Triggers galore. I just saw the word for stream of consciousness Saturday is “admit” and I admit I have no idea what to write about so I am just going to let it flow straight from the depths that I usually dare not go and see what happens next. Streaming from the heart on this one.
I admit I do not know when I first experienced dissociation. Sometimes I cannot even recognize it now. Supposedly it was a coping skill I learned. But that makes it sound positive. Like leaving your body would be freeing somehow. But dissociation is a prison sentence. You don’t leave to a magical place. I don’t. I don’t know what dissociation meant back then when I was being abused. I know that now it means I am screaming in my own mind trying to break free of the prison that supposedly helped me cope long ago.
I admit I have no idea what is happening to me for a large part of every evening. I know I have PTSD associated with smells. What I do not know is if those smells are always real because sometimes smells are what is called an “aura” that comes prior to a seizure. So I walk around in this state of…am I going to have a seizure or is this just a PTSD thing. Since my heart rate has now skyrocketed with the new Lyme treatment, just throw that in the mix and I have no idea if I am having anxiety, a heart attack, or PTSD or a preseizure moment. They ALL feel the same. If my dog were still alive he would help me because he knew when I was going to have a seizure. Without him, I admit, I am just lost half the time.
I admit I have put things on my blog that I never thought I would tell another soul. I have shared the abuse, the rape, the assault, the molestation, and everything in between, and everything after. When I started this blog I never thought I would go that far in my truth. But every truth I have told has set me a little bit more free. Because the secrets held shame. I admit that telling these truths has not been easy.
I admit to feeling fear that I have never acknowledged or accepted as real until now. But fear, I now believe led to the dissociation, and fear keeps me somewhat trapped still. It is not easily overcome. I lived in so much fear. During the time I was being abused and after, I was so afraid. Had I not been afraid, I would not have crawled into my parents room and slept under their bed for most of my childhood. Had I not been afraid I would have stayed present in my body. I wasn’t present in my body for many events of my life. Too many hands touched me. Too many body parts entered mine with out my permission or consent. I admit, I did not always say no. I admit, I was too traumatized by a man being on top of me as a child/teenager TO say no. We can all agree that a word does not stop a man with a bad intent. Do you think if I said no to a 65 year old man when I was 13 he would have said, ” oh my gosh I had no idea! But since you said no then I will definitely stop.” Nope. He made his choice and it was a choice that did not have any regard for me. “No” doesnt stop rape and the sooner people accept that the better.
I admit I got a sexually transmitted disease during those years of abuse. I have never admitted that before. I was shamed by the gynecologist who found it because she thought I was slutting around at the young age or barely teen. She didn’t think to ask if it was from abuse. I will admit I have no idea who gave it to me. I was passed around to many men before I was 15 years old and I have no idea who gave me the disease. My mother’s good friend told me one day, in my 40’s, that I told my mother I got the disease from my boyfriend at the time. I will admit, that was a lie to my mother. I needed to tell someone because I was so upset. I will admit, I think my mother is a fucking bitch for telling her friend that I had a sexually transmitted disease when infact my mother couldn’t tell her friend that I had been abused as a little girl. It was ok to gossip about me as a teenager, but not to get me help from the females around her when I had been abused my entire childhood. It is very hard to admit this. But why should a man or woman live in shame for something that was given to them by a rapist! They shouldn’t. Oh I don’t want to write it. I don’t want to admit to it. But it is true. It is a sad sad truth that makes me sick to think about. To get a disease, even if it is treatable, from someone committing a crime against you, that caused irreversible damage…well, it is hard to write about. But my blog’s intent is to release the shame of what is NOT MY SECRET. So that is what I continue to do.
I admit that I now know that the letter I wrote to my father talking about the abuse I lived through should NOT have been the breaking point of my family. My family should be ashamed. They should be so fucking ashamed. They chose to abandon me over a letter when I should have left them after they didn’t protect me from a child molester years ago! I admit that there are those out there who don’t want to hear the word fuck. I say it here out of utter disgust for a group of people who hurt me so badly. They never once apologized for anything. The list is long. The list of things I overlooked. Just like they overlooked me and everything that was important to me. My brother TO THIS DAY will tell you that he threw an alarm clock at my face causing a scar I still have, because I tore his comic book. He blamed me for an alarm clock dial stabbing in my face leaving a permanent scar. My nana broke her rib because she spanked my brother because he was being too rough with me. (She had osteoporosis). She was the only one who ever protected me. My brother to this day will tell you that I put marks on myself and that is why she spanked him because I lied. My mother will tell you that if I had only told more details that the criminal that molested me would be prosecuted. She never apologized for anything that happened to me. For not preventing it. For letting it happen. Even if it wasn’t her fault she still didn’t even try to apologize. None of my family ever apologized for anything. The only reason I moved out in the first place was because my hair dresser accidentally turned my pretty bleach blond hair black. My mother hit me in a fit or rage over my HAIR. She never apologized. I was just ruined because my pretty hair was not pretty anymore. All about appearances and pride and ego and perfection. Never mind my body was ravaged. Nah. It’s just my fuckin hair that gets my mom mad enough to hit ME. Hmm. I wonder why she never hit the man who molested me. Oh that’s right, because they still let my brother hang around him because they pretended it never happened. Assholes. My father never apologized or asked for my forgivness for shaking the child molesters hand. He made a lot of excuses like he always did but he never said, “Bethany, I am so so sorry that I shook the man’s hand that abused you.” Because if he did then he would actually have to acknowledge that something happened to me. NONE OF THEM PROTECTED ME. They make out to have provided this perfect life. They always will. I have to admit to myself that their lies are their truth and I will never be able to change that. But by doing that I also have to admit that I lost them a long time ago, not just because of a letter. I lost them when they made a conscious choice to not change THEIR lives after I was molested.
I admit I should have terminated my relationship with my family long before they chose to terminate it formally with me. Lets see, when should I have terminated it…all the reasons listed above. The real kicker was my mother chose to see my therapist who then refused to see me and then my mother sent me a letter quoting what the therapist felt about my letter to my father. My therapist saw my mother. My mother used my therapist to justify herself. I admit. I think my mother is a conniving manipulative fucking bitch for using my own therapist against me. One that I bore my soul to for over a year, who knew about how I felt about my family and how they betrayed me when it came to all of the abuse. Yeah sorry. I cannot honor thy mother or thy father. They are not honorable. But God understands me. He forgives me. We have talked, God and I, about this at length. It is not for others to judge how I feel about my parents.
I admit, I really do not like when people tell me to let my family go. Because as you can see. It is not just one individual and one event and one person standing in front of me with me making the choice to let them go. It is a lifetime. I will let them go when I am able. And it will not come too soon. But it can only come when I am able. Not a day before. To tell me to let them go is self serving and frankly an asshole comment to make to someone who would let them the fuck go if she could. Come on! You think I want to think about them for one more moment! I don’t. But history, time, imprints of pain, they are hard to let go of.
Ok. This stream of consciousness has got me all riled up with anger. There is a lot of pain that I feel due to my family. I admit, there is a lot I have to work on. And do you know what? It fucking sucks. It does. I don’t just have to work through PTSD and rape and molestation. Nope. I have to work through a piece of shit family who chose pride and lies over me. I have a new therapist, thank you family, you all should contribute to the fucking cost of it all since because of each of you it will take me twice as long to heal. Think I am blaming. Oh I will admit to the world that I blame my entire family for what I am going through right now. Had they chosen to love love love after the abuse instead of deny, and blame, and pick at me, and lie some more, I cannot even imagine where I would be right now. Still sitting here with a muscle disease, and Lyme disease, and seizures, and processing for the rest of my life the after affects of sexual assault, but if I were loved by all of those who betrayed me, I could breathe again. I admit. They took my breath away. I’ve had to learn to breathe again.
I admit that yesterday I had such a breakdown emotionally that to keep myself present. I had to injure my legs by walking around the backyard and focusing on something. What to focus on, what to focus on. Mushrooms. I took pictures of mushrooms. It is hard to admit that at 45 years old my life is so very very hard that I had to focus on mushrooms in my yard to get through the moment. To not dissociate. I had to focus on mushrooms. But that is what sexual assault and a piece of shit family get you, I have to admit, it gets you a bunch of fuckin mushrooms.