I Am Not Okay

Content Warning: Profanity and discussion of trauma.

That feeling of lack of purpose is back again. I feel empty, drained. I want to runaway and hide. I don’t want to do “it” anymore, but what is “it”? I feel exhausted just trying to think about it, to just sit with it. I feel depleted.

A hell landscape, a burned charred tree, a blacken sky with orange sunlight being seen low in the horizon. And a female figure in black robes standing near the tree with dark purple and black rays emanating from her towards the sky. This is a part of myself where my rage, my resentment, and my anger are kept, sealed away from the rest of me. I am terrified of this part of me. She scares me. I don’t want to be anywhere near her. She is my loss of control. She is my nitro fuel that burns me out fast with every endeavor that I embark on.  So different from the little girl part of me who would run and dance under the green trees and a bright blue sky with her cat – There Once Was a Girl.

Trees hold great symbolism for me. Trees bring me comfort. This is why I was surprised during my trauma counseling session this week that this imagery of this hell landscape appeared. The female figure is an adult version of me and during this session this angry adult had facial expressions that matched my mother. In my blog, “There Once Was a Girl”, there is passage that applies to this facial expression:

“Her father would tease and make fun of how she spoke. Her mother would ignore her or dismiss the girl unless she wanted something from the girl.  Yelling happened a lot.  Her father would yell at everyone in the house and her mother would chastise her for not being how her mother wanted her to be. The girl could not understand why this happened.”

The adult figure in the hell landscape was yelling at me that it was all my fault, everything that happened to me was all my fault. She kept asking why I froze instead of fighting back. She kept saying I hurt myself, I hurt all of me. I made it happen because I didn’t fight back. So much anger, so much hatred. I realized then that what was happening was my brain telling me that I hate myself.

I never wanted to become my parents. I was so scared of being a disappointment, so frightened of losing control. I decided at a young age that I wouldn’t drink, because my understanding was that alcohol reduces inhibitions and I did not want that anger to be unleashed. The anger just sat there and grew over the years hidden away behind this stoic mask with a flat affect. No one knew. I have been screaming in my head for so damn long and no one heard, no one could tell. I contained it all, but at a very heavy cost to myself. I am 47 years old, and only now after years of trauma work, I have been able to get close enough to see it in my mind. This imagery will help me learn how to sit with it, but it needs to be done carefully and slowly. Trauma work is not a fast process, and it is definitely not an easy process.

Over the years, my typical trauma responses have been freeze and fawn. I became good at these responses, hiding in plain sight and learning how to be a codependent at a young age. These survival adaptations worked in the moment but are not useful when trying to live your life.  

Image from The Smart Girl’s Guide to Self-Care

My anger got squashed and hidden away. I didn’t let myself feel it as I needed to. I was surrounded by people who didn’t have healthy coping skills in terms of managing anger. I was never taught how to properly manage it, so I buried it. Unfortunately, this only allowed it to grow and manifest into this being of immense power that is burning me up inside and demanding to be heard. She wants to be released, but I don’t know how to do that in a safe and healthy way, so I write.

I let my hands type out what ever comes to my mind without thinking about it but staying present while I allow my brain to let my thoughts flow through my fingertips. Trauma work is weird. You end up feeling very uncomfortable during the process. You also feel like you are being foolish, and you find yourself asking yourself, “what the heck are you doing?” and “why has my brain created these images?” and “what does this all mean?”. My brain is seeking some sort of pattern, some linear fashion that would make it all make sense, but trauma work doesn’t operate in a linear fashion. Trauma work goes where it needs to go in its own time and in some very unexpected ways.  

My analytical side is asking these questions. I feel safer being in this part of myself. Sitting with the emotions is the hard part. My internal defenses keep trying to keep me away from getting close to those parts that are buried. It has taken years to even get where I am today in terms of recovery.

I know that I need to let myself feel the anger. As with any trauma, a person needs to sit with the emotion in a way that works for them in order to process it. I just don’t know where to start when it comes to my anger. There is so much and the angry female figure wants me to feel it all at once, because this part of myself is saying “how dare I do this to myself! How dare I let all this pain just sit here and burn!”

My brain can’t handle it though, so it wants to shut down. It wants to escape. It can’t run away, so it is trying to dissociate, which is an adaptive form of the freeze response. I feel like I am trudging through thick swampy muck that is above my knees as I write this. The air is so thick and heavy. My head feels heavy. My brain is fighting me.

**Deep Breath**

**Closes eyes and listens to instrumental music.**

I am safe. I am here in this room. I can feel my body sitting on this bed and I can feel the keys of this laptop.

**Deep Breath**

**The heaviness lessens.**

I want to scream at people – “IT IS TOO MUCH!! LEAVE ME ALONE!! F*CK OFF YOU NASTY PIECE OF SH*T!! YOU G*DDAMN A**HOLES, YOU DID THIS TO ME!!”

Screaming at people isn’t going to fix anything and it quite possibly will make things worse. Instead, I will yell and cuss here.

“YOU PIECES OF SH*T!” “YOU GAVE ME YOUR HURT TO CARRY INSTEAD OF PROCESSING YOUR OWN TRAUMA!” “I DON’T WANT IT!!” “I DON’T DESERVE THIS!” “THIS IS NOT MINE TO BEAR!” “TAKE IT BACK!! TAKE IT ALL BACK!!”

**Deep Breath**

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!

I am so tired. So very tired. I don’t want to hate myself.  I am not okay and I need to say it out loud.

Citizen Soldier – I’m Not Okay (Official Lyric Video)

There Once Was a Girl

Full disclosure:  I have been in counseling for about the last six months to address my Complex-PTSD. More information about my struggle with Complex-PTSD can be found here —–> Moving from Surviving to Healing

My counseling has been focused on trauma therapy.  We began with building my skills up so that I would not be so overwhelmed during therapy.  I learned I had really strong adaptive skills for surviving, but not for actually living my life.  My counseling is a combination of Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR), Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT), and Cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT).

I have been having a difficult time with dissociation during therapy. So much so, that my counselor went to a week long training to learn how she could better support me and others like me.  My counselor has learned that she has to tread very carefully when trying to help me process the various layers of trauma that I have experienced throughout my life.  Accessing one layer has caused a cascading affect that overwhelms my mind causing me to dissociate.  My mind is basically going into seize mode to defend itself. This can be very disorienting and not at all a fun experience.

With the help of my counselor, we have realized my trauma started at a young age and continued on into adulthood.  My counselor told me that we need to help the child heal who was traumatized.  She is still there, but we need to refer to her in third-person.  The idea is that a person will less likely fall into a pattern of blaming themselves for what happened to them as a child if we refer to that child in third-person. 

According to my counselor, the young girl that was hurt long ago is still in me hiding and kind of running the show in a way. She might be silent, but she is affecting my adult life.  She hid away to protect herself, but was never given the opportunity to heal.

During my last EMDR session, I was tasked to imagine the girl. Not judge her, or analyze her, or force her to do anything. Just be there.  I was then task to imagine her in a safe place.  The image that came to mind was her sitting in the grass, under a tree, while holding her cat. This is where the girl went to hide and she has stayed there all these years. The girl did not want to talk, but she found comfort with someone being there. 

Dissociation hit me as my counselor was talking me through our EMDR session. All the images whooshed away to grayness leaving me feeling dizzy and disoriented.  Fortunately, my counselor was able to get me grounded again.  As an alternative to what we had been working on, she suggested that I write a narrative in third-person about the girl. I was to focus on only one trauma that the girl had experienced. 

My traumas are all twisted up together in many layers, so focusing on only one trauma is difficult for me, but I decided to try to write a narrative anyway.  Below is the result of my first attempt of writing a narrative about myself as a child in third-person.  I could have continued writing more, but my goal was to try to stay concise. Keep in mind, I was not diagnosed autistic until I was 36 years old, yet all the signs were there.

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There once was a young girl who hid in her room. Her room was the only place that felt like hers.  She was allowed to decorate her room how she wanted.  No one yelled at her while she was in her room.  She was left alone. 

Life became harder when she left her room. She had to be careful how she talked.  Her father would tease and make fun of how she spoke. Her mother would ignore her or dismiss the girl unless she wanted something from the girl.  Yelling happened a lot.  Her father would yell at everyone in the house and her mother would chastise her for not being how her mother wanted her to be. The girl could not understand why this happened.

When the girl stayed in her room, she was left alone. She did not like being alone.  She would ask her parents how to make friends.  She was told to talk to people, but was never guided on how to do that.  People seemed uncomfortable when she would talk.  She was told she was quiet, shy, and stuck-up simply because she didn’t talk much.  The girl didn’t understand why people thought of her in these ways.  She had trouble pronouncing words. She found her mind went blank around people, there were no words, and she didn’t know how to ask for help.  

When she tried to ask for help, she was told to figure it out herself or that she was being silly. She was told again that all she needed to do was talk to people. How do you talk to people when there are no words?

She was told to be more like her little sister who had friends. The girl couldn’t understand how to be like her little sister.  How could she be like someone else?  What was wrong with her?

She was told to loosen up and not try to control everything. This only confused the girl more.  How was she controlling everything?  How does one “loosen up”? This didn’t make any sense to the girl.

There was so much confusion being around people. The girl always felt there was something wrong with her.  No one seemed to notice how much she struggled.  No one seemed to notice how lonely she was. No one seemed to notice how hard she tried.  Nothing seemed to ever be good enough to those who shared a life with the girl, and yet the expectations kept climbing.  The pressure to be someone other than herself grew and grew.

So, the girl would retreat to her room to be amongst her things and snuggle with her cat. She felt comfort amongst her belongings.  She was left alone when she was in her room.  She could listen to her music in peace while talking to her stuffed animals.  She would practice pronouncing words on her own in private where she would not feel embarrassed.

Unfortunately, this peace would not last. The girl’s mother began to chastise her about her toys. Her mother seemed so angry.  What was wrong with keeping the toys?  The toys were taken care of and didn’t leave the girl’s room.  The toys were special to her. The girl didn’t understand why her mother shamed her for having toys, toys that she had been encouraged to get not that long ago. Her sister wasn’t being shamed. Her sister was always allowed to keep her toys. The girl was protective of her belongings. She knew that her father would throw away anything that went into the garage.  Her father didn’t like having things in the house either.  He preferred bare walls, a television that only he controlled, and a chair that was only his.  

The house that the girl lived in didn’t feel like hers. The house was an uncomfortable place to be in. When being inside the house became too much, she would go outside in the yard or down the street into the woods. When outside, she would find a special tree to be near, to touch, and even hug. She liked the feeling of the bark. She liked the smell of trees.  She liked the intricate patterns in the trunks and leaves of the trees.  She liked to watch the insects, birds, and squirrels that lived in the trees. The girl liked being around trees. Trees didn’t yell at her. Trees didn’t chastise her.  The girl found that she could talk to the trees without having to speak.  Trees were safe. Trees understood and helped her feel better. Trees told her it was going to be okay.   

So, the girl wrapped herself up inside herself and went through the motions of the life she found herself in. She was expected to do what she was told and was taught to not make others upset.  If people were upset, she had to find ways to make them feel better, but no one seemed to take much notice when she retreated. 

Her mother would take it personally and ignore her. Her father would only interact with her on rare occasions.  She was expected to come out of her room when requested and not to question.  She was expected to be a good girl and do as she was told.  Rules were rules and she could not disappoint. To disappoint meant more yelling and more chastising.  The girl learned her needs did not matter, what she wanted did not matter.  She wasn’t allowed to show much emotion, because it made others in her life uncomfortable.  

The trees knew what she needed, though. The trees let her cry and let her scream.  She would run and dance amongst the trees, playing in the leaves and making dolls, bracelets, and crowns with the pine needles.  

Returning home meant more silence, more demands, and more loneliness. She wanted to hide when she was at home. Her cat was her only companion.  When at home, she felt something wasn’t right with her.  She felt tense and on guard all the time.  She wasn’t like how the others wanted her to be. 

She wanted wings so she could fly above everything and everyone. She wanted to soar above the trees, like Hawk Girl. She wanted the power to run incredibly fast, like Flash Gordon. She loved the feeling of the wind on her face as she rode her bike fast down hills.  The sensation made the girl feel like she was free.

And that was what she really wanted, to feel free. Feeling the wind on her face made sense to the girl. Feeling the texture of the bark on trees made sense to the girl.  Feeling the softness of a cat’s fur made sense to the girl.  Moving fast made sense to the girl.  Loosing herself in her music made sense to the girl.  Caring for her toys made sense to the girl.

What the other people in her life were saying to her and wanting her to do did not make sense. The expectations being placed on the girl did not make sense to her.  She felt so alone and suffocated in the house she lived in, but outside amongst the trees where she could run, bike, hike, dance, move, and be loud is where the girl got a glimmer of what feeling free was like.  To the girl, freedom meant having the space and permission to feel like herself.

Unfortunately, much of that was eventually taken away from her. As the years went past, the girl’s mother seemed to become even more controlling and her father even more distant.  The girl did not know that there had been a box being built around her to contain her.  The girl did not know that the other people in her life were uncomfortable with her spirit and felt that her spirit needed to be controlled.  She was still being expected to be someone else.    

The silence inside the girl grew as she wrapped herself even more into herself. She was in pain and wanted to find protection from the containment her life had become. The young girl stopped talking. She retreated deep within herself. She just wanted to be left in peace sitting under her tree with her cat staring at the blue sky, feeling the green grass under her feet and the warm breeze on her face, and listening to the birds flying overhead.

And this is where she has remained to this day.

(Images do not belong to me.)