Throughout my adulthood, I strove to avoid becoming a statistic. I didn't want my experiences to determine the outcome of my life, but they did. Sort of. Turns out, this is kind of normal. Being a product of your experiences.
Anyone would be affected by what happened. Anyone. Whether they developed symptoms of PTSD or major depression, whether they were predisposed to use drugs, abusive relationships, crappy self-esteem and self-destructive behavior; it's understandable. These are documented behaviors and traits of trauma survivors.
I am not alone. I know this now.I am no longer ashamed.
For years I lived in this self-imposed isolation, hoping to insulate myself from the world. I had become so used to this, I rarely left my home unless it was to work or shop. A homebody, I didn't like being asked to visit others at their homes. It was uncomfortable, I was not in control I avoided it.
Occasionally, I'd reveal to my sisters or best friend what was eating at me but they were nasty, foul memories, and they were shocking to those I loved. I felt that just by knowing me, hearing my stories, that they would be changed or they'd look at me differently. So most of the time I smiled, laughed and pretended to be better.
At night, I couldn't sleep. As most issues are, it was much worse at night. I'd stay up most of it fighting the flood of throat-tightening feelings of being attacked and hurt. The memories that had come to light were so damaging, so hurtful that I would try to choke back sobs. Lying in the heavy, thick darkness, I felt I couldn't breathe. I felt as if I were drowning. Sometimes I'd put my fist in my mouth and bite down hard. Wracked with relentless waves of grief, tears streaming down my face, I bore down so hard I occasionally broke the skin.
I had a terrible sleep disorder as well, so when I finally fell asleep, I'd run from murderers and rapists, only to wake in terror and that phantom of an attacker standing next to my bed. The hallucinations from the sleep disorder were worse than the dreams themselves, only because they were the men that had terrorized me at different times in my life.T
I didn't want my daughter to hear me cry and worry, but still it leaked through. She'd hear my whimpers, and scoot over next to me. "Don't cry mommy.." she'd implore me. She was five or six. I remembered saying the same thing to my mother when she was alive. We'd cuddle, and we'd fall asleep.
The next day would dawn, and the lifelong memories recede to be replaced by night of the murder. All day long, it would replay from beginning to end, over and over. My mom died over and over. My sister and I almost died over and over.
I wanted to put it away, but felt guilty. My mom couldn't put it away. It felt like I was betraying her, that the least I could do was remember. I was afraid if I forgot, I'd lose my reason to hold onto her.
I'd work all day, often falling asleep at my desk. My life was falling apart, and it seemed stupid that I had confronted all of this only to let it destroy me. What was the point of confronting this beast if it was just going to kill me? I mean, I squashed all of it down for a reason, and maybe unearthing it was a mistake.
This battle felt like a growing, burgeoning secret. Maybe it was obvious to some, when the anger came spilling out, when I'd lash out and scream at my family, or when I'd stop speaking. I was prickly, very prickly, but I felt it was because of the strange silence that would hover when I'd speak of what was bothering me.
It irked me that I felt I had to be quiet, that my history was offensive to some. It didn't seem fair that I was the one who had to swallow the pain, that I had the burden of carrying around this knowledge of how bad life really could be. What happened to me was so heinous, so brutal and yet I couldn't reveal the reasons I had ptsd, depression, and anxiety. When I did reveal it, I was looked upon with such horror and pity that it froze my insides with rage. I didn't do anything wrong.
Slowly, in spite of the obvious revulsion of others, I selectively began to speaking up about what I felt and thought. Victim's rights events were the perfect venue. Online messages boards beckoned as well. What I found was astonishing. Firstly, some people offered compassion, not pity. Secondly, there were many of us. We were members of an involuntary group, and it was much easier to speak with others who knew the specific agony of murder, rape and abuse.
Gaining a bit of gumption, I began to be more assertive in other areas of my life. I commented on issues I was normally silent about. The status quo was no longer attractive, and the approval of those around me became less important. Topics I avoided because I hated confrontation were addressed, and although it got heated at times, I refused to be silent and go along with the majority.
It didn't make me popular, but I'd stopped giving a shit.
He he.
The bigger I had gotten, the more invisible I was. Somewhere along the line I became cognizant that I was judging myself, stating in so many ways that I wasn't worthy of knowing or loving. I was feeding the statistics and validating those who said terrible things about me. That was going to end. I was determined.
Once the quiet, reclusive who binged on food in private, I began to eat in public. I refused food when I wasn't hungry, resisted the urge to clear my plate and found something to do instead of eating mindlessly. I pushed myself to walk when I could drive.
I began to lose the weight that had insulated me from the world, and most importantly, men. There was a small secret part of me that loved them, but was mostly terrified of them. Having been abused in various ways and a survivor of a brutal crime, I feared their power and rage. I worried that they would kill me in my sleep.
No longer. I started looking them in the eye. I remembered doing this in the Navy, treating them as equals, not Gods. This habit returned, and being taken advantage of would someday become a ghost in the past.
The evolution would not occur overnight. Not right away. I still had to date and experience a variety of humiliations with men to learn what to avoid. Of course, doing it the hard way was unfortunately, an old habit that would take a while to change.
The weight started to dip as I gained momentum. The more I spoke about my life and experiences, the stronger I felt. The emerging beauty of my soul sometimes intimidated those who were superficially present in my life. My mouth told of secret sadness, of nights of screaming into my pillow for my mother and injuring myself to stop the agony in my chest. It seemed sometimes that the emotional distance between those I loved became canyons of silence and reverberated with echoes of judgement. I couldn't always hear it when it was said, but eventually, it would settle into my consciousness that it was how they felt about me. They were uncomfortable with my reality, so they either dismissed it or insinuated I was speaking out for attention. Who reveals damaging trauma, sexual abuse and pain to be popular? To gain attention? It was painful, but I needed to put it out there. I broke my silence, voiced what happened, let go of my shame and sadness.
This openess, this soul baring, was rewarding for years, until one day it wasn't.
In the beginning it had been cathartic, as I met and gained friends that had been through similar situations.
Eventually, exhaustion blanketed me and depression snuck up and pushed me over into a void of smothering darkness. It had become so common to speak about my experiences, that I had started to relive them, which triggered PTSD and major depression.
So badly I wanted to scream out, to ask for help. What stopped me was the hurt I had caused to those I truly bonded with, and the judgement of those I had not. Who would help me without reciting a litany of my wrongdoings? Who would be benevolent enough to extend that hand of forgiveness and support without making me pay for the periods of time I was so sad I couldn't talk to anyone, because I felt I was depressing?
I had to help myself. So I began to attend counseling. It seemed like my pain was a core of black hatred and rage that had settled into my solar plexus. It had branched out enough to cement it's place in my body and soul. It was a tumor of sorrow and self-hatred. When I was the most depressed, I could almost feel it being fed, pulsing from nourishment provided by self-pity and isolation. I didn't want it there anymore.
During the process, I often left the therapist's office in tears. My face would be swollen, tear streaked and red. No concealer or sunglasses could hide what was coming to the surface. Repressed memories had been loosened from that tumor, and I would be visibly shaken. It was all I could do to get out of the building without a concerned soul asking me if I was ok.
I stuck with it though, and as I found inner peace, I found acceptance, and I was ready to begin letting go. My life, my new life, beckoned.
My little sister died in 2008. Cancer and sadness and pain stole her from me. Angry at life for taking the only person who understood me, I regressed. I retreated. Emotionally, I became void. Before she died, she made me promise to change my life.
I did just that, and in the process realized that nothing I did would change the past, it wouldn't undo the damage done, it wouldn't bring back my mother and my sister. I had done my job. I did my best to ensure that my mother was not forgotten, that our story would live on, and that I had spoken for ourselves and other victims who had been silenced.
If anyone would have told me when I was young that my life would someday be truly beautiful, I would have been doubtful. If anyone would have told me in my twenties that someday I'd be validated about my symptoms, that it would be proven that this wasn't all in my head, I'd have laughed. Most of my life, my words weren't good enough.
In September of 2013, I attended my last hearing. It was a final step in a long process of jettisoning the negative and damaging from my life. In the years before, I'd slowly backed away from people who loved me but also enjoyed watching me self-destruct. They wanted to be right about me. It wasn't a good feeling, knowing that a person I loved could so easily smile in my face, but gossip about me behind my back. As if they would do any better in my circumstances.
The day came, a few weeks before that last hearing, when I understood finally that we were all his puppets, and unless we quit accommodating him, he'd keep it up. I quit. I informed the authorities I would no longer attend unless subpoenaed. I would no longer allow him the pleasure of seeing my face and discomfort, and he'd no longer be able to sneak a smile at me. I refused to give him another day.
When I walked out of court that day, I went over to the Circuit Attorney's office. I sat down with him and did the one thing that had been gnawing at me for decades. I had always wondered if my memory of the scene matched the crime scene photos. They did.
I still cannot describe what I saw in those photos. This wasn't a random person. It was my mom. It was signs of a horrific struggle, of a terrible, heinous crime. I tried to be objective like I'd been in school when looking at other crime scene pictures. I couldn't be removed from it. This was mine.Still, I walked out that day with a level of peace I'd never known. I'd put an end to seeing his face. I'd put an end to being part of the circus he so carefully orchestrated with the media and his supporters. I refused to speak to the media. I had closure, finally.
During the worst of the media coverage, I remember being so angry. I remember being enraged that anyone believed a person with such a sordid history and such obvious psychopathic tendencies. It was beyond the scope of my own reasoning that this was still happening, decades later. The anger I had at the corrupt system, the twisted judicial system and it's failings that made it possible for this man to still manipulate me and the system.
It is possible to heal. It's possible to find your center. It's possible to survive trauma. You should know that. You won't be the same person because your life won't be the same. Make peace with it. The best part of that huge fork in the road is that you are now in charge. You get to set your sights on a new journey.
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