I remember being about 4 or 5 and deciding that I had to hide emotionally. I remember the day, where I was, etc. That’s fine.
That decision, that I wouldn’t let myself “go crazy” and I’d hide, somehow, has served me very well. But the 4 year old’s perceptions have also cost me a lot. The “going crazy” that I was so worried about, the losing control, wasn’t going crazy, but depression.
It kept me from clinical depression or maybe worse, yes. But being afraid I really was crazy as my abuser said kept me from talking about it — for decades.
I’ve just dealt with something similar, this week.While at the writing workshop I wrote a poem (so called) about wanting to jump off a bridge and that I wouldn’t. I rarely let people read that stuff, and it doesn’t matter anyway. If I can find it, I’ll post it.
But through one thing and the other it occurred to me that I just don’t talk about this stuff, the suicide thoughts or violent act thoughts, because. Because? Well, it’s because that little kid decided it was “crazy” and I couldn’t let people know.
For the past few days I have been talking about this for a few different reasons. One, I’m tired of being scared I’m “crazy.” If this is crazy, it is, and I’ll deal with it, or not. but I’m sick of running away from it. Two, I’m really, really tired of fighting myself and being scared of what’s inside me.
I came up with a way to describe this, the pain and the “world” today. It’s sort of like a musical chord: top note… what the world sees… the middle (and was MUCH bigger for most of my life) was the pain… and the bottom is the suicide, etc. stuff.
The suicide thoughts are fleeting: they pop into my head and then out. Happens throughout the day, every day — and has as long as I can remember. So I finally talked to my therapist about this and she said, “Why would it be crazy? You’re presenting yourself with options. Trauma survivors almost all do suicide ideation. Suicide is the absence of pain; trauma hurts.”
So, again, in my weird, mixed-up way, this IS normal. It isn’t an indication that I’m crazier than I “appear” to be, it’s still part of the abuse/PTSD I already know about. Maybe, just maybe I can stop being terrified of myself for the last decade or so of my life. Wouldn’t that be lovely?
I apologize to anyone who tried to read this before. WordPress is having some problems, I guess. I didn’t write this as one paragraph. Fixed it. Saved it. Opened it up, it was fine. Decided to add this apology. Opened up the post again, and again it was a single paragraph. So. if you’re reading this and it’s one long-winded narrative without paragraphing, now you know it wasn’t created that way — THREE times!