The first step in recovery…

I am slowly coming to terms with the fact that I was abused as a child.

It is a strange thing to come to terms with. It has always been part of me, and yet, it is something that I have kept so secret and so private that admitting it has been a huge deal.

I also have realized that I feel angry and betrayed that I was made to carry this burden? What kind of parent foists it on a child? And what about those who saw what was going on and told me that because I was strong I should endure?

I mean, seriously, I was a kid. It is not for me to be the strong one, the adult in the room! I was the child.

Perhaps the biggest and most insidious weapon that was used against me was the no-one will believe you card.

The next biggest weapon was that something must be wrong with you, that’s why you are a loner. I have subsequently realized that a great deal of being a loner was engineered (I hope, unconsciously) by my protectors. Ja, right!

I feel that I am starting to get angry with this situation. I think that anger is an appropriate reaction to child abuse.

The physical abuse and the murder attempts, ironically enough, I can come to terms with…but the continued emotional abuse? I don’t know if I can ever forgive that, and I don’t know if I can just let it go.

I know the argument is that forgiveness is something that you give yourself, but at the same time, everyone who knew about the abuse tells me I should just forgive my mother for doing it to me. And that I have no right not to welcome her into my life with open arms.

When every time I have done that, she has abused me again. Repeated the behaviors, re-perpetrated the sins of the past.

The frustrating thing about my past is that because it is complicated I can’t simply label her a narcissistic mother and move forward from there, my mother’s psychosis was more complex than that…and I don’t know if I could cut off ties from my father…and since he remains married to my mother the option of cutting ties comes with many complications…but it might be an option that I have to consider.

I have no idea where to begin classifying the abuse that I endured and joining a support group for survivors. In the most bizarre twist of irony,  the person who I know survived similar experiences is one that I am least likely to turn to – my mother.

****

I am going away for the weekend tomorrow and so I may only post again on Tuesday.

Realizations

I had a couple of realizations in the past two days.

One, I have no idea what my story is…I have kept the fact that I was abused so secret for so long that I have no idea how I would even begin to tell people what happened to me as a child.

Two, me leaving a career in law and moving to an entirely different country on the other side of the earth was necessary and nothing to be ashamed of. It allowed me to begin the process of restoring my soul…including beginning to face truths that I am unsure that I would have had the courage to face back in South Africa.

I have no idea where these realizations leave me…but they are a point of departure that allow me to figure out what I want to happen next.

Disjointed thoughts on being abused

I remember lying to myself about my childhood. I remember looking back in retrospect and saying it was didn’t difficult and it didn’t hurt.

I remember the stimulus that prompted that lie. It was the opening lines to the book, Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt. The line that read along the lines: “I had a difficult childhood. All worthwhile childhoods are.”

And I know why I needed to tell myself the lie at that time and in that space.

I remember the stimulus that started me on the journey towards accepting the fact that I was abused as a child. It was a lyric in one of the songs in the Evelyn Evelyn album by Amanda Palmer and Jason Webley. In fact it was that entire album that was the final catalyst that has begun this healing process.

To be honest, I have no idea what I am doing. Whether I am healing. I am doing my best to face the right direction. But sometimes I wonder. There is so much pain, so much hurt, so much emotional weight.

Sometimes I wonder if I am losing my mind. I have kept secrets about what went down in my childhood so efficiently, so dutifully, that I have even kept them secret from myself, but every now and then a secret comes out, memories resurface.

Those memories hurt and sting.

I wish that I could just lump a label on my abusers and what went on and dump all of the experience. But sadly they are too big a part of me and too much of my life has been about keeping score to be easily able to let go.

I sometimes wonder if I am desperately clinging onto things that hurt me on purpose. I don’t think so. I think it is a conditioned reflex. One that I am working at changing.

The thing is there is no easy label to say what happened, although I suppose there is: abuse. But of course, the word abuse is like the word love, it has too many different meanings to actually be meaningful. Everyone who has been abused has stories that are depressingly similiar and yet completely different – I suppose that is the human condition.

I am rambling, but I just am letting these things out. Releasing some of the demons from my past – confronting them. Recognizing them for what they are.

They do not have power over me. But they do hurt.

But time will hopefully form scabs if it does not heal these wounds, which part of me thinks will never happen.

I guess the thing that gets to me is when people tell me to let go of the abuse – that it is in the past. Because it is not actually, a number of the abusive patterns and behaviors are still in the present and they still hurt like hell when they are inflicted.

I think in some ways they hurt more now as an adult than as a child.

Dumping a memory

This memory has surfaced in the last couple of days so I am writing it down and letting it go. It seems that writing out painful experiences helps me to get past them so here goes.

Many years ago when I was 11 or 12 I went away on Girl Scout camp…and when I got back I had a fight with my mother. Fighting with my mother at that stage was hardly unusual, I could never please her and I was desperate for the make up for a fight where for once she would tell me (and more importantly, make me feel) that she loved me unconditionally. That still has not come. I don’t think it ever will.

But that is not the point of the story. I had always believed until I got back from that camp that my sister had my back, that she, at least, loved me. After the fight a card got shoved under my bedroom door.

On the front of it was a picture of a bunch of roses and some sheet music. Part of the text on the front (or perhaps all of it, I honestly do not remember) read:

Always my sister, always my friend.

On the back of the card in my sister’s neat curly handwriting was the message:

Go on camp more often, but you can stay home if you fight less with mom.

That memory hurts. The rejection hurts. The insinuation that everything that was wrong at home was all my fault. That was the first time that I truly felt alone. I always believed that at least there was one person at home to make it a safe place and who believed that I had a right to have a haven.

I am crying as I type this, because I don’t quite know how to forgive my sister for her teenage insensitivity. And she was and is as much a victim of our dysfunctional family as I was/am.  But that memory, in this moment stings and gnaws at my very soul.

***

I did something unusual for me just now, I actually took a step back from what I was writing. I went and grabbed some water from the fridge and had a drink and I feel better, calmer.

I am letting this memory float away…I just needed to dump it somewhere.

Fear and forgiveness

The past couple of days I have been thinking a great deal about my relationship with my mother, and the relationship that I would be willing to let her have with any children that I may have in the future. (I think this was triggered by the fact that I am becoming an aunt).

My greatest fear when it comes to these unborn children is that I will inflict the same damage on them as I had inflicted upon me. That I would make them doubt that they are worthy of unconditional love.

The whole concept of unconditional love is one that I am learning, but I have not yet mastered it.

I do not know if I can honestly say that I love my mother unconditionally at the moment, and this is a statement that distresses me somewhat. I also battle to feel compassion for her when I am close to her or having a conversation with her – I think some of the hurt and wounds are just too raw.

So, that is definitely something that I want to work on.

Because with age and distance comes insight. And I suspect that my mother never developed the coping mechanisms to actually process and move on and leave the abuse of her childhood behind. She was unconsciously recreating the patterns and roles of her own family.

And I feel sorry for her and the experiences that she had growing up.

But I do not know if I am able to forgive her yet, I want to be able to. I will never forget what she did to me, I dare not lest I repeat her mistakes.

I can’t even verbalize a great deal of the pain and I wonder how she sees the same experiences. Does she even remember them?

Does it matter, is it necessary for us to discuss them…do I need to explain to her why I am wary of letting my guard down? Of risking closeness? And if I do try to explain this, will it do more harm than good?

I just don’t know. But that’s okay, I will figure it out as I go along.

I am blessed and lucky

I have two amazing aunts both of whom are married to two of my mother’s brothers. While due to circumstances and family propaganda I never spent a great deal of time with my aunt Judith when I was growing up (in an incredible twist of irony: my mom cut off diplomatic relations with her because she called my mom out on how she was treating me – and years later my godmother used the argument that I should stay away from Judith because she had told my mom how to raise her children) (and I fell for the artful manipulation hook, line and sinker). I have the opportunity to get to know her as an adult, and it is one of the things that I am looking forward to doing when I get back to South Africa.

My aunt Sue, who I wrote about yesterday, is also an incredible woman. And someone who I can look up to and use as a role model.

I have an amazing mother-in-law and while we have had our issues in the past (and no doubt will clash in the future).

And all three of these women have blessed me with unconditional love and acceptance, and through that I am learning that life is about keeping score and you people will not necessarily hurt you if you get close to them.

I am pleased that I am blessed with the opportunity to learn these things before I have my own children.

Because I believe my mother and my godmother (one of my mom’s sisters) did not have this opportunity and their scars run deep. And they have repeated many of their mother’s behaviours that damaged them and they are still wrapped in that pain.

I pity their pain but I will not play the role that they assigned to me, I have broken free of that darkness and I will not go back. I hope that we will one day be able to have a healthy relationship.

That, my mother especially, takes the opportunity to lay down the burdens of her past and we can move beyond the cycle of abuse.

But I am not allowing my mom and my godmother into my life unconditionally, I will not be made to believe that I am a bad person unworthy of love and a drain on the universe. Because that is not true.

I am lucky that I can see clearly that the wounds that were inflicted on my mother and inflicted on me do not need to be inflicted on another. I do not have to twist my child’s hand in a fit of rage. I do not need to blame them for things that are going wrong.

I am blessed that I have people who I can call upon to help me continue to see and to break this cycle.

Nothing, really

I have no idea what to write about today.

Part of me was tempted to not write anything at all. But, that is not a habit I want to encourage.

We got some really cool news yesterday, Riaan is going to be an uncle…which I suppose means I am going to be an aunt.  I am really chuffed for my sister in law, she and her hubby have always said that they want kids.

And my father in law is absolutely over the moon that he is going to be a grandfather.

Part of me is scared of this, though, I have no idea how to be a good aunt. I did not have the best models…and I am terribly scared of inflicting the same kind of damage on a child as was inflicted on me.

But I think, by acknowledging the cycle of abuse, and owning it and saying that I will not repeat it is a big deal. It is a start, and giving the child when they arrive unconditional love…because that was the biggest issue with me I suppose, I still battle with the concept of unconditional love.

Being loved just because I am. Not because I am not anything, just am.

***

I worked out yesterday and I am feeling it today. There are aches in places that I did not know I could ache…But I walked today. About 20 minutes in the sunshine. It’s momentum.

***

I think I might be feeling content at today, not stressed not sad…just content. It is a good moment. I will make more of them.

Facing the storm

And sin, young man, is when you treat people as things. Including yourself. That’s what sin is.
~Granny Weatherwax to Brother Oats when discussing the nature of sin in Carpe Jugulum by Terry Pratchett

If I had to single out one cruelty among the history of my child abuse committed by my abusers, I would say that it is the demand that I understood my abusers. The argument that the abuse was my fault and that I drove them to it. That if I just behaved differently it would not happen.

Yes there were other cruelties, especially, instilling in me a sense that I needed to be alone, that people were to be avoided. That people were dangerous, and if they ever got to know me they would want nothing to do with me. That I had no people skills.

That one is still a favourite among two of my main abusers: that I don’t have any people skills. And it is one that I can say with certainty that I know is untrue, my principal (the name for the attorney that supervises an article clerk) and a number of advocates consistently complimented me on my people skills. On the fact that I knew how to deal with people in some of the most stressful situations that they experience.

But sometimes, I start believing the lies. And if I am under a large amount of stress, I do lose a level of those people skills. I suppose that there fight or flight kicks in on a higher plane, and niceties become non-essential.

If there is a lesson in all of this experience, one thing that I need to learn, I believe it is this: People matter. People are not things. I am a person, therefore I matter and I am not a thing.

Perhaps, because I was told that I need to understand my abusers, that it was my fault, I have always been interested in the reasons behind people’s behaviour. I have always looked at the motivation and their big picture. Of course, perhaps, there is an entirely different reason, or no reason.

And so, I have looked down the rabbit hole, and I have tried to understand their experiences. And the most frightening thing is. I can. Even worse than being able to understand, I can empathize. I have seen that they could not see anything but darkness.

That they could see no other option, no other choice in the circumstance.

One of the things that I have observed and that fascinates me, is the fact that those closest to my abusers and those who saw the environment most frequently could not or did not or would not (and still don’t) see what was going on.

This of course is a powerful weapon for an abuser, to be able to say “you see, it did not happen like that” “you are crazy”. But unexpectedly, people have given me the gift of outside observation. Of saying, we saw what went down, and were amazed that you did not see it too, but we did not know what we could do to help…

And then, a realization and flashes of insight, where I understand and saw what they did.

I sometimes wonder how the abuse could be kept so secret, how when I exhibited so many of the classical symptoms of abuse it could be ignored. But I have realized and learnt that people do not want to look closely at reality, especially if it may have inconvenient consequences. After all, if someone appears to be a pillar of the community it is much easier to believe that than it is to face up to some unpleasant realities, that perhaps there is more than meets the eye, and the person is not a saint.

But that’s the thing, I think, no one is perfect. I don’t think my abusers were evil. It would be much easier if they were or if I could believe that they were. They are people. And people sometimes do bad things. People sometimes do good things. Sometimes the same person will do something incredibly good and incredibly bad in the space of the same day.

We are complex and flawed creatures, each and every one of us.

Of course, I think there is a power that comes from observing, especially from observing yourself. If there is a power that will allow me to break this cycle of abuse it is this. Acknowledging the darkness, realizing that part of the darkness was shaped by the past, and knowing that the future is not set in stone. (I know that my mother was abused by her mother, and her mother in turn was abused by her mother…ironically enough this knowledge comes from the family GP who did nothing about it, apart from tell me that I would probably inflict the same damage and behavior on my own child)

I think the whole concept of keeping silent around abuse and the evils of what when down in the past, especially on the basis that you must not speak ill of the dead, creates a grotesque circle of pain and trauma.

The thing is trauma and pain are ugly. And as people we are not really equipped to deal with ugly. And so in ugly circumstances we don’t manage to live up to who we really are. Who we have the potential to become. We revert to being brutal, savage creatures.

But in this ugly storm we can choose to face the light, and when we do we might see the most beautiful rainbow.

 

I am not that brave

I am exhausted today, I slept like crap and I feel blah, deflated…as though the bursts of energy and positivity have all been pushed out of me.

But it will be okay. This is how I am feeling right now. I will not feel like this forever, and maybe at some point the cup of coffee that I am drinking will kick in and help me feel like I have some get up and go which I can use to go and knock things off the to do list.

The worse thing is I had a nap, but it did not help I am still tired…closer to exhausted.

Perhaps it was the fact that I watched a movie last night before bed? But I don’t think so, because I remember having disturbing dreams.

Dreams of my family, where they were berating me for neglecting them…telling me that I was selfish to take care of myself, that I should be putting their needs above mine.

And I think, as I write this (brilliant tautology), that perhaps what disturbed me most was my father joined in my dream. In real life, he generally stayed out of any of the tricky situations…any situation where emotion was involved.

I think it scares him, not knowing exactly how to act, not having a predictable series of if – then statements.

So I think that dream unsettled me more. I have not ever looked at the psychological significance of dreams. I know that clinical psychologists use them as tools in diagnosis and treatment, but I do not know why they are significant.

Part of me thinks the reasons for the dreams are that they are issues that I am ready to start facing, start dealing with.

Start moving past. It would be easy to just say that I could just close the book on my family, and turn over the page. But the truth is, I love them…and my relationship with them is complicated.

And what is making it even more complicated is, I am redefining it on my own first. Figuring out what behaviour I regard as acceptable towards me, and what not. Because while I do not blame my family for abusing me…not even for the times that my mother put her hands around my neck and tried to squeeze the life out of me (in a very sadly ironical turn of events a couple of years later, her mother was strangled to death)…because they did not really choose to do what they did.

They ignored choices, they did not consciously realise that they had some control over their mental health. Because after all, mental health is still a very quiet subject, one that is not really discussed in polite society…and the labels are flippantly assigned to explain or dismiss people and their behavior:

The woman with mood swings – ignore her – she must be bipolar. Oh he’s just psycho. She’s crazy.

And it is only recently that I found the courage to speak, and I found the inspiration via a post on The Bloggess’s site and she posted in response to another blogger’s tragic experience.

And yet, I had known before hand that I struggle with depression. And yes, the depressive episodes are often triggered by external events. But the demons they are inside.

But I have noticed when I speak (well, write) — writing is easier than speaking for me (perhaps because I was such a bookish child 🙂 ) — I start bringing my black dog to heal. And he is not a loveable staffie….with a cheerful smile. He is a vicious brute, closer to the size of a bear, a creature that could live in the sewer and have all the other creatures of nightmares run away in terror.

Perhaps, it is hypocritical that I do not write this where everyone who knows me in real life could find this, but the truth is then I would not be able to write as honestly and openly as I do…I would not be able to speak my truth, because it makes people uncomfortable.

And while one of the things that contributed to causing this illness was the fact that I was abused as a child, there is definitely a biological disposition to mental illness in my family (my one cousin is a schizophrenic and I am not alone in suffering from major depression).

In some ways my family’s handling of my cousin’s schizophrenia is illuminating…some of them treat him as though he is contaminated, as though by being near him is dangerous and catching.

And I am not brave enough to have to convince people when I am battling that I have the right to battle…that it is alright for me to speak.

That speaking out does not make me a traitor, or a bad person, or that by speaking out I am deliberately hurting them. I am speaking because I need to…and when I am ready, I will speak out behind my entire name (and not just my anonymous first name).

But for now, there is no shame in me speaking. I am not dragging out the family’s dirty laundry…I am merely spring cleaning my soul. And to do that, I speak.

Forgiving myself

Adult survivors of emotional child abuse have only two life-choices: learn to self-reference or remain a victim. When your self-concept has been shredded, when you have been deeply injured and made to feel the injury was all your fault, when you look for approval to those who can not or will not provide it—you play the role assigned to you by your abusers.

It’s time to stop playing that role, time to write your own script. Victims of emotional abuse carry the cure in their own hearts and souls. Salvation means learning self-respect, earning the respect of others and making that respect the absolutely irreducible minimum requirement for all intimate relationships. For the emotionally abused child, healing does come down to “forgiveness”—forgiveness of yourself.

~ Andrew Vachss You Carry the Cure In Your Own Heart

I had a revelation yesterday, when I realized that I am still carrying around feelings and guilt and blame for what happened to me as a child.

I was a perceptive person, and I still am…but especially as a child, I had the ability to observe someone and tell you what was most likely going on in their heads…and most of the time, I was right (in a twisted series of events and a particular bout of bullying I ended up telling all of the taunters what was going through their heads, what their insecurities were…and it frightened them into stopping…but that is an entirely different story).

I think, part of the reason I developed this ability was because of the situation with my mother…there was no certainty, I never quite knew what was coming…some days it seemed as though I was going to have the fairy tale, a loving mother, and other days it was as though I had a monster not a mother.

But because I had developed this ability to perceive what was going on psychologically, I began to believe that if anything  happened to bring out the monster, it must have been my fault…that I should just have behaved differently, said something else or not said something, or whatever…

And so it began, that I started creating a garden of guilt…of course, the fact that I was told “you are making me do this to you”, “this is all your fault”, “look, I don’t treat your sister like this and so it must be how you are behaving” encouraged that garden to grow and flourish.

But the truth that I have begun to realize is what happened to me was not my fault. My one therapist once made the remark that I was not responsible for what happened to me when I was a child and a teenager.

But I don’t think I have believed it until now.

And so I am officially forgiving myself. Writing down that I did nothing wrong. That what went down was not my fault.

When I had this revelation yesterday it was as though a physical weight was lifted off my shoulders.

And if someone had told me a couple of days ago that I am carrying around feelings of guilt I don’t know if I would have believed them…it was a truth that I had buried rather deeply.

But it is the truth, and it takes me closer towards being whole again.

Although, I am not convinced that it is correct to say “whole again”, because the truth is I am never going to be that person again. I am moving beyond being a victim…and I don’t know where I will end up.

But the person who was born in the dark cave of despair and desperation and who felt that there was no love in the universe for them…I am not that person any more.

I get to choose my own path, and it’s going to be an amazing journey filled with special people and beautiful views.