So, my conversation with my dad last week...
It was a really, really hard conversation for me to have, but I'm glad I did it. I'm proud I finally got the courage to ask my dad the things I needed to ask. I almost backed out the morning I was supposed to have the conversation, I was one button push away from sending a text to my dad saying I couldn't talk that day. My husband talked me down however, pointing out that my dad probably had a sleepless night anticipating out conversation. He made a good point, and I went through with the phone call.
It was actually my dad that called me, and about an hour earlier than we'd discussed. We made our usual small talk, what's going on out West, and I updated him on what's going on here out East. Eventually though, I bit the bullet and asked him what I needed to know. Was he aware of any incidents that could have occurred when I was a child, with Uncle S., that I might need to know about?
I got that long pause again. It was with some hesitation that my father told me that my uncle was my primary babysitter from when I was age 1 to about 3. I was with him exclusively from 7:30 am to 5:30 pm, Monday through Friday. My dad told me that they took me out of that "situation" when they realized there may have been an "issue".
My heart sank and I felt sick. An issue? I asked. My dad said he wasn't aware of any specific events, but that him and my mom were "suspicious" something had happened. I asked him to be honest, point-blank, did he think something happened? He said yes. We continued to talk about my uncle for awhile. His drug use, his mental illness, the fact that he identified as a homosexual, and his relationship with my brother and I.
We talked for more than an hour. I felt good when we ended the conversation, mostly I think from the fact that I've been needing to have this conversation with my dad. I didn't really get any direct answers, and now I have even more questions, but for some reason, I feel better.
What's next on my bucket list? Sigh. Making an appointment with another psychiatrist. You could say I've been nursing my bruised ego from perceived "rejection", but it's time to move on in my journey.
Showing posts with label abuse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label abuse. Show all posts
Monday, July 9, 2012
Friday, July 6, 2012
The Aftermath of a Panic Attack
Well, I meant to write a week ago. To talk about the conversation I had with my dad last week. An emotional conversation with my dad, unplanned errands, and a panic attack pretty much changed the course of my week. I seem to get a hangover effect when I have a panic attack. I have little energy and am, in general, just depressed for a couple of days after a panic attack.
My panic attack was triggered by an impromptu visit to my sister-in-law's house. I'm normally triggered by her daughter, my niece, at her house but this time, she had something that triggers me far beyond children. Animals.
I don't know why I'm so triggered by animals, but I'm so badly triggered by animals, I can be sick for a week after a panic attack regarding an animal. My trigger is animals that seem to me to be in pain, abused, or mistreated. My sister-in-law got a new cat. Not a cat, a teeny, tiny kitten. The weather has been rotten here, we are in the middle of a heat wave. It must have been 100 degrees that day. My husband and I were walking to his sister's door when I noticed this tiny kitten huddled up against the house.
I knelt down, I couldn't stop myself. I put my hand out to let the kitten sniff it. The kitten was so weak, it didn't move. I ran my hand over it's small body, it was so hot. I looked around for a water bowl. There was none. My blood began to boil. I went inside and immediately got the tiny animal a bowl of ice water. I took it out to the kitten and began to rub some cold water into it's fur. It was able to get up then, and drink a voracious amount of water. I petted the poor kid some more, I could feel it's bones under it's fur. I was fuming. I looked around again, there was no food for this tiny cat. How could they be keeping this tiny, tiny animal outside? In the heat? Without food and water? I picked up the poor kitty, and held it to my chest. It began to purr like crazy, and I felt a sob rise in my chest. I went in and got the poor thing some food, and brought it out to him/her. The kitten ate a ton of food.
By this time, I was seeing red. My husband had come out of the house, it was time to go. I felt tremendous amount of guilt leaving the animal there. I knew I couldn't take it with me, but it took everything I had to leave it there. I felt such hatred for my husband's sister in that moment, I couldn't even look at her.
As soon as we were in the car, driving down the street, the attack came. I could feel the panic rising in my chest, and my heart began to beat fast. Then faster. I began having trouble breathing. I was almost dizzy, and I felt so claustrophobic. The thought crossed my mind to jump out of the moving vehicle, just to try and make it stop. My mother-in-law was in the car with us, and I just tried to calm my breathing down. She was trying to talk to me, but I just ignored her and concentrated on my breathing. My husband knew something was wrong, and picked up the conversational slack.
It lasted about 20 minutes. And then I was drained. I told myself to think about something else, anything else. The next day was bad too. I felt hopeless, tired, and my whole body was sore from tensing up during the attack. Nothing much changed for the next couple of days. I'm finally starting to feel better now. I think.
I found out 2 days ago that the kitten had passed away. It was hit by a car in front of my sister-in-law's house. I have mixed feelings on this. Extreme sadness for such a short, innocent life. A little bit of relief because I don't have to watch this animal continue to suffer. I also feel a little bit of reality, because the reality of life is that I can't save every animal being abused. This is a hard fact for me to accept, and this thought destroys me a majority of the time.
I don't know why I'm this way. I've always had a special place in my heart for animals, I like them more than people. I can't stand to see an animal, innocent and defenseless, being abused by ignorant humans who seem to like to cause pain and devastation. I hate people for this reason. I hate my sister-in-law for letting this happen under her roof.
Anyhoo, the point of all this is that I didn't get around to the post I wanted to write. I was too depressed to open my computer, and move my fingers. I'm sitting here, wondering why I'm so different from other people, that something like seeing that kitten, could send me into a depressed state for days? It sounds so stupid, there are so many bigger problems in the world, but this... this gets me.
I'm hoping to write tomorrow, because I really did have a productive discussion with my dad that I wanted to talk about. Fingers crossed.
My panic attack was triggered by an impromptu visit to my sister-in-law's house. I'm normally triggered by her daughter, my niece, at her house but this time, she had something that triggers me far beyond children. Animals.
I don't know why I'm so triggered by animals, but I'm so badly triggered by animals, I can be sick for a week after a panic attack regarding an animal. My trigger is animals that seem to me to be in pain, abused, or mistreated. My sister-in-law got a new cat. Not a cat, a teeny, tiny kitten. The weather has been rotten here, we are in the middle of a heat wave. It must have been 100 degrees that day. My husband and I were walking to his sister's door when I noticed this tiny kitten huddled up against the house.
I knelt down, I couldn't stop myself. I put my hand out to let the kitten sniff it. The kitten was so weak, it didn't move. I ran my hand over it's small body, it was so hot. I looked around for a water bowl. There was none. My blood began to boil. I went inside and immediately got the tiny animal a bowl of ice water. I took it out to the kitten and began to rub some cold water into it's fur. It was able to get up then, and drink a voracious amount of water. I petted the poor kid some more, I could feel it's bones under it's fur. I was fuming. I looked around again, there was no food for this tiny cat. How could they be keeping this tiny, tiny animal outside? In the heat? Without food and water? I picked up the poor kitty, and held it to my chest. It began to purr like crazy, and I felt a sob rise in my chest. I went in and got the poor thing some food, and brought it out to him/her. The kitten ate a ton of food.
By this time, I was seeing red. My husband had come out of the house, it was time to go. I felt tremendous amount of guilt leaving the animal there. I knew I couldn't take it with me, but it took everything I had to leave it there. I felt such hatred for my husband's sister in that moment, I couldn't even look at her.
As soon as we were in the car, driving down the street, the attack came. I could feel the panic rising in my chest, and my heart began to beat fast. Then faster. I began having trouble breathing. I was almost dizzy, and I felt so claustrophobic. The thought crossed my mind to jump out of the moving vehicle, just to try and make it stop. My mother-in-law was in the car with us, and I just tried to calm my breathing down. She was trying to talk to me, but I just ignored her and concentrated on my breathing. My husband knew something was wrong, and picked up the conversational slack.
It lasted about 20 minutes. And then I was drained. I told myself to think about something else, anything else. The next day was bad too. I felt hopeless, tired, and my whole body was sore from tensing up during the attack. Nothing much changed for the next couple of days. I'm finally starting to feel better now. I think.
I found out 2 days ago that the kitten had passed away. It was hit by a car in front of my sister-in-law's house. I have mixed feelings on this. Extreme sadness for such a short, innocent life. A little bit of relief because I don't have to watch this animal continue to suffer. I also feel a little bit of reality, because the reality of life is that I can't save every animal being abused. This is a hard fact for me to accept, and this thought destroys me a majority of the time.
I don't know why I'm this way. I've always had a special place in my heart for animals, I like them more than people. I can't stand to see an animal, innocent and defenseless, being abused by ignorant humans who seem to like to cause pain and devastation. I hate people for this reason. I hate my sister-in-law for letting this happen under her roof.
Anyhoo, the point of all this is that I didn't get around to the post I wanted to write. I was too depressed to open my computer, and move my fingers. I'm sitting here, wondering why I'm so different from other people, that something like seeing that kitten, could send me into a depressed state for days? It sounds so stupid, there are so many bigger problems in the world, but this... this gets me.
I'm hoping to write tomorrow, because I really did have a productive discussion with my dad that I wanted to talk about. Fingers crossed.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Where Did It All Begin?
I'm 4 days away from my first appointment with a psychiatrist, and I've pondered this thought for a long time now. Ever since I kinda, sorta put the puzzle pieces together, I've been reaching and straining to really, really put the pieces together.
It's just not that easy. What I have recovered are more like flashes of images, not actual memories that play like a movie in your mind. I want to remember, because I want to heal, but obviously my mind is not ready to concede. I know this. Sometimes at night, when I am laying in bed, waiting for the Ambien, Noritriptyline, and Hydroxyzine to kick in, I try to remember.
I have lots of memories from this time period (3-5 years of age), but none fit together in a succinct timeline. I felt a lot of fear as a kid. I remember my mom leaving me at daycare, and crying inconsolably for hours because she had left me. I remember being horribly afraid of the dark, to the point of panic if I was completely in the dark without my nightlight. I suffered from terrible nightmares as a child, dreaming about everything from ghosts, to serial killers, to killer clowns. I was convinced there was something under my bed that would grab my legs and pull me under if I got out of bed at night. My window shades in the room had to be tightly shut with no way to look in. Because, you know, if you could see in my window, the aliens would see me and take me away. I honestly believed that if I looked in the mirror at night, there would be a ghostly image of a girl who would pull me in. I still avoid mirrors at night to this day.
I remember my grandmother's (my mother's mother) house that she lived in at this time. It was right next door to my parent's house and 2 houses down, my aunt, uncle (one of my mom's brother's, the sane one), and cousins lived there. I remember my grandmother's front door, her living room, her kitchen. I also remember the room that my uncle (my mother's other brother, the not-so-sane one) lived in, the way the window was positioned, his wood bed, the furniture, his ash tray on the bedside table. I cannot, for the life of me, remember her bathroom or her living room couch. I have an image in my mind of my uncle rubbing me on her couch, but I can only feel the couch against my skin and see the couch as separate from the room. I cannot picture the room with the couch in it.
My uncle was bipolar and schizophrenic. He had a pattern of going off his meds, and disappearing for months at a time, not contacting anyone in the family to let them know where he was. He would always return, docile and completely medicated. When I was 5, my parents decided to leave the town I was born in and move 60 miles south. I remember during this time that my uncle was not allowed to contact my family. Not by phone, not by letter, and definitely not to see me or my brother. My parents told us that he was addicted to valium and until he went to rehab, he wasn't allowed to have any contact with us. I was 7 when some sort of deal was reached between my parents and my uncle. My uncle apparently went to rehab, and later moved to the town where we had moved to. I'll save this story for another time, but my uncle disappeared permanently when I was 16. Off his meds, and into a life of homelessness.
For as long as I can remember, something was amiss between my mother and her mother. They never got along, and my mom could barely stand speaking to my grandmother. My dad was the go-between, and he was actually the one who took care of my grandmother as she was dying. My mother rarely visited her mother as she was dying, and could barely bring herself to see her before she passed.
Now that I'm where I'm at, pondering what has made me the way I am, I'm wondering how there could be so much I didn't see as a child. Could my uncle have been harming me, and my parents found out? Is that why we moved? Is that why I wasn't allowed to see my uncle? If so, why would they let him back in our lives? Did my grandmother know about this? Did she know about this and not do anything, and that's what happened between my grandmother and mom? If this did happen, why didn't my parents tell me? How could they not see a link in how troubled I was, the constant headaches, the stomach problems, the drugs, the promiscuity? How could they know, and yet, let me suffer?
I'm struggling with where I am today. My grandmother is dead, I cannot ask her what happened. My mother is such an emotionally shut down person, I couldn't imagine ever asking her these questions. My dad is an intelligent and very caring person, so I imagine there will be a time in the future when we will be sitting down and discussing this. In the meantime, I will continue to wonder where it all started. I will continue to reach for memories, despite the fact my mind tells me I don't want to remember. I just have to know. I just have to.
It's just not that easy. What I have recovered are more like flashes of images, not actual memories that play like a movie in your mind. I want to remember, because I want to heal, but obviously my mind is not ready to concede. I know this. Sometimes at night, when I am laying in bed, waiting for the Ambien, Noritriptyline, and Hydroxyzine to kick in, I try to remember.
I have lots of memories from this time period (3-5 years of age), but none fit together in a succinct timeline. I felt a lot of fear as a kid. I remember my mom leaving me at daycare, and crying inconsolably for hours because she had left me. I remember being horribly afraid of the dark, to the point of panic if I was completely in the dark without my nightlight. I suffered from terrible nightmares as a child, dreaming about everything from ghosts, to serial killers, to killer clowns. I was convinced there was something under my bed that would grab my legs and pull me under if I got out of bed at night. My window shades in the room had to be tightly shut with no way to look in. Because, you know, if you could see in my window, the aliens would see me and take me away. I honestly believed that if I looked in the mirror at night, there would be a ghostly image of a girl who would pull me in. I still avoid mirrors at night to this day.
I remember my grandmother's (my mother's mother) house that she lived in at this time. It was right next door to my parent's house and 2 houses down, my aunt, uncle (one of my mom's brother's, the sane one), and cousins lived there. I remember my grandmother's front door, her living room, her kitchen. I also remember the room that my uncle (my mother's other brother, the not-so-sane one) lived in, the way the window was positioned, his wood bed, the furniture, his ash tray on the bedside table. I cannot, for the life of me, remember her bathroom or her living room couch. I have an image in my mind of my uncle rubbing me on her couch, but I can only feel the couch against my skin and see the couch as separate from the room. I cannot picture the room with the couch in it.
My uncle was bipolar and schizophrenic. He had a pattern of going off his meds, and disappearing for months at a time, not contacting anyone in the family to let them know where he was. He would always return, docile and completely medicated. When I was 5, my parents decided to leave the town I was born in and move 60 miles south. I remember during this time that my uncle was not allowed to contact my family. Not by phone, not by letter, and definitely not to see me or my brother. My parents told us that he was addicted to valium and until he went to rehab, he wasn't allowed to have any contact with us. I was 7 when some sort of deal was reached between my parents and my uncle. My uncle apparently went to rehab, and later moved to the town where we had moved to. I'll save this story for another time, but my uncle disappeared permanently when I was 16. Off his meds, and into a life of homelessness.
For as long as I can remember, something was amiss between my mother and her mother. They never got along, and my mom could barely stand speaking to my grandmother. My dad was the go-between, and he was actually the one who took care of my grandmother as she was dying. My mother rarely visited her mother as she was dying, and could barely bring herself to see her before she passed.
Now that I'm where I'm at, pondering what has made me the way I am, I'm wondering how there could be so much I didn't see as a child. Could my uncle have been harming me, and my parents found out? Is that why we moved? Is that why I wasn't allowed to see my uncle? If so, why would they let him back in our lives? Did my grandmother know about this? Did she know about this and not do anything, and that's what happened between my grandmother and mom? If this did happen, why didn't my parents tell me? How could they not see a link in how troubled I was, the constant headaches, the stomach problems, the drugs, the promiscuity? How could they know, and yet, let me suffer?
I'm struggling with where I am today. My grandmother is dead, I cannot ask her what happened. My mother is such an emotionally shut down person, I couldn't imagine ever asking her these questions. My dad is an intelligent and very caring person, so I imagine there will be a time in the future when we will be sitting down and discussing this. In the meantime, I will continue to wonder where it all started. I will continue to reach for memories, despite the fact my mind tells me I don't want to remember. I just have to know. I just have to.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Difficulty Getting Over Loss
I've had a hard time getting over losses my whole life. Every time I lost a pet when I was a child, I was inconsolable for weeks. When I became a teenager and started dating, each breakup was harder than the last. I've lost several "best friends", and I experience a never-ending cascade of hurt and guilt.
I think I must be a hard person to be friends with. I've lost every single best friend I've ever had, save for my high school best friend, who never really knew me anyway. The only one that still hurts to think about, "broke up" with me two and a half years ago. We were so much alike in so many ways. She is an abuse survivor like me, so she has plenty of her own issues. I'll call her D. She left when I had been married for 3 months.
What hurts the most is that I came to depend on her. She has experienced so much of what I've experienced. When my husband and I were first married, he was unemployed. Laid off. We started our marriage with him out of a job, and having a hard time finding a job as well. D. and her husband started their marriage with him unemployed. I struggled with my husband's unemployment and how to help him, and there were times I ached to call D. and ask her how she got through it all. I'm struggling now with my abuse issues, and I'm sad that she could give me advice, but I can't reach out to her.
What happened? Everything exploded in October of 2010. She had been staying at my house when her husband and her got into a huge fight over the phone. She went home later that day. She called me the next day, hysterical. Apparently, she'd been sleeping with her husband's best friend and her husband found out. He was leaving her. She was on the verge of a breakdown, and her father was on his way to take her to the hospital. I was blown away that she had cheated on her husband, she had never confided that in me. She ended the conversation abruptly.
I didn't hear from her for 3 weeks. I called, and called, and called. I left many messages. Coincidently, I got a new cell phone in this time period, and a new phone number. I called her on my new phone and she answered the phone. I was floored. As soon as she heard that it was me on the phone, she became cold. I asked her how she was, and she paused. She proceeded to tell me that she couldn't be my friend anymore. That I was a bad influence. That if she wanted to make things work with her husband, she had to get rid of every thing from her past.
My heart broke. It hurt me to hear these words. In a small voice, I told her "Ok". I said goodbye and I hung up the phone. I stared at the phone in my hand for a minute, and then I deleted her phone number out of my phone. I never called her again. I never spoke to her again.
I still hurt over this today. I'm so hurt that she said I was a bad influence. I hurt that I can't get her advice anymore. How was it so easy for her to walk away and act like I never existed? Did I mean so little to her that I was that easy for her to cut out of her life? I feel I never even knew her, there were secrets she kept from me. Like her affair. I told her everything, I never kept a secret from her. I told her things I've never told anyone else. It's been almost 3 years since she's been gone, and I still think about it. I Google her sometimes on the Internet, and I am enraged and full of hate if I run across anything about her. Anything that shows how easy it was for her to move on with her life.
Often, I was wish I could go all "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" and forget about her. All the hurt, the rage, the loneliness. Unfortunately, my mind thinks the lesson I've learned is not to let anyone else in. They are going to leave anyway, they always do. So don't let them in. I haven't let another woman into my life since she left. I don't think I ever will either.
I will add that there is more to this story than what I've said, but that's a tale for another day.
I think I must be a hard person to be friends with. I've lost every single best friend I've ever had, save for my high school best friend, who never really knew me anyway. The only one that still hurts to think about, "broke up" with me two and a half years ago. We were so much alike in so many ways. She is an abuse survivor like me, so she has plenty of her own issues. I'll call her D. She left when I had been married for 3 months.
What hurts the most is that I came to depend on her. She has experienced so much of what I've experienced. When my husband and I were first married, he was unemployed. Laid off. We started our marriage with him out of a job, and having a hard time finding a job as well. D. and her husband started their marriage with him unemployed. I struggled with my husband's unemployment and how to help him, and there were times I ached to call D. and ask her how she got through it all. I'm struggling now with my abuse issues, and I'm sad that she could give me advice, but I can't reach out to her.
What happened? Everything exploded in October of 2010. She had been staying at my house when her husband and her got into a huge fight over the phone. She went home later that day. She called me the next day, hysterical. Apparently, she'd been sleeping with her husband's best friend and her husband found out. He was leaving her. She was on the verge of a breakdown, and her father was on his way to take her to the hospital. I was blown away that she had cheated on her husband, she had never confided that in me. She ended the conversation abruptly.
I didn't hear from her for 3 weeks. I called, and called, and called. I left many messages. Coincidently, I got a new cell phone in this time period, and a new phone number. I called her on my new phone and she answered the phone. I was floored. As soon as she heard that it was me on the phone, she became cold. I asked her how she was, and she paused. She proceeded to tell me that she couldn't be my friend anymore. That I was a bad influence. That if she wanted to make things work with her husband, she had to get rid of every thing from her past.
My heart broke. It hurt me to hear these words. In a small voice, I told her "Ok". I said goodbye and I hung up the phone. I stared at the phone in my hand for a minute, and then I deleted her phone number out of my phone. I never called her again. I never spoke to her again.
I still hurt over this today. I'm so hurt that she said I was a bad influence. I hurt that I can't get her advice anymore. How was it so easy for her to walk away and act like I never existed? Did I mean so little to her that I was that easy for her to cut out of her life? I feel I never even knew her, there were secrets she kept from me. Like her affair. I told her everything, I never kept a secret from her. I told her things I've never told anyone else. It's been almost 3 years since she's been gone, and I still think about it. I Google her sometimes on the Internet, and I am enraged and full of hate if I run across anything about her. Anything that shows how easy it was for her to move on with her life.
Often, I was wish I could go all "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" and forget about her. All the hurt, the rage, the loneliness. Unfortunately, my mind thinks the lesson I've learned is not to let anyone else in. They are going to leave anyway, they always do. So don't let them in. I haven't let another woman into my life since she left. I don't think I ever will either.
I will add that there is more to this story than what I've said, but that's a tale for another day.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Things That Go Bump In The Night
My husband and I have just moved out of the rental home we'd been staying in since we moved here a year and a half ago. We moved across the United States, 2700 miles. We left behind my family, our friends, and the place where I grew up. We are now living where the husband grew up.
The rental house we were in caused me much distress. When we got into town a year and a half ago, we didn't have a place to live. Faced with returning our moving truck and getting a storage unit, we snapped up a house that upon first glance we thought would suffice. It didn't take long at all however, to realize what we had done. I grew anxious over the amount mold in the house, which I felt I could smell all the time. I could even smell it on my clothes when we left the house. It drove me crazy. I also had a great deal on anxiety about how old the house was, constantly worrying about the state of the electricity. I never once left the house without having some degree of panic, thinking the house would catch on fire while we were gone. It was quite the trial for me, dealing with the anxiety that this house produced.
For whatever reason, I believe this house reminded me of my grandma's house that she lived in when I was very young. My uncle lived with her at this particular house. I'd never in my life had a single flashback, nor did I ever suspect I may have been abused. This all started after moving away from where I grew up, and moving into this house. I've got extreme insomnia, so a couple of times I would go out to sleep on the couch in the living room so I didn't disturb my husband's sleep. He does make the money for the two of us. Every time I slept on the couch, which only ended being maybe 5 times, I had night terrors.
I've had lucid dreams before, but never night terrors. I didn't even know what they were until I'd had them a couple of times and looked them up on the internet. Whenever I slept there, I constantly felt someone was on top of me. It was a struggle to pull myself out of sleep, yet my mind was screaming at me to run. I just couldn't wake up. I was paralyzed. I'd finally pull myself out of this trance, only to realize I was "dreaming". I'd dose back off, and the same thing would happen. If I stayed on the couch, it would happen the whole time, with me waking up 10 times before I'd high tail it back to bed.
One night of terrors consisted of me swearing I heard the dishwasher hissing my name. Again, I would be unable to pull myself out of sleep and unable to move. I would finally manage to pull myself out, and try to dose back to sleep only to have the dishwasher hissing my name again.
I've since recovered a memory involving the couch in my grandma's old house, blood, pain, and my uncle. I do believe this is why sleeping on the couch in that house never really happened. And the only explanation I have for suddenly "remembering" all these things, is that it's possible the house triggered something. Something that has been dormant my whole life. I'm only guessing on that one though because I haven't even recovered full memories. I've only recovered snippets and body memories.
We are out of that house now. This has me curious as to whether memories will continue to come to me or not. At this point, I'm wishing everything would come back to me so that I can begin to accept it and find a way to move on and heal. Only time will tell, I guess.
The rental house we were in caused me much distress. When we got into town a year and a half ago, we didn't have a place to live. Faced with returning our moving truck and getting a storage unit, we snapped up a house that upon first glance we thought would suffice. It didn't take long at all however, to realize what we had done. I grew anxious over the amount mold in the house, which I felt I could smell all the time. I could even smell it on my clothes when we left the house. It drove me crazy. I also had a great deal on anxiety about how old the house was, constantly worrying about the state of the electricity. I never once left the house without having some degree of panic, thinking the house would catch on fire while we were gone. It was quite the trial for me, dealing with the anxiety that this house produced.
For whatever reason, I believe this house reminded me of my grandma's house that she lived in when I was very young. My uncle lived with her at this particular house. I'd never in my life had a single flashback, nor did I ever suspect I may have been abused. This all started after moving away from where I grew up, and moving into this house. I've got extreme insomnia, so a couple of times I would go out to sleep on the couch in the living room so I didn't disturb my husband's sleep. He does make the money for the two of us. Every time I slept on the couch, which only ended being maybe 5 times, I had night terrors.
I've had lucid dreams before, but never night terrors. I didn't even know what they were until I'd had them a couple of times and looked them up on the internet. Whenever I slept there, I constantly felt someone was on top of me. It was a struggle to pull myself out of sleep, yet my mind was screaming at me to run. I just couldn't wake up. I was paralyzed. I'd finally pull myself out of this trance, only to realize I was "dreaming". I'd dose back off, and the same thing would happen. If I stayed on the couch, it would happen the whole time, with me waking up 10 times before I'd high tail it back to bed.
One night of terrors consisted of me swearing I heard the dishwasher hissing my name. Again, I would be unable to pull myself out of sleep and unable to move. I would finally manage to pull myself out, and try to dose back to sleep only to have the dishwasher hissing my name again.
I've since recovered a memory involving the couch in my grandma's old house, blood, pain, and my uncle. I do believe this is why sleeping on the couch in that house never really happened. And the only explanation I have for suddenly "remembering" all these things, is that it's possible the house triggered something. Something that has been dormant my whole life. I'm only guessing on that one though because I haven't even recovered full memories. I've only recovered snippets and body memories.
We are out of that house now. This has me curious as to whether memories will continue to come to me or not. At this point, I'm wishing everything would come back to me so that I can begin to accept it and find a way to move on and heal. Only time will tell, I guess.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
The Inaugural Post
Again, I don't even know where to start.
I just know I have to. I'm in a rough spot right now, consumed by "memories" of what happened. Yet I don't know if these are memories, or stuff I made up in my head. I've always been a writer, doing this is the only thing I know how to do. I don't even have diagnosis to give you for what I am. I haven't even started.
I'm meeting with a psychiatrist at the end of the month. This is my first time ever. Will they give me a diagnosis? I don't know.
What prompted all this? Oh, it's been a long time coming. I've had a headache every.single.day since I was 16. I've seen doctors and neurologists, had cat scans and MRI's, and yet, no answer. I've been on drugs for many years. Has this gotten rid of the headaches? No.
I'm living in a state with very poor healthcare now. My doctor has grown tired of seeing me, and has no advice or medicine to help me. I'd seen her twice when she wanted to refer me to a psychiatrist for my headaches. You know what's funny? I'd never had a doctor suggest this before. Why didn't they? From the research I've done on the internet, chronic headaches are not only a symptom of depression, but a symptom of abuse.
Why, oh why, have I never connected the dots? I'm living in a state of confusion these days. I wish I'd been able to see a psychiatrist before the end of this month, but that's when they could get me in. I've got to keep dealing for a couple of weeks now, all by myself. Yes, I've told my husband what's going on, but he's no therapist. While he does give me unconditional love and support (which I'm sooooo thankful for), he can't help me sort through this.
Only a couple more weeks. Sigh.
I just know I have to. I'm in a rough spot right now, consumed by "memories" of what happened. Yet I don't know if these are memories, or stuff I made up in my head. I've always been a writer, doing this is the only thing I know how to do. I don't even have diagnosis to give you for what I am. I haven't even started.
I'm meeting with a psychiatrist at the end of the month. This is my first time ever. Will they give me a diagnosis? I don't know.
What prompted all this? Oh, it's been a long time coming. I've had a headache every.single.day since I was 16. I've seen doctors and neurologists, had cat scans and MRI's, and yet, no answer. I've been on drugs for many years. Has this gotten rid of the headaches? No.
I'm living in a state with very poor healthcare now. My doctor has grown tired of seeing me, and has no advice or medicine to help me. I'd seen her twice when she wanted to refer me to a psychiatrist for my headaches. You know what's funny? I'd never had a doctor suggest this before. Why didn't they? From the research I've done on the internet, chronic headaches are not only a symptom of depression, but a symptom of abuse.
Why, oh why, have I never connected the dots? I'm living in a state of confusion these days. I wish I'd been able to see a psychiatrist before the end of this month, but that's when they could get me in. I've got to keep dealing for a couple of weeks now, all by myself. Yes, I've told my husband what's going on, but he's no therapist. While he does give me unconditional love and support (which I'm sooooo thankful for), he can't help me sort through this.
Only a couple more weeks. Sigh.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)