Once, when I was very young, my grandmother removed a splinter from my finger with a sewing needle threaded with a strand of cotton. I asked why she needed to thread the needle and she replied that she would use the thread to pull the needle out if she lost it in my finger. It didn’t occur to me that she might be joking. I was in my teens before I reviewed this memory and had a WTF moment as I realised the absurdity of what she had said.
As children we absorb the words of those we trust unprocessed and unchallenged, and as adults we often don’t unpack those memories to evaluate the validity of what we have accepted as truth. With some memories, such as this one, it’s not a particular issue one way or another. It’s a nice memory of my grandmother and serves as an amusing anecdote but not much more. Other memories are not quite so easy to process.
A significant component of my C-PTSD (Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) therapy has involved working through old memories, reviewing the messages I’ve taken away from those moments, and evaluating the validity of those messages.
Reliving memories from my marriage and the first 18 months after I left it has been awful, triggering guilt, self-doubt, anger and panic. It’s been confronting and has left me feeling bruised and exhausted.
Dealing with memories of my childhood has been far, far worse. I feel like I’m unravelling.
As with the splinter anecdote, reviewing memories connected with my parents has involved rethinking the ‘reality’ those memories imprinted in my mind and it’s not as straightforward as simply realising I misunderstood the first time around.
As an example, when I was about seven (or probably a little younger) my mother asked me to choose between her and my father in a very tense situation. I chose because I was asked to. My mother has reminded me of that moment, and that choice, repeatedly throughout my life, always emphasising how hurtful my choice was. Those reminders reinforced the message that I am, and always have been, selfish and thoughtless.
I’ve never had a rose-coloured glasses view of my childhood but there were plenty of happy moments amidst the conflict and challenges. Creating a timeline of memories with my trauma therapist has revealed a pattern of judgement from my parents that has caught me by surprise and accepting the dysfunction of my relationship with my parents on several levels has been disorienting and upsetting.
I want to rail against my parents for the unfairness of the way they raised me – that I was expected to be perfect and judged for falling short of that goal, made responsible for things that were clearly beyond my control (including the behaviour of others) and reminded often that my choices were disappointing and my attitude selfish. While other family members caused drama and difficulties at every turn and were forgiven, it was made very clear to me that my failures were unacceptable and disconnection as punishment was far more frequent than I realised until I began to create the timeline. It’s been confronting, but it’s also helped me understand why my response to others choosing to disconnect is so strong and so painful (and why I always expect people to walk away).
With the help of my therapist, I am slowly allowing myself to process the events of my past in ways that don’t simply reinforce that I’m always to blame, always inadequate, always a disappointment. Seven-year-old me responding to a request to choose between my parents isn’t proof that I am thoughtless, insensitive and selfish. It’s an impossible situation for a child to navigate, and blaming me for my response and spending the rest of my life reminding me how hurtful that response was says more about my parents than it does about me.
I want to be angry. I want my parents to take responsibility for all the hurtful, diminishing, undermining, self-esteem destroying things they have done and said. I want them to understand that I tried my best, and beyond my best, to be what they expected me to be, even though it was never enough. I want to respond to accusations by both of my parents in recent years that I am selfish and think of no-one but myself with a list of all the ways that I am damaged and incapable of prioritising myself because they taught me, explicitly and implicitly, that my thoughts, feelings and opinions are insignificant. When asked to make a choice, even a simple one like what movie to watch or what takeaway to buy, I instinctively choose what I think will work best for others. Prioritising myself takes effort on my best days and is impossible and distressing in my lowest moments. I have my selfish, self-absorbed moments, of course, but to accuse me of caring only about myself is particularly hurtful coming from the people who taught me that my needs don’t matter at all.
I’m gradually realising that processing these memories isn’t breaking me, it’s helping me to discard thoughts and beliefs about myself that I should never have taken hold of in the first place. It’s unravelling the network of lies and unrealistic expectations that have kept the real me restrained and silenced, and stopped me believing in myself and *being* myself. It’s about removing the tangle of distorted perceptions and expectations imposed by others so that I can be myself, not the person they’ve told me I am.
It’s scary to do that. The dysfunction is familiar and my overwhelming self-doubt is safe in it’s own way. There is a weird sort of comfort in assuming that I’m always to blame, always wrong, always inadequate, always responsible but never good enough. Being myself is scary and overwhelming. It’s like I’m having to relearn how to think and feel and function, yet life goes on at the same pace and there is very little time available to adjust and recalibrate. As a result, I’m making lots of mistakes, frequently triggering the well established pathways in my brain that tell me I’m inadequate. It’s a constant battle to reject the influence and control of people who never liked who I really am (a thought expressed by both my mother and ex-husband)
Taking a step back and realising that I’d blindly accepted my grandmother had a Plan B if she lost her needle in my finger was amusing. Taking a step back and realising I’ve blindly allowed my parents and my ex-husband to define how I see myself – that I’ve accepted their disappointment as valid and reasonable – has left me feeling vulnerable and disoriented. It seems stupid to say that at 47 I’m having to relearn not just who I am but how to be that person when I interact with others, but that is where I’m at. It’s so hard to resist the behaviour patterns of a lifetime. The task of working out who I am and what I want seems impossibly huge, especially when I’m trying to integrate that with my existing relationships and responsibilities.
As always, I feel completely inadequate for the task ahead, but I’m holding on to the hope that there are better days ahead. Unravelling is just another necessary step in this journey.