I’m about to wear my heart on my sleeve, and that’s a little terrifying. But I feel I need to show the world what happens to a grown woman who was abused as a child. The abuse I suffered was largely psychological. There are plenty of kids who have and will suffer much worse. If I have this much trouble living a normal, happy life, I can’t imagine what it’s like for them.
So here goes, *deep breath*…
I have anxiety. Bad. It stems from my childhood. Never good enough. Trying my hardest isn’t good enough. Always “overreacting”. My feelings aren’t real. Just shut your mouth. No one cares. The “black sheep”, bad kid, troublemaker. This is what I was led to believe. This is my inner dialogue. Minor things I can handle ok. Big things, I freeze. I don’t know what to do or don’t think I can or just get so anxious thinking about it that I just DON’T. Until the last-minute. When everything is do or die.
I’m faced with a situation now that I should have handled long ago. Or told my husband up front that I couldn’t so that he could. And I’m freaking the fuck out. I feel like my insides are going to explode. And they are, really. I’m freaking yelling at my kids for the slightest things. I know it’s my own panic coming out in the form of rage. But I don’t know how to stop it. It just makes me hate myself even more, just another reason to tell myself all those horrible things that I normally suppress.
All the little things that are generally mildly annoying are 100x as annoying right now. I feel like I should just go away because I don’t think it’s fair to subject everyone I love the most to all my fucking baggage. But I can’t just go away. And no, killing myself isn’t something I seriously consider anymore. Used to, years ago. Still pops up every now and then. But no, not gonna happen, don’t worry.
So now I have to admit to my husband that I need his help…something I don’t like to admit, ever; because admitting that means I’m weak. When you’re an abused kid, you can’t afford to be weak. And I have to face his disappointment in me. That I didn’t say I needed help sooner, or just take care of it. Or SOMETHING, other than pretending it wasn’t an issue when it really is. Disappointing him means I’ve failed. Means he might not love me anymore. Which is horse shit. I know this, intellectually. But I was taught that love from my mother is contingent upon doing things that make her happy and proud, so that’s how I feel that everyone gives love. And it’s one of my greatest fears to lose my husband’s love. The only one I feel has ever truly loved me unconditionally. Codependent? Yep. I admit that, too. I talk big shit, but deep down, I’m this scared little girl. Scared of everything. Scared of losing control; because losing control is weakness, and weakness is failure, and failure is disappointment, and disappointment is lack of love.
I just want to be ok…is that too much to ask??