I’ve never met anyone else like me…

I’ve never met anyone else like me…

My greatest need for support is in finding a way to adapt my Anxiety/Panic Disorder through the lenses of an adult still very much living with ADHD from childhood and who was never given the necessary support and consistency in tools to manage interpersonal situations. Couple that with the early childhood trauma and thats where the symptoms of PTSD really manifest themselves. Depression is never far away thanks to my maternal biology and while not entirely omnipresent. Things do run in cycles and when the low hits, it get dark very fast and for a very persistent period of time.

My day to day Anxiety is at such high levels its affecting my health. Seemingly ordinary stress from trying to managed very ordinary skills such as the randomness of grocery shopping or dealing with the local post office are constant land mines that I still haven’t been able to adapt to.

I’ll never be free of these symptoms, physically or emotionally, there’s too much psychological damage for that. To me that’s not really a bad place to begin from. In the sense that if I accept that I do in fact have challenges, as do many other people with all sorts of disabilities and varying degrees. Then the work begins in dealing with the one last topic I’ve never been able to fully unburden myself of and that’s having been sexually abused by my own Aunt while my Grandmother and Mother both knew. It’s the mainspring of all the events in my life as I recall them.

I’ve never met anyone else like me. I probably never will. I think that part hurts me the most right now. I disconnected myself from trusting people at the age of 5 but it began much earlier than that and was fully complete at the age of 8 in the story I’m about to share.

Over the years one way I tried to categorize things in my life was in terms of biological issues versus nurture issues. Biological would be things like multiple childhood surgeries starting with a skin graft at the age of 2 and kidney surgery at the age of 8. The kidney surgery was during one of the roughest times of my life while trying to adjust to being newly diagnosed with ADD w/hyperactivity disorder, they didn’t call it ADHD back then. The house I recuperated in with my mother is also where I would have Petit Mall seizures. My father was verbally abusive and on his visiting days and would enter the house by loudly saying “Alright…what’d he do this week?” all while staring at me as though he couldn’t wait to hit me and chase me. It was like a sport with him. The truth is I never did do anything other than have trouble in a school environment that wasn’t able accommodate my ADD needs while being raised by parents who never followed up on recommendations by our local neighborhood family services clinic.

This was the same house my mother left my suitcase on the doorstep for me one night after spending the weekend with my father. We pulled up on the opposite side of the street. No lights are on, the screen door looks open but I can’t make it out.

Inner Video: My ears begin to ring…time slows…I don’t understand…my stomach hurts, it always hurts. His head is down as he walks back to the car, slow motion, mind racing lightning fast, wondering, calculating for what was about to come. I’ve always had to plan for every eventual outcome, it’s a survival mechanism.

The suitcase goes in the backseat and we drive back to Van Nuys. My father was a factory worker with challenges of his own. He kept a simple one bedroom apartment there while he worked 2nd shift with split days off for a large commercial bakery. I never lived with him full time until 7th grade. This was the night he sent me to live with the family of the woman he cheated with at my mother’s reception. I didn’t know all of these things at the time of course, but it definitely explains the horrible living conditions I was in with people I didn’t even know and no support from anyone anywhere that my mother just abandoned me and my father is paying strangers to take care of me. Zero, zip, nada.

Next video: “I don’t know where she is, all she left was his clothes and a note,”

I see myself from behind every time I recall this, hair wet, knees pulled to my chest in bath with water that’s gone cold. Cold because I didn’t want to make noise moving so I could hear what was happening. Stuck. Panic. Fear. What was going to happen to me? If not with my mother than where? Where????

“Please don’t send me back to my grandmother’s house. Please. That’s where Catherine lives, I can’t go back there.” my inner dialog is raging, racing, panicking.  I’m paralyzed, forever broken and unimaginably gutted…my father would never know as I swallow my fear and await for the next fork in my timeline to unfold…

i can’t go back there…someone hear me…please…someone protect me…please…….please.

this is real time as of Tuesday May 15th at 6:32pm.

I’ve just come from a crucial therapist appointment where I may finally have a way to move through this. I’m not editing this piece. It just poured out.

This is my story. This is where I begin.

#MentalHealthAwarenessMonth #CSAQT #WallofSilence #HealMeToo #NotAlone #RAINN #NAMI

 

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