August 20, 2006

Thank You

I want to take just a minute to thank each of you who commented on the "Suspicions Confirmed" post, whether through comments, email, IM or otherwise. I've been sitting here staring at the screen and attempting to re-read the comments left publicly, the emails sent privately. And I find I'm at a loss for words. (Doesn't happen all that often, obviously.)

To be honest, I expected to find not only support offered, but I had also prepared myself for what I thought would be the inevitible trolls screeching to tell me this was only False Memory Syndrome. (Another, competing link here.) And for me, the damage done by the therapists and people who did falsely accuse others of abuse, led to even more self-doubt about my own suspicions. I refused to say anything definitive about my abuse until I was sure, positive and without any reasonable doubt.

There's so little hard evidence about how the mind works, really. It's a complicated bio-chemical place that we just can't see how it works. Which naturally, leads to discussions of whether depression meds are necessary or if ADHD really exists or not. You know, the Tom Cruise insanity. (My favourite is well, then why didn't people in "olden tymes" have it? Umm, they did ... but they were considered eccentric or even mildly crazy for not being able to calm down.)

At any rate, as a thank you to those who also deal with this crap ... and for those who don't but want to understand, I give you a quote from a criminal justice textbook.

When a child is abused, her mind cannot handle what happens to her. It's too much. Even if the mind remembers some of the abuse, it will bury most of it. It may remember the events, for instance, but bury the emotions. Basically, what the mind does is take the memories, put them deep in the unconscious and build a wall around them. The mind also pulls the memory apart. It stores the different parts of a memory -- the event (the visual picture of what happened), the mention (like the terror or the sexual feelings), and the identity of the perpetrator(s) and puts them in different parts of the mind. Some parts are easier to access than others are. There is a "layering effect," with the worst memories at the bottom.

(quoted in Sex Crimes: Patterns and Behavior by Stephen T. Holmes and Ronald M. Holmes, Sage Publications Inc., 2002.)

Also, a reminder that psychologists have done plenty of more "hard scientific research" on trauma and memory in the last few decades, particularly with victims of car wrecks and the traumatic events of war. These are cases in which the victim often experiences at least some form of amnesia and in which external evidence confirms the bits of memory or the actual recovered memories.

As to my "strength" or "courage" in posting about this ... it doesn't feel that way to me. Maybe it's the fact that I'm an oldest child and brings out the protector in me ... but I simply feel it's my responsibility to speak about it. I feel a duty to others who struggle with these issues. A duty to let them know they're not alone. That the mind is an odd place. That there is hope.

Of course, I also think that all of the emotions surrounding this issue are dormant at the moment, which makes writing about it easier.

So ... to those of you who felt moved to comment or had the strength to comment - and especially to those of you who simply couldn't speak - thank you. Just ... thank you.

Posted by Red Monkey at 6:53 AM | Comments (1) | Struggles | TrackBack | Stumble

August 14, 2006

All Clear for Another Year

Just got back from the oncologist. It's been five years now since I returned home from my bone marrow transplant due to a recurrence of Hodgkin's disease. Thanksgiving will mark 7 years from the initial diagnosis.

All clear.

Posted by Red Monkey at 4:01 PM | Comments (6) | Struggles | TrackBack | Stumble

August 10, 2006

Suspicions Confirmed

WARNING:
This entry should not be read by everyone. If you're just surfing the web through BlogMad or you've come here for something funny or short or a nice little diversion, this is not a post you want to read.

This is a post about "childhood trauma" as one hospital calls it. If we're being blunt ... and I am rather blunt in the post itself ... it's about incest and having to deal with its aftereffects as an adult.

You want fun, I got fun stuff below. The rant in "Not News" is funny. "Diversions" has, well, it has great diversions for you.

Click the link if you want to follow through to a very serious post. It's not for everyone.

This post contains blunt language (but not profanity). It's gonna be to the point and no longer dancing around any proverbial bushes. I am, for the moment, through with that.
If you're not in a balanced place mentally, don't read on.

If you have been through childhood trauma, you understand the triggers warning. If not, consider this a hint of what's to come.
triggers include: the word rape, allusion to cult, discussion of self-injury

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

For the first time, I can really say it.

My father raped me.

I've never said that out loud before.

You see, for years, I suspected. First, while I was a teen still living at home, I suspected that he had the capacity for rape. I told myself I was ready for him and that if it ever happened, I would call the police. I would have him taken away. I would rescue the family. There were times when I would sit in my room in the late night hours and will him to "just try and start something" because I was determined that I would finish it. And it would end with him in prison.

When I moved out of the house (and some part of me was stunned that it was so easy to do ... that part of me was positive he would kill me before he'd let me leave), I began getting glimpses. I feared that "things" had happened. I had suspicions, but I didn't really have anything I would call a solid memory. So I distrusted them. I got Courage to Heal. I read large chunks of it. Then tore the book into chunks.

I wasn't ready.

I read books. Obsidian Mirror. Courage to Heal. Courage to Heal Workbook. I read others' stories. When Rabbit Howls. The Broken Child. Sybil. I read the horribly tacky "true crime" books dealing with abuse. I read the FBI "report" on cults.

I watched movies. Boys Don't Cry. The General's Daughter. Anything I thought might possibly trigger something.

I wasn't ready.

I was frustrated. I wanted to remember. I knew there were things locked up somewhere in my brain and I was determined to root them out. I tried writing. I tried counselling. I tried just looking at pictures and concentrating on that time period.

I wasn't ready.

I was really freaking tired of people telling me I'd remember when I was ready. I was tired of being scared of "something" having happened. I was tired of walking and talking like a duck but not *feeling* like I was a duck. I was tired of reacting to my partner's reasonable and loving requests for physical love like I was a five year old. I wasn't five. I was thirty-five and this was getting OLD. I felt like I was working and working and working on this and getting nowhere at all.

My partner begged me to try counselling again, gathered names of some good people and I did go back. To someone who knows what she's doing, this time. I wrote a 10 page list of bad things that had happened to me as a kid that I remembered ... interspersed with things that I was very not sure were real memories. And as I started reading them to the new therapist, she stopped me very quickly and pointed out there was no emotional connection between what I was reading and the events I was describing.

Well, yeah. It happened a long time ago. They're over and done with, why get upset about it now?

I wasn't ready.

I've been talking to this same T. for a bit over two years now, I think. Maybe it's three. "Be patient." "Trust the process." "You'll remember when you're ready." Yeah, I was ready, all right. Ready to scream.

Gradually my affect started to change during sessions. That nice solid outer coating of veneer covered in coats and coats and coats of polyurethane was beginning to crack. I was able to get closer to the emotions than I had gotten in a long long time.

But I still wasn't ready.

During this time, I returned to an old, old coping habit. I cut. I tried several of the strategies that I found and they worked for a short time. But eventually, I backslid. Luckily, a few "cat scratches" are more than enough for me. Still, it was a concern, to say the least.

My partner is about to finish her bachelor's degree and is looking at seminaries for the fall of 2007. We went to visit one in California ... and then one in my old state, Texas. In fact, we stayed in my hometown, and I was happy to get to show off all sorts of places that had been important to me while growing up. We drove by my dad's house a couple of times, and I even paused the rental car long enough to take one fast picture of the house. We visited with my mother, who was for the most part, sane the whole time we were there.

When it came time to board the airplane and head back to my current state, I wanted to just fall apart. I wanted to go home, to see my house, my dogs, my cats, my stuff. But Texas is truly where my heart is.

Something was building.

I don't know what changed during that trip, but something surely did. I was nearly suicidal the week after we returned ... and for no discernable reason. Things got a little better after a trip to my trusty T. Then, they slowly started building again.

Last Friday morning, after my other half left for work and just before my alarm was set to go off, I had a real flashback. I was awake, just laying in bed and waiting for the alarm to go off, too tired to really get up just yet.

I could remember laying in my bed as a youngish teenager. Sound asleep. And having the covers ripped off of me. What happened next was very sudden. Very violent. Very real to me.

My father raped me.

This wasn't some misplaced love. This wasn't a substitution of daughter for wife. This was about his needs, his power, his need for my fear, his sick obsession.

I was horrified. I was terrified. I was sad. I was resigned. I was surprised. All of those feelings from the time of the original event. In the here and now, I was simply numb and shocked. The "proof" I'd wanted all these years ... I'd just gotten my "movie." (Though, really, it wasn't really much like a movie in terms of detail and sequential events.)

I got ready for work, went through my day, almost forgot about it. I don't know what I was doing that triggered me to remember it, but I'm glad I did remember it. I'd hate to have lost that again. The next few days were not particularly good. I emailed my T. and with very little detail and even fewer words, simply told her that I'd had a flashback and that I'd see her at my next appointment in a couple of weeks. No need to schedule an in-between appointment.

Naturally, she called me in anyway. At that point, I had not fully admitted to myself what had just happened. I couldn't say what dad had done. I couldn't talk about it to my partner, I just said that i'd had a flashback.

But I did talk during the therapy session yesterday. For me, I talked a lot. And when I left, I don't think I said it aloud at that time ... but when I got home and was IM-ing with a friend, I wrote those words for the first time:

My father raped me.

I've been oddly numb since then. It's not an unexpected numbness, but it's odd nonetheless. It's like a kid probing at the new shape of their mouth after losing a tooth. It doesn't hurt ... it's just different. And I've been repeating those words to myself all day. Walking down the hallway at work. Walking out the door to go home. Walking through the house.

My father raped me.

And while much of it is still murky and unclear ... I *think* "things" began when I was about four; I *think* there was a ring of "buddies" at one point; I *think* there was something in the woods outside Austin ... while there are many things that are still unclear, I no longer feel completely blocked. There is no "maybe he did, but maybe he just made me feel threatened." Or "maybe he did or maybe I was just imagining things."

I wasn't ready before. I thought I was. But I was scared of what I would discover. What I would feel like if I knew. I was scared of making false accusations. I was scared that I could block something like that so completely out of my mind for any length of time. I was still scared last week. But finally, I was ready. And, for the time being, there is certainty.

My father raped me.

And you know what?

I survived. And ... I survived remembering it again.

Posted by Red Monkey at 12:57 AM | Comments (10) | Struggles | TrackBack | Stumble

July 3, 2006

Legislating Discrimination

So, a few weeks ago, I hinted that the local paper had interviewed me and I was waiting until the article came out before talking about it.

Here's the back story:
The city council of the town I live in decided to add an ordinance which would ban discrimination against gays. But before they voted on the issue, some of the right-wing extremists got wind of the proposed ordinance and started pitching a fit. After starting a site (nospecialrights.net) which condones discrimination and, in fact, spreads mistruths or misconceptions, the local HRC decided that there should be some stories in the local paper which talked about why an anti-discrimination ordinance might be helpful and why it's not "special rights." Why what we're asking for is simple, basic, civil rights. The right to get and hold a job on our own merits and not on our supposed sex life, the right to housing, the right to not be harassed just walking through town.

First ... the EEOC does not list "sexual orientation" as protected from discrimination. Included are: Age, Disability, National Origin, Race, Religion, Sex (including pregnancy and marital status, but not orientation).

So, the HRC was looking for people who were willing to share their stories of discrimination "on the record" and ... here was the kicker ... with their names attached to the article.

Fearing discrimination ... fearing retaliation ... fearing vandalism against home and vehicle ... fearing violence against their person, most people declined to be interviewed by the local paper.

My partner and I underwent a two-hour interview with a new-ish reporter at the local paper regarding the commonplace discriminations that happen daily in our town. The article came out today and you can find it here:
South Bend Trib Article
And, yes, this is our print newspaper. Yes, the grammar and the organization are really, truly that bad. As a former teacher of writing, I'll probably critique the article's style and grade it here tomorrow ;)

My hope is that the more we speak out, the less any legislation will be necessary.

Legislating against discrimination often simply causes a bubbling over of hatred and violence and a certain segment of the population digging their heels in and saying, no way, not me, not ever, ain't gonna "like" "them people."

Legislating against discrimination, however, gets the conversations out in the open. Even when it creates more overt violence, the ultimate results are more honest than the hidden hatreds and hidden fears.

Legislating against discrimination is not the perfect solution. But, at the moment, it's the only viable option we have to attempt to prevent discrimination.

I'm hoping the ordinance passes next week while I'm on vacation.

To be honest, I'm also hoping that no one vandalizes our house while we're gone, too ... bad timing to have an article like this come out ... and then leave ye olde homestead undefended.

Posted by Red Monkey at 9:04 AM | Comments (5) | Struggles | TrackBack | Stumble

June 22, 2006

Good Luck! :)

I've talked about some of my struggles here for a while, but it's time to switch gears just a tad. My little sister (yeah the one who used to be afraid of ants) decided to leave Texas with her husband and they were going to try their hands as musicians in one of the big cities. It's going as slowly as most people warned them it would, but they're doing okay. My sister has a HUGE job interview this afternoon with an absolutely incredible charter school in a traditionally depressed urban area.

Everyone, please, send out good thoughts to them. Right now, they're both in between gigs and teaching jobs are pretty hard to come by despite their really outstanding qualifications. Things are getting a little desperate for them and I just thought I'd try to send them some extra goodwill.

Here's to my little sis scoring a beautiful job in the inner city.

Posted by Red Monkey at 10:55 AM | Comments (3) | Struggles | TrackBack | Stumble

May 23, 2006

Language

I've seen a lot of U.S. blogs talking about the current issues with legal and illegal immigration and the constant complaint that immigrants do not speak English. I'm not going to get all political on this because this is not a political blog. However, I am a teacher, so I just want to take a moment to explain something that a lot of folks are apparently not aware of.

The United States, at this time, does not have an official language. Most countries have a law or edict which declares one language "the" language of that country. One story goes that our Founding Fathers decided to leave it open since we had so many immigrants from so many different lands and this would further encourage the melting pot of America. The Federalist Papers were written at least partially in German ... one suggestion was to use Hebrew as the official language since it was purportedly closer to the Garden of Eden. Lots of stories, but clearly one thing stands out: English was not the legal, official language at the time of the Constitution.

Indeed, the fact of the matter is that there is no one legal language for the United States. Sure, if we go by tradition, English is "the" language of the U.S. And if you want to be understood in most places in the U.S., you should know English.

However, legally, there's no need to speak English. In fact, many of our ancestors did not speak English upon arrival. I know half my family spoke Lithuanian instead of English. Further back, on the other side of the family, they spoke Scots-Gaelic. Today, all of their offspring speak English instead of those "mother tongues." So, why is it that as a country right now we seem to want to force everyone to speak the same language and ignore a tradition of letting the older generation get by ... and letting the younger generations be the bridge between both languages.

Well, on the one hand, just because it's always been done "this way," does that make it right? On the other hand, our legal system is based on just that theory (the theory of precedence).

Honestly, I have more than a small streak of the anarchist in me, so I like the mix of languages. But, I also have a practical side which says, hey, we're too large an entity any more ... and too regulated ... to get away with a hodge podge of languages in which our laws might not be understood.

At this time, the Senate has passed two separate bills trying to somehow come up with a solution. It's still a bit of a mess since there are two bills and they'd have to be combined into one in the House before anything could be settled. But this congressional debate has been going on for at least the last 10 years without any resolution, so I'm not holding my breath just because it's being considered again.

Basically, I'm not coming down either pro or con on this. I can see both sides of the argument. I'm a bit of a history nut, so not having an official, national language appeals to me on one level. But I'm also a pragmatist who thinks it would be easier to have an official, national language.

I just want to take a moment to point out to those who believe that immigrants (legal or otherwise) are somehow not speaking the national language are jumping the gun a bit. We don't have one (yet). We have a language which is common to most areas, but there is not a federal, legal reason for anyone to learn English. Certainly a pragmatic reason to learn it! But not a legal one.

For now, though, I'm going to enjoy the multi-lingual signs in English and Chinese and Spanish and French depending on where in the U.S. you are. I hope we don't ever lose that. :)

UPDATE: comments closed because of spam ... if you want to leave me a comment, please email it to me using the contact me button ... I was tired of deleting spam comments on this particular entry and closed the comments, but I'll manually post them for you if you want to continue the discussion.

Posted by Red Monkey at 5:31 AM | Comments (5) | Struggles | Stumble