Fragments
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.
—————-
Now playing: Tracy Chapman – All that you have is your soul
via FoxyTunes
PDF Confessions of a confused child
I get confused, between the then and now.
It’s easy to fall back on the familiar, because that is all I know.
They say I’m trouble, but all I’m doing is following the rules.
They say the rules have changed.
I’ve been tricked like that before.
—————-
Now playing: Chopin Nocturne Op.27 No.1
via FoxyTunes
Hollow
Hollow me out
Fill me with what you will
Send me out to play the role
See me smile
See me talk
See me eat
Don’t I play it well?
Do you realise I’m real?
Do you know I’m real, when you say those lies about me?
Do you know I’m real, when you call me names?
Does it excite you to turn others against me?
What is your game?
—————-
Now playing: Mad World – Gary Jules
via FoxyTunes
Confused religion
Please note that this entry might trigger due to the issues of child abuse and religion being discussed.
Over two years ago, I wrote the post Religion and Karma. In it, I shared some of my confusion around religious concepts. Since I wrote that piece, my confusion has, if anything, deepened. Conflicted and distorted messages about religion, and my self worth, have driven much of my dysfunction over the last two months. I have been bombarded with messages about being evil and not worthy of being here, or of this healing journey.
To give a bit of background as to where much of the distortions come from, my father is Roman Catholic and attended a Catholic school. It was a strict (or traditional) school, with his left handedness being beaten out of him, and intimacy a taboo subject. In contrast, my mother based her religious affiliations on which church had the best outdoor basketball (netball) team – Baptist won. When they married, my mother converted to Catholicism and regularly attended church. My siblings, and myself, were all christened, and my brothers confirmed. The families pathway through Catholicism ended after my mother had me. She was advised that if she had any more children, she would probably die in childbirth. When the church heard of my mothers decision to use birth control, she was asked not to return. As she was the driving force behind our going to church, this meant that none of the family returned.
This is what I now know of the families leaving the fold. But, as I was growing up, my brothers told me that we were asked not to return to church because I screamed too much during the service. Being a sensitive and trusting child, I took those stories, and internalised them. I became convinced that I was the reason that the whole family was going to go to Hell for eternal damnation.
Later, I had several encounters with religion… My sister attended an extremely devout and divisive youth group… I attended religious camps during the school holidays; where, along with John 3:16, we were taught Matthew 25:46 – my sensitivity meant that I took both as signs that I was a sinner… I later joined Rally (similar to Girl Guides), which had a strong religious basis. It was here that things became very confused, as I was old enough to be aware of the messages and expectations, but failed to live up to them. I was told that I needed to pray for God to come into my heart, and I would know that this had occurred when I felt a warmth and peace. Well, I was so disconnected by this stage, that there was no way I was going to feel any warmth in my heart, or anywhere else. This was the final blow, and I turned my back on any further attempts to connect to a higher power.
Throughout all of this, I was being abused. Some of the abusers used phrasing with religious connotations as part of the abuse. I now realise that this had nothing to do with me, but I still internalised it at the time, and took it as further proof as to why God had turned his back on me. I was evil and a sinner. I was beyond salvation.
One of the system, W, has great problems with anything religious. I had never really understood why this trigger was so big, when I had never been abused by a religious figure. Then, last Thursday, Allison asked W what her role was within the system… her answer “to pray”. To pray for forgiveness. To pray for help.
When I was eight, I was abused by some teenagers in the school grounds. The location of the event is significant, because on the rise, about 50 metres away, was a church. About 3 metres away from the structure I was being abused in, there was a thoroughfare for pedestrians and cyclists. It wasn’t busy, but there were usually some people walking by. As I was being abused, W was created within my mind to pray to the church on the hill… to the God she had heard about… she prayed for help from the people walking by… she prayed for salvation from what was happening. When no one answered those prayers, she saw it as proof that we were evil, and therefore not worthy of God’s help.
I was never really exposed to the positive side of any religion. It was all doom and gloom… damnation… selfishness, and selfish acts. My God was a very fearful, vengeful one, and he wasn’t pleased with me.
As I learned about God, I was getting hurt, as were millions of others in the world. That didn’t seem fair, or just. I never liked the overly simple explanation of free will. I still don’t understand how such evil can be in this world. Then, if you have evil, then surely there must be a counter balance to that; and what is that counter, if not a God?
As you can see, I’m still very confused. I initially made this private because I don’t know if I can handle comments on this issue. But, after a couple of people read what I wrote, I realised that maybe I need others reading this in order to challenge my thinking around all of this. I still don’t know what I need to help me understand all of the distorted and confused messages in my head, but this post was one step in trying to sort it through. I don’t know how much help Allison is going to be on this, as when she was questioned last week, there was a sense that she wasn’t firm in her beliefs, so therefore can’t be believed.
I do know that they seriously effect my self worth. The messages about not being worthy of being here, are tied to the messages about religion.
I finish this post, not knowing why I wrote it, let alone published it on the blog. Maybe to show you how bad I really am.
—————-
Now playing: Sarah McLachlan – Angel
via FoxyTunes
Waiting to exhale
I felt the pain inside, probably for the first time.
It’s not anger, it’s not fear, but this mountain of pain housed inside my chest.
It pushes on my lungs. I think that if I can just breathe, it might be released.
So, I wait to exhale. Exhale the pain and poison that has been building in my body for nearly 40 years.
This image is one that helped me feel the pain…
The look in her eyes hit me… I saw it as innocence and trust. For a moment, I connected with the pain of the past. I even shed a few tears. But the connection was fleeting. Today I look at the photo and see a totally different scenario… one where someone is holding the girls legs to the left of the camera; and the girl isn’t trusting or innocent, but instead looking at the photographer for help.
I wonder if these two views of the same image are necessary for my healing. Much of my life feels as if it’s been run in parallel realities – one where I was safe, loved and nurtured; one filled with abuse and pain. By seeing these two realities within a photo, maybe I can start to bring them together more often.
On Polyvore, I titled this set “K”, as it represents Katie. The confusion about whether the image shows innocence or fear, fits with my knowledge of Katie. I was convinced for a long time that Katie had never experienced any abuse, but was silent because there were strong messages from the childhood about children being seen and not heard. A couple of years ago, there were signs that she was mute for other reasons.
Over the last year, my safety has become more and more questionable. I don’t think it’s a co-incidence that as my safety levels have lowered, Katie has been less present. With the absence of her and other younger ones, I also lost a great deal of hope. I realise that I need to bring myself back to safety in order for the ones such as Katie to be present. I need to find hope and safety within myself… I can’t continue to compartmentalise such vital aspects of my healing.
I’m also told that it’s a cop out to compartmentalise hope… That by doing so, I’m putting too much pressure and responsibility on ones that need nurturing, not expectations.
Now, to put that knowledge into action.
—————-
Now playing: The Fray – How To Save A Life (Accoustic)
via FoxyTunes
Rage against the wall
The pain causing self-injury is immense. I wish I could fix it, but I can’t. We can work through it though. We have to.
—————-
Now playing: Emerson String Quartet – Grosse Fuge in B Flat, Op. 133
via FoxyTunes
Expressive Arts Carnival: Walls
The activity for this months Expressive Arts Carnival is to:
Draw a wall using any medium, and show what is on one or both sides. Please also write a couple of sentences saying what the process was like for you.
When I was seeing Liz (about a year ago), I created a Polyvore set which I titled Barriers, and showed what my defense mechanisms and walls were…
This shows my walls as being the razor wire fence, behind which hurt and angry ones can be seen. What’s interesting, is that an abusive event can be seen fairly clearly, almost as if the memory is the defense against looking closer at the hurt ones and their emotions. A hidden, and shameful part of the wall is sex; while the more obvious things that make up the wall are my education, work, food, perfectionism, alcohol, cutting and the idea/memories of the perfect family. The protector with the knives, is one of our more heavy handed protectors, and indicates how out of control we were at the time…
Today, I drew another wall with oil pastels. I love oil pastels because of their tactile nature. But I also hate them, because they’re not “precise” enough for me… they have this annoying habit of not having straight lines and bleeding into each other. Ok, so may be I don’t know how to manipulate them correctly to get the blending done precisely… or, may be that’s the point of them, to be imperfect.
This is what I drew…
The green and purple are the colours in front of the wall. These are the colours that protect the rest of the system, and the outside world, from the wall and what is behind it. The purple acts as a warning, and the green as a grounding colour. Then there is the black wall. This wall must be strong and impervious. The bright red, or anger, is the first thing bashing against the wall, then the shame of blue; before the black emptiness of the unknown. Each of the colours is separated by mini black walls, to try and keep layers upon layers of protection occurring.
I’m struck by the contrasts between the images. The first is controlled, yet descriptive; while the second is controlled and abstract. I often describe my internal world behind the wall as either a gaping chasm of nothingness, or a swirling mess of emotions… neither quite fit the image that I’ve drawn. I’m not particularly grounded today, so that could be the reason for the disparity.
To add to the oddity, I deliberately chose Missy Higgins’ version of Stuff and Nonsense to go with this entry – a song about knowing/loving in the present, but not being able to guarantee anything in the future.
I sometimes wonder if I’m looking for meaning when there is none, or whether I’m missing the point. One day, I may find out, but not today.
—————-
Now playing: Missy Higgins – Stuff and Nonsense
via FoxyTunes
