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.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Rape Culture: Deconstructing Myths
Our culture has become one that promotes rape. Don't agree with me? Then let's look at some facts. A rape culture is one in which sexual violence against women is common, and in which the media, shared attitudes, and practices excuse or tolerate this violence. For example, sexist jokes are told which engender disrespect for women and a disregard for their general well-being. Ever hear or laugh at those blond jokes? Isn't it always a woman who's thought of as stupid but hot in those jokes? People make value judgments about each other that promote these attitudes - for example, have you ever been with someone who looked at a woman wearing a skimpy dress and heels and said, "she's asking for it" - "it" being sex, of course, consensual or not? Sexualized violence toward women continues in cultures where women are judged as being sexually available simply because of their gender. Victim-blaming and the objectification of women are both behaviors found in rape cultures, and both problems are rampant in the US. Recently, an article in the New York Times suggested that an eleven year old girl was responsible for her gang-rape by a group of men and boys because she sometimes wore make-up and dressed in suggestive clothing.
Let's have a show of hands: how many of you have heard men refer to their girlfriends or wives as "their bitch"? How many of you have heard men talk about women's body-parts, reducing a person to a perky pair of breasts or a nice rear-end? How many of you have heard someone say of a pretty woman, "I'd do her"? This casual commentary that so many of us engage in on a day to day basis helps to create a society that disregards women's rights to enjoy basic human respect and fundamental safety.
Life in a rape culture affects every single woman. The rape of one woman is degrading to all women; each time one of us is dragged down, the rest of us know a heightened sense of fear. Maybe this is why women indulge in victim-blaming too. Isn't it safer if we can reduce the victim, if we can make the rape her fault? If we are able to say "she shouldn't have worn that skirt" or "she shouldn't have painted her nails red and worn high heels" or "she shouldn't have been in a car with that man" then we are able to say, by default, that such a horrible thing could never happen to US. No, we are safe - we would have better sense than to wear a mini-skirt or have red nails and high heels, or to go on a date with someone who hadn't been throughly vetted first. Wouldn't we?
Women - the plain fact is that we are all at risk. Deep down, we all live in fear of rape, and we all limit our behavior because of it. It's why we go to the bathroom in pairs, why we take our girlfriends along when we go to the movies, why we ask our husbands to accompany us to the laundrymat or the grocery store. The fact of rape holds the entire female population in a position of fear and subjugation, even though there are many men who do not - and would never - commit rape, and there are many women who are never victims of rape. This is the legacy of our mysogynistic culture; this is the legacy of "no means yes" and "she's asking for it" and "hey, look at the ass on that bitch!"
So - what if we just stop?
Men, think about it. What would happen if you suddenly stop listening to jokes that sexually degrade women? What would happen if you refused to take part in conversations that objectify women? What would be the result if you taught your sons to do the same? What if you defined your own manhood and refused to allow stereotypical definitions of it to rule your life and your actions?
Women, we need to think about it, too. Instead of saying that women should take self-defense classes or should be careful how they dress and where they go, what if we teach our sons not to commit acts of sexual aggression? What if we teach our daughters that they are worth more than casual, physical contact? What if we, as women, refuse to live in a rape-culture? What if we speak with our fathers, our husbands, our brothers, and our sons, and communicate to them that their actions shape our lives?
We are all responsible for the culture we live in. Every single one of us, every time we hear a sexually explicit and demeaning joke and we laugh instead of calling down the joker; every time we see a headline that says "Woman Claims Rape" and we question whether it really happened; every time we scrutinize the history, backgrounds, dress, and motives of a victim of rape, we ARE building the culture in which these crimes continue, unabated. We must work together to make this world better, none of us are able to do this alone. How can we start? Well - here are some common myths about rape, and some ways to counter them. What if, instead of laughing it off when someone says "no means yes" or "boys will be boys", you counter the myth with the reality? Let's look at some of the myths and the facts that can deconstruct them.
Myth #1: No means yes.
Fact: No means no. It is not an invitation, or a starting point for negotiations. It means stop what you are doing to me, and stop it NOW.
Myth #2: She asked for it.
Fact: Nobody asks to be raped. Rape, by definition, happens when the victim does not give consent to sexual contact.
Myth #3: Boys will be boys.
Fact: There are plenty of boys who would never dream of committing rape. Rape does not happen because boys are high spirited, or hormonal, or more aggressive than girls. Rape happens because somehow, somewhere, rapists developed the idea that their rights and wants are more important than anyone else's.
Myth #4: Rape is about sex.
Fact: Rape is about power and control. Rape is a crime of anger, not of sexual desire. Gratification comes from overpowering the victim and the imposition of the rapist's will over that of the person who is raped.
Myth #5: Women can prevent rape if they try hard enough.
Fact: There is no right way to respond to rape. Rape, whether coercive or violent, cannot always be prevented or avoided by fighting or begging, or screaming. Saying that a woman could have avoided rape by fighting harder or being more careful is another way of blaming the victim for her rape.
Myth #6: Only women can be raped.
Fact: Rape happens to men and women, boys and girls. It is equally horrible, no matter whether the victim is male or female. No one deserves to be raped.
Myth #7: Women make false rape reports all the time.
Fact: Less than 2% of rape reports are false. And lots of rapes are never reported, so the statistic of false reports is likely even less than 2%. So for every two false reports of rape, there are 98 true reports.
Myth #8: Only "bad" women get raped.
Fact: Anyone can be raped. There is no guarantee of safety. Sexual violence happens across class, cultural, ethnic, gender and age lines.
Myth #9: When women are raped, the perpetrator is usually a stranger.
Fact: It is much more likely to be someone a woman knows, or even someone she likes, or dates. 80% of rapes are perpetrated by someone known to the victim.
Myth #10: If a woman didn't fight back, then she wasn't really raped.
Fact: Rape can be life-threatening and it is not always in the victim's best interests to fight. Whatever the victim did to survive was the right thing to have done.
April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month, but rape occurs all the time, everywhere, and can happen to anybody. Together, we can make a difference to many people. Join me in raising awareness, in deconstructing the rape culture we live in, and in dispelling rape myths - let's make the world a better place.
Let's have a show of hands: how many of you have heard men refer to their girlfriends or wives as "their bitch"? How many of you have heard men talk about women's body-parts, reducing a person to a perky pair of breasts or a nice rear-end? How many of you have heard someone say of a pretty woman, "I'd do her"? This casual commentary that so many of us engage in on a day to day basis helps to create a society that disregards women's rights to enjoy basic human respect and fundamental safety.
Life in a rape culture affects every single woman. The rape of one woman is degrading to all women; each time one of us is dragged down, the rest of us know a heightened sense of fear. Maybe this is why women indulge in victim-blaming too. Isn't it safer if we can reduce the victim, if we can make the rape her fault? If we are able to say "she shouldn't have worn that skirt" or "she shouldn't have painted her nails red and worn high heels" or "she shouldn't have been in a car with that man" then we are able to say, by default, that such a horrible thing could never happen to US. No, we are safe - we would have better sense than to wear a mini-skirt or have red nails and high heels, or to go on a date with someone who hadn't been throughly vetted first. Wouldn't we?
Women - the plain fact is that we are all at risk. Deep down, we all live in fear of rape, and we all limit our behavior because of it. It's why we go to the bathroom in pairs, why we take our girlfriends along when we go to the movies, why we ask our husbands to accompany us to the laundrymat or the grocery store. The fact of rape holds the entire female population in a position of fear and subjugation, even though there are many men who do not - and would never - commit rape, and there are many women who are never victims of rape. This is the legacy of our mysogynistic culture; this is the legacy of "no means yes" and "she's asking for it" and "hey, look at the ass on that bitch!"
So - what if we just stop?
Men, think about it. What would happen if you suddenly stop listening to jokes that sexually degrade women? What would happen if you refused to take part in conversations that objectify women? What would be the result if you taught your sons to do the same? What if you defined your own manhood and refused to allow stereotypical definitions of it to rule your life and your actions?
Women, we need to think about it, too. Instead of saying that women should take self-defense classes or should be careful how they dress and where they go, what if we teach our sons not to commit acts of sexual aggression? What if we teach our daughters that they are worth more than casual, physical contact? What if we, as women, refuse to live in a rape-culture? What if we speak with our fathers, our husbands, our brothers, and our sons, and communicate to them that their actions shape our lives?
We are all responsible for the culture we live in. Every single one of us, every time we hear a sexually explicit and demeaning joke and we laugh instead of calling down the joker; every time we see a headline that says "Woman Claims Rape" and we question whether it really happened; every time we scrutinize the history, backgrounds, dress, and motives of a victim of rape, we ARE building the culture in which these crimes continue, unabated. We must work together to make this world better, none of us are able to do this alone. How can we start? Well - here are some common myths about rape, and some ways to counter them. What if, instead of laughing it off when someone says "no means yes" or "boys will be boys", you counter the myth with the reality? Let's look at some of the myths and the facts that can deconstruct them.
Myth #1: No means yes.
Fact: No means no. It is not an invitation, or a starting point for negotiations. It means stop what you are doing to me, and stop it NOW.
Myth #2: She asked for it.
Fact: Nobody asks to be raped. Rape, by definition, happens when the victim does not give consent to sexual contact.
Myth #3: Boys will be boys.
Fact: There are plenty of boys who would never dream of committing rape. Rape does not happen because boys are high spirited, or hormonal, or more aggressive than girls. Rape happens because somehow, somewhere, rapists developed the idea that their rights and wants are more important than anyone else's.
Myth #4: Rape is about sex.
Fact: Rape is about power and control. Rape is a crime of anger, not of sexual desire. Gratification comes from overpowering the victim and the imposition of the rapist's will over that of the person who is raped.
Myth #5: Women can prevent rape if they try hard enough.
Fact: There is no right way to respond to rape. Rape, whether coercive or violent, cannot always be prevented or avoided by fighting or begging, or screaming. Saying that a woman could have avoided rape by fighting harder or being more careful is another way of blaming the victim for her rape.
Myth #6: Only women can be raped.
Fact: Rape happens to men and women, boys and girls. It is equally horrible, no matter whether the victim is male or female. No one deserves to be raped.
Myth #7: Women make false rape reports all the time.
Fact: Less than 2% of rape reports are false. And lots of rapes are never reported, so the statistic of false reports is likely even less than 2%. So for every two false reports of rape, there are 98 true reports.
Myth #8: Only "bad" women get raped.
Fact: Anyone can be raped. There is no guarantee of safety. Sexual violence happens across class, cultural, ethnic, gender and age lines.
Myth #9: When women are raped, the perpetrator is usually a stranger.
Fact: It is much more likely to be someone a woman knows, or even someone she likes, or dates. 80% of rapes are perpetrated by someone known to the victim.
Myth #10: If a woman didn't fight back, then she wasn't really raped.
Fact: Rape can be life-threatening and it is not always in the victim's best interests to fight. Whatever the victim did to survive was the right thing to have done.
April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month, but rape occurs all the time, everywhere, and can happen to anybody. Together, we can make a difference to many people. Join me in raising awareness, in deconstructing the rape culture we live in, and in dispelling rape myths - let's make the world a better place.
Friday, April 15, 2011
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
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
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Receiving the Mark
On Ash Wednesday the Christian world begins its wilderness journey with Christ in commemoration of his forty days in the desert. At my church, the Sanctuary is quiet as we come forward in long, solemn lines to receive the ashes. Before me, I hear the ministers whisper about how we are all made of dust and must therefore return to dust – exhorting us to repent and believe what the Gospels have taught us. I pray the prayer of contrition, confess my sins before God. I stand with the rest, my forehead bare, waiting. Knowing that the season of Lent begins in that moment, when the minister’s finger draws the midnight-black cross on my skin, marking me as a follower of Jesus, as one who stands in solidarity with the Son of Man in his long suffering, his work for human-kind, and his violent death on a rough piece of wood. In addition to the imposition of the ashes, we are to think and pray and choose something to give up, or some discipline to adopt to mark the forty-day journey through the wilderness.
If you make a sacrifice, it must be meaningful. It must be something that comes between you and Christ. Something that ties you to this world and keeps you from focusing on Kingdom-business. Some give up meat. Some give up liquor. Some give up sex. Some give up coffee, or cigarettes, or chocolate. Somehow, I cannot imagine coming to God’s altar and laying down coffee or cookies. It must be meaningful. It must be something that I can hardly bear to part with, something without which I cannot imagine my life.
But honestly, there is nothing I have or want that seems good enough. I wait with the others and I remember how I stood before the church and read the words of the Fifty-first Psalm earlier in the evening. There is no acceptable sacrifice except hearts that are broken, and spirits that are crushed. God wants to make all things new. He wants to enter empty vessels and fill them. I receive the Mark of Christ, the Body and the Blood of Christ, and then I go to the altar and I pray in the words of the Psalmist from so long ago –
Create in me a clean heart, O God; renew a steadfast spirit within me… Restore me to the joy of your salvation, and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me. Hide your face from my sins and do not count them against me. Create in me a clean heart.
I came away feeling emptied, ready for whatever the journey brings. I am here, Lord; we can walk together.
Receiving The Mark
Stark and acrid
The bitter smell of ashes
I feel the oil and grit against my skin on the tip of his finger
“Remember – all are from dust and to dust all return.
Repent, and believe the Gospel.”
For a short while I carry the cross
I am branded
Everyone can see my sorrow
In solidarity with Christ, I embark upon my own Wilderness Road
Forty days – a drop of water in the deep sea.
A narrow path
through the heart of the wood
the air is dark and close
if there are temptations they do not matter
nothing can touch me – nothing can reach me.
I am armored
not by belief -- not by faith
but by my pain and my scars and my shame
I am set apart, distanced from the world
What will you give up? they ask
Chocolate – coffee – wine
But it is no hardship to give
Harder to receive
To receive love
To receive warmth
To receive forgiveness
Even from God
Especially from God.
He whispers in the darkness
There is no sacrifice you can give me
Nothing you have that I want
Instead receive –
Receive my love
Receive my word
Receive my Spirit
Receive life.
But how can I take what you give?
I am not worth this
Can never be what you want
Can never be innocent
Pure
Clean
Can never be worthy.
Create in me a clean heart O God
The words rolled off my tongue
But rooted themselves in my soul
The only sacrifice that is worthy
Is my broken spirit
Take it, then
Make of it what you will
Until you make me new
Make all things new –
I will walk this Wilderness Road
Branded -- wearing my sorrow on my skin
Carrying the cross.
If you make a sacrifice, it must be meaningful. It must be something that comes between you and Christ. Something that ties you to this world and keeps you from focusing on Kingdom-business. Some give up meat. Some give up liquor. Some give up sex. Some give up coffee, or cigarettes, or chocolate. Somehow, I cannot imagine coming to God’s altar and laying down coffee or cookies. It must be meaningful. It must be something that I can hardly bear to part with, something without which I cannot imagine my life.
But honestly, there is nothing I have or want that seems good enough. I wait with the others and I remember how I stood before the church and read the words of the Fifty-first Psalm earlier in the evening. There is no acceptable sacrifice except hearts that are broken, and spirits that are crushed. God wants to make all things new. He wants to enter empty vessels and fill them. I receive the Mark of Christ, the Body and the Blood of Christ, and then I go to the altar and I pray in the words of the Psalmist from so long ago –
Create in me a clean heart, O God; renew a steadfast spirit within me… Restore me to the joy of your salvation, and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me. Hide your face from my sins and do not count them against me. Create in me a clean heart.
I came away feeling emptied, ready for whatever the journey brings. I am here, Lord; we can walk together.
Receiving The Mark
Stark and acrid
The bitter smell of ashes
I feel the oil and grit against my skin on the tip of his finger
“Remember – all are from dust and to dust all return.
Repent, and believe the Gospel.”
For a short while I carry the cross
I am branded
Everyone can see my sorrow
In solidarity with Christ, I embark upon my own Wilderness Road
Forty days – a drop of water in the deep sea.
A narrow path
through the heart of the wood
the air is dark and close
if there are temptations they do not matter
nothing can touch me – nothing can reach me.
I am armored
not by belief -- not by faith
but by my pain and my scars and my shame
I am set apart, distanced from the world
What will you give up? they ask
Chocolate – coffee – wine
But it is no hardship to give
Harder to receive
To receive love
To receive warmth
To receive forgiveness
Even from God
Especially from God.
He whispers in the darkness
There is no sacrifice you can give me
Nothing you have that I want
Instead receive –
Receive my love
Receive my word
Receive my Spirit
Receive life.
But how can I take what you give?
I am not worth this
Can never be what you want
Can never be innocent
Pure
Clean
Can never be worthy.
Create in me a clean heart O God
The words rolled off my tongue
But rooted themselves in my soul
The only sacrifice that is worthy
Is my broken spirit
Take it, then
Make of it what you will
Until you make me new
Make all things new –
I will walk this Wilderness Road
Branded -- wearing my sorrow on my skin
Carrying the cross.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Love Shouldn't Hurt: Recognizing and Ending Intimate Partner Violence
Hindsight is 20/20 – but what good does it do? Looking back, I can easily see the red flags in my abusive relationship, but at the time, I was blinded by the love I felt for someone who, in so many ways, seemed like the perfect partner. He was warm, kind, and caring. He listened when I needed to talk, and didn’t try to change me. I didn’t realize that all his empathetic concern was an act. Was it designed to fool me so that he could get close enough to hurt me? I don’t know for sure, but I doubt it. I think it was more of a mask that he wore with everyone – it was the way he wanted people to see him; when he became comfortable with me, he began to show me who he really was.
When I first became involved with my abusive ex-partner, the relationship seemed healthy and nurturing. We had known each other for a couple of years but had never been particularly close until I moved from my hometown after filing for divorce, and his was a familiar face in a strange environment where I didn’t have any friends or family. I was isolated, in a new place with a new job, and he encouraged me to rely on him for all sorts of little kindnesses that you miss when you’re alone. Our relationship felt mutually beneficial at first; I began to trust him more as he offered to babysit my children while I was at work and to take my car in for maintenance when I couldn’t take time away to do it myself. It seemed like we had reached a level of interdependency that was beneficial for both of us, and as my divorce finalized, we became closer. But even before that, things had begun to change. When we were together on weekends, he would spend hours in sullen silence, or worse, hours putting down people we both knew, or telling me why I was a bad parent and what I needed to do to change. Most of this was couched in psychological jargon and condescending monologues. He would tell me that he only wanted to help me be a better mother, or he just wanted me to understand what “those people” were really like.
I didn’t understand then that the cycle of abuse was building; we were in the honeymoon phase, but it wouldn’t last for long. He was having trouble finding a job and he spoke casually of suicide, often calling me at work and threatening to take his own life, then hanging up and then refusing to answer my calls for hours at a time. I spent my days in a storm of frantic anxiety, believing that he had actually carried through with his threats. Then, when I was finally able to reach him, he would be angry at me for “calling to check up on him.” He began blaming me for his failure to find employment, and for all the other stressors in his life, but I still didn’t get it – I loved him and I believed that the relationship was worth working for. There were a lot of reasons why I continued to stay even as things got worse, but the biggest one was that I just didn’t get it – until he threw the first punch, I didn’t realize that I was being abused. Don’t let that happen to you – learn right now how to recognize those red flags that I missed.
RECOGNIZING VIOLENCE:
It can be difficult to recognize a potentially violent relationship. The truth is that abuse in relationships is often subtle and difficult to identify, until actual physical violence occurs. Even verbal abuse is difficult to codify since many people often lose their tempers and say things they don’t mean or wish they could take back. So what can we do? How can we recognize behaviors that cross the line or should cause alarm? Moreover, how can we help our friends and loved ones do the same?
We have to learn to recognize abuse in relationships. It may seem simple, but it’s harder than you think, especially since abuse doesn’t usually begin with battering. Here’s an example of some behaviors that should raise red flags:
WHAT HE DOES: He calls you in the middle of the night and won’t stop calling until you answer, or if you live together, he continually wakes you and keeps you talking for hours. He knows you have to get up and go to work the next day but he refuses to let you sleep.
WHY HE DOES IT: One of the easiest ways to wear down another person is through depriving them of sleep. Once you’re exhausted, you’re a lot easier to control. Maybe your abuser doesn’t consciously realize it, but somewhere inside, he knows that if you’re worn out, you aren’t going to fight him.
WHAT HE DOES: He makes it difficult for you to get to work on time or urges you to skip days. Maybe he wants you to give up working entirely or to take a job for less pay, and insists that if you don’t do it, you are showing him that you don’t trust him to take care of you.
WHY HE DOES IT: If you can’t support yourself, then you will be dependent on him – it’s another way to establish tighter control.
WHAT HE DOES: You exchange a friendly joke or laugh with someone of the opposite sex. When you get out to the car, your partner says that you flirt too much, or accuses you of having an affair.
WHY HE DOES IT: If he can convince himself that you’ve been unfaithful, then he has a good excuse to punish you for it. Also, it’s another way to control you – he doesn’t want you to believe that other men could find you attractive because he might lose you.
WHAT HE DOES: You’re half an hour late coming home from work because of road construction, but your partner refuses to believe your reason – he insists that you’re having an affair and starts calling your friends to ask them who you’re cheating with.
WHY HE DOES IT: Same as above – this is a culturally acceptable reason for him to be angry at you. And again, it’s all about control. Not only can he humiliate you by bringing your friends into the equation, but this also has the effect of making you think that he is hurt and you need to apologize.
WHAT HE DOES: You notice that every time you take a phone call, he listens in to see who you’re talking to and what you’re saying. As soon as you end the call, he wants to know what the other person said about him.
WHY HE DOES IT: He doesn’t want your friends telling you that his behavior is abusive, so he stays with you through the phone call so that you won’t really have the chance to tell anyone how he’s been treating you. And he wants to know what was said because he’s worried that others can recognize him for what he is, and he knows he may need to do damage control.
WHAT HE DOES: You are constantly criticized for not being “good enough”, or “thin enough”, or “smart enough,” or you’re blamed for everything that goes wrong in his life.
WHY HE DOES IT: He doesn’t want you to be confident. He wants you to be subservient; he needs you to believe that you can’t have a better relationship than the one you have with him. He wants to keep you feeling guilty and dependent so he will do everything he can to undermine your feelings of self-worth.
WHAT HE DOES: Your partner withholds sex and affection in order to make you behave the way he wants you to. He may promise to be intimate with you if you do what he wants, and then refuse to follow through, or he or she may tell you that you are too unattractive, too possessive, or too demanding for sex.
WHY HE DOES IT: The purpose of this behavior is to keep you in the supplicant’s position; the power of granting affection and physical pleasure remains with him. He wants you to be afraid of losing him so that you will comply with what he wants.
WHAT HE DOES: He pushes, manipulates, or coerces into having sex when you don’t want to. Your partner may threaten to harm you or himself if you don’t comply, or may use emotional manipulation and tell you that if you don’t give in, he will find someone else to have sex with, or that it means you don’t love him if you won’t have sex.
WHY HE DOES IT: Again, it’s all about control – when this behavior begins, the cycle is moving away from the honey-moon phase and into the violent one.
WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW:
You have rights! You have the right to kind treatment. You have the right to be respected. You have the right to privacy. You have the right to have friends of your own. You have the right to your own ideas and opinions. If the person you are with is infringing on those rights, then the relationship is damaged. Something needs to change! It may be that the person you are with will not become violent, but whether he does or not, you deserve to have the kind of healthy relationship that adds to your life instead of detracting from it. You have the right to change your mind and to leave the relationship if it is hurtful or detrimental.
If your relationship has already progressed beyond the above stages of abuse to physical or sexual violence, you can – and should – take action to make your life better and to find safety.
AS A SURVIVOR OF INTIMATE PARTNER VIOLENCE:
• Know that you can get help, as hard as it seems. Your county health department is a good place to start. Nurses and staff there receive training to recognize domestic abuse situations and most health departments have brochures and literature available in their front lobby. You can also privately tell a nurse or nurse practitioner that your partner is hurting you and ask for help in reporting or finding shelter and safety. Your doctor can also help in this way.
• Have a safety plan. In abusive relationships, you are often in the greatest danger when you try to leave. If you are being physically harmed and you are fearful, have a small bag packed with necessary items like medications, ID, cash (if you have access to money), and clothing. Be ready to leave when you get the chance. Have a trusted friend you can count on to help you get to a shelter, or have other means of transportation ready. You don’t have to have this plan mapped out or written down, it can just be an idea in your head, the same way you’d go to the north-west corner of your basement if there were a tornado coming.
• Document everything. This may seem terribly hard, but it is best if you take photographs of your cuts and bruises; set your camera to use its date/time stamp, or if you’re using your cell phone’s camera, send the photo to yourself or a trusted friend as a text message, which will automatically save the date of the photo. The more proof you have of the abuse, the easier it will be to get an order of protection later on, if you find you need one. You should also keep a journal if you have a safe place and way to do so.
• Be careful whom you talk to. Mutual friends of yourself and your partner might think they’re doing the “right thing” by disclosing your plans. Even family members might believe it’s better for you to “work things out” with your abuser and might give him access to your location. Know that it is okay for you to keep your plans to yourself and to limit knowledge among your friends and loved ones! Your safety is your primary concern.
• Be aware that not all advice is good advice. Good friends, family members, even your pastor may think it is best if you seek out couples’ counseling and try to work out your problems. If you are being hit or physically threatened, the worst thing you can do is go to counseling together. It simply isn’t safe! You do not have to take ANY advice that seems harmful to you or that you know would only make the situation worse. It is okay to leave an abusive relationship, regardless of whether you have children together, are married, or have financial resources of your own.
AS A FRIEND OF A SURVIVOR:
• Remember, one in three women will experience domestic violence during her lifetime, so we are all potentially “friends of victims”. One of the best things we can do is be aware! Know the signs of domestic violence. Some of these are chronic lateness, unexplained bruises, not showing up to planned events, withdrawal from friends and family, personality changes, or other odd changes in routine behavioral patterns. These are the less obvious signs, so you really have to watch to notice them.
• 85% of reported victims of domestic violence are female, which means that 15% of reported victims are male. It can be especially difficult for men to come forward and speak out about the abuse, whether emotional or physical. If you have a male friend who is being abused, be aware that he may need help and support just as a female friend would.
• It is okay to let a friend know that you are worried about her. It is better to ask about the changes you are noticing than to ignore them! Your friend may be praying that someone will offer help or intervene on her behalf, but she may not know how or who to ask. Your concern may be just what she needs to help her find a way to a safer situation.
• Be supportive. Many people think that if a person is being abused, it is easy to “just leave.” But it isn’t – there could be many factors you don’t understand. Shared finances, fears about where to go, how to live, what will happen to children or pets, how to retrieve personal belongings, threats of physical harm or even death if she leaves…all these issues can make it very difficult to leave an abusive situation. There’s also the fact that often, abused women and men still love their partners, regardless of what has happened. Just being there and being willing to listen is helpful! Remember, you can’t solve your friend’s crisis – only she can do that. But you can love your friend and help find solutions that work.
Statistics show us that one in every three women will experience domestic violence. It is most often women who are harmed in situations of intimate partner violence. Almost one-third of female homicide victims reported to police were killed by an intimate partner. Only about twenty percent of those women who report domestic violence go on to obtain legal help such as an order of protection. And of that number, around half of those legal orders are violated, and two-thirds of the orders against partners who committed rape or sexual assault are violated. The violence is cyclic – boys who witness domestic violence are twice as likely to perpetuate that violence in their future relationships. If we are to end this epidemic of violence, we must be aware of it at every level, in every segment of society. Violence in the home respects no racial, cultural, or economic boundaries. It is not age specific. It is not even gender-specific – as stated above, at least fifteen percent of domestic violence victims are male; it is just as much of a tragedy when men are abused and harmed by intimate partners. It is up to each of us to understand the warning signs, to recognize abuse, and to take action against it. If we don’t, who will?
When I first became involved with my abusive ex-partner, the relationship seemed healthy and nurturing. We had known each other for a couple of years but had never been particularly close until I moved from my hometown after filing for divorce, and his was a familiar face in a strange environment where I didn’t have any friends or family. I was isolated, in a new place with a new job, and he encouraged me to rely on him for all sorts of little kindnesses that you miss when you’re alone. Our relationship felt mutually beneficial at first; I began to trust him more as he offered to babysit my children while I was at work and to take my car in for maintenance when I couldn’t take time away to do it myself. It seemed like we had reached a level of interdependency that was beneficial for both of us, and as my divorce finalized, we became closer. But even before that, things had begun to change. When we were together on weekends, he would spend hours in sullen silence, or worse, hours putting down people we both knew, or telling me why I was a bad parent and what I needed to do to change. Most of this was couched in psychological jargon and condescending monologues. He would tell me that he only wanted to help me be a better mother, or he just wanted me to understand what “those people” were really like.
I didn’t understand then that the cycle of abuse was building; we were in the honeymoon phase, but it wouldn’t last for long. He was having trouble finding a job and he spoke casually of suicide, often calling me at work and threatening to take his own life, then hanging up and then refusing to answer my calls for hours at a time. I spent my days in a storm of frantic anxiety, believing that he had actually carried through with his threats. Then, when I was finally able to reach him, he would be angry at me for “calling to check up on him.” He began blaming me for his failure to find employment, and for all the other stressors in his life, but I still didn’t get it – I loved him and I believed that the relationship was worth working for. There were a lot of reasons why I continued to stay even as things got worse, but the biggest one was that I just didn’t get it – until he threw the first punch, I didn’t realize that I was being abused. Don’t let that happen to you – learn right now how to recognize those red flags that I missed.
RECOGNIZING VIOLENCE:
It can be difficult to recognize a potentially violent relationship. The truth is that abuse in relationships is often subtle and difficult to identify, until actual physical violence occurs. Even verbal abuse is difficult to codify since many people often lose their tempers and say things they don’t mean or wish they could take back. So what can we do? How can we recognize behaviors that cross the line or should cause alarm? Moreover, how can we help our friends and loved ones do the same?
We have to learn to recognize abuse in relationships. It may seem simple, but it’s harder than you think, especially since abuse doesn’t usually begin with battering. Here’s an example of some behaviors that should raise red flags:
WHAT HE DOES: He calls you in the middle of the night and won’t stop calling until you answer, or if you live together, he continually wakes you and keeps you talking for hours. He knows you have to get up and go to work the next day but he refuses to let you sleep.
WHY HE DOES IT: One of the easiest ways to wear down another person is through depriving them of sleep. Once you’re exhausted, you’re a lot easier to control. Maybe your abuser doesn’t consciously realize it, but somewhere inside, he knows that if you’re worn out, you aren’t going to fight him.
WHAT HE DOES: He makes it difficult for you to get to work on time or urges you to skip days. Maybe he wants you to give up working entirely or to take a job for less pay, and insists that if you don’t do it, you are showing him that you don’t trust him to take care of you.
WHY HE DOES IT: If you can’t support yourself, then you will be dependent on him – it’s another way to establish tighter control.
WHAT HE DOES: You exchange a friendly joke or laugh with someone of the opposite sex. When you get out to the car, your partner says that you flirt too much, or accuses you of having an affair.
WHY HE DOES IT: If he can convince himself that you’ve been unfaithful, then he has a good excuse to punish you for it. Also, it’s another way to control you – he doesn’t want you to believe that other men could find you attractive because he might lose you.
WHAT HE DOES: You’re half an hour late coming home from work because of road construction, but your partner refuses to believe your reason – he insists that you’re having an affair and starts calling your friends to ask them who you’re cheating with.
WHY HE DOES IT: Same as above – this is a culturally acceptable reason for him to be angry at you. And again, it’s all about control. Not only can he humiliate you by bringing your friends into the equation, but this also has the effect of making you think that he is hurt and you need to apologize.
WHAT HE DOES: You notice that every time you take a phone call, he listens in to see who you’re talking to and what you’re saying. As soon as you end the call, he wants to know what the other person said about him.
WHY HE DOES IT: He doesn’t want your friends telling you that his behavior is abusive, so he stays with you through the phone call so that you won’t really have the chance to tell anyone how he’s been treating you. And he wants to know what was said because he’s worried that others can recognize him for what he is, and he knows he may need to do damage control.
WHAT HE DOES: You are constantly criticized for not being “good enough”, or “thin enough”, or “smart enough,” or you’re blamed for everything that goes wrong in his life.
WHY HE DOES IT: He doesn’t want you to be confident. He wants you to be subservient; he needs you to believe that you can’t have a better relationship than the one you have with him. He wants to keep you feeling guilty and dependent so he will do everything he can to undermine your feelings of self-worth.
WHAT HE DOES: Your partner withholds sex and affection in order to make you behave the way he wants you to. He may promise to be intimate with you if you do what he wants, and then refuse to follow through, or he or she may tell you that you are too unattractive, too possessive, or too demanding for sex.
WHY HE DOES IT: The purpose of this behavior is to keep you in the supplicant’s position; the power of granting affection and physical pleasure remains with him. He wants you to be afraid of losing him so that you will comply with what he wants.
WHAT HE DOES: He pushes, manipulates, or coerces into having sex when you don’t want to. Your partner may threaten to harm you or himself if you don’t comply, or may use emotional manipulation and tell you that if you don’t give in, he will find someone else to have sex with, or that it means you don’t love him if you won’t have sex.
WHY HE DOES IT: Again, it’s all about control – when this behavior begins, the cycle is moving away from the honey-moon phase and into the violent one.
WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW:
You have rights! You have the right to kind treatment. You have the right to be respected. You have the right to privacy. You have the right to have friends of your own. You have the right to your own ideas and opinions. If the person you are with is infringing on those rights, then the relationship is damaged. Something needs to change! It may be that the person you are with will not become violent, but whether he does or not, you deserve to have the kind of healthy relationship that adds to your life instead of detracting from it. You have the right to change your mind and to leave the relationship if it is hurtful or detrimental.
If your relationship has already progressed beyond the above stages of abuse to physical or sexual violence, you can – and should – take action to make your life better and to find safety.
AS A SURVIVOR OF INTIMATE PARTNER VIOLENCE:
• Know that you can get help, as hard as it seems. Your county health department is a good place to start. Nurses and staff there receive training to recognize domestic abuse situations and most health departments have brochures and literature available in their front lobby. You can also privately tell a nurse or nurse practitioner that your partner is hurting you and ask for help in reporting or finding shelter and safety. Your doctor can also help in this way.
• Have a safety plan. In abusive relationships, you are often in the greatest danger when you try to leave. If you are being physically harmed and you are fearful, have a small bag packed with necessary items like medications, ID, cash (if you have access to money), and clothing. Be ready to leave when you get the chance. Have a trusted friend you can count on to help you get to a shelter, or have other means of transportation ready. You don’t have to have this plan mapped out or written down, it can just be an idea in your head, the same way you’d go to the north-west corner of your basement if there were a tornado coming.
• Document everything. This may seem terribly hard, but it is best if you take photographs of your cuts and bruises; set your camera to use its date/time stamp, or if you’re using your cell phone’s camera, send the photo to yourself or a trusted friend as a text message, which will automatically save the date of the photo. The more proof you have of the abuse, the easier it will be to get an order of protection later on, if you find you need one. You should also keep a journal if you have a safe place and way to do so.
• Be careful whom you talk to. Mutual friends of yourself and your partner might think they’re doing the “right thing” by disclosing your plans. Even family members might believe it’s better for you to “work things out” with your abuser and might give him access to your location. Know that it is okay for you to keep your plans to yourself and to limit knowledge among your friends and loved ones! Your safety is your primary concern.
• Be aware that not all advice is good advice. Good friends, family members, even your pastor may think it is best if you seek out couples’ counseling and try to work out your problems. If you are being hit or physically threatened, the worst thing you can do is go to counseling together. It simply isn’t safe! You do not have to take ANY advice that seems harmful to you or that you know would only make the situation worse. It is okay to leave an abusive relationship, regardless of whether you have children together, are married, or have financial resources of your own.
AS A FRIEND OF A SURVIVOR:
• Remember, one in three women will experience domestic violence during her lifetime, so we are all potentially “friends of victims”. One of the best things we can do is be aware! Know the signs of domestic violence. Some of these are chronic lateness, unexplained bruises, not showing up to planned events, withdrawal from friends and family, personality changes, or other odd changes in routine behavioral patterns. These are the less obvious signs, so you really have to watch to notice them.
• 85% of reported victims of domestic violence are female, which means that 15% of reported victims are male. It can be especially difficult for men to come forward and speak out about the abuse, whether emotional or physical. If you have a male friend who is being abused, be aware that he may need help and support just as a female friend would.
• It is okay to let a friend know that you are worried about her. It is better to ask about the changes you are noticing than to ignore them! Your friend may be praying that someone will offer help or intervene on her behalf, but she may not know how or who to ask. Your concern may be just what she needs to help her find a way to a safer situation.
• Be supportive. Many people think that if a person is being abused, it is easy to “just leave.” But it isn’t – there could be many factors you don’t understand. Shared finances, fears about where to go, how to live, what will happen to children or pets, how to retrieve personal belongings, threats of physical harm or even death if she leaves…all these issues can make it very difficult to leave an abusive situation. There’s also the fact that often, abused women and men still love their partners, regardless of what has happened. Just being there and being willing to listen is helpful! Remember, you can’t solve your friend’s crisis – only she can do that. But you can love your friend and help find solutions that work.
Statistics show us that one in every three women will experience domestic violence. It is most often women who are harmed in situations of intimate partner violence. Almost one-third of female homicide victims reported to police were killed by an intimate partner. Only about twenty percent of those women who report domestic violence go on to obtain legal help such as an order of protection. And of that number, around half of those legal orders are violated, and two-thirds of the orders against partners who committed rape or sexual assault are violated. The violence is cyclic – boys who witness domestic violence are twice as likely to perpetuate that violence in their future relationships. If we are to end this epidemic of violence, we must be aware of it at every level, in every segment of society. Violence in the home respects no racial, cultural, or economic boundaries. It is not age specific. It is not even gender-specific – as stated above, at least fifteen percent of domestic violence victims are male; it is just as much of a tragedy when men are abused and harmed by intimate partners. It is up to each of us to understand the warning signs, to recognize abuse, and to take action against it. If we don’t, who will?
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
December of the Heart
In the park near my home, there’s a special place where I like to go and sit. I look out over the river from this perch on top of a concrete culvert about ten feet above the water. In the summer, the place is screened by reeds, trees, and undergrowth. You could pass by it on the path less than six feet away and unless you came looking, you would never know it was there. Sometimes I climb down from the culvert, taking a narrow, steep path to the water’s edge. From there, I can walk along the bank and listen to the voices of the river as it washes over the shoals downstream. The liquid murmur is composed of notes that are constantly changing; a blended chorus of rushing, muted whispers with a music of its own. I sit there on the hard concrete, my legs dangling, and I lose myself in the peace of the moving water, the dancing leaves, the evening light. The culvert is not a thing of beauty – a hard, gray rectangle over three huge pipes gated with rusted iron bars, and a litter of leaves, twigs, and sometimes garbage that accumulates below. Still, the magic of the light and the music of the water transform this place into something more than it seems to be, something beautiful.
I walked there a couple of weeks ago, early on a Saturday morning, when the cold air numbed my face and took my breath. The reeds were dead and brown, their narrow leaves were brittle and they rattled as I pushed between them. The trees were naked and the underbrush was dead. The culvert was exposed; the mystery provided by the vegetation of summer had been stripped away. There it lay before me – a long, narrow slab of concrete, a tangle of trash down below eddying in the sluggish water. Clumps of bleached grass drooped toward the edge of the river. It was an unlovely place; even the stream’s voice bore no enchantment. It sounded like a tired sigh instead of lively chatter. I caught my breath, appalled by the change wrought by the season. There was no peace in the movement of the harsh light on the water or the rasping of the reeds as they trembled in the cold wind. The place felt barren and desolate.
I came away feeling bereft, even though I knew that spring would come and the sun would reawaken the leaves. Blended green-gold light would dance there again; the mingled notes of wind and water would sing. But I was not comforted by the promise of renewal, though I believed in its inevitability. Instead, the bleakness of my former haven left me with a feeling of sadness that I haven’t yet been able to shake. I have spent the days since trying to determine why. As I said, I believe with all my heart in the inevitability of spring and the returning of the leaves and the light. So why am I grieving?
Maybe…it’s because I recognize something of myself in the desolation of that place. It was never flawless, but a combination of factors gave it the illusion of peace and perfection. There was something about the quality of the light – green-gold and somehow alive – and the dancing of the water that made the tiny, hidden spot on the side of the river unique. The turning of the season from summer’s warmth to the harsh cold of January had stripped away that quality, leaving it withered and grey. There were moments of brightness but it was a hectic, brittle light. It had none of the gentle glow of those long summer evenings when I sat and wrote or drew in my journal, when I felt tears come as I thanked God for my escape and released the suffering accumulated during those long months of fear. The leaves and the brush behind me were my veil, my protection from casual, prying eyes. I was shielded from the world, free to mourn. Now there was no sanctuary for me in that place – it was open to the world, unguarded and vulnerable. I sometimes feel the same way – withered, dull, and grey, as if the blended radiance and song of my own spirit has been stilled and replaced by some frantic, glancing light that bounces in shards and slivers, throwing shadows with no substance, dazzling the eyes of my soul and leaving me blinded and groping to find my way. Like the desolation of my former haven, my heart feels empty, swept by cold wind and echoing to monotonous whispers that repeat the same poisoned words over and over – his words, spoken to rob me of my will to act, my will to leave, my will to live –
-selfish-crazy-hateful-rigid-whore-controlling-needy-stupid-lying-bitch-
No matter what I did for him, it was never good enough. I cared for his children; I cleaned his house; I cooked his meals. I got up early and ironed his shirts before work. I came home late and spent the evenings cooking, cleaning, helping the kids with homework. I woke up in the night and rocked his baby back to sleep when she cried. I fixed plumbing, bought groceries, paid bills. I swept up broken glass and covered the holes in the walls he made with his fists and the things he threw at me. I was calm and patient as he screamed and railed and threatened suicide. There were periods of peace that soon dissolved to tension before they came back to the rage, the pain, the accusations. It was never enough; no matter how much love or obedience I gave, he always seemed to want or need something more. I could never be good enough to please him, though toward the end I believed that my life depended on it. The fear was overwhelming; it laid waste to who I was and left me weak and shaken. My ability to know myself was damaged; my belief in myself eroded away. Like the reeds in winter, I was bare and brittle – a stiff wind or a hard shove would put me on the ground. I came away feeling cold inside, feeling hollow. I was like a dead, winter garden; no seed sown in soil so icy would ever bear fruit.
Away from him, I worked to accept myself. I worked to believe that I was good enough, that the terrible things he said to me were not true. I tried to purge myself of the poison he left behind – I’m still trying. People compliment my work and my writing. The man I am with reassures me that I am worthy of love and that I deserve to be treated with respect. But I can’t shake the belief that I am simply not good enough – that everything I have worked to achieve is as insubstantial as summer sunlight through green leaves. I often wake up in the middle of the night wondering if this is the day when everything will fall apart and the rage-fear-pain will come rushing in because the life that I have built for myself is an illusion - how could someone as worthless as I am have anything good?
Somewhere inside, I know that I am competent, capable, and worthy of love and respect. I know that the sickness and the weakness were his, not mine. Just like summer will come and reawaken the beauty of my haven near the river, eventually a new season will dawn for me too, and the cold emptiness will be forgotten. Everything that seems dead in me will live again; the mingled light and music of spirit will warm and fill me and this December of the heart will pass.
I know that it is true. I believe with all my strength in renewal. I believe in the inevitability of spring. Like the poem by Albert Camus says, somewhere in the depth of winter, I will find in me an invincible summer. I believe these things. I just wish I could feel them, too.
God, the winter is so cold, so dark, so long…
I walked there a couple of weeks ago, early on a Saturday morning, when the cold air numbed my face and took my breath. The reeds were dead and brown, their narrow leaves were brittle and they rattled as I pushed between them. The trees were naked and the underbrush was dead. The culvert was exposed; the mystery provided by the vegetation of summer had been stripped away. There it lay before me – a long, narrow slab of concrete, a tangle of trash down below eddying in the sluggish water. Clumps of bleached grass drooped toward the edge of the river. It was an unlovely place; even the stream’s voice bore no enchantment. It sounded like a tired sigh instead of lively chatter. I caught my breath, appalled by the change wrought by the season. There was no peace in the movement of the harsh light on the water or the rasping of the reeds as they trembled in the cold wind. The place felt barren and desolate.
I came away feeling bereft, even though I knew that spring would come and the sun would reawaken the leaves. Blended green-gold light would dance there again; the mingled notes of wind and water would sing. But I was not comforted by the promise of renewal, though I believed in its inevitability. Instead, the bleakness of my former haven left me with a feeling of sadness that I haven’t yet been able to shake. I have spent the days since trying to determine why. As I said, I believe with all my heart in the inevitability of spring and the returning of the leaves and the light. So why am I grieving?
Maybe…it’s because I recognize something of myself in the desolation of that place. It was never flawless, but a combination of factors gave it the illusion of peace and perfection. There was something about the quality of the light – green-gold and somehow alive – and the dancing of the water that made the tiny, hidden spot on the side of the river unique. The turning of the season from summer’s warmth to the harsh cold of January had stripped away that quality, leaving it withered and grey. There were moments of brightness but it was a hectic, brittle light. It had none of the gentle glow of those long summer evenings when I sat and wrote or drew in my journal, when I felt tears come as I thanked God for my escape and released the suffering accumulated during those long months of fear. The leaves and the brush behind me were my veil, my protection from casual, prying eyes. I was shielded from the world, free to mourn. Now there was no sanctuary for me in that place – it was open to the world, unguarded and vulnerable. I sometimes feel the same way – withered, dull, and grey, as if the blended radiance and song of my own spirit has been stilled and replaced by some frantic, glancing light that bounces in shards and slivers, throwing shadows with no substance, dazzling the eyes of my soul and leaving me blinded and groping to find my way. Like the desolation of my former haven, my heart feels empty, swept by cold wind and echoing to monotonous whispers that repeat the same poisoned words over and over – his words, spoken to rob me of my will to act, my will to leave, my will to live –
-selfish-crazy-hateful-rigid-whore-controlling-needy-stupid-lying-bitch-
No matter what I did for him, it was never good enough. I cared for his children; I cleaned his house; I cooked his meals. I got up early and ironed his shirts before work. I came home late and spent the evenings cooking, cleaning, helping the kids with homework. I woke up in the night and rocked his baby back to sleep when she cried. I fixed plumbing, bought groceries, paid bills. I swept up broken glass and covered the holes in the walls he made with his fists and the things he threw at me. I was calm and patient as he screamed and railed and threatened suicide. There were periods of peace that soon dissolved to tension before they came back to the rage, the pain, the accusations. It was never enough; no matter how much love or obedience I gave, he always seemed to want or need something more. I could never be good enough to please him, though toward the end I believed that my life depended on it. The fear was overwhelming; it laid waste to who I was and left me weak and shaken. My ability to know myself was damaged; my belief in myself eroded away. Like the reeds in winter, I was bare and brittle – a stiff wind or a hard shove would put me on the ground. I came away feeling cold inside, feeling hollow. I was like a dead, winter garden; no seed sown in soil so icy would ever bear fruit.
Away from him, I worked to accept myself. I worked to believe that I was good enough, that the terrible things he said to me were not true. I tried to purge myself of the poison he left behind – I’m still trying. People compliment my work and my writing. The man I am with reassures me that I am worthy of love and that I deserve to be treated with respect. But I can’t shake the belief that I am simply not good enough – that everything I have worked to achieve is as insubstantial as summer sunlight through green leaves. I often wake up in the middle of the night wondering if this is the day when everything will fall apart and the rage-fear-pain will come rushing in because the life that I have built for myself is an illusion - how could someone as worthless as I am have anything good?
Somewhere inside, I know that I am competent, capable, and worthy of love and respect. I know that the sickness and the weakness were his, not mine. Just like summer will come and reawaken the beauty of my haven near the river, eventually a new season will dawn for me too, and the cold emptiness will be forgotten. Everything that seems dead in me will live again; the mingled light and music of spirit will warm and fill me and this December of the heart will pass.
I know that it is true. I believe with all my strength in renewal. I believe in the inevitability of spring. Like the poem by Albert Camus says, somewhere in the depth of winter, I will find in me an invincible summer. I believe these things. I just wish I could feel them, too.
God, the winter is so cold, so dark, so long…
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Life-Defining Change: Understanding Transition
I have an excellent memory. With very little trouble I can drill down and recall days from my childhood which have no seeming significance, and remember with photographic quality what I wore, who was with me, what was said, and how my surroundings looked. Not every single day exists this way in my memory, but the ones that do are like snapshots; they are touchstones for me and I can follow them backward from this moment and deep into my past. Sometimes these memories and moments are meaningless. Sometimes they are heavy with consequence and I can see in those recollections that at that space in time, my life took a divergent path from the one I had been following.
My salvation experience was like that, not only because I was “saved” or because I accepted Christ, but because of a dream I had that night, which changed my understanding of God forever. After having made my way to the altar that morning at church – the first time I had been inside a house of God since early childhood – I had knelt and prayed for forgiveness and acceptance. I went to a Baptist church then, and the accompanying commotion shamed and frightened me, but I could not ignore the call I had felt. I came home feeling ambiguous about the experience; glad that I had made peace with God, but wondering at the crying, the shaking, and the hugging that came afterward, much like I expected people would greet miners who had spent months trapped underground before coming up into the sunlight in a daring escape from darkness. I did not feel that way myself – for me, going down to that altar was more like finding my way home. That night, I dreamed that I was riding my bike down a narrow, rutted road toward my father’s barn, which had been built the previous summer. The weather was hot but it was late evening and the light slanted in golden shafts through the trees. I could smell hay and green, growing things, and as I rode forward, I saw a man walking toward me. Behind him, a crowd of people trailed through the long grass. I felt that I knew some of these faces but I couldn’t pay much attention to them, because the man was the center of this vision and beside him, all else paled and began to fade. He was a conventional-looking Jesus; dressed in blue and white robes, with long brown hair and a beard, but instead of the sorrowful face I had seen in so many paintings, this man was laughing. His smile was broad and genuine and as I dropped my bike and ran toward him, his arms opened wide. He caught me up in an embrace and I could feel the rough beard against my cheek and ear as he whispered, “I am so glad you came home.”
That dream shaped my faith. There was no judgment in the Christ I met on the road that night, only acceptance, joy, and love. And though I spent the next three years attending a church whose views and traditions were harsh and unyielding, my vision of God never altered. That moment of meeting was, for me, life-defining. It was what sent me out of the Baptist faith and kept me searching and believing through years of pain and hardship. It brought me to an understanding of my own role as a child of God. Though I have often struggled with myself and what it is God might want from me, that moment is a touchstone, a talisman, and I come back to it when I feel myself beginning to forget the joy I felt at that moment of ultimate love and acceptance, of knowing that I had found where I belonged.
That was not the only faith-based transition I experienced, but it was probably the most profound. There have been other important moments of transformation and decision. I can recall a significant day in June 2007, when I sat at my kitchen table on a Saturday morning drinking a cup of coffee and knowing that I could not wait for life to find me any longer – knowing that life was passing me by. I had been waiting for what seemed like forever for some unknown, mysterious sign that I was ready to become what I was meant to be. Like a caterpillar in the stasis of the cocoon, I waited to be transformed. But that morning, I thought about things I wanted to do and could not do because of my fears and the condition my body was in – a condition of my own deliberate making. I faced the long chain of bad decisions I had made and tracked them to their source – a moment in time where choices were taken from me along with my innocence and my sense of self-worth. I sat at my kitchen table and I faced the fact that not only had I been sexually assaulted, but I had allowed that experience to shape my view of myself and what I felt I could do with my future. That moment when I was thirteen years old had an impact that rippled across twenty-two years of existence. That event of pain and humiliation had altered the course of my existence. It was a life-defining change.
My decision that morning over coffee brought me down another path. On this road, I accepted my responsibility toward my body and began working to repair the damage I had deliberately done. Gaining over one hundred pounds had made me feel safe; the fat was my armor against male sexual interest and the possibility of another rape. The idea of taking off that armor was terrifying, but I was through waiting. The process was painstaking and still is, but most of the excess weight is gone. Still, this transition isn’t only about my body. It is also about my mind and my spirit – learning how to see myself as a whole person rather than one who is irrevocably shattered is taking time. Integrating my spirit-self with my corporeal-self is also taking time; I have felt for so long that my spirit inhabits my body the way I inhabit my house that it is difficult to see the two parts as one blended entity. Difficult, but necessary – the disconnection between my physical and spiritual selves has been catastrophic in its consequences; it is what allowed me to mistreat myself so terribly, to bond with an abusive partner and to accept that abuse as normal, and then to make detrimental choices around my coping strategies as I left that relationship and began trying to heal.
It has been said that life is made up of transitions – from infancy to childhood, from childhood to adolescence, from adolescence to adulthood and independence, from independence to the infirmity of old age, there is never really a time in our lives when we are in stasis. We may not perceive the transitions or understand the anxiety that surrounds them – we may be in a vague state of mental or emotional unrest but will usually attribute those feelings of restlessness or nervousness to stress. And we are right, of course, but most of us never come to place where we dig deeper, trying to find the source. Change is a fact of our existence, but we disregard it unless it takes a shape we cannot ignore. We live on a planet in a Universe that is always in flux, where anything can happen to anyone at any time, but we comfort ourselves with the illusion that we are safe, that we are secure, and that if we only behave in a certain way, most bad things will pass us by. Most of us have no concept of a reality that is entirely fluid, where even our best intentions and protections will ultimately fail. A better way is to embrace the transitions, to know that they are the fabric of our lives and that our stories are written and rewritten by the choices we make in relation to those instances, especially the big ones – the seismic moments of life-defining change.
My salvation experience was like that, not only because I was “saved” or because I accepted Christ, but because of a dream I had that night, which changed my understanding of God forever. After having made my way to the altar that morning at church – the first time I had been inside a house of God since early childhood – I had knelt and prayed for forgiveness and acceptance. I went to a Baptist church then, and the accompanying commotion shamed and frightened me, but I could not ignore the call I had felt. I came home feeling ambiguous about the experience; glad that I had made peace with God, but wondering at the crying, the shaking, and the hugging that came afterward, much like I expected people would greet miners who had spent months trapped underground before coming up into the sunlight in a daring escape from darkness. I did not feel that way myself – for me, going down to that altar was more like finding my way home. That night, I dreamed that I was riding my bike down a narrow, rutted road toward my father’s barn, which had been built the previous summer. The weather was hot but it was late evening and the light slanted in golden shafts through the trees. I could smell hay and green, growing things, and as I rode forward, I saw a man walking toward me. Behind him, a crowd of people trailed through the long grass. I felt that I knew some of these faces but I couldn’t pay much attention to them, because the man was the center of this vision and beside him, all else paled and began to fade. He was a conventional-looking Jesus; dressed in blue and white robes, with long brown hair and a beard, but instead of the sorrowful face I had seen in so many paintings, this man was laughing. His smile was broad and genuine and as I dropped my bike and ran toward him, his arms opened wide. He caught me up in an embrace and I could feel the rough beard against my cheek and ear as he whispered, “I am so glad you came home.”
That dream shaped my faith. There was no judgment in the Christ I met on the road that night, only acceptance, joy, and love. And though I spent the next three years attending a church whose views and traditions were harsh and unyielding, my vision of God never altered. That moment of meeting was, for me, life-defining. It was what sent me out of the Baptist faith and kept me searching and believing through years of pain and hardship. It brought me to an understanding of my own role as a child of God. Though I have often struggled with myself and what it is God might want from me, that moment is a touchstone, a talisman, and I come back to it when I feel myself beginning to forget the joy I felt at that moment of ultimate love and acceptance, of knowing that I had found where I belonged.
That was not the only faith-based transition I experienced, but it was probably the most profound. There have been other important moments of transformation and decision. I can recall a significant day in June 2007, when I sat at my kitchen table on a Saturday morning drinking a cup of coffee and knowing that I could not wait for life to find me any longer – knowing that life was passing me by. I had been waiting for what seemed like forever for some unknown, mysterious sign that I was ready to become what I was meant to be. Like a caterpillar in the stasis of the cocoon, I waited to be transformed. But that morning, I thought about things I wanted to do and could not do because of my fears and the condition my body was in – a condition of my own deliberate making. I faced the long chain of bad decisions I had made and tracked them to their source – a moment in time where choices were taken from me along with my innocence and my sense of self-worth. I sat at my kitchen table and I faced the fact that not only had I been sexually assaulted, but I had allowed that experience to shape my view of myself and what I felt I could do with my future. That moment when I was thirteen years old had an impact that rippled across twenty-two years of existence. That event of pain and humiliation had altered the course of my existence. It was a life-defining change.
My decision that morning over coffee brought me down another path. On this road, I accepted my responsibility toward my body and began working to repair the damage I had deliberately done. Gaining over one hundred pounds had made me feel safe; the fat was my armor against male sexual interest and the possibility of another rape. The idea of taking off that armor was terrifying, but I was through waiting. The process was painstaking and still is, but most of the excess weight is gone. Still, this transition isn’t only about my body. It is also about my mind and my spirit – learning how to see myself as a whole person rather than one who is irrevocably shattered is taking time. Integrating my spirit-self with my corporeal-self is also taking time; I have felt for so long that my spirit inhabits my body the way I inhabit my house that it is difficult to see the two parts as one blended entity. Difficult, but necessary – the disconnection between my physical and spiritual selves has been catastrophic in its consequences; it is what allowed me to mistreat myself so terribly, to bond with an abusive partner and to accept that abuse as normal, and then to make detrimental choices around my coping strategies as I left that relationship and began trying to heal.
It has been said that life is made up of transitions – from infancy to childhood, from childhood to adolescence, from adolescence to adulthood and independence, from independence to the infirmity of old age, there is never really a time in our lives when we are in stasis. We may not perceive the transitions or understand the anxiety that surrounds them – we may be in a vague state of mental or emotional unrest but will usually attribute those feelings of restlessness or nervousness to stress. And we are right, of course, but most of us never come to place where we dig deeper, trying to find the source. Change is a fact of our existence, but we disregard it unless it takes a shape we cannot ignore. We live on a planet in a Universe that is always in flux, where anything can happen to anyone at any time, but we comfort ourselves with the illusion that we are safe, that we are secure, and that if we only behave in a certain way, most bad things will pass us by. Most of us have no concept of a reality that is entirely fluid, where even our best intentions and protections will ultimately fail. A better way is to embrace the transitions, to know that they are the fabric of our lives and that our stories are written and rewritten by the choices we make in relation to those instances, especially the big ones – the seismic moments of life-defining change.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Stalking: How to Recognize It, How to Survive It
I became aware that I was being stalked when I woke up one morning last January at a friend’s house, my cell-phone ringing with a number that I recognized and dreaded seeing. My ex, whom I had asked repeatedly not to call me anymore, was calling again. It was becoming a regular occurrence. My stomach clenched – heart racing, I looked at my friend and said, “Why does he keep calling me?! I’ve asked him to stop over and over and he keeps saying he won’t call anymore – I hate this!”
My friend considered for a moment, then said, “Is there a pattern to the calls? Does he call at certain times?” I thought about it.
“Well, not really. He called while I was at the mall last week, and he called while I was working late the week before. But the times and days were different.” The phone stopped ringing and I sighed in relief. After just a few seconds of silence, the text-message alert started going off. Same number. Feeling sick, I read through the message.
Sorry to bother you, it said. I don't blame you for not answering my calls. I’m having a computer problem and it’s snowy and I don’t want to drive anywhere today. Nothing’s open anyway because it’s Saturday. I thought you might be able to tell me how to fix it. I won’t bother you anymore.
“So he’s calling and texting you when you aren’t home,” my friend said. “How does he know you aren’t home?”
At that point, I lived only a block or so away from my ex, but he would have had to drive out of his way to pass my place. During most of that summer and part of the fall, we had often stayed together at his house, though I’d always kept my apartment. The relationship had become horribly abusive, beginning with emotional and mental abuse and ending with physical and sexual assaults and death threats. I had finally gathered up the courage to leave him after he had held a knife to my throat and tried to wreck the car and kill both of us while driving during a snowstorm. That had been a month before, and though he continually assured me that this would be "the last time", he was still calling me.
“Oh my God,” I said, sitting down. My head was spinning and I felt dizzy and cold. “He’s driving by my house…checking to see when I’m there.”
My friend, who is a former police officer with a degree in criminal justice, nodded. “And anytime you aren’t home, he’s calling to see what you’re doing. He may be checking up on you two or three times a day. Or more. Does he know where you work?”
Yes, he knew where I worked. He had visited me there many times when we were still together. My place of employment was an hour away from where we both lived, though, and the realization that my abuser was driving by my house gave me the impetus I needed to make a decision I’d been tossing around. “That’s it,” I said. “I’m moving.”
That was January 30th, 2010. I went home and blocked him from being able to call my phone again. Over the course of the next week, I had blocked him from contacting me by email and on Facebook and MySpace. I got some hang-up calls from a number I didn’t recognize, so I blocked it, too. Finally, the calls stopped. By the end of February, I had relocated to a townhouse apartment very near my job. I moved in on a Friday, working through the entire weekend to vacate my other place. By Sunday night, I was exhausted but relieved to be so far away from my ex. The tension of living near the man who had hit me and threatened to kill me had been greater than I had realized, even before I knew he was keeping tabs on me. I had numbed myself to the fear for so long that I still couldn’t really feel it – instead, I just felt glad to be starting over in a new place. That Monday morning I woke to a light covering of snow. I looked out my front door at 7 in the morning and noticed footprints on the stairs leading up to my apartment. Mine was the only door reached by those steps. The prints came to the top of the stairs and halted there, under my bedroom window. I recognized the treads – they were his shoes. But that was ridiculous...wasn't it? How could he have found me so fast? I pushed it out of my mind and as the days went by with no further sightings or foot-marks, I began to relax.
A month went by. It was peaceful and I felt as if I was settling into my new house. It was so close to work that I could go home over lunch. On April 5th, I was pulling out of my parking lot when I saw a familiar car sitting at the bank across the street. Small. Black. Out of town dealer’s plate on the front. I knew it was him even before I saw his face -- one look at the driver confirmed it. It was my abuser.
He pulled out behind me and I hurried into the parking lot at work. I was relieved when he drove past instead of continuing to follow me. For the rest of the week, I kept looking over my shoulder, but didn’t see him. Then, on April 20th, I left the building for lunch and his car was in the parking lot. Looking around, I saw him standing at the door of the book-store located in the same building where I worked. He was looking at me.
I left work but didn’t go home. Instead, I drove and I cried. Why was he doing this? What did he want? Back at work, later on, I talked to a friend and she advised me to call the police and report it. I was reluctant, but by the next morning I felt so disturbed by his behavior that I did call the local police department. They assigned an officer to give me more information, and promised that he would call me soon. Sure enough, after about fifteen minutes had passed, my cell phone rang. I explained what was going on and the police officer shocked me when he said, “So you’re being stalked.”
I was surprised -- I hadn’t thought of what was happening to me as stalking. The officer told me that the best thing I could do was to file for an order of protection. After he had some more information about how abusive the relationship had been, he urged me not to wait, but to file for the protective order right away. I didn’t take his advice until another two months had passed, mostly because I could hardly believe that I was being stalked. I mean, what if I was wrong? What if my ex’s intentions were entirely innocent? It took seeing him at my workplace a couple more times, seeing him driving up and down the road in front of my home, and him turning up at my work on a Saturday to convince me that I needed to do something. I filed for the order of protection on May 28th – on my way to the courthouse to fill out the paperwork, I saw him less than a block from my work-place again, for the second time that week.
I got my order of protection after punctured tires, destroyed property, a private investigator hired by my ex, and two-hour hearing that was indescribably awful. Since then, my ex appealed the protective order and then dropped the appeal the day before we were to go to court. That was in August 2010. There has been no further destruction of my property, and I have only seen him once since that time; he did not try to make contact. I worry about what will happen when the order expires this July, but I will have to deal with that as it comes.
Because I didn’t recognize my ex’s behavior as stalking, I was reluctant to file for the protective order. I put up with being followed, being watched, and feeling unsafe and fearful because I didn’t know what constituted stalking. I want others to be able to recognize their danger before things get out of control – here is some information about stalking, including the legal definition in the state of Tennessee.
Stalking is a pattern of conduct composed of a series of two or more noncontinuous acts which show a continuity of purpose, which cause significant emotional or mental suffering or distress, and which may include but is not limited to repeated unwanted contact. Stalking is the repeated or continuing harassment of another that would cause a reasonable person to feel frightened, intimidated, threatened, or terrorized. This behavior includes following or appearing within the sight of that person, approaching or confronting that person, whether on private or public property, appearing at that person’s workplace or residence, contacting that person by phone, mail, or electronic means, or appearing or placing an object upon property leased, owned, or occupied by that person (Stalking Resource Center, 2011).
Stalking is a Class A misdemeanor in the State of Tennessee. Aggravated Stalking is a Class E Felony in Tennessee and is distinguished from Stalking by the presence of a weapon, the age of the victim (under 18) related to the age of the stalker, if the stalker has a previous conviction of stalking within seven years of the current offense, if the stalker makes a credible threat to the victim or the victim’s family, or if the stalker was prohibited from coming near the victim by any legal means. There are other levels of offense, and the punishment is different depending on the severity of the crime. Yes! Stalking is a crime, and is punishable by law (Stalking Resource Center, 2011).
Over three million people over the age of 18 are stalked in the US each year. Three out of four of those are stalked by someone they know. Thirty percent of stalking victims are stalked by a current or former intimate partner – this is what happened to me. And while men do stalk men, and women also stalk women and men, more often, it is men who stalk women. Seventy six percent of intimate partner femicide* victims have been stalked by their partner, and of these, 67% have been physically abused by their partner. Eighty nine percent of femicide victims who were physically assaulted were also stalked in the twelve months before their murder, and 54% of these victims reported the stalking to police before they were killed by their stalkers (McFarlane et al., 1999).
Stalking is a crime in all 50 states, including the District of Columbia and all US Territories. In only 1/3 of states is it a felony as a first offense, but as discussed above, there are aggravating circumstances that make the crime more severe.
So – what do you do if you’re being stalked? You call the police. Odds are you’ll be advised to file for an order of protection, like I was. Of course, this is going to depend on whether your stalker has contacted or threatened you, and there will be other factors that also have impact. You can also visit your local Legal Aid Agency. Legal Aid will usually consult with you for free before you file for a protective or restraining order. They can tell you what the process is like and can provide you with free legal representation if you need to appear in court. Also document every incidence as it occurs. Take pictures if you can; tell people right away if you see your stalker. Point him or her out to friends so they can witness for you in court. Report each incidence of contact or stalking to the police and ask them to keep records and file reports – also ask them for copies; you’ll have to pick these up and there’s usually a very small document origination fee that you’ll have to pay. Know that the law is on your side and that there are protective measures you can take. Also be aware that no piece of paper will stop someone who is determined to hurt you. Prepare accordingly – be vigilant. Remember that ultimately, you are your best protection.
*Femicide: The murder of a woman; distinguished here because these statistics apply only to women murdered by intimate partners.
Resources
National Center for Victims of Crime. (2011) Stalking Resource Center. Retrieved January 26, 2011 from http://www.ncvc.org/src/main.aspx?dbID=dash_Home
McFarlane, Judith, et al. (1999). Stalking and Intimate Partner Femicide. Homicide Studies 3, no. 4. Retrieved January 26, 2011 from http://www.ncvc.org/src/main.aspx?dbID=dash_Home.
The author’s own experiences.
My friend considered for a moment, then said, “Is there a pattern to the calls? Does he call at certain times?” I thought about it.
“Well, not really. He called while I was at the mall last week, and he called while I was working late the week before. But the times and days were different.” The phone stopped ringing and I sighed in relief. After just a few seconds of silence, the text-message alert started going off. Same number. Feeling sick, I read through the message.
Sorry to bother you, it said. I don't blame you for not answering my calls. I’m having a computer problem and it’s snowy and I don’t want to drive anywhere today. Nothing’s open anyway because it’s Saturday. I thought you might be able to tell me how to fix it. I won’t bother you anymore.
“So he’s calling and texting you when you aren’t home,” my friend said. “How does he know you aren’t home?”
At that point, I lived only a block or so away from my ex, but he would have had to drive out of his way to pass my place. During most of that summer and part of the fall, we had often stayed together at his house, though I’d always kept my apartment. The relationship had become horribly abusive, beginning with emotional and mental abuse and ending with physical and sexual assaults and death threats. I had finally gathered up the courage to leave him after he had held a knife to my throat and tried to wreck the car and kill both of us while driving during a snowstorm. That had been a month before, and though he continually assured me that this would be "the last time", he was still calling me.
“Oh my God,” I said, sitting down. My head was spinning and I felt dizzy and cold. “He’s driving by my house…checking to see when I’m there.”
My friend, who is a former police officer with a degree in criminal justice, nodded. “And anytime you aren’t home, he’s calling to see what you’re doing. He may be checking up on you two or three times a day. Or more. Does he know where you work?”
Yes, he knew where I worked. He had visited me there many times when we were still together. My place of employment was an hour away from where we both lived, though, and the realization that my abuser was driving by my house gave me the impetus I needed to make a decision I’d been tossing around. “That’s it,” I said. “I’m moving.”
That was January 30th, 2010. I went home and blocked him from being able to call my phone again. Over the course of the next week, I had blocked him from contacting me by email and on Facebook and MySpace. I got some hang-up calls from a number I didn’t recognize, so I blocked it, too. Finally, the calls stopped. By the end of February, I had relocated to a townhouse apartment very near my job. I moved in on a Friday, working through the entire weekend to vacate my other place. By Sunday night, I was exhausted but relieved to be so far away from my ex. The tension of living near the man who had hit me and threatened to kill me had been greater than I had realized, even before I knew he was keeping tabs on me. I had numbed myself to the fear for so long that I still couldn’t really feel it – instead, I just felt glad to be starting over in a new place. That Monday morning I woke to a light covering of snow. I looked out my front door at 7 in the morning and noticed footprints on the stairs leading up to my apartment. Mine was the only door reached by those steps. The prints came to the top of the stairs and halted there, under my bedroom window. I recognized the treads – they were his shoes. But that was ridiculous...wasn't it? How could he have found me so fast? I pushed it out of my mind and as the days went by with no further sightings or foot-marks, I began to relax.
A month went by. It was peaceful and I felt as if I was settling into my new house. It was so close to work that I could go home over lunch. On April 5th, I was pulling out of my parking lot when I saw a familiar car sitting at the bank across the street. Small. Black. Out of town dealer’s plate on the front. I knew it was him even before I saw his face -- one look at the driver confirmed it. It was my abuser.
He pulled out behind me and I hurried into the parking lot at work. I was relieved when he drove past instead of continuing to follow me. For the rest of the week, I kept looking over my shoulder, but didn’t see him. Then, on April 20th, I left the building for lunch and his car was in the parking lot. Looking around, I saw him standing at the door of the book-store located in the same building where I worked. He was looking at me.
I left work but didn’t go home. Instead, I drove and I cried. Why was he doing this? What did he want? Back at work, later on, I talked to a friend and she advised me to call the police and report it. I was reluctant, but by the next morning I felt so disturbed by his behavior that I did call the local police department. They assigned an officer to give me more information, and promised that he would call me soon. Sure enough, after about fifteen minutes had passed, my cell phone rang. I explained what was going on and the police officer shocked me when he said, “So you’re being stalked.”
I was surprised -- I hadn’t thought of what was happening to me as stalking. The officer told me that the best thing I could do was to file for an order of protection. After he had some more information about how abusive the relationship had been, he urged me not to wait, but to file for the protective order right away. I didn’t take his advice until another two months had passed, mostly because I could hardly believe that I was being stalked. I mean, what if I was wrong? What if my ex’s intentions were entirely innocent? It took seeing him at my workplace a couple more times, seeing him driving up and down the road in front of my home, and him turning up at my work on a Saturday to convince me that I needed to do something. I filed for the order of protection on May 28th – on my way to the courthouse to fill out the paperwork, I saw him less than a block from my work-place again, for the second time that week.
I got my order of protection after punctured tires, destroyed property, a private investigator hired by my ex, and two-hour hearing that was indescribably awful. Since then, my ex appealed the protective order and then dropped the appeal the day before we were to go to court. That was in August 2010. There has been no further destruction of my property, and I have only seen him once since that time; he did not try to make contact. I worry about what will happen when the order expires this July, but I will have to deal with that as it comes.
Because I didn’t recognize my ex’s behavior as stalking, I was reluctant to file for the protective order. I put up with being followed, being watched, and feeling unsafe and fearful because I didn’t know what constituted stalking. I want others to be able to recognize their danger before things get out of control – here is some information about stalking, including the legal definition in the state of Tennessee.
Stalking is a pattern of conduct composed of a series of two or more noncontinuous acts which show a continuity of purpose, which cause significant emotional or mental suffering or distress, and which may include but is not limited to repeated unwanted contact. Stalking is the repeated or continuing harassment of another that would cause a reasonable person to feel frightened, intimidated, threatened, or terrorized. This behavior includes following or appearing within the sight of that person, approaching or confronting that person, whether on private or public property, appearing at that person’s workplace or residence, contacting that person by phone, mail, or electronic means, or appearing or placing an object upon property leased, owned, or occupied by that person (Stalking Resource Center, 2011).
Stalking is a Class A misdemeanor in the State of Tennessee. Aggravated Stalking is a Class E Felony in Tennessee and is distinguished from Stalking by the presence of a weapon, the age of the victim (under 18) related to the age of the stalker, if the stalker has a previous conviction of stalking within seven years of the current offense, if the stalker makes a credible threat to the victim or the victim’s family, or if the stalker was prohibited from coming near the victim by any legal means. There are other levels of offense, and the punishment is different depending on the severity of the crime. Yes! Stalking is a crime, and is punishable by law (Stalking Resource Center, 2011).
Over three million people over the age of 18 are stalked in the US each year. Three out of four of those are stalked by someone they know. Thirty percent of stalking victims are stalked by a current or former intimate partner – this is what happened to me. And while men do stalk men, and women also stalk women and men, more often, it is men who stalk women. Seventy six percent of intimate partner femicide* victims have been stalked by their partner, and of these, 67% have been physically abused by their partner. Eighty nine percent of femicide victims who were physically assaulted were also stalked in the twelve months before their murder, and 54% of these victims reported the stalking to police before they were killed by their stalkers (McFarlane et al., 1999).
Stalking is a crime in all 50 states, including the District of Columbia and all US Territories. In only 1/3 of states is it a felony as a first offense, but as discussed above, there are aggravating circumstances that make the crime more severe.
So – what do you do if you’re being stalked? You call the police. Odds are you’ll be advised to file for an order of protection, like I was. Of course, this is going to depend on whether your stalker has contacted or threatened you, and there will be other factors that also have impact. You can also visit your local Legal Aid Agency. Legal Aid will usually consult with you for free before you file for a protective or restraining order. They can tell you what the process is like and can provide you with free legal representation if you need to appear in court. Also document every incidence as it occurs. Take pictures if you can; tell people right away if you see your stalker. Point him or her out to friends so they can witness for you in court. Report each incidence of contact or stalking to the police and ask them to keep records and file reports – also ask them for copies; you’ll have to pick these up and there’s usually a very small document origination fee that you’ll have to pay. Know that the law is on your side and that there are protective measures you can take. Also be aware that no piece of paper will stop someone who is determined to hurt you. Prepare accordingly – be vigilant. Remember that ultimately, you are your best protection.
*Femicide: The murder of a woman; distinguished here because these statistics apply only to women murdered by intimate partners.
Resources
National Center for Victims of Crime. (2011) Stalking Resource Center. Retrieved January 26, 2011 from http://www.ncvc.org/src/main.aspx?dbID=dash_Home
McFarlane, Judith, et al. (1999). Stalking and Intimate Partner Femicide. Homicide Studies 3, no. 4. Retrieved January 26, 2011 from http://www.ncvc.org/src/main.aspx?dbID=dash_Home.
The author’s own experiences.
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