There are a few reasons why. First, I realized how detrimental it is to keep everything tucked away inside. There’s no way I’ll be able to heal and move on until the secrets are out. So why not just go to a therapist? It’s expensive and bullshit. No offense to all the therapists out there, but I don’t have the money, time, or patience to hop from therapist to therapist until I maybe find one who’s actually able to do something other than take my money with a smile.
My experience with psychiatrists and therapists hasn’t been the greatest, so I gave up. The couple of psychiatrists I saw basically said my brain is fucked because the trauma started when I was so young. My brain is hardwired for fight-or-flight mode, and there’s no way to rewire it, is what they said. The only option provided is medication to treat the symptoms.
I wasn’t opposed to the medication at first. At the time, I was deep down a hole, and the medication helped me go from feeling everything to feeling nothing. It was nice. Except I wasn’t myself. I was a zombie. A shell of who I was. But I was terrified not to take the meds, worried I’d end up back at the bottom of the hole.
But then I was laid off the day I returned from the short-term leave I’d taken to fix myself after the breakdown. I got lucky and found another job fairly quickly, but I had to move from Atlanta to Boston. I’ll tell you more about what a shit show that job turned out to be later, but COVID hit a few months after I moved. Which meant I found myself in a situation where I was out of refills and unable to see a doctor because everyone stopped taking new patients, or the waitlist was six months long.
So I slowly weaned myself off the medication the same way I was instructed to ramp up the meds in the beginning, and legalized weed became my saving grace. I’m a stoner from way back. One of the things that excited me the most about getting the job in Boston was moving to a legal state. Having weed regularly available meant I was able to experiment with strains and figure out the best combination to keep me “normal”. It’s reversed for me. Indica during the day to help keep me focused. Otherwise, the raging torrent of thoughts is overwhelming. Sativa in the evening when I’m ready for my brain to calm down so I can sleep.
Talk therapy was a joke. Get this shit, I never really made it to the talking part. In an effort not to waste time and money, I created a doc outlining all the high-level traumas I’ve been through and sent it to therapists before our first session. I figured doing so would help them prepare ahead of time, so we could get right into it. Turns out, I was right and wrong about that approach. They all had similar responses.
I’m not qualified to handle your case. Only one of them came out and said this directly in our first meeting, which I super appreciated. The others attempted to try, but only lasted a couple of sessions before it became painfully obvious they weren’t qualified. You don’t untangle 40 years of trauma by writing positive affirmations on your mirror every morning. I had one tell me to soak in a bath of apple cider vinegar water. It made my skin feel amazing, but did nothing for my brain. Shocking.
You’ve done so well for yourself; it seems like you have pretty good coping skills to me. Just stay on your meds, keep doing what you’re doing, and you’ll be fine. Mind you, this was shortly after I was suicidal and had admitted that I thought suicidal ideation was normal. The princess always died in my daydreams. That was my favorite part. Apparently, that doesn’t matter since I was able to put myself through college, get a good job, and provide a stable home for my son.
The statement above was usually followed by, It’s probably best you don’t talk about it anyway. You’ll just retraumatize yourself, and do you really want that? What’s even more fucked up is I gaslit myself into believing them. Quelled the desire to speak and silenced myself once again. I assumed they must be right. They’re the professionals after all. And I couldn’t argue with the logic. I was much better off than everyone I met during my week-long stay in a psych ward.
So yeah, I’m fairly certain the only way therapy would be helpful is if I were able to get into a clinical study of some sort. But I’ve looked, and all the clinical studies I could find via Google are geared towards veterans. Not child abuse survivors. If I’m mistaken, please let me know.
Why tell your story publicly? Why not just talk to a friend? Having a heart-to-heart with a close friend seems like the next best solution to let go of the secrets. However, you’re mistaken. It’s 1000 times harder to talk to friends about my trauma than strangers. You have the benefit of not being emotionally connected to me on a personal level. My friends don’t have that luxury. While you may end up mildly traumatized by what I have to say, you’re so far removed from the situation, it’s easier to handle. It’s completely different for them. They will feel the pain in every fiber of their being. They know me well enough to be able to put themselves in my shoes and see through my eyes. I’m terrified for them. The closer you are to the trauma, the harder it hits.
When shit hit the fan six years ago, a friend of mine admitted he couldn’t handle being there for me, which made him feel like a horrible human. But I totally understood and super appreciated his honesty. We remain friends to this day. However, other friends and family said they were there for me but made excuses or ghosted me completely. I dropped them like hot potatoes and haven’t spoken to them since. I often think about that and wonder if it makes me a sociopath on some level. Then I wonder if the fact that I’m concerned about being a sociopath automatically makes me not a sociopath, but I digress.
The point is, it’s unfair to expect friends and loved ones to listen to my story. If they’re willing and able to take on the burden and scar themselves for life, fantastic. But that’s a decision I’ll let them make. While you’re probably reading this for entertainment purposes or out of curiosity, they’ll read it through a completely different lens. Keep that in mind if you start feeling a desire to put on your judgey pants.
Another reason I’m telling my story this way is that it’s hard for me to talk about. If I were talking to someone face-to-face, I’d be a blithering mess. I chase squirrels enough as it is during a normal conversation. But those squirrels are nothing compared to the Monty Python evil bunnies that attack during this conversation. I’m able to fend them off pretty well whenever I talk into the ether. But they overtake me and beat me into submission any time my past comes up in conversation. They’re like the wardens of secrets. A manifestation of my brain’s attempts to keep me safe. Keeping me a prisoner within myself.
Speaking publicly has other advantages. I’d love for all of this to mean something. And I don’t mean in a God’s plan sort of way. Fuck that dude. Considering how horrible the statistics are on child abuse in America, there are thousands of other adults out there like me who grew up in seriously fucked up situations we thought were normal. Thousands of adults who’ve internalized every bad thing that ever happened to them and have failed to thrive as a result. Thousands of adults who believe we’re the problem. If listening to my story convinces even one of them to do the seemingly impossible and speak their truth, it’ll be worth it.
And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t doing this for some sort of financial gain. But more out of desperation than anything. I’m completely burned out with corporate life and being treated like a number. All the layoffs have taken more of a toll than I care to admit, mentally and financially. Working in software development has become one of the most toxic relationships of my life. Sure, I’m actively looking and hoping to find something before we lose everything, but to what end? Just so I can get laid off again a year and a half from now? What a miserable existence. But it’s currently the only job I can get that’ll pay enough to support my family. And now is definitely not the time to attempt a career change. The market is way too saturated. I’m effectively trapped.
While considering what else I’d even want to do, I’ve had lots of crazy ideas over the years. But I always come back to this. This feels right. This feels like what I was actually meant to do. Something that gives me purpose. Something that doesn’t suck the life out of me. Something that scares the shit out of me yet still seems worth it. Something that I can be proud of. Something my son can be proud of.
People love a good crime drama based on a true story, and I have nothing to lose. Worst case, no one gives a shit about what I have to say, but I’ll feel better having the secret out. Best case, I make enough money off my story to make this my day job AND help others like me along the way.
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