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.

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 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…