So my previous therapist - REBT but wonderful - gave me the strength to go for what I think I needed. I asked a colleague I like if he'd do Schema Therapy with me and he said yes. I feel safe with him and trust him implicitly and Schema has jut seemed like a good fit from the start.
While I was still seeing her and felt supported I had a terrifying nightmare in which a terrorist was breaking into my office and he was going to shoot us all, me in particular. Towards the end it was my father breaking into my childhood bedroom and a voice over said "This means he sexually abused you".
Around this time I saw a home video HE GAVE ME (probably didn't check what he had there) in which he ZOOMED IN ON MY ASS while I was walking for several minutes. I was perhaps 9? 10? 12?
I've always remembered he mentioned my nice, well-rounded bottom, spanked red by my mother when I was 2, 3 (the whole scene seemed to give him pleasure; I know in my bones I was seriously whipped by him, what my mother did was small potatoes, but this is less relevant here).
I remember being 5 or 6 and scared to wipe my own butt because he insisted on doing that. It took great courage and initiative and going potty in the darkness so he doesn't know to claim my right to do this on my own now.
I remember being as old as 7, 8, 9 and having to bend over naked on the couch so he'd put diaper rash cream on my butt?! My mother was there in the room, I assumed it was just strange and eccentric.
My friends teased me because he bathed me until I was 12 - I don't even know if it was true.
I can't be touched at night, it wakes me up in a panic-attack-like state immediately. I'm also terrified of anyone opening the door and walking in when I'm sleeping or trying to fall asleep.
I don't KNOW anything, but my father is a sexual maniac who owns all the women in his life and narcissists will do anything to anyone, it's not like they have scruples. I'm disgusted by him and can't be touched by him and I KNOW there's a dark secret no one can know or else I'll die.
When this colleague I trusted to be an effective ally against my NF said he'd have some time in September, I had another nightmare. After trying to get to my childhood bedroom - which was dangerous and difficult - I was finally there, but my father was breaking in through the window and the voice over again said "You KNOW this means he sexually abused you".
I haven't slept well since and it's been weeks.
I let myself entertain the possibility of this and it let me cry for days - my thought is "Maybe this is where the love was hiding all along - I was supposed to have loved him at some distant point in the past, and surely just being hit or demeaned is not what did it in, there's also a sleazy abject element to it".
Also, why I'm so uncomfortable with flirting and being sexy and noticing that someone is attracted to me.
Maybe also why I was masturbating compulsively at age 3 or 4 already, including in public. To relieve anxiety, among other things. Not just exploring my body like kids do, maniacally having to orgasm.
So I guess my subconscious let me have a tidbit of this because this new trusted person who could be on my side appeared?
I've been TERRIFIED since, unable to sleep. Like if I allow myself to remember this (I don't, I'm not claiming this happened at all) then I know something I'm not supposed to, something that will get me killed.
Showing posts with label therapy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label therapy. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 2, 2019
Friday, December 28, 2018
Shame
I started therapy again.
I find most of my emotions fit neatly into these categories: anxiety, depression, tenderness/gratitude/relief/love (blending into one).
My therapist suggested writing down situations and my emotional reactions to them, both in the present and in my childhood - and what I think my emotions could have or should have been, had I been free to express them and even feel them.
And immediately I said I think I started reacting in an appropriate way really early - which means "these people are my capos, it would be silly to feel emotionally hurt by what they say or do, I can only feel fear, anger, anxiety, depression, like I would in a concentration camp, not hurt feelings, like I would if someone I cared about said or did something hurtful".
So I tried with the situation I remember was a sort of trigger that got me to consciously detach from both my parents at age 8 - I have written about it but I'll go into more details now. Because what I realize is that the emotions keeping me from accessing all this stuff are not pain or anger predominantly, they're shame and guilt.
We were at a mountain cabin/hotel for winter holidays. My parents took the daughter of my father's coworker along. We went out to play in the snow one afternoon, all except my mother.
I don't remember exactly how it happened, but us two girls started playfully attacking my father and he started throwing us onto the ground. At one point, this got really violent and he really slammed us hard. The girl said she didn't want to play any more and we went back.
I felt I had the obligation to speak up - not for myself, of course. "Dad, I'm your daughter and you can do whatever you want to me (?! yes I said this), but not to someone else's kid. I think it's wrong to behave in this way to her".
He said something to the effect of making a violent threat.
Then I said "You are stronger than me now, but when I'm 30 you'll be 70 and I'll be the stronger one then".
Then he started slapping me in the face repeatedly, making denigrating remarks. I didn't cry or react, at this moment I was tough and had an armor on against him.
Afterwards, I told my mother I loved her more then. She rejected this advance. So I had no one. I felt shame for groveling, asking for her support and love.
So an hour or so later, he was shouting at some kids in the hotel to shut up. And I was around and I remember kissing him on the hand to suck up so he'll love me again (?!) and thinking at that moment "I'm kissing the hand that slapped me". And being disgusted at myself.
I feel shame about this. About the groveling. And guilt, about the violent threats I kind of made.
But at this moment I also feel some empathy for the 8yo who had no one to turn to, no one on her side.
I don't know what my actual feeling were at the time towards my parents in general, but I'm not sure any sort of personal hurt would have been entirely appropriate. Just sadness about the loneliness, which I can feel now.
I find most of my emotions fit neatly into these categories: anxiety, depression, tenderness/gratitude/relief/love (blending into one).
My therapist suggested writing down situations and my emotional reactions to them, both in the present and in my childhood - and what I think my emotions could have or should have been, had I been free to express them and even feel them.
And immediately I said I think I started reacting in an appropriate way really early - which means "these people are my capos, it would be silly to feel emotionally hurt by what they say or do, I can only feel fear, anger, anxiety, depression, like I would in a concentration camp, not hurt feelings, like I would if someone I cared about said or did something hurtful".
So I tried with the situation I remember was a sort of trigger that got me to consciously detach from both my parents at age 8 - I have written about it but I'll go into more details now. Because what I realize is that the emotions keeping me from accessing all this stuff are not pain or anger predominantly, they're shame and guilt.
We were at a mountain cabin/hotel for winter holidays. My parents took the daughter of my father's coworker along. We went out to play in the snow one afternoon, all except my mother.
I don't remember exactly how it happened, but us two girls started playfully attacking my father and he started throwing us onto the ground. At one point, this got really violent and he really slammed us hard. The girl said she didn't want to play any more and we went back.
I felt I had the obligation to speak up - not for myself, of course. "Dad, I'm your daughter and you can do whatever you want to me (?! yes I said this), but not to someone else's kid. I think it's wrong to behave in this way to her".
He said something to the effect of making a violent threat.
Then I said "You are stronger than me now, but when I'm 30 you'll be 70 and I'll be the stronger one then".
Then he started slapping me in the face repeatedly, making denigrating remarks. I didn't cry or react, at this moment I was tough and had an armor on against him.
Afterwards, I told my mother I loved her more then. She rejected this advance. So I had no one. I felt shame for groveling, asking for her support and love.
So an hour or so later, he was shouting at some kids in the hotel to shut up. And I was around and I remember kissing him on the hand to suck up so he'll love me again (?!) and thinking at that moment "I'm kissing the hand that slapped me". And being disgusted at myself.
I feel shame about this. About the groveling. And guilt, about the violent threats I kind of made.
But at this moment I also feel some empathy for the 8yo who had no one to turn to, no one on her side.
I don't know what my actual feeling were at the time towards my parents in general, but I'm not sure any sort of personal hurt would have been entirely appropriate. Just sadness about the loneliness, which I can feel now.
Friday, June 7, 2013
New Analogy
I have started to think about my early relationship with my parents in a new way.
I no longer - having, of course, first gone through such a long phase of anger, blaming, and analyzing, which I'm perfectly happy with - need to think about the "relationship" we had. Or them, really, too much.
I see it this way: yes, this early stuff, and love, and parents, all of this is very important. It's like developing language in children. If a child is not communicated with in early childhood, she will have trouble learning language.
Well, I realized recently that, no, my parents never taught me the language of love, but that, yes, I am able to speak it with others now. It's not easy, it's not my mother tongue, I make mistakes or just don't know how to express myself, but I'm slowly getting there. And this is all that currently matters to me. I don't need to think about the fact that my parents failed me in this department so much any more. I just want to focus on the department itself, because that's what matters.
Therapy helped with that. Mostly, my therapist helped me allow myself to not feel anything much for my parents. And be OK with that. Because I feel things for other people, which means I learned language later in life - which is harder to do, but not impossible.
My new version of the recurring dream in which I discover that I actually never graduated from high school and thus my university degree and graduate degrees are invalid? I go back to school, ask around and really, there are a couple of classes that I never finished owing to an error of sorts. I never really graduated. But, also, the administration overlooked this. They gave me a diploma. I officially and validly graduated, even though I missed some things. No one will cause me any trouble or blame me for not completing those courses so long ago, especially given how far I've come since. I can freely go on with my life and, in the dream, I choose to do so.
In my life, I choose to do so as well.
I'm where I am and will be focusing on that now. Working on my doctoral dissertation, embracing new career opportunities assertively, actively making friends with people I find interesting, enjoying my family.
I no longer - having, of course, first gone through such a long phase of anger, blaming, and analyzing, which I'm perfectly happy with - need to think about the "relationship" we had. Or them, really, too much.
I see it this way: yes, this early stuff, and love, and parents, all of this is very important. It's like developing language in children. If a child is not communicated with in early childhood, she will have trouble learning language.
Well, I realized recently that, no, my parents never taught me the language of love, but that, yes, I am able to speak it with others now. It's not easy, it's not my mother tongue, I make mistakes or just don't know how to express myself, but I'm slowly getting there. And this is all that currently matters to me. I don't need to think about the fact that my parents failed me in this department so much any more. I just want to focus on the department itself, because that's what matters.
Therapy helped with that. Mostly, my therapist helped me allow myself to not feel anything much for my parents. And be OK with that. Because I feel things for other people, which means I learned language later in life - which is harder to do, but not impossible.
My new version of the recurring dream in which I discover that I actually never graduated from high school and thus my university degree and graduate degrees are invalid? I go back to school, ask around and really, there are a couple of classes that I never finished owing to an error of sorts. I never really graduated. But, also, the administration overlooked this. They gave me a diploma. I officially and validly graduated, even though I missed some things. No one will cause me any trouble or blame me for not completing those courses so long ago, especially given how far I've come since. I can freely go on with my life and, in the dream, I choose to do so.
In my life, I choose to do so as well.
I'm where I am and will be focusing on that now. Working on my doctoral dissertation, embracing new career opportunities assertively, actively making friends with people I find interesting, enjoying my family.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Dreams, Lies, and Video Tapes
So, I'd asked my father to have some old family videos turned into CDs for me.
I hoped it would provide me with additional insights into my childhood.
He brought them to me a few weeks ago.
I was somewhat surprised. I'd forgotten my mother and, looking at her, I felt more distant from her than ever. She seems weird, cold, too eager to sound loudly interesting and funny, or just vanishes into the background, despondently.
She's the one who'll taunt me and criticize me for her amusement in those videos. My father actually sometimes defends me. It's nothing big, for sure. Annoying pecks more than stabs.
But, I just don't like her.
I guess that's surprising. She died, then I discovered my father was a narcissist, then I remembered he was always the dominant one, and I somewhat idealized her posthumously. And I felt guilty for being duped or forced into choosing him over her when I was a child. Now I'm not so sure it was the worst thing I could have done. I just don't like her.
I've been telling people about this interesting discovery lately, most recently last night over some beers with friends.
So, this morning I had one of those vivid nightmares, the recurring one I've been having for years with some variations: I find out again all my work towards my doctorate is futile, as I never actually graduated from college. I have to go back to my final year. Nothing is a big deal, except for one course that I'd apparently just forgotten to take and thought of as boring and useless.
I now realize I can choose another course instead, and this time, being older and different, I choose, strangely for me, a course taught by a lovely, helpful, kind woman, involving baking colorful cookies shaped like snowmen and stick figures and cartoon characters. It was childlike and fun and you couldn't fail. I was happy to learn something that might help me make nice gifts for my family. I felt like a loved child being allowed to take this course. I hugged the teacher for being so helpful and she hugged me back.
She looked and acted nothing like my mother. This time, passing the missing exams meant finding a kind, loving, mother surrogate.
The dream continued by me going to my therapist and discovering someone else there, a colleague of his. He insisted I talked to him, so I started telling him about my mother and my dream, and he interrupted me:
- Stop blaming your mother! Stop blaming your parents for your problems and behaviors!
So I started railing and ranting and howling at him:
- I'm NOT blaming her for my behaviors! I'm only blaming them for not loving me, and for how bad that makes me feel, but me screaming at you right now is all ME, and my anger is all ME! And if you think I can't blame them for making me feel that way, don't you dare blame me for how you're feeling right now, being screamed at!!!
That felt good.
(I still haven't terminated therapy, as things are sort of still happening in every session.)
I hoped it would provide me with additional insights into my childhood.
He brought them to me a few weeks ago.
I was somewhat surprised. I'd forgotten my mother and, looking at her, I felt more distant from her than ever. She seems weird, cold, too eager to sound loudly interesting and funny, or just vanishes into the background, despondently.
She's the one who'll taunt me and criticize me for her amusement in those videos. My father actually sometimes defends me. It's nothing big, for sure. Annoying pecks more than stabs.
But, I just don't like her.
I guess that's surprising. She died, then I discovered my father was a narcissist, then I remembered he was always the dominant one, and I somewhat idealized her posthumously. And I felt guilty for being duped or forced into choosing him over her when I was a child. Now I'm not so sure it was the worst thing I could have done. I just don't like her.
I've been telling people about this interesting discovery lately, most recently last night over some beers with friends.
So, this morning I had one of those vivid nightmares, the recurring one I've been having for years with some variations: I find out again all my work towards my doctorate is futile, as I never actually graduated from college. I have to go back to my final year. Nothing is a big deal, except for one course that I'd apparently just forgotten to take and thought of as boring and useless.
I now realize I can choose another course instead, and this time, being older and different, I choose, strangely for me, a course taught by a lovely, helpful, kind woman, involving baking colorful cookies shaped like snowmen and stick figures and cartoon characters. It was childlike and fun and you couldn't fail. I was happy to learn something that might help me make nice gifts for my family. I felt like a loved child being allowed to take this course. I hugged the teacher for being so helpful and she hugged me back.
She looked and acted nothing like my mother. This time, passing the missing exams meant finding a kind, loving, mother surrogate.
The dream continued by me going to my therapist and discovering someone else there, a colleague of his. He insisted I talked to him, so I started telling him about my mother and my dream, and he interrupted me:
- Stop blaming your mother! Stop blaming your parents for your problems and behaviors!
So I started railing and ranting and howling at him:
- I'm NOT blaming her for my behaviors! I'm only blaming them for not loving me, and for how bad that makes me feel, but me screaming at you right now is all ME, and my anger is all ME! And if you think I can't blame them for making me feel that way, don't you dare blame me for how you're feeling right now, being screamed at!!!
That felt good.
(I still haven't terminated therapy, as things are sort of still happening in every session.)
Thursday, January 17, 2013
At the core
I have people in my life that accept me and love me now. But I still can't accept and love myself. I don't trust them to actually accept and love the real me. They accept and love the adult me that developed after years of being molded by my parents.
I don't know any other me. I can try my hardest to be the real me, but I can't re-raise myself from scratch.
When I was a child, I wasn't accepted or loved. That was the core me, the one that could have developed differently.
So, I'm bad at the core. There's something fundamentally wrong with me. I hate and loathe this child at the core of me.
Sure, now that I'm a decent, articulate, generally well-behaved adult, people can accept what they see on the surface. But if they saw through to the faulty unlovable core, they'd hate the real me - the whiny, boring, annoying, weak, loud, pathetic, sensitive brat at the core - just as much as I do.
(I know this is irrational rubbish, but I've just realized after therapy that this is how I feel deep down).
I don't know any other me. I can try my hardest to be the real me, but I can't re-raise myself from scratch.
When I was a child, I wasn't accepted or loved. That was the core me, the one that could have developed differently.
So, I'm bad at the core. There's something fundamentally wrong with me. I hate and loathe this child at the core of me.
Sure, now that I'm a decent, articulate, generally well-behaved adult, people can accept what they see on the surface. But if they saw through to the faulty unlovable core, they'd hate the real me - the whiny, boring, annoying, weak, loud, pathetic, sensitive brat at the core - just as much as I do.
(I know this is irrational rubbish, but I've just realized after therapy that this is how I feel deep down).
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
D-fense
I'm now irritated and angry that my therapist expects me to cry and express my hurt over what my parents did and who they were. That he sees my laughing and smiling over my discoveries and memories as a defense from my feelings.
I mean, yes, there's truth to that. But it's also a very real and sincere and only natural way to react.
I don't feel pain when I remember how I've seen the mask slip and the look of pure hatred and disgust in my father's eyes. I don't feel hurt when I remember the gloating glint in my father's eyes when he thought he had the power to frighten and hurt me.
The feeling I have is a pleasant one.
"See?" It tells me. "It's not your fault you feel nothing but fear, anger, disgust, and frustration for this man. He's a sadistic destructive malignant narcissist."
You can't be hurt by someone you have no relationship with, no love or respect for, nothing at all, less than nothing. I mean, you can get angry, or you can laugh at how crazy and bizarre a person is, but you're not going to have your feelings hurt and cry about it.
If a crazy person who clearly hates you for no apparent reason says something critical to you or looks at you in a nasty way, are you going to cry over your hurt feelings? No. You're more probably going to laugh about how bizarre it is.
This is a defense, that's true. We defend ourselves against crazy people who are never going to have a relationship with us and are only interested in hurting us. We don't let them near.
I've had that defense against my father for as long as I can remember. There was probably a time when I loved and trusted him, but I can't access that - this probably ended when I was a baby.
Since then, I've known one thing well, albeit not consciously: if I give him the pleasure of knowing he's hurt me, he'll hurt me more. If I am tough and show no reaction at all, he'll leave me alone. That's the only defense a powerless child has. And that's my power. The only thing I truly know as strength.
The only clear memory I have of childhood spankings is the realization that they're not going to happen again because I've won by not showing any pain or fear.
He almost admitted to me that he could never break me when I was a child, recently. In a roundabout way, and, of course, talking about my mother spanking me, not him, but it was there. An admiring sort of anger in his eyes as he recounted how stubborn I was as a child. How they couldn't break my will.
This went on with words as weapons.
It's a battle, a war, a concentration camp. If you've been in a war, yes, you're likely to have been hurt and messed up in different ways. But you're not expected to cry because the enemy soldiers hurt your feelings, are you? If you've been in a concentration camp, there surely are many horrible things to recount. But you're not likely going to weep over how the guards didn't like you or how the Kommandant hurt your feelings. You wouldn't be open to having your feelings hurt in the first place. Because you're in the kind of situation where you're trying to survive against a powerful enemy. There's no time or place for having your feelings hurt by that enemy and wanting to cry over that.
So, yes, it's a defense. And it's a damned good one, one that works with sadistic narcissists. And it's one I've had in place since I was tiny. And I'm not hiding anything or even really holding anything back - I don't remember the last time there was anything there.
I mean, yes, there's truth to that. But it's also a very real and sincere and only natural way to react.
I don't feel pain when I remember how I've seen the mask slip and the look of pure hatred and disgust in my father's eyes. I don't feel hurt when I remember the gloating glint in my father's eyes when he thought he had the power to frighten and hurt me.
The feeling I have is a pleasant one.
"See?" It tells me. "It's not your fault you feel nothing but fear, anger, disgust, and frustration for this man. He's a sadistic destructive malignant narcissist."
You can't be hurt by someone you have no relationship with, no love or respect for, nothing at all, less than nothing. I mean, you can get angry, or you can laugh at how crazy and bizarre a person is, but you're not going to have your feelings hurt and cry about it.
If a crazy person who clearly hates you for no apparent reason says something critical to you or looks at you in a nasty way, are you going to cry over your hurt feelings? No. You're more probably going to laugh about how bizarre it is.
This is a defense, that's true. We defend ourselves against crazy people who are never going to have a relationship with us and are only interested in hurting us. We don't let them near.
I've had that defense against my father for as long as I can remember. There was probably a time when I loved and trusted him, but I can't access that - this probably ended when I was a baby.
Since then, I've known one thing well, albeit not consciously: if I give him the pleasure of knowing he's hurt me, he'll hurt me more. If I am tough and show no reaction at all, he'll leave me alone. That's the only defense a powerless child has. And that's my power. The only thing I truly know as strength.
The only clear memory I have of childhood spankings is the realization that they're not going to happen again because I've won by not showing any pain or fear.
He almost admitted to me that he could never break me when I was a child, recently. In a roundabout way, and, of course, talking about my mother spanking me, not him, but it was there. An admiring sort of anger in his eyes as he recounted how stubborn I was as a child. How they couldn't break my will.
This went on with words as weapons.
It's a battle, a war, a concentration camp. If you've been in a war, yes, you're likely to have been hurt and messed up in different ways. But you're not expected to cry because the enemy soldiers hurt your feelings, are you? If you've been in a concentration camp, there surely are many horrible things to recount. But you're not likely going to weep over how the guards didn't like you or how the Kommandant hurt your feelings. You wouldn't be open to having your feelings hurt in the first place. Because you're in the kind of situation where you're trying to survive against a powerful enemy. There's no time or place for having your feelings hurt by that enemy and wanting to cry over that.
So, yes, it's a defense. And it's a damned good one, one that works with sadistic narcissists. And it's one I've had in place since I was tiny. And I'm not hiding anything or even really holding anything back - I don't remember the last time there was anything there.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Tough
The tissues on the desk in my therapist's office annoy me. You think I'm gonna cry? No way. I'm tough.
When he says I had a very difficult childhood and many painful events in my past, I don't trust him to mean it. I'm wondering if he's being sarcastic, as in "Oh, poor you. You whiny brat." (I brought it up at the end of the session and he was able to convince me he definitely means it; that almost made me cry.)
Being vulnerable in front of others is dangerous and stupid. If you admit to any hurt feelings, ever, you will be attacked where it hurts AND you will be called ungrateful, whiny, and weak.
When you're hurt by someone, what you do is grit your teeth, clench your whole body, and bear it and just wait for it to be over. You don't even admit it hurts. You don't give them that pleasure.
My therapist asked me if I was aware of an interesting defense I had: whenever I talk about painful experiences, I smile and laugh. I wasn't aware of it. And I didn't mind I had it. I kind of thought that was cool. I'm aware, rationally, that this is messed up and actually weak, but I don't think I can help feeling this way. I don't even remember talking about painful experiences - just things my parents did. I didn't feel any pain.
I would loathe and disgust myself if I were to break down and cry before this father figure - not that I'm tempted to.
My husband is the only one I can cry in front of - and I loathe and disgust myself for that, too.
When he says I had a very difficult childhood and many painful events in my past, I don't trust him to mean it. I'm wondering if he's being sarcastic, as in "Oh, poor you. You whiny brat." (I brought it up at the end of the session and he was able to convince me he definitely means it; that almost made me cry.)
Being vulnerable in front of others is dangerous and stupid. If you admit to any hurt feelings, ever, you will be attacked where it hurts AND you will be called ungrateful, whiny, and weak.
When you're hurt by someone, what you do is grit your teeth, clench your whole body, and bear it and just wait for it to be over. You don't even admit it hurts. You don't give them that pleasure.
My therapist asked me if I was aware of an interesting defense I had: whenever I talk about painful experiences, I smile and laugh. I wasn't aware of it. And I didn't mind I had it. I kind of thought that was cool. I'm aware, rationally, that this is messed up and actually weak, but I don't think I can help feeling this way. I don't even remember talking about painful experiences - just things my parents did. I didn't feel any pain.
I would loathe and disgust myself if I were to break down and cry before this father figure - not that I'm tempted to.
My husband is the only one I can cry in front of - and I loathe and disgust myself for that, too.
Friday, December 7, 2012
For Quercus Garryana - The Black Hole
I owe you several posts, but I really wanted to do this one that I never even promised. :)
It's my list of reasons why I love the discovery of the black hole. The one caused by the absence of parental love that will never be filled.
1) I've always known it was there. I was just never allowed to feel it, acknowledge it, know about it. See, my life and family and everything was perfect. But now I consciously know the black hole is part of who I am.
2) I finally have a right to who I am and what I feel. I've been angsty, dark, cynical, depressed, black, at different points in my life. I was not just being an ungrateful poser. It was me.
3) Pain, sadness, loneliness, anything, feels better than the empty denial of it. Much better.
4) We're all different and have different crosses to bear. We don't have to be happy or fulfilled or fucking perfect. That's what the narcs demanded from us. That's not what being human is all about. I never have to be happy or whole or perfectly content. Just truly honest and human, thank you.
5) Everybody hurts.
It's OK to hurt and feel sad and incomplete and like you're missing something. It's part of being human. I feel like I need to make this point again, even after 4)
Even people from wonderful families have thorns in their sides. It's what being human entails. It's kind of beautiful, really.
6) Finally seeing that black hole face to face, being broken and vulnerable - leaves you open to the really good things in life. You're a Christian, right? Leonard Cohen has some of my favorite lyrics about Christ:
And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
only drowning men could see him
he himself was broken
It makes me shiver, every time.
7) My favorite insight: the real me doesn't need or want perfect, non-messed-up parents now. No, they wouldn't truly get the real me. Nor would my actual dysfunctional still-messed-up parents.
What the real me now wants and needs and gets is other ACoNs - the ones who've been there and understand and offer support and empathy.
How I got myself to finally cry: I imagined asking my therapist if he'd been loved by his parents; I imagined him replying, calmly, slightly sadly, but mostly with empathy: "No". And I felt like someone could understand the hell inside and not judge me. Know it's real and I'm not a wimpy liar making it up. That gave me the permission to feel it and own it.
And that's me and that's really OK.
It's my list of reasons why I love the discovery of the black hole. The one caused by the absence of parental love that will never be filled.
1) I've always known it was there. I was just never allowed to feel it, acknowledge it, know about it. See, my life and family and everything was perfect. But now I consciously know the black hole is part of who I am.
2) I finally have a right to who I am and what I feel. I've been angsty, dark, cynical, depressed, black, at different points in my life. I was not just being an ungrateful poser. It was me.
3) Pain, sadness, loneliness, anything, feels better than the empty denial of it. Much better.
4) We're all different and have different crosses to bear. We don't have to be happy or fulfilled or fucking perfect. That's what the narcs demanded from us. That's not what being human is all about. I never have to be happy or whole or perfectly content. Just truly honest and human, thank you.
5) Everybody hurts.
It's OK to hurt and feel sad and incomplete and like you're missing something. It's part of being human. I feel like I need to make this point again, even after 4)
Even people from wonderful families have thorns in their sides. It's what being human entails. It's kind of beautiful, really.
6) Finally seeing that black hole face to face, being broken and vulnerable - leaves you open to the really good things in life. You're a Christian, right? Leonard Cohen has some of my favorite lyrics about Christ:
And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
only drowning men could see him
he himself was broken
It makes me shiver, every time.
7) My favorite insight: the real me doesn't need or want perfect, non-messed-up parents now. No, they wouldn't truly get the real me. Nor would my actual dysfunctional still-messed-up parents.
What the real me now wants and needs and gets is other ACoNs - the ones who've been there and understand and offer support and empathy.
How I got myself to finally cry: I imagined asking my therapist if he'd been loved by his parents; I imagined him replying, calmly, slightly sadly, but mostly with empathy: "No". And I felt like someone could understand the hell inside and not judge me. Know it's real and I'm not a wimpy liar making it up. That gave me the permission to feel it and own it.
And that's me and that's really OK.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Connecting the dots. And finding my way.
I did it. I'm in.
I've been able to feel and cry for two days now. I have cried for the little girl who was never loved and was never allowed to even understand and feel that simple fact. I have cried for the frightened, terrorized, and abused child who had to play the role of the happy, grateful daughter, even to herself. I have cried for the adult who is still largely living in this hell and will forever be left with this black hole.
I was able to do this after I connected all the dots of why I didn't allow myself to feel my feelings.
I realized it wasn't fear of pain, or mere detachment, or simple protection of myself. We ACoNs can take pain. We're not wimps. It really was not about that.
It was the opposite. It was the compulsion to be strong.
It was fear and obligation and guilt. The terror of betraying my parents by proving, through my feelings, that they hurt me. What I was never allowed to do as a child.
I remember being told "You're so ugly when you cry" and "Don't cry or I'll give you something to cry about" and I remember that the moral of the comic I drew - described in The Torture Chamber For Babies - was that if you severely beat your children because they cry, they will cry more. Crying was forbidden because it made them look bad and because it annoyed them.
The only moral defense I ever had was not reacting to any way they hurt me at all.
Crying and feeling hurt by them is the ultimate betrayal. It proves it was real. And once I realized this, I wanted to rebel more than ever.
And I feel real now. I've taken a huge step that cannot be undone. I've felt more for everything and everyone, too.
I even feel more empathy for my parents - like feeling truly sorry for them as children, too. And it's the opposite of excusing anything. They excused and idealized and obeyed their parents.
It didn't drown me and the world didn't come crashing down. There's pain, but I've never been afraid of that, and it feels much better than being dead. It's everything I'd hoped it would be.
It's a first step of many, and I know I have a long way to go still, but it feels like the most important breakthrough for me yet.
I've been able to feel and cry for two days now. I have cried for the little girl who was never loved and was never allowed to even understand and feel that simple fact. I have cried for the frightened, terrorized, and abused child who had to play the role of the happy, grateful daughter, even to herself. I have cried for the adult who is still largely living in this hell and will forever be left with this black hole.
I was able to do this after I connected all the dots of why I didn't allow myself to feel my feelings.
I realized it wasn't fear of pain, or mere detachment, or simple protection of myself. We ACoNs can take pain. We're not wimps. It really was not about that.
It was the opposite. It was the compulsion to be strong.
It was fear and obligation and guilt. The terror of betraying my parents by proving, through my feelings, that they hurt me. What I was never allowed to do as a child.
I remember being told "You're so ugly when you cry" and "Don't cry or I'll give you something to cry about" and I remember that the moral of the comic I drew - described in The Torture Chamber For Babies - was that if you severely beat your children because they cry, they will cry more. Crying was forbidden because it made them look bad and because it annoyed them.
The only moral defense I ever had was not reacting to any way they hurt me at all.
Crying and feeling hurt by them is the ultimate betrayal. It proves it was real. And once I realized this, I wanted to rebel more than ever.
And I feel real now. I've taken a huge step that cannot be undone. I've felt more for everything and everyone, too.
I even feel more empathy for my parents - like feeling truly sorry for them as children, too. And it's the opposite of excusing anything. They excused and idealized and obeyed their parents.
It didn't drown me and the world didn't come crashing down. There's pain, but I've never been afraid of that, and it feels much better than being dead. It's everything I'd hoped it would be.
It's a first step of many, and I know I have a long way to go still, but it feels like the most important breakthrough for me yet.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
What I didn't have
More homework I got: list the things you never had as a child. And try to feel it, too.
1) I didn't have a strong, supportive, gentle mother. I didn't have a mother who really loved me or liked me or seemed interested in me or talked to me or supported me emotionally in any way. Instead, I had an absence, a weak woman who might have had some feelings for me at some point, but I'll never know because she betrayed me and sacrificed me to her extremely narcissistic husband for the sake of peace.
I didn't have a mother I could trust or feel safe around or look up to or feel warm about.
I can now imagine people like my aunt or Ruth or Tundra Woman in this role and tear up at the recognized difference. Now I don't have a mother who might talk to me and offer advice, wisdom, support; who might be a good grandmother to my kids and babysit and help out sometimes. I don't know if this would have happened had she stayed alive, but somehow I just can't really imagine it.
2) I didn't have a kind, understanding, wise father. I didn't have a father who really loved me for who I was or was interested in finding out who that might be. Instead, first I had an insanely controlling father who demanded nothing short of worship from me while appropriating all my achievements, and then I had a totally rejecting father who had had enough of me and couldn't show me off any more and discarded me before I could reject him. Now I don't have a father I can count on to want me good and not harm me or my family if it should happen to suit him. He will sometimes give us money or material things.
I didn't have a father I could trust to love and protect me and be proud of me and one I could be proud of.
I now allow myself to imagine all the older men I've liked and respected over the years in the role of my father. Crazily enough, I sometimes even "accused" myself of having a crush on them - although it wasn't actually true - because that was safer than realizing I was looking for a good father figure because the original sucked.
3) I didn't have unconditional love from my parents - the safe knowledge that whoever I was and whatever I did, my parents wouldn't stop loving me. In fact, withholding love was my father's favorite weapon, and I never even thought my mother loved me. My mother had many problems with how different and unladylike and awkward I was, while my father had problems whenever I wasn't interesting, original, or smart enough to impress the commoners all around us. Either way, I couldn't win and the pressure was high, but I still chose my father's rules because it meant I could be dark and eccentric and drink.
4) I didn't have ownership over my own body and possessions. And no right to privacy, if they didn't feel like it. My diaries were read, my room searched. If they felt like it, however, I could be alone in my room reading for hours every day. Or out until 5AM drinking. Bliss. It depended on their current mood.
5) I didn't have permission to express or even feel my own feelings. I was forbidden to cry as a child because it a) showed their parenting in a bad light and b) bothered and irritated them. If I cried, I'd be given something to cry for, and then I a) again wasn't allowed to cry and b) realized the only way to "win" and find a semblance of peace and freedom would be to never react to anything in any emotional or "weak" way. I believe my father stopped beating me with a belt when I stopped showing any reaction to it.
6) I didn't have unconditional support for any good thing I might choose to do with my life. I had lots of open "support" in public places where my father could show off (taking me to classes, being at recitals, school board, thesis defense) and little outside of that.
7) I didn't have permission to attach to other, sane people. My father, who was utterly incapable of even faking closeness and love, was insanely jealous of me loving anyone else. Luckily, while he was at work, my mother's stepfather often took me out to tag along with him, at the behest of my grandma, who was the one officially babysitting me - but she was also quite narcissistic and grew tired of me quickly. He didn't. He kind of liked me. And I adored him. I even had the courage to list him as the person I loved best when people asked that silly question. I seem to recall my father shooting a look of hatred at my grandpa on one such occasion.
8) I didn't have warmth growing up. From anyone. Those who could have given it to me weren't allowed to.
9) I didn't have permission to share anything negative about my family with anyone. Including myself. This made me detach from myself. This prevented forming actual honest relationships with others.
10) I didn't have the right to be myself. Not only were they unable to love me for who I was, but, as they had no idea who I really was, I was constantly treated and talked to as someone else - weird, inexplicable characters accused of weird, inexplicable flaws, thoughts, and feelings. I remember constantly feeling shocked at who they seemed to think I was - and this changed in a matter of seconds.
1) I didn't have a strong, supportive, gentle mother. I didn't have a mother who really loved me or liked me or seemed interested in me or talked to me or supported me emotionally in any way. Instead, I had an absence, a weak woman who might have had some feelings for me at some point, but I'll never know because she betrayed me and sacrificed me to her extremely narcissistic husband for the sake of peace.
I didn't have a mother I could trust or feel safe around or look up to or feel warm about.
I can now imagine people like my aunt or Ruth or Tundra Woman in this role and tear up at the recognized difference. Now I don't have a mother who might talk to me and offer advice, wisdom, support; who might be a good grandmother to my kids and babysit and help out sometimes. I don't know if this would have happened had she stayed alive, but somehow I just can't really imagine it.
2) I didn't have a kind, understanding, wise father. I didn't have a father who really loved me for who I was or was interested in finding out who that might be. Instead, first I had an insanely controlling father who demanded nothing short of worship from me while appropriating all my achievements, and then I had a totally rejecting father who had had enough of me and couldn't show me off any more and discarded me before I could reject him. Now I don't have a father I can count on to want me good and not harm me or my family if it should happen to suit him. He will sometimes give us money or material things.
I didn't have a father I could trust to love and protect me and be proud of me and one I could be proud of.
I now allow myself to imagine all the older men I've liked and respected over the years in the role of my father. Crazily enough, I sometimes even "accused" myself of having a crush on them - although it wasn't actually true - because that was safer than realizing I was looking for a good father figure because the original sucked.
3) I didn't have unconditional love from my parents - the safe knowledge that whoever I was and whatever I did, my parents wouldn't stop loving me. In fact, withholding love was my father's favorite weapon, and I never even thought my mother loved me. My mother had many problems with how different and unladylike and awkward I was, while my father had problems whenever I wasn't interesting, original, or smart enough to impress the commoners all around us. Either way, I couldn't win and the pressure was high, but I still chose my father's rules because it meant I could be dark and eccentric and drink.
4) I didn't have ownership over my own body and possessions. And no right to privacy, if they didn't feel like it. My diaries were read, my room searched. If they felt like it, however, I could be alone in my room reading for hours every day. Or out until 5AM drinking. Bliss. It depended on their current mood.
5) I didn't have permission to express or even feel my own feelings. I was forbidden to cry as a child because it a) showed their parenting in a bad light and b) bothered and irritated them. If I cried, I'd be given something to cry for, and then I a) again wasn't allowed to cry and b) realized the only way to "win" and find a semblance of peace and freedom would be to never react to anything in any emotional or "weak" way. I believe my father stopped beating me with a belt when I stopped showing any reaction to it.
6) I didn't have unconditional support for any good thing I might choose to do with my life. I had lots of open "support" in public places where my father could show off (taking me to classes, being at recitals, school board, thesis defense) and little outside of that.
7) I didn't have permission to attach to other, sane people. My father, who was utterly incapable of even faking closeness and love, was insanely jealous of me loving anyone else. Luckily, while he was at work, my mother's stepfather often took me out to tag along with him, at the behest of my grandma, who was the one officially babysitting me - but she was also quite narcissistic and grew tired of me quickly. He didn't. He kind of liked me. And I adored him. I even had the courage to list him as the person I loved best when people asked that silly question. I seem to recall my father shooting a look of hatred at my grandpa on one such occasion.
8) I didn't have warmth growing up. From anyone. Those who could have given it to me weren't allowed to.
9) I didn't have permission to share anything negative about my family with anyone. Including myself. This made me detach from myself. This prevented forming actual honest relationships with others.
10) I didn't have the right to be myself. Not only were they unable to love me for who I was, but, as they had no idea who I really was, I was constantly treated and talked to as someone else - weird, inexplicable characters accused of weird, inexplicable flaws, thoughts, and feelings. I remember constantly feeling shocked at who they seemed to think I was - and this changed in a matter of seconds.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Stuff that always made me cry
I was given this homework assignment by my therapist as I can only afford therapy once a month: think about the music/films/books that make you cry and connect that with what you never had as a child.
(I had admitted that I can cry at music and films, but not about my own life)
These are the first few things that come to mind:
The Cranberries: Ode to my family
Why: The lyrics "My mother ... she'd hold me ... My father ... he liked me"
What it has to do with what I never had: My mother wasn't allowed to hold me - at least once I was old enough to remember. This part leaves me cold, to be honest; anything pertaining to mothers tends to; but "my father ... liked me" just blows me away. It's so beautiful and simple and real. No one liked me. They doted on me, loooved me, did so much for me, but it was so damn obvious they didn't like me.
I think my mother's stepfather liked me. I still cry when I remember him. I also think another distant relative did - the one I thought was my biological father. This idea of him as my biological father moved me emotionally too. These two older men liked me and seemed interested in me and seemed to have been able to have a conversation or two with me. This in itself is incredible.
Leonard Cohen: Hallelujah
Why: There's a blaze of light
In every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken hallelujah
...
I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but hallelujah
What it has to do with what I never had: I was never allowed to be ordinary, imperfect, human, or just wrong. It's amazing to me that God doesn't require perfection or holiness - brokenness and truth are all I have right now, too. And that's fine.
Schindler's list
Why: Pretty much anything involving concentration camps deeply moves me on a seemingly too personal level. I'm not just talking about the general human reaction to other humans being inhumanly treated - it's more than that and it's personal.
What it has to do with what I never had: It may sound crazy, but I'm sure other ACoNs will understand: a narcissistic family is a bit like a concentration camp. The golden children are the capos, the scapegoats are all the others. You are afraid and insecure and vulnerable all the time. You are someone's property. Your basic humanity is denied. You are (often) physically deprived and hurt. Your owners get to define reality in which you're somehow to blame and they're just defending themselves. And there's no way out.
Tangled
Why: From Schindler's list to a Disney cartoon... yeah, I know. The scene where Rapunzel's hair is cut off and she is liberated from being loved for what she can do for others is incredibly cathartic to me. It made me sob the first time I saw it.
What it has to do with what I never had: I still don't have the guts to trust my family of choice to love me for who I am instead of what I do. If I don't make enough money and buy everyone's favorite food, I'm afraid I just won't be worthwhile to them. This is not always true and I'm working on it, but I sure wish someone could just fix me in one fell swoop like this.
The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot
Why: Maggie invests a great deal of time and energy into suppressing her immoral feelings, while still not managing to avoid the wrath of everyone she loves without really ever having done anything wrong. Finally, the river Floss floods and she drowns rescuing her brother.
What it has to do with what I never had: Wow, I sobbed while reading this book ages ago and never made any connections with anything at all - I just saw myself as a sentimental girl. I still wasn't sure what it had to do with anything until I wrote the above description.
I suppress my immoral feelings towards my parents too, and still, just by virtue of not thinking about them as wonderful and perfect, I constantly risk incurring wrath. It's easy to forget that I have never done anything wrong to my parents - really, truly, I haven't. I have merely questioned their actions and mindsets and have felt a few fleeting negative feelings towards them - much less than most normal kids do.
Water will not be put down. The river will flood. My feelings will not be suppressed forever. I hope they don't drown me.
(I had admitted that I can cry at music and films, but not about my own life)
These are the first few things that come to mind:
The Cranberries: Ode to my family
Why: The lyrics "My mother ... she'd hold me ... My father ... he liked me"
What it has to do with what I never had: My mother wasn't allowed to hold me - at least once I was old enough to remember. This part leaves me cold, to be honest; anything pertaining to mothers tends to; but "my father ... liked me" just blows me away. It's so beautiful and simple and real. No one liked me. They doted on me, loooved me, did so much for me, but it was so damn obvious they didn't like me.
I think my mother's stepfather liked me. I still cry when I remember him. I also think another distant relative did - the one I thought was my biological father. This idea of him as my biological father moved me emotionally too. These two older men liked me and seemed interested in me and seemed to have been able to have a conversation or two with me. This in itself is incredible.
Leonard Cohen: Hallelujah
Why: There's a blaze of light
In every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken hallelujah
...
I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but hallelujah
What it has to do with what I never had: I was never allowed to be ordinary, imperfect, human, or just wrong. It's amazing to me that God doesn't require perfection or holiness - brokenness and truth are all I have right now, too. And that's fine.
Schindler's list
Why: Pretty much anything involving concentration camps deeply moves me on a seemingly too personal level. I'm not just talking about the general human reaction to other humans being inhumanly treated - it's more than that and it's personal.
What it has to do with what I never had: It may sound crazy, but I'm sure other ACoNs will understand: a narcissistic family is a bit like a concentration camp. The golden children are the capos, the scapegoats are all the others. You are afraid and insecure and vulnerable all the time. You are someone's property. Your basic humanity is denied. You are (often) physically deprived and hurt. Your owners get to define reality in which you're somehow to blame and they're just defending themselves. And there's no way out.
Tangled
Why: From Schindler's list to a Disney cartoon... yeah, I know. The scene where Rapunzel's hair is cut off and she is liberated from being loved for what she can do for others is incredibly cathartic to me. It made me sob the first time I saw it.
What it has to do with what I never had: I still don't have the guts to trust my family of choice to love me for who I am instead of what I do. If I don't make enough money and buy everyone's favorite food, I'm afraid I just won't be worthwhile to them. This is not always true and I'm working on it, but I sure wish someone could just fix me in one fell swoop like this.
The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot
Why: Maggie invests a great deal of time and energy into suppressing her immoral feelings, while still not managing to avoid the wrath of everyone she loves without really ever having done anything wrong. Finally, the river Floss floods and she drowns rescuing her brother.
What it has to do with what I never had: Wow, I sobbed while reading this book ages ago and never made any connections with anything at all - I just saw myself as a sentimental girl. I still wasn't sure what it had to do with anything until I wrote the above description.
I suppress my immoral feelings towards my parents too, and still, just by virtue of not thinking about them as wonderful and perfect, I constantly risk incurring wrath. It's easy to forget that I have never done anything wrong to my parents - really, truly, I haven't. I have merely questioned their actions and mindsets and have felt a few fleeting negative feelings towards them - much less than most normal kids do.
Water will not be put down. The river will flood. My feelings will not be suppressed forever. I hope they don't drown me.
Buried feelings
I had the first session with the new therapist last night and I noticed an interesting thing.
When I talked about my parents and my childhood, my throat sometimes squeezed and my voice wouldn't come out. It's like I knew there was an emotion under there somewhere, but I couldn't really feel it or express it or even identify it.
It felt like wading through murky waters and tripping over something without knowing what it is.
Did I feel anything back then, when I was 4, or 6, or 8? Or was I already burying everything? Are these grief, anger, pain that I felt or normally would have felt if I hadn't emotionally detached from myself?
My therapist encouraged me to express my feelings freely and I just couldn't. I tried going back to the words that I had trouble pronouncing, but it was already gone. I did have several thoughts, though (these are always easier) on why I can't express my emotions:
"I can't be weak. When you express hurt and pain and anger, you're weak. If you cry, you're very weak and you're admitting someone can hurt you and thus has power over you." (my therapist said the opposite is true - you exorcise your parents' power over you when you acknowledge what you needed from them but never got. I like the sound of this, but can't make the leap to applying it)
"I can't be needy. If I'm needy, I'm boring and inconvenient, not only to my parents, but to everyone else too." (my therapist said the need of a child to be loved is a very real and legitimate need. I like the sound of this, but can't make the leap to applying it)
"I can't be emotional. This is not me. I'm not one of those emotional people." (not necessarily true, as I have no idea who I really am, and most likely a result of projection, but still the word "emotional" sounds dirty to me)
These are the things I said in session. Later, I tried more to release my feelings, and I started feeling increasingly anxious.
Then I had one of the worst anxiety nightmares ever in which all the possible catastrophes I could imagine happened (from war and destruction and the bombing of our neighborhood to being late to pick up my kid at preschool and having to buy her neeew shooooes before the next paycheck and crying about it and being gossiped about because of it).
It's like I'm deadly afraid of expressing my real feelings about my parents and my childhood, so I'm stuck at "numb." There's a scab on my heart and I wonder what's underneath, but am afraid to pick at it. Perhaps for good reason. Perhaps not.
If I express my buried feelings,
it will be real. it can't be undone. they hurt me and were bad parents and I had a bad childhood.
I will have really betrayed them. really disobeyed them. horrible punishment will ensue.
I somehow know, feel it, that this was the ultimate betrayal when I was a child. To show to them or anyone else that they were less than perfect parents. I showed it by crying, being emotional, being sad, being hurt, being angry in reaction to their actions. I distinctly remember being told I'd be given something to cry for if I don't stop and feel it in my bones that this really wasn't just an empty threat.
Crying and feeling the proper reaction to their treatment is the ultimate treason and that's probably why I still can't do it.
But I might if I start thinking about it as the ultimate rebellion as well.
When I talked about my parents and my childhood, my throat sometimes squeezed and my voice wouldn't come out. It's like I knew there was an emotion under there somewhere, but I couldn't really feel it or express it or even identify it.
It felt like wading through murky waters and tripping over something without knowing what it is.
Did I feel anything back then, when I was 4, or 6, or 8? Or was I already burying everything? Are these grief, anger, pain that I felt or normally would have felt if I hadn't emotionally detached from myself?
My therapist encouraged me to express my feelings freely and I just couldn't. I tried going back to the words that I had trouble pronouncing, but it was already gone. I did have several thoughts, though (these are always easier) on why I can't express my emotions:
"I can't be weak. When you express hurt and pain and anger, you're weak. If you cry, you're very weak and you're admitting someone can hurt you and thus has power over you." (my therapist said the opposite is true - you exorcise your parents' power over you when you acknowledge what you needed from them but never got. I like the sound of this, but can't make the leap to applying it)
"I can't be needy. If I'm needy, I'm boring and inconvenient, not only to my parents, but to everyone else too." (my therapist said the need of a child to be loved is a very real and legitimate need. I like the sound of this, but can't make the leap to applying it)
"I can't be emotional. This is not me. I'm not one of those emotional people." (not necessarily true, as I have no idea who I really am, and most likely a result of projection, but still the word "emotional" sounds dirty to me)
These are the things I said in session. Later, I tried more to release my feelings, and I started feeling increasingly anxious.
Then I had one of the worst anxiety nightmares ever in which all the possible catastrophes I could imagine happened (from war and destruction and the bombing of our neighborhood to being late to pick up my kid at preschool and having to buy her neeew shooooes before the next paycheck and crying about it and being gossiped about because of it).
It's like I'm deadly afraid of expressing my real feelings about my parents and my childhood, so I'm stuck at "numb." There's a scab on my heart and I wonder what's underneath, but am afraid to pick at it. Perhaps for good reason. Perhaps not.
If I express my buried feelings,
it will be real. it can't be undone. they hurt me and were bad parents and I had a bad childhood.
I will have really betrayed them. really disobeyed them. horrible punishment will ensue.
I somehow know, feel it, that this was the ultimate betrayal when I was a child. To show to them or anyone else that they were less than perfect parents. I showed it by crying, being emotional, being sad, being hurt, being angry in reaction to their actions. I distinctly remember being told I'd be given something to cry for if I don't stop and feel it in my bones that this really wasn't just an empty threat.
Crying and feeling the proper reaction to their treatment is the ultimate treason and that's probably why I still can't do it.
But I might if I start thinking about it as the ultimate rebellion as well.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
My only session (so far)
I feel like writing down a few snippets from the introductory session with the therapist I'm not going to see any more, not only because she just got a desk opposite mine at work. The therapist is young, ambitious, optimistic. She was happy about the
blogging and the support we give each other, but said something kind of
silly:
T: You can also see on those blogs that people with similar backgrounds to yours become all sorts of successful professionals and that's a positive example.
PA: (thinking WTF?!) Many of us indeed are quite successful outwardly, some only too successful, but...
T: So people can overcome bad childhoods!
Another annoying snippet:
T: What you need to do is accept yourself unconditionally.
PA: Sounds good, but how does one who was never accepted unconditionally for the first couple of decades of her life learn to accept herself unconditionally?
T: Don't give me that excuse!
PA: It's not an excuse. (Thinking later: A sentence beginning with "how" is, at least officially, a question. It may be a rhetorical question, but it is not automatically an excuse.) It's my reality. I don't know what you mean by your words. Imagine being born in Plato's cave, and being told you just need to go live in the sun. You don't even know what the sun is. You don't know which way to go.
T: But you can't use this as an excuse not to be moving out.
PA: I'm moving out. I've been slowly moving out for a couple of years now. But it's not going to just happen if you say it should.
(Thinking much later of the perfect analogy: You tell me you can see I'm hungry so I should just go to the restaurant across the street. I tell you I was raised in this room in absolute darkness and have never ventured out. You tell me that's an excuse - all I need to do is get out, go down the stairs, cross the street and enter the restaurant. I tell you I've heard these words before, but I don't know how to recognize "stairs," "street" and "restaurant," I might fall down the stairs, or a car might hit me, or I might get lost. So you have to show me, not tell me I need to get there or even how to get there. Telling me I just need to accept myself is cute, but won't produce any results.)
REBT is really not for me. The main technique seems to be constantly challenging the client's views, feelings, and perceptions. ACoNs DON'T need more of that, even if our constructs need changing. I noticed myself acting in a narcissistically defensive way and/or resorting to JADE a lot during the session - behaviors I thought were somewhat behind me.
Incredibly, I found a great therapist with a lot of training and experience online. He even has a blog, in which he reveals himself as empathetic, intuitive, extremely flexible, only too ready to admit he'd been thinking too rigidly about something before, but a client or a trainee challenges that and he accepts this... and also, he recommends Alice Miller's books. I wrote to him and he accepted me as a client, even with the condition that I can only afford one session per month.
I was so happy with the exchange, especially because I'd written to 4-5 other therapists and they all replied in manners which had red flags all over them ("What do you mean if I've worked with children or the personality disordered? I don't know, my clients don't have the expertise to diagnose their parents." "I'd ask you what it means to you that your parent is disordered, how you have accepted and interpreted and constructed that in your life" etc.)
Just the fact that there is a therapist in my country who's very much into Alice Miller and seems extremely open to understanding and validating and helping me truly experience my insights has had a huge positive effect. I've felt more in the last few days. I've relived some moments from my childhood, actually feeling them this time around. I felt betrayal, anger, and sadness. I have a pretty good feeling about this - I hope I've developed enough intuition and gut feeling by now.
T: You can also see on those blogs that people with similar backgrounds to yours become all sorts of successful professionals and that's a positive example.
PA: (thinking WTF?!) Many of us indeed are quite successful outwardly, some only too successful, but...
T: So people can overcome bad childhoods!
Another annoying snippet:
T: What you need to do is accept yourself unconditionally.
PA: Sounds good, but how does one who was never accepted unconditionally for the first couple of decades of her life learn to accept herself unconditionally?
T: Don't give me that excuse!
PA: It's not an excuse. (Thinking later: A sentence beginning with "how" is, at least officially, a question. It may be a rhetorical question, but it is not automatically an excuse.) It's my reality. I don't know what you mean by your words. Imagine being born in Plato's cave, and being told you just need to go live in the sun. You don't even know what the sun is. You don't know which way to go.
T: But you can't use this as an excuse not to be moving out.
PA: I'm moving out. I've been slowly moving out for a couple of years now. But it's not going to just happen if you say it should.
(Thinking much later of the perfect analogy: You tell me you can see I'm hungry so I should just go to the restaurant across the street. I tell you I was raised in this room in absolute darkness and have never ventured out. You tell me that's an excuse - all I need to do is get out, go down the stairs, cross the street and enter the restaurant. I tell you I've heard these words before, but I don't know how to recognize "stairs," "street" and "restaurant," I might fall down the stairs, or a car might hit me, or I might get lost. So you have to show me, not tell me I need to get there or even how to get there. Telling me I just need to accept myself is cute, but won't produce any results.)
REBT is really not for me. The main technique seems to be constantly challenging the client's views, feelings, and perceptions. ACoNs DON'T need more of that, even if our constructs need changing. I noticed myself acting in a narcissistically defensive way and/or resorting to JADE a lot during the session - behaviors I thought were somewhat behind me.
Incredibly, I found a great therapist with a lot of training and experience online. He even has a blog, in which he reveals himself as empathetic, intuitive, extremely flexible, only too ready to admit he'd been thinking too rigidly about something before, but a client or a trainee challenges that and he accepts this... and also, he recommends Alice Miller's books. I wrote to him and he accepted me as a client, even with the condition that I can only afford one session per month.
I was so happy with the exchange, especially because I'd written to 4-5 other therapists and they all replied in manners which had red flags all over them ("What do you mean if I've worked with children or the personality disordered? I don't know, my clients don't have the expertise to diagnose their parents." "I'd ask you what it means to you that your parent is disordered, how you have accepted and interpreted and constructed that in your life" etc.)
Just the fact that there is a therapist in my country who's very much into Alice Miller and seems extremely open to understanding and validating and helping me truly experience my insights has had a huge positive effect. I've felt more in the last few days. I've relived some moments from my childhood, actually feeling them this time around. I felt betrayal, anger, and sadness. I have a pretty good feeling about this - I hope I've developed enough intuition and gut feeling by now.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Moot
All the questions I got from you, all the things I've thought about after the first session, all the weighing I've done trying to figure out whether the therapist I saw on Wednesday was a good fit? Moot.
The colleague who referred me did so because I told her I wouldn't mind talking to her personally, only because we worked together it might be awkward. That's WHY she referred me.
Right now, my new therapist is sitting a desk away from me at work. She just started teaching at my university as a TA for the colleague who referred her because we were working together and it would be awkward... etc. You get the picture.
This is MORE awkward. I feel betrayed. This is insane! At least the teacher who gave me the reference would have been spending most of the time in her own office, but now I have to sit here much of the time right opposite a person I've spent over 2 hours exposing all my problems, deficiencies and vulnerabilities to.
It sucks. I feel so exposed and ashamed and anxious that I think I might go straight into narcissistic mode.
EDIT: I just had the opportunity to talk to her in private. It was a coincidence. She was offered the job AFTER our session. We had a conversation about the awkward feelings and now I feel much better.
Still. Back to square one or even less than that. Venturing out again and trusting sounds scarier now.
The colleague who referred me did so because I told her I wouldn't mind talking to her personally, only because we worked together it might be awkward. That's WHY she referred me.
Right now, my new therapist is sitting a desk away from me at work. She just started teaching at my university as a TA for the colleague who referred her because we were working together and it would be awkward... etc. You get the picture.
This is MORE awkward. I feel betrayed. This is insane! At least the teacher who gave me the reference would have been spending most of the time in her own office, but now I have to sit here much of the time right opposite a person I've spent over 2 hours exposing all my problems, deficiencies and vulnerabilities to.
It sucks. I feel so exposed and ashamed and anxious that I think I might go straight into narcissistic mode.
EDIT: I just had the opportunity to talk to her in private. It was a coincidence. She was offered the job AFTER our session. We had a conversation about the awkward feelings and now I feel much better.
Still. Back to square one or even less than that. Venturing out again and trusting sounds scarier now.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Questions for a potential therapist?
Fellow ACoNs who've been to therapy: how did you choose your therapist? How did you interview? What did you look for in a therapist? What did you see as red flags?
What was your explicit therapy goal? How did you phrase it to the therapist? If I had to phrase mine, it would be to truly emotionally go through the insights I've had - facing negative feelings (grief, lack of parental love, fear) - and thus somehow unblock "normal" positive feelings (love).
One of the reasons I'm considering therapy is that I feel I've hit a wall - rationally, I've had some important insights, but emotionally, I just can't catch up with them and maybe I never will on my own. I know my parents never loved me and I don't remember ever loving them. I have no emotions related to them apart from a bit of anger. I have few emotions in everyday life apart from anxiety, some depression, some anger and drops of very simple love and joy.
What questions would you ask? What questions should I ask? Any advice at all?
I'm no longer scared of therapy - if I don't like this person I'm seeing tomorrow, I'll just pass. I won't let anyone manipulate me or abuse me - I don't have the time or the patience for that anymore. But, in order to avoid this waste of time and money, I need a plan.
Now I'm just rambling. I have an appointment in exactly 22 hours. Any advice is appreciated. Thank you!
What was your explicit therapy goal? How did you phrase it to the therapist? If I had to phrase mine, it would be to truly emotionally go through the insights I've had - facing negative feelings (grief, lack of parental love, fear) - and thus somehow unblock "normal" positive feelings (love).
One of the reasons I'm considering therapy is that I feel I've hit a wall - rationally, I've had some important insights, but emotionally, I just can't catch up with them and maybe I never will on my own. I know my parents never loved me and I don't remember ever loving them. I have no emotions related to them apart from a bit of anger. I have few emotions in everyday life apart from anxiety, some depression, some anger and drops of very simple love and joy.
What questions would you ask? What questions should I ask? Any advice at all?
I'm no longer scared of therapy - if I don't like this person I'm seeing tomorrow, I'll just pass. I won't let anyone manipulate me or abuse me - I don't have the time or the patience for that anymore. But, in order to avoid this waste of time and money, I need a plan.
Now I'm just rambling. I have an appointment in exactly 22 hours. Any advice is appreciated. Thank you!
Friday, April 8, 2011
Deficient
The dream I had last night - where the same Big Dark Institution that tested me and found me deficient and faulty and messed up also offered me therapy, with judging, labeling, harsh therapists - gave me another insight.
I could always relate so well to Kafkaesque Big Dark Institutions. The idea conflates the threatening authoritarian towering presence of my father with all his beloved Institutions which have always topped his hierarchies - hospitals, schools, universities.
On my bad days, I use the otherwise liberating knowledge that I'm an adult child of a narcissist as yet another piece of damning evidence against me. I always knew I was deficient, and now there's proof. I also approach the idea of therapy in that vein - something I could do to finally Become Good Enough. Another authority that can judge me and help me to finally find out what it is I have to do to become worthy of love and life.
In the dream, I get out of there. I stand alone in the sun, just happy to be free.
If I do seek therapy one day, it will not be because I want to comply to another Big Dark Institution that will judge me and fix me and make me worthy of my place under the sun.
I could always relate so well to Kafkaesque Big Dark Institutions. The idea conflates the threatening authoritarian towering presence of my father with all his beloved Institutions which have always topped his hierarchies - hospitals, schools, universities.
On my bad days, I use the otherwise liberating knowledge that I'm an adult child of a narcissist as yet another piece of damning evidence against me. I always knew I was deficient, and now there's proof. I also approach the idea of therapy in that vein - something I could do to finally Become Good Enough. Another authority that can judge me and help me to finally find out what it is I have to do to become worthy of love and life.
In the dream, I get out of there. I stand alone in the sun, just happy to be free.
If I do seek therapy one day, it will not be because I want to comply to another Big Dark Institution that will judge me and fix me and make me worthy of my place under the sun.
Therapy
The thing is, I don't want to go to therapy.
Not now that I understand what's been done to me. I've been judged, defined, redefined, categorized, put down, explained away, gaslighted, annihilated.
Right now I have an urgent need to be my own only authority on myself. I'm too afraid a therapist, as a kind of an authority in the therapeutic setting, would not be able to refrain from well-meaning labeling, definitions, categorizations or gaslightings. And I would either comply or rebel, as I always do when a person in authority is involved. And neither would be helpful to me.
A nice therapist that I know personally suggested a self-help book to me and then, almost timidly, added that I might want to consider therapy.
And I had a nightmare in which I was doing all these tests in a big, Kafkaesque, dark building. They would then tell me what to do with my life. The results show that I'm intellectually very competent, but there's something fundamentally wrong with me and I need therapy, right there, in that dark huge building. So I obey the huge institution. I go from door to door, knocking on each. Some potential therapists aren't even there. Some are evil, creepy, and try to just put a label on me and be done with me ("Why are you here? Are you a drug addict? A schizophrenic? What do you want?") - I don't even have the time to utter "I just want to learn to be me."
So I get the hell out of there. Out of the big dark building. Out in the sunshine and the air. And I just enjoy it.
Not now that I understand what's been done to me. I've been judged, defined, redefined, categorized, put down, explained away, gaslighted, annihilated.
Right now I have an urgent need to be my own only authority on myself. I'm too afraid a therapist, as a kind of an authority in the therapeutic setting, would not be able to refrain from well-meaning labeling, definitions, categorizations or gaslightings. And I would either comply or rebel, as I always do when a person in authority is involved. And neither would be helpful to me.
A nice therapist that I know personally suggested a self-help book to me and then, almost timidly, added that I might want to consider therapy.
And I had a nightmare in which I was doing all these tests in a big, Kafkaesque, dark building. They would then tell me what to do with my life. The results show that I'm intellectually very competent, but there's something fundamentally wrong with me and I need therapy, right there, in that dark huge building. So I obey the huge institution. I go from door to door, knocking on each. Some potential therapists aren't even there. Some are evil, creepy, and try to just put a label on me and be done with me ("Why are you here? Are you a drug addict? A schizophrenic? What do you want?") - I don't even have the time to utter "I just want to learn to be me."
So I get the hell out of there. Out of the big dark building. Out in the sunshine and the air. And I just enjoy it.
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