Surviving Rape

This is what happens when you are raped by someone in your social circle:

You go home and cry in the shower so no-one can hear you.

You throw away everything you were wearing, because you never want to see or touch it again.

Then you shower again.  And again. And again until you are finally convinced you can’t smell him on you.

You think about what happened over and over, trying to figure out if there was something you could have done to avoid it.  “I shouldn’t have had that drink.  I shouldn’t have flirted.  I should have dressed more modestly.”

You convince yourself it was your fault.

You don’t sleep much. Or you sleep too much.

You think about going to the police but you don’t because you’ve read all the horror stories about how rape victims are treated.

You try to tell someone, but you don’t because you’re afraid they’ll tell you you’re lying, or that it’s your fault.

You go to the doctor and get an STI screening, but don’t tell her why.  Or maybe you do, but you don’t listen to her when she tells you it’s not your fault.

You cry when your period comes because you’re so relieved you don’t have to make The Decision.

You avoid any gathering he might attend, even if it hurts a friend or family member.

You stop seeing the friends who are still friends with him – but you don’t tell them why.

Then, if you’re lucky…

One of your friends convinces you to stop avoiding her and tell her what’s wrong.

She cries with you.

She gets mad for you.

She tells you it’s not your fault until you believe it.

You get mad.

She helps you find a professional to talk to, and you start fighting your way back to normal.

*Yes, I am speaking from experience. No, I will not go into further detail.

Normally there would be a witty title here

So, I’ve been quiet.  It’s because I haven’t been in a shiny happy place – in fact I’ve been in the Leave-me-the-hell-alone-so-I-can-wallow-in-my-misery place.  Not a pretty place – and I’m not terribly proud of myself for staying there for so long.  But I’m walking out of it now, and that’s what counts, right?

It started Labor Day weekend, with a trip to Merced to visit my mother-in-law.  It’s something we’ve done dozens of times since we moved away almost 20 years ago – and while it’s never been my favorite thing to do (my relationship with my mother in law?  That’s a post or five for another time) it’s been manageable.  A little anxiety, a lot of irritation, and a touch of the Merced Miasma*, but nothing I couldn’t shake once we crossed the city limits out of Merced and into Atwater.  THIS time… well, this time I was flooded with ugly memories and anxiety that ramped itself up into near-panic in the 4 hours we were there.  I managed to hold myself together until we left my mother-in-law’s house, but by the time we hit the freeway I was crying and felt physically ill.  And for nearly the entire time since, I’ve been down in a very ugly hole.  I felt as though every shred of progress I’d made over the past 4 months was gone and I was right back where I started.

I realized yesterday – during another of my therapy sessions in which I cry and babble incoherently for the first half hour and then figure out what the real issue is in the last 20 minutes – that I have been keeping myself stuck there.  I was embarrassed and ashamed of those memories.  I was afraid to talk about them to anyone but my husband because I feared judgement and abandonment by the people who loved my mother and didn’t know her spiteful abusive vindictive side.  I didn’t want to be one of those cliche’s – sitting in therapy crying about how my parents ruined my life.  And I didn’t want to speak ill of the dead because really, what good would it do?

Turns out, it was doing me no good – and a lot of harm – to stay silent.  I was letting DEAD PEOPLE hurt me again.  I was PROTECTING them again at my own expense.  And I am SO tired of keeping secrets that keep me from healing myself…

Some of this I’ve shared here and elsewhere.  Some of this I’ve kept to myself out of a misplaced sense of shame and perverted familial duty.  It’s what I’ve been choking on for the past 3 weeks and it’s time to spit it out:

My mother abused me verbally and emotionally from the time I stopped being a cute toddler until shortly before she died, when her mind was too far gone to remember how much she enjoyed hurting me.  She protected the sibling who was verbally, emotionally, and eventually sexually abusive to me, and tried to kick me out of the family.  When I married a man whose skin color was too dark for her liking, she cut me off completely for 3 years until my sibling – the abusive one – was broke and had no food and could I please give him dinner and some extra groceries to tide him over til the check she had mailed him arrived?  When I was homeless (because husband number 3 ran off to join the army and left me with no job, no home, and no money), she refused to allow me to move home – while giving free room and board to the sibling who abused me.  When I was diagnosed with cancer, her first words were “well, don’t expect me to pay for your treatments.  I’m not going to lose my home because of you.”  

There were many, many other things – but I don’t know that specifics matter at this point.  Maybe it’s enough to say that every time she had a choice to make about me: to be loving and supportive, or to be cruel and hurtful – she chose to hurt me.  And my father, for the most part, chose to look the other way.  When he DID help or support me, it was behind her back or in a way that wouldn’t make her angry at him (small amounts of money or a bag of groceries were okay.  Love wasn’t). 

What does this have to do with Merced?  Everything, and nothing.  It’s a place I lived for a while, where some really good and really awful things happened to me.  So is San Francisco, and Modesto, and Stockton, and every other city I’ve lived in.  So why now?

My therapist says it can be like that – something triggering the PTSD and depression for no apparent reason.  What matters is to figure out how to get through the episode and not stay trapped there.  Sitting and wallowing hasn’t been working.  Neither has spending hours a day playing my computer games to avoid thinking about it.  Drinking and binge-eating and binge-spending are right out – I know where that leads.  That leaves writing, or finally letting myself feel and forgive ALL of it and let it go.

I’m afraid to let myself feel all of it yet – I am SO afraid it will sweep me back down into the hole and that this time, I won’t be able to climb out.  So here I am – writing semi-coherently with the cursor hovering over Publish, trying to trust that Telling will not hurt me any more than I already hurt.  It’s a choice – and making a choice means I’m not stuck anymore.

 

 

*Merced Miasma: a creeping fog of mild depression and apathy that overtakes most people who live there for more than a few months

Please Stand By…

Taking some time to process. I’ll get back to blogging when I’ve sorted some things out.

All My Life’s A Circle…

Saturday afternoon, I stood in Circle for the first time in over a decade.  It did more to heal my heart than months and months of therapy could.  This doesn’t mean I’m giving up therapy – I know I still need it.  But there are some things therapy can’t fix. Too many years of self-doubt and a conviction that I was unworthy had created a Goddess shaped hole in my heart and soul that I wasn’t even aware of until She filled it back up again.

I have to remember this.  I have to remember to LOOK for Her when I’m feeling lost.  I don’t want to wait another 10-plus years to feel that way again. 

 

 

Old Ghosts

Today, I laid the ghost of an old relationship to rest.  Three ghosts, really; the resentment I held against two women I thought I could never live up to, the belief that I was not worthy of that relationship to begin with, and the ghost of the girl I used to be.  I hadn’t realized I was still being haunted, until a chance conversation this morning that finally banished those ghosts for good. There was a lot wrong with that relationship, but I was never unworthy and I didn’t deserve the constant “contrast and compare.” 

I’m not that girl anymore, and I don’t have to carry her baggage – at least that particular set.  I can set it down and leave it behind me, where it belongs.  Maybe with the lighter load, I’ll have the strength and clarity to unpack the rest of her baggage and leave it behind as well.  That girl wasn’t strong enough to do it, but I think the woman I’m becoming is up to the task.

The Other Side Of The Coin

After my last post, while I was congratulating myself on my eloquence, this annoying little voice in the back of my head started whispering that maybe, I was being a bit of a hypocrite.  Maybe I’M the one who needs to ask for forgiveness.  Damned conscience/better self was insisting that if I REALLY want to be balanced again, I’ve got more work to do..,

So over the past few days, I’ve stepped back and taken another look at my life over the past 3-4 years.  It’s been made somewhat easier by my off again/on again blogging, and my obsessive tendency to hang onto emails, private messages, and instant messenger logs long after it would make sense to most people.  It’s also been very uncomfortable due to those same things.  It’s really hard to pretend the truth away when it’s right there on the screen in front of me, in my own words…

I’ve learned I’ve been manic far more often than I was admitting to anyone – especially myself.  I’ve discovered that every rough patch in my marriage, every fight with a friend, every time I was SO convinced I was right that nobody could tell me otherwise, has coincided with a manic episode.  I’m able to see that my fear of medication changes kept me on the wrong medication – and locked in that mania-depression-mania cycle – far longer than I should have been.  I’ve had to admit that during those episodes, I was a stubborn spiteful bitch – just like my mentally ill mother.  That was a hard one to swallow.  I’m still choking on it a little.  Okay, a lot.

I’ve learned that saying “I love you” is easy.  Saying “I was wrong, I”m sorry” is incredibly difficult – and the longer you wait, the harder it is to say.  Best to say it, and be able to move on to making amends.

 

 

I Do Not Think That Means What You Think It Means.

If you’re saying “it’s too soon to forgive” in a relationship – friendship, family, marital – that’s pride speaking.  “Too soon” implies you’ll do it when you’re damned good and ready.  “Cant” or “won’t” is at least more honest.

Forgiveness isn’t a favor you grant someone from your lofty moral height, after punishing them by withholding it first.  It’s not about waiting for the other person to make the first move.  Forgiveness isn’t about blame, and it isn’t about forgetting the past, and it’s not about letting people continue to harm you.  Forgiveness is taking a breath and looking for the love beneath the anger.  It’s finding a way to express that love in spite of the anger – even if it is accompanied by a necessary “goodbye”.

When it comes to forgiveness, there is no “too soon.” There is Today, and Too Late.  Be sure, if you choose to say “too soon”, that you can live with what’s left unsaid if Too Late locks the door while you’re waiting for the “right” time.

 

Okay Smarty, Go To A Party…

Last Saturday, I went to a party hosted by my husband’s coworker.  No big deal, right?  Except that the last BIG party I went to was in 2005, shortly after my father died.  And the last time I went to a party hosted at THIS house, I was bitten by their miserable fear-biting mutt, badly enough that I should have had stitches and still have a scar on my right pinky.

So, 8 years since I’d been to a party with People I Don’t Know.  10 years since I’d been to The Dog Bite House.  And I Did Not Want To Go.

Which is exactly why I did.  The fear-biting mutt – who really couldn’t help himself in the first place – died a few months ago, so he couldn’t hurt me.  The Husband’s other coworkers hadn’t met me, and I was SURE they thought I was his “Imaginary Wife.”    Most important – I realized just how like my Mother I’m becoming in my anxiety and agorophobia, and That Must Stop.

As it turned out, only one of The Husband’s coworkers showed up.  She is a delightful person and I wish I’d met her sooner.  Her husband is a mellow, steady man much like my husband – just the energy I needed to be able to manage being around so many people.  There was a dog there, but she is a mellow shy girl and I was comfortable with her in spite of her size.  All of the other guests were friends and coworkers of the host’s wife – I told them upfront that I am very anxious in large groups of people, and while they were a boisterous bunch, each one of them was warm and welcoming and utterly willing to let me socialize or not at my own comfort level, without judgement.  Nobody pressured me to drink, the herb cheese and pita chips I brought as an alternative to The Husband’s Salsa From Hell were well received, and I was able to enjoy myself just a little.

I’m not saying “Hallelujah, I’m Cured!”  But I think maybe I won’t wait 8 years to go to another party.

Six Days of Something Awful

It hasn’t been a good week.  In fact it’s been pretty awful; a family member has been diagnosed with cancer, the AC in our apartment is having its annual “I’m broken and nobody can figure out why” fit of spite, The Husband and I had a big old stupid fight over something that we should have taken care of together months ago, and I have been sick with a sore throat that just won’t go away.  My anxiety has been through the roof and I’ve been struggling with a small depressive swing.  And last night I got smacked with the grand daddy of all gallbladder attacks, after thinking I could get away with potato pancakes AND eggs after a week of restaurant food/fast food/junk food because it was too hot to cook.

But…

The stupid fight resulted in plans for a “fix” that will make both of us happy.  The AC will be fixed some time today or tomorrow – according to the property management company, it qualifies as an “Emergency Repair” that gets priority as soon as it goes over 100 degrees – which it will do today.  I got a “life-preserver” phone call from a friend who saw my Facebook posts and realized I was floundering.  The physician’s assistant appointment yesterday set some things in motion that should result in me feeling MUCH better soon.  And when we went out to dinner last night, we had one of those “state of the marriage” talks that left both of us feeling more sure and secure with the choices we’ve made and the direction we’re going.

It’s been six days of something awful – but yesterday I rounded the corner and there’s a whole lot of something good just up ahead.

This is not about what you think it is.

28 years ago, give or take a week or two, I was supposed to be giving birth.  My baby was going to have thick curly hair and skin the color of hot chocolate, and she was going to grow up to be a fierce brave woman… Of course, I didn’t really know what gender the baby would be, and in the end it didn’t matter.  My baby was never born because she was taken away from me by her father, who pounded his fists against my belly to make sure she would never be born.  I miscarried on Christmas Eve and then spent the holiday trying to hide my grief so I wouldn’t be beaten again.

Every year on Christmas Eve, and again in July, I thought about her and who she would have been, and how much I wish I’d gotten to watch her grow up.  This year, I’m thinking about her, and who she would have been, and wishing I’d gotten to watch her grow up… and feeling a guilty sense of relief.  I’m relieved that I never had to explain to her why her grandmother refused to acknowledge her existance.  I’m relieved that I never had to explain to her why I was so terrified of her father.  I’m relieved that I never had to try – and fail – to protect her from a world that labeled her as “less-than” because of her color and gender, and went out of its way to hurt and control her.  I’m relieved I never had to hold her hand as she tried to decide what to do about a pregnancy she wasn’t ready for.  I’m relieved that I never had to comfort her as her friend was lowered into the earth because someone deemed him too dangerous to live – for no other reason than being male and black.  

I feel guilty for feeling relief – and I am ANGRY.  I am angry at a government that says a woman has no right to determine what happens in her vagina, and I am angry at a judicial system so broken that a teenaged boy is dead while his his murderer not only got away with it, but was only charged in the first place because of public outrage.  I am angry and tired of feeling powerless against that government that bears no resemblance to the one I grew up believing in.

I am ANGRY, and it’s time to do something about it.