I've always had problems describing and validating the feelings I have about my childhood. I can't say I was SA because I wasn't, at least not in the way most SA is conducted. My T thinks what happened was sexually abusive, but without going into details, it wouldn't be taken seriously by most people.

My upbringing was chaotic and dysfunctional. I certainly didn't have any boundaries or emotional closeness. I lived inside my head. I was warned not to speak to people in the same house because they hated eachother and wanted me to hate them too. I didn't 'fit in' the family as I was born much later and to a different father. I was an aunt as a small child. I was afraid all the time as people in the house hated me, there was violence (not at me) and out of control emotions, I kept the status quo by being 'mother's pet' so she wouldn't fall apart...

I find it very hard to pinpoint my childhood to 'abuse.' Even neglect sounds false. My mother came to my parents evenings at school, she watched me in plays. She was proud, I think, of my achievements. But she wasn't there emotionally. My father loved me and still does, but there was absolutely nothing but fear of our relationship as a child.

When I married my ex he told me people would laugh at me if I told people I was abused. He said my experiences are nothing compared to what others have been through. I still feel ashamed when I read the shocking abuse and neglect so many people here and on other sites have been through. I don't see how I can begin to feel bad about my own experiences. I certainly can't begin to tell people in my life (outside of t) that my childhood was hard because my parents come across as nice, reasonable people (in some ways they are) and what happened then is now over with. Even other members of the family have settled down somewhat.

But I'm left with an emptiness. I feel my childhood was a lot of nothingless. That's how it feels to me. Living in my head, writing my stories...they were all I had. But I wasn't abused as such. I wasn't attacked. I had food (albeit crap food and I microwaved it myself) and I had books and belongings. My mother even paid for me to have private lessons in a subject that I loved. She cared. So why do I feel so bad? I don't know how to find the words...

I guess I feel so ashamed today. I'm the only member of my family to seek therapy, to be dependent on someone else to get through. Everyone else coped. Everyone else survived. I wonder if there's just something wrong with me for feeling like this?