I am absent from blogging because, as of last Thursday, M and I are engaged. Today, we went and tried on my great grandmothers engagement ring, which I'm wearing and revelling in girlishly right this minute...
That's enough for right now. I'll get back to the internet eventually. :)
07 January 2007
02 January 2007
Childhood Ghosts
The last few days have been sort of tough on me. New Years was fun- we went to a low-key party on Sunday, and had a big brunch at our house with friends yesterday. Some of our music-playing friends were in from out of town and we jammed for a while, my mom came by and I gave her belated holiday presents, and the food was great, but I've been feeling generally "off" and struggling with an onset of depression.
The combined factors of my genes and my life experience make mood issues almost a given. My mother and my sister both take medication for mood-swings and depression, and though I've never been medicated, I've struggled with them for most of my life. I also grew up in a really abusive household and was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder five or six years ago. Displays of aggression, unexpected fireworks, and other loud sudden noises can make me freeze, disassociate, burst into tears, etc. It's actually much better now than it used to be. When I first moved out of my parents' house at fifteen, if a waiter dropped a plate in a restaurant, I would instinctively duck under the table. Sometimes I would still be reacting physically, sweating and shaking, five hours later. M. has always been really great at dealing with this. He seems to know I'm going to freak out before I even do, and is always right there to take me outside or somewhere private where I can collect my thoughts. So after years of living in a safe, happy home, I rarely experience PTSD attacks anymore, and when I do, they disappear fairly quickly. I usually freeze up for a second, take a few deep breaths, and I'm
fine. But they flare up more easily if I'm feeling stressed or depressed.
The funks I go through are frustrating because they leave me feeling so unlike myself. I'm normally a confident, rational, fairly boisterous person. I'm a bit of a neurotic perfectionist, but I do accomplish a lot and generally like myself just fine. When I get depressed, I feel weepy, clingy, insecure, and fussy. I keep myself up at night hating myself and feeling that everyone around me must dislike me too. I re-play all of my faults. I pretty much just want to sleep all the time and it's difficult to be interested in anything. Things I normally love- reading, writing, playing music, cooking, etc- hold no appeal. Sometimes it lasts for a day, and sometimes it lasts for a month, but it's been almost a year since I've dealt with this, and it hit me out of the blue a few days ago. I'm especially bothered because there doesn't seem to be any real reason for it. The holidays were fun and not terribly stressful, and I have a list of projects a mile long to keep me busy over break. (That's a good thing- boredom spells depression for me.)
After everyone left yesterday, M. was cleaning the kitchen and I was just kind of moping around, going from room to room, doing nothing and feeling awful. M. asked me to come keep him company, which I accomplished by sitting on a chair and sulking quietly until he asked me what was wrong. We talked for a while about what was bothering me- to my credit, I've gotten a lot better about not taking this stuff out on him but explaining my feelings, and he was being especially kind and comforting. I was starting to feel a little bit better, and I got up to get a plate for some food. I grabbed a big plate off the stack in the cabinet, which had two smaller plates stacked on top that I didn't see until they went flying into the air and shattered all over the floor with a giant crash. Hello, minor PTSD attack!
M. came and hugged me and told me to sit down and offered to clean up the plates himself, but I insisted on doing it. He was already cleaning and I didn't feel like giving him more to do. I was wandering around in a daze with the broom and the dustpan, very slowly cleaning up and feeling like a complete idiot, when some malevolent elf (or air current, or who knows what) sent a heavy metal baking pan flying off the top of the refrigerator, resulting in an even louder and more sudden crashing noise. And that pretty much did me in- I started crying hysterically, couldn't move, kept blathering I'm-sorry-I'm-sorry I'm-sorry, etc. M. wrapped me up in a hug and brought me outside on the porch to smoke, which usually helps me to calm down, and after a little while I was at least able to eat my food and behave like a human when some friends stopped by for a drink.
I had completely forgotten that I was going to be punished that evening for, big surprise, smoking too much on New Years Eve. That morning, I had woken up with a wee bit of a hangover, and M. had told me that I could either be punished right then with just the hairbrush, or wait till that evening and get the hairbrush and the strap. I opted to wait till evening. So when I came upstairs after washing my face for bed, M. caught me in a hug at the top of the stairs and then marched me into the bedroom, bending me over the footboard of our bed. He pulled up my skirt and tucked it in at the waistband, then pulled my tights and panties down to my knees. I was lectured for a few minutes about smoking too much and being disobedient, and got a brisk handspanking before he switched to the paddle. (The brush was "missing," i.e. had fallen from it's place on the closet wall and he didn't see it!) Then I got a fairly wicked but not terribly long stropping with the razor strop. M. stopped when I was a few strokes away from tears, which came later, when we were undressed and snuggling in bed.
Last night was one of the first times I've experienced that "little girl" feeling I spent so many years craving and reading about and wanting someone to understand. I haven't yet fully explained this to M, although I think he's starting to get it and doesn't seem very troubled about it. PTSD attacks have always made me feel so helpless and stupid in the past- it's only in the last couple of years that I've been able to stop blaming myself for them. They're obviously not my fault at all, and I've done everything I can to make them manageable- explaining them when I'm calm, not lashing out at others afterwards, not pretending that nothing is wrong, being aware of my coping strategies, and of course, dealing with my abuse history in "regular" life. All of this has been pretty effective in curtailing them, but beyond that, I've accepted that they happen sometimes and may continue for many years to come, if not forever.
It helps me to heal when I'm able to embrace that helpless place I go to, instead of hating myself for it. When the person who comforts me for something that is emphatically not my fault can punish me for the things that are, I feel more whole, more completely understood. I didn't have "PTSD" when I lived with my parents, because there was no "post." The things that trigger me now weren't memories yet, they were my daily reality, and I wasn't able to cry or freak out like I do now, because I'd never have done anything else. What I now experience as an attack is also a release. I go to an awful, helpless, teary place, but I'm safe to do so- no one comes after me with a bread knife or tries to choke me when I do. Similarly, when I was a child, I did everything for myself because the adults in my life were too useless and out of control to take care of me. I knew that by the time I was six. I made my own food. I started working when I was twelve. I bought my own clothes. I was self-supporting by fourteen. I couldn't make the mistakes that children make, and I hated myself when I did. Part of the reason I crave punishment so much is because I get to experience an imaginary childhood I never had, where the authority figure is loving and consistent and reacts in a predictable manner when I make mistakes. There's a consequence, of course, but it's clearly spelled out for me, and when it's over, I don't have to beat myself up about it anymore, at least in theory.
I got about halfway there last night- what I really wanted was to be sent to the corner and then paddled again until I cried, but I wasn't really in the place where I could ask M. for more. I might tell him about that tonight, but he's learning the ropes himself intuitively, and maybe I'd rather he figure it out on his own over time, the way he's been doing so well thus far.
Hmmph. I never thought I'd be pouring my heart out to a blog, but here I am.
The combined factors of my genes and my life experience make mood issues almost a given. My mother and my sister both take medication for mood-swings and depression, and though I've never been medicated, I've struggled with them for most of my life. I also grew up in a really abusive household and was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder five or six years ago. Displays of aggression, unexpected fireworks, and other loud sudden noises can make me freeze, disassociate, burst into tears, etc. It's actually much better now than it used to be. When I first moved out of my parents' house at fifteen, if a waiter dropped a plate in a restaurant, I would instinctively duck under the table. Sometimes I would still be reacting physically, sweating and shaking, five hours later. M. has always been really great at dealing with this. He seems to know I'm going to freak out before I even do, and is always right there to take me outside or somewhere private where I can collect my thoughts. So after years of living in a safe, happy home, I rarely experience PTSD attacks anymore, and when I do, they disappear fairly quickly. I usually freeze up for a second, take a few deep breaths, and I'm
fine. But they flare up more easily if I'm feeling stressed or depressed.
The funks I go through are frustrating because they leave me feeling so unlike myself. I'm normally a confident, rational, fairly boisterous person. I'm a bit of a neurotic perfectionist, but I do accomplish a lot and generally like myself just fine. When I get depressed, I feel weepy, clingy, insecure, and fussy. I keep myself up at night hating myself and feeling that everyone around me must dislike me too. I re-play all of my faults. I pretty much just want to sleep all the time and it's difficult to be interested in anything. Things I normally love- reading, writing, playing music, cooking, etc- hold no appeal. Sometimes it lasts for a day, and sometimes it lasts for a month, but it's been almost a year since I've dealt with this, and it hit me out of the blue a few days ago. I'm especially bothered because there doesn't seem to be any real reason for it. The holidays were fun and not terribly stressful, and I have a list of projects a mile long to keep me busy over break. (That's a good thing- boredom spells depression for me.)
After everyone left yesterday, M. was cleaning the kitchen and I was just kind of moping around, going from room to room, doing nothing and feeling awful. M. asked me to come keep him company, which I accomplished by sitting on a chair and sulking quietly until he asked me what was wrong. We talked for a while about what was bothering me- to my credit, I've gotten a lot better about not taking this stuff out on him but explaining my feelings, and he was being especially kind and comforting. I was starting to feel a little bit better, and I got up to get a plate for some food. I grabbed a big plate off the stack in the cabinet, which had two smaller plates stacked on top that I didn't see until they went flying into the air and shattered all over the floor with a giant crash. Hello, minor PTSD attack!
M. came and hugged me and told me to sit down and offered to clean up the plates himself, but I insisted on doing it. He was already cleaning and I didn't feel like giving him more to do. I was wandering around in a daze with the broom and the dustpan, very slowly cleaning up and feeling like a complete idiot, when some malevolent elf (or air current, or who knows what) sent a heavy metal baking pan flying off the top of the refrigerator, resulting in an even louder and more sudden crashing noise. And that pretty much did me in- I started crying hysterically, couldn't move, kept blathering I'm-sorry-I'm-sorry I'm-sorry, etc. M. wrapped me up in a hug and brought me outside on the porch to smoke, which usually helps me to calm down, and after a little while I was at least able to eat my food and behave like a human when some friends stopped by for a drink.
I had completely forgotten that I was going to be punished that evening for, big surprise, smoking too much on New Years Eve. That morning, I had woken up with a wee bit of a hangover, and M. had told me that I could either be punished right then with just the hairbrush, or wait till that evening and get the hairbrush and the strap. I opted to wait till evening. So when I came upstairs after washing my face for bed, M. caught me in a hug at the top of the stairs and then marched me into the bedroom, bending me over the footboard of our bed. He pulled up my skirt and tucked it in at the waistband, then pulled my tights and panties down to my knees. I was lectured for a few minutes about smoking too much and being disobedient, and got a brisk handspanking before he switched to the paddle. (The brush was "missing," i.e. had fallen from it's place on the closet wall and he didn't see it!) Then I got a fairly wicked but not terribly long stropping with the razor strop. M. stopped when I was a few strokes away from tears, which came later, when we were undressed and snuggling in bed.
Last night was one of the first times I've experienced that "little girl" feeling I spent so many years craving and reading about and wanting someone to understand. I haven't yet fully explained this to M, although I think he's starting to get it and doesn't seem very troubled about it. PTSD attacks have always made me feel so helpless and stupid in the past- it's only in the last couple of years that I've been able to stop blaming myself for them. They're obviously not my fault at all, and I've done everything I can to make them manageable- explaining them when I'm calm, not lashing out at others afterwards, not pretending that nothing is wrong, being aware of my coping strategies, and of course, dealing with my abuse history in "regular" life. All of this has been pretty effective in curtailing them, but beyond that, I've accepted that they happen sometimes and may continue for many years to come, if not forever.
It helps me to heal when I'm able to embrace that helpless place I go to, instead of hating myself for it. When the person who comforts me for something that is emphatically not my fault can punish me for the things that are, I feel more whole, more completely understood. I didn't have "PTSD" when I lived with my parents, because there was no "post." The things that trigger me now weren't memories yet, they were my daily reality, and I wasn't able to cry or freak out like I do now, because I'd never have done anything else. What I now experience as an attack is also a release. I go to an awful, helpless, teary place, but I'm safe to do so- no one comes after me with a bread knife or tries to choke me when I do. Similarly, when I was a child, I did everything for myself because the adults in my life were too useless and out of control to take care of me. I knew that by the time I was six. I made my own food. I started working when I was twelve. I bought my own clothes. I was self-supporting by fourteen. I couldn't make the mistakes that children make, and I hated myself when I did. Part of the reason I crave punishment so much is because I get to experience an imaginary childhood I never had, where the authority figure is loving and consistent and reacts in a predictable manner when I make mistakes. There's a consequence, of course, but it's clearly spelled out for me, and when it's over, I don't have to beat myself up about it anymore, at least in theory.
I got about halfway there last night- what I really wanted was to be sent to the corner and then paddled again until I cried, but I wasn't really in the place where I could ask M. for more. I might tell him about that tonight, but he's learning the ropes himself intuitively, and maybe I'd rather he figure it out on his own over time, the way he's been doing so well thus far.
Hmmph. I never thought I'd be pouring my heart out to a blog, but here I am.
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