leafytrees
New Here
I was talking to my husband yesterday about our childhoods. I felt fairly calm when talking about his and was able to offer a listening ear and empathy. When I then shared a tiny bit about my dad and admitted how scared of him I had been, I immediately felt small, shaky, anxious and about to cry.
I'm never quite sure whether this signifies that I should be talking about the past and getting it out in the open, or whether it's a sign that it's just too much to share with another person in that moment and I should instead work on grounding myself in the present. Can you ever talk about the difficult things from your childhood and not be overwhelmed with emotion? I should think this is where psychotherapy needs to come in, but I'm having to be creative until I can actually consistently afford it. I also wonder to what extent I could even partly overcome my shame and fear to speak openly with a complete stranger as I feel mistrustful of others on the whole, even though I know it's rarely correct or logical to feel that way. In any case, it feels like too much at the moment.
I write more confidently than I can speak, so I wonder if perhaps writing online is the best way forward, at least for now. For a long time I've felt an increasing urge to talk about what I've gone through and what I continue to go through. I know the need to speak is there. I feel it physically as a big lump in my throat and tension in my jaw. I feel a growing sense of defiance too. Why should I stay silent? I know my dad had nervous system dysregulation and his volatile temper was a symptom of that. I know his own childhood was damaging and as an adult I can have at least some sympathy for that. But what about the sadism and pure enjoyment he used to get out of making me feel small and afraid? Why should I be the one carrying all the shame of that on my own shoulders? Why was he allowed to deny any responsiblity and claim to be a victim? He completely played people and got away with it. I'm the one left continuing to live with fear even though he's dead now.
My birthday's coming up and with it the usual trepidation and old energy.
My mum died when I was 15 and two months after her death it was my 16th birthday. I remember sitting in front of the TV, I think probably mid to late afternoon, wondering at which point he might acknowledge me. He did eventually. He walked into the room, threw a birthday card at me and told me hadn't got me a present. He triumphantly stated that the reason for this was because I didn't buy him anything for Father's Day 5 months prior. Ok then. He got the desired result; it hurt. I knew he was being immature even back then, but I felt some kind of responsibility for it too, because it's true that I didn't buy him anything for Father's Day. I had made him a card, which he wasn't happy about. I can't remember whether I had intentionally bought him nothing because he was always so nasty and it felt inauthentic, or whether I had genuinely forgotten because I was in the middle of studying for GCSEs and overwhelmed with watching my mum's health deteriorate so rapidly. Perhaps it was a bit of both. Mentally I was checked out most of the time and pretending to be someone else, living a grownup, fantasy life in my head.
So perhaps I could have done more, but I didn't. I think this is where my intense shame has come from and continues to arise, accepting thoughtless and unkind behaviour because it was taught to me that in some way I must have deserved it and at some point I had done something terribly wrong. An eye for an eye. It's very black and white. I was either deemed all good or all bad and my birthday was almost like an appraisal of the year prior. If I had been 'good' I would get attention and gifts. If I had been 'bad' he would punish and shame me. This will be where the trepidation is coming from. A part of me feels like I'm about to get in trouble, even though he's dead and buried and I'm an adult. I wouldn't have to accept his 'punishments' even if he was still here.
I think that's enough for today. It's felt like a bit of weight lifted to type this out, so I'll probably try to do this fairly regularly and keep a diary here.
I'm never quite sure whether this signifies that I should be talking about the past and getting it out in the open, or whether it's a sign that it's just too much to share with another person in that moment and I should instead work on grounding myself in the present. Can you ever talk about the difficult things from your childhood and not be overwhelmed with emotion? I should think this is where psychotherapy needs to come in, but I'm having to be creative until I can actually consistently afford it. I also wonder to what extent I could even partly overcome my shame and fear to speak openly with a complete stranger as I feel mistrustful of others on the whole, even though I know it's rarely correct or logical to feel that way. In any case, it feels like too much at the moment.
I write more confidently than I can speak, so I wonder if perhaps writing online is the best way forward, at least for now. For a long time I've felt an increasing urge to talk about what I've gone through and what I continue to go through. I know the need to speak is there. I feel it physically as a big lump in my throat and tension in my jaw. I feel a growing sense of defiance too. Why should I stay silent? I know my dad had nervous system dysregulation and his volatile temper was a symptom of that. I know his own childhood was damaging and as an adult I can have at least some sympathy for that. But what about the sadism and pure enjoyment he used to get out of making me feel small and afraid? Why should I be the one carrying all the shame of that on my own shoulders? Why was he allowed to deny any responsiblity and claim to be a victim? He completely played people and got away with it. I'm the one left continuing to live with fear even though he's dead now.
My birthday's coming up and with it the usual trepidation and old energy.
My mum died when I was 15 and two months after her death it was my 16th birthday. I remember sitting in front of the TV, I think probably mid to late afternoon, wondering at which point he might acknowledge me. He did eventually. He walked into the room, threw a birthday card at me and told me hadn't got me a present. He triumphantly stated that the reason for this was because I didn't buy him anything for Father's Day 5 months prior. Ok then. He got the desired result; it hurt. I knew he was being immature even back then, but I felt some kind of responsibility for it too, because it's true that I didn't buy him anything for Father's Day. I had made him a card, which he wasn't happy about. I can't remember whether I had intentionally bought him nothing because he was always so nasty and it felt inauthentic, or whether I had genuinely forgotten because I was in the middle of studying for GCSEs and overwhelmed with watching my mum's health deteriorate so rapidly. Perhaps it was a bit of both. Mentally I was checked out most of the time and pretending to be someone else, living a grownup, fantasy life in my head.
So perhaps I could have done more, but I didn't. I think this is where my intense shame has come from and continues to arise, accepting thoughtless and unkind behaviour because it was taught to me that in some way I must have deserved it and at some point I had done something terribly wrong. An eye for an eye. It's very black and white. I was either deemed all good or all bad and my birthday was almost like an appraisal of the year prior. If I had been 'good' I would get attention and gifts. If I had been 'bad' he would punish and shame me. This will be where the trepidation is coming from. A part of me feels like I'm about to get in trouble, even though he's dead and buried and I'm an adult. I wouldn't have to accept his 'punishments' even if he was still here.
I think that's enough for today. It's felt like a bit of weight lifted to type this out, so I'll probably try to do this fairly regularly and keep a diary here.
