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Svasti: A Journey From Assault To Wholeness

~ Recovery from PTSD & depression + yoga, silliness & poetry…

Svasti: A Journey From Assault To Wholeness

Tag Archives: Assault

Happy 5 year anniversary to me!

29 Wednesday Sep 2010

Posted by Svasti in Post-traumatic stress

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

anniversary, Assault, Depression, Healing, Memory loss, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, Therapy

Shhhh! Did you notice the date? The time? I did, but only just.

Five years ago tonight and roughly around this time, this was happening.

Yep…

I don’t have time to write about it tonight. Because I’ve just finished writing a post on Facebook, sort of “coming out” to a whole bunch of people in my life that I’ve never really told the full story to. I also told a short-hand version of the story on Twitter – that’s another whole bunch of people there I’ve never told, either. Well, except for those who follow me on Twitter from this blog!

I’m not de-cloaking my Svasti identity though…it’s sort of an open secret these days I suspect, but as long as it remains separate from my professional life, then it’s all good. 😉

I never told most people in my life because I used to be terribly embarrassed and ashamed about being assaulted.  And then eventually, I simply couldn’t remember who I’d told and who I hadn’t – it’s a memory loss thing associated with having PTSD.

Anyway. Five years. And wow, SUCH a five years it’s been. Of course, life hasn’t been anything like I expected it might be. I thought by now I’d have met the man of my dreams and perhaps even have had a child or two. But no. In fact, I’ve barely managed to date at all in this time and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had sex (no dirty puns, please!! Hahahaha!!)

Nope. Life has given me a handful of 360 degree shifts instead. I’m still not entirely sure where I’m at as a result, but mostly I think I’m better off. I can barely believe I’m writing that, but I think it’s true.

Anyway, more on all of this soon. Just not tonight.

I’m feeling a bit weepy now that I’ve noticed this milestone. Generally speaking I haven’t paid attention to my “anniversary” dates at all. Most of them have gone by without raising so much as a blip on my radar. But for some reason tonight, I was prompted to check the date (one of those little voices in my head – so I had to look it up) and there it was. Today. Right now.

*gulp*

Yeah… time to go to bed. Process. I’ll chat to y’all about this maybe tomorrow night.

But one more thing before I finish this post… the next five years? I reckon they’re gonna blow the last five OUT OF THE WATER!

~Svasti xoxo

P.S. Here’s to all those out there dealing with PTSD, depression and/or any other mental health issues. Keep on fighting, digging deep and working your butt off, because life can get better eventually!!

-37.814251 144.963169

The question: Why?

17 Tuesday Nov 2009

Posted by Svasti in Learnings, The Aftermath

≈ 16 Comments

Tags

abusive relationships, Assault, Depression, general randomness, Healing, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Therapy, Why?

In the treacly syrup of therapy sessions that I waded through last year (and earlier this year), I’ve endlessly tormented myself with a clutch of seemingly unanswerable questions.

Why did this (assault/PTSD/depression) happen? To me? Why did I have such a strong reaction to it given it was a single incident? Why was I having such a hard time “getting over it”?

I had no answers. My therapist suggested that if it was important, we could address it later on. That there might not be any ready answers and in fact, worrying about the why just then was counter-productive to getting on with the healing process.

She was right. So we moved on to other topics, but I did keep returning to them for regular self-flagellation. I should have known better, right? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

We want answers. When something unthinkable happens, especially when it’s personal… we want to draw a logical line from point A to point B and say Ah!!! So THAT’S why!

I suspect that in our hurry to understand why, we create reasons. And then, people tell us things like: Everything happens for a reason. Or… Something positive has to come out of this.

People might even suggest a reason or two of their own. Good people. Well meaning people.

But it doesn’t help.

Rarely will someone say those kind of things about positive life experiences. We don’t ponder (not too much anyway) why we met our life partner, or why we get to travel, or win the lottery…

And to be honest, I don’t know if everything that happens in this world (and to us personally), has to have a reason. Maybe what we think of as “the reason” is not even the real reason. If there is a reason beyond general randomness!

After all, the universe has the capacity for randomness. So perhaps that’s the real reason that seemingly senseless things happen. Perhaps they just are senseless.

Can we live with that? Sometimes, and then sometimes not…

Over at Michele’s blog, we considered the idea that perhaps the reason doesn’t matter in the end (read the comments).

Perhaps.

Although there might not be exact reasons, there’s definitely contributing factors to certain events. Influences that led you to be where you are. Again, there’s no real proof that these actually cause an event to occur. Or not.

Whatever.

Lately, I’ve been considering my pre-disposition towards abusive relationships. All kinds. Friendships, lovers, family. And I do think that pre-disposition was a contributing factor that led to me being involved with a physically violent person.

Basically, it seems I’ve put up with people treating me poorly for many years. [Note: not that I’m perfect, or that I’ve never treated other people badly. I’m not saying that.]

Which is related of course, to poor self-image/self-worth. Similarly, the next level of waging war – in addition to beating ourselves up – is to extend the war to others. And this shows up as abusive behaviour between people. Often it goes both ways. Starting within our family, of course.

Parent to child. Sibling to sibling. Child to friends. Friends to child. And so on. The circle continues to widen.

Much of my young life featured what I’ll call “low-level” abuse on an emotional and physical level. I used to think it was normal for people to be nice to me one day, and horribly upset with me the next as a repeating cycle. There was the bitching, the withholding of affection, the physical violence, regular screaming matches, being given the silent treatment for months on end and bring threatened with abandonment.

To be clear, its not that I think any of the above is particularly unusual. Actually, I think it’s the status quo in a lot of families, and almost accepted as normal even.

But it’s not normal. This is abuse.

We get used to treating other people badly, and being treated badly ourselves. Of course, there are more extreme situations, with children being molested or otherwise mistreated. But the more casual forms of abuse are important, too. Perhaps because they’re so very ubiquitous.

Possibly, growing up like that doesn’t bother everyone. At a minimum the impact would be the way people mimic abuse that was visited on them – they deal what they were dealt.

But for those who are extra-sensitive or vulnerable or otherwise naive (like I was), it can be a disaster.

When I consider the relationships and friendships I’ve had/have, it’s clear to me that I seek peaceful and harmonious relations with others. Well, that’s what I want, but it’s not always what I’ve been attracted to. Certainly for the most part, it’s not what I’ve attracted into my life. Until recent times, anyway.

Maybe that’s one of the great learnings for me – seeing just how much abuse I allow myself to put up with (not to mention the abuse I’ve dished out in return), and why. It wasn’t a one-shot deal though. It’s something I’ve continued to learn about, especially this year.

For example…

I was trying to be friends with someone who didn’t really want to reciprocate. Like a puppy dog, I wanted to be liked. I bent over backwards to be nice to this person. I gave them things. I spent money I didn’t have to do things for them.

In return, there seemed to be a friendship developing. Even if it was uneven. Even if, from time to time, this person decided to take offense at something I’d said and chuck a temper tantrum about it, way out of proportion to the actual event. Even if they gave me the silent treatment from time to time. They still encouraged me to rely on them. And so I did.

Because I wanted to be friends, exhausting as it was.

This was an abusive friendship – both ways. But I stuck it out until in the end, after we’d both torn shreds off each other. And by then it was clear: I was barking up the wrong tree. This situation came about because really, that person never wanted to be my friend in the first place.

If only I could’ve seen the other person’s abusive reactions for what they were – a cryptic message to back the hell off! But because I was used to accepting abusive behaviour, I didn’t.

This time, the end result wasn’t a physical assault. But it was an assault on my heart and self-esteem.

And I think (and hope) it was the final wake up call.

I don’t want to be abusive towards others, and as a yogini I’m working towards stripping these tendencies away from how I move about in this world.

Equally, I don’t want to be friends with people who treat me badly.

Just maybe then, that is the reason why? In the end. Or perhaps it’s just a by-product? Either way, it’s a good piece of knowledge to have on this journey.

~Svasti

Judith’s story

01 Monday Jun 2009

Posted by Svasti in Learnings, Life

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Abuse, Anger, Assault, Depression, Fear, Healing, Judith's story, Netherlands, Post-traumatic stress, Proposition 8, PTSD, Rage, Recovery, Trauma, Trust, Violence

I’m both in awe and kinda in mourning after reading Judith’s story.

**Note: If you’re in any way feeling fragile or likely to be triggered by reading of extreme violence and/or viewing VERY graphic photos, it’s best not to click on the above link**

Judith recently left a comment on one of my earlier posts so I checked out the Willothewisp blog that she and her wife run, (Prop 8 supporters take note: gay marriage has been legal in the Netherlands for years!) and from there found the link to her horrific, utterly terrifying story of sexual and physical assault.

As if the assault wasn’t bad enough, Judith went through months and months of recovery, surgery and rehabilitation that sounds like ongoing torture. Add living with post-traumatic stress, depression and the inability to move or talk for the longest time… and we’re talking about a truly serious survivor.

It’s a rough read, very emotional and heartbreaking. Once again – don’t read her story unless you’re in a stable frame of mind.

There’s ten chapters to date, and the story isn’t fully told yet. And it’s taken me a while to make my way through each one.

Judith’s lucky to be alive, although given what she went through I’m sure she didn’t feel lucky for the longest time. Her body is scarred, she lost her hearing, and she had to learn to speak and walk again.

Any one of these issues would be tough enough to handle. But Judith has triumphed through them all.

More than that – she’s married and she and her wife have three children. She has made a life despite what she’s been through. Through her words, I sense a very determined lady!

I can’t wait to read more and see how it was she made it to the life she now leads. I’m sure the past is still not 100% buried, but she is not cowering in the corner away from the world.

She’s a mother and a writer and living her life bravely.

So Judith, here’s to you. Much respect.

~Svasti

Response to BlissChick – part 2

23 Saturday May 2009

Posted by Svasti in Depression, Life, Unspoken Conversations

≈ 3 Comments

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

22 Friday May 2009

Posted by Svasti in Depression, Health & healing, Unspoken Conversations

≈ 10 Comments

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

EMDR and me

06 Friday Mar 2009

Posted by Svasti in Therapy

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

Anger, Assault, EMDR, Fear, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Rage, Recovery, Trauma, Trust, Violence

We still don’t know why EMDR works, really. There’s research going on, and a number of theories. What we do know is that it provides relief for those dealing with deep-seated trauma, so says my therapist, AN.

Heading to the session last Friday, I was nervous, as always. But perhaps because of everything else going on, I didn’t feel quite as sick to my stomach as usual.

Though, AN barely started talking and I was already in tears. Again.

I thought she might’ve wanted me to recount the whole story from start to finish. But she just let the parts of the story that needed to come out, appear of their own accord.

We talked through the process thoroughly, to make sure I understood what would happen.

Apparently it’s important while undergoing EMDR to try and say whatever comes up – be it an emotion, a thought, an image, etc. And regardless of whether it ‘seems’ relevant or not.

Sounds easy perhaps, but it was interesting to observe how many of my thoughts I dismiss out of hand. How many are just tiny faint little voices, despite having something important to say.

With EMDR, nothing is considered unimportant.

AN asked me to bring to mind a memory or feeling about the assault that still caused me a lot of discomfort.

Didn’t have to think long. It’s always been his eyes – how they looked just after he’d hit me.

Those eyes kept me awake the night of, and several days after the assault. It’s not that I couldn’t see them with my eyes open… just that they were less threatening that way. Closing my eyes made them glow iridescently. They’ve haunted me nearly every single day of my life since that time.

AN asked me to rate my level of discomfort out of ten (or seven?). We rated each ‘scene’ (her term) as they bubbled to the surface (not that I can recall the ratings I gave, nor for that matter, were they necessarily accurate).

What came up varied greatly.

There was a ‘stream of consciousness’ feel to the way each scene appeared. Sometimes related to a post I’d written about a specific aspect of that night. Then, I’d be talking about how I feel right now, admitting to myself and AN things I really haven’t spoken about before. Next thing I knew, I was back in the moments just after he’d gone, in shock, where… I couldn’t figure out what needed doing the most.

Each time a new topic came up, I’d rate it, talk about it for a while (amidst many tears) and then I was asked to look at the pen. That standard issue black pen.

AN waved it in front of my face, from side to side and my job was to follow it with my eyes. And focus on whatever specific emotion we’d just been discussing.

Some ‘scenes’ took multiple pen waving efforts. But eventually, this deceptively simple process seemed to… lessen the intensity of how I felt. Lessen the emotions attached to certain memories and experiences.

An early realisation in the session was how incredibly humiliated I felt, that this could happen to me. So much so, it’s been tough trying to look anyone in the eye.

Not to mention… I felt totally responsible for what happened. I blamed myself entirely for his actions and mine. As though I should’ve been able to control the situation. Which clearly doesn’t make sense.

And no matter how many people would say ‘it’s not your fault‘, it was never enough to convince my very own vicious inner Supreme Court Judge.

There’s also my extreme anger at both myself and Andre. And my latent desire for revenge (hampered by my inability to act on revenge fantasies coz I’m just not wired that way! Which kinda pisses me off!).

Don’t know how far along we were when grief surfaced. Deep-voiced and stricken… wordlessly expressing the loss I’ve felt… my zest for life… my bravery… part of my innocence… all gone. Three years in hiding from myself and other people, especially other people… uncontrollable sobbing gushing forth thickly, like syrupy slow moving old dark blood…

Sifting through the rubble, I almost tripped over what probably lies at the root of the ongoing trauma I’ve experienced:

What happened… it could happen again.

If it does happen again, it could be worse. Next time I could be killed.

And hence my terror, apparently.

Which makes sense, of course. Though, the fears are somewhat irrational. Most definitely. But not to the very scared and freaked out part of me that has never ever stopped living in fear since that night.

This led to a discussion around my trust issues, and a whole host of other things. Stuff I can’t fully recall. But I’ll attempt to write about soon.

By the end of the two hours, AN asked me to recall his eyes again.

Funny thing was… I couldn’t.

Not at all. I couldn’t believe it.

I just no longer had a faster-than-a-speeding-bullet recollection of his eyes. And a week later… still nothing.

Thinking about it, there’s a tiny bit of discomfort. A touch of anxiety. But nothing like the horrible sense of being drawn back into the never-ending nightmare of PTSD stuck on a loop…

‘Course, it’s way too early to say it’s all over with any kind of certainty. In fact, I’m heading back to see AN this afternoon. For a ‘mop-up’ session.

I’ve learned too, from experience, there’s many layers to something as complex as PTSD. So this time I’m saying, sure, I feel a heck of a lot better. But there could be more to come.

So let’s not get cocky here… instead, I’ll just focus on gratitude.

~Svasti

**UPDATE** Check out this video I found on EMDR!

-37.814251 144.963169

In transit

28 Saturday Feb 2009

Posted by Svasti in Therapy

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

Anger, Anxiety, Assault, EMDR, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Therapy, Trauma, Trust

What’s that place called? That in-between world? Not quite home yet, but somewhere along the way?

Feels strangely familiar, though I’ve never been here before. Has a lot in common with bus stops and airport lounges and waiting for a cab home late at night from places I’ve been all around the world.

But that’s not where I am right now, not at all.

Hardly any thinking occurs here. It’s kinda blank. Yeah, blank. And I feel so tired. There’s no reason to hold it in now, y’see… no need to pretend, keep up pretences.

And it feels like I’m not anywhere in particular, almost like it doesn’t have a latitude and longitude. But that can’t be true, right?

So how did I get here? Bought a ticket, that’s how!

I knew it’d be a trip, but apparently it’s hard to take good pictures along the way.

This place, it’s a sensate chasm.

Wringing out my nervous system, skin tingling pain – the kind that tells me good things are happening… despite the anguish.

But it’s all under the hood, so to speak, non-verbal, the re-structuring of my emotional landscape.

Sure, there’s stuff we talked about along the route. Looking at this scene, then that one.

Drawing up tears, emotions, pain, questions and haunting memories, imprinted there, since the night he…

So much, so fast, it’s hard to catch my breath. Can’t remember everything we said.

Not that it matters right now. Sleep is what I needed, sleep. A slumber to soothe rough edges, turn the soil and plant new saplings of hope.

To fill the vacuum, where once certain dreams held court, terrorising the breadth and depth of the kingdom. Happily, their landhold is now reduced. Weakened. Perhaps… not gone, not just yet.

But those eyes? The eyes of the predator that for years haunted me every day, without fail? The ones I could see without trying, eyes wide open? The photo-negative image containing so much rage and terror, like a brand, a tattoo, always there?

Must’ve left ’em behind on my trip. In that other place.

Sometimes, it’s good to lose possessions you wish you’d never had.

~Svasti

Human violence

27 Thursday Nov 2008

Posted by Svasti in Learnings, Post-traumatic stress

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

Abuse, Assault, GO! Smell The Flowers, Human rights, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Violence, Violence against women

Over at the irrepressible Go! Smell The Flowers blog, one of the regular contributors “Aussie Cynic” (aka A/C aka Kesa) has written a post titled “Go On! Speak Out!“.

The topic is International Human Rights Day and International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women.

Something kinda close to my heart.

A/C asked some questions at the end of her impassioned post… True to form, in response I wrote a small essay in the comments, and I asked A/C if it’d be cool if reproduced those comments here.

Note: I’ve cleaned it up a little (and fixed the typos).

Without further ado, here’s my long and rambling response…

****

Violence against women… well, one particular woman – me – is the very reason my blog was born.

It’s my creative outlet for all of the pain, terror, trauma, repression, depression and post-traumatic stress I’ve been dealt as a result of someone’s inability to control themselves one night just over three years ago.

So the topic of violence (and like Gareth rightly pointed out, not just male against female violence, but I’d also add in same gender violence too for that matter) is one I’ve been particularly close to for some time.

Why is Violence and Abuse allowed to continue?

I don’t think it’s a case of violence and abuse being allowed to continue. It happens because human nature is as it is. Within us all is the fight or flight mechanism.

For those people without enough maturity and awareness – physical, mental and emotional abuse are ways those people feel more in control, less fearful. And sadly it becomes a pattern for them, a way of coping with whatever is thrown in their direction.

Why we must put up with such disgusting behaviour?

We don’t have to put up with this behaviour.

He only got one shot at me, just that one night – the next day I put a protection order in place. But the internal damage had already set in. There’s been a huge toll in the rebuilding from that time.

And let me say (in case you hadn’t already guessed) that I’m not one of those lay down and take it types. I’ve fought for my healing really hard and I’ve been incredibly surprised at how long it’s taken to regain a certain level of emotional balance.

I never thought PTSD could happen as a result of an incident like mine. I thought it happened to people who’d lived through a war or a major disaster. But, clearly that’s not the case. PTSD is a very real and frightening phenomena… and it’s pretty friggin rough on the body, mind and soul.

Cruelly, the balance I’d achieved after three long years has been thrown out of whack only very recently, with another repressed memory surfacing and dragging everything I thought I’d dealt with back to the surface. More PTSD: unexpected, unwelcome, unwanted. There’s no warning. It comes when it comes.

It’s been incredibly humbling and painful to realise it’s not all over yet. Not that I thought it was all completely over – I know I have major trust issues with men – but I thought I was through the worst of emotional/mental trauma and turmoil.

My brain is only just recovering from the very ‘jelly-like’ state that a PTSD episode turns it into.

And I’m back seeing my very helpful therapist.

But none of it makes sense and everything – I mean everything – hurts. The panic attacks that go with those episodes? Have to be felt to be believed. After months of freedom from this itchy scalp condition I had for years, it’s returned overnight (fear, panic, anxiety, trauma causing physical reactions).

Why as women do we not stand up and say NO MORE!

Women can and do say no – but its really cultural conditioning enmasse that people must work to change. Before I was assaulted, I could’ve never understood the impact such a thing can have on someone’s life.

I’m guessing that’s the case for a whole lot of other people in the world too. They are complacent via ignorance – that sort of violence has never touched their lives and they can’t imagine why its important to really instil in their children the supreme wrongness of it all.

Why do women suffer in silence too scared to speak out?

Good question… I’m a smart, sassy, independent woman with a great career in the digital arena. Before this, I never ever considered something like this could happen to me. Until it did. And people can tell you “its not your fault” a million times, but there’s a huge degree of shame and fear that goes along with this sort of experience.

Shame – How could this happen to me? Why didn’t I know better? How is it I couldn’t see what he was like (and believe me, he showed no signs of being a violent type before this one night)?

Fear – I don’t want people to feel sorry for me. I don’t want them to judge me as weak. I don’t want to be taken advantage of (there are people who pray on those in a vulnerable state). I don’t want to be looked upon as ‘different’ for what happened to me.

Why do we allow those committing Abuse to continue to do so?

The police… the night I was assaulted, were exceptionally unhelpful. I guess they’ve got so much going on, so many ‘worse’ things to deal with… and they’re under-staffed.

Yet we rely on our police force to manage law and order. But violence like this is not considered enough of a problem to send a police car out to comfort someone who’s been severely traumatised and go arrest the bastard who did it.

The night I was assaulted, many people would have heard my screams for help but no help came. And, very few people in my life have had enough courage, emotional fortitude and good old fashioned compassion to deal with the emotional aftermath that night has wrought in my life.

I don’t mean to sound like I’m being dramatic or over-stating what happened. I hope I haven’t. I’ve had to be very careful about who I tell these things to – and for whatever reason it’s been so much easier to do in the anonymous environs of a blog. I’ve gained more support from people who don’t know me than from most of the people that do.

Why if we know something is going on do we choose to ignore it?

I think as CC said, many people don’t want to look, lest they see something that reminds them of their own fears and/or mortality.

I don’t judge them for that; I simply understand that not everyone is equipped that way.

I continue to talk to those who can listen and understand. And I continue my healing process, damn determined this will not cast a shadow over my life any longer than absolutely necessary.

******

And then my follow up reply…

Hugs are more than welcome. Its one of the things I’ve missed like crazy – too afraid to get close to men in my life, but at the same time desperately wanting (safe) male hugs. I just haven’t been able to do it – well, I have recently just begun that process (reaching out to male friends I think I can trust), but its tough.

PTSD… what a fucking sick joke that is! I think it was easier to deal with when I was experiencing it more frequently. Because I’ve been free of such episodes for months… its hit much harder. Might have been easier to get hit with a concrete baseball bat than this!

No, Andre was never charged. I did get a very long protection order in place though, and I took action in other ways – letting his ex (with whom he has kids) know what happened, and the place I met him (where he used to work as a musician), I told them too. They were pretty unhappy about it, because they want their patrons to be safe. So I think I did him out of a job at that venue anyway…

Of course what happened is not my fault. Logically I know that. But it’s not so easy to believe. And I get it – you know, how weak he is, how much pain and fear he must be living with to act in that way. I know from talking to his ex that I was not the first person he’s assaulted.

And I learned in therapy that often, men with violent tendencies are exceptionally good at hiding that side of their personalities.

So I know all of that, but still, some of my anger is reserved for me. And I haven’t forgiven myself yet, not properly… no matter what I know logically and reasonably. It’s just not that simple. Wish it was!!

But I keep up the good fight. The ongoing attempts at self-acceptance. And finally it seems, I’ve been able to let out all of the murderous rage I’ve been feeling that I never felt at the time… because I was too fearful and sad and concerned with making sure I got out of that situation in one piece.

So it seems that recently I’d processed enough that my sub-conscious said okay, she’s doing well enough – let’s send out the next wave of stuff to be dealt with.

And that’s what I’m in the middle of right now. It is getting better and continues to do so.

~Svasti

P.S. I should add, that today as I write this… things are getting better. They are. Day by day. Hugs and kisses to everyone who’s been so wonderful to me in this time. xoxo

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Jigsaw puzzles

25 Tuesday Nov 2008

Posted by Svasti in Post-traumatic stress, The Aftermath

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

Abandonment, Adoption, Anger, Anxiety, Assault, Brit Lapthorne, Confusion, Panic attacks, Pinocchio, Post-traumatic stress, Rage, Wrathful

Pinocchio’s nose is less obtrusive than the sure knowledge of my mother’s combustible nature, both from my childhood and right up til the present day.

Few are the Christmas or other family holidays in my recollection where she didn’t spit the dummy (in a seriously major league kind of way). Often it was over small, inconsequential things. At least once, if not multiple times during the hours we spent cloistered confusingly and unhappily as a family… this is the meaning of family?

I don’t want to be like that. Ever… I would chant to myself…

Mostly I recoiled in horror from her irrational and emotionally violent outbursts. They froze my mind, rendering my ability to respond practically useless. It was easier to slink away and wonder what the hell it was all about, knowing we’d probably never find out.

The collective debris of these moments gathered and surrounded us til we knew what to expect and how to pretend it never happened.

Eventually through my own wilful misadventures brought on via naiveté and romantic idealism and because I accused my parents of not understanding, very bluntly one night, the poisoned agony driving my mother’s experience of life was explained. Or at least some of it… she jealously guards it… no one can interfere, no one can understand her miserable life and no, she doesn’t want any help with that thank you very much!

The angry outbursts continue to this day. She even rants about people on TV, in the news. Brit Lapthorne’s parents? They spent way too much time courting the media – media whores! Anyone who’s ever adopted a child? Dirty rotten baby stealers, worthy of her scorn and hatred the lot of them (her own child – my absent half-brother – was forcibly removed from her as a single mother in the 60’s). Rant-rant-rant. And she don’t stop.

We three kids grew up with one explosive and unpredictable parent, and another who was mysterious in his own way – very quiet and internalised, never expressing anything much. My sister and I would question each other: Have you found out anything new about mum and dad lately? What do you know about them? Why don’t we know much about them??

I can’t count the number of times we had that discussion…

When we kids tested my mother to her limits she’d become extremely angry and threaten us… she’d leave the whole family – just walk out the door and never come back. Terrifying to a young child. This generated much anxiety… we’d beg her not to go, cry and say how sorry we were…

After several repeat performances we realised she never went further than the car. She’d sob there, before wearily returning silently and ignoring us til dad came home.

To this day, I cringe when confronted with irrational, illogical and extreme expressions of anger. Those who won’t be reasoned with. Anyone who’s really angry at me. I still freeze, I feel physically ill and I don’t know what to say in the face of such a horrible human expression.

Heated and passionate debate? Not a problem as long as there’s logic and open lines of communication. In fact, I enjoy it. Bring on such passionate exchanges any day of the week…

But wilful, wrathful, single-minded fury, the likes of which I expressed not so long ago (possibly for the first time in my life)? No. I run from that sort of anger. Like a rabbit. Whether it’s mine or others’. I lose my communicative abilities entirely.

It seems, despite everything I’ve been through with this wretched assault that I’ve allowed to invade my life and take too many hours of enjoyment and love away… I’ve never, ever, permitted myself to feel totally and utterly pissed off about any of it.

And so, from within deep ravines of my inner being (where wounds never quite heal over) came the furious host, unstoppable til it ran its course.

It dragged its dirty unsanitary claws raggedly across the newly salved scars on my heart tearing them wide-open… awakened, the terror replays in its familiar groove generating intensely painful panic attacks and anxiety, destroying the structure of my brain (leaving jelly-like mush) and my ability to concentrate, bringing to the fore that ever-present teary-ness…

Prickling just beneath my pores. With ridiculous ease I cry (not because I want to) wandering the streets, in private bathroom-break minutes, sitting here alone typing, entirely vulnerable and so completely and utterly sick of myself. And of dealing with this stuff alone, never, ever, with anyone here to put their arms around me and tell me it’s gonna be okay.

I’m temporarily weakened and disarmed. But I know this place. I know I am not that. Confused, for sure, I don’t get it, this return of pain (H tells me its common for trauma to re-visit, damnit). I know this is just energy passing through in a wretchedly painful form… and for now it’s a parasite, not budging, despite my many valiant efforts.

~Svasti

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Extracting splinters

16 Sunday Nov 2008

Posted by Svasti in Post-traumatic stress, The Aftermath

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

Assault, Broken heart, Bunnings, Extracting poison, Moving home, Pain, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Repressed memories, Trauma

So… perhaps this is what it was all about?

[Imagined conversation with imaginary surgeon dude]:
“Okay Svasti we’ve just gotta take your heart out of your chest for a while. We’ve just spotted another infection and we need to get it out. But sorry, we’ve got to do it right now and… we don’t actually have any instruments with us. So what we’ll do is just rip your heart out of your chest, locate the piece we need to remove and then, it would just be easier if we used our teeth to cut it out. It’s gonna hurt but trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

Whatever, friggin’ Dr. Surgeon! Go ahead and just don’t mind the screams from my aorta whilst you do your thang. So that’s why I’m having a little trouble breathing right and why this incredible tower of rage continues along its merry way? Geez, give a girl some warning next time…

Shit, shit, fucking shit. Stupid-assed crap fucking brain! Why oh why did you choose right now, huh? Why? WHY? Right, because I didn’t have enough going on, what with the moving house, and trying to settle my cat and find the scissors and a clean plate for dinner and shave my legs for Monday. Not to mention my washing machine, which, somewhere between being moved into storage all those months ago and arriving here – has stopped working.

Then ofcourse, there was the trip to Bunnings. I must’ve thrown away my rubbish bin (that’s a trash can for you Yankees) and somehow I lost my broom. And where the hell did my doormat go? Anyways, I’m driving back in my hire car and I realise I’m not gonna make it back by 3pm so I call and they’re cool with me bringing it back in the morning. When…

So. What happened that night, after he’d left, Svasti?

Shit. Shit! Oh, crap. I guess that one got repressed and hadn’t bothered to show its face again til now. Right now in the car driving back to my new place with a brand new broom and flip top bin.

After I caught my breath, after I was sure he’d left and I’d called the police and they’d blown me off… He sent me a text message. “Hey, I’m really sorry about that. But thanks for all of your love”. Furious and sad and scared I fired back:”Don’t you EVER come near me again or I’ll have you arrested you fucking PIG!”

He thanked me – what the fuck?!! He threw me against the wall, punched me in the face and when he finally left after all the shouting, aggression and threats of further violence… he thanked me. WHAT THE FUCK?!!

What was that? Like he lost the plot, smacked me around and thanked me like some sort of prostitute he paid for rough sex? Like it really wasn’t such a big deal, what happened? He thanked me??!!

It’s only small isn’t it? Just a few seconds or minutes…

So why did this cause my heart to be ripped out so roughly? Why is there this big gaping fucking empty space in the center of my chest right now??

I. Don’t. Understand.

Yet.

I’m hurting. I’m hurting. I’m as mad as a cut snake. I’m furious, gulping large breaths of tears and hot fiery heavy oxygen causing pain on the way in and out… There’s no music soundtrack for this. I feel like puking. Am I wearing leaden weights all the sudden? I feel like screaming. I’m trembling, damnit!!! I don’t know what this means yet, I don’t know why it hurts so much. I’m livid, then I’m numb. Then I’m bawling. I’m not okay. I will be okay. But I’m not okay right now…

If anyone sees that surgeon dude, tell him I want my heart back please. I’m off to… unpack some boxes…

~Svasti

(Next part of the story. Read on!!)

-37.814251 144.963169
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