I recently had a harsh reality slap my face. I am not sure what hurt most...that I fell for this incident or that I came to a solid conclusion as a result or that I ..........
I was so hurt; used by someone to hurt someone else.
The kicker was this: I was helping because I was asked to. Someone I've never really known as a mother, reached out to me. I felt like I had a chance to prove myself to her. That's the truth.
That's the truth.
Then I did what I was trained to do as a life coach. I asked the proper questions so she could find her own answers. I was honest with her and I felt proud that she was recognizing me - ME - of all people as some source of help when my entire life I've been nothing. Less than nothing to her (despite her claims otherwise. Actions speak louder than words and her actions have contradicted her words for my entire life).
I fell for it.
Being used to hurt someone else I love, made me very, very angry.
It also fortified the disdain I've felt for this stranger I'm supposed to call "mom" or "mother."
But in the end, the worst part of it was the realization of my desperate need to have been loved and nurtured and worth something to her. I didn't know that need was there and had dismissed her entirely as a broken, manipulative user - someone I would never be.
I did not like her. I definitely didn't love her.
But I guess deep inside somewhere I never touched, I needed her to love me and I needed to matter but when I was two years old she left and we (my brother and I) were in foster care. Didn't know where she'd gone. My father was in prison. Family tried to locate her but she was nowhere to be found.
To hear her tell it, completely different story in which (of course) she's the victim but I know she was on drugs. I've heard many things about that time but I do know my brother and I did not experience the nurturing and love we should have. A lot of drugs. A lot of sex as infants.
The truth is out and has been, but I've not been surprised.
What surprised me most was the realization I needed her acceptance.
Now I am confused and floating in this space of uncertainty.
"When all that I've known is lost, and found..."
That's it. Limbo. Or, according to my therapist, "liminal space"
When I was little, I revered Florence Nightingale. I wanted to be her. I spent hours in front of anatomy charts and I remembered every bone in the body. I started learning every muscle, too.
I read her books. I wrote. I got published. "Mom" missed all that.
I had little to no encouragement for my passions. I was a walking zombie. Devoid of any direction except to be good. "Be good."
I wasn't "good."
I never was good.
Nor was I ever good enough.
This is called a "breakthrough."
And it hurts like a javelin shoved through my skull, from head to toe, split in half.
It also makes me afraid to move forward, but I know I will.
This was the least of my pains. The other stuff....I am afraid what "breakthroughs" will be there.
Showing posts with label rage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rage. Show all posts
Monday, March 9, 2015
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Relationships and Reenactment: I Married My Father
My name is Cristina D. Johnson
For decades, I've wanted to write a book. This is not some fantasy. This is a lifelong dream of mine. Having a 7th grade education makes that a bit difficult, though. Still, I worked my way up and landed a job as a journalist. I faked my way through it. I watched like a hawk. I could always write well - intuitively - as a child (I don't say this to boast. Just to merely point out that even as a child, words and sentences; grammar and punctuation; the way these strange characters on a page came together to create something new and remarkable that made sense, was fascinating to me).
At least, it started off as wanting to write "a" book. It's morphed into wanting to write articles, papers and several books. But for now - as I go through this process I never saw myself having to experience; this process of "healing" - I kind of "wish-write."
That is, I write in my head. Often I even say to Bill, "I'm writing in my head."
I've started "a" book, many times - always for a different reason but never with a different foundation: child abuse. I suppose at first it started off as a way to 'get even' or vent, then it gradually began to mature into something healthier going from that angry, bitter young woman who was pissed that Oprah wouldn't listen to her story, to where it is now.
Which leads to the "wish-writing" I've been doing lately. The mind-writing. It goes like this:
"Where does my story start?"
"Where does it end?"
And this is repeated in my mind, but not without silent, cognitive (and even sometimes emotional) responses.
I once told Michelle (my therapist) that I've had two lives. She did a double-take.
"What do you mean, 'two lives'?"
"Daddy, and then the rapes."
"Oh," she nods...I know she doesn't quite get what I mean but I do. I understand it.
Problem is splitting everything up since then: my two marriages; my children; my work; my relationships; my family; my many lives.
So here I am now, it seems, standing on a wire. It could go both ways.
Where does this story - this moment - end and the next story begin?
Was Gary the end of the last story? Is Bill the beginning of the next story?
Some would wisely say, "No, they're all chapters in the same story" but that's not how I view it.
It's segmented. Fractured.
First I must talk a little about reenactment.
When I was 16 and married, my drunk husband of 22 almost killed me by shoving me out of the second-story window. That was when I left him. If his mother had not come up, screaming in her native Puerto Rican language, "Siéntate! Siéntate!" at me, I would not be here today. It wasn't the first time he'd beaten me, but it was the first time he nearly killed me. There were times, as well, when I was terrified he would kill our child. For the first time, I defied my mother-in-law (of whom I was deathly afraid) and said, "No. No mas. No mas." and I cried as I walked out the door. No more.
A child, with a child and that story took a long time to end. That life was several lifetimes ago.
When I was 17, I met my (then married) future-husband. Of course, I did not know he was married. He was strong, cocky, arrogant and sexual. Very sexual. At 17, though, you don't really know (at least, I didn't, because of my past lifetimes), that if they'll cheat with you, they'll cheat on you. So he, too, became an emotionally and mentally abusive partner, controlling, dominant and I feared him. I also feared losing him. For 15 years (and with two of our own kids), I endured the pain of constant belittling, arrogance and infidelity. I felt I deserved it. I felt it was the best I could ever get. I should be grateful.
He, like my first husband, was very much - in many, many ways - like my father but it was so cleverly veiled, so ingeniously disguised, that I never saw it. I wouldn't have seen it if it were a flashing neon sign. I would have kicked the sign out a bitter, angry roundhouse and swore at it, "But he loves me!"
But after 15 years, that lifetime ended. Pretty much.
Then began a different lifetime - one with Bill. That was in 2002. This lifetime was frightening. He was nice to me. He made love with me, instead of acting as if he was doing me a favor by allowing me to do/say/be things I never wanted to do/say/be anyway. In fact, he wouldn't even accept them and even made me uncomfortable doing what I'd always done: Being promiscuous. He didn't take me for granted. He listened to me. He didn't just listen to me but he heard me. At times, back then, sometimes I'd be on the verge of tears and he would hold me and he would say, "It's okay. Let it out," and as soon as he spoke the words, my insides froze and the tears went away. I couldn't possibly cry. I couldn't let him see me unless it was the way I wanted him to see me. I needed control. That way if he changed (and surely he would; certainly he'd at least yell at me, if not hit me, rape me, or cheat on me or something. Anything), at least I had some semblance of control over it. At least I could say I asked for it. I deserved it. I have always deserved it because that's the way all men are.
I left him. He never changed, hit, screamed, yelled, cheated - hell, he never stopped opening my car door for me. Not one single time. He never denied me, always listened to my songs, always read me like a book.
I left him. I didn't believe him. I didn't deserve him and I didn't know how to be with someone like that.
Please get mad at me. Please stop being so open and honest. Please stop being so goddamn perfect for me.
I left him because I couldn't handle being loved. Not truly, authentically loved, despite the many, many tests I applied to the relationship - like all relationships I've ever had. Every one. He passed every test. How? He was consistent. He was always, always consistent. And me, well, I have an Eagle's eye for inconsistencies.
Which leads to the next lifetime.
Gary.
Like my father; my first husband; my second husband (and that one boyfriend I had between my second husband and Bill, Mike): He was emotionally unavailable. Perfect.
Me too.
By now I was in my 30's and I had developed my intellect enough that I knew I could survive on it alone, which was important in this relationship because - like my exes - Gary had a constant tendency to put me down and attempt to make me look stupid. He was constantly condescending and I fought back - hard. Never again would I depend on a man. Ever. Never again, would I open up emotionally. Ever.
What I would do, though (because I know so well how child abuse works), is I would nurture and be a motherly figure for him because of the emotional suffocation he suffered as a child. This, too, worked to my favor. I could keep my emotions in check. I had to because, truly, I did love him, despite our many differences and despite how little attention he paid to me. Really paid. He couldn't tell you my favorite color, gemstone, song(s), movie(s) and the only reason he knew the name of my childhood cat was because it was the answer to one of my banking security questions. He didn't know much about me at all. He was also - like my father and the men before me (Bill excluded) - sexually perverse. He'd been much more so in his past, but there still lingered with every touch, an absenteeism; no warmth, no love, no affection. Just this purpose that needed to be served and I was to serve it.
I was, after all, the woman (and Gary has zero respect for women).
So I played the role. Four years. Played the role - lived Gary's life. Got sucked into his way of living. Friends? Nope. All his. Places? Nope. All his. Whatever we did, whoever we did it with and wherever we went, it centered around Gary and his image, what he wanted, what he needed and what image he wanted to project. Which meant I had to be something I was not.
Which was okay, since my emotions were bundled up tightly inside.
Until that fifth year....When we talked and when I began to grow (going through Life Coach Training which Gary was adamantly opposed to but for which Bill enthusiastically footed the bill) and I realized how unemotional our relationship was - how unemotional I was.
I was encouraged by Gary to pursue therapy and I did, in earnest.
He promised to be there; promised to support me; repeatedly swore that he wasn't going anywhere - even on public forums. Reassured me frequently, even as I began to become more and more immersed in this unfathomable pain and darkness.
Despite his words, I felt alone. I know, now, that this is because he - like always - was incapable of emotional attachment (although I do believe that some part of him did love me).
However, the profundity of what I was experiencing was too much for this man who "loved" me and he, in turn, began abusing me in exactly the same way my father had.
I'm not going to rehash it, except to say that day by day, I got worse. Things got worse. I was inconsolable. I was out of control. I was drained, exhausted, terrified. I was having flashbacks and I was drinking to numb the pain I was going through. I was losing people I loved (my son, specifically, and my granddaughter) on top of the EMDR treatment I was going through in an effort to "heal" with essentially no help.
I had Gary and I had "Dee" (who has asked that I not use her real name): Both of whom did not and probably never will have the fortitude to endure the process I have to experience. This lifetime.
After two suicide attempts, a new lifetime began...
Or, re-began.
Bill came.
He came to see me. He saw me. And in his own words, "had never seen me that bad."
It sickens me now, to think about it. It hurts. It twists my insides. It sets me on fire - my skin literally feels alight.
Rage, anger, pain, torment, torture, uncertainty, fear....fear....fear... oh my God fear.
All of these things that I've never felt towards my father, step-father, brother, uncle, kidnappers, rapists, pimps, gangsters and thugs - all of these things that I have never, ever felt - I feel now, because of Gary. And because of "Dee."
Gary: the father, rapist, womanizer, woman-beater, pimp, wife-beating, abandoning, drug-dealing, ex-convict child molester.
"Dee": The mother, "poor-me" victim, I-don't-care-about-your-story, talk-behind-your-back, drink-myself-stupid (always with a great excuse), poor, live-vicariously-through-some-other-means, nobody loves me, I have no friends or money...
I do not say these things to imply that Gary and "Dee" are these things. I say these things because finally, finally I understand these intense emotional reactions I have to them. I drive by "Dee's" house every day. It's taken me months to not sneer down her driveway and wish harm to her. Wish her to feel the pain she caused me. The truth is, she's a fun person. Intelligent. Witty. Actually, very intelligent. But she, like me for years, has not yet found herself, so she lives whatever she supposes she's supposed to.
And Gary is, I suppose, a good man - though his flaws are many. I still loved him. He's not a child molester or woman-beater (although he did abandon me and he was horribly mentally abusive).
So that lifetime is ...ending?
And now Bill is here - consistent as usual. Same Bill, only this time I'm a different Cristina and I don't know what to do or how to be or how to act because I have my experiences with Gary and "Dee" to look back on and know - without a doubt - that I do not want to be that "fake" person I was required to be. Problem is, what am I now, in this lifetime?
And even though Bill has never been in any way, shape or form, anything like any of my former abusers, what if he does? What if I'm reenacting again, and I don't know it, and it doesn't happen until I get further into this crazy ass psyche of mine? What if ...what if.... What if I let go of control?
Will he let me run into a tree? Fall of a bridge?
I know, somewhere inside, that he won't but he treats me too good and he treats me too right and he's too nice to me and he pays attention to me and he reads me like a book. He shares all my interests and he makes me laugh he's good to my children and he is everything a woman could possibly want. Why would he want me?
And Cindy - my adoptive mother - how do I know she won't hate me? Hurt me? Betray me? Abandon me?
Making new friends. I don't understand. It's like talking Chinese. I don't understand this language or this foreign place, where I am supposed to just be myself (whoever that is), and be accepted and loved for who I am. I don't understand.
Shouldn't I be being abused right now?
One thing I should thank Gary and Dee for is this: making me feel these intense, painful, agonizing emotions that have kept me captive my entire life. It's just the tip of the iceberg, according to Michelle, but it's an important one. So though I hold such deep humiliation, anger, hurt and feelings of betrayal for the wrongs, I suppose being hurt, betrayed and abused (particularly by Gary), was a necessary evil.
It brought me to a new lifetime.
For decades, I've wanted to write a book. This is not some fantasy. This is a lifelong dream of mine. Having a 7th grade education makes that a bit difficult, though. Still, I worked my way up and landed a job as a journalist. I faked my way through it. I watched like a hawk. I could always write well - intuitively - as a child (I don't say this to boast. Just to merely point out that even as a child, words and sentences; grammar and punctuation; the way these strange characters on a page came together to create something new and remarkable that made sense, was fascinating to me).
At least, it started off as wanting to write "a" book. It's morphed into wanting to write articles, papers and several books. But for now - as I go through this process I never saw myself having to experience; this process of "healing" - I kind of "wish-write."
That is, I write in my head. Often I even say to Bill, "I'm writing in my head."
I've started "a" book, many times - always for a different reason but never with a different foundation: child abuse. I suppose at first it started off as a way to 'get even' or vent, then it gradually began to mature into something healthier going from that angry, bitter young woman who was pissed that Oprah wouldn't listen to her story, to where it is now.
Which leads to the "wish-writing" I've been doing lately. The mind-writing. It goes like this:
"Where does my story start?"
"Where does it end?"
And this is repeated in my mind, but not without silent, cognitive (and even sometimes emotional) responses.
I once told Michelle (my therapist) that I've had two lives. She did a double-take.
"What do you mean, 'two lives'?"
"Daddy, and then the rapes."
"Oh," she nods...I know she doesn't quite get what I mean but I do. I understand it.
Problem is splitting everything up since then: my two marriages; my children; my work; my relationships; my family; my many lives.
So here I am now, it seems, standing on a wire. It could go both ways.
Where does this story - this moment - end and the next story begin?
Was Gary the end of the last story? Is Bill the beginning of the next story?
Some would wisely say, "No, they're all chapters in the same story" but that's not how I view it.
It's segmented. Fractured.
First I must talk a little about reenactment.
When I was 16 and married, my drunk husband of 22 almost killed me by shoving me out of the second-story window. That was when I left him. If his mother had not come up, screaming in her native Puerto Rican language, "Siéntate! Siéntate!" at me, I would not be here today. It wasn't the first time he'd beaten me, but it was the first time he nearly killed me. There were times, as well, when I was terrified he would kill our child. For the first time, I defied my mother-in-law (of whom I was deathly afraid) and said, "No. No mas. No mas." and I cried as I walked out the door. No more.
A child, with a child and that story took a long time to end. That life was several lifetimes ago.
When I was 17, I met my (then married) future-husband. Of course, I did not know he was married. He was strong, cocky, arrogant and sexual. Very sexual. At 17, though, you don't really know (at least, I didn't, because of my past lifetimes), that if they'll cheat with you, they'll cheat on you. So he, too, became an emotionally and mentally abusive partner, controlling, dominant and I feared him. I also feared losing him. For 15 years (and with two of our own kids), I endured the pain of constant belittling, arrogance and infidelity. I felt I deserved it. I felt it was the best I could ever get. I should be grateful.
He, like my first husband, was very much - in many, many ways - like my father but it was so cleverly veiled, so ingeniously disguised, that I never saw it. I wouldn't have seen it if it were a flashing neon sign. I would have kicked the sign out a bitter, angry roundhouse and swore at it, "But he loves me!"
But after 15 years, that lifetime ended. Pretty much.
Then began a different lifetime - one with Bill. That was in 2002. This lifetime was frightening. He was nice to me. He made love with me, instead of acting as if he was doing me a favor by allowing me to do/say/be things I never wanted to do/say/be anyway. In fact, he wouldn't even accept them and even made me uncomfortable doing what I'd always done: Being promiscuous. He didn't take me for granted. He listened to me. He didn't just listen to me but he heard me. At times, back then, sometimes I'd be on the verge of tears and he would hold me and he would say, "It's okay. Let it out," and as soon as he spoke the words, my insides froze and the tears went away. I couldn't possibly cry. I couldn't let him see me unless it was the way I wanted him to see me. I needed control. That way if he changed (and surely he would; certainly he'd at least yell at me, if not hit me, rape me, or cheat on me or something. Anything), at least I had some semblance of control over it. At least I could say I asked for it. I deserved it. I have always deserved it because that's the way all men are.
I left him. He never changed, hit, screamed, yelled, cheated - hell, he never stopped opening my car door for me. Not one single time. He never denied me, always listened to my songs, always read me like a book.
I left him. I didn't believe him. I didn't deserve him and I didn't know how to be with someone like that.
Please get mad at me. Please stop being so open and honest. Please stop being so goddamn perfect for me.
I left him because I couldn't handle being loved. Not truly, authentically loved, despite the many, many tests I applied to the relationship - like all relationships I've ever had. Every one. He passed every test. How? He was consistent. He was always, always consistent. And me, well, I have an Eagle's eye for inconsistencies.
Which leads to the next lifetime.
Gary.
Like my father; my first husband; my second husband (and that one boyfriend I had between my second husband and Bill, Mike): He was emotionally unavailable. Perfect.
Me too.
By now I was in my 30's and I had developed my intellect enough that I knew I could survive on it alone, which was important in this relationship because - like my exes - Gary had a constant tendency to put me down and attempt to make me look stupid. He was constantly condescending and I fought back - hard. Never again would I depend on a man. Ever. Never again, would I open up emotionally. Ever.
What I would do, though (because I know so well how child abuse works), is I would nurture and be a motherly figure for him because of the emotional suffocation he suffered as a child. This, too, worked to my favor. I could keep my emotions in check. I had to because, truly, I did love him, despite our many differences and despite how little attention he paid to me. Really paid. He couldn't tell you my favorite color, gemstone, song(s), movie(s) and the only reason he knew the name of my childhood cat was because it was the answer to one of my banking security questions. He didn't know much about me at all. He was also - like my father and the men before me (Bill excluded) - sexually perverse. He'd been much more so in his past, but there still lingered with every touch, an absenteeism; no warmth, no love, no affection. Just this purpose that needed to be served and I was to serve it.
I was, after all, the woman (and Gary has zero respect for women).
So I played the role. Four years. Played the role - lived Gary's life. Got sucked into his way of living. Friends? Nope. All his. Places? Nope. All his. Whatever we did, whoever we did it with and wherever we went, it centered around Gary and his image, what he wanted, what he needed and what image he wanted to project. Which meant I had to be something I was not.
Which was okay, since my emotions were bundled up tightly inside.
Until that fifth year....When we talked and when I began to grow (going through Life Coach Training which Gary was adamantly opposed to but for which Bill enthusiastically footed the bill) and I realized how unemotional our relationship was - how unemotional I was.
I was encouraged by Gary to pursue therapy and I did, in earnest.
He promised to be there; promised to support me; repeatedly swore that he wasn't going anywhere - even on public forums. Reassured me frequently, even as I began to become more and more immersed in this unfathomable pain and darkness.
Despite his words, I felt alone. I know, now, that this is because he - like always - was incapable of emotional attachment (although I do believe that some part of him did love me).
However, the profundity of what I was experiencing was too much for this man who "loved" me and he, in turn, began abusing me in exactly the same way my father had.
I'm not going to rehash it, except to say that day by day, I got worse. Things got worse. I was inconsolable. I was out of control. I was drained, exhausted, terrified. I was having flashbacks and I was drinking to numb the pain I was going through. I was losing people I loved (my son, specifically, and my granddaughter) on top of the EMDR treatment I was going through in an effort to "heal" with essentially no help.
I had Gary and I had "Dee" (who has asked that I not use her real name): Both of whom did not and probably never will have the fortitude to endure the process I have to experience. This lifetime.
After two suicide attempts, a new lifetime began...
Or, re-began.
Bill came.
He came to see me. He saw me. And in his own words, "had never seen me that bad."
It sickens me now, to think about it. It hurts. It twists my insides. It sets me on fire - my skin literally feels alight.
Rage, anger, pain, torment, torture, uncertainty, fear....fear....fear... oh my God fear.
All of these things that I've never felt towards my father, step-father, brother, uncle, kidnappers, rapists, pimps, gangsters and thugs - all of these things that I have never, ever felt - I feel now, because of Gary. And because of "Dee."
Gary: the father, rapist, womanizer, woman-beater, pimp, wife-beating, abandoning, drug-dealing, ex-convict child molester.
"Dee": The mother, "poor-me" victim, I-don't-care-about-your-story, talk-behind-your-back, drink-myself-stupid (always with a great excuse), poor, live-vicariously-through-some-other-means, nobody loves me, I have no friends or money...
I do not say these things to imply that Gary and "Dee" are these things. I say these things because finally, finally I understand these intense emotional reactions I have to them. I drive by "Dee's" house every day. It's taken me months to not sneer down her driveway and wish harm to her. Wish her to feel the pain she caused me. The truth is, she's a fun person. Intelligent. Witty. Actually, very intelligent. But she, like me for years, has not yet found herself, so she lives whatever she supposes she's supposed to.
And Gary is, I suppose, a good man - though his flaws are many. I still loved him. He's not a child molester or woman-beater (although he did abandon me and he was horribly mentally abusive).
So that lifetime is ...ending?
And now Bill is here - consistent as usual. Same Bill, only this time I'm a different Cristina and I don't know what to do or how to be or how to act because I have my experiences with Gary and "Dee" to look back on and know - without a doubt - that I do not want to be that "fake" person I was required to be. Problem is, what am I now, in this lifetime?
And even though Bill has never been in any way, shape or form, anything like any of my former abusers, what if he does? What if I'm reenacting again, and I don't know it, and it doesn't happen until I get further into this crazy ass psyche of mine? What if ...what if.... What if I let go of control?
Will he let me run into a tree? Fall of a bridge?
I know, somewhere inside, that he won't but he treats me too good and he treats me too right and he's too nice to me and he pays attention to me and he reads me like a book. He shares all my interests and he makes me laugh he's good to my children and he is everything a woman could possibly want. Why would he want me?
And Cindy - my adoptive mother - how do I know she won't hate me? Hurt me? Betray me? Abandon me?
Making new friends. I don't understand. It's like talking Chinese. I don't understand this language or this foreign place, where I am supposed to just be myself (whoever that is), and be accepted and loved for who I am. I don't understand.
Shouldn't I be being abused right now?
One thing I should thank Gary and Dee for is this: making me feel these intense, painful, agonizing emotions that have kept me captive my entire life. It's just the tip of the iceberg, according to Michelle, but it's an important one. So though I hold such deep humiliation, anger, hurt and feelings of betrayal for the wrongs, I suppose being hurt, betrayed and abused (particularly by Gary), was a necessary evil.
It brought me to a new lifetime.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Still Reeling
Day started off okay until I logged onto facebook and got sliced in two with photos I really don't care to see.... photos of former friends on his boat. It sent me reeling, gagging again. It seems so insensitive to me. And I spent most of the day with my heart pounding in my throat (I try not to take the anti-anxiety meds unless it's really necessary) so I finally gave in and took one this evening.
I wish there was closure but there isn't and I don't feel there ever will be because he can't be kind and I can't physically, mentally or emotionally handle even hearing his voice. I wrote him a letter...that's all I can do.
I guess it's hard for people to understand... I know it is.
Bill is leaving and it'll be just Trevor and I. Not sure when, but probably within the next week. I am afraid of this. Afraid of being alone and going through all this. I hide from people...don't like asking for help so I take it on the chin and then lay it on my therapist's lap, praying for it to just go away.
My anxiety is through the roof. I want the water so bad. I want to sit by the river and feel the breeze - especially now, it's so cool and refreshing outside. My thoughts keep revolving around all the things that are happening (and have happened). Going to sleep, I am overwhelmed with anguish and rage, both.
I wish I could go back to the way I used to be...I wish I could clear my mind but it's just haywire and I can't control it.
We went to the store today and I knew I was dissociating because it felt like I was watching myself walk to the car. I kept trying to come back to myself, but I couldn't - I was still seeing the picture from facebook. It hurt me so much...it really cut me bad.
I am still in disbelief. I am just gobsmacked...the hell of those last several weeks. The nightmare of being so tortured, so heartlessly. The abuse...the abuse he got away with, and came out looking like a rose while he vilified me and mindfucked me.
I just can't believe it. He said he loved me.
I told Michelle (my therapist) that one of the hardest parts is how I have to start all over again, now. I trusted him more than anyone and now - after being kicked and threatened while I was at my lowest - I fear ever trusting again. Especially a man. And then the "friends"....I'm just so hurt.
And afraid.
So scared to go out anywhere or be seen anywhere... I fear isolation once Bill leaves because that is what I will do. I will isolate and try to work through all this on my own and the emotions tied to child abuse, rapes, etc. are so intense (those I've been able to feel), that I am terrified.
But I won't stop.
I wish there was closure but there isn't and I don't feel there ever will be because he can't be kind and I can't physically, mentally or emotionally handle even hearing his voice. I wrote him a letter...that's all I can do.
I guess it's hard for people to understand... I know it is.
Bill is leaving and it'll be just Trevor and I. Not sure when, but probably within the next week. I am afraid of this. Afraid of being alone and going through all this. I hide from people...don't like asking for help so I take it on the chin and then lay it on my therapist's lap, praying for it to just go away.
My anxiety is through the roof. I want the water so bad. I want to sit by the river and feel the breeze - especially now, it's so cool and refreshing outside. My thoughts keep revolving around all the things that are happening (and have happened). Going to sleep, I am overwhelmed with anguish and rage, both.
I wish I could go back to the way I used to be...I wish I could clear my mind but it's just haywire and I can't control it.
We went to the store today and I knew I was dissociating because it felt like I was watching myself walk to the car. I kept trying to come back to myself, but I couldn't - I was still seeing the picture from facebook. It hurt me so much...it really cut me bad.
I am still in disbelief. I am just gobsmacked...the hell of those last several weeks. The nightmare of being so tortured, so heartlessly. The abuse...the abuse he got away with, and came out looking like a rose while he vilified me and mindfucked me.
I just can't believe it. He said he loved me.
I told Michelle (my therapist) that one of the hardest parts is how I have to start all over again, now. I trusted him more than anyone and now - after being kicked and threatened while I was at my lowest - I fear ever trusting again. Especially a man. And then the "friends"....I'm just so hurt.
And afraid.
So scared to go out anywhere or be seen anywhere... I fear isolation once Bill leaves because that is what I will do. I will isolate and try to work through all this on my own and the emotions tied to child abuse, rapes, etc. are so intense (those I've been able to feel), that I am terrified.
But I won't stop.
Monday, July 2, 2012
Reluctant Homework
In the book, Resurrection After Rape, (you can download a free pdf of this book by clicking the link) the author, assigns the following homework:
1) If rape is a form of theft, what did it steal?
2) If rape steals something from you, what parts of you are NOT gone?
So I decided, reluctantly, to write it down.
If rape is a form of theft, what did it steal?
It stole my sense of self
It stole my future, what I could have been
It stole my ability to have relationships
it stole my sexuality
it stole my trust
it stole my place in this world
it stole my sense of security
it stole my freedom
it stole my belief in authentic love
it stole my vulnerability
it stole my innocence
it stole my family and any sense of what "family" is
it stole my ability to feel emotions or share them appropriately
it stole my ability to just be myself
it stole my purity
it stole my tears
it stole my voice
it stole my childhood
it stole my happy memories, all my birthdays and Christmases.
It stole my virginity.
It stole my beauty and any sense of self-worth.
It stole my ability to look at myself in the mirror, to dress myself or to fit in anywhere.
It stole my privacy.
If rape steals something from you, what parts of you are NOT gone?
My incest and rapes did not take away my inner strength or determination.
It all strengthened my intuition.
My tenderness
My compassion.
My awareness and alertness.
Willingness to learn and to change.
Willingness to make the world better, somehow.
I am a good mother.
I have patience.
I love deeply and authentically, when I love.
My loyalty and my thoughts and ideas.
I still write, because nothing can take that away from me.
I am acutely empathic.
I am a good teacher and speaker.
So, with all that said, I know there's more. But it's a tender place to touch.
Today, as I was driving home from running errands, I got enraged. Just out of the blue, rageful - it was all aimed at Gary. Started shaking, almost pulled over to take a klonopin. But then I just started crying and the question that kept running through my mind, really applies to both Gary and my father: "Why?" and from there it went directly to my father. "Why did you do that to me? Why did you do this to me?"
The answer comes back to me in my mind, in Gary's voice: "I didn't do anything to you."
Everything is so mixed up... Everything and I just hurt. So confused. So hurt.
I feel alone because of him. I feel alone because, once again, someone couldn't love me. It's not fair to say nobody loves me because there are people who proclaim they do but when he said he didn't love me anymore, the alone-ness hit me like a brick to my stomach. It was like being raped again. Being told to trust, encouraged to heal, open up, do what you have to do...only to be abandoned when it gets ugly. To be judged for the ugly. Ridiculed publicly. Publicly humiliated. My privacy spread out like a billboard. My shame exposed to the entire world.
So my rage - this god awful rage - is aimed at him and those who believe him, when it should be aimed at the man who caused all of this to happen to me: my father. Daddy. And the many other men who used my body and beat me and threw me away.
I understand. I get it. But how do I do it? I feel so alone.
1) If rape is a form of theft, what did it steal?
2) If rape steals something from you, what parts of you are NOT gone?
So I decided, reluctantly, to write it down.
If rape is a form of theft, what did it steal?
It stole my sense of self
It stole my future, what I could have been
It stole my ability to have relationships
it stole my sexuality
it stole my trust
it stole my place in this world
it stole my sense of security
it stole my freedom
it stole my belief in authentic love
it stole my vulnerability
it stole my innocence
it stole my family and any sense of what "family" is
it stole my ability to feel emotions or share them appropriately
it stole my ability to just be myself
it stole my purity
it stole my tears
it stole my voice
it stole my childhood
it stole my happy memories, all my birthdays and Christmases.
It stole my virginity.
It stole my beauty and any sense of self-worth.
It stole my ability to look at myself in the mirror, to dress myself or to fit in anywhere.
It stole my privacy.
If rape steals something from you, what parts of you are NOT gone?
My incest and rapes did not take away my inner strength or determination.
It all strengthened my intuition.
My tenderness
My compassion.
My awareness and alertness.
Willingness to learn and to change.
Willingness to make the world better, somehow.
I am a good mother.
I have patience.
I love deeply and authentically, when I love.
My loyalty and my thoughts and ideas.
I still write, because nothing can take that away from me.
I am acutely empathic.
I am a good teacher and speaker.
So, with all that said, I know there's more. But it's a tender place to touch.
Today, as I was driving home from running errands, I got enraged. Just out of the blue, rageful - it was all aimed at Gary. Started shaking, almost pulled over to take a klonopin. But then I just started crying and the question that kept running through my mind, really applies to both Gary and my father: "Why?" and from there it went directly to my father. "Why did you do that to me? Why did you do this to me?"
The answer comes back to me in my mind, in Gary's voice: "I didn't do anything to you."
Everything is so mixed up... Everything and I just hurt. So confused. So hurt.
I feel alone because of him. I feel alone because, once again, someone couldn't love me. It's not fair to say nobody loves me because there are people who proclaim they do but when he said he didn't love me anymore, the alone-ness hit me like a brick to my stomach. It was like being raped again. Being told to trust, encouraged to heal, open up, do what you have to do...only to be abandoned when it gets ugly. To be judged for the ugly. Ridiculed publicly. Publicly humiliated. My privacy spread out like a billboard. My shame exposed to the entire world.
So my rage - this god awful rage - is aimed at him and those who believe him, when it should be aimed at the man who caused all of this to happen to me: my father. Daddy. And the many other men who used my body and beat me and threw me away.
I understand. I get it. But how do I do it? I feel so alone.
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