In my heart, in my soul I know I am not an alcoholic. And no, I am not in denial. What I will accept and have accepted is that I am truly an abuser of alcohol. I will also admit that if I did not go get the intensive help that I did when I did, more likely than not, I would have either been dead trying to kill myself with a mixture of alcohol and prescribed medication, or dead from alcohol poisoning within a week. Which ever way, it was going to be one or the other because I had finally lost the will to live.
It didn't matter all the wonderful people and good things going on in my life. Those people, my family, and true friends that supported me, and the positives were not as strong as the evil and demons I continuously suffered with everyday.
I did really try hard to work through the feelings I had with my trauma. The flashbacks, nightmares, dissociate episodes quickly increased. I was (and still am) participating in individual therapy, an intensive outpatient program,, and attempting to make at least, the minimum, my home group meetings on Tuesday and Saturday evenings. This schedule worked well for me most of the time because I had opportunities to share what was going on in my head without feeling I was being judged. It just wasn't enough.
Anytime I was out driving, I would play the "bingo slingo" game my daughters came up with. Because the site of white work truck vehicles triggers me and I immediately get flooded with flashbacks, playing the game would distract me for the majority of the time, especially when I consciously would begin the game immediately once I stepped out the door. If I was with Spencer and/or with both or with one of the girls, the game was exciting. By myself, it was a matter of simply being able to drive to work, school, and any errands needing to be done for the family.
I was afraid to go out. If there was a reason I needed to leave that wasn't planned, my anxiety quickly increased.
Before this craziness happened, I considered myself to be very energetic, active, involved, focused, and clear minded. I absolutely loved being in the community and schools volunteering my time and contributing positively. Unfortunately as the craziness progressed, encounters increased and became more violent, I lost that energy, that sense of self, sense of confidence, sense of feeling accomplished.
Most of the time I felt like I was in a movie, playing a character with a story line that was very much fictional and created by a person who was very demented in the mind. What was happening was and felt to unreal to be or have any truth, even the smallest truth.
For the majority of the months, especially as it kept going on, lying in my own bed became a trigger. Laying in my bed was only tolerable if Spencer held me tight as I wrapped my legs intertwined in his. A position that kept me feeling safe, loved, and secure. Nothing bad would happen to me because even the slightest move would wake Spencer up, even the slightest whimper.
My discomfort would increase as time passed. As the flashbacks and nightmares increased, unless I had alcohol in my system, sleeping in my bed was just too much for me to handle. Spencer would tell me that I would sleep all night, and if I took my prescribed medication, within a few minutes I would be fast asleep. The problem I was having is that I would wake up throughout the night startled by the images buried in my head of past encounters. I would remember jumping up sitting up in my bed, refusing to leave the bed. I would sometimes just re-wrap myself and intertwine my legs around Spencer's holding him tight while attempting to wake him enough so he would hold me tight again.
There came a point when I felt more safe, not as dirty sleeping in the living room on the couch. Always fully clothed. Most nights Spencer would sleep downstairs with me. In the beginning of me sleeping on the couch, Spencer would always do the same, without asking. Many nights I would remove the pillows and lye next to him. Sometimes sleep on top of him, in the same position my kids would fall asleep on us when they were little. He never ever complained. If his legs or arms would fall asleep, I would hear him moan in pain. I would try to move, but he would just hold me tighter. I am not sure when he decided, but I felt like he would continue allowing me to do this until I was ready to sleep in our bed.
Intimacy declined. Not because I didn't want to have any, more because of the shame. How dare I be intimate when I was secretly allowing a stranger to take from me what was so sacred and only should have been for my love. My temple was no longer mine. When Spencer did find out what was going on, the guilt, the shame was unbearable. It seemed like he wanted to love me and hold me tighter even more, even longer.
Because of Spencer's bouts with gout he needed to sleep in the bed so that he was more comfortable and able to stretch. I continued to sleep on the couch. Every once in a while he would ask me if he was a trigger, or if having sex was a trigger. He couldn't understand why I could not sleep in our bed. I just couldn't explain to him, especially those times when he had thought it stopped. I had gotten to the point when it was going on that I would no longer resist. I was tired of the threats, increased roughness, physical abuse, blackmail, and just being afraid what would happen the next time. With all my heart, I loved Spencer and have never stopped loving him. Spencer was and is my best friend. No matter anything that happened, no matter how upset he has gotten with me, he has always supported me, loved me and protected me. As much as their was all this shame, guilt, and regrets, it was a pain deep within my soul for the fat that another man continuously violated me.
I still sleep on the couch fully clothed. I often ask Spencer to sleep downstairs with me in the living room. Without hesitation, he does. Sleeping in the bed makes me feel so dirty. In our bedroom I can hear every possible noise there can be in our neighborhood. Cars driving by, doors opening and slamming shut, dogs barking, and the train, from the center of town. Every noise as clear as day, almost as if I had bionic ears. Downstairs in the living room, on the couch, I feel safer. Not as dirty. I still am not sure why at this point. I keep the television on all night. the sounds from outside are drowned out by the television. For the most part, sleep was, always is interrupted by vivid nightmares.
Alcohol from the beginning allowed me to become numb, to escape, to not have to deal with how horrible I felt, how dirty and disgusting I felt. I never had much tolerance to alcohol. I was/am what is considered a light weight.
During and being out in public causes me a lot of anxiety. Any white work vehicle would seem to bring on flashbacks very quickly. Once they start, they seem to take over. The times I had a busy schedule after work I would just have to sit with it and deal. I would act like everything was fine, keep a smile on my face, but inside I was in so much pain. By the time I was in a full blown panic I would feel as if I was watching myself going through the motions, but not really there. There would be times I would not remember going to the ABC store. When I would arrive home, it was almost as if I was on auto-play. I would do my Mom stuff, but most of the time, detached emotionally. Not the Mom I had always been in the past. If I had homework, I would be distracted by the flashbacks. It would be hard to focus. By the time I would get to the point I couldn't keep it together and tears would flood my eyes, I just would want the pain to go away. Even awake I could feel him on top of me, inside of me, smell his breath and feel it on me. And the words he would say to me would burn my ears. I would start itching all over and no matter how much I scratched, I couldn't stop. After many cigarettes I would give in and gulp down drinks knowing I would pass out soon enough.
My life was out of control. I felt like I was in a movie, a horror film that would never end, only get worse every day with no ending in sight. No where was safe anymore. Not my job, not stores, no my van, not even my home. All these spaces had been violated, all tainted. I was not safe anywhere. My life was being controlled by this crazy man whom I had no idea of his identity. I never knew when he was near, or when he was watching.
I never knew what to believe. Whenever I "submitted" to his every demand, the next time was worse than the previous. The forced alcoholic drinks mixed with that strange white powdery substance became stronger each time after. When he showed me the gun and made me hold it while screwing me and threatening me and my husband (what he would do to him), I gave u. I believed everything he said while at the same time not trusting him. I got to the point where I decided it was better to be drugged so I could not remember because that was better than reliving those encounters with the vivid flashbacks.
From February of 2014 until the Saturday before entering treatment, I attempted to take my life close to twenty times. From about late April until October 21st of this year, I had three attempts with truthfully more by trying to drink myself to death. I was tired of self-medicating, but I didn't know what else to do while trying to put on a mask and try to act like everything was okay. I started to isolate more and I only felt safe in my house, on my couch with all my clothes on. Getting out of bed and eating was becoming a chore and nearly impossible. There was and still is no sense of closure. He is this man unknown who appears when he chooses. I am always waiting and wondering if and when he will appear and make good on his promise. Enough became enough when living no longer seemed like an option anymore.
Now I am working to take back control of my life without numbing or escaping. Unfortunately, I have lost my sense of self and truly believing I am okay and able to continue my work to take back my life...I do not feel strong enough just yet. But, and yes I said but...I am working on it. Not day by day, but hour by hour...and many times minute by minute. Small steps, small steps.
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