A Letter To My Inner Child

Dear Little Rose,

I know you're confused on who to trust. Men tell you lies as easily as they breathe air. I wish I could tell you some trick to know if they're telling the truth, but I don't. The best I have to offer you is trust your instincts. You're instincts are basically good. When you have rationalized or minimized you've found yourself in trouble. Sure, you might not want to believe what your instincts are telling you, but that doesn't mean they're wrong.

Trust doesn't get any easier as you grow up. People let you down, but sometimes they surprise you too. Along with trust, you have abandonment issues. You assume it's not IF someone is going to leave it's WHEN are they going to leave. You've been able to push most people away, but there are a few who will not leave. This will shock and surprise you. Try to stop pushing. You might think it would be easier being alone, but you're wrong.

You have many coping mechanisms, some better than others. You need to modify the dangerous ones. The point is to heal not to cause further damage. Of course healing is far from easy and painless. Healing hurts. You've already shown you can handle great pain, both physical and emotional so don't give up. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to have healthy relationships with positive boundaries. You deserve to be loved and adored, in a healthy manner by appropriate people.

You are worth it.

You are worthy. And most importantly.... IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT! You did nothing wrong. Little girls are supposed to love their fathers. Father's are supposed to call their daughter's their Princesses. Father's are not supposed to be sexual with their daughters on any verbal, physical, or emotional level.

You learned to survive. You leaned how to forget, how to function. Your emotional needs were neglected. You still have a chance. You helped put a child molester in jail. You have the power to help yourself and others. You're not weak. You're strong.

You are NOT alone.

Sure you'll make mistakes. You will even make some mistakes more than once. More than 5 times, but eventually you will see the pattern, the reason for the mistakes and you will stop. You are intelligent. You truly can do anything you set your mind to. Just remember the family you make is more important than any material item. The healthy love you share, and show your Beloveds is the most important. They will keep you humble. They will keep you in check. They will frustrate you, and anger you. They will love you like no one else on this planet. You have a chance to do for your children what your parents never did for you. It is a glorious wonderful thing. Remember that.

Naming and Believing The Abuse

This week my writing assignment is to name and believe the abuse. To describe what I remember. Sure, I can say with ease, My father's a child molester. My father-in-law is a child molester. My children and I have had an overdose of child molesters.

Is that really naming the abuse though? The book says no. The book says that's our cop out which helps us survive. To really name the abuse we need to tell our story and believe it.

The Believe It sounds kinda silly. I mean here I am reading, writing, and going to therapy, obviously I believe myself... right? Uh... that would be a BIG FAT NO. I still find myself wishing with all my heart it was just a bad dream. That I imagined it. That I'm wrong. Somedays I attempt to rationalize it all away. In fact, I have championship rationalization skills as it is the foundation of my survivor skills.

Now to describe the abuse. I can't describe all of the abuse, because my body is telling me there are things I have yet to remember. My childhood memories (the ones I do remember) are so disorganized I'm not sure of the chronology. That being said, here goes....

I remember the sound of ice clinking in a glass of Wild Turkey after dark. I remember how my father always told me how he loved me more than life its self. How special and important I was to him. How I was his princess. I remember the wrinkles on his neck. The nape of his hair. His scratchy beard on my neck and chest. I remember standing in front of my dresser with his penis in my hands looking down at it curiously.

Oddly while writing this I realize I don't remember feeling any feelings. I don't remember being scared, or ashamed. It's like I was empty. Like I am still empty. I don't remember any scents. Granted I can smell beer or whiskey on a person a room away, but I don't have any smells to accompany my memories. I don't remember hearing anything during the abuse either. Which seems weird because I have amazing hearing, probably forged through necessity to signal danger. I've always been clued into the sound of foot steps approaching, no matter where I am.

I remember watching porn with my father while he spooned me, and feeling comforted and special. I mean he never did that with my older sister, so I must be special just like he always tells me I am, right? I remember the warmth of his body behind me. Seeing his beer can in front of me, but I couldn't tell you where his hands were, or if he ever spoke to me.

In short I rationalized his behavior as examples of what fathers who love their daughters do. That and I disassociated to make sure I wouldn't feel anything.

Interestingly, this past Saturday I rented and watched Mr. Popper's Penguins with my Beloveds. I recall when I was a kid finding the book in the school library. I remember it was the first chapter book I read, and how proud I felt at my accomplishment. At dinner, I relayed this memory to my Beloveds. My oldest who is eight asked how old I was when I read it. (His teacher read it to his class when he was in 2nd grade.) I thought for a second and said, I think I was eight or nine. My Beloved almost choked on his dinner. "Wow mom" he said, "Why did you start reading so late in life?"

I thought about it and the answer struck me like a hammer. See I refused to learn how to read. I also refused to do math, or pretty much any school work. I think I refused from 1st to 3rd grade but my memory is a little fuzzy. My teachers just kept passing me without much to do. I don't remember them saying anything to my parents as I fell further and further behind. Until 3rd grade where my teacher told my mother I was stupid and need special education classes. (Yes, she actually said stupid because I remember her saying it to my face more than once in class.) My mother demanded I be tested, which the tests showed I was actually quite bright. My mother decided I just wanted more of her attention, so she broke out her old teaching books and taught me to read.

I remember I loved the attention. The time we spend together. The safety and comfort I felt. So my question to myself is, what was going on in my life that I refused to participate in school work? Why can't I remember those years? Obviously it was a cry for help, but help for what? Was it during that time the abuse was going on? Did spending those evenings with my mother help curb the abuse? I remember being terribly depressed and not talking to anyone, nor having any friends. Why? And why didn't my mother realize there was something wrong? Or did she know and she just couldn't face it?

If I do the math, my half sister, who was also abused by my father, her step father had finally gotten the courage to tell my mother what he had done to her. Even though she hadn't believed my sister, did she spend more time with me so he couldn't? After all, I was Daddy's Girl. His Princess.

I'm not sure what all this means. I do know it makes me very sad. Since my mother died when I was 19 I will never hear her answers or reasoning. Is that good or bad? Would she still defend him? Or maybe that's why she died, because she couldn't face the monster she had married? Or the person she had become allowing him to go unchecked all those years?

I remember a few more things, but the above was the worst of the incidents. The rest was perceived as a natural state of family life. Even now when I talk to other women I think, You mean your father didn't________ (insert morally inappropriate action here) with you, your sisters, your friends, or your mom's friends? Huh. Strange.

Fear.

I usually love books and book stores. The majority of the time they are my salvation. I turn to a good story to find escape from the stress of life. As you all know my therapist has given me some books to aid in my treatement. One book and workbook is called The Courage To Heal. If you've read most of my post you know I mention it in almost every one.

She gave me another book though. A book the invokes fear. It took me a week to take it out of it's mailing package when it arraived. Even though the book is only about 600 pages, I'd swear it weights more than a full grown elephant. The name of this book of fear? Healing The Incest Wound, Adult Survivors in Therapy. I think it's the word Incest that's getting to me. Incest has always meant sexual intercourse with a family member to me. Now I'm wondering if it really means sexual relationship with a family member. You can after all have a sexual relationship without actually experiencing penetration.

Why does this word make be flinch as if I've been struck every time I read it or hear it? I'm not sure. Maybe it's all my guilt and shame? Maybe he put the fear into me? I can't really say. I do know this book haunts me. I don't know if I'll every be strong enough to open it. To read it.

Remembering Sexual Abuse

Writing Assignment from The Courage To Heal: Spend 10 minutes writing starting with the phrase, What I remember... Then write for another 10 minutes starting with the phrase, What I don't remember...

What I remember is my father always having a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I remember the cigarette smoke choking me in the car, house, bathroom. There was no safe place to hide from the smoke.

I remember my father hiding while he watched my friend and I take a bath when I was in the 4th grade.

I remember staying up late Friday and Saturday nights to have my father spoon me while we watched soft porn movies together.

I remember my father's friends making comments and questioning me about my boobs, lack there of, and my menstrual cycle... in front of him. He thought it was funny.

I remember having an ingrown pubic hair when I was 12 or 13 and not knowing what it was, my mother was out of town, so I told her about it over the phone. I was terribly embarassed. She told me to tell my father. (Why I don't understand.) My father told me he wanted to look at it. I remember telling him NO and running to my room to hide under a blanket of shame.

I remember the heaviness of my father as he laid upon me. The scratchiness of his beard on my cheek and neck. His warm breath on my neck. Him telling me how he loved me more than life it's self.

I remember how upset and manipulating he was when I got my first serious boyfriend. How my new boyfriend was "taking his place." I didn't understand it at the time. How could a boyfriend "take the place" of my father? I see now that's not what he meant.

I remember my father slept naked. I remember the warmth, sweaty scent of his sheets.

I remember how he never wore underwear in the summer and his penis would fall out of his shorts in front of my friends. I rarely had friends over after that.

I remember standing in front of my dresser, staring down at his penis while I stroked it.

I remember being 21 years old, being invited into his bedroom to let him know me and my fiance were back from visiting friends. When I walked into his open doorway he was jacking off. He wanted me to see him. To catch him.

I remember refusing to eat at the early age of 5. I see now as a grown up, food was the only thing I could control.

What I don't remember....

I don't remember where my mom was when I spent time with my father.

I don't remember how old I was when it all started.

I don't remember how old I was when it ended.

I don't remember what he said to me.

I don't remember how many times it happened or how often.

I don't know why right now my skin is crawling and my vision is snowy.

I don't know why I want to throw up.

I don't know why I want to cry.

I don't know why he did this to little girls.

I don't know why my mom wasn't enough.

I don't know why my mom didn't believe my sister when she told the truth.

I dont know why my mom allowed it all to happen.

I don't know why I didn't stop it. Why wasn't I strong enough?

The Emergency Stage of Healing

I keep reading about The Emergency Stage of Healing. A time when all you can do is think about the abuse, the incest, the shame, guilt, and pain of it all. It's a time of suffocating darkness that tests your will to live.

I keep thinking, Huh, that's not me. I'm fine.

This morning I was thinking about danger. About how my definition of danger is drastically different from other peoples definition. For example, I was the passenger in a rollover accident where the CHP was shocked I got out of the car without the jaws of life. Sure I had some injuries. I thought I was totally honest with my mother when I called and told her I was in a minor accident. When she discovered the severity, she asked me, "If that's a minor accident, what's a major accident?" I answered, "A major accident is when someone dies."

I kicked an armed bank robber out of the bank I was working in because I was furious he'd even attempted to rob me. I beat up a guy who threaten my kids in order to steal my wallet, both were armed. A friends husband who was a police officers was shocked at my behavior. He said, "Don't you know you could have been killed?" Nope. It never crossed my mind.

All of these situations are serious, and potentially deadly, but since nobody died I wrote them off as minor incidents.

Knowing I write of major danger as minor incidents, I realized I am in the emergency stage of healing. If I weren't, I wouldn't be terrified all the time. I wouldn't be anxious, or see every male as a walking child molester. I wouldn't be dreaming about it and I'd handle memories and flashbacks better. I guess if I weren't in the emergency stage, I wouldn't have PTSD.

The abuse was serious. It was real, even if he will not admit it. The affects the sexual abuse has had on my life and my decisions is devastating. It is serious enough that if I don't do something, it will kill me. I can't write it off any longer.

At the end of the chapter it gives a list of things to do and remember when in a moment of crisis. One is Remind yourself that you're brave. This is a tough one for me because I don't feel brave, but I guess since I'm a survivor I am brave. Surviving abuse and committing to heal from it takes bravery, courage, compassion, and self love. Some days I have more than others, but I'm going to try and remind myself on the weak days that I am someone to be proud of.

Safe Places And Survivors

The book The Courage To Heal keeps emphasizing how important it is to find a safe place. A place where you feel physically and mentally safe. A place that is comforting and loving. I am lucky enough to have a secret room in my house hidden behind a book shelf. It is the kind of thing every kid (and grown up) wants in their house. I have chosen it as my safe place. It is not somewhere my Beloved's would immediately come to look for me. The walls are covered in my Beloveds art work, reminding me what's important. I cuddle up in a mohair blanket that belonged to my grandmother which reminds me of her loving ways. All and all it's a pretty safe place to do my work.

Last week when I was writing about how I've always had imaginary friends to help me through the tough times, I remembered I used to play in my closet... a lot. I put a small table and chair in the back, my clothes up front and would hide there. It was my secret, safe place in a world of chaos.

Yesterday I went through my closet (which is a pretty decent sized walk in closet) and got rid of a bunch of clothes that no longer fit. Of course the bedroom started out clean, became a complete disaster, then ended up organized and tightie. It was only this morning that I realized I've been getting my jammies on in my closet at night. That I feel safe in my closet. That I wish I could bring a bean bag chair in there and read a book. I love my closet. My love for my closet has nothing to do with my clothes, they're just things. It has everything to do with it being a safe, secure place. It is truly the one place I feel like nothing bad can reach me.

This makes me wonder about other survivors safe places as children, and if they are still safe places as grown ups? See, I'm kind of ashamed to tell my Beloved's that Mommies hiding out in the closet because she's safe there. It seems to send the wrong kind of message, doesn't it?

Coping

Courage To Heal chapter was all about coping this week. This comes on an interesting day as I have been dissociative since I woke up this morning. My body has quite literally felt numb, and detached. My brain has been unable to focus. I've found myself speaking with body language instead of verbally when asked a question. I'm hiding.

Why am I hiding? Not really sure. I know I dreamt last night, but don't remember anything disturbing about the dream. I only remember flashes, like I was getting dressed up in Victorian garb for some high class get together, but never made it for one reason or another. Why should I hide from this? I don't recall being scared or chased. I don't know why I'm so messed up today. Maybe it wasn't this dream at all, but something else I can't remember that's making me dissasociate. Who knows.

Anyway, the book gives examples of coping methods, of which I use several. I have minimized my experience and the affect it's had on me. I have rationalized the actions of my parents and those who were supposed to protect me. My brain has blocked most of the memories from me, to protect me. I put forth a strong facade so no one will know how crazy I really am. As discussed earlier I disassociate, which the book says is good when you're going through the trauma but bad as an adult because it becomes a habit. Guilty as charged here.

I avoid sex at times even though I crave closeness. Naked physically means vulnerability. I hate feeling vulnerable. Hypervigilance makes me feel crazy on a daily basis. The book also says "Humans tend to gravitate to what they know, which is why survivors are always in the mists of chaos. Not only are they familiar with it, they handle it beautifully." I have been told by more than one person, in a crisis they want me by their side because I always seem to know what to do. I always thought it was a compliment, but now I'm not so sure, because if I'm attracted to chaos and can't live without it, then what kind of normalcy am I bring to my children's lives? I don't want them to bear my struggles.

Escape by any means hits home pretty hard. I can remember being friendless most of my childhood but I was never lonely. I had imaginary friends which were characters from a movie or a book. I was always the strong woman who protected the weak. I kicked everyone's butt and no body messed with me. Funny, even today as a 35 year old woman, I still have these fantasies. When driving to and from work lately, I've been that woman who everyone underestimates, but kicks butt and helps the weak. A tough woman that no man can beat physically or mentally. Strong in every way.

Excessive business is another coping skill. I recently had someone tell me when I was still looking for work that I need a job to force me to slow down. I was involved in everything. I was taking Super Mom to new hights. Funny, I didn't feel that way and now I'm feeling like a failure because I'm having to tell people no. I just can't do everything I used to, and I feel like I'm letting my kids, and friends down because of it.

The end of the chapter proclaims, "The starting point for everyone, however, is to look at the ways you coped and to forgive yourself." Uh oh... there's the "F" word. Forgiving myself.... this is a concept I'm just not capable of at this point. I'm sure I'll get there, but I'm not there yet. I guess it's because I take on responsibility that isn't mine, or that I blame myself for everything. Forgiving myself is the hardest possible thing for me to do. I just expect so much from myself, and I feel like I've let myself down and those who love me. Stupid "F" word.

The coping skills I used as a child got me here. They are why I can don the name survivor. These same skills are affecting my relationships, and not for the better. Surviving is not easy. If surviving were easy there'd be no suicide.

I guess knowing my coping skills are ruling my life is the first step to modifying my behavior towards a more productive and healthy set of skills.... or at least that's the story I'm sticking today.

Suicide

I found out today a father from my Beloved's Cub Scout den shot himself in the head on Monday. The last time I saw him was in July. We were with our Beloveds at a pack camp out. He has four children, 3 boys and a daughter. Apparently he shot himself with the 5 year old and the baby in the house.

First came the denial. It couldn't have been him. He seemed so happy.

Then came sadness. His poor wife and kids. What will they do? Their hearts must be braking.

Then came the anger. How could he be so selfish? He's left his wife and children. He's going to miss out on so much! He's causing them so much pain. How could he do it?

Then came the curiousness. What was so horrible he'd rather take his life than face it? (My mind came up with several nasty ideas, but I'm not sharing them as I have no clue why he killed himself.)

Then came the guilt.

Why guilt you ask? Because I've thought about suicide by car many times. Of course my goal was to make it look like an accident, but it would still be suicide. Am I considering this now? NO. I know what the edge looks like. I understand wanting to feel relief. Wanting it all just to end so you can't hurt anymore. This knowledge, brought on the guilt. It made me wonder what people would have said about me after my death. I look at my Beloveds and think, I would have caused them so much pain. How could I have even consider suicide?

I think it's beyond sad he felt so alone, and in so much pain he thought his only choice was to kill himself. I've lived in that darkness and I don't wish it on anyone. I will sneak extra hugs from my Beloved's because I am still here. I clawed my way out of the darkness and because of that victory, I'm still able to hug and love my kids in this world.

Chapter One

I finished Chapter One in The Courage To Heal. At the end it has exercises to write about. I'm going to do my journaling here, so that I don't have to sensor my thoughts. I'm too afraid if I write it down the traditional way someone will read it. I can't bear that thought right now.

The fist chapter talked a lot about how most survivors deal with abuse, the feelings abuse stirs, and the consequences the abuse has on future relationships. In all honesty, I felt as if this entire chapter was written specifically for me. I caught myself thinking, I never told anyone that. How did they know?

The biggest lesson I learned is that I never learned how to make boundaries. I never had boundaries as a child. Obviously my mother and father were no good at making boundaries. This lack of boundary knowledge has plagued my personal relationships on several levels. I mean if you think about it, every relationship whether friendly, romantic, or working should have some kind of boundaries to be health, right?

Now on to the writing assignment. The writing assignment is:

Write about the ways you're still affected by the abuse. What are you still carrying in terms of your feelings of self-worth, your relationships, your sexuality, your work? How is your life still pained, still limited?

Write about the strengths you've developed because of the abuse. Think of what it's taken for you to survive. What are the qualities that enabled you to make it? Perseverance? Flexibility? Self-sufficiency? Write about your strengths with pride.

How am I still affected? Oh let me count the ways... I hate the dark. I have always claimed to be a night person, because I never wanted to go to sleep. Night is not a safe place. I am constantly locking the doors, and check to see if they're locked because I never feel safe. And of course there is the damage done to relationships due to the lack of boundaries as I discussed above. Mostly there is the overall feeling of never being safe.

Self worth? What a joke. I feel worthless. I feel shame, guilt, anger, and hatred for myself. How could I have let this happen? Why wasn't I strong enough to stop it? Why do I allow it still to affect me? Will I always be damaged? It is because of the damage I don't trust anyone. I have gotten involved with inappropriate people and people who are unavailable. I rarely feel connected to myself or others, and I expect everyone to leave. It's just a matter of time. I am limited because of my self isolation. I don't want to let anyone in. If I let them in, that just leaves room for hurt, betrayal, and more abandonment.

Strengths? I've been told I'm strong. My Head Shrink tells me I'm strong and courageous every time she sees me. Maybe one day I'll believe her. Fact is I feel weak. I know I must have some strength in me though, other wise I would have ended it one of the thousands of times I'd thought about it. I'm still here. So I guess that says something. I guess that's persistence? Or is it perseverance? I have become very self reliant. In fact, it is very difficult for me to rely on anyone, including my husband. I take care of everyone, Beloveds, Husband, Friends, and Family. (Of course I don't take care of myself, don't bother asking. I'm working on it of course, but it's easier to take care of others.) I'm a very passionate person and really can't stand the idea of another person feeling abandon or forgotten about.

I'm not sure I've written about my strengths with pride. I'm not really feeling pride, so that's the best I can do today. At least it's something though. At least I'm trying, right?

Books

The Head Shrink suggested I get books called The Courage To Heal, along with the companion workbook. I happened to be in a larger city this weekend with the family, so decided to go into the bookstore rather than order them online. This seemed like a good idea at the time. My Beloved's love books, so they were happy showing their dad all the stuff they liked. They weren't the problem.

The problem was me. I didn't want anyone to know what kind of books I was buying. I couldn't find the section right away, so was kinda lurking in the psychology section. It was there my husband walked up, startling me. I felt like he was invading my space. My privacy. I didn't want him to see me in that section. He must have felt my apprehension because he left me alone soon enough.

I didn't have the author's name, so I found a computer to try and look up the information... only it was an employee only computer, and the employee caught me. So there I was.... being forced to share the title of the books.

I didn't want to say the titles of the books out loud, so I showed her the note book I had the tittles written down in. She repeated them out loud. I'm pretty sure I did a full body shutter.

She quickly found them and walked me over to the right section. I grabbed them from her and held them close to my body so no one could read the titles. The third book, Healing The Incest Wound: Adult Survivors in Therapy wasn't in stock. AWESOME.

She must have felt my discomfort, because she said, "We don't have the third book in stock. Would you like me to order it?" I shook my head yes with vigor and asked if she could just have it delivered to my house.

With that done I practically ran from her to a random section. I stumbled upon a fictional story about Queen Isoele. I think it will be a nice balance from these hard core sexual abuse books. So I grabbed it too.

At check out there was a bookmark that caught my eye. It looked like it had a Dragon on it. A recent trip to a Chinese restaurant taught me I was born in the year of the Dragon, and it's currently the Year of the Dragon. I know Dragons are powerful and courageous in the Asian culture so I grabbed it. It turns out the Dragon pendant also has the word COURAGE written on it. Fitting eh? The bright red cord of fire? Anger? Emotion? Which leads to the chinese character of what I'm not sure also seems appropriate somehow. I'm guessing the character is for Courage, but I've been wrong before.

So I've read the first few chapters in the Courage To Heal Books. I'll write about that in the next entry. A word of advice.... when needing a sensitive, personal book, just order the fricken thing online! It will save on embarrassment, shame, and panic attacks.

Life Lessons

In my head shrink visit this week I asked why I am attracted to liers, abusers, and betrayers. I have a running list of men in my life who fall into this category. She told me frankly, people who believe in God, believe he repeatedly places certain people in front of you until you learn what you need too. People who don't believe in God believe it is the brain who is trying to teach you this lesson.

So I asked, "What lesson am I supposed to learn? Heartache? Don't trust men? What?"

She looked at me blank faced and said, "You need to learn to trust your instincts."

I absorbed that for a moment. Until I thought.... holy shit. She's right. When I use my hindsight I see warning signs I ignored in every case. I rationalized while ignoring my instincts. Quite simply put... I don't trust myself.

I guess this means the purpose of my life right now, is to learn to trust myself and my intuition. I guess all my failures aren't really failures, as each time I have learned a little more, only I'm hoping my prior epic failure was the last failure.... cause failing sux.

Dream

I just woke up from a crazy dream. I was in a Nevada High Roller Suite and the Rock (Dawne Johnston) was chasing me. Some how I even tried to get away with a jet pack, put in ran out of fuel before I could get out of his reach. The really weird things was that I felt like I'd dreamed it all before, even the Hotel furnishings, except for the 2nd balconey. Who feels Deja Vous over a crazy dream like this?

This silly dream is the normal for me. Not that I dream of the Rock often (cause that wouldn't be so bad) it's that I'm always running from someone and I can't get away from. Their grasp is always long, and my luck is bad.

When I woke up I had the song, "I Hate Myself For Loving You" stuck in my head.

Here I go for round two.... of running.....

Anxious

So this week I've been really anxious. I'm jumpy, irritable, and can't seem to focus. I attempted to put a gallon of milk in a filing cabinet at work.... and I wasn't even in the M section! Needless to say, I've been making a TON of stupid mistakes and everything is taking 20 times longer than it should to finish.

Wednesday it was so bad I jammed my earphones in, played some relaxing yoga music and tried that new exercise the head shrink told me to try. I realized I was as tight as a bow string. I woke that morning with a vicious headache due to jaw clenching in my sleep. I was still clenching my jaw as I tried to breathe. My shoulder blades could have cracked walnuts, and I was patting my shoulders so fast you'd have thought there might be a prize for the most pats in a minute. I tried my best to relax.

My mind wondered to my eldest Beloved, who seems to be having an especially hard time. He's started pulling his hair out because he likes the pain of it. He currently has a bald spot the size of a half dollar. Since I can understand finding joy in physical pain, the release it can bring, and sometimes just the comforting thought you can still feel an emotion, I'm not exactly sure what to do with him. I've told him to try and run until he feels like his lungs will explode instead, or draw, or something of that nature. I don't want to embarrass him, but he's 8... and has a self inflicted bald spot.... niiiiiice.

I have joined a Tough Mudder team this year. Tough Mudder is an 11ish mile military style obstacle corse. Some of the joy includes running on coals, electric wires, and scaling 15 foot walls. I've been waking at 5 am to exercise every morning, this is going to require some endurance as well as balls the size of hot air balloons. Working out not only helps release bad feelings, but it also lets me hurt, so perhaps my Beloved gets it from me? Only I'm not bald.

I have another meeting with the PTSD counselor on Tuesday I think. I wonder what she will think of all of this. I hope she can help with the anxiety. The angst as I wait for another tragic event to occur.... or wait to remember something horrible from my past.

Uhhhhgggg.........

Here's hoping to a good family filled weekend. I'm praying for smiles and laughter.

Miracle Needed

Shorty later my 19th birthday, my mother died of cancer. I was her care giver. It was one of the hardest times in my life. I've missed her a lot, and she's missed a lot of my life. She wasn't at my wedding, the birth of my children, or to see the woman I've become.

Recently, I learned of a family friend who is in need of multiple miricles. First, her young son has been battling brain cancer for the second time in his short life. He has been given a 20% survival rate.

Secondly, his mother, my friend was diagnosed with stage 4 inoperable brain cancer at Thanksgiving. She has been accepted into a clinical trial. She is 40 years old with 4 children and a husband who loves her.

My own mother died at 51, so that's always been my goal. To live past 51. Here is a wonderful, strong woman and mother who I care about who is dying at 40. It just seems wrong in every sense of the word.

Having lost a mother, this situation hurt me. When my youngest Beloved was 6 months old, he had to have emergency surgery for a tumor in his neck they thought was cancer. For 11 days we had no idea was the future would bring. Being a mother, I can feel the pain of having a sick child, but the thought of missing out on their lives due to an untimely death just hurts and pisses me off.

Why is it the bad guys, child molesters, rapist, abusers seem to live long heathy lives and the good die young? How is that fair?

I pray daily for miracles because I am totally helpless here. A feeling I really hate because this brings back so many feelings and emotions from my own mother's death.

Sometimes life just sucks, then you die early.

Life In February

Live has been interesting. I recently accepted a 40 hour a week position in local government. It has been a tough transition for me, as I no longer have the freedom to do things on my own time. I also don't get to spend as much time with my Beloveds, but they seem to be okay with that. The good part about the job is that it has given me a sense of freedom and a new identity. The sense of freedom is important because I felt finically cornered. I couldn't take care of myself, therefore had to stay in my situation if for no other reason. The new identity is important, because they don't know I'm damaged.

I have also started therapy with a PTSD therapst. Since I live in the middle of no where, the appointments are telemedicine. (Think Skype with a doctor.) This new therapist is teaching me Eye Movement Desensitization And Reprocessing (EMDR) to help with my symptoms. She is the first therapist to try and teach me new techniques on how do deal with my symptoms instead of just talking about them. Well see how it goes.

I am also getting up at 5 am to practice yoga 5 days a week. This is quite shocking since I'm not a morning person. I have noticed drastic benefits concerning energy, focus, and my ability to accept whatever comes flying at my head with a bit of grace.

Hopefully things will continue to get better. My coping skill will improve, and I'll be able to deal and move on with my life. Or at least that's the dream.

Tears

"Perhaps our eyes need to be washed by our tears once in a while, so that we can see Life with a clearer view again." ~ Alex Tan

I have cried buckets of tears over the last 13 months. I have cried until I thought my eyes were dry, only to find out I was capable of crying more. There are a multitude of cliche's out there people say when they find a friend in a dark place with tears in their eyes. I'm sure you've heard them. It's always darkest before the dawn. Or Every cloud has a silver lining. And my personal favorite, When you're going through Hell, keep going. Don't stop, no matter what!

I've had the quote by Alex Tan on my computer for months. When I look at it, I see hope. Hope that my tears will wash away the pain over time, making my Life view become clearer.

The last 10 days of life have been interesting. For starters, I got a job. I'll be working for the County in a new division. The division is in the process of being built, and there are no set guidelines for my position, just expectations. This is exciting and terrifying all at the same time. There is a lot of room for failure. Have I gotten myself in over my head? Of course, if I don't challenge myself, have high expectations then how will I ever feel proud of myself? I mean you can't have the pride of trekking a mountain top if you never get off the couch, right?

This is the first 40 a week position I've had since having my Beloved's. I have been there to take them to school, pick them up, and do homework with them EVERY day of their lives. They have been able to do after school sports and activities because I could always take them. Now what? I know there are plenty of households where both parents work, it's just yet another adjustment for us.

I've been doing well with my PTSD. All of my symptoms have been kicked down several notches. I've been meditating and doing yoga. Both seem to help me stay calm. To be present in my body. To listen to my body. Listening to your body might sound ridiculous, but I've realized even though I'm less anxious, sleeping, and more present (all positive things) that my physical body is not in a matching good place. I have headaches that build up throughout the day. My shoulders and neck are so tense I have limited mobility and pain. I've probably been in this physical condition for well over a year, it's just now that I'm listening to my body. The yoga is helping relieve stress. It's helping me get it out, rather than keeping it bottled up physically. See the body remembers, so even when you think you're through it, a physical check needs to be done to make sure you're not ignoring important parts.

The part that's been hardest over the last 10 days is having my oldest Beloved, whose is 8 years old be diagnosed with Clinical Depression. See, he's been absorbing everything the last year... child molesting grandfathers, separated parents, mom with PTSD, and school. He's internalized everything. Now he's a shell of the kid I love and laugh with.

This weekend I got a couple of smiles from him. I hope there are more in the future. I hope I can find some way to help him take all the internal darkness, bringing it to light, and letting go of it.

We will see, hopefully we will see clearer.

Art As PTSD Therapy

I've done art through out the years, so when I read about another PTSD survivor using art to help find release I decided to pick up an old drawing book. Am I an amazing artist? Nope. I do find what I draw an interesting look into who I am at that moment.

Above is my first drawing. When I got done I thought, I did a self portrait, then a little voice in my head said, it's a mask. You wear a strange mask.

The day I woke up with an elephant on my chest and the strong man from the circus choking me out due to a dream I can't remember I drew this....

I think it's a pretty good representation of the fractured chaos of my life. There are some bright spots, some dark spots, and some spots that commingle. Notice my environment is just as messed up? There are a few spots on my face I left white. Are those empty places? Or the illuminated places? Honestly, I really don't know. The fake smile shows I'm still trying to wear my mask, but am I being successful? I didn't draw hair on purpose, because I use hair to hide behind and in this picture I wanted to be exposed. I wanted all the nasty dark spots brought to light.

My husband has nonchalantly looked at my art, but has said nothing. In all fairness I haven't asked for anyones opinion on my art, after all it's much like this blog, a selfish part of me that is for me and not for anyone else. Still it makes me wonder if anyone else sees something I don't.

Movement

I titled this post Movement because I feel like I am moving, albeit slowly. When I first posted on this blog I said I felt like I was drowning in Jello. Now I feel more like I'm stuck out at sea. There is the consistent gentle movement of the tide, but I'm never sure what direction I'm heading in, and sometimes I'm moving backwards.

At least I'm moving though.... right?

The head shrink got me on some meds that seem to be working. Even she had a difficult time when she realized I'm allergic to anti-depressants, hence happiness. I can say I'm less anxious. Do shadows still make me jump? Hell yes. I just don't jump as often as I once did. I felt I moved forward a little when I put out my American flag this past weekend. The shadow of it didn't make me jump all day long.

The meds are also helping me sleep. I've had some crazy dreams but the most disturbing dreams are the ones I can't remember. I know it's an oxymoron and totally true. This last Saturday morning I woke up in the throws of an anxiety attack. An elephant sat on my chest while a circus strong man choked me out. The weight of them, and the pressure wouldn't leave. I tried to lose myself in a book... failing brilliantly. Taking a page from another PTSD survivor I tried to do some artwork. I've done a few pages of art over the last couple weeks and it seems to help calm me down. Perchance it's because I'm refocusing the brain? Anyway, I came up with a self portrait (I'll show it in the next post.) The portrait shows a fractured and chaotic me. While drawing my husband made me a sandwich, the choking feeling was so strong I had to take an anti-anxeity med to eat. I HATE TAKING MEDS. I did feel relief until it wore off, and then I just went to bed early.

I felt week and helpless all day. Taking meds makes me feel weaker still. My mind betrayed me. Whatever I dreamt that night haunted me all day. How am I supposed to deal with something I don't even remember? It's all so very frustrating.

Here's to the roll of the tide in all of it's beauty and frustration.

Happiness Is....

I stole the title from another bloggers post. Her post made me want to post this when I ran across it this morning....

Proverbs

Happy is the man that findeth wisdom, and the man that getteth understanding. For the merchandise of it is better than the merchandise of silver, and the gain thereof than fine gold. She is more precious than rubies: and all the things thou canst desire are not to be compare unto her.

I find it interesting that Wisdom is the root of Happiness, and amusing that Wisdom is portrayed as a Woman, more valuable than any material object.

The Jedi You Verses The Dark Side You

For some unknown impulsive reason I grabbed the Yoga Journal at Costco and plopped it into my cart. I had already spent waaaaay to much money, but my instincts told me to do it. They told me strongly.

I've been reading a few articles here and there. The first article I read involved meditation, the benefits along with three different methods. Several resources I have read explain mediation, the act of clearing ones mind helps the person reconnect with their self, their mind, their body. Since my internal self preservation reflexes have me disconnecting more times then naught, mediation seems like it's worth a try. I have made a pledge to attempt 10 minutes of meditation everyday for a month. Yesterday was my first day, and I'm going to give it a whack when I'm done writing here. Now that I've declared it on the internet, it is official and I must do it. I will keep you all informed of my progress.

The other article I read, and will probably re-read is called "Me And My Shadow." This article by Sally Kempton discusses how one needs to know their "Shadow Side" and learn how to transform its negative energy in order to truly be in balance. Because of my Beloveds love for all things Star Wars my understanding of this article takes a Star Wars twist. The Shadow is the Dark Side, the Jedi Force keeps the Dark Side in balance.

One of the reasons I really like this article is because it blatantly admits that there can be no Jedi Force without the Dark Side. Sometimes the Dark Side will be stronger and it's going to take good old fashion hard work and self reflection to transform the negative energy into positive energy until once day attaining the ability to integrate the Jedi Force with the Dark Side and achieving true balance. This theory doesn't have a constant internal struggle between good and evil within yourself, but a sense of acceptance, self awareness and transformation of energy.

The article also throws out some Yoda wisdom concerning using your Dark Side for good. Kempton explains that when a Dark Side trait is suppressed you loose the opportunity to work with it and find the positive aspects of the traits. Sadness can bloom into deep empathy. Fearfulness can be altered into a healthy vulnerability. Impulsiveness can change into genuine spontaneity. Dark Side energy can be used for creative and spiritual growth.

Since it is my goal to attain a level of peace this year, this article really has me looking at my Dark Side and my Jedi Force in new light. For me peace has an inherent strength in it, a strength I want to possess. I believe Yoda would approve of my choice of a New Years goal of peace, if only he'd share some of his wisdom with me! Or maybe he has? Perhaps it was the Jedi Force that insisted I buy the magazine in the first place? The universe is a strange place, so I will keep an open mind and strive for inner peace.

Justice Feels Numb

So the father- in- law was sentenced last Monday. He gave the text book "I'm sorry." Big shocker. The oldest survivor wrote an impact statement. I've been to a lot of court in the last year, most of the time there is a lot of whispering among the lawyers and gallery. During the statement reading it was dead silent. The woman in front of me, who I did not know, sobbed during the reading.

When the judge had his turn, he shook his head in disgust. He straight up used the father-in-laws words to the parole board against him, letting him know it is never the fault of a 5 year old. That a 5 year old never "wants it" from a grown man and these comments show he's not taking responsibility for his actions and therefore can't really be sorry. The judge's words gave me some small validation as one Sunday the father-in-law's mother called me to tell me he had taken responsibility for his crimes since he admitted what he'd done. (This was before he pled guilty, so he'd confessed his crimes to detectives but plead innocent, and at the time we were less than a month from trial.) His mother then went on to tell me what an angry, hateful person I am. I've been called worse, so this part of the conversation didn't hurt very much. It was the part where she told me I was a bad mother and she feared for my children and how they would turn out that her poisoned words got a direct hit.

I have done many things, some good, some bad, but I can say without a doubt since having my Beloveds, everything I do is in their best intrests. I always choose them.

When the judge finished, he announced that the sentence would be 18 years to life. He has to serve 85% of his sentence before he's eligible for parole. If he's not paroled (the prosecutor says they never parole the first time) then he'll be resentensed until his next hearing. The process can be continued for some years. He just celebrated his 62nd birthday, being graced with a broken jaw from an inmate who was trying to raise his status as a birthday present. I'm not sure he'll live to the end of his sentence, how ever many years that will actual be. I should also point out, he only received a little less of a year in time already served credit. He was arrested in Feb. 2011.

When we left the court house I felt numb. Later, while watching my Beloveds play Legos the numbness was mixed with an immense sadness. My Beloveds, so young have experienced the painful truth that bad guys can be anyone, even someone you love and trust. They know judicial terms and procedures other kids their age have never heard. They have 1 grandma left. My mother has been dead for almost 20 years, and since my father is also a child molester they believe all grandfathers are child molesters. All of this breaks my heart. My Beloveds have had to grow up sooner than I ever would have liked. Sure all kids grow up, but my youngest Beloved experienced all of the above before he lost his first tooth. It's just too young.

I'm happy justice has been served. I'm happy the situation has come to a finality. I'm not happy about not being able to protect my Beloveds from all of it. Numb. Justice for me feels numb. Or at least it does today.

A New Head Shrink

So this afternoon I have a Telemedicine appointment with a head shrink. (I live in such a rural place Skype is used for many things, including head shrinks.) See my regular counselor cannot prescribe drugs. Since I'm allergic to Anti-depressants, to the point that my reaction is a short walk to death, my primary care physician doesn't know what to do with me. Of course I find it ironic that I'm allergic to Happiness! Ha. The general theory is that if I have some type of anti-depressant it will help with the daily anxiety. Theories are a great thing. I just don't have a lot of faith in this theory, since the answer in the past has been to drug me until I'm a drooling lump in the corner, which is unacceptable. I'm young, I'd like to actually live life not drool through it in a daze. I'll take the anxiety if that is my only choice.

The latest solution is a couple appointments with this head shrink that can prescribe drugs to see if there is a med that can help on a daily basis with my PTSD symptoms. Who knows... maybe I'll even be able to sleep? Naw....

Anyway, I'm nervous about this appointment. I HATE seeing knew doctors. In general I have so much baggage I need my own bell boy to lug it around. An hour just doesn't seem long enough to scratch the surface. I also HATE taking drugs. I don't trust them. Then again I don't trust people either. I also don't like the idea of being dependent on chemicals. This is one reason why I'll never be an alcoholic like my father.

I don't know how this is going to turn out. I hope it's a positive thing, but I'm not feeling too. positive. In fact it's taking huge amounts of self control to NOT cancel the appointment. I guess we'll see....

A New Kind Of New Years Resolution

A blog from a Marine Widow about New Years Resolutions got me thinking. Growing up my immediate family wasn't religious. Both of my parents had been raised Christians, but they didn't practice faith. I had to go to a grandparent for that. I remember listening to friends talk about New Years Resolutions like they were punishment. No chocolate. No video games. No fun. But when I read the Marine Widow's post, well, it got me thinking....

She had read on yet another blog about how instead of a New Years Resolution the writer had picked one word to strive for in the fresh year. The Marine Widow said she liked this idea better, as the word that came to her mind, Peace had been lacking in her life.

In the past year I have been a more devout Christan. I've been taking my Beloved's to church too. I think faith is important, especially when times are tough. My husband has recently decided to give it a try, as he's never been exposed to religion. He's a science guy.

The past year I have prayed more than I have in my entire life. Sometimes, I'm so overwhelmed I don't even know what to pray for. At times like this the prayer sounds something like.... Mother, Father, God.... Please help. Grant me wisdom, courage, and peace. Amen.

Sometimes I pray similar prayers for friends. Like the friends who's youngest of 4 children is battling brain cancer for the 2nd time, has been given a 20% chance at living... just to have his mother rushed in for emergency surgery at Thanksgiving to remove a brain tumor of a different kind. She has also been given a 20% chance of survival at 5 years.

When I read the Marine Widows one word, Peace I thought... what would my one word be? In all honesty I don't think I can pick just one. Peace is obvious. I could use a hardy dose of Peace. I could also use a large heap of Wisdom. I would like to be able to look at others and see them for who they really are, not who I want them to be, and accept it. When looking at the history of men in my life... this isn't going to be easy. Which is why I need Courage. I need Courage to do the right thing, even if the right thing is painful. Of course I need Courage to heal too. Healing hurts. If anyone tells you differently, they're lying.

So my words would be Peace, Wisdom, and Courage. These three words reminds me of one of my favorite prayers.

God grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change

Courage to change the things I can

And the wisdom to know the difference

I will take a New Years Resolution Word Pledge. I will strive and look for these 3 things in 2012.

Justice? Not This Week

It is officially the New Year. I rang my New Year in at the bowling alley with my husband's family and my Beloveds. It's official.... I am the worst bowler evah! Of course I took total pride in the fact, because if I'm going to fail, I'm going to do it brilliantly! I had a beer and a half and a lot of smiles. That doesn't mean the PTSD shadow wasn't there. The bowling alley was packed. Being in such a large group made me feel very claustrophobic. They had the regular lights turned off, the black lights and disco ball turned on. This made for an interesting array of shadows that made it difficult to concentrate. The other stresser was that my Beloveds were in a room playing with there cousins in the back near the food court. I found myself going back there every couple of frames. My mother in law went a few times too. Then my sister-in-law said I could see them if I looked through the snack bar window.

I tried to have "fun" and I did have some, but I was also very stressed out. Just an average day in my world though.

The Beloveds were to return to school on Tuesday, but we stayed at my mother-in-laws house another day because my father-in-law was supposed to be sentenced Tuesday morning. My husband decided he would go to the sentencing. Now remember, he hadn't seen his father since Christmas a year ago, before the truth came to light. He also avoided all conversation regarding his father with EVERYONE. (Yeah I get it's difficult, but I have a child molesting father too! If anyone understands it's ME!)

Anyway.... my mother-in-law, my husband, and myself all made it through security. (Security that actually boggles my mind. I mean the TSA gets to see naked pictures of you and molest you violating our constitutional rights in THE NAME OF SECURITY, but the court house just sends you and your stuff through a metal detector. If you set it off they ask you to pull up your pant legs then send you off. They never actually touch you. Quite frankly if I were to scheme to kill someone, it would totally be at the court house. Just say'in.)

I'm leading the way up the stairs when we leave security, (thanks to this event I have become an expert at locations in this particular court house.) As I round the corner I see my father in law sitting in a wheelchair in front of me. I suck in some air and freeze.

I hadn't prepared for this.

The rest of the party ran into me until they saw who I was staring at. My senses came back to me, I turned on my heels and promptly walked back down the stairs. Everyone followed. The town is pretty small and my mother in law knew one of the sheriffs who was working front door security. At my bidding she asked him if he knew what had happened. The deputy said that the father-in-law was in an "altercation" with a younger inmate. His jaw was broken. He was taken to Mercy for surgery to have it wired shut. He's fine.

Soon my sister-in-law and her mother came through security. We told them what happened. Of course my sister-in-law was pleased. I can't really blame her for finding some satisfaction in that. After all, I know in detail what he did to her daughter. What he did with his mouth, so the thought of it broken, well that is a bit satisfying.

Soon we were all seated in the court room. The Prosecutor's office would read the Victim Impact Statement from one of the girls. My sister-in-law had written her own statement that she planned on reading. The hope is that the judge would take their suffering to heart and deal a stiff punishment.

Soon the word came down that his lawyer was going to ask for yet ANOTHER continuance because he was too drugged up to understand the proceedings. The man was on vicodin not morphine! We were all angery. I mean the man plead guilty! He's going to jail, how does him having vicodin in his system change that? It could be argued that he has rights, well I could argue that when he stole those girls childhoods and damaged parts of them that he didn't give them drugs to help dull any of it... so he should consider himself lucky he could have had a less painful sentencing. Grrrrrr

The judge ended up giving him his continuance until next Monday. He said that if he were to request another continuance next Monday, he better have some proof of his mental incapacity for the court. This gives me little comfort. I feel as if this chapter will never end. That he gets to stir up and disrupt our lives with his constant continuances. Do you have any idea how emotionally difficult it is to know a court date is looming, constantly throwing pros and cons of why you should go? Do you know how much courage it takes to sit in the same room with his smug ass that thinks (and I'm going to quote here) "What I did wasn't really all that bad. I mean she asked for it. She wanted me." *Puke

Yeah, cause all 5 year olds "want it" from an authority figure who's job it is, is to love and protect them! And this guy can't even try the excuse that it only happened once because it happened multiple times with multiple girls over several years! And I'm not completely convinced he didn't harm my Beloveds either, but that would make him "a dirty homosexual" (his words) so he'd never admit to that.

Obviously he's sick in the head. He confessed to EVERYTHING including additional he wasn't even accused of, and he plead guilty... so why do I feel like he's winning because even after all of that he's still not in prison?

I need him to go to prison. I need to see that sometimes, justice does work. Unfortunately, I'm afraid that's not how it's going to go down. Will justice be served? Will I get to see it? Will I feel better?

Happy New Year

Happy New Year is a movie about PTSD. I have had the good fortune to meet the writer, actors, and producers of this movie. Even though my PTSD is not war related, this movie hit home on several levels. First, let me say this movie is not for everyone. For some with PTSD, and for some who live with people who have PTSD this movie could make you spiral down into darkness. For those in a decent place, or the ignorant it is an excellent movie. If you can find it near you, watch it. Hopefully Obama will take the time to watch it, maybe it will have an impact on him? But I wont hold my breath on that one. http://www.usnews.com/news/blogs/washington-whispers/2011/12/28/queued-for-obamas-return-movie-on-ptsd

The Year Of Light

I have decided that 2012 will be called the Year Of Light, opposed to 2011 which was dubbed The Year From Hell. Things with the husband are steadily improving, which means the Beloveds are behaving better as the balance of life adjusts to pleasant.

The father-in-law gets sentenced for his child molesting ways this Tuesday. I've decided I'm going to the sentencing. I've been to other court dates, but I think this one will help me see that justice occasionally happens. Sure, God is punishing my own father for his wicked ways. I mean he's been slowly suffocating to death for 12 years. He can barely wipe his own butt. That's got to be a living version of Hell. Even though he's being punished to some extent, what he did, what he's capable of, and who he's been is all still a BIG secret. For example, a very good family friend was killed in a diving accident. My family attended his funeral, and my father was there. Why would this matter? The friend that died was a prosecuting attorney who specialized in sex offenders. Humm.... Irony anyone? Of course the attorney had no idea what my father had done. So see, it's still a big secret.

However, what my father-in-law did is not a secret. It's a big nasty hurtful wound exposed to the air for everyone to see. Some of my friends think it's shameful and embarrassing to acknowledge what he's done. I am here to tell you it feels more shameful and hurtful to keep it hidden.

I'm hoping that Tuesday will give me a sliver of peace. Will I stop flinching at shadows? Will I feel safe in my home? In my sleep? Will I suddenly be comfortable in crowds? Probably not. But maybe, just maybe, it will help in some small way to know the evil men do is not always a dark secret. Sometimes light shines in the dark and justice is dished out.

At the very least I can take serenity in the fact he can never hurt another child again, and I helped.

Being the Year Of Light.