Abuse

I've often wondered where the line in the sand is drawn between victim and perpetrator.  

Having worked as a domestic violence counselor at one time, there was a great deal of focus in our trainings and in our counseling on "the cycle of abuse", which emphasizes how the patterns we learn, what shapes us, will often repeat.  Indeed, many a study can confirm this, as can innumerable victims of various forms and types of abuse and violence.  But the question I always asked myself, as we sat in trainings with a definitive black line drawn between "abuser" and "survivor(s)" was, when does one stop being a survivor and become the abuser?  Of course, some continue to be the survivor for a lifetime, swapping one abusive situation for another because they have no idea what a healthy relationship looks like.  But for the sake of this discussion, I'll be focusing on those who become the abuser.  

It's not difficult to understand that a child, raised in a home where his male role model maintains control through power and control tactics like physical and emotional or verbal abuse, is very likely to become the same kind of man when he is grown.  Domestic violence counseling aims to work through the trauma of such abuse, and help children learn what healthy relationships and behaviors are so the pattern does not repeat.  But what if the child is not fortunate enough to have this experience?  What if he grows up doing the only thing he knows how to do?  Society has little pity for the man who is abusive.  However, if is sister, who was raised in the same home, repeats the female role she saw in the cycle of abuse, society has free counseling and shelters and plenty of love and support for her.  She's been a victim, a "survivor", if I am to be politically correct, her entire life.  But the man?  The man is now a violent criminal.  Now, I wouldn't disagree with either assessment, but I think we largely forget that the man is still a victim, too.  When did it change?  At age 18?  When he kicked the family dog when he was 10, because he'd seen his father kick his mother when she disappointed him?  When he first slaps his sister out of anger because that's how he sees conflicts dealt with?  Or is it when he finally punches his girlfriend and puts her in the hospital?

The question has become more personal for me in recent years.  My mother was emotionally and verbally abusive on a regular basis, and occasionally violent.  She was raised by a mother with Bipolar Disorder and hallucinations, and a father who was a pedophile.  While she didn't talk much of her childhood, what she did say was almost never negative.  And she had her father babysit her own children.  You can guess what happened.  For years, I thought I was the only victim.  Of his grandchildren, I probably was.  It seems, however, that he abused most, if not all of his daughters.  My mother?  She claims that, if anything happened, she doesn't remember.  Only after her sister admitted to being abused, some 60 years later, did she admit that some things happened that felt awkward.  The worst of it, I truly believe she does not recall, and it is likely her brain's defense mechanism, the thing that allowed her to get through such a horrific experience without losing her mind.

Like me, she has severe OCD, as do two of her sisters.  I attribute this to a need for healthy amounts of control that we never had, and the perception of the world as a frightening place.  This kind of abuse really fucks with your mind, let me tell you.  Mother suffered other incredible traumas during her childhood, which no doubt contributed to the complete mess that she is and was.  It's a damn shame, because there was the potential for a good, caring, intelligent person there.  My dad saw it, and it's why he fell in love with her and continues to love her despite the fact that she has been as abusive to him, if not more so, than she has to me.  He clings to the good in her, as his mother clung to the good in his father, who was abusive and unfaithful.  Our childhoods shape who we are and what we become.

Just last night, I had a conversation with Mother about my childhood.  All I can say is that, much like her recollection (or lack thereof) of her own childhood experiences, it appears she has done some editing to her memories of raising me and my sister.  Clip this, paste that, and voila!  We have brand new memories that make everything seem good.  All of the bad things are hereby removed.  I suppose that is easy when I was banned from discussing my own traumatic experiences in my younger years, because they bothered her.  I always called this narcissism, and perhaps it is, but she's broken.  Hell, she's probably more broken than I am.

Is this the best life has to offer?  Abuse is so selfish, so destructive.  It takes so much, and it ruins so many lives.  Abuse doesn't just lay to waste the life of the initial victim, but creates a domino effect that takes down everything else in its path.  Which makes you want to punish abusers severely, right?

But then you remember...they were victims, too.

Mother suffers from dissociation.  I believe she also is crippled when it comes to being a whole, nurturing person.  This is probably why I rely so heavily on words; I learned how to be more than she was because of the words, even though the actions did not line up.  

Oh, to have a childhood we didn't have to recover from.

What Is Help?

Help.  What does that even mean?

When I was in grade school, probably in third grade when things began to get really bad, I first heard about counselors and learned what they did.  The ideas of someone willing to listen and knowledgable  to help me were very appealing.  Unfortunately, I quickly learned that I could not discuss the things I needed to in order to address the real issues.  At that time, I didn't know what most of the issues even were.  I still tried, often visiting the school counseling offices through the rest of my time as a student, but it never got me anywhere.

At some point, Mother got it into her head that I needed private counseling for depression.  Depression was the big mental illness of the moment at that time, and she was sure that I had it.  I didn't, and several counselors told her so, but that didn't seem to matter.

When I struggled with eating disorders, I sought help.  I realized I was at rock bottom, and I knew my options and outlook didn't look good.  At first, I looked into online counseling, or phone counseling. I'm not big into being face-to-face with people while discussing my difficulties.  But I tried.  My search turned up a whole lot of nothing.

Getting desperate, I called around for some referrals.  I was given the name of a therapist who held some local support groups for people with eating disorders, and, breaking with my antisocial tendencies, I actually went way outside of my comfort zone and attended.  It wasn't easy, but I did find a tremendous benefit in it.  The one stipulation, however, is that all participants were required to have a personal therapist.  I suppose I could have lied, but I am honest to a fault and I admitted that it was just not a step I was ready to take yet.  The woman who ran the group unceremoniously removed me from it, despite my tearful pleas to stay.  I started spending a lot of time in cemeteries and considering my final arrangements; I didn't need to make a choice to kill myself, because I was already well on my way with anorexia and bulimia.

With few other options, I decided to take a leap and get counseling through the center on my college campus.  In keeping with my good fortune *cough, cough*, I met a counselor who evidently believed that scare tactics were the way to go.  I won't go into details, but it took me years to recover from the damage that was caused by that attempt to seek help.  In addition to the eating disorder, I developed crippling panic attacks which left me temporarily housebound and almost ended my college education.

Eventually, I recovered from my eating disorders.  It was only out of the realization that I was completely alone and my reality was facing death or fixing shit myself.  I chose the latter.  No one helped me. And, while I was empowered by recovering from something that professionals said could not be conquered alone, I also felt saddened by the fact that getting help was such a pain in the ass, and doing so had only given me more to recover from.  Things, once again, were not as they should be.

As I spiraled down into the hell that is OCD, I often considered how nice it would be to find a good therapist to help me.  Thing is, and I know my opinion is unpopular here, I am adamantly opposed to taking medication, which should be a last resort but has become a first line of treatment in the field of mental healthcare.  I will not do it.  I don't believe that the benefits are such that it is worth the side effects.  Eventually, the disorder has to be managed.  There is no pill that will cure OCD; the pills might take the edge off and make it easier for some people to manage, but it seems to cause more problems while failing to address the original problem more often than not.  I believe CBT (cognitive-behavioral therapy) and ERP (exposure and response/ritual prevention) are the only ways to truly conquer OCD.  Thing is, a road map or an experienced guide would be freakin' spectacular tools to have.

For a long time, I wanted to beat this, but didn't know if I could.  Now I believe that I can, but I've lost so much along the way that I barely know where or how to begin rebuilding the pieces of my shattered life.  Just as I'd done in the past, I recently sought counseling via phone or internet.  It yielded no results, again.  I found a guy who was willing to do some phone-based counseling using EFT.  While I always prefer natural and alternative therapies, I was rather unimpressed, and he seemed rather unenthusiastic.  I think he was more interested in getting the call over with so he could ask me to send him a donation in the mail.  Sigh.  So, here I am, back at square one.

Sometimes I wonder, could I just get out of bed one morning, say screw it, and just do what I used to do in spite of everything telling me to freak out?  Maybe.  My husband seems to think this is not only possible, but that I should have done it long ago.  I tend to think that his views of OCD are selfish and simplistic, but whatever.  The truth probably lies somewhere in the middle.  I'm running out of options; I either have to tape a leap and get my life back, or accept that my world is equivalent to the square footage of this house and the extent of my self-worth hinges on whether or not I get the fucking laundry done.

A Beginning

Where does one begin when starting a blog about a struggle that is not new?  There is always a beginning, but sometimes even those of us who have been in the battle for what seems like forever could not tell you when it began, or why.  I can say that OCD is insidious, that it steals your peace, and that no struggle or pain in my life has been as torturous and arduous as this beast that I lock horns with on a daily basis.

Early on, in this most recent incarnation of OCD (contamination fears), I could say that I have an idea why it began and when.  However, it would not be entirely true.  While this current battle, approximately four years in duration, is by far the most severe in terms of debilitating repercussions and the path of devastation it has left in its wake, it is not the first.  For nearly a decade, I struggled with eating disorders, the intensity and pervasive nature of which is overshadowed only by my current struggle.  It laid waste to so many opportunities, friendships, and dreams.  In my need to control something, my misguided efforts led me into a miserable trap where I was a prisoner of my own mind and the distorted reflection in the mirror.  Again, with OCD, I am locked inside my mind's overblown and often inaccurate assessments of danger in various situations, and I live in fear.  The face changes, but the feeling, the desperation for reassurance and safety, the need to know, that all remains the same.

I never really felt safe.  There was never an accurate measure of risk; something I didn't even realize I'd done wrong might result in consequences that were devastating.  I was frequently discouraged from taking chances or living life.  And there were things which should have had consequences and didn't.  People failed me so many times on matters which resulted in some really life-altering shit.  I had no healthy sense of control, no feeling of security.  I felt overly responsible and guilty.

I have been abused in multiple ways by multiple people.  People didn't seem to value me as a human being; people used me for what they wanted, regardless of what that was.   And so, I became intent on destroying my exterior; if I appeared already broken on the outside, then maybe I could save what was left of me inside.  Maybe I could be safe and protect myself by wearing a very literal sign that I had already taken all that I could.

I left "home", if you can call it that, at 16.  I never went back.   After I met my husband, I found happiness.  I found trust and love like I had never known.  I thought I'd found my equivalent of happily ever after.

And then, OCD happened, and everything changed.  My life has been a precarious balance ever since, with a very tenuous grip on the desire to remain alive, at times.  OCD takes everything.  It lies.  It deceives.  It owns.  And beating it means staring into the mouth of the lion, and defying every urge you have to run for your life; for if you run, you'll surely be devoured.  It means being strong when there's nothing left, being brave when you're scared shitless, being the voice of reason when your head is filled with lies.

This is a beginning. It's not the beginning.  It's a part of a whole.  It's a part of me.  It's a part of the story.

Welcome to my blog.