“Barry, you’re going to be home tonight, right? Okay…..I just ask because you know I can’t stay there overnight and Mom needs someone to be with her. Okay, thanks. Oh and Barry? Can you try to come straight from work if possible?....Sorry, I just mean so she’ll have someone with her. I’m not telling you what to do. I’m asking if you’d mind… Okay. Bye”
I hung up my cell phone. I sat in my mother’s hospital room, watching her hands twitch every so often. I now lived in Boston but flew back home to care for my mother after her surgery. I had brought her in for the surgery and eagerly waited for her to awaken. I looked at my watch. It’s been 9 hours since she was brought into the recovery room. “I don’t think you’ll be able to get her into the car yourself,” the nurse says to me. “Let’s wait a few more hours until she’s a bit more awake.” The doctors had told me that my mother should not be alone for the first 48 hours following her surgery. A few hours later I was assisting my mother out of the wheel chair and into the car. The nurse had shown me how to tend to her wounds, something that needed to be done every four hours.
I got my mother home, into the upright position she was to assume for the next few days and tried to get her to eat a little something. By this time it was already 11:00pm and no sign of my brother. I began to get nervous as I didn’t think I could spend the entire night at my mother’s house. I was very allergic to my mother’s dog and found it impossible to sleep in her house. I was now on my 20th hour awake and worried that my constant sneezing and coughing would wake my mother or worse – make her sick in some way.
My brother was now 31 years old. He lived with my mother, which is why I thought it would be easier for him to come home and look after her long enough for me to go back to my hotel to sleep for a few hours. As I feared, however, it was impossible to get my brother to come straight home from work. Without fail, each night my brother would take his spot on the barstool at his favorite bar. My brother’s self pity and ability to point the finger at all others in his life, made it possible for him to create his own, comfortable world. Throughout his teens, with the steadfast help of his beloved drink, he slowly and methodically built his own world around him. Either you were allowed into his world and had to live by his rules or you were exiled. I love my brother very much and did what I could to stay in his life. I stayed away from topics that angered him. I tried to show him as much love and support as I could and hoped that he would move past this self-indulgent phase. When he complained, I consoled. When he got into trouble, I bailed him out. I still saw that spark in him that had made me so proud to be his sister. I still saw the person I grew up with. My brother failed to graduate high school. He had one child who he no longer saw or supported. Throughout his 20s, he held down various positions as his alcoholism grew immeasurably. He slowly deteriorated. It became rare for me to see my brother sober by the time he’d turned 30.
By this time, I knew all too well how lost my brother was. I still hadn’t thought, however, that he wouldn’t be able to care for his mother after her surgery for one night. One night of no drinking. One night of coming home to the mother who’d allowed him to stay, rent-free, in her home. One night of lying beside her so I can get some sleep before returning to the house to care for her. It was 3:00 AM when my nose began to bleed. My body was reacting to hours of allergic reactions. I grabbed a pillow and went out to my car. It was the only way I could think of getting some relief. I set the alarm on my cell phone for two hours, so I could check on my mother. I held the tissues to my nose as one angry tear ran down my cheek. ‘This is not who he is,’ I thought. ‘I cannot have a brother like this.’
December 27, 2007
December 17, 2007
My Brother
When I was a young girl, I looked up to my brother. He was ten years older than I - enough of an age gap for him to feel like an authority figure to me. My brother was extremely intelligent. He had a naturally witty and in-depth view of the world, albeit usually cynical. He believed so strongly in his opinions and I admired that. Throughout my childhood, I was extremely close to my brother. He was the closest thing to a father figure that I had. He taught me how to play baseball and football. He would furrow his brow as he leaned over to adjust the positioning of the baseball bat in my hands. We stood in the street in front of our home, my brother pitching to me.
At times his temper would flare, as when I couldn’t catch on to a change he wanted me to make in my swing. But, for the most part, I truly liked these lessons. I enjoyed the attention he gave me. I enjoyed feeling the pride he had in me each time I’d crush the ball. I looked up to my brother. I was proud that he was my brother.
As he began high school, the volume of calls and visits to our home by his female classmates rose greatly. He was the guy that girls wanted to date; he was the guy that other guys wanted to be friends with. He was social, athletic, outgoing, often eloquent and his looks didn’t hurt his chances with the ladies either.
My brother had just turned sixteen the first time I remember him coming home drunk. I was in my bed when I heard my brother trying to make his way into the living room from the front porch. I could hear my mother call out to him from her own room, “Barry, is that you?” My brother tried to control the tone of his voice the best he could, “Yes, Mom. Goodnight.” A few seconds later, I heard a loud thud. “Barry!” my mother called from her room, “what was that?” “Uhhhh, I stepped on Emmy’s shoe,” my brother grunted. Soon, the sound of my brother’s staggering feet faded as he was finally able to make his way to his room. By the morning, my brother was back to being my brother. “Hey kiddo” he said to me while walking into the kitchen as I readied my cereal. He patted my head before grabbing the milk from the fridge. I didn’t really know what to think. I knew that drinking was bad, but at the age of six I really didn’t realize the dangerous road that my brother had started speeding down.
By the time I was nine, I had learned that my brother’s habits were damaging him. My brother’s temper slowly escalated. Our time together dwindled as he often spent most summer days in bed, recovering from his hangovers. My memory is drawn to one summer day in particular. I opened the front door to get the mail. Our family dog spotted a squirrel in our front yard and dashed past me before I could grab her. Our dog was rather large and weighed more than I did at this point. She dashed into our neighbor’s yard, racing after the squirrel while knocking over the neighbor’s potted plants. Our neighbor hated dogs and had seen our dog in his yard one too many times. He snapped. “Kid! You get that dog out of my yard right now or I swear to you I will shoot that dog dead! I’m sick of this!” I raced after the dog in his yard, but my efforts were fruitless. The dog was much faster and bigger than I. My neighbor retreated to his house while yelling, “That is it!” My eyes widened; I turned back and sprinted into my own home. I dashed into my brother’s bedroom, yelling, “Barry!”
My brother’s bedroom had the stench of alcohol-clogged pores, of beer soaked clothing. My brother was in his bed, motionless. I ran to him and shook his shoulder. “Barry! Help me! That crazy guy on the corner is going to shoot our dog! Barry?” I shook my brother’s shoulder again. He did not respond. The dark circles under his eyes accompanied by the pale skin of his face made him appear dead. “Barry?!” I lifted my hands from my brother’s shoulders and placed them on my mouth. ‘Oh my God,’ I thought. ‘He’s dead.’
My first, most prominent thought was wondering how I’d be able to tell my mother that her first born and only son was gone. I dropped to my knees. ‘Oh my God.’ ‘No, what am I going to do?’ The seconds felt like hours. Just then, my brother’s chest suddenly raised and he coughed. I stumbled to his bed side. “Barry?” My brother still would not wake, but now I could see his chest rise and fall. I lowered my ear to his mouth. I could barely hear his breathing, but it was there.
Little did I know, this would not be the first time I would fear the death of my brother at the hands of the alcohol he clung so tightly to.
At times his temper would flare, as when I couldn’t catch on to a change he wanted me to make in my swing. But, for the most part, I truly liked these lessons. I enjoyed the attention he gave me. I enjoyed feeling the pride he had in me each time I’d crush the ball. I looked up to my brother. I was proud that he was my brother.
As he began high school, the volume of calls and visits to our home by his female classmates rose greatly. He was the guy that girls wanted to date; he was the guy that other guys wanted to be friends with. He was social, athletic, outgoing, often eloquent and his looks didn’t hurt his chances with the ladies either.
My brother had just turned sixteen the first time I remember him coming home drunk. I was in my bed when I heard my brother trying to make his way into the living room from the front porch. I could hear my mother call out to him from her own room, “Barry, is that you?” My brother tried to control the tone of his voice the best he could, “Yes, Mom. Goodnight.” A few seconds later, I heard a loud thud. “Barry!” my mother called from her room, “what was that?” “Uhhhh, I stepped on Emmy’s shoe,” my brother grunted. Soon, the sound of my brother’s staggering feet faded as he was finally able to make his way to his room. By the morning, my brother was back to being my brother. “Hey kiddo” he said to me while walking into the kitchen as I readied my cereal. He patted my head before grabbing the milk from the fridge. I didn’t really know what to think. I knew that drinking was bad, but at the age of six I really didn’t realize the dangerous road that my brother had started speeding down.
By the time I was nine, I had learned that my brother’s habits were damaging him. My brother’s temper slowly escalated. Our time together dwindled as he often spent most summer days in bed, recovering from his hangovers. My memory is drawn to one summer day in particular. I opened the front door to get the mail. Our family dog spotted a squirrel in our front yard and dashed past me before I could grab her. Our dog was rather large and weighed more than I did at this point. She dashed into our neighbor’s yard, racing after the squirrel while knocking over the neighbor’s potted plants. Our neighbor hated dogs and had seen our dog in his yard one too many times. He snapped. “Kid! You get that dog out of my yard right now or I swear to you I will shoot that dog dead! I’m sick of this!” I raced after the dog in his yard, but my efforts were fruitless. The dog was much faster and bigger than I. My neighbor retreated to his house while yelling, “That is it!” My eyes widened; I turned back and sprinted into my own home. I dashed into my brother’s bedroom, yelling, “Barry!”
My brother’s bedroom had the stench of alcohol-clogged pores, of beer soaked clothing. My brother was in his bed, motionless. I ran to him and shook his shoulder. “Barry! Help me! That crazy guy on the corner is going to shoot our dog! Barry?” I shook my brother’s shoulder again. He did not respond. The dark circles under his eyes accompanied by the pale skin of his face made him appear dead. “Barry?!” I lifted my hands from my brother’s shoulders and placed them on my mouth. ‘Oh my God,’ I thought. ‘He’s dead.’
My first, most prominent thought was wondering how I’d be able to tell my mother that her first born and only son was gone. I dropped to my knees. ‘Oh my God.’ ‘No, what am I going to do?’ The seconds felt like hours. Just then, my brother’s chest suddenly raised and he coughed. I stumbled to his bed side. “Barry?” My brother still would not wake, but now I could see his chest rise and fall. I lowered my ear to his mouth. I could barely hear his breathing, but it was there.
Little did I know, this would not be the first time I would fear the death of my brother at the hands of the alcohol he clung so tightly to.
October 15, 2007
Starting Over
I’ve experienced many highs and lows, many ups and downs in the past year. I’ve accepted that these highs and lows are all part of the healing process. Now, however, I find myself becoming weary of these fluctuations. I feel myself growing more and more impatient to finally get to a point where I’m at peace with myself and my life. I’ve suggested to my boyfriend in the past that in order to get past the ups and downs within our own relationship, we should try wiping the slate clean and starting over. The more I think of that idea, the more I realize that it won’t work to start over in any part of my life unless I am completely willing to allow myself to do so.
I realize that I am the only person holding myself back from starting over, from beginning a new life. In order to start over, I must forgive myself genuinely and wholly for every mistake I’ve made. I must release myself from the life I was born into. My experiences do not define who I am. I am not dirty simply because someone with a filthy soul forced themselves onto me. Their transgressions do not transfer into me. I am not imbalanced simply because I grew up in an imbalanced environment. I am not unwanted simply because those I loved abandoned me. I do not deserve to be hit simply because someone else felt that I did, in fact, deserve it. I’ve blamed myself for much of what people have done to me. Now is the time to forgive myself. Now is the time to place blame where is it rightly deserved.
My life is waiting for me. I’m tired of wasting time blaming myself for my past, rather than planning a successful future. I’m an adult now and in control of my own life. It is now my responsibility to treat myself with care and to build a healthy environment for myself, regardless of if I had one growing up. It is my responsibility to shut out those unhealthy, abusive influences and to welcome those I can trust.
I refuse to live in self doubt and self pity. After grieving traumas fully, one must make that last step into starting over and building a healthy, complete life. Those who are not able to move on from their grieving may become stuck in the past. They may even feel too sorry for themselves to move on. I’ve known people like this. I refuse to become stuck in the past. Why would I want to mentally dwell in such a dark place? I’ve worked at grieving enough to overcome the past. Now, I feel that I am ready and more than willing to start over.
There is an adage, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” Corny? Perhaps. I do, however, find this saying particularly appropriate for any recovering trauma survivor. Give yourself the permission to start over. Give yourself the ability to let go of the past. You can’t forget it (nor should you dismiss the lessons you’ve learned from it) but you can release yourself from its destructive grasp.
I realize that I am the only person holding myself back from starting over, from beginning a new life. In order to start over, I must forgive myself genuinely and wholly for every mistake I’ve made. I must release myself from the life I was born into. My experiences do not define who I am. I am not dirty simply because someone with a filthy soul forced themselves onto me. Their transgressions do not transfer into me. I am not imbalanced simply because I grew up in an imbalanced environment. I am not unwanted simply because those I loved abandoned me. I do not deserve to be hit simply because someone else felt that I did, in fact, deserve it. I’ve blamed myself for much of what people have done to me. Now is the time to forgive myself. Now is the time to place blame where is it rightly deserved.
My life is waiting for me. I’m tired of wasting time blaming myself for my past, rather than planning a successful future. I’m an adult now and in control of my own life. It is now my responsibility to treat myself with care and to build a healthy environment for myself, regardless of if I had one growing up. It is my responsibility to shut out those unhealthy, abusive influences and to welcome those I can trust.
I refuse to live in self doubt and self pity. After grieving traumas fully, one must make that last step into starting over and building a healthy, complete life. Those who are not able to move on from their grieving may become stuck in the past. They may even feel too sorry for themselves to move on. I’ve known people like this. I refuse to become stuck in the past. Why would I want to mentally dwell in such a dark place? I’ve worked at grieving enough to overcome the past. Now, I feel that I am ready and more than willing to start over.
There is an adage, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” Corny? Perhaps. I do, however, find this saying particularly appropriate for any recovering trauma survivor. Give yourself the permission to start over. Give yourself the ability to let go of the past. You can’t forget it (nor should you dismiss the lessons you’ve learned from it) but you can release yourself from its destructive grasp.
October 11, 2007
When to give up on love
Yesterday I awoke after getting about two hours of sleep the night before. I awoke knowing that this would be the day I would find out if Matt Bryant had been released from prison. I had already called the Victim’s Services line once that morning, on the off chance that their office was already open. I got to work and sat at my desk, staring ahead of me. I called the office again. The representative told me the decision had not downloaded into their system yet. She would call me when it does, she said. I began typing, my hands shaking. My head was throbbing although I didn’t want to take an aspirin since I hadn’t been able to eat anything yet. My mind focused solely on the verdict of the parole board. I placed my cell phone on my desk in front of me and peered at it every few minutes. Every once in a while, I’d pick my cell phone up and look at it to see if I’d missed a call. My anxiety rolled around in my stomach. Around 1:00PM, I began absent-mindedly tapping my leg in anticipation of getting the call. My cell phone rang. I seized my phone quickly. It was the representative. She told me that the board had decided to defer parole for 6 months. My initial reaction was thankful relief. “Is six months a normal deferral period?” I asked. “Isn’t it usually a year or two?” “That’s true,” she said. “You have to keep mind that he’s in a transitional facility. They usually start lowering deferral times when someone is coming to the end of their stay. Also keep in mind that the prisons are at capacity.” I thanked the woman for calling and hung up. While I was utterly relieved that Matt would not be released now, I have to admit I was also disappointed that his next parole hearing will be so soon.
I met my boyfriend on the subway while heading home from work. I gave him a big bear hug. I was so relieved that I could just relax with him now. I wouldn’t be the bundle of nerves that I had been that morning. I thoroughly looked forward to returning home with him and relaxing. I needed so badly to be comforted and calm. We returned home, each took a couch and settled in to relax in front of the television. Soon, we left to walk to the convenience store. While we walked, I began asking my boyfriend why he wasn’t talking. I wasn’t trying to nag him, although it could have felt that way to him, I suspect. I just so wanted someone to talk with and hold hands with after this difficult day. Our conversation slowly escalated. My boyfriend felt attacked and nagged. I felt neglected. From there, I believe our minds split off into their own worlds. We returned home. We yelled, I cried. My boyfriend told me he didn’t want to be with me anymore. I realized this was quickly becoming the worst day of my life.
My treatment for trauma has forced me to finally process and grieve the various traumas that have occurred in my life. This process includes delving into these experiences and feeling them. This could not possibly be easy for my boyfriend to watch. I know that no one wants to live with someone who’s experiencing pain. The anger I had has largely melted into sadness. I feel guilty that I’m often sad in front of my boyfriend. At the same time, I think it’s necessary in order to process these things and move past them. It’s getting better, though. I see and feel improvements on a daily basis. Even so, this process has affected our relationship. We’ve also had to deal with other external negative influences.
Going on this alone, I would probably agree that my boyfriend and I should part ways. My disagreement, however, comes from the fact that I have a strong feeling that my boyfriend and I are just now getting into a position in both our lives where we’ll finally have the ability to tackle the issues we have and work through them. I’m getting further and further in my therapy. We’ve identified exactly what it is we need to work on. I have a very difficult time giving up on us at this juncture. Of course, this wouldn’t be an issue if I didn’t love my boyfriend. I love him incredibly. I know who he really is. I know how incredible of a person he is. I trust him. He trusts me. We’ve been through many difficult times together. We’ve also had many happy times together. I guess my question is – when do you part ways with someone you’re in love with? Someone who’s also in love with you? Someone who you share the same morals, values, sense of humor, religious experiences and so many other areas of life with? When do you decide to throw in the towel on someone you could still see as your husband one day – after time, after working through those few issues?
I met my boyfriend on the subway while heading home from work. I gave him a big bear hug. I was so relieved that I could just relax with him now. I wouldn’t be the bundle of nerves that I had been that morning. I thoroughly looked forward to returning home with him and relaxing. I needed so badly to be comforted and calm. We returned home, each took a couch and settled in to relax in front of the television. Soon, we left to walk to the convenience store. While we walked, I began asking my boyfriend why he wasn’t talking. I wasn’t trying to nag him, although it could have felt that way to him, I suspect. I just so wanted someone to talk with and hold hands with after this difficult day. Our conversation slowly escalated. My boyfriend felt attacked and nagged. I felt neglected. From there, I believe our minds split off into their own worlds. We returned home. We yelled, I cried. My boyfriend told me he didn’t want to be with me anymore. I realized this was quickly becoming the worst day of my life.
My treatment for trauma has forced me to finally process and grieve the various traumas that have occurred in my life. This process includes delving into these experiences and feeling them. This could not possibly be easy for my boyfriend to watch. I know that no one wants to live with someone who’s experiencing pain. The anger I had has largely melted into sadness. I feel guilty that I’m often sad in front of my boyfriend. At the same time, I think it’s necessary in order to process these things and move past them. It’s getting better, though. I see and feel improvements on a daily basis. Even so, this process has affected our relationship. We’ve also had to deal with other external negative influences.
Going on this alone, I would probably agree that my boyfriend and I should part ways. My disagreement, however, comes from the fact that I have a strong feeling that my boyfriend and I are just now getting into a position in both our lives where we’ll finally have the ability to tackle the issues we have and work through them. I’m getting further and further in my therapy. We’ve identified exactly what it is we need to work on. I have a very difficult time giving up on us at this juncture. Of course, this wouldn’t be an issue if I didn’t love my boyfriend. I love him incredibly. I know who he really is. I know how incredible of a person he is. I trust him. He trusts me. We’ve been through many difficult times together. We’ve also had many happy times together. I guess my question is – when do you part ways with someone you’re in love with? Someone who’s also in love with you? Someone who you share the same morals, values, sense of humor, religious experiences and so many other areas of life with? When do you decide to throw in the towel on someone you could still see as your husband one day – after time, after working through those few issues?
September 28, 2007
Conquering Fear
Last weekend, I was lying on the couch watching the movie, “Defending Your Life” (1991). The movie is about a man who dies after being in a car accident and goes to Judgment City, a waiting room for the afterlife. During the day, he must prove in a courtroom-style process that he successfully overcame his fears while living on Earth, in order to move on to a higher existence. This movie made me think about the effects of fear on every day life.
I have recently felt like I am in a deadlock in life. I’ve felt as though I’m in a middle ground – I’m no longer in the unhealthy environment in which I grew up. I no longer wish to escape through an eating disorder or nights of drinking with friends. I wish to move on to the next stage of my life. Something has been preventing me from doing that, however. I’ve therefore felt, lately, as though I’ve been stuck in between stages of my life, unable to fully move onward. I began to wonder how much fear had to do with my impasse. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that fear is the reason why I’ve been stuck.
I’m afraid that I’ll fail at being a good wife and mother. I’m afraid I’ll fail to make those I love proud. I’m afraid that I’m ‘damaged goods.’ I fear that I won’t ever view myself in as positive a light as I deserve. I’m afraid that I’m so unused to being happy that I won’t know how to do it - how to be comfortable in the tranquil and quiet space that is happiness.
How do I overcome this fear? The first idea that comes to mind is to trust myself. At this time, I second-guess myself. I doubt my strength and reason. I think this contributes to my fear. I must remind myself, instead, that I have reason to trust myself. I have shown that I am able to successfully survive a gravely unhealthy environment. I’ve kept myself alive. I’ve endured much and have survived much. I’m not perfect in any way, shape or form – but I have endured my past and have come out of it as a generally caring, decent and good person. I should trust myself because I have proven to myself that I am more than trustworthy.
After thinking further about conquering fear, I decided that in order to conquer the fear that is causing this stalemate in my life; I’ll need to learn how to care about myself. There is the cliché “Learn to love yourself.” While it is somewhat corny, I find it to be true. I also find it to be a very difficult task for me to master. If I could be as affectionate and fond of myself as I am to those I love, I doubt my fear would have such a grip over me. If I liked myself more, I wouldn’t fear making mistakes. I would think, “I’ve made mistakes in my life. I’ll make more of them before I die. That’s because I’m a person. It’s okay. I’ll succeed as well. Whether I succeed or fail, I’ll still be a good person and I’ll still be worthy. I accept all of me, the good and the bad.”
I have recently felt like I am in a deadlock in life. I’ve felt as though I’m in a middle ground – I’m no longer in the unhealthy environment in which I grew up. I no longer wish to escape through an eating disorder or nights of drinking with friends. I wish to move on to the next stage of my life. Something has been preventing me from doing that, however. I’ve therefore felt, lately, as though I’ve been stuck in between stages of my life, unable to fully move onward. I began to wonder how much fear had to do with my impasse. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that fear is the reason why I’ve been stuck.
I’m afraid that I’ll fail at being a good wife and mother. I’m afraid I’ll fail to make those I love proud. I’m afraid that I’m ‘damaged goods.’ I fear that I won’t ever view myself in as positive a light as I deserve. I’m afraid that I’m so unused to being happy that I won’t know how to do it - how to be comfortable in the tranquil and quiet space that is happiness.
How do I overcome this fear? The first idea that comes to mind is to trust myself. At this time, I second-guess myself. I doubt my strength and reason. I think this contributes to my fear. I must remind myself, instead, that I have reason to trust myself. I have shown that I am able to successfully survive a gravely unhealthy environment. I’ve kept myself alive. I’ve endured much and have survived much. I’m not perfect in any way, shape or form – but I have endured my past and have come out of it as a generally caring, decent and good person. I should trust myself because I have proven to myself that I am more than trustworthy.
After thinking further about conquering fear, I decided that in order to conquer the fear that is causing this stalemate in my life; I’ll need to learn how to care about myself. There is the cliché “Learn to love yourself.” While it is somewhat corny, I find it to be true. I also find it to be a very difficult task for me to master. If I could be as affectionate and fond of myself as I am to those I love, I doubt my fear would have such a grip over me. If I liked myself more, I wouldn’t fear making mistakes. I would think, “I’ve made mistakes in my life. I’ll make more of them before I die. That’s because I’m a person. It’s okay. I’ll succeed as well. Whether I succeed or fail, I’ll still be a good person and I’ll still be worthy. I accept all of me, the good and the bad.”
September 24, 2007
Escape
Shortly before my graduation from high school, I had received news that I had been accepted into each university I had applied to, save one. I had also been offered a scholarship, although the scholarship wasn’t enough to carry me through college. I was reassured by my financial advisor that I could get enough federal assistance to get me through college – as long as my mother submitted forms proving her income status (and, therefore, proving my need for assistance). I carefully filled out each of the federal assistance forms. I checked and double checked each box carefully to make sure everything was filled our correctly. The only portion left was the one in which my mother had to sign in order to declare her income. I brought the forms to my mother and showed her the section she would need to complete. She looked at the form and rolled her eyes. “I’ll take it with me to work so I can get the income forms,” she said. “Okay, Mom. Its due in three weeks so I wanted to mail it by the end of this week so I can be sure it gets there in plenty of time.” “I’ll mail it, Emily,” my mother said sternly. My mother had grown increasingly agitated as the time for my departure to college drew closer. “I know how to mail things Emily,” she said, before slamming the front door. At the end of the week, I asked my mother if she had mailed the forms. She told me that she had.
About six weeks later, I received a notice in the mail telling me that I had not been approved for any funding this year and that I was free to re-apply next year. My hands began to shake. I ran to the phone and dialed the number. I hurriedly explained to the woman on the other end why I was calling. She asked me to calm down so that she could understand me. I told her there must have been a mistake. She accessed my file while on the line and told me that they had received the forms over a week late. “But there has to be someway we can work this out! I’m leaving for college in a few weeks!” I said. “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “The form wasn’t even signed by your mother. We called the number she gave us several times to no avail. It’s just too late. You’ve missed the deadline – that money has been allocated to others now.”
An hour later, I was still sitting in the same spot, staring at the wall in my living room. I had not moved. I should have done it myself. This is all my fault, I thought. I shouldn’t have trusted her to mail it in. All of my hard work - what am I going to do? I have no money. I have no where to live in Boston – my federal assistance would have paid for my dorm room. How could my future be falling apart so soon? What will my friends say? I was one of my high school’s best students – how could I be without a college to attend in the fall?
A few weeks later, I packed every possession I could fit into my car. I hugged my mother goodbye and began to drive. As I pulled onto the highway outside of my hometown, I was full of uncertainty. I had $1,259.00 to my name. I had no job. I didn’t have daddy’s credit card. I had no where to live, yet I was leaving. I took a deep breath and tightened my grip on the steering wheel as I drove – I doubted my future, my stability, my safety. I was scared. One thing I knew was that I had to leave – I had to escape the life I had, no matter how difficult it was to survive alone or how hard my family members tried to stop me.
About six weeks later, I received a notice in the mail telling me that I had not been approved for any funding this year and that I was free to re-apply next year. My hands began to shake. I ran to the phone and dialed the number. I hurriedly explained to the woman on the other end why I was calling. She asked me to calm down so that she could understand me. I told her there must have been a mistake. She accessed my file while on the line and told me that they had received the forms over a week late. “But there has to be someway we can work this out! I’m leaving for college in a few weeks!” I said. “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “The form wasn’t even signed by your mother. We called the number she gave us several times to no avail. It’s just too late. You’ve missed the deadline – that money has been allocated to others now.”
An hour later, I was still sitting in the same spot, staring at the wall in my living room. I had not moved. I should have done it myself. This is all my fault, I thought. I shouldn’t have trusted her to mail it in. All of my hard work - what am I going to do? I have no money. I have no where to live in Boston – my federal assistance would have paid for my dorm room. How could my future be falling apart so soon? What will my friends say? I was one of my high school’s best students – how could I be without a college to attend in the fall?
A few weeks later, I packed every possession I could fit into my car. I hugged my mother goodbye and began to drive. As I pulled onto the highway outside of my hometown, I was full of uncertainty. I had $1,259.00 to my name. I had no job. I didn’t have daddy’s credit card. I had no where to live, yet I was leaving. I took a deep breath and tightened my grip on the steering wheel as I drove – I doubted my future, my stability, my safety. I was scared. One thing I knew was that I had to leave – I had to escape the life I had, no matter how difficult it was to survive alone or how hard my family members tried to stop me.
September 12, 2007
Impact Statement
A few days ago, I sealed my envelope addressed to the Department of Corrections, held it to my heart for good luck, then placed it in the mailbox. About one month before, I had received a notice from the state, alerting me to the fact that Matthew Bryant was coming up for parole soon. I had the option of writing an impact statement, they said, for the parole board to read. The hearing is scheduled for October 9th, the Victims Services representative told me. “So just call us on October 10th and we’ll be able to tell you if they’ve decided to release him,” she said. Just like that, I thought. One phone call and you’ll be able to tell me if a monster is allowed to be free again; if he’s allowed to be with his family, fall in love, have children, watch a sunset.
This notice came shortly after the 12 year anniversary of Ericha’s death, as well as weeks after I’d begun to dig through my memories of Ericha’s murder in my therapy sessions. I felt a bit overwhelmed. I didn’t want to have to deal with the possibility of one of Ericha’s murderers being released now. I feared that my emotions regarding this topic were too raw now to be able to deal with that possibility. I put off writing the impact statement until the approaching parole hearing date made it necessary to push myself to complete the statement.
I felt that I had to participate in some way. I felt that I had to keep Ericha’s memory alive in whatever way I could, including in the minds of the parole board members who’d be meeting with Matthew in a few weeks. Matt had been sentenced to 23 years in prison for his role in Ericha’s death. He has served 10 years of his sentence. Sure, 10 years is more than the minimum. But to me – it’s not enough. He owes Ericha more than 10 years. He owes me more than 10 years. He owes my family more than 10 years. He owes the world more than 10 years for brutally taking away one of its most beautiful souls.
This notice came shortly after the 12 year anniversary of Ericha’s death, as well as weeks after I’d begun to dig through my memories of Ericha’s murder in my therapy sessions. I felt a bit overwhelmed. I didn’t want to have to deal with the possibility of one of Ericha’s murderers being released now. I feared that my emotions regarding this topic were too raw now to be able to deal with that possibility. I put off writing the impact statement until the approaching parole hearing date made it necessary to push myself to complete the statement.
I felt that I had to participate in some way. I felt that I had to keep Ericha’s memory alive in whatever way I could, including in the minds of the parole board members who’d be meeting with Matthew in a few weeks. Matt had been sentenced to 23 years in prison for his role in Ericha’s death. He has served 10 years of his sentence. Sure, 10 years is more than the minimum. But to me – it’s not enough. He owes Ericha more than 10 years. He owes me more than 10 years. He owes my family more than 10 years. He owes the world more than 10 years for brutally taking away one of its most beautiful souls.
September 8, 2007
Secure of Change
So far, I had been pleasantly surprised by the tranquility of my visit home. While my family members seemed to still possess a general melancholy, they did not display any open hostility towards me.
My boyfriend and I awoke early so I could have enough time to drive up to Ericha’s grave. It had been years since I had visited Ericha’s grave. The morning was sunny and warm, the breeze was fresh and the car radio was humming. As my boyfriend and I made our way down various country roads, I thought about how lovely this morning was, how peaceful it was. The closer we got to the cemetery, the more I wished that I could share a beautiful morning like this with Ericha. I wondered if Ericha was able to still experience beautiful things, where ever she was. Perhaps she has seen things much more beautiful than anything I could imagine. I hoped this was true as I pulled over to park alongside the cemetery.
Although it had been years, the cemetery had been secure of change. The rows of tombstones were laid out just as I had remembered them. My boyfriend and I reached Ericha’s plot. I knelt down to wipe the grass shavings from her stone. There her name was. I gently placed the roses next to her stone. I began to wipe and dust the trinkets at her gravesite with my hands as they had collected dirt and grass shavings as well. I wiped the porcelain angel with my hands. The breeze on the hillside grew stronger. I slowly and methodically groomed her gravesite. Gently and deliberately, I brushed away more small blades of grass. I weeded the earth in front of the stone. The sea shells I had placed at her grave when I was 13 years old were still there. After I had groomed the gravesite to my satisfaction, I sat staring at it. “I miss you,” I said, my hand resting on the stone. I crossed my legs in front of the stone and prayed. In this sad yet peaceful place, I prayed that Ericha would know that I will always remember her. I prayed that she was in a place that was as beautiful as her soul and as tranquil as she deserved it to be.
I looked down at her grave stone. It was so real, so final. I had come to visit Ericha, but realized that she wasn’t there. The wind dropped off and the cemetery grew quiet. She’s okay now, I thought. I kissed my hand and placed it on the stone. “Goodbye.”
My boyfriend and I awoke early so I could have enough time to drive up to Ericha’s grave. It had been years since I had visited Ericha’s grave. The morning was sunny and warm, the breeze was fresh and the car radio was humming. As my boyfriend and I made our way down various country roads, I thought about how lovely this morning was, how peaceful it was. The closer we got to the cemetery, the more I wished that I could share a beautiful morning like this with Ericha. I wondered if Ericha was able to still experience beautiful things, where ever she was. Perhaps she has seen things much more beautiful than anything I could imagine. I hoped this was true as I pulled over to park alongside the cemetery.
Although it had been years, the cemetery had been secure of change. The rows of tombstones were laid out just as I had remembered them. My boyfriend and I reached Ericha’s plot. I knelt down to wipe the grass shavings from her stone. There her name was. I gently placed the roses next to her stone. I began to wipe and dust the trinkets at her gravesite with my hands as they had collected dirt and grass shavings as well. I wiped the porcelain angel with my hands. The breeze on the hillside grew stronger. I slowly and methodically groomed her gravesite. Gently and deliberately, I brushed away more small blades of grass. I weeded the earth in front of the stone. The sea shells I had placed at her grave when I was 13 years old were still there. After I had groomed the gravesite to my satisfaction, I sat staring at it. “I miss you,” I said, my hand resting on the stone. I crossed my legs in front of the stone and prayed. In this sad yet peaceful place, I prayed that Ericha would know that I will always remember her. I prayed that she was in a place that was as beautiful as her soul and as tranquil as she deserved it to be.
I looked down at her grave stone. It was so real, so final. I had come to visit Ericha, but realized that she wasn’t there. The wind dropped off and the cemetery grew quiet. She’s okay now, I thought. I kissed my hand and placed it on the stone. “Goodbye.”
September 7, 2007
Going Home
About two weeks ago, I left another session with Sara thinking about my upcoming trip back to my hometown. It was normal for me to become somewhat anxious each time I went to visit, but this would be my first trip home since seeking treatment for all of the traumas that occurred during my childhood. This would be the first time I would see my family since picking at the scabs of my childhood and adolescence. I didn’t look forward to the possibility of a guilt trip, of sitting at the dinner table with the family member who had molested me throughout childhood, of having to feel the terrible pangs in my stomach when it came time for me to leave my nephews at the end of the trip. Needless to say, I was glad I would see my family yet cautiously holding my breath to see what my visit would hold.
My boyfriend and I arrived to my hometown, rented a car and headed to our hotel. I began staying at hotels during college, when I found that it was too difficult to stay with any member of my family. My boyfriend and I had just reached our hotel room when I received an excited phone call from my youngest nephew, who is now 11 years old. “Are you ready to go swimming, Emmy?” “Um…yes honey, it will just take us a little bit to get settled in,” I said. “Okay! Grandma and I will be over in a few minutes,” my nephew said excitedly, then hung up. My mother and boyfriend sat poolside and watched as my nephew and I played, frolicked and laughed at each other in the pool. It felt truly great to be with my nephew again, to be able to hold him and play with him. It was so good to hear his laugh.
A few hours later my boyfriend, mother, nephew and I settled into a table at a restaurant to have dinner. I was able to get a good look at my mother. It had been almost a year since I had seen my family. As I looked at my mother I thought of how much she had aged. She didn’t look like she was in very good health, her hair had gone completely gray, her belly had grown a bit, and her cheeks were a bright pink, perhaps from her blood pressure. Her high round cheekbones were still as I remembered them – showcased any time she smiled. She still has such a pretty smile, I thought to myself. This dinner was the calm dinner I had wanted and needed.
It had taken my mother years of outbursts and dramatic visits during my college years for her to be able to be calmer during my visits. I was used to my mother being angry and distant each time I’d visit during the first day or two of my trip. Then, sometimes, by the middle of my trip she’d break out of her anger and spend a calm day with me. Soon, my mother would realize my visit would soon be ending and would swing back into her angry repertoire of guilt trips.
As I sat at this dinner, I thought about how much easier this night was. Perhaps it was time or age. Perhaps it was the fact that I’ve distanced myself enough that she has no choice but to view my life as separate from hers. Perhaps it was the fact that my boyfriend was present and she could not out number me or treat me rudely in front of him. Whatever it was, this trip was different, I thought.
The next morning, my boyfriend was teaching my nephew the basics of soccer at a school soccer field when my mother asked me if we’d have any time to talk during this trip. I told my mother that our trip was pretty full but we could talk now if she wanted. My mother and I sat on the school step overlooking the soccer field.
“How is your therapy sessions going?” my mother asked. “They’re good,” I said. “There have already been a lot of changes in my life, but I’m still working on moving forward.” My mother began to speak about my childhood. She began to speak of the fact that I had been through so much at such a young age. She said that since every other person in the family was acting out because of the chaos, I must have felt that I needed to be the one in control and the one who had to be prefect. “There was so much pressure on you to carry this family, even though you were the youngest,” she said. “There was so much pressure on you to fix everything and everyone. You couldn’t because no one could.” I nodded my head. “Terrible things happened to you,” she said.
Teary-eyed, my mother and I both wiped our faces as we saw my nephew approaching us. “Come on, Emmy! Come play soccer with us!” My nephew reached over and grabbed my wrist. I jumped up from my spot and looked at my mom. She smiled. I turned and walked to the soccer field with my nephew, hand in hand.
My mother and I hadn’t gotten quite enough time to talk. But the conversation had started. My mother had validated so many things for me. Perhaps she would change into the other mom in a few days – the mom that would deny that anything was more chaotic than normal during my childhood. But, I would take that mom with a grain of salt and I would decide that this person, sitting on the school steps with me on this summer afternoon, was my real mom.
My boyfriend and I arrived to my hometown, rented a car and headed to our hotel. I began staying at hotels during college, when I found that it was too difficult to stay with any member of my family. My boyfriend and I had just reached our hotel room when I received an excited phone call from my youngest nephew, who is now 11 years old. “Are you ready to go swimming, Emmy?” “Um…yes honey, it will just take us a little bit to get settled in,” I said. “Okay! Grandma and I will be over in a few minutes,” my nephew said excitedly, then hung up. My mother and boyfriend sat poolside and watched as my nephew and I played, frolicked and laughed at each other in the pool. It felt truly great to be with my nephew again, to be able to hold him and play with him. It was so good to hear his laugh.
A few hours later my boyfriend, mother, nephew and I settled into a table at a restaurant to have dinner. I was able to get a good look at my mother. It had been almost a year since I had seen my family. As I looked at my mother I thought of how much she had aged. She didn’t look like she was in very good health, her hair had gone completely gray, her belly had grown a bit, and her cheeks were a bright pink, perhaps from her blood pressure. Her high round cheekbones were still as I remembered them – showcased any time she smiled. She still has such a pretty smile, I thought to myself. This dinner was the calm dinner I had wanted and needed.
It had taken my mother years of outbursts and dramatic visits during my college years for her to be able to be calmer during my visits. I was used to my mother being angry and distant each time I’d visit during the first day or two of my trip. Then, sometimes, by the middle of my trip she’d break out of her anger and spend a calm day with me. Soon, my mother would realize my visit would soon be ending and would swing back into her angry repertoire of guilt trips.
As I sat at this dinner, I thought about how much easier this night was. Perhaps it was time or age. Perhaps it was the fact that I’ve distanced myself enough that she has no choice but to view my life as separate from hers. Perhaps it was the fact that my boyfriend was present and she could not out number me or treat me rudely in front of him. Whatever it was, this trip was different, I thought.
The next morning, my boyfriend was teaching my nephew the basics of soccer at a school soccer field when my mother asked me if we’d have any time to talk during this trip. I told my mother that our trip was pretty full but we could talk now if she wanted. My mother and I sat on the school step overlooking the soccer field.
“How is your therapy sessions going?” my mother asked. “They’re good,” I said. “There have already been a lot of changes in my life, but I’m still working on moving forward.” My mother began to speak about my childhood. She began to speak of the fact that I had been through so much at such a young age. She said that since every other person in the family was acting out because of the chaos, I must have felt that I needed to be the one in control and the one who had to be prefect. “There was so much pressure on you to carry this family, even though you were the youngest,” she said. “There was so much pressure on you to fix everything and everyone. You couldn’t because no one could.” I nodded my head. “Terrible things happened to you,” she said.
Teary-eyed, my mother and I both wiped our faces as we saw my nephew approaching us. “Come on, Emmy! Come play soccer with us!” My nephew reached over and grabbed my wrist. I jumped up from my spot and looked at my mom. She smiled. I turned and walked to the soccer field with my nephew, hand in hand.
My mother and I hadn’t gotten quite enough time to talk. But the conversation had started. My mother had validated so many things for me. Perhaps she would change into the other mom in a few days – the mom that would deny that anything was more chaotic than normal during my childhood. But, I would take that mom with a grain of salt and I would decide that this person, sitting on the school steps with me on this summer afternoon, was my real mom.
September 4, 2007
Lunch
My father suggested we go out for lunch.
He had been in town a couple of days, there to witness my graduation from high school. This is one event he would see, so many others he had missed. My father had declared after my birth, the birth of his third child, that he had made a mistake. He didn’t want to be a father. He promptly packed up his belongings and his favorite mistress, to move to a warmer climate; a climate 1500 miles from me. Cello concerts, report cards, awards, school sporting events, proms, highs, lows – he missed them all. He was a distant relative I spoke with on the phone and visited every once in a while. He had his chosen, better life and I had my life – whether I wanted it or not.
I had barely spoken to my father the first few days of his trip. He then decided, perhaps to bribe me into speaking, that he would buy me a laptop as a graduation gift. We had finished buying the laptop, yet I wasn’t anymore talkative. So, his suggestion was lunch.
We pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant. My stomach somersaulted as my mind began to race with ideas of how to eat lunch without eating lunch. During the past year, I had shed almost 30 lbs from my 5’2” frame. Along with that, I lost energy, hair, my curves that I had loved. As we walked into the restaurant I could see the reflection of my pale, gaunt face in the door of the restaurant.
We sat silently at our table, my father shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He waited for me to speak, for me to be polite, for me to make him feel comfortable. I couldn’t. Not anymore. I couldn’t make him feel better about himself. For years I wondered what was wrong with me. How could he leave so easily? Why wasn’t I enough for him? Why did he have to move all the way across the country? Was I that uninteresting? Was I that plain? Why didn’t he love me?
It was inappropriate to display anger in my family – it would upset my mother. No – it was much more acceptable to walk on eggshells. So I learned. I learned to stuff it so I could take care of my family in the absence of my father. I learned to stuff so I wouldn’t be selfishly consumed with anger. My years of stuffing had done a number on my body. Finally, when I couldn’t stuff the anger anymore, it began to show up in other ways, like my eating (or lack there of). I thought it selfish to direct my anger outward – so I directed it at myself – and took it out on my body.
I decided a few weeks before my father came to visit, that I would tell him about my eating disorder. I worked up all the courage I could while on the phone with him one night. After all, it’s not appropriate to talk openly of uncomfortable subjects in my family. I danced around the topic for nearly half an hour. Finally, as my father began to end the conversation, I was forced to tell. I spoke slowly, pacing around my room. My head started to pound. I was going to do it – I was going to trust him. “Well Dad, what I’m trying to say is, I…I …well, I have an eating disorder.” I waited, holding my breath. Silence. Finally, an eternity later my father said, “Mmm.” I waited another moment. Nothing. I waited a few more moments. I made sure he was done speaking after his grunt of an answer. I said, “Well, I have to go. (pause) bye.” I was mortified, embarrassed, enraged, saddened. Why did he not care? Why does he not love me enough to be concerned. “Mmm.” Nothing more.
When my father first arrived into town for graduation and saw me, 30 lbs lighter, he said nothing. That's not quite true, he did say one thing when he looked at me - "Yeesh, you need to get to a tanning booth."
There we were sitting, my father waiting for me to speak. He started with small talk. I nodded my answers, looking out of the window as he spoke. He stopped. I began to think silently. I thought about the fact that my father and I had never had an open and honest discussion in my lifetime.
My father ended his story of his recent visit to see my uncle. I nodded my head and looked down at the table. He cleared his throat. “You know. This problem you have. Well, I think I might know a little bit about it. You see, I’ve never told you this, but I’m pretty hard on myself. I’m pretty much a perfectionist. That’s okay to a certain extent, but it has really disrupted my life. As I was working my way up the career ladder, I received many different awards. At the end of each month, I’d throw another plaque onto the floor of my closet. I only notice when I don’t get an award at the end of the month. And I obsess over not getting one. I ask myself why I’m so terrible at my job.”
My father went on to say that maybe I got my need for perfection from him. I thought for a moment, paused, then began talking. While I didn’t think the roots of our problems were the same, I appreciated my father’s candor. Finally, candor. I tried to explain my disease to him, as well as someone can who is on one side of an almost incomprehensible disease. I spoke of suppressed feelings. I spoke of subconsciously forcing myself to be the size of a child, because I so wanted to be in a child’s role at least once in my life.
My father listened, his forehead wrinkled, trying to grasp my explanation. I knew he would never fully be able to understand it, but it warmed my heart to know that he was trying to.
Then, my father did something I’ll never forget. He cleared his throat and looked up at me. Teary eyed, he said, “You know….I left you. I picked up and left. You and your brother and your sister.” He wiped his nose with his napkin. “That must have affected you greatly. That must have been very hard for you. “He paused to compose himself. “I’m sorry.” Tears rolled down his cheeks and mine. I reached over and placed my hand atop his. “It’s okay, Dad.”
It was not okay. It wasn’t the best response, but it was the only one I could muster at that moment. I marveled at the apology I had never thought I would receive.
He had been in town a couple of days, there to witness my graduation from high school. This is one event he would see, so many others he had missed. My father had declared after my birth, the birth of his third child, that he had made a mistake. He didn’t want to be a father. He promptly packed up his belongings and his favorite mistress, to move to a warmer climate; a climate 1500 miles from me. Cello concerts, report cards, awards, school sporting events, proms, highs, lows – he missed them all. He was a distant relative I spoke with on the phone and visited every once in a while. He had his chosen, better life and I had my life – whether I wanted it or not.
I had barely spoken to my father the first few days of his trip. He then decided, perhaps to bribe me into speaking, that he would buy me a laptop as a graduation gift. We had finished buying the laptop, yet I wasn’t anymore talkative. So, his suggestion was lunch.
We pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant. My stomach somersaulted as my mind began to race with ideas of how to eat lunch without eating lunch. During the past year, I had shed almost 30 lbs from my 5’2” frame. Along with that, I lost energy, hair, my curves that I had loved. As we walked into the restaurant I could see the reflection of my pale, gaunt face in the door of the restaurant.
We sat silently at our table, my father shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He waited for me to speak, for me to be polite, for me to make him feel comfortable. I couldn’t. Not anymore. I couldn’t make him feel better about himself. For years I wondered what was wrong with me. How could he leave so easily? Why wasn’t I enough for him? Why did he have to move all the way across the country? Was I that uninteresting? Was I that plain? Why didn’t he love me?
It was inappropriate to display anger in my family – it would upset my mother. No – it was much more acceptable to walk on eggshells. So I learned. I learned to stuff it so I could take care of my family in the absence of my father. I learned to stuff so I wouldn’t be selfishly consumed with anger. My years of stuffing had done a number on my body. Finally, when I couldn’t stuff the anger anymore, it began to show up in other ways, like my eating (or lack there of). I thought it selfish to direct my anger outward – so I directed it at myself – and took it out on my body.
I decided a few weeks before my father came to visit, that I would tell him about my eating disorder. I worked up all the courage I could while on the phone with him one night. After all, it’s not appropriate to talk openly of uncomfortable subjects in my family. I danced around the topic for nearly half an hour. Finally, as my father began to end the conversation, I was forced to tell. I spoke slowly, pacing around my room. My head started to pound. I was going to do it – I was going to trust him. “Well Dad, what I’m trying to say is, I…I …well, I have an eating disorder.” I waited, holding my breath. Silence. Finally, an eternity later my father said, “Mmm.” I waited another moment. Nothing. I waited a few more moments. I made sure he was done speaking after his grunt of an answer. I said, “Well, I have to go. (pause) bye.” I was mortified, embarrassed, enraged, saddened. Why did he not care? Why does he not love me enough to be concerned. “Mmm.” Nothing more.
When my father first arrived into town for graduation and saw me, 30 lbs lighter, he said nothing. That's not quite true, he did say one thing when he looked at me - "Yeesh, you need to get to a tanning booth."
There we were sitting, my father waiting for me to speak. He started with small talk. I nodded my answers, looking out of the window as he spoke. He stopped. I began to think silently. I thought about the fact that my father and I had never had an open and honest discussion in my lifetime.
My father ended his story of his recent visit to see my uncle. I nodded my head and looked down at the table. He cleared his throat. “You know. This problem you have. Well, I think I might know a little bit about it. You see, I’ve never told you this, but I’m pretty hard on myself. I’m pretty much a perfectionist. That’s okay to a certain extent, but it has really disrupted my life. As I was working my way up the career ladder, I received many different awards. At the end of each month, I’d throw another plaque onto the floor of my closet. I only notice when I don’t get an award at the end of the month. And I obsess over not getting one. I ask myself why I’m so terrible at my job.”
My father went on to say that maybe I got my need for perfection from him. I thought for a moment, paused, then began talking. While I didn’t think the roots of our problems were the same, I appreciated my father’s candor. Finally, candor. I tried to explain my disease to him, as well as someone can who is on one side of an almost incomprehensible disease. I spoke of suppressed feelings. I spoke of subconsciously forcing myself to be the size of a child, because I so wanted to be in a child’s role at least once in my life.
My father listened, his forehead wrinkled, trying to grasp my explanation. I knew he would never fully be able to understand it, but it warmed my heart to know that he was trying to.
Then, my father did something I’ll never forget. He cleared his throat and looked up at me. Teary eyed, he said, “You know….I left you. I picked up and left. You and your brother and your sister.” He wiped his nose with his napkin. “That must have affected you greatly. That must have been very hard for you. “He paused to compose himself. “I’m sorry.” Tears rolled down his cheeks and mine. I reached over and placed my hand atop his. “It’s okay, Dad.”
It was not okay. It wasn’t the best response, but it was the only one I could muster at that moment. I marveled at the apology I had never thought I would receive.
One Step Forward, Two Steps Back
I dove into high school head first, certain that I would maintain good enough grades to earn a scholarship large enough to shuttle me out of my home town for good. I made friends and participated in various extra curricular activities. I began logging hours of community service.
Midway through high school, I became active in local politics. I was later asked to join a national campaign as an intern. I left school each day and headed straight for the campaign office, where I’d work until the wee hours of the morning. I stopped during the dinner hour to do my school homework. Although I got very little sleep, I was more than thankful for the campaigning experience. I felt as though I had found something I was naturally good at, as well as something that seemed to make a difference. I felt like I was part of something bigger than myself. I was surrounded by people who wanted to make changes in our country for the better. This goal was refreshingly unselfish to me. The campaign office became my home. Daily, I felt the excitement of the campaign trail. Daily, I listened to the stories of regular, middle class Americans. I listened to their needs, their regrets and their dreams. I worked harder than I had ever worked on the campaign. I had never been able to work so hard on such little sleep in my life. There is a wonderful mix of audacity, energy, adrenalin and hope that exists on a campaign trail that I have never seen in any other job setting to this day. This mix some how made our tightly-woven campaign team push through sickness, lethargy and a rollercoaster of emotions each day. The campaign allowed me to do something that I quickly came to love. It advanced my self confidence and made me feel as if I had more purpose in the world.
After the campaign came to an end, I re-focused my energy on high school. I felt as though I was going backwards as l re-joined my school. I felt that I had experienced and had learned so much on the campaign that I wasn’t able to use on a day to day basis. I decided I would work as hard as I could to finish high school as soon as possible, in order to move onto college.
About one year later, I began to develop an eating disorder. I didn’t really understand why I was doing what I was doing. Nevertheless, I started eating less and less each day. I routinely told my mother I had already eaten dinner, when I had not eaten anything at all during the day. I would purge the small amount of food I ate during the day. My weight slowly dropped as dark circles formed under my eyes. I had a dream one evening that I was sitting in a doctor’s office. The doctor told me, very matter-of-factly, that I was going to die. There was nothing he could do. I awoke in a sweat. The next day, I called my doctor’s office to get a referral for an eating disorders specialist. After everything I had survived, I thought, I refused to die from the eating disorder that had gotten decidedly out of control. I began seeing the eating disorders specialist, while no one in my family had known I had been diagnosed with an eating disorder yet. I began to dig into why I had developed the disorder. For me, the disease was not a result of looking at too many fashion magazines. It was not a result of being overly vain. I believe that when someone or something is preventing a person from expressing their emotions in a normal healthy way, those emotions build up until that person is no longer able to hold them inside. That person inevitably acts out – sometimes by cutting themselves or being promiscuous, sometimes by doing drugs or drinking (as my brother had done). I chose to stop eating. I needed to act out after the years of trauma, but I couldn’t act out towards my family. I felt that would be selfish. I didn’t want to hurt anyone else; therefore, I continued to hurt myself. I unconsciously reduced myself to the size of a child – perhaps because I so badly wanted to be in the role of the child. I so badly wanted someone to take care of me. Making myself sick was the only way I could think of to force those who did not want to be in the adult role, to take care of me. I had lost 20 pounds on my 5’2” frame by the time I told my mother about my eating disorder. She began to cry. “How long have you been seeing this doctor?” “About two months,” I told my mother. “I didn’t even know,” cried my mother. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I said.
I fainted several times at school. My doctors told me that my electrolytes were out of order. I experienced heart palpitations and chest pain. Yet, in my mind, I wasn’t thin. One Saturday afternoon my younger nephew was visiting. I was lying on my bed, out of breath when my nephew grabbed my wrist. “Emmy – let’s go to the park!!” “I can’t. Not right now,” I said. “But Emmy, you never take me to the park any more! Please, Emmy.” I placed my feet on the floor and slowly tried to rise from my bed. Suddenly, my vision went black. I grabbed the edge of the bed and sat back down. After my nephew went home, I burrowed my head into my pillow and cried. This had gone too far. I no longer had the strength to take my beautiful nephew to the park. I had to work harder to fight this. I couldn’t let my self-indulgent disorder prevent me from living any longer. I had to set a better, healthier example for my nephews.
It took several years and several relapses, but I did find that I was strong enough to overcome this disorder. Even though it is not an active problem in my current life, I am mindful of it, making sure not to relapse again.
Midway through high school, I became active in local politics. I was later asked to join a national campaign as an intern. I left school each day and headed straight for the campaign office, where I’d work until the wee hours of the morning. I stopped during the dinner hour to do my school homework. Although I got very little sleep, I was more than thankful for the campaigning experience. I felt as though I had found something I was naturally good at, as well as something that seemed to make a difference. I felt like I was part of something bigger than myself. I was surrounded by people who wanted to make changes in our country for the better. This goal was refreshingly unselfish to me. The campaign office became my home. Daily, I felt the excitement of the campaign trail. Daily, I listened to the stories of regular, middle class Americans. I listened to their needs, their regrets and their dreams. I worked harder than I had ever worked on the campaign. I had never been able to work so hard on such little sleep in my life. There is a wonderful mix of audacity, energy, adrenalin and hope that exists on a campaign trail that I have never seen in any other job setting to this day. This mix some how made our tightly-woven campaign team push through sickness, lethargy and a rollercoaster of emotions each day. The campaign allowed me to do something that I quickly came to love. It advanced my self confidence and made me feel as if I had more purpose in the world.
After the campaign came to an end, I re-focused my energy on high school. I felt as though I was going backwards as l re-joined my school. I felt that I had experienced and had learned so much on the campaign that I wasn’t able to use on a day to day basis. I decided I would work as hard as I could to finish high school as soon as possible, in order to move onto college.
About one year later, I began to develop an eating disorder. I didn’t really understand why I was doing what I was doing. Nevertheless, I started eating less and less each day. I routinely told my mother I had already eaten dinner, when I had not eaten anything at all during the day. I would purge the small amount of food I ate during the day. My weight slowly dropped as dark circles formed under my eyes. I had a dream one evening that I was sitting in a doctor’s office. The doctor told me, very matter-of-factly, that I was going to die. There was nothing he could do. I awoke in a sweat. The next day, I called my doctor’s office to get a referral for an eating disorders specialist. After everything I had survived, I thought, I refused to die from the eating disorder that had gotten decidedly out of control. I began seeing the eating disorders specialist, while no one in my family had known I had been diagnosed with an eating disorder yet. I began to dig into why I had developed the disorder. For me, the disease was not a result of looking at too many fashion magazines. It was not a result of being overly vain. I believe that when someone or something is preventing a person from expressing their emotions in a normal healthy way, those emotions build up until that person is no longer able to hold them inside. That person inevitably acts out – sometimes by cutting themselves or being promiscuous, sometimes by doing drugs or drinking (as my brother had done). I chose to stop eating. I needed to act out after the years of trauma, but I couldn’t act out towards my family. I felt that would be selfish. I didn’t want to hurt anyone else; therefore, I continued to hurt myself. I unconsciously reduced myself to the size of a child – perhaps because I so badly wanted to be in the role of the child. I so badly wanted someone to take care of me. Making myself sick was the only way I could think of to force those who did not want to be in the adult role, to take care of me. I had lost 20 pounds on my 5’2” frame by the time I told my mother about my eating disorder. She began to cry. “How long have you been seeing this doctor?” “About two months,” I told my mother. “I didn’t even know,” cried my mother. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I said.
I fainted several times at school. My doctors told me that my electrolytes were out of order. I experienced heart palpitations and chest pain. Yet, in my mind, I wasn’t thin. One Saturday afternoon my younger nephew was visiting. I was lying on my bed, out of breath when my nephew grabbed my wrist. “Emmy – let’s go to the park!!” “I can’t. Not right now,” I said. “But Emmy, you never take me to the park any more! Please, Emmy.” I placed my feet on the floor and slowly tried to rise from my bed. Suddenly, my vision went black. I grabbed the edge of the bed and sat back down. After my nephew went home, I burrowed my head into my pillow and cried. This had gone too far. I no longer had the strength to take my beautiful nephew to the park. I had to work harder to fight this. I couldn’t let my self-indulgent disorder prevent me from living any longer. I had to set a better, healthier example for my nephews.
It took several years and several relapses, but I did find that I was strong enough to overcome this disorder. Even though it is not an active problem in my current life, I am mindful of it, making sure not to relapse again.
August 24, 2007
Summer with my boys
Time passed after the sentencing of Ericha’s killers. I began to focus on getting into the high school I wanted to attend. I wanted to attend a private Catholic high school that my mother and aunts had attended, not because it was Catholic but because it was seen as the premier college-preparatory school in the area. I took my education very seriously – I saw it as my ticket out of my home state. I wanted a much different life than I had at that time. I wanted freedom from my family. I wanted space. I studied feverishly for the entrance exams of this high school. I would soon find that I had indeed been accepted into this high school. I was also awarded a scholarship. I was elated yet anxious. I wanted to be as successful as possible in high school and wasn’t sure yet if I was up to this new challenge. The summer before my freshman year would be my time to prepare, I decided. I received a summer reading assignment list in the mail and went to it.
As that summer began, my sister’s marriage deteriorated rapidly. My sister and her husband split and my sister (as well as my two nephews) moved in with my mother and me. My mother and sister had jobs in the city, which they drove to each day. I did not have my license yet, as I was 14 years old. I was, therefore, confined to our home in our small town. I awoke early each morning to care for my nephews, who at this point were 5 years and 2 years of age. My older nephew had developed emotional problems, possibly from being exposed to the unhealthy marriage of his parents. Both of my nephews had already witnessed bitter fights, sobbing and unstable parents, as well as a lack of adult-like conduct from the adults in their lives. I had already begun to fear that history was repeating itself and my nephews would be hardened by years of fending for themselves in less than appropriate living conditions. I made it my goal to do whatever it was I could to curve that. Because I was the person in their lives that realized the sensitivity of their situation, I felt it was my obligation to be as responsible for them as I could.
My five year old nephew had already begun to act out. It was obvious to me that he had learned his parents’ habits of exhibiting anger. He would routinely break into severe tantrums. I would prevent him from hurting his younger brother, therefore, I would routinely receive the brunt of his blows – whether they were from his tiny, angry fist, his shoe or a rock he had picked up in his rage to throw at my head. Some days were better than others. I became the primary caretaker for my nephews. My sister felt the need to live out her teenage years during this time, perhaps because she hadn’t been able to when she was actually a teen. She routinely went straight to the bars with friends after work and that is where she would often stay well into the evening. When my mother returned home from work each day, she went straight to her room. I felt as though I had become a single parent of two boys overnight. I loved each of them more than anything in the world. They were the only two people in my family that had the right to act like children. I struggled to work with my nephew on his tantrums. I talked to him about anger, the fact that anger was okay to experience and the appropriate ways to vent it. I encouraged him to express his feelings through painting – something he loved to do. We worked on this together little by little. Slowly, he improved.
While working with my older nephew on his tantrums, I also tried to keep my younger nephew (a toddler) entertained. I worked to keep him on a healthy schedule of meals, naps and exercise. My nephews began to improve and although they were still rambunctious, they also seemed slightly happier.
During this summer, I began to experience insomnia. The only time I had for myself was after I got my nephews to bed in the evening. It was during the evening hours that all of my worries regarding my nephews boiled to the surface. I would go to my room, play my music and write about all the things that I worried I would not be able to do for them once the fall arrived and I would have to begin school. In the evening, I worked hard to map out what activities might calm them or what strategy to use to alleviate sibling rivalry. Between the constant hyperactivity of caring for both nephews and my lack of sleep in the evenings, I became more and more exhausted. I felt more and more alone.
One thing I was thankful for during this time was the ability to have control over the care of my nephews. I had already developed detailed theories on how to care for children. My ability to control the daily environment of my nephews allowed me to try to protect them from unhealthy influences – anything from anger, fighting and yelling to violent movies or lack of healthy food. I was able to control their environment and provide stability, affection, learning, warmth – all the things I had so often wished for while growing up. Of course, I could not always protect my nephews from all of the negative happenings of our family, but during these summer days, I was thankful to have the opportunity to provide a safe space for them to flourish in, if only for one summer.
Of course, my nephews deserved so much more. They deserved to live in a healthy, stable, loving environment around the clock, every single day of every single year. But eventually, my sister reconciled with her husband and moved the boys back in to their home. Before long, their bitter fighting had once again replaced the calm lunch hour the boys and I had during the summer. My older nephew’s severe tantrums replaced the expressive painting time that I had set aside for him.
Shortly before my sister and nephews moved out of our home, I began high school. While I was ready to focus on my new school and attempt to make friends, I also felt the guilt of no longer caring for my nephews on a daily basis. I did not have a choice and I certainly would not have been able to still care for them during the day if I wanted to attend high school, yet the guilt was still there. I had lost that daily control I had over their environment. I was still actively involved in my nephews’ lives and saw each of them several times a week as I had in the past, but now – my worries over their childhood experiences grew. I feared they would continue to grow up too quickly, too harshly. I struggled with these fears as I readied myself to begin my high school education.
As that summer began, my sister’s marriage deteriorated rapidly. My sister and her husband split and my sister (as well as my two nephews) moved in with my mother and me. My mother and sister had jobs in the city, which they drove to each day. I did not have my license yet, as I was 14 years old. I was, therefore, confined to our home in our small town. I awoke early each morning to care for my nephews, who at this point were 5 years and 2 years of age. My older nephew had developed emotional problems, possibly from being exposed to the unhealthy marriage of his parents. Both of my nephews had already witnessed bitter fights, sobbing and unstable parents, as well as a lack of adult-like conduct from the adults in their lives. I had already begun to fear that history was repeating itself and my nephews would be hardened by years of fending for themselves in less than appropriate living conditions. I made it my goal to do whatever it was I could to curve that. Because I was the person in their lives that realized the sensitivity of their situation, I felt it was my obligation to be as responsible for them as I could.
My five year old nephew had already begun to act out. It was obvious to me that he had learned his parents’ habits of exhibiting anger. He would routinely break into severe tantrums. I would prevent him from hurting his younger brother, therefore, I would routinely receive the brunt of his blows – whether they were from his tiny, angry fist, his shoe or a rock he had picked up in his rage to throw at my head. Some days were better than others. I became the primary caretaker for my nephews. My sister felt the need to live out her teenage years during this time, perhaps because she hadn’t been able to when she was actually a teen. She routinely went straight to the bars with friends after work and that is where she would often stay well into the evening. When my mother returned home from work each day, she went straight to her room. I felt as though I had become a single parent of two boys overnight. I loved each of them more than anything in the world. They were the only two people in my family that had the right to act like children. I struggled to work with my nephew on his tantrums. I talked to him about anger, the fact that anger was okay to experience and the appropriate ways to vent it. I encouraged him to express his feelings through painting – something he loved to do. We worked on this together little by little. Slowly, he improved.
While working with my older nephew on his tantrums, I also tried to keep my younger nephew (a toddler) entertained. I worked to keep him on a healthy schedule of meals, naps and exercise. My nephews began to improve and although they were still rambunctious, they also seemed slightly happier.
During this summer, I began to experience insomnia. The only time I had for myself was after I got my nephews to bed in the evening. It was during the evening hours that all of my worries regarding my nephews boiled to the surface. I would go to my room, play my music and write about all the things that I worried I would not be able to do for them once the fall arrived and I would have to begin school. In the evening, I worked hard to map out what activities might calm them or what strategy to use to alleviate sibling rivalry. Between the constant hyperactivity of caring for both nephews and my lack of sleep in the evenings, I became more and more exhausted. I felt more and more alone.
One thing I was thankful for during this time was the ability to have control over the care of my nephews. I had already developed detailed theories on how to care for children. My ability to control the daily environment of my nephews allowed me to try to protect them from unhealthy influences – anything from anger, fighting and yelling to violent movies or lack of healthy food. I was able to control their environment and provide stability, affection, learning, warmth – all the things I had so often wished for while growing up. Of course, I could not always protect my nephews from all of the negative happenings of our family, but during these summer days, I was thankful to have the opportunity to provide a safe space for them to flourish in, if only for one summer.
Of course, my nephews deserved so much more. They deserved to live in a healthy, stable, loving environment around the clock, every single day of every single year. But eventually, my sister reconciled with her husband and moved the boys back in to their home. Before long, their bitter fighting had once again replaced the calm lunch hour the boys and I had during the summer. My older nephew’s severe tantrums replaced the expressive painting time that I had set aside for him.
Shortly before my sister and nephews moved out of our home, I began high school. While I was ready to focus on my new school and attempt to make friends, I also felt the guilt of no longer caring for my nephews on a daily basis. I did not have a choice and I certainly would not have been able to still care for them during the day if I wanted to attend high school, yet the guilt was still there. I had lost that daily control I had over their environment. I was still actively involved in my nephews’ lives and saw each of them several times a week as I had in the past, but now – my worries over their childhood experiences grew. I feared they would continue to grow up too quickly, too harshly. I struggled with these fears as I readied myself to begin my high school education.
August 22, 2007
Not good enough
I returned to Sara's office for another session. Our last session had been particulary stressful, as I was recounting the details surrounding Ericha's death to Sara.
During today's session, we revisited the ideas I had formed about myself throughout childhood. I had decidedly formed some pretty negative opinions about myself, which had made adult life difficult. At times in the recent past, I had been certain that any partner I had, secretly didn't want to be with me and would eventually leave. I thought that it was pure luck to land a decent job, rather than hard work. If a stranger bumped into me without excusing themselves, it must be because they didn't like me, I had thought. I paused during my session, pensive. How have I allowed myself to view myself in this way for so long? I would never treat a friend or family member this way - so why was it okay to put myself down? I began to think of the past.
____________________________________________________________
Why am I not good enough?
I couldn’t fix my mother. I couldn’t make her happy. No matter what I did, I couldn’t make her happy. I began to think, if she really loved me, she wouldn’t wish so often for death. If I was enough for her, she wouldn’t want to leave me behind.
One fight between my mother and I stands out in my memory. I am about 13. My mother is having one of her “fits” – the kind in which she denounces life on earth. Sobbing, she declares that she no longer wishes to live – she’s in too much pain. She gathers her jacket and purse to leave the house. My mother would sometimes go driving during her fits – she would disappear for hours. I’m not sure where she went or what she did. And when she disappeared – I was never quite sure if she’d return; if I’d see her car turn into our driveway or if some day, as I feared, it would be a police car turning into the driveway, coming to tell me that she had finally killed herself. Every time my mother left, the moments I would wait at the window for her return felt like days.
My mother slammed her purse onto the counter and hurriedly searched through it for her car keys. Suddenly, she looked at me – with rage in her eyes. “Where are my keys, Emily?!?!” I looked at my feet. Her voice grew and became more desperate. “Emily! Where did you hide my keys?!?! Give them to me!” I raised my head and said, “No.” She repeated her request. I repeated my response. She stepped closer to me, angrily screaming. “No mom. I don’t want you to go,” I said. I tried my best to stay calm – one of us had to be. The fear, anger and grief were tussling with each other in my stomach as the sharp pain in my head grew. On the outside – I stood firm. I didn’t want her to go – I didn’t know if I would ever see her again.
Then it came – her rage. As she finally realized I was not going to give her the keys, her anger boiled over. “Don’t you see that I am in pain? Why would you want to keep me in this pain? Why won’t you let me go? I’m in pain! Why would you do this to me?..... No wonder I want to kill myself, with a daughter like you!”’
There is was. The sentence that pierced my heart.
During today's session, we revisited the ideas I had formed about myself throughout childhood. I had decidedly formed some pretty negative opinions about myself, which had made adult life difficult. At times in the recent past, I had been certain that any partner I had, secretly didn't want to be with me and would eventually leave. I thought that it was pure luck to land a decent job, rather than hard work. If a stranger bumped into me without excusing themselves, it must be because they didn't like me, I had thought. I paused during my session, pensive. How have I allowed myself to view myself in this way for so long? I would never treat a friend or family member this way - so why was it okay to put myself down? I began to think of the past.
____________________________________________________________
Why am I not good enough?
I couldn’t fix my mother. I couldn’t make her happy. No matter what I did, I couldn’t make her happy. I began to think, if she really loved me, she wouldn’t wish so often for death. If I was enough for her, she wouldn’t want to leave me behind.
One fight between my mother and I stands out in my memory. I am about 13. My mother is having one of her “fits” – the kind in which she denounces life on earth. Sobbing, she declares that she no longer wishes to live – she’s in too much pain. She gathers her jacket and purse to leave the house. My mother would sometimes go driving during her fits – she would disappear for hours. I’m not sure where she went or what she did. And when she disappeared – I was never quite sure if she’d return; if I’d see her car turn into our driveway or if some day, as I feared, it would be a police car turning into the driveway, coming to tell me that she had finally killed herself. Every time my mother left, the moments I would wait at the window for her return felt like days.
My mother slammed her purse onto the counter and hurriedly searched through it for her car keys. Suddenly, she looked at me – with rage in her eyes. “Where are my keys, Emily?!?!” I looked at my feet. Her voice grew and became more desperate. “Emily! Where did you hide my keys?!?! Give them to me!” I raised my head and said, “No.” She repeated her request. I repeated my response. She stepped closer to me, angrily screaming. “No mom. I don’t want you to go,” I said. I tried my best to stay calm – one of us had to be. The fear, anger and grief were tussling with each other in my stomach as the sharp pain in my head grew. On the outside – I stood firm. I didn’t want her to go – I didn’t know if I would ever see her again.
Then it came – her rage. As she finally realized I was not going to give her the keys, her anger boiled over. “Don’t you see that I am in pain? Why would you want to keep me in this pain? Why won’t you let me go? I’m in pain! Why would you do this to me?..... No wonder I want to kill myself, with a daughter like you!”’
There is was. The sentence that pierced my heart.
August 21, 2007
This Night
It was a dark evening. My mother and I were making the drive out to our home. We’d moved outside of the city I grew up in, to a small town. I couldn’t stand the small town and the impenetrable clicks of the farm kids, who’d known each other since birth. In my view, the tiny town was narrow-minded, unresponsive to the modern world and out of touch. I had heard a rumor that an African-American family had once lived in this town and had been run out. I wasn’t sure if the rumor was true or not, but I guessed it was true, given that I had my own experiences with the harsh rejection from the town’s kids.
I’d come to hate the town, perhaps because I felt it rejected me, perhaps because I had loved the city I grew up in and wanted to return to it. I was thirteen.
But on this night, however, the town was not on my mind. My mother and I often tried to come up with ways to entertain ourselves on the long drive home. On this night, we sang. My mother’s soprano voice rose. My own voice (that of an alto) rose to meet my mother’s, then dropped slightly and paired with hers to produce a beautiful harmony. We sang Irish folk songs that my grandparents had sung. Every so often, we hit a note that needed a slight re-adjustment, paused to re-adjust, and then moved along in the melody. Occasionally we stopped to laugh at our mistakes or maybe just because we were happy. We ended another song in perfect harmony. I smiled, proud of our collective accomplishment. I thought of my grandfather, who’d sung many of these songs to me when I was a toddler. I thought of my grandparents looking down on my mother and I. On this night, my mother was calm, loving, caring and fun. On this night, I was a child.
This is one of the happier memories I have with my mother.
I’d come to hate the town, perhaps because I felt it rejected me, perhaps because I had loved the city I grew up in and wanted to return to it. I was thirteen.
But on this night, however, the town was not on my mind. My mother and I often tried to come up with ways to entertain ourselves on the long drive home. On this night, we sang. My mother’s soprano voice rose. My own voice (that of an alto) rose to meet my mother’s, then dropped slightly and paired with hers to produce a beautiful harmony. We sang Irish folk songs that my grandparents had sung. Every so often, we hit a note that needed a slight re-adjustment, paused to re-adjust, and then moved along in the melody. Occasionally we stopped to laugh at our mistakes or maybe just because we were happy. We ended another song in perfect harmony. I smiled, proud of our collective accomplishment. I thought of my grandfather, who’d sung many of these songs to me when I was a toddler. I thought of my grandparents looking down on my mother and I. On this night, my mother was calm, loving, caring and fun. On this night, I was a child.
This is one of the happier memories I have with my mother.
August 16, 2007
No Regrets
A few weeks after Matt was sentenced, his older brother Ben was to be sentenced. I had decided this time that I had to speak in court. I had chose not to speak at Matt’s sentencing and felt horribly guilty when Matt was sentenced to much less than what I had hoped for. While I was not immodest enough to believe that my contribution to the proceedings could have changed their outcome, I still felt the remorse of having not stood in front of the judge to give every possible argument I could think of for sentencing Matt to the maximum sentence possible. I promised myself that I would speak at Ben’s sentencing. I felt that if there was even the slightest possibility that my statement could have any affect, it must be done. And if my statement made no affect on the judge, then I at least needed to stand in court and tell each and every soul there how special Ericha was and how much worse the world is without her. “Are you sure you want to speak, Emily?” my mother asked me the night before the hearing. “You were in such pain at Matt’s hearing.” “That’s why I need to speak mom – to have no regrets afterwards.”
I sat at the kitchen table the night before the hearing, hunched over the scribbling that I hoped to mold into my impact statement. By this time, I was 13 years old. I wrote a thought down, decided it wasn’t good enough and crossed it out. As the night rolled on, I repeated this step several more times. How could I possibly say all the things I wanted to say in five minutes, I thought. How could I possibly describe all that they did by taking her away from us – and so brutally? I folded my paper around midnight and placed in on the dresser in my bedroom. I laid down to bed – eyes wide open. Each shadow of each twisted tree outside of my window was apparent to me. I felt as though a storm was on the horizon – a storm I couldn’t prepare for or protect myself from.
The next morning I found myself back in the Assistant District Attorney’s office, prior to the hearing. The A.D.A. again went over the impact statement procedures, how much time we had and the order in which things would occur. The victim liaisons escorted us through a back hallway to the courtroom. The aggressive television cameras had become too intrusive for us and had often made it difficult to move down the hallways of the courthouse safely. We reached the courtroom and took our seats. Ben was escorted into the courtroom. The first person to give an impact statement was called before the court. My heart began to pound. I was next. The words of Ericha’s friend (giving the impact statement) became distant. It sounded as though she were in a far-away tunnel. The only thing I could hear clearly was the deafening sound of my pounding heart. I focused on the tip of my shoe. I stared at my shoe and concentrated on breathing in and out. I will not faint, I told myself. This is the one chance I have to speak to the court. I will not faint. This is for Ericha, I thought. I cannot screw it up. Ericha’s friend sat down and placed her hand on my shoulder. I stumbled up out of my seat. I walked to the edge of the court, in front of the prosecutor’s table, facing the judge. I cleared my throat and began to read my statement. The sound of crackling paper filled the courtroom as my hands shook. No, I thought. This has to be better. I put my paper down on the prosecutor’s table and looked up at the judge. I was still shaking, but some how not as afraid.
“Ericha was like a big sister to me.” I began to speak about Ericha’s smile, her warmth, our time together after school. I spoke of her generosity, of the beauty of her soul.
“I’ve always believed that in life, things happen for a reason. When Ericha was taken from us, I struggled to find the reason why. Maybe God was testing my ability to forgive. If that is so, then I have failed God’s test, because I will never forgive Ben Bryant for what he has done.” During my last sentence I had looked down at Ben and yelled the word “never.” I told the judge that Ben was an animal, that he was a threat to the community. I had wanted to do so much more to Ben at that moment, but this statement was all I had – and I cherish the fact that I had that.
Ben was sentenced to life in prison, with his first possibility of parole in 2043.
I sat at the kitchen table the night before the hearing, hunched over the scribbling that I hoped to mold into my impact statement. By this time, I was 13 years old. I wrote a thought down, decided it wasn’t good enough and crossed it out. As the night rolled on, I repeated this step several more times. How could I possibly say all the things I wanted to say in five minutes, I thought. How could I possibly describe all that they did by taking her away from us – and so brutally? I folded my paper around midnight and placed in on the dresser in my bedroom. I laid down to bed – eyes wide open. Each shadow of each twisted tree outside of my window was apparent to me. I felt as though a storm was on the horizon – a storm I couldn’t prepare for or protect myself from.
The next morning I found myself back in the Assistant District Attorney’s office, prior to the hearing. The A.D.A. again went over the impact statement procedures, how much time we had and the order in which things would occur. The victim liaisons escorted us through a back hallway to the courtroom. The aggressive television cameras had become too intrusive for us and had often made it difficult to move down the hallways of the courthouse safely. We reached the courtroom and took our seats. Ben was escorted into the courtroom. The first person to give an impact statement was called before the court. My heart began to pound. I was next. The words of Ericha’s friend (giving the impact statement) became distant. It sounded as though she were in a far-away tunnel. The only thing I could hear clearly was the deafening sound of my pounding heart. I focused on the tip of my shoe. I stared at my shoe and concentrated on breathing in and out. I will not faint, I told myself. This is the one chance I have to speak to the court. I will not faint. This is for Ericha, I thought. I cannot screw it up. Ericha’s friend sat down and placed her hand on my shoulder. I stumbled up out of my seat. I walked to the edge of the court, in front of the prosecutor’s table, facing the judge. I cleared my throat and began to read my statement. The sound of crackling paper filled the courtroom as my hands shook. No, I thought. This has to be better. I put my paper down on the prosecutor’s table and looked up at the judge. I was still shaking, but some how not as afraid.
“Ericha was like a big sister to me.” I began to speak about Ericha’s smile, her warmth, our time together after school. I spoke of her generosity, of the beauty of her soul.
“I’ve always believed that in life, things happen for a reason. When Ericha was taken from us, I struggled to find the reason why. Maybe God was testing my ability to forgive. If that is so, then I have failed God’s test, because I will never forgive Ben Bryant for what he has done.” During my last sentence I had looked down at Ben and yelled the word “never.” I told the judge that Ben was an animal, that he was a threat to the community. I had wanted to do so much more to Ben at that moment, but this statement was all I had – and I cherish the fact that I had that.
Ben was sentenced to life in prison, with his first possibility of parole in 2043.
August 14, 2007
God was missing
It was a cold day in January. My eyes were planted firmly on my shoes, my head hanging lowly to avoid the lights of the television cameras as my family walked slowly towards the courtroom. Today, the younger brother Matt would be sentenced. He had plead guilty to felony murder. His older brother had contended that Matt had helped him tie Ericha to the chair, then left the scene of the crime prior to her murder – a notion many of us refused to believe for several reasons.
First – Ericha was a beautiful woman, but she was also a very strong woman – a physically stronger woman than most men I know. I believe it would’ve taken two people to kill her. She would have fought hard for life. I know this. Secondly, the gas station security camera tape was taken just before the older brother Ben left the gas station, when he was supposedly alone. The locked box containing this tape was not only extremely heavy, but it was also locked into a position high above the head of any human attempting to extricate it. The store manager has often said that she needed at least one other person to assist her to bring this lock box down. Because of this, we believed Ben and Matt were both still at the scene after Ericha’s death.
I sat in the courtroom, motionless, unable to look up at Matt. Matt was the “more popular” of the two brothers. He was younger, had less of a record, was better-looking, had more friends. His friends came to each of his hearings and were seated alongside his family members. Not once did any of them approach us. Not once did any member of his family express their condolences, much less apologize for their sons being the cause of our utter grief and loss. Not only did they not express any sympathy towards us – there were often times that they scowled at us, rolled their eyes at us, and pursed their lips at us. At the sight of this family, my view of humanity further deteriorated. Ericha was dead at the brutal hands of their sons and they acted as if we were imposing on them, as if we had injured them, as if they were the victims. Each time I looked in their direction I became nauseous.
After the closing arguments and impact statements, the Judge cleared his throat and began to explain the sentence. My hopes for a long sentence soared as the judge spoke of this murder being particularly brutal – perhaps the most brutal he had ever come across on the bench. Then – he began to speak about the evidence. While Ben was by no means a reliable witness to what time Matt left the scene, the judge contended, there was still a lack of evidence that could prove Ben’s story wrong. There was no video tape, as it had been taken and destroyed. With that, the judge ordered Matt to serve 23 years. By this time, I knew what 23 years meant in our state. It meant that Matt would be eligible for release in 5 years.
My head began spinning. I cannot say what the reaction of anyone else in the courtroom was, as I could no longer hear. My mother put her arm around me as I began to sob and shake. I felt that my life had ended. I felt paralyzed with grief. I couldn’t move or speak or stand. I actually felt physical pain. This feeling was unbearable.
I felt that God was missing.
First – Ericha was a beautiful woman, but she was also a very strong woman – a physically stronger woman than most men I know. I believe it would’ve taken two people to kill her. She would have fought hard for life. I know this. Secondly, the gas station security camera tape was taken just before the older brother Ben left the gas station, when he was supposedly alone. The locked box containing this tape was not only extremely heavy, but it was also locked into a position high above the head of any human attempting to extricate it. The store manager has often said that she needed at least one other person to assist her to bring this lock box down. Because of this, we believed Ben and Matt were both still at the scene after Ericha’s death.
I sat in the courtroom, motionless, unable to look up at Matt. Matt was the “more popular” of the two brothers. He was younger, had less of a record, was better-looking, had more friends. His friends came to each of his hearings and were seated alongside his family members. Not once did any of them approach us. Not once did any member of his family express their condolences, much less apologize for their sons being the cause of our utter grief and loss. Not only did they not express any sympathy towards us – there were often times that they scowled at us, rolled their eyes at us, and pursed their lips at us. At the sight of this family, my view of humanity further deteriorated. Ericha was dead at the brutal hands of their sons and they acted as if we were imposing on them, as if we had injured them, as if they were the victims. Each time I looked in their direction I became nauseous.
After the closing arguments and impact statements, the Judge cleared his throat and began to explain the sentence. My hopes for a long sentence soared as the judge spoke of this murder being particularly brutal – perhaps the most brutal he had ever come across on the bench. Then – he began to speak about the evidence. While Ben was by no means a reliable witness to what time Matt left the scene, the judge contended, there was still a lack of evidence that could prove Ben’s story wrong. There was no video tape, as it had been taken and destroyed. With that, the judge ordered Matt to serve 23 years. By this time, I knew what 23 years meant in our state. It meant that Matt would be eligible for release in 5 years.
My head began spinning. I cannot say what the reaction of anyone else in the courtroom was, as I could no longer hear. My mother put her arm around me as I began to sob and shake. I felt that my life had ended. I felt paralyzed with grief. I couldn’t move or speak or stand. I actually felt physical pain. This feeling was unbearable.
I felt that God was missing.
August 8, 2007
The Brothers
After Ericha’s death, there were few leads as to who was responsible. Time passed, the depression of injustice grew. One day, almost two years after Ericha’s passing, we received a call from the police detective working Ericha’s case. A routine traffic stop had led to a young man giving the names of Matt and Ben Bryant as the killers in the case. The man agreed to give this information in return for the dismissal of his speeding ticket. I was so thankful for this lucky breakthrough. At the same time, it pained me greatly to find that dozens of people in our town had heard rumors of Matt and Ben being guilty of Ericha’s murder – yet no one came forward. Going through the process of attending all of the hearings related to both Ben and Matt’s cases was exhausting.
At one point, after the younger brother Matt was arrested, there was the possibility of a relatively low bail being set for him (this was not a possibility for Ben, as he was already in jail on an un-related charge). As I am a kinesthetic person, I focused on the campaign of petitions that resulted from this possibility. Like clockwork each day after school I came home to pick up my clipboard full of petitions asking the judge to raise Matt’s bail. I loaded up my clipboard and pen and went each eve into a different neighborhood. I went door to door to ask strangers to sign this petition. I look back on how young I was when I insisted on doing this alone each night and am astounded. I believe I would have done anything in those hours after school each day to keep myself busy. Those few hours after school each day had been my time with Ericha. Now, I couldn’t bear to come home to the empty, dark house once again. I couldn’t bear to sit on the couch and absorb the vacant silence of the desolate house.
I was often the adult in my household. This led to me being able to insist on doing things that I should not have necessarily done. At the age of eleven, I had read the entire police report outlining Ericha’s murder – how it happened in brutal and unforgiving detail. I also insisted on going to each hearing for each brother. I remember the first time I saw Ben. Ben was the older brother, thought to have been the greater mastermind behind the robbery and murder. I stood behind a glass wall, watching as he entered the chamber in which he would plead guilty.
His face was that of the devil’s. I never thought I would live to see the devil on earth. But here he was, right in front of me, separated by a wall of glass.
The clinking and swooshing of his cuffed ankles and wrists filled my ears. That’s him - the person who killed Ericha. Person was a relative word to use. This was the devil. This devil tied Ericha to a chair and held a screwdriver to her back, telling her that it was a gun. This devil wrapped a telephone cord around her neck and pulled so hard he shattered her trachea. I looked at the devil. There was nothing. No feeling in his stony eyes. No embarrassment, guilt or sadness. Nothing. How is he allowed to roam the earth? My own eyes began to burn and tear. He took Ericha from us and he cannot even look sorry for it.
I began to sob uncontrollably. I shook and wept and hyperventilated. I was escorted out of the chamber into the hallway, where television cameras pounced on the chance to film a broken little girl. I was so embarrassed by my lack of control at the first hearing that I promised myself I would be stronger at each hearing from that point on.
At one point, after the younger brother Matt was arrested, there was the possibility of a relatively low bail being set for him (this was not a possibility for Ben, as he was already in jail on an un-related charge). As I am a kinesthetic person, I focused on the campaign of petitions that resulted from this possibility. Like clockwork each day after school I came home to pick up my clipboard full of petitions asking the judge to raise Matt’s bail. I loaded up my clipboard and pen and went each eve into a different neighborhood. I went door to door to ask strangers to sign this petition. I look back on how young I was when I insisted on doing this alone each night and am astounded. I believe I would have done anything in those hours after school each day to keep myself busy. Those few hours after school each day had been my time with Ericha. Now, I couldn’t bear to come home to the empty, dark house once again. I couldn’t bear to sit on the couch and absorb the vacant silence of the desolate house.
I was often the adult in my household. This led to me being able to insist on doing things that I should not have necessarily done. At the age of eleven, I had read the entire police report outlining Ericha’s murder – how it happened in brutal and unforgiving detail. I also insisted on going to each hearing for each brother. I remember the first time I saw Ben. Ben was the older brother, thought to have been the greater mastermind behind the robbery and murder. I stood behind a glass wall, watching as he entered the chamber in which he would plead guilty.
His face was that of the devil’s. I never thought I would live to see the devil on earth. But here he was, right in front of me, separated by a wall of glass.
The clinking and swooshing of his cuffed ankles and wrists filled my ears. That’s him - the person who killed Ericha. Person was a relative word to use. This was the devil. This devil tied Ericha to a chair and held a screwdriver to her back, telling her that it was a gun. This devil wrapped a telephone cord around her neck and pulled so hard he shattered her trachea. I looked at the devil. There was nothing. No feeling in his stony eyes. No embarrassment, guilt or sadness. Nothing. How is he allowed to roam the earth? My own eyes began to burn and tear. He took Ericha from us and he cannot even look sorry for it.
I began to sob uncontrollably. I shook and wept and hyperventilated. I was escorted out of the chamber into the hallway, where television cameras pounced on the chance to film a broken little girl. I was so embarrassed by my lack of control at the first hearing that I promised myself I would be stronger at each hearing from that point on.
August 7, 2007
Humankind
I haven’t written for a while, as you can see. The truth is, I didn’t know quite where to go from here. Ericha’s death was such a huge happening for me that I find it difficult, after recounting this event, to move on steadily in my writings.
I was explaining this very dilemma to my boyfriend the other night. I explained to him that out of everything that’s happened to me, Ericha’s murder had the biggest effect on me emotionally. My boyfriend seemed stunned by this. “But so many things have happened to you. This is the biggest for you?” he asked.
I began to think about my boyfriend’s point and why out of everything on my timeline, before and after Ericha’s death, this event stands out in my mind as the reigning negative memory of mine. I suppose it wasn’t just the event in itself that made such an impact on me. Albeit the circumstances surrounding Ericha’s death were horrendous enough to make anyone deeply pained. But for me – this event was made so much worse by everything preceding it. I had already experienced so much prior to Ericha’s death. Before Ericha died – I was desperately holding on to the belief that there was still good in the world, that not everyone was inherently evil. I clung to the tiny bit of feeling left that there are people out there that won’t hurt you and might even love you. The years of neglect, abuse and a volatile living environment had slowly but steadily washed away my faith in humankind. I didn’t grow up with Ericha, I wasn’t a blood relative – yet her death was the final blow for me. It was the last straw. It was the final confirmation that the world, in fact, was not safe, loving or fair.
These beliefs, I now realize, will be one of the most difficult things for me to overcome during my treatment. I’ve protected myself for many years with these beliefs. After all, I thought, if I didn’t expect someone to truly love me and not hurt me, then I wouldn’t be so surprised when they hurt me. Sure – this philosophy may provide some comfort by creating the sense that I am protecting myself. But now I must ask myself if I really wish to live with these thoughts? Do I really want these negative feelings to affect my relationships with the few people I find that are, in fact, trust worthy? Do I want to inadvertently impart these beliefs onto my children?
The thought of doing that makes me sick. I want my children to be able to see the world in ways I never could. I want them to know that while it is necessary to protect one’s self, the world is also filled with stunningly good people. I want them to see the beauty of the world, to feel the protection their parents provide and within that protection, blossom.
I was explaining this very dilemma to my boyfriend the other night. I explained to him that out of everything that’s happened to me, Ericha’s murder had the biggest effect on me emotionally. My boyfriend seemed stunned by this. “But so many things have happened to you. This is the biggest for you?” he asked.
I began to think about my boyfriend’s point and why out of everything on my timeline, before and after Ericha’s death, this event stands out in my mind as the reigning negative memory of mine. I suppose it wasn’t just the event in itself that made such an impact on me. Albeit the circumstances surrounding Ericha’s death were horrendous enough to make anyone deeply pained. But for me – this event was made so much worse by everything preceding it. I had already experienced so much prior to Ericha’s death. Before Ericha died – I was desperately holding on to the belief that there was still good in the world, that not everyone was inherently evil. I clung to the tiny bit of feeling left that there are people out there that won’t hurt you and might even love you. The years of neglect, abuse and a volatile living environment had slowly but steadily washed away my faith in humankind. I didn’t grow up with Ericha, I wasn’t a blood relative – yet her death was the final blow for me. It was the last straw. It was the final confirmation that the world, in fact, was not safe, loving or fair.
These beliefs, I now realize, will be one of the most difficult things for me to overcome during my treatment. I’ve protected myself for many years with these beliefs. After all, I thought, if I didn’t expect someone to truly love me and not hurt me, then I wouldn’t be so surprised when they hurt me. Sure – this philosophy may provide some comfort by creating the sense that I am protecting myself. But now I must ask myself if I really wish to live with these thoughts? Do I really want these negative feelings to affect my relationships with the few people I find that are, in fact, trust worthy? Do I want to inadvertently impart these beliefs onto my children?
The thought of doing that makes me sick. I want my children to be able to see the world in ways I never could. I want them to know that while it is necessary to protect one’s self, the world is also filled with stunningly good people. I want them to see the beauty of the world, to feel the protection their parents provide and within that protection, blossom.
July 26, 2007
What's Up - 4 Non Blondes (HQ Audio)
7/26/07 - It's been 12 years ago today that you were taken from us, Ericha. I love and miss you.
July 19, 2007
I'm Sorry
Ericha,
I miss you. I’m so sorry for what happened to you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there with you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t help you. You did not deserve what happened to you. You were a great person. You made me look forward to each afternoon after school. Your presence in our home was fun, comforting and wanted.
I so wish that I could have known you longer. You would have made a wonderful mother. I remember the time we went to the circus. I remember your warm smile. I remember your twinkling white teeth and your pantene shampoo. I remember your feathered black hair. I remember how protective you were of those you loved. I remember how you cleaned and organized the house each day. I remember how you taught me to stock the refreshments in the back room of the gas station. I remember spending the holidays together. Mom bought you a nice jacket – you were overwhelmed. You bought us a beautiful poinsettia. We laughed and talked and ate. We could always count on you to help. We could always count on you to be there. I could ponder the random happenings of life with you.
I miss you. I’m so sorry. I wish I could have done something. I wish I could have protected you. I wish I could have been there with you. I wish I could have hugged you, comforted you.
You saw the ugliest part of our world in your last moments. For that – I am truly sorry. As a member of this human race – I apologize to you. I don’t understand how or why there are monsters that roam the earth. You encountered not one of them, but two.
Now – I pray that you are in a place where you feel no pain, only love. I pray that you know how much we love and miss you. I pray that you are in a place of peace, warmth, comfort and love.
Love,
Emily
I miss you. I’m so sorry for what happened to you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there with you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t help you. You did not deserve what happened to you. You were a great person. You made me look forward to each afternoon after school. Your presence in our home was fun, comforting and wanted.
I so wish that I could have known you longer. You would have made a wonderful mother. I remember the time we went to the circus. I remember your warm smile. I remember your twinkling white teeth and your pantene shampoo. I remember your feathered black hair. I remember how protective you were of those you loved. I remember how you cleaned and organized the house each day. I remember how you taught me to stock the refreshments in the back room of the gas station. I remember spending the holidays together. Mom bought you a nice jacket – you were overwhelmed. You bought us a beautiful poinsettia. We laughed and talked and ate. We could always count on you to help. We could always count on you to be there. I could ponder the random happenings of life with you.
I miss you. I’m so sorry. I wish I could have done something. I wish I could have protected you. I wish I could have been there with you. I wish I could have hugged you, comforted you.
You saw the ugliest part of our world in your last moments. For that – I am truly sorry. As a member of this human race – I apologize to you. I don’t understand how or why there are monsters that roam the earth. You encountered not one of them, but two.
Now – I pray that you are in a place where you feel no pain, only love. I pray that you know how much we love and miss you. I pray that you are in a place of peace, warmth, comfort and love.
Love,
Emily
July 18, 2007
Ericha
***Please be advised - this post contains some graphic detail.***
Ericha.
She was my friend. I first knew her as my sister’s friend. My sister and Ericha were extremely close. My family got to know Ericha well and we all grew to count Ericha as one of us. So, when Ericha’s mother threw her out of her house, she was welcomed into our home. She spent every day with us, every holiday, every birthday. She was part of our family. She helped me take care of my nephew every day. She cooked and cleaned. I wasn’t used to another person in the house cleaning. I had been a latch-key kid. Before Ericha moved in with us, I had gotten used to coming home to a quiet, empty house each day after school. After Ericha joined our family, I came home to a warmer home with more activity. Ericha would greet me and I would settle down into the couch next to her to watch whatever program she was enjoying. Or I would sit and tell her what I did at school as she cleaned. She would offer me a fudgecicle – a delight I had not known before being introduced to them by Ericha. These small things – they’re what made Ericha so important to me. Until this point in time, I had never lived with a family member that didn’t expect me to be an adult, to take care of them or fix their problems. Ericha was just there to talk with, to spend time with – without yelling, fighting, hitting, touching, blaming or guilting. She didn’t take a maternal role either – she was there as my friend. She was calm. She was helpful. I once told Ericha how pretty I thought the ring on her finger was. A few days later, she had left the ring for me – on my pillow. I took the ring back to her – protesting her generosity. “No..no,” she insisted. "You must take it and keep it," she said.
11 Years Old.
I was in Florida. I often spent a few weeks of the summer visiting my father in Florida when I was growing up. The environment in my father’s house was not one that was necessarily healthy or sound – but it was a welcomed departure from my own home environment which was still much darker, much more dramatic and chaotic. After about a week in my father’s home and around his family, I had begun my usual slow and uneasy settling into the home I would inhabit during the next few weeks. This afternoon in particular, I was at my father’s home with my stepsister – Krista. It was just the two of us, watching tv. I didn’t particularly like Krista. I found her to be crude, selfish and apathetic. Still, I kept the peace, as I always chose to do in my family. I was 11 years old.
The phone rang. It was my mother. The moment I heard her voice, I knew something was wrong. “Emily, I need to tell you something.” My heart sank. “Ericha was killed, Emily.” My jaw dropped, my mind went blank. The room went blurry as my grasp of the telephone loosened and the phone dropped to the ground. I sat down on the couch, my eyes fixed ahead of me. Krista asked what was wrong. I couldn’t speak. She picked up the phone and began talking with my mother. “Oh my God…” As Krista spoke with my mother, slowly – pain seized my chest, tears welled in my eyes, yet my body was still frozen. My mind raced – then stopped to fix on one vision. My mother had not yet explained to me what had happened to Ericha – yet in my head the vision had formed. Ericha was in her chair in the back room of the gas station she worked at. I had wondered immediately why that was the particular vision of her that came to my mind at that very moment. I later found that Ericha was murdered in that very chair in the back room of the gas station.
Ben and Matt Bryant were brothers. They had gone to high school with Ericha and my other siblings. They were generally acquainted with Ericha, although they did not know her well. Yet, because Ericha knew the brothers she had let them into the gas station after hours while she was closing up. It was then that they attacked Ericha, tied her to the chair in the back room of the gas station and held a screwdriver to her back, telling her that it was a gun. They wrapped a telephone cord around Ericha’s neck, and then pulled so hard that they shattered her trachea. When the police searched the crime scene they had gathered that the killers had gotten away with about $1,200.00 and some rolling papers. $1,200.00 for the life of a beautiful person. A person who was my friend. A person who had never done anything to them. $1,200.00 to shatter the lives of everyone who loved her.
She died brutally at the age of 18, in the dirty back room of a gas station. She died on the squeaky chair that she hated.
Ericha.
She was my friend. I first knew her as my sister’s friend. My sister and Ericha were extremely close. My family got to know Ericha well and we all grew to count Ericha as one of us. So, when Ericha’s mother threw her out of her house, she was welcomed into our home. She spent every day with us, every holiday, every birthday. She was part of our family. She helped me take care of my nephew every day. She cooked and cleaned. I wasn’t used to another person in the house cleaning. I had been a latch-key kid. Before Ericha moved in with us, I had gotten used to coming home to a quiet, empty house each day after school. After Ericha joined our family, I came home to a warmer home with more activity. Ericha would greet me and I would settle down into the couch next to her to watch whatever program she was enjoying. Or I would sit and tell her what I did at school as she cleaned. She would offer me a fudgecicle – a delight I had not known before being introduced to them by Ericha. These small things – they’re what made Ericha so important to me. Until this point in time, I had never lived with a family member that didn’t expect me to be an adult, to take care of them or fix their problems. Ericha was just there to talk with, to spend time with – without yelling, fighting, hitting, touching, blaming or guilting. She didn’t take a maternal role either – she was there as my friend. She was calm. She was helpful. I once told Ericha how pretty I thought the ring on her finger was. A few days later, she had left the ring for me – on my pillow. I took the ring back to her – protesting her generosity. “No..no,” she insisted. "You must take it and keep it," she said.
11 Years Old.
I was in Florida. I often spent a few weeks of the summer visiting my father in Florida when I was growing up. The environment in my father’s house was not one that was necessarily healthy or sound – but it was a welcomed departure from my own home environment which was still much darker, much more dramatic and chaotic. After about a week in my father’s home and around his family, I had begun my usual slow and uneasy settling into the home I would inhabit during the next few weeks. This afternoon in particular, I was at my father’s home with my stepsister – Krista. It was just the two of us, watching tv. I didn’t particularly like Krista. I found her to be crude, selfish and apathetic. Still, I kept the peace, as I always chose to do in my family. I was 11 years old.
The phone rang. It was my mother. The moment I heard her voice, I knew something was wrong. “Emily, I need to tell you something.” My heart sank. “Ericha was killed, Emily.” My jaw dropped, my mind went blank. The room went blurry as my grasp of the telephone loosened and the phone dropped to the ground. I sat down on the couch, my eyes fixed ahead of me. Krista asked what was wrong. I couldn’t speak. She picked up the phone and began talking with my mother. “Oh my God…” As Krista spoke with my mother, slowly – pain seized my chest, tears welled in my eyes, yet my body was still frozen. My mind raced – then stopped to fix on one vision. My mother had not yet explained to me what had happened to Ericha – yet in my head the vision had formed. Ericha was in her chair in the back room of the gas station she worked at. I had wondered immediately why that was the particular vision of her that came to my mind at that very moment. I later found that Ericha was murdered in that very chair in the back room of the gas station.
Ben and Matt Bryant were brothers. They had gone to high school with Ericha and my other siblings. They were generally acquainted with Ericha, although they did not know her well. Yet, because Ericha knew the brothers she had let them into the gas station after hours while she was closing up. It was then that they attacked Ericha, tied her to the chair in the back room of the gas station and held a screwdriver to her back, telling her that it was a gun. They wrapped a telephone cord around Ericha’s neck, and then pulled so hard that they shattered her trachea. When the police searched the crime scene they had gathered that the killers had gotten away with about $1,200.00 and some rolling papers. $1,200.00 for the life of a beautiful person. A person who was my friend. A person who had never done anything to them. $1,200.00 to shatter the lives of everyone who loved her.
She died brutally at the age of 18, in the dirty back room of a gas station. She died on the squeaky chair that she hated.
July 5, 2007
Unearthing the negative
By this time, I had taken my completed timeline to Sara. We went over a short period of time on my timeline during each session. There was decidedly much to cover, so Sara and I concluded it might take a while for us to go through the timeline so I could give her basic explanations of each notation. After we were finished generally going over the timeline, we would move on to the biggest traumas, going over each in a more detailed manner. I certainly was not looking forward to those sessions, but today I wouldn’t need to worry about that quite yet. Today, Sara and I had reached the birth of my nephew on my timeline. I was ten years old.
After I explained the circumstances surrounding my nephew’s birth, Sara sat back in her chair for a moment, pensive. She then leaned forward and asked if I really realized how difficult my childhood was. I sat in silence, thinking. To me, it was an odd question. I had always thought that your childhood is what it is. There is nothing you can do to change it, so why mope? I had routinely told myself while growing up that no matter how bad I had it, others in the world had it worse. Feeling sorry for myself, therefore, seemed selfish and weak- it was not an option. It hadn’t occurred to me that one must greive the loss of a childhood just as you must grieve over the loss of a loved one – in order to heal, in order to be able to move on.
Sara urged me to see my childhood in terms of it happening to someone else. Not myself, but another child. A child, even, that I loved – perhaps one of my nephews. Sara asked that I visualize a child other than myself in the position of keeping their mother from committing suicide or stifling molestation or performing hours of daily house work. The thought struck me like a truck. I suddenly felt outraged, horrified, grief-stricken. This childhood was simply unacceptable for someone else to experience. But for some reason, I had felt it was okay for me to experience.
Now I needed to figure out why I thought a stranger deserves more than I do. Why did I so firmly believe that I was unworthy of a good and happy life? I had been shown and even told throughout my childhood that I wasn’t good enough. I had been mistreated so many times that I began to let the hateful feelings that accompany abuse sink into me, forming my opinion about myself. I had been told that I was bad and I believed it.
Now, my task was to try to slowly begin to undo these thoughts. I had more hard work ahead of me, I thought, as I have had these negative thoughts about myself for a long time and I didn’t exactly feel like I knew how to break them down yet.
After I explained the circumstances surrounding my nephew’s birth, Sara sat back in her chair for a moment, pensive. She then leaned forward and asked if I really realized how difficult my childhood was. I sat in silence, thinking. To me, it was an odd question. I had always thought that your childhood is what it is. There is nothing you can do to change it, so why mope? I had routinely told myself while growing up that no matter how bad I had it, others in the world had it worse. Feeling sorry for myself, therefore, seemed selfish and weak- it was not an option. It hadn’t occurred to me that one must greive the loss of a childhood just as you must grieve over the loss of a loved one – in order to heal, in order to be able to move on.
Sara urged me to see my childhood in terms of it happening to someone else. Not myself, but another child. A child, even, that I loved – perhaps one of my nephews. Sara asked that I visualize a child other than myself in the position of keeping their mother from committing suicide or stifling molestation or performing hours of daily house work. The thought struck me like a truck. I suddenly felt outraged, horrified, grief-stricken. This childhood was simply unacceptable for someone else to experience. But for some reason, I had felt it was okay for me to experience.
Now I needed to figure out why I thought a stranger deserves more than I do. Why did I so firmly believe that I was unworthy of a good and happy life? I had been shown and even told throughout my childhood that I wasn’t good enough. I had been mistreated so many times that I began to let the hateful feelings that accompany abuse sink into me, forming my opinion about myself. I had been told that I was bad and I believed it.
Now, my task was to try to slowly begin to undo these thoughts. I had more hard work ahead of me, I thought, as I have had these negative thoughts about myself for a long time and I didn’t exactly feel like I knew how to break them down yet.
July 3, 2007
BPD
My mother has Borderline Personality Disorder. As there is only a relatively small amount of clinical information on this disorder, it is still largely unknown. The best way to explain BPD is, therefore, to describe the symptoms of a person with this disorder:
- Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment or separation.
- Pattern of severely unstable relationships, characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation.
- Recurrent suicidal behavior, gestures and/or threats
- Severe instability in moods – severe swings within hours of each other
- Chronic feelings of emptiness.
- Inappropriate and intense anger - often targeted at a caregiver (frequent displays of temper, constant anger, and recurrent physical fights).
Growing up with a mother who has BPD was chaotic, invalidating, confusing, devaluing and exhausting. I was told from a very young age by my mother that she was “sick” and couldn’t help anything that she did or said. I was never able to place blame with my mother if she said something particularly horrific or threw a weekend-ruining tantrum.
As a child, anytime I began to feel the slightest bit angry towards my mother for her actions, I immediately felt guilt and shame for blaming my mother. After all, she was “sick” and “couldn’t help her actions.” I, therefore, blamed myself. I blamed myself for not being a good enough care taker for her, for not making her happy, for not anticipating each of her erratic changes in mood. I walked on eggshells throughout my childhood, trying not to be a nuisance to my mother. In my eyes, she had been the parent that stayed with the three kids that hadn’t pleased their father. In my eyes, she stayed even though I was decidedly flawed. Because of this, I felt I owed it to my mother to try to care for her. At times, it was impossible to please her. I spent time each day making dinner, doing laundry and cleaning, before I settled into my own room to do my homework. These daily tasks began at a very young age for me. Instead of my upkeep of the household making my mother happy, it just became expected and on those days that I didn’t spend as many hours on those tasks, I would be criticized for being “selfish.”
At a young age, I shifted into the role of adult. I took on the problems of the family. My mother would come to me to ask what we should do about my sister, who’d begun to chronically run away from home. What, also, should we do about my brother who’d already become an alcoholic, she’d ask me. I answered the phone when the creditors called. My mother often asked me for advice on how to get her finances under control. I tried to offer her any helpful ideas I could (I didn’t have a lot of knowledge of managing finances by the age of 11). I would eventually make a suggestion that my mother would take offense to. The next hour after that was spent by my mother alternating between sobs and shouting at me for being insensitive.
One night, when I was about 14, my mother told me to have dinner ready by the time she came back, before leaving the house. I had felt extremely ill for several hours. After my mother left, I began shivering uncontrollably. I found my heaviest winter coat and curled up on the couch, too weak to move. My mother returned about an hour later and immediately upon entering the house, began to yell at me for not having dinner ready. Weaker yet, I tried to lift my head to explain that I had fallen ill. Mother launched into a rage - streaming insults ranging from how lazy I was to the claim that I never did anything right. I could no longer hold my head up. I fell back into the couch, unable to move. I let the screams of my mother fall over me – she grew increasingly angry, as I was no longer able to lift my head to look at her during her insults. Later in the night, she had calmed enough to take me to the emergency room. By this time, I had a fever of 106 degrees and a bad case of mononucleosis accompanied by strep throat and an enlarged liver and spleen. Of course by this time, my mother was sweeter than she could be. She sat next to my hospital bed, stroking my hand. That’s why it’s so difficult to completely cast off someone with BPD. Their swings in mood are so extreme that they provoke confusion and conflict in the person they’re associating with. My mother did have the ability to be extremely affectionate at times.
While I do realize that my mother’s condition must have been very frightening and difficult for her to experience on a daily basis, I slowly began to hold my mother more responsible for her actions as I grew older.
For those who may have a Borderline parent or a parent with Borderline tendencies, I recommend the following books (the first of which I found especially helpful):
1.) Surviving a Borderline Parent: How to Heal Your Childhood Wounds & Build Trust, Boundaries, and Self-Esteem by Kimberlee Roth (2003)
2.) Stop Walking on Eggshells: Taking Your Life Back When Someone You Care about Has Borderline Personality Disorder by Paul T. Mason
- Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment or separation.
- Pattern of severely unstable relationships, characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation.
- Recurrent suicidal behavior, gestures and/or threats
- Severe instability in moods – severe swings within hours of each other
- Chronic feelings of emptiness.
- Inappropriate and intense anger - often targeted at a caregiver (frequent displays of temper, constant anger, and recurrent physical fights).
Growing up with a mother who has BPD was chaotic, invalidating, confusing, devaluing and exhausting. I was told from a very young age by my mother that she was “sick” and couldn’t help anything that she did or said. I was never able to place blame with my mother if she said something particularly horrific or threw a weekend-ruining tantrum.
As a child, anytime I began to feel the slightest bit angry towards my mother for her actions, I immediately felt guilt and shame for blaming my mother. After all, she was “sick” and “couldn’t help her actions.” I, therefore, blamed myself. I blamed myself for not being a good enough care taker for her, for not making her happy, for not anticipating each of her erratic changes in mood. I walked on eggshells throughout my childhood, trying not to be a nuisance to my mother. In my eyes, she had been the parent that stayed with the three kids that hadn’t pleased their father. In my eyes, she stayed even though I was decidedly flawed. Because of this, I felt I owed it to my mother to try to care for her. At times, it was impossible to please her. I spent time each day making dinner, doing laundry and cleaning, before I settled into my own room to do my homework. These daily tasks began at a very young age for me. Instead of my upkeep of the household making my mother happy, it just became expected and on those days that I didn’t spend as many hours on those tasks, I would be criticized for being “selfish.”
At a young age, I shifted into the role of adult. I took on the problems of the family. My mother would come to me to ask what we should do about my sister, who’d begun to chronically run away from home. What, also, should we do about my brother who’d already become an alcoholic, she’d ask me. I answered the phone when the creditors called. My mother often asked me for advice on how to get her finances under control. I tried to offer her any helpful ideas I could (I didn’t have a lot of knowledge of managing finances by the age of 11). I would eventually make a suggestion that my mother would take offense to. The next hour after that was spent by my mother alternating between sobs and shouting at me for being insensitive.
One night, when I was about 14, my mother told me to have dinner ready by the time she came back, before leaving the house. I had felt extremely ill for several hours. After my mother left, I began shivering uncontrollably. I found my heaviest winter coat and curled up on the couch, too weak to move. My mother returned about an hour later and immediately upon entering the house, began to yell at me for not having dinner ready. Weaker yet, I tried to lift my head to explain that I had fallen ill. Mother launched into a rage - streaming insults ranging from how lazy I was to the claim that I never did anything right. I could no longer hold my head up. I fell back into the couch, unable to move. I let the screams of my mother fall over me – she grew increasingly angry, as I was no longer able to lift my head to look at her during her insults. Later in the night, she had calmed enough to take me to the emergency room. By this time, I had a fever of 106 degrees and a bad case of mononucleosis accompanied by strep throat and an enlarged liver and spleen. Of course by this time, my mother was sweeter than she could be. She sat next to my hospital bed, stroking my hand. That’s why it’s so difficult to completely cast off someone with BPD. Their swings in mood are so extreme that they provoke confusion and conflict in the person they’re associating with. My mother did have the ability to be extremely affectionate at times.
While I do realize that my mother’s condition must have been very frightening and difficult for her to experience on a daily basis, I slowly began to hold my mother more responsible for her actions as I grew older.
For those who may have a Borderline parent or a parent with Borderline tendencies, I recommend the following books (the first of which I found especially helpful):
1.) Surviving a Borderline Parent: How to Heal Your Childhood Wounds & Build Trust, Boundaries, and Self-Esteem by Kimberlee Roth (2003)
2.) Stop Walking on Eggshells: Taking Your Life Back When Someone You Care about Has Borderline Personality Disorder by Paul T. Mason
June 26, 2007
My Baby Nephew
After a few therapy sessions with Sara, I was beginning to see that my childhood had been chaotic, more chaotic than I had thought. It's difficult to know what's "normal" when you don't grow up around it. You don't know what to expect. Sara looked over my completed timeline, wide eyed, and explained that we would need a lot of time to go over everything I had constructed. By Sara confirming that I had, in fact, gone through chronic trauma as a child and had survived an especially difficult childhood, I felt relief. I felt validation. Finally, someone with trauma treatment experience was not telling me to "suck it up" and "you had it better than some." Validation, I believe, is one of the first steps to giving yourself permission to grieve. By documenting what has happened to me and saying to myself, "this was traumatic," I've completed the first step in validation. I would now need to mourn the traumas that occured as well as the loss of my childhood. But first, Sara and I had to complete the task of getting through my timeline. By this particular session with Sara, we had finally reached the age of nine.
When I was nine years old, my fifteen year old sister found out she was pregnant. The family debated on whether my sister should have the baby or not, but collectively decided that the final decision was my sister’s. My sister and her boyfriend decided to have the baby.
It was a chilly, yet sunny day in March when I received a note in class to come to the office. I knew this was it – I had insisted that my mother call my school if I was in class when my sister went into labor. After school, I ran to the nearest city bus stop going downtown and jumped into my seat, my arms and legs fidgeting with excitement. The bus stopped a few blocks away from the hospital. I ran to the hospital to find that I hadn’t missed it – my sister was still in labor. I waited in the waiting room, my foot tapping the legs of the chair in which I sat. About two hours after I had arrived to the hospital, my nephew was born. My mom came to get me from the waiting room and shuffled me into the birthing suite. I squinted, entering the dark room. I saw my sister’s boyfriend in the corner of the room with a small bundle in his arms. I slowly approached my sister’s boyfriend, not wanting my excitement to scare the brand new being I would meet. I looked into the blanket to see a wrinkled, crying, slightly purple being. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, I thought to myself. I giggled with joy. I slowly settled into a chair next to my sister’s boyfriend before he placed my new nephew into my arms. I cradled him in my arms, not moving an inch. I loved him. I couldn’t understand it, I couldn’t grasp why or how I already loved this little being.
During the 48 hours that followed my first meeting with my nephew, joy would give way to terror, anxiety and pain as we learned that my baby nephew had contracted a rare disease during delivery which affects the immune system. Before the end of his third day on earth, my baby nephew’s compromised immune system had allowed him to contract pneumonia, beta strep infection and meningitis. He was rushed to infant intensive care. In the days following my nephew’s birth, I got onto the same city bus each day after school, got off at the hospital and went to work on my homework in the hospital cafeteria. This had become my routine; I insisted that I would be in the same building as my nephew. I was in the hospital cafeteria on the third night when my mother came to tell me that the doctors gave my nephew a 25% chance of living through the night. My mom went back up to my sister’s hospital room. The cafeteria was silent. I walked to the hospital chapel. The chapel was also quiet and bare. I knelt down before the alter, my hands squeezed together – as if the harder I squeezed my hands together, the more likely my prayers were to be heard. I closed my eyes and prayed on my knees, tears streaming down my face. I didn’t understand why I was so upset. I didn’t know this baby, yet I already loved him. I asked God not to take him away.
I stayed that night with my grandmother. She knew I was upset. She tucked me into bed with her. In the dark she told me a story of the Saint for “lost causes.” We prayed together to this saint. She held me and warmed my feet with her own. The next morning, I would wake up to find that my nephew had lived and he would live the next night and the night after that.
When I was nine years old, my fifteen year old sister found out she was pregnant. The family debated on whether my sister should have the baby or not, but collectively decided that the final decision was my sister’s. My sister and her boyfriend decided to have the baby.
It was a chilly, yet sunny day in March when I received a note in class to come to the office. I knew this was it – I had insisted that my mother call my school if I was in class when my sister went into labor. After school, I ran to the nearest city bus stop going downtown and jumped into my seat, my arms and legs fidgeting with excitement. The bus stopped a few blocks away from the hospital. I ran to the hospital to find that I hadn’t missed it – my sister was still in labor. I waited in the waiting room, my foot tapping the legs of the chair in which I sat. About two hours after I had arrived to the hospital, my nephew was born. My mom came to get me from the waiting room and shuffled me into the birthing suite. I squinted, entering the dark room. I saw my sister’s boyfriend in the corner of the room with a small bundle in his arms. I slowly approached my sister’s boyfriend, not wanting my excitement to scare the brand new being I would meet. I looked into the blanket to see a wrinkled, crying, slightly purple being. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, I thought to myself. I giggled with joy. I slowly settled into a chair next to my sister’s boyfriend before he placed my new nephew into my arms. I cradled him in my arms, not moving an inch. I loved him. I couldn’t understand it, I couldn’t grasp why or how I already loved this little being.
During the 48 hours that followed my first meeting with my nephew, joy would give way to terror, anxiety and pain as we learned that my baby nephew had contracted a rare disease during delivery which affects the immune system. Before the end of his third day on earth, my baby nephew’s compromised immune system had allowed him to contract pneumonia, beta strep infection and meningitis. He was rushed to infant intensive care. In the days following my nephew’s birth, I got onto the same city bus each day after school, got off at the hospital and went to work on my homework in the hospital cafeteria. This had become my routine; I insisted that I would be in the same building as my nephew. I was in the hospital cafeteria on the third night when my mother came to tell me that the doctors gave my nephew a 25% chance of living through the night. My mom went back up to my sister’s hospital room. The cafeteria was silent. I walked to the hospital chapel. The chapel was also quiet and bare. I knelt down before the alter, my hands squeezed together – as if the harder I squeezed my hands together, the more likely my prayers were to be heard. I closed my eyes and prayed on my knees, tears streaming down my face. I didn’t understand why I was so upset. I didn’t know this baby, yet I already loved him. I asked God not to take him away.
I stayed that night with my grandmother. She knew I was upset. She tucked me into bed with her. In the dark she told me a story of the Saint for “lost causes.” We prayed together to this saint. She held me and warmed my feet with her own. The next morning, I would wake up to find that my nephew had lived and he would live the next night and the night after that.
June 25, 2007
The Babysitter
As my next session with Sara drew closer, I again found myself sitting and staring at the timeline I had started. Shortly after my grandpa’s death, a family member began to sexually abuse me. In the middle of the line I drew on my timeline to represent the sexual abuse, I drew a box and labeled it “inappropriate contact with babysitter.” I thought back to the incident with my babysitter. My mother had needed a babysitter at the last moment; neither of my siblings was available. I was about eight years old. My brother volunteered his friend. Not too soon after my mother left, I began to feel uncomfortable with this person – the way he looked at me, the way he’d pick me up and put me on his lap. I got up from his lap to go “find a toy.” He picked me up to put me on his lap again, telling me to read him a story. As I began to read my story book to him, I could feel his hands rubbing me. I got up a few more times, each time – picked up by him and brought back to the couch. I wanted to run, I wanted to scream. I wanted control.
I was noticeably upset at school the next day. A close friend of mine followed me outside to recess and picked at me to tell her what was wrong. I finally told. My friend told the school counselor. Before the school day was over, I was called into the counselor’s office. I didn’t particularly like our school counselor. I sensed that he was indignant, uncommunicative and lacked in the department of compassion and patience – all bad things for a school counselor to possess. After spending time and energy dancing around the subject at hand, I finally gave my counselor a run down of what had happened with the babysitter. I was then sent back to my classroom. No more was said – no words of encouragement, no affection, no one telling me that it wasn’t my fault, that I wasn’t bad.
Of course, those are the things I came out of this experience with. This contact with my babysitter as well as the chronic abuse I was experiencing made me feel that I was dirty, ruined, bad.
My mother looked at me as she closed the front door that night. She had just returned home from work. She said, “Well, Emily…I got a call from your school counselor today.” I looked at my feet. “You did?” I was ashamed. I couldn’t look at my mother. “Yes,” she said. “He told me what happened between you and the babysitter.” “Oh,” I said, still unable to look at anything other than my shoelaces. “Well, Emily, I just wanted to let you know that we’ll have someone else watch you next time.” My mother put her purse down and went into her room, where she would remain for the rest of the night, as she usually did after returning home from work.
About one month later, I was sitting on a bench at the mall when my mother nudged my shoulder and said, “Oh hey, Em…look – it’s your favorite person!” I looked up to see my former babysitter. He passed us both – nothing was said. My mother had sarcastically pointed out a person I was extremely fearful of in such a calm and lighthearted manner that I did not know what to say. I had again been put in the position of being the adult, as my mother had routinely decided to place herself in the position of being a child.
I knew then that I couldn’t trust her to keep me safe, to be an adult, to comfort me. Who will do this then? I had already learned how ugly the world could be, so to come to the realization that I would never be protected by my parents, was a scary experience. I knew now that I could never tell my mother about the sexual abuse that had plagued the last few years of my life. I couldn’t bear to hear her make a joke of it.
I was noticeably upset at school the next day. A close friend of mine followed me outside to recess and picked at me to tell her what was wrong. I finally told. My friend told the school counselor. Before the school day was over, I was called into the counselor’s office. I didn’t particularly like our school counselor. I sensed that he was indignant, uncommunicative and lacked in the department of compassion and patience – all bad things for a school counselor to possess. After spending time and energy dancing around the subject at hand, I finally gave my counselor a run down of what had happened with the babysitter. I was then sent back to my classroom. No more was said – no words of encouragement, no affection, no one telling me that it wasn’t my fault, that I wasn’t bad.
Of course, those are the things I came out of this experience with. This contact with my babysitter as well as the chronic abuse I was experiencing made me feel that I was dirty, ruined, bad.
My mother looked at me as she closed the front door that night. She had just returned home from work. She said, “Well, Emily…I got a call from your school counselor today.” I looked at my feet. “You did?” I was ashamed. I couldn’t look at my mother. “Yes,” she said. “He told me what happened between you and the babysitter.” “Oh,” I said, still unable to look at anything other than my shoelaces. “Well, Emily, I just wanted to let you know that we’ll have someone else watch you next time.” My mother put her purse down and went into her room, where she would remain for the rest of the night, as she usually did after returning home from work.
About one month later, I was sitting on a bench at the mall when my mother nudged my shoulder and said, “Oh hey, Em…look – it’s your favorite person!” I looked up to see my former babysitter. He passed us both – nothing was said. My mother had sarcastically pointed out a person I was extremely fearful of in such a calm and lighthearted manner that I did not know what to say. I had again been put in the position of being the adult, as my mother had routinely decided to place herself in the position of being a child.
I knew then that I couldn’t trust her to keep me safe, to be an adult, to comfort me. Who will do this then? I had already learned how ugly the world could be, so to come to the realization that I would never be protected by my parents, was a scary experience. I knew now that I could never tell my mother about the sexual abuse that had plagued the last few years of my life. I couldn’t bear to hear her make a joke of it.
June 22, 2007
Ambulances
One of my first memories is fairly clear, considering my age at the time. I was three and a half years old. I remember the dark carpet of our house, the white trim around the windows. I was standing on the couch, looking out through the large picture window in the living room when the ambulance rolled into our driveway. I watched as the strangers in the ambulance got their bags and rushed into our home. The strangers made their way past me and to my mother. The next thing I remember is my mother being rolled out of our living room on a stretcher, through our front door. I watched through the window as they put my mother into the back of the ambulance. I knew that my mom was really sad. I knew that my mother had taken something that had made her sick. I knew that she might die, although I’m not sure if I knew what that really meant at that point. My grandparents had arrived by this point. The sirens of the ambulance sounded, startling me. I held my ears and cried as the ambulance took my sick mother away. From this point on during my childhood, I would experience an intense fear of ambulances, although I wouldn’t remember specifically why.
I suppose part of processing your past isn’t just getting into what you remember but also figuring out how each experience affected you. For me, this one experience at 3 years of age instilled: a fear of ambulances, the fear of injury to my mother, the fear of abandonment. It generated a general feeling of instability and also introduced a few themes of my childhood – general anxiety, chaos, drama – the feeling of always being on edge. Each experience generates any number of affects. I’m beginning to realize how one can build up a lot of emotion after years of chaotic experiences.
I suppose part of processing your past isn’t just getting into what you remember but also figuring out how each experience affected you. For me, this one experience at 3 years of age instilled: a fear of ambulances, the fear of injury to my mother, the fear of abandonment. It generated a general feeling of instability and also introduced a few themes of my childhood – general anxiety, chaos, drama – the feeling of always being on edge. Each experience generates any number of affects. I’m beginning to realize how one can build up a lot of emotion after years of chaotic experiences.
June 20, 2007
The Timeline
After several sessions focusing on stress and anger management, Sara explained to me that she’d like me to create a timeline of my life – from birth to present. The timeline should include major traumas as well as meaningful life events for both myself and important figures in my life. Sara’s assignment seemed easy enough. I arrived home after my session to find that my boyfriend had gone out with friends. This would be the perfect opportunity to start my timeline. I sat on the couch, armed with my paper and pen, turned on some ambient music and went to work. Sara suggested I begin the timeline shortly before my birth, as studies have shown that stress on a pregnant woman can affect her baby. I began with documenting my father’s response to my mother’s pregnancy – “Have an abortion, or else I’m leaving.” This was the threat that kicked off my tiny existence. From the year of my birth, I drew a long line, spanning several years, to show the divorce proceedings that were kicked off by my birth. After the line, I drew a box. Within the box I wrote, “Father moves away – to other side of country.” I move to the next year on the timeline and write, “Grandpa dies of cancer.”
I stopped writing. My mind flooded with vague but happy memories of my grandfather. My thoughts moved from the memory of the first time my grandfather fed me cantaloupe to the memory of every time I walked in a room, my grandpa’s face lighting up as he said, “You’re a pretty little girl.” He was one of the few people in my life who realized I was a child. He treated me with warmth, care, affection, protection – all the things a child needs from an adult. I will always remember my grandpa as one of the best people I met while on this earth.
I looked back down at my timeline. This timeline was not shaping up to be too pretty, I thought, and I was only at age five. Shortly after my grandpa died, came the first cloudy memories of sexual abuse. A family member I had trusted had began to act inappropriately with me – undressing me, touching me, telling me to touch them. This continued for several years. I drew a long line spanning several years, to represent the ongoing abuse on my timeline. Shortly after the beginning of the sexual abuse, I made another box representing the physical abuse I had experienced from my child care provider. Shortly after that, I drew another box to represent my first recollection of a suicide attempt of my mother’s. I paused. On my timeline, I was now just past 6 years old.
Tears began to well in my eyes. I began to think of events I had pushed out of my head, events I had not remembered in years. There was so much I had forgotten. I began to shake as I realized how much had happened – just in my first six years. I’m not one to complain or exaggerate – in the past I had taken any opportunity I had to downplay the chaos of my childhood. Now, just the beginning of my childhood was staring me in the face – I couldn’t downplay it, I couldn’t push it away. There it was. Shaking, I put my pad of paper on the table and reclined back on the couch. Tears rushed down my face as I tried to control my breathing. I felt demoralized, exhausted, lost, hopeless.
I would not be doing any more timeline tonight, I decided. I had taken the first step. And, sometimes, the first step is all you can take in one day.
I stopped writing. My mind flooded with vague but happy memories of my grandfather. My thoughts moved from the memory of the first time my grandfather fed me cantaloupe to the memory of every time I walked in a room, my grandpa’s face lighting up as he said, “You’re a pretty little girl.” He was one of the few people in my life who realized I was a child. He treated me with warmth, care, affection, protection – all the things a child needs from an adult. I will always remember my grandpa as one of the best people I met while on this earth.
I looked back down at my timeline. This timeline was not shaping up to be too pretty, I thought, and I was only at age five. Shortly after my grandpa died, came the first cloudy memories of sexual abuse. A family member I had trusted had began to act inappropriately with me – undressing me, touching me, telling me to touch them. This continued for several years. I drew a long line spanning several years, to represent the ongoing abuse on my timeline. Shortly after the beginning of the sexual abuse, I made another box representing the physical abuse I had experienced from my child care provider. Shortly after that, I drew another box to represent my first recollection of a suicide attempt of my mother’s. I paused. On my timeline, I was now just past 6 years old.
Tears began to well in my eyes. I began to think of events I had pushed out of my head, events I had not remembered in years. There was so much I had forgotten. I began to shake as I realized how much had happened – just in my first six years. I’m not one to complain or exaggerate – in the past I had taken any opportunity I had to downplay the chaos of my childhood. Now, just the beginning of my childhood was staring me in the face – I couldn’t downplay it, I couldn’t push it away. There it was. Shaking, I put my pad of paper on the table and reclined back on the couch. Tears rushed down my face as I tried to control my breathing. I felt demoralized, exhausted, lost, hopeless.
I would not be doing any more timeline tonight, I decided. I had taken the first step. And, sometimes, the first step is all you can take in one day.
June 18, 2007
Diagnosis: PTSD
During our second session, Sara also explained her diagnosis to me. She proceeded to tell me that I had a clear case of PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). PTSD is officially defined as, “a term for certain severe psychological consequences of exposure to, or confrontation with, stressful events that the person experiences as highly traumatic. Clinically, such events involve actual or threatened death, serious physical injury, or a threat to physical and/or psychological integrity, to a degree that usual psychological defenses are incapable of coping with the impact (Wikipedia).” To hear the diagnosis both frightened me and relieved me. My relief over the feeling that I hadn’t been babying myself, that it wasn’t something that I should’ve been able to suck up and move on. Now, however, was the realization that I had a disorder I had to work to overcome, a disorder that was causing me, and at times, the people around me, daily pain.
Some of the symptoms of PTSD include: nightmares, flashbacks, emotional detachment or numbing of feelings, insomnia, avoidance of reminders and extreme distress when exposed to the reminders ("triggers"), loss of appetite, irritability, hyper vigilance, memory loss (may appear as difficulty paying attention), excessive startle response, clinical depression, and anxiety. I have experienced each of these symptoms numerous times – some on a daily basis.
I had never realized that there might be a clinical explanation to why, for example, I had reacted with sweats, severe anxiety and distress any time a stranger had any physical contact with me (whether accidental or not). I was now learning how to identify my “triggers,” and any physical contact with someone I did not know and trust was one of them.
As my list of triggers slowly grew (I’m still finding triggers here and there today), I made it a point to share this list with my boyfriend. Loving a trauma survivor cannot possibly be an easy thing. My boyfriend and I had at this point been through many fights that neither of us understood. I was not able to explain to him why I began crying after being startled by a loud bang or why I would have an outburst of anger anytime he wanted to leave during an argument. If you are a trauma survivor – I recommend bringing your partner into every aspect of your treatment. As my boyfriend began to learn about PTSD and about my traumas, he was able to understand at least a bit more about why I react the way I did – and that I was working on getting better.
Some of the symptoms of PTSD include: nightmares, flashbacks, emotional detachment or numbing of feelings, insomnia, avoidance of reminders and extreme distress when exposed to the reminders ("triggers"), loss of appetite, irritability, hyper vigilance, memory loss (may appear as difficulty paying attention), excessive startle response, clinical depression, and anxiety. I have experienced each of these symptoms numerous times – some on a daily basis.
I had never realized that there might be a clinical explanation to why, for example, I had reacted with sweats, severe anxiety and distress any time a stranger had any physical contact with me (whether accidental or not). I was now learning how to identify my “triggers,” and any physical contact with someone I did not know and trust was one of them.
As my list of triggers slowly grew (I’m still finding triggers here and there today), I made it a point to share this list with my boyfriend. Loving a trauma survivor cannot possibly be an easy thing. My boyfriend and I had at this point been through many fights that neither of us understood. I was not able to explain to him why I began crying after being startled by a loud bang or why I would have an outburst of anger anytime he wanted to leave during an argument. If you are a trauma survivor – I recommend bringing your partner into every aspect of your treatment. As my boyfriend began to learn about PTSD and about my traumas, he was able to understand at least a bit more about why I react the way I did – and that I was working on getting better.
June 17, 2007
Day 2: The Plan
The Plan
With my first session under my belt, I returned to Sara’s office ready to get started. After sitting down, Sara showed me the structured plan she had organized after our last session. As I am a structured person and find comfort in organization, I was pleased to see a detailed plan in the form of a therapy timeline laid out before me. This actually made the therapy seem manageable. Perhaps I would be able to get through such enormous issues step by step.
First, would come stress management. I suppose it is common sense – if one is reaching into their past to explore several traumatic events, they will need to make sure they first know how to manage the stress that will accompany that journey. I found that I was not very advanced in the stress management department to begin with. In fact, one of the reasons I contacted Sara for assistance was due to my anger getting more and more difficult to suppress in the last few months. I suppose it would make sense for stress management to be linked to anger management. So, I first worked with Sara on stress management. Analyzing the level of one’s stress management skills may include looking at their social involvement, their hobbies, their venting outlets and their stress-reducing techniques (such as taking a bath, exercise, writing, etc). I quickly came to find that I was foremost lacking in the department of stress-reducing techniques. I had grown up believing that to spend money on a sporadic massage was selfish, as was taking time for yourself. If I was to buy myself a new outfit, I was decidedly a show-off, a snob. Self sacrifice was a must in my household growing up. Slowly teaching myself to take time to unwind was not easy – I still struggle with it today.
It occurred to me after this session that so many people refuse to take time for themselves. A very obvious observation, I must admit. But how much it must affect society? As an adult, I realized, it wasn’t just my responsibility to complete the everyday tasks, but also my responsibility to release the everyday build up of stress – something that benefits both myself and those around me.
With my first session under my belt, I returned to Sara’s office ready to get started. After sitting down, Sara showed me the structured plan she had organized after our last session. As I am a structured person and find comfort in organization, I was pleased to see a detailed plan in the form of a therapy timeline laid out before me. This actually made the therapy seem manageable. Perhaps I would be able to get through such enormous issues step by step.
First, would come stress management. I suppose it is common sense – if one is reaching into their past to explore several traumatic events, they will need to make sure they first know how to manage the stress that will accompany that journey. I found that I was not very advanced in the stress management department to begin with. In fact, one of the reasons I contacted Sara for assistance was due to my anger getting more and more difficult to suppress in the last few months. I suppose it would make sense for stress management to be linked to anger management. So, I first worked with Sara on stress management. Analyzing the level of one’s stress management skills may include looking at their social involvement, their hobbies, their venting outlets and their stress-reducing techniques (such as taking a bath, exercise, writing, etc). I quickly came to find that I was foremost lacking in the department of stress-reducing techniques. I had grown up believing that to spend money on a sporadic massage was selfish, as was taking time for yourself. If I was to buy myself a new outfit, I was decidedly a show-off, a snob. Self sacrifice was a must in my household growing up. Slowly teaching myself to take time to unwind was not easy – I still struggle with it today.
It occurred to me after this session that so many people refuse to take time for themselves. A very obvious observation, I must admit. But how much it must affect society? As an adult, I realized, it wasn’t just my responsibility to complete the everyday tasks, but also my responsibility to release the everyday build up of stress – something that benefits both myself and those around me.
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