1: A Letter To Myself
Yesterday afternoon, I had another of my telemedicine therapy appointments. The antisocial part of me dreads these, because I struggle to hold conversations where I can't control the dialogue but my therapist is a really lovely individual and I'm so thankful for her. She has helped me to recognize and anticipate the signs of my anxiety spiking and to disengage before it grows into a panic attack in most situations. I still wake up with panic attacks sometimes and that can't be helped.
She suggested in our latest session that I start journaling as a way to regulate my emotions. Utilizing the style of a letter, where I address them to someone but don't actually send them. I figure I'll speak to someone different every time, starting with myself.
I'm not proud of you. The child-version of me always anticipated that I would be a successful adult with a successful career (usually in a dusty museum library studying ancient scrolls) and successful you are not. Of course these dreams occurred prior to the majority of the physical abuse and we can't change that it happened nor that it changed you. Dreams have to shift to make way for reality and the reality is that you're struggling.
I was 9 years old when I realized my life was vastly different from other kids'. My best friend spent the night at my house for the first time and during her visit, my brother lost his temper and slammed a hole into the wall. I remember I carried on our playing like nothing happened and didn't even register that she felt scared or uncomfortable at all. It was just "normal." The following school day, she told me her mother forbid her from ever talking to me again. After that, all our classmates knew and they treated me differently. I even had one girl, whom I had never spoken to before, approach me and ask to sleepover at my house because she wanted to "test" her bravery against what my brother might do. Like some kind of carnival game. I took her up on it, selfishly, because at least someone wanted to befriend me, even if their motive wasn't great.
I hold onto this memory because it created a shift in me. The innocence of childhood ignorance making way for the startling realization that I was different. A kind of different I couldn't change and I feel resentment toward it.
I feel a lot of that, to be honest. Resentment against my brother for perpetuating the abuse, resentment against my family for giving in to "keep the peace" when no peace was ever kept long, resentment toward my schools, the police officers, every adult who knew what I was going through and didn't or couldn't help me.
How differently my life may have been if someone intervened and removed one of us from the other? But it's useless to ponder the what if's, we need to focus on helping ourselves now.
So I will try to be kinder to myself, more understanding, more patient despite the voice in my head shouting directions at me in all its rationality when I cannot feel rational things.
Today is a start. Let's begin.
She suggested in our latest session that I start journaling as a way to regulate my emotions. Utilizing the style of a letter, where I address them to someone but don't actually send them. I figure I'll speak to someone different every time, starting with myself.
I'm not proud of you. The child-version of me always anticipated that I would be a successful adult with a successful career (usually in a dusty museum library studying ancient scrolls) and successful you are not. Of course these dreams occurred prior to the majority of the physical abuse and we can't change that it happened nor that it changed you. Dreams have to shift to make way for reality and the reality is that you're struggling.
I was 9 years old when I realized my life was vastly different from other kids'. My best friend spent the night at my house for the first time and during her visit, my brother lost his temper and slammed a hole into the wall. I remember I carried on our playing like nothing happened and didn't even register that she felt scared or uncomfortable at all. It was just "normal." The following school day, she told me her mother forbid her from ever talking to me again. After that, all our classmates knew and they treated me differently. I even had one girl, whom I had never spoken to before, approach me and ask to sleepover at my house because she wanted to "test" her bravery against what my brother might do. Like some kind of carnival game. I took her up on it, selfishly, because at least someone wanted to befriend me, even if their motive wasn't great.
I hold onto this memory because it created a shift in me. The innocence of childhood ignorance making way for the startling realization that I was different. A kind of different I couldn't change and I feel resentment toward it.
I feel a lot of that, to be honest. Resentment against my brother for perpetuating the abuse, resentment against my family for giving in to "keep the peace" when no peace was ever kept long, resentment toward my schools, the police officers, every adult who knew what I was going through and didn't or couldn't help me.
How differently my life may have been if someone intervened and removed one of us from the other? But it's useless to ponder the what if's, we need to focus on helping ourselves now.
So I will try to be kinder to myself, more understanding, more patient despite the voice in my head shouting directions at me in all its rationality when I cannot feel rational things.
Today is a start. Let's begin.