Here I am, doing the same thing I have always done, hoping for a better outcome without changing the direction of the flooding tide. There are heavy decisions hanging over my head that I am avoiding in hopes that they will make themselves; if I wait long enough, they might... but having them hanging is not making each day easier.
Avoidance. Escape. I want them; I feel as though I need them.
I know that avoidance as a coping mechanism almost all of the time falls short of "helpful" or "healthy"; and yet... It has been more than a week since I sat at my stepmother's table and shared a meal with them. I have tried to push away the thoughts, the emotions, the ideas. I have worked to build ladders against the walls of paranoia so that I can pretend they don't exist. I have built dams and wells and thrown into them the sadness, the guilt, the fear, the anger, the shame, the disgust. They continue to bubble up, bubble out and flood my brain the way the Brisbane river flooded Southbank last week. I have alternately reached out and retreated; struck out and struck in; fought and loved and hidden. And what I have done more than anything else is run. In any way I can, I have taken off running and not stopped until that panicked feeling went down a little again.
I need to find a way to control this crisis, because this became one far too quickly and far too strongly. I am in serious distress and I need to level it out enough that my skills have some impact.
I've been thinking about this all day, and I think I know how I'm going to do that. I think I know the right way to handle this, but I'm not absolutely sure. I might make it worse - but at least I will have tried... and if I don't do anything, it's still going to keep getting worse on its own.
Don't get me wrong; as much as I have avoided, I have also been trying to do what I need to, in tiny ways. I wrote a journal; I wasted about four thousand words avoiding and then I wrote a thousand words about the visit. I have mentioned that I'm struggling. And tiny ways at trying this are great, but they're not enough. if I want to keep my head above water, I need to make bigger steps.
I need to actually stop running. I need to start looking at this for what it was, and that's going to mean learning how to accept it. It's going to mean talking about it and writing about it and actually being honest about it. It's going to be uncomfortable.
But how do I voice this tangle of emotions? How do I extricate myself from the guilt, shame and disgust long enough to allow any of the other emotions a look in; or for long enough to allow anyone else in? I need to figure it out and soon.
I need to trust in my own beliefs, I need to trust in my own self; I need to let go enough to trust in the pockets of safety that there are here where the waters aren't so rough and I can rest a little.
When you are swept off your feet and carried away on the tide, how do you regain your equilibrium?
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
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.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Mixed Messages: How Are You?
Today I got to thinking about my relationship with my emotions. It’s not something I usually avoid thinking about, but it’s also not something I am particularly constructive with, either, most of the time.
Several hours ago, I was logged in when a friend signed on and asked a question that sent my anxiety levels through the roof. Did she ask what to do if a prowler is in your home? What to do about some sort of medical emergency? No, it was nothing like that; nothing that big or important. In fact, all it took were a few simple words: “how are you?”
Some days, I just don’t know. Even after a year of DBT, my emotions are a relative stranger to me. I still label them incorrectly; I still struggle to see them at all; I’m incongruent; and I definitely still try to deny and hide them. I hide my emotions so well, in fact, that our DBT coordinator commented on it. “[dawni] is hard to read, yes. She’s a very good cloaker. I think, actually, she’s the best cloaker I’ve ever met.” There was a lot of power in that; I could fool a therapist I respected a lot, without even trying. Of course, the flip side of that was that, without even meaning to, I was treading on my own toes - how could anyone help me get better if they didn't have a clue what was going on?
And that is what brings me to why, today, “how are you?” set off my nerves.
If I know what I’m feeling, I’ll try my damnedest to hide it from you. Hell, I’ll try my damnedest to hide it from myself. On the other hand, I don’t like to lie. If you ask me how I am, I will feel compelled to answer you honestly – while at the same time I will feel compelled to not reveal what’s going on. If I’m lucky, I’ll have something physically going on I can hide behind. “I’m a bit tired” is probably my ‘favourite’, but “my knee hurts” gets a pretty good workout as well, these days. When my physical health isn’t an issue, though, there’s not much I can do except answer or avoid. And as much as I know that simply avoiding the question, especially after the second or third time you’ve asked, is its own answer, I am often too caught between the two answers to give a decent answer. And buried in there, underneath it all is the little thing that sparks it – fear.
I always vaguely suspect that people don’t believe me when I tell them how I am; what makes this so frustrating is that the thought is strengthened by the very behaviours it causes. Of course you’ll have trouble knowing what to believe if my words say “I hurt” and my face and body say “everything is fine”. It gets worse when, as a protective coating, out comes my humour. Now my body’s saying “I’m fine”, my face is saying “I’m fine” and my words are saying, “I’m not fine, but let’s all laugh it off”. Talk about mixed messages! But doing otherwise, allowing my body to tell its share of the tale? That leaves me vulnerable – not just to you, but to the one thing that frightens me most of all-- myself.
If I admit, honestly, to you what is going on here in my head, I have to admit it to myself. I’m not so good at that. I seem to believe, down in my core, that if I can’t see it, it’ll go away and I’ll feel nothing. For years now, I have been on a quest to simply cease feeling. I am, if you’ll pardon the Star Trek reference, the anti-Data. He spent years trying to attain the ability to feel – I spend them trying to avoid it.
The first step, I’ve heard, is recognising the problem. If the second is to find the why, then I’m well on the way. It’s pretty easy to figure out, this one: the answer is fear. Are you picking up on a common thread, yet? I’ll probably talk a lot about fear in here – it’s one of my big hurdles.
What does fear have to do with my relationship to my emotions? Everything! I'm afraid of my emotions - including my fear of them. Maybe even especially that one. It seems that I have a few core beliefs about emotions and/or expressing them, that still need challenging.
It is okay to feel. Whatever I feel.
It doesn't matter what lengths I go to, I will continue to feel things.
It is sometimes okay to tell others what's going on for me.
Several hours ago, I was logged in when a friend signed on and asked a question that sent my anxiety levels through the roof. Did she ask what to do if a prowler is in your home? What to do about some sort of medical emergency? No, it was nothing like that; nothing that big or important. In fact, all it took were a few simple words: “how are you?”
Some days, I just don’t know. Even after a year of DBT, my emotions are a relative stranger to me. I still label them incorrectly; I still struggle to see them at all; I’m incongruent; and I definitely still try to deny and hide them. I hide my emotions so well, in fact, that our DBT coordinator commented on it. “[dawni] is hard to read, yes. She’s a very good cloaker. I think, actually, she’s the best cloaker I’ve ever met.” There was a lot of power in that; I could fool a therapist I respected a lot, without even trying. Of course, the flip side of that was that, without even meaning to, I was treading on my own toes - how could anyone help me get better if they didn't have a clue what was going on?
And that is what brings me to why, today, “how are you?” set off my nerves.
If I know what I’m feeling, I’ll try my damnedest to hide it from you. Hell, I’ll try my damnedest to hide it from myself. On the other hand, I don’t like to lie. If you ask me how I am, I will feel compelled to answer you honestly – while at the same time I will feel compelled to not reveal what’s going on. If I’m lucky, I’ll have something physically going on I can hide behind. “I’m a bit tired” is probably my ‘favourite’, but “my knee hurts” gets a pretty good workout as well, these days. When my physical health isn’t an issue, though, there’s not much I can do except answer or avoid. And as much as I know that simply avoiding the question, especially after the second or third time you’ve asked, is its own answer, I am often too caught between the two answers to give a decent answer. And buried in there, underneath it all is the little thing that sparks it – fear.
I always vaguely suspect that people don’t believe me when I tell them how I am; what makes this so frustrating is that the thought is strengthened by the very behaviours it causes. Of course you’ll have trouble knowing what to believe if my words say “I hurt” and my face and body say “everything is fine”. It gets worse when, as a protective coating, out comes my humour. Now my body’s saying “I’m fine”, my face is saying “I’m fine” and my words are saying, “I’m not fine, but let’s all laugh it off”. Talk about mixed messages! But doing otherwise, allowing my body to tell its share of the tale? That leaves me vulnerable – not just to you, but to the one thing that frightens me most of all-- myself.
If I admit, honestly, to you what is going on here in my head, I have to admit it to myself. I’m not so good at that. I seem to believe, down in my core, that if I can’t see it, it’ll go away and I’ll feel nothing. For years now, I have been on a quest to simply cease feeling. I am, if you’ll pardon the Star Trek reference, the anti-Data. He spent years trying to attain the ability to feel – I spend them trying to avoid it.
The first step, I’ve heard, is recognising the problem. If the second is to find the why, then I’m well on the way. It’s pretty easy to figure out, this one: the answer is fear. Are you picking up on a common thread, yet? I’ll probably talk a lot about fear in here – it’s one of my big hurdles.
What does fear have to do with my relationship to my emotions? Everything! I'm afraid of my emotions - including my fear of them. Maybe even especially that one. It seems that I have a few core beliefs about emotions and/or expressing them, that still need challenging.
It is okay to feel. Whatever I feel.
It doesn't matter what lengths I go to, I will continue to feel things.
It is sometimes okay to tell others what's going on for me.
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