I HAVE A STORY TOO

My trauma experience started when I was seven years old. I am now seventy-two years old and I have never had peace of mind since I saw my father pointing his Beretta . 22 caliber handgun in my mother's face while she writhed in fear.

To this day, I feel extreme anger toward my father and pity for my crying mother. Karaoke has been my therapy and I sing at least five songs a day at home. I wish I had the courage to punch the face of my father whenever he threatened my mother.

This is kind of embarrassing. I still feel shame about it to this day.

I used to frequently soil myself in school. My classes started early, earlier than my three-year-old brother and my mother who was a teacher in my school. My teenage cousin would get me ready for school. I remember he would wake me up and dress me and send me to school. Most times, I’d miss doing my morning business and even brushing my teeth.

As a result, I would soil myself in the classroom. This gave me a deep-rooted shame and fear has followed me into adulthood. I am incapable of maintaining relationships. I feel depressed, worthless and anxious most of the time.

After I would soil myself, I’d feel ashamed, guilty and embarrassed. As I grew up, to cope with anxiety and shame, I began to eat a lot. All my life, I eat to bury my feelings. Never in my life have I felt right in my own self. I always felt I didn’t belong here. Nothing seems to go right.

From my childhood, one thing has led to another, and it’s been a downward spiral of a screwed-up life marked by depression, anxiety, low self-esteem, self-hatred, suicidal thoughts and insomnia. I’m still figuring it out.

I was just a child. All I needed was someone to be on my side and tell me that it was going to be okay.

I’ve gone through a lot of trauma in my life. Most of them from the people I love.

I was hurt - really hurt. I’m mentally exhausted. When I was young, I was physically hurt sometimes. I felt like I had nothing to hold on to anymore.

At 21, I am stronger now. But I am not recovered. Things keep happening like I’m going through a loop, but I try to keep going in life.

I know the best thing is to reach out to people even if it’s out of your comfort zone.

I was 7 years old and at the biggest mall in the city with dad and mum to buy school supplies. It was my first time taking an elevator and the experience stunned me a bit, not quite processing what was happening. The ascent of the elevator was dizzying and I was suddenly very aware of my surroundings which were packed with other families. I felt the elevator ceiling slowly closing in on me. The second the door opened, I ran out and the door closed almost immediately behind me, almost eating me up.

From then, I was scared to see at any two-door entrances, especially elevators. I began to have nightmares of strange doors that were alive and wanted to swallow me whole into the dark unknown.

I had to ask people to open rooms with two-door openings because I need to see what’s behind them and I also couldn't look at elevators, especially when they were considered cool and efficient in a rapidly developing city like mine.

I have tried to overcome my fear by taking trains as practice and understanding that the doors are safe and what’s behind them is nothing scary.

I wish I knew to not abruptly assume things too quickly about new stuff I didn't fully understand, like the elevator and the feeling of being inside of it. And of course, the automated doors. Asking trusted people to help me ease into new experiences is the moral of my story.

I remember my mother senselessly beating me until I had open wounds and marks. I remember pleading for her to stop. I recall crying and wondering what I did wrong again, feeling defeated and unwanted.

I still have flashbacks of the beatings, even if I’ve been estranged from my mum for over 10 years.

I wish there could have been someone who could believe what was happening to me at home.

Now I try to empathise. I think that there must have been a root cause to all this suffering at the hands of my mum. I pray and try to exercise more to keep my mind off that.

Growing up, my parents faced financial difficulties and did not provide a stable family environment.

From primary school, I was regularly punished by my parents and scolded for doing poorly in school. My father would lock me up in a bird cage and force me to stand for hours. One time, my mum held me down while my father inflicted burns on me.

As I got older, I realised my father had a drug problem. I’d find him passed out in the kitchen, and I started finding drugs around the house.

My parents fought a lot and I felt relieved when they did, because it meant I would not get a beating that night from my father.

I sought solace from my maternal grandma, to whom I am still close.

At school, I would get into fights over anything. I was a very angry person. I didn’t know how to cope with my emotions.

At 15, I started abusing drugs and was caught selling drugs. I was sent to an institution. There I met a psychtherapist who began counselling me on my behaviour and worked with me on my childhood trauma. I was diagnosed with depression and PTSD.

When I left the institution, I joined a boxing programme and found it emotionally cathartic. Boxing became a way to cope with my anger. Boxing calmed me down.

My father rages at my brother. This made me feel so scared that I feared people who shouted. When my father got mad, I got numb, then I got angry. I was diagnosed with PTSD, anxiety and depression. I’m now going through therapy and seeing a psychiatrist.

When I was five years old, I experienced sexual harassment from my neighbour. He threatened that if I reported the act, he would hurt me and kill me. It led me to experience another trauma. I got verbal bullying from family, friends and others.

The sexual harassment made me scared to play with other boys, so I played more with girls. Because of that, many people bullied me. This lasted until junior high school. Friends forced me to do their homework. After gym class, classmates often tried to grope my body. At that time, I had no friends or family to talk to about my problems. By that time, my mother had died, and I was living with my grandparents after my father remarried.

At the time of the sexual harassment, I was shocked, sad, scared, in pain and drained of energy. I felt angry, devastated and had low self-esteem. I thought about committing suicide. I felt the same when I was verbally abused. I was comfortable being alone, but I also felt very lonely. I overthought everything whenever I meet the people who bullied me.

I found myself attracted to men instead of women. I became a gay. I yearn for a father's love that I never received. I had several relationships with men to fulfill that, but it led me to mental illness. I was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder-depression. I tried to take my life but failed. I had hallucinations. After that, my family didn't care about me, so I became homeless and psychotic. When I relapse, those childhood traumas came again and again, and appeared in my nightmares. I wish I could erase the memories so I can feel at ease. I become an introvert and find it difficult to make friends. This is also because of the stigma people give me as former resident of mental hospital.

My recovery process was not easy. The trauma led me to have mental illness and I had to go to several mental hospitals. I came back to God, accepted it as His destiny and I always try to think positively. I follow instructions and suggestions from my psychiatrists. I try to get enough sleep, I do daily activities and exercises, I try to find positive circle in my life, where the people understand and support my recovery.

I write as therapy. In the past, I used to express my frustrations, sad and happy feeling in a diary, now there are various places of writing that I use, such as Facebook, Twitter and blog. Some of my short stories have been published in several anthologies. And I also do positive self-talk and give myself a butterfly hug sometimes.

I’m now 30 years old and I have reconciled with myself and my past. I understand my schizophrenia requires me to take medication every day. I hope people can take lessons from my life story.

I remember being 16 years old. I was dating a guy who was 18. I think at that time, I needed to be in a relationship as a way of acceptance, to cope with my low self-esteem. The relationship lasted three months. Within that time, I noticed this guy's aggressions.

He was verbally abusive and threatened to beat me up if I didn’t comply with what he wanted. As a very petite, black female, I tried not to upset him. I believed his words would remain just words, but things shifted drastically.

One day, we went to the park together. I don’t remember what he told he wanted me to do, but I recall refusing to go along with it. That was when he punched me in the face! Then, the light bulb finally went off in my head that I should know better. That I deserved better.

I felt devalued as a female. I felt like I was trash who deserved to be handled as such. My face was sore. Emotionally, I felt anger, sadness, confusion, and guilt for staying with him as long as I did. Still, I think those emotions are what gave me the courage to break up with him.

Well, the trauma made me better, so I have no reason to feel bitter. Mentally, I understand now at 33 that I control what I think of me and I can’t control what someone else thinks of me. Emotionally, I know it is ok for me to feel things, but I can walk away from what is not good for me overall. Physically, I take care of myself more now by exercising and eating things that give me energy. In totality, the trauma made me learn more about who I am as a person.

My recovery journey comes from two things. My faith in God and my poetry. In those dark moments after the trauma, I discovered peace with God. I also write a lot of poetry. Poetry has become my release from the pressures and problems I feel in life. Those two things continue to make me stronger. I am grateful I have both to lean on.

I wish I knew my worth back then. This way, I would have had the courage to walk away sooner when I saw the guy's aggressions. Still, it honestly took me going through that trauma to finally recognise my worth.

My parents divorced because of my father’s schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. This was in remote India where divorce was looked down upon. My father got custody of me, and my mother got custody of my younger brothers.

This divided us siblings and I grew up a doctor's child and my brothers as a teacher’s children. Financially, my father was better off. After he remarried, my stepmother treated me badly. It left me feeling that my brothers were in the warm embrace of our mother while I grew up with a cold stepmother. Each side were envious of the other, even to this day.

When I was 26, I too was diagnosed with bipolar.

I’m now a pampered client of psychiatrists and psychologists at the Schizophrenia Research Foundation (SCARF), an NGO hospital for psychotic care. Even if I never told my childhood friends and teachers because I feared stigmatisation, they found out and have expressed their concern for me. My counsellor says that I have been blessed by very considerate and kind-hearted friends.

Had I known that my family had a history of mental illness, I could have addressed it earlier and done much better.

My parents used the cane and violence to discipline me for grades and achievement-related activities such as sports, music and arts. They would also scream and shout at me, I was trained and conditioned to be a perfectionist. Failure was not acceptable in my family. I must be able to do everything.

Emotionally scarred, I was not able to communicate how I felt and get what I wanted. My parents don't see a problem with their parenting. They do not see their flaws and they’re not self-aware. Everything is made to be my fault. I still remember the many times I was canned and beaten up, hit by my parents very violently and harshly, for poor performance in school and in life.

I was not made aware of what mindfulness and awareness were. I was made to think that I had to always be an expert in everything, and that the world was materialistic. Success meant having fame, power, glory, possessions and money. My trauma has resulted me in having psychosis at the age of 22, as my tough upbringing contributed to my being unaware of what feelings are (psychology). I also learnt more about socio-emotional learning and mental health and wellbeing only after my mental health diagnosis.

I was even in and out of hospital and had to make many personal sacrifices by sleeping early, not being able to do what other young people are doing, take a cocktail of medication, and limiting what I can partake in because my mental health affected my once active and brave lifestyle. Now, I have to be more mindful of what I choose to commit to as my health is at stake and a top priority. I have to rest more, listen to my mind and body more, be aware not to overextend myself at work, not to push myself too hard, learn to set boundaries and be able to say no and stick with it.

Cut down or even cut out entirely from my life all things toxic and unnecessary and keep the quality things/people/matters. Life is a constant pruning and trimming for the better. To learn how to put myself and my needs first, always, and to learn how to better pace myself and learn how to not over-react, not to take things too personally or seriously, and learn to stay calm, let go and surrender. Acknowledge my feelings and apply the concepts of empathy, kindness, compassion to self and others, understanding and non-violent communication.

"If only I knew you were a bad girl, I would have strangled you to death the moment you were born!"

I still remember these hurtful words my mother hurled at me when I was 8 years old. My parents quarrelled frequently, and my mother mentally abused me. She controlled me too much until I couldn't breathe. From my facial expression to my choice of underwear, she never failed to condemn me. She blamed me for every single thing. Even when I got 99% marks or second place in class, she scolded me and called me stupid! When I got sick, she blamed me for troubling her! It was so bad that I had to pretend I was well even if I was sick. Every time I came back from school, my mother would start shouting and banging things. My father passed away when I was just 19 years old.

Not a single person knew about my problem back then as I always seemed to be happy-go-lucky in school but I’d transform into a dark dejected soul once back home. Since I was an only child, my doll was my best friend. I hugged it tight every time I heard voices erupting, doors slamming, pots and pans clashing.

The constant arguments of my parents and my mother's control had caused me to be depressed when I was small. I was badly longing for love. Even yearning for a small pat on the back which I never got. Life was meaningless. I was behaving like a robot. No facial expression. To the extent that even some people suspected I had autism and asked my parents to have me checked. I just knew I was different. Even when I grew up, I didn't know why I was afraid of authority figures. I had very low self-esteem. I was afraid of connecting with people and didn't have many friends. I even tried to take my life after a failed love relationship.

I moved out from home when I entered university. For the first time in my life, I didn't hear my mother's constant annoying voice and I felt more at peace. But I still experienced ups and downs due to my childhood experiences. My life changed after I met my current husband. He slowly helped me get out of my depression. Fast forward many years to now, I never imagined that I could blossom into a mother of a beautiful family and have an amazing career. I still feel depressed once a while, but I manage to control it by thinking positively. Thankfully, I'm also surrounded by many good friends who give me support. I guess life is full of surprises. Don't give up as there is always light at the end of the tunnel.

One day when I was a teenager, I was squatting down near a side table and talking on the phone. I didn't realise that my 'uncle' - a friend of my father’s - was peering into my short skirt from where he was seated. I quickly moved away to prevent him from looking. Another time in the elevator, he tried to hug me. I pushed him away. I walked as quickly as possible to my home.

When I was in secondary 2, I encountered an exhibitionist in the elevator. He was standing behind me and asked me to turn around. I did and was horrified to see him touching his penis. He tried to take my hands to touch him. I screamed, shouted, and jumped as hard as possible. I lied and told him that my father was a policeman, and he would come after him. He was scared and let me go.

I felt that I was at fault for having a curvaceous body that attracted evil men. I tried sharing the incidents with my mother. She didn't offer much comfort. I felt alone. I was so afraid to take the elevator and I walked up and down 20 floors for quite some time. At the time, we didn't have any counsellors in school or avenues to report or seek help.

For a time, I was afraid of men. The picture of the sick man in the elevator stroking himself sometimes came back to me those days. I may be a little rebellious as I didn't get the attention I had wanted from my family. Each time my family thinks badly of me, I was angry that none of them knew what I had gone through. It was a long time ago, so I couldn't remember much. As a result, I became estranged from them.

I think I have an inner, quiet strength that helps me to forget the incidents. I made new friends and embarked on projects in school and read more books. I didn't share it with my friends as I felt no one would care.

I wish that I knew then about setting boundaries with the opposite sex and not being trusting of strangers.

I was 12 when my mum decided to remarry. We were close to my mum before her new marriage, but she was barely in our life after. Thankfully, our grandma was there to take care of us.

I always had my door locked when I was inside, no matter what. When I was asleep one night, I felt something touching the back of one of my thighs, so I decided to move my legs. As I was adjusting, I opened my eyes slightly and saw a tall dark figure swiftly run out of my room. It was my stepdad.

On the first night, I physically froze and was in disbelief and fear.

The following nights, I slept in constant fear. No matter how many times it happened, the only thing I could do was force myself to slowly move so that he would think I was waking up and leave my room.

It got to the point where I would begin sleeping with kitchen scissors in my right hand, which I would hold under my pillow every single night. I had this vision where I would be courageous enough to confront him in action and scream for help, but it never happened. I would just freeze and cry myself to sleep after that.

One morning, my grandma asked me why my door was slightly open. I immediately burst into tears. I told her that my stepdad had been coming every other night to touch me.

Enraged, my grandma told my mum about it.

My mother did not believe me.

My mum’s betrayal made me feel extremely angry, disappointed, frustrated, and heartbroken. I became resentful and avoided her altogether.

I have always known that all the trauma would get to me eventually but I thought that I was ‘strong’ enough to get through it and not be too affected by it. However, the repressed pain eventually caught up with me this year and I found myself curled up on the floor of my room, sobbing, thinking about ways I could stop living so that I don’t have to feel miserable all the time.

I started losing all interest in most of the things I used to like. I barely slept, gained more than 15kg from constant bingeing and disliked any social interaction. I felt exhausted 90% of the time, my mind was filled with a million thoughts and my bowel movement was horrendous. All this started seven years ago.

Needless to say, I was far from ‘strong’.

I reached out to a trusted friend on the day I realised that I was a danger to myself and told my husband about it. We went to see the doctor the next day.

I was referred to a psychiatrist and was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder. I am currently taking two medications, one for depression and another for anxiety. I am also going for regular psychological therapy.

The medication has helped me tremendously. I would say, about 70-80%. The medication silenced a million thoughts I had in my mind to about three voices - my own, good me, and bad me.

I love therapy. I have learned so much about myself and how to regulate myself better. I quit my job to focus on my health for now. Hoping to transition into working again soon.

I am still a work-in-progress and very grateful.

Three things I’ve learned through all this:

1. Reach out.

Just because someone did not believe you, does not mean no one will. Do not be afraid to seek help, professional or not. Surround yourself with people who care about you, who lift you and encourage growth instead of bringing you down.

2. It is okay not to be okay.

It is okay to feel. Do not be afraid or ashamed of your emotions.

What you feel in the moment or about an incident is valid. Acknowledge your emotions, identify why you feel that way, and accept that your feelings are valid and that it is okay to feel that way. We are only human.

3. YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

Talk to someone, read articles, books, seek a professional opinion.

I started to feel better after I reached out to friends with similar challenges, read books about depression and went to therapy.

One day when I was four years old, my dad came home grumpy from a bad day at work. When he arrived home around 8pm, I wanted to play with him. So I begged him to play with me, but he was mad and didn’t want to. He wanted to take a shower, but I wanted him to play with me, so he went into his room, took his gun, and shot me four times, twice on the arm, twice on the legs. I still have the bullet wounds. Luckily, our neighbours heard, called the police, and my dad was taken away.

In court, even with the amount of evidence I had, he was found not guilty. It’s been many, many years. I still have not forgiven him. I have not gotten justice; I have not received any apology from my dad. I still think of bringing him to court one day.

I got PTSD from it.

I’m now 25 years old, currently still in therapy and counselling which has helped me so much with the mental issues and everything else. I’m doing a lot better now.