Life on the hill: ptsd

Showing posts with label ptsd. Show all posts

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Soul sisters and silver linings

In case you haven't noticed, things have been pretty full on for this single mumma of late.

For the last 3 months, I have been a fire fighter. Since March, when I was notified of the parole hearing, the universe has continued to light fires directly in front of me to attempt to extinguish.

My relationship with the man I gave my heart to (reading that post makes me cry) broke down. In reality, it started breaking down the moment we began residing together. Truth be told, I'm not surprised. Hurt. Sad. Surprised - no. The reality is that I really moved to Brisbane in order to give my daughter a home again, and the opportunity for her finish school. I knowingly took the risk that my relationship with M had every chance of not succeeding. But life is all about taking risks. I had hoped that the outcome would be different.

I truly couldn't have gotten through the last few months without the championing and support of my soul sisters. Without their belief in me to come through the other side, I would have probably fulfilled the underlying burning desire to jump into my car and drive far far away - leaving all it, my children included, behind.

Every single day I reminded myself of the silver linings that happened because I moved in with M. I had a job that I loved, I started connecting with other bloggers in real life. Opportunities to use my voice presented themselves on more then one occasion. Both Nathan and Aston were at better schools, that were going to give them both opportunities that they wouldn't have received if we had stayed on the Sunshine Coast. And lastly, but so not least, I have been able to connect to services that are essential for my daughter, and for our family.

Recently, I have been accused that it's not enough to have positive affirmations, profound quotes and sayings, if you're not practising them. I believe that I do. I falter and fall over. But pick myself up and keep going. Faltering, floundering and falling over, are not signs of not practising what I believe in my heart. For me they are signs that I need to stop, breathe, look and listen.

For the last few months I have worn around my neck a necklace made and given to me by the beautiful Naomi from Seven Cherubs, a fellow warrior woman and soul sister.

never never give up!

It's been this mantra that has gotten me through. Because I. Don't. Give. Up.

While the universe has always put fires in my life, and there have been times I have wanted to lie down and surrender to the darkness that I have been fighting, or to run away from my life, it has also put beside me beautiful people to help me through the battle.

Silver linings. They are always there. Just sometimes we have to blow away the smoke, wipe away the burnt and look again.

Messages for me done by another beautiful soul sister

Fragmented

I can feel myself fragmenting

Piece by shattered piece.

To be put back together

Like a puzzle, battered and chipped in places,

The picture still beautiful when complete.

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Like a ball in pinball machine...

I said it aloud today.

I am afraid.

The fear that has been rolling around in my head. The fear that shot out of the ball chamber, ricocheting off alarms, pinging off buzzers, like a pinball machine. Except there is no exit. The ball of fear just hits another bumper, spinning off on another tangent, hitting another alarm.

He is going to be released, and he is going to come looking for me.

I wish saying it aloud, writing it down, made the fear feel less. But it doesn't. It feels very very real. It clutches at my throat, makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, my skin crawl within.

I want to run away. Disappear. Change my name. Identity. Place.

How can he still create so much fear in me?

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Can't see the forest for the trees (and other cliches)

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Even though I like to consider myself a relatively intelligent person, sometimes I can't see the forest for the trees.

For the last couple of months I have felt like the medication that I take to help keep my anxiety disorder under control, hasn't been doing its job. I've experienced this before, and have usually undergone a med change. It seems that I am one of those lucky people who a particularly type of anti depressant works effectively for 12 to 18 months, then, for whatever reason, it stops working.

After hitting the wall last week I knew I needed to make an appointment with the doctor. My reluctance to do so before now is part of the whole anxiety cycle for me: anxiety increasing because meds are working - anxiety about having to change because changing over is such a pleasant experience - anxiety that I have to take the fucking things at all!

Its wasn't until someone asked the right question that I was able to make the connection between an event, and how I have been feeling. As I spoke to the doctor, explaining how I have been feeling, he asked me what had happened in the last couple of months, what had triggered the change. I answered, thinking aloud, I've started working and juggling that has been interesting, but I love where I work.... I'm having problems in my relationship but my anxiety was spiking before that started.............

My breath caught in my throat, my chest constricted, tears tipped over my eyelids... Fear ran ice cold through my veins.

The parole hearing. That was when anxiety started shadowing my every move. When my limbric kicked. Again.

FLEE... FLEE...FLEE...

Such is the joy that is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

The demonic monster that resides within

Sometimes, no matter hard you try, the fake-it-'til-you-make-it veneer cracks, and the raw, ugly, confusion, sadness, anger, and any other damn negative emotion that you have been desperately fighting to keep in, erupts.

Slowly at first, a trickle, tears sitting on the rim of your eyelids, that you frantically blink away. Then you head starts to thump. Probably from all that gritting your teeth you have been doing for the last few weeks - a grimace that you pretend is a smile. Noise, even the tapping of the key board, starts to make your skin crawl from the inside. You rub at it frantically, but the sensation doesn't stop. Your agiatation increases. Questions from the people you love and care very nearly turn you into the scary monster that you work so hard to keep at bay.

Mum where's this? Mum can you ...? Mum, he's ... She's...

for fucks sakes just LEAVE ME ALONE

The crack widens to a gaping hole. The force of pent up emotion spews forth like water bursting through a dam. You recognise that the monster within is about to swallow you up and replace you with it's spitting venomous ugly prescence. You battle with it, running frantically to your room to let the monster bellow and spit it's poison, hissing at the people you love as you flee.

Anxiety. The demonic monster that resides within me.

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Branded.

There are some dates that are branded into my brain. Seared into the soft tissue, a deep, dark ugly scar.
21 March is one. 18 October 2013 is another.

The first is the man that is my fathers birthday. The second - the day he is eligible for parole. It marks 9 years that he has been in prison. 9 years from when 12 complete strangers believed me and sentenced him to 12 years imprisonment for the abuse he committed against me.

How did that nine years go so fast? Why is the monster still even alive?

Today I finally contacted the victims registrar to change my address details. Something I've been meaning to do for the last six months. Something my mother has reminded me to do numerous times. Something that I kept putting off.

I called the registrar, as grown up Vicky. The woman I spoke to explained the process, but after her telling me the date of his parole hearing, 16 August, 2013, my body went into flight response. When I hung up, little Vicky had arrived. She was biting her nails, holding her breathe, trembling.

I walked out to the lounge room, M looked at me and before I could say anything, asked me what was wrong. Through my tears, I asked him for a cuddle. He came and held me and asked again. I explained what I had just done. He kissed the top of my head, "Let's go an lay down and have a cuddle," he responded.

I curled my body into his embrace and cried. "How has it been 9 years? How is he still alive? He was supposed to die ... I want him to die..."

As I lay there in the safety of his arms, I wrapped my own around that small child within. She is not alone. I am not alone.

Naomi over at Seven Cherubs talks about being a victim, a Survivor, a thriver. Most of the time, I'm thriving. Sometimes, like today, I feel like I am only just surviving. There is a lump in my throat. One that hasn't been there for a very long time.

Fasten your seatbelts ladies and gents. We may hit some turbulence.

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Looking for fairies and unicorns, when all I can find are ogres and trolls

It's strange the things that trigger me. I'm still surprised when it happens. The come back from where the nightmares live is quicker, but the residual feeling of general irritability remains.

Aston handed me this morning a worksheet that requested information on significant events that have occurred in his life, starting from age 1 through to 5. My initial reaction was to freeze, and dive into refusal to participate. A 100 images and memories played through my head in microseconds, none of them appropriate to put down on my 6 year olds time line. My internal dialogue was screaming I don't want to fill out this fucking worksheet!... Fuck you R for being such a c..... %#&$*!!!!

I had to physically look through photos to coax memories other then trolls and ogres. My breathing stuck in my throat, as I searched for fairy and unicorn moments. I found them, eventually, as the kaleidoscope of shattered images filtered through my mind rapidly.

I'm irritable now. Annoyed that I feel like this. Annoyed that there were ogres and trolls at all. Why can't it all be fairies and unicorns?

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ghosts

The ghosts have been stirred up in the house on the hill.

They are doing what ghosts do - haunting... trailing in the ether, their agitation quivering tangibly in the air.

Things - stuff, photos, books, clothes, memories...- get sorted, keep, give away, chuck.

Tears get shed, memories get disturbed from where I have tucked them away tight out of sight, shrunk to something tiny, small, insignificant...

My breath gets stuck in my throat, getting caught behind the lump that grows there when anxiety is rife in my blood...

My mind stumbles over every thought - stare blankly at the screen as it waits for my password, I can't remember it. I remember the first letter, the last three - but not all of it...

Two voices speak inside my head - the rational one that understands the biological process involved with what is going on with me right now, and the irrational one that speaks unspeakable things. And so the battle ensues...

I have made an appointment with my doctor and counsellor. I know how to take care of myself says the rational voice. The irrational one screams "BY WHY THE FUCK DO I EVEN HAVE TO?!"

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I have a mental illness and take medication so that I'm ok

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OK? Got it?

See if that statement said -

I have diabetes and take medications so that I'm OK,

or,

I have thyroid condition and take medication so that I'm OK,

or,

I have a heart condition and take medication so that I'm OK,

it would not get the same response as

I have a mental illness, P.T.S.D. (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) and Acute Anxiety Disorder being my "formal" diagnosis. And I take medication so that I'm OK.

If my pancreas wasn't working properly I would need to take some form of insulin, make modifications to my lifestyle in order for me to live a healthy functioning life. This would be accepted by the general populace.

If my thyroid was creating too much or too little of the hormones it produces, I would be required to take medication in some form and make lifestyle changes...

If my heart... well you get the idea.

Well, my brain doesn't work properly. It doesn't create enough of the chemicals dopamine and serotonin, two neurotransmitters that act as chemical messengers that relay nerve signals through the brain. Consequently, I have to take mediation, and make lifestyle adjustments in order to live a healthy functioning life.

For some people, the requirement to take medication to help with this chemical imbalance in their brain, may only be for a short time. For others, the imbalance is so out of whack that they will have to be on medication for the rest of their lives. I'm one of those people.

So don't judge me because I take medication in order for my brain to work properly. You wouldn't judge me if I had diabetes, or a thyroid condition, or a heart condition. Get educated. People who have a mental illness don't just decide one day to "make it up". It's as real as any other organ in your body not functioning optimally.

One of the beautiful things about advances in medical technology is that we now have the ability to "map" a person's brain. Scientific evidence that someone's brain is not functioning properly can now be obtained. As they say a picture can tell a 1000 words.

I have a mental illness and I take medication so that I'm OK.

And that is OK!!

Some Resources - get educated people!

Reach out - supporting someone with a mental illness

Beyond Blue

R U OK? A conversation could change a life

Signs

On Friday night I fell out of bed. I was trying to get away from the snake that was chasing me in my dream.

Waking up because you've hit your neck and shoulders on the bedside table, while trying to catch your breath from running from an imaginary snake is some what disconcerting.

A wise friend of mine commented, 'You got some shedding to do and your friendly dream snake is trying to help you... a knock on the neck - speak your truth, and your shoulders - don't need to carry the stress anymore!"

Later that day I read my stars -

When our vehicles get dirty there's the car wash. When our clothes get dirty, there's the laundry. so where then, can we take our memories when they get mucky? or must we just allow them to carry on becoming ever more confused and corrupted. We tell ourselves stories about the past and we repeat them so often we begin to believe they are the gospel truth - the only accurate version of events. You now need revisit a part of of your past. Once you see it differently , you will see vast positive potential in the month that lies ahead of you.

Once. Twice. Three times. OK I get it. The universe is not so subtly telling me to deal with shit. So deal I will.

Burning...

On Saturday night we had a camp fire. The weather was perfect for it. We’d had one the previous night when my daughter had a gathering of friends around. One of the benefits of living in the country is you get to do stuff like that.

Because this was the second one for the weekend, wood that had been cut was getting low, so it was decided that anything that was stored in the shed, waiting to be chucked out, could be burned. It would be good as it would reduce the size of the skip that would be required when I move. Cardboard boxes, old magazines, broken wooden toys, junk. You know, that kind of stuff.

Lying amongst the “stuff” was the album that had been gifted to me and Aston’s father on the day that we got married. The day that I knew with absolutely certainty that I had made a monumental mistake. The wedding itself was fairly uneventful. It was afterwards, when R proceeded to get drunk, and aggressive, and very publicly abuse my 8 year old sad and confused daughter by calling her a bitch. Hello Wicked Step-father. The night got progressively worse when on the way home he continued to be abusive and proceeded to get out the moving car, terrifying my children. I think by this stage I was well and truly numb – left my body, watching it all from far above. Sweet disassociation….

Laura saw it, and asked me, “Can I burn that?” I mutely nodded, and watched as she threw it onto the fire, knowing that it was more than an album she was throwing on. I stood and watched the flames engulf it. Then Laura came out of the shed with the air rifle, and fiercely chucked it onto the fire, and my heart started to break.

I stood behind her with my arms around her as tears ran down her face, my own tears hot and heavy with shame, falling as well, both of us re-living the trauma of her being shot in the thigh. By a stupid man, who knew better than to ever point a gun at someone, regardless of whether they thought it was loaded or not.

On the first weekend of the first week Laura started high school, R, Laura, Nathan and a friend of Nathan’s were shooting targets with the air rifle. R was drinking, as usual. Of course, nothing I said was ever heard, or paid attention too. I hated the damn gun. Like I hated him drinking, and by this stage, pretty much everything about him. I was inside the house with Aston, when I heard Laura scream. You know, the type of scream that a mother knows without a doubt that their child is badly hurt. I ran to the door and saw her on the ground. R picked her up and carried her inside, all the while telling her to stop carrying on, that the gun was empty.

I looked at her leg and there was a very definitive entry point, an entry point that could not have been made by air. Which I screamed at him. And as always, because I could never possibly be right, he had to prove a point, and stood in front of us, Laura screaming NO! and promptly fired the air rifle at his own foot. Which of course did nothing, because by now it had nothing in it. That was embedded in my daughters thigh! So, I was right – air cannot penetrate flesh and leave an entry point. Funny that.

He took her to the hospital, where they tried to get the pellet out, unsuccessfully. Consequently she was scheduled for surgery first thing on the Monday morning to have it removed. The whole time, Laura was more concerned about me losing it with R, then what was going on with her. Which only enraged me more, and finally ignited within me the courage to do something about the nightmare my children and I were living. But that’s another story.

Having to see your child go under general anaesthetic is a horrible experience. Especially when the child is having a panic attack. Thankfully the hospital was wonderful and allowed me to stay with her in the theatre until she was completely under, and came and got me to be there when she woke up in recovery.

I really don’t know if I will ever be able to forgive him for doing this to my daughter. She has two 10 cm scars on her thigh, and constantly gets asked how they happened. It’s hard enough being a teenager without any other elements thrown into the mix.

Throwing the air rifle into the fire has opened up a wound inside her heart. Inside of my heart. No amount of prompting on my part to talk to someone about the incident, to help her process it, has had any result. This last week she has been crying a lot, and thinking a lot, and having flash backs. All classic symptoms of PTSD.

I feel helpless. And guilty, and burning with shame. I may not have pulled the trigger, but I brought him into her world.

everything old becomes "new" again

Everything old becomes new again, or so it seems. From fashion to television and movies.

The latest Australian show to be recycled is Young Talent Time. I know people who have watched it, and report that it’s great. The ads that I’ve seen, it looks polished, professional and a great vehicle for young people to dance and sing, and do what they love. I haven’t watched it. I can’t.

I know it will probably seem strange, but for me it’s a trigger. A billion years ago when I was nine, I went to the Young Talent Time School. It was a dance and singing school, full of kids all wanting to be stars. It wasn’t something I wanted to do. It was something I was sent to. By the man who is my father. He was an entertainer. And he wanted his girls to follow suit, so they could perform with him.

Now my sister, four years younger than me, was a gorgeous little thing. Vivacious, with big blue eyes, and lips so red that even at five people always thought she had lipstick on, and long brunette hair. She took to it like a fish to water. She wanted to be a star. Me, on the other hand, at nine, was an extremely skinny, freckly, knobbly kneed, glasses wearing, awkward looking…nerd. Who wanted to disappear.

There were lots of “stars in the making”, beautiful little beings who could hold a note and jazz hands like no tomorrow. And all of these potential stars had mothers who primped and puffed and paraded. Then there was my mum, who constantly had the “deer-caught-in-the-headlights” look. She hated it as much as I did.

It will probably seem odd that I find going to a singing and dance school such an unpleasant experience. I don’t think I will be watching the new Young Talent Time. It hurts too much. The nine year old inside of me physically cringes and withdraws every time the ad comes on. It reminds her too much of what else was going on in her young world at the same time that made her want to disappear. Triggers are funny like that.

Perfect or honest?

I don't have a perfect relationship with my children. Its hard to have a perfect relationship with anyone when you live with a mental illness (PTSD and Acute Anxiety Disorder) is there really such a thing as a perfect relationship anyway? But I know unequivocally that I have an honest one with my children. For me that is far more important then "perfect".

One thing that I have told Laura and Nathan (and will do for Aston) is that if they ever find themselves in a situation where they or a friend need help - be it because of anything - drug, alcohol, sex, anything - and they need an adult, that they come to me, and we will work it out together. No judgement, just support, and hopefully resolution.

Laura has come to me several times. The latest this week. I got a phone call from her on Sunday. A friend that she works with had done a pregnancy test, and it was positive. This young woman, K, has only recently turned 17. She was afraid, and feeling very very lonely. I asked her about her own mother. This was a definite no go zone. Her mother goes through her things, recently found tampons, and wanted to know what sleazy people K had been hanging around! K was adamant that if her mother found out that she was pregnant she would get kicked out of home.

As the week progressed, and I took her to the doctors, held her hand and told her to breathe while she had blood tests and ultrasounds, my heart became sadder and sadder. We spoke a lot. She talked about her relationship with her mother. I talked about what was going on with her body, and how important it was to know and understand her body. I talked about taking care of herself, of making sure she doesn't find herself in this position again, about what her options were. I talked about actions and consequences.

I was very careful not to be derogorative about her mother in anyway, saying instead that I know without a doubt that her mother loves her, that being a parent is hard, and her parenting choices will no doubt have been informed by how she was parented growing up. Inside I was wondering why she had created a relationship with her daughter that was based on fear, and lies.

There are people (as I'm sure there will be people who read this) that think I should not have gotten involved. That it was none of my business. And that is true, it is none of my business. But having been a young woman who felt unheard, unseen and afraid, I refuse to let anyone go through something so definitive alone if I am able to be beside them. It cost me nothing, and I am hopeful that K has learnt a lot from the experience. I know I have.

I'm thankful that I have an honest relationship with my children. They know - no matter what - that they can come to me and that I will love them unconditionally. Its not perfect... But its honest.

(The universe intervened, and K miscarried. Regardless of how or what the outcome, at least she wasn't alone.)

Shaking off the shame

I had mixed feelings when I saw that Wanderlust was speaking out against Domestic Violence. I admired her confidence in speaking out... I tingled with shame at my own story.

You see, I grew up in a family where domestic violence - in all its categories... physical, verbal, mental, emotional, sexual - was the norm, not the exception. And I swore as a young adult that no-one would ever treat me like my mother (and every other woman that the sperm donor brought into my life) myself and my sister had been treated. Ever. I swore it adamantly. Vehemently. Absolutely.

In March 2009 (while this story started a long time ago, you can read about my awakening, everything in between, and finally resolution to make changes) my husband attempted suicide. It was horrible, horrific, devastating.

I sat in the special room at the hospital speaking to the Psyche nurse... no, make that vomiting out my husband's behaviour... all of it. The nasty, horrible, hateful things that he had done, said, behaved towards me and my children. Suddenly I stopped. Because I HEARD myself....

I turned to my friend that was with me - someone who had saved me from myself once before (but that's another story for another time) and said to her "Oh my god. If someone was sitting in front of me telling me the things that I have just spoken I would be looking at them aghast and asking them what the hell are you doing??" That was my moment of realisation. Realisation that I had landed in a relationship that I swore I would never have. One full of violence - verbal, mental and physical. I was devastated. How the fuck had I got here?? What had I done???

I started to cry - not for my husband, but for myself. For my children. In disbelief.

It took me nearly another 12 months and an Apprehended Violence Order, changing my home phone number and mobile number to finally cut him completely out of my life - or as completely as you can cut someone that you share a child with. It took another 12 months and a whole lot of persistence, and me standing my ground, for something that resembled him having a relationship with his son to occur. For ME to no longer be afraid, and know that he no longer has any power over me, to be able to see him for the pathetic sad little man that he is - that took another six months.

Two and a half years in total. To feel like he no longer had a psychological hold over me in some form. To feel like the person I know I am. To reclaim my self esteem. To trust. To love myself. To forgive myself - well that's still a work in progress.

Its easy for outsiders to say a million things about a situation that they haven't walked or lived. To have an opinion. Hell, I even had a million things to say, and an opinion, and I had already lived it as a child... and I still fucking ended up in an all to similar situation as an adult. Why do women stay in abusive relationships? There is a myriad of explanations out there. Its insidious and gradual the slide down that slippery slope. By the time it happens your self belief, esteem, courage, worth are so eroded that you start to believe it is all your fault. That you are the cause of it all.

What should you do if someone you care about is in this situation? Don't judge them. Be there for them. Let them know, when they are ready, you will stand there beside them. They are going to need you.

What if you find yourself in this situation? Firstly - even though it no doubt feels like it, please know that you aren't alone. Reach out. Speak out. You too can shake the shackles of domestic violence. If you can't do it for yourself, and have children - DO IT FOR THEM. Show them how brave, and strong you are. Show your daughters that it is not OK to be treated badly. Show your sons that it is not OK to treat women badly. Show your children that domestic violence is never OK.

Knowledge is power. Find the knowledge. Find the power.

Domestic Violence Resources and Help in Australia

Lifeline Phone: 13 11 14 (cost of local call from landline) Website: http://www.lifeline.org.au

This website is all about the line and the kind of behaviour that crosses it. http://www.theline.gov.au/

What is domestic violence? http://au.reachout.com/find/articles/domestic-violence

Domestic Violence Resource centre http://www.dvrc.org.au/

Australia's Campaign to stop violence against women

old habits die hard...

Some habits take a while to stop. Well they do for me anyway. Especially ones that involve my psyche, guess it comes from having PTSD. My brain automatically goes to the programmed response - even though that response hasn't been required for quite a while now.

Last week a girlfriend text me asking us to a trivia fund raising night for the local scouts. My internal dialogue went something like this:

"M won't want to do this, he'll think its lame, stupid, dumb (any other adjective that is used to describe something someone considers a waste of time). I won't bother asking him. I'll just say no we are busy... hang on a minute Vicky - you don't know that M will think its lame etc. Ask him."

So I did. And he said yes, that sounds fun. I was gob smacked, until I reminded myself that this M. NOT R... and that I have to stop having expectations - good, bad or indifferent.

In the book I read fearless loving by Rhona Britten, she talks about exactly this. Letting go of expectations ... all of them. I was expecting a negative response, based on my previous experiences with R, when asked to go somewhere social. I almost didn't ask M if he wanted to go. I'm glad I pushed through the uncomfortableness of it, and asked.

We went. We caught up with my friend's husband before we went to the trivia night. It was a nice, calm, normal thing to do... (It seems I'm still getting used to what normal looks like) M can hold a conversation, I don't have to be on egg shells worrying about what he is going to say, do, behave, be...

I finally have what I have craved for such a long time. A partner. A person who interacts with me. A grown up. Someone I can be silly with, serious with, just be with...

I had such a lovely weekend. We didn't do anything tremendously exciting (the trivia night went on for an awfully long time....), watched some episodes of Rome together, had a sleep in, bacon and eggs breakfast, washed the dogs, had a water fight with the boys... It was just ... nice. Calm. Normal.

I love nice. calm. Normal... I love it a lot.

My Pandora's box... part 1

The saying "opening Pandora's box" gets thrown around a lot. It comes from the myth of Pandora, and the box that she was given by the gods and told to never open it. Pandora tried to tame her curiosity, but in the end she could not do it; she opened the box and all the illnesses and hardships that the gods had hidden in the box started coming out. Pandora was scared, evil spirits sprung from the box and she fiercely tried to close the box as fast as possible, enclosing the only thing remaining inside - Hope.

This is the story of the opening of my Pandora's box.

This isn't a pleasant story so it comes with a warning. If you have been abused -mentally, physically, sexually - there are details in this story that may trigger you. Read it with care.

I was ambivalent about motherhood. My points of reference for parents were not shining ones that instil in you the confidence to go forth and multiply. Instead I had a whole lot of things I knew I didn't want to do... and not a lot to fall back on in regards to how to do it right. So armed with my HOW NOT TO BE PARENT guide I became a mother.

My daughter was truly an angel. She fed like a champion, slept through from 6 weeks old, did everything the "books" said, was a coffee shop connoisseur by three weeks of age, was so busy sleeping, or smiling, that my arms were often empty, or holding someone else's small person to give them some relief.

But with the birth of my daughter came the beginning of "postcards" from under the door of my Pandora's box. Postcards from my own childhood. Postcards from the place where I had very neatly folded down into tiny tiny pieces my life as a child... or to be more precise, from childhood until 23... stored and locked away so that I could re-invent myself into something - someone - shiny and new.

I kept slipping - sometimes kicking - those postcards back under that door. NO! was my usual internal response to these postcard moments. NO! That was then, this is now... the two aren't related, have nothing to do with each other, aren't connected, GO AWAY!

Then I had my son. I had no experience with little boys. I had a sister, no brothers. Maleness in fact alarmed and scared me. I didn't understand them.

The postcards came faster and my refusal to look at them or deal with them became frantic. I spiriled down into the abyss, where colour is washed out, almost non-exisitent. When you have no colour in your life, no light it feels like you are walking around in a fog, sounds, images, feelings are muted, or disappear completely.

When my son was 8 months old I went to the doctor. But I didn't tell her anything, other then I was tired, and cried a lot. I didn't divulge anything about my past, she didn't ask. I didn't offer. I was put on anti-depressants, and treated for Post Natal Depression.

It wasn't until nearly 3 years later that I began to realise that all the medication in the world wasn't going to stop the postcards. That, and the fact that I found out that I was going to have a baby sister. The man who I had all but deleted from my life was going to be a father again...

That was when my Pandora's box flung open, and the world that I had tried so hard to create shattered into a million tiny pieces.

knowledge is empowering vs ignorance is bliss....

heart sore, body sore, head spinning - exhausted... physically, emotionally, mentally... in a state of disassociativeness

This will probably make no sense - but it does to me. I've been pondering this all day. I'm not sure what is worse.... having a panic attack, being triggered into trauma and cognitively understanding what is going on, or having those things happen and not understanding why or where it was coming from.

case of knowledge is empowering vs ignorance is bliss....

because right now - all the knowledge in the world isn't make any of this any better.

15 years...

The year I turned 15 I moved from living with my paternal grandmother - who started the day with a vegemite jar full of brandy, and would continue consuming the bottle through out the day - to living with my abusive father and his new wife and her children. Frying pan to fire....

I had hoped that because he was newly remarried that the history of abuse would cease... how wrong was I.

He loved an audience. Comes with the territory of being an entertainer I guess. Him and his wife would come home from a gig anywhere from midnight to 2am, and he would proceed to wake myself and her three children up. We would all have to sit and listen to the tirade for whatever supposed offence we, or his wife had committed that day/night/hour/minute.... then the physical violence would start, usually as a result of his wife telling him to stop, or to leave one of her kids alone. And we would sit in silence. This was new to them... for me, it was just a continuation of how it had always been. The only difference being the place, and the woman.

I had hoped that because he had a new wife that I would no longer be a target for sexual innuendo, or touch. It had been safer in the past when there was a woman around. The degree of sexual abuse changed, what would happen was to a lesser a degree, I wasn't raped anymore... but that was all that changed... After all "don't be stupid, I'm your father" was the common catch cry if I protested.

"Don't be stupid, I'm your father" apparently meant that it was ok to grope your 15 year old daughter's growing breasts, that it was ok to walk past her and goose her, at the front or the back... It meant that it was ok to come into the bathroom while she was showering, and open the shower curtain under the pre tense of getting the soap...

I only remember once being on the receiving end of my father's violence. I hadn't put the vacuum away quickly enough in his opinion, and because I spoke to him with attitude, I was promptly pushed up against the wall with his hands around my throat. I woke up, on the floor to him kicking me and yelling at me "who the fuck do you think you are?"

What's this got to do with anything?

I have spent 100's of hours in therapy... 17 days in the psyche unit... a plethora of anti- depressants and other meds, a committal hearing, a trial, and successful conviction for the historical sexual abuse that he committed against me. The continual fight to overcome Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome and Acute Anxiety Disorder. Read God know's how many books in the hope of learning how to parent successfully, because my own point of reference is so skewed, that all it gave me was the HOW NOT TO parent experience.

There have been many many times through out my daughter's life that I have been triggered by her femaleness... as she entered adolescence and the physical changes occurring in front of me were so visibly confronting that I went into counselling again, to learn what was 'normal' for a adolescent female to experience and show.

And here I am, heart sore. Because it feels like it was for naught. My 15 year old daughter, in the midst of her own teenage angst, has declared me the enemy, and is moving to live with her father. All the therapy, all the books, none of it can quieten the angry 15 year old in me, as my daughter tantrums at my answers of no, at boundaries being put down, at not getting her own way right here, right now.... the 15 year old inside of me, looks at her, aghast, and thinks ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME???

Then, of course the mother in me kicks in, and says shush, Laura's experiences are relative to her, this isn't about you. Which tends to only irritate that 15 year old me even further, and I split, and oscillate between being Laura's mother and trying not to take it so personally, and being 15 again, when my world was so very different to the one my own daughter is in and feeling profoundly angry about it.

How did I so royally fuck this up?