Scattered pieces

Fragments… just bits and pieces flying around inside my head.

That’s what the last week has been like.  Nothing tangible to hold onto.

The only constant are feelings of disgust.  I feel dirty, disgusting, sub-human… unclean.  I don’t think the layers of filth can be, or will ever be, removed.  It is part of me as surely as the colour of my eyes.  It is a part of me, and I am a part of it.

I think I could handle it, if all of the fragments flying around my head were of horror.  Horror has the ability to sweep you away in a dissociative haze of lost time.  But when there are everyday scenes intermingled with the horror, it makes you pause.  You pause and look.  You turn the fragment around, inspecting it from all angles.  You look into the heart of it, and only then do you see the horror.  The unmitigated horror of seeing how brazen and normal the abuse was.  In those everyday scenes, you see the range of emotions on the faces around you – discomfort, curiosity, embarrassment, and the knowing smiles.  What they don’t know, is that they are being manipulated.  This is part of their entrance exam into the Old Boys Club.  They all pass.  Even the ones who question the young girls presence in a place she shouldn’t be, with their joking protests quickly turning into silent observation.

It was the perfect scenario.  There was no obvious abuse, but it was implied.  Every person in the room probably knew that something was wrong, but there was nothing tangible that they could take to the authorities.  It opened the door to silent consent, and they walked through.  They became accessories; and in order to ease their own conscious, they will stay forever silent.  They didn’t see anything, after all.  Just a young girl with her father walking by the shower room.  He might not have known that the team were in there.  They’re both hearing impaired, after all.

It changed the way those men looked at me.  Some of them turned away more quickly.  Some saw through me more readily.  Some smiled, and beckoned me over more often.

Then the memories of horror draw you into their grip.  Grounding techniques are lost in the wave that overwhelms and batters your mind.

But still, you force the smile and talk inanities to the person asking about patron upload problems.

You pack up the box of horrors for another time.  Stamp down the lid and push it backwards.  You hope that you never have to look at the box again.  But, you know you will.  Not because of the memories in the box, but because of the emotions it evokes.  There is anger at looking at the horror, and anger at looking away.  In a world of no-wins, I walk the minefield of navigating the present, while trying to understand and heal from the past.

It’s all done in the hope of having a future.  My father took me past the shower room in order to have a future that he wanted.  I walked past that shower room because I had no concept of choice.  Despite often losing my way, I do have choices now.  I have choices based on experience, education and understanding.  The only thing more soul-destroying than the abuse, is seeing how I seem to make choices which encourage, or perpetrate self-abuse.

I know that there should be a positive note to the end of this, but there isn’t.  I sit here at work, looking at the huge pile of work that is expected of me.  I feel the effects of the medical problems which I was told yesterday will require minor surgery.  I feel the dissociation starting – the slight fuzziness at the back of my head which is creeping forward steadily.  It’s difficult to find that positivity, when the layers of stress in the present, add to the layers of horror from the past.  Your head becomes a maelstrom of emotions, and the only relief is dysfunctional coping.

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Now playing: Tracy Chapman – All that you have is your soul
via FoxyTunes

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Note: This may trigger due to talk of abuse and the Sandusky abuse scandal.

Cold, hard concrete floor
Wooden seats, newly stained
Cicadas singing
Tree silhouettes dance across the window

…

This is the first verse of a poem that I wrote today.  I won’t share the rest of it with you, because it’s too raw and personal.

Raw is probably the best way to describe how I’m feeling at the moment.  I’m struggling to make sense of what is going on, and there might not be too much of this which makes sense, but I’ll try to keep it coherent…

When the news of the Sandusky scandal broke, I wasn’t surprised to find that this man had been protected by those around him.  It makes sense – power, loyalty, pack mentality, morality, etc; all play a part in people staying silent about abuse for so long.  This, I understand.  I even understand the anger that some of the students exhibited at the firing of Joe Paterno… when your illusions of someone are shown to be false, it’s difficult to cope with.  I know that this is only an assumption about their motivations, but it makes sense to me.

It also makes a certain amount of sense that the photos I saw associated with the scandal headlines, were not those of Sandusky; but instead of Joe Paterno.  He was the more well known of the two.  But it also shows another sign of how the real tragedy of this scandal gets lost… where is the talk of the victims?  These boys (some of whom are now men), were vulnerable and allegedly abused.  As far as I can tell, they have yet to determine the identity of the victim in the showers.  I realise that identifying this person might be difficult after all these years; but to me, he’s symbolic of how anonymous and vulnerable these victims were.

This is where it becomes difficult to separate my own experiences from the ones surrounding the scandal.  I often describe myself as being invisible and disposable; and this is exactly how these boys seem to have been treated by Sandusky.  They were vulnerable, and he was in a position of power… he is described as paying attention to them, giving them gifts and opportunities that they wouldn’t have otherwise had – that is, he groomed them.

The cynic in me says that this invisibility and disposability has spilled over into some of the media coverage of the scandal, as the victims take a back-seat to the careers of football coaches…

I’m the first to admit that I don’t know anything about football, but I do know a bit about the sports pack mentality that can contribute to this sort of cover-up.  I grew up in a small town where the weekends were dominated by sport.  It was a crowd that you were either a part of it, or not.  If you were part of the crowd, then your life became intertwined with these other people to such an extent, that your children would call your friends “uncle” or “aunt”; you would laugh as you watched your drunk friend stumble towards their car when the bar closed; you would laugh at the racist and sexist jokes, then tell a few of your own…  It was very much “what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas”.  Admittedly, this was 30 odd years ago, but some of that sport culture still remains.  Even if the acts have changed, the camaraderie and sense of community remains.  When things get bad, you talk to one of the crowd, you don’t involve outsiders…  So even though I don’t agree with his actions, I can understand why the graduate assistant called his father, and then talked to his superiors within the organisation.  He failed that boy in the shower; and in so doing, kept his position within the crowd – it takes courage to stand up to the crowd… isn’t it sad that it takes courage to do the right thing?

The problem is, that understanding the potential reasons why people failed those boys, doesn’t help.  Firstly, it’s only conjecture on my part; but secondly, and more importantly… those boys were allegedly abused.  All of the reasons why, won’t take that away.  Nothing will reverse these events, all we can do is support the people who need it… the victims.

—————-
Now playing: Natalie Merchant – My skin
via FoxyTunes

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I’m told that asking for help is one of the strongest things that a person can do.  There is a strength in the vulnerability that comes from admitting that you can’t do something by yourself.  It’s an indication that you’re not perfect… not the self-sufficient island of invincibility that you’d like to think you are.

It stinks.

It hurts.

It feels impossible.

Over the last few months, I’ve had the urge to cut off my hands during therapy.  I know that this is about wanting to reach out for help, and not being able to do so.  It’s about punishing those parts of myself who want to reach out.  It’s about not allowing weakness.

I learned early on in life that weakness was not acceptable, and made life difficult.  Any sign of weakness could be used against me.  If I was scared of something, then I could be taunted with it.  If something hurt, then it could be prodded.  I was confused by being hurt by people that, five minutes earlier, had been laughing and teasing me.  All of this meant that I saw my only option as being to draw inward, and showing no outward sign of vulnerability.  I was often called stuck-up while I was growing up, mainly because I did everything possible to keep myself separate from those around me.  I didn’t think that I was better than anyone else, I just didn’t trust anyone (including myself); so my only protection was to withdraw and project a veneer of invincibility.

That veneer of invincibility is now being threatened.  There’s a needy part of me wanting to reach out to others for help.  But that is being resisted.  I’m showing more signs of dysfunctional coping.  I’ve withdrawn any meaningful communication with everyone.  I’m having to take medication every morning, just to face the prospect of work.  I’ve withdrawn as much contact with people as is possible.  All I’m doing, is trying to fly under the radar.

This is the contradiction that I’m living with – needing to fly under the radar, which by definition, means being self-sufficient and invisible; and parts of me needing help.

One is seen by society as being strong; the other weak.

One has kept me alive for the last 30 odd years; the other is what led to so much pain in the past, that I don’t know if I can go there again.

Even if I wanted to ask for help, I don’t think that I know how to do so.  The stumbling efforts that I’ve made towards asking for help, have been a disaster.  I’ve sent emails which have been misread and caused more pain.  I’ve called crisis lines, and not been able to communicate how badly I’m coping, or ended up in the Police holding cells.  I’ve gone online to talk to friends, but ended up being unsafe instead.  So I obviously don’t know how to ask for, or accept, help.  I don’t know what positive help looks like, and I’ve lost all sense of safety.

But, I’m still turning up to work everyday.  I’m still playing the game.

—————-
Now playing: Adele – Rolling In The Deep
via FoxyTunes

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When I was growing up, my father’s anger dictated the mood within the house.  The image of him sitting in his lounge chair, while the waves of silent anger came pouring off of him, is one of my consistent flashbacks.  The fear I feel when seeing that image, is immense.

Closely associated with my father sitting in his lounge chair, is him watching the rugby games which seemed to be broadcast every weekend.  During the broadcasts, everyone in the house had to be silent.  The only spoken words were demands for more beer, or food.

Then there was the rugby club.  Another of my constant flashbacks and a place associated with abuse, chaos and neglect.

All of the events associated with those flashbacks happened over 20 years ago.  They seem so far away, and yet so close.

One of the things keeping them close is the Rugby World Cup that is underway in New Zealand.  For more than a month, there have been daily reminders of rugby and it’s importance in the nations psyche – I wake up to rugby news on the radio; every third or fourth car has a different nations flags flying proudly from their windows; there are billboards on the side of the road; there is a supporters display covering half of a wall in the building that I work; rugby is prominently in the newspapers; it’s on every television channel (even the ones proudly advertising that they are NOT the home of rugby); it’s on the Internet… it.is.everywhere.  I can’t avoid it… believe me, I’ve tried.

Last night New Zealand won a place in the World Cup final.  Another week of heightened publicity before it’s all over.  I honestly don’t think I can cope.  I’ve become more withdrawn and stilted over the last few months.  The chaos this event has caused has been added to the other stress I’m experiencing, and it’s become more and more of a mess inside my head.

The constant refrain in my head is that I don’t need anyone… that I don’t need help… that the only option is to run away.  I know that thinking is dangerous, but it’s all I have.

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At what point did I become better than those around me at abusing this mind, body and soul?

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I’ve talked briefly about Allison’s encouragement of a formal safety contract (see Becoming unstuck); well, something happened about a month ago which forced the issue, and a safety contract was written.  It has been covering one week at a time and listing the two actions which are considered to be the most dangerous, the reward for keeping the contract, and the consequences of breaking the contract.  It is kept simple, and driven by me as a way to try and maximise the chances of success.  This week, there was huge resistance to making the contract for an entire week for several reasons… but mainly because there is a big rugby game being played here tomorrow.  My reservations weren’t about wanting to break the contract and self-injure; but instead, there was a fear that I would break it, and in so doing, break a promise.  The idea of potentially breaking a promise created huge amounts of tension… like lies, broken promises is not allowed.

Allison listened to my fears about shortening the contract, but said that part of the reason to have the contract, is to see what happens when it is broken.  That sounded reasonable, so with little thought, and despite the warnings, the contract for the week was sent through to Allison.

The backlash was severe, and immediate.  I had again ignored the warning signs, and instead of listening, I rode roughshod over the concerns.

I’ve done this before, and it’s never pretty.  In my head, I counter all the concerns with very adult logic… “It will be alright, there’s only three days difference.  What’s the big deal?”  Implied within that line of thinking is the thought… “Just get over it”.  It’s a sign of my intolerance, as well as my inability to accept what is happening in the present, and what happened in the past.  It’s telling different ones that their opinion doesn’t matter, and that their feelings are meaningless.  It’s another way in which I try to express my need for control…

Whenever I’ve tried to impose any form of unilateral control in the past, there has been an outright rebellion.  The control tends to be harsh, and the responding consequences are just as harsh.  This time was no exception. I have no one else to blame, but myself.  I should have listened.  I should have paid attention.

The problem is now that the contract has been broken, there is a reaction to breaking a promise to Allison.  Ones within the system don’t want to see her again, for fear of what she will do and say.  Others see the breaking of the contract as an invitation to push the self harm to new levels – the contract is already been broken after all, so may as well make the most of it, right?  I know that the feelings driving this line of thought are the worthlessness and shame arising from the self harm, but it’s still confusing.

My head is a mess.  I’m struggling to stay present.

As I write this, I hear the background chatter… the taunts, the derisive comments, the hatred, the self-hatred, but most of all… fear.

The rugby game hasn’t even started.  The tourists haven’t arrived.  That will happen tonight and tomorrow… how ironic that the big game should happen on a Friday night, which has always been one of my most difficult nights to get through.

Did I mention that my head is a mess?

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Some days, you just want the world to slow down… preferably stop.  It feels like you’re being swept along on a tidal wave of noise, anxiety and demands from others… but all you want to do is stand still and ask it to stop.  The thing is, it will never stop… our only hope is to change the way we deal with those feelings.

The past few months have been a fairly constant series of tidal waves, dragging me under and tossing me about.  This has come to some sort of head this week… my mother is visiting for her 70th birthday; the Rugby World Cup starts tonight (the hoopla associated with such an event has been intense); Winnie’s health is failing; and I was offered the position of team leader.  Being offered the job seems to have been the last straw.  As soon as the offer was made, an internal cacophony erupted… “Yes” … “No” … “$%^# NO” … “What?” … “YES” … “I’m scared“…

Possibly because there was so much confusion, I didn’t do an immediate people pleasing response of “Yes”.  They gave me the weekend to think it over, but it feels like I’m running on a mouse wheel, going nowhere.  I already struggle to cope with work, so why would I want to increase that stress?  My manager and current team leader say that I am ready for the move… but, am I?  Is someone who needs fairly major doses of sedatives before they can teach, really be able to lead a team?  I’m already showing physical signs of the stress, so would this push me over the edge?

It feels like I’m being pulled in all directions.  It feels like the only way out is through the old coping mechanisms.  To say “Yes” and take the punishment.  Be a good girl, and play the game.

You always have to play the game, no matter what.

I just want to be alone… alone and clean.  I feel so dirty and disgusting.

—————-
Now playing: Christina Aguilera – Beautiful
via FoxyTunes

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I’m often curious how others perceive me.  At work this past week, I’ve been used as a manager, mediator, problem-solver and substitute therapist… yet every night as I left work, I had to fight the vivid thoughts of suicide.  Am I really that good at hiding my internal chaos, that people don’t see the stress that I am under; or do they not care?

The nature of my dissociation, means that I can compartmentalise and hide the chaos.  Just like everyone else, I have a “work face” that I present to those around me.  But even with each “face” we present to the world, things show through.  Over the last three months, my eating has become more of a problem… to the point that my jeans are now, literally, falling off me.  Isn’t that a visual clue of the chaos that is going on behind the scenes?  Yet, no one mentions it… making it like a dirty secret that exists in plain sight.

I became curious about this, after reading We must see past what it seems… a post about Melody’s struggles after her husband suffered a brain injury, and they were forced to sell many of their possessions.  When they put their farm equipment up for sale on their property, a neighbour complained about the eyesore it created… Melody’s husband response -

“Sir,” he said, “There was a time in this country, in this community…when if you drove past your neighbor’s house and saw every single thing they own was for sale in front of their house…and that their lawn had not been mowed for weeks….that you would stop and say….WHAT IS GOING ON, SOMETHING MUST BE TERRIBLY WRONG, WHAT CAN I DO TO HELP YOU?”

When did society, as a generalisation, stop caring about the people around them?  I know the research behind the disintegration of the community, and the individualisation of the population… I get that… but it also makes me sad, and more than just a bit frustrated.

In her blog post, Melody asks what would happen if we each wore a sign which told of the struggles and fears we are facing.  Would seeing such a sign change the way in which we act towards each other?  I’d like to think it would, but would it?  For a start, would the signs we wore be honest?  Part of the reason why we have a “work face”… “party face”… “school face”… etc, is so that we can protect ourselves a little from the harshness of the world, and to fit into the group that we find ourselves in.  So would you want to wear a sign saying “I’m going through a painful divorce” (one of the signs on Melody’s blog post), in all of those situations?  I doubt that many of the signs we would wear would be G rated, or appropriate in all situations.

So what is the alternative?  One of the big things for me, is something as simple, and complex, as respect.  If we respect each other, then we don’t need to wear any signs, because we’ll be treating each other as individuals with unique needs, wants and problems.  We’ll be seeing each other… really seeing each other.  Seeing past the protective sarcasm, to the hurt underneath.

Of course, if we did this all the time, or were particularly empathetic, then our emotional reserves would be constantly running on empty… but I do think there’s a balance.  I think we can treat each other with respect, without losing ourselves in the process.  I once read a story about a domestic abuse survivor who used to go to her children’s weekly sporting events with evident bruises… she said that many of the people there would look at the bruises, and some would come up and ask why she didn’t leave her partner, even offer to help her leave.  But the one person who made the difference, approached her, and simply said “I’m here if you ever want to talk”.  There was no judgements or advice, just a respectful opening.  There was no promise of help, or saving the woman, but a respectful, gentle opening of a door.

It’s this sort of respect that can change lives.

How many times when you were a child, did an adult get down to your level, and really communicated with you?  I don’t remember one incident of that happening to me, and maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything… but maybe it would have… who knows?

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Now playing: Brooke Fraser – Deciphering me
via FoxyTunes

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