March 2017 – Sand Castles of the Platypus

March 5, 2017March 5, 2017

The Price of Silence

This is what the pain of losing a sister feels like, my mind explores it like it were some odd creature, this lump of loss that sits in my chest like a whole hard-boiled egg.

Several years ago, my sister contacted me through an old neighbor we had when we were kids.

We exchanged a few e-mails and then, finally, the point to her reaching out to me after so many years came to light.

I had cut contact with the family in 1988. It had not been an easy decision but I had come to realize that the only way I was going to be able to end the multi-generational cycle of abuse was to cut contact with the toxic family I had been born into.

It was a pain that I had not expected, it was not a decision I had wanted. It was much worse than when my parents had divorced when I was 6.

After trying for years to set boundaries, decades of trying to understand when other kids love their moms why did I hate mine, of trying endlessly to be respected in even the slightest of ways, that I finally understood that it was not me.

At the age of 24, I left quietly, no fanfare, no announcements. I simply stopped existing in their world. I moved to a different city and erased as much of my trail as I could, much easier before the Internet.

With the support of a therapist and my husband, I managed to take my first teetering footsteps into a new life that I had never even known was possible.

Almost 15 years would pass before my sister, three years younger than me, would reach out and ask why.

She said she had joined an Overeaters Anonymous group and that one of the steps to her healing was to understand the past and why I had left. She asked the questions that could cause me the greatest anguish: What happened? Why did you leave?

She did not know then, nor probably will she ever know, the great pain I felt leaving her behind. I had no way to take her with me. I learned a new term: survivor guilt. How odd to feel guilty for surviving. As much as I had made the decision to leave the family, she had made the decision to stay, and there was nothing I could do except to be there in case she needed me.

It was clear that she still had contact with our mother, that they were very close and anything I told my sister would be repeated to my mother. I did not want my family to know how much I remembered because my hope was that if I stayed silent, they would keep their distance.

I swallowed hard and began to write and re-write, going against the code of silence I had adopted to protect her from what she didn’t know.

It turned into a 15-page letter that touched only the very tip of the iceberg of what had happened.

After she was born, I did all I could to put myself between her and the abusive hands, at the same time resenting that she could smile and laugh while I hurt so bad that many times I thought it would kill me. Such is the love of a sister. I wanted just one thing in my life to be untouched by the horror. I was able to do enough that she was able to let it fade away.

I was not so lucky. My memories came back in such strength and in such detail that there was no doubt what had been done to me. I now know what caused almost all of the scars I carry, both inside and out.

When my sister received the letter, she thanked me for taking the time to help her.

Her next message was that my letter had made her need to see her therapist. I laughed rather bitterly at that, I had not touched more than the tip of the iceberg, and she couldn’t handle it.

Her next message was to be burned into my memory: “I’m sorry you had such a rough childhood, mine was just fine.”

My heart bled with her words. Her arrogance, her lack of caring, and her absolute absence of empathy were obvious. But the part that hurt the most and at the same time showed I had done my job well in protecting her from the abuse was that she actually believed and does to this day, that her childhood was just fine.

Burned into my memory next to her words is the memory of when my father and I reunited very briefly and he showed me pictures that had been taken of my baby sister and three-year-old me, and he didn’t think anything of it. As soon as I saw the pictures, I knew what they were. I had already recovered memories of being used for these kind of pictures.

I asked my father where he was when the pictures were taken. He said he was there, that he had not posed the pictures, and aren’t they sweet? Such nice pictures of you girls. I had a horrible chill when he said that. It was then that I truly understood for the first time the deep well of sickness that is in both sides of the family. My mother was the one posing us in the pictures.

After deciding that her childhood had been “fine” and there was nothing to accept, my sister delivered another blow. She had a second agenda for contacting me. The family had not been able to locate me or to learn about my life. Her mission was to get me to open up to her and share.

When I refused to tell her my exact location and if/how many kids I had, she delivered the ultimatum that if I didn’t share the information and show I trusted her that she would cut contact forever.

And she did.

She will never know how much I protected her, how much I love her.

This is what it feels like to lose a sister.

A footnote: The Internet has stolen a person’s right and ability to disappear, there are no provisions for those who do not want to be found. We have reached an age where information is there for anyone to reach out for it and there are no protections in place for those who choose to leave toxic situations. There need to be.

My mother and father, through the use of the Internet, recently found me. I did not reply to their letters. They have never asked for forgiveness. I will never go back, I know what freedom tastes like. I know what it is like to actually be able to love and be loved. I finally know what it is like to be touched without scars being left behind.

There is an honor to be found in walking away and my hope is that others will learn that, too.

March 5, 2017March 5, 2017

Guardian Angels Fly Faster

City crews recently removed signage from the traffic light arms.

City crews working on the traffic light arms.

I look at the broken, twisted pieces of plastic spread on my desk.

I finger them, trying to get a sense of reality.

Then the image comes again and again, and I can’t stop it from replaying itself as though a trailer for a horror movie is stuck in my head.

This morning my daughter was almost killed while walking on the sidewalk to go to school. One car turned too soon, a driver’s misjudgment, and hit the back of a speeding oncoming car, causing it to spin wildly out of control. The force of the hit was so great that as debris began flying, the car became airborne and spun through the air, straight for 7-year-old Stacy.

I had been concentrating on rushing my two youngest girls to school as cars sped by on the road beside us. I had heard the horrendous crash (which, I found out later, was heard by people up to two blocks away) and looked up just in time to see a black car spinning through the air toward Stacy like some kind of crazed amusement park ride suddenly loosened.

I expected her to turn and run toward me. Five-year-old Katie, who was only a couple of feet from me, already was heading for my arms. But Stacy, beautiful Stacy, stood stock still and put her fingers in her ears and watched the car flying toward her small frame, for the moment only concerned that there had been an unpleasant loud noise. She hated loud noises. I was yelling to her, “RUN, STACY!! RUN!! COME HERE!” But she could not hear me.

As I watched horror-struck, trying by sheer will to make myself move fast enough to cover the distance before the car could get to her…while realizing in slow motion (with everything else moving at warp speed) that I was about to see her die.

And then the miracle.

The car slammed backwards into a sign post and stopped dead within 10 feet of Stacy. Debris rained around the cars and Stacy. She just stood there. A tiny figure framed against the blackness of the shattered car that had almost killed her and I realized the scream was mine.

Debris from the accident continued to fall from the sky as shock wave after shock wave coursed through me. As I clutched Katie to me and continued rushing toward Stacy, I began to fully realize what had happened and what had almost happened. It was then I noticed the invisible shield that surrounded Stacy. Debris rained down around her, but did not land within her shield.

It had been in those moments, as the car flew toward Stacy and I realized I could not get to her in time and my heart was screaming that she must be saved, that I had felt a tremendous surge of power leave me and head straight for Stacy. I don’t know how else to describe it. It felt like an entire host of presences surged from around me and surrounded Stacy.

Guardian angels can fly much faster than a mommy can run.

When everything had become still and it was clear both drivers were safe and already on their cell phones, the rest of the world snapped back into motion.

Numbly, I rushed the girls to school because we were late…automatically following the last clear thought I’d had in my head. I talked to teachers and told them that I didn’t know if the girls were okay (it turned out that they didn’t fully understand what had happened and were fine). It was then I realized how hard I was shaking, and that I couldn’t stop.

If we had not been delayed by my need to go to the bathroom before we left, Stacy would have been exactly where the car landed. My mother always said to go to the bathroom before leaving the house, in case you were in a car accident, but this morning put an ironic twist to her advice. If I had not gone to the bathroom, Stacy would have been in the accident…as shattered as the bits of plastic that rest on my desk. A reminder to forever be grateful for each moment…the rushed ones, the angry ones, the happy ones.

I will forever know the feeling of seeing a car spinning out of control, heading for my small daughter, with her just out of my reach. Forever I will know that guardian angels, indeed, can be thrown and the feeling of having done just that.

So today and for every day to come, I am thankful. I am thankful that my Stacy, who has such a beautiful and gentle soul, who is so quietly amazingly brilliant, was saved. I am thankful that guardian angels move faster than a mommy. I am grateful that Katie, so much younger and smaller, was not running ahead of us as she usually does. I am grateful that the occupants of the two cars were able to walk away and their families will not have to mourn. And I am grateful that neither driver will have to bear the pain of feeling responsible for a child’s death.

After the girls were safely at school, I walked to city hall, skirting the torn-up corners where new traffic lights are being installed.

For eight years I have worked to get a traffic light at the corner where Stacy almost died. The concrete footers for the light posts have been poured but the city has been working to replace old lights first, before installing our new one.

At city hall, the city engineer was running late and was rushing to a meeting. As tears streamed down my face, I told him the meeting could wait. He listened as I told him I thought it only fair that he should have to hear what happened this morning, that he (as a father of young children, himself) be made aware of how the delays almost cost the city a child.

March 5, 2017March 5, 2017

Traps Controllers Use to Regain Control

The battle doesn’t end when an abuse victim escapes

The following is based on the personal observations of a survivor and is not meant in any way to replace the guidance and support of a professional therapist or police.

If you feel you are in danger or if you are questioning if you are in danger, contact your local Battered Women’s Shelter immediately and get support, help, and advice. No matter what you have been told, there are people who will help, there are people who care.

Several years ago, there was the local tragic true story of a woman who had escaped from her controller. She had a new life, her confidence was growing. Then one day she unexpectedly returned to her abuser. Her last moments alive were spent running for her life across a field, screaming for help as her abuser chased her down and shot her to death. Her parents and friends were left to mourn and to question why their daughter had returned to her abuser.

Unless you have been in the situation, it is very hard and even impossible to understand why someone returns to an abusive relationship. Why, after working so hard to escape, will someone so willingly return to such a dangerous situation?

Survivors return to abusers because they believe it is possible for an abuser to change. As they begin to heal from the abuse, they begin to wonder if it really was so bad. This is where having an abuse notebook is important to have. During moments of weakness, a survivor can read the notebook and be forced to remember yes, it was that bad and worse.

The hope that an abuser will change is pointless. Abusers don’t change. Only victims change. Victims can become survivors. Abusers remain abusers. Abusers may improve his/her public persona, but behind the mask, he/she continues to abuse.

Abusers gain pleasure from causing others pain. Why would an abuser change? He/she inflicts pain, whether physical or mental, for three reasons. First, he/she gets pleasure from causing pain for others. Second, hurting others diminishes or masks his/her own pain, which is where the urge to abuse comes from in the first place. Third, inflicting pain gives an abuser a sense of power and control.

Abusers get a very large boost to their feelings of control when a victim returns. A victim’s return further underlines for the abuser that he/she is in the right. The abuser uses the argument that if things were so bad, why did the victim return? By returning, the victim sends the message that he/she agrees that he/she deserves whatever the abuser dishes out and enjoys it.

The following is a list of tricks used time and again by controllers to regain control.

While the script is very effective, the pattern does have a major flaw. Once the pattern is seen and the victim can predict the next step, the script becomes ineffective and the power moves into the hands of the victim, who can now become a survivor.

Stages of a Controller Trying to Regain Control (in order)

Use of guilt trips, crises—anything to regain control of the situation/person. The abuser needs to get the victim’s attention quickly and re-establish control. An abuser will misrepresent the level of disability in order to be cared for and pitied.

If the guilt trips and crises creation fails, then anger, lashing out, accusations, and guilt trips increase.

Next is bargaining and pleading, including a temporary show of returning to things “the way they used to be” (which further proves the abuser is fully aware of how he/she is being abusive since the abuse is stopped in order to lull a victim back into compliance). All stops will be pulled to convince the victim to stay or return.

At this point, it is ultimately important to remember what the circumstances were, what made the victim unhappy, what was lacking. It is still the same, it is temporarily being glossed over.

Every effort will be extended to convince the victim that all is better, but it is temporary and as soon as a controller believes he/she is in control and has the victim back in line, the façade’ is dropped and the abuse/bad behavior doubles.

The victim’s self-esteem drops even lower because added to everything else is the victim’s knowledge that he/she allowed himself/herself to be fooled a second time.

A victim should ask himself/herself: What has happened that would cause a change? Therapy? Medications? What makes the supposed change believable?

A controller wants to keep the victim, not because the controller cares about the victim, but because he/she can’t stand losing control. He/she also doesn’t want to have to train a new enabler. Despite claiming that he/she will be alone “forever,” controllers always find a new enabler/victim. Claiming he/she will be alone forever is another guilt trip.

Controllers have anger issues and often are anger addicts. An anger addict enjoys causing upset – usually while making it appear he/she has nothing to do with causing the situation. An anger addict gets a “high” from the drama that results from the pain and upset of others.

Finally, if all else fails, the controller will make every effort to diminish the victim and try to make the victim doubt any happiness the victim may have found. A controller will ridicule and try to plant seeds of doubt about the feelings of anyone the victim says loves him/her.

Controllers will say things like: “No one will ever love you” to get a victim to reply, “Someone does love me.” This is the opening the controller is looking for—he/she will pound the victim with questions, exhaust with accusations, and finally try everything he/she can to make the victim doubt his/her feelings and those of the one who loves the victim.

The key to defeating this: Say nothing, volunteer nothing. If a response is felt to be absolutely necessary then “I can see why you would feel that way,” is a good comeback. Keep repeating that and NOTHING else.

It is the controller’s desire to maintain control – it is all that is important to him/her. He/she does NOT care about the enabler/victim. The enabler/victim is an object to him/her, something to use.

What the controller can not do:

He/she can’t make the victim love him/her.
He/she can’t take away the love someone else has for the victim.
He/she can’t give anything worth keeping in return for the love and devotion the victim has given.
He/she can not take away free will.
A controller can NOT stop a brain from thinking or a heart from loving someone else.