Learned

I've talked before about learned helplessness. A lot of mental health and trauma is about what you've learned. I have a lot of knowledge and insight on mental health in general and my mental health in particular, but I still need a therapist to help me put some pieces together and force me to do the work I've been avoiding, so today Dr. Mooney put a positive spin on the things I view negatively about my mental health. I've already worked hard at understanding that my depression developed, in part, to rescue me from the intense feelings I had as a child going through horrific child abuse, but I didn't go so far as to extend that understanding and compassion towards the rebound effect I have: mainly numbing and suicidal thoughts.

Dr. Mooney's take on this is that these are learned behaviors. I don't remember my mom threatening to kill herself before I was about 15 years old, but she very well could have, given that my memory is not reliable about my traumatic past. I very quickly learned back then that this was my mom's way of shutting down the conversation. She didn't want to have difficult conversations or face what she'd done, except the very few times I can remember her calling me to her room and looking me over for the damage she'd done. She would cry those few times and hug me and promise she wasn't going to do it any more. She broke those promises.

Anyway, same goes for the numbing. My mom very clearly taught me that I wasn't allowed to feel completely rational things about my abuse, so it's what I do now. Furthermore, both of these reactions are only trying to protect me, as bizarre as it might sound to say thoughts about killing yourself are actually trying to protect. The truth is, I've never actually went as far as trying to kill myself. I've always stopped, because, in part, that was not part of my learning. To my knowledge, my mother never tried to kill herself either, only threatened whenever things got hard and she wanted to stop talking about those hard things.

My therapist also pointed out that these can't be bad things because I survived and thrived in part because of these protective factors. God, it's hard to love these parts of myself that I have only seen as incredibly ugly and upsetting, but maybe I'm building towards greater understanding of myself as a beautiful, strong survivor who learned what she had to along the way.

Next assignment: a letter to my little brother. I won't post that publicly. It's not for the public. It's for him.

Survivor

Every morning I catch a good look at myself in the bathroom mirror. It's positioned in such a way that I can see from the top of my head to my hips. I tend to stretch and my fingers reach the ceiling. Sometimes I notice how my body looks stretched out like that, but today I noticed something different. It was a flash of a moment, but I noticed my face. It didn't last long, but the thought I had was that I could see what others saw in me, my strength and beauty. I thought, for an instant, that was what a survivor looked like. After the moment was gone I couldn't get it back, but it was there.

How did I survive? How did I thrive? It all seems highly unlikely. At any point, I could have been killed by my mother because she lost control. I could have been taken in by the wrong people and ended up in dangerous, stuck situations. I could have decided the pain was too much and taken my own life before I had the chance to find true happiness. At times my thoughts will turn to bitterness that I'm still alive, but most of the time I'm grateful. I love my life now.

Still, how? How did I survive? I think about the individuals who came into my life and changed it in big ways and small: all of the teachers who paid special attention to me, the church members who helped me grow, Ahjashi and Emo, friends who came into and then out of my life at various times, internet friends, co-workers, my college roommates and friends, my husband, and the nerd friends I made in the last seven years. I don't know how much any of them truly knew about what I was going through or what I had survived. Hell, I'm seeing that I don't have a full picture of it either, and I lived it.

The more I think about the narrative of my life and story, the more I realize how flawed it likely is. For instance, I used to think that my mom never let me do much of anything typical kids would including sleep-overs, going to the mall or movies, or attend birthday parties. I've always thought this had to do with her being overprotective, that it was all about her conservative, Korean values and maybe there's some of that there but now I'm realizing that she only let loose the reins in this regard after she stopped physically abusing me. Seems likely that the real reason she kept me locked down so tight is because she didn't want to run the risk that I'd get close enough to someone and tell them what was going on, or they'd look too closely and figure it out on their own. God, that makes me so mad. So much of my childhood was stolen and I've lived these happy little lies about what was really going on. Now I'm left to glue the pieces of myself back together, simultaneously likely to flinch or tense at an intimate touch and starving for all of the love and affection and positive feedback I can get like an endless pit of need.

Anyway, all of that pain and anger aside, I've survived. I've thrived. I'm here, and God willing I'll stay. This is what a survivor looks like. It was unlikely I'd live to be almost 30 and as healthy as I am, but here I am.

Inside a Suicidal Brain

"I want to die." | No, you don't.

"Please just let me die." | No, I can't.

"Nothing matters." | The people I love matter. I don't want to hurt them.

"They'll get over it." | No, they won't.

"You've seen people get over it." | It's not that simple.

"They don't really love you." | Stop it. That's not true.

"You don't deserve them." | I'm going to let them decide if I deserve them.

"They'll be relieved you're dead." | They really won't.

"You're so awful for needing them." | People need people. I am a people.

"I want to die." | I'm sorry.

"Please just let me die." | I can't.

"I just want the pain to stop." | I know.

The Real Story?

The thing about being the child of an abusive alcoholic is that so many things about your life and memories don't make sense until later, when you think about it in a different context as an adult. There are strange memories I have that I look back on now and go, "Oh, she was drunk. That makes sense."

This is different. I don't know how I feel about this. I was re-reading over what I wrote yesterday, particularly the horrific incident at church, and I realize that my mom most likely lied about something very important. See, we left the Korean Baptist church I grew up in around the time my mom stopped physically abusing me. We had been in that church pretty much my entire life. That church meant a lot to me. That church was the reason we weren't homeless, that I learned what little of the Korean language I could, that I got music lessons, that I didn't fucking kill myself or become teenage pregnant or abuse alcohol or drugs at a young age. Leaving that church was a big deal. Of course, I had questions. My mom told me at the time that we were leaving because the adults were talking about our family behind our backs because my mom was a divorced woman.

God, I hate that I didn't question that. I mean, sure, the Korean culture is very judgmental about divorced women. That's true. It was a clever lie, but that's just it. It was a lie. I'm 99% sure that it was a lie. Here's what I think the real story is: I can't place that abuse incident at church on a timeline. I don't know how old I was when it happened, but I know it probably happened toward the end of our time at that church because we were in the new church building and the bathrooms had been renovated. Remember I said an adult walked in? I don't remember who that adult was. Remember before how I said the pastor was made aware of what was happening and said that God forgave her and we weren't going to talk about it any more? What if my mom wasn't the one who sought forgiveness? What if the adults who found out about this really did do something, and I never knew? What if that's why my mom left the church that meant so much to me in my young life?

This is a big deal. This is a major reason I fell away from the church, because I felt the judgmental nature of the church was a major betrayal and that led me to question my faith. Don't get me wrong, this doesn't change the fact that I still believe that the Christian faith doesn't fit my worldview any more, but this changes the narrative of my memories. Is this the real story? I don't know how I'd know. I certainly can't ask my mom. I won't. I have half a mind to track down my former pastor and ask him.

I don't know. I just made this realization and I'm still reeling. I had to write it.

Worse

More child abuse memories are coming back very clearly. Just writing them down to get them out of my brainspace.

My mom always hated that I bit my nails. From what I know, I started when I was four years old after an incident where my mom accidentally cut my nails too short and it hurt. Anyway, looking back I realized this incident had nothing to do with me biting my nails. I had not a clue and still don't know what my mom was actually upset about that day, but she decided she was going to make her anger about the fact that I was biting my nails. We were at church a lot, often after hours. I remember this was at the new building we had built for the church. I don't remember who I was with, but we were in the sanctuary and the lights were off. The only source of light came from the setting sun through the windows way up overhead. We were messing around on the piano. It seemed like she burst in out of nowhere. I think she screamed at me. I think the other kids scattered. I was paralyzed. She took my hand and bit my fingers, hard. I was bleeding from my fingers. I screamed and cried and begged her to stop. She snapped and told me to shut up. I don't know what made her stop. I remember she dragged me to the bathroom and made me wash my bloody fingers in the sink. She threatened me to stop crying or things were going to get worse.

Sorry, this is really upsetting, I know. It doesn't seem real, but I know this happened. I know I didn't make this up.

The most upsetting part is I distinctly remember someone saw. There was at least one adult who walked in on this. They did nothing. They didn't stop it. They didn't speak up for me. They did nothing. Maybe that's why my mom stopped and made me get cleaned up, though. I'll never know why that adult didn't help me. Maybe this is why I always play the protector now that I'm an adult. Someone should stand up for the helpless.

Here's another thing I remember. I was in Kindergarten. I was practicing my letters with Mrs. Pesce (I think that's how you spelled her name). She came by and marked my paper with a "C" for correct. When I got home and my mom saw this, she thought I had gotten a "C" letter grade. God, that's so absurd. First of all, who even gives Kindergartners letter grades? Second of all, who in their right mind would think a teacher would give a Kindergartner a "C" for their letters? Yet again I have to assume this had nothing to do with my "C" and I don't know what my mom was really upset about. Anyway, she beat me for this. The next day, we were practicing our letters again, and yet again Mrs. Pesce casually marked my paper with a "C." I burst into tears. Mrs. Pesce was a legendary Kindergarten teacher. I will fight anyone with my fists who tries to argue with me on this point. Anyway, she took me aside in the middle of class and asked me what was wrong. I didn't tell her my mom was hitting me. I never told other adults that. I think I knew it was wrong and my mom would get in trouble for it. I told her I'd be in trouble and I was sobbing in the hallway. Mrs. Pesce knew what was up. She informed the school counselor right away. I don't know how soon after that the meeting was called. I felt so small in that big, yellow-lit room surrounded by adults around the table who grilled me, with my mom present, about what had happened. I knew how to play this. I lied. I told them I was lying and nothing was going on. Sometimes I feel angry that adults didn't protect me when they had the chance, and then I look at this situation and realize that sometimes they really didn't have a chance. They had nothing to go off of. This is what abused children do. This is part of how the cycle continues.

On the ride home my mom screamed at me and threatened me. She asked me if I wanted to get taken away and put in a foster home and taken away from my little brother. Of course, I didn't. I learned my lesson at 5 years old. You never, ever tell other people your mom is beating you because if you do then worse things will happen.

Revelations: Mysterious Disappearing Childhood Media Memories

It never occurred to me until I put the pieces together yesterday.

Alex will often ask me if I watched a certain thing that came out when I was a child. The thing is, I have an impression of these movies or shows or whatever. I get the strong sense I saw the thing. The problem is, I can barely remember anything about it. Why is that? Why can my husband, a mere 3 years older than me, remember very distinct details of something I have no real developmental reason to completely not remember outside of a feeling?

I've finally linked this phenomena I previously wrote off as another trauma reaction - probably. It makes sense. I buried so much that happened to me as a child, and the media went with it. This is why I can't remember nor really like the original Star Wars movies. This is why I can't recall classic action movies of my childhood. This is why it's so hard for me to remember iconic television shows I was probably watching at the time. My traumatized brain just deleted those memories wholesale to protect me, but most likely I've got a backup drive. It'll be interesting to see what, if anything, comes roaring back as I do my trauma work in therapy.

Interesting probably isn't the right word.

Anyway

My mom and I talk about the past sometimes. This wasn't always true. We had literally agreed never to talk about it when I was still a kid. A pastor enabled this, claiming that God was going to forgive my mother for all she'd done and we were never going to discuss this again, and that's what we did for nearly a decade. It was hard to break this treaty, because the abuse really did stop, but eventually I did and it wasn't pretty. Eventually this led to my mom admitting to her mistakes and insisting she'd do everything differently if given the chance.

This is problematic for me. It's hard to validate my own horrific experiences when, for one, my memory fails me sometimes but also because... I turned out okay anyway. Sure, I have depression and anxiety but there's no way to know for sure I wouldn't have ended up this way despite the abuse. Perhaps that's incredibly naive of me. It's hard to imagine what I'd be like had I had a warm, supportive, loving upbringing instead of the abuse that I got. I try to tell myself I might have ended up a horrible person. I don't know.

But look at me. I have more jobs than I can handle. I kicked ass at school. I got married to a good man. I live in my own home, pay my bills, and I'm even - god, this is so hard to swallow - popular. Sure, my mom made some huge mistakes but I turned out okay anyway. That's what I tell her when we talk about this. I tell her that she really did change and it led to me having faith that people can change, though many never do.

People will say, "I'm so sorry" for what I've been through. My response is typically, "I'm sorry for kiddo Amanda. I'm okay now." I now realize that's not true. Kiddo Amanda still lives inside me and sometimes rules me through anxiety and other emotional outbursts. Depression is like a warm blanket that comes in and scoops her up and protects her, not realizing that it's too heavy, it's too much.

I struggle. I struggle every day, but I'm successful anyway. There are a lot of reasons for that: my belief in God, teachers who believed in me, Ajashi and Emo, my aunt, probably my little brother, the love of a good man, and amazing friends to name a few.

I don't know what the point of this entry is. I'm clearly still confused about how I feel or should feel about all of this, but yesterday's entry was a bit... intense. I just want people to know that despite what happened to me, I'm doing okay anyway. I mean, I think I am. Aren't I?

Everything Looks Yellow: Homework from my Therapist

Well, Dr. Mooney, where do I start? Just remember you asked for this.

So, okay, I'm back in your office and I'm thinking about a million things I'm not saying. What am I not saying?

You know, sometimes I wonder if I'm misremembering what happened to me. Like, I'm exaggerating it or maybe even undercutting it. Maybe both. I don't trust my memory. It hides things on me. I think what's most likely is that I have pushed it way down and made it seem better than it actually was, because that's what brains do naturally. I can remember some things very well. I can feel them very deeply. I can remember terror, just sheer, unadulterated terror. I was going to die this time. I was sure of it. I can remember feeling utterly alone, although my little brother was often suffering with me. I have this image of me being very little. The room is very poorly lit. It looks almost yellow. I'm curled up on the floor near a corner but not in it. I'm crying, and I'm trying to stop because she's threatening me. If I don't stop crying, it's going to get worse.

How am I supposed to trust people when that's what I come from? Sorry, that's today not the past.

I don't remember what my aunt said to me the one day we were over her house. I remember my mom was very angry about something and hit me right in front of her - not just once. I want to say she beat me right in front of her little sister, and my aunt couldn't do anything. She waited until my mom stepped away. I don't know why she did - to cool down, because she felt ashamed? I really don't know. I remember my aunt putting her arm around me and though I don't remember exactly what she said, I know she was trying to get me to understand that I was a good person. I wish she were still alive.

The day we found out my aunt died is burned into my memory with the smell of burnt pizza. My mom had thrown a frozen pizza into the oven. The apartment wasn't lit well. Why does everything in my past have a slight yellow cast to it? Anyway, my mom was sewing like she usually did every hour she was at home. She blasted her Korean Christian music like she always did. The phone rang. My mom screamed, "WHAT?!" over and over again. She pounded her chest. Something was wrong. She was crying. My mom never cries. Oh, god, what was it? I asked her. She screamed that my aunt was dead, killed by a drunk driver. My brother came into the room and asked what was wrong. I screamed at him that my aunt was dead. He sat there, completely blank while my mom and I cried hysterically. I yelled at him for not having what I felt was an appropriate emotional reaction. I always took everything out on my little brother.

I have a lot, a shit ton, of guilt about my brother. I was just a child. I was an abused child. I don't feel like that excuses my behavior. It seems like, from my flawed memory, everything I got he got double because I'd turn it on him. Sure, how was I supposed to know better? But how does this not make me a horrible person? I know, I know. It's just what I feel. Ah, god, I can't do this. This is so fucking painful.

I miss my Ajashi so much. I miss his big hands, and how tiny my hands looked in his. I miss his warmth and love. I wonder if he would have loved Alex, because Alex is atheist and Ajashi was very Christian. I don't know how much he knew about how much I was being hurt. It's not like it happened every day. I wonder if he told me so much about a God who loved me for exactly who I was as a way of helping me with what I was going through. I remember him throwing me around in the above-ground pool in his backyard. I'd scream and laugh right before I hit the water. His house had an undefinable smell. It was comforting. It smelled like home away from home, mixed with moth balls and cocoa butter and books. I was never not happy in his house. Even when he was disciplining me, it was with a warmth I didn't feel with my mother. He never meant to be my dad, but he was.

I'm running out of steam. I don't want to do this. I don't. I hate this.

I ran away once. Well, kind of. My mom very clearly told me to get out. I think this was the last time she beat me. I think this was the time with the metal broomstick handle. God, those bruises were awful. I thought she was going to kill me. I thought, this is how I die. I thought, I deserved this. I stole from her. I crossed the highway. She was right to want to murder me. She told me to get out and I did. I wonder if part of her was trying to save me because she realized she'd taken it too far and she was going to kill me.

I had nowhere to go. My aunt was dead. I didn't have a cell phone back then, so I couldn't call Ajashi. Would he and Emo even take me after what I'd done? I didn't even leave the block. I hid in the laundry room. I don't know how long I was in there. Everything has a yellow light. I sat in a corner on the floor or maybe in a chair. It was basement level. Every sound of footsteps I heard terrified me. I thought she'd come to finish the job. I saw her peek through the railing down at me. She demanded I come home. What choice did I have? I don't think it even occurred to me to run. I don't think she beat me any more. I think she screamed and I cried and she threatened that if I didn't stop crying it was going to get worse for me.

You say that I should still be mad at my mom even though she's changed. I don't think you fully understand how much I cannot do that. If my mom kills herself because of this, I won't survive. I can't handle the guilt of her feeling guilt. I know it's absurd. I know.

Maybe that's part of why I feel so miserable at work. The shitty overhead lighting makes everything in my office look yellow. All of my worst memories look yellow.