You can't take away my thoughts and dreams

 

There are just times that Spunky becomes more prominent, and it weighs heavily on my heart. Pieces are slowly coming together, and I am grateful.  The fear is ever-present and so intense. Somehow, I am going to end up like Probst in K-Pax. The fear is that time and place can somehow destroy all that I have worked so hard to achieve. Things were just that terrifying.  I have come so far, and she is such a huge piece of who I am as a person, and I so want her with me on the rest of this journey. She is still sitting in Mark's waiting room, taking it all in. I think she is trying to see beyond what was done to how she feels and what she thinks. All the people around her blamed her, and she is trying to undo everything that still plays in her head. She is trying to move beyond the gross and disgusting to that place where she was just a scared girl who needed so much care. I think she often puts on a front that she doesn't need anyone or anything, and yet I know she needs so much. There is just so much loss that I think it could swallow her whole. I think when a person has had to keep it all together for so long, that step of letting someone in, even if that someone is me, is a huge step. 

I think so much of that deep, deep sadness that I often speak about comes from her and what she had to experience. I have worked so long finding the right words, and I still struggle to find words for her. The kind of aloneness that she endured feels like that last leaf holding on for dear life before winter comes. Everyone has moved on, and yet I am always the last one hanging on.  

I was talking to a friend the other day, and she said that when her husband got into trouble, his parents took everything away. All his toys, his favorite show on Tv. He would go sit on his bed and say, " Fine, you can take all those things, but you can't take away my thoughts and dreams. How beautiful is that? Spunky had everything so violently stolen from her. Her sense of who she was, her womanhood, her soul was shaken to the core, and still, she always kept going. She always found something to fill her heart, taking care of others, watching the sky, and believing in the kindness of whales.  I do think that, deep down, she always believed she would someday make a difference for others, and that she held onto for dear life. She has had to fight her entire life, and finally finally, I don't think she is fighting anymore. I think she is resting. She is watching and waiting for that moment when she feels confident she won't break when she finds the words for the thoughts and feelings she has always had to hide.  

I think sometimes she sits there on that couch with that trauma mountain in front of her and is trying to find the best option to make it over the top. I personally think she is further than she thinks she is, but I understand the terror. The couch in the waiting room is the safest she has ever felt, and I know the moment is coming when she will stand, take a deep breath, move through that door, take my hand, and we will finish this journey together, doing all the things we once could only imagine. 

I heart your heart. 

For those who are still whispering

 I saw a post on Facebook, a part of a poem, that stood out to me. No, I take that back, it was more like screaming at me. There are still times when I feel guilty for sharing my story or wanting to speak about the things that have happened to me. There are times, even in conversation, that I would love to speak up and say my truth, to talk about the things that I have had to face, yet that silence sits on our chest, and we keep our words and thoughts to ourselves. The things many have experienced are kept in the dark and overlooked. The things that have happened are things that are looked down on and judged, but I am here to stay forever and always true to who I am. From my very being, I want to shine a bright light on those awful things as a path for others to heal. Even today, after all the work I have done, there are moments I find myself shrinking, becoming small, and I look forward to the day that  Irise higher instead of shrink smaller. I look forward to the day when I don't have to hold my story back for fear of what others might think. I look forward to the day that I am able to hear, " Thank you for sharing your story for speaking up, because in that, I found my own way." 

I promise it's not this look at me kind of thing, it's a quiet strength, a courage, a hope that things could be so different for others. I am tired of people having to whisper and pretend that their hearts are no longer broken, or that the ache of trauma is all gone. It may ache forever. That has to be ok, but as time passes, edges smooth, we grow older, we see things differently, and sometimes we can sit and hold our hand on our heart and know just how far we have come. If we can come this far, we can go the rest of the way, and we will come out on top, feeling lighter, with a peace that we never ever imagined. 

In counseling my clients I sometimes hear myself and think, wow look at the things you are able to see in them but are unable to hear. I tell them how brave and strong that they are how much worth that they have but those things in me are often a whisper. A whisper I am working on but still a whisper. 

To all those still whispering including myself, we deserve to have a voice and for it to be heard. 

I heart your heart. 

Look for the windows

 This semester is going to be amazing; I have a professor who values who we are as people. We are seen and genuinely heard. He speaks to us as the counselors that we all hope to become. He wants us not only to be better for ourselves, but for our clients. He tells stories, many of them more than once, but each time he tells one, I see it differently and consider its impact on a client. He may tell the story more than once, but I see it differently each time. Today, he was talking about seeking windows that let us gather more information and gain insight into our clients' world. They are going to give us those windows; it's about recognizing them and doing something with them. What one person may see as a window and fly through, gaining so much, might not be seen by another. Each window is an opportunity to learn more, do better, and gain a deeper understanding of where a client is at any given time. 

I think maybe this is true for all of us. We are all just hoping to share something of ourselves and to make a difference for others. We are all looking for that just-right person to come along who can hear our song, see our heart, and gently touch our soul. When that happens, we can open our window and share a deeper part of who we are. I hope that I am that for my clients: I hope that I catch those open windows and hear them in the right places, in the ways they need it most.  

So often in my life, there have been people who have either ignored those windows, chosen to look the other way, or not even cared that they were there in the first place. Today, that makes me so sad.  So many missed opportunities that no one took the time to see. I truly think that is one of the things that makes me, me. I notice those windows; I notice the little changes, the differences, and I acknowledge them. That is something that I will always always do. 

I heart your heart. 

Are you the girl ?

 

So many dreams and nightmares lately. Last night was no different.  I went to someone's house, which was huge, and lots of people were there. I am not sure why, but it felt like everyone was there for me. And then one guy, someone's dad, was talking to me and came right out and asked, "Are you the girl who was raped?" There was a feeling of shock, and I said yes. But there wasn't a sense of shame at all.  He said he was sorry, and someone brought out a huge stuffed animal for me. I think it was a Snoopy. This guy gave me a hug and said that he was sorry. I just cried. It felt like everyone in the room was there to support me. People were asking questions and supporting me in ways I had never known. Experiencing something like that, even in a dream, is a feeling that is so unfamiliar. To be able to speak and say yes, those things happened to me, but it finally felt like I wasn't the one who had done something terrible for the first time ever. That feeling that I had being in that room, being able to say yes, and then not feeling like I was something disgusting or less than.  The way that I felt in that room was the way that I felt after my documentary with Neil, Val, and Jim. I could have fallen over, and they would have caught me.  It was such an amazing feeling to have that kind of love and support.  I woke up and didn't want to; I wanted to stay right there and hold on to the feeling in the dream forever. 

And I think I am 50 and just had that dream, that would have meant the world to me when I was 13. Feeling like I was worth something, like I wasn't the one to blame, I wasn't the one at fault. Just to feel like I wasn't all alone in the world would have meant more than words. My heart hurts, and I have been teary-eyed all day. I think there was a part of me that wanted to go back to sleep, longing for that feeling.  That even with what happened to me, I was still loved and respected. I don't want to be 50 and still crying; it was such a long time ago, and yet the feelings are so raw. Today I felt like that scared little kid, afraid of the world and all that it couldn't give me.  Today it felt like it was yesterday, and I was as alone as ever. I haven't felt like this in a very long time.  If I could have just crawled back into that dream just to capture that feeling and bring it to 2026.  I would give almost anything to make that happen. To feel like I am more than the things that happened to me. To feel like someone gave a shit and cared enough to give me a hug and make sure that I was ok.  I think I would have given anything for someone to ask Are you the girl who was raped. and then to respond with such kindness. Such love, to even give her a hug. 

I often talk about how attached those things are to me, but in the dream, after he asked about me and offered care, there wasn't the same kind of attachment. I think sometimes I see myself as all those things that happened, I see the gross and disgusting, I see the marks, I feel the hands.  I still feel the pain in the worst of the nightmares. There wasn't a moment of blaming myself; there wasn't a moment that I felt gross and disgusting in that dream. There was just the fact that it happened, and I deserved the same love and respect as anyone else. 

Haven't had a day like this in forever. It felt closer than ever, and I just want to close my eyes and imagine all that I felt in the dream were things that I wish Spunky had at 13. 

I heart your heart.

My body still doesn't know its over

 

As far as I have come, there are still things that pull me back. Back to the place that I still fight so hard to recover from.  The nightmares, flashbacks, triggers, and bruises at night are still there for a good deal of the time.  I can go for some time without them, and then out of nowhere, they come back with a vengeance with no rhyme or reason. So much of me is still fighting all that happened to me. I am in such a different place in my mind.  I have learned to take things as they come and keep moving forward.  There are still days that the memories kick the shit out of me, and I become one very messy, complicated human. The morning's that I can't even brush my teeth, and the anger that I feel for myself is intense.  The mornings that a shower feels more like a memory chamber than anything peaceful and calming. The days when I lay down to sleep, and I still see the fan, and without warning, I repeat their names as I did all those years ago. The things that have happened to me live in every cell of my body. I have come so far, and I have so far to go. 

There are just things that I don't understand, and I am not sure that I ever will.  How the mind works, how trauma is processed and remembered. The insignificant things that stick out, and the big things that are not even a clear thought.  I can remember a therapist telling me once that the nightmares and flashbacks were a choice. I took that to mean that it was something that I was purposefully doing, and I think that I have held on to a part of that. It's me, I am the problem, I am keeping these thoughts and memories alive. It's not like that; there's a part of me that cannot let go of the most haunting things. There are pieces of me that are just trying to make sense of the things that hurt so much. Somehow, someway, I should be able to stop those things in my sleep, stop those intrusive thoughts, and just move past them, but if it were a conscious choice, I would have stopped them a long time ago.   

There are things that live in my skin, even on my skin. Sometimes even a kind touch can wake the memories, and instead of something loving and kind, it turns dark and heavy.  Some words, songs, even tone of voice, and my heart skips a beat, I am thrown back to a time that was more than dangerous. Sometimes I hear a song, or remember the beat, and I freeze even after all this time. And it's more than hard to understand, because those things just happen, literally in my skin, there is a reaction sometimes before I even have words for it. Last week, I wrote about breathing and how hard that is. When certain things happen, there is no response; it's a level that happens before I am even fully aware of it.  There are times, even after a counseling session, I can't catch my breath because literally sometimes the things that are spoken take my breath away. Sometimes the thoughts and reactions that I have become so automatic that even though I am aware today of so much, and have worked so hard on healing, there are things on a different level where there are no words that I am working so hard to unravel, unpack and truly understand.  The nature of trauma is such a beast in every sense of the word. 

I heart your heart.

Reactions

 

I always think about how things could have been different for me if someone cared, if someone held my hand and let me know it wasn't my fault.  I wish someone sat me down, listened to me, and given me space to talk about what happened, and didn't blame me. I had a moment the other day, and I thought, what if I had known Mark back when I was 13?  I was half awake, half sleeping, but the thought of someone caring and reacting appropriately made me cry. For that girl who just wanted to know she wasn't so awful. That girl was drowning under all that she was carrying, and each person looked the other way. In that space between sleeping and awake, Mark was walking away from everything that was so awful and was carrying me in his arms.  He was carrying Spunky far away from everything and everyone who was unkind.  It was the warmest feeling in the world. I was holding on, my arms around his neck, grateful to feel some safety and some peace.  Crazy as an adult to need that kind of care. I was who I am, just watching and grateful. It felt like one of those scenes where a firefighter is carrying someone away from the flames. Same feeling, just a differing situation.  

It's not just what happened to me at 5, or at 13, or in my 20's; it's all of those things together that I have experienced that make up the person I am today. I am strong, and I am ok most days, but those things have affected me forever and always will be a page in my story, the worst, the tragic, and the unimaginable. There are going to be things that come up on all the days of my life that I will have to sit with.  Some things I will hold my heart and wail at the devastation, and just try to breathe through the moment. Other things will feel crushing, and I will be angry that they still bother me. Then there will be things that there are no words for, that just need someone to hold space until I can catch my breath, and know that I have come so far. Always the journey, there will never be a moment when what has happened to me is finished. It sounds awful, but trauma is something that will forever and always have an impact. Sometimes small and other times huge, still an impact all the same. 

I wonder what others have done when they have found out their mother, daughter, or sister has been assaulted. I wonder what their thoughts were, how they treated them, what they were thinking, and what help they offered. Did they hold them, let them cry?  Did they ask questions? Did they ask them what they needed? Did they make sure they got medical care, did they ask them if they wanted to call the police. If they were not yet of age, did they make them feel loved? Did they explain that what happened to them wasn't ok, and that the police need to be notified so there can be some kind of justice?  Were they treated with respect, and their thoughts honored and heard?  I want to know about those things and what others have experienced. 

There is a woman that I know, who I have picked up parts and pieces of different stories.  Maybe I am just thinking too much, but I believe that her daughter may have been assaulted. She has spoken about how the world has not been kind to her and about her choice to put animals before people. There was a conversation about driving to counseling, and the music she listened to, and the idea of rape culture was brought up.  Maybe I am looking into it too much, but there is a gut feeling. Even today, I can feel the care for her daughter, the desire to understand, and the desire to understand where she has been in the world and why she sees things the way she does. Even the other day, I was sharing that I wasn't smart enough for the Ph.D program, and she said that her family has always participated in counseling and would choose me, hands down.  That meant the world to her, and I was moved to tears.  To know that someone would trust you with their family, their heart, is a really big deal. The kindness she showed her daughter was exceptional, and I hope that someday I gain a deeper understanding of her situation and get some insight into her thoughts and feelings about what happened. 

I even watched a special about Elizabeth Smart.  And she said that the rapes really weren't talked about. She felt terrible and didn't know how to even talk about it.  She didn't know the difference between consent and love, and the things that happened to her. That was astounding to me, to have parents be so understanding, and yet a huge part was looked over and never acknowledged, and not because there wasn't love or concern, maybe they just didn't know how. But the impact that had on her was huge.

And I think about that, and my heart sinks. For me, I am not sure that there is a difference. For me, it's all violence, assault, and harm.  I am not sure I can imagine making the choice to purposely have sex; I just go away. I have had sex since I was five years old. There is a certain weight to the things that i carry, that are entangled in every piece of all that I am.  I knew I was hurt; I didn't really understand what was happening. Yet, when I did, I felt like I was something terrible, awful, and I was the one who had done something wrong. When I think about a relationship, or maybe getting married someday, I think, how could I do that to a man?  Sorry, I am used goods, I will love you with all that I am, but please don't expect me to be anything sexual. Not something that I have to worry about today, but sometimes I feel like that piece is broken.  I wonder: if I ever did get into a relationship, how would my past impact it? Would they be angry? Would they be ok on those days I just want them close and to feel safe? Would they be okay with not knowing some things, or would they want to know to understand the woman I am? So many questions. 

I think of my children, and someday, if they ask more questions or have concerns, what will their reaction be towards me? Will they think of me differently?  I so badly want that open communication to know their thoughts and feelings. They know my heart, what I have done, and how I want to make a difference. Still, things are not openly discussed, and I wonder if they ever will be. Will Amelia have questions about why there is no grandfather? What will her thoughts and reactions be? So many questions.  Some things are not in my everyday, some things are not in my year, but then there are other things that are my everyday, and I want others to understand that. 

The reactions we have, how and why we have them, matter. They matter for survivors and how they interpret the world around them going forward. I will always be forever grateful to Mark for not giving up on me, for always making time and creating space for me to heal, to recover, to become the woman that I was always meant to be. He took the time and has cared for little Callahan, giving her a safe place and time. He has cared for spunky, validating all that she feels and never pushing her to do or be anything other than who she is. And for me, to make me laugh when that's the last thing I want to do, for encouraging me when I am so done, giving up feels like the best option. For his belief in me and knowing that I have what it takes to continue moving forward and make each of my dreams come true.

Reactions matter to a person in the moment and in every moment of the rest of their lives. 

 I heart your heart. 

Breathing

 You know, you would think that something so necessary to life would be easy, but the truth is it's not. Breathing is hard for me most days. Often, I have to remind myself to breathe. When someone tells me to breathe, I get this panic that makes my breathing even harder. I wish I had the just-right words to describe everything that goes on inside me when I am asked to focus on my breathing. And then being asked to close my eyes and breathe feels like something so dangerous and life-threatening.  There is this automatic response that makes me feel like I am fighting for my life. 

People often say to stop and focus on your breathing to calm down, but for me, that does the exact opposite. That stillness, that quiet, is dangerous, and a person has no idea what can happen in those moments. Focusing on my breathing for some reason brings me to the exact thing that shook me to my core. I can't take the time to breathe because for me, my very survival is at stake. I wish I had better words.  When the breathing does come naturally, when I am holding my granddaughter, when I am in a session with a client, breathing is normal and natural. When I have to focus on myself, terror creeps in, and I want to run. Focusing on my own breath brings a sense of impending doom, and it feels like I am not working hard enough to keep myself safe. 

Part of breathing brings me back to thirteen, and trying to focus on the little things just to survive.  In the most awful parts of the day, as they each took their turn and I just watched the fan, thinking each time would be the last, I am not sure I was really breathing. I know, in my head, physiologically, I had to have been, but everything in me was just trying to get through second by second. Everything was happening so fast around me. So many of them were coming at me, wanting me to do such horrid things that even breathing became something secondary.  For me, sitting with my own breathing brings me to that time, and I wish that I totally understood why. I don't think I know why, and maybe it scares me to find out. If you just pretend that you aren't breathing, then you don't exist, and if you don't exist, then those things really aren't happening. I would have given anything not to be there under that fan. I would have given anything not to be so hurt, so brutalized and disgusting. 

I heart your heart