Monday, September 03, 2012
I had an all the way down, full-out nervous breakdown in late 2004. I stopped talking, couldnít dress myself, had to be led to the shower, had to be fed, I completely checked out. This happened as a result of the current stress in my life, (my boss was from the lower levels of Hell!!); I suddenly recalled, in detail that stole my breath, 14+ years of sexual, physical and mental torture. Then for icing on this horrible cake, I remembered belonging to a Satanic Ritualistic Coven, You know the kind that supposedly donít exist!! I did this without being in therapy, on my own. To say it rocked my world is the biggest understatement I can imagine. I bravely motored through a whole year like this.
Then one weekend in October it all seemed to huge to bare anymore and I tried for the 15th time to end my life. So, my coworkers and boss, saw me at work on Friday and I was fine, they got a call on Sunday night from my aunt, that I was in the mental facility on a 72 hr hold. I almost died this time. I stopped breathing and had to be resuscitated. I went back to work on Thursday of the following week and picked up where I left off. Then my boss decided on the following Monday, that she wanted a medical clearance letter, stating that I wasnít a danger to anyone. I had been working for three days without it and was more than doing my job, as always. This would go in my permanent record, I would have a hard time getting a job anywhere or moving up there. She did this because her boss had been trying to talk me into taking her job, since I was already doing it. I got very angry, to put it mildly, reminded her that I had been back to work for three days already and was doing fine and that this would ruin my work record. She threatened to have me escorted from the premises if I didnít get the letter.
All of the sudden, I knew if I looked up and across her desk at her, I would choke her, until there was no life left in her. The knowledge scared me, I am not a violent person, I am always polite, and I do not raise my voice let alone my hands. It took me a long time to get that way and I prided myself on it. So, with my head still down, I said in a somewhat menacing whisper, ďGet out!! Now!!Ē She left her own office to get away from me. That was it. I had scared someone into fleeing their own office, just by the sound of my voice. I started to sob, crying is much too mild a word for what was coming out of me. A friend, took me past her, covering my eyes and led me to my car. I do not remember the drive home, but I remember walking into the kitchen and just grabbing my aunt and holding on for dear life. It felt like if I let go, I would implode and die. It took my mother and aunt, 4 Ĺ hours to get me calm enough to go to see the therapist I had quit seeing a year and a half ago. By the time we got to her office, I was nonresponsive. My mother knew how I felt about going back to the hospital, so she took care of me at home. About a month later, I spoke a full sentence. By February of the following year, I could be trusted to eat, bathe, and dress appropriately. I moved here in March of that year, and began the fight for benefits. It took me 5 Ĺ years to get approved and it was another couple of months before the amount was right.
Somewhere during that fight, I got angry. I was angry that the fight had to happen. Angry that the statute of limitations had expired on the crimes committed against me by a few months and that the sexual predator who had killed children would remain free. And I was angry that no one seemed to think that was a bad thing. So, I started my own nonprofit organization. My organization was an online resource for adult survivors of child sexual abuse. I built the website. I read books in coding so I could do it. I got incorporated. I even tried for a grant or two. However, my board was not really on board and the amount of work required to keep it going was starting to become a new stressor in my life. I took on the Big Guys of the World, organizations like NAMBLA (North American Man Boy Love Association) and The False Memory Recovery Syndrome Foundation. I talked at church in front of others about the cause. I researched like a fiend. My organization replaced alcohol for me and it made me feel like I was doing something so that other children would not have the horrible childhood I had had, so that other mothers wouldnít wake up to find one day, that their children had been living in Hell without their knowledge. And slowly, it started to make me sicker emotionally and mentally. So, first I tried cutting down the scope of the organization and leaving the Big Guys for organizations like RAINN, I focused on helping the individual and sending letters to newspapers, tv stations, radio stations and Congress, to raise awareness.
I woke up about three months ago, and in a distinct voice, God told me, that the time had come to let it go. Constantly living in the past because so many parts of the life I had rebuilt were centered around the huge thing in my past. It was time to stop joining every group for survivors I came across. Time to stop losing sleep and money helping strangers, who turned out to be lying, more often than not. Time to start working on a future where Writer and Lyricist were the words I used to define myself, instead of Incest Survivor and Advocate. He let me see that other people were made in a way that they could still exist whole and separate while working in the field, but it consumed me until it was all I was.
I closed down the Facebook page for the org. a couple of weeks ago and I have felt lost and adrift since then. However, today, I stopped the website from being a paid site, it will eventually fade away into obscurity and become outdated. Someone might be helped by it, but I can not help them personally. I know that I wish I could. But my approach to things like illness and sorrow is to give everything in helping the person and leave nothing for me, eventually you dry up and blow away. I was close to burn out in the medical field when the recall happened because I spent almost every waking moment at the clinic I worked at. The patients were my life and I had nothing and no one really outside of the clinic.
I donít want to binge, which means, possibly that I am not stressed out over the end of this path in my journey. I donít want to eat at all, which could mean I am depressed, but I do not feel depressed. I feel lost and without purpose or cause. My sense of time has been off all day, slowed down so much so, that it feels as though it should be hours earlier than it is. There is no excitement that now, I have severed my last tie to that world or that I will be able to devote all my time to writing and getting published. Or to losing the weight I need to. There is not even sorrow, which is what I expected to feel. I do not know what to call this feeling. I do not know when it will change and others will come or if it will change. For six long, hard years, that organization was all I thought about, dreamed about, woke up for, maybe even lived for. There is not even guilt that I am leaving the monster who hurt me out there. I know logically that I have done everything I can and now it is up to God to stop him, so I feel no guilt or responsibility for stopping him.
Maybe this feeling is hope that I get to live MY life now, instead of the one my family wanted me to live, or the one that I pretended to live, or the one I have been living for the last six years. No more being up to my ears in tragic tale after tragic tale. No more hate mail. No more having to hide out from pedophiles in this area. And no real reason to hold onto all that junk from the past. Maybe it is freedom I am feeling, I have never felt free before, maybe this is how it feels.