Hope

Domestic Violence Awareness Month: Priscilla’s Story

A four-year-old girl tries to understand her parents’ abuse; especially her father’s manhandling. Throughout grammar school, her abuse grows more frightening. Meanwhile, the mother offers no secure support. As a sheltered teenager, anxiety grows while she tries to escape the hostile sexual advances by her father.
Coming of age at twenty-one, she provokes a bold move to distance herself from him. Consequently soon after the incident, he dies. Feeling guilty, ashamed and overwhelmed, she could not explain her withdrawal from life. It finally costs her a marriage of twenty-five years.
Following an announcement by her second husband, “She is a very strong woman,” strength of character moves her onward to a patient, caring therapist. Ten years of weekly therapy finally bring answers to many painful questions. However, the next family tragedy she encounters leaves her twisting in the wind.

Photo Courtesy of: Jourdan Buck Photography

Priscilla has a lot more to her story, and it can be read in her memoir, The First Day of the Rest of My Life.

Thank you, Priscilla for being brave enough for sharing your story, and for wanting to be the voice for others in similar situations. You are brave. You are strong. You are powerful.

#DomesticViolenceAwareness

Domestic Violence Awareness Month: Michele’s Story

“My name is Michele A Avery and I am 68 years young. Meandering through this world with a hitch in my giddyup. (Arthritic knees and other issues)

My story began as a child who was born to a woman who was told she would never have children again after my older brother was born. Much to my Mom’s dismay I came along 18 months after he did.

Researching back through family information etc it sounds like my mom suffered from pretty serious post partum depression x2 and could have been when she became pregnant with me.

Part of the result of that was me being a child without a name for over a month while still in the hospital for medical reasons.

Finally, mom had a visit from a priest who after praying over me, told her to name me Michele after Michael the archangel.

I’m very thankful for those initial prayers because I believe today they protected me throughout my life.

Most of which was saturated with feelings of never being good enough and not being worthy. I was always dressed pretty and scrubbed clean but it was a different story inside our walls. Mom ruled with an iron fist and fought her own demons much of her life.

I have two good memories of my life growing up , the rest are scattered with a dysfunctional upbringing. Support came from extended family and neighbors, however.

When I got older it was easier to escape the darkness and find escape in church groups or sports teams etc.

one of the major negative results was looking for love in all the wrong places and dealing with the consequences of bad life choices. I found solace in drinking and using marijuana plus trying an occasional other drug. Never hardcore thankfully.

I lived through an attempted rape and a horrific one done by someone I knew who broke into my home after I broke up with him, I was asleep and he jumped on my back and pinned me. All 300 lbs of him. I don’t remember how I broke free but I ended up at a friends house who then stayed with me for some time. The perpetrator returned once to threaten my friend.

After that he was gone, thankfully.

Following that, I think I only had one or two relationships and stopped any in 1997 after being emotionally assaulted and threatened by my then husband. I was rescued to a safe house connected with Tri County CAP where my healing began. The folks surrounding me at the safe house were part of a wonderful supportive Christian Community who showed me what unconditional love truly is. It was a love I had searched for all my life. They embraced me as part of the family of faith that I still practice today. These wonderful individuals simply showing me how to have a personal relationship with our savior.

I will be forever grateful to them.

In a nut shell, my success is that I went from being homeless with my life in garbage bags to owning my own home , having a job I love and sharing my home with my miracle child and her family. It is possible to be FREE!!

My thoughts of wisdom to those reading is to seek out help NOW! Talk with your teachers in school, talk with your guidance counselors, call the local hotline , our 24 hr Crisis Hotline is 1-800-774-0544 that covers all towns in the Haverhill, Littleton, Lincoln area. For Adults, if you witness ANY questionable behavior of any child, etc PLEASE report it. YOU ARE SO WORTH living a life of freedom.

These are just an outline of my story, reaching out to me I can share more. You can also read excerpts from the last ten years by connecting to my blog. https://jeshuaschild-sonkist. Connect with me at jeshuaschild@gmail.com

Thank you for taking the time.”

Thank you, Michele for sharing your story. You are strong. You are brave. You are priceless.

#DomesticViolenceAwareness

Michele’s story can also be seen in The Caledonian-Record today.

The Truth About Domestic Violence

It’s not pretty. It’s downright ugly. It affects lifetimes. Yours, theirs, and ours. You can break free, but it always has a hold, somewhere, deep down. When you least expect it, the old thoughts and beliefs shine through. There are times when you think there is no way out. These thoughts will win the struggle. Is there ever quiet? Do the thoughts they fed you ever really leave?

Fear floats around, circling every free space, and slowly seeps in. Will you ever be able to walk down the street without looking over your shoulder? Will your voice ever speak without a slight quiver, as you wait to be called yet another name? Will the self-doubt ever fully leave?

Why is it that for every step forward there are so many steps backwards? A weight as heavy as a sack of bricks drags behind as steps forward are taken, slowing us down, but never fully stopping us. The pull backward causes friction in the world around us. People don’t understand why we can’t let go. They don’t know the fear that we have grown accustomed to. They don’t understand that after hearing years of the same insults and put downs it’s not that easy to shake out of our heads. They see the smile, but they will never know the pain it hides.

They don’t understand why we can’t accept a compliment. They don’t get why we don’t see how amazing we really are. They don’t look into the same mirror that we do. A tainted mirror, showing us the monster they made us out to be. Not only did we hear the words that were spoken, now they are all we see. We blink our eyes a few times, and our true self emerges, only to be whisked away to the shadows. No, we are much too broken to see the truth, to see the beauty that everyone else sees.

This is our poison. The elixir they made us drink still circulates our cells. How could we not still believe these lies, when they became our reality?

“You’re such a fat slob.”

“No one will ever love you.“

“You’re worthless.”

“You’re crazy.“

“You need me.“

“You’ll never be anyone.”

“You don’t know how to have fun.”

“You’re a whore.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

“The kids don’t even love you. They won’t miss you. No one will. They won’t even notice you are gone.”

The list is endless of the hurtful things you are made to believe about yourself. Your dreams disappear. What do you have to offer anyway? You give up. Withdraw from life. Withdraw from the people you love. You don’t deserve their love anyway. You put your head down, and you accept that this is your life. You see other couples, and you long for what they have. They look like they really love each other. Jealousy flushes your face as you imagine a life of happiness, a life of love. And then you remember. All the things he said come rushing back. Maybe he’s right.

The constant nag of the what ifs fill the silence. What if I had never went on that date? What if I never returned his call? What if I dumped him when I knew? What if I left him the first time he called me names? What if I had left him the first time he hit me? What if I was strong enough to see my worth?

What if he killed me? Or…what if killed becomes kills? What if I will be his prisoner for all eternity?

And that is when the anger kicks in. Rage.

No. He does not have that right to take any more from me than he already has.

No. He does not get to haunt my thoughts.

No. He will not destroy the hope that I have left.

The what ifs are just a product of his abuse, of all of the abuse I have ever endured. The what ifs keep me paralyzed, and I refuse to give in. I refuse to stand still. I refuse to remain quiet.

Unlike many others, I am free. I was able to make my escape once he was arrested. And, I am in counseling to work through the PTSD his abuse caused me. I will have good days, and I will have bad days. I will honor the lessons, and learn from the life of Hell I lived. I will turn my anger into action. I will not be silenced. I will fight back with information. I will share my truth, and I will not hold anything back. Secrets have no power once they are exposed.

I will speak until my voice stops trembling. I will go to counseling until I can see who I really am, not who I was made to believe I am. I will allow myself to get angry, and sad. I will feel everything, and anything. I will not minimize the trauma I went through.I will work through the guilt I feel for not leaving sooner.

I will not stop being me. I am a survivor. I am a fighter. I am an advocate.

My voice will be the voice for all others. My voice will be for the ones who cannot get away, or never did. My voice is strength, and my best weapon. I will turn my anger into good. I will be who I was never expected to be. I will learn to be my best self. I will shake the words I was forced to believe out of my head. I will see myself as others do. I will love myself. I will cherish the real, genuine, safe, honest love that I found, because I am worthy of it all.

Where to Start?

I met with my therapist again this week, and we talked about how I handled Good Friday and Easter. Days that for the last ten years have brought pain and suffering for me. This year, sandwiched in between the days was the third anniversary of my mom’s death.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t shed a tear. The pain was gone. I didn’t reminisce over what could have, should have or would have been. I didn’t put my thoughts into the dark hole of grief. The days came and went without the heaviness they usually carry. I told her I was amazed at how effective the EMDR therapy had been in such a short amount of time. Two sessions took ten years of pain, possibly more. She said we hold memories in networks, and related thoughts can be healed, even without focusing on them. So, being able to work through my mom’s anniversary was an added bonus of the work we did on the loss of my gram. As she told me that, I thought about the possibilities that are in front of me. There is so much work to be done, but where to start? We talked about where to go next, about the top issues that cause me distress. My mind went in circles. How could I pick the top issues? What was really causing me distress now? My healing journey has been pretty complete. Most days are OK, with days of OK with a side of sadness. Knowing that memories are stored in networks, and connected in a web, woven together by similarities, I thought about the root of my suffering. My mom. I always feel a little guilty or cliche about blaming my mom. That’s the joke of all counseling sessions. “What did your mom do to screw you up?” For the longest time, I wouldn’t let my thoughts take me there. I didn’t want to be one of them that blamed all of my problems on my mom. I was so adamant that she was not my problem that I brushed off the first notion of it. It was only after acknowledging it, and working through it that I was able to start the true healing. When I told her I wanted to work on some memories of my mom, she asked me which one? I didn’t really know. There were so many. She suggested I close my eyes and see what image comes to me. It was fitting, that the title of my book was the image projected on my mental movie screen. I pictured my three-year-old self, pleading with the monster to give me back my mommy. The terror from that moment flooded me. When I was asked what thoughts this image brought to mind, I responded, “that I am annoying, an inconvenience, not worth people’s time, not good enough.” And there we have it. The root of my self-sabotaging behavior and thoughts, the feeling that my presence is not worth any one’s time, the feeling of being inadequate, of never being enough was programmed into my tiny, little, 3-year-old brain. All of the healing in the world would not work if this block was not removed. For close to thirty-five years I have held this block in my mind, stopping short of true healing. Each and every time I get close to tackling these thoughts my brakes instantly go one, and I am stuck in tar, unable to move forward, or to shake these thoughts out of my mind. I didn’t know why. I didn’t know what. All I knew was the same terror that came as that 3-year-old filled me when I came close to working on these thoughts. Frozen. Through the process of the EMDR therapy so much happened, in such a short amount of time. As we worked through the memories, a vision of my gram came in. Her smiling face, and a bright, yellow light surrounding her. The anxiety and terror I had been feeling was lifted, and in it’s place warmth and love filled me. I saw my gram take the hand of my child-self and take her out of that bedroom with the monster. We walked away, and slowly my mom disappeared. The bed was empty, the blankets pulled up and straightened. When I was asked what I saw, I said that my gram was going to protect the little girl, and keep her safe. Visions of my child-self and my gram playing together came, and my whole body shifted. In the past I had been told to take care of my child-self. The idea of it sounded far fetched, and honestly, a little crazy. I was told to give that little girl the love and support she was longing for. Let her be little. I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. A burden was lifted when I saw my child-self was in my gram’s hands now. I wouldn’t have to care for her, but I knew she would be safe, and happy. When I was asked to do a scan of my body from head to toe after the session, I felt something I had never felt before. A clear flow of energy. No blocks. No tension. Nothing in the way of the energy circulating throughout my body. A notable thing to mention is that as I was doing the scan of my body, I said that I felt like I was finally inside my body. With the damaged little girl in the way, I was never fully able to experience life as me. I had never thought of it in those terms before, but as I finished up the scan, I noticed that I could actually feel my feet on the floor. As in, I have never noticed that sensation before. When I shared this with my therapist, she smiled at me, and said how exciting it will be to get to know myself. The thought brought tears to my ears. I never expected to get to a place in my life where the pain and thoughts were not overwhelming. To think that this can happen for all of the areas of trauma in my life is beyond exciting, I don’t even have the words to describe how this all feels. As we talked at the end of our hour together I told her how interesting it was that we had worked on the loss of my gram first, because without that work being done, seeing her come to take my child-self would have been crushing. It would not have worked, because the emotions tied to that loss were so intense. Also, the timing of this all worked out well. The groundwork for the foundation of my healing had been laid. I was ready. There is nothing left to do now, except heal. Who am I to question how all this works? Be kind to yourself. We are all healing from something.

April Is Almost Gone

April is almost gone, just twelve days to go. Usually, grief latches on as the calendar page turns from March to April. Depression soon fills all the creases and crevices from my inside out, leaving little room to breathe. The pain of knowing what April stole from me was unbearable, no matter how healed I thought I was. The pain was still there, taunting me from a far off place.

This year, my therapist and I started using EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing ) therapy. EMDR is used to help people who have been through a traumatic event reprogram their thoughts, beliefs, and reactions to the trauma. This process helps remove the block a person created in order to cope with the traumatic event. Once the block is removed, healing can begin.

I had heard about EMDR, and saw it used when I was at Onsite last year. It was just by chance that my therapist asked me if I would be open to trying it. I wasn’t sure it would work, but I decided to give it a try–I had nothing to lose.

The first session was just days before April 1st. It was perfect timing to test the results. If April could sneak past me, without depression following it, I knew it was working. The first part of the session was used to create a safe space, and a feeling that I could pull up if I needed to. Then I was to think about the two most upsetting memories or beliefs about my gram’s death. That was easy, because, even after so many years, the guilt still haunted me. My first belief was that I killed my gram. A nurse at the ER even cast the blame on me. After my gram’s surgery, I had not filled her prescription; mostly as an order by my gram who just wanted to get home. The following day, I forgot to fill them after work, and then she was on her way to the hospital in the back of an ambulance. I was told it was irresponsible to not get the prescriptions filled, and it was my fault that my gram had a heart attack. My next regret was that I did not follow the ambulance to Dartmouth when she was transferred. I wanted to, but my gram insisted that I go home to my children; who were eleven months, three and five years old. I felt guilty that I listened to her. I felt guilty that she arrived at the hospital alone. I felt guilty that I wasted minutes I could have spent with her.

As I explained these thoughts to my therapist, I told her, “Logically, I know I didn’t kill her.” But logic doesn’t always come into play when there is trauma. The doctor at her bedside after she died told me it was not my fault. And, if I had not listened to her, and followed the ambulance, she would have been angry at me. I know these things, but the guilt was overpowering.

During the session I went through that day step, by step, and pulled up memories and feelings that have been swirling inside of me for the last ten years. I cried. I smiled. I felt sensations throughout my body. I was exhausted. It felt like years of pain and memories were lifted out of me, shook around, and re-positioned. I seemed to have responded to EMDR quickly, and effectively.

The following days came and floated by. The dread that usually arrives with April was not there. I was able to think back to those last few moments with my gram without the overwhelming pain, without the longing, without the deep sadness. A few tears fell, quietly, and quickly on the ten year anniversary. But, they stopped as soon as they started. I felt comfort and even smiled at some of the thoughts that came.

She was ready, and she knew I never would be. She picked how and where she wanted to die. She was in charge, and went peacefully. There was nothing more that I could ask for. She deserved to die with dignity. After ten years, I let her go. I let her go, and accepted that she will never leave me. Her love and guidance are with me everyday. And, for the first time, I actually believe this.

Since her death happened on Good Friday, Easter has also haunted me. This year, as we approach Good Friday tomorrow, I am free. I am free, and so is she.

2018 New Years Resolution Completed!

In the last few days of 2017, I made a resolution to write one blog a week. In the years past, I never even came close…not even to writing a post a month. This was a long shot, but it was something I said I would do, so I knew had to. Fifty-two posts. I hadn’t really thought about what that meant, or what it would do to me.

I started off 2018 with lofty dreams of what this would look like. The first few posts had impressive word counts. I found myself on Sunday nights struggling to get a post done. What do I write about? I don’t feel like writing anything. I don’t feel like doing anything. Who wants to read what I am writing anyway? The struggle became increasingly consistent. By mid January, I was regretting my decision to make this my resolution.

As life kept happening, the posts took the backseat, leaving guilt in their place. After a couple of weeks of not writing, I wrote a few smaller posts to make up the difference. My goal to post weekly slowly became to write fifty-two posts throughout the year. I googled what number week are we in multiple times, then counted the posts that had been written.

The amount of stress this brought me became crippling at times. As the waves of depression took hold of me, writing became nonexistent. When depression let go long enough for me to make the count again, it held on tighter. Why did I set myself up for failure?

Failure was not an option. I said I would write fifty-two posts, so that was what I was going to do.

Depression, life, kids, work, travel, Dr. Phil, a week at trauma camp…it all took its toll. It would not get in the way of my goal. I pushed through the obstacles, and I wrote, and wrote, and wrote. Some posts had more of my attention than others, some longer than others, but they all came from my heart. My goal to do better–to be better outweighed everything else.

What I learned from this was:

The more posts, the more followers
Consistent writing brings more views

3. Hard work and dedication pays off

4. Nothing is able to keep me from reaching my goals and dreams.

If I take nothing else away from this past year, number 4 is something I will do my best to remember. We must all remember, dreams are worth reaching for. They may not always look the way you imagine, but as long as you try, you are winning.