My Little Runaway

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder creates a disregulated stress response in many of us who survived Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs). These responses often look overly dramatic to the outside observer. They might even seem "out of nowhere" when they're a sudden burst of fight or flight.

I've come to realize that these autonomic responses present in a myriad of sometimes subtle ways. Sure, the dramatic get the attention of onlookers, but the quiet attacks deserve a full understanding. It's the set up to the climax.

When lay people (like me) write about their experiences, we often try to piece together our mental state from self help self observation. We get some information on how what is conventionally called "fight or flight" and try and fit that into how we have managed our trauma states.

In real life practice, fight or flight has 2 overlooked components of freeze and appease. And many reactions of the 4 kinds of panic, may get overlooked without an awareness of how they manifest.

Lets start with a fight reaction to stress. An obvious first look shows that a panicked person can literally fight with another person or object. I once punched someone after a car accident. I apologized but I never saw the reaction coming.
Another manifest of fight can come in the form of argumentative actions or primal screaming that may seem out of context. Often vengeful thoughts can go unnoticed in their quietness.

Some will fight with inner thoughts and take actions like self abuse. Self harm may be a fight response.

Now, we'll examine the flight response. We run from that which scares us. We might also laugh or cower or cry.

Freeze can look like a lot of different actions such as going quiet, fainting, feigning sleep or hiding. Looking back at my past, I realized that when things were more than I could handle, I would sometimes faint. I heard people talking around me, but I just slipped away to get away from the pain.

When a traumatized person uses appease, they may bargain and distract with accommodation acts like food preparation for the person creating the stress. Appeals to authority like police or social services can be a stress response. Faithful people might pray or do other rituals in appease mode.

So sorting a lifetime of "panic attacks" may come down to sorting events that didn't seem to make sense at the time. Was it a stress response? Can we "see it coming" more in the future? If so, can we have a tool kit for how to respond?

Watch for tips and tools in future posts. Kind Comments encouraged.

Additional Resources: 

Fight or Flight response - Psychology Today 

Resilience to Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) - Minnesota Department of Health

Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder - Wikipedia

Somewhere

Intrusive thoughts keep me awake. Sometimes they have a passing woosh, like a stinky wind. Other times, they come and sit on my chest, making it hard to breath.

Some of them come from an action I've taken. Like, that one time I dumped soda all over a friend of a friend or lost my shit and screamed at my ex's best friend. Accident or overreaction, still I feel as though I "ruined everything."

My family lacked the skill to teach me how to make mistakes or resolve disputes. Now as an old person I struggle with these occasional gaps in who I am. I find more grace as I put things in perspective.

Letting go of the fantasy that the past could have been different comes with some struggle of itself. I've read that children blame themselves for problems in a family as a way to try and control the situation. If you are at fault, you can change yourself and help fix things.

Embracing serenity of sorting what I can control and what is outside my abilities helped guide me to a better place. When I dig deep for the courage, wisdom and acceptance, things go much smoother.

I also realized that thought energy rarely goes away. My best efforts to silence a nagging voice may keep it at bay for a time, but eventually it breaks through and starts screaming.

I found another way to handle feelings or memories that gives them a place of honor. I can move most of the energy outside my head and into an event journal. I've also had good success with drawings that depict my inner workings.

Rather than continue to remember an incident (recent or long ago) I can put it down in a thought ledger. If the event comes into my mind, I can gently remind it that it has a place to live.

Always be kind to your thinking. It IS trying to work things out and trying to help you. Remember that it was taught by the same people who created the gaps that make you struggle with life.

Like a little kid learning to use a tool, it'll make plenty of mistakes in the process. Keep the serenity mantra foremost in your mind. Accept what you cannot control, dig for the courage to control what you can, and search for tools enact the wisdom to know the difference.

Kind comments encouraged.

Counting Falling Stars

(modified post from July 2014.)
For a couple of days I've contemplated what to write about next. I know I've written about topics like this idea before. Though a quick search didn't turn up the exact previous post.

Telling my story over and over, seems to substantially lessen its impact. I've mentioned that I have started to see the value of confession. Not as a telling of one's own sins, though that I feel has value. What I'm talking about is confessing one's flaws installed by outsiders.

I feel that they're weirdly the same thing. It feels like a recounting of facts. A kind of "for the record" acknowledgement of what happened. I've come to realize that so much of what one views as reality ha as much to do with perception and perspective.

I don't know much of the motives of people who hurt me. My perception that some of their actions were "crazy" comes from other people's reactions to my story.

While it's true I do have some ego tied up in what happened to me, I've come to realize that understanding it builds me up more than it tears me down. With each "confession," I learn a little more about the power I have inside. You'll have to ask my husband if I tell the stories less the more I sort through their value.

I think of it as counting falling stars. Though much of the material burns up in my "atmosphere of examination," some of it just grazes and doesn't fall. It comes back in some other guise and sparks another fiery event.

Although my experiences come down like meteors  I can choose how I react to them. I choose to recount the story. I speak what I saw and consider adapting my version if I hear a different perspective that seems valid. Many family members refuse to speak with me and I try and be understanding.

How do you count your falling stars? If you don't, and it works for you, I''m glad. Confessing what made me, me, seems to improve my life.

Kind comments welcome!

The More We Get Together

(Written in August, 2014 adapted Nearly August, 2019.)

New years eve I participated in a twitter #ideaparty hosted by Barbara Sher. She suggested Meetup.org for finding local friends. Boy did it work good.

It never occurred to me that atheists would have a meeting local to me. When I saw them on that list, I felt elated. It's exactly "my thing."

Faith and church felt like alien concepts to me. I thought about going to one just for the fellowship aspects. Then I realized that would be so hypocritical and very uncomfortable. I know me, I would say something about inconsistent interpretations of biblical teaching.

What I understand of Christ makes me think that he had some interesting things to say. I have no problem with discussing his philosophical point of view. I know less about Mohamed but I bet he has some intriguing concepts as well.

How other people choose to navigate the social landscape has little to do with me. I ask lots of questions about that which I sense around me. These observations lead me to a conclusion of random happenstance.

Should some evidence of a higher power show in my sensing of data, I would adjust my world view. Until such time, i remain skeptical of the notion of god.

As a small child, I don't remember ever feeling valued in church. My sister loved it and felt the fellowship that comes from participation. I'm not sure how much this had to do with the way I was treated or if the lack of faith was innate in my mind even that early.

The faith came from my family tradition. I don't know how other churches treat children. I felt as though I was a nuisance to everyone there. Plus I was forced to go. I don't suppose that makes for positive memories. I like having choices.

My family didn't want me. That's why my sister and I were living with the devout lady. She didn't want me, she wanted my sister. When she beat me up in church, I felt that no one in the congregation cared. I felt like they thought I was "bad."

I remember Sunday School, but I don't remember learning anything or enjoying any friendship or acceptance there. It's not being different, as my sister has albinism just like me.

I guess I'm strangely grateful that they were unkind. I might have been seduced by friendship and acceptance. I like being an atheist. I like asking questions and chatting with others who question things too.

The more I think about faith, the more I find I have no need for it in my real life. Though it may be a bit of a challenge to find people who think as I do, they do exist and do value my company. Just as important, *I* value my company.

How other people run their philosophical life is none of my business. If someone has a deep faith, I can respect that to the point they don't bother me over it. Some have crossed that and I wish them peace and let them go. Life's way too short to worry over being judged by someone.

It's just an untestable theory, but I suspect I could hang with Christ. I suspect he would discuss things with me, but let me make up my own mind. At least that's my interpretation of his attitude. In a way I am the leper and he hung out with them.

Who do you hang out with and why?

Kind comments encouraged.

Let it Go!

I don't have kids unless inner children and a cat count. For some reason, I picked up on parenting tips from TV because it really seemed weird the way I got parented.

Not just because of all the surviving abuse bit. But that every day how to be a human stuff that adults are supposed to show their kids. Mine missed a lot of that.

That seems to be a generational trauma symptom. If your parents are fighting their own demons, they don't have time to teach you how to brush your hair. At least they don't know how to do the little things without a struggle.

Some of us were left to figure it all out on our own.

So as an adult, I kind of obsess on parenting guidance. There used to be a reality show called Super Nanny where a well meaning child expert showed up to observe parents try and handle their kids. She reminded me of a much kindlier and far less magical Mary Poppins.

Though I can say she did do magic. Practical conjuring that encouraged the parents to be consistent and helpful. She taught them that children WANT consistent rules that get the same reaction every time.

Most often she taught parents to meet chaos with calm. That if they could calm down and give everyone in their family as much of what they needed, things would run smoother. She trained them to see a noisy fussy child as an unmet need rather than a chaos demon.

That helped me see the feelings inside me as the same. Some piece needed something. Most of those noisy radical feely demons, just needed to be helped.

Super Nanny excelled at helping kids get to sleep. She taught the parents to create a calming ritual at bedtime. Every night the same routine chosen by the parents. Something like washing up, brushing teeth, a story then lay down.

For the first couple of nights, parent would sit inside the room with their back to the child. Then outside the door where the child could see them, again with their back to the child.

If the child was old enough to get out of bed, they didn't say a word. No extra lights, just gently put the child back into the bed. On the first try, reminded the child that it is bedtime now. No extra words, no arguing.

Sometimes this took a while for the child to get the message that they needed to do what they were asked. Eventually, the parents could simply ask the child to wash up and read them their story and they would go to sleep on their own.

I decided to try similar things with the children inside my head. We have sleep rituals like I think up a story for them to hear and we end up rested.

Anxiety can run loose at times not related to rest. Like a frightened child, it responds to anger and irritation with more fear and acting up. Those feelings manifest into invisible monsters. Such feelings are only contained with calm, peace and love.

I give them freedom inside a place of their own. I write about them in a journal and let them play with my stuffed animals. I encourage them to draw, and sing and twirl during their special time.

Then, when it's time for them to rest, I gently put them to bed. If they get out, I remind them it's bed time and gently bring them back.

I heard that in recovery to hug your demons or they'll bite you in the ass. I say hug them because they're frightened needy parts of you that need your help.

Kind comments encouraged.

Drama

I wonder where I bonded with trauma from my childhood? I know that I get a kind of weird excitement when telling a story. I still think those stories need telling, though I'm wondering now how to take a step back and take the heat off.

Psychologists have been talking about trauma bonding for a while now. It's prevalent when people have survived abuse within families where we are dependent upon them for our basic needs. Hard to leave a husband who convinces you that you'll starve without him.

A friend's dad told her a horrific story about a place to keep her from going with me. I found out later he was abusing her. I offered a thought pattern that would have challenged his authority.

Even though she and I could see the abuse and avoid the love and honor our parent delusion, we both did fall into what I call drama bonding.

Our families taught us that drama brought attention to something bigger than the abuse they were engaged in. My mother told me that "The big bad world is going to eat you alive, little girl." While I didn't believe her, it did take my focus away from the reasons I wanted to go out in it.

I found telling my story gave me some attention and did help a little. Yes, it's dramatic, sad and depressing. Some people walk away from me. Part of me likes that. It feels like I have a power over them.

Drama stories push people away and draw others in at the same time. They obscure and reveal too.

I know that drama also saps energy I could use for other things. It also feels like a stage of recovery. Maybe it's a kind of step down from trauma bonding.

I figured out I had to let go of the fantasy that my mother could be anything other than who she was. Part of grieving, I know, but there's more to it. Seeing her as a whole person.

So many words define my mother. At first the ones I used were things like selfish, cruel and absent. As time goes on, I think things more like hurt, abused and lonely. Still, she could also be called smart, funny and capable.

Bonding with my mother didn't quite happen because I bonded with my older sister instead. Yes, we can bond with more than one person, but my mother and I just didn't get that. At least i the mother/daughter sense.

She did pass on the drama bonding, though.

Troubles were never because she made mistakes or did something wrong. My dad was often the blame for any misfortune. Later, she trauma bonded with other abusers.

I feel I drama bonded with most of the partners I dated. My ex could be the hero comforter when I told the stories of my troubled childhood. They were drama bonded to their mother. I could see that bond as stifling.

When I went to loosen the ties that bind, my ex found another to drama bond enslave.

It takes lots of effort to move out of drama mode. And I see it as a necessary step. I need to get to all the feelings, before I can sort through the ones to change.

Keep the joy and let go the sad and angry.

Kind comments encouraged.

My Heart Belongs to Me

As a survivor of abuse, so much emotional distress can come from political news. The #metoo movement, rape culture and abuse culture being all over the news can set me into a place of panic.

These feelings leave unseen marks on my being. The panic shows in quiet fitful sleep moments. I do talk about it out in the open AND I keep it to myself. At the same time.

Been thinking about all the Keep Calm and Carry On strategies I employ silently. We just recently saw the documentary about Mr. Rogers and I've always loved his thinking on "look for the helpers." Sometimes there is only me. I am a good helper to others and myself.

I like that about me. This blog, other places and to myself, I can help. I can mother my unruly inner children. I can remind my stuffy adult self to remember moments of perfect beauty and pure laughing joy.

Saw this video by a counselor where she says that the goal is to get to where we think "this shitty thing happened," but we don't curl up in a ball and cry every time we think of it. Lots of my story is like that. Just history. (her story)

Lots of times I have to employ a "strategy" to get to the shitty thing because it's a shitty thing rolled in broken glass and cactus needles. To "deal" with them requires special gloves and a plan.

I own some lovely dishes that depict iris flowers. When putting them away on the open shelf, Murry sometimes puts them with the flower facing away. To him, they're just dishes. To me, they're a piece of art that happens to be useful.

I can turn my past to face the flowers to the outside. Displaying the mosaic that is me in the best light. Seeing the "broken" bits as just a part of the pattern, rather than the whole of the thing.

Such reframing takes a lot of effort and the right kind of gloves. I've spoken before about feeling pain so deep that I wished my life was over. For a real long time, my strategy was; "I'm too much of a fuck up, I'll just end up worse off." While that is slightly still there, I found that I want to also see the future. Way better.

So taking the broken glass and prickly bits out and filling the cracks with gold. I've been an artist for longer than I even realized.

Crying

This post isn't about tears alone, but I thought it was a good starting emotion. I thought so back when I first realized how much trauma I survived and it's still my go to first reaction most of the time.

I suffered. A lot. Piles of pain and most of it before the age of 10. 

When a baby falls down learning to walk, sometimes it cries because it's scared or hurt. It's a way to let those bigger beings in charge to come help fix the "bad" thing. 

Most girls learn that it is okay to cry over a loss or an emotional situation like a friend moving away. Maybe some boys do too. Sometimes the bigger beings say shitty emotionally repressive things like "I'll give you something to cry about." Usually when they're hurting you. Crazy making that.

Girls are NOT supposed to be angry. But boys are sometimes encouraged to do angry things like punch each other, kick over blocks and generally use a n outburst to get their way. 

The onion of person existence has many other emotions, but I'll stick to those two for the moment. 

I like the nature of onions because as a metaphor it's both common and not entirely understood. Other things, like a package, has layers atop a reason for the layers. Onions ARE the layers. No center exists for finding. 

Some onions are even hollow at the middle. Like someone swiped the prize. 

Perfect for metaphor. 

The layers ARE the prize. 

When I bring out the memories of my trauma and count them, the first emotional layer presenting usually involves tears. I've long ago decided that's how my body begins the healing process. 

First, clean the wound. Then assess what to do.

Though some of this is simply about "grief process" and it moves through stages, some things need to come first. I've written previously about counting and compelling incidents. 

Through some kind of weird instinct I knew I had to have time to cry for as long as I needed. Then I moved into righteous anger for as long as that serves me. It's starting to wane. 

I still cry, I am sure I will still be angry over stuff for a really long time. The more I tell the story, the more it becomes personal history. 

I think what's next is compassion. 

It all seems so natural, nuanced and ordered. Layers peeling away, tearing up and falling from view. 

Kind comments encouraged. 

Too Late

Carole King wrote this breakup song about romance, but I think it applies to any kind of relationship that doesn't work. I have lots of them.

First, there was my mother who abandoned me at birth. Not like to strangers, mom still lived in the household. She just made my sister care for me.

Then sister abandoned me when she went off to have a family of her own. They tell me how much of a fit I pitched about all that. I wanted to step on my nephew.

My parents divorced and I lived with dad. He abandoned me too. He left both my sister and I to a babysitter woman with her own kids. She severely abused me and made my sister her slave. The abusive guardian abandoned me to a state run place for misbehaving children.

I went to live with mom and her new asshole husband. After a year, mom abandoned me again. Back to oldest sister who once again made it clear how much she resented taking care of me.

My sister met a man she wanted to move in with and sent me back to live with mom. Soon after she divorced asshole and took up with another guy. A tiny bit less asshole and at least was kind to me. He wasn't kind to mom, though. They married.

It only lased six months or so, they divorced, but I stayed with mom. She had a boyfriend for a while and then a few years later she met married and divorced jerk #5. I guess you could say I got abandoned by those guys, but the time they were in my life was so short. I did have a decent enough friendship with a couple of the men.

Mom abandoned me once again and dad moved into her room and took a little care of us for a few months. Without mom to pay the bills, the trailer house got lost to the bank and my middle sister and I moved in briefly with my oldest sister.

I know I've told all this before, I thought it needed a rehashing as I haven't posted in a while. Middle sister and I shared an apartment while I went to high school. Things were okay until mom started coming around and eating our food and getting us into hassles with our landlord.

I left to start my adult life far away from all the messy family bullshit. I turned 18 soon after.

At 19, I met a guy who I would marry six years later. He was the best I knew how to pick and we spent a total of nine years together. While I wish I had known how to pick better, I did the best I could.

The lyrics of Too Late come to mind, "though we really did try to make it, something inside has died and I just can't fake it." And "there'll be good times again for me and you, but we just can't stay together can't you feel it too. I'm glad for what we had and how I once loved you."

Deep truth in that. And it holds true for my family. I quit talking to my mother and sisters pretty early into my adult life. Really it was too late the day I was born. That's super sad for them. They couldn't see my precious shiny soul.

Kind comments encouraged.

Because of You

A few months back I posed about "rape culture" with several examples of why I feel we live inside one. Notably at the time a rapist received a very short sentence and the judge and his dad spoke of him glowingly.

The survivor, on the other hand, felt destroyed.

Today someone on my Facebook timeline suggested we live in an abuse culture because people disparage and or make fun of college kids for asking for "safe spaces." They suggest that kids don't get safe spaces in childhood. Is it any wonder they practically demand them when they get old enough to voice an opinion.

My first thought was, PLEASE NO! DON'T LET THIS BE TRUE! Then I cried. Then I opened this blog window and started to find a song to put as a title. The first thing that came up was a PLAYLIST of abuse songs.

FFS, there's a whole LIST of abuse songs. For fucking fucks sake! I live in an abuse culture and I write a blog abut abuse and I didn't realize it until today.

I'm going to throw up the caution tape here. Don't read if you are easily triggered by stories of abuse responses.

I felt pain because of the abuse I survived as a child. As I grew up I didn't want to suffer in silence so I tended to overshare with anyone.

Though I still do this, I'm still smarting from some of the SHIT people told me. So much of this makes me sad, but just as much made me ANGRY. There's a new word term that I've adopted.. Sangry. It has a little S for the sad part and the whole word angry.

Here's what happened. I told a male friend during an online conversation that I'd seen a statistic that about 1 in 4 girls get molested as children. He doubted that was true. Even though I said I thought it was higher because most of my girlfriends reported something happening to them. Then he suggested it must be "part of life."

My shock freaked me out. I was in the very early stages of my recovery and very sensitive about it all. I did have enough presence of mind to end my association with that guy.

Another time another online conversation with a male somehow the topic of rape came up and a guy started talking about how he'd love to be raped. To say I lost my shit would be an understatement. Again, I never spoke to that person again.

As a child, one of my teachers ignored me when another kid hurt me. She even abused me herself. Many times my pains were ignored as "growing pains."

JUMP HERE

I don't want to live in an abuse culture anymore than I wanted to live in a rape culture! I don't want to live in a world that has to have places that "stand out" for their care of kids.

Many people have experienced some trouble in their past. Some people use that as an excuse to end discussion. John Bradshaw says that all the birds can be flying in the wrong direction. That doesn't make the direction "right."

Several organizations now work to help children and adults adapt to flying the wrong direction. Usually they start with accepting the reality that people were harmed, intentional or not.

None of us can change the status quo until we understand the debth of the problem.

It's well past time we #endabuseculturenow

Kind comments welcome.

I Am, I said.

I am, I said, to no one there. And no one heard, no, not even the chair. I am, I cried. I am, said I. And I have lost and I can't even say way. Leaving me lonely still. - Neil Diamond.

I started crying when I put the song on to play, because it's so me. I realized several months ago that I want cards to print up. "Professional Victim." That's kind of been a running joke inside my head. I do thrive, all the time and I'm proud of myself for that. Though I talk about a lot of tough things that people don't always want to hear.

Sometimes I don't want to say them. Opening myself up to the memory of the pain, hurts like lemon juice on a paper cut. After a while, a callous forms and I can examine a painful incident as a historian examines the elements of a tragic event.

I am fat, I said. If you know me in person you probably know this. I know this, though, I see myself as big or chunky or curvy until I see a photograph. Then I think, oh, well, there's the elephant in the room.. And it's me.

I view myself as a walking, hulking scar. Millions of unshed tears and unexpressed microscopic balls of anger. They line my butt, belly and arms. It shows the evidence of beating, rape and cruelty. It is me.

I cried and I cry still. I have emotional damage. Why bother denying it? I fear leaving the house sometimes. Challenging that takes more effort than I even realize.

Because I have albinism and am I already "different," I find it a little easier to be whatever else I am when I go out in public. Fat, emotionally damaged and legally blind.

I choose to be present in public places. I use a magnifying glass to read menus, to do stuff on my phone or to look at labels. So, too, have I begun to BE my emotional self more in public.

I claim my right to space. I claim my right to go sit in the car rather than face a crowd. I claim my right to say something weird in reaction to something I don't know how to handle. I claim my right to not poop in a public bathroom because it triggers too much anxiety.

I am acceptable and loveable because of these things. I am a part. I am, I cried.

You are too.

Kind comments welcome.

The Rainbow Connection

Someday we'll find it. The rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers and me. It amazes me how one little story can create so much emotion in me.

I have a lovely trans friend who posts all kinds of things on Facebook and she posted this poignant, disturbing story about a trans guy on a subway wishing to be invisible. I know that place well. Standing out for trans or with a visible diverseability both have hazards that people who can pass for normal may not realize exist.

My confidence belies a past that started in grade school. My white hair and poor eyesight lead to cruel children and judgmental teachers giving me grief. Certainly not all, but the ones who were bad, or even indifferent, made an already troubled childhood fraught with confusion.

One kid constantly kicked me during recess. When I told the teacher, she didn't care. Eventually she isolated me within her classroom, making me sit on the other side of the room alone. Banished to Siberia.

A few years later, another kid started throwing things at me. I happened to catch a basketball before it hit my face and I threw it back. The teacher only saw MY action and I got in trouble.

Later in high school, some guys started running along side my bicycle and taunting me. I pedaled faster and tried to ignore the "my friend really likes you, he wants to go out with you," but the humiliation left a mark on my soul. Undatable, unfuckable, worthless messages rang in my head.

My own mother called me ugly. She thought she was teasing and never got how deeply she stabbed into my soul. So I learned to put up my shields and try and brave the storms.

A memory of riding in the car with my oldest sister sparked a desire to be "just like everyone else." We drove past this house painted up with rainbow stripes and blue skies with puffy clouds. My sister said something about how gross that house was. This broke my little heart as I loved that whimsical display of joy.

I realized then, that it's safer to not stand out. Beauty doesn't save you from bullies.

I want to live in a world where rainbow houses and rainbow people are beloved. I want to find it, the rainbow connection. I want to find them, the lovers and the dreamers. I want to be part of them.

Kind comments welcome.

Stolen Innocence

As part of the series on Adverse Childhood Experience (ACE), physical abuse seems to be a common complaint. I would say that the severity can go on a scale from spanking to child murder. It seems that most abusers repeat patterns they learned from their own childhood or they have a mental illness driving their hurtful actions. Hurt people hurt people, as they say in recovery.

Here is my ACE:

2. Did a parent or other adult in the household often or very often… Push, grab, slap, or throw something at you? or Ever hit you so hard that you had marks or were injured? Most definitely yes.

Here is my resilience:

14. I believed that life is what you make it.

The primary physical abusers in my life were both women. The most severe trauma happened at the hands of a guardian my sister and I lived with for about 18 months. I'm left with lasting emotional scars and Post Traumatic Stress because of this person tasked with taking care of me.

 

Skip this part if you cannot handle knowing what my guardian did to a 6 and 7 year old kid. I'll leave a marker to jump to. 

I'll just list what I remember:

Beating with Hot Wheel race tracks

Hitting while eating and being force fed

Random slapping and punching

Choking

Picked up and thrown into a sink, head first.

Required to stand still after a beating (passing out I cut open my chin once on a drawer knob and woke up in a puddle of blood)

Though these are emotionally abusive actions, they highlighted the climate of fear that I lived inside:

Intentional destruction of my belongings.

Policing bathroom habits in public

Encouraged abuse of other children

Policing play with abuse as a consequence to not following her random weird rules

Calling me all kinds of names, but the one that I remember most is "Unmanageable child."

My mother did these things to me:

Pulled me around the house by the hair

Smacked me with the hair brush until I refused to let her brush my hair

Kicked me

Pushed me

Refused medical care when I got injured playing outside (I hope that if any of these had been life threatening, she would have sought treatment, but I don't know for sure.)

There are far too many emotional abuses to list. Suffice to say that my mother didn't want me around.

Jump Here!

Though both my mother and the guardian specifically targeted me, for some reason I didn't believe it was all about me. My daddy helped by before I lived with the guardian, he showed me lots of love. Mom was there, but I didn't bond to her. I did bond to my oldest sister. She was as good to me as she was capable of. I have no memory of her abusing me physically.

I used things like my friend's home life and the Brady Bunch as examples. They taught me that people can be reasonable with each other. Places where parents didn't yell or hit each other or drank to excess showed me a whole new way of life. 

I tried to have conversations with my sisters and even my mother about the abuse. I didn't know at the time that my mother at least couldn't help me heal. As I grew up and got out into the world, I found counseling and support that took only a few consistent meetings to set some major things straight. 

I even bought a book on parenting myself, and others on having a good relationship with your spouse. Unfortunately, I picked a first spouse that didn't respond to my efforts.

I decided from as far back as I can remember, no one will ever hit me again. As I grew, I added to my list of "no one will ever..." and even added a few "must have" items to my list.

I made my life and continue to make things better with learning and exploring about myself. Though I cry easily and often, it's from awareness more than grief. I don't just BELIEVE life is what you make it, I MAKE IT SO!

Kind comments encouraged. 

I Will Survive

A rapist asshole got released from jail this week and it sent me into an emotional tailspin. Said rapist received a ludicrously low sentence of only six months in jail and only served three.

I wish I could speak to the survivor and let her know there's hope and recovery. Her letter before the judge told of how she felt irrevocably broken. I know that feeling. I also know that one can find a path where it's just a small part of the feelings associated with surviving such a tragic event.

This upsets me so because I survived a year of my stepfather using my tiny little seven year old body for his own twisted actions. It wasn't until I was in my 30's that my mom told me that she thought of him as an "animal" and she didn't want us girls around this guy. She denied it when I told her after they separated though. That's not unusual for her, as some jokingly say, my mom lived in Egypt.(in de nile)

I have only flashes of memory of what was done to me, so there are some that have questioned my memories. I feel sorry for the callous folks who might think that's a reason to discount such stories. For the longest time I didn't call what happened rape, because I heard rape was a violent crime. I realize now that in can be an act of dominance.

On a child of seven, nothing about it could ever be called consensual. That confused me also, because what I do remember, did involve a physical sensation of pleasure. More like a sense of relief than enjoyment. Like having a good bowel movement or peeing when you really have to go.

Before I lived with my mother and her husband, I lived with a woman who beat me so severely that I have post traumatic stress. My little psyche wanted a caring adult to be kind to me. He used my neediness to use me to satisfy is disturbed urges.

At 12, I started my road to recovery after seeing a woman on a talk show talk about how she drank to cover up her pain from being molested. I decided then and there that I would tell people what happened to me and seek help. This didn't set well with my family.

My sister told me she was molested by my mom's brother and I should just get over it. Mom told me that I should stop dwelling on the past. I didn't want to be a drunk, I saw that had such a terrible outcome on my mother.

Feeling sad and depressed, i was recounting my story to some friends online. I quoted the dramatic statistic of 1 in 4 girls surviving childhood sexual abuse. This guy that I regarded a dear friend denied that number. He told me if it's that high, it is just part of life and I needed to get over it. It made me cry for a couple of days that I had to end a friendship over such denial.

As recently as the last year, I read that my state is devoting $60 million to testing the rape kit backlog. I remember this being a problem 30 years ago, but I'm shocked and dismayed that it's still a problem.

Today I read the story of a woman who survived abduction and rape and the police would not do anything because she had some life struggles of her own. The officers even treated her with disdain and contempt even going so far as to deny anything had happened to her.

Denial helps no one.

One of my counselors told me a story of a client's mother who would get drunk and literally hand over her child to the man who molested her. Though technically, my mother didn't do that, she did know he was "an animal." Instead of getting rid of said animal, she pushed me out and made me go live with my older sister.

Later in life mom told me a story that she didn't blame me for their divorce. She said she caught him in bed with a man. I dunno who had the higher order of sickness, him or her.

Our society needs to stop ignoring rapists. We can start by expecting and if us survivors have to do it ourselves, demanding the testing of all rape kits collected, then using the DNA results to match against the sex offender databases.

We need to stop revictimizing survivors by blaming them and forgiving rapists. Dressing provocatively or being intoxicated does not give anyone permission to commit a crime. If that were the case, anyone convicted of driving under the influence should be released.

I'm not asking anyone who survived to use their name in public, but why should there be ANY shame on the part of the survivor? We don't withhold the survivor of a mugging or attempted murder's name.

How about we teach boys and young men about consent? Lets start with letting them know that not everyone wants their attention and that's okay. Waving to a freind is just as fun as hugging them.

END RAPE CULTURE NOW!

Kind comments encouraged.

Confident

What's wrong with being confident! Last couple of days I've woken up thinking about how confidence plays out in my life. Courage comes from making peace with fears and going ahead and doing what you need to do. Setting trepidation to the side works in many aspects of being alive. This thing I'm trying may be scary, but it also has benefits.

Though I must say I have a little bit of a checkered past with confidence. In those down times of so blue I have contemplated suicide, it's a kind of weird lack of courage that kind of keeps me from going ahead. I've never really wanted to hurt myself on purpose. I just want a painful existence to stop being painful. I guess you could see there's a bit of a personality war that sometimes goes on inside my head.

The determined factions want control, but the uncertain and fearful people have the reigns. That's when I get out the pad and paper and write a Pro/Con list. Each part of me gets a turn to put down the things they want to do and what they want to avoid. Everything gets on the list. At the end of the exercise, all parties have a really clear idea where the majority wants to go.

Perhaps a dozen Cons may only equal one Pro. Like feeling a little embarrassed wouldn't equal potential acclaim of speaking in public. Just like in negotiating among family members, I try and get every aspect as much as I can. That sense of wanting to get rid of pain, has a lot of merit. Pain serves as a temprorary lesson, if it's still happening that needs to change.

Even my hurt parts can have confidence that they will get the solution they need. Even if that solution is to wallow in self pity for a while or be angry for as long as is needed.

Sometimes my insides fall into confusion and talks break down. Then it's time to employ the "fake it til you make it" strategies. In her amazing TED talk, Amy Cuddy outlined that we can "power pose" our way to confident. Maybe it only works as a distract ourselves from focusing on the "ahhhh this is scary!" going on inside our heads. In this case, why is less important than try. Not to defy the wisdom of Yoda, but in this instance he's a bit misinformed.

Fake confidence can be bravado or just training wheels. You get to decide.

As always, kind comments encouraged.

Say

Say what you need to say as the song goes. It's happened again. A few acquaintances responded as if I'm depressed at the mere mention of my personal history. I tend to ignore that talk because it tends to be a subtle form of bullying.

I know they don't mean to bully, they're just uncomfortable with the topic. I've found that life story becomes history on the continued telling. Both the people who are hearing and my own heart finds some major lessons in the accounting. They say in recovery, "the only way out is through."

Surviving abuse has its own set of problems. It is in fact depressing. We have a 12 times risk for committing suicide. Though I am not sure that's entirely a depressive thing as much as a desire for the pain to stop. A lot of us don't realize there are ways to think out of emotional pain. By no means would that ever be called EASY. It's rough painful work.

I often came from therapy wiping away tears. Much of the trauma from my painful past had scabbed over and knitted into large knots of scar tissue. Taking proper medical care of a wound years after that condition causes lots of pain and its own set of traumas.

Us humans cry for lots of reasons. Grief and happiness both produce tears. And people will ask you to stop crying. Though not on this blog.

The joy of therapy or conversations about a painful childhood, comes from the making it be a concrete reality to face. An infected scar needs help to heal. Part of that comes from a simple awareness. "Oh, you have a scar."

I do a number of things when I talk about my past. First, I uncover the wound and see what is going on under the scar. That airing out feels less painful each time. Second, I give other people permission to see their own pain and if they wish, tell their story. In addition, I give people a chance to show their caring side.

One thing abusive people do is confuse their victims. They hurt you and then blame you for the pain. They often use guilt as a follow on weapon. Even going to far as to deny that any harm was caused.

I want to dance in the sunshine of my beautiful soul. I can't do that if it's clouded by denial. How can you help? Let me know you see me and my scar. Let me know that a cloud passing by moves off eventually.

You can be part of the healing. Make a choice to listen for a few minutes. It'll mean a lot to those you know.

Kind comments welcome.

Wasting All These Tears

I'm physically sick as I write this today. I have something that resembled a cold, but could be bronchitis. I have a regular doctor appointment so I'll have her listen to my lungs and see if she can tell me what it is.

First, I hate going to the doctor. This new one seems pretty good so that helps, but my last two sucked a lot. The irony is this whole series I'm working on, about the ACE score and how it relates to health in later life tells all kinds of stories about our relationship with the medical profession. Maybe I can talk to her about that.

Okay, now for this ACE story. Being sick brings up a lot of the past. For some reason I started thinking about all the cruel things my mother said to me. Here's the ACE question:

1. Did a parent or other adult in the household often or very often… Swear at you, insult you, put you down, or humiliate you? or Act in a way that made you afraid that you might be physically hurt?

I've talked about Attila the Mom before. I call her that because my husband said people might stop trying to tell you you "have to" love your mother if she was Hitler. I thought, no, she's not Hitler. It's more like she was just trying to fight for her own stuff and I got in the way. So I started calling her Attila the Mom. 

Mom didn't want me. Well, she did, but she wanted me for a prop in her plot to "save her marriage." I didn't work and that pissed her off. My 15 year old sister Kathey took care of me until she left to have her own life.

My parents divorced when I was four and I lived with daddy and a babysitter until the end of first grade. Mom didn't want to take me back, but she didn't think she had any other choice. I lived with her and her third husband for a year then she found a way to pawn me off on Kathey for a while. 

Mom could never just be kind to me. While brushing my hair she regularly pushed me around and smacked me with the brush. Her and her husband would leave me home alone at night on a regular basis and they were often drunk. 

Mom and her husband fought all the time and he knocked her around. They moved out of town and that's when I went to live with my sister. Everyone made it pretty clear it was my fault. After they eventually divorced, I went back to live with my mom. 

She worked in the evening and left me alone. I went next door and played with the neighbor kids. When she got home, she pulled me around the house by the hair and yelled at me about how "worried" she was when I didn't answer the phone. 

My 12th birthday mom promised to take me and a group of friends horse back riding, but she got so drunk the night before she refused to get up. I felt such humiliation at having a bunch of friends waiting. I saved the day by taking us all on an adventure into the desert and over to the convenience store for candy. 

Before I started seventh grade, mom bought a brand new mobile home and we moved into a nice new park. The three years I spent living there were the longest stretch I lived in the same place during my childhood. To expand the space, mobiles often feature lots of mirror walls and opening the front door to this house you first saw a full length view of yourself.

Age 14, I stood staring at my face in that mirror. I mused outloud that "I'm pretty." I was thinking, why don't the boys pay attention to me. Mom heard me and from across the room slammed me hard. "Pretty ugly, and pretty apt to stay that way," she said. 

I get it, lots of family tease each other from a loving place. And I know that "It's just a joke," and still it smarts. In these times of sickness lowered resistance, it leaves me weeping for my tender insecure self. 

So true to flaky Attila the Mom style, the year i turned 15, mom totally flaked and started missing house payments and going out carousing with a new guy. I don't know how long it was, but she moved out entirely for a time. Dad, my brother and a friend of his moved in and I didn't feel all that safe. Brother and his buddy weren't very nice to my sister Cokie and me.

I ran away, but I didn't know what I was doing so I just walked for a long time until an officer picked me up. Mom happened to be home and she didn't yell at me or anything. Not long after that she flaked totally and the trailer got repossessed.

Sister Cokie and I went to live with oldest sister Kathey. Since Cokie and I are both legally blind, and mom flaked out, we applied for disability for me and Cokie and I started living in our own apartment. Life got a whole lot better. 

Mom came around now and then mostly to eat our food and crash on our couch. She took me to a play audition once and in retrospect I wish she hadn't. Coming off the dance floor from the worst audition EVER, mom laughed at me and said, "You looked like a fat cow." This is the person who gve birth to me. My mom. The person who is supposed to always love their kids. Evidently, I don't have " a face only a mother could love." I have something worse. 

Okay, so I've told a lot of this before and it's very sad. Even sadder for my mom really. I'm this cool, creative soul that she could have got to know. We made a kind of peace, though it didn't last beyond a mere five years. 

So here are my resilient reactions to my mom:

12. As a youth, people noticed that I was capable and could get things done.

13. I was independent and a go-getter.
14. I believed that life is what you make it.

All definitely true. Lets start with being a planned but unwanted baby. I figured out that I didn't have a hand in those plans. My dad treated me as though I were a gift to him. My sisters took care of me even though they did make it clear they weren't thrilled with the idea. Especially when I was older.

I found joy in rich friendships and safe school times. During the time I lived with my sister Kathey as a little girl, one of my teachers saw me riding my bike past her house. She called to me and gave me a glass of water. 

I observed that other people's moms didn't fly off the handle and smack them. They seemed to listen and talk to them like they cared what they thought and tried to show them how to do stuff. I realized, that the problem was with my mom, not me.

I took my friends on that adventure. I used to cry about it until one day Jess just out of the blue brought it up and said that was a great day for her. Mom gave me lemons and I made lemonade and we all drank it. 

After the difficult dance audition, I went to the vocal audition for the very same play. I sang well. The next musical to come up, I auditioned again. I had a much better dance audition and sang for both the youth and adult parts. I got grit. 

I learn new ways to love myself all the time. A few months ago, I started telling every bit of my body I love it when I'm in the shower. I even kiss the parts I can reach and kiss my hand and put it on the places I can't. 

I give myself permission to grieve as much and for as long as I need. I lost the chance to have a calm, secure and loving childhood. Parts of my personality are still in the angry phase of grief and that's okay. Parts found their way to acceptance too. 

Now it's your turn. Look over the ACEs and pick one that relates to you. Then go to the resilience list and see if you can connect how you used them to how you coped. If you couldn't find any, can you give those things to yourself now? What kind of parent are you to your inner child? 

Kind comments encouraged.

Nobody Loves Me

Over the next few months, I hope to explore the concept of Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) and how they relate to resilience into adulthood. I started with the ACE test in a post I called The Gambler, I moved on to the resilience test in a post I called My Father's Eyes because my dad showed me love.

Today, we're going to get into the nitty gritty specifics of how resilience turned an ACE into a mere past experience. Since the mitigating effects of coping with adversity don't match in a one to one ration, there are 10 ACE questions and 14 resilient aspects, I intend to combine them with what I see as their likely counterparts. More than one ACE may may relate to more than one helpful strategy.

Starting with ACE number 4. Did you often or very often feel that … No one in your family loved you or thought you were important or special? or Your family didn't look out for each other, feel close to each other, or support each other?

My father did indeed love me as I've said many times. His own demons took him out of my life for far too much of it. He raised me until I turned five and then I went to live with a babysitter for a couple of years. It took 10 years before he spent any regular time in my life. After that brief time, about a year off and on, my mother and oldest sister made him stay away.

I understand their reasoning now. Though at the time, I felt quite hurt by the sparse contact. My dad could be a mooch. My sister, Cokie, and I were living on our own and my mother and sister didn't want him to take advantage. So much deep irony in that with my mother and her selfish ways.

Though I spoke to him on the phone, I didn't see my father in person from 1980 to 2000. My family wasn't very big on the holiday thing and so we just drifted on the river of disconnect all those years.

These factors helped me figure out how to overcome that sense of neglect and abandonment:

2. I believe that my father loved me when I was little.
    1. Definitely True
6. When I was a child, neighbors or my friends’ parents seemed to like me.
    1. Definitely True

7. When I was a child, teachers, coaches, youth leaders or ministers were there to help me.
    1. Definitely True

12. As a youth, people noticed that I was capable and could get things done.
    1. Definitely True

13. I was independent and a go-getter.
    1. Definitely True

My friend Jessie's mom let me play her piano. They also as a family would play Scrabble and encouraged everyone to try their hand. Her mom helped ferry us to school events and treated me like an extended member of the family. No, I wasn't like a kid, but definitely like a cousin. 

I did well in grade school academics and only once had my ability to learn questioned. One grade school adult listened when I had ideas and we did several projects based on my suggestions. In high school one teacher traded vocabulary words with me for fun, not an English teacher too, and another would talk about every subject in a broad assortment. 

I decided to graduate from high school early and took a summer school class to accomplish this goal. When the school registrar heard this, she ordered my diploma before I even started the class. She knew I'd pass and wanted to be prepared. She even ordered my tassel. I was kind of bummed that they wouldn't let me walk to stage because my grade hadn't posted in time and I didn't get an extra gold tassel for having a higher than 3.0 GPA. OH WELL. 

All these little things add up to an amazing array of different kinds of confidence boosters. 

How about your life? What ACE jumps out at you? What factors helped you survive? Kind comments encouraged.

My Father's Eyes

My daddy Eugene in 2005

Last time I wrote about the Adverse Childhood Experience test and mentioned the companion concept of resilience. Here's the second test to figure out if some factors might have given us some armor against the tsunami of abuse we may have survived.

I wrote before that my daddy loved me. He had his problems and he made mistakes, but he did indeed try his best. I did well in school and I did have teachers who liked me and treated me with dignity and respect. My best friend's mom and dad also provided a safe and calm image of parental figures. I hope you can find lots of times when you had someone helpful from your childhood too.

RESILIENCE Questionnaire

Please number the most accurate answer under each statement:

1. I believe that my mother loved me when I was little.

    1. Definitely True
    2. Probably True
    3. Not Sure
    4. Probably Not True
    5. Definitely Not True            Score          

2. I believe that my father loved me when I was little.

    1. Definitely True
    2. Probably True
    3. Not Sure
    4. Probably Not True
    5. Definitely Not True            Score          

3. When I was little, other people helped my mother and father take care of me and they seemed to love me.

    1. Definitely True
    2. Probably True
    3. Not Sure
    4. Probably Not True
    5. Definitely Not True            Score          

4. I was told that when I was an infant someone in my family enjoyed playing with me, and I enjoyed it, too.

    1. Definitely True
    2. Probably True
    3. Not Sure
    4. Probably Not True
    5. Definitely Not True            Score          

5. When I was a child, there were relatives in my family who made me feel better if I was sad or worried.

    1. Definitely True
    2. Probably True
    3. Not Sure
    4. Probably Not True
    5. Definitely Not True            Score          

6. When I was a child, neighbors or my friends’ parents seemed to like me.

    1. Definitely True
    2. Probably True
    3. Not Sure
    4. Probably Not True
    5. Definitely Not True            Score          

7. When I was a child, teachers, coaches, youth leaders or ministers were there to help me.

    1. Definitely True
    2. Probably True
    3. Not Sure
    4. Probably Not True
    5. Definitely Not True            Score          

8. Someone in my family cared about how I was doing in school.

    1. Definitely True
    2. Probably True
    3. Not Sure
    4. Probably Not True
    5. Definitely Not True            Score          

9. My family, neighbors and friends talked often about making our lives better.

    1. Definitely True
    2. Probably True
    3. Not Sure
    4. Probably Not True
    5. Definitely Not True            Score          

10. We had rules in our house and were expected to keep them.

    1. Definitely True
    2. Probably True
    3. Not Sure
    4. Probably Not True
    5. Definitely Not True            Score          

11. When I felt really bad, I could almost always find someone I trusted to talk to.

    1. Definitely True
    2. Probably True
    3. Not Sure
    4. Probably Not True
    5. Definitely Not True            Score          

12. As a youth, people noticed that I was capable and could get things done.

    1. Definitely True
    2. Probably True
    3. Not Sure
    4. Probably Not True
    5. Definitely Not True            Score          

13. I was independent and a go-getter.

    1. Definitely True
    2. Probably True
    3. Not Sure
    4. Probably Not True
    5. Definitely Not True            Score          

14. I believed that life is what you make it.

    1. Definitely True
    2. Probably True
    3. Not Sure
    4. Probably Not True
    5. Definitely Not True            Score          

How many of these 14 protective factors did I have as a child and youth? (How many of the 14 were scored 1 “Definitely True” or 2 “Probably True”?) _______

Of this score, how many are still true for me today? _______

Over the next few weeks, I'm going to go through each question and share how they relate to real life sutations to enhance recovery from childhood trauma and toxic stress.

Kind comments welcome along with anonymous scores and how you are feeling about them. Be well and know there's hope.

The Gambler, Score your ACEs

(updated Septemper 5, 2020)

I wrote about the Adverse Childhood Experience test in a post I called "I Got Knocked Down" last year. Then I came upon a really interesting video where pediatrician Dr. Nadine Burke used the ACE test to help kids. See her talk in this Youtube Video. "How childhood trauma affects health across a lifetime."

As I go through the ACE questions one at a time, I'll include experiences that really happened and how we all might find bits of recovery. By no means are these the only way to react to trauma. You may have different tools and I'd love to hear about them. Toxic Stress belongs to all of us who survived childhood abuses. I welcome additional resources in the comments.

ACE Questions:

Prior to your 18th birthday:

1. Did a parent or other adult in the household often or very often… Swear at you, insult you, put you down, or humiliate you? or Act in a way that made you afraid that you might be physically hurt?
No___ If Yes, enter 1 __

2. Did a parent or other adult in the household often or very often… Push, grab, slap, or throw something at you? or Ever hit you so hard that you had marks or were injured?
No___ If Yes, enter 1 __

3. Did an adult or person at least 5 years older than you ever… Touch or fondle you or have you touch their body in a sexual way? or Attempt or actually have oral, anal, or vaginal intercourse with you?
No___ If Yes, enter 1 __

4. Did you often or very often feel that … No one in your family loved you or thought you were important or special? or Your family didn’t look out for each other, feel close to each other, or support each other?
No___ If Yes, enter 1 __

5. Did you often or very often feel that … You didn’t have enough to eat, had to wear dirty clothes, and had no one to protect you? or Your parents were too drunk or high to take care of you or take you to the doctor if you needed it?
No___ If Yes, enter 1 __

6. Were your parents ever separated or divorced?
No___ If Yes, enter 1 __

7. Was your mother or stepmother:
Often or very often pushed, grabbed, slapped, or had something thrown at her? or Sometimes, often, or very often kicked, bitten, hit with a fist, or hit with something hard? or Ever repeatedly hit over at least a few minutes or threatened with a gun or knife?
No___If Yes, enter 1 __

8. Did you live with anyone who was a problem drinker or alcoholic, or who used street drugs?
No___ If Yes, enter 1 __

9. Was a household member depressed or mentally ill, or did a household member attempt suicide? No___ If Yes, enter 1 __

10. Did a household member go to prison?
No___ If Yes, enter 1 __

Now add up your “Yes” answers: ____ This is your ACE score

An ACE score of 4 or more can have major consequences on health later in life. Most notably suicidality increases by 12 times. Seven out of the 10 major causes of disease correlate to higher ACE scores.

I dunno about you, but I always feel a bit guilty at the doctor. Like being sick is somehow my fault. Now I realize that those abuse patterns left a unseen scar that continued into my future.

In my next post, I'll show the resilience test and how those factors can help us find help.

Kind comments and any links to additional ACE material below. Feel free to share your own ACE score anonymously. If you like, a bit of context of a piece of memory and any health troubles. We can help each other with information.

I Got Knocked Down - My fearless life

Dr. Nadine Burke Harris TED talk on ACEs for children - Youtube Video

Center for Disease Control and Prevention ACEs resource page - CDC.GOV