Tuesday, 2/23/21
(For an explanation about the fractured parts of my psyche, including ‘Grace’, see the ‘Cast of Characters in my Mind’ tab on the home page, or for more details, the ‘Dissociation’ post dated 10/11/20)
Hi amazing person! Were you able to receive and/or make some beautiful moments over the last several days? I hope so, you’re worthy. I tried and was successful in some endeavors, others not so much. I keep trying though. Can you see the beauty in your attempts whether or not they succeed the way you (or others) would like them to? If it didn’t go the way you’d hoped do you believe you’ve learned a bit so next time might be better, then ‘go for it’ again? I used to let failure take me down and keep me stuck, not willing to take another chance. Now I get back up faster, consider what happened, pray for redemption and try again if it’s important to me and/or someone else. There are times, however, when I’m not sure if it’s best for all concerned to keep pushing when I do.
So, back to Grace’s era. To be honest, I’ve been avoiding this for a while now, and the procrastination hasn’t made it any easier to write!
Not quite sure the exact age when the sexual abuse began for ‘Grace’. There was an incident that happened in the house we moved out of when I – or ‘Grace’ – was eight years old, but I don’t know if that was the first time. It went on into the teenage years, but don’t yet recall when it ended. Over the course of time it involved cousins and other relatives as well as some of the ring leader’s buddies, but still not aware of how many participated. The poem “Reality vs. Fantasy” (posted 2/16/21) pretty much describes, in general, what happened. There were various types of horrors, and as the poem says, they ‘broke me in ways no one cared to see’. (Including me – I didn’t want to see for too many years, and that denial was to my own [and others] detriment.) There are more memories still lurking in the subconscious that every now and then I get a too-quick-to-clearly-define glimpse of. I keep praying for the courage to face them, to bring them out into the light so they can be properly healed but I’ve been told by several counselors that people don’t usually remember all they blocked out. Grateful to be finally understanding I can learn to love and live life fully without being aware of and healed from all the details.
I do recall how I literally perceived the world as dark during those years. I had no idea that had happened until one day in high school when a teacher asked me to participate in a simple experiment. I said something that was unintentionally funny and when the others laughed I actually laughed too, and the room suddenly seemed brighter. It was so weird. Even after class the hallways were so much lighter. The world dimmed down again afterwards, but I was (and still am) grateful for that time of levity and being able to feel like I belonged.
Took a psychology class in my junior year and for a book report included a depressing poem I had written called “The Welcoming World.” When the report was returned the teacher had written a comment asking who wrote the poem. I didn’t tell her. Not long after that I was called into the counselor’s office and the counselor said a friend of mine was concerned. She kept asking in various ways if I was O.K.. I denied there were any problems. I knew what was going on at home wasn’t right, but since there was no recourse I couldn’t let myself realize how wrong it was. Never did figure out if it was the teacher or a friend who talked to the counselor on my behalf.
Through out the teen years when stress would get to be too much I would spend a day just vomiting and sleeping, then the next day would be able to cope again.
Other than having an increasingly hard time being able to do the school work, overall I had a decent rapport with the teachers and fellow students. There were a few good friends but over time felt increasingly alienated from them because of all the shame that was accumulating. I pushed all but one of them away after graduation. Speaking of graduation, I have no memory of mine and just a bit of a memory of the open house. (The memory lapses aren’t due to drugs or alcohol.)
As I’m sure you can imagine, things were a bit more difficult at home. I spent a lot of time in my room with the shades pulled and lights off, either curled up in the fetal position on my bed or huddled up against the wall, needing it’s solidness to lean on and getting some sense that there was at least one side that someone couldn’t get to me from. I’d put headphones on with the music turned up to maximum volume, trying to mentally obliterate the hell I was experiencing. I’d go into deep fantasies like I did when the abuse was happening. In the beginning I would imagine someone would save me, kind of like how it was described in “Reality v. Fantasy”, but eventually couldn’t even imagine being rescued anymore. In order to release some of the pain I knew was inside but could no longer feel and was never allowed to acknowledge, I’d harm myself. That’s a behavior I still struggle with to this day, but in a much more scaled down way, and I’ve only done that once since starting this blog so I think it’s been conquered, thank God!
I would fantasize about killing myself, but fear of not actually succeeding and then having to deal with the fall out from how I would be treated by family kept me from actually attempting it. There were several times when no one was around I would stand over the kitchen sink with a serrated knife poised over my wrist, despising myself even more for not having the courage to go through with it. I knew I was messed up and asked to get some sort of mental health help. What’s bizarre about this is, whether from denial and/or from blocking out the memories, I didn’t have any idea why I was so messed up, I just blamed myself. Of course my parents were dead set against therapy. They told me what I was feeling was ‘all in my head’ and I just needed to get over myself.
As I’m writing this some of the devastation, horror, depression, ‘otherness’, shame and guilt from that time is surfacing. It’s hell to relive. But if there is any chance that this blog can give some other hurting person the realization they aren’t alone, that someone (and a Higher Power) cares, and perhaps hope that they, too, will survive and one day thrive, then I’ll feel like all that had happened has been redeemed. I need to do this, for other wounded souls as well as myself.
Thank you to the friends who really did care ‘back then’, especially Kim and Pam. I’m now realizing, you listened.
Friday’s post will be the continuation of “Crawling from the Wreckage”, which began last Friday. Hope you’ll be there!
Today’s poem is a style called ‘Cinquain’ and was written in my early twenties. I am determined to change this behavior, by golly:)!
Scared to say "Hi" so now what do I do? Hide. c. Pearl
