blue ribbon -- an annual post

every april I pull out my blue ribbon and pin it on my shirt. 
the first time I did it, I worried about what people would think/say.
I worried they would ask what it meant.
I worried they wouldn't ask what it meant.
I worried about what I would say.
I worried about what I wouldn't say.
each year that I have worn the blue ribbon it has become a little easier to set aside the worrying -- to expect nothing -- to be happy with a good conversation -- to set aside the discomfort of others.
it hasn't gotten any easier to have them look away though.
as I was having blood drawn at the doctor's office, the technician said, "what's your pin for?"
"april is child abuse awareness month. I am a survivor."
"oh", startled, she looked away, and I felt it again. the guilt and shame. 
what did she think of me now?
should I have kept my mouth shut?
not worn my blue ribbon?
there was no more conversation and little eye contact. she drew my blood, while I dealt with the pain of the needle in my arm and the accusation in her looking away. I was damaged goods all over again. I was at fault. I was less than.
I read a post about seeing people.
all I want is to be seen for who I am. a grown woman who is still 5 years old inside, wishing someone would intercede for me. wishing I didn't feel guilty and ashamed for others' actions.
but every april I pull out my blue ribbon and pin it on my shirt.

(this post was originally published April 13, 2012 -- I repost it every April in honor of Sexual Assault Awareness Month / Child Abuse Prevention Month)

No one ever asked

Write a blog post that ends with the line: No one ever asked me.

When I started this blog my plan was to write about the abuse and healing in a way that would help other people. I hope that's been true, but it's really been about helping myself. The more I get it out there and the more positive feedback I get about getting it out there, the less alone I feel.

I spent a lot of years walking around in a fog, pretending (unconsciously) to be something I wasn't. I was striving so hard for perfection that I wasn't really living. Not connecting with myself, so it was impossible to truly connect with anyone else. I even had a friend tell me later in life that he was always so impressed with me because I was so poised. Apparently I was a better actress than I thought I was, because I was doing a good job of fooling the people around me.

Part of my problem was I needed permission to share my story. The abusers had locked it away inside of me. Some with overt threats. Others with implied threats. And over time it just became a given that I wasn't supposed to tell. What few bits and pieces I shared were dismissed or ignored as unimportant, so there was no hope of anyone believing the really bad stuff. I put it away in a box in the back of mind and conveniently "forgot" about it, because it wasn't going to be addressed until I felt someone really wanted to know, but no one ever asked me.

linking up with Writer's Workshop

blue ribbon -- a repost

every april I pull out my blue ribbon and pin it on my shirt. 
the first time I did it, I worried about what people would think/say.
I worried they would ask what it meant.
I worried they wouldn't ask what it meant.
I worried about what I would say.
I worried about what I wouldn't say.
each year that I have worn the blue ribbon it has become a little easier to set aside the worrying -- to expect nothing -- to be happy with a good conversation -- to set aside the discomfort of others.
it hasn't gotten any easier to have them look away though.
as I was having blood drawn at the doctor's office, the technician said, "what's your pin for?"
"april is child abuse awareness month. I am a survivor."
"oh", startled, she looked away, and I felt it again. the guilt and shame. 
what did she think of me now?
should I have kept my mouth shut?
not worn my blue ribbon?
there was no more conversation and little eye contact. she drew my blood, while I dealt with the pain of the needle in my arm and the accusation in her looking away. I was damaged goods all over again. I was at fault. I was less than.
I read a post about seeing people.
all I want is to be seen for who I am. a grown woman who is still 5 years old inside, wishing someone would intercede for me. wishing I didn't feel guilty and ashamed for others' actions.
but every april I pull out my blue ribbon and pin it on my shirt.

(this post was originally published April 13, 2012 -- I repost it every April in honor of Child Abuse Awareness Month)

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

Scarred

I've been scarred. Both physically and emotionally. 

The physical scars are the result of surgeries or (minor) accidents. The knuckles on my left hand show white scars from a fall I took years ago on a sidewalk while heading into a class. I have scars from foot surgery and a Caesarian section when my daughter was born. For the most part, I don't think about these scars very often.

The emotional scars aren't visible to anyone else, but there are a lot more of them, and the scarring goes much deeper.

Unlike physical scars, sights, sounds, smell, and even comments can trigger pain in those places. Psychic reminders of the episodes that led to scarring. Most of the time no one else would notice the shift, but people who know me well see it. Often they know it even before I do. My husband will look at me and say, "What's wrong? You've got your hand over your mouth." Or I'll begin to fidget and look down. A location may be mentioned or a reference to abuse in a movie or book may come up, and my kids will look at me and say, "Are you okay?"

Often I don't even know the physical evidence is there. Sometimes I don't recognize the internal twisting and knotting until I'm well into the pain. 

Those scars have been triggered by movies and books and songs and the odor of cigars. The sight of a Jack Daniels' bottle can cause a catch in my throat. Wires and barns are not my friends.

Over time I've found that I can't make the scars disappear, but I can smooth them over a bit. It turns out that studying the scars, becoming familiar with them, has helped me not be sideswiped by them as often. Ignoring the scars won't dissolve them. I know. I tried. But looking at them, learning the contours of their outlines, their shading, and their depth, has made it possible to live with them.

Maybe that's part of the appeal of old things to me. Well-worn toys and furniture and books. They, too, are scarred, but they live on, serving their purposes, helping others, fulfilling their calling, scars and all.

linking up with Writer's Workshop

Little Rebellions

"My abuse taught me that my thoughts, beliefs, feelings and experiences were invalid. Just feeling something wasn’t acceptable; I had to justify how I felt." -- Christina Enevoldson

I totally agree with this. For years I needed someone else, preferably someone in authority, to validate my beliefs, feelings, and experiences. My father, my husband, a minister, someone I deemed more intellectual than I. It's taken years and years to learn to consistently validate my own feelings, and I still have days when I need a cheerleader.

Something else resonated with me in that quote, though. The other day I had a conversation with an acquaintance. He asked if "my offenders" were still alive. I felt my body clinch when I read that line. It wasn't the "offenders" that bothered me, it was the "my". I don't apply possessive pronouns to anything related to the abuse. They are not MY offenders. It is not MY abuse. For years my parents were referred to as THE parents. I told the writer I don't use possessive pronouns in this scenario, that it's my little rebellion. 

I made a joke of it at the time, but I've been thinking about it, mulling it over in the back of my mind. It's not just a little rebellion. It's an important distinction to me. By applying a possessive pronoun as an identifier or descriptor to the offenders or the abuse, I take ownership of them. I take responsibility for the actions and the people, and I've been fighting against that my whole life.

It was not, is not, and never will be my fault that I was abused. So they are not MY abusers and it is not MY abuse. I didn't have a choice or ownership in any of it. Words are important to me. I'm a reader, a librarian, a writer. Words have meanings, and those meanings carry a lot of weight.

Maybe it's not such a little rebellion after all.

Wounds

"The defects and faults of the mind are like wounds in the body; after all imaginable care has been taken to heal them up, still there will be a scar left behind." 

-- French writer François de la Rochefoucauld

I've been thinking about scars lately. Recently I went to the doctor about some pain I was having in my foot. As she examined me, she asked about a scar on the top of my foot. I told her it was from surgery I'd had 6 or more years ago.

I rarely think about that scar anymore. Just after the surgery, while my foot was healing, I thought about it a lot. I was fascinated and repelled by it. Fascinated to think that a surgeon had cut into my foot and removed a growth that was causing me pain, and fascinated watching the healing take place. But repelled by how horrible it looked, even though I was going to feel so much better when it was healed. 

I have scars and wounds on my physical body, and I have scars and wounds on my emotional being. In many ways they require the same kind of care to heal. The scars from the emotional wounds may not be visible to others , but they are just as real, and usually much more painful for me. 

Healing is a process. It takes time and is never a straight trajectory. I forget that over and over again. But I also forget that my wounds don't really make me different from others. Everyone has wounds. They vary in intensity and frequency, but we all have battle scars that we carry around with us. 

It's taken me a long time to be able to look at my scars and not wince, or worse yet, feel responsible for them. I have good days and bad days. Unfortunately, lately there have been more bad days. But I hope I'm turning a corner. Again. 

This morning I'm trying another something new. Making some choices just for me without worrying about how others will perceive them. Little things, really, but big choices if I make them based on my on wants and wishes. And I'm reminding myself about that list as well.

Peace and blessings.

linking up with Write 31 Days

Belief and Love

"We accept the love we think we deserve." -- The Perks of Being a Wallflower

"People put you down enough, you start to believe it. The bad stuff is easier to believe. You ever notice that?" -- Pretty Woman

I watched "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" last night. With my husband and 20 year old son. He was deeply affected by the film the first time he saw it and really wanted us to watch it with him. It is a finely crafted film with impressive performances, most notably Logan Lerman, Emma Watson, and Ezra Miller as Charlie, Sam, and Patrick, respectively.

If you haven't seen the film or read the book, IMDb summarizes it this way -- 

Based on the novel written by Stephen Chbosky, this is about 15-year-old Charlie (Logan Lerman), an endearing and naive outsider, coping with first love (Emma Watson), the suicide of his best friend, and his own mental illness while struggling to find a group of people with whom he belongs. The introvert freshman is taken under the wings of two seniors, Sam and Patrick, who welcome him to the real world.

And here's the thing. It's a story about so very much, but it was for me about the reality of the abuse epidemic we have in our society.

My son has grown up with the knowledge that I am an abuse survivor. He knows enough to understand a bit about my struggles, but he knows none of the nitty, gritty details. As my friend says, "He knows the PG version". He wanted us to watch this movie with him, and he knew it would impact me, but he had no idea of the intensity of feelings it would release. As I sat sobbing through the final portions of the movie, at times with my hands pressed over my mouth, as if trying to hold in my own secrets and shame, he kept glancing over at me. When the film ended he turned to my husband and me said, "Did you like it?" And I couldn't speak. My husband told him to give me a moment. As I sat sobbing, my son, who is stingy with hugs and "I love yous", asked if I needed a hug. And I said yes. He held me and rubbed my back and told me he loved me, and he held me some more. I accepted his efforts at consolation, being deeply moved that he has a heart that saw the pain in the movie and the pain in me, and responded to it.

There wasn't much sleep for me last night. I kept replaying certain scenes from the movie. Doing comparative analysis. Scanning images in my head from the movie and from my own experiences. 

Abuse is an enormously damaging thing. It lingers. It dwells below the surface and rears its ugly head at unexpected moments. Charlie gets it. He hears the pain around him. 

Charlie: There is so much pain. And I-I-I don't know how not to notice it.

Dr. Burton: What's hurting you?

Charlie: No, not... not me. It's them! It's... it's everyone. It never stops. Do you understand?

And that is the legacy of abuse. There is no good way not to notice the pain all around us. We must learn to hear and respond, and in responding agree to carry some of the pain in our souls.

To be compassionate witnesses, as my son was for me last night.

just write

(Warning: triggering content)

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

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

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

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

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

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

linking up with Just Write

Love and Redemption

Choose to be happy. That's what the article on my refrigerator says. It's a list of 9 Habits of Super Positive People. I've posted it to help me remember to take the high road -- the positive approach to life. I read it this morning, along with a prayer, and the Four Agreements that also hang on my refrigerator. Later I'll do my reading and prayer from Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals. All of this in an effort to keep my spirits from flagging.

Don't misunderstand. I believe these are all good things. I believe that choosing to be happy and approach life with a positive attitude are good things. 

But . . . but, if all I have to do is choose to be happy the logical conclusion is if I'm not happy, then it's my fault. Another failure to add to the list that impedes my happiness.

See there is a certain amount of circular reasoning that happens with these kind of issues, and I don't think it's just me (but I could be wrong). 

The problem for me is how to look at the good and positive that I accomplish and am (because I am a child of God) and not have it all negated by what I don't accomplish and what I am not. 

In my heart I am a black and white, right and wrong kind of person, and yes, that's probably to a large degree the result of the abuse I experienced. Accepting the love of God is hard for me, because I'm still caught up in being 5 years old and believing if I just get it right this time, I won't be abused again. So here I am at 51 deep down believing that if I just get it right (the house is clean, the laundry is done, the meals are cooked, I've exercised, I'm thin enough but not too thin, and I've attended every worship service available) then everything will be okay. 

So I'm still in need of redemption. That's not really news. But it's not because it hasn't been provided. It's because I keep letting go of it, thinking I have to do it all on my own.

And then I see this -- "When heaven is really your motherland, then prayer is really your mother tongue, and you can’t help but yearn to speak in the language of your Father now . . ."  and I stop and breathe. I realize that I'm not alone. Yes God is with me, but so are all these others. Women and men who are struggling right along beside me. And the real issue is that I'm not made for this world. And that's why it's so hard.

So I re-read Micah 6:8 -- 

And what does the Lord require of you?

To act justly and to love mercy

    and to walk humbly with your God.

and I breathe in the love and redemption of my Father.

linking up with imperfect prose on thursdays

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 -- 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

Heart Knowledge - a repost

(this was originally posted on 7/27/10)


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. 

RemembeRED -- Crash

Beautiful sunshine. Warm air. Happiness. CRASH! Something hits me in the back. Not something . . . someone. So unexpected, and yet why am I always surprised? Why don't I see it coming?

She whirls me around and begins to pummel me in the ribs with her fists. She is SO angry, and as always, I have no idea what I've done. She punches me in the ribs -- counting as her fists crash into my tiny body. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Why 8? Is her anger spent or is there some specific reason for that number?

She grabs me by the arm and drags me toward the chicken coop. She has threatened this before, but I didn't think she'd really do it? (Why not. Why don't I believe her threats by now? She generally follows through on them. Will she really drown me someday?)

She throws me in the chicken coop and tells me I have to stay for 5 hours. I am 5 years old. Is it 1 hour for every year of my existence?

"Cover your eyes, or the chickens will peck them out!" she yells as the door crashes shut. 

I am alone. Why am I always alone? 

for more stories go to RemembeRED Flash Memoir

Thankful Thursday

This month we move Thankful Thursday to Grace Alone. It's an interesting combination -- thankfulness and grace.

Thankfulness is defined as: conscious of benefit received; expressive of thanks; well pleased.

Grace is defined as: unmerited divine assistance given humans for their regeneration or sanctification.

Big words!

I need a lot of grace this week. So I am hugely thankful that God is providing it.

Abuse does bizarre things to people. It warps my view of myself. That's one place God's grace comes in -- He gives me a mirror to view myself as He sees me. 

He doesn't see the damaged, terrified, worthless person that I see when I look in my mirror. He sees His child, who has been hurt. A child He wants to comfort and nurture. A child who is not a victim, but a survivor. His child for whom He wants the best.

Today I am thankful for God's grace.

find more Thankful Thursday at Grace Alone

Flashbacks and Memories

I'm not always sure what and how much to say here. I remind myself that no one is forced to read this, and hopefully those who choose to read it are helped in some way. It helps me immensely to share my experiences publicly. One of the most devastating effects of childhood abuse is the secrecy. By telling openly and honestly, and having people respond appropriately (i.e., with compassion for me and outrage toward the abusers) validates the belief that I am not responsible for the abuse, nor do I need to feel shame for what they did to me.


This most recent memory is another regarding my cousin. I do not like to label people as "good" or "bad" because I recognize that those are absolutes. We all have good and bad in us. That being said, she was, in my child's eye view, a very bad person. And confusing as well. At times she was my friend and playmate. At other times she became my tormentor and abuser. I never have known what set her off. I have never known if she was herself abused.
She was essentially an only child. Her father had children from a previous marriage, but they were older and lived with their mother. In some ways her parents doted on her, as parents of only children often do.
She had a playroom set up as a school room. I think it was attached in some way to the chicken coop, but it could be that the buildings were just close to one another. My cousin, my sister and I would play school. There were real school desks in the playroom and a chalkboard on the wall. 
She was big on threats, and often carried through on them. 
I am to be punished for some infraction. It may have had something to do with failing to solve a math problem.
She walks me to the chicken coop, lecturing as we walk. I am to stay there until she comes to retrieve me. I must keep my eyes shut and covered with my hands or the birds will peck my eyes out. If they see me looking at them, they will attack me.
It is dark and dusty in the coop. The hens are on their roosts. I am terrified of them. She has warned me of their malicious intent. 
I am instructed to sit on the floor with my back against the wall. If my eyes were opened and uncovered I would be able to see the door and cracks of sunlight filtering through it. But I must not uncover my eyes. 
The smell is vile. The air is filled with dust, hay and feathers. I begin to cough.
I have asthma.
If I could cover my mouth, I might be able to control the coughing, but my hands must remain over my eyes as protection from the chickens.


Which is worse? Suffocating or being blinded by chickens?

Intentionality

yesterday brought a surprise, and not a good one. a flashback from the abusive years. over time these have become less and less frequent -- wonderful! the downside of the infrequency is how hard they hit me now because they are so unexpected. 


flashbacks come in a variety of ways -- sometimes they are full blown, technicolor films of events; sometimes they are a single scene; and sometimes they are just a hint. a smell, a word, a sound, a feeling. yesterday's was more of the hint variety.


i was driving down the road letting my mind wander while listening to my new cd, Dance of the Renaissance (wonderful, by the way) when the word "numbers" popped into my head. a random word to be sure, but not a word that one usually connects with terror. terror is what I felt. I've come to accept that randomness is just the tip of the iceberg with flashbacks. I went into self talk immediately -- it's not your fault, you are not causing this to happen, in time we'll figure it out, nothing bad is happening now. remarkably it does help.


I finished running my errand, and when I got home I jotted a few notes down about the flashback. my initial desire is always to shove it aside; bury it; disregard it. the problem is those approaches don't work. writing about what is running through my head does help, just as talking does, but oh how I fight it!


yesterday all I could write was this:

5

8

12

15

bad numbers

water?

chicken coop?

Janet?

don't want to go there!

not much to go on really, but a start at getting it out. later as I talked with Alan about it the terror, judgment and humiliation began to subside a bit. this morning as I talked with my therapist, they lessened again.

so what does any of this have to do with intentionality? quite a bit actually.

"Intentionality is the aboutness or directedness of mind (or states of mind) to things, objects, states of affairs, events." (http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/consciousness-intentionality/#IntDirConSatCon)

I have found that I must be intentional when dealing with flashbacks or they can take over my life. so today I made an intentional plan on dealing with the latest episode. life gets in the way of dealing with the past all too often. right now there isn't enough time to devote to working on this flashback the way I'd like to. so instead my therapist suggested taking time each day to affirm what I know to be true and in my best interest until I have the time to address the issue.

today I choose --

:: to not have memory pain, because I don't have to

:: to not have intrusive thoughts

:: to recognize that I have a plan in place

:: to not have to feel terror, judgment or humiliation

:: to honor myself

:: to be kind to myself

:: to trust myself

:: to allow myself to comfort me in healthy positive ways

:: to remember that God is big enough to hold on to this stuff as long as I need Him to

intentionality is hard for most us. abuse survivors may have it a little worse, though. there was no time for intentionality when the abuse was ongoing, nor did I have the experience, maturity or knowledge to apply it. it was fight or flight. try to stay alive. try to figure out the next move or what set him/her off this time. all efforts to gain control of an uncontrollable situation.

now, though, intentionality gives me that control. I like that.