Ginger’s Story Feb. 18, 2014
I always knew that I had severe emotional problems and that I was extremely sad from the time I was 4-years-old until I was diagnosed at the age of 32 with PTSD. Having been born into a strict religious cult and not exposed to the outside world until I was 22 years of age, I felt like I was a freak because I couldn’t relate to anything that people around me were talking about. When I did get married and got jobs, people would ask me questions about myself and not having learned discretion at all, I would tell them truthful answers which only served to produce even more questions until they would finally try to slip away and act like they wished they never talked to me at all! That felt like stigma to me. It felt like I had something so bad inside me that made acquaintances turn away from me and that I might never have friends.
The anatomy of a breakdown. Many of us have them. It’s being as honest as possible and putting the pieces back together that counts. A Million Tears.
I don’t remember my childhood. No amount of therapy or medications have found out why.
Memories pick up in sixth grade, when I screamed to my bullying classmates, “If it wasn’t for my mother, I’d kill myself.” Out of the abyss of my childhood, I can vividly remember the shaking terror, the tears streaming down my face, huddling in the gym locker room and racing out after dressing to hide away in the bathroom before having to go to science class…where my classmates refused to let me handle the plastic knife while making clay models of volcanoes. I remember the texture of the red clay, of hating myself for screaming my secret. I remember getting called down to meet with the school nurse.
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