I began to notice a shift in my writings. And I am beginning to become more discerning of how I place my personal craft out into the world. I want to give direction, content, and not word vomit. There has been a pattern to my writings that I think is quite noticeable. At first, I had a very difficult time owning my story. That was the depression phase and the initial poetry. I think it really all began to blossom as I began writing about my birth, and sharing my birth story. Speaking about my midwife -- and who she was to me during this moment has changed multiple times through my healing journey. I think this story (that of my birth and subsequently child rearing) really relates to my journey and repatterning as a whole.
Because, I cannot process my birth without processing everything else in my life. So my birth happened, and thus my depression came. And I was stuck -- and could not afford to be stuck any longer. So I searched for answers in the tiny moments I created for myself by skipping classes to be alone. You see, it was numbness for awhile -- then deep melancholy. After I began processing my birth, I realized how deeply angry I was; and holy shit was I angry. I had a fire inside me that I had a difficult time quenching. I think that was the most difficult time period during the process. And I began getting very mad at my midwife -- really questioning everything she did. At the same time I questioned her, I questioned my parents; and my current reality that I lived in. My anger at my birth echoed my burning and bleeding wounds from my childhood. I had a difficult time putting that together until I discussed it with someone I knew would give me an honest answer. I brought up some of my past wounds and she made a connection that I had never made. I began writing about that.
I started to realize that I had to process my midwife first, and last. My birth story could not be complete until those wounds had been seen and mended first. I saw my past, and felt my past through my birth story. I noticed that when a major event happens; it's a good time to heal again. For me, this was birth. I was able to open up previously closed and scarred areas of my psyche (causing immense problems; however, I was unable to fully locate). I have yet been able to process my midwife again for the second time. I am not there yet. I am still processing my past. The reason for processing is to use the story, to evaluate the memories to create a new self identity. A new identity that can help me accomplish my dreams and goals. It was interesting that a lot of my sorrow first came from a deep desire to fully understand my aim; thus leading to a depression.
Anyways, I am trying to formulate some sort of pattern to this emotional release. Trying to understand the point of sharing these deep stories. As everyone has these stories hidden inside. And using them as guide posts to reformulate our identity is key to change. I am also realizing this process is completely changing my self concept and my outward mask. I would label this prior, youthful mask "ENFP" as by the Myers Briggs idea of personalities and how they are exhibited in sixteen forms. I am realizing how I am shifting away from this identity, the more that I sort through this baggage. It makes me wonder that if healing from trauma can generate a different patterning of emotional regulation that looks like an entire new personality -- even if it is truthfully more genuine of that being.
For example, if one knew me prior to birth -- they would see me as loud. Now, I've been having this awakening of sorts. Waking up to how people see me; and stunned because my intention is not attention. It made me question why was I loud -- as I could see that I obviously did draw attention to myself (even if unwanted). I started to uncover this idea that I was falling into a pattern of this vision of who I wanted to be when I graduated high school. I realized I did have this vision of myself; yet, when I was ripped away from my hometown -- this self identity never really changed. And right around my 28th birthday I felt as if I became this person. Albeit I was not in high school; I just felt like I was reliving this experience of "who I wanted to be" while I was there. The self image actualized. It was freaky, and all happening as I had a small infant. There was no going back now. I had to let of her. I was just happy that I did in fact get to meet her. She was beautiful. She had long, blonde hair: just as I always wanted. She was in a sorority -- everyone liked her (or at least in my head). And now, I had to change. I began to see this coding, this patterning. I began to awaken, I began to see. A little bit of postpartum helped transform me of all the shit I was holding onto. It hurt, because I didn't want to let go. What I didn't realize is -- one cannot escape change and heartbreak. It comes in all forms.
As I began writing. I began seeing that patterning that I had acquired. I started to reshape who I was -- I began to reshape who I wanted to be; without outside influence. I didn't ask anyone if it was okay to post these writings (okay, maybe a few times I asked some friends); I just did it. It was okay I was not "educated enough" or "had made it enough". I needed to share my story, because my story was the back bone of the reasoning I was in chiropractic school in the first place. Yet, I denied it. I denied my story and it suffocated my love of learning. I rejected my story; as I wanted something a bit more palatable. I did not want to share about five years of treatment centers, of mental health, of over-medication, of my parents, of my abuse. I did not WANT to share; I had to own my story. That's the difference. I am choosing to own it publicly because I want others to have an example of the emotional patterning that happens once it all begins to unfold. I want to document my journey; even the ugly parts.
Is that so wrong?
all photos are mine, NZ 2017.
Dear M&P;
Will and I just celebrated eight years of marriage. It has been a beautiful adventure in growing together. It’s fun to look back at everything we have been through. To stare into his eyes and only there can I see the woman I once was. Our love has been beautiful, it has truly been a blessing to witness someone who loves me so completely and effortlessly. One can not explain the concept fully to someone ununioned; it’s a perspective one acquires through change. Change of everything: change of scenery, life, school, work; child. I once desperately held onto my past; I think that is one of the reasons I am writing to you. I was extremely impressionable as a teen; I did not have a strong sense of self. My home life did not foster identity. Growing up since CF has been painful. I felt the universal winds blow through my inner chaff. I suffered deep lows, I ran through incredible highs. The trauma of being ripped from my house as a young girl scarred me. Being molested as a young youth scared me. I was not a bad kid as my parents made me out to be. You too saw something different in me. I wanted to praise that, to say thank you.
My mom brought up something interesting -- and the way she viewed it conflicted with my understanding. She remarked about how when I was in treatment, I confessed to “potentially I would have used cocaine” as a validation to the problems she always saw in me. When you all asked me if I would ever use drugs again, and I said yes -- during our initial interview; you rewarded my honesty. That was never held over my head. You saw it for what it was: honesty in the face of persecution. I had a lot to lose by saying that; however, I valued integrity. It was the first time I’d be rewarded for that level of brutal honesty. That’s all I was trying to do -- was to live life authentically. She brought up this remark a few weeks back. It made all of this come to light; she didn’t see me through the correct lens. And I couldn’t change that. She viewed this as an indication of wanting to try harder drugs; confirmation I was an addict. It gave her information of who she thought I was; of who my parents both thought I was: a bad kid. It was moments like that -- I was punished. I felt like when I was trying to be genuine; it was not interpreted correctly. Perhaps I got my wish in some ways. I got to be on the inside of a really great story, I got to get away from home. The days in Delaware where I laid in my bed wishing I had a different life; had different parents. To the days in treatments; I wished for my old life back. I felt that all my problems were projected onto me. I didn’t really know who I was. I never felt like they knew me. I just kept wanting to explain myself, to justify myself. I wanted to clear my name.
“I was going to be a heroin addict” my dad used to say, while he sent me books families wrote on their daughters who were now dead. Maybe the honesty was not linearly disciplined; my name was earmarked per say. I was looked upon with suspicion, every move my parents made -- they did with hesitation and fear. It was tough growing up under those parameters. So much fear, so much death. I was going to die from everything: oral sex, cannabis, mushrooms. It was hard to take them seriously. When everything is fear and death -- it’s hard to not simply see their anxiety. Soon, I took every word of theirs as a grain of salt. All I wanted was to be honest with them; and without retaliation. Without someone needing to be punished, or another parent having to be told -- or another drama, drama, drama. I lied for household peace. I snuck out so I could feel freedom that I couldn’t stop “baratting” my parents for. When I was inside the walls of treatment my every word out of my mouth was held against me. To be honest, I never fully understood why I was being sent away. I had an incredibly toxic home life I was trying to escape from afterall. I just simply acted their ideas out; I was highly impressionable; even by my own parents. I soon would take on their ideas about myself. I’ve been coming out of that world for the past thirteen years. They were always willing to step forward and act; a short term solution was greater than understanding the long term consequences. As long as I was alive at 18; they had done their job. It was like I was emotionally thrown into the deep waters, time and time again -- just for the sake of my life. Little problems turned into mountain peaks. And that’s the danger of over controlling parents -- they turn on anxiety in their offspring. Neural signals are overfiring when normality is diagnosed. Whenever I left the house, I was fearful of my life. After treatment I suffered from intense anxiety.
And my parents are just watching from the shore, “I am sure her swim teacher is watching her? I mean, surely they are experts” They said, as I was struggling to breathe.
After I got sent to the wilderness; I was willing to tell anyone anything they wanted to hear! Anything they wanted to hear to confirm they made the right choice; and maybe they’d take me home if I just confessed. Anything to cure this horrible stab wound of abandonment. I was searching for belonging that much more. Mental Illness, check! You want me highly medicated -- done!? Will you accept me then? Addiction -- that’s me! Can I feel like I belong somewhere, now? Cutter, Spiteful Child, Delusional! Yup! That’s me! Tell me who I am; and I’ll be it. I learned that when I was being abused. Shut up and do what I say. My parents reiterated this message. They would tell me passively who I was; and I’ll verbally confirm. I’ll take any pill you want, I’ll do anything the experts say. That’s what I thought playing the game way. Saying, “I don’t know why I am here” is seen as non-compliant; not honest. Yet, that is my truth. I don’t know why I was placed in these treatment centers.
My therapist, Sue, being shallow; did not understand the level of vulnerability I was willing to give her and my parents. It frankly was an indication of my willingness. I did not possess a strong sense of self prior to getting sent away. Personally, I believe this was another factor that I was willing to try on other personas for fun. I wanted to be a stoner and a badass (I wasn’t); but I desired to be that character in my diaries. And I acted it out in my writings. I am not saying I was lying about the events -- it’s just that every party I went too, knowing I’d write about it later. I wanted to be this person. I wanted to be full of adventure. This was my way of rebelling against my parents. I’ll be the shadow. The pattern was shoved down my throat. And my father did not want to hear from me about what was happening in my life -- he wanted to hear from the experts. It felt annihilating, defeating, deafening, ignorant. I felt powerless over the control of my identity. I was what my parents said -- and when I tried to deny, my father would remark that “I wasn’t a good historian”. Insinuating, he was. Yes, it scared my mother. It scared my father. The truth was I had been molested as a child. It took away a personal boundary that everyone innately possesses. It made me mutable. It created deep emotional waves I did not know how to handle. On the top; my parents tried simplifying the answers behind my back. They dug through my personal belongings, hurting another personal boundary. And tragically sending me away to treatment centers for a long duration of time. I was incredibly broken, incredibly mutable. I was willing to tell my therapist anything, I was willing to be open and honest. I wanted my family and home back so badly I’d commit to being forthwrite. I’d commit to anything. I felt so incredibly broken and betrayed.
I believe that you once understood the level of my vulnerability and honesty; Mark. My parents were looking for a clean image, a clear surface. You saw that the mask is nothing but a facade. My parents taught me just to play a part, what happened beneath didn’t matter as long as I had a job, and a family. I wanted to be happy. My father may have had stability in the office, but his homelife was that of the ocean. To abide by his words would be to relive his past. I needed to create my own; I wanted to be honest. I saw masks everywhere -- you don’t think I saw through them? I was young, I was not blind as my older parents. I knew they wore masks, I knew they were broken. I just didn’t know where or why. I tried asking my mom where or why -- and she retaliated with a denser mask. As if I didn’t see her; it was insulting to my intelligence. I soon realized she believed her own mask; she super glued it to her consciousness -- she was blind to her own traumas and self that leaked through the bleeding wounds. If she couldn’t see them; surely we couldn’t either. It’s the same as saying -- if I smoke this joint, surely you will be high as well? I saw everything.
If I did not write in a diary, they would have never read my writings; they would have not sent me away. I did not receive a conversation about what they found until the transporters were in my room. I had a difficult time fitting into treatment; I was a virgin, I did not use hard drugs. I wanted friends so badly. I could not relate. There was this part of me that didn’t feel ‘bad enough’; I exaggerated my problems to feel as if I belonged. For that, Uinta put me on a ton of pharmaceuticals that did not work. I couldn’t lie; I could only express my true depression. How could they not see that it was situational? How could they not see the extreme anxiety was due to placement problems? How could they not see that surely, I was not being manipulative when I asked my father for a new therapist, or complained about Sue? It is convenient for everyone making money that I am wrong and insane. They can put whatever motives into my being. Additionally due to my extensive lack of self-identity; the behavioral modification that this program employed left me institutionalized. I had to go to a group home afterwards. My one highschool teacher thought I was just a chronic dozer; would he believe I am in graduate school? I was on so many mood altering, front lobe stunting pills that I could not function. Getting off was difficult, and it should not be a fast process. I normalized while staying with you all.
Thank you,
@Laurabell
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