Deep waters

On a cold day in December, almost five years ago, the man I was dating decided that if I wouldn't stay with him, I didn't deserve to live. We were together in his car, and it was snowing. The road was icy. He was driving - and he was screaming - he was pounding on the window, the dash, the wheel. He started hitting me, shouting that I needed to die, that we both should die, and that he would never let me go. He swerved across two lanes of traffic, in front of a loaded log-truck and onto the shoulder. He was aiming the car for the guard rail. There was a steep bank on the other side of it and who knows what at the bottom.

Time went crazy about then. I still remember it as though I was floating outside my own body, watching myself grab for the wheel and struggle to hold the car on the shoulder. Everything was too slow and too bright even though the air was grey and snow was wild on either side - the snow was outside the car and the snow was inside the car and everything was frozen; our bodies, the car, the blood running from my lip, even the sound of his scream. I was frozen - and that moment lasted forever. It was forever. It is still happening, right now, somewhere deep inside my mind. Somehow, somewhere, I am still struggling for the wheel as we speed into the snowstorm and all the sound is dead, my ears are full of cotton, and I don't want to die.

Everything snapped back into place. The car jolted over the rumble strip and back into the lane. The log-truck blasted past us and he started to yell again, calling me names, saying he wouldn't let me go. He would never let me go. He gripped my left arm at the wrist and I could feel the bones grinding together under the pressure. I asked him to please just take us home, just let us get home safe and then we could talk. Several times during the drive he threatened to kill me, to kill us both. He swerved into the paths of other vehicles, swerved onto the shoulder, and ran two red-lights. But he got us home. He jerked me out of the car and pulled me into the house. That was around three pm. It would be almost twelve hours before I was able to get away. Those twelve hours were a nightmare in themselves, but I did escape. I didn't die, even though I thought I would.

I am here, I am mostly whole. I made it through that awful time and I have worked hard to heal and to move on. For the most part, I have moved on. But every now and then, something happens to trigger those memories. This weekend, it was being in the passenger seat of a car moving through grey, blowing snow. The road was white and the air was alive with motion and for just a moment time stopped - everything was silent and cold and I was frozen in the midst of a struggle for my life. The flashback was so strong that I could taste blood and feel the stinging cuts where my lips had been crushed against my teeth. I could feel the iron grip of his hand on my wrist. And then a phone rang, and the person I was with was talking to his cousin about every-day things, and I was back. Warm air filtered in from the heater and the snow was just snow. There was no danger, no reason to be afraid.

It is so hard to explain to people what PTSD is like - how it can take control of your body and take you back to the worst moments of your life whether you want to dwell on them or not. After an episode it is hard to concentrate, hard to feel anything except those stupid, old, intrusive feelings that you thought you'd already dealt with years ago. You think it is over. But it isn't over, with PTSD it's never over. It's right there, lurking in the dark, in the snow, in the careless actions or words of people who don't understand what triggers are.

Last night I dreamed that I had moved into a nice new home, and I was walking through the rooms, marveling at the space and light, all the little touches that were so welcoming and lovely. I turned a corner and saw the back door, and realized it wasn't locked. It was cracked open. A cold draft poured in through the gap and I knew with dreadful certainty that he was there, in my house, even though I couldn't see him. He was there, waiting for me.

I don't believe that my abuser will come back and try to hurt me again, at least, not most of the time. And when I do believe it, I believe that I am capable of defending myself, of saving myself. I do not live in fear. But there are times when I feel as though I am standing on the edge of deep waters, and at any minute the ground might give way beneath my feet. I might find myself fighting for control of the car, standing in the kitchen with a knife pressed against my throat, or being pinned on the couch while hard fists impact my skull with jarring white-hot pain. PTSD is like deep waters. Deep, dark waters, waiting for you to fall in, waiting to pull you down. But I am learning to tread water, learning to swim. I won't give up, and I refuse to drown.

Words, Actions, and What Lies Between

November is a month of contradictions. We in the Western Hemisphere enter it in a glorious blaze of autumn gold and we leave it grey and dreary. Somewhere between Indian Summer and Pre-Winter, the trees release their last pretense of modesty and stand, starkly naked and shivering, to face the cold. The world turns toward the death that must come before renewal. But, being human, we don't long tolerate the bleakness of impending winter and dying autumn. We dress November in trappings of Thanksgiving and Christmas-to-come. We engage in a frenzied whirl of activity. We celebrate with friends, co-workers, and family and we make the gaiety last as long as we can because behind the carnival masks, we recognize the skeletal trees and grey skies for what they are: heralds of winter's little death.

A few years ago, I lived through a November bereft of celebrations and joy. Cold terror and desperation threaded through the days which seemed to drag on endlessly. There were days that should have been wonderful - my daughter's thirteenth birthday, Thanksgiving with my family. All the good those times should have brought was sacrificed on the altar of surviving an abusive relationship. Daily assurances of his love were punctuated with nights of threats, physical violence, and sexual coercion. I believed in his love for a short while, but the words of adoration became meaningless lies in the face of his actions, which spoke nothing but hatred. What lay between those two extremes was a decimated battlefield that was my life.

People ask why victims of violent relationships stay, why we don't escape. I answer that chains aren't always visible. Violence creates fear and fear exerts a powerful amount of control. When someone shows you by his actions that there is nothing he won't do, no line he won't cross, there is no reason to hope that you will somehow escape unscathed, or even alive. Finally there comes a time of understanding that you don't really have a choice anymore. You could die if you stay. You could die if you leave. Do you risk your life for freedom or for continued bondage?

I chose to be free. A difficult year followed; there was stalking, damage to my property, and constant fear of reprisal. I began to rebuild myself and my life, but I did not understand how deep the devastation had gone, how damaged I really was. It has only been the in the past few months that I have learned how desolate my inner landscape had become. Without knowing how it came to be, I found myself again in the ruin that exists between the two extremes of words of love, and actions of disrespect, indifference, and careless self-gratification. This time, I didn't need to escape; I needed to purge. I needed to learn a lesson about my own self-worth and how to claim my life and my heart for myself instead of giving them away. I needed to heal.

Learning who I was became the goal. I had to learn how to value myself before I could allow myself to be valued by others. Always before I felt that any praise or happiness in my life was a cheat; I felt unworthy and was always afraid that others would see and exploit my flaws. In acknowledging the way I had given up my personal power and the poor choices I made, I regained my ability to discern what is good and right for me, and to believe that I deserve happiness, kindness, and respect. Slowly but surely, I let truth replace the lies, and I began to reclaim myself.

I stand now on the edge of what used to be a wasteland. It is November - the trees are bare and the wind is cold. Drifts of fading leaves litter the ground. But there is beauty in the barren trees and brittle, frosted grass. There is the promise of life in the naked limbs. Standing stones may be battered by the wind but they welcome and radiate the sun's warmth. The shards and ruins have been cleared away and this place - my life - has been reclaimed. It is mine. I may choose to share it at some point in the future, but I will never again give it away or fragment it for someone who cannot be trusted to speak the truth, and act upon it. I did not risk my life to stay in bondage - I risked it to be free.

A Long Way to Go

It is hard to believe that I have completed another trip around the sun, but here I am - forty-one years old, give or take a few days. It feels almost eerie to be this old. OK, I know - forty-one isn't exactly ancient. But bear with me; I'm making a point here. Survivors of violence often feel a sense of a foreshortened future. Since I was a teenager, I have expected to die young. I really never thought I'd get to be twenty, much less thirty. And when thirty-five came around, I was pretty shocked. So shocked, in fact, that I aged myself another two years! I went around for a couple of years telling people I was thirty-seven. It wasn't that I meant to lie about my age, I just lost track of where I was. The year I turned thirty-eight I was not surprised to find myself in a life-threatening situation. After all, I never imagined I'd live to see forty.

It was the night of November 14th, 2009, when I stood in my abuser's kitchen after he had just tossed a plate at me, thrown his glass across the room, and ripped the silverware drawer out of the cabinet. He grabbed my left shoulder with one hand and held a knife in his other fist. A six-inch long blade might not sound like much, but when you expect it to plunge into your throat any minute, it looks pretty impressive. I'm not sure what stopped him from stabbing me at that moment; it certainly wasn't me. I didn't fight with him, didn't struggle, didn't try to take away the knife. All I did was look him in the eyes and say, "I'm not afraid of you." And strangely enough, I wasn't. Fear came later - the next desperate month was spent in a welter of fear. But in that threatening moment, I didn't feel anything at all.

Of course, this is not healthy in any way. I should have been afraid. Any sane person probably would have been. By the time this happened, he had already sexually assaulted me and had been verbally and emotionally abusing me for months. I knew he had a terrible temper. I had seen him destroy my belongings and throw pots and pans and books across the house. I had heard him threaten to rape other women, kill me, and then commit suicide. I had seen the hole in the wall by the front door where he had put a glass through the sheet-rock because he was angry at me for dating someone else after we broke up. I think I wasn't afraid because I honestly believed that I was meant to die young. A violent death seemed like the strange fulfillment of some long unspoken prophecy.

All this disclosure begs the question of why - why I believed I would die young, and why I am still surprised that I'm here today. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder seems to be the most logical answer. It is a feature of PTSD for survivors of violence to have a sense of a foreshortened future - Criterion C7 states that the surviving individual may not expect to have a marriage, a career, children, or to live a normal life-span. (DSM IV Diagnosis and Criteria: Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, 2012).

So here I am, forty-one years old, and feeling like I am very far behind on my life's goals. I think time got away from me because I kept expecting to die young. Sometimes it seemed like making efforts to accomplish things just wasn't worthwhile, because I wouldn't live to reap the rewards anyway. Logically, I know that this is a ridiculous mindset. No one knows when or how they will die. I certainly don't want to die - I am not suicidal and I do not take unnecessary risks with my life. About five years ago, I started making plans for a longer life than I used to anticipate, even though the incident I mentioned above only happened about three years ago. I often still experience disbelief that I am alive at this point, but have begun to live my life in a more forward-thinking way. I will graduate college with my BS in Human Resources this coming January, for example. Sure, it took twenty years longer than I originally thought it would, but I'm getting there. I'm also figuring out how to be a healthier person, one who is PTSD free, who is healed of codependency, and who truly believes that she deserves to have a happy life with good, solid relationships. And I'm looking at ways to give back to other survivors - ways to bring light out of the darkness of my own past. As one of my friends used to say, "It's all good!" - at least, it can be, if you live purposefully and work to make it good.

So I am celebrating myself this month. I made it to forty-one! How cool is that? I've come a long way and have accomplished a lot - even though I get frustrated at the pace sometimes - and I hope I still have a long way to go.

Resources:
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder DSM-IV Diagnosis and Criteria. Retrieved July 30, 2012 from http://www.mental-health-today.com/ptsd/dsm.htm.

All That I Am

Sometimes things happen that leave us questioning who we are, where we are on our path, and everything we thought we wanted or were meant to do with our lives. I had a moment like that this week. Something happened that left me questioning whether I am meant to help survivors of sexual and domestic violence. It left me wondering whether I am strong enough.

For many years now I've felt that the purpose of surviving the things I've lived through was so I could help others who have suffered. Then something happened and I realized how vulnerable I still am and I wondered who I was to think I had anything worthwhile to offer. Who am I to say healing is possible when I am still so wounded and weak?

I felt like a complete hypocrite, like I had been lying to myself about all that I am, all that I ever was, and all I intended to be. Tuesday morning was a very low point and by noon I was ready to give up the idea of serving survivors, speaking again, or getting my masters' degree and becoming a therapist. I felt broken and I really considered giving it all up - the blog, the work, the dreams. All of it - all that I am.

Then something else happened. At that low ebb, I received affirmation from an unexpected source - a lovely gift from a beautiful friend. She made me a wall hanging that represented a woman breaking free from the prison of her own mind, and she wrote me a letter telling me how much she appreciated my work for survivors and telling me that I am strong.

I didn't feel strong. I felt shattered. But her words were uplifting and healing at a time when I needed it most. I was reminded that I am not alone and that I don't always have to be strong. There will be times when I am vulnerable; the key is to surround myself with people who will not take advantage of that, people who respect me and will honor my boundaries. It is okay for me to have moments of fear,  sadness, pain, or doubt. I can admit those emotions and move forward anyway. I don't have to be perfect.

How freeing it is to realize that and to feel - maybe for the first time - that all that I am is enough. Thanks, my friend; you know who you are. Your gift to me means more than I can express.

She's a Survivor

My forty days of truth during Lent led me to make some important admissions about myself and my life. During that time, I started a new writing project, which I call my Truth Journal. On the first day, I wrote for two hours straight and then went to bed, exhausted, but feeling as if I had emptied my system of some kind of insidious, slow-acting poison that had been making me progressively sicker and more tired. Even though Lent has been over for almost a month now, I am still writing in my Truth Journal - not always daily anymore - but regularly. A part of that truth-telling led me to admit and understand that I had reached a long barren stretch in my healing and that I needed professional help to progress. So I began seeing a therapist, and in our session yesterday I came to understand that I need to work on healing and accepting and loving the person I was when I was sexually assaulted. That girl is still in there somewhere, thirteen years old and frightened, alone, and confused about why she became a target of so much hatred and violence. I couldn't let her speak then; I couldn't deal with her pain. Acknowledging that pain and the self-loathing that came from the assault is something I will have to do before I can get better.

Yesterday, I spent some time reading my Truth Journal and looking for clues about what the girl inside me needs, what she's saying. I didn't expect to find her, but she was right there, on the first page, in the first entry:

"I don’t know what to say. No one will read this so it doesn’t matter. I hate my life.

No, that isn’t true. I hate aspects of my life.

No, that isn’t true. I hate myself.

Because I hate myself, I hate my life. If I liked myself, I would like my life. I am the part of my life that is wrong.

Why do I hate myself?

Because I'm weak."

I went on to dig into these sentences and find their meaning. I think of myself as weak because of the assault, this life-defining thing that happened to me when I was thirteen. And it was more than one event - it was a chain of events; day after day of being touched, molested, harassed, and bullied. I told teachers and my mother, but no one did anything to help me. Then I lived in the shadow of that event for almost twenty years before I was able to even confront it and begin to heal. And because this happened to me - because my freedom and my choices were taken from me and my body was violated I felt permanently damaged. I was still in an egocentric stage of development and I wondered what I had done that caused or created the assault. As the years passed and I learned more about sexual violence and its causes, I began to understand that I hadn't done anything wrong; the people who hurt me were the ones who were wrong. I accepted that and I began to heal. 

Then came the abusive relationship. I wondered again what I had done to attract this kind of attention, to become the person who would always be battered and used. A part of me - that wounded girl who still lives inside me - believed that this was all she would ever be. She believed - believes - that this is what she is worth, and so she hates herself and her life. She is the one who longs to be loved and wanted, to be thought of as good and valuable. She is the one who can't find this validation in herself and so seeks it from others. She is the one who goes into relationships and gives everything, right away, so she will be loved. And she keeps on giving everything and asking nothing, thinking that this is what she is worth. Nothing. She has no rights. No one cares if she hurts. She is not worth intervention or protection. 

I see her, and I know what she needs - love, acceptance, and peace. I'm just having a hard time giving that to her. The truth is that I hate her too - she's reaching out across the years and she's trying to control my life, and she's weak and she's needy and I am tired of dealing with the issues she creates for me. I have been at war with her - with myself - for a long time. I have fought and kicked and struggled with her, but she's a lot stronger than she thinks; she's a survivor. She isn't going to settle for less than she needs, and I need to give it to her. I have to find a way to love and accept this part of myself, and to put her to rest once and for all.

I often say that in healing we need to find the hardest thing - what ever it is we dread most and of which we are most afraid - and do it. So here's to working on my inner child; it is the part of healing I hate most and have refused to do. I hope I can find a way to bring her peace.

A Brighter Place

My favorite holiday movie is A Christmas Carol. I think I love it so much because it is such a redemptive story. I love watching the hardened old man become a boy again, acknowledging the power of his past hurts and the harm he has done to others, and yet finding forgiveness - and giving it - because of Christmas and what it means for the world. But the biggest, best reason I love the story is because I have my own life-version of it. I've been struggling with how to write about this for a while now, but I think the best way is just to do it. Some stories just need to be shared.

In the dark days of December 2009, I was in a dangerously abusive relationship with a man whose mental and emotional instability increased exponentially as the weeks passed. His rage was constant and his capacity for blaming me for everything wrong with his life seemed limitless. He would go from hating me, calling me names, and throwing things at me to crying on his knees with his head in my lap, begging me not to leave him, threatening to kill himself if I did. These mood swings were swift and violent - sometimes lasting only hours so that the kind, understanding man I saw in the morning was a punch-throwing, knife-brandishing maniac by the time darkness fell.

The abuses grew apace with his rage. His screaming-shouting-sobbing spells increased in frequency and though I cared deeply for him, even at that time, I knew I could not stay in the relationship without serious risk to my own life and sanity. There came a day when he threatened to burn down the house we sometimes shared, to burn down my church, to kill me and himself. I came home that evening to find some of my belongings damaged and destroyed, and partially burned pages from a Bible on top of the kitchen stove. Fear crawled over me like ants skittering over my skin. As I was rushing to leave before he turned up, he came in the door and pulled me down the hall to his bedroom - to "talk", he said. The discussion ended up with me dodging heavy books and anything else he could get his hands on to throw and him shrieking obscenities and threats at me. You would think I would have had the sense to leave him then - and it isn't that I didn't want to. But he ended the discussion by threatening to harm himself and others and leaving me feeling responsible for the damage he might cause. That was December 8th, two days after my grandmother passed away; it was ten more days before I was able to leave the relationship.

All through the summer that we were together, he had chipped away at my belief in God. At the time I thought he was questioning and doubting because of his painful past and the hurts of two failed marriages. He was a pastor - my pastor, actually - and he held a lot of authority as such. He kept introducing questions about God's reality; believe me, a seminary-educated person has a lot of knowledge that can easily be turned from building up faith to tearing it down. By that December, I didn't know if I believed in God anymore. My abuser had used my faith to draw me into the relationship in the first place; it was what had brought us together. I was exploring a call to ministry and he was helping me to discern that; he was also my marriage counselor. I had absolute trust in him in the beginning and because of that, I did not believe that he would lie to me or do anything to hurt me. Later on, when the emotional and verbal abuse began I started to question the things he had told me, but the questioning only brought more rage and repercussions. My faith withered - by that December, it was reduced to ashes. I had no functioning belief in God. I felt more alone at that time of my life than I ever had before.

My grandmother died on December 6th. When I was a child, she was instrumental in bringing me to church and helping me to find my way into belief in God. Though I had long since turned away from the fundamentalist structure to which she had introduced me, I had always honored her place in my journey toward faith. Her death rocked me. I knew she had passed on in complete belief even though her life had been difficult at best, and she had spent her last years nearly blind and with a host of health problems. Her faith never wavered. In the days after her death, I found myself dreaming about her each night and waking with images of her careworn face very clear in my mind. I felt she was trying to tell me something important, but I couldn't discern what it might be. I awoke from them feeling frustrated and frightened, as though I was missing some vital point she was trying to make.

During the early morning hours of December 18th I had one last dream about my grandmother. That week had been particularly awful; my partner and I had met with his District Superintendent about his possible return to ministry in the face of our relationship, which had begun during my divorce, and was inappropriate on many levels due to the fact that he was my pastor, adviser, and counselor. The meeting was a fiasco. I didn't want to go in the first place - I wanted out of the relationship and away from him. He lost his temper and yelled, calling his superior a "pharisee" and comparing himself to a persecuted Christ. Driving home that night, he threatened to murder his DS, blamed me for the position he was in, and said he would commit suicide after he "took care" of the people who had hurt him. By that Friday morning, I was unable to sleep more than a few moments at a time because the tension was so great, even though it had been months since I'd had more than five hours of sleep at a time. During one of those short naps, I dreamed that I was walking into a funeral parlor. It resembled the church I had attended as a child, and at the altar was a casket surrounded by yellow roses. I knew my grandmother was there though I couldn't yet see her; I could feel her presence both physically in the casket and spiritually around me, where I stood. Beneath this was a layer of awareness of the dream state, the fact that I was lying in bed in a darkened room with a man I feared - I felt her presence there, too; a tingling warmth that at once saw, comprehended, and still forgave all the wrong decisions I had made that had led me to this place. In my dream I approached the altar and a red light in the ceiling cast a rosy glow onto her body; her skin looked healthy and warm. On her forehead, filled with red light, were the words God is real. Though she was dead in my dream, I could feel her spirit standing with me, imparting to me everything those three words meant and all their implications for my future. God is real. God is Real.

I woke up with my faith restored, like an ember glowing in the darkness. I knew that I had to end the relationship I was in and I had to seek and offer forgiveness where I had hurt others, and where I had been hurt. That day was one of the worst I have lived through - and anyone who's read this blog knows I've lived through some dark days. But the light was there, sustaining me, giving me the strength to end the relationship even though he hit me, hurt me, threatened to wreck his car and kill both of us, and then later, tried to overdose and kill himself. The light was there, showing me the path out of that hellish place, though he cried and begged and pleaded with me not to leave him, and even though my mouth was bloody and my shoulder was bruised from his fists, it was still hard to go. The light was there, steeling my resolve during the weeks afterward when he put himself into a suicide-watch program and finally sought treatment for his mental disorders and continued to try to talk me into coming back - I stayed strong because the light that had been kindled in me as a child but had burned to ashes, that same light that my grandmother had coaxed and nurtured, the light that had rekindled upon her final visitation to me - the light was there. The light was all the proof I needed that God is real.

This year, as I watched A Christmas Carol and saw Scrooge's ghostly visitors, I was reminded of that spiritual visitation I had received, the redemption and restoration I experienced because of the deep love that my grandmother had for me. Was she really there? Honestly, it doesn't matter. What matters is the truth she worked so hard to make sure I learned - that God is real. Because of her I was reminded of that truth in all the most vital ways, and I received the strength I needed and could not seek for myself. That visitation was my ghost-of-Christmas moment and it led me out of the darkness and into a brighter place. Heaven and the Christmas-time be praised for it.

The Courage to Change

“There is a price that is too great to pay for peace…. One cannot pay the price of self-respect.” ~Woodrow Wilson

Those of you who read this blog know that I have been on a journey toward recovery, self-acceptance, and healing for the past year. In the process of that work, I have come across several valuable written resources. Some of them were given to me by friends, some I found through exploring the ideas of others, and some I just happened upon by chance. A small publication by Al-Anon which I recently read falls into the last category. I have never been to an Al-Anon meeting, though I would likely benefit from attending. I have been in relationships with alcoholics on and off for more than half my life, and my patterns of behavior, coping, and living have all been affected by alcoholism. While I was not specifically seeking assistance in dealing with those issues, something about the title of this book – Courage to Change – caught my eye. That spoke to me because it seems I sometimes lack the courage to make necessary changes in my life. The book is a collection of daily meditations or devotionals for use throughout the year. Some of the writings were meaningless to me, but others reached into my heart and brought comfort or challenge, like the following passage:

“One of the first things I heard in Al-Anon was that we didn’t have to accept unacceptable behavior. This idea helped me to see that I need not tolerate violence or abuse, and that I had choices I hadn’t even recognized before. I set some limits, not to control others, but to offer myself guidelines so that I would know what was and was not acceptable and what to do about it.” (Courage to Change, 1992; p. 51)

This goes along with something that I learned while reading Boundaries by Drs Henry Cloud and John Townsend. You can love someone without loving his behaviors, and this love cannot be allowed to prevent you from having healthy boundaries that protect you and enrich your life. Setting limits is not a way to force others to change. It is not a refusal to share or show love. It is a means by which you keep you keep your identity and your sanity intact. Healthy people seem to do this without effort. I have never been able to set limits or boundaries in my relationships until now – and it is still extremely difficult.

The author of this particular meditation goes on to state that though she considered herself healthy these days, there was one person from whom she still accepted unacceptable behavior – herself. She berated and blamed herself for everything that went wrong and never gave herself credit for her efforts. She told herself how ugly, lazy, and stupid she was. Then she realized that those were things she would not say to someone she cared about and that she would not accept those words from anyone else. She learned to start treating herself as though she were a treasured friend. Only then was she assured that she was truly in recovery.

I have spoken before about how Christ’s command to “love your neighbor as yourself” is a double-edged one; it assumes that before we love our neighbor, we love ourselves. This is still the most difficult hurdle for me to cross. It is so much easier for me to love others, to give myself completely to someone else’s wants, and to forgive them for the most painful hurts while continually castigating myself for the least little imperfections that I often feel as though I have spent my life binding up the wounds of others while I slowly bleed to death. It is not enough to say that I won’t continue to do it – despite my best intentions, I still find myself falling back into the pattern of giving people what I know they want, even when it hurts me to do so.

What is the solution? There are plenty of days when I feel that it would be easier to withdraw from every relationship until I am healthy enough to set my boundaries and hold to them. Then I wonder if I will ever be that healthy. Will it simply be that I hold firm until I am faced by the challenge of someone else’s needs? In the face of someone else’s desire will I just collapse into the old habit of saying, “Do whatever you want, it doesn’t matter”? There is a part of me that knows that withdrawal is not the answer and that I don’t want to be alone for the rest of my life. Another part of me is so damned tired of the struggle to maintain my sense of self that it frankly doesn’t care if I have relationships or not. That part of me says it’s better to be alone than to feel used, hurt, and resentful. For a long time I seemed to be divided this way, with two modes of thought and no way to choose between them. But lately, as I’ve been working to heal, there is another way of thinking that is emerging. This other part of me recognizes that I have the right and the power to determine what goes on in my life, and if someone else’s behaviors are unacceptable then I do not have to accept them. I can draw a clear boundary that says, “You have the right to choose what you do, and I have the right to choose what I will tolerate. I will not tolerate this behavior.” This feels healthy to me, and yet it also frightens me terribly.

The fear stems from several sources, but the strongest is the abusive relationship I was in two years ago. In the beginning, my partner often said that he appreciated my independence and my desire for autonomy. Later on, he told me I had no rights in our relationship and that I was the most selfish person he had ever known. When I did try to assert myself in that relationship, the emotional abuse was immediate and horrific – diatribes and alcohol-fueled rants lasted for hours and at the end of the eight months I spent with him, the screaming sessions were interspersed with physical and sexual assaults. Now when I even think about saying “I choose not to tolerate this” my heart races and I tremble all over. Panic attacks and flashbacks threaten and in order to keep peace, I end up saying nothing at all. This is a kind of self-protection that is detrimental because it leaves me in anxiety over the things that I did not have the courage to change.

Nearly everyone is familiar with the Serenity Prayer and how it asks for the courage to change what can be changed along with the serenity to accept what cannot be altered. I know that I can't change what others choose to do - they are free to exercise their will in their own lives. Their choices are their own, just as my responses are mine to determine. Where they are unhealthy I must change them – now I just need to find the courage to do it.

Stop Ignoring - Start Acting

Domestic violence isn’t easy to understand. From the outsiders' point of view, it just makes no sense that someone would stay with and continue to love and protect an abusive partner. From the insider's point of view, there's a whole host of fears interlaced with shame, hurt, and longing which keep us enmeshed in a web of deceit and pain. It is possible to love someone when you do not love their behaviors or actions, and love doesn't just go away because someone is cruel or abusive. For these reasons a culture of myth and secrecy has grown around domestic violence and society perpetuates these secrets and lies with comments like:
   “It’s none of my business.”
   “That’s between the two of them – it has nothing to do with me.”
   “A man has the right to keep the peace in his own home.”
   “It only happens every now and then, and only in lower class families.”
   “She must like it, or she’d leave.”
   “He says she provokes him.”

What would the world be like if we told the truth about domestic violence?
   “I’m afraid for her safety.”
   “I could do something to help.”
   “No one has the right to harm someone else.”
   “It can happen to anyone.”
   “She doesn’t leave because there’s no one to help her, no one to keep her safe.”
   “He should practice self-control instead of hitting when he’s angry.”

This October, commit to looking at domestic violence in a different way. Don’t turn a blind eye to the victims. Don’t ignore what you witness. Domestic violence happens to one in three women, and one in fifteen men. Chances are that you know someone right now who is suffering or has suffered. Ask what you can do to help. Here are some ways to start:
   “I’m afraid for your safety, and for your kids.”
   “It’s only going to get worse.”
   “I’m here for you. What can I do to make this better?”
   “I can help you find somewhere to stay.”
   “You deserve better treatment than this.”
   “Let’s make a safety plan for you.”

Get a list of the shelters and helping organizations in your area. The information is readily available with a quick Internet search. Get a list of phone numbers for crisis lines – 1-800-799-SAFE is a good place to start. Be willing to listen and be supportive, not judgmental. You don’t know what kind of hell the victim is living with – she may have been hearing for years that she isn’t worth helping, isn’t worth saving. She may believe it. Yours may be the voice of reason that cuts through the destruction in her life and makes her know that she is worthwhile and that someone cares. Stop ignoring. Start acting. Someone's life may depend on it.

Be the Change

"If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor."
~ Archbishop Desmond Tutu
"Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter."
~ Dr Martin Luther King, Jr.

Our culture is one that promotes violence. Turn on network TV at any point during prime-time and you're bound to see half a dozen murders, beatings, muggings, or rapes before the 11:00 news comes on. We are enured to violence. Once we have become desensitized, it is hard to care about the neighbor in the apartment next door, even when we hear her crying at one in the morning because her boyfriend just punched her in the mouth. We may see the bruises but until we feel them, the pain we witness is remote and doesn't have any impact. In the same way we are able to sit comfortably at home with a bowl of chips and salsa and watch news reports about the starving people in Somalia. Their pain is miles away - it is meaningless because it cannot affect us. It cannot touch us.

Our society happily enslaves millions of people just so we can have conveniences like ready-made clothing, designer-knock-off purses, and discount stores where we can pick up a case of beer anytime, day or night. If we stop to give thought to the plight of the ten year old workers in Indonesia who made our fake Prada bags, we often smugly state that they must be grateful for the money they earn. Never mind the fact that in some factories in some parts of the world, children whose thigh-bones are broken so they can't run away are forced to sit and sew those purses that we paid $30 for. Never mind the fact that workers the world over go home to starving families subsisting in tar-paper and tin shacks and know that even the money they earn with their eighteen hour work-days can't feed their kids and their aging parents too. We live as if it is only our comfort and needs that matter.

So what does this have to do with violence against women? After all, that's my usual subject. Well, in a word - everything. When we refuse to fight oppression, we give license to the oppressors. When we turn a blind eye to evil, we are propagating evil. When we ignore the neighbor who sits on her porch, staring blankly out through swollen, bruised eyelids because it isn't our place to say or do anything about her suffering, then we might as well throw the next punch.

October is domestic violence awareness month. I've thought for a while now about what I should post to help raise awareness, make my readers think about intimate partner abuse and what it does to people, but I confess that until this afternoon, I've had trouble deciding what to say. Not because I have run out of words; not because everything that there is to say has been said, but because it seems like an uphill battle and just now, I am really tired of fighting and climbing. I'm tired of trying to make a difference in a world that doesn't seem to give a damn. I'm tired of working to change attitudes and then watching commercials where women in bikinis are used to sell everything from cars to cheeseburgers as if their bodies were just another commodity to be bought, sold, or traded. But if those of us who have suffered do not use our experiences to bring light into the darkness, then who will? The media? The government? The church?

No - it is individual voices that begin to affect change. It is up to us - to me and to you - to raise our voices in solidarity until society can no longer ignore what we are saying. In every situation of injustice, if those of us who see and understand choose to remain silent, then we join the oppressors and the enemies of humanity. Your cause may not be the same as mine, but whatever you believe in, don't make the mistake of staying silent because it "isn't your place" to speak up. Speak up! Be heard! Do not be silent about the things that matter. Victims of all kinds need you, because their voices and their choices have been taken away. We must live the change we look for - if we don't, then who will?

What Happens Next

It has been a difficult couple of weeks. Stress is cumulative, as I’m sure most of you know from experience. Take the stress of buying a new home, packing, and moving, and add the stress of an impending court case, the surety that somewhere out there is someone who wants to cause you harm and who cherishes his rage against you, and you have a recipe for total exhaustion. So last week, when I got news about the hearing from my attorney, it was a pleasant shock to find out that the communication sent from my abuser which broke the order of protection I got last year was apparently sent by mistake.


I sat at my desk, holding a letter from an online jobs-by-fax company, which was written “to whom it may concern”, that stated that my abuser had paid for their resume dissemination service, and that he had specified that no resume be sent to my work-place. The resume and cover letter I received was sent in error, the letter explained. It was all a misunderstanding. Upon reading this communication, I felt nothing but relief. My attorney asked me if I wanted to pursue charges or getting an extension on the order of protection, but I declined. It had always been my intention, I told her, to leave him alone if he left me alone. And according to the notice I held in my hands, he intended to leave me alone.


A weight left my shoulders then. It had been traumatic, seeing him again, being in close proximity – turning around while holding the gate in the courtroom for the next person and finding out that HE was the next person. Even with the knowledge that he did not send that fax on purpose, I’ve still been having nightmares about him. Last night, I was unable to sleep because my heat-pump stopped working and the house was hot and uncomfortable. Lying on the couch in the living room, I heard the sound of a car approaching. It slowed and came to a stop in front of the house. I sat up, checked the clock – 1:51 am. I had started to lie back down when I heard someone shouting – a high-pitched, male voice, screaming obscenities. I pulled back the curtain and looked out. The car was speeding away. It was small and dark, but I couldn’t make out any features. It could have been anyone, I guess, but it made me wonder…


I wonder why we never received another of these faxed job applications from anyone else, for example. I wonder why, the weekend before we received his resume, I saw him twice near the house where I was cat-sitting for a friend. I wonder why he was looking for work in an area two hours away from where he currently lives. I wonder…


I've said it before: once trust is destroyed, it is impossible not to question motives. Where my abuser is concerned the only things I believe in are his duplicity and the uncontrolled nature of his rage. I guess questioning is fruitless. Maybe I’ll never know what his intentions were – or if he had intentions at all. At this point, it’s just back to waiting to see what happens next.

Love Wins

Two weeks have passed in a whirlwind of stress and work. Friday, July 29th, was the date of the preliminary hearing for the violation of my standing order of protection. There’s no need to belabor the point I made in my last post; suffice it to say that I spent most of the past three weeks in a dazed state of anxiety mixed with apprehension. Less than five hours of sleep a night for more than twenty days has really taken its toll. By Friday morning, I was a mess. Getting up, getting ready, heading out the door and to a place where I would potentially have to sit for hours in the same small room with my abuser was extremely difficult. I prayed for months that this would not happen again. I prayed that he would just keep his silence…keep his distance.

Seeing him again on Friday left me shaking; having to stand at the front of the courtroom less than ten feet away from him was hellish. Sometimes I wonder why it is that I’m still so frightened of him, but then I think back to that time of my life and the rage, violence, and instability that was the daily norm, and I remember…there is good reason for the fear I feel.

My attorney was unable to be present with me, so I requested an extension and a new court date. The judge was happy to grant that request; he remembered having heard my case last year. My abuser’s attorney also requested an extension, in order to “review some new evidentiary information” and “possibly reach a mutually satisfactory conclusion outside court.” Does that mean that they are going to request another mutual restraining order? I’m not agreeing to that. A mutual restraining order assumes a level playing field, as though I did something as horrible to him as he did to me. I never hit him. I never threatened to kill him. I never forced him to have sex with me. I never threatened to harm his children. There was no level playing field, and there would be no safety in agreeing to a mutual restraining order.

I am left feeling ambiguous about the outcome of the day. Sure, I got my extension, and my order of protection is in effect until the next hearing. But I also have to go on anticipating another day in court, another day of questioning. I can’t imagine what kind of “evidentiary information” they could have come up with. I haven’t had contact with my abuser since last year in court. I have not tried to find out anything about him - except to make sure he was not living in the neighborhood where I recently bought a home - and though occasionally people tell me rumors about him, I don't perpetuate those rumors. I am left wondering what kind of ridiculous allegations my abuser and his lawyer are going to make about me, and how I can possibly counter those accusations. My mind is racing and I can’t turn it off. Right now, around 36 hours after the hearing, I am exhausted. My emotions are raw, but I can’t get my mental wheels to stop turning. I have been pushing myself to the point of collapse physically just to be able to get six hours of sleep. I’m not sure how long I can cope.

On Friday morning, as I was showering and getting dressed for court, a song that I never sing or even think of popped into my head. It was an old hymn, and one I don’t particularly like – “God Will Take Care of You”. Only the chorus played through my mind, and as the morning wore on, I heard those words over and over, unbidden – God will take care of you; through every day; o’er all the way…he will take care of you; God will take care of you. And though normally this kind of ear-worm would have driven me crazy, I found myself listening and holding onto that thought, that no matter what happened, God would take care of me. No, I didn’t expect the heavenly hosts to ride in on white chargers and chariots of fire, and I didn’t expect a rousing defeat of my adversary. But I did – and do – believe that whatever happened, God would be there. And even though I hated every minute of the two and a half hours I spent in my abuser’s presence, I felt assured that I was not alone.

Tonight, as I write this, I am almost too tired to feel afraid. My eyelids are heavy and my fingers are clumsy – I am moving slowly and it is almost time for sleep. In the pit of my stomach there is a cold knot that tightens whenever I think of what is coming, but my heart is warm with the knowledge and surety of God’s loving grace. Fear is the opposite of love, and I know that ultimately, no matter what the outcome of the next hearing, love will win. God will take care of me – maybe not in the way I hope or expect, but that’s okay.

Violation

Last week I wrote about my abuser having broken the order of protection I’ve had against him for the past year. Today is July 13, the final day that order is in effect. However, I’ve filed for another order of protection against him, based on the obvious proof that he is already beginning the same obsessive, stalking behavior that caused me to seek relief from the court last year. I would have preferred an extension on the current order, but in order to get an extension, the application must be filed, served, and heard in a civil or family court before the current order runs out. That was impossible in my case – there wasn’t enough time.

At the courthouse, the clerk told me she could not advise me about what to do but that she could tell me what my options were. She laid them out very clearly – I could file for an extension, which wouldn’t work for reasons already enumerated above, or I could file for a new order of protection, which would mean another hearing. She also told me that I could file a violation of the order of protection, either using the new case number – which would help me prove that I needed the order, or the old case number, which would allow the court to prosecute him to whatever extent the judge decided. With the help of my legal aid attorney and paralegal, I decided to file for a new order of protection but to file the violation of the order under the old case number, which would allow the judge to decide what, if any, consequences would follow. It took three days to process all the paperwork, and four trips to the courthouse, but it’s finally done.

Now it’s after 6 pm, and I’m sitting in a quiet house, trying to relax. My left hand is twitching, which is something it has done periodically since the first time he hit me. My chest feels tight and it is hard to get a deep breath. My stomach hurts. My heart races and then slows…races and then slows… I am exhausted from this constant hypervigilance, but I am afraid to stop looking over my shoulder.

The order is up at midnight. The new temporary order is in effect but may not have been served yet. I have no way of knowing, and probably won’t know until the day before court. I wonder what my abuser is thinking, what he is planning. I hate thinking about him, because that leads to memories that are incredibly painful – the way he counseled and supported me in the beginning as my pastor; the way he slowly began to make the sessions more about his problems and needs than about mine; the way he continually assured me there was no way to salvage my marriage and I should just give up and file for divorce. Those memories hurt, because they remind me of how much I depended on him. As my pastor, he was my spiritual leader, my mentor. He was powerful and I trusted him. I believed that he had my best interests at heart. I did not suspect that he was using my problems and the things I told him so that he could edge his way into my life and my emotions. I didn’t know that he would exploit the love I felt and use me so harshly. On the one hand, I feel stupid and incredibly naïve for having allowed it to happen, and on the other, I feel outraged that a pastor with years of training and experience would do what he did, and what he continues to do. At this point, I want him to leave me alone. I don’t want to have to think about him or wonder what’s going to happen next. I want this to be over. After all, it has been over a year now. That is plenty of time to let go, to move on, to have a life – for both of us.

Instead, I will go to bed tonight wondering what I’ll wake up to tomorrow. Damaged tires? Destroyed property? Will he set fire to the house – he’s threatened it in the past. Will he show up at work, with the excuse of checking on that resume he faxed over? And if he doesn’t show up, I will still be facing the dreadful prospect of the hearing – having to be in the same room with him, to feel his eyes on me, to feel his rage growing. I will have to face the questions about why I stayed, why I did the things I did, why I “let” him hurt me. I will have to give intimate, humiliating details to people I don’t know. Last time, being examined by his lawyer felt like being raped all over again. The knowledge that this is what is coming leaves me feeling sick and shaking. I want to go to sleep, but when I do I have nightmares and I wake up breathless and terrified. There isn’t a fragment of my life this hasn’t changed. There's a reason why they call what he did a "violation" - that's how I feel, as if the sanctity of my life has been violated by the threat of his obsession.

Last year, a friend of mine asked me how I was coping with the hearing and the stalking. I said I needed to find some way to live around the fear. That’s what I need now, a way to live in spite of the dread and anxiety that are my constant companions. I need a way to find peace.

Full Circle

A couple of years ago, I blogged about irony and defined it as the poignant contrast between what you want and what you get. The reason for writing that post was because my husband and I had just had our family portraits made; the first and only ones we had during eighteen years of marriage. That was in April of 2009. By May of that year we were in the process of divorcing. The picture we had taken shows a happy family, but the reality was that we were coming apart at the seams. At this stage of my life, I have that family portrait hanging on the wall outside my bedroom door. It is a precious reminder to me that even though our marriage didn’t work out, my ex-husband and I along with our daughters are still a family.

Today, I’m thinking again about irony, but for a very different reason. July 13^th is the day that the protective order against my abusive ex-partner runs out. That is six days from now. Since he had stayed away from me after having dropped his appeal last August and because there had been no further damage to my property, I had planned on letting the matter drop. He was leaving me alone – that was all I ever wanted. To all appearances he was going on with his life, and I have been doing the same. I did not know where he was and was content not to know. But then, on July 5^th, he changed everything when he broke the no-contact portion of the protective order by faxing a job-application for a non-existing position to my workplace. I went to work on Wednesday morning, July 6^th, and it was lying on my desk – all applications come across my desk; this is something he knows very well, since he knows I’m the administrative assistant.

Seeing his name, reading his writing – and there is no doubt that it is his; I’d recognize that grammar and syntax anywhere – was like taking another hit to the side of the skull. The fear was immediate and left me physically ill and shaking, but after that came the realization that it didn’t matter how much I wanted to let things drop, he is never going to allow that to happen. I can’t fathom the kind of person who would make such an ill-considered decision. But then again, I can’t fathom the kind of person who would tell a woman that he loved her, and then beat her, and then want to hold her to make up for it. I can’t fathom the kind of person who would threaten to commit suicide, drive drunk, or go out and find someone to rape if his girlfriend would not give in and have sex. I can’t understand that kind of mentality. Thank God I can’t. My only question is: why? What’s the point? What in the world is he trying to prove? Doesn’t he realize that he is forcing my hand? I wanted to let it go, to forgive, to move on. Obviously, he is not going to allow that to happen.

So here we are – same place we were last year; we’ve come full-circle. I am in the same situation, except so far there are no nails in my tires and my mailbox is intact. I am left with no alternative but to legally pursue my own protection. It is not what I wanted. It is not what I hoped for. But that’s irony - the tragic gap between what you want and what you get.

A Lesson Well-Learned

On May 28^th 2010, I filed for an order of protection against the man who had abused me. The day of the hearing was July 13^th, about six weeks after the date of file. My ex-boyfriend hired a private detective to dig into my past and a cut-throat lawyer to “tear me apart” on the witness stand – the attorney’s words when he spoke with my legal-aid representative. I blogged about the process last year, and anyone who is interested can go to those entries and read them for more details – there’s no reason to repeat them here.

Earlier today, I was looking back through my personal journal and reading what I wrote during the months of June and July. During the time preceding the hearing, I was in constant fear. Every day was spent looking over my shoulder, watching –waiting – wondering what was going to happen next. During the time between when I filed for the order of protection from my abuser and the hearing date I had five nails removed from my tires, the flowerpots on my porch were kicked around and overturned, my front door locks were tampered with and damaged, and my mailbox was destroyed. I spent my days in a state of heightened vigilance. My heart raced every time I saw a black car or a dark-haired man. I had a hard time sleeping and when I slept I had nightmares. I was afraid to go forward with the hearing and I was afraid to let the matter drop. If I lost, I knew his anger would be profound. And if I won, I believed he wouldn’t have anything left to lose in coming after me.

I went through with the hearing, and I won. About a month afterward, I ended up needing treatment for my PTSD, and I chose to go into counseling. It was a good choice. Being able to talk to someone made my feelings and the stress easier to deal with. I began to practice exposure therapy to get past my triggers, and that made the general act of living much easier, though I do still have trouble sometimes. After I left my abuser, I wasted five months trying to decide whether I should take action against him. Honestly, if he had just stayed away instead of continually coming around I probably would have let the matter drop. I did not want to take action, but he left me with no choice. On May 28^th last year, it took all my strength to walk into the courthouse and describe what had happened to me. It took all my courage to sign those papers, knowing that he would read them and that I would again be the target of his rage. I was caught between two terrible fears – what would he do to me if I went through with it? What would he do to me if I didn’t? It was torture. For a long time after I won, I still looked over my shoulder, watching - waiting - wondering. Then I realized that the only thing that can ensure my protection is me.

The protective order runs out in nine days, but it doesn't really matter. It is only a piece of paper anyway, not some magic shield that means the difference between security and danger. Its best function was to help me understand that I deserve to be safe and that it was okay for me to take steps to ensure my own protection. Today, I am much stronger. It wouldn’t take me five months to decide if I was worth defending. It is a lesson well-learned, and I won't forget it, no matter what the future brings.

Inertia

Her name was Trisha Sadler. By all accounts, she was a bright, generous person, who was well liked by her co-workers. Her family certainly loved her – her adoptive father, Michael, speaks of her as the baby of the family and talks about how badly missed she will be. She didn’t have to die. There was no illness, no reason for her life to end at age 29. Trisha Sadler was murdered by her boyfriend, stabbed to death and dismembered in the home she had bought for herself. Just a few days before she died, Trisha told her co-workers, “If I don’t come to work, call the police. He’s said he’s going to kill me.”


Willie J. Ward, Trisha’s boyfriend, had a history of abusing her. Trisha would come to work with bruises, and said that Ward threw her around. So maybe you’re wondering why a bright, generous person like Trisha Sadler would stay with an abuser like Ward…


Frankly, so am I.


Yeah, I know, it doesn’t make sense. After all, I’m a survivor of domestic violence. I stayed, even after my former partner hit me and threatened me with a knife. So if anyone should understand the reasons behind Trisha Sadler’s decision to stay with Ward even though he abused her, I should. Right?


But I don’t. I find myself wondering why anyone would stay in that kind of relationship. I find myself wondering why I did. Oh, I know…at first, I loved him. At first, he didn’t hurt me; he was gentle, loving, and kind. And later on, when I began to see who he truly was, I convinced myself that if I could just hold on things would go back to the way they had been. After a while, I knew things would never get better, but by then I was sure he’d kill me if I left. He had threatened to, after all. And even when there came a time when I thought it would be better to risk death than to stay, I was afraid of what he might do to other people. And frankly, I was tired…I didn’t have the energy left to fight it anymore.


Maybe that’s the answer right there. Abusive relationships wear you down – by the time you know how bad they are, it’s either too dangerous to leave or you just don’t care what happens to you. Maybe that’s how Trisha Sadler felt – maybe, by the time she realized how much danger she was in, it was too late to get away. And even if she had left, it wouldn’t have ensured her safety. Intimate partner violence accounts for 30% of the murders of women in America, and women who leave their batterers are at 75% greater risk of severe injury or death than those who stay.


I wonder, too, about Trisha’s co-workers and family. Her friends at work knew what was happening – did they encourage her to leave? Did one of them call the police to report that Trisha was being battered? Did anyone try to intervene? Trisha said that if she didn’t turn up for work, they would probably find her dead – did they think she was being melodramatic, or did they believe her and try to help?


There are no easy answers to these questions or to the problem of domestic violence. In the end, it is the abuser who chooses what happens, regardless of what the victim decides. Where is the justice in that? Why does someone have to die before people intervene? Where is the boundary between live and let live and loving thy neighbor as thyself? Inertia affects us all – victims of violence and those who watch it happen but stand by and do nothing. May God give us the courage to act in his name, for peace, and for justice.

Resources:

McGill, Andrew; Tyler Richardson. 2011. The Morning Call. Retrieved June 21, 2011, from http://articles.mcall.com/2011-06-19/news/mc-bethlehem-homicide-folo-20110619_1_multiple-arrests-affidavit-diamond-ring

Statistics courtesy of: National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, and the Domestic Violence Resource Center

Milestones

A friend of mine recently posted about a 10-year anniversary, and that got me thinking about milestones, steps on the path, and how far I’ve come. In June of this year, it will have been twenty-six years since I was sexually assaulted; and it will be ten years since I actively sought healing from that assault. I remember how frightened I was when I first sat in front of my computer and typed the words “healing after rape” into the browser bar. I didn’t know what I would find, but I did know that I could not continue with my life as it was.

For a few years after the assault, I never thought about what had happened. I literally blocked the incident completely from my memory, though the pathways leading up to those moments were clear and unobstructed; there was a space and time inside my head that was just grey, like a room filled with dust and cobwebs. I did not want to enter in. Then there came a morning in the summer after I graduated high school when I woke up late and jumped out of bed, only to be hit by the most crippling flashback I’ve ever experienced. I ran to the shower and stood there under the spray – as hot as I could make it – still shivering and shaken by the memories. I felt sick. I WAS sick. I became sicker as time passed – years went by and I began to avoid life, avoid people, avoid everything. I dropped out of college. I sequestered myself in my home and hid myself behind my writing. Simple things like going to the grocery store or ordering pizza over the phone became monumental obstacles. I never went anywhere alone, if I could help it. Driving alone engendered total panic. I stayed that way for the next eight years, until I had my first child. Giving birth to a daughter changed everything; I knew I had to find a way to face the world again, but I didn’t know how.

It wasn’t until right after the birth of my second child that I began to actively seek healing. Things had happened that proved to me that I was out of control and that I had to change. My fears had driven my marriage to the brink of destruction, and I hated the person I had become. So I sat down in front of the computer and typed those words that led me to the first milestone: Pandora’s Aquarium. Here I found understanding and acceptance. This incredible group of survivors – women mostly, but some wonderful men, too – did not tell me I was crazy or that I just needed to “get over it”. They embraced me and welcomed me into their community; they listened when I needed to vent, they heard my story and understood the fact that I just couldn’t remember everything. Though they are a varied group of many different faiths – and no faiths – I truly felt that God’s unconditional love was extended to me through them. For the first time in many years, I felt something close to normalcy. It was an incredible feeling.

The second milestone came about fourteen months later, when I applied for a job and was hired. I had worked in the past, but never for more than a few months. I simply couldn’t handle being around people. The anxieties and panic attacks I experienced were debilitating, and I had given up on the idea of ever being employed. But I ran across the advertisement for Jubilee Project by accident; a poster on the door of our local pharmacy said that they were accepting resumes through that afternoon. Before I had time to really think about it, I made a phone-call that would change my life. Though I couldn’t get the resume there that day, they extended the deadline for me. I applied and within a week I was going to work for the first time in eight years. I really didn’t believe I could do it, but I was wrong. Not only did I do it, but I thrived on it – the small salary was only a tiny part of the benefits I reaped. Like the survivors at Pandy’s, the people I worked with gave me caring acceptance – again, I felt that unconditional love that is a hallmark of God.

There were other important milestones on the path – ones that enabled me to work proactively in my own life. Losing 130 lbs, going back to college, moving to a new town with more opportunities – all these were massive steps on the journey. In 2009, I began working at Cherokee Church, where I again encountered God’s people and more examples of his unconditional love. That year, I became involved with a man who had been my pastor; who used his connection and my faith to get close to me. He betrayed my trust in horrible ways – the abuse was emotional, sexual and physical. His suicide-threats kept me in the relationship until it was clear that I had to make a choice – would he survive, or would I? I chose me. I left in December of that year, but then ended up getting an order of protection against him the following July – another milestone.

Today, I consider myself to be a survivor. I am grateful for the people who have extended love and kindness to me along the way. I am in a relationship that is a partnership in every meaningful sense of the word, with someone who respects me and tries his best to understand me, even when I’m triggered and in my most vulnerable state. He never takes advantage of my weaknesses or suggests that I should “just get over it.” He is always willing to listen when I need to talk. I still have plenty of bad days, but there are plenty of good days, too. It has been almost twenty-six years since I started walking my wilderness path through the aftermath of rape. I’m still walking, probably always will be. But that’s okay – life is about the journey, and there are many milestones ahead.

A Disease of Darkness

In January of 2010, after the great exodus from my abuser’s home, I was alone one Saturday afternoon and I chose to spend it doing my laundry. At that time, I lived in an apartment with an on-site laundry-mat. Carrying my hamper, I stepped out onto the sidewalk and started past the other two apartments in my row. It was sprinkling rain and the air was damp and cold. As I approached unit 3, I could hear voices; as I got closer, there was the unmistakable sound of a fist striking flesh. I heard a woman’s short, startled scream and a man shout, “You can’t do this to me!” before he struck her again. I don't know what happened next, because I was swept away into a moment that had occurred back in November; a moment of trauma and pain that I would have preferred to forget.

I am huddled at the end of the sofa and he is looming over me, his fists pounding the back of the couch in front of my face. His voice, high-pitched in his fury, rings in my ears: You can’t do this to me! I am frozen, watching in horror as he stops hitting the couch and starts hitting me instead, first punching me in the forehead, and then striking the left side of my head again and again, on the temple and above my ear. There is a burgeoning explosion – fire blossoming white-yellow-orange-red. Pain radiates outward across my skull, curling on the edges of this neural flame. I clutch my hands to my head, covering my face, voicing a sharp, startled scream –

When I came to myself again, I was wet with rain, even though it was still just sprinkling. The hamper was overturned beside me and a few articles of clothing were lying on the sidewalk. I was clutching the left side of my head with one hand and guarding my face with the other. The only sound coming from apartment three was from the television, where some unseen salesman was hawking a new kind of furniture polish. I didn’t have to wonder what had happened – I knew: I had just suffered a flashback, a vivid recreation of past trauma. It was the first one I’d had related to the abusive relationship I had just left a couple of weeks before, and a definitive sign of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

PTSD is best defined as a normal human reaction to an abnormal event. Many people are familiar with it as something suffered by combat-veterans; at one point, it was even called shell-shock. What many people don’t know is that anyone who suffers a life-threatening event, or actual or perceived threats to physical integrity, can develop Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. PTSD is characterized by feelings of intense horror, helplessness, or fear, re-experiencing distressingly vivid memories of the event (these are flashbacks), and sometimes, intense nightmares about the trauma. People with PTSD regularly avoid reminders of their trauma – these reminders are called triggers. They often show symptoms of increased arousal such as sleep difficulties, hypervigilance, irritability, and an exaggerated startle response. A diagnosis of PTSD is given if these symptoms are experienced for more than a month (RAINN, 2009). PTSD is a disease of darkness and helplessness, it traps and entangles you; your body is no longer yours to control. The fear engendered by flashbacks is almost indescribable – how dreadful to know that you are safe and yet to be unable to feel it, how awful to know that you are free from the danger but to re-experience that trauma again and again. Your body disengages from your will and you may even feel ghosts of the pain you once felt.

What happened to me that day on the sidewalk was a deep flashback, triggered by a fight between my neighbor’s daughter and son-in-law, who had moved in with her when they lost their home due to unemployment. I was unprepared for the swiftness of the symptoms though not unfamiliar with them – for years after the sexual assault that happened when I was a teenager, I had suffered and dealt with PTSD. I knew my triggers and I assiduously avoided them: pine-scented cleaner, the echoing sound of running water in a public restroom, adolescent male voices with no visible source, the taste of Dr. Pepper, and the smell of bourbon. But after the violence of my recent relationship, it appeared there were new triggers to be learned and dealt with. It was a depressing thought. I knew as well as anyone how debilitating PTSD can be – for me, it had led to a kind of quiet, social anguish that kept me cloistered at home and unable to work or even deal constructively with people at all. Things as simple as making telephone calls or paying bills had become an ordeal for me in the past, and it had taken a lot of conscious work to overcome the symptoms and be able to live my life again. The last thing I wanted was to have to go back through those days of darkness.

Soon after the flashback that January afternoon, I began experiencing nightmare-flashbacks of being trapped in a car with my abuser; snow pelted down and the sensation of reckless speed made my skin crawl. He screamed, pounding the dash and the windshield, threw wild punches at me, connecting with my mouth, my jaw, my shoulder. Sometimes the dreams were not memories, but were new fears being expressed during sleep – I would be moving through my day and would look up to see him, standing somewhere near, watching me… Probably the most horrific of these night-terrors were the ones in which I was frozen and unable to move as he slid into bed beside me; I could actually feel his body against mine and would awaken with my heart pounding and my throat aching from screams I could not voice.

Fortunately, I had developed some good coping mechanisms during my struggle with PTSD. For example, I had learned how to ease myself out of a flashback by concentrating on the ocean-sounds of my breath as air moved in and out of my body. This grounded me and helped me to focus on what was real. Another tool was counting down from 10 to 1 as I inhaled and exhaled deliberately, controlling and calming my breathing. As the weeks and months went by, the flashbacks became fewer, though they have not completely gone away even now, over a year later. I am still learning my new triggers; the sound of a man shouting, driving in snow, and the sound of breaking glass to name just a few. They are little things, but they plunge me down into darkness, and it is hard to climb back up.

Women who suffer sexual assault are at high risk of developing PTSD. In the month after a rape or assault, 94% of women report symptoms of PTSD. Nine months after a rape or assault, 30% of those women are still experiencing full-blown Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (US Dept. of Veterans Affairs, 2007). Throughout their lifetimes, 11% of women who survived rape will continue to experience PTSD. So does that mean that there is no cure?

No – it just means that our society doesn’t always know how to help sufferers of PTSD. However, there is help if you are experiencing symptoms. You should talk to a mental health professional. The treatment you receive could range from talk therapy to cognitive behavioral therapy, to EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) to medications. Your health care professional should be able to help you discover the best treatment for you, but be careful to choose someone who has experience in dealing with survivors of rape and assault, and the treatment of PTSD in survivors. Not all physicians have the knowledge needed to help you find the best treatment for your PTSD; the first doctor I spoke to about my symptoms wanted me to take Zoloft. I refused; I wasn’t depressed. I was traumatized. I opted instead to begin with talk-therapy, which I found helpful.

I am not yet 100% PTSD free, but it is possible to be. There are some great resources out there for knowing how to help yourself, but one of the most encouraging ones I’ve found is Heal My PTSD, a website founded and managed by Michele Rosenthal. While she is not a survivor of sexual assault, Michele’s struggles with PTSD and her subsequent healing can provide a wealth of inspiration and information for anyone with PTSD. So – help is available, and there is hope. This knowledge is what I hold onto when the darkness rises – and it does, more often than I care to admit - like last night, for example.

I can’t move. It’s the first thing I notice – my body is heavy and I feel as if some invisible force has immobilized me. Behind the heavy curtains I can hear furtive movements – the scratching of rats inside a wall. But it isn’t rats…rats can’t speak – rats can’t whisper threats, can’t urge each other to do unspeakable things. I am frozen in place and the harsh words echo inside my brain: Let’s get her. The curtains swirl and then I see hands, pale in the gloom, hands reaching and grabbing and tearing at me…

Though I know that this moment ended almost twenty-six years ago, I am THERE, I am pinned and used and broken; though I try, I cannot escape. Almost thirty years later, I am still trying, but that’s what surviving is about – you never give up.

Hope:
http://www.rainn.org/
http://www.healmyptsd.com/
http://www.hopeforhealing.org/

Resources:
Rape Abuse Incest National Network (RAINN). 2009. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Retrieved April 15, 2011 from http://www.rainn.org/get-information/effects-of-sexual-assault/post-traumatic-stress-disorder

US Department of Veterans Affairs. 2007. National Center for PTSD: Sexual Assault against Females. Retrieved April 15, 2011 from http://www.ptsd.va.gov/public/pages/sexual-assault-females.asp

Keep on Talking

The tone of the email was angry and abrupt. An unknown woman had been offended by a comment I had made on a website discussion board where a group of folks were talking about sexual assault and who was at fault when it happened. She tracked me back to Facebook and sent an email that was designed to insult rather than persuade. "Why do you keep on talking about rape?" she asked. "It's all you ever talk about. There must be something wrong with you. You must think about rape all the time."

I read through the letter, looking for clues or red-flags that this was more than just someone who happened to disagree with me and the way I communicate. I admit that I wondered if it could be my abuser, taking a circuitous route to be in touch with me and berate me, but after examining the sentence structure of the email and the syntax and grammar, I decided that it was not him. She went on through a couple of paragraphs, telling me how sick and disgusting I am for my vocal stance on rape and intimate partner violence. "Nice people don't like hearing about things like that," she said. "I'm sorry if you got yourself raped, but you need to get over it and move on."

My initial response was - of course - anger. Whose wouldn't have been? But after some consideration, I realized that I had been given a rare opportunity. I had the chance to open a dialogue with someone who needed education. There was no way to change this woman's mind or to win an argument with her, so I decided not to argue. Instead, I did my best to give her some answers and some things to think about. Here is my reply (and please note that her comments and questions have been edited by me for grammar and spelling errors; also, I have changed her name to protect her privacy).

Dear Kate,
Thank you for your email. I must assume from your comments that you are one of the nice people who do not like to hear about rape and domestic violence. It is regrettable that you were offended by my comments about only rapists getting to choose whether or not someone is raped, but I cannot bring myself to offer you an apology. I have nothing to apologize for. What I said was true and not inflammatory. No one chooses to be a victim; rapists do choose to commit rape.

You gave me some advice in your letter - you said I should get over the rapes and the domestic violence I suffered and move on. Well, I am happy to say that I am moving on. Advocacy and publicly addressing the issues are how I am moving forward with my life. If you meant that I should pretend these things never happened to me, well, I'm afraid I can't do that. Not anymore. I tried it for many years and it did not work for me. I suspect there are many survivors of rape and abuse who would say the same thing. And just for future reference, no one gets themselves raped. As I said before, rapists choose to commit rape; the person who is raped has all their choices taken away.

You asked me why I "keep on talking" about rape and domestic violence. I do it because I have daughters and friends, sisters and a mother, and because I don't want any of them - or anyone else, anywhere, ever - to be raped or abused. To my way of thinking, the more people who know it's a problem, the more people there are who might intervene if they are faced with an assault or see domestic violence situations. My daughter says that awareness is the first step toward eradication of these crimes. She's only fourteen, but she's got something there, hasn't she? Another reason why I keep on talking is because I experienced rape, both as an adolescent and as a grown woman in an abusive relationship. I know the aftermath of rape and abuse, and I feel that I have a responsibility to myself and others to be as educated as I can be, and to tell the truth about sexual assault and domestic violence, so that others can recognize signs and warnings. My goal is to raise awareness so that fewer people suffer what I suffered.

Despite your letter, I have no current plans to shut up about rape, as you asked me - well, ordered is probably a better term - to do. No, I believe that the best way to end the darkness of ignorance and shame surrounding rape and intimate partner violence is to shine the lights of truth and justice on these crimes. Every time I tell someone the one-in-four statistic, every time I make someone question her certainty that she can't be raped because she's careful or because she carries pepper spray or because she's taken martial arts training, every time I blow another rape-myth out of the water, I am lighting another candle to drive back the dark. I will keep lighting those candles. I will keep on talking.

Sincerely,
Amy

I sent the email and have not received a reply. I don't expect to get one, and if I do, it will likely be contentious, with more insinuations about my character and my motives. That's okay, I've heard a lot worse from people I know and love. It is easy to disregard the rantings of a random stranger; much more difficult to pass over the hurts caused by people I care about, and who care about me. For instance, when I first disclosed to someone very close to me about my rape as an adolescent, the response was, "don't tell me you got yourself ruined." Another friend, on learning what had happened, said, "eww, that's so gross. Let's talk about something else." I've been called a slut, a whore, have been asked why I'd let people use me that way, have been told that I am the one who is responsible for the assaults and abuse, have been told that I am weak, unable to deal with life, living in a vacuum, and that I don't know what "the real world is like". All these things came from people I care about, and who presumably care about me. Recently, I was shocked to hear someone I love tell me that unless I learned how to defend myself, I would always be a victim.

I cannot describe the pain these statements cause. Would you tell someone who was hit by a drunk driver that she should have gotten out of the way faster? Would you tell her that she shouldn't have been driving on that particular road at that particular time? Would you tell her that if she had been in a bigger, sturdier car, she wouldn't have been hurt? Would you tell her that if she had learned defensive driving, she wouldn't have been hit? Then why in the world would you tell someone who has been raped that she should have done more to protect herself, that she shouldn't have been where she was, wearing what she wore, or that if she only knew how to fight everything would have been okay?

People who have been sexually assaulted or abused by intimate partners already carry enough guilt, pain, and confusion to last a lifetime. No one has the right to make any survivor's situation worse by blaming them for the assault, questioning how they handled it, or telling them what they did wrong. Bottom line - those of us who were once victims of assault have had enough trauma. We don't need anyone making it worse.

I live, work, and pray for the day when sexual assault and intimate partner violence and the attitudes that support and engender these crimes will be a distant memory. I long for a time when women are truly accepted as equals of men - not better than men, but just equal. I hope for a better future for my daughters and for everyone who is affected by rape, abuse, and domestic violence. Until that day comes, I will keep on talking.

Standing on the Outside

There was a time when the words came easily, and there was relief in writing. My emotions spilled onto the page and I felt cleansed by the release. Now there is only frustration - words seem empty and meaningless. There are so many thoughts racing around inside my head that I can no longer express them. I want to stand somewhere far removed from everyone and scream until my throat is raw. I want to feel free to relinquish control and be in the moment; to grieve, to mourn, to hurt. I am tired of being strong. I am tired of being calm. I am tired of smiling when I want to cry, of speaking softly when I want to shout, and of staying the course when I want to run away.

If only I could find words to express these feelings... But everything I write seems stilted and feels worthless. Years ago, I wrote a small collection of poems that brought out some of my emptiness and relieved the pressure when it became too great. I feel inarticulate and inadequate against the weight that seems to be crushing me and words are not helping... I can't explain why that matters so much. Maybe it's because through all these years of silence, the written word has been my only constant; I have been able to count on this medium for expressing the things I simply could not bring myself to say.

Ten years ago, I wrote the following poem, and I think it speaks for me now, just as it did then...

Numb

I don't care what you do to me
As long as you do something
Anything, just make me feel
Burn me -- freeze me -- hit me
Call me names, make me cry
I'm dead inside -- I'm hollow
I'm a shell carved from ice
Thin brittle skin wrapped around
A fragile core of nothing
Hold me -- hurt me -- hate me
Love me -- use me -- break me
Just touch me. Please.
Make me feel.

I'm so tired of feeling disconnected, of feeling separated. I want to belong in my life but I am still standing on the edges, watching. I am disengaged. Somewhere inside I want the things other people want - a home, security, a stable marriage, but I can never feel as if I deserve them. And so I settle for pieces of life and tell myself that it doesn't matter; it's okay if I come home hurting and lonely and there's no one here to lean on. I convince myself that I don't need anyone, because - let's face it - it isn't safe to need anyone, is it? Because it's when you begin to depend on someone that they are able to let you down. I tell myself that I don't need to be loved for who I am, just as I am. No human can provide that anyway, right? It's better to accept that I'm always going to fall short. Because if I open up that longing and I stare it in the face, then I must find a way to live around that hurt, the pain of knowing that I'm never going to be good enough for someone to look at me, my past, and my reality, and accept the person I am now. No, it's easier to be the person in the poem, so desperate to find connection that it doesn't matter what kind of connection it is. But what message am I sending to my children when I settle for less than I want? What am I teaching them about their own self-worth? Are they going to wake up twenty years from now and realize that they've become their mother, someone who needs to be loved so badly that she's willing to give up her dreams of a loving, stable marriage where both partners are always there for each other? Are they going to become the kind of women who say, "Love me, use me, break me", as long as they have someone in their lives? Even if that someone is a good and wonderful person...just not the kind of person who can make a lasting commitment?

I am so tired of feeling empty, of being hollow. Of believing that I am not worth someone else's love and commitment. This is what abuse does to you - it leaves you standing on the outside of your own life, wishing you could enter in and live, but unable to break through the veil and really reach for what it is you need, with complete faith that you deserve it. Instead, you feel inadequate, unworthy of the better things life offers.