It’s All About the Journey

There are so many people, like myself, who have experienced sexual trauma as children. But when it comes to trauma, age alone does not determine to what degree a person is affected—traumatized. We struggle so many things, and we struggle in secret. We hide who we believe is the real “us”. We question who we can trust, and with what. The lacking trust is not only toward people that we deem like our abuser(s), but it can be lacking in regard to persons of one gender or another, parents, anyone we feel is better/happier, with God and, even whether we can trust ourselves. 

We commonly struggle with our value as human beings, which stems from being treated as though we were simply something to use and to dispose of. Hope is often elusive.  It isn’t that we never have hope. There are people like myself that have had hope, but my hope was often misplaced or grandiose.

With feeling worthlessness—disposable, we often lack healthy body image. From life’s experience, I know that this is prevalent among woman who were violated as children. But these feelings do not just affect women. They can haunt any survivor of abuse, whether emotional, verbal, physical or sexual .  The feelings about our physical selves can be few or many and, anywhere from believing that some specific part of us is ugly, to “body dysmorphic disorder. There are also those who overcompensate, with an overinflated idea of self and image.  Common issues for people who have been sexually traumatized include but are in no way limited to: anorexia, bulimia, overeating, binging, abuse of diet supplements/drugs, over exercising, using steroids, self-medicating, and self-surgery, or self-mutilation,.   

I don’t know where you are in your journey, and I can’t pretend that I have all the answers. I have learned a lot, and have come a long way but my journey is ongoing. I am a self-proclaimed, self-help addict.  Self help is where I started. I had to start there because I couldn’t trust anyone else, not really. But it was not the answer to all of my issues stemming from ongoing abuse, coupled with an extremely messed up family life. 

Over time I realized I couldn’t fix myself. I needed more, and that is when I started to seek God on a level I didn’t even know was possible, for me. I believed God loved everyone, except me. Thats an whole other story. Eventually, I also started seeing a therapist. I had to fight the stigma of needing psychological help.

Ultimately, I was determined to use everything at my disposal to help free, that inner self that had been hurt so badly. That help came in the form of counseling, both spiritual and psychological, as well as continued education, formal and informal. 

I have not arrived, I survived. But survival wasn’t enough. I wanted to live, to thrive. Life doesn’t have to be so painful every day. I wanted to stop hiding behind the invisible fortress that I had erected, with hurt, fear, shame, humiliation, worthlessness, abandonment, loneliness. At first, I needed to build that wall, because the people who were supposed to protect me, didn’t. While the wall kept people out, its usefulness was lost and became a prison that kept me in, and alone.

I don’t want you/others to suffer any more, or any longer than you/they have already. I will endeavor to educate and inspire anyone who has been traumatized by abuse, or those who love them. I pray that you will start, or stay on the path to healing.

I believe in miracles. There are some whose miracles come quickly, even instantly. Often, the miracle comes in increments, in stages. The incremental miracles are no less spectacular. Miracles come in all shapes and sizes. Some will quiet and small, some will be spectacular, thrilling, and instantly life changing, and others will be anywhere in between or a combination thereof.

How do you find your miracles? Start the Journey.f

It’s all about the Journey!

Survivor

The purpose of this post is to discuss the term “Survivor”. Upon hearing someone’s account of their abuse, we often we are quick to label them survivors. And why not? Surviving is a good thing.  It isn’t that we shouldn’t use the word but, often it is used as a catch all ascription, meant to empower.  In my own life, I have struggled with being commended for being a “survivor” In those very young years, physically surviving took precedence over the sexual trauma.

For someone who had not even entered kindergarten, I had seen things and heard things at home that made life outside insignificant in many ways.  I had heard and seen those whom I loved being beaten and the subsequent aftermath of such.  I witnessed, acid trips, drug deals, and sexual activity, at a time when my mind was unable to comprehend reality as I knew it. 

I could not possibly foresee the consequences of living in such a violent, toxic environment. I learned to be quiet, to listen to people. I was innocent of the things that had happened to me, and yet ironically, my innocence had been stolen. It was evident to my child-self that, other people did not live in the same world that I did. The older I got, the less I would show shock, or fear, regardless of what might be happening, even when it was happening to me. 

As a result, I mostly kept to myself. I didn’t let many people get close to me. I did my thing.  I was independent, in a way that an adolescent should not be.  I came and went when I wanted to.  I had boyfriends when I shouldn’t have. I thought living meant proving that I could do what I wanted to, or not.

On the outside, I was playing a game. I have heard from people who knew me back then, that had no idea that I was not alright. That’s the way I wanted it. If I ever considered telling someone about any of the trauma, that unrelenting voice reminded me, “If they know who I really am, they won’t like/love/accept me.”.

I wasn’t alright.  I didn’t like me.  Whenever I was in a low place, I worried that I would be found out.  You might be thinking, “Found out?”

 I feared anyone seeing whatever it was that made me feel so worthless. I was just a tiny child when the abuse started. But as grew, I wore the shame of being vulnerable, weak, and not being able to stop what had happened to me. I believed there had to be something inherently wrong with me, that made people feel they could force such ugly, intensely personal things on me.  

I survived. I was a Survivor!.  That’s a good thing, right? Yes, it was, but for a long time, even after recognizing that I had indeed survived, I was still in survival mode. In my mind, I was still just surviving. It wasn’t conscious.  I didn’t think of it as an achievement.  It was literally the least I could do. I felt as though I just existed.

Defining the Survivor:

SURVIVOR  noun

1.    a person who survives, especially a person remaining alive after others have died.

2.    a person who copes well with difficulties in their life. 

Of course, there are other variations of the meaning for survivor. But these subtle variations are the closest to the term that is ascribed to victims of just about anything. Survival for me and many people, at least for a long time, was definitely in line with number 1. Number 2 would not have been fitting for me, not for quite a long time.  To fit number 2, would have meant that I coped well, with the difficulties. 

Let’s consider the meaning of the word “cope”.

COPE  verb

1.    to struggle or deal with some success 

2.    To face and deal with responsibilities, problems, or difficulties especially successfully or in a calm adequate manner. 

In all fairness, I did “cope”, in my own way. I did have some success in life, in spite of the abuse, to which I had been subjected.  For a long time, even as an adult, I felt as though I were playing the part of someone who had success. 

 I coped with my past like many others, largely by suppression of memories.  When I couldn’t suppress the memories, I suppressed my emotions about the memories, or using other unhealthy strategies. My coping mechanisms served me well, until they didn’t.  Eventually the memories would not leave me alone; they demanded to be dealt with. I could not suppress them anymore.

Intimate relationships, whether romantic or with friends, felt impossible. Being close meant being exposed. Of course, there was so much good that came with opening myself to relationship. I wanted it, but I feared it.

As I have said, I was still “surviving— living through it.”  Living through what? I was still replaying, reliving the abuse(s). I would experience past trauma over and over, through what should’ve been normal life experiences. Things like being touched in a certain way, hearing specific songs, or smelling familiar scents, would serve as an emotional time machine. 

Eventually, being a survivor was no longer good enough.  That’s when I started searching the self-help sections of bookstores. I was determined to get better, and to do whatever I needed to get there. On the occasions that I shared any part of my story, I was often credited with being a survivor. Logically, I knew what people meant, but the way I felt didn’t seem to match with the implied reason to celebrate.

As I said, at the start of this post, people use the word “survivor” with the best intentions. Here is the potential problem with necessarily using the word survivor without considering what else needs to be conveyed. When we listen to a person’s story of victimization, and we often say, “You’re a Survivor!” 

For those of us who have been victimized, it can feel as if the person is saying: “You’re good now.” “You made it.” “Don’t feel bad.” “You should be happy.”

Not only do people feel that way, but they also often make those very statements. They want that to be the truth. They often don’t know how to react to someone that is not okay. They mean well, and their hearts are in the right place.

If a person has not acknowledged, confronted and/or fully dealt with their trauma, it can seem prematurely celebratory. It is hard to feel that he/she should feel lucky because he/she survived, or that she shouldn’t let it affect her. To her it invalidates the seriousness of what happened, and how the abuse has shaped who he/she is or isn’t. 

Start by acknowledging that she was victimized. It is important to let her know it’s ok, not to be “okay”. That can validate her experience as something that happened to her, and emphasizes it was not her fault. It is as if to say that what happened to her, is not who she is.

That seems obvious, but for her it’s not. So, empower and encourage, use the word survivor, just don’t downplay the abuse or its affects. Do not ask or expect the person to share specific accounts, to justify why she feels the way he/she does. A victim should neither have to justify why she is affected to the degree that she is, nor should she be told that there are others who had experienced worse. Everyone’s trauma is uniquely their own. 

Honestly, it can be uncomfortable to hear that someone you know has been so traumatized. And, if that someone is family, the discomfort can be further complicated by a sense of guilt or responsibility, even when there was no knowledge of, or ability to control, what had happened

So, what do you do? Let her know that you are there for her, if and when she needs to talk.  Then, listen. Listen to what she says. Be open to the fact that she may not be in a good place.  Absolutely, let her know that you’ll be there, cry with her, be appropriately angry about what happened, and/or celebrate any milestones with her. 

Going from surviving to thriving is incremental journey. Every victory is a milestone, that can be used to mark the distance traveled. Even so, there continues to be a sense of needing to survive. 

For people of faith, it might be tempting to say that if she has faith, then she will or should be “over it”, or she should just “let go of it”. There are miraculous healings. I have experienced such. It was a miracle any time I was able to let go of some thing(s) that happened, or memories that tormented me. I didn’t forget what happened, but to this day, if memories come to me, they are just that-memories. They don’t control me; they don’t scare me; or send me into a tailspin. That didn’t mean that there was nothing left with which to deal.  Those miracles were nonetheless miracles. In the past, and on my own, I was unable to adequately deal with the things that had happened. Not being able to confront reality, prevented me from moving forward, from fully living. I was surviving.

Saying Goodbye to Happily Ever After

Saying Goodbye to Happily Ever After

When I was a little girl I watched fairytales with wide-eyed expectation, as each damsel would find herself in distress. No matter the evil she faced, a hero always came to her rescue. 

The draw of fairytales was knowing there would be a happy ending. The bleak circumstances, were never too concerning, as happy endings were guaranteed. Each young girl would go from rags to riches, from an abused step-child to a princess, or love’s first kiss would bring her to life, and begin her happily ever after.

For a girl like me, it didn’t matter that the stories were make-believe.  It gave me somewhere to place my dreams.  Growing up in poverty, rife with physical, sexual, and emotional abuse, and neglect. Life was, at its best, about survival. I just needed to survive until my hero could save me.

My earliest memories were of dramatic, filled with anger, violence, and trauma.  The only time that there was anything that resembled peace, was when my dad wasn’t home, or when he hadn’t yet had his first drink, for the day.  

Memories of my dad are predominantly traumatic and dark. Without realizing it, I looked for the smallest reasons to have hope. To most, those things would seem inconsequential, not even worth a mention.  The few good memories of my dad, were prior to age six.  

I remember lying on the living room floor, in front of an old, metal,  box fan.  It was hot and humid, and being right in front of the fan was the only way to cool off at home.  My dad lay next to me, and had me talk into into the whirring blades of the fan. I remember giggling at the sound of my voice, with each word bubbling as though I was speaking underwater.  

For my 5th birthday, some children from the neighborhood, came over for birthday cake.  We didn’t have any games, or decorations to speak of, but my dad improvised and threw a handful of change into the grass.  The game was to see who found the most money; the prize was the money.

I remember my dad, calling me his “littlest angel”.  For me, it was the tiniest token of love. It made me feel special, if just for a moment. 

Living with so much sadness, fear and terror, I used those few positive moments to establish my fairytale.  I believed that fairytales could happen. Somehow, I believed that those hints of goodness, were a foretelling of my rescue.  If I were good important enough, in some way, my daddy would come as if he were a knight in shining armor, riding in on his trusty steed, to save me.  

Outwardly, I lived like I didn’t need anyone. I was determined not to let just anyone get too close to me. Inwardly, I felt anything but tough; I needed someone. My desire to be rescued, was my private fantasy.

During my teen years, my mom had a live in boyfriend.  He was kind, and not abusive. That would’ve been enough, but he also treated me like I was special.  He joked with me, hugged me, bought me little things, and genuinely seemed to like me.  Unbeknownst to him, he became a sort of surrogate for my dad, who just couldn’t seem to find his way to me. This lovely man was, for a time, was my hero.

As quickly as my surrogate father came into the picture, he disappeared.  As far I knew, he actually disappeared.  I couldn’t believe it.  I was without a father, again.  It made me question what was real. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t worth staying. 

So, I continued as I always had.  I pretended that nothing in life phased me.  I had to, for fear of anyone seeing through the facade that I presented. I was convinced that if people knew who “I really was”, they’d see that I was unlovable. 

I looked for acceptance, approval, and even unconditional love from every male in my life. If I believed enough, if I loved them enough, they would eventually see that I was lovable.

It’s not that I had a conscious plan to make people love me. Always analyzing what I perceived as my lacking value, I would reason with myself, make mental notes about my few good characteristics, in effort to believe that I could be good enough. I never really believed it. 

My first boyfriend was charming. We were young, and too serious, too fast.  At some point he decided that he should tell me that my thighs were too big. That criticism, added to trauma of sexual abuse, set the course for an eating disorder. 

My second boyfriend was controlling, and abusive. When I tried standing up for myself, it only brought physic abuse.  I was horrified at what was happening, but my feelings of worthlessness made it hard to break up with him. 

Two years later, working in a local chain department store, I met an older guy.  He was far different than the person I was dating at the time.  He was working, going to college, and talked about being a Christian. After being friends for a short time, he found me sobbing about how my boyfriend was treating me.  

He wanted to defend me. He told me that he would confront my boyfriend, and make him stop. He said I shouldn’t be treated in such a way, and I believed him. Or, at least I believed that he believed that.  I told him that I would break up with him, myself. The fact that he  found me valuable enough to defend, gave me the courage to walk away. 

He went from being my protector, to being my boyfriend.  He had qualities that were experientially unfamiliar.  He was kind, protective, intelligent, believed in God, wanted to be a good person. I was sure that this guy had to be my hero.  

I hadn’t totally given up on my dad, I still wanted to be worthy of his love. Over time, I had distanced myself from the inevitable pain of seeing him. His lack of action felt like rejection. It never mattered how old I was, I always went to see my dad with the emotions of a wide-eyed child, full of hope and promise, awaiting the fairytale ending.  Sadly, each visit would end the same way, in disappointment and feelings of worthlessness. He would be on good behavior for a short time, but it never took long for him to need a shot. Within mere seconds of downing that shot, he would begin a verbal rant, which inevitably became physical.  Once alcohol was onboard, anything, everything, and nothing would set him off. My fairytale idealizations weren’t gone, there were just stuffed way deep down inside, to be consciously denied. 

Besides, I had my hero. I looked at him like he could do no wrong.  He wasn’t into drinking or getting high. He wasn’t physically abusive. He had morals and character.  He knew what was right and wrong, good and bad.  He believed in families staying together, doing things together, not embarrassing each other.  He believed in education. Thinking like that was foreign to me. I had seen it at great distance, read about it, but I had never experienced that in a relationship. I set out to prove to him that I was, or could be, all he things that he valued.    

The next year was rocky at times, but also full of young passion.  I ended up pregnant. We got married. We both believed it was the right thing to do. We established a stable conservative home, and eventually had a second child.  We gave our kids the kind of life we both wish we had. 

While we agreed on much, it became clear that I did not meet his expectations. I was from the wrong neighborhood, too “heavy”, and not a good enough housekeeper. Once again, I wasn’t “good enough”.  The difference, this time, was that he actually said so. After years of trying, I emotionally checked out of our marriage.  I stopped trying.

When I stopped seeking his idolizing him and his approval, he wanted a divorce. I didn’t want a divorce, I just wanted to be good enough. It was too late. After 18 1/2 years of being separated, we divorced. For the next 12 years, I stayed single, not dating at all. I I felt strong—independent. I even thought, “I kind of like me”.

That wasn’t the end of my idealistic thinking. As quickly as each fantasy seemed to materialize, they also came to a screeching halt. The issues that brought me to “needing” a prince to save me, had not been dealt with.

Time and time again, self pity and disillusionment would eventually set in. After time, and with great difficulty, I am reminded of what happened in one of the darkest times in my life. 

I heard a voice say, “You are not living the present, and you cannot reach for the future, as long as you hold onto your past”. 

The voice I heard was not mine, but it was a clear as if it were audible. I knew it was God. My own internal voice had lead me astray. I knew what I heard was true. 

The revelation continued, “I had a white-knuckle grip on the past and the need to be rescued.  My pain was real, and it was justified. But, I would have to relinquish my right to being a victim, or I would never fully be able to live in the present, or reach toward the future.” 

The truth is, we don’t live in a a magical world with fairies, fairy godmothers, or where the ideal is realized, thus bringing happily ever after. Waiting for a fairytale ending— for someone to write my story, left me powerless. Living in the present allows me to write my own story. I can have realistic expectations as to how I want, and need, to be loved.  I can strive to be the best version of my self, continuing to love, the way I want to be loved. I can be content ever after. My hope for the future is in my faith, in God.

Goodbye Happily Ever After!

Are you Ready?

Anyone who has been a victim of a sexual abuse, particularly if it was ongoing, understands it likely affects everything about who they are, and how they might live the rest of their lives. Different areas of life are affected to varying degrees,  and will manifest uniquely in every survivor.  I have a degree in psychology, but I am not a psychologist.  It is my desire and, the goal of this blog to encourage anyone who has experienced this kind of trauma. In sharing my ongoing journey in health, wellness, and wholeness, I hope that you will find some insight into why you, or someone you love, might struggle. Just as important as insights, are ideas that may help in the restoration of the body, mind and spirit.

People, like myself, who have experienced this type of violation struggle with interpersonal relationships.  We question who we can trust, and with what. The lacking trust is not only toward people that we deem like our abuser(s), but it can be lacking in regard to persons of one gender or another, parents, God and, even whether we can trust ourselves. 

We commonly struggle with our value as a human beings, stemming from being treated as though we were not worth considering. Hope is often elusive.  It isn’t that we never have hope. There are people like myself that have had hope, but my hope was often misplaced.

Body image is something that can haunt a sexual abuse survivor.  The feelings about our physical selves can be few or many and, anywhere from believing that we are ugly, to overcompensating with and overinflated idea of what we look like.  From this there can be issues from anorexia, bulimia, overeating, binging, abuse of diet supplements/drugs, to over exercising and using steroids.   

I don’t know where you are in your journey, and I can’t pretend that I have all the answers. I have learned a lot, and have come a long way. I am a self-proclaimed self-help addict.  Self help is where I started, but it was not the answer to all of my issues stemming from ongoing abuse, coupled with a pretty messed up childhood.  It was merely where I started my journey, and over time I realized that I needed help, a lot of help.  That help came in the form of counseling, both spiritual and psychological, as well as continued education, formal and informal. 

Are you ready to start on your journey to self understanding, compassion, love, forgiveness and healing? It is not easy to shed light on the things that you have hidden away. I want to encourage you to reach out for guidance, as you maneuver the dark corners of your mind.