love and despair
I started the morning by reading some email from a post traumatic stress disorder group to which I belong. it's amazing...even that made me quake inside. None of the posts detailed the causes of people's ptsd; they were descriptions of the challenges people still face in their lives many, many years after the traumatizing event(s). I haven't contributed to the list yet and I may never do so. I fear the possibility of triggering more of my own symptoms, which I have pretty regularly without any clear reason. I mean, I know the reasons why I have ptsd; I'm just not always sure how reactions get triggered.
Yesterday I was talking about trying to fit the "new" rape information into my understanding of how I became who I am now. After the sexual assault, I embarked on a relationship with a guy who was a junior at the time. We dated for a while before I agreed to have sex with him. Having gotten the test case out of the way, I still embarked on physical intimacy with some trepidation. Finally, I decided to go over and spend the night. In retrospect, I'm not sure why I made the decision. It may have been that I believed he cared about me or it may have been that I just wanted to have sex. It was less than fabulous. I remember thinking "hmmm...this doesn't really feel very good." Detached and numb, I focused on a faucet dripping in the bathroom and I knew that sound would lodge in my memory.
I think i was probably dissociated. That would be a good guess considering my childhood and my recent experience at college. I was really good at dissociating...I still am, as a matter of fact. I'm not sure how long it took to become proficient in slipping away from my body. I know that when I was left alone with my uncle when I was five, I decided that, though he might be so big as to make physical resistance impossible, I could prevent him from having access to my mind and heart. The television was on and there were cartoons, so it must have been a Saturday. While he proceeded to do as he pleased, I turned my head away from him and concentrated on the cartoons.
He didn't like that. He wanted me to pay attention to him and what he was doing. after he turned off the television, I started studying the ceiling. After that, my memories of that episode fade away. I was very angry with him and I knew that by ignoring him, A was in some way thwarting his desires. A little child's body may be easy for adults to control, but it was not in the least bit easy to control my mind. I guess he made do with what he had because he did not stop.
There were plenty of other times in my life when I continued to practice dissociating. So many, in fact, that I ceased to recognize it as an altered state of consciousness. By the time I got to Russ, I could choose to not be present without actually realizing that's what I was doing. I know that's very paradoxical, but I guess learning to regularly survive dangerous situations at some point becomes commonplace. Being absent from self can also become mundane and difficult to identify.
Russ and I continued to see each other for a month or so. I recall being very intellectually competitive with him. He was an engineering student of some kind, but I didn't have much respect for that kind of knowledge and I let him know that. Much, much later in life, I understood that the competitiveness arose out of both my own intellectual competition with my father and the fact that, throughout my life, he demeaned my mother by constantly telling her (and me) how stupid she was. My mother is not stupid. It was a tool of control, an outgrowth of malignant narcissism. Until I met my husband, I measured every man by his intelligence and found them all surprisingly lacking. In retrospect, I know that they were bright people; I just couldn't allow them the opportunity to feel intellectually superior. Keep in mind that these events transpired in the early 1970's, when women were regularly intellectually dismissed. I had so many reasons for my obnoxious behavior.
Some people who had known Russ for a while told me about his history. The semester before he met me, he had been involved with some young woman who had become pregnant. She had an abortion before she left to continue her education somewhere else. I guess the breakup wasn't his idea. I do know that she didn't wish to have further contact with him. According to his friends, he was still trying to regain his bearings. Starting a relationship with me probably wasn't the most mentally healthy thing for him.
Eventually Russ decided to end our relationship. It was then that I hit the wall. All of my feelings of abandonment rose up like some monster inside of me. I thought about suicide a lot, but didn't attempt it. Since my attempt when I was 11, I had managed to stop myself from trying to die. As was so frequently the case, I'm not sure I even particularly liked him, but I wanted to get him back...really, really badly.
Other young men, including one named David, wanted to get to know me, but I was angry with them and I didn't trust them. I guess I wanted to get Russ back so I could continue to dislike him. Sex had gotten a lot more interesting and satisfying, but only if I was emotionally disconnected. Disliking a lover suited me just fine. As a matter of fact, it was the optimal situation for me.
I must go now...the person I'm supposed to meet has just shown up. More psychobabble later.
