#metoo

Write 31 Days Day #17

a guest post by my daughter, Claire (27)

For every “me too” that gets posted, there are thousands of men and women too scared and ashamed to speak out.

For every single post you see, know that there are so many more throughout the world. Those of us speaking out do so because we are healing. We have found love and the courage to share but it is never an easy path to walk.

Abuse and assault have become so commonplace that we often won’t label it what it truly is. I’ve heard so many rationales for why “it wasn’t really assault/rape.” Things like “but I know people have it so much worse” or “it was just groping” or “well but I know deep down I wanted it” or “well I initiated it” or “but I didn’t fight back” and countless others.

It is never the victim's fault!!! Ever!!! The shame is not yours to carry. It’s not mine to carry. You did what you were supposed to do: you survived!!! You are not alone. There are people who understand. If you think you can’t tell anyone, tell me. I will listen. I will grieve with you. And I will be here to remind you that it in no way alters your value as a person or as a beloved child of God.

I promise you that I understand the thoughts that gnaw at your mind. I understand the overwhelming shame and fear. I do not usually speak so publicly but isn’t that the problem?! We speak in hushed tones only to others who we know understand our pain. Break the silence. If you are too scared to say anything on your wall, tell a trusted friend. Reach out. There is hope and healing. #metoo

Blessings!

Personification -- Throw Back Thursday

Write 31 Days Day #12

The dictionary defines personification as “the attribution of a personal nature or human characteristics to something nonhuman, or the representation of an abstract quality in human form.” 

I am her Velveteen Rabbit, you might say. She calls me Yolie. I came into her life at a critical moment. The blending of past and present was just beginning. She was drawn to me instantly, even though she felt foolish to be so drawn at her age. She desperately needed this stuffed animal, but she didn’t understand why.

I knew why. She needed someone to tell her secrets to. She needed someone safe, who wouldn’t repeat the scary things in her head. She needed a compassionate witness.

So for the past 11 years, I have listened to her; absorbed her tears, sweat, and fears. I have traveled with her physically, emotionally and spiritually as she sought to reclaim her soul.

She is a strong one, this girl/woman. She has forged ahead, sometimes at a dangerous pace. She has looked horror in the face and refused to back down. She has chosen to speak instead of remaining silent.

She is still a little embarrassed and confused by my presence. She knows she would be lost without me, but she doesn’t really know why. I know though. I am the repository – the holder of that which was lost and then found. She has others who have helped her on this journey – her husband, her therapists, her friends, and others like me. But I am the keeper of the gates; the one who knows it all, whether she has said it or not.

I am not fluffy and soft anymore, but I am well loved. Sometimes I am in my natural state, and sometimes she dresses me. Right now she favors a red gingham, smocked dress. It doesn’t really matter to me. I am here for her, and that is all I need. I will be here as long as she needs me, to receive her tears, her fears, and her love – as she kisses me on the nose each morning.

(originally posted on 1/24/12)

Blessings!

Break

Do I "break" -- fall apart, fragment, shatter -- or do I "break" -- pause, take a rest, a respite?

Another flashback. Another reminder of pain from the past. Knee jerk reactions to deny, run and hide, beat myself up. Is this the one that takes me down? The one that smashes me permanently? The heel of his palm to my nose. Searing pain that leaves me staggering, ripe for the attack that follows.

My husband points out that it means I fought back. And he never showed up at my door again. It was the last attack. Something good from this latest reminder of pain? 

So I write about it. I cry on the massage table. I talk to my husband. My therapist. I seek help. I feel all those feelings again -- fear, guilt, paranoia, self-loathing, denial.

I pause and take a respite. A retreat with my husband for the weekend. We may talk about it or we may put it aside for the time being. More than likely it will be a bit of both. 

But I choose the second definition. Because this time I get to choose.

linking up with Five Minute Friday and Writer's Workshop

Shattered

Write a blog post inspired by the word: shattered

I had a meeting yesterday morning. It was supposed to be one of those 30 minute meetings to go over and finish up the details from a previous meeting. It turned into something very different.

Last summer I agreed to participate in a PhD study on lectio divina -- in short the practice of reading and meditating on scripture. This is something I've been interested in for some time. I've gone to a few workshops and retreats. I liked the idea that my practice might benefit someone else -- I'm altruistic that way.

Yesterday I met with the PhD candidate (MC) to go over my journaling from the experience and to give him the opportunity to ask me some follow up questions. I felt that I had let him down by not doing as well with the practice as I had hoped, thus providing less data for his research.

MC asked me an open ended question when I got there -- What hindered me from going further with the lectio divina? I knew the short answer, but I wasn't prepared to go that route. The longer, more accurate answer was going to open up a lot of my past and require me to verbalize a lot of what the abuse did to my relationship with God. I asked him if he was prepared for a winding, long winded answer, and he was.

That began a nearly 2 hour conversation about God, our representation of Him, insular societies, secret keeping, understanding how my past colors my perceptions, and how Christians show the true character of God to others.

I didn't say anything I didn't already know about myself and my history, but I did experience that strange epiphany that comes with verbalizing thoughts. There is a clarity that comes from saying or writing out thoughts in complete sentences and paragraphs that doesn't come from random thoughts and ruminations. MC said it himself to me, "Your journal was in phrases, and you're not a phrase kind of person." It's true. I write and talk in paragraphs, but when I looked back at what I'd shared with him, it was all phrases and incomplete thoughts. I had edited myself out of fear that he would not understand, agree with, or validate my complete feelings. And it's scary to think some things through to their ultimate conclusions.

What does this have to do with the prompt -- shattered? I believe I shattered a stronghold or a wall yesterday. I completed a lot of sentences about my true feelings and beliefs about myself and God and how the abuse impacted (impacts) my daily life and inner conversations. 

There's a lot more demolishing to do. 

The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds. -- 2 Cor. 10:4 (NIV)


linking up with Writer's Workshop

Hollow Times

It's flurrying outside my window. Thirty degrees with a cold wind blowing. The wind chimes have a hollow sound in the crisp, cold air. 

I've been feeling a bit hollow myself lately. Some struggles that have been intense. Intense in a different way than the childhood abuse issues that I know too well. I've been asking myself a lot of questions about choices and decisions I've made over the years. I've been thinking a lot about what I want from the future.

I haven't had any epiphanies or movie moment catharses, but I have been reminded again of my own strength. I've had to put into practice all the "training" I've been doing for the past years in therapy. I've studied situations and relationships. I've questioned my motives and desires. I've looked for and found evidence to support my reactions, but perhaps most importantly, I've been reminded, yet again, that secret keeping will kill you. Maybe not physically (although that is a possibility), but definitely emotionally. None of us were meant to live in a vacuum, and attempting to dwell there is a sure path to living death.

I've also been reminded that people are kinder and more generous than I imagine them to be. The abusers taught me that people can turn on a dime. I developed a "trust no one" mentality based on the actions of a few horrible people. That has led me to follow the same path in most of my relationships. And that is a lonely path. I've reached out this time, trusting that my circle of friends won't turn on me, and they haven't. They have lifted me up and supported me, with words of love and kindness and, well, support. 

I didn't mean to stop writing. Yet every time I tried to write it felt inauthentic. I've said before I write what I feel and experience. If what I'm feeling and experiencing is tied up in someone else's struggles I have difficulty sharing, because it's not all mine. 

The good news in all of this has been my ability to stand up for myself and have a good outcome. Everything isn't roses, but it's better. And it's true and real. 

A special thank you to my bestie for listening and giving humor, comfort, and advice. Also too, MLH in San Francisco for all the same and a chance to get out of town and have some fun. 

I hope I'm back to writing more regularly, because I missed it. 

Blessings.

The One about the Fairy . . .

Last week I posted a picture of my Christmas Sugarplum Fairy. All of you seemed interested in her story, so here's what I can tell you.

Last year my sister-in-law gave me this decorative sugarplum fairy, but I didn't get to use it until this year. 

That's the story. Not very exciting, I'll grant you, but that's about it.

Now why would my sister-in-law give me a fairy for Christmas? That's probably a better story.

Many years ago I developed a liking for fairies, especially those drawn by Cicely Mary Barker.  I couldn't really explain it, I just knew that their images made me happy and filled me with peace. My family accepted this and periodically bought me little fairy-themed items.

Over time I've come to understand that the fairies represented safety and protection to my child-mind. I had "memories" of fairies coming to me and helping me during some of the episodes of abuse. In particular, there is an episode involving the barn where I envisioned fairies watching over and protecting me until the abuse was over.

I used to be embarrassed by this affinity for fairies. I assume what I saw at that time was dragonflies flying over the hay, perhaps even in and out of the barn as the abuse took place, but in my child-mind they became fairies. Fairies sent there to care for me. To offer comfort, peace, and joy, and perhaps, distraction.

I have a lot of fairies in my house. In my bedroom, the bathroom, randomly placed around other rooms. And I have lots of dragonflies now as well. It's a way of honoring my status as a survivor, and a way to banish that unnecessary embarrassment that hounded me for years. We all find ways to survive the bad things.

There are worse ways than fairies.

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

Surviving in Numbers

Earlier this week I posted this as my Facebook status --

Number of abusers: 6 / Years since abuse stopped: 22 / Years since I first told anyone: 13 / Years married to a wonderful supportive man: 28+ / Children: 2 / Blog posts read: over 80,000 / Friends who support me daily: innumerable 

It was the result of having looked at this Surviving in Numbers post via Tumblr.

After posting my status I got that old feeling again. The one where my body starts telling me I've done something really bad. My head begins to hurt. My shoulders round over my body. My stomach begins to grumble. My breathing becomes shallow.

I kept looking back at my impromptu list, and thinking I should revise it. I should have given it more thought before throwing it out into the universe. I should have explained certain things. 

And that's when I saw it. The "shoulds" had returned. 

I used to live my life based on a very long list of "shoulds". Most of them had something to do with what others might think about me or my family if I expressed my feelings. 

I saw those lists of numbers that other survivors had posted and it made me think about my experiences in a numerical way. The first number that popped into my head was the number of abusers. When I started this journey, I believed there was 1. One person who had made me do some things I wished I hadn't done. Years of talking and journaling have led me to understand that that one person abused me. I had no choice or control in any of it. All that work also made it possible to recognize other people and events as abusers and abuse. 

The next number that popped into my head was how many times it had happened. The problem with that number is that I have no idea. I think I "should" know, but I don't. There is a part of me that wants and needs to catalog each episode so that I can categorize and order them, because that will somehow help me understand them. Wishful thinking. Maybe even magical thinking. 

At that point I stopped thinking and just started typing. Realizing that the list could go on and on. 

Number of therapists I tried to get some help from: 8

Number of years since the abuse started: 48

Number of journals filled with writing: at least 10

Number of magazine articles written: 1

Number of groups I've spoken to about abuse: 4

Number of blog posts about the abuse: over 200

Number of degrees obtained: 3 (high school, college, masters level)

Number of years of mothering: 24

And that's the point at which I understood what the Tumblr post was really about. It's not about the abuse. It's about what I've done in spite of the abuse. For me, the abuse has provided a platform, but it's a platform that has led to so much more than dealing with abuse. 

I am a survivor, but more importantly I am a wife, mother, librarian, writer, reader, cook, artist, and child of God. The only things that really matter.


linking up with Just Write and Imperfect Prose

Unanswerable Questions

I was sitting in a friend's kitchen on Easter Sunday. It was late spring and the kids were playing outside while we got lunch ready to eat on the front lawn. We had invited a family from church to join all of us because they were new to our congregation and she was a single mom with 2 kids and no family in town.

Her little girl, maybe 7, wandered into the kitchen and sat down at the table beside me. The mother looked at her daughter and said, "You and this lady have something in common." 

And I froze. 

Our commonality was we had both been abused. I knew this was what the mom was referencing. What I couldn't figure out was what she thought I was supposed to do with that opening. 

There is a space in time that freezes, or at least slows down significantly. I got caught in that time/space. Really it was only for a few seconds, but I clearly remember looking with desperation to the other women in that kitchen. Women who knew my story and were waiting for me to offer this little girl a gift of healing. 

I opened my mouth and said, "What's your favorite color?"

That was all I could process, except to know this was neither the time nor the place, nor was I the person to delve into this child's trauma.

She looked at me timidly and said, "Purple."

I smiled and said, "Me too!" And from there we went into a conversation on the benefits of different shades of purple and what other colors we liked using when we drew pictures.

Her mother wandered from the kitchen. I don't know what she had expected. I don't know what I could have done differently.

Their family didn't stay around at church long. I don't think I drove them away, but I'm not sure I offered them something they needed. So if that little girl is reading this now, or her mother is, this is what I want you to know. 

Purple is my favorite color. And I do love to draw and color pictures. I am infinitely sorry for the trauma you experienced, and I wish I had the wisdom to help you heal. But maybe I gave you something. I hope so. 

Blessings.

linking up with Writer's Workshop

Doors

{explicit content; triggers}

I am a small child and it feels as if she is devouring me. I can't get away and there is no one to call on for help. She has said before she will kill me, and now she is making good on that promise, but in a totally unforeseen way.

I look to my left, and I see my escape. A door. Albeit a closet door, but it is a door nonetheless. Doors are escape hatches in my mind. 

I concentrate on the knob. It is aged brass but still has a bit of sheen to it. I imagine I can see myself in it. I see my hand reaching for it. I can almost touch it. Keep concentrating. Reach. Reach. Reach.

I don't feel the knob in my hand. I don't remember turning it, but now I am sitting on the pillow on my bed as far from her as I can get given that she is in the same room. I pull my knees up under my gown and keep looking to the left. If I shift my eyes I will see her and be trapped again. So I keep my eyes trained to the left. 

There is a bookcase against the wall. Filled with books and my sister's toy horse figurines. 

Our joint collection of Companion Library books. 

The bottom of the bookcase has two sliding doors where we cram everything when told to clean our room.

I keep my eyes trained on the bookcase. Don't blink. I wait, barely breathing until it's over. 

But once it's over will I exist anymore?

linking up with Just Write

Lost

Not all who wander are lost -- J. R. R. Tolkien

photo credit

But a lot of us are. Or have been.

I wandered for years in a kind of distorted animation. The world was going on and on around me, but I felt as if I were standing still watching. Wondering how to jump onto the merry-go-round. Wondering why everyone else knew what the plan was, and I was so . . . lost.

When I first began to unravel the mystery of childhood sexual abuse in my own life, it was a roller-coaster ride of emotions. Up and down. Good and bad. Thrilling and depressing. All at one time.

Mostly I was lost. Everyone else knew the plan -- how to get on the merry-go-round and enjoy the ride -- because they weren't walking around with a hole in their soul. They had emotions that hadn't been ripped and shredded by people using them to relieve their own pain. 

But I was lost. My compass had been damaged. I'd lost my way because I'd been harmed and didn't even know it.

It's been a long time repairing the damage. Most days I don't feel so lost anymore. And that's a good thing. But sometimes when I least expect it, it sneaks up on me again, and then I recognize the pain and emptiness of being lost again. And it scares me. Because I don't want to go back to that place of darkness and confusion where there was no way to trust anyone else or even myself.

That's when I remind myself of the guideposts that have been erected -- some by me, some by my therapist, and some by friends and family. I look for those guideposts and I slow down and breathe deeply. I am not lost. I am just wandering.


linking up with Writer's Workshop

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

One Person

One person. One single person. That's all it takes. One person to notice -- to pay attention -- to listen -- to care -- to express interest.

I was lucky I had 3. Three people in my childhood who loved me. The real, genuine, true me. They probably never knew how important they were. They were all dead by the time I had the words to express what they had done for me. The gift they had given me.

And last night I got a chance to be on the other side of that coin. I got to help a little kid who's been having a hard time. I got to be his safe person for 15 hours or so. And I was scared. I was scared I'd do something wrong. Make things worse. Not fix things.

But here's what really happened. I did some stuff wrong, but he didn't care. I didn't make things worse. I made it better, if only for a little while. I didn't fix things, but it still helped. And I don't feel like I really did anything special or significant at all.

Here's what I did. I picked him up from school in my convertible. I fed him animal crackers. I let him pet my dogs. I took him for a walk and let him take a bath in my oversized tub. 

I fed him and talked to him and listened. I let him play outside with a flashlight after dinner. I let him sit in the swinging chair and watch Netflix (The Very Hungry Caterpillar). I read him a story and tucked him in bed. And I kissed him on the head, twice, because I could. And he slept through the night, and woke up happy.

I took him to school and he asked when he could come back. Soon, very soon I promised. He told me he liked me, and I told him I liked him too, a lot. And he said he'd miss me. And all I can think is -- I didn't do anything. How can it mean so much?

This is what I know is true -- even though I don't really get it, I was his one person last night. And I hope I can be again and again and again.

linking up with Five Minute Friday

She

She came into the cafe all smiles and hellos. She appeared calm, relaxed, even happy. I wondered how she could be that way when I was a quivering mass of anxiety.

She ordered tea and chatted with the cashier, making her way back to our table with steady hands. She made chit chat as she sweetened her tea. Then she sat back and looked at me expectantly, but with a mild disdain in her eyes.

I told her I had remembered more. I told he had raped me.

She said nothing.

I asked if she believed me, and she calmly said, "No". I asked why. She said I was upping the ante to get what I wanted. I asked where we would go from here. How would we handle this distance in our relationship, and she said she didn't see how we could. So I told her I'd always be there for her if she changed her mind, and I left.

And that was over 10 years ago. I think of her every day, and I still wonder why. If I could have handled it better. Said it differently to elicit some compassion from her. But recently I've come to realize I couldn't control her reactions and responses. I know my motives, and that telling her was driven by the need for honesty in my life. My belief that if everything is on the table, things can be worked through.

She doesn't see life that way. More's the pity.



linking up with Five Minute Friday

I Am a Survivor

brave -- having or showing courage
(courage -- mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty)

I was okay with "brave" until I read the definition of "courage". Now I'm not so sure.
Here's the problem: people call me brave. Brave for telling my story; sharing my fear; being transparent. Courage is a whole different story. "Courage is fear that has said it's prayers." I can work with that. I think of the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz talking about courage, and I relate to him, because he's terrified. But then I read that definition, and I shrink from it. But I'm a librarian and word geek and an authority slut. So I'm stuck. 

Webster's defines brave as courage, and courage as having mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty. So if I'm brave, then I'm courageous. And if I'm courageous then I'm all those things that Webster says, and that just doesn't feel accurate. Because I'm the screw-up, the black sheep, the boat rocker, the troublemaker. Because it's a compliment, those words: persevere and withstand danger -- and compliments don't apply to me.

It's circular reasoning, I know, but I'm still stuck with the feeling or maybe even the belief that anything good can't be true about me. 

So I pull myself out of the equation.

A woman in her late 30's comes to the realization that she was abused repeatedly by numerous people when she was a child. She endured 2 rapes as an adult. She walks into a therapist office terrified and sick, but swears she won't leave until the work is done. Until she's figured it all out (as much as is possible). She carries on as a wife and mother while untangling her ugly, painful, terrifying history. She confronts some of the abusers and those who neglected her and allowed the abusers into her life, and it doesn't go well. But she carries on. Putting one foot in front of the other working so hard to get them to understand. So hard that she makes herself ill from it. And when she can't take their denials anymore, she walks away and realizes she's healthier without them in her life. 

She starts to write and talk and tell, finding that it helps her heal and it helps others as well. She blogs. She journals. She talks to anyone who will listen with an open heart. And she finds support, acceptance, understanding, compassion. She finds her voice and realizes she is proud of herself and all the hard work she has done.

People call her brave and courageous. Open, inspiring, and transparent. 

I read her story and I am impressed. I think she is indeed brave and courageous. And I remind myself that she is me. 

I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and 2 rapes as an adult. I have persevered, withstood danger, fear, and difficulty. 

I am brave and courageous because I am a survivor.

linking up with Writer's Workshop and imperfect prose

Misperceptions -- OR -- I Thought I Was Fat

This past weekend my husband turned 50. My daughter posted a bunch of old photos on Facebook in his honor. And then she posted a bunch more because she was having fun. It went on and on all weekend. What a good time we had looking back at those photos -- babies, toddlers, school days, dress up. It was lovely.

But . . . but, for me there was a recurring theme that is still nagging at me. I've thought I was fat most of my life. And now at 51 when I'm heavier than I've ever been, I look back at those pictures and I realize I wasn't fat. And I find myself grieving for the lost time spent worrying about weight and what I looked like. Time that would have been so much better spent enjoying myself, my husband, my kids, my friends, my life.

It's vain and shallow of me that one of the first things I noticed looking back was my size, but truth be told I was stunned. How could I have thought I was fat? 

Blame it on a lot of things -- the media, fear of failing (at anything!), misinterpretations of comments made by others, and abuse. Abuse that made me feel "less than". Abuse that made me question every thought and idea and belief that popped into my head. Abuse that made me want to hide my body, as if that would somehow keep me from being abused again -- a protective shield if you will. Abuse that told me if I felt good about myself I was proud and arrogant, and deserving of the past abuse.

So I'm trying to learn to love myself regardless of what the scales say, and I'm learning to ask questions about my health and weight. Learning to eat and exercise in a way that honors my body. That makes me healthy and strong, regardless of what the scales and the dress sizes say.

I still would love to have that time back, but that's not an option. What I can do is move forward with clearer perceptions. And a lot more self-love.

Peace.

Story

Stories are meant to be grandiose. Full excitement, promise, romance, and happy endings.

Or are they? That might be the definition of a make believe story, but a real story is the story of real life and real people. And most real people don't get a make believe story or life.

My story is messy and vile, at times filled with evil and horror. But it's also beautiful and full of love now.

I was abused repeatedly in horrible ways by a variety of people when I was young. I was raped twice by the same person as an adult. And it's taken me years of therapy and crying and praying to realize that, sadly, I am not alone.

But it's not my fault that my life doesn't read like a Disney fairy tale. And truth be told, I'm glad it doesn't. Fairy tales end once everything is as it should be. But I'd rather live the whole story -- warts and all -- than have my story just be "happily ever after".


linking up with Five Minute Friday

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

She said they'd never believe me.

She said they wouldn't even notice if she killed me.

She said they'd abandon me if I told.

And I believed every word.

Sometimes I still believe the lies. It's hard to let go of lies I've lived with for over 45 years. It's difficult to remember the words of my therapist, husband, and close friends. It's easier to remember her words. Especially when they were reinforced by disbelief and abandonment. 

It's easer to believe the bad stuff if that's what you've been trained to believe. 

And it filters over into everything else. If my husband and I have an argument, unconsciously I believe he will leave me, even though I know he never would. If I speak my feelings I believe that I will be hurt, even though I know that's not rational. 

Abuse that happened a long time ago. And yes it still bothers me. And I hate that question, "Aren't you over that yet?"

So I talk and I write, and I listen to the good stuff, and I really do try to snuff out the bad. Some days are better than others, but some days are worse. And when it's particularly bad, my head feels as if it will explode rather than let reality be revealed. But the revelation brings relief . . . after the pain, and only with help from others. From the compassionate witnesses.

I have my series of mantras:

The truth will set you free.

This too shall pass.

I survived it when it happened, I will survive working through it.

Time heals only those wounds that are shared and understood.

There is no right way to heal.

Healing is a process. Like recovery. Like faith. It has it's ups and downs. It's not a straight line. It's the light at the end of the tunnel. So I keep my eyes on the light.

linking up with imperfect prose

Belong

to belong -- to be attached or bound by birth, allegiance, or dependency

I always wanted to belong. But belonging requires trust, acceptance, and honesty. I never felt those things growing up.

Everywhere I went, whether it was church, school, or even with my family, I felt as if I were an outsider. At church I was outside because I had questions that seemed inappropriate. At school I could never figure out what group fit me. At home the closest I came to feeling I belonged was if I toed the party line and never rocked the boat. I was the good child.

Abuse does lots of terrible things to a person, but perhaps one of the worst is taking away that sense of belonging. I longed to be attached to others. To be bound by birth or allegiance. 

When I met my husband I wanted to belong with him. Sometimes I felt it, but I was still busy keeping up my armor. It took 15 years of marriage and 2 kids for that armor to fall. And I am so glad it did. Letting him see the real me, and have him accept me as I was, made it possible to rethink belonging to God, and open myself up to others I could trust.

belong -- to be a member of a club, organization, or set

linking up with Five Minute Friday

The Slap

I've been letting God redeem my childhood for the past several years. It's been a hard battle, but well worth the struggle.

Yesterday I addressed another episode from my past and I made some headway. The incident occurred a few years after the primary abuser had left my life, and before the last abuser's appearance. 

I was probably 10 or 11 years old, and yet there are aspects of the event that I remember so clearly. The heat on my face following the slap. The effort it took to keep my hand from flying up and slapping her face back. My immediate concern of what other's would think. And that recurring vision of myself as stupid, clumsy, and inept. 

Being slapped is supremely humiliating and demeaning. I wonder sometimes if that's why women use slaps as often as they do. It serves a dual purpose -- causing pain and humiliation simultaneously. With my history being slapped raised all kinds of red flags and triggers. I was shocked and terrified. I had thought I was finished with being the victim. I had thought I was safe at school -- in public. I had thought I had nothing to fear in this current environment. I was wrong. Again.

After the slap, climbing into my mother's car to go home, I felt much the same as I had after much more intense episodes. I was hot and sweating. I felt disconnected and disoriented. I wasn't sure how this had happened, nor did I understand why the attacker was not being reprimanded. What I did know was there was no point in telling. She would deny the slap, and somehow turn it around and make it my fault. It was -- as always -- a no win situation.

Looking back on it now it's easy to see these correlations. To see connections and logical reactions that were not readily available to me at the time. 

And I realize I hold an inordinate amount of anger and hate toward this person. Anger and hate that only hurt me at this point. That's why I'm dragging it all out now, all these years later. It's not about retribution. It's about healing. It's about not letting "them" hurt me anymore. It's about not being their tool to continually inflict pain on me. 

So I'm asking God to lead me. To show me where He wants me to go. And I'm trusting that He'll keep walking with me, redeeming the days.

linking up with imperfect prose