Comfortably Numb...

I ran away once, when I was about 9. I rode my pink bike and  I brought Peanut butter and bread with me. It was early on a Sunday morning  and my father was in town. I left before the sun came up, I remember watching the sun rise as I rode away, with the hopes that I would never have to go back. I rode my bike further than I ever had. I was on major streets and I wasn’t sure what I was doing. A man offering car washes yelled to me it would be “half price for the half pint”. I felt self conscious and even more unsure of what I was going to do. I had nowhere to go and no one to trust. 

Things were getting bigger and scarier so I rode back home, praying the whole way that my parents were still asleep in bed so that I  wouldn’t  get in trouble. I really thought that somehow I could make it on my own, I thought I was strong enough and would know what to do once I left but after realizing that I couldn't even deal with major intersections sufficiently, I hesitated. My hopes of escape drifted away from my heart like fog in a damp breeze. My only hope at that point was to get back before they realized I was gone, so my already tired legs pedaled faster. I tried to come in very quietly and resign myself to things never getting better; the only way I could go on is to close my heart – not just to hope but to everything. Nothing mattered any more and I felt hopeless and that I would never find a way out of this prison.

There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship smoke on the horizon
You are only coming through in waves
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying
When I was a child
I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye
I turned to look but it was gone
I cannot put my finger on it now
The child is grown
The dream is gone
And I have become
Comfortably numb.

~Lyrics from Pink Floyd- Comfortably Numb 

My parents were already awake when I got back, and there was not an ounce of the heartwarming welcomes so often portrayed in film and television. They weren't happy to see me and it didn’t matter. I felt numb and dead inside, which made the beating my father gave me irrelevant (until the next day when it still hurt to sit down).  My mother laughed at me and said with a sneer “I knew you’d come back”.

My family of origin told me from a very young age that I was "too sensitive" so I tried to suppress that sensitivity and those feelings. I have since come to learn in therapy that this is a common reaction to my situation:

One of the greatest “aha” moments of my training as a therapist came when I learned about the concept of the assigned “sick one.” In unhealthy family systems, it is often the most sensitive child who takes on this role. This child registers what’s broken in the family, and simply cannot bear that awareness. She or he tries countless ways of calling for help—many of which are convulsive, immature and unhelpful—strengthening the family’s case that the sick one is the problem. Yet in many ways, the sick one is the wise one, even though she or he probably feels broken, weak, or constantly angry. It’s the healthy family that finally becomes brave enough to listen to the painful callings of the “sick one.” When that happens, the family can begin to heal.

Writing and waning...

"If you bring forth what is within you, what is within you will save you. 

If you do not bring forth what is within you, 

what is within you will destroy you."

  ~Gospel of Thomas

The secrets within me are indeed destroying me and the time has come to bring them forth. I just signed a contract for some of my writings to be published - in an actual, printed on paper- hold it in your hands- feel the weight of it in your arms- book. I've been writing for years,  but mostly for myself and  never with a deadline as important as this. I knew it would be challenging but I didn't realize the degree of difficulty that would be involved. I had been nightmare free for about 3 months, which  is the longest I've been without them in more than a decade.  After only a few weeks of recounting the realities that have been recurring in my nightmares for more than 20 years I stopped being able to sleep at night or even in bed at all. For the last 2 and a half weeks I haven't been able to fall asleep before the sunrise, usually about 5 or 6 am but sometimes I'm up until as late (or early?) as 9am. 

Countless times I catch myself having to unclench my hands and my jaw or have to remind myself to breathe. Which is difficult when it feels like a boa constrictor has permanently set up residence around my ribcage. My shoulders refuse to stay at shoulder level and instead insist on climbing as close to my ears as they can. I try to  distract myself with movies or games in hopes that it will help me relax. My body is alert and awake while being simultaneously exhausted and much more so at night that during the day. When I'm finally to the point that I'm ready to attempt sleep having a favorite movie on helps me be able to close my eyes. The audio helps keep me anchored in the present and when I have a flashback or intrusive memory I can open my eyes and hurl my mind into the movie.  Eventually I close my eyes again and hopefully fall asleep without another flashback, but most nights this cycle repeats several times.  

Then there's the fact that I have been nauseated for at least part of every single day for as far back as I can remember. Doctors haven't found a medical reason and have prescribed 4 different anti-nausea medications over the years - none of which had any effect except when relieving the nausea caused by morphine in the hospital. Today it was 10:30pm before I realized  I hadn't eaten anything since getting up at noon. I managed to drink some milk and entirely too many glasses of Dr Pepper but the thought of swallowing food ...ugh....not happening today at least.  Once or twice a week a particular food will sound appetizing but after a few bites it usually doesn't seem worth the effort of overcoming not only the nausea but also the craniofacial issues, which are myriad. 22 screws in my jaw and a septum that was mangled in the jaw surgery and later crushed in 2 separate car accidents. Despite the original septoplasty and revision septoplasty where they placed bone grafts to hold open my nasal passages, I can barely draw in air through my nose. Luckily I'm usually eating home alone & my pets have yet to complain about me eating with my mouth open.

"How Secrets Sabatge:
Although we encounter secrets in every area of life, they are perhaps most destructive when kept in the home. Families are support systems; our identity and ability to form close relationships with others depend upon the trust and communication we feel with loved ones. If family members keep secrets from each other--or from the outside world--the emotional fallout can last a lifetime.   A person who seeks to undo the damage caused by family secrets must accept that revealing a secret is not a betrayal but a necessity ...the secret wedges a boulder between those who know it and those who don't."   

I've been questioned by extended  family as to why I don't speak to my parents, even scolded for not doing so. I have always been afraid of answering that question honestly because the reaction of the other person is so unpredictable and my honest answer would make me feel very vulnerable. There are so many members of my extended family that I would love to have relationships with but with this secret wedging " a boulder between between those who know it and those who don't.", it is impossible to establish a wholly authentic relationship.  Those who don't know have a different version of family history than I do and therefore have an entirely different expectation of my role in familial interactions. 

I went into foster care because because I couldn't handle the secrets anymore. When I went into foster care I had already told my best friend and my boyfriend everything- they were safe to tell - but I wasn't able to tell anyone else that I had been molested on a regular basis for years. In court ordered therapy they had me take 6 hours of tests. When the Dr discussed my results, it was with me, my brother and sister in law (who I was living with in kinship care by that point) in the room. So when he said the tests indicated I had been repeatedly sexually abused, I wasn't able to tell them the truth. I told my mother the first time it happened and she didn't believe me, I had no reason to think my brother or sister in law would be any different. I told my brother and sister many years later after I had moved to the other side of the country. It wasn't well received by either of them so I stopped telling family.

"Since individual well-being takes a backseat to group fidelity, being the family member who challenges internal secrets is difficult. Taking the risk of opening a long-held secret to friends and loved ones may seem like an act of betrayal. The anticipated catastrophe of exclusion from the family stops many people--often long after leaving home."

The day I went into Foster Care

I hadn’t stopped crying in three days. The welts left on my backside from four nights ago (with her usual weapon of choice -  the turquoise fly-swatter with a metal handle) are almost gone and it doesn’t hurt to sit on  the chairs at school now.  Those three days have been a haze. My boyfriend, Phillip and my best friend Aimii know what happened -all of it- and they are the only ones I can hang out with now. I sit in the back of my classes and put my head down, because the tears just won’t stop. Thankfully, I'd perfected crying silently long ago. That day at the beginning of class, I had just settled my head onto my desk, nestled in Phillips brown leather bomber jacket, when Ms. Blasingame called me outside. I was only a freshman, so I hadn’t known her long, but she was already my favorite teacher. I admired her for her differences - when she talked to any of the kids, she really saw us and she really listened to what we had to say. She was also the first woman I knew who identified as a Ms. not a Miss and who made a choice not to shave her legs or arm-pits which was a social convention I had yet to question at the age of 13. 

The exterior hallway was quiet except for an occasional student slamming his locker and scrambling to class. I watch them out of the corner of my eye, not wanting to be seen. She asked if I was OK and I shook my head, but no words came out. I tried to control my breathing, it was becoming ragged, there was so much I was struggling to keep inside- too much. I don’t remember much of the conversation, but at the end she suggested I talk to my guidance counselor, I went inside, gathered my stuff and my pass to the office, not knowing when or if I would return. 

My counselor, Mr. Jones, and I had never had a deeper conversation than a hello in the halls but he seemed like a nice guy, he had a kind smile. It felt like a long walk to his office and the tears were free-falling now despite my desperate attempts to pull it together. I didn’t know what I was going to say to his secretary as to why I was there. I didn’t want to get in trouble, but I couldn’t continue like this, that I knew. Apparently, Ms. Blasingame had called ahead and Mr Jones was waiting for me. I went into his office with my head down, trying to hide the tears and it was a relief when the door finally closed behind us; I didn’t want to be seen crying.

I wanted to tell him everything. Maybe he would believe me even though my mother didn’t. But what if he didn’t and he made me go back? I knew exactly what I would do if he sent me back...I had checked my mom’s closet the night before and the gun was still in the blue bank bag on the top shelf, but I didn’t want it to come to that. So, I decided to tell him about the beatings, since there was still proof of that on my body and hoped that would be enough. I was told often at home that I had nothing to cry about (usually followed by “I’ll give you something to cry about!”) and now that I told my mother it was against the law to beat your children she would reply that I “didn’t know what a real beating was”.  

Mr Jones didn’t say much, he just listened and didn’t get mad at me, which I was conditioned to expect. I saw the same look in his eyes that was in Ms. Blasingame’s - concern; he actually did care. He said he needed to contact some people to help with this - the police and social services. This terrified me; I knew that I would pay for getting my mom in trouble so I finally told him what I would do if I had to go back. Saying the words out loud was like unleashing a torrential downpour of tears and emotion. I hadn’t even told Phillip my back up plan; his dad was a cop and I knew Phillip would tell him. Mr. Jones' face registered the words slowly and I could tell he knew I meant it, this was not an idle threat. The relief that came with finally being taken seriously was immeasurable. He said it would take awhile for the cops and social worker to get there; I asked if I could go to the bathroom while we were waiting. Everyone was in class so the bathroom was empty. I fixed my makeup the best I could and then stood on the toilet to look in the mirror at my back, my but and my legs to see where the welts were so I could show them easily. I returned to the office and our "on campus"police officer was waiting for me. We sat in Mr Jones' office and I told the officer everything I had told Mr. Jones, this time without as much sobbing. Some time later that afternoon the social worker showed up - Jacquelyn Mitchard was the name on the card she gave me but she told me I could call her Jackie. She was shorter than I was with  black hair slicked back into a bun and a few loose curls for bangs. She had a round face, with dark freckles across the bridge of her nose.

Now, the police officer, Mr. Jones, Jackie and I were all crammed into Mr. Jones' office and I had to tell Jackie everything I had told the others. She sat in the chair next to mine and angled it toward me. I was OK at the beginning but I started crying again as I was getting to the hardest part. She reached over and gently put her hand on my back, rubbing it comfortingly; this made saying it even harder. Harder on a few levels - this was a level of connection with an adult that was unfamiliar to me; the kindness and concern that these strangers were showing me confirmed what I had long felt - the way my family treated me was not the way everyone treated kids. My emotions were the one area of my life I had managed to gain control of and I was afraid if I lost that tiny measure of self-control I would erupt like a volcano. The kindness in Jackie's eyes and her warm hand on my back gently encouraged me to continue and I finally said it, being intentionally blunt so they knew I was serious "I can't live there anymore, I won't, not even for a day. If you send me back then I will just blow my brains out with the gun." Jackie had tears in her eyes and such compassion written all over her face. She said something comforting, assuring me it was going to be OK , that I wasn't going back and called me "Honey". I liked that, it sounded nice.

There was apparently a lot of paper work needed before Jackie and I left, we were there until after school was out and most of the kids and office staff were gone. We rode in her car to her office downtown to fill out more paperwork. She sang along to music in the car and smiled at me a lot on the way. It was a long walk through the parking lot to the huge building. She led me through different corridors until we arrived at her desk. It felt like everyone was looking at me, I didn't see any other kids there but the adults we walked past smiled and most of them said hello to me and Jackie. After almost an hour we went to a hospital in a scary neighborhood, it was night now and it was busy, many of the people hanging around the front door were proudly displaying their red "Blood" gang colors. I learned in Junior High that wearing red or blue could easily get you "jumped" and was glad I wasn't wearing either that day. We walked all the way through the ground floor of the hospital to a separate building behind it. It was blindingly bright inside, bare white walls and a white linoleum floor. Jackie explained to me that the Dr's needed to talk to me to see how they could help and to make sure I wouldn't hurt myself. I promised her that as long as I didn't go back home I wouldn't hurt myself. But, the Doctors were the ones who needed to decide, she said, and that she would be back either way. While I was being checked out she would go to my house to get some clothes for me. She asked if I wanted anything else - I asked for one of my teddy bears. Then the nurse took me to an exam room and locked the door behind them as they left. I sat on a raised exam table for quite awhile before anyone came in. It was hours later that a determination was reached that I was only a "danger to self" if I was returned to parental custody and therefore was now in CPS custody. 

Jackie returned as promised and had a black garbage bag with some of my things in it and we headed to my first foster home. I asked if she saw my mom when she went and if my mom was mad at me. She said not to worry about that, and tried to assure me that I hadn't done anything wrong. Most days I hated my mom, but I still didn't want her to be mad at me. Then she said she had taken a look around the house while she was there and couldn't find any food, she looked over at me in the passenger seat and waited for a response. I stared silently into my lap. She continued, with a confused and frustrated "there was NO food in that fridge, only ice in the freezer.... girl, what did you eat?!" I didn't know what to say...My mother had told me years before that with my brother and sister gone (they were 13 and 10 years older, respectively) there was "no point in cooking meals for just two people". 

Once or twice a month we had fast food or a "take 'n' bake" pizza but mainly I ate whatever I could fix, often peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or when we had the ingredients I made a peanut butter, butter and sugar sandwich that my sister taught me to make. I was the one responsible for baking birthday cakes in the family, so I knew how to do that and often ended up eating leftover cake for breakfast and again for dinner.
But I didn't tell Jackie any of that, instead I just mumbled "I dunno". She didn't push me on it and changed the subject. 

They found a foster home that was in my school district, so I wouldn't have to change schools but I wouldn't be going back for at least a few days. By the time we got there, all the other kids were in bed, the foster mom was sleepy-eyed and in a robe and the dad was already in bed. I was ushered into a dark room  and pointed toward "my" bed with my hefty bag of clothes dragging behind me. I looked back at Jackie standing in the light of the hall near the front door, remembering at least a dozen questions I had forgotten to ask her, desperately wanting to think of a reason she shouldn't leave. She could read me pretty well already because she assured me that she would be back tomorrow, that it had been a long day and said I could use some rest. I walked the rest of way into the room in the dark and when I reached the bed the foster mom softly said "Good Night" and closed the door. Almost immediately, I heard movement in the other bed and a head popped up and called itself "Francesca"; she was about my age and very friendly. My fear of sleeping and waking up in the same room with someone I've never met subsided. We talked in darkness for hours about our "real" families, she told me about her past foster homes and said this home was a "really good one", but compared to the other places she had been, that was not very reassuring. She went into detail about the three boys and four other girls in the house and eventually, I drifted off to sleep...