Showing posts with label CSA survivor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label CSA survivor. Show all posts

Monday, January 21, 2013

All These Things That I've Done

On Mondays, I typically participate in Monday Listicles, which I love.  However, today's theme of things found in your closet....my closet is a tiny hole in the wall.  I live in an old house.  There's not much in there of interest--mainly hanging shirts and a pile of shoes on the floor.  But, I'm still going to participate with a list, just one of a different topic.  I hope you'll forgive my bending of the rules.

Do you have a constant internal dialogue discussing all the things you need to do or should be doing? I do. And yet, there is so much that I have done.

Yesterday I came across an inspiring list created by Kerstin Auer honoring the things she has done. She was prompted by a blogging link-up by Andrea B  Now, I’m inspired.



In lieu of the closet, here's a few things I've done:

*Attended a presidential rally. Forward!

*Saw my favorite rock icons in concert: Bruce Springsteen, Pearl Jam, and U2.

*Traveled from coast to coast to over 25 Dave Matthews Band concerts.

*Met my significant other online—MySpace to be exact.

*Survived two C-sections and was rewarded with two beautiful daughters.

*Survived the terrible twos, twice.

*Put my foot down and said “no” to my daughters several times, surviving the excruciating pain of knowing they were disappointed.

*Watched my oldest daughter star in her middle school musical (oh, the nerves. She did so well).

*Listened in amazement to my younger daughter practice her clarinet. She’s so talented.

*Read many poems of praise written for me by my daughters.

*Tucked in my girls at bedtime most every night for 14 years. 

*Visited Las Vegas three times.

*Traveled to London, Paris, Nice, Florence, and Lucerne.

*Taken the 3 1/2 hour boat tour around Manhattan.

*Saw Bebe Neuwirth play Velma Kelly in the musical Chicago on Broadway.

*Had “the talk” with my daughters. We aren't done, it is ongoing.

*Was runner-up in Junior Miss Ohio in 1987, which allowed me to go to college with the scholarship awards.

*Graduated Magna Cum Laude with a degree in Early Child Education in 2012.

*Have had many jobs: cocktail waitress, daycare worker, fitness center manager, pizza server, telemarketer, wardrobe consultant, retail merchandiser, and stay-at-home mom. My favorite has been stay-at-home mom.

*Confronted my perpetrators. I am a survivor of child sexual abuse.

*I've asked for help.

*I've received help.

*Gained and lost 60 pounds.

*Danced with a professional dance company.

*Danced in my living room.

*Gained and lost ten pounds.

*Recovered from an eating disorder.

*Had two photos selected by the Columbus Museum of Art to be included in their Photo Hunt installations.

*Was honored as a BlogHer 2012 Voice of the Year.

*I've been a wife and an ex-wife.

*Lived in Chicago, Philadelphia, New Jersey, Louisiana, Northern California, and now Columbus, Ohio.

*I've done punk rock karaoke.

*I've been to Bonnaroo, twice. And I want to go back!


I leave you with one of my favorite songs, so apropos:



The best way to spend Monday in the blogosphere!








  photo credit: the camera is a toy. via photopin cc

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

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

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

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

BlogHer '12 VOTY eBookLast 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.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

The Bully Wins When I Am Silent


I am not going to whine by saying, “People were mean to me in high school.”  High school was and is weird.  When one enters adolescence, one can no longer discern between right and left but are required to discern between right and wrong.  Coupled with the academic and social pressures, it is a wonder any high school student is “nice” to anyone.  I get it.  However, people were mean to me in high school.

Like most teens, I was lacking in the area of emotional intelligence.  Like most survivors of sexual abuse, I was lacking in self-esteem and skills to defend myself.  High school for me was years of rumors (most of which were not true), gum-throwing-into-my-hair incidents, shoving-my-body-into-locker moments, etc.  Yes, etcetera.  Yes, there was more, the most painful I’m not ready to share.

There were many afternoons I would come home from school and simply bury my face in my pillow and sob.  My mom would attempt to find out what was wrong.  Half of the things I told her about and half of the things I didn't.  Her best advice was to keep smiling and ignore it knowing that the attacks were due to my peer’s jealousy.

I went with this tactic and I survived.  But it didn't work.

Last Friday, my 13 year old daughter, a freshman in high school, and I were bickering during the ride home from school.  When we got into the house, she went to her room and began crying, face down in her pillow, sobbing.  I thought she was upset that we were arguing, so I at first tried to ignore it, the sound of her sadness paralyzing me.

Then, my own high school experience flooded over me.

I knew if I remained paralyzed it could potentially paralyze my daughter.

I went into her room and said, “Why are you crying?”

No answer.

“Is it because we are fighting?”

She answered, “No.”

I sat down on her bed and asked, “Did something happen at school?”

Something did happen at school.  It made me mad.  I yelled. She cried.  We calmed down and talked.  In essence, I told her to never allow anyone, even her best friends, to be mean to her.  We discussed strategies for solving the problem that would cause as little hurt as possible.  I held her face in my shoulder and she sobbed some more.

During the course of the weekend, by talking to the person who hurt her, she peacefully worked out her issue.  I would like to think that our talk helped and I am really grateful I was able to put my own experiences aside and offer her support.

I now see why a lot of parents are emotionally absent from parenting.  It’s painful—painful to watch one’s child hurt while at the same time re-experiencing one’s own hurts over and over again.  But the hurt is no excuse. 

The bully wins when I am silent.  I am done being bullied.

(This post is dedicated to Xiomara A. Maldonado who shocked me out of the self-pity that was keeping me from writing with this post:  You Hide It Well: My Secret Battle With Depression.)




photo credit: Miss Blackflag via photopin cc

Thursday, September 6, 2012

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

Friday, August 10, 2012

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 20th

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.








photo credit: slack12 via photo pin cc

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Olympic Medalists, Wells and Harper, Bring Us All Down


It pains me, when on a world stage, medalists in the Olympics bring fellow-athletes down—especially female athletes.  This is an historic year for women at the Olympics.  Every country has a female representative and the US women outnumber the men.  So why, when Kellie Wells, bronze medalist in the 100m hurdles, and Dawn Harper, silver medalist in the same event, were interviewed by NBC’s Michelle Beadle, did they have to bring down Lolo Jones?  It wasn't just in their words, it was also in their attitudes (see interview here).
"I just felt as if I worked really hard to represent my country [in 2008] in the best way possible," Harper said, "and to come away with the gold medal, and to honestly seem as if, because [the media's] favorite didn't win all of sudden it's just like, 'Were going to push your story aside, and still gonna push this one.' That hurt. It did. It hurt my feelings.
"But I feel as if I showed I can deal with the pressure, I came back, and I think you kinda got to respect it a little bit now."
But if Harper's beef seems to be as much with the media's treatment of Jones as Jones herself, that wasn't the case for Wells.
"I think that, on the podium tonight, the three girls that earned their spot and they got their medals and they worked hard and did what they needed to do, prevailed," she said. "And that's all that really needs to be said."
"Boom!" Harper responded. "Just like that."
One could argue they are jealous of Lolo’s media attention.  Who wouldn’t be?  I’m jealous of Lolo Jones’ media attention and more so, the pay checks that come with it.

However, at what cost does Lolo Jones gain this attention?

She grew up in poverty, sometimes homeless.  She had an absent, incarcerated father.  She’s a two-time Olympian and a World-Indoor Champion--both of which take more work than most of us can even begin to imagine.

This is the kicker--she’s pretty.  The media loves pretty women.  However, rarely do we get to see beautiful women who are also inspiring  and courageous.

Do I wish Lolo would keep her clothes on for magazine photo shoots?  Yes.

Do I wish Lolo would not talk about her sexuality?  My answer is not quite as definitive on that one.  I wish we, as Americans in the 21st Century, wouldn’t make such a big deal about a person’s sexuality.

I can’t imagine having to perform in the global arena of the Olympics surrounded by so much attention and controversy.  It’s astounding that she qualified for her final and finished 4th.  It’s even more astounding that this was a comeback Olympic performance after hitting hurdles and losing the gold in 2008.  It takes a lot of mental strength to overcome so, so much.

Yes, Dawn Harper and Kellie Wells both have stories of adversity, too.  And as a survivor of child sexual abuse, I was truly hoping Kellie Wells, fellow-survivor, would win the gold—for us.  But the bronze did not disappoint and I celebrated wildly in my living room.

However, it hurts me, you, them, and us when we bring each other down like Harper and Wells did in today’s interview with Beadle.

It makes me think Harper and Wells do not understand the concept of timing in personal branding.  If I were a potential sponsor, after hearing today’s interview, I would walk away from both of them.  And really, their negativity shines more light on Lolo--contrary to what they seem to desire.

It makes me wonder about how much pain these two accomplished women are still experiencing from the adversity in their past.

It makes me ache for how much pain they are causing.

Ladies, let’s raise each other up, not bring each other down.



photo credit: tomkellyphoto via photo pin cc

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Hot Air Balloons


No one has asked if I have ever been on a hot air balloon ride. 

I wonder why?

Maybe it’s a question that belongs in the middle atmosphere of relationship development—a place I tend to skip, traveling directly from the troposphere up to the heights of the ionosphere?

Maybe my swift ascent into too much self-disclosure turns people off?  Then, they forget the middle-atmospheric question about the hot air balloons.

As we know from Altman and Taylor’s social penetration theory, getting to know someone requires self-disclosure in steps, starting with a little and ending with a lot.  Altman and Taylor think intimate relationships can develop in no other way. 

The tough thing is, self-disclosure begets vulnerability.  Vulnerability brings discomfort. 

If I choose to dive into discomfort and tell, and it turns out well, or, it is reciprocated, then it’s a victory.

Contrarily, if I choose to sink into discomfort and it bites me on the ass . . . hopefully there are thick enough Band-Aids to absorb all the blood oozing from my bleeding cheek.

Contrarily to the contrary, if I choose to disclose nothing at all, I end up alone, isolated, and living in my own head, spinning in my imaginary world of wondering what others think of me:

Am I too fat?

Am I too dumb?

Do I seem too old?

Do they know I am broken and afraid?

And when it seems others are okay with my brokenness, it all comes pouring out, in one swift wave of self-disclosure.  Too much, too soon, off they run.  I float dangerously in the upper atmosphere, alone.

. . . sexual abuse is probably the most emotionally loaded inhibitor to communications and the surrounding atmosphere of trust and equality that must exist for intimacy to occur. Amid the psychological aberrations of the survivor's world are two key concepts whose mixture acts as a formidable barrier to successful interpersonal communication and, therefore, intimacy. These bywords for the unconscious dysfunction of the survivor of sexual abuse are trust and secrecy. (Engle, 1991)

I once lived in Clinton, New Jersey, in a nice condo with a husband and a baby.  Behind the sparkling, sprawling, new living community, off in the distance, I regularly saw hot air balloons being launched into the lower bit of the sky.

I have never been on a hot air balloon ride.  Have you?


read to be read at yeahwrite.me

photo credit: lunamom58 via photo pin cc

Friday, June 22, 2012

Celebration of Life


Celebration of Life, sculpture by Alfred Tibor, downtown Columbus

I have to be at Antonia’s softball game in five minutes.  But I can’t go until I share.  Compulsive?  Impulsive?  Lacking ability to prioritize?

It’s been a crazy week.  Lots of ups and downs.  More downs than ups.  But that made the ups really vibrant.

I was driving on West Broad Street yesterday because I missed the exit for I70 East which would have gotten me home much faster.  

It offered an opportunity to take in the scenes that are Columbus.  The old neighborhoods.  Poverty.  Insanity.  Bulldozers.  Old cars. Shiny new cars.  Brick buildings. Dirt and concrete.

Sitting at a red light I looked north to shiny blue letters on a barely visible building because of the trees.  But I could read the words the letters formed.

Oncology.

I don’t have cancer.  I have never had cancer.  My kids are healthy and thriving. I didn’t need to put on my turn single and pull into that lot.

Gratitude entered every cell of my body.  And I felt it.  Really felt it.  

Life.

Maybe not spotless.  But living.

Thank you for your comments this week.  They’ve lifted me up.

Now, I’m going to a softball game.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

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:


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.


read to be read at yeahwrite.me










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Tuesday, June 5, 2012

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!




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Thursday, May 10, 2012

However: PTSD


I had not experienced an intense flashback for quite some time.  The little ones come and go, like minor aftershocks grown accustomed to from living on the fault line of child sexual abuse.  I thought I moved away from the earthquake zone after completing EMDR treatment two years ago.

Last night, I shut my laptop at 12:20 a.m.  After cleaning it with Norton Utilities, upon restart, Windows refused to load.  I couldn’t get it to do anything.  My Toshiba wouldn’t even work in safe mode.  All I wanted to do was read blogs that I enjoy, give a bit of reciprocity, and go to bed.  I was frustrated and tired.

I shut out the light and my head began to spin.  That’s the best way I can describe it.  Even thinking of it now I get dizzy.  I thought my body was telling me to prepare to hunker down for “The Big One,” a 9.0 on the Richter scale.  However, I ignored it.  I thought, "I don't have those anymore.  It's one of those little recurring things, it will pass."

And I got in bed.

It was there--all of it.  The one memory I knew existed, yet could not retrieve.

I hate it.

I hate it because in that moment, I couldn’t keep from reliving something that my mind worked very hard at burying away in the Mariana Trench.  I had no control of my thoughts.  At a minimum, I was horrified and panic stricken:
A flashback is an emotional return to trauma. It is a type of memory so strong that it seems like you are actually back in the time, place, and situation you are remembering. In your mind, you may believe you are back at the scene of the assault. In your mind you may have a picture of the assault. This picture could seem like an image that is frozen in time, like a photograph, or it could seem like you are watching a movie of your life.   (VADV)
I hate it because I couldn't beat it.  I was desperately trying to focus on the shadows on the wall, figure out what triggered this attack, but I couldn't:
Flashbacks happen when you are awake and can be triggered by almost anything: a smell, sound, taste, or touch. (VADV)
I hate it because my mind is too precious to lose.  I had trouble discerning reality.  I knew someone other than M was in our room.  I just knew it:
Your brain believes each flashback is a separate incident and a real situation. Some flashbacks are so confusing that it gets hard to tell the difference between what is happening in the flashback and what is happening in the real world around you. (VADV)
I hate it for M because he needs me today and I am not yet back to normal.

I hate it for my girls because I do not want them to be affected by this.  It’s not theirs.  It’s mine.  I never want my father to have anything to do with them, even if it’s in the mere residue of my behavior.

I hate it for every little girl who is going to go to bed tonight and be terrorized by an earthquake.

However.

I survived.  The worst part was over many years ago.

I have a computer to fix and earthquake insurance to buy.  

When I stand on moving ground, although I feel weak, my well-worn feet still hold me steady.

On with the day.  

It's my life and I want it.


If you know any one who suffers from PTSD (posttraumatic stress disorder), 
support them in getting support.  


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