Tears, Again

My mom talked me into calling my psychiatrist today.  We've been eliminating pills like crazy and I've been feeling psychopharmacologically triumphant.  (Yes, it's a great word and yes, it was hard to type.) There's that one tiny problem of crying all of the time.  My mom suggested that, since things seem to be getting worse instead of better, maybe I should clue my shrink in on how things are going.

I've been rolling along, thinking that the crying jags come with the territory.  I have new cancer checks and another surgery looming.  That would make anybody cry, wouldn't it?  My mom pointed out that it's been getting worse.  In fact, even talking about crying makes me cry.  Bad sign.  

So I called and we added in another 150 mgs. of one of my ongoing get-me-through-the-day drugs.  My doctor said that crying just because you're talking about it doesn't, in fact, go with the territory. 

Moving on.  Reason number 5,000 for crying:  an episode of Dr. Phil.  Dr. Phil is always tricky.  First of all, I live in terror that one of my relatives is going to show up on the program, although it's really more likely they'd have made an appearance on the Jerry Springer show.  (Is that still happening?)  Then there's the subject matter.  I've had personal experience with most of the really bad stuff he addresses and it's not always a good thing to be reminded of that.

Yesterday's episode was about a grandfather who abused his five year old granddaughter.  It reminded me that my own sexual abuse started sometime before the age of five.  I managed to place it in time by asking my mom about the events that surrounded the first episode of abuse I remember.  It had happened before then, I know, because I recall being afraid and, later, trying to hide from him in the bathroom.

I hate it when I'm reminded of just how young five years old is.  It's different when you see it through the lens of your own personal experience.  I forget just how tiny and defenseless I was until I see other children that age, going through a version of my own life history.  

My husband was in the room when Dr. Phil was on and I told him how young I must have been when the abuse started.  I'm not sure I'd ever shared that with him before.  Why?  It's not a thing that comes up much in conversation.  It's something that makes me feel permanently wounded.  I might even use the word "damaged."  Consequently, not many people who know me know about this part of my life.  As I think I've mentioned before, there are a lot of things people don't know about my life.  It works better for me that way.

The grandfather was just like all child abusers.  It wasn't his fault, you know.  It was that seductive five year old.  He was the victim.  

I never talked with my uncle about why he sexually assaulted me, time and time again.  I don't need to talk with him.  I know all of the answers he'd ever give me.  It was my fault.  Everything he ever said to me spoke to his belief that I was the real perpetrator. The sad thing is that all sexually abused kids (all abused kids, generally) think it's their fault.  I spent a lot of my life feeling guilty and dirty and, yes, damaged.

Sometime around the age of 40, I finally figured out it wasn't my fault.  I'd been in therapy for many years by then and I'd dutifully absorbed my therapists' mantra that, indeed, it wasn't my fault.  I never really believed it, though.  I'm not sure why.  I guess that's part of the power of childhood sexual abuse, especially when it starts at such a young age.  It's a poisonous root that takes hold and wraps itself around every fiber of your being.

Here's something funny.  Writing about this does not make me cry.  I don't think it ever has.  I can cry for that little girl whose grandfather used her for his own sexual pleasure, though.  Someday maybe I'll cry for myself.