Why psychopaths cannot love their own children, according to a psychologist
Some of us survive some really weird twisted forms of mentally ill parents.
How psychopathic parents create complex trauma in their children
Somewhere around 4th grade (I think I was 9), I found myself alone across the highway on a freezing early morning waiting for the school bus. I have siblings, and I don't remember if I just got out there before they did or if they were staying home sick with fevers, but I do remember the rush of horror I felt that I might be with the wrong set of parents. Like the world suddenly twisted and something had changed. Like details were wrong that I couldn't put a finger on. Like where did this hideous yellow plaid come from? Nowadays people call that a glitch in the matrix, or the Mandela effect, but I'm pretty sure a psychologist would call that a dissociative event. I remember nothing else about that day. I just remember knowing that everything felt off and I wasn't sure how. Funny I'd remember that all my life, right.
I never had an anxiety attack until my second marriage, probably because it was finally safe to start falling apart and having them, although they did begin with a very real heart condition in the first place. Through most of my childhood, particularly after 7 years old, and all through my 20s, I handled so much stuff without much of an eye blink, that it's difficult comprehending my life flipping like a pancake into a sort of normalcy, albeit largely my creation but completely possible thanks to my second husband. My PTSD was off the hook once I had a safe home to live in.
I was in high school when I figured out I was time skipping, which was weird since I normally had an excellent recall of events even when I couldn't exactly remember them. By my mid 20s I had figured out that anything I needed was in my brain and that all I had to do was want something and it would almost magically come to me if I didn't get in the way and just let myself wander and bump into it. One example I've given of this is a story I'd read of two dogs that escaped an experiment lab, but didn't remember what the story actually was or the title or author. Which was very strange, considering I can go to a page where I read something without too much effort because I remember literally where the words were positioned on the page and about how thick the pages were in each hand. Anyway, the day I thought of the two dogs, I thought ok, I'll go to the public library and see what happens. I walked in the door, and without a clue just doing whatever popped into my mind to do, I actually walked over to a section, into an aisle, and right up to that book. I reached right for it without even knowing the title. That was a very interesting moment, not knowing how I did that.
Back then I just thought and trusted that I had some king of good retention that I just couldn't consciously access. Years later I can now remember the reason I read that book is because my friend who was murdered in college had loved that author in middle school, and that was the time when I read that book in a completely different library in a completely different state.
I'm a mess. I have been hiding this mess in my head for years. From myself. Finally accepting that I need help with a frustrating problem in 2007 was a breakthrough. 12 years later I'm finally understanding I'm one of many fragments and that the reason I blog is so I can communicate with myself. I've been hinting through the blogs, but I didn't understand it.
I know there is a me who can handle anything. I've felt that slide in and out. It's quick and nearly unnoticeable, and it keeps me controlled through any kind of emotional overload when I'm not in a safe place, like when I'm driving. It's not the same as spacing out. It is literally noticing I missed a line or a few words in a song playing while I drive. Not like I sort of realize my head was elsewhere, but like several seconds literally just vanished and the missing part got spliced together. It's pretty rare that this even happens, but when it does, it disorients me enough to bump me right out of the sort of depression depths that make people do really stupid things.
There's more, lots more, but I'm just starting to understand it, like I said. I know I take care of me, and I have since I was a kid.
I do actually feel bad for my dad sometimes when I remember how rough or sad his own childhood must have been to be as messed up as he is, but I'm not built to retain empathy for more than a few seconds or a couple of minutes. I morph into practicality and do the right things when I can't feel or say the right things. I make sure people eat and have space to rest and hopefully enjoy a few moments of peace or something interesting. Otherwise I'm utter fail with real empathy, no matter how hard I try or how much I want it.
This is probably the sanest day I've had in over 3 months. I started asking questions in my head. I mean, I'm too focused on the results of *me*. Is there a norm for people who grow up with messed up parents? Apparently there is, per the articles I posted. I survived multiple emotional and physical trauma events and continuous personal undermining and weird sabotage by developing my own safety net, a network inside my mind. And these things are known responses to trauma, and they can be worked with.
The feeling that I'm drowning in this mess in my head is, I'm guessing, better than not noticing that I'm a mess. At least I know boundaries and feel safe in my home. I know a lot of people don't.
The other parts of me can't replace real people, though, and I'm still sad. Talking to myself through blogs isn't the same as being able to say these things to other people.
Thanks for reading. I know a few still do even though I can't see details any more. I hope you're ok. I know it's hard. ❤
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