I had my therapy appointment this morning. I was telling her about my sense of shame and disgust over my relationship in Thailand. She asked me why I felt shame, and I launched into a laundry list of reasons. I realized that what happened to me in my childhood and in Thailand shaped my future relationships, I said. I equated love with pain. I felt broken by it.
She let me ramble on for a few minutes before gently interrupting me. She said, “You say you feel ashamed, and yet, you’re giving me abstract reasons why you feel that way. How about something concrete?” I made a joke, but inside, I was scrambling. I didn’t know what she meant, exactly. Or, more to the point, I didn’t want to go there. I stammered, hemmed, and hawed. She finally said, “Why don’t you tell me what happened in Thailand?”
Taking a deep breath, I did. I started telling her pretty much what I wrote in my blog entry about that relationship. I recited it as if I’d told the story a million times before, rushing through it because I was anxious to be done with it.
At one point, she stopped me and asked what I was feeling. I said shame and disgust without any hesitation. After a moment of thought, I said haltingly, “Sadness.” She asked me why I felt sadness. I couldn’t explain it to her, though I was in tears. She said she felt sad because that girl in the hotel had such cognitive dissonance, she could make herself believe that she could go to a hotel and not have the things that normally happen in a hotel happen to her.
I’m not expressing it well. I had told her about how I knew about date rape. I knew that I shouldn’t have gone with him. I knew I knew I knew. And yet, because of my loneliness, because of my desperation to be loved, because of my fucked-up childhood and my fucked-up notion of love, marriage, and sex, I denied what I knew to be true.
When she articulated the sadness she felt, with such a look of empathy in her eyes, I felt the shame and disgust melt away from me. All that was left was a deep, aching, almost unbearably sadness that twisted my heart.
I continued with my recitation. As I did, the sadness faded again, and the shame and the disgust returned. I found that I could not look at her as I told my tale. She knew what had happened because we had talked about it before, but I had never told her the details.
I stuttered, and my voice faltered as I told her what I considered to be the difficult parts. The shameful parts. The disgusting parts. My voice would flatten out until she would interrupt me again to gauge what I was feeling. She wouldn’t let me retreat into my defense of numbness and depression.
I can recall that my voice was flat for our sessions for years. I hated the sound of it, but I couldn’t do anything to change it. It took too much effort to liven it up as I did in the real world.
I told her that I didn’t want to be that person again. I couldn’t.
Back to the sadness. She gently prodded me to look behind my automatic response of shame and disgust. Each time, sadness and vulnerability shimmered up at me.
My therapist was right. That girl in Thailand had no core to her. She was bruised and battered from a childhood in which a family appeared one way, but was actually another. She learned that her noes did not matter very much, or rather, not at all. In addition, she had learned from the love of her life that she simply wasn’t enough. She learned from ‘her people’ that they didn’t consider her their own.
So, when she went to Thailand, she was especially vulnerable to a guy like Marty who was tough and macho and predatory, all at the same time. She was a sad, lonely, battered outsider whose self-esteem was worn to a nub.
When I let down my defenses and let go of the automatic responses of shame and disgust, I feel incredibly sad for that girl. And that scares the shit out of me. Why? I am not exactly sure. I also feel defenseless and vulnerable, stripped of any armor that would protect me from outside assaults.
I couldn’t say no. I didn’t feel I had the right. That’s why I withdrew into my shell, when I wasn’t putting myself in danger by engaging in risky behavior. I am listening to the final song I will be posting at the end of this entry, and I am crying. I am crying for that girl in Thailand who was broken against her will. I am crying for the little girl whose childhood was filled with nightmares instead of peaceful sleep. I am crying for the young woman who decided that it was better to be safe and frozen than to live. I am crying for the woman who thought hurting herself, punishing herself for her imaginary sins was only fair and just.
My heart is hurting with an almost unbearable pain.
My therapist told me that when I think about Thailand or my childhood, I should look under the disgust and shame. She said they may be there, but that I should always assume that underneath it all is sadness.
Sadness. So much scarier than disgust and shame. Sadness. It’s a real feeling that is deep, raw, painful, and it fucking hurts. Loathing, disgust, and shame are all more distant feelings. It’s hard to explain, but the loathing, disgust, and shame are almost external. They are like coats I can slip on. Sure, they have barbed wires that dig into my flesh, but they are still not a part of me. The sadness, on the other hand, is in here (that would be my heart). It courses through my veins alongside my blood, and it hurts.
With sadness comes a terrible fragility. I feel like an open wound, being poked and prodded without remorse. Without my shell, without my shields, without my wall, I have to feel all the sadness, the pain, the loneliness, the hurt, and the agony that I had tucked into the corner of my mind. If I let go of the shame and the disgust and the self-loathing, I would have to acknowledge and accept some heartbreaking truths. The betrayal by someone I was supposed to trust. The sudden knowledge that a loved one was not to be trusted. The violation of my body, my soul, my heart, and, yes, my mind of that same trusted person.
You see, it is much easier to focus all the loathing, shame, and disgust on myself. In a way, it was oddly comforting because it meant I had some control of what had happened. When I said I should have been able to fight my abuser, I really meant, I desperately fucking wish I could have fought off my abuser, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t fight him. I couldn’t fight Marty any more than I did. I did what I could.
My therapist gave me an assignment for this week. She wants me to do active visualization with that girl in Thailand. She wants me to ask the girl what she needed at any point during the trip, and then provide it for her. I agreed. I am good at active visualization, and I trust my therapist.
As I left her office, I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness envelop me. It has lingered on and off for most of the day, but I am OK with it because it is a good kind of sad. It means that I am finally, finally, ready to face my past in preparation for embracing my future.
All new life is precious and care. Especially new psychological life.
So take extra good care of yourself right now.
Your strength and conviction to work through your feelings about what has happened to you are an inspiration.
And no beating yourself up!
If you can’t hug your little girl yet, know that others have been for a while.
It’s like I told you yesterday. I’m glad to see you’re feeling “sad” instead of “ashamed” or “disgusted.” Sad, though so often perceived as a negative emotion, is a productive emotion that can lead to positive results. Shame and disgust just fester.
You are a powerful writer. This brought tears to my eyes.
I well know the sadness that you speak of. The kind that’s been hiding for years behind flippancy, anger, a good face. Feeling it is hard, but good.
Remember that it’s an ongoing process. For me, at least, the discovery of that sadness didn’t happen just once, but several times. I would block it out, and then rediscover it. If that’s the case for you, don’t blame yourself, don’t judge yourself. You haven’t stopped healing or lost courage; it’s just part of the process.
Your therapist sounds really good – I’m glad of that. I love mine and she’s helped me so much.
Sending white light your way.
OK so just out of curiosity, because I thought I was alone…How many of you have had to re-remember things? In the previous post I mentioned this to Minna and saw a few comments about that and I am kind of stunned that it seems to be…typical?
If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, then I’ve got my hand raised, Whabs.
Alex, thank you. I need to remember that.
Kali, thank you, too. I hope you can learn from my mistakes!
whabs, I’m trying to be gentle to her. I humbly suggest the same advice to you.
Kel, I agree, but it is so fucking hard to be real.
Betsy, Thank you. You do understand. I would remember, and then I would shove it back again because I just couldn’t deal.
My therapist is excellent. She doesn’t let me get away with shit, and yet, she is very compassionate. I take some of your white light, and I reflect some back at you.
whabs, I think it’s a whole lot more common than anyone realizes.
Kel, welcome to the club. Hugs all around.
So, when she went to Thailand, she was especially vulnerable to a guy like Marty who was tough and macho and predatory, all at the same time. She was a sad, lonely, battered outsider whose self-esteem was worn to a nub.
And creeps like him keep grinding away at it, because they fear a woman with self esteem will reject them.
I’m so sorry for what you went through, Minna. But he, not you, committed the sins of commission.
Gregory, I am tearing up again because the first sentence you wrote is so true, and it reminds me of how truly vulnerable I was at the time.
I am working on believing your last sentence. I am not quite there yet.
Sorry I’ve been away for so many days.
Thank you so much for sharing this with all of us. It is really courageous of you. Also – your therapist ROCKS!!!
I read your first post about this, and will go back to read the other related ones. I’ve been thinking a lot about what to say, and I needed some time to write it out.
You are not to blame for your innocent ignorance. Although you knew you were walking into a horror movie, you were still innocent and ignorant because you didn’t know how to escape. At that time, the only escape hatch you could see may have been death. Because you had been taught (under threat) that good girls didn’t try to escape or fight back. They simply closed their eyes and ‘thought of England.’ In the most twisted way imaginable.
That little girl is now surrounded by different people. People who will not threaten her, and will allow her to protect herself when threatened. A few of us would jump in and crack a few deserving skulls if needed. It would be ‘like chocolate.’ I am certainly in your corner 🙂
You’re not alone in your shame/sadness/rage: I am also ashamed of letting someone in close to me for SEVEN years who continually took advantage of the fact that I didn’t know how to defend myself. I, too wasn’t allowed ‘NO’ as a child. I, too, had to live under the whims of an abuser who was supposed to protect me. My first overt attempt at self-defense was met with physical violence, and from then on, the threat of further violence. I am also saddened and filled with rage over my inability to defend myself. But I am learning to accept that I didn’t know better at the time either.
Neither did you. All my love to you.
Touche` and point well taken.
My therapist told me many, many times: “The only way out is through.” And as we know all too well, through sucks. Sitting in the yuck and feeling what’s underneath it all is hard, hard work. That you are doing it now is an indication that your soul is ready to work through it. Even if, and maybe especially because, it is rough.
Your words are powerful, this is clear. And perhaps you are just now starting to give yourself credit for that and all the good that you are and even more, the freedom to let that part out. Trust that we see you for who you are. And that it’s lovely.
Keep talking to that young girl. She needs to hear you. (My coach suggested I get a little stuffed animal and talk to it as if it were the younger me. That has actually helped me quite a bit. You might try it sometime even if it feels dorky.)
Peace to you as you work through this. You’ll do it.
Lisa
aka MC on BJ
Choolie, there you are! Glad to see you commenting again on my blog. And, yes, my therapist does, indeed, rock.
Horror movie: I can’t help but thinking, I heard the music, and I walked outside by myself towards the spooky sounds. In other words, duh, don’t do that. I am trying to be more forgiving of that girl, but it’s not easy. We are talking, and I am trying to give her what she needs.
I am so thankful to have friends like you backing me up (especially since you know Leopard Fist and its cousin, the even deadlier Leopard Fang).
I’ll tell you what. I’ll work on letting go of my shame as you work on letting go of yours. We’ll work on it together.
whabs, damn right.
Lisa, hi, welcome to my blog. It’s always great to see another BJ member commenting here. Your words are wise and so very true. I have tried to escape from facing this for so long and in so many ways, and here I am, running smack dab up against it again.
I actually like your coach’s idea. I have stuffed animals, and maybe I will get a little doll who looks kinda like me, too. Thank you for your support. Feel free to comment any time.
[…] had all this shit inside me, you see. All these forbidden feelings and half-suppressed memories than needed to get out. When I first started having the flashbacks, […]