Me, Too.

“But I remember, everything.”

Hurt, Johnny Cash

When the hashtag, #metoo, began trending a couple of months ago, my first thought is not one that I am proud of. It was something to the affect of “come on, put your big girl panties on and deal with it.” 

I still remember the first time I experienced sexual harassment in the workplace. I was 15. It was the end of my shift, and I was cleaning out a sweet tea machine, and to do so, you had to climb up in an awkward manner to wipe out the bottom. One of the owners, the husband, a MUCH older man than me at the time, had never made me feel uncomfortable. Sure, he was touchy, but I live in the south. We’re a touchy kind of people. This one particular day though, as I was climbing down, he came up behind me, too close for my liking, and I felt his breath on my neck as he whispered “I bet you f**k like a rabbit.” I remember my eyes growing wide; I didn't know how to react. I turned to him, and he looked… different. There was a look in his eyes; not passion, not longing… it was power. He had stolen my power and was reflecting it back at me. My breath hitched in my throat as I laughed as I always do when I am uncomfortable and excused myself as quickly as possible. I went home, and told my mom about it. I don’t blame her for her response, she was born in ’44 - she was raised in a time where you did as she told me to do. “Men will be men,” “Its part of being a woman,” “Get used to it,” and my personal favorite, “Ignore it.”

So, ignore it I did. As a teen, when I was touched inappropriately, I just kept my mouth shut and let it happen. Once, I did open up about one such event when I was 17 to someone whom I trusted, and was told that it was “my fault, and shouldn’t have been in that situation.” It was a party, there was underage drinking, and everyone crashed. I woke up to a friends hand down my pants and… well, details are moot. Once again, because I was female, the fault was on me. So once again, I shut my mouth and went on with my life.

When I was 19, I got my first REAL job. Business casual, 8-5, Monday through Friday, benefits… the works. Seeing as I was a college drop out, this was a very big deal for me, and I took my job seriously. I loved my work, and was well liked. Unfortunately, I was too well liked by one of my superiors. 

I really did try to keep my mouth shut. I laughed at his sexually laced jokes, even when pointed at me. All the other women were laughing… so why shouldn't I? On the outside I appeared fine; on the inside, it was doing irreparable damage to my psyche and my confidence. The harassment reached a point of being so apparent that a male friend came to me in private and said “You know, you DON’T HAVE to take that, right?” Coming from a man, I was positively floored. A) was it really that obvious?, and B) Could I really do something about it? 19 and ballsy, I decided I would try one. More. Time. So, I typed a letter in the most basic font, reporting him in the most generic of ways, leaving out anything specifically to do with me (I wasn’t his only victim and knew it), and put it in the drop box of the safety officer when there was no one around.

The next morning, the safety officer came in my office and closed the door. Had I been outed? Had I been spotted? Nope. He had seen it happening. He had seen it and done NOTHING, I might add, but here he was, in my office. He was required to take it to the CEO. I was required to make a statement, to the CEO, whom, I might add, was a friend of said assailant. What came of it? He got three days off with no pay, and had to make a verbal apology to me in front of the CEO. For about a week, I was championed by the women I worked with, thanking me in secret for standing up to him. Slowly, he went back to his ways. I quit a few months later. I couldn’t tolerate the stench of secrecy and cover up anymore, and the majority of the people there had stopped looking me in the eye. My boss stopped bringing me biscuits on my early Friday shifts, and little perks that I had been offered before stopped. Once again, I was at fault. I vowed to keep my mouth shut from that moment forward, and for the next decade, I did just that.

Did you know that no means no even when you’re in a relationship? Neither did my first long term lover. 

Did you know that no means no even when you’re acquainted? Neither did the guy at the party I never should have gone to when I was 25 and going through a separation. 

Did you know that screaming no, while being tied to a bed and sodomized by a man you trusted, who tried to quiet you with a gag, means no? Yea… he didn’t either, as he dragged the knife blade up and down my body.

I could go on and on about the countless times I’ve been too afraid to say that “this isn’t right,” or “you have no right to do that to me.” My next sentence was going to be about not "going on and on" about my experiences because I didn't want the post to become about “pity." A friend had to remind me that sharing my experiences, whether it be one or five or fifty of them, is NEVER done to get pity, nor does victimization make one come across as pitiful. Unfortunately, that idea/belief/fear is pretty universal.

In 2010, I took my first step, which was putting down the booze for good. My next step was my first “healthy” relationship. Even though I think deep down we both knew it would never last, it was nice to love and be loved, to be heard, to be touched with respect, affection, and admiration. I will never forget him for that. He gave me the courage to accept that fact that not only was I allowed to receive, but deserved, to be treated with respect, and to be respected for my womanhood. He empowered me to be better.

In the beginning of this year, I committed to healing my mind, heart, and soul. So, for the first time ever, I went into therapy an open book. Everything came out, from the first time someone touched me, to my present day issues with touch, sounds, smells, tastes. And for the FIRST TIME, my feelings were VALIDATED. WHAT I FELT WAS REAL AND NORMAL. I was elated. I cried. I cried for weeks, every chance I got. I had permission to be angry. I had permission to NOT be mad at myself. I gained what I had been seeking for over a decade: the chance to heal.

I’m far from whole and healed. I’m told that some of my wounds may never heal. There are certain ways, areas, of my body where I cannot fathom being touched. It makes me shut down immediately and I retreat into survival mode. There are smells that scare me, and sometimes, I can catch a glimpse of someone who brings back a person from the past and I begin to shake. 

I’m lucky to have a husband today who I trust completely, and knows everything. Well, almost. Some memories are so far down, that when I remember them, its as if we’re remembering them together, strolling down a very sordid memory lane. 

Men (and women), you can do better. Survivors, I am hugging all of you. Whether it be full on assult, or a “casual” brush of the breast. We are taught from a very early age where we are and are not supposed to touch people. Why this fades as we enter adolescence and adulthood, I’m not sure. But I do know this. I am so proud of EVERY woman (and man!), who has come forward with #metoo. I have found courage in your posts, and though late to the bandwagon, better late than never. #metoo 

The Care and Keeping of You(r Mother)

"Where'd you go?

I miss you so

Seems like it's been forever

That you've been gone." -Fort Minor

I have come to hate the sound on running water. The faucet water in the sink has been known to run for hours these days. Mom loves to make ice. Our current fridge's ice machine has been broken for years. Ice used to never be a bother; fill the tray, take what you need, repeat as necessary. Now, ice is as high a priority on her list as world peace. She uses warm water to heat the trays, making it easier for her small, fragile hands to get the ice out and place it in her trusty Ziploc bag. Derek, my husband, needs the ice she says, when I ask about the necessity of doing this two times a day. She asks me for the third time already what time I have to be at the kids bus stop, and I prepare myself for another long day. She can't remember asking me two times already, even though its only 8:30am. She can't remember that this year I don't have to meet the bus every day because Wyatt is in first grade now and the same rules don't apply. She can't remember what makes her forget. She just can't remember.

My head hurts while I write this, trying to think back over the last few years. How I stepped into the role of her caretaker. How I became a wife and mother during that same time. How I quit my job to take care of my family, and my mother. I look in the mirror some days and don't even recognize the woman looking back at me. Lack of sleep due this or that, markings from pregnancy that chose not to fade away, eyebrows that haven't seen tweezers in far too long, and can we just talk about the wrinkles?

The problem is, when giving care to others is basically your full time job, its hard to have the drive and desire to take care of yourself as well. Its so simple to put everyone else first because that is what you do. I schedule doctor appointments, administer medicines, play therapist. I have had to work on disassociating my roles in my current life and work towards compartmentalizing them all into neat little boxes, and storing them away in my mind until I need to put on the hat necessary for the situation. And thats just with my husband and children.

As my moms caretaker, and as her health declines more and more, I have to put away the role of daughter so that I can take the onslaught of frustration she can dish out. She is angry that she is sick. That she can't remember things. That she can't do what she used to be able to do. Sometimes its very passive aggressive. Sometimes its “I don't want to be your mom anymore.” Sometimes its threats of running away from home, or locking herself in her room and staying in there until she dies. As much as her words hurt, and they are hard to get over and see past, but deep down I know what it is she is seeking from her behavior. That she is still wanted, still needed, still loved. That she still has reasons to get out of the bed. On the really hard days where I wonder if I can continue to do this, its that knowledge that keeps me going, and helps me to take her words only so personally. 

The day to day that is the most hard to deal with. The countless repetitive questions, the running water, washing dishes that will need rewashing because she can't see the bits she misses, making ice, the shuffling of her slippers across the floor which is now like nails on a chalkboard because she can't take steps like she used to. It is missing my mom so badly that I get infuriated, even though we are sitting across the room from each other. Every time she has a decline, I mourn just a little more of who my mother was. I mourn, everyday, and it is exhausting.

She used to be fire. She is petite but was always stronger than she looked, and never asked for help. She was stubborn and found a way to get what she wanted accomplished and it didn't matter what it took from her to get it done; she just got stuff done. She could fight with anyone, and would... I'm telling you, she was fire, a fire that could not be snuffed out. I was both fearful of her and compelled by her all at once. To see her now, frail, weak, her mind riddled with dementia, there are days its hard to watch her try to do a simple task and not cry or close my eyes in fear she will accidentally harm herself - the stubborn part of her mind is still working just fine.

Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful for the opportunity to give back to the woman who may be one of the only people in my life who has never walked away from me; though God knows, I’ve given her reason over the years. But so many days, I am ANGRY. I want my mother back. I want her memory back. I want to be able to trust her with her grandson and not have to sadly remind her why she can’t be left alone with him. Every day comes with a little bit of heartbreak, and I have to find ways to cope. 

Its amazing what it can do to your psyche, to be the end all and be all to someone else, especially when that person is a parent. I got to the point where I was too depressed to do anything, to fearful to stand up to her, to paranoid about what may happen if I leave the house and take my son to the park. In March of last year, we almost lost her. Thinking back, that was when my decline began. I completely have up doing anything to take care of myself. On the outside I pretended I was fine, when inside I was a complete mess. My poor, loving, amazing husband saw me through some really rough patches. It was Christmas day, when I ended up in the ER with symptoms of a stroke (it turned out to be a stress migraine which I’d never experienced), that I decided changes needed to me made. By that time I had had a constant lump in my throat for weeks which would keep me up at night as I was sure it was cancer and I had no idea how the family would continue without me. And that I wasn't ready to leave them. 

Finally, in the end of January, I sought help from my doctor. With a combination of medication, and therapy starting up soon, I am feeling back to normal. The lump in my throat is gone. My dearest friend told me the other day when she saw me that I’d made a complete 180 in the best way possible. I know I still have a long way to go, to deal with my anger, my grief, my fear, but I feel like I am on the road to redemption. I am working on coping mechanisms; for me, on the hard days, I look at mom as a guest in my home. It eases the frustration and makes me more hospitable when I have to fix her remote for the 10th time, or explain that its her cataracts causing her vision issues, not her glasses. And that may sound callous, but hey, in situations like this, you do what you do to get through the day.

To all of those out there either suffering from illness, or to the caretakers, I see you. And I love you. And I get you. And I understand all of the emotions and anger and days where you’re just so pissed you can’t even see straight. When an ounce of “normal” is  what you want, but know the odds are against you. All you can do is survive the day the best way you know how. Each day is a victory. To quote my favorite YouTubers, The Frey Life, “Don’t forget to laugh everyday.” It truly is the best medicine.

Theres a Wolf In My Bed

Theres a Wolf In My Bed

“A kiss with a fist is better than none.” Florence + the Machine

Do you ever reflect back on periods of you life and think of them in fairy tale mode?  I do.  Sometimes, even now, it is hard for me to recount some of the things I have experienced as truth.  It makes it easier if I look back on it as more of a, albeit dark and twisted, fable.  Once upon a time, there was a lost soul of a woman…

He could have spotted her a mile away.  Like a shark in the water, the freshness of her wounds drew him to her.  His sly, wicked tongue spoke the words she so desperately longed to hear.

“I can see you are in pain.”  “I want to walk through it with you.”  “I know I can’t take your pain away, but I want to share it with you.”

The vulnerable little girl cloaked within her grown woman body clung to him immediately.  He enticed her with music that spoke to her soul, and he wooed her with recounts of his own pain and suffering.  Together in the pain, they could suffer together.  And through their suffering, they could heal, he would say.  

Slowly, as he peeled back his layers, claws and fangs began to show through where once a man had laid.  The wolf in a mans suit and tie had her right where he wanted her.  She was addicted to the pain he brought; she was addicted to him.  She had showed him her ugly parts and he had not run away.  How could she leave her injured wolf?  Besides, she thought, his claws could only scratch her surface.

If only she knew how deep they could go.

As he stood in her living room one evening, loading shells in his shotgun before visiting a former boyfriend and ensure he never call her again, she threw herself at his feet, clutching to him like a feeble child, begging, screaming.  In that moment, he had her right where he wanted her.  The wolf had come out to play rough, and was not leaving any time soon.  He scared her into submission with tales of ties to underground extremist groups and introduced her on a first name basis to his alter ego, which he would use to sign emails to her when she had been bad.

Frozen by fear, both of him and of failure, she still on some level convinced herself they could save each other, living in the light and leaving their dark gruesome pasts behind. 

 He drove her wild.  He drove her crazy.  He drove her to drink.  He drove her to close to death.  Each time he drove her to the brink of some far recess of her mind, he would sweep in at the last minute, wrapping her tightly up in him, claws withdrawn for a moment, and would bring her just far enough back to help her remember why she needed him.  He was all she had left at this point.  She was lost in him, and she was lost without him.

And so she followed him west, across long stretches of flat land, across rolling hills and rivers, until they settled into the desert.  

Now in a place where no one knew them and she had no place to escape, things went from bad to worse. A lamp to the head.  A slap in the face.  A threat of something worse to come.  Broken glass and blood stained tears.  Rabid attempts to mend something not worth the repair.  Sadism.  Tears.  Apologies.  Flying objects.  Holes in walls.  I hate you.  Get out.  Don’t leave me.  I love you.  I can’t breathe without you.  Going to a safe place.  Receiving pictures of her car parked there and images of him covered in his own blood.  More apologies.  Promises.  Broken promises.  More broken glass.  So many tears.  So many fucking tears.  Insanity.

She never really loved him.  But she loved he how he loved to hate her.  He validated everything she thought of herself.  She couldn’t get enough; no matter how much she tried to get away, she always went back.

Then, one day, two words broke through the walls of denial she’d been living behind: marry me.

As badly as she wanted to stay and allow herself to implode within the chaos and disappear completely, something inside her stirred when she thought of for better or for worse with the wolf by her side.  It wasn’t much more than a flitter of life somewhere within.  It was like a weak pulse - barely there, but a sign of life no less.  With a lie wrapped in just enough truth to make her story seem real, she convinced the wolf to release her from his clutches.  And, acting as a predator who had simply been playing with its prey, he seemingly began to see the final signs of life draining from her, and with that, he let her go.  Eastward she went, on nothing more than a draining bank account and a foxhole prayer, until she hit the January beaches of the eastern seaboard.  She was back where everything had started to go wrong.  Where everything had once been so right.  It was up to her now: sink or swim.

____________________________________________________________________________

I know, I know, as you read this, if you’ve read any of my previous posts, you probably wanted to hunt me down and slap me silly.  Believe me - if I could I would have already done it for you.

Yes.  I have been in and stayed in more than one abusive relationship.  All on different levels, and all at different times and phases of my life.  What I want to convey to you is that I was not totally unaware to the red flags that were so obviously present.  I saw them.  I just gave a little nod of “Okay, yea I see you but, I’m going to pretend I didn’t” and kept on.  See, once you set out on a path to self destruction, once you can’t stand the sight of your own face in the mirror, once you hate yourself SO BADLY that you really don’t care most days whether you live or die - red flags and mean partners are just par for the course.  Their actions were a direct reflection of how I saw myself.  

People often have misconceptions that people who stay in or repeatedly end up in abusive relationships (typically because we didn’t get the necessary help after the first time) are gluttons for punishment, are weak, or must have some type of personality disorder.  The truth is… the truth is that is bullshit.  Whether we stay out of fear, out of love, out of thinking things will change “if only,” we stay because or minds have been trained into thinking its the right, or the safest, thing to do.  You can’t honestly look upon someone with judgement in your eyes until you have walked in their shoes.  Whether on the inside or the outside, we have been battered and broken, and the last question we need to be asked is “why did you stay.”  

If you know someone who has been in or is currently in an abusive relationship, please don’t give up on them.  It is so hard to watch someone you know and love suffer, but it is even harder to look back and ask “is there something else I could have done.”  

Sidenote: For further information on how you can help your loved one, please see How Can You Help A Friend or Family Member at the National Domestic Abuse Hotline.

Coerced Abortion and Why More People Need to Talk About It

(Note: This was written in September of 2015 when the #shoutyourabortion hashtag was trending wildly. Our son is now a thriving 16 month old toddler.)

I don’t think I will ever forget the sound of his voice that day.

“You’ll never amount to anything.”

“You’ll become trash.”

“I hate you. I hate the baby. You trapped me.”

“I’ll pay you child support but thats all you'll get out of me. I won’t have anything to do with either of you.”

Let me paint you a picture, because to go forward, I must first go back. I was 23, married, and had a full time job. We owned a home, a boat, and two cars. What looked like near perfection from the outside was an emotional nightmare. We were never made for one another, and yet we kept trying to pretend we were, only furthering our distance from each other, and building in our hostilities. 

I’ll own up to the fact that I had missed a few birth control pills. We were not being intimate, and there were so many other things going on that I lost track of it. I’m only human; and in the reality of being human, we all know it only takes once to make a baby.

I knew it would be bad when I told him, but the “A” word still caught me off guard. And instead of bending to his whim as always, I found myself being assertive, persistent, and protective - very unlike me.

I’m going to make a long story very short, because this is not about he and I. After some vicious fights, I was for a lack of better words, granted permission to have our baby, so long as I met a list of demands, to which I happily agreed. And then everything was perfect - until one day it wasn’t.

We went from relatively happy expectant parents to two monsters screaming at each other from within the walls of our home. He bombarded me with insult after insult, walking behind me as I walked from room to room packing a bag - I was leaving. I thought for good this time. I thought I could be strong this time. I thought I could make it on my own this time. I thought wrong.

Emotionally abusive relationships cause wounds just as deep and painful as physical ones. They can even kill. At that point in time, his existence was my air; his words, my gospel. I did not know how to function without him. So with all of my resolve gone, he won. I gave in. I scheduled the abortion.

I was educated on what would happen physically as I went back to my pre-pregnant state, but I was in no way prepared for the emotions that were ultimately going to bring me very close to death. You see, I had wanted that baby. I had loved that baby. I had seen it on a screen. I had heard its heart beating inside of me.

The first thing I remember resembling anything close to a feeling is the emptiness. Not just in my belly, but in my heart. I felt as if a piece of my soul had been ripped out, and it reminded me of that feeling when you’re short of breath and just can’t seem to get your lungs to fill. The next thing I remember hitting me was the finality of it all. There was no going back and trying to rewrite the chapter. It was closed, sealed up, never to be opened again. The baby that could have come to be was to be no more, nor ever again. The last feeling I remember coming back was a dark, raging anger, that poured into me and over everything in my life like a black, sticky tar, and no matter what I did it wouldn't come off.

The marriage I chose over my child ultimately became a battle zone, and after a year of being off and on, it eventually crumbled. I was left with nothing. I walked away with the clothes on my back, freedom of my mind, and a black hole in place of my heart.

The next few years afterward are a very dark place in my past. I became an emotional masochist. I was addicted to pain, and traveled near and far to find it. Fortunately, I bottomed out and sought help on many different levels; but even then, it was a few more years of burying the emotional trauma of my abortion until I finally started to accept what it had done to me.

It started to make sense why for quite some time vacuums made me anxious and stress riddled. Why April and November (abortion and due date) were two months where my depression would nosedive. Why I was terrified at the idea of having a baby and why, when I finally found myself in a loving marriage and pregnant, that I spent every moment concerned that the universe had “hiccuped” and my pregnancy was a divine accident, and it would be over at any moment. It explains why even now, with a thriving and healthy 14 month old son, I have a reoccurring dream every night that he in some way is taken from me and I can’t get back to him.

Yes. Abortion is a choice. But no one knows what is going on in the life or mind of the mother. And yes I know there are options, however referring back to myself, my husband didn’t allow me to consider it because “why wreck my body.” The honest truth is you just don’t know. Our society sends us the message that since we, as women, have and make this choice, that we are to move on, to not mourn, to not feel regret, or even sadness. We are pushed to suffer in silence, and sometimes silence can kill. It almost killed me - I am thankful EVERY day that I found my voice.

I am not preaching, and I am not saying every woman who has had an abortion feels like I do. I am not claiming to be pro-life or pro-choice. I am not claiming a religious stance or a lack thereof. I am a woman who found my voice, a woman with a story. There are so many political agendas going on around abortion currently. But for every hundred #shoutyourabortion hashtags circulating the internet right now, there could be a woman. A woman like me. Who wants to grieve, but can’t. Who wants people to know she LOVED HER CHILD, yet she can’t for fear of judgement from either side. To that woman, I want you to know I see you. I get you, and I’m hugging you right now. Find your voice, find a trusting ear, and love yourself (and its okay to love your baby, too). xoxo