Freshwater

Tags

Anxiety, Broken heart, Fear, Freshwater beach, Harbord beach, Healing, Heart, Love, Love story, Manly beach, mermaids, Northern beaches, Recovery, sandstone, Sydney, Truth

I am awash. Deeply, soulfully and to the bone. I’m surrounded, but not attacked. I am sinking, yet rising too. Opening painfully, my heart speaks a thousand stories at once, most importantly it tells me – Thanks.

Not that I really did anything. Although, I didn’t realise just what sort of load the ol’ ticker had been carrying. As usual.

Yet somehow, the pressure’s been undone.

What remains surrounds me like a warm bath, with ever-so-gentle caresses, asking no questions, and breathing so much easier.

Kinda like this one endless summer day, when, living on the northern beaches of Sydney (paradise, and hardly anyone heads further north than Manly, the least stunning of the beaches on that peninsula)… I strolled the fifteen minute walk to my local – technically, Harbord beach, but colloquially known as Freshwater.

Not very large, as beaches go. A smallish but perfect cove dwarfed by rugged sandstone cliffs, tucked around the corner from north Manly’s shores. Crescent shaped, regardless of high or low tides. And, for a stretch of sand and water not far from the big ol’ city, incredibly beautiful and clear.

That day was one of many lazy Sundays I joyfully wasted inhaling the glory of the world.

It was soooo warm, but not too hot or humid. Just incredibly pleasantly warm. And Freshwater on that day (but also many others), lived up to its name: fresh and clear. Not too salty. And perfectly bath-water warm.

Even better though, since this bathwater never gets cold, doesn’t leave you shivering with a sudden need to get out. And the sun is pleasantly shining. There’s no wind. A perfect beach day burned into my hard drive, filed under “utter perfection”.

Ahhhhh…

I tarried, swimming lazy laps the length of the beach, floating and doing back flips. Strolling the edges, spying on fish schools and lying across the smaller cliff flats, soaking up the radiating warmth, easing tension from my shoulders.

Stone, sky and water and I was blissfully happy, wanting nothing else. Perfectly content just to be.

And while it’s not quite like that now, there’s an evocation of that particular day going on. Not that I’m trying to get back there, just, remembering the comfort it gave my heart, broken as it was at the time.

Actually, I’m convinced my heart’s been broken for years and years on end now, never really healing as I plunged headlong from one inappropriate romance to another… and reaching the end of that line with a violent punch in the face.

My heart, while it’s still managed to break since then (but not over romance), hasn’t been available for the past few years either – and to this day it wears its ‘Closed for Business’ sign, truth be told.

But finally, its telling me stories, many stories, and I’ve pulled up a comfy chair, cat on my lap, having grabbed the largest pot of tea I can muster, to sit there and listen…

~Svasti

Response to BlissChick – part 2

Tags

abuse-o-meter, Anger, Anxiety, Assault, Depression, Family, Fear, in-utero, Internalising pain, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Recovery, Relationships, Repression, sex trade, Trust, Truth, Violence

After my rather long comment on BlissChick’s post, I wrote up part 1’s post (which was kinda hard to write)… but she also emailed me some other (rather confronting) questions:

In psychological circles it is said that abusers are not born but MADE. So I wonder (not knowing anything about your home life as a child) what kind of environment your parents created in order to turn your brother into an abuser?

I don’t remember much of my early years, just tiny splotches. But I do remember my brother never liking me. It seemed to start when we were fairly young (he’s only two years older than me).

Perhaps this will sound new age-y, but I have this theory:

My brother was the next little being to inhabit my mother’s womb after the grief, illness, anger, sadness, stress and loss she experienced in giving up her first son. Never having had permission to deal with it openly, I believe much of her pain was simply absorbed.

I’ve had my own experiences with the body internalising pain… I know this is what happens.

So, in-utero my brother imbibed suffering as he grew. Marinated in it, really.

And what must it have been like, for my mother? Being pregnant again after that first time? She once said when we were little, she was always afraid someone would come and take us away… this fear must have affected each of the three kids that followed, right?

Also, my brother was part of a soccer club from a very young age, and in the 70’s/early 80’s, Australian soccer clubs were dominated by masochistic men and boys. He grew up as part of that culture, every weekend for years.

My parents I believe were just… too involved in their own lives and pain. They didn’t see what was happening in front of them. They weren’t equipped to handle it. They’d never been given the appropriate tools themselves.

Do you have to experience such things for yourself in order to recognise what’s going on?

I don’t know if something else happened to my brother or not. If it did, I don’t believe it happened in my parents’ home.

I also wonder why they enabled his abuse of you? That is what they did — they enabled.

These two sentences were very difficult for me to read. I truly believe they were unaware.

When I’d go to my parents and say ‘my brother hit me’, how could they work out how bad it was? That it wasn’t the usual sibling rough-housing (it never happened with them in sight)?

How could I understand what to tell them? What could I measure it against to give them some context?

People will claim they had no idea what was going on under their own roofs, but 99% of the time, they are lying (perhaps not even consciously so). The other 1% you have to ask HOW and WHY they did not know? WHY were they so utterly self-involved that they did not see your pain?

Because it was their job to love and protect you.

A little voice I don’t want to know about whispers in my ear… it was ongoing, though. It wasn’t infrequent. So why didn’t they stop him?

My dad was the youngest child with two older sisters and I don’t believe he’s ever hit a woman. My mum has a younger brother and I don’t believe he hit her either. Why then, was my brother allowed to continue to target and bully me?

I don’t know! It’s a question that pains my heart, and I have no answers. It makes a part of me feel raw and hungry and empty… it makes my lips purse up and I want to just stop thinking for a while.

How could they put up with my complaints of constantly being used as a pummelling bag? Then, it’s not just that he was physically abusive. But verbally too, and viciously cruel at every opportunity.

But, I was off with the pixies a lot. Did I just withdraw? Did I make it harder for them to know the truth? Should they have known anyway?

Thinking about this stuff, it makes me squirm. Does it matter if I ever know, or not? I kinda think right now it doesn’t matter any more… as long as I’m not pretending, and as long as I’m admitting to myself, that it wasn’t okay.

Whenever I see or hear about a woman who has chosen a partner who is or becomes abusive of her, I know (know know deep in my heart) that she came out of her childhood deeply wounded. Women who are raised in healthy households with healthy self esteem do not pick bad partners. They have an innate radar and can sense abusiveness in even the most charming people.

Today I read a post by a blogger I don’t know, via one of my blogger friends. And it really made me think. How do children get to the point where they taunt another person so mercilessly? She makes a good point – it’s because nobody stops them. They get away with it because they can.

And yes, I know my self-esteem was in tatters by the time I left home, aged nineteen. Through my own actions as well as those of others. But I think you’re right – had I been given a stronger sense of self-worth and self-love, I don’t think I would have let my first boyfriend treat me as he did. Nor do I think I would have ended up working in the sex trade.

Or, allowing myself, as you say, to pick bad partners. One after the other. To this day, I still can’t sense abusiveness in others. But those who are weird and wounded like me, sure, I can pick them a mile off…

Then again, my sister didn’t go through any of this. What was it in me that meant this was my path? My sister saw how our brother treated me and although he was mean to her, he never hit her. Just teased her all the time about her weight, resulting in a wounded self-esteem. But then, that’s bad enough, isn’t it?

Eventually wounded women who struggle and fight and put themselves back together again have even better radar. So do not fear. The work you do now most assuredly will lead you to a loving relationship some day.

I really, truly hope you’re right. I do. I get it when you say this is going to take a while. So far, it’s taken all of my life. If ever I can repair that abuse-o-meter radar, I know it’ll be good!

Of course, until then I know I need to keep moving. Like my therapist said, I can’t let the habits of my PTSD and depression, continue to lead the way.

So I have to try and reach out, to trust. And accept I guess, I might still get it wrong for some time to come.

~Svasti

Response to BlissChick – part 1

Tags

Abuse, Anger, Anxiety, Assault, Confusion, Depression, Family, Fear, Rant, Relationships, Surrender, Trust

In case you missed it, my world was well and truly rocked by BlissChick’s incredible post on depression, and some of her subsequent posts…

So here’s sort of an abridged version of her post (in italics), and my replies…

…People on anti-depressants are, from my own experience of them, still sad. Why? …Because they are putting a band aid on a broken limb…

I’ve never considered medication seriously, and the question has only been put to me once.

I understand there may be short term relief, but like you, I think it’s not something that ever fixes anything. So, I’m not interested in that path. Sure, it means things might be a little rougher for me, but I’m willing to tough it out.

…our souls are made of stories… They must be integrated into your essence or they will always be there. No amount of positive thinking will get rid of them. No amount of medication, eating “right,” supplements, herbals, or exercise… you will react because of them; you will be their slave…

I can see the truth this statement. Oh yes.

When I started writing my blog, I thought I was just writing about being assaulted. But what I learned along the way is, I’m actually writing about everything in my life that led up to that one fateful night.

Fateful, because it was a turning point, even if I didn’t start doing anything about it for almost three years.

…( (Honesty + Witness) + (Compassion + Patience) ) x Commitment

The hardest part of this formula is the first variable: Honesty about our stories.

We do everything we can to avoid this. We try to gloss over our stories… The first question to ask yourself is this: Who are you trying to protect by not being honest and why are you going to such lengths to protect them?

I was protecting both my parents, trying so hard to be who they needed me to be …a parent or both parents are exactly who most people are trying to protect…

I’ve really, really shied away from looking at my parents as neglectful. The physical abuse came from my brother, but it was ignored. And my parents were, and remain busy with their own emotional issues. It’s been that way for pretty much my whole life.

I haven’t wanted to admit these things so openly. I’ve wanted to accept them as they are and do what I can to compensate, because it’s cleaner, simpler. Because I know they won’t change. And because there’s nothing to be gained from blaming them for how they are.

…Regardless of someone else’s past, they were cruel to you. YOU were the child. YOU had the right to be the child. Your parents were not and are not your responsibility…

The crucial part, the part I’ve protected the most, has been to avoid admitting my parents were kind of shitty at their parenting job. I still have trouble with that.

I feel like, as a grown up, I should just take responsibility for myself and be done with it.

But perhaps that’s the point – how can the adult truly take responsibility when their inner child is having trouble being heard?

…Trying to understand your abuser is a classic psychological survival method… Your mind has to try to understand why this person is treating you this way, so you start to feel badly for them…

I recognise this. I do. My brother. My mother. My father. I never understood. I still don’t. And I feel bad I can’t be part of the “let’s all be close and loving” fantasy family relationship. I can’t be the “friend” my mother wants, either, especially considering she’s still self-centred and not interested in whatever I might be going through…

Every time my dad loudly has a conversation in front of me with my brother-in-law, about the importance of family (the same one on repeat), I want to be sick. Because he says those things and I KNOW he’s really chastising me indirectly for not being in touch a lot.

But heck, here I am on the brink of bankruptcy and where are they? NOWHERE.

When I was assaulted and hurting and hiding for years… THEY DID NOTHING.

What did they do when I complained again and again and again about my brother hitting me? MADE HIM APOLOGISE EACH TIME BUT NEVER STOPPED IT.

There’s more, much more. YES, they were neglectful and unsupportive parents. YES THEY WERE!!

And YES! I DO feel badly for them. I know they both had unhappy childhoods. I know my mother’s father was an alcoholic and her mother was controlling and manipulative. And that my father’s mother was the most self-centred person I’ve ever met. And my father’s father was adopted and emotionally vacant.

I expect less from them as a result. And yet, if ever I am blessed with children, I know I’d do whatever I can to make sure they feel loved and adored.

…You must be heard and seen… As an adult going through your stories and trying to order them and integrate them, a witness is the person who will give you that “real” feeling…

My witness, of course, has been Marcy. But I have also been graced with others…

Unfortunately I don’t have a ‘Marcy’ in my life. Instead, I write. And write, and write, so I can breathe.

But, those stories are slowly coming out on my blog. Which makes my blog readers my witnesses, I guess (hope you folks don’t mind!).

So witness this: I feel crappy about writing this stuff, like I’m betraying my family. Making a mountain out of a mole hill. It feels wrong and childish to sit here and write about things that have hurt my feelings over so many years and that, truth be told, still hurts my feelings.

And I’m not even half-way done yet! Not even close… however, I don’t know if it’s all for public consumption. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

Read part 2…

~Svasti

Dear Andre

Tags

Anger, Assault, Letter, Prayers, Revenge, Revenge Girl, Suffering, Violence

Since you were in my life, much has changed. Have you? Do you still hit women when you lose control? Did you ever acknowledge to yourself that you have a problem with your anger? How have you reconciled your actions with the fact that you have children – daughters? Would you hit them? What would you do if someone else hit them?

Are you sorry for what you did? You have no way of knowing, ofcourse, just how far reaching the effects were. Do you even remember what happened or have you conveniently ‘forgotten’?

If I ever saw you again, I’d be split neatly in two.

There’s a part of me that hopes I’d have an iron bar handy. I’d crash it down hard over your head before you had the chance to see me. Then I’d look at you, lying on the ground bleeding and I wouldn’t feel sorry at all. I’d smile, and I’d say – I finally got you back, you complete bastard. I hope you have long term damage that makes you remember this day for the rest of your life. I hope you suffer. I hope it really hurts. Then I’d kick you in the balls and I’d leave.

Down, Revenge Girl, down!

The other part of me would probably avoid you. Stand in the shadows so you couldn’t see me and observe. You’d probably look all happy go-lucky and chilled out. You’d probably be trying to scam charm someone out of something. There would be no signs of the ugly beast I met that night. Because that’s what you look like when you’re out of control and you don’t like anyone to see that… I’d feel weird, perhaps sick. But I’d breathe, I’d scan myself to see how I was feeling and I probably wouldn’t know til much later.

If I was confronted with you face-to-face… I’d want to be all yogic and compassionate and non-reactive. But I don’t know for sure that I could. I’d probably push past you. I wouldn’t want to talk to you. Revenge Girl would still want to hit you with something. Or tell people – hey, this guy beats up women. Just so you’d know that other people know of your shame.

You never knew it, but Revenge Girl had the chance to do a couple of things at the time you hit me.

Your ex-partner and the one before that? They knew what you did because I told them. Your ex put me in touch with the ex before her, too. I spoke to them both and suggested they reconsider access rights to their kids. I don’t know if they did, but at least they know how dangerous you are. Your ex-partner definitely restricted access for a little while, I know that much.

And the job you used to have drumming at the club we met at? If you’re wondering why they never hired you again, it’s because I contacted them. I gave them pictures of my face and my door and the AVO I took out to keep you away from me. It was me – I took that job away from you. I knew it would hurt you financially.

I’m not sorry for doing those things. It doesn’t go anywhere towards healing what I’ve been through but it satisfies a small part of me that wants you to suffer.

If you do ever see me in the street, you probably won’t recognise me. The weight of what happened has altered the way I look. But if you do know it’s me, then just stay away. There’s nothing you could tell me that would make it alright.

I do pray though. For both of us.

I pray that you attain some humility to counter your egoity. I pray that you learn to self-nurture so you don’t feel the need to strike out. I pray that you learn what its like to feel afraid – not so that you suffer, but that you learn what it is to be terrified all day, every day.

Most of all, I pray you never hit anyone ever again. And that your life remains completely separate and apart from mine.

And for myself I pray that one day, your name is no more than a wispy ghostly memory, that night remembered in wisdom and learnings, but not in terror. And your eyes – that I never see them again.

~Svasti

Quietly Devastated

Tags

Assault, Bad dreams, Diary entry, Recovery

In the process of packing up my house for the big move this weekend, I found one of my old diaries from the end of 2005.

This an entry from 7^th November 2005 and it’s written as a sort of letter to Andre.

Most annoyingly, just the sound of an anonymous car revving its engine outside my house is enough to set my heartbeat racing. In fear. In stress. In wonder.

The worst thing about it is that in my conscious mind I know it isn’t you. I know you wouldn’t dare. Not with the AVO in place and the threat of arrest that goes with it.

But the damage you caused the night you struck me was not limited to my face, the front door and a few scared nights. In fact, those were the easy things to get over. It’s that which remains… that is the hardest part.

For crying out loud! I’m a mature, smart, sassy, confident woman. I’m fit and healthy. I’ve done lots of personal development work. I’ve done five years of martial arts and have plenty of yoga and meditation practices amongst my many resources and skills.

But I’m at a loss because regardless, it’s not over yet. Four/five weeks later and whilst I still know that in time it will be over, it isn’t just yet you utter bastard!!

I never used to have bad dreams but since you violently assaulted me in my own home, I’ve dreamt of murder, rape, assault and other dark things. Even when I know it’s a dream, the torment doesn’t end.

I walk home after work and as I approach my street I look for your car. If I hear the slightest strange noise or if my cat hears something, I flinch. Yes that’s right – I flinch! My body remembers and recoils. And my heart races as though its about to explode.

I know in twelve months time, this will no longer happen. Perhaps in three months, definitely (I think) in six. I hope. [Note: I wish that had been true!]

But for now, this one act of yours has undone so much. Has… shaken me in ways I can’t understand. Has changed me despite my desire that it will not. Has generated fear that lives in my skin, just under the surface.

Its like – women’s liberation and equality mean absolutely nothing in the face of a violent act – a man hitting a woman in the face. Suddenly, like it or not its all about control – who has the strength and who doesn’t?

I can’t grieve openly for this thing either. It’s too hard, too vile for most people to handle. Everyone around me just wants it to be over, including me. But its not, its NOT.

And, I want to tell people, so I have enough support. But then I don’t want to. I don’t wish to look weak and pathetic and just how is it possible that someone like me could end up with someone who could do such a thing? How??

I haven’t told many people, and especially not many men. I wouldn’t know how to tell someone if I start dating – whenever I do that again!

I know it’s not all of my judgement that’s bad, but I just don’t get how I couldn’t have seen that side of you before? Not at all?

How weird. Did I miss something or were you just really good at hiding it?

I am quietly devastated.

I am heartbroken for the death of a fraction of my innocence.

I am alone – there aren’t many people who can understand what its like, not surprisingly…. to be hit in the face.

I am shocked that I’ve pulled myself together so well on the outside. Inside I’m confused, structureless and sore.

It’s only recently that my face has stopped hurting completely. I think you cracked a bone – perhaps my eye socket or my cheek – because it was really sore long after the black eye went away. But I was too ashamed to go to a doctor and get it checked out. I couldn’t – I would have just fallen apart.

For weeks, I just touched my cheek lightly every day as a bit of a reality check – nope, I didn’t dream what you did.

My Guru told me to love those who hurt so much that they must hurt others. That your suffering is no different to mine or anyone else’s and that we are all in the same boat. From this realisation comes the seed of compassion, and love.

And I actually truly get that on an intellectual level.

But I’m only half way there. For now, I’m still coping and saddened by this breach of trust, this destruction of the ‘you’ I thought I knew.

And I’m quietly devastated that in a normal everyday existence, outside of fundamentalism, outside of war, religious conflict or any other extreme circumstance – that this expression between two human beings is possible.

But then, ofcourse it’s possible – because we live in a universe where anything and everything is possible.

And so in the end, my devastation is really that I had to be there to see and experience this expression of human nature first hand.

The wisdom in this experience is that: Reality includes everything good and bad and I can’t pick and choose. It’s all together.

There’s no point in expecting my spiritual practices to deliver only ‘nice and acceptable’ lessons.

This is all great stuff – but it doesn’t stop my heart pounding 10:1 when I hear a noise in the dark!

Fuck you Andre. FUCK YOU!

~Svasti

(Next: In the Chinese garden…)