon marker of time before answering him…

One of the things we did to try and ease the stress of the assessment, was to produce a summary of our life.  It was harsh to see our SA experiences summarised in a dozen bullet points on half a page.  That summary was difficult to write… one line alone took 4 hours… we finally admitted in writing that the father abused us.  It is now on our ACC records.  That makes it official… scary… overwhelming… disgusting… shameful… ugly…

Sorry, I know this is disjointed…

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Now playing: Blindspott – Phlex
via FoxyTunes

Note: This entry may trigger due to issues around suicide being discussed.

I’ve been fairly open about my levels of suicidal ideation on this blog over time. But the last week or so, I’ve been dancing around the subject. The reason why… on the 2nd and 3rd of August I tried to commit suicide.

I’m still trying to make sense of the attempts, and the triggers which precipitated them.

The main things I remember about Monday, are that I didn’t work my usual late shift, and that I was very tired… very, very tired. So tired, that it made perfect sense to come home, empty a pill bottle into my hand and swallow them down with a caffeine drink.

I vividly remember looking at the pile of pills in my hand, and thinking… “This will help me sleep”.

This terminology is significant… “This will help me sleep”. Usually, my suicidal ideation and intent is termed “running away”, so I wonder if the change in phrasing was an indication that different ones were driving the attempt, or whether I was just really tired?

In the past, whenever there has been even a suicidal gesture, a protector has come forward and immediately called for help. But not this time. This time, I climbed into bed and waited for sleep. That was at about 6pm. The next thing I remember, is waking in a panic at 2.45. I wasn’t panicking about the pills that were now well absorbed into my system…  Oh no, I was panicking because I wasn’t sure if it was morning or night, and I was worried about missing work!

The details are fuzzy, but somehow we ended up in ER. ER’s always seem so bright… so well lit… super bright… I know this is a medical necessity, but it’s also about our fears. We hate hospitals. We feel ourselves get smaller, younger and more tongue-tied in hospitals… It’s hard to hear what people are asking of us, and we become more robotic.

As an indication that there was still come cognitive thinking happening, we’d remembered to bring our iPhone with us. Hours of playing Boost 3D, Euchre, Hell’s Kitchen… Anything to try to keep calm! Then the unspeakable happened, the iPhone battery ran out… This tipped the scales back to crazy.

• We removed the lure ourselves and went to the nurses station, asking to leave. They took us through to the observation lounge instead. Yay… power points for recharging the iPhone :)
• WPT came and visited us in the ER, and we brushed him off… told him we were fine and not to worry about us…
• When we were assessed by the psychiatric team… I say “assessed”, but to the system, it felt like a grilling.  They asked about family relationships, abuse history etc.
• By the end of the assessment, angry protectors were up front and they ripped up the discharge papers as we walked away from the nurses station.

Yes, we were released with no follow-up or safety options mentioned.

When we got home, there was still the need to sleep. I think one of us called the crisis team, but gave a fake name… I remember the crisis person yelling at us that they were sending the Police around. This was the wrong threat to make, as it gave the protectors hope that help was on the way. They became less vigilant…

We sat down at the table with enough pills for a fatal overdose. It was very mechanical and quick. Again, there was a need to have enough pills to “get some sleep”. Once these were consumed, we went to bed. Again, a panicked waking a few hours later and a ride in an ambulance.

This time it was serious… I knew that because of the number of nurses around. I remember looking over when they took my blood pressure, and saying how good it was (53/45). Usually my blood pressure goes through the roof in hospitals due to anxiety (the next day it was 195/146). I asked if I could go home, because my blood pressure was so good, and it was all just a silly mistake…

I remember the nurses being nice.
I remember them wheeling me down corridors to a ward.
I remember a nurse sitting in a chair at the end of my bed all night.

We called the mother, asking her to come up because we needed help. Our cat needed food…

We were kept in for a couple of days, and again had a psychiatric assessment, this one was much more gentle. They asked about safety and stressors. They gave us options – they suggested hospitalisation, or respite. But the psychiatric ward was fairly full, and the respite place would be different to the one I’ve been to previously. Instead, we were released to the mother (a former nurse) at home.

The thing that blew me away about the medical ward, was their compassion and understanding. I was there for an overdose, but they didn’t judge. They had almost no knowledge of mental health issues (I had to tell them how to spell “dissociative”), but they were respectful of me as an individual…

It’s now over a week since the attempts, and I’m still on shaky ground. Last night, R was very present. I know it was him, because I could clearly see what he wanted – to be wearing just jeans, standing in the middle of the road, in the pouring rain, arms up, yelling (in pain, release, anger???).

I’m very aware that I’m still walking along the cliff edge. One little push will send me over.

It’s times like this that I realise how amazing the people around me can be… WPT came to see me in hospital (twice); while my blog friends have been a steady, calm voice of reason when I needed it desperately… thank you!

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Now playing: The Freshman – The Verve Pipe
via FoxyTunes

You shall not pass!
You shall not know.
You will never know.
It will destroy you to know.
I will destroy you, before the secrets are told.

This message has been driving my existence for the last week (month?). D. One from my internal Basement has drawn, what can only be described as, battle lines. There’s no give, little communication and no trust. She’s said several times that she hates the rest of us, and has apparently sworn at Allison – not something that I would do.

The problem… We’re getting closer to her secrets, or the secrets in The Basement. This has been deemed as too dangerous for the system by D. One. This is a Polyvore set done last night to prove the point.

What surprises me, is that it looks rather tame in comparison to some of the other works that have involved her (for example D. One). But, it more clearly shows the dissociative wall she is protecting.

As an aside, she was associated with fire and a serpent in the last set, but now it’s birds and trees?

Last week, it became obvious what she will do to protect that wall. It wasn’t pleasant.

As a result, the mother is now staying with us. Those of you familiar with this blog, will know that the mother has a tendency to grate, annoy and trigger different parts of the system. She was psychologically abusive and neglectful during my childhood, and parts felt betrayed and hurt by her. Saying that, there are parts of the system who love, cherish and want to have a relationship with her. At the moment, for our safety, she is being tolerated by us all.

I keep on wondering what all of this activity by D. One means… Reflection is my key to healing and understanding. But yet, I find it almost impossible to reflect on the actions of the past week. I find it difficult to put them into context. If D. One was so stead fast in her rules of no more secrets being shared, why was a young one allowed to talk to Allison on Friday? It doesn’t make sense. Admittedly, there were no secrets shared, it was a very narrow flashback being described, but I’m struggling to make sense of it all.

One good thing about the mother coming up, is that she has again validated some memories, either through mentioning suspicions, or by describing vehicles that were either used, or around during my childhood. I know this is a double edged sword – if she had suspicions, why didn’t she act to protect us? Possibly this goes back to what Paul was discussing when he gave a brief overview of how societies attitude towards CSA has changed over time? Possibly, it’s because we were a white, middle class family? Possibly, it’s because the mother is a nurse who was clinical, rather than emotional and nurturing? All I know, is that it hurts that there were seemingly obvious signs and suspicions, which were ignored. I also know, that this is a similar story for thousands of other survivors.

So where to from here? Well, in just over two weeks, I have an ACC assessment. I’ve been assured by people I trust, that the assessing psychiatrist is good. But, it means describing my dysfunction, past and struggles with someone new. The results of this assessment will determine whether we still will receive ACC funded therapy, or not. We’re expecting to get our funding withdrawn – either because we haven’t shown enough progress, or because ACC will consider us to be better off in the public health system.

This assessment is what is destabilising the system. This is what is ramping up D. One’s activities… The difficult part, is that even once the assessment is over, it could take months for the results to come through. I’m not sure whether the system can cope with that sort of delay.

On a positive note… Two of my favourite blog distractions at the moment are DogHouse Diaries and Message with a bottle. As a warning, the first is a sarcastically funny take on relationships, and the second is a photo diary by a stay at home father of post-it-notes to, and about his son. I add the warning, as I know many of us struggle with fertility issues…

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Now playing: P!nk – Trouble
via FoxyTunes

Please note that this may trigger.

It feels like I’m falling into a black hole…

Over the weekend, the dissociative fog was still hanging over me… everything very detached and unreal… Then, in acts of what I can only consider self-sabotage and self-injury, I sought out ways to break through the fog.  It wasn’t smart, it wasn’t pretty, and if it hadn’t been for a good friend, it probably would have led to some seriously stupid actions on my part.

It started off in the morning by going to the shops and buying some L&P, Salt and Vinegar chips and lollie cake… otherwise known as food triggers from my childhood.  I didn’t consciously buy these things, but they were amongst my groceries when I got home.  This stirred things up internally, but I didn’t really think much of it… the dissociative fog was still keeping everything very separate and numb.

Then, in actions that were so stupid, they’re ridiculous… I read an article about ACC’s mishandling of a clients psychological reports… I watched a 20/20 special on CSA… then one on a religious sect in America… then, to top it off, I read several blogs that talked about either consensual sex, or CSA…

Stupid, totally stupid…  That whole concept of telling others to take care and look after themselves… totally lost on me.

After reading a blog about consensual sex, I lost it…  Flashbacks came through like a freight train…  Sounds filled my head… and the smells… the smells… stomach churning, repulsive smells.

I have no idea which young one it was who carried the memories, but she was hurting so much…  The blind panic, the inability to breathe, the need to run…  The overwhelming confusion, the pain…

Too much… just too much.

What does my head in about the memories, is why didn’t I say anything about what was happening?  Why wasn’t my behaviour picked up as being odd by my teachers or doctors?  Was I that good at hiding it all?  Maybe I was, I don’t know… Maybe being part of a white middle class family meant that those sorts of things weren’t meant to happen to me?

Yesterday I remembered a new piece in the puzzle as to why I didn’t tell…  At the rugby club where the father was manager, they had regular raffles.  Each of those raffles had to be drawn in the presence of the Police.  Each time there was a draw, the father used to take me to the Police Station.  I remember that the Police used to joke with me that if I was bad, they’d have to lock me up.  They showed me the cells.  Put me in them and closed the door, so I’d know what it was like.  I know they did this in jest and teasing.  It wasn’t meant to be abusive.  The always laughed and teased the blonde haired girl tagging along with her father.

This is why I believed the implied threats that I would be locked up if I ever told.  That I wouldn’t be believed.  That I was the bad one in the equation…

We went into see Allison today, hoping to talk about all of this.  But we talked about a safety contract instead.  I know safety is important, but I’m scared… I could feel the resentment and resistance to the idea of a contract and our behaviour being “controlled” through reward and consequences.  I worry about what the backlash against the contract is going to be.  Allison says she’s expecting a reaction… which is fine for her, she won’t be the one experiencing it.

I feel like an open wound…  I feel like this…  If you close your eyes and listen, it takes you places…

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Now playing: Wilhelm Kempff plays Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata
via FoxyTunes

One of the hardest things that I’ve been asked to do in therapy, is imagine what my world would look like in the future when I’m “healed”… that magical point where I feel as if I determine how run my life is run. When you’re a survivor used to living moment to moment; have lived with abuse in one form or another nearly all your life; where chaos is the norm; and you find your mental health issues driving your every action… imagining a life of self-determination is difficult.  I’ve had few positive role models around me, so I have no real terms of reference for what “healthy” looks like.

So, when this months Carnival Against Childhood Abuse came out with the theme of Independence, I thought I’d challenge myself to think about what freedom (or independence) may look like.  As I’m making this challenge up, I’ve decided to go for a list of 5 things I’d like to see in a life of self-determination…

1. Free from abuse
This may sound obvious, but I have a proven history of being attracted to people who are abusive, either as friends or as partners.  So, establishing healthy relationships is a key aspect to my well-being.  This is tied to boundary, attachment and a whole raft of other issues; so I know it will take time and testing.  I’m taking baby steps with this through my online interactions…

Free from abuse, also means being free from self-injury in all of it’s forms…

2. Like who I am
I know that this should say “love” rather than “like”, but one step at a time :)
I’d like to feel comfortable in myself – my skills, abilities and who I am as a person.  To work through the shame, guilt, disgust, etc., to a point where I can look in a mirror or walk down the street with my head held high.  To not make unfair comparisons about myself, but instead, notice differences without judgement.  To value those differences in myself as much as I value them in others.

3. Trust
Trust in myself and those around me.  I realise that trust is heavily linked to points 1 and 2 above, but it’s such a big issue, I think it needs to be separated out.

I currently have little trust in my decision making… I can make decisions, but second guess myself all the time.  I’d like to get to a point where I can listen to the internal messages without fear, and act on those messages appropriately.  Usually my internal compass about people is fairly accurate, but I tend to drown it out with self-doubt.

I know that not everyone in this world can be trusted, but I’d like to be open to the possibility that some of them can be.

4. Enjoy life
I’d like to wake up in the morning, feeling positive about the day.  I realise that life will always have the natural flow of ups and downs; but I want to reach a point where I have the skills to help me ride out the negatives without it causing a downward spiral.

5. Be creative
More importantly, be creative without fear!

I think this is my main goal in life… to work towards a place where I’m not living in fear.

The last two days have been kind of rough.

Heading into Thursday, I was feeling good and had managed to pull myself onto some sort of steady ground.  That all fell apart late Thursday afternoon, when I got an email from the other team leader, calling into question the quality of my work.  That email sent me plunging back into self-doubt, self-hatred and all the other associated negative thinking.  My cynical friend told me to forget it; but it was such a back-stabbing insult that I couldn’t brush it off.  To make it worse, my own team leader wasn’t around to reality check the content of the email, and I didn’t want to run to the manager about it.  This spun me out to the point where I knew I wasn’t safe to drive home.  I stayed on at work for a couple of hours, before driving home and losing most of the evening to the dissociation.

Then, on Friday morning during my drive to work, we went past a “hurt” cat in the middle of the road.  I always dread this sort of thing; not only does it stir up the system because an innocent animal has been hurt, but it’s a trigger for some of the younger ones.  Like a deer caught in headlights, we can never look away… we started reciting “it’s just a jumper that fell out of a car”, hoping that this will change how we see the cat… it doesn’t.  This means we now have adult parts smarting from the insult to our work, and young ones upset that an innocent cat has been hurt.

So we’re now driving down the road reciting out loud “it’s just hurt, it’s ok, it’ll get up soon and the people who love it will come get it and take care of it”.  There was also a promise that we wouldn’t drive home that way, just in case it hadn’t been moved.

Work on Friday is mostly a blank… I know we had a morning tea for the two new people, and that the manager made a triple layer banana and pineapple cake (which did a rather spectacular topple over during the cutting process).  I also know I played around with the iPhone app kooaba, as we’re looking at new ways to try to deliver information through technology such as QR codes and visual recognition apps.  This was fun because we were going around the library, taking random photos of books, CDs and DVDs to see what information kooaba would return.

Then it came to the drive home… all the way up the street where we should have turned off to avoid going by the stretch of road where the cat had been hurt, we were consciously thinking of turning.  Then there was this little mind fit, and we were suddenly past the turn off.  I could hear the panic, but there was also this firm voice telling me to stop being so silly, that there will be nothing there, and it will all be fine.

Thankfully the cat was no longer there, but that didn’t matter, the panic had set in.  We were switching all over the place and I could feel our throat closing up.  Little Michelle came forward full force, meaning that we couldn’t really drive, talk and only barely functioned enough to get home in one piece.  Because we live in a high fenced section, no one saw us getting out of the car shaking like a leaf and stuttering about it hurting.

We got inside, fed Winnie, turned on all the lights, curled up in the corner of the lounge and tried to ease the shaking.  I had no real sense of what was happening, but there were obviously body memories.  The throat was closed off, and no matter how hard I tried, I could barely stutter.  I managed to take some anxiety medication and send the following email to Allison…

turn all the lights on an hide
turn all the lights on an hide
turn all the lights on an hide
turn all the lights on an hide
turn all the lights on an hide
turn all the lights on an hide
turn all the lights on an hide

hide got to hide
he’ll find us

I think we finally went to bed at about 8am (it was naturally light by then) and slept for a couple of hours.

Saturday had been good… we’d talked to a friend and took some pictures of the stuffed toy we got for the young ones as their reward for going through the divorce proceedings…

This made me think that tonight was going to be easier… the fear seemed to have eased.  But it’s now 1am Sunday and all the lights are on again.  Little Michelle is ok as long as all the lights are on.  We’re also ok as long as we don’t even think about going to bed.

One of the big problems with this scenario, is that it opens us up to further dissociation and self injury.  We’re so switchy and shaky…

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Now playing: Missy Higgins – Where I Stood
via FoxyTunes

The following was given to me by our work place therapist. It was written by one of his clients…

There is a woman sitting in a room. All the walls of the room are engulfed in flames, which are raging relentlessly. To get to the door and get out, she must go through the flames. But her mind won’t give in to the overwhelming fear of getting burnt. Around her the flames are getting closer and the smoke is becoming thick. She is becoming weaker with each breath. She now realises that if she doesn’t get out soon, she is going to die. She imagines getting out and watching the wounds heal, but bearing the scars for the rest of her life. She thinks for a long time that dying would be so much easier and even less painful.

Outside, there are people going about their daily tasks. They smell the smoke, but convince themselves that it is merely a cigarette burning somewhere.

The woman is now growing very weak and calls out for help as she starts to fear death. Some people are genuinely deaf, but others choose not to hear her cries.

One person out of a crowd of many chooses to go to the room, clearly hearing the cries for help. But when he gets to the door, it is locked from the inside. The man becomes frustrated as he realises that all he can do is try to convince the woman to come through the flames and out the door.

The choice again is with the woman; come through the flames, knowing that there is a person waiting outside who chose to care, and be scarred. Or die alone in her own little room engulfed in flames.

Survivor?

Today, I saw the crisis team psychiatrist… it didn’t go well.

He showed me to the interview room, with this pleasant, eager young woman following in his wake.  I was a little puzzled about her presence, but had a sneaking suspicion that she was a training psychiatrist come to sit in on the interview.  Having had this before, I knew that they always asked if it was acceptable for the trainee to sit in, at which point I was ready to politely decline her being there.

We entered the room, and he sat down briefly, flipped through my file, noticing that there weren’t any blank pages, so left to get some.  Saying over his shoulder to the eager young woman (who had scooted her chair up to the desk), to introduce herself.  She was incredibly polite, saying that she was a trainee nurse.  When the psychiatrist returned, I asked if she was studying at the same institution where I worked – she nodded eagerly.  I asked that she not be present as I worked there and didn’t want to discuss the issues I was facing in front of a student from the same institution.  His immediate reaction… “But, she’s here for my safety”.

Apparently I look like someone who would either physically attack this old man, or scream sexual harassment.

What was interesting, was that at no point did he consider my safety.

His compromise, was to sit the student in the corridor just outside of the office with the door wide open.  It was a busy corridor.  At one point a woman stood at the doorway for over a minute trying to close an adjoining door – while loudly talking about her inability to do so.

Then there was the interview…

“So you didn’t show up for an appointment last week with Dr X”
“No, I’ve shown up for every appointment that has been made for me”
“Accusation number 2″
“No, I took care of myself”
“Accusation number 3″
“No, that didn’t happen”

So it went on… “What’s your mood level?” “How are you sleeping?” “What drugs are you taking?” “How much and how many have you got left?” “What do you want?” “Why are you here?”

Then it got worse. “I’ll prescribe X drug”. I asked what that was… he went into a long description about how benzos are addictive and their effect diminishes over time. He didn’t actually tell me what the new drug was, just how bad my current medication is. When I asked what the new drug would do, he said it would calm me down. I asked about another drug that I’d been recommended, and he scoffed. Saying that’s an anti-psychotic and that I’m depressed; and they only give that drug as injections up at the hospital anyway.

As I’d checked about the use of the drug before going into the appointment, I knew that it was also used for PTSD symptoms – my main problem at the moment; so I knew he was wrong about it’s use.  But I didn’t correct him… he was not a person to be corrected.

We’d started the interview pretty low, but this crushed us.  We crumpled.  I asked if it was ok to leave, he said yes; so we got up, thanked him for his time and left.  As we were doing so, he flipped my file shut with a sigh and leaned back on his chair.

I know I didn’t handle the situation well… I know I should’ve taken the drugs he was offering… but I couldn’t cope.

When I got back to work, I put my things down and told my cynical friend that I thought I was going to cry… we went into a spare meeting room and it all came out.  How I dissociate, how unsafe I am, everything…  She contacted the work place therapist who sat with me for an hour talking about things.  When I described the appointment to him, his comment was… “Yes, the psychiatrist had done his job.  He’d mentioned all the right things in all the right ways; but he didn’t care what happened beyond his vision of what you were and needed”.

It was this therapist who gave me the two creative expressions that I put up here today.  I decided to remove one, as although parts of it were powerful, the potential for triggering someone outweighed those benefits.

I’m still at a loss as to what I can do.  The birthday has now past, and that seems to have eased things internally.  I’m back at work, and that has forced a level of functioning.  I also have my cat back home… that always makes life good.

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Now playing: Sarah McLachlan – I Will Remember You [Live]
via FoxyTunes

I am the youngest of four children. The mistake at the end. I was a difficult birth, and apparently screamed non-stop for the first six months of my life. I was told this many times as I was growing up. It was usually in a joking way, although how you can joke about a child being a “mistake at the end” is beyond me.  These stories and jokes chipped away at my self-esteem, to the point where I soon realised that I was worthless and an annoyance.

As I grew up, the father’s drinking became more of a problem.  Those parts within who believe he abused us, link his increased drinking to his abuse of us.  Those who don’t believe he ever touched us, link his drinking to alcoholism.  No matter what the cause, his drinking became worse over time.  This meant that it wasn’t safe to bring the few friends I had, to the house.

What does all this have to do with birthdays?  Well, this environment set me up to hate my birthday.  My birthday was a chore for those around me.  That’s if they remembered it.  The disadvantage of having your birthday at the start of the month, is people often forget to turn over the calender.  So often, people forgot my birthday.  My favourite grandparents never sent me a birthday card on time.  I was the queen of getting belated birthday cards.  Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated those cards, but a part of me saw this as being yet another way in which I was inconveniencing those around me by existing.

As I was growing up, I did have birthday parties (I don’t remember them, but have photos as proof).  Usually my two cousins who were of a similar age to me, and sometimes someone from school as well.  But a school-friend was always dicey, as if my father was home, he would be drinking.  I always tried to protect the people I knew at school from my house.  They didn’t need to see the secrets.

My siblings both liked and hated my birthday parties.  It meant they got to eat all sorts of good food, but it re-enforced the concept that I was the favourite child – especially for my sister.  My sister’s birthday is very near Christmas; that usually meant combined birthday and Christmas presents.  She always got a party as well, but she always hated my birthday parties.  Well, she just hated me.

As my self esteem was chipped away, I gave up on birthdays.  By the time I finished primary school, I hated my birthday.  But there were still some parts who secretly loved them.  I think they used to call out the names of those who was having a birthday in the coming week at school assembly, I remember a young one beaming when our name was read out – someone saw us, someone cared!

By the time I reached my teens, birthdays were actively hated.  They were a chore for those around us, and another reason for the sister to pick on us.  On my 14th birthday, my sister didn’t want to go out with the family for my birthday dinner, she wanted to go out with her boyfriend (who was abusing us) and her friends.  She first told my parents that she didn’t want to go, but they told her she had to ask us for permission to not go.  Of course, we told her to go with her friends.  Why force her to be somewhere she didn’t want to be?

Just before my 16th birthday I was assaulted.  This was the last straw in ever wanting anything to do with my birthday for the teen and adult parts of me.  The birthday become a traumatic anniversary.  It was decided that it was best to ignore it and move on.  Over the years this worked well, the mother would still send gifts and occasionally the rest of the family would remember as well.  It became a habit to have the week of my birthday off, as I knew my functioning around that time diminished significantly. Quite often the mother would come up for a holiday during that week, which forced a level of functioning within the system, as a way of self-preservation.

Which brings us to this year.  This year, the mother didn’t come up.  This year we weren’t forced to function, and things fell apart.  Leading up to the birthday, there was lots of lost time and dysfunction.  Then on the birthday there was pain, lots of pain.  Not from the adult ones, but from the young ones who needed some reason to keep on living.  On our birthday, we got a supportive email from a friend, a present from the mother, and a manipulative email from our sister.

Apart from the manipulative email, we appreciate the acknowledgements we received.  But what really hurt the young ones, was that we didn’t hear from either brother.  The brothers were idolised by these young ones.  At times they were an island of safety in an otherwise chaotic life.  This lack of contact re-enforced our belief that if we were gone, no one would notice.  The entire day was spent trying to fight those messages.

I realise that this all sounds attention seeking; but it’s about us trying to work through what happened and why.  It’s about us being more in touch with those young ones who were hurt by the people they care about, not reaching out to them – and yes, we do send messages and cards to those people.  It’s about being perceived as a bother and inconvenience to those around us.  It’s about not having an adequate support system around us.  It’s about not believing we have any right to a support system, and being terrified to try to build one.

It’s about not being worthy of… anything, everything???