Planes

Recently, I saw the movie Planes with my daughters and my husband. It is the animated story of how a country dust cropper makes it to an international race against other airplanes that were truly built to soar at high speeds. Disney style and in keeping with its predecessor Cars, all the airplanes have voices, faces and colorful personalities. It was an evening well spent, and we all enjoyed the movie.

I had forgotten how much I like airplanes - their magnificence and beauty, their liveries and sleek lines, and of course, their grace in flight.

My stepfather worked for a very large airline company. We flew everywhere. I did not know what a "road trip" was until I had my own children.

I have pleasant memories of traveling as a family to the airport. There was a place near one of the runways where people could park their cars and watch airplanes take off. Other than going to the beach, this was one of our favorite pass-times as a family. What a thrill! I loved every minute of it! I loved the deafening power that those beautiful machines exerted in order to take flight, which then gave way to unspeakable elegance once airborne.

There were times when he took us to the hangar and showed us airplanes under repair. He explained the functions of some of the parts and how they would come to need repairs. While my siblings mostly enjoyed the visuals of this tour, I relished the didactics.

Once, we toured an Airbus! The thing was two stories inside!

Needless to say, I recall these family field trips fondly. I still like airplanes...I still stand in awe of an aircraft on a runway just as it takes flight...a military flyover still moves me to tears.

...So is this allowed? How can I have fond memories of him who damaged me so deeply? This is so conflicting, and it brings guilt to another level. I feel guilty for having memories of enjoyable times with him. Yet, these were the times when he was truly being a father...and we were happy. He occasionally had these moments.

It is not the memory itself that I find troublesome. It is the dichotomy between my rage for what will never be excused and the tenderness with which I recall these moments.

Progress

Today I got a much needed break from EMDR. In fact, I had sort of planned to take this week off from that so that I could have all the emotional energy that I needed for back-to-school week.

Today I needed a place to exhale and take a reprieve, and I did. One of the topics we discussed was the way that I have been finding my voice in my everyday interactions. Yesterday's interaction with my husband was one such example. I expressed my sentiments to him perhaps at an inappropriate time, but nonetheless, I expressed myself. In the past, before engaging in such seemingly risky behavior, I would have weighed the consequences and decided whether I was up for dealing with them before I spoke up. Usually that meant that I did not speak up. I repressed. This time, I stopped for about two seconds to consider this and realized that the consequences would be more severe if I did not say anything...and we all know where that has led me.

The upside of this little joust, if there is one, is that we were able to discuss things further this morning...without the anger or the audience. I was really able to speak up, to express myself, to explain where the anger and shock originated. He was able to relay how clueless he was about...a lot. I was still amazed by the amnesia, but at least there was an explanation. He thank me (for educating him). I thanked him for allowing me the opportunity to express my opinion...and I did this without feeling that there would be any unpleasant consequences for using my voice. I did not need permission, and I was not afraid.

It's difficult to see yourself grow, but this I would call progress.

Can I Fall Apart?

Can I fall apart now?

I just dropped my older daughter off at her new school in Timbukfuckingtu. This is where her school is now because...I could go on about test scores, but that's just boring...she's really smart, and in our school district, that is where services are offered for really smart kids. Period.

I have been terribly busy, and I am exhausted now...but the year has just begun! I kept up with two school supply lists and managed to acquire every last item before the much acclaimed First Day of School. I attended camp day for new students at my older daughter's school. I have kept up with the schedules and instructions that were handed to us on that day. I have arranged my work schedule such that I could attend two separate school Open Houses on two separate days. I delivered the correct supplies to the correct classrooms at the correct school. Everything that needed to be labeled got labeled, book bags were ready and lunches were packed on time. The kids even got breakfast this morning.

In between all this, I found a new piano teacher at the music academy in our town (since we had to let go of the teacher we had for the last three years). I enrolled them, and we started piano lessons last week (first lesson for my little one). We re-enrolled in dance lessons, and obtained yet another list of dance shoes and leotards that we must still purchase.

So when I finally drove away from my daughter's school this morning with an empty van, I wanted to just fall apart. It started yesterday when I went to Open House at my baby's school. This is the Montessori school that my older one is leaving this year. This is the cradle that received her at the age of four when she was still reluctant to let go of my leg and explore the world of metal insets and sandpaper letters. It was in this same exact classroom with the same exact angel of a teacher that she learned that letters have sounds, and the sounds put together make words, and the words are in books, and books are what we read.

And so it started when we arrived at this familiar Children's House with two bags of brand new school supplies to deliver. As my daughters ran into the room straight onto the teacher's (my friend) loving embrace, I checked myself out at the door as a surge of unexpected tears flooded my eyes and spilled down my face. I could not stop this, but I could not walk into that room in that condition either. I composed myself, because I had to. This was not the occasion for this type of emotion. I did not understand where the tears were coming from. All I knew was that I was bringing one here, where I was used to bring two. But, my God! Hadn't I cried enough on her last day of school here? We had said our goodbyes to everyone then...but I guess there was something about reaching that doorway that brought it all back.

So back to this morning...Everyone was up and at 'em at the appropriate time, and we were out of the house on time. I had the kids in the van, while my husband followed a little while later in his car (he was headed for work after drop-off today). We spent a little bit of time with Baby in her classroom (no tears this time). We relished the easy parking lot and familiar process of this routine. She is in the same classroom and with the same teacher she had last year in Pre-K (Montessori style). She was confident and happy to be in familiar surroundings again. Then we were off on our "road trip" to Big Sister's school.

Traffic sucked, but we still had time to spare. While we waited for the classrooms to open, my husband came in the van and sat with us...and in this short ten minute interval, he managed to push my very fragile buttons! Let me explain how very precisely this dance of ours had to be choreographed. We have two kids to get to school at two separate locations. Busing is not an option. We each have to open different pharmacies on time. The good people of the community do not appreciate having to wait at the door (or the drive-through window) to pick up their kid's medicine on their way to work. We don't have the same schedule every day. Throughout the summer we (meaning I) managed to coordinate which days we could provide our own transportation, and which days we would need to carpool with friends. I was given the delicate task of arranging for help with carpooling. The carpooling was arranged, and I am going to take the liberty of patting myself on the back for how gracefully this was handled. So everything was set to go. I spoke with our friends last week and let them know which days this week we would need their help with transportation. First Day of School here we go!

So why then during this short and crucial ten minute interval did he have to announce, "Oh, I plan to take her to school every day. We don't need help with carpooling. I thought that was just in case of an emergency." Are you fucking kidding me?!! First of all, the reason why I (not he) had to ask for help with transportation was because he said it would be impossible for him to get to work on time if he could not drop off before 8:30. He was adamant about this. He had said that there was no way she could attend this school if we did not have help from someone. So where the fuck did that come from?!! Did he loose his mind precisely at this moment? So yes, I lost my cool right there and then. You see, I needed him to be my support and my partner at that point. I did not need someone to rock my overwhelming world ten minutes before I was to walk my daughter into her scary new school. I was furious that he would play this all too familiar amnesia game at exactly the wrong time. I have been doing everything in my power to keep things smooth and organized, and I needed him to hold up his end of the deal also - mainly to remember what we agreed on and not decide to rearrange all the arrangements on a whim at the last minute! And then deny that he had anything to do with this agreement! So in front of our daughter I displayed my shock and anger that he would pull this one on me now, while he took the high road saying that this is unnecessary and not the time and place for it.

No, it wasn't the time or place for it, but shit, I had been keeping it together for so long. This was just the last straw. We managed to act civilized as we walked her into her classroom. I even introduced him to her homeroom teacher, whom I had met at Open House. We kissed goodbye (yes, we made the effort) and got into our separate vehicles. As we drove out and realized that it would take 30 minutes just to get out of the school, he called me to let me know that he was glad that we would have carpooling help on the days that he has to work, because there is no way he would make it to work on time at this rate. This is what we had agreed on this summer and the reason he had said that I should talk to our friends about it. Go fucking figure.

So is it any wonder that when I was finally finished with my responsibilities this morning I just wanted to fall apart? I just wanted to break down and cry. I don't want to keep it together or stay composed anymore. I wan to just cry and sob. This is the right time and place. I want to cry about everything...whatever that is...no one will know. I will just fall down at home and cry my heart out and then I will hold myself and love myself...until the afternoon and evening madness begins.

Speak Up!

"Speak up.", he said.

Well, that is not exactly how he said it, but my therapist has asked that I speak loudly during my EMDR sessions, not for his benefit, but for mine...easy for him to say!

What has been happening is that during therapy, my voice usually gets very low and soft. The more painful the subject matter is, the less audible I become. After an interval of following his hand with my eyes, while recalling memories and sensations, my therapist asks me to say what I notice. I respond...when I can...but I can barely get the words out. Sometimes they are a whisper...sometimes a low mumble...sometimes I cannot open my mouth.

He has explained to me that he believes my hesitation to speak up and speak out stems from the very point that we are working on: "He told me not to speak" - my stepfather's warning to keep my mouth shut. Consequently, he has asked that as part of my therapy I try to speak in a loud voice when I respond, in an effort to conquer the very thing that seems to be keeping me almost mute.

...Right...easy for him to say...

So when he asked, I silently nodded my head yes, and thought, "Are you serious? How can I explain that this is the best I can do? It feels physically impossible for me to relay these images in a voice any louder than what you hear. I want to try, believe me, but simply put, I open my mouth...when I can...and this is what comes out!"

Here is the contrast to that. Ever since he brought this up, I have been purposefully aware of what my voice is like in other situations.

It is a known fact that my kids cannot always hear me during regular conversation. They have often said, "Mom, you really need to start speaking louder." This week I responded, "I'm working on it, I really am!"...little do they know.

At work my voice is usually clear and deliberate. I enunciate. My work is fast paced and precise, so when I give directions I need them to be understood and followed with minimal repetition. Again, I speak clearly and deliberately.

When speaking with patients with diminished hearing, I allow them to look at my face when I speak. I have learned that we all read lips when we listen. It's just that some of us rely on it more than others.

After paying attention to they way I speak at work, I am lead to believe that "speaking up" is not so physically impossible for me. I am obviously capable of speaking in a voice that is audible, clear, and understandable. The question is how to transport this voice to my EMDR sessions How do I conquer the pain enough to speak with the confidence and strength that I speak with at work?

Hiding From the Boogie Man

Last night was rough. Sleep did not come easy, and even breathing was difficult. When I finally turned the lights out and put myself to bed, I jumped under the safety of all my blankets...just like a frightened child hiding from the boogie man. My quick and shallow breaths were inefficient, and I had to remind myself to take deep and long breaths as I visualized my safe place. To this rhythm I fell asleep.

So here I am again hiding at the busy café, except this time I am afraid to go home. Home alone is not safe today. Yet, I crave the solitude. I crave the time spent without demands from those whom I nurture and feed. I crave ample time to spend on projects with long past due dates.

So I will go home...eventually. I will face my demons and do my best to stay out of my blades.

This last EMDR session was so strange. I feel like I have not left it yet. There is so much anger...sullen not raging. I feel like I am looking at everything through the eyes of hate, and it doesn't feel healthy or productive to me. Not that I enjoy the feeling of being raging mad, but this just feels like I'm holding the anger in with only one outlet in mind...myself.

The truth is that I may have been cautious and reluctant at times. I was very afraid of the experiences that I went through during the previous session. The physical sensations were absolutely the worst feeling, and I may have been avoiding going places where those feelings might return. Not intentionally...just self-preservation.

The bottom line is that I am down in the dumps again, dare I say depressed? Maybe. I am healing, I know. This I am told. I suppose it's just not a good time right now. I guess I will ride this wave like the rest of them. "The storm will pass". Maybe I will cry today, or hit things...or both. Maybe I will find something soft to hold tightly in my arms...like the puppies in my therapist's office. Yes, I wish I could hold them. Perhaps I will hold them when I return next week.

I will go home now and work on a project for as long as my energy will allow me. I may call my mother, and ask her to send pictures. Perhaps I'll play the piano. Dear God, anything but cutting.

I may need help today, and if I do, I promise myself that I will ask for it.

I Am Still Angry!

I assure you that this post is not coherent. I just felt the need to write these random thoughts tonight, that are driving me mad. I felt the need to put them down so that they don't get tangled up in my mind.

I AM STILL ANGRY! I see images from EMDR yesterday, and I want to throw things! I want to smash things! I want to scream! I want to punch the wall, break a chair, do something that will scream out to the world I AM STILL ANGRY!! Why do I feel like I am still on the EMDR train?

I want to be held...not just by anyone...by the mother bird...like the picture I saw. I want to say, "Mother protect me", and hide under the safety of her wing.

I feel so strange. I keep closing my eyes and shaking my head "no". I don't know who or what I am saying no to, but the motion itself brings a certain level of comfort. The tighter I close my eyes, the faster I shake my head. It feels almost involuntary. Stay away...I won't go...I won't do it...I won't remember.

I should go to sleep...before I hurt myself. It's a shame that it's so late...for I would like to sleep indefinitely.

The End of the Innocence

 

But I know a place where we can go
And wash away this sin
We'll sit and watch the clouds roll by
And the tall grass wave in the wind
Just lay your head back on the ground
And let your hair spill all around me
Offer up your best defense
But this is the end
This is the end of the innocence 

 

(from The End of the Innocence, Don Henley)

 

 

This is going to be very difficult to write. In fact, I wish I were home alone writing and not in this café. Although I do use a busy café to hide and be invisible, as others have used large cities like London and New York City. But this cannot wait to be written.

I just left EMDR, and it was...different. I thought of my daughter, which is disturbing enough. You see, as hard as my work with EMDR is, I try to keep my kids out of it. It's not that I don't talk about my kids in therapy, it's that I try not to bring whatever I'm working on home to them. This requires a lot of energy...I know, but whatever. My kids need their Mom 100%.

So when I started my EMDR session today, and my older daughter came into the picture...yeah, that was disturbing. The fact that I have been trying to ignore for a while now is that she will soon be turning the age that I was when my abuse started. I had thought about the obvious: How would I parent her at this age? Would I be overprotective? Would I mistrust her friends' dads? Would I just mistrust everyone around her? I figured I would cross that bridge when...

What I did not expect was to be sitting in EMDR and thinking about her when I remembered myself at that age. I did not know that I would visualize her child-turning-into-young-lady body and imagine that I must have looked similar to her at the same age. And then I am incensed, because when I ask myself what did he see in me? I see what he saw, and I am incredulous and appalled that he would prey on that. What did he see in my young budding breasts?  Why would he want to disturb that? These are questions that I ask with a child's mind, but that I can answer with a woman's mind...and this is the part that hurts the most. Having grown into a woman who knows the lust and desires of men, I am now aware of what it was that he desired.

Upon realizing this during EMDR, I felt naked and vulnerable. I wanted to double over and cover all my private parts. I wanted to hide...to curl up and somehow crawl inside myself.

If I Bleed Enough

I can't put my finger on exactly what has been keeping me from writing. Maybe fear...that if I write about it, it will happen. Yes, I've had cutting on my mind. I simply have not been feeling really great about myself, and I hate that this is still my little go-to comfort zone. I've tried ignoring it, pushing the thoughts away, various distractions...a day at the water park with the kids chaperoning the camp field trip. Yes, this was major (and incredibly fun!). Knowing that this day was upcoming was pretty effective at keeping me from hurting myself. After my experience with my sister at the beach this summer, I knew better.

...But that was Friday. What now? The weather has turned chilly, and I've donned my long sleeves. It would be so easy now. So what is it that draws me? What is my attraction to little silver blades?

The blame...the sickening feeling that I allowed things to happen...a disgusting feeling in general...an overwhelming need to erase him, to cut him out of me. If I bleed enough, could I wash him out of me?

There Was No Us

I can't name how I feel today. Therapy today was supposed to be EMDR, and it almost was, but then it wasn't. I knew that I was feeling down when I got there. In fact, I felt on the verge of tears. I was still hurting and upset from everything that I discovered and wrote about last week, but there was more...I just did not realize it until we started EMDR.

As soon as my therapist reminded me of the words and images that I was to hold on to while following his hand, I remembered. It was the word "accomplice" that triggered me. Hearing it immediately brought me back to the following blog post, which I read and commented on during the past few days.

http://mytravelswithdepression.wordpress.com/2013/08/09/child-or-predator/

In this post, fellow blogger Cat discusses the outcomes of a sexual abuse case where the abuser was given a lenient sentence based on the defense's description of the thirteen year old victim as “sexually experienced and predatory”. It is sickening.

I could not concentrate on EMDR. Rather, I kept thinking about this child and, of course my own experiences. Although initially I tried to follow it through EMDR, I found that I had to stop and just talk about the post. I wanted to cry, and I wanted to yell out, "Can you believe that this happened?!!! Just recently!!!" Somehow this girl found the courage, or the advocate, to bring this monster to a court, and she was further punished by being publicly called a predator! This day and age?!!!

I am so angry and so sad for this child...and for me. Part of what I struggle with today is that he dragged me into his guilt. He made me feel like an accomplice...like I too was at fault for what was going on "between us" (as he used to phrase it). What I didn't know then was that there was no "us". It was just him taking advantage of me. Would you believe this asshole used to actually "break up" with me? If I pissed him off for whatever reason, he used to say, "You and I are through!" Are you kidding me?! and I would think, great, it's all over, but then he would give me "the silent treatment" for a few days (or weeks) like he did with my Mom and then return.

My heart hurts so much right now. I was such a nice little girl. He should have been nice to me too. He should have cherished me and loved me as his own daughter. I was not bratty nor obnoxious. I was not loud or mean. I was sweet and trusting and loving. He had no reason not to love me like the innocent child that I was. I was open and accepting and obedient. I never said no. He should have protected me from other people. He should have been the one to make sure that my delicate mind and body remained untouched and intact. He should have been my shield against the brutal world. He could have chosen to keep me safe.

When I Cannot Run

I thought I was emerging...recuperating...feeling better. I went out for a run this morning and could not make it. There are times when my sadness overwhelms me and sucks all the energy that I have. I remember being able to run through anger - the intense feelings fueling my body an filling me with speed and power. Sadness, however, seems to paralyze me...literally stop me in my tracks.

I know that running takes mental as well as physical strength. In the absence of one, it is difficult to go the distance. I suppose this is what happened to me this morning (and other times in the past). I regularly (and I use that word loosely) run 3.1 miles. This morning I made it through one mile with the thoughts in my head defeating me, pounding on me, and grinding me to the ground. I felt worthless, ugly and weak. Although, I counteracted by telling myself that I was strong and capable, the sadness won and I stopped at the one mile mark...just before the big uphill that I knew I did not have the resolve to conquer. I turned around and walked back home feeling angry and ashamed for not having accomplished something that I know my body is perfectly capable of doing.

I can explore the sadness and the feelings that betrayed my body, but I will not. I am afraid of what I may discover. I don't think that I can tell any more stories this week. I don't believe that I have the strength to go back there again.

I Can't Say It

My days are so painful. I don't know how to describe this anxiety, despair, sadness. Being with people is exhausting. I am tired of "keeping it together", yet I am afraid to remember what I saw in EMDR this week. I guess it's not so much what I saw, but what I felt. Overwhelming shame...I could not speak my words louder than a whisper. Then, there was that feeling that I cannot name...the one that made me turn my face away, close my eyes and rest - escape to an empty reality...and the longer I kept my eyes closed, the farther I seemed to float away with the numbness...but it felt so restful.

I cannot speak of suicide in EMDR. I found myself walking alone in the dark night as a teenager...wanting to kill myself. These were words that I could not verbalize, and when asked, I simply replied, "I can't say it."

I can't say it...I can't say it...I don't know why I can't say it. I am afraid the feelings might come true.

And then there were the physical sensations. What the hell was that?? The feeling on my wrists like I was cutting. The sensation that someone was touching my vagina. Uggh! I don't even know what to call that. Does this happen in EMDR? Does anybody know? This must have been when I turned my face away, for these are words that I cannot speak aloud. They are shameful...shameful...the shame of cutting...and the shame of his fingers in me. Uggh!! That's what I felt during EMDR...his fingers in me!!!

Oh God, I want to push his hand away from me. I want him out of me! Get him out of me! I want to push him and hit him...I want to hit his hand away from me.

Oh fuck...I just want to cry. This hurts so much. I want to cut. I want it to hurt and sting. I feel so dirty...like he is still in me. I shut my eyes very tight, but there is nothing that erases him. Damn him! Will he ever disappear? 

I hurt...I want to cut...I am afraid....I need my therapist.

You Can't Hurt the Therapist

My therapist only has two expectations:

1. Pay the bill
2. Don't hurt him

Pretty reasonable. In fact, I never thought the second item really applied to me. If you knew me, you would know that I might scream at you (given the right trigger), I might even swear at you (under enough provocation), but I will never hit you. Actually, most people think me incapable of raising my voice...they don't read my blog.

So why did I want to hit the therapist today at EMDR? What the fuck? I don't know where I went today, but I had feelings that I did not have words for. So when he asked what I saw, I did not know how to answer...I was just feeling...strange things...and sometimes I wanted to push his hand away. I could not stand to see it in front of my face. And because, it kept coming back, I wanted to hit his hand away from me. Was it because it was a male hand? I have no idea! In over ten years that I have known this man, I have never had this kind of reaction.

I was so angry, it was frightening. I found myself breathing like a child would breathe when sobbing...because she can't get her words out, and no one understands her or even wants to listen.

What the fuck? How do I go to work now? In forty-five minutes I have to be in charge. People's medicines have to be correct. There is no margin for error in my field. I have to face the public and exude confidence, knowledge and professionalism. Are you kidding me?

...and I can't hit people at work either.

The Abuse of my Body

I started wanting to kill myself shortly after my stepfather shot my mother and my grandmother. After spending several months in the hospital and rehabilitation, my now paraplegic mother was able to move into an apartment on her own with all us children. She was starting her life over again without the monster in her life. She was free and, yes, happy.

I was also free...but not happy. My mother did not understand why I spent days lying on the couch. She got angry with me, and I did not know how to explain what I was feeling...depression.  After all, I figured that I too should be happy with the absence of my (no longer) stepfather.

I regularly took enough of whatever pills I could find to get sick, but never enough to require hospitalization. Then sometime during my sixteenth year, I finally made a true attempt with real intentions of not surviving.

My mother found me in the morning with enough time to call an ambulance and do what they do when a kid overdoses on acetaminophen. I thought I would die before morning.

I was discharged from the hospital onto the care of a counselor, who was somehow able to discover from me that I had been sexually abused. To my horror, he told my mother. He said he had to.

My stepfather was gone, but the abuse did not stop. I became the abuser. I did not know how to live without it. I found different ways of abusing my body. When my mother sent me to my country of birth to spend a summer with my natural father, I stayed inebriated and smoked cigarettes every chance I got. I WAS SIXTEEN YEARS OLD! My friends would ask me why I always smelled like liquor. I think I just replied, "because I drink".

I spent nights in a hotel room with a man much older than I was, while my father searched the city for me. There was no law that I could tame me. All I knew was that being sexually desired was something I was used to, and memories had to be erased with liquor, cigarettes or suicide...whatever it took.

This story goes on, but this is all I have in me for now. It takes a great amount of energy to tell these stories, and I must rest now.

Anxious but Writing

Good God! I am so anxious that I feel like I'm just going to jump out of my skin any minute. I can't sit still. I am hypersensitive to touch. Even the Band-Aid on my finger bothered me while I was typing, so I ripped it off. What is  this?

It started this morning and has gotten progressively worse as the day has passed. I thought it was due to work, but the edgy feeling really peaked after I got home and was chatting with my husband. I was putting away groceries in the kitchen, while he chatted away from the living room...asking this and filling me in with that. After about ten minutes, I could not stand it anymore and I went in the bathroom just to breathe and take myself to my safe place. I just wanted to calm down; I had no intention of telling him how I was feeling.

..but then I went and sat next to him, and after a little more chit chatting he asked how I was doing. I replied, "Fine, just a little anxious." WHAT! Did those words just come out of my mouth?! He even asked why I thought I was anxious, but I honestly could not answer him. I just told him I didn't know...but wait, it gets better - after a while, when we both headed upstairs, I told him that I needed to take some time to write! I went in my room (guest room), closed the door and here I am writing.

This may not seem unusual to most people, but for me to actually tell him that I was going to take some time to myself to write is huge! I never write when he is home or awake. In the not-so-old-days, if I did that he would have barged in the room repeatedly and even would have tried to read what I was writing. The idea of me doing anything personal that he was not privy to was grounds for an argument.

Telling him how I was really feeling instead of having to expend the energy hiding it was liberating. Being able to tell him what I was going to do to try to feel better was icing on the cake.

So that is the purpose of this post today...to relieve some of this anxiety. I worry because this is how I have sometimes felt in the past when I have wanted to cut...almost like a prodrome. I don't want to cut, but I don't trust myself enough to know that I won't have those thoughts tomorrow or the next day.

I do know that I don't want to go down that road again, so I have turned to my blog instead of my blade for relief this time.

From This I Ran Away

This post may have disturbing descriptions of sexual abuse... please proceed with caution if this might be a sensitive subject for you.

I have to tell a story today. I have told part of it. I just need to tell more, or tell it again. I'm not sure where I am with it. It has been haunting me for two days, since my last EMDR session. The story just lingers in my mind, wanting to be told.

He told me not to tell. Typical. He said that he would go to jail and that my mom and us kids would be left alone. Typical...it's the same story every goddamn abuser has told the child. Typical...but for a kid, it's just incredibly frightening. We would all be left "unprotected", and it would all be my fault...for telling.

So I kept letting him, even when I was old enough to tell. I kept letting his fingers probe me, inside and out and then listened with disgust as he told me how much he enjoyed me. I dreaded his oral sex...his head between my legs as he drank to his satisfaction. Sometimes, I pushed his head back, and as he resisted, I pushed harder. He would get angry and tell me that I was hurting his neck. Ha, ha...I should have broken it.

Those were times alone in his van...out in the sticks. Then, there were times with the house full of people. I guess he needed a "quickie", something to get him through until the next rendezvous. He would purposefully cross my path and put up his hand holding five fingers out, while mouthing the word "five". This meant that I was to go into the bathroom (yes, the one where all us kids had our favorite toothbrushes and sweet smelling soaps and towels) and wait for him to slip in. "Five" meant that he would slip his hand in my panties and touch my vagina for just five minutes. Then he would give me a candy bar or money that I could only spend at school, so that my mother would not know. Yes, the motherfucker paid me! To this day, I do not eat 3 Musketeers bars.

At fifteen, this is what I ran away from. If I could not tell, then I had to leave. If my mother could not leave him, then I had to leave him. I ran away with a fourteen year old friend. I brought food, and she brought a backpack full of cartons of Newport cigarettes.  We smoked until we were sick...vomiting. It didn't matter to me; at this point, abusing my body came naturally. After the movie theater closed for the night, we made our beds on the floor out of spread out newspapers...like we had seen the old bum do. The possibility of rape or assault during the night did not faze me, the likelihood would be greater at home.

An old bum sleeping on the floor outside of the movie theater is left alone...two teenage girls doing the same are brought in to the police station. When they found us, I wanted to keep running, but my friend advised me not to. I still don't know what made me listen to her. She must have physically held me, because all I wanted was to run as fast as I could away from harm, away from the smell of him and the feel of his tongue. They would have had to work hard to bring me back.

Back at the station, she gave her mother's name when asked. I did not. I refused to identify who my parents were. I don't even think I told them my real name. I was not going to make it easy for them. What did not occur to me was that my parents may have been looking for me since I did not get off the school bus that afternoon, that they might have even reported me missing. So I should not have been surprised when my stepfather came in to "claim" me in spite of my stubborn lack of cooperation.

My mother was furious, while he was kind and sympathetic. Of course he was...he was the only one who knew what I was running away from.

There is so much more to tell...I need to continue telling this story until I am completely purged of him and the feeling of him inside me...until I no longer want to vomit when I remember. I need to keep telling until my husband no longer feels like him between my legs...until I can no longer see his face looking up at me from between my young fresh legs.