Hello c-ptsd. Who the hell are YOU?

When I was three years old, the day after the last happy Christmas I ever remember, the world went black. It was bright and brisk and my father stood in his gray tweed winter coat, off to get groceries. I was the outcasted baby. “Daddy, they won’t let me play with the track set!!” His eyes twinkled. “Aw come on guys, let the little one play!” He gave me a snuggle and off he went to do my mother’s bidding. That was the last time I would ever see my father upright.

My older brother and sister continued playing with an incredibly cool racing car set; cutting edge for 1964. Why were there only 2 cars??? I went up to my parents room. My mother was not such an ally. Concentrating on her paperwork as I lamented the injustices that an almost four year old, youngest child must face, she basically ignored me. Suddenly, my brother, ashen faced, came running up the stairs and my mother was down the steps in a sprint. If words were exchanged, they eluded me, but even a three year old can understand urgency.

Downstairs, in our foyer, on a mustard plaid tufted couch, that I would kill to find on craigslist today, lay my sweet, crumpled father. I stood in the doorway with my sister as we watched my mother kneeling beside him, not quite sure what she was doing. I could hear my terrified 12 year old brother as he fumbled with a rotary phone, desperately trying to reach the operator to get an ambulance. I felt bad for my car hogging brother. “Is he going to die?” I whispered to my sister. The words left my lips, even though I had no idea what they meant.

My father’s relatives came; stoic stern figures, nothing like my always jolly, playful, daddy. My mother was whisked away in a white ambulance. Dusk had turned to night. It was as if my father took the glow of day with him, forever, and I was left with these odd, cold, people who had apparently hosted us 24 hours previously. Us three kids were in our rooms, sent to bed. In my crib, I heard hushed tones in the hall outside my room. It was dark, it was bad. I fell into a fitful sleep and never slept a dreamless peaceful night again.

Five months later, it was spring. I heard the mail slot clink and ran to pick up a pile of letters.. I brought them excitedly to my mother. I am not sure what was in that pile, perhaps a hospital bill, or a Social Security check, maybe nothing, but something made me ask “when is Daddy coming home?” My mother was shocked. I supposed she had told me already, that he died that night, the day after the best Christmas ever. If she did, I didn’t remember. Somehow, in some sort of brain glitch, for many years my mind believed that in that pile of papers lay the horrible truth that my father was gone forever.

It’s funny what kids think when they don’t know the truth about anything; trying to piece the world together from snippets of random information. Years later I found out we weren’t told till after the funeral that my father had had a stroke; not particularly fair for my 12 year old brother, and not particularly enlightened for my Dr. Spock reading mother.The word “closure” was not not in use yet, but I am reasonably certain that we didn’t get any. And so, that is basically how my life began.

Twenty years of therapy unearthed the notion that maybe, just maybe, this is when my horrific sleeping problems started. I can pretty safely say that in the middle of the 1960’s when I lost my dear sweet father so suddenly, who I would never truly know, my complex – ptsd began. But no such thing existed back then. If a mental “wound” develops before we know what it is – is it sort of like when a tree falls in the woods?

Hello C-ptsd – I wish I never met you.

PHOTO CREDIT: The Atlantic Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Counseling

 

Words CRUSH – even years later.

In July of 2007, my borderline personality ex took his own life. I was left to sort through the wreakage that he left behind. For a person that was neither highly educated nor intuitive, he carefully and methodically spent months brilliantly preparing his dramatic exit, so that the world would continue to see him as the victim and those he loathed as villains. What kind of distruction did he leave in his spiteful maniacal path? Only time would tell, and only those enlightened few will notice!

Hmmmm, how do you exact revenge from the grave on those you leave behind?  Murder/suicide is often the headline grabbing choice, but maybe you would rather be more subtle. Maybe you don’t want your legacy to be that you were in fact a  cowardly  piece of excrement. So how can one obtain the greatest impact while preserving their “false self.”

Certainly you wouldn’t want to hurt your own children, but their mothers, ah ha! That’s who you need to punish and you hurt them the most via their own children. The fact that they are yours as well is incindental. Sorry, the kid’s are just a casualty in this war. So you will take their innocent souls, turn them against the people who might save them and infect them with our own insipid sick ramblings; twist them with your paranoid ideas.You have become very adept at this. You did it to their mothers. You do it to ANYONE who challenges you or gets in your way. You are good at it and YOU are a monster. It is second nature. So you proceed to make vegetable soup out of your childrens’ emotions; injecting them with your sick masogonistic, paranoid ideas. It doesn’t occur to you that you are the lowest piece of garbage on face of the earth. OR that hat they will struggle for years to feel good again or have healthy relationships. All that matters is that you will have the last laugh, and that you will come out smelling like a rose. Poor you, all the injustices you suffered, you could not bare it any longer.

So you leave this earth. You disinherit your kids, which isn’t even the worst of it. You turn everyone against them, leaving them with little to no support, except the mothers whom they’ve grown to hate (google Parental Alienation Syndrome). Some of these kids will thrive. Some will turn to drugs, or sex or crime, or gambling or become abusers themselves. Others will be perfect little soldiers; ideal citizens, until one day, a small thing, a semingly insignificant thing pushes them to the brink; and they crumble.

The people around them, who you brainwashed as well, will not connect the dots. They will not recognize your sick handywork after so many years. However, the mother’s will know, if they are smart and tried to learn about the devastating disorder that took over your personality and mind. They will know. But it won’t matter, because you have rendered them powerless. YOU have planted seeds of doubt and lies over the years.No one will take them seriously. THEY are hysterical, they are bitter, they are the reason you were forced to sink to such depths. (If you are reading this and a victim of abuse, please know that this is utter bullshit.)

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So NOW the mess is left in the caregivers laps – (I speak as a mother because that is my perspective, but I am sure there are men who have endured the same hell.) We are left with angry, brainwashed, broken children. Grieving, confused, disenfranschised, they will not recieve the support they need because the dysfunctional families that spawned them will want to disavow any responsibility. No one will want to really look at how sick the individual was. Things like that don’t happen in a vacuum. Everyone in the family is infected in some way or another.The whole family needs help, but few get it. Everyone just wants this ugliness to be over. But it’s not.

For the people that truly love the children that are left behind, they won’t want to admit the extent of the damage. They will say well meaning things like “she will be fine!” “time heals all wounds” “it wasn’t that bad!” and the granddaddy of all ignorant insults “people go through much worse – they should be stronger.” There is nothing more frustrating than people who speak athoritatively about things they know nothing about. You will find this archaic narrow minded thinking most often, in my experience, in men over fifty. Do not turn to them – you will want to rip your own hair out and just feel more alone than you already do.

I don’t have answers – I have anger. But I will. There is no force greater than an angry mother lion. One thing that I HAVE learned through all this is that it is admittedly really hard for everyone involved to deal with mental illness, me included.You can’t help but second guess yourself. But when teens go on shooting rampages you will hear the echoing refrain “where were their mothers????? Someone MUST have known that something was wrong! ” We are an indignent jugdemental society, and until we educate ourselves and have some kind of compassion instead of judgement, we are all doomed. Do you know someone who is abusive to a child? Do we even know what abuse is anymore?


I was going to turn the focus of this blog towards autoimmune disease; the frustration and shame that is involved in it. Did you know that most autoimmune diseases start with trauma? I guess all people who let trauma effect them are weak. I am here to tell you – that’s utter nonsense AND you are not alone -The ignorant people who make you feel worse and try to blame it all on you can go fuck off….cause honestly – I have had it with this selfish, self involved society that doesn’t have a bit of compassion. My blessings to all of those who have suffered at the hands of a monster or who have had to watch silently while those they love suffer. I refuse to be powerless any longer. I wish everyone peace.

*****PHOTO CREDIT*****

https://actionagainstabuse.wordpress.com

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