Survivor’s Journey Part 15 – Finding Solace in Solitude

Survivor’s Journey Part 15 – Finding Solace in Solitude.

Survivors Journey Part 12 – Living in the shadow of rape

Thirty one years ago at the age of 13, I was raped.

Twenty years ago at the age of 24, I was raped again.

Two different assailants; the same crime. Rape.

There are no synonyms for the word rape. It stands alone in its meaning. Four little letters that put together describe an act so defiling to its victims, you’re left with no means to truly convey how it makes you feel. Unless you’ve survived it, you’ll never understand it.

My first assailant, Bruce, was a 20 year old pedophile disguised as a youth group counselor at the Episcopal Church I attended. He was someone I trusted; someone my parents trusted; a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Desperate for male approval, I flocked to him like a moth to a campfire. I have no doubt he could spot my vulnerability a mile away, and he wasted no time setting his sights on me.

As an adult, I now recognize Bruce’s grooming process of me and everyone in my life. He swooped in and made friends with all the critical players; my parents, me, church leaders, you name it. He gained everyone’s trust and presented himself as an upstanding guy. Bruce immediately paid attention to me when I began attending the new church. Since he had no family that attended there, he would usually sit with the youth group during Sunday service, hang out with us after mass, attend all the youth activities, and even gave me a ride to church now and then. He was a leader in the church; therefore he was safe….right? Wrong.

On August 1, 1978 my mother was out of town tending to her ailing father and my brother was visiting our grandmother in California. My step-father, Bob, received a business call requiring him to go to Louisiana for the night. I assured him I would be fine for one evening, after all I was going to be 14 in two days. Later in the evening after Bob left, fear began to take hold so I called Bruce to talk. It was nice to have someone to visit with that I trusted. After explaining my circumstance, Bruce offered to make the 45 minute trek across town and keep me company for a while. An invitation I accepted. Once there, we watched TV and talked. His presence quickly disarmed my fears of being home alone. Later that evening the phone rang, and I knew it was Bob calling to check on me. I dashed upstairs and plopped down on my brother’s bed to take his call. As soon as I hung up the phone, Bruce entered the room. He walked slowly over toward the bed and without uttering a word began undressing me from the waist down. Unbuttoning my pants, his eyes were fixed on his prey as his six foot frame towered over me. Frozen with fear and confusion, I laid there as he continued his advance. I didn’t know what to do. Within minutes, he was naked and on top of me, still never saying a word. I remember the physical pain I experienced, but I trusted him. I must have thought he really loved me; after all, he had just had sex with me, right? Isn’t that what people who love each other do? I was too young and naïve to understand he was a predator. When he got up to leave, he had stolen what was left of my innocence and further diminished my perception of what it meant to be worthy.

Over the next two weeks, Bruce began to ignore me at church, quit returning my calls, and focused his attentions on another young girl who recently joined the youth group. Broken-hearted, rejected, and confused, I confided in LouAnn, the youth group leader, what had happened. She was quick to call me a liar and accused me of inviting his advances and exclaimed, “Bruce would never do anything like that.” According to her it was my fault – I was the bad seed. I will never forget the look of disgust in her eyes aimed my direction. It felt like I was being raped all over again. Though I knew I hadn’t lied, I eventually believed what she said. It must have been my fault. I stuffed the emotions, shouldered the blame, and pretended like it never happened. I never said another word about it. Not even to my own mother.

Bruce was never questioned, accused, or prosecuted for what he did to me. I now know that he victimized several other girls but was not caught until 10 years after he raped me. I want to tell those girls how sorry I am for what they had to go through, and that I understand how they feel. I want them to know that I did tell someone I thought I could trust, but she didn’t believe me. I wish I had told my mother, or someone else, anyone else that would have listened. Instead, I rolled over and took what I didn’t have coming. In all honesty, I hold LouAnn just as responsible for the rape and/or molestation of the other girls’ as I do Bruce. So much innocence lost all because she didn’t believe me. She didn’t take time to listen or ask questions…no, she just told a <then>13 year old girl that she was to blame for a 20 year old man having sex with her. I don’t know if Bruce ever went to prison or not. At this point, I don’t care. There will come a day when he has to answer for his actions, if he hasn’t done so already.

My second assailant, Don, was a man I had met at a local night club. After an evening of dancing and drinking, we left in my car and headed for a party being held at a friend’s house. We stayed just long enough for me to make an appearance before he drove me home. Given the hour and quantity of alcohol consumed, I told him he could sleep on the couch and I’d take him home in the morning. Once I got him settled in the living room with sheets and a pillow, I went into my room, closed the door, and began to dress for bed. Unannounced and uninvited, Don entered my room. Grabbing my shoulders, he pushed me down on the bed, pulled back my robe and proceeded to rape me. As with Bruce, I was frozen by the fear and merely laid there as he thrust his drunken manhood in and out of me. The only sound I heard was, “No, no, no…,” a fear-filled whisper that repeatedly squeaked through my lips. I was afraid to fight…afraid he would hurt me more than he already was. Unable to ejaculate, he eventually rolled off of me and begrudgingly pulled up his pants. I got up and quickly pulled on a sweat suit, grabbed my keys and purse, and told him I would take him home immediately. His demeanor quickly turned to anger and frustration. Crossing the threshold in front of me he said, “So you’ll fuck me but you won’t sleep with me, huh?” I immediately slammed the front door and locked it. He began pounding on the door with his fists; his rage-filled screams riddled with name calling and threats. Fearing what further assault he was capable of, I ran to the phone and called for help. “911, what’s your emergency?” “Hello 911? I’ve just been raped…”

Help was on the way.

The authorities located Don just blocks away walking toward his home and arrested him. I was taken to the County Hospital where I was subjected to a medical rape test and offered emotional support from a local rape crisis representative. Don never denied to the authorities that he had been with me, but his claims were that the sex was consensual; the rape kit test results would prove otherwise. After the grand jury indicted him, a trial date was set.

Three months before my trial was set to begin, Don was on trial for molesting the 12-year old daughter of a former girlfriend. Don and his attorney opted to have a trial by judge rather than trial by jury. Unfortunately, the mother of this young girl did not believe her daughter when she first accused Don of molesting her. At the time of their trial, the mother’s testimony was considered “wishy-washy”and inevitably forced the judge to find Don innocent due to lack of evidence. I believe in my heart that the judge knew he was guilty, but the burden of proof was unsuccessfully achieved by the prosecutors, and Don walked away a free man.

As the rape trial date approached, Don and his attorney again opted for trial by judge as they previously had in the molestation case. As luck would have it, they drew the same judge who had governed the previous trial. Other than the rape kit test results, the only evidence was his word against mine and a few so-called character witnesses offered up by the defense. The trial was difficult for me. To sit in a courtroom full of bystanders and share how you were intimately violated was almost inconceivable. After my testimony concluded, I exited the courtroom and was approached by a woman who told me how proud she was of me for having the courage to come forward. Though I thanked her for the kind words, I couldn’t help but feel anything less than courageous. Rather, I felt like I had been raped all over again after the defense attorney got through cross-examining me.

I am forever convinced that the judge subconsciously visualized the sweet face of that 12-year old girl Don allegedly molested as he listened to the evidence presented during the rape trial. Upon conclusion, the judge handed down a guilty verdict and administered the maximum sentence of 20 years to be served in a maximum security prison. Nearly 19 years after the onset of his incarceration, Don still resides in the same prison and continues to serve out his time. In 2012, he will be released back into society as a free man. That is, if he doesn’t get paroled in the coming months.

As for me, I realize that by holding on to my fear I have allowed Don to continue to victimize me for the past 20 years. Though he is in prison, I fear him and what he is capable of when he gets out. Will he come after me seeking retaliation? Will he emerge worse off than when he went in? Does he intend to look for me? Is he still in denial that he raped me? Will he try to hurt my family? The questions are endless. I’ve often thought that it would be better to take my own life than to be hunted down by him upon his release only to be raped and possibly tortured all over again. Fear rules my every thought when it comes to his inevitable release…and I’m just now beginning to understand the depth of pain I have never permitted myself to feel and the emotions associated from such an intimate violation.

Over the past two weeks, I have been revisiting the rape traumas. I never understood I was swimming in a sea of denial regarding the lasting effects Bruce, LouAnn, and Don have had on my life. I am now faced with the daunting task of working through the insecurity and identifying a way to be freed (once and for all) from the all-consuming fear. My therapist and I have stepped up our time together as I continue to work toward dealing with the all the “stuffed” stuff. With her help, a steadfast willingness on my part to do the work, and by the Grace of God, I will continue to claw and scratch my way toward emotional health and security. You see, I am a survivor…and this is part of my journey.

Todays Parenting Lacks Boundaries and Discipline

What has happened to the parent–child relationship in today’s American family? I don’t know if any of you are as alarmed as I am, but I believe the lack of boundaries and discipline coupled by the ridiculously excessive electronic stimulation in today’s society is fueling an undeniably dangerous path for our children. This trajectory is producing a plethora of disrespectful, self-serving, and unyielding juveniles who will eventually be at the helm of our country’s leadership. The manner in which many of them are being groomed is enough to scare the bejeebers out of me.

In my opinion, an overwhelming number of today’s parents are entirely too concerned with being their children’s friends rather than their parents. That’s not to say you can’t have fun with your kids and enjoy time together, but kids need boundaries. They need discipline, structure, consistency, and a level of predictability. Children need to understand that their parents are the ones in control. Healthy boundaries, understood expectations, consistent consequences, and precise parent/child roles create a home environment where children feel safe and protected. Having these elements in place also promotes a household atmosphere that is reliable, calm, peaceful and orderly.

A friend of mine yells most of the time. It doesn’t matter if it’s a normal conversation or a heated argument with her husband; the volume level is consistently on the maximum level. The same characteristic has been groomed into their children. They all yell….all the time. It’s the noisiest, most chaotic environment I have ever been in. The word “no” in their house translates into “if you bug me enough, I’ll eventually give in and you can have what you want.” The manner in which their oldest daughter speaks to them just makes me cringe. She is disrespectful, mean-spirited at times, and whiny beyond what I am able to convey. It never ceases to amaze me how they can complain about their daughter; however they are not willing to establish and stand firm in appropriate boundaries, expectations, and consequences for her behavior. Rather, they merely shoulder the abuse or snap back at her in an elevated tone which merely fuels the dysfunction. What I see is an adult daughter who is failing to develop the necessary skills she requires to succeed in the real world. She is being taught that if you want to be heard, you must yell or whine and that “no” is negotiable.

While it is not for me to run their household or tell them how to raise their kids, it is for me to establish my personal boundaries when it comes to how their children treat me. I can say with complete honesty that NONE of my friends’ children treat me in the same manner in which they treat their parents. Why? Because they understand my boundaries and expectations and that level of behavior is not acceptable.

My husband and I were recently attending a family-friendly dinner gathering at the home of another couple. The kids were running around yelling, screaming, whining, and doing the opposite of what they were being told to do. As their behavior continued to escalate, the response from their parents was to reinforce instruction in a very calm and friendly manner. “….If you don’t stop, I’m going to…,” was continually being offered; however none of the so-called consequences ever came to fruition. At no time throughout the evening did the violators pay any price for their disregard to parental instruction. What kid would do as their parents told them to if they understood that the penalties were without merit? If you could drive as fast as you wanted with no regard to the speed limits knowing that police officers would merely administer a verbal warning for every offence, wouldn’t you continue to break the law? More than likely since there would be no consequence of any significant nature. Oh, you may be slightly inconvenienced as the officer verbally chastised you, but in the scheme of things it would be relatively painless. In other words, laws would merely take on the form of suggestions and you are free to do as you please because there is no real consequence for violating the boundaries set forth.

If you struggle with boundaries in your own life, know that this is precisely what you are modeling for your children. Without boundaries your children’s ability to learn is severely compromised and will generally derive at a much greater cost down the road. Children that lack respect for authority often times become adults who experience enormous challenges in the workplace, school, and relationships as a whole.

A friend of mine has an 11 year old son whose is completely out of control at home; however she continues to excuse his rambunctious behavior by telling me how well-mannered he is in the classroom. Ummm….Hello?! Of course he’s good in school! The teacher has boundaries and expectations in place with decisive consequences for said offences to behavioral outbursts and/or rule violations. If you would implement similar expectations at home and consistently hold him accountable when/if he violates those boundaries, your home life would be dramatically altered to the benefit of all involved.

How many times have you been in a restaurant and witnessed a child throwing a fit at the dinner table disrupting all those in the near vicinity? I’m not talking about a little outburst; I’m referring to those that go on and on and on. In my experience it happens all too often. I find myself wanting to lean over and ask the parents to please remove their child from the dining area and address their unacceptable behavior in a non-public arena rather than continuing to erode the other patrons desired experience around them. Generally speaking, I tend to witness parents consoling the child by diverting their attention with some sort of electronic device that will curb their outburst, or worse yet….they ignore it! What ever happened to teaching your children appropriate behavior and expectations through self-control, boundaries, and consequences without electronic diversions taking on the form of parenting? It’s not as if either of my boys acted up in a public place when they were young, but when they did, we immediately took a trip to the bathroom where I informed them that their behavior would not be tolerated. If it continued, I would go to the car with my child until such time as they garnered a level of self-control, understanding their behavior was not acceptable before returning. Nowadays it floors me to see the number of kids who have their head buried in portable devices rather than engaging in a family event. If your intent is to submerge your child into a world of battery-operated stimuli, then why not hire a babysitter and leave them at home saving us all the frustration?

Do any of you ever miss the “Because I said so” mentality? It worked for me as a kid and continues to work for me as a parent. It’s like the word “no” has been deleted from the parental vocabulary. I don’t feel the need to justify my reasons to my child for every decision I make; after all I am the parent. In the adult workplace if you’re told to do something, you do it; otherwise you will find yourself jobless. Wouldn’t this be equivalent of an adult on-the-job example of because my supervisor said so? Those same principles begin at home. Children are taught to respect authority. By not implementing authoritative respect in your children’s lives, you are in essence teaching them to not respect authority in adulthood. As a parent, you then find yourself wondering why your adult children are ill-equipped to navigate real life circumstances.

When my oldest son was 17, he came home one day with a group of new friends in tow. Walking into the kitchen, he takes a look at me and in a thug-like voice says, “Wasssssup, Mahhhhhh?” I know he was trying to be cool in front of his friends, but the manner in which he spoke to me was unacceptable. With a slight chuckle coming from the motionless lips of his friends, my immediate, yet calm response to him was, “Pardon me? You must have mistaken me for one of your buddies.” I had instantaneously established a boundary line by informing him and his friends that he will address me with the respect I am due. In addition to this exchange, I made it a point to introduce myself to his new friends as Miss Michelle as I strongly believe that children have no business calling an adult by their first name; that, in and of itself, skews boundaries for children by putting adults on the same level as them. I require the use of “Ma’am and Sir” in our home when addressing or answering all adults as a show of respect. Some may disagree, but it works for us.

You see, our home is not a democracy. That’s not to say we require our children to be quiet and do as you’re told with no regard to their feelings or opinions, but ultimately my husband and I are in control, and the laws of our home start and end with us. I am not my sons’ friend, I am their mother, and my role is to raise them in a manner that will provide them with the social, authority, respect, and life skills they will need to survive in the adult world. In addition, it is my job to teach them how to establish their own boundaries when it comes to how others treat them, a level of self-discipline and strong work ethic, and moral compass with a sense of compassion and respect for humankind. Sounds like a tall order, doesn’t it? Well it is…and the disciplines begin at home. My kids are free-willed, free-spirited, yet respectful individuals who can think for themselves yet still have boundaries in place. They are offered opportunities to speak into household decisions, but they also understand the final decisions reside within the parental unit. I value and want to hear what they have to say, but I require that they do so in a healthy and respectful manner. There is no yelling or name calling that goes on in our home. Rather, communicating amongst ourselves in a way that is conducive to respect for everyone involved produces a healthy, calm, and orderly home life.

I know I’m ranting, but I am incredibly alarmed with the notion that today’s youth are being railroaded by parental disengagement through the use of electronic devices and lack of authoritative, parental responsibility. Rather than teaching basic life-skills, boundaries, social interaction, self-discipline, and respect for authority, children are provided with electronic distractions which do nothing but enable them to emotionally and intellectually extricate themselves from reality. Life is about relationships and the experiences derived from them. The first relationship our children experience is that of the parent/child relationship. I consider this to be the most critical of all as it sets us on a life path that determines how well we succeed with those that follow, including self-relationship.

I can’t begin to tell you how many times over the year’s parents, teachers and extended family members have gone out of their way to share with me what respectable, well-mannered, young men my boys are. My response to them has always been, “Thank you so much! It’s a learned behavior that required a tremendous amount of discipline on my part as a parent to instill those expectations in them.” In the back of my mind I’m thinking, “You too can experience this if you’re willing to put forth the required and consistent effort!”

It is our job as parents to engage with our kids in a loving, nurturing, yet authoritative role that promotes the development of healthy boundaries, implementing and fulfilling consequences appropriately, and to provide them with the necessary life-skills that are essential to succeed in today’s society.

Though you may not completely agree with my opinions, I would be interested to hear from you regarding what seems to me to be a negative shift in the American parental roles and the effects it is having on today’s youth.

Just venting…

 

Survivors Journey Part 9 – Fence Posts

My husband and I knew it was time to replace our builder-grade, ash wood fence. Over the past 10 years, the original wooden posts had been invaded by carpenter ants, deteriorating it at ground level, and severely compromising its structural integrity. I knew it was only a matter of time before it would come crashing down.  It was better to replace it on our schedule rather than when we were forced to. We opted for an 8’ board on board, cedar picket fence that would be secured by galvanized steel posts; a strong, beautiful fence that would last for years to come. Our first step was to take down the old, rotten one. With sledge hammer in hand, a team of testosterone driven teenagers began smashing down the old fence in preparation for the new one. As each panel was hauled off, my field of view became clearer, broader, and more spacious. I delighted in its removal, as it had become quite an eyesore.

With all the panels down, what remained were 32 rotted, wooden posts secured by 50 pounds of concrete buried at the base of each and every one. It would have been easy to take a skill-saw and shave them level to the ground, but just because you can’t see the posts anymore doesn’t mean their foundation is not firmly intact. No, we had to dig them out….one by one. We had to get the root; otherwise the steel posts would be unstable at best, and the new fence would be no better than the one we would replace. Oh, it would have looked pretty for a while, but rest assured it too would be anything but secure. If you’re going to go through the effort and expense of building a new fence, you obviously want your efforts to result in a quality product, right? Of course! I knew my journey was intended to be no different.

Looking at all the rotted, wooden posts and dreading the work that was before us, I paused for a moment to reflect on my survivor’s journey thus far. In the past several months I’ve revisited many painful times in my life. Throughout the process, I have allowed myself to finally feel the emotions surrounding those events that I had been denying for so long. It’s been emotionally, physically, and intellectually exhausting. Thinking about the fence, I wanted to ensure there was no stone left unturned or concrete that remained embedded in the soil from my journey to date. You can’t build a strong fence without first removing the old one…all of it. What purpose would the journey serve if I merely sawed off my fence posts at the surface but left their undesirable, deceitful foundation behind? No, I had to make sure the concrete roots were disposed of. In doing so, I could pour truth into the core of my being where lies had previously reined. It is there that the truth seed will flourish, and the real healing finally begins.

Deep inside me there are deposits (aka “lies”) that have prevented me from truly blossoming. Subconscious messages from abusive relationships have weighted me down, always impeding my ability to believe in myself. Every time I look into the mirror, I see what is wrong rather than what is right. It was time to shatter the concrete blocks below the surface and replace them with new, healthy, strong, concreted truths of who I am. I want to be FREE from the lies. To successfully accomplish that, I must demolish the old, concrete roots once and for all. I must leave no stone unturned.

One of the most difficult lies for me to overcome has been a negative body image. I’m sure most of you can relate to this in one way or another. The “puke” comment from Mark has been a HUGE concrete block for me that was buried deep in my soul. When discussing this with my therapist, she advised me to take part in an exercise with my husband that would begin to replace the “puke” mentality I had carried with one that was filled with “love, acceptance, and healthy vulnerability.” This exercise would require me to completely surrender to my husband in a way that I had never done before. My first reaction to her was, “ewww.” My second reaction was, “EWWW!” It took me nearly three months before I finally shared her advice with Clayton. I just couldn’t imagine voluntarily placing myself in such a vulnerable position. But as you will witness in my next Survivors Journey entry, her exercise would inevitably deposit unimaginable, indescribable, blocks of concrete truth like nothing before. This encounter would serve as the first galvanized steel fence post in my journey toward rebuilding a life based on truth, not lies.

Where in your life have you merely sawed off the old, rotten fence post but left a concrete lie behind?

Survivors Journey Part 8 – Why did you molest me?

I don’t want to write today. Admitting that tells me I need to. I woke up angry this morning following my counseling appointment yesterday where we began talking about being molested. I don’t want to go there, I just don’t, but I know I have to; otherwise forward motion ceases and the revolving door recommences. Revolving doors merely take you right back to your place of origin unless you consciously decided to step out on the other side. I’m tired of going in circles. They give me a headache.

Fearing I will hurt my mother (as I know she reads my posts) and being looked down upon by others’ is what keeps me from wanting to talk about being molested. But how people respond to my journey is not on me. I must trust in God to deliver what you need to reap from my reluctant vulnerability. He continues to reassure me I am adequately prepared to heal from the pain and devastation of being molested. I must not allow fear to override journeys’ forward motion.

Regardless of this knowledge, I am bombarded with an overwhelming sense of shame mixed with a super-sized portion of anger. When I think about being molested, it makes me sick to my stomach. I was about eight years old when the first encounter occurred, and it was my brother at the helm of the offence. He invited me into his bedroom one summer afternoon and told me to sit on the side of his bed. He proceeded to take down his pants, exposing his genitals, and reaching down with his left hand he began stroking his penis. He giggled with excitement as the erection commenced. I knew what I was witnessing was not appropriate, but I must admit there was a level of amazement as I had never seen male genitals before. How was this physical feat possible? I loved and trusted my older brother and in no way wanted to garner his disapproval by rejecting him, so I sat there and watched until he was through, praying my mother would not catch us. From that moment on, our physical boundaries would  forever be skewed. It was three years before the next encounter would take place.

January 1978, my father left and my mother began to emotionally fall apart. It was a horrible time in my life – so confused and lonely. I was 11 ½, my brother was 13 ½. Not long after Dad’s departure, he began entering my room at night after Mom had gone to bed. At first he talked about playing games, make believe of sorts, or play acting as different characters together. His role would always be one of the dominant character, i.e. football player and the cheerleader or playing house. It seemed so strange at first and was quite uncomfortable, but this was my brother and I trusted him. Growing up, we had always been very close. Throughout my life, he protected me, garnered healthy, brotherly affection on me, and I looked up to him. I had no fear of him whatsoever. Even in the mix of all that was going on I didn’t fear him; rather I was confused but still trusting with love.

It wasn’t long before he began to manipulate our nighttime scripts. I was instructed to lie down on the bed as he assumed a position on top of me. He began dry humping and touching me. His body seemed to weigh 1000 pounds, taking with it the air I needed to survive. I felt so dirty, trapped, and alone. Why are you doing this to me? Why am I not fighting back? Can’t you see this is wrong? I don’t want to be here. Please go away, and just leave me alone… But this was my brother, and I loved him.

 

Days would pass before I was notified of his next impending visit. He would start the day by “asking me” if I would like to “play” that night. He had worded his intentions in such a way that he could deliver these messages to me in front of our mother. I know now he had no shame or remorse for what he was doing, and I was too afraid to say no. As the weeks grew into months, I tried to make excuses in an attempt to deter his desires, but my defenses began to run dry.  I was littered with messages of “You’re Not Worthy” from my father, so the last thing I wanted was to experience my brother’s rejection. I just wanted to be loved and cherished. As disgusting and dirty as I felt on the inside, I didn’t’ know what else to do but succumb to his twisted desires as the shame and guilt began to take hold. I was so vulnerable, and it was in that vulnerability that I was victimized. I had lost my voice.

By August, my parents’ divorce had been finalized, and we relocated to a new city. Thankfully, my brother’s visits had decreased following our move. Shortly after my 12^th birthday, my menstrual cycle began and with it a renewed sense of power and control filtered in. Armed with a large, bristle hairbrush, I barged into my brother’s room waving the weapon in my right hand and said, “I’m a woman now and you can’t touch me anymore. Do you understand?” He laid there in his bed, staring blankly at me. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!?” I shouted. He sheepishly agreed with a slight nod immediately before I exited the room. I had found my voice and had taken back my control. As I closed his door, I was immediately washed with overwhelming relief knowing I would not have to endure what had become his disgusting hands on me ever again. Though I rose up with hair brush in hand and drew a definitive line in the sand, the damage had been done.  As with my previous pattern of behavior, I quickly stuffed the emotions and filed the past nine months into the “You’re Not Worthy” memory folder. I then began to carry the full weight of responsibility for what happened believing it must have been my fault. Rather than directing the anger at him for his betrayal and preying on my vulnerability, I directed it toward myself for not fighting back. I was 12 years old. What did I know about dealing with trauma other than to deny it? I was merely trying to survive.

About four years ago, I felt an overwhelming need to be honest with my brother and address the hurt and anger I experienced at his hand. Thirty years had passed since the onset of his abuse, and it was time to confront my abuser as an adult. Early one morning, I drummed up enough courage to call his house and share with him my feelings as well as my reasons for not desiring any level of relationship with him. His immediate response to me was, “Jesus Christ, Michelle… that was 30 years ago! I haven’t thought about that in 30 years. Are you kidding me? That was a horrible time for all of us.” He continued to deflect any level of accountability and made me feel as if I was making a mountain out of a molehill. I guess that’s what abusers do. He was quick to ricochet personal responsibility and minimize his impact insinuating the passage of time should have been sufficient to heal the wounds. He was wrong.

The following day, I received a call from him at which time stated he never meant to hurt me and he was very confused during that time in his life. He referred to me as his “little sister,” claimed to love me, and would never intentionally hurt me. While it felt somewhat satisfying to finally hear his apologetic words, the truth is I don’t believe them. I believe he reached out in an effort to make peace with the hope that in doing so he may supersede any possible fallout within the family. Like I said, it’s just my opinion…

Here’s my truth:

I was his little sister. I trusted him and he violated that trust in the worst way.

He preyed on my vulnerability and has done so with no authentic level of personal accountability to this day.

He initiated and pursued every act of molestation, not me.

I was his victim. He knows it. I know it. God knows it.

I am not to blame for his actions in any way.

I denounce any level of shame, guilt, or responsibility for his manipulation of me. He knew better, yet he still continued to advance.

I am choosing to step out on the other side of molestations’ revolving door by allowing myself to feel and process the pain. When I am done, I will then be able to safely file this chapter of life in a healthy place of my brain that brings true closure to the once open wound. I choose to resume journeys forward motion. It is in my healing wake that my brother resides, and I’m not looking back.

Is there are area of your life where you need to take your power back?

 

Survivors Journey Part 7 – Swimming in a sea of self-destruction

Listen up ladies! When you don’t receive the essential, emotional securities you need as a child (especially from your father,) odds are astoundingly high that you will enter into unhealthy relationships in a subconscious attempt to satisfy your psyche deficiencies. Your boundaries are skewed as the innate desire to acquire a sense of self-worth overrides your intellectual and/or moral compass. These relationships or encounters may satisfy an immediate need; however you will undoubtedly find yourself worse off in their aftermath as you resume your life as an emotional leech. Read that again – multiple times if you need to, until the truth penetrates your core. It’s important and warrants self-reflection no matter how much it hurts.

If you have been following my journey, you may recall that I did not reap a sense of self-worth or importance from my father. I never felt delighted in, nor was I made to feel like “Daddy’s Little Girl.” Given these facts, it is easy to understand why I was so fiercely swept up into the fairy-tale romance with my first husband, Mark. He romanced me. He delighted in me. He made me feel important. He painted the picture of a fairy-tale life together, and then he destroyed me with his verbal assaults and emotional abuse. Following my escape, I could not have been further down the “you suck” pole then I was, and I unknowingly set out on a life path to thwart the ever-present evil that lurked. You see, I had to combat that emotional beast, and I did so in ways that would merely leave me ravenous for more.

My 20’s were riddled reckless abandonment, and with them carried loneliness like nothing I ever knew. While my professional life soared, my emotional health continued to spiral out of control. If and when I did meet a sincere guy, I was certain to sabotage that relationship. After all, I wasn’t worthy, right? How could I ever enter into an authentic relationship with anyone when I had no authentic relationship with myself? The answer is you can’t. It is impossible. You cannot give of your true self to anyone unless you first identify who that person is.

Coors Light, social drug use, and honky-tonks became my best friend. Engulfed in an intoxicated state of alcohol or cocaine, I found the courage to make myself available to men. It was there I temporarily nourished the emotional leech by voluntarily subjecting myself to one night stands and/or unhealthy, short-term relationships. These relationships never originated with any level of authenticity, so the “fix” was ultimately provisional. When any amount of discontent entered into a romance, I was quick to take flight and resume my relentless pursuit to identify a sense of self-worth. It was a vicious and self-destructive cycle. All it took was a great fitting pair of starched Wrangler jeans, a button-down, long sleeve, tailored shirt, a pair of dusty cowboy boots, and a Stetson hat for me to identify my next target. Being from Texas, the picken’s were anything but slim as the Lone Star State is undoubtedly a “Cowboy Buffet.”

I developed control issues and took great pride in an “I don’t NEED you, I WANT you” mentality. I was quick to let others know they would not control me. I deprived myself of food for days on end to ensure my new-found figure would be maintained. I was brash, arrogant, overindulgent, and challenged any level of authority that came my way. I made sure the wrapper looked like that of a woman who was successful. I drove a Cadillac, flaunted wads of borrowed money, lived in an upscale section of town, and made sure my physical appearance was never less than perfect. I resisted developing relationships with other woman as they may see right through me and possibly challenge my behavior or look down on me. What relationships I did have (outside of intimacy) were with my professional subordinates as they cowered to my authoritative position. I was viewed by others as secure, confident, and really having it together. Since my life was based on lies and deception, I viewed myself as a chameleon and could easily adapt to any social environment – an actress of sorts. My time was primarily spent feverishly pursuing my career or feeding the leech. Yes, I was in control, or so it seemed. I was a lost soul who desperately wanted to be loved. Tell me I’m good enough. Tell me I’m worthy. Delight in me. Please, won’t you just love me? The problem was I didn’t love myself.

Who was I? At the core of my being, what made me tick? What were my motives for doing what I did? Was my life based on “intentionality,” or could it be that I was seemingly unfulfilled and continually “in search of?” These were questions I was not able to answer but more importantly did not want to ask. Understand there is great danger in asking those questions of yourself as you may find an inordinate amount of despair when the truth of who you are is revealed. If you’re honest with yourself and discover you are living a life that is repetitively “in search of,” I would caution you to put the brakes on and take a look within. Chances are you’ll find there is crucial work that needs to be done. I did. That’s why I’m here, and if you’ve been faithfully following my journey that may be why you’re here too. The good news is we are in it together. You are not alone.

So who am I? At the core of my being, what makes me tick? What are my motives for doing what I do? Is my life based on “intentionality” or “in search of?” First and foremost I am a child of God who recognizes He has a purpose for my life; a purpose which I am willing to step outside of my comfort zone in order for Him to work in and through me. I am a fearless warrior in pursuit of transformation so I can be used in the manner in which He intends me to be. I walk in faith knowing that I have been called to share my life experiences with the hope of reaching out to others who are in need of hearing the message. I am a woman who no longer seeks external validation through self-destructive behaviors. I am a loving wife, mother and daughter who is blessed beyond measure to be cherished as I am. I can be over analytical at times, but that comes from being married to an engineer! I am a perfectionist when it comes to certain aspects of my life, yet not others. I am riddled with displaced fear and insecurity but take great pride in the strides I am making to overcome these lies. I am worthy. I am important. I am beautiful. I am opening myself up to vulnerability so that I can not only receive true love but also give it. I am in search of intentionality; in that I find inner peace. While it is true that I fell victim to  a life of self-destructive behaviors in the aftermath of an abusive marriage and absentee father, I am intentionally choosing to step away from the lies that were told and to finally deposit the truth. I am a survivor, and I am on a journey toward recovery.

I’m glad you’re here with me. I know I’m not alone.

Survivors Journey Part 6 – “Any man that saw you nude would turn around and puke.”

It was September, 1987. My <then> husband sat across the room from me, void of any emotion, and said, “Any man that saw you nude would turn around and puke.” Surely I had not heard him correctly, but his words were undeniably, crystal clear. Swimming in a sea of disbelief, I found myself speechless as our 10 month old son slept peacefully in his room down the hall. How do you respond to that level of psychological demolition? The truth is I didn’t. As always, I merely swallowed my emotions and internalized the pain. But deep inside of me there was a storm brewing, an impending uprising, and it would not be long before an escape plan was devised and put into action.

I was 18 years old when I met Mark. He was 31. That, in and of itself, should tell you something, but Mark was my knight in shining armor. He was educated, successful, handsome, attentive, and he made me feel desired and worthy – all the emotions I never received from my father. During our brief courtship, Mark garnered limitless affection on me. Every weekend we would go dancing at the local honky-tonk, have dinner out with friends, go sailing or water skiing, and inevitably conclude nearly every evening with a passionate, physical encounter. Yes, he was my dream come true, and I was immediately swept up in the fairy tale. Abusers tend to move fast in their relationships; otherwise they run the risk of exposing their true self.

After dating for four months, Mark learned he was being transferred to Oklahoma City and invited me to move with him. I eagerly accepted and delighted in his promise of a beautiful home and a wonderful life together. What girl wouldn’t jump at the opportunity? As my 19^th birthday approached, we planned an evening with friends in celebration of my special day. Dinner and dancing would be the agenda, but never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined the fairy-tale night that would unfold. Abusers have a tendency to romance your socks off and treat you like a princess. They usually fill a void in your heart that often times is left from issues you had with your father or mother, i.e. abandonment, acceptance, worthiness, etc.

Upon our friends’ arrival and to my surprise, we were whisked away in a jet black limousine stocked full of bubbly champagne. Following a fun-filled dinner at the Magic Time Machine in Addison, Texas, Mark instructed the driver to take us to Reunion Tower, an opulent, ball shaped tower that over-looks the Dallas skyline. It was there amid the beautiful, crystal clear night that Mark dropped to one knee, cracked open a tiny, black velvet box and asked me to marry him. My fairy-tale romance was more than I ever imagined it would be. This was the man of my dreams! It was only a matter of time before his mask came crashing down, and his true self would inevitably be revealed.

Our move to the Oklahoma City area came one month later. He (not us) purchased our dream home, new furniture, state-of-the-art electronics for the living room, and a pool table for the game room. Once the dollhouse was appropriately decorated, we were adequately prepared to begin playing house. Within two months of living there, I was diagnosed with a large ovarian cyst that would require surgical removal. Recovery was difficult, but the surgery was a success following the removal of my left ovary, fallopian tube, and appendix. Up to that point in my life, I had been on birth control pills, but Mark insisted I not resume my preventative medication following the surgery. He claimed that birth control pills were directly related to the death of his mother, and he couldn’t bear the thought of possibly traipsing through another trauma of that magnitude with me. I obliged. Abusers control their victims and place blame on others’ for their feelings.

It wasn’t long until the vast difference in our ages began to appear as tension grew between us. By March of the following year we were separated, and I had moved back home to Dallas. My residence there would be short-lived as we soon discovered I was pregnant. Mark asked me to come home, claiming he loved me and wanted both of us. Once again, I optimistically obliged. Two weeks after my return, Mark asked me to consider having an abortion. I refused. After all, I still believed in the prospect of my fairy-tale. Abusers often times attempts to manipulate their victims into returning home.

We were married by the end of April and assumed our new roles as husband, wife, and expecting parents. It wouldn’t be long before my dreams were shattered as the first verbal blow was flung over the fence. Four months pregnant, an argument erupted between us amid what seemed to be his daily intoxicated state of mind. “I would have never married you if you hadn’t gotten pregnant,” were the words that flowed in my direction. I stood there feeling like a worthless incubator. The fairy-tale was officially over. Abusers will assault their victims through the use of degrading and hurtful verbal attacks and diminish their worthiness.

Throughout the pregnancy, I continued to stuff my emotions in the form of food and gained 70+ lbs. I felt like a whale. Since I was no longer working, Mark decidedly allocated $300 a month for me to purchase all the household groceries and supplies. The money was given to me in the form of a check which I was to deposit into my checking account. In addition, he gave me a Phillips 66 gasoline credit card as well as a Sears credit card. I was to utilize these resources when gas or clothing items were necessary, purchases I now realize were easily tracked. Outside of that, I had no access to funds garnered from his salary. It was a tight budget, but one that I made do with. After our son arrived, I was met with a temporary reprieve of presumed happiness. Once again, this would be short-lived. Mark continued to work Monday through Friday as I stumbled around his house in my role as wife and mother. As often as possible, I would make the four hour trek to Dallas to see my Mom. It seemed to be the only place I received acceptance and love. Abusers isolate and control their victims by coveting any/all finances.

As the months passed, tensions continued to grow. Neither one of us were happy. Given my lack of social and relationship skills, there is no doubt in my mind that I had a contributing role in the demise of our relationship. But somewhere in the happily-ever-after story, Hollywood forgot to mention dirty diapers, housekeeping, paying bills, budgeting, control issues, verbal abuse, isolation, and conflict. The only witness I ever had in regard to conflict was demonstrated through my father’s departure. When the going gets tough, the weak flee.  I wasn’t about to flee….not yet anyway.

Mark’s drinking continued to escalate, and his after work happy hours at the topless club became more frequent. Having never experienced alcoholism first-hand, I didn’t recognize it for what it was. Out marital intimacy took on the form of a Saturday morning quickie that merely fulfilled his immediate, physical needs. There was no intimacy per se’ as I merely assumed the role of a weekly, sperm receptacle. Eliminating the possibility of history repeating itself, Mark made it known that birth control pills were now an acceptable and expected medication following the birth of our son. Funny how quickly he was able to process the trauma of his mother’s death. Abusers tend to have issues with drugs and/or alcohol. Abusers also tend to demonstrate rigid sex roles in their relationships.

By the time our son was nine months old, the emotional living conditions were devoid of nearly all laughter and happiness. We merely existed. Mark continued to drink, I continued to eat. Food, television, trips to Dallas, and combing the Sears’ isles became my mainstay. I had no real friends, nor any social stimulation to speak of unless it was arranged by Mark. Abusers socially isolate their victims.

Shortly after my 21^st birthday, I ventured out alone one evening for a night out on the town. I don’t know for certain, but I must have lied about where I was going as Mark would surely have disapproved. It was there that I met a man named Marty. We spent the evening drinking, dancing, and laughing, and for the first time in nearly two years I felt desired. While that evening ended in a wholesome goodbye, I soon found myself overwhelmed with the desire to return to the happy place. On my third visit Marty was there, but this time we would depart one another’s company having exchanged phone numbers. Two weeks later I agreed to join him for dinner at his place where a one-time intimate encounter would occur. Arriving home that evening, I was thrust into a world of guilt and shame, fearing Mark would see right through my deception. I just knew he would be able to smell the intimate offence as it seeped from every orifice of my body. As fate would have it, that evening would be the one time in recent history that Mark wanted to have sex. An invitation I politely declined with some form of fictitious excuse. Abusers are jealous and can use sex as a weapon or a means of control.

Following my next trip to Dallas, I shared with Mark that I had returned to our old stomping grounds for a little dancing and fun while I was away. This news was not received with any level of excitement on his part. It wasn’t long after that when the verbal abuse reached its pinnacle. Having stopped off for happy hour (more like happy three hours), Mark arrived home and plopped down on the couch. I was not pleased with his post-work whereabouts and offered no excuses for my discontent. It was at that moment his inner truth was revealed. “Any man that saw you nude would turn around and puke.” I knew I had to flee, and the plans for my escape immediately began to mentally take shape. Abusers emotionally beat down their victims by telling them they are anything short of worthy, valued, or important.

Phone calls were made the following morning to my family in Dallas and arrangements were made for my brother and a friend to drive up later that week. I didn’t dare put anything in writing in fear of Mark discovering it, so I began to a make mental list of all the items I would want to take. On Friday morning as Mark’s bumper drove safely out of site, the truck and trailer pulled around the corner and operation escape commenced. Within two hours, we had loaded up all of my personal belongings, my son’s enormous stock of baby supplies, and any wedding gifts that were given to us from my side of the family. With my infant son nestled safely on my hip, I placed the letter I had written to Mark on the wet bar, loaded a last few items into my car, and set my eyes on Dallas with child in tow. The primary emotion that victims have of their abuser is fear, not love. Victims tend to flee when the abuser is not present; otherwise they risk not successfully escaping.

While I may have been free from his physical control, there is no doubt that the emotional devastation left an enormous hole in the very fiber of my being. My self-confidence was destroyed, self-worth was non-existent, and I found myself paralyzed by the fear of single motherhood. With no job, money, or formal education, I sought a welcome refuge in my mother’s home. Around 8:00 pm that evening, no doubt following another after work happy hour(s), Mark called and apologetically pleaded with me to come home. “I love you. I love our son. I want our family. I’ll do whatever I need to do.” Nestled in the safety of my family, I refused to return. I had finally done it. I had left. I was free. And I was not about to yield to his manipulation once again by succumbing to the unrealistic dreams of fairy-tale endings. No, this time I found the courage to stand my ground. Abusers make promises and tell you what they think you want to hear to regain control of you.

What I’ve learned in therapy is that abusers (in whatever form they take shape) have very specific behavioral tendencies, even from the onset of their first encounter with you. As outlined by www.newhopeforwomen.org the following are attributes of abusers. Those highlighted in bold are specific to my abuse based on present-day recollection.

• Jealousy (insecurity)
• Controlling behavior
• Quick involvement
• Unrealistic expectations
• Isolation – especially of their victim
• Blames others for their problems
• Blames others for their feelings
• Hypersensitivity
• Cruelty to animals or children
• “Playful” use of force in sex
• Verbal abuse
• Rigid sex roles
• Dual personality “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde”
• Past battering
• Threats of violence
• Breaking or striking objects
• Any force during an argument
• Drug and/or alcohol abuse

I was lucky. I got out the first time. I find it very disturbing that average victim flees their abuser seven times before they finally break free. While I may have been lucky to get out when I did, the fact remains that I have never completely processed through the emotions I stuffed throughout my fairy-tale ordeal. I still stand in their wake. Yesterday, my therapist and I began to unlock the emotions associated with that time in my life. For the first time in 23 years, I am certain that healing is on the horizon.

When next we meet, I’ll share with you the emotional devastation that has plagued me for years following the “puke” slap; how I reacted (not responded) to that seed and the journey I am on to finally put an end the verbal abuse fallout. Just because you physically remove yourself from a toxic environment doesn’t mean the trauma is past. In fact, that is when devastation’s true impact really begins to take hold. You may be free physically, but you have to work hard to break free emotionally.

You ARE worthy.

You ARE important.

You are NOT alone.

If you know or suspect that you or someone you  know is in an abusive relationship, married or otherwise, please seek help. There are abundant resources available to you no matter where you live. It is there you can find the peace, serenity, and self-confidence you have lost over time. It is the first step you must take in YOUR Survivors Journey.

Depending on the level of abuse, please be aware that visiting internet sites from your home computer can be traced. You are encouraged to use a computer that your abuser does not have access to. Local libraries and some schools are a good alternative. If you dial a hotline from your home phone, please be sure to clear the number from your redial function. Any/all cell phone calls are detailed in their monthly bill. Be certain you do not utilize any device your abuser has access to when planning and immediately after your escape or when seeking help.

24/7 – National Domestic Violence Hotline – 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)

Signs that you may be in an emotionally abusive relationship

Profile of a Batterer

Survivors Journey Part 5 – Subconscious Messages

I adore my father. Most girls do. The problem for me is I never felt he adored or delighted in me. I mean truly, effortlessly, or soulfully delighted in me. All I ever wanted was to be “daddy’s little girl,” but that would never be my reality. I’m not saying he didn’t love me, but I never truly felt it. To this day, I mourn for little Michelle. All I ever wanted was to experience my father’s love, to know I was a priority in his life, to feel like I mattered, or to be invested in. No matter how hard I tried to garner my father’s affection or approval, I seemed to be met with indifference or left feeling that I was not good enough.

For as long as I can remember, my father was emotionally disconnected. His primary goal in life was to become a successful  entrepreneur, an accomplishment he seemingly exceeded in obtaining. My father is the most driven man I know, but while his financial success is undeniable, the price paid for him to achieve it was not. That price was my brother and I and the paternal relationship we unsuccessfully received.

I was 11 years old when my parents divorced. What a tender and vulnerable age to go through such a traumatic experience. Not that any age is “good” to experience divorce, but pubescent years are so critical in defining one’s stability. I never saw or heard my parents argue…ever, so my father’s departure truly blindsided me and left me deeply confused. The events that follow are based on my recollection, my reality…my heartbreak. Though there are four individual realities as to what really took place during this period of time, I can only share mine. After all, this is my road to recovery, and mine alone.

As my brother and I got older, we began a tradition of opening our Christmas gifts on Christmas Eve following dinner. Truth be told, Mom and Dad probably preferred this to that of the 6:00 am Christmas morning! When you think of Christmas Eve, you probably envision yourself surrounded by family and friends; however, we never resided near any of our extended family so most of our holidays were just the four of us. I don’t know where my father was on December 24, 1977, but I don’t recall his presence during the daytime hours. Following dinner, I could feel a thickness in the air, an unsettling emotion that weighted down what should be a fun, family event. When you’re supposed to “feel” a certain way but the immediate circumstances prevent you from doing so, yet you don’t know why. Something just felt “off.” Mom was always so joyful this time of year, yet her brow was imbedded with lines and her tightly pursed lips displayed a noticeable, downward turn. I didn’t know how to act, nor was I oblivious to the fact that this was not a joyful day.

Within a few minutes, my father slowly entered through the front door. His posture was slumped, shoulders rolled forward, as his eyes stayed focused on the path before him. Where had he been all day? I found myself in an extreme state of emotional discomfort and anxiously anticipated the evening’s conclusion. Dad immediately parked his intoxicated stature in a metal folding chair, rested his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with his hands. I had never seen my father like this before, under the influence or otherwise. It wasn’t long before he stood up and proceeded down the hall toward their bedroom leaving us dumbfounded in his emotional wake.

I don’t recall opening gifts that year. I assume we did, but the emotional trauma overshadows my ability to recall events other than what I’ve shared, including anything that occurred in the coming days. That is, until the cold, winter evening of January 2, 1978.

My brother and I were crouched down in a makeshift, backyard fort we had recently consructed. As the cool air continued to sink into the quiet night, we began to hear my mother’s screams coming from inside the house. I remember feeling confused and fearful as thoughts raced through my mind wondering what was happening. I had never heard this level of escalation in my mother’s voice before. She was yelling at my father. What had he done? Why was she yelling? In a state of shock, we cemented our feet into the leaf-covered floor and perked our intimidated ears in an attempt to overhear what was going on. Though we were unable to decipher what was being said, we could hear Mom’s voice continuing to intensify. Within an instant, a loud crashing sound rang through the night air, and we knew something was really wrong. The only words I ever understood that night were the ones that followed the sound of shattering glass, “Get out! Just get out! Get out of here, now!” I have never heard such pain, anger, and brokenness in a woman’s voice, not even my own.

Eventually, my brother and I quietly made our way into the house when we felt the conflict had ceased. There, on the living room floor, lay the evidence of crashing sound we heard in the form of a broken lamp. It seemed so surreal, so out of place. I immediately knew to proceed with caution.

The following day, my father briefly returned just long enough to gather some of his personal belongings. Immediately before he departed, he sat next to me on the side of my bed and said, “I’m sorry Shelly. I’ve got to go. I’ve just got to go.” It was the first time I ever witnessed tears streaming down my father’s face. Not abundant ones, but tears nonetheless. With that, he tossed the hanging bag of clothes over his right shoulder, and I watched him shuffle down the long hall toward the front door. Click was the only sound I heard, and he was gone.

You’re not worthy enough for me to stay.

You’re not worthy enough for me to fight for.

You’re not wanted.

You’re not important.

You’re not enough.

Those were the subconscious messages I received from him. This man that I adored was gone, and in his wake was a path of emotional destruction that continued to escalate in the months to come.

I witnessed my mother fall apart emotionally and physically to the point of contemplating suicide, a fact she shared with me many, many years later. If not for my brother and I, she may have flirted with the notion for more than one long and lonely night. Amid her brokenness and my witness of such depletion, I now recognize the effect this had on me.

“As God as my witness, I will never love anyone as much as she loved him. I will never love anyone to the point that they can break me as my father seemingly destroyed my mother. Never.”

From that day forward, I began to stuff my emotions. Fear and insecurity would not rule me, or at least I would not allow anyone to perceive they ruled me. My emotions were like a light switch. I could turn them off or on depending on circumstance. You see, I am not worthy; therefore, I must not feel. I must stay in control of myself at all times. Mom loved Dad with all her heart and was thrashed by succumbing to vulnerability; therefore I must not be vulnerable. I must not love.

I was headed for a life of mere survival, self-protection, doubt, insecurity, and severely lacking in self-worth. That’s not living; rather, it’s merely going through the motions. The only thing more tragic than living this kind of life would be to continue to do so when you intellectually recognize you are and do nothing to overcome it.

I ask you this: What emotionally toxic baggage are you knowingly not addressing? What counterproductive, subconscious messages have you received in your past that continue to plague your forward motion?

As an adult woman, I have to wonder what was so broken in my father’s heart leading up to that Christmas Eve in 1977 that prevented him from facing the night head-on. What was it that tormented him so much that he had to seek courage and comfort from a bottle? I am thankful beyond words that in recent years I have received the “I delight in you” validation from him that I so longed for. It was a HUGE “ah-ha” moment for me that initiated the path which allowed he and I to get to that point in our relationship. It is a part of my journey that will surely be shared when the time is right.

Survivors Journey Part 4 – Enema Anyone?

Enema. Even the word makes your cringe, doesn’t it? Regardless of knowing the positive outcome, no one in their right mind holds a bottle of enema solution and says, “Yeah! I get to do an enema! Won’t this be fun?” Not likely. If you’ve ever had the privilege to experience such a delightful event, you no doubt know the level of discomfort that goes along with the process.

You start out in a state of misery because you’re full of crap. After all, that is the purpose of performing such a task, to rid yourself of all your crap, right? So you insert the comfort tip and proceed to gently squeeeeeze nearly two quarts of the mild solution into your intestinal tract. Soon, you’re met with the delightful feelings of severe bloating and cramping, wondering if you’ll be able to successfully clamp your butt cheeks together for the suggested 10 – 15 minutes as the solution takes effect.

As you lay on your left side, relaxing in bed, cheerful thoughts dance in your head with great anticipation for the ejection process to commence. That’s when the real fun begins, right? Uh, no. At some point you find yourself shuffling toward the toilet just in time for the initial “mega-blast” followed by several short, yet decisive “mini-blasts.” Just when you think the process is complete and you’ve taken the necessary steps to cleanse your ignited backside, your body says, “Ooops! Not so fast Cowboy!” So you sit back down and wait for the swan song to conclude. At this point your legs are beginning to go to sleep from being in the seated position for too long as you enjoy the delightful sounds of your intestinal orchestra gurgling with such voracity. Wishing you had remembered to bring along your iPhone as a distraction, you begin to wonder if it will ever end. The good news is, yes! …but there’s no turning back. Once you squeeze that bottle, you’re committed. If you want to rid yourself of all your crap, you have to see it through, even if it takes more than one application.

By now, you’re probably wondering what on Earth an enema has to do with the Survivors Journey, right? The way I look at it, true life transformation is like having a giant enema or several of them if necessary. The process itself is anything but comfortable, but when it’s complete, the emotional freedom will be like nothing experienced before. Am I willing to commit to the process knowing there is no turning back? Yes.

This afternoon I am diving into my emotionally flawed origin, the time in my life when the safety net was ripped out from under me and everything began to fall apart. I was 11 years old when my father left. I’m 44 now. I have 33 years of crap that has been backing up in my emotional memory bank. Hurt, confusion, pain, rejection, insecurity, isolation, just to name a few. I have been stuffing these emotions for so long that they are now manifesting themselves in a physical form. On October 4, 2010 I began experiencing motor seizures in which the entire left side of my body, face, and neck became violently distorted and in a locked position. Unable to control these episodes has landed me in the emergency room via ambulance on five occasions. During my fourth trip to the hospital in March 2011, extensive testing determined that the seizures are not originating from my brain; rather, they are an involuntary, physical manifestation of an internal trauma, aka Psychogenic Non-Epileptic Seizures (PNES). I’ve tried to hide, mask, and/or deny my emotions for so long that my body is literally rejecting that notion. I realize that if I don’t commit to the enema process, I will forever be imprisoned by 33 years of emotional constipation.

Ready. Set. Squeeze. Let the enema begin…

Survivors Journey Part 3 – Proceed with Caution

Yesterday, I decided to spend a couple hours doing some yard work in our north Texas, suburbia home. Second to writing, gardening is extremely therapeutic for me. It was a beautiful, overcast morning with a just enough breeze to tickle my senses and keep my brow from abundantly sweating. I love those kinds of days. After completing the mowing, edging, and blowing, I took a few minutes to water the rose bushes and tomato plants nestled against the back porch as a sense of accomplishment, and order swept over me. With hose in hand, I looked down at my grass covered shoes, took two steps into the yard to rinse them off before calling it done, when out from behind a landscape stone near the recently watered rose bush, I spotted the head of a large snake. I stopped dead in my tracks, frozen in fear, and waited as the five foot reptile slithered three feet away from me. Once out of striking distance, I took three giant leaps backward and began screaming for my husband. I never knew I had the capability to produce such a loud shrill. Unbeknownst to him of my situation, my cries for help went unanswered as he was on a conference call in his office.

When the snake reached a safe distance on the opposite end of the porch, I leaped over the rose bush, cracked open the back door as to not let Dutch, our chocolate lab, outside and made my cries for help undeniably evident. “Claaaayton! CLAYTON! There’s a five foot snake on out here!” He rose to his feet and quickly proceeded to the back porch. Not wanting to take my eyes off the snake for fear of his escape, Clayton (with his blue-tooth headset in place and conference call still going in his left ear) retrieved a long handled, flat head shovel and began his plight to save his damsel in distress. He shifted a rock to block the snake’s escape and began jabbing, as the snake’s head peeked out the other end. With five or six forceful thrusts amid the hissing snake in self-defense, Clayton was finally able to sever the head, and the battle was won. My HERO! Even though the war was over and the snake was dead, it took me over an hour to stop trembling with fear from what had just taken place.

While all this may give many of you the “heebie jeebies,” what I find interesting was realizing that for the remainder of the day, I was peering with a sense of great hesitation every time I went outside. Even though the danger had passed, fear, trepidation, and the message,“proceed with caution”, was the common thread racing through my head. I knew I had to take time to dive in and see what it was all about, as it was no longer about the snake. No, this was much deeper in its root than that of a slain reptile.

I just realized, and when I say “just” I mean just now, that I am living my life with the mindset of proceed with caution. I hate that about myself. When I was in my 20’s, I jumped into life with no regard to possible consequence or outcome. Some might call that free-spirited; some might refer to it as irresponsible. Truth be told, it was probably a little bit of both. So what happened? Where did that sense of reckless abandonment go? Even this morning as I sit here on the back porch tapping away at my laptop keys, my feet are perched atop a short stool and my eyes occasionally glance toward the landscape stones as if he’s going to rise from the dead and continue his reign of terror. The danger has passed Michelle, let’s move on.

I don’t want to live a life based on fear of what happened in the past. To that, I also don’t want to relive the twenty-something life of reckless abandonment. No, I want to live a life of intentional abandonment, or as some may call it,  faith. But what is it that prevents me from doing so? Why am I holding on to the past as if it were still a present day danger? Why do I allow those in my now to pay the price for those of my yesteryear? Why wasn’t it enough to witness the death of the snake and see its lifeless body to relinquish the fear that the danger has truly passed? Literally and metaphorically speaking, why do I still fear the snake?

My “snake” is pain. I fear pain. Not physical pain, but emotional pain. I fear being hurt. Not just a little, but a lot. I fear it to the point that it prevents me from living a life of intentional abandonment and faith. I am living my today based on events of my yesterday. That’s not living – that’s reliving.

What’s your “snake?”