Sometimes I have to remind myself and read about trauma and its affects on me. Sometimes I have to feel it, and it hurts. Some things hold onto me. The fear of the future, knowing life can dramatically change in an instant and be destroyed. Never feeling safe, fear of taking to many risks, or not enough risks, fear of living and being hurt again. Fear of betrayal and abandonment.
Fear of rejection. All of these things will well up in me triggered by a simple event, that normally would not affect me so. But this is the nature of trauma.
Today I felt something important on the road to recovery, I haven’t felt in a long time. My heart healing, it’s a different feeling, my heart feeling with bittersweet love. For others, for god, for humans, for the sharing of experiences, and for hope. I hadn’t felt this way since my ex-friends.
Our bodies are vessels for our souls. I believe I am made up of energy, and that is my soul, my emotions trigger my energy, or my aura, or my spiritual force, however you say it or whatever you believe. It is routed in chakra points as points of entry for positive and negative energies.
I remember the moment my heart broke, it felt like my outward shield had been broken, and a felt this vacuum near the center of my chest after I chose to have an abortion. It just kept getting bigger and bigger. Doubt reigned my mind. It wasn’t a medical procedure, it was a life. A life I wanted to bring into the world, but I was “trying to be responsible, do the adult thing,” please my fiancé at the time, please my friends. Do what you do.
But for me as a woman, as a mom, it’s not what I wanted. It never felt truly right, and I let people convince me to not trust my gut instincts. And it destroyed my entire life. So much regret.
And I don’t want to rush in and be irresponsible to replace whom I lost. I will never replace my son. I never knew him in reality, in the physical realm, but I knew him. It’s something I guess a woman could only understand. I betrayed myself, and not only him, when I made that decision. And when I tried to talk about it, I was shut down, and then it turned into emotional abuse, detachment, disbelief, confusion, pain.
I tried to do what everyone told me to do, just take the damn pill and move on, but instead I took those fucking pills, and instead it brought me closer to death.
And the outward vocalization, and looks, of blame. The saying one thing, and then doing another of the man I trusted with my life.
I know I go on about this. But I’m still trying to accept it, to understand why, why would someone say they want to spend the rest of their life with you, and then, destroy you at the drop of a dime.
And i feel like such a fool for believing in him. For trusting him. For thinking I looked into his pupils and saw our shared souls shining like stars between one another. He had done it before when shit hit the fan. He had done it before, but I let his mental illness provide him an excuse, I went to him when he told me he was close to killing himself, and I wouldn’t let him die. And in saving his life, he repaid me with my own death. Maybe he felt justified, blamed me for the death of his son, hated me for it.
I didn’t see that as the end for a hope for a family. But he did with me. And I guess I just couldn’t understand how if we made the decision together, and he showed he still loved me, even despite my issues with it, why couldn’t he love me through it. Why couldn’t he do for me what I did for him. The sleepless nights laying in bed next to him, afraid that new scar on his arm was on purpose from the ovens at work. Fearful of his self-destructive tendencies, concern for him, me wishing he could see what I saw, trying so hard to make sure he didn’t feel bad, holding him in his catatonic states. It wasn’t a sign of weakness or problem that he cried.
I’m putting this out there because I need to speak my truth prior to the rape by that other man, the truth of how I felt always, until the trauma set in.
And I remember the prescriptions making everything so black. My mind and imagination just turning to black, not hope, no stars, no joy, no happiness, just black, I could not resource my spirit, my soul, my fire, my passion. I was being drugged to death’s door, and then people opened the door for me to find it easier, calling it self-love, or self-protection for themselves. And then they got mad at me for it not working out, for me not getting better fast enough, I was hyperventilating, blacking out on some meds in early 2012. I couldn’t eat or sleep due to cotton mouth. I couldn’t function.
But it’s not the medication’s fault, it’s mine according to them. And I understand that close minded people will always do what they can, anything, to hide the truth.
So when I started to get better mentally, off the medications, it was already too late, the damage had been done. The medications, according to my doctor, instigated my thyroid malfunctioning, it caused mania and irrational behavior, and I remember all of it, and that haunts me, I remember white feces at one point, white. My body needed food and rest to heal, but instead I was given the exact opposite, chaos and destruction, with the very strong message, “live or die, I don’t fucking care, fuck you bitch.”
As time goes by everything makes more sense. The causes, the effects, the reactions, and results, and as I become more understanding of others and more centered with myself. I still cry to god every night before I go to sleep, “Please don’t let me die tomorrow.” And I pray to god every couple of hours: “Please don’t kill me yet.”
And this terrifies people, it terrifies me, and it scares people away for me to be open about it. I’m supposed to be able to talk about my trauma, but I’m damned if I do, and I’m damned if I don’t. It doesn’t matter, i’m always alone, just me and that energetic force called god that has the power to let me die, and let me live.
Coming back to Arkansas reminds me of death. Of Trauma and dead dreams. Of loss of family, of love, and lies, of violence and car accidents, nightmares and visions of pain prior to experiences. Of deception and sin. Arkansas reminds me of the garden of eden, and of hell. And they were the snakes to tricked me into eating the apple. To trust man more than god. And it ruined me. That’s about as biblical of a reference I can give. I am not like buddha who defeated Mara. I lost the battle. It almost cost me my life.
And the irony that that man had a tattoo of a rabbit, a white rabbit, haunts me. It was on his left arm, his only tattoo, I never saw it until he raped me, and the irony psychological damages me every time. Did their hatred curse me I wonder, Is that even possible to be cursed, or was the negative energy so strong it pushed me to another direction to end my life, “by an act of their god.” And I was not looking for death, even when In the blackness, I kept searching for life, for hope, for love. I knew deep down in my heart I wanted to live. I became frantic.
And I don’t believe in ghosts anymore, I believe everything is explained by physics. I still can’t handle horror films anymore, the perception and feel of impending doom still terrifies me. Even if it is a fictional story on tv, or in a book, I can’t do it. Because I know horror, and I simply don’t want to relive or be reminded of it. But I do believe people, places, and things, can hold negative energy, an energetic memory. As well as positive energy.
I have come to terms about the reason for my suicidal thoughts: betrayal, fear of being abused, abandonment. Because of what happened I think of killing myself since the rape. Trying to avoid pain.
I feel like my ex feels like i was justly punished. And he wants me to believe such things, he doesn’t want to correct them, he cares nothing for my soul, or myself anymore. I am dead. Not worth speaking to, I don’t exist. He is the god of his world.
And yet, I don’t think god had anything to do with it, just people. I think the higher power that is in all things wanted me back, and I got lost for a while. I was willing to sacrifice everything for a man, my career, everything to believe he actually truly loved me, that man. And the more I sacrificed the more he felt he had reason to let me die. Telling me I wasn’t his best friend, which is what your wife is supposed to be, telling me I meant nothing to him. The emotional abuse began, and I responded in kind, my tolerance was gone, and part of that was medication and his part of the abuse. He is not as innocent, and neither am I, but I will admit my part and take responsibility. He got what he wanted, to destroy me, to destroy any hope, he wanted to destroy things, and he thought I wanted to destroy us. I never did, I wanted to be able to make sense of life, I wanted to not die. I wanted to destroy anything bringing darkness into my life, and ours. But he didn’t clarify, he didn’t pry, he didn’t communicate, he didn’t want to try.
Why is this such an issue for me? Because I almost died. And honestly he was just a catalyst. The people who I lived with after the break up helped “finish the job” so to speak. Stealing my passport and money, and property, threatening to have me hurt, one of my room-mates just got out of prison, she was not a good person. Then It went from bad to worse and I had a similar experience with William. And yes if I had known that before moving in, I wouldn’t have moved in. All I kept trying to do was save my life. You don’t think of everything when in a rush and an emergency like that. Her criminal record was fraud and embezzling along with a narcotics addiction. I have copies and police reports of that too. For my ex to think he is singled out is so lame. And his friend who keeps contacting me, threatening to hurt me unless I “publicly declare and take all blame” for gossip and rumors they are spreading. And I read what this person writes and I’m like, “is this person on Prozac? They need to get on or off medication.”
And then there is the calendars, sectioned down by year and dates,the dates of the events, and how they coincide with medications, or life changes, specific people and circumstances, my behavioral changes, traumatic events, etc. Where spikes of crises occurred. 2011-2016. It’s like a map of my heart-rate.
Thanks to trusting untrustworthy people who rejoiced in belittling me to make themselves feel stronger, smarter, and better. Thinking that continuous abuse is justifiable. Not a trick of my memory. It’s called reality. Someone hungry for popularity and power at the cost of my life. And if someone had said he was sorry, I wouldn’t feel this way, but, he doesn’t care what I think. I’m dead.
With a mirage of an image that I rejoiced in his brother’s death. A mirage of an image of myself that he has, that I am not. This image that I’m so hate filled and cruel in my heart that rejoicing in someone else’s pain is possible. I never want to be like them, those lost and hate-filled souls that walk the planet out to get somebody before they get got, getting sick satisfaction from hurting others. It does not make me feel powerful to say the facts, and I will keep stating and clarifying facts.
According to my ex I’m the problem according to him and his compatriots focused on hate. No desire to understand why some of those reactions occurred. Why the paranoia and how it was created. According to trauma specialists, the reactions were, unfortunately, “a normal reaction to abnormal life threatening situations.”
But they are not gods, seeking truth, and in the silence, I receive the answers, as much as I fought it and couldn’t believe it, I have to admit, I was wrong about him, and I was also right about him. I thought he was loyal, that, that was where I was wrong. Our relationship died the moment he started to negate my feelings when I expressed them, looking for emotional support dealing with a social situation. His not even saying to me, sorry for my loss when my step-father died, just treating someone with decency and respect. My father accompanied me to his brothers’ funeral. And He couldn’t even treat my family with respect? He is incapable, at least when it comes to me, I’m special in the worst way.
I never asked forgiveness because I need their forgiveness. I asked for forgiveness to heal, it wasn’t about ego, it was about love, not romantic love, but being good to one another love. Such a foreign concept to some, pointless even.
Nobody cares in that realm of people. Nobody gives a fuck not really. It’s all about them and their needs, and not being of service to other human beings, despite the years of normalcy, all of that I get no credit for, because, once again, in their mind, “She was always a psycho bitch, I told you to get rid of her years ago.”
“See, look, bitch keeps talking about it, god when will she just fucking shut up. God, just get over it. It’s not my fault you almost died, it’s your fault you crazy bitch, blaming everyone for your lot in life. Blaming me for your getting raped. Get over yourself. Get Over It.”
I’ve read the messages that have been sent to me, threatening to send me to prison, threatening to hurt me, for writing a blog about rape survival, for making an effort to take care of myself, for moving on, sharing my thoughts and feelings, my story.
It is not love for me to kill myself because people keep telling me how horrible of a person I am, or getting angry for them for hurting my feelings, or remembering the knife slitting my hand in a car by an old man’s hands, and yes, just wanting the pain to stop, if I do kill myself due to bullying, my family can sue. I have gone to the ER from bullying, it’s documented cases, with police reports, local police unable to do something about it due to the fact that person lives in Ohio, unless I die, then they will do something about it, Facing that truth hit me hard, and I did get angry for a minute about it, so I have read a lot about my rights since then. There are consequences to their behavior. Hunting me for a result, pushing and prodding to destroy me, to get further reactions out of me, or have people act on their behalf is another form of murder. It’s been utter and complete torture.
Regardless I want to forget the unforgettable. It distracts me from the present moment, and that is something I have never had a problem with in the past, but I have when it was sooner, but now that it’s later, I remind myself, it’s in the past. But then they hit me up right around I got raped. Every year.
Every fucking year since my rape.
And my error was trying to retaliate vocallyon my own. After much coaxing and encouragement from the police, of whom I am grateful to for not giving up, I have left it to them, and I follow their lead. They have seen my fear and panic all over my face, in my tears, my begging for these people to just leave me alone, to stop encouraging my death, so I can heal, for protection from such horrible hatred. And I was honest about my part with the police, I was trying to defend myself, and I’m not good at remaining calm when I am being threatened in a confrontation. A lot of my pain was struggling with the emotional abuse haunting my mind and heart. Memories echoing. That is the legacy they have left on my family, and myself. Horror and terror, pain and suffering. It has changed me for the rest of my life. I will never be the same.
But I still have hope for myself, despite this traumatic experience. Every time I started to move forward, they would pop up for another attack, or to blast me themselves, eye for an eye mentality. Just like the events leading to the rape, just like the events post rape, the random explosions. I would get forward and it would change so fast so quickly, other people deciding to hate me. And I remember just staring at one point thinking to myself, “This is insane! This is driving me insane! This is crazy! What the fuck is going on!” And I came back to a place they led me to, afraid, afraid of who they knew, what they told to other people, socially anxious and paranoid. And then I remember, what I learned there, and I began to believe again, that there is hope, it took three years until that surfaced, and I dared to start trusting god again.
Along the journey of recovery, I have met new people who try to divert me away, or forwards, and like that vacuum that began in my heart, it encapsulated the energy in life, and I couldn’t get out of the tornado trying to suck me in. That negative energy that had tasted my soul and didn’t want to let me go. Everyone had an opinion, everyone had a suggestion, everyone had a solution, some were right, and some were dead wrong. Some demanded I not got to therapy, some demanded I don’t go to group therapy, some demanded for me not to talk to my new friends. Some demanded I shut up or they’d hurt me or even kill me. Some even said ” you should be grateful, because If I wanted to hit you, I would have connected.”
And I prayed, and on my journey I left the state, changed cities, went to churches, catholic, baptist, methodist, episcopalian, buddhist temples, I bought rosaries and saints’ cards with the last bit of money I had, a dramatic searching for god. When scared I would just drive to a parking lot, call a 1-800 number for support or prayer, and just sit and stare at crosses begging for god to save my life, show me how. Being confused on what to do, how to make sense of things through all the memories blinding me, not having a guide or someone to tether myself to, to keep me safe from harm. Calling women’s shelters day to day, afraid of the traumatizing experience at the homeless shelter would happen again, I couldn’t abandon my cat, he was the last life I had, the last living breathing entity that I knew loved me and I him. Trusting people who were not trustworthy, but doing it out of desperation. Messaging people information on how to help and hoping they would help, not knowing who to turn to in the sea of people in the world, screaming my pain out into the world incoherently. Doing things that made no sense, having nightmares, chain smoking with no concern to my health anymore, I was dying anyways.
I got blessed by a catholic priest, I even went to a psychic. Every day and night was a daymare/nightmare. And words of “wisdom” echo in my mind at those times of things these people said, “better to meet god alone.” Thanks for the help to meet my maker, I thought, to die, to accept the help of the man who hurt me as a child, who’s fatherly advice was to “get busy living or get busy dying,” the whole reason for the abortion in the first place causing damage to my uterus as a child……Yeah, thanks for your compassion ex-family. You people sure know how to have a conscious. And I’m sure the men I told in the family didn’t share that, even though they knew, I was always open and honest about it. I remember what they said about “white lies,” and their justifications. Always manipulative. I wish I had given my life for my child instead. At least I would have died with honor. And then you call me the bully, and you say I have no reason to be pissed, to feel the pain I have felt, this isn’t new information, this is old information you whipped me with to submit to your will, it made me want to die to please you.
I’m not going back to that, or a worse direction, and I’m not willing to for anybody on the face of this earth. I’m not giving up my sanity for anyone anymore. And I will fight this trauma, and anyone willing to harm my precious body, my mind, and especially my soul. It is not god’s will for me to accept unacceptable behavior. And, no, I don’t think the world is out to get me or kill me. There are good people in this world, and their are bad people, the worst type of people are ones that don’t value your soul. And I value my soul, even if they never did, or thought I did, I value my life. I value myself.
I just know they betrayed my soul. The most important part of me. I’m not telling you this for any further discussions. They abused the most important part of a relationship, trust. The conversation is over. No more messages to this blog, no more threats, no more verbal abuse towards me, no more contact. Even if it was an accident, no man or woman will ever hit me, threaten me, or abuse me again. And as much effort will be spent to discredit me, at least there are people in the world who know the truth.
And as I read over this, I feel that loss of energy or passion, that has become a kind friend, a barometer for my healing. I am still traumatized and I am still healing, things happen in stages. Some are more graceful than others. And I am finding myself getting more uncomfortable with even remembering, or wanting to remember, and I’m beginning to see when I have a choice. I don’t have to let this stuff eat at my soul. I don’t even have to feel anything anymore, and it’s getting that way. The more I confront it in a safe way, the healthier I become. The more I acknowledge and be honest with others’ it will help people understand that recovery is possible. My heart and my motives are in the right place, that never changed, apparently somebody else’s wasn’t. Typical for alcoholics (or even in recovery) not in recovery. All they care about is themselves. I remember I used to pray before all this crap happened, “God, How can I help you, help me, help you.” I was so grateful before the shit hit the fan, So grateful, my cells swelled with it, and like love does when it’s gone, my cells starved from it.
And if there is anything I learned from that family, it’s all comes down to money.