WARNING: This post talks about sexual assault.
Once there was a little girl with a mummy, a daddy and two brothers. From the time she was born, her daddy loved her very much, and paid her more attention than he ever paid her brothers. Her mummy didn't like that very much, so to make up for it, she spent more time with her two sons. When the little girl's daddy started to be inappropriate, her mummy didn't notice. Eventually, the mummy got tired of the daddy never paying attention to anyone but his little girl, so she got a divorce from him. Every second weekend and a share of the holidays, the mummy sent all the children to spend time with their daddy; and later, with their daddy and his new wife. When the children visited their daddy and stepmother, they were usually not treated very nicely, not even the little girl, and the whole time, the daddy was inappropriate with the little girl, and so was her new stepmother.
When she was 12, her mummy kicked her out and sent her away to live with her daddy. After two years, her daddy didn't want her anymore either and he sent her back to her mummy's house. For the next few years, when she went with her brothers to visit her father and her stepmother, he wasn't inappropriate in that way anymore. When the girl got old enough, she moved back out of her mother's house and got married. That didn't go very well for her, either, but her father and stepmother knew they couldn't touch her while she was married. When the girl's husband wanted a divorce, she found a new boyfriend to keep her safe, but when that ended, she had to move back in with her mother.
The little girl's mother wanted to prove that she was a good mother, so even though the girl was now a woman, she had to call her father on special days and wish him nice ones, because if she didn't, her mother might kick her out again, and this time she didn't have anywhere to go...
I am 27 years old, and even though I have tried to cut contact with them; if my father and stepmother want to contact me, all they have to do is ring my home number, and I am bullied and/or tricked into talking to them. I am 27 years old, and whenever I am bullied into seeing my father, he still assaults me.
I am working on getting out of here. I have been on the housing list for a year, as the highest priority. I am in the process of moving interstate so that I can be and feel safe. But in the meantime...
In the meantime, my younger brother came down to my bedroom on Wednesday night, and asked me whether I was doing anything on January 8. I didn't even look up from what I was doing, I told him I wasn't sure but presumably I had no plans. As he said, "good, then you're going to Dad's", I looked up and saw the phone in his hand. My father had to have heard everything. My brother walked away, triumphant.
Ten minutes later, he returned and handed me the phone because my father wanted to talk to me, too.
There is no such thing as safety in this house, not for me. He can get me anywhere. He can come after me at any time, and my family will just hand me over.
This is always a difficult month for me, for unrelated reasons, but right now I am a mess. I am in the process of trying to quit alcohol as a coping/destruction mechanism; I am trying to organise things for this move; I'm in the process of reporting the assault when I was 15; I am trying to fix the friendships that fell apart when I came back from a holiday three months ago; there's a few other things going on that I'm not able to talk about right now; and I am trying to deal with everything that November means for me... and now this.
I want to say that I can't do this, that I don't have what it takes to live through this, but I know that if I choose to, I can and I will. I'm struggling, though, to want to choose to. Until I can get out of here, this is what my life will always be. And that's hard to know.
I know I am walking into a situation where I am going to be assaulted. I know that as much as I have been trapped into it, that doesn't stop it being a choice. And that means that I am, by definition, choosing to be assaulted. And that's where it gets too hard. Because I do not want it, but I am choosing it. And if I am choosing it, I deserve it. If I am choosing it, when it happens, it will be my own fault. It would be different if I didn't know, if I thought there was even a chance I would be safe, but all of my precautions come to nothing, every time. And I still go. I do have reasons for why I make the choice I make, but I cannot shake the belief, the knowledge, that this is my own fault.
This coat hanger binds me too tightly, I can no longer breathe. I wanted to challenge these thoughts, but I don't know how.
If anyone out there has any suggestions, they would very much be gratefully appreciated right now.
Cheerleading/Challenge Statements:
It's okay to do things to look after myself. It's okay to be a little bit gentle with me right now.
Even if it feels like the rest of my life will be like this, it won't be. Eventually something will change.
*Explanation on title: Carol and I were discussing this sort of situation after my call to dad for Father's Day. When she asked me to give the situation and the feelings associated with it, a shape, it was very clearly a coat hanger.
Showing posts with label abuse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label abuse. Show all posts
Friday, November 5, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Father's Day Phone Call
Nightmares are, for me, a regular thing. Generally, assuming I sleep, I have at least one nightmare every day. Every so often, a nightmare will be particularly powerful, and it will leave me feeling off kilter (or worse) for the entire day. Last night, I had a nightmare like that, and it has served only to highlight the fact that I really need to sort my head out about my father.
My father's birthday falls right on the tail end of August, and I made the decision not to call him and wish him a happy one. I challenged my guilt and refused to bow down to it, but when Father's Day came around a week later, I didn't keep it up. I gave in to my fears, to my guilt, to my desire to be viewed as a "good" person-- a good daughter.
I think, above all, that's what I wanted. I want(ed) my mother and father to be pleased with me, to be pleased and proud and to tell me I was good. Silly, isn't it? Rationally and logically I am aware that neither of those was going to happen.
In fact, what happened is that my father and I discussed my move. (Since my stepsister found my old Facebook account and messaged me about the impending move, I knew he would already know.) I expected he wouldn't be pleased. I expected to hear how irresponsible I am and so forth, and I expected anger at the fact that I am moving so far away -- far enough that I will finally (I hope) be safe from him. What threw me was the hurt in his voice.
I've heard other survivors say that hearing their person sound afraid or hurt in that way was quite healing for them - it helped them see their attacker as human and infallible; it gave them a sense of power over the person who had hurt them. I didn't feel any of that - I felt, I bet you can't guess! - guilt. Deep, burning guilt.
I had hurt my daddy's feelings so deeply that it showed in his very voice. How dare I? Who am I to hurt my father that way?
And more than that, I felt deep guilt/shame for feeling guilty over hurting him, because, after everything, shouldn't I be glad about it? (And if I'm not, then maybe it provides more evidence that I deserved it, that it was all my fault.)
I have struggled daily with both lots of this guilt ever since, though I have tried to challenge the thoughts and use my skills to handle this situation and these emotions. I have tried as much as I can to take myself out of the situation ("what if [acquaintance] felt this way?"). Unfortunately my counsellor has hurt her back and has been unavailable since before Father's Day, so I haven't been able to discuss it properly, but I have been trying very hard to keep this from becoming an implosion.
I believe in the power of words, the power of visibilised thoughts, so in the absence of Carol, here are some challenges and the like to the situation/emotions.
Who am I to hurt my father? What about who was he to hurt his daughter? I may have hurt his feelings by planning to move, but I might not feel the need to move so far away if he was a safe person to have in my life! At least I can say that my actions (moving) weren't done with intent to hurt him. I wonder if he can say the same?
As for the second half...
Feeling guilt for hurting someone's feelings just indicates that I'm compassionate - it definitely doesn't mean that I deserved what happened to me as a child. And how I 'should' feel is however I do feel!
Challenges/cheer-leading statements:
I am not a bad person.
It's okay to do things that are for my health and well-being, even if those things do upset others.
I'm not responsible for another person's emotional health.
All emotions are okay and valid, even the ones I don't like.
Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.
My father's birthday falls right on the tail end of August, and I made the decision not to call him and wish him a happy one. I challenged my guilt and refused to bow down to it, but when Father's Day came around a week later, I didn't keep it up. I gave in to my fears, to my guilt, to my desire to be viewed as a "good" person-- a good daughter.
I think, above all, that's what I wanted. I want(ed) my mother and father to be pleased with me, to be pleased and proud and to tell me I was good. Silly, isn't it? Rationally and logically I am aware that neither of those was going to happen.
In fact, what happened is that my father and I discussed my move. (Since my stepsister found my old Facebook account and messaged me about the impending move, I knew he would already know.) I expected he wouldn't be pleased. I expected to hear how irresponsible I am and so forth, and I expected anger at the fact that I am moving so far away -- far enough that I will finally (I hope) be safe from him. What threw me was the hurt in his voice.
I've heard other survivors say that hearing their person sound afraid or hurt in that way was quite healing for them - it helped them see their attacker as human and infallible; it gave them a sense of power over the person who had hurt them. I didn't feel any of that - I felt, I bet you can't guess! - guilt. Deep, burning guilt.
I had hurt my daddy's feelings so deeply that it showed in his very voice. How dare I? Who am I to hurt my father that way?
And more than that, I felt deep guilt/shame for feeling guilty over hurting him, because, after everything, shouldn't I be glad about it? (And if I'm not, then maybe it provides more evidence that I deserved it, that it was all my fault.)
I have struggled daily with both lots of this guilt ever since, though I have tried to challenge the thoughts and use my skills to handle this situation and these emotions. I have tried as much as I can to take myself out of the situation ("what if [acquaintance] felt this way?"). Unfortunately my counsellor has hurt her back and has been unavailable since before Father's Day, so I haven't been able to discuss it properly, but I have been trying very hard to keep this from becoming an implosion.
I believe in the power of words, the power of visibilised thoughts, so in the absence of Carol, here are some challenges and the like to the situation/emotions.
Who am I to hurt my father? What about who was he to hurt his daughter? I may have hurt his feelings by planning to move, but I might not feel the need to move so far away if he was a safe person to have in my life! At least I can say that my actions (moving) weren't done with intent to hurt him. I wonder if he can say the same?
As for the second half...
Feeling guilt for hurting someone's feelings just indicates that I'm compassionate - it definitely doesn't mean that I deserved what happened to me as a child. And how I 'should' feel is however I do feel!
Challenges/cheer-leading statements:
I am not a bad person.
It's okay to do things that are for my health and well-being, even if those things do upset others.
I'm not responsible for another person's emotional health.
All emotions are okay and valid, even the ones I don't like.
Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
When The "Good Parent" Isn't
This has been rattling around in my brain for several weeks now. I'm not sure whether there's any value in it or not, but I'll leave it in hopes that writing it is another way of working towards acceptance of the truth.
WARNING:
This post may trigger, it contains references to various forms of abuse.
In the year my older brother was 3, my parents decided that they were ready for a second child; in January the following year they bought home their first (and only) daughter. Less than a year after I was born, my father forced himself upon my mother while she was too ill to get to the shop to buy contraception... I was 18 months old when my baby brother came into the world.
To hear my mother tell it, from the day they bought me home, my father doted on me. I was Daddy's little girl, his pride and joy; when he got home from work, he'd come straight in to check on me and ignore my brothers. She cites this as one of the primary reasons for their separation (before my third birthday) and divorce. What my mother doesn't know, or doesn't want to know, is that by the time they separated, my father was already molesting me.
As I grew up, I saw my father every second weekend and the abuse continued, escalating. Under his care, the three of us would be left in the car while he went into the shop; or if we were taken in, we younger two would be left in the care of our brother. He began to date, and eventually married, the woman we were to come to know as our stepmother (s). Briefly, I thought things would surely improve, but it turned out that she was just as bad as he was. (S) was living in a house that had an unfenced, in-ground pool at this time, and though only my older brother was able to swim, we would often be sent outside unsupervised; locked out or thrown into the pool. We would be regularly belittled and harassed for our appearance, personality, behaviour, abilities... anything and everything, basically. I can't speak for what abuses my brothers endured in private, but I was subjected to several kinds of violence on this weekends. I spent a lot of time honestly believing that I could very well die.
My mother, on the other hand, hit us only very occasionally, usually when we were acting like savages. She told us, as children, that we could be anything, do anything, that we wanted. She would tell us that our looks were fine; it was okay to have stuffed toys, to play with trucks, to play with dolls. She wasn't all roses - she'd favour my brothers over me; constantly lay the blame on me for things; call me names as I grew older; be overprotective to the point of controlling...
Small things.
I think it was for this reason that coming to terms with even the idea that my mother is abusive has been, in many ways, even more difficult than coming to terms with the idea that my father was.
In my head, my parents were divided into the 'good' parent and the 'bad' parent. My father, as the one who was more distant, who neglected my brothers, was clearly the bad parent; this left my mother in the 'good' parent role. And, in comparison to my father, she was certainly the better parent. I still believe that whatever damage she's done, she was doing the best job she knew how; she was trying to be a good mother. In truth, the knowledge that she did the best job she knew how to do has been one of the biggest blocks in accepting her behaviour as abusive.
Too, I am able to place more distance between myself and my father. While he is now a figure I see perhaps twice a year, my mother and I live together. I lived with my father full time for just under five years of my life (the first 3 and the two years between 12 & 14), so he remains vaguely a stranger. I lived with my mother for 16 years as a child/teenager, and another 3 or 4 as an adult -- I know her. I see her every day, and I have interactions with her that are positive, and I have interactions with her that aren't.
My mother's abuse is more subversive than my father's, in general. There is more distance. There is a "good parent" block. There are more positive interactions to draw on that hide the abuse. For whatever reason, it blends better; blurs the lines more on what is actually abuse.
It's still so easy to slip into denial. "Of course she's not abusive, I'm just twisting everything she's ever said. It's not abuse if she's right..."
Except that she's not right and it is abuse and it's not acceptable.
Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.
WARNING:
This post may trigger, it contains references to various forms of abuse.
In the year my older brother was 3, my parents decided that they were ready for a second child; in January the following year they bought home their first (and only) daughter. Less than a year after I was born, my father forced himself upon my mother while she was too ill to get to the shop to buy contraception... I was 18 months old when my baby brother came into the world.
To hear my mother tell it, from the day they bought me home, my father doted on me. I was Daddy's little girl, his pride and joy; when he got home from work, he'd come straight in to check on me and ignore my brothers. She cites this as one of the primary reasons for their separation (before my third birthday) and divorce. What my mother doesn't know, or doesn't want to know, is that by the time they separated, my father was already molesting me.
As I grew up, I saw my father every second weekend and the abuse continued, escalating. Under his care, the three of us would be left in the car while he went into the shop; or if we were taken in, we younger two would be left in the care of our brother. He began to date, and eventually married, the woman we were to come to know as our stepmother (s). Briefly, I thought things would surely improve, but it turned out that she was just as bad as he was. (S) was living in a house that had an unfenced, in-ground pool at this time, and though only my older brother was able to swim, we would often be sent outside unsupervised; locked out or thrown into the pool. We would be regularly belittled and harassed for our appearance, personality, behaviour, abilities... anything and everything, basically. I can't speak for what abuses my brothers endured in private, but I was subjected to several kinds of violence on this weekends. I spent a lot of time honestly believing that I could very well die.
My mother, on the other hand, hit us only very occasionally, usually when we were acting like savages. She told us, as children, that we could be anything, do anything, that we wanted. She would tell us that our looks were fine; it was okay to have stuffed toys, to play with trucks, to play with dolls. She wasn't all roses - she'd favour my brothers over me; constantly lay the blame on me for things; call me names as I grew older; be overprotective to the point of controlling...
Small things.
I think it was for this reason that coming to terms with even the idea that my mother is abusive has been, in many ways, even more difficult than coming to terms with the idea that my father was.
In my head, my parents were divided into the 'good' parent and the 'bad' parent. My father, as the one who was more distant, who neglected my brothers, was clearly the bad parent; this left my mother in the 'good' parent role. And, in comparison to my father, she was certainly the better parent. I still believe that whatever damage she's done, she was doing the best job she knew how; she was trying to be a good mother. In truth, the knowledge that she did the best job she knew how to do has been one of the biggest blocks in accepting her behaviour as abusive.
Too, I am able to place more distance between myself and my father. While he is now a figure I see perhaps twice a year, my mother and I live together. I lived with my father full time for just under five years of my life (the first 3 and the two years between 12 & 14), so he remains vaguely a stranger. I lived with my mother for 16 years as a child/teenager, and another 3 or 4 as an adult -- I know her. I see her every day, and I have interactions with her that are positive, and I have interactions with her that aren't.
My mother's abuse is more subversive than my father's, in general. There is more distance. There is a "good parent" block. There are more positive interactions to draw on that hide the abuse. For whatever reason, it blends better; blurs the lines more on what is actually abuse.
It's still so easy to slip into denial. "Of course she's not abusive, I'm just twisting everything she's ever said. It's not abuse if she's right..."
Except that she's not right and it is abuse and it's not acceptable.
Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.
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