SVULadies

JESSIE’S STORY

As a child, I was two different people. Before the age of five or six, I was outgoing and happy, talkative and interested in the world around me. Then I became withdrawn and quiet, fearful and shy. I stopped laughing and smiling so much. I remember both me’s. But I still don’t remember much of what happened to cause the near sudden change.

My father (stepfather really, but he was there when I was born and married my mom when I was a year old) was a violent alcoholic. He wasn’t the loud, raging type, but the quiet, simmering type who would explode without much warning and with a kind of sadistic control to his violence, not indiscriminant. I was terrified of him. And I desperately craved his attention and love. He didn’t like children to be too happy or feel too safe and secure, probably because of how abused he was as a kid. I was both relieved and devastated after he and my mom separated when I was seven. They divorced a couple years later.

After the separation, my mom brought a man home to live with us. His name was Tony and he was my mother’s junior by about ten years. He was funny and paid attention to me. Eventually that attention became sexual. It started seemingly innocently with verbal come-ons and lingering looks. Then touches. Sometimes even with my mother nearby. I felt ashamed, because I liked some of the attention, and felt like I had invited this new more sexual interest from him. And it also felt like a betrayal of my mother. Our family was very much “don’t talk, don’t trust, don’t feel”, so it never occurred to me to tell anybody. I was never protected from unwanted touch before, so who would I even tell, anyway?

I remember very clearly the first time Tony’s touching became overtly sexual. We were sitting in a beanbag together, laughing. I was happy. Then he got this look in his eyes, and I felt the familiar nausea and fear. When he put his mouth on my breast my heart literally stopped for a moment, and time seemed to slow down. It was just like what happened years later, during a car accident where I hit my head and everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, but my thoughts were racing and clear, and I had all this damn TIME to think about what was happening, what was going to happen. But I was paralyzed, unable to do anything about it. It was just like that with Tony. I felt sick with fear and shame, thinking it’s my fault, I must have asked for this with my yearning for attention, and this is what I deserve. But at the same time, I’m fascinated by the dichotomy between my mental celerity and this outer slow-mo movie playing out in front of me. And then, the memory just stops. I must have checked out again.

Dissociation: a psychological defense mechanism in which specific, anxiety-provoking thoughts, emotions, or physical sensations are separated from the rest of the psyche.

A very useful thing I was already very familiar with, though I didn’t yet know the verbiage. I would learn that much later, along with terms like night terrors, anxiety, panic attacks, migraines, and clinical depression. Handy words to pair with all the symptoms that pursued me from childhood. The only symptom that disappeared after Tony finally moved out was the daily vomiting on the way to school.

Because of my denial of any trauma, I had nothing to connect to my overwhelming feelings. They seemed to be free-floating without any apparent cause. This left me feeling more than a little crazy.

I didn’t understand why I’d so overly emotional over any stories of rape, incest, or abuse. I mean everyone feels bad about that stuff, it’s terrible, but my reactions and feelings were so way out of proportion, it was obvious to me I was reacting like a victim. But I had no memory of being victimized.

It was a huge breakthrough when I finally connected the memories of abuse and incest I had to the feelings and symptoms from which I had always suffered. It was weird, like I was just remembering for the first time, something that I never technically forgot. The incidents finally took on their proper significance, and the feelings and symptoms suddenly were no longer crazy, but understandable, appropriate even.

At first, with years of therapy, I struggled to “get well” and have “normal” relationships. My life was a constant roller coaster of almost manic highs, and suicidal lows. Mostly lows. When I felt good, I would throw myself into life, attacking whatever new thing or relationship I was interested in with fervor, knowing I had precious little time before another crippling depression hit. Or worse, panic. It was all so exhausting. Now, at age forty, I’ve come to an acceptance. I no longer strive for more. If I am usually lonely and my life is somewhat empty, well I also seldom have panic attacks or immobilizing depression. I never feel euphoric, but I’m seldom agonizingly sad either. It’s all part of the price I pay in trying to maintain this delicate balance. This compromise I’ve made with myself.

I still get in trouble for missing too much time from work, but I need lots of alone time and sometimes I still just need to hide.

I still can’t stand to feel trapped or held down. A few years ago I had to have an MRI. I told the doctor I was claustrophobic so he ordered an “open” MRI. But the top of the tube was still right over my face, and I was told not to move. I cried through the whole procedure, and only barely managed to keep from full blown panic. Now I know to ask for medication if a doctor ever asks if I’m claustrophobic in relation to some procedure. Mainly I just don’t go to the doctor unless absolutely necessary.

Also, I’ve learned to be more honest, and less uptight about the whole thing. I felt such shame for so long, that I kept everything inside me like a closely guarded secret. I felt ashamed of my panic attacks, so I was constantly fearful I’d have one in public or in front of acquaintances. Now, I no longer feel that shame, and I’m able to be honest about my feelings. Which goes a long way in curbing the panic. I used to avoid going to a strange place or someone else’s home. Now, I give myself permission to feel, and to leave if I want. I allow myself to take steps needed to feel more comfortable, like sitting at the end of isles or with my back to the wall in restaurants, or near an exit in a room. And if it becomes an issue, I have no problem telling someone, “I’m sorry but I have to sit in the isle” or near the exit, or whatever. I have no problem telling them I don’t like to feel trapped, or I’m claustrophobic. I don’t have to reveal deep, dark secrets, but I also don’t have to be ashamed or force myself to act “normal”.

In fact, I spent so many years keeping secrets and ashamed that now I refuse to settle for anything less than genuineness in myself or others. I don’t prevaricate. And what you see is what you get. If I don’t like someone I can be civil, but I don’t smile in their face while stabbing them in the back. I know what it’s like to feel inadequate and never hear a kind word, so I’m generous with my praise, but never insincere. That’s the worst insult anyone could give me, to accuse me of being disingenuous or lubricious.

So, that’s my story. Usually I’m content. Sometimes I still long for more, but I’ve hurt friends in the past by running or pushing them away when we got too close. So by isolating, at least I’m only hurting myself. For I fear intimacy as much as I long for it. But I hesitate to make any further efforts to change, because I’m so glad to be off that roller coaster. Roller coasters are fun to ride for an hour or a day. But a lifetime is too much. The constant adrenaline rush is toxic.