The holidays approach - good news; bad news

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. Here's a link to a list of resources. 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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It's been awhile since I've posted on this blog, or most of my others, either. That is due in great part to the fact that my laptop is dying. I can use it for word processing, working on my 100K word memoir, and using Excel to track the chapters, word count, etc. However, if I go online, even briefly, my whole system freezes and  usually crashes. I've run every anti-viral and anti-malware I can find, but nothing shows up. So, I'm saving up for a new laptop, and I'm using my partner's laptop when she's taking a break or when she's sleeping. This is one of those moments - I took her to the ER yesterday, and they confirmed what I suspected - she has pneumonia. So she's resting quite a bit. Bonus for me - actual online time, more than a few minutes!

So much is going on right now, and any survivor knows that events don't happen in a vacuum. If there is crisis or significant change - even positive change - it tends to resonate with the past to some degree, and we often end up re-visiting truths we've learned, or insights we've reached. Such is the case in my current situation.

The months of November and December tend to be challenging months for me. And really, it's mostly the latter half of November that's rough; the first half has historically been relatively okay. This year, that's changed, because November 11th will be six months since my mother died, and November 13th would have been my mother's 70th birthday.

During the holiday season, my mom and my step-dad drank even more than usual. Countless times I was left alone, freezing, either in a car while Mom was drinking in a bar, or on the floor of her office after she passed out, or even shut away in an unheated storage room while my mother and step-father had a Christmas party to which I was most definitely NOT invited. Getting really cold is enough to trigger me, even without the other aspects added in.

I am preparing for some very hard physical labor, getting ready for a delightful gift from the universe. My daughter, who had been living in Oklahoma with her former fiance, is now visiting a close friend in Alberta (Canada). Canadian immigration officials told Jen she can stay until November 28th, but must leave Canada by then. At that point, Jen will probably be coming home to Seattle.

This is fantastic news! I haven't actually seen or touched my daughter in years, and I miss her terribly. I need to clear out room in our tiny, tiny apartment, so she has room to crash on the futon and still have space for her luggage and such. Leslie would normally assist with some of this, but she was told by the doc who diagnosed her pneumonia that she needs to take it easy for about a month. Well, that leaves me.

I myself am fighting a lingering sore throat and a hacking cough with fever. It's not pneumonia - or at least not yet. I asked the nurse in the ER about my chances of catching the pneumonia bug that Leslie has, and she said something less than 50/50. I really don't have time to be sick, so I'm visualizing my immune system valiantly fighting any and all bacterial or viral invaders. I cannot and will not think of pneumonia as being "inevitable" for me. Our thoughts quite literally shape reality, so I'm very conscious of my thought patterns in this regard.

And speaking of thought patterns, I've been challenged by a newly recovered memory and associated flashbacks that I knew, on some level, were coming. I've been blocking these for a very long time, but it's clearly time for the emotional toxins to surface so they can be washed away. My challenge currently is finding a way to talk about the details - just with my therapist, even. This is so bad that it leaves me feeling dehumanized. And while I need to give voice to this particular atrocity, so that I can begin to grieve and heal, I am hesitant, fearing I will wound the soul of whomever learns of this particular event.

I suppose if I can survive the revelation that one of my alters is a ghost, then I can probably survive this latest detail. But it will take some time and some careful tiptoeing around the emotional minefield, particularly during the upcoming holidays. I remind myself that I've already survived the worst they could do to me; now it's just a matter of processing the memories, feeling the agonizing grief, and moving forward.

The memoir has come along nicely. I've been doing layers of editing, working hard to include all that's relevant and adds to the story, but working to come in at  a maximum of 100,000 words for a final count. The work isn't always easy, but it is certainly compelling. It's as if the writing is moving through me, like a deep and torrential river. I couldn't hold it back even if I wanted to, at this point.

I was deeply disappointed and moved to tears when I learned that Oprah had a multiple on her October 6th show. Nothing against the "housewife multiple," but I think my story is unique and compelling. I have moved beyond mere survival, and offer support to others in whatever way I can. I am ordained clergy, a Reiki Master healer, writer and facilitator, and much more. Perhaps when my book publishes, Oprah's people will give me a call. I've submitted my information to them THREE times previously.

Another idea for a project that has popped up, rather insistently, is doing a series of YouTube videos on life as a multiple. Among singletons, there is a great deal of misconception, stigma and fear surrounding dissociation. Frankly, it's a fascinating subject. Even if just from the mind-body perspective, there is a wealth of information we all can learn from how multiples "work."

So... that's the latest and greatest. Blessings to you for reading this posting. May your day be interwoven with gentle ribbons of laughter.

The Truth Will Set Me Free

(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.

Here's a link to a list of resources.

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.

Blessings to each and every one of you.

Jo

Memories - Bubbling to the Surface...

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.

Here's a link to a list of resources.

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.

Embrace the Truth to Release the Past

see more Emo and LOL Cat pictures


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.


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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.