Perceptions
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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Winnie the cat
This is my spoiled rotten, gorgeous cat… 
This photo was taken on Wednesday night, after I’d taken her to the vet. She doesn’t like the vet, let alone a vet with broken air conditioning on a hot Summer’s night. So, on top of the usual indignities that accompany visiting a vet, she was heat stressed as well. This wouldn’t have bothered many cats, but my gorgeous cat is now 16 years old. She’s also starting to experience kidney failure.
The one constant in my life for the last 16 years, is dying.
To put her into my life context, I got Winnie one cold Winter’s night when I was living in Wellington. She had been caught in a humane cat-trap, in an effort to ease the number of stray cats in the area. She was worm ridden and tiny. She purred as soon as I picked her up and cuddled her on my lap. She was so tiny, but determined. She had a stubborn streak in her a mile wide. She had decided that I would make an acceptable feeder, but she wasn’t so sure about my partner. Winnie never did like any of the people that I was involved with… considering who they were, she has proven to be a better judge of character than I.
Winnie accompanied me when I went to university. She sat with me through late night studying. Threw up in the car during my travels between my home town and where I went to university. She traveled in my car through rough ferry crossings, and my loud off-key singing. Sometimes she’d come and curl up on my lap, sleeping the whole trip; sometimes she’d stand on my lap and peer over the steering wheel, almost like she was trying to drive us home quicker.
She proved time and time again, that cats were smarter than dogs. Well, at least smarter than a previous flatmates Great Dane. Winnie would sit on the couch with quiet dignity, watching the Great Dane run in faster and faster circles around the house – until a human happened to get in her way. You could almost hear Winnie tsking at the stupid antics of a dog with more energy than brains. I do like dogs too, but this Great Dane happened to be the dumbest dog I’ve ever met.
When I moved back to my home town, Winnie was a cat in heaven… a fire which produced good heat. But, it was soon after moving back, that I moved in with my now ex-husband. Winnie never liked him, but tolerated him with a disdain which fluctuated depending on whether he was offering her chicken or not – her weakness is cooked chicken. I was with him for approximately nine years, and she was my constant companion. She would come into the study with me when I was woken with the nightmares, or recovering from the abuse he inflicted. She would follow a young part who was scared and wandering the house. She would tolerate me picking her up and cuddling her – for a short time anyway. She seemed to know when I needed her companionship.
More recently, she comes with me whenever I venture outside into the garden. It makes both of us feel safer to know the other is nearby. When I go out driving at night, she is always waiting in the doorway to the lounge when I get home – almost like she’s checking that I’ve found my way back.
She’s often used as an excuse by parts of the system why we can’t complete suicide. In a world that had seemed out of control and full of pain, she’s been the one consistent positive factor. Now she’s dying. I know that she could have been taken at any point through accident or illness, but kidney failure can be awful. In the factsheet the vet gave me, I read the list of symptoms and freaked. I can’t let Winnie go through that. No way.
I’m not sure what I’m going to do. But there’s been chaos in the system ever since we knew we had to take her to the vets. We were half expecting not to bring her home on Wednesday. But, the vet said that we were to come back in three months for more blood tests, so they’re expecting her to still be alive then.
I’ve always valued her more than myself. When I was too poor to buy food, her food was always purchased first. But I can’t fix this. I can’t fix her and it’s causing chaos. I don’t know how I’m going to get through this.
One moment at a time…
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Now playing: Sarah McLachlan – Angel
via FoxyTunes
We’re free of him…
This came in the mail today…
WE ARE FREE OF HIM!
Some don’t trust this piece of paper, they still expect him to come around the corner at any moment… But legally, we are no longer associated with him in any way (except for the Protection Order).
More ties that bind
A couple of weeks ago, when we were heading into the anniversary surrounding the last attack by the now ex-husband; Liz asked me if I missed him, and if I wanted him back in my life. As an adult, I immediately said “No, I don’t want anything more to do with him”. If you look at it from a dispassionate, adult point of view, it makes total sense to want nothing to do with him – he was sexually, physically and psychologically abusive. It’s not a good thing to be abused, so therefore it’s not good to be in that relationship as it existed. This makes intellectual, and common sense!
Today, I realised the answer isn’t that simple. The dynamics surrounding being a battered partner come into play – he didn’t hurt me THAT badly… it was only when I did something wrong… it was really all my own fault… other people said we picked on him… Suddenly the waters start to get muddied. Parts of me excused, allowed and encouraged his abuse. There was a comfort in the pain he inflicted, it was familiar to us and therefore gave a sense of certainty about what to expect. He was also very good at inflicting pain… he knew the right insult to throw, when to be nice, when to inflict the worst of the sexual abuse. In this respect, the relationship was a perfect storm.
He was immature in many ways, and that immaturity showed through in ways that were unexpected. He could be incredibly gentle with the very young ones. He could also make us laugh - I really miss laughing with someone. So it wasn’t all bad… This all adds to the feeling that the relationship is being blown out of proportion…
But today, I realised what I really miss, is his violence. He was a dangerous man – over six foot tall, solid build and trained as a security guard. His violent rages could be spectacular – holes were punched in doors, walls and objects. His level of sexual perversion meant that I was often re-creating abuse from the past. But most importantly, he tried to kill me! He put his hands around my neck and squeezed until I couldn’t breathe. He had a power over our life that some of us miss. We’ve failed at committing suicide several times, but he came close to killing us… he could take that suicidal failure out of our control… He could kill us… This is what some of us are missing – the ability to have the choice about whether we are alive or dead taken out of our hands. This is also what we were looking for with some of our self-injury… that dangerous situation where things will get out of control, and we’ll be killed.
We’ve constantly struggled with suicidal ideation, but I never realised the depth of the feelings. We don’t want the ex-husband back to work on a happy marriage, we want him back to kill us.
This makes me wonder how often we goaded him on… how often we started the arguments… how often we poked at him, knowing it would cause a reaction… Even after the last attack, I’m aware that Frank came forward to goad the ex-husband – “Come on, come on, pick on someone your own size”. Frank was slapping at the ex-husband while saying this… I’m not sure if he was defending us, or trying to continue the fight.
I’m not sure where I go with this realisation. I consider it serious and have contacted Liz to let her know what is happening. But really, what the heck do I do with this? Is my wish for death so great that I will try everything possible to ensure I succeed? Do I wish for a miserable existence, with an abusive man? If this is the case, I know there are many men who would be willing to abuse me…
Sometimes I shake my head with the realisation of how screwed up I am…
Journey
I took this photo awhile ago now, but today it means something to us… We call it “Journey”…
Journey
.
When we look at this picture today it means many different things to us -
- Journey into the light from the dark – a journey of hope
- Journey of danger as a child is lead away to disappear with the man beside him
- Journey of death, with this light at the end of the tunnel being what you see upon your death
- Journey of innocence as the child plays happily beside the safe man
- Journey through the holding pens, ready for death at the meat market. People before these two have left their last messages on the walls, only for it to be covered up like graffiti… If you look at the image large size on black, you can see the hand marks made on the ceiling as a last attempt to leave something behind
This jumble of messages is how we are at the moment, a messy jumble of thoughts, both good and bad. We’re not sure where our journey is taking us, but at the moment it feels like things are shifting internally. I’m not sure of the reason – maybe it’s returning to work, maybe it’s the two year anniversary of the attempt on our life by our then husband, maybe it’s our healing work… I’m not sure, but I wish we were more settled and safer.
Comparisons
The other night I watched Sunitha Krishnan’s TED India talk about her fight against sex slavery and Deliver us from evil: The Catholic Church lies, a documentary about clergy sexual abuse. As a note: both the talk and documentary carry trigger and adult content warnings. I’m not familiar with either of these forms of abuse, other than what I’ve read and seen through the media, but both of these clips affected me.
Sunitha talked with passion and courage when describing the horrific stories of some of the people she has rescued. To see the smiling photos of the children who had been used so badly by society that they died of HIV/AIDS before their 10th birthday… The main focus of her talk, was not to tell horrific stories, but rather to confront societies attitude towards the survivors that she and her organisation Prajwala have rescued. She was challenging our intolerance, judgments and the cruelty directed towards this group of survivors. Turning a blind eye to the abuse is not acceptable… Finding excuses not to employ these survivors is not acceptable… Society shuns these victims and ostracizes them to the fringes, making it difficult to find employment and develop a sense of self. Society refuses to open our minds and hearts to their plight…
Within my context, I know that my mental health issues would be treated with scorn, derision and skepticism amongst my co-workers. I know this, because I have seen how they have treated students who have mental health issues – with one being labeled a stalker! Because I had to take time off work after my ex-husband attacked me, everyone at work knew that I was a victim of domestic violence. In the months that followed, I got sympathy and understanding from some people, but I also heard domestic violence jokes from others. If this is the reaction within my small workplace to what is a relatively common occurrence, I’d hate to imagine how they would react to my full abuse history – would I hear child abuse or suicide jokes?
My situation cannot be compared to the situation of those rescued from sexual slavery. I live in a relatively wealthy farm based city where homelessness and drug problems are considered the greatest blight on our landscape. I will never know the horror of the sexual slave industry as experienced by those children; and looking at their stories of survival, I’ll never experience their strength. The context and extremity of the situations is worlds apart, yet there is still a general theme regarding a lack of acceptance by society. Both situations show how people can be stigmatised for being a victim…
The documentary, Deliver us from evil, affected me for several reasons – our family was asked not to return to the Catholic Church after the mother started using birth control, and we have been subjected to varying forms of odd Catholic based indoctrination by the father, youth groups and camps. But, the single thing that affected me the most about the documentary, was witnessing the father’s pain at knowing his daughter had been victimised by one of the priests. The priest was a man the family had welcomed into their home, and he had abused that trust on so many levels. The images of this grown man crying and distraught over the pain inflicted on his daughter and his inability to protect her were so confusing for us. Is this how an otherwise healthy family reacts to such an event? When I told the mother that I had been raped by three teenagers when I was 7 or 8, I don’t think she shed a tear. I know she told my oldest brother, but he hasn’t said anything to me about any of my abuse history… I compare this to when my sister was raped by her boyfriend when she was in her late teens, and both my brothers were willing to track him down and beat him up. They didn’t, but there was some emotional response. Am I so worthless that I don’t deserve such emotions? I don’t want anyone to be hurt because of what happened to me, but some sort of reaction would have helped me gain some form of validation that I am a person worthy of concern.
Again, I can’t compare what happened to me to those who suffered at the hands of the abusive clergy. There can be no generalisations made that those who were victims of the clergy were from otherwise healthy families or that all parents were as demonstrative in their grief over what had occurred to their children. The daughter of the man who was open with his grief had been abused for years, and the daughter had made a conscious decision not to tell about the abuse for fear of her father being sent to jail for killing the offending priest – basic questioning as a child had led her to believe this as being a very real possibility. So again, there are some similar general themes, but the context is totally different.
Sex slavery, sexual abuse by the clergy and my own situation should never be compared in regard to their severity; but there are similar themes which run through all incidents – societies acceptance and reaction to the victim seems to be the most common. Anger seems to be the another. Sunitha mentioned that she trained her survivors in male dominated trades because they have the courage and strength to push through and succeed in that area – she mentions anger as being one of the drivers. The survivors of the clergy abuse, openly and strongly voiced their anger. I’m just starting to realise that I might be angry about what happened to me, and more importantly how angry I am at those around me at the time – the mother suspected something but did nothing, while my sister would’ve been blind not to notice.
The question for all of us is, what do we do with that anger?
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Now playing: Audioslave – Like a Stone
via FoxyTunes
Jo
I’ve just come from an appointment with Jo. Jo is a physically similar to us in many ways, which made it hard when we walked in today and found her with her arm in a sling, a foot brace on her right foot, bruises on her arms and a black eye. We were already a little fragile, but that sent us over the edge. It was impossible to stop transferring her injuries to how it was with us when we were with the husband. She assured us that she had been hurt in a fall caused by her wearing high heels which she was unfamiliar with… But inside the young ones were screaming that someone had pushed her. Even after further assurance, they still didn’t believe her – we used to make excuses and say that the bruises were for all sorts of reasons.
We couldn’t cope with her in all of the bandages, so blocked her from our vision. When we get particularly stressed about something visual, that object becomes blurred in our vision. So Jo became a dark blur in the upper left corner, of what became a narrower and narrower field of vision. We had to leave, we couldn’t stay. We were dissociating and switching all over the place. M was trying to bring a sense of calm to the system by blocking out and stamping down the memories again, but it was too late… the memories were triggered and running rampant.
We felt so guilty for making her injuries about us and our triggers. We were worried for her, but the overwhelming message came about us being hurt. Feeling so pathetic and weak for not showing someone the care that they needed.
We’re now sitting at work freaking… we usually wear our headphones and listen to music when we’re like this, but each time the cords touch our neck we’re triggered into thinking his hands are around our neck again. We can’t stop shaking and jumping at each sound or flash of light. Only four more hours before we can go home to the safety of the house…
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Now playing: Brooke Fraser – Lifeline
via FoxyTunes
Superficial happiness & coping
I’ve noticed over the last week that we’ve moved from a state of denial to one of superficial happiness and coping. I’m not sure which is worse. Both of these states allow me to block out the chaos caused by some of our negative actions and allow me to get through the day at work without too much trouble…
The ex-husbands birthday is less than a week away. To understand what that day meant to us in the past, read this potentially triggering post we did last year at about this time. I know we’re nearly a year gone with no interaction from him, but the memories are still very fresh. What’s been interesting is that we’ve been remembering more of the good times as well as the bad – he could make us laugh and smile… Sometimes the two are blending in our memory, so they’re flicking from him laughing to him hurting us almost seamlessly.
Hating anniversaries… hating this depersonalised functioning…
