It's Complex: Year One

Mount Everest

"Neglect leaves wounds unseen, but in the silence of our own care, we find the strength to heal. It is in the nurturing of our own soul that we mend the broken pieces, becoming whole again, not by forgetting the past, but by learning to love ourselves through it."

- Unknown

This week marks my one-year anniversary of starting the healing journey from Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. When I reflect back on the last 365 days, I am in awe at the amount of change that has taken place in my mind, body, and soul. This healing journey was not started by choice but by necessity. I had everything I needed on paper but could not hide from the gut-wrenching emptiness that lingered in my heart. It felt like a dark cancer that was metastasizing throughout every aspect of my life with no treatment or cure. I knew that the journey that laid ahead was going to be difficult, but I was not aware that it was going to be the most difficult goal I had ever set for myself.

This journey was one that should have been started twelve years sooner, but it was not until the age of 23 that I was able to muster the courage and strength it took to face the parts of my life I have been ashamed to admit were reality. I glorified the moments that were seemingly good and sugarcoated the moments that left marks on my being. I did not want to admit that my childhood was one of neglect and trauma despite what it looked like on the outside. I was reluctant to admit that many people failed me, but the most painful betrayal came from my own mother.

She suffered from Borderline Personality Disorder and used alcohol as her way of coping. After my parents’ divorce at the age of twelve, she retained primary custody. My siblings and I had to learn to adapt to her unpredictable moods, idealization and devaluation, overstepping of boundaries, emotional dependence, fear of abandonment, and immaturity. As long as you were on her side, she would place us on pedestals, bribe us for love, and spoil us like the Hallmark movies; however, the moment you went against the grain, she took away all affection, comfort, financial support, physical items such as cars or doors, and motherly responsibilities in replacement of spite, pettiness, rage, manipulation, and neglect.

I had no idea how distorted my view of love had become until I reached college and found relationships the most difficult concept to grasp. At the time, I had no words to express a Fearful-Avoidant or Disorganized Attachment to my friends because I could not understand it myself. Even when things seemed to be going great with a guy, I would sabotage it as soon as it became too serious. I had grown so used to being alone that the idea of having to invest time and energy into someone else seemed exhausting, especially when the main model I have of love is tainted by Borderline Personality Disorder.

I felt as though I could not experience another heartbreak without completely falling apart. The idea of giving another person the power to emotionally hurt me again built a fort around my heart. Even with this great wall, pain still seeped in through the cracks. The few people I allowed to remain close inevitably failed to meet the impossible standard of never hurting me. I was not taught how to communicate my feelings, set boundaries, trust in others, or even how to process and release my emotions; thus, there was a disconnection within myself that I was blind to, and it was causing much of the turmoil in my life.

There was one solution I thought to be too “woo-woo” for my liking: connecting to the body. If I heard someone tell me to meditate one more time, I felt like I was going to ram my head through a wall. I would sit in my room and attempt to focus on my breathing while listening to a guided meditation. After many tries, I was not making any progress in breaking through the defense I had built and decided to try alternate, but similar, methods.

Instead of looking within myself, I decided to look to God for guidance. I was raised as an Irish Catholic, but never established my connection with God at mass or CCD. It was during my most tragic times that God seemed to wink at me the most. Unless you have had those moments yourself, it is difficult to understand the impact they can have. For example, shortly after my uncle and grandmother passed away, I found untouched rosary beads in the middle of my backyard while mowing the lawn. I still have them hanging in my room fourteen years later and see them as my direct connection to a mother I never had. In college, I recall praying to my grandmother and grandfather for guidance on how to deal with my mother’s ongoing struggles; within an hour, I accidentally found both of their funeral cards in completely separate, and random, locations.

My sister spoke of a time recently where she was crying outside under the starry night sky while thinking about my mother’s health battles and the impact it has had on her; she was suddenly overcome with a warm presence behind her that seemed to wrap its arms around her in a comforting embrace. It felt real enough that she was too scared to turn around and look at what was behind her, but she noticed that her tears were suddenly gone, and she felt joyous once again. There was another night as children that my brother spoke of having a dream of our granduncle, my grandmother’s brother who often babysat us, standing across the street while smiling and waving. My brother called out to him, but he entered into the light of the streetlamp, slowly fading away. In the morning, my mom broke the news that he had passed away the night before, the exact moment my brother was having his dream.

I began speaking to God as if he were in the room with me. Even if I could not say the words aloud, I knew he could listen to my heart. I expressed my anger, sadness, joy, humor, regrets, and frustration with him. For the first time in my life, the suffering I was enduring felt cruel on God’s behalf. I could not understand why he would not answer my prayer and end the ride my mother was taking us on with her. I needed it to end, one way or the other. That was what I asked for, and that it was I received. After two hospitalizations, we confirmed her diagnosis of Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome. It is similar to dementia but brought on by long-term alcohol abuse. She was placed into an Assisted Living Facility where she will most likely remain for the entirety of her retirement years. God did not allow her to die, but he did not allow the person I once knew to remain.

Her diagnosis meant two things: they could now keep her stable and she was never going to be the same. There was a weight lifted off my shoulders knowing that I would no longer have to live with anxiety about receiving that dreaded phone call of her passing, but any hope of a better future was taken away forever. I had to learn how to accept that the vision I held onto for my entire life was never going to come to fruition. Alcoholism is an insidious disease that victimizes not only the drinker but those surrounding them as well.

The most difficult part of the entire process has been accepting how hurt I actually am from all of it. I naively thought that I beat the trauma by pretending it never happened or “got to me”. I thought that because I was no longer crying that I had processed the emotions, but the reality was that I had been living in a dissociative state for so long that it had become normal. Having my ears ring on a daily basis, back pain, Misophonia, anxiety, disordered eating, disorganized attachment, depression, rumination, night terrors, and flinching at the slightest touch were all symptoms I had ignored for years. I did not realize that it was my body’s way of communicating that something was terribly wrong.

When I started therapy, I was shocked to learn that the therapist does not always offer solutions to your problems. In the beginning, I would go on long rants giving the plot of the story without digging into the dirty details such as how it made me feel. My defenses made it that even attempting to speak about my emotions was physically impossible; it is as though I have to focus all my strength into my throat to muster the words necessary to be understood without completely falling apart. Even a year into attending sessions, it often takes my therapist asking leading questions for me to find my emotions; it is as though my body hides them from my consciousness even though I am actively searching within myself.

One of my favorite qualities about myself as a teenager was my ability to enjoy my own company. I wanted to take back the power I was giving to other people and infuse it into myself. I would go to a park bench on the water for hours to watch the sunset and ponder my life, literally. I would take in the sights and sounds while letting my mind wonder wherever it wanted. Some evenings, it focused on the nostalgic memories that I longed for once more. I could see the moment in my third eye, but I could feel the heaviness in my chest. I allowed myself to hold it like a hug before releasing it to the gentle wind coming off the waves of the water. Some evenings, it focused on the appreciation I had for being there in that moment. I watched as a family played in the water that I once considered dirty as a teenager but could appreciate how beautiful of a memory they were creating for themselves. I listened to a man on the phone next to me give advice to a friend who seemed to be in a dark place; the story he shared about himself resonated with me in a way that I was almost meant to hear it.

I would ask questions to myself from the heart and listen deeply for the answer. I listened with curiosity and compassion to whatever the response may be. My inner-teenager often had sharp, quick comments that I recognized as such. I would follow-up with a simple, yet effective, questions: but why? Reflecting back on those moments, it reminds me of almost out-toddlering my inner-teenager when a toddler learns what the word “why” means and wants to question every decision their parent makes. My inner-teenager’s responses were unknowingly very helpful for understanding the delay in her healing.

I grew to love being alone. The mind grew quieter the more I just listened, my anxiety no longer felt overwhelming, I now cry over a simple sunset, and I proudly say the words aloud that do not want to be spoken. I do not look at my childhood with shame but with empathy. The thought of my thirteen-year-old inner-teenager seeing where I am at 24 brings tears to my eyes at knowing she would be proud because I am proud. It is a lie that time heals all wounds, but it is true that hard work pays off. There are still many aspects of myself that still require attention, but the brain fog has finally cleared. I lean on those around me along with the tools I have discovered through this process. I am only one year in, but I cannot wait to meet the person five, ten, fifteen, twenty years from now who has continued on this path.