Movies, Marriage, and Mirrors

A hundred years ago I sat down on a Saturday night to watch the movie Marnie on network television. Understand this was the dawning of the age of VCRs. No Blockbuster. No Hollywood Video. No TiVo. No Netflix.

I'd never seen the movie before. I was in the basement of my parents' house watching on a portable black and white TV with adjustable rabbit ears. There were COMMERCIALS! I was in college dating the man I would ultimately marry. The phone rang. There was no caller ID. I don't think we even had an answering machine. 

It was my boyfriend. I explained that I was watching a movie and I'd call him back as soon as it was over. I really wanted to see how the film ended. Hitchcock, you know? You can't just walk away in the middle of it.

Thus began a lengthy discussion about my lack of love for him. Was he not more important than some old movie? Didn't I want to know how his shift at work had gone? Personal relationships are the bedrock of society. Television was destroying the world.

I argued. I cried. I swore my undying love. I begged, for the love of all that is holy, let me see what happens to Tippi Hedren!

By the time I disengaged from this ridiculous conversation, the movie was over. 

Fast forward to yesterday. I checked out a copy of Marnie from the library, and after my counseling session I sat down with my lunch to finally watch it all the way through. Oh my gosh! There's a reason I needed to see this movie to its conclusion. In many ways, the movie was trying to tell me my own story.

Let me tell you a little about me. I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. I didn't know that at the time. I had repressed most of the experiences, and the one I did remember I couldn't label as abuse. My boyfriend was quirky, but he was a lot better than where I'd been, so I didn't hang up on him or tell him to take a flying leap. I just rode it out the best way I knew how. Twisting and turning emotionally trying to figure out how this had escalated from watching a movie to the depth of my devotion to him. 

"Mark marries Marnie although she is a habitual thief and has serious psychological problems, and tries to help her confront and resolve them." That's how iMDb summarizes the plot. Barely scrapes the top layer. 

Marnie is suffering from repressed memories, undiagnosed PTSD, flashbacks, and molestation among other things. She is frigid and can't bear to be touched by a man. She spouts religious rhetoric and acts out impulsively to deal with her unexplained issues. Mark is a cold fish who is a widower with an interest in zoological behavior. He suspects Marnie is up to something, but rather than confront her he lets the whole thing play out before he blackmails her into his loving (?) arms. And it just grows from there.

It's a masterpiece of a film, and it's no wonder it wasn't well received in 1964. A psychologically taut piece that was far ahead of its time. Nobody knew about PTSD and dissociation. Mark was trying to be a 1960s man and handle his woman. A firm hand, that's what she needed. Both Mark and Marnie are flawed characters aching for redemption.

I didn't have Marnie's coping mechanisms, and my future husband didn't have Mark's exact issues, but we had our own weird methods that were mirrored in the movie. My husband pushed me into therapy after years and years of digging at my psyche. He pushed and pushed and pushed until I finally broke down and went. And then he wanted a play by play of every session. That was nearly 15 years ago. In a few days, we will be celebrating our 30th anniversary. I wonder if Mark and Marnie lasted that long.

By the time I finished the movie, I had a better understanding of what that argument had really been about all those years ago. I also had a pounding headache, upset stomach, and massive anxiety. After some medicine and relaxation, I realized how glad I was that I'd watched the movie all the way to the end this time. 

linking up with Yeah#226Write.Me

Guilty?

"the disease of false guilt . . . the idea that what you feel must be true"

I felt guilty for most of my life. I wasn't sure what I was guilty of, but I knew I must be guilty of something because that was how I felt.

It's taken years of therapy to learn the concept of "false guilt". Feeling guilt is not evidence that I am guilty. In its healthiest form, guilt is a cognitive or an emotional experience that occurs when a person realizes that he or she has compromised his or her own standards of conduct or has violated a moral standard, and bears significant responsibility for that violation. So guilt helps us learn to accept responsibility for our mistakes -- that's a good thing. Unfortunately, false guilt leads us to take responsibility for anything that causes us to feel or assume guilt. So the abuse survivor feels guilty for what was done to her or him.

And guilt becomes a way of life. 

My kids used to say I felt responsible (guilty) for global warming. It was a joke rooted in truth. Anything, and I do mean anything, that went wrong I felt guilty about. People were using too many disposable diapers and paper towels? Clearly my fault. If I would just cut back the problem could be solved. 

My favorite TV show got cancelled? If I just hadn't missed those few episodes while I was taking care of my kids, going to church, helping someone out, or, God forbid, doing something for myself, clearly the show would have survived (and none of those actors, producers, camera operators, directors, make-up artists, etc. would still have jobs).

Man, that is a lot of guilt! No wonder I felt bogged down and driven to despair. Who wouldn't?

For survivors accepting guilt for the abuser's actions provides a false sense of safety. If it (the abuse) was my fault to begin with, clearly I can keep it from happening again. I was in control. I let it happen, so I can stop it from happening again. Magical thinking. 

If I recognize that it wasn't my fault, but rather the abuser's fault, then I've lost my safety mechanism. See? It's a warped perspective that functions as self-preservation. The problem is, it's a lie. I can't keep someone else from committing a crime. I can (as an adult) strive to create a safe environment that raises my chances of avoiding another attack, but even as an adult I can't eliminate the possibility of something bad happening.

Letting go of feeling guilty is one of the hardest shifts for most survivors. I know it has been for me. But, it's also the truest path to becoming a survivor.

linking up with Writer's Workshop

Yahweh Shalom

warning: triggers

I retrieved my shawl and crochet basket from my room and moved to the screened in porch. 

As I sat with several others in silence, I began to work on the Danish shawl I am making. I thought about the warmth of the bamboo hook and the yarn gliding through my fingers, and I remembered I was raped with a metal crochet hook, and truth be told, that is why I don’t use metal hooks. 

The thought caught me up short. I closed my eyes and turned away from the others. I touched my survivor pendant, and remembered the verse from this morning – Ps 91:14 – 

He loves me. He will deliver me. He will protect me. He will answer my call & bring honor to me. He will show me his salvation. 

I began to breathe Yahweh Shalom. 

Beauty from ashes – the irony of the joy, pleasure, and comfort I feel while crocheting. He has truly redeemed what could have been lost, and made it something beautiful and of value.



linking up with imperfect prose

Cherished

I have cherished her as long as I can remember. Since the Christmas morning I rocked her in my new red rocking chair. She was my constant companion throughout my childhood. A witness to some of the horrors. The only comfort at times. I mistreated her at times -- unintentionally of course.

She came with a pink plastic crib. Dressed in a pink gingham bubble suit. Over the years those were lost, and the mother made more clothes for her. As a teenager, I still gave her a place of honor in my room.

She moved with me when I married. And I allowed my daughter to occasionally play with her. But she was mine.

Not long after the diagnosis of PTSD and beginning to unravel my past, I found a doll doctor. A lovely lady who did repairs from her home and treated these beings with the honor they deserved.

It was difficult having her away from me, but when she returned it was worth it. She was refreshed. She was getting a second chance. And maybe I was too. It was turning point for both of us.

She is cherished still. She sits in a place of honor at my tea table. She and I have traveled long and treacherous roads together. 

And we have miles to go before we sleep.

Dahlia

linking up with Five Minute Friday

Clarity

I've been working on another episode from my past. It's an assault that happened when I was very young -- perhaps around 5. I know it happened in the autumn. I know the house I was living in at the time. I know that in the long run it benefits me to revisit these events to help me gain perspective and understanding of my behavior then and now.

What I don't know is how long it takes. How many times do I need to think through --  talk through an horrific incident to come to grips with it.

One of my recurring issues is belief. Belief that these events really happened and that I am not just making things up. As I type these words, I recognize how inane they may sound to others, but I remind myself that I was told, repeatedly, that no one would believe me. I have been amazed by the people who have believed me and stood by me as I work through my history, but I have also been re-victimized by those who won't or can't accept my history.

As I review episodes, I begin to see patterns emerge. Patterns of thought processes. Patterns of coping mechanisms. Patterns of self preservation. Patterns lend credence to my story and help me see the consistency in the stories I share.

Recently I saw a pattern that I have struggled with for some time. I don't know if I can make you understand, but I will try.

Dissociation is a coping mechanism/technique that many abuse victims use. In short it is the mental capacity to remove yourself from an unbearably traumatic situation by imagining you are in a different location. In a dissociative state you believe you are truly in this new location. You feel textures, see things, smell flowers, feel breezes blowing, and hear sounds that are apropos to that environment.

As a child I learned to remove myself this way from horribly painful and traumatic abusive situations. My refuge was to find myself outside of the location of the abuse. Usually in an open grassy area. I can "remember" the feeling of the grass on my feet. The way the light and shadows play in the yard. I can hear the neighbor lady chatting with her little dog. I can feel the cool evening breeze dry the sweat that has accumulated on my body during the abuse. It is vital to my survival that I keep my back to the location of the abuse. If I turn around, I will be sucked back into the events that are on-going. Inevitably these episodes lead to exhaustion and a sense of safety and peace that lull me to sleep. But I am not really asleep. I have just escaped mentally from a situation that did not allow for physical escape.

The question is this -- how do I reconcile the clarity of these memories that I know to be protective imagery with the clarity of episodes of abuse that I fought so long and hard to suppress? If the clarity feels the same, how do I know what really occurred and what was simply dissociation?

One of the best responses I've received to this question came from my first counselor. He pointed out that people usually make up good things. We make stories about ourselves that will impress others and raise our standing in the community. My memories don't do that. He also said that those made up good things are made up to share. I fought tooth and nail to keep my story to myself from fear of alienation and not being believed. 

But here's what has finally helped me the most -- I have decided I don't have to reconcile the two. They are different phenomena. I don't have to know every detail perfectly
accurately to know that the abuse was horrible. And knowing all the specifics will not make any of it more or less true.

All that actually matters is that I survived.

A Gift

I haven't seen my parents in nearly a year. 
It was my choice to take a break from interacting with them, as I try to continue healing from CSA and 2 rapes as an adult.
I finally ran out of strength and energy to try and get them to understand my pain, and the things I needed from them.
I didn't stop loving them or wanting their approval. 
What I am learning is that I can love them in all their imperfection, and that their not understanding doesn't equal not loving me.

Last night my daughter had dinner with them and took my Christmas gift to them. My hope was that it would be a way for me help them see me -- who I really am. I put a basket together filled with significant things from my life, and I enclosed a letter explaining each item.

Dear Mother and Daddy,

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year all rolled into one!

This year I have decided to do a joint gift for you. It is a basket filled with things I love and want to share with you. This note is an explanation of each item.

Mother, this shawl is for you. It is made of 100% recycled cotton yarn. When I first returned to crocheting a few years ago, I was determined to learn to read patterns, and this is the first shawl I made using a pattern. I have kept it because I loved it so much, and now I want you to have it. The colors make me think of you. You may wear it or use it as a table linen. I hope you enjoy it. (It can be machine washed on a cold delicate cycle, and then laid flat to dry.)

Daddy, the prayer beads are for you. I have always been intrigued by prayer beads, and as I have worked on healing I have found them to be very helpful in keeping me centered in moments of panic or stress. I have included instructions on how to use them, along with a prayer from Julian of Norwich. Turquoise is one of my favorite stones to work with, and I hope you will enjoy using them or just looking at them and thinking of me. (If you are interested in more information on using them, I have some books you could look at. Feel free to email me about them.)

The remaining items are for you to share:

Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals is a devotional book that I have been using for a couple of years now. It is based on The Book of Common Prayer, but has been modernized and simplified. Each day provides a message, readings from the Old and New Testaments and Psalms, as well as a hymn (all in the back of the volume) and then providing an opportunity to pray for others. I frequently look the hymns up on YouTube and listen to them as I read. This particular volume has opened my eyes to a greater understanding of God’s love for all people, and helped me widen my world view.

"The Ghost on the Canvas" is Glen Campbell’s final cd. He has retired since being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Campbell has always been one of my favorites. I feel as if I grew up listening to him, along with the Lettermen, and Jimmie Driftwood, among others. Anyway, I have found this cd to be very moving both musically and lyrically. I hope you both enjoy it as well.

First Watch (gift certificate) is a new restaurant in town. I know how much you enjoy going out to eat, and I always enjoy sharing new places with you. The restaurant serves breakfast and lunch until 2:30, no dinner. The food is lovely! Wonderful eggs, waffles, pancakes, sandwiches, and soups. I hope you get a chance to try it, and let me know what you think.

Finally, the basket is from SERRV.org. They are a fair trade organization, and I like the hands on quality of their items, as well as knowing the gift serves a dual purpose. Of course, my theory is you can never have too many baskets!

I want you both to know that I appreciate this time you are giving to me to work on healing, and I look forward to continuing to improve and deepen our relationship. I love you both very much.

Blessings

My daughter said they seemed pleased and touched. I have felt good about this gift for them. I investigated my motivations. I had close friends read the letter. I felt happy with what I had done. 

But now after it is all said and done, I'm not sure what I feel. I am glad that they received it well. I know that I can't control their reactions, and I know that one gift does not heal the past. I want it to be a point of moving forward. I want to get to a place where I can be physically present with them, and be glad to be there. I don't want them to hurt, but I don't want to hurt anymore either.

And so, once again, I hand it over to God. I pray for guidance. I pray for peace. And I remind myself that real life is messy, and looks nothing like a Hallmark Christmas card.

linking up to imperfect prose on thursday

Boundaries

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

Blessings!

Change One Thing?

I’d like to lose some weight. Not just a pound or two, but serious, double digit numbers. But then again, I’d like to get rid of the grey in my hair. Permanently. Not just by coloring it every 4-6 weeks. I’d like to be an inch or two taller – just enough to reach things in the kitchen without the step ladder or calling for my son. I’d like to know how to put outfits together that make me look younger, thinner, and taller. 

The truth is what I’d really like is an attitude, self-esteem makeover. I’d like to find a way to consistently feel comfortable in my own skin whether or not I’ve got weight to lose or grey hairs to hide (or embrace?) or I'm not tall enough. I’ve found out over the past 50 years that I can lose weight (albeit, it’s tough), exercise, color my hair, buy new clothes, and even put on heels, and yet none of it really matters if I can’t embrace who I truly am.

I grew up a chameleon. I took on whatever persona was required of me at any given moment. Abuse will do that to you. It’s an act of self preservation. Try to figure out what it is the abuser wants and be that person, and maybe, just maybe he won’t hit me, yell at me, humiliate me, or sexually assault me. That’s a lot riding on a momentary choice/decision. Not to mention the mind reading aspect.

I saw this quote the other day:

Life isn’t about finding yourself; it’s about discovering who God created you to be. 

I don’t disagree with this, but at the same time I can’t help but remember the confusion I felt all those years ago. I really believed I was being who God wanted me to be, the problem was my picture of God and His wants was so skewed from being abused by “good Christian people” that I was in a state of constant disorientation, anxiety, and denial.

The makeover I’m looking for goes more like this: be who I am – who God created me to be. Recognize that health -- physical, emotional, and spiritual -- is what really matters. Take care of me as well as I would take care of my children and husband. And trust that those people in my life now don’t want anything from me but that.

Sure the exterior impacts the interior. I want people to think I look nice. And sure a good hair day can make everything else better, but to be dependent on the exterior for how I feel about my value as a person? Well that just can't end well, because what happens when the hairdresser has a bad day and ruins my hair? Am I going to hate myself for the next 4-6 weeks? No. I’m going to choose to value myself for what I believe, say, and do. 

I’d just like to be cute while doing it.


linking up at Writer's Workshop


(originally posted 4/20/12)

Post Procedure Comments

I am happy to report that it is Saturday and I have survived my first colonoscopy. Woo-hoo!
I realize that, ultimately, everyone will have at least one of these done in their lifetime. I also realize that no one looks forward to it. That being said, I'm pretty proud of myself for getting through it and living to tell the tale. I think I deserve an "atta boy" for this one.
I've talked before about the effects of abuse on medical care. Any medical procedure raises triggers for me. There are trust issues. I am allowing strangers to do things to my body, sometimes while I'm asleep. There are failure issues. What if I do something wrong? Will I be at fault if the procedure doesn't go well; finds something bad; or I have a hard time?
This time around I prepared myself well for the possible problems.
At the initial consultation, I volunteered the information that I suffer from PTSD and anxiety from childhood sexual abuse (CSA). I'm never sure what my motivation is for volunteering this information. I believe I offer this information to help my physicians help me. I asked my therapist if I had done the right thing, and she agreed that I had. The nurse practitioner was very kind, asking appropriate questions regarding physical damage and whether or not I'd be more comfortable with a female physician. More importantly for me, she expressed outrage at what had been done to me and offered additional medication to help me relax if necessary. She also told me she would be personally available if I needed help, had questions, or wasn't treat well.
I talked about my fears and concerns with my therapist, husband, and close friends. I allowed myself to think through my fears without judging myself for being frightened. I didn't negate my feelings when others couldn't understand, nor did I feel it necessary to go into graphic detail on how the abuse was triggered by this particular procedure.
I told my family that I would be out of commission for a minimum of 3 days -- prep day, procedure day, and the day after. I gave myself that much time to recoup physically and emotionally.
I said, "The hell with what anyone in the medical profession thinks. I'm doing what I need to do."
I took Yolie to the surgery center with me and never explained her presence to anyone. I asked for medication to calm me as soon as I began to feel stressed and tense (although the nurse didn't give me anything!). I allowed my husband to take care of me while we waited for the procedure to begin.
After the procedure (which I have absolutely no memory of!) I was awakened in recovery by a different nurse. I panicked upon waking, a fairly normal response for me. I told the nurse I was panicking and she asked what I needed I told her to just give me a few minutes and began breathing exercises. She asked if I'd like my husband and I said yes. Alan came in and helped me through a panic attack (he's had a lot of experience). I took my time and was able to express appreciation to the staff as we left.
I did apologize too much to my husband for struggling, but he was kind, as always, and took me to Sonic for a diet cherry limeade.
I spent the rest of the evening on the sofa letting others take care of me and admitting when I began to have some unexpected pain. We called the number provided and they offered reasonable advice. 
I rested well and am beginning to feel a bit more like myself this morning. I still plan on taking it easy today.
So there you have it. I did it. I survived. I took care of myself and only one person made me feel a little badly about it. I realized that was her problem not mine.
Atta girl!