Reality sucks

Sometimes the appropriate response to reality is to go insane.
- Philip K. Dick

Looking at the broken pieces

For years, I was baffled why I would feel depressed...for all I knew I had a great childhood where I went to the park and the zoo and hiking...all the rest was missing.  I entered counseling because I felt I couldn't communicate.  Shortly after entering marriage counseling, it was humbling to find out that I was an emotional mess.  I didn't know.  I had no freaking idea what my past really was.  There is a certain amount of truth that ignorance is bliss.  Insanity is considered a horrible label but, you know, it makes more sense than what I lived in.  KavinCoach asked me to watch "One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest."  This is not light entertainment.  The instructions were to watch the nurse.  Yup, she was the craziest one of the bunch, vindictive, conniving, lying and in charge.  She reminded me of someone in my life.  The Joker in Dark Night scared me silly, he really was just like my neighbor only the Joker was a little nicer.  With humans like this in my life, there is little wonder that I consider multiple personalities as a gift.  A tag team within myself to cope with the bizarre childhood that was hauntingly like Sybil's.  I had hints and clues.  My children actually called me on it.  "Mother, why do you act so differently sometimes?"  They also learned to manipulate it by asking my permission at different times in hopes of getting a different answer and usually getting it.  A mother is supposed to be consistent.  I couldn't be.  This past week I worked at owning my past.  Turn around and look at hell.  A combination of events sent me into a tail spin that kept NewCounselor working this weekend to help me stabilize.  Integration did not change my past.  I am emotionally healthier now and looking hard at my past; my head is just spinning.   I have to remind myself that I was 5 years old when my nightmare world crashed around me.  I was 9 years old making adult decisions trying to protect my brother and sister.  By the time I was 12 and the 'talk' about girls and boys is finally discussed, I was world weary and baffled by everything.  By 14 years old, my past was gone in the mist of PTSD.  I told one person that I had PTSD and they asked me if I was in the military.  No...I was raised in a war zone...like any war, the children are the casualties. 

Childhood lost