Risks

I wrote a post on Monday about a flashback I had over the weekend, and here is what has fascinated me about it. As always, it helped put some things in perspective. Just getting the words out in a coherent pattern. Processing by typing. Friends who read the post via Facebook have been incredibly supportive, and no one has told me I did anything wrong by sharing so openly (my expectation every time I write specifically about the abuse). The post had more hits in a single day than any other I have ever written -- but not one single comment on the blog itself. 

I wonder why that is. Who are those people reading about my trauma? Are they other survivors contemplating their own stories? Are they people who had no idea things like that happened in "nice" families? Are they just people with a prurient interest? I don't know. And the likelihood is I will never know for sure.

But all that wondering brings me back to something I've been thinking about a lot lately. Connections. I crave connections and yet am terrified -- even repelled at times -- by the thought of putting myself out there to connect with other people. Because real, true connections require risks. The risk of being real in another's presence knowing that they may not reciprocate with their own "realness". 

When I started on this path of healing one of the things I feared was that by sharing my story I would somehow be giving other people ammunition to use against me. That my history would be used to prove my invalidity. I was terrified of having the tables turned on me and rugs pulled out from beneath my feet. And yes, it has happened a few times. But so many more times I have received validation and acceptance beyond my ability to comprehend. By risking being real I have given others the opportunity to be real in return and I have received so much more than I have risked. 

I am going to keep risking -- by telling my story, by being honest about my wants and needs, by being kind -- because the potential connections are worth it.

linking up with Just Write and Imperfect Prose

Blue Ribbons and SAAM

April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month (SAAM) as well as Child Abuse Awareness Month. Each year since my diagnosis of PTSD and the realization that all that pain in my childhood was actually abuse, I put on a blue ribbon to wear all month. I change my profile on Facebook to a blue ribbon and my cover picture to this --

I do it with a lot less panic and stress than it used to cause me. Acknowledging publicly my history, my experiences. A defining part of who I am. Yet I always remember the beginning. The first time I put on the blue ribbon. The stress of walking around wondering what would happen just because of that ribbon pinned to my shirt.

And by now it's become my tradition to repost this -- the first time I talked about it here. 

Put on a blue or teal ribbon if you are willing, but for sure It's Time . . . To Talk About It!

* * * * * *

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.
yesterday 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 this week 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.


linking up with Imperfect Prose and Just Write

Erica Place

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

linking up with imperfect prose and just write

Guilt Fast

I've been contemplating Lent for the past several weeks. I've mentioned before that I wasn't brought up in a tradition that observed the religious calendar, and this year found me wondering about the benefit of trying to give something up for Lent. I didn't want it to be just another requirement to be marked off my to-do list. I wanted something meaningful and helpful -- something that would help me focus on God. I did a Google search of Lent ideas and found a few that appealed to me, but one stood out mostly because it made me uncomfortable. What made me uncomfortable was it seemed too focused on me instead of God. I pondered on it for a while and yesterday asked a couple of people their opinion. Both of them responded immediately that this was a really good one for me in particular.

fast from feeling guilty and angry at yourself for things you have done wrong, instead remember God’s great love for you 

That's what I found. It's something I struggle with daily, as well as feeling guilty for what was done to me. I have spent a lot of time trying to reframe my understanding of my own guilt and responsibility for my behaviors, and trying to realize I cannot be guilty or responsible for another's actions. But to make that what Lent will be about for me this year? I don't know. I want to, but I'm worried about what others might think.

And that's when I realized it. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. This is between God and me. I feel led to this by Him, and that is all the reason I need.

My counselor asked me to add a proviso to it because I tend to beat myself for failing at things. So I've added this line --

recognize that trying to fast from these feelings is a success even if I have trouble on any given day

I admit I'm a bit nervous still about this one. It still feels self-centered to me, but I'm working on it. I'm going to spend time searching for scriptures on God's love for me.

My Lenten season will be about resting in God's love. That seems a sound way to invite Easter into my life.

Blessings.

linking up with Imperfect Prose and Just Write

The Chifferobe

Describe the most vivid dream you can remember.

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

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

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

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

And so I begin to clean.

linking up with Writer's Workshop, Imperfect Prose, and Just Write

Filling the Hole

"When you were a child who did you go to for comfort?"

Is this supposed to be an easy question? Is there a trick in here somewhere?

I am supposed to say, "My mother and/or father" right? That's the "right" answer. But what if it doesn't ring true? What if I can't remember that happening?

I don't think she meant it to be a difficult question? I wasn't really supposed to have sit and think about it. But I did. 

She followed it up with, "Have you ever felt fully accepted -- for who you are?" Another question where the expected answer is clearly, "Yes". It's self-indulgent to say "No". Needy. Attention seeking. 

The truth is this all my life I have been hunting for someone, anyone, to accept me warts and all. It could be that those people are already in my life and I just can't comprehend that they are okay with me. It might be that I'm just so afraid to trust, that I constantly hold back.

So another box has been opened. Another set of tears flowing as I realize that, while things are much better, there is still a hole waiting to be filled. God is there along with one or two flesh people, but there is still a lot of empty space in that hole. Space that needs -- longs -- to be filled with love, admiration, and acceptance. 

Like so many other things along this path of healing, I am going to have to fill that hole myself.


linkup with Just Write and Imperfect Prose

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

Imperfect Prose

I want to have something inspiring to share today, but instead I have a lot of stress and concerns about some highly personal things. Things it would be inappropriate to share here. Things that aren't just mine. 

It's a new year. The time for fresh starts and new beginnings. The hope of getting it right this year. Clearing rubble from relationships. What I seem to be facing instead, are new and deeper layers of ick to excavate. Things keep piling on top of each other, and I can’t seem to catch a break.

This may sound like I’m complaining, but that’s not what this is about. I’m not complaining. I’m just feeling overwhelmed. I keep thinking this life is meant to get easier. Develop a rhythm that is consistent and dependable. That hasn’t happened for me. And I don’t know if that’s a “me” problem or a “life” problem.

I don’t really believe my life should flow effortlessly. I recognize that the more people I know and the more fully engaged I become in life, the more opportunities there are for challenges. That being said, I’m floundering a bit right now.

I’ve written a lot about overcoming my past – the abuse. But I’m also a black/white kind of person, or as a friend of mine recently said, one extreme or the other. The question that’s been rolling around in my head lately is this – because things are difficult now, in this moment, does that negate the hard work – dare I say good work – I’ve done in the past? Does struggling now mean the previous hard work was done incorrectly, or worse yet was it pointless?

My head knows the answers to these questions. We all do the best we can at any given moment with whatever information we have. Could things have been done differently? Undoubtedly. Would it have been better or more right? Maybe. Who can say?

This is what I know today. God is with me. I must continue to see and believe that as truth. I will make mistakes in the future just as I have in the past. There are no absolutes.

So I’m asking for your prayers. For me, my husband, my kids. It’s tough when everyone is struggling simultaneously, and that’s where we are. My guess is you’ve been there, too.

Imperfect Prose is perfectly apt for me today.

Blessings.

linking up with Imperfect Prose

Expectant Waiting

Mother's know all about it. Nine months of waiting and wondering and falling in love. Then all those years of teaching and loving and praying. 

Advent is the season of expectant waiting. It is the celebration, in many ways, of Mary's willingness to serve without fully understanding what she was being asked to do.

I live in a world that wants instant gratification. Total explanations. Total preparations. What exactly is going to happen. And it better not alter from what I've been told. 

That kind of expectation slinks in innocuously. It's insidious. It creeps in and takes over my life. It starts out harmlessly enough. "Your pizza will be ready in 15 minutes or it's free!" I'll get what I want when I want it or it will be free.

And over time I've come to expect that in everything. This depression. These flashbacks. These negative thought patterns. I've identified them and done the prayers and the therapy. I did my part, so what's taking so long? And where's my free pizza?

Expectant waiting. 

For whatever reason, I expected there to be a cathartic moment when it would all just lift and fly away. Don't get me wrong. There have been some cathartic moments. Some of it has lifted and flown away, but there are still seasons of depression, some panic, an occasional flashback, and all with a heaping dose of guilt for not being over this struggle.

And I read Emily Wierenga's post this morning, and I can't get that image of Nelson Mandela out of my head, waiting in prison for 27 years, so long he forgot how to tie his shoes.

So I wait. Not for my free pizza, but for the gift that is Advent while realizing we are all waiting, and it is in the waiting that we learn and grow the most.

linking up with Imperfect Prose

Cynicism and Expectation

Yesterday was crafting day with my best friend. We get together on Tuesdays to work on projects, encourage each other, talk, and do yoga. Yesterday was mostly encouragement and yoga. 

It's the holidays, and as hard as I try I can't seem to avoid a downward turn in my mood. Just as everyone else seems to be gearing up into super happy mode, I'm turning into a sleeping hermit.

I want to be excited and upbeat. Energized by the carols and decorations, but mostly I just wonder why I'm not. There are a lot of things that feed into the holiday slump. This year is our first Christmas without my father in law. We always went to his house on Christmas morning, and he LOVED watching the kids open presents. There is a changing of the guard this year.

We don't see my family at Christmas. Too many difficult memories and associations, not to mention hurt feelings. It's a choice I made, but it hurts nonetheless. I want something I can't have. Expectations can be hard to release.

I'm trying something new this year. I wrote about it a little bit on Monday. And I'm following The Nourished Home as she leads us From Hectic to Harmonious. Yesterday's focus was "How do I want to feel this season?" Here's what I came up with --

1. peaceful (full of peace) 

2. content (not needing anything or any competition) 

3. at ease (comfortable with how MY holidays play out) 

4. I want to feel God's presence in this time of celebration 

5. grateful (letting go of worries, and be thankful for all that I have)

I'm taking my expectations down a notch, and I'm choosing to be a little cynical about what I see on Pinterest and social media, reminding myself that those are wishes and highlight reels. 

And I'm focusing on Advent. The season of waiting. Lighting my candles and enjoying the warmth from the glow that remind me it is worth the wait.

linking up with imperfect prose

Fractured Childhood

I've been thinking a lot about a conversation I had recently with another survivor. We don't know each other well, and don't know each other's story, but we know we are both survivors. I mentioned that those of us with fractured childhoods need to find ways to reclaim that time in the present. I've done it through collecting stuffed animals and dolls. I color. My husband bought me a silk and flannel fairy blanket that I slept with for years. And of course there is Yolie. 

The greatest gift toward reclaiming my childhood has been my husband. From the very beginning he embraced the idea of creating new memories. Part of my attraction to him all those years ago was his ability to have fun and be silly without worrying about perceptions. I have learned much from him. He is constantly making suggestions and reminding me to do something nice for my inner child. 

She is Lucy. Years ago I named her to avoid confusion when discussing things with my therapist -- not another personality, but a way of recognizing the little girl who was so damaged in those years. I still have difficulty talking about the abuse in the first person, so Lucy carries a lot of the weight for me. I owe her a great deal. 

She is named for my great-grandmother who cared for me while both of my parents worked, before I was old enough to go to school. "Nur" (pronounced nuh) loved me unconditionally. She taught me to make biscuits and how to braid hair. She sang hymns while she pegged the laundry to the line. Her sister was my dearest Auntie whose home was a refuge. 

I read the verses in scripture about children. About how Jesus honored and sat with children, and I am reminded that He still loves me like a child. And if He does, then I will too.

linking up with imperfect prose

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