Do you think anger is a sincere emotion or the timid motion of a fragile heart trying to beat away its pain?

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Reasons the Cycle Stays Unbroken

     Have you ever noticed that, with all the guides for victims about how to get out of an abusive relationship, there's nothing for the abusers? As someone who has been the victim, I understand the need for that literature. A lot of the times, victims don't know how to get free. I've been there, I get it.

     At the same point though, I think we need similar literature and resources for the abusers. Granted, I can't talk for anyone else, but, in my situation, I was desperate to change. I hated knowing what I was doing to The Fiancée. I loved her more than life itself; knowing the amount of pain I was causing and damage I was doing was sickening to me. I was tempted to kill myself so many times, even when she begged me not to, because I thought, at least that way, she would be free of me and the pain I was causing. I looked many times for help. I found little in way of published help, and none of the local programs would take me. They all only accepted those who were court ordered into treatment. (Can I take a second to say how foolish that is?! Why not help stop the issue before it ends up in court?!)

While I would never go so far to say that my abusing The Fiancée made me a victim as well, I was stuck in the cycle of abuse as much as she was. I couldn't figure out how to get free. I wanted resources that weren't there. I don't see how we can expect things to change in abusive situations if we don't offer the person causing the problems avenues to pursue change.

Friday, October 26, 2012

Learning to Grow

It has been one month and two weeks since The Fiancée cut off contact. I can't lie and say I don't hurt. Last weekend was the first time I went to our home town since the last time I saw her. That was 2 months ago now. I cried driving past our landmarks; the favorite eateries, the place we bought our wedding gowns, the freeway sign that was my idol last school year driving home because it was the first to say her street name. Sleeping alone in my bed, filled again with stuffed animals instead of her warm presence, made a fresh wound where the scabs of the hurts from my college town were healing. Writing this even brings tears. Sometimes the pain brings me to my knees. Music remains nearly off limits, because an inordinate amount of pop songs seem to be far too focused on marriage. I'm not sure the girl I thought existed ever really did, but I love her, whoever she is now, unconditionally all the same. I can't decide if all the facts in that last sentence make it easier or harder, but it is what it is. Some days, I think I might even miss my cats more than I miss her, even if only in my head.

Yet, at the same moment, there have been points of growth. I can wear the clothes she gave me now. My bed, once her's, feels mine now and is no longer a shrine to our past. I no longer end up on the floor sobbing. Her food in my freezer makes me smile now. I ate a Cookies and Cream chocolate bar for the first time on Tuesday. Only two pictures remain out. I can call her my ex. I can feel how much healthier things are this way. I haven't flown into a rage or a tantrum since she's been gone. Even after my rape, my emotions feel predominantly controllable. I've gotten both a piercing and tattoo without her. She feels more like a very very happy but far away memory than a real life experience. Like with the last paragraph, I can't decide if that makes it better or worse.

That suitor I mentioned back on the fourth? I'll call him Mitten. I still can't say what I make of him. It feels like I've known him for a lot more lives than just this one. He's a boy the same way I am, and gets what it's like to use a chosen name and figure out the perils of restrooms. He was the first to use my chosen name. He understands when my voice goes away and signs remain. He knows what it's like to be trapped in a flashback so real you swear you're back in that forsaken room again. He's a better Christian than I hope to be. I don't want anything to come of it, not for years at the least, but it's wonderful to have a friend. I have another friend, a queer girl, who actually hugs me tight. My PTSD doesn't let most people touch me, not even Mitten, but goodness do her hugs make me feel safe (she's maybe 5'3", but does MMA and broke a girl's elbow with her thighs). I enjoy this friendship thing, as odd as it is.

Thursday, October 25, 2012

PTSD is a BITCH, y'all

     I never knew that PTSD could occur immediately after a traumatic event. I pictured it like you see with our vets, setting in over the months as they return home from the battle field. I thought it to be a slow-onset disease, seeping slowly into someone's mind like small repeated doses of arsenic. It had to have been the only psychiatric disease I hadn't researched; it had no bearing on my life. That is, until it did.
     I now have sudden onset PTSD, thanks to my rapist and what he did to me. I'm in constant fear for my safety. Entering an empty room or building sends me into a panic attack. I am perpetually convinced something bad will happen to me. Elevators aren't useable. Dark is paralyzing. I can't make eye contact, even with women, and I can't even look at men's faces. Not my step dad's, not my favorite professors, not even my dad over Skype. I stare somewhere over their shoulder and hope they know it's not because of them. I made my mom sob when I freaked out after my step father hugged me. I have to sit in corner's now, so nothing is out of my peripheral vision. Crowded places are nearly unbearable. An hour in public is exhausting, now, because I'm so on guard all the time. Even getting up in front of the class to ask a question is a monumental task.
     I've finally seemed to figure out my (hopeful) solution for this. I'm getting a psychiatric service dog, because between the PTSD, the BPD, and the Generalized Anxiety Disorder/social anxiety, it counts as a disability under the ADA. This means that, once reasonably trained, I will have full public access with my service dog. I am getting a letter from my therapist, have run it by my landlord (I live in a dog friendly complex anyways), and have sent in my application to three dog rescues. I'm planning on getting a German Shepherd Dog. I was wavering between a Golden Retriever and the GSDs, since they're typically so successful as service dogs, but the friendly reputation for the Goldens isn't something I want. I'm nervously awaiting a response from the rescues, so we'll see where we go from here. It's funny, really, since I'm not much of a dog person. Still, the idea of a dog who can help me with the things I just can't accomplish anymore and will be with me always is reassuring. Any name suggestions yet? My dad says I've got to go with Fritz... yeah, not so much.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Trauma

Just when the rain seems to have stopped for a bit, a new storm appears.

I attempted to seek counseling at our local rape trauma center, as I was advised to do when I underwent the rape exam. I kept most of my issues from them; I know I'm frequently considered too much of a liability to less experienced counselors. They didn't need to know about the BPD, the bipolar, the past passive nor current active suicidality, the apparently different way I view the world due to my uncommonly high IQ and the fact it makes me act like an Aspie sometimes, none of it. To them, I could be the perfect, hurting rape victim.

The one mistake I made? I told them that, the evening when I was raped and was left alone after, I hurt myself. I didn't even tell them how bad and deep and numerous it was. Just a little slip up in my recovery after a traumatic event, yes sir.

After several meetings with her supervisor, my counselor told me I was too much of a risk, a danger to myself, a liability to their program, and they were unable and unfit to help me. She gave me a list of useless referrals.

All I heard? "You are too fucked up to be helped, even by those who are trained in helping. You are not welcome here, either."

Welcome to my life.

ETA: Apparently the one person who believes me welcome? My rapist, who attempted to add me on Facebook. I feel so worthwhile.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

No Such Thing as Evil People

There's no such thing as a bad person.

There are people who make terrible, horrible, heinous decisions.

But those decisions do not define them as a person.

The man who raped me on Saturday? Made a decision that has ruined this part of my life. I detest him right now. The thought of him very literally makes me physically ill. Yet, somewhere in me, I know he isn't evil nor terrible. No matter how bad someone's actions are, they do not define their personhood or their soul.

The first person who ever abused me and triggered the start of my BPD? Many terrible, hurtful decisions were made that hurt me and still affect me years later. Yet, I don't think he's a bad a person. I can see how hard he tried. I could see how so many decisions made by those around him affected who he grew up to be and the decisions he made. It did not make him evil; it made him hurt and wounded. It doesn't excuse his actions. He should have grown past them and known better. But, at some level, it makes his actions easier to grasp and understand. He made wrong choices, but his choices weren't made in a vacuum. They were made as the culmination, at that point in time, of exactly who he was, even if it meant he was more than a little broken.

At some level, I hope that applies to me, though the thoughts that run through my head do think I am evil and terrible and, yes, that dehumanizing "monster." I can see the decisions and influences and hurts  that influenced me. I can see the mental illness that wreaks havoc on my mind, even when heavily medicated. I can see the contributing factors that I hope make me a person with a severe mental illness who makes bad terrible decisions, rather than just a bad terrible person.

I had a therapist tell me that, no matter how seemingly horrific or illogical a decision we make may seem, in reality, that decision, at that moment in time, for that person, makes perfect sense for our experiences and in our mind. I'd like to believe that it's true. Even if it's not, though, I don't believe a person can be evil.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

Mania

"Have you ever experienced periods of feeling you could do anything? Conquer the world? Fly?"
The doctors ask this repeatedly. Every doctor. Every time.

"No." The sardonic head shake because who is crazy enough to feel that? To feel invincible. To feel... mania. That is a concept even my BPD-addled brain can't seem to wrap itself around.

My skill is staying grounded, both feet firmly planted on the solid earth beneath me, terra firma, planet earth. I excel at walking the knife's edge borderline between sane and.. something else.

Yet, tonight, my head is a thousand feet up, consorting with the bluebirds somewhere over the rainbow. I am swaying to the beat of my own drummer and my senses are gone with the wind. Tonight? I could fly just as easily as walk, riding the clouds like waves beneath my questionably anchored feet. Tonight I could pretend to be a poorly proportioned lab mouse and succeed in taking over the world. I have dived from the knife's edge, impaling myself fully in the world of the manic.

My black and white world has been doused in colors created by insanity and tainted with caffeine. The rainbow is dripping like wax melted from crayons, so pretty and so messy, leaving behind a stain of oily thoughts.

Even now, rainbow colored mania discolors quickly with logic. Sanity's reappearance is undeterred by triple shots or poetic justice or even the lust for continued flight. It returns with a vengeance, panic attacked punishment for deviating from our norm. But just this once, a fucked up flight path, my pulled up anchors, and a high better than any synthetic means was the adventure of a lifetime.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

I Refuse to be Shamed

     Imagine someone very close to you was violently mugged. They were terrified and physically injured, not to mention something precious to them had been stolen. When they told you, what would you say? That it's their own fault? That they shouldn't be telling people this because it's not appropriate? That it's so shameful that they were weak enough to let it happen to them? No, of course you wouldn't. You would have sympathy and possibly empathy towards them. You would hurt over your friend's pain. You may possibly feel anger towards the mugger. You would never think to blame someone for being a victim in this situation.

     Yet, if I confide in someone that I was recently raped, I don't get that positive support. I get just those comments. I've been told I shouldn't be telling people this. That it's shameful. That I allowed it to happen. That talking about it so much is needless, and it should be hidden away. When people ask me why I've been so off at school this week, I shouldn't tell them the truth because it's too private.

     For me, I don't think it's too private to talk about. I refuse to be ashamed that I am a rape victim. If someone asks me what is wrong, I see nothing wrong with telling them. I have been hurt in ways that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I refuse to further that hurt by hiding my pain and not talking to people about it. I refuse to abide by YOUR beliefs on what should be private and hidden and shameful because MY being raped makes you uncomfortable. I am entirely sick of victim blaming, and I refuse to let it control my path to healing.

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Love in Unexpected Places

I tried to get an STD test done today. All I wanted was the hopeful proof that I'm still clean. I assumed my student health services could do that for me.

Unbeknownst to me, they're mandated reporters. Apparently, even if you're not planning on killing yourself or someone else, they still step in for this, even when you're not a minor and you don't really want them to.

I was required to meet with the member of our campus PD who specializes in sexual assault. She was incredibly nice, and told me from the start that her goal would be to persuade me to file a report, even if I didn't wish to prosecute. We talked for a bit, as I was adamant that I was against filing the report. I had valid reasons; she acknowledged that. Finally, she told me that if he ever raped a girl again, and that girl decided to prosecute, me having filed a report and undergone a full rape kit now would provide more ammunition against him in the future. So I said yes.

We drove to the place where I would be interviewed and examined. There was only one nurse working, and she was saving someone else, so we sat. And we waited. And we waited. She and I talked a lot. She is trying to be vegan. She has two daughters. She crochets. She doesn't watch movies often, but has a soft spot for Disney. She has two little dogs. We bonded. Eventually, my advocate showed up. She was very nice as well, but I've never bonded as well with younger people. She crochets too. She does MMA and Muay Thai. She is a student at my school and lives a city over from me. She is learning to become a counselor.

My officer was supposed to get off work 80 minutes from when she met me. She said that, since my rape happened off campus, if she stayed, it would technically be a courtesy report on her end and it would be given to the LAPD. She asked me, quickly and quietly and under the table, if she should say in her report that she stayed at the victim's request, rather than turning me over to the mercy of some unknown LAPD officer; I looked at her eyes and nodded. She stayed, in the uncomfortable chairs, with me; never once did she disappear in the waiting room saved for officers. Never once did she complain that I'm keeping her at work til the wee hours of the morning.

We went into the interview room. I warned my advocate I may have a panic attack, and begged her to breathe so I could hear her if that happened. Instead, she breathed big and loud and slow for my whole interview, like a metronome I could sync with. The forensic nurse said my officer would watch and listen and take notes from the room across the hall. I begged for her to be let in; the nurse said the uniform could influence me. I begged anyways, and I got the biggest smile from my officer when she was let in, having been waiting at the door after hearing my begging over the TV. She squeezed my shoulder hard, and sat right behind me the whole time.

I explained and explained and explained, hiding my grief in big words and my torment in pretty sentences. Only a few bits were marred by stutters; they were the reminder to sync my breathing to my human metronome again. The camera was unobtrusive, hidden in the wall, but it burned more than any stare should. I watched my advocate-turned-metronome and listened to my officer's rushing pen. I kept breathing.

When my interview was over, my advocate told me how lucky I was to have such an officer. It was rare. My advocate said they weren't supposed to be emotional, but she wiped the tear out of her eye anyways. Even my nurse was glassy eyed. My officer just looked at me and smiled, laughing when I told her look what she'd made me do when all I wanted was an STD test.

I brought my advocate and my officer in for my exam. There was such a secure feeling not being alone; being naked in front of them was secondary. There may be nearly as much shame in the exam as in the rape, as you are examined and photographed and measured. I watched my officer and my advocate and we talked while pretending there was no nurse and my legs weren't spread. I was told I was ovulating. I was given Plan B and other pills that I have no name for. The nurse joked she was ready for her wine; my other two agreed, but I told them that they weren't allowed to drink when the victim was too young to. My officer read the words carved into my thigh; my nurse marveled that the razor's marks are neater than her needle point.

My officer and I waited while things were finished up, bonding over Keurig and whispered advice over who I should contact and who to avoid. I am to avoid PET, because they will declare me 51/50. She said she should be doing that now, and begged me not to hurt myself with that burden on her shoulders. She said she could lose her job for not committing me now, but she thought I was worth it.

I was done. My advocate finally went away, in her white gas guzzler that she bought because it was cheaper monthly payments. I drove back to school with my officer. I was the first victim to ever ask her to come in for either part of my hell. She smiled when she told me that. We talked about the trauma of seeing the first person literally die in front of her, a 26 year old male who overdosed and couldn't be saved. She collected my clothes from my house, meeting my snake and playing with my rats. She hugged me when I said goodbye. I may see her again at my ASL classes I teach; I hope so.

I'm alone now, and it's weird to be without my advocate, but even weirder to be without the officer who spent 8 hours making my hell a little more friendly. There's a void left by those you bond to in a time like this, even when you know the relationship is very temporary. It's never expected, but love grows fast in desolate places.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Transphobia

You want to know what transphobia is to me?

It's the guy who's 12 years older than you and who has wanted you since you were still a girl refusing to acknowledge that you're not a girl.

It's him taking advantage of when you say you feel safe with him and like things were less complicated than they are now.

It's him touching your chest, repeatedly, against your will.

It's his teeth marks left as bruises in your neck.

It's him saying that, since you think you're a boy, this is the closest to gay he'll ever get.

It's him taking advantage of the fact that your still female body betrays you with gasps and moans.

It's him asking, afterwards, if you're remembering why you're a lesbian.

It's him hugging you too long when you plaster on a smile and pretend it wasn't rape so you can leave.

It's him messaging you afterwards that, if you ever want a proper cuddle, you know where to find him.

It's knowing it's your fault for being a monster.

That is what, today, transphobia is to me.

Friday, October 5, 2012

Too soon...

     In lighter news, I have a new suitor... I'm not sure how I feel about that. (They, like me, are genderqueer, and prefer to use either masculine or neutral pronouns). They're a total sweetheart, and we connect on so many levels. I could see them being amazing for me down the road. They're actually attracted to my intelligence and alarmingly large vocabulary rather than being intimidated by me, and we share an unhealthy fascination with documentaries. They understand my gender identity and my mental health issues and our friendship is so easy. I would like to like them someday far down the road. I could see a happy relationship, once I've, you know, stopped crying over The Fiancée and our lost future and figured out more of my issues. But I just want a friendship, and now I don't know how to do that with them. I'm so frustrated. Plus, it was so helpful to have someone to talk to about getting over The Fiancée, and now I feel too guilty to do that. I have a bad feeling that I'm either going to lose someone who could have been a wonderful and life long friend or fall into a relationship that I can't handle and shouldn't be in. Too much, too soon.Oye.

     How are all of YOU doing?

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Birthday Wishes

     Today is The Fiancée's 21st birthday. According to USPS, she got her gift yesterday, and I texted her at midnight to be the first to wish her the best of birthdays. As I expected, she didn't respond, but I'm glad I did it nonetheless. As much as I did wrong in our relationship, I did and do mean it when I say I love her unconditionally. I hope she knows that.
     Last night, I was talking with a new friend of mine and we were talking about what went wrong within the relationship with The Fiancée. They pointed out that it wasn't healthy for me to blame myself so intensely for what went wrong and to view myself as such a monster. They said that just because I didn't view myself as a bad person or accepted the fact that my BPD had a large role to play in the lack of control for my behaviour doesn't mean that I'm not taking responsibility for it. A comment on here said things along the same line. That's hard for me to make sense of. I understand their meaning and can grasp it intellectually, but I feel like if I don't feel the way that I do, that I'm making light of what I did to The Fiancée or making it out to be like I don't accept responsibility because I'm blaming it on my mental illness. I am attempting to enter therapy, which I'm sure will help me figure things out, but scheduling is difficult.
     I'm curious for all of y'all's opinion on this. How do your opinions of someone change when you find out something about them that would oft be considered shameful? I'm not speaking of things where one has no control, like if I told you I had been raped or had a mental illness. I don't believe those should be considered shameful at all.  More along the lines of if you had known me a decent amount and liked me, and then found out I had been verbally and physically abusive to my loved one? How does that change your perception of a person? Does it at all? Does it make them someone you would no longer associate with? I'm so often too scared to tell someone I've abused The Fiancée because it scares me to think that people's opinions of me would change because of it.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Why?

     I'm always curious about the motivations behind abusers' actions. I would make the argument that I don't necessarily fit in with most of them (I'm not denying that my actions were wrong, just that they have a different causation). I've never done it intentionally. I've never done it while I was in sound mind. I've never wanted to do it. Many times, with verbal and emotional abuse, I never realized I did it because I was so accustomed to being treated like that. I've been accused of enjoying it, of liking the control, of feeling powerful for doing it, and being an arrogant dick. I'm curious why others do it. Is it for those reasons? Different ones? Do they enjoy it? Do they mean to do it? Do they want to stop? Could they stop if they tried? I tried to stop for my entire relationship, and yet I never succeeded. I'd love to hear input from all of you guys on this, from either side, abuser or victim.

     Tying back into yesterday's post on prejudice, I'm curious what y'all's perception of it is, in regards to those who perpetuate domestic violence? Is our prejudice based on the common idea of what we think DV is? The strong man getting joy out of hurting a defenseless woman? Is our perception different when it's female on male? Any other combination of genders? Do people lack the same amount of sympathy when the victim finally fights back? Is it better or worse when the abuser loses control because of a mental illness they don't have power over? What do people think or feel when it's someone they know and respect and love who turns out to be an abuser? Like when Mama said that, after reading my first post and already having "known" and liked me, she really had to stop and think. Again, I lack answers and, as both a victim and an abuser, I lack the ability to analyze it at this point. I'd love to hear your opinions in the comments.


Monday, October 1, 2012

Wow...

     First, let me say a real hello to everyone here. 117 of you came to visit, essentially all thanks to MFA Mama. I would love to get to know all of you, though I can see why you would hesitate to talk to me based solely on my first post. Although I would certainly like to think there are positive parts of me, and other people seem to think so as well, I think it's more important for me, at this point, to be very open with the negatives before the positives. I also want to apologize to anyone who came over not expecting that, especially Mama; I should have included a warning.

     I want to talk about a couple of things that Mama's post about this blog made me think about. The first is prejudices. In general, I think most of us fight against them. No one wants to be prejudiced, to unfairly label or group people. It's the impetus behind the fight for an equitable society and the demolition of discrimination. Yet, against somethings, the prejudice is considered valid. No one wants to think well of people who hurt children or animals. No one wants to think well of people who are racist or sexist or homophobic. Similarly, no one wants to think well of people who abuse their partners or their family members, whether that be verbally or physically. As someone who has been abused by multiple people in various forms over the course of their life time, I understand that. I empathize with that. Yet, as someone who has been the abuser, I see the other side of it. That it hurts to be lumped in with those who do this and enjoy it, with those who plan this out and groom their victims into staying, with those who have no desires to or plans of changing. Yet, I have no right to ask, especially of abuse victims, to not be grouped in with them. I have no right to be angered if you're prejudiced against me. I can only hope that you're willing to see the other parts of me as well.

     The other thing that her post really made me think about, albeit on a less concrete level, was the concept of eugenics and those we force to be a part of our world. I decided long ago that I could never have children, even if the idea of them makes me feel like some part of heart is missing them already. I couldn't force children to deal with me, no matter how well controlled or medicated I am. But, what about the other people forced to be in my life? I know that no one is as trapped as a minor child, but what about my baby sister who sees me a few times a month? My mother? The Fiancée? Friends who try to stick around? At what point do they need to walk away? At what point should I walk away to save them from what I know I'm capable of? I don't have an answer to this one, but it's something I mull over a lot.

     I promise not all of my posts will be this intense, but this is what I'm mulling over now. I suppose what I ask from all of you is that you're willing to look past what I've done and see, at the very least, what goes on in my head and who I am behind that.

Hello There


     I’ve been meaning to start a blog for a long while now. I’ve got several reasons why I never have. I suppose most of them seem foolish. I was overwhelmed by typical blogging sites. The meds are making my word salad worse, and typing has become a lot of effort. I didn’t know what to say. I figured no one would want to read it. Really, though, the biggest reason I haven’t blogged isn’t so foolish. It’s valid. I’m scared that people will see what I write and think less of me for it. They would have the right too. As much as I’ve lately been making the effort to not be shamed for who I am or what is wrong with me, I’m rightfully shamed of this. Even AA, though, seems to think we should willingly admit where we were wrong to another person. Christianity vouches accountability. I suppose this is my version of both, with some personal catharsis thrown in.
     I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder and various eating disorders shortly before I started my first serious relationship at 15. I fell head over heels for The Boy, and he said he felt the same for me. I never knew how to be in a relationship; my parents had divorced when I was 5 and my mother’s remarriage, though successful, was filled with squabbles. I learned from The Boy how to fight, screaming insults and tearing down the other’s self worth with insults. He taught me that, when you’re so overcome by anger, the appropriate reaction is striking back physically. He broke my nose that way, terrified me back into submission. I guess I didn’t know there was another way to be.
     I began showing signs of BPD shortly after, though I couldn’t be formally diagnosed until 18. I started dating the Fiancée when I had just turned 18. I loved her instantly, had liked her for years. I swore I wouldn’t do to her what The Boy had done to me. For a long while, that was true. We planned our lives around each other, with her applying to my college. She knew of my BPD, my issues, but loved me anyways. We fell, accidentally, into codependency, our friends having left after we came out. Then the insults started. I never meant to say them or to hurt her, but I did. She always forgave me. It escalated into me screaming at her and losing myself in tantrums. She, still, always forgave me. Finally, it escalated into me hitting her, shoving her, scaring her. Her temper finally got the best of her; she learned how to fight back. I never wanted to do it; I can remember thinking thoughts of love and adoration as my body and my mouth kept going without my permission. She forgave me for all of that too. She eventually left, just a month ago, to get her life back on track. I’m heartbroken and not functional, but I’m even more proud of her for being strong enough and brave enough to leave.
     This is the start of my healing and, hopefully, my real apology: I abused the love of my life, verbally, emotionally, and physically. They say abusers never change, but I refuse to be a statistic. Even if it takes me showing this to the world to keep me accountable for changing, then so be it.