Rethinking

When I first started writing and drawing abotu abuse, more than five years before I started this blog, I portrayed him as menacing in every incident I wrote about.

Now though...I know the truth. I know that sometimes, he was sugary sweet, hugs and kisses, pleading.

It left me confused. If he's so ice, it can't be bad, right? So when I told, when I admitted it was bad, when I stopped blocking...I had to portray him as all black, all bad, all mean...

If not, it would be my fault for listening, for wearing that pair of underwear, for getting undressed, for kissing his penis...after all, he didn't make me....

Who Were You? Are You? WIll You Be?

for this page, i used crayola erasable twistables for the background, then erased lines to write on. the text on the first two lines refers to what i was then...when i was abused, and the first ten years following. the next two lines are about what i'm like now. the fifth line refers to the future, and the last line is a quote from Rabbi Label Lam, from a speech he said at the Ohr Naava Shabbaton...i believe last year.

Do You Remember

Do you remember
the time
you came to my room
and I wasn't
expecting you?

Do you remember
how I screamed
and threw things
at you?

Do you remember
the time
I said I
never wanted
to see you
again?

Do you remember
how I came
and knocked on your door
sending hate messages
with your brother?

Do you remember
all my anger
back then?

Do you remember
the stories I'd tell,
when playing lego
house, or school
those things i want
to forget ever saying?

Sometimes,
you inadvertently
remind me of
all these things

and I wonder...
how much of what
I remember
do you remember
too?

(this is directed at a few different people, some of whom, as far as i know, don't even know this blog exists...)

It ??

It "thinks"
It pleases
It squeezes
It teases

It gives a pinch
It makes me flinch
It hurts me since
It makes me wince

It gives a scratch
makes me detach
i give a whack
It hurts me back

It creeps
It seeps
ruins sleep
without a peep

It crawls around
makes no sound
shoves me aground
hounds and pounds

It cuts, It stings
pains It brings
tightly clings
ties down my wings
wish i could
get rid of this thing

erev yom kippur

on erev yom kippur, he calls me from yeshiva. i don't want to talk to him, but i take the phone anyway.

"little sheep," he says in his gruff voice, "do you forgive me?" he doesn't even say for what he's asking forgiveness.

ever since i was three years old, i've been taught in school that if we don't forgive the people who harmed us, then when we ask Hashem to forgive us, He won't forgive us either. what choice does that leave me? "yeah," i mumble quickly, and hang up the phone...

6/28/2009, years and years later...have i really forgiven him at all?

because, despite

because
of the urges that i've had
in the past, i've hurt myself

despite
the urges that i've had
i have grown to take care of myself

because
of the abuse that i endured
i have always hated myself

despite
the abuse that i endured
i will grow to love myself

despite
the love that God shows me
i have pushed Him away in the past

because
of the love that God shows me
i am growing despite my past

letter

i'm going to go off topic for a minute here. my friend, who goes by the name "getting stronger," wrote this letter to the yated. it didn't get in this week, but there's still hope for next time! i'm posting it because she makes a lot of very good points. happy reading!

Hello everyone. This is a letter that I wrote to the Yated last week, but they did not publish it. Reading LS's article to the Yated inspired me to write this. Abuse is rampant in the Jewish community. How can I say that it's rampant? Well, I am a survivor of abuse, and including myself, I know of five people who were abused within a two-block radius. That is five people too many. Dov Hikind has gotten hundreds of calls already from abuse survivors. This means there are probably thousands of Orthodox Jewish people who were or still are being abused. The abuse that I suffered could have been entirely prevented if I had been educated about this topic at a young age; but, no school says anything. I went through the Bais Yaakov system and not one teacher discussed this topic. If I had been told the basics, nothing detailed, then my abuse wouldn't have started in the first place. As a result of not knowing about this topic, I suffered in silence for four terrible years. I am now traumatized for life. I get triggered every single day. Even just walking out of my house brings horrific memories to my mind. I now suffer every day from depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, and borderline personality disorder. Schools need to tell their students about this topic. Without knowledge, the chain just continues. Just shoving the topic under the rug does not make it disappear. Is the Jewish community afraid that something terrible will happen if they educate their children? I asked my therapist why she doesn't go to schools to teach children on a basic level about the topic of abuse. Her reply was, "Schools forbid me from coming." Atrocities are being committed because Jewish children are not being educated on the topic of abuse. "Trying to forget a fear is like trying to hold an inflated basketball under the water. It takes all of your strength and attention, and in time it must pop to the surface." - Finley Making believe that abuse doesn't occur in the Jewish community makes the entire situation one hundred times worse. It rears its ugly head in other ways. For me, my body is covered in scars since that was the only way I knew how to deal with so much inner pain. The chain can be broken if our Jewish children are educated. An ounce of prevention is worth more than a thousand pounds of cure. Some people may say, OK, let's only tell the girls since it occurs only among young girls. This is a falsehood. From the five people I know who were abused on two blocks, two of them are boys. Education is the only road to prevention. Without education, the chain just continues. Do something about the situation. Stop the chain. Today. - Concerned About the Future of Klal Yisrael

almost 12 years old

it's getting closer to my bas mitzvah. soon, i'll be twelve years old. mommy gives me a book to read, all about how special a girl's body is, and how it changes as we get older. it's scary. one day, all of a sudden, i'm gonna start bleeding!

but now i know at least. i'm growing up, and it's ok that my body is changing. once a month, i'll bleed for a week. that's not so bad.

until this happens.

oh. my. god.
i'm turning into him.
my body is morphing into jack's.
i have hair.
i'm not supposed to have hair there.
oh. my. god.
i'm turning into a boy.
i'm going to grow a penis soon.
i just know it.
soon i'm going to look just like him.
oh. my. god.
how come this isn't in the book?
it must be that it's not supposed to happen.
i'm not supposed to have hair there!
what's happening to me?

bunkbed III

my big brother is so cool
he's like a dentist you know
"just pick up your hand
if you don't like it," so

as the tickle fight progresses
and i want him to stop now
i pick up my hand screaming
"STOP" as loud as i know how.

my big brother is so cruel
he's like a dentist you know.
i pick up my hand to tell him to STOP
but he continues to GO.

rescue

they're all sitting in the kitchen
right below my bedroom
when i fall off the top bunk and sprain my arm.

one, two, three, four, five sets of pounding footsteps coming up the stairs.
one slower set, cuz mommy has trouble with the stairs.
heads poking in my doorway...
i wake up from all the noise.

all my older brothers, my father, my mother
came to rescue me from my fall

why don't they come save me
every night?

metal spoons

when: friday night, year unknown

where: at the dining room table

we're waiting for everyone to finish washing. i'm bored, and he's sitting straight across from me. in childish innocence, i play a game. "monkey see, monkey do".

he taps his fingers.
i tap mine.

he hums a tune.
i hum back.

everyone's laughing.

he starts getting annoyed. this isn't supposed to happen! it's just a game! i'm too little to understand not to push my volatile brother too far.

he makes a face.
i make a face.

he glares at me.
i glare back.

he picks up his spoon, voicelessly threatening to throw it at me.
i pick up mine.

next thing i know, there's a twinging pain above my eye, and i have two soup spoons instead of one. touching my eyebrow, i feel a droplet of blood. not too much.

i don't understand. wasn't it just
a game?
like all the others we have
played?

i guess i was wrong.
now i know, never get him upset.
if you do, you will regret it.

lesson learned.

quote

"Even my friends I feel they love me but in my crazy head I don't see why." quote from growing up with child sexual abuse

this is so true. i never put it in words, but...i really don't understand it! i'm not loveable...(this is not a call for people to say they love me, it wouldn't help anyway!) it's just something i can't understand!

oh therapy!

oh therapy, oh therapy
once every week,
get it all out,
try to just speak.
talk to a stranger bout future and past
try to explain why you're always upset

and while, you're speaking,
she takes notes so carefully...
scribbling down
every sound, every frown,
while you talk on so miserably,
scribbling down
every sound, every frown,
and hope that you leave happily!

guess the tune! winner gets a cyber-high five, where we imagine slapping five and missing!

slide show at the top

recently, the slide show on the top of my blog has been freaking me out a bit. i mean, i wrote it to be spooky. because i know it's true. but the last few weeks, it's really been hitting home. especially since i started my survivors forums, and i've been meeting new people through it.

from when i started my blog, i've been getting these little shocks. my first commenter (this comment was not published) was someone i knew in real life. i knew right away it was her, because i knew her blogger name, but she didn't know she was talking to me. she was abused.

then i started my survivor group blog, and another blogger emailed me. this one i didn't know in real life, just through blogging, but again...suddenly, this person whose blog i was reading suddenly turned out to be...you guessed it, another frum girl who was abused.

in the last week (!!) i have suddenly been hit with this information twice. once a friend's friend, who i've been meeting up with in other places for the past two years, and just after yom tov, someone from my shul. neither one knew they were talking to me, until i told them my real name. it's an uncomfortable situation to be in. on the one hand, i'd like to remain little sheep to most of you. on the other hand, if you accidentally give me your identity (and i beg of you, if you don't want this to be you, make sure the email address you use doesn't have your name on it!) and it turns out that i know you, it's not so nice for me to pretend you're a total stranger!

i could be your friend, cousin, neighbor, or sister. maybe i sat next to you in school, or slept in the room next door in seminary. i might be your mother, your aunt, your teacher, or your student...

and only now am i realizing just how true these statements are.

next morning

i wake up slightly disoriented. why am i in the girls' room at C's house? i have a bed at home...the house isn't that crowded! then i remember. jack.

my stomach hurts. not like a regular stomach ache though. i get nervous. running to the bathroom, i discover a little blood in my underwear. so this is what a "period" feels like. i go home crying.

i hate being a girl. i hate my body. and i never, ever, ever want to get married and have kids. never. i wish it would just go away.

this stupid body

i hate this stupid body,
and all it represents.
the shape, the size, the nature,
all this i resent.

i hate this stupid body,
i hate the way it feels,
the way it reacts when tickled,
with "happy," laughing squeels.

i hate this stupid body,
the memories it holds,
i hate all the sensations,
tingling hots and colds.

i hate this stupid body,
the way it shakes and quivers,
how when someone touches,
they leave me here in shivers.

i hate this stupid body,
that listens to my mind
telling me to hurt myself,
it's really so unkind.

i hate this stupid body,
and all it represents.
the shape, the size, the nature,
all this i resent.

explosion III

my therapist is nice. she's been my therapist for almost two years already. she comes to my house to pick me up, and takes me to someone else's office. it's different than hers. in her office, there are games and art supplies. this is not a kid friendly office at all. in some ways, i don't care. i'm not a kid anymore.

i sit down in the swivel chair. spinning, spinning, spinning. faster, faster, faster. answering questions while i spin. aren't you dizzy, she askes? i don't care, i answer. spinning, spinning, spinning. faster, faster, faster. when i walk out, i don't remember what we talked about.

she drops me off at home. i pack a bag, and go back to my cousin's house. i'm going to sleep there. i can't sleep in the same house as jack. i bring along my stuffed gorilla. no one my age sleeps with a stuffed animal anymore, and i'm embarrassed. but i bring it anyway. i need it to sleep. i don't even know why i like gorilla. its fur is scratchy. plus, once someone put him on top of a lamp, so some of his fur is burnt off. i'm happy when no one notices that i brought him along. i leave my stuff on the extra bed. my cousin's little daughter has to sleep on the floor because of me. it's not really so extra. if this was a regular sleepover, we wouldn't care. like this, i'm embarrassed, and she's a little resentful. she's only seven, why wouldn't she be?

in the morning, i go back home. i need to help get ready for the seder like everyone else. but i go back to my cousin every time i need a break. one time that i come over, i hear a shriek, and see something black and furry fly out the window. one of the kids saw black fur on the bed, and out of fear that it was a real animal, picked it up and threw it. it lands outside in a mud puddle. now, i don't have a stuffed animal anymore.

explosion II

read my first explosion post first for the beginning...

i dial the number with trembling fingers. it's a good thing there's a phone practically in front of my face. i wish it were a cordless though, so i wouldn't have to stay there, right next to the bed. we don't have a cordless phone though.

my mother picks up the phone, and i start crying. at first, she's not too worried. it's not the first time i've called her upset today. earlier, there was a fight about breakfast. so she doesn't worry that i'm upset. i've always carried my bad moods for a long time, so why should today be any different? it doesn't make it good or anything, but it's life. that's why i'm still in therapy, even though the original made up issues that brought me in are long gone. when i tell her that jack was trying to take my shirt off though, i really shock her. she tells me to get out of the house, and run to my cousin CE's house.

i'm crying. he comes back upstairs. the person at the door only had to give him a package. or maybe pick one up. he looks really angry. i'm scared. i hear my mother tell me to put jack on the phone. i can barely choke out the words. "mommy wants to talk to you." and then i run out of the house.

i get to my cousin's house faster than i ever have before. her daughter is a few years older than me. i've already dried my tears. i don't want her to know that i was crying. "hi! i came to visit!" i say cheerfully. she says, "you can only come if you're going to help." i sit down on the couch with mountains of socks. green tip with green tip. white sock with white sock. i don't care. as long as i don't have to see jack.

my mother calls. she wants the details of the story. i'm embarrassed to be talking about this in the kitchen. my cousin has the sense to get her kids out of the way. i tell her the story again. she asks me questions, and i answer. she tells me that i'm going to see my therapist later, she's borrowing someone's office for an emergency session with me. her office is already closed for pesach.

that night we did bedikas chametz. our house was sparkling, my soul, my mind, my body were not.

childhood games

we used to play together, you and i.
did you ever think that games i played were weird?
do we even have the same memories of the games we played?

when i think of playing lego with you in my living room,
i don't picture myself moving around the mentchies...or building...
*too embarrassed to say what i really picture...*

when i think of playing with you in the downstairs bedroom,
(remember when it was big?)...
*too embarrassed to say what i really see*

do you remember it too?

this is not talking about jack. this is actually speaking to a real, good friend, who i hope is reading this. shabbos brings back interesting memories! what do you remember, friend? (you commented here)

therapy (cont)

therapist #5 suggested that i try EMDR, and then come back to her. after discussing it with my psychiatrist, it was decided that it was a good idea. so off i went to therapist #6, otherwise known as The Disaster. she destroyed what was left of my morale. within a few sessions, i basically learned that everyone who had ever tried to help me before her was a terrible person, and i should never have listened to my parents about how to deal with my problems. i saw her for a few months, despite hating her guts. one session that comes to mind...i was freaking out in her office. shaking and crying. i had a really bad cold. now usually, when i'm crying, i can breathe somewhat. this time, my nose was stuffed, and i couldn't. she chose that day to try teaching me proper breathing techniques..."in through your nose, out through your mouth." yeah. like any air could go "in through my nose" no amount of "i can't"s helped. i got more tense. she told me to breathe. i cried. she told me to breathe. oops, session time over. bye, little sheep! who cares if you're crying? go out into the street... when i went away for a short vacation after a few months with her, i just never made an appointment when i came back. she just wasn't worth it.

since EMDR wasn't at all successful, (i don't know if we even got to do actual EMDR in all the time i was with her) i couldn't go back to therapist #5, so my psychiatrist decided it was time for something new. maybe some group therapy would help. she put us in touch with therapist #7, who didn't have a group for me, but we decided to try her out, in the hopes that maybe she would eventually have one. the thing i remember most about her is her cats. she had two cats who had free roam of her apartment/office. a joy. they liked me. i didn't like them.

when i started really not liking her anymore, and wasn't getting better anyway, only worse, i refused to go back. i told my parents that if they wanted me in therapy, it was therapist #5 or no one. surprisingly, she accepted me back. i saw her for a while, and then we came to a standstill. i wasn't getting anywhere. we decided together that it was time for me to move on. i stopped therapy, and didn't go back in for a while.

(the time span from the beginning of my therapy saga, (therapist #1, school guidance counselor) to what i'm about to say was about eleven years)

around a year ago, i started falling backwards again. getting more suicidal. more SI. more depressed. i made an appointment with my psychiatrist, who gave me new meds (yay! since this post wasn't about meds, i didn't go through all of them, but...yeah.) and the name of therapist #8. therapist #8 was nice. i hit it off with her pretty quickly. worked myself ragged. started writing more, and sharing it in therapy. i worked with her until i started dealing with the stupid study. (was going to link to that, but then i realized there are too many posts about it to choose)

after being rejected from the actual study, i started with therapist #9. i'm not going into details about her, it's way too fresh. but she wasn't bad. (pretty high praise from me...) and now...it's over. i'm going back in a week and a half, and then i'm off two new things...who knows???