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?

Telling Your Story Pt. 2

Our stories are dynamic. The details may never change, but the impact and perspective is always changing. After I wrote my story for group this session I did a fair bit of thinking about the first time I wrote it and read it aloud.

My first impression of group was not great. It was not the group itself that set me off so much as my attitude. I was frustrated that my therapist had recommended it and angry that it was not what I expected. The first night was pretty basic and more about the purpose and hopes for group. When the facilitator mentioned we needed to start writing our stories to read to the group later, my thoughts essentially centered around, “You are crazy and I am absolutely not doing this.” Based on this “homework” assignment, I almost chose to drop out.

I was encouraged to keep going and I did start to write my story about 3 weeks in. At first I was worried about what I was going to write. I debated between a summary and describing the first time it happened. I ultimately chose to write about the first time. I had briefly described it before in a journal entry but it was fairly vague and I did not make the effort to really get into writing it. Who wants to describe details of a horrible event? Nobody. Who needs to do this? Everyone.

When I started to write about the first time I was abused I started to become physically ill. As the words made it from my head to paper the details started to flow and I recalled more than I knew before. It was like I could physically feel it happening, hear his breathing, and and see the room perfectly. Essentially I was experiencing it again.

The next couple of weeks were a blur, as I wrote about so many other times it happened. I was exhausted by the end of it and had actually skipped a couple of sessions of group at the request of my therapist. I had uncovered so much in a short period of time and needed to take several steps back and process. To be honest, I was incredibly overwhelmed and could barely imagine ever surviving.

I do not tell you this to scare you out of telling your own story. Without a doubt it will be one of the hardest things you will ever do. It already lives in your head, swirling

around to the point you may think you are going crazy. The benefit of getting it out on paper (computer file) is that it lessens the pressure of hiding it in the brain. A little of the poison drains out and you gain more control of it.

Reading your story to a therapist, group, friend, pastor, family member, or whomever you chose is a lot scarier than writing it down. Once the story is told it is out in the open, no longer a secret. I was never able to look anyone in the eye while telling it and it was difficult to do afterwards. The sense of shame is powerful. When the story is read aloud we are admitting to others we feel broken, damaged, and helpless. The truth is everyone is broken (see earlier post Repairable).

Patience usually works against me, no matter my intentions. With abuse recovery I really struggle with it. I have learned so much and pushed myself harder than I should a lot of the times, but the feeling of freedom and relief from the prison of a hidden story is motivating. It encourages when there are doubts and is a positive stepping stone. I want this for everyone. I want so much for all of us to reach a point where hope is more dominant than depression, love is accepted and cherished, and forgiveness overcomes bitterness. The desire for others to feel this sense of freedom is strong in my heart. It is the equivalent of wanting others absorb what I have done and more forward. I will push others too far and forget nothing can be skipped. We all have to take the steps and do it in our own time.

I encourage you to tell your story. It needs to be told. The longer it hides inside and drags on your heart, the longer you will feel stuck. No doubt it will be one of the hardest things you will ever do. You have already proved resilient by surviving the actual abuse. Take your time and take care of yourself. Tell it in a safe place. You are not alone. I will pray for you.

The next step will be listening to others tell theirs.

Telling Your Story

I sat down to write my story yet again. A new session of group and another assignment to write my story. I have done this several times already and in a couple of different ways. 

I have described the first time it happened, the “worst” memory, and have written a short story with the little girl as the main character rather than the abuser. Outside of group I have written every memory I have and the details I remember. I gave them to my private counselor. With the exception of the short story, all were painful to write and difficult to read aloud. When I typed my written words and gave them to my counselor it was difficult to face him. It was difficult to look at him and other group members when the story was told. I was afraid to look into the eyes of those who now knew part of my story. I was afraid of judgement. I was afraid to appear flawed, broken, and weak. I was never made to feel any of those things. 

What I found in group and therapy was acceptance, a sense of comfort, relief, understanding, and freedom. I was no longer hidden. I was encircled in a family of my choosing. A family that supported me, loved me, and gave me the push and room I needed to start to really heal and grow.

This time I am not feeling absolute dread about writing my story. So much of the negative power is gone. I am in a different place. Do not misunderstand, I still hesitate to tell it. There is still a feeling of dread and nervousness, but it is not nearly as strong. 

There are still times I am triggered and thrown into the past, deep into a story I want to heal from. I have remembered details and can recite most of them without thinking about the words, but I struggle with the emotions behind the words. 

So what do I write about. I could do any of the following:

1. I could write about the first time I was abused at the age of 3. 
2. I could write about the abuse on the couch while my baby brother watched cartoons in front of us. 
3. I could write about how every incidence of abuse ended with this man bathing me. 
4. I could write about how the abuse began to carry over into the bath/shower or how it began to start there. 
5. I could write about the gang rape (2 men abuse while 1 watched) at the age of 4, and how the smell of marijuana still makes me sick because of it. 
6. I could write about the most violent and painful attack at the age of 5 involving sodomy and a hairbrush. 
7. I could write about the 16-year-old boy next door that abused me when I was 8 along with my stepsister. He grew up to me a major league baseball player.
8. I could write about the last incident of childhood abuse. I was 10 and assaulted by either the father or uncle of my new stepmother. I had just met them and was welcomed into the family in the middle of the night. 

All of those things happened to me. There are still times the details and emotions attached take my breath away. There are days I can physically feel the abuse. I still have panic attacks, nightmares, and flashbacks. I live with the effects every day. There are times I feel like vomiting and have to stop myself. There are moments my anger is so incredibly strong that I am terrified of it. 

How do I tell this story now? I tell it a little everyday. Whether vocalized or written, I live it daily. It is reflected in my relationship with my husband, my children, other family, my friends, coworkers, and more importantly my relationship with Jesus.

I hate “Sunday School” responses to abuse and recovery. It is not that simple. I have hated God, cursed at Him, shunned Him, ignored Him, and cried in his arms. I can run the whole cycle in a matter of minutes some days. It is not a finish line that can be crossed on earth. The abuse will always be a part of who I am. I am learning it is okay to be me. The sexual abuse does not define me. It took a lot of time and effort from me and those supporting me to get here. I have been self-destructive. I have been generally self-destructive, cut myself, overmedicated, mixed medication with a lot of alcohol, and have been suicidal. I have been hospitalized twice. I still fight all of this. Some days I win and some days I do not. 

I still have hard work to do. I still hide. I still feel shame and guilt, however misplaced, and I still struggle with acceptance. 

Have you shared your story? How did you feel afterwards? 

Emotionally Drained

Last week was a bad week. Deep down I knew that I would have more bad days, weeks, and maybe even a month or two. I knew I would fall back into the pit again. A pit that is still in my path, but I believe it is not as deep anymore. I have also been reminded of this on occasion by people who support me.

I am in my second round of support group and wrote my story again this week. The story does not change. As mentioned in an earlier post, after the last time I wrote my story and read it aloud, I was then flooded with way more details about different incidents than I believed I was ready for. The hole I fell into that time seemed impossible to climb out of. With a lot of extra help and prayer from others, I made it. Fortunately nobody spouted “God never gives us more than we can handle.” For the record, this is not in the Bible. This is equivocal to bumper sticker theology or “Sunday school answers” that annoy me. What is in the Bible, for example, is 2 Corinthians 1:8-10 For we do not want to be unaware, brethren, of our affliction which came to us in Asia, that we were burdened excessively, beyond our strength, so we despaired even of life; indeed, we had the sentence of death within ourselves in order that we should not trust in ourselves, but in God who raises the dead; who delivered us from so great a peril of death, and will deliver us, He on whom we have set our hope. And He will yet deliver us.

Anyway….

I was caught off guard by the effect of writing my story again. I threw up. I suspect it was a combination of a couple of things. One was the fact I relived it yet again. My first version this time around was a pretty vague summary. I ended up writing it again with more details about how I felt and other sensory details, as recommended by the group leader. It was difficult to “feel” all that again. Second, is I have to read it aloud. There is something about saying it out loud that really makes it real. Once you speak it aloud, it can no longer be denied. This is an overwhelming reality.

Two days after group I saw my therapist. Seeing my therapist after group is a good thing but it is still difficult at times. I have made progress but we talked about a couple of hurdles I still need to work on with my personal relationships that are painful. They hurt because getting to the other side of them requires a level of trust and vulnerability I struggle to achieve. Not only do I have to trust them, I have to trust myself. Both are tough for me to do.

Later that evening, still processing my next steps, I got a call from the office of the new psychiatrist I was scheduled to see in a month. They were calling to tell me they had a cancellation for the following morning and asked if I wanted to move my appointment up. I took a deep breath and accepted. Panic set in. I sent a message to my therapist, finished the “New Patient” paperwork, took my medication, and went to sleep. The appointment overall went well but again I had to repeat my history out loud, tell her my diagnoses, and hope for acceptance. She did accept me but all together it tested the limits of my medicated nerves.

The rest of my week was tough due to issues with my kids, but I had reached my limit by that point. I went into autopilot, a phase that very easily could have lead to a crash. Sure there were things that went right with the week, but emotionally I was exhausted.

Through all of this I let go of God. Part of me kept trying to seek him in either by making sure the worship/inspirational music was playing in the car or a verse or line from this music would make  it to the front of my brain during the day. Just about each time this happened another part of me said, “Oh, just shut up!”

Late Saturday night it all partially came around. While I had essentially let go of God, He never let go of me. He remained constant, never changing, and was just waiting for me to come around. He gently reminded me of a verse I had seen on another blog.

For I, the Lord, do not change...Malachi 3:6.

I am still uneasy about the upcoming reading of my story in the next week or so. There is no guarantee that next week is going to be any easier. Maybe, just maybe, I can seek help and comfort from the people who care for me and support me, and also seek God, who is always there for comfort and ready to hold me up. I just have to reach out.

Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Matthew 11:28.

Free Speech

At the second group meeting I attended we were instructed to “write our story.” We were told to write it again if we had already written it. It could be a specific incident or a summary. The idea of this terrified me to my core for a couple of reasons. I had written down the bits and pieces I had remembered and had emailed these to my therapist. Other than when I was being questioned by the police at the age of 16, I could not recall ever saying the words out loud. I may have said some things out loud to my therapist but I certainly had never written my complete story or read it out loud. Besides the terror the suggestion caused, my thought was “when hell freezes over.”

I saw my therapist the next morning. I mentioned the group “homework” and he encouraged me to write it also but to take it slow and not force it. It took me 2 days to start. I had stared at blank paper several times with a pen in my hand during those 2 days. I made the decision to just write about one specific incident, the first one.

As I started to write what I remembered about the first time more details started to pour out. Way more detail than I wanted. Halfway through writing it I started to feel it happening all over again. I felt panicked, sick to my stomach, and could hardly breathe. As I looked at the 3 pages I had written I felt sad and guilty. I closed the notebook and started to watch something goofy on TV to distract myself and hopefully make it possible to sleep. The next day I typed it up and sent it in an email to my therapist. I was still dazed and overwhelmed but also relieved I had gotten it out of the way. In a sense, I felt free from that memory. It was out on paper, partially out of my system. I was giving myself the voice I never had as a child.

Eph 5:11 Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them

My abuser may never hear my words or even realize I never forgot. He may not even care. I have to learn to live with that. Writing the small part of my story released it. It exposed what I had gone through and I came out victorious. I survived.

Reading my story to the group turned out to be agonizing. Saying the words out loud, realizing people were listening to them and opening myself up was so difficult to say the least. The story was out there and I could not bring it back in. I was exposed and raw. What is the most aggravating thing about all of it is that my abusers needed to be exposed and raw, not me. They should be feeling the shame and guilt, the panic of being discovered, and the insomnia from reliving the incidents.

I still have so much of the story to tell. I have written down every incident that came out in a flood during group. I have typed them and sent them to my therapist. Now I am facing reading my story out loud again. I have yet to determine what I am going to share. I want to face it this time without the shame, embarrassment, and panic. I want my abusers to be exposed, may be not publically but certainly for what they did.

The best part of sharing my story with others is that I am also sharing it with God. He already knows what happened, but when I write it down and say it out loud I am admitting it really happened and that I need help to deal with it. He is with me always. Just like I have to confess my sins out loud to him, I have to tell him what is troubling me, to seek His help. I need Him to take care of those who need to be held responsible. It is out of my hands. The Psalm below speaks of this. He can vindicate me from the shame and guilt I have carried for years that never belonged to me. He is a breath away. He is my champion.

Psalm 35:22-26 Oh Lord, you have seen this; be not silent. Do not be far from me, O Lord. Awake, and rise to my defense! Contend for me , my God and Lord. Vindicate me in your righteousness, O Lord my God. Do not let them think, “Aha, just what we wanted!” or say “We have swallowed him up” May all who gloat over my distress be put to shame and confusion; may all who exalt themselves over me be clothed with shame and disgrace.