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Control Is A Handicap
What would it be like for me to express pain, to express simple pains like stubbing my toe or getting a paper cut? One question lead to a conversation that had me running from the therapy office to the restroom to toss my cookies. For me, expressing pain means losing control and letting the pain or giver of pain have the satisfaction of knowing they can hurt me. I stifle all groans and rarely flinch or grimace even when something really hurts. I can be in an extraordinary amount of pain and not drop a tear and never hint that I’m suffering. I saw that as a strength when I was younger, now I see it as a handicap. I can’t express a physical ouch let alone severe, should be doubled over in pain type reactions. That reaction was warranted today when I went to cross my legs in therapy. My knee cracked and sent a pain shooting up the left leg, right where the degeneration is the worst. He said that was the first time he’s ever seen me grimace, as he called it. I didn’t realize I did. I felt rather stupid, embarrassed that he saw it. Through everything we’ve talked about and all the times I’ve shown up hurting so badly, today was the first time he saw any sign at all that I was physically uncomfortable.
He asked what it would be like if I were to express pain as others do. The question confused me but then I asked him, Don’t people usually feel embarrassed when they’re in pain? He said not really, no. I started to think about how embarrassed I was to cry because it meant being laughed at, being mocked, scolded and told how shocked they were because they knew I didn’t have a heart so where were the tears coming from? And of course I recall how horribly my sister was made fun of for crying. My goodness they laughed at her, right in her face and told her she was making a circus clown out of herself. They mocked her, jumped up and down like she was doing and did the “oh this hurts” dance. They told her she could win an Oscar for such a performance. How could I break down, lose control that way and subject myself to that? No sign of pain meant no satisfaction for giving it and no scolding or mocking for expressing it. It also meant I’d carry that lesson with me into my adult years and apply it to situations where it’s not warranted.
Letting Go
(For Beauty -my thoughts on letting go, crying and allowing others to see us fall apart.)
The last time I broke down I started off by rocking a little bit. I was trying to pep talk myself, tell myself I’d be okay. My heart felt full and heavy. I could hardly keep my eyes open. My head felt heavy and I just couldn’t hold it up anymore. I hobbled to the bed, pulled the covers over me. They felt heavy, heavier than they actually are. My cat climbed up next to me as I lay on her teddy bear. I closed my eyes. I could feel my stomach churning, moaning and mourning, then the tears came. Strangely they left as quickly as they came. I felt like I’d not cried enough but I still wasn’t able to get up. I just laid there with the cat next to me and slept. When I woke up several hours later I felt somewhat better, not enough to make a huge dent in the grieving process but enough.
The difference it made was that I let go, even for a second or two I let go. Letting go wasn’t something safe for me, crying wasn’t safe. It meant getting hurt, getting laughed at, etc. So it’s not as if showing such strong emotion was rewarded. As a matter of fact showing vulnerability by crying or grieving got me hurt or got my sister hurt. Really then, what good did crying or grieving ever do me? Who was going to come and comfort me? Who cared if I was hurt or afraid or grieved? If my mother did answer the call it usually meant me paying for it in some way or another or her bringing it up mockingly for years on end. So what good did it do for me to show vulnerability or respond to horrible situations with natural responses like tears or panic?
A Million Pieces
I know when I’m closed off it means something intense is going on inside, something intense that I just don’t want to feel or deal with. I wasn’t sure what it was until I sat in therapy and it came to me that my neighbor I’m helping care for told me I’ve been different since last Wednesday. I asked Dr. D what we talked about. It seems the whole sister issue came up yet again. I really have trouble with that one. I’m not use to feeling so angry with her or let down by her. I’m just fine with being pissed at the mother. I can see her for who she is but I’ve always had a fantasy view of my sister. She’s always been my big sister, the one that hung the moon. The one that I brag about because she is such a great seamstress. She’s pretty and smart. I always looked up to her. Yes, I did her homework, I gave her my food rations, I fought for her when other kids beat up on her and all that jazz. I never hit her back when she hit me. I even tried to show her how to leave when the mother used the dowel rods on us. Still I looked up to her. I thought she was the best thing since sliced bread. But now, to look at her sexual abuse of me makes the face I painted for her turn ugly.
I stopped caring a very long time ago about my mother’s approval but I felt like I needed my sister’s. It hurts beyond belief to look at her as the person she is and catch a sharp resemblance of my mother.
Callous Abandonment
Last nights dream was quite interesting. I was in a classroom at elementary school desks waiting for the group therapist to come in so those assigned to speak that day could talk. The group therapist came in and went directly to the chalk board and started crossing off names. As he called off the names of the people who wouldn’t be talking that day he put one white chalk line through their name. He then wrote 3 names on the board of people he felt needed to talk that day. After writing he handed us a workbook and told us information on how to understand these individuals would be in the book. He didn’t even let them talk. He just gave us a workbook and left the room. We were to understand that one survivor used a tiger as a service animal because of her severe PTSD issues. One lady is in a domestic violence situation because she doesn’t have strength in her voice to tell and the third person ended up being accused of a crime he didn’t commit and was killed in prison which affected a survivor in our group because he witnessed it. The group therapist came in, shook things up, told us one thing then did another and simply walked out of the room but not before turning the lights out and leaving us all sitting in the dark.
Hurt, Choices, Survivor’s Decree
Hurt
A cocky slouch in the doorway is mother peering in at the little girl on the unmade bed.
There are no ruffles, no white sheets or painted pictures on the walls.
There is no closet full of brand new dresses or chest of teddy bears and dolls.
Just your youngest daughter bound, motionless, emotionless, waiting.
Your slick black raincoat dusts the floor as
You take your time crossing the room.
Body quaking with intensity
Eyes focused on mine searching for any sign that I understand
You intend to make this hurt.
——
Here it is nearly 4am and I’m up as if I’ve had a full night of sleep or something….like I’m going to be refreshed tomorrow and able to think. This whole therapy subject makes me want to vomit. Enola wrote a post talking about if she knew what she knows now about her healing path would she still choose to heal. I’m paraphrasing that. Even though this is incredibly hard and EVERYTHING is triggering and NOTHING pleases me right now I still have the choice to heal or not heal. I have the choice to get better or stay stuck. You know, that’s the difference between when I was a child and now. As a child I had few choices. I was hurt. Period. I did what I was told to do. Period. But as an adult I relish the thought that I have choices. They’re hard ones but they’re mine. And you know what? That’s freedom at it’s best. Choices. I like them.
My Survivor’s Decree
It is a daunting task to balance the past with the present and not curl up and cease to exist. My strength becomes less and less with each battle with depression, flashbacks and body memories. Every part of my life is touched by what happened to me. Sometimes I feel strong but most of the time I do not. I journal regularly so that I have a place to relieve some of the stress. When I write in my journal I’m given and outlet for these extreme emotions. There are times when I am tired of fighting for peace of mind but I understand I do not have to fight. I do not have to heal. I have the choice to heal or stay divided, confused, fearful and maimed. I have chosen to heal and God willing, I will.
………You intend to make this hurt.
You’ve planned this out but never did you consider my determination to make life good.
As you crossed the floor, eyes fixed on mine did you see hope that never dies?
Did you see a spark, the one that burns beyond black soars and ligaments
Fear and desperation
To ignite into peace
Peace of mind that dances with daisies then rests beside strong oak trees.
Joan of Arc for Morton’s Pride
Female Sadists - Therapy Discussion 1of2
It seems hard to imagine that a woman would sexually abuse her own child. We hear about it more. People are angered when they hear a woman has beaten, neglected, starved, abandoned, murdered or sold her child to an abusive mate but they’re shocked when they hear women sexually abuse. Many people give excuses of mental illness to female offenders and that just infuriates me. When a conversation about female offenders comes up the first thing that’s said is the obligatory “This is horrible, that poor child. They should jail that woman.” Then ..then come comments of rationalization. They’re not trying to excuse the fact that she’s sexually offended a child; they’re trying to wrap their brain around the concept of a female predator. It’s not hard to do that with a man. We give them no excuses whatsoever. But women, it just doesn’t set well in our heads that she herself would violate her own child or someone else’s child. We don’t even bat an eye when it comes to violence by men but our eyes are wide with shock and sometimes even morbid fascination when it comes to violent female offenders. When I say violent female offenders I also include serial killers and pedophiles. Morbid fascination. Wow!
Female Sadists - Therapy Discussion 2of2
My therapist and I got on the discussion of the believability of my story because while some are willing to accept that women sexually abuse it is even harder to take their mind to a place where they understand they are also sexual sadists. This is where the discussion turns graphic. I told him my mother could not climax without offering some sort of pain. She could not “just” sexually abuse us and climax. She had to bind, mentally tortured and physically assaulted us for there to be any arousal. She may not even sexually assault us but finish by masturbating. But that wasn’t the end of it. When riding in the car she would recount stories of what she did to us. It may not be about what she did the night before or what she was going to do, the story might be about what she did when we were younger, about when she hurt us three months prior, a year prior. She’d go over the stories in detail, reliving each and every second with pure unadulterated evil. She’d also bring up her acts at the dinner table. Sometimes she cooked at home and that would be the discussion at the table. If we watched TV together, which we didn’t often do, she might interrupt the show with these details because something on the show reminded her of what she’d done to us. I’d sit there watching the show, trying to tune her out as she chattered on in strict detail about her sexual sadism.
Fear - Therapy Discussion
I’m feeling kind of closed off, isolating a bit I’d say. The last two week watching friends struggle has been difficult but then there’s my stuff too. I don’t know, I feel like I want to shut the PC off and just go to bed.
In therapy Dr. D and I again discussed the picture I drew of myself as a little girl showing what I might have felt like had I been afraid. We talked about how I don’t really remember being afraid. Now that I think about it I can remember 3 specific incidents where I was afraid but mostly I remember being angry, feeling like a deformed misfit in that family. I remember a lot of pain but I don’t remember feeling a lot of fear. I felt sad, alone, hopeless but afraid isn’t something that comes to mind when I think of my childhood and early adulthood. Perhaps I was too busy thinking instead of feeling, planning to stay one step ahead of her instead of feeling. Well, I felt but I guess fear didn’t show up too often. I felt ashamed to be me. I felt disappointed in myself for not being able to please my mother. I felt ashamed of being what I felt was a disobedient and wild daughter. But fear? I don’t know, not that often I don’t think, not that I recognized anyway.
Love Does Not Hurt
A second friend of mine is dealing with a domestic violence issue which to me is yet another indication that this form of abuse is ramped. For the last few days as her husband sits in jail, she’s proudly taken steps to get help. She is not trying to handle the criminal abuser on her own. She has reached out to the community, to legal agencies and to friends. What a show of strength and courage.
Because this is the second time in two weeks that a friend of mine has been in a domestic violence crisis I feel the need to get some links together for other Indiana women in this situation. I’m going to do a page on this journal with extensive information on shelters and resources in Indiana. This will not be a page that links to other links, that’s quite frustrating when a person is looking for help. I will link to specific pages that give names, numbers and locations as well as offer resources on how to sign up for free self defense classes or obtain a free restraining order in Indiana. I hope to have this page compiled within a few days. One very different thing I’ll do on the page, to benefit those out of state, is put up my search queries. All the survivor will need to do is change the name from Indiana to the state they live in or wish to reside in.
Please remember, rich and poor alike abuse and fall victim to abuse. Rich and poor alike have equal opportunities at the shelters that will be on the page. And, rich and poor alike need safety. This includes men. Resources for battered men will be included on the page.
If anyone has resources for battered men (men as victims of domestic violence) please leave a comment and I will include all appropriate information on the list. If anyone has domestic violence resources from any state (for male or female) please leave a comment and I will link to all appropriate information.
Sundrip has undergone a few changes as far as its template goes. The new template allows for drop down menus. Once the Domestic Violence Resource page has been completed it will be in the drop down menu under My Time To Heal.
Thank you
The Domestic Violence Resource page is coming very soon.
Love Does Not Hurt-Sunday, April 13, 2008-12:50AM EST
Self Destruction: Therapy Discussion
Wow, my therapist about threw me for a loop in our last session. He tossed something at me that I wasn’t expecting. I rather freaked out on him a bit. He explained himself as I sat there quietly, frightened, angered and in the “I knew this was too good to be true” mode.
We talked about how part of me really can’t stand Blossom but another part of me wants her company. I said that most of us can’t stand the girl but Destiny has “some use for her.” How horrible to say that but it’s true, part of us really just want to sleep with the chick. We felt horrible saying that about someone we detest but it is true. Then he said something about how Destiny is part of me and that when I mention a particular alter feeling one way he thought it might be important to bring up that the alter is part of me. I guess I thought he was telling me that he wanted me to think of myself as whole instead of divided and not continue to mention DID in therapy. Of course I went on alert. I mean, my goodness. But what he meant was that he wanted to let me know that even singletons have mixed feelings and that by saying “I” feel a certain way I can begin to integrate emotions instead of split them off. That sets so much better than what I thought he meant. I thought for sure he was about to tell me that switching was off limits. I figured from there he’d give some magical pill to make me a singleton. Thank goodness he didn’t lose his mind and tell me to act like a singleton when in his office. It really threw me. He didn’t tell me to use the word “I” instead of “we” or that I couldn’t talk about insiders. It’s not what he was saying at all. He was only saying that he wanted to point out from time to time that when I have conflicting feelings it makes me like everyone else, multiple and singleton.
