Antiquing

We planned a day of shopping. Heading to a small town not far from home to look in some antique shops and then find a cozy place for lunch.

We chatted as our cruise director drove Frank, her truck. Talking as we always do about everything and nothing. There are four us and we've known each other for years and years. Old school friends which means we've known each other for over 35 years!

Linda is driving. She is the cruise director and owner of Frank. We tease and say if she goes first we'll never see each other again, any of us, because she coordinates everything. I've got shotgun because I get carsick, and my friends are understanding of that.

Miss Santra is behind me with her Route 44 Sonic drink. She never shows up without one. Usually with two. And rounding out the group is Caroline with her stack of catalogs, magazines, and newspapers to peruse while we drive. She is the fashionista of our bunch looking stylish today in straight jeans with white 3/4 length sleeved knit tunic and a fabulous hat I gave her from Mexico.

We arrive at out destination, park the car, and begin scoping out the town square. We wander into the first antique store (after noting the incredible number of vapor shops!). We each have our different preferences. Caroline loves old postcards. Miss Santra is all about furniture and toys. Linda likes dishes and salt & pepper shakers, and I am drawn to vintage linens and knick knacks.

We're having a good time. I run across an old enamel water dipper like I remember from my childhood. A dipper factors into a dissociative event, but on the whole it brings back positive memories. They all encourage me to buy it and hang in on my new deck. I'm happy that I've turned a potential trigger into a happy moment.

The third store is hot and stuffy. Jam-packed with all kinds of things, and 3 floors to traverse. We are all hot, tired, thirsty, and getting a bit hungry. Caroline has quizzed shop owners and found us a local diner for lunch. I've found a lovely vintage tablecloth to use on the deck, and Linda's found salt & pepper shakers.

We all trek up to the third floor where it is even hotter. It's dark and attic-like, but there is some great stuff up there. As I round the corner from the steps, someone says, "Ooh, look. Old farm equipment." 

At that moment I know I should get the hell out of Dodge, but I tell myself I'm fine. I just won't look at any of it. The truth is "I'm fine" is code for "get out now!", but I haven't quite learned to honor that feeling. 

I walk the perimeter of the room avoiding the area with the aforementioned objects. I'm doing pretty well (NOT) until I have to walk directly by the wall they are hanging on. Understand, I can't tell you a single item in the collection, but I know the look -- the heavy iron, rusted, and dirty. I know I need out of there. I know my friends won't judge me, but I can't make the move. Finally the fear of coming completely unhinged in this place forces me to announce, "I have to get out of here". 

Comments are made as I rush down the steps willing myself out of the store and into fresh air. Willing the panic to subside. Praying that I can deep-breathe this into submission.

I hit the air and breathe deeply, pressing my back against the store front. I see a bench and sit on it, trying to calm my breathing, but still internally berating myself. I'm making a scene. I just want attention. This is all an act. None of this is accurate, but it is what I hear in my head.

My friends appear. They ask questions -- Claustrophobic? Overheated? -- Linda looks at me and says "Bad memory". I nod my head and they kick into full friend mode. What do I need? A cold drink? Yes. Caroline and Miss Santra head off to get something. Linda asks if I want to be alone, and I practically scream, "NO!" She sits with me and I begin to apologize. She reminds me it's okay. I haven't done anything wrong and nobody is mad at me. I keep breathing and trying to quench the tears. I am so, so, so sorry for doing this to them.

The cold drinks arrive and we sit and sip and make plans. One more shop and then lunch. We head back to the car. Passing another shop I see a sign -- Never explain anything. Your friends don't need it, and your enemies won't believe it. -- It's a gift from God or the universe or whatever you want to call it. I comment on it to my friends, and they all agree.

Another trigger averted or at least dealt with. More lessons in coping, healing, and friendship remind me I will be okay when it happens again.

linking up with Writer's Workshop

rest

i had a flashback nearly 3 weeks ago.

i was with my husband when it happened, but i didn't tell him. i didn't tell anyone.

i didn't journal about it.

i didn't think about it.

i didn't acknowledge it in any meaningful way.

i held it in for nearly a week, letting it eat at me and drain my energy away.

and then i wrote about it.

then easter came, and i got triggered again.

i kept treading water. telling myself i was okay, all the while knowing i wasn't.

on tuesday, my therapist and i delved into it.

i was a wreck before i got there. 

we dove straight into it, and i was so anxious i couldn't remember the process. a process i've done dozens of times.

i processed. i relived it. i talked about it in detail. i cried. i hurt. i talked without pausing to be worried about what i was saying.

i came home and laid on the sofa all afternoon and evening. i felt miserable and hurt and damaged and sorry for myself.

and then i went to bed.

Rest.

I slept through the night. 

I woke up feeling better. Lighter. More lucid.

I didn't hate myself. I hated what had been done to me. I hate that more time was stolen from me. I hate that he's not being punished for his crimes.

But I don't hate me.

I made choices I wanted to make. I did things I wanted to do. I made a list and got some of it done, and felt good about it.

I did things that just a day or two ago seemed impossible. I felt alive again.

Rest comes from lots of places. Sleep, yes, but sharing and taking care of myself are restful too. And necessary. 

Today I'm resting in who I am, and putting aside what was done to me.

linking up with Tuesday at Ten

Break

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

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

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

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

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

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

linking up with Five Minute Friday and Writer's Workshop

Barns, Wire, and Healing

It happened again last night. We were watching an old episode of "The Mentalist". It's one of my favorite programs. I am drawn to damaged heroes, go figure.

Jane and Cho are in a sub-basement where 3 skeletons have been discovered. They are investigating and I am intrigued with where the story will go. Jane points out wire wrapped around one of the victim's wrist. And that's when it starts. He wants outside and so do I. 

I look at Alan, but he hasn't noticed. I begin to slow my breathing. I'm relieved as they show Jane walk up the stairs and out into the sunlight. He inhales deeply, raising his arms to the sun. The camera pans back to show he's come out of a barn with the Red John symbol painted on it. But I am stuck on that barn. Looking out over a field. And the realization, just before Jane has it, that he only thinks he's safe there in the sunlight.

I've been in a barn with wire twisted around my wrist to hold me still. I've been desperate to escape the barn and flee into the sunlight, believing I will be safe there. It was all just a bit too familiar.

I kept breathing and reminding myself that, yes, there were lots of reminders here, but I want to watch these characters, and death was not my fate that day. I become intrigued again in the show, but I also start playing solitaire on my phone -- a basic escape, coping mechanism for me. I realize I'm following the episode, but not. And I accept that I may have to watch it again later, but I'll skip the scene in the barn, much the way my son always skips the opening scenes in "Disturbia" so he' doesn't have to see them again. To be wounded by them again. 

And I realize I'm am learning to cope with this history of mine. I'm controlling it much more than it is controlling me. Maybe that's what they meant by healing all those years ago. 


linking up with Just Write

Legacy

We are on vacation and watching a movie in the room. The Bourne Legacy. He has seen it before. I have not. Typically for us, I become increasingly engrossed in the movie and he falls asleep.

The main character, Aaron, is in deep trouble. Being chased by a spy who has been altered physically and mentally. Aaron is the best, but he is losing ground against this machine of a man. They run into a building under construction. I am tensely watching to see what will happen next. 

Rebar. The screen is covered in rebar poking out of concrete. Aaron is maneuvering his way through the maze. All I can see is rebar.

I know it's happening, and I know it will go one of two ways. I shake my head and tell myself to stop it. Stop focusing on the rebar. I know even as it's happening. I am having a flashback. I will either breathe through it or move into a panic attack.

I don't intend to focus on the rebar. I'm watching a movie. It's just set dressing. It doesn't have anything to do with the story, but it's all I can see. Rebar like she raped and sodomized me with in the barn. 

I start deep breathing. I adjust myself to a more upright position. I'm sitting up now. A more powerful position. One with more control. I slow my breathing. I have an internal dialogue. Whatever happens here -- control or anxiety -- is okay. There is no right or wrong reaction to the situation. 

I couldn't have seen it coming. I can't quit going out in public or watching movies or reading books or looking at Pinterest, because something might crop up and trigger a memory.

I keep breathing and am suddenly re-engaged in the plot of the movie. I have survived the trigger without a full blown panic attack. I did it by myself, and I recognized what was happening in the moment. I stayed present through it all.

This is something huge. I am as used to triggers and flashbacks as one can ever become, I suppose, but this may be the first time I've made it through one fully present. It's a milestone of sorts. I took care of me. I didn't turn on me. 

It doesn't mean it won't happen again. There will always be triggers as long as I am alive. And the odd thing is I wouldn't trade those horrific memories because, ultimately, they are a part of who I am. But I am truly grateful to have consciously survived this one on my own.

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.

Punched

I've been punched several times in the past few weeks. Not literally, but figuratively. It doesn't lessen the pain, though.

A couple of triggers and a flashback have left me feeling vulnerable and paranoid. I'm working through the pain, and I know I'm in a much better place to deal with these episodes.

But . . .

I'm dealing with memory pain, low self esteem, negative thinking, and just a general sense of being a failure.

This morning my bestie called to check on me. I told her the one positive thing I've gotten from this latest round of "abuse roulette" is the realization that I used to feel this way ALL THE TIME. I walked around in this much pain and feeling this badly about myself, and I still washed clothes, fed my family, shopped for groceries, helped with homework, gave baths, showered and dressed myself, worked part-time, and got to church most Sundays. 

I guess I was doing better than I thought.

Abuse and recovery are a volatile combination. The ups and downs can drive me nutty (but maybe that's just real life for everyone). 

Right now I'm struggling with viewing myself as weak and disgusting. I recognize that's the abuse talking, and I know from personal experience I can get beyond it. It's just going to take some time and kindness on my part.

And maybe a punching bag.


linking up with Writer's Workshop

Just Write

It had been a long time since it happened. She had developed a since of complacency. Focused on all the good and positive things. How happy this made her, even a passing thought of gratitude for those things being in the past.

She should know better by now. Happy, at ease, content, positive were all the warning signs for the ax to fall. And fall it did. It started gradually. Just a fleeting image through her head at an inopportune time. The shaking of her head to send it flying away. "I'm not going to think about it." The old methods, except they don't work any more. The picture stayed and grew and morphed. 

Different approach. Okay, she'd take control of the situation. Stop what's happening and look at the picture. Acknowledge it and agree within herself to deal with it later. See, she thought to herself, I can do this. Except she couldn't. The panic escalated. She remembered this feeling. The "I know, but I don't want to look at it" mentality. Shut it back in the box. Don't talk about it. Don't investigate. It's disgusting. It's denigrating. It's just more evidence of what a heinous person she really is.

The moment of happiness is gone. It is replaced by self-loathing and self-doubt. By trying to figure out how much to say, and what the right things are to say. How to explain to him in a way to get what she needs. 

And she never gets that right.

linking up with Just Write (an exercise in free writing your ordinary and extraordinary moments)

Thankful Thursday #25

I missed last Thursday.
Last week was a mixed bag. Some familial struggles with the parental units -- an ongoing issue.
Busy prep for Alan and me to be away for a marriage training seminar -- which brought some stress and anxiety with it.
And the old standard for me -- summer is full of triggers and reminders of bad times.
So what do I find myself thankful for this Thursday?
:: a better perspective on family struggles. I can't change another person's understanding. I can only provide information. What they choose to to with it is out of my hands.
:: that the seminar went better than I could have ever expected!
:: and memories and triggers aren't my fault, nor do they mean I've failed in healing and moving on. They are simply a reality of the abuse I survived. I can work on handling them, but I can't make them disappear.
I learned a valuable lesson last week. We all know that words can wound deeply, but I found out that words can heal deeply as well. It's not really new information, but I felt it work in a way I'd never experienced. And for that I am truly thankful.


Blessings!


join Laurie at Women Taking a Stand for TT

imperfect prose on thursdays

The speaker was talking about his experiences during hurricane Andrew in 1992. I was in a Sunday school class on faith. He said, “I don’t know if any of you have ever been in a situation where you thought your life was in danger . . .” I have no idea what else he said. What I do remember is the windowless room the class was meeting in, and realizing I had to get out of there quickly. 

The random triggers of flashbacks.

As he posed the question, my conscious mind was answering “No” to the question, but my unconscious was pulling the lid off a box I’d sealed years ago. My breathing began to increase and the walls began to close in on me. I carefully laid my Bible aside and quietly got up and slipped out of the room. As soon as I got to the hallway, the pictures in my mind turned into video and it all came back with frightening intensity. The fear was so palpable that I began to sweat from it. The stench on my body clearly reminded me of the terror from the barn all those years ago.

I was stuck, caught between two time periods with no one and nothing to tether me to the present. I pressed my body into the wall, crossing my arms across and around my body to keep from splintering into tiny pieces.

What do you do when you’re falling apart and you are completely alone? I couldn’t move from that spot. I couldn’t speak or cry out for help. What would become of me?

A familiar face appeared in my field of vision. A friend. He asked if I was all right. I shook my head still unable to speak. He patiently asked what he could do. I stuttered for him to get my husband, directing him to Alan’s location in the building. I’m not sure what happened after that. I remember trying to make my body dissolve into the wall – wanting to fade out of existence.

Then Alan was there – holding me, assuring me we’d get through it, and guiding me out of the hallway as the crush of people began dismissing from classes. He led me to a quiet area, waving concerned people away, protecting me from stares and questions.

He settled me in a chair and began to murmur to me and chafe my hands, waiting for me to return to the present – to this period in time. I opened my eyes carefully and glanced at Alan. I had to speak the pictures from my mind, but speaking them aloud would validate the happening. There was no way to put the lid back on the box now.

Slowly and painfully I began to speak truth – the realization that I had faced death and survived, but had sealed it into that box for my own sanity. If the box was opened now, it was only because I was capable of dealing with the horrors stored inside.

link up at imperfect prose

(this post was originally posted at Write on Edge)

RemembeRED -- When Past and Present Collide

The speaker was talking about his experiences during hurricane Andrew in 1992. I was in a Sunday school class on faith. He said, “I don’t know if any of you have ever been in a situation where you thought your life was in danger . . .” I have no idea what else he said. What I do remember is the windowless room the class was meeting in, and realizing I had to get out of there quickly. 

The random triggers of flashbacks.

As he posed the question, my conscious mind was answering “No” to the question, but my unconscious was pulling the lid off a box I’d sealed years ago. My breathing began to increase and the walls began to close in on me. I carefully laid my Bible aside and quietly got up and slipped out of the room. As soon as I got to the hallway, the pictures in my mind turned into video and it all came back with frightening intensity. The fear was so palpable that I began to sweat from it. The stench on my body clearly reminded me of the terror from the barn all those years ago.

I was stuck, caught between two time periods with no one and nothing to tether me to the present. I pressed my body into the wall, crossing my arms across and around my body to keep from splintering into tiny pieces.

What do you do when you’re falling apart and you are completely alone? I couldn’t move from that spot. I couldn’t speak or cry out for help. What would become of me?

A familiar face appeared in my field of vision. A friend. He asked if I was all right. I shook my head still unable to speak. He patiently asked what he could do. I stuttered for him to get my husband, directing him to Alan’s location in the building. I’m not sure what happened after that. I remember trying to make my body dissolve into the wall – wanting to fade out of existence.

Then Alan was there – holding me, assuring me we’d get through it, and guiding me out of the hallway as the crush of people began dismissing from classes. He led me to a quiet area, waving concerned people away, protecting me from stares and questions.

He settled me in a chair and began to murmur to me and chafe my hands, waiting for me to return to the present – to this period in time. I opened my eyes carefully and glanced at Alan. I had to speak the pictures from my mind, but speaking them aloud would validate the happening. There was no way to put the lid back on the box now.

Slowly and painfully I began to speak truth – the realization that I had faced death and survived, but had sealed it into that box for my own sanity. If the box was opened now, it was only because I was capable of dealing with the horrors stored inside.

The Prompt:

So often in our lives, defining moments occur when our past and our present or our future clash. For this week’s RemembeRED prompt, write a memoir post describing such a time and the results.

While writing, remember to bring us into the moment and let us experience it with you. 

link up at Write on Edge

Monday Musings

I'm sitting at my little desk this morning in my flannel robe and slippers, covered by an afghan and wrapped in a shawl, drinking Cranberry Blood Orange tea. It is COLD here today. The birdbath is frozen over and the grass and trees are covered in a heavy white frost (hoar frost?).
I've done my morning computer check in -- emails, Facebook, new blog, read (or scanned) Google Reader, and now I'm thinking about the way things are.
The start of 2012 has been a bit rugged for me. Flashbacks and struggles with extended family have left me feeling off center and rung out. I missed worship the past two Sundays because corporate worship can become a negative for me when I'm struggling. Growing up a preacher's kid has some side issues. 
Yesterday morning I just couldn't face the Sunday morning routine, so dh and I stayed in and listened to a podcast and talked about the Colossian heresy. I made quiche for lunch and spent the rest of the day on the sofa trying to do something semi-productive. 
It didn't work. 
I thought about crocheting, only got a row and a half done. I thought about reading, but never opened the book. I picked up my Bible to get a head start on the next class I'm signed up for -- no go. I wound up watching reruns via Netflix instead.
I realize there are worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon. I made hamburgers in the iron skillet, with baked beans and potato chips for dinner. Comfort food. Then dh and I watched an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation (yes we are nerds) and then we watched "Sweet Home Alabama". That's more tv than we watch most weeks!
I'm not sure what the purpose of all this is. Maybe I just needed to let someone know that it's not easy all the time.
I've been "helping" some other survivors via a website. Some of them are looking to me for answers. My gut reaction is I don't have any, but then I think about this comment I made to one of them this weekend:

it is incredibly difficult. The hardest thing I have ever done by far! It has taken years. I was four when the abuse started and didn't begin addressing it until I was 38. I'm nearly 50 now. It can be done, but the most important part is being kind to yourself and understanding that none of it is your fault.

These are words of comfort I shared. I know they would have helped me early on in my process.

The same site shared a quote from one my older posts:

...This is what I know -- bad things happened to a little girl who didn't deserve it (no child deserves to be hurt). No one was there to comfort and console her at the time, so I must comfort and console her now, retrospectively. It isn't as effective, but at least she's not alone now. So now I'll put on my warm jammies, get my new doll (Ruby) and pop in a pleasant movie. Relax, unwind and remember that all the hurt is in the past. I got through it then; I'll get through the memory of it now... (you can read the entire post here)

Not every day is a struggle, but it's also not easy every day. But I'm still here and I'm still standing, so they haven't won, and I know they're not going to win.

Blessings.

The Simple Woman's Daybook

FOR TODAY . . . November 22, 2011

Outside my window . . . it is cloudy and rainy. Again. And it's warm. Again. Mid 60's already this morning.

I am thinking . . . about my bestie and her husband who leave a week from Thursday for a mission trip to Simferopol, Ukraine. You may read more about it here.

I am thankful . . . for the whole family's improved health. I am feeling much better. Ds and dh seem to be over their colds, while dd is finishing a round of antibiotics for a sinus infection. I hope we are all done with sickness for a while!

From the learning rooms . . . no school this week!

In the kitchen . . . last night was hot ham and cheese sandwiches with chips and baked beans. I told the kids (21 & 18) I was on strike for dinner this week, since I haven't been feeling the love regarding my cooking lately.

I am wearing . . . my summer weight robe?

I am creating . . . a poncho using the Coming Home pattern from Lion Brand yarn. I am using a variegated Sensations yarn in shades of purple.

I am going . . . . for a "female" check-up today. Oh joy!

I am wondering . . . again about the lasting effects of childhood abuse. Another flashback last week caught me completely unaware. Initially I felt completely out of control, but I began processing much quicker than I have in the past. There is much work to do, but I do feel more hopeful.

I am reading . . . not much. Nothing seems to be holding my attention lately.

I am hoping . . . that the scuba trip dh and I have planned for December is successful. I finished my enclosed water training on Saturday. Hopefully the open water dives will fun and less stressful.

I am looking forward to . . . Thanksgiving with dh's aunt, uncle and cousins (and doing very little cooking!)

I am hearing . . . the washer buzzing, dog shaking their collars and ds horking down breakfast before heading off to wrestling practice.

Around the house . . . much work has been done in the bonus room over the last few days. I am moving my sewing machine in there in the hope that having more room will encourage me to sew more.

I am pondering . . . . helping my husband do the communion comments this coming Sunday. I want to find the right words.

One of my favorite things . . . yarn! (I'm sorry. I keep repeating myself, don't I?)

A few plans for the rest of the week . . . continuing the cleaning and purging and then heading out of town for Thanksgiving.

Here is a picture for thought I am sharing . . .

Before . . .

After . . .

for more visit The Simple Woman's Daybook

Numbers

I am going to do this. My pink gym bag is packed with all the necessary gear: flippers, mask, goggles, and snorkel. I know I need to do this, for both of us. I don’t want to fail. I don’t want to let him down – again. 

The weather is nice for November. The car is pleasantly warm. I slip the new cd in and let the renaissance music fill the car. This could be fun and good. I need some fun and good. Things have been so hectic lately. Being sick, having sick kids and even he is sick now.

I notice what a beautiful day it is. The sun is shining in through the windshield warming me. Maybe once I master this new skill I’ll run a couple errands. I’m really feeling better . . . numbers? Numbers. NUMBERS!

Not now! Why do they always hit just when I’m starting to feel good? Why can’t it all just disappear?

Breathe. That’s the first thing they tell you to do. Breathe -- in deeply through the nose and out slowly through the nose. I am not crazy. It’s not happening now. We will deal with this. Bad thoughts are rushing through my head. Numbers. What is that about? Five, eight, twelve and fifteen – these are very bad numbers. Small animal skulls in a gift box. Water. The chicken coop. It’s her again. Invading my brain, and trying to drive me crazy. It’s not enough that she did these sick and disgusting things when I was a kid, but the memories keep invading my daily life.

I get to the YMCA and realize I have made it. The flashback was a really bad one, but I’m still here. She’s not going to stop me this time.

for more link up at Write on Edge

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.

Memories, Dissociation, and Flashbacks

Today while working on some of my history, I took an unpleasant stroll down memory lane. I went to an episode that I worked hard to forget, and have lately been working hard to retrieve. I am frequently amazed, and a little frightened, by what the human mind retains and releases.

I can describe the room in techni-color detail. What the backyard looked like. What Mrs. Rosa was wearing in her backyard. I can hear her calling her little, fluffy, white dog. I can feel the cool grass of evening and hear people coming in from work. What I can't tell you is where my parents had gone; whether it was spring or fall; if I'd already had dinner; or what would happen once I was in my pajamas. Time and memory are said to be fluid. What does that mean about truth and memory?

This is what I know -- bad things happened to a little girl who didn't deserve it (no child deserves to be hurt). No one was there to comfort and console her at the time, so I must comfort and console her now, retrospectively. It isn't as effective, but at least she's not alone now. So now I'll put on my warm jammies, get my new doll (Ruby) and pop in a pleasant movie. Relax, unwind and remember that all the hurt is in the past. I got through it then; I'll get through the memory of it now.