Ms. H has been delivered and received.
We are back home.
And the son is gone for the night.
And I just picked another three pounds of raspberries from my garden.
Yes, another three pounds. From the same damn bush that has already given me over 16 pints of jam. Apparently all of the weather that has made this such a crap year for everything else in the garden is EXACTLY what raspberries need.
This looks like a job for Raspberry Cordial.
There seems to be a plethora of alcoholic cordials out there but I don't think that would be advisable. When one feels as if they are drowning, it doesn't help to raise your hand and volunteer to carry the anchor.
Plus, Marilla Cuthbert would not approve.
I have my second to last counseling appointment this week. I had occasion to speak to a law-type professional last week who made the stunning comment that "You know, this is going to be with you for the rest of your life."
For a fleeting moment, I almost said "Well, Duh!" But instead I just gibbered something stupid.
I know she was commenting on my impatience with not moving forward fast enough.
So in other words, calm down. This is going to be with you for the rest of your life so just sit down and relax.
Telling me that this is going to be with me for the rest of my life is like telling me the sky is blue and the grass is green. My daily goal is to actually just get out of bed in the morning before any thoughts of the past eight months go through my mind.
Sounds reasonable and simple.
It hasn't happened yet though.
Thought A leads to though B which leads to though C and I'm there and I haven't even thrown off the bedcovers.
I think I'm going to develop a mantra for every waking moment.
Rainbows and unicorns.
Rainbows and unicorns.
Rainbows and unicorns.
Rainbows and unicorns.
Showing posts with label therapy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label therapy. Show all posts
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
I'm Not OK, You're Not OK. OK?
The whole notion of “making amends” and “forgiveness” when it comes to the pedophile in “recovery” makes me want to vomit.
There. I said it. Does this make me a bad person? Does this make me the brick wall blocking the perpetrator’s healing?
I had a chance to talk to a friend today, a very wise friend in the field of victim advocacy. I had to know, from a clinical perspective, does my brick wall stance with my arms across my chest and my frowny face on fire, does that mean that I am doing myself and my children a disservice?
Yes, you will note that I said “myself” and “my children”. Let’s be honest, I don’t give a rat’s ass about “his journey of healing”. He’s busy bonding with all his pedo friends and I’m sure they’re getting nice and healthy. His journey is not my business. I have no control over his journey. Never have, never will.
I have control over my journey. I have the ability to influence my children’s journey.
I don’t ever want to see this man again, that much I can be assured will not change.
The notion that someday, far down the road, he might try to look up his children and “make amends” makes me nauseated. It actually keeps me awake at night.
I will always be their mother. I will always want to protect them from pain.
I have no control over this.
Why can’t I let that go?
Even when you visualize your children as adults, you still want to protect them. You don’t want them to get that phone call when they are 31 years old and starting their own family and trying to recover from their childhood by doing things “right” this time.
The problem with the “making amends” schtick is that there always has been and always will be an imbalance of power between a pedophile/perpetrator and their victim. I can’t imagine any person of any age who could look their perp in the face and not instantly be that child in that bedroom on that night when the entire universe changed.
A pedo/perp will never get this concept. They will always feel that the world and its inhabitants should exist for their own pleasure. Even when they can parrot the self help books. Even when they have went through their twelve steps. Even when they have picked up their own shattered lives and walked on.
They feel powerless and so they take the ultimate power. The power of a child’s mind, body, heart, trust, imagination, and love.
And they crush it in their filthy hands.
Then, someday, they just might ask for forgiveness.
The power that I have is over my own life. My own belief that I do not have to join hands with this person and say “I forgive you.”
My power is that I continue to exist. I continue to nurture my children. I see a way forward that does not involve his power. I see that I can learn and grow and love and laugh and feel sunlight on my skin for the first time in years.
My power lies in the fact that someday, we will all be in the sunlight. We will no longer dwell in the shadow that he has cast over our lives.
My power is telling my children that in 15 or 20 or 25 years, that power will be theirs.
The power to say “no”.
There. I said it. Does this make me a bad person? Does this make me the brick wall blocking the perpetrator’s healing?
I had a chance to talk to a friend today, a very wise friend in the field of victim advocacy. I had to know, from a clinical perspective, does my brick wall stance with my arms across my chest and my frowny face on fire, does that mean that I am doing myself and my children a disservice?
Yes, you will note that I said “myself” and “my children”. Let’s be honest, I don’t give a rat’s ass about “his journey of healing”. He’s busy bonding with all his pedo friends and I’m sure they’re getting nice and healthy. His journey is not my business. I have no control over his journey. Never have, never will.
I have control over my journey. I have the ability to influence my children’s journey.
I don’t ever want to see this man again, that much I can be assured will not change.
The notion that someday, far down the road, he might try to look up his children and “make amends” makes me nauseated. It actually keeps me awake at night.
I will always be their mother. I will always want to protect them from pain.
I have no control over this.
Why can’t I let that go?
Even when you visualize your children as adults, you still want to protect them. You don’t want them to get that phone call when they are 31 years old and starting their own family and trying to recover from their childhood by doing things “right” this time.
The problem with the “making amends” schtick is that there always has been and always will be an imbalance of power between a pedophile/perpetrator and their victim. I can’t imagine any person of any age who could look their perp in the face and not instantly be that child in that bedroom on that night when the entire universe changed.
A pedo/perp will never get this concept. They will always feel that the world and its inhabitants should exist for their own pleasure. Even when they can parrot the self help books. Even when they have went through their twelve steps. Even when they have picked up their own shattered lives and walked on.
They feel powerless and so they take the ultimate power. The power of a child’s mind, body, heart, trust, imagination, and love.
And they crush it in their filthy hands.
Then, someday, they just might ask for forgiveness.
The power that I have is over my own life. My own belief that I do not have to join hands with this person and say “I forgive you.”
My power is that I continue to exist. I continue to nurture my children. I see a way forward that does not involve his power. I see that I can learn and grow and love and laugh and feel sunlight on my skin for the first time in years.
My power lies in the fact that someday, we will all be in the sunlight. We will no longer dwell in the shadow that he has cast over our lives.
My power is telling my children that in 15 or 20 or 25 years, that power will be theirs.
The power to say “no”.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Education of Me
I followed an internet trail last night, quite unintentionally.
There's nothing like reading articles on sexual addiction on the internet, only to realize that your STBX had made a comment on the article twenty days before being sentenced to prison. A funny comment. Or at least, an attempted funny comment.
Because it's ever so amusing to have someone say that if you're a sex addict, all you need to do is masturbate a lot. What a great addiction, huh?
Needless to say, I stopped trying to educate myself by reading articles online.
Right after life hit the fan, I tried to educate myself on molestation and pedophilia. It wasn't easy. It never is.
Coming from the perspective of a survivor and a non-offending parent, the betrayal and anger that I felt came from so many different levels. There weren't many resources out there for my situation.
Also, when you are feeling so emotionally raw, picking up a book can be like picking up a bomb. I read a book that was geared toward my story as a survivor. It was for girls that have no family member to turn to. When they disclose, they are dismissed or called a liar. It was a good book until I got to the chapter on mothers. The author made almost a throw away comment that mothers almost always know what's going on and many times are complicit. As a survivor of abuse, this was true. When I disclosed, my adoptive mother called me a slut and said "I always knew."
But coming from the perspective of a mother who didn't know, this single sentence tore me apart.
When it comes to books written for non offending parents, they are few and far between. Thankfully, I found one author, Jane Gilgun, who manages to discuss all perspectives of an abuse scenario: child, parent, and perpetrator. If you follow the link, you can download the book "Child Sexual Abuse" for free. It's a good starting point.
It is hard. It is always hard to read the words of perpetrators. It is also hard to wrap my mind around reading a book on sexual addiction.
But I'm going to.
The hardest part of the whole exercise is reading a book that is talking to the perpetrator, especially after listening to STBX's statement before the court. He stood there with blinders on talking about "me...me...me..."
There are so many throw away lines and comments in books like these, regarding the people being hurt by the perpetrator. It minimizes the victimization. This is exactly what STBX fed into with his statement to the court. I'm sure it's not intentional by the author, it's just that the book isn't necessarily meant to be read by the person that was on the receiving end.
But I will go there. Somehow, I can't imagine STBX ever picking up a copy of The Courage To Heal and learning about the consequences of his actions.
And that's the saddest part.
There's nothing like reading articles on sexual addiction on the internet, only to realize that your STBX had made a comment on the article twenty days before being sentenced to prison. A funny comment. Or at least, an attempted funny comment.
Because it's ever so amusing to have someone say that if you're a sex addict, all you need to do is masturbate a lot. What a great addiction, huh?
Needless to say, I stopped trying to educate myself by reading articles online.
Right after life hit the fan, I tried to educate myself on molestation and pedophilia. It wasn't easy. It never is.
Coming from the perspective of a survivor and a non-offending parent, the betrayal and anger that I felt came from so many different levels. There weren't many resources out there for my situation.
Also, when you are feeling so emotionally raw, picking up a book can be like picking up a bomb. I read a book that was geared toward my story as a survivor. It was for girls that have no family member to turn to. When they disclose, they are dismissed or called a liar. It was a good book until I got to the chapter on mothers. The author made almost a throw away comment that mothers almost always know what's going on and many times are complicit. As a survivor of abuse, this was true. When I disclosed, my adoptive mother called me a slut and said "I always knew."
But coming from the perspective of a mother who didn't know, this single sentence tore me apart.
When it comes to books written for non offending parents, they are few and far between. Thankfully, I found one author, Jane Gilgun, who manages to discuss all perspectives of an abuse scenario: child, parent, and perpetrator. If you follow the link, you can download the book "Child Sexual Abuse" for free. It's a good starting point.
It is hard. It is always hard to read the words of perpetrators. It is also hard to wrap my mind around reading a book on sexual addiction.
But I'm going to.
The hardest part of the whole exercise is reading a book that is talking to the perpetrator, especially after listening to STBX's statement before the court. He stood there with blinders on talking about "me...me...me..."
There are so many throw away lines and comments in books like these, regarding the people being hurt by the perpetrator. It minimizes the victimization. This is exactly what STBX fed into with his statement to the court. I'm sure it's not intentional by the author, it's just that the book isn't necessarily meant to be read by the person that was on the receiving end.
But I will go there. Somehow, I can't imagine STBX ever picking up a copy of The Courage To Heal and learning about the consequences of his actions.
And that's the saddest part.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Out Of The Mouths Of Babes
How do they do all this on television so quickly AND have time for all those commercial breaks?
One of my friends that went to the sentencing made the comment Monday morning that "it wasn't anything like it is on t.v."
Yup. And believe it or not, those hospital shows are a little off base as well.
I spent last night ruminating, chewing my cud, and occasionally mooing.
STBX's big thing was talking about therapy and how much he's learned and how far he's come. I can guarantee that if you go to a therapist and say "I've got problems because my father was Tritan, King of the Mer-people and he never had time for me," you probably wouldn't get too far in therapy.
I'm imagining that his therapy is just like everything else in his life. Completely self centered. I feel this way...this was done to Me...I I I Me Me Me.
It's one thing to hear a therapist say "You should admit to this because taking it to trial would only hurt your daughter."
It's another thing to take into your heart that 99.9% of what you have done to your kids has been negative. You don't have to molest a kid to screw them up. You can ignore them. You can have nothing but hateful, sarcastic things to say to them. You can treat their very existence as a burden. You can sigh heavily and respond negatively whenever any expectation is placed upon you as a father. (Going to two school events in eleven years when the majority of the time you chose to stay home and play on the computer is not stellar parenting. FYI.)
Even though it was my daughter's idea to change our name and it was my daughter that came up with our new name, I had to check in with my kids yesterday to make sure that I was not placing words in their mouth.
(For some nagging reason, I'm curious to know if he's doing this to fuck with me or to fuck with all of us. As if splitting those hairs really matters...)
I asked them how they felt about their father. I asked them if they could ever foresee a time (15 years down the road) that they would feel compelled to see him or to get back in touch with him. I asked if there was anything left there in their heart of hearts.
And both said no.
Their father never had the capacity to love them. I honestly don't think he even knows what the word means. From my perspective, his idea of love was "you will take care of me. you will be the mother I never had. I will be the child that can only take and take and take."
And he always took whatever he wanted. Consenting or not. Legal or not.
As he's moving through "therapy", no doubt getting "better" every second, my journey through therapy has shown me that our marriage was always a nightmare. As I've stated before, when you look at a listing of signs of physical, sexual and verbal abuse and see your entire marriage spelled out, it rather kicks you in your lady parts.
Coming to terms with what he did to the kids also means coming to terms with what he did to me. Remembering the day that I stood outside our house in desolate Carney, Oklahoma, holding my baby to me, and sobbing because all I wanted to do was to escape and I didn't have anywhere to escape to...seeing that in retrospect, knowing that the baby in my arms would grow up to be his next victim, it cuts me off at my knees.
This whole name change thing, it is aimed squarely at his whole idea of power. Anytime he didn't want to do something, he didn't. Anytime he did want to do something, he did. Now, there are times when these might be admirable traits, but when it involves destroying other human beings, probably not so good. His last piece of power is "ownership" of the kids.
The part of me that is still fucked up from the last 17 years of my life wants to believe that he is hanging on to the name thing out of some twisted idea that there will be a reconciliation some day and he just can't get it through his head that it isn't going to happen.
But then, my daughter's intelligence cuts through the crap in my head.
"He's doing it because he's a dick."
She always was smarter than her mother.
One of my friends that went to the sentencing made the comment Monday morning that "it wasn't anything like it is on t.v."
Yup. And believe it or not, those hospital shows are a little off base as well.
I spent last night ruminating, chewing my cud, and occasionally mooing.
STBX's big thing was talking about therapy and how much he's learned and how far he's come. I can guarantee that if you go to a therapist and say "I've got problems because my father was Tritan, King of the Mer-people and he never had time for me," you probably wouldn't get too far in therapy.
I'm imagining that his therapy is just like everything else in his life. Completely self centered. I feel this way...this was done to Me...I I I Me Me Me.
It's one thing to hear a therapist say "You should admit to this because taking it to trial would only hurt your daughter."
It's another thing to take into your heart that 99.9% of what you have done to your kids has been negative. You don't have to molest a kid to screw them up. You can ignore them. You can have nothing but hateful, sarcastic things to say to them. You can treat their very existence as a burden. You can sigh heavily and respond negatively whenever any expectation is placed upon you as a father. (Going to two school events in eleven years when the majority of the time you chose to stay home and play on the computer is not stellar parenting. FYI.)
Even though it was my daughter's idea to change our name and it was my daughter that came up with our new name, I had to check in with my kids yesterday to make sure that I was not placing words in their mouth.
(For some nagging reason, I'm curious to know if he's doing this to fuck with me or to fuck with all of us. As if splitting those hairs really matters...)
I asked them how they felt about their father. I asked them if they could ever foresee a time (15 years down the road) that they would feel compelled to see him or to get back in touch with him. I asked if there was anything left there in their heart of hearts.
And both said no.
Their father never had the capacity to love them. I honestly don't think he even knows what the word means. From my perspective, his idea of love was "you will take care of me. you will be the mother I never had. I will be the child that can only take and take and take."
And he always took whatever he wanted. Consenting or not. Legal or not.
As he's moving through "therapy", no doubt getting "better" every second, my journey through therapy has shown me that our marriage was always a nightmare. As I've stated before, when you look at a listing of signs of physical, sexual and verbal abuse and see your entire marriage spelled out, it rather kicks you in your lady parts.
Coming to terms with what he did to the kids also means coming to terms with what he did to me. Remembering the day that I stood outside our house in desolate Carney, Oklahoma, holding my baby to me, and sobbing because all I wanted to do was to escape and I didn't have anywhere to escape to...seeing that in retrospect, knowing that the baby in my arms would grow up to be his next victim, it cuts me off at my knees.
This whole name change thing, it is aimed squarely at his whole idea of power. Anytime he didn't want to do something, he didn't. Anytime he did want to do something, he did. Now, there are times when these might be admirable traits, but when it involves destroying other human beings, probably not so good. His last piece of power is "ownership" of the kids.
The part of me that is still fucked up from the last 17 years of my life wants to believe that he is hanging on to the name thing out of some twisted idea that there will be a reconciliation some day and he just can't get it through his head that it isn't going to happen.
But then, my daughter's intelligence cuts through the crap in my head.
"He's doing it because he's a dick."
She always was smarter than her mother.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
My Soul Will Take A Big Mac And Fries
I've had three people in the last week ask me, after finding out what my kids are doing to wash all this crap outta their heads, what I am doing for myself.
We are going to Convergence this weekend, but I wouldn't really do that unless my kids wanted to. It will be a long tiring weekend and I'm sure I'll show up to work on Monday tired and exhausted and cranky so, not really sure it counts as something I'm doing for myself.
Since I'm already using my vacation time this summer for a trip back to Michigan, I'm looking forward to banking my vacation time for awhile and perhaps looking into getting a scholarship for an Outward Bound adventure next summer. I would love to move back to Maine someday and I spent enough time sailing off the coast of Maine to know that it's something that feeds my soul.
But for right now, especially after his lawyer cancelled the divorce hearing yesterday, I apparently have miles to go before I sleep.
We are going to Convergence this weekend, but I wouldn't really do that unless my kids wanted to. It will be a long tiring weekend and I'm sure I'll show up to work on Monday tired and exhausted and cranky so, not really sure it counts as something I'm doing for myself.
Since I'm already using my vacation time this summer for a trip back to Michigan, I'm looking forward to banking my vacation time for awhile and perhaps looking into getting a scholarship for an Outward Bound adventure next summer. I would love to move back to Maine someday and I spent enough time sailing off the coast of Maine to know that it's something that feeds my soul.
But for right now, especially after his lawyer cancelled the divorce hearing yesterday, I apparently have miles to go before I sleep.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps
There's nothing like having rabid squirrels eating your lower spine.
They were quite active from the moment that I got up this morning and when it came time to open the garage door this morning, I paused, did a leaning face plant against the door, and wondered what I would do if I couldn't bend over and open the door. Can I call into work? Can I say that my car is trapped?
Was that ever covered in my employee orientation?
Alas, I was able to open the door and thus, will not be able to test the system. Maybe next time.
Yesterday afternoon consisted of me, talking to my therapist about the sentencing. She agreed with my brilliant deduction that losing my shit at the courthouse on the day of the name change was not the best strategy. She also told me to get ready for any and every awful possibility that may occur on the day of the sentencing.
Perhaps his girlfriend will show up.
Perhaps she'll even bring her daughter!
Perhaps his family from Colorado will show up.
Perhaps a militant F.O.P (Friends of Pedophiles) group will show up at the courthouse and fill all the seats with people who think it is just fine and dandy to touch small children. (I made up the F.O.P thing but I GUARANTEE something like that exists SOMEWHERE. It is not a web search I am willing to do.)
Perhaps he will stand up in court and cry those crocodile tears and whine about being sorry and say that HE is the victim and that it's all just sooooo sad but he wants to do the right thing.
Perhaps there will be a "get out of jail free" card sitting on the table when he sits down in court.
Perhaps climate change will take a drastic turn for the worst and the ice sheets will melt in the next eight days and Duluth will be inundated with water and we will all go down together.
There's always that random meteor strike.
Unfortunately, random meteor strikes are just so, random. I'm thinking that the most plausible irritant will be the boo-hoo speech.
The thing is, it's all just legal theater. Forgive me for being either ignorant or retarded (both are equally possible) but before all this shit hit the fan, I never had a second thought about the justice/injustice system. It was like the sky and the sun and the clouds. It was just there and occasionally I looked around when something occurred in the news but frankly, I just didn't get it. I didn't understand that honesty, goodness, right and wrong, everything is dependant upon how much money you have and how good at bullshitting your lawyer is. Oh, and whether or not the judge is suffering from a case of raging hemorrhoids on the morning of your court date.
And yes, I am being extremely flippant and yes, that isn't fair to all of the amazing people that work in the system everyday and actually do a great job and treat people with respect and want to do the right thing. They do exist. I have met them. I have, in fact, met at least five of them.
But I'm tired and I want the next eight days to be over with.
And I would be sad if the ice sheets melt.
Polar bears rock.
They were quite active from the moment that I got up this morning and when it came time to open the garage door this morning, I paused, did a leaning face plant against the door, and wondered what I would do if I couldn't bend over and open the door. Can I call into work? Can I say that my car is trapped?
Was that ever covered in my employee orientation?
Alas, I was able to open the door and thus, will not be able to test the system. Maybe next time.
Yesterday afternoon consisted of me, talking to my therapist about the sentencing. She agreed with my brilliant deduction that losing my shit at the courthouse on the day of the name change was not the best strategy. She also told me to get ready for any and every awful possibility that may occur on the day of the sentencing.
Perhaps his girlfriend will show up.
Perhaps she'll even bring her daughter!
Perhaps his family from Colorado will show up.
Perhaps a militant F.O.P (Friends of Pedophiles) group will show up at the courthouse and fill all the seats with people who think it is just fine and dandy to touch small children. (I made up the F.O.P thing but I GUARANTEE something like that exists SOMEWHERE. It is not a web search I am willing to do.)
Perhaps he will stand up in court and cry those crocodile tears and whine about being sorry and say that HE is the victim and that it's all just sooooo sad but he wants to do the right thing.
Perhaps there will be a "get out of jail free" card sitting on the table when he sits down in court.
Perhaps climate change will take a drastic turn for the worst and the ice sheets will melt in the next eight days and Duluth will be inundated with water and we will all go down together.
There's always that random meteor strike.
Unfortunately, random meteor strikes are just so, random. I'm thinking that the most plausible irritant will be the boo-hoo speech.
The thing is, it's all just legal theater. Forgive me for being either ignorant or retarded (both are equally possible) but before all this shit hit the fan, I never had a second thought about the justice/injustice system. It was like the sky and the sun and the clouds. It was just there and occasionally I looked around when something occurred in the news but frankly, I just didn't get it. I didn't understand that honesty, goodness, right and wrong, everything is dependant upon how much money you have and how good at bullshitting your lawyer is. Oh, and whether or not the judge is suffering from a case of raging hemorrhoids on the morning of your court date.
And yes, I am being extremely flippant and yes, that isn't fair to all of the amazing people that work in the system everyday and actually do a great job and treat people with respect and want to do the right thing. They do exist. I have met them. I have, in fact, met at least five of them.
But I'm tired and I want the next eight days to be over with.
And I would be sad if the ice sheets melt.
Polar bears rock.
Monday, June 15, 2009
This Trail Isn't Marked
Getting mad is a part of getting better.
It's right in there in the steps of grief...in the steps of healing from trauma...in the steps for healing from sexual abuse.
Getting angry.
It can be a terrifying road to travel because when you are walking it, you don't know where it will lead. There are side roads to take you to mind numbing alternatives...drugs, cutting, abusive relationships, suicide.
These are all sorts of pitfalls and potholes along the way.
And once you walk down that path, it's impossible to see the end and after a few short steps, you can no longer see where you came from. If you hold your hand out straight in front of your face, it disappears in the darkness that envelopes you.
No matter how many people want to walk with you, they can't. Anger is a personal journey. People can walk beside you. People can hold out their hands and try to catch you if you fall, but no one can crawl inside your skin and walk your journey for you.
When my daughter asked for people to support her at the hearing on June 26th, this was a huge step for her. When the two of us, along with her PAVSA advocate, had to meet with yet another legal person in the system to spill our guts yet again (one hour after STBX denied her the right to change her name), she got as heated as I've ever seen her.
But not for herself. For me.
To sit there, knowing what she has gone through and knowing how horrible her father treated her for so many years and listening to her tell this person that her father treated me like crap was soul wrenching.
Later, her advocate commented that her anger was positive. It was a sign that she was headed in the right direction. She was channeling it through positive things. She was doing the right thing.
I then asked the question that had haunted me since our meeting. "How can she get so worked up over what her father did to me? What her father did to me was nothing. What her father did to her was horrifying."
And that's when all these last few months came down on my head.
"How have you managed to get through these last few months?" She asked me. "What has been the force that has pulled you through when you didn't think you could survive another five minutes?"
"My kids," I told her. "If we didn't have kids and if he had been a pedophile toward some other child, I probably would have put a bullet in his head and then did the same to myself. As a matter of fact, that thought haunted me even though I did have kids. But it was the anger that I had at him for what he did to my daughter that kept me going. My need to protect her now even though I couldn't/didn't protect her then."
"And why," she then asked me. "Do you think that her journey is any different?"
I just stood there, probably with my mouth hanging open and flies coming in and out. The parent-child bond is also a child-parent bond. I survived for her. She made it through for me.
Neither one of us looked in the mirror and said "I need to do this for myself."
"Myself" is a harder concept. "Myself" means that you recognize that what occured to you was wrong. "Myself" can lead down a road of "oh poor me" and that whole victimization bullshit that STBX wallows in on a daily basis.
But just for a moment, it can be the startling realization that it's easier to stand up for the ones you love than it is to stand up for yourself.
It's the realization that this road is a million miles long and we have only taken the first three steps.
It's right in there in the steps of grief...in the steps of healing from trauma...in the steps for healing from sexual abuse.
Getting angry.
It can be a terrifying road to travel because when you are walking it, you don't know where it will lead. There are side roads to take you to mind numbing alternatives...drugs, cutting, abusive relationships, suicide.
These are all sorts of pitfalls and potholes along the way.
And once you walk down that path, it's impossible to see the end and after a few short steps, you can no longer see where you came from. If you hold your hand out straight in front of your face, it disappears in the darkness that envelopes you.
No matter how many people want to walk with you, they can't. Anger is a personal journey. People can walk beside you. People can hold out their hands and try to catch you if you fall, but no one can crawl inside your skin and walk your journey for you.
When my daughter asked for people to support her at the hearing on June 26th, this was a huge step for her. When the two of us, along with her PAVSA advocate, had to meet with yet another legal person in the system to spill our guts yet again (one hour after STBX denied her the right to change her name), she got as heated as I've ever seen her.
But not for herself. For me.
To sit there, knowing what she has gone through and knowing how horrible her father treated her for so many years and listening to her tell this person that her father treated me like crap was soul wrenching.
Later, her advocate commented that her anger was positive. It was a sign that she was headed in the right direction. She was channeling it through positive things. She was doing the right thing.
I then asked the question that had haunted me since our meeting. "How can she get so worked up over what her father did to me? What her father did to me was nothing. What her father did to her was horrifying."
And that's when all these last few months came down on my head.
"How have you managed to get through these last few months?" She asked me. "What has been the force that has pulled you through when you didn't think you could survive another five minutes?"
"My kids," I told her. "If we didn't have kids and if he had been a pedophile toward some other child, I probably would have put a bullet in his head and then did the same to myself. As a matter of fact, that thought haunted me even though I did have kids. But it was the anger that I had at him for what he did to my daughter that kept me going. My need to protect her now even though I couldn't/didn't protect her then."
"And why," she then asked me. "Do you think that her journey is any different?"
I just stood there, probably with my mouth hanging open and flies coming in and out. The parent-child bond is also a child-parent bond. I survived for her. She made it through for me.
Neither one of us looked in the mirror and said "I need to do this for myself."
"Myself" is a harder concept. "Myself" means that you recognize that what occured to you was wrong. "Myself" can lead down a road of "oh poor me" and that whole victimization bullshit that STBX wallows in on a daily basis.
But just for a moment, it can be the startling realization that it's easier to stand up for the ones you love than it is to stand up for yourself.
It's the realization that this road is a million miles long and we have only taken the first three steps.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Choices
There are many choices available to me right now. That's how I've had to make it through today. I needed to remind myself of all the choices I have that can carry me through until June 26th and the sentencing.
I can sit in the corner, rocking autistically.
I can wear those boingy antenna things on my head and give a broad, scary smile to the world bearing a mouth full of skittles stuck in my teeth. Or Paxil. Or both.
I can dress up like Nurse Ratchet and report to the locked unit at Miller Dwan, demanding that it is most certainly my shift to work and they'd better let me in.
I can slip into the sweet, blissful daydream of a ton of unlubricated ass sex in STBX's future. By Bubba. And his friend Louie. And his friend Jim. And his friend Billy. And anyone else in the shower that day and every other day for as long as STBX's rectum holds out. Oh, I'm sorry, I guess Bubba and his friends made a bad choice for their extracurricular activities...hmmm sucks to be you.
I can take my current name and the last name of my children and simply refuse to acknowledge it.
We could be "The Family That Shall Be Named".
I can just hear the baseball agent now "I'll take incarceration and divorce for a family to be named later...sound like a trade?"
I'll take that trade anyday.
I could also start using my first name only but then I would feel compelled to dress like Cher. As liberal as my workplace is, a five foot tall feather fountain coming off my head might be frowned upon.
I was at Whole Foods today buying a bottle of organic oxygen and as I went to sign my name on my check I literally stopped and considered just signing an "X" after my first name. Trust me, Moonbeam Sunflower and her ferocious man-eating dreads would be all over my story like hippies on hemp seeds.
But I sighed deeply and signed it. I obeyed "the man" and his freakin' strictures to my damn life and signed the label of bondage to that bad boy. (Jesus! I can't spend five minutes in that place without wanting to overthrow the IMF! I think they spritz Eu Du Revolution into the air every five minutes. I LOVE IT!!!!)
I did, however, sigh heavily as I signed my name and passed the check over.
"Long day?" She asked.
"Yup," I concurred. "You just can't imagine."
I can sit in the corner, rocking autistically.
I can wear those boingy antenna things on my head and give a broad, scary smile to the world bearing a mouth full of skittles stuck in my teeth. Or Paxil. Or both.
I can dress up like Nurse Ratchet and report to the locked unit at Miller Dwan, demanding that it is most certainly my shift to work and they'd better let me in.
I can slip into the sweet, blissful daydream of a ton of unlubricated ass sex in STBX's future. By Bubba. And his friend Louie. And his friend Jim. And his friend Billy. And anyone else in the shower that day and every other day for as long as STBX's rectum holds out. Oh, I'm sorry, I guess Bubba and his friends made a bad choice for their extracurricular activities...hmmm sucks to be you.
I can take my current name and the last name of my children and simply refuse to acknowledge it.
We could be "The Family That Shall Be Named".
I can just hear the baseball agent now "I'll take incarceration and divorce for a family to be named later...sound like a trade?"
I'll take that trade anyday.
I could also start using my first name only but then I would feel compelled to dress like Cher. As liberal as my workplace is, a five foot tall feather fountain coming off my head might be frowned upon.
I was at Whole Foods today buying a bottle of organic oxygen and as I went to sign my name on my check I literally stopped and considered just signing an "X" after my first name. Trust me, Moonbeam Sunflower and her ferocious man-eating dreads would be all over my story like hippies on hemp seeds.
But I sighed deeply and signed it. I obeyed "the man" and his freakin' strictures to my damn life and signed the label of bondage to that bad boy. (Jesus! I can't spend five minutes in that place without wanting to overthrow the IMF! I think they spritz Eu Du Revolution into the air every five minutes. I LOVE IT!!!!)
I did, however, sigh heavily as I signed my name and passed the check over.
"Long day?" She asked.
"Yup," I concurred. "You just can't imagine."
Friday, June 05, 2009
And I Thought My Marriage Was Just A Pain In My Ass
The training session was even harder than I had assumed. With an hour to go, I started to get a migraine.
I used to get migraines ALL the time. After two thousand types of meds, I ended up going on atenolol everyday and for about seven years or so, I've only averaged two or three a year. Thankfully, they are merely uncomfortable and miserable as opposed to debilitating with a need for medical intervention.
But today, my body said "ummmmm. no." It was when I heard the presenter talking about abusive relationships and it was laid out in front of me that physical bruises are by no means a necessity of an abusive relationship that I started getting a little veklempt. Then, when I heard her say, word for word, a phrase that STBX said to me early in our marriage when I tried to explain to him how hurtful his behaviors were.
"I don't know what your problem is, I don't beat you."
It was at that exact moment that I looked down at all the behaviors listed for an emotionally abusive relationship and saw my entire marriage. Seventeen years. The early years being lived in isolation in Oklahoma, told that anytime I was unhappy about the way I was treated that I was in the wrong and being a bitch. As long as I didn't have bruises, I had no right to complain.
And all the years afterwards of putting up with it. Why didn't I leave? Why didn't I stand up for myself and say "You are a horrible horse's ass and I hate the way you treat me and I despise you."
Have you ever had the sudden realization that you are no different from a lab rat? That, like a lab rat exposed to an electric shock at their food bowl, you learned to go to the other corner of your cage, sit alone, and starve yourself. Even after the electric shock had been removed. Even after his level of overt hatefulness turned into sullenly ignoring us, with frequent spikes of making it obvious that we were the bane of his existence (after doing the math, this attitude started after he stopped molesting our daughter). Even after being called a bitch stopped. Instead, he physically and psychologically sat down one day in front of the computer and just never got up again.
Too many things for his selfish, childish personality to get involved with. Porn. Online games. Cheating wives with young daughters, willing to offer them up as jailbait.
His world was all about him. We were just the inconvenience. Oh yeah, and the cooked meals. And the only way he could keep this roof over his head. And his personal secretary...and an orifice to fuck until I got sick of the sight of him..
The overt knowledge that he was sexually abusing my daughter is the most devestating thing. The creeping knowledge that he was psychologically abusing us all is yet another crumbling piece in the foundation that was our life.
So, this is what I learned this afternoon. And then I had a migraine. And I puked my guts out. And I curled in the fetal position on the floor and cried until my dogs were howling downstairs.
Every day seems like a thousand little deaths. Thankfully, I have a fuzzy possee to take care of me.
I used to get migraines ALL the time. After two thousand types of meds, I ended up going on atenolol everyday and for about seven years or so, I've only averaged two or three a year. Thankfully, they are merely uncomfortable and miserable as opposed to debilitating with a need for medical intervention.
But today, my body said "ummmmm. no." It was when I heard the presenter talking about abusive relationships and it was laid out in front of me that physical bruises are by no means a necessity of an abusive relationship that I started getting a little veklempt. Then, when I heard her say, word for word, a phrase that STBX said to me early in our marriage when I tried to explain to him how hurtful his behaviors were.
"I don't know what your problem is, I don't beat you."
It was at that exact moment that I looked down at all the behaviors listed for an emotionally abusive relationship and saw my entire marriage. Seventeen years. The early years being lived in isolation in Oklahoma, told that anytime I was unhappy about the way I was treated that I was in the wrong and being a bitch. As long as I didn't have bruises, I had no right to complain.
And all the years afterwards of putting up with it. Why didn't I leave? Why didn't I stand up for myself and say "You are a horrible horse's ass and I hate the way you treat me and I despise you."
Have you ever had the sudden realization that you are no different from a lab rat? That, like a lab rat exposed to an electric shock at their food bowl, you learned to go to the other corner of your cage, sit alone, and starve yourself. Even after the electric shock had been removed. Even after his level of overt hatefulness turned into sullenly ignoring us, with frequent spikes of making it obvious that we were the bane of his existence (after doing the math, this attitude started after he stopped molesting our daughter). Even after being called a bitch stopped. Instead, he physically and psychologically sat down one day in front of the computer and just never got up again.
Too many things for his selfish, childish personality to get involved with. Porn. Online games. Cheating wives with young daughters, willing to offer them up as jailbait.
His world was all about him. We were just the inconvenience. Oh yeah, and the cooked meals. And the only way he could keep this roof over his head. And his personal secretary...and an orifice to fuck until I got sick of the sight of him..
The overt knowledge that he was sexually abusing my daughter is the most devestating thing. The creeping knowledge that he was psychologically abusing us all is yet another crumbling piece in the foundation that was our life.
So, this is what I learned this afternoon. And then I had a migraine. And I puked my guts out. And I curled in the fetal position on the floor and cried until my dogs were howling downstairs.
Every day seems like a thousand little deaths. Thankfully, I have a fuzzy possee to take care of me.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
Victim Impact
Speaking of the mental health thing, (oh, by the way, I'm continuing on yesterday's topic. Please keep up, there will be a test) I think I have pretty much finished my victim impact statement.
I've been working and re-working it, putting it down for a few days, grumbling over it as I weed the garden, returning to it, reading it, and crying like it's all new and fresh once more.
I've finished with group therapy and I've been going to a therapist intermittently but I'm not sure that I've had as much gut wrenching revulsion toward the whole scene as I have while writing this statement.
Speaking with the victim advocate a few days ago, I learned that STBX and his lawyer will be the ones that have to ask for the judge to go outside of the normal sentencing guidelines and give him "mercy". This means, it will be out of the normal sentencing guidelines for him to go to jail and not prison.
If he goes to jail? Probably less than a year in actual time served. How's that for mercy? With all the things that I've discovered and all the hell that I haven't even talked about that my daughter went through, this piece of shit wants mercy.
So, this is an actual case where the victim impact statements that my daughter and I read will actually have a chance to sway the judge. It's not just an exercise in mental health, it's an attempt to put this bastard in prison where he belongs.
It comes down to a near out-of-body experience as I write the story of what being married to this person was like. Of all the signs of his perversion that, in hindsight, shine in the darkness like beacons. Of all the hours that I have beat myself up over being so blind. Of all of the years of his playing the victim while he abused his daughter and tried to bribe her into not telling.
Let me wrap my nightmare up in words of pain and sorrow. Let me say the right thing. And in the end, let me finally rest.
I've been working and re-working it, putting it down for a few days, grumbling over it as I weed the garden, returning to it, reading it, and crying like it's all new and fresh once more.
I've finished with group therapy and I've been going to a therapist intermittently but I'm not sure that I've had as much gut wrenching revulsion toward the whole scene as I have while writing this statement.
Speaking with the victim advocate a few days ago, I learned that STBX and his lawyer will be the ones that have to ask for the judge to go outside of the normal sentencing guidelines and give him "mercy". This means, it will be out of the normal sentencing guidelines for him to go to jail and not prison.
If he goes to jail? Probably less than a year in actual time served. How's that for mercy? With all the things that I've discovered and all the hell that I haven't even talked about that my daughter went through, this piece of shit wants mercy.
So, this is an actual case where the victim impact statements that my daughter and I read will actually have a chance to sway the judge. It's not just an exercise in mental health, it's an attempt to put this bastard in prison where he belongs.
It comes down to a near out-of-body experience as I write the story of what being married to this person was like. Of all the signs of his perversion that, in hindsight, shine in the darkness like beacons. Of all the hours that I have beat myself up over being so blind. Of all of the years of his playing the victim while he abused his daughter and tried to bribe her into not telling.
Let me wrap my nightmare up in words of pain and sorrow. Let me say the right thing. And in the end, let me finally rest.
Monday, June 01, 2009
Not So Good For Mental Health
Hanging out with the crazies can be a bitch.
Yes, it is my intention to offend as many people currently seeking mental health treatment as possible.
While a good many of us at the ole' cracker factory outlet store have been merely kicked in the teeth by life and are just trying to stop those fucking stars from spinning around our heads, others need to be dragged out back and sterilized with a rusty razor.
After having recently been to a medical doctor in the same system as my therapist and having him say to me "I see you're stressed out...as a matter of fact, I can see EVERYTHING about you. And I mean EVERYTHING," obviously referring to the fact that he was privy to my therapists notes, I am in a horribly pissy mood regarding anyone and everyone related to any medical system this side of the sun. In other words, I wasn't going into the waiting room in a "loved by Jesus" sort of mood.
Perhaps I'm being too harsh but of all the places I DON'T want to hear people discussing the reasons they are at their clinic, a mental health setting is probably top of the list. Followed closely by a proctologist. I hold no love for either end of the human body.
As I sat in the waiting room, two women who hadn't seen each other since high school had a grand reunion. They then began to catch up with each other. Both were there for their children.
Should you really, as a good and proper mother, stand next to your approximately ten year old son in the middle of the waiting room and discuss with your new found friend across the room how your son was accused by a cousin of sexual molestation?
Really?
And proceed to make every excuse under the sun for your son?
That the cousin was a liar?
That your son LOVES to follow rules and would NEVER break a rule and gets very ANGRY when people break rules?
All the while, the son is playing his hand held game, appearing to have just cheerfully drowned a sack of kittens.
In the mean time, the friend has two children who are climbing the furniture and screaming, rolling around on the floor, and racing out into the hallway in a game of tag.
I seriously looked at this young boy and without knowing truth from fiction, I could feel my hands around his neck. I just wanted to grab him by the collar and shake the shit out of him.
After slapping mommie that is.
It was all played out in front of me. My past, his future, cause, effect, shitty parents, excuses, blaming, and the overwhelming sense from a very small person that it didn't matter what he did, there would always be someone there to cover for him.
I hated him.
Yes, it is my intention to offend as many people currently seeking mental health treatment as possible.
While a good many of us at the ole' cracker factory outlet store have been merely kicked in the teeth by life and are just trying to stop those fucking stars from spinning around our heads, others need to be dragged out back and sterilized with a rusty razor.
After having recently been to a medical doctor in the same system as my therapist and having him say to me "I see you're stressed out...as a matter of fact, I can see EVERYTHING about you. And I mean EVERYTHING," obviously referring to the fact that he was privy to my therapists notes, I am in a horribly pissy mood regarding anyone and everyone related to any medical system this side of the sun. In other words, I wasn't going into the waiting room in a "loved by Jesus" sort of mood.
Perhaps I'm being too harsh but of all the places I DON'T want to hear people discussing the reasons they are at their clinic, a mental health setting is probably top of the list. Followed closely by a proctologist. I hold no love for either end of the human body.
As I sat in the waiting room, two women who hadn't seen each other since high school had a grand reunion. They then began to catch up with each other. Both were there for their children.
Should you really, as a good and proper mother, stand next to your approximately ten year old son in the middle of the waiting room and discuss with your new found friend across the room how your son was accused by a cousin of sexual molestation?
Really?
And proceed to make every excuse under the sun for your son?
That the cousin was a liar?
That your son LOVES to follow rules and would NEVER break a rule and gets very ANGRY when people break rules?
All the while, the son is playing his hand held game, appearing to have just cheerfully drowned a sack of kittens.
In the mean time, the friend has two children who are climbing the furniture and screaming, rolling around on the floor, and racing out into the hallway in a game of tag.
I seriously looked at this young boy and without knowing truth from fiction, I could feel my hands around his neck. I just wanted to grab him by the collar and shake the shit out of him.
After slapping mommie that is.
It was all played out in front of me. My past, his future, cause, effect, shitty parents, excuses, blaming, and the overwhelming sense from a very small person that it didn't matter what he did, there would always be someone there to cover for him.
I hated him.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Protecting My Soft Gooey Center
I've never been a good daughter.
I've never been a good daughter-in-law.
I've never been a good sister.
I've been been a good sister-in-law.
I've also never been a good dancer but that's a story for another day.
I'm one of those people that totally lack the warm, fuzzy cute as a kitten gene. I think I learned at a very young age that I am the only one that I can depend upon. Not getting too comfortable on the psychiatrists couch or anything, but from birth to last December, I have learned one thing very well. People fuck you over seven ways to Sunday and if you don't let them into your soft gooey center, they won't hurt you.
I think that is why I value my friends so much. I would go to the ends of the earth for my friends and as the last few months have shown, my friends feel the same way about me.
When it comes to family, I've been hurt enough. Throwing my hands up in the air and walking away is a defense mechanism that I've employed over the years to mixed success. I always thought I was refusing to allow people to use me. I thought I was refusing people the opportunity to hurt me. I'm not going to lend someone money when all they want is another drink or a hit. I'm also not going to stand around and wait to be asked a second time.
Likewise, I'm not going to stand around and put up with being treated like shit. (This statement, after 17 years of being treated like shit actually makes me laugh at my own 'full-of-shitedness').
All this leads to a phone call that I made on the day of the omnibus hearing. I've actually gotten back in touch with one of my brothers who lives in Michigan after falling out of touch with him for quite some time. (My fault. Refer to the third statement at the beginning of the post.) This is the brother that I've always been proud to call my "big brother". I've always felt a special kinship to him.
From him, I got my biological mother's telephone number.
Yeah, I'm sure you can see where this is going.
I haven't talked to her in years. The kids haven't been back to Michigan for about twelve years and as I talked to them about who we should see and where we should go, my daughter mentioned seeing her grandmother. "She's my last grandma alive.I want to try to see her."
I stopped trying to communicate with her years ago. She would email me and I would reply and then there would be silence. Then another unrelated email a few months later from her that I would reply to, complete with questions and an expectation of a reply and then there would be silence again. Any emails that I would initiate would go unanswered. I think I may have left a phone message, I can't recall.
But it was obviously a completely one sided conversation so I gave up.
I warned my daughter that it might not be a good idea but I would try. As brave as she has been through all of this, I couldn't NOT try.
But really, should I have tried to call on the Friday of the omnibus? Now that was just dumb.
Thankfully, I was alone at the time. When she answered the phone and I said "Hi mom", she demanded to know who I was in a very techy voice. I told her it was her daughter and she said that she didn't have a daughter by that name and hung up.
Well, it looks like having warm cookies and milk at grandma's is off the itinerary.
The thing that is so hard to get through to people that haven't been through a similar experience is that I feel no positive emotions toward my own biological mother. I have no feelings of love or care or protectiveness going either way. It's as if I tried to throw my arms around the door to door magazine sales woman from last week and tricked myself into feeling something.
I think my major malfunction comes from the fact that I see using the forced structure of a family as a "support' as flawed. Life is so incredibly short and telling myself that I'm supposed to make an effort to surround myself with people that will only try to hurt me and use me and expect me to help them continue on their self destructive ways MAKES ME FUCKING CRANKY.
This philosophy also spilled over into STBX's family. He would talk about being treated like shit but then he would go back for more because "they're my family".
Well, we can all see how well they raised you and how well you turned out so I guess that just proves how wrong I am.
I've never been a good daughter-in-law.
I've never been a good sister.
I've been been a good sister-in-law.
I've also never been a good dancer but that's a story for another day.
I'm one of those people that totally lack the warm, fuzzy cute as a kitten gene. I think I learned at a very young age that I am the only one that I can depend upon. Not getting too comfortable on the psychiatrists couch or anything, but from birth to last December, I have learned one thing very well. People fuck you over seven ways to Sunday and if you don't let them into your soft gooey center, they won't hurt you.
I think that is why I value my friends so much. I would go to the ends of the earth for my friends and as the last few months have shown, my friends feel the same way about me.
When it comes to family, I've been hurt enough. Throwing my hands up in the air and walking away is a defense mechanism that I've employed over the years to mixed success. I always thought I was refusing to allow people to use me. I thought I was refusing people the opportunity to hurt me. I'm not going to lend someone money when all they want is another drink or a hit. I'm also not going to stand around and wait to be asked a second time.
Likewise, I'm not going to stand around and put up with being treated like shit. (This statement, after 17 years of being treated like shit actually makes me laugh at my own 'full-of-shitedness').
All this leads to a phone call that I made on the day of the omnibus hearing. I've actually gotten back in touch with one of my brothers who lives in Michigan after falling out of touch with him for quite some time. (My fault. Refer to the third statement at the beginning of the post.) This is the brother that I've always been proud to call my "big brother". I've always felt a special kinship to him.
From him, I got my biological mother's telephone number.
Yeah, I'm sure you can see where this is going.
I haven't talked to her in years. The kids haven't been back to Michigan for about twelve years and as I talked to them about who we should see and where we should go, my daughter mentioned seeing her grandmother. "She's my last grandma alive.I want to try to see her."
I stopped trying to communicate with her years ago. She would email me and I would reply and then there would be silence. Then another unrelated email a few months later from her that I would reply to, complete with questions and an expectation of a reply and then there would be silence again. Any emails that I would initiate would go unanswered. I think I may have left a phone message, I can't recall.
But it was obviously a completely one sided conversation so I gave up.
I warned my daughter that it might not be a good idea but I would try. As brave as she has been through all of this, I couldn't NOT try.
But really, should I have tried to call on the Friday of the omnibus? Now that was just dumb.
Thankfully, I was alone at the time. When she answered the phone and I said "Hi mom", she demanded to know who I was in a very techy voice. I told her it was her daughter and she said that she didn't have a daughter by that name and hung up.
Well, it looks like having warm cookies and milk at grandma's is off the itinerary.
The thing that is so hard to get through to people that haven't been through a similar experience is that I feel no positive emotions toward my own biological mother. I have no feelings of love or care or protectiveness going either way. It's as if I tried to throw my arms around the door to door magazine sales woman from last week and tricked myself into feeling something.
I think my major malfunction comes from the fact that I see using the forced structure of a family as a "support' as flawed. Life is so incredibly short and telling myself that I'm supposed to make an effort to surround myself with people that will only try to hurt me and use me and expect me to help them continue on their self destructive ways MAKES ME FUCKING CRANKY.
This philosophy also spilled over into STBX's family. He would talk about being treated like shit but then he would go back for more because "they're my family".
Well, we can all see how well they raised you and how well you turned out so I guess that just proves how wrong I am.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
A Father's Legacy
As I've stated before, I've been told by professional therapists that the fact that my kids are willing to open up and be honest with me about their feelings is a good thing. It doesn't mean that I've not been stopped dead in my tracks by what they say or how they feel.
I do my best to keep my mouth shut about what is going on in the deepest, darkest recesses of my spleen. In most simple divorce cases, nothing good is ever accomplished by parents playing the kids off the other parent. Kids are not pawns in a game. Kids are unfortunately more like tennis balls, getting lobbed back and forth from one environment to the other. Hopefully, they can maintain their "resiliency". Hopefully they can "bounce back".
Hopefully one more therapist won't use these words with me again or I will set my hair on fire while singing Tip Toe Through The Tulips.
I am tired of jargon. I am tired of being told my kids are doing the best that can be expected. I'm tired of being told I'm doing the best that can be expected.
Whose expectations? Who gets to be the all knowing, all seeing person that points the trident of Poseidon at the unfortunates and deem one ok and another not?
There is so much more going on here than just a simple divorce. My kids discussed divorce with me before I ever discussed it with them. When I was called out to the garage on that snowy December day to be told by my husband that he was a cheater, I told him that our kids had mentioned the fact that I should divorce him long ago.
"What did they say?" He demanded. Of course, at this time I only knew he was a cheater, not a pedophile. "What are they supposed to say?" I shot back. "That you don't give a damn about any of us. That you never lift a finger to be a part of the family. That you don't act like a father."
In retrospect, I believe he looked relieved by that answer. He was fishing for whether I knew about his molestation of our daughter. Somewhere in the sick, disgusting recesses of his mind, I think he was looking for absolution for his perverted behaviors. From the fact that he felt it was ok to contact me at work after admitting to molesting our daughter, I honestly don't believe he felt an ounce of remorse for what he had done to his family.
Oh, there was remorse. There was remorse for the fact that he had finally discovered the straw that broke the camel's back. There was remorse that I wouldn't be one of those women who discover that their husbands are child molesters and feel the need to choose their spouse over their child. (They exist. I know three people personally who were molested by fathers and their mothers are still with those men and are in full knowledge of what they did. Needless to say, their daughters are basket cases.)
This has been a very dark couple days for me as I find myself haunted every waking moment by wondering what the fuck could be going on in a person's head that could do this. That could harbor a secret so heinous and still choose to live among the people that he perpetrated it upon.
And of course, there is the flip side. All the stories that I could never disclose here that should have been red flags. All the times of being hurt and running interference between my husband and kids. All the therapists that have shown me how our situation was no different psychologically than a woman who was being physically beaten. She will stick with a marriage until the abuse turns to her children and then she will realize that if SHE isn't worth saving, at least her children are.
To listen to your son tell you how much he hates his father and how he is ready to testify to that fact at his name change hearing makes me travel through all those years, all those hateful comments, all that indifference, all the times when a flippant remark would cut him off at his young knees and realizing how much cumulative damage has been done.
This coming from the child that wasn't molested.
After spending time with another guy who took an interest in him and explained things and enjoyed his company my son turned to me and said "That's more than I got out of dad in 15 years..." Yeah.
There are times when my heart just breaks.
I do my best to keep my mouth shut about what is going on in the deepest, darkest recesses of my spleen. In most simple divorce cases, nothing good is ever accomplished by parents playing the kids off the other parent. Kids are not pawns in a game. Kids are unfortunately more like tennis balls, getting lobbed back and forth from one environment to the other. Hopefully, they can maintain their "resiliency". Hopefully they can "bounce back".
Hopefully one more therapist won't use these words with me again or I will set my hair on fire while singing Tip Toe Through The Tulips.
I am tired of jargon. I am tired of being told my kids are doing the best that can be expected. I'm tired of being told I'm doing the best that can be expected.
Whose expectations? Who gets to be the all knowing, all seeing person that points the trident of Poseidon at the unfortunates and deem one ok and another not?
There is so much more going on here than just a simple divorce. My kids discussed divorce with me before I ever discussed it with them. When I was called out to the garage on that snowy December day to be told by my husband that he was a cheater, I told him that our kids had mentioned the fact that I should divorce him long ago.
"What did they say?" He demanded. Of course, at this time I only knew he was a cheater, not a pedophile. "What are they supposed to say?" I shot back. "That you don't give a damn about any of us. That you never lift a finger to be a part of the family. That you don't act like a father."
In retrospect, I believe he looked relieved by that answer. He was fishing for whether I knew about his molestation of our daughter. Somewhere in the sick, disgusting recesses of his mind, I think he was looking for absolution for his perverted behaviors. From the fact that he felt it was ok to contact me at work after admitting to molesting our daughter, I honestly don't believe he felt an ounce of remorse for what he had done to his family.
Oh, there was remorse. There was remorse for the fact that he had finally discovered the straw that broke the camel's back. There was remorse that I wouldn't be one of those women who discover that their husbands are child molesters and feel the need to choose their spouse over their child. (They exist. I know three people personally who were molested by fathers and their mothers are still with those men and are in full knowledge of what they did. Needless to say, their daughters are basket cases.)
This has been a very dark couple days for me as I find myself haunted every waking moment by wondering what the fuck could be going on in a person's head that could do this. That could harbor a secret so heinous and still choose to live among the people that he perpetrated it upon.
And of course, there is the flip side. All the stories that I could never disclose here that should have been red flags. All the times of being hurt and running interference between my husband and kids. All the therapists that have shown me how our situation was no different psychologically than a woman who was being physically beaten. She will stick with a marriage until the abuse turns to her children and then she will realize that if SHE isn't worth saving, at least her children are.
To listen to your son tell you how much he hates his father and how he is ready to testify to that fact at his name change hearing makes me travel through all those years, all those hateful comments, all that indifference, all the times when a flippant remark would cut him off at his young knees and realizing how much cumulative damage has been done.
This coming from the child that wasn't molested.
After spending time with another guy who took an interest in him and explained things and enjoyed his company my son turned to me and said "That's more than I got out of dad in 15 years..." Yeah.
There are times when my heart just breaks.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Mommie Dearest
It's always interesting to pop the top off your head and take a look at what makes you tick.
I remember a long time ago when my kids were toddlers, I went to a workshop on parenting and the presenter said that, when your kids are misbehaving and you are at your wits end, it sometimes helps to pretend that they are someone else's kids. You are less likely to throttle someone else's kids. You are more likely to step back from the situation and act responsibly.
I've found that advice to be very beneficial over the years when examining my own self. Having had the cheese slip off my crackers as a college student, I really don't want to go there again. Having had less than stellar therapy in the past, I'm less than trusting when it comes to laying all the power at someone else's feet.
Thus, I tinker.
During the years of my marriage, I would stand in the kitchen, stare out of the kitchen window, and psychoanalyze why I was so angry. I would delve into the reasons for my sadness. I would take comfort in the fact that I had reasons to feel the way I was feeling.
And then I wouldn't do a damn thing about it.
It's sort of like being the most enlightened person on a deserted island. In the long run, it doesn't really matter much.
Something I've been examining lately is motherhood.
So much of what is going on revolves around motherhood.
Mother-guilt for not knowing what was going on (yes, I know it's ridiculous to beat myself up for ignorance but SAYING it and FEELING it are two entirely different things.)
Abysmal choices by mothers-STBX's manhole choosing to carry on a relationship with a known pedophile when she has a young daughter. (Do you think he fantasizes about her daughter when they're having sex?).
Maternal abandonment issues-something that I've been working on in regards to myself and my first few months of life.
STBX's mother issues-He never moved past the psychological development of a ten year old and always acted like I was supposed to be his mother rather than his wife. I know a lot of women feel this way about their husbands but his is a deep seated psychological issue rather than an annoying immaturity.
There's also the culture of judgment of mother's, mine being right up there at the top. Mothers are judged far more than fathers. One side of the coin is that we're all trying to do the best we can with what we have. The other side of the coin is the reality that we often act out of selfish desires for our own safety, our own security, and our own desires.
See, prying the top off your head can get ugly.
You have to be willing to own what you have done. To admit that there were times when you should have made better choices and that there were times when you were just hanging on by a thread.
To realize that the decisions you make as a mother are made in somewhat of an echo chamber, they might seem transitory at the time but when you string them together, they make a conversation, the foundation of a life for your children.
That is the ultimate challenge and the heartbreaking joy of being a mother.
I remember a long time ago when my kids were toddlers, I went to a workshop on parenting and the presenter said that, when your kids are misbehaving and you are at your wits end, it sometimes helps to pretend that they are someone else's kids. You are less likely to throttle someone else's kids. You are more likely to step back from the situation and act responsibly.
I've found that advice to be very beneficial over the years when examining my own self. Having had the cheese slip off my crackers as a college student, I really don't want to go there again. Having had less than stellar therapy in the past, I'm less than trusting when it comes to laying all the power at someone else's feet.
Thus, I tinker.
During the years of my marriage, I would stand in the kitchen, stare out of the kitchen window, and psychoanalyze why I was so angry. I would delve into the reasons for my sadness. I would take comfort in the fact that I had reasons to feel the way I was feeling.
And then I wouldn't do a damn thing about it.
It's sort of like being the most enlightened person on a deserted island. In the long run, it doesn't really matter much.
Something I've been examining lately is motherhood.
So much of what is going on revolves around motherhood.
Mother-guilt for not knowing what was going on (yes, I know it's ridiculous to beat myself up for ignorance but SAYING it and FEELING it are two entirely different things.)
Abysmal choices by mothers-STBX's manhole choosing to carry on a relationship with a known pedophile when she has a young daughter. (Do you think he fantasizes about her daughter when they're having sex?).
Maternal abandonment issues-something that I've been working on in regards to myself and my first few months of life.
STBX's mother issues-He never moved past the psychological development of a ten year old and always acted like I was supposed to be his mother rather than his wife. I know a lot of women feel this way about their husbands but his is a deep seated psychological issue rather than an annoying immaturity.
There's also the culture of judgment of mother's, mine being right up there at the top. Mothers are judged far more than fathers. One side of the coin is that we're all trying to do the best we can with what we have. The other side of the coin is the reality that we often act out of selfish desires for our own safety, our own security, and our own desires.
See, prying the top off your head can get ugly.
You have to be willing to own what you have done. To admit that there were times when you should have made better choices and that there were times when you were just hanging on by a thread.
To realize that the decisions you make as a mother are made in somewhat of an echo chamber, they might seem transitory at the time but when you string them together, they make a conversation, the foundation of a life for your children.
That is the ultimate challenge and the heartbreaking joy of being a mother.
Monday, April 06, 2009
Taking The Bull By The Horns
I'm home sick today but yet I've had to run errands. Since I had to go downtown anyway this morning, I finally said "fuck it" and took our paperwork to the courthouse to get our names changed.
My name change would have been a part of the divorce but not the kids so since it would have been the same charge for just me or for all of us, I decided to go ahead and get it done.
As I told my therapist today, there are so many things out of my control right now that it felt SO GOOD to be able to hand in the paperwork with a mental "FUCK YOU!" message to the universe in general and to STBX in particular.
The kids have been asking for awhile when they could start using their new last name and we have all been using it for everything that wasn't "official" but actually getting the ball rolling was the tinniest of victories that I needed.
The rest of the world can burn now. I've come to a few conclusions about what I will do in certain scenarios that may happen in the future and it's given me enough peace of mind to be able to go forward with sanity, for a few more days at least!
Yup. One day at a time.
My name change would have been a part of the divorce but not the kids so since it would have been the same charge for just me or for all of us, I decided to go ahead and get it done.
As I told my therapist today, there are so many things out of my control right now that it felt SO GOOD to be able to hand in the paperwork with a mental "FUCK YOU!" message to the universe in general and to STBX in particular.
The kids have been asking for awhile when they could start using their new last name and we have all been using it for everything that wasn't "official" but actually getting the ball rolling was the tinniest of victories that I needed.
The rest of the world can burn now. I've come to a few conclusions about what I will do in certain scenarios that may happen in the future and it's given me enough peace of mind to be able to go forward with sanity, for a few more days at least!
Yup. One day at a time.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Take Two
Reboot.
That's what today has been.
I talked to my therapist (individual, not group), on Friday morning and she headed me in the right direction. I have some meds from when I saw my family doc back in January for anxiety and I've been using them a little more than previously. I'm sincerely not interested in anti-depressants at this point because I'm not interested in being a zombie. That's what they do for me and I hate it.
So today was spent in the gym, exercising the demons a little more holistically. A nice long sauna after wards was really relaxing as well.
I then went to Home Depot for a gardening presentation that didn't really tell me anything that I didn't already know but when I entered my name into a drawing, I ended up winning a gigantic peace lily. I'm going to believe that I won because I entered in my "new" name. Had I entered in my stbx's last name, not only would I not have won, I probably would have been hit by a truck in the parking lot.
Yeah, I know...but we all gotta tell ourselves stories to get through the day, right?
I also crawled out of the hole I obviously exist in and went to Earth Exchange over in Superior. Every time I've been by there they have been closed so today was my first time to actually go inside. HOLY COW! It's about damn time this area got a shop like this! Since I'm having a real problem finding food very interesting lately, I sort of keep losing weight even though I'm not trying anymore so I was totally pumped to find two pairs of jeans for a buck a piece.
I then tried to bulk up on Starbucks Coffee Cake and met Mary for a quick book sale. Currently, my son is making manicotti from scratch to go along with some sourdough bread I made this afternoon.
After the criminal case is over, I'll have to share some of the reasons why I took this tentative step off the deep end. Thankfully, I'm treading water for now.
That's what today has been.
I talked to my therapist (individual, not group), on Friday morning and she headed me in the right direction. I have some meds from when I saw my family doc back in January for anxiety and I've been using them a little more than previously. I'm sincerely not interested in anti-depressants at this point because I'm not interested in being a zombie. That's what they do for me and I hate it.
So today was spent in the gym, exercising the demons a little more holistically. A nice long sauna after wards was really relaxing as well.
I then went to Home Depot for a gardening presentation that didn't really tell me anything that I didn't already know but when I entered my name into a drawing, I ended up winning a gigantic peace lily. I'm going to believe that I won because I entered in my "new" name. Had I entered in my stbx's last name, not only would I not have won, I probably would have been hit by a truck in the parking lot.
Yeah, I know...but we all gotta tell ourselves stories to get through the day, right?
I also crawled out of the hole I obviously exist in and went to Earth Exchange over in Superior. Every time I've been by there they have been closed so today was my first time to actually go inside. HOLY COW! It's about damn time this area got a shop like this! Since I'm having a real problem finding food very interesting lately, I sort of keep losing weight even though I'm not trying anymore so I was totally pumped to find two pairs of jeans for a buck a piece.
I then tried to bulk up on Starbucks Coffee Cake and met Mary for a quick book sale. Currently, my son is making manicotti from scratch to go along with some sourdough bread I made this afternoon.
After the criminal case is over, I'll have to share some of the reasons why I took this tentative step off the deep end. Thankfully, I'm treading water for now.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Don't Pull That Trigger Before Wednesday
Today will prove to be quite the trying day as my group therapy will consist of us telling our stories.
Group has been amazing in that it is always weird to hear your experience coming from someone elses mouth. Also, learning that your quirks, idiosyncrasies, and downright insanity happen to other people too is invaluable.
However the pain in our room hangs like a pall at times. We are less than ten people but when someone reveals a little more about their story, bit by bit, the air rushes out of the room and the anguish, sorrow, and rawness descend. There are times when we reveal such agony that it can only be done while everyone stares at the floor and the speaker is barely conversing in more than a whisper.
Remember the scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom when the guy gets his heart ripped out? As he is strapped there, his still beating heart is held in front of his eyes for his own inspection.
Yeah, I wish group was that easy.
The next day is my daughter's first day of therapy and the court date.
Wednesday. Yeah. Wednesday.
I just have to make it til then.
For now, hows about a diversion? Hows about some sewing and quilting books for sale?
Group has been amazing in that it is always weird to hear your experience coming from someone elses mouth. Also, learning that your quirks, idiosyncrasies, and downright insanity happen to other people too is invaluable.
However the pain in our room hangs like a pall at times. We are less than ten people but when someone reveals a little more about their story, bit by bit, the air rushes out of the room and the anguish, sorrow, and rawness descend. There are times when we reveal such agony that it can only be done while everyone stares at the floor and the speaker is barely conversing in more than a whisper.
Remember the scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom when the guy gets his heart ripped out? As he is strapped there, his still beating heart is held in front of his eyes for his own inspection.
Yeah, I wish group was that easy.
The next day is my daughter's first day of therapy and the court date.
Wednesday. Yeah. Wednesday.
I just have to make it til then.
For now, hows about a diversion? Hows about some sewing and quilting books for sale?
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
"Stand Back", Said The Elephant, "I'm Going To Sneeze"
Having two people traveling this nightmare journey at the same time, in the same house, can be like some sort of demented tv show. Kind of like Facts Of Life meets One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. Or perhaps Family Ties meets The Shinning. Whatever it is, it has to have Jack Nicholson in it, crazy as hell, and perhaps wielding an ax. (That part would be played by me.)
It means that we can find ourselves in the most mundane surroundings, having the most heart wrenching conversations.
The hardest lesson to learn for me is that we all take this journey at different speeds. Also, a lot is dependant upon our age and experience.
At first, it was so hard to talk about it. The shock of the situation was overwhelming. When you find yourself in a house that is crumbling, you really don't want to stand inside and discuss the viability of supporting beams. You just want to run like hell. (Can't imagine WHY I thought if phrasing it like that...)
I'm in a position of wanting my daughter to talk. I'm in a position of not wanting to hear the facts. I'm in a position of wanting to do what's best for my daughter. I'm in a position where what's best for my daughter gives me nightmares. I'm in a position where I have to be strong enough to stomach the nightmares because I love my kids more than anything.
She has a counselor and will start with a therapist next week. I will always be there to listen to whatever, whenever, but I also want her to talk to professionals. I want her to open up to people that can guide her, ask the right questions, give her the right coping tools, and support her with their eleventy million years of experience.
But that's not how a teenager works. Nothing is straight forward. Nothing is easy and this? This is beyond belief. Teenagers rarely go into their therapists office, kick back and talk talk talk. It's not how they are wired.
But my daughter does art. It has been her therapy for years. It is her safe place. Her way of soothing herself.
So when her art teacher presses her for her artistic statement, they have a tendency to come off rather flat and snarky. When her art teacher presses her to discuss the inspiration behind her art in class, her answers are glib and evasive.
Until yesterday. Apparantly the teacher gave her a less than satisfactory grade on something and was less than impressed by her answers in class.
That's when the elephant sneezed.
My daughter proceeded to write her a three page letter explaining what is going on in her life. She finally let her know what her artistic motivation was.
She told me that she wasn't being rude or snarky, just informative. Hopefully the teacher takes it that way too.
I told her that I was so proud of her. It takes an amazing amount of courage to do what she did.
It's a start.
It means that we can find ourselves in the most mundane surroundings, having the most heart wrenching conversations.
The hardest lesson to learn for me is that we all take this journey at different speeds. Also, a lot is dependant upon our age and experience.
At first, it was so hard to talk about it. The shock of the situation was overwhelming. When you find yourself in a house that is crumbling, you really don't want to stand inside and discuss the viability of supporting beams. You just want to run like hell. (Can't imagine WHY I thought if phrasing it like that...)
I'm in a position of wanting my daughter to talk. I'm in a position of not wanting to hear the facts. I'm in a position of wanting to do what's best for my daughter. I'm in a position where what's best for my daughter gives me nightmares. I'm in a position where I have to be strong enough to stomach the nightmares because I love my kids more than anything.
She has a counselor and will start with a therapist next week. I will always be there to listen to whatever, whenever, but I also want her to talk to professionals. I want her to open up to people that can guide her, ask the right questions, give her the right coping tools, and support her with their eleventy million years of experience.
But that's not how a teenager works. Nothing is straight forward. Nothing is easy and this? This is beyond belief. Teenagers rarely go into their therapists office, kick back and talk talk talk. It's not how they are wired.
But my daughter does art. It has been her therapy for years. It is her safe place. Her way of soothing herself.
So when her art teacher presses her for her artistic statement, they have a tendency to come off rather flat and snarky. When her art teacher presses her to discuss the inspiration behind her art in class, her answers are glib and evasive.
Until yesterday. Apparantly the teacher gave her a less than satisfactory grade on something and was less than impressed by her answers in class.
That's when the elephant sneezed.
My daughter proceeded to write her a three page letter explaining what is going on in her life. She finally let her know what her artistic motivation was.
She told me that she wasn't being rude or snarky, just informative. Hopefully the teacher takes it that way too.
I told her that I was so proud of her. It takes an amazing amount of courage to do what she did.
It's a start.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Bear Went Over The Mountain
Today was another day of group therapy.
Before I started group, I was told that it might make things worse. It might make the flashbacks more frequent. It might make me relive it all again.
I was at the precipice when I started group. I was all hatred and homicide. My past and my present were ganging up on me.
That was a few weeks ago. I've been choosing to laugh instead of cry. Often I pause and feel every molecule in my being. I am heavy with the weight of it all.
It's a struggle against hate. It's a struggle against unbearable sadness. It's a struggle against curling in the fetal position and sobbing.
I have flashbacks to things I only remember with my skin. I am grounded in the present yet I am a child, hiding in a closet. I can stand in my kitchen and feel the fingers grasping my throat thirty years ago. Ten minutes later, I am a ghost in the recent past, reliving what I read on the police report. I am watching in horror as it all unfolds in front of me, powerless to prevent it.
It's like a burn. People are telling me I have to scrub the scabs off in order to heal. I am so very tired and this journey is so very long.
After a day that included not only group but a pap and a mammogram, I remember what it is like to have no ownership over my body. I remember opening the door to madness when I was nineteen and stepping through. I have so much more to lose this time. I have to hold on.
On days like this, when every moment seems like a chant against self destruction, I have to tell myself what would happen if I take the easy way out. If I commit an act of violence, I would be giving this horrible loser more years of my life. If I choose not to wake up tomorrow, he wins.
There are times when you have to look at the world in a grain of sand. Nothing else matters right now except for the fact that I can't let this bastard win.
But I am so tired and this mountain is so steep.
Before I started group, I was told that it might make things worse. It might make the flashbacks more frequent. It might make me relive it all again.
I was at the precipice when I started group. I was all hatred and homicide. My past and my present were ganging up on me.
That was a few weeks ago. I've been choosing to laugh instead of cry. Often I pause and feel every molecule in my being. I am heavy with the weight of it all.
It's a struggle against hate. It's a struggle against unbearable sadness. It's a struggle against curling in the fetal position and sobbing.
I have flashbacks to things I only remember with my skin. I am grounded in the present yet I am a child, hiding in a closet. I can stand in my kitchen and feel the fingers grasping my throat thirty years ago. Ten minutes later, I am a ghost in the recent past, reliving what I read on the police report. I am watching in horror as it all unfolds in front of me, powerless to prevent it.
It's like a burn. People are telling me I have to scrub the scabs off in order to heal. I am so very tired and this journey is so very long.
After a day that included not only group but a pap and a mammogram, I remember what it is like to have no ownership over my body. I remember opening the door to madness when I was nineteen and stepping through. I have so much more to lose this time. I have to hold on.
On days like this, when every moment seems like a chant against self destruction, I have to tell myself what would happen if I take the easy way out. If I commit an act of violence, I would be giving this horrible loser more years of my life. If I choose not to wake up tomorrow, he wins.
There are times when you have to look at the world in a grain of sand. Nothing else matters right now except for the fact that I can't let this bastard win.
But I am so tired and this mountain is so steep.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
PTSD - Not The Way To Be
Attending a group therapy session is an interesting thing. It's easy to read the statistics that say one in four girls will be sexually abused at some point in her life but when you sit in a roomful of women and hear your exact thoughts coming out of their mouth, it takes your breath away.
While what we say in group is bound by confidentiality, I am interested in exploring certain topics that are brought up a little further. One thing that we talked about was post traumatic stress disorder. I've had a couple people tell me that they thought I was going through it and my conversation in the group really led me to see how much it's affecting me.
Although three predominant things that I've been going through are sleeplessness (even though I never sleep well, now I'm lucky to manage four or five hours a night), misplaced rage (thankfully only against inanimate objects, the rotten bastards!), and lack of appetite, probably the hardest thing to cope with is my response to certain stimuli.
When I see a black car like my STBX's, I immediately start shaking. My hands can shake so hard that I have difficulty holding onto the steering wheel. My heart starts to pound as well and I feel nauseated.
By the way, do you realize how many old black cars are out there?
I get the same reaction when someone says my last name. It's not MY last name, it's his. It symbolizes everything that he has done and I despise it.
Another absolutely wonderful thing that happens is that I get this same response when I drive by one of the many branches of the pharmacy where he works as a delivery driver. Or even when their company car passes me on the road. Or when I walked by their company booth at the Women's Expo this weekend. I actually stopped dead in my tracks and started shaking so bad I couldn't move. Not a good thing when you're cheek to jowl with twenty thousand rabid women bent on collecting the most cheap plastic give aways/future landfill.
Of course, the most difficult thing is the awful visions I have after having read the charges mailed to me by the St. Louis County Attorney's Office. I told the police woman that I wasn't up to reading the police report but then I got all the facts from reading the charge sheet.
The thing is, I'm very good at hiding it. Occasionally, I'll hold my hands out in front of me and show a friend how it looks like I'm having a bad case of the DT's, but mostly I'll just disappear into my office or the bathroom or my car and fall apart on my own. I have so many wonderful friends but when it comes to absolutely losing my shit, it's a very singular experience.
I haven't had a literary reference in a long time and this strikes painfully close to home:
"Thus I visited each of my friends in turn, trying with fumbling fingers, to prise open their locked caskets. I went from one to the other holding my sorrow - no, not my sorrow but the incomprehensible nature of this our life - for their inspection. Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends. I to my own heart, I to seek among phrases and fragments something unbroken - I to whom there is not beauty enough in moon or tree; to whom the touch of one person with another is all, yet who cannot grasp even that, who am so imperfect, so weak, so unspeakably lonely."- Virginia Woolf
While what we say in group is bound by confidentiality, I am interested in exploring certain topics that are brought up a little further. One thing that we talked about was post traumatic stress disorder. I've had a couple people tell me that they thought I was going through it and my conversation in the group really led me to see how much it's affecting me.
Although three predominant things that I've been going through are sleeplessness (even though I never sleep well, now I'm lucky to manage four or five hours a night), misplaced rage (thankfully only against inanimate objects, the rotten bastards!), and lack of appetite, probably the hardest thing to cope with is my response to certain stimuli.
When I see a black car like my STBX's, I immediately start shaking. My hands can shake so hard that I have difficulty holding onto the steering wheel. My heart starts to pound as well and I feel nauseated.
By the way, do you realize how many old black cars are out there?
I get the same reaction when someone says my last name. It's not MY last name, it's his. It symbolizes everything that he has done and I despise it.
Another absolutely wonderful thing that happens is that I get this same response when I drive by one of the many branches of the pharmacy where he works as a delivery driver. Or even when their company car passes me on the road. Or when I walked by their company booth at the Women's Expo this weekend. I actually stopped dead in my tracks and started shaking so bad I couldn't move. Not a good thing when you're cheek to jowl with twenty thousand rabid women bent on collecting the most cheap plastic give aways/future landfill.
Of course, the most difficult thing is the awful visions I have after having read the charges mailed to me by the St. Louis County Attorney's Office. I told the police woman that I wasn't up to reading the police report but then I got all the facts from reading the charge sheet.
The thing is, I'm very good at hiding it. Occasionally, I'll hold my hands out in front of me and show a friend how it looks like I'm having a bad case of the DT's, but mostly I'll just disappear into my office or the bathroom or my car and fall apart on my own. I have so many wonderful friends but when it comes to absolutely losing my shit, it's a very singular experience.
I haven't had a literary reference in a long time and this strikes painfully close to home:
"Thus I visited each of my friends in turn, trying with fumbling fingers, to prise open their locked caskets. I went from one to the other holding my sorrow - no, not my sorrow but the incomprehensible nature of this our life - for their inspection. Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends. I to my own heart, I to seek among phrases and fragments something unbroken - I to whom there is not beauty enough in moon or tree; to whom the touch of one person with another is all, yet who cannot grasp even that, who am so imperfect, so weak, so unspeakably lonely."- Virginia Woolf
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