So I got some sleep, not much but enough for me... I've never been able to sleep correctly. Apparently the fact that I have very complex dreams in colour/with sounds and smells and tastes means I am not getting deep sleep.
This does not surprise me; I have PTSD and this has me in a permanent state of fight or flight. In other words I am always expecting danger. This works in such a way as to keep me safe from further trauma. But it also means I have panic attacks for the slightest thing.
This video from Youtube describes what a panic attack is.
Queue at the post office has somebody aggressive in it, panic attack. The headteacher at school wants to talk to me about something else my DS has done, panic attack. There is an unexpected [or expected] visitor at the door, panic attack. I have a minimum of six of these a day. They rule my life and control what I do in it.
In a way I am both looking forward to restarting education in the autumn and am terrified. I KNOW my panic attacks will come thick and fast. Will I be able, this time, to complete my education? Will I get a good tutor who knows how to push me without tipping me headlong into the abyss? Will I get any support?
I will be in the throes of therapy then. I suspect this will be an outlet for me, but I worry I will fail again. That I will live up to other people's image of a flaky idiot. Never able to finish anything, always a dissapointment, never living up to my huge IQ. Let me tell you,it is a curse that I couldn't do without. It divides me from the masses, and allows me to see everything that seems unclear to others. That has its good and bad points.
Most people go through life unaware of their flaws and more importantly their potential. I can palpably feel mine. I can run my hands over everything I have done wrong, and what COULD go wrong. Like a chess master; I can think 40 moves ahead. And it ruins me because if any of those 40moves leads to failure; I say no. No, I will fail on my own terms. Why risk it whenever it is easier to continue being this big joke to everyone?
Because that's what I am. No threat. I am the big, ugly, fat friend that people keep around to make themselves look better. I am the relative everyone looks down on, and whispers 'how did she go so wrong, she was such a smart kid.' And this is the thing. They all put me in a box. And the box is small, and cramped, and not really a suitable place for a soul, but this is important; it is SAFE in the box. Nobody is going to challenge me there. Nobody is going to force me to use my potential there.
It's like when you see those wild animals being released back into the wild. They open the panel on the side of THEIR boxes, even tipping it onto one side to try to force the animal to scrabble out. The animal resists because, for now, they feel safe inside that box. They know what to expect. It may not be pleasant in there, but it isn't unpleasant.
I haven't re-rung Lifeline yet, having only just woken with the urge to blog a fire in my chest. I never kept a diary. Well, that's a lie. I never kept a REAL diary. I had one, which I filled with the most inane, dull things possible such as got up, had breakfast etc You see it was a test. One my mother failed. Soon after beginning to write it, my mother complained that my diary was 'boring'. I pretended to be offended, while inside I was triumphant. I had proven to myself that my mother did not respect me enough for it to be safe for me to express my thoughts.
So I kept them inside. I never, ever,told anybody HOW I felt. One time I told one of the locum psychiatrists at the hospital a little. I begged to be taken in-patient as I feared for my safety. He refused. Whenever I enquired that if I DID hurt myself, would I be taken in. It was genuine question. I was terrified I would hurt myself and that I would be forced to spend time in a waiting room. He accused me of 'threatening' him,and ended the session. Less than a month later I was inpatient having attempted suicide. I NEVER told anyone how I felt again.
Anyway I haven't rung lifeline. And I suppose I have a genuine reason. My aunt M works in some sort of counselling program. I do not know if it IS lifeline. What will I do if SHE answers the phone? She does have a sort of noticeable accent, so I ASSUME I can ask to be transferred. But, you see, she is nosey. Will she try to talk to me? What if she recognizes me? What if she looks up my file? I mean it's a basic file at the minute, but it still contains more information than I wish to convey to anyone who isn't PAID to remain confidential.
And don't speak to me about confidentiality. People rarely keep that. Even if she 'shares a story without naming names' it is obvious when people think about it who the person is. And what if she talks amongst my family? I do NOT have a supportive family. In the last week the only people I have spoken to are the counsellor, my DS's teacher and assistant and the local shopkeeper.
Sigh.
Anyway, the real reason wanted to blog is about therapeutic touch. Not the airy-fairy TT technique which as far as I can tell is all about NOT touching. I mean about people placing their hands on you in such a way as to calm you. Like a hug. I always hug DS. I never got hugs growing up. I mean P's way to freak me out was to come up to me in a shop and hug me.
And it DID freak me out. I had never experienced touch as something pleasant. I remember thinking one time I was about seven. I had a hand on my lap and I wondered, why does this feel ok for my hand to be here but not for other people's hands to be there. Apart from the abuse, my only other memories of touch are this; whenever we had visitors to my parents house, my brother and I would 'act up' as do a lot of children. P's way of dealing with this was to pin us to the bed and cover our noses and mouths so as we couldn't breath.
To this day touch terrifies me. It's not just linked in my head to adult hands roaming over me as a child, but as a struggle, of being trapped, unable to breathe. A struggle that I would loose as I was a slight child, and P was a bodybuilder and weightlifter. M chose to 'not see' this. And when T and I brought it up, she looked at us disbelievingly and as is her way, never spoke of it again.
But I crave touch. Not sexual desire, but a human need to be held, and comforted and loved. At night I sleep on a pillow beneath my chest [I sleep on my side] and clutching therapy pillows inside a pillowcase. The closest to loving contact I have aside from DS who's hugs and moods are as changeable as the Irish weather.
No comments:
Post a Comment