In the last 2 or 3 weeks I have read through the ENTIRETY of Aunt Becky’s Blog. I laughed, I cried, I sobbed my tiny little heart out. And now this? More? Good, because I honestly did not know what to do with myself once I was done those 370 pages.
But this site…This site makes me realize, once again, that I really do need help. I was working backwards through the categories, because I am a rebel like that. I click on Surviving, and what do I see, but Trauma Resources. And I was like, okay, let’s read that because I probably don’t need to know about Murder Resources, Military Matters, or Rape.
“Emotional trauma may be caused by a one-time event, like a rape, or from ongoing stress, like living with a chronic illness.”
Huh. I have a chronic illness or 10. All mental. Do those count?
Depression since I was a child, not a teen or even preteen. Child.
Debilitating anxiety that makes it so that I cannot handle any form of outside work, unless it has a well-defined and very soon end date
Aunt Becky’s descriptions of her son’s “autistic-ey behaviors” have made me suspect that maybe my mom hasn’t been telling doctors and child psychologists everything about me, because I see a WHOLE LOT of me in the descriptions.
And hey, stress? You betcha. My fiance and I live on about 25 hours a week worth of minimum wage. We had to cut our food budget this year to make it so that I did feel so ridiculously guilty for not being able to give my family anything but the same mediocre homemade jewelry I have given them since I was about 13. My depression and anxiety make our relationship tumultuous, because you can’t really expect a 22-year old with 2 previous relationships under his belt to be able to take a step back and see through my actions and know what is going on. My mom insists on being the EXACT amount of bitchy and annoying to make me feel guilty for wanting her completely out of my life one week, and calling her because I’m sick the next.
Symptoms of Trauma:
Guilt
Shame
Sadness
Inability to concentrate
Anxiety, edginess, racing heartbeat
Numbness, withdrawing from people
Insomnia, nightmares
Muscle aches
Okay, that’s all but one…umm…This is not boding well, is it?
The nightmares? Oh yeah, those have been almost nightly for about a year now. Always different. Sometimes perfectly rational, sometimes not.
Muscle aches? My back causes me constant pain. All day. Every day. Doctors have no suggestions.
But trauma? From what, really? Even I can’t place what I am going through that is so awful, and I am often a big drama queen about my own shit.
There are more pressing things too. Things that I have never ever said to anyone ever. Things I think of that fit in perfectly with my “symptoms” but that I can’t find in my memory to place somewhere on the time line.
Sex hurts. A lot. Like, once I blacked out in the bathroom because we hadn’t had sex in a week or two and so it hurt even more than usual. Doctors have told me nothing more than, “Well he should be more gentle” by looking at where I tell them it hurts. Gentle hurts more because it is longer. The internet tells me that something being in there often enough should make it go away. Not likely, seeing how I have had sex plenty of times and it still hurts like hell. Or with lubrication. Yeah, thanks, but that’s not the problem either. The actual size of the hole is the problem.
It is getting worse. If I go 2 days without having sex, it will hurt every time for a month again. Right now, if I tried, I would bleed. Lots.
For a while we just..stopped. For a few months. Probably 4 or 5, because he is really the most understanding guy out there.
It got even worse. Every time we started to get any form of intimate, even if it was just kissing, I felt like I had been kicked in the crotch. My mind raced constantly, because, yeah anxiety makes me unreasonable. “what if I was circumcised as a baby and nobody told me?” (impossible I think, due to the dreaded “mirror test” and certain feelings it has emitted.)
By far, my only logical explanation is that something happened to me when I was a kid. I don’t remember much from my childhood, aside from small specific conversations and situations.
And that is the part that nobody knows.
I am completely convinced I suffered some kind of sexual abuse as a child. I don’t know by whom.
I don’t know where the question is in all of this. Maybe the question is “what the fuck do I do about this?” because I honestly don’t know.
I can’t talk to friends. I literally have none. I knew one girl who lived in this city, and we haven’t spoken in months. We haven’t made plans since the beginning of the year, or maybe early spring. We were never close enough to discuss this either.
People I know: My fiance, my mom, my family – grandparents, an Aunts, an Uncle, and a Cousin who is 12 years old – and technically a dad, but one who has been ignoring me for several months. All summer, at the very least.
None of these are people I could talk to about this, unless I had some sort of concrete evidence as opposed to this “bad feeling” I am letting disrupt my life right now. I tried about 10 different medications for anxiety and depression. Nothing got better. I gained half my mass in 3 months and am now even worse off.
The same thing that kept me alive last year between this time of year and the end of December is doing it again this year. I can’t kill myself. People have already started buying my birthday and Christmas presents.
What would they do with them if I died?
Prankster, your post breaks my shriveled blackened heart and I wish that I were closer so I could give you a big fat hug. I’m glad that you reached out to us here at Band Back Together. I hope that you can find some peace here. We can love you. We will love you. That’s why we’re all here.
A good lot of us understand trauma in one way or another and I’m sure you have plenty of people nodding their heads at your story. You’re spot on. You do need to talk about this.
As Your Aunt Becky, I take your words about suicide very seriously. I’m concerned. You’re worth more than that and no problems can swallow you up whole. We’re here to fight our dragons, and we’re not going to let you down. You are loved.
That said, there is work that we can help you with and work that has to be done with someone qualified to handle the sorts of traumas you’ve been through. If medication hasn’t helped, talk therapy may be the approach to try. A good therapist can help. Keep trying them until you find one you like.
There is no need to live in darkness when the light is so warm. You can be in the light. I promise.
If you are feeling suicidal, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255
If it is an emergency, please go to the emergency room now. We don’t want to lose you.
The following (edited) post was written as a tribute to my friend on what would have been his 28th birthday this past March:
Today is my friend’s birthday. Was. It was his birthday. Or is it “is”? I just don’t know.
When I was a sophomore in high school, I befriended a freshman named John. He was on the swim team with me and we clicked instantly. We had little crushes, but after 4 days of the innocent hand-holding thing, we decided we were better as friends. We spent hours together. We’d share a lane at swim practice and walk for a bite to eat after school. When I started dating a football player my junior year, I’d go to every game and sit right next to the band so I could hang out with John while he played clarinet. He’d make me laugh with his Elmo voice and hear me out on my issues with other girls. He was my best friend. At the end of my junior year, John tried out for – and won – the drum major role for the next year. He was so ecstatic. He had such a love for music and had so many ideas for field formations and songs the band could perform.
On Labor Day my senior year, I was at home, enjoying an extra day off from school. We had friends over to swim. The phone rang, my friend Jamie told me to sit down. She told me John was gone. My heart broke then and there. He’d taken his own life, his mom had found him. The next days were a blur – the candlelight vigil, the wake, the funeral. I couldn’t talk, couldn’t eat. My world no longer had light. On Thursday that week, our flex schedule should have crossed our paths between 2nd and 4th period on my way to pre-calculus. He didn’t greet me at the stairs. I burst into shuddering sobs, and my friend led me to the grief counselor that had been brought in just for us.
To this day, I don’t know why he’s gone, but I still miss him when I think of him. I think his passing has impacted me so deeply because he was so young. We were so young. We were supposed to be happy and carefree. On the surface, he was. But deep down, there was a sadness I can’t begin to comprehend. How could a 16-year-old think that suicide was the only way? At his funeral, John’s mom said he’d made a mistake. I believe that – that he’d gotten caught up in some dark place and didn’t see another way out. I don’t think he truly wanted to leave. He had too much left to do, too much left to see.
As I’ve grown up, I’m often reminded of the things that John won’t experience. He never got to drive the vintage VW Bug he saved for for three years. He didn’t walk across the stage on our high school football field and graduate. He never had a college roommate or had to endure finals. He never fell in love. But with all he’ll miss, there is one thing he did do that brings a smile to my face and makes my heart clench and my throat burn with pride and happiness through my tears. I’m thankful that he got to lead his beloved band as drum major for the first game of the season, 2 days before he left us. I remember my last hug, and it’s something I hope I will never forget. The game had just ended, and I went running to find him and congratulate him. I told him I wanted a hug and he said, “no, you don’t. I’m all sweaty and hot.” I responded, “I promise I’ll always want to hug you” and wrapped my arms around him for the last time.
His birthdays always touch my heart. He loved to celebrate birthdays, just as I do. He’d bring his friends balloon bouquets at school. I don’t like to think about his death, though that date is forever etched in my mind. I prefer to think of him on his birthday, and remember him as he was when he was happiest: blonde hair, blue eyes, a mouth full of braces, proudly wearing his fire red and white band uniform. It’s what he wore when he gave me that last hug, the last time I saw him. When he was laid to rest, his mom told us that when we saw a rainbow, it was a smile from above, a gift from John. I don’t believe it myself, but every year on March 4th, I’ve seen a rainbow. He’s the one giving gifts on his birthday. He was always so sweet like that.
–Brooke Kingston, March 4, 2010
———————————————————————————————-
After his death, some of my other friends and I realized that he’d said good-bye to each of us in our own way. He paid compliments, told us how much he enjoyed our friendship, said he’d miss us. We thought he meant he’d miss us over the weekend and though nothing of it. We had no idea he was reaching out, trying to tell us something. We had no idea it was already too late.
But it didn’t have to be to be too late for John, or for anyone. There was somewhere for him to turn, someone who could have been there to listen. To Write Love On Her Arms, or TWLOHA, as it’s often referred to, is a non-profit organization that serves to provide hope and support to those struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury, and suicide. TWLOHA’s mission is a thing of compassion and love.
An excerpt: “You were created to love and be loved. You were meant to live life in relationship with other people, to know and be known. You need to know that your story is important and that you’re part of a bigger story. You need to know that your life matters.”
To Write Love On Her Arms works to “encourage, inform inspire, and also invest directly into treatment and recovery.”
It offers a complete directory of helplines and services for those in need. Donations made to TWLOHA help to fund such organizations as The National Hopeline, Self-Abuse Finally Ends, IM Alive, and Kid’s Helpline Australia.
TWLOHA could have helped my friend, John, and many others. It is my sincere hope that awareness is spread about this incredible and compassionate organization so that others don’t have to lose their friend or family member.
You used to clean up nicely. Later, I would be lucky if the t-shirt you threw on wasn’t slept on by a cat.
I hated when you would call me “baby” or “sweetheart.” It always seemed like such a default.
When I realized I was late calling you, I’d start agonizing over what you would say to me this time.
There are times I want to kick myself in the ass for ever getting lonely enough to talk to you that first night.
I tried to love you. I really did.
There just wasn’t anything there.
When I realized that I didn’t have any photos of the two of us together, relief was the resounding feeling.
I expected everyone to say “I told you so.” They didn’t. But they did listen. Endlessly. Thank you.
Every fight, I was waiting, wondering when that first punch was going to be.
Wondering if the punch would ever come was worse than if you would have just gone ahead and hit me.
I cowed down to you for reasons that I haven’t been able to figure out yet.
I stood up to you for reasons I never should have lost in the first place.
Late night, injured, hysterical, drunk phone calls? No.
Stalking my every move that you can find? No.
Just because I left before your fist finally got sick of hitting everything/everyone else, doesn’t mean it wasn’t abuse.
You made me ask for money that you offered me. Promised me. Money that I did not ask for. That I did not want. That I would not have needed if not for you.
Looking back now, a tent on the corner of the street would have been preferable.
You took my friends.
You took my ideas.
You tried to take my identity.
Lucky for me, I’m a stubborn bitch.
You said things, did things, made up things (and continue to do so) that I refuse to waste any more thought or time on.
I walked away from them.
I walked away from you.
With a limp and a smile.
The only time you’re happy is when you’re the superior in the relationship. When you can make the other person feel inadequate.
Regardless of what you think, there was/is absolutely nothing I want to learn from you.
It’s taken me close to a year to get even marginally back to the person I was before I got tangled up in the mess that is you.
I finally see what I’m capable of.
That thread between us? The one and only thing we share? I’m making it my life’s goal that she is never made to feel like or to think that she is nothing. Minuscule. Worthless if not by someone’s side, obedient like a pet.
She will be better than you.
Better than me.
I am making sure that she will never be in the position that I was in with you.
October 15, 1999. That was the day my life changed. At the time, I thought it was for the better. Eleven years later, I know it was the beginning of a slow, painful, downward spiral.
That was the day I started dating the “man of my dreams.” He was tall and handsome and the captain of the football team. As a high school sophomore, he was everything a girl could ask for in a boyfriend.
The first 2 years were great. We went to sporting events and parties. We were the stereotypical high school sweethearts. Our senior year we split up. The breakup didn’t last long. Soon he was begging me to come back and I did. He went off to college in a different state, but we still tried to make it work.
Over the next 4 years we broke up and made up quite a bit. I told myself this was due to the college lifestyle. I tried to convince myself that girls flocked to him because he was a college football player. Those excuses I made would lead me into years of hiding my misery with excuses.
In February 2006 he proposed. It was probably the worst proposal imaginable. I was in bed, covered in hives from an allergic reaction. He sat on the end of the bed, handed me a box and said, “You’re gonna be my wife”. Now that I look back on it, it completely lacked any romance and was more of a command than a proposal.
In June 2006, he graduated, moved back home and I started planing the wedding. These plans were short lived because shortly after his return we split up again. He could not put the college life behind him and would stay out all night to party. Once again we made up and on February 18, 2007, we were married.
There was no “honeymoon” period. We started having problems the first week of our marriage. We argued constantly. He lived a completely separate life from me. But, I was expected to be home at all times.
After the first year, the relationship came crashing down pretty quickly. He had been caught numerous times “talking” to other women. He started to control my life completely. He decided who I could be friends with, when I could go out and where I could go. He would degrade me and soon my self esteem was so low that I started to question everything about myself.
It wasn’t until I met up with an old friend and started discussing the situation that I realized it was emotional abuse. He was manipulating everything in my life for one sole purpose – to control me! I decided to put my foot down, to take a stand and hold my ground. This only helped to confirm that abuse I had been tolerating for so long.
During one fight in May 2009, I told him I was done listening to him and that I was going to leave. He took my car keys and cell phone. I told him I would walk to my mother’s house, which was right around the corner. He stood in front of the stairs and blocked me from leaving. He called 911 and told the operator that his wife was overdosing and to send an ambulance. I was in shock. What was happening?
When the police arrived, he refused to answer the door. When I answered and spoke to the cop he said “you don’t look like you’re overdosing.” I told him I most definitely was not. The cop called the dispatcher and canceled the ambulance. After the cops left, I asked him why he did that. His response sickened me. He said “I just thought it would be funny to see them pump your stomach.” At this very moment, I realized what a sick and dysfunctional person he was.
All this time I had been blind. I made excuses to hide my pain. Somewhere deep inside me, he was still the captain of the football team, the man of my dreams. I didn’t let myself see the selfishness, deception, and manipulation. I made excuses over and over. Not for him but for me. I tried to convince myself he was someone else. The man of my dreams.
On June 23, 2009, he moved out and filed for divorce. He had lost his control and he couldn’t accept it. He did not want a relationship with someone who could stand up for herself.
For years I have thought to myself, ”Why can’t I have a do-over?” Why can’t I go back to the first break-up and never look back. Well, this past year has not been easy. It has been the hardest time of my life. Through all the court and lawyers and chaos he still tries to control me. He tries to have the upper hand and make all of the agreements. Everything is a battle. But this time I am holding my ground and standing up for myself!
I am proud to say that I have my “do-over”. I am dating my best friend and everyday he shows me what a real man, a real relationship, is like. He amazes me with his support and understanding. He builds up my confidence instead of tearing it down. After years of living in the dark and not knowing myself, my eyes have been opened and it is my time to shine!
(I know faith is a personal issue. This post is about the effect abuse had on my faith journey. I am not trying to convert or offend anyone, only to tell another part of my journey.)
As a young child who suffered physical and sexual abuse at the hands of my step-father I was looking for a way out.
By the time I was 8 or 9 years old, I began walking to a little country church about 3/4 a mile from our home. I began, in all honesty, out of curiosity and as a way to be out of my house. In church I found a Father who didn’t abuse me. I found a Father who loved me. I found a Father who saw each tear I cried, without being the one who caused them.
My relationship with God became a life-line, a source of hope where there had seemed to be very little reason to hope. I knew that even though I was weak and small, God was big and mighty. After I had been going for a month or so, my little sister wanted to come along. My mind smiles at the memory of those walks. My sister and I, hand in hand, walking to church in our “best dress” and “fancy shoes”. (In reality, our clothes and shoes weren’t fancy at all, but they were to us).
My relationship with God saw me through that awful childhood and continued into my adulthood. When I was an adult I went to counseling to deal with the pain and shame of my past. During the beginning stages of therapy, I remember telling my therapist that it felt like there was a tornado in my head. So many thoughts, feelings, and issues to discuss and I had no idea which to deal with first. I chose one issue at a time and began working our way through them. Somewhere in the midst of dealing with all of these issues I began thinking “Where was God? How could a loving God allow these terrible things to happen to a child? Why didn’t He stop him? Why didn’t He protect me?”
It was a very painful time. Now, on top of everything else I had to work through, I was angry at God. I told my therapist that I was angry at God and that I didn’t know how to work through that. We talked a lot about it. One day she asked me if I had told God how I felt. I said no. How could I tell God I was angry? Me, a mere human telling God I was angry at Him? She said “He is a big God. He can take it. Tell Him how you feel.”
Simple words – big effect.
I did tell God how I felt. I yelled. I screamed. I asked Him “How could you?” I told Him every angry, rotten thought I had about His role in my childhood.
It took some time. God and I had that conversation more than once, many times. Eventually, I got all the anger out of my heart and mind and in it’s place was truth.
The truth is – I would have never made it through my childhood without God. He certainly did save me. Many, many times. Looking back at the drunken rages when my step-father would be swinging a gun around. The drunken high-speed car rides with him. The many beatings where so many things could have happened to turn a severe beating into a death.
It took quite a while for me to work through this and come to my own understanding of why awful things happened even though I have a loving God. My step-father had free will. We all do. He could choose to do evil and he did. But for God to stop him, He would have had to take away my step-father’s free will and MAKE him do what God wanted him to do. God will not take away our free will. If He did, we would all be robots doing exactly what God wants us to do. God does not want robots. He wants us to love Him and do what is right because we choose to love Him. Could God force us to love Him? If God took away free will and “made” all of us love Him and make the choices He would like us to make, that isn’t us loving Him. It is doing what we are told to do because we have no choice. God wants us to CHOOSE to love Him, or it isn’t really love. It’s obedience.
So, where do I believe God was when awful things were happening to me? I believe He saw it all. I believe He wept, just as we weep when our children suffer. Then He helped me find a way to Him through our little country church. He helped me to feel His love and comfort and gave me the courage and strength that got me through that horrible nightmare.
Thank you God, for being “a big enough God to take it” when I raged at you.
Thank you for helping me find a path to You when I was a scared little girl.
Thank you for protecting my mind and heart enough that I knew abuse is horrific and didn’t repeat the cycle with my own kids.
Thank you for leading me to a wonderful husband who stuck with me through some very difficult times and showed me human men are capable of loving without hurting.
Thank you for leading me to a counselor who “clicked” with me and became a guide through the misery.
And, thank you for helping me become the woman I am today.