Lightbulb moments

I’ve had a few lightbulb moments over the past couple of years; single thoughts and realisations that took my breath away. Sometimes they’ve been things I’d said out loud in some form or other but had never really accepted their truth. Sometimes they’ve been random thoughts and feelings pulled together suddenly into a coherent whole. 

I’ve given up all hope of ever being happy.

The first was when I decided to leave my marriage. After years of feeling miserable, isolated and inadequate, I had the single clear thought that I’d given up all hope of ever being happy. By making the daily choice to stay in a toxic, dysfunctional marriage, I was choosing a future where I could never be myself or believe that I could be content or happy. 

That thought was the first step towards my decision to leave. If it had just been that thought in isolation, I still might have stayed. I’ve been conditioned to believe my happiness is insignificant, so I probably would have accepted that and continued on. But that first clear thought was followed by the realisation that I was teaching my daughter that this was what she could expect from life too – that as long as her partner and children were happy, then her happiness was irrelevant. And I was teaching my sons that their happiness was the only relevant factor. I probably could have resigned myself to an unhappy life, but I couldn’t do it to them and their future partners. 

I am a victim.

After I left my marriage, I had several people direct me to support services for victims of domestic violence and abuse. Not church friends, of course, they all told me that I simply needed to pray more, read my Bible more, focus on being a better wife, and uphold the sanctity of my wedding vows. Friends from outside of the church, Centrelink staff, my new GP, a psychologist – they used the word victim. They said it with confidence. I shrank away from the reality of what that word meant for the longest time. 

Then one day, I had the clear thought “I am a victim”. The behaviour of others, outside my control, had negatively impacted my life and was continuing to negatively impact my life and cause me harm. I accepted that the word applied to me. It was strangely heartbreaking and liberating at the same time. It allowed me to stop blaming myself for so many things, but it created new pathways for blame and guilt and shame. It’s been a challenging thing to process. 

I have PTSD.

I’d been attending specialised trauma and PTSD counselling for months before this thought truly settled in my mind. I was walking through a shopping centre after a therapy session vaguely reflecting on what we’d discussed, particularly the mechanism of response attached to physical, emotional and mental triggers. Even though I’d used cPTSD (complex PTSD) to describe my reactions in discussions with others and even though it was something I had read about, discussed and thought about in relation to myself, I’d never really accepted that it belonged to me. I think I was somehow holding on to the belief that this was some passing phase of the recovery process with PTSD-ike reactions that I’d get over any day now. 

I have PTSD. I could have sat down in the middle of that shopping centre and wept when the thought appeared in my mind. I almost did. 

The actions of others, their choices and the priorities they’ve imposed on me – my ex, my parents, my church – have rewired my brain and created response pathways that continue to impact my life even though I’m created boundaries to protect myself from them. Other people have used emotional abuse to force me to be the person they wanted me to be, and it has caused me harm in a way that continues to echo through my life. 

Narcissitic abuse is intentional.

Last night, a random meme from a Facebook page for survivors of abuse that I follow popped up in my timeline. It appeared again this morning. It gave examples of behaviours as proof that narcissistic abusers know exactly what they’re doing, including the fact that they’re able to switch their abusive behaviours on and off depending on their audience, their abuse is victim and situation specific, and their tendency to gaslight the victim to convince them that the abuse never happened. 

I’ve acknowledged my ex was and is abusive. I can describe behaviours that have clearly been emotionally and mentally manipulative and harmful. I have pages of examples of harmful behaviour towards myself and the children since the separation, and could write dozens of more pages about things that happened during our marriage. I can now clearly see how abusive the relationship was in a way that I never could when I was with him.

But despite that, despite all that he’s done and all the ways he’s blamed me for the consequences of his decisions, all the times he’s denied things that the children and I have observed to be true, all the ways he’s chosen to inflict pain and attempt to control me, some small part of my brain resisted believing that it was intentional. He’s emotionally immature, self-absorbed, socially awkward, thoughtless – all these things could result in similar behaviours, couldn’t they?

Narcissistic abuse is intentional. He chose the time and place for his abuse and it was never in front of others (although they may have thought he was a little awkward or weird). He never accepted responsibility for anything, ever. In 22 years of marriage, he never apologised for anything. Not once. My feelings were ignored or, worse, I was told I was feeling the wrong things and should adjust my responses. He treated me with no respect – emotionally or physically – while attending men’s Bible studies and support groups that focused on respecting women and rejecting inappropriate sexualisation of women. I baked for those damn meetings, so that he could look like someone with a wonderful relationship. I facilitated the image he wanted others to have of him, while in the privacy of our home he undermined my image of myself until I believed I was completely inadequate. 

My ex-husband chose to treat me badly. He chose to behave in a way that damaged me in order to build up the image of himself he wanted others to believe (and that he already believed was true). He was abusive by choice. He gaslighted me constantly – it was always my fault, I always misunderstood, I was always being unreasonable. Forgotten birthdays? Never once reading anything I wrote including books I had published? Unwanted physical contact? Never using my name, ever, even though I said I hated the nickname he used for me constantly. The fact that those things and so many more upset me were my fault. Always. Now be a good girl and pull yourself together so we can go and play happy families at church and everyone can see how good our life is. 

That’s been the lightbulb moment of the past 24 hours and I still feel sick at the thought of it. How does someone do that to someone else? To someone they profess to love? How can someone put so much effort into creating a fake image for others only to erode the foundation of that image in the privacy of their home, on purpose not by accident. How did I ever think his abuse was unintentional? Why do I still buy in to his distorted view of who I was. And who I am. 

As awful as this latest lightbulb moment is, I’m hoping that like the previous realisations it indicates a step towards healing and away from the trauma of the past. But for the moment, it hurts and I feel betrayed and angry and weak and devastated that my story includes decades of prioritising the happiness of someone who not only never prioritised my happiness, but actively discouraged it.

The trouble with lightbulb moments is that they make you aware of just how dark things were before the light came on. 

Respite Care

I’m revisiting significant memories from my past. My therapist wants me to think about the messages I’ve been subconsciously given about myself through the things I’ve experienced. I’m hoping to gain some understanding of how I ever reached the point where I became invisible. This is part of my backstory.

I lived with my maternal grandmother while I completed my Year 12 Trial HSC and HSC exams.

My mother organised with my grandmother for me to stay with her for the week prior to each exam period and the 2 – 3 weeks of the exams.

My grandmother set up a desk for me in the middle of her sewing room. I remember the bright light and the view of the backyard. I remember the reassuring calmness. 

I remember mealtimes and snacks. My grandmother baked for me – rock cakes and biscuits and cakes and random treats. She made me corn relish dip which I ate with Jatz crackers while I studied. The creamy tangy taste of corn relish dip triggers memories of that study room even now, thirty years later. I remember dinner with my grandmother sitting at her kitchen bench. I remember her preparing the table for breakfast each night before she went to bed, placing a cloth over the plates and cutlery so that all we had to do the next morning was remove the cloth and prepare the food. 

I remember the mantle clock that sat on the end of the bench against the wall, with its dark wood and fake marble columns (two on one side, one on the other, with the key to wind the clock sitting in the empty space left by the missing column). The clock had been an engagement or wedding gift to my grandparents from my grandfather’s mother. While he was alive, my grandfather wound the clock regularly and it ran perfectly. After he died, my grandmother wound the clock and it never kept proper time. She said it was because her mother-in-law had never liked her. We eventually found out it was because the clock had always been close to the stove top and a layer of grease and grit had built up inside that affected the mechanism, but the vengeful mother-in-law creating havoc from beyond the grave was always my favourite explanation. 

I took breaks from my study each day. I spent time chatting with my grandmother over cups of tea. I went grocery shopping with her and sat with her watching TV. I helped her wash up and helped her bake. 

I played my grandmother’s piano, the one she’d had since she was a young girl that her arthritic hands didn’t allow her to play any more. I played some of my own music and a selection of my grandmother’s music; a mix of classical pieces, show tunes, and family favourites from the 50s and 60s.

I wandered to the other end of the block where a boy from my grade lived and we’d watch a movie or chat for a while until it was time for me to wander back home for dinner. I remember him ringing me the day before our English HSC to ask if I had copies of the poems we were meant to be studying because he couldn’t find his and figured he probably should read them at least once before the test. I remember us quizzing each other on chemical reactions and mathematical formulae on the bus on the way to school for exams. 

Those weeks with my grandmother remain strong in my memory – the chiming of the grandfather clock in the hallway, the bright light, the smell of freshly baked treats and the sunlight soap my grandmother used when she washed up. Conversations. The yellowed piano keys under my fingers and the rattle of the various ornaments on top of the piano when I played too enthusiastically. A sense of peace and belonging. 

And here are the things I didn’t say…

My mother organised for me to stay with my grandmother because the school had flagged me as a student requiring support. I was a high achiever whose marks were in dropping and my maths teacher informed the school when she noticed I was struggling during my mid-year exam. The school counsellor talked with me about my studies and my home life, and made arrangements for me to have a placement with a family so I could focus on my studies without the emotional distractions present at home. I’m not sure what conversations the school had with my mother, but the ones I had with her about it were not pleasant. I was informed that the arrangements was unnecessary and would not be pursued or discussed. I was distraught. Arrangements were made for me to stay with my grandmother as a compromise. I can’t remember what role my father played in any of this. Our relationship was barely functional at that point. I wonder how much my mother shared with him about what the school told her. 

I remember a conversation with the boy down the street one afternoon as I was getting organised to go back to my grandmother’s house. I don’t remember what comment he made, but I remember crying and lashing out to tell him how thoughtless he was. It was something about me going home to my parents and the thought made me panic. I’m not sure if I ever apologised. I hope I did. I enjoyed our conversations and he was part of the overall feeling of being in a safe space that I experienced during those weeks, although that was possibly just a reflection of how my grandmother made me feel, or perhaps that the feeling of safety she gave me made it possible for me to feel more relaxed with others too. 

I don’t think I ever thanked the teacher who flagged me as needing support either. She was one of my favourite teachers and I loved being part of her class. I wish I’d been able to admit to her at the time how much her help meant to me, although a combination of teenage self-self-absorption and the chaos at home meant I wasn’t really thinking clearly enough to show gratitude. I do wish someone had pointed out to me that I turned 18 during my Trial HSC. I assume I could have made decisions about my care independent of my mother’s choices so that the teacher’s intervention could have been more meaningful. Sadly that didn’t happen. 

I have my grandmother’s piano and her sheet music. They are triggers for wonderful memories of shared conversations and musical connections. They are possessions I treasure and when I play, I feel a sense of connection with her and all she meant to me.

I’ve realised recently that I’ve never really had a safe space. I have safe people. For the longest time, my grandmother was my only safe person. She was the bedrock of my life. Being near her made me feel connected and cared for. She treated me like I mattered, made me feel welcome and loved, and was a steady, calming presence. She’s been gone for 17 years and I still feel a dull ache of grief at times when I realise she isn’t there to talk to. I’ve missed her practical, calming presence acutely during the trauma of the past few years.

I don’t think I ever thanked my grandmother for what she gave me during those weeks, and throughout my life in general. I wish I could tell her now how much I love her and how my memories of her are amongst the best I have. Memories of moments shared with my grandmother throughout my childhood are warm, happy thoughts, and those weeks in particular remain a strong memory of love and connection and calm. Staying with my grandmother during those exams was like a respite from my life.