GUILT and SHAME: How Abuse Distorts Perceptions

WARNING: This post may cause triggers. Sharing about self body image, psychological abuse and sexual abuse.

How many of us can recognize how our pasts effect our present and future? Not being able to see this connection is not as uncommon as you might think. As a matter of fact, it is more common that you could imagine. That is why I will periodically write about past events and explain how those events affect me today.

Eating disorders don't start out of the blue. They develop over time. For every addictive or hurtful behavior there is a root beginning. There is a point where things shift and move towards an unhealthy path. It is time to recognize those points of shifting, work through them and propel ourselves into a healthier direction.

I don't think that I've talked much about my feelings of guilt, shame or disgust. Though I do not feel at fault for what my parents have done to me, I do feel fault and guilty for what I've done to myself. I've also recently discovered that I feel fault and guilt about things my parents blamed me for especially if there was something I did want to do and I am told that something bad came of it...I believed it.

GUILT

When I was very young, about 6 or 7 we had this lovely dog named Brutus. Funny, I'm just now able to remember his name. He was a large brown boxer. My parents had just recently gotten him. I was a little afraid of him because he was so large, but I cared for him very much and wanted to bond with him. One day after finishing my school work I went out side to play with Brutus. He was lying beside the back porch. I called his name, but there was no response. I called is name again and still no response. Then I began screaming his name over and over again. I ran in the house still screaming and crying. My mom had her back to me. "He's dead...he's dead!" I guess my mom got tired of me screaming. She turned around and glared at me. "It's YOUR fault!", "It's YOUR fault that he's dead!", "YOU never wanted to feed him or clean up after him! I had to do it all!", "He died because YOU didn't want to take care of him!" Eyes stretched wide and completely silenced, I stopped crying. Was it really my fault? Did I kill Brutus?

To this day that moment still haunts me and yes, in a strange kind of way, I still feel guilt for Brutus' death. I feel guilt when I get a little angry with my son and just want him to go to another room and be quiet for awhile. It's not that I would have said anything. Usually it's just a passing thought. But there have been times when he's gotten sick after I had a thought like that and I wondered...was it my fault? Will God take him away from me because I wanted him to be quiet? It is truly unfortunate what I experienced that day so many years ago. And it is even more unfortunate that I am still affected by my mother's words.

Recently there has been another incident when I've felt profound guilt for something I ultimately had no control over. It was when my son had his bout with constipation. Even though his pediatrician said it was common, I still felt as thought I had done something wrong. I could not sleep for carrying the guilt. My guilt turned into anger. How dare my body work properly when my son's body cannot. The guilt was more than I could bare. I hated myself and I began starving myself again. I know this is extreme. I can't help how I felt. I believed bad things happen when you don't do things perfectly and being a less than perfect mother caused my son to get sick. This way of thinking is a product of the abuse that I endured. I realize that. Now I need to figure out how to combat those strong emotional responses to my past. How do I shake this?

SHAME

My parents were ashamed of me and I was ashamed for embarrassing them especially in public. I could always tell they felt this way. It was how their voices dropped when it came time to introduce me. "And this is my (pause) daughter." Not only did I not behave normally like other kids my age. I wasn't as attractive as my parents. They were picture perfect...on the outside... I felt like an alien, often wondering if they found me under a bush or perhaps someone left me on their doorstep. I would imagine a spaceship flying by and I haphazardly thrown from the ship landed in my parents yard. I can't ever remember feeling as thought I belonged. Oh well, they were stuck with me and I them.

I  about being fat and an eyesore...a disappointment. They would constantly point out all of my flaws and tried earnestly to figure out how to correct them. I lost the ability to see myself as worthy of being loved or worthy of anything. I lost the ability to see myself at all.

I never believe that I deserved how I was treated, but I didn't believe that I deserved to be treated any better either. I wasn't sure what better was anyway.

I still feel the shame for being fat and unattractive. And fat is still my safety net, never to worry about being touched again. Just thinking about it makes me want to scarf down a few oatmeal cream pies as I schlep around the house in old socks and loose clothing camouflaging my girth. It's not working. I tell myself that I dress this way because I want to be comfortable. Lie! I'm hiding...hiding in plain sight. If only I could implode and disappear.

Everyday is a struggle...going through life hoping no one sees me. I hate having to deal with the outside world, my tenants, especially. When I go to the properties, I feel like everyone is staring at me because I'm so fat and disgusting. Shame oozes out of my pores as I encounter each new person. There is silence and  Dear God, please make this go away. I am that same little girl walking down the street with her parents and feeling as though she is a complete outcast and does not belong. Only now I'm not with my parents, I'm with my son. My beautiful son, tall, handsome and well dressed. And here I am...well, I just am.

This reminds me of a book I once purchased for a friend, "When will I Be Good Enough: Healing the Daughters of Narcissistic Mothers." I should have kept that book for myself. I'm always stuck in between feeling or not feeling good enough to be my son's mom. Almost identical to feeling that I was not good enough to the daughter of my parents.

Are you starting to see the distinct patterns between past and present?

All I've ever wanted was to be loved and accepted. No matter how I look I would never be accepted or loved by my parents, many family members and past so called friends.

Fact: In the past, most of the people in my life were only in my life because they wanted or needed something. I am not mad at them. I only wish that I could have had a healthier relationship with them. I wish they could have seem more value in me as a person.

Now that I have been blessed with both love and acceptance from my son and a few friends, I still struggle with believing that it's real or perhaps I just don't know how to accept unconditional love, because it's not something that I'm familiar with.

I hope to become a healthier slimmer me without the fear. I don't know what it's going to take to get there, but as many of you already know, I am always searching for answers and solutions and I believe I will find those answers and solutions one day.  

A huge thank you to those of you who I've come to know and love. Thank you for your support, love and kindness and thank you most of all for your acceptance.

Insomnia Night #1 - June 19, 2014

The last few days haven't been so bad. My nighttime feedings seemed to be slowly fading away until last night.

I don't know what was going on with me last night. I could not sleep no matter how hard I tried. I even had a couple glasses of wine and that didn't help. As a matter of fact, I didn't enjoy the wine at all. I started snacking. First I got a hand full of chips. The taste was awful and I struggled to eat them. Even though I struggled I didn't stop until the last one was gone. Unsatisfied I continued to toss and turn again. Things were different last night. It wasn't my mind roaming through the kitchen as it has in the past, it was my emotional state that was searching for comfort. I just wanted to relax and go to sleep.

My mind was racing. Bad thoughts creeping in...memories of my past that I really didn't want to deal with...not tonight. I can't seem to calm myself. I'm pacing the floor and visiting the bathroom frequently to look at my self in the mirror. I reminded myself to love myself, but that wasn't the issue. My love for myself is growing. This wasn't about self it was simply about comfort. I was emotionally and physically uncomfortable. Could it be hormones? I am of that age. Could this be PTSD? I think I'm becoming hyper vigilant. Starting to feel like something's going to happen. What the hell?! I just want to go to sleep.

I check on my son. He's sleeping peacefully and so is our little Ginger. I check the locks on the doors and make sure all the windows are shut. I turn on the back light to see if anything is going on outside. I peer out of the front window and everything is still.

Everything is fine, but I still can't sleep.

I've been praying more lately. Mostly being thankful for all God has graciously done for me. I felt fine while praying last night...I think. As the night went on the feeling of being out of sorts increased. I should have been paying more attention. As I recall, memories started coming in a couple nights ago. It wasn't too terribly bad...the usual. I did have a nightmare a few nights ago also. One of those reoccurring nightmares where I'm running from something or someone the entire time. I am so exhausted after a night of running in my dreams. I usually remember these thing and take mental note of them, but I didn't this time. I hate being this way.

I tossed and turned for another hour or so and then I went back to the kitchen. I need comfort. What will give me comfort? And then I thought...ice cream. That's it! Usually when I eat something sweet is sooths me right to sleep. I had one twix ice cream bar left. This should do it. I ate the ice cream and waited for the sugar to kick in. I think I felt a little comforted, but it wasn't enough. Not to mention I didn't even enjoy the taste. It's like my mind stopped working properly and my taste buds became overly sensitive. The salt from the chips actually burned my tongue a little. That was a first. The taste of everything was over-exaggerated.

What's else can I do? There's nothing. I could take a sleep aide, but I don't because my son may call for me in the middle of the night. Sometimes he has nose bleeds or needs albuterol. I have to be able to hear him if he needs me. I'm so tired. Tired of going to the kitchen. It's not working for me anyway. Tired of walking around the house checking to see if everything is okay. Tired of flipping from side to side in my bed. I've gotta go to sleep. I can't take this funky feeling anymore. Need to sleep.

I'm no stranger to insomnia. Usually it's welcomed. Sleepless hours are the time when I get lots of writing done or perhaps work on a drawing. I quite enjoy the quite stillness of the house, however, I didn't feel the joy last night. I hope tonight is better. I'm still not quite myself. Past memories are still haunting me. If it gets bad for me again tonight I'm going to do something different. I'm going to exorcise. Why didn't I think of that last night? I can do some stretches and deep breathing, maybe even try meditation. That's it! Choose to take a healthier path and a healthier view of what's happening. I can't stop it, so I'm going to have to manage it. 

My eating today was not too good. I ate my first meal around 1:30 and only then because I continue to fear waiting too long to eat and experiencing the dreaded pain and discomfort afterwards. When I did decide to eat I had something light. It was left over orzo with tomatoes and veggies. That settled well on my stomach. For dinner we had a vegetable medley and oven baked popcorn shrimp.

Tonight I will pray as I usual and hope the bad images in my head fade again. I used to get angry when this happened. How could my parents be such pigs and do what they did to me! Why couldn't I have been precious in their eyes? I don't get that angry anymore. It's not worth it. I loved my parents...despite what they did. I had no one else to love and they were all I knew. I just wish the bad memories would go away. I'm beginning to make some peace with what they did to me. It's easier when I am able to feel self worth. I'm getting better about feeling self worth. Okay...I've put my thoughts to paper. Perhaps I will find a measure of peace from this. Tomorrow is another day.

Goodnight my friends, pleasant dreams.

Don't Eat When You're Not Hungry - April 2, 2014

"Don't eat when you're not hungry." I've heard this sentence in my mind everyday since the first time it was spoken to me in 1975. I was 10. No matter what I do the words are always lingering. A constant reminder turned anthem.


My parents took me to the doctor. I can't remember for what. I was sitting on the examining table as the doctor spoke with them. He wasn't my pediatrician, but another doctor in a larger place. Everything was bright white and sterile. Even the windows offered little contrast as the glass reflected that awful bright whiteness. I continued watching as the doctor spoke with my parents. I couldn't hear what he was saying. My ears were deafened by the sound of my own thoughts. Inside my head I'm screaming, "Please make them stop abusing me! Please! I don't want to go home." I felt the words rise into my throat, but I dare not open my mouth. I just sat there nauseated as I watched evil play the role of concerned parents. All hope was gone. The doctor would never believe me. He'd never believe I lived with monsters. They seemed so normal and descent. My mother in her silent stance dressed to perfection and my father eager to write a check. They stopped talking for moment, looked at me and smiled, but all I could see were fangs waiting to devour me. I turned away from them and waited for the torment to begin again.


I heard a new word on that day. Obese. The doctor said I was obese. I wasn't sure what that meant, but I knew it must have had something to do with my weight. My weight had become a focal point for my parents for awhile now. I weighed in at 100lbs. I guess it didn't matter that my parents fed me cakes, cookies, snacks and candies from their store, not to mention my night feedings. I wonder if my mother knew. Couldn't she see the evidence of my night feeds? If she did, nothing was ever said, not to me anyways. My weight was the first thing people saw and the topic of discussion...always...even now. I suppose talking about my weight was much easier than seeing the dark circles under my eyes or the look of death and hopelessness in my expression. I see the pain when I look at my childhood photos and I wonder.


I used to look into the bathroom mirror and say to myself, "don't eat when you are not hungry," over and over again. When my parents tried to make me eat breakfast I'd say that I wasn't hungry. If they pushed I pulled out my favorite sentence. It worked every time. After awhile they seemed to be proud of my not eating, hopeful that the extra pounds would fall off quickly. Each yearly well visit would dash their hopes...another 13 lbs. gained. No one could understand it. I think this is when the denial began. Everyone around me said the same thing, "How can she be gaining weight, she barely eats?" I heard it so much that I began to believe it.


Here I am today, 38 years later and I am still telling myself, "Don't eat if you're not hungry." How do I undo a 38 year habit?

March 16, 2014

I was just thinking about today being Sunday and how I always get a little agitated about the weeks end coming to a close. It's almost like losing a protective covering, leaving me completely exposed to whatever comes in the days during the week and once again I wait for the protection of the weeks end to come.


There was a time, not so very long ago when I felt the exact opposite of what I feel today. It was during the time my parents were alive. Home was never a safe haven, not even as an adult. It was just a place to store my stuff and to lay my head when I had nowhere else to go. I relished the weekdays because I could escape into work which was and has been my safe place. Work is where I first received positive validation...positive anything for that matter. At work I was valued. I didn't have to worry about being perfect even though I'd strive to be. There was never any screaming or beatings at work. I was free to be who I am or who I thought I was...for the most part.


Weekends and holidays were a great source of stress. The stress became even greater when I moved away from home. The expectation was to visit with my parents every weekend. Saturdays were fine, but Sundays were preferred. Dad worked on Saturdays. On Sundays I would be tortured by both instead of just the one. I guess I've always been a source of entertainment for my parents, in the most manipulative, horrid kind of way. My mom, who is the main catalyst for weekend visits, would never sit still. No matter what, we could never have a decent conversation or simply sit in the same room. She was always on the move. Always working like a slave cleaning a house that was never dirty. I guess it didn't matter she never had the time or inclination to have a real visit with me. My purpose...to show her continued absolute control. I was still her obedient pet. When she called, I came.


Holidays were the worst. Again my mother would blow her proverbial whistle and there I'd sit by her side like a wasted appendage. I was a source of shame for them, unattractive, useless but still obedient. Her request for my presence simply rolls of her tongue. Never a consideration that I might want to do something else for the holiday. It didn't matter that I spent the entire day vomiting and crying before pulling the pieces together. Once again preparing for hell.


We'd always have dinner together, dad controlled the mealtimes. Even on the rare occasion family members were invited. Every time, like clock work, dad would wait unit mom was ready to serve dinner, then he'd announce that he had to go to his barber shop for something. He'd make all of us wait for hours before returning home. Not one morsel was to be consume until he returned, less there be hell to pay behind closed doors.


We ate the same meal holiday after holiday. Usually there would be silence at the table unless dad wanted to engage in negative gossip about someone. Mom sat in silence waiting for endless accolades about her meal.


After my divorce, mom always insisted that my son and I pack up and spend Christmas Eve night with them. Dear God, why?! If I were to say no...then most assuredly I need be prepared for the emotional gouging of the century. I gave up and gave in.


If thou hath dwelt in the belly of hell then let thy hell be brief.


Here we go again. I packed a bag, put my son in the car and headed out for my parent's house. It was late. Mom was overjoyed. Christmas carols playing, lights twinkling, cakes and pies baking.


Hell doth hath a sweet stench.


I prepared the pull out sofa in the family room and got my son ready for bed. He enjoyed running around from room to room and watching the lights on the tree. Dad would be in his room as usual, far away from anything resembling a family moment. I'd offer to help, but there was no need. I could never do anything right anyway, so I sat and offered idol chit chat.


Later that evening mom decided to sit in the family room with me and my sleeping child. My son and I are both heat sensitive and needed the room to be cool. Mom didn't mind much...I guess, she wrapped a blanket around herself and started a conversation. Soon dad walks in, asks mom is she's cold and proceeds to turn the heat up. I kindly asked that he not do that because my son and I could get sick. Dad in a fit of rage, begins the scream our being in HIS house and HIS wife being cold. He storms out of the family room leaving the heat on high. Mom turns to me and says, "You'll need to apologize to your dad." I'm not surprised. I apologized, for what I'm not sure, I just did. All was well, order and control once again regained. I'm done. This will never happen to me again.


The next day I announced to mom that I will never spend another Christmas Eve with them. From then on only on Christmas day and only because she insisted. Stunned, mom looks at me. I can see the wonder in her eyes. Did she already forget about last night? Oh, that's right. My feelings don't matter. I'm only to follow protocol. Needless to say, I found the courage never to put myself or my son in that position again. If only I could have always been so brave.


Today I ate breakfast at 8:57am. It was the usual. Lunch was around 3pm. I had 3 scrambled eggs, 2 pieces of cheese toast and water. For Dinner we had baked chicken breast, spinach casserole and baked corn pudding.


Last night I eat my cake with a scoop of frozen greek yogurt, vanilla. It was not as good as I imagined. I didn't enjoyed it, but I ate it anyway. There were no urges to continue feeding. Next time, I think I'll do without the cake all together...hopefully.