Sunday, May 29, 2011

Family secrets

 Identifying that one has been covertly (or emotionally) incested is difficult because direct sexual contact does not occur in these situations--and I believe, in our (American) culture, that anything other than the "real deed" is considered to be a figment of an overly sensitive person's over-active imagination. This is why I doubted myself for so long. I still do.    Sometimes I think that I am making a big deal out of nothing....but I realize that is the voice of the guilt I still feel and what members of my family of origin want me to believe. When I recall my experiences of psychosomatic illness; chronic, severe depression; constant anxiety and vigilance; suicidal thoughts, and past sexual dysfunction in my relationships, I now understand that these are not "normal" behaviors.  Nor is secretly running off in the dead of night to a foreign country and staying for two years until guilt overwhelmed me. Nor is having difficulty making friends and having no hobbies or career interests until I cut off all contact with my father, over ten years ago. Once I did that, I magically became interested in the world outside of "him and me" and started discovering what made me content and invigorated. Ten years, and I was able to repair my sexual relationship and finally bear a child.
The sexual "side effects" of covert incest, that is a whole other story I will get into later. Let me just say that at least my father had enough boundary sense not to violate explicit sexual limits, thank God.  I have recently learned, however, that overt incest is present on his side of the family, it happened to my dearest relative, and my personal theory is that covert incest occurs in families in which overt incest has previously occurred in some form; the atmosphere is charged with a sexual, enmeshed, boundariless energy that seems "normal." 
In fact, I did have an unfortunate sexual experience with a cousin on that side--molestation, I might call it. What do you call performing a sexual act that your heart says is wrong because you want to please the person? A first cousin, who I trusted and thought cared about me. This memory did not surface until recently, as well, but I have always experienced a highly charged erotic feeling around this cousin and could not understand it. This feeling caused me such shame over the years--what a sick person I was for having sexually charged thoughts about this first cousin. And why was I so shy around him, why did I feel so "violated" and "ashamed" when I was alone with him in later years, even for a few minutes. I was so uncomfortable in his presence, well, it was hard to tolerate. And the sadder and sicker part is that this cousin was my father's FAVORITE nephew. His FAVORITE person, like a son to him. Why was I surprised that this person would have been the one who violated me sexually? They were both, as I have come to learn, narcissists in the extreme and ended up estranged because, in my opinion, they couldn't cope with how alike they were! It makes me sick to my stomach, the whole thing.
I think this is enough for today. Trying to dredge up and clear out the past while struggling day-to-day to be a normal, healthy parent for my young daughter is turning out to be the challenge of a lifetime. I am determined to give her the life I wished I had, though, at whatever cost.

Friday, May 27, 2011

Covert Incest 101


  "Covert incest happens when a parent, usually an opposite-sex parent, makes the child a surrogate partner or spouse, most often when bonds of sexuality and intimacy have been or are breaking down between the child's parents themselves. The child, feeling loved and put into a privileged position by the opposite- sex parent, becomes a confidant and advisor, an object of intense affection, passion--and preoccupation by that parent. Appropriate boundaries between parent and child are blurred or obliterated and the child does not realize that he or she is living to meet the needs of the parent rather than his or her own. The parent develops a dependency on the child and the opposite-sex parent's relationship with the child increasingly becomes more possessive, jealous, demanding -- all the time chipping away at the child's personal boundaries. Not unlike the victim of overt incest, the child increasingly feels manipulated, used and preoccupied with the parent's needs, whereas the parent's "love" begins to feel more intrusive than nourishing and more demanding than giving. The parent-child relationship becomes structured to meet the needs of the parent, so the child feels embarrassed to have needs of his or her own. Should the child try to have those needs met, he or she feels at risk of losing the parent." (From Silently Seduced by Kenneth Adams)
I hadn't heard this term until my therapist explained that this is what happened to me as a child. I could never put it all together—there was no outward sexual abuse, no outward verbal abuse, nor physical. So why did I feel so messed up? Why did I hate myself so much, believe I had to put myself last always, be swayed by one person’s opinions, so affected by one person’s moods that I didn’t know what I was feeling? Why was I obsessed with performing to please this one person? I didn’t know what I was good at, was interested in, what made me happy or sad—in fact, I couldn’t recognize any of my emotions. I was completely enmeshed with this one person. If his day was bad, so was mine (even if it wasn’t); if he was happy, I was in heaven! Since he was a psychologist, I decided to be one too…until I started recovery.
I was a nonperson, a ghost, a replicate. His approval meant the world to me, his anger made me feel like dying. I walked on eggshells if he was angry, afraid to emerge from my basement room even for food—going entire afternoons through the next morning with nothing to eat or drink. 
I didn’t have a sense of me at all. I lived for him.
I was a little girl who just wanted to be happy and loved. I discovered that I could earn his love by doing what he wanted me to do, by pleasing him. And I also learned that if I didn’t please him, I would be punished: silences that lasted for days to weeks, being ignored as though I weren’t alive, and invasions of privacy in which he would barge into my room (the door being shut and sometimes locked) and yell for extended periods of time, the accusations moving from the present—what I didn’t do or say—and flowing backward to things I had done to “hurt” him in the past. And I was only a child.
Most of the details are a blur in my mind. I can’t remember specifically what I was punished for or accused of, although I did keep journals my entire life. I plan to go through them and blog about some of these details at a later date. What I do remember was crying, apologizing, begging for forgiveness for my “sins,” and if the accusations didn’t stop, giving up and dissociating, my mind floating near the ceiling, watching below as this poor child cowered and sobbed.  
However, two specific episodes do stand out in my mind. One, when I brought home a D in typing class. I was not good at that, obviously. Typing without looking at my hands was virtually impossible (nor was it that important in the long run!) and I failed for that reason. But dad was furious and I remember that he stopped talking to me and refused to acknowledge my presence for at least a week, probably more. I was a good student in general, As and Bs, very conscientious,  and I felt like an utter failure in life, ashamed to be alive from that experience.
The other, and I’ll have to go back to my journals and reconstruct this, was when I turned 16. All I remember of that is pretty pink packages sitting next to the fireplace, my mother silently creeping around the house, my father lurking somewhere in the house, an angry, dark presence, not wanting to see me or speak a word to me. At the end of the day, I sat down in front of the pretty gifts and opened them, as tears flooded down. It was the saddest memory I have.  Becoming a woman. I felt as though I were being punished for growing up and becoming a woman.
The other issues that sparked blowups that I can recall were leaving crumbs on the kitchen counter, not finishing a project—a dollhouse we were building and furnishing together became a source of terrible strife. My hands shook during daily piano practice because I knew he was listening and would be quite angry if I didn’t perform well. Every chore I did I constantly double and triple checked myself to make sure I made no mistakes, which would come back to haunt me in those invasive yelling sessions.
On the flip side, when my father was pleased with me, he loved me like he loved no one else. He was so proud when I accomplished something. He loved hugging me and treating me as though I were his princess and confidant. Only I never knew when the loving would change to anger. I was constantly seeking this love and blaming myself when I did “something wrong” that caused him to fly into a depression or an angry spell. His moods were my fault, and I was never disabused of this belief.
Life with him was like walking on eggshells with tiny soft patches in between.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

A Post from the "Old Blog": Thoughts on Hope


I've just started reading this health column and found a commentary on CNN about depression: Is There Hope for Life with Depression

What this psychiatrist says about hopelessness and therapeutic nihilism struck a chord and challenged some of my darker thoughts, for example, that instead of being afraid of having to remain on medications for the rest of my life, I should practice gratitude that I have found relief, no matter how it happens! I’ve felt ashamed that I could not handle my depression “on my own” and that meds have helped so significantly. I suppose I learned from a young age that anything outside my self-will that helps me feel better is a “crutch.” But this is a whole different way of looking at the struggle–why shouldn’t I be grateful at how my life has turned around since I began taking meds? Yes, it took a few tries to come up with the right concoction, and the most recent switch has been the most beneficial.

I'm not implying that therapy hasn’t helped either–it has. It is overwhelmingly assuring that my practitioner is there for me when I can’t handle things on my own and when it all becomes a bit too much for my meds to control.  Expressing with her helps lessen the sense of helplessness and hopelessness, allows me to see another perspective to events, and take in a different point of view than the harsh, angry inner parent in my head. Therapy has taught me that sometimes these voices are simply tapes that spin around and all I need to do is push the stop button for a while. And that’s not all–EMDR helps to release the stuck energy, as does hypnosis, and past-life regression therapy has probably been the most beneficial, as I have been blessed to experience the bigger picture. As kooky as the concept may sound, I urge an open mind and giving it a chance--some matters are too spiritual, universal, and all-encompassing to be dealt with in a conscious and conventional matter. Especially when an  issue seems to be permanently stuck, immovable like a thousand-ton boulder; for example, a pattern or addiction that one can’t break despite treatment. 

Another thing that helps move one in the direction of hope is compassion toward yourself in knowing that some issues are too overwhelming to handle alone. And that sometimes, you do need to save yourself at the expense of a relationship, family, friend, or lover. When you step back and leave the person alone, it might just be the best thing you’ve done for you AND the other. And maybe, someday, when you’re ready,  have the appropriate boundaries in place for your safety, and have healed enough, you can invite that person back into your life.
 
And then, spirituality. That’s a HUGE source of hope. Only one can’t be “prescribed” spirituality–I’ve found that spirituality finds you when you are open to it. And there’s no way to explain how to be “open” to it, either. It just is what and when it is, unfortunately. Mine came in the most unexpected disguise, something completely out of my normal range of living, and I thank my higher power for it every day.

Please don't interpret that in expressing these "tips," I’m standing on a high horse and saying everything is perfect in my world. It is most definitely not.  I like to say I’m “stable” on the meds, and I’m physically able to hold down a full-time job, which I wasn’t even a year ago. And if I slip and stay away from therapy or support for too long, it’s back down the shaft again. It’s a life of constant vigilance, and I don’t think there truly is a cure–I agree with the good doctor. It probably is like living with diabetes–manage your "dis-ease" and you can get through life reasonably well and happily. 

One Girl as a Projection

A sad fact of this world is that oftentimes people see you how they WANT to see you, not as you really are. I suspect my family of origin was unconsciously looking for one member to place all their guilt, anger, and shame on--the scapegoat as it were. They wanted to see this member as a sick individual, the one who gives away the family secrets, the one who shuts the rest out, who doesn't listen, is unreasonable and one-sided in her thinking, and shuns the others for no apparent reason. So, here is the sensitive daughter, the frightened, timid member, and they projected all of this onto her and ensured it played out exactly as they had imagined. She has lived up to their "expectations." A fulfilled prophesy. Funny how that works, huh?

 

I became the ogre who shunned the others. The bad girl who hurt them all. The guilty one.

I have become this nightmare of a horrible person to them; I am a mix of all the negative traits these family members individually possessed, rolled into one unpalatable package.

A lifetime of being pushed and shoved and having others' thoughts, feelings, opinions stuffed down my throat, well, yes, I did FINALLY stand up for myself--after forty fucking years! How dare I stand up for myself in this family? Feel my own emotions, speak my own views, have my own opinions? How dare I defy the status quo? Change and not be the pushover I always have been? BETRAYAL! BITCH! SICK!

Only no one, except five people, view me this way. Everyone else knows a loving, sweet, sensitive, funny, yet hurting, aching human being. A thoroughly vulnerable, mistake-making, imperfect human.  If I were such an ogre, wouldn't I have been abandoned by friends and husband long ago? Would my mate have stayed with me despite everything for twenty years and counting? Would wonderful recovery siblings have continually encouraged me during my struggles? Would many of my relationships still have shifted and evolved yet remained strong and comforting? Would my work colleagues still have donated amazingly generous amounts of time when I ran out of sick days during my maternity leave? Would a few cousins still determinedly keep an eye on me to make sure I am okay? If I were so nasty, so horrid, such a sick individual, wouldn't be I completely alone by now?

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

 I found this at 12 step radio http://12stepradio.com/
I thought I was the black sheep of my family - till I got to my first meeting, then I found the rest of my flock...
When you find the right recovery group for you, this is exactly how you'll feel.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Blogging is "sick"?

 My husband sweetly offered to take the baby and sent me out to the Starbucks cafe, bless his soul. I wanted to write a bit and he understood that.
DH was trying to protect me from the nastiness the family's discovery of my previous blog-and he did a good job. I asked him point blank what was said to him, though, (my husband was dealing with them all so I could focus on my newborn and the ppd), and apparently my brother-in-law said my blog was "sick." Sick? Do you think it was sick? Writing my feelings and impressions in my own web journal is sick? My sister said it was one-sided, without giving my father a chance to defend himself. Well, this is the man who denies any abuse whatsoever. And since when is anyone allowed to comment on and judge someone else's feelings and experiences? My feelings are my own, not to be tossed at anyone's feet to be judged and shamed. Now my mother is telling me that I shouldn't be writing personal things on the web and indirectly implying that this whole business was my fault. And that what happened when I was young was the responsibility of "all of us." Since when was a child responsible for her abuse? I watched my own child as I thought this; I looked in her innocent eyes and the absurdity of that remark made me want to cry.
We had a wonderful visit with my in laws this weekend; everyone was happy and excited about our child. She has wonderful grandparents and great aunts. However, the beauty of this visit brought home the fact that this isn't the case in my own family. I wanted peace with them so much. I tried so hard. And then found out they were spying and tracking me on the web and used what I wrote to "prove" what a sick and demented person I am. My father then said he feels sorry for my daughter because she won't know him. What an ego! How dare he bring my daughter into this. She is innocent. I love her. She is mine, and what she gets to experience is up to me and her, not this man.
I will  never again censor myself just so family secrets can be kept under wraps or because I am shamed into it. This is my medium and I thrive here. I KNOW I am not the only person to keep a personal blog, for crying out loud, and I hope to make friends with people like myself in this forum.
It does feel good to be sitting here, typing my feelings out again. I've missed blogging.

Monday, May 2, 2011

A Mother's Day Tribute

 The entire process of pregnancy, birth, and postpartum came as a shock. I was not prepared. I did not know the harsh truth about the earthiness of the process, the physicality of it, the discomfort and pain. These things are closely guarded secrets and perhaps I am breaking the womanly code of silence by admitting I was thoroughly miserable during this supposed best time of my life, but I do believe, in retrospect, I would have coped better had I understood the realities. As it was and still is, I struggle with anger, fear, and resentment, along with an overwhelming sense of trauma. Don't get me wrong, I adore my child and do not regret bringing her into the world, which amazes me after "suffering" a Western, medicalized birth, but that is the POWER of a mother's love, a God-given gift indeed.
The idea of passing along a genetic and experiential heritage was a huge factor in my decision to play "Russian roulette" with my fertility at this stage of my life. Most influential in my thinking was my father-in-law's struggle with an extremely quick and debilitating form of Parkinson's disease. We had waited nearly twenty years to reproduce, thinking we would all live forever and reproduction really wasn't a priority in any case. Now that I seem how much my daughter looks so like her grandfather, it humbles me to have thought that way. To see his pleasure and curiosity the past two days has made me realize how precious and crucial are the physical sacrifices women make in carrying and birthing their children. The reward, it seems to me, is after the birth; way after the whole affair is done and over with. And I still don't feel that happy yet, mostly due to suffering a nasty case of postpartum depression consisting of suicidal thoughts and a deep blackness that an extra twenty mg of Prozac only helps to part. But when I see my husband with his daughter, how he coos over her and his face lights up, and my parents- in-law's smiles and eagerness to accept this child, I feel that my suffering was worthwhile--undoubtedly the most worthwhile action I have ever taken. I wish I could FEEL more, though; I am still numb and walk in a fog, but it hit me over the weekend that what I have done will live on long after me, and will carry my daughter's grandfather's and her father's physical and spiritual legacy on long after they have passed. In this, I feel more spiritually at peace than I ever have.
God bless all mothers for the pain they have suffered and the sacrifices they have made to ensure the legacies of their loved ones carry on. Amen.