Fading Out for a Bit

September 2, 2011

The past several months have been very difficult to live and work through. I feel like I haven’t found the support in blog world or in real life that I’ve needed lately. I don’t even know what kind of support I’m expecting. I feel I tried to reach out for help or advice and I wasn’t understood. I think my choice of words didn’t convey what I was feeling properly, either. I don’t seem to be getting across how I feel in therapy, and I’ve only been able to see her twice since summer began. That is my own fault and I blame myself for being screwy and misunderstood.

I am in a better place than I was two years ago.

I’m angry at the world and at myself.

Time slips away and I’m unable to use it effectively.

All my energy is focused on my family making it through the day safely and intact. They are fine, but that’s because I make sure they are.

I have no focus and no purpose. I’ve lost interest in my hobbies and I don’t have any time for them anyway.

There is no time to make time. It’s all accounted for.

Things I hate:

My parents (Die already, you fucking assholes!)

My life

My thoughts

My body

Food

Sex

Time

People in my community

People in general

Responsibility

The Internet

Television

Telephone

My in-laws

Money

Sleep

Anxiety

Love

Memories

Universe

Mental health

Hope

Truth

Optimism

News

I’m going to lay low again for a while. Life is punishment. I feel I’m being punished for surviving child sexual abuse. I feel my only purpose now is to see my own children live safe and free. My life has little meaning for me and I don’t see the reason for giving it a purpose. Two years I’ve been actively trying to make and find my life, not in a selfish way, but trying to integrate myself internally and externally. I have the diagnosis and the tools and the desire, but I feel the Universe just pushes me back into a box where I am a mom and wife and that’s it.

Things go much more smoothly when I play mom and wife. If a DID issue arises I deal with it and get back to mom and wife. When I try to find my purpose, or try new things bad things happen or get complicated.

I’m not going to try anymore to find myself or be more than I am for now. It’s depressing, tiring, and it unravels all the mommy and wife work I’ve done. It feels like the Universe wants me in a box for now and I’m willing to be there. I’m not a hero, I don’t have the strength to fight constantly, and I have no reason or purpose that I understand.

If this makes no sense to anyone, I’m sorry. This isn’t a pity party. I’m just giving up for now. I can’t find inspiration in myself or from others and I’m tired. Maybe things will start looking up this fall. Rose is tired of roaring.

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Kate (www.kate1975.wordpress.com) wrote a post about child sexual abuse as an adult. This weekend it will be 16 years since my father last sexually abused me.

*Sexual Trigger*

The first weekend in July in 1994 I was 28 years old and my parents drove to my home, unexpectedly, with a rented truck and my aunt and uncle and emptied out my home and said I had to move in with them. I don’t know exactly why or at least I don’t remember. That night in the Holiday Inn motel my 2 year-old son was sleeping next to me when I felt something on my leg. It was 2:45am and my father was in my bed, had pulled back the covers and pulled up my nightshirt. He was molesting me and I think would have done worse if I hadn’t woken up. I said “No more.”, pulled down my night shirt, and put the covers back on me.

I didn’t say “No more” like an empowered you-can’t-do-that-to-me-anymore woman. I said it, and meant it, as a very tired, betrayed, fed up, hopeless, single mother, depressed, just-leave-me-alone woman.

I feel embarrassed that it happened and that I didn’t have enough self confidence to protect the toddler next to me, much less myself. I realize I was still, or had reverted back to, a sexually abused child frame of mind.

My son doesn’t know that his grandfather did that to me while he was lying next to me. Someday I would like to tell him, though.

It took me several months and three therapists and a psychiatrist to finally find someone who could help me. As Kate wrote, it’s difficult to find information or insight for people who are sexually abused well into adulthood. However I did, but it still took 14 years to really get on the right track therapeutically.

So, Kate got me thinking, and I feel it’s an important issue to think about, and I’m very glad she brought it up.

???

June 30, 2011

Usually I shove it down best I can so I have control, control, control. Stuff those people down and just talk on the inside. Don’t let them out or let them up and be together with them.

If I didn’t give a shit about this blog I would write about the terrible things they say while I’m doing regular things. It’s difficult to watch a kid play a video game while inside they’re showing me what was being done to them at that age.

Write, write, write. Get it all down and take it to the therapist and talk about it. Then back home and it starts all over.

I think I need to see my therapist more often. Kids are home and there’s no one to watch them and arrangements with the in-laws have to revolve around their schedule.

So I stop talking because I don’t make sense. It sounds like gibberish, like I’m having a stroke. And I play with some toys and draw pictures and I’ve found lots of toads and frogs to play with. Many of the bird parents are bringing their babies and we can go right up to them. We have butterflies and moths and even the snakes are mellow, so I can pick them up and we can check them out.

Okay. Back to work. If it hasn’t been used in the past 5-10 years I’m throwing it out. That keeps me busy lately.

I wanted to write and rant but it’s sooo loud, loud, loud! Therapy left me more frustrated than ever. We talked about a million things and I cannot focus or finish a sentence or thought.

It’s hard to stop and prioritize. And I’m so tired. So much needs to be done.

I know what mom did. I see the look on her face and I hear what she said. That vindictive fucking bitch. And it’s playing over and over and over in my head.

Inside there is an alter who seems ageless and another one that feels older than me and is very nurturing and loving. I’m trying to give everything over to them so I can breathe. It’s just starting to feel a little better. It needs to feel better because I have:

* another surgery soon

* my daughter’s birthday

* my son’s preparing for college

* and basic running around for food, appointments, sports, concerts, life in general shit

Over the past week I have run out of two stores in a panic, I’m hiding in closets and behind doors in my house like I did as a kid, and continue to search for noises that turn out to be more hallucinations. I forgot my birthday (I don’t celebrate it, though), anniversary, and nearly forgot my kid’s birthday (she reminded me in time). Things are moving too fast inside and out. I cope during panic attacks, walk around the house after I wake up from increased nightmares, and load up on drugs to sleep. I look like I’ve been hit by a baseball bat and makeup doesn’t really smooth it out. On the plus side I’ve lost a dress size and bra size, but there’s more gray in my hair.

That’s my fucking rant I suppose. I’ll call the stupid psychiatrist about my stupid hallucinations and my stupid nightmares even though it’s stupid. Nyah.

DID is a busy disorder. So much to do, so little time. I feel like I am the leader of a small country with my citizens constantly clamoring to be heard.

I wanted to write about the last couple of weeks, but a few little girls need to express how they experienced mother-daughter sexual abuse.  **trigger** It goes something like this:

WHY? WHY?
I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!
STOP IT!
OKAY! OKAY!

Only she never got to say that out loud. Mom hurt her, belittled her, and made her believe what was happening was her fault. Mom stripped her essence and beat into her that she was an unworthy whore. She watched and she laughed and she did nothing. She still watches and she still laughs and she still belittles.

She hurt me and she let me be hurt. She put me in serious situations that no child should ever be in. She told me to shut up and stop faking when I said I hurt.

I have always remembered the way she treated (treats) me. I have always had little glimpses and funny feelings about other things she did to me. Now a few little girls are helping me understand what did happen and why I had those funny feelings. I’m trying very hard to accept and respect their experiences. These girls hurt so bad. I’m beginning to feel their rage, humiliation, and disgust and I keep pushing it down so I can get through the day.

Tomorrow is therapy and I hope I can bring these girls to the forefront and learn to work through these feelings safely.

I didn’t mean to trigger anyone.

Today in therapy I named names and began to graphically described what happened. I have been waiting all day for paranoia to set in, but it’s calm inside. Part of me wants to write my therapist a letter asking her to not accept large amounts of cash for giving me up to those people (in case they find out somehow). Sometimes I believe the office is bugged, but I don’t care right now.

I want to see my grandchildren someday so I hope I don’t get killed for telling her. It took me over one year to really trust her and I don’t want her to turn out to be a spy for those people. When I got home I closed all the curtains and stayed away from the doors.

Maybe these fears will go away someday.

The abusers stopped by on Sunday. Mom is playing a “Let’s pretend we’re a great, big, healthy, happy family” game, but not my dad, and that won’t last long anyhow, and my kids didn’t fall for it. They are fading away and are miserable, disgusting, ugly creatures. I’m glad for that.

No triggers, no nightmares, nothing. We are in total control with them. When we motioned for them to leave they did. No kind words and hardly a goodbye. It was nice.

We have a plan in place should they want to stop by again.

It’s good to feel above and beyond them right now.

The week before my mom sent me a box in the mail. There was no note, just a photo album. The pictures were ones she had told us were missing nearly fifteen years ago. I didn’t look at all of the pictures, but the few I did see were of me naked (as a toddler) or in sexy poses. I remember  that some of those pictures had been in a certain album which had disappeared, but I have no memory of the pictures being taken. She wrote something either on the photos or ripped off pieces of paper, wrote on them, and put them with the pictures. It’s just crazy. I did ask my therapist to look at them last week and she suggested a couple of things: Place them carefully in a box and save them for much later to look at (right again, Meredith!), or take one picture at a time and journal about how I feel when I look at them.

I didn’t acknowledge that I received the photos and mom didn’t ask about them when she was here.

It feels good to get bored with their desperate tactics to try and regain some control over me.

It’s a relief that I don’t need to pop Xanax at the mention of them.

I still wish they would explode or fall into a whirling vortex of Chaos (hmmm….like “Event Horizon” maybe?), but I and my family can deal with their shit and they can’t hurt us.

Ahem. The Committee of the System would like to express their heartfelt appreciation for your existence (that being anyone who stops by to read this crap). Your words, your experiences, and your support help us move through life.

Sometimes I imagine that those who are further along the healing path have access to great wisdom and insight. And when you step away from the computer flowers sprout from beneath your feet and faeries toss rose petals on your path. Don’t tell me this doesn’t really happen, or my illusions will be shattered forever.

I know that when I get up from the computer I’ll drag my ass to the kitchen and get to work, but the sky won’t open up and a rainbow won’t light my path (I KNOW that’s how it happens with some of you).

My life is boring. The only excitement comes from battling and bargaining with my inner demons and demonettes, working through new memories, and figuring out which sounds are real and which are hallucinations.

I think my life would make a great movie…….. There’s drama, tragedy, sudden plot twists, action, adventure, travel, life-altering moments…….

So I remembered some scary, filthy stuff, but the little girls who experienced it didn’t think it was scary or filthy. It just was. That is simply what happened. They were so relieved to share what they went through, and I need to feel relieved also.

I’m also hearing things several times a day and it’s hard to tell the difference between what’s a real sound and what’s not. My therapist wants me to call the psychiatrist but I’m afraid to. One sound in particular confounds me. It’s a record player and the needle is all the way at the end of the record, making that sound over and over. The strange thing about it is that I can actually walk around the sound. It’s as though the record player is right in front of me, invisible, and I can move around it. It makes me feel crazy. Maybe it’s a ghost. I’ve asked inside if anyone can help me learn where this record player is from but I have no answer yet. I did tell my therapist about it, though.

Many of the sounds are triggering and I won’t write about them here. I would rather have the “usual” flashbacks. My husband said it must be similar to what some Vietnam soldiers experienced and people thought they were crazy. I’d like to know what they are from so I can help and work through it.

One thing that does help is playing non-English radio stations loudly on the Sirius/XM radio. That and trying to crochet and watch a subtitled movie at the same time.

Everyone is gone now and I’ve rambled on enough. Time to make it less quiet here.

My oldest daughter has taken care of a stuffed baby this week for Health class. She had to sew the body, draw a face, choose a name, and carry it with her everywhere. She also sewed a blanket for it, drew on an anime face, and decided her baby is Buddhist, too. She hasn’t taken the entire project seriously, she’s hired her sister as a babysitter several times, and I found out why this morning. She can’t imagine being responsible for such a tiny, fragile person and keep it safe, fed, and happy. At 12 years old she understands that at least she is not ready for such responsibility.  A lot of the kids doing this project thought it would be great to have their own baby for real, and she is telling them “No, it would not be great. It would be a lot of work and I want to be a veterinarian first.”. I know it’s a 12-year old realization, but I’m proud anyway.

That brings me to an obvious point. My parents should have never had children. If I had the choice I would rather not have been born. I’m not happy here and I don’t function well. So many things are a struggle and I can’t seem to get it right. I work, work, work, inside and out and I’ll be dead before I can sort things out. My parents didn’t keep me safe, fed, or happy. I am the bane of their existence, as they have reminded me. They couldn’t look at a little baby in wonder and love, but rather in disgust and anger.

These birth and responsibility thoughts I have aren’t new. I keep coming back around to see them from a different point of view every so often. When I was 14 my parents forced me to have an abortion. I didn’t know I was pregnant and we were just learning about female reproductive stuff in junior high. I found out I was pregnant shortly before I had the abortion after school one afternoon. In the very short amount of time I realized I was pregnant (and subsequently threatened if I told anyone) I knew I loved and could care for that baby and give it a better life than I had. Later, while recovering, I swore that I when I was ready to have a baby I wouldn’t let my parents have anything to do with it – my pregnancy or raising my baby. I know a baby at 14 would have made my life even more difficult, and I had no idea how to care for a baby, but I still loved the baby as intensely as a hormonal pre-teen could.

I’ve been thinking about this over the past two weeks. I was 25 when I felt ready to have a baby, and I did make sure my parents were not involved in any way. Part of it must have been subconscious knowledge because I remember freaking out if my mom or dad tried to be alone with them without knowing exactly why. I brought this up (the abortion) in therapy many months ago, but just started discussing it the past two sessions. It was such a relief to get it out. The body memories that always accompany this are gone and I can look at it from this other point of view and see what a good, healthy mother I am.

Looks like I’m rambling again. I feel okay today and I felt okay yesterday afternoon after therapy. It was a bit depressing talking about the abortion, it was my mom’s birthday (which I don’t acknowledge), so when I got home I went in one of the girls rooms and just cleaned and cleaned (and had a discussion later about how to use the garbage can). Feeling okay is nice. I get work done and cook fantastic meals. I draw pictures on fruit to make people laugh. I vomited up that incident and that part feels clean inside. The rest of the house needs some cleaning, though, so it’s time to wrestle with my vacuum.

Febuary 9th Was a Long Day

February 10, 2011

Step 1. Ask therapist to PROMISE not to get mad at you before you even sit on the floor.

Step 2. Hand her suicide kit containing 40-50 narcotic pain killers, X-Acto knife, and alcohol pads along with note for her that reads “I’m really, really, really sorry”, etc., and expresses urge to self-harm while she watches.

Step 3. Let it all fall out. Don’t think about anything. Just let it fall, fall, fall, fall out.

Step 4. Buy a Caramel Mocha at McDonald’s, after she feels you can drive, with the window down, so that freezing cold keeps you aware all the way home.

Step 5. Don’t stop at the grocery store. That is a bad idea.