Some days, I wake up, and my skin is on inside out. Everything hurts. Everything feels raw. My feelings are harsh and vivid. My emotional life feels like a train wreck.
When I sobered up at twenty, a heavy fog of self-loathing and self-hatred enveloped me. I was dripping with it. A therapist asked me to identify things I liked about myself, and I could only say my eyes. They were like my dad’s.
I knew I was the cause of every bad thing that had ever happened to me, except my dad’s death. I knew I didn’t cause that. Except for my eyes, I hated everything about myself. I wasn’t pretty, intelligent, witty, smooth, or sporty. When I evaluated myself, I was simply not enough. I knew I would never have a good job, kids, a loving husband, or anything worth having.
I had screwed it up by inviting sexual abuse and rape into my life. Rape was easy to prove to myself. I was drunk every time. Sexual abuse was trickier, but in the words of a close family member, I was a friendly little girl.
I had to change my thinking. I started to reason rationally. The PTSD mind lives in fear: fear of violence, fear of discovery, and fear of the menacing unknown. I began to see young children and ask myself, “Does that child deserve what happened to you?” “Is a child that age capable of inviting such horrors?” “Were you different than they are at that age?” I don’t know if a therapist or fellow sufferer suggested that line of thinking, but it helped. I let myself off the hook.
A class at my university had a segment about sexual violence and prevention. I adopted some of their methods. Look under your car before you get close enough to open the door. Sometimes, predators scootch under your car and grab your ankles to pull you down. Hold your keys between your fingers like brass knuckles and poke them in the eye. I don’t remember the others. I took the class over 35 years ago. I remember feeling camaraderie with the other women, like we were all fighting a familiar foe.
I wonder, sometimes, if attacked again, would the rage and pain overwhelm me like water from a fire hose wetting a burning building? Or would I, once again, be frozen like the permanent victim waiting for the horror to end? I can’t say. Some days, I’m sure I would rage, kick, claw, and scream. Other days, I think I would freeze and wait.
That’s the same way I feel in life. On Wednesday, I fight and stand up for myself; other times, I cower in the corner, feeling I’m not good enough. Shame washing over me like syrup, not washing, more like slowly rolling down my body, gooey and sticky.
I’m nothing like I used to be. I’ve had time for introspection, digging into my psyche and finding out what makes me tick, not just today, but things I’ve hoarded throughout my life to keep safe, like not welcoming new people because of fear. Or why am I unable to speak when I need to? I had to scrutinize my feelings, motivations, and attending behavior. I had to let go of behavior that wasn’t serving me. I couldn’t do it alone.
I’m sure this will be a Boo! from some of you, but solo is not productive. I needed a higher power not a human power. A power stronger than me that could help remove the flaws that were blocking my progress. It’s simple work, but I had to be willing to work hard. I had to follow the process repeatedly like a grocery store owner performing inventory: tossing out the old, rotten fruit, bringing in fresh fruit, and ordering new stock to contribute to the store’s health. It couldn’t be done without a higher power.
I call my power God. We have a tight relationship. I rely on him/her/it. I’m too small to know what it is, to envision it. I was told to create a version of God that works for me. I’m unsure if my concept is “right,” but I hear and feel God and am changed by him. I’m comforted by our relationship, and I’m never alone. “Changed by him” is the most crucial phrase.
A relative recently said that God is for weak-minded people who need a crutch. I’ve agreed with that statement in the past. I’ve been following a new path for 12 years. Isn’t it a testament that I’ve never been happier in my life? The person I was 12 years ago died. She is unrecognizable from me today. I had my goals all wrong back then. I didn’t need a husband, kids, a dog, and two cars. I got what I needed: self-esteem, self-love, assertiveness, serenity, peace, and the ability to help others find their way. I have all the material goods, but I would give them away in a heartbeat if I thought they would take the other gifts away.
A voice in my head has been telling me to write about my experiences for almost 40 years. Sometimes, I wish I had written sooner. But it’s only been in the past 12 years that I’ve gained any recovery. It seems strange, but it was primarily fueled by my husband. He is my third. My first husband and I fought, no brawled, for eight years. We had a brilliant, funny son who is now 28 years old. My second husband and I didn’t fight. We had a brilliant, funny daughter. We were together for 13 years. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder during our marriage. I’m unsure what happened, but after 13 years, I left.
I met my current husband on a Saturday night twelve years ago. The gate of his truck was down, and he was sitting on it smoking a cigarette. When I walked by, I thought, “He’s cute, like a puppy.” He has curly gray hair. Wherever we go, people remember him or his hair. No one ever remembers me. I’ve been told I’m the girl next door, unremarkable. The first time we had sex, he said, “If you need to stop for any reason, tell me, and I’ll stop.” Until then, I didn’t know what had been missing in my relationships. Trust. I never believed that any other man would stop without grumbling. He’s the only man I’ve not had a flashback with during sex. Our relationship is based on love and trust.
I am writing today because of him. Two years ago, he encouraged me to attend a non-fiction writing workshop. I started a non-fiction writing group from the workshop that met for two years. Our group stopped meeting only two months ago. Wednesday, I’m meeting with a woman to start a new group. Hearing positive feedback and getting criticism from fellow writers taught me that I can learn and grow as a writer and that I am good enough. I am coming into my own. If I had listened when I was 20, I would have recovered and started writing sooner, but I took the long way around the barn to get here. I am happy that I arrived at all. I absolutely believed that my dreams would never come true.
This year, I started a writing and editing business and this blog. I started waking up filled with shame. I couldn’t shake it for weeks. I decided to find an EMDR therapist because the shame still comes and goes.
You know? Even when I wake up with my skin inside out, the sun rises, and the rays warm my skin. I feel alive and serene. I am grateful to those who held my hand and taught me how to walk again. My life? It’s beyond my wildest dreams.
For more information, see What is EMDR Therapy? or 7 Self-care Tips for PTSD.