hsphaven

MY SISTER AND FAMILY

My physio asked me this week what my relationship with my younger sister is like. It got me reflecting on my family even more and I thought I’d write a post about this.

I don’t have much to do with my sister. She lives near the city. She occasionally comes to visit, and has been saying she wants to play badminton with me again, something we did as kids. I got a random text from her a few months ago asking if I wanted to meet her at the trampoline at our mum’s place one night. She had not been speaking with my mum for years so I was surprised. I met her there and bounced on the trampoline with her wearing black angel wings, which I had worn to my psychology appointment earlier that day. We did that thing where you put pressure on the trampoline at particular moments which propels the other person into the air. We played that break the egg game. We then went into the house. Mum had gone to bed, which was good as it would have been weird the three of us together again. We found some of our old childhood toys in the cupboard, such as beanie kids, and brought them into my sister’s old bedroom. Mum had kept the books too, which displayed the entire collection of beanie kids and the new ones that had been released each year. In 1998 there was a rainbow beanie kid called “Proud the Rainbow Bear”. We were impressed how progressive the company was, as same sex marriage has only just become legal in Australia. We looked up how much they’re worth now, but they’re still pretty cheap on Ebay,

We then found some possum puppets and started a puppet play. She kept harassing the poor plush bee with her possum, so I hid it under my old childhood blanket. I then got one of the plastic baby hammers that make a honking noise and hit my sister’s puppet over the head with it.

I rubbed the possum’s hands together, which made it look like it was plotting a murder. My sister suggested talking to people via the puppet now that I’m non-verbal. I started exploring voices for the possum using the app on my phone, which speaks text for me. I was a bit reluctant to see my sister (and in fact, anyone) while non-verbal, but my sister is also autistic and said she has friends who are non-verbal so got it. It wasn’t awkward at all. We found other ways to engage, such as though the puppet play. I made the voice really deep on the app and it sounded incredibly creepy. I then made it high, which suited the possum more, making it sound cute and innocent.

This was the first time I spent time with my sister in a very long time. I guess she was nostalgic for the good aspects of our childhood, the breaks of sunlight between the menacing clouds which stole our innocence. We grew up surrounded by domestic violence, and probably lived in fear of BOTH our parents: our father who would blow up like a volcano and become physically aggressive (though not usually at us), and our mother who was just angry and critical all the time and struggled to connect with us emotionally. I haven’t known if my sister wants to be closer with me or not. When she moved out of Mum’s house she threw a whole lot of stuff away, including the yin yang dream catcher I made for her one birthday. I retrieved it from the bag of stuff for the rubbish and was pretty upset she was going to throw it away as I had put a lot of love and work into it. She has some funny reactions too. About five years ago I was at my parents’ house with my mum and dad. Dad was on the phone to my sister trying to organise a gathering for her birthday. My mum said the time my sister suggested wouldn’t work as I had therapy then. My sister then began crying because she felt like it’s always been all about me and never about her. She thinks I get more attention and love than her. Which is funny because I felt the same about her growing up. I felt like my mum loved her more than me. The two of them cuddled in bed while I was sent to kinder where I was bullied by other kids. My mum always described my sister as a “beautiful, sweet boy” (my sister is trans and was born a boy), unlike me who was a “live wire”, a wild kid who would climb up the kmart shoe rack and throw all the shoes onto the floor. When we lived in Tasmania there was an elderly lady called Elanor who lived down the road. Elanor had a soft spot for my sister as well. Everyone seemed to adore my sister, and I still remember the day my mum made me give up one of my toys because my sister wanted it.

Anyways, my dad was trying to manage my sister’s emotions, which he was taken aback by.

“Why are you sniffling?” he asked. “Do you have a cold?”

My sister said she was crying.

Meanwhile my mum kept butting in trying to organise the practicalities, probably unaware that my sister was hurt. Overwhelmed, my dad snapped at my mum and told her to “shut up”. It all then escalated from there. They had another one of their violent fights. I heard it from my bedroom. I heard my dad threaten to kill my mum, and forcing her to apologise. I didn’t see it but apparently he had her pinned to the chair in the lounge. She said she lived in fear for a while afterwards, but also that she’s so unhappy that in that moment she would have been fine if he did kill her, which makes me so sad. Sometimes I would try to break up their fights, even as a kid, but this time I didn’t step in. The guilt still eats away at me, but I was deeply depressed and couldn’t deal with it anymore. A part of me actually found it validating, like I had a reason to be depressed, like I would get more sympathy from people.

“My life really is dire, I don’t just have a mental illness that is distorting my thinking,” was what I thought.

My mum ended up going to the police station about my dad threatening to kill her. She didn’t want to press charges, she just wanted to have it noted. He said it in the heat of the moment and I really don’t believe he intended to actually do it. But the cops went ballistic and dragged him off to court. He had to get a lawyer. I was terrified he was going to be sent to prison. And I was terrified they would make me testify, because I was there when it happened. Thankfully it didn’t come to that.

I would have been willing to skip therapy and meet when my sister wanted. She was the birthday girl afterall. But she’s just really sensitive in general. My parents finally split up (they should have much earlier) and I went to live with my dad, who let me sleep when I needed to, unlike my mum who told me that as long as I lived under her roof I would get up when she wanted. There was one time my sister wanted to come over to our place one morning and play table tennis. My dad asked if she could come a bit later as that would wake me, and that upset her. I couldn’t believe it; it’s my house too! Have some respect for the other people living there! I still buy my sister birthday presents and she sometimes gives me presents. This year she gave me an interesting present: a picture of her fursona, a note about being lonely, a Croc keyring (one of our favourite childhood video games), and a photo of us as kids before she transitioned to female. We were dressed up in identical shorts and t-shirts, wearing sunnies, and pointing supersoaker guns at the camera with no expression on our faces. I didn’t know how or when she got that photo and was surprised she wanted to keep a photo of her as a boy. While we still acknowledge each other’s birthdays, she doesn’t want to see me on her birthday anymore. She still likes to see my dad, but he can’t even mention me to her at all or tell her how I’m doing because she gets upset. And then that upsets me, because I’m like do you even give a shit about me? Or would you rather I don’t exist at all? But I can see her point of view. While in many ways she’s not as disabled as me, she also struggles with her mental health and has suffered in silence for a long time. While my mum was busy moving me from school to school as I was bullied all the time, trying to get the schools to do something (which they would not), driving me to school as I’d always miss the bus etc., she was stuck in the wrong body, and no body knew. She was even sent to an all boys school. She started drinking and partying all the time to cope. I am lucky the sex I was assigned at birth I identify with for the most part. And while my mental health support has been no where near enough, it’s more than my sister has got. I am lucky to have got onto NDIS and have received a large sum of funds. I am also lucky to have got the disability pension.

I think my sister senses that I am close with my dad, and maybe feels like she has to compete for his love, even though he doesn’t treat us differently. He has written his will so that his assets are split equally between my sister and me, even though this is going to mean I will have to sell the house so she gets her share, move all my stuff which I’ve hoarded even though I’m depressed and don’t have the energy, and find somewhere else to live. But I have always shared a special connection with my dad and am more like him in many ways than my sister is. I think he finds my sister a little bit difficult to relate to at times. My dad and I both share a love for the beach, whereas my sister hates the sand. We have a similar personality. I was born with his blonde hair and blue eyes (though my hair turned darker as I got older), whereas my sister has my mum’s darker complexion. When I was born, my dad was a doting father. I was the light of his life, the greatest gift of God as he put it. He gave me the affectionate nickname “possum”. He was always taking me to playgrounds, putting me up trees, building block towers with me, wrapping me up in blankets and taking me for walks at night, tossing me about. Mum recons this was why I was so hyperactive as a child. But I’m starting to wonder whether my dad didn’t just love me, but whether he was actually IN love with me. It was almost like I was the partner he wished he had with my mother but didn’t, given their loveless marriage. I have some reasons to believe that there may have been some pedophilia growing up, which is something I don’t like to talk about as I love my dad. He is not a bad person and I do not want to say bad things about him. I don’t even have any evidence or remember anything like this happening between us. But as an adult, my mum told me that when I was a kid my dad was in the bathroom with me one time. When we came out, I said to her: “daddy and me played bottom games”.

“Oh, no,” she thought.

She confronted my dad about it. He then blew up at me.

“Don’t you ever say things like that again!” he screamed at me. My mum said she thought he was going to hit me.

I don’t remember any of this. I always thought I had a wonderful relationship with my dad, though he grew distant as I got older and he seemed to retreat into his own world. I wonder whether I got things wrong or made up what happened in the bathroom, as I sometimes did make things up as a kid. I told friends that I had to wear pads, which I didn’t as I was too young. I also stole my friend’s elephant hair tie and pretended I had one too.

My mum said that if my dad did touch me sexually, she believed it would have only happened the once and wasn’t an ongoing thing. My sister and me slept in my mum’s bedroom, taking turns to sleep in the double bed with her, while my dad slept in a different room.

However, this is not the only reason I believe my dad may have pedophile tendencies, and possibly acted those tendencies out on me. My mum said that one time, when my dad was a teenage boy, he baby sat some little girls. Apparently he did something inappropriate and their parents said something to his father about him.

My dad also wrote me an odd text one time when I did some shopping for him while he was sick. He thanked me hugely and said that if a father could “elope” with his daughter he would. Apparently I showed the text to my mum. A little while afterwards, I questioned whether I had received such a text, and went back to find it. I found all the texts after it, and all the texts before it, but this particular text was gone. I assume I must have deleted it, which is unusual for me as I never delete anything. I think there might be a part of me who doesn’t want me knowing stuff that happened when I was a kid. Parts of us can actually take control of the body and do things without us knowing, which tends to happen with dissociative systems. They may have deleted the text to wipe all evidence of what happened. I don’t mean to accuse my dad of anything in this post as I really don’t have any solid evidence, and like I said he loves me, is respectful of my space (he doesn’t go into my ensuite without asking), and would do anything for me. It has all been very confusing and has been awkward living with him as all this stuff goes through my mind. I don’t know how to reconcile the relationship we have now with this possible past, like the island in Life of Pi which is paradise during the day and carnivorous at night. For a while I haven’t been able to make sense of all the anger I’ve felt when he is near me and why I don’t feel comforted by his touch. The last thing I want to do is accuse him of something he didn’t do. All through my recent chat with Lifelife I protected him, saying I don’t want to get him into trouble, that I love him, that he loves me, that he would never do anything to deliberately hurt me, and that a pedofile (if he even is one) can’t help who/what they’re attracted to.

Back to my sister, I would like to be closer with her. She’s the only one who really knows what it was like growing up in my house, though we both have amnesia for some of the things that happened. Apparently Dad thumped our mum right in front of us and she was injured. I think my sister and I were closer when we were little. I’d hold her and push her around in kids wheelbarrows and my mum said my sister looked up to me, almost like she wanted to BE me, probably because I was a girl while she was born a boy. We didn’t have a falling out or anything, we just slowly drifted apart over time. We were both going through our own stuff. I became more and more depressed and rarely left my room. It got to the point where we lived under the same roof but were worlds away. We only ever saw each other at the dinner table. Then when I was in my early 20s I went to stay in a mental health residential for youth aged 16-24. I was self-absorbed and it didn’t occur to me the impact it would have on her leaving her alone with our parents. We never talked anyway, I didn’t think she’d miss me. I still came back to the house fairly often. I didn’t have my driver’s license back then and needed transport so one night her mates drove me between the residential and house. I then realised she had got involved with some questionable characters. They were speeding and hooning about on the road. It was actually quite scary being in the car with them. I was only allowed to stay at the residential for a year and I didn’t have anywhere else to go afterwards but back to my family home. That is when my sister moved out. I said to her once it was weird not having her around and sitting at the dinner table with just our parents. She made this comment that now I know how she felt when I fucked off to the residential. So I don’t blame her if she hates me. There are a lot of things I would take back if I could. I didn’t protect her when I should have, like when my horrid childhood friend Julia came over and dragged her around the house on the ground, or when my mum’s best friend’s son held her underwater when in the pool together. I’m not sure I realised what he was doing, but I don’t know why I didn’t give Julia a good push or thumping. I guess I was just stunned, but that is no excuse. My sister got her revenge when I was at her friend’s house (the boy was maybe 7 and I was 11) and he locked me in the closet. Tit for tat. I deserved it. I might try reach out to her a bit more and be a better big sister.

Those who have experienced domestic violence tend to experience other forms of abuse including sexual and emotional abuse and bullying at school. I have been writing about all this to my physio, who is awfully patient.

“I got used to being bullied and ended up just putting up with it,” I wrote to him. “I shut up about it, like I shut up about what went on at home. I gave up trying to make friends and ended up just siting by myself in the end. The only thing I said all day was “here” when the role was called. At recess and lunch I’d wander round edge of the school yard fantasising about leaving or jumping in front of a train. I escaped into study and become a workaholic. My mum was not happy with how one of my high schools handled the bullying there, but that was actually a dangerous situation. One wrong move by the school and I could have been killed or something. I had a history with the girl who was giving me grief. I went to primary school with her, and she was actually making ME out to be the bully. It was her word against mine. She said I sexually assaulted her when we were in prep together. I don’t know what happened, I have no memory. She hung out with the roughest girls in the cohort and I was told if the school expelled her, then her friends would come after me. Anyways I’ll go do something else now. Let you deal with broken bones, rather than broken families.”

“Interestingly, I’m much more in the business of dealing with the effects of broken families these days, due to my interest in helping people with Persistent Pain,” my physio wrote back. “Broken bones mostly go to the more junior physios.

Thanks for taking the time to fill in the childhood story, it helps understand the trauma response, the difficulty with people, and a lot of the over-protectiveness of your system.

I’ll run to teach some Pilates classes now, I’ll have time Thursday to respond while I’m doing admin if that helps. Did you have the session with Lani today?

Chat soon.”

I felt my pain and fear dissolve when I read his reply. It was right at the end of his work day and I wasn’t expecting to hear back. I felt like I could put my trust in somebody who truly got me.

UPDATE ON WHERE I’M STAYING

I’m still in the bush in the middle of no where, which is what I wanted, though I still can’t get the space, peace and quiet I need. I’m trying to make it work here but it’s not easy. There are new noises here. One night I was woken by the solar inverter which started beeping in the middle of the night. Apparently it does this when it runs out of power, which is going to happen more and more as winter gets closer. I have started leaving it off at night, so have no power at night. The caravan I’m staying in is also infested with rodents that keep me awake at night, fat brown rats dropping from the walls. Most people in this country would not be able to live like this.

I managed to find a disability support worker around here, who has been taking me out since I have no car. He is an old man with a kind face who is a proud father to 9 kids, and a grandfather to even more. He’s worked in many different areas, but definitely has a gift for this kind of work. He is a real people person. We didn’t know what to expect before we met each other. I was suspicious before I met him, especially as he was a man, and didn’t want him knowing where the key to the gate was, so I walked to the gate (which is a decent walk) that morning, unlocked it, and then walked back with the key. But I liked him the minute I met him. This was during Easter, and he brought me a packet of chocolate flakes, his favourite chocolate.

“No sultanas, no nuts, no nonsense, just straight chocolate,” he said.

He told me the story of how he had trouble finding the place, and drove to my friend’s ex husband’s house instead, who was surprised to see another car. Finally my worker found the driveway which is hidden between bushes and is kilometers long, passed the gate, and was relieved to find me smiling.

“What are you doing hiding all the way out here?” he asked me.

He drove me to the closest town, which is half an hour away, to do some shopping. He told me how he’s had some issues himself and used to have a drinking problem. He told me he then had a heart attack a few years ago and the doctor said if he didn’t exercise and lose weight he’d be dead. So he started up a new business. A dog walking business. He started by helping a friend who had a terminal illness.

“How are you?” he said to his friend.

“Good,” said the man.

My worker then offered to walk his dog. And from there it grew, and grew, to the point where he’s walking over eight dogs a day now.

“My wife says I’m crazy and work too much,” he told me.

When in town, it became apparent that he was well known. He rolled down the window of his car and would call out hello to people walking along the street. He is quite a character. When in the supermarket he looked at my shopping list and told me that now he knows all my guilty pleasures: mint biscuits, chocolate etc. He has a great sense of humour, but is also very empathetic and lets me have quiet time. The second time I met with him, we brought some rubbish into town to get rid of. He accidently threw out the big plastic yoghurt container which was my rubbish bin, thinking I didn’t want it. He could tell I was upset.

“Sorry love,” he said. “I’ll get you a new one. Next time I start doing something you don’t like, knock me over the noggins. That’s what my wife does.” 

He took me to the bakery, one of the few food places open, and I resigned to having a non-organic, vegetarian pie as there was nothing vegan there. We then went to a camping store. I needed a new sleeping bag because my one is falling apart. The fluff and feathers are coming out. It looks like I’ve slaughtered an animal or bird in here! Then I couldn’t decide which sleeping bag to get, indecision being my worst trait. Thankfully my new worker is extremely patient, putting up with me going back and forwards between the different sleeping bags, and sensing which one I was leaning towards.

“Never take me shoe shopping!” he said.

We also went to the healthfood shop my friend had ordered some groceries at. This was my kind of shop. I told him this was the place to get chocolate and not have to feel bad about it because it was healthy. I spent a while in there, excited to find my favourite foods from back home.

“It’s dangerous bringing you in here!” my worker said.

“Good thing we have the sleeping bags, we might be spending the night here!” I said.

He still agreed to return to the store on Monday.

“See you on Monday!” he told the shop keepers.

We returned home. My friend asked us to drop the groceries at her house. I knew this was not a good idea, as the woman is a compulsive talker. We were already a bit late getting back. We got back and my worker carried the boxes of groceries to my friend’s porch. She then came out, as I suspected she would, and soon enough the poor man was hostage in her endless chatter. He kept saying he needed to go, that he had another appointment, but she still wouldn’t let him leave. She kept asking if he could do more and more things around the house. We started walking back to his car and she followed him. I tried to hide my smirk, but god it’s so fucking insane all you can do is laugh. I did warn him that she likes to talk. He said he does too. But I knew he had no idea. He still said that she’s “lovely” as we finally managed to get away. He said he was primarily here to support me, though. If I wanted him to help my friend he would. But he didn’t want it to take away from what I needed help with.

That night my friend came down and set up some rat traps, IN THE DARK as I had no fucking power. She spoke on the phone the whole way down until she got to me and could vampire off my energy next. I’m sorry if I sound mean or ungrateful. She has a good heart, but she has a problem. I was already so exhausted from being out that day.

After my friend set the rat traps up, I walked back to her house with her to have a shower. I have only had one shower the entire time I’ve been here as I avoid the house like the plague. But I needed to wash my hair before it turned to dreadlocks. When I got out of the shower I looked in the mirror and I was so distressed by how fat and ugly I am. My gut issues are not getting better at all. I look like I’m pregnant. I had also reacted to something I ate that day. I just wanted to go back to the caravan but as soon as I left the bathroom my friend cornered me. She said she had some stuff for me. I hated the way she makes out like she’s helping me when really it’s about her and just an excuse to drain the life out of me. She started dumping all this information on me: stuff about keys, the compost bins, what to do with wet face clothes, etc. etc. It never ends. I had nothing left in me. She knew I was tired from being out that day. You tell her you can’t talk but she doesn’t stop. But I actually don’t think it’s a deliberate thing anymore. I don’t think she can help it. It’s like some weird as form of OCD or something where she lacks this sense of completion and is unable stop until she covers everything, which is an unattainable goal. She may also have some autistic traits as well. I wished her good night and walked away.

“When will you be awake in the morning?” she called after me. I ignored her. I felt so rude and worried she was going to crack the shits at me but I had been completely pushed to my limits. I was completely fried. It’s so ironic that you come here because you need space and you get her. At least she texted me afterwards saying she was sorry. I also texted her explaining that I was feeling really unwell and just had to go back to the caravan. She said she was sorry she didn’t pick that up earlier.

I got back to my dark caravan. I tried to take the sleeping bag out of the cover, but it was so tight I couldn’t get it out, especially in the dark with a torch that’s battery was flat as well. I gave up. I brushed my teeth with my electric tooth brush that’s battery was also flat, of course. As my physio said, life can be darkly humours sometimes. I went to bed but it felt like bugs were crawling through my hair. I tried to flick them off. My tingling/vibration sensations were also bad. I don’t actually think there are bugs in my hair, I think I was hallucinating from extreme stress and exhaustion.

The next day animals continued scratching around in the walls which gave me sensory overwhelm, especially after the previous day. I was ready to punch a hole in the wall. The rodents kept me awake last night as well. One of the rap traps (a metal box) caught a mouse, which I took outside away from the caravan. My friend uses non-kill traps. We are both vegan and don’t kill animals here. But the mouse had friends. All night I kept hearing more rodents scratching around in the metal box. I would get up to check, but then they had escaped. I heard something checking out one of the big black rubbish bags, which I had tried to seal my rubbish in. In the end I took some sleeping pills. I still prefer the rodents to the shooters here. The shooters are a deal breaker. Last Saturday night somebody was shooting close to the caravan and it was like fireworks exploding (which is why I am scared of New Year’s). It is a nightmare for somebody with hyperacusis. It gave me an awful fright and has left me on edge, especially as I don’t know when it’s going to happen so can’t prepare for it by wearing earmuffs.

I was so traumatised by everything in my life that I was actually going to forge a completely new identity and life here. I was going to dye my hair blonde, start using a different name and cut all contact with everyone I used to know. But I realise I can’t escape my problems wherever I go. I’m still saddened that my friend wants to sell this place. It upsets me every time she talks about it, and I think it’s insensitive to keep talking about it in front of me when it’s my refuge. I’m not ready to give up on this place yet. Today has been quieter, except for the one gun shot this morning which startled me while I was sitting outside the caravan trying to lighten my hair using chamomile tea. I think it would be a shame to subdivide the 800+ hectare bushland. At least she cares who she sells it to. I got hopeful when she said a conservation organisation was thinking of purchasing the whole place to protect it. I thought maybe I could live here and help look after the land and wildlife with them. But it looks like they’re going to buy another property instead.

THERAPY

My new psychologist Lani has been making herself available. She offered longer sessions and gave me another appointment yesterday evening. I wasn’t going to go. I was going to stand her up. This is how it always starts, they act like they care, but in the end they’re all shits. They all seem keen to work with me in the beginning, but then they can’t wait to be rid of me. It goes no where. That’s the voice that’s in me. I’m pretty traumatised from all the mind games mental health professionals have played with me, the broken trust, the narcissism, the inciting of younger parts of me to come out and then the emotional abuse of these parts, the grief. My physio, who actually found Lani for me, wants to work with Lani, but I’m not sure I want them talking to each other.

“I advise you to be careful working with these people, to trust your own feelings and don’t assume they are the specialists,” I told him. “Many people who get into the mental health field are deeply messed up people themselves and they go on to exploit vulnerable clients. Gill was a prime example of that. When I told her I found her on Facebook, she not only blocked me but changed her name to “Yu Cantfindme” and her profile picture to a white rabbit, like in Project MK Ultra (mind control program which creates a fragmentation of the psyche). When I told her I was upset do you know what she said? She said “I was just being funny”. It was mean and childish. She actually ENCOURAGED me to become dependent on her, lending me a crochet otter called Ginny when she went away. Ginny had a partner otter called Harry which Gill said she’d keep in her handbag while away so we would stay connected, like friendship charms. She contributed to the loss of my case worker Jordan, who was my biggest support. She told the case management service that I was in love with him. They ended up suddenly changing my case worker, which destroyed me. I screamed the most harrowing, endless screams and ripped apart their waiting room, throwing all their stupid pamphlets about mental illness all over the floor. They called the cops. Then, not long after this, Gill dumped me, as you know, leaving me with no body. She invalidated my anger, telling me I just went off at people for no reason because of my trauma basically. I was so traumatised by her behaviour I was found lying on the side of the road suicidal by some members of the public. They called an ambulance, who only came when I started overdosing on pills. My bloody parents were there. Gill walked out of the building when the ambulance arrived and they asked her come over but she turned her back and left. My only satisfaction is that the last thing I said to her was “fuck you”. I wrote a complaint about her to the psychology board but they are piss weak and she continues to practice.”

I’m scared that Lani will destroy my relationship with my physio like Gill destroyed my relationship with Jordan. But maybe she will be different, who knows. She talks to me like I’m an equal and I know shit, rather than somebody below her. She asks me why I lose things all the time… whether it’s ADD? Trauma? She tells me a bit about herself, and shared pictures of her trip to Peru with me. I did end up talking with her yesterday. We had to text as I had no internet. We didn’t talk any more about child sexual abuse, which I needed a break from. I was just distressed by all the shooting and rodents here.

“You deserve to be safe and more regulated,” she said. She said she would try find me some other accommodation, but it would take some time. We tried to brainstorm some more options but I felt completely hopeless. There’s noise everywhere and I can’t live around people because of my social anxiety.

“Could keep searching for caravan rental in quiet locations,” she said.

“Yeah guess I’ll just have to keep looking for something like that. There’s noise everywhere it seems though. Thought I was safe in the middle of the bush in the middle of no where behind a locked gate but now there’s shooters. Fuck this world. I never wanted to be here. I feel so hopeless I don’t even know if suicide will free me. I will probably just end up in some other shitty life.”

“Sorry to hear this level of pain,” she said. 

Her finishing message was kind:

“I have to head off now hun. Take care and I’ll reach out Monday. Thinking of you and sending soothing vibes to your nervous system.”

The previous time we spoke, she said some interesting things about childhood sexual abuse. It is something I’ve not talked about much in all my years of therapy. She said it is the missing piece of the puzzle, and is something that has a tendency to keep cycling back until we heal it. I kept saying that I don’t actually have any memories of what happened and feel like I might be making it all up.

“That’s okay you don’t need to focus on the memories or exact – more on the sensations in the body and safety,” she said. “Once those are deeply seen and acknowledged and processed it’s a good start. Best not to fixate on exact episodic memories as it can be very hard to know if it was early or really any age.”

She sent me some quotes from the well-known book, The Body Keeps The Score, such as this one:

“Traumatised people chronically feel unsafe inside their bodies. The past is alive in the form of gnawing interior discomfort.”

I talked about feeling like a child and looking for someone to take care of me on FetLife. She suggested instead of going to sites like FetLife to fulfil my unmet childhood needs, it would be safer to have a support worker who is trauma and dissociative /parts informed.

“They wouldnt be able to touch you but they could play with you from a child to adult perspectie with support, training and scaffolding,” she said. “this is what we do in dissociative identity  disorder work”

I said I needed the physical touch as well. So she decided to refer me to a professional tantra worker, who she said came highly recommended and was trauma-informed.

“alot of them know the difference between sexual enegry and actually developmental needs for touch,” she said. “they are trained and professional”

She seems to think that I am just trying to meet developmental needs by going onto Fetlife.

“just be mindful that these are core needs as a child which arent typically sexual but if you go to sites to ask for this you will meet with sexual people/energy and that can be confusing for child parts,” she said.

The confusing thing for me, though, is that there is a child in me who is also sexual. Strangely, as a child I was actually a lot more sexual than I am as an adult. Sometimes I feel sexual feelings while feeling child-like at the same time. They are intermingled. It is something that another person, who I did a bit of sexual exploration with, sensed as well. I am wondering whether I do have some kind of kink around age play and submission. I very much resonated with my bdsmtest.org results:

“Littles (girls/boys) are submissive spirits with a strong flavor childlike innocence. They long for a nurturing loving dominant who plays a guiding, almost parental role in their lives. While they require a softer approach to be dominated than most other submissives, their submission can be just as deep as that of other submissives or slaves. Sexuality is not necessarily involved, and there is no link at all with pedophilia (which is simply not on the BDSM spectrum).”

It is all very confusing and something I haven’t yet felt comfortable talking about with my new psychologist.

It was an interesting referral from a psychologist. I emailed the tantra worker but I never heard back. I’m not too fussed. I actually generally hate being touched by people. It takes a lot for me to let anyone get close to me and to actually feel anything good, rather than it being an emotionally empty and physically painful experience. That’s why I’ve never been in a relationship. The only person I like touching me is my physio, who I was seeing every three weeks, until I ran away to the countryside. But I like him too much. And my feelings for him are scaring me. I worry I’m going to get hurt. And it’s even worse than falling for a psychologist because he’s actually touching me. I worry if I’m not careful I’m going to lose control on the massage table, embarrass myself and he’ll decide it’s best if we don’t see each other anymore. I wonder how he feels about me, whether this is all one sided or whether there is actually some kind of chemistry between us. It’s all so overwhelming as somebody who thought they had no sexuality. I’m just realising the things I’m attracted to are different. I’m not attracted to bodies. I’m attracted to those who manage to make me feel safe, calm me down, are attune to me, who know when to push and when to back off. Safety is my biggest turn-on. Trust is hot. It just hurts that these people are always professionals or people who are uninterested or unavailable in any real life sense. It hurts to love people I can never be with, to pine for bread crumbs of care that are dependent on monetary exchange.

As Taylor Swift sings in “Exile”, “I think I’ve seen this film before, and I didn’t like the ending.”

I honestly think my physio is what made me flee my city as well.