Many moons ago, this blog started out as something totally
different. I figured I’d come here and
spout out rants and tirades about the social idiocy that surrounded me. I may still do that from time to time, if
that’s what I feel needs to come out of me.
One of the reasons I write, think of myself as a writer, is because
vomiting things out on paper makes it easier for me to make sense of all the
stuff floating around in my brain.
Lately, that stuff isn’t always easy to get out, much less organize into
something coherent. Those of my readers
who know me personally know a lot of what is going on. I think this one is going to be even harder
to write than the one I wrote in the middle of my divorce. A lot of you may think you know who some of
the players are in these stories; I’ll never confirm anything, not just because
its not my place to talk shit about other people, but also because this is
MINE. This is where I write about
myself, my thoughts, my feelings, all the craziness and mundanity that is going
on in my life. Problem is, other people
impact all those things. But there’s usually
three sides to every story: each person’s
view, and the truth. This is my side of
some things that I’ve dealt with in the past.
This is my truth. I can’t control
how you see it or what you think about it, and I’m trying to be ok with that.
I was in an abusive relationship. God, do you have any idea how hard that was
to type? I imagine some of you do. It doesn’t matter who it was with. To make this easier to read, we’ll call the
dude Wooderson McFuckerton, or Woody for short.
Again, read into that nickname whatever you want; this isn’t about him,
except for the ways he affected me. He
was abusive. Mentally, emotionally, and
in the end, physically. Woody knew my
weak spots, my vulnerable places, and he had no problem taking advantage of
them. He knew I was adopted and that
there was a time when wondering if my birth parents had ever cared about me was
painful; he called me a bastard. He knew
I was self-conscious about being overweight; he told me I was disgusting, that
he was embarrassed to be seen in public with me, that I sounded like an
elephant when I walked through the house.
He told me that my family members were terrible people and that he
wanted me to stay away from them. He
told me that my BFF Pamala was a slut, and that, when I went out with her, I
was probably whoring around. He accused
me of having an affair with Becca, the woman I think of as my sister. In hindsight, he was trying to isolate me
from anyone who cared about me, a typical action of an abusive partner. When I told him the story of a time I was
sexually assaulted, he denied that it had ever happened to me, to the point
where I questioned my own reality. He
cheated on me, emotionally and physically, once with a girl more than 10 years
younger than us. He lied constantly,
mostly about the other women. Everything
I liked was stupid, everything I wanted to do was boring, everything I did was
wrong. He yelled at me, screamed at me,
called me names, punched holes in more walls and doors than I can count. He’d tell me he was gonna kill himself as a
way to manipulate and control me. He
took advantage of the love I had for him, used me as an emotional punching bag
to try to make himself feel better. And
I took all of this until I became his literal punching bag. We got into an argument one night, and he
broke a chair. As I turned to walk away
from him, he hit me in the back with the chair leg. I immediately got my shit and walked out the
door. I got somewhere safe and called
the police, after a tearful phone call to my sister. I spent the night with Pamala, then stayed with
my parents. All those people he had
tried to isolate me from, who cared about me. I had a welt and a bruise for three days; I
still have the pictures on my phone and printed out for posterity. Damning proof in the murder of the love I had
for Woody. We didn’t grow apart, we didn’t
decide we wanted different things. That
love was taken out back and shot like a rabid dog.
Do you know what I hate more than all of that? I let it happen. Somewhere inside myself, I blame myself for
tolerating that sort of treatment for so long.
I allowed him to say those things to me, to kill pieces of my heart, to
make me question my memories, my reality, my sense of self-worth. And the really fucked up thing is that I
still blame myself tolerating it most of the time. The abuse was him blaming me for how bad he
felt about himself, and yet I’m still here blaming myself for never standing up
to it. Its like an Ouroboros of blame
that I’ve been trying to break for a while.
All this came to a head a few days ago at work. I don’t really get in trouble at my job; I
love what I do and I’d like to believe my co-workers love me as much as I love
them. But I’m a receptionist in a sales
environment, and nothing can get a rise out of people quicker than the
perception that their sales, and therefore their money, is being messed
with. So, sometimes my boys (and the one
girl), can get in some pretty heated discussions. They don’t really scream at each other, but
voices get raised, and there’s some tension.
Its just something that happens on occasion, and its made me
uncomfortable from the get-go. Almost
like it made me twitchy. And I didn’t
think about it until this last incident, but its gradually been making me feel
worse. Well, another little tiff occurred
on Friday, and before I knew what was actually going on, I was having a
full-blown panic attack. Shaking,
hyperventilating, verge of tears, all that.
I got one of my other boys to watch my desk, went outside, and lit a
cigarette I didn’t smoke while I tried to calm down. My boss came out after a few minutes with his
own cigarette and immediately asked me what was wrong. I told him that the tension and raised voices
had brought on a panic attack. While he
was telling me that, if the discussion were to continue, he’d bring it outside
after I went in, a lightbulb went off in my head. I was basically re-living shit from my
relationship with Woody. Once I’d calmed
down, I texted Pamala and relayed the incident to her. She confirmed that this was an entirely
normal thing for someone who had been a victim of abuse. I’d thought of myself as such, in my head,
for a while. But having someone else say
it, it sounded so foreign. Part of me
hates it. I hate that I can rightfully
be referred to as that. But there’s this other part of me that was so
glad that all the things I’d kept to myself out of embarrassment and shame had
been validated by someone who cared about me, and someone who, as a therapist,
has more than a little familiarity with what abuse victims go through.
After more discussion with Pamala, I decided it was time to
do something about this. I feel like I’ve
been making all this great progress in my life.
I’m positive, I’m in a good place, I’m dealing. But, this isn’t something that’s going to go
away; its gradually been getting worse and will continue to do so until I get
some help. I’ve been to therapists
before, during various difficulties in my life.
I’ve never been embarrassed about it, and actually enjoy the
experience. I’m fucking dreading this,
though. I guess because I didn’t see it
coming and because I’m going to have to talk about things I’ve been trying so
hard to forget. I know dealing with this
is like having strep throat; I can’t get rid of it on my own, I need a
professional. But, fuck. How long am I gonna have to deal with his
shit? Woody is the gift that just keeps
on fucking giving. I’m trying really
hard to focus on the fact that, once I start doing this, I’ll just be getting
better, which is all I really want.
So. I’m Cecilia. I’m the victim of an abusive relationship,
and the victim of a sexual assault, and I will rise above this. I will not allow these things to define
me. I will not only survive, but I’ll
come out of this better, wiser, and stronger.
