I said his name

I said his name for the first time since I reported to the police. It's just a name. A fucking name. And I let the name, and the person, have power over me still. I meet people with the same name and I instantly hate them. I don't want to say the name. I don't want to read the name or write the name. I hate the name. I hate him. I hate that I give him power still.

In my therapy session today, I told my counselor how I've been wanting to say his name; how I want to take back the power. It's silly that I let a name have power over me. So I said his name aloud. And it felt like the nasty, burning sensation of stomach acid in your throat. Uttering the name provoked a visceral reaction. I sat on the couch in the safety of my counselor's office, but I flashed back to him. It felt like he was right there and I was a child again. I began shaking and crying. My counselor kept talking, but it was like she was muffled. It took me 10 minutes to finally calm down. But I said it. I took a little bit of power back.

For the sake of protecting my own privacy, I will continue to refer to him as Voldemort on here.

It happened...

Last night, my boyfriend and I were getting intimate and something triggered a flashback. I immediately tensed up and didn't know what to say. I wanted to scream to him to get off me and stop touching me. Being extremely intuitive, he noticed and stopped what he was doing. He asked me what was wrong, and I curled up into a ball and began to sob. My boyfriend kept asking what I needed I didn't know what I needed or how to communicate this and it made me even sadder. I sobbed harder. He kept trying to embrace me and I kept curling away from him, trying to make myself disappear into the mattress. I wanted him to comfort me, but I didn't know how. I also wanted him to leave. I felt like I was breaking apart. My mind was swimming in emotions that I couldn't process immediately. I felt like a child again. I felt like that helpless little girl that I once was. I felt this intense fear from the flashback. I felt like I was drowning in my own sorrow and fear. But he threw me a lifeline. He kept talking to me. He reminded me that he was here for me; reminding me of where I was and who I was with. He brought me back from the flashback. It probably took me a half hour to really calm down, but he talked me through it.

During the flashback I felt fear, but after I calmed down, I felt this intense sadness that this happened while with my boyfriend. I hoped I wouldn't experience a flashback like this. I hadn't until then, and I kept thinking that maybe I wouldn't. It felt terrible that I did experience this while with him. I didn't know how to communicate with him. I didn't know what I wanted or needed from him. I still feel a sort of raw sadness from it. I love him and I don't want him to think that it was anything that he did or said that caused it. It wasn't him. I love the way he touches me and explores my body with varying fierceness and gentleness. I love the way he makes love to me. I cannot explain why I reacted like I did last night to something that he had already done to me. I think that is what saddens me most; that I cannot explain to him, or myself, why I reacted so violently to a touch or a sensation that on previous occasions I had enjoyed very much.

I am so grateful though, because he stayed there with me and didn't freak out. He calmly talked to me and told me it was okay. He embraced me with such compassion and understanding that it almost hurt. I continued to weep in his arms, not because of the fear or sadness of the flashback, but because of the compassion, patience, and understanding he showed me. I feel so lucky to have found him.

The Boyfriend

I have a boyfriend. It feels weird to type/say that. I have a boyfriend and he’s wonderful.

I mentioned in my last post that I met a guy for coffee--the intense hand-holding guy. That's him. He's the boyfriend. It has been an intense, exciting, and scary whirlwind with him. Here are the details...

We went on that awesome coffee first date. Then two days later I asked him if he wanted to go for a walk. During the first date we found out that we live within a mile from each other and it was kind of perfect because my girlfriends who I usually walk or run with were not available and it was dusk. He met me near my apartments and we walked to a nearby park, hand-in-hand. Eventually he kissed me. Oh. My. Goodness. The way he kissed me. It took my breath away. I have never in my life been kissed with such gentle intensity. I kept thinking to myself that I can only imagine how he would make love to me. I didn't want to go home. I wanted to stay in the park for the rest of my life with him kissing me.

Later that week, maybe two or three days after the walk, we went for a hike after work. We ended up getting lost in the woods for a bit as the sun set. It was like a scary movie and I was that person leading everyone into the forest to slaughter. Only I didn't intend for any gory things to occur. And I was prepared with flashlights. :) We survived the forest at night and then he took me to dinner. After dinner, we parked the car just up the street from my apartment and sat outside on a bench in the park. And we just kissed and talked and kissed and talked. And I fell in love.

It sounds so strange to say that after three dates that I was falling in love. And he was too! He told me that night on the bench that he was falling in love with me. He told me such sweet things that night and I nearly wept on his shoulder. We cuddled on that bench until past midnight when I was falling asleep and he insisted that he take me home.

The next evening we hung out again. We went up to the park that he first kissed me and we sat on a bench overlooking the neighborhood. And we talked and kissed and watched as deer flooded the park at night to graze. It started to get chilly and he wanted to take me home, but I didn't want to go home just then. He suggested that we could go sit outside on the balcony at his place and I said okay. So we went back to his place, which was a total mess by the way, and we decided to watch a movie. And kissed a lot. Eventually he asked me to stay the night, and I was reluctant, which he sensed and he emphasized that he wasn't asking me to fool around or anything, but that he just wanted me to sleep next to him. I agreed to stay. We didn't really watch the movie though because we kept kissing, which did led to touching. Me touching him mostly. He tried to touch me and I would tell him no. I was so nervous. One thing that I wanted to do was tell the person I was dating about the sexual abuse I experienced as a child. I wanted the person to be aware that if things progressed, that I may withdraw or I may react a certain way. I wanted to be open with this person. I wanted to make sure they knew about this and that it is not a reaction of them, but my trauma. So I was scared and I didn't want him to touch me. But I touched him and it turned me on so much. I wanted more. My heart, body, and soul wanted more of him. And I did the scariest thing possible: I told him about my past. He was quiet and I was afraid that he didn't want me anymore. I was afraid that he was angry (which is totally absurd, by the way). After a moment, I asked him what he was thinking and if he was angry. And he said that yes he was angry. He was angry that this happened to me and he wanted to find Voldemort and harm him. He said he was sad that I experienced this suffering. He said he didn't want me to ever experience such pain again. He didn't want me to ever feel such loneliness again. I told him about the abuse and the depression I suffer that evening. That evening I told him, very briefly, about how deep and dark my sadness goes, about how only a little over a year ago, I was planning to kill myself. I revealed more about myself to him in one evening than I ever thought I would reveal. And he responded so well. He communicated with me and held me as I cried. He told me sweet things and that he is there for me. He told me he loved me and we fell asleep in each other's arms.

I was falling so hard for this guy. I kept thinking that this only happens in movies. No one falls in love this quickly. But then what was happening to me? Why did I feel this intense attraction to him? Not just a physical, primal, sexual attraction, but this metaphysical attraction. Like his soul was calling out for me. Even though by this time I had only known him a week, I felt like I had known him for years. He feels so familiar to me. I feel at ease with him. I have never felt so comfortable with someone. I felt this sense of peace wash over me the moment I met him. Does love at first sight actually happen??

After that evening with him, he took me home in the morning and I went out of town for the weekend. When I returned, he brought me dinner and stayed the night with me. That night he made love to me for the first time and it was wonderful.

He stayed over every night that week. And I started to feel unsure of things. I felt myself withdrawing and I really needed my space, but I had trouble communicating to him. I eventually told him that we needed boundaries, and that I cannot spend all my time with him. I was neglecting my friends. I told him that I like my alone time to process my thoughts and emotions. He respected my wishes. A few days later I got sick, and he brought me cough syrup, chocolate, and roses. Which complicated things because I wanted to breakup with him. I was feeling overwhelmed with the intensity of things between him and I. I was overwhelmed by his intensity. I wasn't communicating with him effectively enough. I wasn't conveying my needs to him. That wasn't fair to him. I wasn't sure that I could love him. I wasn't sure if I was falling in love with him, if I was in love with him, or if I was just in love with the idea of being in love with him. I was caught up in the whirlwind of him that I didn't give myself the time to figure things out for myself. So I stopped talking to him and when we were together while I was sick, I blamed me being sick for not wanting to be around him.

I was talking to my friends and my mom about this all. After some reflection, I realized that it wasn't him, but me. I was afraid to commit to him. I was afraid to trust him and to let him in, even though I thought I was doing so. I was afraid to be vulnerable with him. So I decided to just set my boundaries and see how things go. During this time of uncertainty, I started talking to the guy who lives about 1.5 hours from me. (Oh yeah! So before I left for my weekend trip, this guy who is my boyfriend now asked me to be exclusive. And then I told the 1.5 hour away guy about it and that I didn't think we should continue talking. The 1.5 hour away guy was understanding and wanted to continue talking, and still wanted to meet. I told him we could still talk but that meeting wasn't a good idea because if things were reversed on him, would he want his new girlfriend meeting some other guy? He agreed. But we hadn't really continued talking about I told him about my boyfriend.) So during my uncertainty about my boyfriend, I started talking to this other guy (1.5 hour away guy/therapist) and he asked about my boyfriend. I told him that I was planning on breaking up with him. After a week, I still didn't breakup with my boyfriend. But I started to feel more certain of him. I didn't want to break up with him anymore. I realized one night while talking to therapist guy that I wanted to let my boyfriend in and to really open up to him. I was not being really honest with him or open with him. I wasn't communicating. I was afraid. I realized that night while on the phone with therapist guy that I was being more open with therapist guy than I actually was with my boyfriend. I told therapist guy that I changed my mind and that I wasn't going to breakup with my boyfriend. I apologized if I led him on and I wished him the best. We agreed to still talk, but I made it clear with him that I was only his friend.

The next night I really opened up to my boyfriend. I told him about how I was going to break up with him and how I started talking to the therapist guy again. I told him about my fears and concerns. I told him my needs. I just poured my soul to him. I wept in his arms. And he held me so fiercely and told me he loved me. He cried in my arms while I wept and confessed how I felt undeserving of him. It felt so good telling him this. This night, I told him that I loved him. We went back to my place and made love. And we fell asleep in each other arms.

The rest is history. I have made significant improvements in communicating with him, and it is working out so perfectly. He's so respectful. I love him. I think I knew him in a past life and that's why he's so familiar to me. That's why things feel so intense with him. And that's why I was so scared. Because I already knew I loved him from the moment I saw him. My soul recognized him.

Trusting myself to date

I'm starting to date. Well, mostly just talking... But I did go on a date this past Friday night and it was really awesome! (I will elaborate on the date in a bit.) This is the first date I've been on in several years. It felt different this time though. It's really hard to put into words how relocating seems to make dating easier for me. I've written previously about how I was, in a sense, running away from my past when I relocated. I think relocating was a huge step in the right direction for my healing process. I've never felt happier, never felt more relaxed than I do now. It's been freeing.

As I said, I'm dating/talking to people. It's exciting and anxiety-inducing all at once. I think I'm finally at a point in my life where I'm ready for something more serious, and that scares the shit out of me. Serious relationships terrify me. When a relationship starts to become serious, there is boundary where I've never been able to cross. I've never been able to be vulnerable with someone else in such an intimate manner. That is why I've never had a serious relationship before. I have never been able to open up before.

I had always preferred casual relationships. Sex without attachment. It's less complicated, less messy. I don't have to tell them my thoughts and feelings; it's not expected. I don't have to get to know him; it's not expected. I never have to be emotionally intimate. And when things become too serious for me, I just end it. These relationships have formed out of physical needs and I rejected anything that became emotional. Because I could not handle emotion. I would blame it on being busy or focused on school, but it was really because I wasn't ready to tackle my demons and share the experience with another human being.

Now, I'm ready.

************************************************************************

I went on a date with this guy Friday evening. We met at a local coffee shop and spent three hours together talking. We talked about our lives and our families and where we grew up. We talked about religion and politics and international travels. We talked about our jobs and our future goals. Eventually we were holding hands across the table and staring deeply into each others eyes. (No joke! It was intense!) It didn't seem like three hours. When I finally noticed the time, I apologized because I had to leave. I had promised my friends that I'd hangout with them and when I finally checked my phone I had several missed calls and unanswered texts. He walked me to me car, holding my hand and then we hugged goodnight. He asked me out for a second date. He was very kind and respectful. It was such an intense date. The last three years have been focused on myself and healing, and I've been celibate for the entire time. The act of holding hands with this guy had me so aroused; I couldn't believe it! I texted my best friend back home about it and she said, "I think actually that kind of touch can be pretty sensual..." I couldn't agree more.

I'm also talking to this other guy who lives about an hour and a half from me. We haven't met yet, but we've been talking for about a month now. We are finally planning to meet two weeks from now. I'm going to drive to his hometown, since I haven't been there before, and he's going to show me around the city. I think it'll be fun. I like this guy already, he seems really nice. I feel like I can really open up to him and it doesn't hurt that he's actually a therapist either. I was just telling him last night that he had really found his calling because it's really easy to talk to him. I can imagine his clients just opening up to him immediately because I have to hold myself back and only let a little crazy out at a time.

************************************************************************

This is exciting, but I also feel anxious and nervous about dating. That's natural, yes?

It's going to be strange for me. I have mixed feelings about dating. I'm doubtful that I can maintain something serious. I'm anxious about getting serious with someone. It means that when things become serious, I will have to tell them about my dark past. I will have to open up and be emotionally intimate. I will have to be vulnerable. I will have to trust them. I'm afraid to trust. I'm afraid of giving someone my trust and yet again, it being betrayed.

I trusted Voldemort once. I trusted that he would take care of me and then he fucked with me. He got in my head and twisted my thinking. He took my trust and defiled it with his body. It makes me want to never trust someone again.

I swear that I saw him

Over the weekend I had a friend from home visit me in my new town. She and I went to a restaurant for lunch. When we walked inside, there was a table to my right with four guys in it. One of them reminded me of Voldemort. His hair style and color, his facial appearance. I could have sworn that I was staring at him 20 years ago. I stood frozen. I was terrified. I knew it wasn't him. He's 20 years older and he's in prison, but it just brought me back to that time as a child. My friend brought me back to reality and dragged me to a table. Thankfully out of view of that guy. I sat with my friend and tried to enjoy our meal and forget about him. My heart raced the entire time.

Letter to my sister

I wrote my sister a letter. It took me nearly two weeks before I finally mailed it. My sister and I are not close and it felt foreign to try and connect with her. I don't even know her phone number, I don't know where she lives, and I really don't know her. I know her based on my perception and judgment of her life decisions. And I'm realizing that some of those "decisions" may not be consciously made. Some of her actions are predetermined by her past experiences, and as such are not an extension of what she wants for herself. Her actions and decisions are decided by something else, and I need to be more understanding.

So I wrote her a letter. Specifically, I wrote her because last Thanksgiving we were at my parents' place for dinner. She brought her boyfriend to dinner and apparently he wasn't feel well. My sister was in the room off the kitchen with her boyfriend and our stepdad and she was insisting that her boyfriend do something. I don't really know what they were talking about, but her boyfriend kept saying "no" and she kept insisting. She said to him, "I don't take no for an answer." It really bothered me and I walked into the room and said to my sister, "No means no. If he doesn't want to do something, leave it be. Would you like it if someone forced you to do something?" To which she responded with something like, "Many people haven't listened when I told them no." That made my heart break. I quickly told her, "Well, that wasn't right and no one deserves that. You should respect your boyfriend though." This interaction with her has bothered me since. I feel like a shitty sister. I didn't protect her.

I wrote about this incident to her. And then I told her about...Voldemort. (It brings me too much anxiety to even write or speak his name, so he is Voldemort. Or He Who Must Not Be Named.) I told her about when we were little and we were babysat by grandma in the summer while our parents worked. I told her about how grandma would leave for work in the afternoon and leave Voldemort in charge to babysit us. I told her I tried to protect her by making her go play outside or in another room. I didn't want him to touch her and hurt her like he did to me. (Thinking on it right now, I didn't want to share him with her. Isn't that so fucked up how someone can mess with your mind?! I mean, I knew that it was wrong on some level. I remember feeling guilty after our "special time" together so I knew that whatever was happening was wrong. On the other hand, I believed that I was special and I didn't want to lessen the special-ness of our time together by including my little sister. So when I excluded her as a child, it wasn't out of protection, it was because I was selfish. Because Voldemort not only fucked with my body, but fucked with my mind.)

I told her that I loved her and that I'm sorry that I didn't say anything sooner and that I didn't protect her. I told her that I wish and hope that nothing like this happened to her by Voldemort or anyone else, but if it had, I would listen. And I would believe her. I told her that I hope she can begin to heal and move past it all if someone had violated her boundaries. I told her that boundaries are okay and that people should respect them. I apologized for not being supportive previously.

I hope my letter gives her strength.

Removing the toxic feelings

"Feelings of anger, bitterness, and hate are negative. If I kept those inside me they would spoil my body and my health. They are of no use." -The Dalai Lama

I wholeheartedly believe this is true, which is why I desperately want to shed the negative feelings I carry with me. I think I'm making progress.

***********************

It has been a few months since I last posted something, and you know what I'm not going to do? Apologize. This blog is for me; I write for myself not for you. This is my story.

I have met some really awesome people in the last few months and I'm so happy. I feel like this is the happiest I have been in a long time, if I've even been this happy before. I think the relocation improved my outlook on life. I'm not saying that I'm "cured" and that my life will be smiles and rainbows from now on, but I feel like I finally have a chance of winning this battle.

In my last counseling session I told my therapist that I'm afraid. I'm afraid that this high, this happiness I'm feel will vanish soon and I'll be left in my negative thoughts and feelings again. I'm afraid to become like I was. I'm afraid that I might spiral into that pit where I can't come back up. I'm terrified that I might feel so low again that I want to kill myself and my closest friends, who would not let me be alone the last time I was suicidal, are hundreds of miles away. It may be irrational fear, but it's there and I feel like this fear is lurking and just waiting to pounce at the right moment. I understand that all emotions and feelings are impermanent, and that I cannot always be happy, but I know my history and history tells me that when I'm not happy, I'm deeply depressed.

So I'm working hard now in my moments of happiness to continue building a positive network of friends who I can lean on in my dark hours, when and if it returns. I'm working hard now to build myself up and shed negative thoughts so that I won't have as many later.

My plan might actually work. Or that's just the optimism talking.

Running Away

Within in the last year, I have relocated to another state. Previously, I had lived in my birth state all my life. The state in which my abuse occurred. The state in which I experienced such loss and tragedy. That's not saying that I have never experienced great joys in that state. I met some of my best friends in my birth state. I have had great job opportunities in that state, which allowed me to accept a fantastic opportunity in the state where I'm currently living. Most people think that I moved for my job, but they are wrong. Technically I did move for a job, but my motivation for relocating was not at all career-related.

I wanted to escape from that place. Reinvent myself.

In high school, I always dreamed of moving away. It was something that I've always wanted to do. Live in a different state. Move miles and miles away. Put as much distance between me and my past. But I felt stuck, almost trapped. Something kept me there and I couldn't figure out what it was.

I had applied for colleges out of state, but I either didn't get in, was wait-listed, or didn't get enough funding to attend. So I attended the local four-year university in my town. I planned to do a year there and then transfer to another college. I honestly didn't care where I moved as long as there were miles between myself and my past. But I stayed there longer than I intended.

I wanted to run away from my pain.

I finally felt ready in the last year or two. It was after I reported to the police that I finally felt ready to move away and leave it all behind. So I started by applying for jobs where I'd have to move. I included some jobs in state as well as out of state. Then some serious shit happened between me and my parents and I thought, "Fuck them. Let's hightail it out of here." So I started only applying for jobs out of state. My family is not supportive so why should I stick around?

Last year, I was applying for out of state jobs when my grandma, whose health has been failing, was hospitalized. She became unresponsive and they had to put her on life support. I loved my grandma, but resented her at the same time. She always seemed to make me feel guiltier after visiting her than when I just avoided her all together. (This is not the same grandma whose house my abuse occurred. This grandma is my dad's mom and she always took my dad's side.)

I've always had a rocky relationship with my birth father. He was abusive and manipulative. I stood up to him. I stopped seeing my dad because of his abuse and manipulation. I stopped seeing him because he didn't want a real, meaningful relationship with me. He only wanted an appearance of a good father-daughter relationship. He made empty promises and never was there for me in my times of need. He wasn't willing to share in my times of joy. So I cut him out of my life.

My grandma wasn't so happy about my cutting my dad out of my life. He would tell her how much he loved me and how much he wanted to be in my life and how I was so unjustified for ignoring his existence. My grandma did not believe me about his abuse even when my mom filed charges against him or even when he was charged with child abuse for beating the fuck out of my little brother. He continued to claim he was innocent and my grandma believed and never believed me. It always pissed me off.

I began to stop visiting my grandma. I seldom saw her even for holidays. I'd feel guilty for not visiting her. Even when she was hospitalized, which was frequent because of her health, I didn't visit her. When the guilt got too big, I'd finally visit her, but she made me angry when I visited with her. She made me feel more guilty when I visited her. She'd thickly lay on a guilt trip for not talking to my father. On and off I'd try to talk with my father because I never really gave up trying to have a relationship with him. I think I always thought that maybe he'd change or maybe it'd be different. But the ironic thing is that when I turned 18, my dad didn't give a shit about me. He changed his phone number and refused to give it me. When I asked my grandma or other family on that side for my dad's number, they said they couldn't give it me. My sister had his number and wouldn't give it to me. I could only contact him through email. When I contacted him to come to my college graduation, he told me to fuck off and not contact him anymore. That's when I finally gave up. Fuck him. He didn't give a shit, so why should I?

But it kills me that he still continued to tell my grandma that I was the one refusing to talk to him. Even when I asked her for his phone number to talk to him, she still refused and still believed that I wasn't willing to talk to him. It was a fucked up relationship. I love my grandma, even through her guilt trips, enabling, and other faults.

I remember so many happy times with her. I remember when I was in grade school and constantly bullied, that I'd frequently miss the school bus on purpose and call her to come pick me up. I'd fake being sick so I could spend the day with her. She'd usually take me out to lunch for soup and then I'd spend my day watching cartoons with her. I remember spending weekends with her and going to church with her every Sunday. She taught Sunday school and when I was too old to be in her class, I started helping her teach the lessons so I could spend more time with her. I loved spending Sunday afternoons with her and cooking with her. I loved laying next to her and she used to stroke my hair. We used to share a bowl of popcorn and watch her TV shows. We'd watch Touched By An Angel, Early Edition, Murder She Wrote, and Matlock. Those were her favorites, and they were mine too because she loved them. I remember that she made the best milk shakes and the best PB&J sandwiches. She always had the best snacks in the house and because she was diabetic, she always carried the best candies. These memories are what I try to remember of her and I'd try to forget the ones where she'd make me feel angry and/or guilty about my dad.

Last year Grandma got really sick. The doctors said she had a stroke and she became unresponsive. I visited her in the hospital everyday. They thought she'd get better. Then she got an infection and things got worse. She had a series of strokes and her lungs filled up with fluids. They moved her to a different hospital. Her heart stopped and doctors resuscitated her and cracker several ribs. Every time they moved her to do tests, she crashed. She went without oxygen for 15 minutes and they revived her. She was legally dead for 15 minutes. They declared her brain dead. She had to remain on life support to even stay alive. My grandpa made the difficult decision to pull her life support and within 24 hours she went.

Grandma's precious little baby (my fucking asshole father) didn't even come to pay his respects. He never came to say goodbye. He didn't even come to her funeral. The asshole she protected and praised didn't care enough about his own mother to visit her one last time. It makes me so angry that he had her wrapped around his finger so tight.

During the last month of her life, I finally forgave her for all the pain she caused me. When she finally died, I didn't feel the weight of guilt I usually associated with her. I was sad, I'm still sad that she's gone, but I don't feel guilt, anger, or resentment towards her. I love her so much and I think she what was keep me there. I would have felt terrible if I couldn't have been there when things got really bad. Because I still lived in that state, I was able to visit her every day after work. I was able to go to her funeral. I was able to let of my pain that I associated with her. I was able to finally forgive her and move on.

As I write this, I am crying. Not because of guilt. But because I miss her. Because I remember the pain of losing her. I cry because I remember the pain she went through. I hadn't really prayed in years until she got so sick. I prayed to the universe or God, or whatever might be out there to take her pain away. I prayed that she finally be able to move on, and my prayer was answered. In praying for her to move on, I was unknowingly praying for permission for myself to move on as well. I was sad, but I felt peace at her passing. Within a year after Grandma's passing, I finally moved away.

When I was interviewing for my current job, I prayed to Grandma. I asked her to help me get this job because I deserved it. I deserved to move away from my past. I deserved a fresh start. I reported my abuse, I forgave my grandma, I stayed with her until the end, and I deserved a new start in a new place. I needed a fresh start. Grandma listened.

I moved because I needed to escape everything and start anew. I moved because there is nothing left back there to keep me rooted there. The rest of my family is not supportive, and as much as I love my friends, I had to leave.

I thinking moving was one of the best decisions for me. I'm feeling happier than I've ever felt. I'm excited every day. I love my new job. I'm learning my new city and new state. It's been a great decision for me. For the first time in a long time, I feel content.

Rejoicing in the death of grandpa

Edited 6/22/15

I don't think I can share some details of my experiences yet, or I may never be able to share them. I posted this thinking it could help me heal. Talking about it, writing about it, sharing what was done to me could maybe help remove stigma. Remove my shame. Remove my fear. Make me feel less dirty? I don't know. But it only made me feel scared of judgment and I have felt so anxious about sharing it. I have to remove it. So I don't think I can share these details with other people right now, even if I'm remaining anonymous. So I deleted parts of my story and rephrased things. Sorry, but I'm not sorry for censoring my story.

I'm going to tell you a story. Fair warning, this story will describe a specific memory of the sexual abuse I experienced. For those who may be triggered by my recollection, I recommend that you proceed at your own will. Don't make yourself uncomfortable if you don't want to be. It's your choice.

In my previous post about repetitive thoughts, I mentioned how I feel like a shitty person for being happy when my grandfather died because he had once walked in on us. You may wonder what kind of adult doesn't put a stop to it all? The answer is the fucked up person that was grandpa.

This grandpa I talk about isn't a blood relative, not that that really matters in this regard. He should have said something regardless of blood relation. This grandpa was an adult who witnesses a crime. But he was one fucked up individual, which is most definitely no excuse.

He was a drunk, and a mean one at that. I never really cared for him. When he wasn't at the bar getting pissed or on the sofa sleeping it off, he was yelling at us all, and possibly abusive to my grandma.

I feel like this doesn't excuse my glee at his demise, no matter what harm he had done. Everyone deserves compassion and forgiveness. (Funny I can give compassion and forgiveness to others, or I preach it, but I cannot seem to be compassionate or forgive myself.)

I feel kind of weird sharing a detailed account of my experiences. Although, I think it will be a good thing to share my stories. I think it will be healing for me. I've only shared details of my abuse with a counselor, the police, and my very brave and compassionate best friend who came with me when I reported to the police. I still can't believe my friend could sit there and listen to me describe my abuse to the police. I didn't think I could handle talking about everything, let alone someone else listening to me. But she sat there holding my hands and made me feel so safe and loved. She helped me through a situation that I wasn't sure I could do. I'm so grateful to have this wonderful woman in my life and it gives me so much joy to call her my friend. She gives me the strength and resilience I need to share this story with you all.

Well, here goes this story.

There was this one time that my grandpa caught us. The grandpa was passed out drunk on the couch and my grandma had left for her 2nd shift job. She normally left my abuser in charge at this point until my parents came to pick me and my siblings up. My abuser was a late teenager. He was 15 at the youngest and 17 at the oldest. I don't really remember. I was about 5 or 6 at the time. I think I was in kindergarten or 1st grade. I can only piece together a rough timeline of the abuse because I remember a safe touch program from my 1st grade class and I remember telling myself I was going to tell the teacher, but I was so afraid. I can roughly tell you about the age I was one when I think it all ended. I believe I was maybe 7 or 8, maybe 9, when the abuse stopped. I was 9 or 10  when my grandpa died and I only know this because I recently looked up when he died. So it all started when I was about 5 and ended when I was 7-9 years old. I'd probably say more like 7 since I don't remember going to grandmas much after that age. But I also don't remember a lot, which in still not sure if I should be grateful about or not...

Well, on this day grandma left the abuser in charge as usual. Grandpa came home drunk and passed out on the couch. I was laying on grandma's bed watching Nickelodeon cartoons when the abuser came into the bedroom. He closed the door.

God, I feel so disgusting writing this, and remembering this.

He was definitely enjoying himself like the sick fucking pervert that he is when grandpa opened the door as saw us. The abuser jumped off me and I just sat there in utter fear. What was going to happen?? Was it finally going to stop? Was grandpa going to tell my parents? Was I going to get in trouble?

Grandpa started yelling. "What the fuck are you doing??? You stop that!!!!" He yelled at me. Not him. Me. I was definitely in trouble.

My parents came to pick me up. I was terrified. What are my parents going to say?? What are they going to do to me??? Are they going to love me still?

Grandpa never said anything. Ever. I lived in fear that he'd say something. He knew my dirty little secret. It was agony never knowing if or when he was going to tell my parents. I thought my parents would react the same way. I thought that they'd punish me. I thought they would hate me. Grandpa never said a word. He took my secret to his grave. And I rejoiced.

I shared this story with my previous counselor and he suggested that I probably never said anything to an adult before because I was just that terrified I would get into a lot of trouble because of grandpa's reaction. He reacted so explosively angry toward me that I feared my parents or any other adult would do the same. I guess it makes sense. I still don't feel good about it. My adult brain tells my child self that I was wrong and I should have told someone.

My adult self and child self obviously have some communication issues.

Repetitive unhealthy thoughts

My therapist was telling me about thought stopping, which is just as it sounds: stopping your thoughts. From my (Buddhist-oriented) perspective, it seems odd. In Buddhism, you are taught to not stop your thoughts/emotions or repress them, but to acknowledge them, even if they are painful. For example, a memory crossed my mind about my parents' divorce which brought me sorrow so I acknowledge the memory and emotions it evoked and then let it pass. I say, "I see you sorrow. I love you sorrow," and then I let it pass. This makes sense to me because you don't repress the thoughts, memories, or emotions and it doesn't come back to bite you in the ass later. In this practice, you deal with it as it comes to you and accept the good and bad emotions. They are a part of you.

Thought stopping sounds odd to me, but I don't fully understand it yet. My therapist just described it in my last session because I have these repetitive thoughts. We'll call them "unhealthy and painful" in place of "irrational" because all of our thoughts and feelings are valid and I feel like calling them "irrational thoughts" invalidates my thoughts and emotions. I digress.

Well I have these unhealthy thoughts that cause me emotional pain and my therapist wants to try "thought stopping" to control them. Even though I know the sexual abuse that I went through as a child isn't my fault, I still blame myself. This is just one of the awful things I think about myself so my therapist said I need to stop these thoughts in their tracks. (Hopefully we'll talk more about these thoughts and dissect them in therapy so I can understand the root causes because otherwise I'm not sure that thought stopping is really going to benefit me.)

My first homework assignment in this thought stopping business is to identify repetitive, unhealthy thoughts. So here it goes. A list of all my unhealthy thoughts that replay in my mind and contribute to my mental anguish.

Why didn't I say something to an adult? I could have stopped it.

My abuser went on to abuse other children. I feel like I abused those children because I never tried to stop him. I never told anyone. It's my fault that there are more victims left in his wake.

I watched him abuse my little sister and another cousin. And I didn't do a fucking thing. I'm a shitty person.

I'm a shitty person for being happy when my grandpa died because he once walked in on my abuser and I. He yelled at me, but never told anyone and I was relieved when he died because he never could tell anyone now. I'm horrible.

I'm disgusting because my body reacted to what was going on to me. As an adult I know it's all about biology, but I feel like my body betrayed me. I liked how it made me feel and that makes me the most vile person on the planet.

I hate my mom for letting me go to that house. And this makes me hate myself because I do love my mom, but I hate her at the same time. She didn't do it to me, but I blame her for it.

I hate myself. I'm disgusting.

I blame myself for it all. And that makes me feel more guilty because my adult brain tells me that the child that this was happening to wasn't at fault. But I still cannot shake this thought that I'm at fault. I brought it on. I asked for it. I mean, seriously. What fucked up, twisted person liked something that fucked up?

I wish I could forget it all. I wish I could turn back time and tell someone.

I don't deserve to be loved. I'm filthy.

I'm what they call "damaged goods."

I don't deserve happiness. I helped him get away with this for two decades. Who knows how many more children he hurt? Who knows how many children I let this happen to? I let this happen.

Fractured Psyche

The foundation is cracking

and the walls are crumbling around me.

Windows shatter, releasing

long held fears that I have imprisoned.

For years, I spent fortifying the dams

to house the memories that threaten to drown me.

And now it's all breaking

and reflecting back to me my darkest secrets.

They threaten to unearth me

to consume and destroy the infrastructure,

the very essence of my being.

And I revel in the interlude

between the darkness and the light.

I wait for the putrid dark to return

dripping with self loathing.

But maybe the fracturing of my mind will

bring forth the light instead of the dark.

To infuse my soul with peace

and contentment. And maybe, just maybe,

I can let go of these thoughts and move on with my life.

I wish to be a frog

I took these photos of a frog a few years ago while working a job. I was out doing my morning work and I stumbled upon this little frog hiding in the grass. I was so intrigued with how it blended in with the green grass and morning dew. I stooped and marveled at it for probably a good five minutes. I stared at this beautiful create in awe and jealousy. I wished that I could be like this frog and just blend in with my surroundings, to fit in. Most of all, I was jealous of the frog's calmness.

Quite frequently, I wish I could blend with everyone else, my surroundings. I wish to melt into the masses. To be like everyone else. I'm socially inept. I am introverted. I'm awkward. I don't know how to have small talk. I tell dumb jokes. I laugh at inappropriate times. I don't understand other people and their social interactions. I don't know what to do at networking events or social gatherings. I frequently sit alone in a corner watching everyone else. I try so fucking hard to be like everyone else, but I fail. I try so hard to make friends, to start relationships, to talk to people. To connect. I just want to connect.

I'm on the outside looking in. I thought this phase would end when I left high school.

I'd fully blame the disconnect on technology, but in my case, I know that's not the issue. I have spent my entire life building walls to keep people away from me. I have created my own disconnection from the world and I have no clue how to reconnect the pieces. How do I start? Where do I start?

This disconnect from my world creates so much unrest, so much anxiety and fear, that I am jealous of this frog's calmness. He sits so still, so calm, just watching me. He doesn't squirm or run away, even though he has no idea if I am friend or foe. He calmly waits for me to leave his space. He is braver than I am.

Me, on the other hand? I fidget. I'm uncomfortable. People looking at me or talking to me makes me nervous. Anyone even remotely close to invading my personal bubble puts me on edge. The anxiety from being in social situations actually prevents me for even attending events. I feel like people have to twist my arms and drag me. A lot of my life is spent at home by myself binge watching Netflix. But even being at home doesn't put the anxiety at bay because I feel guilty for bailing on plans or not following through. I feel lonely. I feel stressed. I don't know how to be calm, to be at peace with myself and my environment.

I have been trying to meditate to calm myself, but I find myself making to-do lists and that brings me more anxiety. Sometimes I meditate and I find myself in a heap of tears and wailing in sadness.

Sometimes I just wish to be like this calm frog who obviously fits in his surroundings. I want that.

Edit 6/16/15:

Today I found this quote from the Dalai Lama and it was perfectly timed.

"Our state of mind plays a major role in our day-to-day experiences as well as our physical and mental well-being. If a person has a calm and stable mind, this influences his or her attitude and behavior in relation to others. In other words, if someone remains in a peaceful and tranquil state of mind, external surroundings can cause them only a limited disturbance."

Introduction

Hello, my name will remain anonymous, but you may call me OneBraveStep. This blog is the story of my brave steps to recovery. I will keep myself, and the people mentioned, in my blog anonymous. I am a woman in my 20s who has remained silent and protecting her abuser for almost two decades. He doesn't deserve protection. It is time that I finally speak.

I experienced recurrent sexual trauma as a child. I cannot tell you for how long, but it started when I was about 5 years old. My memories are slightly hazy and I haven't decided if that's a good or bad thing. My therapist tells me this is common for children who experience traumatic events. I do not remember everything. I cannot give an exact timeline. I cannot tell you what he did or said to me to keep my silence. I cannot remember a lot, but as I have been confronting the memories that I do recall, more have been unsealed from my vaulted mind and I have begun painfully piecing together my past. I have begun the process of putting myself back together, one jagged fragment at a time.

I have been in therapy for awhile now. I finally broke that silence. I reported to the police a year ago. Reporting has not changed anything for me. If anything, it has made me more angry. No charges have been pressed against my abuser, and I feel that police are reluctant to investigate since it's been twenty years are there is not any evidence to prove his guilt. The detective who caught my case interviewed my abuser and of course the vile asshole denied it all. It's just my recollection, and the recollection of others who were involved, who may not be willing to take the brave step I took to break the silence. It's my word against his, and I feel like his word won. It is discouraging that nothing is moving forward with my case, but I have to take solace in the fact that I bravely stood up and said, "Yes, he harmed me and I will NOT remain silent any longer."

This trauma has caused me a lot of pain in my life. I have been depressed for as long as I can remember. I have felt guilty, shameful, dirty, broken, unhappy, unworthy, undeserving of love and affection, suicidal, self depreciation, and a myriad of other feelings for far too long. Why is it me who feels this way? Why doesn't he feel this way? Why do I blame myself? I was a little girl. He was the adult. I have dealt with this emotional pain for too long. It has affected my relationships. It has prevented me from forming romantic bonds. It has prevented me from moving forward. I feel stuck. It's time that I confront it and allow myself to move on; which is much easier said than done.

What will my life look like when I've finally moved on and put this behind me? What will I be like when I've learned to forgive him and be more compassionate? What will I feel like? I want to know this version of myself so badly. I cannot wait to see this life. For the first time in a long time, I feel hopeful. I look forward to the future.