This
changes everything
When we feel a
certain way for a very long time, we forget that there is anything else beyond
that. With time, what we feel at baseline can become quite different for us
than it feels to other people.
On a smaller scale
we see ideas vary from person to person. But on a much bigger scale, we see
lifestyles and cultural norms vary from all ends of the extreme. Living on
earth means living in a place of contrast; and so what is seen as taboo, unheard
of, or extreme in one culture, may be perfectly normal in another.
This creates a lot
of the disconnect we see in the world. One person's idea of love is another
person's idea of hatred. One person's idea of god, is another person's idea of
satan. While we tend to think of physical reality as being concrete and
unchanging, the truth is that physical reality represents completely different
things to every single being based on their own individual way of seeing the
world.
But why don’t we
experience the world in the same way, even if we grew up in the same town as
other people, or even the same household?
We all have
different experiences in the same world.
Sometimes, you don't
find out how difficult an experience was until you're out of it… until you’re
witnessing the opposite of it.
This is my story.
* * *
So many people
didn't know what I was going through one day ages ago when I said I wished my dad was dead.
Now, looking back on
that time, I can see how absolutely far of a cry I was from okay. I had scars
on my wrist. Anxiety every day. And the worst part was that I could have
avoided it completely, and I didn’t. Learned helplessness.
My dad has been
persistently physically and verbally abusive to me ever since I was 16.
Sometimes the abuse would range from simple belittling (telling me I'm pathetic,
stupid, calling me names, or cussing) to extreme reactions (yelling at me,
hitting me, etc).
He would often
isolate me when he was planning on targeting me for abuse, and then gaslight me
later when I would talk about what happened by denying what happened and
painting me to be crazy to other people.
It eventually
started to slip out into view, and my family started to see the effects it was
having on me. I became prone to dissociating and was diagnosed with ADD. My dad
would then sweep in to become a rescuer of sorts, trying to get me to stay
quiet about what I went through, usually in the form of bribes, or offering
counseling. He went to church every weekend and made it very clear that nobody
would believe me if I spoke up about the abuse. Most didn't, and I learned to stay quiet.
Finally, when I was
17, I found out that he was cheating on my mom by finding a small prepaid phone
in a phone that was left out in the open. One contact was his mom, and the other an unknown number. I
called the other number and a female voice answered, saying my dad's name in a nauseatingly flirty tone. Throughout the course of the year I kept the secret, sharing it
with some close friends. Eventually my mom found out because I had written it
down for a creative writing assignment where we were instructed to write down a
secret we had.
I think many people
would be surprised to think that I was relieved when my parents got divorced...
but before you criticize me for feeling that way, you need to realize the space
I was in; I was being abused covertly. Many people actively ignored me l when I
spoke about the abuse, because my father was an upstanding and active member of
our christian church. For many, the cognitive dissionance was too much to take
and denial was simply more comfortable. From the outside perspective everything
looked fine in our family, even though it was quite the opposite of what I was
experiencing...
At 18, I decided to
go to college far away. I was running from my past, and thus, I was running
from my present. I made horrible decisions, got in trouble with the law, and
self sabotaged the entire year, because at least by messing up my life I could witness
that I had at least some ability to influence where my life went. The way I put
it now makes it sound like the times there were all bad, that everything was intentional, and it really
wasn't. I had a lot of fun out there. I still think back to those days with a
bit of wistfulness... something about being in the same boat as a bunch of
people your age still makes me nostalgic.
After returning home
from college, the abuse got worse (to my surprise). There was a particularly
bad fight where he gave me bruises on my arm... I remember taking pictures of
it on my phone before it got stolen, and with it, the only proof I had that it ever happened.
Nothing was
guaranteed. Every day, I wouldn't know if he would choose to violate me or if I
would be let off easy with neglect or the rare kindness. It was a difficult
existence.
I was struggling
with schoolwork at community college. I had developed a taste for drugs and
alcohol as a way to numb myself… After discovering the previous year that amphetamines
helped me feel normal, I was prescribed amphetamines under the guise of ADD and
became what I now refer to as "legally addicted”.
For about 6 months I
would make a habit of going out partying on the weekends when he was around...
escaping was always a lot of fun. For a short while, I wouldn’t have to worry. But
eventually, it all came to a crashing halt.
One day I was at
work, when everything changed. I was at the register at my fast food job
when suddenly, a head rush washed over me. In a second, everything was
different. I seemed to be seeing through a fog. My hands were trembling
uncontrollably, and there was this intense feeling of doom. I managed to get
out that I was not feeling okay and proceeded to go to the back and pace back
and forth (what I later learned was stereotypical seizure behavior), thinking
that I was crazy, till it subsided about 10 minutes later.
Hoping it was just
coincidence, I tried my medication again a few days later, and the same thing
happened. The second time I had realized I was experiencing a seizure and
(stupidly) decided to work through it anyways.
My life was at
stake, and it became clear to me that I had to leave this addiction-induced
lifestyle behind. I was terrified. I knew that if I stopped doing amphetamines
I would not be able to keep up with this lifestyle I wasn't cut out for... beyond
that, I would have no choice but to stop running.
I stopped all drugs
and began a ketogenic diet. The seizures happened less and less often, until
they stopped completely. This piqued my interest, and soon my passion for
studying nutrition, the human body, and how to heal it took place. With it, I
began my emotional healing as well.
I learned that it
was best if I stopped interacting with my dad, as he had continued to abuse me
even if there were weeks of relative peace in between. I actually stopped
interacting with almost everyone at that time. I lost a lot of friends when I
stopped doing drugs, but many more just slowly faded away. I think a lot of
them thought I was judgemental when I stopped using; though it wasn't like that to
me. Deep down, I realized that I couldn’t truly be free
if I needed substances to feel normal.
Everyone else's life
seemed to be producing fruit, but I was withering. It isolated me. It became
hard to relate to people who seemed to have everything I wanted... a stable
home life, a supportive system of friends, a clear sense of direction in life.
I also found myself
increasingly drawn to spirituality. My spiritual practice became a very
important part of my life. At times, it was all I had.
Meanwhile, all my
energy went into finding my own way to healing.
I went through all
sorts of health problems as I began revisiting my dark past. At first, I was
afraid I didn’t have what it took to heal; but with time I began to see that I
was not only capable of finding the cause (both physical and emotional) of every
symptom, but I was good at it. It became a sort of game for me, to find out how
to cure whatever ailment I was having.
From the colon to
the liver, to the brain and heart, I studied the impact nutrition had on how I
was feeling, my only goal being to feel better than before. It not only worked,
but I began feeling better than I had ever felt in my whole life... Meanwhile, my
spiritual practice helped me make sense of my own suffering.
There came a point
where I found I was stuck. I had began to stop tolerating gluten, but even
after cutting it out I found myself experiencing a myriad of odd symptoms;
symptoms of having sores that weren't healing, and extreme tiredness but was
unable to sleep, and of extremely itchy skin bumps that looked like acne. I
felt intuitively that they were all connected somehow, but I was not finding
the cause as quickly as I had with the other illnesses.
I searched long and hard for the cause,
keeping track of my symptoms, all the while I was becoming sicker and sicker. To
me it made no sense that I was as sick as I was… I was eating healthier than
ever before, but for some odd reason, I felt worse. One day, it clicked. I
hypothesized the cause was GMO foods, and cut them out of my diet completely.
Within a week my
symptoms stopped completely. About a month later my skin was completely healed... the nightmare of the past 6 months was over, but
I was left with the knowledge of the reality of two very crucial ecological
issues: genetic experimentation, and geoengineering.
Beyond that, the
hell… and the isolation, of what I had barely survived, gave rise to a deep sense of alienation coupled with a deep
gratitude that has stuck with me ever since. I think that tends to happen when
you live through hell; nothing that ever happens after surviving ever compares
to the original trauma, and it gives rise to a sort of deep joy… A light shines
within you knowing that it will never be as bad as it was before.
Realizing I needed
to cut ties with my father and actually doing it were two completely different
things, though. I never realized until trying to go no contact, how taboo it is
to not speak to another family member. I never realized how there can be
pressure even from within your family to keep putting yourself in situations
where you’re physically in the presence of your abuser. But my body
increasingly let me know how much stress it was causing me, in the form of a
skin rash on the left side of my face.
I was increasingly
realizing that being around my father was preventing me from truly letting go,
but I still didn’t have the money to move out on my own. When my boyfriend Miles invited me to stay out with him in Indiana, I
finally took a step out into the unknown, so we could finally be close together
and I could take perhaps the biggest risk I’d taken yet in my adult life.
While it was a bit
of a disaster finally getting out there in my bungeed up car, it also pushed me to grow. There was a lot of friendships that formed, and also a lot of enemies. Dealing
with bullies at my job and at the house I was living at really dragged me down
in a lot of ways; it felt like my life was just going to keep being a series of
ongoing traumatic events that I was going to have to perpetually push myself to
overcome through spiritual practice.
At the time I didn't
understand why these people were bullying me. I thought something was wrong
with me; even though I didn't do anything to them. I truly just wanted to coexist without being hurt.
The bullying had a
huge impact on me, and I began to slip into old habits... When I went back to
Colorado for the summer, I hit my lowest point. One day I was sharing what I
knew about how messed up GMO foods really are with my dad and brother. My dad
of course saw a weak spot and took it, jeering that I was making up the whole thing about the bizarre health
problems I have due to my GMO sensitivity. Naturally, I got upset and began
crying. Like I hinted at before, I had been through hell when I was sick as a
result of my GMO sensitivity.
My dad began doing
the thing he usually does, but I was so blind at the time I didn't realize it
so I could escape in time. He made everyone leave the house, isolating me. He then
began to verbally abuse me again, saying I was pathetic, and worthless. I began
to get worse, unable to cope with the bullying. I screamed and started to hurt
myself again, and again, and again… until a sort of eerie calm emerged. I
stared at the blur of my father, who was supposed to love me, ahead; the tears
froze in my eyes. "If I'm so pathetic, maybe I should kill myself," I
murmured.
My dad looked
straight at me and said if I killed myself, it would be the first thing I
ever accomplished.
The rest of the
night is a blur. I fucked up my wrist with scars. I remember calling my
boyfriend, and he talked me down slowly. it's one thing to think
someone thinks something about you... but it's another thing to actually hear
it.
I screamed at him.
Why would anyone ever say that to anyone? Why would anyone encourage someone to
kill themselves? How could anyone do that and act even remotely normal in their
waking life? How fucked up do you have to be? All of these were so hard to see
past in the heat of the moment. Aren’t fathers supposed to be loving?
To make things
worse, a few days later, my bully back in Indiana sent me a message first thing
in the morning cussing me out and calling me names. To this day, I still don’t
know why he felt the need to do that. I asked him why he can't just leave me
alone, I'm not doing well, and he responded with cruel names. I decided shortly
after that it would be healthiest to block his number instead of letting myself
be pummeled any more by bullies.
I've been
suppressing so much anger and sadness. So much of it. I've spent so much time
hating myself because I thought I deserved to be treated that way... I thought
I was selfish, any time I wanted to do anything at all for myself. Even when I
was having health problems, it was hard for me to get past the idea that I
deserved to die.
Back in Indiana, I
was able to be still; the bully roommate moved away and I was doing
much better being in a space of total acceptance. In a space of quiet, it
became easier to recognize my own worth. I was still isolated, and not quite
sure how to break past the solitude that I had built around myself, a chain
link fence. But I was peaceful, and was learning more
and more each day about the root cause of suffering, of anxiety, of self-hate
through thinking about such things…
Come Christmas, I
felt pressured to return because of my family… Even though I felt like a
nervous wreck even thinking about returning, I decided to just go ahead
anyways. All the hatred, anxiety, and stress came back to me. It was like I had
never healed at all.
 |
| Take about 3 weeks apart, these photos show how being in the prescence of an abuser can manifest as physical wounds. The first was taken after Christmas break, and the second is taken after being away from my abuser for a few weeks, thus allowing for healing to take place |
It’s weird, but I’ve
come to realize that a lot of emotional imbalances quickly manifest physically
on me. I had that gash develop on the left side on my face because I let the
fact that I was going to be around my abuser again get to me. Looking back, I’m
still in denial in a lot of ways. I just want to be normal. There’s so much
pressure to be normal. Believe me, I’ve tried (by eating foods I’m allergic to,
only to experience a reaction, to forcing myself to work minimum wage jobs that arent cut for my strengths, or
trying to build high emotional walls to keep my heart safe) But it’s not possible for me to do what
normal people do after being through what I’ve been through.
It felt weird… Being
around him, my abuser. I just went right back to old habits. He acted like his
rescuer personality the entire break, which in some ways made things worse,
because it just reinforces this idea that I’m crazy for hurting so badly as a
result of his actions.
Beneath the sadness,
I found anger. Sadness was a cover emotion for the raw anger I had towards him.
I hated him for fucking me up emotionally. I hated him for fucking up other
people emotionally along with me. For never showing a sign of remorse, never
asking for forgiveness, never apologizing. For seeming to enjoy witnessing how
much he could hurt another person at times, I hated him. I hated his hypocrisy
more than anything else.
One day I just let
it slip, by saying that I wish he was dead on facebook. Ironically, I ended up
being treated like how my dad treated me by a lot of other people, pacified
like I'm a mental patient. But was I really all that crazy for feeling that
way?
Did others ever
wonder why I felt that way? Did they ever question if I felt that way for a
reason? Is it always mentally unhealthy to feel that way, or are there some cases
where it’s healthier to be angry than to be completely forgiving, completely
allowing, remaining in a space of complete positive focus?
I’m sure you can
understand my answer. I don't think it's a sign of mental un-health to want THE
MOST abusive person you've ever met to die at some point in your recovery from
abuse. Anger is one step in the grieving process. Grieving an abusive
relationship, you grieve the death of what was meant to be loving and beautiful.
It's incredibly painful and the ‘should’s’ make it more painful.
I would not be the same person I am today without the abuse. Perhaps I would live in
the way that I have for most of my younger life, where I lived in a way that
was more cautious. Maybe I wouldn’t have put so much focus on spiritual growth
and personal development if I never questioned the reason I was put on this
planet to begin with.
Most days I’m honestly afraid of the
implications that come with thinking that the only reason I am the way I am is
because I’ve had a horrifying past. I don’t want to think that the only way
people become purified is by going straight through fire and brimstone. I think we can start creating a better world
by being mindful that everyone thinks what they think for a reason and seeking
to understand those reasons above anything else.
Regardless, I have
consistently felt called towards a broader audience as a result of my
experiences. Because of my suffering, I am able to understand others who are
suffering. Because I am finding a way out of my own suffering, I may be able to
help others who are struggling to see past their current circumstances.
I am not sure where
this calling will lead me, but I ask for the patience and prayers from friends,
known or unknown, as I continue to recover. Beyond that, I ask for
understanding. I ask to be seen and accepted for who I am, because I seek to
see and accept other people for who they are (yes, even my abusers, but that’s
another post entirely).
It is not going to be like this forever, I think, as I blast music in my small green
car, leaving in my absence dirt suspended in remnant sound waves. There’s no way in hell my life is going to
begin as an ongoing cry for help that never gets answered before it ends.
* * *
Shielding my eyes
from the sun, I approach a building. I hear the small hum of people being
friendly inside. My hand quivers a bit as I reach for the handle. Taking a deep
breath, I fight the fear and at once find myself in a room.
Christmas lights are strung decoratively
throughout the small clearing…. Lining the walls, there are hundreds of jars,
pots, and pans. The floor is a dark grey color that has been lightened by dirt;
Tapestries on the walls paint the room with beautiful patterns.
All around me people
are talking and smiling… The warming smell of garlic and paprika fills the air
as people continue to talk quietly amongst themselves.
It takes everything
I can to not cry at the scene… Taking it all in, I allow the tears to fill my
eyes, but not spill over. I manage to stutter that I’m sorry I’m late, and
people direct me to get a plate and utensils; I am welcome to eat my fill.
The room was
familiar. I had seen it in a dream before. I remember the layout and the
coloring; the grey walls and dark floor and wooden counters that lined the
back, where the sink was. I remembered the people. But never in my life did I
think the place I had travelled to in my dream was actually real. Never in my
life had I ever physically been there.
But this feeling I
have tells me loud and clear: Welcome
home. You have arrived at last.
This changes
everything.
Continued in post, In The Place Of My Dreams
Continued in post, In The Place Of My Dreams
