Category: Childhood Trauma

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My Pain

It’s been a week since the specialist gave a name to the mystery ailment eating away at my life. Fibromyalgia is a strange word that has far too many syllables for its good.  “Algia” the Latin word for pain, “fibro” refers to fibrous tissues, and “my” muscles. Fibromyalgia doesn’t affect joints or bones and is undetectable by any diagnostic imaging or blood test. Diagnosing Fibromyalgia is no easy task. Firstly every other possibility must be explored. Every direction carefully travelled with a beacon of dimmed hope that this time the reward for the journey will yield answers. In most cases after years of blindly following the winding paths through various referrals, tests, and dead ends all that is left is Fibromyalgia. 

Scientists aren’t certain exactly what causes Fibromyalgia. The majority of humans diagnosed with fibromyalgia also have experienced some form of trauma which is why it’s considered a contributing factor. I don’t have to guess what invited my Fibromyalgia in, it’s there in the word itself “my pain.” Like many survivors of childhood trauma, I struggle to believe my memories. Grasping desperately for tangible evidence that can’t be refuted or denied. I was taught my memories were not enough, that I must have remembered everything wrong. I ask my support team again and again why they believe me when no one else did. How can they possibly know that what I am saying is the truth? The answer is that emotional abuse does leave marks if you know where to look. 

I try so hard to believe myself, and not second guess my memories, but it’s always fleeting. Not long after every therapy session, I would begin questioning my life experiences again. I lacked the tangible proof that I thought I needed. It’s curious that like the abuse I suffered, fibromyalgia leaves no physical evidence and no tangible proof.  It is a diagnosis of exclusion. When there’s absolutely no other reason to explain why you have to fight so hard to just live your life, it’s Fibromyalgia.

There’s no cure for fibromyalgia, the same as there is no cure for the years stolen from me by the parents who couldn’t love me. You can’t make either of these afflictions go away, you have to find a way to live around them. I am not sure how things will turn out and whether or not my physical health will improve, but hopefully being able to give my suffering a label will help me move forward.

 I experienced emotional and psychological trauma due to my parents’ abuse and my body remembers.

Photo by Antoine PERIER on Unsplash
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Being Taught to Hate Myself

When my “well-meaning” first-grade teacher helped lay the foundations for my eating disorder

First grade is a pretty big deal when you are a kid. For me, it meant going to school every day, instead of every other day, but it also meant a new teacher. It also was the first time I came to understand that I had a weight problem. I am not quite sure at what point in the year my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Robertson took it upon herself to start a program for managing my weight. I remember very clearly the first time she led me to the nurse’s room where there was a scale, a bench and no actual nurse. She informed me that I was going to begin weighing in every Monday with her to keep track of my weight. No one else in the class was selected for this weekly weigh-in, so I concluded I must be the fattest and ugliest person in my entire class. 

During lunch period Mrs. Robertson would monitor what I was eating. She shot me the dirtiest of looks over the thick frames of her glasses whenever I ate something she didn’t approve of. I would be so excited to dive into my lunch box at the noon-hour break. I never knew what I was going to find and it could be anything from a peanut butter sandwich to leftover pizza. If it wasn’t fruits and vegetables though, Mrs. Robertson’s shaming eyes were there to tell me I was doing something wrong. 

In my elementary school, you could buy juice, potato chips, or milk at lunch if your parents sent money. I didn’t get treats like this every day but my mom would send money for chips now and then in a little change purse. I felt like a proper adult when that little change purse came with me to school. Mrs. Robertson would take the whole class’ orders.  This was the sum entirety of the input I was able to have over what I was eating for my lunch, picking the flavour of potato chips I would eat, always dill pickle in case you were wondering. She would go through making her list and when it was my turn if I said chips she would give me the look of disappointment. I felt so ashamed of myself and my body in those moments. 

Slowly the shame stare wore me down. I was confused why other kids could have potato chips but not me. That’s the thing about being six years old, isn’t it? Adults are right, and so I must be the problem. After adjusting my self-esteem and self-worth accordingly I came to understand the real lesson Mrs. Robertson taught me. My value and worth are measured in pounds.

(Mrs. Robertson wasn’t really her name)

Photo by Andrew Neel from Pexels
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Beware the Jabberwock, the jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

It has been eight months since I had decided to take a step back from my parents and go no-contact. I don’t think anyone makes this decision lightly, nor is it done without feeling those prickly tendrils of guilt.

Today my mother called. After last month’s Nightmare Before Christmas I had decided that her phone number had earned itself a place on my blocked callers list. It’s true that this particular boundary isn’t constructed from impenetrable materials and it’s more of a wire fence than concrete barrier. I actually felt immensely guilty that I had taken such a drastic measure.

Today she called to tell me that her friend died. Now “friend” may not be the correct term, but I am not sure what else to call my mothers 3rd cousin’s elderly aunt. I know a good many people would have me called out for being callous for not being more supportive, but those people didn’t grow up with my mother.

Photo by Simon Wijers on Unsplash
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Almost Alice

The name Alice is a French derivative of an Old High German name meaning noble. Not the born into a family with a notable status and rank kind of noble, but the good person with courage that values things like honesty and integrity. More importantly, Alice is the name of my most favorite heroine who found herself very much out of her depth trying to reason with the unreasonable.

I am not Alice, not yet anyway, but I will be soon.

While the legal name change process is a bit of a tedious exercise it’s not especially challenging provided you can collect all the required items and come up with the fees, but that’s not what’s going to change my life. That’s my part to do I suppose, healing and finding a way to move forward. It’s okay though because at least I know there is a way forward now, well I believe there is anyway.

Photo by James Wheeler from Pexels