Of all of the real problems that I have had in my life, there lingers an invisible illness that I’ve not openly addressed before, hypochondria. From an really age I’ve had the desire to be sick, fortunately this has not been true. I don’t mean like malrotation or colonic inertia. I mean something terminal. I know how this sounds bad and, yes I see a therapist. Plus I am not suicidal. I’m not sure where this desire originates but it has been persistent, sneaking is way into my thoughts periodically.
Through the years there have many times that I wished non existence, the wish I’d never been born. One therapist suggested it was tied to abuse that I suffered as a child. I used to deny this but evidence presented to me in the form of things that I said in therapy have led me to see the truth in this concept. Abuse, or rather the reaction to it, is a powerful thing. It shapes the mind and thoughts in a kind of defensive mode. While this could be an aha moment to outsiders looking in, such an apifany eludes my grasp.
As to the abuse, while there was physical abuse, there was psychological plus some form of sexual abuse may have been present as well. I say “may have been” because evidence of it is subtle and indirect as I have no direct memory of it, just lingering feelings and behavior that suggests. The brain is awesome in its ability protect our consciousness from trauma that otherwise might render us handicapped.
Trying now to get a resolution to these conflicted thoughts gets much tougher as I age because parents and participants are dying or dead by now but I suspect the traumatic abuse came from early on, in my preteen years, although psychological abuse was life long, at the hands of my father.
It wasn’t as if there were no good times. Certainly I remember fishing trips, and other things I enjoyed doing with him but my father had a dark side that had a way of coming out, usually to tell me that I was inadequate and although I am heterosexual, that I was homosexual which to his homophobic mind was one of the lowest levels of hell that he could wish on someone. I was never to confront him with any of this as he is now dead. He died of cancer and old age at 86 years of age.
I have worked hard to not be like my father in his abusive patterns in my own life but much of what we know is learned by our interactions. My wife of 32 years has been the object of my abuse over the years. Despite my vigilance, i find myself yelling and badgering her. I despise myself for this and the weakness that allows it to lash out at her. It amazes me that she has stayed with me for so long.