The Self in the Esteem

 The Self in the Esteem

For decades, I've struggled with self worth, self-esteem.

My past taught me early on that my value lay only in how I could be of use, be of service, be pleasing to and for others. It was a lesson painfully learned and oft repeated when I dared to consider another way, that I may have a worth that wasn't only attached to those around me and their ever-fluctuating opinion of me. 

Now, I find it's no surprise that a large part of being unable to value myself is due to having been unable to develop a sense of Self in the first place. How could I consider myself to have any value if I didn't develop a Self in the first place. 

Children of narcissists, of abusers ... children born of and into trauma often find themselves preoccupied with learning what their caregivers needs are during the stages of development when they should be learning what their own needs are. 

This missing element in a child's development creates myriad complications as they grow and develop. Interoception, body dysmorphia, damaged (if present) self-esteem and self-worth and, at its worst, it can prevent the development of a true sense of Self. And these are just the ones I can think of in the moment. 

It's only now, in my late 40s that I am realising, accepting, wading through what has brought me to be the person I am today ... the traumas, the determination, the intelligence, the refusal to be the person I could have been ...

Because the person I could have been didn't break the cycle - she followed, dutifully, obediently, unquestioningly, and she was broken. 

I am not she. 

I am me and I am worthy. 

What do you write when you don’t know what to write?

What do you write when you don’t know what to write?

In a surprising but considered and measured turn of events, I’ve made the decision to write a lot more, everyday when feasible.

Today, being a bank holiday, I’ve had ample time to determine a theme, a subject, on which to write … even more than enough time to source and use a/n idea /theme generator.

Here I sit, however, hoping my muse will appear out of the ether and provide much-yearned for inspiration.

The online generators I’ve found haven't been sufficient in prodding loose any sort of ideas ... not even grabbing the physical dictionary and trying to randomly choose a couple of words as catalysts ... subjects ... words to include …

"Gutta-percha" and "roundel" haven’t knocked loose a single whisper of an idea.

And now I believe I’ve answered my own question ... I will write about being unable to write ...

And that's not on irony.

The curious case of the incurious

As an adult, I consider myself to be quite curious, even inquisitive but when I think back to my childhood and adolescence, I'm dismayed that I don’t recall any such feelings from those years. It's as if I experienced that period of my life in some sort of senses-numbing fog. 

It wasn't safe for me to ask questions. It wasn’t safe for me to wonder.

When you experience severe and repeated childhood traumas, you learn to accept everything around you because you fundamentally understand that you cannot trust your own senses. Everything around you becomes unreliable and, by extension, inconsequential.

It becomes vital for survival to understand that anything and everything can change in an instant. Moods shift, the meanings of words change, stationary inanimate objects suddenly become fast-moving dangerous weapons … it’s safer to accept the environment, the surroundings knowing that, expecting that the truth of the given situation only exists in that singular instance. 

I think this is a large part of why survivors of chronic trauma experience such notable self-biographical memory gaps and why it’s often difficult to imagine, to hope for the future. 

If what we know is unreliable, how can we possibly speculate, hypothesise, dream …

A blog is a terrible thing to waste

A blog is a terrible thing to waste

Words - my shield, my weapon of choice, my solace, my refuge. 

Words often come to me at the most inopportune times … when I’m asleep, when I’m sitting with no way of recording their importance, their urgency. 

Words of fiction, of fantasy, of fact. 

Words end up scribbled on random scraps of paper, the back of a used envelope, the inside cover of a nearby notebook, notecards - oh so many notecards. 

Words come, persistent, alarming, emotional, stoic, clinical, and timid - some words slither, some assault, some whisper from the shadows, barely, if at all, perceptible - but even those refuse to be ignored - coming back to the fore and demanding immediate, undivided attention.

Words I will honour here - on this disused, misused blog.

A place, a chance to give voice to the words that haunt me, that tease me from the depths of past trauma, from an inimitable imagination.

The return of a lost old favourite (for some)

This is an adorable LoveBug who has "bitten" many in its time. 

Make it in any colour you like. Make an army of them! 

Gauge isn't really important, the larger the stitches, the larger the finished project will be. 

For whatever yarn you choose, I recommend using the recommended hook size. If you crochet loosely, use a hook size smaller than recommended because you don't want the stuffing to come out from between your stitches! 

Body 

Ch 4. 

Sl st in 4th chain from hook to form ring. 

Round 1 = Sc 6 in ring = 6sts 

Round 2 = Sc2 into each st = 12 sts 

Round 3 = Sc 1, sc2 into next st* around = 18 sts 

Round 4 = Sc 2, sc2 into next st* around = 24 sts 

Round 5 = Sc around = 24 sts 

Round 6 = Sc 3, sc2 into next st* around = 30 sts 

Round 7,8,9 = Sc around for 4(ish) rounds (depending on how "tall" you want your LoveBug to be) 

Bottom 

Ch 4. 

Sl st in 4th chain from hook to form ring. 

Round 1 = Sc 6 in ring = 6sts 

Round 2 = Sc2 into each st = 12 sts 

Round 3 = Sc 1, sc2 into next st* around = 18 sts 

Round 4 = Sc 2, sc2 into next st* around = 24 sts

Round 6 = Sc 3, sc2 into next st* around = 30 sts 

Add eyes (and antennae as you see fit). 

Stuff using "poly-fil" (Stuffed Animal Stuffing). 

Find what will be the "face" of your LoveBug (mine is 10 stitches wide). 

Mark the bottom edge of the body on either side of the face with stitch markers. 

Skip 1 sc, mark, skip 1 sc, mark so that each side has 3 markers. 

Use sc to attach the LoveBug's "bottom". 

I started in the back, making sure to tuck my ends into the body (so I had less weaving-in to do. Yes, I am -that- lazy). 

At each of the stitch markers, make the sc to join both pieces and then ch 4. 

Sc in 2nd ch from hook, sc in each ch back to the body and sc into the next "joining" sc (that joins the bottom to the body). 

Ch4, sc into 2nd from hook, etc. 

This is done once at each of the markers, creating 6 legs in total. 

Once the circle is complete, sl st to join, bind off and weave (or tuck) in the last end. 

Don't forget to name your LoveBug(s)! 

I used a random name generator she found online.

Poem (also free!)

"I've been bitten by the LoveBug."  

LoveBugs bite wherever they can 

They'll bite anyone, woman or man. 

This LoveBug bit me on the finger

The scar, now on my heart, does linger. 

And though he bit me (and it was sore) 

I met you and asked for no more. 

You're my favourite symptom, ailment, disease 

But don't fret, dear, you don't make me sneeze. 

So, when my eyes well up and I look sick 

Grab the LoveBug and blame him quick. 

He gave me you as an infection 

I want no cure in an injection. 

The LoveBug now returns to you 

In the hopes that you'll be smitten, too.

originally published on my old website: morethanblue.com in September 2008
 
(C) TMBJ all rights reserved - also mentioned here: https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/lovebug 
All information in this post is free to share/use for profit as the maker sees fit. Please attribute credit where possible.

The puzzle

When you’ve spent the past three decades thinking you’ve had your shit together, only to learn that it was a façade and that denial is, not only real, but also a real mean bitch; how do you pull yourself apart and heal the broken or missing pieces of yourself so that you can have a hope of reassembling everything into something even remotely whole?

This is the puzzle I have been dealing with in every waking moment (and in most while asleep, too) since early October 2019. 

Childhood trauma, abuse, and neglect are powerful forces that, over time, inflict more damage, create deeper wounds, than is often fathomable. 

PTSD triggers seem to come from nowhere at times ... feeling a compulsion to grab house keys every time I take the bins out in case someone locks me out of the house; accepting blame when it is warranted but becoming almost debilitatingly anxious at the faintest whiff that I might be blamed for something that isn’t my fault; the anger that seethes through me when someone innocently asks where I’m going ...

Some of my triggers I have been aware of for a long time (the smell of chicken noodle soup makes me anxious and nauseated; when I feel I’m being ignored I want to just run away, far and fast) and some arrive suddenly, violently, swelling from some unknown abyss, leaving me drained, empty, confused, and wounded all over again. 

It’s bittersweet, opening up these sudden scars, realising past traumas that my subconscious decided to bury. I oscillate between “gods, I didn’t realise it was so bad!” and “that explains *so* much!” and both reactions are valid, if perplexing in their symbiosis. 

As I meet each one, systematically tearing it down to get to its roots, to unearth it’s core, I’m exhausted from the pain of remembering, the effort of disassembling ... and yet, I’m exhilarated by pride in what I’m accomplishing, how hard I am working to help the one person who always took a backseat in my life; myself. 

I work to put these delicate pieces of myself back together, discovering how they all fit, finding forgiveness for the hurt, scared, lost child I once was. 

And each piece finds its place within me anew. Strengthening my foundation. Building my sense of self. 

Me; my favourite and most challenging puzzle. 

Please be patient

Please be patient with me

Please be patient with me as I accept and navigate my new reality

Please be patient with me, this suggested diagnosis is difficult to swallow -- as much as I know it fits, it answers so many questions -- as much as it's almost epiphanic in its simplicity

Please be patient with me, I truly thought I knew what was going on

Please be patient with me, the path through "severe depression" cannot be rushed

Please be patient with me -- I know you're used to my highs, my "everything's fine"s, my ability to know the bright side of everything

Please be patient with me -- I, too, am used to those highs, that vantage point

Please be patient with me, the realisation that it's all been a cover, a facade over something deep, something tumultuous -- is difficult for me to handle

Please be patient with me as I (again) work to rebuild myself

Please be patient with me as I struggle with the amount of work still yet to be done.... especially when I feel I've come so far

Please be patient with me as my own patience, my sense of self, are battered and torn and shredded

Please be patient with me as I search for the right words, the definitions, the explanations, the realisations that I hope will serve me well in communicating what I, myself, don't understand

Please be patient with me as I struggle