The Lighting Of The Candles

Every year, as part of their Sexual Violence Awareness Month (SVAM) campaign, the Centre Against Sexual Violence (CASV) runs a Candle Lighting event to honour survivors.

Last year was my first time attending it, and although it was very powerful, it was also a very difficult experience. I had been invited to include some poetry to be read by my ex counsellor, and by the time the poetry reading occurred, I had completely dissociated. TJ, I believe, saw far more of the event than I did. I do remember lighting the candles towards the end, one for Myki' and one for "all survivors", but most of the day is a blur to me.

This year, they held the candle lighting at the centre. It was a much smaller, more personal, gathering, and (despite recent misgivings), I am in a more stable place with regard to this sort of topic.

This year there were two survivors who gave a short speech; another woman who gave a longer talk and spoke about how she came from being a victim to a survivor to a "thriver"; a poetry reading by me (!) and two young ladies who performed a song they had written. There were also speeches given by the CASV staff and Margaret Keech, the Labor state member for Albert.

For me, there are no words for the experience of hearing another survivor share their story. It is both heartbreaking and inspirational, and the courage of all of the women today astounded me and gave me hope; for myself and for every woman who experiences SV. That said, it is hard to hear. There were tears. I did dissociate some. It did bring back memories of my own. But it was worth it.

And, d'you know what else was worth it? Standing up there, facing my fear, and reading my own two poems to that room of people. It wasn't the public speaking part that bothered me - if I didn't have to write it, I could fairly easily deliver a speech. That taps into my love of performing, reminds me of dramatic readings done in English in early high school (and I always performed well). But to stand there and read something that I wrote? Who wants to hear that? And, the biggest thing for me:

Reading my own poems about SV meant announcing, albeit indirectly, that I had experienced it.

I was terrified. I doubted my ability to do it. I was so afraid that people would think I was pushing my writing on them when it's not really all that wonderful. I was horrified at the idea that everyone in that room would know my "dirty laundry", and I was frightened that word would get back to my abusers. (Actually, to be honest, I'm still afraid of that!) I was afraid that this room of people wouldn't believe me, and I was afraid that they would.

But I faced those fears. I prepared myself as best I could and when Rachel got to me, I walked to the front and stood at that microphone. I opened my paper and I read the words that I had written. I read the way I had written, from the deepest part of my heart, and I read well. (That's not me big-noting myself, that's what I was told afterwards! The words "confident", "composed", "powerful" and "commanding" were also used.)

True, as soon as it was over I practically flew out the door to get some air, but that's okay. I gulped at the air like it was... well, air, but for a drowning person.

Later, when we lit the candles, I said quietly to myself,
this candle is for my friends, and this is for all of the survivors everywhere, but most of all, this is for you, Myki, and for that little girl who wasn't ready to be your mother.



(For those of you who haven't seen them, these are the two poems I read):

At Least It's Not A Revolution

On your first birthday you reached
forward, you used to tell us,
leaned forward and held on
though the candle burnt your fingers.

Your father comforted you
but he wasn't interested in his sons.

By the time you were 3
his hands were turning the nights to secret places
and painting you into a desert.

It was in that year your Daddy walked away
and you knew (in the way that children always know),
the glue that was you wasn't enough.

He wasn't interested in his sons,
and that, too, was down to you.

Where are you now?

When you were 18,
on your niece's first birthday,
she reached forward,
leaned forward and held on
though the candle burnt her fingers.



Dissociate

Your body on the bed, his silhouetted,
above. Your only avenue for escape
is this - pull back.

Slide away, let the scents recede,
disappear. Forget the terror -
leave it behind when you go. You are
no longer the girl on the bed.

Unattached, you are genderless -
no longer a girl, a woman, you are
invulnerable.

You are not what you were, you are
something but nothing; you
are that speck upon the wall.

Strange to see the detail in
the husk beneath the silhouette;
blank, unfeeling.

Strange to feel nothing, but those
are not your wounds, anymore. Those
are not your limbs, are not your breasts,
are not your bruised lips.

When it is over you will return to that body,
you will scrub away the skin left behind. You
will turn yourself inside out trying
to turn yourself whole.

Let yourself return. Let yourself feel
what it means to have a body
again and maybe,
just maybe, you will slowly reclaim
what it means to be a woman.



Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.

The Power Of Words

Everything about me seems to contradict itself at the moment. I'm restless, agitated... but I feel so exhausted, so heavy and slow. I feel like I'm two people all the time. It's not awful, I'm not suffering terribly or anything like that, but it is very uncomfortable. It may be a side effect of starting the Lexapro or it may be unrelated.. at this stage, the cause doesn't matter (because it's not appropriate to try and fix it just yet). I'm learning to TOLERATE my discomfit, and that's important.

A few days ago, at my appointment with Carol, I handed over a couple of poems and blog posts I had printed for her. One of the posts was the one I wrote about perhaps exploring my memories and the other was the post I wrote as I recognised that my child-self was an actual child. While she read the older one, Carol reached for the tissues. "Oh, [dawni]," she said. Just that, twice. "Oh, [dawni]". She wiped at her eyes and finished reading before we discussed what was written. I, naturally, couldn't remember much of what was written, because I tend to dissociate myself somewhat from my own expressions. (Actually, I suspect I might sound somewhat snobbish or pretentious when I write, and so I am very anxious about the idea of someone reading it and thinking of me in that way.) In the end, Carol read the entry aloud. I forgot the words I had used. I hadn't realised the power my own words held.

I don't know if my words hold as much power for others, but that session strengthened my resolve to write my story. I started some time ago, small snippets, but I allowed the project to fall by the wayside. "Why", I kept asking myself, "would anyone be interested?" It wasn't until this week that I realised, really realised, that it doesn't matter if nobody else is interested. I want to write my story for myself. It will be hard, and it will take me a long time, but there is so much I can gain from 'speaking' my story.



Cheerleading and Challenge Statements:
Everything I feel right now is okay, but what I choose to do about those feelings is up to me.
I am not a bad person.
If I can put my stuff aside in order to help someone I care about, then I can put my stuff aside in order to help myself in the long term, too.
It's okay to feel unsettled. I can tolerate that, and eventually it will ease.
I have the knowledge, the ability, the skills, to cope with anything that comes my way.



I'll see you tomorrow for Sanguine Saturday. Until then, take care of yourselves, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.

(Re)Gaining Control Of Memories

I'm starting to wonder if the direction therapy with Carol was going is right for me, after all. Carol and I haven't talked through any of my memories. I make a vague reference knowing that she's read my file, knowing she has a basic template of knowledge around my past, and that is it. Vague references, dancing around the edges of the specifics. I thought I was okay with that, that it was the right direction for me at this point but now I'm not so sure.

Two years ago, I was flooded with difficult memories. Talking with Angela, with Melissa, with a few trusted friends online, helped. DBT helped. My memories began to have less impact when they hit, and they started to hit a little less often than before. Once I had spent some time exploring the memories, I found a decrease in the push for them to manifest in my mind.

I understand the need to stabilise the boat before rocking it, but my anchors seem only to create more stress, more strain. The waves continue to wash over the deck and the boat seems ready to capsize.

Lately there has been a distinct increase in memory manifestations. I've been having intense flashbacks and body memories and I've been dissociating a lot. The last group session I attended, I became so mired in a flashback that Melissa had to physically help me stand and leave the room, as well as to help me return to a more functional state.

Maybe it's unrelated. Maybe I should be working harder at my DBT skills to manage these difficulties. I don't know, but I think when I see Carol next week, it might be time to go back to exploring and banishing these demons.



Cheer-leading Statements:
Avoidance is not the answer.
I am not a bad person.


Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.

Self-Destruct Sequence

Several days ago, my next entry seemed clear. I had it all mapped out in my mind - at least, in vague terms, I did. I knew what paths I needed to follow in telling about the last few days (eventful) and those to come (hopefully full of pleasant event scheduling). My best friend suggested "just write"; I had a tantrum and did, then deleted it all bar this section and started again with a topic in mind.

I've been making a lot of questionable choices again, the sort of choices that are too consistent, too frequent to be labelled as mere "slips". Those have their own consequences that I'm facing -- one of which was my GP's reaction. You might recall that he wasn't happy about Mental Health discharging me - he was even more unhappy when I turned up two days later requiring care for more new (and somewhat serious) wounds. He was, in fact, so unhappy that while I was still in with the nurse, he got on the phone to Mental Health. In no uncertain terms he was told what I knew he'd be told - they're happy for me to be discharged, there's nothing more they can/are interested in doing for me.

I took this information with me when I saw my CASV counsellor, and I spoke about my interpretation that "I'm less worthy than my DBT peers who have been retained/referred on to other services". Interestingly, my counsellor was angry on my behalf about the way things have gone in regard to that. She suggested I write a letter to the state head of health, and when I explained that I didn't feel there was any point -- I'm all too aware of the fact that this was only my perception of events, that I was choosing to see it that way, and that that meant it didn't really matter. At that point, she called me, straight up, on minimising. Yes, it is my perspective -- but that doesn't mean I don't have the right to feel upset about what transpired. I think we're going to work very well together.

The discussion with my counsellor lead us through a variety of paths and on to what I call my self-destruct sequence. There are lots of things that set it off, and lots of ways that being self-destructive comes into play, for me, but at the moment I'm talking about a rather specific sequence of events (which, incidentally, ties rather nicely in with my entry about self value).

It starts easily enough. Things will be going along - good, bad, indifferent. Obviously if things are going poorly, the likelihood of falling into this pothole is higher, but it often happens no matter how 'well' things are going.

The triggering event is generally a comment or an internal realisation. Somebody will offer a compliment, or tell me I'm doing well: things that are meant to reassure. Even if I at the time appear to react well, somehow it gets twisted inside me. Suddenly this good thing is not good: such begins sabotage and self-destruct.

Coming from a strengths based perspective, my counsellor admitted she'll find it interesting to work around this -- but it seems that it's a challenge that we're both up for. We're going to call it my gentle adventure to WISEness, and one of the things we're going to do is to look at me giving myself credit for decisions I'm making out of my WISE mind.

Since I'm very creatively focused, and do well with set homework, my task until our next session is twofold:
1) Begin gathering together materials on what my adventure to WISEness means to me; and
2) Try to make note of times when I have wanted to give in to self destructive behaviours and haven't.


Today's thought challenges/cheer-leading statements:
It's okay to look after me.
I'm not a bad person.
I can be there for my friends and look after my own needs as well.
I'm doing the best I can with the knowledge and skills that I have available to me at the moment.
Choosing positive coping skills doesn't have to mean denying that things are difficult at the moment.


Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.