The Things I Know About What I do not Know
The Things I Know About What I do not Know

The Things I Know About What I do not Know

So for this week’s article, I want to talk about the time in my life when my c-ptsd was at its worst. Of course I had a range of severe problems before them, all of which I overcame, avoided, and tricked one way or another. When thinking about the causes of these issues it all added up, and helped me gain the intuition I needed, that eventually helped me, ultimately. But the time until then was one of daydreams, medication, avoidance, severe panic, shame, and guilt. I believed, either because I was told or came to the conclusion myself, that every issue was to be regarded at face value, and helped with a straightforward treatment. I thought of helping myself as less of a journey and something that I wanted, and more of just a part of life or something I was forced to do. My problems were not to be understood, but blocked out, until they couldn’t be anymore. Which resulted in no other effort but being told off and going to therapy once a week. It was like how I felt didn’t matter, I just needed to stop bothering everyone else. Being treated like a flawed animal animal as a kid who feels deeply, and needs actual understanding and sympathetic parents to guide her, how fucked up is that? Bruh, you are the sole reason I have these problems, why I act the way I do, I didn’t have a fucking choice. Yes I can take responsibility for my behaviors now, but as a confused shameful child getting all these mixed messages, seeing and being subject to one thing and being told it was another totally separate thing? Haha, I totally love my mom though lol. OH MY G-D, there is way more to this story but that’s for another time. K but that’s far from the worst of it. I’d love to eventually go into what happened, the daily life and expectations I was forced to endure, and the general feeling of having no control or now way out. Legit ew. Just ew. Parents, amiright? Oh and they thought they were such responsible parents really laying down the law. Self righteous bozos. Clowns. ליצנות. For another time. For now I’m talking about basically the aftermath. Not that everything stopped, but I felt safer, more in control I guess.

I am sorry if I sound annoying or whiny, I understand that, however that being said I would like to reiterate that I did have severe problems before the period of time I am going to describe. The reason why I am focusing on this period of time in this article is because at this point I was doing better for myself than I ever had before, and on surface level everything was worked out. Yet even then things were bad and I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t just get a break, even for a brief period of time. So this is the time when I learned to start being happy and responsible for myself, and working through what happened, for myself. The following sparked all of that.

I was working at a summer camp. At this point in time I got overwhelmed so easily, you do not even know. Like it was an unbelievable, almost comical level. I tried to suck the most enjoyment out of life that I possibly could When things were good even just for a moment, the pressure being released felt euphoric, it felt like I was addicted to those times, and was in a panic the rest of the time, cus I needed those minutes to be happy, before doubt took over. Because the rest of daily life was unbearable. I secretly felt so responsible for legit everything. I wallowed in guilt to a debilitating blinding extent. Feeling like nothing, feeling ashamed, and feeling dread was normal. I just worked through it. I was always panicking or else feeling low and sluggish, or both at the same time, because I was exhausted from feeling panicked and overwhelmed, and filled with dread, that I was exhausted, and couldn’t make rational decisions. Yet I was seemingly happy, but maybe forgetful or absent, or at times a hurried or desperate person. I couldn’t see any other perspective than the one I wore like a skin. 

Working with kids aged third and fourth grade didn’t help things. There were two main counselors, and me, for around 15 kids, and they were split into two groups between the two counselors. I switched between them throughout the day. The kids needed a lot of help, which was my job while the main counselors instructed. It took a lot to keep them happy yet we managed. The rule was, I always had to be looking for a kid to help, and if no one needed help I had to chat with them. To keep them busy and happy I told them stories, made them take turns, and broke up their squabbles. Normal counselor stuff. For the last two weeks of the camp, one head counselor left, and there was another girl, a year younger than me working as a counselor, and the bunks were combined, making things harder.

I had dissociative episodes at least twice a week, some worse than others. I would ruminate all day long severely. It was my way of making sense of things. Everything was confusing, and just didn’t make sense, it was all my fault, I was helpless, powerless, yet also responsible somehow. I mean, I don’t think my cereal was laced. There are so many contradictions in the way I experienced things. I saw ulterior motives where there were none, hypothesized about real things, and things that my mind had conjured alike. I jumped to conclusions in great spurts, bounding leaps. Nothing made sense because everything did. 

I felt subconsciously bad for every little problem they had. It brought up the feelings of devastation that I felt at their age. If only someone had been there for me, like I would be for them. But kids mess up and make mistakes, they fight. One crying is not the end of the world. They won’t spiral into depression. Yet the dread I felt for them convinced me otherwise. Some days were worse than others. I’d be triggered to an extent where I’d walk around like a zombie. There were different stages to these mini ‘flashbacks’. Something would happen. I’d feel like I was being pulled down or might throw up, abruptly, I’d be younger again. My bones would feel smaller, my hair thinner. I didn’t belong in my body. I’d loathe myself for who I was now. For forgetting what I’d been through. “How could you forget me?!” I’d yell internally, while a pang of guilt and sorrow overtook me. I’d go to a private place to cry, and as I cried I’d work myself into a numb stupor so that I couldn’t remember what I was crying about in the first place, and I’d have to remind myself where I was, and who I was. I would be so numb and disoriented, that once I went into the storage room, I came out, not remembering why I had been there. I must have been asked to retrieve the white paint because I was asked by the head counselor, “Did you get it?” I asked what I was supposed to be getting. She answered white paint. She seemed worried. She told me I could go home if I needed. I said no. 

That’s my story. I may or may not continue it next week, depending on my mood. Thanks for reading!

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