Change

I started this blog with the intention of having somewhere to verbally vomit all the crap in my head. Somewhere to throw it out and maybe, just maybe, it would get lost on it's journey back into my memory. Well ... in a way - it has.

I love getting up in the morning and spending a few minutes with myself and my thoughts and just being honest...and it's even nice to not have to hear any words of wisdom from anyone else. Just get it out there and poof - it's gone from my immediate memory!

I no longer feel the need to keep hashing through all of the garbage of my past. It's there and always will be - but I've dealt with it. I no longer feel handcuffed and suffocated by its presence. For that, I am thankful.

Mirrors Lie

Lately I feel so detached - like I am walking through the motions of my life but missing the feelings and emotions that go with it. Like I am watching myself in a mirror - feeling nothing - like maybe I am the reflection on the other side. I don't know if it is stress or just disappointment ... disappointment in people who should never disappoint you - family, friends, even my "reflection".

One lesson I have learned over and over again in life is that people disappoint you. It doesn't matter how or when, but they do. The importance of being perfect in every aspect of your life is crucial. One wrong step - poof! - they vanish! Not another word from them - no talking it through - nothing... you were disposable.

 

 

Sometimes you can't see it coming -- I just don't see how an innocent thing can be so devastating ... things are not always what they appear. Guess that's the trick with mirrors. They LIE. 

The Lucky One?

Am I lucky? Wait .. let me back up.

Most people who are raped don't have to see their rapist - ever again. They survive that one night of hell and he disappears into the night leaving the victim with a "larger than life" memory of himself.

For a long time I thought of him that way. I was terrified of him and the thought of him. Until recently, I had not seen him in 10 years.

At the moment I least expected it - as I thought he was far from my reality - he made his appearance and shook my world to the core. He needed to know he still had power over me - and he did. I crumbled under his gaze and his fingertips. The same familiar evil smile crossed his lips and he knew that he still owned me ... as much as he could.

Then something strange happened. The more he came around to intimidate me - the less he did. I began to realize that he is not the larger than life monster that I remember. He is a normal person - someone I can stand up to and someone I can beat. After his many appearances, he became a nobody to me ... a pest ... someone I was ready to dismiss away.

Time has passed and he has not made an appearance in my life recently. I don't know if he is bored - or I challenged him and won - or if he is just waiting ... but whatever it is - I don't care. I am the lucky one who got to face my rapist - no police - no court - no hospitals - just he and I - and walked away victorious.  He is an asshole - and that is all.

Changing Perspective

Things seems to influence my frame of mine constantly these days. Anything as simple as a new saying from a friend to a new sultry book ... it's ever changing.

What happened to me what disgusting - there is no "but" to this statement. With that being said ... I often find myself questioning my actions and reactions.

I am reading the book "Fifty Shades of Grey" and am completely hypnotized by both Christian Grey and Anastasia Steele. Her naive innocence reminds me of mine at that age - untouched and "vanilla". Christian Grey - the dominant, seductive, control freak that he is, fits the asshole to a T. The charming sweet side of him, completely captivating Miss Steele - her hunger for him and her desire to be what he wants her to be seems to be outlining the shadow that was once me. The darker side of Grey that emerges when placed inside his "Red room of pain/pleasure" stirs the uncertainty inside me and I watch the asshole emerge --- even so far as to accept 6 beatings with a belt ... all too familiar in my world of the asshole. Her explosion - her raw emotions - her lust for the sweet side of the man she and so many others have pined after.
What if I was this naive? She willingly took the beating just to please the sweet man she loved. Is that what I did? I have always thought I was completely innocent in all of the events that transpired that night - I didn't want it - but I didn't run either.

I willingly fell into the arms of the sweet man - and therefore accepted the asshole as part of the package. Is my view on this skewed? I am left with so many MORE unanswered questions and not enough energy to process and sift through the ashes to find an answer.

The entire view has changed - what if I was at fault? What if I allowed it? What if I, too, forgot the "safeword" and could have ended it at any moment ...

Normal

There are moments that I look back on and have no idea how I made it through. Thinking about it baffles me - even nauseates me. There is no explanation as to how or why I survived and so many others don't.

I am a normal person on the outside. I smile a lot and laugh a lot. I have a beautiful child and loving husband and a great dog! My life is picture perfect on the outside. You would never know the secrets that lay beneath the surface.

I think we are all like this in one way or another. We all have secrets and things in our past we wish would just disappear. I tried for a long time to push all of my secrets into a box and lock them tight forever. Sad thing is, once the box gets too full, the nasty, icky, slimy memories start to ooze out and you are no longer able to contain them. They stain everything and everyone around you. Some things are ruined - some stains wash out... reguardless of which - you are different ... flawed ... exposed.

What was I thinking?

None of this makes sense - at least to me.
There was a period of time where, during the dealing and acceptance of the rape, that I grieved for my rapist. Stupid right?

My rape (holy cow - it has taken me a LOOONNNGGGG time to say that) was very complex. There was nothing simple about it. I don't mean to belittle anyone else who has ever been raped or abused saying theirs was not as bad as mine - because no matter how bad it was - whether it was simple or not - to that person - it's lifechangingly bad.

My rapist was a sadist as well. He found arousal in the punishment and release in the sex itself. Mind games were huge with him - and I unknowingly fell right into my role as I was supposed to in his stupid plan.

Since he was so calculated in his actions - he had two sides. There was a sweet, attractive, funny man - who at times I desired to kiss. He was a protector. He saved me from the other man ... the asshole. The asshole was just that - an asshole. He was cruel and calculating and lived for the snap of his belt. Sex with him was not enjoyable - it was torture.

During the rape, there were many times where I longed for the sweet man to emerge and save me - and several times - he did. I fell in love with him. Stockholm syndrome - or so I've been told. Even years after, while replaying all of the horriffic clips in my head, I missed the sweet man. I felt as though my heart had been broken. To this day, I don't completely understand this.

Through therapy and long talks with a friend, I have managed to accept the reality. The sweet man was an illusion. He never existed. He was an act - and I bought a front row seat to the show.

I often feel foolish when I think back on my feelings through this point. I think of myself as a smart person - someone who is not easily fooled and a pretty good reader of people. Boy - I really read him wrong!

I'm not the stupid, scared, naive little girl anymore. I am a mother and a wife and a friend ... but down deep inside, that scared little girl still resides.

I am proud of the progress I have made and continue to make. It is all a part of my story - one that someday may be told to the world. It has made me who I am today - flaws and all.

My wish

I wish that life was easy. I wish the world made sense. I wish that our friends were really our friends forever. I wish that hearts didn't break, feelings didn't get hurt, and people were good.

Little girls should not sleep in fear - ever. Innocence should not be lost stolen. Tears should not be the constant comforter for anyone - child or adult.

Parents should not lose their children. Questions should not remained unanswered. Violence should not be forgotten.

I wish the world was easy. I wish the world made sense. I wish our friends were really our friends forever...

Layers

There are times that I wish things were "easy" - less complex... Dealing with trauma is difficult, but when you add a whole other layer of difficulty and complexity to the mix, it seems to become almost impossible. One step forward, two  twenty steps back! I make progress (in my mind) and the next time I turn around, I am even further behind than when I had started.

A friend once told me that it is like the layers of an onion - layer by layer you peel away the emotions and memories until finally in the end - you dont have a huge, solid onion - you have paper thin layers. You will shed tears along the way - but in the end - it's over and done. I'm not sure which layer of the onion I am on at this point. I think my onion is regrowing new layers!!!!

My rape (HOLY CRAP - I can't believe I just called it that - blech ...) was complex...at least to me. Even now, trying to process it is difficult. I don't see it like others do. I see it as a movie - complete with graphic and horrifying images and scenes. Even when I read what I have written about that night - I still can't get through it in one sitting without the movie becoming too intense in my head. Will it always be like that?

Yesterday in therapy I mentioned that I wish I had experienced a normal rape. A quick "in and out" - wham bam thank you ma'am - and the end. I don't know how to process all that "my" rape was. There are so many levels to its intensity that I almost can't process it. I get so mad that it happened at all - then I immediately feel stupid. Stupid that I allowed it and stupid that I (at times) participated. I am SOOOOOO not looking forward to sorting though the layers, but I know I need to.  It's time.  I trust my therapist - I just wish I had a hand to hold through it. ......

Broken

I've been doing a lot of cleaning lately - "spring cleaning" if you will! I have successfully gutted and purged every ounce of crap from the basement (oh yes I have a basement in Florida), the master bedroom and closet, my craft (aka "crap") room, the guest room and my sons room! I have very little left to do upstairs and still have to tackle the downstairs ... sigh ... but while cleaning today, somehow I managed to knock over a vase and watch it hit the ground and break into a few pieces.  No big deal - more of a pain than anything - just clean it up and pitch it. But I started really looking at the pieces and realized that some were missing. When I tried to piece it together, there were gaps - like those shards just disintegrated due to the trauma.

This made me think - how much of who we are/were does just this? Completely disintegrates when we are dropped and broken? How many times can we be broken and glued back together without there being some form of inconsistency in our appearance?

Does being continuously broken make us more fragile that the average bear? Once you have glued your broken vase back together, I would think you would make sure to take extra special care of it as it is in greater danger of shattering again ... Are we like that? Once broken, should we be handled with kid gloves and placed on the top shelf out of harms way? What happens when we once again hit the floor and shatter? Are our insides just as fragile as our outsides? For me, my heart seems to be broken easily - something as simple as not hearing from a friend in a month or two can cause me to go into a tailspin. Why? Am I too broken???

There are so many ways for us to be "broken". I wonder if people like me - people who have been to hell and back on a few occassions - are too broken to resemble what we were made to be in the first place. You can only glue a vase back together so many times before it stops serving its purpose (to hold water). What if someone can only go through so many traumatic journeys before they can no longer fulfill their purpose? Do they just find a new purpose? Maybe ... even a broken vase can serve a new purpose - a beautiful mosaic.

Is it time?

How do you know when you are ready to talk about everything? All the details ... I've written them out - but never spoken of them - even in therapy I tiptoe around it. I don't like to talk about it - partly because I truly am afraid that someone (in this case my therapist) will be disappointed in me - or will think differently of me. Stupid, I know - but it's still there. (Maybe that's a whole new therapy session!)

I've been told you know it's time when "it" keeps poking its ugly head out over and over to the point where you can't ignore it. What if it is ALWAYS there? It never goes away - HE rarely ever goes away. I can push him/it into the closet and when it starts to play in my head, I can usually change the channel and find a new movie to play in my head, but somehow, the horror film always returns.

So if it is time to talk about it, where do you start? Is it cheating if I have my therapist take the reins and lead me though this?! Even thinking about going through all of the details - I feel like a child just needed someone to hold my hand though it ... it is like walking though hell alone (see above pic - I am TERRIFIED of clowns)...

Its Never Going to Make Sense ...

"Its never going to make sense because it doesn't make sense". I heard this the other day and it has stuck with me, popping into my thought stream every time I start to question "why".

I have so many questions - and all of them start with why ... Of course there are the usual "Why Me?" and "Why did he do it at all?' ... but there are others ... "Why wasn't I strong enough?" - "Why was I so stupid?" - and of course "WHY?".

I have never had any intention of telling my husband about the abuse I have suffered in my life. He knows that I was raped - that is all he knows. Somehow, the other night, he needed more. He asked questions and learned of my childhood abuse as well as the rape. His question - "Why didn't you tell your mom..."  I'm so tired of the Why's  -  mostly because I keep trying to make sense of it all. I am the type of person that wants  needs to understand why someone does what they do.

So here's to my short term goal - "Stop asking why" because it's never going to make sense because it doesn't make sense.

Shhhhh

Sexual abuse as a child and rape as an adult (if 21 is truly considered and adult) are both life changing things. As a child - it happened regularly. There was a routine that was followed - structure was present - and an understanding of "dont tell" was always in the air. Obedience was expected and demanded - disobedience was punished.

Rape, for me, was completely the opposite. There was nothing routine about it. There was no structure - for me it was complete chaos. He ordered - I fought - lost - eventually obeyed. I guess the last part was exactly the same. Obedience was expected and demanded - and disobedience was punished. As far as the "don't tell" part goes - yeah, that too was there. Although I often wonder WHY I didn't tell. Was it because he was the police? Was it because bad things happen when you tell? Was it because I was too afraid? Or too conditioned? It wouldn't have changed anything ...

Long Lost Friend

Cutting has always been my release - my coping mechanism - my "friend."  I don't remember how it started but I do remember how good it felt to release all of the pent up feelings of confusion and hurt and pain and numbness... the euphoric feeling immediately afterward was worth the scar it would leave.

I was around 14 or 15 when I started. I don't know how I heard of it, but the first time I ever hurt myself, I took a pair of cuticle cutters and snipped my skin all the way around my wrist. I had my own bloody bracelet. I felt better - relieved - and had something to show for it.

As time went on, I changed instruments from cuticle cutters to razor blades. If I couldn't find a razor blade, I would use anything else that was sharp. I even ventured into burning myself with an iron  few times - that, however, is much more difficult to explain. You can only "land" on an iron so many times before people get suspicious.

When my cutting got really bad, a friend of mine stepped in and "required" me to get help. I trusted one person and she "helped' --- ie held the can while I went through some major mental vomiting! (cue the purple crayon!) ...
            For some reason, anytime I've had to talk abot what has happened to me or what I was going through, I have always done it as if it were from someone else's perspective. I don't know that I have ever "owned" it and claimed it or accepted it as mine. Even the movies that play in my head are from someone else's viewpoint. hmmmm....

I have cut once in the past several years - I have a deep scar to show for it. It scared me a little - It wasn't a "surface scratch" (not that the others are but in comparison they are!) ... it was deep, clear into the fat layer of the skin cut.

Lately I have felt this urgency to cut return. It seems to surface when my life gets shaken up. My friendships change (although nothing has happened, I just feel abandoned), my job has changed, I've lost my father and a child unexpectedly - and things start to all around suck .... Cutting will make me feel better - hmmm... only temporarily. I have to keep telling myself that it isn't worth it.

I miss my dad - I miss my baby that I will never get to know - and I miss my mirror ... Guess it's just one of "those" days.

Six Hours

I have always had a hard time talking about things - and still do. Who would want to listen to someone go on and on about the trials they have been through in their life? We have all been through garbage, and if you are reading this, you have come out the other side. Whether it’s bruised and scarred or completely unscathed, it’s a remarkable feeling when you step back and realize that you did it. You went into hell and came out the other side… but at what cost?

That has always been my question to myself. Six hours isn’t a very long time in the scheme of things. Most people sleep more than 6 hours in a night. We usually work more than six hours on any given day. So six hours isn’t much … but when you are face to face with a demon, six hours is an eternity.

So why is six hours taking me 11 years to get through and still going? It took me a long time piece together the events of that night. It took me even longer to put those events into words. Immediately following that night - I told 2 people what happened - just that I had been raped ... I thought. One told me to sweep it under the rug and get past it - the other told me that it was a serious accusation and many girls who choose to have sex for the first time end up regretting it and call it rape. I'm pretty sure that I was raped - battered and bruised - ... yep.

Did I want it?

Maybe being hurt and violated as a child made the entire thing seem less of an issue than it really was. I NEVER contemplated calling the police - he was the police. I obeyed and did as he instructed - still to this day not completely understanding why or how I could just do it.  I still get disgusted that I willingly participated in pieces of that night - whether it was truly willingly or not. He told me over and over that night how much I wanted it ... I participated in parts - deep down, did I enjoy it????  That part goes back to that "forgiveness" piece - I still wish I had fought harder or been smarter. Really - how does this happen to someone twice? Losing your virginity unwillingly as a child - and again as an adult - no sexual partners in between.  It makes me tired to think about this ... I feel my brain shut down. I'm sure I need to talk about this more openly and deeply in therapy - it's easy to talk about it from someone else's perspective and not own the feelings and memories. It was a movie I saw - a bad, terrible movie that leaves that awful feeling under your skin when you walk out of the theater - but that feeling goes away with time. This will too - Its only been 11 years ...

Forgiveness

I've been hearing and thinking a lot about forgiveness lately. Whether people who have experienced rape or abuse are capable of forgiving their abuser is even possible? How do you forgive someone who knew better? Someone who was calculated and planned out every detail - even someone who went as far as to "practice" on others.

I was not the first person the asshole raped - far from it. I am sure there were many more after me - and there are days I feel guilty for those - but I did what was best for me after the attack. For that, I do (on most days) forgive myself for not reporting him.

Knowing I was not the first or last person the asshole raped - how do I even begin to forgive him? He knew what he was doing - calculated every detail - and ripped me apart. He left satisfied and I was left bleeding, sore, scared and numb ... among many other things. How do I forgive that? 

How do I forgive the things he did and said? I was humiliated and broken. He was powerful and demanding and cruel. I don't forgive him ... not now, not ever.

To delete or not to delete ...

Ever since posting the details of that night, I am often feeling the urge to sign back in to my blog, edit and/or delete that post, and carry on. I am proud of myself for NOT doing so. I promised myself that when I started this, I would be completely open and brutally honest with myself. My own personal online journal where I can just be the "me" that is in my head instead of the pretend "me" wearing the many masks that I have in my closet.

11 years later - I still struggle with reading those details. I still can't make it though the entire thing in one sitting. I have let 3 people read these details in my entire life ... one of which is my therapist ... and one my mirror. I cannot help the shame that I carry around - although my brain understands that it was not my fault; that I could not have prevented it; that he knew what the night would hold even before he rang my doorbell. How could I have been so naive? So stupid? So trusting???

 That seems to be my biggest fault in life - I am too trusting - which is odd considering my past.  Even with friendships, I pour myself into them, jumping head first when I truly trust someone - and the moment they hesitate - I bolt. I don't know why so many aspects of my life are affected by this. I don't want to be hurt - so if I think you are going to hurt me, I beat you to the punch. Even now with my mirror, I feel abandoned ... My heart knows she is probably just busy - but my head is saying - Slam the door and run...

Happy Anniversary, Asshole

It's been almost 11 years ... I am stronger than I was but far from where I want to be.

The path you choose

Everyone reacts to trauma in different ways. Some like me - I strived even harder for perfection. It was my job to make everything look even prettier on the outside than it really was. I had a perfect home life, made perfect grades, was the perfect daughter ... that was my fiscade.

My sisters, however, was quite different. She became withdrawn and joined "the vampires of the night" - sneaking out of the house and being as eccentric as she could (black fingernails, black hair, white make up, etc). She flunked out of school and was ALWAYS in trouble.

I don't know why I went down one path and she went down a compeltely different one ... we were having the same experiences - or so I think.

Eventually she ran away from home at 15, got drunk, shaved her head and was taken to a youth shelter. That youth shelter changed my life - as strange as that sounds. It was at that shelter that I met my mirror - although little did I know how our lives would be so entwined.

I went there to meet with my sisters counselor. To drop off school books and tie up loose ends. I clearly remember the way her office looked and felt. The way she looked - She was nice - but she challenged me too. "Why are you the one coming out here instead of your mother"...ohhhh - she hit a soft spot. Protect the family - at all costs.

I was the adult at this point ... I came to the family counseling sessions - I brought things to my sister as she needed them - I got a tour of the facility. At some point, I got comfortable - I told her my secret.

The next image I have is sitting on her living room floor, drawing a picture of that night with a purple crayon.

She didn't judge - and little did I know she would turn out to be my nearest and dearest friend - the one who would get me though another night of hell - my mirror.

Lessons learned

I still have frequent flash backs to my childhood and the many nights that I endured him. Laying in bed, the air is cool, my sheets are clean and have that "fresh out of the dryer" smell. I snuggle down into the bed and close my eyes ... and boom - there I am. 13 years old - in my old house - in my old room - in my old bed. I remember everything about that room. I had a beautiful teal and maroon and white quilt/bed set - I had painted a wall in my bedroom a deep teal and the others beige. I had a huge poster of Reba on my wall - She would watch but never stopped it ... I would imagine crawling up into her lap and being rocked through it all. That was much better than what I was going through.

My dresser was on the wall next to my bed and my mirror reflected everything that occurred in my room - after the house went to sleep. That's how I see pieces of it - as if i am watching it in the mirror.

Looking back - the beginning wasn't so bad. It started with him coming in just to look; to touch.
It was always at night - I was never allowed to lock my door or completely shut it. He did that when he entered.

I never said anything to anyone - I've grown up protecting the secrets of the family. What happens in the family - stays in the family. You protect it at all costs - all costs.

My sister broke that rule - She spoke out - DCF came to investigate at the house - he laughed his way out of it - and they left us to pick up the pieces that would quickly shatter. "It can always get worse ..."  I learned what "worse" was that night.  ...  and I would never again talk about it with anyone - until I met my mirror... but that's a whole different story.

Less than perfect days

There are days where everything is fine - the world rotates on its axis and makes perfect sense. Fear is not hiding in every dark corner or staircase and every man does not have "that" look in his eye. Today was one of those perfect days. My spirit feels free and alive and often unaware that danger may be lurking close by.


There are, however, many days where "he" haunts me. "He" watches me and knows the moves I make even before I make them. How does he do this? How does he still have so much power over me after all this time? It's been 10 years - not all of them terrible. For a while I chose not to acknowledge what had happened. It happened - ok - I am ok - move on. And that's what I did ... until I slammed face first into a brick wall and had no option but to sift through all the shit in the box that I thought was locked away forever.