It's all true. #reallife #PTSDrecovery #endometriosis #depression

Yesterday, I went fishing. I posted a picture on Facebook of a beautiful cutthroat trout I caught. The picture shows his impressive coloring and length. The picture doesn't show much of my face, because despite the fact that I had just caught a 26" cut throat trout in a small lake in some of the most beautiful country there is, I had just  been fighting back tears, because I was tired and discouraged and depressed.




We had hiked a mile in to the lake, and it took everything I had to keep trudging up and down the hill. I'd cried before we left, because I felt discouraged that I wasn't excited for this great day of enjoying the beautiful outdoors. All I really wanted to do was go back to bed.

I wanted to enjoy fishing, but I was in pain, and that pain has me so discouraged and depressed. It's hard to enjoy fishing or hiking when it feels like I have a hot poker stabbing my bladder, which causes weird cramping to radiate down my legs, up my back and stomach, and I generally feel unwell and tired.

A few weeks before that, I posted a picture of myself on Sunny. I rode him around our two acre pasture for less than twenty minutes, and then had to get off because I was in enough pain that I was near tears and it wasn't fun... and this is my horse, and I love this horse, but it wasn't fun riding him. I only got twenty minutes in and my body decided that was enough. Again - hot poker stabbing my bladder which is extra triggered by sitting in a saddle (or on any hard surface). The muscles get tight and then I'm sore all over.

This week my blood pressure has randomly decided to drop to unhealthy lows. It could be medications I am on. It could just be chronic pain (it turns out that does funny things to the brain and the body). It could be something else completely unrelated, but it means I have spent a lot of time laying down because I feel shitty.

I also work at a job where I can do some of what I need to do while laying down on my couch (as long as I can focus on a computer screen, which wasn't possible every day last week). When I can't work, I have a great partner who takes over and does both of our jobs - and he's had to do that a lot over the last seven months. I'm so lucky. I don't know what I would do if I just had to show up for work anyway - I have worked when I was sick. I remember what it was like to lay on the bathroom floor, dry heaving and vomiting, and then trying to go back to my desk as if I was fine. This new lifestyle is much better.

I had pretty major surgery seven months ago - it turns out that can take a long time to recover from. I have the money and the time to go to doctors, specialists, physical therapists, more doctors, and psychotherapists to help me get through all of this. I also have an amazing partner who says he'd bring me flowers if he thought I'd appreciate them. (He bought me a new fly line. As soon as I'm excited to fish again, that's be way better than flowers.) I am so lucky. I'm in debt now - which I wasn't at the beginning of the year, but I paid cash for the first couple thousand dollars. I have insurance which thus far (just this year) has covered $49,000 worth of hospital/doctor bills. I have no idea what I would have done without insurance and money.

I have family who care. Todd's sister hasn't been real healthy either (cancer followed by Myesthenia Gravis, if you don't know what it is, feel free to look it up. I didn't know until she educated me. For her, it mostly causes her a lot of pain and fatigue.), so we had a movie day where we sat and ate popcorn and fell asleep to the movie Zootopia.

My dad has been dealing with chronic pain for way WAY too long, so he's been giving me advice and support. And the rest of the family doesn't know what to do, but I feel supported, so that's good.

I am regularly using Valium suppositories - which aren't supposed to be absorbed into the blood stream - they're just supposed to be absorbed into the pelvic floor muscles to help relax them. I feel embarrassed to talk about taking this medication - as if I should be ashamed of it. I feel both glad it helps and a little upset that it seems to be causing me other issues: like dizziness and low blood pressure and possibly depressive symptoms.

I spend two hours a week with a physical therapist's hand in my vagina. She's stretching muscles, breaking up scar tissue, trying to get my bladder and bowels and everything to move around like it's supposed to. It hurts like hell - it is also super triggering. I no longer cry or freak out, but I also feel like that doesn't necessarily mean I'm okay with it all. It's a constant reminder of what I've been through. I can't escape the pain or the memories, because they are always there. Which sucks. While PTSD has not taken over my life now like it once did, it is now a constant companion again. I hate that. It makes me sad and angry, and afraid. My present life is good, and yet I can't get away from the life that I only barely survived once. I never EVER wanted to say that PTSD was something I had to deal with again, but I am.

I'm having nightmares a lot. I wake up crying - afraid that the life I have built with Todd has somehow been taken away and I am back with Larry trying to make things work - or trying to survive the hell that marriage to him was, but in my nightmares, now I remember what it's like to have a supportive partner and a home I love and my dog and cat and horses, and I wake up sobbing because I feel so sad for the girl that survived because she didn't know there was anything better.

I have a great therapist, and we spend a lot of time sitting in her office while I cry and she tells me that she is sad for what I've been through. A few months ago, she sent me this meme:

"I am strong, but I am tired."
My therapist's way of validating all of the work I have done and am doing, while also validating that it's okay to be tired too.

I had to have bowels, rectum, colon, and a bunch of other internal structures completely reconstructed because the endometriosis lesions and adhesion's had damaged so much of my body. I had at least nine doctors dismiss my pain because it was just caused by sexual abuse. If it weren't for all of the abuse I had endured, maybe someone would have caught the endometriosis years earlier, and the surgery would have been much less invasive. (And recovery much easier.) I'm angry at the men that abused me. I'm angry at the doctors that dismissed me. I'm angry at the system that failed me. For now, that anger motivates me to get up and go to the next appointment, try the next medication, try the next supplement, do the next exercise (physical as well as therapeutic), or whatever else I need to try to make my life what I want it to be. Sometimes my anger also motivates me to swear and throw things, but nothing breakable - at least not yet.

I'm discouraged. I'd thought I'd feel better by now. I thought surgery would have healed most of it, and five months of physical therapy would have healed the rest. I didn't plan on the extra trips back to the doctor or to the specialists or the kidney stones. I thought this summer would be a lot more fun, but it's been a lot of trying really hard to enjoy things I used to enjoy, but really just wanting to take a nap.

Last week, I tried what the doctor thought would be a for sure fix - steroids and numbing injections directly into the vaginal wall (where it meets the bladder wall). It numbed things for about four hours, except it felt like I was being stabbed with a needle when I peed. (Luckily that went away at about the same time the numbing went away, so... I don't know what all of that means.)

I'm depressed. I know what depression feels like - it could be a menopausal symptom. I did have my uterus, cervix, both tubes, and an ovary removed. I imagine that can mess with hormones enough to make me depressed. I also imagine everything I'm going through physically and mentally could make me depressed too. Whatever is causing it, I have it. Which also means I now have to be very aware that I don't have an appetite and I have to eat anyway. (For some people depression makes them eat more. I am not one of those people.)

I'm also fascinated. I know a lot about my body and medications and side effects and doses that I did not know last year. Science and nature are all very fascinating, and the art of treating people like me is amazing.

On Facebook, I spend most of my time posting about my dog. (Did I tell you about our foster dog?) Or my cat. Or the horses. Or the flowers blooming in the yard. Or my niece and nephew or Todd's grandkids. Or fishing. I love all of those things, and I want to share those things.

Me with my niece and nephew.
They're both a lot bigger now -
this was taken at Christmas time.

 

Grandpa Todd with me and the newest grandson.
(There will be another new grandson in a few more weeks.)

Our foster dog - which we plan to adopt as soon as they let us.
Also, my cat, who hasn't decided how she feels about the dog yet.

Grandpa and I with the newest new grandson at the time. He only got to be the youngest for about three weeks.

There's not pictures where I'm not smiling,
because camera! And I guess I really do prefer
sugar coating things and making them look
happy, but here's to real life.
And sometimes life hurts.

 I also feel tired. I'm in pain. And I'm so very very tired. I don't want to be a drain, and I also want to be honest. I don't like pretending everything is wonderful when it isn't. I'd rather be real.

I have heard one can't feel contradicting emotions at the same time. That is false. I am happy and sad. I am grateful and grumpy. I am so angry and hurt, and I have compassion for those I'm angry at. I am hopeful and afraid. I am discouraged and have faith. I'm in pain and I still rode the horse and caught a beautiful fish. Really - I don't think it gets more real life than that.

So, here's to not sugar coating life, and just showing how it is. It's beautiful and painful and worth living.

The real reason I was upset, and it wasn't what I thought it was.

Todd's son lives in another state. He moved there a while ago, and Todd hasn't been to visit. They've asked him to come, but it hasn't worked out yet.

A couple weeks ago, we bought plane tickets. Todd talked to them before we bought the tickets to make sure it was okay, and it was. Last night, he got a phone call: we can stay there, but we won't be sleeping in the same room.

I didn't see that coming.
I'm sure my own family doesn't love that I live with Todd, and we aren't married, but it stopped being an issue before it ever was an issue with them. We went on vacation with my parents and siblings, and it didn't seem like they cared. We have stayed with Todd's siblings, his parents, and his daughters, and it didn't seem like an issue with any of them.

I was really upset.
I am aware that asking us to sleep in different rooms isn't a horrible thing to ask.  It seemed illogical - even to me - to be so sad and hurt.
Illogical or not, it hurt.

Here's the reason. It has nothing to do with religion or intolerance or them not liking who we are or all the reasons that made sense at first. It has everything to do with what they are really asking of me (without knowing it of course).

I have a tough time at nights. I've learned to cope, and I can sleep in my own house, with Todd next to me. I learned to cope before I was sleeping with Todd - but now that THAT is my normal, it will take a long time for me to readjust. And honestly, with Todd, I feel safe in a way I never felt before. I still have some sleepless nights, but mostly his presence has changed my nightly battle completely. I coped in the past. Now, I rest.

Any new place is hard, but with Todd there, I can get comfortable. Even in my house, when he's not here, I struggle.

At night when he's not around, my body and my brain go on high alert. Hyper-vigilance is the technical term. I am aware of every noise, every smell, every movement, and they all feel like a threat. I can think it through and know I am safe, but I can't think and sleep at the same time. As I start to fall asleep, thinking brain turns off, and my PTSD brain takes over. That is a scary place to be. I stay awake all night thinking it through, so I feel safe, and morning comes without rest.

With him there, I don't have to think, I just feel safe. (Most of the time.)

Four nights in a new house with other people in it, I can pretty much plan on not sleeping at all.
(It's made worse by the fact that one of the people there is male. I'm not afraid of Todd's son when I'm awake, but there's nothing rational about the PTSD brain when I want to be sleeping.)

I feel broken. I feel crazy and stupid... and sad.
A grown woman who can't feel safe enough to sleep without someone else there. And it's just not fair... (I know, life isn't fair, so... shut up... but for just a minute, I'm going to whine.) I didn't choose this life. I didn't choose for any of the stuff that happened that left me with an inability to sleep without a lot of help. If Todd goes on a trip without me, I don't sleep. I will rarely go on trips without him, because it's not really worth not sleeping. (It turns out, now that I sleep regularly, I really like it. Even one night without it, makes me cranky and tired.) I make do with the way things are, but it sucks. It's sad. It's just really sad that I have to deal with any of this.
I'm broken. I'm crazy. And I didn't choose any of it. And I feel stupid and ashamed, as if there is something that I could have or should have done in the past... or in the present... I shouldn't talk about it. I should pretend to be fine, but I'm not... and there's a crazy battle going on in my head about what I'm supposed to do. 

So, do I talk to them? Do I tell them what's going on for me - maybe they will change their mind? Maybe they won't. (I fully support them making decisions for what they accept and/or expect in their home. With more information, they may make a different decision, but it is still their decision to make.) At least if I'm honest, I can know I was honest.

Do we just go and get a hotel room?

Do I stay home, knowing I may not sleep, but at least I will be in my own house? Todd can visit his son and his family, and I don't need to be there.

Do I do what they ask, and deal with the consequences, which might not be as bad as I suspect they will? Maybe I'll be fine...

We could always just get married to make them happy... But I'm thinking that is a bad reason to make a decision like marriage.

Here's what I know.
I want to go. I want to stay at their home. I want to have a relationship with them, which makes me want to be honest with them. I'm afraid. I don't like talking about past traumas, and I REALLY don't like talking about how it still effects me. I don't like writing about it anymore. I don't like paying attention to it (when I can ignore it). I don't like telling other people about it, and seeing the look in their face when they realize some of what I've been through. (It's a good thing I've been going to therapy, where I spend a good portion of the time letting Wendy empathize with me and the horses support me. Ugh.)

They have every right to make whatever decision they will make, and I will support their decision for their home. I also want to take care of myself, which means if they decide to still have us sleep in separate rooms, it's probably not a good idea for me to try to sleep there. There may come a day, but I'm not there yet.

Also, I'm not willing to get married just to make them happy, or so that we can stay in their house in the same room. (I also don't really think that would make them happy, or it is really what they would want anyway. Just wanted to say, if it was what they wanted, I'm not willing to do it.)

A diagnosis (#Endometriosis) and it's not just in my head.

I've had chronic pelvic pain for years. I don't remember if it was there before my miscarriage eight years ago, but I remember being in pain a lot since then.

At the time I miscarried, is also when I woke up to the life I was living. It's when I couldn't ignore the relationship I had with my husband, and how unhealthy and harmful it was for me. I couldn't pretend that I was okay with the idea of being a mom, and bringing a baby into that environment. Along with "waking up", I also finally acknowledged how much Larry had hurt me with his abusive behavior in my first marriage. When I started talking about Larry, and spousal rape, and depression, and false beliefs about sex and relationships, and all of the other shittiness that had been my life, I fell apart.

Pain just seemed like it was all part of the deal.

I believed my pain was entirely body memories, or related to the trauma, and I felt so much guilt and shame that I experienced pain that I barely talked about it.

(I don't doubt doing trauma work in therapy and in life had an effect on my body, and trauma work is painful all over. But it wasn't just the trauma work.)

I went to a doctor a year ago. I told her I had been raped many years before, and now I was in a lot of pain all the time. She ordered an exam, said there was nothing wrong, and I just needed to go to therapy.

Six months ago, I went to another doctor. She didn't do an exam, but told me she could order an ultrasound if I really wanted one. And told me to keep going to therapy.

I walked out of that appointment frustrated with Todd. He pushed me to go to the doctor. He promised they would help me. I told him they wouldn't - they would dismiss me and my pain, because that is what all doctors have always done.

At seventeen, I was told I was being selfish and controlling when I said I didn't want the doctor to touch me. And nobody cared or asked about WHY... The doctor just did what he wanted, quick, painful, and entirely insensitive.

At nineteen, I was held down while a doctor did a pelvic exam, because I was freaking out. I was shaking and kicking, because I didn't want that man touching me... So the nurse held my legs, and I walked out with a huge fear of doctors.

At 28, I got pregnant, pretended like I was fine with exams, because I didn't have a choice... At eleven weeks, they told me I would miscarry, and sent me home. (They asked if I wanted surgery to remove the fetus, or to go home and try to let it happen on it's own. I was eleven weeks, so I was on the border of when surgery would be required. I was afraid, so I went home.) Three weeks later when I was still cramping horribly, bleeding a little, but had also added a high fever and throwing up to my list of symptoms, they prescribed antibiotics over the phone. Luckily, my husband at the time talked to the pharmacist, and the pharmacist told Dann to get me to the hospital "right now".

My general experience with doctors left me feeling shitty. I felt disrespected. I felt used. I felt scared and silenced and I didn't like it. Todd reminded me of a good experience with a doctor I had two years ago, and he suggested that I see her.

I gave him all kinds of excuses: She's not a specialist, she's just a family practitioner. If the other two didn't see anything, what makes me think SHE would. They didn't even ask me about my pain, they just dismissed me... All doctors would dismiss me.

Except that two years ago, she hadn't. She had made me feel like a person, and she had made me believe it was okay to tell the doctor I was hurting. She also made me feel like she could help.

Last week, I finally worked up the courage to call and set up an appointment. On the phone, I told the office girl why I was coming to see the doctor, and she emailed me a questionnaire about chronic pelvic pain.

I cried as I filled out the questionnaire. It was not easy to describe the pain, and I still felt shame for feeling pain at all. I felt disgusted with myself for not being able to power through the pain... I felt disgusted with myself for talking about that part of my body. I wanted to hide, because deep down I knew the pain was all my fault.

If I could just relax, it wouldn't hurt.
If I was good, I wouldn't care about the pain.
If I was good, I would be quiet and submissive.
Along with many other messages that came straight from being a survivor of abuse.

Then I read the message from Larry asking for my forgiveness, and I cried a lot. By Sunday night, something had shifted within me.

Trauma, sexual assault, rape, and abuse have hugely affected my life. (Duh.)
This pain has been there for years, and the biggest effect that sexual trauma has had on this pain, is my inability to talk about it. My fear of talking, and being dismissed. The shame and the guilt that kept me silent. The fear... It was crippling.

By the time I went to the doctor on Tuesday, there was no doubt in my mind that the pain I was experiencing was not caused by rape. I wasn't going to dismiss the pain as just something I needed to work through. I was no longer going to accept "relaxing" as a way to cure it. I wanted help, and I fully believed I deserved help.

I volunteered information. I answered her questions. I didn't shy away from or sugar coat what I was experiencing.

I told her that it felt like someone was shoving a hot poker inside me and twisting. It is usually around my bladder and up the right side, but sometimes it moves. I explained that it burned and cramped when I peed. I told her that it always hurt, but got almost unbearable just before and during my period. She asked about bleeding, and I told her what I had observed. She asked about nauseousness and indigestion, which I also experience a lot... Turns out those are symptoms of severe Endometriosis too.

She gave me the diagnosis, offered a few treatment options, and prescribed painkillers for in the meantime. (The least invasive and least expensive treatment option is birth control, so I am trying that first. If that doesn't work, I can move to hormone blockers, and then possibly surgery.)

This is a huge relief. It's not just in my head. I'm not just making it up. There are ways to treat the problem, and to find even small relief from the pain.

Even though I don't feel any better at the present - finding some hope that it will get better, makes a world of difference.

Free from the Other. It is not my problem, and I won't make it mine either.

Facebook has an "Other" folder for messages. It's where messages go if I'm not Facebook friends with the person who sent it. I think I knew it was there, but I had never checked it until yesterday.

I discovered some nice messages from people thanking me for my Ordain Women profile, and for the Sunday spotlight interview I did a month or so ago. It also had a message from my ex-husband. It had been there a while, so for him this is way old news. For me, it's pretty darn fresh.

I didn't know what to do with it. I don't know what to do with it, so I guess I have decided to write about it here.


This post isn't to him, but of course he's welcome to read it. This is for me, and for anyone else who is trying to figure out what to do with past abusers, forgiveness, apologies, etc.

A couple years ago, I wrote the blog post "The Letter I Will Never Send", because I was contacted by the Catholic church asking what I thought about his getting remarried. They asked me to describe my marriage and my experiences with him. I chose not to do anything with their questions except to write my experiences FOR ME.

I guess he read it.

"Hey Jen,

I wanted to write you because there is a lot I have been thinking about for a long time. Someone alerted me to the blog you wrote and it solidified what I think I didn't quite understand before. Where I didn't think rushing you into sex so often was kind, I didn't understand how bad it was. I didn't know to you it was a forced obligation. I thought because I had your consent it was o.k. --I didn't realize how abusive that was to you. I think aside from that, we both went into things unprepared and unrealistic and hurt each other. I am truly sorry, I realize now how hurt you were. I don't want there to be any tension in the future and I hope you are and continue to do well in your life. It would mean everything to me if you would forgive me.
-L"

Since writing the letter, and the response to it, I hadn't thought much about him. I am still dealing with some false beliefs about relationships. I am still dealing with a lot of guilt and shame that is left from a lifetime of abuse - which included my life with him - but was not limited to just him. I have had to completely reconstruct my whole emotional/mental/spiritual foundation, which takes a lot of time and a lot of work. (That could be the understatement of the century.)


Reading his message, my initial reaction was fear. I was afraid that he could find me, and I wanted to hide.

Then I felt like I needed to write back and apologize for not responding sooner: to tell him that I hadn't seen it, but now that I had, give him a response that would make him feel better. I felt like I should tell him I wasn't angry and I had totally forgiven him... but I didn't do any of that.

Todd told me to tell him to "Fuck off."
I wasn't entirely against the idea, but it didn't really resonate with how I was feeling.

I thought about asking how I had hurt him and apologizing for anything I had done to him, and then I realized: I DON'T CARE

I have had to work my ass off to recover from what he did. I have gone to therapy, I have read books, I have cried, I have gone through flashbacks and nightmares. I have spent countless hours thinking and rethinking, so that I could make sense of the world around me. I have spent time talking to others about how they treat their wives, and defining rape, and going to SLUT walks, and writing and writing and writing and crying and then writing more. I didn't ask him to apologize. (In fact, if he read anything besides that one post - he would have seen that I didn't want an apology.) I didn't ask him to do anythig. All I did was to go out and do MY work to make peace with what he did and what was my life.

I worked hard, and I have created a beautiful life. I didn't need anything from him, and I don't care what would mean the world to him...  What he needs and wants doesn't matter to me. I can finally say what he needs and wants and thinks and does means nothing to me. I wish him no ill will. I also don't wish him happiness. He gets to exist completely separate from me.

(Oh, and there is no tension between us, because there is nothing between us. That is exactly how I want it.)

I don't know what prompted him to write me - maybe he was trying to repent, and apologizing to me was part of that... but that's a pretty shitty apology. If I cared about him and his repentance, I would suggest that to him: Learn to apologize and take some responsibility if you actually want forgiveness. But I don't care about his repentance, or his work, or what he needs to learn or do... He gets to be responsible for his own learning and growing, and I get to completely dismiss it. It's his, and has nothing to do with me.

I have gone through anger at him. I have gone through all kinds of emotions, and now... I am at peace.  I don't know if that means I have forgiven him. (I am not a fan of the word forgiveness - I think too often it is used to manipulate and control. In too many cases, it is used to shift responsibility from an abuser to the victim.)

I have cried a lot in the last couple of days. I am not even sure what the tears were for. I just felt like crying, so I did. And now, I feel more free than I have felt in a long time.

Abuse and Recovery (Elizabeth Smart and Rebecca Musser as my examples)

On my mind:

Two books - one by Elizabeth Smart.
The other by Rebecca Musser.

One was kidnapped and taken against her will.
The other was given by her father to marry a man sixty years her senior.

Both were treated horribly by a man claiming to be a prophet and a religious man.

Elizabeth, it seems from her book, never believed what her abuser told her. She never bought into the idea that this is what God wanted for her, or what she deserved, or was her place in life.

Rebecca, at least for a while, totally believed that this was what God wanted for her, she totally believed Rulon Jeffs was a prophet, and that to be his wife was her place in life.

Both detested the men that raped and abused them, but only one believed that she was supposed to love and revere the man that hurt her.

In my mind, it is that belief that makes a huge difference in recovering.

If you believe it is your place in life to be used and abused; if you believe it is what God wants for you; if you believe you are supposed to take it, it is so much more difficult to recover.

If you believe you will be loved if you stay and take it, or you escape, or no matter what happens, the abuse is still just as awful, but it won't affect you for as long.

I have no idea if either of the women who wrote these books telling their stories would agree with me, but I do think that believing I deserved to be in the marriage I was in, and to be used and abused has made it harder to move past.

#OrdainWomen It Feels Personal

On the topic of Ordain Women. I'm angry and hurting, and trying to figure out where the emotions are coming from and why.

 

It feels personal. Every attack on Kate Kelly and to some extent John Dehlin feels personal: like I am the one they are talking about. 

Up until a couple weeks ago, I had followed Ordain Women, but didn't really care to add much to the conversation. Be compassionate. Understand what they are saying and don't jump to your conclusions about what they want or who they are. I didn't feel the need to share my own feelings or even have my own feelings. 

Today, I am so angry and upset, I hurt. I feel sad for Kate. She will probably be excommunicated tonight. The process seems unfair for a woman who loves the church and wants to be a part of it as much as she does. I feel like I must mention her, even though my pain really has nothing to do with Kate any more. 

 

Like I said. It's personal.

I understand that not every Mormon woman is oppressed and voiceless. There are many women who are very happy with the way things are. AND the current system is definitely a breeding place for a voiceless and oppressed woman to get her start. It's where I learned to be voiceless. It's where and how I learned that it was okay to abuse and use me, and there was nothing I could do about it. And I can't help wondering how different my life would have been if the system was different. 

If women had the priesthood and were taught they were equal in authority... The night with Johnny, the Elder's Quorum president, would have gone differently. I did nothing that night, because I believed I had no right. 

If women had the priesthood and were taught they were equal in authority, my marriage to Larry would have been so different. 

Recently, on a Facebook page someone posted a picture of black men in the fifties and compared Ordain Women to civil rights. There was some backlash saying, "They aren't even close to the same thing. A few women wish they could bless their child compared to men and women that were beaten and raped."

Maybe for some, it is just a desire to bless a child, but the inequality runs much, much deeper than that. For me. If I had had the priesthood and been told I was equal to my husband, rather than being reminded of my temple covenants to obey my husband... I can't even finish the thought. If there had been women leaders. If there had been more than the bishops that gave me fucked up advice. If I had had a voice and authority. If I hadn't believed all of the stupid shit about men and women and their roles. 

 

The story of inequality for ME included being beaten and raped. It included being voiceless, powerless, and feeling "less than". The inequality nearly killed me. 

I don't know for sure how different it would have been, but I know it would have been different. I have had to completely deconstruct my entire belief system, and that changed me. I am different. (I'm still deconstructing old beliefs and changing myself, but I can imagine how different it could have been.) If I had been taught and believed women had just as much authority and right to their own authority, I would have protected myself. 

So, everyone that talks about why Kate Kelly should shut up.... It feels personal. It feels like they want ME to shut up and take whatever the men in my life had to offer. All in the name of God.

Far Between: Me!

I can't remember when exactly I did the interview with Kendall at Far Between. More than a year ago... It felt cathartic to tell my story, and to see how people responded in the moment to my heartbreaks and sadness and to the hope and peace I'd found.

Today, they have the edited interview up to view.
Here it is:



You can also visit their page here: http://farbetweenmovie.com/jennifer/

Going fishing with the guys

I was invited to go on a four day fishing trip. I will be the only girl there. We will be camping and sleeping in a tent, fishing during the day, and I am really excited.

And nervous. A long time ago, I was raped in my sleep. Many times.
My nights are a million times better than they once were, but I still have nightmares occasionally and night terrors fairly often, and a tent with four other men could be incredibly problematic for me.

I've been invited before, but didn't go, because I was afraid of trying to sleep.
This time, I decided to do it differently.

I talked about what my nights are like. I asked for some accommodations that will make my trip more fun. We talked about sleeping arrangements. We talked about how they can help if I do have nightmares or night terrors. (BJ will be there, so I told them to just trust him.) I also promised to take care of myself - which means if I don't sleep at nights, rest during the day.

I feel guilty - that somehow I am a burden on my friends.
My friends have insisted that they want me there, and what seems like a huge deal to me is really no big deal to them.

The trip is six weeks away, but I can hardly wait.

Ordaining Women and Abusive Relationships

I want to tell you all about my new car, but I'm going to hold off... Ordaining Women has been all over the news this past week. Between their plan to go to the Priesthood session of General Conference again, and the church's news release, I can't really get away from it.

I've left the church.

I came to the conclusion that I was in an abusive relationship with the organization.
They told me who to be, how to act, what to think, what to do, where and how I could spend my money, my time, my talents. They told me I was worthless without them, and they also told me I could never leave. I was miserable with their control. I was miserable with the way they spoke of and treated women. Every practice in the church is sexist, even though much of it falls under benevolent sexism, it is still a very sexist organization.

I have friends who felt the way same way I did, and rather than leaving, decided to stay. They were going to do their best to change the organization from the inside. My therapist told me that I shouldn't leave, but I should stay and work to change the church. He believed it needed changing, and no one would listen to me if I was an "angry ex-Mormon".

I thought about staying. I thought about enduring the pain they caused, so that I could maybe make them into something else. But... I realized it is not the victim's job to change her abuser. Most abusers will resent you trying to change them. Just because I don't like the way I am being treated, doesn't give me the right to try and change someone else. And in the end, I have zero control over changing someone else anyway. One of the biggest things I had to learn, was that I was not responsible for someone else abusing me. I can't change them - the only thing I can do is get myself out of harm's way. Often, that means leaving the relationship.

So I left the church. I walked away from the abusive relationship that we had. I decided the church could continue to be just how it was. I would continue to be just who I am. And we just wouldn't be in any sort of relationship with each other.

It was terrifying to leave. I was afraid of losing my family and friends. Everyone I knew and loved believed that the church was true. As far as I knew, they also believed it was better that I died a member than if I lived as an ex-member. (Luckily, I was very wrong.) My whole life was wrapped up in the belief system I had been taught since birth. How do you walk away if you've been told you're evil/deceived/of the devil for even thinking about it? I'm pretty lucky that things turned out as well as they did, but I don't think most women (or men) are as lucky as I am.

They might be unhappy with the current policies, practices, and even doctrine, but they don't have a lot of options.

They can leave and chance losing everything: their family, their community, their friends, their spiritual home, their belief system, their faith, their whole life.

They can stay, and try to force themselves to be what the church tells them to be.

Or, they can stay and try to change things from within. They can ask questions. They can push to have their stories be told. They can write books and blogs and do newspaper interviews and hope that it will do some good - if not for them in their lifetime, maybe for their daughters or even grand-daughters.

Mostly, I think it's a futile effort. Maybe I'm wrong. I don't know. But their fight makes my heart ache and my insides churn.

Is a comedian still funny underwater?

(I wrote the following in December - day after it happened. I never posted it, and to be honest, now I can't remember why. Probably because I was hoping to have a nice little addendum before I posted it that said, "I went back and tried again! I was fine. It was awesome!" But I can't say that. I haven't gone back yet...)

Sometimes, I'm still crazy. I thought about not sharing this story, because I was embarrassed. Because I'd like to say I'm all normal and silly things don't freak me out ever. But then I realized that silly things DO freak me out. I'm not "normal", and that's okay. It sucks to still have to deal with trauma related shit, but it is what it is. Part of recovery is learning how to deal with triggers.

Scuba diving in the pool went great. In the pool, if I felt anxious or if something wasn't going quite right, I could come up and talk to my instructor. In the open water dive, I knew that wouldn't be possible. If you're forty feet underwater, and something isn't right, you still have to take your time coming up (or cause yourself serious injury).

I passed the written final. I passed off everything in the pool. I was all geared up and ready to do the open water dive. And then I got dizzy and nauseous and I couldn't breath. I thought it might be because the water (and the cave around the water) were really warm. I walked outside, and I realized it wasn't the heat. I was about to have a full-blown panic attack.

At this point, I didn't want to go back in and look like a fool. I also didn't like just walking away and having the instructor worrying about where I'd gone. I walked back in, told them I wasn't feeling well, and I'd make up the dive later. One of the worst parts of dealing with PTSD or panic is dealing with other people's thoughts and opinions of me. It sucks to have people think that you're crazy and out of control, but I learned a long time ago that trying to control other people's opinions of me didn't make my life better. It didn't help me recover. It didn't help anything... except that we all got to live in a delusional world. I don't know what instructor dude thought of me, but he told me it was fine.


At first, I didn't see how panicking about scuba diving could possibly be related to trauma. I was sexually abused... there was no water around at the time... what the what?

One of the skills I've learned in dealing with fear (irrational and rational) is to ask myself two questions:

• How old do you feel?
• What's the worst that could happen?

How old do you feel? often shows me what is triggering me. A few years ago, I was having panic over buying brand name shoes for myself. When I asked myself that question, I realized I felt like a little girl. My dad didn't see the need to buy brand name shoes (and when you're buying them for a ten year old, it makes sense). I was still holding on to what he'd said. As soon as I realized that, I let go of that old story, and just enjoyed my shoes.

This time, that question didn't do any good. I couldn't link to any specific age or event that would be triggering this.

What's the worst that could happen? usually helps me to get to the root of my fears. When I asked myself the question this time, I first thought, "I might drown." But that didn't really trigger any fear. When asking myself the question, I have to pay attention to what I think would be the worst, not what OTHER people would think is the worst.

So I just kept asking myself.
What's the worst that could happen?

The worst that could happen is I will be trapped under water, and I won't be able to use my voice.
I won't be able to tell people what is happening.
I'll be hurting and have no way of communicating my hurt.
Trapped. No voice. No way out.

That's when the flashbacks started. I was suddenly back trapped, no voice, no way out, and in so much physical and emotional pain that death would have been a welcome relief. (No wonder drowning didn't trigger any fear.)

I called my friend Steph. She has an amazing ability to make me laugh at things that aren't really funny. She teased me about what a storyteller I must be: Why else would I be afraid that I wouldn't be able to talk underwater? How could people know I was funny, if they couldn't hear my jokes?

And then she empathized. It sucks to have such silly things feel SO big. It sucks to have something so unrelated (like scuba diving) trigger trauma and flashbacks. She understands. Been there and doing that herself.

What she said next is the main reason I am sharing this here. She told me I was a hero. Not because everything is perfect. Not because all of the flashbacks and trauma symptoms are all gone, but because I keep fighting even though they aren't. She also pointed out how rarely this stuff comes up now, and how it takes so much more than it once took.

That's what recovery from PTSD and sexual trauma and shit looks like. Sometimes it's just messy. Sometimes you look crazy, and a lot of times you feel crazy. And we just keep going anyway.

The letter I will never send, except that I might,

So.... I got a letter in the mail. From the Catholic Church. It seems that Larry (ex-husband) wants to get remarried, and the Catholic church wants me to answer a few questions. I'm not sure if my answers (or lack of answers) affect his ability to get married again or not. I don't want to respond. I don't want to help him. I feel angry. WHY would I want to do anything to help that man hurt another wife? Why would I want to help him do ANYTHING?
The best way I know how to deal with shit is to write... so I wrote a letter... it was going to be just for me, but now that it's done, I think I'd like to share it with you. BJ suggested actually sending the damn thing. I don't know. I'll just start with posting it here...



To whom it may concern,

I was married to Laurence Curtis for two years. We were both members of the LDS church when we met. We met in November and were married the following June. I was nineteen when we met, and twenty when we married. There were signs that I shouldn't have married him, but I didn't pay much attention.

For example, once I fell asleep while watching a movie with my roommates, and he unzipped my pants and groped me. But I dismissed it... like it was somehow normal for a man to grope a sleeping woman, just as long as he put a blanket over her so her roommates couldn't see what he was doing.

Sexual sin is next to murder according the LDS teachings... except that sexual sin is pretty common place, so when Larry promised to abstain from all sexual activity until marriage (which was only six weeks away), they gave the okay. He mostly kept his promise, but that lead to AWFUL behavior in the marriage. In his mind, he had abstained for six weeks, and marriage gave him the right to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it.

I'll just start with the wedding night.
I was exhausted. He refused to let me bring my bags in. Since we were married, I was supposed to just get naked and climb in bed with him. I didn't do what he asked, but that didn't matter. He removed my clothes for me. (I didn't fight him, but I asked him not to.) He forced himself in me. I cried. It HURT. He responded by saying, "Shut up. I'll be done in a second."


I went to the bathroom and cried. He yelled at me. He told me I was being selfish and stupid. I was HIS wife now, and I had responsibilities. I came out. I apologized, because I thought he was right. I had no right to say no, I had no right to decide what I wanted to happen, or what I didn't want. I was nothing but his property. He accepted my apology and then did the same thing again. I cried. I told him it hurt. He responded by saying, "It wouldn't hurt so much if you'd just relax."
 
There was often blood after "sex" with him. He said it was normal. He was WRONG, but I didn't know. He'd been married before. He'd had sex with other women, so I thought he knew better than I did.

Over time, my body adapted to having quick, forced, "sex". I got instantly wet if he touched me. A hug usually meant that "sex" was coming, and I was lucky that my body reacted the way it did. It saved me a lot of physical pain. He hated that. He said it was disgusting when a woman got turned on. He preferred her to be dry. He told me I was disgusting. I believed him. There was something disgusting about me and my body, and I couldn't control it. He'd insist I shower, and then come back to bed, and then we'd have "sex". I did it. I thought what he did was normal. I thought I was disgusting.

If I cried, he'd put a pillow over my face.

If I talked or made any noise, he'd tell me to shut up and put a pillow over my face.

If I moved, he'd yell at me for ruining HIS experience.

If I said no, he'd ignore it.

If I fought him, he was bigger and stronger and it just made him get more violent. I couldn't stop him, and it made things worse for me.

If I got away, and locked myself in the bathroom, he'd wait until I came out... then masturbate and squirt at me. He blamed me for forcing him to do that. I believed him when he told me it was my fault. I believed him when he told me I was hurting him by trying to stop him from having "sex" with me.

If I threatened to leave, he'd threaten my family, especially my sister. She was twelve, and he called her crude names. I felt afraid of what he might do to her.

The last time I ever tried to fight him, he yelled at me for "making him do that". We both knew that he had just raped me. It was the only time that it looked like rape... like the kind they show in movies... like the kind that rarely happens, but when it does there is no doubt in anyone's mind. I apologized. I felt like a good wife would never fight. A good wife would not object. It was somehow MY fault that he had done that. It is completely true that if I had just laid there, and held my legs out of his way, he wouldn't have had to pry them apart. If I had done what he wanted, he never would have been violent.

I stood there, half-naked, and apologized to him for making him rape me. I still feel anger at myself for apologizing to him. I should have kicked him in the balls and told him to get the fuck out... and never come back... but I didn't. Instead, I tried harder to be what he said a wife was supposed to be.

From then on, I laid on my back and held my legs out of his way until he was finished.

He'd have "sex" with me in my sleep. I didn't mind that as much. At least I could be unconscious for some of it. (I didn't understand that if I wasn't awake to consent, that was rape, even if I was married to him.)

I once talked to him about the way he treated me. He told me that I was lucky he was so good to me. No one would be as kind and considerate as he was. EVERY man would act like him or maybe even worse. (I'm not sure what "worse" looked like in his head... but I know now, most men do not say or do the things that he did.)

When we got married, I was underweight. I had struggled with an eating disorder and had only been in recovery for a short time. I gained about fifteen pounds while we were married. He told me I was fat and unattractive. When I got busy and forgot to eat, he'd tell me how great I looked. When he informed me that he was having sex with other women, and I handled it by not eating for three days, he congratulated me. I knew enough about eating disorders and my body to know that what he was saying was FUCKED UP, but I didn't know how to get out of the marriage by then. I dismissed his comments as ignorant, but I don't think he was ignorant. He knew that starving could kill... but with his words, he showed he preferred a thin wife to an alive wife.

When we went to the bishop (because Larry said he was cheating... and we wanted help to save our marriage), the bishop only confirmed the bullshit that Larry had been saying. It was my responsibility to keep my husband happy. I worked two jobs, because Larry didn't work. The bishop told me that no matter what I did outside of the home, my only REAL responsibility was to keep my husband happy. Wink. Wink. Nudge. Nudge.

I tried harder to be who he needed me to be, but felt like I was dying.
I became suicidal. I envisioned driving over the edge of the cliff every day on my way to school. Every day I would tell myself, "not today, but if you still feel this way tomorrow, then you can." The next day I would repeat the same thing. I feel lucky to have lived through that time.

He went to Texas for a job interview. Something in me changed while he was gone. I was done trying to save a marriage that was hell. He didn't work. We didn't get along. He hated church. I hated the way he treated me. I didn't want him to come back. I told him I wanted a divorce. He told me I was screwed up, and I would regret that decision. He told me that I wasn't capable of making a good decision, because I didn't have "the spirit" with me.

Eventually he agreed with me. Divorce was the best option for both of us. We said good-bye. We divorced. We didn't talk again. When I got married again, I needed a letter from him to cancel our LDS sealing. He sent the letter willingly, and the sealing was cancelled. I was relieved that I would never have to write a letter for him... The sealing was cancelled, which meant if he wanted to get remarried, he could just go for it. No one would ask me about my experience of being married to him.

And now he wants to get married in the Catholic church, which means that I was asked to give my opinions. I didn't know what to say, but I feel like I couldn't say nothing. I gave you a few examples of things that happened while I was married to him, but even those barely touch on the horror that was my life with him, and the horror that I have gone through since then.

I have spent hundreds of hours in therapy, which cost tens of thousands of dollars. I've spent months without sleep. Years of feeling hopeless and suicidal. Years of feeling afraid that all men would treat me like him. Years of feeling like I didn't deserve any better than the rapist that he was. Years of hiding and pretending, because I didn't know how to talk about what he did. Years of believing that a wife is nothing but a plaything to her husband. Years of believing that I was worthless, damaged, crazy, disgusting, and all of the other words he used to manipulate and control me. Years of nightmares where I can feel him ripping me apart. Years of physically hurting, because of the damage he did when he forced his dick inside me. Years of confusion. Years of questioning. Buckets of tears. Seizures. Night terrors. Nightmares. The list goes on.

I am still dealing with the effects of PTSD... Post Traumatic Stress from the trauma of being raped by a man that was supposed to love and care for me. Post Traumatic Stress from the trauma of being used and abused. Post Traumatic Stress from all of the shit that man said and did...

And now, he's about to get married again. I don't know if he has changed or not. I don't know if he still believes that women are disgusting if they get turned on. I don't know if he still prefers to force himself on women than to have sex with them. I don't know if he still gets violent. I don't know if he still thinks that raping a woman IS sex with a woman. I don't know if he still blames women for his thoughts and actions. I don't know if he still believes it is a woman's job to lay there and hold her fucking legs out of his way while he goes at it. I don't know if he still believes that it is wife's job to "keep him happy", while completely ignoring that his wife is actually a person too. I don't know if he still uses and abuses others. I don't know if he still encourages women to starve themselves, so they will be attractive to him. I don't know anything about who he is today, but I figured since you sent me the letter... reminded me of those experiences... I would tell you about just a few of the things I experienced while being married to him. 


Sincerely,
Jen


(P.S. I could really REALLY use comments on this one. I feel vulnerable and icky, and any words you could share, would be nice.)

"Consent isn’t the absence of a “no;” consent is an unequivocal and enthusiastic YES."

Sometimes, I come across things that turn my whole world upside down... sometimes that's a good thing (eventually), but it is confusing and painful until it becomes a good thing.

For instance, a series of blogposts by Shannon Hale.
I wish there could have been someone who could have explained all of this to me fifteen years ago, and I wish that the person I was fifteen years ago could have understood.



The greatest contributor to rape culture

"When we don’t have conversations with kids about sex, we’re telling kids that it’s too bad, dirty, and wrong to even talk about. And when someone is raped, they feel bad, dirty, and wrong, and they think, yeah, that’s what I expected sex to be. And so sometimes, horrifyingly, they conclude that rape and sex must be the same thing."

Umm. Yeah. THIS. I totally thought that what Larry did was sex... It wasn't. But I didn't know any better. How could I? I'd never talked about it. I'd never experimented with my own feelings or my own body. I had NOTHING (except childhood sexual abuse) to relate to, and no one I felt like I could talk to... 

When it hurt, I thought that was normal.
When I felt used and abused, I thought the problem was ME.
When I felt angry, I thought I was selfish for not giving him what he needed.
Everything about sex was confusing... but that's because SEX NEVER HAPPENED. Not one fucking time. (Pun intended.)

"Consent isn’t the absence of a “no;” consent is an unequivocal and enthusiastic YES."

What an amazing, life-altering, mind-blowing idea. Sex means that both people want it, and if both people don't want it, it isn't sex... It's something else.

"Rape is not simply acting upon sexual urges. Rape is about dominance and power and violence and control. The intent of sex is mutual pleasure, and that's never the intent of rape. Let’s be totally clear. Those young men (Steubenville) chose, instead of having sex with a willing girl, to rape an unconscious girl. Who could not participate, could not experience pleasure, could not say yes or admire them or share an intimate moment. Those boys didn’t choose sex. They chose rape. And the experience of rape, for both the girl and the boy, is entirely different than the experience of sex. THEY ARE NOTHING ALIKE. RAPE AND SEX ARE NOT RELATED."

I once wrote a blog post where I talked about how my tears, my pleading for him to stop, my fighting him off as hard as I could (to no avail)... all of that should have been "no" enough. My "no" should have been no enough. But he didn't want someone who LIKED sex. He didn't want a consenting wife... he told me he liked it best when his woman wasn't turned on. He hated it when I fought him, but he also hated his woman participating.

Let's Talk about Consent

"Chuck says, “Consent must be unequivocal it does NOT need enthusiastic...If she implicitly and explicitly makes clear that she's willing to have sex it's not rape no matter how unenthusiastic she may be.” Chuck, this is not the legal definition of consent. It's an extremely wise definition that we'd all be better off to live by and the definition I believe we should be teaching to our children. Wouldn't you rather that your partner was enthusiastic? Why would you want to proceed if she/he wasn't?"

john doe asks, “What if the two parties disagree on what it was?...do you need to get consent in writing now?”
Yes, do that. If you have to ask, then yes, yes, yes. Sounds like you’re walking a line, and one that can be horrifically devastatingly life changing and even life ending for many a victim. If you’re not sure if she’s consenting, then ask her to sign a consent form, a napkin, your belly--whatever. And then her consent (or non-consent) will be perfectly clear. You’ll protect yourself as well as your partner. Do that. Please. 

Let’s err on the side of clarity, can we? When we have girls and women regularly taking their own lives to escape the horrors of a post-rape life, then clarity is the least we can offer."

"Are we worried that enthusiastic consent is too hard to get? Say a woman says, not tonight, honey. And he gets to kissing her neck and murmuring sweet things and she changes her mind and is all in. Great!
Or say a woman says, not tonight, honey, and he tries his usual moves and she’s not feeling it and still would really rather not. What happens next is very telling about how healthy their relationship is and what kind of a man he is. If she really doesn’t want to, and he doesn’t care because he does, then that’s abuse. That’s unhealthy. And if that sounds like your relationship, you both should get counseling."

 "Is the worry that if a guy wants to has sex and doesn’t hear a clear an enthusiastic yes but goes through it anyway, then she might call rape on him?
Well, 1st, depending on how it happened, it might very well be rape.
And, 2nd, if you’re okay having sex with someone who really doesn’t want to do that with you, then counseling is a good idea. Again, I mean that kindly and sincerely. Sometimes survivors of rape and abuse have a hard time enjoying sex again, and that’s something normal that a partner needs to know and respect, and counseling together is an excellent idea. But if that’s not the case and you just enjoy having sex with someone who isn’t enjoying it with you, then STOP IT AND GET HELP.
And, 3rd, if you’re choosing to sleep with someone who you’re worried might falsely call rape on you, then it’d be a good idea to choose not to sleep with them. Foregoing sex in this instance would be a wiser, better, happier choice for all."

I'd like to say more... but for now, I just feel... suddenly more aware of how fucked up life with him was... And that awareness, while probably good to have, HURTS.

SLUT walk 2013

"I love the cause. I hate the name."
That's what BJ said when I told him I was going to Slutwalk, SLC this year.

I was scared.

Do I even have a right to call myself a survivor?
Nobody blamed the way I dressed for the way Larry treated me... It was just his right as my husband.
That old belief. That old fucked up idea. That stupid thing repeated to me by well-meaning (and ignorant) people just keeps hanging around. Even though I know it's stupid, fucked up, irrational, and NOT TRUE, it comes back to haunt me regularly.

Being there, with other survivors and supporters and advocates, was an incredibly emotional experience. It also showed me that although I am better off than I ever dreamed possible, I am not yet where I want to be.

Seeing her. I wanted to cry. Pretty damn good way of displaying the voicelessness I have felt.

The sign behind me: awesome.

Sign making.

I couldn't bring myself to make a sign. I know what I wanted it to say, but I felt too scared to write that and then carry it around. I borrowed someone else's sign.

This is a very powerful project. Victims of abuse: sexual, physical, and emotional as well as secondary survivors (those who know someone who is a survivor of abuse) made T-shirts. Seemed like it could be a very healing thing.

This was my favorite shirt. I HEALED! I will be silent no more!

The Clothesline Project

I wondered if these little girls understood what they were protesting. To some extent, they did. "My body is mine. No one has a right to touch it without MY permission. And if they do, it isn't my fault!"

There were a lot of men and secondary survivors there. I felt grateful for the secondary survivors in my life: The ones that wouldn't give up on me and KNEW I could heal from the abuse.

Some of the signs. It seemed like a very healing thing for a lot of people. Maybe next year I'll be ready to hold up a sign.

This sign broke my heart. PLEASE, let's change things, so no more children have to deal with this.

In memory of those who didn't survive.

There were a LOT of people walking.

I'm still not a "proud survivor", but I would like to be some day.

There were several business where the people came out and clapped and cheered as we walked by. I didn't expect that... I still feel a lot of shame. It was good to see that not everyone believes it was my fault, or that I should keep silent. Some people cheer for the survivors who won't be silent anymore.

I couldn't bring myself to make a sign, so I just signed the poster. I got an eyebrow raise from BJ, "'What you did was not okay!'? NO!!! What he did was fucking SICK, but if that's all your ready to put out there, then that is enough."

Her urethra inspires me

(Subtitle: I don't want to make light of a shitty thing, but my hope is that at least one person will find it funny... and if you don't, let me know, and I will change it immediately.)

WARNING: I'm about to get graphic about sexual abuse. Stop reading here if you don't feel up to reading about it.

In the past few weeks, I have watched one of my favorite people face shit and fears and SHIT and she's pretty much my hero. Some things, like her situation, have to be faced because it's life or death. Some of my fears don't HAVE to be faced, but watching her courage made me want to be brave.

I know that most people don't understand my fears. They seem silly (even to me). And to compare them AT ALL to what S is facing... but if she can do what she is doing, then of course, I can get over my little fears.

I used to have a half-tooth in my head. It broke off more than a year ago. I figured with it broken that bad, there was no way they could save it, so there was no rush... Except what I REALLY thought was:

HELL NO! I WON'T GO!

The last time I went to the dentist was in 2006. I didn't have them do an exam. It was for a molar on the other side of my mouth. It had broken in half, and I just had them pull it. And before that, I'm not sure when the last time was.

I hate the dentist. I am aware that very few people like going there. It's painful. It sucks to have someone shoving things in your mouth. It's miserable. I get that I am not alone in my general hatred for dentists.

My fear and hatred is similar... and different.
I don't mind the pain. To be clear, I don't LIKE pain, but I can handle pain. I don't like people shoving things in my mouth, but I can handle that discomfort... sort of.

I can't handle them laying the chair back, getting in my space, and trying to keep myself in the present moment while feeling pain and having someone shove things in my mouth.

WARNING: The next paragraph is graphic. Stop reading here if you don't feel up to reading about it.

Laying on my back will probably always be problematic for me. Beyond being just a vulnerable position in general, it is the position I took over and over and over. Sometimes that position resulted in the painful shoving of his genitalia into my own. Sometimes it was the painful and disgusting shoving of his genitalia into other places. While sitting on my chest. And holding my head.


As the dentist puts back the chair, I fight EVERY time to remind myself I am at the dentist and not somewhere else. I fight to remind myself I am safe. No one is going to hurt me, except in the way that will help my teeth... but it is SO familiar and so close to that feeling... that horrible voiceless, powerful, painful, disgusting feeling.


I watched my friend go to the doctor, and I watched her face a long list of things that would trigger her. I came to the conclusion I had been a coward long enough. So I set up the appointment.


It turns out dentists are used to people having anxieties. My dentist had a questionnaire that asked about anxieties... and how he could help... and he and all of his assistants actually read my answers.

They asked what they could do to lessen my anxiety.
I told them to leave me sitting up as much and for as long as possible. Which they did.

Partway through the checkup and cleaning, I could feel myself slipping away.

(For those who have never dissociated, I'll try to explain what it feels like to me. It feels similar to passing out, except I don't actually pass out most of the time. Instead, my consciousness goes way back into the back of my head. Sometimes, I just stay there and I can observe what is happening to my body in the present, but I can't do anything to control my body. Sometimes, my consciousness goes so far away, I am unaware of my surroundings. Sometimes, I experience flashbacks. As far as my consciousness is concerned I am reliving past experiences. It FEELS like I am being raped, or molested, or I'm fighting for my life, and it FEELS almost impossible to tell the difference between the past and the present. I've learned a few tricks to bring myself back... almost none of which can be done in a dentist's chair.)

I started to shake. The hygienist immediately stopped and asked if there was anything she could do to make it better. I told her to just talk. Tell stories. She noticed my sweatshirt with horses on it and started telling me about training her horses. It was a topic I get pretty excited about. I focused on her stories, and that kept me present. (The fact that I could focus on stories will tell anyone who has ever dealt with flashbacks or dissociation how far I have come. Just listening to someone else talk would never have been enough a few years ago.)


They gave me the list of what work needed to be done. Wisdom teeth out (why?), a root canal, two crowns, and four fillings. Not bad considering how long it has been. Then it came time to set the appointment to come back. My chest got tight. I wanted to cry. The dentist was good and asked again, "How can we help you with your anxiety?" He told me the work they were going to do would require that they lay the chair all the way back, and probably have to keep me back for a while. We talked about "laughing gas". It's purpose is to relax people, but not only does it not relax me, it has made things worse in the past. He offered Valium, or something like it, which meant I had to have a driver. I was somewhat relieved, because that gave me an excuse to ask someone to come with me.


So, I got my Diazepam. I took it an hour before my appointment like they told me to. It didn't do anything until about two hours into the appointment... About the time they were all done, I suddenly just wanted to go to sleep.

As I was leaving, I saw my little "grounding guy". BJ's granddaughter gave it to me when she was only two or three. She told me to hold it when I was sad and it would make me smile. It is small enough that it went with me everywhere for a long time. I decided to take him with me to the dentist.

"Grounding guy"

BJ drove.
I was impressed with the staff. They tried hard to be accommodating and empathetic.
I still freaked out.

Causing myself pain sometimes keeps me grounded. Therapists and professionals don't usually like this technique...

I didn't know I'd twisted myself into a pretzel.

I pulled out grounding guy. BJ talked to me. The dentist and his assistants tried to make me laugh, which was helpful.

I survived.They will seat the crowns in a few days.
There really isn't a "happy ending" to this story... but I decided to write about this... and to actually post the pictures that BJ took... because although life is good, and I am happy, I'd be lying if I said I never had to deal with trauma-shit. I do. I have had nightmares and bad nights since the appointment. Flashbacks, where I relive the worst moments. It sucks.

I want to tell this story, because I think it's important to talk about the effects of abuse. I think it's important to help increase understanding. I feel a huge desire to educate people about what it's like to live with PTSD.

No one would have known how freaked out I felt. No one would have known how icky it felt to be in that dentist chair if I didn't tell this story... I wear a good mask on my face. I pretend pretty good when I want to... but I'd like to create a world where people like me don't have to wear a mask. They don't have to pretend that they are okay when they feel like the world is crashing in around them.

Maybe if I talk about one stupid little visit to the dentist, I can make a difference.