Refusing to Suffer in Silence

When you log on to Facebook and click to update your status, it says "What's on your mind?" Often, what's on my mind is a dream I had, or my support group, or the anxiety I'm feeling. So I share that. I suffered in silence for 17 years of my life. Why I should I continue to do so because it might make someone uncomfortable?

I'm sure I've lost some "Facebook friends"  because of this, but that's fine with me. It's too difficult for many survivors to speak out about their pain. I, for whatever reason, don't feel like I have anything to lose. If someone chooses not too understand or not to be supportive, then they are missing a big part of who I am. A part I refuse to hide.

To be clear, I don't suffer all the time. I have a great life, but I'm still working through some things and facing some demons. That's my reality, not a sob story. 

I still feel like our society expects victims of any kind of trauma to just pack it all up in a neat little box, throw away the key and move on with their lives. And perhaps many of us sense that more than it exists, and therefore do that very thing. Then society in turn learns that that is how it works. I don't know. It's a difficult thing to measure. But there needs to be some recognition that that isn't how it works. There is healing that needs to happen, and that takes some time and support. I read a study recently that discussed the importance of social bonds when recovering from trauma. If you want to try to read it (its very clinical), follow this link.

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

Post 100 - His Identity

I've been reflecting lately on the way I deal with my step-dad in my mind and my memories. As I mentioned before, for the most part, he isn't really all that present, which I realize seems illogical. 

I don't even know what to call him. I grew up calling him "Dad" because I thought that was who he was. But he doesn't deserve that title. When talking to Aaron, I usually just use pronouns, and he generally knows who I'm talking about from the context. In my blog, I refer to him as my step-dad. Today, I referred to him as my "a**hole dad" to someone who I've never really talked to about him much. In reality, he was my adoptive father. His name is Tim. He's a prisoner and a sex offender.

But, once upon a time, he was a child. He was James and Mary Moore's little boy. He was the brother to 6 boys and 3 girls. In theory, he was as innocent as any other young boy. I don't know all that much about his upbringing. I know they were poor. With 10 kids, it's no wonder! I know the boys all shared a bedroom. But I don't know when things changed. As an adult, he didn't seem to have a close relationship with his siblings. There seemed to be some kind of tension between him and them that I didn't understand. It seemed like something had happened a long time ago to cause a rift, but I was never sure what that was.

It's just so difficult for me to think of him as anything besides pure evil. I'm sure there are happy anecdotes from my childhood in which he is involved. But I don't want any part of them. My mind is closed off to it. I feel like any warm feelings towards him would make be vulnerable to him. And I feel like I can't afford to be weak where he is concerned. If I had shown any kindness to him in the past, he would have taken it as an invitation, a seduction. 

A flawless performance...this time.

It was a strange dance I had to perform. I had to be the obedient loving daughter, while at the same time, protecting myself the best I knew how.  Like a prima ballerina, each step was calculated and needed to be flawless; the stakes were high. He would sometimes ask me, "Do you hate me?" My practiced response was always the same: "No, but I hate what you do." Whenever this conversation happened it was after the abuse, after his lust was sated. I knew I could get away with at least that much. The ballerina would get a standing ovation for her performance...this time. However, if I told him I hated him, it would have certainly come up later. If he was drunk, he would either cry pitifully or be very angry, clenching his teeth together while ranting incoherently.

And I've gotten off my main point. I have a hard time even writing about him directly like this, because it is that difficult to let my mind really explore the topic. It leaves me feeling vulnerable and angsty. I need to cry. I can feel it just below the surface, the tears threatening/needing to spill with the right provocation. My husband has a thick scar on his chest, from a surgery he had as a little boy. When I touch it, he says it is numb, but he can feel the pressure of it being touched underneath. He can feel my fingers on the skin around it. As far as my step-dad is concerned, he is a scar that is still numb. I fear I'm going to need to cut it open to allow it to heal properly.

I don't usually do well when I'm writing about something I haven't really processed. It tends to be all over the place and not have any real answers. So I guess I'm for now. I'll leave you with a song that's been on my mind a lot lately. One of those great "singing through tears" songs, filled with raw emotion.

"It took so long just to feel alright, Remember how to put back the light in my eyes...and who do you think you are, running 'round leaving scars, collecting your jar of hearts, and tearing love apart?"

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

Raging Goblin

My danders up. It started yesterday. Something deep inside me started simmering after I wrote my last blog post. I wasn't sure what it was at the time. I just had this uncomfortable restlessness - an agitation. I slept terrible all night long. I had nightmares about my step-dad, although now, I couldn't even tell you what happened in most of them. The one I do remember, I'd rather not share on here, because it was too terrible. I woke up feeling tired and emotionally needy. 

I went through the day like this, not sure exactly what all the emotions were bubbling up towards the surface. I came home, and watched an episode of Dr. Phil on DVR. It was an episode about a man with a sexual addiction. He had a pretty extreme problem, and his wife apparently had decided that the best course of action was to go to Dr. Phil. That same wife is also the mother of their 2 year old daughter. I'm not going to spell out all of this man's problems, but he did admit that he had felt aroused by his daughter sitting on his lap on 2 separate occasions. 

WHAT THE BLEEP IS WRONG WITH THIS WOMAN?!?!

Why in the world is she still living with him and putting her daughter in that situation? From everything that he had already admitted to, I would not be the least tiny bit surprised if he had already behaved inappropriately with her. And instead of leaving him, she goes on a TV show? Don't get me wrong, I'm a Dr. Phil fan, but for the love of Pete, use your brain! Use your maternal instincts! Don't you have any? She claimed she had wanted to take her daughter and run and never look back. Bullsh*t. If she wanted to, she would have. I was getting very angry. Then, the man starts "crying". I put it in quotes because there were ZERO tears.

And this was when my rage peaked. I wanted to call CPS right that minute. A lot of good it would have done - "Uh, yeah...I'm calling about the people on Dr. Phil..." I also realized that I had been feeling angry all day. I had been looking for a fight. I wanted someone to say the wrong thing about sex offendors or victims or children. I was angry and needed someone to be angry at. 

Once I understood the emotion, I realize that that has happened to me before. Some days I just want to go on a rampage. PLEASE, give me an excuse! I want to get angry and lose control!

Of course, it never happens. And truthfully, it's displaced anger. I should be angry at my step-dad. But he's not here. I can't see him. I can't scream at him. I can't shoot a gun in his face. 

So I need to find something to do with this anger before I just become a "Raging Goblin".

"He raged at the world, at his family, at
his life. But mostly he just raged."

I don't want to be angry at the wrong people. But right now, if I were to cross paths with any of the "right" people...heaven help them.

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

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

Controlling Time

I just finished reading "A Child Called It" by Dave Pelzer. I've heard of it before, and have had quite a few recommend it to me. I don't know why I waited so long to read it, but I finally bit the bullet. It is every bit as horrifying as it sounds and then some. Reading it was a bit like watching a train wreck: you can't look away. 

For those unfamiliar, the book is written by a man who was horribly abused by his mother.  It was considered the 3rd worst case of child abuse in California's history. Some of the things his mother did were shocking to me. She didn't "just" beat him. She starved him, burned him, poisoned him, stabbed him and more. I'm honestly shocked that he survived. As terrible as all of that is, the level of psychological abuse is truly unsettling. It's amazing to me that he was able to get his life together afterward. 

Something else that startled me, is that this boy had a father present as well. He had 2 older brothers and later 2 younger brothers (who, it would seem, were not abused, at least nowhere near this level). At first, it would seem most of the abuse happened when the father was not around. But over time, he saw most of it. Although he "tried" to be helpful by sneaking him food and acknowledging him as a human being, he decided it would just be easier to get drunk and appease his wife.

I was obviously irate with his mother, but his father's actions made me even more angry. He could have taken that little boy and run. He could have saved him from all of it.  But he didn't. He gave up. 

At one point, Dave's mother stabbed him in the chest. He walked to his father, who was sitting in the living room. He told him to what his mother said. Dave wrote:

"I turned away. All my respect for Father was gone. The savior I had imagined for so long was a phony. I felt more angry at him that I did at Mother."

After a different occurrence:

"...I stared at Father who turned away to avoid my pain. At that moment I hated Mother to no end, but I hated Father even more. The man who had helped me in the past, just stood like a statue..."

Both of these statements really resonated with me. I don't hate my mother, but I do feel a lot of anger towards  her.  Regardless of whether or not she saw any sexual abuse, we were being abused in other ways and she did not protect us. 

And I still don't feel like she sees that.

Another thing David talked about in passing, was his obsession with watching the clock. He knew that when his father got home that the particular situation he was in would end. This is something I often did as well. 

Every Saturday, my mom would be gone for several hours grocery shopping. I would be at his mercy the whole time. But I knew that the longer I could stall, the longer I could put things off, and time would eventually run out. So I made it a point to track the time. It was the same thing at night time. I knew he had to let me go to bed eventually. I had school in the morning. So I felt like I could prevent things from progressing before time would run out. In some way, I think I felt like I had some tiny semblance of control by watching the clock.

That's all I have for now. I started another book called "The Ultimate Betrayal" by Audrey Ricker, PhD. It's all about the relationships between mother and daughter when the daughter has been sexually abused. So far, I am very impressed and highly recommend it. 

Rachel

2 Steps Forward, 3 Step Back...

My mom found my blog. I don't know how, but it doesn't really matter. It's not like it was hidden in any way.

Apparently, the only post she read was "Mom". I got text from her exclaiming that she never knew anything and that she had been looking for an excuse to leave him for years.

I don't even know where to start. I have poured my heart and soul into this blog. I have shared exactly how I am dealing with everything. In the past, I have not shared with her how I felt about things like this, mostly because I felt like she couldn't handle it.

Now that she's had the chance to see it, she had nothing to say other than to defend herself. 

I need the support of my readers. I need it from my friends and even from the strangers that have found it. Even though I'm getting all of that, what I need most is the support of my mother. I just do not feel like I am getting it. 

The crazy thing is, when she first left him, all she could about was how great life was now and how different things were. That completely contradicts her statement about looking for an excuse for years. That doesn't even make sense to me. If you're looking for an excuse, clearly, something is already wrong.

I know this is going to sound dramatic, but I often feel like an orphan. I never knew Bio Dad, my stepdad was not fatherly, and my mom is unable to be there for me. 

I really have trouble finding the words to discuss this, other than to say I'm very frustrated. I'm really trying to get to a place where I don't expect anything from her so that I can just accept her as she is, but I am just not there yet.

Ugh. That's all I've got for now.

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!

My Christmas Present

I know, I know, Christmas posts are so 2 days ago. But I have one last one to share anyway.

On Christmas Day, one of my sister's called me to fill me in on the lovely family drama that I was missing out on. I won't share the gory details here, but I will say that I'm happy I wasn't there. I miss my family and I would love to see them, but if that means subjecting myself to insanity, well, I would rather love them from afar. I don't mean to sound cruel. We just don't do well when we all get together. One on one is much better.

Anyway, my sister did share something positive with me as well. She got my mom to promise she would start counseling by February, even if just to placate us. I don't even know what to think of it at this point, but I will say it's the best present I got this year. For now I'm  just going to wait and see what actually happens. I don't want to get my hopes up just to be disappointed. 

Although, because of all the drama that came up, I am more aware than ever of just how deep her denial is. One of my sisters was talking about the physical abused she endured at the hands of her father, and my mom made the comment that all she remembered was a couple swats on the butt. She said she didn't remember any of the instances my sister was describing. This is really mind-boggling to me. This is not something that had been done privately or behind closed doors. We all saw it happen.

This also got me thinking that I was in my own denial about the physical abuse for awhile. I didn't deny that those things happened, but I labeled it differently. Even during the court case, I never would have said any of us were physically abused. Part of this is because I did not experience as much of it first hand as my sisters did. Also, we were taught that it was just discipline. We were told our grandma and grandpa spanked our aunts and uncles, and surely they wouldn't do anything evil. But this wasn't just spanking. It was done in anger and done viciously, often for minor offenses.

It's no wonder my family has drama.

Now on to the "2010 In Review" post.

Rachel