Is it Over Yet? (Dealing with Complex PTSD)

You and I may have our own opinions about which kinds of trauma impact survivors the most, have the most lasting effects, or are the most difficult to deal with. What types of injuries take the longest to heal -- physical or emotional? Sorry ... I'm not going to even ATTEMPT to answer that question at the moment. There's no doubt, however, that even once a wound heals, it can still cause pain (whether physical OR emotional). Interestingly enough, even the US military recognizes that just because a traumatic event may be "over" doesn't mean the effects of that trauma are "over."

(Quotes from articles in blue, my comments in black & any bold added by me for emphasis):

In an article by Sarah Williams Volf,  I read:

"For many military personnel the fighting does not end in the combat zone. Many returning service members face increased anxiety, sleepless nights, and rapid flashbacks that can immediately take them back to the combat field. It is also a fact that many individuals will not seek help out of fear of being stigmatized. Some may not be diagnosed until 10-20 years after their time in the Army; this can be particularly true for those serving in Vietnam. The symptoms of PTSD can arise suddenly, gradually or may come and go over time. It is imperative to get help. Avoidance will ultimately harm your relationship and quality of life. There are many professional and organizations that will provide excellent resources for you."

She's right.  PTSD can wreak havoc on one's life, both literally and figuratively.  And soldiers aren't the only ones who don't want to seek help out of fear of being stigmatized.  Who wants the label of  "mentally ill"  being applied to them? I know I sure don't!  The military has gradually provided more support to veterans that suffer from PTSD over the years, but even within the military, physical trauma still trumps emotional trauma when it comes to veterans being taken seriously and receiving the vital treatment and support services that they need. In fact, according to an article by Conn Hallinan, the Pentagon went so far as to decide not to award the purple heart to veterans who were "only" suffering from PTSD.  Hallinan goes on to explain:

"The official rationale for refusing to honor what is widely considered the "signature wound" of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan is that PTSD, according to Pentagon spokeswoman Eileen Lainez, is "an anxiety disorder caused by experiencing or witnessing a traumatic event," not "a wound intentionally caused by the enemy."

So, following that "logic," if a bomb is "accidentally" dropped in the wrong place and wounds or kills someone "unintentionally," then those wounds or deaths wouldn't be all that important?!

"The military has made little effort to deal with PTSD and MTBI (Mild Traumatic Brain Injury, a condition caused by being near where a bomb goes off. Its symptoms are virtually indistinguishable from PTSD).

Soldiers suffering from PTSD outnumber amputees at Walter Reed Hospital 43 to 1, but there is no PTSD center (yet they opened a multi-million dollar amputee center there  in 2007).

After diagnosis, PTSD sufferers usually go to the hospital's psych ward, where they are housed with bipolar and schizophrenic patients and tanked up with drugs. A study by Veterans for America (VFA) found that some soldiers were taking up to 20 different medications at once, some of which canceled out others."

PTSD and MTBI both result from deployment in combat zones. Large numbers of these soldiers were exposed to IEDs - but many didn't suffer visible injuries. To make "shedding blood" the only criterion for being awarded a Purple Heart (and the benefits that go with it) is to deny the nature of the wars the United States is currently fighting."
-------------------------------------------------------
Why am I even bringing this up?  Because I feel that it's unfair to expect someone who has survived over a decade of extreme emotional and sexual trauma to be able to simply "bounce back" immediately and function at a "normal" level.  Although the military may not deal with emotional trauma as effectively as it deals with physical injuries, soldiers returning from even one year in combat are still expected to need intensive counseling and are given a considerable period of time for recovery and readjustment. 

How is it then, that after nearly 15 years in a horrifyingly abusive relationship, I am somehow expected to simply set aside the flashbacks, the body memories, the nightmares, and just "get on with my life?"  Why can't people understand how crippling it is for a woman to endure an abusive relationship for years on end, with no hope of there being any end in sight?

In the army, at least you know who the enemy is and they don't switch sides.  In an abusive relationship, however, a woman must often rely on "the enemy" for sustenance.  Just to survive, she must learn to read her partner's every cue (both verbal and non-verbal), anticipate his responses, meet his every need, and obey his every command.  She constantly tiptoes across a tenuous tightrope, never sure if today is the day her partner will bring home flowers or ambush her by bringing home another woman and expect her to cooperate in some twisted sexual fantasy that he has conjured up.

Women in abusive relationships live in a combat zone every day . . . and must sleep with the enemy every night. 

There is no rest.  There is no hope.  There is no help.

There is only SURVIVAL.

They are constantly threatened -- threatened with physical harm, threatened with financial abandonment, threatened with embarrassment, threatened with annihilation, threatened with humiliation, and, perhaps worst of all, threatened with harm to or separation from their children.  They are ridiculed, tormented, and tortured.  They rarely know when an attack will occur, how severe it will be, or how long it will last. In the back of their minds, they often wonder, "will this be the time he finally kills me?"  And for some, the thought of death at his hands almost sounds like a blessed reprieve from the hell they endure day in and day out. 

What makes domestic abuse that much more damaging and painful is that, quite frequently, an abuser may treat his partner rather nicely on occasion.  He's not a "monster" 100% of the time.  If that were the case, it might be easier for women caught in the crippling cycle of domestic abuse to seek help.   However, men who are sadistically abusive at home can often behave as the "perfect gentleman" when in public.  They may be described by friends and coworkers as "such a nice guy."  And if a woman dares to disclose even a portion of what is going on at home, she is frequently dismissed as yet another "disgruntled housewife" who is just "looking for attention."

Strangers aren't the only ones who fall for abusers' "nice guy routines."  My ex-husband could be very charming when he wanted to be.  He'd buy me flowers, offer to fix supper, bring me breakfast in bed, etc.  Sometimes all it would take was an insincere "I'm sorry" from him or a small trinket he'd grab on his way home from work and I'd allow myself to believe that perhaps he had really changed for the better. 

From speaking with other domestic violence survivors, I know that I am definitely not alone in this.  Even the slightest acts of kindness from the abuser give a woman a false sense of hope that maybe things will be alright from now on.  She lets herself think that maybe the war is over and may "come out of hiding" for a minute.  Exhausted, she lets down her guard and dares to trust just a little.  Just when she thinks it might be safe, she is blind-sided by another wave of abuse -- and this cycle is repeated over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.  For years and years. Until the days and weeks and months all blend together into a discombobulated blur of nothingness.  There is no one to tell her that there might be a way of escape. No one to tell her that what is happening is not her fault. The only thing she can do is try to survive.

Just try to survive. 

I'm reminded of the stories of Japanese soldiers that didn't know World War II was over (from an article by Cecil Adams):

"In early 1945 Japan had about three million troops overseas, about a third of them dug in on islands throughout the Pacific. These men were thoroughly indoctrinated in the warrior's code of Bushido, which held that it was better to die than to surrender — and by God, that's what they did. Of 23,000 Japanese soldiers on Iwo Jima, for example, 21,000 were killed and just 200 captured. Only after Emperor Hirohito ordered his forces to surrender following the dropping of the atom bomb did Japanese troops give themselves up in massive numbers.

In an era before the pocket pager, however, not everybody got the message. Many Japanese soldiers had been cut off from the main army during the Allies' island-hopping campaign and continued to resist. Sporadic fighting continued for months and in some cases years after the formal surrender. Two hundred Japanese soldiers were captured on the island of Mindanao in the Philippines in 1948, some others surrendered on an island north of Saipan in 1951, and a few hard-core types didn't surface until the 1970s and later.

One much-publicized case was Lieutenant Hiroo Onoda. He had been stationed on Lubang Island in the Philippines when it was overrun by U.S. forces in February 1945. Most of the Japanese troops were slain or captured, but Onoda and several other men holed up in the jungle. The others were eventually killed, but Onoda held out for 29 years, dismissing every attempt to coax him out as a ruse. Finally the Japanese government located his commanding officer, who went to Lubang in 1974 to order Onoda to give up. The lieutenant stepped out of the jungle to accept the order of surrender in his dress uniform and sword, with his rifle still in operating condition.

Onoda was hailed as a hero in Japan, as was another holdout, Shoichi Yokoi, who surrendered in 1972 after decades in the jungles of Guam. Yokoi's comment to his countrymen: "It is with much embarrassment that I return." He felt he'd let down the side! That's Japan for you: good on stick-to-itiveness, maybe not so good on midcourse corrections. Not to encourage slackers, but there's such a thing as knowing when to quit."

So . . .  here I am.  The war is over, but I don't fully know it just yet.  I'm still "wandering around in the jungle," so to speak.  Sort of.  On an intellectual level, I suppose, I realize that the abuse isn't happening anymore. However, my bodily response to external stimuli (or internal for that matter), doesn't always reflect that realization and still sometimes "does its own thing" without warning (i.e. heart races, hyperventilate, stop breathing, urinate, cold sweat, shaking, etc).  My emotions don't always realize that it's over either -- especially when my abuser is still able to manipulate and harass me from afar via the phone and internet/email (not to mention toying with my children's emotions during & between visitations as well as continuing to torment us all via the legal system). 
 
Maybe there are simply gallons of tears "stored up" somewhere that I never got to cry & I've simply "stashed it all away" for safe-keeping.  They have to come out sometime, and I can't always predict when that's going to be.  Every now and then I'll just start bawling for no apparent reason and gush like a freaking baby.  Really, it's quite pathetic!  Other times I'm able to hold back my emotional & physical responses to stressors, but that containment process requires such an enormous amount of energy that I don't have any brain cells left to process all of the basic daily information I'm bombarded with at work & at home (sometimes leaving me a virtual vegetable, intellectually speaking). 

How do I cope?  I write myself notes.  Lots and lots of notes.  :o)

People sometimes get irritated with me for emailing them (they say, "Why can't you just pick up the phone and call me?").  But honestly, sometimes email is the only way I can keep track of who I've talked to, when I talked to them last, and what we have and have not spoken about.  I can't always remember telephone conversations or times when I speak to someone in person. Verbal conversations often simply float right out of my head (especially if I'm doing several things at once when someone speaks to me; and chances are, if I'm awake, I'm doing at least 3-4 things at once).  But if a "conversation" is written down, I can read it several times and/or refer to it later and remind myself of what was said, to whom, and when. 

I'm terrified to tell anyone that I'm having this much difficulty concentrating, though.  I don't want anybody thinking I've "lost it" and shipping me off to the "loony bin."  So I write my adorable little post-it notes, I work my 50 hours a week, I scramble to fit a therapy session in every now & then when I can, and I do my best to "function normally."

Deep down, I can't help but wonder, though . . . if my arm or leg were mangled, would someone expect me to run a marathon? 

[Begin sarcasm] BUT, Since it's only my psyche that's mangled, though, I guess it's okay to expect me to not only solve my own problems, but to solve other people's problems as well.  It's not at all unreasonable to ask me to have it all figured out by now and to get on with my life as though nothing has happened.  After all, isn't it all about putting one's mind over matter?  Apparently, I'm just not trying hard enough. 
[End sarcasm]

Please don't judge me, my words, my thoughts, my feelings, my level of functioning, or the way I communicate based on your upbringing, your education, your life experience, and/or your belief system.

You were not in combat with me. 

You didn't lie beside me in a puddle of your own blood, urine, and/or vomit, trying to nurse and soothe a terrified infant while being raped. 

You didn't cringe in silence when he brought the butcher knife into the bedroom . . . and you didn't secretly wish he would finally use it to put you out of your misery.


You didn't barricade yourself and your children in the bedroom, desperately moving furniture in front of the door while he split it apart to force his way in.

You didn't have to provide sexual favors in order to procure money to provide for the basic needs of your family.

You didn't stay up for hours on end preparing your abuser a meal from scratch in the middle of the night because ravaging you had caused him to "work up an appetite" . . . and then have to clean up the broken glass and food when he threw it at you because he changed his mind and decided he "was in the mood for something else." You didn't have to stay up even longer to cook him something else, only to hand him the plate and be informed that the "something else" he really wanted is you.  You didn't have to stand there as it dawned on you that "round two" was on its way, whether you liked it or not . . . and maybe round three . . . or four.
Please don't take this to mean that I am discounting any part of your experience. You may have had a great deal of pain in your life as well.  You may have had your share of sorrow.  Your experiences might have been just as bad as mine . . . or maybe even worse.  I do not know.  I could not know, even if you told me . . . because: 

Your experience is yours, and my experience is mine. 

I can't begin to tell you what is right for you to feel or when it's right for you to feel it.
Likewise, I'd sincerely appreciate it if you would please stop telling me how I should feel or behave or how long I should feel or behave that way.  I "should myself to death" enough already.

How are you?

How AM I? If I hear one more person ask me how I am, I think I'll scream. Granted, if they actually GAVE A CRAP about how I really am (or better yet considered actually DOING anything to improve the situation), then maybe I wouldn't be so quick to judge. But seriously, people, when was the last time you answered that question ("how are you?") honestly? So, in the interest of all those times that I REALLY wanted to answer openly, here goes . . .

How am I? I'm despondent. I'm discouraged. I'm disheartened. I'm depressed. I'm dysfunctional.  I'm disgusted. I'm doubtful that justice exists.

Today I got the shit kicked out of me in court by my husband's high-priced lawyer (that he's paying for with credit cards that he's probably going to then claim is marital debt and try to force me to pay half of). Meanwhile, I'm stuck with a pro bono lawyer who takes 5 minutes to form a complete sentence and doesn't do a damn thing I tell her to. 
I've been sick for 2 weeks. Low grade fever, chronic cough, lower back pain, fatigue, and generally "achy" all over. It's most likely bronchitis . . . maybe a kidney infection thrown in somewhere . . . oh, and did I mention the YEAST INFECTION? Yeah, that's fun. The burning and itching all the time. Joy of all joys. Yeah, that's the fun stuff EVERYBODY likes to hear about.  But I don't have time to go to the doctor.  Too busy going to court and working every bloody day.  So I bought myself some OTC stuff for the yeast infection and I'll live with the rest of the crap.
 
Did I mention my boss sent me an email summoning me to an important "team meeting" in her office tomorrow with several other management staff?  Unexpected team meetings are never a good thing.  It always means she's pissed off at SOMEBODY, and it's just easier for her to yell at all of us than talk to the one person she's have issues with.  Less confrontational for her that way.
 
Oh, I almost forgot . . . my 6 year old son was in the hospital for 3 days this week with a bad case of pneumonia.  Being the ever-vigilant, compassionate, devoted, protective mother that I am, I stayed by his side day and night.  I got virtually no sleep for 3 days.  I also missed 3 days of work, and therefore will miss 3 days of pay.   Yeah, that's going to be great come bill-paying time.
 
So yeah, I'm bloody FINE!  How are YOU?
 
(note; some details have been changed to protect our identities)

Keep On Keeping On

Woke up sweating,
Shaking;
Peed the bed.
The smell of him's
Still swirling
In my head.
His voice, his hands,
The way he wouldn't stop
Or let me speak.
I'm back to just a blob;
I feel so weak.

Why can't that BASTARD
Find a hole somewhere
To crawl into?
Why can't he grasp
The fact we're through?
Hate is not a word
That's strong enough
To express how I feel.
I don't hate HIM, per se,
Because that would be wrong;
Besides, it's over,
He lost,
And I won.
I'm still here.
And although I still shake,
With each new step I take,
With each bond that I break,
With each promise I make,
I am that much closer
To being free ...
To finding out who it is
That is "me."

I still don't care for waking
In the middle of the night.
I'm not too fond of shaking
And pissing myself from fright.
Someday I know I'll be stronger --
Til then I'll keep on keeping on,
And hang on a little while longer.

Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Freeflow Journaling Through a Flashback or Body Memory

I've found that sometimes there's no escaping from the grip of an intense memory (especially if it's sensory-related). Although deep breathing, progressive muscle relaxation, and meditation help a little bit sometimes, I've discovered that in some cases there's nothing I can do except "hold on for the ride."

One tool that I've found useful is what I call "freeflow journalling." I've heard others refer to it as "freewriting." Basically whatever thoughts, sensations, words, images, etc come to mind, I write it down -- without worrying about using proper punctuation & grammar (or even whether or not it "makes sense," for that matter).

There are several reasons I've found this helpful:

1) It gives me something to do while I "ride out" the traumatic memory.
2) It helps me sort through what happened afterward so that I can process it.
3) It sometimes lessens the severity of the physical aspect(s) of a flashback (maybe because my hands are "occupied").
Here's an example of a "freeform" journal entry that I wrote about a year ago when I was triggered by simply hearing someone say the phrase "Just take it all." (Note: I added some punctuation to make it SOMEWHAT easier to read.)

-----------------------------------

Just take it. Take it all. Stop your fucking complaining. Can't. No room. Stop. When will he come? Please God, No MORE! Arms over my head. Tight. Wrists. Pillow. Face. No air. Can't breathe. My duty. For my children. I can do this. I CAN'T do this. Lord, give me strength. Help me Jesus. Help me. Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Burning. Enough. Searing. Too much. Go away. Arms numb. Make it STOP. So dizzy. Gonna throw up. So gross. Gagging. Salty. Over me. In me. Dribbling on me. Musky smell of him. Smothering me. Holding me. Fading. Drifting. YOU ARE MINE. I am his. I am gone. Disappeared. Where did I go? Darkness. Don't fight it. Let go. Wandering. Lights. Turning over. Spreading. Slipping. Again. Here we go again. No more. Please God, no more. Hurts so bad. Stretching. Splitting. Tearing. PLEASE let him be done. Mind over matter. He's spitting on me. Says that's good enough to go again. Mad at me. I'm dry he says. Better that way. Spits again. Good enough. It's NOT. Sticking. Pulling. Feels like he's tearing me apart. He likes it. Says I'm so good and tight. Every stroke burns. Agony. Searing pain. Deeper. Harder. Stabbing straight through me to the other side. ALMOST DONE, he says. STOP SHAKING. SHUT UP. Just a little more. Thank God. Hold on. Slipping away. Almost finished. Is he? COME AGAIN. I can't. Can I? Thrusting. Counting. Two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, twelve, fourteen, twenty, sixty nine, HUT. I miss playing football. Think about something else. Anything else. Deeper. Harder. He says he's done. Please be done. Finally. Breathing. Gulping air. Curl up in ball, knees to chin. Is he gone? Have to pee. No, I can't. Too late. Burning. He's still in me. GET IT OUT. But he's gone. Not there. Need ice. Ice. Find the ice. Make it stop. He's gone. Don't care where. Away from me. Quiet. Curl up in a ball. Make the pain go away. Lord, please... Why ... Why ... Why... Is this how it's supposed to be? Am I so weak that I cannot do this? Help me submit willingly, Lord. My body is not my own. It is his. Strengthen me, Father. Need to sing. It will be better one day. I just need to trust. Singing -"All the way my Savior leads me, what have I to ask beside? Can I doubt His tender mercy, who through life has been my Guide? Heavenly peace, divinest comfort, here by faith in Him to dwell. For I know, whate'er befalls me, Jesus doeth all things well; for I know, whate'er befall me, Jesus doeth all things well." Tears. More tears. Why? What is wrong with me? Am I a horrible wife? I must be. This is my lot, my portion in life. I shouldn't let it upset me. God is in control, this is His will for my life, so who am I to question it or complain? Singing-"Day by day, and with each passing moment, strength I find to meet my trials here. Trusting in my Father's wise bestowment, I've no cause for worry or for fear. He whose heart is kind beyond all measure gives unto each day what He deems best -- lovingly, its part of pain and pleasure, mingling toil with peace and rest" . . . God must approve of this, otherwise He wouldn't allow it. And it says there will be pain mixed with pleasure, so I guess I should be thankful even through the pain.  This must be what He wants for me, and I'll just have to accept it. Lord, help me accept it .... Singing-"Have Thine own way, Lord, have Thine own way. Thou art the potter, I am the clay. Mold me and make me after Thy will, while I am waiting, yielded and still" ... I need to just yield. Lord, help me be still and yield. I confess my weakness, my frailty, my inability to properly submit to my husband as is my duty, my inadequacy as a mother, and my incompetancy as a housewife.  I humbly bow before you, Heavenly Father, and beg for your mercy. Haven't you punished me enough? I know I don't deserve to be rescued, but I cry out to you, oh Lord. Footsteps on the stairs. Coming up. It's him. He's back. Wants more. Shaking in puddle. Still singing. Want to believe. Hands trembling. Ice melting. In the doorway. His face. Sneering. Ridiculing. God won't hear me because I'm a slut. Worthless whore. Why am I singing to a God that can't hear me? Or doesn't care to listen? He throws hymnal against wall. Says we need to pray. Pray for my forgiveness. Pray that God will help me submit. Pray that God will forgive me for my weakness. That He will forgive me for my unwillingness. Pray that God will have mercy on me. Pray that God will make me a better wife. God help me take it all. Take it all. He wants more. No, Please, no more. Please, no. He says he'll be "nice" and only do my mouth. Please no. Please. On my chest, he's so heavy. Choking, gagging, suffocating. Bite down. Slap! Let go. Stop. No more. Finish yourself. You have two hands. Will I watch? Video. Awful & disgusting. Makes me watch. Hate porn. Skin crawling. Sick. He can't come. His arm is tired. YOU FINISH. My job. My responsibility. Take it all. Swallow. No. Sick. Gross. BASTARD! Gag. God help me. Darkness. Slime. Room spinning. Pillow soft. Quiet. Fading. Take it all. Just take it all.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder - Don't let PTSD win!

PTSD ... I'm convinced that must stand for "Pretty Tough Shit Daily" ... the awful nightmares, crippling body memories, intrusive flashbacks, and all the other "fun stuff" that goes along with it.

I had a particularly challenging therapy session today, to the point that I was physically ill & vomiting afterwards. I crawled home so utterly exhausted that it was all I could do to fix supper for the kids before collapsing in bed, virtually catatonic and shaking. I just lay there in a trance for about an hour with the eternal "to do" list running through my mind, trying desperately to will myself to snap out of it, get up, and get busy. But it was no use. My body just wouldn't cooperate. I took a series of deep, cleansing breaths and tried to reground & center myself. Not helpful. Then, from somewhere deep inside, the thought came to me, "So, that's it then, huh? You're just going to let him win? You're just going to give up?"

Not in this lifetime! I drug myself out of bed and began washing the dishes & wiping off the kitchen counters. I checked the kids' backpacks, emptied their lunchboxes, vacuumed, and swept the floors. I unloaded & reloaded the dishwasher ... and was suddenly startled by the realization that I was ... HUNGRY. Had I eaten yet today? I realized I hadn't (aside from the snack I'd eaten during therapy, which I had promptly thrown up afterward). I poured myself a bowl of cereal, sloshed in some milk, and started devouring it. I was FAMISHED. I relished the texture of each bite as it crunched around my mouth, enjoying the wonderful sensation of being ALIVE.

"That's right," I thought to myself, "I'm HERE. I'm alive. I survived. I WON, and HE LOST!"

I may have nightmares again tonight. Such is life. But I'm not giving up. I can't. I won't. I didn't come this far to cower in fear because of a few pesky flashbacks & traumatic memories. And that's all they are -- MEMORIES! It's OVER! He can't hurt me anymore! And I'll be DAMNED if I'm going to let the things he said & did to me keep stealing the joy out of my life.

Walking into my daughter's room to tuck her in and seeing her lying there, sleeping so peacefully, I realized that there are some things in life that are worth fighting for.

Tomorrow is another day. I will wake up. I will put one foot in front of the other. I will go on living. I will go on healing. I will go on BEING. I will learn to let myself feel without fearing the feelings. I will learn to share without fearing rejection or judgment. I will learn to sleep without fearing the nightmares. And someday ... maybe ... I will learn to love again ... without worrying about being tormented & terrorized.

I can do this. I am NOT a quitter. I'm a survivor!

Is anybody there?

Is anybody there?
Does anybody care?
Or am I all alone here
In this frigid autumn air?
Does it even matter
That my soul is shattered
And I cannot find a place
To call my home?
Crickets chirping
Through the stillness,
Feel so lifeless
And alone.
So tired of holding on,
So tired of pretending
I am strong.
Have I been honest with myself,
Or lying all along
When I said that I could do this,
Said I thought I could get through this,
I could fix whatever's wrong?
But I can't.
I can't fix anything.
I am broken,
And just maybe,
He was right ...
A little crazy.
Nothing's really making sense,
I have no genuine defense.
I can't go on like this forever
Knowing that my life will never
Be the same.
So much guilt and worry ...
So much shame.
And for what?
Why do I beat myself up
For what I did not do,
For what I should have done,
For what I didn't know,
For why I could not go,
For why I had to stay,
It's all pointless anyway.
I smile and tell the world I'm fine.
I go to work, I pay my dues,
I tow the line.
But I'm not okay,
No matter what I say,
No matter how it seems
I'm in control.
I will never be okay,
I will never find a way
To be whole.
I am dead inside,
A shadow of a something,
A piece of useless nothing,
I have died.
And yet I go on living,
And somehow I keep on giving,
Thinking someday things will change,
That somehow I'll rearrange
The pieces into something new.
As if being free is something I can do.
But I can't.
I don't know how.
Couldn't then,
I don't know why I think
That I can now.
Gray and dark and dead is all I feel.
I try to hide away inside
From pain so real.
But I can't run away from it,
God help me,
Save me from this shit.
As if You hear,
As if You even have an ear.
Pick up the nearest spear
And run me through.
Please end the agony,
It's more than I can bear.
No one to share
This burden with,
No one to say they care.
Why do I bother
Even writing all this crap
No one will read?
As if getting this shit out
Will fill some need.
It's such a waste.
I'm just a vapor,
Just a hollow body
Taking up space.
I must be the lamest member
Of the human race.
I try to fill my days
With helping others.
Thinking somehow if I care,
They'll care for me.
It's all an illusion,
Thinking anyone would care;
Just a pathetic delusion,
Thinking there's a point
To opening my heart
To try to share.
So I'm brilliant,
No one cares.
So what if I've survived
To get nowhere.
I don't know which way to go
And this pain is all I know.
Just a blip outside the city,
I don't deserve your pity,
Or your time.
I'm not even fully certain
There's a reason or a rhyme
For breathing
Or believing.
But I see my children's faces
And I want them to go places
That I have never gone.
They will have to be the reason
I will live another season,
Must go on.
On to what?
On to where?
I don't know,
And you don't care.
No one does,
Not even me,
And it's very plain to see
I'm losing touch
With all the things I used to trust
And thought were real.
Don't want to feel.
Don't want to be.
Wish there was someone
I could hold,
That I could see,
Someone to tell me
Someday there will be an end
To all this sorrow,
Someone I could call a friend.
But why would anyone
Put up with who I am,
With where I've been,
When I don't even
Want to be here with myself?
Why would I wish this hell
On someone else?
Today is gone,
And with it went my will
To fight, to try, to be, to want,
And still ...
I cannot go
Because I know I cannot quit.
So somehow I'll keep wading
Through this shit
Until I find a way,
Until there comes a day
I can make some sense of it.

No Words

Once upon another time
A little girl began a rhyme.
What some might find a bit absurd --
Her poem did not contain a word.
She wrote with thoughts and dreams instead,
And all the hopes within her head.
For though she searched, she could not find
A way to say what was on her mind.

Throughout the years, though torn apart,
She kept it still within her heart --
That simple, silent, soothing song
That picked her up and spurred her on
To keep on trying, keep on fighting,
Keep on being, keep on writing.
Thought by thought and line by line,
She penned her way to another time.

Now looking back, she reads the ode,
And wanders down life's lonely road.
Some dreams were lost along the way.
She wonders why; it's hard to say.
Despite the innocence of youth,
The harsh reality of truth
Her longing for the dream denied,
And smothered all her screams inside.

How will this epic stanza end?
What lies ahead, around the bend?
Can she endure what e'er comes next
Within the lines of this, her text?
Perhaps tomorrow she'll be ready,
The load she carries not so heavy,
If only she could find a way
To speak the things she cannot say.

Domestic Abuse SURVIVOR

Coming up in a few weeks I'll be attending a special occasion for DV survivors -- a "reunion" of sorts. We all stand around and light a candle and have a moment of silence for those still in DV situations and those who "escaped" their abusive situations PERMANENTLY & were ushered into eternity. It's a time of solidarity, a time of solemnity, and yet, a time of HOPE when we see how many of us there are who DID found our way out.

I can't help but think differently things could have turned out for my children & I ... and how many opportunities we have now. This is the first day of the rest of my life! Although the things I've been through (and in some cases am still going through because of the insanity of the "justice" system) definitely changed my life in a HUGE way, I refuse to be identified as a "victim." Victims are DEAD. I am NOT dead.

I may not have left as soon as I SHOULD have, but I left before he killed me (either physically or emotionally). And although my soul still often feels numb & lifeless, I am beginning to feel a few tiny sparks of hope stirring within me -- and I *KNOW* that better days are coming just around the bend. I will not give up. I've come so far. By the grace of God, I know that I will "make it" ... I am a SURVIVOR.

Nobody Really Cares

Oh sure, they may pretend to care for awhile, so long as they find me or my pathetic life interesting ... so long as I can fulfill some NEED for them (a ride to the store, free babysitting, free groceries, help fixing their car, help writing their resume, etc).

There are even some people who may start out caring, but then it just gets to be too much like work. They listen (or at least pretend to listen) for awhile. They're happy to tell me how they "know just how I feel" because they got in an argument once with their spouse. Or they say I'm so "inspirational" because I have such extraordinary FAITH in God. Here's the thing -- I don't think I have a bigger/better faith in God than anybody else does. I just trust Him for EVERYTHING because He's the only one I have. He's ALWAYS there & never LEAVES ME ALONE.

So often well-meaning people say they'll pray for us. That's all well & good -- and I'm not saying prayer doesn't help ... but I need MORE than prayer. I need somebody BE HERE WITH ME through this, to HOLD me, to COMFORT me. I need somebody to wipe away the tears streaming down my face ... to tell me that someday my kids will eventually be okay ... to help me find me a JOB that pays enough so that we won't be HOMELESS in 6 months ... to invite me over to their house for no reason other than that they WANT to spend time with me doing something fun ... to call me up on the phone "just to chat" ... to send me silly pictures & text messages out of the blue ... to make me feel like I MATTER as a person ...

Sometimes I feel like I could just as well have stayed and let him rape me and scream at me and whip me and throw things at me and laugh at me. At least he NOTICED me! At least I knew was good for SOMETHING! Right now, all I know is that I'm a good Mom & I've done everything I can for my kids. I will keep doing the best that I can ... but I'm not holding my breath that we'll get any "breaks" ... God has already blessed us in so many ways ... And I know He will continue to provide ... but when it comes to people? When push comes to shove, nobody really cares about anybody but themselves. Everyone has his or her own set of problems & difficulties. And sadly, we're often too busy "surviving" to worry about anybody else.

Ripe for the Picking

When he first met me, was there a giant "L" for "LOSER" emblazoned on my forehead? Did I give off some special scent that he was able to pick up? Was there something about me that screamed: "Here I am, come and get me. You can use me and abuse and get away with it." ? Did he see my past and somehow sense that I was vulnerable, needy, wounded, and somehow "ripe for the picking?" Was there something innately "wrong" with ME that I would have even been attracted to him in the first place?

Why didn't I run the other way when I first saw him? Why didn't I call the cops or go to the emergency room the very FIRST time he hurt me? Why didn't I tell someone how he made me suffer? Why did it take me so long to realize that the things he was doing & saying were so WRONG?

How could I have cared so little for myself that all he had to do was tell me was that I was smart & beautiful and I'd essentially "let him" hurt me? How could I have believed him when he said he "loved" me? How many times did I endure HOURS of his sexual torture, only to forgive it all or explain it away as a "misunderstanding" just because he'd bring me an ice pack to dull the pain, make me a cup of coffee the next morning, offer to cook supper, or bring home flowers? How did that make it "okay" for him to hurt me like he did?

One thing I do know ... I didn't want my daughter to grow up thinking that's how a man treats a woman he professes to love. I didn't want my boys to grow up thinking that's how a man expresses his "love" to a woman. That's why I left. They deserve to grow up without living in fear. And as excruciatingly difficult as it may be to struggle through all of the legal "stuff," I can't give up now. I just have to keep reminding myself of what I USED TO think when he'd lead me off into another room to "have his way with me" ... I'M DOING THIS FOR MY KIDS!

Maybe Tomorrow

My strength's a memory; I have no more.
My will to fight is gone, I feel so small.
Belief that right prevails walked out the door,
I have no more to give - I gave my all.
The things I once believed that I could do,
I gave them up, my dreams have all but died.
My days of being super mom are through.
No comfort comes from knowing that I tried.
There simply aren't the hours within a day
To do it all, to be it all, to find
The answers to the questions, so I say
Good-bye to hope, to faith, and peace of mind.
Maybe tomorrow I will try again ...
If I don't lose my marbles before then.

It Never Happened

"It never happened." Words that are so strong;
An echo from the past I left behind,
A challenge of what I'd lived all along,
A seed of doubt was planted in my mind.
"If you say this, then no one will believe
A single thing you say; it's all a lie."
I'm empty now, there's nothing to achieve,
No point in even bothering to try.
I sigh and nod, I back away, and then
Give in and say the words I hate to say.
I'm back to just a puppet once again;
The melancholy robot saves the day.
"It never happened." (So glad we agree.)
Guess I was wrong. Good-bye reality.

I Forgot It All

How many yesterdays have come and gone
Since I first felt the burning sting of shame?
When did I find a shelf to place it on,
The things I couldn't face and couldn't name?
How many years have passed since I lost track
Of things I never thought that I'd forget?
When did I bury all my dreams out back,
Amidst the desert sand and my regret?
How many moons ago did I give up,
Convinced it was my lot in life to be
Content to sip this awful, bitter cup,
And never let the sorrow get to me?
Time doesn't heal all wounds, as I recall;
There was a reason I forgot it all.

Have I come this far in vain? (acrostic sonnet)

Some day on heaven's shore, I'll hold the key
That will unlock the meaning of it all.
Until that day, I'll try my best to be
Content to read the writing on the wall.
Keep thinking I should have a clue by now ...

How can so many years have passed me by?
Each time I go back home I feel somehow
Revisiting my youth will tell me why
Each path I walked was diff'rent, yet the same.

Am I condemned this hist'ry to repeat?
God, help me, have I come this far in vain?
Am I forever doomed to face defeat?
I cannot see beyond this awful mess,
No matter how I try, I do confess.

Back Down This Road (sonnet)

I traveled to the place I thought was home,
But it felt strange returning there because
The years have passed and left me all alone,
A shriveled shadow of what I once was.
Inside I feel the same as in my youth,
Though I stopped living, life still passed me by.
I'm lost without a clue, and that's the truth.
I'm old and young at once, and don't know why.
Can someone tell me where my heart belongs?
Can someone show me how to find my way?
Can someone help me somehow right the wrongs
That stole the years from me, killed yesterday?
I cannot stay, but hate that I must go
Back down this road, whose end I do not know.

The Nothingness Surrounds Me Like a Cloud (sonnet)

The nothingness surrounds me like a cloud
Until my barren soul just falls apart.
The fragments seen that I can't voice out loud,
Betrayed by garish dreams and taboo art.
Is there an evil force I cannot see,
Somehow at work within these shadowed halls?
Am I the one who's cursed myself to be
Forever locked behind these sacred walls?
Each time I think I know just what to feel,
I cannot find the words, I cannot cry,
Life kicks me in the ass with pain so real,
I cannot find an answer for the "why."
No matter where I go or what I do
It seems I struggle just to make it through.

Another Memory (artwork; trigger warning)

One of these days my reserve of traumatic images will run low, WON'T IT?  I keep thinking there will come a day when I will finally have processed all of this shit. 

This particular image/memory is from early on in our relationship, before we were even married.  It started out almost romantic.  We had taken an old plaid blanket to a local state park and hiked quite a ways off the trail.  I knew he planned to have sex, and I was okay with that . . . in fact, there was a certain amount of "romance" and "excitement" to the whole idea of having sex in a semi-public place where we might get caught.

But then he started getting really rough and "weird." and I asked him to stop.  We heard some other people on the hiking trail nearby, and for a split second, I thought to myself, "maybe they could help me."  But then I felt really stupid.  Help me with WHAT?  This was my BOYFRIEND, who I had come there WILLINGLY with. . . what would I SAY to them?  The sex had started out consensually . . . I just hadn't been prepared for the change in his approach.  And when I say "change," I mean Dr.Jekyl/Mr. Hyde type transformation. 

I was terrified and did what most young women would probably do - screamed at him to get off me.  He threw the blanket over me and started choking me, telling me to "shut the fuck up" and saying "you know you want it" and that I was such a tease and he "knew" I liked it rough.  Since WHEN?  His grip on my throat got so tight I started seeing stars and thought I was going to pass out.  I maybe did for a second or two, because I vaguely remember him leaning over me looking kind of scared and saying, "oh my God!" I guess maybe he thought he killed me?

Anyhow, yeah, this was such a "fun" memory to revisit/relive.  This is going on 15 years ago and it's only just coming up.  When is this going to end?  Just when I think I must be almost done with this crap, there's always MORE and MORE and MORE.  I'm so sick of it.  I just want to get on with my life and be "NORMAL!"  Is there such a thing?

I don't want to be one of those people who spends their whole life in therapy whining about their past and using it as an excuse for never doing anything with their life.  I have dreams, goals, and aspirations (or at least I'm pretty sure that I USED TO).  I don't have time for this insanity.

And yet, I'm afraid if I don't let all this crap out now and deal with it thoroughly, that it will just come back to "haunt" me at some point in the future.  But I SO want to get on with my life, to leave these ugly chapters behind me FOREVER.  When will this end?

Standing Tall (sonnet)

I did not give up, did not cease to fight.
I chose to find a way I could survive.
I weighed the risk, did what I felt was right;
I saved myself and vowed to stay alive.
I held onto my "self" as best I could.
I fought to stay in touch with what was real.
I lived through things that no one ever should,
Experienced feelings none should have to feel.
I lost some battles, but I won the war.
I'm still not whole, but I am standing tall.
I may not understand the reasons for
The pain he caused or why I took it all.
I cannot blame myself for giving in;
By letting go, I found a way to win.

Giving up the Fight (artwork; trigger warning)

I apologize in advance if this piece of artwork is disturbing to you.  I'm simply trying to wade my way through all of the perverse images that swirl around my mind these days.  Sometimes it's so hard to fit the pieces together.  What I find the most disconcerting is that in many of these images, I see myself in such a submissive state, as though I had completely given up, as though I no longer cared what happened to me, and had simply accepted what was happening as my "lot in life."  Sometimes I will have a clear recollection of thinking to myself, "If I do this, at least something worse won't happen tonight."  It's like I had lost all will to fight back. 

I've tried to determine when exactly this change took place.  Was there a moment in time that I decided it wasn't worth the struggle, that pain was inevitable and I might as well choose the least painful thing?  Was there a day that I suddenly relinquished any right to my own body? Or was it a gradual process that incidiously ate away at the very core of my being until I had no strength left to resist?  I honestly can't say.

I'm ashamed to admit that I gave up, that I stopped fighting back, that I just lay there and "took it" like a lump of nothingness.  At some point, I guess I quit feeling.  But did I really?  I find it hard to believe that there wasn't at least some internal response to the excruciating pain, humiliation, and degradation.  It's more likely that I dissociated whenever I got overwhelmed physically and/or emotionally. 

This is a very difficult image for me.  I know it happened a lot.  Several times a week, as best I can recall. I can feel my face mashed into him and his hands pushing so hard against the back of my head that my neck hurt.  I can smell the musky smell between his legs and sometimes I wake in the middle of the night with a choking sensation and a salty taste in my mouth.  I chose the swirly background because sometimes I would get so dizzy that the "room would swim" and I'd "see stars" because it was very hard to breathe.  Aside from the fact that I was probably a little low on oxygen to the brain now and then LOL, I would put myself into sort of a trance and visualize something sort of like the swirls in this picture.  I would close my eyes and points of light would go around and around in circles.

And yet, I would just kneel there. Like a robot. Like a servant.  Like it was my duty.  I can see myself just sitting there totally limp and lifeless, gagging, trying to breathe, trying to pull away just enough to take a breath and him smashing himself down my throat.  "Swallow it," he'd order, "Just swallow it."  I can feel the cold tile of the bathroom floor sometimes.  Other times, he'd have me sit on the toilet and he would stand in front of me.  That was a little "better" because at least my neck wasn't at such a crazy angle. 

Truthfully, even though I DETESTED sucking him off, I'm ashamed to admit that sometimes I would OFFER it to him to avoid the more painful alternatives.  I hate myself for being so weak, for thinking so little of myself that I would essentially try to "bargain" my way out of pain.  "I'll give you a blow job if you'll leave me alone for the rest of the night."  I don't know how many times I said that.  The sickening thing is, sometimes I'd go through a half hour of agonizing fellatio, "comforting" myself with the fact that at least for that night I wouldn't get raped, and then he'd go back on his word and wake me up at 2 in the morning ANYWAY and say, "Oh, that was just a warmup.  Time for round 2."  

How did I manage to survive?  Why didn't I go insane?  Maybe I DID go insane . . . a little . . . LOL . . . what "normal" person would spend hours on end recreating disgusting graphic images of horrible memories. 

But at the moment, it seems to be helping me "get it out," so bear with me and I apologize for the content of the "art."  One of these days I'll have to do something a little more "nice" for a change. 

Denial - Not Just a River in Egypt

For me, one of the most difficult parts of the "healing journey" has been the lack of validation from certain people. Sure, mental health professionals have been very supportive -- especially those within the "domestic violence community." A few select friends and several of my family members that I've been brave (or stupid?) enough to share some of my experiences with have been somewhat sympathetic. But there have been several key people along the way whose purposeful denial of reality has undermined the very foundation of my "self."

There was the well-meaning "Christian" counselor who told me it was okay for my
husband to do whatever he wanted to me sexually whether I consented or not because:
"As a Godly wife, your body is not your own. You belong to your husband now, and must do whatever it takes to keep him happy." You don't want to know how much she charged per hour for her pearls of wisdom!

There was my mother-in-law who SAW my husband drag me by my hair, HEARD him
screaming obscenities at me in front of the children, and physically "tussled" with him
HERSELF. When I *ANONYMOUSLY* left a prayer request in church, she scolded me and said "we don't talk about things like that outside of the family." Her solution: "Maybe if you kept the house a little neater he wouldn't get so upset. Every man has needs. Maybe if you met his physical needs more often, he wouldn't get so angry. I know there's nothing calms my husband down more than sex. You should try it. My son might have a little bit of a trouble with drinking, but you know he loves you and the kids so much."

There were my parents who KNEW he'd been convicted of threatening me with a loaded shotgun, had seen him ON VIDEO trashing the place and screaming at me, saw my broken
windshield that he'd shattered with his fists, saw me limping sometimes, but STILL let me go back to him and just let him take me and my baby clear across the country without any objection. "You're a big girl now," they said, and washed their hands of the situation, "You made your bed, I guess you gotta lie in it. He says he's sorry. Everybody makes mistakes."

There was the cop who responded to our house and took the statement from our 11 year old son saying that my husband had purposely thrown some things and broken them. I confirmed that my son was telling the truth, but the officer said to me: "it's no crime for him to be drunk or throw things if he feels like it. It's his house and he can do whatever he wants to in it. He says it was an accident, and I've got no reason not to
believe him," and then he and my husband went out on the front porch and had a good laugh.

There was the judge who told me that my husband threatening me, spanking me with a
leather riding crop, forcing me to perform various sex acts, etc was not "real" domestic
violence/abuse because I had never reported it to the police, he had never broken any bones, and I didn't have any conclusive medical records or other "hard evidence." He said that the fact that I had stayed with my husband for so long obviously proved that "it couldn't have been all that bad."

I can forgive the deluded counselor for believing that spousal rape is biblical. I can forgive my mother-in-law for not wanting to believe that her precious "baby" is a monster. I can forgive my parents for not realizing how terrified I was of my abusive husband. I can forgive the cop for being a typical chauvinistic imbecile. I can forgive the judge for being clueless and insensitive. But there's one person who's continued denial STILL gets to me.

You see, my ex-husband has NEVER admitted to anything he said or did to me -- not even just between the two of us.

He's told his family I'm crazy & made it all up. He's told our children that "mommy's sick in her mind" and should be committed to a mental hospital. Even RIGHT AFTER raping me, he'd be upset with me for sitting too long in a tub of ice cold water (numbs the pain a little). "What the f*ck is wrong with YOU?" he'd scream at me. It didn't matter if he'd held me down, tied me up, or whatever, he always insisted that I had consented.

Honestly, the last few years that we were together, I didn't even bother saying 'no' because it didn't matter. Besides, I swear he got MORE turned on by forcing me, so it was less painful to just give in.

When we first got married he'd follow me from room to room all night long, crudely groping at me and fingering me. I'd even hide in the shower. One night I slept on the front porch in winter to avoid him -- anything was better than ... yuck.

Anyhow, he would ALWAYS deny any wrongdoing on his part. He'd say I was just being a "paranoid, frigid bitch," or that I "liked it that way," etc.

To this day he doesn't believe he's done a single thing wrong and he's playing the victim role for all it's worth. "Poor me. My wife left me for no reason at all. She' s crazy. She's ruining my life."

His denial didn't just involve the rape though ... For example, one night he punched huge holes in an upstairs wall. I finally went to bed once I thought it was safe. The next morning I saw that he had stayed up all night patching the wall. He even repainted it.

The only way you could tell what had happened was by looking on the opposite side the wall (it was cracked all the way through because he'd hit it so hard). I told his dad the next day what he'd done and my husband said I was making it up, that I was just trying to start a fight & looking for attention.

He'd set a cup of coffee on the table, walk past and knock it off & spill it, and then scream & curse at me IN THE OTHER ROOM for making a mess & make ME clean it up. As if I could magically have teleported myself into the kitchen to spill his coffee?

Some of the more severe things he just outright denies & says they're figments of my imagination. Like one of several times miscarried ... He claims I "tripped" on the newspapers on the landing ... and that it was MY FAULT that the newspapers that ONLY HE READ hadn't been put away. And when I had to have surgery twice in the same year for severely thrombosed internal hemorrhoids & related injuries from his anal rapes, he blamed it on "pushing too hard to poop" because I'd been pregnant and said it was the "pressure of the baby pushing down" that had caused my problems with "bad constipation."

He denies ever spanking or beating me -- even when I'd show him the leather riding crop the next morning he'd say, "I have no idea where that came from. I bet YOU bought it. Or maybe your GIRLFRIEND did!"

Truly, he made me doubt my own sanity. And I did have a nervous breakdown 4 years ago as a result of his twisted mind games and denial.

Somehow, I keep telling myself that if he'd just admit to ONE THING he did, I'd be OK. But he never will. I tell myself that maybe he blacked out from drinking too heavily & just doesn't remember -- because that's easier for me to deal with emotionally. I simply can't understand how he could hurt me over & over again and then claim he didn't.

Lundy Bancroft's books are pure gold. I only wish I'd read them years ago -- could have saved myself a lot of heartache. I can't tell you how much time & energy I wasted trying to get him to own up to what he was doing to me -- when He simply DID NOT CARE.

Sometimes I wonder if he's just a psychopath that's incapable of empathy. I'm still not to the place where I'm strong enough to 'not care' whether or not my experience is validated. It just hurts so much to know that he got away with it for all those years without any consequences.

He always had an explanation for everything. Bruises on my hips were from me being clumsy and bumping into furniture. Pictures of bruises weren't actually pictures of me, he'd say. And if they were me, he'd accuse me of having had someone digitally alter the pictures. If a doctor would send me an order written on a prescription blank saying not to have sex because my pregnancy was at risk, he'd tear it up and take me anyhow.

Then when I'd miscarry, he'd say it was the doctor's fault, that he or she was incompetent, and make me change to a different doctor.

Sometimes I still doubt my own perception. I know I shouldn't, but there's a long way between the brain and the heart ... and when you're told you're stupid & crazy for so many years, after awhile you start to believe it. I figure since it took him so many years to essentially "brainwash" me, I can't expect to undo the damage overnight.

Still, I do get very frustrated. I hate what he's done to me and I hate that he can't just own up to it. Part of me feels like I'll never be "right" until he admits what he's done to me, but I'm not holding my breath that he'll ever face the truth.

New Artwork - Shadow Girl

This one is about how even though I'm a grown woman, I still sometimes feel like a frightened little girl that's all alone.  I get so tired of being "strong" and telling my kids that "everything's gonna be okay" when I don't know if it ever will be.   Sometimes I just wish there was somebody there to hold me and tell ME that everything's gonna be okay.  Is it?  Will it EVER be okay?

7-7 New artwork (trigger warning)

I've been having such trouble with nightmares lately.  And what I call "daymares" LOL . . . I'm awake, but it feels like when you're trapped in a nightmare and you KNOW it's a dream, but you can't wake up.  Anyhow, there's a lot of stuff that I can't really talk about yet, but I've been able to "draw about it."  I can't even really say much about these except that each one took several hours to complete. 

Anyhow, I hope you didn't find these too disturbing.  I'll post one in a new post that's a little bit more conventional that I've just finished today (Shadow Girl).

Does Justice Even Exist? (Article/Rant)

I was talking tonight with another domestic violence survivor about the incredible shame of being sexually abused by our husbands. It's something that was so hard to talk about -- even just between the two of us.
I think one of the most difficult things was feeling so isolated and thinking to myself -- "nobody even knows what's happening to me." We got to talking about how, even now that we've LEFT our abusive relationships, it's so hard to open up and share with anyone such intimate details about our lives.

She expressed her relief that her children are protected by a no contact order because of their father's extreme physical violence. Tears filled my eyes. My children don't have that protection because he didn't physically abuse them. He "only" emotionally/psychologically and verbally abused them. He saved most of the hell for me. And unlike my friends' children, who can testify to their father's abuse, my children didn't witness most of what my Ex did to me (thank heavens; although my youngest told her therapist this week that she remembers him chasing me with a knife so now I'm freaking out because I didn't think she saw that and I'm wondering what ELSE they've seen that I THOUGHT they didn't see because I assumed they were "asleep in bed." ).

For the most part, when they're asked about things that I KNOW they saw, heard, experienced, etc, they claim that they "don't remember."  This is true of things that happened as recently as a year ago just before we left for shelter.  I honestly don't know if they really don't remember (because they dissociated or blocked it out) or if they're just too scared or embarrassed to talk about it. Either way, it's so hard for me because I feel like I'm struggling through this alone.  I went through hell FOR MY CHILDREN . . . and they don't even REMEMBER? I feel so bad for even saying that -- after all, shouldn't I be happy if they've been able to forget?  Why can't I forget?

One of the most frustrating things is that the legal system hasn't been a bit of help.  In fact, the way one judge treated me in court was worse than anything my husband had ever done to me -- I felt like I was being raped all over again (only this time in open court, in front of complete strangers).

When I first began to testify, I felt a slight sense of empowerment. I thought to myself, "FINALLY, I will get to tell what he has done to me. FINALLY, I will get some justice." Not in a million years. The judge sort of pretended to listen as I poured out my very soul.  Tears were streaming down my face (one of the few times I had been able to cry about it).  Then, with a sickening, condescending, and almost sarcastic tone, he said to me:

"Let me get this straight -- you say that your husband allegedly raped you repeatedly over the span of 15 years. Did you ever call the police? Did you go to the doctor? You expect me to believe that you went through all of this and yet not only didn't you tell anyone, but you stayed and had more children with this man? That just doesn't make sense. I'm dismissing your restraining order on the grounds that you have not proven to me why you would be afraid of this man. You have not shown me sufficient EVIDENCE to satisfy me that you are, in fact, in any real danger. During this most recent event, you claim that he threatened you with a belt, is that right?"

"Yes, your honor, " I said,  "In front of the children.  I have it recorded here if you want to listen to it."

"I don't need to hear it.  I'm not going to waste this courts time with this nonsense," the judge said, shuffling his papers,  "Am I supposed to believe that you thought he would actually follow through and spank a grown woman with a belt? Let's be serious now, really.  You can't possibly have been threatened by that.  Even IF I believed you, and even IF what you're telling me is true, no woman in her right mind would EVER have stayed with a man like that for 15 years if things were half as bad as you say they were. I think you're just another bitter woman looking for an easy way out of her marriage. Case dismissed."

And that was the end of the hearing. I hadn't even told the judge the HALF of it ... only just a few things that I had some degree of certainty about what date they'd happened (because of journal entries, medical records, etc). One my worst fears had come to pass -- the judge didn't believe me. (Either that or he did believe me and just didn't really care or want to be bothered.) So many incidents I have clear memory of bits and pieces of it, and I can MAYBE figure out roughly what YEAR it happened (based on how old the children were, where we were living, etc). 

All I can say is this, I guess I should have run screaming naked out into the street, blood running down my legs and all, after he hurt me.  Yep, that's it.  I should have left my children alone with him so I could go down to the emergency room and have some stranger swab me down and sew me up.  Or maybe I should have tried to tell my family what was going on . . . let's see, what would THAT conversation have sounded like? "Uh, hi Mom.  Yeah, it's hot and humid here too.  The kids are growing like weeds.  No, we haven't had much rain.  Oh, yes, I'm fine.  Enjoying getting held down and raped up the ass every now and then.  Oh, and did I mention that his latest thing is whipping me with a horse whip til I can barely walk?  Uh huh.  Weird, right?  So, how's Dad doing? Can't wait to see you guys next summer.  It'll be so fun to catch up on everything.  Like how made me strip down naked and sit in the corner of the bedroom all night and he'd walk by and spit on me and call me a whore, cunt, bitch, slut.  What's that?  Why did he do it?  Oh, I don't know.  He said he was sure I had cheated on him with the mailman because he saw a package had been delivered.  Yes Mom, I'm taking my prenatal vitamins, trying to get plenty of rest.  But it's hard when he wakes me up all the time and forces me to give him a blow job whenever he feels like it.  And you know what, Mom?  Last week he choked me til I almost passed out.  Maybe I did; I'm not really too sure.  So, I was wondering Mom, when you're baking a whole turkey, do you start basting it from the beginning, or do you wait until the end?  I'm stressing out about having Thanksgiving here, what with the new baby on the way and all.  Sure, he hits and kicks my stomach sometimes and says since I'm such a worthless fucking mother I shouldn't be allowed to have any more children. But I'm sure everything will be fine.  I could call the cops if it got really bad, right?"

Yeah, that was one conversation that would NEVER happen . . .

The "strange" thing is that every time I "let him" get away with hurting me, it got easier somehow.  And when I really stop and think about it, the last 4-5 years I didn't question him at all.  In fact, I went out of my way to ANTICIPATE what he would want so it would go easier or faster.  I think I just completely shut down and ceased to be a human being after awhile.  My soul was dead.  And truthfully, I don't know if I will ever be "normal" again . . .

Maybe the judge was right -- no woman in her right mind would have stayed so long. But who's to say that I was even CLOSE to being in my right mind after what he'd done to me for so many years?

Now I have nothing. No proof to speak of. I might have internal scars or old injuries, but I'm terrified of going to the OB-GYN. I haven't gone for over 5 years. I did have rectal surgery about 7 years ago to repair damage caused by his repeated anal rapes, but my ex husband claimed it was necessary because of extreme straining due to constipation while I was pregnant. And apparently that lame explanation was good enough for the doctor (and later for the judge).  Nobody questioned him.   

So yeah, don't talk to me about justice. Don't tell me how great America is. I feel like throwing up just thinking about it ... and realizing that he got away with it all completely scot free makes me wish I could spew chunks all over him. It would serve him right. God knows he made me suck him off until I threw up often enough. It would serve him right to get vomit all over HIM for once.

What really gets me is in the custody proceedings, the judge keeps going on and on about "equal parental rights" and how my husband deserves to be "returned to a normal parenting role as soon as possible."  Excuse me?  How can he be "returned" to something that NEVER EXISTED? He never HAD a normal parenting role (unless you consider screaming profanity at your children, accusing their mother of adultery in front of them, claiming off and on that you're not really their father, and threatening to leave them outside in the cold for hours "normal parenting"). 

HOW CAN A PSYCHOTIC, ABUSIVE MONSTER POSSIBLY HAVE ANY RIGHTS AS A PARENT? 

It blows my mind.  Pardon my language, but when it comes to domestic violence (particularly the less "visible," but in my opinion more painful and damaging types such as verbal, emotional, and sexual abuse), the court system in the United States is FUCKED UP!   Most states are only just BEGINNING to provide protection from obvious PHYSICAL assaults.  And EVEN THEN,  the bastards still often wind up getting joint custody of their children and eventually unsupervised visitation. 

I'm telling you, it's enough to make me want to give up and just go back.  At least when I was with him, I could protect my children from him.  I could take the brunt of it.  I could hold them afterwards and tell them it wasn't their fault, that "daddy doesn't mean it," and try to comfort them.  But now, they HAVE TO go see him WHETHER THEY WANT TO OR NOT.  They have NO CHOICE . . . because he's the sperm donor.  And somehow, just because he has the ability to get an erection and blast a few sperm, he has the right to spend time with them until they're 17 (at which time, they can FINALLY tell him to go to hell if they so choose).

IT'S JUST NOT RIGHT!!! 

As an adult, I can say "this man is abusive.  He has hurt me.  I don't want to see him anymore" and I DON'T HAVE TO SEE HIM.  If he threatens or harasses me, I can call the police and have him arrested.  How is it that my children can clearly state to their therapists, their social worker, and EVEN TO THEIR FATHER that they DO NOT want to see him, that they're afraid of him, etc. but STILL the court can COMPEL them to be with him because it's his "right"?

I could just SCREAM; it's MADDENING.  How is a mother supposed to protect her children?  I can't go WITH them for visitation.  I've tried petitioning the court and gotten NOWHERE.  I don't have money for a lawyer, and the pro bono lawyer that has helped me out off and on isn't much help.  I won't complain, because I'm thankful for her assistance, but I'm not holding my breath that she will have any better luck than I have. 

It just makes me feel so sick inside.  It's like we've escaped hell, but I have to keep sending my children back into it . . . only now they're alone and I'm not even there to watch out for them. I'm happy for those who have gotten lucky and had good results in court.  But as far as I'm concerned, justice is a fantasy.  We will never be free of this man until he dies of old age.  And with our luck, he'll live to be 100. 

Am I a hypocrite?

Is it wrong for me to not feel ready to just "forgive and forget?" I teach my children that they should forgive others. I go to church and sing in the choir about God's redeeming love. It's not that I can't or won't forgive my DH for all that he's put us through. I guess on some level I already HAVE forgiven him, in that I don't harbor bitterness or feel the need for revenge. I don't hate HIM as a person ... I just can't forgive what he has DONE.

Besides, I think to myself, isn't REPENTENCE a necessary component of forgiveness? If he were to come to me and say: "I know I've hurt you deeply, for so many years, and in so many ways. I've made up my mind that I will never hurt another human being like that for as long as I live. I know I don't deserve it, but could you find it in your heart to forgive me?" then maybe I would FEEL more "forgiving" towards him.

BUT HE HASN'T! To the contrary, he continues to proclaim his "innocence." Not only so, but he adds insult to injury by blaming ME for the "issues" that our children are having, by telling my friends that I'm "crazy" (although fortunately they know me well enough to see right through his lies & don't believe him), and by CONTINUING to abuse me through his manipulation of the legal system. WHY SHOULD I FORGIVE HIM?

Is it WRONG for me to feel this way? Am I a hypocrite for harboring such hatred for the things this man has said and done? I don't know. I don't have the answers. They say time heals all wounds ... I don't know if that's true. If it is, in my case, it's going to take a lot MORE TIME ... because I'm just not ready to let him off the hook yet -- not when he isn't even willing to face the reality of what he's said and done.

New Artwork - Weeping Willow

I'm sure everybody has heard this phrase at least once or twice in their lives . . . find a "happy place" . . . whether it's in a movie, or from a therapist, or what have you.

Personally, I have always visualized a tree that I used to love to climb in as a child. It was a weeping willow tree down by the creek. It was always so peaceful . . . and somehow I knew that nothing could bother me there. The gentle breeze, the fresh air, the sound of the birds singing . . . yeah . . . that's where I want to be about now!

A Piece of Work (Acrostic Sonnet)

You bait and switch and try to make believe
Our past is somehow still controlling me.
Until it's clear what you did made me leave, 

All of your childish games fool nobody. 
Run off to court, tell all the lies you want.
Each time you speak, it's clearer you're insane.  

Are you so sick you BUY the crap you flaunt? 

Perchance the tons of beer have fried your brain.
I will not stop protecting my kids now.
Each time you hurt them, you are hurting me.
Consider yourself lucky that somehow
Eternal Father still has yet to see. 

Or has He seen and chosen not to act?
For if that's true, than justice is a myth.  

What you have done will haunt you, that's a fact.
One day your sins are something He'll deal with.
Remember I am stronger than you think.
Keep lying to the world; go have a drink.

New Artwork - Comfort

My therapist told me last week that I need to imagine what it would have been like if someone would have comforted me after the abuse, to imagine what "comfort" would look like to me. I told her I wasn't really sure, but that I'd always imagined how nice it would have been to be wrapped up in my mother's arms and cry on her shoulder, to have her say "it's okay, it's not your fault," etc. So this picture/project is very different from most that I've done recently in that it is more positive and potentially inspirational.

What I would say to survivors of abuse is this -- maybe there wasn't anybody there to rescue you way back when. Maybe you were afraid to tell anyone. Maybe you DID tell someone, but weren't believed. Whatever the case may be, it's NEVER to late to be comforted . . . even if you have to do the comforting YOURSELF.


In my case, I'm simply trying to learn to nurture that part of me, my "inner child," so to speak . . . to hold her and reassure her that everything's okay now, that she's special, she's safe, and she's LOVED.

Not Alone (Sonnet)

Black hole of nothingness down deep inside;
Tough questions without answers plague my mind.
But all the same, I smile and try to hide
The pain I don't want anyone to find.
I'm really not sure what it is I fear
Might happen if I open up and share.
I guess I'm worried no one wants to hear,
Or worst of all, they wouldn't even care.
My only solace, Jesus walks with me.
He wipes my tears, and lately there've been lots.
He simply holds me close, and lets me be.
He doesn't mind my wayward, rambling thoughts.
Though none on earth could fully understand,
I'm not alone, for Jesus holds my hand.

Me as a Milk Cow

This is me about 5 years ago.  My husband would stand and moo at me and tell me what a good milk cow I was.  He made me milk out breast milk to put in his coffee every morning.  My children would be in the room at the time.  What saddens me the most is that it didn't seem to phase them a bit.  I guess they thought it was "normal" or something?  I never realized how sick he was until I got out of the relationship.  Over the years, he just wore me down, told me I was crazy, that I was imagining things, that he "owned me" and that as a "good wife" I was to "submit and obey." 

Truthfully, I think it would have hurt less if he would have hit me as opposed to the constant mind f*cks (no other nice way to put it).  He would hide my keys so I couldn't get somewhere on time, and then at the last second, after I'd been looking frantically, they would suddenly "appear" in plain sight somewhere I'd already looked before and he'd just laugh and say, "You're so f*cking blind and stupid. You probably walked past them a thousand times and just didn't seem them.  You'd lose your own head if it wasn't attached.  You are so stupid!"

I really wish I could feel some anger towards him -- I think it would be healthy.  But right now, all I feel is the incredible hurt and betrayal.  And I don't understand how I even survived with my sanity intact (for the most part). 

Some more of my art (random)

Some more of my art (dungeon)