Names

As far as Dino was concerned, I had four names.  They were used interchangeably and I was expected to answer to them when called:  Little Shit, Little Slut, Little Bitch, and Little Whore.  When I relay these memories and I say that he called me or referred to me, I don't often mention that he didn't use my name, that I was called one of those names but somehow I think it matters to acknowledge it now.

I am not those things.  I never was.

A couple of the littles, the ones that were only there for some of the torment that he dished out, don't realize they have a different name.  Two of them I call the twins simply because they experienced very similar things and are often called up together.  But they distinguish themselves by the name they most frequently answered to.  One day soon I am going to have to rename those two.  

I Was Raped

She said today that the other day was the first time I had said that word out loud.  It's true.  I know that I had talked about some of it before, in very vague ways, always trying to convey enough of the picture that the hearer could say what I couldn't find the words for, but seldom if ever have I used that word in a first person sentence.  Until now.  And somehow, there is strength and freedom that comes from acknowledging these things out loud.  In the moment, I don't feel strong.  In the moment, it is all I can do to remember that I am here now not there then.  But later - days, weeks later - I begin to notice that I truly am stronger, liberated.  

I can do this.

Here's What I Know

Today in therapy, I talked about this, or more specifically, the last paragraph.  I left out some details.  I said some details that I didn't write down.  It really doesn't matter.  There is healing in both the writing and the telling.  Here's what I know:

1. I lied about one thing unintentionally.  I said that I didn't know what Dino said to the boss when I came in. At the moment that was true because I couldn't bring it to mind, but I do know.  The boss asked, "What is this runt doing here?" and Dino responded that he had caught me f***ing around in the woods the week before and his old lady b****ed until he agreed to keep an eye on me while she was at work.  The boss looked me over and shrugged his shoulders.  
2. It sounds unbelievable.  But then again, I prefaced this blog with that statement, so I already knew that.  
3. Those three events describe the next seven months of my life.  Same story, different setting, different players.  A few of the differences stand out in my mind.  Those are probably the things I am going to have to talk about, but I don't want to.  
4. I want to run.  I want to hide.  I want to stop therapy and stick my head in the sand and pretend that none of these things ever happened.  I don't think that's going to work, so I will keep doing what I am doing if for no other reason than that it appears to be helping.

McNuggets

I remember when McDonald's came out with McNuggets.  I was 11.  I was perpetually hungry.  He brought home a 20 piece and called mother and I into the living room.  We sat there drooling.  He asked if we were hungry, if we wanted some.  Mother said yes.  I wasn't sure if I should speak though I am sure my eyes spoke volumes.  He laughed.  I started to get up and go back to my room.  No such luck.  He made us stay and watch him eat.  He went on and on about how good they were.

Sometimes before I learned what McNuggets are made of, I would go to McDonald's and buy some just to remind myself that I am safe and can eat if I am hungry.  

Beer Cans

Dino had this pyramid he made out of beer cans.  He called it art and mother would complain about it, before she knew better.  She would whine and say that it looked tacky, that we weren't white trash.  He would slap her and tell her to shut up.  Once, he pushed her into it and it fell over.  He made her stack it again and then knocked it down and made her do it again because she was "too stupid to get it right."  Another time when he threw her into the cans some of them got smashed.  He was really pissed that time.  I think that is the time he broke her foot.    After that, she didn't talk back to him any more.  I hate beer.  I hate the smell of it.  I hate the taste of it.  I hate the thought of it.  I don't mind alcohol, but I hate beer.  

Forgiveness

I know a lot about forgiveness: both giving it and receiving it.  I have needed a lot of it in my life and God is good at forgiving even when people are not.  I have had to forgive many people of many things, sometimes quite selfishly because I know how unforgiveness can eat at a soul until a person becomes someone entirely different.  But I am getting ahead of myself.  Forgiveness was one of the points in Pastor's sermon this morning, how we should go the extra mile to forgive people, turn the other cheek, don't seek revenge and all that.  Mt 5:38-42  That got me thinking about my Grandpa, which is where this post is going.  Before I can tell you the lesson he taught me about forgiveness, I have to tell you about him.  When I was young, he was the most gentle man I had ever known.  He was the one constant in my life as a child, the one person that I never doubted loved me.  He is one of the two people that I know who this quote describes.  He was love personified.  I lived with Grandma and Grandpa off and on throughout my childhood, totalling 8 years.  That might be more than I lived with my mother.  I would have to do the math and that's not where I want this post to go, so maybe another day.  I would sit with Grandpa while he read the paper, just quietly watching him and absorbing his love.  He was good to me.  When I was 12, I moved back in to their house.  The why is a long complicated story.  Part of it has to do with my sister.  She was in foster care and it had been determined that the case needed to be closed; either by terminating my mother's rights or by the child moving from the state.  It had also been determined that mother was unfit to care for my sister.  The caseworker knew that she was also unfit to care for me but that had not been determined legally so she worked to find a loophole that could protect us both.  Enter Grandma and Grandpa.  It was decided that my sister and I would move in with our grandparents in another state, thereby allowing the case to be closed and protecting us both.  Seemed like a win/win.  Not sure it was for my sister, but the lady had good intentions.  Again, I am a little off track, but a bit of history just seems necessary.  So, we moved back in with Grandma and Grandpa.  This was our third stay with them.  Like I said, I was 12.  When we got there, as usual, I was mute.  Grandpa was used to this, almost expected it, and took great joy when I finally opened up and found my voice again after returning to their home.  Anyway, I was more skittish this time.  I avoided eye contact at all cost.  I startled every time anyone walked into the room or made a noise.  I flinched every time Grandpa tried to touch me.  About two weeks after we got there, before the doctor visits and the realization began to hit of what I had experienced in my time away from them, Grandpa showed a rare moment of frustration when I pulled away from him and said, "What the hell did they do to you?!?"  Of course, I said nothing and flinched at his tone.  When I came home from the doctor a few weeks after that and Grandma explained what was going on, he said, "I WILL NEVER FORGIVE THAT MAN!"  This is where the lesson he taught me about forgiveness comes in.  You see, he began to change.  Slowly at first, and then more drastically.  He became angry and irritated at everyone in the world - except me.  Even in my silence, even in my pain, even with all "that man" had done to me, I knew I didn't want to become the person my beloved Grandpa was becoming.  So, I filed these thoughts away and tried my hardest to forgive.  It was impossible at that time.  I didn't know God and no matter how hard I tried, I was always filled with anger.  Time has a way of mellowing pain and God has a way of healing it.  It would be years before I could truly forgive.  It would take me knowing forgiveness from God to be able to give it to others and even then, I struggled for many more years.  It wasn't until after I had begun to learn to forgive that Grandpa also began to learn.  I went to visit them and he had become so angry all of the time that some of that anger spilled over on me, his beloved princess who needed protecting from all of the evils in the world.  He definitely didn't want to be one of those evils, so he asked me how I could forgive after all that was done to me.  I simply answered that God gave me the grace to forgive.  I never had the privilege to see him after that moment, but I have been told that he became even more loving and more gentle than he was in the beginning, that when he surrendered all of that anger to God, it was replaced with more love than a human heart can hold so he simply gave it all away those last few years of his life.  So, in his unforgiveness, he taught me to forgive and in his forgiveness, he taught me to live. 

She asked about camping.

We were trying hard to stick to topics that were positive or at least neutral. We were trying for several reasons. My oldest really needs me to be present right now and sometimes confronting memories makes it hard for me to do that. Then there are her struggles that are creating enough stress for me to deal with at this time. Plus, I hadn't been having nightmares for several weeks. The reprieve was nice and we were trying to extend that as long as possible.

She asked about camping. This really is a safe topic. Usually. It should be. It is one of the few childhood memories that I have that is not tainted by anything bad. Except... Dino has a way of creeping into everything. And it's not even that we were camping; just that we were outside in areas that are similar to those encountered while camping. There are actually two separate incidents and one that happened in the weeks between. I thought of the last one first, but I am going to put them here in chronological order. It makes more sense that way and I do whatever I can to make sense of these things.

First was late Feb or early Mar. TA could probably say exactly when and I am guessing she would know the kids names. All I remember are the sensations that went along with the moment; the smell of the woods and the girls' perfume, the chill of the night, the colors of the sky. I was 11. One of the girls lived a few houses over in the trailer park. She was 14, I think. She asked me if I wanted to spend the night and I said yes. I didn't really see the need to get permission b/c Dino worked w/ her dad and he would know when he got home. So, I left a note for mother and went. When I got to her place, she left a note for her folks and said we were spending the night at her friend's house. Still didn't seem like a big deal. Mother wouldn't care, so long as I had left a paper trail. So, we set off to walk through the woods to this friend's house. We met her halfway there. The girls were all giggly and excited b/c of how they had tricked their parents and the plan was to spend the night in the woods. Sounded safer than home so I was game. A little later, their boyfriend's showed up and I was put on lookout duty. Around 11, the boys went home. I tried to convince the girls to go home at this point. I figured we would get in less trouble if we said we had hung out in the woods for a while before deciding which house to stay at, somehow I knew the one wouldn't last the night, and if she didn't then we would all get busted. They said no and wouldn't let me leave. Whatever. So we all curled up and went to sleep. Sometime around 2 the one got cold and went home. Then, I wouldn't let the other girl, the one I was supposed to be staying with, go home. I figured it would be better to stay out all night and maybe get away with it than go home and definitely get in trouble. So, we curled up and went back to sleep. A few hours later, Dino showed up and scared the girl and told her she better go on home. He then said he was going to show me what happens to whores that stay out all night. He threw me down and raped me. When he was done, he left me. I lay there crying and shivering and went home after daylight, when I was sure he would be gone for the day.

The next has nothing to do with camping, nothing connects this thought to camping; but it happened before the other and as a result of the first so here goes. The next Saturday, Dino took me to work with him b/c I was in trouble. That in and of itself wasn't that unusual. Since it was Sat, the boss wasn't there. There was Dino, Tony, and one other man working on the house. They were hanging sheet-rock that day. Usually I would have to sit around and not do much unless someone dropped a hammer or needed nails or something but because there were an odd number of workers, Dino put me to work. He had me pounding nails into the sheet-rock while the other man held the sheet-rock in place. At first, it was no big deal. There was lots of yelling how useless I was and that anybody who wasn't stupid should be able to hammer a nail, but nothing out of the ordinary. The man held the sheet-rock in place and I pounded nails. Then he was standing directly behind me, pressed up against me, holding the sheet-rock above my head. I was uncomfortable, but didn't know what to do. Then we moved on to the next sheet and he placed one hand above my head and pressed the other against my side. I said, "Um, Daddy * ?" He glanced over and said, "Just shut up and do your job, you little whore." So, I did. Before long, the man was brushing his hand across my stomach as we moved from one spot to the next. Just as he touched my genitals, Dino came over and said, "You have to pay to play with my things." I was horrified. I looked up at him and saw the man looking at me. He turned to follow Dino and said, "How much?" I couldn't hear what they were saying. The noise that fear was making in my ears was too loud. I was scanning the exits trying to figure out if I could get away before they could catch me but I couldn't move; I was frozen to the spot. Dino yanked me by the hair and whispered, "Play nice. No screaming." Then he pushed me to the man who dragged me into another room. I stared out the pane-less window while he raped me. Then he left me lay there. I climbed through the window and ran into the woods. I hid for a very long time, until after they had left for the day. As darkness began to fall, I hid in another unfinished house on the block and fell asleep. Dino found me and beat me and raped me and beat me again before he took me home. He told mother I had run away.

The next week was spring break. Dino had mother convinced that I couldn't be trusted at home alone because I had run away and had been hanging out with those troublemakers. Monday and Tuesday she didn't have to work so I stayed with her, mostly in my room. Wednesday, she worked a day shift and I went with Dino. Thursday, she worked evening shift and took me to the construction site early afternoon. After the boss left for the day, those three decided to have some beers in the woods. For a while, it was no big deal. I sat on the bed of the pickup and took them beers when anyone hollered for one. Then Dino called for a beer and when I took it to him, he didn't reach for it so I had to get really close to him. He reached behind me and turned me around so that my back was to him while pulling me closer to him. Then he put his other hand in the pocket of my shorts. The pockets had been cut out so he was touching my skin. Right then I made a huge mistake. I said, "No. Please, no." He jammed his fingers up inside of me and yanked my hair and told me to repeat myself. I shook my head no. He pulled/pushed harder and told me not to tell him no. Then he said, "You are mine and I can do what I want, when I want, where I want. Understand?" The man who had raped me the week before said it would be a shame for the bed to go to waste. Dino carried me to the truck bed, threw me down, and raped me. When he was finished, he looked at the guys and said, "I think she would like to have a little more fun. Anyone interested?" The one raped me and then Tony raped me and then Dino started raping me again. I must have passed out because the next thing I remember was a cold can between my legs. The sky was a mix of crimson and orange. I jerked and tried to get up but I was tied. Dino was saying that I had woke up and was up for another round. I turned my head to the side and let the tears stream from my eyes. There was nothing I could do.

*I was required to call him Daddy. Anything else resulted in a slap hard enough to make my head spin and something bleed or a beating so bad I could barely stand afterwards. Calling him any other name just wasn't worth it.

Does This Make Me A Freak*?

I remember the first time I knew I was a freak. It was the summer I was 14 and I was on a youth trip. My Grandmother had been hesitant to send me, but I pleaded incessantly and promised her I would be OK. As always happens with events involving youth, we were running late. We had left home that morning on time, but when we arrived in the city where we were staying, it was after midnight. Rather than call the families that were supposed to be hosting us, it was decided we would sleep at the church. When we walked into the building and turned the light on, roaches were everywhere. They were scurrying and trying to scatter, but there were so many of them that they kept running into each other and changing directions. I started to scream and couldn't stop. It wasn't about the moment. It was that the roaches brought to the forefront of my mind a different moment. A moment from when I was 11 or 12. I had not faced that memory since forming it. Nothing could convince my mind or my body that I was 14 and safe. A boy that was new to the youth group kept telling me to focus on him and kept reminding me that I was safe and it was just bugs. His parents were foster parents and he had seen them calm children down in the same way for most of his life. Even when I was able to stop screaming, I couldn't speak or even move. I was frozen to the spot. Someone laid out my sleeping bag and walked me over to it. I just sat there, not moving, but watching everything. When everyone was asleep, I tiptoed to the bathroom and locked the door. I sat in there all night with the light on just staring at the door. Since then, I have learned to handle better those moments when I am bombarded with the past. Most of the time, I am able to stay focused on the moment that is now. I seldom scream or freeze. Most people who know me now don't even know. Now, I am only a freak on the inside.

*Freak = having PTSD & DID. I just didn't know it at the time. Not sure knowing it now helps, but I guess it is better than thinking of myself as a freak.

The Tree

The other day, I read a post on another blog about climbing trees. She shared a memory filled with happiness and security which made me think of my own childhood experiences with climbing trees. If you want to read about a happy memory, I suggest you read her story, not mine. This post is more graphic than most. Seriously, you might not want to read it.

When I was 11, there was a tree I liked to climb. It grew in the trailer park we lived in. I would run out of the house early in the morning, before anyone was awake, and climb that tree. I would climb so high and nestle myself within the branches so well that no one would know I was there even if they were standing under the tree looking up.

I felt safe there.

No one could touch me.

No one could find me.

I could see my house and all of the neighbors. I could hear when Dino or Mother would call my name. I knew when she left for work and when he began to be angry that I was not coming home. I knew when all of the neighbors came and went and when they went to bed. I knew if they yelled at their kids, and often what they had for dinner. None of that mattered when I was in the tree.

I was protected.

I was hidden.

I was safe.

I was untouchable.

I would stay in the tree well into the night, past the time that Mother came home from work, past the time that they and all the neighbors went to bed. It didn't matter that I was hungry. Nothing mattered except the feeling of security and control I had while I sat in the tree.

No one could find me.

No one could touch me.

No one could hurt me.

My life when I wasn't in the tree was hell. Dino would torment me in many ways. He would withhold food and water. He would beat me, sometimes until I was unconscious. He would dictate what I could or could not wear. He was the one who decided when I was allowed to go to the bathroom. He controlled who I saw and what I did with them when I saw them. He would rape me, repeatedly and force me to seduce him. He would say vile and cruel things to me. He was a monster. The tree was my refuge.

I was hidden.

I was safe.
I was protected.

No one could touch me.
No one could find me.

No one could hurt me.

Hair

They all liked it. Touched it. Smelled it. Played with it. I hated it. I wished I could shave it. Or at least cut it really short. But I never dared. Because I didn't want the beatings that I knew would follow. I still can't stand for it to touch my skin on bad days. When I have had a really long string of bad days, people forget just how long my hair is. Because it is always tied in a bun. I would cut it. I have in the past. But I feel so lost without it. And it always grows. I would rather have long hair that I can tie up when the memories come flooding at me than short hair that I can't get off my neck.

Scared and Scarred

I HATE when I wake up so scared that I am curled in a tight little ball, shaking, telling myself to breathe steady or he will hear you, don't move, don't make noise, then realizing I am going to vomit and telling myself that I can't because if I do, he will find out and I won't be allowed to eat. It takes quite some time when I wake up like that to realize the reality that it is 25 years later and yes, I can get up to go to the bathroom and vomit. No, he is not just in the other room, taking any noise or movement as an invitation to come back in. I HATE being that scared little girl again.

Nightmares

There are so many things that trigger the nightmares; so many things that if they happen, I am guaranteed to have a nightmare.  If I am cold.  If I am hot.  If I am hungry.  If I am in pain.  If I am not covered up.  If I don't have a stuffed bear to hold.  If I hear a train.  If I hear a dog barking.  If I fall asleep with a hair tie on my wrist.  If my hair is wet.  If I am angry.  If the lights flicker.  If I am thirsty.  Yet, I can do everything perfect and still have the nightmares most of the time.  There is not one thing or any combination of things that guarantees they will stay away.  Only things that guarantee they will come.  I hate the nightmares. 

Words

I am losing my voice. I have a cold and everything comes out as a whisper; every word is a struggle. This shouldn't be a big deal, but it is. When I was little and life would get really stressful, I would stop talking. Not by choice. Rather, my voice just wouldn't work. And after a while, I would lose my words. I would stop thinking in words. Then, I would go live with my grandparents and it would take months or sometimes years before I could whisper again. And then finally speak normally.

Once, at age 12, I got mad at mother and refused to speak to her. I didn't intend to stop speaking completely. I just intended to stop speaking to mother. I quit speaking altogether and it was a full two years before I could speak again. That is when I realized two things. This inability to speak would always be with me to some extent and I could not control it.

Life is stress right now. There is all of this that I put here, that I don't want my kids to see or know and there is all of life that is happening now. Both are stress in overwhelming proportions. This is not usually a big deal. I have learned that if I sense that I am losing my words, I can force them out and prevent the muteness. But I cannot speak because of the hoarseness in my throat. And I had already been forcing myself to speak because of the stress. I am scared I am going to lose my words, my ability to speak, my lifeline to the world.

More To Say

Last week, I titled a post "I Am Lucky I Lived." It seemed to me at the time that the title said it all. Now, seven days later, I realize there is quite a bit more to say.

Before, when I would be consumed with memories of that time, I felt anything but lucky to be alive. So, just that I have recognized the good in making it through that time is huge.

But then there is the meaning of the title if the emphasis is on the last part. I had never contemplated before that moment that those things that happened in my childhood could have killed me, individual events and cumulative effects as well.

And yet I lived. I am glad about that.

Absolute Rules

When life with Dean is at the forefront of my mind, it is hard to have rules for my kids that are absolute. My 14 year old needs absolute rules. I am much better at giving absolute rules now than when they were younger, because I have seen the havoc that plays out in our home if the rules are not absolute. My one child needs absolute rules where there is no discussion. I need to be able to allow my children to discuss things. I want them to always know that they can talk things out. But some things truly are non-negotiable.

I Am Lucky I Lived

The Perfect Sandwich

Lynn introduced me to the perfect sandwich that summer.

Dorito chips + Mayonnaise + Mustard on bread = delicious

There is absolutely nothing nutritious about this sandwich. However, when I can't eat because the memories of life with him flood my mind, often I can eat a Dorito chip sandwich and it will trigger something so I can begin eating again. Therefore, it is the perfect sandwich.

Lynn

One day when I was visiting with Lynn, Dean came home early. I told her to run, and I got between him and her. He knocked me down and I hit my head on the steps we had been sitting on. When I came to, I was tied up in my closet. I couldn't move and I couldn't make a sound. Every time my mother would leave the house, he would come in and torment me some more. That was when I learned not to fight, to just let him have his way. I couldn't stop him anyway. I could hear him sometimes telling mother that I had run away. The thought had never crossed my mind before. I ran away after he untied me; lots of times. At first, I would hide in places like under the trailer, a tree I liked to climb, and the tall grass behind our trailer. In the end, nothing scared me and I would go anywhere my legs could carry me. I don't know what happened to Lynn that day. I assume she made it home, that he didn't catch her. We never talked about it, and she never came to my house again. Sometimes, I would go to her house and talk to her. Sometimes we would hide in the blackberry patch and chat. Sometimes, we would sit in the tall grass between our homes. But we never talked about that day, and we never talked about what happened at home. We would talk about the usual things 11 year old girls talk about like lazy summer dreams, school, and cartoons. She was older than me, but she seemed so much younger because she was so sheltered and innocent. I tried to keep it that way.

That Child

I had a friend named Lynn. We would sit on the back steps of my trailer and talk when I was the only one home. She would not come over when anyone else was there. I would signal her and let her know I was alone. She could see her house from the back steps and it felt safe. But her mom didn't like me because I was not trained in the things of polite society, the things most parents train their children to do. Things like please and thank you, putting away toys and sharing, taking care of things and recognizing that they have value. I was always hungry and usually dirty. I probably was not the type of child I would now choose for my children, except that I was that child and so I know that with a little love and guidance, that child can be taught to do what is acceptable and right. Then at least the child has a choice. When given the opportunity, I allow these children to come into my life and the lives of my children. Because I think I can be that voice of reason. When it becomes too much of a burden on my children, then sometimes I have to let that child go. When it becomes obvious that even with knowledge and choices, the child still chooses what he or she lives with, I let them slip out of our lives. But usually, with a little love and guidance, they are here to stay. I was that child, after all, so I know how to reach them.

Food Issues

When memories of life with him invade my mind, I have food issues. There are three different things that happen. Either I am not hungry and do not eat, everything makes me feel like I am going to vomit, or I inhale everything so fast like I haven't had food in days and may not be given the chance to eat again any time soon. I understand the root of all three of these responses. The first and the last are connected and kind of obvious. He would withhold food. For days on end. And sometimes eat in front of me. Forcing me to watch him eat. So when I was given food, I would inhale it because I might not get the chance again. The feeling like I am going to vomit is a different explanation. If he found out I had an aversion to a specific food, he would force me to eat it. I would not be allowed to eat anything but that. Strawberry ice cream, for example. Exclusively eating something you already dislike when you are regularly denied food tends to enhance the gag reflex. So, often when memories of him invade my life, every food makes me gag. Even foods I typically enjoy and do not associate with the horror that was life with him.

These food issues make it difficult for me to be a good mom. Because I forget to cook dinner and then have to scramble to feed the kids. Or can't bring myself to eat with them. What kind of example does that set? I try, for their sake. Sometimes, I set an alarm so I will remember to prepare meals. Sometimes I sit with them and force the food down even though I think I am going to gag. And always, I remind myself to chew and swallow at a resonable pace. They don't even have a clue. And I like to keep it that way. For their sake.

Tonight I want nothing more than to eat something and go to bed. But I cannot bring myself to eat anything because I know it will make me vomit. And I cannot bring myself to go to bed because I know I will have nightmares.