A Sad Day

This posting contains a very large TRIGGER WARNING because it describes in some detail the experience of someone attacking me many years ago.  I was with individuals who tried to rape me and it was only recently, through EMDR therapy, that I was truly able to process the experience. I’ve long wanted it out of my head, to have it before me so I could examine it, process it, and move on from it.  This posting is about getting those connections together.

So if you are able and willing to do so, read on to hear my story. It does contain depictions of violence (physical and sexual assault) and may be upsetting to some readers. Please take care of yourselves.

STORY BEGINS HERE * TRIGGER WARNING*

Bear hugs might as well be bear traps, for all the comfort they generally provide.

I’m not a terribly cuddly person and my physical distancing has led to many varied frustrations with friends, family, coworkers, and strangers. They feel hurt and shirked by my dislike for well-intentioned touching. They don’t understand why I don’t share their desire for physical closeness. What gets lost is the fact that I’m also frustrated by my discomfort. Wouldn’t it be so much easier if I could just accept an embrace or a back pat? If I could let hands linger on my shoulders, maybe it would lead to happiness for both me and the others.

But I can’t relax into it.

Human skin has a mild sensitivity to pressure. Fingertips on forearms, head on shoulders, torso pressed to torso; they’re all simple, everyday actions that force an elevated pulse and pounding heart. I’m not excited; I’m anxious. I’m afraid of being trapped, concerned that I will be stuck beneath oppressive limbs. Of course I want to be close to others but my physiological response forges a distance I often believe to be inescapable. I’m bad, I’m different, I’m a hopeless case. I can’t bond.

Naturally, there are reasons why touching is difficult. One of them is the erudite understanding that I am simply not as physically welcoming as the average human being. Another is experiencing abuse that likely hammered my natural tendencies into phobias. From childhood I was physically, verbally, emotionally, and sexually attacked. Degradation and humiliation fostered coldness and muteness. Being frozen meant that I could divorce myself from the hurt that followed. Feet were no longer there. I couldn’t run but I couldn’t feel the depth of my wounds.

As I grew into adulthood I found my arms-length approach morphing into a mile-wide berth. I suspect this change was born from further abuse suffered in adulthood, though the connection that allowed me to understand this deepening has arisen only in the last few years. With a protective bubble of elapsed time and supportive friends I have been able to articulate more and more of the damage.

Yet, until recently I had never told anyone the story of the attempted rape.

Back in 2002, between feeling sorry for myself and suffering a seemingly endless string of losses, I found friends who were willing to spend time with me despite my less-than-happy outlook on life. They liked me and were happy to talk with me and engage in general waywardness. I believed they supported me and were looking out for me in my darker times. Yet, as I grew closer to this new social circle, I began having trouble with this one particular individual. The things he said and did have long been locked in my mind as part of the brick wall of self-imposed exile.

He grew interested in me because I was sad. I called it compassion but my retcon term would be creepy obsession. My self-loathing and lack of self-esteem were as obvious as the marks I had carved into my arms would have been if my sleeves had ever been rolled up. I let him hug me, console me, take me out for walks, and force me to eat. We were friends.

Over a few months, his romantic relationship (with a girl who was also a friend of mine) deteriorated and he began telling me how much he liked my body, how he was attracted to me and wanted to sleep with me. Even as I pushed these suggestions aside and did my best to ignore his advances, I knew our friendship had started to wind into dangerous territory. Still, I spent time with him. Sometimes it was in a group; sometimes it was just the two of us alone.

We even drank together when alone. I had no qualms about my ability to handle alcohol, having always had a good sense of when to drink and when to stop. I’d also never experienced a blackout or found myself doing anything while drinking that I wouldn’t do sober.

But there’s missing time from that night, that stupid, awful night eleven years ago when I suddenly went from being mildly buzzed to feeling extremely drunk. I was sloshy, confused, lethargic and dizzy. I’d had very little to drink and yet my body thought it was the victim of a good seven or eight shots. In my friend’s darkened apartment, I sank back onto the couch, tired and lost. He had another friend visiting. (I shall henceforth call him “S”) They were talking, and I grew agitated, trying to get up from the sofa, turning out the contents of my pockets to the ground, reminding them that I was severely depressed at the time. Scared, unhappy, I really wanted to go home, so I stumbled around the room for a moment, looking for a safe space because S and my friend had both begun to frighten me. Other people had been there earlier in the evening, but they had departed, leaving the three of us in the apartment by ourselves.

Together they closed in on me, blocking my path, telling me I couldn’t leave. With my purse tucked under my arm, I staggered to the door and found that it was a double cylinder bolt, locked from both sides. I pounded on it but neither of them would slip the key in. Similarly, the back door had a bolted lock that required a second twist of metal to undo. With the realization that I was trapped in a third-floor locked apartment with non-opening windows, I felt myself bang on the heavy door, screaming for someone to let me out. I can’t imagine exactly where I would have gone, but I knew I was not safe.

My friend and S pulled me back to the couch, telling me to calm down. In a dissociative fit, my arms and legs struggled without my knowledge. They said they had something to help. Whatever it was, I didn’t want it and lashed out, flailing as I tried to again free myself from the couch. It was a big fluffy piece of furniture, one of those whose cushions cause you to fall into a pit of fabric when you lean back. A knee went over my thighs, pushing me down. Hands smacked into my chest, slamming me against the back of the couch. One of them leaned in, pushing against my forehead, pulling at my chin, forcing my mouth open.

Cursing and admonitions to calm down and shut up ensued as they tipped what I think was their leftover bong water down my throat. I’d never smoked. Not even a cigarette. My heaviest drug use were the few beers I’d had in the six months since turning 21. I choked, trying to expel whatever it was from inside, but instead was pushed back, liquid running down the inside of my throat, and down the outside of my face. They said I’d be fine, but neither one of them released their grip on me. One of them was stroking my skin while the other held me back with the hand flattened to my breastbone. I think, but can’t honestly recall if this is a real detail, that someone started loosening my clothing. I do know that this perception is what caused me to go berserk with screaming and crying.

There were hints of coming sexual assault. Thigh stroking even as I tried to force them off, fingering the skin near my cleavage, above my collar, talk about my attractiveness and interest in fucking me. Someone tried to cover my mouth, to muffle the angry sounds I was making. I took advantage of a moment when hands were readjusted to push my way upward. In 2002 I had not been eating, and I had become sickly thin, my bones so weak that lying down at night hurt me. The fact that I could muster any amount of strength to fight back, particularly in a drugged state, still amazes and bewilders me.

But I did, and this time I managed to snake my cell phone and get a fervent call out to another friend, who agreed to come pick me up. Still, I know that he was at least thirty minutes away and my last memory of that room before his arrival is of the phone call. Whatever happened thereafter, I don’t know. To the best of my knowledge, there was no completed rape, only the attempted one I’ve alluded to already. Though with a distressing thirty minutes of missing memory, I cannot help but feel weak and shake at the black hole of time.

I left the place in a panicked, shaking state. My other friend (we shall refer to him as “B”) lectured me about being alone with those guys, about drinking with them, etc. I had small wounds on my arms and legs, things that I may have done to myself or may have been the natural result of warding off someone else’s attack. I believe I had to put my outer shirt on as I left, which has always led me to wonder why I didn’t have it on. I wasn’t naked, and it’s important to note that I can’t quite remember if this was real or just the product of my later analysis trying to make sense of things. B spent the drive home fixated on that lecture, but when he helped me out of his car and up to my apartment, he tried to kiss me, leaving me further wounded and vulnerable.

After that, I didn’t leave my apartment for several days. I was numb, extremely, extremely turned inward. I showered a lot. I didn’t eat. I didn’t speak to anybody. Very shortly thereafter I tried to kill myself, believing that I was dirty and ruined. Other bad life circumstances factored in but that incident was prominent in my mind. The self-talk script kept echoing, It’s your fault and a wide variety of stereotypical victim-blaming stanzas suggesting that I was wrong for going out drinking with a friend, that I had made a mistake in what I wore, that I had somehow led them on and egged them into harming me because I was being sad and mopey. Those melodies of absurd self-hatred lingered for many, many years, telling me repeatedly that I was a bad, bad person.

Sense memory runs deep as a result. A light touch, even an unintentional one, near my chest, can still sometimes set me off into a crushing panic. It might be subtle, all of the symptoms tucked on the inside, save my quiet wide-eyed face, but it’s still present. Whenever a hand comes at me and lands on the skin, I don’t exist anymore. The panic has already caused me to freeze and disassociate. I’ve gone somewhere else, to a place where I’m debating fighting and fleeing, but where I also can’t feel my legs. I can be lost for seconds, for minutes, for hours. Even if I’m still going, I’m not always really there.

When friends lean in for the hug and I reject them, I know it makes them sad. I don’t like casting that protective wall. Much as most people do I ultimately want to be loved. I long for the ability to rest against another human being, snuggled up, feeling protected and warm. Unfortunately, it’s so very, very hard to dismiss the memory in my skin.

Patrick Stewart’s “You’re Safe Now” & My Own Recovery

I’m ready to come back and talk. I’ve had a couple of months to think and relax at a safe distance from these subjects and I’m again energized to work in advocacy and celebrate my own continuing recovery.

At heart, I am a geek and I have to confess that much of my love for Patrick Stewart is born from being a geek.  So when I saw his interaction with a fan regarding domestic violence I felt this unbelievable sensation of fandom glee and amazement at his eloquent explication of overcoming violence. The Tor blog also links to his speech at Amnesty International on those same subjects. It is amazing that celebrities use their powers for public good. Though I always have to shout out to those who are celebrities in their own communities, the volunteer advocates who take up these causes in equal or greater measure. You are amazing.

For the last several months I have been visiting an acupuncturist who has helped me better learn to relax and to control a number of my physical ailments, including a very frequently recurring eye twitch that was brought on by stress and anxiety. I look forward to these weekly appointments in much the same way I’d look forward to massages, which I really need to schedule.  Among other things, these sessions have helped me with accepting others touching me as a relaxing and calming gesture rather than cause for panic.

In all, I’d say this time has helped me put many things into perspective, and I’m happy to be back and blogging again.

Black Friday through a Black Window

And it officially turns into the holiday season.

Even in families with completely loving members who lack sordid histories, holidays can be stressful times. You might love someone but not want to be crammed into a crowded house with him/her for a 72 hour period while you are also away from your routine comforts. That’s just human nature. I love my sister dearly but would not want to take a cross-country road trip with her in a four door sedan. We’re better suited to a relationship where we hang out in each other’s homes, go shopping, eat meals, and then part ways. It’s not because our connection is broken but rather that we’re the type of people who value our alone time and personal space. I suspect that many people can relate to this when it comes to friends and family both.

If you tack on difficult family members and bad family situations, holidays become less concretely about love and respect and morph into minefields of negative gossip, rumor, and frustration. The cultural messages dictating that Thanksgiving and Christmas are times of peace and love, of family and togetherness do not help ease frustration or mixed emotion for those who have less than flowery experiences of time spent together. I’ve seen it many years in emergency shelters. Families feel sad or lost because they’re not at home or don’t answer the phone calls from former partners and partners’ families. They haven’t done anything wrong by leaving an abusive situation but it hurts when a five year-old asks “But why isn’t daddy here?” or a twelve year-old demands “Can’t I go back to Grandma’s house?” Family is a complex concept, and one worthy of far more scholarly attention than I can devote to it in this blog. Still, holidays arouse these kinds of emotions and experiences for so many, including myself.

For years I had internalized the idea that Christmas was magical. And by magical, I mean that it would always end up being a good day no matter what other horrors or bad things preceded it. Everything would be great. No fighting, no sickness, no dying, no sadness. I also firmly believed in my youthful naiveté that my magical understanding was global. Nobody could be sick or sad. No one would fight or die. Not a single soul anywhere in the world. This illusion broke apart for the first time when I learned about friends who had not been visited by Santa Claus (despite believing in him) and when I heard from classmates who had been spanked, grounded, or otherwise punished at Christmas time. I don’t know if I recognized the disconnect between my magical facade and my actual holiday experiences. Somehow I think I was too young. This revelation had far more power in my adolescence when I started to avoid family gatherings.

Besides, my family Christmas experiences were mixed. We’d have a great time on Christmas Eve. Everyone would be cozy while reading stories and finalizing ornament placement on the tree. Sometimes Christmas mornings were wonderful. Other times they were nothing but in-fighting with yelling and accusations. Sometimes they were slightly more violent. Extended family visits could take the same tracks but with a number of younger cousins running around and having none who were older or close to my age, I usually would find a quiet chair and read alone. Sometimes I’d write stories. Typically, though, being alone until dinner was my tactic for getting through most of those celebrations. As anyone dealing with large groups of children will tell you, there was a lot of turmoil. Fighting, arguing, playful violence, and loud voices were common. It’s certainly not abnormal but it stressed me out, made me feel frozen and miserable in many circumstances. Among the most difficult were the times when my younger cousin (younger but similarly sized) would attack me and I would be blamed and punished for his attacking me. Then we’d all have nice dinners and open packages and smile and take photographs and be happy. I suspect this is a fairly normal holiday experience with a large family gathering, though. I share it not because I think of this as the worst possible scenario for a holiday (far from it, actually) but rather to show that I’ve got a varied set of experiences when it comes to the holidays.

At a certain point, after my grandmother passed away close to Christmas (just a couple days before), and I began to realize that my family had not actually always been kind to me, I started to flee from celebration. I didn’t want to be reminded of going to a funeral two days before Christmas. I didn’t want to think about how her death caused all of the positive family traditions to be as much broken apart as the negative ones. I didn’t want to sit through dinners of civil conversation when I knew that I had been abused by the people with whom I passed dinner rolls. And this is where I think that complexity regarding family becomes very, very important. I love them. They love me. I’ve done less than awesome things, such as lying to them, or failing to help out as requested. Some of them verbally and physically abused me for years. But I’ve also done good things for them and they’ve shown love and kindness to me in ways that go beyond the bounds of mere obligation. Again, it’s very, very complicated. I would not suggest to someone else that they have to recognize the good their abusive family members did for them. (This being different from having them characterize an abuser as a person with flaws and virtues.) I simply wish to state that I recognize that about my own situation. It doesn’t necessarily make it any easier to handle going home at holiday time. In fact, I generally avoid it as much as possible. This brings about its own measure of guilt.

Because this is a time of the year that causes increased stress and grows the potential for difficult emotions, I’ve formulated a list (what a surprise, right?!) of tips that I’ve used to help myself get through hard spots. I don’t want to suggest that these are things you must or should do. These may not be things that work for everybody. This is merely what has worked for me and I want to share my experience.

1. Set boundaries. If it seems obvious, that may be because it is. Nonetheless, actually making the commitment to create and honor boundaries can be very difficult. Determining those boundaries in advance is important because it helps me to know when I’m getting close to a bad point. So if I tell myself, “I will go to Christmas dinner but I will not stay past 9 PM,” it sounds reasonable and workable but someone begging and pleading with you to stay later can easily derail such ideas if not firmly established. (Of course it can still be the case that things don’t work out as planned, and this should not be used as an excuse for self-punishing behaviors or thoughts, but it’s something to use as a learning experience.) I try to set boundaries on conversational topics. For instance, if someone starts telling me I’m failing because of my relationship status or career choice, I will end that conversation and walk away. That’s one of my most important boundaries, actually.
2. Have an escape plan. It seems a little sad to me that I have to create an excuse to get out of family holiday events but I think it also means I’m better able to relax into those situations, knowing I have a way to get out if I need to. A plan that allows me to save social face, and prevent angry disturbances is usually best. My typical way of handling this is to have someone on board to send me a message with unclear information so I have a reason to call them and get more details, at which point I can use them as a means to leave if needed. It is dishonest, certainly, but it is also a polite method of preserving the peace, and in many cases, I actually think that it’s okay to keep myself safe and well in those situations. I also handle this by making plans for a specific time so my visits at holiday time are limited. “I’ll need to be home by 9 PM, so I need to leave no later than 5 PM, etc.
3. Rely on self-soothing techniques. You might think I’m talking about getting all boozed up but I’m not. Especially at these types of events, I avoid alcohol like the plague. (Not that I’m much of an imbiber to begin with.) Instead I refer to those things that help me through other bad spots, like the ten second count, deep breathing, stepping away, and having internal dialog to respond to negative comments from others with reassuring positive ones. “You’re a terrible daughter” turns into “She’s upset and stressed out and you know this is not true.” It doesn’t really mean it hurts less. It merely means I have the strength to get through the situation.
4. Have alternative celebrations. If I consider family time to be largely an obligation rather than a celebration, I figure that I still need to have time and space to do actual festive celebrating. This means I set up plans with friends and people I’ve invited into my life as caring and compassionate individuals. I might have a party, or I might merely sit with them and watch bad Christmas specials. The point is that these other events bring me a kind of joy I may not be able to experience when I go home. I have actually tried to help clients recognize that they are entitled to joy and to know that they’re “allowed” to create it for themselves if they so desire.  Actually, there have been many times when I’ve been both happy and excited to engage in celebrations with clients who seem to be genuinely enjoying themselves. It makes us all feel better to find joy where we can.
5. Realize that I have another family. Much like I have learned to create alternative celebrations, I have tried to encourage myself to realize that my friends are every bit my family as well. And these are people whom I trust and love and who respect me and care for me in a way that my blood family may not. (This is not to say that my blood family doesn’t love me or care about me, but my friends care for me in a different way.) I try to remind myself of this fact because I do believe that my output of joy and intake of love are linked to own well-being and my own efforts, but that there are people out there who care for me. And even if there aren’t right now (though there are) that I can seek them out in my own time.

Of course, I still struggle greatly with celebrating holidays with family. These bits of advice help to mitigate my problems but they don’t cure me. I’m probably never going to feel completely at ease with going home at Christmas or Thanksgiving. (If I go at all.) I certainly hope that won’t be the case for the rest of my life and I work to try to make it less and less of a problem but right now, the reality is, it’s just a time when I suffer mixed, difficult feelings. I sympathize greatly with people who have hard times with the holidays (whatever the reason) and I wish them the best.

I am not a professional in this field. I merely offer my opinions and thoughts as they occur to me based on my own experiences. I am willing to listen to alternate viewpoints and discuss variant scenarios but I do reserve the right to remove comments and data I find to be offensive and against my primary purpose of helping survivors.

Feeling Blue

I’ve had a rough couple of days in my personal life.  Things are certainly on the mend but a few bad moments are still frustrating. Of course, this is (fortunately) a normal human experience. A bad week makes you feel bad. It’s a simple, logical circumstance. Entirely understandable. One of the reasons working through my own trauma has historically been so hard is that it’s not so simple as input and output. It’s more like baking a cake than stirring up a salad.

With the release of the movie, I reread The Perks of Being a Wallflower last week. I read it way back in 2002 and found myself at odds with parts of it. Sometimes I’d think Charlie was unbearably annoying (a la Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye) and other times the most sympathetic character I could imagine. I suspect this makes him fairly human then. On my first reading of that book I became very mopey. This time around I found it cathartic.  Possibly it was because I already knew the ending and possibly it was just that it happened to be a good week for that sort of thing.

My coping skills have gotten better. Namely it’s a lot easier to laugh and step back from things. Certainly not everything deserves a chuckle but many things do. I guess practice really does help. I’ve wanted to re-engage in my yoga practice (which has lapsed significantly) because posing and breathing helps me to maintain some physical control over myself. Between examining the subtext of novels and looking for positives, I guess I’m feeling less sick at the thought of getting through another week.

I know it’s obvious from reading what I write here but I like lists. I find them helpful (also probably indicative, at least a little, of my control freak tendencies). So here are things I want to explore as further means to getting healthy:

• Reiki: I’m interested but still really apprehensive about having someone else touch me in this way. However; it’s supposed to be a solid part of boydwork in trauma recovery. I think about getting regular massages for this reason.  The only massages I’ve ever been comfortable getting were on my feet and my upper back (while clothed). I’ve never felt okay with stripping down for a massage, and I don’t know how hard it would be for me to do it. I imagine fairly difficult, honestly. I want to work up toward doing this.
• Visit a new talk therapist. I haven’t tried this in a while. Other activities have actually made it much simpler for me to cope with my life so I haven’t re-explored talking to someone. Nonetheless I don’t think that therapy suggests you’re actively engaged in a problem. What I do think it means is that you’re trying to improve yourself. It’s hard to find a good trauma therapist. That isn’t that there aren’t plenty of qualified people out there, but rather that it’s hard to match myself to someone else in this context.
• Re-engaging in a meditation practice. I’ve done it but I’ve not done a good job of maintaining it as a practice. I haven’t achieved a very good sense of mindfulness but I find myself happier when I get close to holding to my mind in this state. I really need to monitor what I do for meditation practice.

Anyway, that’s just sort of where I am this week.