Hummingbird_blue
New Here
If you've been sexually abused, I just want to warn you there may be stressors or triggers in here. Proceed at your own risk, unfortunately.
I was diagnosed with PTSD about two years ago, but I've been a survivor of sexual abuse since the tender age of 6. My brother raped me multiple times. I remember telling my sister that he'd kissed me, and that I wasn't sure what to call the rest of it. She said he'd been "taking advantage" of me. She made him stop raping me, though she couldn't protect me from the repeated advances he'd later make (inviting me to watch him masturbate, pinning me, tickling me in places one ought not be tickled in). She also said that I needed to keep it a secret forever (oh yeah, did I almost forget? Every woman in my family has been sexually abused). If we told our parents, they might punish him, send him away or hurt his chances of having a good life. I was 6, she was 10, he was 14.
I know I had flashbacks and panic attacks when I was younger. I would just go to my sister and cry for hours. She would wipe away my tears and send me to bed. I used to wake up early in the morning and clean my room relentlessly. I'd clean the house until I heard the others start to wake. Then, I'd climb back into bed and pretend to be asleep until I knew others were walking around. I used to have nightmares like I do now, too. I'd wake up screaming and not know why. I used to cut myself. I used to hold a knife to my throat when I started to remember what happened to me. And no one knew.
I kept the secret until I was 16, but in between that time, as I turned 11, my parents got divorced. In the wake of that split, my dad gave me permission to play an online game. It was a permission my mom fought, but eventually conceded with the notion that my brother would also play, and be there to "protect" me from the predators she was so convinced were lurking just beyond the lit screen, instead of the end of the hallway.
In the game, my brother left me to my own devices, and somehow the predators my mother feared found me. It didn't take long. Maybe a couple of months, and by then I had multiple people telling me not only my address, but that they would find me, kill me, or hurt my family is ways I had never imagined. All of this could be averted if I sent a few pictures. It started with pictures, at least. Then they were insatiable. Videos. Skype calls. Sound bytes. It morphed from the game to messaging programs, emails, phone calls.
But, when I was 15 I said "no" in a louder voice than I had ever before. Don't get me wrong, I'd said it when I was 6, and I'd said it when I was 11. No one had ever heard me before. No one had ever cared. They still didn't. But I did. I said it and I found ways to cut myself off. I found ways to escape. I plunged myself into schoolwork and I joined every club and commitment I could find. I took the chance that it was all bluffing, and I got lucky.
I had become inspired by my chorus teacher. He was a true teacher. We were all inspired by him. Every grade, every class, even the other teachers. Hell, the janitors loved him. My voice got stronger, and I sang my truths through the ballads he chose and sometimes wrote just for us.
So, I kept going. I worked my ass off and I fought for everything I had. When I turned 16 I finally got the confidence and courage to tell my mom what my brother had done all those years ago (I had not realized that his advances later were wrong, nor had I connected him to the online abusers). My mother cried. My brother admitted to it. My mother said the same words my sister had said ten years before. I was to keep it secret. I could not risk jeopardizing his future. I could not seek therapy or help of any kind because it may change the way others view him.
I backed down. I didn't know what to do without her support. So, I kept quiet. I got a job and a car an anger I still don't know the depths of. That same year I learned that the chorus teacher I'd looked to as a mentor had raped one of the other students in my class. He plead guilty in court and is still in prison today. My heart broke. My voice choked.
But, I kept going. I decided that there was no turning back. Just because he disappointed me didn't mean I had to disappoint myself. So I kept my grades to perfection. I kept my job and was recognized by the company and by my bosses. I kept my cleanliness to the same high standards. I started clubs, I mentored younger kids, I was part of a homeless rescue team in my off time. I traveled on debate competitions and I sometimes even won. My mother got sick, and so I cooked and cleaned for the household. My brother dropped out of college and remained at the house with us, so I took care of him and my mother while my sister moved away for her own collegiate goals.
Then, I turned 18. I applied to an out-of-state college and was accepted with the highest amount of scholarship funds I could've been allotted based on academic merit. I knew I could finally get out, be on my own, and I felt I should've been able to embrace that to the fullest. But instead of the quick fix I had held out for all those years, I became more broken than ever. I suffered crippling panic attacks and flashbacks like never before. I would wake up and feel pinned to the bed, as if he were on top of me. I became more suicidal than my previous ideations and began planning. I stopped attending school for months. I did nothing all day and I hated myself for it.
Finally I was introduced to therapy and psychiatry, but my recovery was, as you may guess, not instantaneous. I got worse - as it happens so often with PTSD sufferers - before I got better. I was caught just before attempting to drink a can of paint, and was forcibly taken to a mental hospital. I spent a week there before I was discharged. I told my dad what had happened to me. I told my mom about the online abuse. I started medication and therapy every week. I finished high school online and by the grace of whatever governs the universe.
That Summer I was no longer able to live with my mom, as she lived with my brother. I was no longer able to live with my dad, as his new wife blames me for his alcoholism and depression. So, after a brief homeless period I was able to move in with a family I'd met through a church. They were nice, and I was able to get my job back for the Summer. I began college that Fall, moved in with the help of my mother, the uncles she lives with, my father, my step-mother, and my new "foster parents". I recognize that everyone tries to help in their own ways. My "foster parents" are the only ones who don't expect me to still see my brother, though.
Anyways, I got to college, thought everyone was far enough away that I'd feel safe and could apply that same defiant progression I utilized earlier, and soar through everything, succeed and be on my way to a happy future. Except, as my therapist has explained to me recently, my brain let its guard down again, just as it had when I had first thought I might experience freedom. Everything went downhill. I stopped going to classes. I stopped meeting people. I made some friends at first, but they weren't the right friends. I became a stoner, which helped with the panic, but not with the productivity. Soon, I lost my scholarships, and I couldn't afford to buy food, much less pay for an expensive, top 20 university.
So, after a year and a half of floundering and accruing debt, I decided it was time I moved back "home". I moved into the basement of my uncles' house. My mother lives upstairs, as does my sister and one of my uncles. The upstairs uncle is severely disabled. My mother is also disabled, and has been since the illness I mentioned earlier was introduced into our lives (and unfortunately, introduced to her doctors... the 30+ we've seen still don't know what's wrong). My sister graduated with a degree in Psychology (ah, the irony) and now works in a mental hospital (ah, again I say, the irony). My other uncle lives in the other side of the basement with me. They all keep their distance and I spend my days in darkness, alone, save for the Skype calls of my unfortunately long distance boyfriend (this man is a God-send, and I don't think I'd be nearly this far in my recovery without him, much less as close as I am to happy).
I'm doing EMDR therapy with my therapist, who is a trauma and PTSD specialist. I'm on a higher dosage of medication that I ever have been. I tried getting a job a few months ago, and I had such strong panic attacks that I had to quit within a week.
All I've ever wanted to do was have a job where I could make food. I love food. I love the way it brings people together. I love the way food repairs the body and the soul. I love the way it supports us all.
On my good days, I bake. I make artisan breads. I'm fascinated by the process and the spirituality anyone can bring to it, not to mention the depth of flavor. I want to bake professionally. I am afraid of starting that path and then having to abruptly end it as I've had to for the past.... many attempts that I've made towards self-sufficiency. It's to the point now where I have almost 100 recipes bookmarked, have cookbooks and magazines, and even textbooks on the subject. And yet, I feel like if I make one more move, my body will fail, my mind will break. I feel like salmon. I'm swimming against the stream and I'm struggling. But if I try to beat the current, I'll get overwhelmed and drown in my own ambition.
Right now, I'm trying to find a way to get inspired by myself again. There was a time I described where I loved myself enough to break through the chains of child pornography. When my brother wanted me to watch him touch himself, I ran and locked the door behind me. I know I can be strong. But how do I find that strength again? I'm scared and I need to be powerful now, more than ever. I'm on the verge of taking my joy by storm, I just know it. I also just don't know how.
I know this post is probably way too long for anyone to read. For that I apologize. Half of writing is for the author, I think. So if you did read, and don't reply, you have my thanks anyways. Sometimes it helps just to be seen or heard.
Anywho - comments and suggestions are most welcome.
I was diagnosed with PTSD about two years ago, but I've been a survivor of sexual abuse since the tender age of 6. My brother raped me multiple times. I remember telling my sister that he'd kissed me, and that I wasn't sure what to call the rest of it. She said he'd been "taking advantage" of me. She made him stop raping me, though she couldn't protect me from the repeated advances he'd later make (inviting me to watch him masturbate, pinning me, tickling me in places one ought not be tickled in). She also said that I needed to keep it a secret forever (oh yeah, did I almost forget? Every woman in my family has been sexually abused). If we told our parents, they might punish him, send him away or hurt his chances of having a good life. I was 6, she was 10, he was 14.
I know I had flashbacks and panic attacks when I was younger. I would just go to my sister and cry for hours. She would wipe away my tears and send me to bed. I used to wake up early in the morning and clean my room relentlessly. I'd clean the house until I heard the others start to wake. Then, I'd climb back into bed and pretend to be asleep until I knew others were walking around. I used to have nightmares like I do now, too. I'd wake up screaming and not know why. I used to cut myself. I used to hold a knife to my throat when I started to remember what happened to me. And no one knew.
I kept the secret until I was 16, but in between that time, as I turned 11, my parents got divorced. In the wake of that split, my dad gave me permission to play an online game. It was a permission my mom fought, but eventually conceded with the notion that my brother would also play, and be there to "protect" me from the predators she was so convinced were lurking just beyond the lit screen, instead of the end of the hallway.
In the game, my brother left me to my own devices, and somehow the predators my mother feared found me. It didn't take long. Maybe a couple of months, and by then I had multiple people telling me not only my address, but that they would find me, kill me, or hurt my family is ways I had never imagined. All of this could be averted if I sent a few pictures. It started with pictures, at least. Then they were insatiable. Videos. Skype calls. Sound bytes. It morphed from the game to messaging programs, emails, phone calls.
But, when I was 15 I said "no" in a louder voice than I had ever before. Don't get me wrong, I'd said it when I was 6, and I'd said it when I was 11. No one had ever heard me before. No one had ever cared. They still didn't. But I did. I said it and I found ways to cut myself off. I found ways to escape. I plunged myself into schoolwork and I joined every club and commitment I could find. I took the chance that it was all bluffing, and I got lucky.
I had become inspired by my chorus teacher. He was a true teacher. We were all inspired by him. Every grade, every class, even the other teachers. Hell, the janitors loved him. My voice got stronger, and I sang my truths through the ballads he chose and sometimes wrote just for us.
So, I kept going. I worked my ass off and I fought for everything I had. When I turned 16 I finally got the confidence and courage to tell my mom what my brother had done all those years ago (I had not realized that his advances later were wrong, nor had I connected him to the online abusers). My mother cried. My brother admitted to it. My mother said the same words my sister had said ten years before. I was to keep it secret. I could not risk jeopardizing his future. I could not seek therapy or help of any kind because it may change the way others view him.
I backed down. I didn't know what to do without her support. So, I kept quiet. I got a job and a car an anger I still don't know the depths of. That same year I learned that the chorus teacher I'd looked to as a mentor had raped one of the other students in my class. He plead guilty in court and is still in prison today. My heart broke. My voice choked.
But, I kept going. I decided that there was no turning back. Just because he disappointed me didn't mean I had to disappoint myself. So I kept my grades to perfection. I kept my job and was recognized by the company and by my bosses. I kept my cleanliness to the same high standards. I started clubs, I mentored younger kids, I was part of a homeless rescue team in my off time. I traveled on debate competitions and I sometimes even won. My mother got sick, and so I cooked and cleaned for the household. My brother dropped out of college and remained at the house with us, so I took care of him and my mother while my sister moved away for her own collegiate goals.
Then, I turned 18. I applied to an out-of-state college and was accepted with the highest amount of scholarship funds I could've been allotted based on academic merit. I knew I could finally get out, be on my own, and I felt I should've been able to embrace that to the fullest. But instead of the quick fix I had held out for all those years, I became more broken than ever. I suffered crippling panic attacks and flashbacks like never before. I would wake up and feel pinned to the bed, as if he were on top of me. I became more suicidal than my previous ideations and began planning. I stopped attending school for months. I did nothing all day and I hated myself for it.
Finally I was introduced to therapy and psychiatry, but my recovery was, as you may guess, not instantaneous. I got worse - as it happens so often with PTSD sufferers - before I got better. I was caught just before attempting to drink a can of paint, and was forcibly taken to a mental hospital. I spent a week there before I was discharged. I told my dad what had happened to me. I told my mom about the online abuse. I started medication and therapy every week. I finished high school online and by the grace of whatever governs the universe.
That Summer I was no longer able to live with my mom, as she lived with my brother. I was no longer able to live with my dad, as his new wife blames me for his alcoholism and depression. So, after a brief homeless period I was able to move in with a family I'd met through a church. They were nice, and I was able to get my job back for the Summer. I began college that Fall, moved in with the help of my mother, the uncles she lives with, my father, my step-mother, and my new "foster parents". I recognize that everyone tries to help in their own ways. My "foster parents" are the only ones who don't expect me to still see my brother, though.
Anyways, I got to college, thought everyone was far enough away that I'd feel safe and could apply that same defiant progression I utilized earlier, and soar through everything, succeed and be on my way to a happy future. Except, as my therapist has explained to me recently, my brain let its guard down again, just as it had when I had first thought I might experience freedom. Everything went downhill. I stopped going to classes. I stopped meeting people. I made some friends at first, but they weren't the right friends. I became a stoner, which helped with the panic, but not with the productivity. Soon, I lost my scholarships, and I couldn't afford to buy food, much less pay for an expensive, top 20 university.
So, after a year and a half of floundering and accruing debt, I decided it was time I moved back "home". I moved into the basement of my uncles' house. My mother lives upstairs, as does my sister and one of my uncles. The upstairs uncle is severely disabled. My mother is also disabled, and has been since the illness I mentioned earlier was introduced into our lives (and unfortunately, introduced to her doctors... the 30+ we've seen still don't know what's wrong). My sister graduated with a degree in Psychology (ah, the irony) and now works in a mental hospital (ah, again I say, the irony). My other uncle lives in the other side of the basement with me. They all keep their distance and I spend my days in darkness, alone, save for the Skype calls of my unfortunately long distance boyfriend (this man is a God-send, and I don't think I'd be nearly this far in my recovery without him, much less as close as I am to happy).
I'm doing EMDR therapy with my therapist, who is a trauma and PTSD specialist. I'm on a higher dosage of medication that I ever have been. I tried getting a job a few months ago, and I had such strong panic attacks that I had to quit within a week.
All I've ever wanted to do was have a job where I could make food. I love food. I love the way it brings people together. I love the way food repairs the body and the soul. I love the way it supports us all.
On my good days, I bake. I make artisan breads. I'm fascinated by the process and the spirituality anyone can bring to it, not to mention the depth of flavor. I want to bake professionally. I am afraid of starting that path and then having to abruptly end it as I've had to for the past.... many attempts that I've made towards self-sufficiency. It's to the point now where I have almost 100 recipes bookmarked, have cookbooks and magazines, and even textbooks on the subject. And yet, I feel like if I make one more move, my body will fail, my mind will break. I feel like salmon. I'm swimming against the stream and I'm struggling. But if I try to beat the current, I'll get overwhelmed and drown in my own ambition.
Right now, I'm trying to find a way to get inspired by myself again. There was a time I described where I loved myself enough to break through the chains of child pornography. When my brother wanted me to watch him touch himself, I ran and locked the door behind me. I know I can be strong. But how do I find that strength again? I'm scared and I need to be powerful now, more than ever. I'm on the verge of taking my joy by storm, I just know it. I also just don't know how.
I know this post is probably way too long for anyone to read. For that I apologize. Half of writing is for the author, I think. So if you did read, and don't reply, you have my thanks anyways. Sometimes it helps just to be seen or heard.
Anywho - comments and suggestions are most welcome.
