Kimpersonal
Silver Member
I haven't been lurking here very long, but already I feel more safe coming out of my hermit crab shell to say a quick hello. This sense of safety is coming from reading other recent introductions by people courageously sharing of themselves ... and the understanding responses of those willing to greet and connect. Thanks for the foot tracks you made ahead of me ... they prompted me to take my own (clumsy) step forward!
No, I am not in jail as the title might have made you think; only in a self-imposed state of solitude. An avatar of a "cute" hermit crab will appear alongside my posts soon. It takes a special person to care for a hermit crab as a pet ... just like it takes a patient soul to be around me for any length of time. Holding my hand might make me drop off that limb just to get away and scurry back into myself. I watched a crab do this once and actually cried because I could relate so well to this creature's fear!
I suffer from complex trauma, meaning my triggers are varied and unpredictable ... it is pretty much the same as PTSD, with a few more hiccups, belches and even smellier noises that people either find repulsive or just funny (funny weird). Yep, even hermit crabs get gas ... who knew?
I'm great at avoiding the point ... beating around the bush ... talking in riddles. Can you tell? I'm squirming in my seat because even choosing what words to type means making decisions. I cannot decide what to share of myself yet ... I dread disclosing much of my bizarre experiences that lead to this tormenting disorder.
My first thoughts of suicide came at the age of 4. I knew my Mom would be happier if I hadn't been born (she screamed that in my face regularly). She has MPD/DID and some of her alters are terrifying! (Think of Cujo in human form). Other alters, while less violent, are just as destructive in non-violent ways. Mind-warping ways. My pre-disposition towards PTSD was likely inherited from her ... and she provided the right "nurturing" environment in which it became my life-long companion. (I am not blaming her, just stating the bald facts. I have more compassion for her than I do myself).
That is the tip of a much larger iceberg I reside under. Sometimes, I carry it well and even my closest friends and my kids forget the illness coursing just below my humor and relentless energy (disguised hyper-vigilance). When the inevitable withdrawl occurs (because I can take no more expectations or continue smiling for the greater good) and I become sullen, negative, irritable ... they cannot comprehend why I have "changed" so dramatically and suddenly. They want to help ... but cannot, because it is my iceberg to carry and only I should really know the cold, hard truths it is made of. Nobody needs to know this sort of pain ... least of all the people I love the most.
So I let them take my hand and I say what they need me to say, for their sake (automatically). Meanwhile, I sit alone inside these walls of ice waiting for peace, warmth, safety and so many other delicacies that better(?) people have learned to take for granted. I swallow my bitter pills (figurative AND literal pills) and appreciate the loved ones holding the hand that often loses all real strength to embrace them.
I feel like I am living in two realities ... the one the outside world needs me to live in ... and the inside one where I am my broken (but authentic) self. Does anyone else here feel that duality in their lives?
Looking forward to learning with all of you ... let's grow in spite of this PTSD label!
Kimpersonal. :O_o:
No, I am not in jail as the title might have made you think; only in a self-imposed state of solitude. An avatar of a "cute" hermit crab will appear alongside my posts soon. It takes a special person to care for a hermit crab as a pet ... just like it takes a patient soul to be around me for any length of time. Holding my hand might make me drop off that limb just to get away and scurry back into myself. I watched a crab do this once and actually cried because I could relate so well to this creature's fear!
I suffer from complex trauma, meaning my triggers are varied and unpredictable ... it is pretty much the same as PTSD, with a few more hiccups, belches and even smellier noises that people either find repulsive or just funny (funny weird). Yep, even hermit crabs get gas ... who knew?
I'm great at avoiding the point ... beating around the bush ... talking in riddles. Can you tell? I'm squirming in my seat because even choosing what words to type means making decisions. I cannot decide what to share of myself yet ... I dread disclosing much of my bizarre experiences that lead to this tormenting disorder.
My first thoughts of suicide came at the age of 4. I knew my Mom would be happier if I hadn't been born (she screamed that in my face regularly). She has MPD/DID and some of her alters are terrifying! (Think of Cujo in human form). Other alters, while less violent, are just as destructive in non-violent ways. Mind-warping ways. My pre-disposition towards PTSD was likely inherited from her ... and she provided the right "nurturing" environment in which it became my life-long companion. (I am not blaming her, just stating the bald facts. I have more compassion for her than I do myself).
That is the tip of a much larger iceberg I reside under. Sometimes, I carry it well and even my closest friends and my kids forget the illness coursing just below my humor and relentless energy (disguised hyper-vigilance). When the inevitable withdrawl occurs (because I can take no more expectations or continue smiling for the greater good) and I become sullen, negative, irritable ... they cannot comprehend why I have "changed" so dramatically and suddenly. They want to help ... but cannot, because it is my iceberg to carry and only I should really know the cold, hard truths it is made of. Nobody needs to know this sort of pain ... least of all the people I love the most.
So I let them take my hand and I say what they need me to say, for their sake (automatically). Meanwhile, I sit alone inside these walls of ice waiting for peace, warmth, safety and so many other delicacies that better(?) people have learned to take for granted. I swallow my bitter pills (figurative AND literal pills) and appreciate the loved ones holding the hand that often loses all real strength to embrace them.
I feel like I am living in two realities ... the one the outside world needs me to live in ... and the inside one where I am my broken (but authentic) self. Does anyone else here feel that duality in their lives?
Looking forward to learning with all of you ... let's grow in spite of this PTSD label!
Kimpersonal. :O_o:
