by Band Back Together | Sep 14, 2010 | Coping With Depression, Healing From A Rape or Sexual Asault, Major Depressive Disorder, Rape/Sexual Assault |
Last year, my youngest daughter got a strange rash the day before my birthday. I took her to the ER that day because her doctor was “too busy to deal with a rash.” She was diagnosed with shingles *ewww* and I called my mom and arranged for her to take my two oldest so that they didn’t get sick. Also I wanted to catch up on my Netflix and I knew the baby would be sleeping. (Woot!)
My birthday came and went, and my husband and I decided not to celebrate.
Five days later my husband decided he was going to go out with some of his buddies. I admit to being a little upset about it, since I hadn’t been out in months. I picked up a good bottle of wine, put the baby to sleep, and got a little tipsy, before passing out in bed. I woke up sometime later to hear banging on the door. My husband habitually lost his keys while drinking so I stumbled down the stairs and pulled the door open to let him in so I could go back to sleep.
It wasn’t my husband.
I was sprayed in the face with what I believe was Lysol and got a good bash to my head. Luckily,I don’t remember much of the whole incident. When my husband came home he found the door open and I was lying on the floor in the living room with my clothes ripped off and a vacuum cord wrapped around my neck, thankfully unconscious.
Our then three year old was sleeping in an upstairs room, blessedly undisturbed. My mom came over and an ambulance took me to the hospital. I don’t remember much of this either because they had to sedate me since I wouldn’t stop screaming. After a lot of persuasion, I agreed to letting the police do a rape kit. At that point, I didn’t understand what was happening but I was scared and HURT. I felt violated and I didn’t want anyone to touch me.
They sent me home with ice packs, Valium, and a drug called Combivir, just in case my attacker had HIV. On top of the physical and mental stresses my body was already going through, the Comibivir would give me the same symptoms as someone undergoing chemo. I would be sick, and lose my hair, among many other side effects. My mom and sister decided that they would take the kids for the two months that I would have to take the medicine.
My husband and I banded together for the first time ever. He found us a new apartment because I didn’t feel safe in ours. His parents came up to help us move.
I spiraled into a depression. I soaked in it. Two months turned into my mom taking the kids for almost a year. We moved again because I couldn’t stand being in our city anymore. I still had problems getting out of bed. My husband didn’t want me to take anti-depressants because he wanted me to get better on my own and he saw the meds as a crutch. We fought. He cheated. I became more depressed. It hurt to talk to my kids, to let them see me because I’d lost a lot of weight and I looked like shit – to put it bluntly.
I contemplated suicide, and I finally found rainn.org, and their virtual counselors. I talked to someone every day, sometimes several times a day. I stopped taking two Valium an hour and started eating without the fight from my husband.
I still dream about it most nights. I still get horrible feelings whenever I smell Lysol. I still don’t feel sexy, but since then it’s almost like I crave sex. I want it more than ever. I’m sure if my husband knew that my new found randiness was due to the fact that I wanted to erase everything else, he would stop having sex with me.
I know that rape happens to millions of women but I still feel alone; I still feel like damaged goods.
by Band Back Together | Sep 14, 2010 | Baby Loss, Child Loss, Coping With Baby Loss, Coping With Losing A Child, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, Loss, Multiples Pregnancy |
You are going to have identical twin boys!
We thought we were in a dream, all the joys and fears at the same time. We got two cribs, two sets of every outfit (but in different colors), two swings, two of everything…except two identical boys.
We lost Jonathan James when he was 7 months (in utero). I was given the choice, but I never held him. I had to carry his identical brother Lewis Jordan, for an additional 7 weeks. He just was not ready to leave his brother until then. We knew about the extreme risks of twin-to-twin transfusion, how our surviving son would likely have severe brain damage as blood shunting causes terrible problems for a developing baby. We prepared ourselves for the very real possibility that our surviving son might not recognizing us, speak or walk.
We were destroyed.
I spent the next 7 weeks in a rocking chair in the nursery with TWO of everything; rubbing baby lotion on my hands and inhaling, trying to stop the sobs and the unearthly sounding wails that came from deep within my heart.
But I had another to worry about. Lewis. During all this turmoil, the grief over Jonathan could not be allowed to hobble me too badly, I could not let it, I had to be ready to care for the child that was alive and waiting to meet his parents.
Thank Christ the doctors were wrong about Lewis’ challenges. He was born by C-section on a cold January day, crying out when they removed him from his space. I know he cried out because they were taking him from his beloved brother, Jonathan. They thought it was because he was cold and the lights were bright. Fools.
His kidneys began to shut down 3 minutes after he was born. As they whisked him away from me, I demanded my husband leave my side and go with our son, to protect him, and promise to bring him back to me, healthy and safe.
The OB asked me if I wanted to see Jonathan, warning me that the body’s natural reaction is reabsorbtion, I asked only one question, “are you sure they were identical?” The doctor replied, “one sac, one placenta.” I replied with a heavy heart while still wide open on the operating table, “no, I already know what he looks like, just like his brother.”
Two hours later, my husband brought back our son, placed him in my arms and kissed my forehead. The doctors had stabilized him, no further medical issues had arisen and today he is a healthy, happy, wickedly intelligent nine-year old boy.
I will forever be happy that our son is healthy.
I also will be forever crushed that he does not have his twin brother.
I wish I could make the ache go away.
I wish that I was not jealous of other twins.
I will always wish that I had been strong enough to bring both of my sons into this world (though I followed every order from the medical establishment, I will always blame myself).
I wish I had my Jonathan.
by Band Back Together | Sep 14, 2010 | Coping With Divorce, Divorce, Sexuality |
I was recently asked by someone who has recently separated/divorced, if, in my humble opinion, she can be considered to be “re-virginised” after only having sex about four times in seven years. Now take note ladies, because some of us have been here or are sitting here miserable and depressed, thinking the worst…
HELL, YES SWEETIE! ….and that’s a really good thing. Read on.
You see, I’ve been secretly joking for years that by the time a woman has gone without sex for a few years or more, she shouldn’t be considered frigid or past it. Au contraire! It’s probably healed over ‘down there’ and she should be considered a ‘Born Again Virgin’!
And, boy are these BAV women dangerous.
Firstly, there’s all that pent-up sexual energy just waiting to be released. Then there’s the fact that these women have probably been in a miserable relationship (cos they’ve not been getting any for starters, as well as dealing with loads of other shit) and are just bursting at the seams to have someone show them some loving, physical attention. Add to this the women who find themselves in this situation and single again, are generally in the age bracket where they’re considered to be in their sexual prime and BINGO they’re suddenly, footloose, fancy-free and hot stuff!
Here’s the icing on the cake – you’ve reached this wonderful status of the BAV in an era where it’s far more socially acceptable to go find yourself a younger man! So stuff the old bugger that you were with and go for a younger version. I was amazed and stunned when I became single again and got continually propositioned by outrageously young men. First I thought that it was all a joke, but seriously the number of young men wanting to hook up with older women is unbelievable.
Actually, a discussion with someone whom I had reprimanded sternly after they’d shocked me with a hot (and unprintable) proposition, made it all very clear. I asked what the hell it was with these young guys who pursued older women. Where they perverts or something? “Well” came the reply, “If you can get yourself a cougar, then you’re the man cos it’s like a badge of honour, a real education…..you know what I mean?”
I told him to bog-off cos I knew his mother. Which of course I didn’t, but he was so young that I might have. Now, I’m not suggesting that you go off and become Mrs Robinson or give out ‘cougar badges’ or anything, but hell woman, you could go for something just a snip younger than your last model and do your self-esteem the power of good.
Take it from me, there is nothing quite so good than to be told by some handsome hunk of a younger man that they find you sexy and beautiful. So, rejoice in your Born Again Virgin status and think of it a the re-birth of not only the rest of your life but your sex-life too. Get out there and shine like a star, cos the sky’s the limit and you’re rocket fuel baby!
by Band Back Together | Sep 13, 2010 | Abuse, Child Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Emotional Boundaries, How To Help With Low Self-Esteem, Parentification, Passive/Aggressive Behavior, Psychological Manipulation, Psychological Manipulation, Self Loathing, Self-Esteem |
Preface: This got extremely long and emotional, but I’m not making it friends only because I’m sick to death of hiding and being embarrassed by this part of my past. There are some things in here that are very sensitive and some that are probably a little too blunt. Some parts of it will doubtlessly make me sound very self centered, but I really think all of it needs to be said.
I somehow ended up spending over 2 hours last night talking to a friend about my mother and my childhood. I so rarely have these conversations anymore, but when I do they come completely out of nowhere. She was so good though, just let me talk it out, agreed with me when I needed her to, but didn’t try to comfort me either. I’m at a place about all this, I think, wherein I don’t need to be comforted nearly as much as I need to be heard. And since she won’t listen in real life, here’s another of my open letters:
Mom,
It’s not right. Our roles have always been so ass-backwards, I’m sick of feeling like your mother instead of the other way around. I don’t think any of my friends, as many times as they’ve heard me say it, believed me when I told them your emotional growth was stunted at about age 13. They believe me after the last couple of weeks. You didn’t get what you wanted, sometimes that happens when you treat people like shit for no reason. I wanted you to come out here, I wanted SO badly for you to come out here, but not at the risk of your health or sanity.
I found a way to save $1300 and not have you and C (my brother) have to sit in a hot, miserable U-Haul truck for 4 days while still getting my stuff out here. A way that I talked to you about, and you agreed with at least twice, before I made the arrangements. How, exactly, is that “unilaterally changing the plan without discussing it with anyone”?
And as far as not making this move on my own, no I absolutely did not. Paul drove with me, your sister (even after all the bad blood between the two of you) let me live with her for almost 6 months until the house opened up. Yes I had help, but I haven’t asked you for a damn thing since I moved out here, and you have done nothing but go around quietly undoing everything that I have tried to do to get my stuff out here. You’ve taken things that weren’t yours, you’ve unpacked and gone through the boxes that I left there.
Every suggestion that I’ve made, everything that I’ve tried has been unacceptable, but you’ve yet to come up with a workable solution. You’re holding my stuff hostage, but I will not be manipulated. I meant every word when I told you that for all I cared anymore you could just call Goodwill to come pick it up. It’s not worth it to me. It’s not worth the aggravation, not worth fighting with you over stuff I’ve lived without for a year. I’ve had so many people tell me recently that I’m one of the most independent, self-sufficient people they know.
I suppose I should thank you for making me fend for myself (and for you, and my siblings) for so many years. It kills me, though, that you seem to be the only one who doesn’t see that I really am trying (and succeeding a vast majority of the time) to stand up on my own two feet.
I told B (my college roommate) last night that it just makes me sad that the one person that I’m trying so hard to be enough for is the one person who I will never manage to please. She said that you were the one person who I shouldn’t have to do anything to be enough for, and she’s right.
I’m sick of trying to earn your love. Of working myself half to death and never making you happy. Love is supposed to be unconditional, especially maternal love. I am not a bad person, I was NOT a bad child, I did and said some stupid things sometimes, sure, but so have you.
I’ve been told this by so many people that I’ve actually started to believe it and now I’m going to tell you:
I deserved better from you.
I deserved to be put first sometimes. I deserved to be protected from the man you chose to marry. I deserved to be allowed to be a child without having to carry the weight and the fear of your unhappiness. I should not have had to be a co-parent to my younger siblings. I should not have had to protect you from him. I should not have had to hear you make excuses for him or tell that police officer what a hoodlum I was ( I had just been named student of the month a couple of days beforehand!). Do you know how hard it was to sit in that kitchen with the cop who was taking my statement and taking pictures of the bruises and hear you in the other room actually taking his side?
It’s not fair to expect me to have all the responsibility and none of the decision making power. It’s not right to, in one breath, tell me to act like an adult and in the very next say “I’m putting my foot down and this is what you are going to do.”
You don’t get to say that anymore. You just don’t. I’m 23 years old, I haven’t lived in your house for nearly a year, I pay all my own bills, and deal with the consequences of my own decisions. You don’t have to like those decisions, but if you would like to remain a part of my life you do have to accept them.
I had no option but to be treated this way as a child, but as a woman if I continue to allow you to do so – now it will be as much my fault as it is yours. I am making the conscious decision to no longer be a victim. I want to have a relationship with you, but I will not be manipulated and guilt-tripped and screamed at for no reason. I don’t need it, I don’t deserve it, and I will not tolerate it. I will speak to you when you can do so like a civilized adult, but I refuse to expose myself to you when you cannot do so.
I hope someday you’ll understand that this is not about not loving you, it’s about finally beginning to love me. It’s about realizing that I’m worth standing up for and understanding that I’m the only person I can count on to do so.
I truly hope that we can find a way to move past these wounds and have our relationship change without ending, but I’m afraid they may take a very long time to heal. I think I am going to seek counseling and I don’t think it would hurt you to get some, either.
Love,
Kacey
by Band Back Together | Sep 13, 2010 | Baby Loss, Coping With Baby Loss, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, Livng Through A Miscarriage, Loss, Miscarriage, Neural Tube Defects, Pregnancy |
Our timing was so perfect. We tried casually to conceive for a couple months, then got pregnant the first month I charted my temperatures. Our baby would be born in May, a month I thought was perfect to have a baby. I’d be off all summer on maternity leave, and I’d still be thirty–a milestone that felt like a relief after our decision to start a family seemed to come not a moment too soon. I had almost made it to the end of the first trimester when I started spotting. We went in for an ultrasound and the baby measured 9 weeks, when I knew for sure I should have been closer to 10 weeks… but there was a heartbeat! We had some sweet relief for a week, in which I felt comfortable telling a few more people at work–because the chance of losing your baby after you’ve seen or heard the heartbeat goes down dramatically. But then my hormone levels seemed to be falling after another blood draw. Dr. Google told us that it was normal for HCG levels to fall later in the first trimester, so we tried not to go wild with worry over a weekend spent waiting for Monday’s ultrasound.
Our baby had grown and developed more in the week since we had last seen it, and there was still a heartbeat. The ultrasound tech spent a long time looking at the baby, doing things we didn’t really understand like examining the blood flow. She gave us a couple pictures and said “good luck with everything.” We went back into the waiting room for the midwife on call to let us know the results. They handed me the phone across the front desk and she started by telling me that yes, there was a heartbeat and that was a good sign, but… BUT. The nuchal fold looked thickened, which was a sign of a chromosomal abnormality. We would need further tests and they would help me get the screening scheduled. She was going to come in to talk to us more. I looked across the room at Jed in utter terror. He rushed over to me and I couldn’t believe I was getting this news over the phone in the middle of the waiting room. I started crying instantly and they ushered us into an empty exam room.
We held each other, crying and afraid, until the midwife came in to expand on the bad news. What the tech saw in the ultrasound didn’t look good–the thick nuchal fold and an omphalocele, I would probably miscarry. In the meantime we would go to a big nearby hospital for a better ultrasound. Either way, we would probably “have some decisions to make.”
That was a Monday. The next ultrasound was on Friday. Neither of us went to work that week. We stayed in, crying, devastated. I needed help getting out of bed every morning because the sadness was paralyzing. We distracted ourselves by painting the kitchen and baking zucchini bread. Our 4th anniversary was on Thursday. I was 11 weeks pregnant with a dying baby.
Friday arrived and we trekked through the hospital to Maternal and Fetal Medicine and one of the top ultrasound doctors in the country. The room had a second ultrasound screen on the wall facing the exam chair, so the mamas can have good views of their babies. I couldn’t decide how much I wanted to look. My husband wanted to punch the resident who hovered around, looking at the screen with barely veiled repulsion. I didn’t notice; I was busy trying to survive. After a really long exam, we sat in a meeting room with the doctor and a couple nurses, where the doctor explained that our baby had edema–cystic hygroma–all over its body, to a level that indicated a chromosomal abnormality so severe the baby wouldn’t survive. There was no way to predict how long I would stay pregnant. I could miscarry that day, or I could go to term and deliver a baby with a certain death sentence.
Termination for medical reasons was suddenly an option they would help me look into.
We went home in shock. It was impossible to comprehend the gravity of this most horrible thing that had ever happened to us. We made the heartbreaking choice to terminate our much-wanted pregnancy and scheduled the appointment. There were only a couple places in our area where I could get an elective termination, despite it being for a pregnancy with no chance of a positive outcome. My midwife wanted to help me but there was nothing they could do in their office.
While we waited for that awful date to arrive we both went back to work. I was like a ghost. People were sad for me and each hug made me cry. I also kept catching myself in “preparing for parenthood” mode—bookmarking an article about librarianship and parenthood, making note of the book about treating common childhood illnesses at home, realizing my new shirt would also make a good maternity shirt. Telling a coworker about how we thought we might dress up our 5-month-old as an acorn for Halloween next year. Falling silent and trying not to start sobbing. I realized my life wasn’t in that place anymore, but my heart hadn’t caught up. I hadn’t yet fallen out of the habit of preparing for baby.
Late that week I felt like my symptoms were diminishing–my nausea was suddenly totally gone. I made a last-minute appointment with the midwife to check for a heartbeat. If there wasn’t a heartbeat, I wouldn’t have to go for the termination and I could stay in the care of my midwife for whatever happened next. The ultrasound tech–who I now reflexively hated–told me I didn’t have to look at the screen while she checked for, and found, the heartbeat. It felt so cruelly wrong that I had almost been hoping for the opposite. I wanted the suffering to be over, for us and my poor sick baby. The midwife understood my emotional state and emphasized that when abnormalities this severe are found this early, there is no chance of survival.
That weekend we went to have dinner at my parents’ house. We’re close with our families, and in a terrible piece of timing, my parents had been in France this whole time and dealing with our news on their vacation. This also meant seeing my sister-in-law who was also pregnant, with the same due date as mine. You read that right. She’s not the most empathetic person, and this was the first day of the next seven months she spent avoiding us.
The next day we arrived at the family planning clinic at a different big hospital in the area, first thing in the morning. The only other people in the waiting room were a small cluster of people centered on a very sad woman. They were obviously there for the same reasons we were–the pain bubbles around all of us were huge. We got in to see the doctor and asked if we had any options as far as anesthesia, because we had been told that today we’d decide with the doctor whether I’d be put to sleep. This seemed like news to the doctor, who kept talking about how it was less expensive to do it the way they usually did–local anesthesia only, awake the whole time. That was pretty much the last of our concerns, not to mention the fact that amazingly my insurance was going to cover it either way and we ended up paying $47. But we just numbly moved forward. It was happening. She flipped on the ultrasound and we saw our baby for the last time, laying peacefully in my womb, no heartbeat. I suppose we could have walked out right then, but it was over for our baby, and we wanted it all to be over so we could move on with our grief. Three hours later, the baby was no longer a part of me and we were on our way home, empty. The D&C was painful and traumatic. It couldn’t have taken long, but it felt like forever. The physical pain was a distraction, but so inconsequential to this pain I was positive was going to be lifelong.
Our terrible limbo was over, but this was only the beginning of our suffering. I write this now almost a year out from the nightmare, with a baby girl who appears to be healthy kicking in my belly, but the intervening months–and subsequent bonus chemical pregnancy just to show how very cruel life can be–have changed me forever. I will never have the innocence of getting pregnant and assuming I’m going to have a baby. I can still place myself right back in the pain and terror of the slog of grief.
