Blog

Trigger Warning: This blog contains sensitive material not suitable for children, including descriptions of child abuse, neglect, abandonment and sexual assault. Reader discretion advised.

 

What day is it?

I ask myself this question a lot lately.

The daily stress, and the uncertainty of a pandemic, can confuse a person. Add a dash of complex PTSD, season to taste. Sometimes, it’s difficult to find the right recipe for living, although I recognize that my ingredients are superior, compared to those that came before me. I continue to struggle daily, but I’m up for the challenge. It won’t be easy, but the rewards will be great.

 

I consider myself very fortunate to be living in these times.

When I started my quest, to really understand what happened to me as a child, I made a decision. To make all of this REALLY count, my voice must come from an honest place of love, not fear.

 

That might sound easy to some of you. For me, it is a daunting challenge. Up until I started healing, I fully embraced the victim mentality. Revenge sounded good to me. I was an abused child! They must pay! Off with their heads!

 

As I comb through the details of my childhood, at the same time, I am also dealing with the damage my own behavior caused at home. Relationships have been fractured. Trust, lost. Even after a year of sobriety, there is still a long road ahead.

 

Once again I am awake before the sun comes up. I never set my alarm. My body seems to be in charge of when I will get up and go. The first ritual of the day is opening the back door to let the cat in. After showering my feline with affection, I pop in a coffee pod and power up my phone. This is my time. The house is silent. I begin my daily reading.

 

Today, I am very interested in learning about the relationship between complex PTSD due to childhood trauma and bipolar disorder, formerly known to me as manic depression. I have learned that both my mother and step-mother were diagnosed bipolar. However, like me, my mother also suffered from complex PTSD. Her childhood trauma began at the age of two, when her mother had a mental breakdown and was hospitalized for the first time. My mother and her sister were put in an orphanage, the first of many.

 

Before we were taken away, my mother had custody of my younger brother and me for eighteen months. It did not go well. When it was all said and done, both of her children would have lifelong scars, both seen and unseen.

 

When did it all begin? There are clues.

 

I have a very familiar memory of trick-or-treating with my brother and knocking on a door. A lady, holding a dog, instead of candy, answered with a quizzical look on her face. “Trick or Treat!?” we shout.

 

“It’s not tonight. “ says the lady, “ You’ve got the wrong night”. I dug up the photo. There it is, just as I remembered. Except now, I have meaning and context.

 

Something is connecting in my mind. I check my records. Sure enough, date of final divorce; October 29, 1971. Wow. I’m thinking that a divorce battle, and becoming a single mother with two children may have been a shock to her system.

 

Now another memory is coming to the surface. I am with my mother in a car. We are driving to school for my first day of kindergarten. She pulls up to the front of the building and leaves me in the passenger seat as she goes into the school. After a while she returns to announce that there will be no school for me that year. I never did attend kindergarten.

 

What seemed confusing to me as a child is now clear to me as an adult. My mother’s mental health was deteriorating.

 

Regarding the relationship between childhood trauma and bipolar, according to the Blue Knot Foundation;

People who have experienced childhood trauma often struggle with regulating their emotions and with controlling their impulses…People diagnosed with bipolar disorder… cycled through extremes of emotion… and have greater challenges maintaining attention, and with memory.

“Complex trauma and mental health” The Blue Knot Foundation

 

That certainly seemed to be the case with my mother.

Her explosive rage is something I’ll never forget. The pressure was increasing and she was beginning to unravel. Unfortunately, my brother and I paid the price.

I have to sit very still and breathe deeply to venture into the darkest recesses of my mind. A big part of me is still afraid to even go there.

 

The babysitters house was big and filled with children. The bigger kids controlled the games. They would never let me play because I was little. One day they called me over and said I could play second base. I was so happy. Then the darkness closed in as I fell to the bottom of the hole that was hidden underneath the carefully placed piece of cardboard covering the makeshift second base.

 

The babysitter’s son was even older and lived in an apartment behind the main house. Somehow I ended up on his bed with my bloomers down around my ankles. I remember him above me. There was Vaseline. I was floating above, I could see myself on the bed down below.

 

Another flash and I’m sitting at a picnic table outside. The babysitter’s son tells me to go to the apartment. In an effort to get away I circle around the building on the opposite side only to end up face to face with my abuser. I can’t get away from him.

 

I finally told some older girls what was happening . When I say older, they might have been eight or 10 years old. The three of us climbed a tree and I told them everything as best as I could at the age of four.

 

The next time I was in the apartment, there was a knock at the door. He told me to answer it. It was the two little girls I told. “Tell them we’re making coffee.” he said. I cracked open the door and did what I was told, then slowly shut the door.

 

Eventually it ended. I recall my mother yelling at me in front of the house. We never went back there again.

My stomach is burning now. I am fully present to feel it and I know it will pass. Before EMDR therapy, I could not tolerate these sensations and needed alcohol to self soothe.

 

I have learned about my physical symptoms and their connection to my trauma . Now I have new tools to help me. Yoga ,deep breathing, meditation, medical marijuana. Going outside for a walk or talking with another  survivor helps too.

 

I also remind myself why I am writing this blog. To understand. To forgive. To love. Not just myself, but EVERYONE in my story. If I can’t forgive them, how can I forgive me?

 

More than anything, I want my family to heal. We need forgiveness, mercy and grace. These gifts come from a place of love, not fear. Revenge has no place in this equation .

 

With each new day of discovery, I realize that I will not be able to receive these gifts ,unless I give them away.

 

Naome Bradshaw

 

Disclaimer: THIS WEBSITE DOES NOT PROVIDE MEDICAL ADVICE – The information, including but not limited to, text, graphics, images and other material contained on this website are for informational purposes only. No material on this site is intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health care provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition or treatment and before undertaking a new health care regimen, and never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website.