No Need to Argue.

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“There’s no need to argue anymore. 
I gave all I could, but it left me so sore. 
And the thing that makes me mad, 
Is the one thing that I had, 

I knew, I knew, 
I’d lose you. 
You’ll always be special to me, 
Special to me, to me. 

And I remember all the things we once shared, 
Watching T.V. movies on the living room armchair. 
But they say it will work out fine. 
Was it all a waste of time. 

‘Cause I knew, I knew, 
I’d lose you. 
You’ll always be special to me, 
Special to me, to me. 

Will I forget in time, ah, 
You said I was on your mind? 
There’s no need to argue, 
No need to argue anymore. 
There’s no need to argue anymore. 

Special.”

-The Cranberries, No Need to Argue, 1994

My 15 year old self is crying inside me right now as I read the news of Dolores O’Riordan’s death.  The Cranberries WERE the soundtrack to my life for many years of my teenage life.  I still have their album No Need to Argue in my car, and their songs on my playlists.  I remember listening to their CDs with my friends, at parties, and on my Discman taking the bus to and from school.  It was THE music of that moment in time, for many teenagers I knew.

I saw them play live in Montreal,  August 30, 1996.  I was 15 and it was my first stadium concert experience.  I remember being taken a back by how absolutely tiny Dolores O’Riordan was.  Her voice was unique, powerful and occupied an immense space in my life.  But in front of me, she was dwarfed by her large guitar.

I attended the concert with X, my boyfriend at the time.  We used to listen to the cranberries together all the time that year.  That concert is one of the positive memories I have of our relationship which was largely abusive.

I remember being younger (maybe it was earlier in 1995) at a party at my friend’s place.  Those were THE parties.  Some of the best memories of my high school years.  Teenagers all throughout the house.  It was just before some people started drinking and doing drugs.  High school, the joy of a party, without the ending of the innocence of childhood, when peer pressure began leading to alcohol and complicating situations.

Everyone had dumped their coats at the bottom of the staircase.  I remember lying there with the person I was dating.  The cranberries CDs playing on repeat in the background.  It was warm and dark and I felt safe, happy and at ease.  I remember laughing and talking with him, content in the knowledge that we were in a safe place, surrounded by our friends.  Life felt simple in those moments.  I knew where I belonged.  I fit in and was a part of a larger shared experience of being a teenager at a particular point in time.

The cranberries were the soundtrack to those happy times with friends.  The cranberries were BELONGING.

And they were one of the soundtracks to the abuse that followed.  Their CDs on playing on his stereo, in the dark navy blue of his room, while he touched me and forced me to do things.  They on the beloved stereo system that I got for my 16th birthday, while he abused me on my bed and on the floor of my room.  We talked about the music, we listened to the new CD “To the Faithful Departed” together.   The sense of belonging was also departing from me, as I became increasingly tied to, and faithful, to him.  I no longer felt safe and happy.  I felt trapped, guilty, ashamed and alone.

In 1997, I had escaped from X.  But I was spiraling deeper and deeper into the isolation of anorexia.   I listened to the cranberries, on repeat, on my stereo.   I was alone in my own room at that point, listening and writing by candlelight.   Listening while I did my homework and long into the evening.  I was detached and slowly fading into invisibility.

The cranberries came with me throughout the rest of my life.  The iconic sounds of Zombie transport me back to 1995, every time I hear them.

The cranberries are simultaneously belonging and safety, along with abuse and isolation.  The cranberries represent what being a teenager meant to me.

Dolores O’Riordan, gone too soon, but her music never forgotten.

 

Celebrating One Year of Hopeforsanity Blog!

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It’s been one year since I started writing this blog.  If you are a new reader I encourage you to go back and read the first few posts of this blog.  To all of you who are reading, following, liking, sharing and commenting: THANK YOU!  I’m writing this blog for the dual purpose of expressing myself and connecting with others who are struggling, letting them know they are not alone.  You are not alone.   Though this blog has dealt with graphic and dark topics, I aim for the overall message to be one of hope and resilience.

Twenty one years ago tomorrow (April 12, 1996) the entire course of my life changed.  I was 15 years old and I entered into an abusive relationship that altered my relationship to myself, my friends, my family and my body.  I went from a relatively happy, self assured, popular 15 year old girl, to an anorexic, withdrawn, self-hating, 16 year old young woman.

I believe Ana was born at this time.  It’s no coincidence that Ana is 15 years old.  Ana is my traumatized child self personified.   Ana is angry in ways my younger self could not be.  Ana is all the fear, shame, guilt and hopelessness personified into a rebellious teenager who only wants to hurt me and say a giant F U to the rules of the world.

Sometimes I wonder how my life would be different if I’d never dated X.  If I’d never tried to befriend him.  If I’d never believed that I could help him feel better about himself.

I also wonder how my life would have been different if I’d been taught as a child that it’s okay not to be “nice” to someone who is hurting you.  I wonder how my life would have been different if I’d been less concerned with being “perfect” and more concerned with protecting myself.  I wonder how my life would have been different if I’d realized that saving myself was even an option.  I was an easy target for perpetrators of abuse.  I played the role of rescuer, helper, caretaker and I never wanted to let anyone down or disappoint anyone.

People who don’t understand normal coping reactions to sexual violence have asked me:  Why didn’t you just scream?  Why didn’t you tell someone?  Why didn’t you push him and run away?

All I can say is that the answer is so complicated.  The answer lies in the social conditioning of some women living in a patriarchal, rape culture.  The answer lies in being taught to be “good” rather than to be true to oneself.  The answer lies in physiological responses which caused me to freeze and disassociate rather than fighting or fleeing.   Those physiological responses were not random, but were connected to the socialization of being a “good girl.”

My 15 year old self never would have considered screaming or fighting back.  Because she was ashamed, blamed herself and never wanted to make a scene.  My 15 year old self was confused and inexperienced and it took her a while to figure out that she didn’t like the sexual experiences that were being forced on her.  It took her a while to figure out that she wasn’t really choosing.  By the time she realized it wasn’t right, she was already coping by disassociating to lessen the impact of the abuse.  By the time she started firmly saying no, the pattern of abuse and the cycle of violence was already firmly established.   And because she was not naturally an assertive child and had not been taught to fight back in self defense, when her no wasn’t listened to, she began to shut down even further, withdraw further and develop other ingenious coping techniques such as anorexia, self harm and disassociating completely.

These reactions weren’t accidental.  They were conditioned from a young age.  Adults have to teach children to fight back.  Adults have to teach children that being nice can stop when someone crosses a boundary.  Adults have to teach children to fight like hell to escape a dangerous situation.  And even if a child learns all these things, it is still possible that in a violent situation freezing can be the only available option.   Many people being abused feel that fighting back would only result in further violence and physical injuries.

In my case, what kept me frozen was guilt and shame.  I thought I was doing something shameful by being sexual.  I thought that his family and my family would judge me.  I thought that my friends would judge me for neglecting them (as I was being socially isolated by the abuser).   Self blame kept me frozen and not fighting back.

Even as an adult, 21 years later, I still cope with conflict and stress by freezing or disassociating.  I’m still not skilled at saying no.  I also have difficulty saying yes or asking for what I need.

I think for a person who has experienced sexual violence it is difficult to say no.  Because in the abusive situation no was ignored and pushed past.  So staying silent feels less painful than having no not respected.  If I never really say no, I can’t be abused again.  It’s warped logic.  It is not productive or helpful, and it also prevents me from comfortably saying yes.

For someone whose boundaries have been consistently violated, setting boundaries can become a life long struggle.  A skill that must be learned or relearned gradually and with patience and self compassion.

Quite simply, I survived in abusive relationships for many years because I literally felt I had no other option.  I didn’t even feel like I deserved to be respected and I was gaslighted into believing the abuse was my own fault.

It’s never helpful to ask a survivor “Why didn’t  you just leave?”

Keep those thoughts to yourself.

They would have left if they could have.  And if they did leave, they are successful.  It doesn’t matter how long it took.  It took as long as it needed and not a moment longer.  Celebrate the reality, don’t question why it didn’t happen sooner.  “Why didn’t you just leave?” is a type of victim blaming statement.   If you don’t understand how someone could be trapped into an abusive relationship, educate yourself.  Don’t ask the survivor to educate you on their own painful lived experiences.  Survivors need to feel believed and validated, not questioned into justifying their existence.

Every year on April 12, I count another year of my life that has been impacted by sexual violence.  It is a grim reminder that for many survivors, myself including,  that the abuse was not “a long time ago” and we can’t “just get over it”  or “just move on.”  For people living with PTSD, time is a slippery beast.  Ana is still 15 years old.  Ana is me, she’s a part of me.  A part of me that never really grew up.  A part of me that needs parenting.

I’ve never parented a teenager before. I have no experience.  But I guess I’ll have to start somewhere.  And starting with acknowledging she is here, and she has unmet needs, is as good a place as any!