My Father's Hands

I'm going back to therapy.

Through a strange twist of events, I was able to meet with my therapist very quickly a month ago.  I updated him, we discussed those things in my life that he could help me with, and we chose a plan of attack.

Then I set appointments.  I couldn't get scheduled for sooner than March.  That seems like forever.  And way too soon.

You see, we're going to talk about my dad.

I went to therapy off and on for a couple of years a while back.  I attended a support group for a year or two.  I did lots of therapeutic writing to process some of the dark things in my life.  My attention to my relationship with my father has been lacking.  I have touched on it, but not really done much work.

Even though I feel like it's the source of so many difficulties.  Maybe all of them.

I have stayed away.  I have stayed mostly silent.

I knew I had other work to do so I always steered therapy that direction.  I avoided discussion about my dad whenever I could.

Why?

Because I am afraid.  I don't understand.  I feel so small and helpless when I think about my dad.  I worry that I'll get caught.  I worry that I'll get in trouble.  I worry that he will know, that he will find out.

I'm forty-two years old.  I'm still afraid of my father.  And I don't really understand why.

My memories are so inaccessible.  So foggy.  So vague.

And when I think of them, of my dad when I was little, all I feel is fear and sadness.

I am sad because I never had a daddy.  He didn't like me.  I was in the way.  I was trouble.  I was a disappointment.  I needed to be invisible to be safe.  I was a thing.  An annoyance.  A money suck.

As I have waited for my appointment I have tried to avoid preparing for the work.  I have tried not to think about it.  It causes such intense anxiety that the rest of my life becomes difficult.  I cry and shake and collapse.  I curl up in an attempt to hide.  To protect myself.  To be little and unseen.

But my mind started working anyway.

I still don't have many memories.  But my fear has found a focus.

I am afraid of his hands.  They are big and strong.  They hurt.  They are so strong.  They hold me in place.  They are in control.  They don't care about me.  I am a possession.  I am to be what he wants me to be.

When we are out together in public, I am never allowed to stray.  I must stay right by his side.  He grabs me by the shoulder or the back of the neck.  He holds me this way as he talks to people. 

I don't move.  I don't squirm.  I don't wiggle.  I am still.

I smile and say my lines, what I think he wants me to say.  Anything that will make him look good.  Anything that will make him let go of me.

But he doesn't let go.  Because I am bad.  I will misbehave.  I must be kept under control.

So I just do what he wants.

Don't worry, dad.  I learned my lesson well.  I do what I'm told.

Thanks a lot for that.  You set me up for a lifetime of abuse.  Boys and men telling me what to do and me obeying.  Because that's how to stay safe.  That's how to be loved.  Just do what you're told.

Was I Abused?

When I went to therapy that was the question I wanted answered most.  I felt that I had been abused.  I knew I was damaged.  But I needed validation.  I needed someone to hear my story and tell me that what happened to me was wrong.

The more I told my story, the more validation I received.  No one that heard my story questioned whether it was abuse or not.  And this helped.

It helped because part of abuse is teaching the victim to doubt herself (or himself, but I'll say her just for simplicity).  I didn't know what was true anymore.  I didn't know how I felt or what I wanted.  I no longer trusted my feelings or my judgment.  The various abusers in my life had taught me that what I felt or knew didn't matter.  They had become God -- they ruled my universe, each in his turn and setting.  They created a new me.  They programmed me to be what they wanted.

And as I continued with therapy I began to see more and more how much I had surrendered.  Not because I wanted to, but because I had to.  For survival.  Our instincts to survive are so much stronger than our desire to be happy.

For a long time I was trapped because I was a child.  I could not leave the situation because I could not take care of myself.  And I didn't know if there was anyone who could protect me if I spoke up. 

As an adult I was trapped again.  Not because I couldn't take care of myself, but because I couldn't see that I could.  I didn't understand that I could survive and find my way even if no one believed me or supported me.

It took a lot of therapy for me to learn to trust myself again.  To finally listen to my own voice.  To come to a place where I am willing to stand by what I believe without feeling the need to convince anyone else.

And I no longer need anyone's validation for this.  I know I was abused.  I know I was forced to do things I didn't want to do even if no one used a gun to make me do them.  I know that without striking a single blow my abusers beat me into submission.  I know that they have a wide array of weapons to use that no one but a victim can see.  I know that doesn't make those weapons any less real.  I know that doesn't make the threat any less dangerous.

And I know that the abuser often doesn't think he did anything wrong.  But that doesn't mean he didn't.  He doesn't get to judge if his actions were wrong.  They hurt me.  They damaged me.  They changed me in a way that will never be gone.  I will heal, but I will still have scars.  And they did that.

Yes, I was abused.

Your Story is Important

I have been honored to have many people thank me for telling my story.  They tell me it helps them not feel so alone.  They tell me it helps them believe that their feelings and experiences are valid.  They tell me it gives them hope.

For whatever reason, sharing my story has helped people.  What an incredible privilege. 

It took me many years to get to a place where I was ready to tell my story.  Many years and lots of therapy.  And sometimes I still struggle.

But even though it's difficult, I believe it is important.  I believe prejudice about mental illness is so common because people don't talk about it, except to mock.  I believe abuse runs so rampant in part because people look away.  People don't want to know about the dark stuff.  Or they are afraid that they carry some shame or guilt because of it.  They are afraid they will be judged, looked down on, or in danger if they tell their story.

And, unfortunately, sometimes that's true.

I am blessed that I am at a place now where I do not fear those things like I used to.  I do not tell everyone I meet, but if asked I will own these things as part of my past.  And part of my present.  Part of who I am.  I speak because I can.  I speak for all those who cannot.

But I believe every story is important.  I believe everyone should get to tell their story even when others don't want them to, even when they are afraid.  I believe strength comes from saying, "This is what happened to me.  It is not who I am, but it does affect me.  And it was wrong."  I believe healing comes from saying, "This is what I did.  I hate who I was.  I am trying so hard to change."  From saying, "This is what I struggle with and I am ashamed."

Whatever your story, I believe you will be stronger and more whole when you are able to share it.

I offer to tell your story for you.  If you want your story known, but are fearful of the outcome, share it with me and I will share it here.  I have had people ask about this, if I would be willing to post their story here.  Yes, I am willing. 

If you do not want to share it publicly, I am still willing to listen.  Feel free to email me and we'll "talk" electronically (without your story being published here).  I am not a therapist.  I will probably not give you any advice.  But I will listen and honor your offering.  If you are uncomfortable talking to me, please find someone who is emotionally safe for you, someone who has never violated your trust.  Talk to them.

And if you aren't ready to talk about it, I suggest writing about it.  Electronic or paper, writing will help get the toxins out.  You are not your past.  Don't let it keep holding you hostage.

Please don't feel pressured to do this.  I do not mean to push.  Everyone comes to their moment(s) of healing in their own time.  But if you've felt like you might want to move ahead, I would be honored to help.