C

Sometimes, I forget what has happened and why I created boundaries. Sometimes, In my mind, things are better than what they actually are. I don’t even know why this happens. I don’t know why I forget.

“It wasn’t safe for you.”

A quote said to me more than once by various people in the past year, which has been enlightening, affirming, and at times, even comforting to have others acknowledge what my life was like. But this week, having those words spoken to me was like having been slapped in the face.

“It wasn’t safe for you.”

Being “seen” is almost as embarrassing as the abuse. It’s having people know what happened. It’s like standing naked in front of a mirror and having all of your friends standing behind you, fully clothed, looking at you. It’s scary. It’s intimidating. It’s humiliating. Why would an innocent person feel humiliated? As I mentioned in part A, when you are programmed to keep the secret, it’s a shame to tell it.

“It wasn’t safe for you.”

Recently, the boundaries I created have become pretty blurry and I have spent most days involved in activities with the extended family. In fact, before I knew it, I’d spent the entire week with extended family. I took care of things I shouldn’t have been taking care of, and when the week was over, my own family had felt neglected. Certainley that was not my intent, however, that is what happens in my family of origin. Recently, I’ve come to see that my family of origin is like a combine that comes to reap anything in its path. Their needs dominate every interaction. Their needs overpower my ability to recognize my own needs. Their needs become something that must be dealt with immediately. Every interaction becomes about them and their needs in their timing.

“It wasn’t safe for you.”

I have recently learned that In order for me to have any control over my self (body and mind), I must ignore them, avoid them, and sometimes remove myself from their presence. That makes me sad. It makes me lonely. Admitting it here probably even makes me look selfish and bad, but I want to assure you that I have been as good as I can be and I’ll never be good enough. I’ll never do enough. I’ll never exist to please them enough.

“It wasn’t safe for you.”

One year ago, I left my home to seek treatment for a disorder I wasn’t really well versed on, but determined to explore in the interest of healing. One of the components of the treatment was psychotherapy and the therapist had sent me documentation which indicated that I would be discussing my childhood. Numerous times over my life, I have sat on therapist couches and in their chairs and talked about my childhood. I have dug up, hashed out, and processed everything in my childhood that has ever happened, so I let the therapist know that it was highly unlikely that we would come to any new discovery about my childhood which could be a root of any of the physical issues I’d been struggling with. Highly unlikely.

My first session with the therapist began innocuously with the standard overview. How many family members? Siblings? What were their genders? What is the birth order? What was your childhood like? Were there any complications? What was the extended family like? Talk about any religious beliefs. Tell about traditions. I hit it hard and came out with the truth immediately. My dad was an abusive alcoholic and my mother enabled him every day of my life. I spoke of the terror and the neglect, the beatings, verbal and emotional abuse with little affect, and I shied away from nothing. When I’d finished, I felt the same numbness I always feel when I talk about my childhood, my life. She then asked about life as a young adult. From the time I’d left my parents home until today. That’s where they never go. All the shrinks that I had ever seen get stuck on the childhood stuff and no one had ever asked me what happened when I turned 18. But this one did, so I obliged her.

I was sexually assaulted in my young adult home by a group of young men that I had gone to school with. When my husband was on a six month deployment, I was stalked by someone who was stalking another woman at the same time. He attacked her and was sent to prison. I was the victim of credit card fraud. I had been the victim of a voyeur who was the security guard at our apartment complex.

“It wasn’t safe for you.”

That therapist was the first person to say those words to me, and to explain that not only was it not safe for me, it was not safe for me in my childhood home, my young adult home, and my married home. It just wasn’t safe for me for a very long time. FIfty years I had lived on this earth; I was not safe, and I hadn’t even realized it. Fifty years.

Session two is when she told me that I had been a child. Duh. Now pause. Take 5 diaphragmatic breaths. Now think about that. Imagine doing to your child what was done to you.

Imagine beating your child with a belt. Imagine telling your child they are stupid. Imagine blaming your child for someone hitting them. Imagine telling your child it is their fault that they are shunned on the playground. Imagine standing by while someone beats your child with a piece of lathe. Imagine telling your child you will not protect them from someone who is violently abusing them, terrorizing them, and belittling them daily. Imagine standing by while someone tells your child they are worthless. Imagine telling your child they are responsible for your feelings. Imagine telling your child you don’t want to look at them or hear their voice. Imagine telling your child they are a liar when they come to you with a problem. Imagine telling others your child is a liar when they tell the truth about their life. Imagine dragging your child out at 2:30 am to search bars for your drunk spouse. Imagine telling your child your drunk spouse makes mistakes, but also refusing to accept the mistakes your child makes. Imagine telling your child not to tell anything that happens inside the family. Imagine saying to your child, “You have nowhere to go. You can’t go to anyone related to us, they won’t have you.”

It wasn’t safe for me.