Acceptance

I suppose, if I have to assess where I am right now, I would say I am more calm. About pretty much everything. Tolkien boy once told me that there is value in acceptance. I resisted that for a very long time. Acceptance meant acknowledging that some things are real and cannot be changed. 

However, not accepting reality means I am stuck in the wish-world. There is no growth there. There is a lot of frustration and anger. In the wish-world, I understand what was, but remain in the place where I don't want it. And if I can't accept what is, I cannot move forward.

I think it's okay to acknowledge that reality sometimes aches. I think it's okay to say I don't want to be the person who lived through my reality. I think it's okay to be angry and sad and wistful. I think it's okay to wish it was otherwise. In doing all those things, I'm remembering that I am worth more than that. I deserved better. 

And then, in the end, I accept that what I wished for did not happen. It still makes me ache, but I can become who I am if I allow myself to be who I was. 

Finally, I can say this and still feel calm. That's something.

Therapy Assignment the first

 I'm fascinated and a little aggravated at how my subconscious does not want me to return to this. A couple of weeks ago, my therapist gave me a task. It was small and involved simply thinking about something. But in the ensuing week, each time I would try to remember what she had asked, it was as if someone slammed a very heavy door in my face. I would absolutely be unable to remember what she said. In fact, it became impossible to bring the therapy session to mind. I drew a complete blank. 

This not-remembering thing has continued to insert itself. There are times during a session when my Therapist will move to a topic or ask a question that makes me stressed. I know I answer. I remember answering. But within seconds, I can no longer recall what was said by either of us. I'm fighting very hard not to go to the places that make me uncomfortable. 

So I'm supposed to return to the assault that happened when I was eight years old. I've been trying all week to do this. Every time I sit down to write, I am overwhelmed by my inner voice. It asks, "Why is this helpful? What is the point of writing this all down again? I think I should understand how this will be healing. And actually, I'd be very interested in hearing, from a therapeutic perspective, what the end goal of this exercise is. Not the end goal of therapy; I know what that is. Just this particular, nasty, little exercise."

It's a distraction technique. I understand this. I'm digging in, resisting taking this next step.

I have difficulty remaining present when I discuss things with my therapist. With anyone. She says I need to remain present. I'm not allowed to go away. But then what? What happens if I'm invested in what I say? Why is it important for me to feel pain again and again?

I know the answer. I do. I'm just not sure I believe enough to do as I'm asked.

That being said, therapy is today, and I have to go to work soon. I have procrastinated this long enough.

I am eight years old. I live in a very tiny, close-knit community. I love it here. I have many friends. Many parts of school are fun and engaging. I don't like my classroom teacher, but I adore my math team teachers. My PE teacher is my best friend's dad. I love to sing. I have an amazing music teacher. He loves to sing, too. He taught us a song in German. Except when I sang it to my mom, she said it wasn't in German, it just had a few German words in it. I think it's in German because my teacher said so. "Mein Hut, der hat drei Ecken..." That seems like German to me. 

At home, things seem calmer. My mom is pregnant, but that is often the case. She's often ill and in bed. For the most part, she doesn't interact with me. This is a good thing. I think she likes it here, too, though. She seems to have friends. 

There are two men who attend our church. Something is wrong with them. They're not like other men. They live with their mom. They don't talk to people very much. One of them struggles to speak at all. The other one smiles a lot. My mom and dad told me that these men have brains that didn't grow up. They're like children in adult bodies. Some people make fun of them. I need to be kind to them. I don't really think about it a lot. I see the men at church and no other place. 

My dad is a youth leader for the young men at church. Sometimes he takes me with him when they have activities. They're nice. When they play games, they let me join them sometimes, but mostly, they just ignore me. Not in a mean way, though. They just like to do things together. Most of the time, when I go with him, I read a book. I love to read. I like mystery books. And ghost stories. And I really love reading folk tales from other countries. There's one about a witch named Baba Yaga. She travels in a mortar and pestle. I don't know what that is. I don't know how to say it out loud, either, but I like the stories. The heroine is Vasilisa and she's smart. 

 One night, my dad let me go with him to a church basketball game. I don't really like to go to these. They're very loud and echo-y. People yell a lot and there are whistles. And the time clock makes an awful noise when the minutes are up. And it smells weird. But I like to go with my dad. It's fun to be with him without all my sisters around. I don't really understand basketball. But my dad loves it. He played basketball in high school. He's the coach of the young men in our church, so he stands up and yells things to them a lot. 

When we had been at the game for a while, I had to go to the bathroom. Our church is kind of old. The bathroom is downstairs. Everything is kind of muddled now. When I think about this, my brain remembers going down the stairs, but the bathroom I remember the incident happening in is actually a bathroom that was in a different church in a different town in a different state. We moved to that different place when I was nine. And even though I know we continued to attend church in that building for a while after the incident happened, I don't remember that. Our church had been building a new church. That's the place I remember going to church next.

When I got to the door of the bathroom, the light was on, but the hallway was dim. Someone was behind me. I turned around to see who was there. It was one of the men who were like children. His name was Brent. I said, "Hi Brent. You're in the wrong..." I was going to tell him where his bathroom was. I thought he might be lost. Before I could finish my sentence, he grabbed me and carried me into the bathroom. I was confused and scared. He shut the door behind us. 

He put me down and started messing with my clothes. He lifted up my shirt. I pulled it back down and told him to stop. He was whispering, "I just want to see," over and over again. He pulled down my underwear. While I was trying to pull them back up, he grabbed my shirt and took it off. Now I was angry. He had no right to do this. His hand was near my mouth. I bit it hard. I could taste blood and his skin was salty. He yelled and threw me away from him. I hit my head on the wall.

There's a space here. I don't remember anything. It felt black, like I was in a tunnel. Then I heard him whispering again. At first I didn't understand. Then I heard him saying, "Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be okay," over and over again. He was holding me, trying to put my clothes back on me. I grabbed them away from him, and dressed as quickly as I could, then I ran to the door. He didn't try to stop me, but he said, "Don't tell your dad! Don't you tell your dad!" as I opened the door. I paused. Suddenly, I felt as angry as I had in my life. I turned and screamed at him, "I'm goin tell my dad! I'm telling him right now!" And then I ran.

I ran all the way to my dad. He was focused on the ball game, but sitting in a chair. I sat in my chair next to him, but slid close. I was shaking and scared. I wasn't angry anymore. I put my arm through my dad's. He kept watching the game. I said, "Daddy..." very quietly. He looked down at me. I said, "Something happened. Brent followed me into the bathroom." I know he asked me if I was okay. I said Brent didn't hurt me. But he did. My head hurt. My person hurt. 

My dad stood up, so I did, too. I could tell that he was very angry. He picked me up and set me back down in my chair. He said, "Stay there." And then he left. 

I wondered what I had done to make my dad so angry. I was still very scared, but now I was alone. I wondered why I had to sit in a chair. That usually happened when I was being punished. I wasn't sure what I had done to be punished. I wanted to cry, but no crying happened. My body wouldn't stop shaking. I was cold. I don't remember going home. I don't remember anything else.

Back in the Saddle Again

I'm back in therapy. It will be vastly different this time. 

Years ago when I started the first time, I began my first blog. And people came to visit me. A huge, supportive group of people. That doesn't happen anymore. No one blogs.

 Years ago when I started the first time, I gained beautifully close friends who walked with me, followed my progress, encouraged me. That won't happen this time. They've moved on. They have spouses and families and wonderful lives. 

Years ago, Tolkien boy would tell me the paragraphs above sound wistful. He doesn't say things like that anymore. We mostly talk about work. Sometimes we talk about the weather or our families. Mostly, we talk about anything that's not intimate or intrusive. I think it's good that we still talk.

Am I wistful?

I don't know. 

With all that has happened in the past five years, I've become reclusive - not in a physical way, but mentally and emotionally. When my stress level becomes unmanageable, when PTSD symptoms work their way into my daily existence, I am unable to gauge how people feel about me. I don't understand the intricacies of mutual friendship. And so I withdraw. I don't want to place myself where I might not be wanted or appreciated. And I'm too tired to battle for a place in anyone's life.

I talked to my therapist about this. I told her that I understood that it's unfair of me to believe people don't want me. And I think it's sad that I don't know how to be okay with being loved. And I want to learn to trust people. I want to trust Darin, and Tolkien boy, and Mr. Tolkien boy, and my kids. 

I just don't.

So this time will be challenging. I came close last time. It was difficult to deny that I was loved when people were telling me frequently. It was difficult to believe I was unwanted when people visited me and made time for me to visit them. It was difficult to buy into the belief that I have nothing of interest to say when there was always someone waiting to talk with me online. 

This time I get to do everything alone. And the irony is, I'm good at alone. Very good at it. But learning to let people into my alone-ness - that's the challenge. And believing they wish to be there - impossibly challenging. 

I hope I can do it. I want to. And I think I will. But when I finally get it, I hope there are still people around who want me.

I finally watched my friend's memorial service. It was predictably Mormon. I wanted them to say more about him. I miss him.

Tolkien boy agreed to watch it with me. He said it made him think about the things he did NOT want at his own funeral. I don't think I care what goes on at my funeral. I don't actually want to have one.

I'm sad today. Not just because my friend died, but there are so many things, overwhelming things, pushing their way into my life. I think I need a reset.

And I have to get a new therapist. The need for help is becoming stronger each week. And I am becoming weaker.

Saying Good-Bye

I feel like I've done a lot of that lately. A wonderful friend of mine passed away earlier this year. It felt like my heart would break. I was supposed to call him, but I put it off. I won't every call him again. 

The other good-byes feel less tangible but equally as potent. I don't really have words to describe those moments or events, but I know they're endings. Sometimes I'm ready for that end, as in the case of Darrin's father's death. That event felt like a gift - permission for me to live and breathe again. There was no sorrow at that passing. But other times, I'm not ready to let go.

Then there are times when I know a good-bye, spoken or not, is coming. This is especially apparent in relationships. I feel the increasing disinterest. Attentiveness is non-existent. There is an overarching impression that interactions are taking place by habit, or perhaps because of some odd, displaced sense of duty. In the past, when those circumstances evolved, I jumped ship. I hated good-byes. I got out as quickly and cleanly as possible. I realize now that fear dictated that motion. I was so afraid of being left behind, outgrown, or rejected, that I simply sped up the process, got it over with, and ignored any residual pain.

I haven't done that for a long time now. And I have to say, I'm not sure it's better. At least when I left, I knew exactly where I stood and what would happen next. When I stay, I feel constant uncertainty. I'm so very afraid of taking a misstep. And I read way too much into any interaction. 

The problem is probably 75% PTSD. I'm sort of proud of the fact that I've been able to nurture relationships in spite of the daily battle I wage with that monster. But it doesn't make me stronger. My need for reassurance, especially verbal, simply increases. And if that need isn't fed, I feel broken.

It's an odd thing to confront. I am one of the most capable people I know. I'm fairly confident in my ability to do anything I wish. And I know I'm not a pariah. People want to like me. I am approachable and friendly. 

But maybe that's the extent of me. Meeting me is actually the best part. Getting to know me is a downhill road. Maintaining a relationship with me is nothing more than work. Lots of work. Lots of work with little reward. When I am very old, I'll be alone and probably friendless, but I will be one heck of a Walmart Greeter.

I guess I feel like I'm on the verge of losing something and someone I value. That's not a good feeling. Someone once told me that feeling badly about losing a loved one is a positive trait. So I'm allowing myself to feel that. But the good-bye is so very long and drawn out. Neither of us wants to say the words. We will, though. Probably sooner than I wish.

Hi Blog! It's been a long time!

 I survived 2020. Just wanted to put that out there.

Why am I back here? Well, during my decade of blogging I learned a great deal about myself, my past, and my relationships, and I became Samantha. Good things, all. And I made some amazing friends, learned more about people, in general, and questioned everything I thought I knew about life. Mostly good things. 

But now it's been a decade and a half since I started blogging. That "half" part doesn't really count as blogging, given how little I've been here, but there is a piece of me that I still consider a Blogger. It's an important part. I don't believe I'd be who I am now without it.

Things I learned then that are still true now:

1. I can heal. And I have. There are so many hurts that were festering that now are only whispers of themselves. They still visit me in the night sometimes. Occasionally, they cause me enough distress that I speak of them to someone, but not often. I am definitely better.

2. People can help. And it's okay to ask for help sometimes. I've done it. I'll say more about this later.

3. I will continue to grow and question no matter how old I become. Because things change and I change. What was a surety 10 years ago, no longer is. 

4. Life is tenuous. I knew it a decade and a half ago. I know it more now. I've lost friends and family in the past year. That still hurts a lot. I miss them

Things I hoped I would leave behind me that haunt me still:

1. Friendships. Not that I wanted to leave those behind, but my insecurity within them--that's the part I hoped I could talk myself out of. It's still there. I'm still the person who frets that I will become passé, or boring, or forgotten. I wish that was different. It's not. And the closer I am to someone, the more stressed I become. I've had friendships wane or pass away. I don't worry about that. I probably don't even miss those people. I'm comfortable when the friendship runs its course because that's my expectation. There is still one person who has told me it's okay to be uncomfortable in our relationship, and that he's not going anywhere. But I don't know how to believe that. Even after all these years.

2. PTSD. I wanted to beat it. I believed I would make it go away. The truth is that when I was told I would deal with it for the rest of my life, I told Therapist that wasn't happening. I would work and research and do whatever it took to not be burdened with the disorder. And he said he believed I could do it. The funny thing is, as real researchers made discoveries about PTSD and its treatment, it was proven that PTSD isn't a lifelong illness and some people recover and aren't troubled by it anymore. I'm not one of them. I don't know if I just got tired or if I just stopped trying, but something happened. PTSD is alive and well in me.

3. My abuser's voice. I'm very good at ignoring it now, or tuning it out. But it's still there, telling me all the reasons I'm not good enough, or thin enough, or pretty or talented or kind... I'm not enough. But I am. I know I am. I FEEL that I am. Still, the voice persists. I don't know how to leave it behind.

I'm here today, Blog, because I'm feeling those things in the second list. And I don't know who to talk to right now. Darin just had surgery--a huge life-threatening one. He would definitely listen to me, but he's tired and trying to heal. He might go to sleep while I was talking, which is reasonable, but off-putting. 

I could talk to Tolkien Boy, but he began his own therapeutic journey not long ago, and I get the feeling he's rethinking a lot of things in his life, which includes me. And the truth, my truth, is that one of the things I want for anyone I love is for them to have control over how they find, explore, and speak THEIR truth. If he has a need for space from me while figuring all that out, I don't want to influence how that plays out. I want him to have that. I was talking with Darin about this and he said, "What if TB decides that space from you is what he wants permanently." I tried to tell Darin how painful that would be for me, but something I would want for TB if that was the thing that was needed. But Darin fell asleep. 

So I'm here. You're not the best at offering advice, Blog, but you let me say my piece. Sometimes I don't know what to say. Today is one of those days. But it's also very lovely outside. I'm vaccinated against the dreaded plague. I have spent so much wonderful time with my children (can you believe they all grew up?), their spouses (and got married?), and my husband (yes, he's still her--love that guy!) during the pandemic. There are blessings to be had, always.

Anyway, I'm feeling lonely today. And sad for many reasons. Thanks for being there, Blog, and for listening. I appreciate it.