BODY TRIGGERS

     I was standing in the middle of the department store, holding on to too many items when the urge to pee hit. The store was packed with shoppers and my mom was nowhere to be found. I hadn’t grabbed a cart and I suddenly wasn’t sure where anyone I knew was. The more I walked around looking for a familiar face, the more panicked I became. I felt claustrophobic. My heart started beating faster, I couldn’t breathe properly, and I began to hyperventilate. No one around me noticed anything was wrong and I felt alone, abandoned, and terrified. My mind began playing tricks on me and suddenly I was mentally transported back to my parent’s living room, seven years earlier, sitting on my stepdad’s lap being sexually assaulted while watching Mickey on Ice on the television. I collapsed to the ground and peed my pants in the local Fred Meyer store. Everything I’d been holding in my hands fell to the ground, scattering around me. Suddenly, I was alone. At least on that aisle. Only the security cameras caught that incident. I picked myself up, made sure the pee didn’t show (thank you ugly skorts of the 90s!), and kept walking around the store until I found my mom. I lied and said yes when she asked if I was okay. What else was I supposed to say? I couldn’t explain what just happened, especially not in public.

Fear of using the bathroom in public still plagues me. Until I had kids, I couldn’t use the bathroom in my own home for the longest time without intense fear. When I was very young, I would make the family dog go into the bathroom with me to guard me. Sometimes I would open the drawers in the bathroom to block the door from being opened because I was so afraid that my stepdad would come in and assault me while my pants were down. This is not an irrational fear, as he used to come in and watch my siblings and me take a bath all the time. He would always make inappropriate comments and stare at us for way too long. On those nights, I knew I would need to bury myself deep under the covers in bed or he would be making a visit to my room, too.

Hiding my body at all times became a chore for me, but it was also a necessity. If he didn’t see me naked, he wouldn’t think about me naked, right? And then, I’d be safe. This thought process consumed me, even into my adult years. I wore the baggiest clothes I could, dressed as masculine as I could, and tried to avoid even appearing attractive in his eyes. I was like a mouse, trying to navigate the farmhouse without the farmer noticing, but it was unavoidable that he would notice me. And the abuse continued.

The flashbacks continue to this day, though they are not as frequent. Someone asked me once what my triggers are. I started naming them and couldn’t stop. There are many. My brain rewired itself during the many years of trauma. That’s what happens when adults abuse kids from infancy to puberty. I am not “normal”, and I never will be. I’ve been through over 20 years of therapy, and I still find myself needing reminders to “just breathe” through a random panic attack.

My last trigger was needing to use the restroom while waiting for my son’s school bus which was over 20 minutes late in picking him up for school. I had multiple flashbacks to the times when my mom would forget about me somewhere and I would be forlornly waiting for her to pick me up. I had another flashback to that incident in the local Fred Meyer. And another, where I was about seven years old, getting ready for school and my stepdad grabbed my breasts in the hallway while no one was looking. It all came to mind so fast and there was nothing I could do about it except just work through it. To the outside world, I was upset about the bussing system. Internally, I couldn’t figure out the decade, the current location, or whether I was safe. My mind was a tornado of thoughts – the greatest of those was “make sure my son is safe.” But I didn’t know how to do that. I wasn’t in control of the bus. Fortunately, my husband was able to step in and make sure he got to school safely. Then, he sat with me and calmed me down. That wasn’t the first time, and it surely won’t be the last. My husband is a saint. I have no idea how he puts up with me.

Control is a very big issue for me, seeing as how I had so little of it growing up. There was never a safe place for me, except for Sunday mornings when my grandma would take me to church. That was always my favorite place to be. Jesus is there and all the people are nice. When you’re a cute little kid, they’re even nicer and more accommodating. They hold the heavy hymnals for you, smile at you when you finally become brave enough to sing, and look out for you to make sure that no one messes with you while you figure out the faith stuff. I will always be grateful to the handful of men and women who kept me safe and protected every Sunday morning during my formative years. They were the ones who truly loved me and gave me a safe place to be. Plus, it was never scary to use the bathroom at church. The bathroom door had a lock, was single use and I could use it alone for as long as I needed to. There was no rushing, no fear. Until the church was over and it was time to go home again.

View from the choir loft. My first church.

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found 

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.

 

I HATE VICTORIA'S SECRET

    Ever since I can remember, I have been obsessed with the beauty of underwear and swimsuit models. How do they get such a flat tummy? Why are their boobs contained to just the front of their bodies, and not the sides, too? Why don’t their thighs rub together? Why wasn’t my butt ever as cute and pert as theirs? Granted, I was about five years old when I first remember thinking that, but that thought has always dominated my brain space. Why can’t I look like the models in the magazines? And if I did, would I be as happy as they are? The thought of obtaining that same body type both delighted and terrified me. After all, those bodies are what men want to touch, right? Those are the women who have sex for fun because they want to. Not because someone else told them at seven years old that they had to. Right?

                I learned early on from listening to my male cousins, my stepdad, and his drunken friends that “fat chicks” were not what men wanted to touch. Did that mean that if I got really fat, men would stop touching me without my consent? I’ve spent over 30 years testing that theory, and I can tell you honestly that it doesn’t work that way. Some men are just absolute pigs and they will touch anything that breathes, whether he/she/they can give consent or not. I sure wish I had learned this lesson sooner. Being fat is physically and mentally painful.

                Throughout my school years, I was teased mercilessly for my weight. When I went home, I was abused simply because I was there. I escaped a lot into fantasy worlds – namely Hollywood drama. Who was dating who? Which popstar was at the top of the charts this week? Who had the biggest house, fastest car, and deepest secrets? I ate it up almost as fast as the rag mags hit the newsstands. MTV was my best friend, and don’t even get me started on the amazing teenage rom-coms that the 90s had to offer us. I was convinced that if Lance Bass wouldn’t marry me, Freddie Prinze Jr surely would. After all, he killed it as Zack Siler in She’s All That.

                So many of my peers were also insecure about their weight, height, and looks. I see it now, as I look back over many interactions in the hallway, classrooms, and the girls’ locker room. I wasn’t the only girl who changed for Phys Ed in the bathroom stall. I wasn’t the only girl convinced that the newest shade of blue eye shadow and a sparkly scrunchy would solve all my problems and get “that guy” to notice me in between classes. We were all in an awkward stage of uncertainty. Some of us had deeper traumas behind it all, and some of us were merely coming into our own at the absolute strangest point in our lives. Puberty.

                Magazines geared towards the female gender have always had a way of making us feel more insecure about ourselves three pages in. Right there, past the table of contents is always this gorgeous-looking woman with zero flaws (because photoshop exists) and she has the biggest, loveliest, most uninhibited smile on her face. This woman has it made. At least, that’s what we’re meant to believe. If we buy whatever product she is representing, we too will have it made. As we peruse the magazine, we read about women and girls who have found the secret to remaining beautiful and confident all day long. Usually, it involves an expensive brand of mascara, a colorful brand of shoes, or a Wonderbra that perks up our tits enough to grab and hold the attention of the opposite sex. There it is again. Sexualizing our bodies to garner attention. It starts so early, doesn’t it? I was twelve years old when my Mom brought me my first issue of Seventeen magazine. She said that she hoped it would help me to figure some things out. Yep, it sure did. I spent the next twenty-seven years chasing unobtainable beauty standards and beating myself up whenever it didn’t work out for me.

                Sex is not the end-all-be-all I thought it would be. Sure, it is wonderful. With my husband. It’s traumatizing when I’m under the tender age of ten and being told to just be quiet because it will all be over soon. No amount of makeup will ever make a man love me more – or less. No amount of fat will ever protect me from sexual predators. No magazine geared towards women ever features even one woman who has her life all together all the time. That kind of woman doesn’t exist.

We are all human, we all have our flaws, and we’re all balancing life as it comes at us each day. Some days, we look like we have it all together, and we may even fool ourselves into thinking we do. But then…a bad day happens and we feel down on ourselves. We feel like failures. That couldn’t be further from the truth! We are amazing simply because we are. Those who seek to hurt us in any way do so because they are hurting inside and aren’t strong enough to ask for help. They’re the weak ones. They’re the problem. Maybe we should start putting them in charge of paying for our therapy as we work through all our issues and come to terms with the fact that we are amazing just as we are and no one has the right to touch us or hurt us. EVER.

A portion of my poetry from June 2005.
Read it as many times as you need to
until it sinks in. YOU ARE LOVED!

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found 

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.

GENERATIONAL CURSES ARE SO LAST YEAR

Hi. My name is Mandy and I am the survivor of multiple generational curses. You see, my biological father was an absolute international drug-running, abusive, alcoholic nightmare, and my stepdad? Well, he was a straight-up narcissistic pedophiliac monster. I guess you could say my Mom has really bad taste in men, but that would be putting it mildly. Also, I have CPTSD, a dead sister, a younger brother who hates me, and an older brother being held hostage by his narcissistic second wife. Did I mention we're also all Christians? Wow. What a tangled web we weave, eh?

Let's go back to the beginning and then speed through the facts as fast as possible, shall we? My mom was abused as a kid by an Episcopal priest. No one believed her. She never got justice. She married her high school sweetheart who enlisted in the US Navy right out of high school. She found out he was cheating on her when he brought home his Filipino wife after a deployment. Mom was kicked to the curb. Not long after, she gave birth to my sister. No one but God and my mother know who her father was. My sister was born extremely disabled, physically, developmentally, and mentally. She did not even crawl until she was six years old and never did speak more than about six or seven understandable words in her lifetime. She died in 2003 of natural causes with a brain maturity of a two-year-old child. She was 25 years old.

When Mom met my biological father, everyone warned her he was bad news. She didn't care. She went with him anyway. I was born in 1983. Mom's pregnancy was hell. Bio-dad admitted to trying to beat me out of her and testing his drugs on her while I was in utero. He hated me from the moment I was conceived. Jokes on him. He's dead and I'm still alive.

Mom escaped from the clutches of Bio-Dad when I was six months old. She returned to the bar where she met my Bio-Dad and guess what? She met and married another loser. Enter the narcissistic pedophiliac monster. When I was three, they had a baby together - my little brother who hates me. He's a Satanist now, and I proclaim the love of Jesus to the masses. Guess why he hates me? Anyway, in 1993, I had enough of the sexual abuse from Step-Dad and told a female police officer what was happening. I guess nine years of severe sexual abuse against a minor isn't a big deal where I am from because my Step-Dad got 120 days in the county jail with work release so he could continue to financially provide for my family. Mom just could not bear to stop fornicating with him or to leave him, so she abandoned my siblings and me with her Mom every chance she got so she could solidify her marriage with the monster. When I was 14, he moved back into the house. I guess he was sorry because he stopped sexually abusing me and started mentally and emotionally abusing me instead. At least he stopped binge drinking, right?

Anyway, I met my husband in 1996 when we were 13 and 14 years old, in the eighth grade. We met in the most boring class on earth - Social Studies. We also had math class together, but some chick named Kimberly annoyed me so much in that class that I hardly even knew anyone else was there. Freshman year Spanish class is where our romance began. We were on again, and off again for two more years before he moved to Tucson, AZ. Five years apart helped us grow into the people we thought we needed to be to marry each other. One week after we reconnected, we got engaged. Don't believe the doofus if he ever tries to tell you he proposed. I did! I am progressive like that.

Fast forward to today. We have been married for over 16 years, have four living children, several born to heaven, five cats, two dogs, and an insane mortgage on a 100-year-old house on the outskirts of Nowheresville, USA. We have been through six years of US Navy life, a whole lot of depression, poverty, family drama like you wouldn't believe, and have moved umpteen times - usually while I was pregnant. I sure hope this house is our last stop for a while. And now, you're probably wondering what the point of this blog is all about. Well, I'll tell you. Finally.

I cut my family out of my life, said "NO MORE" to family drama, and finally became the unapologetic black sheep of my family. Yes, I stopped apologizing for setting healthy boundaries, stopped calling everyone else out on their crimes, and just moved along to the "Happily Ever After" portion of the story. I haven't spoken to any of my family in months and I never plan to again. I told everyone they died, because, to me, they did. They're dead to me. (Side note: my sister really is dead and buried.) I decided that since my Mom kept triggering me every time I talked to her, she was dead to me. Since my Step-Dad can't stop emotionally and verbally abusing everyone, including my kids, he is also dead to me. And my little brother? I think I mentioned he's a Satanist who conjures up demons to party with them and his methamphetamine-cooking friends who started a ridiculous gang in our hometown. By day, he's a highly beloved cashier at a nationally known grocery store. But I digress. He's dead. To me.

Generational curses are so last year in this household. My husband and I have decided we're not following the paths of our parents. (His Dad is crazy, too! But that's his story to tell, not mine.) We decided we were going to focus on our family and doing what God asks us to do to raise functional kids who love God, love their neighbors, and serve their community well - outside of jail. (That last part was a little dig at my fathers, who both had to complete mandatory community service over the years as part of their debt to society.) So to sum this all up, my family is a mess, but God is really good. If we just focus on Him, then we don't have to continue living in a groundhog day type existence, suffering from the effects of generational curses. I know some of my readers will eventually be fundamental Christians who are rolling their eyes and nervously looking around to make lighting doesn't strike them just for reading this accounting of my life, but hey - you know what? There is something you should probably know right now. I don't live to please man. I don't live to put God in a box, and I certainly don't live my life in a way that places me or my family in harm's way anymore. It's okay to step away from people who hurt you. It's called setting safe boundaries. Try it sometime.

The point of this blog is to inform, encourage and inspire others to identify abuse including gaslighting, sexual abuse, sodomy, childhood rape, pedophilia, narcissism, and verbal and emotional abuse. Then, once you identify it, I want you to run like mad in the other direction and never look back. Oh yeah, and I hope to piss off some abusers in the meantime. Why? Because I want to take your victims and help them become survivors who won't give y'all the time of day anymore. That's the stuff that makes life worth living!

RUN! As fast as you can away from abuse.
YOU'RE WORTHY OF LOVE THAT
DOES NOT HURT

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week starting. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.