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Thoughts sharing

Falsch

New Here
I'm not really trying to seek help, I'm beyond that. I tried my whole life but not much came out of it. I had some measure of help, I wouldn't deny that, but never as much as I'd need, or maybe not the help I'd need - I don't know.

As a way of presentation, I'll try to summarize my situation. I lived until my late thirties in a sort of vacuum - no past to remember, that is no memories beyond my teens. No childhoold memories, apart from half a dozen images. Mother alcoholic, father not present. I had a serious alcohol problem and sexual dysfunctioning (near impotence, risk-seeking behaviour, odd atrtaction to passive homosexuality). Yet, I found a wonderful woman who accepted all this and tried to help me understand. We have been a strong couple ever since (30 years). I saw many psychologists and it always started weel, then went nowhere. A couple of improvements, then nothing. In my late thirties, then, I recontacted the best friend of my mother (I had a memory of abuse at her hands) and she didn't reply to me but gave my letter to her daughter. The daughter contacted me and asked me if I remembered. What ? What should I remember. Then she told me about orgies with the friends of our respective mothers, the parties in a nearby castle - then it started: images, "flashbacks" according to my partner: abuses, sacrifices, rituals, murders. No memories, but crude images, pure body language, like "possessions". More than 10 years latr, I none the wiser. I am quieter now, less flashbacks, but no certainty.

Was that all true: I will never know. Maybe partly true: as a matter of fact, I did have some sort of confirmation here and there. Not all, but just enough to have a reasonable measure of probability for some of the things I "re-lived".

Now, the problem with that is that I have some traits of personality I just can't stand: I am weak, always trying "to please" and do the will of the others rather than mine, but I am also resentful. I am an inveterate liar, although I usually lie to protect the others, not to my advantage, and this puts me in a very difficult position in which I am forced to lie even more. I have unpleasant thoughts about sex with a certain fascination for rape (as if I tried to experience rape through proxies) and yet, a zero-libido life. I love sex with my partner, but it is a very difficult matter and process. I long for peace and tranquillity, but I do my best to be as stressed and busy as possible. Never in my life have I been able to go to sleep quietly: when my partner is here, I have no problem. When she isn't, I have to get dead-tired or drunk.

I think this is about it. My mother is dead some decades ago. When I broke with her, I was just 18 and she had me under her power until a few months before that. Leaving her has been like braking something inside me. I did it, chose to do it: the alternative was madness or death. But when I did it, something broke inside me, and this was painful, almost physically painful, and I'm not sure I recovered ever since.
 
My first and best recommendation would be for you to seek the resources of Non-State Torture, a community dedicated to ongoing acts of Non-State Torture in one's community. Ironically enough this was started in my own province, where such actions are extremely common, as our rates of human trafficking are amongst the highest in Canada.

Here is their page on ritual abuse, which, if your memories are accurate, your experiences would fall under.

Ritualisms in abuse are designed to draw even more power discrepancy between the child or adult who is harmed, and the perpetrator of said harm. It is also done because many people do not believe the accounts of those with these experiences, considering them outlandish - in this way, it is a form of protection for the perpetrators, to avoid prosecution and prison.
 
Not looking for therapy anymore. Who is sick? Me, or those who did things, and those that did nothing, even knowing? Those in power, and those not in power in society, but who had the power to throw a look of comprehension and compassion, but who chose to look down on us all? I don't want anyone telling me to reconcile with anything or anybody, or to fight for a lost cause just to get other's conscience clean. I don't want hatred either. I am in a vacuum, not knowing what happened to me, but not trusting anyone either. In a way or another, I have been one of those children that knew everything before it was time to know, even life and death, and death is part of my life. I don't know for sure what happened exactly to me and I can't trust what others call "flashbacks".

Surely, there is a big hole in my life, no childhood remembered. There is a heaviness in my breathing, with everyday weighing more than the preceding. There is soiled scars in my nights and I can't sleep without my love in the house, the only human being I trust to some extent, because unable by nature to act dishonestly.

Now, why am I sharing this? What do I expect? Nothing, only to unburden my head, to find a way to release that flow of pathetic words. Half-self-pity, I am afraid, but with no hope and no expectation. Stiff upper lip, as mother told me: "be a man" - and yet, she sold children to have a drink more. But is it true, or am I a liar? My head is full of shoutings, and words give some sort of order, but is it truth? No truce, though, because if I stop, the shouting comes back, with no clear words, no remembrance, just a crowdy shouting from far away, for I was not alone and the dead, maybe, try to talk through the living.

These are the soliloquies that go round and round in my mind since the beginning of time, of my thinking time at least. I don't expect anyone to understand and I'm not sure this is even sharing, but once in a while, I got to get it out of me.
 
Sometimes I think like I've lost my life and, if I had been a normal person, I would have lkived a normal existence. But then, I think, I would have lived without knowing the truth, like all those people who live unaware of the true and hard reality.
 
Nothing, only to unburden my head, to find a way to release that flow of pathetic words.
Sometimes, I go to my diary for a brain purge, and I get to sleep well for a night. Whatever it is? It’s always been helpful, and harmless, to do that purge. So many things that bring me a sense of relief aren’t helpful, and definitely aren’t harmless. The diary thing has real value in that, and even if it achieves nothing else, that’s good enough for me to have kept doing it for most of my life.
 
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