Bad therapy: Kathy W pt 1

With my latest therapist I have on a couple occasions started to delve into the re-traumatization (abuse?) by my first therapist. There are a lot of layers to it, and I think I've denied how deeply it has affected me, but here we are again, and now I'm giving it a little more sustained attention. I don't recall if I've written about Kathy W before, but here we go. 

I started seeing Kathy in 1993. I had known I needed therapy for a long time, but I was terrified of it because I was so terrified of the vulnerability of telling someone about my experiences, and specifically since I was a small child was very insecure about talking, and well, therapy does involve a lot of talking generally. By this time though, I was becoming so self destructive I was ready to try it.

Unfortunately, going in to it I thought a therapist would help me find a way to find my voice, would help me to feel safe, would perhaps give me a little validation. Unfortunately, I was assigned to a therapist who used confrontation as her main style. A therapist who, when my voice was smothered by my own shame and terror smugly told me to get out of her office because she had work to do, and I needed to come back when I was ready to talk. Unfortunately, when I tried to initiate the conversation about the original thing that I had identified as the issue I needed to work on by saying "I had a flashback about" the thing, her response with no further information than that statement was to tell me that she didn't think that I knew what a flashback was, and then she made me define a flashback. No further conversation about the flashback, or the material related to it. No questions, no "how did that make you feel", nothing. 

And as I was thinking about this earlier, I realized that it was 10 years and multiple therapists into my therapy journey before I finally found a therapist who patiently sat with me in the mire and muck of MY presenting issue. Ten years before I found a therapist who helped me to find a way to tell my story. Ten years before someone said, "that's fucked up, I'm so sorry you experienced that." Ten years of wasted time, ten years of therapists in new and interesting ways letting me know that it wasn't safe to share my story. And it all started with Kathy.

I didn't stop it

 Years upon years of therapy I've struggled to throw off the yoke of trauma, and shame. 

It is not a new thing that I believe that everything is my fault. During various events I knew in the moment it was my fault for not stopping whatever it was.

But yesterday I started talking about it specifically in context to shit that happened with adult men when I was a teenager...how anything that happened was my fault because I didn't stop it. About how I tried to figure out the dance of compliance: comply just enough to satisfy them and keep them from becoming angry and doing something way worse, and figuring out what my line is...how much can I tolerate, how much do I allow...how much is too much and then they think they can cross my line? And how terror kept me from just saying "no". How I didn't get to be traumatized because whatever did happen, I "allowed". And...how I'm not able to deny the trauma that pumps through my veins, and oozes out my pours anymore. 

And I also realized during that revelation that it isn't just in the context of perverts; it's also all of the shit with my mom (her nervous breakdowns, her half assed suicide attempts), and really anything that goes wrong. I'm now editing a few weeks later, and this last week at work I had a migraine and could do nothing but hide my head under a pillow and wait for death or my sumatriptan to kick in, and while I was down and other people were in charge of my little lady she fell. And my first thought was, "it's all my fault...if I just would have been there this wouldn't have happened. I didn't stop it. It's my fault." Fortunately I recognized it as an old pattern, and yet, the hook is still there. 

Spiritual Journey

(TW)

This will be a long yarn, and one that won't necessarily make sense in a linear way. I'll tell a long story because all of the parts are important...chocolate chip cookies aren't chocolate chip cookies if you forget the chocolate chips.  I tell this story not because my experience(s) is so unique, but because I'm sure there are lots of folks who can relate to parts of my story.

My family wasn't religious. If pressed on what religion we were my parents would answer that we were protestants. However; although I had been baptized my family had never stepped inside a church other than for a funeral or wedding until my teens. Shortly after we had lost the family ranch to foreclosure when I was 13 and we had moved to a trailer court just outside of our little village my mother started confirmation classes, and I eventually joined the confirmation class. The most important part of why I mentioned the loss of the ranch is because the ranch was my life. The land was the bones of my bones. Since 1st grade I couldn't wait to quit school when I was 16 so I could just work the ranch with my dad, and I had no desire to ever do anything but hide at ranch, safe from the outside world. The ranch was my life, my safety, my peace, my salvation, my connection to something bigger than myself.

After we lost the ranch my dad's mental health declined as his drinking escalated, and not long after he started racking up DWIs. And not too long after that a judge lost patient's with him and said he had to go to treatment. While at Heartview for his court-ordered treatment, my mother and I joined him for Family Week...a week of groups, education, and Ovid the screaming interventionist/counselor. One night we were given the assignment to write our "your drinking has affected me in the following ways" letter. When we went back to the hotel that night I sat down and diligently wrote my letter, excited that I was finally going to get to have my voice heard. For the first time in my life it wasn't about my "poor mother" who had to put up with my alcoholic father. Finally, i was going to get validation that my life had been affected by his drinking too (not to mention my mother's mental health). But after returning from meeting with Ovid my mom reported that I was to change my letter to say what hers did. My letter went in the garbage to my mother could have her own words validated. Once again, there was no room for me.

The importance of all of that is that when I started confirmation classes the Pastor actually listened to me; he appeared to value my opinions, my words. We had many great discussions about the Bible, spirituality...and heavy metal! I felt valued, I felt heard, and my new found religion became my anchor in a sea of chaos. 

Just before I turned 16 my mother decided to move her and I out of state as my father's mental health had continued to decline as a result of his drinking; he disclosed to my mother that the voices in his head were telling him to shoot her. The decision to go away was a good one, but it also meant losing my anchor. And it was a year of being alone with my mother with no support system, and no buffer. It was being all alone in a trailer in a strange town when I discovered my mom had taken a handful of Ativan... again, staying awake all night watching to make sure her chest continued to rise throughout the night because when I roused her she once again laid down the threat that the "social workers will take (me) away" and put her in the mental hospital, besides, she "does this all the time" and knows how many she can take. How many times could I do that? She gets to wake up and go back to "normal" while I carry the trauma, and terror alone. Just pretend everything is normal. Toward the end of the school year my own thoughts of suicide were growing. Each night after school I would walk the neighborhood in hopes of finding a rope that had fallen off of someone's truck so I could hang myself. After weeks of searching I finally decided the method didn't matter, instead the next time my mother would be out of the house for a few hours when i was home I would use any means necessary.  But then I had a dream in which I felt the presence of "God" and I was given a sense of peace, and also the sense that if I ended my life it would not end my sense of isolation. Whether it was divine intervention or just my own psyche it saved my life. And I drew on that moment of connection to Divinity for years when the hopelessness threatened to drown me.

After a year we returned to my home state, and I moved in with my father. And I was able to return to my old church. There was a new pastor, but once again I found someone who spent many hours discussing religion with me. In my conversations with Pastor V and Pastor L I learned three things: 1. the only thing you need to do in order to go to heaven is to state that you believe that Jesus Christ died for your sins...doesn't matter what you've done in your life (yes, even H!tler), just say the magic words. 2. gay people are going straight to hell. Doesn't matter how good of people they are, how many times they say they believe; nope, they are going straight to hell. 3. Pastor L introduced the concept of predestination, and his belief that in contradiction to #1, very few people were going to heaven (himself included), that it took someone "special" to go to heaven.  Fortunately I hadn't figured out that I was a lesbian yet, although I still thought it was bullshit. 

What did come of those conversations though was the belief that I had to be special, pure to go to heaven. I wanted to dedicate my life to God, but I couldn't be a pastor because I was female ("god created women second, so they couldn't lead a church" {wtf}), and there were no Lutheran nuns so I had to find another way to be special in the eyes of god. So I dedicated my virginity to god- I would retain my "purity", because somehow that equated to "godliness" in my head. 

So, I closely guarded my sacredness, my virginity. But then an unfortunate incident occurred, and so not only did carry the shame of the earthly act that had occurred, but I was (in my mind) no longer special in the eyes of god. God would see me as nothing but a whore since I had learned well the lesson that everything was my fault.  In the eyes of god I was shameful, and unworthy of his love and grace. The anchor begins to crack.

A few months later I had my first kiss with another woman and realized why I had never had the same feelings about boys/men as my peers. And that night I lay awake praying, and crying, and finally came to the conclusion at the end of my dark night of the soul that if god would condemn for who I loved, and not by the character of my life and heart, that he wasn't the god I wanted in my life. The anchor fractures.

After putting a gun to my head one night in a tsunami of grief, I reached out to the chaplain who had worked with me and my dad during his dying process. I started going to her church in hopes of finding the spiritual connection I had once had. Sitting in a pew finding joy in the birds returning for spring, flitting from branch to branch just outside the window; and only finding emptiness and loss of connection in the words droned out from the pulpit. 

The final severing from Christianity came when my church "friends", my spiritual community declared upon my coming out as a lesbian that I was a sinner and had no place in their lives (but of course, they would be praying for me). The anchor disintegrated. 

My leanings toward Earth centered spirituality began as a child growing up in what felt like the magical domain of nature, though I hadn't the words to describe it as such. And I had lost that connection to the magic when we lost the ranch, but as I had sat in the pew on Sunday mornings having my heart lifted by the birdies, I started to reconnect to the magic. There was no google when I started upon my pagan path, and very few books, and certainly none in my school's library. So my initial wanderings on this path focused on what I knew from growing up on a ranch, closely connected to the land...stewardship, and connection. Listening to the wind, feeling the heartbeat of mother earth.

My connection to specific deities has been relatively recent, only within the last 12 years or so. But even as my spiritual connection had deepened, solidified, so to had my hunger for spiritual community grown. I engaged with the local pagan community, was a part of a Grove for several years, but struggled to find "connection" and "community" in our 8 times a year rituals. And with the problems I saw in patriarchal toxicity in the Mother organization I had to admit as this last year died that so to had any benefit that I had gotten from the group, and I walked away. 

In what was meant to be a networking reconnaissance mission I found myself sitting in a Christian church once again. On my first visit I was welcomed by an open heart filled with a palpable love in the human manifestation of a petite little woman named Mercy. And so I came back again, and again to a church whose service opens with the words "welcome to all regardless of who you are and where you are in life's journey." Welcome. A church who "is committed to work for justice for all people and for the environment", a church whose vision includes the "desire to be an inclusive community that shares Divine love as a path to peace and justice in the world." Fortunately the service focuses more on the message than the scripture, so I can handle to Jesus, and big reason I keep coming back is that I came to the conclusion that I would rather have a spiritual community that shares my values if not my beliefs, than a community that shares my beliefs but not my values. 

I don't know that I will ever rebuild my anchor, but perhaps I've found a safe place to dock for awhile.

Well, it IS a sin, isn't it?

The other day I was chatting with my octogenarian friend. She often asks me questions about the world of being gay. That day she asked if it was ok that she was asking "all these questions" to which I said that it was indeed fine. She then stated that "most people don't like it when you ask them about it (gay stuff)"; I then educated her that a lot of us have been hurt by straight people and don't trust them. She then asked me if I'd ever been hurt. I certainly wasn't going to get into the worst of things, and kept it simple with, "when I first came out my church friends abandoned me because I was an evil sinner who was going to hell." And her response to this thing that had "hurt" me was, "Well, it IS a sin isn't it?" Hmmm, that right there my friend is why we don't like to talk about it. We had a little chat about what the bible really says, and her own admission that she didn't know what it said and that was just what she had heard. 

It hurt. It was a familiar hurt, but one I'd deftly avoided for many years by carefully selecting the people I allowed close. And it awakened that original hurt. I knew when I came out I would lose friends; that I'd be judged and I was prepared for it because normalizing being gay in a small ND town became my mission so I (hopefully) would never have to read again about an LGBT person unaliving themselves. I knew, but it still hurt. It hurt and I buried the pain right next to the grief of my father's death a few years prior. And right next to the pain of all the shit my mother had put me through. And right next to the isolation I have felt since I was a young child.

The unforgiveable sin according to many christians. I remember well the conversation in catechism about how all you had to do to go to heaven was to state that jesus died for your sins; hell, you didn't have to even believe it. And anyone who made that statement got a free pass into heaven, didn't matter what they had done in life...robbed old people, murdered, r@ped; just say the magic words and your golden. But then the conversation down the line about hom0sexuality took a different turn...nope they are all going to hell. "What about if they say they believe jeezis died for their sins?" I asked. Nope. H1tler gets in, but none of the H0-M0-SEXuals. Thank the Gods I didn't figure out until much later that I was one of them; I was already struggling to hold onto this life-that was one more thing that I did not need.

Don't tell me, show me

 Although I have very few boundaries in some of my social media accounts, twitter has been one that I don't divulge a lot of personal information. The other day, however; someone had posted something to the effect of "Hey men, if a woman identifies a sexual abuser/harasser she  is giving you the gift of trust...so don't fuck it up." Perhaps all the shit that's up in my psyche just overflowed like a toilet full of shit, and that's why I replied "My brother showed me who he truly was when he remained besties with him (my abuser), but it took me 40 years to *see* who he (my brother) was."

I didn't really have any feelings about said discloser until someone commented, "That's fucked up. Anyone who hurt my sister would be come a statistic." Now this person obviously had good intentions, but the statement pissed me off, and here in my disorganized way are the reasons why:

1. My brother upon my disclosure called John up and told him he would "fucking kill" him if he ever touched me again. At first glance that might seem super awesome, but here is the reality:
    a. a couple weeks later they were indeed besties again, and I had to hear about his buddy John for the         next 20 years, including the phrase "You remember John, right?"-um, yeah, I remember the fucker             every single day of my fucking life because of flashbacks and intrusive memories.
    b. as a 7 year old, I took his threat to kill him very seriously and it scared the fuck out of me.

2. A few years back there was some survey of folks asking if they would step in if they saw someone experiencing a hate crime and something like 9 out of 10 people said they would. It has been my experience as someone who has experienced hate crimes that even when there are literally 100s of people around, no on fucking steps in, so yeah, everyone wants to fantasize about being the Red Dawn hero, but when it comes down to it, no one is fucking willing to actually do anything when they see someone being hurt...esp if it is a male doing the hurting.

3. Related to number 2, I have experience sexual harassment at work multiple times and the men around me did nothing but minimize the behavior (oh, he doesn't mean anything by it-meanwhile my manager has to physically restrain the fucker from pulling out his dick while he stands on the lunch table right in front of me.), and do nothing to stop it or confront the person.

So, in conclusion wannabe allies, just as writers are told; don't tell me, SHOW me, otherwise it's just meaningless bullshit to make you feel good about yourself, to make you feel like the big tough hero. Tell me about the time you have stuck up for a woman being harassed/abused/assaulted/terrorized, because I know there isn't a person out there who hasn't witnessed their bestie, dad, son, coworker, or fellow dude in line at starbucks engage in shitty behavior. Tell me about the time you confronted one of these douche bags.

Thank you for coming to my terry talk.

Early Lessons in Boundary Trampling (TW: SA)

Sometimes when I was in grade school if my parents weren't going to be home until late and my siblings weren't home they would have me stay with the bus driver until they got home. Now this was never a pleasant experience as her house smelled of rotten onions and the downstairs toilet that was filled to the brim with piss and shit, and which her boys continued to use.

This particular evening she sent me and the boys aged 1 year younger, 3 years older, and 7 years older downstairs to play while she made dinner. Upon arriving downstairs the oldest boy asked if I wanted to play strip poker. Now, being a naïve 7 year old, I didn't know what the "strip" in strip poker meant, but my spidey senses told me I better clarify. So I asked, and the answer I got was, "you know, STRIP poker." No, I didn't know, and I kept asking and kept getting the same answer. And just to make it feel a little more hinky, I was informed that if I agreed to play I wasn't allowed to quit until the game was done. 

After the round and round of trying unsuccessfully to get clarification as to what exactly this card game entailed, and getting badgered by 3 boys I finally agreed to play. As S shuffled the cards he explained that whoever last the round would have to take an item of clothing off (Oh! I get it...STRIP poker), but just incase their mom came down we just had to take off our clothes long enough to show everyone then put our clothes back on. I immediately rescinded my consent upon realizing what kind of game this was, but was informed that since I had said I would play I was not allowed to not play, and my arguments that I didn't know what the game was was met with, "Well, you shouldn't have said you would play then." And what about the fact that I didn't know how to play poker; well, no worries because P was going to help me.

And so, thinking I had no choice to play, the card game began. Interestingly enough, I lost every round even with P's help. And as each round progressed, so did my humiliation, and shame. And each time the cards were dealt I begged that they let me go upstairs, but my protests, and my discomfort were no concern of theirs, and their solution was that I should just enjoy watching as my fellow losers took of their clothes. But I had no interest, or curiosity in seeing any of their bodies, just humiliation and disgust. 

When we got to what would be the last round, and the losers were going around I begged not to have to do it, but I was informed that if I didn't remove my clothes they would do it for me. In either his misguided attempt to make me feel better about it by watching the oldest, or some twisted enjoyment of my repulsion at seeing his brother S, P pulled my hands away from my eyes and turned me toward his brother and wouldn't let go until I opened my eyes. So I begrudgingly peeked and got it over with. And I had seen penises before; living on the prairie men are more likely to pee on a bush than go into the house to use the bathroom, so the accidental viewing when rounding a corner isn't uncommon, but I had never seen an erect penis, nor did I understand that whole process, but I was disturbed at what I saw in the brief second I looked at S. Looking back and realizing how much worse this could have been, I'm grateful that this was the end of the "game" as their mother called us up for dinner.

But this little adventure in fuckery apparently opened a door into SA for S. As we trekked up the stairs, S came up right behind me, and flung his hand between my legs with such force so he could grope my crotch that he knocked me off of my feet. And from that day forward, whether we were at his house, or at school (yes, with plenty of witnesses around) until he left for the Navy he would repeat this behavior, and no amount of telling him off would phase him-he would just laugh in my face and play innocent, "What? I didn't do anything!" 

When I blog about shit I often try to find some silver lining, or positive lesson I've learned, but fuck that shit. What I learned, and a lesson that was repeated is that my boundaries as someone who inhabits a female body will not get respected by males. What I've learned is that when I say "no" to men, no matter how forceful, in the end if I don't comply I will be physically forced to comply. And more importantly, I've learned that they will never be held accountable (nor will they take accountability), and I just need to not make a "big deal" of it.

In broad-fucking-daylight in front of multiple witnesses. And still we are asked, "why didn't you report it."

(It's all my) fault

I want to make sense of all the shit in my head, and the stuff stuck in my body that I can't attach words to, but sits in me like congealed oatmeal weighing me down, hindering free movement. A 30 year fucked-up-shit anniversary is coming up. Over the last year I've tried unpacking it through therapy, and writing, and although I've had some epiphanies when I've taken the time to step back at let Author aspect of myself take an objective look at it, its still...a spear through my heart? a weight on my chest? a yoke around me neck? 

Self blame. It's a core operating principle. It's what keeps me mired down.

So, why is it my fault...why is that the default-setting regardless of the issue or circumstance? Why does it always have to be my fault? Mom? Certainly that is some of it...she was so very fragile and I had to take such delicate care of her, and gods forbid she ever felt guilt, shame, or regret...the world would implode, just as her psyche did that night in the kitchen when she had her psychotic break. She decompensated, and at 9 or 10 I was the only "responsible adult" trying to make sense of things, trying to prevent it-and failing. It was my fault.

Skip back a few more years, and there's John...he at 15, me at 7...and it was my fault. I should have fought harder, I should have made him drag me back there EVERY time, I should have said "no" more than the countless times that I had said no. I should have run away from home, I should have thought to kill myself. Notice not once is the narrative, "I should have told ____." I knew better, I know better. There was no one who would come to my rescue. It's your fault, figure it out or deal with it.

Fortunately, a few years back I finally unraveled that particular moldy bundle of "its all my fault"  trauma...well as much as I can unravel it. And the key thread that really got shit moving was the self-blame piece. When I could quiet the loudest voice in the living room who was so quick to always shout above the rest, "If I just would have done something different!", always quick to find a reason that it was my fault, then the hooks started to disintegrate. 

I wish I could say quieting the self-blame voice from that particular situation had carry-over to the hills and valleys of memory and experience, but unfortunately it didn't. So here we are again, trying to slay the hydra that has its many sets of fangs sunk into that experience.

I have a list of objective, legit reasons it's not my fault-but logic doesn't matter. Facts don't matter. That self-blame part is like an old redneck screaming, "I've done this for 30 years, I've believed this for 30 years-fuck your facts! I know what I know!" There is no logic to this voice. Only defensiveness, and a hard shell of defiance. 

What purpose does it serve? What is the job of this part? Why the defensiveness? Who will keep me safe? Maybe it's like how I point out how I'm fat to everyone before they can tell me-yeah, I already know; no need for you to shame me too! I'll attach myself before you have a chance to. Yeah, it was my fault-we don't need to discuss it, I already know. Thanks for playing though. Thanks for playing. It was my fault, and i know it. Now let me slink off to the corner and sit with my shame. MINE-I don't need any more from you, I already have plenty of my own, thank you very much. I have plenty of my own. Fucking shame. What would I do without it? What would I be without it? My mother? My sister? My father? What would I be without self-blame? Dead? Would I exist without it? There has to be something more, right? I don't know. I don't fucking know. I don't fucking know. 

***

Since leaving this to sit and ferment I had a session with my therapist during which she wondered aloud if the self-blame, and minimization was a way that I have protected myself from the terror. Terror that I had no room to fully experience, Terror that was never validated, Terror I've been too afraid of looking at. 

Damn.

Terror, that I finally need to slow down and take a look at. Terror that I need to honor. Legit fucking terror. 

As uncomfortable as shame is, it's far less (ahem) terrifying than terror. And there is a little bit of terror in admitting how terrifying so much of my first 20 or so years was. Even as I write this, there's a little chihuahua nipping at my heals saying, "Well, Les didn't ACTUALLY shoot you-that bullet was 2 feet away from your heart! What's the big deal?" But really, is it normal or common for a gun to go off in a dining room-is it normal and okay and no-big-deal that if you hadn't just stood up to turn the fan off that that bullet would have torn through your heart? 

The good news is that with this new insight the voice for the most part is a chihuahua, not a belligerent mobster with a baseball bat. And as I review some of these old files through the lens of terror rather than shame they start to feel a little lighter, a little more manageable.