Dealing with trauma triggers - part 1

Looking back on my life, my growing up to the person I am today feels like an entanglement of traumatic episodes, kept alive by attaching myself to similarly toxic persons as the one who started the primary narcissistic abuse. Those episodes, in addition, are not seldomly triggered by seemingly innocent events or confrontations, pushing me into the corner of defense and self-destructive talk, leading me time and again into a vicious cycle of hamster-wheel running. And I get tired of it, literally and figuratively speaking.

So, where to start in the attempt to get out of this trance, as Tara Brach calls these moments of being caught up in the emotional backlash, the limbic response to life?

For me, change subtly took off when I got divorced. Seemingly amiable in nature, this divorce was in fact mean and slick. It was a matter of conceding on my part, and loads of resistance on his. We had made a list of things we each liked to keep, equal in worth. It turned out, as I realised years later, that I had willingly given up a lot of stuff that was in my right to keep. He never mentioned that of course. He even got upset when I insisted on keeping the good steaming iron as my - weird - parents had given that to me as it is an easier and much lighter one than the old iron. There was a minor quarrel over books to keep; minor, because I soon gave in. I was reluctant to start bickering over that - books were stuff, not things I absolutely wanted to take with me. As far as I was concerned, I just wanted out, to be safe. And I wanted my child out too, for his safety. My ex was a very unpredictable force of darkness back then, and he was frightening me.bulging under frustration.

✸ I would talk myself right into my own pit of darkness, deep enough to be unable to see any flicker of light.

His darkness since then crept back under his skin, seeping through in carefully timed flashes, mingled in with neutral or even kind conversations, flipping the scales straight back into the turmoil of the marriage. Now that I am physically away, it feels easier to take those moments on, but only slightly so. At first, I fell into every single trap - he would say something he knew triggered me, and I was on it, head on, bulging under frustration, anger, self-resentment, blame and guilt. I would talk myself right into my own pit of darkness, deep enough to be unable to see any flicker of light. Two years after the divorce, things got so bad I realised I needed help. Right away. That decision saved my life.

This is the fourth year after fleeing the marriage, and I have been working on dealing with my childhood trauma which got enhanced by both the marriage and the toxic friends I mingled with. It is a strange thing, the way we look to attach to what we know to be normal. Not too long after my initial EMDR therapy sessions I recognised how I desperately try bonding to people who are similarly toxic as my mother and my ex are. It still is mind-blowingly baffling to me. I have put myself in emotionally destructive situations, just because they were familiar. As a result my responses were inevitably trauma triggered: I'd lose myself into blaming them, blaming me, shaming myself, resent myself and wanting to disappear because I was as useless as a pig's backside (as my mother used to snap at me; another favourite was that I was too stupid to dance for the devil). I'd shut down completely and attack the friends triggering me, posing myself as a miserable piece of shit that they maltreated consciously. no wonder I lost so many people back then. No wonder I started to think nobody loved me because see, they were always leaving me, sometimes after yet another trauma tantrum, or after they had used me for whatever healing they needed me and then lost interest. Both happened on a regular basis, I just kept blaming them and blaming me, and failed to see what was underneath it all. I call them the Fears and the Darkness. 

Peach, A story of Trigeminal Neuritis

It's been a while since my last update on the cats and their NHV supportive system. Yesterday I added this year's medical course in the family diary, just to keep track of things, and to have all information listed in one spot. This year already is proving to be very challenging, what with Tiger's Hyperthyroidism and Peach's Trigeminal Neuritis. There is treatment for the first; not so much for the latter. And this is where NHV, once again and thank goodness for that, steps in.

No lust for life

When Peach first showed signs of struggling, it was early March. He stopped eating, got very uptight, and lethargic, as if life lost all meaning. As a normally social and entertaining kitten - he had yet to turn 2 years old back then, but we keep referring to him as a kitten - he grew distant, grumpy and he started keeping to himself. He started keeping his mouth slightly open, without any significant reason. He lost weight too. I checked his gums and they showed a thin blood-red line right above his teeth, there also seemed to be a tiny ulcer in his throat. My hopes that maybe he had eaten something bad in the garden, faded quickly.

Within 5 days - with a weekend in between - I contacted the vet. X-rays were taken, blood was drawn, vitals were checked, gums and throat were closely looked at. She did not like the mouth staying open. At all. She feared a heart issue, and since he is so young, she ruled that out first. The blood test came back okay, luckily.

The X-rays she took then, showed no infection of teeth or jaw bone. His 

gums showed mild inflammation but not as bad as for him to stop eating. The ulcer in his throat posed no issue, either. "However, there could be inflammation of the jaw joint, and that does not show on the x-ray." So he was treated for that: Antibiotics and an anti-inflammatory/painkiller, for about a week. The gum issue would heal that way too. (Treatment from March 11 until March 20.) Not too long after we discovered that Peach had some urinary issues as well: There was grit found in his bladder. So he was put on Hill's k/d dry food to help ease that. I could always soak the kibble in water if he was unable to eat it. 

In the meantime I contacted NHV who have been very helpful in the past, with Spook, and stepped in with Patches' flakey skin as well as Tiger's Hyperthyroidism. We agreed to give Peach Tripsy to support his kidneys, and also Mouth Drops for gums and Turmeric to boost his immune system. Though he likes the Tripsy (he licks it straight from the dispenser), he detests the bitterness of the Turmeric and the sharpness of the Mouth Drops, so at that time, I took to giving him only the Tripsy as he started to hide from me at dinner times.

Steroids treatment combined with NHV supplements

After the antibiotics treatment, we had to wait and see how things went. It was easily noticed: Eating remained a big issue. He'd grow tired while eating, he refused anything that he could not lick up. As weeks went by, he'd sometimes skip meals all morning, but take to afternoon meals like a wolverine who's been on a hunger strike. Then, all of a sudden, the dry kibble proved to be easy manageable again - if only as fast snack times.

By the end of April, the vet and I talked about possible medical treatment and decided to put him on a short treatment of steroids. It might help with pain and discomfort. I got back to the people of NHV and we decided to add Turmeric and Yucca. 

The - short term - steroid treatment did not do a lot for his issues, but during that time, Peach seemed to return to his frolicking, cuddly self. He would again ask for scritches and hugs, he would play again with Spottedleaf, he would run in the garden and even snatch a blackbird chick from its nest.

In six weeks (April 28 until June 7) he was safely put off the meds, but we continued giving him the supplements. 

What now?

After I wrote the vet an update on both Tiger and Peach, he got back to me yesterday. We talked about the progress of the Trigeminal Neuritis and a scan to determine how bad the jaw is affected. The vet advised against it, stating it would not be helpful regarding treatment (as there is none for a cat this young, and we had just discovered the steroids are not that effective), and it would need Peach to be anesthetized, which he'd rather not to for something that would not be helpful. Plus he said, knowing my financial situation, it would also be quite expensive for something that would only confirm what we know and not be a guideline towards healing. He will struggle with eating for the rest of his life but at least it is unlikely the illness will progress to affect his entire face. 

So today we celebrate Peach and his tremendous courage, for strutting his way from a stray 5 week old kitten to a loving 2 year old companion who comforts you when you are sad and who treats you to melodious purring when you gently massage his face. 

Naive, but also "MY boobs. No touching without consent, regardless what colour you are"

I know I have been leading a so-called privileged white life, although I am being discriminated for other issues than the colour of my skin, and in far less violent ways - being in the margins of society but still receiving monthly disability checks, for instance. So I am not familiar with the blunt, arrogant, massively violent ways in which people of other ethnicities are attacked and humiliated, robbed of their humanity. 

The last week Twitter and Instagram, and likely Facebook too (but I don't have an account there), have exploded in messages and reports on the horrible deaths of people who should still be living their lives right now: A white supremacist belief has taken over common sense, killing Black people, fighting Black people, wrecking Black people, all because, yes, these people are Black. That is their crime, the colour of their skin.

I knew to some extent racism still rules profoundly in every country but I never knew. Now I am reading in on the topic, as I realised here, in Belgium, too there is a viciousness at work that needs to be stopped - politics playing racist cards and far right parties gaining voters every day. A young woman being offered a prestigious function at the liberal party is bashed because she has Iraqi roots - what the fuck? I mean, NO! People, this is 2020 - we are supposed to be the highest evolved species in human history, we are supposed to understand - and practice - the value of respect, acceptance, cooperation and complementing each other. We are supposed to be able to maximize our capacity to empathize and be kind ...

"That, I know, is a very naive take on the world, but it is a view I love to hold on to, a view I keep passing on to my son"

 

Am I naive? Yes. I think so. I am naive in thinking everyone should be mature enough to see each other's worth, beyond the colour of skin. We are all people with hearts that beat in the same rhythm of life, souls yearning for kindness, and a capability of limitless loving. We are capable of helping and sustaining each other, of supporting and cheering on one another. Religion and origins should never be the reason not to. 
That, I know, is a very naive take on the world, but it is a view I love to hold on to, a view I keep passing on to my son and whoever his friends are.

Where is the racist in me?

I am following Layla F. Saad on Instagram and I have to admit, I both admire and fear the fierceness of this lady. Unaware yet of her personal story, but knowing she had more than her share of white shit, I can only imagine her own anger and fear. I am to read her novel as soon as my funds allow. 
But yes, I fear her fierceness, because her words invoke some sort of accountability, as if I am part of the problem. So I tried looking at me - ways in which I allow racism to exist. 

After I went to a public elementary school, where I shared my classroom with poor white, olive, brown and black kids, I moved to a moody, capricious neighbourhood, known for its delinquency and rare serious crimes, where a big part of the city's Turkish community lived. It was not safe for a woman, let alone a girl, walk out there alone after dark - and even daytime was tricky, as I found out. Many times I was addressed by Turkish men in unmistakable sexist ways, varying from "lovely knees" to pricking my chest to check if my boobs were real - this happened while on the tram and with people surrounding me but no one intervened. As I was being abused by my narcissistic mother ever since I was a little girl, I had no idea of what to do, so I just did a turtle escape - I huddled in myself and pretended it did not happen.

One time, a black man came up to me, asking me if I could translate a letter for him since he only spoke English, and Flemish was too hard for him. He seemed in real distress so I did go with him, eager to help him. It was a bit weird, I have to admit, as he led me to this strange door in an even stranger building - it was a part of my neighbourhood I usually skipped. I cannot remember what the letter was about: I only recall the frenzy of my mother when she found out. I was called stupid and idiot and naive and all things ugly for trusting a black man, who had a sincere question for help.

Later I would have many encounters with Moroccan, Algerian, Turkish and Black young men; I learned a lot, but at that time, there was still so much I did not understand. The way they saw themselves as outcasts, for instance. The communities they were homed in, the outskirts of town, like ghettos.

I know now my attraction was a rebellious act against my parents, my mother in particular, who still is embarrassingly racist and would often comment viciously on Muslim women and the physically and/or mentally disabled. My mother is of Indonesian descent herself, her parents were both Dutch-Indonesian and fled Indonesia after my grandfather was released from a Japanese work camp. They went to Holland where they built a family they abused and destroyed, struggling to fit in and coping miserably with the consequences of WWII.

Standing up for yourself is not racism

Just now, at dinner, I had an interesting talk with my ten-year-old son, about how to be a good person, accepting each other's differences in skin, upbringing and gender. I told him how proud I am of him for not relying on colour of skin to decide who would be his friend. And when I explained to him that sexist discrimination still existing here, in a country that so proudly shows its gender friendliness, he was adamant in stating he would never be such a man who thinks less of a woman.

All this is me looking into myself in order to find the racist in me. I think it is fair to say there have been times I was scared of the Turkish and Moroccan young men, grouping together and mustering every girl that passed them. Even me. I always thought myself an ugly girl - something my mother encouraged, by making me wear ugly glasses and forcing baggy clothes in dull tones on me, remember, she is a narcissistic-manipulative person and she raised me to never feel good about myself - but somehow the boys of Turkish and Moroccan descent seemed to think I was worth calling to, though I often felt like cattle being scrutinized. It always left me confused and wondering if I was racist for wanting them to stop calling to me. It seemed that any form of criticism to someone with non-white roots was bombarded as racist.

The "lovely knees" sticks with me to this day, and I remember myself smiling dryly and saying in a rather mocking tone "thank you", leaving the boy rather speechless. I would never call them names or curse them, I just tried my sarcasm, as it helped me dealing with my mother and brother too.

 

Later, at University, there were considerable few students who were not white. I had different encounters there, white boys grouping the way the non-white boys in the area where I lived, ill-tempered and bad-mannered, and scrutinizing girls in equally foul ways. They spread a high sense of fear, and a waft of beer and marijuana that made me sick. 

But would I call myself racist?

No.

Would I now stand up for myself if one grabbed my boobs as this man did when I was 17?

Hell yeah.

Would THAT be racist?

No, why? I am setting a boundary there, it is MY body, MY boobs. No touching without consent, regardless what colour you are.

"because when at one time I expressed my sadness and, yes, frustration about this, my son said, 'I believe she [the Romanian mother] really likes to talk to you but she may feel kind of embarrassed, perhaps she's afraid of making mistakes'"

Since then, I have had many nice encounters with women of another ethnicity than me. I never actually think "Oh, let's have a talk with my neighbour of Brazilian descent" or "I am going to try talk to this Romanian mother now". I do not see them that way - they are women who are also mothers and who I happen to meet in the street or at the school or whatever. I want to talk to them to connect, to share some joy and kindness. Trouble is, these women feel very secluded and lonely, being immigrants - that in itself is creating an invisible boundary which will take courage and kindness to cross. Most of these women do not speak Flemish very well, and English is troubling too, so communication is limited. I am encouraged to keep trying though, because when at one time I expressed my sadness and, yes, frustration about this, my son said, "I believe she [the Romanian mother] really likes to talk to you but she may feel kind of embarrassed, perhaps she's afraid of making mistakes". That hit home profoundly, coming from him - even though the thought had crossed my mind earlier. 

So, recalling Layla F. Saad's fierceness, yes, I think there may be a fear in me, from what I experienced in the past, but no fear of ethnicity. No fear of different colour of skin. I do not consider myself a racist. If I am anything, then I am curious and willing to learn. I will read Saad's Me and White Supremacy and I will read the works of Ibram X. Kendi; if only because here in Belgium we are very ill-informed on these issues in the USA. This is not about me being "lovingly kind to other cultures", this is me wanting to know, to learn and to practice in real life. The best way I can. And this is through getting the knowledge and passing it on to my son, and those who are willing to listen. 

But I will still take a wide berth though when seeing my path blocked by a group of young men, whatever colour their skin is.  

Potiron - a work in progress, of a were-pumpkin that is about to blow the Garden to pieces (new episodes will be added weekly, hopefully)

Dear reader, you are about to immerse yourself in a world of cunning cats, cursed pumpkins, dirty politics, and ancient rivalries. It is a nasty sort of fairytale, for grown-ups. Proceed only if you think you can handle this. 

Chapter 0 -- The zero hour

Basil braced himself, as the glowing eyes came closer. From the corner of his eye he noticed some movement of the rats. Behind him he could hear shuffling sounds coming from the shrubbery. He hoped Mad Louie and Mahoganey had run off, yet he doubted that. Mahoganey wasn’t easily scared, much less by a couple of FurBalls. Great Cat Above, he wished these three were just that: FurBalls. They had the overall appearance of cold blooded assassins. The kind Madame Raisin recruited for this kind of ... situation.
    Bring it on, he thought as he drove his claws firmly in the dirt. He curled his lips in a menacing snarl. I am ready.

Chapter 1 -- In which is told how it all began

Savoy was sitting on the wall of rugged rocks and looked down on the Garden. His orange eyes were fixed on the big, shiny and absolute huge pumpkin. The tip of his tail waved back and forth in a hypnotising rhythm, while he tried to ignore the mouse that had emerged from under the woodpile. It was still early but the sun was warm. Behind Savoy the dew still glistened in tiny beads on the grass. There was an itch between his shoulders, that sent uneasy tingles down his skin, making his white-and-orange fur stir violently. That pumpkin was simply too big for its own good. How in Great Cat’s Name did it get this … this enormous? Savoy squinted his eyes. The other three pumpkins were a lot smaller. Savoy knew the big one was called Potiron. And that he was notoriously feared. Even though everyone knew plants had no voice or conscience of their own, Savoy could feel the pressure of dark energy that surrounded the pumpkin. He was way too different from the other three. Bigger. Shinier. Eerier. He could not quite put his paw on it, but Savoy sensed the danger. He couldn’t help but remember, three Summers ago, Timmy the tomato. Timmy had been living proof that ‘something’ was able to take over the soulless state of a plant and thus terrorise the whole Garden. Savoy did not need to look at the wilted beanstalks to learn the effect of the monstrous pumpkin on the Garden. Apparently, the beans had passed rather quickly. Maybe thankfully so. Earlier, the Man had sowed carrots and when they had grown their first four fuzzy leaves, they died a horrible death. Not to mention the forget-me-nots and the tagetes the Woman secretly had planted in between the zucchinis and the peas. One zucchini had been stomped to mush overnight. Again, Savoy thought of Timmy.

The ongoing struggle of healing

It was naive of me to think I finally had reached that part of my journey when I could lay my head and rest for a while. No, it's nothing dramatic going on, just a minor setback in my mind. It's something I need to get out, as part of the ongoing healing. But I am tired and a migraine now has taken over the normal fibromyalgia pain, and thinking is taking a tremendous effort. 

I'm not sure what caused this mental setback. It could have started when we got back from the pet store to buy supplies for the cats and birthday presents for Little Spottedleaf - she turns 1 on June 19. We both were very tired on the drive home; my boy suffering from a massive hay fever episode, and me from just using up too many spoons in too short a time. Back home I received a phone call that the water butt which I had ordered early March, had finally arrived. By then, the migraine was happily settling and I had difficulty concentrating and thinking, besides the total lack of energy, so no way I was going to crawl behind the wheel again. I asked my ex, since he lives close to the store keeping the water butt. When he arrived at my door, he was joyfully telling me about the virtual drink he would be attending when he got home. Normally he and his colleagues do this every Thursday in real life, but you know, corona. Instead of wishing him a happy time, I answered in a resentful tone, That's the joy of being able to work, right, get-togethers with co-workers; something that people forget about being chronically ill, I don't have that - and I added, silently to myself, I feel so very isolated. And useless, as a person, as a member of society. And then I felt guilty too, because I could not mute the resentment and be more friendly towards my ex, who, after all, had been so kind to get me that water butt.

It also could have started yesterday, on seeing a post of a magnificent artist I follow on Instagram. She only recently started experimenting with watercolour, and I was in awe of those wonderful pieces she created. I felt a pang of sadness, realising I would never be as good as she is. I am too amateuristic, too clumsy and trial&error still - and while I was thinking that, I knew I was being too hard on myself. Later that evening, I did Tara Brach's newly added meditation, Light RAIN in difficult times, and I cried the entire 9.5 minutes - because my difficult time was, yet again, me feeling inadequate and insufficient, falling short on so many aspects of being and accomplishing that I was drowning in quicksand again. 

And I was doing so well, I thought in-between my sadness and the nurturing part of the RAIN technique. I was doing so well, feeling light and capable, and managing boundaries and feeling proud of me. Yet, here I was, huddling in Peach's blanket, sniffling at the hot tears on my trembling hands, trying with an air of desperation to comfort the little girl inside me, mumbling that, YES, she was good enough and that I knew she tried the best she could - but the words felt hollow and I almost saw them fall around me, like fallen leaves in Autumn. 

It also might have started already last week, secretly, on realising that once again I would not be able to handle this month's finances. The ever-present frustration about my financial situation has been a heavy mental and emotional burden ever since I lost my job, so many years ago, but in the beginning it was buffered by my now ex's paycheck and the burden definitely less heavy than it is now. The divorce three years ago put me in much more delicate position, as I left with debts and even though my disability benefits have increased, my tax assessment did too, almost five times as much as I used to pay - or almost 1.5 month's worth of my benefits. Since I was not aware of that, I have been like driftwood on the sea of bills, debts and taxes ever since. If it weren't for the kindness and huge generosity of many people on Instagram, and one lovely woman in particular, I would have been with Social Services ages ago, and they would have managed all my money affairs and taken away my independency and perhaps also my cats and maybe the care of my child. For at that particular time, I even wasn't able to buy bread. I cannot express how deep the shame runs in me, of not being able to take care of my wallet, my bank account - to an outsider it may well seem money is leaking through my fingers, or to put it in my ex father-in-law: That I am a bottomless hole. Yes, I like to buy art supplies, and I did pay for some apps that give me pleasure. I do like to buy bird food if I can, to sustain the wild birds in my garden. And I do buy (expensive, for me) supplements to support my cats' health, as I know they work; and I do the same for myself since medication in itself is not enough - I have spent countless euros on supplements that I hoped would help, most of which did not but now I finally seem to have found the good ones.

But I have lived two years without buying anything for myself - no books, clothes, shoes. I mean, I really AM NOT leaking money through my fingers. Only this year I was able to buy some books for myself, and new bedding, thanks to the generous birthday gifts I received from two of my dearest friends. And thanks to some donations I got from my artwork I finally could buy birthday presents of my own for several other friends. I haven't been able to do so in ... like forever.

I know healing is a journey. I know it takes time, especially because of the severity and intensity of the trauma I endured as a child and long after in adulthood. I know. 

I know the stigma my mother engraved in my bones won't fully disappear. But I hate to hear her voice in my head once more - you are not worthy; you are unfit to deal with reality; you are unlovable; we never expected you to become a mother; you fail as a mother; you are too dumb to even dance before the devil; you have accomplished nothing worthwhile in your entire life; the books you wrote are stupid fairytales, nothing to be proud of; you should stop drawing those idiot sketches, stupid faeries, you live in a fantasy world; you are too sensitive, and weak; yes, I think you are pretty but I have to, because I am your mother. 

I try so hard not to listen. 

But I fear I fail at that too.

One day I will allow myself to believe there ARE people who love me

It was only last year, when I finally mustered up the courage to look for a new therapist, that I was able to really tackle the idea of my mother not only being narcissistic but also not having loved me, at all. That was a tough truth to take in, but in the end it was the step I needed to take to even begin my healing.

I have been posting a lot on Instagram about the start of this journey. Recently, I came across some really personal struggles and truths which stopped me from posting more. I still am not convinced I should continue posting, but I feel I can write about it in my blog. Few people read this still so chances are slim that I offend or hurt people. The last thing I want is trigger other people's traumatic pasts.

For the record, I went no contact with my family, now 2.5 years ago. In that regard it is fairly easy for me to deal with the echoes of the past, since they are physically a long distance away from me. Yet, reading "Will I ever be enough?" by Dr. Karyl McBride, I need to add that the mental separation is far from established. With my new therapist, I was working on that, through EMDR, but then covid-19 happened, and my therapy sessions were cancelled. The one video consult that we did, never had the power a real session has, and my therapist refuses to try on EMDR that way. It means that I am a bit left to my own devices, trying to keep my head above the dark deep of anxiety, where the mother monsters lurk. 

Lately, triggers reviving the trauma have been everywhere, popping up like daisies, buttercups, and clovers in an early Summer meadow. Instead of the careful responses which I had been practising while in therapy, I now find myself trauma responding: with fear, with blaming myself, with guilt, with shame, and a lot of self-destructive thoughts ("I'm not good enough", "I am not living up to expectations", "I am unlovable"). I often feel as if walking on quicksand, desperately trying to keep up life's pace - even in these corona times - and pretend I got everything under control, if only for the sake of my son. Trauma responding also means I am very purposefully shutting down, out of fear I am being a burden, keeping away from social media as much as possible, because I think no one wants me there anyway, and only staying in touch with a chosen few I have learned to trust. This, in short, is not good. 

One very striking passage in Dr. Karyl McBride's healing guide Will I ever be good enough? is:

Most damaging is that a narcissistic mother never approves of her daughter simply for being herself, which the daughter desperately needs in order to grow into a confident woman. A daughter who doesn’t receive validation from her earliest relationship with her mother learns that she has no significance in the world and her efforts have no effect. She tries her hardest to make a genuine connection with Mom, but fails, and thinks that the problem of rarely being able to please her mother lies within herself. This teaches the daughter that she is unworthy of love. The daughter’s notion of mother-daughter love is warped; she feels she must “earn” a close connection by seeing to Mom’s needs and constantly doing what it takes to please her. Clearly, this isn’t the same as feeling loved. Daughters of narcissistic mothers sense that their picture of love is distorted, but they don’t know what the real picture would look like. This early, learned equation of love—pleasing another with no return for herself—has far-reaching, negative effects on a daughter’s future romantic relationships

Because in these words I recognised my entire life, up to when I shut her out, and more, I recognised the same destructive pattern - the validation seeking, the forcing a connection, the desire to be part of someone's life - in all of my earlier friendships. Earlier as in 'before I came to realise the long-lasting impact of my mother's narcissism on every aspect of my life'. Needless to say I only could save a few of those friends, thanks to their understanding and patience, and - dare I say it? - love for me. Therapy now is helping me stripping all emotion off single traumatic events, and I complement that therapy with my own research on narcissistic mothers - such as the book by Dr. McBride, and also Mothers who can't love, by Dr. Susan Forward - and I listen to Tara Brach's podcasts on healing in presence, to investigate what is really alive in my heart. Both the reading and the podcasts are confronting me with unwanted flashbacks from the past, situations I really do not want to relive - and some come back to me in my dreams - but I apparently need to accept, to sit with, to finally release them as part of what has been, in order to move on. 

This afternoon I noted in my diary that the mere idea of someone missing me actually is completely idiotic. And this is what I need to un-learn. I need to finally accept there ARE people missing me, or sad that I am no longer in their lives. There ARE people happy to get a text message from me. And I am able - I AM ABLE - to make other people happy. And there actually are people who love me, for me. Which means that I am lovable, regardless of what she stated for all my life.

But it will be a long journey ere I will allow myself to truly believe that. From what I now know, this journey to healing will take many years, with quite the amount of setbacks and an unexpected amount of intensely joyous moments. Yet, when I reach that point, that milestone in my healing, I believe I will finally see myself for who I am. The one that was supposed to be destroyed but survived against the odds. 

 

When the kid discovers social media

It's the funniest thing, listening to the kid as he is chatting with his - currently best, I guess - mate while playing some online game. Their chatter is so innocent and honestly open, devoid of underlying frustrations - they just put their feels out in the open.

It started with a classmate asking for his e-mail during an online meet with his class Monday last week. It took some doing but eventually his teacher sent him a list with addresses and phonenumbers of his classmates - since he enrolled in this school only in November, he is still fairly new and hadn't made a lot of friends prior to the corona lockdown. In his former school, he was bullied as well as physically atacked by his presumed friends and left to his own devices by his teachers who blamed him for the bullying, so his faith in both classmates and teachers is very low. 

So when this girl asked him for his e-mail, you can imagine his surprise. I could see him starting to glow, his whole demeanor has changed ever since. She asked for various ways to keep in touch with each other, so I helped him install iMessage on his iPad, as well as Facetime and this online game/chat app. It suddenly hit him how lonely he actually was. 

Every day now they reach out to each other, sending silly texts and playing online. I am so pleased to see him grow like this. Just as he needs me for guidance and agreements on social media time, he needs his own mates to mature and gain self-confidence, to practice social skills and team work. 

I am relieved that he dares to say no to things he doesn't want to do, that he is bold enough to suggest ideas of his own, and that they both look for alternatives and ways to compromise when they disagree on something. And he now realises he truly missed connection. Thank goodness for social media.