I have been wanting to talk about him for a long time. Nearly 5 years after his death, I recently had my first dream since he died a wretched death from cancer. This is about my father, Sam.
I remember as a little girl being excited when he came home from a hard day of working. He owned his own logging company. That was a long time ago. He mightbring home a treat, like a Whatchamacallit or Big League bubble gum. Those memories I cherish.
I was still quite young when I realized he was violent. Sam was an alcoholic. Sometimes, if he was unhappy with the supper my mom cooked, the house being dirty, or our presence not at home, he would throw a fit, destroy everything, and make life scary. I remember sitting on my parents' bed as my father smashed up their bedroom and my mom held me. We were getting ready to go somewhere. I don't remember if we actually went or not. The last fit he had like that was before Christmas when I was in the first grade. Sam came home drunk, but my mom, brother, & I were out Christmas shopping with my grandmother. I got my ears pierced, so I could not wait to show Daddy my new ears! We came home to find the home detroyed, glasses broken, the kitchen table missing legs, holes in the walls & bathroom door. My mom told us to pack some clothes. We stayed with my grandparents for several days. Sam made up with my mother before Christmas. I later learned he attempted to set
the apartment on fire that time.
Also, around the same age was my first memory of my dad's verbal abuse. We were having supper, something with buttered rice. My mom always prepared my plate with a little sugar on my buttered rice, and this night was one of the first times I made my own plate. Kids love sugar! I put a spoonful of sugar on my rice, and was getting a second spoonful when my dad says to me, "You're putting too much damn sugar on there! You're gonna be so fat we'll have to put a sign in the yard just to marry you off to a n*gger or w*tback!" (His words, not mine.) Thus began a long battle between us.
For years, he waged war on our family. Sam's own family as a child was an awful situation: impoverished, abusive, and violent. Sam's father, from all accounts, was mean, a drunk, and prone to violence, and verbal and physical abuse. I already told the story of my grandmother aiming a rifle at my grandfather, to kill him if he hit Sam one more time in The Ultimate Survivor. Understandably so, my father had no idea on how to parent or much on how to love.
We had good times, too. We spent summer weekends on the warm East Texas lakes, although he was drunk. Before I got married, my mom attempted a business for packaging, mail, general office services, and natural nail maicures and pedicures. My dad was her first "client", getting a pedicure with bright blue polish on his toenails. He had a silly side. So, my rehearsal pictures feature Sam in shorts, flip-flops, and bright blue toes! The pastor told this story at Dad's funeral, which brought some much needed levity to the somber occasion. Also, standing outside the chapel on an East Texas plantation where I married the love of my life, my dad & I stood alone waiting to walk down the aisle, tears streaming fom his eyes. He took out his handkerchief, wiped away the tears, saying "It's so hot!"; I stil say I am hot when I get weepy. Admittedly, I am somewhat hot as I write this.
I have been to therapy many times to deal with my issues about Sam. On his deathbed, literally, I told him everything was forgiven and in the past. I wish I had meant it. It took more therapy, a lot of conversations with my mom, and seeing my father's family, his sister & her offspring, and his brother and his offspring to see the abusive nature of these people, to understand why my father behaved the way he did. It is no excuse, but I understand as a human being and not an injured little girl. I also learned his demons caused his behavior; I never did anything wrong to deserve his wrath. Understanding I am not culpable for his violence and abuse helped me understand and accept the rape was not my fault, either.
Before his death, my father confessed to my husband his love for me. Sam told my husband he knew I would always be okay because I had a good husband to take care of me. I don't understand why Sam could never talk to me that way. I guess that will always be a mystery.
I do love Sam, my father, despite the pain and fear from chidhood. My brother and I would hide when we heard his truck roar into the driveway; it was better for us to retreat to the safety of our own bedrooms than face his drunken anger. I have found forgiveness in understanding, though it has been a long, scary, tearful journey. I am glad to have this level of acceptance for my broken childhood. I find dealing with my rape trauma easier because I learned the victim is never at fault, and if the victim works hard, we become survivors.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
A Reflection
What are the best decisions in my life? I have a few. There's the decision to go to college and get an education. There's the decision I made to marry my husband, which included the decision to become a step-mother and a whole new family. There's the decision I made to work, be able to provide for myself. There was the decision to pick up the bass guitar and rock my little heart out! Then, and this could be one my best decisions, perhaps second to marrying my husband, is speaking out about my rape and assuming the role of advocate and warrior, shedding the shackles of victimization to the freedom of being a survivor. Let me elaborate.I
I first timidly discussed the issue with very few people. A couple of close friends knew, my husband and brother knew, and that was about all. I lived in secret. I kept it all inside. I did go to therapy, but it was still inside me, the sickness caused by someone violating my mind, body, and soul so cruelly. A couple years ago, I told my mother. She held me and we cried together; then she offered to "kill the bastard" herself. I have a really great mom, and she has been nothing but absolutely supportive of me in every endeavor of my life. She even apologized to me fairly recently for thinking I was partying instead of self-medicating with alcohol. She thought I was living it up, when I was actually drinking my blues away (which it didn't) and my grades dropped in college.
Then, I made the decision to speak out. It was out of an anger and outrage so fierce that my guts ached. Without even really thinking clearly, I posted a facebook entry "I am a Medusa", not fully understanding the ramifications of my declaration. It was my way of saying, "Hey world, I was raped my a monster" without saying it explicitly. I got some confused messages, some, okay, go with it girl messages, but most said nothing. I wanted to scream from the rooftop that I was raped, and it was not my fault. I think it took learning that HE raped someone else to fully reconcile my innocence in the matter. I kept thinking, there must have been something I did or something I said and didn't know it. I kept thinking, yes, HE violated me, but I must have allowed it to happen somehow. No. No. NO! NO, it isn't my fault! It was HIS fault. Anyone who has ever been abused, molested, raped, assaulted, or otherwise violated is not to be blamed for the incident; it is the perpetrator's fault. Whether convicted of the crime or not, the perpetrator is to blame. That was a difficult thing to accept, but I have!
I also have built a safety net of people I trust and am comfortable talking about my issues. Recently, as I've been so open about all of my experience, I haven't had many issues. An occasional nightmare, but not nearly as severe as before I was able to build a support network. It's liberating to have a support network of other individuals who understand because they too have been violated by a monster(s). I've heard stories that left me thinking, I'd have killed myself! Then I've heard stories so similar to my own that it's eery. Apparently the wait-til-she's-passed-out method of rape is popular amongst rapists.
The support network, how can I describe it? It's like having a net while walking the high tightrope. It's like having your dad hang on to the back of your bike as you learn to ride two-wheels. It's a great feeling! I thought at the beginning, I'd be met with a lot of hatred from people who blame the victims and other weirdos. It's been quite the opposite, I'm happy to say. People have come to me for support, and others have come to me to offer support. And with each new connection, bond is built in that security network. It's easy to give support to others now. I know how they feel. I know what's happening inside their minds and to their bodies (yes, there are physical postrape symptoms). I know what they are thinking, the despair, the sadness, the guilt, the self-blame, the nightmares, the triggers, the never-ending thought in the forefront of their every waking and often sleeping days. I know it. I've been there. I have bad days, but who doesn't? It's part of learning, growing, and healing.
I'm also encouraged by opportunities afforded me that were never previously apparent. I've been offered to do a book review (which is in the works, and should be published and a version in my blog, soon). I've been able to put my feelings down on paper and in music. I have a song called "One for the Stalker" that was inspired by a Dr. Pepper run before work a few months ago. I also have one that needs music called "For the Damned", about my rapist. I'm excited to be able to do these projects and to be able to explore my experiences and other's experiences through artistic means. I've also drawn, painted, and expressed my rage through these mediums. I have a piece above my mantle, a texturized piece, and when I look at it, I see chaos, turmoil, and I think it is representative of myself at that time (I was also dealing with the stalker during this time).
If I can say one thing, it doesn't matter if you have support from friends and family, many survivors do not. The important thing is to be true to yourself, know what is true, and build a support network for yourself. I'm always available by e-mail or on Facebook. I am well aware I would not be as far along in this healing process as I am if I had maintained my silence. Silence only prolongs the suffering. I want to thank my support network, express my gratitude and love, and leave you with one thought: "Be the change you wish to see in the world" - Unknown.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Medusa: The Monster Within
How does a woman deal with being Medusa? It isn't easy. It is not a choice made lightly. Actually, it wasn't so much a choice as it was an epiphany. Medusa was transformed from an innocent, beautiful girl into a beastly monster following a rape. I feel much the same way, fighting the monster inside me.
Confusion was the first monster. I didn't know, didn't understand. I was unconscious, waking during the violation of my body and soul. My brain failed to understand the "R" word for more than a year, almost two years. All I knew was a sorrow so painful that I cried most of the time. I put on a happy face around other people, but the ache never subsided. At any point I was alone, I was in tears, but I didn't understand why. I turned to alcohol to numb the pain, another deceitful monster. I drank away my sophomore year at a fantastic college. I don't remember much from that year.
Then I relived the experience, yet another monster. Nightmares flooded my nights. Triggers made me panic without warning. I began to have a "nervous stomach" which I am convinced is a body memory. I began gaining weight, and my chronic headaches grew more severe. I had also begun a promising relationship with a promising man, and I was terrified, not of him, just of him learning my dirty secret and hating me for it. Monsters were everywhere!
Anger and depression followed. If I wasn't too angry to breathe, I was too depressed to get out of bed. I walked, talked, and exuded anger and hostility from every pore. The slightest inconvenience or disruption would send me into a fury. Much like my sad and confused state, I internalized most of my anger, but it was there, seething just under the surface. It is difficult to be angry and depressed at the same time, but I am proof it can exist. I reached a point where I first quit eating, under the guise of dieting. I was receiving positive feedback for my depressive anorexia. Then, I stopped sleeping. Bathing was next to go, which sounds disgusting, but if one is sedentary and not eating (thus not using the restroom), a person can go for quite a long time neglecting personal hygiene without notice. My depression became unable to hide when I stopped getting out of bed. My promising boyfriend had become my awesome husband by now, and he probably saved my life. I reached the point of not wanting to live. Anger and depression, monsters indeed.
I got antidepressants, and my outlook improved greatly. I had a dream during this time where I literally and figuratively killed HIM and buried it all in a safe place. Perhaps this monster was suppression, or maybe it was denial. Every therapist I have seen has marveled at the power of this dream and how I lived with zero post rape trauma symptoms. I thought I'd conquered my problems...
Unfortunately, this state of illusion did not last. I relived my rape a second time, a most insidious monster. That was when I first went to therapy for the rape. I'd been before to deal with my issues with my father and previous depression. This round of therapy helped considerably. I do not wish a sex crime on any person. For those who have endured gender violence, I hate the thought of reliving these experiences. To relive the trauma multiple times is a torture I would not wish on anyone, not even HIM!
Thus began the cycle of healing again, accompanied by the sadness, the anxiety, the anger and depression, each a foul monster residing in me. I also went through a period of dealing with the illnesses and deaths of my father and grandfather in a short period of time. Therapy was calling my name! This time, therapy was different because I addressed the pain of my father's emotional and verbal abuse, as well as the rape. Understanding one helped me understand the other. I began to see how, although I internalized the trauma and blamed myself for all of it, none of it was my fault. I had to let go of the guilt, release my culpability. I began to see that my father was the product of his abusive father, and that HE was just a bad guy who hurt me.
I watched a show about Perseus, the Greek mythological figure, demi-god, son of Zeus, who defeated the gorgon Medusa. The program also explained the origin of Medusa, the virgin priestess in the cult of Athena in the Parthenon who was renowned for her beauty and blonde curls. She had many would-be suitors, all of whom she rejected due to her loyalty to her goddess. Poseidon, unable to resist her beauty, according to myth, raped Medusa in the Parthenon, which derives from the Greek word for virgin. Athena, outraged by the defiling of her virginal temple, turned Medusa into the snake-haired, stone-turning gazed monster we are all familiar with. At that point, something clicked, and I thought I'm just like Medusa. I've been turned into something I wasn't because HE raped me. I'm not that innocent girl, just like priestess Medusa. I've been monstrous feeling with all the internalization of my sorrow, my pain, my guilt, and my fury.
Subsequently, I discovered HE did rape others, so I released Medusa onto the world. I still have anger, sorrow, and pain, but with direction now. I am focused. I know where to release the monster within myself. I cannot say I am completely healed. Is any survivor of a sex crime ever completely healed? I don't know; Medusa cannot answer that question. However, Medusa will continue to fight a system that perpetuates the hatred and objectification of women, to speak for those gripped by the monster of silence, and to fight for a better world, a world safe for man, woman, and child.
Confusion was the first monster. I didn't know, didn't understand. I was unconscious, waking during the violation of my body and soul. My brain failed to understand the "R" word for more than a year, almost two years. All I knew was a sorrow so painful that I cried most of the time. I put on a happy face around other people, but the ache never subsided. At any point I was alone, I was in tears, but I didn't understand why. I turned to alcohol to numb the pain, another deceitful monster. I drank away my sophomore year at a fantastic college. I don't remember much from that year.
Then I relived the experience, yet another monster. Nightmares flooded my nights. Triggers made me panic without warning. I began to have a "nervous stomach" which I am convinced is a body memory. I began gaining weight, and my chronic headaches grew more severe. I had also begun a promising relationship with a promising man, and I was terrified, not of him, just of him learning my dirty secret and hating me for it. Monsters were everywhere!
Anger and depression followed. If I wasn't too angry to breathe, I was too depressed to get out of bed. I walked, talked, and exuded anger and hostility from every pore. The slightest inconvenience or disruption would send me into a fury. Much like my sad and confused state, I internalized most of my anger, but it was there, seething just under the surface. It is difficult to be angry and depressed at the same time, but I am proof it can exist. I reached a point where I first quit eating, under the guise of dieting. I was receiving positive feedback for my depressive anorexia. Then, I stopped sleeping. Bathing was next to go, which sounds disgusting, but if one is sedentary and not eating (thus not using the restroom), a person can go for quite a long time neglecting personal hygiene without notice. My depression became unable to hide when I stopped getting out of bed. My promising boyfriend had become my awesome husband by now, and he probably saved my life. I reached the point of not wanting to live. Anger and depression, monsters indeed.
I got antidepressants, and my outlook improved greatly. I had a dream during this time where I literally and figuratively killed HIM and buried it all in a safe place. Perhaps this monster was suppression, or maybe it was denial. Every therapist I have seen has marveled at the power of this dream and how I lived with zero post rape trauma symptoms. I thought I'd conquered my problems...
Unfortunately, this state of illusion did not last. I relived my rape a second time, a most insidious monster. That was when I first went to therapy for the rape. I'd been before to deal with my issues with my father and previous depression. This round of therapy helped considerably. I do not wish a sex crime on any person. For those who have endured gender violence, I hate the thought of reliving these experiences. To relive the trauma multiple times is a torture I would not wish on anyone, not even HIM!
Thus began the cycle of healing again, accompanied by the sadness, the anxiety, the anger and depression, each a foul monster residing in me. I also went through a period of dealing with the illnesses and deaths of my father and grandfather in a short period of time. Therapy was calling my name! This time, therapy was different because I addressed the pain of my father's emotional and verbal abuse, as well as the rape. Understanding one helped me understand the other. I began to see how, although I internalized the trauma and blamed myself for all of it, none of it was my fault. I had to let go of the guilt, release my culpability. I began to see that my father was the product of his abusive father, and that HE was just a bad guy who hurt me.
I watched a show about Perseus, the Greek mythological figure, demi-god, son of Zeus, who defeated the gorgon Medusa. The program also explained the origin of Medusa, the virgin priestess in the cult of Athena in the Parthenon who was renowned for her beauty and blonde curls. She had many would-be suitors, all of whom she rejected due to her loyalty to her goddess. Poseidon, unable to resist her beauty, according to myth, raped Medusa in the Parthenon, which derives from the Greek word for virgin. Athena, outraged by the defiling of her virginal temple, turned Medusa into the snake-haired, stone-turning gazed monster we are all familiar with. At that point, something clicked, and I thought I'm just like Medusa. I've been turned into something I wasn't because HE raped me. I'm not that innocent girl, just like priestess Medusa. I've been monstrous feeling with all the internalization of my sorrow, my pain, my guilt, and my fury.
Subsequently, I discovered HE did rape others, so I released Medusa onto the world. I still have anger, sorrow, and pain, but with direction now. I am focused. I know where to release the monster within myself. I cannot say I am completely healed. Is any survivor of a sex crime ever completely healed? I don't know; Medusa cannot answer that question. However, Medusa will continue to fight a system that perpetuates the hatred and objectification of women, to speak for those gripped by the monster of silence, and to fight for a better world, a world safe for man, woman, and child.
Friday, December 31, 2010
The Ultimate Survivor
This blog is not going to be Medusa's normal rants or soul sharing. Instead, I'd like to share someone else's story. She deserves for people to know what kind of woman she is, the struggles she has faced, & the true survivor this woman is. For the sake of telling her story, I will refer to her as JM. She is a woman I have known my whole life, who I love dearly, & for whom I have complete admiration.
JM was born the oldest child of a poor rural family. I really do not know much about her childhood, other than she had a total of seven siblings, four sisters and three brothers. One brother died in infancy or early childhood. Her mother died young due to tuberculosis. Her father relied on JM to help raise her siblings but eventually remarried to a sweet woman who mothered his children. JM's father, from what I know, could be a stubborn and hateful man at times.
At age 16, JM married a man twice her age, 32. I do not know about their courtship, but I do
know that he was physically, emotionally, & sexually violent to JM. I was told a story about how JM would run away from her husband's sexual advances, although he would overpower her & caused significant damage to her genitalia & bladder. JM birthed three children, two boys and one girl. The oldest boy was a welcome addition, although I believe she was around 19 or 20 when she had him.
She worked as a seamstress for a local dressmaking manufacturer, gardened for food, raised chickens for food, & made many of their own clothes. Besides working some cattle, her alcoholic husband did not really work. The conditions were so bad or JM that when she became pregnant with their second child, their only daughter, JM took quinine pills in attempt to abort the fetus. It was unsuccessful. When she became pregnant the third time, she again attempted to abort by taking quinine pills. Her actions were out of desperation. Her husband made it clear to the younger
two children that JM had attempted to abort them, even though she truly loves all three of her children. Her children continued the cycle of emotional abuse by taunting JM about the attempted abortions.
JM's husband's abuse was not contained to his wife alone. He regularly emotionally & physically abused their children. At one point, he was beating the younger son so severely that JM pulled out her single shot rifle, pointed it at her husband and was ready to shoot & kill him if he hit his son one more time.
All through this time, JM continued to work. She had to wear dress shoes to work. The shoes did not always fit well so her toes became misshapen due to poorly fit dress shoes. She would prepare every meal. In the mornings, she would ring the neck of one of the chickens, pluck it, clean it, cut it, & fry the chicken for breakfast along with homemade biscuits & whatever else they could afford to eat. The leftovers would often be lunch, and then JM
would return home from a hard day at work & prepare a full supper from scratch. She did this daily for the majority of her adult life.
Eventually, the kids grew up & moved on, got married, & began having their own families. JM's husband began to have failing health due to years of fatty diet, alcoholism, & smoking. He had multiple strokes, & eventually died when JM was around 60 to 62 years old. She never remarried or dated. She was able to become active in her chuch again, something he denied her. She began selling a popular make-up brand & was quite successful. She has a china cabinet full of awards from the make-up company. She doted on her grandchildren, a total of five. Then she got two great-grandchildren & doted on them as well. She would offer up huge meals & family gatherings for holidays, especially Easter.
During this time, she had an accident that permanently & irrevocably injured her back. Arthritis ate away at her knees & hands. JM has had a total of three total knee replacements. Multiple doctors have been shocked at the severity of her back impairment & JM's level of pain tolerance. JM sold the make-up line as long as possible, & even had to cut back her business due to her back pain before she had to finally give up her career. She has survived her husband, almost all of her brothers- & sisters-in-law, two brother, a sister, her youngest son, & many friends & other relatives. After the loss of her son, JM had a bout of blues where it seemed as though she had given up on life. She was diagnosed with lymphoma, and is in remission. She beat cancer in her late 80s! Now, she is battling pulmonary fibrosis, which has a grim mortality rate.
JM continues to be loving to her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, & even a single great-great-grandchild. All who have had the pleasure of knowing JM have felt the warmth of love she radiates. She has an army of neices & nephews
who adore her. Despite all the hardships faced during her 92 years, JM has been the epitome of survivor. She never talks about her hardships, & if one looks closely into her eyes, one is able to see the years of hard work, personal hardships, loss, & worry in the depths of her eyes, yet they also show a kind of love and care that is rare.
Who i JM? She is my grandmother, her youngest child my father. She spoiled me, indulged my childhood make-up wishes, & always given me the kind of love only a grandmother can give. She is the epitome of survivor, even as she lies in a hospital bed on oxygen fighting for breath & life. I hope I can be more like her, in her strength, courage, & unconditional love. I love her. JM is survivor #1!
JM was born the oldest child of a poor rural family. I really do not know much about her childhood, other than she had a total of seven siblings, four sisters and three brothers. One brother died in infancy or early childhood. Her mother died young due to tuberculosis. Her father relied on JM to help raise her siblings but eventually remarried to a sweet woman who mothered his children. JM's father, from what I know, could be a stubborn and hateful man at times.
At age 16, JM married a man twice her age, 32. I do not know about their courtship, but I do
know that he was physically, emotionally, & sexually violent to JM. I was told a story about how JM would run away from her husband's sexual advances, although he would overpower her & caused significant damage to her genitalia & bladder. JM birthed three children, two boys and one girl. The oldest boy was a welcome addition, although I believe she was around 19 or 20 when she had him.
She worked as a seamstress for a local dressmaking manufacturer, gardened for food, raised chickens for food, & made many of their own clothes. Besides working some cattle, her alcoholic husband did not really work. The conditions were so bad or JM that when she became pregnant with their second child, their only daughter, JM took quinine pills in attempt to abort the fetus. It was unsuccessful. When she became pregnant the third time, she again attempted to abort by taking quinine pills. Her actions were out of desperation. Her husband made it clear to the younger
two children that JM had attempted to abort them, even though she truly loves all three of her children. Her children continued the cycle of emotional abuse by taunting JM about the attempted abortions.
JM's husband's abuse was not contained to his wife alone. He regularly emotionally & physically abused their children. At one point, he was beating the younger son so severely that JM pulled out her single shot rifle, pointed it at her husband and was ready to shoot & kill him if he hit his son one more time.
All through this time, JM continued to work. She had to wear dress shoes to work. The shoes did not always fit well so her toes became misshapen due to poorly fit dress shoes. She would prepare every meal. In the mornings, she would ring the neck of one of the chickens, pluck it, clean it, cut it, & fry the chicken for breakfast along with homemade biscuits & whatever else they could afford to eat. The leftovers would often be lunch, and then JM
would return home from a hard day at work & prepare a full supper from scratch. She did this daily for the majority of her adult life.
Eventually, the kids grew up & moved on, got married, & began having their own families. JM's husband began to have failing health due to years of fatty diet, alcoholism, & smoking. He had multiple strokes, & eventually died when JM was around 60 to 62 years old. She never remarried or dated. She was able to become active in her chuch again, something he denied her. She began selling a popular make-up brand & was quite successful. She has a china cabinet full of awards from the make-up company. She doted on her grandchildren, a total of five. Then she got two great-grandchildren & doted on them as well. She would offer up huge meals & family gatherings for holidays, especially Easter.
During this time, she had an accident that permanently & irrevocably injured her back. Arthritis ate away at her knees & hands. JM has had a total of three total knee replacements. Multiple doctors have been shocked at the severity of her back impairment & JM's level of pain tolerance. JM sold the make-up line as long as possible, & even had to cut back her business due to her back pain before she had to finally give up her career. She has survived her husband, almost all of her brothers- & sisters-in-law, two brother, a sister, her youngest son, & many friends & other relatives. After the loss of her son, JM had a bout of blues where it seemed as though she had given up on life. She was diagnosed with lymphoma, and is in remission. She beat cancer in her late 80s! Now, she is battling pulmonary fibrosis, which has a grim mortality rate.
JM continues to be loving to her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, & even a single great-great-grandchild. All who have had the pleasure of knowing JM have felt the warmth of love she radiates. She has an army of neices & nephews
who adore her. Despite all the hardships faced during her 92 years, JM has been the epitome of survivor. She never talks about her hardships, & if one looks closely into her eyes, one is able to see the years of hard work, personal hardships, loss, & worry in the depths of her eyes, yet they also show a kind of love and care that is rare.
Who i JM? She is my grandmother, her youngest child my father. She spoiled me, indulged my childhood make-up wishes, & always given me the kind of love only a grandmother can give. She is the epitome of survivor, even as she lies in a hospital bed on oxygen fighting for breath & life. I hope I can be more like her, in her strength, courage, & unconditional love. I love her. JM is survivor #1!
Sunday, December 19, 2010
The Healing Journey: Medusa's Story
How long do we really feel victimized? How long does it take to acheive survivor status? I know it is a difficult process. I'm learning that the process is longer than I may have previously thought.
I have made my rape no secret. That's what prompted me to begin blogging. I have also discussed some sexual assault (non-rape) in previous blogs. I have mentioned my father, an alcoholic who was verbally abusive, violent, and emotionally negligent. Then there is the disconnection from most individuals during my school years. With a few exceptions, grade school through high school were lonely years for me.
The thing is, I am a fighter. I fought back in high school by withdrawing and building an imaginary wall to shield myself from others. I fought endlessly with my father. The last fight we had was in a restaurant shortly after his oncologist declared my dad's cancer was back and he probably would not survive. I'm fighting the rape and various sexual assaults with words, with this blog, on facebook, in the real world, and on Twitter when I can remember.
When it comes right down to it, though, I find I become this wounded little girl again when I face off with someone in an authoritative role. I cry, and I run away under the guise of being too good for (fill in appropriate word here). And I've done it again! This time, someone understood. I guess she's been there, too. She called me on it, and told me this is a challenge I will have to overcome to be successful.
How do I do this? Do I fight? Most employers frown on employees fightng back. Although, in a couple of these jobs where I ran, I was called a liar for defending myself. Do I become a "yes-woman" and submit wholly to a supervisor's demands that are unethical or challenge my own beliefs? I still have integrity.
I will have to learn, adapt, and grow. More importantly, I still have a lot of healing to do. And I want you, the reader, to know it takes time to heal. Take that time for yourself, and learn to grow and adapt as you are on the path to healing. I will be.
I have made my rape no secret. That's what prompted me to begin blogging. I have also discussed some sexual assault (non-rape) in previous blogs. I have mentioned my father, an alcoholic who was verbally abusive, violent, and emotionally negligent. Then there is the disconnection from most individuals during my school years. With a few exceptions, grade school through high school were lonely years for me.
The thing is, I am a fighter. I fought back in high school by withdrawing and building an imaginary wall to shield myself from others. I fought endlessly with my father. The last fight we had was in a restaurant shortly after his oncologist declared my dad's cancer was back and he probably would not survive. I'm fighting the rape and various sexual assaults with words, with this blog, on facebook, in the real world, and on Twitter when I can remember.
When it comes right down to it, though, I find I become this wounded little girl again when I face off with someone in an authoritative role. I cry, and I run away under the guise of being too good for (fill in appropriate word here). And I've done it again! This time, someone understood. I guess she's been there, too. She called me on it, and told me this is a challenge I will have to overcome to be successful.
How do I do this? Do I fight? Most employers frown on employees fightng back. Although, in a couple of these jobs where I ran, I was called a liar for defending myself. Do I become a "yes-woman" and submit wholly to a supervisor's demands that are unethical or challenge my own beliefs? I still have integrity.
I will have to learn, adapt, and grow. More importantly, I still have a lot of healing to do. And I want you, the reader, to know it takes time to heal. Take that time for yourself, and learn to grow and adapt as you are on the path to healing. I will be.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Medusa and Her Struggle with Body Image
Body image is an issue I'm becoming more familiar with as I learn more about fighting sexual violence, ending child abuse, and continue my crusade for what's right and against what's wrong. Body image can be simply described as how one perceives one's own appearance. Body image is related to eating disorders, self-esteem issues, and victimization. Here I'd like to share my own struggle with body image.
I've always been big. In preschool pictures, I stood a head taller than the other kids, and I was much heavier than the other kids. It wasn't that I was fat as a kid, I had a large skeletal frame and a muscular build. This was the time I began to become aware of the physical difference, though. I felt like a giant compared to the other kids at school! As I grew more, my mother would tell me things like, "Oh, you're not fat; you're just pleasingly plump." I was learning to accept that I was fat. I know it was not my mother's intention to label me, she was offering a euphemism for the ugly word "fat".
My father, on the other hand, frequently told me I was fat. He was an alcoholic who could be verbally abusive and often violent, and I understand that his own father was violent and physically and verbally abusive. At one time, my father told me, in a drunken fit, that I was "gonna get so damn fat, he'd have to put a sign in the yard just to marry me off" to some undesirables. A girl doesn't forget that message!
Around the time of junior high, my body began changing again. My breasts werer growing, my hips were getting widers, and my body was maturing faster than I was prepared. Boys began to have conversations with my chest, girls began unhooking my bras, so I began wearing a jacket everyday. It could have been 100 degrees outside, but I was in my jacket. There were other boys that would poke my rear end with the tips of holly leaves (holly bushes grew in front of the school). I began covering as much of myself as I could. I was carrying the fat label, even though I wasn't once puberty hit, as well as hiding my body from everyone.
In high school, girls began to get skinny, very skinny. I could not live up to their skinny! NEVER! So again, I would cover myself, sweaters, sweatshirts, jackets, anything. I remember one girl, particularly skinny, looking at my thighs as I was sitting on my heels on the floor, commenting on how she hates the fat bit that protrudes from your thigh when sitting like that. I never sat like that again. AND, my thighs were muscular at this time, because I spent all summer swimming and the rest of the year riding my bike. I learned over the course of high school that most of these girls who were so skinny had eating disorders, including the one who commented on my thighs.
I went to college, where I gained an eating disorder briefly. I went to college early as part of the college I was accepted to had various programs before the university officially opened. My parents bought some snacks, but we assumed the meal halls were opening. My mom gave me a check for an allowance, but I didn't have a bank account. I got used to nibbling a two or three pieces of dried pineapple and not eating anything else. I was losing weight at an insane rate. It was as though it was melting off me, and I liked it. Sure, I was hungry, but who cares! Over the course of the semester, I began to have dizzy spells, near black outs, and frequent nausea. My friend recognized I was at a crucial point with my anorexia, so she purchased a cheesecake, forced me to eat, and ended my anorexia. But, then I began gaining uncontrollably...
The end of the second sememster was when HE raped me. All of the trauma swirled in my head, and I ate for comfort. Then, I remembered how boys left me alone more when I was covered up. What if I used fat to cover up? It was an almost intentional weight gain to disappear in plain view. I got married during my weight gaining period, and he seemed to love me no matter what, so why should I fight the gain? It didn't solve my problems, though. I still carried the weight trauma, I still carried the issues my dad gave me, I still carried around the feelings of inadequacy from not looking like the "stick girls" in high school. Plus, my health because problematic.
I have a lifelong condition where my neck spine is curved the wrong way and causes debilitating pain. Carrying the weight in excess of 300 lbs only exacerbated my pain. I also have a bulging disc in my lower back, which is definitely not helped by weighing more than 300 lbs. I was beginning to develop high blood pressure, before age 30, and I had sleep apnea because of my weight. Finally, at my neurologist's insistence, I began to lose the weight. Over two years, I've lost more than 76 lbs, so I still have a lot more to lose. This isn't about looking any particular way; this is about me shedding weight, both physical and mental weight!
I still have a long way to reach my neurologist's goal. But I'm working to get there. I am learning to enjoy myself again, and to heal both physically and emotionally. It's hard to let go of those emotional scars. Hearing my father's voice, I can still hear his words echo in my head. But I didn't have to marry an undesirable. I married a really great guy who supports me, loves me, and understands what I'm doing is important. I have reconciled that I will never be a skinny girl. Instead, I have learned that I have curves, quite nice curves that can be dressed well and make me look damn hot. Sometimes I'm insecure, but I fake it and put on this "I'm hot" attitude, and it works. I can do things I never thought I'd be able to do before. For example, I own not one, but TWO, pencil skirts. When your hips and tush are as full as mine, they say don't wear a pencil skirt, but I do!
How does this all relate to my fight against sexual violence? I sometimes wonder, and I'm not blaming myselft, if HE didn't pick up on my insecurities and use them to get me where HE wanted me. I think a lot of society's monsters pick on the weak (as in the insecure, the poor self-esteem, those who will not fight back). I'm making a statement that we need to teach our children, both girls and boys, that they are beautiful and valuable, and they don't have to let anyone hurt them. There will probably be sexual violence for a long time, but if we teach our children that they don't deserve to be treated like that, it would make a difference. Maybe they could fight back; maybe they could avoid predators in the first place. Let me also tell you this: You are beautiful. I have struggled with learning this lesson, but I'm telling you now that YOU are beautiful!
I've always been big. In preschool pictures, I stood a head taller than the other kids, and I was much heavier than the other kids. It wasn't that I was fat as a kid, I had a large skeletal frame and a muscular build. This was the time I began to become aware of the physical difference, though. I felt like a giant compared to the other kids at school! As I grew more, my mother would tell me things like, "Oh, you're not fat; you're just pleasingly plump." I was learning to accept that I was fat. I know it was not my mother's intention to label me, she was offering a euphemism for the ugly word "fat".
My father, on the other hand, frequently told me I was fat. He was an alcoholic who could be verbally abusive and often violent, and I understand that his own father was violent and physically and verbally abusive. At one time, my father told me, in a drunken fit, that I was "gonna get so damn fat, he'd have to put a sign in the yard just to marry me off" to some undesirables. A girl doesn't forget that message!
Around the time of junior high, my body began changing again. My breasts werer growing, my hips were getting widers, and my body was maturing faster than I was prepared. Boys began to have conversations with my chest, girls began unhooking my bras, so I began wearing a jacket everyday. It could have been 100 degrees outside, but I was in my jacket. There were other boys that would poke my rear end with the tips of holly leaves (holly bushes grew in front of the school). I began covering as much of myself as I could. I was carrying the fat label, even though I wasn't once puberty hit, as well as hiding my body from everyone.
In high school, girls began to get skinny, very skinny. I could not live up to their skinny! NEVER! So again, I would cover myself, sweaters, sweatshirts, jackets, anything. I remember one girl, particularly skinny, looking at my thighs as I was sitting on my heels on the floor, commenting on how she hates the fat bit that protrudes from your thigh when sitting like that. I never sat like that again. AND, my thighs were muscular at this time, because I spent all summer swimming and the rest of the year riding my bike. I learned over the course of high school that most of these girls who were so skinny had eating disorders, including the one who commented on my thighs.
I went to college, where I gained an eating disorder briefly. I went to college early as part of the college I was accepted to had various programs before the university officially opened. My parents bought some snacks, but we assumed the meal halls were opening. My mom gave me a check for an allowance, but I didn't have a bank account. I got used to nibbling a two or three pieces of dried pineapple and not eating anything else. I was losing weight at an insane rate. It was as though it was melting off me, and I liked it. Sure, I was hungry, but who cares! Over the course of the semester, I began to have dizzy spells, near black outs, and frequent nausea. My friend recognized I was at a crucial point with my anorexia, so she purchased a cheesecake, forced me to eat, and ended my anorexia. But, then I began gaining uncontrollably...
The end of the second sememster was when HE raped me. All of the trauma swirled in my head, and I ate for comfort. Then, I remembered how boys left me alone more when I was covered up. What if I used fat to cover up? It was an almost intentional weight gain to disappear in plain view. I got married during my weight gaining period, and he seemed to love me no matter what, so why should I fight the gain? It didn't solve my problems, though. I still carried the weight trauma, I still carried the issues my dad gave me, I still carried around the feelings of inadequacy from not looking like the "stick girls" in high school. Plus, my health because problematic.
I have a lifelong condition where my neck spine is curved the wrong way and causes debilitating pain. Carrying the weight in excess of 300 lbs only exacerbated my pain. I also have a bulging disc in my lower back, which is definitely not helped by weighing more than 300 lbs. I was beginning to develop high blood pressure, before age 30, and I had sleep apnea because of my weight. Finally, at my neurologist's insistence, I began to lose the weight. Over two years, I've lost more than 76 lbs, so I still have a lot more to lose. This isn't about looking any particular way; this is about me shedding weight, both physical and mental weight!
I still have a long way to reach my neurologist's goal. But I'm working to get there. I am learning to enjoy myself again, and to heal both physically and emotionally. It's hard to let go of those emotional scars. Hearing my father's voice, I can still hear his words echo in my head. But I didn't have to marry an undesirable. I married a really great guy who supports me, loves me, and understands what I'm doing is important. I have reconciled that I will never be a skinny girl. Instead, I have learned that I have curves, quite nice curves that can be dressed well and make me look damn hot. Sometimes I'm insecure, but I fake it and put on this "I'm hot" attitude, and it works. I can do things I never thought I'd be able to do before. For example, I own not one, but TWO, pencil skirts. When your hips and tush are as full as mine, they say don't wear a pencil skirt, but I do!
How does this all relate to my fight against sexual violence? I sometimes wonder, and I'm not blaming myselft, if HE didn't pick up on my insecurities and use them to get me where HE wanted me. I think a lot of society's monsters pick on the weak (as in the insecure, the poor self-esteem, those who will not fight back). I'm making a statement that we need to teach our children, both girls and boys, that they are beautiful and valuable, and they don't have to let anyone hurt them. There will probably be sexual violence for a long time, but if we teach our children that they don't deserve to be treated like that, it would make a difference. Maybe they could fight back; maybe they could avoid predators in the first place. Let me also tell you this: You are beautiful. I have struggled with learning this lesson, but I'm telling you now that YOU are beautiful!
Friday, November 19, 2010
Crisis of Faith: Reconciling God and Rape
I was raised as a Baptist in a small town. It did not take long to recognize hypocrices and inconsistencies, and I quit going. My grandfather would take me to Sunday school every week, and then I participated in Wednesday night GAs and choir. Even though I quit attending church activities, I held fast to my faith. Through Christ is salvation. Let me be clear: I am not preaching, nor do I believe there is a single path to Godliness. I am relating my story of faith, nearly losing that faith, but finding my relationship with God again.
I was 19 when HE raped me, legally an adult, but with the naivete of youh. It took about a year to understand and comprehend that I was a victim of the "R" word. I began to question how the omnicient and omnipotent God Almighty could have let HIM rape me. I also wondered how God could allow me to suffer. In a fine arts class during my last year in collee, we watched a clip of a Robin Williams film in which he searches for his deceased wife in heaven and hell (I cannot remember the name of the movie). I had to leave the class early because of the hell scenes. I thought that perhaps we are already existing in hell and either too stupid or myopic to understand. I was doubting my faith.
After my father died, my mother was referred (for lack of a better word) to a Catholic retreat. It changed her life. I could see the changes. I was and still am very happy for her! But then she invited me the following year. I made up some excuse. People doubting their faith do not usually engage in religious activity. The next year rolled around, but my mother was asked to give a talk about forgiveness. I thought I should go to support her, although I would not get much out of it. At that time, I was having severe headaches that left me hurting for weeks at a time. I tried to use being behind in work and inability to afford the retreat as an excuse to not go. My mother's friend (and I'm blessed to call this lady my friend now, as well) had paid for another person who was unable to attend. She offered me the spot. I'd run out of excuses, so I went to a Catholic retreat full of reluctance and skepticism.
I expected to be met with the hellfire and brimstone rhetoric from my childhood in the Baptist church. (I have nothing against Baptists! Religion and faith are deeply personal, and I am in no position to judge any person's belief system.) Instead, I was met with about 200 women shining with the light of God's love. The first night, I ran into a problem. The message was that those who sin against us are part of God's plan. I was thinking this would be three days of the "God never gives you more than you can bear" rhetoric. I refused to accept that HIS rape of my body was God's will. Furthermore, I did not want part of any God that would will rape. I was angered and my faith was slipping even more.
The next day I spoke to a lady I call my angel. I explained my concerns, not mentioning rape. I suppose most people thought I was having issues with respect to my father, an alcoholic with a quick temper and violent tendencies. My angel explained that God gave us free will, and most of us make good choices with His gift of free will, but other people somtimes make bad choices with the gift of free will. Those who choose poor use of free will hurt others, and my angel said she thinks it hurts God when we are hurt by others' poor usage of the Divine gift of free will. It began to make sense to me again.
Later on in the retreat, I felt the Holy Spirit, who gave me a message that the time was right to finally tell my mother the secret about my rape and to allow God to help me heal. Some may doubt that I experienced the Holy Spirit, and that's okay. I know it happened, and that is all I need. So, that night, I had a long talk with my mother. We cried, and she held me in her arms. We talked for several hours. She began to understand the changes she had seen in me, such as self-medicating with alcohol, my college grades dropping, my withdrawal from her and family. Our relationship has never been better now, which makes me very happy.
The retreat also taught me about intercessory prayer, prayers sent to saints or other venerables to pray on one's behalf to God. Protestants don't practice intercessory prayer, so I became excited about the idea of asking for extra prayer. Once I got home, I learned that the Catholic church recognizes several patron saints of rape victims. Saints Dymphna, Potamiana (there are spelling variations), and Maria Goretti. I regularly ask these saints to pray for my continued healing on my behalf.
I am not in church every Sunday. I know I commit sin, but I ask forgiveness. I am not sure what religion fits my beliefs. I can say I am an open-minded Christian. I can say that prayer has been an integral part of my healing process. I have my faith again! This reclamation of my faith has prompted my transition from rape victim to rape survivor. For these things, I am grateful and blessed.
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