In the past year and a half I have been diagnosed with depression. Never one who liked to be touched, my past relationships were with gay men (nice and safe) and with a truely wonderful man who I pushed away out of some un-namable fear of so much as holding hands.

A few months ago I began to remember. Some flashbacks were so disjointed, so traumatic, my mind refused them and I entered a fugue like state. No real memories came from these moments, only further trauma and fear of insanity.

Now, though, I am remembering. Bits and Pieces. I don't want to remember, but I know in order to HEAL I have to relive this. I have to pass through the flames again. But this time I am not alone. I have my family, and my therapists.

This is a picture of me and my little sister at about the time my abuse began.

This is just a year or two later. Notice how my smile doesn't really reach my eyes anymore.

These pictures, and others like them, allowed me to forgive ME. This is the face of a helpless child. This is the face of me, when I needed to be protected and nurtured. Instead I was doing all in my power to make sure he NEVER touches the little girl beside me. This is not the face of a child 'asking for it' or deserving of abuse. This is a childhood, if not stolen, then badly harmed, traumatically damaged.

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My first clear memory of abuse was when I was 5 years old. Sitting on my uncle's front porch, he coaxed me up on his lap. I remember his fingers reaching into my panties. Touching  me. I didn't like it. But he told me it was supposed to feel good. He was the grown up, I was a kid. What did I know?

Now I know that I knew plenty. I have always known what feels good and what feels dirty, disgusting, a layer of slime coating your physche.

He called it "Dandeling me on his knee." It's a quaint old term used often by older folks. I have since learned it's true meaning is an innocent one, but he has twisted the phrase so that I always feel nauseous when I hear it.

I felt sick, and ashamed from the start. It was 'our secret'. It meant he loved me. I was special.

He only loved himself. I was an object to feed his twisted desires.

That was the first time I went to the Lilac Bush for escape. Before then it was a place of fantasy and play. From that point on it became a refuge. I even dug a hole in one of the back 'rooms' to be sick into. I used a flat rock and my own small fingers.

The shame, the sickness, the feeling of filth... I now know these are common, ordinary, even healthy reactions. Back then I blamed myself. No more. The blame has always been his. He has done this to me, to my life, and I hate him for it.

I hate what he did to me. I hate what he did to my life. I hate...

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I've thought about suicide several times in my life. It was only recently that I remembered my first thought of taking my own life. I was 7. Look around you when you go out today, find a child that age, and just think what could drive someone who barely had any concept of death, that young, to want to take their own life.

That memory came to me four weeks ago. I remember white sheets. They were crisp and fresh. But pulled so tight over the bed my fingers couldn't find any purchase. I remember my aunt's needlework bag at the side of the bed. Her scissors were laying on top. I wanted to reach those scissors, and to stab myself with them. In the throat, or the chest. I have no real memory of why I wanted to die then. Bu t given the setting I can add two and two. However, that memory remains beyond me. It's a fog I can't penatrate, and am in no hurry to, truth be told.

Thru-out high school I have sharp memories of thinking about suicide. Most involving a hot bath and a razor blade. It never went further than taking a blade out and looking at it with the water splashing around me. Something inside me didn't really want to die. Just escape.

My only real attempt was a year and a half ago. I was going to take my grandmother's pills. I was suffering depression, but was unaware of it. I was stopped, and put into therapy. God moves in strange ways. I need this therapy, but didn't know how to ask for it, or even what precisely it was I needed.

Therapy has helped. And when these flashbacks started not that long ago, it was there to catch me. To calm me. My regular therapist guided me to one specializing in rape and childhood sexual abuse.

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Latest news is I've escalated from biting to cutting. I've started having body memories. Painful, terrible things. They make me believe I am in the moment even as I can see where I am in the here and now. To help ground me I need the pain of something in the here and now to counter the pain of the memory. Biting just wasn't doing it.

I know it's unhealthy. I know it's not a good thing, but it seems the lesser of two evils right now.

There is someone important in my life who is less than supportive. Actually countersupportive in a way. But due to the ties involved, getting away from this person is impossable. So when I dream this person is standing by, watching an attack, then telling me, disspassionately, to get over it... cutting sometimes lets the pain be felt physically as well. I'm bleeding on the inside, it's comforting to see blood on the outside.

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August 14, 1999 - I've decided to date my entries, so people can follow my journey better.

The good news is, the last 4 days have been pretty good, barring one single incident at work. I have not cut myself in 2 weeks. It has NOT been easy. I'm using a rubber band around my wrist (to snap when I feel like cutting) and holding an ice cube in my fist till it melts when I need the pain. Neither do permanent damage, and there is no risk of accidents. I also call a hotline when neither of those methods work.

I'm going to Washington DC on Wednesday. It'll be nice to get away for some real relaxation and fun. :)

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August 31, 1999 - My DC trip was beyond excellent. One incident while there, and that had more to do with my lack of coping skills than with anything more insideous. I had more fun than I have in years.

I have not cut myself in a month. Pretty good news all around.

I'm undergoing Couseling at my church. I need to work at this with an eye toward God, and what he wants me to do. It isn't easy. I still am having trouble trusting. After all, my own view is He let me down before, when the abuse happened, how can I trust Him to catch me now. Foolish, yes. But an issue I must overcome. I'm following advice and trusting Him with little things and building our relationship from there.

It is a relationship, I've been brought to see. With one side open and loving... and then me- mistrustful and wounded. *I* have to work on this.
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October 19, 1999 - Boy am I bad at this update thing, or what?
Things have been going pretty well, over all. An OBGYN appointment made me sick and gave me nightmares for a week, but that's the worst of it.

I haven't cut in ages. I'm very proud of that. I have bitten, but I haven't broken skin.

I haven't been on here in a while because I am trying not to dwell. I am not denying my past, or it's effects on me. I just don't want it ruling my life. It isn't easy. Sometimes it's impossable, other times a day may slip by when I don't think about it once. This is a great improvement for me.

I know it's not over yet. I still have a long way to go.

Lately I've felt the loss of some support. Partly due to the person who I had come to rely on, and partly because after an incident I decided not to rely on her. So I don't talk about my problems, or share my feelings too much, anymore. Except in therapy. I have entered a new kind of support environment, though. So I guess God closes a door and opens a window. :)

Another problem I have been having is my pastoral therapy. The message is sound, and the pastor councelling me is a good man, but I feel very uncomfortable talking to him for that reason. He's a man. He's never 'been there' and can't really imagine what it's like. Just talking to a male person about this upsets me inside. I've taken to avoiding him, and this is not a good thing. ::sigh::

Hey, I plan on taking in Trick Or Treaters this year! It's the first time in five years I'm feeling up to facing all the kids, and their parents.

Yep, I skipped all this time and this is all the update I can offer. Pretty sad, really.
 

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Anyone wondering about the cat images... I've raised my cat "Starbuck" from 11 days old. I've bottle fed her, taught her the use of the litter box... she's my substitute child and the one thing in this world I know without a doubt, loves me unconditionally. I also have 2 Ferrets who come pretty close. (They want a snack and a plastic bag before unconditional love...)