ophelia russo
New Here
Soooo...not very good at the introduction thing. I'm Ophelia, 23, artist, writer, OTTB (off track Thoroughbred) trainer...obviously the weird kid throughout high school, lol.
(Italian greeting because Italian family.)
I'm not going to get into the heavy specifics, so I'll try to make a long story short here and say I grew up with a physically abusive, malignant narcissist for a father, and a mother raised by a generation that does their best to overlook mental illness as anything that can truly harm one - so she was gaslighted into terror and submission and never treated or allowed herself to be helped (if you're asking, yes, she's still trapped - I could say "with him", but she's trapped) by any kind of psychiatric doctor. I moved fourteen times by the time I was sixteen. I am the oldest of five. The four younger than me became my responsibility by age six. I did everything for them. Fed them, clothed them, made sure they made it to school on time - the works. Around this same time I took responsibility for my mother (I was six, I know it's weird, but no one else would help and she couldn't help herself). I began walking neighborhood dogs and selling my little paintings for money - money that would feed us.
Daddy Dearest was either frequently disappearing for months at a time or appearing only in the name of discipline and control. I, being the outspoken shithead, took the brunt of his insanity due to the aforementioned. Someone who biologically cannot be wrong does not like to hear why they're wrong and how they hurt people. So they hurt them some more.
Did I mention he was the worst possible person to ever drink even a single beer?
(Really guys, if you've seen the Showtime series Shameless, you don't need to read anymore - that's the closest representation we're going to find of my family.)
I worked three jobs to support my family through high school. Daddy Dearest was of course, still, in and out. By sixteen, I saved enough to move out. (Didn't leave until late 18.) But I didn't, because I was submerged in guilt, in shame, in ugly rage and a foggy memory loss that I couldn't explain. For a year it persisted and grew worse, so by 17, I saw my primary doctor (good luck getting 17 year old me to see a shrink :whistling:), and after explaining as much as I could remember, she told me I had PTSD. She also added that she was not certified to properly diagnose the disorder, and obviously suggested I see a psychiatrist.
In 2015, my symptoms exploded tenfold. I wasn't sleeping more than three hours per night - or, I couldn't wake up. I was having crying fits every morning on my way to work, and everything I saw was tunnel vision. Rage outbursts that I had been able to keep somewhat under the radar before were uncontrollable. I went nowhere unless forced. I saw no one and enjoyed it. I was overwhelmed by flashbacks and intrusive memories that I couldn't turn off. I wasn't making eye contact with people. I felt followed everywhere I went. :notworthy: A bang, a scream, a gunshot (not living in the nicest neighborhood at the moment!), a slamming door... My heart hit my toes and I was shaking. I avoided my family. I avoided anything that reminded me of anything. I did not talk about it and I got incredibly angry and wicked if anyone around me did. Despite being incredibly antisocial, my interactions with other people, although few, were elaborate and self-destructive in excess. I hated myself - swallowed up entirely in shame and guilt and eventually, a major depressive episode that lasted more than three months. I rejected my boyfriend in every way and I eventually lashed out at him. I used him as a way to start fights as a way to get a release (magically the guy's still with me, so props to him).
It took me until June of this year to see a psychiatrist and officially be diagnosed with PTSD.
There's more to that, but I'll stop for the sake of everyone involved, lol. :sleep:
(Italian greeting because Italian family.)
I'm not going to get into the heavy specifics, so I'll try to make a long story short here and say I grew up with a physically abusive, malignant narcissist for a father, and a mother raised by a generation that does their best to overlook mental illness as anything that can truly harm one - so she was gaslighted into terror and submission and never treated or allowed herself to be helped (if you're asking, yes, she's still trapped - I could say "with him", but she's trapped) by any kind of psychiatric doctor. I moved fourteen times by the time I was sixteen. I am the oldest of five. The four younger than me became my responsibility by age six. I did everything for them. Fed them, clothed them, made sure they made it to school on time - the works. Around this same time I took responsibility for my mother (I was six, I know it's weird, but no one else would help and she couldn't help herself). I began walking neighborhood dogs and selling my little paintings for money - money that would feed us.
Daddy Dearest was either frequently disappearing for months at a time or appearing only in the name of discipline and control. I, being the outspoken shithead, took the brunt of his insanity due to the aforementioned. Someone who biologically cannot be wrong does not like to hear why they're wrong and how they hurt people. So they hurt them some more.
Did I mention he was the worst possible person to ever drink even a single beer?
(Really guys, if you've seen the Showtime series Shameless, you don't need to read anymore - that's the closest representation we're going to find of my family.)
I worked three jobs to support my family through high school. Daddy Dearest was of course, still, in and out. By sixteen, I saved enough to move out. (Didn't leave until late 18.) But I didn't, because I was submerged in guilt, in shame, in ugly rage and a foggy memory loss that I couldn't explain. For a year it persisted and grew worse, so by 17, I saw my primary doctor (good luck getting 17 year old me to see a shrink :whistling:), and after explaining as much as I could remember, she told me I had PTSD. She also added that she was not certified to properly diagnose the disorder, and obviously suggested I see a psychiatrist.
In 2015, my symptoms exploded tenfold. I wasn't sleeping more than three hours per night - or, I couldn't wake up. I was having crying fits every morning on my way to work, and everything I saw was tunnel vision. Rage outbursts that I had been able to keep somewhat under the radar before were uncontrollable. I went nowhere unless forced. I saw no one and enjoyed it. I was overwhelmed by flashbacks and intrusive memories that I couldn't turn off. I wasn't making eye contact with people. I felt followed everywhere I went. :notworthy: A bang, a scream, a gunshot (not living in the nicest neighborhood at the moment!), a slamming door... My heart hit my toes and I was shaking. I avoided my family. I avoided anything that reminded me of anything. I did not talk about it and I got incredibly angry and wicked if anyone around me did. Despite being incredibly antisocial, my interactions with other people, although few, were elaborate and self-destructive in excess. I hated myself - swallowed up entirely in shame and guilt and eventually, a major depressive episode that lasted more than three months. I rejected my boyfriend in every way and I eventually lashed out at him. I used him as a way to start fights as a way to get a release (magically the guy's still with me, so props to him).
It took me until June of this year to see a psychiatrist and officially be diagnosed with PTSD.
There's more to that, but I'll stop for the sake of everyone involved, lol. :sleep:
