It's Saturday morning. I'm sitting here, completely and utterly annoyed. I'm trying not to be, but unfortunately, I get like this a lot. My irritability is part of the reason I chose not to have kids, as I feel bad enough when I snap at my dogs when I'm cranky. Part of the reason I'm so annoyed is because me and A (my husband) got a new puppy. Right now we are in the process of potty training, as well as life training. Those of you who've raised dogs from puppies know what I'm talking about. Not only do they have to learn they can't take a huge shit on your living room floor, they have to learn not to bark at the UPS guy. Not to dig in my lettuce beds. Not to attempt chewing off my fingers. Among other things. Due to the potty training, the puppy has to go out A LOT. Like, a lot, a lot, a lot. And when he goes outside, he gets a treat. Well, my 2 older dogs want in on this. Now they are sitting by the door at all odd hours, wanting to go out. It might not sound like much, but if every time you walked into a room where 1 of 3 dogs were constantly wanting to go out, you might get annoyed too.
The other reason I'm annoyed is my other blog. Yep, I run another blog. A pretty, shiny, happy food blog. One where'd you never guess the author is a sexually abused, introverted, potty-mouthed, uber-liberal hippy. My audience is Christian soccer mom's and young girls dreaming of getting famous on social media. I love my blog. I love food. I don't love the dog and pony show. The exhausting amount of networking you must do in order to score just one comment on a post. I don't love pretending that life is sunshine and roses all the time. I don't like pretending that the worst thing that comes out of my mouth is "Well, gosh darnit". And I hate being in the closet about religion. I hate that everyone else gets to write about praising the man in the sky, and thanking Jesus for making them the last person at Starbucks to get a piece of lemon loaf. I mean, really. You think Jesus has time to make sure that no one else got that piece of cake so you could have it? Groan.
Sorry to gripe, but in case you couldn't tell, I just finished working on some social networking for the other blog. Sometimes I'd just like to yell "FUCK IT!" and write about being depressed. Or anxious. Or being so shaky in the morning you are scared to drive your car. Or tell everyone I think they are ridiculous for believing in someone who lets children be sold in sex trafficking, gives cancer to some of the most generous, kind people, and allows someone to walk into a crowded theater and kill 60 people?
Yeah, I wish I could do that. But I won't. And that's why I have this space now.
*********************Trigger Warning******************************
A couple of weeks ago I had my most vivid flashback to date. I wanted to detail the process because it is rather fascinating. Scary and crazy, but also fascinating. With this latest flashback, everything started about a week before I had it. My husband was out of town on business, and I was home alone for the week. I was extremely anxious. I didn't feel like myself. I could not, for the life of me, get the pit in my stomach to go away. I once read a quote that said, "People will do almost anything to alleviate their anxiety". That's a true statement. The first night the hubby was gone, I made a margarita, had a couple of beers, smoked a cigarette, and then smoked more weed than I have in a long time. I felt better (pharmaceutically, at least) for the time being. Till the next morning, when the pit was still there. The whole week the hubby was gone, I drank more than I should have. I smoked more cigarettes than I should have (considering cigarettes should be ZERO since I quit). I found myself leaving dishes in the sink, something I never do. I also did tons of other things I never do, such as not making the bed, leaving laundry in the dryer instead of folding it, and not picking up the dog toys strewn about the house. It was like I was a different person. I could not (no matter how much I thought about it) pin-point the anxiety. I chalked it up to being worried about A. But then the hubby came home. And the pit was still there.
The hubby returned home on a Thursday. On Saturday, still with the pit and no end in site, I decided to do some yoga and mediation. The yoga helped tremendously. At the time. As soon as I was done, and I went to take a shower, the knotty stomach returned. I found myself arguing with myself in the shower. I honestly felt like there was some dark force trying to grab hold.
Just to let y'all know, I'm a huge fan of the show "Dexter". I loved his analogy of his "Dark Passenger". So much so in fact, that I've named the self-destructive part of myself my Dark Passenger. Don't misunderstand, I don't have DID. I've never been diagnosed, because I don't believe I have full-on different people in me. I do believe that there is some part of my brain that is hugely self-destructive. It whispers at me to drink. To smoke cigarettes. To try to get my hands on my mother-in-law's Ativan. To just slide that razor across a little bit of skin to get some relief. Sometimes it's easy to not listen, other times not so much.
So there I am in the shower. I closed my eyes and pictured myself driving a car. There is darkness in the passenger seat. Not a person, just darkness. And it's reaching for the wheel. In my mind, I actually pictured myself saying, "No. You cannot drive." Then I opened my eyes, and kind of shook off the feeling. It was weird.
Just 1-2 minutes later, I was reaching for my face wash. I closed my eyes to splash water on my face, when I heard distinctly, and right in my ear, "I love you". I immediately opened my eyes, confused. 'Where the heck had that come from?' I thought uncomfortably. So I closed my eyes again. And it happened.
I actively felt prickly mustache hairs on my ear, and I heard a voice saying, "I love you" over and over. In my head I saw me, 4 or 5 years old, wearing a satiny purple nightgown that I remember, in bed at my grandma's old house. My uncle was behind me. He had one arm slung over me and he was rubbing me inappropriately over my nightgown. He was rubbing himself against my back. He was hard. I felt good. Warm, and tingly. The human body cannot help what it likes.
This was about all I could take, and my eyes flew open.
I stood there in shock for maybe one second. And then, a flood began. I felt deep shame. Anger. Disgust. I collapsed right there, and began to cry. I cried for that child. How could someone do that to a child? In that second, I realized I'd been conditioned to believe that sex equals love. From him touching me to whispering 'I love you' continuously, what else could a 4-5 year old think? From a very young age, someone actively taught me that. I cried because I realized as a child, I'd never stood a chance of becoming anything other than what I was. Of course I ran after all the boys. Of course I let them touch me however they wanted, even if we'd just met. Although I was not aware of it, my mind was telling my body that this is how you become loved. I thought of all my friends who had been raised normally and who'd looked down on me for being promiscuous, drinking, and in general, an immoral person. And I cried.
When I stood up, everything had changed. The world felt different. I felt different.
The biggest thing of all? The pit in my stomach was gone. How was it that the strongest emotion I felt after all this was relief?
Here's the deal. If this had happened to me even just 3 years ago, I would have drunk a bottle of vodka. And then probably taken some Ambien. And more than likely, I would have self-harmed. Because I would have been filled with so much disgust, shame, and anxiety that the only way to alleviate all those emotions would have been to get fucking drunk.
But today, after being in therapy for 2 1/2 years and 1 year of EMDR, the only thing I felt was relief.
I now realize that this memory must have been getting ready to surface the week before it did. I just didn't know it. I only felt the anxiety, and I felt driven to push it down. I think I was subconsciously scared of what was happening and trying to keep it away. What's positive about this situation is that when the flashback did come, I was in a place where I was able to accept the memory, and not blame myself. Not feel ashamed of what I did. Because I was a young child. So young that I had no say in the matter. My uncle did awful, reprehensible things to a defenseless child. Would I look at any other child in this situation and blame them?
FUCK NO.
So I don't blame myself.
When my therapist and I discussed this later, she did indicate that I am making progress. Progress takes time, a lot more time than some people are willing to give. From reading a lot of other mental health blogs, I realize a lot of people have the roughest time not blaming themselves. It makes me sad, because a lot of these people are in the same boat I am. These things happened to them when they were children. I don't know if their integral "badness" was forced on them harder than it was forced on me, but I've been able to see how what my uncle did was wrong and I had no control.
My hope is that other people someday are able to see what I see.
Innocent children being broken. These innocent, broken children growing up into broken adults. Depression, anxiety, PTSD, DID, addiction, promiscuity, personality disorders, you name it. All because they were conditioned as children to believe they are awful, horrible, evil people.
It. is. so. wrong.
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