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Analogy: My Ptsd Feels Like...

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Like I am too deformed to be a part of the 'gatherer' tribe but not given any of the tools or entry into the 'hunterer' tribe...and that I am cursed to walk outside the rest of the tribe trying to stay safe from the predators with no tools, no tribe...and in constant fear that children, innocents will see me, wander out, and I won't have the tools to save them but will be cursed to live with knowing it was MY fault.

I told this to my T. yesterday. He looked sad.

I don't see a time when this ever changes for me.
 
(((((((BloomInWinter))))))))

This is a great analogy! I appreciate the picture you paint with your words.

My T told me that he feels that I have enough traumatic memories to fill twice the years I've lived. So, that makes me emotionally/mentally 84 years old. I feel that it's true.
 
Like I am too deformed to be a part of the 'gatherer' tribe but not given any of the tools or entry into the 'hunterer' tribe...I don't see a time when this ever changes for me.

And don't you notice we seem to speak another language? Never having people understand what we are trying to say, and them usually speaking of love and roses like we should understand?

I often sit and watch "them" as they live their lives obliviously unaware of of the likes of me.
 
no help.webp
 
and in constant fear that children, innocents will see me, wander out, and I won't have the tools to save them but will be cursed to live with knowing it was MY fault.

Do you recon that your parents had Munchhausen by Proxie? This may seem out of the blue but it took me decades to understand my so-called parents were totally demented and that my childhood was their chalkboard and they had all the chalk. They wrote whatever idiotic thought was running through their minds at the time and I was expected to follow through as a dutiful child who knew better than to resist.

My mother was obsessed with her idea that something was wrong with me. I remember not wanting to pee as often as she thought I should, and ending up at a specialist's office and him using the catheter on me, and me peeing on him. I was four years old and I can still remember the office and restroom and my mother so insistent that there was something "wrong" with me. And then I remember her making me stay home with her on a Sunday morning, sitting on a little potty for several hours. I was in control of SOMETHING in my life and she hated it. We stayed home from church for THIS?

We moved every year and I was put into a weekly therapy session (the other kids thought it was a speech problem) at the new school because everywhere we moved my mother went to the school and told the authorities "there is something wrong with her." I believed this for many decades, until she died and I DARED say something negative about her. My so-called parents had poisoned the minds of every relative (we had very few), so none of them believed me. ...sigh...

<Edited to add closing bracket, ] to quote>
 
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