Category Archives: childhood trauma
It’s been almost a week since the incident in our Al-Anon group. I’ve spent many hours praying, meditating and tapping to relieve myself of the trauma caused by your actions during our weekly meeting. It’s important for my own recovery that I become extremely clear on my thinking surrounding this incident as well as the motivation that prompts me to speak up. I’ve been haunted by the occurrence and my resulting reactions. Knowing myself well as I do, I work hard to clear these issues before speaking. It has been and will continue to be the best approach for me, to think before I speak.
But now, at this moment, I’m crystal clear on most of my emotions surrounding this and am ready to speak.
(In accordance to Al-Anon protocol, the members in this story remain confidential. I only identify them by first name and do not reveal the state or location of the group).
At a recent Al-Anon meeting which I sporadically attend, I was singled out and humiliated in front of the group for the location in which I chose to sit. I chose a seat at the edge of the group for reasons outlined below. The rest of the group (over 20+ people) were sitting at several conference tables pushed together and the meeting had already started as I was about 5 minutes late. I settled in, removed my coat and pulled my Courage to Change book from my purse. (Several times before when choosing this seat, I was asked, by two women in particular, to join the others at the table but declined with a no-thank you. It seemed to bother them each time but I dismissed it).
This last week, a member named Susie, got up from her seat during the meeting, came over to me, grabbed both arms of my chair and jerked on them. She says to me “We don’t let people sit back here”. I froze. In a split second I was triggered. I had been invaded in my safe space, without invitation, a clear violation of my boundaries. (She’s very lucky I have tamed my knee-jerk survival skills of physical aggression). When I didn’t budge, she continued to pull on my chair in some weird tug-of-war and I obliging stood up. She placed my chair where she thought it should be and I sat down. All eyes were on me. Whatever serenity I had achieved regarding my anxiety level was lost. My face flushed with shame, embarrassment and humiliation. I instinctively pushed my chair back from the table attempting to regain some safe space again. For a few minutes, I tried to center myself. The man next to me, who was also on the we-must-sit-at-the-table-with-our-hands-folded campaign, gestures for me to scoot up. I say No, thank you. He won’t give up. More words, more gestures. Now all eyes are on me AGAIN as he attempts to get me to comply. In a slow motion haze, completely triggered, I put my books in my purse and stand to leave. I do not hurl the words spinning in my head, I do not attempt to make my issues the issues of the group. I simply leave.
Dear Susie….here’s what you didn’t know or take the time to find out.
- I have logged over 25+ years in Al-Anon and am not a newcomer to the philosophies of the program. Having attended hundreds of meetings in many different locations, I’ve never had anyone question where I sat. In fact, most meetings allow for personal safety and comfort, making this a non-issue which has always been the beauty of this program.
- I am a trauma-incest-abuse survivor. That means I’ve maneuvered and survived masters of pathologies; narcissists, alcoholics/substance abusers, perpetrators of sexual abuse and violence along with the run-of-the mill shallow and unenlightened individuals. Acts of aggression which include the definition of assault, “Assault is an act which causes another person to have apprehension of imminent harmful contact”. If you lunge unexpectedly toward a survivor, especially using force to grab at them (in this case my chair), most times the trauma affected brain perceives that movement as assaulting behavior. In other words, you triggered me by your sudden moves, by grabbing my chair and with your words.
- I’m no slouch when it comes to personal development. My entire life is devoted to recovery, empowerment and mindful awareness. As a retired nurse, social worker, massage therapist and overall student of life, this has been my mission; transforming a childhood of trauma and despair to one that prospers in healing and kindness.
- I have a few residual health issues. The entire reason that I choose to sit in the periphery of the group is that I have Multiple Chemical Sensitivity. Perfumes and laundry detergent smells are the worst of dangers to me and are often a problem when I attend. Sometimes I take a pre-emptive antihistamine just to be present. Sometimes I sit by the window in case I need some fresh air or just need to not be stuck next to someone who wears perfume. To a MCS person, these smells are toxic. They can trigger many different responses such as asthmatic symptoms, headaches, dizziness. I know my issues as well as my boundaries on this subject.
- I struggle with anxiety. It takes me days sometimes to psych myself up to attend a meeting. As much as I’m a social person, I also, because of recent circumstances, struggle with isolation. Several women from the group gently nudge me to join them for dinners, meetings, gatherings. I adore them for that. And I work on centering myself for hours before coming to a meeting.
- I’m a writer and an advocate. I use my voice often even when it is scary to do so. It’s what I do. I have a blog dedicated to recovery of trauma. I serve as a moderator on a international FB page devoted to trauma recovery. I am a virtual assistant on Twitter for a national organization for Adult Survivors of Sexual Abuse. My voice serves as an advocate for those that can’t speak. I made this vow after recovering my own memories of incest. I will use my story to empower others, giving them a safe place to speak. I am not afraid anymore.
Dear Susie…..here are my direct words to you.
- Examine your own agenda and ego. Why would you make your personal agenda one that trumps an individual’s well being?
- Please God, tell me you won’t treat a newcomer like that. If I were a newcomer, perhaps filled with anxiety and trepidation about my life with an alcoholic, desperate for resources to help with a life filled with chaos, issues of personal safety, financial problems, would you treat a person with such disregard? I hope not. It goes against everything that these meetings represent.
- How dare you compromise a resource that I needed. At this point in time, I need community. I’ve suffered the devastating loss of my husband and his family. I need to know that there are groups that can support me during this time. I’ve reciprocated to support others during their rough times and now need that support myself.
- Are you speaking for the group when you say “we”? Are you the self appointed gestapo of the group or has this group named you the seating relocation person? This should be verbalized in the opening statements of the group each and every meeting.
- Wondering if you’ve reflected on your behavior at all. As of this writing, after receiving no response to my text to you, I called. At first you didn’t know who I was. When I explained the reason for my call, you did recognize me due to the circumstances. While I did receive a “please forgive me”, you also defended and back peddled a bit as to your position. Apparently, you felt justified in what you did.
- You given me the “opportunity” for growth and got me writing again. In Al-Anon as well as other self help modalities, we learn to thank certain opportunities for individual growth. This situation gave me exactly that. I got to examine the types of people I choose to be with as well as how to assert and protect myself. There is always room for growth and self reflection, thank you for that.
- Your actions and words could be viewed an act of aggression to me as well as many abuse survivors. While you didn’t realize I was a trauma survivor, you also didn’t approach me with respect either. We must entertain these possibilities when dealing with populations of this sort.
Thank you to my friends who have talked me through the triggering incident and the losses associated with it…y’all are my lifelines.
I’m hoping that this post serves to increase awareness about many topics. It is imperative that we practice compassion in the moments of our lives.
When we know better, we do better.
In wanting to pay tribute to a wonderful woman whom I barely got to know and her partner, Ed, I’m re-blogging his post. This beautiful post reflects on love and loss, particularly to suicide. But as you will see from the content, these issues are complicated and layered with many issues stemming from childhood sexual abuse and how it can steal one’s soul. I’m proud of Ed Kurtz for loving her and having the courage and language to represent her with such sacred beauty.
These words are not mine but instead, those of a courageous and insightful fellow warrior. I’m fortunate to find these souls who in the absence of my words coming together to provide hope and compassion, they take over and provide us with comfort. Please visit the link below to see the full article and more of Matthew’s beautiful writing.
In fact, do better. Follow his blog and mine. Spread the word as kindly as you can about the specific limitations and ultra-sensitive delights of a sexual abuse survivor. We are worth it. In this age where we strive to embrace the issues of racism, bigotry, violence, LGBT, transgender, bullying, etc., let’s begin by getting to know one another, the history we’ve experienced and the path on which we forge forward. I’m ready, are you?
Dark Souls Are Not to Fear, But to Love
From Matthew Eaton: Writer, Child Sexual Abuse Survivor, Blogger
Do you languish in the darkness, or do you thrive in it?
This question lingers in my mind as I recall a conversation in my idle time.
“You know, the stuff you post is dark – really dark – but you’re always coming in here all cheery and happy.”
I discussed some people’s need to make me be something I am not. Instead, I learned a little more about myself.
I didn’t think anything about this statement at the time, but as I worried over it like a priceless possession, I wondered if it was possible the world was wrong and I, indeed, was correct in my darkness.
I live in the darkness, laughing at my disaster.
Dark souls are not to fear, but to love
What brought this post around was recalling a devotional my mother and I read when I was young. We were still members of the Foursquare church in Scotts Valley, and we weren’t the best of advocates to the holy life. No deep bible studies, no real praying or bonding with other believers, but we did invest in small devotionals that were to be ready daily. We read them in the morning.
They were filled with allegories and mental iconography galore.
So what made this particular devotional stand out? It contained the scientific knowledge (and commentary) on plant growth and the toxicity of continual exposure to light.
Since the beginning of my time as a God-ite, I questioned being in the light all the time. The thirst my other god-ites at the time held was rather interesting and confounding. They would shun people going through darkness, in fear the darkness would get into them like some sort of transmuted disease.
Nevertheless, here we were, reading a god-ite sponsored piece regarding the value of light and dark cycles with plants.
This is paraphrasing the work itself: “Too much time in darkness, and the plant withers. It is unable to reach any potential. Too much time in the light, however, is dangerous as well. At first, the plant thrives, but eventually it also withers and dies, burned beyond the point of recovery.”
Dear beautiful souls and loved ones,
Due to recent and horrific dips in my coping abilities combined with increased self harm and suicidal tendencies, I’m going for treatment at a residential facility. I will take each and every one of you with me in my heart and cherish greatly the friends and tireless supporters that I’ve met here. It is my hope that I will come through this stronger and more resilient than ever. Until that time, live greatly and peace be with each and every one of you. Aho.
For those of you that can’t handle my extreme and unbridled rage right now, let this serve as a TRIGGER WARNING. And here is a picture of a bunny to give you the opportunity to get the heck out of here.
Let the rant begin. This moment, right now, I’m furious. I’ve snapped with grief and I’m tired and exhausted and insulted and unwilling to hold it in any longer. The music is on full blast with Janis Joplin screaming I’ll say come on, come on, come on, come on and take it!
Take another little piece of my heart now, baby.
Oh, oh, break it!
Break another little bit of my heart now
I’ve cleaned and cried and smoked cigarettes as I look at my home that I’ve finally decided has to be divided. How the hell did I get here? Did I not try hard enough? Did I not bleed enough for this relationship? When did my beloved home turn into a cold gilded cage? Where are my plants going to live now? The wisteria planted in the early days of love that is deeply intertwined among the trellis and surrounding trees, how do I tell it to unwind, that there is no place for it here now?
I’m full of rage as I look at the items deciding what’s mine and what’s his. I hate his socks right now. They are everywhere, haunting me from the place where they were discarded at the foot of the couch for an intimate moment. His socks are mocking me. I still love, he doesn’t.
I’m seething at any person, at any time, for any reason has questioned my sanity. My brain, while different and reacting unlike normal people (whoever the fuck they are) is not crazy. It was changed. It was changed as a child when my father and my uncles for numerous years raped the children in my family. They forever and permanently changed the way that I see the world and severely limited my ability to trust. But they never stole my ability to love because that I do fiercely, deeply and with loyalty to a fault. But back to crazy, I’m not. And I’m fucking tired of folks too ignorant and lazy to become informed before slicing me and other survivors open with insane stupid comments and blatant arrogance that you know better. You don’t.
And by the way, disassociation is a thing. A real fucking thing. It happens because its the wondrous coping mechanism of the human under attack. When the pain becomes too traumatic, too difficult, too much for tiny little children’s minds to process, it splits. Bam, just like that. You go somewhere else, someplace safer than the place you are in where your uncle is raping you at gunpoint. And guess what, when you’re gone, you’re gone. And to the major asshole who said that my disassociative episodes were a ploy for attention, well simply put, go fuck yourself. You speak with ignorance and venom. Anyone who knows me at all, knows that I try and try and then I fucking try some more to be the best, intact, whole person I can be given my history. To say anything less than that of me is cruel and unforgivable.
No, I’m not done yet, there’s more. I’m enraged at any person, for any reason who turns a blind eye to pain. This happens in so many ways; through denial of wanting to acknowledge a person’s pain, therefore maybe having to deal with it OR being frustrated that said person struggles a lot so you offer a platitude in order to get the hell away from this person you’ve judged as insane. Again, look at the above bunny and leave me the hell alone. You don’t have to hurt me just to get a safe distance away. I get it, of all people I understand that this is tough fucking shit and not everyone has the stomach for it. BUT…there’s always the option of offering love and leaving anyway. Bottom line, I’m left here to deal with this confusing mess of neurons on a daily basis and it’s no walk in the park. It takes hourly awareness and diligent practice to stay centered and even heal from these traumas. Don’t add to them. And especially don’t pretend it’s in the name of love. I’m calling bullshit on that one.
While I’m ranting, I may as well cuss the pharmaceutical companies who manufacture drugs to make lots of money that are prescribed by asshole doctors. My anti-depressants are giving me such incredible suicide ideation that the ideation is now taking form and making a plan. And getting off this shit is a bitch. Again, another mind-bending bitch to contend with. And yes, suicide ideation and self harm is a real thing too. It’s not just words that we in a secret meeting of the I’ve-been-molested club got together and invented. These are real psychological phenomena. Google it, you’ll see. We don’t just get up in the morning, feed the dogs, have a cup of coffee and say “I think I’ll go slice on myself today and maybe for fun, I’ll go sit in the garage with the car running and see how fast I’ll puff up from carbon monoxide”. But seriously, people talk to us as if we do this self-loathing, self-harming shit for attention. Really? Do you really believe that I’d prefer that method of coping to say…. working at the dog rescue shelter or taking some flowers to the old ladies at the nursing home? If you believe that, you need a quick reality check and a good therapist.
The rant winds down here. Be kind, everyone is struggling. If you don’t know how to help and you want to, ask. It’s that simple. Is there anything I can do to help? If you don’t care or are just socially awkward, flash a peace sign, say Kumbaya my Lord or offer a hug. If you don’t have more, that’s fine but if you think you can fake concern, use condescension or just toss a crappy cliche’ toward me, you’re wrong. Because here’s the other thing that develops in survivors as we are fending off our nasty fathers and uncles, we became ultra-sensitive. I’m talking over-the-top, can practically read-your-feelings-without-you-knowing-it, living and floating in an emotional bizarre dimension that few know anything about. We know when you’re lying and we know when you’re trying to be cruel.
End of rant. For those who stuck around to the end, well, thanks. You’re tougher than most. For those who didn’t stay, block me on FB and have a good life. Kumbaya.
God commands it – Honor your mother and your father.
I believe God passed down this commandment with the meaning that when you do honor your parents, you are honoring God, because, after all, God is our ultimate parent, considered “Father,” to many.
The question begged, however, is what if your parents do not honor you? What if your parents are abusive? What if they treat you with disrespect? Are we, their children, still expected to honor them?
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As much as I’ve come to love all the writers, bloggers, advocates as well as the extraordinary people I’ve met online, there is nothing as sacred as the face to face contact that I experienced this week as I travelled 6 hours from my home to attend a day conference, full of people whom I’d never met, at Safe Space Day. Full of trepidation, I willed myself to take the risk, knowing that this vital step of “coming out” was the obvious next step in my recovery. To say that I’m glad I attended is truly an understatement.
I wasn’t prepared for the magnitude of love I witnessed.
I wasn’t prepared for the courage of each women I spoke to, cried next to or shared an auditorium with.
I wasn’t prepared to meet anyone as anxiety ridden as I, anyone else who had travelled the day prior in sheer terror to an unknown destination that called so directly to me, nor was I expecting to feel, once I’d arrived, such a kindred meeting of souls.
Souls who struggle with silence, victimization, depersonalization, isolation, mental illness, physical health issues, anger and gut wrenching sadness.
Yet, these same brave souls simultaneously expressed undying hope not only for their futures but for future generations as they sang bravely, spoke loudly, laughed spontaneously. They offered humor, comfort and a space so special that we, as survivors of childhood sexual abuse and incest, assembled courageously to entertain and embrace the concept of living openly. In essence, we had come to heal.
Dr. Rosenna Bakari is a survivor, educator, poet, visionary and the creator of Safe Space Day and Talking Trees Survivors. She defines living openly as this;
Living openly as a survivor means that survivors no longer deny or hide the fact that they have been sexually abused. They are willing to speak truth about the trauma of childhood sexual abuse from their own personal experience.
This may include identifying their relationship to the perpetrator(s), age abuse started and ended, attempts or non-attempt to disclose and emotional experiences associated with the abuse.
Disclosure never has to include specific details about type of physical contact, degree of physical contact, or frequency of contact. Living openly as a survivor creates space to let go of guilt and shame and walk proudly with other survivors to move humanity forward by shedding light on an ugly issue that plagues our society. The shame of incest and the ugliness of sexual abuse must be redirected back at the perpetrators rather than remain lodged within survivors……Read more
Dr. Bakari has taken the concept of “living openly” to create a safe space for survivors of childhood sexual abuse and created a community. A community where safety replaces fear, acceptance diminishes shame and the groundwork of true healing is established.
The day was filled with oozing love and valuable information. Speaker after speaker empowered us on political and legal issues, healing our bodies and minds, all things related to the specific and unique characteristics of a sexual abuse survivor. For one glorious day, we tossed our shame aside as best we could because in that Safe Space, we weren’t the outcasts or the ones ostracized. We were the ones that were honored.
The absolute icing on the cake was the evening theatrical performance of Talking Trees. I’d felt very content and pleased with the day’s events, as many of us were, and looked forward to an entertaining nightcap with my tribe of new friends. All I knew was that Dr. Bakari had written and directed this theatrical performance based on some of her poetry and writing. I figured we’d have a relaxing evening concluding the day’s events, maybe some poetry or personal testimony. Nope, not even close.
Again, let me say, I was not prepared for this. This was freaking powerfully intense. It was like a poetry slam meets The Vagina Monologues meets Roseanne Barr combined with Madea on steroids. I was captivated and mesmerized that the performers were speaking from me, like me, as me. And judging by the audience response, they were speaking for many of us. I tumbled from silent and spellbound to yelling “yeah”, “testify” and other various words I didn’t know I possessed. My feet stomped as Dr. Bakari preached poetry like I’d never heard it slammed before…she stomped and I stomped. A young woman lurched for the door sobbing. College students were wide eyed. People grabbed out for each other. Sniffling was everywhere. It was an hour of emotions ricocheting throughout the performance space. I thanked God for intermission to go outside and collect myself as many of us did. We stood as we shook off the emotions while mumbling repeatedly…WOW…WOW…WOW.
I left that day feeling more happy tired than I had in a long time. I had a notebook stuffed full of business cards and e-mail addresses of new friends and notes from the day. I’d been hugged on and loved on. I felt a certain glow of acceptance radiating within me. I felt full.
I have no doubt that I will return next year to experience another Safe Space Day. In the meantime, I follow the suggestions of Dr. Bakari to create my own safe space at home, in my community, for others who have had similar experiences. I gratefully extend my hand to others because in their healing I will find more of my healing.
I invite you to visit Dr. Rosenna Bakari on:
Website – Talking Trees
For the complete video of this performance – YouTube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7Bo8xBog7c
This is a profoundly important message from a dear sister friend. She takes us on a journey and peeks into the mind of a child who has endured and coped through abuse, yet comes out the other side of it transformed.
If we are ever able to understand each other completely and totally, we must begin to listen to messages such as this. We read the stories, view the photos but here we hear the voice behind the story. Joceline adds a beautiful new dimension to the totality of the experience.
Thank you Crowing Crone for capturing our truest feelings and deepest fears. You’ve represented us, the silent children, with respect and dignity.
Click below to listen to Joceline’s recording on SoundCloud…….
I’ve been thinking a lot about privacy. Privacy from the perspective of a memoir and personal essay writer who is revealing family secrets, breaking silences that were intended to protect (or at least that’s what I’ve chosen to believe) but have done more damage than good.
I’m thinking about my aunt, my Titi who is very much a surrogate mom to me. When I told her I was writing a memoir, she said, “Be careful what you write.”
“I’m not being careful.”
“I know.” She looked at me with those loving eyes of hers, no judgment, but no understanding either. Then she walked out of her kitchen, a plate of food in her hand. The heaping plate she’d just served me sat on the table, heat rising off the rice in smoky tendrils.
Two years ago, I showed her the picture I found in Meryl Meisler’s exhibit, “Bushwick in the…
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