Therapy and Haircuts

Tuesdays are therapy day. I see my counselor once a week as we continue unwinding my history. It's a good news, bad news scenario. I'd like to say I always feel better after that meeting, but of course I don't. Like yesterday, I thought we were going to talk about one thing, but in the middle of it things shifted to something different. Something I've never talked about much with anyone, because I'm ashamed of how strongly I feel about it.

I've been pregnant twice and given birth to 2 beautiful, healthy children. They are all grown-up now at 24 and 21. I used to joke that I'm bad at pregnancy, but at least I make great kids. 

The reality is there is some really deep pain with those difficult pregnancies. I felt like a failure because here was the most natural thing in the world -- bringing new life into the world -- it's what my body was made for -- and yet, I struggled with it both times. So much so that my ob/gyn practically begged me to never get pregnant again after my son was born. 

I spent a lot of my life feeling like a failure. An outsider. The one who didn't get the instruction manual. Now, at 52, I understand that much of that feeling was the result of the abuse I suffered as a child. But it's also from the resulting relationships I built after missing out on some basic sequential development. Abuse stunts development. Survivors go on growing physically, and we do a really good job of masking and pretending we're just like everyone else, but there's significant damage that's been done, and left alone it festers and grows. 

Yesterday I opened up another chapter to look at and understand pain and loss. It caught me off guard, and I sat sobbing trying to explain between gasps that while I felt better about what we had been talking about to begin with, a whole new area of pain had opened up in the process. My therapist looked at me and let me explain. She sat back and listened and we regrouped. Made some new plans and she gave me homework. 

I left her office still trying to calm the tears, but I didn't really try to hide it and I didn't internally run from the feelings. Instead I sat in my car and thought about what had happened and what I needed now. I took care of myself and made a plan.

Later in the day I had a hair appointment. I'm blessed with a stylist who is smart and caring, and for good or ill a survivor herself. It's another mixed bag having a hair appointment on therapy day. I had another round of discussions with her. Mostly about different things, but still intense. And here's the thing -- it was good. I got a clear cut reminder that I'm not alone in my fear and insecurities. We laughed about scheduling hair appointments for any other day in the future, but it might have been a blessing yesterday.

So today I'm feeling a bit wrung out and I didn't sleep well, but I still feel better. I took something out and looked at it. I'm not carrying it by myself anymore and that is always a good thing.



linking up with Just Write

Again

(warning: adult content and triggers)

She had a box. It was her treasure box she said. She pulled it out to show me. And when she opened it up everything went crossways.

Yesterday my dog brought in a dead baby bunny. I made her take it outside and leave it. Dogs do these things. It made me sad, and let's face it, it was gross. I cleaned up the droplets of blood in the house. I told myself it was okay. People have to deal with these things all the time. I called my husband and he said he was sorry he hadn't been here to take care of it.

But I couldn't let go of the incident. I felt the panic rising in my chest. I had flashes of pictures in my head that I tried desperately to shake away. 

The box is divided into little squares. In each square is a skull of a small animal. She begins to tell me what each one is, and how she killed it. She looks at me and tells me she will do the same things to me. Just like the kitten. The kitten that she strangled with the chain on the swing while I watched, after she took him from me. The kitten that she skinned the whole time telling me that's what she'd do to me it I told anyone.

I can't get the image of Lucy/me as that dead bunny out of my head. That baby bunny who didn't do anything wrong, but had its life cut short. And I know animals aren't people, but when the comparison is made when you are 5 years old, and in such a visceral way, it's hard to let it go.

These are not memories or pictures I want in my head. I don't want to remember how Lucy felt in that moment, and I don't want to feel guilty for still struggling with it now. But I do. Lucy and I could have been that bunny. A life cut short for no good reason.

So I cry and I hurt. I breathe deeply. I color a picture. I watch too much TV. But somewhere in it all, I remind myself that it is in the past. I survived it then, and I'm still surviving the memories.

There are no pithy wrap-ups. There is just another memory to be dealt with -- again.

Real Life

Saturday I went out on a limb.

I followed through on a plan I'd made weeks ago. I attended an (in)RL Meet-up. I get regular emails from (in)courage. Sometimes I read them. Other times I just hit delete, but when the reminder of (in)RL came up I went and searched for a local meet-up. 

I must have been feeling brave that day because the only local meet-up I found looked like it was intended for moms of young kids. I signed up anyway and warned them I was older with grown children. (It's funny how I find myself almost apologizing for that, as if having survived those years means my life is over!)

I received a warm email in response assuring me that all were welcome.

I wrote the information on my calendar so I wouldn't conveniently forget about it. And when Saturday rolled around, I got dressed and drove to a place I'd never been before to meet a bunch of ladies I'd never met before . . . all by myself.

We worshipped. We prayed. We watched a video. We ate. And then it happened. Share your story. Whatever you want to share. No pressure. I began to practice my relaxation breathing and considered taking some meds. I had an internal conversation with myself about what I should or shouldn't say. I weighed my story against the others being shared. They were telling stories of dreams, of "that thing", of adoption, of blogging, of changes, and families and hopes and sweetness. Beautiful sharing and accepting with a few tears and some laughter.

Suddenly it was my turn and I'd been so busy listening (connecting?) that I'd forgotten to plan what I would say. And the words just started tumbling out. My interior voice kept telling me I wasn't do this right. I hadn't started well. I needed to shut up. I used those terms -- chronic PTSD and survivor of childhood sexual abuse -- but I stopped short of the 2 rapes as an adult, because I worried I was babbling.

And when I stopped, the woman on my left slid toward me and hugged me. She thanked me for sharing my story. The other women began to voice appreciation -- could they hug me? Could they pray over me? And I began to panic.

This wasn't my intent. I didn't mean to seek attention. I clearly had over shared. I told them it was fine that they didn't need to do anything. I hadn't meant to make this about me. I was sorry.

Why is it so hard to believe that they reacted as compassionate witnesses because they wanted to?

They told me it wasn't about me. It was about God using me. Using all of us to connect. To teach and learn hospitality. To see our worth and value as God's hands and feet and voices. 

We shared contact information -- email, blogs, phone numbers. We all agreed we should meet again soon. One woman asked if I'd like to walk sometime. We live in the same neighborhood. 

I drove home with the roof down, singing along with my iPod. And I thought a lot about what I'd said and what they'd said. About what God was leading me into. 

I'm still struggling in my heart with the idea that I didn't do anything wrong. But in my head I know -- I KNOW -- this is what real life is about. Real life is about being real with other people. And that includes taking risks.

linking up with (in)RL

Late

Sometimes I feel as if I showed up late for my own life. Clearly I was present in my life for my birth and childhood. All through middle school, high school, college, and grad school. I was there for my wedding and the births of my children. 

Somewhere in my mid-30s I began to recognize the disconnect that had flowed through my life. That feeling of waiting for real life to begin. I knew it was supposed to be different than it was, especially what was going on in my head -- my interior life -- but I couldn't articulate it, and even when I tried all I seemed to get were blank stares and platitudes.

At 38 I went into counseling and it soon became clear that I had repressed an abundance of horrific memories of abuse from childhood. Repression can be a wonderful thing, not unlike dissociation, but the problem is you lose the good along with the bad. I felt that I had lost my sense of self, but that sounded terribly pretentious even in my own head.

As the memories came flooding back, and panic attacks and flashbacks became the norm in my life, I sometimes wished for the repression and dissociation to return. It wasn't particularly fulfilling walking around feeling only half present, but this constant barrage of pain and questioning didn't seem any better.

"They" kept telling me it would get better. Things would stabilize as the flashbacks and panic decreased. They told me it took 5-7 years to process abuse. I held on to that number -- the magic number for when I'd be all better. Somewhere in the midst of that time I realized what they had really said was 5-7 years for each episode of abuse. When I passed the seven year mark, I had to have a long talk with myself. I had made a lot of progress and it was okay that everything wasn't perfect. I had multiple abusers and multiple episodes with each one. Maybe there wasn't a definitive time frame.

It's been nearly 14 years since I started this path toward recovering from the past. I consistently see things differently now than I did back then. I'm nicer to myself. Less demanding and more accepting. I understand that better doesn't mean it didn't happen. Better doesn't mean no more panic attacks or flashbacks. Better means I recognize them for what they are and have developed coping skills for dealing with the tough patches.

I'm 52 now and I'm just now figuring out who I am. The way I see it, I'd rather be late to this party called life than never to have arrived at all.

linking up with Writer's Workshop

Roses and Fasting

Claire is sitting on the sofa with Yaya listening to music. Squeaker is resting on her rug in my corner of the house. And I am finishing my first cup of tea this morning. With temperatures still in the 30s there will be more to come I am sure. 

The roses I bought for myself yesterday sit on the corner of my desk and their scent is intoxicating. I woke up with a smile on my face this morning, and I was surprised by it.

A couple of bad days that included the recurring questions, "What do I do now?" and "What did I do wrong?" are behind me. Things aren't all fixed, but I'm feeling better with some answers I can live with. That first one is the hardest, because the answer is "Just wait". There are no immediate fixes. Only time and talking and learning and loving. That's it. No magic reset button.

The second answer seems to be "It doesn't matter". Hindsight is 20/20. There are always things we'd do differently. And I realize it's all one more lesson He is teaching me, and one more reminder to let go of coping mechanisms developed during abuse that just don't work in real life. 

It's Holy Week. The last of Lent is before me. I look at that piece of paper taped to the window in front of my desk. My Lenten fast.

fast from feeling guilty and angry at yourself for things

you have done wrong,

instead remember God's great love for you

I've let this fast happen. I haven't really worked at it. I've just read that daily and tried to care for myself without worrying about motives or what other people might think. I've done what seemed best for me as much as possible. The world hasn't crumbled and my family has barely noticed the difference, but I have. I'm breathing easier. Sitting and waiting instead of rushing in to fix everything for everyone.

I think that smile may be God telling me I've done okay.

linking up with Imperfect Prose and Just Write

Filling the Hole

"When you were a child who did you go to for comfort?"

Is this supposed to be an easy question? Is there a trick in here somewhere?

I am supposed to say, "My mother and/or father" right? That's the "right" answer. But what if it doesn't ring true? What if I can't remember that happening?

I don't think she meant it to be a difficult question? I wasn't really supposed to have sit and think about it. But I did. 

She followed it up with, "Have you ever felt fully accepted -- for who you are?" Another question where the expected answer is clearly, "Yes". It's self-indulgent to say "No". Needy. Attention seeking. 

The truth is this all my life I have been hunting for someone, anyone, to accept me warts and all. It could be that those people are already in my life and I just can't comprehend that they are okay with me. It might be that I'm just so afraid to trust, that I constantly hold back.

So another box has been opened. Another set of tears flowing as I realize that, while things are much better, there is still a hole waiting to be filled. God is there along with one or two flesh people, but there is still a lot of empty space in that hole. Space that needs -- longs -- to be filled with love, admiration, and acceptance. 

Like so many other things along this path of healing, I am going to have to fill that hole myself.


linkup with Just Write and Imperfect Prose

Drawing Pictures on Walls

Yesterday I went through an experience I've had before. I did a genogram -- much like a family tree but with additional information regarding relationships beyond bloodlines.

Genograms are used in treating medical and psychological complaints, but also as a form of learning more about our personal development. I've talked about genograms before especially as they have impacted my healing. In the past I've had strong responses to helping create them. The first time I did one I developed a pounding migraine that forced me into a dark room with a cold compress on my head as I willed myself not to throw up.

Thankfully yesterday's went more smoothly. 

I didn't know until I got to the office that we'd be doing a genogram. When the counselor informed me of it I was hit with a wave of anxiety. She asked if I'd done one before and I assured her that I had. As she was preparing her workspace I mentioned that under the circumstances I would take some medication to ease my anxiety. She offered to postpone the process, but I really wanted to get it done. So we proceeded with the proviso that I could call it quits at any time.

As she drew the outline and filled in my information I concentrated on breathing deeply and fully, not hunching my shoulders, and answering her questions honestly. I didn't backtrack too much and I don't think I over explained (a common problem). As we progressed she expressed dismay over certain things that came to light. Most of them were things I'm used to eliciting sympathy.

Some of her queries surprised me and caught me a bit off guard. In the past genograms have been "just the facts" experiences, but she kept asking me to describe certain people on the chart. How did I feel about them. I found myself answering as honestly as I could, but still feeling obligated to minimize certain things.  "She wasn't all bad." Or "I'm sure there are lots of good things I just can't remember".

When we had completed the layout, we continued to talk for a bit. The counselor then expressed gratitude for my willingness to share and she went on to say that she felt I was a very strong woman to have survived all of the trauma. I believed her, but there was still that little niggle in the back of head. Not a full out voice, but just a hint that I was undeserving of her comments. She told me she really liked me and would like to give me a hug if I was okay with that. I assured that would be fine as long as she warned me in advance.

Her comments and the hug brought tears to my eyes. Any expression of kindness, especially from someone who has just sat through hearing some or all of my story, tends to have this effect one me.

It took me a few hours and a couple of mugs of herbal tea to get my bearings again, but I think this has the potential to be a good thing. Perhaps a very good thing.

linking up with Just Write and Imperfect Prose

Because I Am Bound to You in Love

Because I am bound to You in love,

therefore will You deliver me;

         You will protect me, because I know your Name.

I shall call on You, and You will answer me;

         You are with me in trouble;

         You will rescue me and bring me to honor.

With long life will You satisfy me,

         and show me Your salvation.

                                    Ps. 91:14-16 (pronouns changed)

Lucy knew God’s name. From an early age she had learned about God and His love through Sunday school, hymns, and Bible readings. She was surrounded by people who professed a love for God. And so in those awful and terrible times, He was there to deliver and protect her.

His protection was not what many would have expected, but God is not a magician. He was with her through all the torment, and when it became too much for her mind to bear, He provided her with deliverance and protection in the form of dissociation and repression. When she could no longer bear the things that the Gene-monster was doing to her in the study, God led her from the room, leaving only her body – her shell – behind. He led her to the backyard and the cool grass where they sat together in peace and comfort. He allowed her to feel the breeze on her face; to feel the cool grass beneath her legs, and to hear the little dog barking in the yard next door. She watched the clouds in the sky, feeling peace and comfort, with all the fear removed. And when she felt drawn back to the darkness, He shone a light around her to fight off the darkness.

When the horror was over and done with her, He kept her mind protected while she was bathed and dressed for bed. And He gave her sleep, and the ability to forget and leave it all behind.

And when it happened again with the Gene-monster and with the Janet-monster, He was there to deliver and protect her -- to take her away from the terror and pain, and lead her to a place of peace, safety, and comfort. Over and over again He rescued her and provided her with comfort. He was there with her in all of the trouble, never leaving her side.

When the time came for her to retrieve the memories, He was with her still. Providing a shield of people to guide her through the treacherous memories. He reminded her that she knew His name, had always known His name, and this had brought His protection. She called on His name, and He answered her with the gift of a loving husband, compassionate counselors, and enduring friends. And in telling her story and sharing what had once been kept a secret, shameful memory, she has gained honor. God has brought me to honor. The time frame was very different than I would have envisioned, but it was in God’s time, which is always perfect in a way we cannot understand. He continues to satisfy me with a long life, and will show me His salvation as He has promised.

(Lucy is the name I use for myself as a child, as I am still unable to talk about the abuse in 1^st person most of the time)

with thanks to Gail Pitts at Dovehouse Ministries

linking up with imperfect prose

Breathing

I am a survivor.

It's taken me a long time to be able to say those words without adding an explanation or proviso. 

I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and 2 rapes as an adult.

For years I kept it all buried deep, deep down in box covered in detritus and cobwebs. I never tried to make the box pretty, I just covered it up with everything else I could find to do. Anything to keep that box closed and sealed.

Except there was this one memory that kept leaking out. Every time it oozed out I was horrified by it. I knew it was true. Knew it had happened, but I took it all on myself. Yes it was done to me, but I had participated. Clearly I was at fault. Clearly I couldn't tell anyone because then they would know that my whole life was just an act -- a costume to cover up the horribleness that was me.

The year I was 38 something cracked in the box. The lid just wouldn't stay closed anymore. Other things started oozing out and wrecking havoc in my carefully established veneer of a life. It was a million tiny things pressing on the lid, but eventually the lid blew right off. And I was faced with a lot of stuff I had buried so deeply that it felt like an excavation to uncover reality. 

I've been excavating ever since. It's been hard and painful, and life giving and fulfilling. I've lost some things and people a long the way, and I've recognized that some of those things aren't really lost, because I never had them in the first place. 

I've grieved a distorted childhood and vacuous relationships. I've wished for the opportunity to give my children a better childhood, one that didn't involve a mother coming unglued and piecing herself together again.

At 51 I'm still learning the lesson that life is never perfect. Perfect and happily ever after are storybook notions that we've tried to turn into reality. Most days I take everything a day, an hour, or a minute at a time. I don't plan too far into the future. I don't think it's negativity. I think it's an acceptance of now. That now is all I have, and life changes on a dime.

Would I trade in my history for a different one? Probably not. Am I glad I went through what happened? Definitely not. But the net is this, everything we experience, whether good, bad, or neutral, informs who we are. And how we handle and address joy and adversity teach us about ourselves and the world around us. 

I'm not perfect, but I've learned I wasn't meant to be perfect. So I'm taking perfect off the to-do list, and learning to live with being just me. Flaws and all. It's not always pretty, but I'm breathing easier.

Blessings.

linking up with nesting place

Sacraments

http://www.thelivingtruthfellowship.org/

You've been told all your life about the sanctity of Holy Communion. You've been told it's wrong to partake in it until certain rites have been completed. They've told you how wonderful it is. It will bring you closer to God and closer to those with whom you share it.

Imagine having holy communion shoved down your throat while you are being forcibly held down. Imagine they stuff the bread in your mouth and hold their hands over your mouth yelling at you to chew and swallow. Imagine they pour the wine down your throat in a river so you can't breathe or swallow, the whole time telling you to be quiet.

That's what child sexual abuse is like.

Then imagine that all the rites are completed and you are ready (according to the rules) to partake, and everyone around you is happy for you, but you feel dead inside and can't figure out why you're not reacting they way they told you would (should).

That's what sex after abuse is like.

I told my story in a ladies' class and then opened the floor for questions. One brave woman asked if the abuse had effected my sexual relationship with my husband. On the one hand I wanted to look at her and say, "Duh!", but on the other I wasn't sure exactly how to answer that question.

http://www.allsaintscville.org/

 Of course the answer is yes. In truth sex was one of the major reasons we went into marriage therapy years ago. And it's better . . . a lot better. But the truth of it is this, I will never know what it would have been like to give myself freely and without hindrance to my husband the first time, because that opportunity was stolen from me. 

It took a long time for things to improve in that area. We aren't where we want to be, but it's better than it was. It's been difficult for me to bring God into this area. My husband suggested praying before sex, and that seemed so odd to me. But why? Why is it any odder to pray before sex than it is to pray before a meal? Or communion? It helped me begin to put sex back in its proper perspective. It is a holy sacrament. A gift from God. What happened to me as a child didn't have anything in common with God's plan for sex. It was a perversion of the sacrament, but not because of me.

So I've been allowing God to redeem my sexual relationship with my husband. Because He is the only one who can.

linking up with imperfect prose and Write on Edge

just write

(Warning: triggering content)

We have to pick her up from her piano lesson as we head to the house. We are celebrating my grandmother's birthday. I have on my new fall outfit -- a wool pleated skirt in gold and red, and the matching gold cable knit turtleneck sweater. 

I don't want her in our car, but all I've succeeded in doing is making my father mad with my complaints. When she gets in the car, she has to sit between my sister and me. I look out the window, trying to ignore her. She pokes me in the side, but I still won't look at her. She pinches my thigh and I gasp and look at her. She has the mean eyes. It's going to be a very bad night.

After dinner, we all go into the den for dessert. Cake and ice cream. She tells me to eat fast. She wants to go play. And I fall for it all over again. How stupid am I? When will I learn that "play" is code for "beat the s**t out of you".

We get to her bedroom and she tells me to get a purse from her closet. Do I really think this is going to be fun, or am I just so programmed at this point? It's a black shoulder bag with a chain with the leather strap running through it. She unhooks the chain/strap and wraps it around my neck. She tells me I will do what she says and be quiet about it or she will strangle me. I will die and no one will care. 

I am 7 years old. I do what I am told to do.

I was right. It's going to be a very bad night.

linking up with Just Write

View

From here, the view, is sunny with white fluffy clouds. There is hope in the air, and a promise of the future.

Before -- back there -- the view was stilted. It was hopeless, clouded, and dismal.

The change in the view came from within. I expected the change to come from others around me, and circumstances shifting to improve the view. What I didn't know is that what I view is colored by how I view. 

Then I was looking at everyone and everything through the dirty, smudged glasses of lies, threats, and fear. Now I'm learning to look at the world through cleaned up glasses that show truth, reality, and hope. It's a process, and I'm not there yet, but maybe being "there" isn't the point.

The abuse laid a filter over of my view. It filtered out some of the good, and eventually, most of the good. I could only see the bad in myself, and when that's all you see it's a dark world you live in.

It's taken a lot of time, work, and effort, but that filter is thinning. I see a lot more good in myself, which makes the world look a lot better.

I'm enjoying the view from here.

linking up with Five Minute Friday

Validation

Validation is a huge part of recovery. Initially I sought validation from others. I tried talking with family members -- checking their memories of events. Any time they remembered even a small piece of the puzzle it helped me have a little more faith in my own memories. Validation = To establish the soundness of; corroborate. Synonyms --confirm.

So when my sister remembered the night I threw up at my cousin's house, it helped. When my dad volunteered that his uncle's whiskey of choice was Jack Daniels, it helped. When my mother suggested the name of an abuser I could only describe, it helped.

But validation comes in other forms as well. When I called and emailed the girlfriend of one abuser, and she wouldn't respond to me, my counselor showed me the validation in that. I figured she just didn't remember me. His take was different. Maybe I had scared the s**t out of her, because she thought I was going to "out" her.

Ultimately, validation, has to come from myself. I can't spend my whole life waiting for someone else to confirm my own memories for me. Validation is about trusting myself. Trusting my memories. Trusting my motivations. 

It's a long and curving road to that level of validation. I'm further down that road than I used to be, but I can quite see the end just yet.

linking up with Writer's Workshop

Taking Out the Trash

It's hard work. This cleaning up after another's life.

My father-in-law died on April 27th. Nearly 3 weeks ago. There have been extra things to do since then. 

Before he died, there was visiting with him, sitting with him, cooking for him. There was much praying for him, and in his later days, much hand holding with him. All extra things to do, but different.

Then it was care and concern for a human life. Prayer for a future life.

Now it is more like taking out the trash. I've been taking out trash my whole life, so I know how to do it. But this time there's a catch -- it's not my trash. It's someone else's, and who am I to say, "This is trash, but this is worthy of keeping because he kept it"?

I am just the daughter-in-law. Not even a blood relative. 

Sometimes I catch myself sounding cold and unloving -- unChristian -- about this man's detritus. 

All the stuff we strive for and hold on to, and when it's all said and done someone else will cull through it all determining it's value. 

So last night I met some men at his house. They were from a local church here in town. They are having a yard sale to raise money for their youth group on Saturday. They loaded up bags and boxes of my father-in-law's clothes and possessions to take for their sale. I was relieved to see the clutter walk out the door, but a little anxious too. It's gone. Irretrievable. 

As they left, one man took my hand, and said, "This is a good thing you are doing. I know it's hard, but it will get better." He talked of cleaning his mother's house out after she died, and how it made him look at his life, and make some changes.

I've talked with lots of people in past few weeks I would never have talked with otherwise. And it's been good for me. I have difficulty connecting with others, but I've done pretty well so far.

And maybe that's the gift my father-in-law left to me. Not his furniture or dishes, but the opportunity to do some reconnecting. To be reminded that I am capable of handling things. Even the hard things.

For me that's the best proof of healing.


linking up with Imperfect Prose on Thursdays

Reconnecting

It had been 16 months since I'd seen my parents.

My father-in-law died a week and a half ago. My husband and I had discussed whether or not to invite my parents to the funeral. We both agreed it seemed petty to delete them.

We've been in touch via email for the past few months. I had to take a break from my relationship with them to focus on my own healing. You'd think they would be instrumental in helping me heal from childhood sexual abuse (as they were not the abusers), but they haven't been. They've dragged me down. Infused me with guilt. Defended at least one abuser while maintaining a relationship with him. 

They say one set of things, but their actions tell a different story.

I had wondered how we might reconnect. I thought there would need to be a cathartic movie scene. Crying, yelling, apologies, brilliant insight -- all set to swelling music with the scene ending in a warm embrace.

It wasn't like that at all. I was pleased to see them at the visitation. Grateful that my mother had arranged to bring food for those of us there. Deeply thankful when she led my daughter away to regroup and get some food.

I sat and chatted with my dad. Nothing of importance. I felt myself beginning to slip into the old persona, but I stopped myself. 

After the funeral, they were complimentary of the music choices, my husband's comments, and a reading I had done. (They are professional mourners, as a friend of mine says, so they tend to critique funerals.)

I took a moment to tell them that I appreciated their giving me time to heal. They assured me they only wanted to do what I needed. I believe they mean that. There are just aspects of the situation that they are unwilling or unable to follow to the logical conclusion.

The next day I got an email from them --

We thought everything last night was appropriate and well done. Both you and Alan did your parts extremely well. We were proud of both of you. We hope all goes just as well today.

Here is our itinerary for the trip. We will be home on Saturday, May --, about 7:00 or 7:30, if the plane is on time.

Thank you for your wonderful response to us.

So now I am back in touch with my parents. I don't know what that means. I don't know if I can maintain appropriate boundaries for myself. 

I hope so. 



linking up with Just Write

Hurt Child

Inspiration comes from unexpected places. Recently I was commenting on another blog. The "captcha" at the bottom was "1703 hrtchild". And I saw "hurt child". And I knew I had neglected my initial concept of dedicating this month's blogging to Child Abuse Awareness Month/Sexual Abuse Awareness Month.

I started out with good intentions. I wrote a few posts about understanding terminology, what PTSD recovery looks like, and about things survivors wish others understood about us. 

Then life got in the way. Family health struggles. A mini-vacation that failed (almost epically). Sleep deprivation. All those real life issues that can set aside best laid plans.

Hurt child.

That's really what this month of awareness is about. Millions of children around the world who fall into that category.

Hurt child.

Children all over the nation. In my state. In my city. My neighborhood. My house. Me.

Hurt child.

And I am reminded of all the belittling that was done to my pain and confusion. Often by people who claimed to love me. But I'm also reminded of the belittling I've done to others because I couldn't or wouldn't try to understand their pain.

We are all of us hurt children. Whether through abuse and/or neglect in physical, emotional, or spiritual form. We all crave acceptance and love and the tender expression of those emotions. 

Awareness is an oft used term. Awareness is about seeing and being seen. About really looking and listening. To the hurt and pain in a child's eyes. To posture. To the way a child or person talks about themselves. 

See them. See us. See me. Recovery is possible, but how much better to eliminate the abuse before it ever happens. And if it happens, to respond with awareness and love and appreciation. To build us all up to be true children of God instead of the hurt child.

linking up with imperfect prose on thursdays

Tips for Recovery

1. Remember life will go on. 

2. Reduce your stress.

3. Listen to uplifting music.

4. Remember you are not alone.

5. Find humor where you can. Laugh.

6. Buy yourself a stuffed animal. This provides comfort and represents a positive aspect of childhood.

7. Carry a small book of quotes or scriptures with you. Anytime your need a pick me up, read over them.

8. Keep a journal. Write anything you want. No one else has to read this, but you may find it helpful to share when you are ready.

9. Don’t get caught up in being perfect. Stay caught up in finding you.

10. Breathe. Take up yoga or some form of meditation.

11. Be kind to yourself. Watch how you talk to yourself and about your self.

12. Cry or scream into a towel or pillow.

13. Stay connected to friends. You may have to limit the number, but find at least one trusted friend to talk to whenever you need to hear a friendly voice.

14. Get help with the day-to-day chores.

15. Pray. If you can’t pray in your regular way, don’t panic. Try writing a letter to God. Try reading other people’s prayers. Create a God Can.

CSA, PTSD, EMDR, SAMM and Other Acronyms that Mean Nothing to the General Populace

I throw around a lot of acronyms on here. It's the nature of my history, diagnosis, and life. Sometimes when I'm talking with other people, I forget that they don't know what all those letter mean. So today I'm giving you a crash course in CSA and it's lingo. 

That's the first one. CSA is child sexual abuse. Essentially it is a subset of child abuse in which the abuser uses a child for sexual gratification.

PTSD is more commonly recognized. Post traumatic stress disorder is generally seen in veterans, but is also common in survivors of abuse, survivors of accidents and natural disasters. It is an anxiety disorder that develops following some form of life-threatening or perceived life-altering trauma.

There are many forms of treatment for PTSD, but one of the most successful is EMDR. Eye movement desensitization reprogramming therapy "combines dual attention to a traumatic memory with back-and-forth eye movements, or alternating sound or vibrations. The sensory stimulation triggers the brain's 'investigatory response' that leads to neurophysiological changes that diminish or resolve the effects of trauma." (citation)

SAMM is the acronym for Sexual Assault Awareness Month which is April.

I hope this information gives you a starting place if you are a survivor, friend or loved one of a survivor, or just interested in knowing more about helping survivors.

Peace and blessings.

What We Wish You Knew

Adult Survivors of Sexual Abuse: What We Would Like You to Know About Us

1. We grew up feeling very isolated and vulnerable, a feeling that continues into our adult lives.

2. Our early development has been interrupted by abuse, which either holds us back or pushes us ahead developmentally.

3. Sexual abuse has influenced all parts of our lives. Not dealing with it is like ignoring an open wound. Our communication style, our self-confidence, and our trust levels are affected.

4. Putting thoughts and feelings related to our abuse "on the back burner" does not make them go away. The only way out is to go through these emotions and process them.

5. Our interest in sexual activity will usually decline while we are dealing with this early trauma. This is because: we are working on separating the past from the present. Pleasure and pain can sometimes be experienced simultaneously. It is important for us to be in control, since control is what we lacked as children. Sometimes we need a lot of space. Pressuring us to have sex will only increase our tension.

6. We often experience physical discomforts, pains, and disorders that are related to our emotions.

7. We often appear to be extremely strong while we are falling apart inside.

8. There is nothing wrong with us as survivors -- something wrong was DONE to us.

9. Sometimes others get impatient with us for not "getting past it" sooner. Remember, we are feeling overwhelmed, and what we need is your patience and support. Right now, it is very important for us to concentrate on the past. We are trying to reorganize our whole outlook on the world; this won't happen overnight.

10. Your support is extremely important to us. Remember; we have been trained to hold things in. We have been trained NOT to tell about the abuse. We did not tell sooner for a variety of reasons: we were fearful about how you would react, what might happen, etc. We have been threatened verbally and/or nonverbally to keep us quiet, and we live with that fear.

11. Feeling sorry for us does not really help because we add your pain to our own.

12. There are many different kinds of people who are offenders. It does not matter that they are charming or attractive or wealthy. Anybody -- from any social class or ethnic background, with any level of education-- may be an offender. Sexual abuse is repetitive, so be aware of offenders with whom you have contact. Do not let them continue the cycle of abuse with the next generation of children.

13. We might not want or be able to talk with you about our therapy.

14. We are afraid we might push you away with all our emotional reactions. You can help by: listening, reassuring us that you are not leaving, not pressuring us, touching (WITH PERMISSION) in a nonsexual way.

15. Our therapy does not break up relationships - it sometimes causes them to change as we change. Therapy often brings issues to the surface that were already present.

16. Grieving is a part of our healing process as we say goodbye to parts of ourselves.

From Triumph over Darkness by Wendy Ann Wood, M.A. copyright Wendy Ann Wood 1993