WARNING: This blog is written by an adult survivor of severe childhood abuse. While specific graphic details are not offered, it is entirely possible that this material may be uncomfortable for some readers. If you have any doubt as to whether this may “trigger” you or make you feel unsafe in any way, please STOP reading and click elsewhere. If, while reading this or at any other time, you find yourself feeling unsafe or contemplating hurting yourself, please IMMEDIATELY contact a crisis line or mental health professional. Please – be safe, and be well.
If you or anyone you know is having a crisis and feeling alone or potentially unsafe, please consider using one of these resources. You'll notice there are organizations around the globe, including LGBT-targeted groups like PFLAG, and groups for survivors of different kinds of violence.
Please know that I care, and many people in your life care. It's a sign of true strength to reach out if you're hurting; people want to offer their support. You are NOT alone.
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As I've been dealing with memories long held in the deep recesses of my mind, it's been all too easy to focus on how painful this process is, and not stop to think about how thankful I should be. The very challenges with which I'm dealing (repressed memories, Dissociative Identity Disorder and all it entails) are also the very things that allowed me to make it out of my childhood alive. Without them, I doubt very much that I would have survived. And, if I had survived, I doubt very much that I would have any significant degree of functioning in daily life.
I am learning once again to make peace with the pieces of my puzzle. Each exists for a reason, even if at present I don't recognize what that reason is. Each survivor has their own unique method of coping with the horrors; mine are extreme, in response to extreme circumstances. To expect anything less would be unreasonable.
There is much churning within me, and I sense there will soon be a new blog posting on Multiple Insights; perhaps more than one posting, as there are many voices. But I want to post here as well, and "own" my process. It's not easy to be thankful for the complex (and sometimes very frustrating) system that evolved in response to horrific circumstances - but it is vital that I give recognition and thanks.
By any reasonable standard, I really should never have survived to adulthood. As an infant, I had the Mumps, Measles, and Chicken Pox, all in the first year of life. Ear infections soon thereafter, and assorted other trials. As soon as I learned to walk, I began sleepwalking (all the way out the front door and toward the highway, according to my mother). That says much about my desire to escape the abuse that began so early in life, that I truly cannot determine the point of its genesis. Within my dissociative structure, the alters include little ones, include a pre-verbal child, so obviously something was quite wrong from an early age.
For the moment, however, I am trying to focus on the positive aspects of my situation. And in so doing, I've had a powerful epiphany. I have begun accounting for the enormous amount of energy that is expended in keeping the memories, knowingness and pain at bay. I realize that as I heal these deepest wounds, these most horrific secrets, the energy will be freed to be used in other, more constructive ways.
On Twitter, I posted this recently: "I am Becoming... I am gestating the full, true Spirit within me - I have seen it, and I weep at its beauty." The depth of truth in this statement is beyond words. Especially as I shed the layers of detritus and unwanted baggage, I am awestruck by the wonders of which I will be capable...
Wishing everyone peace for the holidays and beyond! Jo (et al)
WARNING: This blog is written by an adult survivor of severe childhood abuse. While specific graphic details are not offered, it is entirely possible that this material may be uncomfortable for some readers. If you have any doubt as to whether this may “trigger” you or make you feel unsafe in any way, please STOP reading and click elsewhere. If, while reading this or at any other time, you find yourself feeling unsafe or contemplating hurting yourself, please IMMEDIATELY contact a crisis line or mental health professional. Please – be safe, and be well.
If you or anyone you know is having a crisis and feeling alone or potentially unsafe, please consider using one of these resources. You'll notice there are organizations around the globe, including LGBT-targeted groups like PFLAG, and groups for survivors of different kinds of violence.
Please know that I care, and many people in your life care. It's a sign of true strength to reach out if you're hurting; people want to offer their support. You are NOT alone.
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For those who've read some or all previous entries in this blog, you know that my background includes rather horrific abuse endured as a child. It's a sad fact that I am not alone in this respect; child abuse (in its many heinous guises) is an undercurrent in our culture. And when I was a child, there were few protections for children who were being abused. It was "private family business," however parents wanted to treat their children.
I endured horrific physical, emotional, and sexual abuse as a child. This included numerous strangulations by my step-father; he'd choke me into unconsciousness and then wait for me to wake back up - only to do it all over again.
I managed to live through all of this, but I was also expected to perform like a perfect little girl, getting straight-As in school, and never complaining or drawing attention to myself. As one might imagine, it's rather difficult to endure horrific abuse and then, only a few hours later, wake up and go to school with a pasted-on smile in place.
In previous therapy work, I learned that the most intelligent and creative children find a rather unique way to cope with circumstances like these. It's called Dissociation. And we all do it, to one degree or another. Have you ever driven to work, or a friend's house, and realized you don't really remember the drive over? It's often referred to as "autopilot." While "you" are busy thinking or processing something internally, there's another sub-level that takes over the action of driving.
Well, in my case, I developed dissociation as a way to cope with circumstances so horrifying no adult should ever have to face them - and many children couldn't even have survived. Many children who are so horrifically abused give up the will to live, fail to thrive, and then die for "no identifiable reason." Still others withdraw so far into themselves, they may spend all or part of their lives in a vegetative state, unable and unwilling to interact with a very frightening world.
We who dissociate learn to have "someone else" inside us be there when the abuse is taking place. Or, perhaps another way to look at is that we are there when the abuse is happening, but "somebody else" gets up the next morning and puts on a smile and a frilly dress for school.
I was diagnosed in 1991 with what was then known as Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD), now known as Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). Whatever you call it, it looks about the same. Within me, I contain a Tribe...
A new blog has been created that deals specifically with life as a Dissocative. You can find it at THIS link.
The decision to come "out" about this has been contemplated for some time. My hope is that in so doing, I can not only facilitate my own healing, but perhaps help others living with DID or other forms of dissociation.
(Yes, I know "Luka" is an old song - but its potency remains, even after decades. And it's so very relevant for me, and other survivors of CSA or PA, or especially those of us who endured the potpourri of CSA, PA, EA, PSA, and every damn other "A" that was possible in childhood...)
WARNING: This blog is written by an adult survivor of severe childhood abuse. While specific graphic details are not offered, it is entirely possible that this material may be uncomfortable for some readers. If you have any doubt as to whether this may “trigger” you or make you feel unsafe in any way, please STOP reading and click elsewhere. If, while reading this or at any other time, you find yourself feeling unsafe or contemplating hurting yourself, please IMMEDIATELY contact a crisis line or mental health professional. Please – be safe, and be well.
If you or anyone you know is having a crisis and feeling alone or potentially unsafe, please consider using one of these resources. You'll notice there are organizations around the globe, including LGBT-targeted groups like PFLAG, and groups for survivors of different kinds of violence.
Please know that I care, and many people in your life care. It's a sign of true strength to reach out if you're hurting; people want to offer their support. You are NOT alone.
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I've been approaching this point, a place of crossroads in my life. I'm faced with a very well-delineated choice about speaking my whole truth, and refusing to be silenced on the most powerful, potentially controversial and even (perhaps) dangerous truth of my situation. Not dangerous to anyone else, mind you, but dangerous for myself.
The idea of speaking this truth publicly scares me so badly that I can barely breathe... And yet I know that until and unless I make that choice, based in courage and free will, my strength will be compromised. I will otherwise spend the rest of my life struggling to contain an explosive truth, one that it's taken everything to contain - at any cost - up to now.
Additionally, I've come to the realization that the resources I've used for decades to contain this information are no longer adequate for the task. Full containment is no longer possible. Thus, I can voluntarily choose to speak my truth, and perhaps help others in the process, or I can wait for the inevitable scenario in which it comes to light in a way for which I'm ill prepared. Clearly, the former choice has merits over the latter.
And so, the decision has been made, and a foundation has been created for the revelation of this truth. Monday, October 9, 2009, you can check either my Twitter page or this blog page for a link to a resource that will illuminate this murky mystery. A few of my close friends on Twitter have already had a chance to review the information, and the feedback thus far has been very positive (though admittedly limited in its scope).
It is my deepest hope that in making this decision, by stepping fully into the light and speaking the truth about my life, my experiences, that perhaps I can assist a few other people who live with similar challenges. If I accomplish that, then it will have been worth it, no matter what anyone else says or thinks.
I plan to spend the weekend in quiet contemplation, as much as possible, though Saturday afternoon my spouse and I are going to see Lord Of the Dance for a matinee performance. I choose to see the performance as rather like a celebration - of many things, perhaps. But chiefly among them are my strength, my courage, and my willingness to admit that I am moving forward not because I feel no fear, but that I am moving forward in spite of it.
WARNING: This blog is written by an adult survivor of severe childhood abuse. While specific graphic details are not offered, it is entirely possible that this material may be uncomfortable for some readers. If you have any doubt as to whether this may “trigger” you or make you feel unsafe in any way, please STOP reading and click elsewhere. If, while reading this or at any other time, you find yourself feeling unsafe or contemplating hurting yourself, please IMMEDIATELY contact a crisis line or mental health professional. Please – be safe, and be well.
If you or anyone you know is having a crisis and feeling alone or potentially unsafe, please consider using one of these resources. You'll notice there are organizations around the globe, including LGBT-targeted groups like PFLAG, and groups for survivors of different kinds of violence.
Please know that I care, and many people in your life care. It's a sign of true strength to reach out if you're hurting; people want to offer their support. You are NOT alone.
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"Children's talent to endure stems from their ignorance of alternatives." - Maya Angelou
Childhood memories… Most adults can simply think back through accumulated childhood memory “data,” and review what happened in their young lives. This review virtually always includes elements and experiences that are poignant or sad. For those children who were allowed to process their childhood experiences at the time they took place, the associated feelings were able to be processed, at least to some degree, at the time of the original experiences. Many children suffered great losses, via the death of a loved one, an abrupt change in the family structure, or other significant and painful changes or other stressors, and these losses are an inherent part of their childhood memories.
For others, however, one’s childhood can be a vast wasteland of the Unknown. Until I was in my 20s, I didn’t remember anything in my childhood prior to age 14. It was as if I suddenly appeared, fully formed at that age, and from there, moved forward through adolescence and onwards toward adulthood. Since it was all I had known, I assumed most or all of my peers experienced something similar; I knew no other model.
In my 20s, I was sexually assaulted by someone I knew and (wrongly) thought I could trust. The assault was so extreme that I had bruises literally from my head to my toes, and I was bleeding from several locations. I endured over six hours of violence, and only when the guy passed out was I able to crawl away, find my clothing, and drive myself home, crying all the way. This was in 1987; still the Dark Ages for sexual assault victims.
On some instinctive level, I knew there was NO way I could endure the horrific invasiveness ~and~ the callous disregard that was typical for that era’s processing of a Rape Kit. I drove myself home, and stood under the shower, sobbing hysterically until the hot water ran out. The man who had assaulted me was the son of an Ambassador to the United States, and I knew even if had tried to have him prosecuted, he would have found refuge under the Diplomatic Immunity umbrella. Fortunately, since we lived in different parts of the state, it easy to avoid seeing him in the future.
In the aftermath of that assault, I found myself unspeakably angry. Not just at the man who had assaulted me, but in a much broader sense. I was angry at the world at large, it seemed. Frankly, my reaction terrified me, because until then, I’d kept my anger bottled up tight in a dark place within me, a place that even I had never previously explored.
I decided I needed help to deal with the anger, and so began therapy. In the course of this work, I gradually allowed myself to face the painful truth that I’d grown up as a child of an alcoholic (my mother). This insight led me to Adult Children of Alcoholics (ACOA), whose meetings I attended for well over a year. A very helpful organization based on the 12-steps that are the foundation of Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), ACOA provided a much-needed sense of community. I was able to connect with others whose adult lives had been shaped by the instability and outright danger that are inherent in the life of any child whose parent(s) is/are alcoholic.
(NOTE: I’d left home at the age of 14 because of my mother’s pronounced alcoholism. I knew I needed to leave that environment or I’d “go crazy or die,” as I told my biological father. The particulars of my exodus from my mother’s household are a story in themselves, one I won’t bother to tell in this posting – however, look for it either in future blog postings, or certainly in my upcoming book…)
A few years later, as I approached the age of 30, I found myself in a state of pronounced anxiety and depression. I couldn’t understand or even pinpoint the origins of this unease. Returning once again to therapy, I asked for help in addressing these issues. And thus began the work of opening my own personal Pandora’s Box…
As the work continued, I found myself dealing with an onslaught of images that were like something out of a truly awful horror film, one in which my childhood self was the central figure. Unbidden, and certainly not “suggested” by my therapist, the flashbacks were vivid, very specific, and absolutely repugnant. Over time, I learned that these were recovered memories, experiences so horrible that my young self had simply shelved them. It was impossible for me to retain conscious knowledge of these experiences and also be the “perfect” little girl who was expected to get straight A’s in school – and who was punished severely for even the most minor transgression.
I spent years making peace with these recovered memories, and the broader issues surrounding their creation. During this time, I stopped speaking to my mother entirely. She’d long professed her claim that my childhood was idyllic, and that it was I who was a troublemaker and a problem for HER. She certainly was no alcoholic, for God’s sake – at least not in HER mind. I’d learned enough to understand that I was never going to change my mother, so I stopped trying. And for my own sanity, I simply gave up any contact with her, because it was such a toxic experience.
I continued the work on my issues for a number of years, and got to a place where things were relatively stable, and I felt pretty healthy. I’d gained a lot of insight on my own experiences, and how best to move forward after acquiring the explosive and previously forbidden memories of my childhood.
Eventually, I pursued in-depth spiritual studies as a way to find not just the answers, but the much more important questions. Years of self-study and informal classes in spiritual matters led me to a Multi-Cultural Shamanic apprenticeship, which I undertook for the period of a year. At the end of this, I was ordained as clergy, and I was also attuned as a Reiki Master healer and teacher. And yet, the more I’ve learned, the more I realize that the universe is a vast, mysterious and wonderful place. There are endless volumes of information about what I don’t yet know. I have a deep respect for each person’s spiritual path – that which calls to them is right for them, and I don’t believe anyone has a right to second-guess that. A sense of humility underlies my own practice and approach to healing and spirituality.
For a year or more, I’ve felt a deep sense of unease throughout the depths of my psyche. I’ve known also that the roots of this unease were tied to life events which took place in early childhood – events of which I had very little recollection, or none whatsoever. I’ve found myself dodging the feelings, and having very little interest in what was behind them. On some instinctive level, I know that the foundation of these feelings is substantial, and something that threatens to shift my entire world in ways that I cannot anticipate, and for which I’m not prepared.
During my adult life, I’ve learned that many or most of the moments and influences during my childhood were not something I could simply “remember” like most people. And the more extreme the experience, the more pronounced the containment features that were put in place to prevent me from consciously knowing the information, then or even now – at least, until recently. Yet, rather like a nuclear waste repository within a mountain, eventually the containment breaks down.
The flashbacks have begun unbidden, intruding on my consciousness in ways that are disruptive, unpleasant, and quite surreal. These are the “worst of the worst,” so horrible as to truly be something I cannot attempt to describe, even in the broadest terms, without a very real risk of psychic or emotional damage to the reader or listener. Additionally, I’ve found that even some experiences which I’ve been able to recall for a brief time are often re-submerged into the inky depths of my psyche after an initial, brief appearance in my conscious knowingness. After horrific flashbacks, I’ll talk about them with my partner, or write about them in my journal or book, and then the memory dissipates from my conscious mind, like fog on a winter’s morning. I understand that this is a form of self-protection, and so have given up on my insistence that the memories stay available to me at this point.
I’ve come to the realization that all of my learning, all of the time I’ve spent in therapy, all of my spiritual training, all of my training as a Peer Counselor – all of my life experiences and knowledge, period – have brought me to this place. I am now faced with the most difficult work of my entire life. It is scarier than anything I have known or attempted previously, and I’m not ashamed to say that some days I simply don’t want to “go there.” I also know that I’m better off not making this journey of exploration and recovery without assistance, especially given all I’ve learned about my own rather complex coping mechanisms.
I will be working with a psychiatrist to fine-tune the anti-depressant piece and offer short-term assistance with the night terrors and insomnia, as well as the most extreme PTSD anxiety I’ve ever experienced. Many days, I find myself in an adrenaline overload, shaking, nauseated, and confused. I’m not someone to reach for medication as an answer to life’s everyday issues, but in this case I would be negligent in my self-care if I didn’t ask for the resources that are so obviously needed in the short term.
Finding a psychiatrist who both takes my insurance ~and~ who’s willing to deal with my particular set of issues has been a real challenge. The first doctor I consulted, after a rather exhaustive search, is now known in our household as “Doctor Asshat.” The guy talked a good game, and then – after two sessions – proceeded to inform me that he didn’t even know how to bill insurance, and so couldn’t see me anymore. (He still has my insurance card, even after multiple requests for its return. I’ll be contacting the State Medical Board about him.)
I am also looking for a therapist who is a good fit for my particular experiences. I need someone who can manage their counter-transference, especially, since I have ended up feeling like I have to “protect” other therapists in the past. The experiences I’ve had are so bad that I’ve had previous therapists in tears, even when I describe them in broad terms, omitting as much detail as possible. This time around, things promise to be even bumpier, and I need to have the freedom to vent (at least to some degree) without having to worry about “taking care of” the person who’s helping me to negotiate the dark wilderness of these recovered memories.
In honor of the many people who are not just survivors, but whose lives are filled with purpose, laughter, questions, tears and determination - in other words, a mixed bag of real, genuine emotions that real, genuine people are "supposed" to have...
I have created a social network, entitled "Transcendent Survivors," which can be reached by clicking http://transcendentsurvivors.ning.com/, or by clicking on the black "badge" box you'll see to your right, with a purple and black butterfly.
My hope is that we can co-create a community of survivors who share ideas on how to live beyond that which which we have survived, and become Transcendent to include its deepest meaning.
Wishing everyone a week filled with moments of joy and insight.
If you or anyone you know is having a crisis and feeling alone or potentially unsafe, please consider using one of the resources in the link below. You'll notice there are organizations around the globe, including LGBT-targeted groups like PFLAG, and groups for survivors of different kinds of violence.
Please know that I care, and many people in your life care. It's a sign of true strength to reach out if you're hurting; people want to offer their support. You are NOT alone.
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"Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at it destination full of hope." - Maya Angelou
The following is a note written to me by my beloved. I awoke one day to discover her getting ready to head out the door for a few errands. She told me to check my e-mail, for she'd sent me a message.
A bit nervous, but very curious, I pulled up my mail and read what she had to say. I was blown away. The compassion, love and tenderness are all so obviously a part of who she is and how she relates to me. I was moved to tears, but in an uplifting way.
I work hard to ensure that much of the worst ugliness that is inherently part of my current process of healing and recovery is kept away from her, out of the light of day.
Still, as always, she is a perceptive partner, lover, and best friend. I could never ask for anything more, for her insight and compassion are gifts beyond measure.
Below is the text she sent me. After reading it, perhaps you'll understand why I'm feeling so very touched, deeply blessed, and unconditionally loved...
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"As I sit here, I am watching you sleep, peaceful yet restless. All I can think of is how much I love you. You are my life and my love, you are my capturer yet also my freer. I am so in love with you that I get extremely agitated with myself and the English language...that there are no words to convey the depth of my feelings for you. I love you with all my heart and all my soul... you are my everything.
I ache for you and what you are going through at this time, I wish there was something I could do for you. I want you to know that I am here, that I love you deeply and that my shoulder(s) are big enough for you to lean on, cry on, laugh on and get comfort on them. I wish I could take all your pain and anger away, to a place far far away - in a locked box buried deep in the ground so that they can never find their way back to you.
Please let me be a source of safety and comfort to you and for you...that is what I ask of you. I love you with all of my being....and I am here for you in any way you feel and/or see fit. You mean the world to me and I am willing, able and ready to be here for you. Please know that I love you with every fiber of my being. I vowed to love you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health.....I am going to honor the vows we took, 'till death do us part."
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Tears of joy, and of gratitude, have been freely flowing. I am very aware just how fortunate I am to have this powerful, unconditional love in my life; a gift freely given.
Bless you, my Beloved Yelo Bear - my heart belongs only to you.
WARNING: This blog is written by an adult survivor of severe childhood abuse. While specific graphic details are not offered, it is entirely possible that this material may be uncomfortable for some readers. If you have any doubt as to whether this may “trigger” you or make you feel unsafe in any way, please STOP reading and click elsewhere. If, while reading this or at any other time, you find yourself feeling unsafe or contemplating hurting yourself, please IMMEDIATELY contact a crisis line or mental health professional. Please – be safe, and be well.
If you or anyone you know is having a crisis and feeling alone or potentially unsafe, please consider using one of these resources. You'll notice there are organizations around the globe, including LGBT-targeted groups like PFLAG, and groups for survivors of different kinds of violence.
Please know that I care, and many people in your life care. It's a sign of true strength to reach out if you're hurting; people want to offer their support. You are NOT alone.
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"The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned." - Maya Angelou
There is a pervasive myth that children who endured horrific abuse - be it sexual, physical, verbal, emotional, or some combination thereof - inevitably grow up to continue the cycle of abuse by victimizing children once they become old enough to do so.
While there certainly are many individuals who meet these criteria, many other survivors (more than half, I would say, based on years of conversations with other survivors) go on to lead lives in which they use their heightened sensitivity to develop and demonstrate compassion to their friends and family, and to the world at large.
I have found the courage to say "This is what happened to me, and yes, it's more horrible than you can even imagine." Having said that, I refuse to own the shame - it belongs with those that committed the atrocities.
While I do the incredibly hard work of dealing with the newly-recovered memories and flashbacks, I will bend but not break. Even on my toughest days, you'll still find me laughing heartily (and genuinely) at life in general, and often at myself.
I had a powerful dream the other night, one in which I was walking through a military hospital ward. The men and women who serve this country serve with honor and distinction. If they're fortunate enough to come back from overseas, they are changed forever - often physically; always emotionally and spiritually. Their sacrifices and bravery are worthy of deep respect. Although I will never wear a military uniform, I can aspire to such courage as they demonstrate.
I am speaking my truth, and refusing to back down, though this work is the scariest thing I've ever done. But if in so doing I will have helped even ONE person - especially a child who doesn't know where to turn - my courage will have been well worth it, and I'll gladly shed all the tears again.
WARNING: This blog is written by an adult survivor of severe childhood abuse. While specific graphic details are not offered, it is entirely possible that this material may be uncomfortable for some readers. If you have any doubt as to whether this may “trigger” you or make you feel unsafe in any way, please STOP reading and click elsewhere. If, while reading this or at any other time, you find yourself feeling unsafe or contemplating hurting yourself, please IMMEDIATELY contact a crisis line or mental health professional. Please – be safe, and be well.
At one time or another, we've all had moments of sadness. But sometimes those down feelings can spiral, and threaten our very well-being and sense of safety. If you or anyone you know is having a crisis and feeling alone or potentially unsafe, please consider using one of these resources. You'll notice there are organizations around the globe, including LGBT-targed groups like PFLAG, and groups for survivors of different kinds of violence.
Please know that I care, and many people in your life care. It's a sign of true strength to reach out if you're hurting; people want to offer their support. You are NOT alone.
"A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song." - Maya Angelou
Lately, things have become like some sort of a dark funhouse ride, filled with disorienting spins and turns, sudden descents into darkness, and nothing is what it seams. Moments when I think I will be okay, that the worst is over for the day - those are when I sense a tsunamai of repressed memories rising, preparing to wash me away, along with any real sense of security and certainty about who I am, and how I ended up here. Worse, I am left with a sickened sense of uncertainty as to how to get back to the place I'd been before being pulled into the funhouse...
The horrifying memories that are surfacing, in wave after gut-wrenching wave, are so awful that at times they leave me unable to move from a curled fetal position, weeping – sometimes wailing. This, after learning early in life to cry silently, or risk truly awful consequences.
The memories themselves are truly bad, but I think it’s the secondary issues that are actually worse. Let me explain…
I am blessed to have experiences that have broadened my understanding and given me a sense of perspective, including many previous years in therapy, and my own training as a shaman, peer counselor, Reiki Master and ordained clergy. But what comes with those experiences is the deep and unassailable knowledge that these memories are so toxic, that for me to share them – even with trained mental health care professionals – inevitably, it will cause them some kind of psychic damage. I’ve actually had to change therapists twice in my life in decades previous, because the content of my recovered memories was so horrific. At least they were honest enough to admit it.
And those memories, at that point in my life? Those were the EASY ones, relatively speaking. The ones I’m dealing with now are the ones that make the worst horror movies look like a walk through Disneyland. And so, as the memories surface, I feel increasingly alone, unable and unwilling to risk hurting someone else by sharing this toxic waste in its unadulterated form. I have begun seeing a psychiatrist, finally bowing to the inevitability that, for now, it may be unwise to go through this process without some support, and antidepressants at minimum.
Those who have Diabetes, and thus need insulin to be healthy, are not mocked for their weakness. Those of us who have brain chemistry that is altered by life experiences, however, are seen by many as “weak” for stepping forward and saying, “Please help me.” A therapist I saw in the mid-1990s actually told me about research that indicated children who’d endured severe, repeated trauma early in life (helllooo???) have a PERMANENT change in their brain chemistry, and benefit from lifelong anti-depressant therapy.
Anyway, back to the roller-coaster ride of flashbacks and recovered memories…
My partner, bless her compassionate and loving heart, has a background in mental health, and offers to listen as I wrestle with these horrors. Even with her very respectable containment skills, I am simply adamant about my refusal to “go there” with her. I love her too much. She’s my partner, not my therapist. Yeah, I learned that one when I unconsciously tried to be a therapist to a former partner – nope, it never works.
So, what about calling a hotline? Yeah, I’ve got an online hotline bookmarked, where I can do live chat with trained volunteers, or I could always pick up the phone. But my fear is that these individuals might suspect that someone is playing a sick game – nothing THIS horrible could really have happened to a child, right? It’s hard to think of the world making sense when these things are allowed to happen. And yet, the sun rises each day, and I begin anew… As do we all…
I think another factor that’s been really messing up my head is the fear that on some level, I will be judged (by others or perhaps myself) as coming up short as far as being a spiritual person, a shaman, ordained clergy, and all the other things I have on my various business cards.
There are many out there, smug and self-important life coaches, who profess that if your life isn’t sunshine and lollipops all the time, obviously you’re just not spiritual enough, you’re lacking something on a basic level…
Well, ya know what? I cry BULLSHIT! This is my story, and I’m not apologizing for the horrifying things that happened to me, nor for my need to grieve for all I’ve lost. Sharing my story, as scary as that prospect is, is the most important work I will do in this lifetime.
WARNING: This blog is written by an adult survivor of severe childhood abuse. While specific graphic details are not offered, it is entirely possible that this material may be uncomfortable for some readers. If you have any doubt as to whether this may “trigger” you or make you feel unsafe in any way, please STOP reading and click elsewhere. If, while reading this or at any other time, you find yourself feeling unsafe or contemplating hurting yourself, please IMMEDIATELY contact a crisis line or mental health professional. Please – be safe, and be well.
Courage is the most important of all the virtues, because without courage you can't practice any other virtue consistently. You can practice any virtue erratically, but nothing consistently without courage. - Maya Angelou
It’s a widely accepted truism that one must release the past in order to embrace the future. However, sometimes it’s just not that simple. In some cases, one must be willing to fully experience the true and full reality of some past experiences and truth for the FIRST time in order to process it, grieve, and move on. For those of us who are adult survivors, this is particularly true - and even more so for anyone dealing with repressed memories.
As a child, the experiences I survived at home were so horrific that I literally had no recall of them whatsoever, even as a child. It was simply not possible to both have conscious knowledge of these atrocities and simultaneously be the quiet, virtually perfect straight-A little girl that I absolutely had to be in order to avoid additional severe beatings. And as a young adult, trying to recall my childhood before the age of about 13 was pretty much a complete blank.
When I became a mother, I had no idea of the seismic rumbling that would begin within the deepest canyons of my being. Children are wonderful – born without preconceptions, full of the knowingness that most of us lose and fight to regain or re-learn over a lifetime. At the same time, the delightful innocence and joy that are the birthright of any child remind survivors of our own past vulnerability and the irretrievable loss of these precious commodities in our own childhood. We feel a vague sense of disquiet, and cannot determine its origins.
Like many parents who are survivors of childhood abuse, I worked very hard from before my children were born to do the very best I could (at the time) to parent from a place of compassion, gentleness, and love. I had previously been told I would never have children, due to a medical condition, and had grieved mightily, only to discover a few months later that I was pregnant with my first child. It was a joyous moment, a small miracle. But it also scared the daylights out of me, because I was so very frightened that I would utterly fail in my role as a mother.
I remember shortly after I became pregnant with my daughter, I went to the library and checked out a DOZEN books on parenting. At that point, about all I could remember clearly from my childhood was my mother’s alcoholism, as well as the physical and emotional violence of my early teen years, before I left home at age 14. It was enough to motivate me to find a better parenting model to emulate.
After reading a number of parenting books, I finally settled on my “Don’t panic” rule to get me through virtually any situation. For the first few years of my daughter’s life, I quite literally asked myself what my own mother would do in a given situation, and then after determining that answer, did the exact opposite. All in all, it resulted in remarkably sound decision-making as a parent.
In the 25 years since I became a parent, I have tried to convey a consistent message to my children – namely, that I love them unconditionally. Unlike their father, I would never presume to try and tell either of them what they “should” do with their adult lives. Instead, I believe that the most meaningful measure of success is simply happiness – and the measure of that is to be determined ONLY by they themselves.
If joy can be found living as a free spirit, writing poetry and dreaming of literary and other adventures while working shifts as a barista at an espresso bar, then I support them in doing just that. If, instead, they feel drawn to a satisfying role saving lives as a neurosurgeon or firefighter, then I applaud their choice. The important thing is that they are happy, however they define it.
Being a parent has enriched my life and provided me with innumerable opportunities to grow, explore, learn, and to see the world through new eyes. It’s also provided a top-tier excuse for me to duck and weave, dodging the aching truth of my own past. I certainly don’t mean that ANYONE other than me, especially my children, is responsible for my choices as an adult. Indeed, I am and shall always remain the one and only person who can be held accountable for the path I have chosen to walk as an adult.
As I look over the timeline of my life thus far, there is a consistent pattern – one of avoidance. As a child, this made sense on some very real and substantive levels. It was far too dangerous (and painful) to risk recognition of the true agonies rooted in my childhood. (See “Thou Shalt Not Be Aware,” by Alice Miller, et al, here.)
As an adult, I am peeling back the layers of forgetting, much like the layers of an onion. Over time, that process has yielded insight, though often in bursts of excruciating awareness and overwhelming sensory overload when repressed memories yield to the pressure and burst forth into my consciousness. There is no shortage of tears, just as with an onion. Although the events themselves happened in the past, the actual awareness has proven to be extremely raw – like burned skin exposed to the sun of the African plains.
This makes sense completely, when one considers that I have consciously experienced the memories and resulting emotional impact of these early-life experiences for the FIRST time only as an adult, decades after they actually took place. And I’ve learned from care providers, mentors, research, and my own experiences that I cannot move past these events by going around them, under them, or over them. The only way past is THROUGH these experiences. I must allow myself to process the experience, feel the pain, and allow myself to recoil in horror and then grieve for all that I’ve lost – innocence, safety, and a childhood unfettered by fear, for starters.
Additionally, these experiences, which were branded too dangerous to remember at the time, went into the emotional equivalent of a deep-freeze. Events that took place when I was chronologically seven years old, for example, are initially unlocked and experienced through the lens of where I was developmentally at the time they took place. So, when I see and feel these horrors for the first time, it is through the eyes and with the fear and vulnerability of my much younger self.
Over time, as I process these experiences, I’m able to catalogue them and see them from a wiser, more mature place, safe in the knowledge that I’ve already survived the actual events themselves. Their shadows, via memories, cannot truly harm me. Initially, remembering SEEMS worse than eternal forgetfulness of these memories, but in reality it’s the only true pathway to meaningful healing.
I’ve learned to better understand and respect the stunning amount of energy that it takes to contain memories this toxic. It’s no wonder that survivors who deal with recovered memories find themselves dealing with exhaustion, confusion, headaches, and unexplained (but very real) physical and emotional complaints. The courage it takes to face these wraiths is to be applauded, and I salute and support all those facing such a battle.
In the process of recovery, one inevitably encounters those who will glibly declare that “The past is past; get over it.” And, in defense of those who would make this kind of cold-hearted and ignorant statement, they truly do not understand. While the events themselves may have happened long ago, the newly recalled experience itself is as fresh and painful as the argument we had with our spouse this morning – probably more so.
It helps to envision the Wounded Inner Child as an actual child, young and vulnerable, facing a hellish nightmare from which they cannot seem to wake or escape. I wholeheartedly hope that if the callous individuals who simply tell survivors to “Get over it” were ever faced with a biological child who was in distress, pain and fear to this degree, they would offer at least a modicum of comfort and compassion. Adult survivors deserve no less.
This is true for the inner dialogue as well. It is all too easy to wish that the memories (and the inner child him/herself) would simply fade back into the woodwork internally. As the saying goes, “What is seen cannot be unseen.” It takes enormous strength to face this kind of truth. The metaphor I’ve used to convey the horror is the image of opening up one’s lingerie drawer (or sock drawer) to discover a nest of tarantulas. The first impulse may be to slam it shut and never open it again, but it hardly solves the real problem.
A former acquiantance of mine accused me of “holding on to the pain,” when I was dealing with newly recalled atrocities. This, coming from someone who had constructed an elaborate alternate reality in which her childhood had been idyllic, and her father had endlessly doted on her. I learned later from her closest sister that in actuality, she suffered extreme abuse by her father, and was in fact borderline schizophrenic in her refusal to acknowledge the actual real world versus her elaborately constructed fantasy. In fact, she insisted to me and other people she was an architect, a secret agent, a consultant to Bill Gates, and a member of law enforcement. Admittedly, her method was a creative coping mechanism, but I didn’t believe it was superior to mine.
I believe it takes much more courage to face the pain of what actually happened than to continue running from it. Only by facing the horror head-on can I illuminate the dark corners of my psyche. In so doing, I’ve discovered that the monster under the bed can indeed be vanquished – by love and compassion, by laughter, and a steel determination to no longer be cowed by the unknown.
WARNING: This blog is written by an adult survivor of severe childhood abuse. While specific graphic details are not offered, it is entirely possible that this material may be uncomfortable for some readers. If you have any doubt as to whether this may “trigger” you or make you feel unsafe in any way, please STOP reading and click elsewhere. If, while reading this or at any other time, you find yourself feeling unsafe or contemplating hurting yourself, please IMMEDIATELY contact a crisis line or mental health professional. Please – be safe, and be well.
I’m a big believer in focusing on what’s good about life, and I generally have a low tolerance for people who whine. In any situation, there is always something for which be thankful – usually several things. Hidden blessings are numerous and ubiquitous; a shift in perspective is all it takes to find them.
Some people, though, take “positive attitude” to the extreme, and will tell anyone who’s survived some kind of harrowing experience or heartache that they’ve “created it for themselves.” Blame-the-victim mentalities are annoying at best, and emotionally abusive at worst. Would these idiots actually dare to tell a young child who’s just lived through horrific abuse at the hands of a caregiver that “It’s your own fault Daddy raped you?” I mean, for the love of all that is sacred, have some compassion and humanity!
Growing up, I endured horrific abuse the likes of which even most CSA survivors can only begin to imagine. The abuse was emotional, physical, and sexual – spiritual too, now that I think about it, for the intent behind the abuse was to destroy my very spirit, the spark of my Being. I am grateful to have survived these events, but suffice it to say that they made a lasting impression.
Of late, there seems to be an upswing in reported child abuse. More stories than ever are surfacing in mainstream media, and the good news is that the abusers within these stories have been discovered – although, in many heartbreaking cases, too late to help the child(ren) whose lives they egregiously destroyed. Lately, I have to avoid broadcast news entirely, because there are so many stories that trigger the horror of my own past, and I find myself unable to move forward.
I recently had an exchange of messages with an acquaintance on Twitter. This individual is a courageous advocate for children who have endured abuse, and I respect their work in this area. But the contention was made in a public Tweet that those who are abused inevitably continue the cycle, and go on to abuse children themselves. For me, that comment was horrifically painful to read, and I found myself very angry…
When I was a child, my mother – the physically abusive alcoholic despot who constantly told me how much she hated me – was the FUNCTIONAL parent. My stepfather, I’ve come to realize with time and research, was a psychopath. The term “recreational child abuse” is one I heard for the first time in the last few years, and it applies perfectly to Frank (my stepfather). For some of us, reading or watching TV can be a way to unwind after a long day. For people like Frank, their primary source of entertainment is the raw pain of other people – and the younger and more innocent the victim, the better.
Years and years of therapy over the intervening decades, as well as my own in-depth spiritual studies and search for deeper meaning, have yielded insight and perspective. I cannot change what has happened, but I can change how I live in the “now.” I offer myself as a compassionate friend to those who need one, and I laugh often in the face of adversity.
Still, the reality is that I have been permanently shaped, to some degree, by the events of my childhood. The trauma was so severe that I have had to change therapists on more than one occasion, because the professional involved simply could not handle the intensity. I ended up holding back, worrying about whether my therapist was okay, and in the process, restricting my own healing process. I have since learned how to better handle these kinds of details, but I am still very mindful about how toxic even the memories of these events can be.
When my children were younger and still at home, I did as much as I possibly could to shield them from the ripples that inevitably moved through my life (and thus theirs). I worked very hard at being loving and patient, even in the face of their special needs and my own frustration. I did a credible job of being a loving parent – or at least I hope I did. I tend to be pretty hyper-critical of my own parenting abilities. It’s as if on some level I am expecting myself to make amends for my own mistakes (a valid expectation), but also to make amends for all that was done to me by my own parental figures (NOT a valid expectation).
For a long time, I had virtually no skills whatsoever in the area of self-care. I made the subconscious decision that my own well-being was not important, and in so doing I ran myself ragged and ended up without much to offer anyone. Eventually, I crashed – HARD. Unable to work or function in any way, I had to rebuild my life, my sense of self, and my understanding of The Meaning of Life… or something along those lines.
Ultimately, this ended up being a precious gift, because while the doorway to the future I’d envisioned closed, windows to new possibilities opened, and I was able to pursue those things that truly interested me, not just those things that yield another paycheck. I was finally allowed the luxury of pursuing the spiritual journey that had called to me for so many years. I realized that not only did I not have the answers, I didn’t even have the right questions! Several years later, there I was - a multi-cultural shaman, Reiki master, ordained clergy, trained Peer Counselor, and more. But, ultimately, the more I learned, the more humility I acquired. As I've studied, learned and grown, I've realized just how more there is to do in all three areas.
And, just as the Zen master chops wood and carries water both before AND after enlightenment, I find myself dealing with day-to-day realities that sometimes are painful. Yes, I have much more insight now, so in that sense it’s easier. But I’m also more attuned and open, and so it’s possible for the grief to overwhelm me. I’ve learned that it is a far wiser choice to let the tears come, to grieve… And then to move on and take action in those areas where I can effect change – usually within myself, and with my own actions.
I also have a blog that deals with life as a dissociative. As someone with Dissociative Identity Disorder (what they used to call Multiple Personality Disorder), I made the decision to come "out" regarding my diagnosis.
This other blog, Dragonheart's Multiple Insights, can be found via THIS LINK.
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