05/12/2015
This afternoon I had an interesting, but very eye opening meeting/catch-up with our peer group facilitator. I had met with him yesterday after our peer group session. I was actually very intrigued by him and his story. It wasn't just his story, but it was how he had overcome his past trauma and was able to use it to help others.
Years ago before this last unfortunate experience, I had always hoped to be an advocate for those that were survivors of incest or rape. I wanted to use my past, and my stories/testimony, to help others know that they were not alone and there were those that understood them and were compassionate about the struggle. I wanted to set-up programs to help people, especially teenagers and young adults. I wanted those that suffered like myself to know that they were loved, they were believed, even when and if they did not have a voice, there were those like myself that spoke for the spoken.
Most of all, I wanted to be free to tell my story without shame, without fear of judgement. I would not have either because I would finally be at a place where I was comfortable with myself and in my own skin that I would not be embarrassed or with shame.
While I never pursued any of these goals once I left New York, the dreams of doing such never left my thoughts, heart, or soul.
Then the one thing I thought would never happen to me again did. I decided to do something that made absolutely no sense. Quick fix that didn't happen and should have never crossed my mind. I can't go back and change the choices I made. I definitely cannot change what had happened.
I tried for months to escape in my mind. I tried for months to pretend what was happening was not really happening. He told me to suck it up and pretend that we were in a relationship and I would be able to deal. Only until it became unbearable and I couldn't take the pain of chokes, hits, or overly harsh thrusts did I finally quit fighting. It was that day I stopped fighting.
That day was my birthday, my 38th birthday. I had begged him to not force me to do anything. I pleaded and even promised I would let him do whatever he wanted any other day, as long as it was not on my birthday. He refused. I was his and I was not going to waste his time. He "kindly" reminded me that I had all the control. If I decided to resist, I was making the decision to accept that I might have to be choked or hit, maybe even tied up. If I decided to not answer his messages or meet with him, I was making the decision that I might come home one day with gifts left at my front door or to Spencer having opened a piece of mail from my "boyfriend."
Even though I had been though so many other nightmare interactions with him, this one seemed to change how I began to deal with him from that point on. Even though I had submitted to him and fought back, he was the most rough this day. This was the day I could not hold back the tears. This is the day I was completely sober, and because I was present without any inhibitors like alcohol or substances he added, the only escape was to leave my mind and body. As much as I tried and the more I tried, it seemed the more he worked to get a response from me. He wanted to hear and see me cry. He wanted to hear me beg for him to stop. He wanted me to try to resist. I knew this, so I tried to stay quiet and take it.
The shame I felt was unbearable. It was a very bright clear day. The way he parked my van left my back window almost in direct line up with the sun. I was so hot, sweat from him dripping and rubbing against my skin. Dirty could not explain how I felt. I had to escape. I had to run, scream, fight. But I couldn't. While he forced a kiss on my lips, he became angry because I wouldn't kiss him back. With much hesitation because of the pain he unleashed on me at that point, I hesitantly kissed him back. As he kissed my neck and collar bone, I stared up at the crisp blue sky and pretended I was at home cooking for the party I would now be late for. I repeatedly told myself I was watching a television show while I was cooking and that each of my gasps out from the pain was actually my gasps at what I was watching on television.
When he finished, after he released in me, he said, "Happy Birthday my Shelly."
While he drove me back to the parking lot we originally met at, I stayed in the back, sitting up trembling. My legs would not stop shaking.
I kept telling myself to be strong, it was not okay what was happening.
Before he left he reminded me that I needed to get it together or else I would destroy my family and I should be thankful for a wonderful birthday gift.
Even though there were numerous encounters before this one on my birthday, none of the rest were to any comparison. Not that they were not also painful, hurtful, or disgraceful, but I had become more complacent, more submissive for the most part. The evening of my birthday I drunk very heavily. That evening after the activities, my husband found out I had once again met him. He was furious, angry, even rightfully upset, felt betrayed, and sad. He could not understand why I would allow myself to meet with him once again. He didn't understand and couldn't understand the dilemma I was facing. He could not. He was not dealing with constant threats, blackmail, and physical punishment.
From that day on I decided I had no choice but to "put on my big girl panties on" and deal. I decided I would go with the motion that I cheated, had an affair, and as he put it, was my "lover."
Unfortunately, instead of things becoming easier to deal with, they became worse. He would have me meet with him more frequently. If he picked me up to go somewhere he would immediately make me drink. If I refused, he would get angrier. He became more rough with the sex, more experimental, and more risky.
I do have to admit that a part of my pain with dealing with this situation is the fact that I question if I had grown to have some type, some sort of feelings to this guy. There were times I will admit that his constant ramblings about being grateful that he "cared" about me so much and would not do anything to "hurt" me or put me in danger if I would only stop fighting back made me more fucked in the head. He kept telling me if I just stopped resisting and surrendered, it would become more natural. The more I forced myself to "pretend" when faced with the encounters, the more it became unreal and the more I became lost in this person I no longer recognized, understood, or even respected. I had completely shut down the person I once was. At the point I decided to stop fighting, the times he was not rough and forceful with me, it wasn't painful. Each of those times he reminder me how "nice and tender" he was when I submitted to him and accepted my role as his "whore and sex slave." No matter how hard I try to understand the feelings I had when I did, emotionally I cannot. Intellectually it is very clear to me. He reminded me of this constantly. Tho this day, I don't understand my mixed range of thoughts on any of this situation. I hated him (and still do) for what he did and how he mind fucked my head.
One moment he would tell me how lucky I was that it was him that was raping me. Anyone else would force me to have sex with others, hurt me, make me work for sex, and not mind hitting me without leaving a mark. What made it worse is he would then have sex with me and wouldn't be rough. He would actually tell me he loved me and really cared about me and tell me I was a good girlfriend.
The problem is that at these moments I could hear what he was saying, but it was as if I was watching a movie. I would repeat in my head, "only a little longer and it will be over." When I couldn't take it anymore and my guild of what was going on became too much for me, I would remind myself not to fight back, because if I started to beg him to stop or tried to push him off of me he would go in deeper.
It would be those times when Spencer and I would be at odds or he really wasn't talking with me (I usually thought by this time because he had found out what had happened and was upset I did not go to him or the police the first time it happened) that I would get frustrated, sad, and upset that my husband whom I loved (and still do) was not showing me the love and support I needed while unbeknownst to him all of it was still going on, but much worse. I needed to receive the attention from Spencer and it hurt that this man that admitted to repeatedly raping me and threatening to continue was giving me more attention than Spencer at times.
So, I guess back to the original question of whether I want to get better/accept help. Yes! Yes, yes, yes I want to get better and accept help!
I am so tired of being tired. I am tired of losing hope and wanting to give up. I don't know how to ask for help or when to. It took me over six months to finally check myself into the hospital and accept that I needed to get back on medication. I have tried more times than I have admitted to kill myself. Yes, alcohol was a way to block out the flashbacks and help me sleep. But many times I prayed I would not wake, especially if I could find the right medication to mix with the alcohol.
I honestly do not want to die. I simply am tired. Tired of fighting, tired of trying, just plain tired.
BUT, I do want to get better and accept help!
The shame I felt was unbearable. It was a very bright clear day. The way he parked my van left my back window almost in direct line up with the sun. I was so hot, sweat from him dripping and rubbing against my skin. Dirty could not explain how I felt. I had to escape. I had to run, scream, fight. But I couldn't. While he forced a kiss on my lips, he became angry because I wouldn't kiss him back. With much hesitation because of the pain he unleashed on me at that point, I hesitantly kissed him back. As he kissed my neck and collar bone, I stared up at the crisp blue sky and pretended I was at home cooking for the party I would now be late for. I repeatedly told myself I was watching a television show while I was cooking and that each of my gasps out from the pain was actually my gasps at what I was watching on television.
When he finished, after he released in me, he said, "Happy Birthday my Shelly."
While he drove me back to the parking lot we originally met at, I stayed in the back, sitting up trembling. My legs would not stop shaking.
I kept telling myself to be strong, it was not okay what was happening.
Before he left he reminded me that I needed to get it together or else I would destroy my family and I should be thankful for a wonderful birthday gift.
Even though there were numerous encounters before this one on my birthday, none of the rest were to any comparison. Not that they were not also painful, hurtful, or disgraceful, but I had become more complacent, more submissive for the most part. The evening of my birthday I drunk very heavily. That evening after the activities, my husband found out I had once again met him. He was furious, angry, even rightfully upset, felt betrayed, and sad. He could not understand why I would allow myself to meet with him once again. He didn't understand and couldn't understand the dilemma I was facing. He could not. He was not dealing with constant threats, blackmail, and physical punishment.
From that day on I decided I had no choice but to "put on my big girl panties on" and deal. I decided I would go with the motion that I cheated, had an affair, and as he put it, was my "lover."
Unfortunately, instead of things becoming easier to deal with, they became worse. He would have me meet with him more frequently. If he picked me up to go somewhere he would immediately make me drink. If I refused, he would get angrier. He became more rough with the sex, more experimental, and more risky.
I do have to admit that a part of my pain with dealing with this situation is the fact that I question if I had grown to have some type, some sort of feelings to this guy. There were times I will admit that his constant ramblings about being grateful that he "cared" about me so much and would not do anything to "hurt" me or put me in danger if I would only stop fighting back made me more fucked in the head. He kept telling me if I just stopped resisting and surrendered, it would become more natural. The more I forced myself to "pretend" when faced with the encounters, the more it became unreal and the more I became lost in this person I no longer recognized, understood, or even respected. I had completely shut down the person I once was. At the point I decided to stop fighting, the times he was not rough and forceful with me, it wasn't painful. Each of those times he reminder me how "nice and tender" he was when I submitted to him and accepted my role as his "whore and sex slave." No matter how hard I try to understand the feelings I had when I did, emotionally I cannot. Intellectually it is very clear to me. He reminded me of this constantly. Tho this day, I don't understand my mixed range of thoughts on any of this situation. I hated him (and still do) for what he did and how he mind fucked my head.
One moment he would tell me how lucky I was that it was him that was raping me. Anyone else would force me to have sex with others, hurt me, make me work for sex, and not mind hitting me without leaving a mark. What made it worse is he would then have sex with me and wouldn't be rough. He would actually tell me he loved me and really cared about me and tell me I was a good girlfriend.
The problem is that at these moments I could hear what he was saying, but it was as if I was watching a movie. I would repeat in my head, "only a little longer and it will be over." When I couldn't take it anymore and my guild of what was going on became too much for me, I would remind myself not to fight back, because if I started to beg him to stop or tried to push him off of me he would go in deeper.
It would be those times when Spencer and I would be at odds or he really wasn't talking with me (I usually thought by this time because he had found out what had happened and was upset I did not go to him or the police the first time it happened) that I would get frustrated, sad, and upset that my husband whom I loved (and still do) was not showing me the love and support I needed while unbeknownst to him all of it was still going on, but much worse. I needed to receive the attention from Spencer and it hurt that this man that admitted to repeatedly raping me and threatening to continue was giving me more attention than Spencer at times.
So, I guess back to the original question of whether I want to get better/accept help. Yes! Yes, yes, yes I want to get better and accept help!
I am so tired of being tired. I am tired of losing hope and wanting to give up. I don't know how to ask for help or when to. It took me over six months to finally check myself into the hospital and accept that I needed to get back on medication. I have tried more times than I have admitted to kill myself. Yes, alcohol was a way to block out the flashbacks and help me sleep. But many times I prayed I would not wake, especially if I could find the right medication to mix with the alcohol.
I honestly do not want to die. I simply am tired. Tired of fighting, tired of trying, just plain tired.
BUT, I do want to get better and accept help!
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