ABUSE BY OMISSION

It’s difficult to apply the word “abuse” to my childhood.

Until today, I’d never heard the phrase abuse by omission. But now I’ve heard it, I feel like I’ve come home.

It feels disrespectful to my parents, who truly did the best they knew how. There was no physical abuse – in fact my pacifist parents rarely smacked their children and when they did, it was well within the bounds of “normal”. We weren’t sexually abused. Well – I can’t speak for my siblings – but I know without a doubt, I was not. And we weren’t verbally abused. Our home wasn’t full of yelling, screaming or conflict (until things shattered apart). On the contrary, conflict was so abhorrent to my mother, she avoided it at all costs. We were a middle class family with ample access to food, clothing, health care and education.

On the face of it, an idyllic childhood. Except it wasn’t.

Emotionally we were neglected. Not intentionally or maliciously. My mother’s inability to cope with her own feelings created an expectation of emotional suppression, where we learnt our own feelings were invalid and everyone else comes first. My father was far more comfortable with emotions, but was for the most part, largely absent due to work commitments. And when he was there, like many men I know, his needs came first. He’d do anything for anyone if asked – but his capacity to recognise what was needed was lacking or limited. 

Both my parents were highly sensitive – prone to anxiety and depression. Both had high expectations – my father expected a lot from himself, and my mother expected a lot from everyone else. It isn’t surprising that together they raised three hypersensitive children with no healthy coping mechanisms to deal with the overwhelming emotions highly sensitive people are predisposed to. This isn’t to say our parents didn’t love or care for us – of course they did. But outward expression of love was entirely absent.

There was no hugging, no I love you, no warmth.

It wasn’t until I was married with my own three little babies, that I came to realise how much my parents loved us, and how much my mother’s dysfunctional behaviour came from a place of love. Her incessant criticism of anything and everything was an attempt to mold her children into adults capable of navigating the harsh world she’d grown up in. This backfired badly.

My siblings have their own stories to tell, but for me the manifestation of abuse by omission resulted in my inability to recognise or regulate emotions. To compensate, I sought external validation by becoming what other people wanted me to be – confident, capable, responsible, sensible, caring, kind, resilient, mature. Which is great on the surface, but it really was only surface deep. My real emotions were numbed into oblivion and I had no idea how to be myself.

I feel very uncomfortable with the word codependent. It’s a label I find repugnant and insulting. Yet it’s important for me to accept that many of the symptoms of codependency are apparent in my behaviour. 

Low self-esteem, people-pleasing, poor boundaries, reactivity, caretaking, control, dysfunctional communication, obsessions, dependency, denial, problems with intimacy, painful emotions.

Actually – that’s 12/12. And while the perfectionist in me loves a perfect score, it’s not a test I particularly wanted to ace.

My long history of anxiety, depression and eating disorder behaviours are well documented throughout this blog. Sinking to the depths of self-harm and suicidal ideation came much later on. But it was only when I cracked open and fell apart I began to heal. Until then, decades of emotional suppression poisoned me from the inside out. It was a wound that needed lancing and the process has been very painful.

For a long time, I felt there was something deeply wrong with me. That I had no right to be in so much emotional pain as I hadn’t grown up with huge trauma. There was no big event to look back on and say, See? That’s why you’re broken! All I could see when I looked back was a miserable child who couldn’t understand the misery and had no reason to be so ungrateful.

I’ve long since forgiven my parents for their faulty parenting – they too were products of their own upbringing and like all (well… most) parents throughout history, they loved their kids and did the best they knew how. My job now is to continue the recovery process I began three years ago, and to find that emotionally neglected little girl, take her by the hand, and teach her she’s lovable.

I need to do for myself, what I’ve tried to do for everyone else – accept.

IT’S TIME

It seems this recovery gig is far more complex than anticipated.

If you’d told me three years ago that my poor, long suffering psychologist would still be listening to my woes at the end of 2018, I would have said, No way! (Possibly in much stronger language.) But here we are, 42 months later, and I still grace her couch on a regular basis. And not just for the lols.

Or possibly I’m a very difficult client that for reasons I can’t fathom, has steadfastly failed to implement the strategies on offer. Again and again and again.

When first I sat upon that lovely soft couch, I presented a few problems, strategies were discussed, then I went away and practiced. I’m very obedient. Next time I visited, we delved a little deeper and it seemed my problems were perhaps bigger than anticipated. New strategies to try. Ditto for the next visit – problems even bigger and more deep-rooted than first thought. It took perhaps half a dozen appointments to get right down into the nitty gritty of my shitty stuff, and as it turned out, those first few strategies couldn’t hack the pace. Tougher stuff was needed.

In the meantime, life continued, more shitty things came my way, and I still didn’t have healthy coping mechanisms. A year after I started psychological therapy, I sunk to the proverbial rock bottom and trotted off to a psychiatric inpatient stay.

It was a very wise move at the time.

Since then, I’ve steadily gathered an enormous array of psychological coping strategies for depression and anxiety, self harm and suicidal ideation, and my various eating disorder presentations. Having tools and strategies is great, but it’s not nearly enough. In order to implement them, the desire for recovery has to exceed the pain of recovery. And if you’ve never had to struggle through psychological recovery, let me assure you, it’s a very painful process. 

For me personally, the desire to recover directly correlates with my desire to live (which isn’t the same as being suicidal – or not). To live – as opposed to exist – requires a sense of purpose and the ability to picture a future. Not in a prescient way – just in a hopes and dreams kind of way. This has been a big – BIG – stumbling block. The pain and fear associated with recovery has always seemed greater than the pain and fear of staying where I am.

I’m ready to turn things around now.

Not that I’ve suddenly come up with a huge list of hopes and desires and dreams, but last week I did some very difficult writing for the memoir I’m penning, and it turned out to be quite cathartic and healing. It’s writing that needs more polishing, but I got the gist of it down and it helped. A lot.

I also know that while lots of people cheer me on and offer help in any way they can (friends, family, professionals, randoms), I’m the only person that can do this. I’m the only person who is ultimately accountable. Nobody can make me recover, but I can choose to finish what I started.

I’ve drawn up a list of daily commitments, as well as goals for November, then popped the lists into my phone so I can tick things off every day and feel successful. There’s something very satisfying about ticking off to-do lists. It’s not a magic cure, but then again, there’s no such thing. It’s not a new psychological coping tool or strategy – but I’ve learned just about every available strategy. The daily commitments are a means of making myself accountable – to me.

Daily Commitment

Today was day one. It was moderately successful. I attempted everything on the list, but couldn’t keep dinner down (still having problems with my empty lapband), and I haven’t done anywhere near 10K steps (lots of excuses – won’t bore you with them). Everything else has been ticked off, which is very satisfying.

I have a feeling in my waters – as very old people like to say – that I’m in the process of turning a corner. I hope not to look back on this post and wonder what I was thinking. I hope instead, to look back on this post and see I finally pulled all the bits and pieces together. After a mere 42 months.

THE GIRL I USED TO BE

There was once a little girl, with golden red curls, a fierce independence, and a fire in her belly. No dream impossible, no fate improbable, no problem insurmountable. Life stretched out with infinite opportunities, days and nights secure in the knowledge anything can happen and she could shoot for the stars.

Precociously articulate in an adult world, thoughts churned in her head, until a bubbling confidence arose to share with the people she looked up to, in every sense of the word

Acutely sensitive to sights, sounds and smells, and intuitively empathic in a world too young for her to understand, this little girl learned to hide emotions. She adeptly intuited feelings were of no consequence and not to be discussed. So, she hid them away and proffered instead a girl filled with confidence and knowing. Never rattled. Never unsure. A girl who could lead and be relied on. A girl nobody suspected would crumble into a million pieces, never to be whole again.

Emotions don’t disappear.

Sadness with no outlet gnaws a pit in your soul, and gradually leaches into every aspect of your being. Anxiety second guesses your every decision and erodes any sense of self or confidence that once burned brightly. And together, they quench that fire in the belly and steal the hopes and dreams of a life with infinite possibilities.

I’ve had an eating disorder all my 52 years – in one form or another. I’m working through recovery, with two inpatient stays, and intensive support from a team of incredible health professionals. While I still have a way to go, I’m much further along than I was. Each time I relapse then crawl back out, I ask, Why? What the fuck was I thinking?! And then it occurred to me, I keep looking for the girl with the golden red curls and the fire in her belly. The girl who quite literally, ate every emotion that touched her sensitive spirit, and refused to acknowledge life was anything but a gift she had no right to frown upon. There was no room for sadness.

We’re all a messy concoction of nature and nurture, and whether our problems are based in one or the other is a moot point – the problem remains. In hindsight, I see a golden-haired girl with a propensity for depression and constant high levels of anxiety. A little girl seeking perfection almost as badly as she yearned for acceptance and unconditional love. Yet I was 49 years old before I associated either of those words with myself. Depression and anxiety were nasty sounding things other people experienced. Not me. I was an optimist, always looking on the bright side. Exuding high energy and infectious joy whenever possible– because everyone prefers happy people. I was calm and controlled under pressure. I knew how to deal with life and stress.

Until I didn’t.

Decades of maladaptive coping mechanisms crashed down around my ears, and the words severe depression and chronic anxiety were bandied about – in relation to me. I was in the depths of self-induced starvation, self-harming, highly suicidal, too depressed to function, and suffering the physical misery of high anxiety – pounding heart, shaking hands, internal catastrophising, panic attacks. I’d become one of “those people”.

Now I have these labels and I’m learning tools to manage the symptoms, but I keep searching for the girl with the fire in her belly. The fiercely independent girl where no dream’s impossible, no fate improbable, no problem insurmountable. A life of infinite possibilities. I make progress in my recovery and keeping wondering when she’ll reappear – full of hopes and dreams. Desperate to live a life of purpose – to leave a lasting legacy.

But she’s gone. And she isn’t coming back. She can’t. Her strength was a façade. A false belief that other people’s perceptions were more important than reality. A desperate desire to please by expending energies on other people and never taking a moment to look inwards and see the festering mass of unacknowledged fear. Seeking that girl is holding me back. There’s a new me coming – one with an acceptance of the sadness that and settles on her shoulders for days on end, and recognition of the anxiety that appears when a situation hasn’t been fully accepted, acknowledged or explored. The new me doesn’t use food to anaesthetise, procrastinate or distract. The new me doesn’t use self-harm to still the panic brewing over every little person, place and situation. The new me must stop considering suicide is an option.

I don’t know what the new girl looks like. Or how she dreams and reacts to life. I’m just discovering her – helping her find a voice and teaching her to be brave enough to use it. Reimagining the lost hopes and dreams of youth, fine-tuning them with the wisdom that comes with age and experience.

The girl I used to be is gone, and she isn’t coming back.

But a new girl is emerging, with shadows of the old, but fortified by newfound knowledge and a refusal to submit to the lure of the dark side. I’m going to miss that little girl – she was so full of spirit and hope. But she was also a lie. The new girl is saggier, wrinklier, and some days, a whole lot more miserable. But she’s honest and has the power to acknowledge and accept the realities of the inevitable stresses that this thing we call life deals out.

VIRTUAL INSANITY

After spending three years working on mental health improvement, it really is very galling to accept a slip back into insanity

Yet apparently acknowledging the problem is the first step to fixing it. Faced with stressors that are stressful, yet neither unusual nor extreme, I somehow lost my mind completely. Not literally… But behaviourally I was pretty bad for a few days. I spent three delicious nights alone in a hotel room while my husband was having some heart surgery interstate. I say delicious, because being all alone in a hotel room, having the freedom to do as I please, eat and sleep as I please, read, write, watch telly, shower, as I please, is indescribably joyous. But coupled with low level anxiety about my husband’s surgery, was higher level anxiety about my father’s surgery that was – ironically – scheduled at the exact same time and day, in a different state. I couldn’t possibly be there for both of them.

Results wise, my husband’s surgery was pretty good.

He’s home and well and outcomes look very good. He has an incredibly impressive bruise in a rather sensitive area, so I promise not to spoil anyone’s dinner by posting photos of the black and blue monstrosity. My dad’s surgery began, but didn’t finish as there’s ongoing infection that can’t be controlled. The neurosurgeon has contacted the Centre for Disease Control to see if they can come up with magic solutions. In the meantime, he’s starting to look like a pin cushion. He’s now had his sixth cannula inserted after the other five broke, fell out, leaked, and god only knows what else. My dad is a most wonderful man. And a big worry.

My management of the associated anxiety of having two loved ones under the knife simultaneously was pretty insane. I bought razor blades. Planned binges and purges. And booked myself in for a tattoo. I contacted a close friend who ordered me to throw away the razor blades and find something healthy to eat. I threw away the blade, found healthy foods, purged them, found unhealthy foods, purged them, drank too much alcohol, and rushed the design and application of my new tattoo. A tattoo I can ill afford, but I’m pretty sure there’s a no-returns policy.

I finally feel like I’m starting to settle again, but that level of insanity is not easy to slip back out of. It’s like trying to slow the momentum of a speeding train – it can be done, but it won’t happen quickly.  And this time I have a tattoo as a permanent reminder of unresolved anxiety, fear and impulsivity. I quite like it, but if I’d taken the time to think about it more, I would have done it completely differently. Alas – despite Cher’s best efforts, we can’t turn back time.

So my ankle is now adorned with an infinity symbol and the names of my three very sciencey-mathy boys.

As a sign of good faith in my psychologist, I sent her a copy of my private journal, outlining all the down and dirty details of my fall from grace. I’m sure at my appointment this week, we will have lots of things to chat about.

As I learned during my first psychiatric inpatient treatment two and a half years ago, there is a distinct difference between expectation and reality when it comes to mental health recovery. A lovely illustration depicts expectation as an arrow going in a smooth upward trajectory, while reality is a big scribbly mess going every which way – but ultimately ending in a higher point than it began. I’m in the scribbly mess at the moment.

And now everyone can see my permanent reminder of yet another slip into virtual insanity.

HYPERVIGILANCE

Somehow it legitimises behaviours we don’t understand, and can even offer hope of a “cure”.

Hypervigilance – it’s been around forever, of that I have no doubt.

But it’s not a word I ever heard mentioned in all my many years of formal education. For a more thorough definition, have a look here, but whether or not it’s something you personally have experience with, doesn’t negate the fact there are a lot of people out there standing on guard, waiting for the next blow to fall. I’m one of those persons. It’s a bit unfun. For me personally, it’s not related to PTSD – I haven’t been subjected to military combat or sexual assault, and for that I’m very grateful. But for one reason or another my nature and nurture cooked up a little concoction that makes me hypervigilant – all the time. What does that mean? It means I’m always on guard.

• Sudden noises make me leap like a started gazelle, providing great amusement to all and sundry.
• Relaxation is a word I read in a dictionary. I’m in a permanent state of tension, waking in the night with clenched fists and gritted teeth.
• My five senses are highly attuned: I hear every nuance, see intricate details, declare most bed sheets “scratchy”, smell the subtlest wafts, and taste delicate essences.
• Crowded rooms are distressing, unable to separate conversations from background noise.
• Emotions are painted across your demeanour, with unsaid words and emotions you hide.
• I’m sensitive to your real mood – not your happy facade.
• I read a lot into conversations, and research in great detail about seemingly innocuous comments.
• I worry endlessly about people I’ve never met.
• I pre-plan every possible outcome – just in case.
• My heart rate doubles when the phone rings, letters arrive, or there’s a knock on the door. Or if I just think those things are going to happen.
• I fantasise disasters in great detail when I’m alone: in the car, in bed, walking.
• If I can’t see loved ones face to face, I picture them dead.
• In stressful situations the air is too thick to breathe.
• Hypervigilance robs me of a future, while I’m so fearful in the present.
• Trust is hard-earned and easily lost. Experience taught me everyone will leave, judge me, hate me, never speak to me again. I’m waiting for the hammer to fall.
• And all this hyper-awareness is exhausting. I know how ridiculous I’m being, but it doesn’t help. Feelings are feelings and can’t be magicked away.
• Numbing behaviours are unhealthy and unsustainable, but my god, they work. Until the guilt sets in.

I’m not alone in this permanent state of heightened awareness – the fact it has a label suggests other people have it too.

But if you’re fortunate enough to respond in a healthy manner to life and the normal stresses around us, spare a little bit of thought for those of us who can’t just switch off and “put things in perspective”. We’re not stupid – we realise our reactions are extreme and unhelpful. But ignoring an emotion is ineffective, numbing it through alcohol, self-harm, or 14 packets of tim-tams feels good in the moment and worse in the long run. Finding perspective is not easy and is a key reason I’m developing a wonderful, long term relationship with my psychologist. There are tools and strategies – I read that somewhere. In the meantime, if you sneak up behind me you’ll amuse yourself greatly by scaring the living bejeezers out of me. It’s funny – I get it. But when I finally find my heart rate sitting at a nice comfortable level, it’s a bit of a pity for it to start turning somersaults again.

Hypervigilance – for me – is related to anxiety. It isn’t the sole symptom, but they feed off each other. I’m sure there are great benefits to this heightened state of awareness. But with today’s stresses, I’m struggling to look at the positives. Tomorrow I’m going to get a new little tattoo – another means of intense focus that temporarily blots out the outer world. Instead I’ll be wrapped up in a little world of productive pain.

DOWN, DOWN, DOWN… THEN UP WE GO

I fell in a hole. Then I crawled back out.

It’s 35 days since I touched down on terra firma. Jet lag’s done and dusted, the big adventure receding into once upon a time status, and I’m settled back into normality – taking for granted the luxuries of my pillow, my car, and our pristine drinking water. Yet for most of those 35 days, my mental health has been really shit.

I tried pretending otherwise – attributing moodiness, exhaustion, and erratic behaviour to post-holiday come down. Then things deteriorated and I had to acknowledge I’d relapsed. All the tools I’ve learned in three years – and frequently share with others for their struggles – flew out the window. I felt my feet straddling an invisible line – one side pulling me into recovery, and the other dragging me into dark places, despair and ultimately – death.

The lure of the dark side is nauseatingly appealing.

I have a desire and willingness to invest in the mammoth task of recovery, while simultaneously desperate to return to the rock at the bottom of the hole. That rock bottom so often talked about, but desperately misunderstood.

A week ago I was hanging by a tenuous thread. Self-harm rearing it’s ugly, seductive head. My eating schedule ancient history. Breakfast and lunch fell off the menu when unsupervised, before eating us out of house and home when my husband came home. Purging returned. Anything to numb the disgust festering in my belly, next to the endless bowls of muesli and nuts.

Unsurprisingly, my weight escalated. Erratic eating equals erratic weight – usually in an undesired direction. The more it escalated, the worse I felt. Consumed with shame, self-loathing, fear, and overwhelming hopelessness. How did I get here – again? Will it ever end? What the fuck is wrong with me?!

Last weekend I mentally tallied all my medication.

My single tenuous hold on life when I feel that overwhelmed, is dad. My 85 year old father is the most powerful reason I cling to life. Having lost two children already, I can’t bear the thought of him burying another. Then another day passes, my head feels clearer, and my golden rule, never make a permanent decision based on temporary emotions proves very wise.

Now I’ve fished out my big girl socks and crawled out of the hole. My friend confiscated my tools of self-harm. I have locally sourced vegetables delivered every week. I’m cooking with the beautiful produce. I’ve even started occasional housework. But above and beyond, I’ve written and recorded my vision.

I’ve been listening to Bob Proctor’s Paradigm Shift. While the seminar’s primarily focused on financial wealth, changing mindset paradigms is just as applicable to warring voices in my head. It was suggested we write a Power Life Script. Horrid title…. I’ve called mine a vision. I recorded it and popped it in my playlist. The vision shows me a future I’d love to live in and I confess it’s made a big impact on my state of mind.

To finish on a happy note, here’s my vision.

I’m at peace. My spirit’s strong, with the fortitude to face all that life spills onto my path. The warring voices in my head are silenced, while the voice of courage and wisdom nestled by my heart fills me with hope. I have deep-seated contentment resting within me, cushioned in the knowledge I have all that I need – loving connections, material comfort, and purposeful contribution.

I know acceptance of mind and body. My body is home to all that I am, have been, and all that’s to come. I’m grateful it can withstand the onslaught of illness or abuse, and thankful for the three fat babies it nurtured and fed. I’m grateful for a body that takes me into nature – near and far, high and low – to experience the joy of the natural world. I accept all I am and have ever been – the magical opportunities afforded in music and teaching, and the gift of writing now quenching my intellectual and creative thirst. I’m grateful for the blessings of good health, curious intellect, and empathic awareness.

My newfound peace and acceptance came through spiritual awareness. A willingness to be open and receptive to faith, hope, prayer, and God. I reap the rewards of stronger connections, belief in myself, and a deep sense of purpose in being.

My relationships with family and friends are anchors that steady me through stormy seas. My husband and I have a deep and abiding love, founded in friendship, respect and open communication. Our boys fulfill their dreams, with loving partners by their sides, ready to bring children into the world when the time is right. Grandchildren I adore, snuggled to my breast with nostalgia for the profound love and peace I felt as a new mother. My closest friends remain pillars of strength and love. A circle of six graciously sharing their lives with me – love, loss, laughter and levity. The sisters I choose to have by my side.

My routine is familiar – eating regularly, going to the gym, and maintaining my home. I luxuriate in a full nights sleep and make time for self-care. I’m always writing – in my blog, latest book, articles. I contribute financially through freelance writing, editing, and supporting my friend’s business. I’m immensely proud of my memoir and the lives it touched, and I’m reaping the rewards of the app my son and I developed.

Our house is vibrant with fresh paint and new floors. Every room complete and purposeful, furnished with memories from the last five decades. I blissfully soak in our new bath, loll in the sunshine on my daybeds, and nourish body and soul with fresh delights prepared in our brand new kitchen.

My life is filled with people, places, purpose and peace. I travel and write. Spend time with those I adore. And balance work, rest and play, rewarding me with a life well lived and loved. I’m thankful for all I am and all I have. Finally – I am enough.