On a separate note, I really hate my boss. OK. On with this entry.

I was recently filling out my passport application, and when I went to fill in the information on my parents’ names, I wanted so badly to check the box that says my father is unknown. My abuser, Dennis, is actually not my biological father. He married my mother, Regina, when I was about 3 1/2, and from what they told me throughout my life, Dennis was passed off as my biological father. I had suspicions otherwise, but no one ever came forward to tell me the truth until I was about 24. Regina’s sister called me very late one night and told me the truth–that Dennis was not my father. I immediately called Regina and she told me that it was not any of my business or concern.

However, as far as the Court records go, in 1980, when I was 6, Dennis had adopted me and now that Dennis and Regina are divorced, until I went to fill out this passport application, it never occurred to me that I might want to investigate the option of getting a reversal on the adoption.

I haven’t spoken to anyone at the Health Department yet to see if there are any specific forms to fill out (I couldn’t locate one online for my state), and from what I can see, the chances are quite slim for success.

The most promising information I came across was from a guy named Michael Chalek’s website, which suggests that adoption annulments are very rare, and are usually initiated by the parent(s). His circumstances were very different (he was sold to his adoptive parents via a black market deal for $200, and then abused by both of the parents).

But, now I have a dream. A dream where I have Dennis’ name off of my birth certificate. I dream where I can check the box that says my father is unknown.

On the downside, I think I know who my biological father is, but I’ve never met him and I will never meet him. He is unknown to me. And that is perfectly fine in my world.

I get a little satisfaction from being able to hold it in for quite a long time.  I’ve heard this can lead to a weak bladder, but I’m 32 and still going strong.  I think part of the pleasure is the fact that I can control this part of my “sex parts”.  As a kid, I wasn’t allowed to have complete control over them since I was sexually abused on a regular basis.  Even then, controlling my urination to an extreme was something that I somehow relished. 

But I really have to GO right now. 

This image of a pinworm exam was

found at Jamie’s Everyday Tokyo Life Blog

“Pinworms (Enterobius vermicularis) are the most common intestinal parasite in the U.S.Pinworms occur most often in school-age children, but are highly contagious, and can easily spread to the entire family. According to the Center for Disease Control, pinworm infestation is twice as common as head lice, and some sources estimate as much as 20% of the U.S. population is affected annually with pinworms. It is estimated that pinworms infect more than 600,000,000 people throughout the world, and in many areas of the world (e.g., North America and Europe) it is the most common nematode parasite of humans.” (http://www.pinworms.net/)

In viewing my statistics, I see that most of the hits on my blog are from searches on pinworms that result in a link to my blog entry of July 19th, “Childhood Body Secret: Pinworms.” These little buggers that crawl out of your anus at night are hugely prevalent. When coupled by the issue of sexual abuse, those that are affected by both conditions (sexual abuse and pinworms) can become complicated. As a child who was being raped on nearly a daily basis, during the time I was affected by pinworms, I could not fathom exposing myself as being infected by this parasite. My lower body (i.e., my vagina and my anus) were being exploited by an adult, and another adult could have taken me for pinworm treatment.

When I self-treated by digging these worms out of my anus, this was very private to me. In fact, whenever I was in the bathroom, I felt this was a very private arena. However, I had fantasies about secret cameras being placed my bathroom that might expose me. I imagined the boys I had crushes on seeing the footage. This was in the 80s. Still, I had already read 1984 by George Orwell, and I imagined a lot of my actions being videotaped.

I instinctively felt that perhaps I could harvest the pinworms to a point where they could no longer procreate. Apparently this worked. Still, even to this day, when I feel a certain tickley sensation around my anus, I am reminded by the infestation of worms I had as a little girl.

To anyone who now has the luxury of the internet:

“How To Eliminate Pinworms
The best way to treat pinworms is to use an over-the-counter pinworm medication, such as Pin-X ­®. Formerly available by prescription only, FDA approved Pin-X ® is now available OTC. Pin-X ® is a pleasant, caramel flavored liquid pinworm medicine that usually requires only a single dose to eliminate pinworms. Because pinworms are so highly contagious, all family members should be treated. Dosing is according to patient
weight… while several children can be treated with a single bottle of Pin-X ®, if there are two or more adults, two bottles may be required. Because reinfestation from existing pinworm eggs in the home is possible, many families will do a follow-up pinworm treatment at two weeks. Pin-X ® is also available as a great tasting chewable.”

(My parody of the poem You are Old, Father William by Lewis Carroll, which is a parody of the poem The Old Man’s Comforts and How He Gained Them by Robert Southey)

“You are old,” father Raper, the young woman thought,
“And your hair, while still full, shows your age;
You are slack, father Raper, and squalid and fraught,
Yet your void abates not my old rage.”

“As a boy,” father Raper, if asked, might reply,
“I was beat for about everything;
To avoid the lesson rod, I’d try and I’d try,
But good morals were taught by the sting.”

“You are old,” father Raper, her mind thought again,
“Your twenties were spent wrecking our lives;
I did not allow you to defeat me back then,
Yet now a new breed of fury thrives.”

“When I was a young man,” said the eyes of this ghoul,
“My appetites ruled rather than mind;
And there was one little girl that made my mouth drool,
I especially liked her behind.”

“You are old,” sighed the youth, “and you claim you’ve atoned,
Yet you wanted this virgin to bleed;
I don’t think the nightmares would leave if you were stoned,
And for years you kept doing the deed.”

“The deed,” said the bastard, “I regret so much now
Is something I can never take back;
I’ve wept many times and wish that I knew how
To make you give me a little slack.”

“You are old,” roared the youth, “and it’s penance you seek,
For the one thing that won’t go away;
Being fucked as a child, a part of me is weak
And I relive the horror each day.”

“I cannot understand why you just won’t forget,”
said her father the Raper in vain.
“Is it not enough that I am also upset?
Can no one understand my own pain?”

Check out the You Tube video of Carroll’s You are Old, Father William here.
 

My mother:  “I know what really happened.”

Me:  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I told you, there was a frog that was hurt really bad and bled all over.”

The End.

Well, not really.  There was more, but this came first.  What happened began the night before.  I believe it was the summer before my 7th or 8th grade year.  My bedroom was in the our basement, which was semi-finished.  The laundry room was separated from my room by a primitive wall.  Long before this incident, I had developed the habit of using the laundry room floor drain was a makeshift pee-hole. 

Yes, I peed down the hole.

Ususally this was only at night when I didn’t feel like going all the way upstairs to use the bathroom.  I suppose I was inspired by having peed outside plenty of times.  I grew up in the country, afterall.

On the night in question, I remember awaking especially groggy.  I didn’t bother to turn any lights on and I had to pee.  I felt my way into the laundry room and did my deed.  Afterwards, I returned to bed. 

The next morning, I realized that I had started my period at some point during the night.  I went about the business of taking my sheets and blankets off of my bed to be washed and put them in my clothes hamper, and proceeded upstairs to start the day.

Well, at some point, I returned downstairs and discovered a bloody trail along the concrete floor from my bedroom leading to the drain hole.  I panicked and quickly cleaned up this mess. 

Apparently, my mother had seen the trail before I had. 

She never had any talks about sexual things with me in a direct manner.  She definitely had not been aware that I was using her laundry room floor as a potty. 

However, until later that day, I did not realize she had seen the trail.  Basically, she asked me what had happened, I declared ignorance of what she was talking about, and then blamed the mess on an injured frog (I had been bring toads and frogs into the basement for years–yes, I realize this is strange, too!)

And the matter was never spoken about again.

This day is something I think of quite often for some reason.

Image found at the Decadent Grace Blog

 Recently, the Sadly Normal blog featured an article published by the Sidran Institute entitled “Dental Tips for Survivors.”  This article explores the connection between childhood sexual abuse and anxiety associated with dental visits.  According to the article, parallels between dental visits and the experience of childhood abuse include:

1. Being alone with a the dentist, who is often a male, in a situation where this person is more powerful than oneself;
2. The experience of being made to remain in a submissive, horizontal position;
3. Being touched (with no say in how or when or how);
4. Having foreign objects put into one’s mouth;
5. Being unable to swallow; and
6. Anticipating pain or actually experiencing pain.

I totally get this.  I despise going to the dentist.  When I was about 11 and had only 1 baby tooth left, my dentist pulled it without telling me what was going on.  I felt like he took the last part of me that was physically a child (since my virginity had already been ripped out of me).  The horizontal position with someone hovering and shoving things into my mouth in a painful manner does affect me.  I often zone out during dental visits, practicing my ability to be “out of body” in order to stay calm and withstand the experience.  On top of that, there are so many strong smells, and this can set me off at times.  Especially when paired with having my mouth violated–even if it is “legally” and by my own pre-decision. 

I suppose it goes without saying that survivors that have issues with the dentist probably have issues with the gynecologist.  I haven’t had my yearly since 2001 when I miscarried.  Now that I’m moving in on my 33rd birthday, I’m going to really have to suck it up and go. 

Or do I?
 

 ”Guilt” by Lunea Weatherstone 

There are several phone calls I’ve been avoiding–or not really avoiding, just blocking them out except for when I have those brief moments of guilt and dread.  The guilt is pretty self-explanatory.  But, the dread comes from the fact that I have come to understand that much of what keeps me operating on a daily basis arises out making decisions to act on things or not act on things based upon whether the consequence of not acting is greater/more of a pain in the ass than what it would be to act on them more immediately.  In other words, very little real emotion is there besides guilt and dread.

Now that I’ve been basking in my “whatever” for the past year (that is, I’ve been letting myself do what is more natural and that means often I would rather NOT ACT on things), I’ve built up a bank of consequences that I will need to deal with at some point (or will I?? I suppose I could continue to NOT act…)

But guilt has been whispering to me.

So, I’ll be going a vacation for about 2 weeks, and the physical distance may give me the door to acting out on the several phone calls I’ve been not making for nearly a year now.  But is guilt a sufficient reason to do so?  The emotional distance feels right; or should I say it doesn’t feel wrong?  Nina, Tisha, Karen, Kristen, Stephen, Peaches…(are there more?)…

Which distance will win over the guilt, I wonder…

All About Scabs by Genichiro Yagyu and Amanda Mayer Stinchecum

Dermatillomania.

That’s one label for it. I imagine that I am healing myself by allowing the skin under my scabs to breathe.  Also, I can’t leave my cuticles alone, and I always have torn skin around them.  This has gone on for as long as I can remember.  While I do feel pain sometimes, I feel more of a type of satisfaction from this pick-pick-pick-pick-picking.

Regina, my mother, used to compulsively twirl her hair and then pull it and break it off (trichotillomania), and while I don’t recall her picking on her own scabs, she used to examine my ears very carefully, and squeeze any pores that looked like teeny little blackheads when I was quite young.  She would do this often, and as I recall it, this was just about the closest contact I would get from her, as she did not hug or kiss or hold me or my siblings once we were able to walk.

I’ve been tempted to cut myself only lately.  I never really considered it in the past, but, even knowing what I do about the dangers of becoming addicted to cutting, etc., something inside me wants to do it anyhow. How pitiful.  I’m totally reverting to being a confused pre-adolescent.  I’ve heard the claim that cutting makes people feel more real–like they can’t feel anything except pain, and at least that is something.  The worst pains I’ve felt in my recent memory have to do with my sexual organs: I have killer cramps every other month or so; and several years ago, I had a miscarriage that lasted for several hours, and I think this was the most painful thing I’ve ever had to experience on a physical level. 

Skin pearls:  This is the name I gave the hard white core that comes out of a zit that has come to a “head”.  They are a prize of sorts.

Around my nipple piercings, I often get a little crustiness that washes away when I shower (from lymph fluids).  I enjoy cleaning this with my fingers, though, which probably makes it worse since I don’t consistently wash my hands first.

My hands and fingers just do what they want to.

Image from the Fragmented Mind Website

“Distinguishing Between Depersonalization and Derealization
I suffer from both DP and DR. Others describe suffering from one or the other or with some fluctuation between the two. In simplest terms the difference between DP and DR are as follows:

Depersonalization – A distortion in how one’s own body and Self feel.

Derealization – A distortion in how the external world is perceived.” http://www.dreamchild.net/cacmydp.html

“Brain Abnormalities Common in Survivors of Childhood Abuse
Martin H. Teicher, M.D., McLean Hospital, Belmont, Massachusetts
Cerebrum 2000;2:50-67.
“‘Early abuse molds the brain to be more irritable, impulsive, suspicious, and prone to be swamped by fight-or-flight reactions that the rational mind may be unable to control….To a brain so tuned, Eden itself would seem to hold its share of dangers.’”   http://www.dreamchild.net/cactheory.html

∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞  ∞

Shit.  Oprah. 

While I’ve not watched her show for probably 5 years, and even then it was quite rare, she did say something to the effect of “You have to name it to claim it”.

So, I’m always looking for ways to name “it”.  “It” keeps me from having a healthy relationship from just about everyone.

Recently, I “came out” to my sister, Rayanne, about the fact that, although I was able to maintain “normalcy” on an outer level, I’m in the process of losing something, and trying to figure out what “it” is.  I texted her (since that is the best way to get through to her currently) the following:

my brain

my condition is not just “in my head”–it is part of me that i cant simply shake off. i have chronic complex PTSD w delayed onset, exhibiting symptoms including depression, disassociative tendencies, fear of rejection, being easily startled, destructive behaviours, flashbacks, involuntary reaction to real or perceived stimuli, emotional numbing, avoidance, among other things.  The PTSD has chemical, behavioural, psychological, conditioned, and subconscious roots. it’s onset was gradual and i sensed it for a long time, but i was in denial about the symptoms i’ve been having for years.  PTSD causes actual neurobiological changes in the brain.  

This was after several other texts back and forth, and all of these arose out of a fight I started about the fact that I felt isolated and rejected (because of a number of reasons, which I won’t get into now).  Bottom line, I was drunk and tired of her dismissing me.  The next morning, after much drama, of course, I had texted this message:

stats

I’m sober. A few stats. 1 = #times [regina/my mother] tried to apologize for exploiting me. 1800= #times [dennis/my stepfather] fucked me. 400= #times [dennis] molested me while u were in the same room +/or bed. YES I’M BITTER AND A BIT CRAZY BUT I DO LUV U. 4015= #nights i listened to make sure you were safe from him.

So, earlier today, I came across a new term.  I’ve labeled myself as experiencing depersonalization and dissociation,  but DEREALIZATION has given me a whole new perspective.  I am in a chronic and nearly permanent state of derealization, and have been for quite some time now.  To some degree, I’ve been this way for probably 25 years.

I feel like as long as I contemplate my state, I can’t fall into craziness, since to be mad you don’t realize you are mad.  So, instead, I feel like I am egocentric in order to keep as sane as possible.

Tug o’ War by Robert C. Jackson

Thi’smorning I watched my Husky Shepherd, JC, and my Corginese, Sammy, play tug o’ war with such passion and joy.  JC outweighs Sammy by like 30 pounds, but she still lets the little doggy win most of the time.  That is what this post started to be about, and as I gathered ideas for pictures to add, I found the painting by Robert C. Jackson posted above.

Dogs and children and sometimes adults harnessing the spirt of childhood play tug o’ war and realize that winning is not the point of the game–the point is the tugging; it is the process of playing; it is the connection you have with the being(s) at the other end of the rope.  You can’t play this game by yourself in any meaningful physical sense.

So there I go, over analyzing the little game that brings so much joy to JC and Sammy (and to me when I am allowed to witness it). 

Jackson’s painting is so still.  He has turned the “war” aspect of this game on its head, focusing on the connection aspect of it.  Perhaps the game has yet to start in his painting.  Perhaps Jackson’s game is endless/timeless, and therefore the movement that occurs in the game is obsolete whereas the connection the game nurtures is all that remains. 

Is tug o’ war then “taking you nowhere” and amounting to no progress, then? Or is the progress in the connection that is made?

Is the tug o’ war that is the nature of living as a survivor of childhood abuse or abuse in general taking you nowhere or should the focus be on the connections that are made? (By tug o’ war, I suppose I mean the battles between your desire to lead a “normal life” and the reality that you have to deal with your baggage and “normalcy” has to be re-defined for you…)

There I was enjoying the joy my dogs were experiencing, and I couldn’t help turning it into an inquiry about my survivorship.  But that’s “normal”–for me.