trauma survivor

It’s different

~ KJ ~ 3 Comments

When I escaped nearly six months ago, I envisioned a life of being a nobody.

I was going to get a minimal job just to fit in with the rest of society (and to help pay bills). I was going to be average. I was going to fly under the radar. I wasn’t going to do anything more than I had to to get by.

I never imagined I’d be going to grad school. I never imagined I’d be a mental health blogger. I never expected my face to come up whenever someone google searches my name. This is not flying under the radar. This is not doing the bare minimum to survive.

I never expected to be a person that people look up to. I’ve gotten a lot of opportunities recently, most notably guest speaking. While I’m honored to have such opportunities, I also need to remind myself that I can’t do it all.

In the last few days, I’ve had many people thank me for my work in starting up PAFPAC. I know I am doing something great. But I never expected to be doing this at all. A part of me still feels like none of this is supposed to be happening. I can still hear my mother’s voice telling me I’ll never amount to anything. Sometimes, it hooks in me and I start to doubt all of the good I’ve been doing. Maybe I’m not worthy of this work. Maybe I really can’t do it.

I came here wanting to be a nobody and I’m turning into a somebody. This is not at all what I had planned. She would never want this for me. I’m going against everything my family set for me. And I feel horrible for it.

23 weeks

~ KJ ~ 4 Comments

How did I end up here? What forces have driven me to be the person I am today?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot in the past week. Like nature versus nurture, I wonder how much of an impact my experiences have had in shaping the person I am today.

If I was never told I wouldn’t amount to anything, would I still have striven for academic excellence, or would I have been complacent with being average?

If I never had to endure physical or emotional pain, would I still be working to alleviate this pain in others, or would I just be focused on my own needs?

If I never had to muddle through 14 years of therapy and a failing mental health system, would I still find it my purpose in life to become a therapist, or would I have ended up being a (much more financially stable) businesswoman?

If I never grew up being hurt by the very woman that gave me life, would I still be fighting for the countless others that have been abused by women, the countless others that have been ignored and disbelieved because our society doesn’t want to believe that women have the capacity to be abusive?

In many ways, I’ve beaten the odds. Despite being raised by a psychopath, I’ve developed a strong capacity for empathy. Despite experiencing abuse and violence, I’ve chosen to stop the cycle. Despite being programmed not to talk, I’ve become a voice not only for myself, but for others.

Perhaps innateness and experience aren’t that separate. I truly believe there had to have been something in me at birth that allowed me to survive. I know my DID helped me survive, but it had to be something else.

How did I learn what goodness was when my own parents were the complete opposite of goodness? How did I develop morals? How did I know that violence and abuse were not acceptable behavior?

During our last therapy session, my therapist and I talked about the role of my father in the family dynamic. I have realized in the last few months that, as a child, I idealized my father because he was the least horrible of my parents. I modeled some of my behaviors after him, especially the aggression and the physical violence. That probably explains why I never got along well with girls as a child. My rough nature fit in so much better with the boys. Then I guess there came a point when I realized that being like that wasn’t socially acceptable, so I changed.

My therapist asked what role models I had growing up. There had to have been someone positive in my life, someone that I modeled myself after. She asked if I remembered any television shows or movies that had an impact on me. I couldn’t think of anything. Truthfully, I can’t really remember a lot of my childhood. I wish I did.

Then my therapist told me “women who have experienced what you have end up in places like Chowchilla, but you haven’t.” (For background, Chowchilla is a women’s prison in California. The organization has worked with many of the inmates who were victims of mother-daughter sexual abuse as well as non-maternal female-perpetrated abuse). “I could have,” I responded as I thought about the countless times I imagined killing my mother and father, the countless times I researched how to kill a person without leaving evidence behind. I’m probably not that different from those women. The only difference lies in that I never carried out the action. My tendency to over-analyze and my anxiety saved me from ending up in a prison cell. Nothing more, nothing less.

This next week will surely be difficult for me. Holidays were a rough time for me before. I imagine they will still be difficult for me now, even though I’m no longer a prisoner of my own family. I’ve been trying to keep busy and not think about it, but that’s hard to do. I will get through it, though.

 

 

Gifts

~ KJ ~ 1 Comment

Gifts are complicated for me.

When I was younger, my mother would give me gifts and end up taking them away or destroying them soon after. I honestly believe that her intention each time was to leave me with nothing. It was like she was playing mind games with me. If I didn’t seem grateful enough, if I didn’t do something right, there went the “gift”. Bad girls don’t deserve nice things.

My mother continued that practice into my adulthood, except she would take away the gifts that other people would give me. It was always that I didn’t need it, or didn’t deserve it. Sometimes she even had the nerve to tell me I didn’t want the gift, and that’s why she took it. Everything was always about her.

One Christmas, my mother bought me clothes – sweatshirts, a jacket, shirts, pants – all in Men’s size 5XL. While I admit I was (and still am) overweight, I was nowhere near that size. I told her that none of the clothes were in my size, and she said “oh, just try them on. I’m sure they fit.” Yea, they’d fit two of me. When I told her I didn’t want them, she went on a tirade and started crying about how much I hated her.

Last Christmas was probably the most difficult for me. While the sexual abuse had stopped for months at this point, my mother continued to find subtle ways to remind me. She did it at first by showing me the shower picture. She continued it at Christmas by gifting me underwear, bras, and lingerie.

She wrapped them all just like they were any other Christmas gifts. I felt sick once I opened them and realized what they were. Even worse was that they were the correct size. My mother had no knowledge of my size, especially my bra size. She had gone through my drawers. I felt like my privacy was invaded, even though I knew privacy didn’t exist in our household. My mother knew no boundaries. I think she knew how it made me feel, how sick it made me. That’s why she did it. If she couldn’t abuse me anymore, she was just going to find other ways to get to me. And it worked.

Despite my shitty experiences with gifting, I really enjoyed picking out (or making) gifts for people, gifts with meaning and purpose. One Christmas, I bought gifts for all of my coworkers, even the ones I wasn’t very close to. Every gift had a reason behind it. I bought a 12-pack of diet coke for my manager who loved to drink it. I bought the human resource person two packages of Oreos because they were her favorite food. Small things, sure, but every gift was wrapped and adorned with decorative bows to make it special.

As I handed the customer service woman her gift, she started to cry. Confused, I started to apologize to her, thinking I had offended her in some way. She hugged me and thanked me through tears as she told me that no one had ever thought of her at Christmas before. She hadn’t even opened her gift yet and was already grateful. It was (and still is) a reminder for me that even small gestures can make a world of difference for another person.

My joy soon turned to frustration when I came home later that day and had to deal with my mother’s never-ending sense of entitlement.

“I hope you are as generous to your own family as you were to all these people at work. They don’t do anything for you. I give you everything. What do I get for it?”

I was quickly reminded of how obsessive my mother was about gifting. She believed that she should receive a gift for every occasion. I never wanted to give her a gift. I hated her. But if I didn’t, I’d get in trouble, even as an adult. I had to swallow my pride and get her something just to avoid further pain. And I couldn’t just get her something small. It had to be something good enough to meet her standards.

My mother made similar demands when it came to giving gifts to my brother. She was always on top of me in the weeks before my brother’s birthday, making sure that I bought him an adequate gift, telling me all of the things he wanted. If I told her I couldn’t afford any of those things, she’d tell me to find a way.

“If you didn’t buy so much for yourself, you would have enough for the people that matter.”

In her mind, gifts were associated with how much a person mattered. It made sense. It’s probably why she never demanded that I get my father any gifts; she treated him with disdain. It’s probably why she showered my brother with expensive gifts, gifts she couldn’t afford but bought anyway. Me? It was obvious I didn’t matter. Whenever my birthday came around, all I got were a bunch of excuses.

“Oh, I don’t have any money this week. I’ll get you something in a month or two.”

A month or two never happened. Despite her financial difficulties, she always found enough money to buy herself whatever she wanted. But when it came to me or my father, she was broke. There was no sense of celebration for my birthday. I was lucky for a few years and managed to find a birthday card thrown on my desk when I got home from work. No special message, just a cheap birthday card and a signature. There was no thoughtfulness. There was no love. It was merely an act to say she did something.

The last couple of years, I started to stand up for myself and refused to get gifts for people I cared nothing about. I dealt with the backlash. I dealt with my mother’s verbal assaults, all the horrible things she would say about me and the names she would call me. At times, it got physical. One time, she found out that I bought my best friend at work a Mother’s Day gift and she went on a rampage that ended with me in tears. I had to beg my friend not to tell my mother about anything I bought anymore.

Of course, my mother used that situation as a way to get people on her side, telling people that I bought this other woman a gift but wouldn’t even get anything for my own mother, how it breaks her heart and she just doesn’t understand why I hated her so. She was so manipulative, and people actually fell for it.

I am actually a little relieved that this is the first year that I won’t have to deal with any of the drama. I briefly thought about mailing my family a bill for my therapy (anonymously, of course). I’m not even sure that they are worth the effort of licking the envelope. Then there is a company that allows you to anonymously mail shit (literally) to anyone in the world. Some parts of me would thoroughly enjoy doing that, but I know it won’t serve a purpose in the end.

I did want to do something for my therapist. While I was browsing the local book store last week, I came across the same coloring book that I received a couple months back at a group therapy session.  I was in a bad place emotionally at that time and I made some apparently frightening color choices. It was a page with the word ‘HOPE’ in big letters, surrounded by flowers and a bird. I colored hope black, and scribbled over the rest. Both therapists noticed. Back then, I had no hope. It was dead.

I bought the coloring book. This time, there was no black. I colored in each flower with bright colors. I even colored the background sky blue, and colored hope white – the complete opposite of what I had colored just months before. I bought a basic frame and put my new art in it. After my therapy session today, I told my therapist I made her something. I preempted it with saying that it was kind of lame and that my coloring skills needed work. I handed it to her. I told her I have hope now. And that’s the truth.
It was the best gift I have ever given.

Change the world

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

It’s been emotional these last few days.

I think the reality of everything has finally started to sink in.

I realized that I have people here that really care about me. My team at work congratulated me when they found out the news of my grad school acceptance. My work buddy kept saying how proud of me he was and I had to tell him to shut up before I started crying. Fortunately, he doesn’t take my (at times) harsh responses personally.

My roommate took me out to dinner last night to celebrate. I tried some new foods and stepped out of my comfort zone a little. She started to say all these good things about me and I tried to get her to shut up. I need to work on accepting compliments more. I’m improving in some ways because I’m no longer countering every compliment with an excuse as to why it’s wrong, but I’m still uncomfortable receiving positive feedback in general.

I had my usual Thursday therapy session today. When I arrived, I set my bag down and the other therapist came out to see me. She asked if she could talk to me for a few minutes. I was scared and anxious but I followed her into her office and sat down. My therapist came in and sat down on a chair next to me, and the other therapist on the opposite side of me.

She reached for something on her desk and handed it to me. It was a bag filled with makeup. While that may seem random, I was stressing out last week because I realized that I didn’t own any makeup to wear for the interview (the few products I had were ruined months ago when a bottle of acetone leaked). Now I might actually wear makeup once in awhile.

Then she handed me a book: What Do You Do With an Idea. It’s a book that I read once before after a particularly difficult therapy session months ago. She told me that her and my therapist had written some things on the back page. I turned the book around and opened up to the last page to see what was written. One message stood out to me the most:

“With your brave and tender heart and your exceptional mind, I know that you will change the world. I believe in you.”

I’m going to change the world? This was written by the very woman who played such a huge role in changing my world, and in changing the lives of so many survivors. For her to think so highly of my ability to do anything is mind-blowing to me.

I started to cry. They both told me how proud of me they were, how amazed they were at how far I’ve come in the five months I’ve been away. I was trying to take it all in, but I was also so focused on trying to stop crying. I can’t even identify all of how I felt in that moment. I felt safe, appreciated, and cared for. I felt like I was really at home (and not in a physical building sense). We had a group hug, and at that moment, I knew everything was going to be okay.

I don’t think I can change the world. I wish I could. All I can do is try my best to effect change in others, and hopefully somewhere down the line the world will change for the better.

Acceptance

~ KJ ~ 4 Comments

I spent the majority of my life being told I would never amount to anything.

My schoolwork was never proudly displayed on our family’s refrigerator. I never got a pat on the back for a job well done. While my brother was honored and glorified for getting mediocre grades, I was made to feel like shit for getting straight As. “What do you think, you’re better than us? You think you’re so smart? You’re nothing.” It didn’t matter what I did. It would never be the right thing. I could never be good in their eyes.

I found out after the fact that many of my college acceptance letters were hidden from me. I never had a choice in the matter. My family took my acceptance into Princeton as an insult to the family. Any other parent would have been proud. They didn’t want me to succeed. They didn’t think I deserved it, and for awhile I believed that, too.

Why am I talking about this? Because today, I received a call from the admissions office of the university I interviewed at just two days ago. I’ve been accepted into the program. I will be pursuing two masters degrees in counseling. As soon as I heard the woman say “Congratulations”, I started to cry. I had just left the store and was standing on the sidewalk in front of the parking lot. It took everything in me not to fall to my knees. I was so overwhelmed with emotion, I could barely speak. The admissions counselor wanted to register me right away, but I asked if I could call her back tomorrow, and she said that was fine.

I hung up the phone and began to cry uncontrollably. People walking by were staring at me, but I didn’t care. Everything I’ve been told would never happen was now happening. I’m free. I’m succeeding. I’m something. People are seeing the potential in me; the potential that has been there all along, the potential that was consistently quashed by my parents.

Through tears, I wrote about my good news to my online friends. I e-mailed both therapists, and text my best friend. I may not have had anyone to physically celebrate with, but that was okay. People were genuinely happy for me. My therapists may have been just as excited about the news as I was.

Even hours later, I still find myself intermittently crying. I never expected to be in this position. At this time last year, I was extremely close to giving up. I told myself if I didn’t make it out in the next year (by the time I turned 30), I was going to end my life. I thought for sure I was just going to continue on that path towards death. I didn’t expect an end to the pain. I didn’t expect to escape that hell. I didn’t expect to be living the life I am now. If I didn’t escape, I would not be where I am today – and I don’t mean just physically, I mean emotionally and otherwise.

My therapist told me that people need light and love to blossom. I am blossoming. It’s amazing how much different I have become in just five months. I’m achieving so much and growing in ways I never imagined.

The journey has been difficult. It will continue to be difficult. But I have support for the first time in my life. I have people I can count on. I have people who genuinely care for me. I can pursue better things without being made to feel like I’ve done something terribly wrong.

I almost wish I could tell my parents how far I’ve come. I want to tell them that I am better than them, that I am smarter than them. I want them to know that I am not nothing anymore. I don’t need them to proudly display my schoolwork. I now proudly display my own work to remind myself of what I have accomplished.

21 weeks

~ KJ ~ 3 Comments

I’ve spent much of the last few days crying.

Not because I’m sad, but because I recognize where I’m at right now and where I’m going.

I received an e-mail late Wednesday that said that after reviewing my application, I had been invited for a final interview with the Psychological Counseling department on Saturday. I just assumed that everyone got a final interview, but when I told my therapist about it the following day, she said they only interview you if they are interested in you. Both therapists seemed more excited about it than I was. My therapist asked me in session if I wanted to go over some preparation for the interview, but I told her I would be okay. I wasn’t going to prepare. I was going to just wing it.

My anxiety started to kick in shortly after my therapy session was over. I was sitting in the lobby waiting for the next bus to come when the other therapist saw me and stopped to sit next to me. We talked for a little about my pink bag (because I mentioned that I hate the color pink) and laughed, and then we started talking about the interview. She told me what to expect, what questions they might ask, what questions I should ask, etc. She even shared some hilarious answers that she had people come up with during interviews. We ended up talking for almost half an hour, and she gave me a hug and reassured me I would do great.

I felt a little better knowing what to expect, but now I was anxious about needing to prepare. I had no nice clothes, no dress shoes, and no makeup. I had to make myself look presentable. I bought the cheapest drug store makeup I could find, bought dress pants, a shirt, sweater, and dress shoes (which I was sure I would never find in size 12). I definitely looked the part. Now I just needed to act the part.

I stayed up late looking up information about the program, how it ranked nationally, and how it was rated by other students. I made sure I got more than 8 hours of sleep, which never happens for me. I woke up early to make sure I’d be ready in time. I made it there a half hour early, which is always better than being late.

The interview was not nearly as bad as I expected. There were 10 people including me, with two professors leading. We introduced ourselves, learned about the program, and asked questions. Then we were split into two groups and had to discuss how we would respond to certain ethical dilemmas. I think I did pretty well. We then had a discussion about informed consent and confidentiality and I was the only person that mentioned mandated reporting when child/elder abuse is involved. I’m surprised that more people did not know that, as I thought it was common knowledge.

At the end, everyone had to write a short essay on a hypothetical situation while utilizing the ACA Code of Ethics. Once that was written, we were allowed to leave. There were no one-on-one interviews. I was nervous for no reason. I shook the professor’s hand and told him I hoped I would see him again soon. I will hear back within the next week if I have been accepted or not.

I e-mailed the therapist that helped me as I was waiting for the next bus. I told her everything that happened and thanked her for her support and encouragement. She e-mailed me back and mentioned that she was proud of me, and how she was really rooting for me, not only for this grad school stuff but in every area of my life. I started to cry again because I know her feelings and care are genuine. It’s difficult at times because I don’t have very many people on my side that I can count on (excluding online support). But she has been there, my therapist has been there, and my support group has been there for me through all of this.

I’ve accomplished so much in these 21 weeks. I have a job that I really excel at. I started this blog and have continued to write. I write professionally. I’m (hopefully) going to start graduate school next month. I’m getting more involved in advocating for mental health and other issues. I was recently invited by NAASCA to be a guest on their program and share my experiences recovering and healing from the abuse I endured as a child. I’ve also been approached about my thesis on mother-daughter sexual abuse, which I am currently re-editing for a more general audience.

I have so much going on, but it’s all good. I’m in such a better place right now. I could never be where I am today if I was still with my family. I made the right decision. For the most part, I am happy. So many people tell me how much better I’ve been looking, and how much happier I look. I’m starting to realize that they are right. When I take a picture, I no longer have to fake a smile. I’m struggling, but I’m no longer living in fear. I’m no longer waiting for the pain to come. I’m finally able to live. I am worth living.

19 weeks

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

As I sat here preparing to write this post, I asked myself when I would stop counting the weeks of my freedom.

The truth is, I’m still amazed that I’ve managed to keep it together and stay alive each week that passes by. I still struggle every day. Cutting myself off from my abusers and starting a new life away from everyone and everything did not mean that all of my problems were left behind with them. I admit, part of me believed that leaving would solve everything. Leaving doesn’t cure you; it only heals a very small part of a very large wound that you have to continue to treat, or that wound will get infected.

I realized yesterday that my PTSD is still affecting my life. There was a series of noises downstairs (which I later attributed to the cat) last night that instantly made my heart race. I started to panic and shake each time I heard the noise again, with the most irrational thoughts going through my mind. I couldn’t sleep because every little noise would startle me awake. The noise doesn’t even have to be loud; thanks to hyperarousal, even the slightest noise in the distance will startle me and I begin to fear the worst. I still panic when the phone rings or when I get a text from an unknown number. I still have flashbacks. I still have PTSD.

It’s been difficult for me to get things done this past week. My poor eating habits have caught up to me again and have left me drained of energy. I stopped taking my vitamins months ago because I thought I wouldn’t need them anymore. I’ve noticed for the past couple of weeks that I’m starting to have the same symptoms I had last year before I was hospitalized for malnutrition. I still had my plethora of vitamin prescriptions, so I started taking them again. I tried to eat more, but eating has resulted in me getting physically sick. Intellectually I know it’s because I haven’t eaten, but part of me tries to blame the sickness on food so I can continue the cycle of not eating.

I’m also dealing with a lot of physical pain. The foot that I broke a few months back has become increasingly painful to walk on. I’m assuming it has a lot to do with being on my feet longer hours at work and walking more. I’ve been taking pain relievers on a regular schedule, but they provide minimal relief. I know that eventually I am going to need to go to the doctor. I’m also a bit overdue for the surgery on my other foot. I was supposed to have it this past summer, but with everything going on, I didn’t make it a priority. I don’t even want to make it a priority now.

During our last session, my therapist asked me why I didn’t want to do something that would relieve even just some of my pain. I thought about it for a minute, and I realized that I’ve been in pain for so long, that pain has become my normal. I’ve learned to live with pain in all of its forms. I had to in order to survive, and even now that I have methods of improvement, I don’t take advantage of them. I have to wonder if part of me believes that I deserve to suffer.

I’ll manage, though. I always have before. I will continue to now.

18 weeks

~ KJ ~ 1 Comment

I can’t believe I’ve made it 18 weeks.

This journey has been anything but easy. But I’m still moving through and moving on. Not everyone would be able to do that. I never thought that I would be able to do that.

My coworker has told me numerous times that I have “found a home here.” I know that he is referring to our workplace as home, and I agree. I fit in so well at work, even being the only female among so many men and boys. I can be myself…my sarcastic, funny, cursing-like-a-sailor self. I’ve also learned that I don’t have to put up a wall there. It’s okay not to be happy all of the time, and they accept that and embrace it. As much as my workplace is a home for me, I feel like I’ve also found a home here, in the city where I now reside. I’ve met so many people and done so many things here that I would have never done in my old home. Being free feels so different, so scary and yet so rewarding.

A friend of mine reached out to me yesterday. It was strange because I had just been thinking about her, realizing that her birthday was coming up and wondering what I could mail to her just to let her know I still care. My best friend showed her some recent pictures of me and she noticed how much better I looked. She said I looked good and relaxed. I thanked her and told her it’s still a struggle, but I manage. Then she told me she was proud of me. I put my phone down and tried to hold back the tears, but they came through anyway. Someone was proud of me. I know it’s such a simple statement, but it’s something I wanted and tried for so long to get my parents to feel towards me; of course, that never happened. I’ve recently heard it from other people in my life and rejected it, as I tend to do with positive compliments given to me. Hearing those words from her just…I don’t know how to describe it. It meant so much to me.

I’ve been working on acknowledging my denial of my DID diagnosis and trying to get past it. I think I am in a better place now – not all the way there, but close enough – to accept everything. I’m not going to lie, I’m still scared of what will happen in the future. As I get closer to my parts, I know that I will have to deal with new memories, and those memories will not always be good ones. I think I have a good support system in place to help me through it, though. I’m not alone. We’re not alone. We don’t have to feel like we’re all alone anymore. I don’t want my parts to feel like they have to hide anymore. They’ve been through enough.

There is a DID conference coming up in February through An Infinite Mind. I’ve thought about going to a conference for the last two months. There was a conference given by another organization just a few weeks ago, but it was on the other side of the country and just not feasible. This conference is probably the closest and most accessible to me, as it’s taking place in Orlando, FL. On a whim, I asked my best friend if he would go with me (the conference is for people with DID, their supporters, and therapists). He said he would. I feel so much better about going there with someone I know and trust. I think it will be a good experience for me. I still have to figure out exactly how I am going to manage it financially, but I’ll do what I have to do. I’ve already gathered some things to sell online to earn some extra money that I can put towards the trip. I think I deserve it. I know I deserve it. It will work out somehow.

I have a little more than two weeks left to get my graduate school application completed. I’ve ordered the transcripts, mailed out recommendation forms to be filled out by my professor, and filled out the FAFSA. All I have left to do is the essay. It’s funny how writing comes so easily for me until there is something that I need to write. Then I put it off for as long as I can because I feel that my writing will be inadequate, or that I won’t have anything substantial to write. I’ll get it done. I need to get it done before life gets so crazy that I just won’t have the time.

I felt a little guilty today because I had off from work and didn’t really do anything except wash my laundry. I haven’t really had a day off to myself in a while. I probably needed to sit at home and do nothing. I’m tired, physically and mentally. I’ve had a headache for four days. I need a break. But there’s really no time for breaks. I just hope I don’t burn out.