A Diary of Secrets - Deb Shugg

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      A Diary of Secrets

      Deb Shugg

      Copyright © 2012 Deb Shugg

      The contents of this publication are the author’s own reflections and memories based on her particular perspective. Where events may not be accurately recorded there is no wilful intention on behalf of the author to deceive the reader as some events, having endured the ravages of time, may lack objectivity.

      No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior consent of the author.

      The Publisher makes no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. Neither the publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any commercial damages.

      2012-07-12

      Dedication

      How dreadful it must be to watch someone you love struggling to survive another minute.

      In that way, this journal is an acknowledgement of the three most significant people in my life.

      Harold Shugg, who loves me.

      Aranea Carstairs and Peter Shugg, my two amazing babes who have grown into amazing adults and to whom I never want to say goodbye.

      Acknowledgments

      Special thanks go to all the “too many to name” people who have provided love and support when I was unloveable and unworthy.

      Foreword

      In 1997 as a way of emptying myself of a pain that nagged me constantly I picked up a notebook and a pen and began to write.

      The confusion that overwhelming anxiety and fear were creating in me couldn’t be explained. There was no-way I could voice the most ridiculous situations that were stopping me dead in my tracks and causing me to run home to safety.

      So I just said it to myself in a journal. Mostly when I wrote stuff down it was rambling incoherent scribble that, when reading back, was often difficult to decipher.

      I didn’t often read back what I’d written. Not immediately anyway. And, often when I picked up my pen the words would rush out so fast that I thought I wouldn’t be able to stop. But then, after pages of disjointed sentences and thoughts, my mind would stop and the words would diminish and I would have a few moments of peace before the outside world would come crashing back in. Other times only a sentence or two would make it out.

      On occasions I would beg for answers, other times poetry or prose might make its way to the page but in all of that writing I never expected a day would come when I would share what was in there.

      But, here it is!

      I’ve transcribed my journal in the hope of sharing something deeper than the usual 10 steps to getting better. I wanted to help others who, like me, felt stupid or even crazy! If that’s you, you’re neither stupid nor crazy.

      If it’s not you, but you know someone who’s severely depressed, has extreme anxiety, or is suffering from the effect of a trauma in their life, then this is to help you understand that the person you care about is as confused and frustrated by their condition as you and if snapping out of it was possible, that’s exactly what they’d do.

      The truth is that the process of healing can be long and slow but it’s not impossible. We weren’t designed to live a life of fear and sadness.

      You may find that some entries are reflective and others an expunging of built up turmoil. Some are present tense and some are past tense. But, it’s not intended to read like a prize-winning novel.

      It’s intended to read like the journal that it is.

      I apologise for having to edit some parts when it was necessary to protect others or give it readability.

      Prologue

      I wasn’t even born when I was assaulted for the first time.

      I was my mother’s seventh pregnancy and, unlike her other pregnancies, the news that I was on my way didn’t exactly fill her with joy. Another baby meant she wouldn’t be able to support the family she already had which included five other children and an alcoholic husband.

      So she did the only thing she could do at the time and poisoned me.

      Clinical abortions were illegal the year I was born and so my mother resorted to the only option she had. A discreet visit to the pharmacy provided her with a cocktail of drugs that would help the baby to spontaneously abort, a welcome miscarriage. Sadly for my mother, all she did was make herself sick. The pregnancy survived.

      I grew up as a part of a family that had to fight just to exist. Money was scarce and family secrets were the thread that held it together. I was the victim of violence, indecent assault, attempted rape and sexual abuse.

      Until recently, my memories of growing up didn’t exist. A few standout events I would never completely forget, but I had managed to erase every emotion or sentiment from them. I could recall events as things that happened but it meant no more to me than any other simple exchange of information.

      I never expected too much from my life and I never thought about it that much. Sadly, the overwhelming concerns in my childhood revolved mostly around survival. It was imperative that I find a home for my emotions. Somewhere that I knew they would never be seen and I would be safe.

      My first anxiety attack in a local shopping centre when I was 27, heralded a warning of the storms to come that would completely destroy both me and the perfect life I had created. Who could know that eventually I would be willing myself to die just to escape the agony that facing each new day created.

      What I never knew was that it was in those storms I would rediscover the memories, tears and shame that I had fought all my life.

      It took many years to discover me and for most of that time I would need to travel alone. My journal would be the only place my mixed up thoughts and feelings would be welcome. A place where words and tears could flow freely as I travelled the journey I never wanted to take and felt anguish like I could never have imagined.

      It was on that journey that I found myself broken and empty and was able to return home, whole.

      When I had blue eyes…

       2nd July

      I’m 33 years old. I’m married and have two beautiful children. My life is perfect. I have a home, a happy family, a career. My life appears to be perfect.

      I’ve been crying for days. An all consuming tearfulness that’s consumed my life and I can’t stop. I feel so sick I can’t even put food in my mouth for fear of throwing up, but now I’m scared I’m going to starve to death.

      I’m so paralysed by fear I can’t even go shopping and I have no idea what’s happening to me. I can be perfectly rational one minute and paralysed the next. I’m so confused I don’t even know what to do about it.

      I want to die. I am so distraught I think I might kill myself. I can’t live life like this. I can’t even participate in the normal things everyone does and I just want to get better. I can’t do this anymore.

      Harold says that I should see a doctor. I can’t bear to be like this but I don’t want to risk taking any medication in case I become addicted or I feel weaker than I already am. I really don’t know what’s best or even what to do.

       13th July

      Each day that passes changes nothing. I have anxiety that only lets up for a few minutes at a

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