Quitter

My parents used to call me a quitter.

• After a year or so of Campfire Girls, I didn't go back. It wasn't any fun and I have some very bad memories of it.
• I was in Honor Choir in 5th grade and I quit it to play softball. Because our lives revolved around my brother's sports, I thought I'd get some of the attention if I played a sport. (There is a whole, ugly story around this, but now isn't the time.) I wish I hadn't done this. I'd have been happier in Choir. But I was only 10 or 11.
• In 6th grade, I joined Girl Scouts. After about five months, all we had done were a handful of crafts. We didn't go anywhere or do anything. I had joined with two other girls, and they were also bored and unhappy. They made me the spokesman to tell the leader we were quitting. She cried. I was 11. My folk began calling me a quitter to my face.
• I was forced to join Job's Daughters when I was in 7th grade. Didn't want to, but the family had promised my dying grandfather (and given several things, I certainly felt no compulsion to follow that promise). I stayed for a year and a half before being able to leave it. My parents again accused me of quitting, of never being able to stick with a thing.

What's a Beautiful Morning?

I don't wake up looking forward to the mornings.

I did when I was a child. I loved life and I loved being alive. As I got older that changed, bit by bit. Was my cousin in the house? Then it might be a day where he would so something I didn't want to do. Was it a school day? By the end of elementary school, every day was a day to be tormented and made to feel like less than dirt. And then, after Daddy died, well, there were many days when it seemed like there was no reason to get up because he wasn't turning my light on and saying "Good morning!" And with the pain and the distance within our little family, well, there was nothing to look forward to.

There were times in between, when I looked forward to my days. I loved college. But then my little brother killed himself and that brought me to many years of "why bother because it goes to hell."

"I like living myself --- not just beng happy and enjoying myself and having  a good time. I mean living, --- waking up and feeling, all over me, that I'm here --- tickling all over."

Agatha Christie, A Murder Is Announced

Ray Bradbury remarked that he woke up like a rocket, all at once, bounding downstairs with life and joy at starting a new day, to spend four hours writing.

As I've grown older, I have be come less and less interested in starting a new day, less and less interested in going to sleep because when I wake I'll have to start a new day. I exist, and I don't enjoy it. There is so much I could and can do with my time, but I waste it away, trying to avoid my own life, my own experiences, to avoid that I don't wake up "tickling all over" or like a rocket.

A life of verve and vibrancy: I had it. I lost it. I want it back.

Who goes there?

Ah, the proverbial military security phrase, usually preceded by "Halt!" Movies and books have shown simple ways to get past guards: throwing gravel, pebbles, rocks. Making the guard jump, look, even go investigate. In a way, movies and books were telling us a bit about the PTSD a soldier can get. Hypervigilance — jumping at noises, seeing shadows.

It doesn't take declared war — or military action of whatever name politics calls it — to create PTSD. Just trauma, being placed in a situation (often repeatedly, but sometimes just once) where showing extreme vigilance was a survival mechanism. It means being hyperaware of sights, sounds, smells. And it means assuming, and mentally preparing for, the worst-case scenario.

A laundry list of sadness

I'm still feeling good, and waiting for the hammer to come down. (Sorry, Mable, I haven't read your link yet.) I know I have to change that way of thinking. There is also the quote that you can view the Universe as either friendly or hostile, and whichever one you view it as is what you get. Of course, the writer didn't mention neutral.  :)  I've felt it was hostile since I was very little.

I'm not sure if it's more useful for me to talk about my issues in the order that I'm doing them in therapy, or just as they come to my head. I'm OCD enough that I want order. I'm an Air sign, which means spontaneity. It's very confusing.

Okay, why I think the hammer will always come down and destroy my happiness. The facts:

I was molested by a cousin starting when I was 2; the first time it was him, age 5, and another cousin age 8. My mom and aunts found us in a closet and laughed it off as playing doctor, as if a 2-year-old had any choice in the matter. 

My cousin continued off and on until I was 11. His final act was to say he wouldn't bother me again until I was 17. Way to keep me in fear. That 3 year difference was always a huge power differential, and since the first, I was completely in his control, and knowing it was wrong and uncomfortable. My parents had told me, in front of him: do what he says. He knows more than you. I was to always do what anyone older than me said. Way to go with the protection, Mom and Dad.

He wasn't happy just touching me and stuff. He also had to terrorize me with terrible things that would happen to me. Monsters, when we were little. Psychopaths when we were older. I think my cousin was a sociopath.

My grandfather molested me once when I was 11 or 12. I was glad he died the next year.

I never told anyone about any of this until I went to therapy at 23. Then I eventually told my mom. She didn't take it well at first and it took her a year or so to be able to talk to me about it without making it kind of my fault for not telling her and Dad.

There's some less horrific stuff in between.

When I was 16, we moved 1100 miles away from everything I'd ever known. Nine months later my father died. He had a major heart attack while playing catch with my little brother in the backyard. Our neighbor had CPR instructions on a card and tried to do compressions. I'd had first aid two year previously and I did mouth-to-mouth. He died anyway.

Five years later, just before my mom remarried, to a guy I disliked from the first, my little brother, my treasure, committed suicide five days before my 22nd birthday.

The rest is fairly basic, and then there is Mom from last year. When things start going well, something horrible or simply bad happens. I have very little trust, for good reason, even in myself.  So it's an uphill battle in sand.

Now you know more. Ah, so much work to do, it can be daunting. It tires me out. And that's all I can manage to write tonight.

Wow. I used to be able to do this like it was a news report. Apparently no longer. My stomach hurts now and I'm feeling very emotional. Such a major change for me, and I think this is supposed to be a good one. Wish it felt good.