This will be done in installments over the course of the week. I hope to write one every day, but we'll see. This is the story of how I came to devote my time and resources to my passion. It's the story of me. And since it is my story to tell and mine alone, and to protect those who may not be at the point of readiness, some of this will be vague and for that I apologize. But everyone has their own path to healing and disclosure and it's not my place to make that decision for them. Some material may be triggering. Please read at your own discretion.
A line from the movie Patch Adams:
"Men have been attracted to me my entire life...my entire life. When I was a little girl, I would look out my bedroom window at the caterpillars. I envied them so much. No matter what they were before, no matter what happened to them, they could just hide away and turn into these beautiful creatures that could fly away completely untouched."
I used to find it completely saddening that the first memory that I have in my entire life is that of abuse. It doesn't sadden me anymore. It's just the way it is. Every story has to have a beginning and that just happens to be mine. I no longer weep for that little girl, running events over in my brain, wondering how things could have been different. I've come to accept that there was nothing that I could have done. There is nothing that can be expected of a 3 year old in any arena, much less in that kind of circus. I still feel sad sometimes, but not for reasons that one might expect. That may be hard to understand now, but I hope I can change your mind about that; about a lot of things. My goal is to show you what's under the proverbial rug.
You're not supposed to talk about it. Sure, you may have gotten the spiel about strangers "touching" you. You might have even gotten an entire course in "Stranger Danger." When you're a child, you know from parental instruction that you should always tell. You're supposed to tell if someone does that to you. But when you speak to your own children about sexual abuse, do you always tell them that it will be a stranger? Do you always tell them that it will be a grown up? Do you say that adults are not supposed to touch you or make you do things that cause you to feel shameful or uncomfortable? So many do. I'm sad because that's not the whole story. That warning isn't good enough.
I'm sad about the parts that get omitted. It's not my parents' fault. Especially almost 30 years ago, no one really knew the statistics of how things really happen. They were all terrified of the milk cartons. Precious faces on white half-gallon cartons that smiled out at you, begging to be found. They warned of those things. But in warning specifically about strangers, they were failing to inform that monsters come in all shapes, sizes, genders, and ages. You know that monsters don't live under your bed, but that doesn't mean they can't be in your home.
If you tell your children to always tell you if someone asks them do something that feels wrong or if someone forces them to do something, then I am disheartened. Children have no real understanding of that kind of right and wrong. Introducing the concept of "force" further complicates things. There is a reason why we have an age of consent. Because a child can be manipulated into thinking that this is something that they actually want to do. Whether to please someone, to get a reward, or because they just don't know any better. Thankfully, legally a child can't make that choice for themselves. Thankfully, it still makes it wrong.
I didn't know any of that. I didn't know any of that at all. The saddest part to me of the whole ordeal, is that it took me until I was 21 years old to recognize that it was a big deal. To recognize that it was wrong.
My innocence was gone at the age of 3. I still have a hard time using the word "abuser" in this instance, for he was a child, too. And for this instance, I do not blame him. He was only acting out the things that he was allowed to witness in his own home. It wasn't until an adult family member asked what was going on and a lie was quickly spewed from his lips that I recognized it was shameful. Why else would there be a need for a lie? And I said nothing. I didn't speak up. I didn't tell the next day. I swept it under the rug like most of America does. No one says the words "sex" or "incest" or "molestation." Those are dirty words. You turn the channel in front of your kids when stories are covered on the nightly news. You perpetuate the myth that atrocities are committed by "the stranger in the parking garage." If you do, stop.
I have several wonderful and joyous memories after that of my childhood. Riding bikes around the neighborhood, playing with dolls, singing in my bedroom to my favorite songs... But even those are tainted by the experience beforehand. I would never be normal. I would never again be innocent. And it would happen again.
To be continued....
Monday, January 30, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
J is for Just Me, Interrupted.
This is the second installment in a series covering the issue nearest to my heart. I still hope to have one every day, but we'll have to see how that goes. I want to share how I came to the passion that I spend much of my time and resources on. Since this story is mine and mine alone to tell, there will be portions that are vague and I apologize in advance. The road to healing is a personal one and it's not my place to tell the story for someone who may not be ready to have their part of it told. Some material may be triggering. Please read at your own discretion.
To read from the beginning, find part one here.
"Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." ~ Friedrich Nietzsche
I don't think that I was consciously angry. In fact, I don't remember dwelling on things a whole lot during my childhood. I think I might have pushed most of it away in order to deal with it. In order to keep living. After the incident when I was 3, the same event happened again when I was 8. Same children, same story. Starting out as a game of "Truth or Dare." 8 year olds don't really grasp that you'll be pressured to always pick dare and that the dares are usually things that you shouldn't do. I had a Hero during both of these incidents. Yet somewhere in the quagmire of the line that shouldn't have been crossed, this Hero lost their angel wings. Weapons were missing. Voice silenced. The Hero fell for it, too. The Hero got sucked up into the twisted game masterminded by the abuser and became a victim, too. And truth be told, somewhat of a perpetrator. My Hero didn't save me. And I didn't know that I was angry. I spent years not knowing that I was angry. I spent years not understanding that my heart was broken.
It wasn't long after that the panic attacks began. I can't even remember what the first one was like. All I can remember is that every day for almost 2 weeks, my mother dragged me to the emergency room; screaming that I was dying. I remember having feelings that my body was going to "forget" how to breathe. That my tongue was "tired" and wouldn't stay where it was supposed to be; it was going to slide down my throat and choke me to death. My heart was going to either explode or just stop beating completely. My brain was telling me that death was imminent. I went through test after test. Allergy meds, inhalers, sleep studies.... Finally someone suggested that my mom take me to a psychiatrist.
His name was Dr. Wright. But almost everything was wrong. I still have a hard time going to the beach and enjoying myself. His office was a beach front condo on the North Shore of Oahu, Hawaii. I was over 11 years old and he was having me draw pictures. Staring at lights flitting around on a giant rectangular Lite Brite Machine in the hopes to hypnotize me. It didn't work. It didn't work because I lied. I kept The Secret. I said anything else that came to mind. Anything. Just not The Secret. He deduced that my panic was caused by being traumatized during a surgical procedure. Although yes, that was traumatizing and too off topic for this series, that wasn't my problem. He put me on Prozac. A LOT of Prozac. For an 11 year old, 76 lb girl, 80 mgs of Prozac a day is a little much. I became a zombie. I hated everyone and everything. Except for Hero. But even Hero was different.
A year or so passed. I was at a late night function with several adults. All drinking. All annoyed by "The Kid." I guess in order to make me more tolerable or whatever, I was given copious amounts of Peach Schnapps. I don't think it made me any more tolerable. I think it made me disappear. I think that's why no one noticed when the 19 year old boy who said sweet things to me that I had longed to hear from reading young adult romance novels, took me in his truck. I'm sorry. Man. 19 year old...man. I hadn't ever been kissed, even though all of my friends had. I was hoping this was going to be that magical moment. It wasn't.
I don't think I even cried. I know for sure that I never said no. I never said stop. I didn't understand that it wasn't supposed to be like this. This was the first time it concretely hit me that this is how you get boys to like you. There were many there that could have been heroes. Hero wasn't there, but any one of them might have stood up for me. Watched me. Protected me. I was alone with a man. In a truck. Somewhat intoxicated. Violated. At 12 years old.
Over the next year or so, my behavior at school and at home began to worsen. I don't remember much about that year. I do know that at one point I took a whole bunch of Tylenol. I don't think I was trying to kill myself. I think I was trying to get someone to help me. To notice me. To stop me from hurting. At one point, I was admitted to an inpatient behavioral unit. It was mostly bullshit. We played ping pong, watched movies, had meetings with therapists and social workers. It was no different than being in middle school. You want to be popular in the psych hospital just as much as in homeroom. Popular girls talk about sex and flirt with the boys. I was released after two weeks, largely because at 13, I was a master manipulator. I did all my little feelings worksheets and said I was "real, real sorry" for stealing mom's money, sneaking out of the house, etc. I'd never do it again, Scout's Honor. It didn't last long. I was released and upon my first day back at school, I made plans with a girl to skip out on a family event to go to her babysitting job with her. She said the husband comes home from work before the wife does and sometimes if the kids are asleep, they'd have sex. Did I want to come and make it three? Of course I did. I wanted to her to be my friend and I wanted to see if I could be as "liked" as her. Thankfully, I never made it out there. My mom watched me like a hawk and never gave an opportunity. One of the million things that I thank her for.
But I didn't have to go across town to make trouble. I had a friend in our neighborhood. A little blonde haired girl a few years younger than me. We stayed out late, flirted with boys, swapped exaggerated stories of rendezvous. Portraying yourself as fast is how you got boys to like you, why not girls, too? We camped out in a tent in the field behind our houses one night. We told two much older boys they could come by. Things got too far too fast and in the middle of it all, I knew I wasn't ready for this. I knew it was wrong. I knew that even though I wanted boys to like me, I didn't want to do this. I was scared. I made up excuses and left. I walked away. I didn't look back. I left a little girl in there with monsters. I tried to lie to myself that I didn't know what was happening. But this is me we're talking about. I was once that little girl. I knew full well.
It's taken many years filled with therapy and repentance to not be haunted by her cherubic face. To not have visions of what may have happened after I left. To not wake up in the night crying, repetitively sobbing, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry" for hours.
I spent so much time subconsciously hating my Hero. You didn't save me. You didn't protect me. I looked hard and deep into that abyss of abandonment. I wrestled with that monster continuously...and became a monster. I did it to someone just like me. I failed to be a hero. Of course when I saw her next, she said it was totally awesome and I missed out. But the light in her eyes was gone. I could tell because so was mine. Mine had been gone for as long as I could remember.
I ceased to exist to myself. My life, my sanity, my innocence, myself...was completely interrupted.
To be continued...
To read from the beginning, find part one here.
"Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." ~ Friedrich Nietzsche
I don't think that I was consciously angry. In fact, I don't remember dwelling on things a whole lot during my childhood. I think I might have pushed most of it away in order to deal with it. In order to keep living. After the incident when I was 3, the same event happened again when I was 8. Same children, same story. Starting out as a game of "Truth or Dare." 8 year olds don't really grasp that you'll be pressured to always pick dare and that the dares are usually things that you shouldn't do. I had a Hero during both of these incidents. Yet somewhere in the quagmire of the line that shouldn't have been crossed, this Hero lost their angel wings. Weapons were missing. Voice silenced. The Hero fell for it, too. The Hero got sucked up into the twisted game masterminded by the abuser and became a victim, too. And truth be told, somewhat of a perpetrator. My Hero didn't save me. And I didn't know that I was angry. I spent years not knowing that I was angry. I spent years not understanding that my heart was broken.
It wasn't long after that the panic attacks began. I can't even remember what the first one was like. All I can remember is that every day for almost 2 weeks, my mother dragged me to the emergency room; screaming that I was dying. I remember having feelings that my body was going to "forget" how to breathe. That my tongue was "tired" and wouldn't stay where it was supposed to be; it was going to slide down my throat and choke me to death. My heart was going to either explode or just stop beating completely. My brain was telling me that death was imminent. I went through test after test. Allergy meds, inhalers, sleep studies.... Finally someone suggested that my mom take me to a psychiatrist.
His name was Dr. Wright. But almost everything was wrong. I still have a hard time going to the beach and enjoying myself. His office was a beach front condo on the North Shore of Oahu, Hawaii. I was over 11 years old and he was having me draw pictures. Staring at lights flitting around on a giant rectangular Lite Brite Machine in the hopes to hypnotize me. It didn't work. It didn't work because I lied. I kept The Secret. I said anything else that came to mind. Anything. Just not The Secret. He deduced that my panic was caused by being traumatized during a surgical procedure. Although yes, that was traumatizing and too off topic for this series, that wasn't my problem. He put me on Prozac. A LOT of Prozac. For an 11 year old, 76 lb girl, 80 mgs of Prozac a day is a little much. I became a zombie. I hated everyone and everything. Except for Hero. But even Hero was different.
A year or so passed. I was at a late night function with several adults. All drinking. All annoyed by "The Kid." I guess in order to make me more tolerable or whatever, I was given copious amounts of Peach Schnapps. I don't think it made me any more tolerable. I think it made me disappear. I think that's why no one noticed when the 19 year old boy who said sweet things to me that I had longed to hear from reading young adult romance novels, took me in his truck. I'm sorry. Man. 19 year old...man. I hadn't ever been kissed, even though all of my friends had. I was hoping this was going to be that magical moment. It wasn't.
I don't think I even cried. I know for sure that I never said no. I never said stop. I didn't understand that it wasn't supposed to be like this. This was the first time it concretely hit me that this is how you get boys to like you. There were many there that could have been heroes. Hero wasn't there, but any one of them might have stood up for me. Watched me. Protected me. I was alone with a man. In a truck. Somewhat intoxicated. Violated. At 12 years old.
Over the next year or so, my behavior at school and at home began to worsen. I don't remember much about that year. I do know that at one point I took a whole bunch of Tylenol. I don't think I was trying to kill myself. I think I was trying to get someone to help me. To notice me. To stop me from hurting. At one point, I was admitted to an inpatient behavioral unit. It was mostly bullshit. We played ping pong, watched movies, had meetings with therapists and social workers. It was no different than being in middle school. You want to be popular in the psych hospital just as much as in homeroom. Popular girls talk about sex and flirt with the boys. I was released after two weeks, largely because at 13, I was a master manipulator. I did all my little feelings worksheets and said I was "real, real sorry" for stealing mom's money, sneaking out of the house, etc. I'd never do it again, Scout's Honor. It didn't last long. I was released and upon my first day back at school, I made plans with a girl to skip out on a family event to go to her babysitting job with her. She said the husband comes home from work before the wife does and sometimes if the kids are asleep, they'd have sex. Did I want to come and make it three? Of course I did. I wanted to her to be my friend and I wanted to see if I could be as "liked" as her. Thankfully, I never made it out there. My mom watched me like a hawk and never gave an opportunity. One of the million things that I thank her for.
But I didn't have to go across town to make trouble. I had a friend in our neighborhood. A little blonde haired girl a few years younger than me. We stayed out late, flirted with boys, swapped exaggerated stories of rendezvous. Portraying yourself as fast is how you got boys to like you, why not girls, too? We camped out in a tent in the field behind our houses one night. We told two much older boys they could come by. Things got too far too fast and in the middle of it all, I knew I wasn't ready for this. I knew it was wrong. I knew that even though I wanted boys to like me, I didn't want to do this. I was scared. I made up excuses and left. I walked away. I didn't look back. I left a little girl in there with monsters. I tried to lie to myself that I didn't know what was happening. But this is me we're talking about. I was once that little girl. I knew full well.
It's taken many years filled with therapy and repentance to not be haunted by her cherubic face. To not have visions of what may have happened after I left. To not wake up in the night crying, repetitively sobbing, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry" for hours.
I spent so much time subconsciously hating my Hero. You didn't save me. You didn't protect me. I looked hard and deep into that abyss of abandonment. I wrestled with that monster continuously...and became a monster. I did it to someone just like me. I failed to be a hero. Of course when I saw her next, she said it was totally awesome and I missed out. But the light in her eyes was gone. I could tell because so was mine. Mine had been gone for as long as I could remember.
I ceased to exist to myself. My life, my sanity, my innocence, myself...was completely interrupted.
To be continued...
Saturday, January 28, 2012
K is for Knight's Disguise
This is the third installment in a series covering the issue nearest to my heart. I still hope to have one every day, but we'll have to see how that goes. I want to share how I came to the passion that I spend much of my time and resources on. Since this story is mine and mine alone to tell, there will be portions that are vague and I apologize in advance. The road to healing is a personal one and it's not my place to tell the story for someone who may not be ready to have their part of it told. Some material may be triggering. Please read at your own discretion.
"Hey little girl would you like some candy, your mama says it's okay. The door is open come on outside, No I can't come out today. It's not the wind that cracked your shoulder and threw you to the ground. Who's there that makes you so afraid, you're shaking to the bone? And I don't understand, you deserve so much more than this." ~ Sarah McLachlan Good Enough
I drifted through the rest of my teenage years, largely unfeeling. Behavior was constantly a problem. I really think that I was trying to claw out of my skin. To change me. To do something...I don't know...radical. I got in trouble for shaving part of my head. I started smoking. I experimented with self mutilation. I think part of me was trying to make myself unattractive. Part of me was just trying to feel. Part of me was going for shock value so that someone might pay attention to the slow death occurring inside of me. I look back and try to remember any emotions that I had at the time. I know that I can't recall happiness. I don't really remember a whole lot of anger either. The two states of being that I remember living in most are confusion and longing.
My mother had taken me to a new group of doctors. My psychologist who did therapy with me was pretty good. She may have been great had I told The Secret. But we all know that wasn't going to happen. The psychiatrist who prescribed my medicine was another story. Had I been the person then that I am now, I would've had his license. What kind of monster can tell that there is something obviously vulnerable and victimizing about a patient and exploit that? If I'm angry at anything anymore, it's that a person who was supposed to help - who took an oath to help- was another abuser. Thankfully, there wasn't much that could happen in the uncomfortable 15 minute med check sessions, but they felt like hours. It began with him asking about my cutting. He would ask increasingly uncomfortable questions under the ruse that it was information he needed as my physician. The last time I saw him (and refused to go back, although never telling my mother why), it escalated to him putting a hand up my skirt and telling me that no one would believe the crazy girl.
It's somewhat odd that for wanting to make myself unattractive to ward off unwanted advances, I was obsessed with body image. It's an interesting dichotomy of wanting to avoid advances yet craving attention. I was constantly comparing myself to girls in magazines and on television. I think I had a love for actresses because they could pretend to be someone else. After all, I had been pretending my whole life.
I know now that it's not uncommon, but it still seems a little out of place for me, that girls with a history of sexual abuse can become over affectionate. They seek closeness. They want to find someone who will love them, but because their definition of love and the examples that they've been shown of such are skewed, it leads to unhealthy behaviors. I had to have a boyfriend. I didn't want just any guy; there were plenty of very nice boys who asked me out and told me beautiful wonderful things about myself that I cast off as pretty lies. I didn't want those boys. I needed the bad boys. The damaged boys. The unavailable boys. And those boys treat you like shit. Which further affirms the belief that you are shit. Which makes you look for more boys that will treat you like shit.
One of the saving graces that I had at this time, was that as much as I hungered for male attention and picked the ones most likely to give me negative attention, I actually picked really good female friends. And I was a fiercely loyal friend. My best friend K, gave me a piece of myself back. I had never really known what it was like to have someone be there for me unconditionally. To fight for me. Her parents didn't really want her hanging with me at first...no one's parent's did. But she pressed on. They grew to love me. They still do. And so does she. That's the first part of this madness that leads to happiness. I still have her. I think she was the only person in my entire life up to that point to tell me when these boys were treating me like crap: "You don't deserve this." Four simple words. She even "forced" me to avoid one boy in particular in the hallways at school. It was the first time anyone knew that someone was shitty to me and told me that it was wrong. Unfortunately, being both from military families, we moved away from each other. I think being without her put me a few giant steps back. As bad as things were, they were about to get worse.
I don't know how it began that I started dating much older men. I had an on again off again relationship with a boy the remainder of my high school years, which truth be told, was not that super unhealthy. Yeah, he treated me like crap. But only in a high school douchebag kind of way. Not an abuse kind of way. And it's still sad to me that I defend that. I still sometimes have a problem with awarding men with medals for not being complete pieces of shit.
Anyway, the age of 17 brought all kinds of new drama. I started using sex as a tool. A tool to feel wanted, to cope with pain, to get what I wanted. Perversely, I thought it made me powerful. I think in some ways, I wanted to give it away before the prospect of it being taken could even come up. If I made the decision, then I kept the power. But I was being driven by my own misconceptions and by the lack of value I had in myself. Furthermore, I still had the warped belief that sex is what ALL men want. ALL the time. A pretty face, a beautiful body, a wonderful soul meant nothing if you weren't spreading for them. I dated a guy with mental problems who accused me of sleeping with his friend and ran me over with his truck. I was luckily uninjured. I wasn't sleeping with his friend. But he pissed me off. So then I slept with his friend. I dated a man who was separated from his wife (so I thought) who encouraged me to skip school to hang out at his place all day and play house. He was screwing some other chick on the side. And was not leaving his wife. They reunited when he moved to Pennsylvania. I ended up dropping out of high school partially due to all the absences that I had accrued.
And then I met Him.
He was gorgeous. Smart, attentive, polite. Suave and gentle. He engaged me in real adult conversations. He was interested in everything I had to say. It was the first relationship that I had been in where I felt like I mattered. We discussed everything. He was constantly asking me if I was comfortable. I felt safe and saved. I felt as though I had given him my everything. He was my Knight in Shining Armor....I gave him my soul in exchange for this comfort.
I wish I had known that I had sold my soul to the devil.
To be continued....
"Hey little girl would you like some candy, your mama says it's okay. The door is open come on outside, No I can't come out today. It's not the wind that cracked your shoulder and threw you to the ground. Who's there that makes you so afraid, you're shaking to the bone? And I don't understand, you deserve so much more than this." ~ Sarah McLachlan Good Enough
I drifted through the rest of my teenage years, largely unfeeling. Behavior was constantly a problem. I really think that I was trying to claw out of my skin. To change me. To do something...I don't know...radical. I got in trouble for shaving part of my head. I started smoking. I experimented with self mutilation. I think part of me was trying to make myself unattractive. Part of me was just trying to feel. Part of me was going for shock value so that someone might pay attention to the slow death occurring inside of me. I look back and try to remember any emotions that I had at the time. I know that I can't recall happiness. I don't really remember a whole lot of anger either. The two states of being that I remember living in most are confusion and longing.
My mother had taken me to a new group of doctors. My psychologist who did therapy with me was pretty good. She may have been great had I told The Secret. But we all know that wasn't going to happen. The psychiatrist who prescribed my medicine was another story. Had I been the person then that I am now, I would've had his license. What kind of monster can tell that there is something obviously vulnerable and victimizing about a patient and exploit that? If I'm angry at anything anymore, it's that a person who was supposed to help - who took an oath to help- was another abuser. Thankfully, there wasn't much that could happen in the uncomfortable 15 minute med check sessions, but they felt like hours. It began with him asking about my cutting. He would ask increasingly uncomfortable questions under the ruse that it was information he needed as my physician. The last time I saw him (and refused to go back, although never telling my mother why), it escalated to him putting a hand up my skirt and telling me that no one would believe the crazy girl.
It's somewhat odd that for wanting to make myself unattractive to ward off unwanted advances, I was obsessed with body image. It's an interesting dichotomy of wanting to avoid advances yet craving attention. I was constantly comparing myself to girls in magazines and on television. I think I had a love for actresses because they could pretend to be someone else. After all, I had been pretending my whole life.
I know now that it's not uncommon, but it still seems a little out of place for me, that girls with a history of sexual abuse can become over affectionate. They seek closeness. They want to find someone who will love them, but because their definition of love and the examples that they've been shown of such are skewed, it leads to unhealthy behaviors. I had to have a boyfriend. I didn't want just any guy; there were plenty of very nice boys who asked me out and told me beautiful wonderful things about myself that I cast off as pretty lies. I didn't want those boys. I needed the bad boys. The damaged boys. The unavailable boys. And those boys treat you like shit. Which further affirms the belief that you are shit. Which makes you look for more boys that will treat you like shit.
One of the saving graces that I had at this time, was that as much as I hungered for male attention and picked the ones most likely to give me negative attention, I actually picked really good female friends. And I was a fiercely loyal friend. My best friend K, gave me a piece of myself back. I had never really known what it was like to have someone be there for me unconditionally. To fight for me. Her parents didn't really want her hanging with me at first...no one's parent's did. But she pressed on. They grew to love me. They still do. And so does she. That's the first part of this madness that leads to happiness. I still have her. I think she was the only person in my entire life up to that point to tell me when these boys were treating me like crap: "You don't deserve this." Four simple words. She even "forced" me to avoid one boy in particular in the hallways at school. It was the first time anyone knew that someone was shitty to me and told me that it was wrong. Unfortunately, being both from military families, we moved away from each other. I think being without her put me a few giant steps back. As bad as things were, they were about to get worse.
I don't know how it began that I started dating much older men. I had an on again off again relationship with a boy the remainder of my high school years, which truth be told, was not that super unhealthy. Yeah, he treated me like crap. But only in a high school douchebag kind of way. Not an abuse kind of way. And it's still sad to me that I defend that. I still sometimes have a problem with awarding men with medals for not being complete pieces of shit.
Anyway, the age of 17 brought all kinds of new drama. I started using sex as a tool. A tool to feel wanted, to cope with pain, to get what I wanted. Perversely, I thought it made me powerful. I think in some ways, I wanted to give it away before the prospect of it being taken could even come up. If I made the decision, then I kept the power. But I was being driven by my own misconceptions and by the lack of value I had in myself. Furthermore, I still had the warped belief that sex is what ALL men want. ALL the time. A pretty face, a beautiful body, a wonderful soul meant nothing if you weren't spreading for them. I dated a guy with mental problems who accused me of sleeping with his friend and ran me over with his truck. I was luckily uninjured. I wasn't sleeping with his friend. But he pissed me off. So then I slept with his friend. I dated a man who was separated from his wife (so I thought) who encouraged me to skip school to hang out at his place all day and play house. He was screwing some other chick on the side. And was not leaving his wife. They reunited when he moved to Pennsylvania. I ended up dropping out of high school partially due to all the absences that I had accrued.
And then I met Him.
He was gorgeous. Smart, attentive, polite. Suave and gentle. He engaged me in real adult conversations. He was interested in everything I had to say. It was the first relationship that I had been in where I felt like I mattered. We discussed everything. He was constantly asking me if I was comfortable. I felt safe and saved. I felt as though I had given him my everything. He was my Knight in Shining Armor....I gave him my soul in exchange for this comfort.
I wish I had known that I had sold my soul to the devil.
To be continued....
Friday, January 27, 2012
L is for Lion in Sheepskin
This is the fourth installment in a series covering the issue nearest to my heart. I still hope to have one every day, but we'll have to see how that goes. I want to share how I came to the passion that I spend much of my time and resources on. Since this story is mine and mine alone to tell, there will be portions that are vague and I apologize in advance. The road to healing is a personal one and it's not my place to tell the story for someone who may not be ready to have their part of it told. Some material may be triggering. Please read at your own discretion.
To read from the beginning, find part one here.
"Are you positive this is a friend? The Captain grimaced, 'Those are cliffs of rock ahead if I'm not mistaken.' The sexiest thing is trust, I wake up to find the pirates have come."
~ Tori Amos, Jamaica Inn
He was everything I'd ever dreamed of. And for a time, in the beginning, He reminded me of Hero. It was different with Him from the beginning. I didn't meet Him at a party or a bar; I was introduced through the family that I nannied for. My habit before now was to sleep with the guy first, then if he hung around he might get to know me a bit. If not, well then he got what he wanted and I didn't have to worry about fighting him off or being uncomfortable saying no when he wanted it. This was different. I thought I might actually have a chance for someone to know the real me. He talked to me. We made a mutual decision to not be intimate right away. I thought it was a mutual decision.
At this point, I was continuing with psychotherapy and medication and although I wasn't "all better," I wasn't flying off the deep end either. I was still keeping The Secret, because that's the first rule of Rape Club; you don't talk about Rape Club. My therapist was decent, for once. I told him all about Him and I can remember vividly my therapist telling me:
"It sounds like this is a true adult relationship. You are respecting each other, talking to each other, and you are keeping your boundaries. Good for you."
I don't know why that is the part of this whole deal that still bothers me. It's not that I expected my therapist to know better; he was only going by my disclosure and getting information the Six Degrees to Kevin Bacon way isn't necessarily the most reliable. I think it's that I remember the elation in which I described Him. The way that I described our relationship. I was giddy, but not in a school girl way. In a hopeful way. And that makes me feel more stupid than anything else on the planet ever could. I don't mean to be nasty to myself. I completely understand that through my experiences, I was an easy target. I know that it's not my fault. I KNOW all of this. But when I look back at that moment, all the statistics, all the therapy, all the retraining my brain goes out the window and I feel so disheartened for 18 year old me. I've played it back over and over wondering how...How? How did he know? It's as almost if those of us with the shame of our experiences and the lack of self esteem wear a sort of victim perfume that predators can smell. And then they separate you from the herd for their attack.
It began innocently enough. I cannot believe I just used the word "innocent."
When we (He) made the decision for us to begin a sexually intimate relationship, everything was wonderful at first. He would constantly ask me if I was okay. I think that even if it wasn't, I wouldn't have said anything at that point. I was too grateful to have Him be asking.
Little things started to happen. During sex He would say things that were meant to humiliate or embarrass. I guess I would freeze up a little or maybe get a different look in my eyes because He would say, "I'm sorry. I was just trying something a little different." It was always explained away. There came a point when He asked me to do something that I wasn't comfortable with. The old me probably would've just went along with it. But He had empowered me (so I thought) to have an opinion. I told Him I wasn't comfortable. Looking back, I know that He didn't want me to be. That was the point. He said, "I'd love it if you would just try it. And if you agree, promise me that you won't base your opinion on the first time. Give it another chance and if you're still totally against it, then it's okay. I'll be okay with that."
That logic seemed sound. I couldn't believe that someone was even asking my input. And doing something you're not comfortable with...totally makes sense to do it. And then do it again. Just to make sure you're not lying to yourself. This was seriously the thought process that I had. So I consented. I decided I wasn't lying to myself and it wasn't something I wanted to entertain again. He didn't even look me in the eye when He whispered coldly: "Fine."
Here's the thing. All of that right there? That whole thing that went on? It was inappropriate. It was manipulative. It was coercion. But that took me YEARS to recognize. I felt BAD for feeling bad. I felt STUPID for being affected by it. After all, I had gone through so much worse in my life...why was THIS the thing that made me feel like shit the most?
He started not taking my phone calls. Breaking dates. Being too busy for me. I finally went to His house and relented. I had "thought" about it and maybe I was being selfish for not giving Him what He needed in the relationship. He acted happy to hear that and let me come in. He said He had thought about it, too and He didn't want me to be uncomfortable. I was relieved. We went out a few times in the next couple of weeks. We slept together at a friend's house, staying there after a small get together. He joked that there was a video camera in the room. Then said He was joking. Then said probably not. Then He laughed and said He was kidding. I became uneasy again. He took me for a romantic walk by a secluded swampland. While we had sex, he whispered in my ear that he could feed me to alligators in the water if he wanted. Other times during intimate moments, he would say things meant purely to humiliate and embarrass. Things that as far as I have come, I still can't bear to repeat. Not even in text.
I went over to His house on a Sunday night with cookies that I had baked for Him. I knocked and didn't get an answer. I was going to leave Him a letter with the box of goodies and as I set it against the foot of the door, the door creaked open. I had been there several times with Him not home, so I just walked in to set the cookies on the table and go. It was dark and I reached for the light. A hand slammed on top of mine, flattening the switch in the down position. I felt my hair being pulled, an arm around my waist, dragging me away. I knew it was Him. It's the reason that to this day, I vomit at the smell of Estee Lauder's Pleasures for Men. But there were other scents and tactile things, too. It let me know he wasn't alone. I don't even know who did what. There was an incident in the whole ordeal that has led to my intense fear of firearms.
I choose not to share the frame by frame details of this part. It's too personal and too hard and I have found that sometimes, it causes a sort of victimization to the listener (or reader), or that in some rare cases, people relish in the horrific details. Like people who read True Crime novels not necessarily because they enjoy them...but because they ENJOY them. I don't want to allow either of those to happen. Also, I do believe that there's a little something sacred in keeping parts of your story private. I don't say any of this to justify what I choose to share and don't because NO one needs justification in that way; but more to let any of you struggling know that it's okay to not share it all. It's okay to share just the parts that you want to. It's just as empowering and healing to share as it is to hold back the things that you want to.
I was left in a state where I couldn't even say my name. The most basic of personal identifiers was lost on me. If I said my name, then that was who I was. And that meant what just happened, had actually happened to ME. That was something I just couldn't handle. When it came time, when I was asked what had happened...I lied. I said I didn't know who it was. I kept another Secret. I was afraid. And besides those good people who were trying to "get to the bottom of it" I didn't tell anyone that anything had happened at all.
This is the important part for parents, friends, clergy, therapists, whatever. Are you listening? This is important.
Why I didn't tell:
I didn't tell my mother because I had behavioral problems. I was a "bad girl." I feared that she would say "What do you expect when you act that way?" I didn't tell her because she knew that I was sexually active with Him so I feared she would say "Ummm, he's your boyfriend and you have sex, right? What are you complaining about?" (which is ridiculous looking back because my mother is the most supportive, most fiercely protective of me person on the planet...but I didn't get that then.)
I didn't tell my friends because (besides the fact that I had very, very few): I was afraid that they would tell other people and it would become gossip fodder. I was afraid that they would be sympathetic in the moment but secretly think that I was a slut who deserved it. I was afraid that they would wonder what the big deal was because he was my boyfriend.
I didn't tell my therapist because: I felt stupid that he saw me making all this progress and I was so proud of my "adult relationship" that how could I have let this happen. How come I couldn't see it coming? I was scared that because of my tendencies as a cutter and delving into emotional and physical masochism, that he would tell me that I must have liked it, or at least that I portrayed myself as someone who would like it. I was worried about these things because they were all things that I was thinking. I was bad. I picked the wrong guy, again. I let him dupe me. And maybe this is just something that goes along with having a boyfriend. Because I had no examples in my life of positive male/female relationships...I simply didn't know.
He picked me up the next Friday like nothing had happened. I was afraid to get in the jeep with Him. But I was more afraid not to. I sat silently at his house at the kitchen table, refusing to sit on the bed. After a while of no words from me he said:
"Are you pissed about the other night? Wow. I'm really sorry, but I thought we were taking things to the next level. It was just role-playing. That's why we said all that crap earlier about you not wanting to do it and me saying okay. We were setting it up. Otherwise why would you have said that? Cause you were enjoying it just as much as I was. I thought we had agreed we would take it to the next level."
I know that this doesn't make a whole lot of sense, one because of my intentional vagueness (again, my personal reasons make this so) and because how could a person really have that come out of their mouth? But it accomplished what He wanted it to. This was all my fault. I should have been more clear. If I didn't want that, why did I come over that Sunday? I was asking for it.
The pirate came to my ship and robbed it. And left me with the shell. But I was the one choosing to be out in the ocean anyway, right?
I found out that we were moving due to another military transfer. I was relieved. When I said goodbye to him for the last time, I cried. I was so grateful to be getting away, but sickeningly enough, I really thought that I loved Him. And I thought that I would miss Him. I seriously don't know why....
His last conversation with me was jarring. I have no clue as to why I was trying to hold on to Him. But it was actually Him that broke off the relationship saying that long distance wouldn't work. He told me goodbye. And then He said this:
"You'll be fine. We had a fun run, kiddo. But the truth is, I actually prefer Asian women."
And seriously? That was the last thing He said to me. I don't know if it's a form of Stockholm Syndrome that kept me so attached to Him despite everything, but at that time, the last sentiment hurt worst of all.
I eventually did mention something to someone in his chain of command. The response I was given?
"Are you sure? He's such a model soldier and helluva guy. Maybe you misinterpreted things."
That was a major downside that led to a LOT of self blame. But moving day came. The upside was that I was free. But I was still just a shell. So, free to do what?
To be continued...
To read from the beginning, find part one here.
"Are you positive this is a friend? The Captain grimaced, 'Those are cliffs of rock ahead if I'm not mistaken.' The sexiest thing is trust, I wake up to find the pirates have come."
~ Tori Amos, Jamaica Inn
He was everything I'd ever dreamed of. And for a time, in the beginning, He reminded me of Hero. It was different with Him from the beginning. I didn't meet Him at a party or a bar; I was introduced through the family that I nannied for. My habit before now was to sleep with the guy first, then if he hung around he might get to know me a bit. If not, well then he got what he wanted and I didn't have to worry about fighting him off or being uncomfortable saying no when he wanted it. This was different. I thought I might actually have a chance for someone to know the real me. He talked to me. We made a mutual decision to not be intimate right away. I thought it was a mutual decision.
At this point, I was continuing with psychotherapy and medication and although I wasn't "all better," I wasn't flying off the deep end either. I was still keeping The Secret, because that's the first rule of Rape Club; you don't talk about Rape Club. My therapist was decent, for once. I told him all about Him and I can remember vividly my therapist telling me:
"It sounds like this is a true adult relationship. You are respecting each other, talking to each other, and you are keeping your boundaries. Good for you."
I don't know why that is the part of this whole deal that still bothers me. It's not that I expected my therapist to know better; he was only going by my disclosure and getting information the Six Degrees to Kevin Bacon way isn't necessarily the most reliable. I think it's that I remember the elation in which I described Him. The way that I described our relationship. I was giddy, but not in a school girl way. In a hopeful way. And that makes me feel more stupid than anything else on the planet ever could. I don't mean to be nasty to myself. I completely understand that through my experiences, I was an easy target. I know that it's not my fault. I KNOW all of this. But when I look back at that moment, all the statistics, all the therapy, all the retraining my brain goes out the window and I feel so disheartened for 18 year old me. I've played it back over and over wondering how...How? How did he know? It's as almost if those of us with the shame of our experiences and the lack of self esteem wear a sort of victim perfume that predators can smell. And then they separate you from the herd for their attack.
It began innocently enough. I cannot believe I just used the word "innocent."
When we (He) made the decision for us to begin a sexually intimate relationship, everything was wonderful at first. He would constantly ask me if I was okay. I think that even if it wasn't, I wouldn't have said anything at that point. I was too grateful to have Him be asking.
Little things started to happen. During sex He would say things that were meant to humiliate or embarrass. I guess I would freeze up a little or maybe get a different look in my eyes because He would say, "I'm sorry. I was just trying something a little different." It was always explained away. There came a point when He asked me to do something that I wasn't comfortable with. The old me probably would've just went along with it. But He had empowered me (so I thought) to have an opinion. I told Him I wasn't comfortable. Looking back, I know that He didn't want me to be. That was the point. He said, "I'd love it if you would just try it. And if you agree, promise me that you won't base your opinion on the first time. Give it another chance and if you're still totally against it, then it's okay. I'll be okay with that."
That logic seemed sound. I couldn't believe that someone was even asking my input. And doing something you're not comfortable with...totally makes sense to do it. And then do it again. Just to make sure you're not lying to yourself. This was seriously the thought process that I had. So I consented. I decided I wasn't lying to myself and it wasn't something I wanted to entertain again. He didn't even look me in the eye when He whispered coldly: "Fine."
Here's the thing. All of that right there? That whole thing that went on? It was inappropriate. It was manipulative. It was coercion. But that took me YEARS to recognize. I felt BAD for feeling bad. I felt STUPID for being affected by it. After all, I had gone through so much worse in my life...why was THIS the thing that made me feel like shit the most?
He started not taking my phone calls. Breaking dates. Being too busy for me. I finally went to His house and relented. I had "thought" about it and maybe I was being selfish for not giving Him what He needed in the relationship. He acted happy to hear that and let me come in. He said He had thought about it, too and He didn't want me to be uncomfortable. I was relieved. We went out a few times in the next couple of weeks. We slept together at a friend's house, staying there after a small get together. He joked that there was a video camera in the room. Then said He was joking. Then said probably not. Then He laughed and said He was kidding. I became uneasy again. He took me for a romantic walk by a secluded swampland. While we had sex, he whispered in my ear that he could feed me to alligators in the water if he wanted. Other times during intimate moments, he would say things meant purely to humiliate and embarrass. Things that as far as I have come, I still can't bear to repeat. Not even in text.
I went over to His house on a Sunday night with cookies that I had baked for Him. I knocked and didn't get an answer. I was going to leave Him a letter with the box of goodies and as I set it against the foot of the door, the door creaked open. I had been there several times with Him not home, so I just walked in to set the cookies on the table and go. It was dark and I reached for the light. A hand slammed on top of mine, flattening the switch in the down position. I felt my hair being pulled, an arm around my waist, dragging me away. I knew it was Him. It's the reason that to this day, I vomit at the smell of Estee Lauder's Pleasures for Men. But there were other scents and tactile things, too. It let me know he wasn't alone. I don't even know who did what. There was an incident in the whole ordeal that has led to my intense fear of firearms.
I choose not to share the frame by frame details of this part. It's too personal and too hard and I have found that sometimes, it causes a sort of victimization to the listener (or reader), or that in some rare cases, people relish in the horrific details. Like people who read True Crime novels not necessarily because they enjoy them...but because they ENJOY them. I don't want to allow either of those to happen. Also, I do believe that there's a little something sacred in keeping parts of your story private. I don't say any of this to justify what I choose to share and don't because NO one needs justification in that way; but more to let any of you struggling know that it's okay to not share it all. It's okay to share just the parts that you want to. It's just as empowering and healing to share as it is to hold back the things that you want to.
I was left in a state where I couldn't even say my name. The most basic of personal identifiers was lost on me. If I said my name, then that was who I was. And that meant what just happened, had actually happened to ME. That was something I just couldn't handle. When it came time, when I was asked what had happened...I lied. I said I didn't know who it was. I kept another Secret. I was afraid. And besides those good people who were trying to "get to the bottom of it" I didn't tell anyone that anything had happened at all.
This is the important part for parents, friends, clergy, therapists, whatever. Are you listening? This is important.
Why I didn't tell:
I didn't tell my mother because I had behavioral problems. I was a "bad girl." I feared that she would say "What do you expect when you act that way?" I didn't tell her because she knew that I was sexually active with Him so I feared she would say "Ummm, he's your boyfriend and you have sex, right? What are you complaining about?" (which is ridiculous looking back because my mother is the most supportive, most fiercely protective of me person on the planet...but I didn't get that then.)
I didn't tell my friends because (besides the fact that I had very, very few): I was afraid that they would tell other people and it would become gossip fodder. I was afraid that they would be sympathetic in the moment but secretly think that I was a slut who deserved it. I was afraid that they would wonder what the big deal was because he was my boyfriend.
I didn't tell my therapist because: I felt stupid that he saw me making all this progress and I was so proud of my "adult relationship" that how could I have let this happen. How come I couldn't see it coming? I was scared that because of my tendencies as a cutter and delving into emotional and physical masochism, that he would tell me that I must have liked it, or at least that I portrayed myself as someone who would like it. I was worried about these things because they were all things that I was thinking. I was bad. I picked the wrong guy, again. I let him dupe me. And maybe this is just something that goes along with having a boyfriend. Because I had no examples in my life of positive male/female relationships...I simply didn't know.
He picked me up the next Friday like nothing had happened. I was afraid to get in the jeep with Him. But I was more afraid not to. I sat silently at his house at the kitchen table, refusing to sit on the bed. After a while of no words from me he said:
"Are you pissed about the other night? Wow. I'm really sorry, but I thought we were taking things to the next level. It was just role-playing. That's why we said all that crap earlier about you not wanting to do it and me saying okay. We were setting it up. Otherwise why would you have said that? Cause you were enjoying it just as much as I was. I thought we had agreed we would take it to the next level."
I know that this doesn't make a whole lot of sense, one because of my intentional vagueness (again, my personal reasons make this so) and because how could a person really have that come out of their mouth? But it accomplished what He wanted it to. This was all my fault. I should have been more clear. If I didn't want that, why did I come over that Sunday? I was asking for it.
The pirate came to my ship and robbed it. And left me with the shell. But I was the one choosing to be out in the ocean anyway, right?
I found out that we were moving due to another military transfer. I was relieved. When I said goodbye to him for the last time, I cried. I was so grateful to be getting away, but sickeningly enough, I really thought that I loved Him. And I thought that I would miss Him. I seriously don't know why....
His last conversation with me was jarring. I have no clue as to why I was trying to hold on to Him. But it was actually Him that broke off the relationship saying that long distance wouldn't work. He told me goodbye. And then He said this:
"You'll be fine. We had a fun run, kiddo. But the truth is, I actually prefer Asian women."
And seriously? That was the last thing He said to me. I don't know if it's a form of Stockholm Syndrome that kept me so attached to Him despite everything, but at that time, the last sentiment hurt worst of all.
I eventually did mention something to someone in his chain of command. The response I was given?
"Are you sure? He's such a model soldier and helluva guy. Maybe you misinterpreted things."
That was a major downside that led to a LOT of self blame. But moving day came. The upside was that I was free. But I was still just a shell. So, free to do what?
To be continued...
Thursday, January 26, 2012
M is for Meandering and Mother
This is the fifth installment in a series covering the issue nearest to my heart. I still hope to have one every day, but we'll have to see how that goes. I want to share how I came to the passion that I spend much of my time and resources on. Since this story is mine and mine alone to tell, there will be portions that are vague and I apologize in advance. The road to healing is a personal one and it's not my place to tell the story for someone who may not be ready to have their part of it told. Some material may be triggering. Please read at your own discretion.
To read from the beginning, find part one here.
"Mirror, mirror where's the crystal palace? But I only can see myself skating around the truth who I am, but I know... the ice is getting thin. When you gonna make up your mind? When you gonna love you as much as I do? When you gonna make up your mind 'cause things are gonna change so fast? All the white horses have gone ahead..."
~ Winter, Tori Amos
The thing that a lot of people end up thinking when they read this story is this:
"Where were her parents? Why didn't they do something?"
I feel that this is an important question to be answered because my parents could have been anyone's parents. They were good parents, for the most part. They were and are good people.
When things happened to me when I was little, no one knew anything. No parent goes to family gatherings looking out for the "Crazy Uncle Sal" who is going to molest their child. Because most families, mine included, don't have a Crazy Uncle Sal. Most people don't think in a million years that someone close to them could hurt their children. My parents are no different. There were no "weirdos" in my family. And that brings me to the most important point I could ever hope to make for parents. You cannot smell a rapist. There is no "look" there is no "smell" there is NO idenitfier. Sure, you may guard your little ones more closely around the drunk of the family, or if there's a user in the family, because those people are more likely do to things that are careless and hurtful. But a molester, a rapist, a sexual deviant, a predator, even someone who is just "curious" perhaps a young relative..........they have the ability to look just like you and me. Therefore, the biggest thing a parent can do is to constantly reinforce to their children that they MUST tell a parent or other trusted adult if someone does something to them. I am here to tell you right now, it is most probably the ONLY way that you will ever know. And I didn't tell. There was nothing that my parents could have done because there was no immediate threat known keeping me away from this person and there was nothing to be done after the fact because I. DIDN'T. TELL.
During my adolescence, it is no secret to anyone that I had some major, major behavior problems. I had some major mental problems. I suffered with depression and anxiety, which manifested themselves in acting out behaviors. My mom was focused on the symptoms. My parents were divorced, my mom was remarried, they had a new baby, they had jobs, they had lives. And my mom had this teenager with so many problems that she didn't even know where to start. Her focus was keeping me alive. The behaviors that I had at the time were risky. I was running away, staying out all night, involving myself with unsavory people, cutting myself, threatening suicide, crying for days straight.... At the time, the "why" was not the thing on my mother's mind. It was stopping the overt behavior.
We have a pretty thick history of mental illness in our family. It made sense for my mom to believe that I was just struggling with that. And truth be told, if NOTHING had ever happened to me in the way of assault, I truly believe I would have STILL had mental illness.
My mother had her own issues and still worked tirelessly to try and get me "better." She sent me to therapists and doctors, admitted me to inpatient programs, tried to keep as tight of leash on me as possible. But bills don't pay themselves and my mom had to work. I think back as a parent now, of how many sleepless nights I caused her. How she probably laid in bed, knowing somehow that it was her fault. Wondering what she could have done for me to not be this way. It breaks my heart. There isn't enough "sorry" in the world for what I put her through. And yes, the things that I was putting her through were a product of my experiences and my illness which are most definitely not my fault...but I still feel like my silence was. If I had been honest with her or with therapists in the beginning, I may have made more progress in my teen years. But this is what sexual assault can do to you. I was completely mute when it came to that. It became a vicious cycle. The more I stayed silent, the more my rage and depression caused me to hurt those around me who loved me most. And the more I did that, the more I couldn't say anything. My hurting them had loosened trust. My lying and sneaking out had made me untrustworthy. So I convinced myself that anything I said, I wouldn't be believed. And I feared the fall out. I was afraid if I told my mom, that she'd tell the family, and that they would try to "punish" the person(s) along my life who had done these things. At this point, I didn't want anything but for it all to just be over. I wish I would've given my mom more credit. I wish I could have seen her on her knees every night, praying for me. Maybe then I would've known that I could have told her anything. And she would love me no less and if I didn't want her to tell anyone else, she wouldn't have.
So my family moved. I had gotten away from Him. I was 19 and still living with my mom and stepdad. It was my stepdad who ended up telling me that I needed to be out of their house in 90 days. I got a job at Pizza Hut and began saving for an apartment. At the end of those 90 days, I was still a little short. I went to my stepdad and asked for an extension and he gave me another 90 days. I only needed 30. I remember thinking how unfair it was that he kicked me out. I boiled inside and promised myself I wouldn't take a thing from him. Looking back, it was the best thing anyone could have done for me. It was the push I needed to find myself. My stepdad and I are very close now as I can see and appreciate the love he had for me that I didn't know then was love. I ended up getting a better job at a department store and had enough stability in money to finally move.
I moved into a small one bedroom apartment 5 minutes from my mom's house. The new found responsibility was daunting for me. I started having more and more panic attacks. I didn't want to be alone. I would go to the bar and meet a guy and bring him back to my place just so I didn't have to be by myself. I'm sure you all can guess that we weren't playing checkers.
There I was, floating through life aimlessly. Using men and being used, in turn. Crippling anxiety attacks. Working through my daddy issues. Trying to work and pay bills and be a "grown up." Still not dealing with my past. And my mother was there every step of the way. Constantly telling me how much she loved me. Helping with anything that she could. Staying on the phone with me at 3 o'clock in the morning while I cried that I was dying. Looking up new therapists for me to go to. Setting appointments for me. Helping me with bills when my job wasn't enough to make ends meet because of sick days due to anxiety. She was there; watching me meander through the quagmire that is sexual assault aftermath and mental illness. Wondering why I couldn't see the beautiful person that she saw. Wondering why I couldn't love myself as much as she loved me. I'm sure she was seeing her peers have children going off to college, getting good jobs, having children. And she was dealing with the words of the last therapist that spoke to her after a session:
"You will be taking care of her forever. She will never be able to live on her own. She'll never get married, she'll never be okay. You need to prepare yourself now for having an adult dependent child for the rest of her life."
I didn't know that he had said that to her. And I'm sure with everything going on, she was starting to believe it. I hadn't even heard it and I was starting to believe it. Things always need to get a little worse before they get better, and I was no where near the sunlight yet. There were still many more dark days ahead. But she was going to help me. She would never tire getting me help.
And I was gonna prove that asshole wrong.
To be continued.....
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
N is for Nanoseconds
This is the sixth installment in a series covering the issue nearest to my heart. I still hope to have one every day, but we'll have to see how that goes. I want to share how I came to the passion that I spend much of my time and resources on. Since this story is mine and mine alone to tell, there will be portions that are vague and I apologize in advance. The road to healing is a personal one and it's not my place to tell the story for someone who may not be ready to have their part of it told. Some material may be triggering. Please read at your own discretion.
To read from the beginning, find part one here.
"The storm is coming but I don't mind. People are dying, I close my blinds...I want to change the world, instead I sleep. I want to believe in more than you and me. But all that I know is I'm breathing. All I can do is keep breathing. All we can do is keep breathing now." ~ Ingrid Michaelson, Keep Breathing
If you've never experienced anxiety attacks or other forms of mental illness, it's really hard to adequately grasp the toll that they take on your life. Your brain sometimes seems split into two. Your body doesn't respond to either piece. It's like an eternal torture that you can't really escape because you can't run from something inside you. I think that's why there is such a high incidence of people with these issues doing drugs or drinking to excess. You'll do anything; try anything, to get some sort of relief. A break from the madness in your mind.
Living in my first apartment was interesting. I had to learn a lot of basic lessons that most people learn well before they are on their own. At this point, my mom had become more of an ally than an enabler. She had learned ways to help me cope, but also was really trying to teach me to be a grown up. It's funny. When you're little, you think that you will just naturally know things when you get to be a certain age. Even my daughter will say things like: "I'll bake cakes when I'm 22." She somehow thinks that just the act of turning 22 will give her the knowledge and the coordination needed to bake a cake. I guess I kind of thought that about life, too.
I think I spent a lot of time waiting. Just waiting for the day that the anxiety would pass, that my need for attention would wane, that the little mundane things that are involved in grown up life would just come to me. They didn't. Maybe they do for some people, but for me, every single small step was hard work.
I learned that it's important to save money. Cause you kinda need it for bills and stuff. I can vividly remember going to the music and movies store and spotting a complete boxed set of Nightmare on Elm Street DVD's. Oh, I wanted them so badly. But I didn't have enough money for them and my rent. In fact, purchasing them would be close to the amount that I paid for rent. A grown up with experience would've walked away. I bought them. I figured that I would just pay the rent with late fee on my rent out of my next check. But when you have crippling anxiety attacks and end up calling into work a few times, you don't make as much money as you did on the weeks that you didn't have anxiety attacks. So payday came and I couldn't afford my rent. I buried my head in the sand, thinking that it would go away. I've had a life long problem with doing that. A couple weeks later I was served with an eviction notice. I had 10 days to get caught up or I was out. I really didn't know what to do. I felt embarrassed asking anyone for help. Here I am at 19 and can't even do something as simple as pay my rent? But I figured my mom would bail me out if I tucked tail and groveled. And I think that was the turning point in which my mother began to really help me. I asked her for the money and being my mother, she couldn't stand to see me evicted. But being my mother, she couldn't stand to see me not learn how to do this for myself. She paid it for me. And then she drafted a payment plan for me to reimburse her....with interest. To be honest, I was grateful and angry at the same time. Because of my issues (and because of my highly honed manipulation skills), family and other people had always kind of given me what I wanted. I yearned to be a productive adult yet was angry when I had to do the things that it takes to get there. I think the step that my mom took to start ensuring I understood that you can't take advantage of people (even though it was a learned behavior by so many people taking advantage of me) was a tiny step in starting to retrain my brain.
It took a few other lessons before I started being more careful with money. I remember going across the street to buy a pack of smokes and a Dr. Pepper. I hadn't balanced my checkbook but went ahead and wrote a check for it...hoping it might float. But it didn't. Between the store fees and the banks fees, that pack of smokes and a drink cost me $63. Something triggered in my brain from that. But because I can never be "in the middle" on stuff, I went to the other extreme. I counted every single penny coming in and going out and kept the most concise and perfectly handwritten ledger you have EVER seen. (And I still do this today...I just don't update it every single day and read over it 200 times a day).
I was working and doing pretty good during the day...
But then there were the nights. I still couldn't handle nights. Panic attacks were almost nightly. The only coping methods that I had were calling my mom and crying while she made every feeble attempt possible to calm me down or going out to the bar, being around people in those late night hours so I wouldn't have to be by myself.
I started frequenting the bar across the street. It's funny, because at this point I was not 21. AND I didn't drink. I still don't really, save for the occasional night out. But this bar had karaoke. I've always loved to sing and am pretty good at it. I had won several talent shows growing up and I had done karaoke at my aunt's house when she bought that giant laser disc karaoke system. I grew up in a really musical family and had sung with bands and done a lot of small community concerts. So I thought I'd try my hand at that.
The really interesting thing about karaoke for me at this point in my life is that it got me attention. But this was the first thing in my life that I could do, liked to do, that got me positive attention. People were recognizing my talent and not my body. The owner of the bar actually gave me a job after hearing me sing Unchained Melody. I was going to be a karaoke jockey on Thursday-Saturday. It was a great way to supplement my income and I loved doing it. Then it developed into me having my own show on Thursdays. It was pretty awesome.
But I guess I wasn't ready to accept positive attention. It didn't feel right to me. I still don't know if I just had a hard time accepting compliments or if I couldn't believe them. I'm not sure what was going on in my brain, but I basically ruined it for myself. I took the completely benign act of being a great singer and turned it into something else. Because of my history, it was almost like if there wasn't a sexual or self mutilating component to it, I couldn't navigate it. So I began to sing songs like I Touch Myself or anything else that was suggestive or that I could at least put on a suggestive show to. The bar owners loved it because soon, we had a huge loyal following for my Thursday night "shows." They were making money, I was making money....but it wasn't enough. I still didn't feel validated. So I would take whoever my "biggest fan" was, home to my apartment. It became a vicious cycle. I'd sleep with him, then hate myself. Then pour my emotions out on stage, start to feel alone, find someone...do it all over again. Sometimes these would turn into relationships; sometimes not. When they did, usually a guy would have a threshold of how much "Crazy Girl" he could take and when it got to that point, he bounced.
I'd sit in my living room and cry until I couldn't breathe. I hated myself. I hated men. I hated everything. I thought about how I thought I was going to do all these great things. When I was a child, I had dreamed of being a doctor. More than anything I hated running into Her. That girl. So many different faces but all the same. The girl with so much self confidence that she kicked guys to the curb. The girl so proud of herself and protective of her body that she would tell me about how she waited x amount of days/months/years to sleep with her boyfriend. The girl that found her soul mate and was getting married. The girl who didn't need a man whatsoever and was confident and comfortable just being alone with herself. I hated that girl because I wanted to be that girl. Meeting one of those girls just showed me that it actually was possible; that other women achieved it...but that I couldn't. I wouldn't. There was nothing for me but where I was.
At some point in that year, whether due to stress or genetics, no one is real sure, I lost my hair. I was diagnosed with alopecia areata. It started with a bald spot the size of a quarter and ended up with almost my whole head, some eyebrows, and eyelashes. For a girl already struggling with self esteem, but ironically a girl who used her looks to get what she wanted, to get a sick sense of protection while farming herself out....it was devastating. I ended up wearing a wig for a while, as the hair grew back short and stubbly, I converted it to a "boy cut." I was on steroids for the condition and they caused me to balloon in weight.
The panic attacks became more and more frequent. They weren't the kind that would send me to the ER screaming like they were when I was a child. They were the ones where my brain was just telling me that I was going to die. I would become almost catatonic at first, listening to the voice in my head. Then I would get hysterical. The thoughts would keep coming and I couldn't control them. I was taking Klonopin at least 3 times a day. The only thing I could do was numb myself. I sat and counted the minutes. The seconds. The nanoseconds. If I could just get through this one, then would come another one. 10 minutes would turn into 20. Sometimes that was a comforting thing, knowing that I was still here; second after second. Sometimes it was agony; knowing that it was continuing second after second. All I knew was that I was breathing. I didn't feel like I was; but I just kept repeating to myself: "I have to be breathing. I'd be dead already if I wasn't breathing." It's still heartbreaking to me that the fact that I wasn't dead already, was the only factor I had to determine that I was alive.
I had a therapist at the time who would just say "Bless you little heart" without offering any suggestions. She was pretty much useless. Except for one thing.
My insurance was going to run out when I turned 21 if I was not a full time student. Having the medical issues that I did, I couldn't let that happen. I had gotten my GED three months after I dropped out of school. I had always wanted to go to college, but I just didn't think it was in the cards for me. I didn't think that it was possible. She informed me that I could go to a local junior college. I started the registration process. I honestly had no idea how I was going to be able to go to school and work while suffering through the panic. But I guess we would find out.
To be continued...
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
O is for Oh, The Places You'll Go
This is the seventh installment in a series covering the issue nearest to my heart. I want to share how I came to the passion that I spend much of my time and resources on. Since this story is mine and mine alone to tell, there will be portions that are vague and I apologize in advance. The road to healing is a personal one and it's not my place to tell the story for someone who may not be ready to have their part of it told. Some material may be triggering. Please read at your own discretion.
To read from the beginning, find part one here.
For this installment's entire quotation, click here.
"Congratulations! Today is your day. You're off to Great Places! You're off and away" ~ Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You'll Go
The book that is given to so many high school and college graduates. I wanted that book to be given to me so badly. I wanted to believe the things in the text. That I was headed for wonderful things. Instead, I felt like there should have been another book entitled: "Oh, The Places You Would've Gone...if You Weren't Such a Complete Screw Up."
I've always been regarded as the "smart one" in my family. In fact, when my little brother had to answer questions about his family for a project in school, one of the questions was: "Who in your family has the highest education?" He put me, even though at that time, our older brother had his Masters and I hadn't even finished school. I had straight A's up until high school. Before that, I had never let my emotional issues become academic issues. That all fell to crap my freshman year. I skipped school all the time; I even failed PE for refusing to dress out. Not only did I have all the mental and emotional and behavioral shit pulling me down, but I switched schools 6 times in the 3 years and some change that I was enrolled. Only one of those was due to a military move. The others were due to my mom sending me to different relatives because she was at a loss for what to do. One of those situations was a positive one. The others were not. Regardless, when it came to my senior year and boyfriends and laziness were more important than school, I dropped out. I found out that I would have had to complete an extra year of school because the requirements for graduation at the current school were different from the other schools I had gone to and I was short many credits. So even if I had kept my nose clean and been a good girl, I still wouldn't have graduated until I was 19. And that was WITH two summer school terms. The lazy and rebellious chick in me said Hells No. I ended up getting my GED really quickly after dropping out though. That was the one good thing that I can say about it in my favor. I can remember the words of certain family members and acquaintances: "Well that's that. You'll never do anything now." I guessed the gift of Dr. Seuss was even further away.
I remember getting my scores from the GED and seeing that I had placed in the 99th percentile for Writing, 98th for Reading and English, 94th for Science, 93rd for Social Studies, and 90th for Math. I even was awarded some sort of scholarship to a Junior College in the State due to my scores. But we moved, so it didn't transfer. But regardless of how awesome that is to me now, at that point I couldn't...wouldn't let myself be proud of those scores. It was a GED for crying out loud, anyone should be able to pass with flying colors, and other disparaging remarks was what I told myself. I look back and think, "what an accomplishment for a gal like me." Because of all the skipping and moving and hospitalizations, I only had about an 8th grade formal education. But I hated that piece of paper. I hated even more that I started to believe what everyone was saying. No Dr. Seuss in my future.
But there I was in the summer of 2001, getting ready to take an entrance exam for placement into a Junior College. And I, the "smart girl" was panicking. I started to realize how limited in formal education I really was. I started to second guess myself. I started to feel stupid. I took the test anyway. (Well, full disclosure here: I took the English, Writing, General Ed, and Basic Math portions of the test. I opened the Algebra exam, looked at the first 3 questions and closed it back up, telling them to just start me from the lowest rack on the totem. Cause me and algebra do not hang as pals.)
I was in. Me. The tortured hypochondriac, emotional masochist, high school dropout was a registered junior college student. The first semester I took one class. I figured I needed to ease myself back into things. I took Introduction to Criminal Justice and Law Enforcement Procedures with Mr. Ball. I don't know if that man will ever know what a hero he is to me. I scored 100 on every quiz. Every test. Every project. I stayed after class to talk to Mr. Ball about class material, which developed into just talking. He became a mentor for me. He was like a grandfather figure. He was warm and kind and listened to me about everything. I told him timidly about my goals, which at that time were just pretty ideas to me...not anything I thought I could ever accomplish. I told him about my emotional issues and how I felt I had hit a wall with progress since I wasn't really getting anything from my current therapist other than "Bless your heart." He built me up, empowered me, and told me to find a new therapist.
So I did.
Enter Her.
I don't really like to use the phrase that "she saved my life." She empowered me to breathe life back into my existence. She led me down a path of discovery and helped me help myself.
When I first came to see her, I could barely leave my apartment. I was able to go to work and to school because they were both less than 4 miles away. Anything over that and I got nervous. Couldn't go shopping, couldn't hang out with friends unless it was at my apartment or they drove. And even then I was anxious. I came to her so severely broken that I was almost mute. I was so ashamed of myself with the sleeping around and inability to do day to day things that "normal" people do. I think for our first session I pretty much answered with 3 words or less to all of her questions.
Some time before this, I had discovered the music of Tori Amos. It was like nothing I had ever heard before. I felt like an artist was speaking to me. Her music was my comfort and I immersed myself in everything Tori that I could possibly find. Going back to school even gave me an excuse to Tori-fy all of my binders. I started carrying one around with me wherever I went. A blue binder with Tori pictures that inside, in carefully filled plastic protecting sheets, contained the lyrics to her entire catalog. I brought that thing everywhere. And I mean EVERYWHERE. So naturally, I brought it to therapy sessions.
It was only a few sessions before she finally asked me what it was. I hesitantly showed it to her. She instantly said how neat that was and told me how she had seen Tori in concert in college and even had a "Waitress" necklace. That was the coolest thing I had ever heard a professional psychologist say. The next session, she had a binder that matched mine. Instead of having me talk about my issues in the first person, she told me to flip to the song that matched what was on my mind that day. I can't help but cry as I type this, remembering that day. Just a little effort. Thinking outside the box. That's all it took for me to be comfortable with her. And because of that, she was the FIRST person who got to hear The Stories. It was time to break the first rule of Rape Club.
After hearing about my past and my present, she had me take a couple of tests. Then I heard the words that would forever change the way that I dealt with and treated my illness: "It's my opinion that you've been misdiagnosed this whole time. I don't see any indication of Bipolar or Borderline Personality Disorder. I think that you have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder that's never been adequately treated."
Thank you. A million times thank you.
After that, it was easy to talk to her. We really got to the root of a lot of my issues. She gave me references that I could go look up things that she thought might help me. I learned relaxation techniques, I journaled, I wrote songs. I started slowly, steadily, living in color. Step by step shedding the darkened prison that had become my mind and my life. I started to see dreams and pretty thoughts become more concrete and attainable. Oh, the places I'd go.
And now I was on my way. Yes, Dr. Seuss, I would go places. I would do things. There would be a few more bumps in the road, some of them potholes. But at least I was going.
Monday, January 23, 2012
P is for Potholes and Phoenix
This is the eighth installment in a series covering the issue nearest to my heart. I want to share how I came to the passion that I spend much of my time and resources on. Since this story is mine and mine alone to tell, there will be portions that are vague and I apologize in advance. The road to healing is a personal one and it's not my place to tell the story for someone who may not be ready to have their part of it told. Some material may be triggering. Please read at your own discretion.
To read from the beginning, find part one here.
"You have climbed an uphill road, you have worn a heavy load. You have cried through endless nights, nearly giving up the fight. Watched your dreams like falling stars, heartache made you who you are and looking back you'll see that I have always been there..." Kendall Payne, I Will Show You Love
I was rockin' it, y'all. Rockin' it hard core. I was in school and doing fabulous. Never getting less than an A on anything. I was working at the bar, doing my karaoke thing and loving it. I was in therapy with a wonderful psychologist who was making me work and I was reaping all the benefits. Life was beginning to get good. I still had some anxious tendencies, was still on my anti-depressants daily and Klonopin when needed. But I was feeling pretty full of awesome.
Rugs. I hate those suckers. 'Cause they always know when to pull right out from under you. I don't even want to think about what a worse thing could have been to someone like me. This seemed like it was pretty effing close.
On a dark night in November, it was raining. I didn't have to work, but I was hanging out at the bar with all my friends, enjoying a night where I wasn't the one organizing CD's, setting up equipment, and dealing with the drama of karaoke politics. There was a wedding reception in the bar and everyone was in a good mood. The rain and thunder were loud and only drowned out when the next singer began to ring out whatever they had picked. The maid of honor decided to sing. She got up to the mike, took a deep breath, and just before belting out her first note, the power went out. All us drinking fools made light of it; clapping immediately yelling, "Great song! Awesome! Loved it." It was pretty hilarious. All of a sudden, it just wasn't funny anymore. Then we heard that familiar Alabama sound of one pissed off train. Then we heard what we thought was heavy hail. Then someone screamed: "Everybody get down!!"
I don't know what I thought I was doing. I ran. Almost the exact opposite of "get down." But that's what I did. And then dove to the ground and slid flat down on my front. My ears popped. I felt something smash against my back. Felt a weird pressure on the back of my neck. Then, I felt wet. I know that I knew it was a tornado at that point, because there were some crazy things going on in my mind and this was one of them: "Holy shit. I'm INSIDE the tornado. It's raining inside the tornado and I'm inside it."
Of course, I wasn't really inside a tornado. But your brain thinks odd things in trauma. Boy, did I already know that. The not so crazy thing going on inside my head was that I wanted my mom. I actually did yell out for her during the 10 seconds that everything was going down. And by going down, I mean literally.
We found out later than the hail that we thought we heard was actually pieces of another building a half mile down the road hitting our roof. The tornado ripped off the roof and slammed it back down on the building lopsided and the four walls crumbled inward. The pressure I had felt over my neck was a table rolling across it. What I had felt on my back was the overhang of the serving bar collapsing and falling on to me. I found out later that had I stayed where I was and followed directions, the juke box that had been behind me, would have shoved into me and sprayed glass into my skin. Pretty glad I ran. Not glad that I laid flat. The reason that they teach you in schools during the tornado drill to crouch down is simple. If you lay flat and shit falls on top of you, you can't get up. You have no leverage to push the stuff off of you. Hence, I was trapped. A piece of insulation had somehow fallen over my mouth and the rain that I thought was coming from inside the tornado? That was the water main breaking, drenching me completely and plastering that insulation like glue to my face. I couldn't breathe. This time, it wasn't my brain making me think I was going to die just because it felt like screwing with me that day. I couldn't breathe and was about to pass out and I was literally thinking that I was going to die.
I stuck my hand out and someone saw it. A few people pulled some debris off of me and grabbed my arms and pulled. I'm grateful for the effort, I really am because in that moment I knew that someone had found me and that I was going to be okay. But the heavy bar was still across my backside. It kept me in place while they pulled. And pulled. And pulled. I was screaming but they couldn't hear me due to the chaos ensuing around us and the insulation still covering my face. They pulled and eventually dislocated both of my shoulders. And because I had hip injuries from a previous horse riding accident, the hips followed shortly after that.
I don't even know how I was able to get up and walk around. I know that it was painful; the hips popped back in awkwardly and I screamed. My arms were hanging limply at my sides and I began to search for somewhere to sit down. Chaos was still around us and so many things happened that would take too long to tell. I eventually sat down in the back of an ambulance that had finally showed up, received oxygen treatment for the fiberglass that I had inhaled, and they popped my shoulders back in.
My car had its windows blown out. I was able to go get it the next day; soaked in rain and dirty with debris and mud, but it was at least able to be driven. And then life went on.
Or did it?
I don't really know how to adequately explain the deflation involved after making so much progress with myself and my mental health. I turned into quite the crazy. If it sprinkled outside, I bawled. Thunder was panic inducing enough to warrant a whole Klonopin rather than a half. God forbid there were strong winds. I was, as they say, a basket case. I went back to not being able to drive more than for about 5 minutes. I remember having to go to an appointment about that distance away and when I got in the car to come home it started raining badly. I had to pull over (which I jumped a curb doing and damaged my tire) and run into the first business that I saw. I was crying and hyperventilating. I'm sure those people thought I was truly nuts. But they were kind and let me stay until the rain let up.
The difference between this fall out and so many others was that this time I had an amazing support structure. I had finally learned the value of my mother. I had learned that the things she had done that I thought were horrible and hateful were actually loving gestures of a parent who was trying everything in her power to save her child. I had my wonderful psychologist who helped me get past it. I was actually surprised at how quick I bounced back. I was doing wonderful things in school. I was maintaining an awesome GPA and I had joined our school's orientation team, which garnered me a semester of scholarship. I was dating and although I still wasn't in any relationships that I would consider healthy by any means, there was no abuse and much less of the attention starved crazy Jesi antics going on. A teacher at my school made a phone call and got me a scholarship to my next stop. That was insane to me. Me. Little ol' me had been awarded a transfer scholarship to a university. I was elated and overjoyed.
And scared as hell.
It was over an hour away from my mom. I hadn't been that far away from her since she became my ally. She was who I still called at 2 am when I was in the midst of a panic attack and needed to be talked down. She was who I counted on for everything. And she would be an hour away. But I knew I had to do it.
The story of me moving into college is probably one of my proudest. I loaded up a lot of my junk into storage that my mom would look after for me. What could fit into my car, went into my car. And lemme tell ya, it was LOADED down. So bad that I had to have extra braking time. Driving to a bigger city. The capitol city, actually. Which I had never been to. By myself. Are you kidding me??? And I moved all that crap up into my 4th floor door room...by myself. Mom came up later when she had some time off work and brought me some more things, but that first day I did it all. I'm still really super proud of me for that.
This school was pretty awesome. And I did well. I joined the cheerleading squad for one year. I ended up having to get two jobs once I got a newer car so that I could stay afloat so nothing extra curricular lasted long after the first year. I enjoyed all my classes and loved most of my teachers. I made friends and had boyfriends. I was President of the Psychology Club. I joined a group on campus that ended up sending me to a training session on how to administer HIV tests with the Ora-Sure swab and how to do pre and post testing counseling. That rocked my socks. I got to go down to the red light district and convince people to let me give them tests. Give them real information about HIV. Many didn't want to listen, but some did. And that was some of the most rewarding work I've ever done. Even still.
Even though I had been donating whatever tiny bits of money I had and devouring every piece of info I could get my hands on to the organization RAINN (Rape, Abuse, Incest, National Network), this was the first opportunity that I had to participate in Card Day. It's a day in September where you hand out material with information concerning sexual assault on college campuses. It was amazing for me. I know that it helped some people and most of all, it helped me.
I took one class called Personal Adjustment. I had no idea what it was, but it looked like a decent psych elective. It ended up being this really awesome class where you did a lot of journaling and self reflection. You shared stories throughout the semester, learned to listen to other people, and basically had like a little classroom of informal group therapy going on. It was pretty cool. And it was the first time that I told a group of practically strangers about my life and my struggles with the aftermath of sexual abuse and living with mental illness.
I could see some uncomfortable shifting from people, but I could also see a range of emotions in their eyes. Some looked at me with pity. Some gazed back in solidarity. But there was one girl. One girl who never took her eyes off of me the entire time I spoke. I didn't know her well in the class and I still don't remember her name. At the end of the semester, we formed a circle and we had to write one word descriptors about each of our classmates and then read them aloud to each other. I can't remember any of the other words used to describe me. It came time for That Girl to give her word to me and she said this:
"My word for you, is Phoenix. Are you familiar with the story from the Bible? (I was not.) Well, the story of the Phoenix Bird, is that it died in a fire and was later resurrected from its ashes of death. It went on to multiply, and is a symbol of the miracle of God. You have been through so much and you are here; stronger for it. You haven't shed the nastiness of things that happened to you, much like the Phoenix still carries her ashes on her wings. But you have been reborn into something miraculous and special. The Phoenix doesn't allow those ashes to stop her from flying. You have transformed into something that through the miracle of God, doesn't forget the death in the ashes but instead, treads through them to be born again into something more beautiful that it could have ever been without the heartache. You are splendid and cherished and shine bright as a living testimony to the majesty of life and of the Lord."I could only nod, whisper thanks, and shyly look away as tears filled my eyes, much as they do right now. I hadn't before, nor have I since heard something more beautiful being said about me. I am not a religious person by any stretch of the imagination. Yet this story touched me so deeply. The quote that I chose for this post is actually from a Christian song, but I believe that it can apply to anyone, religious or not. It says: "looking back you'll see that I have always been there." I know that the artist is speaking from the perspective of God and that a person should look back and see that He has always been there. But for me, I look back and see that I was always the Phoenix Bird. I just hadn't risen from my ashes yet.
To be continued...
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Q is for Quality Control
This is the ninth installment in a series covering the issue nearest to my heart. I want to share how I came to the passion that I spend much of my time and resources on. Since this story is mine and mine alone to tell, there will be portions that are vague and I apologize in advance. The road to healing is a personal one and it's not my place to tell the story for someone who may not be ready to have their part of it told. Some material may be triggering. Please read at your own discretion.
To read from the beginning, find part one here.
"Here I am, I'm so young. I know I've been bitter, I've been jaded, I'm alone. Every day, I bite my tongue. If you only knew my mind was full of razors, I'm not sure I can take it. I've nothing strong to hold to and I'm way too old to hate you. My mind is full of razors that'd cut you like a word if only sung, but this is My Song." ~ Brandi Carlile, My Song
(It's funny. I had this blog a long time before I heard that song. But it's really fitting with the whole "razors in the mind" thing.)
So things were getting really good. Life's never perfect and mine was far from it. My therapist and I had come to the mutual decision for me to stop therapy when I moved away to the university. Before that, she had worked with me to get me off all daily meds. After 11 years of SSRI's, I was done. I still took my Klonopin or Xanax in emergencies, but I was no longer in need of a daily medication. Me. I know, right? I still had the normal girl issues: boys, school, working, friends.... but I was coping quite well. It was during this point of my life that I started standing up for myself and demanding better treatment from men. It seems so silly to someone who has had self-esteem their whole life or been adept in the art of assertiveness, but I actually ended dating relationships when they weren't working for me. I was the one to end things? Never would've thought that would happen. In my former glory, I could only envision me strapped like a toddler to a boyfriend's leg, screaming and crying for him not to leave while he clumsily tried to shake me off and get out the door (note: only minor exaggeration, sadly). I was also MUCH more cautious with my sexuality. Through therapy and working with RAINN, I had grown to value myself and body to a greater extent. There were no more one night stands. I broke up with guys when I felt like it wasn't a good relationship. Truth be told, it still took a LOT to get to those breaking points and I put up with much more than I should have before the break up, but still..major progress here.
My life began to get to the point of Quality Control. I just had to keep myself in check for things that might throw me off. It's a pretty sweet place to be. The funny thing about getting to this point though, is that once the fire is put out, you can see the logs. There was no more "panic emergency" type stuff going on. This allowed the stuff that had caused the fire to come to the forefront. And that, y'all...sometimes it really, really sucks.
I can't really put a time frame or a point on when it started erupting, but all of a sudden and also gradually (if that makes any sense), I started realizing that I had some serious, serious, daddy issues. My parents divorced when I was 10. I grew up mainly with my mom and stepdad. I won't go into all the things that happened with my family dynamic, but there was a lot of yuck. Funny enough, when I was in the thick of it, I didn't even notice how hurtful things should've been or how they would effect me. I was too busy dealing with the fires. Now, those things were all I could think about. I just stopped one day and realized to myself that I wasn't even really sure if I was loved. I didn't really know where on the "totem pole" I ranked as far as things in my dad's life. He wasn't great about showing it, and I was horrible about coming out and asking. I avoided confrontation with him like the plague. All I could do was look back on events in my life and see where I had been cast aside. Not only by my dad, but by everyone. It took a long time and a lot of reflection to be able to forgive most of those people. My mother, for instance, never once gave up on me. She worked tirelessly to ensure my well being. She constantly told me she loved me. I just wasn't able to see that. I wasn't able to feel love from anyone because I didn't have love for myself. So I wondered if that was the same case scenario for all of the relationships in my life. Did I just not see their love for me? Was I too absorbed in my own stuff to realize the effort behind the scenes? I am positive that this is the case for many of the people in my life that I couldn't feel love from. But I was also positive that there were some that did not fit into that description.
I was no longer battling fires and having horrible anxiety attacks because of that. But I was sad a lot of the time. A LOT of the time. I think I kept looking for a man on a big, white horse to come and rescue me. If I could just find the man of my dreams, then everything would be okay. That wasn't working.
I hadn't learned how to really be comfortable with myself, flaws and all. So I started working on that. And I dated. Went to bars. Met guys, got screwed over, broke up with them, yadda, yadda....
I started hanging out with a guy that I met at work. I was employed at a hotel chain and he was coming down for business and staying there. He brought me dinner from Applebee's. He talked and joked with me. We eventually went out on a date after a few months. I wasn't super attracted to him at first, but he was so very nice to me. After that, he started driving 12 hours every weekend to see me. One weekend, I begged him no to leave. I thought it would buy an extra day or two of getting to hang out. Instead, he just said: "Ok." What he meant by ok...he quit his job. He left his house, his family, every thing he had known for the last 20+ years and moved in with me. A month later, we discovered we were pregnant with our daughter.
Pregnancy is not good on me. The hormones turn me into a crazy person. No to mention, I really wasn't wanted to be a parent at this point. I was a senior in college and wanted to do so much more with my career. Baby Daddy and I had a very rough go for the first couple of years. It's hard being thrust into that situation without having really dated for that long. After our daughter was born, I battled post partum depression. I was terrified that I was going to end up "just like I was." It was my senior year of undergrad and I was applying and being provisionally accepted to graduate schools. There was an amazing Ph.D. program I was looking into for Clinical/Counseling Psych and I thought I might finally achieve that dream I had long ago of being a doctor. But no. It was too much. Medically and psychologically I was struggling. I didn't have a lot of faculty support (especially from one particular professor whom I learned much later was even less supportive than I thought, but I digress.) So I withdrew. A month before graduation.
And I was sad a lot of the time still. But then something amazing happened.
This little girl turned about 6 months old and the infant stage was over and I wasn't constantly exhausted or constantly feeding, burping, changing, or soothing her. And she looked at me and said "Mama." And I fell in love with her. She needed me and I needed her. All the little things that were so awful seemed to slowly fade into the background because I had a better purpose. And not that she was a tool; children are never a tool, but I knew that once I had my father's grandchild he would come around. And I swore that I was going to be a heartless bitch to him to make up for all the issues that I was left with surrounding the relationship between he and I. But as time went on and I grew, I realized that I was too old for it. I had spent so much time and energy hating and crying and feeling sad, that I wasn't living fully. The quality that I thought I had during my little "checks," was not good. Sadly, because things had been such crap before, I didn't realize that just because something doesn't suck, doesn't mean it's awesome. That was the biggest change. Once I no longer settled for things not sucking, life really began to turn around. I ended going back to my undergrad program 2 years later and finishing. Still one of the things I am most proud of.
The man that fathered my daughter became my husband. We eventually had another child; my sweet son. I'd like to tell you this amazing success story, but I can't. Even though almost all of my mental illness issues were completely in check, it's really hard to shed that victim role. I was good at it. And I didn't get for the longest time that just because things aren't bad, does't mean they are good. Ignoring that is what I think led to me living with the bad and eventually horrible. By that time I felt obligated. I was scared to leave. I felt ruined. The only thing that mattered were my children. Finally, it got to the point that I realized that I needed to leave for them AND for me. After being in a very abusive relationship for 10 years, I finally broke free.
I've learned to kind of live with my issues. I'm always gonna have daddy issues. I'm always going to have mental illness. I'm always going to have those weird little idiosyncrasies that make me "Crazy RazorbladeBrain." But I try every day to no longer have hate in my heart. I have forgiven so many people for so many things. And that may sound weird to some people, but forgiveness to me is an act of compassion to oneself. There are people and things that do not "deserve" forgiveness and they never will, but you have to let it go and make peace in order to move on. Forgiveness isn't done because people deserve it, it's because they need it. It's because YOU need it.
I don't need to be saved anymore. I saved myself. No white horse needed.
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