The New Normal

The new normal. This is what I call living with the aftermath of being a child sexual abuse survivor. What is normal for me may not be normal for anyone else.

It definitely is not normal for those who have not been sexually abused as a child. The differences seem stark and I feel more stigmitized by the chasm between us. So I call my life, my existence, the new normal. The new normal based on what I experienced as an abused child.

I have a lot of fears. I have a lot of triggers. I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The have terrors in the night. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I can’t work. I have a lot of rage and no where to put it. So I have to carry it around in my body and that makes for more stress, more aftereffects, more pain.  

I have chronic pain. I have a diagnosis of fibromyalgia, which is like saying well we are too lazy to find out what else it might be so we will give you this, cause we have let you be in pain for twenty years and we haven’t a clue.

I have Dissociative Identity Disorder. So I am in parts. And how we perceive and think and move through the world that may not be normal to most, but it is my normal. It has been my normal for almost all my life.

So normalizing my current and past experiences is a way of stopping some of the stigma and shame and blame that all survivors go through.

It is not my fault that someone used me sexually when I was just an infant and beyond. But I feel responsible. It is not my shame, it is their shame who abused me, but I feel it.  

I’m re-branding. This is the new normal for my life. For me. For my self-esteem. For my own level of happiness. For my healing work. For myself and for us.

So I look at me/us and say now that is one brave and courageous survivor. That is someone who is struggling against so much. She has a lot to be proud of and I am very proud of her/them.

Why I Started A Blog

About a month ago I was doing an online search and came across a blog that dealt with a survivor topic that doesn’t have a lot of information out there online. So I started reading some of the posts. I thought that the ones that I read were good. I wondered if I could make a blog as good. I thought I could try.

I was feeling very lonely lately. I have online friends who are survivors. It is nice, but it is hard to not feel lonely even with them. Most of my daily life is without them in it.

But I don’t have any face to face friends who are survivors. They all leave me and I don’t know why or what I do to make that happen, but it always does. I try to find a reason, but mostly I don’t have one.

I have a long history of friends who are not really friends cause they don’t really care about me  and they don’t really share any commonalities with me. They often make fun of my interests and hobbies and I finally got to a point in my life where I didn’t try to pursue friendships like this. Because they weren’t really friendships. And I have enough people who make fun of my interests and hobbies, I have a family.

Mostly my family doesn’t “get” it and don’t want to, and family who are not really family cause they are willing to stand by and let me be abused so long as it means they can be free from the abuses. Yes, nice family.

They don’t get me and maybe because of that they don’t spend much time with me, even the ones who can be half-way decent don’t share their time with me. Maybe they don’t want to be reminded that I was abused and how that has affected me. Maybe their just not that into me.

So I considered a blog. I mean seriously I am very sweet to my online survivor friends. Very sweet. At times I have been called Sweet Kate and that is what I do, what I am. I told myself with a blog I can be bossy, I can say whatever I want. I can tell people how it is, for me and what I think about healing and what I think other people should do. I can be really bossy and I liked that idea. So I started a blog.

I didn’t think that I would find other blogs to read. It didn’t occur to me that would help my lonliness and feelings that no one got me. But it has. And I didn’t know that I could find other bloggers to talk to and to read their stuff and post replies and that somebody would interact with me. But I did. And that is so sweet.

Fat Hatred

First as an explanation, my mother was fat. I was tiny. I was starved, so I was smaller than I should have been. My father was a drunk and my mother was an overeater. I’ve heard that it is often that way, that they pair up like that. All I know is that was what my life was like.

I was tiny, my little arms were like sticks. She would refuse to feed me when I was little and there was no one big around. She used food as a weapon against me. She used her body as a weapon against me. She used my body as a weapon against me.

So I hate and fear fat. I remember being four years old and literally shaking with fear about being fat and ugly and disgusting like her. How she had dark hair, as I do and how I never wanted to resemble her. About never wanting to be like her, in any way.

And then her physical abuses of me caught up with my body. I was in pain all the time and everything that I tried to do to make it better, only made things worse. That was over twenty-five years ago and nothing ever fixes anything.

All the medications the doctors pushed, they only make things worse. They only numb me out, dumb me up, make me a zombie. I already have those issues from the pain, I don’t need meds to make it worse. They only make me gain weight, they all make me gain weight. So I go up and down and struggle and diet and exercise when and as much as I can.

Over twenty-five years I have accrued one hundred extra pounds and that only makes things worse. I want to deny it. I want to pretend that it isn’t like this, but it is. I don’t want anyone to know. I want to hide from it.

My doctor has tried to lecture me and I tell him about what I am dealing with and usually he gives me a look and says calories in calories out, it is that simple. It isn’t that simple and I think how can I continue seeing such an idiot.  Finally I insisted on x-rays which led to mri and him understanding what I was dealing with. For once he looked like he got it. Now he doesn’t lecture me, but I still catch him giving me that look.

I’ve lost this weight over and over again. I can lose, I can stop eating healthily and starve myself, but that is what my abuser did to me. It is not good for me to starve myself and perpetuate what she did to me. I don’t want to live the rest of my life like that. 

The extra weight, it only makes sleep harder, more painful. It only puts more stress on my poor pain filled body. It only makes the pain worse.  

It only makes me look more and more like the sex offender who abused me. It only makes me loathe and hate my body, to hate the fat, to see the ugliness in me. It only makes me look like her. It only makes me hate myself more. I don’t want to starve myself and still not make any lasting losses.

I wish I could be p.c. and say how bad it is to hate fat, to hate fat women, to hate fat men. But I do. And I don’t care. It is my mother I see when I look at them. It is why I don’t have a full length mirror.