Most people know Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from hearing of soldiers dealing with it then doing drastic things. I grew up with PTSD. My mother was mentally unstable, I walked on eggshells around her. I became "the mommy pleaser" then a "people pleaser" and that translated to doing anything to make the guy I was with happy, against my own mental health. So lately this one guy has been on my mind because something he caused has been triggered. Who he was isn't really important, what he did is. I was at a point in my life where I was nothing important to anyone. This guy made me feel beautiful, worshiped but lead me down a "50 shades" path. I'm nothing to look at but to this guy I was as stunning as any bikini clad gal on an 80's pin up poster. He and I had fun. He would wrap me in ribbons creating awesome supportive garments out of decorator ribbon, strips of sheets, shop towels, anything which could wrap around my body at least once and be held in place with a safety pin. He had one complaint, I had blemishes on my breasts. He insisted, if I were to be "with him" for an evening I had to be meticulously groomed before our time could commence. He became an esthetician for 30 minutes and then my poor girls were "made up" along with the rest of me. I could have a huge cold sore on my lip, impetigo on my legs, a ringworm on my neck and pimples on my hiney but the ta tas must me pristine. To this day, I still pick at these things.
About 10 years ago someone sent me a photo shopped image of a breast with a lotus blossom seed pod super-imposed on it with the heading of "do not try on bras in the store" our you could get this rash. It was a hoax, I pointed it out to the sender and family war broke out over it. I was a know it all with a superior attitude, yada, yada, yada. Behind the scenes though I had started mutilating my chest. Used all manner of torture. I soaked my bras in bleach or rubbing alcohol then put them on to "medicate" the clogged pores, and miscellaneous sores. I tweezed and squeezed until they were raw and bloody. I don't thin my husband saw me without a shirt for months. Every blouse I wore had blood stains on it. My bras were a ragged mess from picking and prodding through them. So I started seeing a therapist. She started me on the several life changing meditations. I changed my thought processes and soon things were smoothed over and the family was back to normal. My final task was buying new bras, pretty well fitting bras. Finally I was happy with my chest again.
Last week that dang lotus pod erupted on someone's hand in a "health warning" post on facebook. I've resumed some of my bad habits and I can hear that guy's voice in my head again. My therapist moved away so I'm going to have to find a new one. Meanwhile, I'm vomiting when I see those floral accessories in stores and in décor. This form of PTSD is back again. I have resolved one thing different than before, I won't be bleaching my pretty lacy support garments. I'm going to protect those because they are nice, expensive and make me feel like a real woman when I put them on in the morning and I feel free when I remove them at the end of the day.
Seriously, people this like cutting, or shooting up my fingers crave the motions. Ugh, I think I need to go sit on my hands....
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