Women Talking

 

I can remember seeing the previews for this movie when it was first released, and I thought, "Wow, this is going to be a good one." Of course, time passes, and life gets busy.  Somehow, last week, it came up, and I found the movie and ordered it.  Amazing sometimes that things happen just when they need to, just when they are able to make the most impact.  So I watched it last night and was wrecked.  So many pieces of the movie were so close to my heart.  No one wants to talk about abuse and the ramifications of that. Some say that they do, but I can tell right away that they don't really mean it.  People want to be politically correct, but when it suits them and doesn't challenge the views that they hold.  

After watching the movie, I have so many thoughts and feelings that I am not sure where to start. It touched so many different aspects of my own story that it was overwhelming. My heart is everywhere and nowhere—crushed, healing, and everything in between—all at the same time.

It's about a group of women in a religious community that are continually attacked and assaulted.  The children and the women who have become pregnant as a result. They have chosen to make a decision as a community, do they stay and forgive the men, do they fight, or do they decide to leave, trying to keep everyone safe. There is a lot of talk about forgiveness and why some of them are so affected and others are affected, but keep moving forward.  There are scenes about the brutalness of these assaults, the blood, the horror, and the damage that can be done to a body. 

The scenes with the blood were exceptionally hard for me.  I can remember times after I was assaulted when I was young, and there would be blood.  I can remember being terrified, then when it became almost normal, I just knew what had to be done.  I can still so vividly remember sneaking outside to the trash on those exceptionally hard nights and throwing my bloody underwear away. My bare feet on the cold, rocky ground. I can remember seeing the blood on my thighs and bruising. I hated myself for letting those things happen. For knowing what he wanted. I can remember what I saw like it was yesterday.  Being so alone at maybe 5 or 6 and just knowing what had to be done.  I knew that no one was going to keep me safe; no one was going to take care of me.  That aloneness is something that I don't think will ever go away.  There was a little girl in the movie who was 4 and was raped.  That changes you, and you can't play like all the other little girls anymore.  Your body is violated, and it makes you different. You feel different; you experience the world differently from that point forward. It changes your heart in ways that I am still trying to understand. 

There is talk about those women who did become pregnant. Their thoughts and feelings towards the little life that they carried.  All the thoughts, like how could you love something like that, how can you bare to look at them.  I think of my sweet Vincent and Mariska and how I loved them from the second that I knew.  They were my everything and all that mattered in this world.  Nothing that happened to me mattered; they were what was important. They were mine, and I was going to make sure that they lived lives that were very different from the lives that I had lived.  There was a moment when one of the women was getting water, and she placed the man's hand on her belly, feeling her baby, and tears fell down his face.  He was sorry for what had happened to her and told her that he loved her and would care for her and her baby. Such a tender, special moment.  I never had that kind of love, and there is a deep ache that I may never know a love like that, I wondered if she knew how lucky she was to be loved like that. I think of being 13 and Calvin feeling my belly.  That moment just him and I, she mattered.  My Bella mattered and was important. I felt seen and cared for. 

This is a movie that will take me some time to process and digest. It was done so well and hit so many areas of my life. Growing up with such violence takes lifetimes to overcome. I am doing the work, and I will fight until my last breath, but I get tired because these are things that should never happen to any woman or child. I am alone in this battle in so many ways, and yet I keep fighting.

There is a great deal of talk about forgiveness, what it means, and who should be forgiven. That is always a tender spot for me. They say forgiveness is more for you than the other person. Well, then, for me, I am just fine. No amount of forgiveness can heal my heart and make me whole. I do not believe in a god that lets children be destroyed before they even have a feel for the world. I am alone in the things that have happened to me, and I wonder if I will always feel that way.  I have a sense of being so different, less than, and unworthy of so much that others take for granted.  I don't know if that feeling can ever be totally erased. 

There was one woman who had these panic attacks, and another woman said look at you wanting all this attention.  What makes you so special we have all experienced these things.  We all deal with things differently.  Some move on, pretending they are fine.  Some get angry and are going to get those around them before they ever fall victim again.  Some heal, some don't, some cry, some don't. Some get angry so angry, and some don't. Some are loud in their healing, and others are silent.  There is no right or wrong; we are all healing in the way that makes sense to us. I will forever heal loudly for all those who can't or don't know how to heal and have barriers that make healing something far away.  I will heal and share and forever be on this journey until every voice is given a safe place to heal and is heard. 

So many things are never talked about, and the silence is deafening.  No one wants to hear about how your body was used. No one wants to acknowledge the facts about what happens. No one wants to hear about the things that keep you up at night, scared as the pictures play over and over and you think about what you could have done differently. It's not about poor me; it's not about the gross details.  It is a fact that these things happened, and I have to learn to live with them and find a life that I can be proud of.  All the things that have happened to me are not the reason that I am here today.  In spite of all those things I am here and healing and learning to be gentle in all the ways that I never experienced. 

I heart your heart. 

Always on my plate

 

There are always going to be things that are on my plate that I would rather not be.   Things will always pop up that come out of nowhere and throw me for a time. Every day, I know my past is there, and it still comes to mind each and every day, but it's better than it has ever been. The other day, when the thoughts came back about having to hold my father's cross and all the emotions and memories that came with that, I was more than a little overwhelmed.   have not thought about that in a very long time, and just like that.  ith no real rhyme or reason, it was right in front of me, begging for attention.   wrote about it, and instead of putting it away, I shared it in therapy.   guess time does change things and how you view them.  here was an ache for the experience, for all the pain that I had to endure.  here was a realization of things that I had no right to know.  here was the realization that I was just a girl who should have had adults to protect her.  o many thoughts and feelings.  or a few moments, there are thoughts of how a little girl even survives that, and the only answer is that it is all you know how to do.  he difference this time was that when I left therapy, there was a weight lifted.  peaking about how cold my arm was and just wanting him to be done was not attention seeking, as I always fear.   was just speaking about the experience.  he thoughts about knowing my parents were having sex, and hearing that cross and not having an understanding why she didn't have to hold his cross like I did.   was scared for her but then that realization that she was a woman and I was just a child.   was not even old enough to have a full understanding of all the things I experienced, yet I had them just the same.  or me, my mother and I were on the same page, but we should never have been.  To use Mark's words, I was a co-spouse at such an early age, and that is enough to make my skin crawl. Just all the things that the word spouse entails, and that was placed on me at 5 is incomprehensible. The things that have happened in my life are things that I will always be healing from. With all the work that I have put into my own healing work, there are going to be things that remain tender. No matter the work that I do, the continual therapy, there will be times when, like a switch, things will awaken, and memories and pictures will make themselves known, and I have to learn to let that be ok. I have to give myself some space and time and know that is the nature of the beast. Trauma has lasting impacts, and there are just some aspects of my life that, no matter how much I wish them away, are just going to be. 

I heart your heart.  To always healing. 

The first time He came

 

I remember seeing my own hand in another world far away. Frozen, and at the same time, so aware. I remember every little detail as if I was looking through a microscope. It's kind of crazy; I wonder if others remember things like this as well. I can see the whicker shelf and the cris cross pattern on the bottom.  It was a shelf that I had in my room when I was younger.  The same shelf that I used to sit in front of when I was in elementary school, talking to my stuffed animals, telling them that the things that were happening were ok, would be over soon, and I would be ok.  I can remember a teddy bear that my grandmother got me, and when I was exceptionally anxious, he was my go-to friend. I kept him on the bottom shelf, almost eye level, like somehow he understood all that I was feeling. 

But back to that cold entryway floor at 13.  I never imagined he would show up, and even more shocking was just how cruel that he was. My little hand was almost lifeless. I was looking to my left, taking everything in, and at the same time having no thoughts at all other than how I was clean up and pretend that I was fine.  I was so focused on my hand, trying to ignore what was happening to my body and yet being so aware. There was an awareness that I didn't want to have.  I knew what he was doing;  I was there and in another place somewhere safe and very far away, all at the same time. I was frozen in the details, the cold floor, my hands tiny, the pattern of the shelf. I wondered where the dog was and if she was scared.  But I don't remember the dog or their name.

Yet, my hand.  I can see my hand.  This is one of those times that I more than wish that I was able to draw the things I see in my mind. The brown geometric pattern of the linoleum floor.  my eyes tracing the shape, wanting to be anywhere other than where I was. I just wanted him to be done with me so I could breathe again and come back to life.  I was nothing; I meant nothing.  I was just used goods lying on the floor, that little hand lifeless.  I tried to fight in the beginning, thinking that I was going to make some heroic move and make him stop.  I don't think it took long for me to realize that no amount of pleading or fighting was going to make a difference.  That was one of the last times that I ever wore a skirt.  Somewhere in my little head, I began to believe that the skirt made me easy to get to, and I was never going to let that happen again.  If only a skirt could make a difference or not, he didn't care.  He came to take what wasn't his and wasn't going to leave until he got what he wanted. A girl of 13 used goods lying there on the cold floor.  Aware in more ways than I would ever want to be and lifeless all at the same time.  To be that focused on what I was seeing while being so hurt, how does a mind even begin to comprehend that. 

Tori Amos Silent All These Years 

I heart your heart. 

I had to hold his cross

 

All this time later, this is a thought, feeling memory that seems stuck.  The guilt that I felt, the horror I experienced, and I was the one who felt responsible for having to hold his cross as he raped me. It was my fault that I had to hold it, you know.  We couldn't wake anyone up. I was just a little thing; my arm was so cold.  I hated that cross and everything that it stood for. As he raped me, hurting me, tears flowed down my face. Waiting for it to be over, I held his cross so it didn't make any noise. I was maybe 6 or 7.  The shame in that and the fear for my mother when they went into the bedroom, and I would hear that same cross.  I was afraid for her, sorry that he was hurting her too.  I didn't realize that she was an adult and I was a child.  I just knew he did the same thing to both of us.  I understood her need to keep secrets, I understood, her fear the only difference is that she was an adult able to make choices that I was not provaledged too. 

I sit here, my stomach is in knots; where is this coming from today.  I have talked about it before, I have cried I have felt, such intense shame that I even knew what was expected and today this year I turn 50 and it makes my stomach quesy.  I can feel him after all this time. I close my eyes and the pictures are so clear, so vivid.  The look on his face, his eyes were closed; he was getting enjoyment from what he was doing to me. What a fucking monster.  Hold my cross as I rape you so no one hears the chain around my neck. I took in every second, every millisecond, trying to make sense, trying to understand, wishing that he would be done soon. That makes me want to run forever and smash things. It makes me want to do whatever is necessary to get that memory, that feeling out of my head.  It's one of those devastating moments that is crushing.  How does a person survive that?  I am on the other side and all these years older, but it replays just as clearly as it was in the present.  It isn't in my present, and not often does it even come to mind, but when it does, it is just as hurtful, just as painful.  I was just a girl. 

Sure, go to church, they say; believe in god, they say.  Do it because it's just the right thing to do.  This is not the right thing for me.  This is not a god that I want to believe in.  This is not something that I believe is going to save me.  I don't need saving; I need to stop being raped. I look around at where I am today, and that little girl never imagined anything different.  She never imagined a safe place; she never imagined a place to call her own where no one was ever going to do those things to her. I can't and won't believe in a god that lets such things happen.  A little girl holding something that is supposed to be sacred, as her body is being degraded and used in the most unthinkable ways. Yet, I am supposed in that kind of thought?  No, I do not and never have.

I have gotten myself here where I am and fought for everything. I can remember a woman who commented on a Facebook post that I had made it because of GOD.  I thought for a few days, and responded I understand your views, but I am not here because of any god that I know.  I am here because I chose to survive, I chose to fight, and I chose to make sure that others after me have better care than what I was given. I was unfriended by many that day, and I am not sorry and will not apologize. I am not going to pretend or keep my thoughts to myself.  I made it because I knew I wanted more.  I made it because even when things were at their worst, I wanted better. 

Someday, I hope that the pictures aren't vivid, clear, and hurtful. Someday, just not today. 

I heart your heart.   

She doesn't know anything else

 

Sometimes, you just can't explain what is happening inside. I feel like I am in this place with Spunky.  That 13-year-old part of me has been so broken.  She doesn't know anything else and is more than afraid.  There was a video with Besser VanderKolk, and he was talking about how Trauma is not about the memories but the reliving.  That hit me really hard.  I am not sure that she knows that all those terrible things that happened to her are over. She is in those moments.  It's not like the darkness is on her anymore.  It is that she can't see beyond those moments a lot of the time. I am reading this book about EMDR: Every Memory Deserves Respect, and I do believe that the experience that I had with EMDR was by a clinician who was not at all comfortable with Trauma, and that made the entire experience something that was very uncomfortable.  If you are not even comfortable sitting in the moment and breathing, it's something that a person is not ready for.  It's hard to explain.  Spunky's experience brought every single sense to a high that is hard for me to explain.  Imagine for a second every sense being on a level of 100 for an extended period of time, then becoming so overwhelmed that the world just goes black.  That was her experience for hours, and there was no escape, no relief, no safety, and the only next step was death.  So when I have to sit and focus on my breathing, to me, it's all those senses in that same place even all these years later.  It's so hard to explain.  Sitting just being asked to focus on my breathing is a kind of panic that is indescribable.  I remind myself about all the things and about being in the present moment and that I am not being hurt anymore; somewhere in those thoughts, my mind gets lost and goes back to that place of absolute terror. 

There are moments that are frozen in all senses. This is one part of the puzzle that has been the hardest to even look at because, for so much of it, there are no words. It's this feeling of being stuck, this panic that I am in danger. She is closer than she has ever been, I am more open to her than I have ever been, and I am still scared that what happened to her is going to swallow me whole. The pieces that I see are moments frozen in time, sometimes like a video that cuts in and out.  Other times, it's like a picture that has been put on pause, and you know what's coming, and there is not a single thing that can stop what is going to happen.  This is the place where she lives.   More lonely than a person can or could ever imagine. 

She deserves the world, yet feels like she is the lowest of the low.  She has no worth in a single cell and she feels so very desperate for any kind of connection.  She feels alive when she is able to connect with Whales.  I watched a movie, Patrick and the Whale, and it was the closest that she had ever felt.  Whales make her feel alive; she has a connection with whales that just is. it's a kind of heart connection that, if you know, you know.  It's something that has kept her alive, kept her breathing when all she wanted to do was stop.  There is a gentleness in whales that speaks to all the things that she has never had in life. When I bought that huge whale last week, there was a spark that made her feel alive.  She needs more of that.  I am going to do everything I can to bring that connection into all that we do so she can one day believe that she is so worthy and so deserving of all the good things that this amazing life has to offer. 

I heart your heart

End of the year words that Speak to my heart