The idea of talking openly about my childhood brings up all kinds of shame and guilt for me. Mostly on my parent’s behalf. I love my parents and feel that they did the best they could with their own circumstances. They did better for me than what was done for them. Isn’t that what most parents want for their kids? The problem is that I come from a pretty extensive background of abuse, addiction, and mental illness. So do they.
No matter how much I love them and wish that their lives could be better, there isn’t a whole lot I can say about my upbringing that doesn’t make them look bad.
I talk or write about it to try to understand it. To figure out exactly what makes me who I am, as well as trying as hard as I’ve ever tried at anything to make sure that I do better for my son than what was done for me.
My parents never hit me much, and I was never really sexually abused. Even though there is lots of all of that in my family history, I personally did not have that cross to bear directly. In the early days of 20 plus years of continuing therapy, when I was first told that I had PTSD, I didn’t believe it. I would say, “how can I possibly have PTSD when nothing serious ever happened to me?” Several different counselors over the years explained to me that growing up in chaos on a daily basis the way that I did is more than enough to cause it.
Even as I only allow myself to begin this endeavor in pencil, I also come back to the question of why. The same question that has plagued my mind repeatedly, has been addressed in countless therapy sessions… Why is it such a big fucking deal? Thousands of people have made it through difficult childhoods and become adults who don’t talk about it on any regular basis. But here I am at 42 fucking years old, writing about it once again.
It seems like I’ve spent the majority of my life trying to figure out what goes on in my head. What, how, and why am I thinking in circles… Often while pacing in circles. Walking laps around my furniture and piles of stuff.
I’ve certainly spent the majority of my life denying my own challenge with PTSD. Fighting against it on a daily basis, trying hard to pretend that could be normal, and simply not acknowledging or discussing it. I’ve gone through the same cycle over and over again for years between feeling strong and working hard to maintain some daily routines, and feeling low and struggling with the most basic daily task of self-care and eating. After so many years of observing how the PTSD affects me on a daily basis, I know that is not serving me to continue to hide or ignore it. I cannot win until I face this head on, and say it out loud.
The truth is that I am mentally paralyzed almost immediately upon the experience of negative emotion. I have an anxiety attack almost always around leaving the house or getting ready to go somewhere. It’s like I am constantly recreating the chaos that caused the PTSD in the first place. Every moment of my memories are framed in chaos from the day I was born.
I’m still not sure how to change it, so for now, I write.
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