Being a Warrior and a Survivor…

I am a fighter…and I recognize that it is my Creator who gave me that ability to fight.

I am a survivor…and it is my Creator who brought me through all the hell to get to the wonderful place I am today.

I am filled with the Shalom of my Messiah Yeshua and it is His Ruach/Spirit that has helped me all along my healing journey.

I am a warrior, too. So, what is the difference between a fighter and a warrior? I think there is a lot. I started out as a fighter, fighting my way through what was going on in order to survive. I fought to be “sane” (whatever that means). I fought to make it through the day. I fought to stay alive. I fought to hide my true self from everyone around me. I fought to look “normal” so no one would know the truth. I fought and I fought and I fought, but it was a fighting that was based more upon instinctively swinging my “arms” to fend off an enemy.

Over time, though, I became a warrior. I went on the offensive. And that is when things really started to change. That is when the evil I was fighting really started to show itself for what it was…dark and malevolent. It was not that I did not see that before. It was not that I was not doing some warrior fighting before. But there came a time in my life when I had no choice but to come out swinging on the offensive. I had to for the safety of my youngest.

My battle to survive and just make it through life slowly transformed into a battle of fighting back until the fighting back became the main thing. After years of feeling as if I were struggling just to keep my head above water so I could breath, I slipped into years of taking ground. I started to fight for real healing.

There are some who decry the term “survivor”, as if that is somehow less than or as if it somehow holds us back. We must never use that term, but must instead call ourselves “thrivers”…or some other term to define who we are.

But I AM a survivor! I have survived horrendous things and made it out the end! I am PROUD of that. Being a survivor means they did not win! A cancer survivor is one who has conquered cancer. No one would ever think of telling him or her not to use that term! So, why is it not OK for us who have survived extreme abuse?

I am a survivor! I am alive! I am “sane”…well, I guess that may depend upon your definition of “sane”. I am smiling as I write that. I am HERE! I did not die. I did not end up in a mental ward. I did not end up in jail. I did not end up dead. I have a good marriage. I made it out of all the abuse. Yes, it took years to do. Yes, I am still partially amnesic. Yes, I have a lot of healing left to do. But I am ALIVE! I no longer answer to my abusers. Hallelu Yah!

I am both a survivor AND a thriver. You see, I don’t see it as an either/or kind of thing. I am both! And I am grateful. I can see the beauty in life and share it with others. Here is some of that beauty now.

 

 

Things I have been pondering…

I have been thinking about what to write here…the thoughts kind of going around in my head and heart. I am not sure what is going on with me.

When we moved into this house, I thought I would have some space and freedom to do any healing work that needed to be done…while, at the same time, not really being sure of what that work might be. Randy Noblitt told me on the phone about 2 years ago that he thought my system was shut down. Is it? Or is it just so blended that it appears that way? Since he has not worked with me, can he really make that kind of assessment?

I know I am still partially amnesic, but I am not sure how much. I still don’t remember my sister growing up in the same house with me. That is pretty huge…no way around that. But I don’t think blending automatically brings recall. My former counselor knows of quite a few survivors who blended and the memories came later…or some not at all.

Splitting is one form of protection and self-preservation. So is repressing. How much memory recall (or lack of) is due to repression and how much is due to splitting? I don’t know and I don’t know of any way TO know.

Lately, I seem to be getting a few flashes. Can’t tell you what they are because I don’t remember. I find it easy to shove stuff like that aside, but I think something is brewing. I just am not sure what. I am thinking it may be time to talk to “myself” again…like I did a lot in the beginning of this journey.

There is something I notice about myself that might be key to what is going on. When I think about things in the past, I almost always get a surge of emotion. It does not matter what I am remembering. It could be something positive and I get the same surge. It is puzzling to me. And it does not have to be the long ago past, either. It is as if the PTSD element of my mind and emotions is linked to ALL my memories…even fairly recent ones. Why is that?

Of course, our living situation for the last few years before getting into this house was enough to cause PTSD in many people. I have been told time and again by so many that they could not do and they did not know how I did. I just tell them it was the L-rd, plain and simple. He got me through it.

Now I live in an unfinished house that is a bit cluttered and I long for some semblance of order. My husband’s work schedule is all over the map…constantly changing hours and days off…totally inconsistent. It is affecting our whole family. It feels impossible to get into any kind of real routine.

So, I just keep moving forward…I think, anyway. On the one hand, I seem to be doing OK and, on the other hand, I am struggling. This introvert with PTSD is feeling rather drained. And yet, I DO get a lot done.  Just not all I WANT to get done.

I am doing some PSE 8 “art” work…mostly stuff with words that I post on FB. I am fighting for my country on FB. I am home educating high school. And several months ago, I picked up my guitar again after over 12 years of not playing. When the memories started to come and the DID became obvious, everything else in my life pretty much came to a screeching halt as I sought healing.

Now, I am picking it back up and I am singing “publicly” again. I know better than to push forward too hard or too fast. I am singing this Sunday…twice. Do I feel ready? Maybe. I have sung twice now at two singfests. The first time I blew everyone and myself away. I felt like I was “back in the saddle”.

The second time I felt some of the pressure of their expectations. Plus, the mic setup was awkward compared to the first time. It was more chaotic. But the feedback I got was good. Once I am up there and I just start, I get into it and let the music and the Ruach/Spirit take me away. If I can ever get it to be quiet enough in here, I might try recording on my laptop. It probably won’t sound all that good, but I can try.

So, here I am…trying to get my thoughts together, feeling like I am rambling. I have had things to share for some time, but simply not been able to find the words. It is hard for me to understand myself what is going on.

But this I know. The time is short. I am watching what is happening in the world and in my country and I truly believe we don’t have that long before Messiah returns. So, how much time and energy should I try to spend on healing? I really don’t know. I have learned to take each day as it comes. If the right setting and opportunity come along for healing work…I will take advantage of it. So far, it simply has not been here.

I am going to throw some stuff away in the office. That might help. Then I can try to create some kind of space for personal healing. Maybe.

Don’t know if any of this made much sense to anyone, but I just wanted to finally take some time to get some thoughts out…even if they are a bit disjointed.

Been thinking about…

One of my sons has been creating a list of the places he has lived. He wants to write a “tell all”, which he tells me he will redact before he lets anyone else read it. In the process of helping him to pinpoint exact addresses, I did some Google searching.

Wow! Talk about being able to see the houses, up front and close. You can see overhead and you can see from the street. I was able to get all the addresses, but one. That one I nailed down to one or two possibilities, though.

The places we lived hold a lot of emotions and memories for me. So, to say it was a bit difficult at times is a bit of an understatement. As I “went” to place after place, I thought of people and events that happened in those place. Of all the places I “visited”, though, one really holds a mystery.

We used to live in an apartment. Someone took me for a drive one late afternoon up into the hills behind the house. I remember going through the trees and on the windy road for a while. I think I remember him asking me about going somewhere. I believe he also asked me if I was thirsty. Bingo! I suspect I was slipped one of those drugs that causes you to forget…a date rape drug.

The next thing I remember is that, all of a sudden, it was dark and I had no idea where we were. We were still (?) in the car and I remember commenting on the fact that it was dark and wondering when it got dark. I asked where we were and he told me. We were a lot farther from home than I had intended to go. He said he wanted to go on to a town I knew for dinner, but I just wanted to go home. He told me that we were not far from the freeway and I told him to take me home. All I could think of was getting home to my children ASAP.

He did take me home. My children were OK, although they were wondering where I had been. I had said something to them about going for a drive, but I did NOT expect to be gone so long and I certainly did not know that “dinner” was part of the drive. Nor did I know about whatever it was that happened during the blackout time.

The next day, I received a huge bouquet of red roses at work. It came with a note that said something about being sorry. And that was it. We never spoke again. The upside is that, when I heard there were roses for me at the front desk, I thought they came from someone else. The disappointment I felt when they did not, woke me up to the fact that I had grown to love the man who later became my husband. So sweet came out of oddity and blessing out of the weirdness.

My focus switched so much away from the drive that I never really did put things together until years later. It finally became obvious that something had happened and that I must have been slipped something. Either that, or he knew programming. He was an alcoholic, which means the cult could easily manipulate him. But I know he really did like me. He even wanted to marry me. So, I think the apology was sincere. It is just that he never told me what it was for…naturally.

Was it date rape? Was it a cult accessing and he was the one to get me there? Was he in the cult (although I do doubt that)? I don’t know and, at this late date (almost 20 years later), I suppose it does not really matter. It was just the last couple of days of  “been thinking about”…

 

Life Is Good…

Life is good…I cannot complain. I am growing spiritually and some mighty big changes might be around the corner. Right now I am pretty tired and is late, but I just wanted to check in. I talking to my former therapist once a month. That feels good. It isn’t really therapy. In fact, I don’t know that it ever really has been. She was always an amazing, understanding support to me. It is nice to just be able to check in with her. I do still miss being able to see her. It always felt more like visiting with a mentor than it did seeing a therapist.

Life is good…I am slowly getting into a bit of a routine even though hubby works a really odd schedule that is practically no schedule at all. I pretty much get up around the same time every day…regardless of when I go to bed. That is a step in the right direction. Every once in a while I oversleep, but I think I am just catching up on my sleep from the nights when I don’t quite get enough.

Life is good…I am loved by my husband and children. I am loved by the L-rd G-d of Heaven and earth. I know who I am…even if I am still a bit amnesic. The amnesia does not really bother me. I know who I am. I know enough about what I have been through that the rest does not matter. I do admit that it still feels kind of weird not remembering living with my sister. But what I do remember does not encourage me to want to remember any more.

Life is good…my body seems to be healing. (I will claim that it is.) I am at peace with my G-d, with myself and with my fellow-man. Although there are some who have issue with me…I am OK with that. I am OK with seeing things differently. I am OK with agreeing to disagree. For me, disagreeing does not mean being disagreeable. It just means being different.

Life is good…my world may be changing in a big way again…soon. Although I am not a huge fan of change, there are changes that are very good. If this one happens…it will be very good.

Life is good…I feel my creativity is sparking up again. I like that. It is fun. I am being challenged in some areas and I am holding my own. That feels good. I am doing OK. Yay!

Life is good…I feel SAFE! I hope you do, too.

I hope that life is good for you, too.

Curve Balls in Life…

Life is full of surprises. Just when I think I am on a somewhat even keel…something happens to remind me that my “even keel” is, at times, rather precarious. Want an example? I could give many, but I will give one from tonight.

I am still working through my mother’s death and all the weirdness surrounding it and my whole life. Still being partially amnesic adds an interesting element to the mix.  I was not close to my mother, so her death does not hold the sting of losing something I had. Rather, it is about losing the opportunity to ever have it…in this life. I will never be close to her. There will never be reconciliation…in this life. We won’t hug…

I thought I was doing pretty much OK…getting back to some kind of even keel…when I saw a movie scene tonight that triggered a crying jag. Yeah…I am still affected by it. Can’t really help that. It was of a mother and son reconciling. I had seen this movie several times before, but this is the first time since word of her death.

(OK…gonna ramble a bit here.)

And speaking of her death…not only did my father not notify us, he did not notify anyone in her family either. The only obituary I could find did not list any next of kin…not even my father…who is already remarried. I wish I could find a wedding date, but the state they live in holds those kinds of record private. Only one year and 3 months ago she died and he is remarried. Like father like son? Family legacy? I don’t know. What can you say about generational abuse? It keeps on passing down. I am doing my darndest to make sure it stops in my generation. I really don’t know how successful I was at that. Perhaps that is one of the blessings of amnesia.

Anyway…just needed to get some thoughts out here tonight. I am still processing. I will be for a long time. And I am working on forgiveness. I refuse to lock myself in a prison of the heart by holding a grudge. Just not going there. I choose to walk in freedom and my heavenly Abba helps me to do that. I sure could not do it on my own. Nope. No way.

How a Webinar Is Done…

A webinar is an online seminar. Instead of going to a physical place, you sign in to an online site…from the comfort of your own home. That is nice because you don’t have to be concerned about traffic or getting there on time. You also get to have handy whatever you need to help you keep grounded…or to get grounded if something in the webinar triggers you. All those who are signed up will receive an email with the site address and the log in. Via that site, you get to watch the slides used by the presenter.

A second email invites everyone to the webinar conference call. The email includes a phone number with a sign in code. That connects everyone in a single call. Those listening mute their phones while the presenter is speaking to cut down on background noise. There are times given for feedback or questions. Most presenting sites also have call in or microphone capability. Not each site is equal in its quality or features, though. Therefore, Survivorship has chosen to use one site’s call-in software and another site’s presenting software.

So, you receive two emails…one with the call-in information and one with the link for the log-in to see the slides. It is a very interesting experience. Oh…and another thing. There is a side chat window for those who have difficult with speaking on the phone. It is possible to ask the presenter questions there.

As I Lay Me Down to Sleep

As I Lay Me Down to Sleep

As I lay me down to sleep
flashbacks in the mind release.
Pushing forward, images come
as I fight to not come undone.
My body tenses; I cannot breathe,
overwhelmed by what I “see”.
Morphing one image into another,
with silent screams of “no” in my head,
I try to be open to history’s unveiling,
fighting the urge to let the mists return.
But slowly it slips away from me again.
And in the morning I awake
with a new reality like a distant dream.
Is anything ever what it seems?

June 28, 2010

I Feel – Poem

In Triggers and Blow-ups and Talking About Things, I wrote about feeling like I have to hide. The following poem, written in February of 2009, reflects some of that feeling.

I Feel

Trapped. Trapped. Deep inside.
It feels like I have to hide.

The very truest part of me
is tied into a box you see,
always remaining on the shelf,
always covering my core self.

Some are living their lives outside
in a world so vast and wide.
There are others who are caught
in space internal – the land of naught.

A puzzle with pieces you can’t see,
you’ll never meet the whole of me.
With pieces not allowed to show,
I’ve pieces with no place to go.

It feels like I have to hide.
Trapped. Trapped. Deep inside.

copyrighted 2009

My Sister

My sister had a brave heart. She was beautiful and childlike. She was a fighter who would not give up. She was trapped…caught in an unseen web that was too sticky for her to break free from. They had her where they wanted her.

My sister ran away from one cult family right into the arms of another…but she didn’t know. Neither of us did. At that time, we were both amnesic to our true history.

I wonder…did she ever figure it out before she died? Did she finally remember her childhood abuse…the younger years? Did she remember “everything”…or just the minor “stuff” she used as an excuse to run away?

My sister kept trying…in recovery and out of it. I remember her telling me how she had to fight with the recovery people to get her a counselor. She kept saying she needed one, but they did not want to give it to her…not even in those fancy, high class, expensive recovery places.

Was it because it was being paid for by his parents? After all…counseling might mean that she would remember something…something important…something damning…about them. Maybe she would finally wake up to the truth about her boyfriend and his parents…the family she lived with. Or…maybe she wanted a counselor because she already had an inkling of the truth? I will never know in this life.

This is the time of year that I especially think of my sister…as her birthday approaches in a couple of days. And I wonder about her death…and sometimes, I wonder if she even really died…or if they have her holed up somewhere. It didn’t look like her. And my father would not leave me alone with her. If he had…what would I have done? I don’t know. We weren’t supposed to touch the body…but I think I would have. It did NOT look like her. I had seen her within the last year.

My father said it did, but he had not seen her in years…so far as I know. But then…it is not exactly like I came from a truthful family. Ha! “Family”. What is THAT supposed to be? Not the caricature I grew up with.

It’s funny how everything seemed to be so good…on the outside looking in. All the memories I concocted about growing up seemed so OK…yet I was so not OK.  Stories my mother told me were woven through my mind with photos from the family albums. Childhood. Sure…that was my childhood…only…it wasn’t.

I remember the day I suddenly realized that it was all a lie…a fantasy. It has been so long now that I cannot remember if it was before or after I realized that I could not remember growing up with my sister. It is as if she did not exist…yet I know for fact she was there…in the same house with me.

So many things are buried in the mists of amnesia with a tiny flash of a snippet here and there that blazes through so fast that I can barely figure out what just went by. Yet…those flashes ARE there. And I do have the photographs. My sister was there. Some of the photos I took…yet, I can barely see anything beyond the photos themselves. Whatever I see is more like a surreal picture in my mind.

She died on my birthday. At least…I am told she died. I saw what was supposed to be her body…but it sometimes haunts me to this day. I know she was becoming “inconvenient”. I would not put it past them to agree behind closed doors while pretending to hate each other to me. Two families…warring for her body. It was sick. It was insane. It was my sister.

I will never get the chance to get to know her. Her living…except for the few times in the later years when I finally did meet up with her…is buried deep within. What I do remember makes me wonder if I really want to remember the rest. I don’t know. Maybe I should just create a life with her just like I created a life of my own? No…I want to honor her by remembering the truth…if I can.

Bittersweet Memories

This is a time of year when I tend to think more about my family of origin…or foo…as some refer to theirs. Thinking about foo always brings mixed feelings.

I can remember “good” times…like when we waited with great anticipation to see if it would snow by Christmas. I recall the wonderful feelings I had looking out at the falling flakes…all fluffy and white. Or the excitement of looking out the window in the morning and seeing the ground all covered with a thick layer of white.

And then, if I am not careful, the intense emotion starts to hit. For some reason…even remembering good things tends to lead to emotional overload. I don’t know why. Even the best of memories can start me on that roller coaster ride of emotions. Why?

Perhaps it is because my memories seem to be so few…so scattered. Could it be that all the good that is buried comes to the surface in those few glimpses of the past? Or could it be that painful memories are masked by that intense “good” feeling…that “good” memory. Could it be that the intensity of good emotions…an intensity so strong as to be “painful”…is just a coverup for the very real pain lying underneath? Could the intensity be a way of my system telling me not to trust that the good feelings were all there was? A way of telling me that I need to keep looking…that there are hidden painful things I need to be open to seeing? I don’t know.

I think of Christmas and the wonder of it all. There is always one particular Christmas that comes to mind. I remember the house. I remember the location…even the address. I remember looking for the snow. I remember my sister and I getting matching pj’s for Christmas. I remember getting a Mary Poppins book. I can almost smell the tree. I get an emotional “feeling” or sensation that I was feeling then. I can see the lights on the tree in the darkened room. What I cannot see…is my sister.

I know she is there, but like so much of her life…I cannot see her. I cannot remember her. We lived in the same house for 10 years and I can barely remember her a handful of times during our growing up years…at the most. I am thankful to have been able to connect with her at least a little before she died.

I cannot remember my parents on that Christmas, either; but I know/sense they are there…lurking somewhere on the edge of my “vision”…with my sister. I do remember more of my parents than I do of my sister. Then again…I guess that is not saying much, is it?

Memories are funny. You cannot select only the bad ones to “forget” or to bury. The good ones go, too.

I am starting to feel older. I know my parents are very elderly by now. Although there has been some email contact…it has not really gone anywhere. And that, too, is bittersweet. Well…maybe just bitter. There isn’t really any sweetness about it. I have done what I could. I have opened the door and allowed them to see that they can still get hold of me (should they ever decide to confess, etc. ) There are things I wish we could talk about…things I wish I could ask…but I know they are not in that place…at least not yet.

This year, I am thinking of Hanukkah more than I am of Christmas. After all, we know Yeshua was not born even in this time of year, let alone on the 25th. So, for me, it is almost a cultural/social holiday…even though I think a lot of Yeshua’s coming…then and in the future. But this is the first year that I am thinking more of Hanukkah.

My foo never celebrated Hanukkah. In fact, I have a feeling that my father would probably be very disapproving. Oh, well. There was a miracle of lights…so legend has it. I think of how the Light of the World came to dwell amongst us. I think of the miracle of the lights represented by Hanukkah. It is not hard to link them together.

I also think of how light has come to me in my healing walk. So much darkness in my past…darkness that has…over time…been slowly replaced with light. I don’t doubt that there is more darkness in there to be revealed…I am OK with that. I know that the Lord of light…the very Light of the World…is here with me to walk me through whatever more is there to be revealed. I know I can count on Him to never leave me or forsake me…to never abandon me.

Do my parents think of me during this time? Do they even care? Does it even matter? They cannot change my healing. I cannot change them. Yet…I hope that during this Hanukkah time…they will allow the only One who can bring true deep and lasting healing to truly be a part of their lives. I hope they accept His love for them and that they, too, will be healed.

People are not born abusers. They are born with a propensity to selfishness, yes. They are born fallen creatures in a fallen world wanting their own way. But cruel abusers? No…they are made into that…not born that. Whatever my parents (and other abusers) went through…I hope they find healing. I hope they can bring all that darkness inside to the true Light of the world…Yeshua. I hope that they, too, can find healing Shalom…real peace…even in the midst of their pain.

Inner Movement and Appearances

I was sitting here trying to work on something else and my mind just kept swirling around. It was difficult to focus. So, I decided to come write here instead.

What is going on? I suspect it is mostly the recognition that there is still deep work to do. It is as if there is movement inside…just under the surface…a movement that reminds me there are still voices to listen to. There are stories to be told…missing chapters to uncover in the book of my life. I was reminded of that in a phone conversation I had yesterday with a well known (and I am sure very busy)  therapist who gave very graciously of his time. I am very grateful for the opportunity I had to talk with him and ask him questions.

My life is full…and sometimes it feels overfull…to my way of thinking. To others, it may seem to be fairly quiet and sedate, but not to me. It does not take much for me to feel a bit overwhelmed…for me to feel the weight of trying to do things…and to appear “normal” through it all. I experience the pressure of needing to either participate in things…or have a good reason to give why I am not or why I can’t. When I say a “good” reason…I mean one that others can understand and accept without me feeling vulnerable.

As I write that, I realize how that sounds. Truth is…I owe no one any kind of explanation. Yet…there are some people that I believe I do. When I take on a project (some of which are not really optional for reasons I cannot go into here), there are certain expectations. If I am unable to meet them, then someone else has to pull my weight. That creates an inner conflict. I neither want to be seen as a shirker…nor as weak. Why do I care? Integrity. A good name is valuable…so, yes, I do care about anything that I perceive could possibly effect my good name.

I also care about not looking like I am crazy or something. I guess the only real assurance of that is the fact that people see me all the time functioning fairly well. So, if I sometimes have difficulty and explain that I have PTSD, I guess I probably come across as “normal”…which I am for someone who has been through what I have been through. Still…I don’t like to stand out…especially in negative ways.

 

Being Thankful?

Years ago, I remember struggling so much with life that it was difficult to find things about it to enjoy…things to be thankful for. There were times when I had to really work at it. It seemed like life was hitting me constantly and I could barely even catch my breath…let alone truly enjoy life.

It is much easier now to find things to be thankful for…to see the blessings in my life. Still…there can be those moments when I am triggered and all I can think about is getting through the next moment. I am thankful that those days are few and far between compared to what they used to be like.

My living situation is going to change…for the better. Hopefully, it will happen before winter…but it may not. I am very thankful for the upcoming change. However…with that change I know there are going to come challenges.  I have been holding things under the surface of the pool of amnesia. I have not really had any choice in the matter due to my current living situation. But what will happen when it all changes?

Although the new situation will free me up in many ways…I am also aware that it will free up other things…things that have been hidden for a very long time and buried deep within. While I am sure that some of the “calm” that I have been experiencing is the result of hard work and healing…I cannot help but wonder how much of it is simply that I have had to stay in shut down mode. How much will start surfacing…screaming for attention…when my situation no longer forces me to keep it all inside?

Sometimes I get vague flashes of things…kind of like what another blogger wrote in his post: Opening Yourself Can Tire Most Kids.  Michael wrote, “You reach inside, focusing on a part that has rarely seen the light of day, or a memory that gets recalled only when you see a phrase or two on another’s blog and so you must go within to retrieve that just-now-remembered something from your inner Self.”

I relate to that. Thing is…it is very difficult for me to get even the flashes. It is harder still to get to whatever is behind them. Will that change when my living situation changes? It very well might. In fact, I am hoping it will.

So…what does have to do with being thankful? Well…I guess I am pondering if I will still be thankful when the good changes also allow a lot of pain to come to the surface…when the relative calm inside that I have been experiencing more and more gets disrupted by the storms of healing.  Will I still be thankful?

I think I will. I want to move forward…no matter how hard it is. One foot in front of the other. I want to understand more about who I am and what I have been through. I want to know whatever it is that I need to know in order to move forward.

I have relied upon my Creator for my healing. I have trusted Him to show me the truth…in the right time and in the best way. He has never failed me. My heavenly Abba has been holding my heart all along. For that…I am very thankful.

My husband…what can I say about him? He has been so patient…even when I know he has been extremely frustrated with me. The change will effect us, too…how we are able to relate to one another. Huge changes are on the way. While I look forward to them…I am also terrified of them…if I get really honest with myself. I have hope…and I have trepidation. The potential taps into some very deep things.

Yet…I am determined to be thankful. I have learned that being thankful is not something I feel…it is something I choose to do. I decide. I have choice. And this choice no one can take away from me. My abusers took a lot of my choices away…but they can never take this one.

Here I Sit

I woke up this morning dreaming of my father. He was objecting to my name change and saying something about my not having the right to change it. The details are fuzzy. I can’t remember what I was dreaming before that…but I think it, too, was either about him or about both of my parents. But I’m really not sure.

I would be willing to bet that this is being stirred up somewhat by that movie I watched recently.  I shared some of how the movie impacted me in the previous post Searching For Angela Shelton. It really got me thinking about my own father and I think that contributed to the dreams.

One of the things that struck me in the movie was how well her father lied. They always seem to be able to lie so smoothly. I remember that Angela asked her father if he had blocked it out. Of course, if he had…how would he know? But I really get the question, though.

When I met with my parents and my lay counselor to talk about the incest part of my abuse, I remember my mother ageeing that something had definitely happened…if only they knew who it was. My father said that he did not remember doing any of those things.  Man…even now it is SO hard to write about this. It is as if my mind wants to run anywhere but there. And I want to cry…or shut down…or something.

He did not remember doing any of those things. I remember the words hit me at the time. I did not say anything about it…but I asked the counselor afterward. She wondered if I had caught that. We talked about how a falsely accused father would react…or at least how we think he would. There would be shock…of course. I did not see any then…nor do I remember hearing any in his voice after he got my initial letter…the one that led to the meeting.

There would be concern. Why was I thinking these things? What I got was accusations against my counselor. She must have suggested the abuse. She pointed out to him that I had memories BEFORE I came to her. I went to her because of the memories I had. I did not take any psychotropic drugs and I was not hypnotized. In short order, the memories were pretty much spontaneous during a prayer session I had with a pastor. That prayer session had nothing to do with memories.

In the weeks that ensued, my father collected everything he could find on the so called False Memory Syndrome. Since I did not regain my memories through any non-spontaneous ways, his next assumption was that they had come from the pit of hell. Satan, himself, had obviously planted them in an effort to tear our famly apart. What a laugh…seeing as how my family was not close anyway. My sister was in hiding…literally, although they knew where she was. Sadly, she ran away to another cult family…but that is another story.

I did bring up a current (then) way that he was violating my boundaries. He actually admitted to it and my mother was floored. He admitted that he knew I was uncomfortable, so she asked him why he did not stop. He said that I was old enough to say something. She pointed out that my actions were saying something. She actually got angry that he had ignored my actions, refusing to stop unless I verbally said something. Her anger diffused rather quickly, though. For at least a few moments I had her actually defending me…sort of.

Verbally asking him to stop…what a joke! I was programmed to silence. Never speak. Never open up. Never share. Never reveal to anyone else but do reveal all to the parents.  I was programmed to tell them everything they wanted to know, while never revealing anything to anyone else. He knew I could never say “no” to him…on anything. He took advantage of me…even as an adult.

When Angela whispered “you lie” to her father while sitting next to him…I remember thinking how brave she was to say that to him. I also remember his words.  They were something along the lines of “Now I’m only going to say this once more…and then I am not going to say it again…I didn’t do it.” It was as if the finality of his “not going to say it again” was supposed to somehow make it official that he was innocent of these crimes. Bah!

I also love the way he repeatedly says things like “may heaven strike me…or take me now” or things along those lines. Yeah, right…like that is ever likely to happen. I mean…come on…how safe of a statement. You would have an awful lot of people getting struck if it worked that way. Nothing like a safe swearing of innocence.

I have wondered many times if my father truly does not remember. Even if he doesn’t…even if he has blocked it out somehow…there is enough other stuff about him that scares me…which makes me wonder…why on earth have I initiated email contact with my parents? Well…I have my reasons for that and it is the subject for some other post at some other time.

Way to go, Angela. Our stories are different…yet, they are not. Incest is a part of ritual abuse. Sadly, there is a whole lot of other stuff beyond the incest. But bravery…well, it comes in all shapes and sizes. I will celebrate wherever I can find it. I know the source of my bravery is Yahweh…plain and simple. I could not do life without having that heart connection with my Creator…just could not do it.

Bravery. I think you, Angela Shelton, are very brave…along with all the other Angela Sheltons you met. So many brave women. What a celebration of bravery that movie is.  How comforting it is to see other women pushing through…and finding victory and peace…and truth!

Searching for Angela Shelton

I watched this amazing movie last night. It is something I have been wanting to do, but have only now been able to. My DIL sent me the link to watch it online. You can either watch it there: Snag Films Searching for Angela Shelton, or you can watch it here (if the player is working).

Vodpod videos no longer available.

What can I say about this film? It intrigued me from the moment I heard of it, especially the part about how the majority of Angela Shelton’s in this country have been raped, molested or beaten. It makes me curious about all the women with my name. I wonder what I would find if I were able to do something similar.

Although it was sad to hear what some of these women have been through, it was awesome to see and hear how many of them rose above it all. What strength. What character. These women are survivors and I am honored to have gotten to see a bit of who they are.

I think that the one scene that was probably the most powerful for me was about an hour into the movie…when Angela confronts her father face to face…on Father’s Day. Sitting there and hearing his denials reminded me of my own father. Even the little bits of admissions she did get from him were more than I got from my father.

I, too, had written my father, but I was not strong enough to give him much…in writing or face to face. I don’t really know how much detail she confronted him with, but even just the bit I see in the movie is more than I was able to tell my father.

I so relate to her feelings afterward. She shared how, listening to his denials, made her want to think that it was all not true. Oh, gosh…been there, done that. For me, I think it was even harder because I had dissociated away all the memories. What was coming to the surface was buried so deeply that it made it even harder to believe when it did come back up to the surface. That made me want to question it all the more. But I knew. I knew it was true. The underlying feeling had been there since as far back as high school. The symptoms went back even farther. Oh, I knew. But telling him was a different thing.

Another factor for me was the fact that I was cult abused. There were things done to purposely bury it all. My mind was fractured incidentally and intentionally. I am still partially amnesic. I still feel the effects of the abuse…although I am so much stronger than I used to be. I am free, so far as I can tell, from my father’s control. Yet, it is difficult to imagine myself ever doing with my father what she did with hers. So…am I really free?

After she confronts him, she has an emotionally violent reaction. I so get that. I find myself fighting my own tears as she is weeping. She expresses such anger…and heart break. And everything inside me is resonating with her. She even seems to express disbelief (?) at the fact that she sat there with him. I know that, when I saw the picture of them standing together with his arm around her shoulder, I wanted to shake inside. That was so symbolic to me…and it was not a good symbolism…at least not for me.

It is a powerful movie…very cathartic…very worth watching. It is a hard watch…maybe even harder if you are a survivor. Yet, in midst of the difficulties of watching it…I saw such stories of hope and strength. I saw how Angela really seemed to make a difference in the lives of the other Angela Sheltons.

I know that I am not done with this movie. I think I will be watching again. There is so much in her reactions to the visit with her father…so much that I connect with. No…I am not done with this movie…not yet.

Feeling Down

I find  myself fighting depression more lately. Some of it is due to the shock of our family being uninvited to something based upon something someone else said to this person. There may have been some truth…and even some valid concerns…yet we were never told what was said or given any option to explain or clarify or even to verify. It makes me very sad.

I have also been in some sporadic email communication with my  parents. I just don’t know how to take them. It is always such a mixed bag when it comes to my parents. They are really the only directly related family I have. I never really knew my aunts, uncles and cousins that well because we always lived far away from them. I have met them and visited a few times growing up, but never got close to them. They are like strangers to me. One grandma died before I was born. Another grandfather died when I was in the second (?) grade. I never got to know him because he lived so far away.

My other grandparent I saw one time when my family was moving. We stopped along the way. That is when I met the other aunts, uncles and cousins. I never got close to them much either. I did get a little bit close to my grandmother long distance. But then she had a stroke and could not talk or write. It was very frustrating for both of us and I just let it drop. I probably should not have…but I did. I was just a kid. I don’t think I was even in high school yet when she died.

My grandfather and her divorced. He eventually remarried. I did meet him…and his wife. I don’t really know how I feel about him. My mother considered her to be a homewrecker and never accepted her. I wonder if that is one reason my sister accepted them. She had run away, but apparently she was willing to meet with them where she worked in the mall. At that point she was old enough to make the choice…no longer a minor. Everything runs together in my heart and mind when I thin of my family of origin…FOO as so many dub them.

I was checking out a Survivors of Incest Site…SIA. They actually have online meetings…and telephone meetings. I was actually kind of hoping for a local face to face meeting. I think that going to a meeting that focuses on that might be the next step for me…whether online, by phone or in person. I don’t know. I just know that, as I was looking at the site, my heart was starting to pound. Yeah…tell me there is nothing there. Tell me that nothing happened.

So, I sit here with my thoughts feeling kind of disjointed. It is good to be able to write something out, although I am not sure how much sense it is making. But then, it does not have to make a whole lot of sense. After all, this is my blog. *smile*