by Band Back Together | Jul 8, 2014 | Anxiety, Coping With Domestic Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Fear, Guilt, Helping Someone In An Abusive Relationship, Stress, Trauma |
Hi, I’m 22. I’ve been looking for something that might help the healing. I just found this site, and am glad there is something like this. It’s hard writing what happened. So here it goes. I was mentally/emotionally abused.
I don’t feel like a victim. It’s nothing like you see on TV where someone is bawling their eyes out with sudden realization. I’m just numb. Okay, I’m numb with random fits of bawling my eyes out for no reason, but still numb. Reading the other stories on here, I feel like mine was barely anything.
I was in a relationship with an abuser for two and a half years. It started out like any good relationship does, laughing and smiling. Then, his family disowned him for dating a white girl. After that, he would throw that at me to shut me up, if he perceived the smallest slight. That I was the reason for everything going bad, the fact that his family would never accept me. But it never stopped there. Daily, he called me fat, and ugly, and useless. There came a point when I believed all of that. I tried to weigh as little as I could so that maybe he would give me a small compliment. I tried to do everything perfect, even though it wasn’t enough. He would insult me in front of our friends (his friends, since all of my friends liked him better). I could never tell him no or go against his word without incurring his explosive anger. He would never show his anger in public though. He would wait until we were alone to let loose. He took all but two my friends. He’s a charismatic guy, and everyone likes him. How can people stay friends with an abuser when they KNOW? There came a point when I felt so alone and unwanted that I thought about suicide. The thing that kept me from it, the only thing, was the thought of my mom.
I almost left probably five times. Why didn’t I just leave the first time?
My mom saved me from this “relationship.” She’s a psychiatric nurse and recognized the signs. In her words, she told me that I didn’t laugh or sing anymore. In August, after he threatened me more than usual, she told me her suspicions. I told him that she didn’t like our relationship. (When his family disowned him, he made me promise that if my mom ever didn’t like our relationship then we would break up.) I used my mom as a scapegoat to get out – I wasn’t the one who ended it. Not really.
Now, months later, I still feel lost. I’m still afraid to make decisions. I still close up and try to fix everything whenever someone’s moody. I laugh again, but that’s all I’ve gained back of myself. I’m going to start therapy in a week, and I hope that helps. Does it take this long to heal? I just want to be myself again.
One thing that one of those two friends told me has really stuck. “How can you prove that someone hurt you when they left no visible mark?”
by Band Back Together | Jul 4, 2014 | Emotional Boundaries, Therapy |
“You see a therapist?!?”
I think this question is posed for several reasons. But, if I practiced mind-reading, which I never recommend doing, this is what I think is behind this question:
Only really crazy people have to see a therapist!
But you’re a therapist, shouldn’t you have this all figured out?
Chin up! Can’t you just figure it out for yourself?
You must not be strong enough to deal.
I struggle and I am a therapist.
—————
I am a therapist and I am also a perfectly imperfect human.
I have faith there will be a day when we all have a therapist we work with sporadically throughout our lives. Because life is hard and people are complicated. And to have someone outside of your friends and family to help you through it all is nothing less than priceless.
I also have faith there will be a day that people aren’t shocked that I regularly see a therapist (patients, friends, family, and strangers alike). Because life is hard and people are complicated, especially when you are the one helping others through all that life is hard and people are complicated stuff.
I am a therapist who lives my life afraid and brave every second of every day. I live my life honoring my authentic truth. I live this way because it is how I have found my own recovery. I live this way because I have done the hard work, choosing it every day, of my recovery.
I live this way because I simply cannot not live this way.
I also live this way because I see how much my clients are empowered to change their own lives as I show them my work.
It was drilled into my head in graduate school that as counselor we DO NOT GIVE ADVICE! It didn’t take long of me working in this field, in the real world of limited time and resources, managed health care and difficult life circumstances, that I knew this philosophy wasn’t going to work for the people I help or for me and the kind of therapist I wanted to be. I will not answer all your troubles, I will not do the work for you, and I cannot save you if you are not ready to save yourself. But I can assure you, I will walk alongside you modeling what it is like to fight for your own recovery. I will pull you forward, at times, urging you to have faith that it will get better. And, there will be those times I push you forward because it is simply what you need right then to take the best next stop forward.
I also learned in graduate school – as is the philosophy of many in my field – that our clients know nothing about us; we are blank slates. Early in my career, before I had to fight for my own recovery, I practiced more on this side of impersonal connection. However, I found that I was working harder than my clients. I also found I struggled with my emotional boundaries because I was fighting so much harder than the client to save their own life.
Only after fighting for my own recovery was I able to both share and model my fight for my clients. Self-disclosure will always be a hotly debated topic in mental health, as it needs be it needs to be used ONLY when it will move the client forward in their own work. Therapists, myself included, must be careful to not dump our own shit onto our clients. Constantly keep tabs on why we are sharing our own battles with our clients to make sure it is for them and not us.
My own transparency along with the public forum of writing a blog has meant my clients may know a lot about my life and struggles, sometimes even before their first session. I am sure this will make some in my field cringe – graduate professors included.
However, it is without a doubt, that I can say this has done nothing but make me a better therapist and better able to help others through their struggles. Not only does this provide constant teaching moments for clients in empathy and authenticity, but they know they are truly seen and known when they come to see me for their sessions. They know they are talking to someone who has fought this epic war of recovery. They know they are talking to someone who is not perfect, who also struggles with self-compassion towards that perfection but who, most importantly, owns their story.
I have been asked by my own treatment team what it has been like for my clients to know more about my life, as this is something I make sure to have supervision on. Honestly, it is something that is difficult to put into words as it feels like something bigger than us; it is recovery, it is connection, it is ever upward.
Marianne Williamson captures this perfectly,
“As we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
I will share with my clients parts of my own story when I think it will be helpful in their recovery. I will model the daily fight and choices of recovery.
I will help.
I will walk alongside.
I will pull forward.
And I will push.
I will help by being me. I will help by owning my story; ugly, shameful, scary, imperfect parts and all. Because it is only within this ownership that my ever upward is found and I can really help.
by Band Back Together | Jul 3, 2014 | Anxiety, Baby Loss, Coping With Baby Loss, Sadness, Stillbirth, Trauma, Uncategorized |
I’m not a sentimental mom – I don’t save everything my kids own to cherish forever. Sure, some things are special, but others I’ve never felt attached to.
My first son’s crib? Take that away. Don’t need it. It served as a toddler bed from the time he was 18 months until he got a big boy bed at age … I don’t know. When he had his little brother had to share a room because I was pregnant with my fourth son.
See? Not sentimental.
My third son was kicked out of his crib and moved into the bedroom with the first to give his crib to the fourth. My oldest got a real bed and we said goodbye to his toddler bed.
Life changes man, life changes.
My fourth was the second baby to use this crib – a gift from my mom for our second son.
Our second son that never came home. Well, I guess he did.
Our second son was a full-term stillbirth. The crib was his. A crib he never got to use; not for even a minute. Unless you count me leaning on it while I was heavily pregnant.
This was a fancy $500 crib that we didn’t even put together until I was 38 weeks pregnant because we were lazy and busy with our oldest son, Jules, who was seventeen months. For a while I blamed Joel’s death on this; obviously I didn’t prove that I wanted him because it took us so long to paint and fix up his room. Logically he died because we didn’t put his crib together.
That, The Band, is just one of the many insane things you think when your baby dies and you’re trying to figure out why. Because babies don’t just die. There has to be a reason, even if it’s silly and pathetic.
After we found out that Joel was dead, one of the worst moments was coming home and going to take a bath. I was surrounded by baby stuff. My husband went to that bedroom and shut that door. We had to block that out. That was the only way. That door was both literally and figuratively shut. His urn was placed in there after his service. His funeral flowers, too.
Over the next year, the room had magic and hope again when Blair came into this world, our rainbow baby that survived. It was a little hard turning Joel’s room into Blair’s, but we did it. Joel came into our bedroom. His crib was still his crib though, even though it was in Blair’s room and being used by Blair.
By the time Blair was ready for a big boy bed, I’d gotten pregnant with our fourth son, Reid. Now it was Reid’s turn to use the crib. Blair moved into Jules room and Blair’s room turned into Reid’s room which still housed Joel’s crib.
I don’t know why it was Joel’s crib but it was. It’s that one item allowed me to have a piece of him and to share a piece of him with his younger brothers. Even though he never used it, he passed that down to them.
A couple years later, Reid is becoming a big boy. He needs a toddler bed. Thankfully the $500 crib converts into a bed but the problem with that is that it’ll no longer be Joel’s crib. It becomes Reid’s bed. And even though it’s been five years of grief and trying to find ways to let go … I can’t let go of Joel’s crib. If I convert it, Joel’s crib is gone.
Then what do I have left?
I’ll make another painful decision and piece by piece, we will take Joel’s crib apart. Tears will flow, like everything else that normally involves him. We will load it up and store it at my parents, who understand. When I asked if we could store a crib there, they asked why I was saving a crib. When they asked who’s crib it was, I replied, “Joel’s.”
Without hesitation, my parents said, “Sure, we can find a safe place for that.” I’ll buy a toddler bed for Reid and, in a couple years, I’ll buy him a real bed instead of converting Joel’s crib for him.
Sometimes I wonder how this story will play out when I’m old and dying.
Will I find peace?
Will I continue to run his story through my head over and over, asking why?
Will my chest still hurt?
Will my eyes still pour tears?
Will the events run on a loop through my head like a bad movie?
Will my last thoughts be, “what could I have done differently?”
I won’t know until I get there. But I do know that some memories aren’t painful. Knowing that my rainbow babies – my pregnancies after we lost Joel – used Joel’s crib doesn’t make me sad.
I know I’ll always love that crib.
Joel’s crib.
by Band Back Together | Jul 2, 2014 | Abuse, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Coping With Domestic Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Economic Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Helping Someone In An Abusive Relationship, Psychological Manipulation |
My story starts when I met my son’s father. We first met online, and he seemed like a great guy. After a few days, we met in person to hang out. He took me to go see a movie and have a burger. Then, we went to hang out at his house.
Everything was good, until he did something I didn’t approve of. After that, he took me home and left. I was really upset about what he had done, but because he was a nice guy, I decided to forgive him.
That was my first mistake.
Days and weeks went by, and then somehow, we were dating, and I was living with him. At first, everything was good. We were happy, and I was doing whatever I could around the house to help while he worked. One day he came home all mad, and told me that the neighbor saw some guy leave our apartment. That wasn’t true. I was alone all day, cleaning the house.
He didn’t believe me. He hit me in the back and then punched me a few times. I should have left then, and never come back, but I still forgave him. I thought that it wouldn’t happen again.
Over the next couple of years, the beatings got worse. One day when I got home from work, he accused me of flirting with a coworker. When I turned my back, he hit me in the back of the head with a 2×4. I bled a lot that day. When I got pregnant, we were both happy, so I figured he wouldn’t hit me anymore.
I was wrong.
When I was three months pregnant, he went to the room to take a nap while I stayed in the living room watching tv. After a few minutes, he came back into the living room, grabbed me by my hair, and pulled me into the bedroom where he forced me to have sex with him. I just laid there crying afterwards. He continued to force me to have sex with him almost every day for the rest of my pregnancy. Sometimes he would threaten me and tell me that if I ever told the cops what he did to me, or if I tried to take the baby and get him for child support, he would put me in the hospital where I would bleed to death.
After my son was born, he wouldn’t let me raise him the way I wanted. Once, he nearly suffocated my baby and tried to blame it on me. Luckily my son, was fine and is healthy. He still continued to hit me. I missed work because of it and lost my job. I got another job after my son’s first birthday. He would still hit me sometimes, but I was able to hide the bruises.
We eventually had a fight about whether I still wanted to be with him. I told him no, I didn’t care for him anymore. He said he was okay with it, but he informed me that we would still be living together until he had money to get his own place. He would also continue to have sex with me, continue to hit me, and he was going to take my son. He also told me I wasn’t allowed to date for a year.
We only had one truck, so he still drove me to work. One day, he saw a male coworker of mine say hi to me. He asked me if I liked him, Since we were no longer a couple, I thought it was safe to say that I did. I was wrong again. He drove into a nearby parking lot, grabbed me by my hair and swung me around in the truck, My son watched this happen, screaming the whole time.
He then started to drive me back home and told me I couldn’t go to work. I told him I couldn’t afford to lose my job and I was going. He eventually calmed down and took me to work. I had a huge black eye that he told me to hide with my hair. It didn’t work. My supervisor called me into his office to talk to me and had me call the police to file a report.
It took time for my ex to be served with the order. Then, it took more time until I was able to get my son back. Eventually, he was served and I got my son back. On the day of the court hearing, the judge gave me the best news ever: I was my son’s sole parent because his father and I were never married.
I am happy now. I have a new boyfriend who I’ve known I’ve known since before I met my ex-boyfriend. He accepts my son as his own. Everything in my life is great now. The only problem I have is that I don’t know how to cope with my past. So far, counseling doesn’t seem to be helping me very much.
by Band Back Together | Jul 1, 2014 | Bullying, Childhood Bullying, Coping With Bullying, How To Heal From Being Bullied, Teen Bullying |
She came to school with a plastic Disney princess phone, and told everyone it was real. I was the only kid who didn’t believe her – I proved to the entire class that she was lying. She hated me from that day on, and made sure that I knew it.
Soon, it wasn’t just her bullying me, it was practically everyone. Elementary and middle school are, for the most part, a haze of half-memories of name-calling, spitting, and hair pulling.
In fourth grade, I had my first major depressive episode. I was up late into the night, curled in my mother’s lap, sobbing hysterically for no reason I could identify. It was confusing. All I knew was that I was incomprehensibly sad, and the kids at school were mean.
I was in eighth grade when the body image issues, self-loathing and self-injury, came into play. At first it was simple things, like no longer wearing tight clothing and digging my nails into my skin when I was frustrated. I was in ninth grade when the periods of going without food began, and when digging my nails progressed into the slicing of skin.
I was in tenth grade when the next major depressive episode hit. I was missing tons of school but I didn’t care. The world was bleak and pointless. I slept almost constantly. When I was awake, I tried to forget about my life by immersing myself in the life of a fictional character. That, or I was cutting. I felt useless.
As my sophomore year came to an end, I gradually started to feel better. The improving weather lifted my spirits. I chose to go on a community service trip to Peru that summer, thinking I was well enough to go.That is, until I got on the plane. As I walked to my seat, I felt panic rising.
I couldn’t do it; I couldn’t handle going to Peru.
What had I been thinking?
I begged to be let off of the plane, but the trip leader refused. Resigned, I sat in my seat and sobbed. On that flight, my depression began sinking to entirely new levels, worsening impossibly over the next few months. I was very suicidal.
In December, a boy I knew killed himself. It hit me hard. I saw what suicide could do to people, and how much it hurt the loved ones of the deceased. After toying with the idea of suicide, I decided I didn’t want to cause that pain, so I arranged to be hospitalized.
Since January, I have come so far. I put my efforts back into doing schoolwork. I saw my friends again. I rejoined the world of the living. I have learned an immense amount about my self and how to be happy. I’m so grateful to be alive. It’s so worth it.
I know everyone says it, but it’s true – it does get better.
