This may be a long entry, so I'll preface it with an apology. I certainly don't want to come across as whiny or self-absorbed, but well, it's my blog, so if you aren't interested, you certainly don't have to read. However, I do promise to attempt at ending this particular entry on a positive, perhaps even enlightened viewpoint.
I am an anxious person and I sometimes find myself wondering, why? Why spend the time and energy worrying and wondering and thinking? Why make myself sick, literally sick, with anxiety when I don't have to? The logical part of me poses this question to the part of me that is anxious and I simply don't understand why I can't just figure myself out and be done with it.
I wonder about whether I'm sick or going crazy or dying...anything that is out of my control. And that is where this negativity is stemmed...I'm afraid of not being in control. I am scared of anything that leaves me vulnerable and out in the open. I get frightened when my body twinges for no reason; I think, Oh, here it goes, I'm dying. I just know it. And every time, I'm fine. I have a little blip of fear and then I go back to normal. Same thing with being afraid of losing my mind. A thought will occur to me and it will be crazy or strange to me and I immediately assume I'm losing my mind.
It frightens me so much that I dwell on it and I can't let it go. There are things in my life that have certainly led me to this state. I was abused as a child. I was abused in every sense of the word and it wasn't just once or twice. It was every day. I didn't have one day when I wasn't afraid of something. Was I going to be hit? Would I be yelled at? Is mom and dad going to yell and scream and fight? Will we have to leave in the middle of the night?
My mom used to come to me with adult choices. What bill should I pay? Should I get this job? Should I buy this or pay for that? I was a child but my mother treated me as if I were her equal... only to tear me down later and beat me with such anger that I was certain she hated me and everything I brought for her. I was scared of my mother...and my step dad. He frightened me on levels I couldn't comprehend at that age.
He never missed an opportunity to scare the hell out of me. He was always playing mind games with me. I remember one time in particular. I was five or six and I'd lied to him about something; though, I admit I can't remember what it had been. I remember he was furious and he spanked the back of my hands with a spatula while he yelled at me. Tears streamed down my face and I sobbed while he punished me. My mother looked on while he slapped my hands over and over and over. Then he made me press my forehead against the wall with my hands at my side. It felt like forever. He then made me go to my room. A few hours later, my little brother came into the room and told me dad was taking us to the park. I remember for a small moment, I thought, He must have forgiven me. Everything is okay again!
But then my little brother came back and informed me dad had lied to me and we weren't going anywhere and if I came out of the room, I'd be beaten. I was so heartbroken and so scared. Everything I did seemed to be questioned and ridiculed by him. My mother didn't seem to protect me from any of it and it made me feel incredibly lost. Here I was, a child, afraid and feeling alone in my battle and my mother wasn't fighting for me. Instead, she allowed this person back into our lives; even after seeing that he was hardly the best choice for us.
I wasn't given a lot of attention as a child. My little brother and sister always seemed more important; though, looking back I realize it was just circumstances. My little brother was the only boy, so of course he was going to get more attention for that reason. My little sister was the baby of the family, so there again, she would get more attention for that reason... Me... I had to hang back a little. I didn't want my step dad in my life; everyone else did. I had to pretned most of my life that I loved him or that I was happy when in fact, I hated him.
I hated trying to win him over and never succeeding. I hated trying to prove myself, but always falling short. I hated the way he spoke to my mother and treated my brother and me. I hated that I couldn't just run away and never come back. I threatend that a lot because I was trying to get someone to hear me: I"M UNHAPPY!! HELP ME!
My mother was more physically abusive. She used to get this look in her eye... she scared me. I thought she'd kill us eventually. She threatened us with bodily harm, adoption... even killing us. We were terrified of her. All of us. You never knew what would set her off.
I think this is why I'm always so scared. I had no control over my life growing up. I had to do whatever everyone else wanted. I was hit regardless of what I did. I was made to feel as if nothing I did was right. I was sexually abused. No one ever asked me what I wanted. I was always out of control. Hence, the incredible fear of being out of control.
I'm afraid of dying because it's out of my control. One day I'll die. Whether I'm ready or not. I'm afraid of being sick. Something could take over my body and completely ruin my life. Whether I'm okay with or not. It could happen. I'm afraid of going crazy. Everything around me could suddenly lose its value because something went wrong in my mind. Whether I was okay with it or not. That, too could happen...
But I have to remember a few things. Everyone dies. Few are ready. That is life. Everyone has moments where they are sick. Some have life-long conditions. So I'm anxious? Everyone has something. It's all in how you deal with it. I am not crazy. I am a woman who went through hell as a child and life isn't just going to be easy. I will learn to be happy. One day, because I am determined and willing to try, I will be happy. This, this I promise myself. I will be happy and I will overcome. It could happen. :)
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Overcoming Insecurity to Love
When I was younger, I went through a period where I wasn't sure who I was. I didn't know if I were straight or gay, or what made someone either way. I remember I fought myself over my identity for a long time. I was terrified and worried and sick to my stomach considering my sexuality. I couldn't even look at another girl without being afraind that I was going to develop feelings for her. Not knowing what made a person gay was the biggest cause of my fears. Not having a reliable person to express those fears to was another. I wasn't sure if someone would understand the internal conflict that I found myself in. And I wasn't sure I ever wanted to find out either.
For a few years, I was very sensitive to anything to do with homosexuality. I hated movies that dealt with it, I hated hearing about it, I hated seeing people engage in it... because on my most intimate levels, it scared me about myself. I didn't know who I was; I was insecure and therefore incredibly threatened by anything to do with same sex issues.
After a lot of soul searching, I realized that I was heterosexual; perhaps slightly bi-curious, but heterosexual nonetheless. Suddenly, homosexuality became just another topic for me. I started watching Ellen (which I had previously avoided like the plague), I began to befriend people who idenitified as homosexual and found that they were amazing, strong, beautiful souls who have a lot of love to give, and I disposed of all predispositions and judgements I'd had previously. It was easy once I was aware of my personal truths. And it made me wonder about other people... are they homophobic because they too are uncertain of themselves or is it a case of being afraid of the unknown?
I have to believe that anyone who harbors so much hate for a group of people or a lifestyle they don't have to engage with also harbors a lot of self-doubt and fear. And I find it incredibly sad that the fear of a few has prohibited a group of people from expressing love for one another. Regardless of how they choose to express their love, whether it be heterosexually or homosexually, the end result is the same for everyone: They want to express it the same way everyone else is allowed to. And why not? What's wrong with it? Because they can't engage in sex in the traditional conventional way? Well, as far as I'm concerned, what I do in my bedroom is nobody's business...so why should it be different for a couple of the same sex? That is really all the question of allowing same sex couples to marry boils down to. Nobody is questioning them as people individually; but society can't seem to look beyond the bedroom and recognize that they're people and they're in love; the same way any of us are in love.
I know that insecurity in oneself can bring conflict in the way we judge people or situations. I know because I was there. Had the idea of same sex marriage been purposed to me ten years ago, I would have spouted off the same ignorant things so many others are saying now: It's wrong; it's against what God wants, It's Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve...blah, blah, blah.
However, I believe I've grown as a person. I've come to realize that love shouldn't come with lables. It doesn't concern me if a homosexual couple wants to marry; they should have the same God given rights every other person has. I certainly can't imagine being told that I couldn't marry my husband because it went against someone else's idea of normalcy and I don't think it's fair or right for anyone to withhold the right for homosexual couples to marry and enjoy the same comforts marriage can bring to heterosexual couples.
I would ask people to think for a moment if there were someone they loved and they loved them in spite of what society told them was okay or approving...Would you want anyone telling you you couldn't be with that person or express your love the way you saw fit? I would guess that the answer would be no. I know mine would be. So why then is it okay for us to tell anyone in this world who they can or cannot marry?
Let me say God does not hate. God is love. And if two people are joined in love, regardless of their sex, then who are we to say it's not what God would want? I know I've never personally talked to God and there is not a person around who can tell me they have. So nobody can say what God's position would be on same sex marriage or that by allowing it, we'd redefine marriage as a whole. Marriage is the union of two souls who love one another beyond measure. Souls. Not bodies. And I think that's what we need to consider when we think about heterosexual vs. homosexual. What are we really judging here? Souls? Or Bodies?
I'm grateful because I was able to overcome my insecurities enough to love a group of people I had initially hated. I hope that others can find it in themselves to do the same and stop judging. Let love be love. Regardless of how it's packaged.
For a few years, I was very sensitive to anything to do with homosexuality. I hated movies that dealt with it, I hated hearing about it, I hated seeing people engage in it... because on my most intimate levels, it scared me about myself. I didn't know who I was; I was insecure and therefore incredibly threatened by anything to do with same sex issues.
After a lot of soul searching, I realized that I was heterosexual; perhaps slightly bi-curious, but heterosexual nonetheless. Suddenly, homosexuality became just another topic for me. I started watching Ellen (which I had previously avoided like the plague), I began to befriend people who idenitified as homosexual and found that they were amazing, strong, beautiful souls who have a lot of love to give, and I disposed of all predispositions and judgements I'd had previously. It was easy once I was aware of my personal truths. And it made me wonder about other people... are they homophobic because they too are uncertain of themselves or is it a case of being afraid of the unknown?
I have to believe that anyone who harbors so much hate for a group of people or a lifestyle they don't have to engage with also harbors a lot of self-doubt and fear. And I find it incredibly sad that the fear of a few has prohibited a group of people from expressing love for one another. Regardless of how they choose to express their love, whether it be heterosexually or homosexually, the end result is the same for everyone: They want to express it the same way everyone else is allowed to. And why not? What's wrong with it? Because they can't engage in sex in the traditional conventional way? Well, as far as I'm concerned, what I do in my bedroom is nobody's business...so why should it be different for a couple of the same sex? That is really all the question of allowing same sex couples to marry boils down to. Nobody is questioning them as people individually; but society can't seem to look beyond the bedroom and recognize that they're people and they're in love; the same way any of us are in love.
I know that insecurity in oneself can bring conflict in the way we judge people or situations. I know because I was there. Had the idea of same sex marriage been purposed to me ten years ago, I would have spouted off the same ignorant things so many others are saying now: It's wrong; it's against what God wants, It's Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve...blah, blah, blah.
However, I believe I've grown as a person. I've come to realize that love shouldn't come with lables. It doesn't concern me if a homosexual couple wants to marry; they should have the same God given rights every other person has. I certainly can't imagine being told that I couldn't marry my husband because it went against someone else's idea of normalcy and I don't think it's fair or right for anyone to withhold the right for homosexual couples to marry and enjoy the same comforts marriage can bring to heterosexual couples.
I would ask people to think for a moment if there were someone they loved and they loved them in spite of what society told them was okay or approving...Would you want anyone telling you you couldn't be with that person or express your love the way you saw fit? I would guess that the answer would be no. I know mine would be. So why then is it okay for us to tell anyone in this world who they can or cannot marry?
Let me say God does not hate. God is love. And if two people are joined in love, regardless of their sex, then who are we to say it's not what God would want? I know I've never personally talked to God and there is not a person around who can tell me they have. So nobody can say what God's position would be on same sex marriage or that by allowing it, we'd redefine marriage as a whole. Marriage is the union of two souls who love one another beyond measure. Souls. Not bodies. And I think that's what we need to consider when we think about heterosexual vs. homosexual. What are we really judging here? Souls? Or Bodies?
I'm grateful because I was able to overcome my insecurities enough to love a group of people I had initially hated. I hope that others can find it in themselves to do the same and stop judging. Let love be love. Regardless of how it's packaged.
Friday, October 19, 2012
The Miracle that is Love
I struggled quite a bit with the idea of being a mother. For the longest time, I thought there was no way I would have kids. After suffering through a traumatic childhood and seeing the disdain my mother and step-father had for parenting, I figured I'd be better off without the struggle. Not to mention, for the longest time, I was scared that I would repeat the very mistakes that were made with me.
I wanted a baby when I was fourteen. Hormones. They should really come with directions. I was insane! I didn't want sex, but I wanted a baby so badly I could feel it. But somewhere along the line, I lost the desire. Kids became a burden I wanted to avoid. I didn't want to have a baby only to regret every moment. And I certainly didn't want to treat my child the way I had been treated.
I thought for certain my mind had been made up. Every time I heard a child cry, chills would go through me and I'd think, there's no way I want one of those or the stigma that seemed to follow. "Cool" moms trying to be chic while they have screaming babies dangle off of their boobs. Frustrated dads trying to regain a sense of manhood while they have toddlers biting at their ankles...yeah...the whole idea repulsed me. I figured I'd just stick to my dogs. I can stick them in the garage when I have to go somewhere, I don't have to worry about damaging them or making them sad if I have to brush them off for a few moments.
But something changed. My little brother had a daughter. I didn't think it would affect me...I mean, I'd be happy for him and sure, I'd love her. But I had no idea just what this little girl would do to me. I had no idea what love really was until that little girl came into my life. I saw the love my brother had all over his face and I thought, "Wow...how could I rob myself of such a feeling?"
The love I have for my niece is something that took me by complete surprise. I had no idea that I could love someone with literally every little fiber of my being. I had no idea that I would feel so much love that I would gladly give my life for this little girl.
So now I have the task of taking everything I thought I knew about myself and flip it. Can I be the mom with the messy hair and the rag hanging over her shoulder while she begs for another hour of sleep? Will I groan and complain when my baby wakes me in the dead of the night because she (or he) wants to be fed? Will I get frustrated everytime they cry or misbehave? I'm so scared of being a bad mother...I'm not even pregnant yet and I'm already doubting my abilities. I'm scared that I'll be everything I never wanted to be...
But every time I think about my little neice... I realize that the love I feel tromps every fear I have. I realize that I could never do the things to my child what was done to me. I know that I will make mistakes. I know that I'm going to get frustrated and feel frazzled at times. But I know that I will love like crazy and do everything I can to ensure my baby is well cared for and loved. I know that I will be a good mother because I've fallen in love with my neice...and I know that love is a miracle I want to have in my life.
I wanted a baby when I was fourteen. Hormones. They should really come with directions. I was insane! I didn't want sex, but I wanted a baby so badly I could feel it. But somewhere along the line, I lost the desire. Kids became a burden I wanted to avoid. I didn't want to have a baby only to regret every moment. And I certainly didn't want to treat my child the way I had been treated.
I thought for certain my mind had been made up. Every time I heard a child cry, chills would go through me and I'd think, there's no way I want one of those or the stigma that seemed to follow. "Cool" moms trying to be chic while they have screaming babies dangle off of their boobs. Frustrated dads trying to regain a sense of manhood while they have toddlers biting at their ankles...yeah...the whole idea repulsed me. I figured I'd just stick to my dogs. I can stick them in the garage when I have to go somewhere, I don't have to worry about damaging them or making them sad if I have to brush them off for a few moments.
But something changed. My little brother had a daughter. I didn't think it would affect me...I mean, I'd be happy for him and sure, I'd love her. But I had no idea just what this little girl would do to me. I had no idea what love really was until that little girl came into my life. I saw the love my brother had all over his face and I thought, "Wow...how could I rob myself of such a feeling?"
The love I have for my niece is something that took me by complete surprise. I had no idea that I could love someone with literally every little fiber of my being. I had no idea that I would feel so much love that I would gladly give my life for this little girl.
So now I have the task of taking everything I thought I knew about myself and flip it. Can I be the mom with the messy hair and the rag hanging over her shoulder while she begs for another hour of sleep? Will I groan and complain when my baby wakes me in the dead of the night because she (or he) wants to be fed? Will I get frustrated everytime they cry or misbehave? I'm so scared of being a bad mother...I'm not even pregnant yet and I'm already doubting my abilities. I'm scared that I'll be everything I never wanted to be...
But every time I think about my little neice... I realize that the love I feel tromps every fear I have. I realize that I could never do the things to my child what was done to me. I know that I will make mistakes. I know that I'm going to get frustrated and feel frazzled at times. But I know that I will love like crazy and do everything I can to ensure my baby is well cared for and loved. I know that I will be a good mother because I've fallen in love with my neice...and I know that love is a miracle I want to have in my life.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Something has to Give...
I'm struggling today. An episode of feeling faint, dizzy and sweaty has left me pondering my physical health yet again and I can't help but think I'm tired. I'm exhausted constantly waiting for the next episode; waiting for the next panic attack or whatever this could be. As afraid of death as I am and despite the fact that I would never hurt myself, sometimes I wonder if life is really worth the effort.
Of course, these feelings hit me and I can't help but think about how life was for me growing up. I was constantly afraid of what was going to happen. Going home after school was incredibly scary for me. I never knew what I would come home to; mom hitting me for no reason, step-dad drunk or high ready to fight at the drop of a hat, or mom and step-dad both high and fighting like two inmates.
I remember one time my uncle on my mom's side came to our house. He was obviously scared and I didn't know why. I remember he rushed into the back bedroom with mom and step-dad and he was crying saying that he didn't want to die. I, being a little girl, and not understanding why he was so scared, was terrified. I didn't understand that he was having a drug overdose and was having a panic attack. I thought he was sincerely dying and I was certain that I was losing an uncle who was always more like a big brother to me.
Another time, I watched my mom writhe and moan on the couch and tell me that she could see Granny and Pa. "Can you see it," she'd ask over and over. "They're here to take me. They're here to take me." I remember tears streaming down my face while we waited for someone to come help us, my brother and sister gaping at the sight with their own little minds fast at work. I never knew what she was experiencing was drug related until I was older. For the longest time, well into my twenties, I thought people could just have horrible things take them over for no reason.
Another thing that may contribute to my intense anxiety is having step-dad dangle me from our third story balcony. He would hold me by ankles and pretend to drop me; even as I screamed and cried and begged to be brought back up. As scary as it was for me, I hated seeing it happen to my brother more so. The terror expressed on his face was really hard for me to withstand. As an adult, I can't really understand why nobody did anything. There were so many people in that complex who had to have seen what was happening. My mother would tell him not to do it, but she stuck around and sent the message that there was nothing he could do that would prompt her to leave.
My anxiety stems from a sense of never having control. I feel as if my body is my enemy and I'm not in any sort of control over my emotions or reactions. Sometimes, little things set me off and scare me and thoughts that should just pass without more than a giggle grab me and make me believe I'm either going crazy or dying. The slightest twinge of my body and I break out into a full blown panic attack and the rest of the day, I'm thinking, worrying, wondering. I wait for the attack that I don't come back from.
I try to remind myself that if this thing were going to kill me, it would have happened a long time ago and that anxiety can sometimes make people think crazy things...but they're just thoughts. They're scary and the feelings associated are hard to handle at the time, but all in all, I'm going to be okay. I don't know what to do from here. I plan on seeing my doctor for options, but something has to give. Something has to give....
Of course, these feelings hit me and I can't help but think about how life was for me growing up. I was constantly afraid of what was going to happen. Going home after school was incredibly scary for me. I never knew what I would come home to; mom hitting me for no reason, step-dad drunk or high ready to fight at the drop of a hat, or mom and step-dad both high and fighting like two inmates.
I remember one time my uncle on my mom's side came to our house. He was obviously scared and I didn't know why. I remember he rushed into the back bedroom with mom and step-dad and he was crying saying that he didn't want to die. I, being a little girl, and not understanding why he was so scared, was terrified. I didn't understand that he was having a drug overdose and was having a panic attack. I thought he was sincerely dying and I was certain that I was losing an uncle who was always more like a big brother to me.
Another time, I watched my mom writhe and moan on the couch and tell me that she could see Granny and Pa. "Can you see it," she'd ask over and over. "They're here to take me. They're here to take me." I remember tears streaming down my face while we waited for someone to come help us, my brother and sister gaping at the sight with their own little minds fast at work. I never knew what she was experiencing was drug related until I was older. For the longest time, well into my twenties, I thought people could just have horrible things take them over for no reason.
Another thing that may contribute to my intense anxiety is having step-dad dangle me from our third story balcony. He would hold me by ankles and pretend to drop me; even as I screamed and cried and begged to be brought back up. As scary as it was for me, I hated seeing it happen to my brother more so. The terror expressed on his face was really hard for me to withstand. As an adult, I can't really understand why nobody did anything. There were so many people in that complex who had to have seen what was happening. My mother would tell him not to do it, but she stuck around and sent the message that there was nothing he could do that would prompt her to leave.
My anxiety stems from a sense of never having control. I feel as if my body is my enemy and I'm not in any sort of control over my emotions or reactions. Sometimes, little things set me off and scare me and thoughts that should just pass without more than a giggle grab me and make me believe I'm either going crazy or dying. The slightest twinge of my body and I break out into a full blown panic attack and the rest of the day, I'm thinking, worrying, wondering. I wait for the attack that I don't come back from.
I try to remind myself that if this thing were going to kill me, it would have happened a long time ago and that anxiety can sometimes make people think crazy things...but they're just thoughts. They're scary and the feelings associated are hard to handle at the time, but all in all, I'm going to be okay. I don't know what to do from here. I plan on seeing my doctor for options, but something has to give. Something has to give....
I Didn't Say No...
Let me preface this by saying that this entry will discuss my experience with sexual abuse. I will not relent of it's details because as I've said before, I plan to be honest and real. While it wasn't the best part of my life, it happened and it brought real challenges to my life. Some that I will discuss...some that I will not. But if you, too, are a survivor, then you'll understand there are inner secrets you just can't share. If abuse bothers you, then I urge you not to read this entry. Thank you.
I was four the first time I was molested. It's still hard for me to admit that it happened. It's like I forget sometimes...and then the memory assaults me out of the blue and I think, "Holy crap. It really did happen. I am a statistic." Most of the time, it's a passing darkness that I acknowledge momentarily before it recedes back to the pit of my unfavorable memories leaving me with nothing more than a shiver.
Other times, it overtakes me and leaves me feeling empty, sad, and scared. I feel the same helpless, lonely feeling that I felt at four when I watched my uncle sit at the edge of my bed. I have to remind myself, "You're not four. You aren't being molested anymore. Everything is okay."
My mom was a single mother raising me and my younger brother. We had lived in a two bedroom apartment in Utah and when things got too hard, she decided to let my brother and I go to my aunt and uncle's house in Washington. I was only four at the time, so I don't recall how long it had been before my mother came up to join us. I know she hadn't been there long before a man my aunt and uncle referred to as "Shorty" began hanging around quite a bit. I didn't really like him. I didn't get a good feeling from him and though I don't believe I was "psychic" I do know that I was right about him.
I always had a sensitivity to things. My mom told me when I was two, I had told her that my great-grandfather had come to visit me at night. She didn't believe me until I was able to point him out in a photo. I'd never seen a photo of him or been told who he was, so she trusted that I had some sort of gift at that time. I can't say that I have it now. I truly believe that most children are sensitive to these things...but life and its tragedy can take it away. I didn't know that at four...my innocence would be lost forever.
I remember the night it happened. It was close to Thanksgiving so my step-dad's brother had come to meet his brother's new girlfriend and her two kids. My mom called my brother and I into the house and we ran in, like kids do, jumping around and showing off for the new guy. Even at four, I remember thinking that the look this man was giving me was really odd. I wasn't sure how to take it, but something inside of me felt uneasy about him.
The day went along with nothing occurring. My brother and I were eventually put to bed and the adults stayed up to party. I was asleep when the door to the bedroom creaked open. Now, step-dad lived in a one bedroom apartment at the time my mother began a relationship with him. It was a true bachelor's pad and the only way to get to the restroom was to pass through the bedroom; the one bedroom where my brother and I slept until my mom and step-dad carried us out to the couch.
Anyway, I remember being vaguely aware that my new uncle had come into the room. Of course, I figured he was just going to use the bathroom, so nothing triggered me. However, a moment later, I felt the depression in the bed and then hands pulling my nightgown up and my panties down...
I remember being confused. I remember being scared. I remember thinking, "When Mommy comes in, this will stop." Only, Mom never came. And the assault continued. I remember him telling me to kiss him. And I did. I don't remember every detail of the assault, but the part I remember the most is the most incredible.
I remember this grown man, yanking on my arms, frustrated and angry that he couldn't get a four year old child off of this bed. I could feel two strong arms coming around me, holding me tightly. His face was wide with fear and even in the dark, I could see his eyes were as big as saucers. I don't know what he saw, but I know I felt another presence in that room. Something had held me to that bed. Heaven only knows what would have happened had he succeeded in taking me away as he'd tried. I believe in my heart it was my great-grandfather protecting me from further abuse.
Unfortunately, morning came and uncle was still at the house. I was too scared to tell Mom what had happened, so I kept the information to myself. I remember fear striking through me when Mom and step-dad left the house, asking uncle to watch us. I asked Mom if I could go to her brother's house, as they still lived just down the hall, but she said they were at church.
I recall the smile he had when the door shut and he and I were alone in the living room. He told me to come over to him. Every ounce of me said no, but I obeyed. He lifted me up onto his lap and he laid down, with me on top of him. This time, he penetrated me with his finger and I remember being completely frozen with fear. I don't remember how long it lasted or what he did from there, but the doctor's exam had cleared any evidence of rape.
I vaguely remember speaking to the police officer once I'd finally told my mom about the abuse. I remember getting into trouble a few times because my brother and I were suddenly touching inappropriately. I remember people saying that it was a normal response for an abused child, but the label stung. I wondered if I could ever escape the stigma that seemed to be hanging over my head now...
Sadly, I don't think you do escape the stigma. There are things about me now that I simply can't help... for example, I can't look at a grown man and a little girl without the thought creeping into my mind..."What is he doing when the doors are closed..." It shames me that I have those thoughts, but I can't help it. I cannot stand to hear people whispering. It took me a long time to accept affection in any form; I couldn't snuggle, I couldn't cuddle or hug or have anyone touching me when I was laying down. There were a few instances when I beat my brother up for trying to lay with me. I just couldn't do it.
The incident affected me greatly. I lost a part of me that I shouldn't have lost until years later and unfortunately, I carry a great deal of guilt. I think, "I should have said no. I should have screamed. I should have ran." I sometimes think there was something that I had done...maybe the way I had smiled at him or the fact that I was trying to get attention that made me deserve what happened. I sometimes think that if I were a different girl that it never would have happened; as if there is something cosmically wrong with me that made me a target for abuse. Then I feel even more guilt because I feel as if I should just get over it. I could have been raped that night. I could have been taken from my bed and murdered... But by some grace of God, he couldn't get me off the bed. He tried...he tried really hard, but he couldn't... and something about that gives me hope and peace. It tells me that someone was watching over me.
In closing, I didn't say no...but I shouldn't have had to. And that is an important piece to remember. I was a child. I wasn't in the wrong, no matter my behavior. I was abused and the person who hurt me was a monster. If anyone has suffered from abuse, I hope my story brings some sort of comfort. We were children. We were innocent. We shouldn't have had to say no.
I was four the first time I was molested. It's still hard for me to admit that it happened. It's like I forget sometimes...and then the memory assaults me out of the blue and I think, "Holy crap. It really did happen. I am a statistic." Most of the time, it's a passing darkness that I acknowledge momentarily before it recedes back to the pit of my unfavorable memories leaving me with nothing more than a shiver.
Other times, it overtakes me and leaves me feeling empty, sad, and scared. I feel the same helpless, lonely feeling that I felt at four when I watched my uncle sit at the edge of my bed. I have to remind myself, "You're not four. You aren't being molested anymore. Everything is okay."
My mom was a single mother raising me and my younger brother. We had lived in a two bedroom apartment in Utah and when things got too hard, she decided to let my brother and I go to my aunt and uncle's house in Washington. I was only four at the time, so I don't recall how long it had been before my mother came up to join us. I know she hadn't been there long before a man my aunt and uncle referred to as "Shorty" began hanging around quite a bit. I didn't really like him. I didn't get a good feeling from him and though I don't believe I was "psychic" I do know that I was right about him.
I always had a sensitivity to things. My mom told me when I was two, I had told her that my great-grandfather had come to visit me at night. She didn't believe me until I was able to point him out in a photo. I'd never seen a photo of him or been told who he was, so she trusted that I had some sort of gift at that time. I can't say that I have it now. I truly believe that most children are sensitive to these things...but life and its tragedy can take it away. I didn't know that at four...my innocence would be lost forever.
I remember the night it happened. It was close to Thanksgiving so my step-dad's brother had come to meet his brother's new girlfriend and her two kids. My mom called my brother and I into the house and we ran in, like kids do, jumping around and showing off for the new guy. Even at four, I remember thinking that the look this man was giving me was really odd. I wasn't sure how to take it, but something inside of me felt uneasy about him.
The day went along with nothing occurring. My brother and I were eventually put to bed and the adults stayed up to party. I was asleep when the door to the bedroom creaked open. Now, step-dad lived in a one bedroom apartment at the time my mother began a relationship with him. It was a true bachelor's pad and the only way to get to the restroom was to pass through the bedroom; the one bedroom where my brother and I slept until my mom and step-dad carried us out to the couch.
Anyway, I remember being vaguely aware that my new uncle had come into the room. Of course, I figured he was just going to use the bathroom, so nothing triggered me. However, a moment later, I felt the depression in the bed and then hands pulling my nightgown up and my panties down...
I remember being confused. I remember being scared. I remember thinking, "When Mommy comes in, this will stop." Only, Mom never came. And the assault continued. I remember him telling me to kiss him. And I did. I don't remember every detail of the assault, but the part I remember the most is the most incredible.
I remember this grown man, yanking on my arms, frustrated and angry that he couldn't get a four year old child off of this bed. I could feel two strong arms coming around me, holding me tightly. His face was wide with fear and even in the dark, I could see his eyes were as big as saucers. I don't know what he saw, but I know I felt another presence in that room. Something had held me to that bed. Heaven only knows what would have happened had he succeeded in taking me away as he'd tried. I believe in my heart it was my great-grandfather protecting me from further abuse.
Unfortunately, morning came and uncle was still at the house. I was too scared to tell Mom what had happened, so I kept the information to myself. I remember fear striking through me when Mom and step-dad left the house, asking uncle to watch us. I asked Mom if I could go to her brother's house, as they still lived just down the hall, but she said they were at church.
I recall the smile he had when the door shut and he and I were alone in the living room. He told me to come over to him. Every ounce of me said no, but I obeyed. He lifted me up onto his lap and he laid down, with me on top of him. This time, he penetrated me with his finger and I remember being completely frozen with fear. I don't remember how long it lasted or what he did from there, but the doctor's exam had cleared any evidence of rape.
I vaguely remember speaking to the police officer once I'd finally told my mom about the abuse. I remember getting into trouble a few times because my brother and I were suddenly touching inappropriately. I remember people saying that it was a normal response for an abused child, but the label stung. I wondered if I could ever escape the stigma that seemed to be hanging over my head now...
Sadly, I don't think you do escape the stigma. There are things about me now that I simply can't help... for example, I can't look at a grown man and a little girl without the thought creeping into my mind..."What is he doing when the doors are closed..." It shames me that I have those thoughts, but I can't help it. I cannot stand to hear people whispering. It took me a long time to accept affection in any form; I couldn't snuggle, I couldn't cuddle or hug or have anyone touching me when I was laying down. There were a few instances when I beat my brother up for trying to lay with me. I just couldn't do it.
The incident affected me greatly. I lost a part of me that I shouldn't have lost until years later and unfortunately, I carry a great deal of guilt. I think, "I should have said no. I should have screamed. I should have ran." I sometimes think there was something that I had done...maybe the way I had smiled at him or the fact that I was trying to get attention that made me deserve what happened. I sometimes think that if I were a different girl that it never would have happened; as if there is something cosmically wrong with me that made me a target for abuse. Then I feel even more guilt because I feel as if I should just get over it. I could have been raped that night. I could have been taken from my bed and murdered... But by some grace of God, he couldn't get me off the bed. He tried...he tried really hard, but he couldn't... and something about that gives me hope and peace. It tells me that someone was watching over me.
In closing, I didn't say no...but I shouldn't have had to. And that is an important piece to remember. I was a child. I wasn't in the wrong, no matter my behavior. I was abused and the person who hurt me was a monster. If anyone has suffered from abuse, I hope my story brings some sort of comfort. We were children. We were innocent. We shouldn't have had to say no.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Introducing...well...me!
Well...it's my first blog. I feel slightly odd sitting here in the dark, typing away on my laptop. I can't help but wonder if anyone is really going to care about what I have to say or what I've been through in life. I figure that's why it's taken me so long to get started. Because there's still that little girl inside of me that is scared someone is going to come to me and say, "You just aren't good enough."
I've titled my blog Surviving will give way to Living because I feel as if that is what I've done my whole life. Survived. I survived a pretty traumatic childhood. I survived countless bouts with anxiety and depression and I am surviving to this day. Every day is a struggle and I can't determine if it's a struggle that I have no choice in participating in or a struggle that I've allowed in my life. It's hard to say.
I can't promise that every blog entry will be without self-pity or that I'll be able to avoid the occasional rant about how life is unfair and I hate the way things are. I'm going to be honest. Honest and open and vulnerable...all of which is incredibly hard for me. I've learned a lot in my life, but most of what I've learned is that honesty isn't always the best policy. Honesty can get you beat. Honesty can turn your whole family against you. Honesty can destroy whatever little fibers are holding your world together and honesty can leave you alone and sad and hurt.
I suppose that I should take a moment and introduce myself. I'm 28 years old. I have a wonderful husband whom I love very much. We share a home in the beautiful state of Washington and we have two dogs, a Pomeranian named Rocky and a Chihuahua named Riley. At this time, we do not have children.
As mentioned above, I suffered through a hard childhood and it's left some pretty deep emotional scars. I've tried traditional ways of getting through it, but then I thought... other people have had the same struggle. Some worse. So why not share? Why not say, Hey this sucks and I'm going to say it for those who are too scared. I have to admit... I'm scared. A lot of people could say, "Stop whining. Everyone has trouble." And they're right. Everyone does have their troubles. But why is it so taboo to say something about it? Because we can't handle another person's raw, unedited emotion? I call bull. I think human beings can put aside their judgements for just a moment and hear one another. Maybe learn something from one another. Anyways, that is my hope. And if someone doesn't like what I have to say, then they don't have to read, now do they?
I want to tell my story. I want people to know what's happened in my life because it happened and it affected me. And if I can reach out to a few and maybe change their perspective on something that they've endured or maybe even something they're doing, then I might be able to make it through this life knowing that I was more than just a survivor. I counted for something. I made a difference. Me. That silly, ugly little girl growing up in Midvale, Utah. The one who was too scared to say much. The one who was scared to go home. The one who everyone thought would be pregnant by 16 and addicted to drugs. I invite you into my world. I can't promise every post is going to be enlightened or happy because that's just not life. Life sucks. Life is hard. BUT I do promise to be honest and real and unedited. I will share my life as if happened and whatever comes of it... comes. Are you ready? Here we go! :)
I've titled my blog Surviving will give way to Living because I feel as if that is what I've done my whole life. Survived. I survived a pretty traumatic childhood. I survived countless bouts with anxiety and depression and I am surviving to this day. Every day is a struggle and I can't determine if it's a struggle that I have no choice in participating in or a struggle that I've allowed in my life. It's hard to say.
I can't promise that every blog entry will be without self-pity or that I'll be able to avoid the occasional rant about how life is unfair and I hate the way things are. I'm going to be honest. Honest and open and vulnerable...all of which is incredibly hard for me. I've learned a lot in my life, but most of what I've learned is that honesty isn't always the best policy. Honesty can get you beat. Honesty can turn your whole family against you. Honesty can destroy whatever little fibers are holding your world together and honesty can leave you alone and sad and hurt.
I suppose that I should take a moment and introduce myself. I'm 28 years old. I have a wonderful husband whom I love very much. We share a home in the beautiful state of Washington and we have two dogs, a Pomeranian named Rocky and a Chihuahua named Riley. At this time, we do not have children.
As mentioned above, I suffered through a hard childhood and it's left some pretty deep emotional scars. I've tried traditional ways of getting through it, but then I thought... other people have had the same struggle. Some worse. So why not share? Why not say, Hey this sucks and I'm going to say it for those who are too scared. I have to admit... I'm scared. A lot of people could say, "Stop whining. Everyone has trouble." And they're right. Everyone does have their troubles. But why is it so taboo to say something about it? Because we can't handle another person's raw, unedited emotion? I call bull. I think human beings can put aside their judgements for just a moment and hear one another. Maybe learn something from one another. Anyways, that is my hope. And if someone doesn't like what I have to say, then they don't have to read, now do they?
I want to tell my story. I want people to know what's happened in my life because it happened and it affected me. And if I can reach out to a few and maybe change their perspective on something that they've endured or maybe even something they're doing, then I might be able to make it through this life knowing that I was more than just a survivor. I counted for something. I made a difference. Me. That silly, ugly little girl growing up in Midvale, Utah. The one who was too scared to say much. The one who was scared to go home. The one who everyone thought would be pregnant by 16 and addicted to drugs. I invite you into my world. I can't promise every post is going to be enlightened or happy because that's just not life. Life sucks. Life is hard. BUT I do promise to be honest and real and unedited. I will share my life as if happened and whatever comes of it... comes. Are you ready? Here we go! :)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)