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This area is reserved for the tidbits I know hope will be of interest to my readers. Check back often for regular updates. 

 

Check out this article about the Fifty Shades of Grey phenomena, including a list of organizations which strongly oppose this sick trend, and have implemented various means of helping women who have been sexually victimized.

 

Were you raised by a narcissist? Chances are you were if you suffered any form of childhood abuse. The Little Red Survivor website is filled with excellent articles examining the many faces of narcissism.

 

It's been a long time coming---7 years to be exact---but finally email notifications for new BD posts is available. Sign up today and never again miss another post. You know you want to!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Kate Is Rising has an excellent Survivors Resources page which directs you to numerous websites dealing with issues of abuse, healing and recovery. Please bear in mind that the information on these pages may be triggering.

 

 

There's lots of good stuff at the Dissociation Blog Showcase, including a list of 180 blogs dealing with some aspect of this disorder. 

 

 

On the Overcoming Sexual Abuse site there's an article entitled, "It's Not About You Mom" which I could have written myself. I bet many of my readers could say the same!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Monday
Jun292009

Searching for Me

When Sissyface returned from Arizona last week, she brought me photos she'd gotten from Mom. They were supposed to be of my kids when they were little. Some of them were, but mixed in were pictures I'd rather not have seen, though by now I should be immune to such sudden assaults. (It's impossible to have a relationship with my sister and not run into the occasional photo, childhood memento, etc.)

I looked at the photos--just a glance, really, for I knew I'd devour them later in private. I can't explain such fascination--- it's not unlike my childhood lust for prying off knee and elbow scabs to see what my puckery skin looked like underneath. Well here's the thing, I've come to a point in life where I'd rather face my puckery fears and triggers than spend the rest of my days crippled by them. I've been hobbled in so many ways, why should I concede any more areas of my life to the two who raised, and abused, me?

If I were to accept surface conclusions for my motivations in studying the photos, I would conclude I have a deep need to punish myself. I could guilt trip myself for once again punishing myself (punish myself for punishing myself? Oh make it stop!) Then I could feel even worse. I could blame the photos and give them back to Sissyface, thinking that was an end of it. Just stop looking at such things, I could scold myself, and you'll be fine.

I'm trying to teach myself a better way of dealing with the memories evoked by forays into the past. If I have the courage to consider the memories objectively (and let's face it, I don't always, nor the ability to do so), I sense there is more than just their instant replay striving for my attention. What are the memories trying to tell me, aside from the obvious facts of my childhood sorrow? My face turns hot as the searing thought scorches my awareness: it wasn't "some little girl" these things happened to. Not some vague entity whose stories I've just happened to memorize. I know these stories chapter and verse because that little girl was me.

Curiosity begins to build (in spite of my wanting to recoil from truth), because somewhere amid the ugly rubble I'm digging through lies artifacts to that life I lived. My artifacts, my history, my wreckage. Not some anonymous little girl's, mine.

The shock of my abuser's eyes framed in an old photo jars me. I want to back away in horror, curl up with a softie, stuff my mouth with chocolate. But wait, this time I don't curl up inside myself. I don't run, I barely flinch. Is it getting easier to handle the memories? No, but something inside of me has shifted. There is that curiosity again which refuses to be ignored. I need to know: Who, what, where, when and why. A journalist to my own shameful holocaust, I need all the gory details. I may not be proud of my childhood but it's mine, the only one I'll ever have. The need to know what shaped me into my present day self (okay, selves) sometimes overrides my automatic impulse to simply go limp and give in to the triggers.

I yearn to live consciously and deliberately. To continue living on automatic impulse is beginning to feel like colluding with my abusers in the destruction of my soul.

They took, with no thought of consequences.

They considered the well-being of a child not worthy of their attention.

They blotted out the sun, and muted my voice and forced my dreams underground with dead, buried things.

They caused me to doubt what I saw with my own eyes, heard with my own ears, and my body's natural response to abuse.

Can I turn this around? Can I, in a sense, negate their legacy by living intelligently with heart, mind and soul engaged? And am I even capable of doing so?

I saw the photos, looked into the eyes which used to mock me, and which I used to (unwillingly) look up into from under the weight of my abuser. In a sense he won, but only temporarily--- for look at me decades later having the audacity to gaze into those monkeyish eyes, a smile curling my mouth. I'm alive in ways he never was! That's a major victory all by itself.

I'm giving in to my curiosity to unravel the mystery not only of the crimes committed against me, but the mystery of me. I am both the clue and the mystery's solution. My step-dad and my mother are the pages you rip out of a journal and feed to the fire, but not before reading them one last time to get the full import of every nuanced meaning.

At long last I'm on my own track, searching for the one missing person I've longed for even more than I yearn for my childhood best friend: myself. I have a hunch I won't give up until our paths, at long last, meet up.

 

 

 

 

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Reader Comments (7)

the mystery of me, It touched something inside of me when I read that, that is also what and who I am trying to find, myself, the mystery of me. I am a virgin blogger who just started up my own blog two days ago. I've always tried to stay away from hearing others stories as it may mean coming to my own reality of D.I.D. I will continue to read your writings.

June 29, 2009 | Unregistered CommenterTricky

Hard post. I know this fascination with photos. I want, I think, to discover some truth about the past. But usually I just get more questions.

June 29, 2009 | Unregistered CommenterPaul

This post is strong and energizing. I especially liked this line: I am both the clue and the mystery's solution.

June 30, 2009 | Unregistered CommenterMarcy

Tricky,

Thanks for visiting, and for leaving your comment.

I hope to see you around more, and also I'd like to read your blog some day,

Beauty

June 30, 2009 | Registered Commenterbeautifuldreamer

Paul,

Oh yes, there are always more questions than answers. Still, I find myself unable to turn away from such tangible evidence that my childhood self really existed.

Beauty

June 30, 2009 | Registered Commenterbeautifuldreamer

I too can relate to the compulsion to look at pictures. I periodically go downstairs and pull out my wedding pics. Toilet is in those. I can't throw them out. Someday I'll photoshop him out. But when I get complacent I go look. I'm not sure if it is a need to punish myself (like you mentioned) or a way of reminding myself of the evil monster he is.

So do you think your mom sent those pics on purpose?

July 1, 2009 | Unregistered CommenterEnola

Enola,

I think my mom does a lot of passive-aggressive things just to take jabs at me.

Sometimes I need to study the photos of my childhood because I can hardly believe in my existence back then. I suppose we survivors have all sorts of reasons for sometimes needing to revisit such photos.

Beauty

July 1, 2009 | Registered Commenterbeautifuldreamer

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