Growth

She cries a lot, begging to be seen. She's been through a lot already.

She's about 4, clad in overalls and pigtails with those ribbons from the 80s. She's curious, compassionate and concerned. Her everyday life is one that can change in an instant and she's afraid that it will. There is a tiny crease in her forehead from constant worry.

She's vulnerable and she hates it.

She needs to be strong and helpful and make everyone else happy. She doesn't know yet that it isn't fair to have that kind of responsibility. One of her first memories is comforting an adult.

She learns how to comfort herself with drugs, alcohol and food. She gets depression. She battles suicidal thoughts. She smiles and is compassionate and kind the whole time. No one knows. They don't see her. She can't see it either.

Nothing makes sense. Down is up, left is right, nothing is everything. She goes into therapy.

She's vulnerable again. She's that 4 year old in pigtails, begging to be seen.  She doesn't know how hard it will be. How being seen feels like being burned. It feels permanent, like scars being made. It hurts and she cries a lot.

As she grows, she desperately tries to remember there is strength in vulnerability and power in understanding. It's hard. But she fights. She allows herself to be seen from within first. She comforts herself with care and relies on the few that know how to see her.

She still cries a lot, but they are healing tears.  She's been through a lot.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

I wanna talk about it. I usually can get through stuff if I talk about it. But I can't right now because the words aren't forming. Maybe they will later so I'm going to keep writing.

I'm scared. I'm scared of being on an airplane. Lots of people have this fear right? For me, it's the whole damn experience. From packing to landing.

I hate trying to figure out what to bring with me. I live in pajamas most of the time so thinking of outfits to wear for a week is a challenge. I don't like going over and over my list of things to bring because I'm sure I've forgotten something.

I have to drive to the airport which  means I can't drug myself as soon as I wake up.  Driving to the airport is scary. It's crowded and angry and full of cars at the pick up/drop off spot. Everyone is in a hurry to leave or to be back home. It's super overwhelming.

Leaving the car with strangers for a week off the airport strip seems sketchy. Doesn't seem right to pay to keep a car in a parking lot. And I'm not too keen on driving home when we get back. Again, my drug intake is limited that way.

And then into the airport. More people rushing to get home or away. The sounds, the smells. It's a weird thing, airport smell. It smells like stale coffee, suitcase and anxiety.

Going through security, wondering the whole time if I've brought the right kind of shoes that will help me get through this quicker. Will my stupid underwire bra set off an alarm? Will they pull me out of line and make me spread my arms like a child playing airplane? Then my arms will be more out there more and you'll see that I'm fat and probably won't fit in my seat.

The seat. Fuck. I have to wait until we get there to see where I'm sitting. I probably won't even be sitting with The Hub because life is like that. I will have to cram myself into whatever seat they give me and try to find the best way to make myself smaller. I don't want to spill over into a stranger but that's going to happen because, wait for it, I'm fat.

I don't want to hear that neverending hiss of air as we fly 35,000 feet (or whatever it is) in the air through a germ infested tube. I don't want to hear babies screaming or people sneezing without tissues, or coughing or any of that. The noises seem so loud already and I'm sitting in a quiet room right now, feet firmly on the ground.

I don't want to have to fold my arm in like a wounded bird if I find myself on the aisle. I don't want to plaster myself against the window, irrationally hoping it doesn't open if I'm in a window seat.  And I sure as hell don't want the middle. Spillage on both sides, potentially onto strangers. I will have to cross my arms because that's the only thing I can do with them without awkwardly touching someone.

I don't want to crash. Pretty normal reaction to this excursion.

But my reactions aren't normal because I have fucking anxiety and I hate it. It does this shit to me 3 weeks before my trip. It gets me all worked up into panic at what might happen. 

"Everything will be ok."  I know this because everyone says so. It's very hard to explain that the fear of public humiliation is as strong as someone that fears flying in general. The same? No. But just as strong. My emotions are freaking the fuck out right now and it SUCKS.

I want to go on this trip. I like the person I'm going to visit. I'm looking forward to being somewhere I've never been and exploring new places. But getting there....

I want to be able to assure myself that I am not the only person in the world that looks like me that flies to places. Surely not all of them can afford 1st class or 2 seats to have more room. The airline will not look at me and shake their head, ask me to leave or switch sides to even things out. I am not a bad movie. I am a person goddammit not a freak show.

Then why so freaked out? Because any positive, reassuring stuff is a whisper going against a goddamn bullhorn of anxiety. I fight but that is quiet too. I want to give up louder.

I started writing this post  and I was scared. I still am but I'm angry and frustrated too. Anxiety keeps me from doing things I enjoy. It throws panic in before I can try and that makes for a lot of missed opportunities. Hate is such a strong word but I do. I hate the way anxiety makes me feel and who I am right now because of it. It makes me feel ugly and worthless and pointless too. And that's the fear.


To try and help myself get through this, I used tools from therapy.

What is the worst that can happen?
Besides crashing? Being humiliated.
What's so bad about being humiliated?
Are you kidding? It fucking sucks to be humiliated. And it hurts.
What's the worst that can happen if you get hurt?
I cry. Or have a panic attack. Or both.
What's so bad about crying? Or having a panic attack?
People will see me.
What's the worst that can happen if someone can see you?
They'll see I'm broken.
What's so bad about being broken? 


And it goes on. My main fear is being humiliated. I can't stop that from happening. If someone chooses to be a dick, that's on them. I can only be myself, even if I'm broken.

See that's a good place to stop except there will be another day, another entry where it will be much more like the top half of this blog. Because I might forget how to talk to myself like I did above. Or I might forget that I'm a person goddammit. Or I might forget that I have an amazing tribe of people surrounding me with love and support. I might forget and I'll need to come back here and remember.

Time to Share-Trigger Warning

Right. This one is going to be a tough one to read for some. It's going to be a tough one to write but I started talking about it in therapy yesterday and it's time for me to get it out.

I was sexually abused.

I think I was about 6 or 7 when it started but I honestly can't remember. There were several different instances that I can't figure out were innocent childhood exploration or if they were also abuse. I know for sure that a few of them were. Different people, different situations, different times. Some I blocked from memory, some I just tried to forget. I'm learning now that these circumstances have affected me in ways I didn't realize. I was built, in a way, by these situations. I am who I am because of them.

He was my next door neighbor. Just a little bit older than me and he wanted to 'see my parts'. I was hesitant, I knew that part of me was private. But I was also curious about why his were different. He told me to take my clothes off and because I did what I was told, I did. He took his off and we stood there, looking at each other for what seemed an eternity before he started to touch me. I knew that wasn't ok so I ran. That night, when my dad was tucking me in, he leaned in for a kiss goodnight and I scurried-I distinctly remember scrambling against the wall-away from him. My mom saw this and immediately knew something was wrong. It took a while, but they got me to tell them what happened. Dad went to the neighbor's house and it was never brought up again.

They were the daughters of my mom's friend. I thought they were beautiful and exotic. African American girls with skin and hair different than mine. They liked to pretend. One of them was always the 'boyfriend', one the 'girlfriend' and I was the 'other girlfriend'. I still don't know if the groping and kissing were something I was genuinely curious about and possibly enjoyed.  I remember that one of the girls used a product in her hair that made it kind of greasy and I didn't like it when she kissed me. She always wanted to lay down together and I remember that feeling weird. It was the middle of the day and I was too old for naps.

She was a girl from church camp. My grandmother made me go every year with the pastor's family. She was his daughter. We'd spend the day doing harmless camp things, the whole time her whispering to me that she couldn't wait to get back to the cabin to 'play house'. Or maybe that was me. I don't remember. After a while, I thought this was what all girls did. It was mostly kissing but there was fondling too and I still don't know if this was another one of those exploration things or actual abuse. It was a secret, that I remember. 

She was a neighbor. We'd been friends and then not friends and then friends again like you do when you're a pre teen. She came over one day and we were watching a movie. She started touching my hand and stroking my body gently. It felt nice, but scary. Familiar. She played with the waistband of my pants, her fingers rubbing and prodding. I began to protest, things didn't feel nice anymore. But she told me to 'Relax. It'll feel good.'  But I pushed her off of me. I didn't like it. She didn't stay long once I said no and we were never friends again after that.

They were sons of my parents' best friends. They had one of those mini arcade games-Frogger and I thought it was the coolest thing. I wanted to play it all the time and they knew it. They took me to get sandwiches one day and told me I could play Frogger all I wanted when we got back to the house, as long as I did something for them. Not knowing what it was, I eagerly agreed. This response haunted me for years.  I told them it was ok. When we got back to the house, they led me to a back bedroom and tossed me on the bed. They were older, teens I think, and they were rough housing with me, tickling me. At first it felt like I was their little sister and we were just playing. Then they threw me onto my stomach and pulled my pants down. It felt like their hands were everywhere. They took turns putting them inside me and touching me. I didn't like it and I didn't want to play Frogger anymore. When they were done, they told me not to tell and I never did. I couldn't tell my parents, I couldn't tell their parents...they would have gotten in trouble.

He was a boy I liked. I thought he was so cute and couldn't wait for him to kiss me. He was at my house one night, watching movies with some friends. We were both at the age where a little touchy feely under the blankets was ok. He had his arm around me, and I didn't mind. It was when he pushed me down into the couch cushions and began grinding against me, pulling at my pants that I wasn't having fun anymore. I told him no. My mom was in the next room and I remember wanting to call for her but not being able to. He felt so heavy and I struggled for what seemed an eternity to be free from him. I finally managed to push him off and he immediately became angry. He asked me why I'd asked him over to my house, why he let me kiss him if he wasn't going to 'get some'. I told him no. Told him to leave. His dad picked him up and I threw all my clothes into the wash. I could smell his cologne on them and it made me feel like vomiting. I saw him again a few times. He worked at the mall and my friends didn't know so they teased me about my 'boyfriend' when we went there.


I blocked a lot of these situations. When I was 15, a little older than with the boy from the mall, I had my first boyfriend. He was handsome and he threw great parties and he had a giant Buick that made me feel like I was in one of my parents' cars. I felt safe with him. I liked it when he touched me, kissed me. He gave me my first hickey. I was having fun. One night at a sleepover, one of my girlfriends suggested we sneak out to go see him. I got scared. I remembered the boys that liked Frogger when I hadn't thought of them in years. I remembered everything and began crying. My girlfriends weren't sure what to do with me and I felt bad I was scaring them but I couldn't stop crying. I didn't know what was wrong, just that I knew I'd been hurt by boys before and I didn't want to go see my boyfriend and his friends. I didn't know what they'd do to girls at night that had sneaked over to see them. I never brought up my crying fit again and neither did my friends. He broke up with me soon after that, telling me he wanted to be with someone 'more experienced'.

I held in my secret for another 10 years. In time, the parents of the boys both died. One from cancer, his wife by her own hand. I went to the viewing for her, saw her cowboy boots and dyed blonde hair resting in a casket. I was terrified. Not because it was the first dead body I'd seen, but because I was afraid her sons would be there. They weren't and we didn't have to stay long. I never saw them again.

When I was 25, I held a bottle of pills in my hand and contemplated the end. A friend just happened to stop by and see me. She took me to the doctor and the journey into therapy began. Eventually, my therapist encouraged me to tell my parents even though I couldn't understand why. It had been so long, I didn't even know where they were, who they were. By then I'd been able to forget their names. All of them. Even the girl from church camp or the girls that liked to pretend. I still don't know them.

It took some convincing but eventually I told my parents. My mom cried, apologized for not knowing. I tried to assure her that there was no way she could have.  She felt it was a good idea to tell me her father had gotten drunk a lot and he'd sometimes come into her room at night by mistake. It was then I remembered my own father doing the same once. And my parents slept in the nude. When I told my dad about the boys, he vowed that if he ever saw them again, he'd kill them. And that was all that was said.

Over the years I've had a weird relationship with sex. I lost my virginity later than most. I was 27. Since then,  I've made love, I've fucked, I've had sex. Sometimes I liked it. Most of the time I liked it. But there are still some things I'd rather not do because of what happened when I was a child.

I learned how to keep secrets. I learned how to keep the boat steady. I learned how to forget. I learned how to push things deep inside so that they were kept hidden for decades. And yesterday, I learned it was ok to talk about it. New therapist, new issues.

I was abused. I survived. It's time to share how.