Mental health, Parenting, Relationships

Ugly Truth 45: Life Will Break You

“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”

-Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum

Dear Readers,

It’s been a while since I wrote a love letter to myself. Often I write to process or heal, but most of all I write to regain my sight when I lose perspective. The truth is I revisit my own words, perhaps even more often than my dedicated readers.

Both of my parents are struggling, and it breaks my heart. It’s strange the way we’re taught not to treat our children as extensions of ourselves, but as individuals. As I grow older, I feel myself belonging more to a world I can’t understand.

When I look at each of my parents, it’s as if I’m looking into a mirror. I see my love, my compassion, my zest for life, but I also see many things I don’t want for myself. I see my mental illness, my insecurity, my pain. Emboldened by an undue life of untimely grief, my mother and father are generally unhappy people in their own right. So it begs the question: Who am I?

My mother was born into a family of second generation German immigrants and French Canadians, hard working people who turn the soil we all walk upon, but they were also grossly negligent and abusive caregivers. Leaking through generations, my mother was subject to verbal, physical and sexual abuse for most of her developmental years. It goes without saying the toll this takes on the feminine soul. She grew into a strong and irresponsible woman with many health concerns and a big heart, often subject to decisions beyond her control. That said, while I struggle to understand her choices as a mother, it’s easy for me to forgive a woman simply trying to survive her formation.

Alternately, my father inherited an English, German, and Irish descent into madness. He was the only son of a woman who passed away at the age of 40. At the age of 17 he buried his mother, and fathered me one month later. A few short years later his father passed away, having chosen a homosexual lifestyle over the betterment of his own child. By the time he was my age, he was an orphan without a sibling to speak of. Half a lifetime later, he buried half of his friends and family with me crying at his side. Strong though he may be, my father reached his own age of 40, and subsequently learned of the tragic death of his first love. He is no stranger to death and grief, and yet it still strikes deep each and every time. My father continues to grapple with the same swings of mood and general unrest I hold close to my own chest. He can be denying, dismissive, hypocritical, and downright mean. Indeed, he was robbed of his formation altogether.

So here I am at my own age of 30, and maybe the only thing all three of us have in common is having lost a loved one to suicide. While I have certainly suffered the choices of my loved ones, I have surpassed resentment. Sure, I didn’t receive the life or parents I deserved, but neither did they. I am stronger and happier than the two of them combined having been shown exactly what I don’t want for myself, my partner, or my children. It’s a miracle altogether that I am even alive, and I don’t intend on wasting it. In some twisted way I am grateful for an over exposure to grief. In some weird way, nothing bothers me anymore. Despite my sensitive and bleeding nature, I harbor a healthy sense of detachment from my surroundings, quietly holding my breath for the next blow. Like the ocean promises, there will be more. Certainty has taught me nothing is certain but death and taxes, and to be grateful for calm brackish waters.

In releasing all my hardship and chronic pain I have learned that I am deeply loving, generous, and kind. I used to cringe when Christian’s would say that without suffering there would be no compassion, but maturity and a significant amount of anguish has taught me the wiser. Perhaps our greatest truth is loving others despite every reason, hurt and abandonment not to. Perhaps our victory lies simply in choosing love over fear.

At some point, we all face the great divide of forced choice. We must reckon with our knowledge of the world, and choose to venture down that same old dark alley, or find our own pathless wood. What choice do we have really, but to roll with the punches – and love one another in spite of it?

Introspective bullshit aside, I went through many poor coping skills before finding the right ones.

I, for one, choose love – conditionless and motioning forward – without boundary and unashamed.

**If you’re a mental health survivor or mental health provider and want to tell your story – please email me at contact@deskraven.com!**

For more excellent insight and entertainment through a collaborative approach to all things mental health, including a guest post from yours truly, visit the Blunt Therapy Blog by Randy Withers, LPC! For additional perspectives on suicide prevention from master level mental health providers visit, 20 Professional Therapists Share Their Thoughts on Suicide!

In collaboration with Luis Posso, an Outreach Specialist from DrugRehab.com, Deskraven is now offering guides on depression and suicide prevention to its readers. For more information on understanding the perils of addiction visit, Substance Abuse and Suicide: A Guide to Understanding the Connection and Reducing Risk! In addition, for a comprehensive depression resource guide from their sister project at Columbus Recovery Center visit, Dealing with Depression!

Relationships

Ugly Truth 33: Love is All There Is

Dear Readers,

Tonight I experienced an overflowing of the heart.

So often when we fall in love we forget to remember the ripple effect it has. We tend to be dismissive toward small acts of kindness. Loving someone means so much more than the individual solitary experience you may feel. It means loving the people they love. It means being simultaneous and intentional in the way we receive the affections of others who may be extensions of our loved ones. It means being willing to take the good with the bad, and hoping full heartedly that there is more good than bad.

This week I entered into the first holiday season with the woman I love, and the outpouring of wisdom and acceptance I have experienced has renewed in me a healing where before there was a gaping hole. Her ability to share her family with me frees me time and time again from the decades I felt as though I was chained under the sea.

Sometimes, the art of conversation is enough as it ushers us into a mutual understanding strong enough to spare us pain.

Sometimes, their hurt becomes your hurt, and their joy becomes your joy, no matter how far the great divide may have lead you astray.

Sometimes, a familiar stranger reminds you for the umpteenth time of your capacity to love with complete empathy, and accept love in return without question.

Sometimes, you meet someone who reminds you of the way love ought to be despite your own growing tragedies.

Sometimes, you meet someone who inspires you to love your children with the fervent convictions that day dreams are made of.

Sometimes, mankind cries toward balconies in drunken song decorated with the women they love, and it reminds you of how beautiful music can be when your walls crumble.

Sometimes, when humanity fails you, you are reminded by your favorite authors of how you may find yourself faced with the most ancient of human conditions, facing the cold stone blows alone with nothing to guide you but your heart and your own head – and you are reminded how important it is in life not necessarily to be strong, but to feel strong.

Sometimes, you pour water into your wine because you want the sober moments to last longer.

Tonight, I am grateful for my capacity to feel despite so much hardship.

Tonight, I am reminded of every single opportunity I had to leap from the edge, of every pain staking sleepless night spent crying in my room alone – abused, abandoned and fearful – of how I could have so easily missed the mark.

Tonight, I am in awe of how I can close my eyes and see a love so bright and blinding that I suddenly feel the soul cries of all those guitar solos I wish I could create myself.

Tonight, I remain grounded by those with great capacities to pour into me – and I am so fucking grateful for this motion.

Tonight, I write a love letter to myself and hope to high heaven that I remember this change coming my way.

**If you’re a mental health survivor or mental health provider and want to tell your story – please email me at contact@deskraven.com!**

For more excellent insight and entertainment through a collaborative approach to all things mental health, including a guest post from yours truly, visit the Blunt Therapy Blog by Randy Withers, LPC! For additional perspectives on suicide prevention from master level mental health providers visit, 20 Professional Therapists Share Their Thoughts on Suicide!

In collaboration with Luis Posso, an Outreach Specialist from DrugRehab.com, Deskraven is now offering guides on depression and suicide prevention to its readers. For more information on understanding the perils of addiction visit, Substance Abuse and Suicide: A Guide to Understanding the Connection and Reducing Risk! In addition, for a comprehensive depression resource guide from their sister project at Columbus Recovery Center visit, Dealing with Depression!

Mental health, Relationships

Trauma Confession Series: Overcoming Avoidance

“Traumatized people chronically feel unsafe inside their bodies: The past is alive in the form of gnawing interior discomfort. Their bodies are constantly bombarded by visceral warning signs, and, in an attempt to control these processes, they often become expert at ignoring their gut feelings and in numbing awareness of what is played out inside. They learn to hide from their selves.” (p.97)

Bessel A. van der Kolk, The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma
Dear Readers,

Welcome! I have decided to invite my audience in a little deeper with this trauma series. My hope is that this platform will allow me to find the language on the topic of physical trauma and heal once and for all. I will be sharing with you things that have never been uttered from my lips before. The truth is, I haven’t the slightest inkling how to go about this, other than to first offer a trigger warning for those who may be sensitive to physical or sexual abuse, and then – to simply start.

This week, my partner brought to light that I was becoming intolerant to touch and therefore, our intimacy suffered. I trust this person, yet my body still becomes triggered. It is worth noting that this has happened in all of my relationships, and is largely responsible for why some of them ended. I realized then that I still had skeletons in my closet. When I don’t understand something, I turn to research.

In her article, Overcoming Sexual Assault: Symptoms and Recovery featured in Psychology Today, Elyssa Barbash Ph. D. writes,

It is not exactly known why some individuals recover more quickly than others, but one theory is that those individuals who recover do not “avoid” the trauma. That is, they do not avoid thinking about it, talking about it (which is suggested to do with a trained mental health professional), and expressing natural emotions related to the assault. Conversely, avoidance is known to be the most significant factor that creates, prolongs, and intensifies trauma-reaction or PTSD symptoms.

So here we have an Ah-ha! moment. Just simply reading this article triggered me into an episode of dissociation. I realized then that I do avoid this pain not only consciously, but unconsciously as well, and it has prolonged my suffering. I am guilty of locking up these secrets intensely with clinical-grade distraction for two reasons. One, I can not find the words, and two, when I try to verbalize my past abuse, my overactive mind leaps to protect me by dropping a concrete wall between the memories and my ability to process them. I often have physical symptoms such as muscle spasms, nausea, dropping of the head and/or the locking of joints when reliving trauma. My body remembers.

I care about my relationships, I value my health, and I want wellness for my family. So the challenge becomes ending avoidance by talking about it and staying grounded in the present moment long enough to face the pain, rather than suppress it further. Let’s just say it out loud then, and I’ll do my best to write through the trembling. Again, I offer a trigger warning for those of you who can’t digest the nitty and gritty. Turn away now.

I am a survivor of sexual abuse and domestic violence.

Okay, well, what does that mean exactly? Who, what, where, when, why and how did these things happen? How do I resolve something that has become inaccessible by supression? These are the things we will be exploring.

What does it mean to be a survivor of sexual abuse and domestic violence?

Again Barbash writes,

The term “sexual violence” is an an all-encompassing, non-legal term that refers to crimes like sexual assault, rape, and sexual abuse. Sexual assault is defined by the United States Department of Justice as “any type of sexual contact or behavior that occurs without the explicit consent of the recipient.” This can mean inappropriate and unwanted touching, forced sexual acts including sexual intercourse, sodomy, oral sex, and rape or attempted rape.

Additionally, Google dictionary offers this definition of domestic violence:

“Violent or aggressive behavior within the home, typically involving the violent abuse of a spouse or partner.

For this to work, I have to strip away all the technicalities that comfort me, and tell you the truth.

Who, what, where, when, why, and how did these things happen?

My perpetrators have been family members, close family friends, partners, and strangers.

I am a child of teen parents. My mother is an abuse survivor herself, and went on to marry two men who grew to become abusive, neither of which were my biological father. Throughout my childhood I suffered from exposure to physical and verbal abuse, death threats, property destruction, violent conflict, police questioning, drug use, infidelity and witnessed the abuse of my mother. We fled the first relationship in the middle of the night. My mother woke me with whispers and bags at her hip to shuffle my sister and I out of the house, into the car, and three hours north. I was so proud of her. Her second marriage has since been forgiven and resolved. I can’t say the same about the first.

Meanwhile, I was molested by an older child between the ages of 6 and 8 in the neighborhood I grew up in. He wanted to play “doctor” in a storage closet. He sat me in a chair and told me “everything was okay.” Fortunately for you and I both, everything goes black after that and all I remember is the grimy lightbulb hanging above my head. I remember running home and crying beneath my blankets. I remember bumping into him months later at a tree farm. I told no one.

When I was 12 years old my father relocated from Minnesota to Texas. This abandonment was significant, visceral, and my first experience of deeply true emotional anguish. As a girl coming of age without her protector, this was the first experience that urged me to write.

When I was 15, I was invited by a close family friend in his 30’s to road trip from Minnesota to Texas to visit my father. I gleefully accepted, unaware of the damage that followed.

We began our trek south and it started with subtle touches. I recall the sunlight beaming in from overhead, music, and glistening sunglasses when suddenly I felt a hand on my inner left thigh. I was confused, uncomfortable, but generally unshaken. We drove this way for many miles before reaching a hotel in Kansas. I distinctly remember walking up to the hotel lobby window where they asked if we wanted one bed or two. He suggested one. I casually held up two fingers.

The evening hours were unremarkable. We smoked cigarettes, and fell asleep in separate beds. Upon waking, this man was in my bed spooning me in his underwear. I became alarmed then, but pretended to sleep until he moved away. I maintained a level head knowing I would see my father soon and surly, this was all a misunderstanding. Our visit was normal, I wanted to tell my father, but I was too frightened and confused. Unable to reconcile what was happening, I remained silent.

We traveled home a few days later and upon our arrival, went to sleep in separate beds in my grandparent’s basement. Again I woke in the middle of the night to him sneaking into my bed in his underwear. Things were escalating and I was terrified. His hands traveled across my body for a long while this time. I pretended to sleep, praying that it would end. When he finally fell asleep, I rolled out of bed and raced up the staircase as quickly and quietly as possible to the phone hanging on the wall. The house was dark, everyone was asleep. I knew I had to tell someone, but who?

I decided to call my then boyfriend, and he urged me to tell my father. I knew I couldn’t say the words. I couldn’t bear to hurt him. So, I turned on the computer and wrote him an e-mail instead. Soon after, morning came and the house phone rang. I could hear my father yelling at my Grandpa on the other end, demanding to talk to this man. Soon the whole family knew, and I was immediately removed from the situation by my Grandma.

He became excommunicated for a short time. Ultimately, I had to taper my visits with my family on the grounds that he was not in the house. My mother rushed to my side, no charges were pressed, and no one spoke of it again.

Shortly after, I had my first in-patient psychiatric stay spawned by self-injury, and the family dialogue changed. This violation was emboldened by my father’s lack of acknowledgment, which would go on to re-traumatize me for many years.

When I turned 16, I entered into a sexually exploitative relationship. Restraints, violence, drugs and documentation were used over the course of two years.

Ten years later, I was sexually assaulted by a partner.

How do I resolve something that has become inaccessible by suppression?

I resolve these memories by talking about it with those who are willing to listen, namely my mother. Many times she has negated or confirmed my recollections, and for that I am eternally grateful. Coping with repressed memories is extremely challenging, and a topic for another day.

You can see how anyone with these types of experiences can develop an unhealthy relationship toward sex and affection. The important thing is to talk about it, and not let avoidance or silence empower your anguish. In the coming weeks we will explore reconciling abuse with positive touch, confrontation, and resolution. If you have read this far, thank you for helping me start on my path toward healing.

**If you’re a mental health survivor or mental health provider and want to tell your story – please email me at contact@deskraven.com!**

For more excellent insight and entertainment through a collaborative approach to all things mental health, including a guest post from yours truly, visit the Blunt Therapy Blog by Randy Withers, LPC! For additional perspectives on suicide prevention from master level mental health providers visit, 20 Professional Therapists Share Their Thoughts on Suicide!

In collaboration with Luis Posso, an Outreach Specialist from DrugRehab.com, Deskraven is now offering guides on depression and suicide prevention to its readers. For more information on understanding the perils of addiction visit, Substance Abuse and Suicide: A Guide to Understanding the Connection and Reducing Risk! In addition, for a comprehensive depression resource guide from their sister project at Columbus Recovery Center visit, Dealing with Depression!