31 Days of Healing

It's October 1st. The first day of Write31Days. I spent half the day yesterday trying to create a "button". I really don't know what my theme is. I don't have a plan or cute graphics. 

This is the way I write.

Last night I asked my husband what my theme should be, and he quickly responded "Healing". I told him I'd been thinking about spirituality and what my path had looked like, but I liked his idea of incorporating all the paths to healing -- emotional, physical, creative, spiritual, relational.

So that's my goal this month.

Those of you who have read me before know that goals are not my strong suit, so I'll be giving myself A LOT of grace on this one. I will try to write something every day, but I won't beat me up on the days I don't succeed.

For those of you who've never been here before, I'll give you the quick and dirty version of my history. I was diagnosed 15 years ago with chronic PTSD as the result of childhood sexual abuse and 2 rapes as an adult. It's been a long road, and this blog has helped immensely in my healing. (If you'd like to know more of the story, click My Story at the top of the page.)

So that's my first day. We shall see where the path leads. I hope you'll travel with me.

Blessings!

Write 31 Days

Day 1 -- Introduction

Day 2 -- Family (FMF)

Day 3 -- Beading and Healing 

Day 4 -- Books and Healing

Day 5 -- Relationships and Healing

Day 6 -- Creativity and Healing

Day 7 -- Travel and Healing

Day 8 -- (travel day)

Day 9 -- Trust and Healing

Day 10 -- Crochet and Healing 

Day 11 -- 

Day 12 --

Day 13 --

Day 14 --

Day 15 --

Day 16 --

Day 17 --

Day 18 --

Day 19 --

Day 20 --

Day 21 --

Day 22 --

Day 23 --

Day 24 --

Day 25 --

Day 26 --

Day 27 --

Day 28 --

Day 29 --

Day 30 --

Day 31 --

rest

i had a flashback nearly 3 weeks ago.

i was with my husband when it happened, but i didn't tell him. i didn't tell anyone.

i didn't journal about it.

i didn't think about it.

i didn't acknowledge it in any meaningful way.

i held it in for nearly a week, letting it eat at me and drain my energy away.

and then i wrote about it.

then easter came, and i got triggered again.

i kept treading water. telling myself i was okay, all the while knowing i wasn't.

on tuesday, my therapist and i delved into it.

i was a wreck before i got there. 

we dove straight into it, and i was so anxious i couldn't remember the process. a process i've done dozens of times.

i processed. i relived it. i talked about it in detail. i cried. i hurt. i talked without pausing to be worried about what i was saying.

i came home and laid on the sofa all afternoon and evening. i felt miserable and hurt and damaged and sorry for myself.

and then i went to bed.

Rest.

I slept through the night. 

I woke up feeling better. Lighter. More lucid.

I didn't hate myself. I hated what had been done to me. I hate that more time was stolen from me. I hate that he's not being punished for his crimes.

But I don't hate me.

I made choices I wanted to make. I did things I wanted to do. I made a list and got some of it done, and felt good about it.

I did things that just a day or two ago seemed impossible. I felt alive again.

Rest comes from lots of places. Sleep, yes, but sharing and taking care of myself are restful too. And necessary. 

Today I'm resting in who I am, and putting aside what was done to me.

linking up with Tuesday at Ten

Tricks, No Treats

 A time you were tricked.

For good or ill Mama Kat's prompts frequently remind me of my childhood. I read the list of prompts for this week and was immediately struck by number 1 - A time you were tricked. It wasn't a single time, but rather lots of times.
Tricks and games are the stock in trade of abusers. They set me up, lured me, tricked me into believing a game was afoot, to relax me or wear me out, and then BAM, they'd lower the boom.

The clearest memory and example I have of this happened the day of the barn incident. 

It is after lunch, and we are sent outside to play. It's a hot, early summer day. Her idea is that I should chase her around the yard to see if I can catch her. We run in a circle -- past the swing set, across the carport, through the front yard, and back into the backyard past the swing set again. 

It is hot and humid. A better time for a nap than a game of chase. We run in circles. She is older than I am by 5 years, so there is no way I can catch her. I am sweating and tiring, but I keep chasing, because it is what she has asked (told) me to do. At some point I realize that if I am chasing her in a circle, it could be reasoned that she is chasing me. That I am the prey. But that concept won't become fully formed until much later in my life.

Eventually she changes the path, turning to run into the barn -- the shade with an invitation of a truce, a cooling off period. I follow like a lamb led to slaughter. It is a trick. I have been tricked and fallen for it again. There was no "game" being played. There was merely an execution of her plan. Wear me out and down, and then lure me to the barn to "cool off". Exhaust me so that she can torture me more easily. Assure my compliance(?) or at least lower my ability to resist.

I think about tricks, pranks, practical jokes. As an adult I've never liked them. I feel belittled and betrayed when I am on the receiving end. When it's not me who's been tricked, I feel sympathy and pain for the one who has been. 

Being tricked is like being lied to and then expected to laugh about it. Tricks are lies in disguise, and I don't do lies.

linking up with Writer's Workshop

Ramblings of a Disorganized Blogger

I write about my life here. I don't do much in the way of planning. I tend to sit down and start writing. 

I've struggled at times over how much detail to share of the abuse I went through. I've struggled over sharing other family members' information and issues. The one line I've truly tried to honor is my marriage. I only talk about the good stuff where my husband is concerned. I think that's a good plan, as I certainly wouldn't want him talking about all the things that I do that frustrate him to a bunch of strangers on the internet.

That being said, when my marriage is going through stuff it can be difficult to write without feeling as if I'm being inauthentic. I've always had a problem with full disclosure and lying/keeping secrets. On some level I believe that if I don't tell everything, I've lied. If I don't provide you with all the facts (evidence) then you can't make a fair assessment (judgment) of the situation. Of course all of that assumes I looking to you for validation, judgment, and/or approval. Which unfortunately I probably am.

Because ultimately it all comes back to trusting myself. My impressions. The idea that I must have misread the abusers because otherwise I would have known to stay out of their reach. Clearly a 5 year old has the skill and capability to read the nuances of a pedophile and remove themselves from harm's way. Right?

And that paragraph is why I write. Because it is in the writing it out that I see and understand the flaws in my reasoning. Flaws that were embedded by the abusers and the abuse. 

I think it's that way for most people whether they were abused or not. We all benefit from writing down ideas, concepts, and beliefs. It forces us to carry thoughts through to the logical conclusion, and often it's not until the very end of the process that we see the flaw in the logic.

So I write -- with little or no plan. Mostly to get the thoughts out. But I write in a public forum because I need input and responses, and I need to believe that I'm doing this out of more than just selfish motives.


linking up with 31 Days of Writing

Fear 2.0

I'm traveling today, but here is a repost on Fear (today's word) from 2013.


What's my biggest fear . . . 

This reminds of a post I wrote nearly a year and a half ago. 

What's my biggest fear? It's a ludicrous question to ask a survivor of abuse. I've got a list a mile long. The list shifts and fluctuates, but the one constant is this -- the fear of not being believed. 

It's a deeply rooted fear. Planted by abusers, and tended by those who didn't provide an environment of safety to risk telling. Then reinforced by those, who when told, didn't believe, even offering explanations of why I would make up these atrocities. Explanations that cast aspersions on my character, proving the lies the abusers told me are true.

According to Wikipedia, Fear is an emotion induced by a perceived threat which causes entities to quickly pull away from it and usually hide. It is a basic survival mechanism occurring in response to a specific stimulus, such as pain or the threat of danger. 

It takes a lot of people believing my story to counter the few who don't. 

Maybe that's why I keep telling it.

linking up with 31 Days of Writing and Five Minute Free Writes

Honor

It's one of those words that has shown up repeatedly in therapy. My therapist is always telling me to "honor" my feelings.

According to Webster, honor means "respect and esteem shown to another. Honor may apply to the recognition of one's right to great respect or to any expression of such recognition".

That's a hard word for me to apply to myself. Respect and esteem. That's a double whammy.

It's difficult to learn self-respect and self-esteem when you grown up being hurt and threatened. When you grow up hiding your own reality. When you grow up with a box of secrets tucked away in your head.

Like so much of healing from abuse, learning to honor my feelings has come oh so slowly. I have good days and bad days. I get confused and think I am being overbearing by stating my preferences. I assume anyone else's feelings/needs/wants are more important than my own. 

And I come back time and time again to "Love your neighbor as yourself" (Mark 12:31; Lev. 19:18). If I'm going to love my neighbor, I'm going to have to start by loving (respecting, honoring, esteeming) myself.

Another biblical imperative that got lost in my translation. 

linking up with 31 Days of Writing and 31 Days of Five Minute Writing

Gray Areas

A lot of people in my world know my family of origin. There are certain settings that make it nearly impossible to avoid conversations about my parents and siblings. Over the years I have chosen, what I call "The High Road", in these conversations. I listen attentively as I am told in glowing terms what wonderful people they are. I am quick to give credit where credit is due, praising their individual skills in their chosen fields. 

It's been an interesting path for me to navigate. When I first began to address the abuse I suffered, I promised my family I would not cut them out of my life. I made that promise because I was more concerned about them than I was about myself. I made it at time when I assumed they would support me fully in my efforts to heal. As time passed it became apparent that they were not going to be a positive force in my healing, so I took a break from them. 

I kept it quiet, only letting my closest friends know about the estrangement. When people would ask about my family, I would answer honestly and kindly without mentioning our strained relationship. It was hard. Listening to people tell me of the respect they had for my parents and siblings sometimes left me feeling as if I were living a lie. A lie I had worked hard from which to untangle myself. 

I've since learned that it's okay to give them credit. To allow other people to retain their positive memories of my family. It doesn't negate the troubles we've had. The process has helped me learn again the reality that few things in life are black and white. Gray abounds in relationships.

Recently I had one of those conversations that emphasized the juxtaposition this can lead to. I was discussing with an acquaintance some of the details of the abusers. I had just mentioned to her the difficulty of dealing with compliments about people connected to the abusers when another woman came up. She had just been told of my connection with one of my siblings. She began to give me a glowing description of my sibling's strengths and gifts. All the while I was standing there wanting to turn to the acquaintance and say, "See? This is what I'm talking about." But of course I didn't. Instead I affirmed my sibling's gifts and skills and removed myself from the conversation. As I left the gathering I felt the old feelings creeping in through the back of my neck. Had I spoken out of turn? Had I lied? Should I have kept quiet?

It's a tightrope walk at times. Honoring myself while being respectful of the people who've let me down.

Linking up with 31 Days of Writing  

31 Days of Writing -- 2014

Each year Nesting Place hosts The 31 Days Writing Challenge during the month of October. This year Heading Home is upping the ante with 31 Days of 5-Minute Free Writes. What's a girl to do?

I've decided to sort of blend the two. Can't promise only 5 minutes of writing each day, and I can't promise I'll use Kate's prompts each day either. What I do promise is to write everyday about something important to me.

# # #

He's been out of the country 5 full days now. I've gotten to video chat most days, so I get to see his face and that's a good thing. I've gone about my business pretty well, but his absence does make the days take on a strange lack of order. No morning phone call to say hello. No lunch time check in. No call late in the day to see if he needs to pick up anything. No coming in and talking about the day while eating dinner together.

Going to bed is the toughest. I'm used to being the one to lock up and turn off the lights. Once he's in bed and his head hits the pillow, he is out. What I'm not used to is crawling into an empty bed. To sleeping all night without random noises and shifting around. I guess that's true for any couple who've been together as long as we have.

There's another aspect to it for me though. Each night as I close up the house and get into bed, a little voice in the back of my head triggers a very old warning. You can't be sure something bad won't happen tonight.

Two of the abusers chose night time as the time of attack. 

The cousin would lull me into a false sense of security and rest, sometimes sleep, before launching her brutal attacks. Once in the iron bed at my grandmother's house. Other times in her bedroom at the farm.

The man who raped me as an adult woke me in the middle of the night by touching me and kissing me, before he assaulted me (the touching/kissing were part of the assault, weren't they). 

So each night as I settle into my bed, without my husband at my side, that little voice whispers, and I try to shut it down. And I feel stupid all over again, because I know I'm safe. I know the likelihood of anything happening is almost nil.

Yesterday I talked with my therapist about it. I told her I'd tried doubling my anxiety meds. I'd tried a glass of wine before bed. She suggested camomile tea and a little yoga, but mostly she suggested kindly reminding myself that I'm not a child anymore. That I have put in place reasonable precautions -- a safe neighborhood, locked doors, an alarm system, not to mention two dogs. I am safe. I have a phone by my bed to call 911 if something were to happen. I can take care of myself, because I am not a child anymore.

But it brings back all the old fears, and then I feel stupid again for worrying. Millions of women go to bed in their own homes every night without their bodies tensing and twisting into pretzels. They sleep through the night and wake ready to face to the day. Of course most of them don't have my history -- my memories.

Last night I tried the self talk and a bit of stretching before bed. The anxiety still rose in my chest, and, yes, I woke up once in the night, but was able to go back to sleep. Deep sleep came with the rising sun (safety). But I'm up and facing the day. I'm talking about my fears, and that does seem to put them into a more realistic perspective. 

And I'm repeating a new mantra -- I am safe. I am not stupid. I can do this. 

Peace and blessings.

linking up with 31 Days of Writing

Day 1 -- see above

Day 2 -- This Time Last Year

Day 3 -- New (Five Minute Friday)

Day 4 -- Gray Areas

Day 5 -- Learn (Five Minute Free Writes)

Day 6 -- Know (Five Minute Free Writes)

Day 7 -- The Simple Woman's Daybook

Day 8 -- Say

Day 9 -- day 9

Day 10 -- Care (Five Minute Friday)

Day 11 -- What to Do

Day 12 -- Day 12

Day 13 -- Wounds

Day 14 -- The Simple Woman's Daybook

Day 15 -- A Little Shameless Self-Promotion

Day 16 -- Adjust

Day 17 -- Long (Five Minute Friday)

Day 18 -- House of Mess

Day 19 -- Honor

Day 20 -- Fear 2.0

Day 21 -- The Simple Woman's Daybook

Day 22 -- Ramblings of a Disorganized Blogger

Day 23 -- Anachronism

Day 24 -- Dare (Five Minute Friday)

Day 25 -- Fun Girls and Patio Life

Day 26 -- 

Day 27 -- Keeping House

Day 28 -- The Simple Woman's Daybook

Day 29 -- Unite (Five Minute Free Writes)

Day 30 -- Juxtaposition

Day 31 -- Leave (Five Minute Friday)

Plenty Left to Learn

I remember him answering my question. We had been discussing some warped perception I had about myself as a result of the abuse. I was embarrassed by the obviousness of his answer. How could I have not known that? Seen that? Was I just stupid that I had to be told something that made so much sense?

I saw this quote recently and it all came rushing back to me. The relief I had having someone understand, explain, and not belittle me. Except for myself -- I always did the belittling more than well enough.

I asked him if I were just stupid for not having known the answer. Was he appalled by my lack of knowledge? He looked at me quizzically and answered my question with a question. Did I remember being in school as a small child? Did I remember learning basic skills, like addition and subtraction? Did I believe I was stupid for not having known those things before having them taught to me?

Posed that way, clearly the answer was no. I had been uninformed. Ignorant in the truest sense of the word. I had needed someone to teach me, guide me. This was no different, he said. You cannot know until you have been taught. That's how we learn and grow. Taking in new information to help us move forward and grow into the people we want to be -- need to be. No one comes fully informed. 

I can still feel the fear of disdain, and the relief that he didn't think me stupid or foolish.

I read that quote, and I realize it sums up what was happening that day in his office. The beginning of this journey of learning about my past and putting it into perspective -- of unlearning the terrible lessons taught to me by the abusers. I have been and continue to be "intelligent enough to know there is plenty left to learn". 

Blessings!

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

Barns, Wire, and Healing

It happened again last night. We were watching an old episode of "The Mentalist". It's one of my favorite programs. I am drawn to damaged heroes, go figure.

Jane and Cho are in a sub-basement where 3 skeletons have been discovered. They are investigating and I am intrigued with where the story will go. Jane points out wire wrapped around one of the victim's wrist. And that's when it starts. He wants outside and so do I. 

I look at Alan, but he hasn't noticed. I begin to slow my breathing. I'm relieved as they show Jane walk up the stairs and out into the sunlight. He inhales deeply, raising his arms to the sun. The camera pans back to show he's come out of a barn with the Red John symbol painted on it. But I am stuck on that barn. Looking out over a field. And the realization, just before Jane has it, that he only thinks he's safe there in the sunlight.

I've been in a barn with wire twisted around my wrist to hold me still. I've been desperate to escape the barn and flee into the sunlight, believing I will be safe there. It was all just a bit too familiar.

I kept breathing and reminding myself that, yes, there were lots of reminders here, but I want to watch these characters, and death was not my fate that day. I become intrigued again in the show, but I also start playing solitaire on my phone -- a basic escape, coping mechanism for me. I realize I'm following the episode, but not. And I accept that I may have to watch it again later, but I'll skip the scene in the barn, much the way my son always skips the opening scenes in "Disturbia" so he' doesn't have to see them again. To be wounded by them again. 

And I realize I'm am learning to cope with this history of mine. I'm controlling it much more than it is controlling me. Maybe that's what they meant by healing all those years ago. 


linking up with Just Write

In which I find a new mantra . . .

I said it again yesterday. "He makes me feel . . . " And I was reminded that no one can make me feel anything without my permission. I give someone power over me by not recognizing and validating my own feelings and beliefs. 

It's been a very difficult lesson for me to learn. I'm still constantly working on it, and it's hard not to criticize myself for the continuing struggle. After I said it yesterday, I looked at my therapist and said, "I said something wrong, didn't I?" I could tell from the look on her face, but I had no idea what I'd done. She was quick to reframe it not as my having done something wrong, but rather as an opportunity to see things from a different perspective.

Needing someone else to validate my feelings and beliefs has been one of the toughest aspects of healing from childhood sexual abuse. Trust is broken and often lost as the result of abuse -- not surprisingly. But one of the things I'd never realized until I began to work through it myself, is that trust in self is one of the primary losses. It's obvious to me that victims/survivors would lose trust in the abuser, and maybe in people in general. That makes perfect sense. I couldn't trust people who had previously been trusted because now they had become abusers. It made me wary of other people. Strangers for sure, but even people I already knew, because I couldn't be certain they wouldn't turn on me as well.

Perhaps the greatest loss, though, is trust in myself. Abuse made me question everything I thought and felt, and a lot of what I believed. Retraining myself to trust me has been so difficult, especially when there were times that other people couldn't understand my feelings. Just because someone else doesn't "get it", doesn't invalidate my feelings. (A new mantra for me).

So I'm working on trusting myself more each day. Taking my feelings out for a test drive, as it were. Asking myself why I feel certain things without needing (as much) for someone else to validate those feelings.

It's a bit scary, but like everything else on this path, I'm trusting it's worth it.


linking up with Just Write

Rage

Revelation 3:20 -- Look at me. I stand at the door. I knock. If you hear me call and open the door, I’ll come right in and sit down to supper with you.

Each of us has many rooms in our hearts. Jesus knocks on different doors at different times. This weekend I went on a directed retreat where I was invited to read Revelation 3:20 and then ask Jesus what door He wanted me to open to Him, and this is what happened.

In a room in my heart. Inside are all the monsters of my past. They are loose in there so I don't go in. I am a little girl trying desperately to keep the door closed so they don't get out and do more damage. That's the room Jesus wants to go into. I can't go in by myself, but I trust Him. I ask if He will go in with me. Will He hold my hand? He takes my hand as I open the door. He tells me to put them all in cages, and instantly they are.

There are snarling beasts with wild fur, giant claws, and gnashing teeth. Giant reptiles with slashing claws, and snakes that look harmless but are not. As we stand in front of each cage He asks me why I am angry at each one. As I describe the abuse and pain they have inflicted on me, He tells me He is angry with them as well. Angry that His creations can turn on one another this way. That they would turn on me -- His child -- to deliberately do me harm. As He says this each monster returns to its human form. 

Jesus tells me He always has and always will stand between me and them. In the same way He provided protection at the time of abuse by leading me to dissociate, He has continued to be my shield. They are not my concern. Their repentance and need for forgiveness are between Him and each of them. I have no responsibility toward any of them beyond wishing them no harm.

He tells me I can stop trying to get somewhere. I have done my part. It's okay to just be. To rest in Him. He will walk with me through that room any time, but it is up to me whether I go back in there again or not. My rage toward them is understandable and He feels it too.

Give the rage to Him. Quit using on myself. I am not culpable for their actions or how they made me feel. 

We walk out together, still holding hands and close the door. It latches smoothly. No more snarling beasts trying to escape. There is no judgment or disappointment from Jesus, only love and compassion. 

The question was asked, "What do you do with your rage?" I had tried to store it in that room with all the monsters. To ignore it, hoping it would dissipate on it's own. But rage and anger left to their own devices do not fade, but rather grow and infect all around them. Pushed deep inside I was the victim of my justifiable rage and anger toward those who harmed me.

Now I know the answer to the question, "What do you do with your rage?" I give it to Jesus because He understands it, so I don't have to carry it anymore.


linking up with Imperfect Prose and Just Write

Erica Place

Occasionally I drive by the house were it happened. It's not someone's home now. It's a business.

I've walked around the outside of it, acknowledging the changes and additions. In some ways it looks nothing like the house I lived in from the time I was 2 until I was 7. I don't get physically ill when I see it anymore. My head doesn't spin. Instead there is just a feeling of being slightly off kilter. I look like everything is fine, but in my head I have a little trouble staying in the present. There is a pull to the past, but not a past I want to revisit.

We went to dinner, my husband and I, at a little restaurant one block over from the house. And we talked about whether or not I want to go into the house again. I did, but not alone. 

After dinner we drove by the house. There were lights on. The front door was open. I could see people inside. I pulled into the parking lot (what would have been my front yard and gravel driveway). My husband looked at me and I nodded. He was out of the car and up the stoop before I had killed the engine.

He asks if we can come in. "My wife used to live in this house," he says. They are so warm and welcoming. Come in, come in! Introductions are made. The owner asks me questions about changes. Does the house look different? Was this part of the house when I lived here?

I am still wavering between past and present in my head. Getting my bearings. It is different and the same at one time. The living room is now a reception/office area. Doorways have been moved or enlarged. The garage is another room now. Additions have been added to accommodate the business. 

I look around and see it as it is now, but with an overlay of how it was then. The door used to be there. The couch went under those windows. The TV sat in that corner. The wingback chair there. The step down into what had been the dining room. 

The hallway, bedrooms, bathroom, and kitchen the same but different. Memories both good and bad flooding over me. 

I ask if the study is still there. It had been my father's with floor to ceiling bookcases and knotty pine walls. He says yes, but the pine's been painted over. We head to the back of the house. The door to what had been the patio and backyard. Where I sat with my sister the day Martin Luther King was killed, wondering if we were safe.

I turn and there it is. The same but not. The step down. The tiny hall/entry, and I pause. Just like I do in my memory before walking into that space. My stomach flips and my heart rises into my throat. That room. Why would I choose to go back into that room? 

My husband asks if I'm okay. I nod. The gentleman are talking and asking questions. Your father was a professor? What did he teach? American literature, I answer. Well, I have done some good writing in this room. Must be a good vibe here. I smile and nod, but he's wrong there is not a good vibe here.

I am standing by the French doors. The ones she kept watch through. There is the fireplace. The corner windows too high for anyone to see in. 

The room is creamy and warmly lit now, but it used to glow in a haze of reddish orange because of the pine and the curtains on the doors and window. Early American prints in orange and red and gold. Late afternoon sunlight filtering through as he molested me.

My heart is pounding. But other things are happening as well. The room is smaller than I remember. It is a lovely room now. Welcoming and inviting. Warm lamps and a leather sofa. A TV mounted about the fireplace. If I can remove that overlay, I can see that this is a nice place to rest and relax.

I ask if may open the French doors. It's a breezeway now. It used to open onto the patio and the backyard where my swing set waited. The yard is covered now with building additions. My sanctuary smelling of honeysuckle is gone.

We say polite things. Tell them how much we appreciate this opportunity. The owner tells me to stop by anytime. And I wonder if I will go there again.

Those rooms have been frozen in time in my head. The study is always filled with a glow, but now the room has an overlay. Office space. Smiling people. Cream walls and warm light. Perhaps, in time, the overlay will replace the past with an invitation to rest.


You may read more about the house and the study here, here, here, and here

linking up with imperfect prose and just write

The Chifferobe

Describe the most vivid dream you can remember.

I am standing in my bedroom in the house I grew up in. My great-grandmother's chifferobe is on the wall in front of me. It is covered in heavy layers of dust and dirt and mud and excrement. It is disgusting to look at and even worse to touch.

I am compelled to go to it. To try and clean it off. I begin to brush away the detritus and see that there are mouse droppings, cobwebs, and dead bugs mixed in with the dirt and grime. But I must open the chifferobe. 

I open the door and see more dust and cobwebs. Old rotting clothing hangs from wire hangers, but I sense something. I push the rotting clothes away and see sunlight. I smell fresh, clean air. There is beauty and freedom beyond the disgust, but I will have to work through all the dirt and excrement to get to it. 

I am afraid, but I crave the beauty I sense beyond the horror.

And so I begin to clean.

linking up with Writer's Workshop, 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

Hero

a person who is admired for great or brave acts or fine qualities

Everybody needs a hero. Sometimes it's that person who rescues you from the school bully or the mean neighborhood dog.

But sometimes we have to be our own heroes. There's not always a knight in shining armor to rescue the damsel in distress. The damsel has to rescue herself.

Years ago my first therapist told me I'd have to save myself from my past. Other people could be my cheerleaders and support staff, but the real work would be all mine.

I didn't like that one bit.

Over time I've come to realize the truth in his words and the value of becoming my own hero. For an abuse survivor it's all about taking back the control that was stolen from me. 

If I'd turned over my recovery to some hero or rescuer I would never have learned how strong I am now or how I strong I was then. Just living through the abuse and moving forward was a success, I just didn't know it at the time.

So here's to heroes. The individuals in the trenches who forget how heroic we really are.

Blessings.

linking up with Five Minute Friday