Scattered pieces

I’m writing this entry from a hotel by the beach… Out one window is the view of a bay, out the other is a glimpse of the ocean…  It’s beautiful.

I wish my state of mind matched the beauty surrounding me, but it doesn’t.  Instead it’s a floating mess of past and present memories…  It’s a harsh reminder that no matter how far I run, the problems will follow me until I work them through.

I hate that.

I knew it was risky coming to the beach, but I didn’t realise the memories and issues it would throw at me.  A combination of being in a hotel; by a beach similar to the one where I grew up; and the psychiatric assessment on Tuesday, has opened old wounds.  To top it off, the free cable channels in the hotel are the Rugby ones… just typical!  Why couldn’t they be the kids, movies or arts channels… why????

The fall-out from the psychiatric assessment on Tuesday has been severe.  I made many mistakes, thereby giving ACC lots of ammunition to use as a way of apportioning away responsibility to other issues.  In fairly typical fashion, I’m beating myself up for it.

I won’t know the results of the assessment for several months.  The psychiatrist assured me that he would recommend that I continue to get ACC funded therapy.  But, I was honest about my level of dysfunction and self-injury, so ACC might decide in peer review that I need to be in the hospital system or forced into DBT.  Then there’s the issue of determining my level of impairment… this is a brutal system, and one that has been harsh for me in the past.  I’m expecting it to be just as harsh this time around…  This will have little to do with the assessing psychiatrist, and more to do with the peer reviewers at ACC.

The assessing psychiatrist understood DID, he really “got” it… One of the last questions he asked was how long we’d been talking, B had just come forward again, so thought it had just been a few minutes… it had been over an hour.  B then noticed that the sunlight had moved across the floor… she forgot to check the agreed upon marker of time before answering him…

One of the things we did to try and ease the stress of the assessment, was to produce a summary of our life.  It was harsh to see our SA experiences summarised in a dozen bullet points on half a page.  That summary was difficult to write… one line alone took 4 hours… we finally admitted in writing that the father abused us.  It is now on our ACC records.  That makes it official… scary… overwhelming… disgusting… shameful… ugly…

Sorry, I know this is disjointed…

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Now playing: Blindspott – Phlex
via FoxyTunes

Please note that this may trigger.

It feels like I’m falling into a black hole…

Over the weekend, the dissociative fog was still hanging over me… everything very detached and unreal… Then, in acts of what I can only consider self-sabotage and self-injury, I sought out ways to break through the fog.  It wasn’t smart, it wasn’t pretty, and if it hadn’t been for a good friend, it probably would have led to some seriously stupid actions on my part.

It started off in the morning by going to the shops and buying some L&P, Salt and Vinegar chips and lollie cake… otherwise known as food triggers from my childhood.  I didn’t consciously buy these things, but they were amongst my groceries when I got home.  This stirred things up internally, but I didn’t really think much of it… the dissociative fog was still keeping everything very separate and numb.

Then, in actions that were so stupid, they’re ridiculous… I read an article about ACC’s mishandling of a clients psychological reports… I watched a 20/20 special on CSA… then one on a religious sect in America… then, to top it off, I read several blogs that talked about either consensual sex, or CSA…

Stupid, totally stupid…  That whole concept of telling others to take care and look after themselves… totally lost on me.

After reading a blog about consensual sex, I lost it…  Flashbacks came through like a freight train…  Sounds filled my head… and the smells… the smells… stomach churning, repulsive smells.

I have no idea which young one it was who carried the memories, but she was hurting so much…  The blind panic, the inability to breathe, the need to run…  The overwhelming confusion, the pain…

Too much… just too much.

What does my head in about the memories, is why didn’t I say anything about what was happening?  Why wasn’t my behaviour picked up as being odd by my teachers or doctors?  Was I that good at hiding it all?  Maybe I was, I don’t know… Maybe being part of a white middle class family meant that those sorts of things weren’t meant to happen to me?

Yesterday I remembered a new piece in the puzzle as to why I didn’t tell…  At the rugby club where the father was manager, they had regular raffles.  Each of those raffles had to be drawn in the presence of the Police.  Each time there was a draw, the father used to take me to the Police Station.  I remember that the Police used to joke with me that if I was bad, they’d have to lock me up.  They showed me the cells.  Put me in them and closed the door, so I’d know what it was like.  I know they did this in jest and teasing.  It wasn’t meant to be abusive.  The always laughed and teased the blonde haired girl tagging along with her father.

This is why I believed the implied threats that I would be locked up if I ever told.  That I wouldn’t be believed.  That I was the bad one in the equation…

We went into see Allison today, hoping to talk about all of this.  But we talked about a safety contract instead.  I know safety is important, but I’m scared… I could feel the resentment and resistance to the idea of a contract and our behaviour being “controlled” through reward and consequences.  I worry about what the backlash against the contract is going to be.  Allison says she’s expecting a reaction… which is fine for her, she won’t be the one experiencing it.

I feel like an open wound…  I feel like this…  If you close your eyes and listen, it takes you places…

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Now playing: Wilhelm Kempff plays Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata
via FoxyTunes

I learned from an early age that my family needed to be protected.  In my childlike way, I saw them as being unable to handle the secrets I held, or even to be able to deal with daily problems.  I saw the family around me, as being a swirling mass of chaos, and the only way to bring some control and calm to the situation, was for me to be a silent rock.

While this sounds very egocentric, it meshes with some of the basic principles of childhood development.  Dunn (1991, as cited in Claiborne & Drewery, 2010, p. 157), discuss how children as young as two attempt to comfort their mother when they see her distressed.  While Lewis (2002, as cited in Santrock, 2007, p. 340), talk about the development of shame and guilt for not meeting societal expectations in children as young as two and a half.  So it makes developmental sense, that by the time I was first abused at the age of three (nearly four), I could understand (in a childlike way) the implications of telling.  I could grasp the idea that it might either hurt someone else, or bring shame on myself for not meeting my mothers expectations – after all I was told at the event that it was “bad”, “dirty”, “wrong” and “naughty”… all very emotive words to a sensitive child.

Reading the literature on dysfunctional families, it also becomes clear that the need to protect my family meant that I lost sense of appropriate boundaries (Kerig, 2005).  It meant that I became enmeshed in the problems of some of my family (father, sister and one of my brothers) and held other members of my family quite distant from myself (mother and other brother).  Throughout the family, there was almost no boundaries where I was concerned.  My other siblings were able to create some sense of boundaries, but I seemed unable to do so.  This is possibly because of the age gap between us  – there is a five year age gap between myself and the next oldest child, but only four years difference between my other siblings combined.  It could also be because I was a difficult baby/child and I didn’t emotionally attach securely to anyone, with the associated developmental impact (Claiborne & Drewery, 2010, p. 49-51).

At this point, the intellectual part of me is happy with the theory as it helps to explain why we got where we did… the cynical part of me notes that we never had a chance… while the emotional part is screaming in pain…

So what does all this theory mean?  On one level, it helps to explain why we ended up in a dysfunctional family and were an easy target for abuse… we had no concept of what an appropriate boundary was; we were used to protecting others; and we didn’t really understand that it was wrong, because we didn’t understand where we ended and the rest of the world began.  On another level, there’s pain… total and utter pain… it doesn’t matter why it happened, it happened and it hurt.

In the midst of writing this post, I’ve seen the work place therapist.  In that one hour “talk” we did a sociogram of three people – my neighbour, the mother and sister.  It was incredible and awful…  On the floor we placed whiteboard magnets for each person in relation to myself…

First, was my neighbour, who was placed about 5cm from my marker… she was safety, freedom and acceptance.  But she was also shame and pain… I once overheard my neighbour, the mother, the sister and my neighbours daughter discussing how good it was that I wasn’t around because I was so annoying.  She was the safest thing I had outside of the teachers at school.

Second to be placed, was a marker for the mother, who was about 15cm away from my marker… she was not to be trusted, to be protected, consumed with the problems of my sister and joked about me being the mistake at the end.

Third to be placed, was my sister’s marker… this is where the lack of boundaries really showed… I told the work place therapist that she should be placed on the other side of the room, and on top of my marker.  There was nothing in-between, she was either invading my space or ignoring me.  She controlled many aspects of my life.  We shared a room for many years and she invaded my space so often, in so many ways.

This seemingly simple task brought up so much… W filled in the rest of the memory surrounding what happened after we overheard the discussion about us being so annoying – we got down off the fence and went inside the house to be hurt… We realised how young we dissociated, as we remembered getting a hug from a teacher for correcting a story; but we were depersonalised at the time, as we were so terrified that we hadn’t corrected the story “properly”.

Sophie cried… W was tough… Little Michelle stuttered…

Our work place therapist kept bringing us back to the emotions…

It was difficult, but not overwhelming.

What does all of this mean?  Well, for once I can understand the theory and associate some of the emotions with it.  Yes, I parented/protected those around me… I looked after my family’s needs before my own, I kept the secrets, all the while learning to cope and adapt through the gift/curse of dissociation.  I failed to learn and understand what appropriate boundaries were – physically, sexually, psychologically and emotionally.  I learned to lock away my emotions, and although these emotions hurt to look at and experience, they won’t destroy me – unless I let them (thank you to Meredith for today’s reminder regarding the truth of this statement).

My work place therapist said today that I was a strong child… Right now, that statement is enough for me to believe that I can heal and grow beyond the confined world I find myself in.

References

Claiborne, L., & Drewery, W. (2010). Human development: Family, place, culture. North Ryde, New South Wales, Australia: McGraw-Hill Australia.

Kerig, P. (2005). Revisiting the construct of boundary dissolution: A multidimensional perspective. Journal of Emotional Abuse 5(2/3), 5-42. doi: 10.1300/J135v05n02•02

Santrock, J. (2007). Child development (11th ed.). Boston: McGraw-Hill.

I am the youngest of four children. The mistake at the end. I was a difficult birth, and apparently screamed non-stop for the first six months of my life. I was told this many times as I was growing up. It was usually in a joking way, although how you can joke about a child being a “mistake at the end” is beyond me.  These stories and jokes chipped away at my self-esteem, to the point where I soon realised that I was worthless and an annoyance.

As I grew up, the father’s drinking became more of a problem.  Those parts within who believe he abused us, link his increased drinking to his abuse of us.  Those who don’t believe he ever touched us, link his drinking to alcoholism.  No matter what the cause, his drinking became worse over time.  This meant that it wasn’t safe to bring the few friends I had, to the house.

What does all this have to do with birthdays?  Well, this environment set me up to hate my birthday.  My birthday was a chore for those around me.  That’s if they remembered it.  The disadvantage of having your birthday at the start of the month, is people often forget to turn over the calender.  So often, people forgot my birthday.  My favourite grandparents never sent me a birthday card on time.  I was the queen of getting belated birthday cards.  Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated those cards, but a part of me saw this as being yet another way in which I was inconveniencing those around me by existing.

As I was growing up, I did have birthday parties (I don’t remember them, but have photos as proof).  Usually my two cousins who were of a similar age to me, and sometimes someone from school as well.  But a school-friend was always dicey, as if my father was home, he would be drinking.  I always tried to protect the people I knew at school from my house.  They didn’t need to see the secrets.

My siblings both liked and hated my birthday parties.  It meant they got to eat all sorts of good food, but it re-enforced the concept that I was the favourite child – especially for my sister.  My sister’s birthday is very near Christmas; that usually meant combined birthday and Christmas presents.  She always got a party as well, but she always hated my birthday parties.  Well, she just hated me.

As my self esteem was chipped away, I gave up on birthdays.  By the time I finished primary school, I hated my birthday.  But there were still some parts who secretly loved them.  I think they used to call out the names of those who was having a birthday in the coming week at school assembly, I remember a young one beaming when our name was read out – someone saw us, someone cared!

By the time I reached my teens, birthdays were actively hated.  They were a chore for those around us, and another reason for the sister to pick on us.  On my 14th birthday, my sister didn’t want to go out with the family for my birthday dinner, she wanted to go out with her boyfriend (who was abusing us) and her friends.  She first told my parents that she didn’t want to go, but they told her she had to ask us for permission to not go.  Of course, we told her to go with her friends.  Why force her to be somewhere she didn’t want to be?

Just before my 16th birthday I was assaulted.  This was the last straw in ever wanting anything to do with my birthday for the teen and adult parts of me.  The birthday become a traumatic anniversary.  It was decided that it was best to ignore it and move on.  Over the years this worked well, the mother would still send gifts and occasionally the rest of the family would remember as well.  It became a habit to have the week of my birthday off, as I knew my functioning around that time diminished significantly. Quite often the mother would come up for a holiday during that week, which forced a level of functioning within the system, as a way of self-preservation.

Which brings us to this year.  This year, the mother didn’t come up.  This year we weren’t forced to function, and things fell apart.  Leading up to the birthday, there was lots of lost time and dysfunction.  Then on the birthday there was pain, lots of pain.  Not from the adult ones, but from the young ones who needed some reason to keep on living.  On our birthday, we got a supportive email from a friend, a present from the mother, and a manipulative email from our sister.

Apart from the manipulative email, we appreciate the acknowledgements we received.  But what really hurt the young ones, was that we didn’t hear from either brother.  The brothers were idolised by these young ones.  At times they were an island of safety in an otherwise chaotic life.  This lack of contact re-enforced our belief that if we were gone, no one would notice.  The entire day was spent trying to fight those messages.

I realise that this all sounds attention seeking; but it’s about us trying to work through what happened and why.  It’s about us being more in touch with those young ones who were hurt by the people they care about, not reaching out to them – and yes, we do send messages and cards to those people.  It’s about being perceived as a bother and inconvenience to those around us.  It’s about not having an adequate support system around us.  It’s about not believing we have any right to a support system, and being terrified to try to build one.

It’s about not being worthy of… anything, everything???

Ok… so, the big stuff… the stuff I’ve been studiously avoiding for the last probably two to three weeks… maybe even that last couple of months.  I can’t analyse or reflect on them yet, but I need to write them down so that they lessen their hold over me.

Probably the most obvious, is the therapeutic rupture with Liz.  It destabilised me.  It re-enforced all the old messages about me being too difficult to cope with, and made me feel as if I would never heal.  I still don’t think that the new therapist will cope…  She says she’s one of the top therapists in the small city where we live; but then, Bob was one of the top clinical psychologists, and that didn’t turn out well.  We’re still not sure if ACC will fund us to see her; so until funding is established, we’re seeing her fortnightly.  I know that isn’t often enough, but we can’t afford weekly therapy.

Once you get past the obvious of therapy, there’s the other given… work.  We recently had a change to our union negotiated employment agreement.  The new agreement meant that we ended up with a negative sick leave balance.  We’d used up so much sick leave in the short time we’ve been there, that we’d used the equivalent of an extra years allowance.  This basically meant that we were going to have to go for over a year, with any sick leave being unpaid.  There’s no way we could afford that.  Our union is incredibly weak and unable to fight for the rights of the worker – if you wonder why I’m in such a weak union, librarians are traditionally left wing, socialists who believe in unions, and so there’s a great deal of pressure to join.

So, ignoring the union, we researched the law and questioned work on the validity of the negative balance, when according the the Holidays Act, each employee must have five days paid sick leave per year.  We sent through an email outlining the law, and asking what that meant in regards to our negative balance.  This resulted in a meeting with HR (hence the entry about the panic attack).  The meeting was mercifully quick and resulted in HR apologising to me for any distress caused.  They also gave me five sick days immediately, and another five in six months time.

We had been expecting a written warning about our excessive sick leave.  During the negotiations, our employer had been talking about “sick leave abusers”.  When we saw that negative balance, we immediately knew that we were one of the people being targeted.  We doubted all of the work we’ve been doing.  We don’t feel as if we’ve been performing to an even half descent standard lately.  So again, all our fears and inadequacies were thrown into the spot light.

The other obvious stress has been the divorce.  We got the papers served on the ex-husband, and immediately started to get hang up phone calls.  They were at odds times of the day and lasted for a week, ending only when we picked up the phone once and asked who was there.  This led to all sorts of flashbacks and activation of parts who used to deal with the ex-husband.

Which probably leads into the other issue I’ve been facing… increasing amounts and severity of self injury.  It’s been a really tough few weeks, lots of lost time and negative coping mechanisms being used.  I know I’m going to have to tell the new therapist about this, but it’s so shame inducing that I don’t know how.  I keep thinking that I should be “strong enough” or “healed enough” not to do those old coping mechanisms… but yet fall back into them when the going gets really bad.

Then there’s the last big thing which feels so awful and… just yuck.  I’m friends with the younger of my two brothers on FaceBook.  A few months ago, a photo was added to his profile.  It’s not an awful photo, it’s actually a really good one, which shows his body language as I remember it.  The thing that sends the system into chaos however, is that the lower half of his face is almost exactly the same as the fathers.  The mouth is the same… as is the chin.  It drives some in the system crazy.  My brother is now the age that the father would have been when we were in our early teens.  As I write this, I feel the dissociation coming.  I know this is a huge trigger.  I know that sometimes one of us looks at this photo of our brother as a punishment.

Far out… that’s all I can write… sorry, I know this doesn’t make much sense.  But I needed to get it out in some way.

In all the craziness, I’m reminded of the lines from Hymn to Her…

She will always carry on
Something is lost
But something is found

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Now playing: The Pretenders – Hymn To Her
via FoxyTunes

On Tuesday, the New Zealand Herald ran the story of a woman who died (read committed suicide) four days after being declined counselling assistance by ACC (see the whole article here).  It could be argued that there is no link between these two events, but it’s hard not to draw conclusions.  Having been on the receiving end of insensitive letters and shoddy reports from ACC, I know how easy it is to get that last knock which sets off the final downward spiral.  We’ll never know whether this tragedy could have been averted or not.  People within therapy do commit suicide, so there is a possibility, that even with counselling, this would have happened.  But there will always be that… “What if… ?”  I know her children will always wonder and question…

The reason why her claim had been denied, was that ACC determined that she hadn’t suffered a “significant mental injury” due to sexual abuse.  Yet, the counsellor initiating the claim, clearly stated that she was suicidal because of the abuse.  If you’re wondering how this can happen, ACC look at other factors in your life, to see if the symptoms you are suffering from can be attributed elsewhere.  As an example, I am deemed to have grown up in a “challenging” home environment due to having an alcoholic father (among other factors).  When someone grows up in such an environment, it is statistically expected for them to be impaired in some way, for example, children of alcoholic parents are more likely to suffer from depression.  So it would seem that ACC decided in this woman’s case, that her current issues were not due to the sexual abuse.

As an outsider, it’s easy to cite other resources for help that she could have approached instead of the ACC funded therapy – LifeLine, Mental Health Crisis Teams etc.  But in reality, it’s not always that simple.  Speaking from my experiences, when I’ve reached out to the Crisis Lines, their goal is to talk you through that moment and to suggest options for assistance long term.  Often, those options are under-funded and over-stretched.  As an example, if I wanted to see someone through the Mental Health Team, I’d be looking at a six month waiting period – just to be assessed.  When you’re in that pit of hopelessness, six months may as well be 20 years, it seems like an eternity and beyond hope.  This is the reason why the recent changes to the ACC pathways have been so damaging.  The options for someone who doesn’t receive assistance from ACC are limited and often cost prohibitive.  Not many people can afford the cost of therapy; and as it would be considered a pre-existing condition, no private health insurer would accept coverage.

In the same newspaper article that told of this woman’s death, it was announced that there would be a review of the new ACC pathways.  I hope the reviewers seriously look at the Massey Guidelines – the original work, not the slanted way in which ACC has adopted them.  As Kyle MacDonald pointed out, the way ACC have used the Guidelines, is to pretty much ignore them in favour of Goodyear-Smith, Lobb and Mansell (2005).

I also hope that this woman’s death isn’t used for political gain…  She, like so many others who didn’t make it, deserve some dignity.

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Now playing: The Pretenders – Hymn To Her
via FoxyTunes

Dear young one,

First of all, you are young.  You are not a little adult, you are a young girl…  This alone should explain so much to you, but it won’t because I know you are fighting and struggling to make sense of the world you find yourself in.  You are strong, brave and stubborn…  You take on so much of the world around you, that it is hard to make you out as an individual identity.  But, please remember that you are a young girl…

I sense that you need to hear the words “I forgive you”, but there is nothing to forgive you for.  You did an amazing job holding it all together when those around you were hurting you and themselves.  I’m so sorry that you had to take on this burden of abuse.  This burden had nothing to do with how pretty, thin, attractive or loud you were…  there are no reasons why… there are excuses, but no reasons.  I’m not sure what will ease your sense of guilt and ownership over the abuse… I could quote you research about alcoholic fathers, absentee mothers, sibling rivalry and a society built around ignoring the child as an individual with rights, but I know that you will look for excuses within that research… You will look for any proof that the abuse was, and is, your fault.  So I won’t hand you that information to confuse you further, instead I would like to do what should have happened long ago… get down to your eye level, look you straight in the eye and say “It wasn’t your fault”.  You hold no blame for what happened, they were events done to you, not by you.  Even the events where you are sure you were the instigator, you weren’t.  You were trying to find new ways to protect yourself and ease the burden.

I stand in awe of what you accomplished through all of the pain of what was happening to you.  Do you know that?  I don’t know how you did it.  You have a strength I cannot fathom.  The amount of times you picked yourself up and kept on going… the amount of times you looked towards the pain and kept on going.  I’m so proud to consider that you are what I have come from.  You excelled in all that you tried – I have the reports which tell of your intelligence, I’m told you moved with grace and poise on the dance floor and you played above your grade in sports you enjoyed.  I know you consider these accomplishments nothing, and I wish you could tell them with pride.  But what really amazes me, is that you defended those around you whom you thought were being picked on.  Your sense of social justice remained intact, despite all of what happened to you.  Not only did it remain intact, but you actively found ways to defend and help those who were being victimised.  You couldn’t succeed all the time, but you tried… and kept on trying no matter what.

I’m not sure that I will ever understand what happened to you.  Looking back, I don’t know what advice I could give you that would ease your burden.  I could say “don’t trust people”, but then I wonder if you didn’t have some form of trust, whether you would still hold to that sense of social justice?  I could tell you not to go near the kindergarten playground, or near that woodshed… but I know that this wouldn’t solve the problems you faced.  I want to protect you from the pain you faced, but I know I am helpless to do so.  My only hope now, is to help you heal.  I’m not sure how to do this, and in this I need your help.  I need to know what you need, and when you need it.  I try my best to help you heal, but I know I make mistakes.  I hope you forgive these errors… I know this is asking a lot of you, especially when so many people have let you down in the past, but I again need you to be strong.  This is a different strength, this isn’t about putting up with more pain… this is about telling me when it hurts, telling me when you are scared, telling me when you need help.  We all need help young one, but it takes strength to ask and receive that help…

Thank you for all you have done for me, young one.  You have given me so many gifts, it is now my turn to return some of those gifts, if you will let me.  You will notice that I don’t mention the word “love”… I avoid using this word as we all know that I don’t understand the concept… instead, please understand that I respect and admire you.  I couldn’t have made it this far without you…

Yours sincerely,
M

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Now playing: Anna Nalick – Breathe
via FoxyTunes

I was 24 when I last talked to the father. It was during my first year of being on-campus at university and I’d agreed to stay with him for a long weekend. He hadn’t been contributing to our care since the divorce when we were 16, but we still a sense of duty to him because… well, he is the father. To say that the weekend was a disaster, would be an understatement. He lived alone in a cold, small, two bedroom semi-detached house situated at the bottom of a hill. The house felt dirty, but I think that was our association of his dirtiness getting mixed up in the perception of the house. He had become a bitter, mean old man who took pleasure in putting others down and feeding his narcissistic desires.  He was not pleasant to be near.

In a move similar to asking the mother to leave when she came to visit, I left the father’s house earlier than planned. I couldn’t cope with him. The day I left I knew that I would not be able to see him again as he was too toxic. I grieved on the drive home… grieved for the father I realised I would never have, and the one I was now leaving behind.  While listening to the radio during the drive, a song came on that started the tears – Stand by me by Ben E. King.  To me, the song is about being strong enough to face the darkness of your fears, as long as there is someone standing beside you.  During that car trip, this was particularly meaningful… I knew I was about to tell the family about my decision to no longer have contact with the father.  I also knew that I was probably going to have to confront the father as well.

At the time I was living alone – I didn’t even have Winnie (our cat).  So, I knew that there would be no one standing beside me, instead it would be up to the dissociative system to come together in a meaningful way to protect us all.  This was at a time when I had no working knowledge of my dissociation, but I remember the internal conversations which evolved as I was taking the long trip home…  There was fear, screaming, celebrations and physical pain caused by tension…  But then, in a shift that I’ve now come to identify as M taking over, there was a sudden calmness and knowledge of what needed to be done.  This calmness allowed Sophie to listen to the song and begin our grieving.  I don’t think we fully explored the grief, but the song allowed us to cry for things we wouldn’t have and to get to a place of accepting what was happening.

When we got home, we made the necessary phone calls to the family.  I don’t remember much about that time, but I do remember slamming the phone down on the father with the parting words that he and I had “never been able to talk”.  I have seen him since that time – grandfather’s funeral etc.  We’ve tried to be civil to him, purely out of fear and not wanting to cause more trouble within the family.  But I know that under that veneer of civility, Frank is waiting to tell the father just what damage he has done.  I also know that such a discussion would be pointless, as he is incapable of seeing his own faults and it would only serve to frustrate us further.

There have been other versions of the song done, but it’s Ben E. King’s version that affects us the most…

Please note that this may trigger.

The husband of our cynical friend was buried today.  It was an amazing service which showed how much he was loved by those around him.  The eulogies were funny and heartfelt.  Our friend held up well throughout the funeral, she cried and was supported by her youngest daughter… the love within the family was obvious and honest.  One of the graphic designers at work did a montage of photos of his life, it was amazing to see how much he had changed, but not changed over the years – the laughter in his eyes was there all the way through.

We were close to not going to the funeral, we don’t find funerals easy things to attend.  They tend to overwhelm us with too many messages… but we were fine today.  Our friend also said she was looking for us when we went to give her a hug afterwards, so I’m glad we went.  She deserves all the support she can get.

After the funeral there was a wake held at a working men’s club.  We didn’t particularly want to go to this as we knew there would be lots of people, but everyone from work pressured us into going.  We were fine driving there and parking… it was when we got to the door that the trouble began.  This club is like many throughout New Zealand, they have a similar feel and design – a big open space with table for standing and drinking at while you watch the big screen TV, and another area for dining.  The smell of alcohol greets you at the door.  What also greeted me at the door was the first flashback.

The father managed a working men’s club as we were growing up.  Our lives revolved around that club, sport and alcohol.  We were abused at that club.  We were forced to drink alcohol for the first time in that club.  Some of us still live in that club within our head, they’re stuck there.  Walking into the club today triggered them all…

M took control as best she could, but she has problems with alcohol – she uses it to drown out the noise in the head.  As we walked to the bar all we could hear is the noise of the crowd becoming fainter and the internal screaming getting louder and louder.

“Raspberry and chips… raspberry and chips… raspberry and chips…”

This is all M could hear, so she orders a drink to drown out the sound.  The screaming gets louder as she takes the first sip of beer.  She always drinks beer as it makes us drunk quicker.  The first beer doesn’t deaden the screaming, time for another…

Random flashes, snippets and sounds from the past come through… some good, some not so good, some horrific.  Still the screaming…

“Raspberry and chips… raspberry and chips… raspberry and chips…”

M tries deep breathing, but that doesn’t calm the noise…  Time for another drink.  No one around us is aware of anything going on.  M answers all the questions and shows an interest in everything as she continues to drink. I don’t know how much she drank, it’s always hard to tell as the dissociation seems to mask the effects of the alcohol… or maybe we’re just immune to the effects, I’m not sure.

We all know what “Raspberry and chips” means… it was a reward for being a good girl after the abuse.  We hate raspberry soda and potato chips…

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