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.
Showing posts with label Healing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Healing. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
We Remember
June 6th is D-Day. We spend time today remembering the troops who stormed the beaches of Normandy and turned the tide in World War II. There was so much loss of life that day - I find it difficult to wrap my mind around. Allied casualties have been estimated to be around 10,000 soldiers. During the months of April and May of 1944, around 12,000 soldiers were lost. This gives us some idea of the carnage that occurred that day. Though the invasion happened 68 years ago, we still remember. We mark the day with prayers and occasionally, solemn ceremonies. The folks who lost family members might gather to talk about the brother or uncle who never came home. The pain may have faded, but the horror never really does; we remember this anniversary and in remembering, we quietly celebrate the freedom that was won by those soldiers' sacrifices. We remember, and we are grateful.
June 6th is a personal d-day for me. It is the anniversary of a life-defining event that changed me forever; it is the anniversary of the sexual assault that occurred when I was 13. It has been 27 years. For many years, I didn't recall much of the incident. I think now that I wasn't strong enough to deal with the pain. Forgetting was a form of self-protection, much like the denial I struggle with in other areas of my life. I still sometimes question whether the pain is real, or whether I deserve to grieve or to call myself a survivor. For a long time, I didn't remember the date when it happened. Then, in 2001, I woke up on the sixth of June and I remembered. Since then, I have marked the anniversary with silence and solitude. I often try to do something I've been frightened to do. In 2002, I went hiking and climbed a huge boulder that jutted out over a sheer drop. I hate heights, but I needed to prove to myself that I could conquer that fear, if only for a few moments.
In later years, I have often had to work on June 6th and so could not have an adventure like the first one, but today I'm on vacation, so I left the beaten path on a lark and just drove. I ended up in Marshall, North Carolina. Going somewhere off-track and without any preparation is something I've been afraid to do for a long time. There's always that nagging fear that if I go somewhere out of the way, something horrible will happen to me. I know it is irrational. There is no safety in staying in one place all the time - there is no true safety anywhere. I know that I have to lay aside that fear and silence the voice that wants me to believe that I deserve horrible things. There was still a part of me today that was just certain that something awful would happen when I left the high-way. It didn't. I think that frightened part of me was shocked when I made it home, safe and sound.
Sometimes people don't understand why survivors mark our anniversaries. They think we are wallowing in our pain, or refusing to heal, or reopening old wounds. They don't get that we are mourning who we once were. We are grieving the loss of our old, false-freedom, our former surety that we were invincible, that nothing horrible could ever happen to us as long as we dressed or talked or acted a certain way. We are marking our loss of innocence. But we are also quietly celebrating the fact that we are alive now, we are well - or getting better - now. We survived. We are tougher. We are stronger. And if we are in a good place now, we can acknowledge that the younger version of us did the best she could. And really, she did all that was needed - she survived.
We remember, and we are grateful.
June 6th is a personal d-day for me. It is the anniversary of a life-defining event that changed me forever; it is the anniversary of the sexual assault that occurred when I was 13. It has been 27 years. For many years, I didn't recall much of the incident. I think now that I wasn't strong enough to deal with the pain. Forgetting was a form of self-protection, much like the denial I struggle with in other areas of my life. I still sometimes question whether the pain is real, or whether I deserve to grieve or to call myself a survivor. For a long time, I didn't remember the date when it happened. Then, in 2001, I woke up on the sixth of June and I remembered. Since then, I have marked the anniversary with silence and solitude. I often try to do something I've been frightened to do. In 2002, I went hiking and climbed a huge boulder that jutted out over a sheer drop. I hate heights, but I needed to prove to myself that I could conquer that fear, if only for a few moments.
In later years, I have often had to work on June 6th and so could not have an adventure like the first one, but today I'm on vacation, so I left the beaten path on a lark and just drove. I ended up in Marshall, North Carolina. Going somewhere off-track and without any preparation is something I've been afraid to do for a long time. There's always that nagging fear that if I go somewhere out of the way, something horrible will happen to me. I know it is irrational. There is no safety in staying in one place all the time - there is no true safety anywhere. I know that I have to lay aside that fear and silence the voice that wants me to believe that I deserve horrible things. There was still a part of me today that was just certain that something awful would happen when I left the high-way. It didn't. I think that frightened part of me was shocked when I made it home, safe and sound.
Sometimes people don't understand why survivors mark our anniversaries. They think we are wallowing in our pain, or refusing to heal, or reopening old wounds. They don't get that we are mourning who we once were. We are grieving the loss of our old, false-freedom, our former surety that we were invincible, that nothing horrible could ever happen to us as long as we dressed or talked or acted a certain way. We are marking our loss of innocence. But we are also quietly celebrating the fact that we are alive now, we are well - or getting better - now. We survived. We are tougher. We are stronger. And if we are in a good place now, we can acknowledge that the younger version of us did the best she could. And really, she did all that was needed - she survived.
We remember, and we are grateful.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Forty Days
"Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home." ~ Matsuo Basho
This was Easter weekend, and that means Lent is over. The long fast is done, today was the feast day and Christians everywhere celebrated a risen Christ. The folks who gave up coffee or chocolate or meat or sex can now enjoy the breaking of the fast and the end of abstinence. Those who took up a holy practice such as prayer or servanthood can lay it back down if they so choose. For the past few years, I have not chosen physical abstinence for Lent, but emotional or spiritual abstinence. This year, I chose to give up lying to myself.
If I had known how hard, how scary, how life-changing it would turn out to be, I never would have had the courage to give up self-deception. But I am fond of saying to myself and my daughters that we should always do what we are most afraid to do. So I spent the last 40 days telling myself the truth about my life, about my relationships, about my needs. About myself. Ever heard that saying, "the truth hurts?"
It does. Forty days of honesty has been like lancing a new, infected wound every day. It has meant seemingly endless self-examination. It has meant admitting that I need help healing from my PTSD. It has meant facing the unhappiness I've been feeling and mining for its source. It has meant releasing someone from my life without knowing that the person would be safe or happy or healed. It has meant acknowledging the long-lasting guilt I carry for the dissolution of my marriage and giving that resentment and hurt to God in a ceremony of smoke-and-fire carried out a thousand miles away. It has meant admitting that my own foolish pride keeps me from telling God my wants and my hurts and accepting that his forgiveness is more important than my own.
Now Lent is over. Easter is here. Christ is risen and the stone is rolled away. I can go back to my old way of coping; I could turn from the cold truth and seek sanctuary in the many warm, comfortable lies in which I have wrapped myself for so long. In a way it seems safe, but wouldn't it be like turning around and picking up the shroud, walking back into the darkness of the tomb? The purpose of Lent isn't only in sacrifice - the purpose is that we rid ourselves of that which keeps us from being in relationship with God. The purpose is that we emerge on the other side of the wilderness as different people; honed, tempered, with our wounds drained and healed, and our souls so intertwined with Christ that we do not know where we end and he begins. I stand on the edge with so much possibility before me and all the past dark behind me, and I know which way my feet should - must - take me.
Life lies ahead, not behind.
This was Easter weekend, and that means Lent is over. The long fast is done, today was the feast day and Christians everywhere celebrated a risen Christ. The folks who gave up coffee or chocolate or meat or sex can now enjoy the breaking of the fast and the end of abstinence. Those who took up a holy practice such as prayer or servanthood can lay it back down if they so choose. For the past few years, I have not chosen physical abstinence for Lent, but emotional or spiritual abstinence. This year, I chose to give up lying to myself.
If I had known how hard, how scary, how life-changing it would turn out to be, I never would have had the courage to give up self-deception. But I am fond of saying to myself and my daughters that we should always do what we are most afraid to do. So I spent the last 40 days telling myself the truth about my life, about my relationships, about my needs. About myself. Ever heard that saying, "the truth hurts?"
It does. Forty days of honesty has been like lancing a new, infected wound every day. It has meant seemingly endless self-examination. It has meant admitting that I need help healing from my PTSD. It has meant facing the unhappiness I've been feeling and mining for its source. It has meant releasing someone from my life without knowing that the person would be safe or happy or healed. It has meant acknowledging the long-lasting guilt I carry for the dissolution of my marriage and giving that resentment and hurt to God in a ceremony of smoke-and-fire carried out a thousand miles away. It has meant admitting that my own foolish pride keeps me from telling God my wants and my hurts and accepting that his forgiveness is more important than my own.
Now Lent is over. Easter is here. Christ is risen and the stone is rolled away. I can go back to my old way of coping; I could turn from the cold truth and seek sanctuary in the many warm, comfortable lies in which I have wrapped myself for so long. In a way it seems safe, but wouldn't it be like turning around and picking up the shroud, walking back into the darkness of the tomb? The purpose of Lent isn't only in sacrifice - the purpose is that we rid ourselves of that which keeps us from being in relationship with God. The purpose is that we emerge on the other side of the wilderness as different people; honed, tempered, with our wounds drained and healed, and our souls so intertwined with Christ that we do not know where we end and he begins. I stand on the edge with so much possibility before me and all the past dark behind me, and I know which way my feet should - must - take me.
Life lies ahead, not behind.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Who do you think you are?
How well do you know yourself? I was faced with this question last week. No one really asked it of me, but circumstances forced me to ask it of myself. I had started walking one path and then found myself faced with choosing between two different directions and I was surprised by the choice I made. Maybe it was the right one, maybe not - only time will tell. I didn't expect myself to choose what I chose. Did I make that choice for me or for someone else? I still don't know - that's the kind of thing I never really know - but I know that my heart was speaking to me that day, and it wasn't entirely at odds with my mental process. Sometimes, the voice of the heart must be heard.
My problem is that I have spent a large portion of my life making the choices others wanted me to make. This continual selling of my identity in order to gain momentary peace has left me indecisive and uninformed about the reasons why I do the things I do. It also leaves me second-guessing every single decision I make and wondering if I made it from my own identity or someone else's. So why is it so hard to assume my own identity and give power to my inner authority? And why is it so easy to give my personal power away?
I have some ideas about that. Being raised in a very authoritarian environment was not conducive to learning how to make healthy choices. I've spoken about that here before and don't need to enumerate the ways in which my ability to choose was co-opted during my childhood. I think I could have recovered from that in time and with the independence of adulthood, but then the sexual assault happened, and that made dissent a fearful thing. With the word "no" came great pain, both physical and emotional. This was reinforced much later on by my abuser, who inflicted emotional damage each time I dared to disagree with him. Though I know intellectually that I can't give away my own power, I still find it difficult to make decisions and hold to them in the face of someone else's desires when they are in conflict with my own.
So now that I have finally awakened and understand that I have sold myself and my identity for the price of short-term peace, what do I do about it? How do I recover? I recognize that with this behavior I am avoiding the pain of the moment but inflicting pain that may last a lifetime. I am forty years old - I can't continue to lie to myself about improving my situation "tomorrow" or "next year" or "when I'm more ready." Regardless of age, the truth is that none of us are guaranteed any amount of time. There may not be a next year, or even a tomorrow. I may never be more ready than I am right now.
I have spoken here about this process before and have never come to any conclusions about how to help myself. At this point, I realize that no one can tell me how to get better. I have to take responsibility for choosing what is right for me and not what others want me to choose. I can do it by not making snap decisions, by thinking things through even when it is hard. I can recognize that momentary peace or gratification do not compensate for hours of regret or pain later on, and act accordingly. I can do these things...but will I? Yes, I promise myself that I will - starting now.
My problem is that I have spent a large portion of my life making the choices others wanted me to make. This continual selling of my identity in order to gain momentary peace has left me indecisive and uninformed about the reasons why I do the things I do. It also leaves me second-guessing every single decision I make and wondering if I made it from my own identity or someone else's. So why is it so hard to assume my own identity and give power to my inner authority? And why is it so easy to give my personal power away?
I have some ideas about that. Being raised in a very authoritarian environment was not conducive to learning how to make healthy choices. I've spoken about that here before and don't need to enumerate the ways in which my ability to choose was co-opted during my childhood. I think I could have recovered from that in time and with the independence of adulthood, but then the sexual assault happened, and that made dissent a fearful thing. With the word "no" came great pain, both physical and emotional. This was reinforced much later on by my abuser, who inflicted emotional damage each time I dared to disagree with him. Though I know intellectually that I can't give away my own power, I still find it difficult to make decisions and hold to them in the face of someone else's desires when they are in conflict with my own.
So now that I have finally awakened and understand that I have sold myself and my identity for the price of short-term peace, what do I do about it? How do I recover? I recognize that with this behavior I am avoiding the pain of the moment but inflicting pain that may last a lifetime. I am forty years old - I can't continue to lie to myself about improving my situation "tomorrow" or "next year" or "when I'm more ready." Regardless of age, the truth is that none of us are guaranteed any amount of time. There may not be a next year, or even a tomorrow. I may never be more ready than I am right now.
I have spoken here about this process before and have never come to any conclusions about how to help myself. At this point, I realize that no one can tell me how to get better. I have to take responsibility for choosing what is right for me and not what others want me to choose. I can do it by not making snap decisions, by thinking things through even when it is hard. I can recognize that momentary peace or gratification do not compensate for hours of regret or pain later on, and act accordingly. I can do these things...but will I? Yes, I promise myself that I will - starting now.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Sticks and Stones
“Some people make cutting remarks, but the words of the wise bring healing.” ~ Proverbs, 12:18; The New Living Translation of the Holy Bible
Words are powerful. I learned this when I was twelve years old – I was mercilessly bullied and called all sorts of horrible names while I was at school. The boys who tormented me went on molest and sexually assault me the next year, and sometimes I wonder which of the abuses hurt me more. In the deep watches of the night, I hear their voices and the hateful, hurtful words that they said just about as often as I still feel their hands on my body. Let no one deceive you – that “sticks and stones” thing we learned in kindergarten is a load of crap.
During my eighth grade year, being molested was a daily occurrence. There was nothing uncommon about being backed into a corner and touched intimately, and it didn’t matter if I yelled or fought – generally, no one came to my aid, and my struggles just ended up causing me more pain. Everyone in my tiny elementary school knew what was happening, and no-one wanted to deal with it. When I spoke with my teacher about it, he said, “Well, if you wouldn’t wear make-up and dress like that, then these boys wouldn’t feel like they could take liberties with you.” A classmate asked me on the bus why I “let” those boys do that to me – didn’t I know it made me look like a slut?
I lived for many years believing that I had done something to deserve the treatment I received. I didn’t know or understand that what had happened to me was not my fault. I thought that my 36-C sized bra caused the problems, or maybe it was my Levi’s, or the tee-shirt I wore that day – after all, it only came down to the top of my jeans. For a long time, I accepted what I had been told – that somehow, I had caused myself to be raped and abused because of what I had chosen to wear, and the fact that my body had developed earlier than those of the other girls in my class. I accepted this horrible lie and took the blame upon myself, and it nearly killed me.
But I am here, alive and well, thanks be to God. And about ten years ago, I came across some words written by Shannon Lambert, creator of Pandora’s Aquarium and a very wise woman. Shannon said, on her website Welcome to Barbados – “It doesn’t matter what you said, what you did, what you wore…” Wise words. They brought me healing, and they have helped me to realize and understand that I didn’t deserve to be raped. What I wore had nothing to do with it. In the end, my rapists chose to hurt me, and they didn’t make that choice because my short tee-shirt had inflamed them beyond their ability to control their urges. They made that choice because they wanted to hurt me. Nothing I did caused that desire, and there was nothing I could have done to change what happened. I learned that what happened to me was not my fault; it really didn’t matter what I said, what I did, or what I wore.
Words are powerful. They can wound us deeply, compounding the horror of the sexual and physical assaults we suffer. But we can stand up and say, “No more.” We can refuse to take the blame for the actions of another. It doesn’t matter what you said, what you did, or what you wore. It doesn’t matter where you were. If you were raped, your choices were taken away, but if you survived, then you have choices now. You can stand up and you can tell the world that you are strong, that you refuse to accept responsibility and shame for what your rapist did to you. You can choose to work hard for your own healing. Despite the scars you carry, you can choose joy.
Next month, I'll be attending a SlutWalk. Yeah, I hate that word; hearing it makes my skin crawl. I hate it because it has had so much power in my life; it was used to wound me, and so I've decided to refuse to allow it to hurt me anymore. I will march and speak and wave my sign, and I WILL NOT be ashamed about it. I will take back the power that word has had over me, and in doing so, I will be choosing to live in freedom and in joy. I survived - and hurtful words have no power over me anymore.
Words are powerful. I learned this when I was twelve years old – I was mercilessly bullied and called all sorts of horrible names while I was at school. The boys who tormented me went on molest and sexually assault me the next year, and sometimes I wonder which of the abuses hurt me more. In the deep watches of the night, I hear their voices and the hateful, hurtful words that they said just about as often as I still feel their hands on my body. Let no one deceive you – that “sticks and stones” thing we learned in kindergarten is a load of crap.
During my eighth grade year, being molested was a daily occurrence. There was nothing uncommon about being backed into a corner and touched intimately, and it didn’t matter if I yelled or fought – generally, no one came to my aid, and my struggles just ended up causing me more pain. Everyone in my tiny elementary school knew what was happening, and no-one wanted to deal with it. When I spoke with my teacher about it, he said, “Well, if you wouldn’t wear make-up and dress like that, then these boys wouldn’t feel like they could take liberties with you.” A classmate asked me on the bus why I “let” those boys do that to me – didn’t I know it made me look like a slut?
I lived for many years believing that I had done something to deserve the treatment I received. I didn’t know or understand that what had happened to me was not my fault. I thought that my 36-C sized bra caused the problems, or maybe it was my Levi’s, or the tee-shirt I wore that day – after all, it only came down to the top of my jeans. For a long time, I accepted what I had been told – that somehow, I had caused myself to be raped and abused because of what I had chosen to wear, and the fact that my body had developed earlier than those of the other girls in my class. I accepted this horrible lie and took the blame upon myself, and it nearly killed me.
But I am here, alive and well, thanks be to God. And about ten years ago, I came across some words written by Shannon Lambert, creator of Pandora’s Aquarium and a very wise woman. Shannon said, on her website Welcome to Barbados – “It doesn’t matter what you said, what you did, what you wore…” Wise words. They brought me healing, and they have helped me to realize and understand that I didn’t deserve to be raped. What I wore had nothing to do with it. In the end, my rapists chose to hurt me, and they didn’t make that choice because my short tee-shirt had inflamed them beyond their ability to control their urges. They made that choice because they wanted to hurt me. Nothing I did caused that desire, and there was nothing I could have done to change what happened. I learned that what happened to me was not my fault; it really didn’t matter what I said, what I did, or what I wore.
Words are powerful. They can wound us deeply, compounding the horror of the sexual and physical assaults we suffer. But we can stand up and say, “No more.” We can refuse to take the blame for the actions of another. It doesn’t matter what you said, what you did, or what you wore. It doesn’t matter where you were. If you were raped, your choices were taken away, but if you survived, then you have choices now. You can stand up and you can tell the world that you are strong, that you refuse to accept responsibility and shame for what your rapist did to you. You can choose to work hard for your own healing. Despite the scars you carry, you can choose joy.
Next month, I'll be attending a SlutWalk. Yeah, I hate that word; hearing it makes my skin crawl. I hate it because it has had so much power in my life; it was used to wound me, and so I've decided to refuse to allow it to hurt me anymore. I will march and speak and wave my sign, and I WILL NOT be ashamed about it. I will take back the power that word has had over me, and in doing so, I will be choosing to live in freedom and in joy. I survived - and hurtful words have no power over me anymore.
Friday, June 3, 2011
I Choose Joy
Just what is the language of my past, anyway? Since I wrote my last entry - "Written in Stone" - I've been thinking about those words. When I wrote them, I was referring to the misery stemming from the physical, emotional, and sexual abuse I've suffered. But today, with an important milestone behind me and a clearer sense of direction for the path ahead, I'm thinking that misery isn't the only language of my history. Looking back, I can see suffering, but I can also see survival, healing, and victory. And if it is true, as Madeleine L'Engle wisely said, that human life is like a sonnet - with its form and meter and length pre-set, but with the freedom to write whatever we wish within those parameters - then I can also choose how my future will be written.
The freedom to make choices is one of God's greatest gifts to humanity. Because we are free to choose, any service we offer God out of our love for him has deeper value than it would if it were compulsory. We are at perfect liberty to pursue our own desires and wants first, after all. But the willingness to give of ourselves brings us full circle from selfishness and into the Christlike nature that cheerfully gives everything that we are in service to others, and so to God. It is in choosing to use my hurts to fuel my desire to help others who have suffered what I suffered that I take ownership of my life and bring light out of darkness.
I am free to choose how I live and what I believe. I am free to write my future in any language - regret or rejoicing; sorrow or song; hate or healing; judgment or joy.
I choose joy.
The freedom to make choices is one of God's greatest gifts to humanity. Because we are free to choose, any service we offer God out of our love for him has deeper value than it would if it were compulsory. We are at perfect liberty to pursue our own desires and wants first, after all. But the willingness to give of ourselves brings us full circle from selfishness and into the Christlike nature that cheerfully gives everything that we are in service to others, and so to God. It is in choosing to use my hurts to fuel my desire to help others who have suffered what I suffered that I take ownership of my life and bring light out of darkness.
I am free to choose how I live and what I believe. I am free to write my future in any language - regret or rejoicing; sorrow or song; hate or healing; judgment or joy.
I choose joy.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Falling
Once upon a time, one of my favorite things to do was to stand outside when snow was falling and still myself, quieting my thoughts and even my breath, until I could hear the sound the snow made as it fell – an endless, velvet whisper, both soft and cold. I recall a day over fourteen years ago, before I had children, when I went walking in the woods alone as fat flakes drifted down. I struck an old tractor road and stood in one of the ruts, looking skyward, feeling the crystals settle on my lashes, my eyes, my lips. I was far enough from civilization that there were no other sounds – it was simply me, and the cold, and the snow. I concentrated on that whisper of falling – falling – falling… I concentrated on it and let the cold embrace me until I was no longer aware of my own body except as a conduit for the sound of the snow. After a time, I felt absolutely nothing, not even the flakes as they landed on my skin. It was the perfect disconnect; total escape from the body I had learned to hate. I felt nothing; I was entirely free from physical sensation. Even my emotions were frozen. I had brought my pain out into the frigid air and had walked for hours, trying to leave it behind. That one act of stopping, standing, stilling myself and listening, accomplished what nothing else could. I was empty, and nothing came rushing to fill me up.
I learned to be still. I learned to be quiet. I learned how to empty myself and how to keep the emptiness intact as the world came prying, pushing, trying to fill me. I learned how to contain myself no matter what the situation, no matter what the stimuli. I learned how to freeze and listen for that sound, so quiet that if you even breathe you miss it. But the world finally intruded, as it always does – the world is stronger than anyone’s will. Children, marriage, work, school…the art of being still was lost in the day to day scramble just to get by. My soul sickened. Life ran over and through me, but I had achieved a different kind of numbness – the kind you feel when circulation is cut off and blood just isn’t flowing. I started to die – literally, my body was perishing and I was helping it along with the choices I made. One thing led to another until I was thirty-six years old, three hundred pounds, pre-diabetic, with popping knees, aching arches, and chest pains. The body I hated was almost destroyed.
So what happened? Why did I wake up one day and pull myself back from the brink? Honestly – I still don’t have an answer. Was it a God-moment? I don’t know. I do know that there came a day when I decided I wanted to live. And I began to repair the damage I had willfully done through my choices. Two years later, my body was thriving. My soul was still sick, but I didn’t know it. I had managed another kind of disconnect, one that left me fully awake and aware physically but disconnected from Spirit. And the most tragic thing about it was that I thought I was okay; I read devotionals, wrote them, prayed, read verses each day. But I was like the man who prayed loudly on the street corner – so loudly that I could not hear the whisper anymore. I couldn’t have heard it even if it was a scream.
I made more choices – physically good, spiritually bad. I tore down my life and rebuilt it around someone who was cruel and exploitive, who used me for the affirmation he simply couldn’t give himself. There came a point when I finally managed an emotional disconnect from the situation; once he realized I was slipping away, he added physical abuse to the emotional beatings. He thought nothing he did to me would ever make me leave. He was wrong. I finally woke up and understood his evil and his weakness, and that gave me the strength to break the ties and free myself. It was hard and the apathy I still felt toward myself stalled the process; he begged for forgiveness and another chance and I almost broke. I believe there was another God-moment then; it was January 2nd, 2010, when he called and begged again to have another chance, asking me what I wanted from him. I heard myself saying that I wanted nothing except to be left alone. There would be no further chances. When I hung up the phone that day, I felt free. It was over, and it was time to be about the business of healing.
But it isn’t that simple, is it?
Last year was hell. Yes, I was free from my abuser, I was no longer being hurt, but I was still caged by the memories of the abuse, by the flashbacks that I could not control. I still had not learned how to be on my own, how to be content with myself. It was something I had always had before – solitude was golden, silence was a balm for my soul. But not last year… Last year the silence was gray and thick and dark. The silence was cold and empty. If I could have remembered how to still myself and listen, maybe it would have been better. But I couldn’t, I was frantic for human voices, for the world; I needed to be filled. I was void when I was alone; I might as well have been dead. I filled the emptiness with people and with physicality. I filled it with food and with alcohol. But the pain grew and nothing I tried was helping. I could not find a quiet place to stand and listen. The cage door was open but I was held back by my chains, and by people who loved me but could not release me.
The turning point came on Thanksgiving morning, when I awoke in the darkness and silence, alone, and comfortable with the solitude. My soul took flight – a rushing, streaming banshee -- I found a place outside myself and for the first time in a seeming eternity, I was able to be quiet. To be still.
My wilderness journey has taken a turn into the deepest part of the wild wood. Here there is a long, narrow path, bordered with gray trunks like pillars in a cathedral of stone where only I worship. The quiet is total. The air is cold, the sky lowers. It is heavy with the promise of snow. I am still, even my breath is silent. I am waiting for the whispered sound of snowflakes falling - falling - falling…
I learned to be still. I learned to be quiet. I learned how to empty myself and how to keep the emptiness intact as the world came prying, pushing, trying to fill me. I learned how to contain myself no matter what the situation, no matter what the stimuli. I learned how to freeze and listen for that sound, so quiet that if you even breathe you miss it. But the world finally intruded, as it always does – the world is stronger than anyone’s will. Children, marriage, work, school…the art of being still was lost in the day to day scramble just to get by. My soul sickened. Life ran over and through me, but I had achieved a different kind of numbness – the kind you feel when circulation is cut off and blood just isn’t flowing. I started to die – literally, my body was perishing and I was helping it along with the choices I made. One thing led to another until I was thirty-six years old, three hundred pounds, pre-diabetic, with popping knees, aching arches, and chest pains. The body I hated was almost destroyed.
So what happened? Why did I wake up one day and pull myself back from the brink? Honestly – I still don’t have an answer. Was it a God-moment? I don’t know. I do know that there came a day when I decided I wanted to live. And I began to repair the damage I had willfully done through my choices. Two years later, my body was thriving. My soul was still sick, but I didn’t know it. I had managed another kind of disconnect, one that left me fully awake and aware physically but disconnected from Spirit. And the most tragic thing about it was that I thought I was okay; I read devotionals, wrote them, prayed, read verses each day. But I was like the man who prayed loudly on the street corner – so loudly that I could not hear the whisper anymore. I couldn’t have heard it even if it was a scream.
I made more choices – physically good, spiritually bad. I tore down my life and rebuilt it around someone who was cruel and exploitive, who used me for the affirmation he simply couldn’t give himself. There came a point when I finally managed an emotional disconnect from the situation; once he realized I was slipping away, he added physical abuse to the emotional beatings. He thought nothing he did to me would ever make me leave. He was wrong. I finally woke up and understood his evil and his weakness, and that gave me the strength to break the ties and free myself. It was hard and the apathy I still felt toward myself stalled the process; he begged for forgiveness and another chance and I almost broke. I believe there was another God-moment then; it was January 2nd, 2010, when he called and begged again to have another chance, asking me what I wanted from him. I heard myself saying that I wanted nothing except to be left alone. There would be no further chances. When I hung up the phone that day, I felt free. It was over, and it was time to be about the business of healing.
But it isn’t that simple, is it?
Last year was hell. Yes, I was free from my abuser, I was no longer being hurt, but I was still caged by the memories of the abuse, by the flashbacks that I could not control. I still had not learned how to be on my own, how to be content with myself. It was something I had always had before – solitude was golden, silence was a balm for my soul. But not last year… Last year the silence was gray and thick and dark. The silence was cold and empty. If I could have remembered how to still myself and listen, maybe it would have been better. But I couldn’t, I was frantic for human voices, for the world; I needed to be filled. I was void when I was alone; I might as well have been dead. I filled the emptiness with people and with physicality. I filled it with food and with alcohol. But the pain grew and nothing I tried was helping. I could not find a quiet place to stand and listen. The cage door was open but I was held back by my chains, and by people who loved me but could not release me.
The turning point came on Thanksgiving morning, when I awoke in the darkness and silence, alone, and comfortable with the solitude. My soul took flight – a rushing, streaming banshee -- I found a place outside myself and for the first time in a seeming eternity, I was able to be quiet. To be still.
My wilderness journey has taken a turn into the deepest part of the wild wood. Here there is a long, narrow path, bordered with gray trunks like pillars in a cathedral of stone where only I worship. The quiet is total. The air is cold, the sky lowers. It is heavy with the promise of snow. I am still, even my breath is silent. I am waiting for the whispered sound of snowflakes falling - falling - falling…
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Finding Healing
Recognizing and Naming Abuse
Those of you who read this blog know that I recently experienced an abusive relationship. During the time when I was involved with this man, I was so numbed by the emotional pain he inflicted that when the physical violence started, it was almost a relief. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like being hurt. It was a relief because I was finally able to say, “Yes, this relationship really is unhealthy, he really is an abuser.” This knowledge gave me the ability to take action for myself and to finally leave the relationship, though it took me over a month to break free. Recognizing abuse for what it is can be very empowering; it certainly was for me. Once I named his abuse – emotional, physical, and sexual – I was able to release myself from that cycle and begin healing.
It would have been very helpful for me to have a domestic violence checklist to consult during the earlier days of that relationship. I might have recognized warning signs and have gotten out much sooner. Instead, I ended up waiting until I had been threatened with a knife, coerced into sex by his threats of self-harm or harm to others (which is rape by definition), and punched in the head and mouth. Below I’ve added a common domestic violence check-list that I found very recently, with my responses filled in. (Turning Point Services, 2010). I hope that it helps someone else recognize abusive patterns before violence occurs.
EMOTIONAL ABUSE CHECKLIST
• Do you have to get permission to socialize with your friends?
I did not have to get permission, but it was very clear that he did not want me to contact my friends or family. When I did speak to friends or family on the phone, he always asked me if we had talked about him and demanded to know what was said.
• Are you accused of flirting or cheating on him when you leave the house to do errands, etc.?
He often accused me of being too flirtatious with men, especially when men would compliment me or ask me out or for my phone number. He accused me of cheating on him when we had agreed to break up and see other people; though he had expressed that our relationship was over, when I went out on a date with someone else, he became furious and abusive.
• Does he blame you or others for the things that go wrong in his life? Does he refuse to accept responsibility for his own actions?
Yes – every time something went wrong, it was always someone else’s fault, usually mine.
• Does he have control over the money and monitor your spending?
He insisted that I give him money for groceries and other expenses, though I often paid for groceries and covered many of our expenses myself.
•Does he tell you no one else would ever want you?
Yes, he used to tell me no one else would ever accept me because of my children.
• Does he threaten to harm himself if you leave him?
Yes, he threatened to harm or kill himself and to burn down his home and to burn a church if I left.
• Does he go through your purse or open your mail?
No, not to my knowledge
• Does he use things against you that you've confided to him in the past?
He knew about my past hurts and used those against me; for example, he knew I had been sexually assaulted as a teen, and once forced me to look at rape-scenes as a way to hurt me.
• Does he express romantic or sexual interest in others in front of you?
Yes, he did this all the time.
• Are you nervous about being on the phone when he is around?
Yes, because he always seemed to be listening in.
• Is it okay to return home later than scheduled without being fearful?
I knew he’d be angry if I was late, especially if the kids were home.
• Does he withhold affection, give you the silent treatment when you want to talk or work things out, or refuse to answer the phone when you call?
He did all these things, all the time.
• Does he try to turn the children against you?
We did not have children together so this doesn’t apply.
• Do you feel manipulated by his kindness or gifts?
He rarely gifted me and was more unkind than kind, however, after the physical abuse occurred, he brought me flowers and an engagement ring, which I rejected, and I believed this to be an extremely manipulative act.
• Do you feel obligated to be sexual with your partner? Does he threaten or coerce you for sexual contact? Does he threaten to leave you or harm himself if you don’t have sex?
I was more than willing to be sexual with him until he began using pornography constantly in our relationship; after that, my interest level decreased. We had agreed to part ways on the night when he forced me into sex by threatening to drive drunk - thereby harming himself or others - if I didn’t comply. He used threats of leaving, threats of harming himself or others by his actions, and withholding affection if I didn’t watch pornography with him and have sex the way he wanted to. He became verbally abusive when I refused to consider having group sex or allowing others to watch us have sex via webcam.
• Are your activities and interests looked upon as unimportant and trivial?
Yes, often. He also interrupted me continually and told me in many ways that I had no rights in our relationship and that my emotions and needs were unimportant.
• Does he sabotage your schedule and outside commitments?
Yes – he often made me late for work and often called and kept me from sleeping at night.
Answering yes to any of these questions denotes a potential problem. I answered yes to almost every single one! During the early months of our relationship, these behaviors were scattered and sparse. But as time went on, more and more of the pattern became clear. Finally, the emotional and verbal abuse escalated to physical violence. Here are some markers for that type of behavior as well:
Domestic violence usually starts small and becomes more severe and frequent over time. Many times it progresses through the following stages, and I’ve noted my responses in italics:
1. Pre-battering violence
Hitting or breaking objects, threats of violence, verbal abuse. My abuser did these things – he threw glasses, plates, and books. He punched walls. He damaged some of my belongings. He shouted at me, cursed me, and called me names. He accused me of “chasing him” when he had, in fact, always been the one who pursued me (he admitted this several times when he was drunk). He accused me of ruining his life and of destroying his marriage, when he had communicated to me that his marriage was dysfunctional and he was seeking a divorce before our relationship began.
2. Beginning level violence
Pushing, restraining, blocking doorways, holding down, shaking. He engaged in these behaviors also, but most of them happened after the actual physical abuse – the night I left, he kept pushing me down onto his sofa and onto his bed, holding me down by sitting or lying on top of me. Before he hit me the first time, he did shove me and grab me by the shoulder, shaking me.
3. Moderate level violence
Slapping, punching, kicking, pulling hair, spanking. He punched me with his fists on two separate occasions, hitting me in the forehead, in the side of my head above my left ear, and in the mouth. He also threw things at me.
4. Severe level violence
Choking, beating with objects, use/threat of weapons, sexual abuse. He physically threatened me with a knife, threatened and tried to wreck his car with me in it, and forced unwanted kissing and touching (by definition, this is sexual assault) as well as coercing me to have sex by threatening to harm himself and others.
I was lucky to get away from my abuser. However, for a month after I had ended the relationship, he continued to call me, often just to “talk” as he said, or to ask for my advice about another relationship he had entered. During each call, I would request that he stop calling me, and he would promise that this would be the last call. Finally, after a month of this, I blocked him from being able to call me. Then, a month later, I moved to a different city because I did not feel safe and because our paths still often crossed. After a peaceful few weeks, I began seeing him near my new home and at my work place. He did not attempt to make verbal or physical contact, but my apprehensions grew as it became obvious that he was continuing to turn up nearby. Because of his patterns of behavior in the past – revisiting relationships, trying to coerce renewed involvement with an ex-wife over a year after their divorce – I called the police to ask for their advice. After hearing about his physical abuse and his threats with a deadly weapon, the officer I spoke to advised me to quickly apply for an order of protection, and told me that his current behavior – unwanted phone contact coupled with recurring proximity – constituted stalking.
I did apply for the order, but not right away. It took seeing him nearby several more times and him actually contacting my employer before I had the courage to apply for the protective order. That is currently in process. However, the process is hampered because I did not report his behavior to the police when he physically abused me. If I could go back and do one thing over, it would not be to keep him out of my life entirely (though that is certainly tempting). It would be reporting him immediately for what he did. At the time, I was so afraid that I felt paralyzed and unable to act. I was numb from all the pain he had put me through. And I admit that when he hit me the first time, I still cared about him, and cared about what happened to him. I did not want to see his life destroyed. Now, however, those feelings are gone. I understand that I have a responsibility to more than myself; there were other women who came before me, whom he hurt – he admitted this to me. There are other women who will come after me. If my willingness to tell the truth about his behavior saves even one person from harm, then it will have been worthwhile.
Bottom line – if you read these checklists and if you answered yes to some of these questions, take a long, honest look at your relationship. Believe me, you deserve to have healthy boundaries. You deserve to be treated with kindness, not with violence. No one should have to live in fear. Get help – talk to the police, a trusted friend, or a family member. You are worth saving.
Domestic Violence Checklist. Turning Point Services. Retrieved online from http://www.turningpointservices.org/domesticviolence.htm on 6-12-2010.
Those of you who read this blog know that I recently experienced an abusive relationship. During the time when I was involved with this man, I was so numbed by the emotional pain he inflicted that when the physical violence started, it was almost a relief. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like being hurt. It was a relief because I was finally able to say, “Yes, this relationship really is unhealthy, he really is an abuser.” This knowledge gave me the ability to take action for myself and to finally leave the relationship, though it took me over a month to break free. Recognizing abuse for what it is can be very empowering; it certainly was for me. Once I named his abuse – emotional, physical, and sexual – I was able to release myself from that cycle and begin healing.
It would have been very helpful for me to have a domestic violence checklist to consult during the earlier days of that relationship. I might have recognized warning signs and have gotten out much sooner. Instead, I ended up waiting until I had been threatened with a knife, coerced into sex by his threats of self-harm or harm to others (which is rape by definition), and punched in the head and mouth. Below I’ve added a common domestic violence check-list that I found very recently, with my responses filled in. (Turning Point Services, 2010). I hope that it helps someone else recognize abusive patterns before violence occurs.
EMOTIONAL ABUSE CHECKLIST
• Do you have to get permission to socialize with your friends?
I did not have to get permission, but it was very clear that he did not want me to contact my friends or family. When I did speak to friends or family on the phone, he always asked me if we had talked about him and demanded to know what was said.
• Are you accused of flirting or cheating on him when you leave the house to do errands, etc.?
He often accused me of being too flirtatious with men, especially when men would compliment me or ask me out or for my phone number. He accused me of cheating on him when we had agreed to break up and see other people; though he had expressed that our relationship was over, when I went out on a date with someone else, he became furious and abusive.
• Does he blame you or others for the things that go wrong in his life? Does he refuse to accept responsibility for his own actions?
Yes – every time something went wrong, it was always someone else’s fault, usually mine.
• Does he have control over the money and monitor your spending?
He insisted that I give him money for groceries and other expenses, though I often paid for groceries and covered many of our expenses myself.
•Does he tell you no one else would ever want you?
Yes, he used to tell me no one else would ever accept me because of my children.
• Does he threaten to harm himself if you leave him?
Yes, he threatened to harm or kill himself and to burn down his home and to burn a church if I left.
• Does he go through your purse or open your mail?
No, not to my knowledge
• Does he use things against you that you've confided to him in the past?
He knew about my past hurts and used those against me; for example, he knew I had been sexually assaulted as a teen, and once forced me to look at rape-scenes as a way to hurt me.
• Does he express romantic or sexual interest in others in front of you?
Yes, he did this all the time.
• Are you nervous about being on the phone when he is around?
Yes, because he always seemed to be listening in.
• Is it okay to return home later than scheduled without being fearful?
I knew he’d be angry if I was late, especially if the kids were home.
• Does he withhold affection, give you the silent treatment when you want to talk or work things out, or refuse to answer the phone when you call?
He did all these things, all the time.
• Does he try to turn the children against you?
We did not have children together so this doesn’t apply.
• Do you feel manipulated by his kindness or gifts?
He rarely gifted me and was more unkind than kind, however, after the physical abuse occurred, he brought me flowers and an engagement ring, which I rejected, and I believed this to be an extremely manipulative act.
• Do you feel obligated to be sexual with your partner? Does he threaten or coerce you for sexual contact? Does he threaten to leave you or harm himself if you don’t have sex?
I was more than willing to be sexual with him until he began using pornography constantly in our relationship; after that, my interest level decreased. We had agreed to part ways on the night when he forced me into sex by threatening to drive drunk - thereby harming himself or others - if I didn’t comply. He used threats of leaving, threats of harming himself or others by his actions, and withholding affection if I didn’t watch pornography with him and have sex the way he wanted to. He became verbally abusive when I refused to consider having group sex or allowing others to watch us have sex via webcam.
• Are your activities and interests looked upon as unimportant and trivial?
Yes, often. He also interrupted me continually and told me in many ways that I had no rights in our relationship and that my emotions and needs were unimportant.
• Does he sabotage your schedule and outside commitments?
Yes – he often made me late for work and often called and kept me from sleeping at night.
Answering yes to any of these questions denotes a potential problem. I answered yes to almost every single one! During the early months of our relationship, these behaviors were scattered and sparse. But as time went on, more and more of the pattern became clear. Finally, the emotional and verbal abuse escalated to physical violence. Here are some markers for that type of behavior as well:
Domestic violence usually starts small and becomes more severe and frequent over time. Many times it progresses through the following stages, and I’ve noted my responses in italics:
1. Pre-battering violence
Hitting or breaking objects, threats of violence, verbal abuse. My abuser did these things – he threw glasses, plates, and books. He punched walls. He damaged some of my belongings. He shouted at me, cursed me, and called me names. He accused me of “chasing him” when he had, in fact, always been the one who pursued me (he admitted this several times when he was drunk). He accused me of ruining his life and of destroying his marriage, when he had communicated to me that his marriage was dysfunctional and he was seeking a divorce before our relationship began.
2. Beginning level violence
Pushing, restraining, blocking doorways, holding down, shaking. He engaged in these behaviors also, but most of them happened after the actual physical abuse – the night I left, he kept pushing me down onto his sofa and onto his bed, holding me down by sitting or lying on top of me. Before he hit me the first time, he did shove me and grab me by the shoulder, shaking me.
3. Moderate level violence
Slapping, punching, kicking, pulling hair, spanking. He punched me with his fists on two separate occasions, hitting me in the forehead, in the side of my head above my left ear, and in the mouth. He also threw things at me.
4. Severe level violence
Choking, beating with objects, use/threat of weapons, sexual abuse. He physically threatened me with a knife, threatened and tried to wreck his car with me in it, and forced unwanted kissing and touching (by definition, this is sexual assault) as well as coercing me to have sex by threatening to harm himself and others.
I was lucky to get away from my abuser. However, for a month after I had ended the relationship, he continued to call me, often just to “talk” as he said, or to ask for my advice about another relationship he had entered. During each call, I would request that he stop calling me, and he would promise that this would be the last call. Finally, after a month of this, I blocked him from being able to call me. Then, a month later, I moved to a different city because I did not feel safe and because our paths still often crossed. After a peaceful few weeks, I began seeing him near my new home and at my work place. He did not attempt to make verbal or physical contact, but my apprehensions grew as it became obvious that he was continuing to turn up nearby. Because of his patterns of behavior in the past – revisiting relationships, trying to coerce renewed involvement with an ex-wife over a year after their divorce – I called the police to ask for their advice. After hearing about his physical abuse and his threats with a deadly weapon, the officer I spoke to advised me to quickly apply for an order of protection, and told me that his current behavior – unwanted phone contact coupled with recurring proximity – constituted stalking.
I did apply for the order, but not right away. It took seeing him nearby several more times and him actually contacting my employer before I had the courage to apply for the protective order. That is currently in process. However, the process is hampered because I did not report his behavior to the police when he physically abused me. If I could go back and do one thing over, it would not be to keep him out of my life entirely (though that is certainly tempting). It would be reporting him immediately for what he did. At the time, I was so afraid that I felt paralyzed and unable to act. I was numb from all the pain he had put me through. And I admit that when he hit me the first time, I still cared about him, and cared about what happened to him. I did not want to see his life destroyed. Now, however, those feelings are gone. I understand that I have a responsibility to more than myself; there were other women who came before me, whom he hurt – he admitted this to me. There are other women who will come after me. If my willingness to tell the truth about his behavior saves even one person from harm, then it will have been worthwhile.
Bottom line – if you read these checklists and if you answered yes to some of these questions, take a long, honest look at your relationship. Believe me, you deserve to have healthy boundaries. You deserve to be treated with kindness, not with violence. No one should have to live in fear. Get help – talk to the police, a trusted friend, or a family member. You are worth saving.
Domestic Violence Checklist. Turning Point Services. Retrieved online from http://www.turningpointservices.org/domesticviolence.htm on 6-12-2010.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)