Lost in Grief

It’s been a while. My stepfather died a week after my last blog post and I just stopped writing. The motivation and desire seemed to disappear. I felt lost. Ironically during the time since is when I should have been writing. Too many emotions built up and there was a bottleneck in the flow of them. Writing them out most likely would have been the therapeutic solution and I would not have been gone so long.


I have written blog posts in the past describing deep, painful and raw emotions, usually without hesitation. Why was writing about the feelings surrounding my stepfather’s death so difficult? How did I get so lost so easily? Truly experiencing grief is my conclusion.

Several times it has been suggested that I need to grieve what I lost because of the abuse, not just in general but specifics. For example, I cannot just say I need to grieve the loss of my childhood, I need to specifically grieve the fact I learned about oral sex as a 3-½ year old, that bath time was usually terrifying and safety became a foreign concept.

Knowing I need to grieve these things and others seems daunting, unfamiliar. I have never grieved any of it. I could define it if asked but had never really felt grief, especially an overpowering grief, until my stepfather died.

My stepfather was the closest person in my life to die and it was unexpected. The numbness and shock took over when I had to face the reality he was not going to make it through surgery and it carried me through the next day. The few days following were a blur of family arriving, shopping for “funeral” clothes, and service arrangements. In the midst of it all I allowed myself to cry, a privilege I rarely give myself. I felt the impact of the loss. I chose not to stuff my feelings and tears. I fought through the desire to isolate myself and just hide. After his service I lost it. I actually sobbed without shame, laid it all out and did not hold back. I felt better and released if you will. I experienced grief and finally understood what it meant, raw emotions that have to be experienced in order to move forward.

I am still of course grieving his loss but I do not feel like I have held anything back. I have faced it head on many times. I wish I could do this with my childhood abuse.

I did not realize the extent of what I lost to the abuse until I became an adult in the midst of recovery. By then I had become an expert at denying and stuffing my feelings. They were dormant for so long, undiscovered and uncomfortable. Prying them loose is tough and I am fearful of their power.

Grieving a death is expected, appropriate and usually timely. Grief over my childhood is hard to reach. It is in the past and grieving seems out of place this far removed from the physical part of the abuse. At the age of my abuse I was not able to comprehend what was happening to me much less the emotions surrounding it. All the confusion and overwhelming feelings were packed away. There was no time to cry. No time to realize that my life would be affected for the rest of my life. No time to grieve what was happening.

How do I reach it? What steps or actions should I take to really feel the losses and not just name them? I must find a way to connect feelings with facts in order to keep taking steps forward. How am I supposed to grieve these things so far out of time? I wish I knew.

Conversation With My Son

My boys have been asking questions since they learned to communicate. Most of the questions involved whether they could have a certain food but occasionally there would be a question about my childhood. Questions centered around my favorite TV show as a kid, music, or school.  As they have gotten older, some of the questions have changed, expect the ones about food.  

Over the summer my son and I were off by ourselves running errands. As we were getting back into the car after one stop, he asked me a question that threw me off balance.

“What is the worst thing that happened to you as a child?” 

Time stood still for a moment. I had a choice to make and needed to make it quickly. I could either give a rather benign answer (my parent’s divorce, moving away from my friends, etc), or I could give him the more honest answer. 

I had never told my boys I was abused. I have always considered them too young. As their mother, I wanted to keep the knowledge of real monsters away. My oldest just turned 13. 

There are several members of my family who are unaware of my abuse. In some cases, they just do not need to know.  Some I just simply do not trust. I either do not trust them to believe me or handle the information with grace. I imagine them chalking up character flaws to the abuse, using it to explain who I am.  Yes, I am basing my lack of trust on what I imagine they are thinking. It may seem ridiculous, but if we are honest with ourselves, we all do that. 

The biggest trust issue with sharing any part of my story is confidentiality. I want to control where the information is going. 

I always figured my sons would be at least 20 years old before I ever said anything. As they approached middle school, I considered sharing a little after “the talk” to drive in the concept of consent. The moment was now upon me. I chose to tell my 13-year-old the truth.

“I was abused as a child.” 

“No you weren’t,” was his reply.

“I actually was. Why do you think I wasn’t?”

“Because, you do not act like it.” 

After I assured him I was not abused by anyone he is related to or even knows, the conversation steered towards how an abused person behaves. He essentially was basing his information on what he had heard from a friend about a 6 year old. I did explain to him abused people are not crazy but need help. I advised not to jump to conclusions about anyone who has been abused. There were a few moments of silence and then the conversation turned benign. 

Later the day, when I was alone, I considered the conversation. 

If my son had asked the question of the person I was a few years ago, regardless of his age, how would have I answered? Would I have given the same simple answer? Or would I have given a lesser answer? 

Up until around 3 years ago, my level of recovery was superficial. I was wrapped up in the shame of the abuse. I considered myself less valuable because of it. I would not want my son to know I was less than human. I would have fought to make sure my kids did not think I was crazy. The hard work over the last 3 years has changed my answer to his question. 

Due to the grace of God, help from my counselor, support circle of friends and family, and pastors, I now know I am not crazy, flawed, or less than human. I am valuable and have the confidence to be honest with my son. 

My son thought abuse victims are crazy and we talked about how they are not. Now, with my simple confession, he knows it is possible to be abused and be fairly normal. Somewhere along the road it is possible my son will realize his mother was abused and yet made it through, fought the good fight, and turned out okay. 

Chip On My Shoulder

In the past 90 days I have collected 4 chips, all from Alcoholics Anonymous.  Every alcoholic’s story is different and not all involve several DUIs, trips to jail, losing jobs, or family.  Mine involved my daily decision making and I decided to give it up before drinking lead me to one of the above.  I only mention this because giving up alcohol has made facing my recovery that much more difficult.

Over a year ago I “voluntarily” admitted myself to a behavioral health center to get help with abusing my anxiety medications and cutting.  These medications were removed from my regimen and I have not taken them since.  I considered not telling my new psychiatrist about the medication abuse in order to have the anxiety pills prescribed again.  It was a short-lived internal debate. He had my discharge papers from the hospital.  I have had to ride out the anxiety since then, which is not all that much fun.

I did not stop drinking when I stopped the pills. I did not see it as a problem, even though I was mixing pills with the alcohol.  I decided alcohol was controllable and I did not drink that often anyway.  With the loss of anxiety medication, the drinking picked up.  A lot of my writing has taken place with a glass of vodka right next to me.  On occasion I have met with my therapist and support group just after consuming a drink, just to take the edge off, to numb reality enough to avoid being crushed by it.  

To recap, I am off anxiety medications and alcohol.  Where does this leave me? Smack in the middle of reality with no way to escape and experiencing “white knuckling” when I feel like I could just explode. There is not a clear way to distinguish the good and bad of this new lifestyle and I can argue both sides.

I am no longer depending on alcohol or medication abuse to help get me through the rough spots.  The buffer is gone. Everything I have used in the past to keep myself sane has disappeared.  Cutting is no longer satisfying.  I tried it after giving up alcohol and its effect was minimal.  I considered upping the severity, but eventually decided against it. I did not want to have to explain it to anyone.

The upside of all this is the same.  I can no longer numb myself or keep a buffer zone between myself and all that emotion and truth I need to get through.  Logically I can rationalize the benefits.  The possibility of having a life unconsumed by the abuse and its effects surrounds brings hope in face of soberly tackling the mess the abuse left behind.  However, the thought of digging through all this mess head on, without chemical help, also brings nausea and fear.  There are moments it all feels like a lose-lose situation.

Not drinking has affected my desire to write for the same reason above.  I will feel the full impact of the emotions and memories I post here.  For the last 90 days it seemed easier to keep the laptop off.  

Recently, I wrote out another portion of my story for a support group, first time I have ever done this totally sober.  It was painful, simply because I felt it this time.  There was not my comfortable level of detachment.  In the past I had written out parts of my story in one sitting, maybe taking an hour.   This time around it took nearly the entire week.  I would get a section down and have to stop.  I wrote some of it in a public place, which is a cheap form of putting distance between myself and the words on the paper.  I have a strict rule about making an emotional scene in public.  I barely do it in counseling or in private.  My nerves of steel were now spasming and I was amped up on emotion.  If I had to paint a picture of what life was like that week, leading up to the time I had finished reading my story, it would be of a squirrel in the middle of the road with a car coming at it.  I could not make up my mind which direction to go.  It was like I did not have time to think rationally, and I wasn’t. I experienced my first episode of “white knuckling” and hated every second of it.

Approximately an hour after I finished reading the story and the next member told theirs, I felt better in the sense I was no longer rocking back and forth in my seat.  I was exhausted and I was emotionally exhausted well into the next day.  However, I had done it.  I faced my story head on, as nerve-racking as it had been.  I am certainly not saying I will be able to handle my recovery in stride and with grace, but I at least know I have done it once, and the first time is always the hardest, right?

Serenity Prayer

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. 

I have to be honest, I have grown weary of this prayer. 

The serenity prayer was written by American theologian Reinhold Niebuhr. Its earliest recorded reference to the prayer is in a diary entry in 1932. In early 1942 it was noticed by Bill W. In AA in an obituary and grew in popularity with the organization and several others over the years. 

For years I have been hearing this prayer quoted in all types of circumstances. Every recovery program I have been involved with used this. It is quoted to give comfort to those who are hurting and those needing encouragement. It has become a standard poem for people searching for something to say in uncomfortable grief moments. I have seen it printed on mugs, wall hangings, pendants, blankets, coasters, cards, journals, and countless other items. In my opinion, it is overused. 

How much comfort can one get from an overused prayer? If it is so repetitious and can be quoted from memory, how does the meaning get across? How much comfort does it really provide? Maybe my problem is I have heard it so many times I have forgotten what it can mean for those needing comfort, including myself. 

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change:  This is a major hang up for me. I feel the need to be in control of most things and I am always hesitant to admit I am powerless in a situation. I cannot change people. I cannot change my past. I cannot change the fact I was sexually abused. I cannot change the fact I have an addiction. I cannot make God fit into my plan. God has always had a plan for my life and so much of it is unknown. I have to be okay and comforted by this. I cannot change God, but he can change me. 

To change the things I can: Accepting what I can change is difficult also. To change anything about myself is to admit I am not fine the way I am. For the most part, the only thing I can change, with God’s help, is myself. There has to be a different future based on choices I make. Healing from the abuse is part of my future. By taking the steps forward I have no option but to change; the changes are a choice.

If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. James 1:5

Wisdom to know the difference: This is where it gets tricky. Wisdom can all be linked to control. I have to take a step back and allow logic to make a decision rather than emotion. The wisdom is in the pause, a pause I fail to take more often than I would like. I can learn to take a breath before reacting but cannot do it regularly without divine help. How does this wisdom come about? Prayer and meditation in God’s word. By consistently being in God’s word and regular prayer, the pause will become more of the norm, second nature if you will. There will be times, of course, my knee-jerk reaction will kick in and the wisdom will come afterward. It’s human nature. It takes a divine nature to interrupt foolishness and gather wisdom. 

The Serenity Prayer could be an irritation because I see a truth in it I am unwilling to face. 

Nightmare Revisited

Nightmares are inescapable and a part of everyone’s life. Some happen while we are sleeping and others are happening right in front of you. As survivors of sexual abuse we have experienced both.

Not all of my nightmares have been driven by the abuse. A horror or disturbing movie will cause them for me. I have been known to watch a Disney movie after a movie or show has left me uneasy and unable to sleep. With the deeper work through recovery, the more frequent the nightmares became. Several nights I woke my husband up screaming. I did not always remember all the details but always the feelings of fear, sadness, anxiety, and helplessness. Most mornings I was exhausted and my entire day was off.

I am not sure what was different about today, but I recalled a nightmare I had years ago, when I was sixteen and had just started therapy for the abuse. It stuck with me for years but I have not thought about for at least 15 years. There are not a lot of details but the ones I recall still bother me.

It started in circular all-white room. I was barefoot, wearing a pair of shorts and a pink shirt. If I had to guess my age, I was in my teens. The room was cold. Slowly the room started to darken. I was in the center and a dark blue haze was forming around the sides of the room. I was surrounded by the haze with just a tad bit of light coming from the ceiling. My feet were cold on the still white floor. I was anxious, confused, and frightened of the haze. Eventually I could no longer see the sides of the room through the haze. As far as I could tell, there was no way out. I began to fear suffocation. An arm with an outstretched hand materialized only inches in front of my face. There was no noise, just the arm. More started to appear and as I turned around I realized I was surrounded. My breaths became shallow and I lowered myself into a crouching position with my arms hiding my head. The hands never touched me and there was only the noise of my panicked breathing. I started to shiver from the cold and fear. There was the sensation of the blue haze closing in on my, making my spot of light smaller and smaller. At this point I either woke up or just do not remember if anything happened next.

This nightmare bothered me for years and I never understood why I could not shake it. Details of other bad dreams disappeared when my eyes opened; this one stayed. In fact, it shook me so much that every time a room was suddenly cast into darkness from a power outage or the lights were simply dimmed I would be taken back to the above nightmare. There were a few uncomfortable moments my senior year of high school when the power went out and I started crying in the dark. I lived in a very windy area and power outages were frequent. Eventually I learned to keep the panic and tears inside.

Dream interpretation is not something I have looked into. I do not believe any dream can be explained in its entirety. I looked at this nightmare as just that, a horrible dream as a result of the sexual abuse. The circular room without doors was my being trapped, helpless against the abuse. The blue haze everything I could not remember and the hands were those of my abusers, reaching to hurt me. I often thought some of the hands represented the doctors who treated me for numerous urinary tract infections or any abuse-related problem. There was a day an invasive test was done in order to diagnosis the recurrent infections. I was four and fought the doctors and nurses with all I had, which resulted in them restraining me with a sheet tied around a board. No one picked up on the sexual abuse. There was no escape from the room in my dream; I did not see a way out. It ended with me in a crouching position being overtaken by the haze.

As mentioned, today triggered the memory of the nightmare. I could track down the specific cause of the trigger, if I felt it necessary. As the day wore on I started to wonder if I was misinterpreting the dream.

The nightmare occurred at the start of treatment of the abuse, not before I started to remember and not in the middle of recovery. What if the white circular room represented the small world I created outside of the abuse? I hid it for so long and presented myself as the “good girl.” Everything was shiny and white and unblemished. The blue haze still could represent the memories still to be recovered, memories I have always been frightened of. The shiny world was becoming hazy. Instead of the outstretched arms and hands representing those who hurt me, what if they represented the memories and emotions I needed to grasp to clear the room? In the dream the hands never touched me; they were just there, surrounding me. What would have happened if I had touched one of them? Becoming smaller and trying to hide at the end of the dream could simply be my unwillingness to take these hands and discover the truth about my sexual abuse. The haze was surrounding me and closing in on me because there was no turning back. Once the door is opened and healing starts it cannot be stopped. It can be suffocating and terrifying. I have often felt like I was drowning in memories, emotions, and depression.

All the dream interpretation above could just be a load of bull. I could just be reading into something that has absolutely no meaning and has nothing to do with my abuse. My perspective on the dream has changed however. I have taken it from a nightmare to a dream representing the beginning of recovery.

The sixteen-year-old girl has grown up and her life is different. What was initially seen as a nightmare full of things wanting to hurt her has shifted into a dream representing what needs to be embraced and processed. Still just as frightening, but now representing a plan of healing.

My heart continues to skip a beat when a room suddenly becomes covered in darkness. I considered myself crazy because I reacted like a scared little girl when it happened. Honestly, who isn’t taken aback when the light disappears, even for a minute. It is unsettling but it does not have to be a huge deal; it can be a temporary inconvenience.

Getting caught up in the negative and nightmares of abuse is so easy we often do not feel it happening. It feels natural to take up residence in the hopelessness and see the world through a negative blue haze. Perspective is seemingly forever tainted by the abuse. Taking one step forward, however how small, we can clear our vision and see hope.

Addictions

It has come to my attention that I have an addictive personality. At least in my mind. I have drifted into one physical addiction after another. It started with sex and pornography, transitioned to anxiety medications, and I have recently had to admit I am an alcoholic.

With guilt, therapy, and a lot of journaling I managed to get past the sex/pornography addiction. It is still tempting, especially when I am having a difficult time having sex with my husband. I used it for “inspiration.” When I could not have sex with him without looking at pornography online I had fought harder to stop. I also was made to realize most of women in the clips and movies were being used and I felt like I was using them also, which resembled abuse.

The anxiety medication was an easy addiction to fall into. I was taking more than prescribed. I enjoyed the feeling of calm they provided. Nothing bothered me and I could handle just about every situation without losing my temper. They were fabulous. I started to abuse them, mixing them with alcohol. I hit a really difficult part of abuse recovery and I was suicidal. The pills and alcohol became a source of self-abuse. I was not actively trying to end my life but if the pills and alcohol happened to kill me, I was okay with it. This way of thinking landed me in a hospital at the hands of a mini-intervention by my therapist and husband. I acknowledged my addiction the anxiety medication but did not see the alcohol as a problem. That was a little over a year ago.

Over the last month or so a voice inside has been telling me I have a problem with alcohol. I dismissed it for as long as I could. Alcohol was an option and I was not dependent on it, according to the little voice with horns. I did not drink every day and felt okay about it when I did drink. I told myself I deserved a drink because of a bad day or because my stress level was too high.

When I finally mentioned the drinking to my therapist he ever so gently (not really) mentioned I was not supposed to be drinking with my antidepressants. I was strongly encouraged to enlist my husband’s help in quitting and to just not buy anymore. It lasted 2 days. About a week later I was put on an antibiotic. The nurse and pharmacist warned me not to drink alcohol, not even use mouthwash, while on the antibiotic or I would be incredibly sick. In fact, I was told to avoid alcohol for 3 days after finishing it also. I took their word for it and did not have a drop. It was a perfect opportunity to quit completely. Two and a half hours after I finished I had a beer in my hand.

I started to get concerned when I felt myself craving a drink while at work. Granted my coworkers stress me out but I could taste the vodka and looked forward to getting home to drink. Once home I would make sure I did not have to drive anywhere or be some place where my full brain was required. If there was no reason to leave the house, I poured myself a drink in the middle of the afternoon, on an empty stomach to get the full effect.

My therapist again pushed me to tell my husband and get his help. This meant I had to tell my husband I believed I may have a drinking problem. I asked him to hold me accountable and help me. He asked if he needed to pour out the vodka and anything else I liked to drink in the house. I discouraged him from doing so because I did not want ‘to waste the money” spent on it. Less than 48 hours later I was sneaking it and mixing it into my benign drinks. I even started asking my husband to mix it for me or just bring it to me straight up, which he did. It was official. I am an alcoholic/addict. It also proved that spouses are not the best accountability partners.

In considering anyone I know to become my new accountability partner I thought about AA, a group of people in the same situation and who a had a reputation of accountability and tough love. Now the thought of being vulnerable to essentially complete strangers was terrifying. I am not good at being vulnerable at all, even with my husband. It is a skill I am trying to build; however I am not fond of it. My therapist and a pastor encouraged AA. I started looking up meeting locations.

I thought about a friend I have known for years who was posting updates on his sobriety journey. He has reached the 5 year mark. I sent him a message asking for suggestions for possible meetings. He immediately responded with, “There is a good one tonight at 8.” My first instinct was to decline. I was not ready to jump in just yet. Also, I was already in my pajamas (5:30 pm). The annoying soft voice insisted I give it a try. I got dressed and went to the meeting.

The experience was overwhelming. Everyone, I mean everyone, was friendly and welcoming. They were also huggers. I was totally out of my comfort zone simply because it was a large group of friendly people and I sometimes hesitate to hug people I do know. I was the only newcomer at the meeting and received more attention than I wanted. I politely refused to go up front and receive my first “chip.”

As nerve racking the experience was, there were positives. The friendly, nonjudgmental environment was encouraging. I was actually instructed to just listen to others speak and take it in. There was no pressure (minus the chip incident) to participate. All the members seemed to understand my anxiety and tried to make me feel at ease with my decision to attend. The more stories I heard, the more I realized I was headed in the right direction.

Hermit Mode

Admittedly I have become a hermit. If it were not for Facebook, I would have completely

disappeared. I was not exactly aware I was isolating myself until the other day.

I have kept in touch via text and email, but leaving the house, outside of work, has been a struggle. Excuse after excuse has been uttered by me to get out of going anywhere outside of daily function. Even the grocery store has been a chore. Some of my reasons have been legitimate but some of them were just a flimsy excuse to stay home. 

The last few weeks I have had to drag myself out of bed to wake the kids up for school. They go to different schools with different start times. I would get one up and then go back to bed until time to wake up the others. Once they were dressed and ready I would crawl back into bed until I absolutely had to get up and go to work. Once home I would perform minimal tasks to keep the house running and would retreat to my room for the evening under the guise of working. I did work some but not nearly as much as I should have. 

It had been a month since I had seen my therapist, mostly due to travel and medical issues. I was not desperate to see him and I considered myself in good shape. I blamed the dragging and isolation on a busy month and a desire to rest. When I went to my next therapy appointment I started to give my counselor a brief description of life since my last visit. As it turns out, I’m depressed. 

I did not see it coming. I did not want to see it coming. It all started to add however. My writing had slowed to almost a stop; nothing was completed. Was it because I was dodging facing whatever was making me tired and withdrawn? Yes. I convinced myself I was just taking a mini break or that I did not have anything to journal or contribute to recovery. 

The shattering of my denial by my counselor with the depression revelation did not immediately turn me around of course. I thought it would. I wanted it to work like a connection from the past to my future. There are moments when you connect a current reaction or mindset with the instigating factor in the abuse. The “AHA” moment. Once the connection is made, the transition and energy to change is apparent. Steps seem lighter as a sense of progress and growth burn bright in our hearts and minds. 

Pulling back the curtain on my depression was actually more depressing. I do not seem to have the motivation to pull out of it. I am not happy in this place but I feel I have cement shoes. I have made a few baby steps to move back into life. I have lethargically completed small projects around the house and made an effort to hang out with the family, but outside of work, I have not done anything social out of the house for a few weeks. I am not a fan of anyone I work with at the moment, so keeping to myself there has been fairly easy and not at all social. 

This coming weekend I have an event for my sons’ group. The place will be crowded with a lot of people I know with probably an equal amount of people I do not know. There will be a degree of fatigue as we will need to get up early and drive to an all-day function. I am mentally exhausted just writing about it. While I do have the option of not going, disappointing my sons, and feeling guilty, I really need to go. 

Another place I need to go is church this week for mid-week supper and study. I have failed to attend the last few weeks while my family went. I had work I could do from home but it was not critical. Admittedly I enjoyed the quiet in my usually active house. I slept or mindlessly watched TV a lot of the time. 

I will go this week, not out of a desire to leave the house and see friends, but in an effort to turn the depression around a little. I want to prove to myself I can move out of this horrible slump, even just a little at a time. I am hoping the momentum will keep me going and the weekend will be a little easier. From there maybe the fog will start to clear and I can start to understand the underlying cause of this big emotional dip.