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I’m not a w OMG! I just wrote out the start of that sentence and put w instead of v (I meant to write very) but because I put the w by accident, I had a mini panic attack and just sat there thinking about what word I could write instead that starts with a w.
All of this happened in a notebook, in pen, of course, while I was sitting at my desk, in my house. Why was the simple act of crossing out a letter so difficult for me?
My anxiety can get so bad, and my annoying OCD tendencies so strong that I couldn’t just cross it out, at least not without an internal fight.
There are the good days, where I manage to fight my anxiety before it consumes me, but more often than not there is always something. When it comes to my blog– I think about it al the time. I come up with ideas that I want to write out– but then I feel this overwhelming sence of dread towards writing it.
For some reason I get the same feeling when I go to use my credit card when I don’t know if the payment I made has cleared and I worried the payment won’t go through. Actually, I do know why I feel like that.I’m afraid of being embarrassed. I don’t like the idea of someone making fun of me, judging me, or even feeling sorry for me. And if I dig a little deeper, I guess a therapist would tell me it come back to my childhood.
I used to get in trouble if (insert anything I did that annoyed my mother at any given moment) was to her standards, exactly when she wanted it.
The level of expectation for perfection was also a loose variable–not a constant, but she would never indicate what the level was at any time. Eventually I just always expected it to be the highest level.
The summers before high school wasn’t spend hanging out with my friends– not at all. I got the pleasure of baby-sitting, and there was no getting paid, no, this was an expectation. My sisters were ten and four, I was fourteen. I was excepted to not only watch them ALL THE TIME but make lunches, and often diner, complete a daily list of chores, AND keep the house spotless. Otherwise I would lose privileges– having to miss an outing with friends, no tv, no computer, or more chores.
At twenty-six with an almost four-year old and a very messy dog, I often have trouble keeping up to my own standards — let alone hers.
And then the self-shame kicks in. It always happens after I realize I “should have known” something, but kept it buried inside. Which I know is illogical. I know PTSD, or in this case CPTSD, is not my fault. If I were listening to anyone else tell this same story I would tell them that, but I have trouble listening to myself. I also know that I shouldn’t blame, or even hate myself for not noticing earlier, but I do.
Sometimes it feels like the rational me is locked in a cage and a very sadistic me (I just realized how much of this example comes from Inside Out, if you haven’t already, watch it, I think it’s a must see) is dangling the key in my face while letting my anxiety take over completely.
I want to stop listening to that horrible voice in my head when it tells me my fiance doesn’t really love/want/trust/belive me. I know that he does, but logical me can’t take back control.
Honestly though, I am so tired of being pushed around by my anxiety. I want to be proud of who I am. I don’t know how long it will take to get there, but that’s the ultimate goal.
Adults I was supposed to trust and look up to (my teachers, my mother), made me feel worthless at times, like I was choosing to complain about a non-existent issue, or purposely failing to meet ridiculous standards.
Now that I’m a parent it is much easier to sympathise a little, and understand that my mother (most likely) did not purposely cause the pain she did, and I am fairly confident that non of my teachers believed that I was in serious pain and purposely ignored me. (Read this post for details) That knowledge eases some of the pain, but dealing with CPTSD is an ongoing battle.