It’s that time again.

For some seemingly inscrutable reason, my traumatic memories like to present themselves in cycles. I will go months (occasionally years) where I’m not regularly encountering severe flashbacks or persistent dissociation, and then out of the blue, I will be immersed in a period where it feels like an endless flood of memories, pain, and haziness come pouring back in.

When the Good Feels Bad

The cause of this period is pretty clear: I’ve had a good, life changing thing happen recently. My trauma always resurfaces when good things happen. For those of you who haven’t experienced this, it can seem counterintuitive. Aren’t bad memories or reminders of awful things supposed to trigger symptoms? Well, yes, but also good things can bring them on, sometimes at an even stronger or longer-lasting level.

At the heart of the matter is that for my formative years, I didn’t believe that good things were really possible for me. It really was a persistent illusion: I’d notice something I’d like, or dream of something I’d want to happen, and carry with me this constant knowing that this won’t happen for me. Or I’d encounter a nice thing that I wanted and immediately default to I can’t have it. The absence of good things became the normal, the safe spot.

I know how to operate when things are bad. I have a script for it; I’m excellent at thriving under impossible situations. But when things are good? That’s terrifying, for the following cognitive distortions:

• Good things aren’t supposed to happen. This is an anomaly. Something is up.
• You can’t let yourself get comfortable. It will end at any moment. Stay wary.
• You will mess this up. You will bring about the end of this good thing. Just watch.
• You don’t deserve these things. You shouldn’t get too happy about them.

This short list is clearly incomplete, but it covers a lot. And these distortions prime the field of my emotions for trauma to come back. This, paired with the fact that the more good things happen to me, and the more objectively safe I become, the more my subconscious feels safe to process and deal with the dross of my trauma. And so it feels welcome, in a way, to come and present itself to me for reconsideration.

Yet Again: Unspeakable

I’m writing this post now really for my own benefit. I’ve not slept in two days (nor have I eaten well). I’ve been in a prison of my own mind, and my trauma is pushing its way out. About the only thing I can manage is to let it out, here. And the thing that is really biting hard is the deep feeling that my trauma is unspeakable.

What I’m reliving is so horrible…is so grotesque and disturbing….that I feel it cannot be spoken. It cannot be expressed. I must contain it within my body and mind and let it fester, because it should never happen to anyone. To speak it incurs shame. And yet, this is wrong.

Trauma is not unspeakable. My experiences are not unspeakable. I am not a criminal. I don’t bear the shame of what happened to me; morally, that falls on the scum who perpetrated it. When people say, ‘he did unspeakable things to her‘…no, these things can be spoken, and perhaps they should. For when we refuse to speak these things, we allow them, like vermin, to flourish underground. They become myths, things that ‘don’t really happen’ in our collective psyche. The victims? They bear the brunt of this, they carry the vermin of the invisible, impossible, unspeakable reality on their own backs and in their own hearts. Eventually we implode under the weight of it all. ‘Unspeakable’ is really just a way to foist the trauma back on the survivor.

So I’m going to be brave and speak it. Get the shame off of me. Throw away the vermin.

Undeserved Torture (TW)

One of the persons whom I most hated as a child was my pimp. He was a brutal, inhuman man. And he had a reign of terror over my mind, which was contrived to keep me silent and obedient. I was small; he was capable of taking my life and regularly and explicitly reminded me of this fact. One of the ways he did this was to have a routine of punishment when I did not accomplish something expected of me with a client, or when I attempted those small, tiny rebellions that sometimes reminded me (and him) that I was a person whom he was hurting.

The worst punishment was the game he played when I angered him. It’s hard to describe in the raw sense; I have to package it within the psychological contraptions he was orchestrating. To punish me, first he had to dehumanise and shame me, so off came the clothes. Instant shame and vulnerability.

Then, he had to intimidate and scare me, and prove he was in control. So he’d put me on the ground and tower over me. Stare at me and scream at me. To prove that he was in total control of everything, he’d demand I do or don’t express such and such emotion. ‘Stop crying’, or ‘why don’t you scream louder bitch?’ Failure to comply (which was often; it was hard to guess what he really wanted) resulted in the next step.

As soon as I was immobilised and numb with fear, he’d get his stick out. I don’t know exactly what the right term for it is. But if you touched at the wrong moment, or it touched you, you’d receive a small but sharp and painful shock. Not enough to cause any visible damage, and not enough to really hurt you (I don’t think, at least, I hope not). And he’d hover it over various parts of my body (except my face and chest, because he was both sadistic and smart), and keep me guessing as to where he would touch me with it. Then he’d touch it to me and hold it there for what felt like ages. I’d seize up, or lose my bladder, or black out. He’d do this as long as he wanted. His favourite spots were my hands, arms (where I could watch), feet, and….well, the other area. And sometimes he’d want me to scream, and sometimes he’d forbid it. Presumably doing the right thing would make it stop sooner.

This is what I’m reliving. This is what images plague my mind as soon as I lay down to sleep (which is the same position in which he tortured me). I’ll seize up in the middle of the flashback, even though I am so disconnected from my body that I can’t feel the pain. Specifically, this time it’s my hand. I was unsuccessful (or hesitant, or unwilling) to give a client a good handjob. ‘You don’t want to do it? I’ll make you wish you did!’ and then he’d shock my palm. I can’t escape it in my waking moments – my hand itches, I get jolts of the memory.

This feels truly unspeakable. Who does this to a child? Who enjoys this? Did I deserve it? Could I have prevented it? How do I carry this? How do I not implode?

I won’t lie. I’ve been tempted these past couple of days to actually implode. If I either lost my sanity or my life, I wouldn’t feel the torture, which has been preserved as a permanent and vivid memorial in my mind. I promised a friend I’d take measures to prevent myself from taking drastic actions. But I am tired of the unspeakable. Of the pain and horror. I think I’ve been punished enough.

I don’t know who will benefit from this retelling of my unspeakable memory. Maybe it’s only myself. Maybe I need to learn that that’s reason enough to speak it.

And maybe some night I’ll sleep again.