Warning; I never swear except in this post, Part Three

Actually, I'm finished with swearing and there isn't anymore, but this is a continuation of the previous post, so I'm keeping the title.

Following that online conversation, I actually talked with a couple of other trusted friends, revealing the extent and nature of the abuse and allowing myself to express anger about it. Their reactions were similarly accepting, loving, and supportive. I was surprised. This led me to an exploration of my feelings about Person One. I had not realized how much I despised this part of me. I did a lot of writing, and for the first time, I shared some of that with close friends, allowing them to see what I was thinking and feeling.

I told more people. Some of them took it well, and wanted to be of help. Others expressed their inability to cope with the nature of what I was talking about. Rather than feeling rejected by them, I felt I understood them--relating to my feelings of abhorrence when I first began confronting the problems of my past. Some of those who stepped back, have since come back to touch bases and find out how I'm doing. I'm realizing that people cope in different ways, and I'm working on not taking personally things that are not aimed at me. It has been a welcome surprise to have those who were appalled by my past, return to try to support me as I work through things.

There have also been some who have been solidly behind me for many months. Without wavering, they've listened to what I've needed to say, offered physical and virtual support, and loved me no matter what. This has been extremely important as I try to understand my own beliefs about my self-worth and feelings of guilt. Also, at this point, my parents and all of my siblings know of the abuse I suffered (although I haven't told them details--the time for that has not come, and it may never be the right thing to tell them), and three of the seven siblings also know of my sexual orientation.

A large part of all this, but also the newest part, has been the process of learning to cope with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and all it's side-effects. I have finally finished researching the illness and understand how it affects my everyday life. With Tolkien Boy's help (which he has offered for more than eight months--even though I asked for it for "two to three weeks"--silly me!), I've once again been able to control my nightmares and get some sleep. And in spite of my recent visit to the hospital's "Behavioral Health Unit", I feel better today than I have in more than a year.

I've noted some interesting things as I feel stronger:
1. My feelings are much more level--sometimes I worry that I'm reverting to my past numbness. But I don't really think that's it. I think I'm just not a highly emotional person. I cope with emotion slowly and methodically. I'm not ignoring things, or burying them, just waiting until I can process without interruption.
2. I don't feel the desperate need for human interaction that I've felt over the past year. I don't think this means that I'm less interested in friends or wanting to become isolated. I've always been happy in my own company, and I don't feel lonely when I'm alone. Solitude is important to me. I seek out other people, still, fairly regularly, but I can't deny who I am or force myself to be who I'm not. I spend more time with my chat windows off, not because I'm avoiding people, but because I'm thinking, processing, and at this point I need to do that without as much input from others. I have to know what I think. But if you've given me ideas, advice, or help of any kind, you should know that I'm thinking of that, as well. It's time for me to put everything together, and that requires quiet thought.
3. There is an amazing feeling of peace when I reflect on my past. I've met the man who abused me. That meeting was rather horrible, but also amazing, because I'm no longer afraid of him. There are two reasons for this, one is that he's just sort of a pathetic, middle-aged man, the second is that I arranged, met with, and controlled that meeting by myself--and thanked God that in the restaurant, Tolkien Boy's hand pushed me forward when I actually caught my first glimpse of my cousin and wanted to turn and run away. However, I did complete the meeting, and the times that I view myself as less than dirt are much less frequent. I'm slowly coming to realize that I'm okay, I'm not a contagious disease, and that good, worthwhile people actually care about me regardless of my past, but also as a result of past events, because those who love me want me to become whole.
4. Many of the overwhelming yearnings I've had are becoming more level. The urge to cut seems to have gone away. I'm eating well and had gained at least 10 pounds at my last weigh-in (and I look normal). For awhile there was a gnawing need to find a source of non-sexual touch outside of those who are related to me by blood or marriage (the ones who have to love me--it's required). That need was making me feel more dependent than was comfortable for me. I fought against it in every way I could devise. When I finally gave in, asked someone if he was willing to provide that for me, and accepted his affirmative answer, the need seemed to diminish. Today, it feels non-existant. For me, that's an amazing relief, because if someone hugs or holds me, I want it to be a mutually beneficial experience. If it happens because I'm horribly needy, I'd rather be dead. I know, extreme, but I'm just expressing how I feel.
5. I'm still an overachieving nut-case. I think I always will be. There are many things I thought would change as I've explored my past. The truth is that while I was definitely affected by the things that happened, most of who I am today is based on the person I would have become under any circumstances. The difference is that now I no longer despise the little girl who was trapped and harmed. I don't hate her for not seeking help--she didn't know how. I don't blame her for not making the abuse stop--it was not in her power. I do wish she hadn't had to endure the sadness and pain--rather, I wish I had not had to endure it. That is something I will always wish. But I also know that my life today is beautiful.

I am left with memories, occasional nightmares, and a trauma disorder. I have found friendship, courage, love and self-worth. I discovered a part of myself I had ignored. For months I watched her, nightly, as she coped with pain, cleaned up the mess, and longed for love. Vicariously, I gave that to her as I controlled my nightmares, and with his permission, used help from Tolkien Boy who held her as she slept, and eventually helped her to stop the abuse altogether. I have seen how she survived and grew into a successful businesswoman, creative musician, mother, and wife. Who can despise that? I can no longer.

Warning: I never swear except in this post, Part Two

In the late summer I finally wrote a post detailing some of what happened. I was more ashamed of that publication than I can express. Allowing people to know the extent of my abuse was horribly vulnerable. I felt humiliated and weak. I was certain that as I revealed more, people would feel about me as I felt for myself--that I was tainted and dirty--that I had no worth or dignity--that my life should have ended years ago, because I had nothing left to give.

I removed the post after about a month. During that month I read the comments of people who responded. I think that was a turning point for me. People did not assign blame to me--they empathized. They mourned for the little girl inside me. And for the first time in many years, I wept because I didn't feel that I had to be alone in this anymore. There were people who didn't really know me, who had no personal connection, but who still cared about something that happened many years ago. That was, perhaps, the first time I believed that I might not be exempt from being able to find human love outside of one or two people.

The experience of showing a part of what had happened to an unknown audience made me feel a bit daring and reckless. I had made a new friend who seemed to enjoy chatting with me often. During one of our conversations I alluded to the abuse in my life, allowing him to know of one of the ways in which I had been raped. His reaction was unexpected and angry. Even though the anger was directed at my cousin, I was unprepared for his emotions. I pulled back immediately and avoided the subject for awhile. But one night I was online after midnight and he began chatting with me. I was tired, I'd had a very difficult day, and I lost all good sense during our conversation. But I think this was the first time that I felt any real emotion about my past and shared it, allowing myself to open up and be vulnerable. I used a word I never use--but it was the best I could come up with for this conversation. I had yet to admit that I had been raped. For whatever reason, rape seemed too horrible to accept. This was a step toward acknowledging that reality:

me: wow--there are lots of people hurting at 2:30 a.m.
Good Friend: yes, you're good to talk with them
me: I don't know why they talk to me--it doesn't solve anything, and I never tell them what to do.
Good Friend: people don't want their problems solved, they want them validated
me: You're probably right. That's an interesting thing to think about, for me, because I DON'T like to talk about my problems.
Good Friend: why not?
me: I suppose because I see them as so ugly, not really sharable
Good Friend: your problems may run deeper than other people's?
me: probably not. It's just how I see it
Good Friend: :) Well, it's not a bad thing unless you need to talk about things
me: That was one of my counseling assignments: Tell others about the abuse in my past. carefully select people I feel safe confiding in. So I blogged it instead. my therapist said it didn't count
Good Friend: he may be right, even talking about it online is different than actually talking to someone
me: So I told you a tiny little bit--and it was upsetting to you. I don't think I'll ever be able to complete that assignment
Good Friend: Well, be fair to me, the fact that you were hurt made me upset because I don't like you to be hurt, but it didn't bring me down
me: I'm not being unfair--I totally understand how it can be upsetting.
Good Friend: or make me feel that I was sorry I asked
me: I told my therapist I didn't understand why it was necessary to tell people. He said, until I can talk about it...it won't be over. I disagree.
Good Friend: really?
me: It was over a long time ago. and yes
Good Friend: but it isn't over for you, I mean, it still bothers you
me: But right now it only affects me. If I tell, then it affects more people. I need to understand why
Good Friend: understand why?
me: Why it's important to share the ugliness
Good Friend: because it's not your responsibility to carry it all?
me: The only one I could tell, whose responsibility it is, is my cousin. He already knows
Good Friend: I guess I'm talking more about the people who love you and want to help
and for you, too, it's tempting to lock things inside that hurt
me: AAGGHHH...this is agonizing.
Good Friend: sorry
me: No I'M sorry
Good Friend: lol, why be sorry? you're a wonderful, precious friend and I want you to be happy. I want there to be nothing you're afraid of. I think that no one who loves you views you as a burden
me: Yeah, but that's the thing--they don't know!!!
Good Friend: what don't they know?
me: How awful--how messed up--how hellishly miserable the things my therapist wants me to say, actually are.
Good Friend: I think, maybe, that's why he wants you to say them so that you can see, through other people's eyes, that there isn't anything that can make people no longer love you and that the things you think are the worst things of you have no bearing on how other people see and love you
me: So if I tell you that when I was almost 12 my cousin fucked the hell out of me--using every orifice possible, and leaving me to clean up my own blood and his semen--every possible night for nearly four months--that doesn't change how you feel about me?
Good Friend: no. I love you every bit as I ever did. I really, really want to give you a hug for having to deal with such a difficult thing
me: I just want to scream
Good Friend: but I love you, and the actions of someone so sick does not make me love you less
me: I don't understand--and I am not a stupid person--how knowing that I've been defiled can't change how people feel
Good Friend: You're not a stupid person at all, but you're missing what I see, which is that the fact that someone took advantage of you doesn't say anything about you. It says too much about him, but all it says is that you've had a horrible, crushing thing to deal with, and your bravery in dealing with it has made you beautiful to me. Maybe it's better explained this way. If I met a girl who had been burned in a fire, I would get to know her and find out who she was. But I wouldn't think that the fact that she got burned said anything about who she was. I know it's different. Metaphors are bad but in my mind, it's about the same distinction.
me: I think I know what you're saying. But I have to say just a couple of things.
First--I really don't want people to pity me. I don't know why that's important to me, but I feel rather fierce about it.
Good Friend: that's understandable
me: Second--I'm so sorry for putting my experiences in the way that I did--sort of attacking and very crass.
Good Friend: well, apology accepted, but I wasn't hurt by it and I wouldn't expect you to not have strong feelings about it
me: No, but I'm very good at controlling my language--I could have said it differently.
Good Friend: I wasn't offended
me: I was.
Good Friend: okay
me: I'm sorry, I'm just a little overwhelmed. I'm trying to wrap my head around the fact that I finally told someone--and I don't have a clue what I'm feeling--very confusing. And I'm also trying to move on, so you don't have to think about it anymore.
Good Friend: I'm all right thinking about it for a while
me: I might have an inkling of why my therapist gave me my assignment
Good Friend: why is that?
me: there's actually some relief being felt right now.
Good Friend: Think how much more it would be if I were an actual person!
:D
me: I'm not quite ready for that.
Good Friend: well, that's also understandable, but it's not a bad thing to think about
me: Besides, then I would have to see the emotions felt by said actual person--I don't know if I could deal with that.
Good Friend: if you choose your confidante wisely, I think you'll see love
me: AND they would see me cry--I know I would hate that.
Good Friend: I also hate being vulnerable
me: Yeah. Good Friend, thanks for loving me, in spite of me
Good Friend: Well, I honestly, honestly mean it when I say you've never given me any reason not to love you, and you continue always to be lovable
me: and I love you.
Good Friend: :) then I think we should continue to be friends
me: Okay. Good night
Good Friend: Okay. Good night

Warning: I never swear--except in this post, Part One

It's been a few days since I've posted. For me, that's sort of monumental. It's not unknown for me to post more than once daily. But something's been happening, and I'm trying to understand it well enought to express it.

For the first time in more than a year, I feel like me again. It's as if all the "new" (which constitutes old stuff I've refused to acknowledge) has merged with the familiar and brought me back to the place where I began.

This time last year, I was two separate people. Person One was a little girl begging to be acknowledged, crying for love and comfort, desperately sad, horribly used and hurt, confused, betrayed and abandoned. I hated and feared her. She represented to me all that was weak and vulnerable. She couldn't protect herself. She endured loathsome abuse that I could hardly bear to think about. I had consciously put her away because it was overwhelming for me to believe that she was me.

Person Two was an overachiever, organized, driven, and logical. She never cried--ever. Failure was not an option. Life was to be laughed at and never mourned. She was not afraid of anything except for the hidden things inside.

Still, Person Two is really an impossible entity. If I hadn't been confronted with my past, I believe I would have driven myself to a breakdown, eventually. As it was, I sort of had one anyway, so maybe that's all part of the package.

At some point I allowed Person One to become known. I began with my husband, then my father, and slowly continued to tell people of my experience--in summarizing sentences with very little detail. There were a few people who got more detail about the things I felt, but not about the abuse experiences themselves. I wrote a romanticized free-write about the way my cousin led up to the point when he actually abused me, and gave the impression that there was one rather sterile night when he raped me. It was too much to actually admit the truth and share it with anyone else. There were too many unresolved feelings, many of guilt and poor self-image. I just couldn't do it. And the truth is, until I was able to say what actually happened, and admit how I felt about it, I couldn't receive that which I needed to heal.

Language of Love, or Love of Language?

I don't remember a time when I haven't loved reading. My parents tell me I learned to read at age three. All I know is that when I discovered the bookshelf in my Kindergarten room, I thought I'd found heaven. My teacher, for whatever reason, felt that it would be inappropriate to allow me to read the books (they were for "reading aloud"), and as a result, I spent much of the time looking at the spines,wondering what was inside, and getting an F in coloring, snacktime, and naptime. I did well at recess, though, securing at least a B.

My parents moved frequently during my elementary school years. Most of the time I didn't mind, but when we moved the final time I was entering fourth grade. We had been living in a tiny town in Idaho. I loved it there. I had many friends, I felt accepted, it was a good place to live. We relocated to Hicktown, Wyoming--and I hated it. Most of the children in my class had lived there all their lives and were not interested in newcomers. Making friends was difficult, and my teacher disliked me, for whatever reason. I remember sitting in front of a boy who was flexing a plastic ruler and releasing it into the back of my neck. I walked to my teacher, who was sitting at her desk, mentioned that it hurt and asked for her help. She told me, rather nastily, "No one likes a tattletale," and went back to grading papers. I walked to my seat and the ruler commenced it's meeting with my neck. The boy finally found another activity when the welts he was making came to the notice of the girl sitting next to him and she mentioned that she was going to beat him up at recess if he didn't stop. This was not a happy class. I felt displaced and lonely.

However, the new school had a very good library. I believe in the three years that I was there, I read every book in the juvenile fiction section, some of them more than once. I immersed myself in reading to escape the new situations in which I found it difficult to cope. By the time I was in sixth grade, I'd found a social circle and a niche, but reading was, and is still, my first love. Darrin understands that he ranks first in my life--right after my love of literature.

My parents had a box filled with paperback classics--Shakespeare, Poe, Dickens, Stevenson, Homer, Scott, Emerson, Thoreau, and others. It was in these that I learned the real beauty of language. I began reading them when I was eleven. They became my salvation when I was twelve. I'm certain that given my age, there was very little that I truly understood, but I was mesmerized by their narratives and read them repeatedly. A dictionary sat next to me as I read--these were not words introduced in fifth and sixth grade vocabulary. I fell in love with the authors. They were more real to me than the stories they had written. I would sometimes imagine that they were my friends, keeping me company when I was consumed by sadness after the episodes of abuse in my life. I remember telling Henry David Thoreau (as we walked in the mountains behind my home) about how much it hurt inside after my cousin abused me. He nodded and agreed that was a very difficult thing, then pointed out how lovely the wildflowers were that day, and together we caught and held a tiny frog. And one time, Shakespeare and I identified cloud shapes in the sky as I suggested to him that, while his tragedies were certainly worthwhile and interesting, I much preferred his comedies and sonnets. He agreed with me.

While I realized that none of the authors wrote their stories for me, imagining that they had done so helped me live through many days. I'm quite certain that when a story is being written, the last thing on the author's mind is whether or not an abused little girl will cling to those words as a lifeline, and thank a God in whom she no longer believes, for the man or woman who penned them. Regardless of their past cognizance, someday I hope they know. They touched my life and sustained me in a hopeless time. And while my life is only one of many, and I am no more remarkable than anyone else, I think it's rather amazing that they were able to reach into the future just for me. I know--they didn't, really--but I still intend to believe it.

Marriage Commandments From My Mother

1. Never marry someone of a different race. You will end up divorced.
I actually tried to do this, just to annoy her. Darrin, my Spaniard, is as close as I could get. My maternal grandfather cornered me after I became engaged and asked me what Darrin's racial background was. I said, "He's Mexican, of course. I think that's so much better than the bastard hillbilly roots your family contributes to my bloodline." Then I walked away. My mother hurried over to her father and assured him that Darrin was not Mexican, but definitely white, and his ancestors came from Europe--and that my comments were made because I was a little stressed about the upcoming nuptuals (it's true, I was stressed about that, but I made the comment out of spite, not stress).

2. Be a stay-at-home mom (or stated differently: never work outside the home). Your husband will not love you if you don't cook and clean for him, and your children will grow up to be prostitutes and drug abusers.
I told my mother that I would probably work for the rest of my life--and that if Darrin married me so he could have a built in maid, we would definitely not stay married. We both eat--we both do dishes. We both wear clothes--we both do laundry. We both use the toilet--we both clean the bathroom. We both walk in the house--we both mop and vacuum. She assured me that wouldn't work. I promptly got a job after we were married, just to prove that it would. I also let her know that since I wasn't having children, the prostitute and drug-abuse populations would be sadly disappointed by my contributions. Now that I do have children, and work outside the home, I'll have to work on that one. Also, according to this statement, since I don't stay at home and clean for my husband, he's probably lying when he says he loves me.

3. Never get separate bank accounts. This is one of the greatest causes of divorce.
Until my mother said this, I had never before considered the evils of banking separately from my husband. However, Darrin has never been great at keeping track of money, and I've never been happy about baby-sitting adults, so we have separate bank accounts. Now, if we get a divorce, everyone will know the reason why. We have an agreement that because money seems to magically disappear when it's in my husband's possession, the paychecks come to me first--I pay all the bills and make necessary investments, and then deposit disappearable funds into Darrin's bank account. I don't ask what he does with them--and he never questions what I do with any extra money I may have, either. We do a household budget together, so that he's aware of our monthly expenditures, we save for our Christmas and travel funds, he knows we have investment accounts--although he has no interest in whether or not those are doing well. The only real problem we've encountered with our separate accounts happened this week: Our credit union issued new debit cards. Because we're signers on each other's accounts (in case of death), the CU sent us each a card for both accounts. Except for the numbers on the cards, they look identical. The CU did not designate which card was linked to which account. So now, collectively, we have four cards, but no idea to which account they belong, which, given Darrin's magical disappearing money talent, could be a disaster waiting to happen. So perhaps my mother's dark prognostications are about to find fruition.

4. You should never have to explain to your husband why you are upset at him. He should just know.
I understand that mental telepathy is something that most marriages are blessed with, but mine is not. Occasionally I fall into the trap of believing that if I know something, Darrin must, by osmosis, also know it. But this usually only happens when I get really busy. I learned from the time when Darrin and I first became friends, that if I want him to know something, I usually have to tell him. He's just not great at mind reading, especially when we're having relationship stress. However, looking comparatively at my marriage versus my parents' marriage, I would have to say that I'm much happier than either my mother or my father, and I believe that's because Darrin and I talk to each other about pretty much anything. I don't make him guess why I'm upset, or show that by slamming doors or the silent treatment. I don't drop hints, and then become frustrated because he just doesn't get it. I don't act like everything's fine when I'm sad. My mother points out that her marriage has lasted more than twice as long as mine, and I should respect that. She has a point--I am truly amazed that two people who communicate so little can actually have remained married as long as they have. Perhaps that is par for the course for heterosexual marriages (I find that possibility a bit depressing).

5. Always put your husband's needs first.
This is a lovely and romantic sentiment. I believe it's also a recipe for depression and loneliness, because if you're always putting someone's needs before your own, you're in no condition, emotionally, to cope with life's challenges. There needs to be an equitable balance of some sort. I've heard that marriage is a partnership. Most successful partnerships consist of give and take. There will be times when I need to cater to Darrin's needs, but there are also times when I need things from him. I understand the philosophy behind it--I just don't believe it's practical.

P.S. I really do love my mom. I just think she's wrong. The end.