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abuse

To the one who saved me by letting me go

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What follows is a piece of writing from a dear friend, following one of the hardest actions she’s ever had to take: ending a relationship that was breaking her down more than building her up. I had the  privilege of seeing her through this process and I want you to know how brave she was, and still is. It took bravery to say goodbye, it took bravery to acknowledge what she had been through, and it’s taking bravery to continue to feel the feelings and the after-effects of leaving. While she ends her writing with an apology to her ex-boyfriend, I would argue that she owes nobody an apology, least of all him. I would argue that he’s not collateral damage, but she almost was. So, to her: I am proud of you, I love you, and I want you to always hold tight to the truth you found deep within yourself: that you deserve nothing short of wonderful.

To the one who saved me by letting me go

I have to start by saying that everything we had was real. The chemistry, the adventures, the shared values, the common interests, the good memories – it was all real. But somewhere between the giddy first dates and falling for you, something else happened. I don’t know exactly when, but toxicity crept in. And the self-doubt, manipulation, desperation and rigidity that grew over the next five years – so intense that I completely lost myself – well that was real too. For every high there was a lower low, and the cycle quickly spun out of control.

It wasn’t your fault that I was young, naïve, and didn’t know what a relationship was supposed to look like. It wasn’t your fault that I spent those first few months letting you call the shots without pushing back, because you were the experienced one. It wasn’t your fault that I went through personal challenges in the years we were together. And it wasn’t your fault that I was so blinded by wanting us to be perfect, that I didn’t notice how unhappy I was. But at the same time, you were supposed to show me what a healthy relationship looked like. You were supposed to ask for my opinion and make me feel like it was valued. You were supposed to support me through every challenge, even if you couldn’t make it go away. And you were supposed to show me that I could be honest about my feelings without getting defensive or judgmental. But you didn’t.

I’m still sifting through the distortions I have, trying to figure out which are my own, and which you put in my head. When I avoid the mirror, is it because my body isn’t good enough for me, or because it wasn’t good enough for you. When I turn away from the couple making out on the street, is it because I don’t like PDA, or because I’m jealous that you were never affectionate. When I bite my tongue from sharing my opinion, is it because I’m unsure of myself, or because I expect to be shot down. When I shiver seeing abuse on facebook, or in movies and songs, is it because I feel bad for the girl, or because I was her…  

Ugh that fucking ‘A’ word. It took me a long time to be able to not just say it, but also recognize it as the label for what I went through. ‘Emotional abuse’ is scary and weighted and stigmatized and something that would never happen to me, but guess what? It did. And that makes me feel disgusting. Admitting how traumatized I am feels pathetic. Especially since I called you my protector. But here’s the thing, being willing to walk through fire for someone doesn’t mean anything if you don’t notice you’re the one burning them over and over. You always saw it as looking out for me, as keeping me safe, as validation of your love. But the saying, “it’s the thought that counts” is actually bullshit. In this case, your intentions, however pure you thought they were, resulted in standards I could never live up to, expectations I would never meet, and kept me so confined within the boundaries and rules you set, that I didn’t notice how submissive I’d become. But when the rose-colored glasses came off and I was able to see the truth for the first time, something clicked. So I’ve spent the past few months thinking about what I would say to you, and here it is: thank you. It seems odd after how much pain you’ve caused me, but I want to thank you for three things:  

First, thank you for showing me how to love. How to be so head over heels for someone that no matter how much they drive me nuts, I still want to wake up next to them everyday and do my best to give them the world. Loving you the way I did enabled me to see exactly what giving myself to someone looks like, and showed me that I wasn’t getting that in return. Because the problem is, love, dependence and desperation are all different things. I loved you so hard because that’s how I justified how much it hurt. If I could convince myself that it was mutual, then all of a sudden, it was okay. But is love that isn’t shown or felt even real? I’m not so sure. Maybe you did really love me the best you could, but unfortunately, it wasn’t the kind of love that I needed.  

Next, thank you for showing me what I need in my next relationship. It took me a while to differentiate being selfish from being honest about what I want. Wanting validation, support and encouragement isn’t selfish. Wanting to be with someone who makes me feel on top of the world isn’t selfish. And most importantly, wanting to know every single day that I’m good enough isn’t selfish.    

So here’s what I want. I want to share taste in music, movies and TV shows like we did, but next time, sing along in the car without being yelled at. I want to road trip everywhere like we did, laughing and sharing stories, but next time, without periods of awkward silence after being snapped at for something small. I want to be asked about my plans for the week like you did, but next time, feel support and not guilt for being busy with friends or work or exciting opportunities. I want to spend time with my family and friends like we did, but next time, not have them tell me you treated me like shit in front of them. I want to lie in bed at night and thank god for the amazing day I had like I used to do, but next time, do it because most days are like that, and not because the good days are so rare. Next time, I won’t settle. I won’t confuse double standards for chivalry, rules and restrictions for caring, or jealousy for compliments. Next time, I will again give everything I have, but next time, I’ll get it in return.  

So finally, thank you for letting me go. Ultimately it was me who made the decision to walk away for good, and to choose myself in a way you were never able to choose me, but the irony is that it was your hesitation that gave me the space to do it. Those first few weeks I was furious, I was hurt and I was confused. Now all I can say is I’m relieved. By letting me go, you saved me. I honestly don’t know if I ever would have been able to realize all the things that I needed to realize about you, about me, and about us if you hadn’t insisted that we break up to see if we really wanted to be together. Maybe they would have stayed buried and I would have never known that I was settling. Or maybe they would have built up until I exploded. Exploded one night after a fight in your house, the one you had an extra key to in your pocket the day I walked away. Exploded one afternoon planning the wedding I always thought I wanted, but for some reason could never quite picture. Exploded one day when it came time to talk about kids, the ones you didn’t want but the ones I know I needed. But I don’t have to wonder what would have happened, and if or how I would have reached my clarity, because thankfully I did.   

This will come as a shock to you, but I haven’t cried. Since the day that you insisted you could change and begged me to let you and I said no, I haven’t broken down. And at first that scared me. I thought something was wrong. But then I realized that plenty of tears have already fallen. I was grieving the relationship while it was still happening and I didn’t even know it. I was crying for the things I needed that I subconsciously knew I wasn’t going to get, and crying for the things I didn’t want that you gave me all too often.  

I don’t know if you’ll ever truly understand why I walked away. It might be too painful to accept, and denial is easier. You might be angry with yourself and taking it out on me or other people because that makes sense to you. Or maybe you genuinely don’t think you did anything wrong, in which case, I feel sad for you, because you can’t fix what you can’t see. Contrary to what you might think, I do want you to be happy. I want you to find someone who is everything you need, but by that I don’t mean someone who is a doormat. I hope you find someone who makes you throw your rigid box out the window, not because she asks you to, but because you realize she can’t and shouldn’t need to fit into it.

I really do believe that everything happens for a reason. Maybe you were meant to teach me to trust, to let someone in, and to give all of myself to someone else. Maybe you were meant to help me climb to the top of the cliff, so that when you pushed me off and I came crashing down, I would be able to build myself back up again. I’m stronger now because of you. I’m tougher because of you. I’m going to raise my standards because of you. I’m never going to settle again because of you. I know what I deserve because of you. Next time, I’m going to love harder because of you. And one day, I’m going to get from someone else the selfless love that I tried so desperately to give you. I’m still figuring out what’s next for me, but I only have this chance to truly find myself because of you. So while I’m sorry that you were the collateral damage on this journey of self-discovery, you letting me go allowed me to take it, and for that, I’ll always be grateful.

I believe you.

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The news is making me sick. Bill Cosby, UVA, Ann Coulter. I’m nauseous. It’s hard enough reading about the horrors that individuals endured. It’s even worse reading about the people who shame them, doubt them, blame them.

So I just needed to say:

I believe you.

To those of you who have bravely spoken up and weren’t believed, and those of you who haven’t spoken up for fear of blame and doubt: I believe you.

To those of you who don’t perfectly remember all of the details: I believe you.

To the ones who were drinking: I believe you.

To the ones who wore a dress or a skirt: I believe you.

To the ones who knew your attacker: I believe you.

To the ones who are men: I believe you.

I believe you that it was a man. And I believe you that it was a woman.

I believe those of you for whom it was a family member. And those of you for whom it was a doctor. Or a religious official. Or a famous figure.

I believe those of you who changed your mind partway through.

I believe those of you who were children.

I believe those of you who were adults.

I believe none of you were “asking for it.” and I don’t believe in that expression. I believe that saying someone was “asking for it” is as ridiculous as saying someone was “asking to be murdered”.

I believe that staying silent while it happened doesn’t equal consent.

I believe that every single person has someone who will believe them. And I believe in continuing to be brave and sharing until you find that person. And I believe that person might be a good friend or relative, but it might be a distant coworker or fellow blogger or somewhat of a stranger. But I believe that person is out there.

I believe that nothing you could say would make me believe you less.

I believe you’ve been doing the best you can do with what you have.

I believe it can get better.

I believe you.

The Exceptions

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Trigger warning: this post references childhood sexual abuse. You decide, in this moment, if you want to read it, or not. If not – that’s okay. Because ultimately, above all, I blog for me.

I can’t stop thinking about it lately. From stories in the news, kids I work with, loved ones’ past experiences, memories creeping up for people…it’s everywhere. And I won’t say more than that. Nearly every story seems to have one common thread:  Everything is about context. There are a million exceptions to the rule.

“Nicole, remember how you learned about Stranger Danger? Don’t go with someone who tells you he has candy in his car, or who says he lost his dog and needs help finding it. Run and scream and go the other way.”
Nicole is 6 years old. She knows that. What she doesn’t know, and has never heard, is a rule for what to do when her violin teacher sometimes has her sit on his lap during her lesson. It doesn’t feel right and it’s uncomfortable. But he is not a Stranger. So it must be okay. Even though it feels wrong.

“Tommy, nobody except Mom and I, and your doctor, can touch your private parts.”
Ten-year-old Tommy has heard this a million times. And it’s his doctor who is touching his private parts. So, despite the fact that at age ten, he knows that the frequency and the way in which his doctor touches him is wrong, and doesn’t feel right at all, everyone says that doctors can touch him. So he doesn’t say a word.

“Phoebe, I get that you don’t want to see your dad for the weekend, but he’s your father. He has every right to see you. Just be a good girl, okay, and listen to what he says.”
And four-year-old Phoebe tries. She tries so hard to be a good girl, and to listen to what her father says, even when it involves him asking her to do things that make her cry and feel yucky. And she doesn’t tell her mom because he says not to. And she’s a good girl. She’s a good listener.

“Mommy? You know how Uncle Trevor gives me my bath when he visits and we play the splashing game and it is so fun and I love it? Well, Henry said that HIS uncle gives him a bath sometimes and he washes him to make him super duper clean, but Henry doesn’t like it because he said his uncle shouldn’t touch him down there like that. But it’s okay, right? Because Uncle Trevor washes me and I love Uncle Trevor and he is not hurting me. So it must be okay with Henry’s uncle, too. Because the rule is that uncles can help gives you baths and part of giving baths is washing down there.”
Ben’s mom  takes a deep breath. How is she supposed to explain to her five-year-old that rules come in a million shades of gray – and that the exact same situation that both he and his best friend are in, are actually totally different?

I just….

There are so many shades of gray. So many exceptions to the rule. And nobody can cover them all.

All we can do is hope. And try to teach our kids to trust their core, their gut. To teach them to listen to that voice inside of them, and if that voice ever says, This is wrong, to tell someone. To tell someone other than the person who is making that voice speak. And I think that’s a concept that kids of all ages can grasp, on some level, if it’s taught in an age-appropriate, developmentally-appropriate way, and reinforced over and over again. Trust your core. Listen to that voice.

Stranger Danger

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Okay, let’s talk about stranger danger. Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t get in a car with a stranger. Don’t go look for a puppy with a stranger. If a stranger makes you feel uncomfortable, tell your parents. Follow those rules and you, a little child, will be safe, right?

Wrong.

Stranger Danger is important to teach, don’t get me wrong. But it dangerously avoids mentioning the fact that…actually, maybe even more often than not (don’t quote me on that, I’m not a professional in this area nor do I claim to be. I’m speaking from my own experiences with friends, students, clients, kids) a Bad Thing happens and it’s the parent, the uncle, the cousin, the brother. What then? A little kid may review the stranger danger rules in her head, but they couldn’t possibly apply here. She’s only doing what her dad, or her uncle, who tell her how much they love her, wants. Family members are always right, they love their kids. So this must be okay. After all, nobody told her otherwise.

The point is, kids don’t necessarily intuitively know when something is wrong. Or, their gut feeling is smothered by the adult telling her that family loves each other, so be a good girl and do what you’re told.

Kids need to be taught. No, they don’t need to be graphically taught what childhood sexual abuse is, or have their worlds shattered and learn that yes, these loving adults do hurt kids sometimes. No, it’s simpler than that. Rather than just stranger danger, kids need to know that if anyone, no matter who, does something that they don’t like, or that makes them upset, they should tell someone. Kids need to be told that if it’s mom or dad who do something that they don’t like, they can tell a teacher. Or a friend’s parent. That everyone makes mistakes, even family, even teachers, so it’s okay to ask for help if they made a mistake that you don’t like. That the adult you tell will know that you still love them, and that will never be questioned.

And this especially needs to be taught to our special needs kids. I think of my autistic kids who are so literal. If they aren’t explicitly told, if mom, dad, uncle John, aunt sue, teacher Sally, etc. does something you don’t like, this is who you tell, then they won’t. They won’t generalize. And that scares the shit out of me. Because neurotypical kids are vulnerable enough, hell, neurotypical adolescents and adults are vulnerable enough. Add a disability, and it’s even harder.

I don’t mean to prech. I’m just angry and upset. Because of all the cases of childhood (sexual) abuse that have affected my students and kiddos, they have ALL been victims of a family member, relative, teacher, or family friend. They have ALL stated that said person loves them and parents/etc are always right and know best. It scares me. And it breaks my heart.

Rules

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I have worked extensively with kids and teenagers on the autism spectrum. All across the spectrum. (And I do, fully, passionately, with my whole heart, believe that there is quite a spectrum — not just of autism but of “neurotypical” too — more on that in the future.) And something that has hit home to me lately is the damage that teaching “rules” can do.

Without disclosing confidential information, I will just say this: I am working with a teenager, who has Nonverbal Learning Disorder. She also has a myriad of other mental health diagnoses. Having NVLD means that some of her struggles include understanding and interpreting someone’s intent, the “why” behind their actions, etc. She is at the point where she is great in hypothetical situations, but when she’s “in the moment” it’s much harder. She has an extremely traumatic background. She brought it up the other day when we were talking about different social situations and the ways to say your own opinion (a big fear of hers is that she will offend a friend, or other person, if she shares her point of view). And she started talking about the person who had abused her, and said, “He was my [family member]. He was in charge. You have to listen to what [family members] tell you to do, so I had to go along with it.”

And it really struck me. With so many neurotypical kids, rule-following is a “must.” So throw in a few other diagnoses of trouble understanding social situations and reading intent, and knowing what to do, and it’s a mess. When she was little, just like so many other kids, she heard, “Parents make the rules,” or “You have to listen to teachers,” etc. It’s so easy to give rules like that, because they are true almost all of the time. But we HAVE to teach our kids that there are times to break rules. That, “if you feel unsafe, uncomfortable, or not good, it is okay to break the rules and talk to someone else about it.”

I know this is an extreme situation, which is why it’s really upsetting me. But it applies in other ways too. With any rule. One rule is “don’t cross the street when the light is red.” Well, we also have to teach them, “But if you’re in the middle of the road when the light turns red, you can keep crossing.” We have to teach the exceptions to the rules. Which is also why I like to call them “guidelines” more than rules.