by Band Back Together | Apr 15, 2016 | Anger, Date/Acquaintance Rape |
In the United States, every 107 seconds, someone is sexually assaulted. Four of every five sexual assaults are committed by someone known to the victim. 68% of all sexual assaults go unreported to the proper authorities.
Why? Why do so many sexual assaults go unreported?
Shame. Self blame. Embarrassment. Fear that no one would believe their story. Fear that they may have caused it. Not wanting to be the victim. Wanting to move past the sexual assault. There are a multitude of reasons why sexual assaults go unreported.
Just as there are a number of types of rape (gang rape, date/acquaintance rape, intimate partner rape, statutory rape, sexual assault), there are a multitude of responses to sexual assault. Each of which is completely normal.
This April, The Band Back Together Project is shining a light into the darkness of sexual assault. Please share your story of sexual assault so that we can Light the Darkness.
All are welcome.
I was raped about three and a half years ago. There are still times I think about it, but it doesn’t generally run my life.
Today was a hard day for me, though. I wrote my rapist a letter (obviously not one that he’ll ever see) and realized some things about myself in it, and in doing so, I became very emotionally overwhelmed.
My current boyfriend, who knows about what happened to me, got mad at me for being so upset tonight, even after I told him why I was. I don’t remember his exact words, but he said something along the lines of, “It’s been three years already!” implying that I should already be over it.
Should I be?
Am I just pointlessly obsessing over something that is obviously never going to change?
If so, how do I make it stop?
I don’t like it either, and I’m not choosing to have the memories I have.
by Band Back Together | Apr 13, 2016 | Dissociative Identity Disorder, Inpatient Psychiatric Care, Teens: Mental Illness |
Looking back on my/our times inpatient, I see an array of different experiences. Whilst at first I felt locked up, caged and incapacitated, later on I felt safer and more in agency of myself. My first inpatient experience was in 2010. This is what I wrote about it:
“I was in psychiatric hospital from April to June 2010. The rooms were cold, with white walls and loud air conditioning. I always fell asleep watching the wall, the shadows portrayed on it by the blinds.
(…)
The worst of all was when the visits went from once a week to none. When my phone was taken away from me. When I wasn’t allowed to see my parents.
(…)
Being caged in a room with no lock, no security, no privacy, without any contact into the world — and no hugs, that was what hospital was like.
I can’t believe I went there by choice.”
The hospital rooms I’ve been in still aren’t all that comfortable. The one I’m in right now is a mix-match of blues and purples (with a blue ceiling, of all things!) and the clock on the front wall is loud and crooked.
Here, we fall asleep with not just our teddy bear but also with our unicorn, bundled up in surprisingly comfortable hospital sheets. Here there is much less need for the sort of musical escapism I did as a teenage patient. Here I am a subject, an agent in my own treatment, and my folks no longer dictate my medical ways. On the contrary, I/we decide how and when and why I am treated.
I was visited by a friend last night, and would most likely be visited by my family and other friends if I were/am to stay longer. My friend gave me the biggest of hugs and played with my hair and kissed my forehead while we lay on my hospital bed talking at ease.
This time round, I have my phone, my laptop, my tablet – all connection to the outer world is intact. We are not trapped or suffocated, though staying within these four walls does get a tad bit boring in the end when I’ve finished all imaginable tasks on my computer.
And I do not regret coming here by choice, or having come here the last few times this past February and the year before. In between we have been treated in an open Daytime Ward, a six-hours-per-day sort of thing, like a part-time job except your job is, well, your own health and well-being.
Unfortunately, it is still a struggle for the staff to understand our condition and our way of being. The phrase ”So I hear you have these personalities?” is still a frequent visitor, and if I don’t remind them they’ll forget I’m not L (unfortunately, L is still up in her Limbo Room).
I’m seeing the doc today. Going to determine whether I leave or stay. Wish me luck!
By-theclocksystem
by Band Back Together | Apr 12, 2016 | Abuse, Anger, Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Divorce, Parenting, Special Needs Parenting |
Today I contemplate everything I thought I knew.
- I have three amazing kids
- My husband is my best friend
- He will always have my back
- When I’m struggling he will be the rock I can depend on
It’s funny how circumstances in life change and put things in perspective. It was just 7 short years ago that I went through a truly nasty divorce from a truly abusive person. Something that seemed impossible to overcome. But I did and I came out stronger then ever. Through that I had my rock, my best friend and now my husband. But, I guess happiness is all relative to the situations at hand.
I have three children. Two from my first marriage and one from my second. They are all great kids. Each has their strengths and, like every other human, they have their weaknesses. My daughter she is incredibly smart and athletic but she is extremely over dramatic and some what self centered. My youngest son is the sweetest thing you will every meet and hilariously funny but we have had struggles with some medical problems with him. Recently we found out he isn’t being defiant about using the potty but is instead struggling with an issues that doesn’t allow him to have control over it. Imagine how guilty I felt after yelling for a year about the accidents. Then, there’s my middle son, part of the reason I’m really here. He so incredibly affectionate, he craves attention and seeks approval. But, we just found out he has ADHD. Which now makes the issues in school, the tempter tantrums, the lack of impulse control all make sense. Again, imagine my guilt when I realized he’s not trying to drive Mommy crazy today, he just can’t control some of these things.
So, I need to change. I have to learn to be the support system he needs to deal with the issues in front of him and those he will face in the future. I need to understand he may not do things or react to things the same way his siblings do. I need to accept that it is OK to handle things differently with each child because people are different and we all need different things in life. All of this I can accept. I can adjust and move forward with my children’s best interests in mind. But, what about everyone else.
My mother, who I personally think struggles with her own un-diagnosed disorder. It’s like her and my son fuel each others anger. Other parents who may not understand that he isn’t a “bad” kid. Other kids who won’t understand why he reacts to things the way he does. But, what about my husband, the rock that is supposed to be there for me. What do I do when he doesn’t get it. I think that’s the hardest part.
I know what I need to do and it my choice to take steps to do it. I choose to put my children first and do everything in my power to help them. But, I can’t make someone else’s choice for them. Today I feel like I have a new choice, my husband or my child. But, that is no choice. My husband is a grown man who should have the capacity to act like an adult and my child is, well, a child who needs his mom.
My son had a bad day yesterday. He was as his grandparents to eat dinner with them and was lashing out and very argumentative. My husband went to get him and bring him home. As soon as they walked in my husband was yelling. I don’t know what happened but I couldn’t have asked if I wanted to over the yelling. So I raised my voice and yell that’s enough. Next thing I know dinner is thrown across the floor and my husband storms out of the house and slams the door. I call him and the only response I get is don’t call me. I send him a message about how we need to handle things differently and yelling is not the answer because it only make him more angry and agitated. I explain ADHD is a neurological disorder not just a kid who doesn’t feel like listening today. And, the reply back is “if this behavior is going to be tolerated I can’t be with you I need a DIVORCE because I can’t do this anymore. I wont tolerate disrespect from you or him.” My first thought, who is this person??? My second thought, there’s the fucking door we don’t need you.
This is my best friend, my rock, my support system and here I stand feeling abandoned. He didn’t come home last night. And I feel like I should care, but I don’t. I am angry and hurt and disappointed. I have a child that needs me. I don’t have time to waste on an adult who wants to act like a child.
I think when is comes to wives he doesn’t have it so bad. I will be honest I am not a great cook. I barely cook at all and I’m not a huge fan of house work. But, I go to work every day. Up until recently, I was supporting the family financially. I don’t nag him about money. I don’t really fight with him about anything. I personally think we have a good sex life. Things have been good, for me at least. And then this. The line that keeps playing in my head, I won’t tolerate your disrespect. Me? The wife who supported you through job after job. The one who stood by your side through all the struggles the past 2 years without arguing or nagging or resenting you. Disrespect? For standing up for my child? This is where we throw out divorce? What response is he expecting from that? Am I supposed to be a Stepford Wife. A “a servile, compliant, submissive, spineless wife who happily does her husband’s bidding and serves his every whim dutifully.” If that’s the expectation then he lives in a fantasy world.
Everything I have been through in life has made me stronger. Maybe it was preparing me for this. For the challenge I was going to have to face alone without the support of those who I thought would always be there for me.
All I know is right now I need to put on my cape and play Supermom as best I can. Will I fail? Most definitely. I’m human, but I need to be the adult and try my best everyday to do everything in my power to give my children everything they need. Everyone else can either get on board or get out of my way.
by Band Back Together | Apr 11, 2016 | Loneliness, Self Loathing, Self-Esteem, Teen Self-Loathing |
Hello,
I am an 18 year old girl with no passions whatsoever. You can now already see how bland I am. No one would probably read what I have to say here, but I’ve been living with this for far too long. I can’t let it out to anyone. #1 Fault in me: I push people away once they get too close. It’s a lonely life I have here. It’s not like I can change. It’s funny how a bunch of strangers can read my deepest thoughts, but not my friends.
I basically hate every living inch of myself. Breakdowns are a norm. Being in boarding school doesn’t help much. I’m stuck in these four walls. Having nothing but these four walls staring down at me just rips me apart.
I will be writing this in sequels, so yeah..
by Band Back Together | Apr 8, 2016 | Alcohol Addiction, Codpendence, Self Loathing, Shame, Suicide |
I’m not sure I’ve ever written honestly about my mother’s drinking. No, perhaps what I’m trying to say is that I’ve never written neutrally about my mother’s drinking. No, that’s not right either.
I hate my mother.
There, that’s it.
My mother was my world. And in that world was wine. Bottles and bottles and goddamn bottles of wine. Wine bottles she would throw in the garbage so it didn’t seem like there were too many in the recycling outside. So the neighbors couldn’t see.
But I fished them out of the garbage and threw them in the recycling anyway.
Fuck you, mom. Feel your shame. So I don’t have to feel it for you.
My mother and I were inextricably linked through our personalities, the traits she said I possessed that she had too. Look how similar we are, right? It was so easy to become the same person. We were tightly bound into a cocoon that others couldn’t enter. Might as well have been made of fucking steel, that cocoon. And someone was covering my mouth in there, so I couldn’t scream.
I guess that someone was my mother? Or was it myself, my own hand?
All alcoholic relationships are codependent relationships, right? Or so I’ve been told. All I knew was that when she was up, I was up. And when she was down, I was disgusted with myself. Absolutely disgusted.
I hated myself more than I hated my mother. Or, rather, it was easier to hate myself than hate my mother.
So I did. It was all too fucking easy, hating myself. It’s so fucking easy that I still do.
Writing about this requires that I pull emotions from my chest that have lain dormant for years. After a while, it all starts to go a little flat, you know? The drinking thing gets old. You get used to it. You starve those emotions in your chest for air until they suffocate, but somehow they never actually die. They mutate into fucking zombies. And then some person, perhaps some random fucking person who doesn’t know anything about you, pokes at them and you think oh shit, there they are. Why the fuck do I need those.
That’s your mother, the roaring tiger inside you that you forgot even existed. The tiger clawing at your fucking insides, puncturing holes in your intestines. So you bleed out, become your own zombie.
You know the line of that poem, “I carry your heart (I’Il carry it in my heart)”?
I carry my alcoholic mother in my heart. Always.
And that alcoholic mother hates me. I’m a piece of shit. I’m critical. I’m too much like my father. Why can’t I be understanding, like my brother. I write these words and no emotions come out because I’ve heard these phrases too many times. How could I let myself feel sad every time I heard them? I would have died.
I would have killed myself.
But instead of killing myself, I suffocated my emotions so I was a shell empty of water and star stuff and all the other shit they say makes up your body.
I like to pretend I’m not angry about this.
But I am.
I hate you, mom.
You are not Mom. You are mom.
There, fuck you, you don’t even deserve a capital letter.
I can’t write honestly about this. I can’t remove the layer of disgusting slime that clings to my skin that I believe makes others hate me. Makes me an abhorrent person that nobody loves.
But the thing is, I know you do love me. mom.
And that’s the fucking awful part. I never knew which monster I was facing.
The emotional monster that dragged me kicking and screaming into its lair, into its cocoon of twin selves or the alcoholic monster that aimed their own kicking and screaming at me. I imagine my young self like a little hermit crab without its shell, this soft defenseless thing that people didn’t care about because it wasn’t a real pet anyway.
But goddamit, I was a fucking fighter. Every night I battled with my fucking mother. I wanted her to feel her shame the way I felt it for her. This should not be my job. I felt emotions for both of us so she didn’t have to feel them, didn’t have to face what she was doing. And I was sick and fucking tired of it. So, so tired.
I’m still so tired, and I don’t even live with the woman.
Yes, you’re not even mom. Or mother. You’re woman.
Not Woman.
I hate you.
There, in that sentence you don’t even deserve a name.
Only a statement that tears at your heart the way you tore at mine every.single.fucking.night.
I think you can handle it, right? Me telling you that I hate you.
Because it’s true.
Toughen the fuck up and move on.
I know I did.
