WARNING: Triggers for physical abuse/emotional abuse
I have rape dreams about once or twice a month.
I had one early last week. They're never fully realized (thankfully) since I wake up midway, but they do have an emotional effect that colors the next few days.
After that dream, I had a very good dream that shows some progress in the whole family-emotions-therapy situation.
I dreamed I went to my grandmother's for Christmas, like I'm planning to do. I got there and there was a whole bus of family I haven't seen in years. Cousins, Aunts, Uncles, it seemed like everyone was there. It was overwhelming. I stayed in the hallway while everyone made plans. We were all going to get on the bus and go somewhere, but then I realized that they were leaving my immediate family behind - my mother, sister and brothers. (I don't know where my dad was. He's not often in my dreams) So I was going to have to spend the holidays with them instead of my grandmother, like I planned.
Usually, in this situation, I would just accept it and suffer through it. I'd fade into the background, growing sadder and angrier day by day until it swallowed me whole again and I returned to my robot status.
But this time, a thought occurred to me. My family was staying here, but it didn't mean I had to. I realized I could make my own choice. I told them, "I'm not staying here for Christmas." I let them know that I would be leaving.
And then I did. I walked right through the door and left.
I felt such a sense of freedom. It wasn't a knock-down, drag-out fight sort of freedom when you know all is lost and broken and everything's a mess. It was a healthy, "this was my choice and I'm fine with the fallout, whatever it may be" sort of feeling.
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And then I had a panic attack.
I went on vacation with a friend back to a place I'd lived in for twelve years. Where I took all my painting, horseback, ballet, and ice-skating lessons. The libraries I'd discovered new books in, my favorite thrift store, my favorite used bookstore, all the churches we'd been to and where my friends' parents still lived.
The place where my brothers were molested. The places where I experienced spiritual, emotional, physical, mental abuse.
I went back. I knew it would be dangerous. I was anxious about meeting people from my past. I went through various situations and played them out until I was satisfied with what I would say and how I would act and what I would do if I met this person or that person.
I also knew that I could have panic attacks, nightmares, anxiety, etc.
But I decided I probably needed to face some demons sooner or later and I was in the company of friends instead of family. Plus we were staying away from certain places where I had really bad memories.
I was expecting a rough but rewarding week.
I was not expecting to have a panic attack the first night.
We went to a Christmas play at a church. My friend's church, which I had been assured was a good, solid Presbyterian church. I'm having a hard time with religion and spirituality and church at the moment. I haven't been in two years. I still pray and use my rosary and prayer book but it feels like I'm talking to empty space. Wherever God is, He isn't in my space right now. My candle flame inside me was flickering out. I kept it out of harm's way (chapel, church services, certain individuals...) to save it.
So we went to the church play. I knew it was going to be a cheesy Christmas play. But it was so much worse. I started counting. Breathing heavier. When 10 triggers occurred one right after the other, I broke down crying and heaving in my seat. I took out my rosary and prayed the Julian of Norwich Prayer over and over and over. And then I started telling myself the truth.
"You can hurt them back now. You don't have to be helpless. You don't have to let the fear swallow you whole. You. Can. Hurt. Them. Back."
I used to think I was making a big deal out of punishment. I think I didn't realize until this week just how emotionally damaging they were.
I didn't get in a lot of trouble as a kid. I didn't think it was worth it, and I rarely felt like doing something dangerous. I wasn't a risk-taker. I toed the line because it was practical. I knew I'd get caught if I did something bad so it didn't even appeal to me.
But when I did get in trouble, it messed me up in ways I am just now beginning to understand. I got in trouble three times that I can remember where I was innocent. I got sick, to the point of vomiting, and didn't receive a punishment for two of those times. Another two times I was punished because my parents were obsessed with first-time obedience and didn't want to listen to me explain my reasoning.
I was humiliated in front of guests at our house. I was shamed, spoken harshly to, yelled at, embarrassed into silence. And then I had to force myself to be still and let myself be hit. And then I had to wipe my eyes and pretend that everything was alright in front of our guests. My last punishment was when I was fifteen.
Do you know what that does to a child? To be told that it is disobedient, bad, to protect yourself? To try to hide the gnawing fear, the black monster of horror as you are struck?
It numbs you. It turns you into a robot. It robs you of your emotions. It kills you, piece by piece.
We were hit with wooden spoons, spatulas, anything that made a smacking sound. My mother or father would grab a kitchen utensil and march us to the bathroom where we had to stand or lean over the toilet or bathtub and take it.
We weren't allowed to protect ourselves. We were forced to go against our instincts or face more punishment.
We were conditioned to be victims of physical abuse.
Is it any wonder two of my siblings were molested? They had been trained to let adults do what adults wanted with their bodies.
It enrages me that this is what my parents taught us.
To this day, I don't stop people from touching me. I don't have boundaries. I was trained not to. My mother and father not only forced physical punishment, they forced physical affection. My mom doesn't get my signals. She doesn't understand that I don't want her to touch me. I would be in the wrong, in her mind, if I told her I didn't want her to hug me. But my whole family suffocates me.
I let people do what they want with my body. I let myself get talked into my first kiss. I did have some hard lines (which possibly saved me from trouble later on), but they were extreme lines. I still let people hug me even if I don't like them. I still let people touch me in ways that make other people uncomfortable. I don't know how to gauge what is appropriate and what isn't. Part of that is my orientation, part of that is I wasn't taught boundaries. I wasn't allowed to have any.
And do you know what the final trigger was in that Christmas play? A woman was talking about how if the elves at the North Pole refused to make toys any more, she'd beat their bottoms until they turned red and Santa could guide his sleigh by them instead of Rudolph's nose.
That threw me into such a rage of pain and horror that I couldn't take it anymore. I started sobbing, thinking about all the humiliation and pain I'd endured from people who were supposed to teach me how to take care of myself. How to protect myself.
And that's when I realized, "I can hurt them back."
I'm not saying I should strike my parents. Or that I would. But I had to tell myself that I could protect myself.
I gave myself permission to protect myself and my body.
I'm in shock that I never believed until this week that I should and could protect myself.
