More on different types of abuse...and hanging on by a thread

I'm amazed at the traffic to this blog since November 18! I had no idea people would be interested this particular topic.

I was feeling a bit uncomfortable about having classified covert incest as "domestic violence" because the common image of domestic violence is wife beating or other abusive actions one spouse perpetrates against the other. But after I read a variety of the posts linked to Wanderlust's blog, I am now glad I did.

The comparison between emotional and physical abuse is always in the back of my mind, and I've read this on other blogs, too: which is worse--physical scars or emotional ones? Being physically assaulted or emotionally manipulated, terrified, and frozen? I can't make a choice on this. I'm not sure there's even a reason to choose.  But some people say that the pain of a physical beating leaves more hurt and humiliation than the internal scars of emotional abuse. Others say at least one can get help getting away from physical violence; you have the proof of abuse, whereas emotional abuse is usually more subtle and harder to prove.

I haven't been the victim of physical abuse, so I cannot speak with any true authority--the only time I came close was when one of my actions caused an ex-boyfriend to slam his fist through a wall...that was close enough for me. I saw how this boy's father physically beat his son and I was out of there; perhaps recognizing a definite boundary between the physical and the emotional because at least I had witnessed physical boundaries in my family of origin.

And when it comes to sexual trauma, I am caught in the middle on that one, too. To me, sexual abuse incorporates the most insidious aspects of both physical and emotional abuse. The physical act of being penetrated, violated, against one's will; the pain, the outward scar, it's all there. But the emotional damage--the long-lasting fear and guilt, the inability to talk about the event out of culturally imposed shame; that's devastating as well.

As I've probably mentioned before, I've experienced two episodes in this realm, but not like the typical rapes and traumas one hears about. One with a relative as a child. The second, really, (and I might have mentioned this before, too), was what my therapist called an anal rape. (sorry, I know this is a delicate subject). It's very convoluted because I was in a situation I had agreed to, had wanted, but I had expressly told the person that anal sex was a NO. And the bottom line was that he did it anyway, without permission at all. When I realized what was going on, I was in terrible pain and told him to stop, which, to his credit, he did. However, he denied knowing, admitting what he had done, which is not to his credit. And only said he was surprised he got in as far as he did, as he held my tear-stained face between his hands. A cold kind of intimacy.  Now, this is the one memory that haunts me because it was the element that I have in common with other victims of domestic violence...allowing a man to do to me something that I don't want or deserve, and let that be okay. To even forgive simply because he acted intimate for a short time after the act. That intimacy left me craving more of that type of intimacy, further allowing myself to accept things that hurt me emotionally or made me uncomfortable. It was a vicious cycle that is continuing to this day.

And this is why I identify with victims of domestic violence. I believe that my childhood covert incest experience left me open to accepting violations, no matter how mundane or serious, and to become addicted to the short-term intimacy after the pain; addicted to the drama, the wild roller coaster ride of intimacy initiated by negativity.

Honestly, I am having a rough time right now, struggling with this. My desire to stir up drama and the craving for sexual intimacy has led me to an almost devastating action; luckily, I was saved by some one's cool head and logical thinking. This is so hard; it hurts all the time. I am up nights even when I have the opportunity for sleep, trying to help myself down from the edge of the cliff, but the edge is beckoning and is so tempting. I know the feeling of sitting at a table contemplating a bottle of whiskey, knowing the consequences, but the smell and the yearning for just a sip is too much to bear... I'm hanging on by a thread these days.