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.

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.