September 30, 2010
Fall Fallout
So, what's happening with Marj's annual "Fall Fallout," aka "Fall Freak-out" this year? Well, I'm only seeing my therapist once a week this time around and I even took last week off. There doesn't seem to be any need to stay somewhere else or have a therapy marathon in 2010. There seems to be a lot less panic than in previous years. So, that's all good.
But, I am dealing with a lot of grief and devastation. I've done quite a bit of grief work on my mother, but not so much on the old sperm donor. My father seems to be the focus of the therapy this year. After working through a lot of the panic and fear, I guess I'm ready to deal with the sadness and rejection issues that came from the man who was supposed to be my father. This man--who I wanted to be my Daddy--not only sexually abused me, but also systematically tortured me and broke my spirit, in addition to almost killing me on numerous occasions.
After crying and comforting this morning, I scratched out a poem. Here it is:
Nothing Human or Humane
Who are you?
How could you?
Force the innocence
From a precious child
Is there nothing in you
That is human or humane?
Your eyes don't see
Your ears don't hear
My pain and tears
Never seen or heard
Is there nothing in you
That is human or humane?
My cries and pleas
To show some mercy
Mean nothing
To your cold, dead heart
Is there nothing in you
That is human or humane?
The darkest evil
Pours from you
As you torture beauty
to unrecognizable ugly
Is there nothing in you
That is human or humane?
Copyright 2010, Marj McCabe ~ All rights reserved.
So, now I'm off to my therapist's office for a session. I will try to make it over to some blogs for a visit soon. I hope that the healing journey is kind to you today. And be kind to yourself, okay?
But, I am dealing with a lot of grief and devastation. I've done quite a bit of grief work on my mother, but not so much on the old sperm donor. My father seems to be the focus of the therapy this year. After working through a lot of the panic and fear, I guess I'm ready to deal with the sadness and rejection issues that came from the man who was supposed to be my father. This man--who I wanted to be my Daddy--not only sexually abused me, but also systematically tortured me and broke my spirit, in addition to almost killing me on numerous occasions.
After crying and comforting this morning, I scratched out a poem. Here it is:
Nothing Human or Humane
Who are you?
How could you?
Force the innocence
From a precious child
Is there nothing in you
That is human or humane?
Your eyes don't see
Your ears don't hear
My pain and tears
Never seen or heard
Is there nothing in you
That is human or humane?
My cries and pleas
To show some mercy
Mean nothing
To your cold, dead heart
Is there nothing in you
That is human or humane?
The darkest evil
Pours from you
As you torture beauty
to unrecognizable ugly
Is there nothing in you
That is human or humane?
Copyright 2010, Marj McCabe ~ All rights reserved.
So, now I'm off to my therapist's office for a session. I will try to make it over to some blogs for a visit soon. I hope that the healing journey is kind to you today. And be kind to yourself, okay?
Labels: abandonment, betrayal, broken, child abuse, comfort, feelings, grieving, inhumanity, Poetry, rejection, therapy
March 27, 2009
Free The Slaves!
Today is International Free The Slaves Awareness day.
I was definitely a sex slave to my father. If I did not perform one of my "job duties" to his satisfaction, punishment (torture) was swift, cruel and inhumane.
Even before I retrieved the repressed memories of my childhood sexual abuse, I always remembered the verbal abuse, physical abuse, spiritual abuse, emotional abuse, etc. I have always felt like my birth guaranteed my parents free slave labor.
With my mother, it was free domestic labor. My sister and I would stand on chairs, as we had the sole responsibility of the family dish washing starting at age seven. We were not yet old enough to reach the kitchen sink. I got so good at scouring toilets, scrubbing bathtubs and mopping floors, that by age 11 I decided to farm out my cleaning skills to the neighbors and I actually got paid for it.
After my parents divorced, the duties I was expected to perform for my mother increased. Her two favorites were forcing me to give her foot massages and rubbing her head when she had a headache (which was daily).
You may call these childhood memories "incest," "parentification," "not age-appropriate" or simply, "chores."
What these memories feel like to me--then and now--adds up to pure slavery. I had no freedom. I had no choice. I had no means of escape.
It seems to me that, when we think of slavery on a large scale, we think of The Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade. We think of Africans being shipped across the ocean, sold, forced to do menial labor, beaten, whipped and treated as less than human--treated as animals, or even below animals. Many of us in the US think of Abraham Lincoln, The Civil War, and The Emancipation Proclamation of 1862.
We think it's over.
Indeed, slavery is illegal world-wide. But, it's far from over. In fact, as the United Nations recognized its International Day of Remembrance of The Victims of Slavery on Wednesday, March 25, it reminded us that some 100 milli0n Africans were forced into slavery in the 200 years of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade.
Today, FTS--Free The Slaves--estimates that 27 million people are enslaved at the present time.
Folks, that's Right Now!
Have you heard this statistic about modern-day slavery? Think you heard wrong? Well, have you heard any of these terms: child labor, exploitation, trafficking, sexual slavery, child soldiers? These are all forms of modern-day slavery. If you go to the Unicef website, at www.unicef.org, you will find a whopping 22 pages of related articles on modern-day slavery, sprinkled with the terms I've mentioned above.
Since many of us haven't thought of slavery since our US history classes in school, let's do a refresher on the definition of slavery. FTS defines slaves as being "forced to work without pay under threat of violence and unable to walk away." Think this is something that only happens on some remote island, far, far away? FTS provides a glogal map of modern slavery occurrence. There, the US is highlighted prominently, along with China, Russia, India and South American and African countries. Each country/region gets categorized as "slave labour used both internally and exported" or "receiver of slave labour and products."
Here are some statistics you may not know, from the FTS "Top 10 Facts About Modern Slavery:"
FTS believes that we could totally end slavery within 25 years. But we must educate ourselves about the problem. We must raise awareness. Below, I've listed a couple more sites that you can visit to educate yourself about modern-day slavery and raise your own awareness. If you want to help us raise awareness in the blogosphere, go to Bloggers Unite.
I was definitely a sex slave to my father. If I did not perform one of my "job duties" to his satisfaction, punishment (torture) was swift, cruel and inhumane.
Even before I retrieved the repressed memories of my childhood sexual abuse, I always remembered the verbal abuse, physical abuse, spiritual abuse, emotional abuse, etc. I have always felt like my birth guaranteed my parents free slave labor.
With my mother, it was free domestic labor. My sister and I would stand on chairs, as we had the sole responsibility of the family dish washing starting at age seven. We were not yet old enough to reach the kitchen sink. I got so good at scouring toilets, scrubbing bathtubs and mopping floors, that by age 11 I decided to farm out my cleaning skills to the neighbors and I actually got paid for it.
After my parents divorced, the duties I was expected to perform for my mother increased. Her two favorites were forcing me to give her foot massages and rubbing her head when she had a headache (which was daily).
You may call these childhood memories "incest," "parentification," "not age-appropriate" or simply, "chores."
What these memories feel like to me--then and now--adds up to pure slavery. I had no freedom. I had no choice. I had no means of escape.
It seems to me that, when we think of slavery on a large scale, we think of The Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade. We think of Africans being shipped across the ocean, sold, forced to do menial labor, beaten, whipped and treated as less than human--treated as animals, or even below animals. Many of us in the US think of Abraham Lincoln, The Civil War, and The Emancipation Proclamation of 1862.
We think it's over.
Indeed, slavery is illegal world-wide. But, it's far from over. In fact, as the United Nations recognized its International Day of Remembrance of The Victims of Slavery on Wednesday, March 25, it reminded us that some 100 milli0n Africans were forced into slavery in the 200 years of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade.
Today, FTS--Free The Slaves--estimates that 27 million people are enslaved at the present time.
Folks, that's Right Now!
Have you heard this statistic about modern-day slavery? Think you heard wrong? Well, have you heard any of these terms: child labor, exploitation, trafficking, sexual slavery, child soldiers? These are all forms of modern-day slavery. If you go to the Unicef website, at www.unicef.org, you will find a whopping 22 pages of related articles on modern-day slavery, sprinkled with the terms I've mentioned above.
Since many of us haven't thought of slavery since our US history classes in school, let's do a refresher on the definition of slavery. FTS defines slaves as being "forced to work without pay under threat of violence and unable to walk away." Think this is something that only happens on some remote island, far, far away? FTS provides a glogal map of modern slavery occurrence. There, the US is highlighted prominently, along with China, Russia, India and South American and African countries. Each country/region gets categorized as "slave labour used both internally and exported" or "receiver of slave labour and products."
Here are some statistics you may not know, from the FTS "Top 10 Facts About Modern Slavery:"
- At least 14,500 slaves are trafifcked into the United States each year
- Slaves work in fields, mines, brothels, restaurants...even homes
- Slave owners use many words to avoid the term slavery, such as "debt bondage," and "bonded labor"
- Around the world, the average cost to turn a human into a slave is only $90
FTS believes that we could totally end slavery within 25 years. But we must educate ourselves about the problem. We must raise awareness. Below, I've listed a couple more sites that you can visit to educate yourself about modern-day slavery and raise your own awareness. If you want to help us raise awareness in the blogosphere, go to Bloggers Unite.
- While FTS is a movement/charity in the US, Anti-Slavery is international
- Justice Sunday is this Sunday, March 29. Get details at UUSC, The Unitarian Universalist Service Committee
Labels: abuse, advocacy, awareness, Bloggers Unite, child abuse, child labor, freedom, human dignity, human rights, inhumanity, sexual slavery, survivors, torture
December 13, 2007
Mourning that Abused, Dissociated Child
So, for those of you who were wondering: I did go to the Christmas party Saturday night. I even wore something kinda sexy. But, I went with a girlfriend. Yes, I had a very nice time. No, I did not get rip-roaring drunk. I actually enjoyed some meaningful conversations with some other women there.
Unfortunately, that night I got home and the wine I had did not help me sleep. Neither did it keep the nightmares away. I had one of those dreams that goes on and on, like you're watching a three-hour movie. A new twist on my torture-themed dreams is that this time my husband and I were both being tortured. It reminded me of watching my sister suffer as a child. It was a dream that took place in some third-world country and we kept being detained; weren't allowed to cross the border into safe territory. Both of us were abused, even tortured, by our captors while we were being detained. Aaaaaacccckkkkk!
I wish there was some kind of pill one could take to never have a nightmare again!
But, Monday I had my therapy appointment. (Ya know, I have 'em twice a week, so they come up pretty often :P ) I even brought in a print-out of some of the comments I got on my blog for our discussion. I got a lot of good work done with my therapist and then I came home and sobbed my eyes out. It's painful and it sucks, but the grieving--the feeling of the feelings--is healing for me. Of this I am sure.
There are two major developments that I'm really mourning over right now: First, there's the ongoing facing of the "mom-was-involved" betrayal. It is huge! It's one of the toughest realities that I've ever had to face. I guess, since I'm now a mother myself, I just can't seem to wrap my brain around the fact that this woman facilitated and shamed me for my abuse after carrying me inside her. I was once part of her own body! How does such betrayal, abandonment and inhumanity work? I'll never figure it out, of course. That's one of the things I have to keep working on--the urge to try to "figure it out." Even when it's obviously impossible.
The second thing--and this is huge, too--is that my sister and I have both discovered recently that our abuse did NOT end when our father left the house after my parents divorced. This just shakes my world, I gotta tell ya. So much of what I'd assumed for years is now proven false. I'll have to get into this one later. I've just scratched the surface of it.
What I am delving more deeply into is an issue that ties both of these recent recovery developments together: After the divorce, my mother allowed us full, overnight, unsupervised visitation with the monster who was our father. She did not fight the visitation one iota. Their divorce was solely for my mother's personal preservation and selfish reasons. It had nothing to do with finally protecting her offspring.
To say that I'm feeling enormous amounts of anguish is a vast understatement. When I had my huge crying jag Monday, I kept hearing this little girl wail, "She didn't see me. She never saw me. She didn't see me!" (Talking about the egg donor who we called "Mom.") I kept trying to reach in, but didn't feel very successful. I kept saying aloud, "I see you. I see you." But, I'm not sure anybody heard. To say that I'm feeling guilty and conflicted about not being able to reach in, scoop up and comfort the littlest of my child parts doesn't come close to what I'm feeling either.
I guess I've achieved a little bit more empathy for myself after getting in touch with what I wrote about in my December 7 post. So that's a good thing. But, after being in touch with--and being able to describe--the horror that I wrote about in that post, I realize that I'm seeing this reaching-in challenge as almost a physical impossibility. Trying to scoop up these little girls is like grasping at shadows. They keep slipping through my arms. Their charred little souls have turned to ash. They've been reduced to dust and have blown hither and yon. I'm running in every direction trying to find them, but there seems to be nothing to hold onto.
How does one return the ethereal to viable flesh and bone?
Unfortunately, that night I got home and the wine I had did not help me sleep. Neither did it keep the nightmares away. I had one of those dreams that goes on and on, like you're watching a three-hour movie. A new twist on my torture-themed dreams is that this time my husband and I were both being tortured. It reminded me of watching my sister suffer as a child. It was a dream that took place in some third-world country and we kept being detained; weren't allowed to cross the border into safe territory. Both of us were abused, even tortured, by our captors while we were being detained. Aaaaaacccckkkkk!
I wish there was some kind of pill one could take to never have a nightmare again!
But, Monday I had my therapy appointment. (Ya know, I have 'em twice a week, so they come up pretty often :P ) I even brought in a print-out of some of the comments I got on my blog for our discussion. I got a lot of good work done with my therapist and then I came home and sobbed my eyes out. It's painful and it sucks, but the grieving--the feeling of the feelings--is healing for me. Of this I am sure.
There are two major developments that I'm really mourning over right now: First, there's the ongoing facing of the "mom-was-involved" betrayal. It is huge! It's one of the toughest realities that I've ever had to face. I guess, since I'm now a mother myself, I just can't seem to wrap my brain around the fact that this woman facilitated and shamed me for my abuse after carrying me inside her. I was once part of her own body! How does such betrayal, abandonment and inhumanity work? I'll never figure it out, of course. That's one of the things I have to keep working on--the urge to try to "figure it out." Even when it's obviously impossible.
The second thing--and this is huge, too--is that my sister and I have both discovered recently that our abuse did NOT end when our father left the house after my parents divorced. This just shakes my world, I gotta tell ya. So much of what I'd assumed for years is now proven false. I'll have to get into this one later. I've just scratched the surface of it.
What I am delving more deeply into is an issue that ties both of these recent recovery developments together: After the divorce, my mother allowed us full, overnight, unsupervised visitation with the monster who was our father. She did not fight the visitation one iota. Their divorce was solely for my mother's personal preservation and selfish reasons. It had nothing to do with finally protecting her offspring.
To say that I'm feeling enormous amounts of anguish is a vast understatement. When I had my huge crying jag Monday, I kept hearing this little girl wail, "She didn't see me. She never saw me. She didn't see me!" (Talking about the egg donor who we called "Mom.") I kept trying to reach in, but didn't feel very successful. I kept saying aloud, "I see you. I see you." But, I'm not sure anybody heard. To say that I'm feeling guilty and conflicted about not being able to reach in, scoop up and comfort the littlest of my child parts doesn't come close to what I'm feeling either.
I guess I've achieved a little bit more empathy for myself after getting in touch with what I wrote about in my December 7 post. So that's a good thing. But, after being in touch with--and being able to describe--the horror that I wrote about in that post, I realize that I'm seeing this reaching-in challenge as almost a physical impossibility. Trying to scoop up these little girls is like grasping at shadows. They keep slipping through my arms. Their charred little souls have turned to ash. They've been reduced to dust and have blown hither and yon. I'm running in every direction trying to find them, but there seems to be nothing to hold onto.
How does one return the ethereal to viable flesh and bone?
Labels: abandonment, betrayal, child abuse, child parts, grieving, inhumanity, inner child, mourning, nightmares, therapy, torture, trauma
December 07, 2007
The Tragedy of the Abused, Dissociated Child: The Soul Has Retreated; The Light Has Gone Out.
This post is lifted from my Microsoft Word journal.
I gotta get some of this down on paper. This will be long and rambly, so I'm going to type it rather than hand write in my spiral journal.
Right now, I'm really oscillating between: being depressed that the fantasy escape cruise is over (getting the stomach flu as soon as we returned didn't help); wanting to continue "going about my business" and acting like I'm perfectly normal...whatever that is; and feeling scared about I'm not sure what.
I wonder if I'm afraid that Lisa--my rebellious, young party-girl part--is going to wreak havoc. I've got this Christmas party on Saturday that I'm going to solo (David's leaving for an out-of-town conference). Part of me wants to walk to the party (it's only blocks away and then I'd have no worries about drinking and driving) and get really drunk. I've lost 15 pounds since May and I look better than I have since before I got pregnant with Daniel. I've lost the weight this time in a healthy way, and without smoking, too! I've kept the weight off, even with Halloween candy, birthday cake, a Thanksgiving feast, even the gourmet food on the cruise. I went out and got some new clothes--jeans that are fairly low cut. I look kinda sexy. Uh oh! Danger! Unsafe! Scary!
I dunno. Lisa's been pretty quiet. I have to give her credit: She's done a wonderful job of compromising and living fairly comfortably with the fact that David is my husband and Daniel is my son. I think she's actually starting to like David somewhat.
I don't think it's Lisa. What am I so scared about? Is it Christmas? I know I'm feeling overwhelmed. We came back from the cruise and BAM! All of a sudden we're in the thick of it--it's the holiday season. I haven't purchased one gift. The Christmas cards we ordered need to go out. We were four days late on our advent calendar. December? How could it be December already? At least I got the rotten pumpkin thrown out and the scarecrow and fall wreath put away. At least I put up a Christmas wreath. But, I have no interest in putting up the Christmas tree. If it weren't for Daniel, I wouldn't buy a single present.
Yeah, I'm frustrated and overwhelmed with Christmas, but I don't feel any urge to run away. No, I don't think that's it either.
There's definitely a lot of fear. Maybe it's not about what might happen now or in the near future. Maybe it's from the past. (Oh, gee, ya think?) I got really scared the other day about taking a shower. (Good God, how much trauma processing and therapy am I going to have to do to finally get rid of that fear?) David was even here with me--his turn for the stomach flu and he stayed home that day. After I forced myself into the shower, I felt okay with the water on my body. But, the prospect of putting my head under the water to wash my hair got my fear all going again.
I really had to ground myself. The lavender body wash aromatherapy strategy didn't work at all. I smelled it and felt slightly nauseated. Weird! I did use the aromatherapy hair conditioner, though. It worked well. And I told myself that, if I could just get the shower in and look presentable, I could go to the mall, get the advent treats, get myself a treat and buy myself some new, properly-fitting jeans. That seemed to work. I got it all done and picked up Daniel on time from school.
I was feeling scared and not wanting to get out of bed yesterday. Some fear is still lingering. What is it? For some reason, I think it has to do with my mother. Why? Hhhmmmm....maybe it was that dream the other night. It was an horrific nightmare that was really gross. My therapist used the word "icky" in therapy yesterday. That describes it: "icky." Why should I feel so afraid about something gross and icky? Shouldn't I just feel nauseated instead? Why scared?
Come to think of it, I was nauseated recently. Of course, it was that flu bug. I didn't vomit like David did, but I sure felt like it with that stomach flu. I don't know if I'll ever get over my fear of vomiting. I still do anything I can to avoid it, no matter how sick I am. Maybe it was the flu that brought on the dream; it was really sick and gross. It was more gross and "icky" than it was violent and scary (although it was those things as well).
*****WARNING: MAJOR GRAPHIC, DISTURBING CONTENT TO FOLLOW. USE CAUTION!*****
(Disturbing content will be bracketed for your protection and convenience.)
It was one of those "movie" dreams where the characters are strangers to me. The two main characters were these obese women who looked like nobody I've ever seen in real life before. I guess, since there was the obesity, they could have symbolized my mother. But, there were two of them (sisters?) and they were much younger than my mother. Physically, their features looked nothing like my mother or anyone else in our "family."
It was violent, as usual. It involved knives, as usual. (Will I ever figure out what the hell that's about?) There was one scene where the perpetrator-type woman was slicing the other woman's cheek with a knife. It was bloody and terrifying.
But, it was the yucky grossness that bothered me more. In once scene, the two women were naked and writhing on the ground, their bodies distorted and grotesque. They were doing this writhing, but they were not in pain. What was that about? A big mass of fecal matter comes out of one of them. Then, something else comes oozing out. What was it? Did I know at the time of the dream? I guess I've conveniently forgotten. Whatever it was, it was even grosser than shit. Both times, the excreted mass was enormous. This wouldn't be physically possible in real life...I hope. The thing that stays with me the most is the fact that both of these women seemed proud of their disgusting nature. They seemed to revel in grossing somebody else out.
***END OF THIS GRAPHIC CONTENT***
This aspect of the dream is confusing to me. In the attitude about grossing people out, the two characters seemed together--in on it together. But, in the violent scene, one obviously seemed to be in the role of perpetrator and the other victim. Maybe this has to do with my confusion over discovering that my mother was much more than just another victim of my father--she was a collaborator.
Yep. The fear is about my mother. I was thinking about this as I was waiting for a slice of bread to toast yesterday morning. Would I really be that afraid if I faced my mother today? Yes, absolutely. The fear was still quite palpable when I saw her at my cousin's funeral a year-and-a-half ago. I was scared to death of her. But, I handled the confrontation so well. I took care of myself and kept myself safe. I didn't even allow her to touch me or chit chat with me. I could do it again. I could be a strong, resourceful adult and take care of myself(ves).
As I stood there, at the kitchen counter, I thought about what I would say if I chose to confront my mother. I said it aloud: "How could you allow your husband to torture your child, and then make her feel guilty for it as if it were her fault, telling her she was bad, dirty and evil? How could you do that? How could you do that to your own precious, beautiful, innocent, defenseless little child--the child you once carried inside you?" Fuck! No matter how many times I think, say or type the words, it's just incomprehensible!
The temptation to ask the ridiculous, answerless question, "How could you?" is so strong because the concept is just so incomprehensible. It just seems like an impossibility for any human who ever had any empathy, compassion, nurturing instincts, mothering tendencies...basic humanity.
I was thinking about this and talking about it in therapy yesterday: I've faced the inhumanity, as frightening as that is. I've faced the horror. I've dealt with the terror. I've processed the torture. I've looked at the fact that I was treated as less than human. I've faced the fact that, as a child, I had no basic human rights. Is facing this "icky" grossness as bad as all that? Can that be even more scary than what I've already looked at?
Well, maybe it's more related than I first assumed it was.
*****LOOK OUT BELOW! MORE GRAPHIC CONTENT, INVOLVING DEATH*****
It popped into my head like a flash: something I only watched on TV the other night for a matter of seconds, and then quickly turned the channel. It was some crime show about serial killers. They showed photos of the victims in a mass grave they had discovered. Aaaahhhh! Oh my God, this one picture hit me really hard. I'm sure you've seen photographs like this yourself--even worse, they were probably real photos (not something made up for a television show). Maybe it was a photo from the Holocaust or some war photograph. You know how you react, when you see a picture of a charred body of a person who's been burned to death, or maybe the skeletal remains of a victim who was starved to death? All you really see is a skeleton--a heap of bones. It's become such an "it" rather than a proper "who." It's like it's not really a human person you're looking at anymore.
Yeah, that's it. It goes back to the inhumanity again. This is what I just can't truly admit to having been through. This is what I'm struggling so hard to face. This is what I am so afraid of. Now, what I have here is just a different way of looking at it. This is simply a different spin on the same inhumanity issue I'm struggling with. Yeah, and it's more than just the actions of those people--those people who were supposed to be my guardians--that were inhumane. It's the fact that they saw me as less than human. My status was less than that of a dog. I was that black, charred heap of body parts. I was nothing more than flesh draped over bones. No wonder I've always felt like garbage tossed on the trash pile.
That's what happens, you know. That's what happens to bodies that used to be people. That's what happens in war, to those "others," those unlucky saps who found themselves on the other side. That's what you see in those mass graves, in the clean-up from the remnants of the gas chambers. You see piles of corpses. Your eyes become slits as you squint to look at the photograph. What is that? It can't be human. And it no longer is. The light has gone out of the eyes. The twisted, contorted expressions on what used to be faces are monstrous, not human. Was there ever a person really in there? It seems unlikely.
*****END OF GRAPHIC, DISTURBING CONTENT FOR THIS POST*****
(If you haven't been able to read the above, just go to the comments section and leave me a cyber hug, will ya? I could really use some cyber solace. I feel so scared, devastated and alone.)
The real tragedy is to search a face and find no human there in someone who is actually still alive. Oh dear God, maybe even a child! The soul has retreated. The light has gone out. No ordinary human could endure such inhumanity.
So we became something else. Didn't we?
I know some of you know what I mean.
I gotta get some of this down on paper. This will be long and rambly, so I'm going to type it rather than hand write in my spiral journal.
Right now, I'm really oscillating between: being depressed that the fantasy escape cruise is over (getting the stomach flu as soon as we returned didn't help); wanting to continue "going about my business" and acting like I'm perfectly normal...whatever that is; and feeling scared about I'm not sure what.
I wonder if I'm afraid that Lisa--my rebellious, young party-girl part--is going to wreak havoc. I've got this Christmas party on Saturday that I'm going to solo (David's leaving for an out-of-town conference). Part of me wants to walk to the party (it's only blocks away and then I'd have no worries about drinking and driving) and get really drunk. I've lost 15 pounds since May and I look better than I have since before I got pregnant with Daniel. I've lost the weight this time in a healthy way, and without smoking, too! I've kept the weight off, even with Halloween candy, birthday cake, a Thanksgiving feast, even the gourmet food on the cruise. I went out and got some new clothes--jeans that are fairly low cut. I look kinda sexy. Uh oh! Danger! Unsafe! Scary!
I dunno. Lisa's been pretty quiet. I have to give her credit: She's done a wonderful job of compromising and living fairly comfortably with the fact that David is my husband and Daniel is my son. I think she's actually starting to like David somewhat.
I don't think it's Lisa. What am I so scared about? Is it Christmas? I know I'm feeling overwhelmed. We came back from the cruise and BAM! All of a sudden we're in the thick of it--it's the holiday season. I haven't purchased one gift. The Christmas cards we ordered need to go out. We were four days late on our advent calendar. December? How could it be December already? At least I got the rotten pumpkin thrown out and the scarecrow and fall wreath put away. At least I put up a Christmas wreath. But, I have no interest in putting up the Christmas tree. If it weren't for Daniel, I wouldn't buy a single present.
Yeah, I'm frustrated and overwhelmed with Christmas, but I don't feel any urge to run away. No, I don't think that's it either.
There's definitely a lot of fear. Maybe it's not about what might happen now or in the near future. Maybe it's from the past. (Oh, gee, ya think?) I got really scared the other day about taking a shower. (Good God, how much trauma processing and therapy am I going to have to do to finally get rid of that fear?) David was even here with me--his turn for the stomach flu and he stayed home that day. After I forced myself into the shower, I felt okay with the water on my body. But, the prospect of putting my head under the water to wash my hair got my fear all going again.
I really had to ground myself. The lavender body wash aromatherapy strategy didn't work at all. I smelled it and felt slightly nauseated. Weird! I did use the aromatherapy hair conditioner, though. It worked well. And I told myself that, if I could just get the shower in and look presentable, I could go to the mall, get the advent treats, get myself a treat and buy myself some new, properly-fitting jeans. That seemed to work. I got it all done and picked up Daniel on time from school.
I was feeling scared and not wanting to get out of bed yesterday. Some fear is still lingering. What is it? For some reason, I think it has to do with my mother. Why? Hhhmmmm....maybe it was that dream the other night. It was an horrific nightmare that was really gross. My therapist used the word "icky" in therapy yesterday. That describes it: "icky." Why should I feel so afraid about something gross and icky? Shouldn't I just feel nauseated instead? Why scared?
Come to think of it, I was nauseated recently. Of course, it was that flu bug. I didn't vomit like David did, but I sure felt like it with that stomach flu. I don't know if I'll ever get over my fear of vomiting. I still do anything I can to avoid it, no matter how sick I am. Maybe it was the flu that brought on the dream; it was really sick and gross. It was more gross and "icky" than it was violent and scary (although it was those things as well).
*****WARNING: MAJOR GRAPHIC, DISTURBING CONTENT TO FOLLOW. USE CAUTION!*****
(Disturbing content will be bracketed for your protection and convenience.)
It was one of those "movie" dreams where the characters are strangers to me. The two main characters were these obese women who looked like nobody I've ever seen in real life before. I guess, since there was the obesity, they could have symbolized my mother. But, there were two of them (sisters?) and they were much younger than my mother. Physically, their features looked nothing like my mother or anyone else in our "family."
It was violent, as usual. It involved knives, as usual. (Will I ever figure out what the hell that's about?) There was one scene where the perpetrator-type woman was slicing the other woman's cheek with a knife. It was bloody and terrifying.
But, it was the yucky grossness that bothered me more. In once scene, the two women were naked and writhing on the ground, their bodies distorted and grotesque. They were doing this writhing, but they were not in pain. What was that about? A big mass of fecal matter comes out of one of them. Then, something else comes oozing out. What was it? Did I know at the time of the dream? I guess I've conveniently forgotten. Whatever it was, it was even grosser than shit. Both times, the excreted mass was enormous. This wouldn't be physically possible in real life...I hope. The thing that stays with me the most is the fact that both of these women seemed proud of their disgusting nature. They seemed to revel in grossing somebody else out.
***END OF THIS GRAPHIC CONTENT***
This aspect of the dream is confusing to me. In the attitude about grossing people out, the two characters seemed together--in on it together. But, in the violent scene, one obviously seemed to be in the role of perpetrator and the other victim. Maybe this has to do with my confusion over discovering that my mother was much more than just another victim of my father--she was a collaborator.
Yep. The fear is about my mother. I was thinking about this as I was waiting for a slice of bread to toast yesterday morning. Would I really be that afraid if I faced my mother today? Yes, absolutely. The fear was still quite palpable when I saw her at my cousin's funeral a year-and-a-half ago. I was scared to death of her. But, I handled the confrontation so well. I took care of myself and kept myself safe. I didn't even allow her to touch me or chit chat with me. I could do it again. I could be a strong, resourceful adult and take care of myself(ves).
As I stood there, at the kitchen counter, I thought about what I would say if I chose to confront my mother. I said it aloud: "How could you allow your husband to torture your child, and then make her feel guilty for it as if it were her fault, telling her she was bad, dirty and evil? How could you do that? How could you do that to your own precious, beautiful, innocent, defenseless little child--the child you once carried inside you?" Fuck! No matter how many times I think, say or type the words, it's just incomprehensible!
The temptation to ask the ridiculous, answerless question, "How could you?" is so strong because the concept is just so incomprehensible. It just seems like an impossibility for any human who ever had any empathy, compassion, nurturing instincts, mothering tendencies...basic humanity.
I was thinking about this and talking about it in therapy yesterday: I've faced the inhumanity, as frightening as that is. I've faced the horror. I've dealt with the terror. I've processed the torture. I've looked at the fact that I was treated as less than human. I've faced the fact that, as a child, I had no basic human rights. Is facing this "icky" grossness as bad as all that? Can that be even more scary than what I've already looked at?
Well, maybe it's more related than I first assumed it was.
*****LOOK OUT BELOW! MORE GRAPHIC CONTENT, INVOLVING DEATH*****
It popped into my head like a flash: something I only watched on TV the other night for a matter of seconds, and then quickly turned the channel. It was some crime show about serial killers. They showed photos of the victims in a mass grave they had discovered. Aaaahhhh! Oh my God, this one picture hit me really hard. I'm sure you've seen photographs like this yourself--even worse, they were probably real photos (not something made up for a television show). Maybe it was a photo from the Holocaust or some war photograph. You know how you react, when you see a picture of a charred body of a person who's been burned to death, or maybe the skeletal remains of a victim who was starved to death? All you really see is a skeleton--a heap of bones. It's become such an "it" rather than a proper "who." It's like it's not really a human person you're looking at anymore.
Yeah, that's it. It goes back to the inhumanity again. This is what I just can't truly admit to having been through. This is what I'm struggling so hard to face. This is what I am so afraid of. Now, what I have here is just a different way of looking at it. This is simply a different spin on the same inhumanity issue I'm struggling with. Yeah, and it's more than just the actions of those people--those people who were supposed to be my guardians--that were inhumane. It's the fact that they saw me as less than human. My status was less than that of a dog. I was that black, charred heap of body parts. I was nothing more than flesh draped over bones. No wonder I've always felt like garbage tossed on the trash pile.
That's what happens, you know. That's what happens to bodies that used to be people. That's what happens in war, to those "others," those unlucky saps who found themselves on the other side. That's what you see in those mass graves, in the clean-up from the remnants of the gas chambers. You see piles of corpses. Your eyes become slits as you squint to look at the photograph. What is that? It can't be human. And it no longer is. The light has gone out of the eyes. The twisted, contorted expressions on what used to be faces are monstrous, not human. Was there ever a person really in there? It seems unlikely.
*****END OF GRAPHIC, DISTURBING CONTENT FOR THIS POST*****
(If you haven't been able to read the above, just go to the comments section and leave me a cyber hug, will ya? I could really use some cyber solace. I feel so scared, devastated and alone.)
The real tragedy is to search a face and find no human there in someone who is actually still alive. Oh dear God, maybe even a child! The soul has retreated. The light has gone out. No ordinary human could endure such inhumanity.
So we became something else. Didn't we?
I know some of you know what I mean.
Labels: child abuse, dental fear, Holocaust, inhumanity, murder, nightmares, therapy, torture, trauma, victims
August 20, 2007
Looking at What I Don't Want to See
You know how Scrooge had the Ghost of Christmas Past to point things out for him? That's how I feel with a dream I had last night.
Earlier in the week, I felt like my therapist was suggesting something that I just couldn't see at the time.
This dream last night was like that long finger of the ghost, pointing. It was like a voice in my head, directing and asking, "Look! There. Can you see it now?" What I hadn't wanted to look at, but finally saw, was the scarier, crueler origins of my ever-present fear of rejection.
In the beginning of the week that just past, I was so proud of myself. I stayed present and I stayed safe while I was assertive, stated my boundaries and stood my ground during a difficult confrontation. I felt stressed and tired from the confrontation, but I felt good about myself and I didn't dissociate. I even asserted myself as I insisted on some time-out for me for self-care.
Yee haw! I was on a healthy roll!
Then, WHAM! I got stopped in my tracks. I immediately felt bad about myself--rejected and unlovable--after some perceived social snubs by some wealthy parents of students at my son's school. Uh oh. I could almost feel myself getting smaller. I could sense the old, familiar urge to run away and hide. I had to grab my cozy blanket and rock in my rocking chair to comfort and ground myself, in order to resist the dissociative urges.
I felt a bit better after talking it out with my husband. He agreed that some of the behaviors I endured were snobby and rude. Pardon the expression, but I just have no patience for people who act like their shit doesn't stink just because they have money and live in a big, fancy house!
Aaarrrgghh! How did I end up in this situation again?! The people in our immediate neighborhood have different values and priorities. They don't act like snobs. They are very down to earth.
But now my son has to deal with this at school. Just like I did. My high school, for instance, was full of kids who got brand-new cars the day they turned sixteen and went off to expensive, private colleges after graduation. This one girl, I'll never forget, never repeated the same stylish, put-together outfit in the six years I was with her at junior high and high school. I was lucky if I could mix and match enough to pull together a week's worth of clothes without repeating anything!
Anyway, in therapy, I had been casting my nets, so to speak, in search of some junior-high-aged part that, perhaps, I needed to work with on this rejection issue. I feel bad that I dismissed a part who was obviously hurting and calling out for attention. I didn't think she "qualified" because she's younger--between the ages of six and eight, I think. I've always thought of my social rejection era as being somewhere between the ages of 12 and 18; especially concentrated in the junior high years.
That's the time, after all, when I had to endure the social scenarios like walking up behind a group of girls I thought I liked and overhearing them say, "Nobody tell Marj where we're going. We don't want her to come." I was mortified. Back then, I did, literally, run away to hide my embarrassing, unacceptable, unlikeable self.
The dream I had last night started out in this oh-so-familiar way, with the pretty, popular girls rejecting and snubbing me. Ho Hum. That again. Then, the dream took a more sinister turn. In this version of my nightmare, all the popular "kids" look about college age and all live together...like some kind of co-ed fraternity or something. For some reason--even though I know I'm not welcome, not "allowed" there--I go up to the door and one of the resident guys lets me in. He's kinda giving me the tour of the place and being really friendly and nice to me. How strange.
I keep glancing at the front door nervously. I keep thinking, "What is this idiot doing? Doesn't he know that he'll be an outcast if the others return and find him being nice to me?" By the time the others do return, his hideous plan is revealed. He has lured me there in order to enslave me there permanently as his personal step-and-fetch servant!
At the end of the dream they're all standing around, snickering and laughing at the fool--me--who is cleaning and carrying and delivering every whim and desired thing to this guy. The same guy who was once so nice and kind to me is now ordering me about, criticizing my work and belittling me with insults. He is treating me as less than human.
Less than human.
That's what I was in real life. I was stripped of my most basic human dignity, rights and respect, the respect that all humans--child or adult--have an inherent right to. Why do we do it? As a species, why do we stoop to inhumanity? Why do we fool ourselves into thinking it's "us versus them?" How do we allow our ourselves to treat our fellow humans, our brothers--OUR OWN CHILDREN--as less than human objects?
Instead of recognizing that we re all connected--that we are all one--we strip these other divine souls of their humanity. We take an equal--a being that has come from the same source of light and love as ourselves--and we beat him down and strip him of all his rights and human dignity, until he is nothing more than an IT. That's what the plantation owners did to the slaves. That's what the Nazis did to the Jews. That's what my parents did to me.
I was set up. How was I ever supposed to stand up for myself, love myself, or find any social acceptance after that?
My old therapist used to accuse me of taking on too many of the world's problems. But it was my problem It is my problem. As unthinkable as it may seem, this is what parents can do to their own child. This wasn't black vs. white or Christian vs. Jew. This was a case of a parent reducing their own innocent, precious child to an object--an IT--for their own sick pleasure and convenience.
I know this to be true. But, I'm still not quite comprehending or accepting it.
It blows my mind wide open.
It breaks my heart in two.
Earlier in the week, I felt like my therapist was suggesting something that I just couldn't see at the time.
This dream last night was like that long finger of the ghost, pointing. It was like a voice in my head, directing and asking, "Look! There. Can you see it now?" What I hadn't wanted to look at, but finally saw, was the scarier, crueler origins of my ever-present fear of rejection.
In the beginning of the week that just past, I was so proud of myself. I stayed present and I stayed safe while I was assertive, stated my boundaries and stood my ground during a difficult confrontation. I felt stressed and tired from the confrontation, but I felt good about myself and I didn't dissociate. I even asserted myself as I insisted on some time-out for me for self-care.
Yee haw! I was on a healthy roll!
Then, WHAM! I got stopped in my tracks. I immediately felt bad about myself--rejected and unlovable--after some perceived social snubs by some wealthy parents of students at my son's school. Uh oh. I could almost feel myself getting smaller. I could sense the old, familiar urge to run away and hide. I had to grab my cozy blanket and rock in my rocking chair to comfort and ground myself, in order to resist the dissociative urges.
I felt a bit better after talking it out with my husband. He agreed that some of the behaviors I endured were snobby and rude. Pardon the expression, but I just have no patience for people who act like their shit doesn't stink just because they have money and live in a big, fancy house!
Aaarrrgghh! How did I end up in this situation again?! The people in our immediate neighborhood have different values and priorities. They don't act like snobs. They are very down to earth.
But now my son has to deal with this at school. Just like I did. My high school, for instance, was full of kids who got brand-new cars the day they turned sixteen and went off to expensive, private colleges after graduation. This one girl, I'll never forget, never repeated the same stylish, put-together outfit in the six years I was with her at junior high and high school. I was lucky if I could mix and match enough to pull together a week's worth of clothes without repeating anything!
Anyway, in therapy, I had been casting my nets, so to speak, in search of some junior-high-aged part that, perhaps, I needed to work with on this rejection issue. I feel bad that I dismissed a part who was obviously hurting and calling out for attention. I didn't think she "qualified" because she's younger--between the ages of six and eight, I think. I've always thought of my social rejection era as being somewhere between the ages of 12 and 18; especially concentrated in the junior high years.
That's the time, after all, when I had to endure the social scenarios like walking up behind a group of girls I thought I liked and overhearing them say, "Nobody tell Marj where we're going. We don't want her to come." I was mortified. Back then, I did, literally, run away to hide my embarrassing, unacceptable, unlikeable self.
The dream I had last night started out in this oh-so-familiar way, with the pretty, popular girls rejecting and snubbing me. Ho Hum. That again. Then, the dream took a more sinister turn. In this version of my nightmare, all the popular "kids" look about college age and all live together...like some kind of co-ed fraternity or something. For some reason--even though I know I'm not welcome, not "allowed" there--I go up to the door and one of the resident guys lets me in. He's kinda giving me the tour of the place and being really friendly and nice to me. How strange.
I keep glancing at the front door nervously. I keep thinking, "What is this idiot doing? Doesn't he know that he'll be an outcast if the others return and find him being nice to me?" By the time the others do return, his hideous plan is revealed. He has lured me there in order to enslave me there permanently as his personal step-and-fetch servant!
At the end of the dream they're all standing around, snickering and laughing at the fool--me--who is cleaning and carrying and delivering every whim and desired thing to this guy. The same guy who was once so nice and kind to me is now ordering me about, criticizing my work and belittling me with insults. He is treating me as less than human.
Less than human.
That's what I was in real life. I was stripped of my most basic human dignity, rights and respect, the respect that all humans--child or adult--have an inherent right to. Why do we do it? As a species, why do we stoop to inhumanity? Why do we fool ourselves into thinking it's "us versus them?" How do we allow our ourselves to treat our fellow humans, our brothers--OUR OWN CHILDREN--as less than human objects?
Instead of recognizing that we re all connected--that we are all one--we strip these other divine souls of their humanity. We take an equal--a being that has come from the same source of light and love as ourselves--and we beat him down and strip him of all his rights and human dignity, until he is nothing more than an IT. That's what the plantation owners did to the slaves. That's what the Nazis did to the Jews. That's what my parents did to me.
I was set up. How was I ever supposed to stand up for myself, love myself, or find any social acceptance after that?
My old therapist used to accuse me of taking on too many of the world's problems. But it was my problem It is my problem. As unthinkable as it may seem, this is what parents can do to their own child. This wasn't black vs. white or Christian vs. Jew. This was a case of a parent reducing their own innocent, precious child to an object--an IT--for their own sick pleasure and convenience.
I know this to be true. But, I'm still not quite comprehending or accepting it.
It blows my mind wide open.
It breaks my heart in two.
Labels: child abuse, human dignity, inhumanity, rejection, seeing the truth, social acceptance
