Once in a while, I hear or read words that suddenly make me reevaluate everything I thought I knew about something, someone or myself. Recently, this happened.
Trying to take an active stance in my emotional struggles, I have been doing a lot of research lately, about sociopaths, antisocial personality disorder and behavior, and the effect of such people on their victims. In the midst of some online probe, I came across a blog post by a mother whose daughter had been married to and abused by a sociopath. She described her daughter as demonstrating typical symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. The concept was new, yet the list of symptoms was singularly familiar and thus puzzling. Following this new thread of thought, I oriented my net surfing to the subject of trauma and its victims.
I then came upon this article by experts in the matter of psychological trauma which I found enlightening. What a shocking and soothing surprise to realize that many of my feelings and anxieties actually fit into one oddly neat box. All my neurotic thoughts; random yet consuming memories of unpleasant events; feelings of paranoia and lack of safety; crushingly poor self-esteem. My depression, anxiety, guilt. They all emanate from the same place. A traumatic stress reaction. Fitting myself into that diagnosis is like placing that last piece of the puzzle that suddenly makes the whole picture take shape. That messy mix of emotions that makes me feel so discombobulated so much of the time turns out to follow a standard and organized list. Amazing.
Before I go any further, let me acknowledge that I am no professional shrink. I thus take my self-diagnosis with a grain of salt. And I am not claiming that I suffer from full blown PTSD. That being said, the symptoms of Traumatic Stress are similar, just less intense. Additionally, a key aspect of psychological trauma is whether the victim subjectively feels they have been traumatized, and I do. It all makes sense now.
Psychological trauma is the unique individual experience of an event or enduring conditions, in which:
- The individual’s ability to integrate his/her emotional experience is overwhelmed, or
- The individual experiences (subjectively) a threat to life, bodily integrity, or sanity.
(Pearlman & Saakvitne, 1995, p. 60)
The article goes on to explain that circumstances of the traumatic event commonly include abuse of power, betrayal of trust, entrapment, helplessness, pain, confusion, and/or loss. Check, check, check.
The worst situation is when the injury is caused deliberately in a relationship with a person on whom the victim is dependent—most specifically a parent-child relationship. Check.
The traumatic experiences that result in the most serious mental health problems are prolonged and repeated, sometimes extending over years of a person’s life. Yep.
These experiences, while usually physical or sexual in nature, may also consist of emotional and verbal abuse as well as witnessing violence directed towards a caregiver. Once again, little check marks on the list.
Psychological effects are likely to be most severe if the trauma meets the following short list of criteria. Here I define how my personal experience with the Monster fits in.
- Human caused
Until proven otherwise, the Monster is a human being, albeit doing a poor job at it.
- Repeated
I would consider daily verbal and emotional abuse, as well as daily witnessing of verbal, emotional and at times physical abuse against my Mom, a repeated traumatic experience.
- Undergone in childhood
While my realization and analysis of my father’s condition came when I was a teenager and young adult, I endured his abusive personality and the traumatic experience of living under his roof from the time of my birth. Walking around on eggshells and overachieving in hope of some improbable approval were skills I learned quite young.
- Unpredictable
Inconsistency and unpredictability were the Monster’s favorite tools in exerting his power over us. He may have been in a great mood one minute, but could turn foul the next without rhyme or reason. I used to grab onto his good moods like a rodeo cowboy on a dancing bull. If I held on tight enough, desperately enough, his happy disposition would perhaps last. Alas, it was all subject to a whim, a breeze, a draft.
If he made a promise — for something fun, like going to the movies or the bookstore — no matter how much I minded my p’s and q’s, the most innocuous step out of line in his eye would cause him to change his mind and thereby break the promise. Most likely, he had found something more interesting with which to occupy himself and was looking for a convenient reason to get out of his promises. But from where I stood, the tide was abruptly changing and there was no logic to the flips and flops of his behavior.
- Multifaceted
The calling of names and use of demeaning put-downs. The oppressive guilt trips. The conditional demonstrations of affection. The bullying and ridiculing of my lovable Mom. The insinuated but nonetheless real threats to my security and happiness. The bewildering lies affirmed with such staggering conviction they chipped off bits of my sanity, one at a time.
- Sadistic
This criterion poses a problem for me. While many of the Monster’s actions toward me were in essence mean-spirited, destructive and harmful, I can’t decide whether they were purposely meant to hurt. And that is the key in calling someone a “sadist”.
Incidentally, my phobia of rodents triggered by some indicative mice droppings in our kitchen yesterday, I tearfully told my husband of a relevant day in my pre-teen years. On that day, ordered to help my parents clean out an old stable room on our farm house’s property, I had grudgingly complied but complained to my mother of discomfort caused by a mild dust and mold allergy. My father, within earshot and wanting to teach me a lesson for whining, pointed to an old broken down cardboard box that he had designated for me to drag to the other side of the yard where it would later be burnt. As I pulled the box, it tore open, revealing a gutted, rotting dead rat nestled inside. I remember the electric jolt of shock and horror and feeling suddenly frozen to the core. Frozen at the sight of the unsightly dead animal. Frozen as the comprehension of my father’s incomprehensible action showered me like hail. I remember the half-cocky half-annoyed laughter of the Monster, echoing in my ears as I ran away brokenly. Feeling ashamed, of all things.
I feel compelled to label the Monster’s behavior on that traumatizing day that of a sadist. I am still angry, disgusted and sick over it, almost twenty years later. The Rebel disagrees, claiming that instead of sadistic my father was stupid, intending to (very inadequately) teach me a lesson. The purpose being that of teaching, rather than that of hurting, I supposedly cannot call it sadism, even if the lesson hurt profoundly.
The Rebel may have a point and so, my thoughts are still hanging in the balance on this one. Either way, the Monster was not a nice guy.
- And perpetrated by a caregiver
This one makes me chuckle with cynicism. My father was a parent, by virtue of having donated sperm and being married to our Mom. He was supposed to be a caregiver, but examining the specifics clearly leads me to think otherwise.
The Monster brought home the bacon, or something like it. We had a roof over our head, food on our plates and clothes on our back, although it was all paid for by money that would later be demanded in lawsuits against the Monster. He was home a lot, even if his interactions with me and my siblings consisted of his barking orders and demands and our complying like a well-trained army of little elves. He was occasionally affectionate, dishing out hugs and kisses when only he felt like it, even if that urge came right when he had just chastised us unfairly, destroyed our cheerful mood or squashed our spirit. I don’t think he ever changed a diaper, cooked a meal or helped with homework.
. . .
Outlining these criteria for trauma, I can’t help but be astounded that I didn’t understand it all sooner. My father is an abuser, straight out of the textbook. A definition-perfect sociopath. Why shouldn’t my reaction accordingly be that of a traditional victim? Perhaps I have feared the naked self-awareness that comes with acknowledging victimization, not wanting to allow the Monster that power over me. But the damage is done, and I can only hope that grasping the reality of my scars will help me heal them.
