I’m not ready

I’m not ready for this. Everything I thought is wrong – a career built on a belief that is wrong, a childhood misunderstood. I’m not ready for this it hurts too much.
I need it to have been my fault for it to have been me that is wrong, out of place, for it to be me that didn’t fit. I need that to be true. I’ve believed it for so long. Built my life anddmy career on it.
I’m not ready for this – for her to have been the crazy one, alcoholic yes, I can handle that she was that, who wouldn’t need something to take the edge of such a flawed child?
I’m not ready to feel this, this helplessness, this anger, this betrayal and sadness. Such deep, deep sadness.

I’m not ready – please make it go away…..

Maybe it’s not me…..

For a long time I have been trying to figure out what it is about me that is flawed. But then even if I am flawed she was supposed to love me. That’s what being a parent is.

She never tried, even when I finally got the courage to cut contact, she played a few games and then they just cut me out of everything. It is beginning to occur to me that that is not about my flaws and failures.

And if that is not about me then maybe all the rest of it – those years of being attacked – maybe that wasn’t about me either……

I’m not ready to accept that yet. Or to belive that how I am is ok. I should be able to cope, to be better, but maybe that doesn’t have to be about her.

I wish my craziness would go away, that I could managed these feelings, that just for one little moment I could be ok.

Formulations……

It’s been a while since I posted. My new job has changed things. Finally realising that much of what added to my stress and anxiety was not about me. In my new job I can be me and it’s welcomed. It’s a real joy to find that who I am is OK.

It’s changed therapy too, more time to think about the things from before, from when I was small. More energy to understand how things impacted on me, to begin to acknowledge the anger and sadness I feel deep inside.

I’m not ready to accept that there wasn’t something I could have done to change the things that happened. I’m not ready to accept that I’m not crazy.

My therapist suggested I try less diagnosis and more formulation in understanding myself, he may be right – in my work I avoid diagnosis with my clients, but for me it is different and it will always be that way until I understand what I should have done to fix things, to stop what happened, to make it so she would love me. I need to know what it is in me that is wrong, because then it will all make sense, and maybe it’s not to late to fix it………

Getting my angries out

I’ve always been scared of her, probably too scared, maybe it made sense, when I was small, after all she was cold and mean.

But I’ve been a grown up for a long time, and now, still scared, still having the nightmares, I wish that they would stop, that I could say those things I wanted to say over all those years.

I need to find a way to stop being frightened and to get my angriest out……..

Feelings, feelings everywhere…..

Feelings, I don’t like them much but they are always there. My t asks me each time I see him, how I am and how I have been, I think up something to say but the truth is I rarely know how I feel and I never really remember how I have been.

I can’t remember my feelings, even if I notice them and oftentimes I don’t know what to call them if I do notice them. I never really realised how hard this was for me. I work in a world of feelings and emotions helping others to understand their feelings but inside I have a blindness born from the years of numbing, ignoring and and pushing my feelings aside…

I guess it’s possible that I grew up acutely sensitive to the feelings of another so I could try to keep myself safe without any awareness of my own feelings within that. It’s like I learned to read feelings only in terms of threat which has left me unable to really experience my own feelings let alone name them and understand them.

I wonder how I can move forward from this, how can I help myself to know how I feel and hold on to that experience?

To just once be able to give an honest answer to those questions would be something I guess…….

It doesn’t matter

It mattered when I was a baby and no one was allowed to hold me.
It mattered when I was tiny and fell down the stairs and my sister was punished for my clumsiness.
It mattered when age 5 I woke from a bad dream to be dragged into a cold shower until I stopped crying.
It mattered when age 6 she poisoned me to make me ill.
It mattered when she took me out of school for 2 years.
It mattered when they took my sister away and left me behind.
It mattered when she burned me for making a mistake while cooking.
It mattered when she poured nail polish remover over the cuts on my leg.
It mattered when he raped me and I had no where to turn.
It did matter, then, but it’s too late now.

I don’t want to write about this

I don’t want to write about this.

I don’t want to write about this because I am frightened by the depth of these feelings.

I hate it when people tell me to take care of myself, I nod, I say that I will but inside I hate those words. It rouses a powerful anger, a childish rage. After all I have always had to take care of myself. In a literal sense it has been the case since I was 9, but before then too.

Yes there were people who helped but it was never consistent or secure.  When it came to it, all I had was my cupboard where I hid in with my cuddly toys, often afraid to even breath.

Those rare times when I did share a tiny bit of my suffering it would always get back to mother. I risked it twice, and twice I was promised that nothing bad would happen and twice they told her.

And mother told them that I was fragile, overly sensitive, with an active imagination, that I read to many books, that I was just looking for attention. Both times they bought it. Both times she punished me.

That’s how I learned never to trust people. At least not with the important stuff. I learned to hide myself deep inside, to live a silent life. The I that I was became mute.

And yes I have a good life now, but it is a half life, watched by that silent part where my unexpressed anger and unshed tears reside.

I don’t want to write about this, but I see her deep inside, I feel her, she is frightened and alone, and I can’t help her, I don’t know how.

I resent the depth of her neediness, I hate the way she craves comfort, the way she squirms inside my mind desperate for acknowledgement, I hate the way her tiny voice leaks out through mine, incoherent and full of uncontrollable emotions.  I hate the way her eyes look at me in the mirror, full of the betrayal of the many people that left her, left her in that cold and brutal place.

I don’t want to write about this but I guess I left her too.