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The approximate 5% of the population that I deem to be battered baby crash-dummy survivors of a severely abusive, neglectful, traumatic and inadequate early caregiver-interaction, insecure and unsafe attachment (to others, self and the world) environment truly comprise what our society terms the ‘at risk’ percentage of our population.  You name the stressor, the difficulty, the negative consequence and there you will find us standing with our ‘battered baby survivor’ crash dummy flags waving high above the crowd.

Or rather, there you will find us struggling along in the ranks of the homeless, the jobless, the underemployed, the chronically ill, the troubled relationship involved, the poor ones, the sick ones — in other words here we are among the ones MOST in need of understanding, compassion, and assistance.

The older I become the more I realize that I was lucky to get through my mothering years as well as I did (which by most socioeconomic standards was still bopping along the bottom).  The older I become the more I suspect that whatever resources I could muster and use to survive my first 18 years of total hell, and then the next 35 years of being a parent and an adult trying to ‘fit in’ and ‘get along’, the more I realize that whatever assets I had in my resource account are pretty well used up.

My cancer came.  People who loved me pushed, pulled and dragged me through treatment so that I am still alive.  But I feel just about bankrupt.

Financially I am completely dependent ‘on the dole’ – and not living in a nation like, say, Sweden, I punish myself continually for my inability/disability to ‘pay my own way’.  That ALSO wears on me heavily.

My expiration date was up — and I pushed it.  Here I am.  But I am here to say that I think I feel more like a unicorn than I do a ‘fully functional adult human’ (MAN!  What we do to one another and our self!)

Here I am, increasingly unable to leave the sanctuary and sanctity of my own Secret Garden because of the cresting effects of the damage that was done to me in my earliest years of development in trauma.

I hate the limitations these consequences of created within me and for me.  My world grows smaller and smaller.

I am soon to transfer all my medical records to a woman doctor in this small town, one I hope will listen to me so that she can begin to comprehend what I am saying:  I have my bags packed and I am ready to go.  I am soul weary and tired of the battle.  I see nothing ever getting any better for me.  I believe the long term permanent trauma changes that happened to me have caught up with me — for good (or for worse!).

I do not see my point of view as being unnatural given my condition, or as pessimistic.  My condition is a fact.  If we wish to tackle the problems that someone like me faces, we must accept that some babies are born to be their caregiver’s crash dummies, and there is a price to pay when those conditions are (were for survivors) allowed to exist.

Except for the 5% of the population I write about, to and for, the rest of our culture has a long, long way to go before they will begin to have a single clue about what I am talking about.

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