My relationship with food
Of all the relationships in my life, my one with food is probably one of the most dysfunctional. It started from when I was a baby, when I was defined as a “fussy eater”. This warped over time into odd eating behaviours… when my mother used to get us ready for school, I remember we would have breakfast and a prepared lunch; but that only happened for the first couple of years of my schooling, and I was soon going to school without breakfast or lunch. I don’t remember ever feeling hungry during these times, but I do remember the embarrassment when it was raining and we had to eat our lunch in the classroom… I always pretended that I’d forgotten my lunch. It wasn’t that we were poor, and couldn’t afford food; I just didn’t know how to make lunch, and I wasn’t really interested. The couple of times that I did make my lunch, I recall looking at it as an oddity, and as if it was some sort of foreign thing that had arrived out of the blue. I never felt jealous of my friends who had lunches, only boredom as I waited for them to finish eating.
During my childhood, there were a couple of significant events involving food and my weight that strongly effected me:
- My father commented that “at least she’s not fat like her mother and sister”.
- My mother would compare myself and her friends daughters regarding our weight. One time she pushed in my loose t-shirt, to show that I didn’t have a “fat stomach”.
These events dehumanised me, and made me think that if I was overweight, then no one would want to touch me. That weight would act like a protective barrier against the world. This thinking became strong during my teens, and I gained weight… I no longer wanted people to touch me. But what I didn’t expect, was the teasing and self-hatred that my weight caused. This is what started the roller-coaster that my weight became – I would lose weight, and feel vulnerable to abuse; so gain weight, and feel disgusting and gross.
When I attended university, my weight issues came to a head. I couldn’t afford food, and there were stressors which meant that some of my other self-injurious behaviours became out of control. My weight dropped drastically. It was the first time that the doctors started weighing me as a way of monitoring what was going on. As I’d never owned any scales, this was the first time I’d been weighed since I was in school. I remember being horrified at my weight… it was much too high. I’ve never had an ideal weight in my mind, but what was being shown on the scale was way above what I thought it should be. I remember the doctor talking about nutrition, and how I was showing signs of deficiencies. I remember him talking about having to monitor my weight unless I got it back up to a healthy level. All I wanted, was to run and hide.
When I finished university, by weight went back to the roller-coaster, mainly dipping when I was going out with someone. In many ways, I considered eating to be an inconvenience. People seemed obsessed with it, and I couldn’t understand the obsession. At other times, I would be eating, and part way through a mouthful of food, become so disgusted with what was in my mouth that I didn’t know what to do with it. Sometimes I would have to go and get rid of it, sometimes I was frozen in disgust.
During my marriage, food was a control issue… everything else in my life was so out of control, that I had to have some control somewhere. The ex-husband was a big man, and a big eater. He liked to think that he was a chef, but in reality, he was a glorified kitchen hand. He preferred fatty, unhealthy foods. That, in combination with the memories surrounding the times when my father was a butcher, were the final straw for my brain, and I could no long touch uncooked food. It became difficult to touch any food, but uncooked meat, was especially difficult. The feel of it on my skin was stomach churning. This, combined with feeling that I didn’t deserve good nutrition, again led to more signs of malnutrition… oddly enough I was overweight at this time, but not eating food that had any nutritional value.
During the process of my divorce, the food issues ramped up again. I soon couldn’t eat at all. I was surviving on nutritional drinks, and trying to show a smiling face to the world.
Other forms of self-injury have co-existed with my food issues, and often if one of the other forms increases, then the food issues ease off. It’s seemed like some sort of warped trade-off. But now, it’s revolving solely around food.
Over the last few months, I’ve lost a fairly significant amount of weight. But oddly enough, even though I weigh myself every day, with the hope of losing weight, a part of me doesn’t connect the dots between losing weight, and losing dress sizes. So when I had to go and buy new clothing, there was a panic about going down in size… fears of the abuse starting again resurfaced, and ironically, drove a need for more food control.
I’ve never been diagnosed as having an eating disorder, so I feel a bit of a fake talking about this… but as someone recently told me, you don’t have to be diagnosed with something, in order to have a problem with it. I have a problem, I’m just not sure how bad it is.
—————-
Now playing: Fauré: Cantique De Jean Racine, Op. 11
via FoxyTunes
PDF Locked up
The other night, I was locked up in the Police holding cells. I wasn’t under arrest… I was being assessed under the Mental Health Act. I’m still struggling to see how this is an appropriate way to respond to someone with mental health issues.
The events leading up to my detainment are fairly complex, but the event which triggered the Police involvement was when I abruptly ended a call to the crisis team. I know that wasn’t the wisest thing to do, and even though I said “goodbye”, the end of the call was abrupt. This hasn’t been an issue in the past, but for some reason, this time they contacted the Police.
A unit was sent to my house to “assess me”. As I had stamped everything back down after talking to the crisis team, I felt sure that this would be nothing more than a formality… I was wrong. The two Police who turned up, said that I didn’t appear happy; so they suggested that they take me back to the station for an assessment by one of the local crisis team. As I knew that this “suggestion” was not really a suggestion, I went along with them.
This is when things started to get really weird… I was sitting in the back of the police car with the female officer, and she read me my rights – my criminal rights… you know those ones they recite to people in handcuffs in television programs… the ones where I have the right to remain silent, and everything that you say or do can, and will, be taken down and used in a court of law… those rights.
I sat there rather stunned, but agreed that I understood my rights. She assured me that I wasn’t under arrest, but that assurance came too late… my mind raced to when my father used to take me to the police station with him for the raffle draws, and specifically the time when the policeman put me in the cells to show me what happened to “bad girls”.
When we got to the Police station, things became surreal… I was processed – my property inventoried; my jacket taken (because it had ties); my shoes and earrings removed. I asked to keep my phone because of my anxieties, but that request was denied.
I was then taken from the intake area to the desk, where I stood within the red square on the floor, and was questioned about my criminal past (or lack thereof). Thankfully I was wearing jeans which are about two sizes too big, so I could drag the excess material down and stand on that, rather than the cold concrete floor.
Then one of the worst things I have ever experienced… I was taken to a holding cell. The sound that the door made as they locked me in was incredible.
I sat on the stainless steel bench, shivering uncontrollably, trying to keep it together. I tried to focus on a spot on the floor of the cell and stay present. The internal noise was incredible… screaming… yelling that this is what you get for telling the secrets… voices saying to shut up… urges to self-injure… everything came in a rush.
When the crisis team came to assess me, he joined me in the cell. A man I didn’t know sitting between me and the door, in a small, locked cell.
He asked all of the usual questions, and I reassured him in all the usual ways. All I wanted to do was go home… that became my goal. Anything to leave that cell.
He agreed that I could go home.
I know that the crisis team, and the police need to be aware of the safety of their staff… but how is this an appropriate way to handle someone with mental health issues? At no point was I violent. I never raised my voice. I never even looked any of them in they eye. I was compliant and answered all of their questions. So why was I put in a locked cell which is usually used for criminal suspects? I don’t understand.
I remember asking if I was under arrest when they were processing my property. The policewoman said that I wasn’t… but yet, I was being treated like a criminal.
All I did wrong, was ask for help. Don’t worry, I won’t be doing that again.
—————-
Now playing: Audioslave – Doesn’t Remind Me
via FoxyTunes
Don’t look down
Don’t look down, just keep on walking the tightrope…
People want to cut the rope, and knock you off balance by throwing more things at you to juggle. At the moment I don’t seem t have any option, other than to keep taking them on board, and adding them to my act. Because it is all just an act. If the rope gets cut, then so be it. No great loss.
Reminds me of a PostSecret I came across recently -
I only know how to be a supporting character… helping them solve their problems, while giving nothing away of my own struggles.
One day I might be strong enough to send in my own secret; until then, I’ll keep on identify with others.
Edit: Please note that this is about a situation at work. I’ve become a dumping ground for the different factions at work who can’t play nicely with each other in the sand pit. It’s doing my head in.
Mother’s Day
I now realise that I want, or expect, my mothers reactions and feelings towards me to be black and white. I want her to care, or not care… love, or not love… nothing in between. I don’t understand the ambiguity of her reactions to me. I don’t understand how she can come up here when I ask her to support me; but then treat me with casual disregard in other ways.
I need her to be the bad guy, because then I have somewhere to direct my anger. In many ways, she is a safe outlet for that anger (the anger for the father is too immense to go near). I acknowledge some of the anger directed towards her is justified… she suspected that I was being hurt, but did nothing; and she can say the most cruel and thoughtless things. But she doesn’t deserve to be the sole beneficiary of the anger that I direct outwards.
My mother was brought up in a house that was dysfunctional – Granddad had at least one affair, and brought a woman pregnant with his child into their house to live for awhile; and Nana had Parkinson’s Disease, so my mother had to take on extra responsibilities from a fairly early age. Her marriage to my father was also dysfunctional. She knew this fairly early on in the marriage; but in those days, you didn’t divorce. Divorce would have been seen as a failure – when she was still married, Granddad told her that at least one of his daughters got it right.
So, she comes from a history of dysfunction. She has superficially sought help for the issues that arise from that dysfunction; but didn’t see it as worthwhile, so never went too deep. This means that her ability to change is minimal. Over time, she has come to accept my mental health issues with a little more understanding… she’s now less likely to ask “when is this all going to be over”… this indicates that she can change, or at least lower her expectations of me.
In many ways, my relationship with my mother is all about my own failings. This is the reason I react to her thoughtless words… I used to be the perfect daughter, and I no longer am. I don’t have the ability to compartmentalise my reaction to her, as well I used to. When she is around, I can usually do it… but I’m now aware of the consequences of bottling all of that hurt up and putting it away. That’s not to say that I lash out at her, I don’t… I just shut down while she is around. It’s a very compartmentalised way of interacting with her. It may sound harsh, but it’s probably how we’ve always interacted, I just wasn’t aware of it.
It was Mother’s Day here yesterday. I was in a dissociative fog for most of the day… I reached out to my mother, but it wasn’t a good interaction. I was expecting a level of interaction that will never be. I need to understand that. I need to understand the ambiguity that comes from being human… It’s not a personal insult when she cuts off our Skype call to talk on the phone to my brother, it’s just how she is. She will never change, so I need to change my reactions to the hurt caused.
It’s this sort of relationship that makes me realise how far reaching the effect of any abuse can be. My mother never had the skills to make the lives for her children better than her own… I don’t think she realised that there was anything better. That’s probably the saddest part of this whole situation, my mother will never know anything better. She escaped an abusive marriage, but never addressed the underlying issues which drew her to that abuse to begin with. This is why healing is so important… learning to change the way we view the world. That takes time, effort and perseverance… some days, those qualities seem in very short supply.
—————-
Now playing: Silverchair – Ana’s Song (Open Fire)
via FoxyTunes
Apologies
As a child, it was often up to me to take on the responsibility of the destructive play of my siblings… if something got damaged while the four of us were playing, the others decided that, because I was the favourite, the father would be less angry if I took the blame. This sort of blame game became so advanced, that I would often come home from school to find myself responsible for another broken vase, letting the chooks out, etc. Because I was so much younger than the others, I took on the responsibility that the others gave me without question – I had little choice.
This scenario set me up for taking punishments which weren’t mine to take. It also meant that when I really did something wrong, I thought the world was going to end, because I’d been punished for things I didn’t do, so how bad was the punishment going to be for the things that I did do? I tried in very childish ways to cover up for any of my mistakes, and tried so very hard not to make any to begin with. But, mistakes were inevitable. My father is narcissistic, so often the mistakes were beyond my comprehension… spending too long with a friends family (“Do you like them more than your own family?”), reading too many books (“So you think you’re better than the rest of us, do you?”), and so on.
It seemed as if the goal posts which determined my mistakes, and what I was responsible for, kept changing.
This has lead to what has been described as one of my more annoying traits… the tendency to apologise for everything and anything. I apologise like it’s my responsibility that someone else is having a bad day, and taking it out on you; when someone else makes a bad decision; that you got an B instead of an A for that assignment… you get the idea. I realise that this is my co-dependency issues coming to the surface again… I’ll do anything to placate someone and ease a tense situation. I don’t intellectually believe that I am responsible for these problems; but I believe emotionally that if I don’t apologise, something bad will happen. The more I care about you, or the more I’m scared of you, the more I will apologise.
I’m not sure if it is associated with this trait, but I often don’t remember apologies from others. I can be sure that someone else hasn’t apologised, to then find an email where they clearly state they’re sorry for a misunderstanding. As I write this, I wonder if I don’t remember others apologies, because I don’t want to be in the role of a person doling out the punishment for the wrongs others have done. I vividly remember my father saying that he didn’t want to punish me, but he had to because it was the only way that I’d learn. I could be saying sorry, but it didn’t matter, the punishment had to be done. So now, it’s almost as if I’m scared that by accepting an apology, I’ll be responsible for that person being hurt in some way, just as my father was “forced” to punish when he didn’t want to… so I block out the apology to avoid the consequences.
I often block out the misunderstanding as well, but not always. This can create a situation where parts of me are feeling (rightly) agrieved about a situation; and while an apology has been forthcoming from the other person involved, other parts of the system have blocked the apology as an old self protection coping mechanism. The knowledge that I can block out an apology leads to a situation where I doubt my own experiences and feelings. I’m never sure whether I have a right to be upset about something, or whether it was sorted through at the time of the incident. As a result, I tend to stamp down my feelings and keep on going.
As I heal, I’m finding that the stamping down isn’t as effective. There is more tension around the issue of being hurt by others and apologies in general. I get confused about when I should be offended, and when I deserve an apology. It’s a whole other kettle of fish actually acting on any of those feelings… I often miss the mark, and ask about a situation which I don’t fully remember, and has been worked through. I’d like to think that it’s progress that I took the risk of asking… but in reality it makes me feel like a failure for not having the full picture. I’ve learned to only do this with people that I trust, and are the least likely to be offended if I don’t remember the whole incident… like learning all things new, I’ve still got my training wheels on, and one of them is a bit loose. Until I can fix the training wheel and get more confidence about what apologies mean to me, I’ll keep on apologising at the drop of a hat, and question those that let me land on a soft cushion when I get it wrong.
—————-
Now playing: The Fray – How To Save A Life
via FoxyTunes
Reflections: Part II
Yesterday I wrote a happy shiny summary on 2010. It was accurate, and covered many of the positive things that had happened last year, but it wasn’t an accurate reflection. The purpose of a reflective exercise is to put the past into a learning framework, and that’s what I failed to do. By looking only at the positives, I sidelined and ignored the struggles I faced, and how those struggles influenced the positives.
When looking at the overall themes of last year, it’s easy to see that I was concentrating on safety and consistency. To me, these issues are intertwined. I’m at a stage in my healing where I need a consistent structure in order to find safety. If this structure is absent, as it was when my therapeutic relationship with Liz disintegrated, and my friendship with Matthew fell apart; there were serious consequences for my safety. I lost an anchor that I had relied on – no matter how dysfunctional it was, and I allowed it to push me into a downward spiral. This was even more evident, when my cynical work friend started having an affair with a married man. The triggers associated with the relationship were too close to my parents relationship, that I was unable to relax around her like I used to. Unlike the rupture with Liz and Matthew, I was able to maintain an altered friendship with my work friend. The key difference, was that with Liz and Matthew there was hurt in the present, whereas I had the awareness to realise that my work friend wasn’t hurting me directly in the past or present. I may not agree with her moral choices, but the friendship was maintained, if somewhat modified.
Throughout the year, I’ve had ACC decisions hanging over my head. This was one of the drivers which lead to my suicide attempt, and to my withdrawal from life. The thought of a faceless case manager deciding my therapeutic fate, without having ever met me, basically did my head in. This is a fairly consistent story across many sensitive claims clients. The power imbalance in favour of ACC, is such a trigger to the old abusive situations, that it’s difficult to work your way through to a rational interaction with them. Despite my fears, the assessing psychiatrist was incredibly supportive and gentle. He gave me a significant impairment which should hopefully allow me to access therapeutic care for awhile yet.
This leads onto the therapeutic relationship with Allison. I’ve avoided talking about her and what happens in therapy, mainly because I want to protect the relationship. As with any human relationship, there are ups and downs, but the strength of Allison, is her ability to encourage me to slow down. My default coping mechanism is to dissociate and rush through anything that feels scary; but Allison is helping me to realise that this doesn’t have to happen. I can tolerate the emotions that are a part of living. They may scare me, and I may not understand what I hear within sessions; but what is said and felt, is me. It’s that simple, and that complicated.
I still struggle with denial, minimisation, comparisons and other circular thinking. But, Allison helps me to work through this through validation and acceptance. She doesn’t encourage blind faith, and is open to questioning about the validity of what is being said, and her experience with dealing with what I present. Not that I challenge her on a regular basis or anything… well, actually I don’t as much as I did. There is a sense of respect towards Allison, even if there isn’t consistent trust.
Last year, I also briefly saw WPT and an occupational therapist. They were at opposite ends of the helpful spectrum… WPT helped me realise that by saying how strong the young ones within the system were, I was re-enforcing the idea that they were meant to stay strong and protect me. This was so obvious, but yet, I thought I was showing respect by mentioning their strength. But the young ones need care, not more pressure. In contrast, the occupational therapist was not a good therapeutic match. She reminded me of a cross between a cheerleader and an unskilled kindergarten teacher – lots of loud enthusiastic talk, with very little substance or experience. Thankfully she discharged me after meeting one of the three goals we’d established.
One of the things that worried me about seeing these other therapists, was that I wondered if my life would revolve around therapy and healing. Considering my work commitments; this would be unlikely, and it would probably have been helpful if they had worked out. But, there was that nagging fear that I would start to define myself and my life through my mental health. Which when I consider that I spent so much time this year caught up in self injury, the change of focus to healing, might have been a good thing!
Yes, my old nemesis… self injury. It also bumped into my suicidal ideation and intent this year, which wasn’t a pretty sight or feeling. But a shock can sometimes be good for the system, and near the end of last year, I got one. It wasn’t the suicide attempt, but instead the health of a friend bringing up all sorts of memories. Consequences, accountability, fears and reality all collided. Repercussions were felt throughout the system, and as a result, one dangerous form of self injury has been largely controlled. There is yet to be any sense of accomplishment about this, and there is a fear that the triggering presence of the mother is going to release a tidal wave of self injury this weekend. All I can do is plan for it not to happen…
So much of my life now, is about trying to live from moment to moment. I had hoped to be further along in my healing than this by now, but I’m not. This isn’t to take away from the accomplishments that I have achieved, but rather a sense of “not again”. This Christmas, I did cope better than the previous year; but then I had hayfever, so could barely speak or raise my head. The hayfever has eased, and with that, the triggering memories and intolerance of the mother has returned. The mother has been here two weeks, and that’s about three weeks too long. Wish me luck for the rest of the week…
As so much of my year has been on exploring the creative arts, I thought I’d do the following summaries of the positive, and difficult work that I’ve been doing. As a warning, the second (Polyvore) video may trigger.
—————-
Now playing: The Beatles – Here Comes The Sun
via FoxyTunes
—————-
Now playing: Yo-Yo Ma – Unaccompanied Cello Suite No. 5 in C minor, BWV 1011: IV. Sarabande
via FoxyTunes
Reflections
Note: I have removed commenting from this post, as it was written from one perspective only. While I need to honour that perspective by leaving it up here; it doesn’t fully indicate where I am, or how the year has gone. I’ll have another go at writing something after the medication has kicked in :)
————————————————————————————
A few of my fellow bloggers are doing reflections on the past year. I initially balked at doing something similar; because, well, I didn’t think that I had all that much to reflect on, or to be positive about. But then I got to thinking, and actually came up with a few… here they are, my random reflections, in all their crazy gloriousness…
I ended some extremely negative relationships:
- Kriss – who was psychologically abusive through his manipulation and inconsistency.
- Matthew – who the day before I attempted suicide, told me that we were all worthless in the big scheme of things, and that I would not be missed. This was not the reason for the suicide, but I think it acted as a final straw.
- My divorce became final. I am no longer tied in any way to that man.
- The last relationship was possibly the most important, as it was with someone who knew how to use my dissociation for his own gain. He shall remain nameless and faceless, but I’m glad I stood up to him and took steps to ensure my safety.
I meet some incredible people through the blogosphere, and even made some friends – despite reverting to “pompous mode” (otherwise known as insecure mode), on occasion. I’ve learned, laughed, got angry on your behalf and even occasionally shed a tear because of you all – thank you!
I attempted suicide, and survived. I meant to die. I wanted to die. But I didn’t. Some wizardry of the medical kind, protected my liver; while in the aftermath, the nurses treated me with professionalism. The suicidal ideation and intent hasn’t vanished, but it’s back to a level that is manageable in my daily life.
I said No to physical touch for the first time in my life EVER. Allison was saying that when she feels upset for her clients, she often wants to put her arm around them and give comfort through physical touch. As soon as she said this, I stamped both feet on the ground, like I was getting ready to sprint out the door, and firmly said No. Ok, so I said the word in a therapists office, where I have established that she will never touch me without consent, but still… I said the word. Loudly.
I started working with Allison. It’s been rough, and I still don’t understand her. But there’s a consistency in staring at her coffee table, feet, bookshelves or her rather sad pot plant. We talk. She forces me to slow down, to notice when I have reactions, to accept that I do react, and that it’s ok to do so.
I had brief contact with some of the ones within my system that I didn’t previously know about, but feared. All I knew was that there was something “bad” in The Basement of my internal house; but that “bad” turned out to be ones which are very hurt. I know my work with what they hold is by no means complete, but it was started.
I was reminded that I can’t work on one part of the system, to the exclusion of other parts; instead, I must think of my being in it’s totality. I still struggle with this, but if I wandered too far into a particular coping mechanism, or way of being; there would be a reaction or incident that would remind me that I’m not dealing with one aspect of my life at a time anymore.
At work, I received mixed messages about my performance. I was given an excellent performance review, asked to act as team leader and manager during absences; but was not given a pay rise. The high performer within me wants to know how to be perfect, and therefore be worthy of a pay rise; while the realist in me knows that the pay issue is tied to the economic and political times, more than my performance. It’s a good reminder, that I still need to work on gaining satisfaction from my job that is independent of others. I still rely on others to prove my worth and validate my existence. I need to shift that, so that I can gain job satisfaction without needing others approval.
I did my little bit to fight the changes brought about by the new ACC clinical pathway. I wrote a couple of posts, got into some verbal exchanges on some forums, and even ventured into other peoples blogs to discuss the issues. Sometimes, I didn’t cope well… but sometimes, I was proud of what I was doing. I may not have made any impact on the policies, but there were big changes in my healing as a result. I stood up for myself, and that caused a positive flow-on effect. On a personal level, my struggles with obtaining ongoing ACC coverage aren’t over, but that’s another story.
I worked on creative expression. I found that although I can rarely “look inside” and get a direct answer, I can do a Polyvore set or write a poem, and find an answer. I often get scared of what is communicated, or don’t understand it. But, I’m a work in progress, and I can learn. There is more trust from the system because of my willingness to work in this way.
I’ve learned an awful lot this past year. I think that’s possibly why I fear 2011 so much… the stakes are so much higher.
I wish you all the best for the coming year. Take care out there…
—————-
Now playing: Pink – Trouble
via FoxyTunes
You shall not pass!
You shall not pass!
You shall not know.
You will never know.
It will destroy you to know.
I will destroy you, before the secrets are told.
This message has been driving my existence for the last week (month?). D. One from my internal Basement has drawn, what can only be described as, battle lines. There’s no give, little communication and no trust. She’s said several times that she hates the rest of us, and has apparently sworn at Allison – not something that I would do.
The problem… We’re getting closer to her secrets, or the secrets in The Basement. This has been deemed as too dangerous for the system by D. One. This is a Polyvore set done last night to prove the point.
What surprises me, is that it looks rather tame in comparison to some of the other works that have involved her (for example D. One). But, it more clearly shows the dissociative wall she is protecting.
As an aside, she was associated with fire and a serpent in the last set, but now it’s birds and trees?
Last week, it became obvious what she will do to protect that wall. It wasn’t pleasant.
As a result, the mother is now staying with us. Those of you familiar with this blog, will know that the mother has a tendency to grate, annoy and trigger different parts of the system. She was psychologically abusive and neglectful during my childhood, and parts felt betrayed and hurt by her. Saying that, there are parts of the system who love, cherish and want to have a relationship with her. At the moment, for our safety, she is being tolerated by us all.
I keep on wondering what all of this activity by D. One means… Reflection is my key to healing and understanding. But yet, I find it almost impossible to reflect on the actions of the past week. I find it difficult to put them into context. If D. One was so stead fast in her rules of no more secrets being shared, why was a young one allowed to talk to Allison on Friday? It doesn’t make sense. Admittedly, there were no secrets shared, it was a very narrow flashback being described, but I’m struggling to make sense of it all.
One good thing about the mother coming up, is that she has again validated some memories, either through mentioning suspicions, or by describing vehicles that were either used, or around during my childhood. I know this is a double edged sword – if she had suspicions, why didn’t she act to protect us? Possibly this goes back to what Paul was discussing when he gave a brief overview of how societies attitude towards CSA has changed over time? Possibly, it’s because we were a white, middle class family? Possibly, it’s because the mother is a nurse who was clinical, rather than emotional and nurturing? All I know, is that it hurts that there were seemingly obvious signs and suspicions, which were ignored. I also know, that this is a similar story for thousands of other survivors.
So where to from here? Well, in just over two weeks, I have an ACC assessment. I’ve been assured by people I trust, that the assessing psychiatrist is good. But, it means describing my dysfunction, past and struggles with someone new. The results of this assessment will determine whether we still will receive ACC funded therapy, or not. We’re expecting to get our funding withdrawn – either because we haven’t shown enough progress, or because ACC will consider us to be better off in the public health system.
This assessment is what is destabilising the system. This is what is ramping up D. One’s activities… The difficult part, is that even once the assessment is over, it could take months for the results to come through. I’m not sure whether the system can cope with that sort of delay.
On a positive note… Two of my favourite blog distractions at the moment are DogHouse Diaries and Message with a bottle. As a warning, the first is a sarcastically funny take on relationships, and the second is a photo diary by a stay at home father of post-it-notes to, and about his son. I add the warning, as I know many of us struggle with fertility issues…
—————-
Now playing: P!nk – Trouble
via FoxyTunes
