This blog has become a journal of what I’m doing in the house, obviously. And although I don’t talk about it much, it’s also a way to give myself credit for the triumphs and disasters — the connections between my house/home and the lack of safety and abuse which gave me PTSD.
I’m pretty sure it’s a bore to read sometimes. I read blogs occasionally. The really good ones are funny and make a point — this one not so much. The good ones almost always have illustrations of the writers’s life. Again, not so much here.
The daily reminder that I’ve gotten something done is a huge help. The house still looks like a hoarder lives here (she does). The house still looks like I never get rid of anything or put anything away (not so). Reminding myself that what I’ve done and am doing is hard and I don’t need to hide and cringe in shame is a huge help.
So, I apologize for the boring bits and thank those of you who read this, regularly or occasionally. The idea that there’s a group of people cheering me on and the positive vibe that brings was first shown me in a now-defunct website, where Calypte and I met, more than 15 years ago. And although I know it’s not the same group of people, what I learned was that believing I had a supportive community made a huge difference. It is as close to a real family as I’ve ever had (except my husband). People were involved with what I did, cared, and didn’t walk away or get busy when I was in a funk. If person A was busy or in a bad place, well, person B or C could and likely would step in.
Years ago, I travelled many miles to go to a convention in the town where my brother lives. I got delayed for a day. A friend in Virginia put me up that night. She and her husband live in a house on part of her family’s old farm land, as do both of her brothers, their kids, her mom, and two people, hand picked who they allowed to buy lots and put up houses. It’s an enclave, without walls, sort of. No, it’s just one family adjusting to the reality of the 20th and 21st centuries. Anyway, my friend said, “Aren’t you going to call? They must be worried sick!” I looked at her and said, “Becky, my guess is that they’ve forgotten I’m coming, and until I call, I’m completely off their radar.” She shook her head and told me I had to be wrong — but I knew I was not.
If my family had been involved with my day to day life beyond getting me to appointments, I wouldn’t have gotten PTSD I think. It would have countered one of the most damaging pieces of the abuse — that I was an embarrassment and only marginally tolerated by my family. But my abuser did what abusers do, she tailored her abuse to what existed. I have a laissez-faire birth family. At this point, I know why and can trace its origins. But as a kid I saw it as “proof” that I was vile, because that was how it was explained to me.
Anyway, the online community countered that. In its own way, it was a major miracle. The nearly daily blogging here is a continuation of that faith: that I’m not vile, people will listen and care about what I’m doing — even if it’s not presented with funny bits or pictures, most of the time.
So, again, I apologize for the slogging, boring bits, but I am grateful for every single one of you!