Walking with Skadi

As I read of the Goddess of Winter, Skadi, I am transported to my childhood. Sharp memories of the crisp, unforgiving winters of North Dakota. So many nights of walking the last few miles home at my father's side, leaving the truck stuck in a snow filled ditch. The still, silence of the snow insulated landscape, the only sound the crunching of our cowboy boots on the frozen,crusty snow and slush, and the occasional yip of coyotes in the distance. Boots stiff from the frigid ground, toes tingling, burning, and achy from the unrelenting cold. The dark night canopy was cloudless most nights, and dotted with bright, shining stars to help guide us home over the rough terrain.  Each hill a little closer to home, but as I got colder and more tired I lost count of the hills and my resolve to keep up with my dad's long strides waning. Just one more hill, and I will see the car-pass above our house. No, surely this is the last hill...no... And yet I kept walking, boot heels carving our path home, and eventually we would make it to the last hill. At the sight of your light pole set in the middle of the corral my hope, and my resolve would be restored.

How many nights did we make this journey on foot because dad was too drunk to be behind the wheel? Yet how many times were we saved from injury because of that same snow that chilled the air, and my limbs also slowed our skids, slides, careens, and veers off the gravel road and into the ditch? And each time we made it home safely, below freezing temperatures and no street lights to guide us home, with no more than a severe chill, and a good helping of frost nip. Was it luck, or was there someone watching out for us? Did the Spirits of the Land take pity on us, or a liking to us? Was the Great Huntress of the North  protecting me, and walking by my side? Maybe, maybe not. According to Merriam Webster, Faith is "firm belief in something for which there is no proof." I certainly have to "proof" of divine intervention, but I certainly have a body of experience that says there are many times my life could have easily have been forfeit, yet here I am nearing half a century on this planet. As physically miserable as those treks home were, and as terrified as I was of the creatures of the night that might get us, the beauty of the Winter Night was never lost on me. Perhaps that beauty is part of what helped me to carry on.

If you would like to learn more about Skadi here's a lovely, quick read: http://www.lulu.com/shop/laura-snow-fuller/lady-of-the-mountain-hall-a-skadi-devotional/paperback/product-24314740.html

More thoughts from that day I almost got shot

More on L almost shooting me. You know, I don't know why I'm protecting the dead fucker. Les. His name was Les.

So, as I've been processing this whole almost-getting-shot thing the latest Cracker-Jack prize is realizing this thing I do where not only do I feel like I have to take care of everyone else's feelings, I can have feelings for everyone else, but I'm not so good at having my own feelings. What the hell does that mean, you ask? Well, let me take you on the journey that got me to that revelation.

So when Les almost shot me, I didn't get to have a freak out. After a few seconds of shock, I had to "take care of" my mom's feelings of shock and terror that her child had almost gotten killed. I had to make sure that Les was okay...take care of his feelings he was having as a result of nearly shooting me. And every damn time I visited my mom when Les wasn't around I had to take care of her feelings while she processed over and over again, "that bullet would have gone right through your chest" as she poked the spot right about where my aorta lives. In case you're wondering she never asked how I felt, or said anything normal like, "Wow, that must have been scary for you."

As I processed this realization in therapy shot back (no pun intended) to when I was a kid, and I came home from school and my mom told me that my dad had run over my dog. And instructed me to give him a hug and tell him that I wasn't upset.

Then I jumped ahead to when my dad was in treatment and my mom and I were up for family week. One of the things we had to do during family week was to write a letter (to read during group) to our alcoholic, you know the one if you ever watched Intervention; "Your drinking had affected me in the following way...". The night before the reading my mother asked me to read mine, and told me I had to re-write the whole thing and talk about how his drinking, wait for it; affected her. (At the time she said that that is what the counselor had said for me to do; I realized very recently that that was all her.)

When the Les-incident happened I had had a lifetime of priming from my mother to not have my own feelings, and to take care of everyone else's. So here we are 28 years later...I'm just now having my own damn feelings about had I not gotten out of my chair 2 seconds earlier I would have had taken a .45 bullet through my chest at point-blank range.

So here is the person I am today: I read a sad story about a human or an animal and the rain pours out of my eyes. I look at the legit sad stories of my own life and I am detached and it takes 28-40 years to go, "Oh, I should probably have some feelings about that. And maybe if I had some feelings about that it would stop haunting me."

So, the good news is I am starting to have some feelings. I am starting to process some feelings. I am reclaiming my power one little bit at a time.

28 years ago

28 years ago November fell on a Saturday as well. I don't normally remember details like this, but that day stands out. I won't go into the details of why that date is burned into my brain; suffice it to say it was one of those pivotal in a not-good way moments. A moment that made me question my strength, my worth, my perception of the experience. It is a moment that I've gotten more clarity on over the last year.

As I remember this anniversary I wonder what it is I need. Maybe I don't "need" anything, or to do anything. Except heal. Not healing isn't an option.

But what does healing mean? What does healing look like? How do I celebrate my life, my body, my self? Self-help gurus and therapists are always telling us we have to love ourselves. I can't say that I hate myself, or hate my body anymore, but I definitely don't love either of those things either. I don't exactly like my body, but I think I can say that I like my self. That is an improvement. An improvement I feel like I can build on. Will I ever Love myself? Maybe, maybe not. But, it's the journey, right?

The day I didn't die

I may have written about this before, I don't remember because, well it's been a year or so since my last post. I've certainly discussed it in therapy before, but here we are: this shit is in a state of un-rest again.

So about 28 years ago I was visiting my mother and her...I always struggle to find something to call him that suits the situation: boyfriend? (my mom was 60 at the time so "boy" isn't quite right, and they lived together-so, no), partner? (just, no), latest alcoholic? (yeah, that fits). Okay, where were we? Oh, yeah; so I'd gone to visit my mom and her latest alcoholic (L for short). L had just gotten a brand new, engraved semi auto .45 pistol. It was cool, it was pretty, and I won't lie; I wanted it.

My mom and L sat across from one another, and I on the end of the 4-place wooden table.  L as per usual was drunk and bleary-eyed as per usual. Smoke clouded the room as they both smoked their Camel cigarettes while L played with is new "toy", cocking and un-cocking, pulling the slide back, dropping the clip. 

It was always a bit weird to be in their little weird world, pretending everything was "normal" because, well, it wasn't normal. Let's go back in time...

Mom started cleaning house for L when my parents were still together (I was 15ish); friends commented that they must be having an affair, but I wouldn't believe it. A year or so later, my mom moved out of state with me due to my dad's deteriorating mental state (hearing voices telling him to kill her as a result of his severe alcoholism). While we were traveling the country for that year she talked with L regularly, and sent him Harley Davidson swag from wherever we were...there was always money to buy him a shirt, or a leather vest, or a leather jacket, but there wasn't enough money for me to have school lunch. When we moved back to my home state L moved in...and I promptly moved out to be with my dad, and finish my last year of high school at my old high school. Long story very short, L made several innuendos about taking care of my virginity (which my mom pointed out often), and he broke several of my mom's bones. Some times L was a kind man to me; he bought me my own leather jacket (which I still own), he taught me how to ride, he took me to Sturgis with them...but I always knew I should never be alone with him, and I always expected him to kill my mother some day.

And back to our regularly scheduled program: We're at the table trying to act like a normal family, while L is preoccupied with his gun. Mom asks me to turn the fan on. The fan was just a little over arms length away, so stood up and took a step over to reach my hand to the back of the fan and BANG!, my ears were ringing, my breath frozen, and my heart hammering against my ribs. 

It took a second for me to register that his pistol had gone off. Then a second to wade through the shock enough to ask myself, "Did he just shot mom right in front of me? Or himself? Did he shot me, and i was in such shock I didn't feel it yet?" In the shocked silence

After the shock started to fade we busied ourselves with tracking the bullet's path; through the wall, and wedged above the pull-out cutting board; a path that would have taken it straight through my heart had i not stood up seconds earlier.  A path that left a worried pair of questions that still linger and one's I dared not ever speak aloud because he still had the pistol (and many more) and my mom would be alone with him when I left: Did he accidentally miss me, or did he accidentally almost shoot me?

Certainly I've looked at this little adventure, I've done some processing. I've looked at my relationship with my mother, and the lack of safety and security I've had in my life as a result of her actions and behaviors. I think there is something about scraping the burnt off the toast (scraping some of my mommy issues off the top) has allowed me to succinctly feel the trauma of narrowly missing taking a bullet in the chest, of just having a pistol go off a few feet from me at the fucking dining room table, just the trauma of  that moment without it being anything about my mom's lack of being a mom. 

For the last few weeks I've notice the ringing in my right ear, but I'm not here, I'm standing in front of that fan, heart beating out of my chest. I don't know what has triggered (no pun intended) this need to re-process, but it's here. Maybe it is just the fact that I can distance myself a little more from my mother, see the separation between us, and have my own experience that isn't about how traumatized she was, or my own resentment about her putting me and herself into those situations. For whatever reason, I'm back here again, and I'll untie the knots, and wash out the stains, and eventually come out a little lighter on the other end.

I Un-friended My Mother Today

I un-friended my mother today. Not that we've ever had the kind of relationship where I would think of her as my friend. Don't get me wrong; she is mother and I love her as best I can. I think.

I un-friended my mother today because a few days ago, I went to her page to see if she was active because I wanted to post something about my childhood that would implicate her, and I know she would be upset about. She was indeed active, and the only two things on her page were Slot-o-Matic scores, and "(D)ump is awesome" posts. My dear mother who barely survives on the little Social Security she gets each month, my dear mother who relies on Medicare for her many health issues, my dear mother who is a recipient of  Meals on Wheels, my dear mother who is also a sexual assault survivor...and loves (D)ump.

He has screwed her over, and still she loves him-that's okay, it is a free country after all, and she is free to engage in all the dysfunctional/abusive relationships she chooses to. But what about her children? I'm a woman, I'm a pagan, I'm gay, and I'm a survivor of multiple sexual assaults...there is no room for me, and people like me in (D)ump/Pence's America. I un-friended my mother because she doesn't care, for whatever reasons (today I'm not going to waste my psycho-analytic skills to figure that out, and yes I am a licensed mental health professional) that not only is she in the cross-hairs, but so am I...her daughter whom she regularly refers to as her "darling baby."

But, it doesn't really surprise me. This is old behavior. This is the same woman who time after time, stayed with alcoholic men who physically, emotionally, and sexually abused her children while she turned a blind eye until SHE couldn't take the abuse any longer.  And today I am done. This woman is not my friend. Yes, she loves me in her own dysfunctional way, but she doesn't have my best interest at heart. She can't see my struggles, (justified) fears, and pain for her own fears, and pain (her name does mean "pain" after all).

I've made a commitment to myself to no longer tolerate intolerable behavior-she will deny her intolerance and her racism, but it is undeniable. She sees herself as a victim, she continues to blame everything wrong on her life on someone else, rather than reclaiming her power by making better choices, and by taking charge of her negative thinking and attitudes. When (D)ump gets on his pulpit and incites his followers into a self-centered blame-fest so they can play victim, and lament their lack of having their own gold plated toilet to crap in because of the immigrants, the poor, the blacks, the Muslims, etc; she like them laps it up. They stew in their pretend victimhood, rotting in the fetid juices of hate, and fear while the rest of us, the survivors, fight to make a better world for ourselves... and for them.

Today, I un-friended my mother because I need to surround myself with people who care about EVERYONE. Today I un-friended my mother because her blind submission to yet another abusive, narcissistic man makes me physically ill. Today I un-friended my mother because we are not friends.

Embracing Terror

I've been working with a new therapist for a few months now, and I've noticed she's brought up the word "terror" fairly frequently in regards to a particular issue we've been focusing on. Each time I say, "no, not terror..." and wrinkle my brow that she's brought it up again. Last week, she had asked me what emotion I experienced in a particular moment and I couldn't name it..and you guessed it! She suggested "terror" again. I didn't know what the hell it was, but no it wasn't terror. For some reason though, I really started to think about terror...

I scanned my life looking for times I felt "terrified" and couldn't come up with anything. Sure, I could identify plenty of anxiety and fear, but no terror...at least I don't think so... I know the difference between anger and rage...I know the difference VERY acutely. But what is the difference between fear and terror. I thought about what movies tell me...terror involves screaming, sobbing, shaking according to all of the horror movies. But what if that is only one side of terror?

So, with a slightly different perspective I started scanning through my memories again, without judgement, just looking for events that perhaps others might find terrifying. It took a couple days, but I found it...

I'm 6, I've just gotten off the school bus...Walking up to the door…the screen door is closed but the door is open. My “Spidey-sense” is tingling when I approach the door. I hear sobbing/moaning/mumbling…and wait. I catch of brief glimpse of my sister as she walks on her knees from the hall into the living room…sobbing and rambling unintelligibly. I freeze briefly…I KNOW it is imperative that I don’t be seen…I KNOW there is “danger” here, and I need to get away. I’m momentarily paralyzed by this...dare I say? terror? If I move, she’ll see me, and surely that will mean disaster. My mind races…what do I do? A breath, and I decide to sneak downstairs and hide until someone gets home. I stand quietly for a second…I can hear her jangling around in the silverware drawer, still moaning and crying. I make a break for it, and run downstairs trying not to make a sound. And I wait in the half dark until my brother returns from chores and finds me hiding.

I don’t know exactly what I was afraid of in that moment that I stepped up to the door... I didn’t have visions of her killing me, or skinning me alive. But the relief in my brother’s voice when he found me downstairs let me know that I wasn’t off track in my …terror, as did the conversation when my parents called later that night and he told them K had gotten fucked up on diet pills and he had hid the knives because he was afraid she would have tried to killed me.

Yes, that was terror. And yes, those moments that my therapist suggested might have been sprinkled with terror were indeed terror. Frozen terror. 

Oddly, I'm feeling a bit like a kid with a new toy having uncovered a new emotion. But, then it is kinda cool to have reclaimed another piece of myself, even if it is a little thing like being able to name terror. And to speak it, is to have power over it, so it's all good. I'll embrace my terror...it is an old friend after all. And an old friend who helped keep me safe...

The trigger

There have been many, especially this last year, but the one that has it's roots in deep at the moment, and is strangling me happens to be about he-who-must-not me named, and a certain audio tape that was released in which he brags about his sexual assault of women (And if you are in any way confused about what sexual assault is, here is the definition: Sexual assault is a sexual act in which a person is coerced or physically forced to engage against their will, or non-consensual sexual touching of a person. Sexual assault is a form of sexual violence, and it includes rape, groping, child sexual abuse, or the torture of the person in a sexual manner.)

I am not alone in having had this disturb my calm; this has shaken people across the globe...and yet, somehow, he got a pass. And for me, that pass is the most disturbing.

So, how does this happen? Perps dismiss and blame the victims, and some how, even women, even women who have victims, will roll over and say, "Oh yeah, SHE must be lying..HE wouldn't REALLY do something like that." Why is it so easy for people to believe that victims are making this shit up, and perps are really innocent (victims) of "false" accusations? Is it that so many people have committed sexual assault that the behavior really has become "normalized." Or is it just that the perps scream so loud, and so many times that they are right, and everyone else is wrong that we start to believe them in spite of evidence to the contrary? Is it that we so de-value women that even we women think that this behaviour is what we deserve some how? So far, the evidence points to all of the above.

Let me tell you my story. In grade school I was sexually assaulted repeatedly by a teenager. There was a female adult around who, although she didn't participate knew what was happening, and when I tried to escape would try to goad me into submitting. Said adult also was involved in gossiping around my small community about what was happening. From what I learned years later, many people were aware of some version of what was happening, but the general version of the story was that I, at 7, was trying to seduce him, a post-pubescent young man, and that he only did what he did to get me off his back. He didn't even ask for it, and he got a pass.

So here we are, 2017, my country, my community has decided that a self admitted sexual predator is innocent, so innocent in fact that he was handed the most powerful position in the world...and still when woman after woman comes forward and says, "this man has injured me", the general consensus is that the woman is wrong/lying/the predator, and the real predator is the victim. My community has sided with the perp...again.

What is it that we have to do to believed, to be protected, to be supported? Do we really have to be the ones to scream the loudest? Well, if that's the case, consider this my scream: I was innocent, I was injured, I in no way asked for what happened to me, it wasn't okay, and Mother Fucking Hell: SEXUAL ASSAULT IS 100% NOT ACCEPTABLE!!!