I was not abused by my mother.  Yes, she failed to see warning signs of abuse; but, my main skill was trying to stay invisible… so while my siblings showed their pain by acting out, I internalised it.  Despite knowing this on an intellectual level; there are feelings of resentment, betrayal, hatred, and anger towards her.  There are always those questions… why didn’t she stop it? … why didn’t she see? … was I that worthless? …

The thing is, I know that my mother loves me – in her own way.  She has shown that by coming to help me when I’ve needed support.  She has also voiced her feelings of guilt about not seeing what was happening… But, at times her version of events surrounding this guilt, and the past, has changed.  It’s this sort of unpredictability that continues to cause confusion.  Again, intellectually, I realise that her changing stories are a form of self-protection… but, emotionally, they cause havoc.  They ensure the continuing dynamic where, even though she has supposedly come to help me; the help being offered is more about her, than me.  It’s about easing her guilt, and ensuring that the family still looks happy from the outside…

Outward appearances were always so important…  I grew up in a conservative town, and it showed.  When my neighbour’s daughter became pregnant outside of wedlock, she was forced to give the baby up for adoption (she is still with the father of the child 30 years later).  All that mattered, were outward appearances.  You can’t have scandal, you can’t raise your voice… but, as another contradiction… “boys will be boys”.  So, when my brothers got into trouble, or car accidents, it was worrying, but acceptable… They were “boys” after all… They could be a source of communal worry, and angst.  It was a socially acceptable form of rebellion.

My rebellion was hidden.  It was dysfunctional.  Even when evidence of it was found in my room, it was blamed on others… because there’s no way that a “good girl” would do that sort of thing…  Thereby adding another layer of guilt, shame, and hiding.

It is the contradictions that I find so difficult to sort through… my mother is not a nasty person – yes, she has her faults… don’t we all?  Despite not being nasty, or evil; she is not able to be there for me in any consistent way.  I can’t guarantee that the answer to a question posed last month, will be the same this month.  I don’t know if she will be cold, or open with me.  My ability to understand her, and interact with her in any meaningful way, is not there.

I also acknowledge my role in this confusion… I dissociate, and forget things that have happened.  I read things into situations because of my defence mechanisms… I know that the problem is not all hers. Yet, there is still part of me hoping that my mother will save me.  The sad thing is, just as I gave up on any God saving me, I gave up on her as well…

So, I’ll take some medication… call her in a few hours… and pretend that everything is just fine…

It’s that simple, and that complex.

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Now playing: U2 – Sometimes you can’t make it on your own
via FoxyTunes

It feels like I’m in some invisible tug-of-war between reality, and anxiety related scenarios…  Anxiety is winning!

Here are some of the issues causing my anxiety…

Scenario 1:  My abusive ex-husband will be in town this weekend for a special event.

Reality tells me that he will obey the Protection Order that I have against him, and will not approach the house.

Anxiety shows me (in great detail), all of potential scenarios where he will come to the house… He might want to show the people he’s with, where he lived with the “fruit-loop”… He might want to see if I still live here…  He might be curious as to what the house now looks like…

Within my mind, the anxiety scenario becomes bigger, and badder.  I see him driving up and sitting outside in the car.  I see him standing at the door.  I hear the taunts that I know he can throw at me.  I see him in the house.  I see him hurting me.

My imagination weaves abuses from the past into the potential scenario, making them seem all to real.  It becomes more and more difficult to reality check what my imagination is creating; and anxiety hits in wave, after wave.

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Scenario 2:  Next month I have to present at a weekend conference in another town.  There will be several people going from work – including the co-worker who has sexually harassed me on a couple of occasions.  Everyone from work will be staying in the same hotel.

Reality tells me that my presentation will be fine – it’s a small conference, and the topic of my presentation is interesting.  The co-worker will not do anything to harass me at the conference.

Anxiety tells me that the presentation will be a total disaster.  The person following me in the program, is my former bullying boss, and she will take great delight in telling everyone how bad my talk was, before starting into her own presentation.  I will lose all of the respect that my former team leader has for me, and the audience will try, but fail, to smother their derisive laughter during my presentation.

It also tells me, that I’ll be harassed by my co-worker in a more direct way.  It will evolve from verbal harassment, to physical.  I won’t be able to stop it, and I’ll end up dissociating in a strange town with no access to my usual support network.  I’ll end up self-injuring, badly.

Again, my imagination weaves images that I’ve seen in the media, or my own experiences, into the scenario.  It becomes bigger, and badder than any known reality.

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Scenario 3:  I’m going back to my home-town for my birthday. 

Reality tells me that it’s only for a couple of days, and everything will be fine.  It might be a shock to return there, and possibly disorienting; but, it will be fine as long as I remember the skills I’ve picked up in distraction and grounding.  It’s all about staying in the present.

Anxiety tells me that I’ll be swamped with memories.  My mother will invade my space by going through my possessions – I have proof that she has done so during her latest visit.  I’ll be forced to interact with my sister, and my sister-in-law… both people I would rather avoid.  I’ll be overwhelmed, and end up self-injuring.

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I know that my fears are driving these anxiety scenarios… fear of failure, being hurt, humiliation, and being seen.  At times, I can step back from those fears, and reality check them; but, at the moment, they are all I see.  I was hoping that by writing this out, they might ease their grip over me… that I could intellectualise the scenarios, and put the fears into the boxes on the shelves in my mind.  If there was only one of the scenarios happening, I would try to feel the emotions, and ease them that way.  But, with all three, it feels too big…

The first scenario was talked about with Allison this week; but it was more a process of giving voice to the fears, rather than establishing any action plans.  I’m going into the weekend anxiety filled, and unable to remain grounded.  I’m experiencing derealisation, and panic attacks.  Yet, I’m sitting here at work, as if I’m fine…

I’ll be fine… I always am.

I’ve lost, what is being described as, a significant amount of weight in the past year.

Just typing that line seems so attention seeking. I immediately think that anyone reading those words will react with a sarcastic “oh, poor baby, you’ve lost weight, huh?” In my mind, I then think of the person finishing that thought with some reflection of their own weight struggle… “lucky bitch, I wish I could lose weight”, or “I wonder how much, and if I’ve lost enough”, etc.

Weight and body image is such a personal, yet public, issue. It’s part of the first impression we give about ourselves; and is one of the things that the beast called society, judges us on. In theory, campaigns such as healthy at every size, is helping to change that societal pressure… But, when you hear the criticism of such movements as being fat acceptance, it’s a little disheartening. Just using the term fat, makes it difficult to hear. Fat is such an emotive word, which is usually used in such an insulting way; that it makes it difficult to see it as being anything positive, or accepting.

It’s been my experience, that society is quick to call you things like big, large, fat, etc.; and just as quick to praise you for losing weight. Recently, I’ve been told that I “look good”, and am a “skinny tart”. But, I’ve also been told that I’m “wasting away”; that I “wasn’t recognisable” from the person I was a year ago; and am “committing a slow form of suicide”. It’s really difficult to hear any opinion on my body, so hearing any of these statements makes me run psychologically… The words were all said with the best intentions, but it seems like there’s something in my brain that can’t comprehend them. It was Allison who said my actions were a slow form of suicide – one of her attempts to try to make me look at the situation in a different way… but, all it did, was make me wonder what all of the fuss was about.

As with so many aspects of my life; my weight, and body image, are both totally disconnected, and an obsession. I swing between the two extremes, depending on what is happening around me… I rationalise away people’s concern about me, as them over-reacting; but then, in the next moment, will worry if I can ever stop the drive to lose weight. In both moments, my thoughts seem totally rational, and based in reality.

As I write this, my mind races… justifications for the weight loss, and for losing more, come through in a rush… I don’t meet the criteria for any of the eating disorders, so it’s not serious… people wouldn’t say I look good, if it wasn’t true… even the doctor said the weight loss was good – and she didn’t want to weigh me, so isn’t worried, so I don’t need to worry either… just another [x number] kilos, that’s all you need to lose… my BMI isn’t even low, so there. is. no. problem… you’re such a drama queen!

In typical form, I hear those last words in my mother’s voice. My mother was a nurse, and she would sometimes come home and talk about the “manipulative young girls” that had to come in for their weigh-ins. She talked of having to check their clothes for weights that they had added to try to cover their weight loss. She talked with such disdain… Part of me hates her for her lack of understanding, and other parts hope that I’ll never be seen with such disdain, but I know it’s already too late…

I can’t write any more, this is too difficult.

Btw… the title of this post comes from the thought, that every new number I see on the scales, is my new fat weight.
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Now playing: Silverchair – Ana’s Song (Open Fire)
via FoxyTunes

Using only a regular pencil (not colored), make a simple shape on the page that represents a core belief that holds you back. Then draw (using the same pencil) around the first shape to represent support for change of that core belief.

I went into this months carnival unsure of what was going to happen.  Connections have not been my strong suit lately – either internally, or externally; and this exercise really needs those connections.

It’s possibly for this reason, that I ended up with two separate versions of what my drawing means…

1. The square in the centre represents the square peg that I feel like… I’ve never quite fitted in, and feel quite separate from the rest of society – like a square peg in a round hole.  The triangle doodles in one section of the square, are very similar to ones that I did while in high school.  I’m not really sure what that, or the other sections mean, but they were important to add.  The surrounding squiggle represents that I can fit in, and can move towards being less rigid in my thinking and behaviour.
2. The square represents my internal structure.  That structure is rigid and unyielding.  The surrounding squiggle is the barbed wire that is going to keep everything, and everyone, out.

Quite different interpretations, aren’t they…  When I was drawing the square, it felt more like the first interpretation was true; but, by the end of it, the second felt more accurate.  The first fits with this months Arts Carnival, but the second doesn’t.

It’s been some time since I’ve done any art, so I wonder what part that played in the conflict regarding the design and interpretation.  It’s possibly a sign that I need to get back to Art on a regular basis…
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Now playing: Damien Rice – 9 Crimes
via FoxyTunes

When I first claimed for assistance under the ACC scheme, I was assured that the information provided to ACC would be kept confidential.  That the information didn’t go outside of the Sensitive Claims unit, and that only those people directly involved in my case, would access my file.

I struggle with trust issues, so needed this reassurance.

Those of you who have read my blog for any length of time, will be aware of the struggles that I have had with ACC.  They have mislaid emails that I’ve sent them – emails containing incredibly sensitive information.  They have sent me incorrect letters – one told me that my therapy support was being stopped, when it wasn’t.  They regularly change my case manager without letting Allison, or I, know.  There was a long struggle over my level of impairment.  What all of this has meant, is that my faith in ACCs ability to carry out their role, is pretty minimal.  I dread the reports for further funding that Allison has to do, as it usually means that I will be sent to yet another stranger for an assessment…

Despite the significant drawbacks associated with ACC, it is the only way that I can afford therapy.  This means, that it is the only way that I have been able to maintain a job, and keep being a (productive?) member of society.  It would be questionable as to whether I would still be here if it wasn’t for this assistance.  That may sound overly dramatic, but it’s possibly closer to the truth than I would care to admit.

So, I am thankful for the assistance I get; but, am also incredibly wary of the strings that are attached to that assistance.

A couple of weeks ago, those strings became entangled beyond recognition.  It came to light that ACC had sent the details of about 9000 clients, including those of some sensitive claimants, to an ACC client.  Yes, a fellow ACC client… not any sort of health professional, but a member of the public.

Before this incident, I knew of one other incident where a fellow claimants file had been sent to people unrelated to her case. So, this sort of breach doesn’t seem to be a one off error.

Since this incident became public:

• there have been reports that health professionals have received incorrect client files from ACC, and that some ACC claimants have received numerous letters apologising for breaches in privacy;
• ACC have responded by trying to contact those affected, establishing a privacy team, and apologising;
• the claimant who was mistakenly sent the file has been “outed“, accused of bribery, tried to explain the reasoning behind her actions, and apologised to a member of parliament;
• Nick Smith has been accused of using inappropriate judgement, and has resigned from his cabinet portfolios; and
• the media has revelled in the latest scandal, jumping from one juicy detail to the next.

While I can understand the chain of events, much of it seems to detract from some of the core issues that this incident has raised…

1. Why was there a document with ACC Sensitive Claims Unit client information on it, being circulated to anyone outside of the unit?
2. What is the purpose of such a document to begin with? The cynical part of me wonders if it’s about highlighting “problem” claimants, or pitting the units against each other.
3. How could the document be sent without basic security, such as password protection?
4. How often does this sort of breach happen?
5. What is being done to tighten privacy and security within ACC?
6. Why didn’t ACC act sooner on this breach?

But, the most important question for me, is…

7. Why should I ever trust ACC again?

ACC has files which contain some of my darkest, most shameful secrets.  How can I trust that the information won’t accidentally end up on the doorstep, in an email, or faxed; to someone who has nothing to do with my case?  I can’t.  ACC have proven that they cannot be trusted.

So, where does that leave me?  To be honest, I’m not sure.  As my ability to see Allison is dependant on ACC funding, and she must report any new information about my abuse, and it’s effects on me; she has been placed in a precarious position… I’m meant to be open and honest with her, yet if I am, that information will potentially go back to ACC.  How can I be open with Allison if she is reporting to an organisation that has proven to be untrustworthy?

There have been lots of stories about the privacy breach within the media, and many have waved the “isn’t it awful that sensitive claimant information was included” flag… but, what they don’t seem to grasp, is the devastation that this has on an already vulnerable group of people.  As sensitive claimants, our trust has already been violated in one of the most horrific ways possible, and to have that again shaken by the organisation that is meant to help, is destabilising.

I know ACC cannot be perfect, but they need to be responsible and accountable.

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These are the phrases that I’ve been repeating to myself since the beginning of the Rugby World Cup last year, if not for longer.  They were easy to believe… she tried to normalise things which I consider abnormal; and seemed to be buying into the stereotypical dissociative construct, rather than trying to understand my experience and symptoms.  It became easy to write her off as of being no help.  In fact, it became necessary to write her off… if I didn’t, I’d be opening myself up for more hurt.

I realise now, that these were all of my defence mechanisms coming into play – don’t let anyone get too close; only give one chance before putting up a wall; look for any hint that the person isn’t able to cope with what I’m presenting, and needs to be protected in some way.  In the dysfunctional realms of coping, this is my default position… it’s a form of protection born from early experiences; but I now realise that it is creating problems in my daily life.  It becomes easier to walk away, rather than let anyone get too close… and anyone who does dare to get close, is sometimes treated cruelly with the aim of encouraging them to leave – as part of a self-fulfilling prophecy that everyone leaves.

Considering how long I’d been sticking with the “Allison is useless” refrain, it’s interesting that I continued to see her.  Although I’m notoriously bad for ending any sort of relationship (professional or personal); I have been able to end things when they clearly aren’t working.  But, I think part of me knew that a huge part of the problem was me.  I used the excuse that if I stopped seeing Allison, no other therapist would see me… which does have some basis in reality, but is also a convenient excuse.  An excuse which would continue the testing of Allison, and punishment of myself…

Allison became the target for my cruel behaviour and disdain.  It became worse as the stress in my life increased, and as she began to show signs of understanding and caring.  A year ago, I was convinced that she didn’t believe anything I said regarding my self-injury… this year, she’s wanted to address it, and was expecting more personal responsibility and accountability.  But, I wasn’t really picking up on the changes; I was stuck in the “Allison is useless” mode of thinking.

Although, if I think about it, I possibly did notice the change in her understanding and awareness… which only frightened me more.  There is one thing more terrifying than no one believing me; and that’s having someone believe me.  It threatens the world of denial that I regularly envelope myself in, and means that I would have to face the emotional fall-out created by my life.  That possibility is beyond frightening.  Unpacking the boxes of hell that I keep within my head… nope, too much.  There were remembered threats from my childhood – if you tell anyone, then you’ll be locked up for lying… as well as perceived threats to ways of coping – what do I do if I can’t hurt?

It all became very messy… In order to stomp out the threat; the war against Allison took on new levels.  As the chaos that surrounds the month of February enveloped me; I lashed out like a wild, wounded, caged animal.  I don’t remember any of the therapy sessions that I’ve been to this year, beyond a few snippets of information; but Allison told me last week that I’d been nasty, and that it needed to change.  As for the snippets of the sessions that I do have… well, they’re all of the times Allison has made a mistake.  She is human, so is going to make mistakes; but in order to maintain the “Allison is useless” viewpoint, I needed ammunition… so, I found it.

But the one thing that seems to have seeped through my anger and dysfunction, is that Allison works from a place of caring.  She has a busy practice, so has no need to keep me as a client; yet, she continues to see me.  She’s even given me specific examples of the improvements that I’ve made over the last year… hardly the actions of someone who is as disinterested as I’ve led myself to believe.

In keeping with my defensive reactions to anyone caring; I think this realisation upped the ante, so to speak.   It threatened my continual need for invisibility, and added to my stress, rather than reducing it.  I don’t have a positive framework to put someone caring about me into.  All I have is dysfunction and abuse.  Allison and I have talked about this before… as soon as someone mentions that they “care” about me, I wonder what they want from me.  The two concepts are so tangled from my past, that I find it impossible to see what healthy caring looks like.  It’s for this reason that I avoid relationships of any sort.  I find online friendships easier to maintain… because I use the argument that someone online only sees what I allow them to see; and more importantly, they can’t physically see me.

So, where has all of this led me… well, it’s led me to the edge of my safety zone, and is pushing me into new territory.  It’s a place where I might have to accept that people can care without an agenda; and where I have to turn to face the skeletons of my past and present.  To say that I’m scared, would be an understatement.  I’m terrified.  Yet, I know that I have to take that leap into what seems like a huge void… They say healing and change is uncomfortable… that’s the understatement of the century.

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Now playing: Sia – Breathe Me
via FoxyTunes

Total and utter invisibility is always my goal.

One of the ways which I maintain my invisibility, is by working.  It allows me to pay my bills, and have the least amount of interaction with officials as possible.  It helps me to maintain a routine, and forces me to interact with people… So, for me, work is a positive in the overall scheme of things.  However, over the last year, it’s become less and less positive.  To the point where I realised earlier this week, that I hadn’t enjoyed anything about work for probably close to three years.

I should state, for the record, that I’m thankful for having a job – I know there are many people who don’t.  But, it’s now reached a point where my job is negatively effecting other parts of my life.  I could probably find a way through if the only problem were the workload issues, but it isn’t… I have a new team leader who doesn’t have any library experience, and appears to have little inclination to learn; and on Friday I was sexually harassed over the phone by a co-worker.

This combination of events means that work no longer feels safe.

My default reaction when something doesn’t feel safe, is to try to gain some semblance of control.  But here, I felt powerless… the phone call left me exposed emotionally, and the team leaders lack of knowledge makes me feel as if my skills are not valued within the organisation.  It feels like the rugs been pulled out from underneath me, and I have no idea how to regain my balance.

I’ve spent the weekend trying to get my balance back.  I’ve failed.  I’ve been rude to people who have tried to show me kindness, and gotten lost within a dissociative haze.  All I can think of, is that it feels like my coping mechanisms were fired out of a shotgun, and the pellets from the shot were spread far and wide… I’ve been running around here and there trying to fix things… but instead made bigger messes, and caused more hurt.  This, of course, triggers another round of self-loathing, and more shots to be fired…

I entered the weekend feeling unsafe and out of control… I leave it in much the same way.

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Now playing: Hootie & The Blowfish – Let Her Cry
via FoxyTunes

Thank you to those commenters who have given me support through the protected posts over the years, this is nothing against any of you…