Healing Place

That Wonderful Love Thing

2006-12-21T11:33:00.000+02:00

In October, of last year, I wrote my therapist an email. I was having a difficult time, to say the least. This is part of what I wrote to her:

“Can I tell you a secret? Sometimes, I don't feel anything for anyone. I
feel like I don't love my husband, like I don't even love my children...
sometimes, I feel like I just take care of them because it's my job… but not
because I have this love inside. I feel like I can't love anyone, that I'm
empty.”

My therapist wrote back to me:

“Not feeling anything sometimes is part of the process, part of the transition
to where you will feel that wonderful love thing most of the time. That is
called living vs. merely enduring, existing. The emptiness is part of the wound
- embrace it, care for it, offer it comfort.”

When I received her reply, it touched me. But I didn’t believe a word of it. I knew of people that claimed to “love life”, and I thought they were just crazy or exaggerating. How could anyone love life? Don’t misunderstand – I’m not saying life is all bad, evil, dark, worthless. Absolutely not. Still, I felt love was a mighty strong word to use. Maybe, they enjoy life or cherish life. But love?

At the time of this email, I can’t say I was enjoying life. I’d say I was barely tolerating it. Every waking moment was permeated with the stench of my past. I woke and went to bed with visions and flashbacks. When I could sleep, I’d have nightmare after nightmare, sometimes night terrors, where I’d wake up and see things, but it’d just be a dream.

Once, I was in my kid’s bedroom putting them to bed, and I *thought* I heard a slam outside the door. My heart raced, and I locked their bedroom door, sitting on the floor inside of their room. I could not get myself to leave the room. I was terrified someone else was in the house, and that they would come to hurt me, or my kids. Though the rational part of my brain said my fear was silly, my heart felt it was real. I sat there for an hour before I convinced myself to sneak out of the room, confirming that I was just imagining things.

Sleep and nighttime weren’t the only periods of day when I felt fear. Eating or drinking brought out vivid flashbacks, so much so that I often went days eating only a couple yogurts for my meals. If someone knocked on my door, I’d scream. The slightest sounds terrified me. The FedEx guy got so used to me screaming, that when I’d open the door, and I *knew* he heard me scream, I’d laugh and say, “I’m fine, you didn’t hear that.” We’d laugh together. While I’m happy I can laugh about things like this, the truth is, the overall experience wasn’t funny.

And let’s not even talk about intimate relations with my husband – a hug, a kiss, whatever touch, nothing felt good without also feeling bad at the same time. If I felt enjoyment or pleasure, I immediately felt shame or fear. Throwing up and crying became part of our after-sex routine. I don’t think it even phased my husband after a certain point, it became almost “normal” for us. Of course I cry after sex. Of course I throw-up. Doesn’t everyone?

I can’t say that now -- a year after writing that email, and about a year and a half since starting to heal my past -- everything is peaches and cream. I still jump at sudden sounds on some days, I still struggle with intimacy, and I still struggle with flashbacks and food. But while once those struggles were a 24-7 battle, now, I have periods of time when life is good -- when I can enjoy something without the past in front of me, when I can breathe without worrying someone will come from behind and suffocate me.

In the past few weeks, especially, I started to notice that when I sit with my kids to read them a story, or play a game, or color with them, that I really love it. And that I really love them. I hug my youngest and give him a little kiss on the cheek, and it feels warm, safe. It feels like love. Before, I couldn’t hug my kids without feeling like it was wrong in some way to hug. But now, when they come into my lap, I can wrap my arms around their little bodies, as they squeeze me tightly back, and say, “I love you.” And it’s not just words.

I really feel like I love them more now than I ever have before. And I feel like I love living more now than I ever did before. I actually love life. Not just enjoy, not just cherish. Love.

In that same email, later, I asked her if she thought I would ever heal. I felt, at the time, that it would never happen. That it wasn’t possible. She wrote back to me, “I think you are healing nicely, and going to be more than ok - like a fully alive real human being.”

At the time, I didn’t believe her. But here we are, a year and a couple months later since the email, and I’m starting to see it. I’m starting to feel that wonderful love thing more often, and I’m starting to experience what it’s like to love life, love living, and not be trapped in the past every hour of every day.

I know I still have a ways to travel, and that there are still many aspects of my life that are meshed in the past. But finally, for the first time in my life, I’m starting to know what it’s like to feel love, to feel comfort, and to love living. I may only feel the love-thing for hours, or a day at a time, but I feel it. I didn’t think it’d happen. I never thought I’d even get this far.

To all of you who are still in the darkest parts of your healing – don’t give up. Keep working hard, take care of yourself, forgive yourself for your weaker moments when it feels too difficult to work towards healing anymore. Because I believe that one day, you will get to experience that wonderful love thing, too.

Believe it. Because it will happen.

2006-10-05T14:50:00.000+02:00

Spread the comfort

I can't update right now. I will say I've been very sick, including a hospital visit, from my eating disorder.

I will update later. Until then... I need a hug. So, I wanted to share this video. Enjoy.

A safe place to cry...

2006-08-18T14:39:00.000+03:00

a little one inside: *crying* im scared for you to leave me. im scared i will want to kill myself again. im scared to be by myself.

Dr D: Maybe a safe place, a new one, to help you feel comfort when I'm not with you... something to stay connnected with me.

a little one inside: i have place like that already... they are not helping...

Dr. D: Let's just try.. hmm.. oh, I know. How about if we take all this orange, warm energy and turn it into many butterlies...?

a little one inside: oh, i like that... with black dots on them?

Dr. D: Of course, with black spots. And they can all be there with you, hundreds of them, like in the forests, just surronded by butterflies.

a little one inside: *giggles* i like that... *turns serious* but.. they won't touch me, right? they cant touch me.

Dr. D: No, they won't touch you. You can just look at them.

a little one inside: they can just be next to me.

Dr. D: Right... just next to you...

a little one inside: i like them very much... when i go now, you will still care?

Dr. D: Yep. Still care. Not going to leave. You're stuck with me.

a little one inside: and you're not mad at me because i cant stop crying?

Dr. D: No, I'm not mad at you for crying. Crying helps... I'm very happy you can cry.

a little one inside: ok.. so you're not mad. and you know we're very sad? *starts to cry very hard*

Dr. D: Yes, sweetie... I know that you are very, very sad, and in a lot of pain now. I also know things are going to get better... it's worth it to keep trying. It won't always feel like this.

a little one inside: you promise? you're not trying to trick me?

Dr. D: I would never trick you, and yes, I promise.

a little one inside: ok...

Dr. D: I have to go now... just keep looking at your butterflies.

a little one inside: Ok... *giggles and cries at the same time* ... i like them very much...

Getting grounded...

2006-08-10T08:44:00.000+03:00

Today was an extremely difficult day. I had a very hard time in therapy, talking about things that made me extremely ill, literally. It took me a long time after the session to be able to think straight again... and I drew this while I was trying to bring myself back to earth...

I want to be an artist when I grow up...

2006-08-08T09:29:00.000+03:00

Since I shared my other drawing, this is from this week... My first drawing with charcoal.

Art has been an integral part of my healing process. And it goes deeper than the obvious, art being a means of expression when words fail.

I talk about the negative things I found in my records, but not everything I found was negative. My childhood therapist had asked three wishes I had. Only two of them are visable, I'm missing the 3rd wish because it was cut off by the copy machine for some reason. (I don't want to think about it, honestly, if that was on purpose or what...)

So, two wishes are visable...

1) To do better in school -- math, lang, science

2) To be an artist when she grows up

When I started dealing with everything in therapy now, I started to feel more interested in drawing and art. And I had vague memories of being very into art as a young child, but my interest went away because I was always told I wasn't good enough.

So, when I saw in my records that I had said I wanted to be an artist when I was 9 years old, I thought... well... it's never too late, is it?

2006-08-07T22:26:00.000+03:00

Hello...

This is just an update. :) I have not yet decided what to do with the posts from the blogathon... There are some good posts in there, but they are burried, so I'm wondering since the blogathon is over if I should rearrange things. Do my readers have any thoughts on this?

In other news, some people thought I'm done writing on this blog. Oh no no no. The blogathon is over, but this blog is not. I hope to be able to share this journey with you until I can say I'm truely healed from the injuries of the past.

I have more to say, but I have a headache, and need to rest.

Namaste,

Blogathon 2006 completes...

2006-07-30T20:58:00.000+03:00

Wow. It's over. I can go to sleep now... ! :)

Together, we have raised $96 for Stop It Now! Thank you to everyone who helped that happen.

I feel like I should say something deep and profound. However, I'm tired, and my brain is opperating on low fuel.

First, I want to say, if you came in late, it's *still* not too late to make a pledge. You can do so until up to 48 hours after the end of the blogathon:
http://www.blogathon.org/sponsor.php?blog_id=248

***

I was thinking... So often, my sleep was stolen from me. My right to feel safe in my bed, to feel safe at night. I was always so tired, and always getting sick.

But, during this marathon, unlike the past, I choose myself to stay up late. I took back my control of when I sleep. And I choose NOT to sleep, in order to make a difference. I really hope I have helped someone, even if just one child, is protected or rescued from the hell molested children endure, it was worth it. It's worth it that someone may call the Stop It Now! hotline and decide to not do the horrible thing they intended to do just for one night. Even just one hour. What is one more hour? What is one night of freedom for a child? Priceless.

I wish I could find a way to protect all the children, protect all the men and women who experience sexual assault or abuse at any age. I can't do that. But I wish I could.

And Little Me wants me to tell you that she thinks you're all very special... And she's sending you much love and hugs through the universe.

Leaving you with a song... It's for all of you.

***
Dar Williams - Echoes

Audio Codes From AcousticSpot.com

(If audio player doesn't work, go to http://www.acousticspot.com/?path=1,2017,12960&c=D,0 And choose Echoes to play.)

Echo

By Dar Williams

Everytime you love just a little
Take one step closer to solving the riddle
It echos all over the world

Every time you opt in to kindness
Make one connection, used to divide us
It echoes all over the world

Every time you choose one more morning
Goodness or meanness, life has one warning
It echoes all over the world

When a leader gets the hungry fed food
When you just make love inside your bedroom
It echoes all over the world

Everytime you love just a little
Take one step closer to solving the riddle
It echos all over the world

***

Goodnight.

healing movies...

2006-07-30T09:10:00.000+03:00

So... healing movies, that I can think of with my half asleep brain, are...

Forest Gump
The Kid
Neverending Story

There must be more... right??? Anyone? Anyone?

Healing books...

2006-07-30T06:47:00.000+03:00

Healing books I've read...

Now... I don't mean in the direct, obvious way. I'm more talking about novels. And, yes, many of these novels are triggering. Some aren't. But they cover themes or touch on topics in a way that I found healing...

I'm tired, so I bet I'll forget some of the best... but here is my half-asleep attempt:

The Giver, by Lowis Lowery
The Secret Life of Bees, by Sue Monk Kidd
Vanishing Acts, by Jodi Picoulot (sp?!?)
The Prince of Tides, too tired to remember author
The Things They Carried, too tired again to remember author name..

(One child has woken... His little feet are flip-flapping on the floor as he runs around our house. Now, I am guarenteed now not to fall asleep before the end! Just 14 more hours for me... (that's all...))

The Comfort and Coping List... (continued)

2006-07-30T03:40:00.000+03:00

Distraction... [PS, some things can go into either list, but I'm listing as they come to me. Sorry for repeats.]

Listen to music
Put in a musical and listen to the whole thing through
Watch a movie
Play piano
Color with crayons, print out pictures from free kid websites. Ask "inside" what you want to color most right now
Bake cookies, homemade bread
Cook a comforting and slightly complicated dinner/lunch
Organize something -- kid's room, kitchen, bedroom closets, desk, etc.
Work -- "get paid to get grounded" as my therapist says
Call a friend (not to talk about flashbacks, but just to talk in general) [Note: on my list of coping tools, i actually list the friends i can call possible, and put them into categories like "email only friend", "phone friend, chit chat", "phone friend, safe for deep stuff", etc]
Get a book, read
Knit
Crouchet
Scrapbook
Create a new website
Draw (not the same as coloring... Draw, as in, like an artist)
Do some hook-rug
Embrioder
Go for a walk
Excercise
Write in your blog
Write some poetry
Play a game with the kids, read to them, build towers with them, take them to park, etc.
Do some photography

Comfort...

Eat something warm (rice, oatmeal, bake potato, etc)
Drink some tea, especially a relaxing herbal tea
Try some Rescue Remedy (Bach Flowers)
Put blankie into dryer for 15 minutes, and wrap self in it
Find corner in house that is quiet, hold blankie around self and hug pillow
Take a nap (only works if not triggered too badly, ie, distraction needed first)
Play piano
Color scribbles... not pictures, but just, scribbles, patterns.
Meditate
Pray (only works as a comfort if not too angry at G-d in that moment)
Light a scented candle
Spray some lavendar essential oil in the room
Do some yoga
Chocoalte... (when it comes down to it, we ALL know chocolate is the first choice. And, in all seriousness, chocolate *does* activate serotonin in the brain...)
Make cup of hot chocolate or tea, and hold cup against chest, near the heart, apply slight pressure (This is a pressuer point, a "hug" point)
Do EFT (Don't know what EFT is? www.emofree.com)
Find child, see if they want a hug (my kids ALWAYS want hugs), and hug... try to enjoy the hug (this sounds easy -- it's not, when you shy away from touch most of teh time)
Take a shower or bath (THIS is tricky -- this can trigger me. sometimes, it's ok though)
Pick up favorite books, read favorites line (I fold the bottom corners of my books on pages with my fave lines...)
Cry... (If possible, works great... usually, I can't just cry... which leads us too...)
Put on song, video, movie, etc that usually illicits tears... To help with the crying more.
Listen to saved recordings from therapist (I have saved some phone messages, which she left especially for this reason)

Relax/Release Tension: (When I say release, this can also mean getting out what started the flashback in teh first place, WHICH, honestly, can make things worse for a moment... but gets better)

draw picture of what was bothering me
write blog about feelings, memory, whatever was hurting most at the moment
write email to therapist talking it all out
write email or call close friends who understand, if it feels safe enough
go to healing website to talk it out, post, get support, feedback, etc.
do yoga
repeat comfort items from above

At the bottom of my list is a 911 list... which says...

Remember contract with therapist -- call, page, whatever, until you reach her.
Call hotline if you need help NOW and can't get to therapist soon enough (1-800-Suicide, 1-800-dont-cut, etc)
Remember -- you've survived this the first time. You can survive remembering it, too, even if it feels like you can't. It feels like it's going to kill you. It can't kill you. The feelings hurt -- but they can not harm you anymore. You will be ok. Take it an hour at a time, a minute at a time, until the feeling passes. Because it WILL pass.

The Comfort and Coping List...

2006-07-30T03:29:00.000+03:00

We all have bad times. Everyone. And, sometimes, especially when times are extremely hard, being able to breath, step back, and feel like it's worth trying isn't easy.

There are many people who naturally know how to calm themselves down and take a step back. Other can't. PTSD makes being able to stop and breath difficult, at best, during the hardest times. All the *thinking* rational parts of the brain seem to be on vacation whenever the flashback side of the brain is in overdrive.

So... I have a list of ways to comfort myself, or cope, until either a) I calm down and feel better or b) I reach my therapist, if it's an emotional state that I can't get myself out of.

I could make this simple and copy paste the list I have. But I'm going to just write out what comes to mind..

The rules for my list of comforts and coping tools follow this general rule:
1. Distract
2. Comfort
3. Release tension/Relax

(Those that don't get how PTSD feels during a flashback moment may be wondering why relax isn't first on the list. I can tell you that, personally, trying to relax while in the midst of a flashback episode is much like telling a person standing on top of a roof about to jump to "just look on the bright side of life, and thank of all the good there is in the world." You know. Trying to relax right away almost always triggers me even more. I can't relax when I'm convinced there is someone or something about to hurt me.)

[List in next post, but posting this now to meet the 30 min. deadline]

Concrete Angle...

2006-07-13T03:25:00.000+03:00

Martina McBride Lyrics

Martina McBride Music Video Codes

Music Video Codes by VideoCure.com

On July 29, hundreds of bloggers from around the world will put their endurance to the test for charity, blogging every 30 minutes for 24 hours straight. This is the Sixth Annual International Blogathon, an event that creates a worldwide community for a day, serves up fascinating content, and most importantly, raises tens of thousands of dollars for dozens of charities. Bloggers choose the charity and collect sponsorships. At the end of the event, those sponsors fulfill their pledges directly with the charity.

I will be participating in the blogathon. I'll be blogging for Stop It Now! The Campaign to Prevent Child Sexual Abuse. If you'd like to sponser me, it would mean very much to me and those who will be helped by your contributions.

Help me make a real difference.

Click here for details: http://www.blogathon.org/sponsor.php?blog_id=248

Please help me by spreading the word. And don't forget -- you can blog for a charity as well! Check out the website for more information.

Love to you all, SM

Beyond surviving...

2006-07-11T23:21:00.000+03:00

Hello,

First, yes, I did edit my last entry... took out the memory of being in my therapist's office and seeing the records. I had to... it just got too hard, wanted to "undo" it, so edited the post. Of course, it doesn't make the past not the past, but for me, it was what I needed to do to feel better... Too much "realness", as my therapist would say.

Also, I wanted to say I'm not always sad, hurting, crying, etc. When I post, I usually post to get out intense feelings. So I rarely post on days when all is wonderful. But I know a lot of survivors read my blog, and I want all of you to know it's not always darkness. Yes, there are dark days... but the dark days are becoming fewer and the light days are increasing. When I just started therapy for these issues, I had light minutes, with the majority of the day being in darkness. As time when on, the minutes of light becoming hours of light. And now, I have entire days when there is nothing but goodness and light, with perhaps a few minutes here and there of darkness.

But PTSD goes in cycles... so I have numb days, and good days, and dark days. I have frozen days, and flashback days, and ok days. I am getting better, things are getting brighter, slowly.

It just takes time...

There are some daily events that I have flashbacks from no matter how great the day is -- the bathroom is triggering to me, showering is triggering, eating is triggering, and sex is triggering.

You're probably thinking, HOW can you have a GOOD day if all those daily things trigger you?! Well... I sometimes get triggered, and then can let go of the flashback in seconds. Those are the light days... The days when the triggered memories may flash-in -- but they flash-out fast, too.

On the dark days, though, the triggered flashbacks or feelings don't let go. They go way beyond a brief moment, and last hours.

But this isn't really why I'm posting right now...

I'm posting because I wanted to let you know the person you see here is not the person people see when they meet me. And I'm much, much more than memories, PTSD, sadness, and pain. Much more. This just happens to be the only place where I show *this* side of me to the world beyond my therapist. But I wanted to let you know a bit of the real me...

Most people, believe it or not, know me most by my laugh. I tend to laugh and smile a *lot* (yes, EVEN on dark days). I hear on a regular basis from neighbors and friends, "You are ALWAYS smiling. How do you do that?" I don't know -- I think I smile and laugh to cover pain, in fact, my therapist said she can tell when I'm doing not-so-well by how much *more* I giggle. But I also happen to be a very positive person. You may be thinking, umm, not here. Well, this is a bit different.

I'm generally optimistic. I have a positive view of the world, and a generally positive feeling about people and the world. I love the rain, and I like to try new things. I can't think of many people in this world who I genuinely hate, and the ones I do hate are directly connected to the things I write here. I've lost two friends in my entire life, and I tend to like almost everyone, even if they are unlikely to become a close friend. My husband was once complaining to my neighbor about someone who helps us around the house. My neighbor asked my husband what I thought, and he told her, "She likes her." My neighbor said, "Well, she likes everyone, so I guess that doesn't count."

You already know I draw, and I write. Not just dark, sad topics, but in my "real life", I write mainly empowering, positive things. On and off, I take art classes. I also do a little photography.

I love music, and listen to it almost all day. I was talking to someone about music, and they said to me, "When do you have time to listen to all that music?" I looked at them like they asked me, "How do you find time to breath?" I didn't know what to say! I walk around with music on my headphones or playing from a CD player most of the day. I also play a musical instrument, and I have been for over 20 years. That is a daily part of my life as well.

I'm a huge South Park fan. They can have some extremely offensive episodes, especially regarding child abuse -- but since they are offensive to everyone and everything, I don't take it personally. I laugh. (And with the episodes that do trigger me, well... they trigger me, and I stop watching if I have to.)

I love to read, and I read more than you can imagine.

I love to walk, mostly in the forests and in nature. I like to walk where there are few cars, and tons of trees.

I do yoga, and I'm very into meditation.

I like to exercise, and I'm addicted to the health food store.

I love spending time with my kids. We color and play and cook together, read stories, and generally enjoy each other company.

All this to say -- there is a lot more to me than what I write here. I don't sit around all day in pain and sadness. I have my nights, my hours... but most of the time, I'm doing one of the things above.

I think this is what makes me a survivor of abuse... and not a victim.

If i just wouldn't cry...

2006-07-07T15:19:00.000+03:00

Sometimes, I think if I just wouldn't cry, I could make it all not real. If I could hold back the tears forever, and show everyone how OK I am, that they would all see that I just imagined it all.

I always thought I was a logical person. I'm good at logic, intellectual based subjects. So, you'd think, by now, I'd know without a doubt that the memories I have inside are real. The conversation I had with Truth [See previous post, Meeting Truth] before and after having written proof of what happened to me, though, doesn't change my relationship to her. Truth is right -- I'm not going to sit here this second and accept her anymore than I would then. I can't.

Because sometimes, I feel like the tears will kill me.

I don't mean that the tears will push me into some suicidal mode of thinking. I literally mean that the tears will kill me. That I will start to cry, and all the pain and feelings behind what happened will just drown me. That I'll cry, and never stop crying. And I'll have a heart attack or a stroke or just plain fall over and die from nothing but a broken heart.

So I do stupid shit to make the tears stop. I hurt myself, in all kinds of crazy ways. I cut myself, I burn myself, I hit myself. Anything to make the tears turn off. To push away the real pain. But the sting of a cut or burn will heal. I know it won't hurt forever.

I don't believe that about the tears.

I think they will burn forever. I feel like the lump that is in my throat and the heaviness in my chest will crush me until I die.

Sometimes, when I start to cry, and I can't stop -- like now -- I wish it would just kill me. So it could be over. And I won't have to think about any of this anymore, ever again.

Sometimes, I wish I could burn the records that contain the proof of what happened to me. But I only own one copy. There are at least two copies in different offices, in places I have no access too. I can't destroy the proof. And I certainly can't take back the memories of those that have read those records, either.

Sometimes, I can't stop crying... but it's still not real to me. I wish I was crazy. Sometimes, I really just wish I was crazy.

You would think, having the records would erase any doubts in my heart and mind. You would think that I would trust my memories, and know they are real. You would think by now, I wouldn't even be able to tell myself I imagined it all.

And yet, here I sit.

Typing to you.

Crying.

Wanting to say to all of you, everything I've ever written here is not real, I imagined it all, please forget it. Please help me erase it.

Knowing that none of you would do that. Knowing that none of you would stop believing me and my memories, even if I wanted you to stop believing me.

And feeling so alone, so scared... and stuck between what is my real history, and what I wish it was.

Sometimes, I wish when I sit here crying, writing, that when you send your hugs and support, I could really feel them.

Instead, I just cry... and wish the people who should have protected me, loved me, and cared for me could have been like all of you.

And I know, that will never be...

A Memory...

2006-03-06T18:45:00.000+02:00

[Major triggers]

The earliest memory I have of my uncle molesting me is when I was just five years old… We were all at my Great Aunt’s house for a meal, holiday meal. I remember my uncle, who was my “new” or “soon to be new” uncle at the time, asking me to come outside and play with him. I was the oldest child of that new generation, making me easy prey. My sister was just two or three, my brother wasn’t born yet, and none of my cousins were born yet… I was a logical target…

I remember the crystal in my Great Aunt’s collection case, and I remember how the light reflected the hallway’s dim light from one direction, and the setting sun’s light from another direction…

I remember standing on the sidewalk that leads up to my Great Aunt’s house, and seeing my uncle at the door, yelling inside for no one to worry, “I’ll watch her out here.”

Then, I remember being in the backyard, behind the house, in a concealed corner. I remember I was wearing this dress that I absolutely loved. I remember that I couldn’t breathe. I remember the grass, how extremely green it was… And the bricks of the house, how red they were and covered with little bits of dirt.

And right now, I remember clearly telling my therapist this memory for the first time…

“And, I remember he had his hand over my mouth, and I remember that the grass was very green, really, really green… and…”

“You’re doing well, keep going… what else do you remember…”

“I’m not sure.. I just… I remember that his hand was under my dress and… and I remember he was doing something… but… I… I don’t really remember anything else, I just know the grass is very, very green, and I couldn’t breath, and the bricks were really red, and that’s all I remember… that’s all I remember.”

“You know I don’t push you normally… but, go back to where you said the grass was very green… go back, and see if you just can’t…”

I remember sitting in my therapist office, no idea what she meant by go back, go back where? What did she want me to do? But then, from no where, like a truck speeding down a suburban alley road, it started…

“Oh my G-d,” I remember saying. I remember instinctively covering my face with my hands, I remember feeling really, really hot, and I remember feeling intense pain mixed with a frightening tinge of arousal. But the pain, I remember the pain the most. “Oh G-d, I don’t want to feel it.”

“You already are feeling it.”

“I know that… it hurts.” I couldn’t breath, I couldn’t open my eyes, I couldn’t take my hands away from my face, I wasn’t in my therapist’s office anymore, I was there, in the backyard, being hurt again, and feeling every single frame of pain.

“Just stay with it, *sm*, stay with it. I know it hurts, and hurts probably just isn’t the word, but stay with the feelings. Just know that you hear my voice, and it’s not happening now. I wasn’t there, so if you hear my voice, you know it’s not happening now, even though I know it feels like it is happening now… The body is just remembering what happened, no one is hurting you now, the pain and feelings can not hurt you now, just keep listening to my voice…”

Dr D kept talking to me, keeping me here as much as possible, when I was feeling like I was there with my uncle and five years old again. I breathed like I was in childbirth again. Dr D encouraged the breathing, and as the pain slowly faded, she helped bring me back into her office, slowly.

“Feel the cushions of the couch underneath you, feel the back of the couch, feel how your feet are on the ground, let yourself sink into the couch and know that you are safe here..”

The rest of the memory didn’t come clearly until another two days later… in her office, that day, all I felt was the pain… the rest of the memory came in bits and pieces, as it always does, over the next couple days after talking to her. It’s odd how the memories make there way through, almost like a leak, with parts dripping through at different times, bit by bit, and then, sometimes, a burst of memory, followed by more drips.

I remembered how he held his hand over my mouth so hard I could not breathe. I remembered how with his other hand he was holding me up hard against him, and whenever he would hurt me in the secret place, he would at the same time push my little body up against himself, and I remember feeling his body behind mine.

And I remember how he would let me breathe for a second and I’d gasp and he’d cover my mouth again. And I remember him saying, “If you just stop screaming, I’ll let you breathe.” I remember not knowing what to do, pull his hand away from my mouth so I could breathe, or pull his hand away from between my legs, because I needed to breath, I was getting dizzy, I was getting sick, but I needed him to stop hurting me, too.

And I remember he let me gasp again, and covered my mouth and nose again, and started hurting me again.

And I remember his voice, his sick, horrible voice.

“Come on, *sm*, you know you like this, stop screaming and I’ll let you breathe. Ya, there you go, you like it, I can tell you like it. Stop fighting me, come on, stop fighting me.”

And I remember starting to feel like I was going to really pass out, and I remember I stopped fighting, and then, he let me gasp again, but instead, I gasped and vomited. I vomited all over his hand, and all over my favorite dress, and all over the grass.

“You little bitch,” I remember him saying. And I remember him wiping his hands on my dress.

And I remember being on my knees, vomiting and vomiting, and then crying and crying, and dry heaving and dry heaving, and I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.

And I remember him grabbing me and saying, “If you tell anyone, anyone, I will kill you. Do you understand? I will kill you.”

And I believed him. I wasn’t so sure he didn’t already.

And then, he left me alone, in the backyard, kneeling on the grass, in my own vomit, and I remember crying, and shivering, and shaking, and I was cold, and I was wet, and I was terrified.

Time passed… and I remember my mother came into the backyard, with my Great Aunt, and my uncle with them.

“Oh, *name of my abuser*,” my great aunt had said, “How could you leave her like this? Oh, poor baby.”

And I remember my mother screaming. “What did you do? Look at what you did! Oh, G-d, look at this mess, *sm*, how could you do this? Why didn’t you come inside to the bathroom if you had to be sick? It’s all over you!”

“Leave her, *my mother’s name*,” I remember my Great Aunt saying. “She’s sick, she’s just a baby.”

But either my mother didn’t hear, or didn’t care. I suspect the later. She kept yelling at me. And yelling. And I remember her yelling the whole way back into the house. And I remember when I walked past my uncle, who was standing in the yard, as my mother grabbed my arm so hard I thought she would break it, looking at my uncle.

And he looked at me, made a face like he was looking at a piece of shit on his shoe, and said, “You’re disgusting.”

And I don’t remember anything after that. But I remember that I believed him. And I remember that if everyone said so, it must be so… I must be the bad one. I was the disgusting one. I was the one covered in vomit, I was the one everyone seemed to be upset with. I was the one everyone hated.

Sometimes, I like to pretend that my adult self could step into the flashback, into the memory.
And right when my uncle says, “You’re disgusting,” to that little me, I like to dream that I could walk over to him, spit in his face, and say, “Bullshit… Bullshit. Fuck you.”

The Color of the Sky

2006-03-05T23:41:00.000+02:00

"You think you know the world you are living in. If you can feel it, and touch it, and smell it, and taste it, then it must be so. You tell yourself that you would bet your life on the simple fact that the sky is blue. And then one day someone comes along and informs you emphatically that you're wrong. 'Blue,' you insist. 'Blue as the ocean, blue as a whale. Blue as my daughter's eyes.'
But that person shakes his head, and everyone else backs him up. 'You poor girl,' they say. 'All of those things -- the ocean, the whale, her eyes -- they're green. You've gotten them mixed up. You'd had it wrong all along.'" -- Jodi Picoult, Vanishing Act

With healing comes a great deal of pain. All different kinds of pain. There’s the pain of the memories themselves – the flashbacks, the realness of what happened, and the haunting way the memories aren’t satisfied with one appearance, how they linger and lounge in the bedroom, in the kitchen, or in the car on long rides.

There’s the pain of feeling like you’ve not lived your life as best as could be because of the damage others caused you. The pain of looking back and thinking, “All that time, lost.”

And there is a pain that can sear even more deep – for me, that’s the loss of relationships, or illusions, that served their time, but now are illuminated completely differently.

The more the veil of protection falls, the more you begin to notice… how certain people don’t really care as much as you imagined they did, how another person seemed so nice, but that niceness was no more than a show. People who perhaps you might not have liked much, perhaps even hated, now, after the truth and the past slowly reveal itself, seem like the word “hate” might be too kind for them.

Then, there are others who you truly loved, truly felt a complete connection with – and these are the relationships that are most painful to change. Because when it’s people you hate anyway – well, it hurts, it does hurt – but you already hated them. You didn’t lose much more than you had already known you lost before. The worst that happens is you come to recognize that original loss.

But when it’s someone you loved, someone you trusted – and you discover that love and trust was undeserving, or one directional – that hurts much more. It burns. It kills something deep inside, and you can smell the rotting for a long time. I smell the rotting… I just wish I knew how to push out the body, so I can breathe fresh air again

No More Turning Away...

2006-03-01T18:24:00.000+02:00

[All the posts on this blog are possibly triggering, but this post may be particularly so. Please read with caution.]

“No more turning away,
From the weak and the weary.
No more turning away
From the coldness inside.
Just a world that we all must share,
It’s not enough just to stand and stare.
Is it only a dream that there’ll be
No more turning away?” -- On the Turning Away, Pink Floyd

I’m not sure how to update you, as things have been more than I could put into words. Only two months went by…. So hard to believe, because it feels like years. There would be no simple way to explain all that has gone on since my last post. There is so much to say, so much to share… I write my posts in my head daily, and I have written several which reside solely within the “save blog” area of my mind.

Should I tell you about how one day, when using one of those websites that shows you which other blogs that link to yours, that I discovered a pornography website had not only *linked* to my website, my mirror of this blog on blogspot – but also, that the porn website copy-pasted my words onto their website? Should I tell you how I read and reread the post they choose to link to (here is a link to that post, the one they stole: http://healingplace.blogspot.com/2005/03/of-sleeping-bags-and-bad-sex.html), and could see no reason that post would be considered a turn on, unless someone was turned on solely by another’s emotional pain? Should I tell you how the porn site that linked and stole my words for their website is a porn site for people who are turned on by fantasies of raping women in their sleep, a website that calls itself “sleeping bitches”? Should I tell you about the pictures I saw pasted near my words -- my heart-exposed cries -- pictures of women “sleeping” while men raped them, vaginally, orally, spiritually?

Do you really want to hear about that?

How I thought maybe I should close my website, that I could not bear the thought that sick people like those that hurt me as a child might be getting sexual gratification from my emotional suffering? How I became terrified that one of the people who raped and molested me might actually read porn sites like these, might come across MY words, and get turned on again from my pain – and how I suddenly felt like I was being raped all over again? How I needed to speak for an hour to my psychologist to settle down and not kill myself, to keep myself from making the pain go away by just taking me away from the world – you really want to hear about that?

Do you?

Or, should I tell you about how I started drinking, wine, in secret, three glasses at a time, one after another after another, to knock myself out… Should I tell you that I couldn’t take it anymore, I wanted to sleep and I had no energy to fight my fears and nightmares anymore alone, so I turned to another stumbling block, something I have always hated in people? Should I tell you after years of being around pot, ecstasy, balloons with nitrous oxide, in college, and turning down every single offer, passing the joint to the next person in the circle and not taking any for myself, after years of being around smoke filled coffee shops, and always turning down even the tiniest drink, even one puff on a nasty cigarette – after all that, I had started sneaking around my kitchen at night, drinking?

You really want to hear about that?

Or, should I tell you how I finally decided I couldn’t take it anymore, that I wanted to stop self-medicating with alcohol, I wanted to stop myself from adding just one more barrier to my healing, and decided to get sleeping pills, after a week where I went three days… three days…. without sleep? And so, I went to the doctor, and took all my energy to tell her that I have chronic insomnia, and want – need – sleeping pills, and then, after all that, she asked and pushed for me to tell her why, why don’t I sleep. And I told her – that I have complex PTSD. I told her I was abused as a child… and then, she guessed the rest – sexual abuse? she asked me. By family? she asked me. And I answered, yes, yes, feeling like my insides had been turned outside, that the room felt suddenly cold and I wondered if I was still wearing clothes… And she offered me, in addition to sleeping pills, SSRIs, anti-depressants, to make “things easier for me”… and after a few days of thought, after another two nights without sleep, I went back and said, yes, help me, let’s try drugs.

Do you want to hear how I had THE worst reactions to SSRIs that my doctor and my psychologist had ever seen, so bad I’m not allowed to take any SSRI ever again? Should I tell you how after just two days on Paxil, I couldn’t keep my eyes open, I started having panic attack after panic attack, I had tremors, I vomited over and over, I went to the bathroom over and over again but was unable to void, and, most frightening, had sudden, unexplained suicidal urges that felt uncontrollable? Should I tell you these urges that came from no where were so strong that I had to ask my husband to take away all my keys and lock me in the bedroom with him, promising not to let me out alone or without telling him why? Should I tell you how I called my therapist shaking and crying, telling her I was ok, I was happy, so why am I getting urges to kill myself that I feel like I can’t control? Should I tell you how I had to use self-hypnosis to make myself drop a knife or pills if the intention was to cause harm to my life? Should I tell you how as I came off the medication, which I took just for three days, that I vomited over and over and over again, how I had dizzy spells and vertigo episodes so strong I had to crawl to the bathroom? How I couldn’t sleep, or even take the new sleeping pills I had, because I woke repeatedly at night to be sick, swimming in a pool of dizziness and sweat? Or, should I tell you how I couldn’t even make it to the bathroom without putting my head on the concrete floor a few times on the way, unable to lift my body, unable to think or feel safe? All for something that was supposed to make things “easier” for me, something I never wanted in the first place...

Do you want to hear about that?

Or… maybe… Should I tell you about how I sent a letter requesting my childhood psychiatric records, determined to prove that I’m imagining everything, that I could not possibly had been abused or have hurt as badly as I was without someone noticing? Should I tell you how my childhood psychiatrist at first didn’t want to send the records, and had to be begged by my current psychologist to send them to her? Should I tell you how I cried and screamed inside that someone who held records to years I have no memory of, notes and pictures I drew when I was just 9, 10, and 11 years old, would not give them to me, denying me just a peek at the life I can not recall beyond a faint blur?

If I tell you that, then would you want to hear how not only did the records come, not only did they not prove my memories wrong, but they confirmed the abuse? What if I told you I saw in black in white, in my child pyschiatrist’s handwriting, that one of the people who hurt me, admitted to molesting me, that my childhood therapist knew, she was told, she knew it was *still* happening when I was brought to see her, and she did NOTHING to help me… ? And that the molester, the pedophile, has never paid for their crime? What if I told you for the years I saw this therapist I wanted to tell her about the abuse, but was too scared – and all that time, she already knew.

What if I told you I found in the records evidence of memories I only now have been recovering, memories I wanted so much to be unreal, found clearly eluded to, years and years ago? What if I told you I found notes and a diagnosis of anorexia when I was just 10 years old, and NO plan, NO intervention, not even more appointments scheduled to help me? What if I told you a month went by between the anorexia diagnosis and the next appointment, and the topic never came up again? What if I told you it was never addressed? What if I told you I had every symptom of PTSD, and nothing was done for me?

What if I told you that at the end of the records, there is a note that my parents told my childhood therapist that things were better, but every note indicated things were not better, and

this child psychiatrist

did

nothing.

What if I told you near the end of my records, the next to last visit, the following note was made…

Patient doing well.
Says things happen in between visits, says she forgets things, wishes she could see me more often…

What if I told you I saw her only one more time after that, a month after that note? That she didn’t care, though still took note, that an 11 year old girl was desperately trying to tell her bad things were happening and they were disappearing in her mind – and she wanted more help – and yet, she was sent away, rejected, abandoned….

What if I told you that? And then, that three years later, I tried to kill myself – and no one understood why.

…and neither did I.

Then…

but now, I do understand.

Should I tell you all these things? Should I share the details of each story?

Without the details, you won’t know I got off the SSRI, and I’m doing better now. You won’t know I stopped drinking as much, and now I take safe, non-addictive sleeping pills – only when I need them most – to help sleep.

Without the details, you might not know I decided not *only* not to close my blog because of a porn site using me, but decided to keep talking and not let them silence me. Without the details, you wouldn’t know that I decided I want to try and create a network of blogging survivors, so we can unite our voices and let every other survivor know that they are not alone, and make clear to every pedophile and rapist that we will not stay silent anymore. Without the details, you might not know I now wear either a teal or purple (or both), band on my wrist that says, “Break the Silence”, a sexual assault awareness band.

Without the details, you might not know that those records, while they broke my heart into 1,000s of pieces, they gave me the courage to tell my sister for the first time that I was molested, and not only that, I had the courage to tell her which people are the ones who molested me. Without the details, I wouldn’t be able to tell you that having the confession in writing to show to my sister helped give me the courage to tell her the secret I have wanted to tell her, the secret I held inside since I was a little girl. Without the details, you would never find out that my sister cried, that she made very clear she believed me – and, even though she now knows I was hurt this way, she still loves me… She didn’t want to leave me, reject me, or ignore me, or try to wish my existence away, like my family does…

Without the details, you might think I finally broke from all of this mess…

When in truth, I may be broken…

I may be in more pain, and feeling more grief than before…

I may have zero hope left that what I have remembered is unreal,

now with written proof in front of me…

But, finally, I’m starting to hold onto enough of the thousands of pieces of the puzzle to put them together and become whole again…

Slowly…

but… surely, it will happen. I have to believe that.

I have to believe that.

I have to believe I will heal from this.

I don’t want to be alone anymore. I don’t want to be alone like I was in childhood, fighting demons and monsters on my own….

Will you sit here with me, and believe in me, too?

I’ll wait for you… Or, will you abandon me, too?

I don’t believe you will. I’m afraid you will… But I think you’ll stay.

And, I have to believe that.

A Picture Worth A Thousand Words...

2005-12-25T14:16:00.000+02:00

A Scared Inner Child

2005-10-27T09:25:00.000+02:00

Your Inner Child Is Scared

Like a kid, you tend to shy away from new experiences.
You prefer what's tried and true - novelty is scary!
New foods, new places, and new friends are difficult for you to deal with.
Some say you're predictable, but you enjoy being comfortable.

How Is Your Inner Child?

A silly quiz, "How is your inner child?" And, yet, so accurate.

I have always had within me a frightened inner child. I do not take risks, not for fun, not for anything. Some people might consider things I've done as risk taking -- like, for example, moving to another country. But I was only able to do this because my husband, who is a risk taker, brought me along. I had told him, "You're going to have to lead the way. Because if you make it up to me, we'll never leave where we are right now."

My inner child is scared.

She is also shy. She prefers the quiet room to the party house.

She is cautious. She doesn't trust anyone until they've proved themselves as safe.

And, at the same time, her eagerness to find trustworthy friends to confide in can backfire, leading her to trust the charming, sly types too soon.

My inner child wants to cry and scream... but I hold her back.

She wants to fly, sometimes, over rooftops, into the clouds, where it's safe... but I fear she'll never return to me if I let her go.

My inner child desires friendship and love... but we're both to frightened to allow ourselves to become that vulnerable to anyone.

My inner child desires at least me as a friend... but I tell her no... please, no. Because taking her in, allowing her to be connected to me, means taking in the reasons behind

her fears...

her shyness...

her cautiousness...

her desire to scream and cry...

her desire to fly away and escape...

her desire for love and friendship...

And I'm not ready to truly take those reasons inside.

I still want to stay separate from her.

And so... she is alone.

As am I.

Do you hear me?

2005-10-16T01:05:00.000+02:00

"If I touch a burning candle, I can feel no pain,
In the ice or in the sun, it's all the same.
Yet, I feel my heart is aching,
Though it doesn't beat, it's breaking,

And the pain here that I feel,
Try and tell me it's not real.
I know that I am dead,
Yet it seems that I still have some tears to shed."
-- Tears to Shed (Danny Elfman, from Corpse Bride)

I'm... sad.

I've wanted to post an entry for awhile. Say something again, in words, to release the pain I keep inside myself. I've wanted to write more about what actually happened to me... to dare to tell someone other than my therapist the kinds of tortures I experienced as a child. To have someone else hear me... and still sit by my side. To see that they don't run from me, hate me, think I'm disgusting, broken, and worthless for what was done to me.

I've also just wanted to share with you the pain of healing... the way that the realness of what happened to me seeps into me deeper and deeper, and while the realness stings like salt rubbed roughly into a gashing wound, at the same time, the tears that finally release with this realized "realness" are cleansing.

I've wanted to write a poem, a story or too, that expressed my heartache that while my world crumbled into stale cracker crumbs, no... one... ever... noticed.

I've wanted to do a lot of things.

This post is a start.

If you're listening, even if you don't know what to reply... just let me know you're here. I need to know that someone hears me.

I need to know that even though no one heard my cries when I was a child... that someone hears me now.

Do you hear me?

It’s prayer time. Do you know where your children are?

2005-09-29T20:27:00.000+03:00

[Have an ezine? Know of a publication that may be willing to publish this article? Please do pass it on, following the directions at the bottom carefully.]

It’s prayer time. Do you know where your children are?

By S. M.

Whether you’re old enough to remember, or have just heard it referenced to, I think most of us have heard about the commercial that used to play on television: “It’s 11 o’clock. Do you know where your children are?” This upcoming holiday season, a question I’d like you to keep in mind is… It’s prayer time. Do you know where your children are?

It’s no secret that abuse increases during the holiday season. Parents are often stressed out, and they may act out this stress on their children. Parents that are already abusive in some way just become worse during a time that is meant to be a time of repentance and reflection. While this is a concern and something to be aware of, that’s not what this article is about.

I’m talking about the sexual abuse and, sometimes, rape that happens at the hands of relatives or family friends during holiday meals, when there are more guests over than normal, when things are busier and we’re more distracted with being good hosts, instead of watching our children. We spend so much time telling our children to not talk to strangers. But the sad fact is that 93% of child sexual assault victims knew their attacker. Even more upsetting, 34.2% were family members, and 58.7% acquaintances. Only 7% percent of the perpetrators were strangers to the victim. [Sexual Assault of Young Children as Reported to Law Enforcement. Bureau of Justice Statistics, U.S. Department of Justice, 2000]

We encourage our children to accept touch they don’t want, making things even more dangerous. We tell a child to be a “good girl” or “good boy” and let Aunt or Uncle So-and-so give them a hug, a kiss, a pinch. “Let grandpa hold you in his lap.” We send a message that teaches our children, “Not only do you have to let them touch you when you don’t want to be touched, you’re a bad boy or girl if you say no.” Not all touch is bad. But teaching children that they can’t say no to touch because someone is a relative or friend is wrong and dangerous.

You may not want to hear this – but just because your in your own home, your parent’s home, your dearest aunt’s home, your child may not be safe.

The home is not the only place molestation is more likely to happen during the holiday season. How often do we let our children run around and play during holiday services? We tell them not to bother us, let us pray, and go play with the other children. But while you’re praying, another member of the synagogue or church may be looking for a lonely, dejected child to pray on. How many candy-givers in the synagogue or church have later been exposed as pedophiles? Yes, it does happen. And not as rarely as you’d like to think.

In one community, after living there a year, one of the members was suddenly missing from services. This was a 50-year old man who made every effort to attend the daily prayer services. He looked kind, and always had a smile. He fit the image of a perfect grandfather-type. So why was he suddenly missing from services? This “kind”, “religious” man broke his parole and was forced to serve time in jail. His crime? Sexual assault of a minor.

So, how can you help protect your child?

* Keep an eye on your children, especially children that are under 12, or children that are naturally timid or quiet. Not to say this sort of thing doesn’t happen to out-going children, but most pedophiles profile their victims. A quiet, reserved child makes for an easier target.

* Don’t force your children, either through guilt or words, to accept kisses, hugs, or any other kind of touching from relatives. It doesn’t matter if the relative is a grandmother, uncle, or older cousin, male or female, in their 30s or 90s. Children must be taught that they can *always* say no to touch.

* Talk to your children about good touch and bad touch. There are several books on these topics. Make clear to your child that good touch and bad touch doesn’t apply only to strangers, and that if anyone touches them in a way that makes them feel worried, nervous, or scared, that they should tell you right away. And reassure them that no matter what the other person tells them, they will not be in any trouble.

* When in synagogue or church, do not allow your children to wander the grounds without supervision. Even if they are being watched by a hired babysitter or a relative, come to check on the children periodically. If the person watching the children knows that you will drop in on and off unexpectedly, they are less likely to try to do anything.

* If you notice a drastic change in your child’s personality or behavior, at any time of year, but especially after holiday gatherings, find time to sit with your child and talk. You can see a complete list of warning signs to look for here: http://www.stopitnow.com/warnings.html If you think your child is being abused by a relative, you may need to ask the child directly, but in a calm manner, if someone touched them. It’s important that you ask the child in a way that doesn’t show any worry or extreme emotion, because the child may misinterpret your upset and believe they are going to be in trouble if they tell you.

* Don’t be ashamed or afraid of seeking professional help for you or your child, whether they tell you someone has hurt them, or you suspect someone might have hurt them. No harm will come from a consultation with a psychologist, but great harm can come from ignoring a real danger.

Just a bit more time given to watching your child can make a world a difference. I wish someone was watching me. Because not only did a relative repeatedly steal my innocence from me on the High Holidays. He stole the happiness and holiness from every holiday since my childhood, leaving behind memories of pain and terror that are triggered by the shofar’s call.

About the author: S.M. is a published author, editor, and award winning poet. Her magazines articles, essays, and poetry, published under a different name, have appeared in national, regional, and internet publications. She keeps a blog on her healing journey from childhood sexual abuse, which she invites you to visit at healingplace.blogspot.com or www.xanga.com/healingplace. You can email her at poet.s.m@gmail.com. S.M © 2005. Permission to reprint this article anywhere it may help prevent abuse, provided that this author bio is printed along with the article. Also, the author appreciates being notified of publication at poet.s.m@gmail.com.

Today, I was strong.

2005-06-23T03:27:00.000+03:00

Little Me spoke to me earlier today, before my appointment with Dr D.

She stared hard into my eyes. And said, "Are you going to look today?"

I'll try, I said.

"Trying isn't good enough anymore," she said. "I'm tried of you trying. I want you to just do it."

I can't just do it, I had told her.

"Bullshit," she said.

I will not survive the pain, little one. I will not. I will die, I know I will die.

"Have you noticed I'm not dead?" she said sarcastically. "I don't know if you noticed, but *I* felt all of this, *I* was there already once. It didn't kill me. It won't kill you."

I don't believe that, I said.

"Fine," she said. "Do what you want. But you know what I think? I think you're a jerk if you can't take care of me now. I think you're just as bad as those who ignored our pain in the past if you don't help me now. And I need you to really *look* at what happened to me while you were elsewhere."

I didn't say anything.

"And you know what else?" she said, crying now. "Somehow you managed to go through hours of childbirth without one drug, not one drop of pain medication. And somehow, you survived. For some reason, you were willing to face the pain. And why? For your child. Well, guess what. I am your child. I'm even more important than your child. And I need you to do for me what you did for your child." Little Me ran away, crying.

We didn't talk for quite a few hours after that.

I thought about our conversation... for a long time. And I decided I would try, very hard, to look. I decided I wouldn't turn away if I could help it. And I decided I would take the risk of dying in the process.

I went to my therapy appointment.

And I tried. I didn't turn away. And I didn't die.

You're welcome, little me. See... I do love you. I do.

###

Today, I was strong.

Today, I looked at what I didn't want to look at.
I looked at pain.
I looked at heartache.
I looked at terror.

Today, I felt what I didn't want to feel.
I felt pain.
I felt heartache.
I felt terror.

Today, I faced a truth I didn't want to face.
I faced the pain of truth.
I faced the heartache of truth.
I faced the terror of truth.

I looked.
I felt.
I faced.

And I did not die.

I survived.

I am a survivor now.

Today, I was strong.

Trying Together

2005-06-15T12:16:00.000+03:00

There comes a time when the pain exceeds the resources to cope, when the scale tips too far to the left, to the side of heartache and terror. And there is only one person in this world who understands, and so, I talk to her...

Little Me and I sit together, Indian style, our hands together, grasping onto each other as if something horrible may happen if we let go.

Are you ok? I ask Little Me.

{I'm ok. You?}

I'm not ok.

{Ok, neither am I.} She gives a little shrug, along with a tiny smile.

I didn't think so. What's wrong?

{There's so much. So much pain. So much to tell you. And it hurts me every time I need to tell you something new. Because I know you don't want to listen. And I know it hurts you to hear my stories.}

But I do want you to tell me the stories… I know that you need to tell them to me.

{You know in your mind. But in your heart, I doubt very much that you want to hear the memories.}

Well, they are painful, sweetheart. My heart is breaking… and I can't listen to so many stories, one after another, without wanting to pull away sometimes.

{I know. But I need you. I need you to stay with me and listen. Because I can't keep them to myself anymore… I'll die if I keep them to myself.}

I understand. And I am listening. It just hurts too much, sometimes.

{I hurt for a long time all by myself. You're lucky. You're not alone. You don't have to hold onto these secrets by yourself.}

Who do I have?

{Well, you have me. You have Dr D. You have others, if you'd be willing to talk to them. You have people to help you not be alone. It's just a matter of you taking the step to tell the stories to them.}

It hurts more when I tell the stories.

{Now you know how I feel… it does hurt to tell the stories. But they need to be told. They can not remain silent forever.}

I wish they could remain silent. I wish so much that nothing ever happened. I wish that all of this could just disappear, not be true. I want more than anything to make it all a dream, a nightmare.

{I can't do that. But I understand.} She squeezes my hands tighter.

That helps…

{It's 5 AM. Don't you think that perhaps we should go to sleep?}

You, asking me, to go to sleep?

{Well, ya.} She giggles. {I get tired too, you know. I know you're scared. I'm scared, too. But perhaps, together, we can go to bed.}

Maybe use the clouds…

{Yes… and some bunny rabbits, with pink ears.}

And maybe your Night Patrol, too.

{Let's try.}

Ok. We'll try. We'll try together.

Meeting Truth

2005-05-29T16:59:00.000+03:00

I met Truth on my way home from the therapist's office. She wore daisy dukes with a white halter top, and she held a joint in her left hand.

"Smoke?" she asked me.

"No thanks."

"You'll need it. You sure?"

"I'm sure."

She shrugged her shoulders, brought the joint to her lips, and took a hit. She sat down on the curb, and looked up, waiting for me to join her.

I sat down. Cars sped by just inches away from our feet.

"You know," she began, "You and I, we don't get along much, do we."

"I wouldn't say that."

"Wouldn't you?" she said, taking another hit. She raised one eyebrow. "You still insist on living a life of dreams. You have the memories right in front of you, but continue to look away. As if by ignoring me, I'll just disappear. And you'd like that, no? For me to just vanish, leave you alone."

"I admit it's a wish I have, yes."

"Well, you see, we don't get along much, do we."

I stared out at the cars racing past us. If I stepped out into the street, would they see me and stop before hitting me at full speed?

"I don't really take offense to girls like you," Truth continued. "I'm used to people blowing me off. Not many people can look at me in the eyes and say, 'Yes, I see you. You're real.' Most of them are like you, hoping I'm just some psychotic hallucination. And while that may seem to be a better choice, when it comes down to it, it'd be better for us both if you'd stop trying to push me away and accept that I'm here to stay."

"I don't see how that's a better choice."

"If you accept me," she said, "then that means you'll finally accept yourself, your history, your past. When you deny me, you deny your existence. Because what you think of as your past isn't real… As long as you continue to live in your world of false perfection, you'll be incapable of fighting the demons that rose within yourself, demons that at one time protected you from me, from Truth. But now, they stand in the way of your growth."

"This all sounds very lofty, but honestly, I'd rather live my old life."

"You mean the life full of irrational fears? The life that included panic attacks and constant anxiety? The one where sex is a numbing and often painful experience, and trust is too precious to offer anyone besides yourself? The life where friendships are threatening, and family controlling? That's the life you prefer?"

"You make it sound pretty bad, but…"

"You still sure you don't want a hit?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Listen," she said, throwing what was left of the joint out onto the street, "I don't expect you to sit here and accept me this moment, anymore than you would accept me at any other time. But I want you to think about what you're doing when you refuse to even speak with me. You're throwing the possibly of a good life, a better life, away, and for what? So you can live in a world of fear, illusion, and pain. Doesn't make much sense. That, girl, is psychotic. Not me." She looked deep into my eyes. "Not me."

Truth stood up, and walked right into the street. The cars seemed to drive through her, and by the time she reached the other curb, she vanished.

Her joint, however, lay on the street, on the yellow lines.

And I sat on that curb alone, thinking about Truth.

Poem: What's It Like

2005-05-17T05:20:00.000+03:00

What's It Like

By S. M.

What's it like
To sleep, to rest,
To dream, without panic,
To find comfort between mattress and blanket...

What's it like
To love, to touch,
To be passionate, without pain,
To immerse in each sensation...

What's it like
To cry, to scream,
To own emotions, without fear,
To reveal your heart inside-out...

What's it like
To talk, to mingle,
To connect, without shame,
To not fear "they" will find out about "you"...

Tell me.

What's it like?

© S.M 2005

Racing Thoughts

2005-05-15T08:13:00.000+03:00

I have many thoughts, many tonight. I need to write them out, and I need to share them. I don't always share my thoughts when they are so broken, so rambling, so here and there. And I never share them when they are frightening. But tonight I need to. So I write, as it comes... whether it sounds literary or not, whether it's poetic or not, whether it's positive or depressing, here it is.

I'm sitting in my living room. It's 12:13 AM, and Sunday has just begun. I need to work tomorrow morning, and so going to bed would be the wise choice. But as soon as I think about going to sleep, my heart becomes full of fear. Intense fear. And I don't know why. I'm not sure I want to even go there and start looking for why I feel this way.

I can guess… But perhaps, better, I should ask Little Me, considering I have strict instructions from Dr. D to check in with Little Me on a more regular basis.

So, Little Me… why are you scared to sleep tonight?

{She looks at me, her eyes giving a hint of sarcasm. You can't tell me, she says, that you don't know why going to bed is a fearful thing. Where would you like me to begin? How about... flashbacks? How about... remembering the fear that once came with bedtime, many years ago? How about... knowing if you go to bed while you-know-who is still awake we may be seduced, which will lead to sex, which will lead to flashbacks... it doesn't get much more clear than that, she says, does it?}

This is true. All true. Any chance our army of little animals can help tonight?

{I'm thinking about it, she tells me. I'm thinking about it...}

Ok. I'll come back to you.

*thought change*

Usually morning sex is better than nighttime sex, perhaps because at night, I'm more prone to flashbacks than usual. At least, it’s better in the flashback sense. But not today, not this morning. I was flooded with auditory memories, hearing, over and over, lines, phrases, words, which were once said to me. I didn't hear things just from one memory, nor from only one of my abusers, but lines from both, lines from memories that were supposed to be "processed". It was an auditory montage.

As I was together with my husband, and he was trying to make love to me, I couldn't handle the voices playing in my mind.

He'd touch me, and I'd hear my uncle's voice, You know you like it.

He'd kiss me, and I'd hear my other abuser's voice, Don’t you cry. Don't you dare cry.

He'd caress me, and I'd hear words I will never repeat here, swear words, painful words, phrases that should never be said to anyone, let alone a little girl.

I tried using my force fields, my turning dials, everything I have in my bag of tricks to turn off the noise, but I couldn't. The more we made love, the louder and stronger the voices became, until, I just couldn't take it anymore.

So I told my lover to stop, "skip to the end", please.

He insisted, no, I don't mind if it takes more time.

I mind, I tell him.

Just let me try for a bit more, he tells me.

He doesn't have any idea why I want him to stop, though perhaps he can guess. I don't tell him details, because it breaks his heart.

Ok, I say. I say ok. But inside I cry.

I give him five minutes more of "trying", and then say, ok, we tried, now skip to the end.

So we do.

Afterward, though, I feel guilty. I feel pain in my heart.

Why can't this all just stop? Someone tell me why... Just tell me why…

*thought change*

So, back to Little Me.

{Little animals… well, I have them here, she says.}

Are they helping?

{No, she says.}

Right. Dumb question.

{Yes, she says. Pretty obvious.}

Can you tell me what you are thinking? What you want to tell me?

{You don't want to hear it, she tells me.}

Yes I do.

{Ok, she says. I want you to go to the cabinet and find your knife and start cutting. I want you to see exactly how much Nyquil one would have to drink to bring on death. Or how many Advil tablets... don't we have a mega-pack in the bathroom?}

Yes, we do.

{Ok, so that's an option, she says.}

I guess it is.

{She stops talking for awhile and gives me a hard stare.}

What?

{See, she says, you don't want to hear these things. I can see that myself.}

Well, how do you want me to react when you start telling me how you want to hurt yourself? You want me to jump up and down for joy?

{Now you're just being mean, she says.}

I'm sorry.

{No, you're not, she says.}

I'm trying to listen. I really am. Honest. But I can't help but feel scared and upset when you start talking like that.

{Well, she says, I'm scared too. In fact, I'm tired of feeling scared all the time. I want to make it stop.}

I know you want to make it stop. But... will you consider trying to use our clouds? The ones Dr. D made for us? The ones you can go to when we're feeling this way, when we're feeling so very low.

{I don't know, she says. I don't have the energy. I'm tired of trying.}

Let's just try the clouds one more time... you don't need to do anything. All you do is imagine the fluffy clouds, with lots of room to run, clouds that are a little bouncy but supportive and safe. And go there, to run around, or rest, with or without your animals. The clouds are safe...

{Yes, she says. The clouds are safe.}

So, please? I can come with you if you like, or I can stay here.

{I'll go myself, she says. I want to be alone.}

Ok... ok.

Poem: You Knew

2005-05-10T01:29:00.000+03:00

You Knew.

By S. M.

Why did you tie my hands, my ankles?
You knew I wouldn't move anyway.
You knew I couldn't move under the strength of your hands, your body.
You knew. You knew.

What made you feel the need to break a little girl?
You knew I was weak.
You knew you could beat me, you knew it was an unfair fight.
You knew. You knew.

Why did you take my innocence from me?
You knew I could never take it back.
You knew I'd never experience love and pleasure again without pain.
You knew. You knew.

What pleasure did you receive from seeing my pain?
You knew I'd be forever locked in the horrors you created.
You knew it's your face I'd see in my nightmares.
You knew. You knew.

You knew.

But you didn't care.

And I have news for you…

You may have tied me,
But now I can untie myself.

You may have broken me,
But I can repair my soul.

You may have taken my innocence,
But I can heal the loss.

You may have tattooed your horrors into my heart,
But I can paint over the wounds.

You didn't know I could become stronger than you.
You didn't know I could beat you.
But I knew. I knew.

So, fuck you.

The EMDR Rollercoaster

2005-05-03T00:21:00.000+03:00

"Are you ready?" Dr. D asks me.

I sit across from her, my arms tightly held against my body, my hands squeezing the fabric of my sweater. "I guess... I don't know. Wait..."

"Ok. Tell me when you're ready."

"Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, I just managed to push away the feeling." I'm referring to the body memory I had started to have minutes ago, a hot sensation between my legs, which quickly traveled up, covering me up to my belly button. The sensation then remained warm except right between my legs, where the abuse happened, and in the dark and secret places, where suddenly, I had felt intense heat, intense arousal, and intense pain, all at once, sending me into an emotional twister of shame and fear. But by holding my breath, counting to ten in my mind, and pulling myself away from my body, I managed to push the horrible body memory away.

I knew the EMDR (Click here for definition) would bring it back. And I didn't want it back.

"Well, it's either you feel it now, or feel it later when you're alone. It's up to you."

I can feel myself tense up, unable to say what I need to say, what I should say. My voice feels like it's been taken from me, and the words I need to create sentences are scrambled. I want to tell her what I felt moments before, because I know if I do, then it'll get worse for awhile, but get better. But I can't. I don't have the words right then, I wouldn't find the words that I used above until hours later. So my other choice is to go along with the EMDR, to let her help me, which also will get worse at first, and then better, but at least I don't need to find those words that run from me. But I can't say yes to that either. How can I tell her to go ahead and start when I know that when she does, I will be forced back into that world of sensations that overcome and violate me? How can I risk the body memories pulling up other memories, images, sounds, emotions? How can I let her look at me when I'm feeling this mirage of memory, whether she knows what I feel or not, how can I let her see my shame? How can I let her look at me, and not hide myself?

But, how can I say no, knowing that if I don't do something, whether talking or the EMDR, I won't feel better, and that tonight, and the next night, and the next night, I will feel these memories when I'd rather be watching a movie, reading a book, being in bed with my husband, sleeping, being me...…

"Ok," I tell her. The only words I can manage to choke out. "Ok... you can start."

She holds her hand in front of me, her two fingers together, and starts waving her hand back and forth, back and forth, in front of my eyes. I'm surprised by how the body memories jump back in so quickly, going from feeling absolute nothingness to absolute overwhelming sensations.

As she waves her hand in front of me, and I do my best to follow her hand with my eyes, she counts, "One...… two...… three, let yourself feel it...… four, a little more intensely...… five, as intense as you can...… six...… it's fading now...… seven...… eight...… nine, it's almost over...… ten."

While I try not to fight the sensations, I feel like I can't help it at times. I almost feel like it's a way of saying no to the abuse that happened years ago, and a part of me cries out, no, please, stop, don't hurt me. And I need to tell that part of me that we need to feel this, because it already happened, because it's not happening now and we can't stop what is in the past, and I tell that part of me that if we feel it now, and feel it completely, then we can let it go...

Sometimes I can't stop fighting the memories until she gets up to nine, and then, they crash in whether or not I want them... Other times, when I can manage to allow myself to let the memories in, I start feeling it all at once only at one or two. I wish I could let myself feel it without fighting it everytime... I wish I could let them all in at once, so it can be over, so I can feel better, feel at peace, feel ok... I wish many things...

We take a break for a minute, and then, we start again, and she counts again for me.

There is something about her counting that makes me feel like the feelings aren't completely out of control, that they are tamable in some way. And while I'm not the one taming them, really, I trust her, and I trust her that she will not let the feelings take me away, away from my mind, away from my body, away from her office, back too far in time, where I'm afraid of becoming trapped, with my abuser, frozen in the past, forever.

Who will stand guard tonight, Little Me?

2005-04-29T18:31:00.000+03:00

I can't sleep. I barely slept four hours, and they were nightmare filled hours. "I couldn't fall asleep last night," I told Dr. D at 7 AM this morning, sitting across from her in the closet-sized office.

"That's probably because you can't stop thinking about all these terrible things we've been working on," she suggested.

"That's part of it," I told her. "But it's also more than that. I can't close my eyes or relax. I sit on the couch in my living room, my eyes wide open, watching for who knows what."

"Well, let's think about how a child living in an abusive situation thinks," she begins.

"Let's not. I wouldn't know anything about that," I say, partially kidding and laughing, partially aware that denial doesn't help. But I can't help it.

"Right, this has nothing to do with you." She smiles. "But let's imagine anyway. Can you think of why a child like this might desperately try to stay awake? If you don't close your eyes, then you'll always be ready for someone or something before it hurts you. You'll see what's about to hurt you."

"Right. True."

"So maybe you should ask Little You about this. Ask her what would make her feel safer. Perhaps, an imaginary lion sleeping in your bed? Sometimes it helps people feel better if they feel like someone else is watching for them, even if that someone or something is not real… So ask Little You, and see if she can help you get some sleep."

Little Me…. I haven't spoken to her in awhile.

Little Me, are you there, listening? Do you want to talk to me today? I know we haven't spoken for awhile, and perhaps you're angry with me. I don't know if you're willing to work with me on this, but we have a little problem. If I don't sleep, you don't feel well either. You become more trigger-happy and more sensitive. So, for both of us, let's see if we can work on this sleeping issue.

{I imagine Little Me sitting in the corner of my bedroom, her back towards me. She has her head buried into her knees, she's holding her legs close to her body. Her curly short hair bobs go off in different directions. She doesn't look like she's slept much either. And she certainly doesn't look like she wants to talk to me.}

What would make you feel safe, Little Me? We already do the sleeping bag trick, but I know that hasn't been as helpful lately. What do you think about imaginary animals keeping guard?

{Little Me turns around from the corner briefly, and looks at me as if to say, "You really think I'm that stupid?" This is when I notice her eyes are red. She looks like she's been crying.}

I don't mean it in an offensive way, honest. I just want you to feel safer; I want you to feel better. And while, yes, imaginary tigers and lions are not going to protect you from real danger, part of the point here is that, well, there is no danger anymore. You're safe now. No one is here to hurt you anymore. So, perhaps, since the danger isn't here, we can agree on a good watch system, one that will let both of us sleep? If even that system operates only in our imagination?

{Little Me crosses her legs Indian style and folds her arms across her chest. She looks at me as if to say, what do you mean the danger isn't here? I know it is! I feel it!}

No, sweetie, really… no one is here to hurt you. Honest.

{She bites her lip, and one tear comes down her cheek.}

Trust me. I know it feels like someone is here, especially at night. But no one is here. In fact, one of your abusers has been dead for more than ten years already. The other abuser lives hours from where you live now. No one is here that can hurt you.

{She sighs deeply and looks down at her hands, which are folded in her lap.}

So? What do you say?

{Little Me stands up, slowly. She pulls out from a pocket a paintbrush. She walks over to the wall and begins to create… something.}

I'm watching.

{She paints iron bars, security cameras, barbed wired fences. Then, she paints around the fence little blue birds, bunny rabbits, sweet squirrels, and puppy dogs. She paints them little security outfits, giving the bunny rabbit a yellow sweater, with the words, "Armed Night Patrol" on the left breast pocket. She gives the blue bird a cap, a picture of a silver shield on the front. She turns to me, as if to ask, is this good}

If you think so… does it make you feel safe?

{She turns back to her painting. She puts down the brush, and pulls from the same pocket that she pulled out the paintbrush a golden foil packet. She tears it open, and sprinkles what looks like gold dust over her painting. The picture comes to life, the animals greet her. The blue bird flies and perches himself on her shoulder. The bunny rabbit in his yellow security sweater hops over to her leg and rubs up against her. The puppy dog jumps in her arms, the perfect fit for the perfect snuggle. She turns back to me, and smiles.}

Yes, I think this will work. Just let me know if it stops working…

{She turns back to her animals.}

One more thing, Little Me.

{She looks over her shoulder to me.}

I'm sorry… for ignoring you. For so long... I'll try harder, to talk more often with you.

{She looks down, smiles, and looks up at me again, a few tears running down her cheek. It’s ok, her face tells me. But don't do it again...}

I won't… I'll try.

Poem: Accounting

2005-04-29T05:43:00.000+03:00

[Note: I now have a mirror site to this blog at http://www.xanga.com/healingplace]

Accounting

By S. M.

My crystal heart
is shattered into
one million,
nine-hundred and four thousand,
eight hundred and
forty-seven
pieces:

Twenty three pieces,
For the years of confusion, anxiety, and mistrust.

+

One thousand, one-hundred and fifty pieces,
For the minutes spent exposing my shame.

+

One thousand, eight hundred, and twenty six pieces,
For days spent living in terror.

+

Three hundred and twenty-four thousand pieces,
For the seconds spent in forced, sudden
Time warps into a (once) forgotten past.

+

One million, five-hundred and seventy-seven thousand, eight hundred and forty six pieces,
For the minutes of life
completely
erased.

Plus, one last piece…

for the lost innocence

of childhood.

© S.M 2005
[All poetry and writings copyrighted. Do not copy, forward, or otherwise take material from this website without permission from the author. Thank you.]

Heart Sick (Warning: May be triggering for self-injurers)

2005-04-26T06:26:00.000+03:00

My anxiety is unbearable tonight. I'm heart sick. I feel as if a great weight rests over my chest. I rub my hand over my heart over and over, trying to alleviate the physical aching. I feel tears behind my eyes, but they don't come. I know I'd feel better if I could release the aching, and let the tears flow and cleanse my anxiety -- but it's not easy to let go, to allow myself to feel vulnerability, which I have fought since I was a young child.

If I could only cry, perhaps I wouldn't feel the need to hurt myself… like I did three weeks ago. Like I want to now. I am fighting my desire to find my special knife, or to grab a pair of nail scissors, and cut myself. I have no intention of killing myself, G-d forbid. This isn't about death. This is about using pain to push away the emotional pain. This is about dissociation, about creating pain so I can remove myself from my mind, and float above myself, to feel myself unreal.

I'm fighting it. I'm not going to do this tonight. I will wait until at least tomorrow night; I will give myself a night of sleep before I hurt myself. I will give myself 24-hours to think about it.

Perhaps talking about what happened three weeks ago will help me push away the desire to cut myself… So, for the faint of heart, or those who may be triggered by reading a detailed description of cutting, I suggest walking away from this entry right now…

I sit in my bathroom, a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a new, sharp paring knife on the sink counter. I have my pajama pants rolled up, and I'm staring at my thigh. I take a folded tissue and pour some of the rubbing alcohol onto the tissue. The smell of the alcohol reminds me of blood tests, doctor's offices, surgery preparations. I rub the tissue over my leg, cleansing the area I intend to break. I may want to feel pain, but I'm not stupid. I don't want to risk an infection. After I wipe down my thigh, I rub the knife as well, making sure everything is clean. Everything is sterile…

I take the knife in my hand, and consider the best way to angle the blade. Is the blade sharp enough to cut by just applying pressure, so I don't need to actually cut across the skin? I try it. No dice, it's not sharp enough. I hold the knife the way one would hold pencil. I lightly trace a line, no more than an inch. I trace the same line again, pressing slightly harder. It leaves behind a barely visible pink line. I trace the line again, pressing slightly harder. I start to feel the knife scraping away some of my flesh. I trace again. I trace again. I trace again. I trace again. With each trace, I feel the slightest amount of pain. With each trace, I press harder. And yet, after each trace, I feel less and less.

I can see, finally, a line of dark blood, but it's not flowing yet. I very slowly, steadily, cut once again, this time applying more pressure than any other cut. I breath in, I breath out. The cut burns, and a few drops of blood flow from underneath my knife. I breath in, I breath out. I cut a little deeper. I cut beyond my originally traced line, able to press deeper faster, because I am, essentially, numb.

I put my knife down, and carefully squeeze the skin around the cut, to watch the blood flow from the wound. Seeing the blood flow relieves something inside me. I feel as if my heart ache, my pain, is leaving my body. I close my eyes, I open them… I breath in, I breath out. And I feel as if the world around me is unreal. I feel like I'm floating, like my hands are not mine, like the room I'm in is not mine.

I clean the knife with rubbing alcohol. It takes some time to rub the blood stains off. I hide the knife in a high place, not with the knives we use for food. I put the rubbing alcohol away in the bathroom closet.

I walk over to my bedroom window and stare out. I look down at my leg, and see one tiny drop of blood dripping down my leg. I look back out the window. And I feel as if the world around me, the cars driving down the road, the trees waving in front of me, are holograms. Nothing is real, and neither am I.

A few minutes pass... not many. I look down at my leg, and the realization of what I've done hits me. I just cut myself. I purposely cut myself and caused myself to bleed. I feel a sudden pang of guilt and of shame. My heart begins to ache again. My emotional aching returns. And I want to hurt myself again, to take the pain away again. But I don't. I stand still, near my bedroom window, and look out.

I want to cry, and the tears come closer than before.

But they, like my pain, remain hidden.

Hearing the Fear

2005-04-18T07:37:00.000+03:00

11:47 PM

I dry off from my 20-minute shower. I think back to before I came into the shower, before I undressed and revealed my vulnerability to the air, when I unlocked the front door for my husband, who is due home from a business trip tonight. He's without keys, and if he were to come when I was in the shower, I wouldn't hear him.

But right now I'm not thinking about that… I'm thinking that I left the door unlocked. Anyone could come in. At anytime. And I don't think of robbers, nor kidnappers, or teenage vandalizers... What if a rapist broke into my home… What if he is standing outside my bathroom door right now…

11:49 PM

I stare at the door knob, my heart pounding out an S.O.S call in my chest. "This is ridiculous," I say out loud to no one in particular. "Open the door. Come on… this is silly. You know no one is there."

I slowly reach my hand out, grasping the handle, I quickly turn my hand, opening the door, disengaging the lock, when… I hear something. The floor creaked. I slam the door shut, hands shaking, and punch the lock back into place.

My breath is rapid, my palms are sweaty.

11:51 PM

It was the house settling, I tell myself. If someone were out there, they would have broken down the door. This is silly. This is ridiculous. Open the door, moron. I reach my hand out, my fingers brush against the cold metal handle, and I pull my hand back.

I think I heard something again.

12:01 AM

I can't sit here until my husband gets home. He may not get back for another hour. I stare at the door and feel like I can see through it, to the hallway, where a memory waits, sticking its tongue at me, laughing at me, taunting me.

I close my eyes, and I remember being a little girl, standing outside a bathroom, in my relative's house, having just finished my business. Someone is standing in front of me. It's dark in the hallway; the sounds of the night fill the void between me and this someone.

I open my eyes, and I'm in my home bathroom again.

12:07 AM

"You are going to open the door," I say. "This is just a flashback. It's not happening now. No one is there now. You are safe at home. No rapist will wait around that long for you to open the damn door. Just open it quickly."

I stare at the handle some more.

Then, I sit on the toilet seat, breathing shallowly, carefully.

12:15 AM

My left hand is on the door handle, and my right hand holds my hair pin, ready to attack. I take a deep breath, and open the door quickly.

No one is there.

I carefully look out, making sure not to turn my back to a possible attack. I push open my children's door, and look into the room. No one. I walk with my back close to the hallway wall. I look behind my door. No one. Look in my bed, my husband's bed, our closet, behind the desk, under the desk, our master bathroom. No one. I check the living room, behind the couch, under the dinning room table, the kitchen, underneath the kitchen table, the laundry room, the porch, the coat closet. No one.

I sit down to write this out. Remember it as a time when nothing came from the fear but fear.

12:25 AM

I'm typing, quickly, listening to Tori Amos sing "The Power of Orange Knickers" on my computer's MP3 player. Sitting at our sturdy IKEA dinning room table, service for eight. Every so often I think I see something, someone out of the corner of my eyes and need to look up to reassure myself… no, there is no one standing in my bedroom. No one standing in the hallway. Just my imagination. Just…

Then, the sound of glass against glass.

I mute my music. I stare into my bedroom. I'm frozen. My heart is pounding… Maybe I missed someone during my search of the house?

Then, I realize. Our windows are open. Probably something from outside… I start to relax, when the dryer buzzer goes off. I jump; my heart leaps into my sinuses. I breathe again, and my computer fan turns on. I hear the hum of the refrigerator. I hear my son snoring in the distance. I hear the hard drive of my computer spinning, clicking. I hear cars swishing by outside. I hear a bird singing, a nighttime serenade. I hear my own heartbeat, my own respirations.

I hear my fear.

Speak Out, Get Help...

2005-04-07T06:20:00.000+03:00

I always find it funny how I can find strong, encouraging words for others, but take none for myself.

Here is an essay I wrote in an effort to ground myself on a bad day. I hope it helps and encourages other survivors to find help in healing their past.

You don't have to stay silent forever: Healing from childhood sexual abuse
http://sheknows.com/about/look/5598.htm

Do you realize that by writing this essay and having it published that I have just admitted to over a half-a-million people that I was sexually molested? I understand it's with a pen name, but still... I have to think about this, process it for awhile. But I think I actually feel stronger for it.

Dials and Force Fields

2005-03-30T18:17:00.000+02:00

What do you know, I'm capable of having good sex, or at least, better sex, thanks to some unique and helpful tips from Dr. D.

Before I go into this, I need to introduce you to "Little Me". I've always known that something happened to me as a child, even though I may not have remembered the details. But I didn't consider that it happened to me, as in the person typing to you right now. I always felt it happened to a different part of me, "Little Me". And she's not me. I consider her separate from the real me. This makes it easier to deal with, easier to cope with. So when I tell you the story, I'm telling you her story, not my story. When I have nightmares, they are her nightmares, not my nightmares.

I didn't acknowledge or talk to Little Me for years and years. The last time we spoke I was in 6th grade, when I stared out a window, talking to her, while peers teased and said cruel childhood jabs. I talked to her to help myself feel better about what my classmates were saying. If I didn't have her, I was all alone. She made me feel less alone. But when 7th grade came along, I stopped talking to her. I locked her away.

When I started to remember and deal with my past in therapy, "Little Me" came out to play again. So we talk, I write letters to her, and this has been essential to my healing. For example, I went through a period of time where I could not cry. I wanted to cry desperately, but the tears would not come. My therapist suggested that I write a letter to Little Me, telling her that it's ok to cry, that no one is here to hurt her if she does cry. Here are some excerpts from that letter:

###

I see you, and I see your pain… but I don't want to be a part of that pain. As much as I want to help you, I want to stay separated. I want to keep you and your pain and your experiences far away from me. Because I can't handle it. Maybe you can't handle it either… but I want to try and maybe we can handle it together.

I want to tell you that the people who hurt you are gone now. They have left and they are not here to hurt you… No one is going to touch you if you don't want them to…. So you can cry now… you can come back to life, get up and play…. You don't have to be in so much pain anymore all by yourself. I'm stepping around the glass and I'm holding you and I'm telling you it's ok to cry now. And don't let anyone tell you that crying isn't allowed. Don't let anyone tell you that what happened to you wasn't a big deal. It is a big deal, and you have a right to cry. And don't let anyone tell you that time has passed and you should be "over it" by now. You never had a chance until now to realize it's over. For you, it only stopped a few minutes ago….

And you don't have to cry alone. You can come to my house and cry here as long as you like… I won't tell you that you have to stop.

###

After writing the letter, I cried my eyes out. I cried while writing the letter. I cried for an hour straight.

I didn't want to write the letter originally, and I actually told Dr. D that I couldn't do it. I did not want to connect with Little Me. But I got desperate and wrote the letter, and it worked. It felt so good to be able to cry.

So… back to dials and force fields…

Dr. D suggested that I pretend there are dials I can turn to regulate how much I feel, and give different parts of my body or different sensations different controls. So I can turn up one place, while turning down another. This isn't the same as making myself all numb, which just turns on aggression, anxiety, and agitation, and it's not the same as letting myself feel everything, which is too overwhelming for me now. Since many memories are triggered by things I feel, this can help me turn off those feelings, while not turning everything off.

The other thing I needed to do, at the same time, is to put Little Me inside a "force field" while I'm together with my husband, where she can't see, hear, or sense anything outside of it. I put her there, and tell her I'll come get her in a little while. I told her to read a book while she was waiting.

The two techniques worked amazingly well. There were times I would start to remember something despite all the tricks, but all I needed to do was tell Little Me that she's not supposed to come out yet, and I'll come get her soon. And the memory or thought would go away, not get any stronger, and not effect what we were doing.

And the best part is… Even before I started on the healing path, I have never been able to have an orgasm without thinking of some disturbing fantasy along with it, or more recently, without memories from the past coming in. But when I used these techniques, at least the one time I used them, I had an orgasm without ANY negative thoughts at the same time. I did, of course, need to "turn dials" like crazy and remind Little Me to stay in that force field, but that is a great improvement over what usually came to my mind during that time.

It's amazing what a little imagination can accomplish.

Of Sleeping Bags and Bad Sex...

2005-03-20T21:29:00.000+02:00

Sex sucks when you're numb.

The past few days have been better. Much better. My psychologist made two suggestions that really helped with nighttime flashbacks. I sleep in a sleeping bag now. I feel much safer sleeping this way, like a small child wrapped in the arms of a loving caregiver. (Why is it when I write those words they don't come across as comforting as I wish they could be?) I feel protected. Because it's zipped all around, I don't panic from sudden bursts of cooler air or the sensation that a part of my body may not be completely covered and tucked in with my blanket. I fall asleep much faster.

I admit that when Dr. D first suggested it, I laughed. Like a sleeping bag will help… Well, I'm glad I was wrong. I'm finally getting some sleep.

Something else she suggested that has helped a great deal is to use a scent to remind the "little me" that we're in a different place now. So, I rub some massage oils infused with essential oils into my hands, take a deep breath, and tell the little me inside, "Smell this? This was not there in the past. This will remind you that we're safe now, and we're not in danger anymore." Another idea that sounded silly at first. But works very well. I still wake up in the middle of the night, but one sniff of my hands, the oil scents remind me that we're in the here-and-now, and I don't have intense flashbacks.

Together, the sleeping bag and the oils, they work well. For now. I hope they will continue to work, but I've found that sometimes when something works, it doesn't last long. Almost like the mind gets used to the "trick" and finds new ways to bring out nightmares from the past…

Back to sex sucking, no pun intended.

To stay safe, to stay far from memories I don't want to think about, I've been trying my best to avoid intimacy. Since I've started on this healing path, I'm incapable of being together with my husband without having memories, images, or flashbacks from the past. But I can't deny him closeness consistently. So when I do, at least when I'm trying my best to stay numb, sex can be annoying. Every kiss bothers me, every touch is too much. I tell him, "Yes, please take me," and at the same time, I cry, "Please, don't touch me so much." It's like my senses are on high-alert -- breach of the security gates trips an automatic alarm system. I push him away with one arm, while I pull him closer with the other.

This is what being together is like when I'm trying to stay numb. If I allow myself to feel, to lose myself together with him and take in the intimacy that I desire deep inside myself, I can feel wonderful… for a moment. By turning the security gate key to off, I let in the images, the flashbacks, and the fears. I can't have one without the other. He touches me, he kisses me, and he makes love to me -- and I close my eyes, and see… Horror. Memories. And while the act relieves my sexual desire, when we finish, I feel mentally violated again.

And I hate it.

Sleepless Nights

2005-03-17T16:51:00.000+02:00

My newest flashbacks have become so overwhelming that I think I've blown an emotional fuse. The past few days have been like a blur. I feel numb and anxious. The flashing images and intrusive thoughts related to the "new" memory continue to try and sneak themselves in, but I'm pushing back. Hard. When I see or hear it, I tell myself that it's not real. That it's not me this happened to. And I don't feel anything from the memory now -- but I also can't feel anything in the present either. That's a choice I made, though. Right now, feeling empty and nothing is easier than feeling pain.

Last night, I laid down to sleep on my bed and stared up at the ceiling. I put headphones on and tried to relax, listening to Yani Live. I felt unreal, as if I didn't really exist at all. I kept feeling like little bugs were crawling on me, and I couldn't stop itching at the imaginary tickles. At one point, I started to feel fear. Not anxiety or panic, but the feeling that something very terrible is going to happen. I managed to push the fear away, but still couldn't sleep.

While I know I should have gotten out of my bed after I didn't fall asleep for 45 minutes, I was so tired. I have not been able to sleep soundly the entire week, and I don't have the energy. I finally fell asleep, but I had nightmares all night. I remember at least three of the nightmares, and I know I had a few more than that. Every time I had a nightmare, I'd wake up again for a moment, and then fall back asleep.

I woke up in the morning before 6 AM. I didn't need to be awake for at least another hour and a half, and I wanted to desperately sleep more. I didn't feel as if I slept all night. Just as I was falling asleep again, I started to dream before I was completely asleep. You know, those dreams that jolt you right back awake and you're not 100% sure if you dreamt it or it really just happened. I suddenly dreamt that the bedroom door handle was jiggled. That was the dream. A short burst of sound, which shot fear through my heart. I stared up at the ceiling and reminded myself that what I heard was only a dream. That I'm in a safe place now. That no one who hurt me has access to me now. I was able to fall back asleep for another hour, but had yet another nightmare.

So now, I sit here trying to concentrate on my work. But I'm tired. And I'm numb. And I just want to feel better and for all of this to be over already…

Why this blog...

2005-03-15T02:30:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,

This isn't my only blog. But it is the only blog that I will not share the link with those who I don't have complete and utter trust with. Why, then, keep a blog that no one will read?

I didn't say no one will read it. I hope people do read it. I hope women (and men) who have experienced the trauma I have will read, be inspired, and feel less alone. But I'm not as brave as Angela Shelton (see link to the side)... I don't want anyone who knows me to read this blog.

My heart is racing as I type, and I haven't even said much yet. I have yet to be able to say, out loud, the specific words which relate to the trauma I experienced as a child. To say the words would mean it really happened -- and while I've always known that it did, I've never wanted that to be true. Denying the truth, of course, doesn't change the past. Denying my pain won't erase my sorrow.

I have talked about my painful past. I've told a few very close friends. I've told my therapist. (I've told my therapist the details of my pain, but that's not the same as saying, "I was...") I told my husband. But I've always said it in a round-about way...

"I was hurt as a child..."
"My uncle touched me..."

So, today, right now, I'm going to type the words... words I've never uttered, words I've never said out loud to the world. And I still can't say the words out loud. But perhaps, typing the words will be a baby step towards saying the words verbally.

I was sexually molested as a child, for five years.

There... I said it.

And I'm still alive.

First Post

2005-03-15T01:08:00.000+02:00

This is a test post.