I want to talk about incest. About the family members, the perpetrators and their wives and mothers, who almost invariably deny that anything has happened.
Fathers, step-fathers, and boyfriends are usually the perpetrators. I guess I can understand when they don’t come out and admit their crimes. They don’t want to go to jail.
But what sort of mental gymnastics are the women doing, the women defending these men, when they deny their daughters and granddaughters were molested?
Over and over again, I hear it: my mom said I was lying; my grandmother told my mom it was a bunch of lies.
What in God’s name is wrong with these women? I guess they’re afraid of jail, too. The problem is, they seem to believe their self-deception.
Is there anything more dangerous than when blunder around this earth with our eyes shut tight? Is there anything more harmful than ignorance, especially of the willful variety? The Buddha had it right: the root of suffering is ignorance.
I don't know how a victim of incest deals with it. The brick wall is formidable. How is a person supposed to feel any justice has been achieved, or any resolution obtained? Unfortunately, it seems in sexual abuse cases oftentimes the only justice is gotten by a belief that people get their just deserts somehow -- what goes around comes around, or at the least, the lives they lead are ones of darkness. Or maybe they'll be reincarnated as dung beetles.
I have my own ignorance to deal with: One of the greatest problems I seem to have right now because of the rape is one that simultaneously developed out of my divorce around the same time: I haven't accepted the aspect of human nature that is completely self-absorbed, blind to the pain caused others, and capable of such enormous self-deception without remorse or sense of shame. I haven't accepted how people are duplicitous and can change from one thing into a person who appears totally different. I haven't accepted how or why I could be so trusting, and then betrayed – it is so totally contrary to what I grew up believing I deserved. It came as a shock. And then I look back and think, "did I REALLY know I deserved better, or is there something about me that drew these betrayers into my life?" And then I think, I no longer know what is real, who I am, and who other people are. It's very troubling.
I'm turning to Buddhism and meditation to cultivate an open-eyed acceptance of life as it is. And I'm also returning to my Christian roots and looking for a church that welcomes people with diverse beliefs. I can’t seem to get around Jesus as the cultural lens through which my limited eyes are most able to see a very big God. I've spent several decades being an agnostic and sometime-militant atheist. But I'm finding that despair is far worse than just about anything that can happen. Hope is the only thing that makes it worth it to look for goodness in the midst of outrage. And I'm finding that faith is the way I am able, now, to find hope. It may seem ridiculous to people of greater faith, pathetic . . . but a part of me feels defeated in turning to religion, like I have failed to find sufficient meaning and be satisfied with the privilege of simply being alive on a beautiful and fascinating planet. Perhaps I'll look back on this reluctant experiment differently in a few years.
I don't know how to accept that a man could rape me. I don't know how to accept that my first husband, an intelligent, well-educated and well-liked man, can boldly and without remorse refuse to follow the divorce agreement and treat the mother of his child with carelessness and disrespect. I don't know how to accept that families of childhood sexual abuse are so often blind to the pain they cause, and can live with their deceptions.
The only thing I know is that I can't let myself ever be so self-deceiving. I have to look at my intentions clearly, no matter how uncomfortable. And I have to restrain my actions, even where they seem perfectly natural and justified, if it means treating others in ways I don't want to be treated. I continue to believe human beings have that capacity for introspection and restraint. I want to hold onto that belief.
But I’m afraid. I am afraid that in opening my eyes, in allowing my blind idealism to transform into clear-eyed acceptance of reality, I will lose it.
And I guess there lies the tipping point, the murky edge between despair and hope: faith.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Lucky
There is a perplexing thing I do. The victim’s advocate four years ago said I was doing it, and the moderator for a support group I attend says I still do it. I minimize the crime committed against me.
You may say, right, uhuh, you have a blog totally devoted to trauma, you write about it ad nauseum, and you think you minimize it?
This is how I (along with so many trauma victims) do it:
I feel lucky that the rapist didn't cut me with the knife. He didn't use physical force except to originally subdue me -- he didn't seem to use violence gratuitously.
I feel lucky my daughter wasn't there to witness the attack.
I feel lucky I got a condom on him so I didn't have as much fear of AIDS or pregnancy afterwards, which is fortunate because I was allergic to the HIV prophylactic drugs.
I feel lucky that the cops caught him in my bed after I'd escaped to the neighbor's.
I feel lucky to be one of 2% of rape cases that are successfully prosecuted.
I read about women in the Congo gang-raped by soldiers at the wells, their genitals so severely mutilated that if they don’t die, they live with constant pain, incontinence, and an inability to farm for their families -- and then on top of everything, they are ostracized from their communities as though they are now worthless and, basically, left to die.
I feel lucky I wasn't them.
Although I'm very open about talking about the rape, and almost militant in my activism in some ways -- I still minimize what happened to me, because there are people who have had it so much worse.
I'm trying to figure out exactly why I minimize. I know intellectually it must make it easier for my mind to embrace what has happened, a sort of denial that facilitates recovery in some ways, a self-protection. I think it also is an attempt to temper what feels -- and I fear looks like to others -- like self-absorption in victimhood. It's furthermore probably a manifestation of low self-esteem that comes from having someone so completely disregard one's own will and wishes, which is what rape is -- a very clear message from the rapist that your voice means nothing.
I know this in my head. But it still doesn't FEEL right to completely embrace the full horror of my experience, without qualification. Sometimes I manage it, like in what I write at times in this blog. But then I feel simultaneously satisfied and yucky afterward, like I've done something not quite accepted. All the gender programming mixed in there reminds me the not-at-all demure female is threatening, not least to my own self-image.
The support group moderator said I minimize the crime committed against me. She said, "every person's story has it's own particular kind of damage and repercussions". I keep looking at those words, trying to soak them up through my skin, digest them, make them a part of how I feel, and not just what I know to be true. But I don’t feel it yet.
I still feel lucky.
You may say, right, uhuh, you have a blog totally devoted to trauma, you write about it ad nauseum, and you think you minimize it?
This is how I (along with so many trauma victims) do it:
I feel lucky that the rapist didn't cut me with the knife. He didn't use physical force except to originally subdue me -- he didn't seem to use violence gratuitously.
I feel lucky my daughter wasn't there to witness the attack.
I feel lucky I got a condom on him so I didn't have as much fear of AIDS or pregnancy afterwards, which is fortunate because I was allergic to the HIV prophylactic drugs.
I feel lucky that the cops caught him in my bed after I'd escaped to the neighbor's.
I feel lucky to be one of 2% of rape cases that are successfully prosecuted.
I read about women in the Congo gang-raped by soldiers at the wells, their genitals so severely mutilated that if they don’t die, they live with constant pain, incontinence, and an inability to farm for their families -- and then on top of everything, they are ostracized from their communities as though they are now worthless and, basically, left to die.
I feel lucky I wasn't them.
Although I'm very open about talking about the rape, and almost militant in my activism in some ways -- I still minimize what happened to me, because there are people who have had it so much worse.
I'm trying to figure out exactly why I minimize. I know intellectually it must make it easier for my mind to embrace what has happened, a sort of denial that facilitates recovery in some ways, a self-protection. I think it also is an attempt to temper what feels -- and I fear looks like to others -- like self-absorption in victimhood. It's furthermore probably a manifestation of low self-esteem that comes from having someone so completely disregard one's own will and wishes, which is what rape is -- a very clear message from the rapist that your voice means nothing.
I know this in my head. But it still doesn't FEEL right to completely embrace the full horror of my experience, without qualification. Sometimes I manage it, like in what I write at times in this blog. But then I feel simultaneously satisfied and yucky afterward, like I've done something not quite accepted. All the gender programming mixed in there reminds me the not-at-all demure female is threatening, not least to my own self-image.
The support group moderator said I minimize the crime committed against me. She said, "every person's story has it's own particular kind of damage and repercussions". I keep looking at those words, trying to soak them up through my skin, digest them, make them a part of how I feel, and not just what I know to be true. But I don’t feel it yet.
I still feel lucky.
Guest Post
The following piece was contributed by a member of the public.
"In the Overall Scheme of Things"
by Michaela Léan Chauvin
I have never shared with anyone all of the gory details of the abuse that I endured, not even my therapist. It took awhile before I even acknowledged to myself that it happened at all. That is why the flashbacks were so disturbing.
When I first started having them, I was devastated. The experience was absolutely horrifying and at first I thought I was imagining things, there was no way that those things could have happened. If they did, why didn’t I remember them until now?
About the time they began I was experiencing a particularly stressful time in my life. While I had had other stressors prior to this, this period was a trigger for these memories. I may never know what exactly the trigger was, and it really doesn’t matter. The fact is, it happened and it forced me to acknowledge the abuse. I still don’t talk about the details but for the first time in my life I can actually verbalize and acknowledge that I was raped, multiple times, over a period of years. There, now I have said it, in public.
Sometimes I get wrapped up in the bad things that have happened. They are part of who I am and they have shaped me. As much as I try, I cannot deny these things occurred. Even though I repressed my memory of these experiences, too painful to remember, they still impact me daily. Now that the memories have resurfaced I can see patterns of behavior that did not make sense at the time but are now perfectly clear. These “aha” moments are amazing and while the flashbacks have been painful, there is a bright side. Really!
For the first time in a long time I feel peaceful. I haven’t been looking over my shoulder and certain situations no longer cause me to bristle or withdraw. I still have a lot of work to do, but at least I am now on the road to working through everything. Notice I didn’t say “recovering” from my experiences. I don’t feel that I will ever recover, I can only move forward.
I was already seeing a mental health professional when the flashbacks started. Thank goodness for that! Part of my counseling included the development of a timeline of events in my life, from my earliest memory to the present. I found this exercise to be very therapeutic. When I look at my life from this vantage point I immediately recognize that the positive experiences far outweigh what I call the “dark periods”. I am also able to identify my strengths and support systems. I have after all survived and thrived over the long haul.
If I had a choice, I would choose to forego the trauma, but if that meant that I would be different than I am today, as a person, I would experience it all over again. Ultimately, I like the person that I have become and I am not sure that I would be who I am had I not experienced ALL of my life, the good and the bad.
There is a lot of good in my life and I am thankful for that. One thing that has helped me cope and keeps me moving forward is acknowledging that in the overall scheme of things I have a lot of positive experiences to draw upon.
"In the Overall Scheme of Things"
by Michaela Léan Chauvin
I have never shared with anyone all of the gory details of the abuse that I endured, not even my therapist. It took awhile before I even acknowledged to myself that it happened at all. That is why the flashbacks were so disturbing.
When I first started having them, I was devastated. The experience was absolutely horrifying and at first I thought I was imagining things, there was no way that those things could have happened. If they did, why didn’t I remember them until now?
About the time they began I was experiencing a particularly stressful time in my life. While I had had other stressors prior to this, this period was a trigger for these memories. I may never know what exactly the trigger was, and it really doesn’t matter. The fact is, it happened and it forced me to acknowledge the abuse. I still don’t talk about the details but for the first time in my life I can actually verbalize and acknowledge that I was raped, multiple times, over a period of years. There, now I have said it, in public.
Sometimes I get wrapped up in the bad things that have happened. They are part of who I am and they have shaped me. As much as I try, I cannot deny these things occurred. Even though I repressed my memory of these experiences, too painful to remember, they still impact me daily. Now that the memories have resurfaced I can see patterns of behavior that did not make sense at the time but are now perfectly clear. These “aha” moments are amazing and while the flashbacks have been painful, there is a bright side. Really!
For the first time in a long time I feel peaceful. I haven’t been looking over my shoulder and certain situations no longer cause me to bristle or withdraw. I still have a lot of work to do, but at least I am now on the road to working through everything. Notice I didn’t say “recovering” from my experiences. I don’t feel that I will ever recover, I can only move forward.
I was already seeing a mental health professional when the flashbacks started. Thank goodness for that! Part of my counseling included the development of a timeline of events in my life, from my earliest memory to the present. I found this exercise to be very therapeutic. When I look at my life from this vantage point I immediately recognize that the positive experiences far outweigh what I call the “dark periods”. I am also able to identify my strengths and support systems. I have after all survived and thrived over the long haul.
If I had a choice, I would choose to forego the trauma, but if that meant that I would be different than I am today, as a person, I would experience it all over again. Ultimately, I like the person that I have become and I am not sure that I would be who I am had I not experienced ALL of my life, the good and the bad.
There is a lot of good in my life and I am thankful for that. One thing that has helped me cope and keeps me moving forward is acknowledging that in the overall scheme of things I have a lot of positive experiences to draw upon.
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