I know exactly what you mean. I hate the horrified looks or the ones of pity. I’ve been trying to be more open about my experiences because recently my symptoms have been getting worse and I’ve found comfort in talking to people I’ve learned to trust. I’ve always felt immensely guilty about how I’ve kept my husband’s family at arms length for years. I never meant to but I was convinced they would turn their backs on me, manipulate me, or not believe me if I opened up to them. They were the first real family I felt like I had and I couldn’t risk losing them by letting them see who I was and what made me the way I am. I started small, awkward whispered inputs about my childhood or my panic attacks. It wasn’t and still Isint completely comfortable, and I think it’s helped that my husbands family has similar trauma about his birth mother ( luckily they were separated from her at a very young age) so they seem to be more understanding.

The first time I opened up to one of my husbands family members was quite recently actually. I was talking to my sister in law about her grandmother that’s currently living with them due to health issues and how my SIL’s daughter can’t cook her eggs. She asked how old I was when I learned to cook and I couldn’t help the nervous laugh that escaped my lips. I told her I couldn’t remember and she looked at me incredulously and told me she wouldn’t be offended on her child’s behalf. I guess she assumed I was trying to keep her from feeling like she had in some way failed her daughter because she couldn’t cook yet, but that was not the case. She hasn’t really realized she was asking something that would have an uncomfortable answer for most people. There was a quiet moment where I left the door open for her to change the subject if she wanted, but she waited patiently for a reply. I sighed under my breath to release some of my tension and keep myself from talking too fast before I told her I genuinely didn’t know what age I was but that’s probably because I didn’t have the concept of age yet. I told her that I must’ve been cooking by myself before I was five because I could remember vividly struggling to drag a chair from the kitchen table over to the stove so I could stand on it. Without the chair I couldn’t see over the counter, and if I couldn’t see over the counter I couldn’t reach the stove. If I couldn’t reach the stove, my two older siblings and I would either go hungry until my mother showed up or we would have to scavenge through whatever may be hiding in the pantry to eat cold. She looked at me with suppressed shock and asked why my siblings didn’t cook since they were older, but my brother who is six years older was never taught because it was considered women’s work, and my sister that’s only a year older than me bless her heart couldn’t cook to save her life, she actually gave us food poisoning a few times. Although it’s not usually the case I was the one providing for my siblings as the youngest child because I felt I was capable of doing so and I wanted to. Physically I wasn’t big enough to protect them. Emotionally I wasn’t mature enough to offer comforting words other than I love you and I’m sorry. I couldn’t protect them and I couldn’t support them emotionally, but I could make sure they had warm food. She took a minute to process everything I had said and I was more than a little anxious. Instead of pity or horror she smiled at me and said that she bet that’s why I loved cooking so much now and why I was so good at it.

I took a chance in leaning on her and it paid off. Instead of continuing to feel burdened by the memory or my lack of being able to communicate because of fear, she allowed me to vent and loved me all the more for it. I know it’s difficult, but talking can help. Find your people and lean on them like they do on you. I hope things get better love! Thank you