anyway, there's another new post here:
http://puttingitallouthere.blogspot.com/
laters!
Thursday, June 3, 2010
i don't really know what the hell i'm doing.
i am not a good blog - technician. i have an idea of how i want all of this set up, but i can't figure out how to do it without multi-posting the same thing, or without deleting everything.
http://puttingitallouthere.blogspot.com/
laters!
http://puttingitallouthere.blogspot.com/
laters!
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Laying it all out there, Part 4
Disclaimer: this blog post contains possible mind fucks. Read only after carefully and lovingly considering the state of your mind. If you don't know what I'm talking about, then this doesn't apply - read on!
In the fall of my 15th year I was a sophomore in high school. The Superbowl Sunday incident with that drunk guy had not yet happened. One day I had to check in late to school because…well, I don’t remember, but for some reason. I checked in, went to my locker, and got to class right before the bell rang. I sat down in my usual seat and looked at the people around me.
My friend Amie whispered, “What are you doing?” Then I guess the bell rang, because I do not remember responding to that question or even really thinking about it.
The people around me were familiar, the classroom familiar, the teacher familiar, really nothing out of the ordinary. But then the teacher called me up to the front of the room. He asked me very softly, “Rebecca, aren’t you in my 2nd period class? This is the beginning of 3rd period.”
I didn’t know what was going on. I got really scared. I didn’t know if what was happening was real or not. I remember distinctly the teacher’s voice when he asked me that question – he was a really big guy, very tall, very wide, and I was surprised at how soft and not scary his voice sounded when he spoke to me up there in front of everyone.
I looked back at the other students and saw that they were not the people who were in that class with me, though some of them were my friends, and most of them were familiar. I didn’t know what to do, I was just suddenly aware that I was not supposed to be there at that time.
I blindly went back to my seat - at the back of the room, of course - and gathered my stuff and bolted. Someone asked me if I was all right, but I don’t remember who, or what I said, or if I responded at all.
I tried to think of the class I was supposed to be in, and everything was very muddy in my head, and I just knew I could not be there anymore. I went to the office. I was crying by then, not really knowing why, just feeling scared and like a big freak. I was allowed to use the phone to call home.
My dad answered. This was not right, not the way it was supposed to happen, my mom was the one who was there when I needed to be picked up from somewhere. But my dad answered the phone.
I asked if my mom was there. He said yes, but he wouldn’t let me talk to her. I told him I had to leave – I couldn’t stay at school. He asked me why.
It was a good question – why? What the fuck was going on? I didn’t know, just that I couldn’t stay there.
He came to pick me up. He pulled up to the curb in front of the school. Then I was in the car parked in front of the school and crying and he was telling me I could not go home and that I had to go to school.
After awhile I comprehended that I was not going home, that I was going to have to stay at school. A big cylindrical force came down on me, enclosing me inside of it where I would be safe and I was able to stop feeling scared. I was able to feel nothing.
My dad hugged me and said he loved me, and I hugged him and said I loved him, too. I don’t remember what exactly he had told me in the car, but it felt as though it was some sort of pep rally to get me motivated to fight against the world.
He had always told me how to be strong and fight the world, because the world would hate us and make things hard for us because we were special, better, smarter than anyone else. And I completely believed that. Why wouldn’t I? I had been told nothing different for my entire life by everyone – weird, freak, special, unique – I had been hearing it from all sides since birth.
After that, my dad checked me in and the only other thing I remember about that day was that after being in school and around other people for a couple of hours, I felt much better.
I think I would have lost that entire day to the unfamiliar and dark rooms of my vacuous mind, but something made it stick. I didn’t remember the days before or after that day until 16 years later, but that day always remained on the conscious timeline of my past.
Sometimes when I am trying so hard to grasp what has happened to me, to get some sort of concrete evidence that what my memories are telling me is true, I actually get the concrete evidence. It does not happen often.
Since I first began remembering things a few years ago, I have spent hours and hours searching and searching my mom’s house – the house I grew up in. I have tirelessly spent hours looking in closets and cabinets and desks and drawers and inside the walls and in the attic and in every inch of that fucking house looking for some sort of proof that what was in my head was real.
Sometimes I found things there, but it was when I was cleaning out a closet in my own house that I found, at the bottom of a tiny plastic basket, a folded up piece of pink paper. I don’t know how it got there or how it made it all the way to where I was right there at that time. But it was there. It was the check-in slip my dad signed on that day in the 10th grade when I freaked out.
Concrete. Right there in my hand, in front of my eyes. The fucking check-in slip. A tiny tissue of paper, in my house. MY house, not my mom’s house.
Although I think I have accepted what has happened to me on a very fundamental level, that process has not been easy or quick. When I first started remembering things, I would forget that I had remembered. My mind would slip back to where it had been before. I would try so hard to figure out if I was just crazy, because I would have preferred to be bat shit looney tunes than to have really experienced all of those horrendous things my dad did to me.
Even though I knew it was real, I kept looking for a way for it not to be. But then there is the concrete evidence – the tiny little bits and pieces of my past that have physically survived along with me.
When I find those bits of evidence, the chance that it could have all been a really bad, really fucked up dream is snuffed out. I feel vindicated and devastated at the same time. The balance of the negative and positive emotions is so consistent, so steady – I have never experienced such consistency in my life before than in this balance of the negative and positive feelings about what has happened to me in the past and who I am today.
The balance feels like REALITY. It feels like acceptance. It is terrible and liberating at the same time. The duality is really very mind-boggling, and I have had to learn to just stop thinking about it so much so that I don’t get lost in that concept.
I have a headache. I’m going to watch TV on the internet.
In the fall of my 15th year I was a sophomore in high school. The Superbowl Sunday incident with that drunk guy had not yet happened. One day I had to check in late to school because…well, I don’t remember, but for some reason. I checked in, went to my locker, and got to class right before the bell rang. I sat down in my usual seat and looked at the people around me.
My friend Amie whispered, “What are you doing?” Then I guess the bell rang, because I do not remember responding to that question or even really thinking about it.
The people around me were familiar, the classroom familiar, the teacher familiar, really nothing out of the ordinary. But then the teacher called me up to the front of the room. He asked me very softly, “Rebecca, aren’t you in my 2nd period class? This is the beginning of 3rd period.”
I didn’t know what was going on. I got really scared. I didn’t know if what was happening was real or not. I remember distinctly the teacher’s voice when he asked me that question – he was a really big guy, very tall, very wide, and I was surprised at how soft and not scary his voice sounded when he spoke to me up there in front of everyone.
I looked back at the other students and saw that they were not the people who were in that class with me, though some of them were my friends, and most of them were familiar. I didn’t know what to do, I was just suddenly aware that I was not supposed to be there at that time.
I blindly went back to my seat - at the back of the room, of course - and gathered my stuff and bolted. Someone asked me if I was all right, but I don’t remember who, or what I said, or if I responded at all.
I tried to think of the class I was supposed to be in, and everything was very muddy in my head, and I just knew I could not be there anymore. I went to the office. I was crying by then, not really knowing why, just feeling scared and like a big freak. I was allowed to use the phone to call home.
My dad answered. This was not right, not the way it was supposed to happen, my mom was the one who was there when I needed to be picked up from somewhere. But my dad answered the phone.
I asked if my mom was there. He said yes, but he wouldn’t let me talk to her. I told him I had to leave – I couldn’t stay at school. He asked me why.
It was a good question – why? What the fuck was going on? I didn’t know, just that I couldn’t stay there.
He came to pick me up. He pulled up to the curb in front of the school. Then I was in the car parked in front of the school and crying and he was telling me I could not go home and that I had to go to school.
After awhile I comprehended that I was not going home, that I was going to have to stay at school. A big cylindrical force came down on me, enclosing me inside of it where I would be safe and I was able to stop feeling scared. I was able to feel nothing.
My dad hugged me and said he loved me, and I hugged him and said I loved him, too. I don’t remember what exactly he had told me in the car, but it felt as though it was some sort of pep rally to get me motivated to fight against the world.
He had always told me how to be strong and fight the world, because the world would hate us and make things hard for us because we were special, better, smarter than anyone else. And I completely believed that. Why wouldn’t I? I had been told nothing different for my entire life by everyone – weird, freak, special, unique – I had been hearing it from all sides since birth.
After that, my dad checked me in and the only other thing I remember about that day was that after being in school and around other people for a couple of hours, I felt much better.
I think I would have lost that entire day to the unfamiliar and dark rooms of my vacuous mind, but something made it stick. I didn’t remember the days before or after that day until 16 years later, but that day always remained on the conscious timeline of my past.
Sometimes when I am trying so hard to grasp what has happened to me, to get some sort of concrete evidence that what my memories are telling me is true, I actually get the concrete evidence. It does not happen often.
Since I first began remembering things a few years ago, I have spent hours and hours searching and searching my mom’s house – the house I grew up in. I have tirelessly spent hours looking in closets and cabinets and desks and drawers and inside the walls and in the attic and in every inch of that fucking house looking for some sort of proof that what was in my head was real.
Sometimes I found things there, but it was when I was cleaning out a closet in my own house that I found, at the bottom of a tiny plastic basket, a folded up piece of pink paper. I don’t know how it got there or how it made it all the way to where I was right there at that time. But it was there. It was the check-in slip my dad signed on that day in the 10th grade when I freaked out.
Concrete. Right there in my hand, in front of my eyes. The fucking check-in slip. A tiny tissue of paper, in my house. MY house, not my mom’s house.
Although I think I have accepted what has happened to me on a very fundamental level, that process has not been easy or quick. When I first started remembering things, I would forget that I had remembered. My mind would slip back to where it had been before. I would try so hard to figure out if I was just crazy, because I would have preferred to be bat shit looney tunes than to have really experienced all of those horrendous things my dad did to me.
Even though I knew it was real, I kept looking for a way for it not to be. But then there is the concrete evidence – the tiny little bits and pieces of my past that have physically survived along with me.
When I find those bits of evidence, the chance that it could have all been a really bad, really fucked up dream is snuffed out. I feel vindicated and devastated at the same time. The balance of the negative and positive emotions is so consistent, so steady – I have never experienced such consistency in my life before than in this balance of the negative and positive feelings about what has happened to me in the past and who I am today.
The balance feels like REALITY. It feels like acceptance. It is terrible and liberating at the same time. The duality is really very mind-boggling, and I have had to learn to just stop thinking about it so much so that I don’t get lost in that concept.
I have a headache. I’m going to watch TV on the internet.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Parts 1-3...
I haven't figured out how to move a post from one blog to another, so here are the links to the first three posts of "putting it all out there."
http://rayannsbadassbullshit.blogspot.com/2010/04/laying-it-all-out-there.html
http://rayannsbadassbullshit.blogspot.com/2010/04/laying-it-all-out-there-part-2.html
http://rayannsbadassbullshit.blogspot.com/2010/05/laying-it-all-out-there-part-3.html
http://rayannsbadassbullshit.blogspot.com/2010/04/laying-it-all-out-there.html
http://rayannsbadassbullshit.blogspot.com/2010/04/laying-it-all-out-there-part-2.html
http://rayannsbadassbullshit.blogspot.com/2010/05/laying-it-all-out-there-part-3.html
feeling safe
Yesterday I woke up feeling very safe, as though everything was ok. It was really nice. I have wondered if I would ever be able to experience what complete safety feels like. It has been difficult to imagine. Even right now, I know there is no one in this house but me, and that the immediate chances of gunmen and/or rapists coming by to knock down the door and get me are slim to none. But I’m still scared.
I don’t really know how to not be afraid. I have been learning how to keep my fear from overwhelming me, from dictating my life, from preventing me from living the way I deserve to live. But all of that involves a deliberate cognitive process.
I have learned to prepare myself when I recognize that I am going to have a flash back, or just remember something horrible. I actually figured that out pretty early on in the recovery process – I had a lot of opportunities to get used to it. At this point in my day to day thinking, I know that I can reassure myself that I am in the present and not in the past, and that at most moments I am safe, and then I can remember stuff without it paralyzing me with fear and horror.
This is how I pretty much make it through each day. Not that I have constant flash backs, but that I have constant fear. It is my natural state. The idea of not being afraid scares the shit out of me. What if I let my guard down, and that is the moment my dad happens to show up to bludgeon me to death?
It may not be likely, but it is entirely within the realm of possibility for him to do this. It seriously is. And I don’t look at that scenario with any factors outside of him just showing up and killing me. Sometimes I think about how I could get away out the back door and run to the neighbors’ house, or just down the street, but for the most part there is just him killing me, and that’s that.
The most frightening scenario involves the kids being home when he comes to kill me. I mean, its not like he has superpowers or is invincible. While it is horrendous to think of my kids having to be exposed to anything like someone attacking their mother, they are pretty feisty boys, and I think it would be realistic to consider the fact that the three of us could kick my dad’s ass. But what if we couldn’t? That’s why that is so scary.
A less frightening scenario involves Jonny being here. Jonny would love a chance to have a go at my dad. I feel pretty confident Jonny could take my dad on, if not alone, then together with me. We could totally take him down.
What would we do if we did take him down? Here is where it starts to get tricky and my imagination turns more toward very bad things rather than my kids and I, or my husband and I, beating the shit out of my dad.
Its kind of strange that I don’t think of my kids and I, or of my husband and I, beating the shit out of my dad as one of those “very bad things.”
I don’t like to think much about any of it after that, and so I don’t.
But the thing is, I really have to work at keeping my mind right here right now. It’s getting easier as time goes on and I have more and more practice, but will there ever be a time when I just simply feel safe? When I don’t have to convince myself that torture and/or death is imminent?
Yesterday morning when I woke up, that is exactly how I felt. It was kind of like when I’m having a really sweet dream and I try to stay asleep to keep it from ending, but with the “everything is ok” feeling, I was actually able to carry it into my awake world for about two minutes. It was fantastic.
It gave me a lot of hope, not just because I now know its possible for me to feel that way, but also because it reminded me that I have felt that way before.
I think the most common time I have felt that way in the past was when I was at a friend’s house and their parents were out of town, or at least not expected back for a while. I was able to just BE in the moment without any feeling of impending doom. Of course, these times often involved illegal drug and/or alcohol consumption, but I know that there were moments when I was stone sober and just felt safe.
It was good to remember that I did have some peace when I was growing up, because I honestly could not remember having any at all as a kid. I have thought to myself, there must have been fun times, right? I mean, I remember laughing and messing around and having happy family times, even with my dad there.
But then when I think about those times more closely, I cannot grasp the idea that they truly were without fear. So many of the memories I had categorized as “happy” were actually the befores and the afters of the horrible things I had completely blocked out. And so I wonder, did I ever truly feel safe as a kid?
I am happy to say that, yes, I did. That feeling yesterday morning was strange and foreign but not completely alien. Even though it only lasted a couple of minutes after I woke up, it reminded me that I am not someone who had a completely shitty childhood, or someone who is too broken now to ever feel safe.
These things are nice to know.
I don’t really know how to not be afraid. I have been learning how to keep my fear from overwhelming me, from dictating my life, from preventing me from living the way I deserve to live. But all of that involves a deliberate cognitive process.
I have learned to prepare myself when I recognize that I am going to have a flash back, or just remember something horrible. I actually figured that out pretty early on in the recovery process – I had a lot of opportunities to get used to it. At this point in my day to day thinking, I know that I can reassure myself that I am in the present and not in the past, and that at most moments I am safe, and then I can remember stuff without it paralyzing me with fear and horror.
This is how I pretty much make it through each day. Not that I have constant flash backs, but that I have constant fear. It is my natural state. The idea of not being afraid scares the shit out of me. What if I let my guard down, and that is the moment my dad happens to show up to bludgeon me to death?
It may not be likely, but it is entirely within the realm of possibility for him to do this. It seriously is. And I don’t look at that scenario with any factors outside of him just showing up and killing me. Sometimes I think about how I could get away out the back door and run to the neighbors’ house, or just down the street, but for the most part there is just him killing me, and that’s that.
The most frightening scenario involves the kids being home when he comes to kill me. I mean, its not like he has superpowers or is invincible. While it is horrendous to think of my kids having to be exposed to anything like someone attacking their mother, they are pretty feisty boys, and I think it would be realistic to consider the fact that the three of us could kick my dad’s ass. But what if we couldn’t? That’s why that is so scary.
A less frightening scenario involves Jonny being here. Jonny would love a chance to have a go at my dad. I feel pretty confident Jonny could take my dad on, if not alone, then together with me. We could totally take him down.
What would we do if we did take him down? Here is where it starts to get tricky and my imagination turns more toward very bad things rather than my kids and I, or my husband and I, beating the shit out of my dad.
Its kind of strange that I don’t think of my kids and I, or of my husband and I, beating the shit out of my dad as one of those “very bad things.”
I don’t like to think much about any of it after that, and so I don’t.
But the thing is, I really have to work at keeping my mind right here right now. It’s getting easier as time goes on and I have more and more practice, but will there ever be a time when I just simply feel safe? When I don’t have to convince myself that torture and/or death is imminent?
Yesterday morning when I woke up, that is exactly how I felt. It was kind of like when I’m having a really sweet dream and I try to stay asleep to keep it from ending, but with the “everything is ok” feeling, I was actually able to carry it into my awake world for about two minutes. It was fantastic.
It gave me a lot of hope, not just because I now know its possible for me to feel that way, but also because it reminded me that I have felt that way before.
I think the most common time I have felt that way in the past was when I was at a friend’s house and their parents were out of town, or at least not expected back for a while. I was able to just BE in the moment without any feeling of impending doom. Of course, these times often involved illegal drug and/or alcohol consumption, but I know that there were moments when I was stone sober and just felt safe.
It was good to remember that I did have some peace when I was growing up, because I honestly could not remember having any at all as a kid. I have thought to myself, there must have been fun times, right? I mean, I remember laughing and messing around and having happy family times, even with my dad there.
But then when I think about those times more closely, I cannot grasp the idea that they truly were without fear. So many of the memories I had categorized as “happy” were actually the befores and the afters of the horrible things I had completely blocked out. And so I wonder, did I ever truly feel safe as a kid?
I am happy to say that, yes, I did. That feeling yesterday morning was strange and foreign but not completely alien. Even though it only lasted a couple of minutes after I woke up, it reminded me that I am not someone who had a completely shitty childhood, or someone who is too broken now to ever feel safe.
These things are nice to know.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
laying it all out there, part 3
again - some of this stuff may be triggering to those who are easily triggered. you know who you are.
so the church thing really threw me off. i mean, i loved jesus. i loved being a christian. i loved that i was saved. i loved that i had a universal connection with others throughout the world. i loved being good, and doing the right thing, and not doing the wrong thing. my motivation was acceptance and understanding and appreciation from others. i just loved it.
when the shit hit the fan at my church, i only remember feeling a bit thrown off center, and also pretty angry. i was not so much aware of the thrown off feeling as i was of the anger. i was very angry at the church and the people i loved who were still a part of it after the big split. my family and some other people from that church reconnected in another church, a newer one, and that influx of established local christians got the new church off and running.
the new church even eventually got a youth group. i hated it.
i hated the church and the pastor and the stupid people who went there. they were all very new and unfamiliar and it seemed to me they were not nearly as accepting of me as the people in my old church were. i felt much more the stranger. after all, i had not known these people since i was a baby and they did not have the experience of watching me grow up to acclimate them to my unusual, often unnerving, presence.
at about this same time, everything was going down hill at school, too. i had never really cared too much about my grades, but i had also not needed to really go out of my way to get good grades until the end of middle school (actually, it was still junior high).
in the 8th grade, i became very aware of my inhibitions and general social fears. of course i did not think in those terms, but rather identified with my anger and began really not giving a shit about being good or not. this was a freeing experience for me, and a confusing one. up until then, it really had been very important to me that i was good.
i never behaved badly at school, and outside of my reading in class when i was supposed to be paying attention, i never really got in trouble. i remember one time in kindergarten when a boy at my table started talking to me and i tried to ignore him, but he just kept talking. i ended up in a conversation with him and we got yelled at for talking. i was absolutely mortified. it was a terrible feeling and it encompassed my entire view of myself.
i pretty much just stayed quiet after that. every now and then i would attempt to break out of my shell and jump into the mainstream, but that always ended up in complete humiliation. however, by the time 8th grade came around, i was tired of behaving within these lines that ultimately got me screwed.
i had been taught that being good and loving god and jesus and obeying my parents and not stealing and not having sex and blah, blah, blah, were the ways i could guarantee my acceptance. for a while, it worked out that way. leaving the church i grew up in, though, really pulled the rug out from under me.
my parents had always been very active in the church, teaching classes and attending obnoxiously regularly, dragging my brother, sister, and i along. when we got to the new church, they seemed to pick up where they had left off. i just felt kind of empty.
on superbowl sunday when i was 15, i was at church (of course), and i don't really remember what was going on, but my whole family was there. out of boredom, i snuck into the church office and called a friend from school. her parents were out of town and she wanted me to come over to entertain the friend of the guy she was messing around with. i told my parents some bullshit, and they said i could go but had to be home by 10.
the friend of my friend's guy picked me up at church. he was wasted and drove through a field he thought was the road. i convinced him to let me drive. i didn't even have a license yet, but clearly my mind was not on logic mode. the guy was older and very cute. i knew him peripherally through school and, ironically, my previous church.
we got to my friend's house. she locked herself in her parents' room with her guy. the drunk guy locked us into her bedroom. things happened that i didn't want to happen. i was hurt, physically and mentally, and could only think of how much trouble i would get in if my parents ever found out what i was doing with this guy.
that is how i thought of it - that i was doing bad things with this guy. it didn't matter that he was bigger and older than me, or that he had locked me in this room, or that i kept telling him no and i don't want to, or that he was drunk, or that the angrier he got at me for not being completely complicit the more scared i got.
afterward, i was very concerned that he would give me a ride home so i could be there by 10. he was mad at me, and i was really nervous about not getting home. he finally drove me home - i guess he had sobered up by then. i don't remember what happened on the ride or when i got home - just the pain, and the other evidence of my injuries.
it took me 16 years to call what happened that night what it was - rape.
i keep thinking i would like to end one of these blog sessions on a positive note. i mean, what a fucking downer for the people who read this, right? but this is how it was.
lonely, terrifying, infuriating - that is what my childhood was, and i include being a teenager as part of my childhood.
i want to apologize for making anyone feel badly after reading this, for how i might have hurt anyone by telling what happened to me. but i will not. its my story. you have a choice about whether or not to read it, but i didn't have a choice about whether or not to live it.
and i really feel stronger every time i write more about it.
to be continued...
so the church thing really threw me off. i mean, i loved jesus. i loved being a christian. i loved that i was saved. i loved that i had a universal connection with others throughout the world. i loved being good, and doing the right thing, and not doing the wrong thing. my motivation was acceptance and understanding and appreciation from others. i just loved it.
when the shit hit the fan at my church, i only remember feeling a bit thrown off center, and also pretty angry. i was not so much aware of the thrown off feeling as i was of the anger. i was very angry at the church and the people i loved who were still a part of it after the big split. my family and some other people from that church reconnected in another church, a newer one, and that influx of established local christians got the new church off and running.
the new church even eventually got a youth group. i hated it.
i hated the church and the pastor and the stupid people who went there. they were all very new and unfamiliar and it seemed to me they were not nearly as accepting of me as the people in my old church were. i felt much more the stranger. after all, i had not known these people since i was a baby and they did not have the experience of watching me grow up to acclimate them to my unusual, often unnerving, presence.
at about this same time, everything was going down hill at school, too. i had never really cared too much about my grades, but i had also not needed to really go out of my way to get good grades until the end of middle school (actually, it was still junior high).
in the 8th grade, i became very aware of my inhibitions and general social fears. of course i did not think in those terms, but rather identified with my anger and began really not giving a shit about being good or not. this was a freeing experience for me, and a confusing one. up until then, it really had been very important to me that i was good.
i never behaved badly at school, and outside of my reading in class when i was supposed to be paying attention, i never really got in trouble. i remember one time in kindergarten when a boy at my table started talking to me and i tried to ignore him, but he just kept talking. i ended up in a conversation with him and we got yelled at for talking. i was absolutely mortified. it was a terrible feeling and it encompassed my entire view of myself.
i pretty much just stayed quiet after that. every now and then i would attempt to break out of my shell and jump into the mainstream, but that always ended up in complete humiliation. however, by the time 8th grade came around, i was tired of behaving within these lines that ultimately got me screwed.
i had been taught that being good and loving god and jesus and obeying my parents and not stealing and not having sex and blah, blah, blah, were the ways i could guarantee my acceptance. for a while, it worked out that way. leaving the church i grew up in, though, really pulled the rug out from under me.
my parents had always been very active in the church, teaching classes and attending obnoxiously regularly, dragging my brother, sister, and i along. when we got to the new church, they seemed to pick up where they had left off. i just felt kind of empty.
on superbowl sunday when i was 15, i was at church (of course), and i don't really remember what was going on, but my whole family was there. out of boredom, i snuck into the church office and called a friend from school. her parents were out of town and she wanted me to come over to entertain the friend of the guy she was messing around with. i told my parents some bullshit, and they said i could go but had to be home by 10.
the friend of my friend's guy picked me up at church. he was wasted and drove through a field he thought was the road. i convinced him to let me drive. i didn't even have a license yet, but clearly my mind was not on logic mode. the guy was older and very cute. i knew him peripherally through school and, ironically, my previous church.
we got to my friend's house. she locked herself in her parents' room with her guy. the drunk guy locked us into her bedroom. things happened that i didn't want to happen. i was hurt, physically and mentally, and could only think of how much trouble i would get in if my parents ever found out what i was doing with this guy.
that is how i thought of it - that i was doing bad things with this guy. it didn't matter that he was bigger and older than me, or that he had locked me in this room, or that i kept telling him no and i don't want to, or that he was drunk, or that the angrier he got at me for not being completely complicit the more scared i got.
afterward, i was very concerned that he would give me a ride home so i could be there by 10. he was mad at me, and i was really nervous about not getting home. he finally drove me home - i guess he had sobered up by then. i don't remember what happened on the ride or when i got home - just the pain, and the other evidence of my injuries.
it took me 16 years to call what happened that night what it was - rape.
i keep thinking i would like to end one of these blog sessions on a positive note. i mean, what a fucking downer for the people who read this, right? but this is how it was.
lonely, terrifying, infuriating - that is what my childhood was, and i include being a teenager as part of my childhood.
i want to apologize for making anyone feel badly after reading this, for how i might have hurt anyone by telling what happened to me. but i will not. its my story. you have a choice about whether or not to read it, but i didn't have a choice about whether or not to live it.
and i really feel stronger every time i write more about it.
to be continued...
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
laying it all out there, part 2
again, if you are easily triggered, please keep in mind that some of this may be triggering.
i did become a sadistic little brat. i loved having physical control over other living things. that primarily included my brother and our dog. i think about the things i did to my brother and to the dog and i feel alot of shame, especially about the dog. it wasn't limited to my brother and my dog, of course, but they were the ones that were always there and could be easily overpowered.
i also did stuff to myself. i always thought those things were no big deal, and loved the shock factor involved when i did them in front of others. however, when i was in the mental hospital and the shrink asked me if i had ever been self-harming, i was like, "no, not in a really serious way." then he asked me to describe the things i did when i was a kid and what i do now, and as i spoke the acts out loud, they seemed much more fucked up.
if i saw my kids do to themselves what i did to me, it would break my heart.
moving right along - to sum up the childhood (ha ha, who am i kidding?), i would describe my child-self as angry, bossy, mean, loud, lonely, sad, and really sometimes very sweet, even to my siblings. it was also obvious from an early age that i was pretty inteligent. i believe my dad was hoping i was some sort of prodigy, and he taught me how to read when i was 3. i was not a prodigy, but ironically, reading was my primary form of escape from reality.
i LOVED books! i still do, but especially through elementary school, i did not really socialize with other kids. i would read whenever there was even a single second of down time. i could not bear to be unoccupied. i didn't attempt to do much socializing - i just assumed other kids thought i was a big weirdo and so wouldn't want anything to do with me. also, i was very sensitive to any sort of negativity. i mean, what kid isn't? but i would be devastated if someone said something unfavorable about me, and if i didn't pay attention to any of them, they would never have that opportunity, at least not one that i would be aware of.
i read when i woke up, i read in the bath, i read on the bus, i read during recess, i read when we had to do laps around the track, i read when i was supposed to be paying attention in class, i read in the car, i read in my room, i read outside in the yard - like i said, every waking moment i had a chance to read, that is was i was doing.
sometimes when my mom wanted me to do my chores or something, i would lock my self in the bathroom and sit on the toilet and keep reading. it really held her off for a long time - longer than anything else, long enough for my legs to get numb. it was kind of like when someone runs into a church and yells "sanctuary" - the bathroom was the sanctuary in our house.
i did become a sadistic little brat. i loved having physical control over other living things. that primarily included my brother and our dog. i think about the things i did to my brother and to the dog and i feel alot of shame, especially about the dog. it wasn't limited to my brother and my dog, of course, but they were the ones that were always there and could be easily overpowered.
i also did stuff to myself. i always thought those things were no big deal, and loved the shock factor involved when i did them in front of others. however, when i was in the mental hospital and the shrink asked me if i had ever been self-harming, i was like, "no, not in a really serious way." then he asked me to describe the things i did when i was a kid and what i do now, and as i spoke the acts out loud, they seemed much more fucked up.
if i saw my kids do to themselves what i did to me, it would break my heart.
moving right along - to sum up the childhood (ha ha, who am i kidding?), i would describe my child-self as angry, bossy, mean, loud, lonely, sad, and really sometimes very sweet, even to my siblings. it was also obvious from an early age that i was pretty inteligent. i believe my dad was hoping i was some sort of prodigy, and he taught me how to read when i was 3. i was not a prodigy, but ironically, reading was my primary form of escape from reality.
i LOVED books! i still do, but especially through elementary school, i did not really socialize with other kids. i would read whenever there was even a single second of down time. i could not bear to be unoccupied. i didn't attempt to do much socializing - i just assumed other kids thought i was a big weirdo and so wouldn't want anything to do with me. also, i was very sensitive to any sort of negativity. i mean, what kid isn't? but i would be devastated if someone said something unfavorable about me, and if i didn't pay attention to any of them, they would never have that opportunity, at least not one that i would be aware of.
i read when i woke up, i read in the bath, i read on the bus, i read during recess, i read when we had to do laps around the track, i read when i was supposed to be paying attention in class, i read in the car, i read in my room, i read outside in the yard - like i said, every waking moment i had a chance to read, that is was i was doing.
sometimes when my mom wanted me to do my chores or something, i would lock my self in the bathroom and sit on the toilet and keep reading. it really held her off for a long time - longer than anything else, long enough for my legs to get numb. it was kind of like when someone runs into a church and yells "sanctuary" - the bathroom was the sanctuary in our house.
the only exceptions to my incessant reading were family meals and church. my mom insisted i not have a book at the table when we were all eating together, and my dad felt it was one of his specific duties to make sure his children could sit still in church. he thought of it as one of the many valuable life-lessons he had to offer - the kind for which we'd thank him later. thank god we were presbyterian, because they really stick to the clock. one hour sermons, and if there was anything over that, people just got uncomfortable.
i hated going to church. i hated having to wear tights and pretend to be cute and pretty like the other girls. i resented their frills and bows and hats and ribbons and lacey ankle socks and cute hair. it was another environment in which i felt almost completely displaced.
i did really love the youth group, though. for those of you without a middle class protestant upbringing, a "youth group" at that time (late 80's, early 90's) was a chance for younger people to get together (at church, of course) and hang out and do fun stuff.
and it was fun. the youth pastor, jerry, was awesome. i loved him. he made me feel really good about myself. my first interaction with him was during a wednesday night supper (yes, in addition to every sunday, we went to church every wednesday, too). i had noticed him when he first came to our church - he is almost impossible not to notice - and was envious of anyone who seemed to be in his inner circle.
i was not quite old enough for the youth group yet, and was pretty excited about being a part of it the next year. when i saw jerry at the wednesday night supper (yes, you have to say the whole thing every time), i assumed he had no idea who i was. i mean, i wasn't someone people usually went out of their way to meet.
some people did go out of their way to meet me, though, and to be nice to me, and to just not treat me like a freak. jerry was one of those people. he was on one side of a table of food and i was on the other. i was looking down, of course, and i heard him say, "you're beck, right?"
i was delighted and, of course, said nothing. he smiled and said he was looking forward to me being in the youth group the following year, and he moved on. after that he would say "hey beck" whenever he saw me. my church friends were jealous, especially since i was typically on the fringe of everything new and exciting, and never in the middle of it.
and jerry was new and exciting. i had been going to that church for as long as i could remember, and there was a pretty consistent core group of other kids that had been there the whole time, too. there was rarely anyone new OR exciting there, and jerry had been recruited from out of state. he was fascinating.
anyway, we sang stupid songs and played stupid games every sunday night, and then jerry would do his little sermon for us. he could always relate the point of the stories in the bible so well to me. i actually liked hearing them. i had never had more fun anywhere or at anytime as i did in that youth group.
that went on for a couple of years. i was actually enjoying being around other people and feeling accepted for the first time in my life. i have had experiences in other church youth groups, and i cannot honestly say i enjoyed any of them at all. not for a single minute. they seemed very dorky and desperate. jerry was the magic and the glue of the group i was in, and no one could ever do any better.
as everyone knows, shit happens. the shit that happened with jerry was that my dad chased him out of the house with a baseball bat. my parents had been involved in some big mess that resulted in the church splitting. around that time jerry came to the house to talk to my dad - i don't know about what, but i do know jerry was pretty upset that my sister and i were not in his group anymore.
whatever it was that happened between jerry and my dad happened, and suddenly we were not a part of that life anymore.
to be continued...
Friday, April 23, 2010
laying it all out there
disclaimer - i write about some things that may be triggering to those sensitive to being triggered. please keep your mind in mind - i don't want to fuck with anyone's head here.
my palms are really sweaty. do i always type without capital letters? i want some ice cream. ok, enough of trying to change the subject.
so! um, seriously, i am really nervous. i was thinking, though, that if i am going to change the world, i could let the world know what i've got. where i'm coming from. why i really can change the world.
unfortunately, that means pretty much - what's the title of this blog? right - laying it all out there. ok, here goes.
i always have a difficult time deciding to tell my story from the perspective i have now, or from the perspective i had before i remembered the abuse. i think i will go with...the perspective i had before i remembered the abuse.
so! i was born in atlanta in 1976. a year later, my sister was born. a year after that, my brother was born. my parents moved to peachtree city, georgia, an affluent white, straight, and church-going city, when i was two years old. i remember nothing of this.
i do remember experiencing depression. i distinctly remember it. i guess i was about 4 or 5 when i became consciously aware of, and i called it homesickness because i really didn't know what it was. apparently no one else did either, because in 5th grade i was diagnosed with a.d.d. and put on meds - ritalin, to be exact.
the ritalin did help my grades to improve. however, i experienced pretty severe anxiety every day about going to school. by the time i was in 4th grade, i was throwing up and missing school or getting checked out early maybe four to ten times during a school year. please note that i was not intentionally throwing up to get out of school. not consciously, anyway.
the ritalin made this anxiety much worse. it also increased my feelings of social isolation, which had also been present for as long as i can remember. i also felt a lot of shame about being diagnosed with a "disorder."
despite all of the negative side effects, i did not protest taking the meds. i liked them. sometimes i would physically feel sick enough to voluntarily refuse them, and my mom got into a routine of only dosing me on school days. weekends were an emotional roller coaster.
aside from puking, another of my involuntary reactions to stress involved crying. i would go to bed, and then just cry and cry and cry. i never did this in front of anyone else. it started when i was really little and continued until probably when i got into recovery as an adult. i don't remember any triggering events preceding these episodes, but i do remember noticing that the muscles in my abdomen would be sore the next day, and then connecting that to the crying.
the social anxiety and depression and all of the symptoms of each gradually increased as i got older. i was also very angry - a lot. i had always intensely adored and intensely hated my dad. there was rarely any in between, and the adoration and hatred were determined by how he was treating me at any given time.
when i was little, he would take me with him on business trips, to the health club, to work, and i basically became his little sidekick. he made me feel really special, and he often told me that we were different from everyone else and that no one would understand us except for us. i believed he needed me in his life desperately because i was the only other person who could understand him.
i would go to any length to make my dad proud of me, to include me in his tiny circle of exceptional human beings, which i felt consisted of just the two of us. keep in mind that i was the oldest of three born in three years. it was chaotic. i seriously do not understand how my mom lived through our baby years. we were always playing and fighting and whatever. even though we lived in a big house, we each had our own room, and the house still felt overwhelmingly crowded.
i was intensely jealous of my brother and sister, especially my sister, and especially if my dad paid any attention to either of them. my siblings and i fought violently. on at least one occasion, my dad actively encouraged us to rip each other apart while he and my mom sat by and watched. my dad loved it. my mom...all i know is that my dad had a very strong hold on her. he is an enormously talented bullshitter and manipulator. my mom would not intervene often.
when she did intervene, though, it would be when she felt my dad was too angry to be in control of his punishing us. they shared a theory that if a parent never hits their child in anger, then it was a legitimate "spare the rod spoil the child" kind of thing. my dad was very calculated about his punishments, and almost always executed them coldly and calmly.
he lost it a couple of times, though - i can literally only remember two times. guess who drove him over the edge on those two occasions? me! to this day, i am empowered by the feeling that came over me after the fear of physical harm had passed: he was the crazy one. not me. and it gave me a little sliver of power over him.
looking back, i am also proud of being the only person i witnessed sending him over his edge. i mean, its totally in a self-serving sadistic way, but i learned that from the best, right?
ok, this is a lot for one blog post, and a lot for me to recall and record in one setting, so i'm just going to throw a "to be continued" in there and go watch this thunderstorm coming through (that is, a literal thunderstorm, not figurative).
to be continued...
my palms are really sweaty. do i always type without capital letters? i want some ice cream. ok, enough of trying to change the subject.
so! um, seriously, i am really nervous. i was thinking, though, that if i am going to change the world, i could let the world know what i've got. where i'm coming from. why i really can change the world.
unfortunately, that means pretty much - what's the title of this blog? right - laying it all out there. ok, here goes.
i always have a difficult time deciding to tell my story from the perspective i have now, or from the perspective i had before i remembered the abuse. i think i will go with...the perspective i had before i remembered the abuse.
so! i was born in atlanta in 1976. a year later, my sister was born. a year after that, my brother was born. my parents moved to peachtree city, georgia, an affluent white, straight, and church-going city, when i was two years old. i remember nothing of this.
i do remember experiencing depression. i distinctly remember it. i guess i was about 4 or 5 when i became consciously aware of, and i called it homesickness because i really didn't know what it was. apparently no one else did either, because in 5th grade i was diagnosed with a.d.d. and put on meds - ritalin, to be exact.
the ritalin did help my grades to improve. however, i experienced pretty severe anxiety every day about going to school. by the time i was in 4th grade, i was throwing up and missing school or getting checked out early maybe four to ten times during a school year. please note that i was not intentionally throwing up to get out of school. not consciously, anyway.
the ritalin made this anxiety much worse. it also increased my feelings of social isolation, which had also been present for as long as i can remember. i also felt a lot of shame about being diagnosed with a "disorder."
despite all of the negative side effects, i did not protest taking the meds. i liked them. sometimes i would physically feel sick enough to voluntarily refuse them, and my mom got into a routine of only dosing me on school days. weekends were an emotional roller coaster.
aside from puking, another of my involuntary reactions to stress involved crying. i would go to bed, and then just cry and cry and cry. i never did this in front of anyone else. it started when i was really little and continued until probably when i got into recovery as an adult. i don't remember any triggering events preceding these episodes, but i do remember noticing that the muscles in my abdomen would be sore the next day, and then connecting that to the crying.
the social anxiety and depression and all of the symptoms of each gradually increased as i got older. i was also very angry - a lot. i had always intensely adored and intensely hated my dad. there was rarely any in between, and the adoration and hatred were determined by how he was treating me at any given time.
when i was little, he would take me with him on business trips, to the health club, to work, and i basically became his little sidekick. he made me feel really special, and he often told me that we were different from everyone else and that no one would understand us except for us. i believed he needed me in his life desperately because i was the only other person who could understand him.
i would go to any length to make my dad proud of me, to include me in his tiny circle of exceptional human beings, which i felt consisted of just the two of us. keep in mind that i was the oldest of three born in three years. it was chaotic. i seriously do not understand how my mom lived through our baby years. we were always playing and fighting and whatever. even though we lived in a big house, we each had our own room, and the house still felt overwhelmingly crowded.
i was intensely jealous of my brother and sister, especially my sister, and especially if my dad paid any attention to either of them. my siblings and i fought violently. on at least one occasion, my dad actively encouraged us to rip each other apart while he and my mom sat by and watched. my dad loved it. my mom...all i know is that my dad had a very strong hold on her. he is an enormously talented bullshitter and manipulator. my mom would not intervene often.
when she did intervene, though, it would be when she felt my dad was too angry to be in control of his punishing us. they shared a theory that if a parent never hits their child in anger, then it was a legitimate "spare the rod spoil the child" kind of thing. my dad was very calculated about his punishments, and almost always executed them coldly and calmly.
he lost it a couple of times, though - i can literally only remember two times. guess who drove him over the edge on those two occasions? me! to this day, i am empowered by the feeling that came over me after the fear of physical harm had passed: he was the crazy one. not me. and it gave me a little sliver of power over him.
looking back, i am also proud of being the only person i witnessed sending him over his edge. i mean, its totally in a self-serving sadistic way, but i learned that from the best, right?
ok, this is a lot for one blog post, and a lot for me to recall and record in one setting, so i'm just going to throw a "to be continued" in there and go watch this thunderstorm coming through (that is, a literal thunderstorm, not figurative).
to be continued...
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Remembering things
A little note for anyone who doesn't know everything about me: i have dissociative amnesia and didn't start remembering bad things that happened to me when i was younger until i was 31 and in a mental hospital. that was almost 3 years ago. anymore background and this is going to turn into a separate blog....hmmm, maybe i should do a separate blog about that...anyway, here's me today:
i have been remembering things today. really serious, shitty, painful things. my body has been remembering things today, too. when i was walking to my car after class my hip got all stiff and i had a horrible pain in my back under my right shoulder blade. i can't remember if the pain in my back was from a kick or an elbow - i'm thinking elbow - but it really hurt.
last summer i was driving and my arms started hurting so bad - just aching intensely, and my shoulders, too. it lasted for about 20 minutes, same as with the pain in my back today. the aching arms and shoulders were from being tied to a tree for a few hours. i hate pine trees.
the remembering has slown down a lot. it started out as tons of wet sand being poured all over me with an occasional sharp slap to the face. you know when you're putting a puzzle together and there is one random piece missing here and there and you have to press on the piece to get it into that blank space? that's what remembering is mostly like now, sometimes the soft easing of that puzzle piece into where it belongs, and sometimes like a snap when you have to really force that piece to fit.
today is a wet sand day.
somehow i feel less wound up. until a couple of years ago, i had all of these rubber bands wrapped really tightly in my guts. they've begun to break or just disintegrate, over time with therapy and recovery, etc., but sometimes i don't realize there are more of them very deep inside until another one goes, and i have a bit more of myself that i didn't know existed, and a bit less of my fear.
its a balance, a give and take. sometimes i ask myself if it is worth it to deal with all of this shit and have these memories of a life i never knew existed until i was 31 fucking years old. sometimes i can answer that question and sometimes i can't.
today i don't think i can. i can look at everything that i've been through in the past and see all of the blessings and peace i have now, and they really do balance out. would i have rather not experienced any of the bad stuff in the past, and consequently not have the blessings and peace i have now? i don't know sometimes.
i am certain sometimes, though, that i would rather be just right where i am, because all of the blessings are worth all of the shitty stuff. i have not once been certain that they were not worth it.
its a very narrow line, and days like today put me right back on it. but, as my therapist likes to point out, i am not in a mental hospital - i am learning to cope and live my life. the past doesn't devastate me anymore. i am breathing, i have no pains in my chest, i'm only a little nauseous, and about 30 minutes ago, my friend's puppy was chasing her tail and i laughed so hard i did that embarrassing snorting thing.
i have gotten out of bed today. i went to school today. i didn't take a shower, and i'm wearing the clothes i wore yesterday and slept in, but i did brush my teeth today - that definitely counts. i got some work done today (it was fun work, but i count it anyway because its still work). i made some money today (i already spent it, but that can be easily overlooked for the purpose of this exercise). i loved today, and people loved me today.
i am not hungry. i have a pretty nice car (it has ass warmers in the seats!). my kids are clean and fed and healthy. my husband is really a good person, and even though he irritates the shit out of me sometimes, i know i irritate the shit out of him, too, and i honestly love being with him, even just sitting next to him.
we have a positive balance in the bank account, i'm going to france (!), i live in frigging peachtree city AND i have a golf cart.
so. life doesn't seem so overwhelming. wet sand day or not, i'm living now.
i have been remembering things today. really serious, shitty, painful things. my body has been remembering things today, too. when i was walking to my car after class my hip got all stiff and i had a horrible pain in my back under my right shoulder blade. i can't remember if the pain in my back was from a kick or an elbow - i'm thinking elbow - but it really hurt.
last summer i was driving and my arms started hurting so bad - just aching intensely, and my shoulders, too. it lasted for about 20 minutes, same as with the pain in my back today. the aching arms and shoulders were from being tied to a tree for a few hours. i hate pine trees.
the remembering has slown down a lot. it started out as tons of wet sand being poured all over me with an occasional sharp slap to the face. you know when you're putting a puzzle together and there is one random piece missing here and there and you have to press on the piece to get it into that blank space? that's what remembering is mostly like now, sometimes the soft easing of that puzzle piece into where it belongs, and sometimes like a snap when you have to really force that piece to fit.
today is a wet sand day.
somehow i feel less wound up. until a couple of years ago, i had all of these rubber bands wrapped really tightly in my guts. they've begun to break or just disintegrate, over time with therapy and recovery, etc., but sometimes i don't realize there are more of them very deep inside until another one goes, and i have a bit more of myself that i didn't know existed, and a bit less of my fear.
its a balance, a give and take. sometimes i ask myself if it is worth it to deal with all of this shit and have these memories of a life i never knew existed until i was 31 fucking years old. sometimes i can answer that question and sometimes i can't.
today i don't think i can. i can look at everything that i've been through in the past and see all of the blessings and peace i have now, and they really do balance out. would i have rather not experienced any of the bad stuff in the past, and consequently not have the blessings and peace i have now? i don't know sometimes.
i am certain sometimes, though, that i would rather be just right where i am, because all of the blessings are worth all of the shitty stuff. i have not once been certain that they were not worth it.
its a very narrow line, and days like today put me right back on it. but, as my therapist likes to point out, i am not in a mental hospital - i am learning to cope and live my life. the past doesn't devastate me anymore. i am breathing, i have no pains in my chest, i'm only a little nauseous, and about 30 minutes ago, my friend's puppy was chasing her tail and i laughed so hard i did that embarrassing snorting thing.
i have gotten out of bed today. i went to school today. i didn't take a shower, and i'm wearing the clothes i wore yesterday and slept in, but i did brush my teeth today - that definitely counts. i got some work done today (it was fun work, but i count it anyway because its still work). i made some money today (i already spent it, but that can be easily overlooked for the purpose of this exercise). i loved today, and people loved me today.
i am not hungry. i have a pretty nice car (it has ass warmers in the seats!). my kids are clean and fed and healthy. my husband is really a good person, and even though he irritates the shit out of me sometimes, i know i irritate the shit out of him, too, and i honestly love being with him, even just sitting next to him.
we have a positive balance in the bank account, i'm going to france (!), i live in frigging peachtree city AND i have a golf cart.
so. life doesn't seem so overwhelming. wet sand day or not, i'm living now.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
What's Happening Now, Continued
So, I have a lot of work to do, and I can think of no better time to blog.
This is a continuation of .....drumroll...... What's Happening Now! Here's a link just in case you need to catch up - http://rayannsbadassbullshit.blogspot.com/2010/04/whats-happening-now.html
Okay. I get the email about going to the Cannes Film Festival, and at first I simply dismissed it. Two weeks? In a foreign country? Away from my husband and kids? That all adds up to an automatic rejection.
Next, I thought it might be some sort of scam related to the film I had submitted, like when you send in some original poetry and they say you will be published please give us $75 for the book it will be in. (fyi, I did't send the money in - that poem was really cheesy, too, so it all worked out)
Then I looked at the email some more. I did some research about the program, checked out the requirements for the trip, and mentioned it to Jonny. I asked him if he would be okay with me going on a trip like that, and he told me he wouldn't like me being away for so long, but it would be stupid not to go.
So I sent in my application along with a request for financial assistance in covering the cost. Jonny and I agreed that I would definitely go if the cost was covered by the scholarship fund.
The cost was not covered by the scholarship fund. I got a little money from it, but not enough. I started thinking of ways to get the money up, and I called my brother, mom, and sister for ideas. My brother used to be a missionary (i.e., never had to pay for anything), and lived in France for a year - he was a fantastic resource.
He was VERY excited that I might be able to take this opportunity. His encouragement and enthusiasm is possibly the one thing that pushed me into committing to the trip. I filled out the application and sent it in with my film.
I only had a week to get the money together for the program fee and airline fare. Guess what? I got it! It's all covered! My mom and brother and sister helped me reach out to family and friends and let them know about the trip and they have all been giving me money to do this! Its amazing to know that people love me and want me to succeed - it has really helped my confidence level go up. (contrary to popular belief, my self-confidence has historically been very low)
One of my big motivations for going to Cannes is that my film will be screened there. If you haven't seen my film, or if you have and you just don't get it, it is about living with flashbacks and stress and dissociative states that all come from the trauma and abuse I experienced as a child and young adult. The more the film is publicly screened, the more my face is out there exposing my past experiences of child molestation, rape, incest, torture and all out psychological assault.
There simply has never been anything that has made me feel this empowered.
I contacted www.rainn.org and asked for some info about how I could promote their incredible program (check it out - that's why there's a link) with my film in Cannes. They were very warm and supportive and put my film on their facebook page and sent me a bunch of material that can be distributed. They also told me that the most powerful impact would come from me speaking to the public.
Wow. That is hard core.
When I speak out loud and say the words that tell what has happened to me I am strong. Still scared, but strong. Speaking them out loud to a person or group of people I don't know? Maybe even a crowd?
My initial reaction is "duck and cover!" But my secondary reaction, the one that is calm and stable and sane, is exhilaration. Apply that to the potential I have in Cannes? Well, I will just hold off on that until I actually get there.
But it is completely within the realm of possibility that I can sell some of my work or get a writing job or something. A job that will pay the bills, and that can allow us to do things like get my teeth fixed so I don't have to be worried about them coming out if I bite into an apple. Also, when I am sick, I could go to the doctor. I could choose the dentist that would heavily sedate my seven year old in order to get his fixed, and not have to just go with the guy that the kids' government insurance covers.
We could get a new roof to replace the one that is leaking over our bedroom, then get new floors, paint the walls and get the hell out of here. We could get the hell out of here! We could get new cars! Neither one of us has ever had a new car - imagine being able to just go to a lot and be like, "I want that one," and that's the one you get? You don't have to turn it down because it has too many miles or smells weird or is mechanically sketchy. AND be able to pick what color, too!
Even beyond all of that, Cannes is giving me a shot at doing what I want to do, which is to empower people who have also been abused. I can't even start on all of the mental health problems, physical problems, substance abuse problems, domestic problems, sexual assault problems, and all the other problems that are in direct consequence to someone very badly hurting someone else - its too much.
I am already loud, and I'm getting stronger and more confident everyday. I am informed. I am motivated. I am ready to start kicking some ass. All I need is a place from which to kick - and I have excellent chances of finding that in Cannes.
I am really excited!
This is a continuation of .....drumroll...... What's Happening Now! Here's a link just in case you need to catch up - http://rayannsbadassbullshit.blogspot.com/2010/04/whats-happening-now.html
Okay. I get the email about going to the Cannes Film Festival, and at first I simply dismissed it. Two weeks? In a foreign country? Away from my husband and kids? That all adds up to an automatic rejection.
Next, I thought it might be some sort of scam related to the film I had submitted, like when you send in some original poetry and they say you will be published please give us $75 for the book it will be in. (fyi, I did't send the money in - that poem was really cheesy, too, so it all worked out)
Then I looked at the email some more. I did some research about the program, checked out the requirements for the trip, and mentioned it to Jonny. I asked him if he would be okay with me going on a trip like that, and he told me he wouldn't like me being away for so long, but it would be stupid not to go.
So I sent in my application along with a request for financial assistance in covering the cost. Jonny and I agreed that I would definitely go if the cost was covered by the scholarship fund.
The cost was not covered by the scholarship fund. I got a little money from it, but not enough. I started thinking of ways to get the money up, and I called my brother, mom, and sister for ideas. My brother used to be a missionary (i.e., never had to pay for anything), and lived in France for a year - he was a fantastic resource.
He was VERY excited that I might be able to take this opportunity. His encouragement and enthusiasm is possibly the one thing that pushed me into committing to the trip. I filled out the application and sent it in with my film.
I only had a week to get the money together for the program fee and airline fare. Guess what? I got it! It's all covered! My mom and brother and sister helped me reach out to family and friends and let them know about the trip and they have all been giving me money to do this! Its amazing to know that people love me and want me to succeed - it has really helped my confidence level go up. (contrary to popular belief, my self-confidence has historically been very low)
One of my big motivations for going to Cannes is that my film will be screened there. If you haven't seen my film, or if you have and you just don't get it, it is about living with flashbacks and stress and dissociative states that all come from the trauma and abuse I experienced as a child and young adult. The more the film is publicly screened, the more my face is out there exposing my past experiences of child molestation, rape, incest, torture and all out psychological assault.
There simply has never been anything that has made me feel this empowered.
I contacted www.rainn.org and asked for some info about how I could promote their incredible program (check it out - that's why there's a link) with my film in Cannes. They were very warm and supportive and put my film on their facebook page and sent me a bunch of material that can be distributed. They also told me that the most powerful impact would come from me speaking to the public.
Wow. That is hard core.
When I speak out loud and say the words that tell what has happened to me I am strong. Still scared, but strong. Speaking them out loud to a person or group of people I don't know? Maybe even a crowd?
My initial reaction is "duck and cover!" But my secondary reaction, the one that is calm and stable and sane, is exhilaration. Apply that to the potential I have in Cannes? Well, I will just hold off on that until I actually get there.
But it is completely within the realm of possibility that I can sell some of my work or get a writing job or something. A job that will pay the bills, and that can allow us to do things like get my teeth fixed so I don't have to be worried about them coming out if I bite into an apple. Also, when I am sick, I could go to the doctor. I could choose the dentist that would heavily sedate my seven year old in order to get his fixed, and not have to just go with the guy that the kids' government insurance covers.
We could get a new roof to replace the one that is leaking over our bedroom, then get new floors, paint the walls and get the hell out of here. We could get the hell out of here! We could get new cars! Neither one of us has ever had a new car - imagine being able to just go to a lot and be like, "I want that one," and that's the one you get? You don't have to turn it down because it has too many miles or smells weird or is mechanically sketchy. AND be able to pick what color, too!
Even beyond all of that, Cannes is giving me a shot at doing what I want to do, which is to empower people who have also been abused. I can't even start on all of the mental health problems, physical problems, substance abuse problems, domestic problems, sexual assault problems, and all the other problems that are in direct consequence to someone very badly hurting someone else - its too much.
I am already loud, and I'm getting stronger and more confident everyday. I am informed. I am motivated. I am ready to start kicking some ass. All I need is a place from which to kick - and I have excellent chances of finding that in Cannes.
I am really excited!
mike huckabastard
Um, I was going to write about Mike Huckabee and his recent "likening" of gay marriage to incest. However, I am both too baffled to come up with anything and too overwhelmed to narrow any blog-length issues down. I mean...what?...but...sputter....you see what I mean?...sputter...what?
Sunday, April 11, 2010
What's Happening Now
This isn't about the awesome tv show "What's Happening Now" with the grown up Rerun (although I saw the grown up Rerun on an episode of Scrubs and he is still big and cute, but now also very sweaty). It's about what is happening right now in my life, and everything that preceded it. Well, not everything, because that is more tome-length than blog-length.
In February 2010, I was walking to the parking deck after class in downtown Atl. I go to Georgia State University there. Right before I got to the parking deck, I came across a bus parked alongside the road with CAMPUS MOVIE FEST on the side. There was a woman standing outside of the bus with a CAMPUS MOVIE FEST shirt on, and she looked really friendly, so I just kept walking.
Then I was thinking to myself that a big bus with a person standing outside of it that I happen to be walking right by might probably be something I need to pay attention to, so I went back. The woman told me about Campus Movie Fest, which I understood to be as follows: I would get an HD camera, a laptop with editing software, a mic, a touch phone, and tech support for one week, for free. The point is to see what kind of movie students can come up with in that time frame, and to give budding filmmakers some exposure. The only requirement was that I be a student (check), and have two forms of I.D. (check, check).
I asked her when all of this was taking place, and she said they were about to start handing the equipment out in about 20 minutes. I happened to have 20 minutes because I had just taken an exam and was out of class early, so I went and got the equipment.
Then I made a movie. In one week. Basically the only restriction on the movie was that it be 5 min. or less. No problem! I really got into making the movie and really, really put myself out there to get across what I wanted to in less than 5 min. Overall, I was pretty impressed with myself.
So the films the students made go into a contest and the top 16 films are chosen to screen at GSU, and the top 3 of those go on to the Southern Regional Finale. My movie did not only NOT get into the top three, it did not get into the top 16. I mean I was disappointed, but the bare bones of it is that I am a psych major and my only experience with film making involved home videos of my kids, a history of film class four years ago, and about 30 minutes of editing a clip for experiments in the psych lab.
I had really put myself out there, though. The film I made is pretty intense - here is a link to it - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IniB--YYhn0. It really changed me, empowered me, and part of the empowerment was telling the world about what happened to me when I was a kid. I've never had the opportunity to confront my primary abuser (my dad), and I have been so terrified of him finding out that I am telling on him. A big part of my work in recovery pertains to the management of my anxiety and fear of him, and this film is kind of like poking the proverbial bear. That is a big deal to me, turning my fear of my dad into my own personal empowerment.
So anyway, after the screening at GSU, I was like, "well, I got a lot out of that personally. It would be really awesome if someday I could afford equipment like that and start making documentaries or something."
But there is another chance to win and get into the Regional Finales: it is called the Wild Card. The way you win the wild card is through text voting. I have a family plan with unlimited texting, a fourteen year old, and very supportive friends and family. I personally voted for myself over 2,000 times. Guess who won the wild card?
So I made it to the regional finale. This in itself was exciting - my film would be screened at the Tabernacle!
And then I got an email saying that as a finalist for my school, I was automatically accepted into a program bringing students to the Cannes Film Festival. In Cannes. In France. For two weeks. Holy shit.
To be continued...
In February 2010, I was walking to the parking deck after class in downtown Atl. I go to Georgia State University there. Right before I got to the parking deck, I came across a bus parked alongside the road with CAMPUS MOVIE FEST on the side. There was a woman standing outside of the bus with a CAMPUS MOVIE FEST shirt on, and she looked really friendly, so I just kept walking.
Then I was thinking to myself that a big bus with a person standing outside of it that I happen to be walking right by might probably be something I need to pay attention to, so I went back. The woman told me about Campus Movie Fest, which I understood to be as follows: I would get an HD camera, a laptop with editing software, a mic, a touch phone, and tech support for one week, for free. The point is to see what kind of movie students can come up with in that time frame, and to give budding filmmakers some exposure. The only requirement was that I be a student (check), and have two forms of I.D. (check, check).
I asked her when all of this was taking place, and she said they were about to start handing the equipment out in about 20 minutes. I happened to have 20 minutes because I had just taken an exam and was out of class early, so I went and got the equipment.
Then I made a movie. In one week. Basically the only restriction on the movie was that it be 5 min. or less. No problem! I really got into making the movie and really, really put myself out there to get across what I wanted to in less than 5 min. Overall, I was pretty impressed with myself.
So the films the students made go into a contest and the top 16 films are chosen to screen at GSU, and the top 3 of those go on to the Southern Regional Finale. My movie did not only NOT get into the top three, it did not get into the top 16. I mean I was disappointed, but the bare bones of it is that I am a psych major and my only experience with film making involved home videos of my kids, a history of film class four years ago, and about 30 minutes of editing a clip for experiments in the psych lab.
I had really put myself out there, though. The film I made is pretty intense - here is a link to it - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IniB--YYhn0. It really changed me, empowered me, and part of the empowerment was telling the world about what happened to me when I was a kid. I've never had the opportunity to confront my primary abuser (my dad), and I have been so terrified of him finding out that I am telling on him. A big part of my work in recovery pertains to the management of my anxiety and fear of him, and this film is kind of like poking the proverbial bear. That is a big deal to me, turning my fear of my dad into my own personal empowerment.
So anyway, after the screening at GSU, I was like, "well, I got a lot out of that personally. It would be really awesome if someday I could afford equipment like that and start making documentaries or something."
But there is another chance to win and get into the Regional Finales: it is called the Wild Card. The way you win the wild card is through text voting. I have a family plan with unlimited texting, a fourteen year old, and very supportive friends and family. I personally voted for myself over 2,000 times. Guess who won the wild card?
So I made it to the regional finale. This in itself was exciting - my film would be screened at the Tabernacle!
And then I got an email saying that as a finalist for my school, I was automatically accepted into a program bringing students to the Cannes Film Festival. In Cannes. In France. For two weeks. Holy shit.
To be continued...
Friday, April 9, 2010
I'm getting old
I am getting old, and I am really kind of excited about it. It seems the older I get, the more respect I command, and the freer I feel to just be who I think I am. Of course, I don't really think I'm "old" per se. I am going to be 34 next month and that is not old. However, it is also no longer in the realm of "spring chicken."
My hips hurt. Sometimes it takes me a really long time to get up after sitting with my legs crossed. 11:30 p.m. is my idea of "really late." My silver hair has gotten prominent enough to show up in photos. These things have not been bothering me, to my surprise.
I wear reading glasses and I am always losing them. I can literally put anything at all down, turn around in a circle, and not be able to find it again. This has been really frustrating with the reading glasses because I use them so much, but I also don't use them so much. Its like a vision purgatory.
So I had this great idea - why not get one of those chains that you hang around your neck and attach to your reading glasses? I actually have had this idea ever since I started having to wear reading glasses (holy shit - 5 years ago?), but there was no way in hell I was going to beat my own mother to that concession of youth.
It turned into a great idea when giving a shit about how old I am - or to be completely honest, how old I appear - became less important, and my growing frustration over always losing my reading glasses became maddening. So I got on ebay and found this really aesthetically pleasing chain. I also found a really adorable new pair of reading glasses. Yay!
I got said chain and glasses in the mail and was using the two of them together when my 14 year old son came in and told me that I look old. I was like, "Do I look old, or do I just look like someone young who is wearing something that old people wear?"
He said I just looked old. And it didn't bother me, even a little.
I've been through a lot in my life, and I guess I'm getting to the age when your past starts to catch up to your body. In this way, I am kind of proud of looking older. It is an expression of survival, of wrinkles and scars as battle wounds and triumph. I was not really pleased last night when someone guessed my age to be 40, but I just contributed that to other factors (such as the person making the guess had very distorted vision).
So the older I am getting it seems the less of an expectation on the part of society for me to conform and be paint-by-numbers pretty. I've never been paint-by-numbers anything anyway, except of course when I have done paint-by-numbers pictures, which I find quite soothing.
Maybe I am just becoming more secure about myself, which would be a good sign of progress since I've been in therapy for years. Regardless, I am excited about being who I am and all of the work I do just to figure out who I am.
I wore short shorts with cowboy boots yesterday. That was fun! My sister kept making suggestions like, "maybe you should get some sun on your legs first," and "a cute skirt would look really good instead of the shorts." Jonny kept calling me Little Miss Sunshine.
Embracing my pale skin is one of the things I'm doing this summer as a big "fuck you" to society, and I have always wanted to wear cowboy boots with shorts ever since I was little. Also, Little Miss Sunshine kicks ass!
Needless to say, but I will anyway, my age is becoming less relevant to my own self-conception. It is really quite liberating. And now it is 10:30 pm on Friday night and I need to go get ready for bed.
My hips hurt. Sometimes it takes me a really long time to get up after sitting with my legs crossed. 11:30 p.m. is my idea of "really late." My silver hair has gotten prominent enough to show up in photos. These things have not been bothering me, to my surprise.
I wear reading glasses and I am always losing them. I can literally put anything at all down, turn around in a circle, and not be able to find it again. This has been really frustrating with the reading glasses because I use them so much, but I also don't use them so much. Its like a vision purgatory.
So I had this great idea - why not get one of those chains that you hang around your neck and attach to your reading glasses? I actually have had this idea ever since I started having to wear reading glasses (holy shit - 5 years ago?), but there was no way in hell I was going to beat my own mother to that concession of youth.
It turned into a great idea when giving a shit about how old I am - or to be completely honest, how old I appear - became less important, and my growing frustration over always losing my reading glasses became maddening. So I got on ebay and found this really aesthetically pleasing chain. I also found a really adorable new pair of reading glasses. Yay!
I got said chain and glasses in the mail and was using the two of them together when my 14 year old son came in and told me that I look old. I was like, "Do I look old, or do I just look like someone young who is wearing something that old people wear?"
He said I just looked old. And it didn't bother me, even a little.
I've been through a lot in my life, and I guess I'm getting to the age when your past starts to catch up to your body. In this way, I am kind of proud of looking older. It is an expression of survival, of wrinkles and scars as battle wounds and triumph. I was not really pleased last night when someone guessed my age to be 40, but I just contributed that to other factors (such as the person making the guess had very distorted vision).
So the older I am getting it seems the less of an expectation on the part of society for me to conform and be paint-by-numbers pretty. I've never been paint-by-numbers anything anyway, except of course when I have done paint-by-numbers pictures, which I find quite soothing.
Maybe I am just becoming more secure about myself, which would be a good sign of progress since I've been in therapy for years. Regardless, I am excited about being who I am and all of the work I do just to figure out who I am.
I wore short shorts with cowboy boots yesterday. That was fun! My sister kept making suggestions like, "maybe you should get some sun on your legs first," and "a cute skirt would look really good instead of the shorts." Jonny kept calling me Little Miss Sunshine.
Embracing my pale skin is one of the things I'm doing this summer as a big "fuck you" to society, and I have always wanted to wear cowboy boots with shorts ever since I was little. Also, Little Miss Sunshine kicks ass!
Needless to say, but I will anyway, my age is becoming less relevant to my own self-conception. It is really quite liberating. And now it is 10:30 pm on Friday night and I need to go get ready for bed.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Jersey Bullshit
I am physically repelled by Jersey Shore. I have never actually seen it, but I see those people all over the Internet. I have watched their clip from The Today Show, and I am not impressed. I read the article about them in People mag (my fave), and I am still not impressed. But what does "impressed" actually mean? To make an impression? If that's it, then, yeah, I guess I am impressed. Shit.
It's not the people on the show or what they say or do - its their pictures. I cannot resist pictures of any or all of these people. I have this thing I do when I look at slide shows of famous people (because I like to do that kind of thing - its usually so comfortingly inconsequential). I will contemplate the photos of famous people I like and/or respect. My favorites usually involve snaps of men with their children, particularly daughters (gee, analyze THAT).
For example, I didn't necessarily like Hugh Jackman until I started seeing pics of him with his daughter - they always look so happy! Now I am a big softie for Hugh. I have always liked Jason Bateman, and now I do even more whenever I see pics of him with his daughter - you can tell they belong to each other, and that they are so comfortable with that they probably don't even realize it.
I will NOT contemplate the photos of people I don't recognize or that I don't respect. I will roll my eyes and say "Next!" (not out loud, just in my head) and not give them the time of day. I like to think that lack of acknowledgement is my own way of contributing to our society's vast need of improvement via ignoring stupid people instead of following them around with cameras.
Here is the conundrum: When I get to a pic of a Jersey Shore person (fine, I admit, I know some of their names: The Situation, Pooky?, JWOWW? I can't think about it anymore - my head hurts right between my eyes and I'm feeling a bit nauseous) I flip right past it AND THEN GO BACK TO LOOK AT IT! I mean, what the fuck? Not only am I acknowledging them, I am compulsively drawn to stare at them for seconds on end as though they are some kind of freak show. I suppose that may be because they are some kind of freak show.
In addition to involuntarily acknowledging them, I am now writing a BLOG POST, and only my second one at that, about them! Do you see my conundrum? I do, and since I am the only person reading this, that's all that really matters. I thought I might give more examples of people I don't acknowledge, but that of course would mean acknowledging them, and I really don't want to tarnish my reputation of intellectual snobbery any further than this Jersey thing, so I'm just going to stop now.
It's not the people on the show or what they say or do - its their pictures. I cannot resist pictures of any or all of these people. I have this thing I do when I look at slide shows of famous people (because I like to do that kind of thing - its usually so comfortingly inconsequential). I will contemplate the photos of famous people I like and/or respect. My favorites usually involve snaps of men with their children, particularly daughters (gee, analyze THAT).
For example, I didn't necessarily like Hugh Jackman until I started seeing pics of him with his daughter - they always look so happy! Now I am a big softie for Hugh. I have always liked Jason Bateman, and now I do even more whenever I see pics of him with his daughter - you can tell they belong to each other, and that they are so comfortable with that they probably don't even realize it.
I will NOT contemplate the photos of people I don't recognize or that I don't respect. I will roll my eyes and say "Next!" (not out loud, just in my head) and not give them the time of day. I like to think that lack of acknowledgement is my own way of contributing to our society's vast need of improvement via ignoring stupid people instead of following them around with cameras.
Here is the conundrum: When I get to a pic of a Jersey Shore person (fine, I admit, I know some of their names: The Situation, Pooky?, JWOWW? I can't think about it anymore - my head hurts right between my eyes and I'm feeling a bit nauseous) I flip right past it AND THEN GO BACK TO LOOK AT IT! I mean, what the fuck? Not only am I acknowledging them, I am compulsively drawn to stare at them for seconds on end as though they are some kind of freak show. I suppose that may be because they are some kind of freak show.
In addition to involuntarily acknowledging them, I am now writing a BLOG POST, and only my second one at that, about them! Do you see my conundrum? I do, and since I am the only person reading this, that's all that really matters. I thought I might give more examples of people I don't acknowledge, but that of course would mean acknowledging them, and I really don't want to tarnish my reputation of intellectual snobbery any further than this Jersey thing, so I'm just going to stop now.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
I have a blog!
I can't believe it has taken me so long to take advantage of this medium of expression! I have soooo much bullshit rumbling around in my head, I am sure I will be the best bullshit blogger ever!
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