I’m Here, I’m There

A short story on dissociation. Could be triggering. If you need to stay safe, don’t read this right now. Instead click here: let’s watch a video on a dog that won’t listen. 

So my post today is just on being triggered so easily. So innocently. It’s so messed up. I was taking a shower this morning, and bumped myself with my wedding ring in…a sensitive area…   A normal person would just say “Ow” and move on with their lives. But not me. I found myself stuck in the shower, alternating between the pain I feel now, and being back in 1984. On his bed, where he has done something to me to cause this sort of pain that I just replicated. What the hell was he doing to me?  I was on my back, staring at the ceiling. Sort of drifting off to the corner. I never watched him, instead choosing to pull myself deep into my own mind, while at the same time, moving away from my own body. But there was a sharp pain that jolted me out of that. I remember saying, “Ouch,” or something to that effect, and he paused. Handed me my purple plastic beaded necklace and told me to bite on it, when it was bad. He asked me if he could continue, and I said yes, grinding that necklace between my teeth, pulling back up and away from the pain he’s causing. My whole body is throbbing and I can’t claw away fast enough. My necklace is crushed with teeth marks. I am here, I am there. I’m still in the shower and the water’s getting cold. The person that’s stuck in 1984 can’t move to turn off the water in 2012. It’s a long miserable shower. Ruined by my own memory. It pisses me off. He ruins everything.

 

 

Empty

I found this great project, a visual project for survivors:  http://projectunbreakable.tumblr.com/

I sat and read through a few pages. Sent the creator an email. Thought about what I could write and photograph. I couldn’t think of any words. All I have are visuals. No words. This is all I have. I sank down and cried. And cried. And cried.

Oh, No He Didn’t

I talked to my dad the other day. I tried to discuss with him some of the reasons why I just can’t maintain a relationship with my mother. I wanted to talk to him about some of the responsibilities he bears in all this. He has been emotionally and physically absent my entire life. My relationship with him is about as deep as it is with, say, the gal that cuts my hair every two months. Actually, I see her more often than I see him….

In talking with him about how difficult it was for me growing up, he said, “Well, you’re stronger now because of it.”

I cut him off with, “Uh, fuck that shit.”

He didn’t quite know what to say. Neither did I.  His ignorance is stunning!

Recurring Dream

When I was a kid, I sort of joked with my friends that my family should get some giant Colorforms made, and put them on the front windows. Giant Colorforms of a happy family: sitting at dinner, playing a board game, having a sing-a-long at the piano. Giant Colorforms to obscure the unhappiness that was really inside. Everyone would chuckle, but I actually think there would be a market for it. Putting on that phony, happy face and pretending to be “normal” has caused this horrible recurring dream:

I’m not sure if it’s an empowering dream, or a nightmare. Maybe both. This dream is about confronting my mother. She is a small, sad woman. She is a short and stout, with a shock of thinning, dyed orange hair. She is about a half foot shorter than me, and about 80 pounds heavier, all in the middle. She stands on saggy, thin, bowlegged, shapeless legs. Her knees pop and crack like mine do. She is slightly crooked over to the side and forward. She has a hard time facing anyone. She always postures herself standing slightly turned away from any speaker, cocking her head and not really making any eye contact. When I’ve confronted her about her weird body language, she blames it on her bad hips. But really, if she were just to turn her whole body 45 degrees, she would be facing whomever is speaking, and actually look like she was engaged with what is going on.

So my dream starts off with her, slightly facing away from me, like a tilted humpty dumpty. She is leaning over on her cane, rolling her eyes and sighing. She says something like, “I don’t believe Storm ever really hurt you. You’ve always just been a brat, looking for attention.”  This word, “BRAT,” is seared into memory. She used to always call me a brat as a child. Maybe I was. Whatever. Two years ago, I agreed to go to meet with her therapist, when I was in town for my grandmother’s 90th birthday party. In that session, she complained to her therapist that I had been a brat as a child, and that’s why we have so many problems today. This “brat” went on to drive her home that day, then onto my grandmother’s birthday party, where I took care of my two year old son, mingled with the entire family (including Storm) and played nice. Pretended like everything was okay. Played the role of a giant, happy Colorform. More than happy… everything was GREAT. Smiles, smiles, smiles. Happy small-talk. Cake for everyone. Smile, dammit, smile. This isn’t really happening. Put on your fucking mask and smile! I am so good at that. I get through the day, then break out in a long, miserable stretch of chronic hives. The hives sometimes lasts for months. The longest episode was about two years of solid hives, sometimes the size of dinner plates.

When she calls me a brat in my dream, I charge at her. No more smiles in my dream. No more pretending. She is knocked to the ground and her cane goes skidding away from her. She looks scared. She protests with a yelp. There is no one to help her. I sit on top of her, holding her down with one hand. I’m clutching her throat tightly, and pressing down into the hard, cold floor. I get close to her face, so she can feel my breath against her face. I squeeze and I’m breathing hard. She squirms, but is unable to yell or gather the strength to get me off. Her body tenses, but relaxes again and again, the more I choke her. I slowly lower my face to hers. I push her neck and shake her head to the side. In her ear, I hiss exactly what Storm did to me. In every detail. I tell her in disgusting detail, every single memory I have. I vocalize everything I know, as I squeeze the life out of her, pushing my weight down, knocking her head against the ground with my punctuation. I tell her the awful details in quiet whispers. All the things that I’ve never been able to write down, much less say. Her eyes bulge and tears stream down her face. My breath is hot in her ear and I spit on her. I tell her, “So, Fuck You.” I knock her head against the ground one more time for good measure, punch her hard in the ear, and get up to walk away.

At that moment, I wake up suddenly, unable to breathe. My muscles are tense and I can’t catch my breath. The blood is pounding in my ears, and it’s matching the uncomfortable sensation throughout my body. The sensation of being abused. I stuff a pillow between my legs, roll over and curl up in a fetal position. I try to slow down my breathing and go back to sleep. I visualize every sound and hand positions for different Chopin Nocturnes. I doze lightly the rest of the night, listening to the whole house snore.

 

Shitiversarry

Today is my abuser’s birthday. I am sure he is celebrating with family and friends. I spent some time reliving some trauma, feeling sorry for myself, and baking muffins. Later on, a dear friend brought me a really thoughtful gift and we spent the evening together, just hanging out and being real. It’s the best Shitiversarry I’ve ever had.

Oh, And Another Thing…

Sometimes we have these things happen to us, and to just about anyone that was “normal,” it would freak them out and send them to the therapist’s couch for a few years. But for me, I am just glancing at yet another incident that seemed so “minor” at the time. As you read this story, I want you to keep in mind that it was just a blip on my radar at the time. This is how fucked up the rest of my life was…. for something this awful to just be a “nothing.”  That is what bothers me the most now. 

So, yeah. This story might be a little triggering. So if you’re not in a good spot to read stuff like this, why not listen to the Schubert Impromptu I’m working on right now. If I romanticized Schubert like Vladimir Horowitz, my dear old piano professor probably would’ve slammed the lid down on my hands, but that’s a tale for another blog. Onto the story.

Labor Day Weekend. Just about to start high school. There is a group of neighborhood boys I’ve been hanging out with all summer. They are bad boys. Older. Seniors? I don’t know. One of them is sort of nice. His name was Wayne. He lived in a house with a pool and never put his hands on me. He did sort of go along with the crowd, though. He was a bit of a wimp, looking back. I think he drove a white Mustang. I used to swim in his pool quite a bit. It was the fun party house. The other two, brothers, Matt and Mike, were bad boys. Bad, through and through. They lived across the street. Their mother was a sweet lady and I liked to stand in the kitchen with her, chit chatting. I think she liked me, and wished she had a daughter. She was such a nice lady, and they were so mean to her. I remember them calling her names in front of me and charging down into the basement, laughing. I remember staying up there, to just keep talking to their mom. I remember wishing I had a mom that talked to me like that.

I didn’t especially like the boys, but I didn’t really dislike them. The younger brother was in my class, but it was the older brother that I thought was “cuter.” He was also the meaner one. The boys introduced me to hardcore music like Henry Rollins and Ministry. One of them shoplifted a Fugazi CD for me. I didn’t tell him that I didn’t even own a CD player (at the time, these things were NEW INVENTIONS and they cost a lot of money!), but I took the CD anyways. I took lots of stolen things from them. I think I walked around with a ripped off gold Cadillac hood ornament for a month, before my grandparents found it and got really pissed off at me. Theirs had been stolen a few years back, and they just didn’t understand why kids did that. They were so mad at me. I remember feeling very guilty and knowing I shouldn’t be hanging out with these boys.

Anyways, it was the end of the summer. School was starting the next day. All the neighborhood kids were hanging out, relishing the last bits of freedom. The sun had gone down and I knew I should be getting home soon. I had my new schedule tucked into my shoe. I remember comparing my classes with some of the other girls, hoping we’d have some classes together. Starting a new, big high school was scary, and none of us had the same teachers. I wasn’t too freaked out, though, because I was in marching band and had met all the band kids at camp that summer. They were all good kids and I knew they’d look out for me. But the neighborhood boys… they were bad news. There was some goofing around going on. I don’t remember. Horseplay. People were taking pictures. I still hate flashbulbs going off in the dark to this day. I remember all the flashbulbs.

One of the brothers, I think it was Matt, picked me up from behind. I was turned upside down and spun around. It was fun until my shirt flopped down towards my head. My entire chest was exposed, showing off my bra. The boys laughed. Someone yanked my shirt all the way down and it came off. I started screaming. Then there were bungee cords. And rope? I don’t know. Something. Still upside down, and now without a shirt, I was being tied to a tree. In the boys’ front yard. I am screaming bloody murder. I wonder where their mom is. Why doesn’t she come out and see what’s going on?  Everyone is laughing.  There are lots of hands on me. My shorts are gone. Where are my shorts? Flashbulbs are going off, and I’m blinded. I can’t see a thing. I don’t know what I’m supposed to cover up first with my hands. I’m sort of pudgy, so I’m trying to cover up my belly. I get tied to the tree like that, hands across my belly.

The boys continue to poke and prod at me. Girls are howling with laughter. I am tied to a tree in only my underwear. Oh shit, I think this is the underwear with a little hole in it. It’s not a hole in a terrible spot, but still a hole. It’s little-girl-style underwear. Flowered? I think flowered. They are laughing. They are poking it. I’m getting smacked with branches from the tree. They are whipping at me. I am crying. More pictures are being taken. I can’t see. I don’t remember. My head is pounding from being upside down.

At some point, everyone leaves. I am left in the dark with the crickets. My bike is on the ground. I somehow get myself out of the tree and land on the grass below. My back is scratched up from the tree bark. My clothes are on the ground, thank God. They are dirty and trampled on. I put them on, brush myself off, and hop on my bike. I pedal home and go up to my room. I need to get ready for school tomorrow, and I hope I don’t run into any of them. I didn’t.

I made a point to never ride by their house again. I don’t think I ever spoke to any of those kids again. I recently made contact with one of the girls on Facebook. She didn’t mention this incident. I think, as an adult, she would probably feel very badly about the whole thing. I remember her getting teased in school as well, so it’s not like we don’t walk around with battle scars. She is a nice person  now. She has a little boy and is a single mother. She has a high-profile career and travels a lot. I don’t know what happened to Wayne or Matt.  I heard that Mike, the younger brother of the two, had a heroin addiction. He moved back home and was in recovery. He didn’t make it, though. He hung himself in his parents’ garage. I think about his mom, and how she must’ve felt finding him like that. She was a nice lady. Didn’t deserve that. 

And so isn’t it so fucked up that something like this is shoved to the back of my memory? That it is a “nothing,” compared to the abuse I had at home?  That’s fucked up.

 

Memory Management

I have a dear friend who is going through a lot of bad memories right now. I feel so very helpless and sad that I can’t just take it away. Carry it for awhile. I know how bad bringing this to the surface can feel.  One of the most important things I learned in therapy, is that we don’t have to constantly live out these memories. We don’t have to torture ourselves. We can be in control. It’s okay to put it in a box, high on a shelf, take it down every now and then. Take it down with the therapist. Take it down with a friend. Take a look at it and put it away. The lid can go back on.  I learned that this is actually healthy management, not avoidance. It’s avoidance, say, if it’s something like confronting a bad behavior. Something that needs to stop or change. But this isn’t going to ever change. Our histories are what they are. Dealing with it constantly isn’t going to make it any better. In fact, it makes everything worse. We have to learn how to manage our memories. This skill lets me live a mostly normal day-to-day life.  I wish I could help shove the lid back on my friend’s box and let the screaming stop for awhile.

Under the Drill

My teeth are a wreck and I wish I could split the astronomical dental bills equally between Storm, my mother, and my father. Years of clenching and grinding my teeth from stress has cracked and worn the enamel down, letting all sorts of cavities grow wild. I’m not kidding you — the last time I went, I had nine cavities. I needed seven fillings, two crowns, a molar extraction from a failed root canal, some sort of excavation of the subsequent infection in my jaw bone, and a bone graft.  Now I need an implant, otherwise my teeth are going to shift, leading to bone loss and more problems. You would look at me and never know all the problems with my teeth. My teeth look pretty good, if I do say so myself. I mean, when I smile, I don’t look like a hobgoblin. They are relatively straight and white, I brush and floss like I should, and I wear a mouth guard at night to protect from more grinding damage.

And there’s no way I can just lay back in the dentist’s chair and let someone hover over me and shove things down my throat, while my sensitive teeth sing out in pain. Let’s just say the whole process is a little triggering. So for the past few years, I’ve opted to pay for conscious sedation during my dental procedures. When I lived back in the Midwest, I had a very nice dentist and therapist-like assistant, who held my hand and patted it until I was knocked out. She would talk to me in this low, calming voice. I think her voice alone could’ve put me into conscious sedation. Then my husband would drag me out to the car in a wheelbarrow and we’d go out for soup. I didn’t mind going to this dentist because they seemed to understand that I had an issue with large, imposing figures forcing my mouth open.

When I moved across the country to Giant Metropolis, I was at a loss to find a dentist. Plus we didn’t have any dental insurance for two years, so I hadn’t gone in quite awhile. Once we had insurance again, I called around to find a sedation dentist that had reasonable reviews and took my plan. Or so I thought. Turned out that he was never removed from my insurance directory and I had a six month debacle of arguing with both sides to fix it.  The dentist and insurance company reached some sort of agreement, but I still had to end up paying more out of pocket than I should have, or would have, had he actually been in-network.

Anyways, I should have known not to go to this dentist. With my last sedation dentist, I had a consultation beforehand with a very nice dental assistant, who asked me why I needed sedation dentistry. I gave her a very abridged version of my story, and she nodded and said she’d take care of me. She did. Always patting my hand as the dentist knocked me out, and stayed by my side. Nice folks. No problems. I never had to even open my mouth without being knocked out.

This new dentist, the slime bag, didn’t ask me anything. I had to endure x-rays at the consultation before he would even talk to me. He came back and not looking up from the images, proceeded to list all the problems that needed to be taken care of “immediately,” and they were willing to start today. I had to interrupt him to remind him that I was a sedation patient. He spun around in his chair, and said to the assistant, “Ah, we’re dealing with one of these dental chickens, so I guess we will reschedule for…”  I interrupted him again and said that I wasn’t just some “dental chicken.” He was bemused and teased me that I shouldn’t be so afraid. I blurted out, “I was sexually abused as a child. For years. I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. So, with all due respect, I sort of have a problem with anyone standing over me and shoving things in my mouth.” The tears started slowly overflowing, even though I was trying really hard to hold it together. He stared at me, horrified, and walked out of the room.  The assistant stood there and fussed with the tools for awhile, then also left.  After I pulled myself together, the assistant poked her head in to tell me I was done, and to go check out.

The receptionist, a loud, pushy woman, handed me a bunch of papers and said they had an opening later that week. She yammered on, “Dr. So-and-so has agreed to do your sedation for free, aren’t you so lucky? He has two daughters of his own and couldn’t imagine them going through that.”  WTF.  I should’ve just left. But at this point, I think I was just so triggered and was frozen there. My head was buzzing and everything felt just somehow far away. My arms reached out and I signed the papers.

The procedure was painful, expensive, and not at all like my old sedation dentist. I had to be seen on three separate days, which meant three separate sedations. Or sedation-attempts, should I say. He couldn’t find a vein easily on me. The first time, I was jabbed seven times, in my arms and feet. I’ve had plenty of IV’s in my life and this one hurt. It hurt like crazy. The assistant said to him, “Don’t you have any smaller gauge needles? This one is too big.”  He didn’t. In fact, he used the same needle over and over again with each failed attempt. He finally found a vein in the top of my foot. The second time, I reminded him of my “bad veins,” so he just went for the feet and found one on the fourth try. The third visit, he couldn’t find anything after four jabs, and rather than letting me reschedule, he gave me a shot of Valium in my arm and told me that it would be quick, so I shouldn’t be bothered by the procedure. Well, I was. It was awful. The Valium did nothing. And I felt like I couldn’t stop the procedure. I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t say no. My head was screaming. My teeth hurt. I was dissociated up into the corner. I should be “grateful” that he was doing it for free. I was being victimized all over again.

On top of that, my temporary crown fell out on a holiday and although he told my husband that he would come in to see me, his pushy receptionist called us back hours later to say that he wasn’t going to make it. She said he called in an Rx painkiller to the pharmacy, and “That should be good enough.”  It wasn’t. I spend over 24 hours in excruciating pain. The next day (at my scheduled appointment), I waited for over an hour for him to arrive. He was late getting to the office that day. I just sat in the waiting room with my soggy gauze hanging out of my head. He later lied and said that he never told my husband he was coming. Of course he was. Otherwise, we would’ve found another emergency dentist earlier that day.

The receptionist had the nerve to bring the free sedation back up again a few months later, when I was fighting both them and the insurance company for what was essentially a bait-and-switch. “So you have to pay a little more now. The dentist did your sedation for free. You should be grateful. That should cancel the billing differences all out.”  Um, the dentist offered to do the sedation for free. I don’t know why. Maybe he felt guilty about running out of the room at the first appointment. Maybe it’s because he shouldn’t be performing sedation dentistry at all.

I posted a negative review on the guy, and he called me the next day, bribing me with a few hundred more bucks to take down the review. I still had a $3000 outstanding credit card bill to pay on my teeth, so I took it.

Tonight, I’m just sitting here paying my Care Credit bill tonight.  I still owe over $1000, and I still need to get a post and implant done. Just as soon as this bill is paid off. I need to find a good periodontist. And another sedation dentist. *sigh*

 

Why We Carry Triggers

I was having coffee with a friend last night, who showed me some pictures on her phone. Pictures of a place that is triggering to her. I asked her why she kept them and she shrugged. It made me think about my own triggers and what I have done with them.

At one point in my life, I was convinced that the abuse hadn’t really affected me, and that there weren’t any such thing as triggers. I would freely go back to my mother’s house, where the abuse took place. I could still sleep in the same bed, sit on the same couch, eat off the same plates. The house smelled and creaked in just the same ways. But what should have been the comfort of “being home,” was really just one big flashbulb trigger after another. And I ignored it. When I moved out on my own, I was offered (and took!) all sorts of sheets and bedding that I was abused in. I took them with me and used these sheets and blankets well into my 20s. Every night must have been a flashback, but I chose to ignore it.

But I am sure I had all sorts of subconscious and physiological reactions to these triggers. I couldn’t take a deep breath. I couldn’t relax. I don’t think I ever slept well with these triggers around me. I’m sure I was openly agitated and pissed off, just not sure about what, though. 

I remember the day I discovered that I was triggering myself on a daily basis. It was the night that Princess Diana died. I sat up late with a friend, drinking wine and watching the breaking news. We drifted to a conversation about our trauma histories. He was also abused as a child. I casually mentioned that I still had the same bedding. Without skipping a beat, he stood up, stripped my bed, and threw my sheets over the balcony.  He then marched over to my linen closet and gathered up the rest. They went over the railing in a billowy plfoooof.  We laughed and I felt freed. I had no idea, really, how sick it was to be sleeping on the same sheets every night. I was just being a frugal college student and didn’t think carefully about what it all meant. I went out the next day and bought a new set of sheets, freed of that trigger. It felt really good.

I have overt triggers that make me freeze and then I can’t move. If I see any of those coming, I claw my way in the other direction. It’s almost silly the fear something so innocuous as a particular taste, a distinct sound, or smell can bring to a survivor to such a dark place. But these triggers that are more hidden, more sneaky, are dangerous, too. I think we all have triggers that we don’t really think about avoiding, yet they trigger us all the same. It might not be a fight or flight response, but it’s still a negative response (the agitation, the insomnia, the little bad habits that creep in). 

I think it’s important for survivors to explore and learn about all of their triggers.  I think even my mother’s voice is a trigger. I feel so much less anxious, knowing that I don’t have to listen to her voice on the phone, or on Skype, and longer. Keeping triggers around is just another form of self-harm. Protecting myself from those triggers is probably the nicest thing I can do for myself, as a survivor.

 

 

Fin

So I wrote a letter to my mother!  I will drop it in the mail tomorrow. I don’t want to hand it to her as she leaves, risking her going nuts before she needs to get on a plane. The last thing I need is for her to stay in my city a moment longer!

Here it is. I limited myself to one page. I didn’t want a diatribe. Just enough to get my point across. And it isn’t really even about the past — it’s about the present. I think it’s a good way to go. Whenever I have tried to talk with her, she always brings up my childhood like it is something that I can’t “get over” and I won’t “give [her] a chance.”

It feels so good to be doing this!  Like I’ve just taken a 250 lb. dump!

December 28, 2011

 

Dear [Mother],

This letter shouldn’t come as any surprise to you. Like I told you earlier this week, as your maladaptive, hostile behavior came out your first day here, “I Am Done.”  I am done with having you make ugly faces at me when I talk, done with your deflecting, your minimizing, your abrasiveness, your cold, narcissistic, helpless behavior.

Your erratic, hostile words and actions have made it unsafe for you to be around my children. Thirty five years of your shitty mothering aside, attacking me in the supermarket parking lot (over [Husband's] completely reasonable parenting – you want to talk about parenting skills? Do you really want to go there? You are, by all accounts, the worst “mother” in existence), proceeding to boo-hoo yourself through the store, sulk in the car, then turn it off like a switch and pretend like nothing transpired, is completely unacceptable. [Son 1] came home, stressed to the hilt by your behavior, and isolated himself to rip his big toenail off.  And I’m sure at this point, you want to blame me. Or [Husband]. Nope. [Son] is a happy, well-adjusted kid. We are good parents that set limits and actually parent our children. He has never done this before. And it’s funny – you said to [Husband], “Melody used to do these sorts of things when she was a kid.”  Do you see the pattern here? Who is the common denominator?  It is you. You are a miserable person, hell-bent on creating misery in the loved ones around you. For some fucked up reason, you want everyone around you to be as unhappy as you are. You have been agitated and miserable your entire life. No one wants to be around that.

I internalize your misery, too. The only times I get hives now are when you are here, acting crazy. I talked with [Son] about this incident and he told me, “I am sad.” Then he proceeded to apologize to me over and over. He has regressed this week, wanting me to rock him and sing to him at night, and fuss over his injury. Indeed, your behavior this week has done nothing but stress out my entire family.

We can’t stand to be around your miserable behavior. We have been so patient with you. Two years ago, [Husband] and I sat you down and implored you to go get help.  Even on your last visit in July, after I confronted you about your shitty behavior du jour, you admitted, “Maybe I’m just fucked up.” Indeed. You are. It’s not us. It’s you. Your therapy has obviously not done enough to help you. Well, you have to help yourself, and I’m afraid you are terminally lazy and emotionally crippled.

I cannot have you around my children, stressing them out. My children deserve so much more. If you loved your grandchildren, you would treat their mother with love and respect. Instead, I get showered with your hostility. You are clearly unhappy, and seeing your daughter surrounded by love and peace makes you bitter and jealous. You have always been jealous of my successes and talents. It is very sad that a mother would push her own daughter away so much. But I’m done trying to win your love and affection. I’m done trying to make it work, for the sake of Grandma, [Son1] or [Son2]. We are exhausted by you and I’m putting my foot down once and for all. I am done. That means I don’t want to have a relationship with you in any sense of the word. I will not tolerate you making my children stressed out, verbally abusing their mother and swinging your emotions like a yo-yo. My children deserve better. [Husband] and I deserve better. We have been very patient and given you lots of time to try and turn it around. You have done nothing but bring more misery with you, every step of the way. It’s too bad you fucked up. I gave you so many chances. Letting you back into my life was a gift that you squandered.

 

–Melody