Month: November 2015

STRONGER THAN THIS …

broken chain

I thought I was stronger than this but I’m crumbling albeit slowly but very definitely, nevertheless. Little pieces of me are starting to fall and land at my feet like stones tumbling down a mountainside. My head feels as if it is less firmly rooted on my spine than it ought to be and as if all that is holding it there is a piece of stretched knitting yarn. My vision has now become blurred and my eyesight, dim. My skin falls in flakes around me on the floor giving the appearance of a light snow storm on the mid blue carpet, and my hair has become thinner in places, exposing patches of a shiny white scalp beneath.

I didn’t think it was possible for a human being to disintegrate before their own eyes, or perhaps I’m only just on the outside looking inwards. Is there is fur in my arteries and knots in my veins? The tendons of my limbs contract uncontrollably and my bones crack, oh, so painfully. My brain cells are diminishing in number as the clock on the kitchen wall ticks the seconds away. “Why is this happening to me?”, what few of them I have left are screaming at me.

“This punishment”, I hear calling from the distance; “this is happening to you because you are inherently evil”, a voice reverberates through my mind. The words etched in each ripple of thought that flows from the centre of my skull.

I wake in the night, screaming for some crumb of comfort that is no longer there or available. I realize that I am alone, completely and utterly alone in the pitch black night. It’s cold, and I am shivering as I grasp at my red fleece blanket that covers the duvet that has slipped from my bed to the floor.

I find myself thinking back on the day that has just past – it has been a nightmare. My mum had her ultrasound scan today that has showed her cancer has returned – I’m the only one she has told so far tonight; she is in a state of shock and I am utterly devastated. The hospital is reluctant to try chemo or radiotherapy given my mum’s age and vulnerable state of general health.

My dear son, Tom, returned earlier today from his first holiday away with his children alone only to find that burglars have got into his home. We don’t know the full scale of the losses or damage done to the property and its contents yet but it is heartbreaking.

My best friend has quite unexpectedly, and unjustly lost her job and her union are claiming for unfair dismissal.

My daughter hasn’t spoken to me since my recent assault and I can’t find out why. I’m also still waiting for support from the Victim Support Agency but have heard nothing since the attack and am not coping very well.

I have had to pay for a new pair of glasses this week and am now unable to pay the mortgage this month but that is the least of my worries.

I just want to scream, “Stop the world; I want to get off”, but that would be selfish of me. My support (for what it is worth), is much needed by my loved ones around me at a time like this and I tell myself, “I thought I was stronger than this, but I am crumbling….”

It is dark in my bedroom – I reach for the light somehow hoping that all this will have been a bad dream. I am cold. I am alone. I am very scared.

 

 

THE SOUND OF SILENCE

(This post was written on the spur of the moment, completely unpolished).

the sound of silence

I’ve gone and done it again! Just when I thought I couldn’t make things any worse; just when I thought I was getting it right…NOOOOO, I’ve fucked up again!

I’ve told – shhh – I should’ve kept quiet – just like before – just like all the times before – I’ve gone and hurt someone I love; the person who probably means the most to me in all the world – my Mum. I told – I told – I should have kept it to myself. I’m a grown woman, not a young child – I ought to know better – I ought to have known better. It’s too late now. I’ve said it – there – it’s said – Oh! The shame!

I told my Mum about my recent assault – I’d left it two weeks before I told her for fear of upsetting her, but now it seems that I have done more damage than good by leaving it that long. It’s just like before – just like all those other times – I shouldn’t have told her. What is the matter with me? Am I totally stupid, or what? Yes, apparently, it seems that I am.

I felt I had to hide it. I felt I had to hide the shame – like all those times before when I got abused. Now, I’m a grown-up, I should know better. She can’t understand why I didn’t tell her before. I couldn’t – I just couldn’t. It’s been ingrained into my brain, ‘not to tell’. When I told her of my child abuse as an adult many years ago, she didn’t believe me and perhaps didn’t want to believe me. Maybe, it hurt too much to admit it to herself, particularly as it was my father.

She’s so hurt that I kept it from her whilst ‘pretending’ and appearing to be alright and okay on the outside. I wasn’t okay – truly – I was not okay. I was screaming in the silence. I’ve hurt my Mum and I was trying to protect her. How do I ever apologise enough for the pain I’ve caused her? I’m so sorry, Mum; I’m truly sorry. How can I undo the damage I have caused? How can sorry ever be enough?

I should have stayed silent – the sound of silence is infinitely better than the sound of betrayal of trust – my own Mother can no longer trust me to be truthful with her; to be honest. How can I ever put that one right? I could weep tears for the damage I’ve done it now and there’s nothing I can do to turn back the hands of time to do it all differently. I should have kept quiet. I prefer the sound of silence to the sound of pain. Forgive me, my Mother, forgive me, please. I’ve fucked up again.

shame

(Image courtesy of Henry Fuseli)

SCREAMING THE INSIDE OUT

head screaming

I’ve seen my therapist today, and all sorts of thoughts are flooding my mind like a dam has burst inside my head. I just need to write out these thoughts to get them on paper rather than have them living rent-free in my head and taking up space for something more constructive.

This post isn’t going to be remotely witty or intellectual – it’s just me, Ellie – letting feelings out – trying to remember to breathe – breathing is crucial for survival – so is my writing. Please forgive me my self-indulgence.

I know my anger towards not only my recent assailant but also all my many other abusers in my life is currently turning inwards. I know that I am berating myself, belittling all the abuse I’ve been through and telling myself, “for goodness sake; pull yourself together!!” I have internal chatter running around my head. However, I am trying to fight these unhelpful and negative thoughts and attempting to replace them with more realistic and sensible ones.

I am beginning to recognize that over the years, I have well and truly had my boundaries smashed to pieces. With the downfall of those barriers and the lack of love shown to me in my life, is it any wonder I’m a sucker for affection. Is this what gets me into trouble? Am I too friendly? Do I give the wrong impression? Am I gullible? What the fuck am I doing so wrong?

(Excuse me why I quietly go and hide myself in a corner – and scream and shout and rant and rave! What? Do you mean I’ve done that already?)

I barely recognize my own emotions, and when I do, I give them no respect. “Why???”, I yell at the top of my voice! God – please let me off at the next stop.

“Calm down, Ellie; just calm it right down. Now, stop and … breathe …”. OK. I’m breathing. I’m shattered. I’m emotionally exhausted. I’m drained. I need sleep – restorative sleep; not nightmares running amuck inside my head – peaceful sleep – rest – quiet – repose – AND DON’T BLOODY WELL FORGET TO BREATHE!!

 

 

PIECES OF ME

pieces of me sad girl drawing

It’s taking me a long time to recover from the assault I experienced and wrote about last week which I suppose it to be expected. Although I realize how lucky I am to be still here, I haven’t got over the shock and the awful trauma of it all yet and sometimes I just dissolve into pieces and floods of tears.

I have spent the last week being interviewed by the police in the aftermath of what happened to me.  The Victim Support organization have been in touch too and have offered me one to one emotional support for as long as I need it which I appreciate and need so much right now. My GP and the hospital have been so understanding and are helping me recover, physically from the attack.

However, I’m living in fear each day of every knock on the door, every car that pulls up near my house, every unexpected noise or movement even though I know that this ‘man’ is in police custody and can’t reach me. That doesn’t stop me having nightmares. Nor does it stop the overwhelming flashbacks that are almost as real as the event itself.

I’ve told very few people other than the professionals who are dealing with and supporting me. At some point, I have to tell my family as they have guessed something isn’t right even though the nearest of them lives over 60 km away from me. They suspect something is wrong despite how hard I’ve tried to disguise a cracking voice and although they cannot see my tear-stained face. I didn’t want to tell them…

Echoes from decades ago of the instructions from my father, ‘not to say a word’, ring in my ears. “Don’t tell,” “mustn’t tell,” whisper through the trees even on a night like tonight when a storm is raging outside, the river has swollen, and the crab apple tree in the back garden has come down. The outside world so accurately depicts what’s going on inside my head. My heart thump, thump, thumps on the inside of my chest, threatening to break through the delicate tissue of my breast.

The utter shame I felt as a child has returned although I know, logically, now although not then, that the shame belongs one-hundred percent with the offender and the perpetrator.

Nevertheless, I am still in pieces and will take some time to mend.

 

ASSAULT

crying woman drawing

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse … they did. On Monday afternoon, I was sexually assaulted. I am still in a state of shock and wasn’t even able to contact the police until this morning. I don’t know where yesterday went – I’ve sort of lost a day somewhere. It keeps trying to sink into my brain, but something in me is desperately fighting it off. I’m feeling a thousand and more emotions all at once and desperately want to get out from inside my head. The reason that I am writing this, not because I wish to draw attention to myself but because my mind is not capable of dealing with all this without my skull exploding into microscopic particles, and my brain cells self-combusting irretrievably if I do not express myself.

It was approximately 2.30 pm when my window-cleaner called. He had been doing this monthly for at least twenty years, and he had always been a friendly man. He was called Bob, and I’d talked with him many a time over the period where my children were growing up and some of the many years when my mental health was bad. I’d always make him a cup of tea, and we’d chat, and then he went on to his next customer

When I became more physically challenged, I was no longer able to make him a drink so he’d come in with my permission to make his own tea. No problem there. He was amicable enough, and we talked about our offspring and lately he’d been talking to me about his young grandson, He proudly showed me photos of himself with his family and this little toddler.

This Monday, it was different. I’d let him in to make his tea, which he did, making me a coffee at the same time. He sat opposite my wheelchair, and we started chatting. He was complimentary about how well I coped and how I was always cheerful, no matter what. (I would almost pride myself at hiding my true feelings from people other than my family and close friends, and even with them, I’m excellent at glossing over the surface of what seem to be insurmountable problems).

Out of the blue, he suddenly lurched forwards, grabbed me and hurled me to the ground. I didn’t stand a chance of defending myself partly because of my disability, and I think, probably also because I was so shocked that I didn’t even scream. It was like watching myself in a slow-motion horror movie. As he assaulted me, I was as terrified as I had been on those numerous occasions that I had been the subject of child sexual abuse. After what seemed like forever, he was disturbed by my phone ringing. This interruption startled him enough into leaving me alone and completely stunned, and he rapidly headed out of the front door.

After that and yesterday? I don’t know where that time went or what I did. It was when I woke up this morning that I realised the enormity and horror of what I’d experienced. I felt muddled, confused and could hardly believe what had happened. I telephoned the police non-emergency number as if, I think, to kid myself that it was no big deal or was of no importance. When somebody finally answered my call, I found myself blurting everything out including how I was so caught up in the horrors of my son and daughter’s lives currently. It was all too overwhelming as I tried to explain myself, going over everything in fast-forward time. The police asked me for the precise details of the event, but I couldn’t be specific. I told them, crying and sobbing, what I had remembered. They reassured me that I’d taken the correct course of action by phoning them. They said, ‘could I get a friend or neighbour to come and sit with me’. I said there was only my next-door neighbour who was near enough but that she had gone out earlier so they just asked if I was able to phone my family and that a police officer would call to let me know what would happen next.

Well, here I am on Thursday morning. The assault happened on Monday, and I rang the police first thing yesterday morning. I waited for their phone call all day. Nothing – absolutely nothing. And today, so far, still nothing – no follow-up telephone call, no visit. I’m reluctant to phone them again because it is of course so trivial and no cause for concern in their eyes.

Yes, I am angry and upset but it seems plain that I’m making mountains out of molehills; that it is of no importance; that perhaps it’s my fault for letting him in. I hadn’t screamed; I hadn’t shouted; I didn’t even try to push him away; I had it coming, and it’ll teach me a lesson for the future.

My world is presently a dark, black hole in the ground and I am at the very bottom of it without a ladder. I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this space.

No – I don’t feel ‘sorry’ for myself; I don’t want pity; I’m just feeling so furious, vulnerable and very, very alone. 

THE RIPPLE EFFECT

ripple effect

I don’t know how one twisted woman can be responsible for so much emotional damage to a family. This woman is at the centre of this pernicious ripple effect. Tides of toxic emotion are flowing outwards in ever-increasing circles reaching as far as myself, my eighty-year-old mother and many relatives who are caught up in the middle of this turmoil.

[Since my last post, (Justice Stinks), the situation concerning my son and my grandchildren has got progressively worse. There is to be another important court hearing this week because my daughter-in-law, *Kate and her family are being totally bloody-minded, making everything as difficult as possible for my son, *Tom. Also, they are poisoning a little girl’s mind by telling her lies about her daddy and will doubt start to coach my one-year-old grandchild before very long. Going back to court is costing *Tom another $2,500 in legal fees (taking the total up to $25,000), not that you can put a price on a child’s head.

In the meantime, my daughter, *Clare, has become involved as she is supporting my son. As a result of this, my daughter-in-law’s family are making life hell for *Clare and her two young children too. At the bottom of all this trouble is *PL, (Kate’s aunt) who is the linchpin of this nasty situation. She was the one who, (if you read my blog post ‘Abduction’), is the cause of all the trouble].

How does one sick mind impact on so many people and have the potential to harm the emotional well-being of four children and numerous adults? It’s beyond my comprehension why someone in their right mind would go out of their way to wreak such damage. But then I have to ask myself whether, in fact, she is in her ‘right mind’. Should I (in this case) have more compassion under these circumstances?