A first look.

I think it is time that I push myself farther than I think I can go.

I know that my Trich is primarily a direct reaction to my extreme anxiety and childhood PTSD. I am tired of always hiding the evidence 100%. This picture doesn’t show the worst spot, but it is the best I was able to convince myself to post.

I want to learn how to control the urges. I want to fight back. This is the next step.

Maybe I’ll post a ‘better’ view in a couple of weeks, and hopefully it will have grown in some.


PTSD, it’s more common than you might think

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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.


Side note.  I spent about two weeks fighting with myself to type something up.  I finally picked up a pen and the words just started flowing out.  The typing up is still a little hard, but much  better than before.  Handwriting rough drafts, it worked for me in school, I guess it will work for me now.