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cultchildbook · 7 years

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Introduction: This piece is a contribution from an abuse survivor. It details extreme abuse and could be triggering to readers. Please consider caution if you are a trauma survivor.

By Lusciana Philomena

I was born in the US in the nineties. My sister was quite older than me. She had her own issues, but this is my story. What I will say, is that at one point, I discussed my childhood abuse with her. She believed me in our mutual conversation, then betrayed me and told one of my parents about it. The result was the family turning against me and calling me a liar. It created a new wound in me. Yet, I also saw that the Narcissistic triangulation that my parents created with my sibling never ended. It was hurtful to have a moment of validation taken from me by the betrayal of my sibling.

My parents were blue collar workers who both came from military families. We didn’t move around a lot, but we did move churches quite often. Yet, regardless of what denomination my mother and father were trying out at the time, we always reverted back to fundamentalist, Pentecostal Christianity. This was my life from birth into my twenties.

For those who don’t understand the Pentecostal religion, it is a belief system of rituals such as prayer through laying on of hands, speaking in tongues, frenzies, clapping and dancing as if filled with the “Holy Spirit”. I imagine Christianity is wide spread enough that most people have a grasp on this sect of the religion. We were taught about demons, ingrained with demonic threat and fear. We were often put through rituals where throngs of the congregation members would lay their hands on us children to fill us with the spirit of God so that the demons wouldn’t enter us. I was claustrophobic. I felt panicked when I was in these moments. They scared me, and the energy pressed down on me, as I felt small inside of these moments.

I began having nightmares as a child. I would lay in bed awake for hours at night praying and pleading with God to please not let Satan take me. Because of the extreme nature of the fear and torture I was experiencing, I became adept at dissociating away from my body. I was often threatened with eternal torment in a place called “Hell“. I was told that I could lose my salvation and be damned. Yet, in those same breaths, I was also told how much God loved me. I could not make sense of anything around me. Many days were filled with fear, uncertainty and there was no safe place for me. There was gossip, deceit, and trickery everywhere in my environment. I never knew who I could fully trust.

I also attended a private Christian school from kindergarten until I graduated high school. Private schools are not required to adhere to the same curriculum or child safety rules as public schools. In private school, abuse was constant. Since the religious belief systems were also the same as the church we attended, they used the same methodology of punishment. Teachers subjected me to solitary confinement in closets and rooms until I lost track of time. There was physical abuse, severe mental and emotional abuse, spiritual abuse, public shaming and humiliation, degrading remarks, inappropriate sexualization and touching, and isolation from other children and the outside world. I was kept inside of a bubble of fearful compliance.

There were layers upon layers of cover-ups at school, as the staff was always watching us and each other. I felt constantly surrounded by human predators waiting to pounce. My mind was terrorized. I was often the focus of being targeted. I thought I was just the worst child in the school. In the beginning, I was a well-behaved child who merely daydreamed. Looking back, I believe at that time I was actually beginning to dissociate from life as a whole. Soon, I decided that since I was going to be in trouble anyways, I might as well give them a reason to punish me, so I began to act out. This at least gave me a satisfactory feeling of justification versus being punished for nothing.

In my home life my father was a confusing man. He could be the most loving father and also the most brutal. Since this was all going on at the same time as the abuse at church and school, I tend to remember these time periods as one, long bundle of abuse. My father taught me “games” that I eventually was conditioned to ask for and even enjoy, which haunts me to this day. I believed that I was born to please my father and make him happy, protect him, and do his bidding at all costs. I also believed that once my father died I would have nothing left to live for therefore I would have to end my life after his. I was conditioned to be my father’s puppet by him directly as well as his immediate family, who told me that I must do what my father commanded.

Some of the “games” he played with me included nerve shock torture where he pressed his fingers deeply into trigger points in my body, pulling the tendons up and away from the bone, then twisting and grinding them. Places he targeted were behind my knees, my neck, and my pelvis area. He purposely created a mixture of pain and sexual pleasure in my body. Regardless of my age, my body scientifically responded, giving him the results that he wanted. Other forms of torture included tickle torture where I was forced to stay still or else the game started over; he used light breath, fingers and whiskers to tickle my body. All of my father’s sadistic leanings were filled with sexual elements. My household was rife with sexual inappropriateness. My mother would also sometimes behave in inappropriate sexual ways, behaviors that I should not have been exposed to as a child. I soon believed that my mother knew what my father was doing and didn’t care. My father would freely smack me on the behind, as if I was his girlfriend, whenever he wanted. He pinched my skin in inappropriate places, tried to get me to kiss him and chased me around the house. My mother simply hollered at us to settle down.

My father contorted my limbs, bending them the incorrect way. This caused excruciating pain, and I would scream. He threw ice water on me randomly when I was showering. Sometimes he would just stand in the doorway and flick the light off and on, off and on, repeatedly. I could not say a word or ask for him to stop. I was in complete compliance. My mother sometimes participated, throwing water on my face in the morning until I woke up feeling like I was drowning. I was yelled at to get up for the day, again my lights being flicked on and off, on and off. It was all because I was a heavy sleeper, they would say, sometimes laughing at me at the same time.

The torture my father enacted on me seemed endless. He would press into my sternum until the pain was excruciating. He pulled my fingers apart so wide it felt the skin would rip. He’d instruct me to stick out my tongue, grab it with a towel and pull until I screamed from the intense pain. He would laugh when this was happening. He would laugh intensely, as if it was the most entertaining thing. Sometimes he would lead me around by my tongue as I was in pain. Yet he would be laughing, since to him, it was a game. My father allowed me to have pets. Not because he wanted me to be happy. No. It was so he could use them to abuse me further by abusing them. I had the belt used on me to the point that I dissociated from my own body in order to withstand the pain.

As I became older with my father grew more deeply confusing, because coupled with his “games” of inducing mind blowing pain on me; he also showered me with love. At times he whispered in my ear that he loved me and would whisper other loving sentiments. There were moments of doting on me. He had endearing pet names for me. He also treated my pets the same way, sometimes loving them, sometimes cruelly abusing them. These moments induced a great love and bond with my father which intersected itself into the fear state that I existed inside. His behavior created a duality through which I could not critically navigate emotionally.

This abuse was also coupled with ritualistic religion, such as my father quoting Bible verses in the middle of abusing me. I have many gaps for which I don’t have answers. My body and my intuition have an idea of what hides inside those gaps. I often don’t even want to think about the possibility of what more my father did to me, that my mind has chosen to suppress. My mother projected jealousy onto me and in doing so, also physically and mentally abused me. She made me shower with her. Both my father and mother bathed me far beyond the years that I should have been being taught to bathe myself.

My father was an alcoholic and pill user. One night when I was a young adult he physically and sexually assaulted me. I hit him multiple times to get him to stop. Years later, when I confronted him, he alleged not to remember those moments. Yet, with persistence, I finally got him to admit to abusing me, and he said he was sorry. Then he proceeded to use emotional blackmail on me, victim blaming me and trying to make me feel sorry for him, saying that I was “killing” him. My mother was no help when I called her, blaming me for the situation and saying that she didn’t have time to be bothered. I felt helpless and in shock. She further stated what a terrible person I was for hurting my father with such lies. I knew that when it came to accountability in my family, I may never have it.

Because of my childhood, I endure flashbacks, complex PTSD, an eating disorder and fibromyalgia. I have insomnia to avoid the night terrors. I am hyper-vigilant about being followed, and I am often in fight or flight mode, feeling trapped. My capacity to develop my own spirituality as an adult has been severely hindered due to having a constant, tangible fear which lingers inside of me. Being an abused child left me with mental health and physical disorders. I have severe body somatic pain which can’t be associated with any one specific physical injury, leading doctors to connect my body pain to the reality of body memories.

Body memories are caused by trauma settling into our cells. Therefore, the body manifests the abuse on a daily basis, causing severe genital pain, joint and tendon pain, neuropathy that shoots nerve pain through my whole system. The nerve pain mimics the tendon shock rituals performed on me as a child.

The most confusing part about my abuse is how my parents could be so loving at times and so sadistically brutal at others. I realize that my identity belongs to them and now, I am struggling to figure out who I am before I was born into a childhood of abuse and confusion. I am sifting through broken pieces to integrate them so I can get to know who I really am.

Because of my experiences I have a great capacity to understand others who have been tortured. I know that as I continue to work through the aftermath of my own abuse, I will continue to grow and be a strong support for my fellow survivors.

I don’t know if I’ll even understand why I was tortured, except to understand mind control on a level so deep, a parent believes a religion justifies the abuse of their child. I want to know who trained my father to utilize such specific torture methods on my muscles and limbs. There are so many questions that leave tangled pieces in my mind. As a child my mind fragmented into “pieces or aspects” in attempt to endure what I was being put through however they have more or less integrated now. I wish my parents knew how much accountability and truth would change the course of each of my days. I wonder if my paternal grandfather learned these torture methods while serving in the military, and in turn, used them on my father. Again, I may never have these answers.

And so, I must stand inside of radical acceptance and continue creating who I truly am.

ART

When art comes out of me, it can take on varying forms, depending on who is holding the pen or the paint, as you will see in the pieces below.

POETRY

Another outlet for my pain is writing poetry. This expression has been a crucial part of my healing journey.

Porcupine No Longer

Ashamed and frozen in fear, time stops. Pretending to be asleep; staying very still… Lying and waiting, pretending it’s all just a dream. “NO! Get up! I have to do something!” SCREAM! *Silence*… I don’t make a sound. No one can know. Ashamed! Eyes now scrunched up tight and fists form into balls. Go into my mind. Pretend I am a porcupine. Can’t touch me! Can’t touch me! I am a porcupine! Doesn’t work… Porcupine’s quills have been plucked clean away! Exposed. Body is a map whose lands have been plundered before. Monster’s fingers are legs, walking the map, exploring it all. Monster is greedy: taking what is not his to take. Too scary. So scary. Can’t be happening. Dumb, wretched girl. Pretend. Pretend. Pretend. Smile. I’m alright. Tomorrow I’ll pretend I don’t remember what happened at night.

Healing Under a Canopy

Stroll through the shaded wood I must; Liniment for a marred soul. In love with the seclusion it offers; I yearn for the peace it brings. Amble about in nature’s song I stroll along to such sounds: Singing birds, dinky feet on Forest’s floor, water-a-trickling.

Healing from a pain so deep It threatens to crush my voice. I rebel, fight back, scream, kick, cry. I will not allow this. You cannot have my soul. My past will not destroy me! Your ‘control’ is merely an illusion. I am no longer a child.

For I see the light. It’s above me, Filtering through the leaves. It streaks my face with gold. I feel its warmth on my skin. This is the color of confidence. I give myself the permission. I can heal. No one else can have Me.

I smile. I laugh. I cry. I’m filled with joy. I am at peace.

Up ahead, I see a bridge. I will cross it. I will burn it down.

My story is the story of countless children being raised just like I was. Please don’t forget them. I want other survivors to know that you are not alone. Time and self-work make days easier. Please know that healing to a level of thriving is absolutely possible. To kids everywhere being abused, you are so strong and brave. You have the right to speak up; to tell your story; to be believed, heard and protected. You have the right to be safe and loved. You are not alone, and there are many of us Advocates dedicated to rescuing you and helping you heal.

#SurvivorVoices #MondayBlogs “A Story of Religious Abuse and Torture” Introduction: This piece is a contribution from an abuse survivor. It details extreme abuse and could be triggering to readers.

#abuse #abuse story #art therapy #blogging #blogs #child abuse #child torture #christianity #Monday blogs #Popular blogs #religion #religious #religious abuse #sex abuse #Survivor Voices #torture #vennie kocsis #vennie writes

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iampureland · 7 years

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PTSD and Me

The trauma switch flipped on for me during three terrifying weeks in July 2010. After investigating a murder for a book I was writing, I had unknowingly triggered long-buried memories about my own violent childhood. For three decades I had successfully kept it a secret – especially from myself – that as a little girl I thought my raging father would kill me. Then at age 48, despite all the will power I could summon, the truth exploded back into my life.

After experiencing nightmares, panic attacks and insomnia, I landed in a psychiatrist’s office. The diagnosis: Delayed onset post-traumatic stress disorder. I was given a prescription for medication and told to seek counseling. In the days that followed I was like a boat cast adrift on stormy seas and I had absolutely no idea in which direction to find land. Not only was I rattled to my core by the uninvited memories, but my adrenaline was pumping at full throttle 24/7. My lean body lost 15 pounds, I jumped at shadows and dreaded the death dreams that visited me every night in fitful sleep. Yes, I had survived a violent childhood, but as illogical as it seemed, I feared I would not survive what the memories were doing to me now.

My behavior, I would later learn, was textbook for a child who grew up in an abusive home with no comforting or protective adult presence. “Most adult children [of abuse] reach adulthood with their secrets intact,” writes Judith Hermann M.D. in Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence from Domestic Abuse and Political Terror. But “as the survivor struggles with the tasks of adult life, the legacy of her childhood becomes increasingly burdensome. Eventually, often in the third or fourth decade of life, the defensive structure may begin to break down…Survivors fear that they are going insane or that they will have to die.”

I had excellent support from therapists and friends, but I was also in my own private hell. I was a person who had been the model of physical and mental health and now I thought I was going crazy. Telling people that I had PTSD or that I was a victim of child abuse did not fit the image they had of me. There also was the societal pressure to “just move on.”

But move on to where? Within a few weeks of the PTSD diagnosis I made my way to a meeting of a 12-step program called Adult Children of Alcoholics. As I sat sobbing in the musty basement of the Federated Church in Flagstaff, Ariz., I shared my terrible secret to a group of child abuse survivors who were not at all surprised by what I said. Another woman there had been nearly suffocated as a little girl when her mother held a pillow over her face. Other people told of experiences similar to my own at the hands of drunken and raging parents. Every person in that basement completely understood my raw terror and was unfazed by my story because it was also their story.

My journey toward healing started in ACA as I learned that PTSD is not a sickness. It is the mind and body’s normal reaction to what is perceived as life threatening circumstances. But for adults who have experienced chronic, prolonged trauma – usually on the battlefield or growing up in abusive homes – this fight, flight or freeze reaction becomes deeply imbedded in the central nervous system and can make the challenge of recovering from PTSD daunting, and for some, seemingly impossible.

“Healing trauma requires a direction of the living, feeling, knowing organism,” writes psychologist Peter Levine in his book Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma. The key to recovery, explains Levine, is not in coping with the triggering aspects of PTSD but in dealing with the body’s response to the original traumatic events and a “frozen residue of energy that remains trapped in the nervous system where it can wreak havoc on our bodies and spirits.” Just as the body’s automatic reaction to a bee sting causes the skin to swell, traumatic memories induce a real-time fear response that overwhelms the senses.

While medication and talk therapy can help manage PTSD symptoms and are critical in the early stages, I found that the essential next phase was tackling the trapped energy – the poison that lies beneath the surface. Under the guidance of a trained trauma therapist, I tapped into my body’s fear state by inducing trembling and revisited those episodes when I was on the receiving end of my father’s rage. I went there again and again through Trauma Release Exercises (TRE) and Somatic Experiencing (SE) techniques. Every time I landed in those terrifying moments, my therapist steered me toward a different outcome. Instead of re-experiencing what actually happened, I chose escape. I envisioned calmly walking out the back door of my childhood home and down my sunlit driveway into the woods where I loved to roam. Eventually, that kid in me became convinced she was finally safe and could start to let down her guard.

I do not mean to trivialize or paint a happy face on the very real and harrowing experiences of people impacted by violence and PTSD. But I want to share my own experience as proof that there is a way to not only survive the effects of trauma but to rise above it. After nearly five years of working on my recovery every single day, I remain on what will be a life-long journey toward healing. There is no reversing the past but I have found peace in the present.

For me there is even a bright side. That switch that flipped in me turned my life from dark to light.

Annette McGivney is the author of the forthcoming memoir Pure Land. To learn more go to: www.annettemcgivney.com. For more info on local meetings of Adult Children of Alcoholics go to adultchildren.org.

#ptsd #adult children of alcoholics #domestic violence

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