The Beginning

Well, here we go with my first blog. I am not really sure what to do, what to write, or indeed who would really want to read this, but I thought I would start a blog nonetheless!I guess what has spurred me on is talking to people on mentalhelp.net and the realisation that there are so many people out there who are going through similar experiences - I think I felt the need to reach out and help them. As I am not a mental health professional, I can not offer advice or anything like that, but I thought it might help for people to know that they are not the only ones going through these sort of things. I read that a lot of people were finding it hard to discuss their true feelings with their therapists - I find it hard too, but am lucky to have found a therapist who is so caring, open and understanding, and I thought that if I wrote about my struggles and the outcomes it might give others the strength they need to be able to address their fears. I thought it might help me too, to see my thoughts in black and white.So, I am wondering now where to begin.....I guess I begin by telling you a little bit about myself.....I will try to do this briefly!I am a 36 year old gay woman, living with my partner (who I will call 'P' to protect her anonymity); we have been together for just over 4 years. I work as a Chartered Architect, which can sometimes be very pressurised and stressful and, in many respects, I wish I was doing something else. I believe my job is the cause of most of my angst, as I never really wanted to be an Architect and feel that I am not very good at my job - I only went into the profession because my parents wanted me too - at least that's how I feel. I would really love a job with much lower stress levels and less responsibility and feel that I would be better doing just about anything else, but I am not sure what. Also, it took 15 long years to qualify - which is a lot to throw away...I have one sister ('L') who has two daughters (my nieces); my mother died in August 2006 after a very brief illness and coping with the sudden loss at such a young age (my Mom was 65) has been very difficult, not least because my mother and I had just started to form a loving and deep mother/daughter bond, after 30-odd years of me rejecting her as a result (probably) of the very abusive relationship I had with my father. My father is (arguably) clinically psychopathic. I say 'arguably' because he has never been diagnosed as such, but his behaviour has all the hallmarks: complete inability to empathise with others, manipulative, violent, etc.As an infant/youngster growing up in that environment, I was never allowed to be a real child. My father was determined that both myself and my sister would be geniuses and he used to force us to do things like read from the Daily Telegraph etc in front of guests when we were as young as 18 months, to prove that we were child geniuses. He regularly beat me for speaking out (which, I have to say, only made me more determined to do so!!) and exposed me to pornographic material and ideas from a very, very young age as a way of 'enhancing my education'. There are other things too, which I won't go into now, but in short, he had absolutely no idea how to relate to child, what boundaries/behaviour were appropriate, etc.Added to this, he had an emotional age of about 12 years old (if not younger). He was spiteful and a bully - he would say things to me such as, "It's a pity you're so overweight, as you would otherwise be quite attractive" and [when I got my University degree], "It's a shame you didn't go to a proper University like your sister [who went to Cambridge], as then your degree might be worth something".I grew up in a small suburb of Birmingham, England, in a very claustrophobic environment, where I had little privacy or escape from my family and absolutely no adults I could trust. I was sent to a private school in the centre of Birmingham from the age of 6, so I knew no children in my village, as they all went to the local school, and all my school friends lived all over central Birmingham and nowhere near my house. Added to this, my mother taught at my school and my two GPs were close family friends (one was my sister's Godfather), so boundaries were very confused, and there was no one I could talk to that wouldn't tell my mother what I had said/done. In addition to this, because everyone who knew me knew my parents too, no one wanted to get involved.I thought no one knew what was going on at home, but I found out gradually later in life that a lot of people suspected that something was wrong, but either couldn't get close or didn't want to interfere. My mother was so protective of the family unit and was very adept at sweeping things under the carpet and keeping people at bay. I grew up with so much anger inside me - most of it as a result of my father's behaviour, but some of it directed at my mother for failing to protect me and my sister (who is two year's younger and very passive) for not sticking up to him too. My father and I used to have frequent and very violent fights and he would totally lose control of himself and often beat me until I was practically unconscious and covered in bruises, cuts and red marks. I used to run off to my room and cower under the desk, huddling up against the wall, crying, feeling so sore from all the punches and kicks, slaps and carpet burn where he had dragged me across the floor or down the stairs. I used to feel so much anger and hate for him. Then my mother would come in and tell me that I had to apologise to my father: she would say that I had really upset him and disappointed him and that I had [physically] hurt him. She used to beg me to go and 'say sorry' and I would be escorted to his study, where he would sit in his chair with his back to me, puffing on his pipe, and staring up at the ceiling. I would feel so angry, the bile would be rising in my throat, as my mother prodded me and forced me to say 'sorry'. The word used to nearly choke me. Then my mother would say that I then had to say that I meant it [I didn't of course] and this used to make me feel horrendous. Just writing about it now, all those feelings of anger surge back through me. My father used to just sit there and grunt 'huh'.My Father was a nasty, spiteful man, who had no idea how to be a loving father and was interested only in himself and his needs. He would throw regular, full-on tantrums (about just about anything), in the way that a small child does when they don't get their own way. He would treat my mother appallingly and delighted in belittling her in front of guests etc. We used to cringe when my mother had people round to dinner and my father would throw a massive tantrum because there was no salt on the table or something ridiculous like that. He once threw his dinner across the table at my mother in front of one of my friends - I didn't react as this was 'the norm' for our house - but my friend (Robin) was so shocked, as he had never seen such behaviour in a grown man. Dad was a control freak and was very manipulative - usually by vicious verbal attacks and frequently through violence over which he seemed to have little control. He broke my fingers once when I was 13 and insisted on sitting in the room with me whilst the doctor x-rayed my hand. He sat there in the corner staring at me whilst the doctor asked me how it had happened; he had told me in the car on the way to the hospital that if I said anything they would put me in care. My mother told me that the teachers at school all thought I had put the bandage/splint on my fingers myself as a way of getting attention - I can quite clearly remember her saying, "They don't believe you, you know". I don't know what they didn't believe, as I hadn't told them anything - I had only told them that I had done it by trying to separate frozen slices of bread, which had suddenly come apart and bent one of my fingers back. I was never sure whether her comment was meant to say that 'they won't believe anything I say' [ie. if I was to tell the truth] or whether she was telling me off for giving such a lame (and obviously untrue) reason for the bandage - I was supposed to keep quiet and cover-up what had happened. My father was a secondary school teacher by the way. What a dreadful thought that someone like that might be teaching your children.When he was 48 [and I was 17], he claimed to have had a heart attack (he didn't), although funnily enough the doctors could not find anything wrong with him. He then practically didn't teach again [probably a good thing] for the next 17 years and went off 'sick' [although the education authority's MO refused to pension him off through ill-health - funny that]. So he was one of those teachers that is constantly 'off sick' and costing the state a fortune in supply teachers to cover his absence at the same time as he is paid a full salary. Appalling. So from the age of 48 onwards, he sat on his backside doing nothing, frequently claiming to be 'ill' so my mother would run round after him on her hands and knees. We were not allowed to do anything like go walking etc., as my father was 'too ill' and every time we went out for the day, he would have to 'rest' every two minutes 'on account of his heart'. He then had several more faux heart attacks over the next 15 years and even obtained a disabled badge!! Every time we had a meal together there would be another new thing he was 'not allowed' on account of his heart - this 'thing' would change depending on what my mother had prepared for us to eat (one day it would be Yorkshire Puddings, the next day Pork Pie, etc), but a few days later whatever it was would change and you would find him stuffing his face with it.Then, in March 2006, my mother suddenly got ill. It's a long story, but she developed severe arthritis which lead to Pulmonary Fibrosis (having never smoked in her life). Within a couple of weeks, she was in great pain and severely disabled; within 12 weeks, she was dead. My father had killed her; he had worked her into her grave with worry and stress whilst he sat on his backside being the Prima Donna.Tell me: how do you forgive that?In contrast, my mother was completely different. She had a very bubbly personality and was always enthusiastic about what she did, whether it be work or hobbies. She was a wonderful person - although not a perfect mother [but then who is?] and was loved by so many. She was so caring and giving and had so many friends and did so much for so many people. I miss her so much. Anyone who has not been through such a loss would not understand the gaping hole it leaves behind. Those of you who have experienced this will know what I mean.Gosh, I have written a lot about my father - sorry. At least you can see how close to the surface all the feelings are!Over the course of my writing, you will no doubt get to know me better and know a lot more about me. I hope to be able to write about my feelings and what is going on inside me; I hope to be able to give strength and courage to others who are in a similar situation. I want them to know that they are not the only one and that their feelings are valid and understood.My childhood obviously has had a very profound affect on me as an adult; as I get older, I get more and more aware of how it is affecting me and, in a lot of instances, handicapping me. I went into therapy with a Psychoanalytic Therapist (Christine) 18 months ago, after having seen therapists briefly a couple of times before in my life. This time it is very different though - the previous therapists were Cognitive Therapists for a start and had very different ways of being with me in sessions. This time, I know my commitment is going to be a long one - it feels like Christine and I have so much ground to cover and that - even after 18 months - we have only just started.There has been a real shift/growth in our relationship over the last few months. Back in March, I found the courage to tell her of my true feelings for her. Like a lot of patients, I have developed a deep and very strong erotic transference for my therapist. It is a very 'taboo' area for some - both patients and therapists alike - and something which a lot of people are afraid to discuss (me included!). But I have found great benefit in beginning to share some of these feelings with my therapist - although at times it is very hard. I am lucky that she is so understanding and accepting - she listens to me and holds the feelings for me so that things become more bearable for me. I hope that by writing about my experiences, I will be able to help others in similar situations and also help those who have no experience of mental health problems understand the issues and break down the barriers and misunderstanding that surround mental illness.In many ways, I am an open person, but there is a part of me deep inside that hides my true feelings - even to myself. By writing under a pseudonym like this, I hope it will allow me to begin to explore some of what is inside. I intend to discuss this with my therapist, and may even at some point direct her to my blog, but we shall see on that one, as there may be more benefit in me just discussing the issues with her face-to-face, rather than hiding behind the sanctuary of an anonymous weblog.I intend the writing to be a casual account of my day-to-day experiences of my life, both in and out of therapy, and hope that at times it will be amusing and make people smile!! In real-life, I am a cheerful, friendly, caring person - a 'people person' you might say - who enjoys sharing and helping/caring for people. In fact, I feel I don't do enough of this!! I will break from this post now, as I think I have said enough for now, but I will write more later.Best wishes to you all.