Hope vs. Despair

I really want to be getting over being sick and get back to feeling somewhat normal. My fever is nearly gone. I don't feel normal though.

I am afraid I'll never feel normal again.

I feel so sad today. Isolated. I have just encountered the perfect emotional storm: two weeks of digging up childhood trauma and reliving all of the abuses that have scarred my life, respiratory virus with high fever and, of course, menstruation. The menses always has a way of sneaking in when it's least welcome...wedding, vacation, Mondays. Who am I kidding. Any day of the week sucks. Damn Eve and her apple. That's my sarcasm.

I'm listening to one of my favorite authors, Wally Lamb, talk about The Power of Writing group he led at a women's prison. He was asked to talk to some of the prisoners after several of them had committed suicide.

They were having trouble finding hope in despair. He helped them find it through writing their stories.

Writing has always been a practice in finding hope for me. Not that everything has always worked out, but I'm still here. I used to start writing with no particular end in mind and I usually berated myself for awhile or just spilled my feelings on the paper and then finished by wrapping up what I would collectively begin calling my "self-pep-talks."

I have felt a lot of fear in the past couple weeks that I had almost forgotten. I am feeling it right now. A crazy panic-ridden feeling that my heart may explode or just stop. Bursts of sweat. Eye twitches and blurring. Shallow breaths...but I don't do that on purpose and I've been trying to change it because I know breathing can save me...can't it? ...Can something...someone...?

So I've been living with my son and my husband for the past 5 1/2 years. The 3 most recent years are the first time I've truly felt safe in my life. I've often said, "I like my home for the first time in my life." The truth is, I have never felt safe at home or anywhere until now. Never safe in my own skin.

The more I learn, the more I realize that's what childhood sexual abuse will do to a person.

Wally mentioned most of the female inmates were also victims of incest.

My cough is terrible. I stopped writing to make some hot tea. (I had a hard time continuing after that...and I only added the words "of incest" on my first read after publishing.) I think it's time to listen to some music instead of Wally. I had moved onto another interview that is very long anyway. I was feeling particularly intellectual to seek out an interview with one of my favorite authors. Actually, I realized I had never listened to him speak at all. I've read his books though and even written about them, so obviously I knew I needed to hear him, so it was time. He talked about becoming an accidental writer and an accidental activist. His story is neat, but I'm here to tell you the same thing happened to me. It saved me and is saving me now.

I became a writer to get here. To survive. I called it my therapy. My friend. My passion. My purpose. I am still surprised that I got here in as good condition as I did. It makes me think I must have an even broader purpose. That's where the activist part comes in. I hope one day I can move past getting stuck in this trauma state. I remind myself it's only been a couple of weeks that I've been dealing with 28 years of bullshit. Bullshit being neglect, emotional, physical & sexual abuse.

I've always tried to focus on the good stuff. I had some good times with everyone I think. I smiled a lot and was always told that my dimples were beautiful. My smile was photogenic so I always looked happy in pictures. I've been supremely blessed with great friends my entire life. Not that some weren't trouble too, but they were great and we learned a lot together even when we were getting in trouble. If we weren't learning together, at least I was able to learn and leave them behind.

I wasn't trying to be fake. But deep down I was shattered. And so alone.

I'm trying to figure out how the story is supposed to be told. I just know I can't hold it inside anymore. It was poisoning me and my life. And I have so much to live for now. Working through it is hard enough, but an extreme urge to share leaves me speechless and frozen in fear. Maybe the details aren't important.

The details aren't important. That just feels wrong. The details are the story. Sweating again.

I knew this wouldn't be easy. It's definitely going to take some time. I've been dealing with PTSD for years now and I just now am diagnosed and able to learn about it. Sometimes realizing there may be no options...it feels like despair. The intense fear. Life is too short for this. The pain is too much to bear. But I must. Because I want to heal. I want to be my best self. Not shackled by these chains. Not deluded that getting drunk once or three times a week isn't to push away unwanted reality. This shit is real and the trash needs to be taken out.

To be clear, the details that follow are NOT the ones I am terrified to tell.

I thought I was crazy and I was terrified of being bipolar like my mom from a young age. I was expressing it at 12 and still writing about it in college in 2010. I was 28.

I always felt like I was being watched or recorded somehow. That started at a very early age though I'm not sure when. I remember first feeling it strongly in the bathtub. I felt like someone was listening to me often and even was afraid that people could hear my thoughts. These feelings lasted far past time that normal rationality should have taken over. They still occur.

I have always had a strong feeling I would die of breast cancer. I was always afraid to admit it, superstitious just a tad. My breasts were often targets of familial and peer sexual abuse and torments from males who believed they were giving me compliments.

I have an irrational fear of violent home invasion. I'm not sure when that started but it was a long time ago and still occurs, most often while I'm in the shower while home alone. That is paired with the feeling of being watched or under surveillance and has even caused me quite a bit of fear tonight. Maybe I should have windows I can completely cover? I try to be rational...

Now, most of the time these feelings are pushed down and I don't let them interfere with my life. I don't think I had ever admitted them to anyone until the past couple of weeks, when I realized they are symptoms of my PTSD. Symptoms of what was done to me as a child. This disease was forced upon me when I was too young to stop it. I was invaded. My privacy. My body. My innocence.

My value and my peace was stolen and destroyed by those who were supposed to protect me.

And it still torments me. I believed I was fine because I had finally stopped using some of the more harmful coping mechanisms I turned to in my youth: cutting and burning myself, engaging in risky sexual behaviors, experimenting with drugs, seeking out abusive partners, drinking daily (which started around age 18 and didn't really slow to a more normal amount until I was 28 or 30.) I punished myself in any way that I could.

I was finally safe. My brain began to heal.

But the fear and the symptoms continued. Panic attacks, anxiety, depression, binge-eating or drinking, hitting or slapping myself, projecting negative thoughts onto others, self-hate, feelings of worthlessness, inability to focus, fear of success, feelings of failure and of not being good enough for my family.

My subconscious child mind often interjected this inadequacy and anxiety into daily life and almost always special occasions. It has affected my relationships outside and inside of my home. I was ashamed that it affected my work and still does.

In my conscious adult mind I love myself. It's clear.

Look, I chose to change my life for my son and I did it. I wanted to give him what I always wanted. That led me to my husband. We are the family I always wanted. We have a loving home where we talk and spend regular time together and we hug and express our love daily. We know each other and we laugh and play and cry together. We eat together. We go places and stay home together. We spend holidays together and recently decided we are going to do new traditions alone in the safety of the three of us. We read together and watch movies. We go to the park and run and play together and plan to spend more time outdoors together; we've camped and fished a couple of times and hiked a bit and want to do it more. We want bikes and kayaks. Nature makes me feel centered. More trustworthy and predictable than human nature.

Writing about that makes me feel my hope start burning inside again.

In the past, it has also made me feel insane fear. Gut-wrenching, "Oh shit, I'm so terrified of ever losing them and I would die a thousand deaths if something happened to them and I know it will because I never have anything good" fear. It was fucked up. And right around the time that I started getting really cozy.

I didn't bail. Because I knew better. Instead, I protected my family as much as I could. We took full custody of my son because I never wanted him to suffer the neglect and abuses that I did.

And I know I have so much more to offer him still. So much more of me that has been held back by fear. I don't want him to suffer from my trauma. So I have to find a way to move forward through it. I still have to be gentle with myself. Yet another difficult balance to strike. The bills are overdue...

Maybe it wasn't "2015...The Dream" as much as "2015...Come Clean." The dream is there but playing out more like a nightmare. A necessary nightmare...but...damn. I wanted so much more for all of us. Gentle patience.

It feels good to have said this much. I know some people are afraid of this. But those of you who fear me don't know me at all. I feel isolated and ostracized. And I want to talk about it. I want to be understood. Nobody has to say anything. You can't fix it or take it away. You can just care. No, it isn't easy to hear, but think of what it's like to go through it and then have to live with what it did to me my whole life...you don't even know what all of "it" is.

But others have been there too, and maybe this sounds familiar, and this is for you as much as it's for me. It's not just a self-pep-talk anymore.

There comes a time when "what I could have been" is forever changed to "what I will become."

That time is now.

Hope wins.