I Don’t Matter: Complex PTSD from the aftermath?

Once upon a time, I held a deep core belief that I don’t really matter.

Believing that I didn’t matter wasn’t a character flaw, it was conditioning.

There were no consequences for the horrible caregivers and kids at school who bullied me on a whole other level of cruelty. In fact, it seemed to be everyone’s favourite past time. A real team-building activity, if you will. It sent the message I didn’t matter.

The night my first husband lost his temper and choked me until someone else pulled his hands from my throat, sent the message I didn’t matter.

When I filed an HR complaint after an increasingly troubled male co-worker tried to engage me in a physical confrontation, my (female) managers suggested I’d maybe misunderstood the interaction. I should have more compassion for him.

They asked if I perhaps started the confrontation with ‘my tone.’

It all sent the message I didn’t matter, especially when they kept trying to schedule me to work with him. (I refused for my own safety and then was labelled a troublemaker.)

I left that service not long after. Not because of what he’d done. I left because of the service itself. It had demonstrated to me that there was a culture of bullying and harassment. Instead of dealing with the offenders, they engage in victim blaming. They allowed people to get away with nasty behaviour that has no place in the workplace.

There were a few other women who apparently didn’t matter, either. Good job, IFT. Ladies, watch your ‘tone’ in case it incites some psycho.

When a man attacked me from behind when my partner and I responded to a 911 call for a young woman, it wasn’t that incident that really broke my barely-healed PTSD brain. The RCMP had my back and were happy to arrest and charge him. They charged Rex Many Guns with assault because I vowed that never again would I allow anyone to put their hands on me with the intention of hurting or dominating me and get away away with it.

He got away with it.

The prosecutor offered him a peace bond for 9 months. As long as this random guy didn’t assault me again, the fact that he’d attacked a paramedic during the course of her duties with no provocation whatsoever, would be expunged from his record.

I didn’t get an opportunity to even be present in the court. I didn’t get to address the judge about the effect this man’s actions had on my life. The prosecutor was concerned that a criminal charge would impair the guy’s ability to find employment. The guy hadn’t held a job, ever, I don’t think, and he wasn’t a young man. I looked at the lawyer with his sweat-stained shirt and said, “Oh yes, we definitely wouldn’t want him to suffer long-term, life-altering consequences for his behaviour. Just because I don’t feel safe at work anymore for the first time in my career is no biggie, he might want to get a job someday.”

He gave me blank stare in return.

He then said, “Well it’s really a he said/she said case…”

I gave him my best wide-eyed and innocent look. “Right. Do you think it was how I dressed? Like, in my paramedic uniform and all? Maybe I was asking for it?”

Another blank stare.

I didn’t want to see my attacker until it was time for court. I went to a different part of the building. The plea deal was out of my control, but I would speak. That would be enough.

Imagine my surprise when my supervisor approached me and said it was done. At least my supervisor was almost as upset by it as I was. He’d told the prosecutor that the plea bargain was completely inappropriate for what the offender had done.

That weaselly little Crown Prosecutor decided not to let me know the case was called, despite my explicit statements that I wanted to be in the courtroom to address the court. Not only did he take away any type of justice for me, he took away my right to speak out-loud about what had happened and how I was suffering long term effects.

My take away from that?

Once again, a man put his hands on me in violence and absolutely got away with it. I don’t matter.

I felt like it didn’t matter what awful thing anyone might choose to do to me, they would get away with it. They always did. The one time I chose to call it out, still he got away with it. Even the legal system felt this violent man (with a history of domestic violence from what I’m told) mattered more than I did. He might want to get a job someday!

Shortly after, that prosecutor received numerous complaints about his conduct and handling of various cases so the Crown removed him from that jurisdiction.

I had spent years (and a small fortune) in therapy and PTSD treatment just to have it all ruined by this garbage human being. Emotionally, I was back to square one. I was as much a mess then as the night I sat in an ER in my late twenties, waiting to get x-rays and hoping everyone bought my BS story about how I got injured. That was the night I swore never ever again. And I’d kept that promise to myself, until I realized that perfect strangers will attack me too. I wasn’t really safe anywhere. Not at home, and not at work.

I left working on ambulance shortly after that to work full-time for my own company and once again, tried to regain some semblance of security and trying to once again believe that I matter.

My safety matters, my human right to not have people strike me matters, I want to matter.

When I finally managed to escape and call the police after my ex broke into my house and tortured me for hours because I wouldn’t take him back, and the one (male) cop lectured me about ‘hanging out with better people’ and making better choices…

The moment another cop told me that I was bigger than my attacker so it’s not even that big of a deal…

The day my brother punched me full-0n in the face and bloodied my nose when I was about 12 and my parents said I should have just given him the remote control…

When I said how much I hate being yelled at or called names or hit or mocked or belittled and the responses were variations of, ‘you’re making a big deal out of nothing’, ‘you’re such a drama queen’, ‘get over it’ or ‘I was just mad/teasing’…

It all sent the message that I didn’t matter.

Early on when my now husband and I were dating, I quite seriously told him that if he ever put his hands on me in anger, I’d kill him. He kind of laughed, but he laughed because the very idea that he would ever put angry hands on a woman was ridiculous to him.

I thought he wasn’t taking me seriously so I made myself very clear. I couldn’t take him in a fight, no. But as a paramedic, I knew where his internal AND external carotid arteries were. He’d fall asleep at some point and then it would be all over except the exhaustive clean-up.

I remember he looked at me like he wanted to ask, “What on earth happened to you?” but it was very early in our relationship and he’s not much of a pry-er. Even to this day, he doesn’t pepper me with questions. He just lets me know he’s ready to listen when I’m ready to talk.

Sometimes I think that there must be something wrong with me that I’ve had so many of these experiences. But I think the reality is twofold. Based on my conditioning and belief that I didn’t matter, I think I attracted and stayed in relationships with bad people because I didn’t believe a good man would be interested in me. I got myself trapped in situations and financially dependant for survival. I tolerated way more than any human being ever should because I didn’t see any other options. For a long time, I believed that love was painful but you didn’t just walk away from someone when they hurt you. Love was hard. Love was work. You stuck it out.

I’ve since learned that I was completely wrong about how I viewed relationships and personal interaction but that’s another post for another day.

Secondly, I wonder if there are other women like me, who’ve just shut the hell up?

Women who just couldn’t bear acknowledging how often their ‘loved ones’ saw them them as a place to dump all their rage? Other women who didn’t speak on their experiences because no one would believe they were one of ‘those’ women? There are a ton of stereotypes about abused and battered women, and my public persona doesn’t fit those boxes. When I feel safe, I’m assertive and mouthy.

The key phrase is when I feel safe. It was a different story at home when I was walking on eggshells, never knowing when the explosion was coming.

I have a whole lot of truth to speak and the thing is, I believe me. No more scratching my head and wondering, maybe they’re right, and that didn’t really happen the way I remember it. Maybe I am making a big deal out of nothing. Maybe I do just need to get over it.

I am finally getting ‘over it’ but I’m doing it by speaking my truth. This includes not keeping my mouth shut to protect the people who were in the wrong, or to protect anyone (including myself) from shame.

If the truth makes them feel uncomfortable, that’s just too bad. They didn’t care how I felt in the moment. I suggest they work through their feelings, like I’ve had to. I can even recommend a good therapist.

I’m done keeping my mouth shut because the shame is not mine.

I MATTER