AN ARRESTING PERSPECTIVE

   When you’re little, everything seems so much bigger and louder than it is. I remember driving past one of my childhood homes a few years ago and I was shocked by how small the house and property were. We moved from there when I was five years old, and at the time, the house felt like a mansion, the backyard a city park. In reality, I could fit that entire property twice over on my current, modest property of a quarter acre. Perspective is a strange thing, isn’t it? 

This next statement is going to upset a lot of people, and that’s okay. I hate cops. When I see one, I become physically upset. My temperature rises, my jaw clenches and it takes every ounce of my being to remember that I should not flip them off or yell obscenities at them. Often, I will pray for God to grant me a love for cops and heal my anger towards them. I am not even sure anger is the right word. I feel rage and hatred for them. When I was very young, I was touched inappropriately by a cop in uniform that answered a domestic dispute call at my house. He touched me just after several of my stepdad’s drunken friends did. The image is burned deep into my mind of his sinister smile and his challenge for me to “tell someone about it” and see if they believe me, a “snot-nosed kid”. Over the years, the local police would continue to treat me as lower than dirt. As a teenager, I was routinely stalked and harassed by another local cop in high standing. He would eventually go on to become the Lieutenant of the police force. He was instrumental in creating and maintaining a file on my “activities” which included truancy, mental health crises, and information regarding both of my fathers – notorious felons in my home county. What an amazing abuse of power. 

When I was very young, my parents would often host game nights with other families at our home. Sometimes we would go to this awful man’s home up the river. He had a wife and several children. This awful man kept his daughter in a closet in his bedroom. He and his wife both routinely abused her. I suspect her oldest brother did as well. He was a bully and disgusting. I hated being around him. He was always trying to touch me. His father didn’t even disguise the fact that he found little girls appealing. I remember him visiting my stepdad one winter day and I was asked to bring them both a beer from the fridge. When I proudly returned with the beers, they exchanged stories in front of me about how “good” their daughters were, and how we did everything they asked us to. They were power-hungry and evil beyond measure. I wasn’t more than five years old at the time of this event, yet it is burned into my memory. 

During the game nights and parties my parents through, alcohol flowed freely. All of us kids were directed to play in the back of the house in one of the bedrooms. I wonder if any of the moms knew that when the men took turns going to the bathroom, they also took turns exposing themselves to us kids and sexually assaulting us. All the men. Every time. Welcome to the world of pedophilia rings. It really is happening across America, in small towns, in Christian homes, and probably in your very neighborhood. When I tried to tell a cop about my experience with being abused by multiple men, he demanded that I show him what they did. With his pants down. He never took a report. 

In elementary school, there are many opportunities for teachers to talk about personal safety. We used to have the D.A.R.E. program in my hometown before Student Resource Officers became a thing. During the classes, we would be reminded that when someone touches us inappropriately, we should tell an adult and keep telling adults until they act on the information. There was always a male cop running the class – until I was in the fourth grade. One glorious day in the fourth grade, the local police sent a female cop into my classroom to teach the D.A.R.E. class. At the end of the class, I couldn’t get up from my seat fast enough. I ran to her and blurted out “Someone’s hurting me!” She ushered me outside. My whole class had heard, but I was beyond caring at that point. This adult was going to listen to me and I wasn’t going to shut up until she did something about it. Thank God for that female cop. I don’t remember her name, but I do remember that she listened and acted upon what I was saying. My entire world changed that day in 1993 thanks to her. My heart is softened toward female cops. (Male cops have continued to let me down over the years, but that is a story for another time and another place.)

It took me over six years of telling my story for someone to listen to me and take action. Many, many adults in my life let me down over the years. They knew the truth and they turned a blind eye to the situation. I’m sure heated conversations took place behind closed doors, but it was never enough. The abuse did not stop until I made sure I told the right person who had the power to make it stop. 

If you suspect that someone you love is being abused, don’t simply ask them and take them at their word. You need to look for signs. Here are some signs you should be on the lookout for:

• Problems walking or sitting

• Frequent complaints of sore throat, stomach, head, or bottom

• Will not change for gym or partake in physical activities

• Negative change in appearance

• Recurrent urinary or yeast infections unexplained by medical condition or treatment

• Runs away from home

• Changes in behavior or school performance

• Talks/draws/sings about genitalia, sexual intercourse, or sexual activities frequently.

• Problems with authority figures

Here are some more resources for you to look into:

RAINN - (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) 

Help Guide - Signs of Abuse and Neglect 

Child Welfare Government PDF 

Exercise helps me to take back my power and
focus my energy on what matters - healing.

"Heal me, Lord, and I will be healed; save me and I will be saved, for you are the one I praise." - Jeremiah 17:14

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.

NO SENSE IN FLASHBACKS

     Flashbacks are a terrible, horrible thing. They can come on at any time, disrupting whatever I had been doing prior. There is often no warning as to when they will come on, no way to fully disengage from them and it can be very difficult to recover from them. The worst ones for me are the ones that engage more than two senses. Sometimes I can see and hear the event as it unfolded while smelling the sweaty, earthy smell of his (stepdad’s) skin on mine. Sometimes I even physically feel his hands on me, which is just the worst.

When I was newly married, sex was incredibly difficult. There were times when I mistook my husband for my abuser because I was triggered simply by the act of having sex. My heart breaks for the pain and agony my husband went through during that time in our marriage. What finally helped was to psych myself up for sex before the act, reminding myself that I am safe, he is a safe person and then I would recite the date and time repeatedly. Usually, that worked. Sometimes, I went into what I refer to as a “time warp” and I would not be able to tell the difference between little girl Amanda and adult Mandy. In those moments, I would panic and physically shove my husband off me and curl into the fetal position. There was no difference in those moments for me (internally) between abuse and consent. I’d been triggered by something, and I couldn’t separate the past from the present.

Flashbacks are the stuff of nightmares. They can occur anytime I feel triggered by something, and often, I don’t recognize that I’ve been triggered until the flashback occurs. I have four kids. Give me a break here. I can’t always be fully cognizant of every sight, sound, or smell in my general region – especially when in a crowd and my first thought is “where are my kids?” Flashbacks can last from a few seconds to a couple of minutes. Sometimes I will let others know I’ve just had a flashback, but most of the time, I just keep it to myself and immediately pray about the situation. I know that God is always with me, and He will give me the peace and comfort that I need to continue with my day. When I need to, I will also let my husband know that I am having a hard time and I need him to make a few more decisions on his own that day, so I can rest easy in our partnership. Marriage is truly a three-corded rope, for which I am eternally grateful. There are times when my husband needs to lean on me as well, and I know that it is never in my power that I can be his helpmeet, nor is it in his power that he is the provider and leader of the household.  I truly married a good one.

Some folks have recommended marijuana to me to help with the flashbacks. I considered it for a while, then did my research, including talking to my doctors about it. For me, it’s just not a good option and I have no plans to ever try it, including edibles. I know that marijuana has become a popular coping mechanism, and I want to give my stance very carefully on it. It’s just not a good idea without a doctor’s approval. Alcohol is another vice that I don’t advocate for, except in moderation. Some studies have shown that certain red wines can improve heart health, calm uterine contractions, and ease stress. In moderation. By moderation, I do mean less than a drink a week. This is my opinion, and you’ll need to speak with your doctor to develop your wellness plan. I included this information because I want to express the importance of making informed decisions regarding mental health care. I know that in a moment of panic, it can be easy to reach for whatever makes you feel better in the moment, but will that help you in the long run? Will it change your life for the better? I prefer the long-term solution of a slow burn, snail’s pace way of making lifestyle changes that will stick.

There is something to the act of reciting the date and time when you are under a lot of stress. It’s a way of grounding yourself, reminding yourself that you’re in the here and now, not back in the past where the trauma occurred. I also find it helpful to recite my home address, kids’ names, and a few positive affirmations such as “I am safe in this place” and “I am with a safe person, named (insert name here.” These are the coping mechanisms that work time after time and are easier for me to remember in a pinch. A therapist once told me that our brains do not recognize a negative word within a positive statement when we are under duress. For example, if I were to say, “I’m not in danger.” My brain would omit the “not” and just hear “I am in danger.” I have adapted my inner dialogue to reflect this information and now focus on the simple term “I am safe in this place.” It’s worked for me for over a decade. Determine what words of affirmation you need to hear when you feel unsafe, and then practice positively saying them. Teach them to your safe people, too.

I want to take just a moment to address those who are reading this blog to better understand flashbacks, either because you’re in ministry or you have a loved one suffering from them. While each of us who endured trauma tends to handle flashbacks differently, there is one universal phrase that will always be helpful when interacting with someone who is triggered. It is “I believe you. Your story is important. I am here for you. “And then follow through with that. Check-in on that person throughout the week and the following weeks. Don’t take their first answer to your question of “Are you okay?” at face value. Until we, who have endured trauma have learned and settled into the knowledge that you are a safe person, we will lie to you. Repeatedly. It has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with our trauma training. You see, trauma trains us to never trust anyone, to rely upon ourselves for everything, and to look at everyone else as suspicious from now on. The very best thing you can do for someone you truly want to help is to be patient and consistent while maintaining your own safe boundaries. (Those in ministry or seeking to help someone with trauma should look into emotional pain transference. Here is a good reference to get you started: https://www.denverpainandperformance.com/transference-and-blame/ )

Me and Melissa, September 11,2001 just minutes after the planes
hit the twin towers. I didn't want this day to only be remembered
for tragedy, so we snapped this pic. She died 17 months later of 
natural causes, in her sleep. She was my best friend.

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.

 

 

 

 

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.