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.”

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.