I recently had my trauma history thrown back in my face in the heat of an argument, by someone who is SUPPOSED to care. Someone who isn’t supposed to add to the pain and the suffering.
My mother.
I was reluctant to tell her ANYTHING about my past. I didn’t tell her when my initial assault occurred, or when I was being regularly raped and abused by #2. I kept the issues with #3 from her as well. For this very reason.
She doesn’t know the entire truth, only the bits and pieces I’ve told her over the past few years.
She knows about the PTSD. And in her small mind, all people with PTSD are fucked in the head. I need to point out that she is a nurse. A highly educated nurse. And she has these types of thoughts about people with mental illness.
She told me today that I wanted to be raped and abused. So I would have an excuse to live in a fantasy world as a victim.
That I need therapy because I’m one sick individual. I pointed out to her that I’ve been in therapy for 15 years already.
I’m done. This is the final straw. It hurts so much because she is my mom. She is the one person on this earth who I’m supposed to turn to for love and comfort.
I’m not sure this is forgivable.
Being in the same room is unbearable. So I hole up in my bedroom. If I do have to venture out, I listen to my iPod because I can’t stand the constant verbal abuse and vitriol.
I can do absolutely NOTHING right. If I mention an issue I am having with her, even in a respectful manner, I am verbally slammed against a wall and left bruised and battered.
It’s like I’m 17 again. Through my journals, that is where I can pinpoint the PTSD starting.
I’m having nightmares, I’m having panic attacks. I’m horribly depressed. I’m withdrawn. My appetite is nil.
I did make an appointment with my therapist for two weeks. I haven’t been in over a year because I haven’t had health insurance.
I have been exercising. So I can get out of this hellhole for at least a few hours a day, to get out the aggression, and to hopefully boost some neurochemicals.
I have been retreating into books again. I know its escapism, but if I didn’t have my nose in a book 24/7 right now, it would be much, much worse.
I’m supposed to live in this toxic soup until March, when my parent’s lease is up and when we will hopefully have enough money to move out.
My husband doesn’t have PTSD, and he had a panic attack the other day. Just the everyday, petty bullshit is wearing on us.
So just a word to the wise: if you are going to tell someone close to you, make sure they aren’t the type of person that will throw it back in your face.




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