By Morrene Hauser

I always worked hard to make the holidays special for my children when they were growing up.  I wanted their childhood, especially the holidays, to be filled with love, happiness, and good memories–something that was denied to me because of the years of abuse I suffered as a child. Verbal, sexual and physical abuse were a daily occurrence in my childhood by my mother, and the various sick men she brought into our lives.

My ex-husband is Jewish, so putting up a Christmas tree and decorating for the holidays was not something he grew up with (we divorced several years ago when our kids were teenagers). No matter, every year we pulled out the decorations, and we all worked to decorate while listening to festive music.  Nothing made me feel closer to my family than those moments. Unfortunately, as much happiness as I felt, it didn’t take away the daily depression and anxiety I had struggled with for most of my life.

In my early childhood, due to the abuse, my nervous system had become dysregulated, and that caused an immense amount of adrenaline to run through my body. At times, it made my knees weak with terror and caused severe panic attacks. Sometimes I felt so uncomfortable that I wanted to jump out of my skin and run away, screaming.  

The only thing that calmed me down was liquor. I started drinking when I was 14 years old, and by the time I turned 21, I had become a functional alcoholic. When the anxiety was at its worst, I drank until I blacked out.

I only have a few, hazy memories of Christmas growing up. Same with my birthdays. As far as Thanksgiving, I have absolutely no recall of ever sitting down for a meal with my mom and whoever she happened to be married to, or dating, at the time. The only “memory” I do have is my annoyance at her for refusing to make turkey. Mom liked ham, so that’s what we ate. I believe that we must have eaten a Thanksgiving meal together at some point, but, again, whatever memories I had have long been buried.  Did I get a break from the abuse during the holidays? I doubt it. 

As for me, even though I made Christmas special for my kids, the holiday felt like an intrusion in my life. My work slowed down considerably, and that was hard on me. Even though I should have taken that time to relax, I was unable. Needing to be occupied, I had no idea what to do with that extra time. I was miserable having so many days of unstructured time; I bounced off the walls with anxiety and depression as nervous adrenaline flowed through my body.

Another thing I wasn’t comfortable with was receiving gifts. If a friend happened to give me a present that I wasn’t expecting, although I appreciated the thought, it made me very uneasy. Deep down, I didn’t feel worthy of that kindness. I discouraged my kids and husband from giving me gifts. All I wanted was for the holidays to be over.

I admit that, over the years, I have often felt jealousy and envy when my friends shared with me their holiday plans–especially if it meant they were getting together with their extended family. We moved several times when I was growing up, and I didn’t get to know my relatives very well. That is a loss I have felt deeply throughout my life. Even though I have reconnected with some of my family members over the years, our communication is sporadic because we don’t have much of a history, and we live in different states.

A couple of weeks ago, a dear friend sent me a package in the mail. In it were two beautifully wrapped Christmas gifts that I hadn’t been expecting. My first impulse was to open them immediately, but suddenly a thought occurred to me. Why don’t I save these for Christmas, so I have something to open?  Start a new tradition! FOR ME.  

I have a silk tree in my family room that’s wrapped in small white lights. I keep the lights on year-round, and they provide a nice ambience that comforts my nervous system. It also makes a good little Christmas tree, and that’s where I put the gifts. Now, every time I look at them, I feel a little thrill of excitement. 

I even told my adult son that I want to trade gifts with him. He usually buys me something every year, but he doesn’t wrap it. I asked him to please wrap my gift this year, so I have something to open.

My son then asked me to give him some ideas of what I wanted, and of course, my mind went to what I need.  I’m on disability, so “needs” can quickly overwhelm my budget. 

After giving his question some thought, I said, “Surprise me!”

I have no idea what my future holds, but one thing is certain:  I am determined to find the Christmas I never had! We deserve to enjoy things like holidays and time with family. I did my best to make a good Christmas for my family, and now it’s time for me to have that pleasure. This is only the start!

Photo by Mourad Saadi on Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Morrene Hauser

Morrene Hauser currently lives in Central Ohio. For a little over 30 years she ran and operated her own business as a court reporter. Upon retirement Morrene started writing about the many wonderful animals she had while growing up and the powerful impact they have had on her life.  Morrene also writes about mental health.

When I reflect on the earliest parts of my childhood, from approximately the ages of four to eight, the thing that stands out to me the most is how much I cried.  And those weren’t just ordinary tears but heaving, gulping, breathless sobs, often to the point that I became hysterical and couldn’t breathe.  To this day, I can still hear those cries of pain, harsh, guttural sounds, almost like nails down a chalkboard.  Sometimes I have an urge to put my hands over my ears to drown out those awful noises from so long ago when I flash back to that time of my life.

My childhood was filled with abuse, sexual, verbal, and physical, by my mom and the many sick men she brought into our lives.  We moved frequently, from city to city, state to state, and school to school.  Too many moves to count.  Due to the many moves, I never had the opportunity to form long-lasting relationships with my childhood friends, nor did I get to know my extended family.  I grew up a lonely, depressed, and terrified child, and those feelings only worsened as the years passed.

My earliest childhood memories of my mother were of her constant yelling and anger.  Even though my mom was one of the biggest abusers in my young life, my love for her ran deep, a love that, to this day, I still struggle to describe.

Despite the daily abuse I suffered, I tried everything in my power to make my mom love and accept me.  A smile, a word of encouragement, maybe even an occasional hug would have meant the world to me.  Unfortunately, it seemed every time my mother looked at me, it was with eyes filled with hatred.  But in those early years of my childhood, my head was firmly buried in the sand to my mother’s many flaws.  I overlooked it all, desperate for her love and acceptance.

Often, my mother would get so angry at my attempts to get close to her that she would start yelling.

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT FROM ME?  I OWE YOU NOTHING!  GODDAMNIT, NOTHING!  I CAN’T WAIT UNTIL YOU’RE AN ADULT!”

I never knew what to make of those words, but I heard them often.  Sometimes my mother would get so angry that she would start hitting me.  Repeated slaps to the head were my mother’s favorite form of discipline, and it wouldn’t take long until I was in hysterics, crying so hard that I couldn’t breathe.

My mother hated loud noises, and when she heard my cries of pain, that would start a whole new level of verbal abuse.

“SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!  GODDMAN IT, MORRENE, STOP THAT FUCKING CRYING!  RIGHT NOW!”   

By the time I was in fourth grade, I had learned to swallow my tears of pain and suffer in silence.  No tears, no talking while I was being abused.  Nothing.  Without my realizing it, that stoic attitude that I had adopted while I was being abused left me with the inability to cry.  Some days, it felt like the painful lump in my throat of unshed tears was the size of Texas.  As much as I yearned for the emotional release of a good cry, the tears wouldn’t come.  And on the rare occasion when I could squeeze out a few tears, they left me feeling guilty and ashamed as my mom’s cruel voice from the past would echo in my head SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!   

A few years ago, I went to a three-day music festival with a couple of friends.  The only accommodation we had to sleep in was a tent and some sleeping bags.  I was in my mid-50s at the time, and sleeping on the hard ground in a tent does not ensure a good night’s rest, at least for me, but I went anyway, desperately needing some excitement in my life.

I first started experiencing insomnia when I was seven years old, and that painful condition only got worse as the years went on and the stress in my life increased.  The only thing that helped me sleep was taking sleeping pills.  Unfortunately, I had forgotten to bring them with me.  Everything was working against me that night as far as getting enough rest.  Little did I know, even though I was frustrated by what I was sure was going to be another sleepless night, this was setting me up for a fantastic healing moment from my childhood.

That night, as my friends and I retired to our respective sleeping bags, after I lay down, I silently prayed that I would get some sleep, any amount of sleep, even if a few hours.  Unfortunately, I got none.  Not one wink.

The next day, I was exhausted.  After my friends and I ate breakfast, we walked around the festival, looking at the various arts and crafts available for sale and listening to the music.  After a while, we wandered back to our little campground to rest.  I was tired and decided to lie down and see if I could get some sleep while my friends sat outside and talked.

After I lay down, I could feel my tight muscles relaxing, and my mind started to drift.  As I lay there in a half-wake, half-sleep state, suddenly I was transported back to the bedroom of the house we lived in when I was 15 years old.  I was arguing with my mother’s fourth husband, who was one of my biggest abusers.  I had always remembered that argument we had that day and how angry we both were.  I remember him slapping my face, then everything went black in that memory, almost like a curtain closing after a play. Completely black.  The next thing I remember was hearing the crunch of car tires on the gravel driveway as my mom and my stepfather left to go somewhere.  I remember going into the bathroom, desperately searching through the cabinets looking for something to commit suicide with.  I found nothing.

For years, that was all I remembered.  But the biggest question in my mind when that memory flashed in my head was Why did I want to commit suicide?  There was a lot of fighting in my house at that time.  What about this particular fight would make me want to end my life?  That was a question I asked myself for years, each time that memory popped up.

But that day, everything that happened in that room came back to me with terrifying clarity.  In addition to having my face slapped, my mother’s husband grabbed me by the arm and slammed me up against the wall.  Then he threw me on the bed and violently raped me.  As this scene played out in my head, my breath came in short gasps, my heart pounded nervously in my chest, and terrified adrenaline raced through my body, the same feelings I felt that day.

And, let me tell you, the floodgates opened as far as the tears.  Finally, FINALLY, I was able to cry.  And I cried just like I had as a young child before the tears stopped, great big heaving, gulping, breathless sobs.  Instead of my cries sounding harsh like I had remembered, they sounded like beautiful music to my ears.

As the tears spilled from my eyes, they felt like liquid silk as they flowed down my face, warmly caressing my cheeks, dripping down my chin, and onto my chest.  It seemed those just tears wouldn’t stop.  And I welcomed every one of those healing tears, thankful that I was able to release the pain.

Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Morrene Hauser

Morrene Hauser currently lives in Central Ohio. For a little over 30 years she ran and operated her own business as a court reporter. Upon retirement Morrene started writing about the many wonderful animals she had while growing up and the powerful impact they have had on her life.  Morrene also writes about mental health.

By Morrene Hauser

THE SHIVERS:  When the nervous system is in such a state of overwhelm due to ongoing stress and anxiety that the body shivers and shakes uncontrollably.

I can finally laugh about this condition that I have suffered with for years, which I call “The Shivers.”

I am not sure when the shivers first came into my life, perhaps in early childhood?  I am a child abuse survivor, sexual, verbal, and physical, by my mother and the various sick men she brought into our lives.  By the time I was nine years old, there had been six father figures in my life.  When I was in my early 20s, I jokingly named these men who helped “raise” me:  My dad, the sperm donor; Bud the Cowboy; Dick the Drunk; Jack the Kindhearted Fireman; Fred the Carnival Guy, and Emil the Truck Driver.

Upon reflection, I probably gave these men names in an effort to lighten the heavy burden of unhealed pain I carried inside due to the years of abuse.  Except for Jack the Kindhearted Fireman, these men, as well as my mother, were some very, very bad people.

When I was in my early 50s, I finally found the strength to confront my past.  As I started to unravel the long-buried memories and began the healing process, I had to confront the immense amount of terror that I had been living with since early childhood and how that had affected me.  From the chronic illnesses that started in early grade school to the depression and anxiety I suffered with for years, to the way I raised my kids, to how I conducted myself in my marriage and my career, that terror and anxiety had a firm grip on my life.  I never felt like I was doing enough.  Nor did I feel good enough.  It seemed the harder I worked to meet the many demands that my tortured mind made of me, the worse I felt.  Despite running around like a chicken with its head cut off, I was rarely able to feel any sense of accomplishment.  It seemed like everyone around me had the “hang” of life.  Everyone, that is, except for me.

At various times in my life, mostly in times of high stress, I would get the shivers.  And those shivers would appear out of nowhere, mostly when I was alone.  They would start with a cool, shivery feeling in my chest that quickly spread throughout my body until I was shivering and shaking uncontrollably.  Despite putting on a sweater and covering up with a blanket, nothing helped.

And when the shivers started, I would fight like hell to make them go away.  They were intensely uncomfortable and terrifying.  It seemed the harder I fought to control my body, the more it shook.  It was brutal.

One day, about seven years into my healing journey, I was lying in bed reading, when suddenly I got a violent case of the shivers, worse than I had ever gotten in my life.  From the top of my head to my toes to everything in between, my body shook and quivered with such an intensity that I could hardly hold onto the book that I had been reading.  I was absolutely terrified at what was happening to me and wondered if I was having another nervous breakdown.  Should I call an ambulance?  Should I call a friend to take me to the hospital?  After a while, the shivers stopped, but that incident left me badly shaken.

After a while, the shivers stopped, but that incident left me badly shaken.

A couple of months after that incident, I got another case of the shivers, every bit as bad as the previous incident.  But this time, something in me had changed.  I finally understood that the shivers were born out of years of ingrained terror.  And with that understanding came great healing.  Instead of getting emotionally involved and letting myself be overtaken with terror, this time I said, Bring it on.  Although my brain understood what was happening, my body hadn’t caught up with my new way of thinking.  While my body shivered and shook, I let it do its thing while I calmly watched TV.

As time has gone on, the shivers have slowly decreased.  But occasionally they still make their appearance.  I realize this is my body’s way of healing and releasing any vestiges of pain I am still carrying.  Instead of looking at them with terror, I welcome them, almost like an old friend.

Cover image created with AI. 

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Morrene Hauser

Morrene Hauser currently lives in Central Ohio. For a little over 30 years she ran and operated her own business as a court reporter. Upon retirement Morrene started writing about the many wonderful animals she had while growing up and the powerful impact they have had on her life.  Morrene also writes about mental health.

I always knew I wasn’t wanted. From as far back as I can remember, my mother told me that she had gotten pregnant with me a month after my brother was born and how she felt about that.

“Morrene, when I found out I was pregnant with you, I cried and cried. I was so depressed! I didn’t want another baby!” were the words I heard often throughout my childhood. And those same cruel words followed me into my adulthood with my mom’s frequent reminders. It never occurred to me to be hurt by those words, probably because I had heard them so often throughout my life.

It wasn’t the fact that I knew I wasn’t wanted that hurt me but the abusive way that my mom treated me during my childhood. From sexual abuse to verbal abuse to physical abuse, I suffered it all at the hands of my dysfunctional mother and the various sick men she brought into our lives.

It has taken me years to realize that I had a target on my back from the moment my mother found out she was going to have another baby.  And to make matters worse, the fact that I am a female really stacked the odds against me in my mother’s eyes.

My mother was a very beautiful woman. With high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and beautiful brown eyes, she was absolutely stunning. But that beauty was only on the outside. Inside of her was a cesspool of black, murky sludge, churning and bubbling with toxic hatred and venom. My mom was a very jealous and highly competitive woman, especially to others of her own sex. I don’t think my mom ever saw the beautiful woman reflected in the mirror when she looked at herself. 

In addition to the verbal, physical, and sexual abuse I suffered, my mother did everything in her power to make me feel and look ugly when I was a child. My mother was a kitchen shop barber who had no training other than cutting her own hair over the years, and whoever was brave enough to sit on the kitchen chair let her start snipping away. She also used to cut my hair and my brother’s. I got the same haircut as my brother: hair clipped close to the scalp, short bangs, and hair high above the ears. Due to the fact that my brother and I were so close in age, we were often mistaken for twins. And to make matters worse, I often had to wear my brother’s hand-me-down clothes when I outgrew mine so that made me look even more like a boy.

“Oh, look at the twin boys!” people would often say when they saw us side by side. Every time I heard those words, I hung my head in embarrassment. I didn’t want to look like a boy. But sometimes, after a closer inspection, I would hear, “Oh, wait, is that a girl?” But it didn’t matter. At that point, the damage had already been done. Every time I heard those hurtful words, shame, and humiliation flooded my body. I felt as if somehow I were to blame for my appearance. Often, I was bullied by the mean kids in school who laughed in my face.

“Is it that a boy or a girl?  It’s a Shim!  Shim!  Yeah, that’s you, ugly girl!”

“Oh, my God, look at that haircut!”

“Damn, she’s ugly!”

Those words hurt me to my very core. And the few times I told my mother about the bullying, she had no compassion.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Morrene, you will fill it out someday, so stop your Goddam complaining!” was my mom’s response.

I envied the girls in my class who had long hair. I was desperate to look like a girl, but I had no idea how to make that happen. The few times I asked my mom if I could grow my hair out, she refused.

I felt ugly in every way possible, a piece of garbage not worthy of love or kindness. But that is the lie of child abuse, that it’s all our fault, and I bought into it hook, line, and sinker. Every bad thing that was done to me I absorbed like a sponge and turned it onto myself with humiliation and anger. By the time I was nine years old, I had learned to hate myself.

When I started to develop and turn into a young woman, that’s when Mom’s hatred of me really showed its true colors. Now she had competition, and she didn’t like it. Not one bit. Slowly, I was turning from an ugly ducking into a young woman, and that started a whole new level of abuse, both from my mother and the mean girls at school.  

“You’re not as pretty as you think you are!” were words I heard often from Mom during that time as she looked me up and down in pure hatred. I never understood why my mom would say such mean things to me. I never felt pretty during my teenage years. Every time I looked in the mirror, not once did I see the attractive young woman that I was becoming staring back at me. All I saw was pure ugliness, inside and out.

I never talked about my childhood with my mom when I became an adult. It was just too painful for me to face. But one question I asked her was, why did you cut my hair so short when I was a kid? Her response? “It was easier for me to manage.” I thought that was curious because my mom didn’t bathe me or wash my hair; I did. But I didn’t say anything to her. Deep down inside of me was still that little girl terrified of her mother’s cruelty.

I kept my mother in my life for many years, long into my adulthood. Unfortunately, my mother never got over her hatred of me, her jealousy, and her competition. But I tried. I so desperately wanted a loving mother in my life, but that was not to be.

In my early 50s, I finally was strong enough to confront the abuse I suffered from my childhood. At that time, my relationship with my mom ended. My mother took absolutely no ownership of the trauma she inflicted on me during my childhood. Although I still yearn for a loving and supportive mother, I have finally come to terms with the fact that it was never meant to be for me in this lifetime.

Photo by Saif71.com on Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Morrene Hauser

Morrene Hauser currently lives in Central Ohio. For a little over 30 years she ran and operated her own business as a court reporter. Upon retirement Morrene started writing about the many wonderful animals she had while growing up and the powerful impact they have had on her life.  Morrene also writes about mental health.

My mother is a deeply dysfunctional and angry person, and she dumped all
her life’s frustrations on her unwanted daughter’s shoulders. From her
frustration at being a single mother to her struggles with money to having to
work jobs she hated due to her debilitating insomnia, my mom felt that life had
somehow shortchanged her.

When I was growing up, my mom often told me all she wanted was a life of
leisure, enough time to ride her beloved horses, go shopping, and do
whatever pleased her. Unfortunately, a series of bad decisions and four
failed marriages never brought my mom the life she felt she so richly deserved. My mom took absolutely no responsibility for her own actions,
instead making herself a victim of life’s circumstances. And let me tell you,
she was furious at all that life had thrown at her, and she spewed that
anger far and wide.

I am a highly sensitive person and always have been. It has taken me years to
learn how to work with my sensitivity in a healthy manner, but I had no idea
how to do that when I was growing up. Like every child, my developing
brain was like a sponge. I had no way to make sense of the terrifying and
humiliating things that happened to me at home other than to make it all my
fault. My traumatized mind reasoned that somehow, some way, somewhere,
the blame for all of the abuse I suffered rested squarely on my shoulders.
But that is the lie of child abuse, and I bought into it, hook, line, and sinker.

By the time I was nine years old, I had learned to hate myself.
That toxic shame that I first experienced at the tender age of five years old
and the years of abuse I suffered as a child invaded every part of my life
and created a myriad of toxic feelings in me: depression, anxiety,
loneliness, guilt, and humiliation. I felt if someone really took the time to get
to know me, all of my filthy secrets would be exposed. When I looked
inward, I could see a cauldron of black moldering waste furiously
bubbling and boiling with toxic shame and humiliation.

Every time I felt depressed, I felt ashamed, as if somehow the depression
was my fault. That made me even more depressed. Every time I felt
anxious, I felt ashamed, and that brought more depression. The same with
loneliness. Same with the guilt. It was a never-ending cycle.

Since early childhood, I have suffered from insomnia and severe migraines.
The few times I made the mistake of complaining to my mom about the
head pain when I was a child, I was met with, “Oh, for God’s sake, quit
feeling sorry for yourself!” And guess what? Any time I had a sleepless
night or a migraine, which was a daily occurrence, that brought more
shame and depression. Throughout my life, I have learned to put a brave
smile on my face and power through the pain no matter how bad I felt.
Through years of counseling and revisiting my childhood, I am slowly
coming to terms with my past. One of the biggest things that is helping me
heal is the realization that from the moment my mother found out she was
pregnant with me, I had a target on my back. After I was born, it didn’t take long for me to become a scapegoat for my mother’s anger, a receptacle for
the years of pent-up anger and frustration she had accumulated in life. No
matter who would have been born to my mother, they would have suffered
the same fate that I did. I never stood a chance.

And now, when shame rears its ugly head, I can catch it before it
gains momentum and gently release it instead of shaming and beating
myself up like I did for years. I no longer take the abuse, and that has released an immense amount of grief.

Photo by Yuris Alhumaydy on Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Morrene Hauser

Morrene Hauser currently lives in Central Ohio. For a little over 30 years she ran and operated her own business as a court reporter. Upon retirement Morrene started writing about the many wonderful animals she had while growing up and the powerful impact they have had on her life.  Morrene also writes about mental health.

Bouncing = inability to focus, bouncing from one chore to another, unable to complete even the simplest of tasks due to severe anxiety and depression.

One of the most painful things I have suffered with for a large portion of my adult life is something I call bouncing. Before I get into how bouncing has impacted my life and how I have learned to control it, let me give you some background.

I have C-PTSD due to years of childhood trauma, sexual, verbal, and physical. It wasn’t until I was in my early 50s that I finally started to confront all I had been through as a child and start the healing process.
When I was in early grade school, my brother and I washed the dishes after my mom made dinner. If we wanted to eat, we had to clean up afterward. Since we were so young, we had to kneel on chairs to reach the sink. At some point, my brother stopped helping, and the cleaning rested on my shoulders.

I was terrified of my mother and her anger, and it never once occurred to me to disobey her. My mother knew I was easily malleable and eager to please, and in no time, she had taught me how to scrub the bathrooms, vacuum, and dust our house. My mom hated cleaning.

When I was in fourth grade, I knew how to keep a clean house. My mother demanded that the house be spotless each day when she got home from work, and that included a thorough cleaning, vacuuming the whole house, dusting, scrubbing the bathrooms and cleaning the kitchen every single day whether the house needed it or not.

I took a lot of pride in my cleaning, desperately praying that my mom would notice how nice the house looked and praise me. Unfortunately, she never did, but I kept hoping. As much as I was terrified of my mother, I absolutely adored her and did everything in my power to please her.

When my mom got home from work, she never had to lift a finger to do anything around the house. Never was I thanked or praised for a job well done. The only time I got any recognition, if you want to call it that, for all of my hard work was if I forgot something, and then the verbal abuse would start.

“MORRENE! GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE AND CLEAN THE FUCKING FLOOR REGISTERS! NOW!”

“DOESN’T IT OCCUR TO YOU TO WIPE OUT THE FUCKING SINK AFTER YOU WASH THE DISHES? GET OVER HERE AND DO IT NOW!”

“YOU FORGOT TO SWEEP THE PORCH! DO IT NOW!”

By the time I was in high school, I had given up on ever pleasing my mother.

Complaints, complaints, complaints, endless complaints. By the time I was in high school, I had given up on ever pleasing my mother. I was being crushed under the weight of criticism and abuse that was my daily life. I was tired of it all. And I was angry.

When I left home at 18 to go to college, that was the first time in my life I didn’t have daily chores hanging over my head. After I graduated from college and got my first apartment, I realized how much I hated cleaning. I mean, I hated it with a passion. And I must admit I wasn’t the best housekeeper at that time in my life. Sometimes I would go days without washing dishes, making my bed, scrubbing the bathroom or doing laundry. After a while, the mess became too much for me, and I would go to work like a tornado, deep cleaning each room and surface until it sparkled. But even when I did give my house a deep scrub, it still felt dirty. Instead of seeing all of the hard work I had done, all I felt was depression and anxiety, as if I hadn’t done enough.

On my worst days, I would flit from one chore to another, making half the bed, washing a couple of dishes, folding a few pieces of laundry, never able to fully complete a task that needed to be done. Sometimes I would be so overwhelmed with anxiety and depression that all I could do was sit on the couch staring at the uncompleted chores as the cruel voice of my mom ran in a hamster wheel through my head.

I used to jokingly tell my friends that my perfect house would be one where I could bring in the outside hose and squirt it down

.
It has taken me years of healing to realize where my hatred of cleaning originated from and the anxiety and depression that followed each time I did clean. As I look back at my life, I have bounced for years without realizing its origins. When I finally started to address this painful “condition,” I found a good way to clean my house without those toxic voices screaming at me from the past.

First, I list chores that need to be done, such as laundry, making the bed, cleaning the kitchen, vacuuming, cleaning the bathroom, etc. Then, I put a time limit on the amount of time I plan on cleaning. Currently, I live in a small apartment, so it doesn’t take much to clean it (or mess it up). Then I tell myself that for ONE HOUR, I am going to clean as much as I can. I put in my earbuds, listen to some good music or a podcast, and clean away. Sometimes, I can get into a groove and get my whole house clean. And some days, I hang it up after that one hour.

This method has greatly helped me control past voices and keep my apartment manageably clean. But don’t misunderstand. I will never win the Good Housekeeping Award for having a spotless house. I still hate cleaning. Some days, I can feel that angry teenager in me rebelling against the cleaning. And on those days, I just have to respect what she is feeling and put it on my “Fuck it, I’ll do it tomorrow” list and do it another time.

I cannot tell you how liberating it is to have finally put the bouncing to rest.

Photo by Farhan Azam on Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Morrene Hauser

Morrene Hauser currently lives in Central Ohio. For a little over 30 years she ran and operated her own business as a court reporter. Upon retirement Morrene started writing about the many wonderful animals she had while growing up and the powerful impact they have had on her life.  Morrene also writes about mental health.

I always knew something was wrong with me. The first time I asked myself that question was at the tender age of five years old. I was in kindergarten then, watching my little classmates running around, playing, and screaming with laughter as children do. But not me. I stood quietly on the sidelines watching them and wondering why can’t I play and laugh like they do? What is wrong with me? All I felt was a great sadness inside. Little did I know that it would be many long and painful years before I would finally find the answer to that question.

I am a child abuse survivor. Throughout my childhood, I was sexually, physically, and verbally abused by my close family members, the very people who should have loved and protected the most. I was born in the mid-60s, and not once was child abuse discussed at school or on TV like it is nowadays. I didn’t know that the terrifying and painful things that happened to me at home were wrong. That was just the way it was in our house.

My life has been filled with pain

Since early childhood, I have suffered from migraines, insomnia, anxiety, and depression, and those painful conditions only got worse as the years went on. It never once occurred to me that the things that happened to me at home had affected me. From as far back as I can remember, my life has been filled with pain.

Throughout grade school, middle school, and high school, several times a week, I would ask myself what was wrong with me. That question that I first asked myself when I was five years old continued to haunt me.

As I grew into adulthood, I continued to wonder what was wrong with me. Sometimes, when I really pondered that question, a little voice deep inside of me would whisper it’s from your childhood. But that’s as far as it went. I never thought about my childhood. And I mean never. It was just too painful for me to face.

All I ever wanted was to be normal. Although I really had no clear idea what “normal” was, in my limited view, it equaled happiness. And happiness to me meant feeling good, free of the mental and physical pain that had held me hostage since early childhood. I really had no idea what happiness was either since I had rarely felt that in my life. Sure, I had periods of happiness, but each time I felt happy, it was from an experience: meeting my now ex-husband, the birth of my children, traveling, shopping, going out with friends, etc. But as the newness of each experience wore off, it was back to the same mental and physical pain I had suffered with for years…and that old question that continually ran on a hamster wheel in the back of my mind, what is wrong with me, what is wrong with me, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

I was desperate to get out of the mental and physical pain that I had suffered since early childhood, but I had no idea how to make that happen. I felt like a freak.

Each morning, when I got up from a night of little sleep and a head filled with pain, I plastered a phony smile on my face with a fake it ‘til you make it attitude and did the best I could to pretend that I was “normal.” But deep down, I was dying. It took an enormous amount of effort to keep up the façade that I was living in. At the end of each day, utterly exhausted from dealing with the pain and trying to act normal, I drank myself into oblivion. For those few hours that I drank, I could forget about my life and the many struggles I faced.  After several drinks, I felt normal. But the next morning, the pain started all over again, as did the question, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? It was a vicious cycle.

Over the years, I tried many things to alleviate the mental and physical pain I was in. From acupuncture to hypnosis, counseling, sinus surgery, massage therapy, deviated septum surgery, meditation, past-life regression, aromatherapy, reading self-help books, antidepressants, sleeping pills, reiki, etc., I tried everything within my power to heal myself. I have literally spent tens of thousands of dollars in an effort to feel better, all to no avail.

When I was 51 years old, I finally started to confront my childhood. It was at this critical point in my life that I was diagnosed with C-PTSD due to years of childhood trauma.

After I was diagnosed with C-PTSD, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief knowing that I finally – FINALLY – had an answer to that question that had plagued me for years. So that’s what’s wrong with me, I thought, the trauma from my childhood and dealing with an undiagnosed mental illness that I had unknowingly suffered with for years, probably since early childhood, due to the severity of the abuse. It all made sense.

Now, what do I do to go about healing myself? To say I was motivated to find a solution was an understatement. I call this phase of my life my healing journey. From counseling to neurofeedback to EMDR therapy, to reading self-help books, to listening to hours upon hours of motivational and healing teachers on YouTube, to taking psychedelics and antidepressants, I have done everything in my power to heal myself.

Facing my childhood has been one of the most painful things I have dealt with as an adult. But as difficult as this journey has been, I am finally understanding how my past has shaped me into the person I am today and how trauma played a role in the chronic conditions I have suffered with since early childhood.

It’s been seven-and-a-half years since I started my journey of healing from the past. I have certainly learned a lot about myself and healing from childhood trauma. It’s been a very eye-opening experience. Sometimes, I wish that I had been able to face my childhood earlier in life, but I realize that I simply didn’t have the strength.

Photo by Matt Howard on Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Morrene Hauser

Morrene Hauser currently lives in Central Ohio. For a little over 30 years she ran and operated her own business as a court reporter. Upon retirement Morrene started writing about the many wonderful animals she had while growing up and the powerful impact they have had on her life.  Morrene also writes about mental health.

I started dreaming of horses

When I was 51 years old, my life was falling apart. My 30-plus-year career that I had worked so hard for was coming to an end, and so was my marriage. Little did I know, but my life was about to turn upside down in a devastating way. The flashbacks of the sexual abuse were coming at me fast and hard, and it took an enormous amount of effort to keep pushing those sickening memories out of my head. At that time, I was still living with my soon-to-be ex-husband and kids. Needless to say, it was a very stressful living situation. I was hardly sleeping at night, and every day, I suffered from excruciating migraines, things that I had dealt with since early childhood. My mental health was getting worse with each day that passed. Little did I know, but I was headed for a nervous breakdown.

During this time, a curious thing happened. I started dreaming of horses, brown horses, black horses, white horses, spotted horses, every kind of horse imaginable. Every night, those magnificent creatures appeared in my sleep. Sometimes, in my dreams, I would be in the Old West, just staring at a line of horses tied to hitching posts. I felt like a little kid in a candy shop as I tapped my fingers in glee, trying to decide which horse would be mine.

But, again, I had absolutely no plans to get another horse. None. Other than my grown children, I wanted nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with anything or anyone that would tie me down. Too many years of stress, chronic health problems, an undiagnosed mental illness, and a demanding career had left me depleted mentally and physically. All I wanted in my life was ultimate freedom, a freedom that I had never experienced. And that freedom did not include owning a horse. I couldn’t even wrap my head around that kind of responsibility.

Another curious thing that happened during this time was I started looking at horses on social media. Sometimes, I spent hours scrolling through the various sites. Looking at horses brought me comfort.

One day, as I was scrolling through social media, I saw a horse for sale—a gorgeous Arabian Paint. And let me tell you, it felt like my heart stopped in my chest as I gazed at this image. With his classic Arabian head, brown and white spotted body, and long mane and tail, I just couldn’t stop staring at this beautiful creature. This was one of the most beautiful horses I had ever seen in my life. And he was for sale….After doing a quick check to see where he was located, I found out he was about two hours from me. Didn’t take long before I reached out to the owner to see if I could come out and meet him. Just to look…

I will admit I was afraid

I won’t even go into the details other than to say the rest is history. Exactly two hours and thirty minutes from the time my friend and I made the long trek to go see this horse, I was now the proud owner of a gorgeous Arabian Paint named TwoFace.

I will admit I was afraid. Terrified, in fact. I had lost my career, and the chronic illnesses I had suffered with since childhood, severe insomnia, and daily migraines were preventing me from getting another job. I had no idea how I was going to support myself. But still, I bought a horse.

It was right after I bought TwoFace that I decided to take a vacation to Mexico alone. Even though my finances were slowly dwindling, I took every opportunity to escape the tension in my house, and I often hopped on a plane and went somewhere that was relaxing. The night before I was scheduled to go home, as I lay in bed waiting for sleep to overtake me, suddenly, every flashback I had ever gotten of the sexual abuse flashed in my head like a series of short movies. And it was then that I knew that these were actual memories of abuse from my childhood. I have no words to express the mind-numbing shock and grief I felt when I realized that I had, in fact, been sexually abused for years. As much as I felt betrayed by my mind for forgetting what happened, I also knew that it had done its best to protect me from the trauma that my mind was too young to make sense of. The next day after I got home, I was hospitalized for a nervous breakdown. It was at that time I was diagnosed with CPTSD due to years of childhood trauma.

After I was released from the hospital, I confronted my mother via text about the abuse. I couldn’t even wrap my head around talking to her. Since we lived in different states, phone calls and texting were the way we communicated. After I confronted my mother, she did not utter one word in her defense. In fact, she never answered me. She blocked me. And that spoke volumes. It’s been over seven years since I have had any contact with my mother. To say it is a relief not to have her in my life is an understatement.

I cannot tell you how much my horse, TwoFace, has helped me throughout that most difficult time in my life. I am not sure if I would be alive today if it weren’t for him. He gave me a purpose, a reason to get up and face each day. Every morning when I got up after a restless night of little sleep, my first thought was of my beautiful TwoFace. I just couldn’t believe this magnificent horse was all mine. Twice a day I went to the barn to feed him and clean his stall. And I rode him every chance I could. Riding came back to me naturally, as if I hadn’t skipped a beat.

Shortly after my hospitalization, I started to write about my childhood. As the memories came tumbling back and the painful words spilled out onto the paper, it felt like I was reliving the abuse all over again. At times the pain was almost unbearable. Any time I got overwhelmed by the sickening things that happened to me so long ago, I always knew I could escape to the barn and see my beloved boy for comfort, my anchor in a sea of pain. Without my horse, I don’t believe I would have made it through that time in my life.

I firmly believe that a higher power brought horses to me to help me survive the most vulnerable and terrifying parts of my life. I am forever grateful to these magnificent creatures. Without them, I believe I would have been dead a long time ago due to the abuse.

Whenever I look into TwoFace’s soulful eyes, my heart skips a breath. He is just that beautiful.

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Photo by Raphael Wicker on Unsplash

Morrene Hauser

Morrene Hauser currently lives in Central Ohio. For a little over 30 years she ran and operated her own business as a court reporter. Upon retirement Morrene started writing about the many wonderful animals she had while growing up and the powerful impact they have had on her life.  Morrene also writes about mental health.

*Warning. This article contains references to childhood sexual abuse

I grew up a crazy obsessed horse lover. From how they smelled to their warm and velvety noses to their kind and soulful eyes, I couldn’t get enough of these magnificent creatures. My mom had a small barn full of horses by the time I was born, so the love of horses was ingrained in me from an early age. My mother often rode on our property when she was still married to my father, her second husband. Each time I saw Mom on the back of a horse when I was a toddler, I would scream and scream until she would pick me up, put me in the saddle, and take me for rides where I would often fall asleep contentedly in her arms.

However, I did not have a good childhood. From as far back as I can remember, I was verbally, sexually, and physically abused by my mother and the various sick men she brought into our lives. I grew up knowing I was not wanted, a result of an accidental pregnancy, and that was something Mom often reminded me of as I grew up. It never once occurred to me to be hurt by those words. That was just the way it was in our house. We moved often. It was a lonely and terrifying childhood.

When I was seven years old, my mom married her third husband, an abusive pedophile named Fred. Fred owned several ponies and mules that he used for one of his businesses. Shortly after they married, I started riding one of his ponies named Sunshine. I had always wanted my own horse, so the presence of Sunshine was a dream come true. I rode Sunshine every chance I could. I was not a skillful rider at that age, and Sunshine knew it. Sunshine ran away with me and bucked me off, and rarely did she go in the direction I wanted her to. But that didn’t matter to me one bit. In my loving eyes, Sunshine could do no wrong. I thought of her often when I was not with her. Sunshine was my anchor in the confusing and terrifying world that I lived in. Every time I looked into Sunshine’s soulful eyes, the breath caught in my throat. She was just that beautiful.

When I was nine years old, Mom met her fourth husband, a truck driver named Emil, who was also a pedophile. Two weeks after they met, Mom and Emil decided to get married. After Mom divorced Fred, she married Emil, we moved to another state, and I was no longer allowed to see Sunshine. Without Sunshine, my beloved anchor, I was lost in the sea of abuse and terror that was my daily life. I was absolutely devastated. Every time I thought about my little pony, it felt like my heart was going to shatter into a million little pieces. When we moved, Mom brought her horses along, two beautiful and spirited Arabians named Jazon and Quazar.

It wasn’t long into their marriage that Mom and Emil took me into their bed and started sexually abusing me. Any fears that I had when Mom was married to Fred were quickly eclipsed when she married Emil at the level of abuse I suffered each day.

After we moved, Mom found a stable near where we lived to board the horses. Every day, I went with her to feed and water them. I loved the horses and often went into their stalls to brush and love on them. When the weather was nice, Mom rode in the fields surrounding the stables. Every time Mom rode, I watched her enviously, wishing I had a horse of my own to ride.

I suddenly knew without a doubt that I could ride this young and spirited Arabian horse

One day, shortly after we moved, as I stood in Jazon’s stall brushing him, I suddenly knew without a doubt that I could ride this young and spirited Arabian horse.

My fear of horses was gone. [Explain that while you loved Sunshine, you couldn’t handle riding her, so you developed a fear. This fear dissipated after you developed other skills and a greater awareness of horses. Right?]

When I told Mom that I wanted to ride Jazon, she looked at me skeptically, no doubt remembering Sunshine and all the trouble she had gotten us into. Jazon required a skilled and confident rider. At nine years old I was small for my age, but I was not the least bit concerned about how I would handle him.

Finally, Mom shrugged her shoulders and saddled Jazon up. After Mom hoisted me onto his back, happiness and excitement washed over me like a warm, comforting blanket, and I couldn’t stop smiling. Finally, I was riding again!

Even though Jazon’s saddle was too big for me, which made it hard to hang on when he spooked and bucked, which was often, it didn’t matter to me. I just laughed out loud at his silly antics and hung on tight. Nothing Jazon did scared me. He was a powerful horse and a challenge to ride, and I enjoyed every minute of being on his back. I couldn’t believe this amazing horse was all mine.

Mom and I were trail riders, and we rode as much as we could on the many trails where we lived in Wisconsin. We rode until our hearts were content, and we couldn’t have been happier.

The abuse was what I had grown up with, and that was my normal.

As I entered my teenage years, Mom lost interest in sexually abusing me, but Emil did not. When I was 13, Emil took my virginity. Every time I was abused, I lay there quietly, waiting for him to finish as I escaped into my own little world, trying to separate myself from what was happening to me. It never once occurred to me to fight back. The abuse was what I had grown up with, and that was my normal.

When I turned 15, I finally fought back against the sexual abuse. Emil did not take it well. After beating me up and violently raping me, that was the last time he ever touched me. I am not sure why Emil stopped sexually abusing me after I fought back. Maybe he thought I enjoyed his touch. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Even though Emil had been raping me for years, this particular incident had a devastating effect on me. I lost interest in everything in my life, including riding my beautiful horse. I grew up depressed, but after this incident, I reached a whole new level of depression, and it took an enormous amount of effort to get through each day. All I wanted to do was sleep. When Mom came into my room on the weekends to wake me up to go riding, I just ignored her, and she would storm out of my room, cussing before slamming the door. Sleep was all I cared about. Although I still loved horses, it would be many long years before my passion for them was rekindled.

As the years passed, without realizing it, I slowly buried the memories of the sexual abuse I suffered as a child. It was just too horrific for me to face. But as much as I tried to forget about the abuse, little did I know that my mind still held onto those memories. Several times a week I would get flashbacks of me being sexually abused as a child. I couldn’t make sense of those disturbing images that flashed randomly in my head, and I would kick them out as soon as they came in, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge them. But they always left me badly shaken, with a pounding heart and terrified adrenaline running through my body. It took an enormous amount of effort to keep that fake smile on my face and pretend everything was okay in my world.

After I graduated from high school, I went to college. Even though none of my family had gone on to get a higher education, I knew that was my ticket out of a life of misery. One very important lesson I learned from my childhood was that the only person I could rely on was myself. And I knew an education would take me to where I wanted to be, a career where I made good money and a life where I could make my own decisions. A few years after I finished my schooling, I got married, and we eventually started a family.

As I moved into adulthood, I rarely thought about the horses of my youth because it was bittersweet. As much as the horses reminded me of the happiest parts of my childhood, they also reminded me of the most painful parts. Although I always remembered the verbal and physical abuse, I had forgiven my mother even though she never once asked for forgiveness. I maintained a relationship with my mother long into my adulthood, naively hoping that she would outgrow her hatred of me. Deep down inside of me was still that little girl desperately craving her mother’s love and acceptance. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen, but I kept trying.

As the years passed, the flashbacks continued to haunt me. Whether I was at work, the grocery store, or with my family, I couldn’t escape when these disturbing images would suddenly pop into my head. Once again, I had no idea why these images of me being sexually abused as a child would flash in my head. They just didn’t make any sense to me, but they always left me badly shaken.

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Morrene Hauser

Morrene Hauser currently lives in Central Ohio. For a little over 30 years she ran and operated her own business as a court reporter. Upon retirement Morrene started writing about the many wonderful animals she had while growing up and the powerful impact they have had on her life.  Morrene also writes about mental health.