Rattled

I'm struggling.

As suspected a couple weeks ago, I'm getting closer to facing the sexual abuse. I cry about it far easier than I ever did in the past. It happened again today. Have any of you seen the "rape analogy" going around Facebook recently? I was worried it was going to be a tasteless joke, but it wasn't at all. Here's the link.

I made a comment on Facebook about the awful things a defense attorney will say in that kind of situation. Then I thought about how it's not always an attorney being paid to say those things. There are "average" people walking around that believe those things. They believe a woman "asked" to be assaulted. That they may be complaining now, but they actually enjoyed it. That the woman has some kind of ulterior motive or bone to pick with the man. That was the main argument in my case. My mom and dad were going through an ugly divorce and the defense, meaning my dad and his attorney, said that my mom and I "cooked up" the allegations so that my mom would win complete custody of my sisters. I wasn't in the court room for most of the case aside from my testimony and the closing statements. The prosecuting attorney and detective warned me that the defense wouldn't be kind, and they were right. Even though I knew it was his job, I had to fight to stay seated and not stand up and scream at him. It was a horrible experience. But do you know whats  worse?

When your own family believes those things.

My sister believed my dad that my mom and I made it up. He told my sisters that we were going to "cook something up" before I even told anyone, so to her it made complete sense. He said it would happen and it did.  My own sister. There was a friend of the family who also chose to believe this, and while that hurt, it was easy to cut her out of my life and move on. But my sister was there. She knew he was crazy, violent, abusive, manipulative and angry. But all she could see was her family being torn apart, and someone had to be blamed. It couldn't be him - he wanted to stay home, to work things out. 

My Bruised Heart by ~murtada-king on deviantART

On a related note, I have been thinking about how difficult it is to really face what happened to me and how horrifying it all was. So I seek validation from outside sources. No matter how much I get, it's never enough. No matter how many people I tell the story to, how many people are shocked by or how many people tell me how strong I must be to have survived, I need more. The only way (at this time) I know to face it is be reliving the memories, which would only lead to retraumatization. Part of me feels like the people that should really get it, my family, do not. (This is not about everyone in my family by the way.) Right now, the pain of that realization feels fresh. What comes to mind is that my heart is bruised. When I most needed their support to heal my heart, they assumed I "had Aaron" and their job was done. After all those years of abuse, don't you think that is an awful lot put on one person? Don't get me wrong, he's handled it beautifully (I swear, I don't know how I got so lucky), but I, like every other human being, need a support system. I can't help but feel I would be more at peace, content and generally happier if I had that. I have Studdly Hubby's family now, but that relationship is still growing. I have trouble depending on other people in some ways, and so I haven't reached out to them as much as I probably could. It's a difficult spot to be in to gripe about not having it and then not reaching out and taking it when it's offered.

But I digress.

During my inner work yesterday, I came across a memory/flashback. I saw myself standing in the basement, and my dad was pushing his finger in my anus. I've had these graphic and ugly mental images come up for, and quickly try to think about something else in an attempt to get rid of it as quickly as possible. I had to end the experience and open my eyes.

The whole thing left me rattled, for lack of a better word. I'm feeling vulnerable. Paper thin. I'm getting closer and closer to the memories and it's terrifying. I'm glad I've stayed in therapy this long, because clearly there is work yet to be done that I cannot and should not do alone. 

So that's where things stand for now. I do miss blogging, but I've really had to make schoolwork a priority, so something had to give, and unfortunately it was frequent blogging. I'm still here, with plenty to write about though!

Rachel

The Next Layer

I'm not even sure where to begin tonight...

My mood - This has been a rough several weeks for me. I could feel something starting to bubble below the surface. I was really emotional and weepy. My mood has slowly slid into a darker place since then. This past week/weekend has been the worst so far. I've been crying at the drop of a hat, often for no particular reason. I've been talking to Simone about it, and we both agreed that something was going on, but it was hard to say what. It seemed as if my subconscious was trying to protect me from something. Often, in traumatic situations, the psyche will create a "protective self" that is only useful during the trauma. However, old habits die hard and that protective self doesn't know that its job is done. This seemed as if it could be a direct correlation to the dream I had about the dead woman. A sense of dread kept me from exploring the situation further.

Last week in therapy, I was talking about some of the abuse. I became abnormally emotional when I related how my dad would put the responsibility on me to stop the abuse. After he was done, usually after he ejaculated, he used to apologize, say it would never happen again, but to just say "no" if he ever tried again. Obviously, I tried that, and it never worked out too well. When he was diagnosed with prostate cancer, the abuse stopped for about a year when I was 16-17. I thought I was finally home-free (from that part of the abuse anyway) until his treatments were done and he got his libido back. I fought harder than ever to "just say no" and was devastated when I lost the battle. In therapy today, I commented that I couldn't remember the first time it happened after that year, but suddenly recalled sobbing in my bedroom. Honestly, its hard for me to even think about it further without becoming emotional. Besides my family letting me down, it has been the greatest disappointment of my life thus far...

So I think there may be two things at play here. First, I was taught, in a very big way, that just when I think things are going to be ok, everything will come crumbling down. Just when I started to believe that it wasn't going to happen anymore, and was growing stronger and stronger in my belief that I could stop it if it started again, I lost.  So now, when things are going well in my life, you can almost set your stopwatch for the inevitable fall.

The second thing I realized on my drive home tonight. I think I am actually starting to face the abuse. I've been facing the after affects, but not the abuse itself. I think that may be a major part of the next "layer" I have going on. I usually don't cry so easily when talking about it, and even when I did this last time, I didn't let myself let go and "cry it out". I composed myself. So I know there are more tears there, waiting...

This is much bigger and nicer than the one I
visited, but you get the idea...

I revisited the dream with the dead woman in my inner work last week. I tried to get closer to investigate, but the rungs on the ladder kept snapping in half every time I stepped on them. My protective self did not want me to go any further, emotionally or even in the dream. I did some more inner work today, in which Simone led me to a house. I walked from my "happy place" (working on a new name for that...) to my safe place and saw a house plopped down in the sand to the left (to the right are the cellar doors). The house was white, with aluminum siding and black shutters. It was very typical and blase - nothing that would grab your attention. The inside smelled like it had been closed up for quite some time. It had a few furniture pieces, but nothing ornamental, as if though nobody lived there. Simone asked me to look for a message of some sort. I noticed some writing appear on the wall to the left. It said simply "Why are you here?" Not really sure myself, I responded by writing on the wall "I'm exploring..." I then asked if there was a message for me and got the response "Keep looking..." *On a side note, a house can often represent one's self.*

From there, I walked into a large empty room and looked out the windows at farm country. As I walked closer, a vicious dog barked at me from outside. I jumped back and headed to the stairs on the other side of the room. I got the sense that I had "beat" my protective self, that I had gotten inside before she could stop me, so I was free to explore. I walked up the stairs and saw the hallway from the house on Monroe St. I was drawn to my old bedroom. It was pink and deliciously girly. My 12-year old self showed up and seemed to be doing ok. I realized I needed to be with my 17 year self, who was completely devastated that the abuse was continuing. She wasn't coming to me, so I realized I needed to be with her. Suddenly, I was in my bedroom in the basement, holding her and letting her sob. I let her cry it out for a few minutes, then shared with her that it was all over. That "this" wasn't reality. I waved my arm, and our surroundings disappeared like a crumpled up backdrop. We were left in a blank white space. From there, I took her back to my bedroom where I began. I shared with her all the little things in my life that I had that I knew she dreamed about. I was free and independent. I was someone she dreamed of being but would barely recognize as herself. I was a woman and no one was going to make choices for me like that ever again.

I always find it funny that when I start posts with a comment like "I don't know what to write" or " I don't know where to begin", I quickly figure it out...and then some! I have some other things on my mind to share on here, but I think I have enough for now.

Rachel

Fresh Air

Even though my dad had been "squished" in one of my last adventures in inner work, there is still work left to be done. So this week I returned.

I called upon the "younger me's" as I had before. This time I was only able to meet with two of them, the 17 year old and the 12 year old. In the past, the 17 year old had been very angry. This time it seemed like she was actually able to take a deep breath and allow herself to breathe. The three of us turned and started to walk towards the cellar doors when something unusual happened.

11 or 12 years old. Check out the wallpaper! Yikes!

There is a picture of myself around 12 years old, standing in my parents' bedroom in a blue and white striped shirt. Whenever I picture myself at that age, I see that picture. As we were walking, she and I were suddenly in that room. The strange thing is, I'm not sure if I was her, or if I was behind her, watching. It's very complicated because in my mind's eye, I tend to have an "over-the-shoulder" view of things. In memories, dreams, etc., I am watching myself. That's why it was hard to tell what was going on here. 

Anyway, I watched her walk out of the room and then saw my dad standing on the landing to the stairs on the left. He was masturbating into a kitchen pot. To make things more complicated, I was aware that my other 12 year-old self was sitting downstairs in the living room, where he was directly in her line of vision. The self that I was with upstairs then stepped forward and popped him with a pin. He deflated faster than the wicked witch of the west.

After this little detour, we were all standing at the top of the cellar doors. We walked down and through the massive door, which is now always open. The first thing I noticed is that there was at least 6 inches of water on the floor. It was sloshing gently, the door that had been keeping my dad locked up swaying back and forth with the movement of the water. I walked over to it and looked inside. The sun was shining in through a window, illuminating the empty room and the air smelled incredibly fresh and clean, which he never did. It was as if though he had never been there. 

I turned around and saw another door open. It was to a room I had explored in the past, and it all looked the same. The door directly to my right was closed, but it had a window. I looked in and saw my mom, lying on a cot. She wasn't asleep, but seemed to be staring off into the distance, seemingly very depressed. I left that alone, and turned the corner at the end of the hallway. I went down a few stairs yet another hallway. I entered the very first door and discovered a room full of furs! They were incredibly soft and reminded me of Char. I can only imagine that this is related to my exploration in sensuality and that the other rooms in that hall would be filled with a variety of other things directly related to specific senses.

After I felt content that I had explored enough for one visit, we all came back to my happy place.

There was a lot going on here for one session! I've never done any kind of inner work within my inner work. That was totally unexpected, and not really "guided" by me or Simone. It just came out of nowhere. Also, I couldn't help but notice that I didn't care if my dad showed up or not. I really didn't feel threatened by his presence at all. That being said, as I was writing this, it occurred to me that maybe he was gone because he was out of his REAL prison cell. I knew this was illogical, but I looked up his prison profile page anyway, just for good measure. When I saw his picture, I felt my tummy flip over. I instantly recognized the look on his face and knew that he was angry and annoyed when the picture was taken. I felt uncomfortable, but ok.

I'm always fascinated by the inner work aspect of therapy. It's amazing to me that all of this is inside my mind. But I couldn't just sit down at my computer and make it up on the spot. It really is an experience that takes place with my eyes closed. If I would have read any of this a year ago, I wouldn't believe it was written by me!!

Rachel

I Wonder

I decided to take on the massive project of cleaning out one of our storage closets today. I found all kinds of fun stuff like high school yearbooks, the program from the Miss Michigan USA pageant I participated in, Studdly Hubby's baby book and lots more. One thing I came across was the transcript from my testimony in the court case. I'll come back to that one later. I also found a poem I wrote several years ago.

Crying...

Crying so hard

    I think I'll never stop.

I might suffocate

Can one die of misery?

   I wonder...

He's back.

   But he doesn't care.

Crying, begging, yelling

   None of it matters to him.

And I know it doesn't matter anyway

   so I give up.

   I shut down.

I give in to his commands.

I don't care anymore...

   At least that's what I tell myself

   In this moment

Laughing...

Laughing so hard

   I wish I'd never stop

Something in Spanish class...

   Oh yeah, Stephanie's cat

I smile remembering

Oh, what did he say?

   Yeah, yeah, I'm doing it just how you said

He won't leave me alone.

   What's going on here?

   How is this possible?

I feel my brain shutting down...

I'm numb now.

   So numb.

I'm nothing

   Nothing but a robot

   A rag doll

   Not caring

   Mind boggled

Numb.

   So very numb.

I don't think I can stop.

I might go insane

   Can one go insane from numbness?

      I wonder...."

I'm happy to say that I'm not in the dark place anymore, but it's a very honest look at how it once felt.

Rachel

MDMA: A Miracle Cure for PTSD?

I have a bad habit of subscribing to magazines and then letting them pile up on my coffee table. As part of my seemingly never-ending spring cleaning, I've been going through them, reading the better ones and scanning the others for pictures for my dream board.  I got my Oprah Magazine and expected it be one of the better ones, chock full of inspiration and intriguing stories. Unfortunately, this one wasn't doing it for me, that is, until I came across an article almost at the end entitled "Can a Single Pill Change Your Life?"

Apparently, there have been some therapists utilizing the active ingredient in the drug Ecstasy, MDMA, to help treat post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). I had not heard of any drugs being available for it so I dove in. A small study was done in Charleston, South Carolina in which 20 individuals with diagnoses of PTSD were given the drug during 2 to 3 therapy sessions. In the end, 17 of them were cleared of the diagnosis. This results seemed significant enough to require further investigation. 

From the article:

                  "With MDMA, you not only see your fear but trust yourself to go past it," says Marcela Ot'alora, 52, a Colorado therapist who took MDMA under a psychologist's care in 1984 to treat PTSD stemming from an abusive relationship. "It shows you how to be kinder to yourself, and how much you're capable of. It allows you access to a place in your mind that's compassionate and full of love. You might have abandoned that place, but it never abandoned you."      

That last part was especially interesting to me as it is my ultimate goal in therapy - to become a better, kind person. To find a place within myself that is good. A place that was abandoned as a child because I had to be protective and cautious, rather than giving love and being vulnerable.

From Oprah.com by Dan Saelinger

So what's the deal? Is MDMA safe? How does it work? Is it really a magic pill?

From what I understand, the drug is taken during a therapy session that last about 8 hours. During that time, clients totally relax and mentally revisit the trauma they experienced. They are able to face their abusers in a way that their psyches normally would not, well, at least not in their first session. Dr. Mithoefer, the physician who ran the study, claims that MDMA acts as a catalyst for internal healing. (For more examples and a more thorough explanation, read the original article here).

Obviously, there are risks involved, as there are with any kind of drug. Those that take it experience an increase in heart rate and blood pressure, as well as a decreased efficiency in the way the heart pumps. It can cause sweating, tremors and hallucinations. 

So what is the alternative for those of us suffering from post traumatic stress disorder if we don't want to subject ourselves to questionable drugs with dangerous side effects? Traditional therapy works, and even has its advantages.

While traditional therapy takes longer than 3 sessions, part of that requires a certain amount of personal commitment and work. Following through with that can lead to greater self esteem and pride. Often times, a part of that therapy is find a place within yourself, where you are able to center yourself and find inner peace, not dissimilar to what is experienced while under the influence of the drug. 

But there is a benefit to doing this "sober". A time will inevitably come when something will trigger a survivor who has already gone through a significant healing process. Or maybe something unpleasant will come up in life, as it always does. Something that tries your patience or frightens you. If you relied on the drug in the past to "heal", where will you turn when it is no longer available? If instead, you took the time to learn the necessary skills to heal and know you have a sense of peace within yourself that you can access, then you can do just that if the situation calls for it. To me, this has been one of the great outcomes of therapy so far. It's something I even use when I'm having a difficult time with Vaginismus. I use it when I'm panicking about paying the bills or feel some social anxiety creeping up on me. It's truly been life changing and I hope I never lose touch with it.

Some experts suggest that the current uses of MDMA may lead to finding a way to tone it down for safer therapeutic use. Until then, it is being accessed by therapists that utilize it on a, shall we say, less than legal basis. Personally, this is not something I would seek out at this time, but we will see what the future holds in research.

Rachel

A Terrible Mother

I accidentally called my mom that in therapy today. It slipped out before I could stop it and actually startled me a little bit. 

I was talking about an instance in which she was going to consciously ignore her gut, and risk losing me forever. I was around 10 years old I think, although I'm a little fuzzy on the timing. I remember it as July for some reason. My step-dad was planning on flying to look for property to purchase in Wisconsin and was going to take me with him. He had been talking about moving out there throughout their whole marriage, so the idea of looking at property was not a surprise. However, my family was not one to take trips like that. We would all pack up and drive to Wisconsin once a year to visit Grandma and Grandpa Moore, but my mom didn't go anywhere without the rest of the family, nor did my step-dad. And we never, ever flew. This was a highly unusual situation, and it didn't sit well with me. I would be alone with him for however long we were gone. At this point I had learned that alone with him was not safe. I didn't know what would happen to me if I went with him. I felt nervous about it and didn't want to go, but knew better than to say anything. As I remember it, we had gone so far as to pack.  The night before, the trip was cancelled.

I brought this up to my mom a few years ago, after she left him. She said that she was so worried that she was never going to see me again if I got on that plane with him. She felt in her gut that something wasn't right.

Wait...Let's rewind that...

Your abusive husband was going to pack up your daughter, not his, fly across state lines, you felt in your heart that something was wrong and you may never see either of them again and you were going to let that happen?! 

This is about the time I let the "She's a terrible mother!" slip. 

I was reminded of summer 2005 when she called me and told me she wanted to put one of my sisters up for adoption. I was livid. She may have been having a hard time with said child, but it wasn't anything that warranted such an extreme response.

I have come to the conclusion that she is a weak woman. I'm not trying to be cruel, but she did not step up to her role, before or after the abuse. People tell me I am strong for surviving the abuse. I'm not. Anyone can survive it as long as they do not take their life by their own hands (which I certainly considered on more than once occasion). I am strong because I am dealing with it. I'm not burying my head in the sand about anything. I'm facing my demons and working as hard as I can to overcome them. I'm not saying that I'm the poster child for abused girls. I struggle and certainly have my weaknesses. But I can hold my head high and be proud of my work. She, on the other hand, won't even try to understand.

I know it would crush her to know that I feel that way, and for that I feel badly. It may seem cruel and unnecessary to others, but it is reality. My sisters may disagree and that's fine. If they don't feel that way, then I'm happy for them. But I'm not going to sugar coat this.

Rachel

Facing a Demon

Last week in therapy, I talked about a whole slew of memories. They just kept coming to me, one after the other. I haven't even gotten around to writing them all down yet. At one point, my therapist asked me what I was feeling at the time some of the memories took place. There was a couple where I was able to tell her. The rest - I had no idea. I could tell her what happened, but I had no idea how I was feeling at the time. I spent so much time detaching myself from the present, that I detached the feelings as well. (That ability to escape in my mind doesn't help my concentration by the way.)

One of the memories that I could link to a feeling was one that I really don't like to remember or talk about. It was when I was around 11 or 12. I remember standing in the kitchen and my step-dad tried to kiss me...with tongue. I pulled back and was absolutely mortified and disgusted. It gives me the willies to even think about it.

Around that time, I had gotten up early to surprise him by making him breakfast before he left for work. I realize this may sound contradictory to some if they've been fortunate enough to not experience an abusive parent, but I was still longing for his approval, the way any child would. I had recently gotten a second-hand swimsuit (people were giving us their old stuff all the time) that had a built in skirt. It was white with a red floral design. Very tropical I thought. Anyway, I loved it, and for one reason or another that I do not recall, I decided to use it for pajamas. I happened to be wearing it this particular morning, and he later made a comment implying that I was "offering" myself to him because I cooked him breakfast and wore that. After that I learned I had to be more careful so he didn't think I was trying to seduce him. Truthfully, it really pisses me off. It is just so insane that I even had to worry about that. No girl should ever have to be concerned that she may be unconsciously arousing her father.  (For those of you newer to my blog, I didn't know he wasn't my biological father until I was 19.)  

Not long after that, I wanted to leave some little notes around the house that said "I love you Mom!". I knew he would be offended if I left him out, so I wrote some for my step-dad as well. However, I didn't want him to get the "wrong idea" so on his I wrote "I like you Dad". (For those of you newer to my blog, I didn't know he wasn't my biological father until I was 19.) 

Anyway, when I rattled off all those memories last week, my wall came back up. I felt nothing about them. A bit emotionally exhausted from digging them back up out of their graves, but otherwise detached. I wasn't even that aware of it until this week.

I did some more inner child work. I haven't been writing them all, for a few reasons, so this may not make a ton of sense if you've read my last posts on the topic. Anyway, I went to my happy place and met with my "Actual Self". She was there, wearing a small crown this time, and sitting atop a horse. I asked her why she would never come with me down the stairs, and she didn't answer. We walked together to the cellar doors, and I walked down, alone. When I got to the hallway that had been behind the locked doors, I quietly observed it, not sure what I was looking for. I walked to the end of the hallway and looked to the left. I expected to see stairs but there was nothing. I turned to the right, and there was a flight of descending stairs. I considered walking down them to investigate this new area, but decided it would be better to check the other doors in the hallway that had not opened yet. I turned back towards them, and a door that had opened to an empty cell previously, now held my step-dad. He was sitting in it, looking at me with a blank expression. 

I was terrified.

I shut the door, locked it and hurried back up the stairs. I left from my safe place and came back to reality.

Finding him there was incredibly disturbing to me, and also led to a realization. First of all, he has never shown up in my inner child work. It all takes place in my mind, and he is not welcome there. I can't even look at his photo on his prison profile page (although I still check it to make sure he's still there). It's too scary for me. So when he popped up out of nowhere, in a place that ultimately I control, I was not happy. But it made me realize, he was really missing from my memories. It's hard to explain, but it's almost like I knew he was there, but I couldn't allow myself to actually visualize him.

He is the scariest thing I have ever faced in my life.

Where he is concerned, I still feel like a tiny little girl, powerless against a much larger, much scarier force, one that had complete authority.

But by not facing the whole picture, I'm only processing half the memory, half the feeling, half the reality. I can cry over what happened to me, but why don't I feel more anger towards him? I can feel anger towards my mother, and she wasn't even on the same level as him. That's a whole other ball game. But I think I still feel numb towards him. I remember testifying against him in court, and was far too numb at that point to feel anything but fear and nerves. It reminds me of my "safe place". It's empty and neutral because numb is safe. After that, I locked the whole issue away, just happy that he was locked up and I didn't have to live in fear anymore. I never let myself get really angry at him. He is that locked away. He's not even human anymore. I can't allow him to be that real. When I cut him out of my life, it was completely.

I don't know where I will be in 4 more years when he is released from prison, but I suspect I'll be feeling a lot of anxiety. The problem is, my whole family hasn't cut him out of their lives. Three of my sisters still talk to him on the phone from time to time, for various reasons. One thinks he's been innocently imprisoned, and I worry about her the most. I believe she will allow him around her future children, and I don't know who will protect them. I know he will also try to have a relationship with my other sisters. Because they are a part of my life, he enters into it as well. And I don't want that to happen. I also don't want him to know anything about my life. NOTHING. I don't want him to know what I'm doing, where I am, who I'm married to, if I have children, what I look like now, etc. I get sick just thinking about it.

But I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.

In the meanwhile, I have to face him in my memories. I have to allow myself to see the whole picture and to be honest, I don't want to. I don't even want to go back down "the stairs". I don't want to run into him. 

Rachel

Another Round of Memories

As I mentioned in my last post, therapy was interesting last night. I started out by sharing a memory that had popped up yesterday.

Only a thin sheet of nylon separated us from
my mom.

I was thinking about family vacations. I remember the last camping trip my family took because it was chock full of drama. We had family in Wisconsin, so that is where we would vacation every year, and the summer before I turned 14 was no different. My family couldn't afford a camper or RV, but we did have a very large, 2 room tent. Mom would sleep in the first room on an old army cot because her back hurt too much to sleep on the ground. My 4 sisters and I would sleep in the back room, and my step-dad did as well, probably "for our protection". Even though I was once again sleeping right next to my sisters, he would grope me when he thought I was asleep. I would pretend that I was and try to roll away from him. 

The thing I don't understand, is what excuse he must have given my mom to squeeze in with 5 girls when she was the only one in the other room? How did he justify that? Why wasn't it raising red flags for her? I know I've already talked about her very deep level of denial, but it never ceases to amaze me when I come across another memory that reinforces it.

After I talked about that particular memory, I got on a roll and several others came to mind. I remember a time when my step-dad was actually paying dock rent and was able to use his boat. He would take me out some mornings on his boat by myself. We would get breakfast at McDonald's on the way. I'm not entirely sure he took all my sisters out by themselves, but I know I went at least a few times. Anyway, he would drive the boat out to Lake Erie, sit in a chair and masturbate in front of me. I'm unsure of my age at this point, because I can't remember if he ever had the boat in the water again after he had it in our backyard. If he sold it after it was in the yard, as I suspect, then I was less than 6-7. I can remember driving from our house on Maple Blvd. to go to the boat at some point, but I can't remember if it was related to this kind of incident. 

I don't remember what I was feeling then, but in retrospect, I'm stuck by his changing levels of discretion. When we were on the boat,  we were in the middle of a lake. There was no one around to see or hear anything. He didn't have to be sneaky at all. When the boat was in the backyard, he would have to be sure no one climbed up into the boat, although he would have plenty of time to stop what he was doing by the time he heard them, they climbed into the boat and down into the cabin. When I was sleeping on the living room floor with my sisters several years later, all they had to do was wake up. Years after that, all someone had to do was walk around a corner.

When I talk about anything relating to my teen years, it helps to understand the layout of the house I was living in and how small it really was:

The main floor was probably a max. of 1000 sq. ft., likely less.
*Click on the image to enlarge

When I refer to the incident in which someone need only walk around a corner to see what was going on, I was standing in the bathroom doorway, while he stood at the end of the hallway. He had me pull my pants and underwear down and masturbate and put my finger in anus. 

This seems like as good a place as any to note that I faked it all.

Moving on...One of the times this was happening, one of my sisters was sitting in the living room. She heard me arguing with him. I'm sure he was especially rip-roaring drunk that day to be so sloppy. My sister heard me say something like "No, that's disgusting!" and "Well, I'm sorry I'm such an inconvenience to you!" Between this and the fact that she could hear him coming down to my room at night after she moved down there, she had a pretty good idea of what was going on. 

My sister approached my mom after that. She told her that "something was going on between Dad and Rachel". When my mom asked what she meant, she said that she didn't know, but it was something bad. I don't remember this, but my mom claims she asked me about it and that I denied anything was going on. This is entirely possible, because that is exactly what I would have done. But here's the kicker...she never said she asked him what was going on. As a mother, don't you think that would be a key piece of the puzzle? To ask both parties involved in this little mystery? Maybe it wasn't what your daughter was insinuating, maybe there was something and he would have a simple explanation. The only reason you wouldn't ask him is if you were afraid of the answer.

When the nicest house we ever rented was sold, we were forced to move. We had nowhere to go, so we ended up renting the top floor of an older couple's home that had been converted into a one bedroom apartment. All 7 of us. This was right before I turned 13. I remember him showing me porn on the computer when we were living there. I remember him peeking in at me when I was taking shower. I don't remember him doing it before that, probably because this would have been right around the time I was starting to develop physically. 

No privacy here...

I remember a particularly strange incident there as well. My sisters were outside playing, and my step-dad was sitting at the picnic table with the old man who own the house and lived downstairs. Right before he went out there, he asked me to rub a piece of bread between my legs and bring it out to him. I absolutely did not want to do it, because it was strange and I didn't want to get crumbs on me. I was repulsed by the idea. I got a piece of bread out of the bag and carried it out to him as is. He took, smelled it, said "You didn't do it right" and instructed me to go back and do it right. I went back up to the apartment, and sprinkled a few drops of tap water on the bread, in a desperate attempt to fool him. It didn't work, but I don't remember what did end up happening. I know I didn't do what he wanted though.

Ok, that's long enough for now! There's more, but I'm tired and feeling kind of emotionally vulnerable right now. I need to get some rest and write some more later.

Rachel

Clear as Mud

Ok, my last post requires explanation. Mostly because I had some more time to reflect on the issue of academia and I had a chance to work with my therapist on it. I did not yet fully understand the issue, but really needed to share it. It was very hard for me to do, but I've promised myself that I was going to be honest about what happens after the abuse. Struggling with schoolwork is a major piece of the puzzle, so it was time to be honest about it.

I've been saying "I am a bad student" for quite some time. This was going off the assumption that the entire value of being a student is in the grades. While this is the only measurement tool available, I don't believe it is the most accurate, just the most logical. 

A student is defined as "one who studies something". Well, I wouldn't say I ever "studied" much, unless paying attention in class and soaking up that information counts as studying. It could be argued that it does. However, I would like to take that definition a step further so that it instead reads "one who learns something". If that can be an agreed upon definition, then I would like to assert that I am a good student.

Regardless of whether or not we can agree on that, the important thing is that I now better understand the struggle, and tomorrow I can start fresh. 

Now to clear up the mud a bit. Let me start by sharing that Post-traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) had a great deal of overlap in symptoms with ADHD. (Click here for a great explanation)

When I was being abused, all of my energy was going into surviving, protecting myself both physically and mentally, all while keeping up the appearance that nothing was going on at home. There was nothing left in my energy reserves for homework. Also, while attempting to do it anyway, I had to be on high alert. I never knew when he was going to attempt to fondle me or force me into the basement or bathroom for something worse. My sisters and I had to constantly "take the temperature" of the room my stepdad was in to see how he was going to behave, what mood he was in. If he was gone, we would listen for his truck to pull up. If he was taking a nap, we would listen for him to get up and open the bedroom door. We were all on high alert. This made it impossible to focus on homework or anything else for that matter. Patrick Stewart gives an excellent description of this in this YouTube clip:

Living in that existence for years has led to PTSD. I can't say if any of my sisters are dealing with it, although I would not be the least little bit surprised. You can see a list of symptoms here. The ones that most apply to me are flashbacks (occasionally), nightmares, avoiding places, thoughts, or feelings that remind you of the trauma, inability to remember important aspects of the trauma, feeling detached from others, difficulty concentrating, hypervigilance and feeling jumpy/easily startled. The last three are the ones that most lend themselves to the appearance of ADHD. 

Not the only face of PTSD. There's a war at home being
fought too.

It's easier for me to excuse my low grades in high school because I was still experiencing the trauma. However, I believe in taking responsibility for your own actions. I don't believe in using your past for a crutch. But I realized today that by going to therapy and try to heal things like this, that is exactly what I'm doing. I may still be struggling (hence the POST traumatic stress), but I'm working on it.

So I'm going to keep on plugging. I will get this degree. I imagine that I won't be satisfied with an Associate's and will eventually get my bachelor's, but for now, I need to focus on my homework for this week. I'll forgive myself for the past (an idea that had me unexpectedly BAWLING in therapy today) and move on. 

I used this quote in my last post to refer to forgiving others, but today, it's about forgiving myself in a very big way:

"Forgiveness is giving up the hope that the past could have been any different." -Oprah

Hope this all made some sense!

Rachel

Confused

It's no secret that I'm a big fan of Oprah. She has played a major role in changing how this country views and deals with sexual assault and abuse of any kind. She has given victims a voice, and has been a model of overcoming. Needless to say, I watch it whenever I can. Right now I'm able to catch episodes on my DVR. Of course I've missed a lot of episodes because of work schedules as well. 

I'm always riveted by the stories of real people on her show. Most of them have been through some kind of adversity, whether it be heartbreak, betrayal or abuse. People just fascinate me! Obviously, the stories from survivors of child abuse or sexual assault are especially significant for me.

The twins

When I'm watching these stories, I can't help but relate them back to my own. I usually spot the similarities quickly. Today's episode featured twin sisters who, along with one younger sister, were raped for years by their 2 older brothers and father. Clearly, this was horrific, and in many ways, I can't even imagine the horror of their existence during those years. 

But the similarities lie in how they felt about some things. For example, the girls didn't want their family torn apart, even though it wasn't much of a family. It was part of the reason they couldn't tell anyone what was going on. I could tell just from watching their body language that one of the twins was still very numb, but the other was in a different place and more in touch with her emotions connected to their rape. I've been in both of those places. I was also struck by their neighbors comment that they had any idea that the abuse was taking place. The girls talked about the fact they had to protect their secret. They couldn't let anyone know that anything was wrong. I can recall people telling my mom what a happy child I was...

But most of these stories also involve aspects I feel differently about. For example, they always seem to remember how old they were when things happened. I can easily tell you where we were living when some things occurred, but I have no idea how old I was or what grade I was in. I feel like my memories are not very clear in some ways. As if though in the process of blocking out the abuse, I was blocking out the rest of my childhood as well. It was very difficult to come up with a timeline for the court case. Between me sharing the instances of abuse and where it happened, my mom was able to tell the detective how old I was when we were living there. Is this something the other victims went through as well? 

Different from the other girls

Another thing that always strikes me as different is the fact that many of them believed that this must be how all families were. I don't remember ever feeling that! In fact, I think I often felt like there was something different about me. I don't think I could quite grasp how horribly wrong it was when I was very young - I don't think I even knew to say "No" - but I did know it was wrong. I was told not to tell anyone. That was a pretty clear sign. As the abuse progressed from him exposing himself to me to fondling, more red flags started to show up for me. I was uncomfortable and confused. I believe this was around the same time I figured out that my mom's wedding anniversary was 2 more years than my age and I was told a bold faced lie about my conception. Anyone, the point is I was starting to ask questions. I knew something wasn't right with our family.

Are my feelings more normal than it seems to me? Am I picking up on a trend that isn't there?

Also:

"Forgiveness is giving up the hope that the past could have been any different." -Oprah (She said it three times so I think I got it right)

Rachel

Holy Blizzard, Batman!

I'm sitting here at work on what was supposed to be a relaxing "Pajama Day". I had requested today off far in advance for the National Crime Victims' Rights Awareness Week planning meeting, which I attend as the "token victim". It was cancelled. I also had a therapy appointment at 8:30a, which I cancelled the night before in preparation of the storm. Purdue even closed today for the first time since 2007, so Studdly Hubby and I were going to hang out and be lazy. Once I decided to get out of bed and get dressed (in fresh jammies), I took the opportunity to clean the bedroom up and organize some things that had been neglected. Once I finished that, I had been sitting on the couch for all of 2 minutes when I got a text that they needed someone to come into work to help cover phones due to call-offs and employees leaving to pick their children up from daycares that were closing early.

So here I sit, listening to the sleet raining down on us, attacking the windows and reminding me of decreasing safety of the roads. I'm hoping to leave around 4:30, although if it's too unsafe I'll have to sleep over in one of the assisted living apartments.

Since the phone is barely ringing, and there's nothing I'm able to do in the Business Office, I figured I might as well blog.

Something that has been on my mind lately is a couple early memories. It seems when I remember one thing, other memories often follow, relating to that same time period. In my last post, I talked about memories related to our home on Palmwood. As I was thinking about them, I remembered something else from that time.

I think my stepdad and I were home alone. I remember him closing the blinds in the living room. Then, I was sitting in his lap. I don't remember if my shirt was pulled up or taken off. He was tickling and kissing my chest. I remember giggling and squirming away from him. I didn't understand what was happening at that time. I do know that it made me uncomfortable.

Across the stree from us lived an elderly couple. I remember him being very paranoid about them. His paranoia was extreme by the end, although I don't recall if it was always that way. I firmly believe that part of it was mental illness, but on the other hand, he had something to be paranoid about. Perhaps the combination of the two was toxic. Perhaps it began around this time, when he started to abuse me and started to feel guilty.

I hate to admit it, but I do believe he felt guilt, at least in the beginning. Often he would come to me later or sometimes right after he ejaculated and apologize. He wouldtell me it was wrong and it wasn't going to happen anymore. He would instruct me to refuse him should I attempt anything again, but we both knew that it wouldn't make a difference. On Saturday morning, he would go to confess at his chuch and absolve his sins. In the beginning, the abuse was on rare occasions. He never even said anything about those that I recall. Later, he would go for 2-3 weeks between episodes. Later it was weekly. Eventually, it was every night. Once it became that frequent, he no longer repented, at least not to me. He still went to confession, although I can't imagine it was heartfelt at that point.

In conclusion, this post has been a complete hodge podge. The weather looks scarier by the amount, although I've just been informed I can leave at 5, and my boss can come get me in the morning with her 4-wheel drive if need be. Got a new memory out of my system, will a little guilt and paranoia sprinkled in for good measure.

Have a good night everyone, and please, be safe!

Rachel

Some Explanation

A few days ago, I had a flashback. I was back in our house on Palmwood Ave. Which doesn't mean anything to you, my readers, but it does serve as a reference point for me. Anyway, I remember huddling in the bathroom with my mom and sisters. The door was locked, and my stepdad was on the other side yelling at us and pounding on the door. "Don't you make them afraid of me!" he screamed. I'm pretty sure that I understood the outlandishness of this statement even at the young age of 7ish. 

The significant thing about this memory, besides the fact that it was completely terrifying, is that it's a reminder that he was always like that. I think I wanted to believe that his rage got worse over time, but I think it was just more frequent later. If I could remember him being like that at the point, what was he like when she married him?

Our house on Palmwood Ct., courtesy of Google Street
View. I can't believe how small it is!

Then today, I walked into our bedroom and Bella and Char were both sleeping on the bed. I gave them each a kiss and told them I loved them. This led to another flashback from around the same time. My mom had my sisters and I lined up on the couch. She grabbed her purse, gave us each a kiss and said "I love you." I felt a sense of dread kick in. She told us that she was leaving us.

Where is the logic here? One day, she has us locked in the bathroom protecting us from her husband, and the next she's going to desert us and leave us with him? Of course, she didn't leave. He stopped her as she was walking out the door. This taught me a valuable lesson at the ripe age of 7: "Don't let Mom get upset, or she may leave us." This message may not have run so deep had she not "tried" to leave us on several more occasions, or shared with me her suicidal idealization, the latter of which taught that she may harm herself if she got too upset. 

This was also around the same time as my earliest memory of sexual abuse. My stepdad owned a boat for some time. For a while, it was kept in the backyard of this house. I assume because he couldn't afford the dock rent. Anyway, one day I was inside the boat with him. He was masturbating right in front of me. He ejaculated and explained to me that the "white stuff" was sperm, and "it makes babies." 

Looked a lot like this actually...

Now tell me how I'm supposed to tell that emotionally unstable person anything about something like that? I knew something wasn't right. I knew it would upset her because I was told not to tell her. I was trapped. I was trapped in this sick secret. I couldn't risk losing my mom, so I obediently kept my mouth shut...for at least 13 years after that. 

I can't believe how unprotected she left us. Because she refused to leave him, we dealt with his rage for years. My sisters that talk to him on the phone now are still dealing with it. 

I didn't call my mom on Saturday like I said I was going to. I was tired from work and honestly did not feel like dealing with it. She didn't call me either, so I just didn't bother. I think I'm more ready now though. We have some things to talk about, besides how fulfilling her job is taking care of other people. Who cares. Take care of your kids....

Anyway, thanks for reading.

Rachel

Emotional Control

Seriously, check this one
out.

I've been reading "The Ultimate Betrayal" by Dr. Audrey Ricker. It is about mother-daughter relationships in which the daughter has been abused by another person. 

Dr. Ricker worked as a therapist, and realized that most of the women she was working with due to sexual abuse had the same mother. They all seemed to fit the same description. She shares 4 toxic parenting styles as outlined by Dr. Gopal in her upcoming book:

1. Guardian-oriented parenting style:

• Overindulgence
• Overprotection
• Infantilization
• Hypervigalance
• Pity
• Excessive Concern
• Seen in families with sick children

2. Exploitation-oriented parenting style:

• Verbal Abuse
• Physical Abuse
• Neglect
• Emotional Abuse
• Dejuvenilization
• Sexual abuse

3. Abuse-oriented parenting style:

• Difficulty showing affection to children
• Poor sense of identity
• Overprotective/neglectful
• Insecure, preoccupied, forgetful
• Boundaries struggles
• Passive, envy of child's normalcy
• Unrealistic developmental expectations
• Role reversal
• Seen in families with histories of abuse
• Parentified child

4. Victim-oriented parenting style:

• Helplessness
• Child becomes the caretaker
• Child fearful of parent hurting/killing self
• Role reversal
• Threatened by child's need for independence
• Actions of self-injury to keep child in caretaking role
• Whiny, complaining, condescending, cajoling, manipulative style

I've highlighted the bullet points that seem to apply most to my situation. I get emotional even thinking about some it...

Letting go...

I know this is going to sound cruel, but she was weak. She took on a helpless victim role, which required me to step in as a parent. I've felt so responsible for my 4 little sisters. It was very difficult for me to let go when I went away to college. I still felt like I needed to help them, to save my family as they struggled with this new world without a father and an income source. But I soon realized that there was nothing I could do for them while living away from them. It took me a long time to understand how strongly I felt that maternal role, and I've mourned that loss. There was a time when she actually considered giving up one of my sisters for adoption after the divorce because they weren't getting along. She wasn't a bad kid, just hateful towards her. And she was just going to give her up. Who does that?!

Growing up, I've always believed that she was a good mother, and given the chance in an environment where she was in control and not an abusive individual, she could do more. I guess on some level, I feel like I gave her that opportunity....like I freed her from him. And she didn't take the opportunity to really step up her game, at least not enough. There was a very short window of time in which she needed to take control and become the disciplinarian. Instead, she felt like things had already been so hard for everyone that she would go easy on them. And now she's paying for it. They all are. As much as my sister's love my mom, I don't believe they respect her. She doesn't demand respect. She demands pity.

I remember her talking about how she thought about killing herself on more than one occasion. She made it very clear that she was fragile, and we all must be aware of her feelings. If something we did were to upset her,  we would be scolded by my stepfather. Which was interesting since he was an expert at hurting her feelings. Even now, every time one of my sisters living at home calls me, I worry that she is having another one of her "episodes" where she talks about either just going away and not coming back, or just giving up. The whole family panics.  A couple years ago, when Aaron and I decided we were moving to Lafayette, she had a total meltdown and said that I was moving away emotionally. She sank into a deep, deep depression, and I became terrified that she was going to kill herself. The only person I could get a hold of in Monroe was my Uncle Ralph. I begged him to go check on her. He did and assured me that although very depressed, she was safe. 

Scenes like that make it very hard not to become resentful. Resentful of all the times I had to be the parent. I had to be the adult. I shouldn't have to be making that phone call. I shared an important life decision with her, and she felt like she didn't hear it first so she went into a tailspin. How can I share anything significant with her? It's like every little thing has to be run through a filter first to make sure it doesn't hurt her feelings. It's exhausting and gets in the way of having an authentic relationship. 

My baby, Char

From time to time I bring my cat to the nursing home where I work to visit the residents. I was sitting at work today, looking out the window, thinking about a spot that would be nice to bring her to when the weather gets warm again. This led to worrying about her running out into the parking lot towards the car and having a car drive up and not see her. I realize that I would run after her, putting myself in danger to protect her. The driver would be able to see me more clearly. And then I realized...I was willing to do this for an animal (whom I love dearly), but my mom wouldn't sacrifice her very small amount of comfort to protect her children. She never stepped in when my sister was being spanked. She didn't step in when terrible things were screamed in our faces. She didn't step in when I was told to drive him to the store for more beer because he was too drunk to drive himself. And yet I was willing to risk physical harm to save my cat? What is wrong with this picture? People talk about motherly love, and how mothers would do anything for their child. Are people just being poetic? Do mothers really feel that way? If so, why do so many stand by while their sons and daughters are being abused? 

I realize this post has become very long, but this book has helped me realize a lot of things. It has encouraged me to take an introspective look into this relationship. I'm having a very difficult time with it, but I do feel like I'm making progress...which is important because she has her first counseling session soon...

Rachel

Rape vs. Sexual Abuse

In general, I try not to compare people's suffering, regardless of my own past. For example, let's say a family that has been living comfortably just lost a source of income and are therefore losing their home. Horrible? Yes. Worst thing that could happen? No. But you can go to that family and say "At least this, that and the other thing didn't happen." It's not particularly comforting. This is the scariest thing in their life right now.

I think of this often when it comes to abuse and sexual assault. You can't tell someone who was beat as a child that they should be grateful they weren't molested by their father. You can't tell someone who was molested by their father that they should be grateful they weren't beat by their father. These are events that damage someone on a deep level.

However, I've talked to more than one person who was raped (sometimes on more than one occasion) and couldn't help but think, "Wow. I can't even imagine what that must have been like." I think about how hard it has been to get to where I am today without that experience. 

I was listening to this song the other day in the car:

These lyrics stood out to me:

What it meant to me will eventually be a memory of a time when I tried so hard
And got so far
But in the end
It doesn't even matter

I've been thinking a lot about my friend who was raped twice. I thought about all the work I knew she had done after the first time to heal. I know how exhausting some of that can be. To have to do it all again...I can't even imagine.

That, my friends, is resilience. 

The strange this is, some of those people say they can't imagine what I've been through. Why is that? Why are we so willing to claim the other person has suffered more? Is it a coping mechanism? Am I still unable to face the reality of the horror of my childhood and adolescence? 

I feel like I'm facing it much more than I did in the past, but I suspect it is still somewhat hidden - locked away. The few times I have allowed myself to let it in, it was terrifying. One night had a breakdown and sobbed for hours. Another time I had a horrific flashback and was completely distracted all day, in a way that is very unlike me. 

In the end, it doesn't matter whose experience was worse. We were all hurt, and are all healing, in one way or another. We often see similar lasting effects from these experiences, even if they were different. The really great thing is, we can draw from each other's strength. We don't have to do this alone.

Anyway, that's what's on my mind tonight. Hope you all are having a great start to your new year so far!

Rachel

Bonus:

This is the first page of my new planner.
I love it! It's full of inspiring artwork/sayings.
Will share more later!

Angels and Blog Buddies

Today's post is brought to you by...Angel Wings.

This if from the movie "Constantine" AMAZING wings on the angel Gabriel

Angel wings are one of my favorite images in the whole world. They are beautiful, soft and powerful all at once. I remember reading a story in Reader's Digest when I was much younger. The main character had survived a fire. She credited angels for her safety. She said that in the middle of the fire, she felt strong wings envelop her, protecting her from the flames. 

That story really stuck with me. I can vividly recall lying on my bed in the basement, feeling afraid and vulnerable. My stepdad would often come to my room at night when I was asleep, kneel next to my bed and reach under the covers to touch me. I would wake up, but pretend to stay asleep, and turn the other way. He would then kneel on the other side of the bed and try again. This could go on for awhile. For a long time it was important for me to sleep with my sheets well tucked in. 

In those times when I was so afraid, I would imagine an angel, holding me in his arms and wrapping his massive wings around me so that I was fully enveloped. It was incredibly comforting and was often enough to lull me to sleep.

Today, I was feeling especially stressed out about family things (I'll write about that another time). So I decided to take a bath, without the distraction of my Netflix. I had a lot to work through in my mind, so I lit some candles and played my "Relax" playlist on my iTunes.

This song was a bit more upbeat than the others and reminded me of running. Suddenly, in my mind, I was a little girl, I was running through a wooded area, and my stepdad was right behind me with his hands on me. I continued running, then jumped, kicking back against him and suddenly found myself flying through the air, sans wings. Once in the air I was an adult and had Aaron by my side. We were holding hands and flying through the sky. I looked back and saw that my stepdad had been knocked down by my kicking and appeared unconscious. The rest of my family was running along, as if though they too were trying to fly, but couldn't make the jump. 

On an unrelated note, I have found another blogger who is a survivor of sexual assault. I "met" her through a mutual friend. Even though our experiences are very different, I feel like we have an understanding of each other. It's amazing to actually talk to someone who "gets" things that you generally don't talk about, but instantly recognize in someone else. Dancing in the Moonlight is the name of her blog, and you can read it here. 

She also came across this quote the other day and said it reminded her of me:

"I swore never to be silent whenever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented." - Elie Wiesel

That one's going on the Quote Page. :-)

Rachel