Jess is a survivor of incest, rape, and date-rape. Jess feels that writing helps her to heal, share her story, and perhaps provide inspiration for other survivors to continue their healing process. Jess is also an admin on our online support group R.S.O.S.A if you wanted to ask Jess anything about her blog entries that would be a good place to find her. Or you can always contact Jess via this website and I will pass on your messages. Jess is a dear personal friend of mine, one whom I admire for a number of reasons. Which is why I wanted to give this page to Jess…I always find the blog entries thought provoking and so well written…I am sure you will too. My thanks to Jess for agreeing to share her thoughts with ‘Tangled Web’. You can see alot more about Jess on her website www.silenceisnotgolden.us

A perfect line

I was ten years old when I learned to cut lines of coke for my parents.
My mother used a mirror that had a prismatic etching of a unicorn on the underside of the mirror, and I always thought it was one of the prettiest things I had ever seen. I don’t remember the first time I created the perfect line of powder, but every night as it got later and later, my parents became too high to continue cutting their lines, the job fell to me. It made me feel important and special, especially since I could hold the beautiful mirror.
I was always afraid of cutting myself on the razor blade, and was sure to handle it very carefully. I have a distinct memory of the light reflecting off the blade, glinting in a mesmerizing way. My parents trained me well in precisely how many, and what size and shape of lines they preferred. There was a specific technique to tapping the blade through the pile of powder, spreading it evenly over the glass, and then dividing it into perfect little lines.
It astonishes me now, to think of how normal that was in my house. What kind of parents train their ten year old to help them take their drugs? To this day, if I handle flour or powdered sugar, there is a strange impulse that strikes me to see if I still have the skill, twenty years later to do the same thing. It makes me feel dirty and used and unloved. I was a useful tool, rather than a valued child, to my parents, and I performed my duties admirably.

~ 

My shameful cutting

I was a cutter.
I was very careful when I was cutting. I was, perhaps, a little unusual compared to some cutters in that my cutting was intentionally visible to the people around me. I did not cut where it would be covered by sleeves or pants. I cut my fingers, my hands, and my forearms, so that they could not help but be seen. It was …… comforting ….. to be able to see the wounds I had created myself. I was also extremely meticulous about cutting in such a way that it did not particularly look as though I had done it myself–at the same time that I desperately wanted someone to notice the pain I was literally describing via blood on my body, I was terrified that someone would ask what I was doing, and worse, why.

Cutting, for me, was all about control. It was a means to not only control my pain, but also the amount of pain that I felt, as well as controlling WHO was causing me pain. It worked as a sort of pressure valve, releasing just enough tension, anxiety, and despair that I could survive a few more hours. Cutting gave me some measure of control, put me in charge of the pain–inside, emotionally, I felt like pure chaos. Cutting provided a precise, deliberate means by which I could see my wound healing. There was resolution in cutting. There was release, absolution, and forgiveness in cutting.

I never liked the blood. It was warm and sticky, and too similar to another bodily fluid that I had all too much familiarity with. Some cutter do find release and comfort in seeing, touching, and even smelling their blood. I, however, was always careful to wipe up each drop before it could flow freely.

Cutting felt good. Compared to the pain eating away inside like corrosive acid, cutting barely hurt at all. It was a different kind of pain–one that, ironically, felt clean and good. It gave me the sensation, the illusion, that I was in control of the degree to which I was hurt. Being in control was much more important than the pain that cutting inflicted. I know now it was the loss and lack of control in my life and my family the drove the need to cut myself. It truly was my desperate attempt to be the person in charge of my body. Since I could not stop the pain, I decided to do what I could to control it.

For people that have never cut, or have no idea why anyone would want to, I can understand their confusion. It seems a senseless, violent, incomprehensible action. Perhaps outsiders may even view it with disgust and derision. I imagine it’s “normal” to assume that anyone experiencing pain would do whatever they could in their power to avoid more pain. For a survivor like me, where the entire world was coloured by a constant inescapable haze of pain, where every surface of my experience was stained by the pain of betrayal, deception, and physical violation, any meager scrap of control was valuable in a way that is indescribable.

Cutting provides the feeling that you are not simply here in the world simply to be a body through which others can satisfy their needs. While it’s true that I was hurting myself, I was doing it on MY terms. I was not at the mercy of another person, I was able to make each decision: when to cut, how deep to cut, where to cut, etc.

If cutting provides such dramatic relief, why should anyone stop? It is an action that doesn’t injure anyone other than the cutter, and contrary to what many people assume, it is NOT a pseudo-suicide attempt. It was, in fact, just the opposite for me. The urge to cut was greatest when the overwhelming emptiness inside was so powerful that I was nearly numb from it. Cutting brought me back to my body, allowed me to focus specifically on that area of my body, and reminded me that I was alive–despite all feelings to the contrary. I was acutely aware of the physical texture of the instrument I was cutting with (an art knife, a box cutter blade, a razor, etc) as well as the pop-pop-pop of my skin as it slowly opened to the sharp edge. At times, it seemed as though I was watching my hand move from a great distance, like tunnel vision perhaps, with the rest of the room fading away.

Cutting, however satisfying it may be, is in reality a symptom of something being critically wrong. It is not an isolated action, without repercussions. It is a symptom of a serious state of disconnect, generally due to an experience (or series of experiences) that is traumatic and painful, resulting in a devastating loss of control. Because cutting is a symptom reflecting that deep-seated pain, a literal representation of the torment occurring inside, it should not be overlooked as a form of aberrant behaviour. It signals that something needs to be healed, something needs to be addressed and fixed.

I still find myself occasionally having urges to cut. The thought of “just this once” is seductive, it promises instant gratification, albeit short-lived gratification. I have worked hard at being able to recognize that impulse, to channel it into behaviour that allows me to recognize that I am having feelings, experiences, and issues that need dealing with. It does not have to be a compulsion that I cannot ignore, driving me to perpetuate painful, unhealthy patterns. I do not have to feel ashamed anymore about my attempt at finding some control in an uncontrollable situation. I can be whole, and complete, and basically just fine. I can BE.

For information, please see this excellent source on cutting: “A Bright Red Scream: Self-mutilation and The Language Of Pain” by Marilee Strong (Penguin Books)

~

 Who really owns the responsibility?

One of the most critical tasks any survivor of abuse must face is learning who in fact should own the responsibility for the pain they have been living with. What do I mean by “own”? Simply that there is someone who is the possessor of the pain that an abuse victim lives with, a creator and founder (so to speak) of the experience a victim must live with. For most survivors it has, by default, fallen upon their shoulders to be the possessor. I am here to challenge that belief. The question naturally presents itself that if I am not the possessor, who then, is?

One of the simplest and most effective ways to recognize who owns this responsibility is for you to ask this very important question:

If you had not been abused, would you still be and feel the way you do today?

When I first asked myself this question, the answer was glaringly clear: of course not. No, I would NOT feel and be the way I am if I had not suffered the abuse that I did. I did not create these thoughts and feelings by myself. I did not make this up, invent such debilitating pain out of thin air. Someone else caused this. Someone else was the source of my pain and of my shame.

That knowledge, while perhaps appearing self-evident to a person who has never experienced abuse, is anything but. It was however, the catalyst that led to releasing my misplaced feelings of responsibility and allowed me to begin placing the blame directly where it belonged: on the shoulders of the person that intentionally hurt me. Unfortunately, I discovered that even with the burden of responsibility lifted, I continued to feel shame. Not understanding why that would be, I searched for more answers. The next “aha!” moment came in the form of yet another question:

If you [or myself], as an adult, were approached by a child seeking out or asking for sexual attention, what would you do?

The answer to this question, of course, is a resounding NO! I would not allow the child to behave in a sexual way towards me, and I would try to explain that behaviour of a sexual nature should always and only be reserved for adults. It even seems to be a completely preposterous question, doesn’t it? And yet, for many (if not most) survivors of sexual abuse, we somehow come to view ourselves as provocateurs. This belief may grow from the actual words of our abuser; for example in my case, my uncle accused me of “being a tease” to justify his actions. As a child, I was completely convinced that not only had I “let” the abuse happen, but that in some way unknown to me, I had actually encouraged it.

No matter what the circumstances are, no matter how a child acts, it is ALWAYS the adult’s responsibility to make appropriate choices. The guilt, pain, and shame of abuse that survivors live with is not theirs to bear. The burden of guilt should lie solely with the person who made the choice to hurt a child, in the most devastating way imaginable. NOT the child.

I wanted attention and acceptance, and instead he chose incest and betrayal. I wanted love, and instead he chose rape. I did not choose pain, shame, guilt, or responsibility, and because of that, I now give all of that back.

~

 The Special Belt

The tension in the room was almost unbearable. I tried to put on a brave, I-don’t-care kind of face, but my ten year old feet just could not hold still and betrayed my fear. I knew it was coming, and though I tried very hard not to be afraid, something close to terror caused sweat to trickle down between my shoulder blades. I jumped when he finally broke his cold stare and yelled, “Get the belt!”

My feet felt like molasses as I moved toward the bedroom where The Special Belt was kept in a closet. That is always how I thought of it, with capital letters: The Special Belt. Even though it seemed as if my feet were barely moving, my heart was pounding so hard it made my ribcage ache. I knew I had to hurry; keeping him waiting would only make it worse. That knowledge hovered in the back of my mind like a menacing show, and spurred my feet to move faster.

Reaching into the back of the closet I lifted the belt off of it’s hook, and was instantly surrounded by the smell of leather. For a split second, a mere pause in a breath of time, I contemplated what might happen if, instead of returning with the belt, I just ran? Could I possibly run far enough, or fast enough? Would I ever be able to run far enough? Defeat sank its claws into that thought before it was even finished, and turning from the closet I stepped back toward the kitchen.

I absently stroked the leather as I held the belt in my hands. It was silky smooth and well-oiled on one side, but rough and unfinished on the other. The Special Belt was not decorated in any way, lacking any embossing, or leather treatments. It was just a plain brown leather strap with a brass buckle. I couldn’t help wondering this time, as I did every time, how something so utterly plain looking could be so sinister.

I remained silent as I stepped back into the kitchen and placed the belt into his waiting hands. He stared at me coldly for a few seconds, then slowly folded the belt in half lengthwise. He pushed the ends together slightly, then yanked them back creating a loud CRACK. Even though I had expected it, still I jumped. As the crack of the belt echoed in my ears, I waited. This had played out many times, and I knew what was coming next.

He tipped the folded belt out toward me and demanded, “What does it smell like?”

His cruel smile somehow increased my fear, and of course I knew what he expected me to say. The answer reverberated in my head, repeating over and over and over, but I could not force myself to say it. He thrust the belt closer to face. Raising he voice, he asked again, “What does it smell like?” The answer seemed stuck on my tongue. Desperately, I thought in a half-crazed way, that if I could just find a way not to answer, time might stop and this exchange could end differently?

I don’t know if he caught the glimmer of my faint resistance in my eyes, but suddenly he lunged forward and grabbed my arm in a crushing, vise-like grip. Still I refused to answer. This surprised even me, but all at once I felt that some strange piece of me would not answer. Something stubborn and strong inside was rising up, fighting against this punishment. He twisted my arm behind my back, straining the tendons of my shoulder so that shooting streams of fire arced down to my elbow.

Once again, he spat out the question, “What. Does. It. Smell. Like?” Grinding his teeth, he yanked my arm a little farther with each word he uttered. Finally the pain became too great, and my small moment of rebellion died as quickly as it had risen up. I whispered hoarsely, “Pain. It smells like pain.” I knew then that my moment of defiance would cause him to hurt me more than usual–I could see it in his eyes.

He stood up, and holding me by one arm so that I was barely balanced on the tips of my toes, growled for me to lift my shirt. Clumsily, trying to work with just one hand, I raised my shirt. Before it even cleared my stomach, I heard the whistle of the leather. He whipped it so fast, the cracking SNAP of the belt against my skin reached my ears before my brain could process the pain of the first strike. Again, and again, the belt cracked against my skinny, ten year old back. It was so big that even folded in half, it reached all the way around my back and halfway around my stomach. My skin burned in agony, and tears poured down my face. Screaming would only make him angrier, so I bit down on my lips until blood flowed into my mouth.

When my punishment was finally over, and he had let go of my arm, I crawled gingerly to my room. I curled into a very careful ball on the floor, avoiding anything that might touch my tender back. The sun streamed brightly through my window, but it seemed to me that everything had a gray tint to it. As I finally allowed myself to drift away, I was distantly aware that the tiny spark of rebellion that had created such a frenzy in him was NOT extinguished. It was, in fact, growing, and as I floated away into darkness, the flame glimmered and glowed more brightly than before.

~

Setbacks

I feel very self-destructive and out of control today. I don’t want to eat, I’ve had a hard time not picking at my nails, and If I could get away with it I would find a way to cut myself. Obviously, I can’t do any of these things and its making me feel very chaotic not being able to find release that way. I am sure this is a result of all the reading I have been doing, immersing myself in that world and those memories that I don’t visit all that often anymore. It’s taking a great deal of energy to focus on not looking upset so I can avoid people asking me if I’m okay. The tension is building , getting more and more wound up each minute. How on earth am I supposed to write a book on this when it can still affect me this much? It’s a little defeating to say the least. Even after all this time I still have such hateful urges alive inside, it’s just not fair. It’s overwhelming and frightening to fee so much danger…everywhere, but not be able to pinpoint where it is coming from or if it is even real. In fact, part of the frustration is that I know its not real, that right now at this very moment I am safe and not in danger but the panic is closing in anyway. I’m a little surprised to find I don’t want a drink right now–but then again, drinking wouldn’t give me any relief. Drinking always makes me feel a little (or a lot) out of control, and what I need right now is a sense of more control. I want the pain to stop, but not at the expense of my self-control. That’s why cutting and refusing to eat work so well–I have absolute control over what happens: I control how much I hurt myself and where, and I control what I put in my body and when. It’s so tempting knowing how close that feeling of release is. Temptation, however, is not enough to give up my hard-won “sobriety”. I want to. God, how I want to. But I won’t. I am stronger than this, I know I am. These are the battles I have to win if I am going to be the wife and mother I want to be. As easy as it would be to hurt myself, I know that it would only feel good for a little while, and afterwards I would feel even worse than before. Just getting these words out is helping to relieve some of the pressure. It is helping me see with each sentence that I write, that what I am feeling is a temporary crisis, just a small set-back. It is not a huge failure. The chaos is slowly fading. I’m going to be okay.

~

Truths

My name is Jessica.

My mother is an alcoholic and an adult survivor of sexual, physical, and emotional abuse.

My father abandoned me at the age of 2.

My stepfather is a drug addict, and was physically abusive.

My uncle first molested me when I was 9, and first raped me when I was 10.

My life, my dreams, my hopes were demolished before I knew what they were.

My courage was faked for a long time in the beginning.

My strength comes from a place that I have never seen.

My faith is that I am NOT alone, and that I can help someone else, somewhere.

My choices are not dictated by the selfish, hateful, hurtful people in my life.

My name is Jessica.

I was victimized, but I am not a victim.

I am a survivor.

~

Solitude is safer

When I was growing up, my home was incredibly unstable. With two drug-addicted, alcoholic, and emotionally absent parents, both of whom had great difficulty holding down a job for longer than a year, it was hard to find anything dependable in my life. As a result, the consequences of my parents’ behaviour caused my family to move from house to house constantly. We were never in one home longer than a year, and a few times even less than that. By the time I reached 9th grade, I had been in thirteen different schools.

Talk about your upheaval!

I learned the heartbreaking lesson that many “military brats” also come to learn: making friends is dangerous. It opened the same wound over and over again; every time I found someone special, a neighbour girl that didn’t think I was too quiet or too weird, we would have to uproot ourselves all over again.

I was in so many schools, I can’t remember any of my teachers’ names. I can barely remember the schools’ names, for that matter. Unfortunately the habit of regularly relocating stayed with me well into adulthood. In fact, until my late twenties, I was distinctly uncomfortable living in any place for longer than a year at a time. It felt unnatural, it made me anxious, and it made me wonder what awful event was right around the corner, waiting to pounce. I moved several times, without the impetus that drove the changes of my childhood, but it kept me within my dysfunctional comfort zone.

Another lesson (learned though habit) that has remained with me well into my “adult” years is that making friends eventually leads to disappointment and hurt. Or rather, it is the keeping of friends that leads to disappointment. I don’t mean to sound as though I was a tough loner, skulking in the shadows of each new classroom I entered. I did, however, simply lose interest in trying to make any friends. The children and teenagers I eventually came to know at each new school were really never more than close acquaintances. Not only was my home life in such a shambles that I was forbidden to bring any friends home (lest they learn the terrible secret of my parents’ clandestine activities), I could not bear it emotionally even if it had been encouraged.

Making friends opens you up, leaves you vulnerable to criticism, judgement, and rejection. As an adult, I know now that making friends also opens you up to love, acceptance, and support. The little girl that I used to be did not know that, though. All she knew was the pain of losing friends. In a desperate attempt to protect myself from the inevitable loss that the “next move” (and there was always one coming) would bring, not to mention the terror of someone outside of my home discovering the sexual abuse I was suffering, I eliminated the desire within my heart to have friends.

I am terribly sad about that now, looking back. Obviously there is nothing that can be changed, but from this perspective, it was a lonely existence. What a sad choice for a nine year old to have to make; with five moves under my belt at that time already, I knew even then that trying to make and maintain deep, meaningful friendships was futile.

Pondering all of this today as I was driving home from work, I realized that though I don’t have the obsessive urge to pack up and move every twelve months anymore, I am still quite careful about the “friendships” that I have. Most people close to me do not know a great deal about the “real” me, though they probably think they do. There is always a level at which I do not let anyone come any closer. I have become a master of illusion, giving someone just enough that they are satisfied they know me, and no longer curious about what makes me “tick”. I admit, it was easier and less emotionally threatening to tell someone that I was a military brat, rather than the sexually, physically, and emotionally abused daughter of drug-addicts, to explain away all the changes and instability of my childhood. Not to mention, I absolutely detest the look of confused pity that appears on many people’s faces if they know that I just moved alot. They simply cannot fathom that experience, and it makes me feel that much more damaged from having lived it. That could just be the defensive side of me speaking, however.

I was surprised to discover today that I feel a little longing for a close friendship. I have always prided myself on being such a good friend to other people, but if I were to be brutally honest with myself, hiding the worst and most damaged parts of myself did not make me a good friend. It made me selfish, and prevented someone from possibly showing me love and compassion. I never gave them the chance. It’s easier to hold people at arm’s length and not risk letting them get to know the real me: the flawed, funny, angry, quirky, silly, lonely me.

Solitude, in the end, just feels safer.

~

Anger

Anger is overwhelming sometimes.

I have been consumed by it, burned by it, engulfed by it. It feels as though a ravenous monster living just under my skin, and any attempt at letting out even a tiny portion of it would unleash something I cannot control. It took many years to learn to express my anger and rage at the people who actively abused me. My struggle with anger now lies with the people who failed to protect me.

As a child, I was never allowed to express anger. Instead I learned the confusing, and devastating lesson that it was bad to feel anger. My mother, a survivor of abuse herself, was particularly harsh when I demonstrated anger towards her and the punishment for getting angry was often worse than any other form of misbehaving.

For a long time I pushed anger down, down, down to a place deep inside because it was so clearly dangerous to let it out. My mother grew up with a violent, abusive, alcoholic father and an impotent mother that ignored and failed to protect her children. Though many years have passed, I continued to allow myself to ignore my anger towards her because I knew how awful her childhood was. Now that I am a mother with a daughter myself, however, I cannot ignore that any longer.

My mother was unable to separate the fear of anger from her father, with anger her own children might express toward her and has saddled my brothers and I with a similar burden: the overwhelming fear and lack of skill in expressing anger healthfully. Instead of being able to rationally say the words “I am mad because…” I learned, inadvertently, that anger is dangerous, unhealthy, and threatening, but without ever knowing why.

This legacy must stop with me.

It will stop with me.

Now I just have to find out how.

~

Bruises festering

I feel contaminated

violated

desecrated once again

those words he said

that bruise he left

won’t let the sun shine in

lonely

lost and scared

where do I turn?

creeping into my dreams

whispering obscenely

dirty sheets I want to burn

scratching at my brain

guilt and shame

like infection

piece by piece succumbs

I have to give up give in

can’t see my reflection

reaching out blindly

no one

answers my hoarse cry

language recedes, terrified babble

my God

I think I must give in

and say goodbye

(written November 16, 1998)

~

Misunderstood

Every day you saw me, but you never really looked. You saw a sullen, angry teenager. You saw a quiet, withdrawn girl. You saw a person that would not let you close, and denied your attempts to be friendly.

You saw, but you did not see.

I was not a rebellious teenager. I was not defying authority. I was not a bitch.

I was lost, lonely, used, and abused. I was scared, overwhelmed, and hurt. Everywhere I looked I saw faces all around me, but no one I could turn to. I longed for a friend, but could not let you close to me. My secret was too BIG, too awful to share. I could not bear the thought of you rejecting me the way that I rejected myself. I could not share my life with you.

Everyday I looked at myself in the mirror, and tried very hard not to see. I did not want to see the broken person whose haunted eyes reflected the desolation in my soul. I did not have the courage to mend her broken heart.

I am not alone. I am not unique. I am not invisible.

I will be heard. I will possess courage.

You will look. And you will see.

~

Silence is not golden

Silence is not golden.

Silence is brutal. Silence is cruel. Silence is binding.

Silence is so powerful that after the first time my uncle raped me, I began to stutter so badly that it was nearly impossible to understand anything I said. I was literally bound and gagged by my own mouth. The horror and confusion and trauma were trapped inside, wrapped up in a tight bandage of silence, eradicating any possibility of speaking.

Truth was trapped by my silence, and I have lived with the repercussions of that my entire life, the way that a stone dropped into a pond creates innumerable ripples spreading out to the edges of the bank. All the years that truth was screaming, clawing, burning, and flailing away inside to be given life and freedom, silence held it captive. I did not know how destructive silence would be, how tenaciously I held onto the belief that relinquishing silence would be the catalyst for the implosion of my world.

I have found my voice.

I have chosen sound over silence, truth over deception, and light over darkness. The consequences of my choice have been great, but I will never again be a captive to silence. I will share my truth, and speak it when it would otherwise be quieted.

I am an advocate for truth, and a destroyer of Silence.

Silence is not golden.

~

A letter to myself

Dear Jess,

I wish I could take your hurt away. I wish I could make everything all better. I wish I could erase all those memories in your head that you shouldn’t have to carry. But I can’t. I can’t do any of those things.

I wish I could take back what was done to you. I wish I could make your parents do the right thing when they discovered how badly you had been abused. I wish that I could undo the damage that was done. But I can’t do any of those things.

I wish I could stop your mother from doing drugs. I wish I could stop your stepfather from beating his wife and children. I wish I could find a safe place for you to rest and escape. But I can’t do any of those things.

I wish I could take back the courage you learned was inside yourself, because you had no one else to turn to. I wish I could find a way to make the pain go away, instead of you having to learn to let it go. I wish I could tell you that it will get easier, because you shouldn’t have to struggle every day. But I can’t do any of those things.

I wish I could love you more than I do right now. I wish I could say that I could never be prouder of you for being so strong. I wish that everyone could find as much confidence in themselves as you have. But I can’t.

I can’t do any of those things.

Love, Me

~

Survivors Life Kit

Thank you for your interest in the Survivor’s Life Kit.

Please read all directions carefully. Everything you need is included in this kit, but be advised you must take care of all included items for them to work properly. For questions or comments, please consult your maker.

Included:

ONE beautiful soul
ONE survival instinct
ONE heart (for healing)
ONE stubborn streak
ONE imagination
ONE sense of purpose
ONE sense of humour

Instructions for use:

Please be aware that though you may find that some included items are not always immediately available, with proper care and maintenance they will continue to function perfectly for years.

Soul: this item is for your personal benefit. It connects you to the universe and to all living things around you. It cannot be lost, given away, or forsaken, though there are users who may feel it is not working properly. Remember to consider its usefulness and purpose, and consult it often to keep it in excellent working order.

Survival instinct: this item is to provide you with an innate sense of how to navigate the dangers of the world around you. It is an invaluable tool, but one you must learn how to use in order to obtain the greatest benefit. It will guide you through life’s darkest moments, and the greater faith you have in it, the better it will function.

Heart: please be aware that this item is the most delicate in your survival kit. It is easily damaged, but is not easily destroyed. It will be with you for the duration of your time here and must be cared for. Unfortunately, others have access to this item and may not always be considerate of it. Please remember to complete all repairs speedily so that you may get the most of this item.

Stubborn streak: This item is both a blessing and a curse. You must use it daily, though you may find that occasionally you rely on it too often. Remember that this is NOT a substitute for any other item in your kit, and must be considered an addition to your kit, rather than the only tool included.

Imagination: This item has been included to provide you with a means to view your world in a different light than that which you see with your eyes. It will be the way in which you can bring forth ideas, thoughts, goals, and ideals. Be sure to use this item often, so that it can grow and flourish along with you.

Purpose: Everything in the world has a purpose, and this kit is no different. Though the kit itself has a purpose, there is also included a smaller version, your personal purpose. This is included so that you may locate and grow the are of your life that you feel will most benefit yourself and others. This item is not always readily available, and must be nurtured for it to make itself known as an important item.

Humor: This item has been included for your enjoyment. It is something you should use as often as possible, in as many situations as possible. This item will help to dispel fear, anxiety, anger, and frustration. While you may find that this item varies greatly from kit to kit and from person to person, that does not mean that yours is any less important.

As you use the items in your kit, please keep in mind that occasionally it may be necessary to do some maintenance to keep them in good working condition. However, this kit has been provided to you for the sole purpose of enriching and nurturing your life. Thank you, and enjoy!

~

The Problem With Anger

It would be really easy for me to blame my mother for my damaged ability to feel anger in a healthy way. She was especially quick to punish me for any anger I showed towards her, completely out of proportion to whatever event incited my anger in the first place. I learned at a very young age, long before my sexual abuse started, that feeling and showing anger was a dangerous thing to do. There were more complex dynamics within my family that led to such a disconnect with my anger besides my mother’s nearly psychotic aversion to anger.

Considering my mother’s deep problems with anger, its ironic that my stepfather was a loud, violent, unpredictable person, and my parents regularly got into verbally abusive screaming matches. Looking back now, I can see the pattern that fed my mother’s self-worth issues left over from her own traumatic childhood. I wonder, with a great deal of anger of course, whether or not either of them knew (or cared) that they were passing on such a devastating legacy to their children? They certainly do not show any remorse NOW for the environment that my brothers and I grew up in.

So what is the big problem with anger anyway?

Intellectually I know that it is an emotion, just like any other. It has no inherent value as either good or bad, it just is. And yet, I have always felt that it is this dangerous thing, waiting to spring out at me and devour me before I have realized what has happened. It is this frightening force, curled up deep inside, ready to crash over me like a tidal wave and sweep away all of my self control. It feels like a rabid, salivating, starving beast waiting for any weak moment so that it can consume those around me as well, unleashing its fury and cruelty on those I love the most.

The strain of containing anger is exhausting. It drains me every moment that I refuse to allow myself to feel it. I am aware that by shoving it away, deep down inside where I do not have to face it, simply gives it more strength. I can feel it welling up, pushing against my diaphragm, making it hard to breathe; feel it in the uncompromising tension in my muscles; feel it threatening to destroy the world I have worked so hard to construct around me as I heal from the past.

I am only just now learning how to safely express my anger. To accept that by letting it out, rather than ignoring it, I will not be overwhelmed and lose control. Because really, is there is anything else in the world that we need as survivors of abuse more than control? I can feel the difference in my body and my spirit when I stop fighting the force of anger, and let it flow through and out of me, like a river cresting its bank. There is only so much fighting you can do before more damage will be caused. By gradually learning to control the flow and force, I can let it out so that I am the one in control. This is a skill I have not yet perfected, but I guess that is the problem with anger.

~

Mistakes do not equal failure

Have been plagued by nightmares lately about my daughter being hurt or killed, mainly through my negligence or inability to protect her. Last night, though, I fought back!! I was running away from my mother and stepfather, who were both trying to take her away from me, and I fought back!! I pulled her away from his arms, screamed at him, and told him all the reasons that no matter what he said, I KNEW I would always be a better parent than him and my mother. Even when he raised his fist to strike me, I shoved her behind me and refused to back down.

That is when I jerked awake…..Even though that was an awful dream, full of terrible and overwhelming emotions–it was exciting because I was able to turn it around, to fight back, to fight for my daughter (the essence of innocence) rather than just being victimized over and over again. Being able to fight back in my OTHER nightmares is how I knew that I was truly healing from my abuse. I knew then that I was winning.

I feel like this latest dream means that I am at an important turning point in healing, and in making progress by letting go of some of the bitterness and hate that is consuming me when I think about my parents. I AM stronger than them, and stronger than the toxic legacy they gave me. I am learning to accept that in my desperation to never make any mistakes in regards to my daughter, I was actually setting myself up for serious failure.

Mistakes are not a symptom of unworthiness, of shame, or of failure. Mistakes are unavoidable. It’s just foolish to try to punish myself over something that is going to be connected to every aspect of my life. And mistakes are opportunities to learn and grow from an experience. Part of my responsibility as a parent is teaching my child to cope well with mistakes (something, by the way, my parents never did for me) and I simply cannot do that by trying to avoid and ignore mistakes myself. As I learn to manage my mistakes better, to approach them without fear and without self-incrimination, I can pass on that knowledge to my daughter, and hopefully set the machine in motion to help our future generations do the same.

After all this time, however, I believe I am making my own kind of peace with “why?” Will that question ever go away completely? Probably not. But I no longer have to make myself exhausted chasing after it. The stark truth of things is that people are often cruel, hurtful, hateful, and abusive. People make decisions everyday without taking into consideration the consequences of their behaviour.

People are …. well, people.

So where does that leave me? It leaves me with the responsibility of maintaining the truth to the best of my ability. I was abused. I was ignored and punished by my family for speaking the truth. I have lived with the after effects of that abuse for more than two decades now. That is just part of the truth, however. I have also survived. I have learned to look within myself for strength, courage, and resilience. I have learned that I do not have to pass on to the next generation the trauma I suffered. I have learned that I do not need an answer to every question in order to heal.

And neither do you.

~

Would you like your knife back?

I recently discovered that my abuser has a profile on facebook. What an interesting world we function in now, when truly anonymous faces can be associated with words and phrases that are mostly meaningless, until that ONE face leaps out at you from the computer screen. In the span of what was very likely only a second, I was overwhelmed with fear, revulsion, despair, and helplessness. Time stopped and I forgot how to breathe.

Then I found myself again.

It is fascinating what a difference twenty years can produce on a memory. There his face was, staring at me, transmitted through the unknown mystery of the Internet, but it was not the face I remember that tormented my childhood. It lacked the power, the command, and the strength to dictate the boundaries of my world. This man destroyed the basic faith I had in myself, in the world, and in my understanding of love. And yet, here he was, hiding in plain sight of the world with no one the wiser.

My initial feeling of fear was a knee-jerk reaction that is embedded deep in my subconscious, and it is possible it will never truly be eradicated no matter how hard I try. At this great distance (both through time and space) it is not the same. But I am no longer a powerless child, living at the whim and mercy (or lack of) from a sickly twisted man.

I am strong.

I am powerful.

I am WHOLE.

But then came the second, and perhaps cruelest blow. My mother, the woman who gave birth to me, who professed to love me with her words if not her actions, and raised me within the limits of her capacity, has openly declared her relationship to her brother–my abuser. As if I were some international digital spy, I stared at the communication and contact the two have shared. It was both brutal and mesmerizing. I still cannot stop wondering how long she has been in touch with someone she knows has tortured her daughter in the same she was tortured by her own father.

Right now I would like to pluck out the knife my mother has so unceremoniously driven between my shoulder blades and ask if she wants it back. But then again, I suppose that would only arm her with it once again, so instead I will (metaphorically of course) throw the knife away. I will force myself to remember the truths that guide my life now, and let her live with the bleak, ruined carcass of the “family” she purportedly loves.

I am strong.

I am powerful.

I am WHOLE.

~

Not going to give up myself

Christmas was hard. Or rather, the days leading up to Christmas were hard. I couldn’t help but be acutely aware of how different this year is compared to previous years–of how utterly broken all connections to my mother are now. It makes me sad. But also …. lighter … somehow.

The day after Christmas I felt as though a weight had disappeared from my shoulders. The ghost of her brutal betrayal feels far away now–not gone completely, but no longer bending me to the ground in emotional submission. A lot of my anger is gone now as well. I’m sure some of that is there, too, but it doesn’t feel like toxic sludge oozing through me anymore.

I just don’t want to give up any more of myself to her.

In order to do that, I have to clear out this emotional pollution, replacing it with clean, clear peace and happiness. Next year is for ME. It will get the real me, the shining, amazing ME that has been hidden under years of tarnish. I have to unearth the side of me that shows my true potential–give freedom to the creativity inside demanding to see the light of day. It’s like when you finally get to take off that heavy winter coat because spring is here!

This coming year holds enormous potential–so much promise, just waiting for me to tap into it. One of my favorite sayings is by Ralph Waldo Emerson: “The creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn.” The tiniest seed (of anything really) has the inherent potential to grow into great things. And not just one thing, but from that potential sprouts a thousand other things. That potential is there, just waiting for the right set of circumstances to encourage it to grow, to change, to BECOME.

I am surrounded by love and light right now, and I feel that it is time for me to embrace my potential, to begin fulfilling my purpose. I have the healthy nourishment I need to grow, and have removed the toxic factors that were holding me back before. I am truly free to find ME.

~

Resolutions

It’s not who you are that holds you back, it’s who you think you’re not. ~ Author Unknown

Resolution is defined as “a resolve or determination: to make a firm resolution to do something.”

This time of year I hear a lot of pressure from a lot of people to make a New Year Resolution. For many people, it has something to do with eating healthier, losing weight, stopping smoking, etc. What I have not heard, and what I want to focus on this year is REALLY loving myself better. That will involve treating myself in a healthier way, but more importantly it also means that I need to stop stealing positivity from myself.

I added the quote at the beginning of this blog because I think it reflects that resolve in a very important way. I no longer want to let all the things that I think I am NOT to continue holding me back. On many days, to be truthful on most days, I feel that I am not smart, pretty, happy, confident, courageous, strong, capable, resilient, dependable, flexible, and honest.

But that is not true.

I am ALL of those things, and more. So, for this year, my goal is to stop letting these hateful thoughts hold me back. I will admit, I am quite frustrated because I have worked so very hard to stop so much of the poisonous toxic thinking that has kept me company over the years. But there is enough of that voice left that it still holds me back from being the best version of myself.

Will I fail at this this? It is almost certain that I will not be completely successful–because this has been with me for more than twenty years now. I doubt that I can exorcise the ghost totally. However, I am certain that I will also succeed. I am not aiming for perfection, but improvement. I am not aiming for a brand-new-me, but a more loving truthful version of ME.

And if all else fails, maybe I will call GHOSTBUSTERS!

~

Courage Finds Me

I saw a question today asking people to think about what “courage” means to them. The most general definition of courage is “the quality of mind or spirit that enables a person to face difficulty, danger, pain, etc., without fear; bravery.” That being said, I don’t feel that I possess that quality. I don’t walk out into the world every day, puffing my chest out with confidence, thinking that I can handle anything because I am courageous. I just….don’t. Mostly because I am afraid of everything, all the time. That “without fear” part is the clincher–that is why I am not brave.

But sometimes, I think courage finds me.

Putting one step in front of the other with the weight of the world on my shoulders doesn’t require courage; it requires tenacity. Facing the demons from my past that are waiting to claw their way to the surface of my thoughts doesn’t require courage; it requires discipline. Telling the truth every day no matter who may sit in judgement of me doesn’t require courage; it requires fortitude.

But then again, maybe tenacity, discipline, and fortitude are all forms of courage?

I never feel the way that I imagine courage feels. I imagine the courageous as those that wake up with a determination to right the wrongs of the world. I imagine the courageous as those that try even with the knowledge that they will fail, because not to try is even worse than failing. I imagine the courageous as those that willingly give their hearts away, without any guarantee that they will be cherished and protected.

I don’t feel that way.

I never have.

And yet, courage still finds me.

When I thought that I couldn’t tell anyone what my uncle was doing to me night after night, I somehow found my voice. When I thought that I couldn’t walk away from the boyfriend I adored that thought his fist belonged somewhere near my face, I discovered the strength to leave. When I thought that I couldn’t fall in love even one more time, I held fast to the belief that it had to exist for me somewhere. When I thought that I could never be a good parent because the examples I grew up with were such sorry excuses for both human beings and parents, I still had the temerity to hope that I could be a good parent in spite of that.

Those are the times that I think courage found me. I don’t know if I will ever feel as though I am a courageous person. But as long as courage continues to find me, I think I will be okay.

~
Thoughts about silence

“Silence is golden” is a proverbial saying, often used in circumstances when it is thought that saying nothing is preferable to speaking.

Silence is a powerful thing. While the virtues of silence are quite useful in areas of meditation, religion, and philosophy, the bonds of silence can also be used to threaten, subjugate, and destroy. When used to control and manipulate those without power and influence, it becomes less of a virtue and transforms into a cruel instrument of despotism.

Society teaches children, almost from birth, that they should “shush,” “be quiet,” “listen to (adults),” “stop being so noisy,” etc, etc, etc. The constant bombardment of the message to be quiet forces a child to abandon their inherent need to express themselves. It reinforces the doctrine that adults are always to be obeyed, and any objection is not only ignored, but often actively punished.

How bitter and painful it is, then, for an adult survivor of childhood sexual abuse to hear the words “why didn’t you say anything?” For many survivors, the truth is NOT that they CHOSE silence; instead the truth is that there was no OTHER choice besides silence.

In the face of childhood abuse, particularly childhood sexual abuse, silence serves to protect everyone BUT the child. Silence allows the perpetrator to continue abusing. Silence allows family and friends to remain ignorant of the crime being committed against their children. Silence enables an abuse to escape justice, and condemns the victim to a lifetime of pain and suffering.

Why should there be any effort to speak out against childhood abuse? Many might argue that abuse is not that bad; it does not cause physical deformity; it does not cause visible crippling of the body; it is not the same (or any worse) than an act of violence. I argue, however, that in many ways it is worse than any crippling physical injury. Sexual abuse against a child tears and frays the very fabric of a child’s world. It creates a self-perpetuating wound that damages the entire existence of childhood awareness. It continues to affect every aspect of a victim’s adulthood as well. The wounds are invisible, for the most part, and even that robs the victim of the compassion awarded by society to those suffering from physical scars.

Most victims of sexual abuse suffer for years, if not decades, before finding the strength and courage to disclose the truth about their abuse. In that interim of time, however, the after-effects of the abuse filter into every corner of their life. These effects can be as dramatic as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, flashbacks, substance abuse, and self-harming behavior. Some effects are milder, such as relationship dysfunction, sleeping difficulties, and obsessive-compulsive or controlling urges. The severity of these vary from victim to victim due to the unique nature of the abuse they endured and their natural abilities to cope with trauma.

Because silence creates the chains that bind a victim into pain and suffering, breaking the silence about abuse has the opposite effect. Telling the truth about the experience restores power to a victim. It shatters the illusion that was created so long ago that the abused had no RIGHT to the truth. Truth, with a capital “T” possesses power in and off itself.

When truth is no longer hidden; when it is embraced fully; it abolishes the prison of silence. It gives the victim of abuse the freedom to CHOOSE healing over pain. Make no mistake, healing MUST be chosen–it will not happen on its own, without any effort by the victim. But that cannot happen until and unless the truth is acknowledged. And to acknowledge the truth, you must break your silence.

Silence is not golden when it has been used as a means of entrapment and cruelty. Silence is not golden when its’ very existence allows criminal trauma against a human being to go unchecked and unpunished. Silence is not golden when it allows those responsible for the protection of children to remain safely ensconced in ignorance and denial.

Acknowledge the truth.

Break the silence.

Begin to heal.

Because silence is NOT golden.

~

Good Bones

Many years ago, a friend of mine asked me to participate in a writing exercise with her. The assignment was to visualize my life as a house, using that metaphor to describe my collective experiences. What did my house look like? What did it smell like? How many rooms did it have? Had it been taken care of? Was there damage, and if so, what kind? It was a challenging and painful process, and much more complicated than I could have anticipated.

I recently discovered the description I wrote of my “house” in a dusty, unmarked box of papers previously lost somewhere in storage. The words on that yellowed piece of paper describe a gutted, dark place. It was a place with broken doors and windows, graffiti on the walls, missing floorboards, and the dank odor of mold in the air. That house was falling down around your very feet, and the sorry state of disrepair infused it wholly with melancholy and grief.

I can’t help but be moved by the amount of pain I was in as a young adult. Throughout my childhood, I had suffered various forms of abuse that all left their own unique scars, in one form or another. My heart aches for the lost, lonely, hurting person I was, and how hopeless and bleak the future appeared to me then. Of course, I am no longer that person; I have grown, changed, matured, healed, and developed new skills for creating the kind of life that I want to live—as a result, my house is very different now.

As I read my long-ago words now, however, I am reminded of a phrase that I have heard often when describing certain buildings and homes: “good bones.” A person that says a house had “good bones” may be describing a variety or combination of characteristics: architecture, age, foundation, history, and quality. They may also be describing a feeling, impression, or overall sense of the collective past that has permeated the very structure of the building. It can be felt, almost as a physical presence, in every room.

I see a clear correlation between “good bones” as it applies to the physical structure of a house, and the collective mind, body, and experiences that make up this gloriously complicated thing we call Life. A life that has good bones has been built brick by brick using courage, faith, love, heart, strength, flexibility, and resilience. It can be seen and felt, even when the exterior has suffered damage. Good bones will show through, despite cracks, holes, broken glass, and missing fixtures.

Good bones remain, no matter what the condition of the outside walls, the interior carpeting, or the window frames. Good bones are not reliant on the surface materials, but rather the inner structure and the framework that allows the home to remain standing, long after weaker dwellings have crumbled into dust. Good bones hold up the home even with the looming threat of a wrecking ball, and provide the stability with which to rebuild, time and again, despite so many challenges.

If you were to ask me now what my House looks like, this is what I would say:

This is my House.

It is humble, and small, but you will never find a sturdier place filled with love. Each room, each piece of furniture has been chosen for its comfort, stability, and resilience. You will also see damaged areas that have been lovingly rebuilt.

You will see freshly washed windows letting in the streaming sunlight. You will see tread worn wooden floors that have been buffed and sanded and carefully restored. You will see a small but inviting front step that lacks flash and panache, but nevertheless is friendly and comforting. Inside you will find a library overflowing with numerous titles, including classics, shameless romance, science fiction, biographies, and various other eclectic selections—each one a reflection of the vast curiosity that infuses my world.

In my House, you will be welcomed and treated cordially at your first visit, and should you prove to be a kind guest, I will gladly extend my hospitality to you at any time. However, I have rebuilt and restored and recovered from damage that was done long ago, and I am quite protective over my home. I do not take callous, unkind treatment lightly, and do not extend myself to those that cannot or do not know how to behave lovingly.

My House had Good Bones.

What is your House like? Does it need repair? Is it all flash and glitz? Is there strength and endurance built into the frame? Is it elegant and stylish, down-to-earth and simple, or glamorous and sophisticated? As you think (and perhaps even write) about what makes up your “house,” dig deep and discover how good your bones really are.

~

R & R

I forget to take a break sometimes. I get so caught up in writing, in sharing my story, in encouraging others to do the same, that I feel as though I am adrift, floating without direction on a sea of uncertainty. Perhaps uncertainty isn’t the right word, but it feels like I am just skimming along the surface, saying and doing things that have no deep, intrinsically valuable meaning.

All of my life I have sought the truth. There is nothing valuable without truth. And I am particularly hard on myself when it comes to telling the truth. I force myself to say what is real, what is true, because I am nothing if I cannot tell the truth. My message loses meaning if I neglect to be honest.

Part of being honest means that I stay aware of when I need to take a break.

Pushing on after I feel drained and empty of direction is not in my best interest. I have to fight with the guilt of feeling that I am somehow letting someone down. So much time spent on trying to help other people, and I still feel guilty about taking any time for myself. It gets burdensome to carry that legacy. But then again, if I did not admit that I felt that way, I would not be embracing the truth. Ironic, isn’t it?

~

Polonius Had A Good Point

One of the most famous lines from Shakespeare’s Hamlet is often misquoted: “This above all things, to thine own self be true” is often attributed to Hamlet, but was actually spoken by Polonius, Hamlet’s slightly unbalanced girlfriend’s father. There is a world of meaning and deep truth to be found in that one simple line.

I write about truth a lot, because I think it’s critically important during recovery from abuse. In fact, it’s so important, I believe it is the key to healing. Sexual abuse steals the truth from us–it teaches us to silence our voices, to hide our pain, to pretend to be what we are not. Until we embrace the truth, we cannot connect with our childhood trauma and betrayal. Unless we face the truth in all of its’ cruelty, we cannot release our pain. It is not the abuse victim that says “Oh, no, that never happened to me,” that gets better. It is the survivor that declares “I was hurt, and this is how it has affected me,” that heals.

Facing the truth is not just important when it comes to the subject of abuse. In order to live genuinely, to be fully in the present moment, we must be brave enough to accept the truth of our entire life. We must courageously look at both our strengths and our flaws. We must search for the truth behind our motivations, and analyze what is in our best interests as well as what is harming us. Without the bright light of the truth in our lives, we are just play-acting–pretending to be who we think we should be.

Keeping the truth in high regard in your life frees you from the burden of striving to be what you are not. Your fear, your pain, your self-hatred will try to tell you that you are nothing more than a shameful victim–but that is not true. You may truthfully feel that way, but it is not all that you are. There is no one, ten, or even a hundred words, that sums up everything that we are. The truth is that we are complex, intricate creatures with virtues and faults, with strengths and weaknesses. If we strive always to focus on one or the other, we cannot grow emotionally, intellectually, or spiritually.

We must fight for the truth every day, because that gives us the power to change. Telling the truth–especially to yourself–becomes a habit over time. It takes practice, not to mention a lot of commitment to embracing (not enjoying) even unpleasant truths, because there is power even in the truth that we don’t like. You just have to be willing to accept it.

I wish I could say that I’m speaking from a place where embracing the truth has become easy and effortless–but I am not. There are no rainbows and unicorns and magic wonderlands here. Its hard work. On a daily basis I tackle the truth: am I being sincere? why did I react that way? should I apologize? …. That is not to say that I do nothing but second-guess myself, which actually, I do, but that is beside the point. I do try to be as honest as possible with both myself and everyone around me. By working hard to do that, I can feel more confident that I am living my life the way that I should.

The old saying “the truth shall set you free” only works if you are willing to accept and embrace it. Look deep inside yourself. Shine the brightest possible light on the truth. Face what you are afraid of and celebrate what you are proud of. Truth is your key to unlocking the past, as well as the door to your future.

~