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She said they'd never believe me.
She said they wouldn't even notice if she killed me.
She said they'd abandon me if I told.
And I believed every word.
Sometimes I still believe the lies. It's hard to let go of lies I've lived with for over 45 years. It's difficult to remember the words of my therapist, husband, and close friends. It's easier to remember her words. Especially when they were reinforced by disbelief and abandonment.
It's easer to believe the bad stuff if that's what you've been trained to believe.
And it filters over into everything else. If my husband and I have an argument, unconsciously I believe he will leave me, even though I know he never would. If I speak my feelings I believe that I will be hurt, even though I know that's not rational.
Abuse that happened a long time ago. And yes it still bothers me. And I hate that question, "Aren't you over that yet?"
So I talk and I write, and I listen to the good stuff, and I really do try to snuff out the bad. Some days are better than others, but some days are worse. And when it's particularly bad, my head feels as if it will explode rather than let reality be revealed. But the revelation brings relief . . . after the pain, and only with help from others. From the compassionate witnesses.
I have my series of mantras:
The truth will set you free.
This too shall pass.
I survived it when it happened, I will survive working through it.
Time heals only those wounds that are shared and understood.
There is no right way to heal.
Healing is a process. Like recovery. Like faith. It has it's ups and downs. It's not a straight line. It's the light at the end of the tunnel. So I keep my eyes on the light.
linking up with imperfect prose
I've been letting God redeem my childhood for the past several years. It's been a hard battle, but well worth the struggle.
Yesterday I addressed another episode from my past and I made some headway. The incident occurred a few years after the primary abuser had left my life, and before the last abuser's appearance.
I was probably 10 or 11 years old, and yet there are aspects of the event that I remember so clearly. The heat on my face following the slap. The effort it took to keep my hand from flying up and slapping her face back. My immediate concern of what other's would think. And that recurring vision of myself as stupid, clumsy, and inept.
Being slapped is supremely humiliating and demeaning. I wonder sometimes if that's why women use slaps as often as they do. It serves a dual purpose -- causing pain and humiliation simultaneously. With my history being slapped raised all kinds of red flags and triggers. I was shocked and terrified. I had thought I was finished with being the victim. I had thought I was safe at school -- in public. I had thought I had nothing to fear in this current environment. I was wrong. Again.
After the slap, climbing into my mother's car to go home, I felt much the same as I had after much more intense episodes. I was hot and sweating. I felt disconnected and disoriented. I wasn't sure how this had happened, nor did I understand why the attacker was not being reprimanded. What I did know was there was no point in telling. She would deny the slap, and somehow turn it around and make it my fault. It was -- as always -- a no win situation.
Looking back on it now it's easy to see these correlations. To see connections and logical reactions that were not readily available to me at the time.
And I realize I hold an inordinate amount of anger and hate toward this person. Anger and hate that only hurt me at this point. That's why I'm dragging it all out now, all these years later. It's not about retribution. It's about healing. It's about not letting "them" hurt me anymore. It's about not being their tool to continually inflict pain on me.
So I'm asking God to lead me. To show me where He wants me to go. And I'm trusting that He'll keep walking with me, redeeming the days.
linking up with imperfect prose
This morning I had a dream. It was not a good dream. It made me realize some fears linger long after the reality is gone.
I dreamed I went to my usual counseling appointment. When I got there a different person called me into the office. It was a man I'd never met before. I asked where my regular counselor was, and he gave a really lame excuse. Add to that my mother and sister were waiting in the room for me.
I asked the counselor if he'd read my file, or if I needed to give him a little background. The whole time I'm thinking this is pointless, and why are they here. He "assured" me that he was familiar with my "case".
The other people in the room began talking and he was nodding his head in agreement with them. Other people began to filter into the room putting in their two cents worth. No one was talking to me or had in interest in listening to me.
And then it happened. The counselor announced that I had made everything up. It was all in my head -- all the abuse, all the struggles to deal with the abuse. He validated the people in the room who had hurt me the most, and just kept telling me I was wrong.
But here is the good part. I stood up and yelled at them all. I began to recount episodes in detail, asking how I could have made that up. I reminded them of validation they had provided about details. I asked them why I would have done this to myself for all this time? What is my motivation? Why do I have physical pain in areas that were harmed by the abuse?
And then I turned on my heel and walked out. I didn't consider for one moment that this new counselor was right. I knew he was wrong. I was angry and sad that he was giving the nay-sayers what they wanted to hear, but I knew he was wrong.
And that was the gift from the bad dream. In the past I would have waked up worrying that this new person was right -- that he had some knowledge that no one else has had.
Redemption is about recovering something. I recovered a little bit of my self-worth in that dream. A little more faith in myself.
Maybe it was a good dream after all.
linking up with imperfect prose on thursdays
