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.
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