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.

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?

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.”

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.

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.

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.”

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.