The Journey of a Survivor

Physical abuse, sexual abuse, neglect, alcoholism, drug use…what caused these intrusive thoughts? They really started hitting me when I was about 11 years old. Although, they were occasionally around when I was a little younger. That was when I started drinking and huffing gas. That was also my first suicide attempt. I have no idea what caused these intrusive thoughts—why me? Why do I have to deal with them? All I really want to be is normal.

The worse part about these thoughts is how alone they make me feel. Nobody but me knows about them. Nobody but me feels them. I am completely and utterly alone when it comes to these thoughts—nobody is ever going to be able to experience them. I don’t feel as if I have been able or ever will be able to make another person truly understand them. Isolated. They make me feel so incredibly isolated from the world.

They come into my mind and I can’t stop them. So far I have been able to keep myself from acting on the big ones—I’ve just done a little cutting and such. Part of me wonders if I will be able to hold them at bay forever.

As a child I spent much of my time alone. I read or did other things to entertain myself. Feeling like I never fit in with my family or kids from school made me feel distant and I never really bonded with many people—friends or family. The abuse I endured, especially the sexual abuse, made me feel different—unworthy of others time—I felt like nobody wanted to know me. I adapted to the feeling of loneliness and learned to accept it as a way of life. I am not sure if that is what made me an introvert or if I am just naturally introverted.

Now, I need time alone to recharge my batteries, but when does necessary alone time turn into unhealthy isolation? Really, part of me would be content to spend almost all my time alone in my house doing art, reading and such. Building relationships with others and being part of the world are elements of a healthy and well rounded person. I constantly feel like I have to force myself to get out and go shopping, talk with people, participate in the community…but, just going to work everyday wears me out.

My introversion causes problems in my relationships with my friends and significant other. It’s hard for me to stay connected with friends and my boyfriend often feels neglected. People tend to think I am uninterested or don’t care about them. That’s far from true—I do care about my friends and my boyfriend—it just takes so much energy to make it through my normal work week that getting out and socializing is a real stretch for me.

I don’t know what the answer to this is…I don’t know if I am ever going to change. What I do know is that I have to keep pushing my boundaries so I don’t become a complete agoraphobic.

Crack is what just about ended it all—I almost let it steal my life. There is no greater pleasure than that first hit—calming, numbing—it hits your head like a tidal wave and the rest of the world just disappears. Instant euphoria—ultimate pleasure. For that brief moment everything is perfect. Too bad the perfection is so short lived—the rest of the night is spent chasing that high—feeling good but never quite “there.” Each hit I took would get bigger and bigger—trying to get back to that initial state of serenity. Sure, every hit felt good, but not like that first hit. At times I wondered if my heart could handle another big hit so soon—the longer I smoked, the more I smoked. There was no rationing and although I wondered if my heart was going to explode, I still took the next big hit. Ultimately, it no longer mattered—death was irrelevant—the only thing that mattered was getting high—getting back to the starting point.

One night I was in a crack house smoking with a few people. One lady had her kids with her—they were sleeping in a pile of clothes in the corner. Her face had sores and scabs all over it and yet I was sharing the pipe with her. I had one brief moment of clarity—right after I lit up I looked into her face—she was eagerly waiting for the pipe—I could see the hunger in her eyes. In that instant I knew I had to quit because I did not want to end up like her—a crack whore with a few kids and scabs all over my face.

That incident was enough to turn me around—I stayed clean for a couple years. But then, a friend offered me some coke and I snorted it. I figured it was okay because it was not crack. Soon, I was right back into the pit. I did not fall off the wagon, I dove off head first into the first crack house I could find. This run of crack got me into a few scrapes. I had guns held on me, my money stolen, one of my crack houses got busted and I was fingered as the nark. I knew going back to the same group of people was not an option and I had been sent home from work for being high. I was broke, defeated and about ready to lose my job. How I managed to keep my job so long was absolutely amazing. So, I decided, yet again I would have nothing to do with the crack. I packed all my shit, shut off my cell phone and moved across town.

When I moved, I started a whole new life. That was 6 years ago. I have not touched crack in 6 years. I still fantasize about it—I can close my eyes and almost feel that euphoria. If somebody handed me a pipe right now, I am not sure I could turn it down—no, I know I could not turn it down. So, the best thing for me to do is to stay away from it—I don’t go to that part of town and I don’t associate with people who smoke.

Not only had I screwed myself financially and at work, I was an emotional train wreck. The hardest part about quitting was the ensuing depression. So, I did what any good addict would do—I started drinking. Booze slowly took the place of the crack. In other parts of my blog I talk about the depression and alcoholism, so I won’t go into that. I’ll just end this blog by saying—if you have never smoked crack, don’t do it—its not worth it—you could lose everything. I just about lost myself.

Developing a healthy sex life after being abused is a tough thing to do—there are many obstacles to overcome. I was abused from the time I was in the 1^st or 2^nd grade—at least those are the first memories I have of it. As I grew up I connected sex with shame and pain. I had no sense of owning my body—it became a playground for others. Reclaiming my body as my own has been a long battle. It is embarrassing to say that at times, when I was abused, my body did physically react to the stimuli—there was a sense of physical pleasure. Yes, it was morbid—it was nasty dirty abuse that terrified me, but my body did not always know that. My body began to attach physical arousal with shame and pain. Some of my current sexual fantasies have components of shame and pain. It sounds insane that I would fantasize about elements that resemble my abuse, but that is part of my reality. As a child I was unable to stop the abuse—at times I tried, but I soon learned it was useless to fight it.  As I got older, I had zero boundaries when it came to my body—I let anybody do whatever they wanted to me. It disgusts me when I think about how I passively accepted so many men. Anybody who asked got what they wanted because I did not know how to say no—I did not see it as a possibility. As a teen, sex for me was nothing. Although I would physically become somewhat aroused, I experienced no connectedness or emotion. I felt numb anytime somebody touched me. Numbing out created a sense of nothingness—there was no sense of love or special feelings. Sex was just an activity—like drinking a soda or collecting the mail.In my 20s I started intense therapy and worked on the abuse issues. For awhile I completely shut down sexually. Then I slowly began to feel emotions when I had sex. I was fortunate to have several caring women in my life. No, not at the same time—I dated them one at a time. They slowly taught me the joys of my body and the sumptuousness of a sweet kiss.  I was part of a sexual survivors support group where I started to learn not to be ashamed of my body—the sight and smells and everything else that goes with being a woman. A woman’s body is a beautiful thing—including my own body.Now that I am in my 30s, I am happy to say that I have grown into a healthy sexual being. I still occasionally have the fantasies that have components of shame and pain, but for the most part I have accepted them as a piece of who I am as a person—a remnant of the past that I don’t need to fear or be embarrassed about. Although, it does embarrass me a bit to admit it here to you. But, I think it’s normal to be a little bit embarrassed to talk about something that is so intimate and personal. Don’t give up on sex—work through the issues and the shame—embrace your sexual self. Sex is something to be treasured and enjoyed. And yes, sometimes sex is sex and yet sometimes sex is about connecting with another human being in a very special way. It’s also about connecting with your body and emotions in a very special way. My heart goes out to the women who struggle with these issues—those of us who did not ask to be abused and yet have the lingering effects of abuse that steals parts of our lives.

When I was severely depressed, I disassociated all the time. I have almost no memory of the day before I went in the hospital and the first few days of the hospitalization. It’s like those days are gone. My psychiatrist put me in the hospital—I was in his office and the only thing I remember is standing looking at his books. I have a vague memory of saying “my biggest fear is that you will not understand.” I can’t remember anything else about the visit.  

Although I am currently not depressed, I still sometimes dissociate—especially when I drive my car. Then, I generally startle because I don’t know where I am at. For a few moments I am lost because I have driven for a mile or miles without realizing it. Is this safe? What am I like when I dissociate? If I am not aware of what I am doing, how can I continue to drive? While in that state of mind am I able to make decisions? I don’t understand how I can continue to do things and not be aware of them. My body functions and I do things but I have absolutely no recollection of doing them. When I come out of it, I experience severe anxiety—sometimes a panic attack. Hey, its scary to lose part of yourself for awhile. 

Having this makes me feel crazy. Normal people don’t do this. My therapist says its PTSD. When I talk with her about the past or current stressful events I have a difficult time staying in the room. I can feel myself slipping away—things become too overwhelming and I start loosing my connection to what is going on. Its almost like I start reliving the feelings of the past…but then again, I also feel numb and lost. Its like I am not really there. I am not sure where I go. Sometimes, its like I am going to the past and yet most of the time it feels like I am going to la la land. That mystical place of nothingness.

One image haunts me. It happened when I was in the 4^th grade. My grandparents were drunk and in a vile mood. My grandmother stripped me naked and started beating me while my grandfather sat and watched. He said thing like “look at those titties.” Then he started twisting them. Not only was it painful, it was humiliating. My grandmother said things like “you’re a fu**ing whore…I am ashamed of you…you disgust me…” My pride and self image took a big hit that night.

I had taken many beatings but this night seemed like the night I internalized the insults that were hurled at me. For many years I truly believed I was a disgusting whore. Shame was a constant companion of mine—my childhood friend. Years of therapy have taught me the lies are just that—lies. I am not a disgusting whore. Sometimes I think a little piece of it sticks with me. It’s like a cancer inside of me that just never goes away. No matter how much I claim to love myself—no matter how much I tell myself I am a worthy person—I have this nagging feeling deep inside my core that I am not worth the oxygen I breath.

How do I shed this last bit of negative energy? I am a cutter. Maybe I cut to try to bleed out the shame and hate. Instead of keeping it locked up inside I try to purge myself of it. Years of cutting has not gotten rid of the horrible feelings—they remain. Why can’t I just get over this? Why has this one night had such a major impact on my psyche?  

The Dexedrine has eliminated my depression—it is a miracle drug. However, I am having some unwanted side effects. My impulsive behavior like spending is difficult to manage. A few weeks ago I took my car in for repairs and within an hour was signing the papers to buy a new car. I had no plan or intention of buying a car. I did not do a budget to see if I could even afford it—and of course I can’t. Now, I am probably going to have to get a second job to make ends meet.  

Also I am battling to take it as prescribed. I find myself wanting to take more of it—like skip a few doses here and there so I can have a day where I get to take a bunch of it. I am slightly obsessed with trying to stockpile it so I never run out. Running out would be the worst thing in the world. I am playing with fire—I am an addict and I know I have to be careful or I could get myself into trouble. 

I feel like I have been handed the magic cure to my depression, but if my psychiatrist knew what I was thinking he would yank it in a heartbeat. That means I have stopped being completely honest with him. I have always been honest with him. Addiction makes a liar out of me. How am I going to work this out? I’ll do anything to keep the depression away, which means I need the Dexedrine, but I realize my addictive nature is getting the better of me. Quite honestly, I don’t know how I am going to handle this…there has got to be a balance. I have to get this under control before it takes control of me.

The preoccupation with hanging myself in the attic or shooting myself with my 12 gauge shotgun is back. Although I have separated myself from it and I completely realize that this is just a result of me going off my abilify. These thoughts do not coincide with what I want or feel. It is strange how my thoughts seem to take on a life of their own—its like a person is inside my head telling me these things. It makes me wonder if I truly am a little psychotic. My psychiatrist says I have depression with psychotic features. Hell, I don’t think he even understands how severe and overpowering these thoughts can get. The day I was admitted to the hospital he said I was psychotic—I don’t think he understands that these thoughts follow me around. Well, they mostly subside when I take the abilify. Maybe that’s why they call it an antipsychotic—duh.  But, I am still not depressed and things are going well. This little digression of my thoughts is not insufferable and I am in control of the situation. Except for this little issue, my metal health is extremely good. Matter of fact, just because I am having these thoughts does not mean my mental health is poor. As long as I realize they are not real—as long as I don’t believe them—my mental health is still good. Sometimes, being in control of your issues is as important as being depression free or symptom free. Really, even though this voice is here trying to convince me to hurt myself, I am not psychotic because I am firmly in touch with reality.

So, I was sitting at my computer and all the sudden I realized it was 1:30 in the morning and I was looking up images of suicide. That dirty nasty voice was back—it was telling me suicide was okay—it was what I needed to do—it is my destiny. I instantly recognized that dirty bastard that lies to me. The sane part of me stopped and questioned what I was doing looking up suicide—that is not the frame of mind I wanted to be in. I had to stop—I had to force myself to shut off the computer—part of me wanted to stay online and listen to the voice—go with the fantasy of killing myself.   I made it less than 2 weeks off the abilify before the intrusive thoughts came back. I was hoping they would stay away and I would be able to get off the med. No such luck. I may be on this antipsychotic for the rest of my life. Or my life may be very short.  My life is going well. I am not depressed—the intrusive thoughts are not necessarily tied to the depression. Although, they do exacerbate the depression if they both hit at the same time. I know the abilify helps control the violent thoughts—I don’t know why I decided to stop taking it. Maybe that dark voice convinced me to do it—that I really did not need it. He is a conniving twisted spirit that will do anything to be heard. He is the trickster that must be watched for or I’ll end up dead.