I am having a really hard time writing anything lately. Not sure what the problem is. So I have this list of stuff that is floating around in my head that I can't seem to really expound upon (yet) and the list will have to suffice.
1. A couple of weeks ago I was checking news headlines through my RSS feed and one came up that said something to the effect of, "Man in jail for raping 9 month old baby." Whether or not you have ever been abused, this headline should shock and outrage you (at least, I would think it would). At any rate, I physically could feel my head start to spin, and I questioned how I was going to get through the day. I truly despise abuse haunting me in such an uninvited way. I am not going to quit reading the news, but sometimes it really sucks. I could tell this was hitting me particularly hard when I heard my dad's voice in the office (I was alone, and he's been dead since 1997). He just whispered, "dad," and I stood there for a second questioning my sanity before returning to whatever task was at hand.
2. Law & Order SVU (which I probably should not be watching, but I cannot seem to stop) really got to me a few days ago. The episode was about a rapist who ended up being the product of child abuse himself, and he was 38, still living at home with his father. Growing up his dad had forced him to sleep with prostitutes and later in life his father would watch video of him raping women. What really hit me was that this 38 year old was a victim, and that he could have been someone else. If his school had noticed, a social worker, a neighbor, a family member, ANYONE, and if he had then gotten the necessary services as a child, he may have grown up not to rape, but to be a productive member of society. It is hard to reform a grown up who rapes; but it is possible to use tools to prevent this from occurring in the first place. Meanwhile, in the real world, right her in MN, funding is being cut for prevention programs. Schools can't afford social workers, or to keep class sizes small enough that teachers truly know their students. Kids slip through the cracks, no one takes responsibility to help, and they cycle continues. And, it makes no damn sense. It is quite easy to blame a monstrous rapist for this, but the reality is that all rapists were once somebody's baby, somebodies child. They were likely someone's victim too. I am not saying that justifies their actions, it does not. What I am saying is that it makes more sense to end the cycle of a abuse, to prevent it from ever occurring, than it does to pay for the human storage center at Moose Lake. It serves potential victims, and actual victims (not to mention taxpayers). People often make this a black and white issue, perhaps they don't realize that it just isn't. How lucky for them to have "bad" guys and "good" guys. Unfortunately, it is not that simple, as any person who experienced child abuse will tell you.
3. The Rape and Sexual Abuse Center at N.I.P. is losing its funding to teach "safe touch" and provide prevention (see #2) in Minneapolis Public Schools. This destroys me. It feels like the government punching me in the stomach, and it's personal. I was one of those kids who slipped through the cracks, and I wish I could save every kid from being abandoned that way.
4. I have been having vivid nightmares and memories coming to me very clearly. I know I need to let myself remember but it is hard not to push them away. Honestly, I seem to just DO it without trying (natural defense). I am working really hard not to push them away...not sure how to do this. Laying quietly and letting myself just breath is one of the hardest things for me to do.
5. A couple weeks ago therapy was really taxing, to the point where I just felt horrible. On the way home, I saw a gorgeous evening sunshine and a rainbow. It was like God was hugging me and it was awesome.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
Letters.
When I was thirteen my parents separated. I remember that is was summertime, and I was at the top of the stairs. I could hear them talk (they didn't know I was listening). I vividly remember my mom saying, "This just isn't working." I knew at that moment that everything was about to change.
Lots of kids are sad when they find out that their parents are getting divorced, but not me. I remember thinking finally. Escape, safety, possible happiness.
That summer my sister and I spent three weeks in Minnesota visiting my grandparents and my aunts. We did a lot of fun things like boat rides on Lake Minnetonka, shopping with my grandmother, going to the old logging camp near my cabin for breakfast with my aunt. We stayed with my other aunt at her house in St. Paul, which to my sister and I was a mansion. These weeks were like living with the real world on pause. You knew it would end eventually, but you didn't really want it to.
When I was a child, visiting Minnesota was always like a dream. I had only experienced Kenwood and Lake Minnetonka, so I thought all of Minneapolis was like that. Growing up I remember swimming at Minnekahda Club, drinking ginger ales, visiting the Science Museum, and going downtown. Compared to South Dakota, everyone seemed happier, their cars seemed shinier, the billboards were more clever, and even the sounds of airplanes overhead made me feel like I was in this magical place. I never wanted to leave.
It was August, and I knew we were basically hiding out from my father until we absolutely had to go back home to South Dakota when the school year would start. When we did return, we spent the first night at a friends house because my mom was afraid to go home.
Eventually, we did go back home, for a few weeks, until my mom could move us into our new house. The old house was on a beautiful 25 acre farm outside of town. Although the farm was a wonderful place to be, it was also secluded. No one could see what our family was truly like, could know if we were in trouble or needed help. This was convenient for my dad, who liked to show the world one side of him, hiding his demons for us to see only at home.
I remember that those days home with both parents were scary. My father was always a mean drunk, but it was worse now. He talked to me like I was his peer, not his daughter. He would make me listen to this Reba McIntyre song, "The Greatest Man I Never Knew," and would tell me how sad and depressed he was. Dad told me all the inappropriate jokes I would hear references to but had never understood ("Cleanliness is next to Godliness," he would always say). He would drink and play music so loudly that I could never escape him, no matter where I was in the house. My mom would disappear for hours with her friends from church or to Al-Anon meetings. It was lonely. I was constantly on guard, trying to keep my little sister safe, trying to be sure we could hide if we had too.
I remember it was fall when my mom somehow managed to buy a house in town. Both my aunts came to town to help us move out of the farmhouse and into our new place. They had a room at the Holiday Inn.
My dad and my aunts had never gotten along as far as I could remember. I remember many blow out arguments at our family cabin and at Christmas time. Everything he did made them angry, and vice versa. Every argument was confusing to me. I knew my dad was doing things "wrong" (drinking, smoking cigars, etc.; there are many unspoken rules in my mom's side of the family) but I also knew that I loved my dad. My aunts were defending my mother, but also could be tough to please no matter what you did. (That remains true). I can understand why they didn't like my dad, but I can also understand why my dad didn't like them.
You have to choose your battles with a mean drunk. Is it worth it to criticize their drinking? No. It only causes arguments and it certainly won't stop the alcohol consumption. Quite frankly, I think it only encourages the drinking. My aunts did not understand this, and they did not understand that their responses to my dad only escalated his behavior, which in turn lead to me feeling shameful and embarrassed. You also have to choose your battles with judgmental rich white ladies. Is it worth smoking a cigarette right now? No. It only will encourage them to lecture you about what you "ought" to be doing. Which leads to feeling that you aren't good enough and more shame.
When my aunts came to South Dakota to help my mom move, I remember my dad drinking heavily. The music in our house was so loud that you had to shout over it to communicate. I can't remember what I did during those days very clearly. I do remember having to comfort my dad.
What I do remember vividly is my mom leaving. The last night we were to spend at the farmhouse, before we could move into and sleep at the house in town, she slept at the Holiday Inn with my aunts. She left my sister and I alone with my dad that night. I was terrified. She said she wanted us to have one last night with him, even though I begged her not to leave us. I did not understand why she thought that was a good idea.
Now that I am older, I have no understanding of why she or my aunts would think that this was an acceptable thing to do. Clearly my father had been drunk all day. He was obviously angry and unstable. And yet they left me there. Alone. If my mom was so afraid to stay with him, why would she leave my sister and I there? Granted, my mom was really struggling at the time, but should not my aunts have known better? I would never leave my kids in a situation like that, nor would I leave my nieces, or any child in that position.
I remember hiding upstairs with my sister, trying to keep safe and away from my dad. He was so angry. He spent the night yelling and raving about how terrible my mom and my aunts were. Beyond that, all I remember the feeling of fear. The rest of the night is blank.
Yesterday during my appointment at RSAC my therapist, Shannon, suggested that I write letters to my mom and to my aunts. I was telling her about the last night with my dad and how angry and fearful it made me; about how it still makes me feel. When something happens today that slightly reminds me of that feeling of abandonment, I slide right back to how I felt when I was 13. Shannon said that I could write these letters and express the feelings, because they are valid. At least than I would have spoken my truth.
I find my aunts to be two of the most difficult people to talk to in the world. I have never felt that I measure up to them or to my cousins, for that matter. It seems that no matter what I do, it is never good enough. When I was a teenager, they treated me as if I was crazy. The reality was, I was a kid who was horribly abused and they never knew, never helped me. When I found out I was pregnant with my son, I was young and alone. They didn't talk to me for months and tried to talk me into an abortion. While my cousins have gotten to go to college, grad school, had opportunities to travel, I have had none of that gifted to me. I have worked hard for everything I have in the world and asked them for nothing. While I have tried to be a part of their lives, it feels like they don't even know me.
This last Christmas, my husband and I tried to host Christmas Eve at our new house. I have always spent Christmas Eve with my aunts and I remember it being the best day of the year growing up. I still look forward to it every year. I wanted to give that to my kids, and to have the chance to host my aunts the way they had hosted me in the past. At first, they planned to come and everyone was really excited. Then they backed out at the last minute. The hurt I felt at the moment I found out they weren't coming brought me right back to age 13. Since Christmas I have talked to one aunt 3 times and the other once. I don't know what to say and I am honestly still really hurt.
I tell myself that all of this is stuff that I know better than to feel. I recognize that we all have our limitations, that my aunts do the best they can with what they have, and that I can create my own Christmas memories with my kids. But you know what? Some of that thinking is total bullshit. My aunts failed me and my sister by leaving us behind that last night with my dad. They should have protected us. And it is okay for me to be angry and sad about that.
Whether it is my defiant nature, my need to prove myself, or simply my need to make everything seem okay, I have risen above a lot. Children who grow up in alcoholic families so often marry alcoholics or become alcoholics. Girls who are molested and abused so often grow up to be abused. Girls who have kids young so often have highly mobile lives with little stability. Women who experience domestic violence so rarely get out. Yet, I have overcome all of this. As a matter of fact, I have more than overcome. Yet, I never feel that I measure up. My insides feel so different than my outsides: I feel like often things are so out of control and that I am a total mess.
I am so angry. I wish I did not have the feelings I have, because it makes being present in the moment and simply enjoying life really hard sometimes. Some days it seems so unfair. And then I am mad at myself for feeling that way because self pity is so unattractive and really pretty gross.
How do I learn to give myself a break?
Lots of kids are sad when they find out that their parents are getting divorced, but not me. I remember thinking finally. Escape, safety, possible happiness.
That summer my sister and I spent three weeks in Minnesota visiting my grandparents and my aunts. We did a lot of fun things like boat rides on Lake Minnetonka, shopping with my grandmother, going to the old logging camp near my cabin for breakfast with my aunt. We stayed with my other aunt at her house in St. Paul, which to my sister and I was a mansion. These weeks were like living with the real world on pause. You knew it would end eventually, but you didn't really want it to.
When I was a child, visiting Minnesota was always like a dream. I had only experienced Kenwood and Lake Minnetonka, so I thought all of Minneapolis was like that. Growing up I remember swimming at Minnekahda Club, drinking ginger ales, visiting the Science Museum, and going downtown. Compared to South Dakota, everyone seemed happier, their cars seemed shinier, the billboards were more clever, and even the sounds of airplanes overhead made me feel like I was in this magical place. I never wanted to leave.
It was August, and I knew we were basically hiding out from my father until we absolutely had to go back home to South Dakota when the school year would start. When we did return, we spent the first night at a friends house because my mom was afraid to go home.
Eventually, we did go back home, for a few weeks, until my mom could move us into our new house. The old house was on a beautiful 25 acre farm outside of town. Although the farm was a wonderful place to be, it was also secluded. No one could see what our family was truly like, could know if we were in trouble or needed help. This was convenient for my dad, who liked to show the world one side of him, hiding his demons for us to see only at home.
I remember that those days home with both parents were scary. My father was always a mean drunk, but it was worse now. He talked to me like I was his peer, not his daughter. He would make me listen to this Reba McIntyre song, "The Greatest Man I Never Knew," and would tell me how sad and depressed he was. Dad told me all the inappropriate jokes I would hear references to but had never understood ("Cleanliness is next to Godliness," he would always say). He would drink and play music so loudly that I could never escape him, no matter where I was in the house. My mom would disappear for hours with her friends from church or to Al-Anon meetings. It was lonely. I was constantly on guard, trying to keep my little sister safe, trying to be sure we could hide if we had too.
I remember it was fall when my mom somehow managed to buy a house in town. Both my aunts came to town to help us move out of the farmhouse and into our new place. They had a room at the Holiday Inn.
My dad and my aunts had never gotten along as far as I could remember. I remember many blow out arguments at our family cabin and at Christmas time. Everything he did made them angry, and vice versa. Every argument was confusing to me. I knew my dad was doing things "wrong" (drinking, smoking cigars, etc.; there are many unspoken rules in my mom's side of the family) but I also knew that I loved my dad. My aunts were defending my mother, but also could be tough to please no matter what you did. (That remains true). I can understand why they didn't like my dad, but I can also understand why my dad didn't like them.
You have to choose your battles with a mean drunk. Is it worth it to criticize their drinking? No. It only causes arguments and it certainly won't stop the alcohol consumption. Quite frankly, I think it only encourages the drinking. My aunts did not understand this, and they did not understand that their responses to my dad only escalated his behavior, which in turn lead to me feeling shameful and embarrassed. You also have to choose your battles with judgmental rich white ladies. Is it worth smoking a cigarette right now? No. It only will encourage them to lecture you about what you "ought" to be doing. Which leads to feeling that you aren't good enough and more shame.
When my aunts came to South Dakota to help my mom move, I remember my dad drinking heavily. The music in our house was so loud that you had to shout over it to communicate. I can't remember what I did during those days very clearly. I do remember having to comfort my dad.
What I do remember vividly is my mom leaving. The last night we were to spend at the farmhouse, before we could move into and sleep at the house in town, she slept at the Holiday Inn with my aunts. She left my sister and I alone with my dad that night. I was terrified. She said she wanted us to have one last night with him, even though I begged her not to leave us. I did not understand why she thought that was a good idea.
Now that I am older, I have no understanding of why she or my aunts would think that this was an acceptable thing to do. Clearly my father had been drunk all day. He was obviously angry and unstable. And yet they left me there. Alone. If my mom was so afraid to stay with him, why would she leave my sister and I there? Granted, my mom was really struggling at the time, but should not my aunts have known better? I would never leave my kids in a situation like that, nor would I leave my nieces, or any child in that position.
I remember hiding upstairs with my sister, trying to keep safe and away from my dad. He was so angry. He spent the night yelling and raving about how terrible my mom and my aunts were. Beyond that, all I remember the feeling of fear. The rest of the night is blank.
Yesterday during my appointment at RSAC my therapist, Shannon, suggested that I write letters to my mom and to my aunts. I was telling her about the last night with my dad and how angry and fearful it made me; about how it still makes me feel. When something happens today that slightly reminds me of that feeling of abandonment, I slide right back to how I felt when I was 13. Shannon said that I could write these letters and express the feelings, because they are valid. At least than I would have spoken my truth.
I find my aunts to be two of the most difficult people to talk to in the world. I have never felt that I measure up to them or to my cousins, for that matter. It seems that no matter what I do, it is never good enough. When I was a teenager, they treated me as if I was crazy. The reality was, I was a kid who was horribly abused and they never knew, never helped me. When I found out I was pregnant with my son, I was young and alone. They didn't talk to me for months and tried to talk me into an abortion. While my cousins have gotten to go to college, grad school, had opportunities to travel, I have had none of that gifted to me. I have worked hard for everything I have in the world and asked them for nothing. While I have tried to be a part of their lives, it feels like they don't even know me.
This last Christmas, my husband and I tried to host Christmas Eve at our new house. I have always spent Christmas Eve with my aunts and I remember it being the best day of the year growing up. I still look forward to it every year. I wanted to give that to my kids, and to have the chance to host my aunts the way they had hosted me in the past. At first, they planned to come and everyone was really excited. Then they backed out at the last minute. The hurt I felt at the moment I found out they weren't coming brought me right back to age 13. Since Christmas I have talked to one aunt 3 times and the other once. I don't know what to say and I am honestly still really hurt.
I tell myself that all of this is stuff that I know better than to feel. I recognize that we all have our limitations, that my aunts do the best they can with what they have, and that I can create my own Christmas memories with my kids. But you know what? Some of that thinking is total bullshit. My aunts failed me and my sister by leaving us behind that last night with my dad. They should have protected us. And it is okay for me to be angry and sad about that.
Whether it is my defiant nature, my need to prove myself, or simply my need to make everything seem okay, I have risen above a lot. Children who grow up in alcoholic families so often marry alcoholics or become alcoholics. Girls who are molested and abused so often grow up to be abused. Girls who have kids young so often have highly mobile lives with little stability. Women who experience domestic violence so rarely get out. Yet, I have overcome all of this. As a matter of fact, I have more than overcome. Yet, I never feel that I measure up. My insides feel so different than my outsides: I feel like often things are so out of control and that I am a total mess.
I am so angry. I wish I did not have the feelings I have, because it makes being present in the moment and simply enjoying life really hard sometimes. Some days it seems so unfair. And then I am mad at myself for feeling that way because self pity is so unattractive and really pretty gross.
How do I learn to give myself a break?
Friday, April 2, 2010
Random things that are getting to me tonight.
1. Being the "mom" to far too many adults. I recognize my role in how this occurred, but I am now over it, as it is distracting me from the things I actually need to deal with in MY life.
2. Priests & parishioners rationalizing the abuse of children in the Catholic Church
3. The media circus created by the abuse within the Catholic Church screws up my commute. It's on the news (which I typically enjoy while I drive) and triggers me into a hyper-aware PTSD state. (On a positive note: It is a good practice opportunity for coping with trauma. "I can chose to feel my feelings, and then set them on the shelf until I am ready to take them out and deal with them at an appropriate time." Thanks for the tool, DAP.)
4. I am almost 30. I thought by the time I was 30 I would totally have my shit together.
5. Sexism. Why is it that all these men (I am not referring to mine, I just mean in general) who are such great dads and so aware of the world, get to go out every weekend? Why is is automatic that mom will be home and must ask to go out, but dad can just do wahtever he wants? I keep noticing sexist behavior like this coming from folks who I feel should know better.
2. Priests & parishioners rationalizing the abuse of children in the Catholic Church
3. The media circus created by the abuse within the Catholic Church screws up my commute. It's on the news (which I typically enjoy while I drive) and triggers me into a hyper-aware PTSD state. (On a positive note: It is a good practice opportunity for coping with trauma. "I can chose to feel my feelings, and then set them on the shelf until I am ready to take them out and deal with them at an appropriate time." Thanks for the tool, DAP.)
4. I am almost 30. I thought by the time I was 30 I would totally have my shit together.
5. Sexism. Why is it that all these men (I am not referring to mine, I just mean in general) who are such great dads and so aware of the world, get to go out every weekend? Why is is automatic that mom will be home and must ask to go out, but dad can just do wahtever he wants? I keep noticing sexist behavior like this coming from folks who I feel should know better.
stopping to think
One of the things I struggle most with is having the right size feelings for the particular situation I am in. It is really hard for me to take a step back, ask myself, "How much emotion does this instance actually deserve?" and then act accordingly. It seems like it should be simple, but it's not. For example, I get angry when someone I depend on lets me down. (Anger is a secondary feeling, but it takes awhile to identify the true feeling - which is usually sadness). Anyway - what I take from a little let down is bigger than that particular moment. It is like a train barreling down a track faster and faster. The first car is this small current moment, and each car after it is the let down before that, and the let down before that, until by the end of the train I am thinking of my mom not stopping my dad from hurting me, my aunts not seeing it, me being all alone. The train moves so quickly that I go from slightly upset to 1000% (yes, 1000%) furious in a matter of seconds.
This sort of response causes all sorts of problems in my life. It leads me to feeling like a lunatic, and I HATE feeling that way. It hurts those I love. I snap at those who are closest to me, and I get so angry that I don't know how to calm down until I have gone from rage to despair. Any legitimate frustration (which I truly do have) is overshadowed by this inappropriate response, and the real issue of the moment never gets resolved as a result. It makes communication tough, and leads to having the same conversation and disagreement over and over again.
The rage to despair cycle is horribly painful. The hopelessness and helplessness of that place is like living in a dark hole. When I am there I truly want to die just do I dont have to feel that way anymore.
The idea that I can pause and think about what I am going through shouldnt be so wild and odd, but it kind of is for me. I am working on it. When I come home from work and find 2 adults and 2 kids in my trashed home with no dinner started and a sink full of dirty dishes, I can choose to immeduiately go into angery mode, where I feel like I am the only one around my house who acts like a grown up. Or I can stop, think about why the house might be in this state, and then ask myself how I would best approach my family to get my needs met.
This all sounds so elementary, but when dealing with PTSD it really isnt. I find the management of my emotions, responses to stress, and reactive nature to be really tough to manage and even though I know better, it is hard to overcome. In the heat of the moment, it seems like I will never get better.
Thankfully, in some areas I can see the change in myself. I have become more patient with my family. I still snap occassionally, but nothing like I used to. It is becoming easier for me to take the neccessary pauses without others even notice that I am doing so.
My goal is to continue to improve in this area so that when I actually need to have a conflict it can be in a healthy way. I know that my son's dad and my husband will actually hear what I am trying to say if I can keep progressing in this area.
This sort of response causes all sorts of problems in my life. It leads me to feeling like a lunatic, and I HATE feeling that way. It hurts those I love. I snap at those who are closest to me, and I get so angry that I don't know how to calm down until I have gone from rage to despair. Any legitimate frustration (which I truly do have) is overshadowed by this inappropriate response, and the real issue of the moment never gets resolved as a result. It makes communication tough, and leads to having the same conversation and disagreement over and over again.
The rage to despair cycle is horribly painful. The hopelessness and helplessness of that place is like living in a dark hole. When I am there I truly want to die just do I dont have to feel that way anymore.
The idea that I can pause and think about what I am going through shouldnt be so wild and odd, but it kind of is for me. I am working on it. When I come home from work and find 2 adults and 2 kids in my trashed home with no dinner started and a sink full of dirty dishes, I can choose to immeduiately go into angery mode, where I feel like I am the only one around my house who acts like a grown up. Or I can stop, think about why the house might be in this state, and then ask myself how I would best approach my family to get my needs met.
This all sounds so elementary, but when dealing with PTSD it really isnt. I find the management of my emotions, responses to stress, and reactive nature to be really tough to manage and even though I know better, it is hard to overcome. In the heat of the moment, it seems like I will never get better.
Thankfully, in some areas I can see the change in myself. I have become more patient with my family. I still snap occassionally, but nothing like I used to. It is becoming easier for me to take the neccessary pauses without others even notice that I am doing so.
My goal is to continue to improve in this area so that when I actually need to have a conflict it can be in a healthy way. I know that my son's dad and my husband will actually hear what I am trying to say if I can keep progressing in this area.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Offenders
One thing that frustrates me most is the public perception of sex offenders. Politicians use it as this lightening rod issue to put fear into people, to create anger around dollars wasted on housing these “monsters” and to gain votes. Needing to feel safe, the public obliges. Out of fear, anger, and the need to have someone to blame, the public vilifies and dehumanizes offenders.
I am not saying offenders should get cushy digs, nor am I saying they are treatable (I honestly don’t know if they are). I am not saying they should be allowed to offend again.
What I am saying is that they are human beings. They were all once children, and we know that most offenders were once children who were victimized themselves. Victims often grow up to be abusers. The abusers are not the low-class monsters we like to portray in the media; they are, in many respects regular people who do a terrible thing. Just like any other person, they can even have aspects to their personalities that are quite likeable. Humans are complex beings and to simplify sex offenders onto being less-than human is a mistake.
Rather than arguing over the amount of dollars that we put into housing sex offenders, we ought to look at the number of dollars we put into:
1. Prevention
2. Education
3. Therapy and recovery programs for victims
These three things would prevent the population of offenders from growing. It could save lives by preventing potential offenders (today’s victims) from ever becoming offenders, helping victims to thrive, and preventing future victims from ever becoming victims.
It is painful, truly painful, how much this issue confuses me. As a victim, I feel anger and even hatred towards people who are abusive, and also towards those who looked the other way. As the daughter of an abuser, I also have a face that I can put onto these “monsters.” Yes, what my dad did to me was terrible, but he is still my dad. I saw the good side of him too.
I am angry at all of you who can simplify this into an “us” versus “them” issue and see offenders as “monsters.” It leaves the victims of incest, like me, as the only ones who have to cope with a terrifyingly complex issue.
I am not saying offenders should get cushy digs, nor am I saying they are treatable (I honestly don’t know if they are). I am not saying they should be allowed to offend again.
What I am saying is that they are human beings. They were all once children, and we know that most offenders were once children who were victimized themselves. Victims often grow up to be abusers. The abusers are not the low-class monsters we like to portray in the media; they are, in many respects regular people who do a terrible thing. Just like any other person, they can even have aspects to their personalities that are quite likeable. Humans are complex beings and to simplify sex offenders onto being less-than human is a mistake.
Rather than arguing over the amount of dollars that we put into housing sex offenders, we ought to look at the number of dollars we put into:
1. Prevention
2. Education
3. Therapy and recovery programs for victims
These three things would prevent the population of offenders from growing. It could save lives by preventing potential offenders (today’s victims) from ever becoming offenders, helping victims to thrive, and preventing future victims from ever becoming victims.
It is painful, truly painful, how much this issue confuses me. As a victim, I feel anger and even hatred towards people who are abusive, and also towards those who looked the other way. As the daughter of an abuser, I also have a face that I can put onto these “monsters.” Yes, what my dad did to me was terrible, but he is still my dad. I saw the good side of him too.
I am angry at all of you who can simplify this into an “us” versus “them” issue and see offenders as “monsters.” It leaves the victims of incest, like me, as the only ones who have to cope with a terrifyingly complex issue.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Push
"I HATE myself when I feel good." -Precious
"And can I ever enjoy sex again after reading about a confused Claireece Precious Jones having her nipples bitten, being slapped on the butt as a sexual playmate, told "you know you love it," and having orgasms beneath her big, foul-smelling father or being "felt up" on the sofa by her mother? Probably. I can overcome these images one day, but most likely not any time soon. But how does a Precious Jones overcome them?" --http://www.blogher.com/sapphires-push-merciless-honesty
How does a Precious Jones overcome them? How do I? I wonder if I should not have read this book. I definitely cannot watch the movie, despite the fact that the idea cannot seem to leave my mind. Furthermore, I have this automatic desire to punch readers who think that they feel pain over the abuse Precious experienced (I experienced) because they don't have to live with it every day. Which makes me feel ashamed; I wouldn't wish this on anyone. Not the abuse, not the pain, not the anger, not the shame. ...and the cycle within my brain continues.
Push, the book that the movie Precious is based upon, broke something inside of me. I cannot get the images it describes out of my mind. I know that actually seeing those images on film will be altogether too much. The things the young woman in the book faces and overcomes are greater obstacles than I have ever had to climb. That being said, her description of being abused by her father, and the feelings she experiences as a result, are so accurate and real that I could hardly believe my eyes as I read. She explains in her own words the natural physical response a body has to stimulation, and also how that impacts survivors of incest. Her wording is harsh and unforgiving, nothing like what is usually discussed anywhere that I have ever been. That wording makes sense to me: it is a much more accurate way of explaining the aftermath of being abused by a parent. I cannot escape her words as I return to them in my mind without warning or intent. It physically drains me. SOmetimes I am unsure if the relatability, the experience of finally finding a voice that expresses what I feel all the time, is worth the pain of the thoughts that return to me in waves unexpectedly.
On the other hand, Push truly forced me to return to the dreaded thing I know must be done: therapy. Let's be clear: I despise therapy. I don't want to think about being abused. I don't want the physical responses that go with discussing this. It feels dirty and I feel ashamed, guilty. I am repulsed by myself. I wish I could erase everything and just forget. I want to feel normal.
Therapy is truly the only way I can figure that eventually some of the feelings might become more bearable. To say the re-opening of the wound on a weekly basis is painful would be putting it mildly, but the pain is just as great carrying this burden around. Not only for me: my PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) impacts my entire family. I experience all three symptoms described in the link and it is no easy task to be around, I am sure.
To be open and truly honest with anyone has never been my strong suit. Not that I go around actively lying; I don't. But I definitely keep most of my inner dialogue to myself. I learned young how to put on a game face for the world to see and to keep my hurts private. Even if it seems I am telling my deepest darkest thoughts and feelings to someone, I am probably am not. The worst part is, I usually don't even know I am doing it. Learning to be as honest as I can is hard but I am committing to doing just that because I love my husband and my kids. I want to be the woman God intended me to be, so I am going to therapy and truly giving it my all.
"And can I ever enjoy sex again after reading about a confused Claireece Precious Jones having her nipples bitten, being slapped on the butt as a sexual playmate, told "you know you love it," and having orgasms beneath her big, foul-smelling father or being "felt up" on the sofa by her mother? Probably. I can overcome these images one day, but most likely not any time soon. But how does a Precious Jones overcome them?" --http://www.blogher.com/sapphires-push-merciless-honesty
How does a Precious Jones overcome them? How do I? I wonder if I should not have read this book. I definitely cannot watch the movie, despite the fact that the idea cannot seem to leave my mind. Furthermore, I have this automatic desire to punch readers who think that they feel pain over the abuse Precious experienced (I experienced) because they don't have to live with it every day. Which makes me feel ashamed; I wouldn't wish this on anyone. Not the abuse, not the pain, not the anger, not the shame. ...and the cycle within my brain continues.
Push, the book that the movie Precious is based upon, broke something inside of me. I cannot get the images it describes out of my mind. I know that actually seeing those images on film will be altogether too much. The things the young woman in the book faces and overcomes are greater obstacles than I have ever had to climb. That being said, her description of being abused by her father, and the feelings she experiences as a result, are so accurate and real that I could hardly believe my eyes as I read. She explains in her own words the natural physical response a body has to stimulation, and also how that impacts survivors of incest. Her wording is harsh and unforgiving, nothing like what is usually discussed anywhere that I have ever been. That wording makes sense to me: it is a much more accurate way of explaining the aftermath of being abused by a parent. I cannot escape her words as I return to them in my mind without warning or intent. It physically drains me. SOmetimes I am unsure if the relatability, the experience of finally finding a voice that expresses what I feel all the time, is worth the pain of the thoughts that return to me in waves unexpectedly.
On the other hand, Push truly forced me to return to the dreaded thing I know must be done: therapy. Let's be clear: I despise therapy. I don't want to think about being abused. I don't want the physical responses that go with discussing this. It feels dirty and I feel ashamed, guilty. I am repulsed by myself. I wish I could erase everything and just forget. I want to feel normal.
Therapy is truly the only way I can figure that eventually some of the feelings might become more bearable. To say the re-opening of the wound on a weekly basis is painful would be putting it mildly, but the pain is just as great carrying this burden around. Not only for me: my PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) impacts my entire family. I experience all three symptoms described in the link and it is no easy task to be around, I am sure.
To be open and truly honest with anyone has never been my strong suit. Not that I go around actively lying; I don't. But I definitely keep most of my inner dialogue to myself. I learned young how to put on a game face for the world to see and to keep my hurts private. Even if it seems I am telling my deepest darkest thoughts and feelings to someone, I am probably am not. The worst part is, I usually don't even know I am doing it. Learning to be as honest as I can is hard but I am committing to doing just that because I love my husband and my kids. I want to be the woman God intended me to be, so I am going to therapy and truly giving it my all.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Valentine's Day and other things
It is really hard for me to write on this blog. The idea was that I could express all the things I want to say but just cannot. I am finding it hard even to do this in writing. This is not supposed to be some great literary work. It is supposed to be raw, real, and just whatever I am thinking at the time.
It often seems like I need to give background information to whoever might read this so that they will understand what it is I am writing about. I doubt anyone will read this, so perhaps it does not matter. The thing is, I'm pretty sure there is too much background information for one post, so I have come to the decision that I will not give background to get this started. I will write about what is happening now and let the details get fleshed out as I go. I spend so much time feeling like I hide. Trauma will do that. I am not going to hide any longer; I am going to write.
Valentine's Day is a tangible display of my life; if you took all days and squished them into one, Valentine's Day is that day. It is all the good, all the terrible, and everything in between highlighted for a brief 24 hours.
Valentine's Day is supposed to be, in the tradition of Hallmark, a day to celebrate one's love for their sweetheart. Valentine's Day, for me, is overshadowed by the fact that it is my father's birthday. Every year I think of him. Every year I love/hate him all day, to a much more heightened amount than on a typical day. Every year I want to make my husband feel special, loved, and appreciated and every year I feel drained and have to truly force myself to leave my dad in a dark corner of my mind (where his voice never shuts up) and try to keep my husband out in front. This inner-tension is truly crazy-making, not only for the people I love but for me.
These feelings are heightened on Valentine's Day, but I feel them every day of the year. The desire to be a good wife and partner, the shame that the woman I want to be is in chains that I cannot seem to unbind. Chains built by me as a little girl for protection, that are now so strong that they seem impossible to break even though all they do is hurt. The chains are like superpowers gone awry: I can disappear from a room without going anywhere physically. Everyone can be talking and I won't remember anything that was said. If I am triggered, I disassociate and turn into what feels like a whole other person. When there is an argument I often do not remember what it was about or what was said. Before any of this happens, I use the first line of defense: be the person everyone wants me to be. Now, there is a disclaimer here. I do genuinely want the best for all people. I love to help others. That being said, the first line of defense muddies up the waters a bit. The first line of defense consists of being the perfect kid, with good grades and good behavior. That doesn't work forever, so the next plan is to be good at sports (swim team in my case). That doesn't work forever, so I decide to be bad, which isn't hard because by then (15-16) I HATE everyone in my family anyway. However, being bad no longer feels good, so I decide to go back to perfect. But I can't ever go back. I was never there. This desire to be all things to everyone puts an incredible and impossible amount of pressure on me that is insurmountable.
I remember wanting to kill myself when I was in the fourth grade. Laying under the piano bench in my family den, just wanting to disappear and never come back. I remember my mom being gone a lot around that time. She went back to college when I was in 2nd grade to become a teacher. We lived in South Dakota and my mom went to Weekend College at Augsburg in Minneapolis. I want to be proud of her for going back but I hate her for it. Her absence left my sister and I vulnerable.
My dad was so many things. An alcoholic. A victim. Hard-working. A brilliant businessman. Abusive. Conflicted. Politically active. Community-minded. Alone. A leader in the town, the church, and in his field of work. My dad molested me for years. And no one stopped him.
Every Valentine's Day I remember falling on our front stoop when I was 10. My sister and I were running out to greet him as he came home from work, to tell him "Happy Birthday." I slipped on the ice and had to go to the Emergency Room, where I got stitches. My only take-away: I ruined his birthday. It is the only one of his birthdays I can remember.
This year I went out the night before Valentine's Day with a friend. We went out to this show at a local venue that a couple of friends were playing. When we were there, after midnight, one of the friends pointed out that it was odd I was at a rap show with all these people as the clock hit midnight and it became Valentine's Day; I can only assume he wondered why I wouldn't want to be home... I wanted to scream. I think that no one could possibly understand why I wouldn't want to be at home, but the truth is that the last place I want to be is vulnerable to my own brain on that day. And even with my husband, I am vulnerable. Not that it's his fault, it isn't. But memories come back when I least expect them. A sound, a feeling, a smell, any of these things will trigger me. And the memories change good things to bad quickly. I don't want to associate my husband with bad things, so I don't want my mind to go there. And on Valentine's Day, my mind goes there.
It often seems like I need to give background information to whoever might read this so that they will understand what it is I am writing about. I doubt anyone will read this, so perhaps it does not matter. The thing is, I'm pretty sure there is too much background information for one post, so I have come to the decision that I will not give background to get this started. I will write about what is happening now and let the details get fleshed out as I go. I spend so much time feeling like I hide. Trauma will do that. I am not going to hide any longer; I am going to write.
Valentine's Day is a tangible display of my life; if you took all days and squished them into one, Valentine's Day is that day. It is all the good, all the terrible, and everything in between highlighted for a brief 24 hours.
Valentine's Day is supposed to be, in the tradition of Hallmark, a day to celebrate one's love for their sweetheart. Valentine's Day, for me, is overshadowed by the fact that it is my father's birthday. Every year I think of him. Every year I love/hate him all day, to a much more heightened amount than on a typical day. Every year I want to make my husband feel special, loved, and appreciated and every year I feel drained and have to truly force myself to leave my dad in a dark corner of my mind (where his voice never shuts up) and try to keep my husband out in front. This inner-tension is truly crazy-making, not only for the people I love but for me.
These feelings are heightened on Valentine's Day, but I feel them every day of the year. The desire to be a good wife and partner, the shame that the woman I want to be is in chains that I cannot seem to unbind. Chains built by me as a little girl for protection, that are now so strong that they seem impossible to break even though all they do is hurt. The chains are like superpowers gone awry: I can disappear from a room without going anywhere physically. Everyone can be talking and I won't remember anything that was said. If I am triggered, I disassociate and turn into what feels like a whole other person. When there is an argument I often do not remember what it was about or what was said. Before any of this happens, I use the first line of defense: be the person everyone wants me to be. Now, there is a disclaimer here. I do genuinely want the best for all people. I love to help others. That being said, the first line of defense muddies up the waters a bit. The first line of defense consists of being the perfect kid, with good grades and good behavior. That doesn't work forever, so the next plan is to be good at sports (swim team in my case). That doesn't work forever, so I decide to be bad, which isn't hard because by then (15-16) I HATE everyone in my family anyway. However, being bad no longer feels good, so I decide to go back to perfect. But I can't ever go back. I was never there. This desire to be all things to everyone puts an incredible and impossible amount of pressure on me that is insurmountable.
I remember wanting to kill myself when I was in the fourth grade. Laying under the piano bench in my family den, just wanting to disappear and never come back. I remember my mom being gone a lot around that time. She went back to college when I was in 2nd grade to become a teacher. We lived in South Dakota and my mom went to Weekend College at Augsburg in Minneapolis. I want to be proud of her for going back but I hate her for it. Her absence left my sister and I vulnerable.
My dad was so many things. An alcoholic. A victim. Hard-working. A brilliant businessman. Abusive. Conflicted. Politically active. Community-minded. Alone. A leader in the town, the church, and in his field of work. My dad molested me for years. And no one stopped him.
Every Valentine's Day I remember falling on our front stoop when I was 10. My sister and I were running out to greet him as he came home from work, to tell him "Happy Birthday." I slipped on the ice and had to go to the Emergency Room, where I got stitches. My only take-away: I ruined his birthday. It is the only one of his birthdays I can remember.
This year I went out the night before Valentine's Day with a friend. We went out to this show at a local venue that a couple of friends were playing. When we were there, after midnight, one of the friends pointed out that it was odd I was at a rap show with all these people as the clock hit midnight and it became Valentine's Day; I can only assume he wondered why I wouldn't want to be home... I wanted to scream. I think that no one could possibly understand why I wouldn't want to be at home, but the truth is that the last place I want to be is vulnerable to my own brain on that day. And even with my husband, I am vulnerable. Not that it's his fault, it isn't. But memories come back when I least expect them. A sound, a feeling, a smell, any of these things will trigger me. And the memories change good things to bad quickly. I don't want to associate my husband with bad things, so I don't want my mind to go there. And on Valentine's Day, my mind goes there.
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