At War!!

Tags

Ahimsa, casualties, collateral damage, destruction, hostages, Human rights, Patanjali, peace, self-acceptance, self-hatred, Violence, warfare, Yamas

Did you know the majority of people on planet Earth are at war?

It’s true.

But it’s a war with no name. And it’s silent and sneaky. Very few people talk about it. There’s no protests, or political action to bring it to an end. But it takes plenty of hostages and casualties. It cuts a path of destruction on all seven continents. There’s no place it does not reach…

This my friends, is the Great War. The murderer of souls. The sniper of happiness. The assassin of freedom. The destroyer of self-acceptance.

That’s right. I’m talking about the collateral damage we drag through our lives. The absolutely violent thoughts and actions we take against ourselves every day. The unkind words. The self-neglect. The hyper-critical and unfair attitude we have about our actions and/or appearance. The public and/or private flagellation we suffer at our own hands.

Let’s not forget the way we pass our own misery on to the next generation so that it may flourish… through our actions, we show them how to be self-defeating and self-loathing. We teach them that that’s how life is for most people.

One of the worst fall outs of this war is the way we’re so willing to believe anything negative about ourselves at the drop of a hat, while being unable to accept a compliment or be proud of our achievements.

We are displaced people. Displaced in our sense of Self.

And I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of it. Because all of this adds up to an unacceptable abuse of human rights.

Worse – most of these campaigns of self-hatred are conducted behind closed doors. Of course, some do make it out into the streets too, where we drink excessively or take drugs, or lay our self-disgust at the feet of others.

But almost everyone else is engaged in their own internal warfare. And so we try to relate the best we can, limping along, tending to our war as well as those belonging to the people we love.

And sometimes we mistake other people for combatants in our war. So, we take the fight externally and make them the enemy. At last, someone tangible to fight with – the driver of the car that cut you off, your lover, your friend, your parents, your boss, the rude waitress… and so on.

Appalling isn’t it? And yet, so very difficult to control. This war has agents everywhere!

The big question for me is this: How are we ever going to make peace with other people if we can’t even make peace with ourselves?

Y’know, Ahimsa (non-violence/non-injury) is the first of the five Yamas (restraints) of Patanjali’s system of yoga. The very first discipline to master, for developing consciousness on the path to enlightenment.

And yet, it seems to be one of the hardest things to do. We can sympathise with the trials of others. We give money and/or service to charities. We’ll give a guy on the street food or cash. We’ll help someone change a flat tyre.

But we can’t stop looking in the mirror and thinking about all the ways we are “deficient”. Can we?

And to win, we have to find a way to make peace with ourselves. Have to!

I’m still working on it. What about you?

~Svasti

Judith’s story

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

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

Rewind

Tags

Anxiety, Brother, Bullying, Depression, Lost, Self-esteem, Sibling abuse, Verbal abuse, Violence

This is not a sob story. Nor a pity party.

I’ve tried to understand, but in retrospect, it makes little sense. The answers aren’t obvious. I’m struggling to see as I reach back through the years to that murky time.

Was it just opportunity and wilfulness? A very sad case of absent self-esteem? An undiagnosed family history of depression? All of the above?

How does a bright young child take so many wrong steps? Embarrassingly letting down all those who imagine great things for her? She never knew really, what she wanted for herself, not then. But it was clear her own failures hurt those who hoped her life would be more than theirs.

Why was her head so fuzzy? Looking ahead, she saw nothing for her. No future appealed or seemed within her grasp. So much of her short life included pain, rejection, poor guidance, lack of support, anger, heartbreak and sadness. Feeling unloved, unwelcome, unhappy, unincluded.

But it’s all pedestrian stuff. Rather unexceptional, to tell the truth. Yet she was a mess before her twenty-first birthday. Before she’d left her teenage years, actually.

Woeful yet ordinary tales of angst could be told. Was it just the number of them, one after another that counts? Her over-sensitivity to the world, its slings and arrows? High levels of unaddressed anxiety?

Feeling comfortable in her own skin around other people was never her forte, after all.

Maybe in part, she was just born that way. Overly imaginative and sensitive. Artistic, showing early intelligence and yet, so very shy. Which she covered with extroverted behaviour. Still does.

How to tell this tale without recounting things that probably don’t matter?

It’s icky and tough-going peering through the eyes of a sad teenage woman-child, who, felt herself invincible but had clearly and truly lost her way.

Looming large in the viewfinder of those times were of course, her first boyfriend. Her subsequent pathetic attempts at relationships. And her brother.

Imagine living with someone who told you aggressively negative things about yourself every day of your life, relentlessly for years on end.

From the age of twelve (or thereabouts), til the time she left home at nineteen (to escape his non-stop torment)… she was her brother’s prime target.

The seeds of his behaviour were there earlier, though. And actually she has no memories of him ever being nice to her. But as she got older, he focused on her more and more. Especially when their mother went back to work.

As the eldest child and only male sibling, his anger and aggression ruled the hour before parental order was restored.

At first it was just verbal abuse, day in, day out. Sneering, growling, lip curling aggression for reasons completely unfathomable.

You’re fat. You’re ugly. You’re so fucking stupid it’s not funny. Worthless. Hopeless. You’ll never make anything of yourself. Get out of my face you ugly slut! No wonder you don’t have a boyfriend, look at you!

And so on. And on. Every day. Relentlessly. Often, the same angry mantras repeated over and over. Years of such bilious nastiness, sprouting from who knows where?

Constantly, she’d try to tell their parents. But what can a child say to properly explain this kind of verbal assault? To make it sound serious enough? Challenging too, when parental figures don’t like dealing with conflict and want the easiest solution to make it all go away.

The physical abuse started earlier than she recalled. She must have been ten, at least. And for no reason she knew, at her brother’s soccer club, on awards night… he pinned her arms to her sides, kneeing her in the stomach. Hard. So hard, she couldn’t speak. Bent over, clutching herself in the middle of a room of people who saw. They had to.

Somehow, she wasn’t quite believed. And he didn’t quite get punished for his actions. But the panic and humiliation stayed with her for years, under the skin, re-emerging inopportunely.

But the full on smack down violence was later. Their sister watching helplessly and tensely. The fights were nasty and aggressive and for a while she took whatever he dealt out.

Til later, when she decided it didn’t matter how much he hurt her. She’d find a way to hurt him back. Waiting, goading him even, to see if she could find a weakness. Looking for a way to make him pay for his wickedness.

She had trouble explaining how bad that was to her parents, too.

But actually, the daily verbal torment was worse. The opposite of positive thinking hurled at her daily.

Say something to someone often enough and without a doubt, they’ll believe it. Which is one sure way to tear down the confidence of a young girl who, was never the most popular, the prettiest or anything special in her social circle anyway.

She didn’t see her future as bright, bristling with potential and no one told her otherwise. She couldn’t see anything great happening.

She had no idea what to do or where to go.

~Svasti

EMDR and me

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!

Human violence

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

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

A day and a week later

Tags

AVO, Scared, The Aftermath, Violence

The story so far (in chronological order):

• Once upon a time
• Ground zero
• Those eyes – or – don’t step in the glass
• Extracting splinters

*******************

Buffy got me through the night. Til it was Friday morning. For that, I will always be gratefully loyal to the Slayer. But I hadn’t had any sleep yet. I was still crying on and off. My face still burned every moment. The nightmare continued in the daylight, but at least there were things to do now.

K woke up, needing to get to work and left amidst hugs knowing that my sister was on the way over. I still hadn’t explained to my sis why I needed her to come, just that I really did. I think she heard it in my voice.

Andre’s ex rang me back – I told her what had happened and I discovered that he’d hit women before. We mutually discovered the lies about the sale of my car – he’d tried to rip us both off. Perhaps that was part of why he snapped? Their kids were meant to spend time with him today. She frantically tried to figure out how to get her kids away from him without him knowing that she knew. Crucially, she gave me some missing information I needed to take out an AVO (Apprehended Violence Order) on Andre.

My sis arrived and I told her what happened. She’s always been great, knowing what to do, what to say. We made plans to go to the police station. But the police sent us to the magistrates court, once again telling me there wasn’t much they could do. Thanks guys!

Shaking, always shaking. Feeling disconnected from my body. Except ofcourse the pain in my face. Everything felt surreal. All day long, every moment. I felt like I was living someone else’s life. Nothing made sense.

My sister drove us into the CBD, in the traffic, trying to find a park.

The courts were great. Helpful. They assigned a lawyer from a women’s’ domestic violence group to keep me calm company and explain the process of the courts.

There was some waiting involved. I texted some people at work and tried to give them the short version of what happened to explain why I wasn’t coming in. Texting was much easier than talking to people.

When it was my turn to sit before the magistrate, my appointed lawyer had the courtroom cleared for me, and spoke on my behalf. Bless her.

I sat there, feeling naked and dishevelled and trying to talk without crying and shaking. I couldn’t. I didn’t need to say very much before the merciful magistrate granted an emergency AVO. I did however; need to come back a week later to get the permanent order in place. We took the AVO to the police station in Andre’s local area to make sure it was served ASAP. I think the first time I physically stopped shaking was once the order was in place.

My sis decided I needed to stay at my parents’ place for the weekend. Just bundle up the cat and go. Only thing is, I hadn’t told them yet about what happened. I asked my sis to do it – I was too embarrassed and felt they would judge me, wouldn’t understand.

I might have mentioned this before, but they weren’t the best people to go to in the middle of a crisis. What they are good for is the support stuff, like giving me a place to go. But not when I’m crying and shaking. So whilst the idea of staying with them was good, it meant for me that it was time to get myself a little more under control if I could. Crying and falling apart would not compute.

So the weekend went by in a state of weirdness. I couldn’t sleep much still. My parents didn’t know what to say so they avoided the topic. I sent a few friends some texts to tell them a little about what had happened. But I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone else. To tell anyone what had happened. Mostly because I still couldn’t believe it myself.

Sunday afternoon I went home. Whilst my parents meant well, it really wasn’t the most nourishing place for me to be. So I thanked them, and Cleo and I jumped in my car and left.

Arriving home felt odd. There was the cardboard covering up the broken glass. But otherwise it was all quiet and peaceful. And sad. Invisibly stained by violence and terror.

For some reason, I felt compelled to go to work the next day. I really should have taken the next week off! But, what I really wanted was for all the pain and sadness to go away. And, I recalled that several years ago in the midst of one of the worst break ups of my life, work had been the best respite – just throwing myself into a stupid mindless job had helped. Still, it was a bad idea.

Monday arrived.

I had to cover up my black eye without looking as though the makeup was caked on too heavily. Generally my makeup style is very natural so too much would draw attention. The sensation of make up on top of the bruising was that of a big layer of foam over flesh. I thought it would be obvious to everyone, but apparently I did a pretty good job – years of practice I guess.

I pulled aside a couple of people I’m close to and told them what happened in brief, halting sentences. Every word battled against tears, against falling apart. In that air conditioned place of employment I somehow felt safer. But every meeting with other people meant another effort to hold back the dam of emotion threatening to burst at any second.

Stupidly, I also told my boss – who was a stand-in boss at the time. I think she’s one of those people who sees things like this as a weakness to be used against you. She wasn’t sympathetic in the least. A normal person might have sent me home, but not her. She made me take the day I was at court as annual leave instead of sick leave. She couldn’t have cared less. And that hurt, on a human to human level. Thanks a lot. You competitive and heartless automaton!

I worked with a huge number of people that I didn’t tell. Most of them don’t know to this day. I must have seemed odd to them, I certainly felt odd. Lucky for me the DNA in my body is good at repression, so eventually I began to see it as a sign of strength, my ability to act normally when inside I felt like screaming. I’m not entirely sure how normal I really acted either!

I did however, take advantage of a work program that provided four free psychology sessions a year. I was pretty broke, so free was good. I did my first session on the Tuesday I think. Not that four sessions was in any way sufficient however! Although it was enough to get me started…

Each night of that week was marked with fear – of people, noises, nightmares, falling apart and dread of the upcoming second day in court. My mum had agreed to come with me which was good. But I felt like a deer in headlights – was Andre going to show up for the hearing? Would he contest the AVO? I hadn’t heard from him at all, thankfully. But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t.

Every night I locked the security door as well as the normal locks, something I hadn’t done before that time.

I was sad, I was alone. And more than anything, I felt like I couldn’t ask for help.

~Svasti

(Next… Light on the train)

Ground zero

Tags

Anger, Assault, Black eye, Broken glass, Confusion, Fear, Memory loss, Pain, Panic, Violence

Confused and a little disturbed, I couldn’t work out why he was shouting at me.

We’d just had dinner. A slamming pumpkin soup I made with sweet potato and a little ginger, paprika and rosemary. He checked his emails on my computer and later played some tunes on his guitar, plugged in to his mini amplifier. It was all very chilled.

He’d come to see me as a favour to his ex, who recently bought my old car. She still owed me a bit more money and this was the final payment.

Everything was going pretty smoothly, even though Andre sort of mentioned the fact that we weren’t seeing each other any more left him sexually frustrated. But I let that comment slide through to the keeper.

I hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks until this night, a Thursday night. I ended things because I knew it wasn’t going anywhere. I think we both knew that. So when the ‘car drama’ happened, it seemed like a natural break.

He looked a little sad, and whilst I can’t recall exactly what he said (memory loss issues!); he brought up the topic of the ‘car drama’. Somewhat apologetically I think.

My response was something like: You know, I should have listened to my gut instinct. I don’t really like doing business with friends because money often causes problems. I shouldn’t have sold your ex the car.

Then the shouting began. Don’t ask me what the content was. It just sounded like loud white noise ringing in my ears.

Now – I don’t like shouting. I never have. I’ve always been sensitive to outright bursts of anger. I find it very draining and upsetting. I don’t mind having disagreements, but shouting puts me off-balance.

My first response was: I think you misunderstood what I said. I just meant that money and friends often don’t mix well – and look and what’s happening here. Please stop shouting.

But he didn’t. He got meaner. More cutting and insulting.

Please leave my house, I said.

I recall feeling composed at this point. I was telling myself how well I was handling the situation.

Asking him to leave just made him angrier. He made no effort to do as I’d asked. He just stood there shouting at me.

Please leave, I repeated.

He began taunting me. Why don’t you call the police?

I have no idea why I didn’t.

Except, my innocence about people and their motives is rather child-like. I tend to believe people are who they present themselves as. This is despite plenty of evidence over the years that most people aren’t that honest.

So, even though he was mad for some reason I couldn’t fathom… I thought he was ‘just’ mad. I didn’t expect the situation to escalate. And I thought I could handle things – that I was handling things.

From this point on, my memories aren’t coherent. I see snapshots of things that happened, but I have no idea whether they directly are connected to each other or not. Perhaps there was something in between each flash, but perhaps not. Also, the conversations below are all ‘approximate’ because I just don’t remember what was said. I have more of a general feeling of the words used only.

I know I kept trying to explain that I wasn’t accusing him of anything, that I was talking about the whole ‘friends/money don’t mix’ thing. I also know that he wasn’t listening; he just kept shouting at me and refusing to leave.

He hadn’t put his shoes on yet. His shoes, guitar, amp and a small bag were sitting in the hall. I decided that if he wouldn’t leave, I’d start moving his stuff outside. Possibly not the wisest move, but my therapist thinks I have a history of taking unnecessary risks…

I grabbed his shoes and his bag and opened the front door, ferrying his belongings to the driveway. When I came back in I felt, rather than saw, a shift in his attitude. I went to pick up his amp.

Before I could, he grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me against the wall. The flat part at the base of my skull hit the plaster with a crack. My vision went white for a few seconds.

Don’t touch my instruments! he thundered.

Well get your shit out of here and just LEAVE, I demanded, in shock. And how dare you touch me, get your hands off me!

Now we were both standing in the hall, the front door was wide open.

He was taking cheap shots, attempting to use things I’d told him against me. Trying to upset me. No wonder your mother… I can’t remember the rest. Only that in the face of this maelstrom I remained strong.

You don’t know what you’re talking about, quite clearly. My parents love me.

Things were very tense. Stressful. Extreme.

I slowly inched him towards the door. I was getting desperate. The verbal abuse continued. More nonsense. Menacing nonsense.

The very next thing I remember was afterwards. You see, I didn’t know it had happened til it was done.

He looked at me with intense anger in his deep brown eyes, staring defiantly.

The world was surreal.

WHAT JUST HAPPENED? WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME? WHY IS HE LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT?

Then I started to feel the pain.

Oh. My. God. My face… Did he? Hit me?

I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t even see his arm move.

What the hell did you do? Did you just HIT me? Why would you do that? You fucking PRICK, I was crying.

He stood there silently then said, Go on, hit me back. Go on.

Andre is incredibly strong, muscular and a martial artist. I’m also trained in martial arts, but my inner voice was screaming at me not to respond. DON’T BE CRAZY. HE’S MUCH STRONGER THAN YOU ARE. DON’T DO IT!

But somehow I clumsily slapped him, with almost no strength in my arm. Yet the earring in his right ear fell out, onto the carpet.

Good. Now you can’t complain to the police. You hit me as well. And geez, I hardly touched you. If I really wanted to hurt you, you’d know about it. I could smash your fucking head in if I wanted to. And I might just do that some time… he mumbled in a low deep growl.

I focused on that earring even though I was shaking and crying. I needed the situation to change. I wanted the shouting to stop. I wanted him gone, but I didn’t have a plan. I was totally winging it.

Your earring fell out. It’s on the carpet. Pick it up, and get the FUCK out of my house!

What? Is this a joke?

No. Get your fucking earring and leave.

As he bent down and grabbed it, I used all the power I could muster to physically push him backwards, out the door, and I closed the door in his face.

Only I wasn’t quite fast enough.

He regained his balance and leapt forwards, his guitar slung over his shoulder. The head of the guitar smashed one of the glass panels as he put his shoulder into the door and forced his way back into the hall.

There was more verbal abuse, screaming, shouting, threats of further violence. Words that are lost to me, drowned out by shock. Drowned out by the ugliness and anger in Andre’s face.

In desperation, I remembered something. A strategy. A way of breaking the energy of a confrontation.

So I started screaming at the top of my lungs. HELP!! HELP, SOMEONE HELP ME. HELP, I NEED HELP. SOMEONE PLEASE COME AND HELP! I’M BEING ATTACKED!! SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME! HELP, HELP, HELP!!!

Directly over the fence from my front door was a block of flats, no more than three meters away. There were multiple tenants, some of whom must have heard me. I was also living in a split residence with neighbours who always complained about the slightest noise. So they must have heard me too.

But no one came.

The night was dark and freezing cold, and my screams were lost in the chill blackness. Not even an echo remained. And no help came.

Inexplicably my screaming seemed to break the spell and he walked out. I slammed the door. But he didn’t go away. Instead he stood outside yelling abuse, making threats. Terrorising me a little more.

JUST GO AWAY!!

I was in tears, pain, shock, distress and fear. I was terribly confused. My body was shaking non-stop, which lasted the rest of the night and much of the following day.

I was still trying to work out what just happened. Why it happened.

The rest of that night’s story is told here: Those eyes – or – don’t step in the glass

*********************************************************************************************

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ground_zero

The term Ground Zero may be used to describe the point on the earth’s surface where an explosion occurs. In the case of an explosion above the ground, Ground Zero refers to the point on the ground directly below an explosion (see hypocenter). The term has often been associated with nuclear explosions and other large bombs, but is also used in relation to earthquakes, epidemics and other disasters to mark the point of the most severe damage or destruction. Damage gradually decreases with distance from this point.

~Svasti

Dragging my heels

Tags

Anxiety, Assault, Confusion, Courage, Fear, Memory loss, Procrastination, Trauma, Violence

I admit it, I’ve been putting off my next post – which is not this one.

Ever since I decided my next post would be about the actual assault and not the direct aftermath or any of the myriad of related topics… I’ve found many reasons for not sitting down to write in more detail about the night that brought drastic changes to my life.

The two strong contributing factors are confusion and fear.

Speaking on behalf of my confusion – I actually don’t remember that night too well. Not the part of the night that’s “pre-assault” anyway. Well, that’s not entirely true. I do recall that Andre was coming over to drop off money I was owed and that he stayed for dinner. I vibrantly recall that I made pumpkin soup for dinner. Really great pumpkin soup actually. I remember that he played some guitar for me (he is a jazz/blues musician). And branded on my brain is the moment everything turned bad.

But after that… its not entirely clear. The order that things happened in. The exact chain of events. How I ended up standing so close to him that he could – without me seeing his arm move – punch me in the face.

Its a ghostly memory of a movie. One you’ve seen before and sort of know the details. But when you watch the movie again, everything comes back to you. And so I know what’s waiting for me.

As for fear – the twisting and churning of my stomach as I draw those memories up from their hidey hole is sickening. I feel my internal temperature rise, the skin tightening in my body and face, and the definite sensation of wishing I could throw up even though I don’t have the urge in any way. The tears well, and my eyeballs sting.

It was much easier to write about the direct aftermath – what happened after he finally left. Why? Well, time slowed down. I was living microsecond to microsecond. Everything moment was enhanced by the fear, the shaking, the crying and the pain. In some ways, perhaps this too, has played a part in sending the ‘just before’ memories into the background?

Despite all this, I’m determined to write this story. I need to write it. To get it out. I’m at a loss in terms of where to start, but I know that to find the words, I need to journey further. Deeper.

The creative urge and desire for truth to come out are ready to go. Its just my courage that’s having a few issues here. But its coming…

~Svasti