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.

imperfect prose on Thursdays -- editing reality

I ran across this prompt several months -- RemembeRED -- Your worst memory. initially I laughed at the thought of participating. then there was the familiar onset of nausea, headache, memory pains, etc. the recurrent question, "which one was the worst?" I've written about several of them. some of them I have not been able to put into words. there was my great aunt, my cousin, her mother, the student, and the close family member. I've never been able to rate them. individually they are horrible and grotesque, but taken as a group they are overwhelming.


the worst is maybe not what was done but what wasn't done and what was said. my father's response to two different episodes: "boys will be boys, so you were right to not tell us" and regarding the student, "I can't believe he would be so disrespectful of me". my mother's initial response not to my pain, but what about the rapist's wife. my parents' ability to tell me they just chose not to think about the information after I told them some of the abuse. they were going on vacation and didn't want their trip ruined. their ability to remain in close contact with one of the abusers.


as Laurie Colwin wrote: "She had a picture of the way things should pleasantly be, and she edited reality heavily to make it so." 


other people editing my reality -- my worst memory.

link up at imperfect prose on Thursdays

The Simple Woman's Daybook #2

FOR TODAY . . . January 10, 2012

Outside my window . . . the sun is just rising. The sky is streaked with pink in the east. Weather.com says it's mostly cloudy and 41 degrees, but here at my house I'm seeing clear skies as the morning dawns. Perhaps that is a good omen!

I am thinking . . . about getting my brain back into focus. Between the holidays and some difficult abuse issues, I'm just not as focused as I'd like/need to be.

I am thankful . . . for a loving dh, good friends, caring children.

From the learning rooms . . . ds has started trigonometry and likes it much better than college algebra. Dd started classes yesterday.

In the kitchen . . . last night was Mexican Shepherd's Pie. Tonight I think we will be having a new recipe called Creamy Sausage and Tomato Pasta. I'll let you know how it goes.

I am wearing . . . yoga pants, my Cozumel t-shirt, and an Old Navy sweatshirt.

I am creating . . . not much right now. I'm having trouble concentrating, but I've ordered some yarn. I'm hoping for motivation from the new colors!

I am going . . . . to Restorative Yoga and then grocery shopping.

I am wondering . . . about the nature of evil. 

I am reading . . . When God Was a Woman by Merlin Stone. I can't remember where I heard about this one, but it looks like an interesting read.

I am hoping . . . to feel less anxiety today. Saturday at the end of my yoga class, I got upset about some abuse issues, and I am having trouble getting centered and focused again. 

I am looking forward to . . . our annual Christmas party this Saturday night. Since high school this same bunch of people have been getting together. We meet after the holidays now because one of our group works out of town through the holidays. It's always lots of fun with lots of yummy food.

I am hearing . . . doggie toenails clicking on the floor, and keys clicking on my computer.

Around the house . . . all the Christmas decor is stored for next year. Now I need to do some winter decorating.

.

I am pondering . . . . memory and how it works. Generally when I begin to remember episodes from my past I am overcome with frustration at not being able to remember every specific detail. I fear inaccuracy almost more than the memories themselves.

One of my favorite things . . . monkeys. I collect monkeys, preferably stuffed toys. For Christmas I got a Monchichi doll.

A few plans for the rest of the week . . . yoga, grocery shopping, a little baking, and the party on Saturday.

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

Dh snapped this the other day out our front window

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

editing reality

so I ran across this prompt today at Write on Edge -- Remembered-Your worst memory. initially I laughed at the thought of participating. then there was the familiar onset of nausea, headache, memory pains, etc. the recurrent question, "which one was the worst?" I've written about several of them on this blog. some of them I have not been able to put into words. there was my great aunt, my cousin, her mother, the student, and the close family member. I've never been able to rate them. individually they are horrible and grotesque, but taken as a group they are overwhelming.


the worst is maybe not what was done but what wasn't done and what was said. my father's response to two different episodes: "boys will be boys, so you were right to not tell us" and regarding the student, "I can't believe he would be so disrespectful of me". my mother's initial response not to my pain, but what about the rapist's wife. my parents' ability to tell me they just chose not to think about the information after I told them some of the abuse. they were going on vacation and didn't want their trip ruined. their ability to remain in close contact with one of the abusers.


as Laurie Colwin wrote: "She had a picture of the way things should pleasantly be, and she edited reality heavily to make it so." 


other people editing my reality -- my worst memory. 

link up at RemembeRED

The Cousin

(Warning: Adult content)


When I was a little girl, maybe 4 or 5, my sister and I used to go and visit an aunt, uncle and cousin in the country. We went to stay on their farm. It was supposed to be fun. It wasn't.


My uncle ran the farm, but was also a truck driver, so he was gone a lot of the time. My aunt was Scottish. How a woman from Scotland wound up married to a farmer in rural Tennessee I've never known. She was harsh and abrupt -- totally different from my other relatives. They had one child -- a daughter. In truth they were my great aunt and uncle, and she was my second cousin, but because of our ages . . . well you get the idea. She was 5 years older than I and 2 years older than my sister. Since she was an only child, we were intended to be her playmates, while the benefit for us was getting to spend time on the farm. City cousins and country cousin. 


The primary memories of these times, which span perhaps 5 years, are horrific. The expectation was something of a cross between Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm and Charlotte's Web, but the reality was completely different. Even all these years later, as I sit and type these words, I feel my breathing quicken, my chest tightens, as do the muscles in my shoulders and abdomen. An ache begins low in my belly, and bile begins to creep up my throat. The headache begins as my hands start to shake. 


The desire as always, is to escape. To get away from the events, the memories, the sensations. And yet I am driven to tell the stories. 


Time is fluid in memory, and perhaps especially so in the memories of the very young. I can't tell you which episode occurred first or last. There is no scale to rate which was the worst, or for that matter the least painful. In truth there are only flashes, which over time have been pieced together to form a sort of timeline. Early on there is the suggestion of game to be played. It will be fun she says, or at least implies. But it's not. It is scary, painful, shameful and degrading. She touches me and makes me touch her. I don't want to, but I don't know how to make it stop.


Over time things escalate. It's interesting to me that when I sit down to write it all out, I invariably find myself rushing through it. Part of me wants to look at each incident and get it sorted out. But another part of me wants to move past or through it as quickly as possible. Which is better? Hard to know.


Later on there will be incidents in the chicken coop, the barn, the pig pen. More things will happen in her bedroom and the den. Where was my sister? Where was my aunt? How is it that no one knew? There will be soiled clothes (vomit, blood, whiskey, excrement). I will be reprimanded by her mother for creating extra work. My sister will later confirm that she remembers episodes of sickness, and yet no one ever intervened to say something is not right here. How is that possible? 


I have never been able to put the episodes in chronological order. No one else seems troubled by this, but it eats at me. If indeed all these things happened, why can't I organize them correctly? 


1. The game in bedroom.
2. The cat on the carport and later the swingset where she strangled it.
3. The box of small skulls.
4. The threat of being drowned in the well.
5. The Jack Daniels pouring down my throat as I am forced to hold a pistol.
6. The purse strap that strangles me.
7. The broom handle she uses to rape me.
8. The incident in the barn that involved much planning and time to be executed.
9. The episode at my grandmother's house with the scissors and the buttonhook.
10. The final (I think) episode in my own bedroom while my sister slept in the same room.


How do I come to grips with these memories? How do I move on beyond them? The short answer is by the grace of God. The longer answer is prayer, hard work, time, therapy, and acceptance that the memories won't go away. That I'm not a bad person for not being able to "forget" about it all. That it's okay to need to think and talk about it. These recent memories have been triggered by recent news events: the shooting in Arizona, the suicide of the Princeton grad student. There will always be triggers, because we live in a fallen world. The only hope for peace and contentment is in the love of God, which He extends to us all.