Going to War

There is a memory.  A memory that holds more power over me than anything else ever has.  A memory that has been there for as long as I can remember.  And beyond.  A memory that taunts me.  A memory that hides.  A memory that I sense but don't see.

It is strong.  It is elusive.  It is haunting.

And I am going to battle against it.

Most of the time, it lies hidden.  Tightly protected in its cage.  Just out of my reach.

But right now it is exposed.  And right now I am strong.  And right now I have an army behind me.

I am frightened.  But I am going to war.

Trying to Find the Words

** If you are an abuse survivor, this post could contain possible triggers.  Please make sure you are safe before reading it.  Also, this is a very heavy and adult post.  Listen to your heart and do not continue if you know this won't be okay for you. **


Words are important to me.  I sometimes take a little longer to speak because I am trying to find just the right word.  Not one that's close, but one that conveys a multitude of meanings all at once, one that conveys truth and feeling and exactitude.  Just the right word.

But sometimes I don't have the word.  If I could communicate telepathically, I could make you understand.  But there just isn't a word for it and nothing else really does the job.

This is what happened when I tried to explain to someone what triggered a PTSD event for me this week.  I didn't have the words.

A little history, somewhat vague, to help set the stage.

There are dark things in my past.  There was abuse and assault.  Over many years I was hunted.  And too often I was caught.  I wasn't killed physically, but pieces of me were destroyed.  I was changed.

I was changed in a way I believe many others who were abused are also changed.  But I can't speak for them.  I speak only for what is true in my life.

I was prey.  In many situations.  And, yes, there were times I feared for my life.  Other times I just feared for the inner me, the part that was being attacked.  What happened to my body didn't matter.  What happened to my core did.

Because I was prey, I was on constant alert (an alert that is never silent, even now).  I learned to read the emotions of everyone in the room.  To sense even the tiniest shift if something changed.  Long before anyone else knew.  Because I had to in order to protect myself.  It was necessary to stay alive.

But it goes beyond just reading emotions.  And this is where I lose words.

Some people have a . . . something to them.  A color/flavor/spirit.  Each of those is somewhat close, but none of them are accurate.  I would say aura, but it isn't visible.  A presence?  A feeling?  An emotional radiation?  None of these are right either.

As a child I often swam in a lake.  I would be swimming along, in the warmth, and hit a cold spot.  Out of the blue all the warmth was gone.  It's kind of like that.

And this last week a person crossed my path whose . . . whatever it is . . . triggered my PTSD.  This person's color/flavor/whatever is darkness.  This person carries evil with him.  Willingly.  The cold spot that he wears is that of a predator.  Even with all the abusive situations I've been in over the years and all the people I've known and all the horror I've experienced and witnessed, I've never felt like I was in the presence of evil.  Until him.  And he knows it and uses it to control.

He is not a close part of my life, but there is potential that our paths will continue to cross.  I am trying to strengthen myself and gather support so he can't wound me again.

I hate that it only took the mention of him to make me feel weak and powerless.  And scared.

He triggered one of my most difficult memories.  One that I haven't fully processed and healed in therapy.  One of a very early sexual assault.  One that causes me severe physical symptoms.  So since he crossed my path, I have been having very painful uterine cramps.  Nonstop.  Whether I am thinking about it or not.  Sometimes so bad that I have trouble standing up.  My anxiety is high.  I am snapping more at my family.  My nerves feel like they are on fire and I cringe if anyone tries to touch me.  Even when I am completely safe, there is fear.  Like the rabbit whose ears prick up when he senses danger.  I will not relax until the danger is gone.

I was not ready to go back to therapy.  My therapist and I have some things to work out.  I wanted to do more processing on my own on that stuff before I went back.  But I may have to put all that aside and go back to therapy anyway.  I may not have a choice.  I'm having trouble functioning.  I'm having trouble getting every day things done.  I need help.

Mother's Day Sucks!

It's that dreaded time of year again.  Mother's Day.  Those two words strike fear in the hearts of men everywhere.  (Is it everywhere?  Is Mother's Day recognized in other countries?)  And so many men think they are the only ones who dread this day, but they are wrong.  So many women dread this day, too.

I know there are women and men and children out there who are looking forward to this day.  I'm happy for you.  I would wish you a happy Mother's Day, but you don't need that.  You will have a great day full of love.  Because somehow you've found the magic tunnel that leads to a world of joy and celebration and giving and love.

The rest of us live in a fallen world full of heartache and unmet expectations.  I rejoice in the fact that some of my friends will have a wonderful day this Sunday.  I ask that you try to understand why so many others don't.  Please don't judge.  Please don't tell us to make it a great day.  Please don't throw sunshine and Disney songs at us and tell us to cheer up.  For so many women (and many men) today is a day of pain and mourning.  That should be respected.  It should be honored.

I expect Sunday to be a good day for me.  A couple of years ago I was able to redefine Mother's Day for me in a way that's really helped break through that dark cloud.  Even still, there are treacherous areas for me on that day.  I have to be careful.  And my associations with Mother's Day aren't nearly as tough as so many of my friends.  They are the ones I'm thinking about at this time.  They are the ones I am worried about.  They are the ones my heart is aching for.

There is my friend whose mom knowingly allowed her to be sexually abused for years.  Who barely noticed her daughter.  This friend is a wonderful mother and I hope the day is about her.  I hope she is able to celebrate her own motherhood.  But I can't imagine there isn't a twinge of pain for that mother she doesn't have.  Whether we like it or not, whether we fight it our whole lives or not, there is something in us that longs for loving parents.  It's part of our make up.  I know she is strong and loving and does her best not to let that part of her past control her, but I know there's still pain there.

There is my friend who has never been able to have a child.  She and her husband are good people.  They would make wonderful parents.  But for whatever reason, that blessing has been withheld from them.  I have watched them reach out and touch the lives of others' children, but I know their hearts have ached for that child of their own.

There is my friend who has experienced multiple miscarriages.  She has children.  But her heart longs for more.  Her heart aches for more.  But her body seems unwilling to cooperate.  I know her heart aches.  I know she feels an absence.

• There is my friend who lost a grandchild she never got to know.
• There is my friend who has been disowned by her mother.
• There is my friend who has been disowned by her children.
• There is my friend whose mother was taken from her while she was still in grade school.
• There is my friend who has been told over and over by her husband what an awful mother she is.
• There is my friend who's children won't allow her to see her grandchildren or be a part of their lives.
• There is my friend who lost a child to cancer.
• There is my friend whose mother killed her father and then herself.
• There is my friend whose mother beat him.
• There is my friend who's husband and children will forget Mother's Day because they don't think it matters and she will feel as if they are saying she doesn't matter.
• There is my elderly friend who has outlived all her children.
• There is my friend who grew up knowing her mom never wanted to have children -- never wanted her.
• There is my friend whose mother abandoned him and his siblings.
• There are my friends who are single mothers, doing the work of both parents, who would love to have a loving husband tell them how grateful they are for these wonderful women who are raising their children.
• There is my friend who feels so inadequate as a mother and sees Mother's Day as a reminder of all her failings.
• There is my friend who is caring for her mother with dementia and mourns the mother she doesn't have anymore.
• There is my friend who is watching her drug-addicted mother ruin her life and can't do anything about it.
• There is my husband who will be reminded that his mom is gone.
• There are all the women who will feel guilty for having a good Mother's Day when they know their friends are hurting.

 

There are so many people around us who will be hurting this Sunday.  And whoever thinks one day a year is enough to recognize and value all the work mothers do is crazy.  One day a year doesn't begin to cover the sacrifice and heartache it means to be a mother.  One day a year has turned it into a marketing ploy.  A way to make money off the guilt of people who should be more appreciative more often.

 

But for those of us who hurt so deeply on Mother's Day, one day a year is more than enough.

What are My Options When My Husband is Mean?

I get this question over and over on my other blog.  The post that gets hit the most by internet searches is My Husband is Mean to Me and the Kids.  Women who are struggling search the internet and find my blog.  They are in ugly situations and don't know what to do.

They read what I wrote.  They understand too well because it fits their lives.  They ask me what to do.

And I have no idea how to answer them.

When I was in the middle of it, I didn't know what to do.  And I didn't dare talk to anyone about it to try to get answers.  I didn't think anyone would believe me.  I was afraid it would make my husband angry.  I thought it was a sign that I wasn't good enough.  I didn't try enough.  I was a quitter.

I don't believe those things now.  I'm better and he's better and I wish that for everyone who reads my blog and feels a kinship.  But I don't know how to make it happen for you.  And it's not the only correct outcome.

My husband had a breakthrough moment.  Then we both had a lot of therapy.  He got better.  He got worse.  I got better.  I got worse.  We even separated for a while.  And after years of hard work by both of us we are good.  Almost all the time.  But I don't believe most abusive relationships will work out like this.

And I remember feeling like I didn't have options.  I was trapped.  I couldn't support myself and the kids without him.  If we divorced, he would have the kids some of the time on his own and I wouldn't be there to protect them.  What if I was wrong and things weren't as bad as I thought they were?  What if he was right and I was blowing things out of proportion and it destroyed our marriage?  What if I ruined his life because I didn't work hard enough at our marriage?  How could I handle the embarrassment of a divorce?  How badly would I damage my children if we divorced?  How badly was I damaging my children by staying?  If I divorced him, he could choose to make my life a living hell.

I was so scared of taking the route of divorce.  I didn't want to be with him.  I prayed he would leave me.  On really bad days I prayed he would die.  Anything to relieve my suffering and protect my children.  Without me having to take that horrible step I didn't want to take.  There were too many things I couldn't predict and control.  That's what made it so scary.  And after so many years of abuse, I didn't believe in myself anymore.  I didn't believe I could make it.

I didn't know my options.  I know them better now.  But I don't know all the options.

I know that I can leave without explaining myself.  I know I can call the police and have him removed from the home if he is threatening us or in a rage.  I know I can get a restraining order against him.  I know I can get therapy and become healthy myself even if he chooses to never change.  I know I can talk about it to others.  I know I can tell him how I want to be treated.  And I know I have to be willing to stand behind my words if none of this changes him.  Because he won't change unless he wants to -- no one will, no matter how much someone else wants them to.

I'm asking for help now.  These women cry out to me.  Often, they post anonymously so I can't even respond to them.  But I'd like them to have answers.  I like them to see options.  I'm asking for help from anyone who reads this and knows something.  If you've had experience with an abusive marriage, and know options, please share them.  Any info is welcome.  Therapists, lawyers, religious leaders, police officers, and those who've been there.  Please comment and share what you know.  Please share this with others who may know and ask them to help.

Please comment with respect.  Please don't judge or preach.  Please don't tell these women what to do, just help them see options.  Each woman needs to listen to her heart and choose for herself.  I recommend lots of prayer if you're a believer.  I recommend therapy if you possibly can.  I recommend writing if you don't dare talk to anyone yet.

Please try to believe in yourself again.  You do have options.

My Own Misbehavior

I wish I could say my husband was the only one who was abusive in our relationship.  With all my heart I wish I could say that.  But it's just not true.

Growing up I never fought back.  My abusers were always bigger and stronger and more powerful than me.  I didn't think there was anyone who could protect me.  I learned not to cry because it only angered my abusers more.  My best weapons of survival were to hide or acquiesce.  I did my best to stay out of sight.  When I couldn't do that I just tried to be quiet and do what they wanted me to do.  I became excellent at reading the emotions in the room so I could sometimes head off an attack by changing my behavior or leaving.

I promised myself I would never stay with a man who was abusive.  If he hit me, I was gone.  Physical abuse is easy to recognize and prove.  When I was pregnant with our first child my husband and I got into a heated argument.  I stepped in front of him to keep him from storming away.  He shoved me out of the way hard enough that I fell to the ground.  I let him go.  When things cooled off I told him if he ever did anything like that again I would leave.  He never did.

Physical abuse is a quick blow (or several).  Emotional abuse is slow torture.  It isn't usually evident to others.  But it eats your soul.

I had been unhappy with the way my husband treated me and the kids for a long time, but I didn't call it abuse.  I didn't recognize it for what it was.  Mostly because it was so familiar.  It was how I'd grown up.  I remember the moment I knew.  It was when I heard myself telling the children, "Please be as good as you can so daddy won't get mad."

What a horrific moment.  What an awful responsibility to dump on a child.  A responsibility that was in no way theirs.  That's when I started to search for a better way. 

Instead of trying to placate him I began standing up to him.  In the only way I knew how.  I yelled.  I demanded.  I criticized and name called.  I threatened.  I demeaned and mocked and shamed.  I'd only seen my mom stand up to my dad a few times and this was how she did it.  It was what my emotions were shouting at me to do.  My heart said protect the children, so I stood between them and the raging lion.  With a whip and a chair.

It would be years before I knew a better way.  And after he started to change it was a long time before I saw how awful I had been to him.  In defense or not, my actions had been emotionally abusive as well.  Neither of us knew how to deal with these things in an emotionally healthy way.

One or both of us has been in therapy now off and on for about six years.  We have generations of unhealthy behavior to unlearn.  We both have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder which means sometimes we are triggered and find ourselves back in those moments when we were powerless and terrified.  We are still working to get healthy and strong.  We still mess up.  We are still sometimes unkind to each other.  We still often see the other as an enemy and forget we're on the same team.

But we are so much better than we used to be.  I am proud of us for all the hard work and progress.  There are so many horrible things we experienced as children that we were able to protect our own kids from.  So many emotional battles we've fought so they won't have to.

We're cleaning up the line as best we can.  Breaking the chains that bound us.

An Abusive Husband, part three

For the first part of my husband's story and why we are sharing it read this.
For the second part of our story read this.

Today I offer the final part of the story:  what happened when he saw the truth.

I WAS AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND.  REALLY?  (PART THREE)

I started to work with a friend from an old job.  He is a very sensitive and caring man who understands women (and no he isn't gay).  But when I would talk to him at work and tell him how nuts my wife was he would always tell me where I was wrong.  He was very good at it because he can talk both male and female.  He had been through a lot of therapy, too.

Robin and I were about done with marriage and I was sick of all the accusations of being abusive.  I still loved her and didn't want to divorce but she just wasn't getting it.  Then one day we had a meeting, just her and me.  I was finally to the point where I really wanted to understand what she was trying to say.  I don't know if she explained it to me better that time or I finally listened but I got it.  It was the yelling, putting down and getting even that was the abuse.  The seething hatred when I was angry.  The fact that everyone at home was walking on egg shells around me so they wouldn't trigger another outburst from the angry man.

Holy cow, what an eye opener that was.  I love these people and they all feel like I hate them.  They walk on egg shells around me.  My wife and kids.  It was a shot to my heart.

But how to fix it, for now I see just what a bastard I am.  Anger was my nature.  I couldn't control it.  It would explode in me and I had to yell or I would be violent (I never was but it was because I could yell at those I was angry with).  I also knew that my OCD triggered my anger and how was I going to fix that?

That's when I started therapy (or thereabouts).  We found Dr. Dan.  Robin, bless her, saw my horror when I finally understood and we decided to work together to beat this thing.  I was ready.

It was really hard.  I had to learn how to control my anger.  I had to face issues from my past that I wanted to leave alone.  I had to trust Dr. Dan.  (Don't think that wasn't hard.)  I had to learn how to be a real man.  A real husband and father.  I don't always win in my daily fight to control my anger or my OCD, but I win most days.  I've learned that you can change.  You can control anger.  I'm to the point now where I hardly ever get angry anymore.  It's been a long road and I've had a lot of help.

The most important thing I've learned in this whole process is that you have to accept the fact that you are wrong.  Be humble enough to be told you're being a jerk and realize you are but you can change.  Your wife isn't trying to control you.  She loves you and is trying to help you reach your potential.

Thanks for helping me be a better man, Robin.

An Abusive Husband, part two

For the first part of my husband's story and why we are sharing it read this.

This is the second part of my husband's story: we got married and things got ugly.

I WAS AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND.  REALLY?  (PART TWO)

I finished my 2-year mission and came home and that's when I met MisssRobin.  I was still very religious and active in my church but I had anger.  Robin was awesome.  Good looking, smart and would play with me in a snarky way.  She was a tease but then again so was I.  I fell in love with her so fast.

We got married and that's when things changed.  She is right about almost everything and she is very strong willed.  I, however, am not right about most things but won't admit it for self esteem reasons.  I am also strong willed and at the time was of the opinion that it's my castle and you're my property.  That's where it gets hard for women to understand I think.  How can you love someone if you think they are your property?  But that is how I was raised.  I'm the man, she's the woman.  It's my job to provide for her and keep her safe and it's her job to do as I say.

I became everything I hated in authority and didn't even notice.  I also suffer from OCD so my perception of reality isn't always on the mark.  Things would often make me angry that wouldn't bother other people.  When I got angry I would be mean to the person I was angry at.  I hated them for the time I was angry.  I wouldn't hit them or be physical, but I would yell and ignore and withhold.  I would scheme of ways I could get even.  "You won't do this for me then I'll not do something for you."  And I thought it was fine that I acted that way.  After a few days of cooling off, I would feel horrible and apologize and then everything was fine.  (How naive I was.)

Years into our marriage, Robin started telling me that I was being abusive.  I was shocked.  What the heck is she talking about?  I've never hit her or the kids.  I would think that I should hit her so she can see what abuse really is.  I talked to friends at work about it (all male) and they would agree with me.  What does she mean?

Then she started to tell me it was emotional abuse.  WHAT IS SHE SMOKING?  Emotional abuse?  What is that?  In my mind it was an imaginary thing.  I didn't really have emotions other than hate, anger and love.  I had never even heard of such a thing as emotional abuse and if there was such a thing then she was abusive to me.  She would not talk to me for days after one of my explosions.  She was always complaining about me.  ME, the guy who was working every day so that she could stay home.  40 hours a week and all I asked for in return was for my family not to trigger my OCD and let me be the king of the house.  It took years, but things started to get ugly between us.

Read more here.

An Abusive Husband, part one

I have written very openly about the difficulties in my marriage, although it's primarily been on my other blog.  Many people have commented to ask if my husband knows that I write about him and the things he's done.  He does.  He reads almost everything I write; I hide none of it from him.  Sometimes the things I write are difficult for him.  It's not so much that he doesn't want people to know what he's done, it's that he's so sad that he did those things.  But he has read the comments.  He has seen how many people are grateful that I share our story.  He has felt their gratitude for sharing what we've learned.  He is proud that I have been able to help others.    And he is courageous enough to allow me to share the story of our struggles.

This weekend he surprised me with a grand step of bravery.  He opened his heart and wrote his story.  So that I could share it on my blog.  Because he believes it can help.

I know it was hard and am so proud of him.

I offer the first segment today.  Where the hate and anger come from.

I Was an Abusive Husband.  Really? (part one)

I've been married to MisssRobin for 22 years.  I've learned a lot in that time.  So, I've been reading her blogs and I love her writing.  I've decided to tell my side of the mess that is her life.

I was raised in a family of 4 boys and 2 girls.  I was raised with the idea that a man's house is his castle and the wife does what the husband decides after they have talked about it.  After all, I am the head of the house.  As a boy, we (including the girls) fought and wrestled with each other all the time.  I remember my dad saying, "If a girl acts like a boy, treat her like a boy."  So, I did.  I never got into a fist fight with the girls but I would have a hitting contest with one.

I lived in Los Angeles and when I was in 7th grade my family moved to Utah and things went badly for me after that.  We moved mid school year, so I was the new kid.  I didn't know the culture and was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole.  I went from being popular at school to being bullied.  I was assaulted by a gym teacher that same year and no one did anything about it.  I went to the principal, school counselors, my parents and no one did a thing.  I learned to hate.  I rebelled.  I hated authority.  I didn't do drugs but I did break rules and vandalized and stole things.  This didn't go over very well with my religious parents.

In my senior year, I found religion.  I had been raised in the Mormon church but it didn't really mean anything to me until that year.  I would skip every class at school but I would never skip my religion class (seminary).  It was the only class I ever got an A in, I'm pretty certain.

I started to trust again and the hate started to fade.  It was still there but now it just smoldered.  I decided to go on a 2-year mission for the church when I was 19.  I was raised to believe that if you live the commandments and did everything you were supposed to do that God would take care of you.  I was also raised with the belief that missionaries walked 2 inches off the ground because they were so righteous.

I saved up my money and entered the mission training center and discovered that missionaries are just a bunch of 19-year old boys and some of them didn't want to be there.  It made my time there really hard because when you go into the training center you are assigned a companion (another missionary) that you are supposed to stay with 24/7.  We were not to leave the grounds; my companion wanted to leave to go to the mall.  I had to make the choice of which rule to break and I was done breaking rules.

I figured things would be different when I got to my mission area in Oklahoma.  Things didn't get better.  My mission president was an ego maniac who would not listen to the missionaries' side of anything.  So if a member of our church would call him and say that we were watching TV all day, then we would get in trouble for that even though it wasn't true.  I felt very betrayed and the hate for authority returned.

Read more here.

My Current Crazy

This one's tough.  I want to be honest and express what I'm struggling with while still treating the subject delicately.  I don't generally do delicate very well.

While I do believe my current depressive state is biochemical, it comes closely on the heals of a rather big stress storm.  And I have to be careful talking about it because the center of this storm is my mother.  No matter what she's been or done in my life, she deserves to be treated with respect.  I will try to honor that.

But I also deserve to share my story.  Sharing my story when it is closely entwined with hers is tricky.  Here goes.

My mom lives a few miles from me.  She and my dad are still married and living together.  I'm not really sure why.  But I gave up worrying about that a long time ago.

My mom went off the deep end when I was born.  Not that she didn't want me or blames me, but that's when her mental health tanked.  She had an emotional breakdown.  Long story short, she ended up addicted to Valium for several years.  So much more to the story, but that's not mine to tell.

She beat it.  They stayed married.  Life went on.  Again, lots of history.

Jumping ahead to where we are now.

I am the only daughter.  My whole life my mom has told me how important I am to her.  How I am her refuge.  That we stand united amidst the men.  (Kind of against the men, but that's another therapy session.)  For most of my life she's considered me her confidante.  Her closest friend.  The one who understands her.  That's a heavy burden.  Please don't do this to your children.

I've written about some of the other parts of my home life.  It was not a mentally healthy environment.  In order to heal and figure out who the heck I was and who I wanted to be, I've had to distance myself from them over the last few years.  Even though we live in the same town, I could go a month or two without talking to them.  It's not usually that long, but sometimes.  We pulled back from family events, putting in an appearance but leaving before I got triggered.  It's taken a lot of work and a lot of therapy to get to a place where I felt healthy with them.

But recently my life got a shake up again.

Over the years she's struggled with her emotional health.  I've watched her try this and that to make it better.  I've watched everything fail.  I've watched her mental health get worse and worse.  We are now at a point where she can't be in the room with others for long unless it's silent and dark.  She is no longer capable of listening to more than a sentence or two from anyone else.  She has bad ADD and struggles to stay on topic; she often can't finish a sentence.  She can't sit still.  When she's at my house she sits, gets up and moves, sits again, gets up and moves.  Over and over.  And she talks and talks without getting anywhere productive and without hearing anything we have to say.

She's 70-years old.  She's still married and he is healthy.  I didn't think I'd be put in the position of being her caretaker so early.  We're not quite there, but it's close.  She wants to put me in charge of things but also accuses me of trying to be in control.  She says she wishes she'd had a mom like me but tells me how much I'm like my dad who she can't stand.

Current situation.  On many meds and hormones.  Takes them as she feels she needs them, kind of close to as prescribed but not really.  Very much self-medicating.  She goes to her room and won't come out when my dad is there.  She waits until he's gone for the day before she comes out.  She leaves and stays gone all day, practically living out of her car.  She won't come home until she knows he's gone to bed.  She's a compulsive shopper and hoarder -- which leads to the many money fights I've been hearing about my whole life.  Her rooms (apparently she needs more than one room to herself) are so full there's about a foot wide walking path.  She's put wallpaper up to cover her bathroom mirror.  She's hung dark blankets over her windows with masking tape.  She has a mini-fridge, microwave, toaster, and food in her room/bathroom/closet.  She almost never eats at her house unless it's junk food in her room.  She's on a backward sleep cycle.  She never sleeps before 2am.  She doesn't function in the morning.  And she sleeps on the floor of her bathroom or walk-in closet.  Not on a mattress or anything, just a thick rug.  And she recently told me she has bad cataracts and needs to have them taken care of but hasn't felt well enough.  Because of the cataracts, night driving is very difficult for her.  But she keeps doing it anyway.  Her need to get away is apparently greater than her concern for her own or others' safety.  I have expressed my concern.

My dad knows most of this but has lived with it so long he just accepts it.  I think he feels helpless.  Theirs is not a good partnership.

She's recently been coming around more, leaning on me more.  She'll show up at our house and talk for several hours two or three times a week.  I feel held hostage in those moments.  She's asked me for prescription meds (I didn't give them to her).  She tells me things and wants me to keep them secret from my dad, from everyone really.  She's shown up at the church a few times while I was trying to perform my calling.  She's very needy and has no friends.  The only people she has in her life on a regular basis are me, my dad, and my adult niece who lives with them. 

On the bright side, I've had plenty to talk about in therapy.  My therapist has helped me define what my responsibilities are and what they are not.  He's helping me set boundaries.  I will no longer listen to her tell me everything awful about my dad for hours.  I will change the subject or leave.  I will no longer let her take over my life.  I will give where I should but draw lines as well.

She says she's going back to therapy (at my suggestion).  And her primary care doctor (who is a pediatrician -- don't get me started on that) says she has to get in to see a psychiatrist and an internist within the month or he won't see her anymore.  He's worried about her psychological health.  Yeah, me too.

I'm trying to keep my out-of-state brother informed, because I don't want to carry this information alone.  I am leaning on others.  And I've done great with boundaries the last week or so.  But it is a heavy burden that's likely to get worse before it gets better.

And heaven forbid they finally do decide to divorce!  I can't imagine what my life will become if that happens.

So please forgive me if I let you down recently.  Or if I'm not up to getting together.  I'm doing the best I can.

And I'm so scared of turning into her.

If They Don't Mean to Hurt You, Is It Still Abuse?

As a teen it seemed like every show on TV had an abuse theme, either the main theme or secondary.  I think the 80s were some kind of waking up period for the world.  Here's this awful thing and you need to know about it.  Like that.

And on TV, abuse was easy to recognize.  You could always pick out the villain.  He was charming in public and a monster behind closed doors.  If he was nice to his victim, it was just to manipulate her into what he wanted.  It was all so black and white.

But in real life it's not always like that.

Sometimes someone's behavior hurts you so much.  You know they love you and weren't trying to hurt you, but they did.  And when you know they didn't mean to hurt you it's easy to overlook it.  It's easy to say it doesn't matter.  It's easy to forgive and move on.

Sometimes you see their suffering and excuse their behavior because of it.  If she weren't struggling so, she never would have said those things.  She never would have called me that.  She never would have made me feel so worthless.

And after a while it becomes the norm.  It's just who they are so you accept it.  You know you can't change them so you just take it.

But guess what?  That's not healthy.  Just taking it isn't okay.  It will destroy you.

I'm big on identifying motivation.  I try to look for why people do what they do.  And I generally assume they didn't mean to.  Maybe it's because when I am mean I don't usually mean to be.  We tend to ascribe our motivations to others; it's human nature.

So if someone hurts you.  A lot.  Over and over.  But they didn't mean to.  Is it still abuse?

Yes, it is.  Even if they're sorry.  Even if they're not.  You can try to reason it away.  You can excuse it all you want.  But it's still abuse.

Because sometimes abuse isn't about intent -- it's about results.  It's about one person putting their own emotional needs above yours in an unhealthy way.  It's about crossing boundaries.  It's about using another person for your own benefit.

And it's about how it makes you feel.  When you've spent years in abusive relationships, sometimes you don't see it.  You sit and take it and later you crumble.  The crumbling is a sign.

Sometimes you see the crumbling as a sign that you aren't strong enough.  That you aren't kind enough.  That you aren't forgiving enough.  That's not what it's signaling.

You are crumbling because you are wounded.  Because what was done to you wasn't right.  And whether anyone else noticed it or not, it was still wrong.

And you can learn from it.  You can learn to protect yourself.  You can set boundaries.  You can refuse to see people.  You can leave.  You can make excuses.  You can even lie to protect yourself. 

When you are young, you are sometimes helpless and trapped.  When you are an adult, you aren't.  Unless you are actually chained up, you can get out.  It may not be the ending you were looking for.  It may not be easy.  In fact, it will probably be the toughest thing you ever do.  But sometimes you have to leave.

But if you stay, it's your job to protect yourself.  You can spend all the time in the world blaming the other person.  Saying it's their fault.  And you would be mostly right.  But you won't heal.  You won't heal until you see that little glimmer of power that you still have.  You won't heal until you take back control of your life and your own emotional health.  You won't heal until you refuse to be a punching bag.  Ever again!

It takes time.  It takes practice.  And you might have to learn over and over again with multiple people.  But each time you set a boundary and stick to it, demand that it be respected, you will be stronger.  More whole.  More healthy.   Better able to face the next day.

And you are worth protecting.  Say it over and over to yourself if you have to.  If that's too hard right now, just remember that it's your job.  You are the only person on this planet whose job it is to keep you safe your whole life.  Sometimes it's easier to think of it this way.

Abuse isn't always easy to see.  But if the same person keeps hurting you over and over, protect yourself.  Whether they mean it or not doesn't matter.

It's not okay to hurt people.