I kind of forgot it was Wednesday, which means I kind of forgot to do a new post. To tell the truth, I was having trouble settling on a topic. So, I worked all day and didn’t really think about it too much. Really, I was hoping inspiration would strike. No such luck. So instead of writing something, I will let the following quotes speak for me:
Leah Parsons, Rehtaeh Parsons Glen Canning,
Shame is a powerful weapon.
Shame is what sexual predators rely on. Next to alcohol it’s their preferred WMD. What were you thinking, after all, being alone, dressing like that, drinking too much, trusting too much? You should have known better. You should have known what would happen. It’s the same approach pedophiles use when they tell their victims “we’re only doing what you want.”
I was invited to speak in Ottawa recently and share my thoughts on violence against women and the role men play. There are two things I’ve learned since my daughter, Rehtaeh Parsons, died last April and I began to speak at conferences and meetings. One, the audience will be almost all women, as it was in this case, and two, attempts to hurt and silence me suddenly appear when there’s anything mentioned about Rehtaeh online or in social media. She’s worm food because I’m a failure, according to one person’s post. If I don’t shut up I’ll join her, says another. Some choose words so disgusting I can’t bring myself to repeat them.
You see, according to them, Rehtaeh didn’t die from being raped and bullied, she died because I’m a bad father. I knowingly let her smoke pot, drink vodka, and raised her to be flirtatious and promiscuous. Rehtaeh wasn’t raped because someone raised their sons to be a rapists, she was raped because her father raised her to be raped.
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Rapists rely on other men to excuse and justify their crimes against women. Other men who’ll laugh at their jokes, invite them to parties, play sports with them, introduce them to other women.
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Almost every time her name is mentioned in the news or in an article those anonymous posters show up with their fake usernames and post all sorts of nonsense, innuendo, lies, misinformation and outright victim blaming. Rarely do they use real names and rarely are they women.
I’m not sure why some people feel a need to weigh in on issues they know little or nothing about. I reply if I can even though it’s almost always futile. Some people just have the wrong information while others are so out to lunch. I’m left wondering if they’ve read anything about this story at all. Patrick Doran of the Edmonton Men’s Movement thinks I’ve been using a “victim-card” to silence critics in the “…years since Rehtaeh’s death.”
It hasn’t been a year yet, Patrick.
I try to not to get hooked. I honestly have bigger issues to deal with than a handful of forgettable trolls. It’s the people who say nothing I want to reach, the people who are shocked by this story and don’t know, or don’t realize, they have a part to play. Men mainly. Not the ones trolling rape stories; I’m talking about the good ones. Men with hearts, families, compassion, decency and a sense of virtue.
Rapists rely on other men to excuse and justify their crimes against women. Other men who’ll laugh at their jokes, invite them to parties, play sports with them, introduce them to other women. Men who’ll give them jobs, feed them, and help them blame their victims even if it’s by indifference.
Men, good men, need to stand up and do to rapists and their supporters what we do to child molesters. Imagine the difference it would make if a man who jokes about rape and always doubts victims entered a room to silence, whispers, stares, and looks of disgust from other men. That is what we need to do as men.
We need to take an honest hard look at why we befriend rapists, why we believe them, allow them, tolerate them, and help them get away with the crimes they commit. We should be confronting them, exposing them, shunning them from our homes, families, teams, and places of employment. We need to use our voices to be a part of the solution and not let our silence continue to be part of the problem.
There is a stigma attached to rape. A stigma centuries old, created by devils, used against their victims to hide awful deeds. It’s time to put that stigma where it belongs. There is no difference between a man who rapes and a man who befriends and defends him.
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We need to take an honest hard look at why we befriend rapists, why we believe them, allow them, tolerate them, and help them get away with the crimes they commit.
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I tried to end my talk in Ottawa on a big note but couldn’t find the right words. The message has been said many times already. It’s time to stop talking and start doing. We’re still in a place where a 16-year-old will write on Rehtaeh’s Facebook page and wonder how she couldn’t have known what happens to girls when they drink around boys. A place where young women ask what they can do to make sure they don’t get raped.
Truth is there’s nothing they can do. Women who don’t smoke pot get raped as do women who don’t drink vodka and women with amazing fathers. I hate to think what some of those posters will say to themselves if someone they love ever gets raped because according to their logic it wasn’t the rapists fault, it’s the fault of the people who love the victim.
Piece originally appeared on Huffington Post
As I said last time, sex after sexual assault is especially challenging.
I think I was very lucky to have been in a loving relationship when my assault happened. I cannot imagine how much more difficult it would have been, on so many levels, had I been single. Right after my attack, and for longer than I would have thought, I was afraid of everyone. And I do mean every single person I encountered. Men, women, boys, girls – anyone and everyone scared me. My rational mind knew this was silly, but the irrational part was in control. As I also said last week, I know, and knew at the time, that sexual assault of any kind, whether it be rape, attempted rape or any other variation, it not about sex. It is about power or lack thereof. Another aspect that a lot of women have to deal with is feeling dirty or ashamed of what happened to them. I never felt either of those emotions. I was very clear from the beginning that I had done nothing wrong, that I had nothing to be ashamed of. That being said, I was still unable to have sex with my boyfriend for some time.
For at least the first few weeks, I am certain I wasn’t even willing to try. Oh, I was fine with just being held and kissed, but beyond that, I was unable to even contemplate it. I was never repulsed by him in any way. And although, I was afraid of men in general, I was not afraid of my boyfriend. My body and mind instinctively knew he was safe, that I was safe with him. Still, ‘convincing’ my body that more than just cuddling was okay definitely took time. Because I was in shock, and stayed there for 15 weeks, I could not cry. Nor, it turned out, could I have an orgasm. And when we did attempt to have sex, though my body responded to him, I was still ‘blocked.’ For a long time, every time we did make love, I would ‘leak’ 3 or 4 tears. I called it leaking because it wasn’t real crying, and all that would ever come out were 2 or 3 or 4 tears. I may not have been actually crying, but, clearly, it’s what I wanted to do. It still was upsetting to my boyfriend. I was not rejecting him, but I think he still felt that way. I was doing my best to not let it happen, but it always did. Looking back now, I am not even sure how long this went on. At some point it stopped, but I do not remember when. And as for the lack of orgasm, I am happy to say that that eventually came back as well.
What I can say now, too, is that after my attack, our sex life was never the same. It seemed to never completely recover. Oh, things worked like they were supposed to, but something fundamental was lost that September morning, and, unfortunately, we were never able to get it back. It is only with hindsight that I am able to see this now. I can’t really think too much about how much almost every aspect of my life has changed since my encounter with cockroach boy. It pisses me off and I don’t want to live my life in a pissed off frame of mind.
So I choose love and joy and happiness. Is it always easy? Of course not. There are times I’d like to go to the prison he is housed in and, well, you can just imagine what I might do. Thankfully, those days are few and far between now. I have many more good days than bad. Though I am still dealing with a lot of physical issues that I attribute to my attack, those, too, are improving. I have great faith that though my life may never be exactly as it was before, it is better. I am better.
Especially after a sexual assault.
Not that there would ever be a good time for an attempted rape to occur, but the timing of mine seemed especially cruel because later that morning of my attack, my boyfriend and I were supposed to be going to Santa Barbara. We had been together for 6 months at this point and this was our first trip together. We were going to see Don Henley and Emmylou Harris in concert. It was for 2 days and 2 nights. And because we would not be getting to our accommodations until late, my boyfriend made a reservation for that first night at Motel 6. (The next day we moved to a lovely Bed & Breakfast in Summerland.) Let’s just say of all the Motel 6’s around, this one had to be the worst ever. I never knew they actually made sheets with a thread count of about 10.
When my boyfriend came to the crime lab, which, by the way, is in a secret location, to pick me up, I had not yet been ‘processed.’ That meant that we could only speak at a distance. He was not allowed to hug and comfort me because any DNA evidence that might have been on my clothing or skin had to be preserved for the rape kit. I remember telling him that I had not yet cried and thought that it would probably hit me a bit later that day or night. Kind of funny thinking about it now since it took me 15 weeks to come out of shock. That day, I truly had no clue how bad it really was and how hard I would have to work to get through it.
When we left the crime lab, we went back to Coronado to the Police Station so I could look at a lineup of photographs. It’s not like it is on TV, where they show a 6 pack of men who fit the similar description of your attacker. In ‘real life’ I was shown one picture at a time. I was not allowed to compare and contrast them. I eliminated those that I was positive were not him, and was then left with two. The one I ended up choosing was him. What I told the police officer was, although the picture didn’t look exactly like him, it looked as close to what I remembered him looking like. I also worked with a sketch artist when I at the crime lab. I would love to see that picture to see if it looked like him at all. When we finished at the station, Bill took me home so that I could shower and pack for our trip. All I really wanted to do was lie down, but as it was already 2:30p, Santa Barbara is a good 3 1/2 to 4 hours drive, it was Saturday afternoon and we had to get through Los Angeles, and we had to go to Bill’s house for him to pack, I got in the shower.
Driving to La Jolla, Bill asked me if I wanted to call my mother. I said no. What I meant was that I didn’t want to call her then, I wanted to wait until, oh, some other time, or maybe never. He said that I had to call her and thought that I should do it while he packed. So I did. First thing I asked was whether or not my step-father was in or out-of-town. He was out. Then I really did not want to tell her without him there for moral support. I really do not remember what I said to her except I tried to tell her in a way that wouldn’t be upsetting. I doubt I succeeded, because, really how can you tell your mother that someone tried to rape you and her not be upset by that?
I slept most of the way to Santa Barbara. It seemed easier than having to think about what I had been through. We left La Jolla a little after 3p, hit traffic in L.A. and finally got to the concert around 7p. We missed Emmylou Harris, but Don Henley had not yet gone on, so we at least got to see/hear half the concert. When I think about it now, I was pretty freaked out being around that many people. Really, I don’t know how I did it. I think I was just on autopilot and doing my best not to fall apart.
I remember the room being cold when we finally got to it at 11:30. And the blankets were just as bad as the sheets, so I slept in my clothes. The bad thing was that my hip bones both had big abrasions on them and hurt to have fabric touching them. Really, all my abrasions hurt. It was a terrible night. I had taken a pill (can’t remember now what it was, but my physician mother assured me it would be okay for me to take) that, instead of having the desired effect of helping me sleep, did the exact opposite and I was wide awake and having weird hallucinations. At some point I did fall into an uneasy sleep, and then woke up really early, as usual. I couldn’t wait to get out of that hotel.
We could not check into our B&B until late afternoon, so we drove to Santa Ynez to go wine tasting. While there I got a phone call from the Coronado police informing me that they had apprehended my attacker the day before. That was good news. They also told me I needed to come back in to have my injuries photographed again once I got back to town. It was all so surreal. Even now.
When we finally got checked in, I remember lying on the bed, telling Bill that I knew rape was not about sex, that it’s about power or lack thereof, but that for a while I was afraid that it was going to be messed up in my mind. He said he knew. So he just held me. And since I was in a lot of physical pain from the attack, we went in the jacuzzi, which both hurt my injuries, and felt good for my sore arms and neck. I think I slept a little better that night. When I woke up on Monday morning, I was so hoping it had all been a nightmare. No such luck. I told Bill he could just leave me there, that I did not want to go home. I think we stayed in bed until we had to check out. The drive back to Coronado seemed especially long. I cannot remember now if Bill stayed with me at my house or if we stopped in La Jolla and I stayed there. All I do know is that for the first two weeks I was unable to sleep alone. Either Bill stayed at my house or I stayed at his or my friend Laura stayed at my house. I wasn’t scared in my house, but I could not be alone.
Believe it or not, this was a question I was asked by more people than you might think. Even more surprising to me was the fact that most of those asking that question were women. In this day and age! By women who knew better; intelligent women; women who work out and know exactly what one would wear to walk; women who, as soon as they asked realized how inappropriate and blame-the-victim type of question it was apologized. As if what I was wearing had anything to do with being attacked. As far as I am concerned, if I want to walk down the street stark naked (not that I do), even that is NOT a reason for some cockroach-type person to attack me. There simply is no excuse.
I have to admit that even today I do wonder if I had worn yoga pants, if that would have made a difference. I am pretty certain it would have, at least to a degree, in that my new yoga pants were a size small and fit kind of like a tight glove. As easily, and quickly, as he removed my skort, because it was loose on me and offered no resistance, my yoga pants would have probably stayed in place when he tried to pull them down. Would this have deterred his attack? Would he have given up and run away? My guess on this would be no. I mean, he didn’t run away when I screamed or when I continued to fight him, so why would my clothes not coming off easily have stopped him in any way?
What I did not know at the time, but now do, is when he saw me the first time on Ocean Blvd, my goose was cooked, so to speak. He zeroed in on me because I was his ‘type.’ The girl he assaulted (if this is the correct word to use) in the month before my attack was tall, thin and blonde. The fact that she was more than 30 years younger than I didn’t seem to matter to him. He went up behind her and pulled her bathing suit bottoms down, fondled her butt and ran away. Luckily, she reported it to the police, though not right away, and somehow they were able to pick him up and charge him, in her case, with a misdemeanor. This put him in the system, and so the police in Coronado were familiar with him. After my attack, when I started saying what he looked like, the police knew exactly who it was. This contributed to his being apprehended that same day. As soon as they put the word out, they picked him up soon after.
So back to what I was wearing…I was wearing what is appropriate to do a 7-mile walk, in the early morning, 24 September on Coronado Island, California. It was probably in the low to mid-60s that particular morning. It was cool enough to need a jacket, but not too cold that I needed to wear long pants. Plus, walking as fast as I did always warmed me up rather quickly. And so what? Who cares what I was wearing? This should never be the question out of anyone’s mouth. Ever. There is never, ever a reason or excuse for someone attacking someone else, with the intent to rape or do any other kind of bodily harm. The fact that it still happens as often as it does, and usually goes unpunished and even unreported is extremely distressing to me. Part of the reason I decided to do this blog was to help in my recovery and healing, and also to get people to talk about a very unpleasant subject. Am I making a difference? I do not know. I hope so. What I do know is writing about my experience at the time and what I continue to deal with today, 2 years and 5 months after the actual attack, is necessary.
For the record, I was wearing a black tennis skort (my favorite, ever,) a tight-fitting white top with a built-in shelf bra, an aqua zip-up jacket (also a favorite) and New Balance walking shoes. Everything I was wearing that day was ‘donated’ to the crime lab, and I never saw any of it again. As someone pointed out, I really wouldn’t have wanted any of it back, given what had happened while I was wearing it. True. And I still miss that black skort.
Time flies. And it seems to fly faster the older we get. Remember being a kid and the days just dragging by? Unless, of course, you were waiting for the bell to ring at 3p on the last day of school before summer vacation started! And the truth is, time flies, whether or not you are having fun. Well, according to the calendar, it has been a year since my boyfriend of almost 2 years broke up with me and, more or less, broke my heart. As my heart, and all the rest of me, was still recovering from my encounter with cockroach boy, it was particularly difficult to deal with. What was very clear to me, almost immediately, was that he had, in fact, done the right thing. Oh, it’s not that I wanted to be alone. Actually, I hated it, and, truth be told, still do. What was right about it was I would have eventually broken up with him. It probably would have taken me years to realize this because we really did have a great relationship in a lot of ways. Was it perfect? No, but it certainly was perfect for me, and I suspect, for him, right up until it wasn’t anymore. Because of all the intense therapy I had done, and all of the crap from my past that had been dealt with during that therapy, I had grown. A lot! So much, in fact, that I had outgrown him. I truly was no longer the person I had been when we first met. Is this a bad thing? No, it’s not. Do I wish this ‘change’ had never occurred? A part of me does. A larger part knows, though, that it was necessary for me to experience and go through what I did to move me along my path.
We were only six months into the relationship when my sexual assault happened. At the time, I asked him, “Does this mean you aren’t going to like me anymore?” He told me, “No. You are precious to me.” And I believed him, and that belief allowed me to focus on myself and my healing. No one, least of all me, knew exactly how long that would take. I probably thought it would take a few weeks or, maybe, a couple of months. It never occurred to me that it would take as long as it did. I went to therapy, every Monday, week after week after week, for 13 months, and I hated every minute of it, though I loved my therapist. It was incredibly hard and physically painful for lot of it. Through it all, though, I had this amazing, loving, supportive, incredibly encouraging boyfriend. I cannot imagine how much more difficult it would have been had I not been in this relationship.
When I inquired it he thought the breakup was a delayed reaction to my attack, he said, “No. Yes. I don’t know. All I do know is I’m exhausted from having to deal with it.” Okay. Well, so was I. Still am. Because I am still dealing with it. Certainly not in the same ways, but the effects are ever-present. There are certain books I cannot read and movies I cannot see. Although I am not afraid of it, I do not really walk in the dark anymore. When a stranger approaches me, especially at night, I wonder if he is going to attack me. When I get sick, yet again, I curse cockroach boy for the trauma my body has suffered and continues to suffer. I live with the thought, in the back of my mind, that one day in the not-too-distant-future, he will get out of prison, and though I do not believe he will come after me, who knows what he’ll do? I certainly never expected to be attacked in the first place. One of the things I do tell myself, and something that allows me to carry on from day-to-day, is because it happened once, there is just no way it could happen again. Don’t know if this is actually true, but I HAVE to tell myself this or I’m not sure I could go on. It feels like all of these things are a part of my being now. Will they fade in time? Will they go completely away? I have no idea. I hope so.
What I was then, and will continue to be is grateful to my ex for sticking around the way he did. I know it made all the difference in the world to have him stand beside me, to not walk away. It wasn’t easy for him, and even though I knew it, at least to a degree, I wish I had been more aware of how it was effecting him. Would that have made a difference in the end? No way to know. All I am really certain of is he was/is a good man, and I miss him. Still.
Back in October when I went to see “Captain Phillips,” I wrote about the reaction I had of being (somewhat) traumatized by the events in the movie, even though I was never kidnapped. What I am discovering now is certain books and movies are incredibly upsetting in ways I have never experienced before. While I was in Atlanta for Christmas, I went to see “Mandela: Long Walk to Freedom.” I, of course, knew about apartheid while I was growing up, and you’d think I’d remember how bad it really was in South Africa during that time. I guess, though, that being so far away and so removed from it, it simply did not have any effect on my life. When I lived in Europe in the late ’80s, a time when Americans were still not allowed to go to South Africa, there was an agency in Cape Town that wanted me to come to work. Since I was in Spain, I could get around the fact that I was technically not permitted to go there. In the end, though, when they found out that I was 29, it was decided that I was ‘too old’ and they withdrew their offer for me to go. Anyway, I was plenty old enough to know what was going on. What I did not know was the extent of just how bad it truly was.
The movie made that very clear. I left feeling extremely sad, but not necessarily for the reasons one might expect. Of course, what they, both the blacks and the whites, endured over the many years that apartheid was the law of the land was beyond horrendous. In the past I would have felt sympathetic, and that would have been the end of it. I would have felt bad, but, really what did it have to do with me? Now, however, what happens, what I feel, on top of the sympathy and empathy is a sense of knowing exactly what the people who lived through that kind of trauma are going to go through emotionally, for possibly the rest of their lives. And I also know that most, if not all, will not get the kind of therapy that is needed to heal from such trauma. That breaks my heart. Even writing about it is hard for me. I have no way of knowing if this is something that will stay with me for the rest of my life or if it will fade over time. I am hopeful it fades in time because it is a hard way to live.
The acute feelings that seeing (even in a movie) or reading about traumatic, tragic events brings up in me makes me think that my brain still has some healing to go through. I do think it is mostly healed because I am able to focus and work, things I was unable to do while I was in the process of getting through it. I am able to do most everything I did pre-attack. And while there are worse things than being highly empathic, I always feel like I am on the verge of tears. After the movie, on the way home, I tried to explain to my parents how I was feeling, without sobbing. I guess what I am trying to say here is the kind of knowledge I now possess because of being sexually assaulted isn’t necessarily a good thing. As hard as I work at being happy and putting it all behind me, I think there is an underlying sadness that hasn’t yet gone away. These days it does not take much to push me over the edge. So, I will continue to avoid certain books, or at least skip the parts I cannot bear to read, and I will not see some of the movies I might otherwise enjoy.
Yes, I have been neglecting this site. Not for any really good reason. I guess because I pretty much finished my story, I kind of stalled on how to proceed. The truth is my story is nowhere near finished, not really.
Today marks the second anniversary (there must be another word that I could use that isn’t so ‘positive’) of my sexual assault and the first anniversary of this website. I was curious to see what I had written last year in my journal about the launch of this site, and because I was doing my best to clear the clutter out of my house, that particular journal got put in a box in my garage, which meant I had to go and find it. Imagine my surprise when I saw what I had written! Nothing. Nada, zip, zilch. Really? How can that be? Well, last year at this time, though I was close, oh so close, to being finished with my therapy and dealing with my attack, I was still very much in it. The closest date to today that I wrote was on 28 September 2012 and all I wrote was: “Mostly, I feel like a big, fat fraud, pretending to be happy.” Clearly, I was still struggling.
And if I am truly honest with you, and with myself, I still am, to a degree. Oh, it is nowhere like before, and I definitely have more good days than not, BUT I am still dealing with the aftermath. I am working on forgiving my attacker, and believe it or not, forgiving myself. I have been told my numerous people that I am too hard on myself, and this is one example of that. On the one hand, I KNOW I did nothing wrong; on the other, though, I think I somehow blame myself for what happened. Still. And this drives me crazy. It seems so illogical. Yet it is still there. Not always, but enough to make me aware of it.
I have been feeling ‘off’ the last week or so, and waking up this morning there was no question of what day it is. I wonder how long this will plague me. Will I always remember this day? Or will it fade in significance over time?
This is what I wrote in my journal this morning: As I was drawing my angel card this morning, I ask that the perfect card be given to me, and my reaction to drawing ‘COURAGE’ was, Oh My Gosh! This is the one word that has been used over and over to describe me and my reaction and/or handling of my attack. And the one word that I have trouble seeing myself as being. It feels surreal, like it didn’t even happen and at the same time, it is ever-present in my life. It’s not that I necessarily or particularly dwell on it, but it is definitely there. I think physically I feel it the most. I still have a lot of neck pain, and though it is not debilitating, I am still very much aware of it. I realized this morning, too, that I haven’t completely forgiven myself for ‘allowing’ it to happen. That’s what I tapped on this morning – forgiving myself, Bill, the police, the EMTs, the D.A., his attorney and my attacker. I must forgive, not because any of it was right, but for myself, for my peace of mind, for my emotional health and well-being. I DESERVE to be pain-free, emotionally, physically and in every other way. Two years of my life have been dominated by an event which, in all likelihood, was just a few minutes long. How is this possible? How can 2 or 3 or 5 minutes out of a lifetime be that important? 525,600 minutes in a year and I continue to let those few minutes determine how I feel?
All I can say is I am doing my best to continue to heal what is still left to heal. It is an ongoing process. I am hopeful, however, that in time it will be less and less so ‘present’ in my life. It is just one event in a lifetime of events, it is in the past and I choose to live in the present. I choose, as Milton said, heaven. I choose to release the regret, the blame and the guilt. Through love I am made whole again. I choose love.
The following are entries from my journal:
12 July 2012
“‘Trying times are not indications that we have been forgotten or have lost our connection with the Divine. Rather, they are times of growth and healing and we need to turn away from doubt and fear in order to realize the good that is unfolding for us.’ (Not sure where I got this quote, nor who said it. I neglected to give credit to the author in my journal.)
13 July 2012
I do not believe I am about to write what I’m about to write. I do not even know what to feel. That fucking cockroach boy has, apparently, filed an appeal. As I have not yet talked to anyone who might actually know how this will impact my project, I don’t actually know if I have to wait some more. I am pissed — that much I do know. Un-fucking-believable.
10:35p I finally was able to talk with Kim and she gave me the perspective I was missing: everyone appeals. Still, I need to find out exactly what this means for me. Beyond that, I am choosing not to give a flip.
17 July 2012
I heard back from the D.A. and, basically, she told me not to worry about the appeal, to go ahead and do whatever it is I need to do to heal from the attack. That makes me feel better.
18 August 2012
‘In life, you always get what you ask for AND it rarely comes in the package you think it’s supposed to come in.’ ~Kurek Ashley
Talk about a package I wasn’t expecting! We always tend to think of the “good” things coming in packages we weren’t expecting (several unexpected people come to mind here) and forget that everything shows up that way: the good and the not-so-good. For a very long time, several years, I had been asking for something, really anything, different in my life. I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted. I just felt I needed a change. Well, my change arrived in the form of a sexual assault in a package I never dreamed or expected could ever happen to me. I recognized it from the very beginning as a blessing in disguise, though there was much therapy to go through before I would be able to truly appreciate it. And the truth is I’m still in therapy and dealing with it, though each day I’m a little closer to being able and ready to forgive my attacker. (Note-This was written almost 10 months ago, and as far as being able to forgive cockroach boy, well, I am still working on it. I know I will eventually get there.)
21 August 2012
Had a bit of what I consider a set-back in therapy. Susie would disagree with my assessment. And, really, it’s not exactly a set-back. I just thought I was closer to being finished than I apparently am. It’s more disappointing than anything else. It has to do with me going back to the “scene of the actual crime.” I’ve been thinking about it and brought it up yesterday. Turns out I’m not nearly as ready as I thought I was. Since the thought of it literally makes me want to throw-up and makes me cry, I’ve obviously still got some more clearing to do. Slowly, but slowly…
28 August 2012
Obviously, haven’t much like writing. One day soon I hope that all I’ve been neglecting will fall back into place and I’ll once again be productive.
It’s amazing to me that I can be going along, day after day, feeling pretty dang good considering, and then one day (like today) I wake up and feel like I am in a hole, that all the work I’ve done has been for nothing and that if only the zillion pound elephant sitting on me would get off of me, I’d be fine. I must feel even worse than I realize because this morning, for the first time EVER, I couldn’t do my walk even after I got up, got dressed and actually walked out the door. I basically walked around the block, came home, got in my car and drove up town to get a breakfast sandwich. Wow! I’m worse than I thought. And now, in hopes it’ll help, I’m ditching making pillows and am going to a movie.”
A friend asked me the other day, on a scale of 1-10, 10 being completely healed, where would I put myself? I answered a ’10.’ Because the truth is I am completely healed. That doesn’t mean that I am happy about what happened or that, as I already mentioned, I have even forgiven cockroach boy yet. What it does mean is I am not suffering in the ways I was for so long. My brain is functioning normally, or at least as normally as it ever has for me. None of the triggers I had before are still present. I see it almost as something that happened to someone else. And although I mostly choose not to, I am even able to walk in the dark. Granted, I am not going far and I am going to meet someone to actually do my walk with. And these times of walking in the dark have all been in the morning, which means the sun will be rising soon. The other night, though, I did feel like walking around the block, in the dark, way past sunset, and I did it! I was never scared, nor was I constantly looking over my shoulder. I’d say that is real progress and just reaffirms that I am healed. Who knows if I’ll ever go back to the way I used to walk, very early in the morning and in total darkness? I may not, but I like knowing that the option is there for me, even if I never use it.
Okay, I know I said that my next post (which would be this one) would be about what happened after I walked out of the court room from cockroach boy’s sentencing to 6 years in prison. I changed my mind. Because I did not actually write about my experience and what happened and how I felt that day, I am going to have to write it from what I remember and that is a bit trickier. So before I sit down and write that, there is another experience I need to deal with. As I’ve said many times before, the recounting of my attack and all that followed is coming straight, for the most part, from my journal, from what I wrote at the time that it occurred. And as I am, again, for the most part, doing it chronologically, I am only up to 25 June 2012. I apologize if this is confusing, but I need to make clear that what I am now going to write about is current, is right now or just a few months in the past. Have I thoroughly confused you yet? Perfect..
On Friday, two days ago, I had what will be the first of a series of acupuncture treatments for my foot. To explain the why for this, I need to go back to January of this year. The easiest way to explain what happened then is to tell you what I told a cousin of mine: “I am so glad to hear that I am making your journey just the tiniest bit easier. And it is a journey, with many twists and turns and potholes and setbacks and, best of all, forward motion. I hope you are getting therapy, as well. I know I would not be where I am right now had I not gotten it. And even having had it, there are days that I still question it all. For the most part, though, it’s all good. My boyfriend, who was so supportive and loving and encouraging through the whole 15 months, has decided that it was all too much and broke up with me on Wednesday. I am so grateful that he stayed when I needed him most and know that this is more about him than about me. Still, I am sad and heartbroken, but I WILL get through this, too.” Okay, so now you know that I am not no longer with Bill. It took me just a couple of weeks to realize that he had actually made the right decision. That realization didn’t necessarily make it easier to deal with the loss, but it did help somewhat. One of the things I asked him was, ‘Do you think this is a delayed reaction to my attack?’ He said something along the lines of ‘maybe, probably, I don’t know. All I do know is that you are different since the attack.’ At first this made me mad, until I really thought about it. The truth is I Am Different, profoundly and fundamentally different, and how could I not be? I went through an incredibly traumatic experience followed by 13 months of intense therapy that not only dealt with my most recent trauma, but also cleared out all the crap from my childhood that was still festering inside me. How could I not be different? In spite of this knowledge, I was still very, very sad. I woke up every morning crying, I wasn’t sleeping very well at all and as if all that wasn’t enough, my hot flashes came on with a vengeance.
About 3 weeks after the breakup, I had the opportunity to go to Cat Island, Bahamas for 10 days with my parents, brother and nephew. You better believe I went. While there I swam, did stand-up paddling, went kayaking and walked 10-12 each day, on the beach, barefooted. And that is when the pain in my foot started. I, of course, ignored it, chalking it up to being barefoot more than anything else. When I got back from my trip it continued to hurt and I continued to walk and do yoga through the pain. One morning I went out to walk, went a half a block and had to turn around. It was obvious that I would ignore it no longer. I initially decided it was a stress fracture, because that was the only thing that made sense. When I finally went to a physical therapist, he diagnosed it as a neuroma. Basically, I had nerve damage in my foot and the cause, he said, was overuse. Well, crap! So he gave me exercises to do and told me to not stop working out, but to go very easy. I decided that complete rest was probably a good thing, and stopped walking and doing yoga, altogether. It has now been 6 weeks of non-activity for the most part. Let me tell you, for someone who is used to moving a lot, this is pure torture and, delightfully enough, I have gained 5 pounds. Okay, not delightful at all! That weight gain probably has nothing to do with the fact that I have been drinking more than normal, as well.
Enter Bill, my now ex-boyfriend. Yes, we are still friends. He asked about my foot and I told him it wasn’t getting better and did he have any suggestions for hurrying the process along? He recommended his client Matthew Truhan, who is a licensed acupuncturist. So, I emailed him and we set up an appointment for 17 May. And the best part is he comes to my house so I don’t have to drive wherever it is he lives. Anyway, in the process of taking my medical history, etc., he asked if I had suffered any trauma lately. Kind of a loaded question in my case. So I told him briefly of my attack and also that Bill had broken up with me in January. Well, his take is that the pain in my foot is actually how my body manifested the breakup! Okay, that makes perfect sense to me, and now I am doing what needs to be done to heal that damage and pain. And isn’t it interesting that I am doing the exact same thing with the pain I felt in my heart?
What I find so interesting, as well, is the far-reaching consequences that my attack has had, and continues to have on my life. It’s certainly not all bad, and I have almost daily reminders and incidences happen that let me know that my PTSD is completely healed, which is good. So now when I think about how it upset me when Bill said I had changed, I can almost laugh about it, because, of course I changed. I am certain, too, that I will continue to heal other parts of my life that I may not even be aware of right now. And one thing I do know, beyond any doubt, is the best is yet to come, that it is on its way right now. I just have to keep my heart and mind wide open.
mosaics, gardening, creativity, nola living, dress up, flowers, color, happy shit, upcycling, creative freedom
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