I Sedated My Self-Hate with Self-Destruction

My mother once told me that I was such a pretty newborn that she felt moved to place a purple flower at the head of my crib. I was taken aback by her words since, to me, she was a woman who wasn’t especially maternal. I’d grown up with a sense of ugliness and felt a mistake.

I imagine that this negative sense of self was an imprint from my father’s overall message — repeated throughout my childhood years: that parenthood with my mother wasn’t part of his plan—he’d been tricked because she had told him categorically: “She was on the pill!”

Because of his lack of emotional maturity and 'dad skills', my father deemed it okay to share with my twin and me, on every occasion we’d see him, this intimate fact. Both parents overshared, and nowadays we’re learning more about how this is a form of emotional abuse.

Struggling and underweight, I was placed in an incubator for a good amount of time; my mother tells me that a bubble of nurses fed and cared for me, that this was why we, for the most part, never bonded. It also explained our lack of connection and atypical mother-daughter relationship; I had indeed always felt distant from her, and what made it worse, I suffered excruciating embarrassment and shame of her unusual eccentricity.

My father, begrudgingly becoming a father at the age of twenty-two and his clashing doubts about my coming into the world, didn’t turn up at the hospital for well over a week. Although that story has differing timelines, there is a blank space next to 'FATHER' on my birth certificate, which says it all.

He was an emotionally stunted man who liked his drink, in my mind, to subconsciously numb his poor self-worth. My parents’ relationship grew more and more toxic, and my father’s shame for us blew loud and clear over my soul.

I recall that, as a child, I had an obsession with all things sugar. Sugar sandwiches, packets of Custard Cream biscuits dunked in sugar-laden coffee, boiled sweets, toffee, fudge, all chocolate bars, nougat, lollipops, ice cream, and last but not least: strawberry-flavoured whipped mousses.

How I tragically abused my beautiful teeth, all because I didn’t know how to regulate my emotions or comfort my inner wounds in healthier ways.

My mother struggled mentally with symptoms of what was once known as neurosis and manic depression. She was open and vocal about wanting to escape (us and her life), and although she didn’t, we felt her emotional absence a lot of the time.

As babies and children, we were fostered out on a few occasions. The reasons varied from my mother needing a break, to more serious causes. Having given birth to another set of twins when I was eighteen months old to dangerously haemorrhaging afterwards, mum would say she wouldn’t recognise me and noted I had become ultra sensitive, when I returned home.

With all of the uncertain disruptions and experiencing several house fires, it was enough to set my nervous system to be permanently set on high alert. Growing into an adolescent, my home life and relationship with my mother became unhappier. Mum had arranged for us to move from the only home I had known to our neighbouring town. My fear of change pushed through as a rebellious objection, and because of this, we argued more than usual.

One time during that build-up to moving, and through my frustration with her merciless ways, I told her to fuck off. Being only fourteen, I was deemed rebellious through her eyes, and not as a frightened child. As we fought, she felt it (as always), her right to hit or slap me in her anger in an attempt to control me, and so she instinctively grabbed the iron poker that was leaning next to the living room stove. Hitting me many times, I winced as I felt the full force of the metal across my body.

I had been at the receiving end of a good amount of disciplinary smacks or whips from wooden spoons and backs of hands over my life, even my face smashed against a table, and so this was just another ugly performance of her lack of nurturing skills — and her diminishing patience, as I grew into a disgruntled teenager.

Just before my gym class at school the following day or so, and needing an excuse to get out of the lesson, I told my teacher what happened — showing my bruises to support my story. By the end of the day, instead of taking my usual school bus home, the police had been called to escort me back to the police station to take down a statement, along with photographic evidence of the bruises.

When this daunting ordeal was over, I was driven to a Social Services Young Adults home ‘for my protection’. Yet I was terrified, particularly because the young male residents, over the few days, were far too horney for my liking, and interested in gaining some sort of sexual experience with me. I had to beg my mother, several times, to come and get me, even though she couldn’t stand the sight of me when she saw me, or I her — she was still better than the idea of losing my virginity.

My mother was never cautioned for what she did, but in her mind, hitting me was her parental right and need to discipline and control me. She had no idea how to accept or see my hurts and fears. Instead, she met and married a man quickly into their relationship, who felt repulsive to my twin and me (especially me), when he got too near my personal space.

I had dumped my school best friend, as I started to feel the pull and attraction of the cool girls who didn’t care about education, as I once had. We started sniffing glue and solvents and getting high on the school fields. A month before I turned sixteen, I left home to go and live with my sister, her baby, and the baby’s father; I had unknowingly walked from the pot into the frying pan.

I had no off button for stimulants and alcohol — their comatose effects soothed my brokenness, and the numbing out of my self-hate felt better and more enjoyable than the sweetness of desserts. Still, the cost would be far more damaging and destructive than my former love of all things sugar.

For decades to come alcohol would become my nemesis — my go-to. I was drowning in feelings of never adding up; for so many years the only message I had was that I was a mistake, naughty, uncontrollable, bad, and although some kind words about my creativeness, the damage was too deep from far too many negative messages, and insecure and unpredictable caretakers.

I had external masks that shone a loving personality, yet fundamentally, I battled an internal struggle and was unable to discern what was truly going on for me. The abyss was so great — that I had been shovelling addiction, in a futile attempt, to fill in its desolate stench.

Over the years, I have read several definitions of addiction: from being considered a primary brain disorder to a genetic disease that is passed down in families, to thirdly: A choice, with the legal system categorizing addiction as an issue people have a choice over.

I recall my father and his unhealthy connection to alcohol, and my mother telling me my grandmother was a party girl. Was this a dysfunctional inheritance, I asked myself?

In recent years, I am indebted to have discovered Gabe Maté’s trauma theory. He teaches not only about generational family but also cultural and collective trauma, which affects whole societies. When we think about trauma, we more than often believe it is the painful scenario that affects us deeply, yet Maté says, ‘Trauma is not what happens to you…it is what happens inside you as a result of what happened to you.’”

Human beings, apart from the physical, have two fundamental needs: Attachment and Authenticity

Attachment is the closeness and proximity of being looked after by another human, and as infants, we have to connect and attach to another person to survive; if we have no attachments — healthy or unhealthy — we die.

Authenticity is our connection to self — our gut. If our parents are unable to handle our infancy tantrums, defiance, and frustrations, because it triggers their childhood trauma — or we are constantly quietened and told to be a good child, controlled, and manipulated, we lose our sense of self.

Because of this miserable childhood conflict between the threat of losing our only human attachment or our authentic self — we must discard authenticity for survival, and so we disconnect from our emotions and our bodies. We then grow up with negative perceptions of self and fear of our world — we are defensive against others, and we have issues staying in the present.

Maté believes that the loss of self is the essence of childhood trauma and that addiction is an attempt to deal with that trauma — rather than a disease stemming from our brain, genetics, or a choice. Stress and trauma in infancy damage the endorphin receptor, our internal opiate activator. This activator aids calmness and safety in mother and baby, producing love and connection. If the endorphin receptors are damaged, infants into adulthood are unable to activate it.

Heroin users have quoted how their first hit felt: A warm, soft hug sitting on a loving mother’s lap. In addictions, we are looking for that warm hug, reassurance, and a feeling of safety.

When we look at addiction, what comes up for us is commonly, though not all: alcohol, tobacco, cannabis, vaping, prescriptive drugs, sedatives, Class A/Level 1, gambling, sex, and pornography. Yet it can be anything from anxiety, excessive fitness, social media, online surfing, caffeine, food, work, shopping, exercise, gaming, and relationships.

Nonetheless, Maté says that addiction is a complex psychological and physiological process that manifests in any behaviour that one enjoys and finds relief in, and therefore craves in the short term but suffers negative consequences in the long term, but doesn’t give up despite the negative consequences.

Looking back, thankfully, I have a clearer picture of why I kept going back to the temporary relief my crutches promised, and yet all it did was create destruction, havoc, and pain throughout my life. All I was ever doing was avoiding self-nurture, responsibilities, and accountability in my self-destructive behaviour.

Recovery is about restoring our connection to ourselves, our bodies, and our emotions — our authenticity. I have always struggled to understand what I am feeling, what I truly want, and making decisions unless I have a strong sense of intuition or no other choices. I never understood why until thankfully exploring the implications of my trauma, my co-dependency, and studying Gabor Maté’s trauma work.

I can now eat and drink without the need to comfort or numb a bottomless abyss — I actually don’t look for anything on the outside to comfort me. The answers are from exploring what’s going on for me and my triggers, self-acceptance, gratitude, and for me, faith in something bigger than us — a Creator or God. I do hope what I have learnt will be of help and light to others in any small way, even if just a flicker.

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