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!!!

May we all have the courage to be so much More

Bear with me while I try to get my ambiguous thoughts into cohesive words/ideas. So, this morning...no let me go back a little further.

So...I've been in therapy for years...over half my life pretty much...trying to "overcome." Trying to become normal...in spite of...many things. For a few years I felt like I had accomplished that. I didn't feel like I was constantly fighting to be more than my traumatic past. I was engaged in life, engaged in the present...in my heart I felt the lesson I had been presented (that I didn't have to settle...that I could have good things in my life, and my life didn't have to be about me not having needs). I just was...me.

Things happened...I found myself in old external patterns, and I reverted to old patterns of coping. The coping patterns that are relevant to this conversation, are those of assuming in dysfunctional situations that I must be the wrong one since it kept happening in my world, and feeling like I needed to be the one to fix (the un-fixable) the dysfunction.

Jumping back on this train spiraled down to the point of me completely losing my equilibrium, and getting swallowed up by that old trauma crap again. So, I got back into therapy...and I've been through several therapists...and because I'm busy repeating patterns, I stayed with therapists who weren't helping because it must be me who wasn't making it work. Recently though, I've started with a new therapist, one who Sees. Who Sees me.

In addition to being seen, I've been doing a lot of shamanic and meditation work. The seed was planted a while back that I wanted to be released from my past/my traumas. But, what does that mean to be released? It is a piece of me, right? It is what has shaped me, right? To say I want to be released is to say that I want to let go of a piece of myself...right? Or does it? If I think of it as a growth...yes something that is part of me, but something I DON'T want to be a part of me, then hell yeah, cut that shit off!

So...back to today...as I meditated on healing, being whole; I saw in a shadow corner an attachment: If I identify as the victim, or even the survivor as trauma I can easily use it (and do use it) as an excuse...for laziness, for not being "good enough", for being negative, for falling into old patterns, for mistakes, for not trying, for being stuck.

I'm kinda done with that. I want to live my life as just a person...not a trauma survivor...because for me, if I use that language, I'm kinda giving credit for the awesome shit that I have done to my victimizers. Screw that. They didn't make me. I made me. I don't need to put all of my energy into that crap anymore. I don't need to be the wounded healer, or the wounded warrior...I can just be the healer/warrior. I dig that.

It starts with focusing on the good things in my life today. With being grateful. Instead of trying not to think about the crap in my past, I instead exert my will on doing, saying, and thinking about the good in me, the good in my life, and the good I can do. And I remind myself that I am so much more than that shit. We all are.

May we all have the courage to step out of the shadows of fear, and hate. May we all have the courage to honor our True selves...and honor the True selves of others. May we all have the courage to be so much more than our past.

There is no "other", there is only "us"

I don't know why this story has been on my mind so much lately, but it has, so it needs to get out of my head.

So there was this guy (we'll call him "Wes") that my mom met while I was in high school, and eventually married (after, of course, he threatened to kill all of her children...but that is another story for another day) while I was college. She in Wes lived in a small town near the college town that I lived in. I didn't really care to be around drunken Wes who regularly beat my mother, but she never left his sight really, for fear of getting in trouble, so I had to go out to visit them if I wanted to see my mother.

One day when I was out for a visit, we were all sitting around the kitchen table, and glassy-eyed-drunk/drugged-up Wes was playing with his newest pistol. The farm house they rented was hot, and stuffy so my mother asked me to turn the fan on. As soon as I hat cleared my chair, "BOOM!" We all started in shock, registering what had just happened as our ears rang. My first, instantaneous thought was that he has shot my mother, and I would turn around to find her dead, a day that I had worried about almost every day since she had moved in with him.

Before I could wonder if I would be next, I turned around to survey the situation, and saw with my dilated eyes locked in tunnel vision that she, although stunned, was bullet-less.  We both looked at the smoking gun in the slack jawed Wes's hand, then visually tracked the path of the gun barrel to the hole in the wall...right behind my chair.

It turns out that had I not gotten up the instance I did, that bullet would have gone through the left side of my chest, either hitting me in the heart or the aorta. Either way it would have been a kill shot.The funny thing is; I really don't know if it was purely an accident, or if he intentionally pulled the trigger either to a) miss, but send a message to my mother about his power over her and me, or b) to simply shoot me because he was a psychotic, insecure, addict, toxic human being. Based on his behavior over the years, it every easily could have been any of the above reasons.

I share this story because it it very easy to think of violence as happening to "other" people. When I say "other", I don't just mean other than us as individuals, but as a whole "other" set of people. Like it only happens to "those" people who live in inner cities, or drug addicts, or uneducated-toothless-white trash living in the trailer park. And that sense of "other-ness" makes it easier to ignore violence against others. Whether it's domestic violence, a hate crime, sexual assault, etc it can happen to any of us. You, me, your child/mother/sibling. And when we ignore violence (whether verbal or physical), dismiss it, minimize it, or deny it we make it easier for the violence to continue. Do not tolerate intolerable behavior or actions, my friends. It is time for us all to speak up, and to act up; whether it is us, or our best friend, our neighbor who needs support...whoever needs our voice, whoever needs us to stand beside them in solidarity, let us be there. Let us be the change we wish to see in the world.

PTSD 2.0

I've had a LOT of therapy for my PTSD. A LOT, including EMDR. Prior to EMDR, I suffered pretty heavily from intrusive memories and flashbacks, gawd awful startle reflex...like constant...like hard to function day to day.  EMDR really dampened the symptoms down, as long as I hadn't gone too long without adequate sleep, and wasn't hyper-stressed out, or currently triggered as shit.

I did have a couple years where I really felt like I had a handle on this shit...like it was just one little piece of who I am, as opposed to The Thing that overshadows all aspects of my life.  I had some glorious moments of "wow, this must be what it's like for 'normal' people." Eventually little chinks in my armor that didn't' seem like much until they all piled up, pulled me back into those old loops. Some experiences I can identify that got me off course include a couple experiences when I was doing sex offender treatment, toxic work environments that were not safe, reliving childhood dynamics of not being heard/validated/protected by those with power. Then the subsequent feeling like a failure, like I can't do anything right, the decreased ability to deal with stressors... And then the whole Broch Turner thing knocked me flat on my ass, and I haven't been able to really get my legs under me. Add to that the insanity of our country electing a man who has been accused of sexual assault by numerous women, and who has openly admitted to being a sexual predator. 

When I slow down ...especially when I lie down to go to sleep, as silence sets in, "it" is un-ignorable. It's like when you can hear your neighbors...they're just loud enough that you know who is speaking, and just loud enough that you can't ignore them, but not loud enough that you can make out what they are saying. I know what is there, and these days, instead of coming as the video recording of events, it's the emotional/visceral piece...the claws sunk into my chest that are the anticipation of the inevitable/unavoidable that I hope if I just pretend it's not there hard enough, that it won't be...even though deep down I know it will be the same...that I am not safe, I am alone, no one is going to make it better, and all of my efforts were useless. 

There is a darkness...a heaviness that surrounds me and fills me. It is hopelessness, and helplessness...knowing that I am powerless. It is the constant vigilance; wondering when the next attack will come...and knowing that it will come, because it always does.

It is being caught by the loop of the trauma, the hopelessness, the sense of endless torture.

I wish I could say that today I AM safe...but I can't. As a gay woman, I am a target...it's been a few years since I've been accosted, but the politics of the last several months has put those of us who don't fall into the standard Straight/white/male/christian category back in the cross hairs. 

So, I don't sleep at night, I eat like an elephant all day, and I can't seem to slow my brain down long enough to focus on studying for my boards because that might allow "it" to creep in. I busy myself with trying to make this world a better place so I can feel safer in it, less powerless...but I'm still struggling.