Finishing my degree

OK, so, Im not entirely sure I feel good about this - but I should be proud of myself.

On the 9th, I had my final recital, which marks the end of my degree - finally.

I started studying for it 7 years ago, and it should only have taken 4 years to complete.

During that time, I was hospitalised for 6 months for an eating disorder, took many unplanned interruptions due to depression, battled with dissociation constantly due to PTSD, took part in an 18 month group therapy program (that ran for a full day a week), attended appointments on a weekly basis, and for the most part - I am now a recovered anorexic, and my PTSD and depression are *almost* under control.
I have also had to come to terms with how much my childhood affected me - which was particularly hard due to the fact I have studied music, which is the one area I never ever feel good about - and that has been horrific at times. There were many points where I would cry, go to a rehearsal (and stop crying), cry again, do another rehearsal, cry, go on to perform, cry again, go on to perform, and go home and cry - I have been in states where Ive seriously contemplated suicide, and had to fight for the help.

I have had 2 abusive relationships, numerous bullies, numerous difficult living situations, 2 friends passing away to cancer, my dad being diagnosed with cancer (they originally thought it was terminal, but he was lucky in the end), a court case, and an illegal eviction.

I have battled with the loneliness, the unworthiness, the trust issues. I have had to learn how to assert myself, and find my needs, and I am having to start learning that its OK not to be perfect (this I am struggling with).
I have had to fight for support, Ive had issues with my tutors, Ive been managing severe dyslexia, and been battling to get help from medical people - both for mental, and physical health. I have also been diagnosed with an incurable life-long condition which gives me chronic pain so bad I can't sleep through the night, nor can I often plait my hair, or walk around much.

During so many points in my studies, it would have been easy to drop out. I was desperate to on numerous occasions. I wanted so badly to listen do that part of my head that tells me its ok to destroy myself, or that I was unworthy of carrying on.

But I didnt.

it was so scary for me - it marks the end of the life I was forced into, and the beginning of a very scary unknown. 
It terrifies me to know I will be marked, and judged on it, and the prospect of not getting a first scares the hell out of me - even though I should feel proud even getting to this point.

physical needs not being met

Not strictly in order, but its come up today, and I need to figure it all out - so...

Growing up, I never ever spotted this - and I certainly didnt see it as abuse - but then, I didnt see anything as abuse.

There are a number of memories of things that have come up, relating to my physical needs, that weren't met, and worse still, were ignored.

Today, I was sitting down to dinner with W & M (the people who I live with, almost surrogate parents, that I have found at the ripe old age of 26). We were chatting about this and that, and some stories of their childrens school days came up. W is a nurse, and naturally, took a very caring roll - the kids were in boarding school, but they were their constantly ensuring that their kids were treated well, that issues were sorted, and that medical needs were met. She even ended up directing the school dr & nurse with reguard to an accident and her son having fractured his leg that no one had spotted.

This, is a stark contrast to my home life  

The memory that came up, was one where I had sprained my ankle pretty badly on a friday night - it was literally black, and had swollen to the size of a large orange. I couldn't put weight on it, and I was in agony - yet, on Saturday morning, I got made to go up to music school - for the record, it was a journey alone, carrying bassoon, violin, recorders & music, on 3 trains (2 hours across london), and a 15 min walk either side. I spent from 6am- 9 pm carrying everything and having to walk on my ankle, no pain killers or anti-inflamatories, and needless to say I was not great when I returned home. My mum eventually looked at it, and went 'Oh, maybe we should have taken you to get some crutches - its too late now, never mind'.

I didnt even get a note for cross country that week - and had to stand infant of the entire year and show the teacher my ankle and plead to get out of it.

This was not the only time. I developed extremely bad repetitive strain injury on one of the many music courses I had to go on, and for 4 years, I struggled to wright, hold a cup, and was in constant agony. I developed extremely bad back issues, my shoulders were a mess (I think this is the years of carrying my bassoon, violin, recorders, music and school stuff a mile to school most days) I still had to practice many hours a day, and often spent so much time lying on the floor in agony in rehearsals that it became a running joke - I used to get a couple of ibuprofen from my gran, but other then that, no one would do anything. I asked repeatedly to go to the doctor, but all my mum said was that 'its pointless, they won't do anything', and that was that  

Another memory, was when my jaw started dislocating. I have TMJ issues, and went through periods of time where my jaw would either lock so that i couldn't open it more then half an inch, or lock so that I couldn't close it, for months at a time. It was agony. It was grinding, clunking, my headaches became constant (I suspect the muscles were messed up from it), and I also couldn't help grinding my teeth in the night. Again, I asked to go to the dentist repeatedly, and my mum came up with the same response - 'they won't do anything, its a waste of money', and 'your granddads jaw does it all the time, don't worry about it'.

There are many more stories - my brother broke his leg, and my parents didnt take him to A&E until he'd been walking around on it for most of the day. In one way or another, it went on with most of us at some point.

So, I guess its no wonder that I don't consider my needs as important. I have spent most of my adult life not being given medical attention that I actually need - because I am so good at telling people I'm fine. The issues with my joints are only now being looked into, and even this is an uphill struggle - largely because I can't tell people when Im in pain, because 'I don't want to bother them'.

Its only tonight that I have quite put 2 and 2 together - am I right in thinking this was abuse or neglect in a different format?
or is this me being self involved to even be thinking it???

Grateful

I am so so grateful to W & M at the moment.

I moved in a few months back. Due to other housing issues that I have experienced, and W supporting me through the latest ones, when the last place wasn't working out, she suggested I moved in with them until I finished my degree.

I never imagined how important living in a functional family home could be - and I never imagined that the things I am finding most useful would have ever even happened.

The last few weeks have been rocky to say the least, and as per usual, when my head goes dark, my room becomes unmanageable. I struggle to see the wood for the trees, and lack the energy or drive to do much at all once I'm left to my own devices - this is highlighted more the nearer I get to recital day, and thus my 'impending doom'!

I am not depressed, but I am down - and this little mirroring of my head is a common feature in the relationship I have had with any of my bedrooms - the worse I feel, the worse it gets (and the worse it gets, the worse I feel - that old chestnut). In the past (as a child), I would be told off for it - and it was rare to have an offer of help in sorting out along side me. Obviously, in university, I have been left to my own devices, and so it tends to stay a mess until my mood improves, at which point I have the energy again to sort things out.

Tonight (having spotted things slipping a while back), W offered to help me sort it. Although I feel a little embarrassed, as I'm coming up to 27, I am so grateful to her. Instead of moping and getting stressed with it, we had a giggle, and when I got a bit freaked out - she found a place to start. Sometimes, even as a fully fledged 'adult', I need the care and input that I just didn't have as a child.

This entire stay here has been therapeutic in more ways then they will ever know, and in more ways then I ever imagined. Just being part of a happy family base, having people to chat too, to be silly with, or to hug. People that can manage my bad days, without making me feel guilty for having them, and who don't immediately abandon ship, or scream fire at the slightest set back. I feel like a child in some respects, but then I missed out on being treated like one when I was that young. In a way, I feel that its that care that is slowly starting to stitch bits of me back together again, and it couldn't be coming at a better time.

I am so lucky.

I am scared of needing to leave, but I know that I will have to at some point soon - I don't want to take advantage. Emotionally, I feel like I'm still so young in some respects, and I'm only just getting used to having people around me that care, that it worries me slightly for when I leave - but I am an adult, and I will have to manage things, and (hopefully) will manage things. It will be painful to go - I will probably feel homesick for the first time in my life, but everyone needs to fly the nest at some point - I'm just not flying from my family nest.

Things will work out because they have to - in an ideal world, I would stay until I feel strong enough to go - but my healing journey has been long, and there is still far further to go. Either way, I will have been given a few months of TLC which is a damn site more then I have ever been given before. I will come out of here knowing that it is possible for people to care.

Living in a family of holocaust survivors

I am not sure when the first time I was taken to a concentration camp for a day visit was, but we had been going since I can remember.

My grandpa escaped Germany on one of the last kinda transports at the age of 12, and was sent over to stay with (very distant) relatives. It was impossible to get over unless you had someone on the other side, and my great grandmother essentially saved his life by finding a way to get him out. His father had been given a 'mercy killing' by the Nazis, as he was in hospital with shell shock from the first world war, and my great grandmother did eventually escape Europe, although committed suicide just before my mother was born.
The rest of his family and community perished.

He was never overly vocal about it, but his way of remembering was to go back to Europe, and visit. We visited concentration camps, ghettos, holocaust museums, even the little jewish graveyard in the town he grew up in (all of the gravestones had been smashed up during Nazi rule, so it is not as it should have been). We went all over Europe, pretty much 1 or 2 countries per summer, camping.

I became very aware at a very young age of the monstrosities that man can perform. I was also painfully aware, that had I have lived 2 generations earlier, any one of those Jewish women or children could have been me. That was a very very scary thought to a young child.

I remember having to walk into the old gas chambers, and looking at the ovens. I remember seeing piles of belongings, and walking into the 'medical' rooms. Hearing stories of torture, and seeing pictures of emaciated people - any one of which could have been a distant family member. 
I also remember feeling that I could not show emotion - my grandpa, who had lived with this all his life, was 'fine' - and so from that age, I was never aloud to be upset or scared of it.

One of my clearest, and more disturbing memories must have been from when I was about 14. We visited Theresienstadt, which was essentially a holding pen those being sent to concentration camps. It is a large ghetto in the middle of no where in the check republic, and was used for Nazi propaganda (many videos of 'happy jews' were filmed there, interesting, but sick). It was a pretty nasty place to visit anyhow, but the worst thing was when we went into the old orphanage. In there, the names of all of the children that passed through and were killed, were all written on the walls. 
My grandpa was going along the walls with "I knew him", "I went to school with her", and "I played with them".
There was no emotion.
I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry - but instead, it all stayed inside. No one ever spoke about the emotions, and no one ever got upset.
It made me feel sick.

There are numerous memories from numerous visits, but they were all emotionally very similar. It left me with the knowledge that no one is safe, and that people can be very dangerous. That groups are scary, and that the world can turn at any given moment. Maybe even that being Jewish is something to hide, or inherently makes us a target.

Worse still, I could never talk about these things. I wasn't able to cry, and there were no hugs or nice words after the visits. My grandpa would be (understandably) volatile, and would regularly begin tantrums because of stupid little things that were unpredictable - and they were usually aimed at us kids. He was often seemingly as scary as the things we had just visited.

The way that my family works, is so linked in with the traumas of the past, that it is near impossible to imagine them running differently. They are making the best of it - and have got a long way from very unfair beginnings.

The work ethic in my family has been the biggest noticable thing from this - and is extremely damaging to the next generations. People who have come from nothing, and worked 4 jobs to survive, and finish with a successful career and 5 children understand hard work. What they don't understand is that it becomes damaging. To expect the best, and expect that level of work from children for so long becomes a way to destroy them - and it has destroyed almost all of us in one way or another.

There is also absolute no emotional maturity (how could there be when your family is ripped to shreds when your so young?), and this is extremely damaging when it comes to raising your own children. They didnt know how to parent, and they certainly didnt really understand how to show love. They tried, and did it to the best of their abilities, but it simply hasn't been enough.

Although only my grandpa was directly linked to the holocaust, the rest of my family had similar experiences from the pogroms a generation or two earlier.

As an adult, its easy for me to step back - but as a child, I was totally unaware of anything. I believed it was me being overly sensitive, and just plain wrong. Of course, the bullying compounded my views on how unsafe people were, and this only got worse with time - in secondary school, people even used to 'hiel hitler' me as I enter classrooms - they all found it extremely funny, but it used to take my breath away with fear.


I had no idea how many little things there were until I started writing this - Im not sure how I feel about it. I am so aware of how much more there is to say, and of how much more extreme things got from here   maybe it wasn't all in my head after all 

I got a first

and feel awful.

I can't turn off the old voices, no matter how hard I try, and even though I received a first for my 17000 word major project - 72, I came home and cried.

Wendy was lovely as ever - and supplied many hugs, and the space to talk things through. I felt truly ridiculous, most people would be bouncing off the walls in happiness, and instead I have the 'It could have been a better first if you had of worked harder' tune going round and round and round.

She has said I need more help - and she is right. I need to sort this all out once and for all, but that is one mammoth task.

How do i sift through 26 years of neglect and abuse???

If it had of been physical abuse, or sexual (that came later), then I could understand it better, but the issue with emotional neglect and abuse, is that there is nothing physical - and therefor it is hard to quantify, and hard to have 'proof' of.

Part 2 - the Little Lottie

I have scarce memories of my younger years. Originally, I blocked out everything below the age of 12, but through years of therapy, little bits have been uncovered here and there, and I am growing quite a collection, although I am sad to say that there are very few (if any) truly happy memories.

Where to begin?

I guess my youngest years, the bits I know about are from old video tapes. I was a surprisingly loud child, and fairly headstrong! There are many cringeworthy moments of me shouting, and throwing strops, and many moments where I am shouting over others - I guess this is normal in a large family, but we can safely say that I grew out of this pretty damn quickly! Looking back at them, with my adult (and damaged) ways of thinking, I have often used these as 'proof' of how inherently nasty I am, although I am aware that this is a voice of someone else, and not entirely fair. :roll:

My youngest memory is my 3rd birthday - we were getting ready to move house, and everyone was too busy to have a birthday party - how weird that I can still remember that?!

In nursery I struggled to make friends, and I guess that this is when the bullying started. I was the odd one out, being Jewish in a christian school, and likely struggling with learning as the others did, I started to loose my confidence - I don't remember so much - the odd snippet of an argument, or the many nosebleeds that used to get me sent to A&E (usually from my clumsiness, which I never grew out of!)

I was a sickly child. I had tonsillitis every 2 weeks until I was 7 and had them out. I had chronic ear infections, and reacted to every inoculation I could have done to extremes. Mum is forever on about the 'awful' reaction I had to the MMR jab, which consisted of 3 separate reactions, including a temperature of 104.F - this was pretty much my only 'talent' :lol:

I guess taking this into account, it may go to explain why I struggled to make friends initially - I was missing a fair amount of school, though for the most part, mum just used to pack me off with my antibiotics, and see me at the end of the school day. I don't remember any of it, but I'm guessing I didn't enjoy trying to learn and socialising with bad tonsillitis constantly! Either way, I became very very aware of my differences, not helped by the sever dyslexia that no one knew I was struggling with.

Oddly enough, my gran is not a big part of my early years - she looked after us a lot (more then mum really), but she has a tendency to dote on the little ones - the issues with her usually start when music gets involved, and although I had a violin under my chin by the age of 3, she didn't get going for a while.

So, reception is where I begin to remember a lot - I was petrified of being left in school. I struggled to learn, and was sat on the stupid table. I was fearful of almost anything, and the class found it hilarious when I ran screaming from our teachers pet labrador!

Year one was similar, other then my continued clumsiness (walking into pillers seemed to feature regularly), I was totally in my own little world. I was 'imaginative' and 'creative', I had all the friends I needed in my head, largely due to having absolutely non in the playground, and at home I would carry on, playing with my imaginary pets, and making broomsticks in the garden.
Interestingly, I never had human imaginary friends - fairies, witches, unicorns, lepracorns, but never humans!

Year two is where I remember things getting bad. I was being severely bullied, and had a teacher that didn't 'believe in dyslexia'. She would regularly have me up in front of the class to tell me off, or ask me questions that she knew I couldn't answer, and this exacerbated the situation with my peers. I even remember being told off for being bullied - my bully got away scot free. Mum tried to help by talking to her, and also started taking me to dyslexic lessons - but it failed to do much good, and she ended up taking me out of that school and into another.

Relationships with my siblings at this time were also hard - my older siblings were not particularly lovely, and delighted in scaring me (particularly my brother). Many instances of him shutting me in a dark room with spooky sounds playing and locking the door, taking my teddy (and only friend) and leaving him on tree branches (I was petrified of heights, and thought Flop was going to die - 7 year old logic! He hid a fake tarantula in my bed, which my dad found very amusing! On my 7th birthday, I remember him and my sister shutting me in a box, and taping it shut. They carried me around in it screaming, and eventually (I was crying my head off), they undid the lid and I found a polly pocket in the bottom as my birthday present. Everyone found it hilarious - except me :roll:

It was around this time that I started having issues with insomnia - I was unable to get to sleep before 3 or 4am, and my parents used to regularly tell me off for this. I used to be extremely sensitive to noise, and was petrified of things hiding in cupboards, under the beds, in rooms across the hall, and of monsters sticking their hand through my window. Eventually they got so fed up of me crying in the night that they moved my bed into my little sisters room - although I was awake, I was in a room with someone, which took part of the fear out. Many times before moving me, I remember wanting to go and sleep on the floor by their bed - this wasn't aloud, although I sometimes snuck in when they had gone to sleep.

My new school was even worse then the last. It was catholic, and if i felt the odd one out at my first school, its not a patch on this one. I was treated as an idiot, and cant count the amount of times I was told that I 'Killed Jesus'! Much chasing me around the playground in breaks, and I used to hide as often as I could. Mum was teaching violin there, and I saw how upset it was making her, which made me feel bad.

Moved school again in year 3, this time to a 7th day adventist private school :shock: (seriously, IM A JEW!!!), got bad in year 4 when I had a teacher that 'dyslexia is where you have something wrong with your brain, and it doesn't work like normal peoples'. By this time, mum had twigged that on the first day of the year, if I came back saying I didn't like my teacher, there was usually hell to follow - and I was never wrong. Bullying was bad, it was both my class, and the class above - i was regularly chased, pushed off climbing frames, and being sworn at (in front of teachers who didn't care) - on top of the usual name calling and nasty comments. In year 5, my teacher made it the classes business to stop be sucking my thumb, and I was regularly blamed for loosing house points because of this.

Dad then lost his job, and I was moved to another school for year 6. Much the same friends wise, but family issues began to get more extreme. Mum and dad started arguing constantly, and mum would regularly chuck a suitcase into the car, and drive off. I was the only child panicked by this - and would run after the car crying, and sit by the window praying that she would be safe and come back. I genuinely believed she would run away forever, and was constantly worried that they would divorce. (I later found out that dad was struggling with depression, and money was tight - which is why they were arguing so much)

From this, came the fear at night that I would go to sleep, and wake up to a totally empty house. I had to say 'good night, see you in the morning', and get everyone else to say 'see you in the morning', else I thought they would leave me in the middle of the night. I can't explain to you how real that fear was - and it went on for years.
My brother moved to live with my gran at this point, as he couldn't stand 'the girls' - I didn't see much of him after that for many years.

During this time, there was music etc going on, but in honesty I remember very little - I know I was playing violin, and attending music schools/courses, and I know I couldn't read music. There is a picture of me in year 6 pulling the grumpiest face during practice time with my gran, so I'm guessing she had started full on by then, but I can't remember anything about it.


Well, thats my whistle stop tour of my earliest childhood - things didn't get totally crazy until secondary school  :lol: I know I had decided by my 2nd or 3rd school that mum couldn't help with the bullying, and I remember clearly thinking that it upset her, so I should stop talking about it - I did, and that never changed. From then on, I was looking after her feelings - I don't remember exactly when it was. I also didn't have much to do with my dad - no real memories of time spent with him, although he lived with us.

Its almost like someone switched the whole lot off - this caused me great distress in later life, and it has taken me years to build the picture of things above. Originally, I simply could remember non of it at all - which is a bit weird!

In the beginning - growing up with a narcissist

I have had 12 years of therapy, and only now am I starting to see what truly went on. 
I think for myself, I need to start remembering and sifting through what went on, and so I would like to start at the beginning - and really begin to go through the many many hard experiences, so that I can get some perspective. No longer should I be blaming myself for being the 'mental case' from the 'perfect family'. 

The reality was that I grew up in a narcissistic matriarchal family, with substantial emotional neglect, and severe bullying (which lasted through 5 schools and 12 years). I also had sexual abuse and rape in my early adult life (which i am only now starting to recognise), and 2 abusive relationships (one was a narcissist, surprise surprise) and a whole other lot of terrifying and difficult experiences to boot.

That makes me sad to wright  

This left me with Anorexia, Dysthymia (chronic depression which has been pretty bad at various points), PTSD, chronic insomnia, and a tendency to self harm. All of these issues I have taken the blame for - but in reality, I was ill because of my childhood, not just for fun.

The beginning - growing up with a narcissist

I grew up in an outwardly perfect family.

I had 2 parents who 'loved' me, I had 3 siblings, and I 3 grandparents, and a gigantic extended Jewish family.

We would spend our time playing music - our family essentially formed a string orchestra (I kid you not), made up of each smaller family where the children formed string quartets, and quintets and trios.

On the outside, I was given every opportunity to 'better' myself - my childhood was spent attending specialist Saturday music schools, courses, lessons - all day, every day.

What people didn't see, was that it was a truly miserable existence.


We were a Jewish family, run by a Narcissistic grandmother, and a grandfather that had lived through the holocaust. I mention this, because the trauma that he could not process has left burning marks on the rest of us - and the negative effects of this follow through the generations in a very hidden, but very destructive way.

Interestingly, the Narcissistic tendencies (grandmother), and anger (grandfather's toddler tantrums) have also been learnt by my mother, aunts and uncles - and every one of them has taken on a trait or two - non of them have totally happy or functional families, but no body quite realises why.

I grew up with 2 parents, but both were 'missing in action'. We lived a very short distance from my grandparents, and as such, they were given full control of us, whilst my parents faded into the background of 'people that lived under the same roof', yet appearing totally perfect parents to those around us.

It was a very clever set up - top marks for effort granny!  

As far as my individual family went - I was the 3rd of 4 children.

My older brother was very clever, and very studious. He worked like a trooper, and got 5 A's at Alevel before studying medicine and Oxford. In our family, boys can do no wrong - and lucky for him, this meant my grandmother had nothing but praise and worship to give him.

My older sister was the original scapegoat. She was clever, but didn't like to work too hard. Very popular, very sociable, and I believe this gave her the tools she needed to forge an escape route. 
She spent many years under attack from my wider family - many many family gathering which would result in 30 people shouting at her - but her reaction was to fight back, and to run away. She spent a good 3-4 years literally running away from home, and was labeled the black sheep. Thanks to her large social circle, she managed to escape relatively unscathed (I suspect this boosted her confidence in herself enough), and once she left for music college, the relationships calmed down. Very recently (11/12 years after leaving), she is starting to forge better relations with her parents and siblings - though up to recently, we had very little contact.

I came next. I was quiet, known as the 'over-sensitive' one. In reality, this is because I was being severely bullied continually, and became a very scared child. From the age of 7, I was not able to get to sleep until 3-4am, and rather then think there was something wrong, it was purely a frustration for my parents.
I was severely dyslexic, and never felt good enough. I continually had my differences pointed out to me, thus becoming extremely critical of myself, and lacked any self confidence. This made me extreme compliant.
When I witnessed the treatment of my sister, I made a conscious decision to do what I was told, thinking I would escape the pressure. Unfortunately, this only made me an easy target - and I became the focus of my grandmothers attentions and criticisms.
Alongside this, I was also the child that ended up with the roll of care taking for my mother. I learnt very early that she couldn't cope if she got upset, and so became continually vigilant to her needs, sectioning my own needs off.
Eventually, I caved under the pressure and developed very complex mental health problems.

The last of 4, my little sister. She was affected by her learning difficulties far more then myself. As such, the expectations for her were lower. She didn't struggle too much with friends as a child - largely because I was protecting her with the will of a demon if I saw anyone so much as mutter something! She was in the lowest teaching groups at school, and it is only in adult life that she is realising how different she is - this is hard to watch.
As the expectations were different, my gran never really expected much from her. Personally, I see this as a lucky escape - she has never had to endure being the focus of 30 people shouting at her for not trying, or the icy silence my gran can uphold for weeks at a time, but I am also aware that she is constantly battling those feeling of not being clever because of this.

Thats the amazing thing about families run by a narcissist, we all grew up jealous of each others position. I was desperate not to be the centre of my grans world, and my cousins and siblings were jealous of me 'getting all the attention'