sexual abuse

The moment you know…

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I think for every person who experiences ongoing abuse there is a moment:  a moment when the person knows it is over.  They know they are not willing to take even one more minute of lying, gaslighting, physical violence, sexual assault or devaluing of their humanity.  At that  moment the survivor becomes empowered and powerful.

Some survivors are forced to stay with their abuser after this point.  Do not equate what I’m describing as “just leave” or “why didn’t you just leave?”   Leaving is complicated.  There are lots of reasons why someone is not able to leave.  Never judge a survivor for how long it takes them to walk away from violence.  Everyone has access to different options at different points in their lives.  Even if they are still living in violence, do not judge, for at that time they need your support more than ever.

I’m not talking just about leaving.  I’m talking about the moment of realization “enough is enough!”  After that point the survivor begins to take her power back, even if it is just internally.  She realizes she is worth more than the abuse and that a good portion, if not everything, the abuser tells her is untrue and designed to control and confuse.

Everyone has a breaking point, and after that point they begin to grow stronger in the broken places.

I remember the moment I decided that I couldn’t stay married any longer.   I’d played around with the idea of leaving for about a year, seriously for about 13 months.  I tried to leave 6 months before, but was lured back with promises of him attending counseling.

The sexual assault followed a predictable pattern.  It always involved me saying no when I was awake, or saying nothing when I was awake.  Later in the marriage I wrote my “no” in letters, emails and discussed it verbally during the day.  I explicitly spelled out in numerous ways that I did not consent to sex or sexual touching when I was asleep.   During the majority of the marriage I took varying doses of psychiatric medications that made me tired, sleepy, drugged, slower to respond, and quicker to fall back asleep.  I would fall asleep and wake up 45-60 minutes later (at the time when the medication was at it’s peak strength) to him touching me sexually or initiating sex.  I won’t get into all the details here, but it was non-consenting by definition, since I was asleep and drugged.  He knew I would say no if he asked me when I was fully conscious, so he just waited until I was asleep and impaired.  The medication also can make it harder for me to form thoughts or speak clearly and quickly, it delays my reaction times, especially around speaking.

When I did wake up I sometimes said no again, I sometimes froze and he eventually stopped, sometimes I moved his hand away, sometimes silently went along with it, and rarely I said yes once I was awake.  Even when I said yes when I woke up, I still experienced it as assault, because my body was already reacting physiologically by the time I was conscious.  Then it sometimes felt easier to go along with it because it bought me more time before he would ask or take again.

The last time we had sex was the end of our marriage.  Yes, ironically I can say that the sex was so awful I left him because of it.

I’d already been thinking about leaving, many times when he assaulted me I lay there thinking “This will be the last time”  or “I could just get up and walk out”  but I stayed because I had kids and I was afraid.

The last time was in early July, around July 7.  It was one of the times where he started touching me while I was asleep and when I woke up I decided to say yes.   We had sex.  I felt awful.  I knew it was over.  I realized that if I felt violated even when I said  yes, then there was no hope.  And I still felt upset that he couldn’t understand that if the sex started while I was asleep I didn’t have the chance to consent.

The next few days I spoke to my counselor at the abused women’s centre.  I spoke to one of my best friends, who had consistently been giving me the advice to tell my parents, get help, consider leaving.  Everything just clicked and a few days later I told him it was over.

From then on I never really looked back.  It took me 7 weeks to move out into a place of my own.  Those weeks were a living hell.  But I was never confused again.  I never wondered if I was doing the right thing or not.   I felt empowered to take some action to reclaim my life.

Sadly, in my story moving did not completely stop the abuse, and this week almost 3 years later, I watched someone else hit that breaking point.  Someone very close to me.  My own child.  I’m not sure whether or not to be absolutely devastated at what she’s been going through, or glowing with pride and inspiration at how empowered and strong she is.  At such a young age she is more self assured, confident and has better self esteem that I do as an adult.  She’s learned things as a child that I was taught in therapy as an adult.

At the same time I feel like the world’s worst and best parent.  I feel like the worst parent because I feel responsible for what they’ve gone through, and I feel like the best parent because I have, on my own, created empathetic, strong, caring and brave children who care about social justice and equality.  Sometimes I feel we are good people in spite of, despite and almost to spite him.  Being a kind person is one thing he can never take away and that empower us.

I’m not sure whether I’m triggered or inspired.  It’s been an emotional, upside down week.  I feel like I’ve been fighting to justify my entire existence for 3 years, probably longer.  I’m tired.  I’m so tired.  I sometimes feel I don’t have the strength to carry on, but I also don’t have the option to stop.  It’s a marathon.  Sometimes the decision to leave can happen in a split second, but the leaving can take a life time.

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I have vivid memories from very young ages of freezing in response to stress.

I remember staying at my Nana’s house while my parents were away.  One time she got sick.  It was just her and I in the house together.  She was in the bathroom upstairs throwing up loudly. I was terrified and I hid under the dinning room table.  I remember just being frozen there and being afraid.  I don’t remember anything before or after.

Pretty much my whole life since then I’ve had a phobia and very strong panic reactions when I hear other people throwing up.  Even watching it on TV bothers me.  I did get over it to a certain extent when my kids were young, but it still makes me irrationally afraid.  Even though I know intellectually that there is nothing to be afraid of, a part of me is still that little child, hiding under the table, not understanding what was happening to her Nana, or if she was okay.

Another time I was visiting extended family.  I was about 5 years old.  My Aunt and Uncle were going through a separation and he was abusive.  I remember standing on the landing of their house.  I remember hearing yelling and standing there frozen and afraid.   As with the first memory, I don’t remember much before or after.  I don’t really remember their house, I only remember the landing of the staircase.

I went to a school in a fairly central part of town for Grade 1-4.  My first experience with sexual abuse happened at that school.  It was either spring of Grade 1 or fall of Grade 2.  I know because the grass was still green and I wasn’t wearing a coat.  My best friend S and I were playing imagination games together as we usually did at recess.  We used to imagine we were characters from books we’d read.  Her favourite was Anne of Green Gables.  At that time mine was Laura Ingells Wilder from the Little House series.   We had vivid imaginations and we became the characters from the books we read.

The school had a massive play yard with different sections.  Part of the yard was a large L shaped field, the furthest away from the school, pavement and climbers.  The yard monitors rarely strayed far from the pavement and climbers.   S and I were right at the edge of the yard, by the fence.  There was a small grassy hill there and on the other side of the fence was a place large enough to park a few cars.  We could see the main road just on the other side of that parking space.

S and I were playing, deep in our imagination that day.  I remember it being warm and sunny and there were dandelions outside.  Suddenly a car pulled up parallel to the chain link fence.  It was a four door sedan, I think it was burgandy or dark brown.  The door of the car opened and a man stepped out.   He was white and had dark curly hair.  I think he was wearing jeans.  The man walked up to the fence, about 4 metres down from where we were sitting on the grassy hill.  There was some weeds and tall grass on his side of the fence, the parking area was unused and mainly abandoned.

I didn’t fully understand what happened next until I was much older.  And I certainly had no idea what it meant.  What I do remember is that I was afraid and I froze.  I think we both froze.

The dark haired man undid his belt, unzipped his pants and started touching himself.   His eyes were fixed on us, staring at us with a strange look on his face.  It wasn’t a look I recognized, or one I liked.   This was a stranger, the type of stranger our parents had warned us about, but we didn’t know what to do other than wait silently.

When the man finished, he zipped up his pants, did up his belt and walked over to his car.  He looked at us the entire time.  The car was parked parallel to where we were playing.  He got into the car and he rolled down the window.  It was the 1980s and he had to crank it open.  The car started, but before he drove away he looked at us one last time.  His hands made the shape of a camera in front of his face, one finger clicking the imaginary button.  It felt like he had captured us.  Captured a part of us for himself, and I knew that it wasn’t right.  I felt dirty and afraid.

As soon as the car pulled away the spell was broken.  S and I ran back to the paved area and to safety.  I don’t remember what happened after.  I don’t remember ever speaking to her about what happened.

What happened next?  S went home and told her mother who called the school.  The school sent home a note saying to be alert for a suspicious person and the description was there.

To be honest I don’t remember talking about it to anyone.  I don’t remember anyone talking to me.  I don’t know if I did talk to someone and I just don’t remember, but I’m almost positive I didn’t tell my parents.

Even at the age of 6 or 7 I felt ashamed and I felt I had done something wrong.  Maybe we shouldn’t have been playing there, so far away from the other kids.  Maybe we would be the ones to get in trouble.

S and I talked about this a few years ago.  It turns out she wrote a story about it at one point in her adult life.  It comforted me to know that she still remembered and that it had impacted her too.

It feels strange to write about this now, something that happened nearly 30 years ago.  What I find interesting is that my tendency to freeze as a way of coping was formed early in my life.  When I was abused as a teenager and an adult I coped in the very same way.  The first time I actually fought back physically I was 33 years old.

I don’t know exactly what makes some people fight, some people flee and some people just freeze.  I don’t know what was different about S and I, that she went home and told her mother and I don’t remember telling anyone.   This was a pattern that continued later in my life as well.  I just didn’t tell.  I froze,  I blamed myself, and I stayed silent.

Part of writing this blog is about breaking that silence.  I want other people to know they are not alone.  That they didn’t do anything wrong, even if they didn’t fight back or ask for help.

We all did the best we could to survive.

Don’t judge me. I’m coping.

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The most important thing to remember about survivors of sexual, emotional and physical abuse is that if we are alive chances are we are coping and that’s a good thing.

One way the psychiatric system as a whole fails survivors, especially women, is by labeling our normal coping reactions as “symptoms” of various psychiatric illnesses.  Please consider this: it was the situations I survived that were not normal, the ways I coped were normal healthy reactions.  I did what I had to do to survive and that’s okay.

Yes, you are normal!  No, this is not your fault!  I believe you.

If you turned to “disordered eating” as a way of coping with your trauma, you are normal.

If you engage in self harming behaviours as a way of coping, you are normal.

If you take drugs and alcohol as a way of coping, you are normal.

If you zone out or disassociate as a way of coping (either voluntarily or involuntarily), you are normal.

These are all examples of common coping reactions that women utilize to survive the abnormal and terrifying situation of experiencing abuse.

You did the best you could at the time to survive and that was enough.  If I had known better or had other options, I might not have used anorexia, self harm and suicide attempts to cope.  Those tools worked for me for a time, until they didn’t.  When they stopped being useful to me and started causing more harm to me than good, I became motivated to learn new methods of coping.    I don’t have borderline personality disorder, I don’t harm myself to manipulate others or to seek attention.  I do it because I am a survivor of trauma, doing what survivors do best: surviving.

If you are working towards recovery be proud of yourself.  We aren’t aiming for perfection here, because it doesn’t exist.  Your best is enough.  You are enough.

I identify with the label PTSD and my experience with it is that it is chronic and more of a disability than an illness.   Living with PTSD takes an incredible amount of energy.  If you regularly hear me say “I’m tired, I’m so tired” I’m not whining.  I am fatigued and tired almost all time, some days worse than others.  And no, taking a nap won’t help but thanks for thinking of me.

Let me explain why living with PTSD is so exhausting.  It’s an invisible illness, for the most part you can’t see my struggles, but that doesn’t mean they are not real or valid.

Facts about PTSD and why it sucks away a massive amount of my energy each and every day:

  1. Even though I might be in bed for 8 hours in a given night I’m often experiencing nightmares.  Sometimes these nightmares cause me to wake in a panic attack, unsure what is real and what was just a dream.  I sometimes wake up covered in sweat, making sounds and fighting off imaginary threats.  When I wake up I often do not feel rested and I sometimes avoid going to bed at night when the dreams have been particularly troublesome.
  2. One word:  hypervigilance.  This means my danger sensors are on high alert 24/7, 365 days a year.  I can’t “just relax.”
  3. Hyperarousal and exaggerated startle response.  Every time there is an unexpected noise, or sometimes even an unexpected movement I jump about 10 feet in the air.  This is a symptom that people around me tend to notice and comment on.  Again, I cannot control it. Reassuring me that there is no danger does not stop the response.
  4.  Depression and anxiety.  Obsessive compulsive worries.  Yes, PTSD impacts my mood.  No, I can’t just “cheer up” or “think positive.”
  5. Flashbacks and body memories.  Yes, intellectually I know it happened “a long time ago” and that I’m “safe right now” but my body and my physiology haven’t caught up. I can go from feeling perfectly fine to crying, terrified and in physical pain within seconds and the trigger can be sometimes as inconsequential as a touch, a word, a memory crossing my mind.  Intense flashbacks are accompanied by panic attacks, rapid breathing, hot and cold sweats, disorientation, confusion between past and present.  After a particularly bad one it can take up to 7 days for the residual effects to pass.  And though technically, in the present moment, nothing bad has happened to me, I often feel as though the abuse has occurred all over again.  I feel exhausted, scared and sometimes hopeless about how little control I have over the memories.
  6. Flashbacks, body memories, hypervigilance etc are not the same as day to day worries.  They are not something I spend time thinking about or worrying about, it’s easier to understand them as physiological reactions, rather than connected to specific thoughts or behaviours.   This is not an intellectual problem, so no, I can’t just “look on the bright side”
  7. PTSD is often accompanied by deep shame and sense of self as being damaged, broken or somehow faulty.  Even though you might not see me this way, and struggle to understand why my self concept is so “distorted” please hear me and believe me.  I really do feel that internalized shame as a result of being abused.  Be patient with me, I can’t just “love myself.”  It’s more complicated than that.
  8. PTSD causes actual changes in your brain.  In the military it is referred to as an operational stress INJURY or post-traumatic stress INJURY and this makes perfect sense to me.  My brain was injured by the trauma I survived.  The eating issues and self harm behaviours are symptoms of PTSD, they were the ways I reacted and coped with the initial injuries.

For those of you who do not live with PTSD, I hope this explanation of my experience makes sense.

Last night I had a new flashback, to the original abuse with X, 20 years ago.  It wasn’t a lot of fun.  It led me to think about how PTSD uses up a massive amount of spoons (google spoon theory of chronic illness for more information).

I’m trying to be compassionate with myself tonight.  My hope levels are staggeringly low.  I’m tired of life, but I won’t give up.

Tonight I’m coping.  I hope you are coping too.