Okay, here's the deal.  I don't like to think of myself as someone that feels sorry for myself.  I like to think of myself as someone who can (and has) pick myself up from my bootstraps and get on with my life when bad things happen.

But sometimes things get overwhelming.

The interesting thing about doing a psych degree is that it helps me understand some of the issues I have historically grappled with.  I went to see my family over the Christmas holidays, and it was the first time I had been back to my home country in 13 years.  It was weird ... being in the area where I spent my childhood brought back too many issues.

I don't remember a lot about my childhood before I was 9 or 10.  I've made passing mention that my father was a pedophile (did I mention he died a few years ago?  Found out he was dying from my sister-in-law's post on Facebook, and by the time I talked to my sister, he was already gone.  She, on the other hand, had a cathartic time talking and crying and laughing with my brother.  Found out about that on my trip).  My parents split 2 days after my 12th birthday; before then he made me watch pornos and suck him off on a semi-regular basis.  He also encouraged incest between my brother and I.  Looking back, I guess my relationship with my brother never stood a chance.

When my parents split, my father told me to go with my mother while my siblings went with my father.  My mother wasn't perfect ... as an adult, I realise she suffered from depression, and was hospitalised when I was 10 (I think).  My sister had real issues with her; my family was not one where healthy dynamics existed.  According to my sister, my mother hurled some real insults at her that cut deep.  As a result my siblings decided they didn't want anything more to do with my mother, and because I was 12 and living with her, that included me.  I suppose I should mention that he was 15 and she was 19 when my parents split.

So when my parents split, I didn't just lose a consistent father figure.  I effectively lost both my siblings.  When I was 13, a friend's step-father was getting a bit touchy-feely with her, and in researching what was going on with her, I realised what my father had been doing to me.  I went to the school counsellor, and he was arrested.  When he was arrested, my sister tried to talk me out of sending him to prison.  He did his best to emotionally manipulate me into caving; he changed his plea from guilty to not guilty to make the case go to trial so I would have to testify.  Never in my life, before or since, have I had such a clear urge to do harm to another human being.  I showed up on the date of the trial and was in the witness room when he changed his mind again and pled guilty.  That was the last time I saw him until my brother's wedding.

The other thing with my parents that I forgot to mention is that they didn't want me.  By rights, I should not have been born.  My mother tried to abort me when she knew she was pregnant with me by taking birth control pills; as a result I was born with pseudoarthrosis in my right collar bone and had to have corrective surgery when I was four.  She told me I wasn't wanted when I was 18, though I think she had made some comments earlier in my life as well.

Psych has taught me a bit about attachment theory.  Our first relationships are with our parents; this is a relationship where we are supposed to learn that we are loved and can trust the people around us.  It forms the mental representation of what we can expect from future relationships, from the continued relationship we have with our parents, to our relationships with friends, life partner, and children.  When that gets screwed up, it screws up our ability to form healthy attachments.  And that's pretty much what happened with me.  I don't know if an attachment disorder can be resolved.  I'm only an undergraduate.  But I do know that in my adult life, I have a hard time progressing friendships beyond a certain stage.  I have trust issues.  And I have real difficulty in opening up to people.  Unfortunately going back to the town where some of the most negative events of my childhood occurred ... they've brought up a lot of old wounds that I wish could have just been left closed.

Which is why sharing things anonymously in a blog works for me ...

On Social Connections

Ever since Athena got diagnosed with ASD in March, I've been thinking a lot about what it means to have social relationships, to connect with others, and how some people seem to do it so easily while others struggle. While coming to terms with Athena's diagnosis, I've had some pretty rough patches emotionally, when I have really wanted to reach out to someone that would understand. I have really noticed the absence of a relationship with an older family member (typically a role filled by a mother or mother figure, or even a father) in my life during this time. And I have put some thought into my social relationships and social relationships as a whole.

Of course, none of this is helped by the fact that I have also been reading Social Intelligence lately.

I find it interesting that when I log into Facebook, there exists a list of "friends" that I can supposedly connect with. When I go to search for friends, Facebook kindly returns a list of people that I may know, based on people already listed as my "friends". I use the word in this context rather loosely. In my darkest times, I would not post my problems on Facebook. When I have, in a desperate need to reach out, posted something indicating I'm in trouble, there has been nothing but the sound of crickets in response. I find this ... empty, and find that it makes me feel even more alone.

Perhaps I have a ... more stringent definition of "friend" than most. I honestly do not consider someone I have not seen in 20 years (high school friends that I have not kept in touch with) a friend just because we both happen to have a Facebook account and have linked our accounts. Friends are people who are there for you in your dark times. Friends are the people on whose shoulders you can cry on. Friends are the ones who, when your world is falling apart, will sit there and listen without telling you how to put it back together or giving otherwise unwanted advice. I think I have one such person in my life other than my husband.

Then again, from all the reading I've been doing about psychology and social and emotional intelligence, I know I have an attachment disorder. I can thank my parents for that one. One was a paedophile (technically is, I suppose, as he is still alive), and I strongly suspect the other suffered from depression.

But it does beg the question - does social networking actually do anything to enrich our lives? Human beings are social animals. We require social interaction. Interacting via the Internet feels safe for those of us with attachment disorders - with disorganised or detached styles - but does it really give us what we need? We can't see or touch the other person. We can't see all those microexpressions that tell us whether or not the other person is really empathising with us, or if they're just full of bullshit. We miss out on the comfort of hearing another human voice. The sound of keys tapping while we send our woes into cyberspace really is a rather empty sound. Is there really any connectivity at all? What I find is that it encourages me to interact in a very limited way as I still feel safe, but I still end up feeling as if I am on the outside looking in. Granted, I've been here most of my life. But when your world feels like it's falling apart and you're trying desperately to hang on, humans need something more.