I Need a Pick Me Up

I wrote a different post last night, but I don't have it in me to publish it. I'm in an apathetic, nothing is exciting, blah kind of mood. The thing is that there are a lot of exciting things going on today. I just can't seem to pick myself up out of this low.

I will spend the day at the kids' school. It promises to be a day full of celebration of achievements and overall sharing of what they have accomplished...Oh Lord, if I start crying now, I will be a sobbing mess when I get there! Afterwards, we will head to the airport together to pick up my son, who will be home for the weekend. We will run our first race together tomorrow.

These things are exciting! They merit joyful anticipation! I hope my mood will change today. I know the kids have a way of bringing out the best in me. It's not fair to lay this heavy burden upon them, but for today they will raise me up.

Darkness do not Settle

I'm afraid of the night again. I'm afraid to be in my room - not because anything has happened in there, but because it is the place where I sleep. This used to be a nightly occurrence when I was in my twenties. I dreaded the night; I dreaded the bed; I was afraid of the dark (I still am).

I feel that way again. I am writing in the sun room, instead of my bedroom tonight. As I fell asleep last night, I clenched my fists as tight as I could. It did not feel so much like I was making a fist, but more like I was trying to hold something in, keep something protected. I have felt like that all afternoon today. I would like to just curl myself up into a ball and hold myself in as tight as possible.

My restlessness and anxiety are kicking up again. I want to keep my hands constantly busy, constantly moving...or clenched up in really tight fists. There is something comforting about squeezing something very, very tightly.

Memories flutter in and out of my mind, but I don't want to remember. I just want to be safe.

Runaway

How do you ruin a perfectly good mood? You go to EMDR therapy.

Drive...and drive fast. That is all I wanted to do after I left therapy this morning. I wanted to drive fast away from everything and everyone.

I had run away from home when I was fifteen. When I returned (I mean when the police found me), my mother punished me for running away...she didn't know any better.

I just wanted to talk to her and tell her why, but how could she listen? She was so angry. I wanted to tell her that I missed my brother, who had just joined the army. I knew that was all that I could tell her. What I really wanted to say was that I had to leave her husband, and there was no other way that I could find of doing it than by running away. I wanted to say that I had had enough of him, and he was not going to stop unless I left...but how could I say that to her?

He was more gentle. He told me that he understood that I was a teenager and that teenagers go through rough emotional times. However, I should think of my mother. She was very worried and hurt. He was very gentle. I felt like his mistress, his accomplice. That was the time when I really started to hate myself, because I felt like I was old enough to know better. This is where I get stuck when I try to believe that it wasn't my fault.

I'm home alone, and cutting would feel so good. I know that it is the shame that I feel that makes me want to do that. The sensation that I get when I cut would somehow drown the shame and the hate that I feel for myself. "It wasn't my fault", I can write, but how do I believe it? I wasn't my fault when I was ten, but what about when I was fifteen?  I was just another one of his sluts.

So I want to cut again...and punish...and cut hard and deep.

This is not where I want to be. I should probably call somebody.

Thank Heaven for Little Girls

"No, I can't explain the dance to you;

if I could tell you what it meant,

there would be no point in dancing it." 

- Isadora  Duncan

Is there anything more gratifying and celebratory than dance recital night? It is the culmination of nine months of pain and sweat somehow eloquently wrapped into an evening of grace, beauty and elegance.

If you are fortunate, you are the parent of one (or two) of those magical creatures on the stage. Their ages may range from three to eighteen, but they are all some one's "little girl".

If you are blessed, you spent that morning at the dance store with one of your angels, because she lost a tap shoe at dress rehearsal the evening before the show.

If you are me, you juggled and arranged your work schedule all year long in order to be available for most, if not all, lessons...three classes, two dancers, two nights per week.

I spent the last two weeks doing stage hair and make-up for pictures, rehearsals and finally the big production. I was more nervous than they were making sure that each part of each costume was in the correct bag and made it safely without harm with the appropriate dancer to the theater on time.

I then found my place in the audience and exhaled thinking, "My work is done. I will now enjoy the fruits of my labor." The curtain rose, and my baby danced with the biggest smile that I have ever seen on her face. She was showing us all what she was so proud of. Her brilliant face said, "Look at my passe and my balance! I have been working so hard! Are you proud?"
"Look how I can use my props and keep up with my steps at the same time! Haven't I learned a lot?!"

Yes, she has learned and grown so much. Yes, I am immensely proud and wanted to yell out her name and say I love you, tiny dancer. I love your confidence and ease of manner. Mostly though, I love the love that radiates from your face.

Then my older girl danced. Who ever said a brand new pair of tap shoes had to be broken in? For her it was no issue...a Cincinnati? Nothing but a thing! Sass and attitude? All there.

Had she really been nervous about the fourteen minute ballet company piece? You wouldn't know it! She was my dream on stage. When did her fifth position become so strong and elegant? And her pirouettes so graceful? Was that a pas de bourree? She did not know that last year. She also has grown in ways seemingly invisible to her. And what of that little surprise at the end? Gasp!! They have all left the stage! Is that my own angel left to leap off stage...solo?!! A ten second part that will forever play in "Mama's Tracks of Happy Memories".

They were showered with flowers - my little divas. For one magical evening all was right with the world. There was no sadness, hurt or painful memories, only princesses and happy fairy tales.

Simply Tired

Well, the urge to cut has certainly "passed"...thank God.

EMDR yesterday left me exhausted. Afterwards, I just wanted to sleep. Memories have been sort of dancing in and out of my mind, never staying long enough for me to remember enough to write.

This time, I am simply tired...too tired to think or to remember.

This week I might just rest.

His Reminder

He has warned me not to tell, and I have opened my mouth. Oh for shame, for shame. I cannot stop wringing my hands, squeezing my fists shut. The extreme pressure feels grounding.

"He told me not to tell, and I cannot open my mouth." That was the topic of today's EMDR session.

How scary.

I had forgotten how afraid I was of him, how afraid we all were of him.

And my mother, my dear mother. How could I ever open my mouth? I had to obey his warning, his reminder. She could never know. It would just be another betrayal for her. How many mistresses had he had? I was just another - the one after the Asian woman. My mother knew of her. Oh and the tears and the fights that came from that. How could I do the same to her?

So I turned into an accomplice. It was our disgusting little secret. Ugh, I want to vomit.

During the session, I felt a strong urge to cut...not something I have ever felt in therapy before. Then I wanted to run away. The shame and the pain were too much to bear...and then sadness...sadness...sadness.

Good God, if I could get my hands on a blade right now.

Shit, shit , shit.

It's the shameful feeling of worthlessness that needs the cutting. I squeeze my hands together. I gather the softness of my jacket in my hands, and squeeze hard...very hard. It is comforting.

During the session, I wanted to hold my wrists and hide them, and cut them, and hide them, and cut them...

Arrrgh! This too shall pass. Right?

Silent All These Years

...sometimes I hear my voice

and it's been here

Silent all these years.

(from Silent All These Years, Tori Amos)

What if I can't speak? Sometimes I feel like he took my voice.

In EMDR I am asked to describe the images that I see "out of the train window". Most of the time, I can describe what I am seeing or feeling. There have been a few times, however, when I literally did not have a voice. I could not open my mouth. It was as if it was glued shut. There have been times in therapy when I would open my mouth to speak, and nothing would come out. On these occasions during EMDR, I felt that I could not even open my mouth. I felt desperately trapped within my own nightmare with no way of reaching out to the safe present.

I just wanted to ask for a note pad and a pen. I could have written for hours, I am sure. I wonder if that is allowed in EMDR, or is verbalizing part of the process? Remembering is, of course, the most difficult part for me. Second to that is verbalizing the memories. After all, he warned me not to tell...repeatedly...in so many different forms...with so many different threats. He took my voice away. I am still afraid to speak...paralyzed by the fear.

The Rides

Let me tell you about "the rides". This story wants to be told. He warned me not to tell, but I can no longer be silent.

My stepfather abused me from the time that I was ten years old until I was sixteen.Sometime after I became a teenager, he started taking me for rides alone in his van. The night visits were not enough, or my mother suspected. I don't really know.

During these rides, he would drive along lonely, forgotten back roads. They were dirt roads without names and overgrown with brush. I was very afraid. I had no idea where I was and knew that I could not get back home without him.

After securing a hidden place to park, he would take me in the back of the van...and violate me...and tell me to do things to him. I obliged. How else would I get home if I did not?

I obliged...and felt dirty for it every time. I felt like I was consenting and somehow betraying my mother.

I cannot (will not) remember anymore. I think I know what's next in EMDR.

Respect My No

Is it written in the stars?

Are we paying for some crime?

Is that all that we are good for?

Just a stretch of mortal time.

 

Is this God's experiment?

In which we have no say...

(from Written in the Stars, Elton John)

 

 

Exactly which part of the word NO was unclear?!!

 

I was already annoyed with my husband, for something minor. He was approaching me to apologize by hugging me - a sexual, rather than caring, type of hug. I was not ready for that. In fact, it was the last thing that I wanted. As he drew closer, I felt my body tense and my heart race. I felt the "fight or flight" feeling. This time I recognized it and told him to stop. I specifically said, "Please, don't touch me, please don't touch me."

 

...So he touched me anyway! That was the point when "annoyed" turned into ON FIRE, and I saw about fifty shades of red! I don't remember sending mixed signals!!!

How am I supposed to heal when he does not respect my "no"? He says that he can't help it, because he can't resist touching me. He has said in marriage counseling that he is not going to ask permission to touch his wife...you know, like she is his property and why should he have to ask?

How did I land this man?! People who have been sexually abused need a caring, sensitive and understanding partner who respects their physical boundaries. Ha, ha, ha! To me that sounds like a dream. Have I not been through enough? Is it too much to ask for a man who fucking gets it?! I have been working really hard to be able to say, "Don't touch me". I just want that honored. Is this God's sick sense of humor?

Is it written in the stars?



Cutting is Not an Option

Cutting is not an option.

This I know.

...but it sure would be nice.

This is just how I feel.

I know that it really would not be.

I won't do it.

It would take me two weeks to recover from that.

...and the kids need me.