Unspeakable Pain (digital collage)

Sex Addict (collage)

A Sex addict -- what my ex-husband was, and in all likelihood still is.

Survivors with a Voice (sonnet)

He took my body from me as he liked.
He made my very life a living hell.
Now, it seems, I have to stand up and fight
So I don't lose my mind to him as well.
Though I feel the gears slipping a little,
I'm holding on with all that I have left.
Though my soul's scarred and my brain is brittle,
I will fight this to my very last breath.
I'll be damned if I'm going to give up now,
After all the hell he has put me through.
I'll stay together, though I don't know how.
I won't give up. I've got too much to do.
Take the mem'ries and flashbacks and shove them.
Survivors with a voice, gotta love them!

Drunk Driver (poem)

Lured by floating bubbles of flirtation,
Enamored with the thought of being loved,
Stunned by his silky, smooth incantation,
I lost track of any rules that I might have thought of.
I was under age, but he served me just the same.
He didn't care that I was but a child.
He left my heart a tattered mess,
And my mind a circus, running wild.

Another bar, this one deep underground.
Where only the "privileged" were allowed.
They served me there,
Both day or night,
Sometimes there was quite a crowd.
The bartenders came
One after another,
Serving me more quickly
Than I could recover.
I left that bar determined
Never to try to leave the road again
I did my best to steer clear
Of all the stinking, drinking men. 

But then came a man I couldn't resist.
His words were so smooth,
And how sweet was his kiss.
"Drink with me," he implored.
My attempts to say no
Were always ignored.
He poured me one glass after another,
Til I was too drunk to stand.
His words cut through me like a knife,
(I wondered, "why am I his wife?")
He smothered me
Until I couldn't breathe,
Until I couldn't see,
And yet I couldn't leave.

Just when I would start to sober up,
He'd pour another soul piercing drink,
Until I couldn't function any more,
Let alone try to think.
So I learned to drive the road of life,
Though sloshed by the pain he served up.
I kept it between the lines as best I could,
But, oh, how I longed to just give up.
But alas, I could not,
For I had children in the back seat
Depending on me
For love, for direction, for comfort, for meat.
Soon I was reduced
To talking to myself,
For he forbid me to speak
With anyone else.

Simple chants in the back of my mind,
(Where I hid from his ranting most of the time).
I hung on for dear life
To my sanity,
And repeated the simple rules
That life had taught me:
"Red means stop.
Green means go.
Don't go too fast.
Don't go too slow.
Don't leave the road,
Don't be too early.
Don't be too late.
Keep it between the lines.
Hold the wheel straight."

I got pulled over and detained a few times
By those who saw the warning signs --
Like my vehicle swerving back and forth
Or driving right off the road at times. 
"Have you had anything to drink, young lady?"
"Only pain," I said, as though they'd understand.
Hoping that somehow maybe
They were different than every other man.
I would eventually jump through their hoops --
I would touch my own nose
And walk a straight line,
And somehow convince them that I was "just fine."
They'd smile at me,
Pat themselves on the back,
And let me go back for more --
With the lamest of warnings
To drive a bit slower.

As if I could control the speed at which life raced by,
As if I could predict when I'd break down and cry. 
"Just keep it between the lines," I would think,
And please, Lord, let there be no more
That I am forced to drink."

You see, I never chose to put the cup to my lips.
I never wanted a single one of those evil sips.
Now here I am, still sloshed from the shame,
Wondering how to play this confusing game.
Some make it seem so simple,
But to me it's a mystery
How some can walk through life unscathed,
While others end up scarred like me.

Just keep on driving, I tell myself,
Just follow the road and see where it goes.
But at the rate I'm going,
My destination is one that nobody knows.

I often veer from one side to the other,
Trying to find my way.
I hit the curbs, I cross the lines,
And I run a stop sign almost every day.
I try to go when I see green,
I try to stop when I see red.
I try to follow the rules of the road,
But inside I feel like I'm already dead.
Just a dummy behind the wheel,
A crash test dummy --
That's how I feel.

I want to believe there's a higher power
That will guide me along this road,
But day by day and hour by hour,
It seems I carry a heavier load.

What would they say if they could see inside?
There's no way to count the tears I've cried.  
How many years was I Frankensteins's bride?
In the end, does it even matter how hard I tried?

I don't know how much longer
I can hold the steering wheel steady,
How long it will be til I'm stronger,
How long it will be til I'm ready
To face the pain that's intoxicated me,
To sober up,
To finally be free.

I want my life back, and my sanity too.
I don't want to be a zombie
Merely stumbling my way through.
Still I sense that it's apparent to all
When they see me stumbling around
That I must have stayed through last call,
That I'm five minutes from collapsing on the ground.

I watch as other vehicles pass me by,
As I struggle along in the slow lane.
I try not to crash as I break down and cry,
And pray that I don't go totally insane.

Sometimes it seems nobody really even cares
That I'm a multiple trauma survivor.
They look at me and all that they see
Is just another drunk driver.








 

Who's Your Bitch NOW? (sonnet)

You took my soul from me a million times.
You said I'd be a fool to try to leave.
After years of you messing with my mind,
There was some of it I almost believed.
You called me a slut and a worthless whore,
A cunt, a bitch, and a few that were worse.
You raped me til I couldn't take much more,
And then would laugh in my face and just curse.
You said I was stupid, ugly, and fat.
You gave me no mercy when I cried out.
I learned to be silent through all of that,
For if I complained, it was worse, no doubt.
And yet I did survive . . . someway, somehow --
One thing I have to ask, "Who's your bitch NOW?"

Almost Gone (sonnet)

Just today, in front of the kitchen sink,
I stood for what seemed like over an hour.
"What is the problem?" I surely did think,
Why am I still giving this man power?
I remembered all the times he hurt me --
He said me washing dishes turned him on.
I cringed when I thought of the agony,
But then I remembered -- the bastard's GONE!
He cannot hurt me like that any more.
He can't trap me alone in my kitchen.
Somehow, I'm not as afraid as before,
Because someone took the time to listen.
I'll wash these plates and then just carry on,
For the hold he had on me's almost gone.

Never Be the Same (sonnet)

From the moment we met, I ceased to live.
My self became a shadow with no voice.
I gave you all of me that I could give.
You never even gave me one small choice.
I soon stopped even thinking for myself --
My thoughts didn't really matter at all.
It was your way or the highway, or else . . .
Either way, I was up against a wall.
Your brutal acts convinced me hope was dead.
I gave up even feeling what you did.
Each time you drug me off to go to bed,
I found a spot inside my head and hid.
A child was all I was before you came.
I know that I will never be the same.

The Rapist Walks Free (sonnet)

The memories still haunt me in the night,
The flashbacks still plague me during the day.
What about this picture is not right?
So many things I never got to say.
I never called the cops to come for him,
I chose, instead, to suffer in my shame.
It wasn't simply on a flimsy whim,
That I protected him and his "good name."
I thought about our kids, and shut my eyes
To all the hellish things he did to me.
I guess that it should come as no surprise
That things would turn out as they seem to be.
Justice does not exist (at least for me);
Tonight, my husband, the rapist, walks free.

When Will This Be Over? (Sonnet)

My head shoved in the bookcase like a box,
Him reaming me like crazy from behind,
The banging of the headboard as it rocks,
The screaming pain that makes me lose my mind.
"This is for my kids," I say, and shut up,
I don't want them to awake from their sleep.
The pain, the feelings, they all just got stuffed,
I wish I had the luxury to weep.
When will this be over? When will it end --
The remembering of all that he did?
How did I always force my mind to bend
Around the memories I quickly hid?
God help me, I can't deal with all this pain.
I'm tired of living it over again.

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.

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.

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. 

Just a Ghost (Acrostic Sonnet)

When first he came and took his rightful prize,
He had to find me first and pin me down,
Yet somehow I just froze and closed my eyes.
Despite the pain, I lay without a sound.
I think I tried to hide a time or two;
Deterring him just never seemed to work.
No matter what I did or didn't do,
The time would come, and he'd just go berserk.
I don't know when or why I chose defeat,
For years it seemed the only thing to do.
I'd wave a flag of white and just retreat.
"God help me," I would pray; it's all I knew.
How many times did he take all of me,
Til I was not a woman, just a ghost,
Believing 'twas my lot to simply be
A piece of meat? I think that hurt the most.
Consid'ring how he left my soul for dead,
Keep asking what I should have done instead.