Memories Captured: Remembering the Joy

In November of last year, 2011, news reports came out that there was a scandal of child sexual abuse at Penn State University.  Shortly after hearing the news, my significant other, M, recovered memories of his own child sexual abuse.  During the same time, I was at a crossroads in my relationship with my mother due to my own issues with childhood sexual abuse.  I severed all ties with her by February of 2012.  M is currently teetering on the fence with his family, exploring how to make their relationships work in light of his memories.

For families that have been torn apart by abuse, the holidays can be a heavy burden and filled with grief.  For M and me, 2012, this year, was the first year we did not have to make excuses to avoid Thanksgiving with family.  No one called to invite us.  On one hand, this was a relief.  I know that my healing cannot be done with my family in my life.  On the other hand, the grief that remains is something I would rather not contend with, for grief is a prize fighter.

During Christmastime 2010, as we were ushering in 2011, not knowing the aftermath of child abuse was going to plague our days at the end of the year and well into the next, we celebrated.  We sang.  We danced.  We loved.

During Christmastime 2010 we made a video. 

Last year, during the Christmas of 2011, we did not create a video.  In fact, I can’t find many pictures from then either.  I could say it was just too difficult with the girls going back and forth, to and from their dads for extended periods of time.  Or, we didn't have them on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, so what fun would it have been to make a video?  But those would be lies.  Last year, during the Christmas of 2011, we were heavy with grief.  The prize fighter had us in a TKO.  Although we didn't let our emotions keep us from having Christmas, we failed to conjure the spirit to capture the moments of Christmas.

Adult survivors of child abuse lose a lot of time.  Sometimes the good times are viewed through murky goggles of pain, anger, and sadness.  It takes a strange amount of courage to cut through the muck and be present.  Being present can take all of the energy leaving none for picking up the camera to capture the memories.

However, capturing memories is important.  Remembering the joy of the present offsets the pain of the past. 

Two bloggers I know, Galit and Alison, understand the importance of capturing memories.  They provide bloggers an opportunity to share their treasured moments each month in a blogging link up called Memories Captured.  I’m grateful for this.  It is a much needed reminder for me.  I do not want to lose any more time without it being documented. 

And so, to express my gratitude, I’m joining the link up this month.  My submission is our Christmas video from 2010.  It reminds me that we are a joyful bunch.  It gives me hope.  Maybe we’ll even create another this year.

photo credit: Brian Hathcock via photopin cc

Save It for Later: Voices of Healing

In my highly neglected series, Save It for Later, I summarized things I found and bookmarked throughout the week from around the Web, reading them later, and then sharing them with you.  Although it is not technically the end of the week, I resurrect the series on the day when we expect to be visited by ghosts, Halloween. 

Consider this installment of Save It for Later a transition of a series from ghost to reality, and enjoy.

Your Roots Fridays

Last week, I was thrilled to be featured at Erin Margolin’s space for her series Your Roots Fridays, where writers explore their beginnings.  I struggled with this post because, as I am sure some of you experience, it’s difficult to articulate where words come from and where the need to write originates.  Please check out my submission, Me Too, and then explore the rest of the great stories submitted by others in the Show Us Your Roots series.  

As I explored Erin Margolin’s space, I realized she is an active voice and co-founder of the Gay Dad Project.  This is a project that you must take note of and share with friends.  Not only does Erin share her story about the day her dad revealed to the family that he was gay, but you will also find the story told from the perspectives of her mom and her dad.  What struck me most about these stories is the power in more than one person in the family sharing their experiences. 

In my own experience of healing from my hurts that occurred within my family of origin, I have had to separate from family members completely.  Seeing that Erin’s mom and dad were willing to share their stories is profound, brave, and a giant step in the right direction to healing their family’s hurts.  Also, through their words, other families will find strength and courage to live in honesty and love. 

One of Erin’s partners in the Gay Dad Project will appear on the Ricki Lake Show this Friday. 


Spiritual Journey of Healing

Spiritual Journey of a Lightworker

Patricia Singleton is another very powerful voice of healing.  I visit her space, Spiritual Journey of a Lightworker, regularly for inspiration and have written about her before here.  As an incest survivor who is thriving, last week Patricia celebrated the courageous voice of Aaron Fisher, Jerry Sandusky’s Victim #1.  Be sure to read JerrySandusky's Victim #1 Is Hero #1 For All Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse.

Sperk* at One Year

Last week I celebrated one year at Sperk*.  When I started writing here, I had no idea what I was doing.  Presently, I still have that feeling.  Reflecting upon the past year caused me to question if what I am doing here is of any value.  After a bit of self-loathing, I came to the conclusion that Sperk* does have value. (Not only that, because of being a BlogHer '12 Voice of the Year Honoree, I am now published!)  Within these posts, I've grown, become stronger, and know that if I stay the course I will get to a place where I can not only survive, but also thrive.  I appreciate you being my witness on this journey.

The One Thing I Can't Say: I'm Depressed

The first time I remember feeling depressed was in the first grade.  My grandfather had just died.  During recess, I walked around the school yard without talking or playing with anyone for at least three days. One of those times, Sister Miriam Ann decided to bring me into my classroom and tell my homeroom teacher what she had observed.  This attempt to help me included empathy from both her and my teacher.  I felt it in their words, even though I didn’t believe what they said: “Your grandfather is happy in heaven with God.”

That was approximately 36 years ago.

Since then, I have experienced many varying levels of depression, from mild to clinical—after every break-up, every time a performance run ended, when I failed exams, after recovering memories of sexual abuse, after each of my children were born and after my divorce.

I have had varying types of treatment—talk therapy, rehab, medication and EMDR.  They all worked for a period of time.

Time is a tricky thing.

I am on the upswing from what I thought was a mild bout of depression.  However, when examining the calendar, charting the amount of time I have felt down and the number of episodes of Pawn Stars I have viewed, I have to reassess—it has been severe.  On the other hand, it hasn’t lasted that long and to the untrained eye, or to those who do not regularly see me, nothing seems unusual. 

I don’t think my daughters have even noticed.  Or maybe they have.  And that kills me.

It’s not that there are glaring signs of my depression staring my daughters in the face.  I do not stay in bed all day (at least, not when they are around), there is always food on the table, clean underwear in their drawers, and I have made it to every beginning-of-the-school-year parent meeting.  However, I know what would be staring them in the face if I was not depressed.  It would all be better—the condition of the house and my enthusiasm for after-school time beyond making sure they get their homework done successfully.

The funny thing about depression is that it can become comfortable.  An upswing towards feeling good, although being the desired goal, is uncomfortable and unfamiliar—scary. 

And what would people think if they knew I struggled with depression?  That question plagues me with such ferocity that I dare not admit even the slightest bit of sadness.  So things come out sideways.  For instance, yesterday when I was driving my older daughter home from school, a telemarketer called.  I answered the unfamiliar number with enthusiasm because the opposite, ignoring the phone, is typically one of the first signs that indicate I am depressed. 

I thought, “Yay! I am answering the phone.  I am getting better!”

The conversation started out pleasant but ended with an inappropriate outburst that stunned my daughter:

Telemarketer: Is Kimberly Speranza available?
Me:  (with a very sweet sounding voice) It depends on who is calling.
Telemarketer: This is [so and so] from [so and so]
Me: (continues sweetly) She’s not available to you and please take her number off your list.  I mean, this is Kimberly.  Please take my number off your list.
Telemarketer: Are you on the National Do Not Call List?
Me: (getting angry) Yes.
Telemarketer: How’s that working out for you?
Me: (blows her top) Why don’t you suck balls and die.

(Uh-huh.  I know, I know. It was terrible and completely out of character for me.  IT was my depression being inappropriately expressed as anger towards and innocent person trying to do their job.  Additionally, it was a not-so-fine moment of setting an example for my daughter of how to handle annoying phone calls--not OK.)

I tapped the phone to hang up as the telemarketer whaled with laughter.  My daughter heard him.  She said, “Mom! That was awful. He was laughing at you.”

And there it is.

I don’t want to be laughed at.

I don’t want to be coddled and consoled.

I don’t want to be looked at like an insane person who is incapable of functioning.

Intellectually I know the above list of fears is unwarranted.  I understand mental illness.  I understand it is nothing to be ashamed of or to hide.  And yet, here I am, feeling exposed and afraid.

I am afraid that if I admit I am depressed, I will no longer be taken seriously.  Everything I say, write, or suggest will be met with, “She’s just crazy.”  Then I will be ignored, no longer heard or believed.

Typically, in order to avoid that vulnerable feeling of being exposed, I’ll cover it up by announcing my new “thing”:  quitting smoking, exercising, juicing, writing 2,000 words a day, yoga, meditation, taking walks.  Some of which I have tried, some of which I have only contemplated while lying on the couch with the TV mindlessly flashing before me.  And when all turn out to be unsuccessful attempts at getting myself off the couch, the depression worsens.

In AA, the first of the Twelve Steps is:  We admitted we were powerless over alcohol - that our lives had become unmanageable.

I believe that within the words of Step One lies freedom.  Admitting.  Saying what is.  Calling a spade a spade. 

I admit it, I struggle with depression.

Gratefully linking up with Pour Your Heart Out
 which prompted me to write about my struggle with depression.

photo credit: ashley rose, via photo pin cc

Turn Back Time, Again

I was questioning everything I did like it was my first day on the planet.  Everything was wrong, even my attitude.

Then I got a message asking me to participate in an outstanding blogging meme at Chosen Chaos.  I enthusiastically said, “yes!” and even though I wasn’t scheduled to contribute until later in the year, being considered was more than enough to turn my negative attitude into goodness. 

Jamie Walker created If I Could Turn Back Time as a way to meet new bloggers and learn some life lessons:

Rea­sons for this series include…

Intro­duce my read­ers to some great blog­gers out there

Learn a les­son from some­one else’s les­son learned

Enjoy some “thank God for that” thoughts that we never haveto be 18 again

Remind our­selves that we’ve come a long way… and still havea long way to go!

The meme was comprised of one question:

If you had the oppor­tu­nity to sit down with your 18 year old self what would you say to her?

I thought of all of the funny things I would tell my 18 year old self and quickly typed them out.  However, how many funny posts at Sperk* have you read?  Zach Galifianakis is not burning up my Twitter feed with requests that I collaborate on writing a movie.

I put it away for a while.  I had time.

Then I had one day.

Thinking of what and how to write my submission was difficult.

It stirred things up.

I became angry—mad at my 18 year old self, frustrated with my 42 year old self, and furious at time.

Then I wrote.

Things don’t go away without effort.  One has to let them go.  Then one can make room for a new outlook, a fresh perspective, a space where breathing is effortless and living feels right. 

That’s what this post did for me.  It was featured at Chosen Chaos on July 20^th. 

Today, Chosen Chaos is celebrating a full year of If I CouldTurn Back Time by linking up all of the bloggers who participated.  My submission is below followed by a link that takes you to that link up. I encourage you to go there and spend some of your time.  Each writer approached it differently.  Each writer gave the reader something to hold onto that is inspiring. 

If you had the opportunity 
to sit down with your 18-year-old self, 

what would you say?

Put down that beer right now. It has caused you enough grief already and I am sure that if you stop drink­ing now, it will save you a lot of grief in the future. You do not need it. It just makes you seem silly and makes you a target for abuse.

Now, call your mom back and tell her you will be changing your major even though she thinks you won’t be able to succeed at anything else. Danc­ing is her dream, not yours. You want to be seen AND heard.

Unfortunately, your life has been based on how you appear to others and it has made you very inse­cure. You will never measure up to the incredible standards you have created for yourself. So, just do it. Change your major from dance to psychology.

Here comes the difficult part.

You are not crazy.

You are right.

The drinking, the eating disorder and the incredibly low self-​esteem are connected. I know you have been searching with all of your might, try­ing to find the missing piece, trying to get it to make sense. I know you do not want to drink and you do not want to count potato chips. You want to walk into a room and confidently say, “Hello.”

The missing piece is a lost memory. You suppressed it because it was too much for your developing brain to handle. I am not sure your brain can handle it now, but I do know you’ll waste less time if you know—now.

If you need to leave school, do it.

If you need to stop talk­ing to your mom and sis­ter, do it.

If you need to join the Peace Corps, do it.

Whatever it takes to begin your journey of healing, do it now.

All else will take care of itself.

No need to worry about getting too old to dance. You won’t be a famous dancer. Dance for fun.

If you want to be famous, head towards that lit­tle room in the basement of the university next to the sports equipment storage—the computer lab. That’s where the money is. And yes, you are smart enough to do it.

Work on your voice. Write. Laugh. Go for a walk and write some more.

No, I’m not kidding.

That journal writing you have been doing is good stuff. It really, really is. And don’t throw away any of them. You’ll want all of your writ­ing, even the stuff you wrote when you were eight years old.

People will hear you.

You will be heard.

It will get very lonely sometimes. But it will pass. It all does. Everything does. Darkness turns to light, sadness to joy and vice versa.

Yes, there will be darkness.

When it is especially difficult, look in the mirror and say, “I love you.”

Look at me, right now, saying, and “It wasn’t your fault.”

You will get through this.

You have survived the worst of it.

There will be light.

And I will be here, with you, always.

If I Could Turn Back Time Link-Up

photo credit: slack12 via photo pin cc

Save It for Later: Father's Day and Jerry Sandusky

Save It for Later is a weekly roundup of items I find around the Web that I find worth sharing.  I use the term  "weekly" lightly, as I have not been exactly consistent it getting this posted.  In an attempt to turn over a new blogging leaf, I am back at it and on Father's Day.

Father's Day is not a fun one for me.  As some of you know, my father is a child molester and I was one of his victims.  I know I am not alone in experiencing mixed emotions during Father's Day and some have different reasons than my own.  However, there are some great dads out there and they deserve to be honored.  If you are one of those dads, and you know who are even if you did not receive a new drill or tie, Happy Father's Day.  Keep up the good work.  Your kids need you.  You are significant in their lives and you must never forget it--even on your worst of days.

Father's Day and Money

According to the History Channel American’s spend 1 billion dollars each year on Father’s Day gifts.  That’s a lot of money.  I am sure many dads deserve to be honored with gifts on this designated day to honor, but I can think of many more deserving ways to spend that much money.

If we took the money we spent on Father’s Day gifts and gave it to an organization that supports the prevention of child abuse, we could make an impact on moving towards eliminating child abuse.  This would result in world full good dads, dads who as children grew up in supportive environments.

I am not saying the good dads out there do not deserve to be honored.  They do.  But how about cooking up a good breakfast with items you already have in your refrigerator and finding a piece of paper and pen and making a handmade card with a poem authored by the kids?

I think the same should be done for Mother’s Day, too.  Little girls who grow up in supportive environments grow up to be supportive moms.

Also, preventing child abuse is good for the economy.

According to the Pew Charitable Trust, child abuse costs our nation 103.8 billion dollars a year:

The $103.8 billion cost of child abuse and neglect includes more than $33 billion in direct costs for foster care services, hospitalization, mental health treatment, and law enforcement.  Indirect costs of over $70 billion include loss of productivity, as well as expenditures related to chronic health problems, special education, and the criminal justice system. (source)

Loss of productivity impacts the economy as does tax dollars spent on foster care services and the criminal justice system.  So what would happen if we all took just a little of that Father’s Day gift money and donated it to an organization that works to prevent child abuse?  What would happen if we all took time after making our donations to learn how to prevent child abuse?   We could make a difference. 

The financial costs of child abuse is substantial, but let’s not forget the cost that is immeasurable—pain and suffering that lasts a lifetime:

. . .it is impossible to calculate the impact of the pain, suffering, and  reduced quality of life that victims of child abuse and neglect experience.  These “intangible losses”, though difficult to quantify in monetary terms, are real and should not be overlooked.  Intangible losses, in fact, may represent the largest cost component of violence against children and should be taken into account when allocating resources. (PCAAmerica)

Here are some organizations that work to prevent child abuse, could use your donation, and can provide you with information to learn to prevent child abuse:

Prevent Child Abuse America

Children’s Trust Fund

National Sexual Violence Resource Center

Stop It Now

Hero Project

Jerry Sandusky Stands Trial

Jerry Sandusky

Jerry Sandusky who is accused of 52 counts of molesting 10 boys over 14 years maintains his innocence.  His trial began on Monday June 11 wherein testimony from The Sandusky 8, the victims in the trial, was damaging to Sandusky at best.  At some point in the coming week, Sandusky himself is to take the stand in his own defense.  The defense is claiming the victims are in pursuit of financial gain and plan to have an expert testify that Sandusky has a psychiatric disorder—histrionic psychiatric disorder—that caused him to seek the boys attention.  Meaning, he wasn’t really grooming them so that he could rape them he just needed friends.

As uncomfortable as it is, it’s important to stay aware of what transpires during the Sandusky trial.  The Pennsylvania Coalition against Rape (PCAR) has invaluable resources available that parents, school officials, government officials, and anyone concerned with the effects of child abuse on our society should read.  It’s not a short list, so if you just have time for one, be sure to read Talking Points: Child Sexual Abuse.  At the very least, we all should be talking about it.  You can also follow the PCAR blog and real time updates via Twitter from PCAR during the trial.

Keep in mind, although difficult, incredibly difficult, it is possible to heal from child sexual abuse.  In response the hearing victims testimony during the Sandusky trial, Chris Carlton wrote an inspiring piece expressing support for the victims:

So, where does that leave me? Well…hopeful. Not for me—I feel like one of the lucky ones; I’ve found help. I’m hopeful for the men who have yet to reach out for help because what they need is right at their fingertips. The resources they believe are unattainable are within sight. The next three weeks of media bombardment need not be sustained alone and without defense—the bunker is much stronger, much larger and much fuller than anyone might think. To feel less alone and to get a glimpse at some of the millions strong in this bunker, visit 1in6.org/men/other-guys-like-me/.

 Be sure to click the link above and read the entire post.  After, visit 1 in 6.  Learn about child sexual abuse.  Information is empowering.  When empowered, we can be a force of prevention.

Happy Father's Day.

photo credit: naphiu via photo pin cc photo credit: marsmet551 via photo pin cc

Let Them Eat Cake

I was tired, angry and sad.

There.  I said it.

Oh, yes, fabulous things were happening.

Last Thursday I was causally and quickly perusing Twitter and noticed a few congratulatory tweets directed at yours truly.  They were tagged with @BlogHer.

I thought, “Hmm, did I get something featured?  I haven’t posted over there in a while.”

So, I traveled over to BlogHer and saw it.

I was within the list of honorees for BlogHer’s 2012 Voices of the Year.  In the OpEd category.  For my piece on sportscaster, Dan Patrick.

I forgot I submitted it.

Needless to say, I was surprised.  I hadn't noticed the email sent the previous day notifying me of the honor.

I was shocked.  

       

Astounded.

A voice?

Me?

I sobbed.  And sobbed.  And sobbed.

My daughter asked, “Are those happy tears?”

I said, “Well, yes, of course.”

But they weren't.

My head went a whirl trying to figure out if I could actually go to the BlogHer conference in New York City.  Even if I could afford the conference fee, the cost of a hotel room in NYC is fit for aliens.  Not foreigners.  People with expendable cash.  Those people, to me, because I know of none that exist, are aliens.

I want to go.

I want to experience the honor.

You know, that sort of ritual-type of thing, like walking in graduation.

I finished my last courses to obtain my B.A. last November.

I chose not to walk in the graduation.

It was in Iowa.  I could have afforded a hotel room in Iowa.  Normal people convene there, not aliens.

But I wouldn’t allow myself to figure out the logistics of getting on a plane, shuttling to campus, and finding the building that housed the caps and gowns.

My diploma arrived in the mail on Saturday.  Two days after receiving the BlogHer recognition.

M found it leaning on our front door in the morning.  His initial thought was that I bought yet another item that may help the girls get through the summer.  Like a swimsuit or something.

But the box was big.  And the oversized Ashford University logo printed on the box was clue enough for him to rush it upstairs where I was comfortably numb in front of the television and hand it to me.

He said, “It’s here!  Your diploma!  You did it!”

I sobbed.

He said, “Those are happy tears, right?”

More sobbing.

He said, “Open the box.”

More, more sobbing.

He said, “Let’s go out and celebrate.”

More, more, more sobbing.

With exasperation he said, “What is wrong?”

I told him of the time I went to my sister’s college graduation.  She was right on schedule, graduating after four years of studies.  I was standing next to my mother as we watched her being photographed with friends.  Inexplicably, my mother turned to me and said, “You’ll never graduate.”

At the time I was in my second year of college, doing well, and pretty much on track to graduate on time.

I didn’t understand her words.

“You’ll never graduate.”

She was right.  I didn't graduate.  Instead, I went to rehab.

It was then, as I told M the story of my mother's cruel words, that I understood the tears spawned from the BlogHer recognition and from my diploma arriving in the mail.  It was not that I felt sorry for myself because I could not afford to attend the conference.  It was not that I felt sorry for myself because I chose not to walk in graduation.

It was grief.

From what I understand about being a child growing up in a home where abuse is occurring, a victim is silenced.  She is threatened so that she does not tell anyone her dad is raping her at night.  She is threatened so she does not tell anyone that her mom knows and is doing nothing about it.  She has no words to describe the guilt that plagues her--guilt for being the chosen one, guilt for knowing her older sibling resents her for being shoved aside and replaced by her, the younger more appealing victim.

Even though I healed many of the wounds and learned to have a bit of love for myself, I worked very hard to deny my grief.  And it took a lot of energy.

"Pretending that everything is okay when it isn't, as an adult, is not helpful most of the time. The very same denial, that protected me as a child, worked against me as an adult. Denial comes at a high cost to the human body and mind."  ~Patricia Singleton

All of my grief came pouring out during moments when I expected to feel triumphant, elated.  However, life is a conundrum for which I am grateful.  Through my tears, I let go of denial.

I am going to ceremoniously open that box containing my diploma as I am surrounded by my daughters and M.  

Then we will eat cake. 

When I take the first bite, I will taste the sweet bliss of freedom--freedom of voice and freedom from denial.   

My daughters will ask, "Are those happy tears?"

"As you heal, joy and peace become a possibility that you can open yourself up to. Ask any survivor/thriver, if letting go of the denial and feeling the pain was worth what they have today. They will tell you that it was. Please do this for yourself. You are worth it." ~Patricia Singleton

I will respond, "Well, yes, of course"

Thank You BlogHer

for including me as a

2012 Voice of the Year Honoree

I am grateful!

photo credit: chotda via photo pin cc

Wednesday's Woman: The Courage to Heal

Have you ever been handed a book right at the moment in your life that you were meant to read it?

After I recovered my memories of child sexual abuse, I jumped into the world of self-abuse with the commitment of every cell in my body.  My downfall was swift and scary.  

With the help of some very wise and generous souls, I landed in an inpatient treatment facility.  It was there that a counselor handed me the book The Courage to Heal.

Within the pages of The Courage to Heal I found descriptions of and logical explanations for the self-destructive behaviors I engaged in for years.  The long stretch of questions I asked myself over and over again were answered. 

   

An abrupt but accurate summary would be the following:

I asked, “Why am I am doing this?”
The book answered, “Because you are a survivor of child sexual abuse.”

I asked, “Why can’t I stop doing this?”
The book answered, “Because you need to heal.”

The Courage to Heal at Barnes and Noble

Along with articulating the damaging behaviors, pointing to their origins, and identifying the need for healing, The Courage to Heal contained a powerful voice of empowerment.  Not the Pollyanna-cheerleader kind, but the kind created with prowess, insight, empathy, authenticity, and the power of truth.  

 

It has been over 20 years since I first held that book in my hands and I still go to it for encouragement.  I go to it to find myself, to see in black and white that I am not crazy or mentally ill…to see that my normal is actually normal for me.

Because of the impact the book has had on my life, this week’s Wednesday’s Woman is the authoring team of The Courage to Heal: 

Ellen Bass 

and 

Laura Davis

Please visit their websites by clicking their names above and get to know these amazing ladies.  They are more than advocates and healers. . . they are women writers:

"Because of the suportive, warm and artistic care I receive in an Ellen Bass Workshop, I'd go anywhere in the world to write with her. Anyone can see by her poetry that she would attract loving and talented people. Beginners and writers of accomplishment blend into one dynamic group."- Anne Silverpoet, author of Bare Root

 "Laura's writing prompts are juicy and creative and through them, I am remembering my own life story."
--Bryana Garcia

Calling for submissions to Wednesday’s Woman  

Please consider sharing the story of a woman who has inspired you in your journey of childhood or motherhood, as a survivor or teacher...any woman that has moved you to become better at any point in your life.  You know who she is.  She may be a woman of fame, a leader known only within the circles in which she serves, or someone who is recognizable solely to you.  

The experience of contributing to Wednesday’s Woman is a powerful one, calling you to honor who has made a difference in your life and offering an opportunity for you to bring attention to a voice needing to be heard by someone...you never know who.  Connections are made without our input, without our judgment.  Our job is to spread the word, to raise awareness.

More info: Wednesday's Woman

photo credit: » Zitona « via photo pin cc
photo credit: Martin Gommel via photopin cc

Stuart Smalley, Grey Hair and a Promise

The morning was typical with the exception that M got up.  He usually gets up in the morning, but not during the time I am supporting the girls in their independent efforts of getting ready for school.  I was pleased to see him earlier than expected.
 
Me: "Good morning!  You're up!"
M: passive aggressive comment
Me: "What?  What do you mean?"

My voice escalated which was followed by a small amount of banter, followed by M going back to bed. After the girls were off to school I cried, slammed some cabinet doors...you know the drill.

“Insanity is doing the same thing, over and over again, but expecting different results.”

― Albert Einstein

M and I have been struggling with changing routines and habits, personally and as a couple, in order to be more successful—personally, as a couple, and as a family.  This morning's appearance in advance of his typical time for waking was a shining ray of hope that modifications could indeed be made.   

But I forgot.  We have an obstacle.

We struggle with personal kindness--not a battle to be kind to others, but one to be compassionate to our individual selves.

We lack the ability to engage in self-forgiveness and get caught up in beating ourselves up (not like Fight Club, like in our thoughts).

If we aren't careful, this phenomenon leads to a build up of anger and self-doubt that is expressed in the wrong direction.

Instead of embodying Stuart Smalley and addressing ourselves in the mirror, we lash out at each other, usually when it is least expected.

And that’s what happened this morning.

In those reactionary moments, I forget that M and I are into our own personal journeys of healing from child sexual abuse.  It is complicated and complex, to say the least.  On its own, healing makes a plate full.  Add the stress of daily life, which includes  economics, education, careers, housework, failing appliances, and kids (although they fall into the category of "good stress"), and we've got a delicate situation.  Delicate?  I mean, combustible.  Oh, and my hair is turning grey.  

I know we are working on something very heavy and very important.  There is beauty in our courage.  But I would like to be OK as I watch other things go unattended.  I would like to, you know, not get so stressed out when things do not change as fast as I think they should.

I mean, all these "things" will be here after the Sword of Trauma is removed (thank you Angela Shelton).


Or, at least, I hope so.

So, I am choosing to let go of the passive-aggressive remark that for some reason caused me to overreact like a two-year-old being sentenced to time out.  I am also excusing my behavior (after six hours of pouting, crying, and throwing dishes in the sink).

And...

Right now, I am asking you, dear readers of Sperk*, to witness my promise:

I promise to be kind to myself as I continue my trek of transformation.  

I promise to be kind to M.   

And I promise to call the salon to resolve my issue with grey hair.

Yes, that was more than one promise.  Be kind.  Be compassionate.  Forgive me.

photo credit: thisisbossi via photo pin cc

Save It for Later: Topics that Wore Me Out

 In Save It for Later Saturday, you're getting the best of my "read later" list from the week.  I have been unable to get these up on Saturdays and am changing the name to simply "Save It for Later."  This gives me the option to post on any day of the weekend.  Check back weekly for updates and enjoy.


 

photo credit

Although I had the most incredible week which included an outpouring of support for my post on child sexual abuse and the Church, continuing to create meaningful connections with other bloggers, both of my girls getting all A’s on their report cards, the sun shining, and the winter blues diminishing, I still had the need to shut it all down for a day.   I had a therapist once tell me that if I felt like I needed to stay in bed and had an opportunity to do so, to go ahead and do it.  That’s exactly what I did yesterday.  I needed it and feel better for it.

Here are two topics from the week that wrought my mind with contemplation (and wore me out) and deserve more conversation:

Ashley Judd, photo credit

1)  On Monday, April 9, Ashley Judd responded to the viral media attention to her puffy face.  Her words were compelling, intelligent, and a thought provoking observation on our culture’s view and treatment of women.  Read it here, then read then read Morgan Shanahan’s personal reflection on Judd’s response here.  Shanahan’s reaction is compelling because she outs her own self in engaging in the very behavior Judd knocks:

"Reading her words began to feel incredibly uncomfortable as I was forced to realize that I am as much a propagator of this epidemic as I have felt a victim of it. . . . I thought back to this recent post I'd written...and was acutely aware of not only the fact that I'd thought it about another woman, then published it, but also that the high volume of clickthroughs had made me happy, as if I'd succeeded at something."

As bloggers, we all want “clickthroughs”.  What are we willing to do to get them?  

As parents, how do we raise our children in a world in which, as Judd describes, has an“abnormal obsession with women’s faces and bodies”:

"This abnormal obsession with women’s faces and bodies has become so normal that we (I include myself at times—I absolutely fall for it still) have internalized patriarchy almost seamlessly. We are unable at times to identify ourselves as our own denigrating abusers, or as abusing other girls and women."

If we succumb to the requests of our tween and teen daughters to enhance their looks in order to fit in, are we part of the problem?  I don't think the issue is that black and white.  This conundrum as it comes up in parenting is explored in Fitting In, by Literal Mom, and in Step Away from the Confetti Cannon, by Sisterhood of the SensibleMoms.  Give them a read and ponder what we can do in order to combat the problems of our patriarchal world as well as raise empowered daughters.

Stop Child Abuse, photo credit

2)  We are 15 days into April, the month known for that unavoidable headache--taxes.  April is also Child Abuse Prevention Month and Sexual Assault Awareness Month.  Child abuse and sexual assault are headaches of a different kind, but like taxes, affect all of us.  I created a pinboard with resources and ask you to share it with others.  

When I started Sperk* last late October, I had no intention of delving into the topic of child sexual abuse (CSA) nor disclosing the fact that I am an adult survivor.  To say the least, the cat is out of the bag.  Because of it, I am making connections to other survivors of child abuse in all of its forms, and the experience has been incredibly moving and empowering. 

This week, my blogging partner in writing my weekly feature, Wednesday’s Woman, Anna Mahler, shared her child abuse survivor story, I Have My Reasons, her blog The Mommy Padawan.  It is a strong piece and received recognition at the weekly writer’s competition yeah write.  It was a well-deserved kudos and I was happy to see this type of story recognized.  

Also from yeah write, making it into the top five popular vote, was So You've Been Through Hell-Now What?, by CSA survivor Angela Shelton.  She questions how to find balance when helping others amidst our own healing and meeting our needs for self-care.  She recounts a day wherein her desire to stay anonymous as an advocate for victims of sexual abuse during a much needed massage is circumvented by her friend, a "traveling P.R. firm."  Angela chooses to lend support not because she was outed, but because she knows we can never be off-duty in the plight against child sexual abuse.  Her story also amplifies the need for survivors to also take care of themselves.  She states, “Hell can consume you, if you let it.  Or you can choose to let it go.”

My hell was thwarted by a day of rest.  Now, on this beautiful Sunday, I am continuing my plight of self-care by heading out to catch a glimpse of the Goodale fountain which has just been turned on for the season.  Following I just may stop by the Park Street Tavern. The chores and to do list will be here when I return.  Besides, now that Instagram is on Android and Facebook, going out is an opportunity to provide you visually appealing stuff.  I am surely tired of photos of my dogs, my tiny little house, and the sky from my front porch brought to you via my 365Project.  

Have a great week!