Catching Up

I know it has been such a long time since I updated this blog and over the last few weeks I have spent more and more time thinking about it.  And then it struck me.  I didn’t believe that anything happening to me was pertinent to the central topic of the blog – Child Sexual Abuse.  My life has changed so much in the last year as to be almost unrecognisable.  And that is such a good thing.

But then I realised that underneath it all the effects of what happened to me are still there, just manifesting differently.  My journey to becoming a whole person is not finished and in fact, I have only really just started.

Yes, I do believe that I have now moved from being a Victim to a Survivor.  Deep down what happened to me is no longer in control of my life and my decisions, but rather, it is now a factor that influences my perspective on life.  I’m not saying that the abuse and it’s effects are behind me, but rather that they are no longer the central and driving force in my life.  I have wrested control away from Alex and put him into a place that is more appropriate.

So really, I have come to the realisation that this blog is actually about the journey, rather than the event that sent my life careening off in a new direction.  For anyone else who has been through this type of abuse, maybe sharing my experiences and feelings, I can give them not only the strength to keep going, but also that feeling that they are not alone in their fight to survive.

And who knows, maybe in time I will have shared my journey not only from being a Victim to a Survivor but taking my life a step further to being a Thriver!

Lost Memories

Isn’t it strange how something totally unconnected with an event can trigger memories?  Or, in my case, start me wondering about the memories I have lost or at least don’t have access too.

I am of course, referring to my memories of what Alex did to me when I was a child.  Whilst watching a television programme which dealt with suppressed memories my own thoughts turned to the gaping holes in my recollection of the abuse I suffered at his hands.  And I am again confronted with a dilemma that has plagued me on and off for years now – should I seek help in recovering the memories or should I sit back and wait, on the off chance that they will return on their own?

It is a question that I have spent many hours turning over in my mind.  I’ve tried to weigh up the pro’s and con’s of actively seeking to remember and the obvious repercussions of doing so.  And I can never come to a satisfactory decision.  On the one hand I want to remember.  Not because I want to be able to see in my mind what he did to me, but because there is always the chance that as long as the memories are hidden from me, I will be unable to move on.

But then I worry that remembering the abuse will be too much for me to handle.  I fear that my mind is deliberately repressing the memories because is some deep, unknown part of me I know that recollection of the abuse will be more than I can take.  Maybe I am not strong enough or just not ready to deal with it. 

There is the belief amongst many professional counsellors that repressed memories will resurface once the ‘subject’ is in an emotional space capable of dealing with the trauma.  And of course, it will be traumatic.  Of that I have no doubt.  Recalling that the abuse had happened at all was enough to nearly destroy me and then openly admitting it had happened brought me to a point where I felt that my life was no longer worth living.

I have weathered those storms, but do I have the strength to take that final step and confront what actually happened?  Am I ready to see it all laid bare before me?  Will it finally destroy me after all I have been through?

Or am I just being a coward?  Am I just afraid and using anything I can to avoid coming face to face with the abuse?  

Mother’s Day

Today is Mother’s Day across the Southern Hemisphere and my thoughts have turned to my Mom and what she meant to me.  It is hard to see people out there talking about their Mom’s and how precious they are, knowing that my Mom is gone and I will never be able to touch her or hold her again.

And of course, I have started thinking about my relationship with her as I was growing up and how that affected what has happened to me.  If only it was possible to go back – I wonder what I would do differently?  Would I be able to use the knowledge that I now have to change what Alex did to me?

Because at the end of the day, what he did, he did to a child, with a child’s mind and a child’s perspective on life.  As I child, our understanding of the world around us bears little resemblance to what we know and understand as an adult.  And that is what is so horrific about Child Sexual Abuse.

It is actually impossible, as an adult, to understand how a child perceives not only their abuse, but also their abuser.  Usually, a child’s experience of the world is tempered by the love and nurturing of their parents.  They are protected from harm by the adults around them and are not exposed to the seedier side of life, nor the harm that one adult can do to another. 

More specifically, a child has no knowledge or understanding of the adult world of complex emotions.  To a child, emotions are simple – love/hate, like/dislike, afraid/secure, etc.  The light and shade of adult emotions do not open up to us until we hit our mid-teens and our own needs change to include romantic attraction.

And this of course, determines the way a child reacts to Child Sexual Abuse.  Not only do they understand what is being done to them but also, they cannot grasp the emotions that drive their abuser. 

So when it comes to trying to deal with the abuse once the child becomes an adult we, the victims of Child Sexual Abuse, are left in a situation where we are looking at what happened through an adult’s eyes, rather than those of a child.  Which naturally brings its own sets of problems.  We cannot accept the fact that we did not get help, we grapple with the fact that we ‘allowed’ it to happen, we rail against the idea that we let it carry on and on and on.  We are seeing what happened through an adult’s eyes, with adult knowledge, experience and perceptions and find it difficult to accept that we were not to blame.

Understanding

Well, the loss of my Uncle and my exclusion from everything connected with his passing has brought so many things swirling to the forefront of my mind.  I don’t want or expect sympathy from anyone, especially not in connection with my alienation from my family.  Although my mind tells me that what has happened over the last few months is Alex’s fault, I still feel responsible for the pain that I have caused my family.

Don’t get me wrong – for the most part, I do not regret speaking up, but there is still a small part of me that longs for the loving arms of my family and wishes that I had just kept it all to myself.  I may have continued to suffer but my family at least, would not have all of this hanging over them.

But I have learned one very valuable lesson.  No-one out there understands.  Oh yes, they can come out with all of the platitudes and they can try to see it from my point of view.  But they haven’t been through what I have, so they can never truly no how I feel. 

I have one very good friend who herself, was a victim of Child Sexual Abuse.  From what she has told me, her abuser was a much older man and abused not only her, but many other girls from the town where we grew up.  We’ll call her Di.

Di understands some of what I talk about, having been in a similar position herself – the total lack of self-esteem, low self confidence and feeling suicidal.  Like me, she also attempted to end it all, also unsuccessfully.  In fact, Di made many attempts.  However, she now seems to have come to terms with what was done to her.  She does not feel any anger towards her abuser, nor does she constantly wrestle with the memories.

Another stark difference is her recollection of the abuse.  She remembers it and did not go through any period where she had blocked it out.  This could possibly be because she was older than I was at the time of the abuse, or it could just be due to a different mindset.  Di did not have parents like mine, where the only lack was the demonstration of love and affection.

But talking to Di over the last couple of weeks has not helped me as it has in the past.  It has actually increased my feeling of isolation.  If she can come to terms with the abuse and ‘let it go’, why can’t I?  Is it another failing in me?  My anger and bitterness are festering inside me and I am afraid that I am doing this to myself?  Is it really within my power to say ‘enough is enough, just let it go’ or am I just too weak? 

I do want to move on with my life, but I really do find myself unable to let go of the negative emotions connected to what happened.  I want him to pay for what he has done to me and I cannot convince myself that is wrong.  Why should Alex be allowed to get away with it?

Now what do I do?

Well, this doesn’t happen often, but I find myself not sure of what to say.  It’s strange, because there are so many thoughts flying around in my head and my feelings are swinging from one extreme to the other.  One minute I am angry, the next so, so sad.  Then I start to accept my situation, only a moment later I am railing against the hand that has been dealt me.

So, let me try and explain what has brought me to this.

Last Sunday, exactly a week ago, as we were preparing to start our dress rehearsal (I am in a thriving Theatre Group and for the current production, was taking the role of Production Manager) when my middle son asked me to come outside.  I knew.  I knew exactly what he was going to tell me.

My Uncle had died.  I cannot honestly say what upset me more – losing my Uncle who had always been so good to me, that I had not been able to say goodbye and tell him how much I loved him, or the fact that I could not be there for my Aunt.

The timing was probably very good.  I had to pull myself together to fulfil my role and I did.  I didn’t let on to anyone the sad news that I had just received, nor did I allow my grief to show.

And that is the way I have moved through the past week.  Again, I have gone back to hiding how I am feeling from those around me.  It is just so much easier.  Only here, can I say how I truly feel.

Of course, my dilemma continues to grow.  No-one in my family has contacted me to tell me that my Uncle has died.  I am plainly not welcome at his Memorial Service, but what about my boys?  My cousin lives a couple of hours away and the train fare for the three of them is exorbitant.

I would happily take them there, but how do we sort out the logistics?  I can drop them at the crematorium and pick them up afterwards, but then that means that they will not have any time to talk to my Aunt and show her that they care.  So how to get them from the crematorium to where ever those attending will be going afterwards?

And what about me?  What do I do with myself for the duration?  I know this sounds entirely selfish, but I feel as though no one else cares how I feel, what I go through.  And surely my feelings matter too.

But that’s just it – I don’t think anyone really does care about me.   And honestly, I probably deserve it.

Losing my family

Today has pretty much been the day from hell.  Well, my personal hell anyway.

Everything seemed okay to start with.  Got up, got dressed and made it to work on time.  A struggle yes, but in control.  During the morning, work went well and I achieved a lot.  By lunch time I was actually feeling pretty good and as I walked home, there was not a hint of what was to come.

As I sat, eating my lunch and gazing pretty mindlessly at the TV, my middle son told me that he had just received a text from Alex’s sister, telling him that their father was in hospital.  He’d had a stroke and was in a coma.  She’d told him that if there were no signs of improvement within the next few hours, the life support was to be withdrawn.

My heart went out to her and my Aunt.  Despite the fact that they had completely turned their backs on me and we’d had no contact for eight months, I knew how close my Aunt and Uncle had been and I knew that my Aunt would be absolutely devastated.  But I also knew that I would not be welcome in their home or at the hospital.  So what could I do?

I decided that the best thing would be to take the afternoon off work, drive down to Southampton (where they live) and drop off my sons with them.  The boys could there help out and support my Aunt and of course, get a chance to say goodbye to my Uncle who had been so close to them throughout their lives.

It then occurred to me that maybe my brother had not heard yet, so I decided to ring him before I did anything else.  What a shock was in store for me!

He knew.  My cousin had phoned him the day before!  When I broke down and asked him why he hadn’t let me know, he told me that my cousin had told him that I wasn’t to be told about what had happened!  And he went along with it!  I know for a fact that had the roles been reversed, I would have told him anyway, but made it clear that he wasn’t supposed to know and wasn’t to contact the family about it.

If my brother had done that for me, I won’t deny that I would have been upset about it, but I would have kept my mouth closed.  But he decided to keep me in the dark.

I shouldn’t be surprised really.  Even in July last year, after I took the overdose, he made it clear that he wasn’t there for me, he was there for my sons.  He told me back then that he didn’t want to know about what Alex had done to me and plainly, he wasn’t interested in how it had affected me.  It hurt!  It has hurt every day over the last eight months, but I have accepted it and kept my pain to myself.  Whenever I have spoken to him, I have ensure that our conversations have steered clear of anything to do with Alex, what he did and how it has destroyed my life.

But to have him keep me in the dark about our uncle and clearly decide that his loyalties lay with our cousin and not me, his sister – that I couldn’t handle.  I can’t handle and I won’t take it.

So I have made a decision – they can have their life and their family and will have mine.  The can do what they want, but they can leave me out of it.  As far as I am concerned, he is no longer my brother and I want nothing to do with him or his family.  If that is pathetic or childish, well, so be it.  I refuse to allow them to hurt me any longer.  I have enough to deal with.

My heart goes out to my aunt and uncle and they are both in my thoughts and prayers.  But that is where it ends.  My links with my Mother’s family are now gone and they are nothing to me.

Why are we silent?

This question is driving me insane.  On the one hand it really doesn’t make any sense.  But then on the other, I can sort of understand it.

Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse!  That is what we are.  

There are a lot of us, I know.  Personally I have already met or talked to many of them, both here in England and from other countries around the World.  Our stories are all different.  We come from lots of different backgrounds; handle our plight in different ways.  We’re different ages now and live in differing circumstances.  We are women and men.  There are so many differences between us.  But we all have one thing in common – we were sexually abused as children and are now trying to find our way out of the horror that lurks within.

And we have another thing in common – we hide our dirty little secret.

Why is that do you suppose?  Why do we need to keep the facts of what was done to us tucked away in a dark place, where it festers, eating away at us, lurking in the shadows, waiting to thrust itself into our consciousness when we least expect it?

There are many reasons – we feel guilty that we allowed it to happen; we fear the reactions of other people; we fear not being believed; we don’t want to upset our families; we fear our abusers; these are but a few reasons.

But when I start to think about it a little bit more, I become angry.  Why should we have these fears and concerns?  Why should we be considerate of the sensibilities of other’s?  Where were these same people when we were being subjected to the most terrible abuse a person can imagine?  Why did they not protect us?

And maybe this is the answer to the question.  Society does not want to know about the suffering of the adult survivors because if they acknowledge what we have gone through, if they allow us to come out into the sunlight, then they would have to accept some of the responsibility for this massive failing.

Because if you think about it and I mean really think about it, how often do you hear the story of an adult who has survived sexual abuse as a child?  We hear so much about people who are starving, people who are carers, people who are addicted to drugs and/or alcohol, bullying, the list is endless but when did you last hear the story of an adult who is suffering as a result of child sexual abuse?  I don’t mean to belittle the plight of these others, but I cannot help but get angry when I hear about all the money that is donated and directed towards them, only to notice that as always, we have been forgotten.

And yes, I do think we are partly to blame, because we don’t make enough noise.  But honestly, there actually aren’t many of us who can.  Most of us fight daily with our lack of self-confidence and low self-esteem and have very little strength left to try and get our plight noticed.  But even when one of us succeeds in getting the issue into the news, it seems that no one wants to acknowledge it.

I think it’s time that people started to realise that child sexual abuse has been happening for many years and the victims from 30 and 40 years ago are still suffering at the hands of their abusers.  We need help and support that is just not there for us and it isn’t fair.  It’s time that we got this imbalance corrected.  For all of our sakes.

Memory Blocks

Why, oh why can’t I remember??

I so wish I could understand how memories can be blocked out.  I know they are there, but try as I might, I just cannot access them.

I am of course talking about what Alex did to me.  As sick as it sounds, I want to remember.  I need to remember.  I don’t know why, but this is becoming a major issue for me.  I know that it will be painful to remember it and I can’t be sure whether I will be able to cope, but this business of living with huge holes in my memory is getting to me.

It’s not that I want to remember what it was like, but deep inside there is a part of me that questions whether the sexual abuse actually happened.  Yet I know it did.  Not only do I have the two memories of the incidents in Alex’s bedroom and then in his caravan, but I also have the confirmation of my friend, his other victim.

But it is getting to the point where it is just not enough anymore.

It’s got a lot to do with the articles that have been published covering the issues of false memories, implanted memories and of course, the sick women who make fake allegations.

You may think I am weird and need to take a step back and allow things to progress at their natural pace, but that just isn’t enough for me anymore.  I research Child Sexual Abuse on the internet on a daily basis.  I have come across numerous blogs written by other victims, survivors and even thrivers.  There are quite literally hundreds of scholarly articles covering everything - the psyche of the abuser, the experiences of the victim and the effects on the victim in later life to name but a few.  Peppered throughout are items about women who have made false allegations.  And I can’t help but question my own memories.

It’s totally irrational – I have all the confirmation that I need in what I do remember, how the memories surfaced and of course, my witness.  But it just isn’t enough.  Is it really a matter of the events having been so traumatic that my conscious mind could not deal with the implications?  Or did I make a semi-conscious decision to block it all out?  I just don’t know.

Thinking back, I know that the things Alex did to me have haunted me throughout my life.  But it has never been in a literal sense.  I do not remember whether he ever had oral sex with me.  I could not say with any level of confidence that he ever manually penetrated me.  And I cannot actually remember him ever actually having sex with me. 

But I know he did.  Because I remember the occasion that he left me lying on his bedroom mat whilst he went to get some toilet paper to clean his semen off my thighs.  I remember lying there, feeling totally exposed.  I can clearly recall that I was terrified, but not what scared me so much.  What was I scared of?  Was it because of what he had just done to me?  Or was it something else? 

My other memory, the incident in the caravan has become a little clearer though.  I remember how I felt.  I was laying on the long bench that ran along one side of Alex’s caravan.  I was still wearing my t-shirt, but he had removed my shorts and panties. 

My parents had been visiting with his parents in the house and were on their way home.  As was their practice, my Aunt and Uncle had walked my Mom and Dad to the top of the driveway and it was as they were walking past the caravan that my Aunt was talking about the fact that Alex was very quiet and seemed not to have much interest in girls and dating.  My father replied ‘You never know.  Still waters run deep’. 

I can actually clearly recall the feelings that ran through me when I heard that.  The terror that something would make them come into the caravan and see what we had been doing (bear in mind, I was only about ten years old).  I was petrified that we would be caught and I would lose my family and my home.  I felt guilt about the fact that by not telling my parents what was happening, I was lying by omission.  And a part of me was laughing – if only they knew!

How could a part of me laugh?  What had broken inside me to release such an inappropriate reaction?  I wish, wish, wish that I could remember so that I could answer at least some of the questions that are whirling through my mind.

Feelings

This is a hard one.  The way I feel changes all the time, not just day by day or even hour by hour, but even as quickly as minute to minute.  I can be happy and feel secure and in an instant, for no apparent reason, I find myself in the depths of despair and wondering whether it is worth the effort to carry on.  It is hard to explain all the emotions I experience every day and I should imagine it is even harder for the people around me to understand.  Heck, even I don’t understand it sometimes.

But someone said something the other day that has really struck a chord – ‘You are entitled to feel the way you feel’.  

Such simple words that at first glance don’t mean very much.  Even to me, at first I didn’t really get the meaning.  Then I thought about it and it was as though I had been hit by a speeding bullet.  Entitlement!  People take so much for granted in their lives and it is only when we think about it that we realise how much we have and all the things that we feel are our right.

Like most victims of Child Sexual Abuse, my feelings traverse a highly convoluted course, winding their way through happiness and calmness to terror and agitation and passing through panic and desperation in the blink of an eye.  And underlying many of these feelings is the guilt.  

Guilt because I feel like crying and people around me are sympathetic.  Guilt because I feel insecure and my friends and family take a moment to reassure me.

 

And worst of all is the feeling of guilt when I succumb to the depression and just want to sit and wallow.  Because for some reason it is hard to accept that I am allowed to feel this way.

It all comes down to the fact that we generally do not feel that we have the right to impinge on other people’s lives.  And of course, the deeply ingrained belief that how we feel does not matter, we are not important.  This belief that has been taught to us by our abusers, who constantly tell us that we must consider other people – ‘think how angry your mother would be if she found out’, ‘how do you think your parents would feel if you were taken away and put into care’, ‘what do you think people will call you when they find out what you have done’, the unending litany of scarcely veiled threats used to keep us quiet.

So for me, to suddenly be told that I am entitled to feel this way comes as something of a shock.  Because I realise that it is true.  One of the gifts that God has given us is the ability to feel a huge range of different emotions, an ability that does not seem to be shared with other living creatures on earth.  Yes, animals will feel basic emotions such as fear, cold and hunger, but the gamut of emotions that are evident in a human being is unbelievable when you really think about it.

And if we have the ability to feel all these differing emotions, then surely it is alright to feel them?  My head is spinning as I consider the possibility that it is alright for me to feel frightened and insecure, sad or even angry.  Naturally, it isn’t pleasant, but the added burden of guilt is unnecessary.  That is something I have never considered before.

I have always made every effort to hide my true feelings, for no other reason than I feel guilty about it when I have so many other wonderful things in my life, like my work and my children.  I don’t want people to be supportive and kind because I don’t believe I deserve it when there are so many others out there who are worse off than me.

So I know that I now need to stop and think. To remember those amazing words – ‘You are entitled to feel the way you feel’!

Love

Everyone wants to be loved.  Whether they are a child or an adult or even somewhere in between, love is something we all crave, whether we admit it or not.  I know I do.  I know my best friend does.  Admittedly we all look for it in different places and in different ways, but at the end of the day it all comes down to the same thing.  Finding it isn’t the only problem though.

Over the last few weeks, I have realised that love also means different things to different people.  And of course, there are different types of love.

Firstly, and probably the most important of all is familial love.  The love a parent feels for a child, that the child feels for their parents and for their siblings.  This love lays the groundwork for how a child will develop and determines who they will be as an adult.

Then there is the love that we feel for our friends, both male and female.  This is obviously also critical.  Without developing these caring friendships during childhood, it is impossible for someone then to grow up into a balanced adult.

And naturally, there is romantic love.  The love that binds two people together through good times and bad and is the most fragile love of all.

How we perceive these different types of love develops as we move through our lives and experience differing relationships.  And of course it follows that any difficult relationship experienced in our formative years will have a profound effect on our views in later life.

I am by no means a professional analyst, nor any type of expert in terms of psychology, but my personal experiences have not only left me badly scarred, but also with a perspective unique to those with similar experiences.

The strangest part is that I can see it so clearly.  I craved the love of my parents in so many different ways and it has taken me years to realise that I had their love all along, I just couldn’t see it.  Because it was not demonstrated in the way that I had seen in families around me.  I watched my friends and relatives hug their children, cuddle them close when they were sad and express their love in words that could be plainly understood.

But my parents were not like that.  They didn’t show physical affection nor did they speak of it.  At least, not to me or my brother.  I know now that they loved me, but this knowledge would have made a profound difference if I had come upon it whilst I was still a child.

I don’t blame them, I am sure I have said this before.  But this hole in my life made me a target for a predatory swine, whose actions then determined the path for the next 33 years of my life. 

And I do blame him.  I hold him totally responsible.  As a result of his actions, I became a child isolated from my friends and separated from my parents by a lie that I could not share with them.

 

His lies also led me to associate sex with love.  Not by any assumption on my part, but because he told me that he did these horrible things to me because he loved me.  How sick is that?  And because I was too young to know better, I believed him.

So I took that belief into my teenage years and allowed myself to become a toy for any young man to play with and abandon once they had what they wanted.  I remember so many days, sitting waiting for the phone to ring after allowing a man to use me the night before and crying quietly to myself as I realised that I had been used again.  But because of Alex, the belief that sex and love was the same thing was deeply ingrained, so off I would go again, allowing someone else to use me and discard me.

Even now, looking back, it hurts me so much to realise that I allowed myself to be used so badly and to accept that there were so many men out there who were happy to take advantage.  I wonder whether any of them ever stopped to think of how they were hurting me or to wonder why I behaved as I did?  Do any of them look back now and regret the way that they used me?

I have so many regrets about the way that I have lived my life.  I know that I need to accept it and move on, but I fear that nothing will ever be able to take the pain away.  I just wish there was a way that I could turn back the clock and live my life again, whilst still retaining the knowledge that I have now.

Maybe then it would be possible for me to believe that anyone could ever love me.

Returning to work again

Well, have now been off work for a few weeks and am hoping to go back on Tuesday next week.  But the really hard thing is that whilst there is the part of me that is looking forward to returning to the job I love, there is the terror of facing the people with whom I work.

I made a choice after the overdose, to be honest with everyone about what I had done and what I have been going through.  I truly expected disbelief, disgust and anger.  I did not want sympathy.  What I got was friends and colleagues trying to help and support me and that look.  It’s not hard to describe the look – it’s all in the eyes – pity!  And that tone of voice that shows they actually do care.

Normal people (I use that term very loosely) would be able to accept and understand it, but I hate it.  I don’t believe I deserve it.  I feel that they are wasting emotions on me.  I dread the moment that they realise that I am a dirty, worthless waste of space. 

I have been working so hard with trying to deal with the anger that I feel, directed at Alex and his family and don’t have the time or the inclination to work on my self-esteem.  Probably because I fear that it will be too hard and I will never achieve any form of belief in myself. 

Not to blow my own trumpet, but I have had a number of people lately tell me that they think I am strong and capable and I do know that somehow I emit an aura that makes people feel comfortable around me.  


But inside I cannot accept this.  I know that I am deceiving them.  The real me is hidden deep inside myself and I cannot find the strength to totally expose the sense of vulnerability, the fear of being judged and found wanting, the isolation that would result when they see who and what I really am. 

But I bite the bullet, grab myself by the bootlaces and drag myself into the situations that I fear.  Not through courage, but through necessity.  I have to function within society, even if it is all just a facade.  The only place I truly feel comfortable is on the stage and that in my eyes, reveals so much.