Reading Terror

I picked up Sue Silverman's book a few weeks ago...by "pick up" I mean started reading. This is her memoir, her ride on her own memory train of sexual abuse and survival. The title is Because I Remember Terror, Father I Remember You. I call it Terror for short.

You must know that I bought this book some years ago along with Fearless Confessions, her guide to writing memoir. I thought it would be helpful to read her memoir along with her writing guide, since she makes references to sections of her own book as examples.

I'm not sure what lead me to believe that I would be ready to read such a story at that particular time in my life. I'm not sure why I thought I was prepared to enter someone else's nightmare while I was still in the midst of my own. I realized that I wasn't when, after reading the Preface, I closed the book and didn't open it again until now. Shortly after I closed Terror, I also stopped reading the memoir writing guide.

I don't know what prompted me to find that book again a few weeks ago. It was a feeling, it was an urge that told me I must read the story. I must go back there. I must read her memories so that I could discover mine.

The book was buried in a box that was buried in a room that is buried in more boxes...but I went to it. I was drawn to this particular spot in this particular box as if by internal GPS. I retrieved it and began reading right away. One page at a time, I told myself...but before long, I found myself woven in the fabric of her horrific childhood.

As I read the details of her memories, I realized what my fear was. I feared remembering all my own details...and I feared not knowing all my own details. As I read Silverman's story, I became aware of how many details from my own past I do not remember. I remember feelings, both physical and emotional, but there are so many details that I don't remember...and that scares me...as much as it scares me to remember them.

I am afraid that I have purposely forgotten much of my childhood in order to protect myself. I am afraid to know what all the details were, but I am also afraid of going through life not knowing what the details were. But who remembers their entire childhood...good or bad?

I Know Why I Sleep on My Stomach

It was back to EMDR today. I had not gone there in so long that I had almost forgotten how to do it...but a session was necessary.

I started out with the image and the feeling of my STBX hugging me just to say hello or goodbye but then pressing his erection against me. An image, of course, leads to a memory and a memory leads to another. Inevitably, I ended up as a child in my bedroom trying to hide and protect myself from my stepfather. The memory was visceral, and I felt both fear and disgust like an electrical current all across the front of me including my genital area.

I know why I sleep on my stomach, I thought, and I was suddenly angry. Not at my stepfather or even STBX. I was angry at the chiropractor who made the recommendations that I recently read in an article online. It frowned upon stomach sleeping. The article itself was completely benign and intended to help people improve their posture and relieve neck and back pain. But during this morning's session, I remembered the article and I thought angrily, how dare you? How can you tell people not to sleep on their stomachs, if you don't know why they sleep on their stomachs in the first place?!

I know why I sleep on my stomach! I need to feel protected and safe! I need to cover myself...I need to keep my stepfather away. I thought he couldn't touch me if I was rolled over on my stomach...but he found me anyway...he touched me anyway, He always did. There was nothing that I could do to keep him away...NOTHING.

So during my session, he did find me, and he did come in, and he did touch me and roll me over. And during my session, I didn't want to know what he was doing...but now I know what he was doing. I just don't know if it's better to say or not say. There is nothing I can do about that scene anymore. I will never undo it. I can never even ask him why...what the fuck possessed him? He licked my genitals like I was his fucking tramp on the side. There, I said it, but I don't know if it's any better. But he acted like he was offering me some of the good things in life. He proceeded as though he were teaching me the facts of life. He was doing me a favor...enriching me. I was to see him as my teacher and not my abuser. I think I'm still confused.

Can you see why I didn't want my husband's face in my vagina?

From Me Time to Girl Time

The first time that I went out after separating form my husband was the time that I wrote the post In High Heels and Makeup and Mint Green . I had dressed to the nines and gone out alone to try out my new life and enjoy my own company. I had a fabulous evening.

Since that lovely night about a year and a half ago, I have enjoyed other similar outings, some less glamorous than others...all alone. Recently, I had begun to worry about myself. Was I enjoying my time alone so well that I was not making space for the company of friends? I truly felt like an evening out alone was just as enjoyable as being out with others...but still. Even I was beginning to feel that it was a little bit odd.

That changed this past weekend. Upon learning that I had a rare Friday night off work without the kids, a good friend of mine casually tossed that we should do something together. I thought about it, hesitated slightly before I tentatively offered that maybe we could go see a movie. It will probably not work out, I thought.

...but it did...and we went...and we had a fabulous night! Cocktails, dinner and a movie...the same night that I would have had alone, but there was something rich about sharing it with a girlfriend. There was something that told me that I was growing, making progress, that those baby steps were going somewhere.

The night that I set out in my high heels and makeup and mint green, I knew that it was my first step and that I would have to proceed one step at a time. I knew that it would take some time before I would be ready to share an evening with another adult...man or woman. I knew that I would first have to discover how I am alone. And then, I knew that my next step would be spending time with women. I think that's where I am now. It might be where I stay. I still feel like I will never trust a man again. I will always feel like his real beast will always emerge as soon as the novelty of the relationship wears off.

I'm OK with girls' night out forever.

The Same Old Shame

As a response to my previous post, I am writing this without barriers. I am looking into the icy gray wind and facing the honest answers. This is what I see when I ask where the anger comes from.

She emerges from the suspended comfort of December, from the holiday-fabricated bubble that postpones making decisions and facing any difficult or otherwise soul-ripping situations. As she steps into January, ice hits her like a million grains of sand cutting her to pieces, but she stands still and strong. She knows it's time.

Yet, it is this very knowledge that wants to defeat her. It is knowing what must be done and what hasn't been done that shames her. It is knowing that she has, at times, compromised her resolve in the name of peace. It is the image of her obliging a man in the name of peace that shames her.

And every time she remembers that there are things she hasn't done, because for now it's easier to keep the peace, she feels the same old shame...and she wants to slay it...with her images...of cutting.

Afterthought:

I have been trying to answer this question for a few weeks now, and every time I sat down to write the proverbial wall went up. I found that I couldn't bring myself to look into this part of me. Finally, this morning I started to write again and decided to try to look at it in the third person. I thought maybe it would be easier to write about myself as if I were watching from the outside...it worked.

Slaying My Shame

"Loving your shame doesn't mean you love what happened to you. It means you love you."

-Terri St.Cloud

The Fabric of Her Dancing Shoes

Trigger Warning: Self-Harm

I don't fully understand the meaning of this quote, but it rang somewhere deep within me when I read it this evening. It felt like it applied to me, like I can somehow relate.

Perhaps it's because my shame has surfaced in so many ways during the last few months...and I'm so tired of seeing it, of feeling it. In fact, I've mastered the art of slaying my shame. Lately, I've been cutting it down with a virtual blade.

Every time I feel it rise and spill over like burning lava emerging from the core of my anger, I trample it with my images. I vividly visualize scenes of cutting. The painful pangs are replaced with flashing pictures of my blade...of my wrists. The more the shame, the more the pictures...the blade cutting across the skin...the red and angry cuts staring back at me, asking for more...because it's never enough.

The last time I called him from the low and lonely floor, my therapist asked me who I was so pissed off at that I felt I had to take it out on myself as such. I replied that I would have to figure it out, but he said not over Christmas.

Well, it's not Christmas anymore. January is here like the piper wanting to get paid. I have to face the bare branches now. The answers are hanging in the cold gray air...but I'm afraid to look.

10,000 Page Views!

I opened my blog today to find that I had reached the 10,000 page-view mark! How exciting for me! I remember when I started blogging just about three years ago. I was shy and afraid and sure that no one would ever read what I wrote!

I have since published 232 posts with over 1,000 comments! I want to say thank you to my readers for supporting me and encouraging me and for following my story. Thank you for your comments, which materialize your presence and have often served as a lifeline for me.

I often wonder about the quiet readers who leave no visible mark other than a notch in my stats page and little extra color on the map. I hope that if you feel my pain, you do not feel alone and that perhaps you might be walking some of my baby steps with me.

I am proud of this blog. I am proud of the work that I have done as I have written these pages. I am proud of the candid words, the flowing tears, the honesty of it all. This is my place to come clean. This is where I lay it all down.

Thank you, again, for 10,000 page views.

Ice is Better Than Steel

The ice maker was broken...or jammed...or something. I had to find a way to fix it, because the alternative was a sharp blade...and ice is better than steel.

I've come a long way.

Alone With My Sadness

In about thirty minutes, I have to be a mom. I will have to pull myself together and be the caring and attentive mother that my children need.

...but for now, I can just feel my sadness. I can just be downhearted and low. Behind my closed doors, I can be as gloomy as I feel without ruining anyone's joy. For now, I can close my eyes and feel hopelessness without having to find a way out of it. For now, I can sit on the floor and feel depression engulf me without having to do anything about it.

Back After Some Techncal Difficulties

So much for writing every day. It turns out that on Thanksgiving night, my internet, television and telephone service (I get them all through the same company) went out. After spending more hours than I care to on the cell phone with the cable company, it was determined that a technician would need to come out to fix the problem...next Wednesday night!

After I had succumbed to my involuntarily unplugged world, the internet mysteriously reappeared tonight! After I had already drunk a glass of port. I am not really in a condition to write. I am too sleepy from the wine and can't really formulate coherent thoughts. I just wanted to write...to string words together...to connect again.

Thanksgiving went better than expected. It turned out, company was what I needed.

My eyes are closing. I was not expecting to write tonight...but it sure feels good to be in my safe place again.

Are They Coming Now?

When my nephew's mother asked me what I was doing for Thanksgiving this year, I replied that I would probably cook and she and my nephew were certainly welcome. I make Thanksgiving dinner every year, so it was easy for me to say that. She said that if she didn't travel to see her mother, they would come over. Now, I am praying that she goes to see her mother.

Weeks ago, my next-door neighbor offered to come over with a bottle of wine when her daughter is in town for Thanksgiving. I happened to move next door to the parents of one of my son's close friends during high school. When she proposed this visit, I was quite open to it, as I wanted to spend time with the young lady as well as catch up a little bit with her mother. Today when I got home, she approached me to make concrete plans for this weekend. I almost panicked!

The truth is that I have a house full of boxes and am in no position to host or entertain anybody! Who in their right mind would ask somebody who moved less than two months ago to receive them in your home? The truth is that I would have preferred for my nephew's mother to have asked me to have Thanksgiving at her place...but really, I would rather she just go to see her mother, so I don't have to even try.

And my neighbor...oh my god...how do I even act normal? I haven't seen her kid since 2006. Seriously, what I wish is for these people to just scoop me up and tell me that it's OK to rest. I don't feel like I have anything to give to them right now.