Extreme Cherophobia

Remember when you were little, and you were able to eat something that gave you comfort, or cuddle in your favorite blankets or with your favorite stuffed animal? No matter how bad things got when you were a child, or how bad things are now that you are an adult, you can always bring up the memory of being safe and comfortable, even if it is only one time in your life? A smell, a taste, the weight of a blanket, will send you back to that time where you were happy and cared for.

Well, I don't.

What do you do when the thought of obtaining happiness fills you with dread?

All the things a person should want: beauty, wealth, success, friendship, long life, strength, and the afore mentioned general feelings of happiness, fill me with such anxiety that I can barely function.

My childhood made sure of that.

Being told to smile and be happy was not a suggestion. It was an order. And order that was punished if I did not comply. I faked being happy so much that the very thought of BEING happy makes me sick. I WANT to be ugly. I WANT to be poor. I WANT to die as early as possible without resorting to suicide.

What do I want instead of happiness, then?

To be content, comfortable, relaxed.

Semantics? Maybe. However, when you have CPTSD, those small differences matter enormously.

I have no time in my life that I can remember being content. Not one. I was always afraid. Never safe. Never comfortable. When most people can find comfort in eating a meal you loved as a child, or return to the park you used to play in and remember happy times...I have none of that.

Even living in a clean apartment gives me anxiety. But, so does a dirty cluttered apartment.

I am just not comfortable no matter what I do.

It comes from my strange childhood. The majority of it was spent being shipped between a wealthy household and an impoverished one.

I lived in the wealthy home with my father, step-mother, and 5 mixed siblings. I was forced to clean a 6 bedroom, 4 bathroom, 3 level house almost all by myself. I was ordered to be happy and smiling, and was hit when I wasn't. I was mocked for being tired from school, daily church, an hour of exercise daily, hours of daily chores, and being banned from speaking to my father or entering rooms with my siblings in them (even if I had to clean them). I was given zero privacy, even while sometimes while dressing. While I slept, I had to have the bedroom door open, so my step-mother could surprise me by slapping me awake and making me clean the bathrooms, or playroom, or even for sucking my thumb while I slept (which I did till I was 10, and learned to just never sleep. Problem solved!). I was told I could not eat very much, since I was fat, and was often very hungry. My step-mother would make me walk home while she picked up the other kids, and would punish me if I wasn't home in 15 minutes and if I didn't take the route she wanted me to take. She would forbid me from having friends. She removed all of my personal items from my room, and would only buy me clothes she knew I hated. She would not let me play with my own toys, and I would watch as my brothers and older sister destroyed everything I loved.

Basically, she did everything in her power to make sure I was always on edge, then she would insist I smile and act happy.

Then, at my moms house, I was kept cold and hungry. Even when my mother had the means to feed us and keep us warm, she did not. We three girls were forced to sleep in the same queen sized bed with her, without clothes, so she was our only source of warmth. It was...gross. She would often completely ignore us, even when we were injured and bleeding. My older sister received the brunt of my mother's cruel abuse and neglect, and I was groomed as the caretaker of the group. I had to make sure everyone was fed, safe, and happy. No one cared if I was. Not even myself. I had important work to do, after all. My mother and sisters needed care, and I was the only one to give it. Mom would often leave us in public places and expect me to care for my siblings for many, many hours. I was always on the lookout, never safe. I had to keep my cool, though, so my sisters would not be upset- especially my younger sister. I saved her from quite a few pedophiles, including our own mother. At least I hope I did...

When I was in 6th grade, a teacher told me that I was smart and a good student, and I cried for 30 minutes. She was concerned enough about this reaction to call in a parent conference, but my step mother is very good at her job, and convinced everyone I was fine.

It wasn't until I was well into my 30's that I learned to laugh when I was happy and cry when I was sad. I could never quite master my emotions. My wonderful husband taught me it was ok to feel my feelings, and tried to give me a safe place to do that.

I was never alone, but alone all the time. I was never cared for. I was often berated for performing my role as mother to my mother and sisters.

So there is nowhere my subconscious can hide. No happy memories I can escape to. It is all pain and sadness hidden beneath a tapestry of sunshine and happiness.

I want to reach out to my family, the ones who are speaking to me anyway. I want to cry on their shoulders. I want to release a lifetime of suffering in the arms of people who care about me. Part of me knows, though, that they just don't actually care. That part of me doesn't think I am a good enough actor to hide all that pain, and that everyone HAD to know the hurt I was hiding...but my husband assures me I am very, VERY, VEEERRRY good at pretending to be ok.

But I just can't.

I have those voices in my head, telling me to smile and pretend I am happy.

No, not those kind of voices.

Just the words of the people who raised me by hurting me every second of my brain-development years.

My doctors are trying to help me, but none of them understand: no amount of medication, of positive thinking, will make me want to live a long, happy, successful life. I have no anchor in these concept; just memories of drowning under the weight of them. The are (probably rightfully) concerned that I have no wish to be pretty, happy, or successful. They assume this is the depression, or some other kind of fixable condition.

My new counselor is the only one who understands this. She is leading me to find peace and comfort.

My husband believes me, as he is the only one who has seen how my mother treats me when no one else is around. It is hard to trust even him, but he is caring and as understanding as he can be.

Still, it is incredibly difficult. I have no basis of normalcy. The majority of the word is based on people who care about themselves, are prone to some selfishness, and have trouble thinking of things from any view but their own. I am the opposite of this. I have trouble viewing the world from MY OWN perspective. I can't manage any sort of selfishness, or even self-advocacy. I do not care about myself. I find comfort in being hungry, being cold, being alone. None of these are good for me, however.

Alternately, I find receiving gifts, being shown affection or attention, being motivated, and other things that most people enjoy stressful to the extreme. It goes beyond a normal introverts discomfort, I believe. It is closer to agoraphobia. Going outside is incredibly difficult. But...so is staying inside.

I feel as though I am just talking in circles here trying to explain how I am not comfortable no matter what I do, and discomfort is the only comfort I know. Dying would be the ultimate comfort for me.

These are not things people should want...it took me a long time to figure that out.

Just about everyone I knew made me feel terrible about the things I love. I loved to read, and I was often punished for it. I loved to sing, but friends and family told me I was terrible at it and should quit for every second of my life (they still do). I love taking pictures, but everyone laughs at me for being bad at it. I enjoyed math, but was told I would never be good at it, so to give up. I love to write, but I am constantly told it is too weird, or just not good at all. Any time I found comfort in a place or an object, someone was there to take it away from me and destroy it. Even sleeping is impossible, and brings me no rest.

So...what do I do when all the things that bring people comfort in this word are toxic to me, and all of the things that hurt us bring me the only comfort I have ever known? How do I get past a lifetime of people telling me I am good at nothing, and hurting me to make themselves feel better? How can I find my own self, what I want, what I like, when I have never had any of those things? Caring for others so much I harm myself is what I was trained to do, it's all I know, and it is all I was allowed to be good at. How do I stop? Every time I try, the people I care for only get angry at me. I just can't handle that. It brings back too many bad memories.

Even now, as I write this, the person I love most in this world is telling me that all of my emotions are fake, that all of my writings are to "build up a persona" so that I...I don't know...get attention?

Attention is the last thing I want. This is so hard for me to do...put myself out there, let everyone know how much I have been hurt, how much I have failed, how empty and lost I am. It's my 4th worst nightmare...but the other 3 have already happened, and I am living those terrors right now, so what do I have to lose? Let people hate me for telling my truth; they already hate me when I hide my pain so, really, what's the difference? Let them think my deep well of endless suffering is only me being dramatic. At least I will be hated for things that are true.

Most of me is totally ok with all of the abuses I have faced, actually. I think I deserve them, or at least I think they feel 'right'. THIS is my comfort zone. It is home. I am trying to fight back against it, but my whole world is build on this pain. What am I, if not a punching bag for people I love? Who am I if I am not making myself small so others can feel big? If I stray away from this comfort zone of mine, my desire to die grows stronger...maybe it is all that is keeping me alive? That is just not fair to anyone, not just myself. I have to find some will to live other than being a carpet for people to wipe their boots on. How does one do that when anything that sparks happiness is toxic to me?

I hope to write a part 2, where I figure it all out, but don't hold your breath. That's what I do when I'm scared or surprised or upset...so I wouldn't recommend it!