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...
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