Other That Wants Me Dead
I recently recovered a memory where I, at the age of 5, had gone catatonic due to a traumatic event and went through an existential crisis that consisted of a lot of existential terror. Due to this I developed an other. A personality that doesn't want to be alive.
Recovering that crisis has been a trial in itself. I didn't just remember it, like what happens when trauma is stored in the body, I relived it. Just imagine being dehumanized by your family of 8. Giving you mind breaking traumas over and over again since you were an infant. Spawning many different others. Leading up to the point were you just can't take existing anymore.
Now when this personality takes over, it does its best to stop me from breathing. That's how it happened when I was just months old. I couldn't take the beating anymore so I stopped breathing and stopped my heart. When I was shook back to life, the first eternal scream started in me head. Another one was from that existential crisis/terror. Which leaves me one more to discover. When I'm quiet and look inside I can hear three distinct eternal screams in me. Always screaming.
I hope the third one isn't like the one when I was five. I couldn't take it if it was. The terror of sitting in your own mind fighting a battle of existence caused by extreme trauma and abuse and losing the fight. I created an other to deal with that horrible pain and I ditched most of myself in order to get up again. That pain never went away. The betrayal. The loss of hope. Being trapped by life and tortured by it. Tortured into insanity.
I spent so many years knowing something was wrong. Having a feeling that if I could just discover who I was. That I could recover myself and be happy. I just keep finding out more and more of just how badly I was broken. Finding more and more damage. Feeling less and less secure in the idea that I can recover from this.
These past few weeks have been horrible. Not that any part of having CPTSD is easy. Just dealing with these awful parts that surfaced almost all of the time. Knowing just how bad it got and how much of me I had to lose to just keep breathing. Breathing as poorly as I do with part of me not wanting me to breath at all.
That and I recovered more memories of my eldest brothers sexually abusing me. Which strangely doesn't feel as bad as it should by comparison.
The good news is you don't feel bad about being sexual abused and beaten at the age of 5 as you should. The bad news is that's because your mind was torn apart. A silver lining in every cloud.