Before we begin I’d just like to thank all and any who have taken the time to read and like my posts. Writing and sharing my story has been incredibly therapeutic and has helped me make sense of a lot of the wounds of the past. I try not to “trauma dump” too much, unless a particular memory is releveant to the post. More than anything then I hope that in sharing my story I can inspire others to share their story and begin the healing process, too.
“She’s a narcissist” Matt says coldly, I grimace.
‘Narcissist’ is a strong word. A toxic, unhealthy individual? Maybe. A Karen (and proud of it)? Absolutely. But a narcissist? I’m not clinically licensed to make that call, nor do I think it’s true. Mum is too ‘otherly’ for narcissism. She cares about other people, she just cares too much in some areas which gives her no love to give to others. She’s so compassionate about the people she cares for at work and gives heart and soul there, but that means she’s too exhausted for the family who loves her. As a result, we suffer.
I’ve long been exhausted from caring too much about other stuff and having no time to care about me, and other people have noticed. The only one who can fix those problems, though, are ourselves.
The one term that I’ve seen come up a few times in the past few days is C-PTSD, in response to childhood trauma. It doesn’t only have to be sexual or physical abuse either, it could be financial, emotional or psychological too. I was predominantly psychologically abused, with some emotional (and occasionally physical) abuse thrown in. In light of my personal proclivities and the common assumptions that people make about those into them, however, I was was never, ever sexually abused by my parents. Or any blood relative, for that matter.
When I think back to it, then it’s not hard to see why Mum is the way she is. My grandfather was a sargeant in the Royal Artillery, so he probably shouted a lot. If he shouted at insubordination, he probably shouted at my Mum and uncle when they were young too. If my Mum grew up knowing and believing that shouting gets things done, and that a military-style discipline was the ‘right’ way of doing things, then it probably makes sense that she went on to treat us in the same way. Mum is not the most confident person, I hardly remember a day in my life when she wasn’t on antidepressant medication. I feel and believe she probably has a lot of childhood trauma of her own and as a result, she passed that on to us.
For my father, my father was physically abused. Dad never laid a finger on us (he was the inspiration for me making the choice I made not go on and abuse others in the same way I was) but he was emotionally and psychologically abusive. Dad was an anxious man, a shy man, but he liked a laugh and a joke and he didn’t know when to stop. When you got upset he was “just kidding”, thereby reversing the victim-offender roles (DARVO). Many of my parents’ arguments were centred around my Mum not knowing how to communicate properly (ie not yelling at people) and my Dad’s tendency to get so affronted that he’d leave for hours at a time. Seeing this happen time and time again taught me that people are scary (avoidant attachment style) but also the importance of healthy communication: if you don’t yell at people, they don’t (normally) leave, thus creating mutual trust and stability. It’s worked pretty well for me so far.
But because of my parents’ own traumas, I believe they traumatised us. Now, I’m left to pick up those traumatised pieces.
That sounds very victimhood of me, and I try not to hold that mentality. I meant that in a factual capacity, not a “woe is me” sense. Now that I know what I’m dealing with, and where it comes from, then I have to heal the past myself. Only I can heal me.
“One important step is going to be to make sure my mother never gets to speak to the doctor without my consent again” I tell Matt.
In 2017 and during an episode of seasonal depression and chronic loneliness, my mother called up my doctor’s office and told them that I ‘might be autistic’ – it’s on my medical record; the incident that is, not the diagnosis. It was a possibility that was put to her in my preschool years by a meddlesome dinnerlady and was later repeatedly dismissed (one school nurse even flatly told my mother that the only problem in my life was her because she’s neurotic, a fact I now find ironic). However, up until my father’s passing, my mother never let up. It took me unearthing what an empath is and asking her quite simply “how can I score so low on the autism quotient but so high on the Highly Sensitive Person test if I am autistic?” for her to finally accept it. That’s not to say that autistic people don’t feel empathy, they certainly can do, but the other traits of autism (other than a little girl playing on her own/with random objects [now actively encouraged!]) simply weren’t there.
I was tomboyish and smart, I wasn’t autistic. I wasn’t ‘allowed’ to play Bulldog or Tag (it’s too boisterous for girls) and I knew that, but once I found friends to play cops and robbers with or Connect 4 or draughts with, I was in my element. I even had a secondary school crush (one of many mutual crushes, I later find out, who didn’t make a move) who used to play chess and naughts and crosses with me. A little girl who doesn’t want to play House with other little girls does not an autistic child make.
I faced a lot of trauma from my mother centred around this ‘diagnosis’. If I would just accept it, if I would just tell the doctor that I don’t have friends (the rules in our household were to a near-military standard, of course I didn’t have friends) and that I struggled with interactions (trauma and a fear of angry, shouty people does that to you), it would be so much easier. If I’d just accept the diagnosis, we could get help and I wouldn’t need to suffer anymore.
But I didn’t see myself as suffering, so I was made to suffer instead. At one point, as I have mentioned before, I was even threatened with eviction because I refused to be diagnosed with a neurological disorder I knew I didn’t have. Gut instinct told me it was wrong and I’d always been told not to lie, so I didn’t.
“The question after this is what I want to do in light of this little… revelation” I say to Matt. Do I really want another clinical diagnosis? I mean, other than that it would be the ultimate act of karma, it wouldn’t serve me a lot of purpose. I’m already diagnosed with PTSD anyway (because of a kitchen fire back in 2016), what difference would the “C-” bit make?
An aside here, but I don’t know that I’ve ever thought about myself as having any form of PTSD because of my childhood, or at least not seriously anyway. I’ve probably jokingly said I have PTSD and not thought too seriously about it, but now that I do think seriously about it, then yes I think I have some form of PTSD – the jokes were my subconcious talking.
I get auditory flashbacks sometimes, if I’m napping on the sofa. I’ll hear my mother shout “Helen!” or “Up! Now!” and it will startle me awake. I have to remind myself that I am in my own home and I am safe here. I am constantly “on edge” and I am known to find it hard to relax, too.
I also told Matt yesterday about a fun little game my parents used to play, and it is in part why I came to hate my name so much: my parents would shout down the stairs “Helen Louise!”, and I’d never know whether or not I was in trouble. Sometimes it would be “what the hell is this/where is this/why haven’t you…?” and other times it would be “oh nothing’s up, I just wondered how your day was?”. When you don’t get to know when you’re not in trouble, though, it leaves you constantly on edge.
Secondly, even with a diagnosis, what am I planning to do with it? A diagnosis of C-PTSD doesn’t define me anymore than my diagnosis of Chronic Regional Pain Syndrome or cerebellar ataxia does, it’s just another part of me. Unless I plan to act on it and seek treatment (for which I’d probably be sent away to read some self-help books anyway) then there isn’t an awful lot of point. The focus for me needs to be healing, not labels.
I browsed books on Amazon for a starting point on self-help books that I could use. There were quite a few choices, incuding several that talked about healing from “narcisstic abuse”. Again, while I don’t deny that it exists, it’s too easy to get drawn into labelling other people instead of the problem. This isn’t about labelling others and their wrongs, this is about me and C-PTSD.
One stands out which talks about the “mother wound” of daughters of emotionally unavailable mothers and I am tempted by it, however, the psycho-babble puts me off. Recently I’ve read about the shame and such that goes with being the daughter of an emotionally unavailable mother, and that I often feel. Blame gets shunned onto us, the victims and daughters. We are ungrateful for a mother who tried her best, and we should thank her instead for all that she has done for us.
We should be thanking her for her abuse.
The book I opted for uses techniques that I am already familiar with and have served me very well before; CBT and EMDR. It will be here tomorrow.
I lie on the bed while I wait for Matt to finish for the evening. Matt walks by me and I raise my ass up in a provocation. I’m feeling playful, mischevious, bratty, possibly even inwardly masochistic.
Matt spanks me hard on the left cheek. It hurts, but it hurts in a good way. It’s grounding.
“Thankyou, Daddy” I whisper.
“More?” he asks. I remember recent conversations with Bill and I smile. Everything feels so different now.
“Please, Sir” I say softly.
He strikes me hard six more times, my grip slips on the fifth and I narrowly faceplant the bed.
“Shit! You okay?”
“Yeah, fine thanks. I just slipped from you practically nailing me into the bed” I say. He chuckles.
“Not nailing you yet Kitten, but I certainly can do if you want?”. I’m instinctively on my knees with my ass in the air: Daddy’s favourite breeding position.
There’s no warm-up or foreplay, it’s primal and raw. I don’t come, but I make sure he does. Right now I don’t need to orgasm, I need to be filled, bred, used.
That I’m being fucked by the man my mother was once so opposed to? That she tried to warn me against (and without just cause)? It feels so perfect.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come” he breathes.
My eyes flick open and I imagine staring into my mother’s eyes as “It” fills me. Oh yes, I want her to know. I want her to know that I’m going to let him do it, I’m going to let him use my pussy, completely bareback. No condoms anymore, he cums deep inside me now.
He falls onto the bed beside me and I sigh. A womb full of power. Sweet, sweet catharsis. Finally.
By nightfall I’ve joined Matt and Bill on Signal for a chat. It feels odd having a group chat, but it feels right too. It was something I I proposed to my ex at one time and he was unsure, but Bill and Matt get along well so they were both for it. Like I say, chalk and cheese.
I mean being tortured by 2 people on signal, could he fun 😉
Tortured? Good joke 😉 , I reply.
I’m admittedly a bit proud of myself. I decide to tell Matt.
“Kitten, you do remember The Golden Rule, don’t you?” he asks.
“If you wind up another Dominant, Daddy won’t protect you from the consequences.”
Shit.
Whispers Of A Phoenix 
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