trust

The Fear Prison

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It’s been one of those weeks where a number of seemingly unconnected events have been signs pointing me in a single direction.

I had a conversation with a friend on Monday (one which I will inaccurately paraphrase here) about the concept of a fear prison.  The concept as I understood it describes the moments when something becomes legal, permissible, even encouraged, but we are unable to embrace, accept or even explore it because we remain trapped in the FEAR of horrible consequences.  The fear remains, despite our logic brains reminding us that the actual danger has passed.  We can remain trapped, capturing ourselves into custom built, highly individualized fear prisons.  No amount of intellectual reasoning or reassurance from friends and family can truly convince us that the danger has passed, that we are safe and that the “risk” we perceive as insurmountable is, in fact, no longer a risk at all.  The fear prison is both irrational (because no actual danger exists) and extremely rational (because it exists based on threats which were at one time real).   The fact that it simultaneously FEELS real and is in fact not true, makes it a particularly challenging concept to work with.

As a survivor of abuse, sexual assault, family violence, relationship abuse and systemic discrimination and institutional violence caused by the very systems that were presented as existing to protect survivors, I have built a complex and sturdy fear prison.

This fear prison is the driving force behind, and explanation for, so many of my decisions and so many of the symptoms of PTSD which weigh down my mind, body and spirit.

Just under two months ago, my ex-husband signed court documents which were stamped and sealed by a judge, giving me sole legal custody of my two children.  In reality, this piece of paper opened the doors of a real prison.  It represented an actual, tangible increase in safety, decision making power and freedom of choice.  People in my life, knowing how long and hard I’ve fought for this piece of paper, celebrated for me.  They were happy and congratulated me for “winning” after a long fight.

I think many people are confused and somewhat disappointed by my inability to celebrate.  I don’t feel relieved.  I don’t feel safe.  I don’t feel like I have won ANYTHING.  I don’t find it easier to make decisions.  I don’t feel free.

I’m still caught in my fear prison.

The walls of the prison are built by a trifecta of related fears.

First, the fear that I can’t trust him and can’t trust the unpredictable nature of violence.  This is the fear that he might come back, that he might try to hurt me or hurt my children when I least expect it.  The fear that if I let my guard down and allow a feeling of safety to exist, that I will be most at risk.   This is entwined with a fear that if I allow myself to relax and feel happiness or relief that it will be taken away from me: swiftly, without warning and in a terrifying manner.  This is the fear that every decision I make, every plan I make, every step forward I take, everything I build can be taken away. That it will be MY fault it is taken away because I foolishly let myself believe I was safe.

Second, the fear that I can’t trust anyone.  The fear that if I’m honest with doctors about how I feel then they will judge me and find me wanting.  The fear that people don’t believe me about the events of my life and my experiences.  The fear that people find me annoying, whiny, controlling, and generally too needy.  The fear that if I open up, I will risk being hurt again.  The fear that honesty will result in terrible consequences and that I should be careful about sharing TOO much or needing TOO much because it might result in me losing my children.   This fear at a deeper levels is that other people believe that I am crazy, insane, mentally ill, hysterical or mad.

Third, the fear that rules them all, is the fear that I cannot trust myself.  The fear that I am crazy, broken, damaged and maybe delusional.  The fear that I can’t trust my own memories of the past.  The fear that I exaggerated or invented the abuse.  The fear that I’ve accused innocent people of crimes they didn’t actually commit. The fear that I’m making too much out of too little and that a “normal” person wouldn’t react this way, have these thoughts or these experiences.   The fear that all of the challenges, abuse and violence in my life have been either my own fault or creations of my own mentally ill mind.  This fear keeps me frozen, analyzing and picking apart all my flaws and potential flaws.  This fear fills me with shame and makes me feel worthless.  Or maybe I feel ashamed and worthless because of this fear.

Believing that others think you are crazy, that you can’t trust others and that you can’t trust yourself because you might actually BE crazy builds up an extremely secure fear prison.  A fear prison so strong, that no amount of reality, court orders, locks on doors, or distance can break down.

This fear prison can only be dismantled through my own healing process.  By gradually challenging my fearful thoughts and looking for evidence that my fears are no longer true or real.  It may be that some of the fears were NEVER true or real, but were creations of my abusers, projected on me and designed, plotted and crafted to drive me insane.

The path to “winning” is not in the court orders or external victories.  The winning is my stubborn refusal to give up.  The winning is staying alive despite the intense desire to die.  The winning is getting up each morning and living my life, in spite of the fears.  The winning is parenting and protecting my children each day. The winning is behaving as if I’m valid and sane, even when I believe I am worthless and crazy.  The winning is reminding myself that I am a good person and that only a very BAD person would abuse someone and gaslight them hoping they would kill themselves so they could be proven “right.”

In his mind, the only way my ex-husband can be proven right, be proven not to be an abuser, be proven to be righteous and a good person, is for me to kill myself.  If I kill myself it proves to him that I am, and have always been, CRAZY.   If I die, his narrative becomes the truth and my accusations become just the ramblings of a mentally unstable person, not to be trusted.   I will live forever just to prove him wrong!

There are reasons I have my particular type of fear prison.  I fear that I am crazy because I was led to believe this.  I was led to believe I was crazy by abusers who gaslighted me.  I was led to believe I was crazy by doctors who labelled me as borderline.  I was led to believe I was crazy by the police officer who never properly investigated my report of sexual assault.  I was led to believe I was crazy by the doctors and school principals who lied, under OATH, during my family law trial.  I was led to believe I was crazy by child protection workers who told me that I was projecting my anxiety onto my children and that I needed to be more neutral in my reactions towards my ex-husband’s transphobic violence.  I was led to believe I was crazy by family law judges, who denied that I had been abused (or denied that it was relevant to the custody arrangements).  The entire system, from the moment I was first assaulted (and even before) has been a set up to create in me the belief that I can’t trust myself, my memories, my body or my mind.

Breaking down my fear prison means trusting myself.  Breaking down the fear prison means living as if I am sane.  Breaking down the fear prison means that my memories are true and that the injustices I’ve survived actually happened.  Breaking down my fear prison means accepting that so much of the violence was completely and utterly out of my control.  That is TERRIFYING.   Believing that I was helpless to stop it and that it wasn’t my fault is terrifying.  Believing that I did everything I could and that I did my absolute best at every step and that I still was powerless to stop the abuse is terrifying.

But not as terrifying as the fear prison of believing that I am crazy.

I’m not crazy.

What to do when PTSD tells you that the entire world is unsafe?

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I don’t know what to do when PTSD tells me that the entire world is  unsafe.

Trust no one.  Trust no one.  Trust no one.

Everyone will let me down.  Nobody understands me.  It’s not safe to trust.  It’s not safe to open up.  The system is broken.  Nobody believes me.

Maybe it’s me.  Maybe I’m the common link.  Maybe I’m so deeply flawed that people are better off away from me.  Maybe I deserved to be abused.  Maybe I’m the real abuser.  Maybe I’m broken and selfish.  Maybe I am controlling.  Maybe I am incapable of loving someone.

PTSD lies a lot.

PTSD makes me push people away over tiny mistakes.  PTSD makes me feel like a small vulnerable child, when someone says one harsh word.  PTSD makes me freeze in a conflict or do anything to get out of it, even if that course of action doesn’t make long term sense.

PTSD at its root tells me that the world is unsafe.  PTSD tells me that I’m unsafe and that I’ll never be safe.

It also tells me that situations are either perfectly safe or completely unsafe and dangerous.

PTSD doesn’t find a middle ground easily.

I need to get safe and grounded before the middle ground reappears.

When I’m triggered it’s all or nothing.  All the fear.  All the self criticism.  Pushing people completely away.  Feeling hopeless and that nothing has meaning.

PTSD makes me feel like trust is completely destroyed when someone makes a mistake that hurts me.  PTSD tells me that person can no longer be trusted because they will only hurt me again.  PTSD tells me that I’m safer alone.  Or that others are safer away from me.

PTSD is not a realistic judge of anything.  It doesn’t accurately assess danger.  It doesn’t accurately assess me.  It doesn’t analyze situations clearly.  It doesn’t forgive.  It doesn’t forget.  It never forgets ANYTHING that makes me feel unsafe.  And it all gets tied together in a giant clump of tangled unsafe, danger.

On the other hand, PTSD tends to forget the good times, the moments of safety.  The moments of laughter.  The moments when life has so much meaning it hurts.  It forgets the perfect moments, or tells me they are worthless because they ended.

I’m not a perfectionist.  PTSD is a perfectionist.  I’m not a control freak.  PTSD is a control freak.   I’m not a judgmental person.  PTSD is judgmental.

PTSD changes me into a person I don’t even like.

I know people have limits and boundaries and are fallible.  I know I have limits and flaws.  I know that life has good times and bad.  I know that it’s important to be grateful and see the joy in little things.

I know.

But I don’t believe.  PTSD doesn’t let me believe.  PTSD doesn’t want to risk losing the good things, so it doesn’t want to get attached to them.  PTSD is always expecting the next crisis, the next drama, the next danger, the next heart break and the next pain.  PTSD is a child cowering in the corner waiting to be hit. PTSD doesn’t let me “just calm down” or “just smile.”

I’m always waiting to be abused again.  I’m always expecting to be hurt again.

Deep down inside I’m scared that I deserve it.  That I’m not a good person.

PTSD makes me believe that I’m not a good person and that I don’t deserve happiness and health.

PTSD makes me neglect my health, because “what’s the point anyways?”

PTSD tells me that nobody believes me.

PTSD is the combined voice of all the people who have abused and hurt me over the course of my life.  PTSD isn’t me.  It’s not my voice.  It’s not random and it’s not a character flaw.   It’s the cumulative result of years of gaslighting, emotional, physical and sexual violence.  It’s the result of a broken system, systemic/institutionalized abuse which did not validate my experiences.  It’s the result of the psychiatric system, the legal system, the police, child protection and violations of trust by people in authority.

PTSD is the reason I’ve spent more than half of my life not really caring about living (at best) or actively wanting to die (at worst).

Sometimes when I’m triggered it’s not just Ana (my angry teenager) who is on the scene.  It’s a much younger child, almost pre-verbal.  All that younger part wants is to be wrapped in warm quilts and be held.   She wants her hair stroked as she cries.  She wants to be cradled and rocked and shushed.  Gently and patiently, like a parent with an infant.   That part isn’t angry like Ana,  she’s just a deep well of unmet needs.  She just wants to be safe.  This inner child has been around a lot the past few weeks.

I just want to be safe.

But I’m an adult.  And I have to take care of my needs myself now.

I feel like an imposter.

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Some days I don’t feel like I belong.  I feel like an imposter in my own life, or like my life doesn’t belong to me.  It’s a disorienting feeling and very difficult to describe to others. When I’m depressed or coping with PTSD symptoms I often feel like I’m faking it.  Like I’m pretending to be something I am not, or I am not what I am supposed to be.  I don’t fit in anywhere, even within my own life,which I struggle to believe is actually MINE.

During the workday, I help abused women.  I’m a counselor, a support worker, a health care professional, a peer supporter, and I help others.  I believe that I am good at most aspects of my job, especially those related to support work.  I have slowly developed some confidence that I can help other women.  That my experiences may have some meaning because they have given me the skills to deeply connect with others who are living with abuse, trauma and the impacts of violence.

But it’s incredibly disorienting when I leave work and am forced to deal with abuse, trauma and the impacts of violence in my own life.  Sometimes I feel confused, sometimes I feel like my life can’t really be this bad, this difficult, this out of my control.

Sometimes I feel like I’m living inside a public service announcement for domestic violence awareness.  How can I truly help others, when my own life is still being impacted by an abusive ex-partner?  How can I truly help myself?  How can I separate the past from the present, the triggers from the actual risks?   How do I stop this terrible helpless, disoriented, exhausted feeling?  Can I be a good support worker if I can’t solve the problems in my own life?  If I don’t follow my own excellent advice?

Last week I was at a doctor’s appointment with my children and my ex-partner.  It was very difficult and very triggering.  The doctor was asking the kids questions that they obviously couldn’t honestly answer with their father sitting in the room.  I felt a deep sense of pain and discomfort.  I wanted to tell the truth to the doctor about what my kids are struggling with, but I knew that if I said too much it could have impacts on my kids’ safety with their father.

The doctor asked questions about “do you feel safe?” and “do you have thoughts about harming yourself?”  On one hand, I was glad to see that this doctor was asking mental health and abuse screening questions.  On the other hand, I felt panicky and unsafe because the situation was so impossible.

I remember a time years ago, when I went with my then husband to the emergency room for a migraine.  The triage nurse asked me “do you feel safe in your home?”   The question made me pause, stop and think.  I knew that I didn’t feel safe in my home, but I also knew that answering honestly would cause something to happen.  My husband was sitting only a few feet away.  I didn’t know exactly what the “something” would be.  I hesitated for a second and answered “yes,” the only real possibility in that moment.

But I was thankful that the question was asked, because on a different day, or for a different woman that question could have been the permission and the space needed to disclose domestic violence or sexual abuse.

Health care professionals MUST ask these difficult questions.  They must ask their patients about thoughts of self harm, thoughts of suicide and experiences of violence.  They must ask if their patients feel safe at home.  These questions are vital and open a potentially life saving door.

But if the professional doesn’t have a clear plan as to how to handle a disclosure, they can do more harm than good.

Don’t ask a question you don’t want to know, or aren’t prepared to know, the answer to.

Don’t ask if someone feels safe, unless you are prepared to help them find safety if the answer is no.

Don’t ask someone if they feel suicidal unless you are prepared to support them, connect and hold space for them.

Don’t ask about abuse unless you are willing and able to support, believe and validate that potential disclosure.

Please, don’t ask questions unless you are willing to help or do what is needed to find help.

Sometimes it’s not enough just to believe someone.  Sometimes that person might need concrete help and support.  Health care professionals need enough time and enough resources to provide this help.  They shouldn’t be rushed in their jobs, they should be given adequate time and privacy to complete interviews.  They should have training in trauma informed care.  They should have resource lists, with shelter numbers, sexual assault centres and other options available.  And they should receive specific training around handling disclosures related to violence.

It was so triggering for me to be in a situation where these questions were asked in front of my abuser.  Where I knew my children didn’t have the ability to speak freely.  This situation was not conducive to health.  When in doubt, children could be interviewed alone.  Or if the doctor sense there is something complex going on, they should follow up. In a timely manner!

I know this doctor could sense the tension.  I did get the impression that she believed and could tell that I was afraid.  I didn’t feel like she did harm or had ill intent.  But I’m still constantly frustrated how many adults, doctors and counselors “believe” my children, and “believe” me, but have either no power, or no will to actually intervene to influence change.  The systems that have the power to intervene don’t believe (or are too slow) and the systems that do believe, ultimately have little power to impact the situation.

It means something to be believed.  But if the dangerous situation is allowed to continue indefinitely, it makes it difficult for survivors to trust.  It makes it difficult to feel safe and supported, anywhere.  It makes it more and more difficult to continue to disclose and continue to ask for help.  It makes me feel crazy.  It makes me feel like an imposter in my own life.  Where nothing makes sense and what I know to be right and fair and good is not able to transpire.  Where I can’t effectively protect myself or my children.  Where I help others by day, and feel panic, helplessness and fear each night.

 

But why didn’t you report it?

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canisay-left

I wanted to write a short post about why survivors of sexual assault don’t report and often don’t tell anyone.  More specifically, why I didn’t.  There are as many reasons not to report and/or tell as there are different survivors.

To distinguish the terms, reporting means telling someone in authority, for example the police, law enforcement or people in a position of power.  Telling, could mean talking to a friend, a family member, a doctor, counselor, religious leader etc.   Reporting is often done to accomplish some goal related to punishing the perpetrator or holding him accountable.  Telling is often done for the benefit of the survivor, finding support, discussing options, being believed and validated.

It can be very dangerous to mix these two concepts.  Because the people you might report to (the police for example) are not likely to, nor is it fully their job to, support the survivor.  In my opinion, it should be their job to BELIEVE the survivor, but even this cannot be guaranteed.

Some women choose to tell, but not to report.  And some survivors neither tell, nor report.  It’s important to remember that this choice should always be made by the survivor and she should not be pressured into reporting.  Sometimes the question “why didn’t you report it?” can feel extremely judgmental and can shut someone down even further.

Let’s talk about some of the reasons women, and folks in general, tend to stay silent when they experience sexual violence

  1. Real or perceived stigma associated with being a survivor of sexual violence.   We live in a rape culture society that tends to blame the victim and most survivors instinctively know this.   In many situations, there is also a great deal of internalized sexism, internalized judgment and internalized guilt and shame related to being abused which created a sense of stigma that might not have actually existed.
  2.  Fears of not being believed.  Many people stay silent, to avoid giving other people the power to judge whether they are telling the truth of not.
  3. Fears related to what they were doing at the time of the assault.  For example if the woman was drinking, if she was out late at night, if she willingly went to the perpetrators house etc.   Many survivors assume that because they consented to one thing, it means they automatically deserve the assault that happened, or that they will not be believed because they “put themselves in the vulnerable position” or were “asking for it”
  4. Fears related to oppression.  A woman may feel afraid to come forward if she is marginalized in any way, for example a Woman of Colour, a person with a disability, a person with a mental illness, a queer person, a trans person, a sex worker or someone using substances.  These folks may feel they will not be believed due to their experiences of oppression.
  5. Not recognizing what has happened as sexual assault.  When people are abused, it isn’t always immediately clear to the survivor that what happened was assault.  This is especially true when survivors are children or when abuse happens in a relationship context.  Often abusers are very kind and meet the survivors needs in some ways, while simultaneously being abusive in other ways.  This confuses the survivor and leaves her struggling to understand and define her own reality.  Also, some people (children for example) literally lack the vocabulary to define what they have experienced.
  6. Not having the option to tell.  For example, not knowing that reporting is an option, or not having a safe person to tell.  Or not trusting anyone enough to tell them.

This list is not exhaustive, but is meant to illustrate some of the complexities related to this topic.

When I was abused as a child and teenager, I neither told nor reported.  I didn’t tell anyone because of a combination of the reasons above.  I didn’t have the words, I was confused about my relationship with the abuser, I didn’t know reporting was an option and most of all I feared judgment and had deeply internalized shame and guilt about what had happened.  I blamed myself.

As an adult, I didn’t report because I was confused about my relationship, because I minimized the abuse as “not that bad,” because I disassociated and coped with self harm, because I had a mental health diagnosis I feared that I would not be believed, because I had children with the abuser and other reasons.

When I was assaulted single times by perpetrators I was not in close relationships with, I didn’t tell because I was ashamed.  Because I felt like it was my fault because I agreed to go with them.  I didn’t want to face the stigma with people I knew and because I worried people would not believe me or would judge me.

In the end, in all the situations I have faced, I have eventually either told, and in some cases, told and reported.  Reporting sometimes felt necessary for various reasons, including protecting other potential victims and attempting to receive external validation within systems, that the abuse actually did occur.

This blog is a way of telling my story and encouraging, or showing, others that telling is an option.  There may be a stigma attached to surviving sexual violence, but there are also communities of survivors and allies out there who will believe and who will validate.  There are safe people.  There are people who believe survivors.

Believing a survivor may seem like something trivial, but it makes all the difference.  Believe me!

P.S I mainly use the word “woman” and the pronoun “she” when describing survivors because the majority of survivors are women and gender non-conforming folks, and the majority of perpetrators are cis-men.   But I want to validate that survivors and perpetrators can both be any sex and/or gender.

You’ve washed your hands clean of this

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2003

I graduated from my undergraduate degree in June of 2003.  While I was completing my degree I took a number of classes taught by the same professor.  Let’s call him Professor L.  Towards the end of my degree and certainly over the summer that followed Professor L and I became friends.  I didn’t think much about it, I was engaged, clearly unavailable, he was my teacher.  We used to talk about ethics and academic topics.  I visited his house once or twice and he came for dinner with my finance and me at our house.  Over the summer I helped him with some research projects.   In the Fall he was out of town for a few months for work.  We would email back and forth.  He’d send me poetry.

I was 23 years old and he was 45, almost twice my age.  I was fairly naive and I overlooked some obvious red flags.

About a week before Christmas, December 2003, we had plans to meet and go shopping for Christmas gifts together.  He was back from his trip and we hadn’t seen each other in a while.  He came by my apartment to pick me up and when he arrived he said he was tired. He asked if he could come inside to rest for a few minutes.  I hesitated, I felt uncomfortable, I wasn’t sure…but I trusted this man I’d known for almost 4 years and I let him in.

Looking back on that day, I wish I had listened to my body’s signals and said no.

Professor L came inside and we sat on the couch in the living room.  He sat down very close beside me.  I felt nervous, anxious to go out and go shopping as we had planned.  It was the first time we’d been alone in my apartment together.

To be honest I don’t remember exactly what happened next.  I know he began stroking my arm.  He asked if he could see my scars, he asked me if I wanted him to touch the scars.  I still have flashbacks 13 years later if someone touches the scars on my arms or asks to touch them.

I was wearing a black long sleeved shirt, it was one of my favourites that I’d purchased on a trip to New York in 2002.  It was soft and beautiful.  After that day I shoved it in a drawer and I never wore it again.  I couldn’t bring myself to put it back on and eventually I donated it to charity, even though I still loved it I didn’t love the memories of him touching me while I wore it.

He was wearing a black scarf with gold flecks in it.  The gold made a design or pattern on the black scarf.  I remember staring at that scarf until the gold spots blurred together.  That scarf became the focus for my disassociation.

I didn’t say no. I didn’t say stop. I froze and I disassociated.  And I’m lucky because it could have been a lot worse, I could have been raped and I wouldn’t have resisted because I checked out.

I remember him stroking my arm and then touching my breasts.  I think he kissed me, but I mostly remember the touching.

I don’t know how much time went by, but at some point he realized that I was gone, that I wasn’t participating or responding, even when he spoke to me directly.  He got up and went to the bathroom.

I remember crying softly.  I don’t remember how much time went by, it seemed like hours but it probably was less than 20 minutes.  I sat curled up on the couch crying and unable to speak.  He spoke to me and tried to make things better and I didn’t respond.

Eventually I came back to reality and I asked him to leave.  He left.  I was so relieved.  I knew I’d been incredibly lucky to escape.  I was terrified knowing that I couldn’t have defended myself.  I felt like my body had betrayed me by disassociating rather than fighting back.

I couldn’t understand what had just happened? Why did he do this?  He knew I was in a serious relationship, I was 20 years younger than him, I never asked him to touch me, I didn’t invite him into the house…

I spoke to him by email.  I was crushed, I thought he was my friend, but I realized that I might have to end the friendship.  I asked him to take responsibility for what he had done.  I knew it was premeditated because he invited himself in.  But he wouldn’t admit it was planned.  A few months later I cut off contact with him because he was never accountable for assaulting me.

I remember going home for Christmas that year.  I was so triggered by what happened.  I remember crying.  I remember moving the bed in my room up against the wall so I would feel safer at night.

The worst part about what happened was that Professor L was the person I planned to use for reference letters to get jobs or to get into graduate school.  I hated the idea that I would have to ask him for a reference letter.  I felt like he would write a good letter only because he thought of me sexually.   It made me feel used and sick in ways I can’t even describe.

I went to the University and I told the academic counselor that I would need reference letters but I wasn’t comfortable contacting Professor L myself.  They were understanding but said that likely nothing could be done about his behaviour because I was no longer a student, so we were essentially just two adults.  That wasn’t entirely true because he still had power over me in terms of being my academic reference.

In 2008, I applied to go back to school for my Masters degree.  Professor L mailed the reference letter to me and I didn’t have to speak to him.  When I received the letter, I got immediately upset.  I remember leaving the house after the kids were asleep and walking to meet my friend.  I was holding the letter, crying and shaking, having flashbacks to the assault, just because I was touching a letter that he had also touched.  It was awful.  My friend helped me calm down and I was able to send the reference letter in.

I got into Grad school.  No thanks to Professor L.

Silence means no.