freakofnurture
Platinum Member
Proceed with caution - this post might suck the will to live right out of you...
Today the thought cropped up (again) that, since I have lived in a traumatic situation for all my life, every single bit of my development - the pre-natal, too, since my mom didn't exactly conceive me in a socially and economically stable situation - was compromised.
There is no 'before the trauma' for me. I can't re-cover, I can only change parts of me that have always been diseased and crippled.
Maybe there are parts of me that have developed like they would have under more favourable circumstances, but how would I know? How would I identify that which hasn't been broken, scratched or twisted?
How can I like things about me, if they all were formed by trauma? It would mean to like the trauma, to like my wounds and my scars, to be proud of things that look functional but are actually wrecked heaps of I-don't-know-what? How can I like my interests or my creativity when I built them up to flee from reality and when they're filled with little but morbidity that I enjoy because I'm sick like that?
I feel so disgusting right now. Unloveable. Loving me means to love what my p*rents did to me.
And there's nothing else for me. Absolutely nothing. No before, no idea of what's possible for me, of what's healthy for me, of what I really, truly am. What flowers upon me - forgive my poetry - is shit; what could and should have flowered, I will never know.
What do I do? Here at the clinic they talk of 'healthy inner parts', but what is healthy about skills you developed out of fear?
I'm trying to whip up some antagonistic pride. Some F*ck-you-I-won't-do-what-you-told-me. Be an awesome monster and wear that freak face like a badge of honour because, well, I survived a lot.
Still there's this resistance. All I am is trauma. All I am is what was done to me. All I have to work with is contaminated wreckage. I don't want to touch that. I don't want to be near that. I don't want to be that!
Today the thought cropped up (again) that, since I have lived in a traumatic situation for all my life, every single bit of my development - the pre-natal, too, since my mom didn't exactly conceive me in a socially and economically stable situation - was compromised.
There is no 'before the trauma' for me. I can't re-cover, I can only change parts of me that have always been diseased and crippled.
Maybe there are parts of me that have developed like they would have under more favourable circumstances, but how would I know? How would I identify that which hasn't been broken, scratched or twisted?
How can I like things about me, if they all were formed by trauma? It would mean to like the trauma, to like my wounds and my scars, to be proud of things that look functional but are actually wrecked heaps of I-don't-know-what? How can I like my interests or my creativity when I built them up to flee from reality and when they're filled with little but morbidity that I enjoy because I'm sick like that?
I feel so disgusting right now. Unloveable. Loving me means to love what my p*rents did to me.
And there's nothing else for me. Absolutely nothing. No before, no idea of what's possible for me, of what's healthy for me, of what I really, truly am. What flowers upon me - forgive my poetry - is shit; what could and should have flowered, I will never know.
What do I do? Here at the clinic they talk of 'healthy inner parts', but what is healthy about skills you developed out of fear?
I'm trying to whip up some antagonistic pride. Some F*ck-you-I-won't-do-what-you-told-me. Be an awesome monster and wear that freak face like a badge of honour because, well, I survived a lot.
Still there's this resistance. All I am is trauma. All I am is what was done to me. All I have to work with is contaminated wreckage. I don't want to touch that. I don't want to be near that. I don't want to be that!