A Story

I want to tell you story. It's a story about a little girl who survived so very much. But it's also a story about a little girl who is still learning to acknowledge her own survival.

I want to tell the story neatly. In chronological order, with explanations for why each horrible episode occurred. I want to package it in a way that will make you understand her pain and silence and fear. I want you to know that it wasn't her fault. That it is true, and that I am telling it because I have to tell.

But I can't do most of that. 

I can't tell the story neatly, because it's a messy story. It's full of anger and fear and confusion. It's full of really bad people doing really terrible things.

I can't tell it in chronological order because memory doesn't work that way, especially traumatic memory. I think that if I could organize it and get it in order, then I would be able to understand it. But that's a fallacy. Just like I'll never be able to explain why it started, or what triggered each episode of abuse, or what would make anyone do such terrible things to another person, especially to a child.

I can try and explain the pain, silence, and fear, but it's likely you won't fully understand it unless you've been there yourself. And I really hope you haven't.

Another flashback a few weeks ago in the middle of what was supposed to be a relaxing massage. A place on my body touched by the masseuse sent me reeling back to an episode of pain and terror. So much pain and terror that in trying to talk about it later, I found myself recoiling from hands extended to help. I was convinced again that I would die, and so I curled myself in and tried to get away. But it was only the memory of the pain and fear. And yet it was so palpable, so visceral. 

How do I tell that story? Who wants to read that story? Why do I want to tell that story? These are all questions that race through my mind, along with thoughts of worthlessness, and the words of abusers telling me that no one will believe me -- of a family member accusing me of "upping the ante". 

A little girl stands in a barn with one end of a wire wrapped around her wrist. The wire pulls her arm up behind her back, and the other end of the wire is wrapped around her neck. Which is worse -- to have the arm pulled from its socket, or to be strangled? Which is worse -- to endure that torment, or to withstand the sadistic, sexual assault while held in that trap? 

I know I survived it, because I'm sitting here typing these words. I'm glad I survived it. I just don't know how to feel (trust) that anyone out there believes me.

linking up with Write at the Merge and imperfect prose on thursday

12 Lines

He lures me to the study.
He relaxes me with chit chat.
He throws me against the wall.
He whispers horrors in my ear.

I begin to sweat.
I am pressed against the paneled wall.
I am terrified.
I feel the pain begin.

The doors lead to freedom.
Don't make eye contact.
My bare foot touches the porch.
The cooling damp grass receives my battered body.

linking up with Writer's Workshop

Look [Day 19 of 31]

Look
I look and look and look.
I look hard hoping to find the answer.
The one that explains it all.

Look
I look at myself.
I look at choices I made.
I look for what I didn't see.

Look
I look at situations.
I look for warning signs.
I look at the alignment of the stars.

Look
I look at them. The abusers.
Finally, I look at the people who are responsible.
I  see in a very different way.

Look
I look at her -- at me.
I look at the little girl who loved life.
I look at the little girl who was brutalized.

Look
I see the hope.
I see the growth.
I see the future.

linking up at 5 minute friday

Day 6 of 31

warning: adult content

I am 5 years old. My parents are out and have left my sister and me with babysitters -- an engaged college couple. He is pre-med and loves to write. All-American good looks with wavy, sandy hair, he dresses in the fashion of the day -- slacks and an Oxford cloth shirt. She is dark haired and pretty in a little dress. 

We are all in the living room about to watch tv. He asks if I want to see something -- just the two of us. Of course I do! He takes my hand and leads me to through the dining room and into my father's study. He is chatting and I'm listening, commenting, and excited about what he has to show me.

We walk around my father's desk and he asks me questions about things in the room. I point out favorite items and explain that we are only sometimes allowed to play in this room. 

Suddenly he slams me against the pine paneled wall. My face is pressed into the wall and his left arm is across my upper back. He leans in close and begins to say things to me in an angry sounding voice. Spittle comes off of his lips and lands on my ear and cheek. 

The the pain begins. Words I don't understand. He is doing things to me I can't begin to understand. Items from my father's desk that he is using to harm me. I think I am going to throw up and fall down -- neither one of which can end well.

I see the French doors and I will myself to go toward them. I open the door (so quietly) and go down the steps onto the patio. I walk across the yard and sit in the cool grass. It is very important not to look back at the house, so instead I focus my eyes on the fence covered in honey suckle, and I listen to the sounds of the neighbors coming and going. Voices and barking dogs soothe me as the cool of the grass soothes my pain.

And I wonder. How many times do I recount a story in my head or in sharing it with others before it loses it's power over me? Am I weak because it still causes my hands to shake and my heart to race and my breathing to quicken? Or am I only human that stories of horror and pain generate such strong emotion? Because I don't ever want to become jaded to pain and suffering.


linking up with Lisa-Jo and Ann Voskamp

The Deal

He said, "I'll make you a deal. I'll buy the laptop for you, but you have to promise to work on your book."

That was 3 years ago. What constitutes "working on your book"? Do 771 blog posts count? What about the 14 journals in my file cabinet and the 195 journal entries on my hard drive? Do they count as working on my book?

I hope so, because otherwise I haven't kept up my end of the bargain.

I really do want to write the book. For a lot of reasons:
1. to tell my story in a chronological and cohesive way
2. to get it out of my head (at least somewhat)
3. to potentially help some other people
4. (because I'd love to be a famous writer, at least for awhile)
5. to make enough money to cover the "debt" of my laptop, and maybe even get an upgrade.

But how do you put a price on a life story? What if I did write that best selling memoir? Would the money make the abuse "worth it"? And for that matter, what about the punishment the latest memoirists have suffered? It's the same old thing -- I've got no proof.

I thought about writing a fictional account. You know, changing the names to protect me from the guilty parties. But it feels too much like the lies I lived with for so long, and I'm really not good at writing fiction -- especially dialogue.

That leaves me with a debt. 

I am writing. And it might become a book someday. How important is it that what I write gets published by a publishing house, and bound in leather or vinyl or cloth or paper? Is the value of having written only determined by the number of volumes I sell or the amount of money I get from those sales? I don't think so.

Money is a nice reward for hard work, and an even nicer one for doing something I enjoy. But the ultimate reward for me is in putting thoughts into words and phrases and sentences -- in hearing from others that my thoughts and words meant something to them. Helped them somehow.

So I keep blogging and journaling and typing and dreaming about that book, but with no clear cut vision of how it would evolve. And I think that's okay. Because what I'm finding along this path is really so much more than a career or profession. I'm reintroducing myself to me.

Money would be nice, but self worth, now there's a reward.

linking up at Red Writing Hood

What's the Point?

I've been blogging for just over 3 years now, and I recently stopped while looking at my stats (I am a stats slut!) and wondered "What's the point?"

I write about a variety of things, but the majority has to do in some way with recovery from childhood sexual abuse. I write because it helps me process things, and I hope that my processing may help someone else.

But I also write to help me remember -- to remember the truth of the abuse; to remember that it really did happen; to remember that it (the abuse) causes most of the day to day struggles I have.

What I've found from writing it out is that
:: I am not alone. There are a lot of folks out there using blogging as a way to connect. And there are a lot of folks out there using it as therapy. And that's okay.
:: it's not a self-centered activity. For a long time I thought most blogging was just vanity. What I've found in my experience is it's not just vanity. It's an opportunity to connect in a concrete way, albeit through cyberspace.
:: feedback is important, but not vital. It's amazing how empowering it can be to have strangers pat you on the back and give me an "atta girl". I didn't get much of that growing up, so it's really nice to get some now. But it's also empowering to just get it said.
:: I've "met" some wonderful people through this process, and they have helped me in ways they may never fully realize.

So here's what I've decided. I blog because I like to. I've always wanted to write and be read. I want to write a book about my experiences, but I don't know if I have the skill . . . the patience . . . the strength. Blogging lets me test the waters. Test my strengths and weaknesses.

So thanks to all of you for your support over the past 3 years.

I'm not going anywhere, so stick around.

Blessings!

The Smirk

I hadn’t seen him in months, and it had been so restful.
We lived in the same neighborhood, so of course I worried about running into him or just seeing his car drive by on the road.
I was running errands with my kids – distracted by them, focused on the task at hand. Walking down the aisle of the drug story contemplating buying candy just for the hell of it.
I rounded the corner and there he stood.
All the clichés are true. I froze in the spot. Time stood still. I couldn’t utter a sound. His daughter was with him. My children were with me.
In my head were a million and one things I wanted to say. You liar. You bastard. You ruined my life, my family. I hate you. Why can’t you just disappear off the face of the earth? Why were you even born?
Instead I stood there like a fool, and what I remember is the smirk on his face. He was enjoying my discomfort. He realized he still had power over me.
I don’t know if it was that or the children, but something released. I pleasantly addressed his daughter as the children began to chat. I nodded an acknowledgement to him, and hurried my children along with the mom exhortation of “we have so much to do”.
I paid for the items in my cart. I walked my kids to the car, stowing bags and children in their assigned locations. The whole time wondering how I was calmly going about these routine activities. Angered by a God who lets men like him walk free. Smirking at me.
I wanted to shout to everyone I saw, “Don’t go in there. Watch out for yourselves and your children. There’s a rapist in there.” But that would have been inappropriate, and I’d have been viewed as the crazy one, giving him even more fodder for that smirk.
So I went on my way. I finished my errands. I helped the kids with homework, and cooked dinner, and cleaned the kitchen, and gave baths, and read stories, and tucked little bodies into beds with prayers and kisses. And I tried not to think about that smirk – not to denigrate myself for letting him/it get to me.
I crawled into bed, mentioning the encounter to my husband – downplaying it as I always did. I was over reacting. No big deal, really.
I found a new drugstore. I didn’t go back to that one for a long time, and even still over 10 years later that smirk is the first thing I think of when I walk by that store.

linking up at Write on Edge

words

I wrote about it here.
I got a letter from each of them. Separately.

hers started out well enough. Apologies . . . with a "but" attached.
explanations. defense. blame?
I am hurt and angered . . . again.
I am tired. I am lost.
I did not expect to react so strongly. I got, in many ways, just what I predicted.
words . . . but where are the actions and emotions?

his was wonderfully written.
it's what he does.
even so, it felt more real. heartfelt?
there was a literature reference to be sure, but it applied.
he apologized.
no "buts".
no explanations, no defense, no blame.
I cried.
I want to believe.
words . . . but there have been words before.

I shared them with trusted friends, some who know them, some who don't.

several pointed out what I had initially missed. 
they skirt specificity.
they leave unanswered key questions I posed.

I am tired. 
the anger has drained away.
I question whether or not I want to continue this struggle.

when do I say enough?

linking up to imperfect prose on thursday

Boundaries

It's been a week of ups and downs, as I suppose most are. 
Monday rolled around and that meant it was the week of July 30th. I had told my extended family that I would contact their counselor to "tell my side" of the story. This is something I've done before and it's never gotten me anything but pain. However, because they were willing to talk with a different counselor, one I knew by reputation, I agreed to give it one more go. 
Alan made the appointment and it happened to fall on Wednesday, the same day I see my counselor each week. (I am not particularly proud to say that I still see a counselor once a week, but there you go, it's where I am). I was in pain (memory pain from the abuse). I was convinced on one level that this new counselor would laugh in my face -- not believe me -- judge me as a terrible person who just couldn't be satisfied. Generally pull the rug out from under me.
He didn't.
He listened as Alan gave him a quick version of the abuse. I had to ask Alan to quit detailing it, as it was creating panic and stress for me to listen to him recount it.
The counselor responded with shock, compassion, and care.
I told him of the many conversations, emails, and letters I had shared with these family members. He told me I didn't owe anyone anything. I am the victim and what I need is what's important. 
What I need I know I will not get. They are not willing or capable of being compassionate witnesses. Of taking the responsibility that is theirs. Of offering apologies and understanding. 
Here is what I need:
:: their belief that what I tell them is truth
:: acceptance that they failed to protect me
:: understanding of how hard this process is
:: acceptance that forgiveness does not necessarily mean reconciliation
:: a desire to know and carry the burden of the horrible things that were done to me
:: a willingness to accept a new relationship based on my boundaries
:: acceptance that I will never "get over it", but I am finding a way to move forward while recognizing that my past is a huge part of who I am today, and that my survival deserves honor and respect
:: understanding that it will never be the way it was before I acknowledged the abuse
So once more I will attempt to write and explain the abandonment and betrayal I have felt and still feel. I will try to explain why it is impossible for me to believe anything these people say to me because they do not follow through with action. I will try to explain how their reactions have re-injured me and cause continuing pain and suffering.
But I will do it so I can say it is done, not because they will understand or change.

Blessings!

Heart Knowledge @ (7/27/2010)

(warning: adult content)


July has been an intense month. I have been working through my childhood abuse for years. I've been told repeatedly (ad nauseum) the abuse was not my fault. No child is ever responsible for sexual abuse. I know this in my head. I forget it and have to remind myself, thus making me feel stupid and selfish.


For the past several weeks, I have been focusing on a rape that took place when I was 5 years old. It's been gut wrenching, and has brought on depression, sadness, lethargy, pain, and questioning my value. Today was the first day in a long while that I've seen some hope at the end of the tunnel.


I realize that he didn't rape me because I reminded him by asking what he wanted to show me. He had a plan from the beginning, and I had no power to change the outcome. She is just as bad. Doing nothing, when she knew full well what the plan was, may make her even more culpable.


One of the worst things people have said to me over the years is, "He/she must have been abused to have done that to you." I don't care what happened to the offenders. This is about me -- the child, the victim, the innocent. While I recognize in the big picture of life, offenders have their own set of traumas to deal with, that is not my concern now, and will most likely never be my focus. All of us have free will and we all have the same choices between good and evil. Circumstances are different -- socio-economic standing; family; support systems -- they are all factors. Ultimately a decision has to be made to continue the abuse; to continue to see people as objects; to continue to put others in harm's way. I chose to stop the pattern of abuse by not harming another.


So now I will continue to focus on healing, and hoping that my healing will help others address their own traumas. I can't make the abuse not have happened. All I can do is try to make something good come out of it. 


linking up at Mama's losin' it

imperfect prose on Thursdays -- Thinking About Talking

(warning: adult content)


I haven't talked with my parents in over 4 months. In some ways it's been wonderful. In others, just awful.
The good has been not having to decipher their strange method of communicating. Not having to figure out what they mean by what they say and/or do. Not being hurt by their insensitivity.
The bad has been not feeling comfortable calling them with little thoughts on books, acquaintances, recipes, and stories. Not feeling as if I can get copies of old photos that would help me on this journey, because I said I needed a break from them.
Doesn't there have to be something that occurs between the not talking and the talking again?
But does that require an ultimatum? If this, then that?
I know there are things I need to say to them. Not because it will change their behavior, but because I need to have said these things.
I've talked with people I trust about what to say, how to say it, when and where to say these things, but I have yet to feel comfortable about the end result.
What do I hope to gain from saying these things?
I don't believe they will change.
I think it's possible that my dad will be angry with me and my mother will be sad and cry.
I don't think they will understand what I'm trying to say, and I do think, it's possible, that they will verbally lash out at me, potentially hurting me all over again.
And yet . . . 
I need to say these things so that I can know I have said them.
I need to quit trying to assuage their pain.
I need to stand up to them (and myself in the process) and show them that I am strong and capable -- not weak and fragile.
There are no guarantees as to how this will play out. I am not prepared to tell them I will never speak to them again, but I will not continue to allow them to hurt me without pointing out to them when they do it.


This is what I have so far:

1.     I had to take a break from talking to you because it was too hurtful and confusing when I talked with you. Your responses to my pain have been either void of emotions, self-absorbed, or flippant.

2. I can forgive you for the abuse that occurred when I was a child, but I need you to take responsibility for putting me in harm’s way. I need you to ask for my forgiveness.

3. Your reactions and comments over the past 12 years have been often painful and destructive. It has taken countless hours trying to understand your distance and lack of support.

4. I am not fragile. I am strong. What you perceive as fragility is self-preservation, and honoring me and my needs.

5. I will not continue to interact with you if you continue to hurt me, whether intentionally or not. I will not let painful comments go unaddressed.

6. I am offended that you would think I would cut off communication with you because you brought X’s gift to my house on Christmas Eve. I am not that shallow and saddened that you view me as such.

7. I am appalled that Alan has not heard from you since he told you of the second rape. It is unconscionable to me as a person and especially as a parent that you not have followed up on that information.

So, where do I go from here?

link up at imperfect prose on Thursdays

imperfect prose on Thursdays -- editing reality

I ran across this prompt several months -- RemembeRED -- Your worst memory. initially I laughed at the thought of participating. then there was the familiar onset of nausea, headache, memory pains, etc. the recurrent question, "which one was the worst?" I've written about several of them. some of them I have not been able to put into words. there was my great aunt, my cousin, her mother, the student, and the close family member. I've never been able to rate them. individually they are horrible and grotesque, but taken as a group they are overwhelming.


the worst is maybe not what was done but what wasn't done and what was said. my father's response to two different episodes: "boys will be boys, so you were right to not tell us" and regarding the student, "I can't believe he would be so disrespectful of me". my mother's initial response not to my pain, but what about the rapist's wife. my parents' ability to tell me they just chose not to think about the information after I told them some of the abuse. they were going on vacation and didn't want their trip ruined. their ability to remain in close contact with one of the abusers.


as Laurie Colwin wrote: "She had a picture of the way things should pleasantly be, and she edited reality heavily to make it so." 


other people editing my reality -- my worst memory.

link up at imperfect prose on Thursdays

Choices and Consequences

“How are you?” she asks. 

“Not very well, I’m having a hard time,” I reply.

I’m on the phone in my workroom, standing over my computer, too tired to be having this conversation.

“Another flashback? Is that the problem?”

“I have remembered some other things. I just can’t talk about it right now.”

“I’m sorry you’re still having trouble,” she says, and I wonder if I can really say what is in my head.

“I’m going to need to take a break for a while. Not permanently, but just for a while. I just can’t handle talking with you, knowing he’s still a part of your life,” I say it calmly, as if I have the right to say these things to my mother.

She inhales, and says sadly, “Okay. Whatever you need.” The hesitancy and pain in her voice make me think of taking it back, but I’m just too tired. And she always says that, “whatever you need”, but it’s a lie.

“I’ll let you know when I can talk again, but for now if you need something or just want to check in, call or email Alan.”

“I love you.” She never ends a conversation with that. She never says that at all. She’s scared.

I hang up the phone, knowing I’m glad for what I’ve done, but terrified by it.

That was four months ago.

I wasn’t sure about the consequences. I wanted to believe it would be a wake-up call for them; help them come to the realization that I needed more. That things were never going back to the way they were before.

What I’ve gotten is the realization that my mother is sad and scared, convinced that I am in a fragile state – one step away from shattering. My father is angry and it’s impacting his health. What I haven’t gotten is anything different. No efforts to reach out via my husband. Some inappropriate quizzing of my daughter. And a really bad case of martyrdom about my son’s high school graduation.

Those are their consequences.

Mine are different. I’ve had some deep depression. I haven’t questioned my choice, but I have been saddened by the results. And angered. Which my therapist says is good.

It’s been a long time coming, this choice, but I had to get to the point that I could handle the consequences.

link up at Write on Edge and imperfect prose on Thursdays

imperfect prose on Thursdays -- ferries and excavating

I wrote this post:

We are on a ferry
This is the momma I wanted to be. This is the momma I wasn't
Everyone is happy. Everyone looks cute
What you can't see behind the ferry railing, is the abject panic I felt most of the time
The terror that I would fail; do something wrong; let these little people down; let that husband of mine down 
And yet, I look at that picture, and maybe, just maybe it wasn't all as bad as I think it was
We were a family of 4 on a vacation
Maybe we look like we're having fun, because we were
Maybe everyone is assailed by those fears, at least sometimes
What I know is this:
I did fail
I did things wrong
I let those little people down
I let my husband down
BUT. . . 
We are still a family of four
We still go on vacation
We still have fun
And sometimes, we are still afraid
Because bad things happen and leave us struggling to understand, and questioning where to go next
And as long as we keep moving forward
I can be the momma I want to be.


and then just a few days later, I wrote this post:

it rolls over me like a wave, this lethargy.
it shocks me with its intensity, this anxiety.
how can they both exist simultaneously? how can i be exhausted and innervated at one time?
"you are strong, courageous, brave, and spiritual. you are suffering." 
can one person be all those things at one time?
he says, "pray without ceasing. just keep praying."
she says, "breathe. keep doing the relaxation breathing."
how do i accomplish the myriad of other responsibilities when expending all this energy just remembering to breathe?
abuse is incessant. it never really ceases. it simply changes format.


and I wonder how it can flip-flop so quickly. how can I go from seeing to being blind in the blink of an eye.
then I am reminded -- life is a journey. healing is a process. there are no rights and wrongs to feelings. I am excavating. it is hard, dirty work, with lots of dust and dirt and rubble to be moved away. oh, but the discoveries! they are like nuggets of gold and caches of rubies. and they are mine.

link up at Imperfect Prose

Weekend Linkup -- Everything Changes

Yesterday I spent some time working through another episode from my childhood. This is the first one, I'm pretty sure. I am 4-years-old and staying with my great-grandmother while my parents are at work. It's a sunny spring day. My great-grandmother lived with my paternal grandparents. We called her Nur (nuh). My grandmother was Dee and my grandfather was Da. There was one other occupant in the house, Aunt Ruth. Ruth was Nur's deceased husband's aunt, who had raised him after his parents died. Ruth lived in the house because no one else would have her, and Nur has promised Gram (her husband) that she would care for her.

Ruth's life story would take up at least a week's worth of blogs. We'll get to that later. Suffice it to say, the family saying was, "She's too mean to die!" But I digress, this is my story.

Nur was hanging laundry on the line in the backyard. It was a load of sheets. She is hanging large white flat sheets with her back to me. I am sitting on the back stoop playing with my doll, Dahlia (daylia). Dahlia and I were inseparable. It is very warm and sunny on the porch. I carefully place Dahlia sitting on the step and go into the house. I am headed to the bathroom, when out of nowhere I am struck in the face by the back of Ruth's hand. The next thing I know, I am lying on the floor looking at the rocker on Ruth's chair. She is leaning over me and yelling. Her face is contorted and she is shaking her finger at me. I know she is talking to me, but at first I can't make out the words. She says something about that Lucile (Nur) woman. It's my fault she says. If hadn't . . . what? She grabs my arm and hauls me up. Don't tell anyone. They won't believe you. You're a liar. She shoves me toward the door leading to the rest of the house.

I wander to the bathroom. I want to see my face in the mirror, but I am too short. I am sure I look like a different person. I use the bathroom. Now I am stuck. I want out of the house, but to get out I'll have to walk by Ruth again. How can I keep from making her mad again when I don't know what I did the first time? I settle into the corner behind the bathroom door. If I stay, Nur will worry about me and come looking. Maybe she'll be mad too. I reach for the doorknob and turn it slowly. I peek out into the hallway. I don't see anyone. I can hear the TV from the den. Ruth is watching wrestling. She loves it. I slowly creep out of the bathroom and into the hallway. Tiptoe into the kitchen very carefully, listening, watching. I make my way to the den door and peer around. Ruth is still in her chair, focused on the TV. I edge around the door frame and keep as close to the far side of the room as possible. I never take my eyes off Ruth and she never looks at me. Finally I am passed her chair and the back door is in sight. I make a dash for it, flinging open the screen door. I am safe! I have made it to the stoop. Everything looks the same. Nur is still hanging out sheets. Dahlia is sitting on the step waiting for me. The sun is shining and a warm breeze is blowing, but nothing is the same. It is all different.

I pick up Dahlia and go sit in the shadowed corner between the stoop and the house. What did I do?

link up at Write on Edge

Red Writing Hood -- Saying without Saying

This week, focus on dialogue and body language to set a scene or move a story forward, limiting your use of narration. You have 450 words, beginning with the line: His crossed arms answered her question before he spoke.



(warning: adult content)
His crossed arms answered her question before he spoke.

“Of course, I believe you. I have to. You’re my daughter.” Not exactly the answer she’d been looking for. Was it better than having him say, “No. Absolutely not”?

She hadn’t expected denial, but she had hoped for compassion. It didn’t occur to her that she would get obligation.

Watching him sit with his arms covering himself, she said, “So you believe me when I say he raped me?”

“I believe you believe that’s what happened.”

A knife twisted in her heart and she began to shake.

“Oh, you’re so cold! Here’s a blanket,” her mother said, pulling a blanket from the back of the sofa and wrapping it around Mel, as if a blanket could soothe the gashes in her soul.

She hated that these conversations always left her speechless, but it was as if the connectors between her brain and mouth had been severed. She couldn’t utter any words.

Her husband jumped in with suggestions. “We are going to have to do something about this, because it changes everything.”

Her father continued to purse his lips, as he removed his glasses – a sign that he was annoyed. Removing his glasses was his “tell”. He did it when lecturing if something was distracting him from the moment. He did it when he needed to buy time. Her mother sat across the room wringing her hands in her lap, glancing frantically from Mel to her father. Like a spectator at a tennis match.

“Oh, are you sure, Mel?” she said.

“Yes,” she responded, although in reality she wasn’t sure of anything right now.

This is not the way a script would play out on a tv show.

A daughter would tell her parents that she had been raped by her sister’s husband, and they would be horrified – jump to her defense. It would fall to her to calm them down. Keep them from doing anything they might regret. There would be shock, anger, grief, panic for what this would mean. The rapist would be verbally assaulted. Lambasted. His character denigrated.

But no, not in this house. In this house her father just kept sitting there waiting for her to tell him what to do. Saying without saying, he didn’t believe her at all, but rather felt obligated to placate her.

“I felt that I should tell you. I don’t know what the answer is.” What she didn’t say is how she was counting on him to have an answer. That she thought it was his job to address this horror.

But his crossed arms said everything.

link up at Red Writing Hood

whispered lies

there is a voice in my head that whispers lies all day long. i don't think the voice is mine, although for years I believed it was. they are not grandiose lies. they are not complex lies. they are believable lies. they are the lies i have heard all my life.

-- no one will believe you
-- you're making it all up
-- you're crazy
-- you think you are the center of the universe
-- you are lazy
-- you are ugly
-- if people really knew you they would run from you

some of these lies were spoken over me by real people. other lies i learned to believe through context. i don't hear them as much as i breath them. it is an unconscious listening -- like an inhale followed by the logical exhale -- one leads to another.

the voice is not my own. the voice belongs to them. the abusers. the tormentors. the naysayers. to him. the father of lies.

the only way to remove that voice is to replace it with The Voice of Truth (John 8:32). that Voice says

-- I believe you
-- you are speaking truth
-- you are loved
-- you are the center of My universe
-- you are strong and courageous
-- you  are My beautiful daughter
-- I know you and treasure you

i am working on erasing the lies, but they are deeply embedded. even erased, there remains a faint impression.

link up at MAMA'S losing IT

imperfect prose on thursdays -- The Barn

(warning: adult content)

The air is hot and dense with humidity. I feel streams of sweat gliding down my face, my back, my belly. All the intense running has left me feeling wrung out, but with the humidity it is as if I have been left in a puddle of hot water. 

She beckons to me from the shade of the barn. The sweet smell of hay and grass drift from the cooler air inside the barn. Looming like the opening to a cavern, the barn door seems inviting. The light shifts as I walk into the shadow of the barn. It shifts again as I pass through the door. My eyes are temporarily blinded by the transition from bright sunshine to the colorless murk of the barn

The barn’s scent is its own -- the sweet smell of hay, the rank odor of manure, the metallic scent of rusted tools. As my eyes adjust, I see her by the side wall. I walk toward her. There is no warning. No lights or buzzers go off. The light and smells remain the same. And then the wrenching pain as she pulls my arm up behind my back, shoving me against the splintered barn wall. Somehow she has pinned me against the wall with my arm held in place by . . . what? There is pain, yes, but more there is fear. The blinding, sickening fear as I realize I have fallen for her tricks again. I begin to shrink. My head is being pushed in on itself as if by a vise. There will be no escape. There never is.

Carefully placed on an old, faded feed sack, she has laid out her implements like a surgeon’s table. I can’t focus, nor do I recognize all of the items I can barely make out. I know I have a choice. I can stay here and die, or I can release myself into the world outside of the barn. 

(photo from little house design)

The grass is green and golden. It is so tall that I am completely hidden by it as I sit down. On my way out of the barn I have stopped by the rain barrel. The blue and white metal dipper is hot in my sweating hand. I dip it into the top of the barrel filling the dipper with cool water. The water is sweet and cool on my mouth and tongue. It gushes over my lips and down the front of my dress, chilling me for a moment.

I stretch out in the undulating grass. No one can see me. I am completely surrounded by the rise and fall of the waves of grass. Overhead the sun blazes down on me and the sky is a perfect cornflower blue. Fairies and dragonflies bob and weave above me, soothing me into a relaxed state of serenity. I am safe and at ease here until she is finished with my body. Nothing and no one can harm me.

link up at imperfect prose on thursdays

imperfect prose on thursdays

The speaker was talking about his experiences during hurricane Andrew in 1992. I was in a Sunday school class on faith. He said, “I don’t know if any of you have ever been in a situation where you thought your life was in danger . . .” I have no idea what else he said. What I do remember is the windowless room the class was meeting in, and realizing I had to get out of there quickly. 

The random triggers of flashbacks.

As he posed the question, my conscious mind was answering “No” to the question, but my unconscious was pulling the lid off a box I’d sealed years ago. My breathing began to increase and the walls began to close in on me. I carefully laid my Bible aside and quietly got up and slipped out of the room. As soon as I got to the hallway, the pictures in my mind turned into video and it all came back with frightening intensity. The fear was so palpable that I began to sweat from it. The stench on my body clearly reminded me of the terror from the barn all those years ago.

I was stuck, caught between two time periods with no one and nothing to tether me to the present. I pressed my body into the wall, crossing my arms across and around my body to keep from splintering into tiny pieces.

What do you do when you’re falling apart and you are completely alone? I couldn’t move from that spot. I couldn’t speak or cry out for help. What would become of me?

A familiar face appeared in my field of vision. A friend. He asked if I was all right. I shook my head still unable to speak. He patiently asked what he could do. I stuttered for him to get my husband, directing him to Alan’s location in the building. I’m not sure what happened after that. I remember trying to make my body dissolve into the wall – wanting to fade out of existence.

Then Alan was there – holding me, assuring me we’d get through it, and guiding me out of the hallway as the crush of people began dismissing from classes. He led me to a quiet area, waving concerned people away, protecting me from stares and questions.

He settled me in a chair and began to murmur to me and chafe my hands, waiting for me to return to the present – to this period in time. I opened my eyes carefully and glanced at Alan. I had to speak the pictures from my mind, but speaking them aloud would validate the happening. There was no way to put the lid back on the box now.

Slowly and painfully I began to speak truth – the realization that I had faced death and survived, but had sealed it into that box for my own sanity. If the box was opened now, it was only because I was capable of dealing with the horrors stored inside.

link up at imperfect prose

(this post was originally posted at Write on Edge)

Easter Sunday

It is Easter Sunday. My mind (and the world around me) is telling me to be joyous and grateful for my risen Lord. 
I am grateful, but joyous is a long way from my heart today.
This past week has brought reminders and remembrances of a past event. It is a common occurrence for me especially around holidays, but Easter has traditionally been one that gets by untarnished. Not so this year.
I've been processing through a rape that took place in the early spring many years ago. It's an episode that I've kept boxed up for a long time, and even now am wondering at the benefit of opening this particular box. 
My energy level is very low. I'm sleeping a lot, and find I prefer to sit and watch television than do anything else. My house is messy, my refrigerator is full of inedible things. I can't seem to get motivated to cook or exercise or even write. 
I find myself constantly apologizing, although I have no idea what I'm apologizing for. And I'm spending an inordinate amount of time and energy trying to figure out what is wrong with me. Why I can't just snap out of this funk?
There is, in reality, a very simple reason I can't just snap out of it. I was raped. Yes it was over 20 years ago, but I had never talked about it until a couple of months ago. I kept it stored in box on a shelf in a dusty, never entered corner of my mind. 
I chose to open that box and talk about it, because I know that is the only way to heal, but nobody said healing was going to be easy. Healing from trauma is most often compared to healing a wound caused by burn or infection. It is not a one time treatment. A kiss and a band aid won't cut it. Instead trauma must be treated repeatedly -- a constant irritation and re-opening of the injury to make sure all the infection is fully removed. 
I ran across this description recently:

Treatment for third-degree burns will depend on the severity of the burn. Burn severity is determined by the amount of body surface area that has been affected. The burn severity will be determined by your child's physician. Treatment for third-degree burns may include the following:

-early cleaning and debriding (removing dead skin and tissue from the burned area). This procedure can be done in a special bathtub in the hospital or as a surgical procedure.

-intravenous (IV) fluids containing electrolytes

-antibiotics by intravenous (IV) or by mouth

-antibiotic ointments or creams

-a warm, humid environment for the burn

-nutritional supplements and a high-protein diet

-pain medications

-skin grafting (may be required to achieve closure of the wounded area)

-functional and cosmetic reconstruction

I see so many similarities here. I think I'm in that debriding stage right now, and it is immensely painful and tiring.

I always have a difficult time letting others know I am struggling, but especially around holidays, I don't want to burden others with what I view as my negativity. 

So today I will take a walk with my husband. I'll try to clean out my refrigerator and find something to feed my family. I'll remember the amazing gift of God our Father and Jesus Christ our Brother. And I will be kind to myself as I continue to travel this road of healing and learning to accept the reality of how difficult that can be.

Peace and blessings.