Funhouse - Where's the Damn "Exit" Sign?

more Emo and LOL cats

WARNING: This blog is written by an adult survivor of severe childhood abuse. While specific graphic details are not offered, it is entirely possible that this material may be uncomfortable for some readers. If you have any doubt as to whether this may “trigger” you or make you feel unsafe in any way, please STOP reading and click elsewhere. If, while reading this or at any other time, you find yourself feeling unsafe or contemplating hurting yourself, please IMMEDIATELY contact a crisis line or mental health professional. Please – be safe, and be well.

At one time or another, we've all had moments of sadness. But sometimes those down feelings can spiral, and threaten our very well-being and sense of safety. If you or anyone you know is having a crisis and feeling alone or potentially unsafe, please consider using one of these resources. You'll notice there are organizations around the globe, including LGBT-targed groups like PFLAG, and groups for survivors of different kinds of violence.

Here's a link to a list of resources.

Please know that I care, and many people in your life care. It's a sign of true strength to reach out if you're hurting; people want to offer their support. You are NOT alone.


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"A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song." - Maya Angelou


Lately, things have become like some sort of a dark funhouse ride, filled with disorienting spins and turns, sudden descents into darkness, and nothing is what it seams. Moments when I think I will be okay, that the worst is over for the day - those are when I sense a tsunamai of repressed memories rising, preparing to wash me away, along with any real sense of security and certainty about who I am, and how I ended up here. Worse, I am left with a sickened sense of uncertainty as to how to get back to the place I'd been before being pulled into the funhouse...

The horrifying memories that are surfacing, in wave after gut-wrenching wave, are so awful that at times they leave me unable to move from a curled fetal position, weeping – sometimes wailing. This, after learning early in life to cry silently, or risk truly awful consequences.

The memories themselves are truly bad, but I think it’s the secondary issues that are actually worse. Let me explain…

I am blessed to have experiences that have broadened my understanding and given me a sense of perspective, including many previous years in therapy, and my own training as a shaman, peer counselor, Reiki Master and ordained clergy. But what comes with those experiences is the deep and unassailable knowledge that these memories are so toxic, that for me to share them – even with trained mental health care professionals – inevitably, it will cause them some kind of psychic damage. I’ve actually had to change therapists twice in my life in decades previous, because the content of my recovered memories was so horrific. At least they were honest enough to admit it.

And those memories, at that point in my life? Those were the EASY ones, relatively speaking. The ones I’m dealing with now are the ones that make the worst horror movies look like a walk through Disneyland. And so, as the memories surface, I feel increasingly alone, unable and unwilling to risk hurting someone else by sharing this toxic waste in its unadulterated form. I have begun seeing a psychiatrist, finally bowing to the inevitability that, for now, it may be unwise to go through this process without some support, and antidepressants at minimum.

Those who have Diabetes, and thus need insulin to be healthy, are not mocked for their weakness. Those of us who have brain chemistry that is altered by life experiences, however, are seen by many as “weak” for stepping forward and saying, “Please help me.” A therapist I saw in the mid-1990s actually told me about research that indicated children who’d endured severe, repeated trauma early in life (helllooo???) have a PERMANENT change in their brain chemistry, and benefit from lifelong anti-depressant therapy.

Anyway, back to the roller-coaster ride of flashbacks and recovered memories…

My partner, bless her compassionate and loving heart, has a background in mental health, and offers to listen as I wrestle with these horrors. Even with her very respectable containment skills, I am simply adamant about my refusal to “go there” with her. I love her too much. She’s my partner, not my therapist. Yeah, I learned that one when I unconsciously tried to be a therapist to a former partner – nope, it never works.

So, what about calling a hotline? Yeah, I’ve got an online hotline bookmarked, where I can do live chat with trained volunteers, or I could always pick up the phone. But my fear is that these individuals might suspect that someone is playing a sick game – nothing THIS horrible could really have happened to a child, right? It’s hard to think of the world making sense when these things are allowed to happen. And yet, the sun rises each day, and I begin anew… As do we all…

I think another factor that’s been really messing up my head is the fear that on some level, I will be judged (by others or perhaps myself) as coming up short as far as being a spiritual person, a shaman, ordained clergy, and all the other things I have on my various business cards.

There are many out there, smug and self-important life coaches, who profess that if your life isn’t sunshine and lollipops all the time, obviously you’re just not spiritual enough, you’re lacking something on a basic level…

Well, ya know what? I cry BULLSHIT! This is my story, and I’m not apologizing for the horrifying things that happened to me, nor for my need to grieve for all I’ve lost. Sharing my story, as scary as that prospect is, is the most important work I will do in this lifetime.