Many survivors I have met care deeply for other people. They will give up anything to help out another. We give and give and give, and if we aren’t careful, there will be nothing left.

With my ex-husband, I was so close to giving up myself. I gave up everything for him. My self was the last step. I was right on the verge of losing it all; and the worst part of it was I thought I was doing it for a good reason. I wasn’t. I was just being stupid and blind and stubborn. I put up with a lot from him, but the worst thing and the final emotional straw was when he told me I was selfish. The remaining sense of self I had screamed in my head that it wasn’t true. I did not leave at that moment, but it was shortly after that I did.

How could I be selfish? I had given up jobs for him, friends for him, opportunities for him. I was making bad choices, but I was not selfish.

The sense of self is a curious thing. It is fragile. It can become overinflated. It can be shattered. It can be rebuilt. It can be oblivious to others. It can be oblivious of others. And it can change quickly.

For me, I was taught for so long that my thoughts and opinions didn’t matter. But at the same time, I cared so much about other people that I really began to believe that what I wanted was not important and my only purpose in life was to make sure others were happy.

I used to apologize (sincerely) for everything. It didn’t matter what the other person said or what happened to them, I apologized and felt responsible, even though it usually had absolutely nothing to do with me. I felt responsible (and guilty) for everything.

From my experience, I’d have to say I’m not alone in feeling responsible for the problems of the world. Many people cannot separate themselves from all the bad things that happen. Some things, like natural disasters just happen. No one is responsible and no one caused it. But there are still lots of people that feel they could have stopped it or made it less harmful in some way.

Many abuse survivors feel they are responsible for what happened to them. “If I hadn’t worn that, they would have left me alone.” “If I’d been a good boy, he wouldn’t have had to punish me.” “If I hadn’t liked it, she wouldn’t have done it again.” The abuse totally warps or destroys our sense of self.

Many survivors are hyper-responsible and seem to have an apathy of care. We care so much about others, but lack the knowledge to care for ourselves. But it doesn’t seem to stop there.

For me, apathy of care means that I don’t know how to react when people care or try to care for me. My fiance is a wonderful man. He is such a good person and he cares so much for me. And that is sometimes hard for me to understand. He always asks if I have enough money. He opens the car door for me and He puts gas in my car. He worries about me and the stress I was under in my last job. He does all of these things because he cares. He doesn’t want anything from me. He isn’t trying to control me. He just loves me, exactly as I am. Sometimes I poke him in the shoulder with my finger to make sure he’s real. To my surprise, he is always real flesh and bone.

A basic understanding of what it means to receive care should be one of those things that is just part of human nature. Someone should be able to offer me human care without me flinching or wondering what he wants from me. That is not my experience, but I am learning just how wonderful and amazing that can really be.

Jeff and his dad collect antique tractors. He has frequently said to me that for the right person, he would have given them all up, but the right person would never ask him to give them up.

The right person who truly cares about you will never ask you to give up who you are. They won’t be focused on trying to change you. And you won’t be trying to change them. The partner who is right for you loves you as you are, just as you are trying love yourself.

“Never confuse someone caring about what you can do for them with them actually caring about you. These things are not the same.”

There are people in the world who only want to use you. But there are some who do what they do just because they care. Protect yourself and your heart, but don’t forget that some people are genuine and true. Be true to you and never forget that you matter.

I went to my friend Christopher‘s concert last weekend. It was so much fun and so nice to reconnect with a friend I haven’t seen in many years.

And the best part was that Jeff went with me. We got to go together. I have grown so used to doing things by myself. It was almost strange that Jeff not only wanted to go, but that he drove, and didn’t throw a fit that we were doing something I wanted to do. He didn’t fight with me about it. Didn’t try to change plans at the last minute. I asked him if he’d like to go and he said he’d love to.

Over the past few years, I gave up what I loved for someone else. I was used to it. I’d been doing it my whole life. Since I was a little girl, I was constantly shown that I didn’t matter. My father only wanted to use me. My mother loved my sister more than me. Other people tried to give me other messages, but the ones I learned the best were the ones I received at home. I ate up the messages with cereal in the morning and pork chops at night.

And why? Why couldn’t I hear the other messages from my teachers and friends? Because the voices and the pain I felt at home were so secretive and so consuming, I couldn’t hear anything else. My brain was actually reprogrammed because of the trauma and abuse I experienced.

My friend also preached the day after the concert. Jeff and I went to that too. Christopher sang a song at children’s time that brought me to tears. That isn’t too unusual because a lot of songs bring me to tears. Christopher said that he wanted to sing the song because a friend of his sang it and wanted every adult possible to hear it. Every child needs to hear it as well, I think. Perhaps you need to hear it too.

If you have a few minutes, please take the time to listen to it. You can read the lyrics, but to play the song, just click on the play button next to the title.

how could anyone
from Splash! (new 2010 edition)

How could anyone ever tell you
You were anything less than beautiful?
How could anyone ever tell you
You were less than whole?
How could anyone fail to notice
That your loving is a miracle?
How deeply you’re connected to my soul.

Credits:

Written by Libby Roderick

My father never told me I wasn’t beautiful, but he gave me the message every day that I didn’t matter. He didn’t have to tell me I wasn’t whole, but he broke me.

I have finally gotten to the point that I can believe I am a beautiful person; or at least that I have a beautiful soul. I have come to realize that I am not a burden on others (though this is still hard for me to say.) I have worked extremely hard in therapy and in learning to trust people to become whole again. It is a miracle that I survived, and that so many people survive so much tragedy and heartache. And you are connected to my soul. Your healing is bound up in mine and while I understand boundaries and setting them between myself and others in a healthy way, we are connected. I feel much closer to healed, but I hope each time I write, or talk to you, that I am reaching out my hand to help you move forward in your healing.

Since I left seminary, I have stepped out of my connection with others. I was tired in many ways and needed a rest. I was also not in a relationship where I was supported. Now I am. And I have also gotten a rest. I have been writing and have been part of a group for survivors, but I was on the edges in many ways. It is time for me to step back in. And I have been thinking about it. Now it is time to stop thinking and do something about it.

I am filling out the application for CASA – court appointed special advocates – a group of volunteers who support kids through the court process if they have been abused. My friend and I are working on a book we want to write. I am doing what I feel I need to to reconnect with other survivors. It is time and I am stepping in.

I got my hair trimmed yesterday. That doesn’t seem like a big deal, but in my life, it has often been a big ordeal.

My father loved my hair long. My hair is thick and heavy; and while pretty, it can be a pain. It is hot and heavy, and when I was younger, more than one piece of gum got thrown into my hair. My mom had to cut it out and it was quite traumatic to get it taken care of. I got my hair cut at some point before my father had to leave our house. Dad was furious. I’d done something without his consent and he didn’t like it at all.

My father also loved the color of my hair. It is almost the same color as his. He used to tell me if I ever dyed my hair, he’d kill me. I waited until he was in prison until I dyed it. My friend Liz dyed it for me and I waited, holding my breath, expecting him to charge in and finish me off, even though I knew he was safely locked behind bars. I dyed it a lighter shade of red. I have never felt the need to dye it again.

Last year for my birthday, I wanted nothing else than to get my hair cut. It was down to the middle of my back and was very heavy and took too much care and time. to dry. I made the appointment and tried not to let my ex-husband know that because I knew he would try to bully me out of getting it cut. He had done it before.

When we lived in Illinois, there was a place where I used to love to get my hair cut. I made an appointment and my ex found out. He badgered me until I let him cut it. No surprise, it looked terrible. I had to go and get it cut anyway. The man who cut it said, “So, what happened to your hair?”

I knew I made a mistake when the phone rang the day before my birthday and I answered it. It was the salon calling to confirm my appointment. After I got off the phone, he asked if I was planning to get my hair cut. I said yes, that was what I wanted for my birthday (even though I was going to pay for it.) Again, he began the badgering. He finally “agreed” to it, as long as I got no more than three inches cut. I got it layered in the front, so it was about three and a half inches shorter in the front and he threw a fit. It was the next day that I left him. My hair wasn’t the reason, but it was one of the last reasons.

Shortly after I started dating Jeff, I asked him what he would do if I cut my hair. He looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears. He said, “It’s your hair. You do what you want to with it.” I believed him, and got it cut very shortly after that discussion. He loved it. And he loved it even more because I loved it.

I have often felt that being sexually abused killed my soul, or at least shut it down so tightly that i would never be able to nudge it to life again.

Yesterday I left Jeff a message that I was getting my hair cut. He called me on the way home and was not belligerent or nasty about it. He was excited. And when he got home, he thought it looked great.

Jeff loves me just as I am. Short hair, long hair; a little heavier than I would like. He loves me just as I am.

He loves me in part because of who he is, but he also loves me because I have finally come to a place in my life that I love myself. I deserve this relationship. I no longer have to keep myself small or hold back who I am because I respect who I am and Jeff does too.

Life has a much different outlook when you love yourself. I don’t feel ashamed of who I am anymore. I don’t feel like everything is my fault. I do the best that I can every day and don’t regret what I can’t do every day.

I used to feel guilty for everything. It wasn’t my fault, but I was told so often it was that I began to believe it. And I believed it for a long time.

Some things are my fault and I do make mistakes, but I have learned to take responsibility for my own actions. That is all I can manage. And it is all anyone should ever have to manage.

Take responsibility for what you have done, but even more important, learn to love yourself as you are. That will open amazing doors for others to love you. You can be who really are and people will have the opportunity to love the real you. And if they don’t, you probably don’t want to be around them anyway.

Namaste

My friend sent me an email this week and asked if he could use part of my story in a sermon. He was my minister in high school. I always liked and trusted him. He has seen me fight and struggle to get where I am. And he has always been a good and supportive friend. He likes to remind me that he is in my corner, and I very much like to hear that.

“I’m writing a sermon on wounded healers. Was wondering if I could use your life story as an example. You embody that phrase!” This is what my friend wrote to me.

As always, I am honored and taken aback. I have just found a way to survive. I can recognize the extraordinary strength it takes to survive-in others. In myself, it just seems like something I did.

On different fronts, I guess I am discouraged and have been letting that dictate how I feel about myself. I am forgetting the one front on which my life is extremely good and wonderful. My goal is to focus on that and rebuild the pieces that are frustrating.

And I think the most amazing thing in this rebuilding is that for the first time ever, I have support. My friends have always supported me, but this is support of a different kind. This is from my partner, my love. He supports me in so many ways I never imagined. Not only is he kind and gentle, but he listens when I speak and hears not only my words, but what is on my heart and what I haven’t always found the words to say.

At this moment, I have to wait and not post this. My divorce isn’t final, so I can’t write about the love of my life. And just to be clear, I did not meet my true love until after I had been downtrodden by another man who was supposed to love me. Today, I filed the financial paperwork to end the marriage. It is down to legal paper work, and anger. I am not good with anger, but it is the only emotion I have left for a person who I loved, and I thought loved me. In his own way, perhaps he did, but it was a way that was destructive to me. He ran up bills, or promised me he would help me pay bills that he wouldn’t. I worked two jobs to make sure there was enough money to pay the bare minimum of bills and not be homeless. He liked to throw money into the stock market. And would sometimes make money, but much more often lose it.

I left him two years ago, when I found out he had had affair. Of course, he said it was just a fling and he was drunk. That was supposed to make it ok. I was supposed to forget because it only happened once. The back story was that he went to the place where they met almost every day. He would get angry at me or say he needed space, and go out, in my opinion, with the intention to run into her.

So, I left. And the place where I went wasn’t a safe place for me to be. Physically, I was safe, but emotionally, it was too close to what I had known. The town was too near to the town I was abused in.

So, I went back, knowing I couldn’t stay there for long, and trying to figure out how I could make it on my own. I stayed just under a year more. By that point, I was thinking about going on medication for depression. Even with all I had been through, I had never been that low.

I didn’t have a plan, but I couldn’t stay anymore. He told me he wasn’t happy with me and was no longer attracted to me. That was all my self esteem could take.

BUT, it rebounded quickly. I felt so much better without him than I ever had with him. I stayed for the wrong reasons. I hate to admit that, but it was one of those things I did. I knew it was a bad choice, but made it anyway. I learned a huge lesson from that.

If I know it is a bad decision, I won’t be choosing whatever that is in the future.

I am worth so much more.

I am capable of truly loving; and being truly loved.

What I have been through has been immense, but I feel whole. I love who I am. I am loved. I am strong. It took me years to get here to that person, and now I have earned and worked for everything I have.

I feel free. And I feel like I can be myself. It is an amazing feeling. I know it will change my writing, and I feel life can only get better from here.

It wasn’t an easy road and it is by no means over, but I have so much hope for where it can go from here!

watch?v=LZ34LlaIk88

From the Christian perspective, this is the season of light and hope.  From a survivor’s perspective, it is often hard to see either light or hope.  The tunnel out of pain is long and dark.

The Christmas season is supposed to be filled with anticipation of the celebration of a child’s birth.  It is supposed to bring light and happiness to our world filled with dreariness and depression.

The birth of every child should be a celebration.  Every parent to be should want a child so much that they can hardly wait to hold that child in their arms and love them – in an approprite, safe parental way.

The romantic part of me, or some part I cannot name that makes no sense, wants to only focus on the hope and the light.  I want to believe that every child born is wanted and that nothing bad will ever happen to him or her. 

My live has shown me that is just a fantasy for some people.  Many people do come into this existence and are genuinely loved and wanted.  Many people, however, do not.  They have to struggle for everything in life that should just be a given.  It should be a basic human right that everyone has enough food.  It should be a basic human right that everyone has shelter.  It should be a basic human right that everyone is loved and cared for and no one is ever abused.

Knowing that abuse is real and that even basic human rights are not guaranteed, it has often been difficult for me not to give up hope.  Believe me, I wanted to give up on it.  I used to believe that if I could give up hope, and just accept what was happening to me, it wouldn’t be so hard to know my father was treating me like a sex object.  It would have been easier to just succumb to the fate he had in mind for me.  What he did was pretty extensive, but I think he was stopped before he was ready.  I never had to deal with what he truly had in mind.

As I listen to women and men struggle with the abuse they have suffered, I feel the anxiety and their willingness to give up hope.  Without hope, it is easier to take all the crap and say it doesn’t matter because I don’t matter.

Well, you do matter.  You don’t matter to your abusers because they are so selfish they can’t even see you, but to at least one person in your life, you do truly, unequivocably matter.

And that may be the hardest bit of hope to handle.  I have been in a place in life when I didn’t want to hope.  It felt like hope hurt too much and that it was an unattainable, tricky thing.  Hope made me want to believe that things could be different when I didn’t really believe that they could.

And how would I have to be different if hope was real?  I was already going through hell and felt like my heart was broken.  Healing sometimes hurts about as much as getting hurt.

Hope allowed me to go on, even when I didn’t want to.  I would say that I had given up, that it was too much hassle and struggle to go on.  In the depths of my soul, I held on.  I would take out the hope and examine it and wonder why I couldn’t just throw it away.  I wondered why I kept it – it didn’t seem to be doing me any good.

I kept going.  I kept getting up every day and even if I felt like my life was a complete ruin, I couldn’t stay down.  I never understood why, but it was as if I couldn’t help but go on.  I trudged through the tunnel that never seemed to end, but finally I got to the other side.  I am not without scars, but I am a better person than I thought I could be.  I have found that I can love and hope and dream without feeling like my life is about to end in agony.

And it feels so strange to say, but I am actually happy.  Happiness always felt as illusive to me as the Lock Ness Monster or a unicorn, but now that I have found it, I cannot imagine being with out it.  I am actually at a point that I not only believe I can be happy and have hope, but that I deserve it.

And as we progress into this season of hope, it is my sincere hope that you know you deserve happiness too.  You are brave and strong, no matter what your abusers tell you or have told you.  You are ok and it is ok to hope, even if it feels weak and a little awkward.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Music has always been a big part of my life.  I am at a point where I can no longer sing with much melody, but in my head, I still hear the right notes.  One particular song has been running through my head for days.  A friend asked me if I knew why.  I said yes, but was not ready to say it yet.

The song, Three Wooden Crosses, sung by Randy Travis, is one that I have always liked.  It is not my favorite, and I struggle with the notion of a cross.  In this song, however, the crosses are the road side memorials for people who have died in accidents.  They are always troubling to see, but a different kind of cross.

As I have moved from a victim of abuse to the person I consider myself to be now as a thriver, I have often wondered how I made it.  The stark reality is that many people do not.  They succumb to the pain.  In saying that, it is not my intention to pass judgment on them or claim that they are weak because they cannot take it anymore.  No one should ever have to survive the abuse I have lived through.  And I know many people who have survived much more severe abuse than I have.  I am by no means playing down what I experienced.  It was horrible.  But it stopped and I have been able to work through a lot of it, even though it still affects me every day.

The one line of “Three Wooden Crosses” that has been running through my head is “There are three wooden crosses on the right side of the highway.  Why there aren’t four of them heaven only knows.”

I could never figure out why I survived.  The pain and anguish I used to feel should have driven me to my knees.  In some respects, it did, but it was also part of my nature to get up again.  It was not something I could explain, and I always hesitate to say things like this for fear of sounding arrogant.  I cannot explain it, but I did get up – again and again and again.

Now, it doesn’t hurt so much.  I feel strong enough to handle it.  In looking back, I have a different perspective on the hurt.  I will never believe that there was a reason for it.  There was no divine plan that allowed it to happen so I could get to this place in my life.  It happened.  It was unbearably awful.  I have done a lot of work to get through the pain and the scars, but now I’m here.  On the other side of abuse, the world looks different, but it was forever changed because of someone else’s selfish and brutal actions.

In a conversation with a dear friend yesterday, I got a different perspective.  It was one of those things that just finally clicked in my brain.  If I had killed myself and had not been able to survive, I would have been doing my father a favor.  In his own way, he was trying to kill me.  If not the physical me, my sense of self and safety.  He was trying to kill my soul.  My friend said, “I refuse to do it for him (sic).  There are times when I am suicidal but when push comes to shove I refuse to do it for him (sic), he can damn well do it himself.”

And she is right.  Why should I help him kill me?  He was doing a pretty good job on his own, but why should I help him finish me off?  I can’t.  I can’t help him take that final blow against my humanity.  He has my blood on his hands, but I refuse to finish what he tried to start.  He isn’t worth it.

But I have finally come to the realization that I am worth the fight.  I am worth the fight against every bit of pain I have known.  I have something to say.  I matter.  And it is still hard to write those words.  It brings tears to my eyes for me and for anyone who ever had to doubt that they were worth it because of what someone else chose to do to them. out of selfishness and greed.

It is my hope that I offer an ounce of hope and courage when people are not feeling very courageous.  One of the beauties of the internet is that people can find anything if they are looking; and sometimes when they are not looking.  You can find a whole lot of junk on the internet, but I hope just one person finds this post and can finally begin to answer the question why their cross isn’t added to the many who have succumbed to the pain of being sexually abused by people who are supposed to love them.

You are worth the fight.  Keep fighting and don’t let them, or him, or her, whoever is abusing you make you help them in killing your soul.

I know I have used this poem before, but it still speaks to me in a voice that is loud and clear.  My high school English teacher gave me a copy of it when I was a senior and I have carried it with me ever since.  It speaks to my soul and helps me remember why I’m still standing.

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

Do not go gentle into that good night, 

Old age should burn and rage at close of day; 

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, 

Because their words had forked no lightning they 

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright 

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, 

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, 

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, 

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight 

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, 

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height, 

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. 

Do not go gentle into that good night. 

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 Dylan Thomas

So, rage on my friends.  Do not help them kill that light within you.

Namaste

A few months ago, I had to move.  The whys and hows are long and tedious, so I will not bore you with them.  I had boxes in three different states which I have finally gotten all together.

I live on the second floor of an apartment building so I have had to lug all these boxes up the stairs.  A few of them, I have lugged up the stairs, opened, and lugged back down the stairs.  They are either filled with books I now longer need or things that I no longer need or want.  So, I have been taking them to the library or Good Will.

In some of the boxes I have found things that made me smile.  Presents from dear friends or momentos from things I have done.  I found medals from a choir competition in middle school.  I found pictures with friends in places I had forgotten I had been.

Some of the things I found touched the edges of memories I did not want to uncover.  I found picture albums, which I have not gone through yet.  I will have to be in a particular mood before I am able to look at the pictures.  Now that I have identified the dissociative stare, I am sure I will see it a lot in those pictures.  That will take some time.

I think packing and unpacking is much like healing from abuse.  When I packed these boxes, I put a lot of things in them, usually because I had run out of time to pack.  I didn’t sort through what I put in each box and I packed it all in such a way that it fit perfectly in the box.

With the memories of my abuse, I had to pack them inside and make them at least look like they all fit.  As I lived and had different experiences, the memories shifted around.  Sometimes, they shifted into a painful position.  Then I had to get help, usually through therapy or a good friend, to reshift the memory so it was not so painful.  Sometimes it took a long time to move the memory and get in a place that caused me less pain.

This move, I am doing a lot of sorting.  I have been carrying around a lot of stuff that I do not need.  In the same regard, I have been carrying around in my soul a lot of memories and attitudes that I do not need.  As the sorting goes on, space is freed up for more appropriate attitudes and memories.

And I am in charge of them now.  I get a say in my experiences.  I have choices.  When I was a child and being abused by my father and silenced by people who did not want to know what was happening.

I realize that there are things in life that will happen which are out of my control.  But the realization that I had a choice in what happened to me was at first terrifying, then freeing.  I am no longer that chained up little person with no choice and no self.

I am a person of worth and I do not have to carry memories and pain which I did not choose.  This did not happen over night and I am by no means saying it is easy, but I’m saying it can get better.

As we travel through life, we pack things and carry them, some of which we need and some of which we do not.  Each time we make a move or make a change, we have the choice what we take and what we leave behind.  It is a process of examination, remembering, mourning, anger, healing, and letting go.

As in a move, we will be in a new place and if we are willing to do the hard work of unpacking and examining, we can have a new perspective and a new start.  The break isn’t easy, the work is strenuous and in some ways, feels just as bad as the abuse we suffered, but when you’ve gone through the process, think how much lighter the bags which you are carrying will be.  The difference will change your world, and in the process, you will change the world.

“There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” ~ Anais Nin

As a survivor of sexual abuse, I have been in many emotional places in my life.  Many have been painful, but there have also been the highs most people experience.  Since I started writing this blog, I have not written from a place of direct pain.  I have not been in a place of pain related to the abuse for a while, but that is where I am tonight, and so I write from here.

Survivors talk about triggers.  If that does not make sense, it is a place, a smell, a sensation or a particular something that takes the person back to his or her abuse.  I used to have more triggers, not as many as some, but enough.  I have been able to work through a lot of them.  Except one.

I have mentioned this before, but in a detached way that did not touch the pain it brings me.  My trigger is a song.

No matter how little of it I hear, it stays with me for hours, sometimes days.  Since I heard it tonight, I will have to wait and see how long it stays this time.

I like to set my radio on scan until I hear a song that I like.  Sometimes, this is a dangerous idea because this song is played on the radio and occasionally I stumble upon it.

“I remember Daddy’s hands, soft and kind when I was crying, hard as steal when I done wrong…But there was always love in daddy’s hands.”

I do not have to hear even a single word of this song.  I took enough music lessons that I recognize the notes alone.  When I hear it, my heart starts to beat faster.  I frantically look for the button on the radio to make it stop.  The “off” button never comes to mind.  I hit the scan button, but that makes it stop on that channel so I have to listen to more of it instead of less.

My stomach gets tight and I feel like I’m going to vomit.  My trigger has been set.  My mind sees one thing.  Hands.  Coming toward me in a way that is far from loving.  I will not go on, more for me than for you.

Then I’m very distracted.  It is hard to fight off the images.  There are many tactics for fighting off flashbacks, very few of which I’ve ever found effective.  This particular trigger is only banished by another song and the battle between the two is epic.

“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound.”  That is as far as my brain will go.  Then “there was always love in daddy’s hands.”  Then “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.  Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, until I can get to “that saved a wretch like me.”

I always wanted to be saved from the abuse, but didn’t know how.  I felt wretched.  I did need to be saved, but realize now that i was not the one who was wretched.

The first song reminds of what was supposed to be.  My father was supposed to treat me in a loving way.  He let me down again and again.  He hurt me.  There was not a single loving thing in his hands.

And it is nothing short of amazing that I survived.  But that is true not just for me.  Every single survivor who survives is nothing less than amazing.

So, I’m still a little teary and a little raw, but “Amazing Grace” will win out.  Daddy’s hands will never win.

Click here to view the embedded video.

(And after the song, a prayer I can never say.)

“Through many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come.”

There have been a lot of transitions in my life of late.  Transitions often mean sorting through things that have been put in boxes.

As I sorted today, I found pictures of past relationships, past experiences, and something I had not planned to find.  I found pictures of my past self, and some of them were barely recognizable to me as me.

Other survivor friends have talked about seeing pictures of themselves and what they have described as the dissociative stare.  It is the look in the eyes in a picture that most people would not recognize, but survivors recognize it in themselves as pain.  They see the dissociation in their eyes that they learned to avoid the pain.  Dissociating is a coping mechanism I am not sure I can explain if you have never felt it, and I honestly hope you never have to learn what it means.

The first picture I found was from my passport.  I took a trip to Russia in 1997.   By that time, I was no longer being abused.  My father had actually already been released from prison.  Nonetheless, when I look in my eyes, there is a pain I can almost not tolerate to see.

I know you can’t see it well in this picture, but my eyes look completely glazed.  I was on the journey to healing, but in the throws of hell.

The second set of pictures was taken when I lived in California in 2001.  My sister was attending photography school and one of her friends needed some models for pictures.  In these pictures, I am not quite so dissociative, but my weight was the greatest it has ever been.  I was in a better place, but far from a good place.

I have said here before that weight was always a struggle for me.  It is not the sweater and the turtle neck making me look that way.  It’s truly how I was.  That was closed to the most I ever weighed.  Being larger than society says you should be is not bad, but for me, it was just a sign that I was not taking care of myself.  At all.  I was unhappy in my life, in my relationship, with the fact that I could not get the counseling I needed because I simply could not afford it.

I have changed so much since 2001 when this picture was taken.  I was going through hell and had been for a long time.  In 2001, I was twenty-five years old.  I had been dealing with the life-altering results of abuse for a minimum of eighteen years.  That includes only the time when I remember things being inappropriate with my father, not the whole dynamic of having a child molester always living in my home.

I am now thirty-five.  It is hard to realize that the percentage of my life dealing with abuse will never be less than the percentage of my life when I didn’t deal with it.  And it will never go away.  No matter how hard I work and how much I heal, it will always be a part of me.

I have gotten to the point that it is not a bad thing to be a survivor.  I wish I had not gone through it, but I did and I have lived to tell the tale.  And I tell it every chance I get.

I was sitting with a group of women the other day, none of whom I knew well.  I was asked to introduce myself and explain what I did.  The introduction was easy, the general pieces of what I do where also easy, but then it was time for the next step.  It was time to describe this blog that I write and why I do it.

I hesitated.  It wasn’t that I was ashamed or afraid to say it, but I wondered how I could say it most gently so as not to hurt anyone at the table.   Considering there were seven other women sitting at the table, statistics told me that at least one of them, excluding me, had been affected by sexual abuse in her lifetime.  No one cringed or looked pained as I talked, but it still left me wondering who the other survivor was.

As survivors, we go through a lot of stages.  I know the five states of grief, but do not know that anyone has ever created stages for survivors.  Right now, I’d say I’m in the liminal space.  I’m not in a hurting place; I’m not in a thriving place; I’m just in between.  it isn’t a bad place to be.  It’s just where I am.

I keep thinking to myself, “You’ve come a long way baby.”  It’s true, and I have a long life ahead of me to go.