I was sexually abused when I was 3, 4, 5 years old. He was my father's co-worker and friend. He "did it" to me while my father was out supposedly buying cigarettes, but I know now that Dad was out drinking and "doing it" with prostitutes.
For a good part of my life, I blocked the memory of these events. Well, not completely, because I had recurrent dreams, felt sick at my stomach, had this disgusting taste in my mouth, and spent years feeling ugly, stupid, unworthy of love.
Of course, I didn’t “choose” to be this way. I didn’t understand what was going on with me. I tried my best to get out of this rut. I went to school, worked hard, had friends, went to partys, started to work, got married, had children… But there was always this haunting inside of me that just wouldn’t go away. I read books, meditated, prayed, went all out in trying to find a “cure” for this “thing” that was controlling my mind, destroying my life, and affecting those around me, family, friends, my beautiful children.I escaped into art – writing, drawing, music – thinking that expressing myself would solve the problem. There were many wonderful days, months, when all was sunshiny and bright. But soon, the gloom would envelop me and drag me down into depths that grew darker and colder as the years went by.
I’d put on a happy face, do my best to be strong, to hide my depression, because I didn't want to scare everybody away with my heavy disposition. I helped others with their problems, thinking this would make mine go away. I did volunteer work with troubled teens and sick, elderly people. I spread as much love as I could.
But the haunting continued.
So much so that I contemplated suicide many times. I understand a mother who kills her children and then kills herself because I’ve thought of that. I used to judge these women, but now I don’t. Please understand that I don’t say this is okay, no way! But I’ve lived the “lure” of such a pull. That’s exactly what suicide becomes: a lure. It pulls you, it’s like an enchanting trance. You’re so tired, exhausted with all the fighting to get up every morning and do the most ridiculous little things that have become huge mountains, you suffer such a non-physical pain, you’re so frustrated that you can’t tear at it, that you are pulled, hypnotized by the lure of suicide.
Ten years ago, I was completely down, diagnosed as bipolar (manic-drepressive), suffering from panic and anxiety attacks which eventually developed into agoraphobia. I still associated good times with drinking, but I wasn't drinking that much because I knew it wasn't the solution to my problems. Still, the association was there.
I smoked a lot of pot. Not all the time, but for periods of 1 to 3 months, I would smoke every day, dreaming my life away. Then I'd stop for months because I'd get fed up with myself and too tired to get out of my rut.
I was broke, had no social life, was afraid that it would be almost impossible for me to regain confidence and move on with whatever I wanted to achieve. Did not have any trust in finding any help from professionals.
I felt old and ugly.
I hated my body. Always had, in some way. Though I'd never been fat, I'd always felt fat. So I'd binge on chips and chocolate for a day or two, and then go for weeks without eating much. Over and over and over again, binge, starve, binge, starve.
I slept most of the day, stayed up at night.
Reading, watching television,
dreaming of a better life.
Crying a lot.
Going out of my mind.
Living with the thought of dying.
Six years ago, fed up and finally facing my sexual abuse issues, I did the "do or die" thing and went looking for help. For the third time in fifteen years.
I got an appointment at a mental health clinic, trembled through it, and was scheduled to see a psychologist.
From June 2003 to June 2005, I went through one-on-one therapy
with a psychologist, group therapy for panic and anxiety, and
group art therapy for sexual abuse.
Since then, no more depression,
no more panic attacks.
I’m grateful that I finally got to understand what had happened to me and how this affected my life. I’m grateful that I had the strength to go on living, believing that there was an answer. I’m grateful that I finally found therapists that were warm, loving people, not just “professionals”. I’m grateful that I can now love myself, and that I can trust not only myself, but others too.
These days, I take one step at a time.
Baby steps...
I do my best to not compare myself to others, to not put pressure on myself. I believe that each step will build momentum, that the momentum will grow, and that I will attain my goals.
I'm grateful for where I'm at, conscious that I'm not perfect...and that I don't have to be.
To all the crippled souls out there, never cease to look for help.
Trust that you will find it. Believe the Universe
will not abandon you.
Look up and smile...
Stand up and walk...
You are crippled no more!
All my love,
Mudd
xoxo
P.S.: Questions or not, I'd love to hear from youl. Please email me at
anxietybuster@gmail.com or simply click the link on the sidebar.
