Category Archives: The musings

#Metoo – why I lied.

Like everyone else I’ve been reading articles about women and men coming out against their aggressor. Time and time again these victims are questioned, their stories poked holes into. Innocent till proven guilty is applied to the perpetrator and the victims have the opposite applied to them. Liar until proven otherwise.

A lot of these stories make me gag with rage. People are right to be up in arms about it all.

I apologize for the length of this but it has to come out.

 

“Why did she have a nap there if she felt uncomfortable”.

I guess this applies to me as well. Why did my immature teenage self go and babysit in a home where I was uncomfortable? I can’t speak for the woman napping in this morning’s article but I was in the home I was not comfortable in because that person was part of the people closest to me. In fact, a member of my family. I went because other people were there I thought were safe. His wife, his children. I went because nobody ever let me know I wasn’t actually safe, not safe was my default setting and I didn’t have the tools to differentiate, in my very young mind, what my safe/unsafe was to normal peoples’ safe /unsafe.

See, I have a narcissistic father and grandmother. And if you have narcissist close to you then you are not safe. Physically maybe, but psychologically you are in danger. If you don’t know much about narcissism it’s worth reading up on. It’s interesting and useful information for when you come across one, because it will happen someday if it hasn’t already.

My grandmother lived next door, she was, ultimately, the most visible mother figure. I mean no offense to my mother whom I love dearly but my granny was, is, overbearing to all as she’ a narcissist of the bullying variety. My father, her son, is narcissist who revels in victimhood which makes total sense in the family dynamic. Anyway, neither of them had my best interest at heart, they just have theirs.

Point is, I wasn’t comfortable anywhere with anyone. As a child not safe with a parent, how does telling them you might not be safe with someone else make things better? How does that underlying sense of not mattering to the most important people in your life make you feel ok telling them you were being assaulted? My sense of these things was skewed by this situation and my self-doubt.

But yeah, I guess that means it’s a lie.

 

“But why did it take you so long to report it?! It must be a lie since it took so long.”

I suppose you’re right. It wasn’t important because I didn’t speak up right away. I didn’t defend myself. I stayed quiet until I made it stop, quietly. Then I kept it quiet for 23 more years. It stopped when I was 15 (fifteen years old) and I eventually told my father that this person told me, to my face, with their wife 6 meters away in the next room, that he had had a dream in which we had sex. That he really wanted to have sex with me for real and teach me everything there is to know about sex and wouldn’t that be wonderful because he loved me so much. That his wife knows because he told her about this. Then they left and I babysat their kids. In shock. Disgusted and scared.

My father is a gaslighting narc. Telling him what happened has its dangers. That day is when the balance between the dangers of option 2 largely outweighed the dangers from option 1. That day I told my parents. Sort of. Enough that is stopped, but no detail. It stayed secret, hidden, enough that neither of my parents understood the reality of the situation, they didn’t ply me with questions, trying to find out everything. But it did stop. I thought I’d balanced that really well but continued to feel awful. I continued to feel unsafe. I continued to hate seeing that man; to, when arriving at a meal involving him, to first go around the table and change the place setting to be as far away from him as I possibly could before even saying hello to anyone.

It took me that long because it took me that long to create enough distance with my father and grandmother that then allowed me to see that the families way of life isn’t actually sane or healthy.  To have someone outside my circle encourage me to speak up. For my partner to manifest himself in a way that allowed me to work up the courage to do something as dangerous as report it.

 

“But reporting it makes you safer! It’s not dangerous! So you’re lying and looking for attention”.

….Ok….

Close your eyes and imagine a giant. Do you like the idea of having people thinking about you being sexually touched by him? He is bigger, richer, more powerful and lives in that big castle on top of the beanstalk. You were assaulted by him: what look did you have on your face during the act(s), were you actually enjoying it because you didn’t fight the giant who could crush you with little effort? Did your no actually mean yes? Because everyone knows no means yes! What were you wearing? How did he touch you, did you cry, did you play dead. Were you actually trying to turn him on? At what point did he get a hard-on? Imagine the people you love (as well as total strangers) imagining the scene in such detail. Because they do. They read the story and they have those images seared into their brains forever. Every time they hear/read/comment about your story they imagine you getting fucked by that person or at very least they can see the aggressors’ thoughts about wanting to like a giant cartoon bubble above their head.

Why anyone would want this kind of attention is beyond me.

 

I was under no illusion that it would cost me dearly to report it. It did cost me people I care about, it cost me having my story poked. I wasn’t raped, it wasn’t violent, I wasn’t threatened. On the outside at least.

On the inside it was all those things. I made it stop because it was escalating. I truly believe it would have ended in rape.

It was violent. Maybe I wasn’t hit but having anyone violate your space, touching your body against your wishes in a way that makes you scared, vulnerable and uncomfortable is a form of violence. Threats might not have been made openly but that doesn’t mean they didn’t exist. What do you do when you are forced to do anything at all by a man twice your size, when he has the power of, well, everything over you? What do you do when you, without being able to understand or word it, just know that the people who should and help you won’t? What do you do when he is a part of your everyday life, when you can’t just avoid him like a completely stranger who has no ties to you at all? When he comes in ot your workplace as a customer just because you work there so he can use you a little more.

I eventually stopped being scared of these things and accepted that they were inevitable. That’s when I filed with the police.

With the help of my therapist I chose to write my statement beforehand. To be sure I was able to word it appropriately, to say everything I had to say. To get the details out that were necessary. I knew I could not say it out loud. Going to the police station was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I was terrified, I felt small and vulnerable and incredibly stupid. I felt ashamed and yes, I just couldn’t say what I came there to do when I first walked through the doors.

Talking about this to a total stranger who doesn’t know you and doesn’t really care all that much, who may or may not believe you is very very difficult and I am glad it was all written out ahead of time. I was exhausted afterwards and terrified.

This mans’ son and daughter-in-law were part of law enforcement. I knew they would see that quickly. I spent weeks being paranoid about retaliation. I spent weeks waiting and expecting something to happen that would make my life a living hell. The danger I waited for never happened.

 

Just after filing I let the rest of my immediate family know what I had done. Two people said they were sorry this had happened to me. One person said they didn’t know what to do with this information. One person ignored me completely (I later found out it was because they didn’t know what to do with it either). My mother felt guilty and shocked and sorry that they hadn’t understood it to be able to help me but in hindsight maybe it could have been prevented. One said they needed to investigate this further and didn’t know who to believe. This was deeply offensive. My father didn’t believe me. I was ready for this, it didn’t surprise me. It actually helped cut all ties with him forever. My grandmother doesn’t know. Yet. I don’t know what his wife or children think.

 

Why does my father not believe me? Because it means he made a mistake, a big one. Narcissists don’t make mistakes. He claims I never went babysitting there. He even changed people ages – I mean the age gaps between myself, my brother and my cousins – so he could discredit me.  That it can’t possibly be true even though I told him that 23 years earlier. He supposedly has no recollection of this. Because that is the story that suits him best. He doesn’t see that it wasn’t innocent because he doesn’t want to.

 

It’s really hard to think of a member of your family being a paedophile. Suddenly you’re that family. When you’re part of that family, you go from that safe outrage to being at fault even if you have nothing to do with it and didn’t do anything and that’s where the problem lies.

You’ve switched to something more complex where you either knew and didn’t do anything, didn’t do enough or just didn’t see (because there are signs I believe). If you are a normal, sane human being, not seeing something horrible happen in front of you, not asking the right questions, not seeing someone in pain, leaves you with a whole load of guilt the victim suddenly forcibly dumped on you. Of course you rebel against it because that is the only way your brain can process this. It’s the flight in the fight or flight mode. How do you deal with finding out your safe cocoon is actually more dangerous inside that outside?

So yes, I suppose I’m just doing this all for kicks, because I mean, why not.

 

“You’re just a gold-digger”.

The proportion of mentally ill, narcissistic, or otherwise psychologically not quite right people who accuse for attention and/or money isn’t the majority, if they exist at all. The majority of stories will be true because…. Well everything I am writing here. The vast majority of victims are telling the truth just as the vast majority of accusers will deny.

The vast majority of the victims who do not speak up is because the assaulter has more power. Physical power, status, money. As off the point they can harm someone physically, make you lose your job, ruin your entire career, ruin private lives which can happen in a million different ways then they are a threat to you after the assault and they don’t need to word it to make that clear.
Because we are not usually believed or fobbed off, we are not gold diggers. So many cases end up going nowhere because they don’t fill the specific legal criteria and quite frankly, considering what we go through when we speak up it isn’t worth the time and effort and the risk of not winning is just too high.

 

“But it’s a lie because the person accused denied it”.

Are you fucking kidding me???? Would any sane person admit to being an incestuous paedophile? Really? Do they want their noses rubbed in their mistakes publicly? Would they want to go to jail for this? Of course they deny it! Nobody in their right mind expects them to the just go “oh yeah, I did that”.  People who report assault are under no illusion. This isn’t a land of rainbow farting unicorns and Carebears. Unless there is overwhelming evidence any attacker will protect themselves and lie about the actions they know are wrong. And even in case of overwhelming evidence the survival instinct will still push them to lie and deny just on the off chance they’ll save themselves.

 

“The judge didn’t pronounce him guilty sot it’s not true, it’s a lie”.

The justice systems demands proof. Physical evidence. Witnesses. It also demands you have enough guts to file before a specific date because after that specific date things magically become irrelevant.

Do you reasonably think that someone would assault someone else in plain sight of all and any? Usually not, no, some hiding happens, if not hidden then the others are usually ok with it or scared out of their wits themselves.

Those who see but are scared have to decide what is more important, their own safety or that of someone else. Chances are they’ll pick their own until they deem it safe enough to pick the victims side.

But even so, that nobody saw (or wanted to see) anything, ever, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. If nobody sees you pick your nose does that mean you never do? Do you not do stuff when you are alone? If nobody sees you do you stop existing? No. So no witnesses doesn’t mean nothing happened.

 

That you weren’t beaten or raped doesn’t that mean it didn’t happen?

Every single woman I know has a “me too” story, whether they say so or not. Every single one. But we’re women so it doesn’t count. It’s not always rape do it doesn’t count. It’s not the worst story you’ve ever heard so it doesn’t count.

If you are in danger will you knowingly make the situation more dangerous by fighting back when you know you don’t have a physical chance in hell of getting out of there unscathed? You have a split second to decide what the safest route out of there is.

Nobody but the victim is allowed to judge whether or not that was the correct route. Nobody but the victim can see the ramifications, the different options that present themselves in that second in which you have to make a decision that can save your life or get you killed faster. Sometimes the physical fight will seem best to them, sometimes being passive and getting it over with with the least possible damage as soon as possible seems safer. None of the options are good, you chose the one that seems the least bad for you right there and then.

The judge didn’t rule against him doesn’t make it not true, it just makes it not fit into the specifics of what the law requires to punish the assaulter.

That there is a time limit in which to prosecute doesn’t make things cease to exist. It’s a date on a calendar. You still existed over 15 years ago (15 years is the limit in my country, bumped up from 7, I know this because I was aware of each of those dates as they passed), things before that date don’t magically disappear. I was still attacked by a turkey in kindergarten, I still climbed trees as a kid , I still went to visit my newborn brother in the maternity ward and I still found him to be very red faced on his first day. It doesn’t just stop existing, it’s just a date in the law that says you’re too late and you should have been braver sooner. You should have risked everything by putting yourself in danger again sooner.

 

So yes, I lied, because it’s just fun and totally worth the effort and humiliation.

 

Quite frankly I really don’t give a shit about what money I might have been able to get.

I said no. As loudly as I could. Too late, but I said it and it was cathartic and now I feel safer. Now I feel more respect for myself. Now I don’t care so much anymore about the people who told me I was making all this up. Now I’m ok, having lost what I eventually chose to lose. Now I feel armed to help my children if anything of the kind were to ever happen to them. I did what I need to do to be able to teach them to respect and protect themselves. I taught them that it is ok to speak up. I told every woman and man I know who was ever assaulted in away way that I believe them. That is what filing against that man has done, even if nobody (including my kids) knows it.

 

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On fat.

*images by The Awkward Yeti

 

You are a blob of fat. This is what fat means now. You’re no longer a person, you’re not someone who has fat, you are fat, you’re just a problem, an eyesore. You are less then human. You are stupid and lazy and gross.

Prejudice? Yes certainly. But not mine.

I have binge eating disorder. I have been some level of overweight almost my whole life.

Living amongst other human beings caused me to develop and maintain my disorder through different kinds of abuse, belittling and harassment. The extra weight served several purposes.

First and foremost, food unleashed a dose of endorphins where I have no other source for them.

Food is pleasure and comfort.

 

Food is also discomfort and obligation.

Eating was a form of compliment to my grandmother whom we ate with every Saturday or Sunday. If you did not have a second or even third helping you were insulting a narcissist and if you have any idea what it’s like to live with narcissist in the family you will understand that this is not something that is tolerated.

Your comfort of not having an overly distended belly and eating until you feel sick doesn’t count so you suck it up and submit to her because you have been made to believe that you have no choice. Food has always been a battle of contradictions. One day this same grandmother told I me should diet and in the same sentence, literally the same sentence, there was no hint of punctuation in her flow of words, she offered me a chocolate. I refused. She insisted.

My dad forced me to sit at table for hours until my plate was finished. You weren’t allowed to taste anything and not like it because you’d sit there half the day until you emptied your plate. And empty means empty, if not to insult the cook then because of the starving children in Africa.

To this day I still don’t eat spinach or cream cheese.

Table manners were in fact a complicated web of nonverbal communication. Emptying your plate signifies that you haven’t had enough. If you are not hungry anymore you’re supposed to leave just a morsel of food but how big should this morsel be was always unclear. I’ll spare you the dos and don’t of hands, cutlery and napkins.

 

Food has been a form of abuse by others but also of myself by myself.

It is self-harm. A person cuts themselves and people worry. You stop eating, you’re ill and people worry. You put on weight and you’re just stupid. It’s hard to know that you’re in the group that everyone hates. It makes you look for comfort where you can find it. In food.

 

 

Fat, the substance itself also serves as a barrier. A protection from the outside world. A way to literally distance people from your core. It also keeps people away emotionally, makes you invisible. Yes, more makes you less.

 

Parents are supposed to love their children unconditionally. When a parent doesn’t, being fat gives them a reason to not love you that makes sense to you, it’s the one thing you (think) you can control.

Why does it make sense?

I was put on diets from an early age. As a child in primary school, my body was already unacceptable. If it makes me unlovable to those who are supposed to love me maybe it can make me unlovable to the one who shouldn’t love me but says he does and touched me when he had no right to touch a child that way.

 

My grandmother, mother of the father who doesn’t love his children and of the one with the groping hands, regularly made it very clear that her husband would leave her if she put on weight pointing out that fat people are unlovable. Fat is disgusting. I am disgusting. At least this I understood. It’s easier for me to live with people disliking me because of how I look and allowing me to be able to think of them as idiots. Being thin would mean that disliking me is because of me and that’s just worse.

 

My now best friend used to be my boyfriend. Fat was one of the things that broke us up. We were never meant to be a couple but my fat is part of what made me less attractive to him as a life partner. As a friend, he doesn’t care so much about my weight.

So men are put off by this. I am put off by it myself. I’m not comfortable in my skin, I’m not comfortable out in the world.  Chairs are narrow, sometimes worryingly flimsy (although I’ve yet to make one collapse), clothes are small and made for people who have other kinds of shape, spaces are smaller and smaller, knees and spine work too hard and get worn out.

 

People never cease to disappoint as far as fat goes. The internet is a cesspool of hate. Even people you know will comment. And I genuinely don’t know if they realise what they are saying.

The super skinny shopkeeper will make a disparaging comment about the overweight customer who bought skimpy underwear for his wife but it must be for his lover because his wife cannot possibly be skinny like that. It doesn’t even make sense! So shopkeepers make fun of you behind your back but they’ll be a hypocrite to your face. They’ll take your money.

Then Other posts a photo that is clearly mocking the overweight person sitting behind him in a restaurant then uses it repeatedly in jest on other threads. That one hurts more than most but it also explains why things went the way they went. I can make sense of this and quite frankly, having a real reason to think badly of him helps me, not feel better about anything but it helps to let him go.

Every time I see that picture it makes me feel like terrible. It’s not directed at me, it’s not of me or about me but it makes me feel.

 

Someone else will post something an article about how an airline discriminated against a fat person. They will be either crying out in outrage but the article and its comments still makes me feel bad because it’s actually true, that is how people consider us, not just me but every single overweight person in the world. Even if the poster means well because it just points out how shitty things can be. As a woman, it doesn’t matter what you do anyway, you eat and that’s bad, you don’t eat and that’s bad too.  You have to be perfect and perfect means model-like. You must absolutely be supermodel shaped to be acceptable to humanity. Anything less (or more) makes you a turd. But now models are also critiqued for being too thin. Essentially it really doesn’t matter what you do, it’s never good enough.

 

Doctors are almost the worst of all. They talk to us like we don’t know we are overweight or what we’re supposed to be doing, at every appointment because we are clearly incapable or remembering this from one to the next. We’re uneducated or just stupid to have let things get out of hand and even more so for not doing anything about it. They don’t realise that their “making you aware of the issue” does the exact opposite of what they want. I haven’t been to my endocrinologist in a few years just because of this. I can’t take it for now and thankfully I don’t actually need a prescription for my medication.

Then you have the fitness freak who constantly adds you to a group of other fitness and diet freaks. If I wanted to pay him to help me I would. If I wanted to be in that group I would too. His adding me in this manner is a subtle manipulation by someone who, as it happens, is also a narcissist and so I know that he doesn’t just “mean well”.

 

Some people announce that losing weight is an easy decision that you can just easily stick and they only reason they point this out is because they believe it is purely out of laziness.

Some people recognise it as an addiction.

Unlike drugs or alcohol, you cannot just stop and go cold turkey it’ll kill you even faster than overeating does. You have no other option but to be moderate and you have to have money. Losing weight means eating healthily which costs more and replacing your wardrobe regularly because nothing will fit anymore.

You can remove certain types of foods like carbs and sugar but when you start reading ingredients sugar is in just about everything. Eat out? You’ll get meat and carbs and very few vegetables so what social life you have goes even further down the drain.

 

Eating, for someone like me, is a contradiction, a vicious cycle that I don’t think forms a spiral but a perfect circle. It’s not a spiral because I mostly maintain the weight I have for long periods. When I balloon that’s a sign that things are really bad for me so I add an orbit or two. Once in a while I’ll move into a closer orbit because I’m trying to feel better about myself and trying to be healthy. The weight loss is a by-product of this.

This latest attempt is because I do need to visit the endocrinologist for a check-up I refuse to go to and have him shit all over my cholesterol levels which proves that I am not doing what he says I have to do which is eat properly. I refuse to leave his office and cry all the way home like last time. Perhaps I can keep it up after the appointment, perhaps not. One day at a time.

 

 

 

Depression Steals Your Soul and Then It Takes Your Friends

This.

Then I try really hard, when I see someone struggling, to be there, to tell them I am here and that get it. I really do. Only to have that isolating force to take me over as well. I will let you sink while I sink too, just out of reach of each other.
It reminds me of Atreyu and Artax in the Swamps of Sadness.

 

https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/4x4xjj/depression-steals-your-soul-and-then-it-takes-your-friends?utm_source=vicefbus

Living with an abusive partner

After reading an article on a blog I want to comment the following.

Broken homes.
They are not homes where parents separate, they are homes where parents stay and are miserable, whatever the reason, when parents are miserable their children know it. They might be young and not understand it but they still know how it feels wrong; they are more intuitive than grown-ups. Broken homes are homes where the people inside them are broken, or even just chipped or cracked. Where a person pushes the other down and in order to feel better about themselves. They are homes, not just with physical violence but with insults, criticism, puts downs, manipulation all of those together or separately.

We really need to change the way we speak about things and move away from antiquated ideas that don’t respect our humanity and take away our quality of life because of a promise we made one day when under the spell of a dream. We marry “until death do us part” but maybe death comes from being with someone that isn’t good from us. It can be quick and violent or slow and quiet. Either way it hurts.
Knowing you are in an abusive relationship and staying in it is a very slow form of suicide. If you don’t risk dying in violence you will be at risk of dying from depression because, yes, depression is deadly illness. If you, as a partner, in one of these couples feels bad, your children also feel it. You really do need to protect yourself. You need to protect your children. If you are abused, it’s not you, it’s your partner. It’s never you, no matter what they say. It’s who they are. You will never be the only one to feel some form of pain, your children will too.

Teach you kids it’s ok to protect themselves. Teach your kids to respect themselves by not putting up with abusive behaviour. Teach your kids to stand up for themselves. Tach by example. Leave your partner. I promise there is nothing good that will ever come from living with an abusive person.
Grieve for your dream, grieve the partner you hoped for but didn’t get.

I come from divorced parents. Separating is the best thing they ever did. I am proud of my mother walking out of and leaving a narcissist. I am proud she left to be happy elsewhere. I am happy her husband looks after her. Yes, it hurt at the time but I have never doubted she did the right thing and I wish with all my heart that she had done it sooner.

How do you know if you are in an abusive relationship? You probably already know. If your partner has ever hit you, it’s abusive. If your partner is hypercritical, makes you feel stupid regularly, puts you down a little too often, always tells you you’re too dramatic, doesn’t believe you, makes threats of any kind, makes you feel like they won’t love you if you don’t give into their will, if most of how you live reflects their choice. All of those together or separately. If anyone around you has told you that is not acceptable behaviour on the part of your partner more than one single time then maybe consider what they are saying seriously. They have a different insight on your relationship than you do. They see it from outside more plainly, without all the complexities and excuses. If it looks wrong from the outside it’s most likely wrong on the inside.

On paranoia : What’s real? Am I crazy?

Someone posted a question on their Facebook wall and suddenly a lightbulb popped on above my head.

 

Gaslighting: the paranoia is learned (that’s not the lightbulb moment).

I spent so many years fighting for my opinion, for my truth and my facts, KNOWING they were true kept the paranoia at bay. I had no idea my gaslighter was manipulative at the time, I just KNEW that he lied, just didn’t believe me, constantly contradicted me, told me I was inventing and exaggerating no matter the subject (I am a total drama queen according to him). It was just a difference of opinion and/or of life experience, a personality clash.  I didn’t actually see the lies were lies until the end, when they became too big and difficult for him to stand behind.

I clung to the notion that I wasn’t crazy with everything I had. This is how I survived. It was my lifeline. I am stubborn. It’s long been a character flaw. Push me in one direction and I will push for the opposite, the more you insist the more I resist. It’s become a reflex, a survival skill. At some point during my resistance it stops mattering what it is I’m pushing back against, it becomes about the resistance alone and the desperate need for my opinion to be validated – not necessarily agreed to but acknowledging that my point is allowed to exist.

 

Cutting all ties with my gaslighter has been an unimaginable relief in many senses but has actually caused me to lose a particular point of reference resulting in my getting a bit lost on the whole. There is no more constant irritation that causes my guts to say “no, that is wrong, that isn’t the truth”. This is the lightbulb moment: that point of reference, the barometer of what is true and what is made up.

You could say my gaslighter finally got the best of me when I got rid of him. I sometimes feel so close to insanity it’s frightening. There is nothing to hold my values and beliefs in place. My paranoia and imagination run rampant without the framework my manipulator had set. I get so far into all the imagined scenarios that they all feel true and I “forget” which was the first, true, instinctual one and tend to focus on the “logical ones” that are only logical because they reflect previous experiences under the influence of the manipulator and not because they are based on the facts of the moment. I forget that things have changed and the people around me are not the same.

 

My therapist insists I continue to believe my truth, my experience. It’s hard work having to reason myself away from everything. My mind automatically creates the thoughts my gaslighter would have introduced. In the past, this would have been anticipation of what was certain to come, preparing for war. Those ideas stopped when some version of them inevitably turned into reality very soon after. But they don’t become real anymore so this process happens without anything halting it. Now I constantly have to remind stop myself and try to remember what it felt like in that moment, what facts I had then. Not the ones that appeared later, not the ones I made up as being possibilities I have no proof ever even existed, not the ones I learned were likely to be true because that is what my experience dictates but not what my instinct tells me. Fighting against my father and his twisted ways was easy, it was obvious, it made sense. All my run-ins with narcissists have made this easy in this sense. But now some of the imagined scenarios have all but taken over reality. Shaking them off to get back to the original isn’t easy, they are lost somewhere in that haystack. Tiny little needles that I can’t afford not to find.

 

Right now, in this minute… Actually, in the time it’s taking me to write this… I am considering getting in touch with him again all the while knowing how bad it is for me to do so.

Going back to what kills me is so much less tiring than staying away and finding my feet in a healthy situation. But maybe making the conscious decision to go back is also healthy in that being healthy is finding mechanisms that don’t harm you. I see through him now. I see how it works and what he does. He has no more power over me in the original sense. Being lost is giving him a win, it was one of his goals: Dependency. And yes, just considering that for a minute brings me back to not getting in touch ever again and not being dependant. I refuse to depend on him for anything at all even my sanity. I have to find that anchor within myself without needing a narcissist to guide me.

On Paranoia

 

The last few months have been difficult, getting worse and worse. We’ve changed my meds. This always means a phase in hell in the middle. It has led me to an important conclusion. I am stuck in a paranoid spiral.

Two people have come to this conclusion separately. I have  to admit that they are correct.

 

I assume that everybody uses me. The entire world is fake and selfish and I am only in people’s lives while they need something from me or have some sadistic plan to deliberately humiliate me. It doesn’t have to be something physical, it could just be getting validation but whatever the reason, it is conditional.

Few people escape this assumption and this isn’t fair.

 

This sentiment started …. It didn’t start, it’s always been there. Festering in the darkness; growing and retracting then growing again with a will of its own. It took on a particular dimension when I got my heart broken a few years ago. Then I got progressively worse when I started this blog. From the point I started writing about my story it spiralled out of control. Combining complete focus on my problems and the fact that my medication wasn’t doing much for me had near disastrous effects on my life.

 

My father made me because that is what you do. I served a purpose. To fit in the correct mould; to carry on the name; because 2.4 children. I was useful for child benefits. For the potential status successful children can bring. His plan was doomed to failure of course. Firstly I turned out to be a girl.

I was bullied and harassed so often I concluded that this is all I am good for. I am not allowed to be my own person; have my own opinions; live my life as I see fit, for myself and by myself.

Having attached myself to the memories of the countless times someone’s love was conditional I could do nothing else than believe that is was true and so spiral down into complete isolation, negativity and doubt. Depression already does this on its own but patterns of abuse confirm it.

I wanted to stop this all. Get away from people for good. And having these ideas and writing about Other reinforced the option that he’d just used me for entertainment or validation. Maybe he did. I’ll probably never know but today it feels less negative and closer to a true story than it has for months now.

 

Isolating myself meant stopping existing on social media, distancing myself from people, finding excuses not to go to events, cancelling things I was supposed to do… any contact with people sent me into anxiety attacks. It’s exhausting.

 

Having my therapist point this out was a revelation. So I am working on it and I am improving. I’ve spoken to people, I’ve picked up the phone when it rang and used it to call people. Asked uncomfortable questions to those they needed asking to.

I’ve been on Messenger and chatted with people too. Laid a few of those disquieting ideas to rest by meeting up with the people concerned.

I have to consciously reason with myself about this and force the paranoia away. It’s very complicated and draining to know where the limit is between paranoid thoughts and and instinct I should trust.

I have faith I’ll get there. My new dosage and new combination seem to be starting to have the desired effect.

I used to work in a public place, with people coming and going; I used to not be scared to talk to people about anything. I don’t know if I’ll get back to that level of comfort but I’ll certainly keep at it.

Finding the way out of darkness seems to depend on those tiny moments of clarity and re-learning to give people the benefit of doubt.

 

http://www.medicinenet.com/paranoia/symptoms.htm

https://www.blurtitout.org/2016/09/16/depression-explaining-paranoia/

 

Shades Of Hope

It’s time to address a different issue.

 

“Hello, my name is Musings and have an eating disorder. I have Binge Eating Disorder.”

 

Netflix here uploaded a new series called Addicted to Food about in-patients in a treatment center in Texas. Obviously, the title made me curious but also apprehensive since a lot of the shows about issues with food, eating badly tend to be very preachy and focused on diet and exercise only. They are fundamentally unhelpful.

This one had me hooked from the start. I cried almost all the way through every single episode but I completely related to most of the participants. It was an OMG discovery for me. I recognised myself in so many of their issues. Insights into their behaviour appears helpful for me too.

I will be watching the whole series a second time with a notebook handy. I plan to write about what comes up in me after each episode. I want to use this as an opportunity to heal myself.

 

 

 

 

Him and understanding

Him (my partner) has a hard time understanding why I believe what I believe and react the way I do. I think he thinks he gets it but I read things that give me further insight into what I already know. And sometimes I just don’t have the right words at the right time.
Clichegirls’ post has anchored some things I thought but also opened up a whole new lot of questions I have to consider carefully now 🙂

http://clichegurl.com/2017/03/24/good-luck-other-woman/

On Pill Popping And Other Treatments

 

It has been a struggle to find the right drug for me. I generally don’t react well to them, having anything from just uncomfortable and embarrassing to completely debilitating side effects, sometimes the rarer ones, often the common ones. Same goes for my thyroid in fact, I have to import meds because I don’t react to the standard ones available here.

 

Currently I am on Quetiapine. Moved over to that from Cipralexa that wasn’t enough in its lowest dose but I can’t increase it due to side effects. We didn’t wean me off one then switch to the other this time. We did a straight swap. The first couple of weeks were ok before the Cipralexa left my entirely.

As usual coming off that pill gave me this unpleasant reaction where it feels like there are fireworks going off inside your brain. Like electric shocks. Usually when I looked in a different direction. That decreases over time. It’s a lot better now and just happens occasionally.

 

Quetiapine on its own in this low does really isn’t helping enough. We’ve added a natural anti-depressant made from saffron to it. We’ll try the natural-no-side-effects one first then if that doesn’t help enough try a half Cipralexa instead of the saffron. Having just gotten off the chemicals I thought I’d try the more expensive natural remedy first and avoid going through the withdrawal again to try the natural one, it doesn’t make sense the other way around.

This morning a friend asked that question. “well if it’s so hard can you not go without?” Seriously? It’s offensive. Do you think I would chose to put myself through all that I f I could avoid it?

Quite frankly it’s hard to be alive. Most days it seems like a bigger struggle than it’s worth. And that’s with meds. Without, forget it, I’m outa here! Spending that same time writing about really painful heartbreak hasn’t helped of course but it needed to come out.

 

Today is day 4 of the saffron and it might be unrelated but I’m feeling ok today. I don’t know if it makes a difference, I don’t really believe in the power of stones and crystals but at this point I’ll try whatever I can. I have amazonite stones I wear around my wrist.

 

I will go and visit my kinesiologist.

I went to see her the first time because she was recommended to me. I made the appointment not knowing where I was going or what I would do there. This is very much unlike me. I do my homework beforehand but something just drew me there.  As she waved her crystals over me I kept thinking that this was all BS and what a waste of money but I have to admit it made a big difference. She made gestured at one point as if she was pulling my guts out. She threw whatever spiritual residue that was aside saying “I don’t know what that was but I can only describe it as yuck”. I only worked out what it was weeks later. It was Other. She took him out of my soul. For a while it felt like she’d stolen all of that but it’s really ok that he stopped haunting me that way. No torturing myself. I was detached. He’s imposing on me again a bit so I’ll go back and hope she pulls him out again.

She also helped with my BED on my third appointment. I had a couple of months of complete disinterest in food and zero need to fill the void. I think Him got frustrated that I never had any suggestions to offer when he asked what I wanted for dinner.

The changing of meds now has unbalanced me and kind of cancelled out a part of what she had done. It’s time to go back. The anxiety I feel is often overwhelming.

Every appointment has been an odd experience of physical reactions but more so of emotions washing over me like waves and disappearing. Mostly the ones about fear and love make me react strongly. I have this powerful need to cry without knowing why which dissipates as quickly as it came. I leave there feeling tired but more peaceful. It’s the strangest of treatments I have tried and I still don’t really believe but I also can’t deny what it does.

 

“Rounds”

Learning for the first time
When it might be the last
How’d I come to be so slow
To put things in the pastI guess we all, just find our way
But some over the peace
Some would say, experience
Can never be replaced

It seems to me that as the years go by
More questions than the answers come to mind
And so it is that as the years go by
More questions than the answers tell me why

It seems to me that as the years go by
More questions than the answers come to mind
And so it is that as the years go by
More questions than the answers tell me why

Ever going, round and round
The circle game we’re in
The more I know, the less I know
I end where I begin

It seems to me that as the years go by
More questions than the answers come to mind
And so it is that as the years go by
More questions than the answers tell me why