In our family lore, as told mostly by my mother, my brother was extremely protective of me. He was also wonderful, smart, talented, etc., etc. In fact, even if a story she told started out being about me, it ended up with him as the star.
When we would go someplace, she would urge him, "Watch out for your sister!" while urging me, "Listen to your brother!"
Years later, as an adult, I found out something that I think quite significant. My grandmother, my mother's mother, was alarmed at how compliant I was and how easily my brother bossed me around, as if I was under his spell or something. She feared what sort of adult I would become: would all men control me that easily? She warned my mother to intervene and not to allow this dynamic to continue.
Apparently my mother either disagreed or didn't care. She found it amusing how my brother would boss me around. She laughed about how he wanted to become world dictator. Not only did she never suggest, encourage, or empower me to stand up to him, she continued to insist, "Listen to your brother!"
She never discouraged me brother from his attempts to control me either. She never said, "You have no right to order your sister around!" Instead, she seemed to encourage it.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Keeping secrets for my brother
After all these years, it's hard to remember the first time that my brother urged/cajoled/threatened me not to tell my parents something he had done. But I remember a lot of instances. Here are a few that come to mind:
1. We were playing in the backyard. I must have been 7-8 years old. Suddenly and completely unprovoked, my brother threw a rock at me, purposefully hitting me in the head. It began bleeding immediately. I wanted to run into the house for help, but my brother blocked my way. He sort of apologized with "I didn't think you'd bleed this much" or something like that. He begged me not to go inside, or we'd both get in trouble...blah blah blah...we would not be allowed to play as much in the backyard...surely, I didn't want to get him in trouble, did I? He played on my heartstrings. I stayed outside until my head stopped bleeding. Later I combed the dried blood out of my hair and said nothing to my parents.
2. Around the same time, while we were walking to school one day, my brother decided to light something in an empty field on fire, despite my pleas to the contrary. (He was somewhat of a pyromaniac, at least in my eyes at the time, and I was extremely fire-phobic.) The fire spread much faster than even I had feared. He insisted we run to school and swore me to secrecy lest he be thrown in jail. And that would be all my fault for tattling. He also made it sound like I was somehow in on it with him and would also get in trouble.
3. Over and over again, he'd involve me in some childish misbehavior and convince me that we could not admit to it under any circumstances. He would say, "Act nonchalant" as we walked into the house. Apparently my idea of "nonchalant" was a dead giveaway. Usually, when my mother questioned us, I was the first to crack. My brother would later be angry with me and, at the same time, fill me with guilt. I hated being "mean" to him...which apparently I was whenever I "told on him".
4. A year or two later, he engaged in some petty vandalism while I begged him not to. He threatened me not to run home and tell. Then he somehow convinced me that I was just as much as fault and that it would be horribly mean of me to get him in trouble. I remember being petrified that we would be found out and arrested.
5. We "borrowed" some fishing equipment without permission and lost it before we could return it. My brother put the fear of my parents into me. He also insisted that, since he was older, he would get in more trouble than me, and it would be unfair, selfish and mean of me to confess to my parents, since it meant getting him in trouble.
On and on it went. I was convinced it would be disloyal, mean, selfish, horrible, etc., etc., for me to tell on my brother. I would be betraying his trust. I couldn't stand the thought of angering or disappointing him. Plus, I was convinced...by him, by my own insecurity, and by some of the former reactions of my parents...that the consequences of telling would be more than I wanted to experience.
I was afraid of my brother's anger and wanted to stay on his good side. In fact, I felt an almost desperate need for us to be the best and closest of friends. Maybe some of it was years of hearing my mother tell us that we were "made out of the same cookie dough", that we were each others' closest friends, and that we were not like other brothers and sisters. We were special.
My brother had a mean, bullying side. It didn't come out all that often, at least not in ways obvious to me at the time, but it was there. He was also a master manipulator. He was the family genius -- my mother reminded us of this almost constantly -- and could talk me into things just by exhausting my ability to understand what he was saying. I would figure he was right and I was wrong, or I felt helpless to argue my own point, since he would have a ready answer for my every objection. I would end up feeling tired, baffled, and stupid.
By the time I was 13, it took very little convincing...if any...for me to keep my brother's secrets, especially if they involved me.
1. We were playing in the backyard. I must have been 7-8 years old. Suddenly and completely unprovoked, my brother threw a rock at me, purposefully hitting me in the head. It began bleeding immediately. I wanted to run into the house for help, but my brother blocked my way. He sort of apologized with "I didn't think you'd bleed this much" or something like that. He begged me not to go inside, or we'd both get in trouble...blah blah blah...we would not be allowed to play as much in the backyard...surely, I didn't want to get him in trouble, did I? He played on my heartstrings. I stayed outside until my head stopped bleeding. Later I combed the dried blood out of my hair and said nothing to my parents.
2. Around the same time, while we were walking to school one day, my brother decided to light something in an empty field on fire, despite my pleas to the contrary. (He was somewhat of a pyromaniac, at least in my eyes at the time, and I was extremely fire-phobic.) The fire spread much faster than even I had feared. He insisted we run to school and swore me to secrecy lest he be thrown in jail. And that would be all my fault for tattling. He also made it sound like I was somehow in on it with him and would also get in trouble.
3. Over and over again, he'd involve me in some childish misbehavior and convince me that we could not admit to it under any circumstances. He would say, "Act nonchalant" as we walked into the house. Apparently my idea of "nonchalant" was a dead giveaway. Usually, when my mother questioned us, I was the first to crack. My brother would later be angry with me and, at the same time, fill me with guilt. I hated being "mean" to him...which apparently I was whenever I "told on him".
4. A year or two later, he engaged in some petty vandalism while I begged him not to. He threatened me not to run home and tell. Then he somehow convinced me that I was just as much as fault and that it would be horribly mean of me to get him in trouble. I remember being petrified that we would be found out and arrested.
5. We "borrowed" some fishing equipment without permission and lost it before we could return it. My brother put the fear of my parents into me. He also insisted that, since he was older, he would get in more trouble than me, and it would be unfair, selfish and mean of me to confess to my parents, since it meant getting him in trouble.
On and on it went. I was convinced it would be disloyal, mean, selfish, horrible, etc., etc., for me to tell on my brother. I would be betraying his trust. I couldn't stand the thought of angering or disappointing him. Plus, I was convinced...by him, by my own insecurity, and by some of the former reactions of my parents...that the consequences of telling would be more than I wanted to experience.
I was afraid of my brother's anger and wanted to stay on his good side. In fact, I felt an almost desperate need for us to be the best and closest of friends. Maybe some of it was years of hearing my mother tell us that we were "made out of the same cookie dough", that we were each others' closest friends, and that we were not like other brothers and sisters. We were special.
My brother had a mean, bullying side. It didn't come out all that often, at least not in ways obvious to me at the time, but it was there. He was also a master manipulator. He was the family genius -- my mother reminded us of this almost constantly -- and could talk me into things just by exhausting my ability to understand what he was saying. I would figure he was right and I was wrong, or I felt helpless to argue my own point, since he would have a ready answer for my every objection. I would end up feeling tired, baffled, and stupid.
By the time I was 13, it took very little convincing...if any...for me to keep my brother's secrets, especially if they involved me.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Secret puppy
I was 6 years old when we got a cute little puppy, and I was besides myself with excitement. I couldn't wait to tell my friends at school!
On the drive home, as we were holding our new squirming puppy and discussing names, my mother suddenly grew serious. "You can't tell anyone that we got a puppy. Not anyone! It has to be a secret for now. I'll let you know when it's OK to tell people."
I have no idea why my mother felt a need for secrecy. She may have given me a reason, but it didn't make sense to me at the time and I don't remember it. What I do remember is that this was my first big lesson in secrecy. Here's what I learned:
1. There were certain things that, for very important reasons I didn't understand, people outside the family shouldn't know.
2. I was a blabber mouth with no sense, and I needed stern warnings about things everyone else already understood.
3. My brother was not a blabber mouth, and thus he could be trusted.
4. If I couldn't keep this secret, then my mother would never be able to tell me anything ever again.
5. Our family was special. Other kids could talk about their new pets, but that's because they weren't us. We were so special that other people didn't need to know everything that went on in our house.
6. I didn't understand. Obviously I must be stubborn or dense.
Maybe this was an "experiment" to see how long I could contain my excitement. Maybe it was the beginning of deliberate training in secrecy. I have no idea what my mother's motives were.
There were many more lessons that followed.
On the drive home, as we were holding our new squirming puppy and discussing names, my mother suddenly grew serious. "You can't tell anyone that we got a puppy. Not anyone! It has to be a secret for now. I'll let you know when it's OK to tell people."
I have no idea why my mother felt a need for secrecy. She may have given me a reason, but it didn't make sense to me at the time and I don't remember it. What I do remember is that this was my first big lesson in secrecy. Here's what I learned:
1. There were certain things that, for very important reasons I didn't understand, people outside the family shouldn't know.
2. I was a blabber mouth with no sense, and I needed stern warnings about things everyone else already understood.
3. My brother was not a blabber mouth, and thus he could be trusted.
4. If I couldn't keep this secret, then my mother would never be able to tell me anything ever again.
5. Our family was special. Other kids could talk about their new pets, but that's because they weren't us. We were so special that other people didn't need to know everything that went on in our house.
6. I didn't understand. Obviously I must be stubborn or dense.
Maybe this was an "experiment" to see how long I could contain my excitement. Maybe it was the beginning of deliberate training in secrecy. I have no idea what my mother's motives were.
There were many more lessons that followed.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Finding a safe place
I've been working on ways to deal with my anxiety. One way I'm trying is to imagine a "safe place" and go there in my mind when I need to calm myself. This picture was taken at one of the safest places I've ever been.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
2009: My first attempt at therapeutic journaling
It was April of 2009. A family crisis had brought us into the therapist's office. During one of the first sessions that I attended on my own, I had a PTSD meltdown and, to explain it, mentioned that I had been raped years before. That led to me, finally, entering therapy myself to deal with that painful part of my past.
This was my first attempt at journaling. At the end of a session, my therapist offhandedly mentioned that it would be a good idea for me to start keeping a journal. So this is what I ended up writing, somewhat condensed and edited for clarity & anonymity:
I guess I'm officially in "therapy", with all the horrid introspection and "soul-baring" that entails. And Randy suggested a journal today. Of course I balked, immediately thinking:
I question the wisdom and the therapeutic value of writing any of the above.
Although I did have some brief fun imagining my version of the chair thing. Instead of the suggested eloquent, poignant, conciliatory words I read in an at times annoying book, I kept imagining myself shrieking curses and screaming, "I should have killed you when I had the chance!" Which of course I would never actually shriek and scream in real life...and I can't believe I just wrote.
My mother is right. Nothing good is coming of this. Although it is amusing.
So I guess I have PTSD. Which is also oddly amusing at the same time that it is annoying. And I don't get to tell funny stories like my old Vietnam vet friend about shooting up the backyard and having my grandfather ask me, "So, did you get them?" Mine is the less fun version. But at least no I'm not, depending on the day, thinking I'm normal...or crazy.
So (let's start every paragraph that way and then I can mock my own grammar and include enough distractions to render any journaling attempts completely therapeutically worthless) in true Annie fashion, I dove headfirst into my homework assignment of "google PTSD and let me know what you think". I listed all the symptoms from the Mayo Clinic site and made notes about which ones did and/or still do apply. then I downloaded a PTSD book to my Kindle and raced through it, taking some more notes.
And freaked out.
Aside: wish I'd been this driven in college.
Back to now: note-taking became desperate scrawled questions. The memories smacked me upside the head. Couldn't sleep. Could barely eat. It was like way back then. All twitchy. A wreck. Amazingly, though, I could hug Sheldon and it felt good.
But I felt crazy. Hurt. Angry. And like the strides I thought I'd made all these years were nothing, just treading water. Felt like an idiot for not being over it. Felt hopeless. But also dared sense a tiny spark of hope, that maybe things could maybe just maybe some day get better. Maybe.
But the road there scares me. A lot.
So there I sat, feeling drained and exhausted and scared and filled with dread and with my guts churning, in Randy's office, which suddenly seemed way too small, like it shrunk since my last visit. His chair was definitely NOT at a safe distance. I was going to take the other chair, instead of my usual seat on the couch, but I was too exhausted to ponder the significance of that and decide.
I'd been rehearsing what to say. I'd even considered taking my daughter's lead and writing it all out, but I couldn't. Way too hard. In my rehearsals, I always got stuck at the beginning, at my role in it. I kept practicing the words, hoping they'd get easier. They didn't. In my rehearsals, I got all emotional and usually ended up weeping, "No. No. No." and "Make it stop!" and "Why? Why? Why?" in a rather hysterical fashion.
But there, in the office, I wasn't hit with a train load of pain and emotion. Sure, it was hard. Especially when the words just wouldn't come out and I kept trying to approach saying it from different angles. I almost felt like saying, "Can't you figure it out without me having to say it?" But I thought it might be better to speak it myself. Somehow the ordeal of telling what I think is all I know...at least what I could bear to tell about it...was not as horrific as I'd feared. I was almost disappointed.
Afterwards, I went home and fell asleep.
Randy recommended two books for me. When I checked them out on Amazon, it turned out they were about childhood sexual abuse. Somehow I must not have communicated how old I was when it happened. Maybe it's because no sane adult would act like such an idiot. Or maybe it's something I babbled today about being so little, when what I meant was that I was so...well, scrawny. I think I need to clarify that.
Yesterday when I was going hysterically crazy, weeping all collapsed in a heap on the shower floor, which was after my earlier breakdown, I sent an urgent prayer request text (with "Don't ask") to one friend and an email to another friend, the one who had recommended Randy. I told her I liked him until his homework assignment turned me into a complete nutcase.
She responded with, among other things, "While it is sometimes easier and more comfortable to keep your soul locked in the darkness of denial, eventually it tend to bite you in the butt, as you are experiencing."
Oh yeah.
But this afternoon, I felt actually good. So much so that I joked back via email, "I'm sure I'm completely cured and will live happily ever after. Especially since I'm a Christian and supposedly have no reason for worry. Or stress."
Then I asked her about journaling: "I think it's supposed to be some sort of deep, torturous self-examination, full of painful truth and deep insights that we will explore in future session. Mine was actually funny in parts. Apparently I'm doomed to lifelong insanity and denial."
In the meantime, my guy friend sweetly offered in his texted reply, "Need me to fly out there and beat the shit outta anyone?"
Good friends are wonderful.
And so I was actually...happy. Relieved not to be locked in crazymaking painful anguish. And all was peachy keen and goodness and light and sunshine and roses until suddenly, for no obvious reason, a cloud of heaviness and sorrow cast its shadow over me. And I knew that today I had a few hours of respite. Hopefully I won't descend back into complete nutcase-ness.
I have this ache in the middle of my chest. A nervous sort of ache. Or maybe more anxious and worried. Sad too. Thought I should write that. Seems like the introspective get-in-touch-with-my-feelings stuff that would be appropriate.
Maybe I'm just dreading trying to sleep.
For someone who was going to refuse to do any journaling, I sure wrote a lot (even more than what's here!) over the course of one day. I don't think I read any of this to my therapist. At the most, I may have read a paragraph or two.
It's interesting to read this and see how far I've come since then. For one thing, I got to the point where I can actually write the word "rape". For another, I am no longer filled with such a degree of self-blame and self-loathing.
At the same time, my journal entries don't see quite as amusing these days. I'm not sure what that means.
This was my first attempt at journaling. At the end of a session, my therapist offhandedly mentioned that it would be a good idea for me to start keeping a journal. So this is what I ended up writing, somewhat condensed and edited for clarity & anonymity:
I guess I'm officially in "therapy", with all the horrid introspection and "soul-baring" that entails. And Randy suggested a journal today. Of course I balked, immediately thinking:
- My mother would disapprove of the subject matter being put into writing.
- It will fall into the wrong hands, which would be any hands but mine.
- Yuck. Why are therapists so obsessed with journaling?
- Who wants to write down this garbage anyway?
- What am I supposed to write?
- When do I get to burn the horrid journal?
I question the wisdom and the therapeutic value of writing any of the above.
Although I did have some brief fun imagining my version of the chair thing. Instead of the suggested eloquent, poignant, conciliatory words I read in an at times annoying book, I kept imagining myself shrieking curses and screaming, "I should have killed you when I had the chance!" Which of course I would never actually shriek and scream in real life...and I can't believe I just wrote.
My mother is right. Nothing good is coming of this. Although it is amusing.
So I guess I have PTSD. Which is also oddly amusing at the same time that it is annoying. And I don't get to tell funny stories like my old Vietnam vet friend about shooting up the backyard and having my grandfather ask me, "So, did you get them?" Mine is the less fun version. But at least no I'm not, depending on the day, thinking I'm normal...or crazy.
So (let's start every paragraph that way and then I can mock my own grammar and include enough distractions to render any journaling attempts completely therapeutically worthless) in true Annie fashion, I dove headfirst into my homework assignment of "google PTSD and let me know what you think". I listed all the symptoms from the Mayo Clinic site and made notes about which ones did and/or still do apply. then I downloaded a PTSD book to my Kindle and raced through it, taking some more notes.
And freaked out.
Aside: wish I'd been this driven in college.
Back to now: note-taking became desperate scrawled questions. The memories smacked me upside the head. Couldn't sleep. Could barely eat. It was like way back then. All twitchy. A wreck. Amazingly, though, I could hug Sheldon and it felt good.
But I felt crazy. Hurt. Angry. And like the strides I thought I'd made all these years were nothing, just treading water. Felt like an idiot for not being over it. Felt hopeless. But also dared sense a tiny spark of hope, that maybe things could maybe just maybe some day get better. Maybe.
But the road there scares me. A lot.
So there I sat, feeling drained and exhausted and scared and filled with dread and with my guts churning, in Randy's office, which suddenly seemed way too small, like it shrunk since my last visit. His chair was definitely NOT at a safe distance. I was going to take the other chair, instead of my usual seat on the couch, but I was too exhausted to ponder the significance of that and decide.
I'd been rehearsing what to say. I'd even considered taking my daughter's lead and writing it all out, but I couldn't. Way too hard. In my rehearsals, I always got stuck at the beginning, at my role in it. I kept practicing the words, hoping they'd get easier. They didn't. In my rehearsals, I got all emotional and usually ended up weeping, "No. No. No." and "Make it stop!" and "Why? Why? Why?" in a rather hysterical fashion.
But there, in the office, I wasn't hit with a train load of pain and emotion. Sure, it was hard. Especially when the words just wouldn't come out and I kept trying to approach saying it from different angles. I almost felt like saying, "Can't you figure it out without me having to say it?" But I thought it might be better to speak it myself. Somehow the ordeal of telling what I think is all I know...at least what I could bear to tell about it...was not as horrific as I'd feared. I was almost disappointed.
Afterwards, I went home and fell asleep.
Randy recommended two books for me. When I checked them out on Amazon, it turned out they were about childhood sexual abuse. Somehow I must not have communicated how old I was when it happened. Maybe it's because no sane adult would act like such an idiot. Or maybe it's something I babbled today about being so little, when what I meant was that I was so...well, scrawny. I think I need to clarify that.
Yesterday when I was going hysterically crazy, weeping all collapsed in a heap on the shower floor, which was after my earlier breakdown, I sent an urgent prayer request text (with "Don't ask") to one friend and an email to another friend, the one who had recommended Randy. I told her I liked him until his homework assignment turned me into a complete nutcase.
She responded with, among other things, "While it is sometimes easier and more comfortable to keep your soul locked in the darkness of denial, eventually it tend to bite you in the butt, as you are experiencing."
Oh yeah.
But this afternoon, I felt actually good. So much so that I joked back via email, "I'm sure I'm completely cured and will live happily ever after. Especially since I'm a Christian and supposedly have no reason for worry. Or stress."
Then I asked her about journaling: "I think it's supposed to be some sort of deep, torturous self-examination, full of painful truth and deep insights that we will explore in future session. Mine was actually funny in parts. Apparently I'm doomed to lifelong insanity and denial."
In the meantime, my guy friend sweetly offered in his texted reply, "Need me to fly out there and beat the shit outta anyone?"
Good friends are wonderful.
And so I was actually...happy. Relieved not to be locked in crazymaking painful anguish. And all was peachy keen and goodness and light and sunshine and roses until suddenly, for no obvious reason, a cloud of heaviness and sorrow cast its shadow over me. And I knew that today I had a few hours of respite. Hopefully I won't descend back into complete nutcase-ness.
I have this ache in the middle of my chest. A nervous sort of ache. Or maybe more anxious and worried. Sad too. Thought I should write that. Seems like the introspective get-in-touch-with-my-feelings stuff that would be appropriate.
Maybe I'm just dreading trying to sleep.
For someone who was going to refuse to do any journaling, I sure wrote a lot (even more than what's here!) over the course of one day. I don't think I read any of this to my therapist. At the most, I may have read a paragraph or two.
It's interesting to read this and see how far I've come since then. For one thing, I got to the point where I can actually write the word "rape". For another, I am no longer filled with such a degree of self-blame and self-loathing.
At the same time, my journal entries don't see quite as amusing these days. I'm not sure what that means.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Telling my story
I've been thinking a lot about how to tell my story here on this blog. Chronologically? And, if so, where do I start? Should I begin by writing about what brought me to therapy? Begin with the first incident of sexual abuse? Or begin with the events that led up to it?
The chronological approach, I've decided, is too daunting. My posts here may end up seeming kind of random and meandering, heading down this path and then that. But, in many ways that's how my recovery journey has been so far. It's not been orderly and chronological either.
The chronological approach, I've decided, is too daunting. My posts here may end up seeming kind of random and meandering, heading down this path and then that. But, in many ways that's how my recovery journey has been so far. It's not been orderly and chronological either.
This feels like a secret blog
No one knows about this blog yet, but me. I was going to title it "No More Family Secrets" until the irony of that struck me. Yes, I have disclosed pretty much most of my painful family secrets in therapy -- at least the ones that have directly impacted me -- and I have held back little in the way of significant detail. I have even disclosed the worst of those secrets to my husband and a few other people close to me. But, at the same time, I'm not exactly going public, not even in my own family. I'm still keeping secrets from most of them. And...this blog is anonymous.
But I left the "no more" in my blog URL, because this is yet another step in that direction.
Maybe someone who sonehow finds their way here will benefit from the words I plan to write. I feel a need to write them here, not just in the journals I keep locked up in my home, the contents of which I don't even always share fully with my therapist. For some reason, I can't shake the idea that I should put my words out here...even if no one else finds them.
So here goes...
But I left the "no more" in my blog URL, because this is yet another step in that direction.
Maybe someone who sonehow finds their way here will benefit from the words I plan to write. I feel a need to write them here, not just in the journals I keep locked up in my home, the contents of which I don't even always share fully with my therapist. For some reason, I can't shake the idea that I should put my words out here...even if no one else finds them.
So here goes...
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