Going back to go forward (8)

A common theme on adoption blogs and forums is the bewilderment that joyful times are always followed by intense lows. Why can’t a traumatised child just be happy, fin? Adoptive parents acknowledge the difficulty their new child has in regulating negative emotions, but rarely acknowledge that affect regulation goes both ways. The real on-going trauma of neglected and abused children is not poor regulation of negative emotions but in their inability to feel without every feeling digging up the earth under their feet.

Gosh, intelligent adults barely can make this connection, how is a child supposed to know that the anger, fear and shame following such a happy day is not:

1)      Due to their parents (mean and cruel!)

2)      Due to their identity (naughty boy!)

The point is, they can’t.

I am left just as bewildered, as I research more into adoption, reading personal accounts, wondering how I ended up being 30 and relating to the emotions and actions of traumatised 4 year olds.  Am I what they have to look forward to? Or were these adopted children rescued in ways I never was?

Last night was difficult. I played with (emotional) fire and (yes) got burned. Knowing how to tap into my EPs doesn’t mean I’m capable of managing those feelings. As a result, I’ve been physically ill for weeks, as well as suffering from dissociation, derealisation, and depersonalisation. Just one of the latter would be traumatising enough.

I visited an interactive art exhibit in Manchester over the holiday, staring blindly at the 113-beats-per-minute flash of my lightbulb. It looked like a tiny bird, fluttering amongst a ceiling of slow giants. Every other light bulb was half the pace of mine. What is wrong with me? I wondered. My face flushed, because I felt fine. I felt fine. But my heart knew differently. When did 113 beats per minute become fine?

More and more, I regress. As the childlike parts become dominant, I can feel whole sections of my brain going dark. The dissociation comes on more strongly at night. I panic at the sight of a strange man in my bed, my husband. And I realise now why I always think he is a family member. That part of me doesn’t know I am married. Therefore, a stranger in my bed must be my mum or my brother. Imagine waking up naked next to your mum or your brother. The disgust, shame, and confusion is overwhelming.

It only takes a moment, a single breath, to become grounded again: to cognitively realise where I am and who I am. But the feelings persist: an unearthly vacancy of self.

Last night, I experienced a key emotional memory. My EPs flashed me in one big synchronised chorus. Remember this? Remember feeling like this? This is you.

I dissociated strongly in response and then relied on distraction to get me to sleep. The visual memory remains, but could I find my way back to the feelings, when my therapist asks me? Already this morning, I find myself denying them. That’s not me. There’s nothing wrong with me. This isn’t a repression; the feelings and memories are already gone.

I’m restless, unable to work, searching for a new project to distract me. Therefore, we must be making progress. We must have hit a nerve. I’m torn between believing I can integrate this mess, undo decades of damaged attachments and emotional trauma, and the blissful ignorance of giving up. That’s called fear, and since I (the ANP) am feeling it, we must be getting somewhere.

I just wish I knew where.

Read on the NHS Choices blog.