“You are letting the pumpkin own you; you need to own the pumpkin.”
~ Sock, Reaper, S1 E6
“You are letting the pumpkin own you; you need to own the pumpkin.”
~ Sock, Reaper, S1 E6
“There is immeasurably more left inside than what comes out in words.”
~ Fyodor Dostoevsky
“I am overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the proper words.”
~ Virginia Woolf, Diaries Volume One 1915-1919
“In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.”
Halloween is often a trigger holiday for survivors of ritual abuse. As a survivor of ritual abuse myself, there were many years that I was very triggered around this time of year. Over the years I’ve dealt with lots and lots of ritual abuse survivor triggers. It’s not something I post about very often on the blog, but it is a part of my daily life, daily coping, and daily healing. It’s hard to find the words.
I’ve been very blocked for over a year about many things that I want to write about on this blog. I think that I used to write better, more thoughtfully crafted blog posts. Admitting to these issues here are a part of healing from it, slowly making it better through sharing and in sharing finding a measure of healing just from the sharing.
In trying to overcome these blockages I’ve decided that writing is more important than always crafting a good sentence, though I’m sure that I haven’t always written perfectly. Perfectionism is an issue that has plagued me all my life. Since it can never be achieved, though it always convinces it’s victim that it should be achieved, it is a real double-bind, Catch-22, and blockage to achieving almost everything in life.
I’ve found some success in fighting the grip of perfectionism. I have given myself permission to be imperfect. :) Some areas of my life, I’ve found, are easier to be imperfect in. I’ll try to post more about that process in the near future.
I am trying to find the words, the sentences, the paragraphs. If the words and sentences are at times stilted I believe that others will understand, the topics are so difficult for me and I am buried underneath a mountain of blockages. I am trying to overcome that by just writing. I believe that I will find the words, as I struggle, as I continue to post more often. I will write the words.
Being a ritual abuse survivor is difficult and problematic most of the time. Ritual abuse creates a lot of hyper phobias, ones that most people cannot relate to and cannot understand or think are normal aversions or photos or choose not to understand. There is a lot of stigma, denial, and disbelief around the reality of ritual abuse. I hope that in some small way, by being a ritual abuse survivor and blogger, who acknowledges my history of abuse and healing, can help battle back the stigma, denial, and disbelief.
We all deserve to have a life that is our own. We all deserve to be safe and free from abuse. We all deserve the help, love, and support necessary in order to heal. We all deserve to be treated with respect and kindness. We all deserve to be believed.
I wanted to do a post for today with some healing links:
Good and healing thoughts to us all this holiday and through the coming year.
People who have no boundaries in their private lives have always found me. I’ve always found this deeply disconcerting. It’s like little bits of their lives were vomited into me and I still am carrying them around.
There is the woman more than ten years ago, at the bus stop, who had to tell me about her history of child sexual abuse and how that was repeated in the life of her daughter, which has always been so triggering and now that I know that was my own family history with my mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother I understand why this is so triggering for someone to disclose to me.
She vomited it all out in about two minutes, not even stopping to breathe… and then the bus arrived. I didn’t know her and I didn’t feel like I had time to give anything resembling support, well she wouldn’t stop talking so that I could say anything. And then the bus arrived.
On the bus I wanted to sit away from her, so that it didn’t continue for the whole bus ride. As much as I sympathize and care for other survivors of childhood sexual abuse, buses are not a safe venue for sharing and support on that topic.
This summer I had an older man in a wheelchair wheel up to me while I was waiting for a bus downtown. He started out by making an insult to me about my size, which was none of his business. I told him that my body and my size is nobody’s business but my own. He muttered you’re right and then launched into an extensive disclosure about his alcoholic father, living with him after his parent’s divorced, being physically abused, until finally separated from his brother and both of them put into foster care. Throughout the story he made excuses and understanding statements about his father. This is where I got caught up, I kept saying no your father was wrong to physically abuse his children. Finally the bus came.
There was the woman in the fast food place inside Target, downtown, who told me about 50 stories, while I was just trying to eat my chips and drink my pop this summer. I also wanted to read a book on my phone, but her voice just kept droning on and on and I couldn’t ignore her.
When I said goodbye to her and got to stand up, she stood up and she actually grabbed onto my cart and didn’t let go of it while she rattled off three more stories. I had to sit down, because standing is too painful and I was concerned that she was going to make me grab the cart, with my purchases, and that is a way that I can get injured, so I didn’t do that.
I sat down, kind of dejected, and she talked some more and then I got up and left, without telling her in advance that I was leaving. She was yelling stories after me, I kid you not. I kept interrupting her and saying goodbye, trying to stop her stories, but she just kept yelling on and on.
The content of some of her stories and other things she said to me are probably better left for another long post, not the specifics and not because she was a decent human being to me, but because of the sort of person she was and the way that she treated me as I was finally leaving.
And I was waiting for a bus again recently and another older man stood by where I was sitting, at the bus stop, and started telling me this long story of being beat up and mugged. I made a couple of comments, got up, and said my bus is here. I would have got up even if it wasn’t my bus.
Two minutes of someone else’s most depressing stories is often more than I can tolerate, I have too many sad stories of my own and lots of days out in public I feel as though I am full of them and have no room for some random person’s sorrows. Even if I did, that should be my choice and I choose to give my life and love and support to others that I get to choose.
Yes I am very sweet, giving, and kind, but it is my life, I get to choose, I don’t choose random strangers and let them invade my life and my mind. In the streets I think I need a stronger persona so that others don’t think I am there for them, for free. I am not for free. I am not there for them. I am there for me.
Now I realize it is not my job to give support to strangers who cannot stop themselves from disclosing abuse. As much as my heart hurts for other survivors when they do disclose to me, I need and prefer to have some control in what others do and say around me or my life feels out of control, as out of control as their lives seemed to me.
Since it is my life I deserve to have some measure of control over my own life, it is my life, it is my body, it is my soul. I deserve to be safe in public from people who can’t control themselves and just vomit their stuff all over me. And if I can’t keep them at bay I have to start acting differently and make new rules that make me safe from this behavior.
I’ve been telling myself that it is okay to get up, move to another place, move to another block, to wait for the bus. I keep telling myself that I don’t have to be other people’s listener. If they don’t want to have a conversation with strangers, who do not really want to interact with me, or have a conversation with me, they just want to use me as a vessel to dump their own crap into. They don’t get to do that. I’m not their dumping ground.
Well I’m not their therapist. That is not my job. They aren’t paying me. I didn’t accept them as clients. I’m not their therapist.
I had some chocolate. It wasn’t expensive, premier chocolate. But it was great fun nonetheless. It was good. Glad to have some chocolate to celebrate National Chocolate Day. I wish the same for all of you.
Good and healing chocolate to you all.
“Also, vampires don’t eat food. You never get to eat chocolate again. Ever. I’d rather die.”
~ Sarah Rees Brennan, Team Human