It's Been Eight Weeks... (approx. 2½ - 3 min. read)

It’s been eight weeks since I decided to talk about “it” and I have to say, it’s been a really tough eight weeks. I thought by telling my story, people would finally understand why I have PTSD, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. It seems like they would rather continue believing the lies that have been told for decades, and it’s literally breaking my heart.

Some of the people I always thought would have my back have turned their backs on me, and I just don't understand. I’m a good person, and I always strive to do the right thing. I am giving, and almost always put other people, and their wishes, before my own. I forgive, and forgive, and forgive, and long after most people have closed the door, mine is still open.

The reason it’s still open? I’m afraid people aren’t going to like me if I go against the grain. I just don’t believe I’m worthy, or that I’m good enough because I was brought up in a world where everything I did was wrong, and nothing I did was good enough; ever.

Like most kids in my era, I got the hairbrush, the wooden spoon, etc., but I was also threatened - regularly. One of those threats was if I ever told anyone what was going on in our home, my face would be scarred for life.

...Yes, I said my face. I was told the only way I’d get by in life was with my looks because I wasn’t smart enough to go to University, or have a career, so I kept my mouth shut.

My father didn’t do much to help with my feelings of inadequacy because he left when I was 13 years old, and didn’t try to contact us. After a year of feeling completely abandoned, I mustered up the courage to call him; I was so afraid of being rejected, and I asked him why he hadn’t called me, or my brothers? His answer was; he hadn’t called because my mother had told him not to. Me, being the loving, forgiving person that I am; accepted his answer and forgave him. No questions asked.

Now when I think back, I realize I forgave him without him giving me a proper explanation because I was desperate; desperate for help. I needed someone to love and protect me, and at that point I would’ve taken it from anyone. I had been left in a home where I was being abused every day, and I desperately needed confirmation that it wasn’t my fault. That the reason I was being abused wasn’t because I was a bad person, but because no one was protecting me; a child.

A child I might add that was extremely vulnerable, and didn’t deserve to be abused by anyone; especially their loved ones. There is research that suggests physical or sexual abuse may lead to changes in the stress response in the brain. These changes to the stress response increase the risk of suicidal thoughts and behaviour, so people like me (that don’t believe in suicide) have no control over suicidal thoughts when we’re in a high stress situation.

So, will I continue to tell my story?

Freakin’ right I will! There are way too many child abuse victims committing suicide, and it’s time people learned how hard it is for childhood abuse victims to survive with PTSD, or other mental issues.

Stay safe and stay strong. Thanks for following.