My father's identity

In a dark place... My father befriended a few days ago one of abuse survivors & a prominent writer - Annie O Sullivan - I was shocked & scared, contacted her, she de-friended him & told all other survivors about him. So his identity is now in the open - here is his Facebook page and his name is Михаил Кубеев (Mikhail Kubeev in English letters). His books can be found on Amazon here & he is a well known writer in Russia. I've been protecting his identity to spare him his career. But it's now in the open - I HAD to tell others who he was - to protect them, and this can mean war. But I'm NOT hiding anymore! Though I think I want to lie down and stop existing right now...

Moving on...

I've noticed that my pain is mostly gone. There is not much left. Nothing much to vent about. Nothing that bothers me to the point that unless I write it out, I feel like I won't ever be whole again. Another stage is about to close. Another stage in a long list. 5 years of psychotherapy, 2 years of couple therapy, unfinished novel that brought me to remember who abused me, 2 months of being suicidal, 1 year of intensive body healing, 1+ year of writing a non-fiction book and blogging, a decision to divorce, and now - this. Happiness. Being in love again. Feeling life to the fullest. Most fears gone. Emotionally mostly stable. Going forward day by day, enjoying things I thought I would never even dream about to enjoy. Enjoying doing nothing. Enjoying being alone. Enjoying my long and curly hair. Enjoying simply listening. And the biggest victory - enjoying sex. Not enjoying it "again", but enjoying it for the first time - because I was close to a "robot" my entire life until this year. 

I know this topic is tabu. Especially when it deals with women. Even more so, when it deals with sexual abuse survivors. Still, more, when it deals with incest survivors. Not many want to talk about it, not many want to read about it. It is best left in the bedroom, or it's assumed that it doesn't exist. Yes, if you have been raped - you don't ever want to think about sex, let alone allow anyone to touch your body. You learn to disassociate from it and pretend your body is not yours, it's just a piece of wood laying there on the bed, with someone doing something to it - you are not even fully aware what, you simply watch from the distance, from the ceiling, or from the corner of the room. You participate even - but's it's all mechanic, learned behavior - it can even look passionate - except there is never any satisfaction that's derived from it. Only emptiness, and pain after. Always pain. There are drugs and alcohol and nicotine to silence the pain. But it's always there. Well, mine is gone. Poof. Non-existent. I'm free of it. That doesn't mean everything is suddenly perfect. I still have issues with shame, with seeing my body naked, with having others see my body naked, with fully relaxing, with my own image, sexuality. I'm working on it, but it doesn't compare to what it used to be - it's small left-overs. An occasional emotional clean-up. A burst of anger here and there, a frustration once a month, a sudden urge to hide - once a quarter. 

I'm not sure exactly when this stage started, but I can tell - the signs are there. I blog less often. I see less visitors, less subscribers. My outcry is not urgent. I blog more about happy times now. I don't think of daily entries like I used to - to escape the immediate pain. I'm not sure what to do with my blog yet, but I'm thinking. My journey is not over. I only took the first step, and I see a hundred more steps ahead of me, all the way to the top of the mountain. There is my sister that denounced me. There is my step mother who still avoids talking about anything related to my abuse. There are my cousins, waiting for me to come visit them in Moscow. And, of course, there is my father. The one whom I have yet to face and to forgive. There is more. There is an unfinished novel - with the premise rooted in exposing the incest problem. There is an unfinished non-fiction book - with the intent to help survivors heal. There are still insecurities left in me, there are questions to ask, to re-evaluate social concepts that broke down for me - the concept of family, of marriage, of true love, of letting go - to live fully. 

There is not much else to say. I'm even. Content. Listening to my favorite music. Writing. Re-connecting with old friends. Taking time to savor simple food. Looking out the window - because I want to look out the window. Being in love, letting myself be loved, allowing myself to fall even deeper. Living life, without it being marred by my past. To sum it up, moving on...

Photo by Royce Daniel.

Forget me not

I suppose that my partial inability to remember is tied to my past of forgetting - it was easier to survive this way, and my memory must have taken a hike every time something violent happened. Amnesia, they call it. Any brutal memory was squeezed out, filed away, and disregarded as non-existent. Now I realize that this "squeezing-out" is part of my daily life, and frankly, it's very annoying. I would love to be able to hold everything in my head - as I come across it. But I can't. However many times I blink, that many times my memory refreshes, and whatever was just in front of me, has to be looked at again - to be remembered. Safe memories surface later - like photographs, crisp and clear, as if burned into my eyes. But ask me the name of the person that has introduced herself to me yesterday at a party, and I will stand and look at you, tongue tied. I will remember her face, the nuances of her jaw and the shade of her hair or the shape of her eyes, but her name or where she was from will escape me. Ask me about a recent book I read - I will remember the color of the cover, the graphics, the feelings, the story and what it was all about, but I will blank on the author's name or the name of the book. Ask me about my favorite movie, and I will start describing the atmosphere, the setting it was shot in, the costumes, the script idea, but I won't remember what it was called, or what actors were in it, or when it came out.

It turns out, I have an amazing visual memory, but every other type of my memory sucks. I would have to listen to something several times, before it will actually settle in my brain. I would have to see it drawn out as a picture, then it will be retained. I can go down some new road once and remember how to turn and where to stop, having it done only once, but I won't be able to tell you afterwards if it was North or South, what part of town it was, what street, and what number. I can talk to you about something, being very animated in the process, waving my arms and stomping my feet for emphasis, but if you switch the topic and ask me 10 minutes later what we have talked about before, I will freeze and won't be able to tell you. It's very frustrating, and I've learned to live by the calendar, to-do lists, reminders, and notes - on everything I do, everything I have to do in the future, and everything that is worth remembering. Unless I jot it down, it doesn't exist. I;m terrified of forgetting stuff. 

My subconscious is still playing tricks on me. If deep inside I feel uneasy, unsafe, or am plain scared, I will forget everything that happened around that feeling the next day. This is, as you can imagine, particularly useful in conflicts. If I have a disagreement with someone, I can get all emotional about it, but when the other party asks me the next day what it was we have argued about - I will blank. How many times it gave my opponent an opportunity to tell me - this is exactly what you said, don't you remember? I would simply agree since I know my memory is shit, so I'd always think the other person's memory is better. 

Another inconvenient trait that is memory related and often is typical for sexual abuse survivors is - not trusting your own memory EVEN if you think you remember stuff correctly. Why? Because when a child is abused and says something about it to an adult, the story is so beyond any social norms, that the adult assumes the child simply imagined everything, and the child is being told that she is remembering it all wrong. That is exactly my story. I have been told so many times that I am imagining things, that my memory is poor and that I shouldn't trust it, that I came to believe it. The combination of that plus the actual lack of ability to remember any facts whatsoever did the deed. With which I am only starting to deal right now. Which is rather curious and yet unique - in a way that I do freak out people when I remember someone only because I have seen them once - the sad part is, I usually don't remember where. But once I've seen a face, it is in my head forever. Once I've seen a picture, it is stored like a live photograph, ready to be looked at any time. Once I have seen someone do something, quietly, without explanation, I can repeat it step by step - and will remember it really well. 

I'm learning to live with this, to ignore its weaknesses, and to capitalize on its strengths. Forget me not. And I won't forget you. The way your hair falls on your forehead, the way you slant your shoulders when thinking, the way your eyelashes glisten with tears when crying, the shape of your fingers, the lines of your profile, the color of your eyes. Never.

Photo by Courtney Carmody.

Drama

It's one thing to observe it from the gallery, another thing to be on the stage fully participating, and it's another thing entirely to participate in the drama without knowing that you are. Without being aware that you're being watched by hundreds if not thousands of pairs of hungry eyes, catching your every fall, savoring your every blooper, discussing your every remark, waiting for you to miss your step, whistling loudly at your poor attempts to connect with the story, and throwing rotten tomatoes at you in the end - deciding that you failed. For good. I've never been a good actress. I tend to wear all my emotions on my sleeve, but I'm just waking up to the concept of human drama, the game around it, and the rules - realizing that I've been participating all along, only I didn't quite know the rules.

Drama is inevitable. For some it's blown out of nothing, for others it's a way to experience and interpret life. For me it didn't exist - the concept didn't exist - I would just feel openly whatever I felt, raw, uncensored. But I'm only now getting that people never perceive me as open, they always think there is a motive behind my actions, a lie hidden in my words. They don't believe in people stripping themselves naked in public - nobody with a sound mind would do that, in their opinion. It must be a suit. There must be a purpose. She is a bitch. She is a sneak. She is a manipulator. She is working it to her advantage. She is - you can continue the list. But I never was - though this does not make me guiltless. I've done things out of naivete - I've spoken directly about what I felt and how I felt it - and I broke a bunch of rules and pissed off a bunch of people in the process. I've shown raw emotion - and I've overstepped the boundaries of the common social norms. I've alienated more people. I've reached out to connect - without realizing that I've been overstepping other's boundaries. I've closed a few paths this way, never to be opened again. I've been riding a roller coaster for too long now, and am now understanding the price that's got to be paid at the entrance, and the price to be paid to stop the ride. I know now that everyone is wearing a mask, and that it's not my job to tear it off; not my job to offer help when nobody asked me to. I don't have to yell - I'm surrounded by the clowns! I can simply observe them quietly and smile - because that's what they are being paid to do - to make me smile. I can't reach out and grab the stilts to show that those are not real legs, I can't tear at the hair to show everyone that it's a wig. 

I have never read the script. I don't know my lines. I stumble, guessing. The sets are changing and I'm not sure if I'm supposed to be in this scene or the next. The props are being rearranged - and I can only hope that others will help, will point me to my position, will show me a sign when it's my turn to talk. But they don't. They get irritated at me. They shove me around, moving along, speaking, delivering brilliant monologues. I look at my costume - it doesn't fit the period. I'm blinded by the lights - and suddenly hear silence. I feel how a fellow actor pushes me to the edge - and I stand there, balancing, flapping my arms, trying to hold on to the thin air, to not fall. I manage to stay. Stay standing. My mouth is dry. I know everyone is waiting. This is it. This is my test. Can I do it? Can I participate? I inhale and I sing. I don't know why. I've never sung before. And suddenly I can. I got it. It's all one big game. You are who you declare yourself to be. You do what you declare you can do. You feel what you tell everyone you can feel. I sing. Terribly at first. I hear shouts - this is no opera, get her off the stage! But I keep singing. And when more voices yell at me, I yell at them back - shut the fuck up! It is my stage, my play, my game - so shut up! I sing because I said so. It's my hour. My song.

And they do. They quiet and murmur. I sing. I can hear another voice join me, and another, and we build a chorus. It's beautiful. The sounds reverberate through my entire body. I feel it. I can sing. I can act. I can play. This is my game too. But I will make it however I want it to be played. It feels good. I finish the song. For a second it's quiet, but then I hear applause. It's small and coming out of the corner, but it's something. I bow and I walk off. I hear more clapping in the back. I ignore actors looking me in the face, asking me questions. I push them aside, and go to my room. To change my costume, to put on a new mask, to get ready for the next show. A special show of human drama. To participate now, being fully aware of what is happening around me, and to have fun in the process. I'm not sure what I'll do next. Walking a tightrope? Maybe. Doing somersaults? Sounds like fun. Juggling. There. Gotta get ready now before the curtains open again.

Photo by Ko_An.

Anxiety

Whenever I'm in a pattern of predictability - I'm calm. I know what to expect in the morning, I know how my day will go, I know what will happen in the evening, this week, this month. Whenever this pattern breaks, I enter the state of panic. At first I get shocked, then I'm unable to move or think or speak, then I start doing something automatic without realizing that there is no use in what I'm doing or why I'm doing it - and most of the times it is useless anyway. I can stay in this in-between state for hours, unable to decide what to do next. Unless someone gives me a good push, I would march forward in limbo. This then can add to the anxiety, and if I don't break the loop, the only way to break it is usually to sleep it off.

I wonder how much of this is coming from the distant past, and how much has been accumulated during my adult years, and how much of this can be broken and reprogrammed so that I can go with the change, no questions asked, no panic or paralysis settling in, no anxiety at all. I look for patterns, for any new pattern, for anything to hook my sanity into - and know that it won't be bothered. Know that I can settle and sail forward in silent waters. Know that tomorrow will be exactly as it was today, that today is exactly as it was yesterday, that every day is predictable. Knowing this will allow me to relax. But I also know that this is not true. There will always be a wind, a storm, a stone under the water, a hole in my boat - there will always be something to upset the calm, and I won't ever be able to predict any of it, no matter how hard I try. And when it happens, I have to shift gears fast. I have to toss what I was hoping to get out of my day and be happy with what it turned into - overcome the disappointment and carry on - as if nothing happened. I don't know when I'll master this skill, but certainly today it is far from being operational. 

The most disturbing detail of this trend of mine is - it all happens in my head. The past is no longer there, but it keeps influencing how I feel, adding to the present in real emotions. The future hasn't happened yet, but it gives me several outcomes to chew on, and to add to the present, again, in the form of more emotions. Did actually anything happen physically? No. But, once the anxiety settles in over something that didn't happen or happened in the past, once it manifests itself in my mind - boom - I feel it in the now. I stop enjoying what I'm doing and start obsessing over what things in my head, to the point where they become real - flushing my body with a dose of chemicals - and those are as real as if someone was standing with a knife to my throat. I know that if I only let myself be - if I only allow myself for those breaks in my existence - for the time and space when I can do nothing, stare at the wall or into the sky - and trust the time - know that as the tome goes by, so will my anxiety. If I only let myself feel it and roll with it like with an old friend - mildly annoying - but nevertheless one that would constitute a good company and whom I can trust. I seem to always forget this magical quality that the time has - it passes. No matter what I do, it will all expire. No matter what I begin, it will all end. If I only wait long enough, if I try to remember that what seems like an emergency right this minute, might not be an issue at all once a couple hours pass, and might not even be worth mentioning after it has been several days?

The pattern that was broken is my crutch. I realize that even chaos has the pattern, even the constant change has the pattern - it changes. Once I see how fluid it is, I can let myself flow with it. I can be bumped along the way, but it won't phase me inside - hence, goodbye anxiety. If only it were so easy, it is. I'm sure I will battle with this one for a while - but at least for now, it's gone. 

Photo by square eyes.