Chunk of Perspective on my Shoe.

There's a chunk of perspective on my shoe and I can't shake it off.

I just got back from a vacation. The stressful, screamingly-happy (and screamingly-tired) children type of vacation. We had a blast.

Of course, the Ogre tried to ruin it in countless ways, but we took as many precautions as we could and just didn't have the phone on for most of it.

And now we're back, and I'm back to reading "The 4-Day Win" by Martha Beck (awesome book, too). I just bought "Feminine Warriors" by Al Marrewa on Amazon, too (it has to go back to the library, and I am SO not giving it up). But, best of all, I'm looking through my tasks, thinking about which ones make me feel trapped, and which ones feel liberating.

Now, a note on tasks: all tasks on your to-do list suck. Otherwise you wouldn't have to remind yourself to do them. I get this intellectually. But tell that to my stomach, my hands, and my mouth, which all go into Munch Mode as soon as I even CONTEMPLATE a task that I really hate doing. And then, the more I put it off, the worse I feel about it, because now I feel like I hate it, but I feel guilty.

Here's an example: I have to clean out the litter box. There are WEEKS that I've cleaned out the litter box twice a day, and don't mind doing it. But once there's more than a day's worth of crap in it, I can't do it. I end up pouring the whole thing out and replacing all the litter. Then I'm grossed out for a couple of days. Then I can't clean it out again. Now I feel guilty, because my poor cat's feet smell like pooey litter after a couple of days. Now I REALLY can't face the litterbox, because it's smelly and my cat is looking at me like I'm a bad Kitty Mommy. And, since I'm already a bad Kitty Mommy, how can I face her and clean out the litter box?

It's a vicious circle. And, although I don't feel like eating when I think about the contents of the kitty litter box, when I think that I have to change the litter, I feel like munching.

Now, "have to" tasks are very trapping. "Want to" is so much more liberating. But guess what happens when I take a "want to" task, and start telling myself that I "have to" do it for a little bit a day in order to get better at it, or whatever?

Suddenly it's another chain holding me down.

I can totally see why people have to have a lonely, rebellious year or so after they get out of an abusive relationship. And if I didn't have such an amazingly considerate boyfriend, who does not tell me what to do, or what I should do...and if he slips, he corrects himself and apologizes, I would need a year to just do the opposite of what everyone says. In fact, I am doing that now, but luckily he can take it, accept it, and then ask me when I'm more logical what I really want to do.

So, after vacation I read about gauging the unpleasantness of what I do, and then when all of this mental clarity vomited up the tasks of my life and my feelings about them, I ended with a piece of perspective: I don't actually like what I'm doing with my life.

I mean job-wise, responsibility-wise, etc. I don't like being in my apartment much ("home"=bad, for most of my life). I don't like being indoors very long. I like climbing trees, rocks, pretty much anything. I like walking at night. I like coming and going. I like quick answers, not filling out long forms. I like analyzing processes for things I can improve, not checking them against some published standard. I like solving problems, not filling out paperwork.

AND THAT'S OK.

But it's also showing me how miserable I am sometimes, and although it distracted me from my home-life misery for the past six years, it is certainly not a happy place now.

So I keep trying to bury my head back in the sand, and tell myself I'm just not "back in the swing of things" yet.

But of course I know what it is....

It's that big, shiny piece of perspective I just can't shake off.

Fine

I'm fine, really.

I smile. I laugh. I'm helping out a colleague. I'm going out with the girls. I'm reading the children bedtime stories.

I'm fine, right?

Not so much. Like you, I put on a face of being fine. Happy, even.

I just managed to talk to my therapist about being molested, raped, abandoned, abused, and terrorized, all with nary an eyeblink. I even laughed at a few points. Then, at the end, she (bless her little pea-picking heart), did some relaxation exercises with me and I--guess what?--cried.

I patted my belly and said, "there's a lot of cry stuck in here."

I remember when I used to pat my belly and say, "There's a lot of laugh stuck in here."

But no, not now. Now there's just a whole lotta cry, and I'm afraid to let it out. There's a whole lot of punch and kick and scream, too. And I'm terrified that it will break out.

The past week or so, the synchronicity is this: Self-limitation. I'm writing a little booklet on it right now. Because how many of us fail to try because we've already told ourselves that we can't? Depressed people are LOADED with self-limiting thoughts. "I can't go out because..."
"If I do this, then that might happen..." They also tend to think they're impostors.

Impostor Thinking is real. And it means that you don't believe you're really as good as people say you are, and one day you'll disappoint the whole lot of them. So either you work really, really hard, and live in fear, or you underachieve and adjust their expectations.

I always did the latter.

Many Cognitive Behavioral Therapy worksheets ask what you want, and then what keeps you from doing it. The thought is that, if you blast out your reasons for not doing something, then you'll just go and do it. God, I wish it were that easy. I'm constantly developing new ways to shoot myself in the feet. And all the while, I'll tell you that I'm fine.

Directions: Shoot Foot.

I bet there was more than one sailor who, after having gotten used to life on the ship, spied land in his glass and said about the shadow on the horizon, “Turn back! It’s a Sea Serpent!” instead of “Land, ho!”

We may daydream of the great things we would have accomplished, if not for the twisting of fate and of life. We may feel tired and colorless, bored and listless. We may even dare to polish off our resumes and dream about new companies.

But we generally stop there.

I actually caught myself speaking to a recruiter this morning. The job was for a position out of state (which I wanted); it paid better than my current job; and included a lot of the activities I loved in my current job without a lot of the activities I didn’t love. I was thrilled to write my cover letter, and even more thrilled when she contacted me and wanted to hear more. And when she came on the line, I didn’t question the sweating palms or breathlessness. I was excited, right?

A few months ago, I asked my son how he liked his first year in public school. He said it was OK, and then, in a small voice he asked, “Mom, can I go to the same school next year?”

“Of course, honey!” I sang.

The whole scene comes to me as I am telling the recruiter exactly what she needs to hear to place me in the running for this job. Suddenly, my throat and chest swell up with guilty anxiety. I can’t move out of state! I promised my son that he could go to the same school next year! I scrambled to think of things to say that would tell the recruiter the position she had wasn’t for me. And then—voila!—she asked me if I had been using a certain program for a long time. “Oh no,” I answered. “I’d say less than six months.”

“Oh. Well, this position is for someone who has used the program for 3-5 years.”

Whew!

It took me a little bit to catch myself: had I just shot myself in the foot? What was that, looking to get out of a job interview that I had applied for on purpose? For which I had been nearly jumping up and down a few days before? I had remembered my son’s request when I applied, and it hadn’t been a deal-breaker then!

If a door opens in a forest and we slam it back shut right away, was it ever really an option?

Exercising the Demons

I took the advice of my therapist and began exercising at the gym. I've had the gym membership for several weeks, but __ happened and then ___ happend, and basically, I didn't go.

So, for the last three days I've gone every day. I've gotten over my fear of looking around, although I'm still afraid to look at people. I'm kind of still afraid to be over in the free weights section, too. But I've seen all kinds of people, including heavier people like me, and that helps.

It also helps that I took a Weights and Fitness class in HS. I'm obviously not lifting the amount of weight I did in HS, but at least I recognize most of the machines. And I'm doing good. My muscles fatigue, and that's the main point. I work up a sweat, whether lifting or cardio.

I feel fantastic.

I hear about exercise as a way to combat depression, but I've never seen an actual study, and in fact, some of the reports I read are less than encouraging.

But I'll tell you what: exercise beats that feeling of helplessness. There's no way not to feel powerful when you're working out.

I suppose it helps that I have little or no expectation for myself, since I haven't done it in forever. Even with running, I'm starting out super-slow. I'm approaching working out like this: I want to build a good habit, so I'm not going to push myself to out-perform myself all the time, just to go. I just need to build the habit of going to the gym every day, like brushing my teeth.

I've learned from Al Marrewa that I can defend myself if I have to, which reduces the need to turn every potential threat into a full-blown panic.

I'm also just becoming more of myself, and I had no idea how much I missed myself, and how active and tough I was. Like, I was really a badass compared to how I am now. And I can really be a badass again.

I'm certainly not healed; right now, as I work on getting to the gym, the cleaning of the apartment has completely suffered. If my fantastic and amazing BF weren't picking up the slack, it would be terrible. Of course, he's working doubles for the next three or four days, so he will NOT be helping out (I won't let him and he couldn't anyway). so I need to get on that. A load of laundry every day. Putting clothes away. cleaning the cat litter. Making the beds. doing the dishes, taking out the trash, putting things away. Last night I just rested, because I really needed it, emotionally and everything. It was a rare weeknight without the kiddoes, and I just needed to decompress.

But you know what? Everything's just a little bit easier when you're doing something good for yourself, and you know you're not last on the totem pole, nose-deep in the shtuff with the weight of the whole pole on your shoulders.

Note: See the comment below? Albert Marrewa actually responded. How cool is that?

To give full credit and to answer the question: I read "Feminine Warrior" (from the library), which totally kicked ass. So much so I had to buy it (and I'm still dealing with all of the reticence involved in buying things for myself, which makes it a big deal to make a purchase).

But, Mr. Marrewa, you certainly did help! Even just knowing that there are ways to defend myself that aren't overly complicated, and that I could if I had to, helps me feel much more secure, and I feel more empowered to then make decisions on whether or not I will take someone's crap or not. I realize there is actually the element of choice, which I could not even see before learning that I'm not helpless.

Thanks! For the book and for responding, which is still so cool I can hardly breathe.

Powerlessness

That's what we talked about today.

Powerlessness.

The rage, the anger, the frustration, the anxiety, the feeling overwhelmed. That shaky-core feeling you feel right before your eyes start to well up...

...that feeling that chokes you and makes your stomach and chest heave while you're watching a movie, and trying not to cry, damn it!

Powerlessness.

Where does it come from? Where is it going? What can I do with it?

Like a lot of abuse victims, I have to let go of my rage. A little at a time, I have to let out the little punky girl who says, "How DARE you...." to her abuser. I know you have one. I have one, too. She shakes her fist. She gets in your face, and she's what makes you bite your lip. You bite your lip to hold her back, because she's angry.

But I don't know what she's going to do.

She might just want to exercise, to feel like she's punching or running.

But right now she's making me shake.

Powerlessness. I'm powerless against her. I'm powerless once I let her out. I'm powerless holding her in, because she is my power. she's the Source.

If I respected women at all, she'd be the Goddess in full Retribution mode.

That's what she should be. Not an angry brat, but a vengeful goddess with lightning in her hair.

Feeling Better today

I changed the kitty litter. I forgot the cat food, but my wonderful boyfriend rescued me and bought some last night.

I ate dinner.

I got the children dressed and to school on time.

I bought myself gobs of earings, and it was hard to do.

I talked to my son about using a respectful tone, without raising my voice, guilting him, or anything else. I just noted to him that his tone was very demanding of me, and that I don't require that he tell me what to do; I'm very willing to help him out with whatever he needs. He apologized.

I talked to my other son about being nice, when his teacher corrected him gently for asking mean questions to a hypothetical new student for an assignment. I talked to him about the types of questions, and he showed me the nicer questions that he wrote after his teacher talked to him.

I like it when the teachers and I are on the same page.

I feel better today;

I did some work on an assignment that's been lingering over me for months now. I confronted it and I did 2/13 of the work, and I made it easier to answer the remaining questions by uploading their Substance of Concern list into my database.

I feel better today; I've requested my books, ordered my self-defense DVD.

I feel better today; I've talked myself into going to the gym this evening, because I don't need to spend hours there, just 15-25 minutes, and the kids can play in the kid room, even if the gym is busy.

I'm telling myself today that no one has the right to boss me, or push me around. I am telling myself today that I am going to be stronger, and not let people boss me around. That I am going to work toward being someone whom people don't even try to boss around, and the person who just smiles inwardly at people attempting to boss her around, because she knows, she absolutely knows, that they have no say.

I think healing isn't about being uber-watchful and suspicious, defensive and angry, and handing my power out to everyone and everything but me. I think healing is knowing that no one can make me do something. I may choose between the lesser of evils, but the choice is always mine.

I think healing is finding that quiet place inside, the one that lets other people have their opinions and doesn't get so worked up. I think healing is knowing that if so and so doesn't settle down, that I can take them down if I had to, I simply won't have to.

And already, that little voice in my head (who sounds suspiciously like my soon-to-be-ex) hisses: "And how long will this Zen moment last? As soon as you feel behind in your work? As soon as you are late going somewhere? You can't sustain this!"

Synthesis

Today I'm trying to get back on the train, and out of the funk. It's hard to get out of the funk. I need to do so much, and so much of what I do and what I need is scattered to the four winds.

The trick of integrating my life is hard, too.

Here we go….

OK, so the trick I'm learning--that I've been learning--is that I'm not seven different people. I am not a mother separate from a girlfriend, separate from a worker-bee, separate from an artist, etc., etc.

All of these people are me, and functioning in one role does not mean that I can't do the things from the other role. It's like I need one massive To-Do list, that's categorized by the role...but again, it doesn't matter what role it is. Hell, half the time it doesn't even matter if I do something at home or at work; it all blurs into the same thing.

Getting organized, getting my life on track, staying on top of the activities and the needs of everyone, especially myself (I have to remind myself, because I'm healing and I don't always remember to take care of myself), all of that is chaotic and scary.

And it doesn't help me to have with-it people telling me how to do it, because you know what? They've found their way and that's great, but their way isn't always my way. And my way hasn't been found yet. And they're not going to be the ones to find my way...I am.

So I know you mean well, all you wannabe Franklin Covey's out there. I know you think that telling me that "breaking down things in small chunks will help me feel better" will help me feel better, but it actually makes me feel MORE overwhelmed. Because if you had any clue as to how many things I do in a day, for how many different people including myself, you'd have your own heart attack.

I'm not overwhelmed because I don't know how to deal with goals and plans. I'm overwhelmed because I don't deal with them. I can break them down to bits, but if I don't clean out the kitty litter, the kitty litter doesn't get cleaned out.

Oh yeah, I have to buy cat food.

Don't add a list of "shoulds" to my burden. I know what I should do, but the question is what will I do today and tomorrow. And I may not do much today, and I may do four times the amount you do today, I don't know. But in the end, I have to live with it, not you. So quit telling me how I should do it, and either help me do it or get out of my way.

OK, that rant aside....

Integration and synthesis

No, we're not doing calculus any time soon. That's not what I mean about integration. I mean putting my Inner Child in the same room with my Mommy-side, and making sure that their needs are met. Some of their needs include needing to be expressed from time-to-time. It's a good thing I have supplies for that:

• Paint
• Paper
• Charcoal
• Clay
• Construction Paper
• Scissors
• Pipe Cleaners
• Pom-poms (the little craft ones, not the cheer-leader kind)

Everything one needs for some major expression.

Now, before anyone gets on my case about expressing the Inner Child too much and the Mom too little, let me just set the record straight here. The mom and the Inner child can express equally well through any medium. The variety just makes sure that if they wish to express in different media, they can.

But before this all becomes a chore (I'm exploring Self-Defense today, too), let's be sure to note that all of this is optional. Because I have actual chores I need to do, like change the kitty litter, buy cat food, eat dinner, etc.

But something feels trapped inside of me. Not like it's trapped on the inside, but something that lives inside of me is feeling trapped.

Sometimes it's rage that feels stuck. There's a lot of quivering and inappropriate crying (inappropriate because crying isn't a rage-response, it's a repression-of-rage-response)

Sometimes it's fear that that feels stuck. The fraidy-cat in me, the real victim-victim, sometimes gets stuck inside and can't show me how afraid she really is. That's when everyone thinks I'm OK, but inside I'm crawling and puling and dying.

Sometimes it's creativeness and light that gets stuck, and then I feel anxious.

Sometimes it's anxiety that gets stuck, and I feel hopeless.

Sometimes it's sadness that gets stuck, and I feel irritated with everyone.

When won't I be so fucked up?

When Is It Enough?

It makes no difference if he was stalking me again, or if he interfered with my ability to get help for my children, or even if he left a nasty message in my mailbox. It makes no difference if he left a terrible phone message or he simply told me that if I do this, he will do that. My abuser has his own pattern, and your abuser has his or her own pattern.

What matters is that he did it again today.

He does it every couple of weeks.

Yes, I got an order of protection. My second for him. Yes, I have a lawyer. Yes, I'm working on "finding myself", and I am eating, praying, and loving. Yes, I have rediscovered my inner child, my psychic self, and my sexuality. Yes, I am undergoing therapy. I even decorated my apartment with a tree, and rocks, and moss: all of the things my inner child needs around her in order to feel safe.

But I don't feel safe.

My boyfriend's abusive ex-girlfriend followed us in her car yesterday, honking and swearing...

When is it enough?

When do I draw my line in the sand and say, "No more"?

Maybe today.

It Doesn't Take Much

He got to me again today.

God, it doesn't take much: 3 cell phone calls (1:43pm, 1:45pm, and 1:46pm). I finally picked up that last one, and in 1 minute and 24 seconds felt anxious, gulity, harassed, scared...

He was supposed to pick up the car at 2:30.

I'm at lunch with my boyfriend. A great lunch--romantic, sweet. He slides out of the car while Ogre is talking to me for 1 min, 24 seconds. I drive toward work. I get to work, and Ogre is standing in front of a parking spot, at the front door of my workplace.

He's scowling.

As I open the door, he comes right up to it. I put my head down, and wouldn't even know I did it except in my memory, the top part of my vision only goes up to the bottom of the window, with the corner of the window filled by red jacket.

Why am I holding the door so it doesn't hit him? I wish I could just hit him. I should bash him with it, yell, "Get out of my way!" but I don't. He wouldn't think twice of doing either of those things to me.

Instead, I slither out, feeling guilty, looking guilty. I barely open the door, not even allowing myself the permission of moving freely, not even giving myself the basic human worth of space. I hurry toward the door of work, toward escape.

"By the way," he says, and what I hear is, "I'm about to tell you something that you'd know already if you weren't so obtuse..."

"I put gas in the car last weekend," he says to me.

Do you want a cookie? I say to myself, and feel guilty. "I put $20 or $30 in it this week," I say. Why am I explaining myself?

I scurry inside.

When I get to my desk, a message.

It isn't much. The whole encounter isn't much. But it isn't in the encounter, or even the activities themselves, it's in the positioning. He had the power. I was the victim.

Again.

I’ve recounted some of the emotional and sexual abuse perpetrated by the Ogre toward me, but until very recently I have stopped short of actually classifying my marriage to the Ogre as “domestic violence”. As a hospital advocate with a crisis center, I know what Domestic Violence is. I’ve had the training regarding the cycle of violence, and the different ways perpetrators gain access and rob the victim of power and control of their own lives. So what stopped me from saying so?

In order to admit that my relationship was domestically violent, I have to admit I was a victim. I have to admit that it happened to me, and that I did not even see it for a long time. I have to admit that I allowed, through inaction, the abuse to continue. I have to admit that I should have left sooner, but didn’t. I have to admit that I was too weak even to leave for the sake of my children.

There’s also the Dysfunctional Family Rule: don’t talk about it. If I discuss any of the Ogre's transgressions, he says I am lying or overreacting, but he feels free to discuss my transgressions to everyone, including the children. I have been conditioned not to speak about David’s behavior. Even now, when the children are asking not to be hurt, the Ogre blames me, demanding “What are you trying to do?” in an intimidating voice. It is very frightening to me to bring up any of his behaviors for me or the children, because I will receive many kinds of backlash from him.

One thing that all of the Ogre's behavior has taught me is that I am acting in strong belief of my cause. I am acting on behalf of my children, to remove them from an abusive environment, and I am acting on my own behalf, to transition from a victim to a survivor. Yes, it did happen to me. It can happen to anyone, but I am strong enough to stop it now, before it gets worse, even if I couldn’t stop it sooner.

So I present a chronology of the Ogre's abusive actions, to me and toward the children, so I can show the pattern of degradation, humiliation, intimidation, and criticism that is life in the Ogre's house. I have audio recordings of some of these items, including a tactic called “gaslighting” and called “invalidation”, where someone twists reality to suit themselves, thus leaving the victim insecure in their own position.

I ask you to consider the scary, hurtful environment that Domestic violence has created, for me and for the children, and I ask you to help me eliminate that environment. I ask that the Ogre be directed to:

a. Refrain from harassment, including bringing up court-related questions (like his need for the car on Saturday) but yelling at me not to speak to him or to “leave him alone” when I respond to statements or ask him for the car for my on-call shift Saturday.

b. Refrain from jokes at my expense in front of the children (Little One mentioned that he had said I was belly dancing and the Ogre had responded, “Well, she has the belly for it”) This includes refraining from practical jokes like driving the car forward when I reach for the handle.

c. Refrain from put-downs and criticism about me or my significant other, whether in my presence or in front of the children

d. Refrain from interrogating the children about what they ate, what they did, etc. when they are with me.

e. Refrain from derogatory insinuations, threats of future activity (“Just you wait”), intimidation tactics (“so you’re not willing to work this out” and “You’re trying for full custody”, “What are you doing?”Stated forcefully and repeated until I say something), belittling comments (“I know you…”said in a negative tone in front of the Little One), Accusations of lying (which can also be taken as discussing the complaint, which he has been forbidden to do by the Judge).

f. Refrain from derogatory actions, such as driving away if I am late to be picked up (which cannot happen if we are not in the car together ever) , being excessively late (more than 10 minutes) to a meeting/dropping off children, or taking me on errands against my will when he is supposed to be dropping me off.

g. Refrain from yelling, shouting, etc.

h. Refrain from repetitive or excessive telephoning (he hangs up on me then calls me right back to yell at me more)

Thank you.

Letters to My Original Abusers

Dear Dad,

I think I’ve written a letter like this before to you, but I don’t know if I ever sent it, and anyway, I understand a lot more about the subject now.

Dad, I’m angry with you. I’ve been angry with you for what seems like forever.

I’m angry that, despite the fact that you worked from home, you were rarely around. I’m angry that, when you were around, you were often mean and violent. I’m angry that you seemed to loathe the family you created. I’m especially angry and hurt that you seem to have mellowed out with D’s family, in a way that you were never mellow with ours.

I’m angry that you cheated on Mom. I’m angry that you lied about it.

Having said that, I do actually understand feeling trapped in a family that doesn’t seem like your own. I know what it’s like to have a depressed spouse, and the strain it puts on one. I understand not feeling wanted, and seeking to fulfill that need outside of marriage. But I’m angry that you didn’t solve the problem, and it was up to me, in my generation, to learn that sometimes it’s better to leave than to be exploited.

I’m angry that you were physically abusive. Dave is abusive and insensitive, and even he was shocked that you found your “training sessions” in the truck funny. You would hit us so hard sometimes we would see stars, Dad. It hurt Annie and it hurt me. It especially hurt me because I would be punished if Annie couldn’t answer fast enough, so in time, I became responsible for math that was five years ahead of where I was. You didn’t make me good at math that way, Dad. It took years of me training myself out of the sheer terror of answering math problems to enjoy math. I used to be terrified of flash cards, because they reminded me of you.

I’m angry, and have been angry for a long time, that you expected me to “make up” for what you perceived as Annie’s deficiencies. I know now that a lot of my academic underachievement was related directly to that expectation and your other unreachable expectations.

I’m angry that you’d hit us, and that you taught me so early that defending myself just made the beating worse. I’m angry, because that set me up to be raped when I was 11. I didn’t fight, and for years I blamed myself for not fighting, until I realized it was a learned response, but still I blame myself, even knowing it was a learned response, because of course you’d assume it was my fault somehow.

There were times when I was a child, especially after the rape, that I wanted to kill you.

I’m angry that because I’m used to men being controlling and unpredictable, violent and aggressive, that I continued to pick out men in my life who were like that (with one notable exception; my firstborn’s namesake).

I’m angry that the house was messy all of the time, and that you’d suddenly require Annie and I to clean it, without ever having taught us the habits of picking up after ourselves regularly.

I’m angry that you took better care of the horses than you took of us. I’m angry that, despite the fact that Mom worked, too, she was still in charge of grocery shopping, much of the cooking, and housework that of course she couldn’t complete.

I’m angry that when you cleaned, you got violent.

I’m angry that you were mostly unpredictable.

I’m sad that I lost out on a lot of feeling good about myself because I was never good enough for you.

I’m enraged that you treated Annie so poorly throughout her life. It actually makes me sick that you were so terrible to her, and that in order for her to do things she wanted to do, I had to ask for her.

I’m angry that you didn’t protect me from Grandpa, knowing what you must have known about his relationship to your sister. I’m angry because molestation leads to hypersexual behavior, which also set me up to be raped again and again throughout my life. I’m incensed that you would place your daughters in situations where they would be alone with a known child molester. I can’t even put words to my rage and confusion about that.

I’m angry that you broke my tailbone because I forgot a math book at school. I’m angry that, to this day, I’m afraid people will leave me if I’m not exactly on time.

I’m angry that I was so terrified of the school calling the house that, whenever possible, I’d screen calls, and say you were unavailable.

I’m angry you didn’t try to help me with my school troubles, but instead just believed that I was bad.

I’m angry that you only loved me when I did things you wanted me to do, like roller skating, spending time with the horses, getting good grades or acting smart.

I’m angry that most of your comments were hurtful, were put-downs, and now that’s what I assume everyone is saying to me all of the time, without even realizing I’m doing it.

Mostly, I’m angry that even though I try my hardest to avoid you, you are still very present in my life, still influencing much of what I do, still making me feel small and unworthy.

I’m angry that I never busted you right in the face, that I never kicked you in the kneecaps. I’m angry that I rarely, if ever, screamed at you until my throat was raw.

I’m angry that you didn’t ever realize you were a crappy parent, and seek help to become a better one.

I’m mostly angry and betrayed, though, that you don’t seem to realize how much you hurt everyone in our family. That you don’t even think that torturing the cats was bad.

I’m angry that I never felt safe to express myself, even though I did it sometimes, anyway. NEVER. I’m especially angry that you told me that if I wrote about our family, you’d disown me. The answer to that is: Then don’t do things you’d be ashamed of others reading about!

I’m angry that you taught me to fear you, instead being someone I could respect. I’m angry that I’m afraid of Dave, partly because I’m afraid of men in general.

I’m angry that you didn’t show how evil you were to other people, although some people could sense it, anyway.

I’m angry that, to this day, I still have trouble expressing anger and rage, because you showed us that those emotions aren’t “safe”, and because we weren’t allowed to express them toward you.

I am looking at my life right now, and naming things appropriately. Dad, I was molested as an infant and a toddler, as a young girl and a teenager and finally an adult because you didn’t stop it. Because I was molested, I was hypersexual in play, and because I wasn’t able to fight back, I was raped. The majority of my sexual experiences have been rape, sexual assault, even though I told myself it was my choice, I was still only having sex because I thought there was no other way out, because I felt I caused the situation and it was my fault, because I didn’t know how to say “no”. With 84 people, I could not say “no”. I allowed people to use my body because I didn’t think I was worth saving.

I have been reliving my relationship with you, with Grandpa, with Mom over and over, trying to get it right this time. I now acknowledge that I cannot make it right. You cannot make it right. All I can do is express my understanding and genuine rage at this, and stand up for myself and say “NO MORE”.

NO MORE silence

NO MORE intimidation

NO MORE threats

NO MORE tolerance

NO MORE sweeping it under the rug

NO MORE ignorance

NO MORE abusing myself

NO MORE letting others abuse me

NO MORE repeating my past.

NO MORE you being in charge

NO MORE fear of you

NO MORE accepting criticism from you

NO MORE sharing my time with people who don’t want to be around me.

NO MORE allowing people to intimidate me just because I’m used to it.

NO MORE!

I hate you for what you did, and that you never cared enough for us to see the impact you were having. I’ve hated you and hated you, until I had no energy to hate you anymore. I’ve hated myself for being like you, for being molded by you.

NO MORE.

I may forgive you one day, for my own peace of mind, but not today. Today, I need to see where my wounds are, so I can begin healing them. And you have no choice over it, no power to give or deny me permission to do it. You have no power to stop me from writing about the things you’ve done in my life, because you did them in my life.

For now, I just forgive myself for continuing the patterns of abuse I learned as a child. I forgive myself, and I dedicate myself to learning healthier relationships. This Generational problem stops with me.

A letter to Mom,

Dear Mom,

I cannot express anger to you directly, yet. I suppose part of me is still afraid you will break. I have only resentment. I will work on the anger part. Right now, I try simply not to relive your life, not to repeat the mistakes I lived through you making. I will not allow my husband to abuse my children. I will not attempt suicide. I will not abandon my family.

A letter to Grandpa,

I’ve said everything I’ve needed to say to your spirit. I’ve released my negative energy toward you, and I let you go, willingly, into your eternal slumber.