Trust and Healing [day 9]

Trust is a big word for survivors of child sexual abuse and trauma in general.

Somewhere along the way our trust was shattered and we have a difficult time figuring out how to regain it.

I left on Thursday to fly to a spa in Austin, Texas. I'm spending a week on my own getting some rest, relaxation, good food, pampering, and reassessing my approach to physical activity.

I can still remember the first time I travelled on my own after being diagnosed with PTSD. I was so proud of myself when I managed to take a train from Rye, NY into the city and visit a few sites in NYC. I also remember thinking how silly it was for me to be that proud of myself.

Yesterday a lot of those feelings came back as I travelled from Nashville to Austin, found the transportation to the spa, and handled all the tipping and checking in for myself. I realize that for some of you this won't sound like much, and for others it will seem remarkable. And therein lies the issue. For years, I just assumed that no one worried about things kinds of things but me. I believed there was something inherently wrong with me that I was afraid to trust myself to handle these kinds of situations. That I worried I'd make a fool of myself. That one of those strangers I'd have to deal with would take advantage of me.

So far this trip has been lovely, not completely trouble free, but still wonderful. Maybe one of the best things so far are the notes that are left on my bed at turn down time.

Good reminders that I may not be doing everything perfectly, but that's okay!



This is day 9 in Write 31 Days

Creativity and Healing [day 6]

Yesterday I wrote about relationships and healing. I want to clarify one thing before going on to today's post. I was not hurt or disappointed by what happened in my small group. It is the nature of life that sometimes moments get interrupted. I did not feel snubbed or judged. I never intended for the post to be negative, but rather to show how difficult it still is to share my history. 

*****

I never considered myself a creative person, and yet I have found so much healing by allowing myself to create. 

It started with coloring. I needed something to do that occupied my mind, was restful, but required little thought. I loved the idea of sketching, but I can barely draw a recognizable stick figure. I kept reading about art therapy and how so many survivors were helped my drawing their feelings. I did a few exercises, but was never happy with the results (I'm a bit of a perfectionist). 

I don't know who first suggested coloring, but I think it was my husband. I played around with it a bit, testing to see what kind of coloring books relaxed me. I tried crayons and markers, but I found that colored pencils were the most soothing. I got a fairy coloring book (I have an affinity for fairies) and began to take it with me anywhere I had to wait. At the time I was getting allergy shots, and the process had become extremely triggering for me. Walking into the office knowing I was going to let them hurt me, even though it was for my own good, was a tough pill to swallow. 

One day after getting my shots, I was waiting the required 30 minutes and using the time to color. Another lady in the waiting room complimented my picture. She asked if I was a school teacher. I realized I was going to have to tell her something. Another thing you need to know about me, I'm pathologically honest. Especially early on in my recovery I didn't know how to do evasive without it feeling as if I were lying. So I told her it was part of my therapy. I did it to relax in stressful situations. As I sat there waiting for her to mock me, I was surprised to hear her say what a good idea that was. She'd never thought of that before. She had loved coloring as a child and wasn't sure why she'd given it up. Maybe she'd get a coloring book for herself.

I was stunned! That certainly hadn't gone the way I expected.

Now I'm amused by all of the "adult" coloring books that are available. Don't get me wrong, I think it's fabulous. It's just funny to me that nearly 15 years after coloring helped to save my life, everyone's on the bandwagon. Maybe I'm a trendsetter!

This is day 6 in Write 31 Days

31 Days of Healing

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

This is the way I write.

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

So that's my goal this month.

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

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

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

Blessings!

Write 31 Days

Day 1 -- Introduction

Day 2 -- Family (FMF)

Day 3 -- Beading and Healing 

Day 4 -- Books and Healing

Day 5 -- Relationships and Healing

Day 6 -- Creativity and Healing

Day 7 -- Travel and Healing

Day 8 -- (travel day)

Day 9 -- Trust and Healing

Day 10 -- Crochet and Healing 

Day 11 -- 

Day 12 --

Day 13 --

Day 14 --

Day 15 --

Day 16 --

Day 17 --

Day 18 --

Day 19 --

Day 20 --

Day 21 --

Day 22 --

Day 23 --

Day 24 --

Day 25 --

Day 26 --

Day 27 --

Day 28 --

Day 29 --

Day 30 --

Day 31 --

Catching My Breath

It snuck up on me this time. I've been busy and distracted with travel and life. Concentrating on other things, I was caught off guard by Memorial Day and the unfortunate effect it has on me.

I wrote about it the first time years ago. About how the changing of seasons from spring to summer triggers all kinds of scary stuff. 

Yesterday I sat in my therapist's office and told her I was scared and ashamed. I was afraid I was losing ground -- going backwards. I find myself distrustful of everyone, even myself. I can't concentrate, and I just want to sleep. I'm beating up on myself for not being more organized and fearing loss of control. I feel scattered and frantic.

Memorial Day came early this year. For some reason I thought I had another week. I hadn't consciously thought about the triggers involved with summer, and I think that made it much worse. Or maybe it's not worse. Maybe I'd just forgotten what it was like to walk around afraid all the time. 

The vast majority of the abuse occurred in the summer months. Time that is supposed to be reserved for joy, fun activities, and family. But every year, unbidden, my body reminds me of the abuse. Some internal clock turns on to prepare for the onslaught. The abuse itself ended a long time ago, but the effects are still triggered by the change in temperature and the summer attitude that takes over everyone around me.

I want to look forward to summer, and I do. But there is always this period of transition where I have to adjust. To remind myself that the abuse is over, and that it is normal to have a bit of struggle right now. 

I went to the allergist this morning because I've been having trouble breathing. She adjusted my asthma meds and was very sympathetic. I brought up the psychological aspect of triggers this time of year. She acknowledged that it may play a role in the difficulties. She also praised me for recognizing it and being willing to share it as a possibility, because it could effect how we treat this flare up. 

I'm home now with a new prescription, but I stopped on the way and treated myself to a diet Dr. Pepper and the time to make a list. A list similar to the ones I was making last month for Lent, reminding myself of the positive impact that attitude adjustment had on me.

I'm breathing easier, literally and figuratively, this morning. Facing down memories, triggers, flashbacks, and pollen with intentionality.

linking up with Just Write

Again

(warning: adult content and triggers)

She had a box. It was her treasure box she said. She pulled it out to show me. And when she opened it up everything went crossways.

Yesterday my dog brought in a dead baby bunny. I made her take it outside and leave it. Dogs do these things. It made me sad, and let's face it, it was gross. I cleaned up the droplets of blood in the house. I told myself it was okay. People have to deal with these things all the time. I called my husband and he said he was sorry he hadn't been here to take care of it.

But I couldn't let go of the incident. I felt the panic rising in my chest. I had flashes of pictures in my head that I tried desperately to shake away. 

The box is divided into little squares. In each square is a skull of a small animal. She begins to tell me what each one is, and how she killed it. She looks at me and tells me she will do the same things to me. Just like the kitten. The kitten that she strangled with the chain on the swing while I watched, after she took him from me. The kitten that she skinned the whole time telling me that's what she'd do to me it I told anyone.

I can't get the image of Lucy/me as that dead bunny out of my head. That baby bunny who didn't do anything wrong, but had its life cut short. And I know animals aren't people, but when the comparison is made when you are 5 years old, and in such a visceral way, it's hard to let it go.

These are not memories or pictures I want in my head. I don't want to remember how Lucy felt in that moment, and I don't want to feel guilty for still struggling with it now. But I do. Lucy and I could have been that bunny. A life cut short for no good reason.

So I cry and I hurt. I breathe deeply. I color a picture. I watch too much TV. But somewhere in it all, I remind myself that it is in the past. I survived it then, and I'm still surviving the memories.

There are no pithy wrap-ups. There is just another memory to be dealt with -- again.

Real Life

Saturday I went out on a limb.

I followed through on a plan I'd made weeks ago. I attended an (in)RL Meet-up. I get regular emails from (in)courage. Sometimes I read them. Other times I just hit delete, but when the reminder of (in)RL came up I went and searched for a local meet-up. 

I must have been feeling brave that day because the only local meet-up I found looked like it was intended for moms of young kids. I signed up anyway and warned them I was older with grown children. (It's funny how I find myself almost apologizing for that, as if having survived those years means my life is over!)

I received a warm email in response assuring me that all were welcome.

I wrote the information on my calendar so I wouldn't conveniently forget about it. And when Saturday rolled around, I got dressed and drove to a place I'd never been before to meet a bunch of ladies I'd never met before . . . all by myself.

We worshipped. We prayed. We watched a video. We ate. And then it happened. Share your story. Whatever you want to share. No pressure. I began to practice my relaxation breathing and considered taking some meds. I had an internal conversation with myself about what I should or shouldn't say. I weighed my story against the others being shared. They were telling stories of dreams, of "that thing", of adoption, of blogging, of changes, and families and hopes and sweetness. Beautiful sharing and accepting with a few tears and some laughter.

Suddenly it was my turn and I'd been so busy listening (connecting?) that I'd forgotten to plan what I would say. And the words just started tumbling out. My interior voice kept telling me I wasn't do this right. I hadn't started well. I needed to shut up. I used those terms -- chronic PTSD and survivor of childhood sexual abuse -- but I stopped short of the 2 rapes as an adult, because I worried I was babbling.

And when I stopped, the woman on my left slid toward me and hugged me. She thanked me for sharing my story. The other women began to voice appreciation -- could they hug me? Could they pray over me? And I began to panic.

This wasn't my intent. I didn't mean to seek attention. I clearly had over shared. I told them it was fine that they didn't need to do anything. I hadn't meant to make this about me. I was sorry.

Why is it so hard to believe that they reacted as compassionate witnesses because they wanted to?

They told me it wasn't about me. It was about God using me. Using all of us to connect. To teach and learn hospitality. To see our worth and value as God's hands and feet and voices. 

We shared contact information -- email, blogs, phone numbers. We all agreed we should meet again soon. One woman asked if I'd like to walk sometime. We live in the same neighborhood. 

I drove home with the roof down, singing along with my iPod. And I thought a lot about what I'd said and what they'd said. About what God was leading me into. 

I'm still struggling in my heart with the idea that I didn't do anything wrong. But in my head I know -- I KNOW -- this is what real life is about. Real life is about being real with other people. And that includes taking risks.

linking up with (in)RL

Day 24 of 31

I've been re-skimming Judith Herman's Trauma and Recovery. You know going back through and reading the portions I underlined or starred or highlighted; the pages I turned the corner down on. 
I was diagnosed with chronic PTSD in 2000 and I read this book for the first time in 2003. It was the first book on the subject that really spoke to me. I found myself all throughout the pages. 
It was a good news, bad news dilemma. The good news was I'm not alone. My responses are consistent with others' who have suffered abuse. The bad news was it validated that all these terrible things in my head were true. 
I read a post the other day written by another survivor about serial victims. Another term that unfortunately applies to me. What is it about having been abused that makes other perpetrators see me? It's like having a target on your back, or a flashing neon sign that says, "Pick me". 
And for all those years I believed it was something I had done that made it keep happening, or that the repetition was proof that I was making it all up. More abuse, emotional this time, even though the abusers were long gone from my day to day life.
My therapist and husband keep saying "Be kind to yourself" and "get angry", but I don't know how. Honestly. 
I've spent my entire life finding fault with myself and avoiding anger, except the kind that used to come roiling out at inappropriate times. I've gotten that under control, because I don't want to be like the abusers. Angry for no apparent reason. Lashing out verbally and physically. 
So I'm rethinking anger and what it really looks like. You know, righteous anger. The kind of anger that says you may not hurt me, but don't worry I won't hurt you. 
The "be kind to yourself" is taking even longer. How do I know when I'm doing enough and when I'm just being lazy? It looks silly typed up like that, but that's really what I worry about. How much is enough to make me a valuable, worthwhile, whole person? How much fun can I have and how many things can I do just because I like it, before I've crossed the line and become self-centered and uncaring of others' needs?
And then I remember grace. And I think about the gift freely given to me. The little girl who was abused grown up to be the woman who is trying to stop that cycle of abuse. 
And God says: "But if you give them a hard time, bullying or taking advantage of their simple trust, you’ll soon wish you hadn’t. You’d be better off dropped in the middle of the lake with a millstone around your neck." -- Matthew 18:6 (The Message).
And I find comfort in God's adamant love for me, and choose to embrace His grace.

linking up to imperfect prose on thursdays and Write on Edge