My name is Kim and I live in Pennsylvania (on the east coast of the US).
I was diagnosed with PTSD due to severe childhood abuse, both physical and sexual.
I was adopted when I was 2 1/2 years old. Prior to that I was in foster care for over 2 years, due to being born in a women's prison. Honestly, when I look back, I can't remember many good times in my life and the ones I can often ended up with terrible outcomes.
I endured years of physical abuse at the hands of my mother first, and then my brother (who also sexually abused me). I have very vivid memories of running through the house, trying to get away from my mother who had something, anything in her hand that she could hit me with (it was usually the closest thing to her that I got hit with). Most often I ended up in my bedroom - because that was the only place that I felt any remote ownership to - on my bed, with my mother beating the hell out of me. My bed was in the corner of the room, against two walls, and I can remember being hit so many times that I fell between the bed and the wall. My mother always reached down and grabbed whatever she could of me to pull me back up so she could beat me more. More often than not my mother would do this several times before tiring of it and I would end up crying myself to sleep on the floor under the bed, right up against the wall. My father never came to my rescue, but I don't blame him because he had very severe health problems and most likely couldn't do anything about it.
I remember once going to school, barely being able to walk because of a beating the night before. I was in 1st grade and my teacher asked me what happened. I don't remember what I said, but it must've made sense because there was never any other mention of it.
Another time my mother grabbed a hard, plastic hairbrush of mine (made by the Fuller Brush Co. - remember those?) and swung at me; it hit the back of my hand and broke several bones. The next day, when she took me to the doctor, she threatened me against telling him what happened, instead choosing to relay her version of the story.
My brother (who was not a blood relative, but was adopted also) began the physical abuse when I was about 7 and raped me when I was 13. When I told my mother about it, she at first denied that he did any such thing and then changed the story to "you must've asked for it." Of course, he was the Golden Child who never did anything wrong, although he was always getting in trouble at school, came home throwing-up-drunk at age 11, and by 13 was into drugs.
When I was old enough to get a job, I spent as many hours working as I could, not only for the money but to have an excuse to stay away from the house. This allowed me to buy some things for myself but also opened the door for my brother to help himself to those things and for my mother to defend him. When he forged 3 of my checks and took $650 from my account, she begged me to not press charges (the only way I could get the money back). I relented because I still had to live in the house with her; it was easier to do that than to face her wrath. I did, however, install a key-lock on my bedroom door so he couldn't just walk right in (which she didn't like, but who cares?).
The worst day of my life? When my father died; it was 6 months before my 1st marriage, I was 24, and all I could think about was how he wouldn't be there to walk me down the aisle.
The best day of my life? When my mother died. I didn't talk to her at all during the last 5 months of her life; I had to completely cut her out of my life in order to emotionally survive. She had a massive stroke and I was faced with the decision to put her into a drug-induced coma or allow her to die (her stroke was so massive that even the coma wouldn't have helped much). At her viewing I couldn't even get close to her casket; I stayed all the way across the room from her. I wanted to cheer, wanted to play the "Ding, Dong, the Witch is Gone" song from the Wizard of Oz. Of course there are now days when I wish she was still here so I could confront her with all the things she did to me and allowed to be done to me.
After my mother's funeral, I was at my aunt's house talking to her about my mom and dad. She made a statement that suddenly turned the lightbulb on for me in regards to my mom. She said, "You know why you were adopted, don't you?" When I questioned her as to what she meant, she proceeded to tell me how, when they adopted my brother, my mom went from being the "June Cleaver" housewife who had dinner on the table when my father got home from work and doted on his every need, to ignoring him and his existance; she told my father, in no uncertain terms, that the baby (my brother) was more important than him. My aunt then told me that I was adopted for my father, which made complete sense because I was a definite "daddy's girl". He never abused me and always made me feel good about myself, but he was often so sick that we couldn't do much together.
My brother, the drug addict, became a dealer and criminal, and is currently locked up in the Florida State Penitentiary. It affirms my belief of "what goes around comes around".
My first husband decided that it was better for him to tell women (or at least people who he thought were women) on the internet that he loved them instead of telling it to me. He was more interested in staying away from home as many hours of the day as he could instead of coming home to be with me and the kids, even though I quit my job to stay home full-time with the kids. He was surprised when I asked him to go to marriage counseling (which he refused) and was even more surprised when I wasn't interested in going when he was, 10 months after my first request and after him moving out.
My current husband is a saint. He puts up with my stuff, PTSD and all. He tried to understand, although at times he suffers from testosterone overload that clouds his brain (but don't they all?). Although I still do have to hit him over the head (figuratively, not literally) with my needs due to PTSD, he is coming along and is very supportive of my healing.
After lurking and reading the various posts here, it is nice to know that the things I do are completely in line with PTSD. It sucks that I have it, it sucks that anyone has it. It sucks for so many reasons, not the least of which is that none of us HAS to have it; it sucks that it is SO avoidable yet occurs so often. And that there is one of the biggest reasons I still go into rages. Not the only one, mind you, but one of the biggest.
Ummm...I forgot what I was going to say. Gee, does that sound familiar? It happens so many times to me. I'm a teacher and sometimes I am in front of one of my classes and my mind goes blank. I end up feeling stupid about standing there with nothing to say so I say something totally off-base to make the students laugh.
Am I the only one who has constantly been filled with dread? I am always thinking something bad is going to happen, especially when it's dark. I am constantly thinking that someone is going to break in and hurt me; it was especially bad when my husband was working an odd shift and had to leave in the middle of the night to get to work (fortunately he listened to me and was able to adjust his schedule).
Also, I am so hyperaware of things that go on in my kids life, sometimes to a fault. I try not to tell my exhusband how to handle things with the kids but I catch myself doing it, trying to explain how I don't want them to grow up with the feelings I have.
Many times it is so hard emotionally for me to cope and I end up feeling as if it would be better for all involved if I just wasn't around any more. I swallowed 30-40 Tylenol when I was 19; I ended up throwing them up and, fortunately, haven't suffered any residual effects as of yet.
I suppose I suffer from flashbacks. I do it in the way I react to certain ways things are said or done, not the actual act or words that are done. Of course, I don't realize it at the time; it is only much later that I am able to link my reaction to something that happened to me in the past.
To everyone here willing to listen and offer support and suggestions, thank you. I am filled with tremendous relief. I feel as if I have finally found a community of people who truly understand. I am NOT crazy!!! :smile:
I was diagnosed with PTSD due to severe childhood abuse, both physical and sexual.
I was adopted when I was 2 1/2 years old. Prior to that I was in foster care for over 2 years, due to being born in a women's prison. Honestly, when I look back, I can't remember many good times in my life and the ones I can often ended up with terrible outcomes.
I endured years of physical abuse at the hands of my mother first, and then my brother (who also sexually abused me). I have very vivid memories of running through the house, trying to get away from my mother who had something, anything in her hand that she could hit me with (it was usually the closest thing to her that I got hit with). Most often I ended up in my bedroom - because that was the only place that I felt any remote ownership to - on my bed, with my mother beating the hell out of me. My bed was in the corner of the room, against two walls, and I can remember being hit so many times that I fell between the bed and the wall. My mother always reached down and grabbed whatever she could of me to pull me back up so she could beat me more. More often than not my mother would do this several times before tiring of it and I would end up crying myself to sleep on the floor under the bed, right up against the wall. My father never came to my rescue, but I don't blame him because he had very severe health problems and most likely couldn't do anything about it.
I remember once going to school, barely being able to walk because of a beating the night before. I was in 1st grade and my teacher asked me what happened. I don't remember what I said, but it must've made sense because there was never any other mention of it.
Another time my mother grabbed a hard, plastic hairbrush of mine (made by the Fuller Brush Co. - remember those?) and swung at me; it hit the back of my hand and broke several bones. The next day, when she took me to the doctor, she threatened me against telling him what happened, instead choosing to relay her version of the story.
My brother (who was not a blood relative, but was adopted also) began the physical abuse when I was about 7 and raped me when I was 13. When I told my mother about it, she at first denied that he did any such thing and then changed the story to "you must've asked for it." Of course, he was the Golden Child who never did anything wrong, although he was always getting in trouble at school, came home throwing-up-drunk at age 11, and by 13 was into drugs.
When I was old enough to get a job, I spent as many hours working as I could, not only for the money but to have an excuse to stay away from the house. This allowed me to buy some things for myself but also opened the door for my brother to help himself to those things and for my mother to defend him. When he forged 3 of my checks and took $650 from my account, she begged me to not press charges (the only way I could get the money back). I relented because I still had to live in the house with her; it was easier to do that than to face her wrath. I did, however, install a key-lock on my bedroom door so he couldn't just walk right in (which she didn't like, but who cares?).
The worst day of my life? When my father died; it was 6 months before my 1st marriage, I was 24, and all I could think about was how he wouldn't be there to walk me down the aisle.
The best day of my life? When my mother died. I didn't talk to her at all during the last 5 months of her life; I had to completely cut her out of my life in order to emotionally survive. She had a massive stroke and I was faced with the decision to put her into a drug-induced coma or allow her to die (her stroke was so massive that even the coma wouldn't have helped much). At her viewing I couldn't even get close to her casket; I stayed all the way across the room from her. I wanted to cheer, wanted to play the "Ding, Dong, the Witch is Gone" song from the Wizard of Oz. Of course there are now days when I wish she was still here so I could confront her with all the things she did to me and allowed to be done to me.
After my mother's funeral, I was at my aunt's house talking to her about my mom and dad. She made a statement that suddenly turned the lightbulb on for me in regards to my mom. She said, "You know why you were adopted, don't you?" When I questioned her as to what she meant, she proceeded to tell me how, when they adopted my brother, my mom went from being the "June Cleaver" housewife who had dinner on the table when my father got home from work and doted on his every need, to ignoring him and his existance; she told my father, in no uncertain terms, that the baby (my brother) was more important than him. My aunt then told me that I was adopted for my father, which made complete sense because I was a definite "daddy's girl". He never abused me and always made me feel good about myself, but he was often so sick that we couldn't do much together.
My brother, the drug addict, became a dealer and criminal, and is currently locked up in the Florida State Penitentiary. It affirms my belief of "what goes around comes around".
My first husband decided that it was better for him to tell women (or at least people who he thought were women) on the internet that he loved them instead of telling it to me. He was more interested in staying away from home as many hours of the day as he could instead of coming home to be with me and the kids, even though I quit my job to stay home full-time with the kids. He was surprised when I asked him to go to marriage counseling (which he refused) and was even more surprised when I wasn't interested in going when he was, 10 months after my first request and after him moving out.
My current husband is a saint. He puts up with my stuff, PTSD and all. He tried to understand, although at times he suffers from testosterone overload that clouds his brain (but don't they all?). Although I still do have to hit him over the head (figuratively, not literally) with my needs due to PTSD, he is coming along and is very supportive of my healing.
After lurking and reading the various posts here, it is nice to know that the things I do are completely in line with PTSD. It sucks that I have it, it sucks that anyone has it. It sucks for so many reasons, not the least of which is that none of us HAS to have it; it sucks that it is SO avoidable yet occurs so often. And that there is one of the biggest reasons I still go into rages. Not the only one, mind you, but one of the biggest.
Ummm...I forgot what I was going to say. Gee, does that sound familiar? It happens so many times to me. I'm a teacher and sometimes I am in front of one of my classes and my mind goes blank. I end up feeling stupid about standing there with nothing to say so I say something totally off-base to make the students laugh.
Am I the only one who has constantly been filled with dread? I am always thinking something bad is going to happen, especially when it's dark. I am constantly thinking that someone is going to break in and hurt me; it was especially bad when my husband was working an odd shift and had to leave in the middle of the night to get to work (fortunately he listened to me and was able to adjust his schedule).
Also, I am so hyperaware of things that go on in my kids life, sometimes to a fault. I try not to tell my exhusband how to handle things with the kids but I catch myself doing it, trying to explain how I don't want them to grow up with the feelings I have.
Many times it is so hard emotionally for me to cope and I end up feeling as if it would be better for all involved if I just wasn't around any more. I swallowed 30-40 Tylenol when I was 19; I ended up throwing them up and, fortunately, haven't suffered any residual effects as of yet.
I suppose I suffer from flashbacks. I do it in the way I react to certain ways things are said or done, not the actual act or words that are done. Of course, I don't realize it at the time; it is only much later that I am able to link my reaction to something that happened to me in the past.
To everyone here willing to listen and offer support and suggestions, thank you. I am filled with tremendous relief. I feel as if I have finally found a community of people who truly understand. I am NOT crazy!!! :smile:
