First grade was the first time in my life I felt understood. I loved everything about school. The snacks, the smell of mimeographed worksheets, learning how to read and write, the playground, and most of all, I loved my teacher Mrs. King. She was the first adult I had ever met who loved me back.

As the school year drew to a close, I overheard my parents talking in the den. “I can’t stand the other second-grade teachers,” my mother growled. Even at seven, I knew she was ramping toward a full-on tirade. She happened to be a second-grade teacher at the same school my brother and I attended, though I managed to avoid her during my year of freedom in Mrs. King’s classroom. I flattened myself against the wall and continued listening at the door. “I mean it. None of them is any good. I’m not going to have it, I’m just not going to have it. That child isn’t going to learn a thing. That principle is the sorriest thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t stand that school. I’ve never seen such a bunch of…”

“Oh for God’s sake, what do you want?” As usual, my father was exasperated.

“I’m going to put her in my classroom next year,” my mother replied.

Oh no! I wanted to scream! Anxiety turned my blood to ice. My mother couldn’t do that could she? I knew she could and she would. She must have found out how happy I was. Hated it at home, she was going to see to it that I was hated at school as well.

Second-grade passed in a blur. There was nowhere to turn for help. My mother perched herself upon a wooden teacher throne. . . the very essence of power. Not only could she beat me at home, now, but she could also beat me all day long at school. Those were the days when kids were still spanked, so the administration did nothing. After all, she was my mother. She could do whatever she wanted. Besides, the principal had no idea what was going on in that classroom. My mother took the opportunity to focus special attention on me.

My worksheets became indecipherable, confusing symbols. I grew more stupid by the day. I did bad work, I had bad handwriting, I couldn’t behave, I was wicked, dumb, and lazy. In fact, I was the worst kid in the classroom. I was trash. Worse than trash. I did not deserve to live. All the terrible things my mother had done to me during the years I was under her thumb at home began to happen all day long at school. Now, she had an audience of eighteen other children to witness my shame. I lay my head on my desk in defeat. I could not win. No matter what I did, my mother was always going to be on top. I wanted to die. As the year finally crawled to a close, we were hit with really catastrophic news. They were going to send black people to my school!

My parents hit the roof. No child of theirs was going to go to school with black people, only they didn’t use the word black. I didn’t know what to think. My parents decided I would attend the hastily constituted private school in town. Since I was changing schools, I was made to take test after boring test of entrance exams. I tried my best, but since I had been so stupid in second grade, I didn’t hold out much hope for a good result.

Both my mother and father asked me to come into the den for a talk. I knew by the looks on their faces it was going to be bad. My father cleared his throat. “Your tests show that you haven’t learned enough to enter third grade. You’re going to have to repeat the second grade.” I tried to wrap my brain around what they were saying.

My mother added her special touch. “This is a new school so no one will know what has happened. Just make sure you don’t tell anyone you’ve been held back.” Held back was the whispered euphemism for “you failed the second grade.” I was never to expose the terrible secret. I thought about the one kid I knew who had failed a grade. He was a big bully who smelled funny. Everyone made fun of him behind his back. “He’s a dummy,” they whispered.

I stared at the ground in despair. Every mean thing my parents had ever said had come true and worse. I was too stupid to pass the second grade. Heartbroken doesn’t begin to describe how I felt. I was devastated and something broke deep, down inside.

I overheard my mother talking about me on the phone. “We’re changing schools, and you know, private school is so much more advanced than public. We’re holding Rebekah back a year.”

To outsiders, it was the school’s fault I had failed, while inside our home, the failure was mine alone. My mother skated away without an ounce of responsibility for all she had done. I wasn’t allowed to tell a single soul about my catastrophe, and here was my mother telling everyone she could think of to call. Every kid in the new school would know that I was the class dummy before I ever arrived. My mother would see to that.

I was fifty years old before it dawned on me that my mother had been the teacher responsible for my academics that year. The story of failure followed me through the nightmare of elementary school, the disaster of middle school, the despair of high school, and every decade after that until I finally arrived at trauma therapy. In tears, I recounted the story to my therapist.

He leaned back in his chair, interlocked his fingers, and let out a long sigh. “Your mother was a liar.”  I looked up in shock. “It’s called covert abuse, and it wasn’t your fault. You’ve simply been telling yourself the same story your abuser wanted you to believe.”

Now I was the one to sit back in the chair. He was right. I had been absolutely convinced I was cataclysmically stupid. No adult accomplishment, achievement or success, canceled out that story. Until I looked the truth in the eye and embraced it.

It sounds so simple. How could I have believed such a one-sided story for so long? Because I was a tiny little seven-year-old and didn’t have the slightest inkling of what my mother was up to. She was all I had. I was the problem. There was something inherently wrong with me. What other possible conclusion could I have come to?

If you are able to relate to this story in any way, it is time for you to reframe the stories you have been telling yourself. I was brain-washed into interpreting the past in a certain way. Like a funhouse mirror, even my memories were corrupted. It takes real heroism to survive trauma, and that is what I am. . .a hero. . .who is also very smart. And so are you.

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 do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Rebekah Brown

Rebekah Brown, a native of the south, now resides in the Great American West. Surviving a complicated and abusive family system makes her unique writing style insightful as well as uplifting. Rebekah is the proud mother of two and grandmother of four.

Fight or flight: the instinctive physiological response to a threatening situation, which readies one either to resist forcibly or to run away.

**Please be kind to yourself as you read**

I thought I was safe. At four years old, I believed if I couldn’t see you, you couldn’t see me. I had secreted myself away in a nice little spot between the couch and the wall and eagerly stuck my thumb in my mouth. As I closed my eyes, the delicious feeling of numb security washed over me. Though I could hear my mother clattering dishes in the kitchen, she was nowhere to be seen. Thankfully, my father was still at work. My eyes blinked open and shut as the very edge of slumber crawled into my mind.

“REBEKAH!”

It was a scream unlike any other; mixed with panic and combined rage. A claw-like hand reached behind the couch and grabbed me by my spaghetti thin arm. I hit my head against the wall as my mother yanked me from my hiding place.

“I TOLD YOU TO STOP SUCKING THAT THUMB!” She gave me a hard shake.

Reality ceased to exist, and I could neither speak nor move as she towered over me. Frozen in the familiar terror of one of my mother’s attacks, she dragged me to the kitchen. “YOU STAND RIGHT THERE.” Rummaging through the cabinet, my mother knocked a bottle of cooking oil to the floor.  She glared at me with an accusing stare. “I’VE TOLD YOU AND TOLD YOU TO STOP SUCKING THAT THUMB!” Her attention turned back to the cabinet. “Here it is. Stick out your hands.” My mother pulled an eye-dropper from a little brown bottle and began to coat my thumbs with noxious hot pepper oil. 

The rest of the afternoon dragged by. Even holding my favorite homemade rag doll brought no comfort. I longed for my little thumb, but I knew what would happen if I put it in my mouth. The burning sensation would last for hours.

Laying in bed that night, a circle of thoughts repeated themselves in my mind. I was bad. I was a bad, bad, bad girl. Sucking your thumb was the worst thing anyone could ever do, and I could not stop no matter how hard I tried. My mother wouldn’t have to yell so much if I would just stop sucking my thumb. I bet my Mama and Daddy wouldn’t whip me so much if I could stop sucking my thumb.

Despite the terrifying feeling in the pit of my stomach, it was impossible to stave off sleep. I forgot about the long-lasting pepper oil and unconsciously turned to my only source of comfort. As soon as my thumb touched my tongue, the burning taste brought tears to my eyes. I licked the sheets, but there was no relief.

The terror and confusion of that long-ago childhood lasted far longer than the pepper oil. It became my “way of being” in the world. Hyper-vigilance occurs when the fight or flight response is blocked and is especially complicated for those who have experienced repeated abuse in early childhood. The brain becomes hardwired in its effort to save you from threat and as an adult, you live in fight or flight nearly all the time. In the same way, I blamed thumb-sucking as the source of my suffering, we adults blame ourselves for what is really a physiological response to trauma, not a moral failing.

The fight or flight response can be rewired but it takes dedication, practice, and patience.

Learning to catch triggers early and practicing self-regulation are just some of the tools that can move you away from living in response to threats to living with intentionality. When you understand that fight or flight is a physiological response to trauma, you can take the burning power out of the pepper oil. Put it back in the bottle and close the cabinet door…forever. Don’t give up. You are worth it.

Rebekah Brown, a native of the south, now resides in the Great American West. Surviving a complicated and abusive family system makes her unique writing style insightful as well as uplifting. Rebekah is the proud mother of two and grandmother of four. Her very first novel, The Raspberry House, dealing with narcissistic abuse and every person’s desire to find their heart’s true home, will be released in 2021.

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 do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Rebekah Brown

Rebekah Brown, a native of the south, now resides in the Great American West. Surviving a complicated and abusive family system makes her unique writing style insightful as well as uplifting. Rebekah is the proud mother of two and grandmother of four.

I had watched my big brother board the school bus every day for the last year. Now, it was finally my turn. The very first week of first grade, my teacher, Mrs. King, fulfilled every dream I had ever had of school.

“All right, children,” Mrs. King said, as she stood at the front of the room in her bright red lipstick. “We have a very special guest today. I need for everyone to come to sit on the floor by the piano.” Everyone moved near the claptrap upright as Mrs. King went to the door. She turned to all of us. “When our visitor comes in, you must be very, very quiet. You must not talk, you must not shout and whatever happens, you…must…not…laugh. This guest is very sensitive, and if you make any noise. Any noise at all, you will scare him and he will want to leave. Does everyone understand?” My mouth dropped open as hush-filled magic fell over the classroom. All eyes stared at the door.

Mrs. King pushed it open. “I would like to introduce you to my husband, girls, and boys, and this,” Mrs. King waved her right hand toward the hall, “is my dog, Rufus.” Stunned amazement fell over the first-graders. We watched in awe as a black mutt about the size of a small beagle waggled in. He was wearing a bright red collar. “Rufus likes to sing and I’ve asked my husband to bring him today to sing just for you.”

Mrs. King sat down at the piano. Her husband dropped the leash and Rufus jumped into her lap. He placed his front paws on the piano keys as she began a rollicking tune. As soon as the music started, he turned his nose into the air and howled with all his might. I clapped my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing as the other children tittered. Rufus stopped long enough to catch his breath, then went in for another turn of phrase. It was the most glorious sight I had ever seen. The class managed to stay quiet until Rufus finished his song, but happy laughter rang out as we watched his wagging tail leave the room.

Mrs. King brought lambs to school that spring. She taught us games and encouraged friendships. I was honored as the first person to lose a tooth. Mrs. King even asked me to walk up and down the aisles so all the children could see the hole in my mouth.

The joy of first grade was overshadowed by the home I returned to every afternoon. “Hold your hands out,” my mother screamed. She had caught me sucking my thumb yet again. My mother hated me, and I deserved every punishment she could dish out. I stuck out my thumbs as my mother covered them in hot pepper oil. “There. That should keep those thumbs out of your mouth.” That night I forgot about the hot pepper oil and sought out my only source of comfort. My mouth burned so badly even licking the sheets didn’t do any good.

At my house, my very existence was cause for reprimand. I stumbled through life and finally grew up. It would take years to understand the relentless terror and despair that followed me into adulthood.

Five decades later, while preparing for a cross country move, I noticed a forgotten old box stuffed in the back of the garage. As I sifted through the contents, a strange thing happened. At the very bottom, I found a yellowed piece of card stock covered in beautifully hand-written script. It was my report card from Mrs. King’s first grade. My hands shook as I picked it up. Did I dare read the detailed commentary? I had not seen it in over fifty years, and besides, Mrs. King had written it before I could read cursive. I had no idea what it said. I was sure the report card would echo the tape running in my head recorded during the experiences of my childhood. “Rebekah is disobedient and can’t keep her mouth shut. When I think of Rebekah, I think of trash. She is the worst pupil in the school. She is so stupid, her work is one gigantic, indecipherable mess. The situation is hopeless. She is a complete and total failure.”

I opened the card. Mrs. King’s swirling hand-writing leaped from the page. “Rebekah’s progress has been very good. For one so young, I marvel at her! She is always interested in whatever we are doing. Rebekah has a nice attitude, a good disposition, and is always happy. She gets along with everyone. She is very capable and has above average ability and tries hard to do her best.”

I sat on the floor in shock. Mrs. King’s glowing review continued from top to bottom of every page. She even kept writing when there wasn’t any more space. Here was an eyewitness to the most distressing years of my life, and the testimony was the complete opposite of my abusive parents. I had carried a cross made of lies through the decades. Only those of you who have suffered in a similar way can understand what a revelation this was. After all, I had suffered, all the books I had read, all the therapy sessions and the thousands of hours of meditation and prayer, struggle and sorrow, everything I had fought so hard for had turned out to be true. It wasn’t me.

I still take out Mrs. King’s first-grade report card and read it occasionally, letting the words soak into the wounded places of my heart. Don’t believe the gas lighters, even if they are your own mother and father. It took fifty years, but Mrs. King’s words confirmed my suspicions. I was a wonderful little girl and in the end, the gaslighters did not have the last word. I did.

You may contact the author at rebl.brown@gmail.com

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 do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Rebekah Brown

Rebekah Brown, a native of the south, now resides in the Great American West. Surviving a complicated and abusive family system makes her unique writing style insightful as well as uplifting. Rebekah is the proud mother of two and grandmother of four.

Take me, for instance. Most people would describe me as peppy, outgoing, bubbly, happy, and exuberant. That is a part of my personality, but there is so much more to me that people don’t know (unless they read my blog, that is).  

In reality, I feel fearful most of the time, I’m quite shy, I have social anxiety, and I am afraid to tell people about my past. I care deeply about others, and I also feel deeply. I put my heart and soul into every post I write, and I grieve for the childhood I never had. Each time I write a post about my past, my vulnerability takes a huge toll on me.  I put my stories out there to try to break the stigma and shame associated with it, and it saddens me that some people I consider friends have not reached out to me about these private and traumatic details. 

I typically show people the side of me that is full of life and contentment; the parts of me that are filled with loneliness and anxiety I tuck away when I am around others. Although talkative and engaging in groups, I am usually exhausted emotionally after a social event. I’m a true introvert, although you’d probably never know it.  

Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. I am not putting on a show when I’m around people. We show different sides to ourselves around different people. I am simply showing one side, and that is a genuine part of who I am. However, there is so much more that doesn’t get seen. There is often much more to someone than meets the eye if you get to really know them and don’t turn away. 

Never judge a person unless you’ve walked a mile in their shoes.

I have gone through hell and back, but I learned at a very young age to keep my pain to myself based on others’ reactions.  Many have gone through their own suffering. They have experienced loss, divorce, miscarriages, bullying, loneliness, depression, and pain.  Most of us keep that part a secret because society has taught us to “tough it out” and “stay strong”.  The people around us feel discomfort about those situations and don’t want to acknowledge them, so those that are struggling often don’t share the full extent of their pain. As a result, it is easy for those of us who are suffering to look around at others and feel inferior. We live in a world where everyone appears to have it all together. I call bullshit.  

I wrote a post about always being grateful, but not feeling grateful this Thanksgiving. Many understood the point I was trying to make and told me how much they appreciated it. It warmed my heart when I was told they felt less alone and more accepted because of my post.  Others commented that we should always be grateful. I was also told that I shouldn’t write about this topic on a public forum out of respect for those that enjoy the holidays and who do feel grateful. 

Feelings are never right or wrong. They simply are what they are. Others may not agree with our feelings, but that does not make our feelings any less valid. Yet feelings are often met with resistance. We are told to suck it up, count our blessings, remember that it could be worse, and sent the underlying message to not speak our truths. Our truths may be different than others, but we are entitled to voice them. Our pain, our truths, our stories- they are all unique and all deserve to be respected and heard.

We shouldn’t judge a person unless we’ve walked a mile in their shoes. 

We must stop assuming, and we must start spreading kindness and empathy.  I write Surviving Mom Blog and use my platform for all those who have suffered and haven’t had the support of others.  Let us accept that we all have our own unique journey. Let us not perpetuate the shame and pain others feel during this time of year or at any time of year.  

Let us start acknowledging the sorrows that exist around us, instead of trying to micromanage those feelings. We must stop ignoring and minimizing what/how others feel.

Those people that exude confidence, but feel lost, this post is for you. The children that put on a brave face at school, but go home and cry because they are being bullied, this post is for you. The people who try so hard, but feel so very lonely, this post is for you. For every person who has so much more going on than meets the eye, this post is for you. For every person that is struggling with the stigma of mental illness, this post is for you.  If you are the victim of abuse or trauma, this post is for you. On behalf of those who are told to be strong no matter how much their heart is breaking, this post is for you. This post is for me too. 

This holiday season, and moving forward, I hope we will stop assuming and start reaching out more.  It is often the ones who seem the happiest that are suffering the most. People are more likely to show different sides to themselves if they feel safe doing so. Let’s be a safe person for others. 

Don’t judge a person unless you’ve walked in their shoes.

Don’t sum a person up by their smiles and laughter. Instead, talk about topics of sustenance. Reveal matters that others wouldn’t know by common banter, and give space for others to do the same.  If someone bravely shares something private and difficult to share, express kindness and empathy. Do not turn a blind eye to their pain or tell them what they should or shouldn’t say or feel.  

Life is hard enough. Choose kindness.  We don’t know what burdens people are carrying, but we can help them unload that baggage if we assume less and open our minds and heart more. 

This story was previously written in Surviving Mom Blog.

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 do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Randi

I am a native New Yorker, but I currently live in Atlanta with my husband, rambunctious 8-year-old daughter, our 2 cats, and our hyper dog. Writing has always been my outlet. I have contributed to numerous publications, including The Mighty, Thought Catalog, Morning Lazziness, Authority Magazine, Her View from Home, and Thrive Global.

I believe writing helped me become the person and mother that I am today.  I created Surviving Mom Blog (www.survivingmomblog.com), where I write about surviving abuse and the struggles of of life, relationships, and motherhood.  Please head over to the blog, where my hope is that my words provide support, validation and comfort to others in their own healing journeys.

Let’s connect!  Follow my page on Facebook, @survivimomblog (https://www.facebook.com/survivmomblog/).  I can also be reached on Instagram (@SurvivingMomBlog), Pinterest (@survivmomblog), and Twitter (@survivmomblog).

www.survivingmomblog.com

This is not your average love story, but I think it’s a love story nonetheless. It begins with desperation and jealousy, with insecurity and fear; fear of loss of love. It begins with horror at the thought of being shamed, humiliated. And it begins with pain; the pain that sits in your belly like an empty and bottomless cavern that can never be filled; the pain that makes you want to run, to fight, to scream, to be anywhere but right there.

We often hear it said that heartache is part of the price we pay for admission into this human drama. Some of us, it seems, has paid quite a hefty price.

My story begins in 1962.

I was born in Boston, Massachusetts that July. My father was, at the time, a physician at Children’s Hospital, and my mother was a lab assistant at BU medical center. We lived in an apartment in Watertown for a year. In 1964 we moved to the affluent Boston suburb of Wellesley. When I was four years old my parents adopted my sister, Ellen. When I was eight she died of cancer. Soon we welcomed two more children: Jane in 1970, and Susan in 1972, adopted and from Korea. I went to public elementary, middle, and high school. During those early years, I played baseball and football and I hunted for frogs in the pond by the woods. In the summers I stayed outside until dusk playing kick the can with the other kids in the neighborhood. As I got older I stopped playing sports and chose instead to smoke dope, pursue girls, and listen obsessively to The Rolling Stones, Steely Dan, and The Allman Brothers. All in all, the appearance on the surface of a fairly run-of-the-mill, middle-class upbringing and life.

I was a smart kid, but I did not apply myself in school. I chose television over homework, social life overstudies, physical pleasure over all else. By my junior year of high school, I was a daily pot smoker. I added alcohol in college as another daily refuge, and if I’m being honest I should probably include sex, shopping and exercise to my list of painkillers. In college, I discovered my intellect, political activism, and the Grateful Dead; along the way I also became acquainted with some new friends: anxiety, panic, and depression. I graduated from college in 1985 with no plan and less money. I soon thereafter fell into teaching as a would-be profession, and some thirty years later still call the high school classroom my home.

During my childhood, my parents were present, and not. My father worked sixty hours a week. To me, he often seemed overwhelmed and angry. I avoided him. As the years went on his obsessive behavior and frustration colored all of our interactions. My mother struggled to feel relevant. She was forever seeking out ways to be seen: participating in town government, carrying out political crusades on behalf of her children, exploring new professions to fill her days. A woman who had suffered her own struggles during childhood, she found it hard to connect with me in a way that left me reassured, knowing that I was intrinsically valuable and lovable. They were good parents. They provided for us, spent time with us. But the blind spots were significant. And while it was perhaps a fairly typical childhood, it was also a childhood marked by individual and family trauma, suffused with disconnection and loneliness, and shaded by dysfunction and eventual addiction.

And so I grew into a young man driven by fears of abandonment and often crippled by insecurity. I adapted by becoming a people-pleaser and a chameleon. I had little to no capacity to endure even the tiniest bit of emotional discomfort. I lacked a sense of true attachment to a loving caregiver, to anyone really. And as a teenager and into my twenties, actual empathy for others was decidedly incomprehensible to me. Save for some true moments of grace, I was I believe on my way to living a life of unbounded narcissism and sociopathology.

By the time my late twenties rolled around, I was suffering terribly. I couldn’t navigate the tumultuous seas and searing pain and gut-wrenching feelings of homesickness that accompanied failed love affairs, and so I remained both doggedly single and self-serving promiscuous. I couldn’t manage the feelings of shame and embarrassment that I experienced when reprimanded for less-than-stellar performance at work, and thus my stints with employers were marked by attempts at perfectionism and by the musings of a sycophant. When neither worked, I quit. To be honest and in retrospect, I’m not sure I realized just how bad things were, as for me this suffering, this mess of this existence, was my normal. I had become habituated to psychic pain and single-mindedly dedicated to its avoidance.

And then, a moment of grace: In the fall of 1991, I fell apart. My then-girlfriend moved to Germany and we broke up via the U.S. Mail. The pain I felt seemed unbearable. It was all I could do to hold on and drive myself to a psychiatrist’s office in Dallas, Texas, my home at the time. Frankly, I thought that he would take one look at me and have me committed. He didn’t. After our hour together he informed me that I was an alcoholic and that I needed to go to Alcoholics Anonymous — ninety meetings in ninety days, he said. Even though I had quit drinking some years earlier, I offered no protest. I was willing to try anything. I didn’t want to die, but I couldn’t go on living like this much longer.

And so I started going to AA meetings, often two to three meetings a day. I read every self-help book I could get my hands on. I meditated, began practicing Buddhism. You name it, I dove in. I attacked recovery and self-help with an almost manic obsessiveness. The pursuit of well-being became my raison d’être. Jump ahead thirty years, and today I can assert that I have, actually and in fact, read every self-help book ever written. I am the Will Hunting of introspection (without the genius part, unfortunately). I have worked with therapists, life coaches, and faith healers. I have decades of sobriety on my life’s résumé. I have gone on vision quests, taught meditation to my students, and become the teacher in schools who exudes a sense of equanimity and compassion. I have built a depth of self-awareness and meta-cognitive practice that would surely be the envy of many-a spiritual practitioner and social worker. To the casual acquaintance and passer-by, I appear to be the model of mental health.

Here’s where the story takes a most important turn.

Two years ago I met Vee, my now fiancée. She’s really something, and I feel lucky to be with her today. It has been a truly lovely two years — and, it has also been two of the most painful years of my life. All of the recovery and accumulation of encyclopedic self-help knowledge has done little to mitigate the depth of suffering I have felt, I still at times feel, when it comes to my fears of abandonment, my insecurity, my cavernous feelings of unlovability. The feelings are familiar, of course. The memories of failed romances with Linda, with Hillary, with Heather, are visceral. I know these feelings. They are old friends. The desperation, the clinging, the fear of clinging, the jealousy, the self-loathing, the homesick pain that time and again bore a hole through my belly. On a thousand occasions, my brain has urged me, compelled me, begged me, like I have so many times before, to flee for my life. But this time has also been different. I so very much want love. I so very much want to be with Vee.

One night back in 2018 Vee and I were driving to see a concert, and on the way down to the show, she mentioned that she and her ex-boyfriend Chris were going to have breakfast the next day. Now, I know Chris. He’s a perfectly nice man. I like him. She and Chris remain good friends. No problem at all. But on this night, when Vee told me about their breakfast date, I fell apart. I didn’t rage — that’s not my modus operandi. I became withdrawn and quiet. The pain I felt was overwhelming. When I would look at Vee that evening I didn’t recognize her. I was completely disoriented. I was awash in feelings of homesickness, of gut-wrenching despair. My mind tried to think its way out of these deathly feelings, but it couldn’t. And here I was, fifty-six years old, deeply in love, and the impulse that felt most powerful at the moment was to go home, pack up and leave, to run for my life. I didn’t. Instead, I went back to my old standby. I went back to the books. And, well, it turns out I hadn’t read all of the self-help books out there.

This time I discovered investigations about such things as Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (CPTSD) and various iterations of attachment theory. This time I began reading and learning about my brain, my neurology. This time I began to learn about my amygdala and about my sympathetic nervous system.

This time was different.

Part II will be coming next week with what I discovered, what I know today, and how certain daily actions and practices have changed my life.

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this blog post, written by the guest blogger, 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 do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Dan

I’m almost 58 and live in the hills of Southern Vermont. I’m engaged to a woman worthy of sainthood, have two children from my first marriage and five step-daughter equivalents, teach history at a small private high school, and sing Grateful Dead songs in the shower. All in all, a pretty wonderful life.

Self-Loathing Comes from Adults that Mattered

When you were a child living in an abusive home, you saw first-hand how the words and actions of a parent or other caregiver cause you to feel. Perhaps you felt betrayed, belittled, unwanted, or even afraid. I would also venture to say that as you grew you said to yourself, “I’m never going to treat my kids like that!”

Unfortunately, as you became an adult you carried the lies and hateful words written into your brain by your caregivers and treat your inner child the same as they did. You belittle yourself out loud or silently in your mind for even minor failures. You say hateful things about yourself like, “I’m ugly,” “I’m messed up,” or “I’ll never (you fill in the blank.)

This cognitive self-hatred is especially prevalent during an emotional flashback where you relive the emotions attributed to negative comments made to you about yourself in childhood. Suddenly, you fall into a time warp back to the moment when someone whose words carry weight with you said to you said you are worthless, or worse, you are helpless.

Living a Life as a Forever Victim

 There can be no doubt that people who have grown into adulthood after a traumatic and harsh childhood have the right to grieve the childhood they never had and the fact that their caregivers didn’t care for them properly. However, there comes a point where it is time to move on, and if they can’t they remain stuck in a victim mentality.

Victim mentality is a thought process whereby an individual sees themselves as forever the target of trauma, abuse, tragedy, and victimhood. This mental mindset allows the survivor to so identify as a victim it affects everything in life; their relationships, self-esteem, and futures.

By not recognizing their resilience and strength, living in victimhood imprisons a survivor of childhood violence in the mire of some of the following thought patterns:

• I shouldn’t trust anyone they all will hurt me eventually.
• I deserved that.
• I have the right to feel this way!
• I live in regret for what happened to me when I was a kid.
• Nothing good ever happens to me.
• Why should I try? I’ll fail.

When an emotional flashback occurs, a survivor who identifies as a victim is vulnerable to negative self-defeating emotions such as anger, guilt, resentment, and self-loathing. Unfortunately, survivors often act out these negative feelings by taking them out on the ones they love or self-harm.

It is clear, survivors must leave victimhood and move to the survivor stage if they are to pull themselves from the quagmire of emotions leftover from childhood abuse.

The Role of the Outer Critic

We’ve already discussed the definition of the inner critic, now we’ll examine the outer critic and the damage to important relationships with ourselves and others.

According to Pete Walker, the outer critic,

 “projects onto others the same processes of perfectionism and endangerment that the inner critic uses against the self. It perseverates about the unworthiness [imperfection] and treacherousness [dangerousness] of others to avoid emotional investment in relationships for fear they will replicate early parental betrayals.”

If that description sounds familiar, then you are not alone. Adult survivors of childhood abuse and others who live with complex post-traumatic stress disorder experience daily the tragedy of a negative outer critic.

The outer critic makes inner walls that separate survivors from the perceived and exaggerated deceitfulness of others around them.

Unfortunately, survivors often subconsciously look for and find partners that match the caregivers who injured them, and this further reinforces the idea that all relationships are untrustworthy and painful. This reinforcement of negative ideas about others often translates into the outer critic’s attempt to protect the survivor from abandonment and harm. Often survivors will act by pushing and abandoning their partners before there is any chance of reconciliation or deep thought.

By abandoning relationships out of fear of pain, the survivor’s thoughts that people are untrustworthy only deepens, and the cycle begins again.

The Importance of Becoming Your Own Parent

 None of the techniques, therapists can use will heal the relationship problems you may experience due to childhood trauma. No words, no lists, and no homework can change anything unless you become your own parent. It is completely up to the survivor to take the bull by the nose and lead yourself to health. Yes, a therapist can be a type of seeing-eye dog giving you hints and suggestions, but it is ultimately up to the survivor to listen and look for ways to help themselves.

One might ask, then why see a therapist at all? Why don’t I just save the money and time then heal on my own? For some, that notion may be possible, but for many, we cannot do it on our own. The road is far too long and fraught with danger to go it alone without someone to help watch for real danger. Many survivors struggle to understand what is dangerous and what is not, second-guessing themselves at every turn. Without a seeing-eye dog, like a blind man or woman, you will stumble, fall, and become either seriously hurt or die.

But, the ultimate goal of any therapist is to see you grow and take on the task of being the parent you never had. This means gently chiding you into a better relationship with who you are and slowly helping you silence the critics in your mind by changing the language.

It is like changing tapes, the old ones for the new ones. The old tapes tell you that you are worthless need replaced with the new saying instead (and this is the truth) that you are enough just as you are.

Becoming your own parent means loving yourself despite and because of your flaws and imperfections. It also means walking away from hurtful people like any mother would carry away a child that is in danger. Becoming a parent to yourself is vital if you want a life that is not full of abandonment and fear.

The Process of Overcoming Victim Mentality and the Outer Critic; the Only Way Out is Through

Conquering the self-imposed prisons of the outer critic and victim mentality isn’t easy, but if one wants to have any chance of living a life with an intimate partner, doing so is a priority.

According to Pete Walker, identifying the critic’s endless collection of destructive messages must receive adequate attention and gradually deactivated.

It is during emotional flashbacks that our outer critic raises his/her ugly head and sees all around us as potential threats to our mind and body. We may even experience an intense need to be aggressive to overwhelm an imagined attacker. This connection between the past and the present is terrifying to anyone who is on the receiving end of these attacks confusing and overwhelming them. This negative reaction often causes intimate partners to escape to help themselves further perpetuating the notion that we are bad people and can trust no one or worse, that our life is forfeit.

Walker states that what occurs is that the outer and inner critics expand the realities of what happened in our childhoods and blows them up to include the present. The only way to escape the power of these limiting forces is to challenge them with positive affirmations that build us up instead of tearing us down.

Taming the Outer Critic and Controlling Emotional Flashbacks

Because survivors are constantly on the lookout for danger from others, we often fantasize about scenarios and how we would handle situations involving others. In fact, Walker says this about these fantasies:

“Over the years these fantasies can expand from scary still lives into film clips, and even movies, eventually morphing into a veritable video collection of real and imagined betrayals that destroy our capacity to be nurtured by human contact. “Don’t trust anyone”, “Proud to be a loner”, “You can only depend on yourself”, “Lovers always leave you”, “Kids will break your heart”, “Only fools let on what they really think”, “Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile”, are titles of video themes survivors may develop in their quest for interpersonal safety.”

I encourage you to visit Pete Walker’s website and read his pages on these topics. He has a list of fourteen ways to conquer the inner and outer critics plus the victim mentality. For the sake of length, I will only go over the ones that are the most urgent. I am going to list each of the “Endangerment Attacks” from Pete Walker’s website below and how Walker says you can overcome the messages the outer critic brings into your life and your relationships.

Harsh Judgements of Self & Others/Name Calling. As adults, we all have called another adult a name in the heat of the moment. However, when those moments turn into a chronic reaction to the past, it is time to send new messages on purpose to yourself.

• I will not let the bullies and critics of my early life win by joining and agreeing with them.
• I refuse to attack myself or abuse others.
• I will not displace the criticism and blame that rightfully belongs to them onto myself or current people in my life.

Catastrophic Thinking. Living at home as a child was dangerous to your mental and physical health. It is only natural that we might take those overwhelming feelings of helplessness and translate them into our current lives. More self-talk is required to change these thought patterns.

• I feel afraid but I am not in danger.
• I am not “in trouble” with my parents.
• I will not blow things out of proportion.
• I refuse to scare myself with thoughts and pictures of my life deteriorating.
• No more home-made horror movies and disaster flicks.

Having a Negative Focus. Many survivors fall victim to always thinking negative things about their lives. So, when something bad does occur, they feel even more endangered than they really are. Instead of paying so much attention to what is going wrong and the ugliness in the world, try looking around at what is good and beautiful around you.

• I renounce over-noticing & dwelling on what might be wrong with me or life around me.
• I will not minimize or discount my attributes.
• Right now, I notice, visualize and enumerate my accomplishments, talents, and qualities, as well as the many gifts Life offers me, e.g., friends, nature, music, film, food, beauty, color, pets, etc.

Time Urgency. Many survivors feel a restless urgency in their souls like time is running short. The feeling that they will never reach their dreams and need to hurry up and force their way through their world. These emotions are understandable as living in an abusive home can feel like if you don’t force things you will not survive.

However, as a hamster doesn’t live long because its metabolism is too fast, survivors push themselves so hard to reach the goals they forget to enjoy the journey. Pushing down the feeling that if you don’t hurry, you’ll die before reaching a goal that can make life a living hell.

Slow down, take time to breathe, and change those old messages that are driving you to an early grave.

•  I am not in danger.
• I do not need to rush.
• I will not hurry unless it is a true emergency.
• I am learning to enjoy doing my daily activities at a relaxed pace.
• Disabling Performance Anxiety
• I reduce procrastination by reminding myself that I will not accept unfair criticism or perfectionist expectations from anyone.
• Even when afraid, I will defend myself from unfair criticism.
• I won’t let fear make my decisions.

Focusing on the Idea You are Under Attack. Unfortunately, survivors live with the constant nagging feeling that danger is around every corner. They are hypervigilant, on the defense, and ready to run. The truth that they had taken from during their traumatic early years is that most of the time, they are safe. Yes, there are dangerous people out there, and we are all prone to injury in a car accident or other disaster. However, living in constant fear and readiness for danger is exhausting and counterproductive.

• Unless there are clear signs of danger, I will stop my thoughts and my projections of past bully/critics onto others.
• A majority of my fellow human beings are peaceful people.
• I have legal authorities to aid in my protection if threatened by the few who aren’t.
• I invoke thoughts and images of my friends’ love and support.

The Bottom Line

Living under the dominance of negative messages from either the inner or outer critics plus enduring the emotional flashbacks that force them to act badly limits us in our ability to live happy and productive lives. They also send messages to us that we aren’t worthy of love, understanding, and that we are constantly in danger.

Truthfully, the only way to overcome these forces from the past is to enter therapy and work towards becoming the parent to yourself you have always needed and deserved.

I encourage you to read Pete Walker’s work, get a trauma-informed therapist, and work on these issues. You have nothing to lose except the critical and negative opinions you have of yourself and everything to gain from inner peace.

Shirley Davis

My name is Shirley Davis and I am a freelance writer with over 40-years- experience writing short stories and poetry. Living as I do among the corn and bean fields of Illinois (USA), working from home using the Internet has become the best way to communicate with the world. My interests are wide and varied. I love any kind of science and read several research papers per week to satisfy my curiosity. I have earned an Associate Degree in Psychology and enjoy writing books on the subjects that most interest me.

www.learnaboutdid.com