I’ve been working on a way to start at the beginning of my disassociative PTSD journey. I like to write about things I experienced then with a fresh, matured, less scared mind. Though it still feels like I have not grown when I try to put the experience of learning about a dark past my mind kept from me well past maybe I believe it should have.
It started on an early September day. I had been seeing a therapist for around a year and a half. I had grown in sessions just talking about daily aggravations and regular stuff like being annoyed with my husband or doubting my abilities as a new parent (not new new, as Grace was almost 2).
I had had a very confusing Labor Day weekend. Got a little drunk, and did not believe anyone sitting with me was “real”. Awkward to say the least trying to wrap my head around not believing my family or the moment was real. I was stuck with this. Had to ask my therapist why. Made no sense. They were really there, because I did eventually “snap out of my daze” and said, oh WOW, this is really happening.
Wednesday was my appointment, so into it I went with a thousand questions, yet hesitant to ask, as I felt crazy. I push through that thought all too often and now, the “crazier” I assume I am, more so I don’t hesitate one bit now. After going over some questions, like alcoholism in the family, what did I drink, ect. There was no doubt finally that what I experienced there was a trauma trigger reaction called disassociation.
Well, what did she mean?
When a child is repeatedly traumatized, their brain has a trigger reaction. It takes the child to a different place, a subconscious place. Like wishing away. In my case I said this is not real so now as an adult, if it hurts or scares too much, I don’t believe it is happening. It’s a reaction I have had much of my life now, and having Grace triggered my brain to remember and relate to things that were happening at present time.
Confused at the realization, I wrapped my arms around myself in a hug and said, well, I do know I become very claustrophobic when I am upset. No one can touch me or get close to me except for my husband. Why do you think that is, she inquired. And with a deep breath I let out, my childhood.
To really help me understand, she reminded me of how I had mentioned I was locked in my room for very long periods of time by myself at a very young age. She said, because I at the time assumed that normal, she knew not to tell me that it was in fact abuse.
I cried for hours after I left that session.
Still can’t believe that my brain kept these very real experiences from me but my healing is still In process and I grow stronger than I ever was every day.
#ptsd #Disassociativeptsd #childhoodabuse #learningyouwereabused #traumareaction
Jersey meets Massachusetts Momma 