My dragonslippers
Four years ago, my abusive marriage ended. I thought that the passing of four years was long enough, and that I would be “over it” by now… I was wrong. Over the past couple of months I’ve been swept up into flashbacks, as well as experiencing anxiety and dissociation for no apparent reason.
The other day, I was feeling good, and thought that the storm had passed… but now, it’s back with a vengeance.
The good thing about the four years since the marriage was over, is that I can more clearly see how we reacted to each other to create the disaster that was the marriage. It’s easy to say that I walked into the marriage because of old patterns… one therapist told me that I married a man just like my father, after all. But that’s a nice square box to place the experience in… the reality is so much more complicated. My childhood was my training for my marriage… it taught me how to ignore my own needs in favour of others, to consider myself worthless, and not expect to be treated with respect. His training involved systematically having his self-confidence destroyed; suppressing his anger, to the point where it exploded without warning; and thinking that domination equated to power.
He needed control, but didn’t want it… and I didn’t want control, but needed it.
That one line is possibly the most accurate summary of the marriage. How it presented was sometimes funny; but more often than not, painful. Now that I’m a little further away from the situation, I can see the links between such things as his jealousy and my actions. The best example that I can think of to describe this dynamic, is my fear of going outside – he once commented that one of our male neighbours always seemed to be going outside when I was; which was a huge red flag to me. It meant that something was wrong, and that something needed to change, as anything that bothered my husband, meant danger. I couldn’t stop my neighbour from going outside, but I could. So began another layer of my social anxiety.
There are lots of little examples like that…
Reading this, people will wonder why I stayed with him for so long. It’s a perfectly reasonable question… I lived in fear of him for eight years; he abused me regularly, and was constantly in trouble with his employers. But that chaos echoed both of our pasts, so it seemed normal. I didn’t go to work with visible bruises, and he acted almost childlike in public; so I would often be seen as the bossy one. No one looking into the marriage would say that anything was wrong.
Probably the most obvious example of why I stayed within the marriage for so long, is shown by his reaction after his final attack on me… The attack happened on a Sunday afternoon, and after his panicked phone call to my mother, he settled down as if nothing had happened. When I went to get medical treatment the next day, he accompanied me into the examining room, where he laughed about the injuries and how he had caused them. He repeated this laughter when he dropped my medical certificate into my workplace to say I wouldn’t be in for at least a week. It wasn’t until later that day, when my brother arrived that any sort of reality started to creep into his awareness. He hid the chair broken during the attack, and tried to pretend like nothing had happened… but my brother took him aside and said that he needed to move out for a while.
When my brother went home, and my mother arrived; there was a further dawning of awareness for him… he was always desperate for my mothers approval, and that was obviously missing. Suddenly he couldn’t cope. This is when the twisting of the story began in earnest. Two nights in a row he took off in his car… on one night he threatened suicide, and on the other night he threatened suicide and then told that police that he was too scared to return the house. This showed how he could act when faced with a situation he didn’t like.
On Valentine’s Day, he left me to return to his family. It was then that his twisting of the truth became more obvious… suddenly there was no attack, but instead, I was making it all up. I broke the chair and caused the injuries to myself. This version of events is what he was going to defend the Protection Order with… thankfully, I had the medical report detailing the attack, and all of his documentation which included a letter to a former supervisor apologising for assaulting him… When his lawyer saw the documentation, the Protection Order defence was withdrawn.
When I look at this incident, I can see why I doubted so much of what happened within the marriage. I was dissociative, so often doubted my version of events anyway; but he encouraged me to doubt things by twisting them back onto me, and playing a totally different role in public. This situation reminds me of a quote from the book Dragonslippers: This is what an abusive relationship looks like:
‘You know, it’s interesting…work…politics…. It’s really so easy to control other people. You just have to cause dysfunction. Once someone feels insecure, you can do anything you want with them.’
This was said by the abuser within Rosalind Penfold’s relationship. I entered the relationship with my ex-husband already insecure… all he had to do, was to keep me in that place and he could do whatever he wanted. That’s why my attending therapy was seen as such a threat, and why he enjoyed my dysfunction so much.
I’m glad that I’m now physically free of him… I just wish that I was psychologically free as well.
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Now playing: Headless Chickens – George
via FoxyTunes
PDF Who are the “creepy guys”?
“Creepy guys”… that’s how the men shown on a recent current affairs programme, were described by several of my co-workers (see promo article – Close Up shocked by ‘sexually explicit’ online chat with girl). Everyone around the table nodded in agreement… these guys were “creepy” and “disgusting”. Implicit within their words, was the fact that it was obvious that these men were “bad”, and that they would be able to spot them a mile off…
While looking one of them in the eye, I responded that those “creepy guys” could have been your husband, father, neighbour, school teacher, anyone… including being a woman, rather than a man.
Their denials were swift and vigorous… No, all of those men looked creepy. I don’t think they could get their heads around the possibility that an abuser could be a female, so that part of my response was ignored.
Then something happened… someone said that one of the men shown looked like he was a businessman. Another mentioned a recent case where a well-known comedian was convicted of child sexual abuse. My amazing cynical friend, who knows a little of my past, repeated my words to the others in a slightly different way… suddenly there were uncomfortable shifting in chairs as they realised the implications of what they had seen on the show, and were now realising… An abuser isn’t the “creepy guy” with a long coat hiding in the bushes, or online… No, an abuser could be your neighbour, friend, relative… anyone.
I work with educated people… about a quarter of our number have at least one masters degree, while the others hold at least one bachelor degree… yet, they have led fairly sheltered lives. When faced with anything outside of their comfort zone, they don’t cope. They have shown this time after time… so I don’t know why it surprised me today.
Actually, the only difference in the usual play of things, was that today, I spoke up. I gently questioned their beliefs, and they listened. I’m not naive enough to believe that I’ve changed their minds; but for a moment, I had them thinking.
I know it’s not much, but it’s something small that I could do to acknowledge my past. I grew up in a time when abuse was considered to be physical violence only – sexual or psychological abuse weren’t well-known, understood, or acknowledged. However, much like today, people considered that any abuse only happened to “those people over there…” as they point to a vague point in the horizon. It certainly didn’t happen in their house. Yet, my father was a well-known, and respected member of the community… as were the other men that my siblings and I, called “Uncle”. This helped the abuse that I was subjected to, fly under the radar. No one questioned why I came to my mother during a party in tears, I was just shooed back to bed with a drink of water; all the while, the party laughed about my “excitability”.
I can understand them not questioning… well, I try really hard to. We were a white middle class family, and that sort of thing didn’t happen in white middle class homes. I didn’t say why I was crying. I never said anything. I’d been told, in many ways, that telling was not an option. Societal expectations played a part in my silence… maybe, just maybe, by questioning my co-workers beliefs about “creepy guys”, it might make them consider things such as why a young girl would be crying at an adult party…
It’s not much, but it was something that I was capable of at that moment.
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Now playing: Tracy Chapman – I’m Ready
via FoxyTunes
It happens?
Monkeytraps is one of my favourite mental health professional blogs. It’s about control, relationships, and monkeys… well less about monkeys, and more about control. Steve Hauptman (the author) writes some really interesting posts; so when I saw the latest one titled Just the world, I was curious as to what it was about. This was my sister’s birthday after all, the perfect day to be challenged slightly… However, there was no way I could have anticipated what actually happened…
Steve wrote about how each of us form this concept of what is a “just world”… one where good things happen to good people, and bad things happen to bad people. I admit, that I fall into this thinking, regarding myself and my past… I was abused because I was bad, evil, asked for it, provocative, a slut, a whore… the list goes on. I don’t judge others in this way; but for myself, I lay it on thick!
After describing this “just world” scenario, Steve gave the punch line… we buy into this concept of a “just world” because it gives the illusion of control. Talk about a kick in the gut…
All of my life I have strived to be perfect. I got as many A’s as I could, while panicking over every B and C; I played sport above my age grade; I was silent; I didn’t cry; I did everything within my power to be perfect… Because if they saw how perfect I really was, they would stop… They would leave me alone.
But I knew that they saw the evil in me. They saw how dirty and disgusting I was; so my focus of control changed. I no longer wanted them to stop, as I was beyond redemption. Instead, my only purpose, was to stop others from being hurt. As I grew up, I thought I had succeeded with this aim… I wasn’t aware of any whispers about other girls being taken to “those” places. My sister seemed troubled, but “fine”.
It wasn’t until I finally admitted to my mother what had happened about five years ago, that she said “was one of the boys J. Doe? Because I was talking to his mother the other week, and she was telling me about the historical sexual abuse charges he is facing”. At that point, my idea of a “just world” collapsed. I had failed. I hadn’t been enough for them to not hurt others; and I hadn’t spoken up so that others would have been spared. My illusion of control crumbled…
I was unable to see beyond this being my fault… my control… my fault…
I still can’t. I can’t accept, as Steve suggests, that there is no “just world”; but instead, the world is a place where justice is possible, and that shit happens. It can happen to good people, or bad. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t discriminate, it just happens.
But if that’s true; then maybe one day, a long, long time ago, I was maybe a good person? Maybe?
But bad things happen to bad people, so maybe I was bad all along. I came into this world screaming, and didn’t stop for six months. I was difficult and evil, even then.
Please let me have saved at least one person. Please. Please don’t let what they did to me, be for nothing. There had to be some purpose beyond their needs and wants? There does, doesn’t there? There must. That is why it’s easier for me to believe it was my fault, my evil, my badness attracting the inevitable karma of equal badness to balance out the universe.
Funny thing is… we used to say “shit happens” all the time growing up… “Shit happens, and then you get over it”.
As a note: I never think anyone else deserves bad things to happen to them. Please know that. I always turn it in on myself, but never hold that thinking for others. I’m always devastated to know of any pain to any other living thing.
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Now playing: The Verve Pipe – The Freshman
via FoxyTunes
Solitude within the storm
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.
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Now playing: Christina Aguilera – Beautiful
via FoxyTunes
My relationship with food
Of all the relationships in my life, my one with food is probably one of the most dysfunctional. It started from when I was a baby, when I was defined as a “fussy eater”. This warped over time into odd eating behaviours… when my mother used to get us ready for school, I remember we would have breakfast and a prepared lunch; but that only happened for the first couple of years of my schooling, and I was soon going to school without breakfast or lunch. I don’t remember ever feeling hungry during these times, but I do remember the embarrassment when it was raining and we had to eat our lunch in the classroom… I always pretended that I’d forgotten my lunch. It wasn’t that we were poor, and couldn’t afford food; I just didn’t know how to make lunch, and I wasn’t really interested. The couple of times that I did make my lunch, I recall looking at it as an oddity, and as if it was some sort of foreign thing that had arrived out of the blue. I never felt jealous of my friends who had lunches, only boredom as I waited for them to finish eating.
During my childhood, there were a couple of significant events involving food and my weight that strongly effected me:
- My father commented that “at least she’s not fat like her mother and sister”.
- My mother would compare myself and her friends daughters regarding our weight. One time she pushed in my loose t-shirt, to show that I didn’t have a “fat stomach”.
These events dehumanised me, and made me think that if I was overweight, then no one would want to touch me. That weight would act like a protective barrier against the world. This thinking became strong during my teens, and I gained weight… I no longer wanted people to touch me. But what I didn’t expect, was the teasing and self-hatred that my weight caused. This is what started the roller-coaster that my weight became – I would lose weight, and feel vulnerable to abuse; so gain weight, and feel disgusting and gross.
When I attended university, my weight issues came to a head. I couldn’t afford food, and there were stressors which meant that some of my other self-injurious behaviours became out of control. My weight dropped drastically. It was the first time that the doctors started weighing me as a way of monitoring what was going on. As I’d never owned any scales, this was the first time I’d been weighed since I was in school. I remember being horrified at my weight… it was much too high. I’ve never had an ideal weight in my mind, but what was being shown on the scale was way above what I thought it should be. I remember the doctor talking about nutrition, and how I was showing signs of deficiencies. I remember him talking about having to monitor my weight unless I got it back up to a healthy level. All I wanted, was to run and hide.
When I finished university, by weight went back to the roller-coaster, mainly dipping when I was going out with someone. In many ways, I considered eating to be an inconvenience. People seemed obsessed with it, and I couldn’t understand the obsession. At other times, I would be eating, and part way through a mouthful of food, become so disgusted with what was in my mouth that I didn’t know what to do with it. Sometimes I would have to go and get rid of it, sometimes I was frozen in disgust.
During my marriage, food was a control issue… everything else in my life was so out of control, that I had to have some control somewhere. The ex-husband was a big man, and a big eater. He liked to think that he was a chef, but in reality, he was a glorified kitchen hand. He preferred fatty, unhealthy foods. That, in combination with the memories surrounding the times when my father was a butcher, were the final straw for my brain, and I could no long touch uncooked food. It became difficult to touch any food, but uncooked meat, was especially difficult. The feel of it on my skin was stomach churning. This, combined with feeling that I didn’t deserve good nutrition, again led to more signs of malnutrition… oddly enough I was overweight at this time, but not eating food that had any nutritional value.
During the process of my divorce, the food issues ramped up again. I soon couldn’t eat at all. I was surviving on nutritional drinks, and trying to show a smiling face to the world.
Other forms of self-injury have co-existed with my food issues, and often if one of the other forms increases, then the food issues ease off. It’s seemed like some sort of warped trade-off. But now, it’s revolving solely around food.
Over the last few months, I’ve lost a fairly significant amount of weight. But oddly enough, even though I weigh myself every day, with the hope of losing weight, a part of me doesn’t connect the dots between losing weight, and losing dress sizes. So when I had to go and buy new clothing, there was a panic about going down in size… fears of the abuse starting again resurfaced, and ironically, drove a need for more food control.
I’ve never been diagnosed as having an eating disorder, so I feel a bit of a fake talking about this… but as someone recently told me, you don’t have to be diagnosed with something, in order to have a problem with it. I have a problem, I’m just not sure how bad it is.
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Now playing: Fauré: Cantique De Jean Racine, Op. 11
via FoxyTunes
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.
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Now playing: Chopin Nocturne Op.27 No.1
via FoxyTunes
Dreams of betrayal
I rarely remember my dreams, but there is one that I had approximately five years ago which I’ll always remember…
There are a group of young girls, dressed in white, escorted to a room by their mothers. One of the mothers is new to the ceremony, and is showing signs of nervousness.
Then the businessmen come in.
The girls are paraded in a circle in front of the men, while the mothers stand to the side, smiling encouragement to their daughters. The businessmen take their pick of the girls… one of them being the new girl. The businessmen and their chosen girls go to a hotel, where they are abused.
The mothers whose daughters were chosen, are smiling and congratulating each other… their daughters were good enough to be chosen. But the new mother is having second thoughts… she wants to go up and rescue her daughter, but the other mothers hold her back. Telling her of the honour and privilege it was for her daughter to be picked.
I don’t pretend to understand how to interpret dreams, but what I find interesting about this dream that it is focused on the mothers. In particular, the betrayal of mothers towards their daughters. They didn’t protect them, instead they actively facilitated their daughters abuse.
This is very much how parts of me feel towards my mother. This sense of betrayal is the reason why I had so much trouble going to Wellington. It’s not the city (I used to live here), but it’s the feelings induced by both of my parents being in the same city. In particular, a fear that the mother will offer us up for abuse.
My rational mind knows that this will not happen, but these fears are old fears. They’re not based on present day logic, but instead on the perceptions that I formed as a child. Perceptions based on what I wanted a mother to be, and do… one who protected and nourished. But in reality, she was so consumed with keeping on top of all of the obvious issues, that the ones which were even superficially hidden, were over-looked.
If I look at this knowledge within the context of the dream, she is the new mother to the group who wasn’t fully involved in the process of abuse. She tried to stop it, but was distracted by the screen of those around her. The imagery of both my mother, and the one in the dream, is that of weakness. Neither were observant, neither were thinking beyond the present moment, and they therefore found themselves in situations for which they were not capable of handling.
My mother never knowingly facilitated the abuse, but instead didn’t pick up on the signs. At one time my mother said that she suspected that something was going on with one of my sister’s boyfriends. But today, when I asked her, she said she had no idea about any of it. Instead, anything that might have been considered a sign, was explained away as being “who you were”.
There’s an emptiness in hearing this. It makes sense, in that I was trying my very best to be “perfect”. But it also hurts, in that I was not noticed in any real way… my cover story was all that people saw – or maybe all they wanted to see.
I drove for over six hours to reach Wellington. That was a long time to think about what was going to happen. There were thoughts of suicide, rather than facing the certainty of abuse that parts thought they were going to be exposed to… thoughts of being able to do this visit, just like all of the visits from the mother… thoughts of what has happened in the past, and how out of control the present has become.
At one point of the drive the messages about the mother not being able to protect me were being repeated over and over… I countered this with the thought that I am capable of protecting myself now. This was met with a sense of disbelief. It’s always comforting to know that I have such little faith in my own abilities… But realistically, I am capable of keeping myself safe from self injury. I’ve done so before, and I can do it again.
I’m told that healing is all about looking at the present feelings, understanding their origins, accepting them as valid, and using various coping mechanisms to help them be tolerated. Sounds easy, huh? So far, this weekend has proven it to be anything but easy.
One moment at a time…
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Now playing: Adele – Rolling In The Deep
via FoxyTunes
What if…
It’s 2011. That means that I can go to the city where the father lives. I can stay for the weekend, and I can leave without being hurt.
That is what the adult part of me knows. I know that he no longer wants to hurt me. I know that I can go to a big city and stay there without him finding out. I can go to the museums and the shops. I can celebrate my birthday with my mother. I can leave without him even being aware that I was there. It’s 2011, and I have the ability to stay safe.
So why is there that little voice inside me asking questions in a terrified voice? Asking whether the sister will tell him where we’re going to be. Asking whether the aunt knows, and will tell him. What if he comes into the city and sees us? What if he touches us again? What if the mother doesn’t protect us again? What if we can’t escape?
What if…
Expressive Arts Carnival: Coping
The theme for this months Expressive Arts Carnival is:
Through drawing, painting, photography or any other visual means, create an image about mechanisms you have used to cope when you thought you could not.
I admit it, I have a love/hate relationship with coping mechanisms. I’m often told by mental health professionals that I know plenty of coping mechanisms… I’m often told by the crisis lines to “go do your coping techniques”… Both of these statements have a tendency to annoy me. While they’re both true, I also see them as a cop out. So I know plenty of coping mechanisms, does that mean I can’t learn any more? Yes, doing various coping techniques help me when I’m feeling overwhelmed; but by the time I’ve called the crisis lines, I’ve usually been doing them for at least 12 hours straight and need some support beyond what the coping mechanisms can provide. So while I see the need for coping mechanisms, I sometimes approach them with a sense of dread.
Even after all of these years, I still label the activities “coping mechanisms”, which can sometimes cause an odd tension. I know that I need to do them in order to help keep me present and safe; but because of the connotations surrounding their use, it feels as if they are assigned a label, and trotted out on special occasions. This is even for the techniques I have managed to build into my life as part of my routine and attempts to enrich my life. One week I may go out and take photos because I feel like it; but the next week, taking photos becomes a coping technique which must be carried out in order to keep the crazy at bay. Same activity, but totally different meanings.
It can be challenging to use coping techniques. They can act as a distraction from the emotions which threaten to overwhelm, but they also encourage you to sit with the emotions without “checking out” through the use of the old, less healthy means of coping (self-injury, etc). It can also be challenging finding ones which work… something that works one day, might not work another. Even realising that you are worthy of using a healthy coping mechanism, instead of self-injuring, can be difficult. There are times when no matter what I try, I’m still swept along with the old ways of coping… but I’ve found that the more I get angry at myself for that, the more anxiety there is the next time I begin to get overwhelmed. That’s not to say that I accept that the self-injury has happened, I don’t; instead I try to learn from it. The more I can learn about the triggers and the motivations, the more likely I am to recognise the warning signs, and try different coping mechanisms before it’s too late.
My entry for this months carnival is an indication of my attempts to learn about new ways of coping. Last year, I underwent a psychiatric assessment to determine my level of impairment. I don’t react well to any assessment, but this one was particularly difficult. I wrote a history of my abuse… something that I’d never done before, and it caused a great deal of turmoil and confusion.
I knew beforehand that I might react badly to the assessment, so I made plans to try and help myself cope with it all. I arranged for some time off work, asked my mother to stay, and organised a trip by the sea as a reward for getting through the assessment. On one level, these arrangements made sense… I was unlikely to be able to function at work, so arrange some time off work, etc. But, on another level, they were also attempts at self care and utilising positive coping mechanisms. Trying to understand my limits, and working within them.
Not everything went as planned, and there was some serious bumps along the way. Probably the most challenging time was when I went away for the trip. What should have been a restful time at the beach, turned into a messy contradiction in terms of coping and safety. At times, I could go for a walk along the beach and feel the sense of peace; but at times, I was swept away by the emotions which were stirred by the assessment. After one particularly bad night, I forced myself to pick up my camera and go for a walk. I walked for hours… something that is rare for me, as I usually need a purpose when going out. During that walk, I took the photo below. It’s not my best photo, but it represents a time when I was struggling so desperately to stay present and safe. If I’d been more present, I would have chosen a different angle, and camera settings… but as it is, the photo shows my attempts to connect to the environment around me. It’s not perfect, but it stills works… especially if you squint a bit, and tilt your head to the right.
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Now playing: Natalie Merchant – Wonder
via FoxyTunes
