Yellow Sun
Bronze Member
Hello :),
So, where was I? Right, 'damaged goods' - it has a ring to it doesn't it? Okay, maybe that's just me. I am the wonderful product of a physically violent father and an emotionally oppressive mother. As I write this, a thought I've had before comes to me again: It's really not such a biggie - I mean, not nice...but people have gone through much worse. Buck up kid, you're taking this way too seriously.
I'll tell you a secret. Just between you n me, I feel like a bit of a fraudster - not all the time, just sometimes... like now...writing in a PTSD forum. Today, emerging from a depressive state, and feeling a little blank - like the little of 'me' I had to work with has been further erased - right now the memory of being engulfed in tears earlier this week, and of being seduced by the thought of 'easeful death' as depression returned like an old friend...; the memory of waking up each and every morning gently and sometimes not so gently vibrating with fear...; the memory of being mildly anxious as the night draws in because I know what awaits me when I awake...; the memory of sitting at my work desk looking to all intents and purposes like a so called professional person, but actually being so massively overwhelmed as a pretty much permanent state, that it's a monumental minute by minute effort to formulate thoughts, and takes a mini act of courage to look my long list of unopened emails in the eye, or stop the shrill ringing of the phone by gingerly picking it up... - so the memory of all this, is a little distant. And I feel like none of it was real. I think maybe the current non-thinking, non-feeling state of my depression is acting as a buffer. Although writing about it in minute detail is helping to bring it all back :unsure:.
I forgot to mention that a 14 year old boy (approx), a friend of the family, got me to perform oral sex on him when I was about 7 years old; I have the vague memory that this was done on more than one occasion. I have the not so vague memory that this was done while my two younger sisters were innocently playing in the same room...
So I feel like a fraud, because firstly I'm not sure if I have PTSD. I recently started with a trauma therapist, so I guess all will be revealed. My body and mind certainly feel traumatized. But then secondly if it is trauma, maybe it's not very serious trauma - again, fraudster. I know the second bit sounds especially wrong - surely any form of trauma is serious. But that's my thinking at the moment.
Anyhow, this space, your space, feels like a place I could be... a place I can feel safe...and rest...if that's okay. Your struggles, your words, your presence has really held me and made me feel less empty.
YS
So, where was I? Right, 'damaged goods' - it has a ring to it doesn't it? Okay, maybe that's just me. I am the wonderful product of a physically violent father and an emotionally oppressive mother. As I write this, a thought I've had before comes to me again: It's really not such a biggie - I mean, not nice...but people have gone through much worse. Buck up kid, you're taking this way too seriously.
I'll tell you a secret. Just between you n me, I feel like a bit of a fraudster - not all the time, just sometimes... like now...writing in a PTSD forum. Today, emerging from a depressive state, and feeling a little blank - like the little of 'me' I had to work with has been further erased - right now the memory of being engulfed in tears earlier this week, and of being seduced by the thought of 'easeful death' as depression returned like an old friend...; the memory of waking up each and every morning gently and sometimes not so gently vibrating with fear...; the memory of being mildly anxious as the night draws in because I know what awaits me when I awake...; the memory of sitting at my work desk looking to all intents and purposes like a so called professional person, but actually being so massively overwhelmed as a pretty much permanent state, that it's a monumental minute by minute effort to formulate thoughts, and takes a mini act of courage to look my long list of unopened emails in the eye, or stop the shrill ringing of the phone by gingerly picking it up... - so the memory of all this, is a little distant. And I feel like none of it was real. I think maybe the current non-thinking, non-feeling state of my depression is acting as a buffer. Although writing about it in minute detail is helping to bring it all back :unsure:.
I forgot to mention that a 14 year old boy (approx), a friend of the family, got me to perform oral sex on him when I was about 7 years old; I have the vague memory that this was done on more than one occasion. I have the not so vague memory that this was done while my two younger sisters were innocently playing in the same room...
So I feel like a fraud, because firstly I'm not sure if I have PTSD. I recently started with a trauma therapist, so I guess all will be revealed. My body and mind certainly feel traumatized. But then secondly if it is trauma, maybe it's not very serious trauma - again, fraudster. I know the second bit sounds especially wrong - surely any form of trauma is serious. But that's my thinking at the moment.
Anyhow, this space, your space, feels like a place I could be... a place I can feel safe...and rest...if that's okay. Your struggles, your words, your presence has really held me and made me feel less empty.
YS
