One of the answers to “How did I survive?” was: Moment-to-moment. One second, by one minute, by one hour, by one day. Some days, it was all I could do to just make it to bedtime and have a break from the violence. Never, never, never did I look too far down the road. THAT would have crushed me.
The other crucial item I used during those trauma times was a mental force field that I call “Moments of Respite.” Moments of Respite were for the many times when my world was being torn apart. They were the pain-relieving medicine that made enduring his torment possible. And they let me shield my nervous system by giving it a momentary distraction.
Moments of Respite were ALWAYS found in the details, whether sensory or physical. Details give the world its special beauty, and beauty is the perfect antidote to horror. Details are life’s adornments that bring order, calm, awe, mystery, and tranquility.
If you question whether overlooked tiny things have such power, consider this. You can draw a circle with a line sticking out of it and call it an apple with a stem. Or you can underpaint the circle with burnt umber, then add successive layers of cadmium red, cinnabar green, some titanium white, and Naples yellow. Suddenly, the depth, intensity, and richness explode on the page, and that image of the apple is like holding an entire world in the palm of your hand. I’ll expand on the apple example at the bottom of this post.
Painting by author
Suffice it to say that in the depths of my abandonment, all of those tiny aspects of life would call out to me. They were like friends racing up in a getaway car and yelling for me to jump in. They taught me to look for the beauty in the smallest of things and to see it no matter how bad the bigger picture was.
Even when I could count on no one or nothing else, the details in those Moments of Respite offered that intricate deeper dimension, right at my fingertips, always available…unlike the people in my life.
Moments of respite were my reminder that, even in the midst of chaos and horror, life possessed infinite little worlds of richness and beauty. They were my steadfast companions, offering sensory retreats — a “breath in between moments” — where my overwrought, throbbing, nervous system could escape and rest. If I focused on them, I could tune him out, even momentarily. And by doing that, I could withstand the next moment’s onslaught.
So, always, Moments of Respite, dosed moment-to-moment. And NEVER think further ahead than that.
It was a FULL-SIZED, Louisville Hillerich & Bradsby, Little League-approved baseball bat…1965…brand new…and BEST of all – inscribed with Mickey Mantle’s name at the end. Anyone who followed New York baseball in 1965 knew that Mickey Mantle was the ultimate batter. So, of course, that bat was my absolute pride and joy.
I suspect I was a rarity, as I was probably one of the rare girls at Yankee Stadium that day. It was the very first “Bat Day!” and anyone who had a child and a ticket to the game got a free, official Little League bat. Since all I remember seeing around us were boys and their dads, AND given it was 1965, the idea of a GIRL coming to bat day would have been unusual.
My two friends (both boys) from our neighborhood were going to this event with their dads, friends of our family. They must have invited my dad to join them, and since he only had daughters, and since, in a lot of ways, as the oldest, I was the replacement son, I got to go.
I remember bits of it. An exciting drive to New York City. Walking in and being handed THAT bat. Clutching it to my chest as we pushed our way through packed stairwells to get to our seats, and gripping it tightly the whole day. Stopping at a hot-dog stand for dinner on the ride home.
The entire day was heaven, with even my dad being in a good mood. And…that bat. I was going to treasure it forever. But sometimes forever isn’t very long.
This tool does not require a lot of words. Yet do not consider the brevity of this post an indication that it is not that important. Other than attitude, it is the most important one of all. To show no awareness of what it means is to throw away a most precious gift:
Time.
I’ve read a number of books by a YouTube podcaster, Ryan Holiday. He writes and speaks about a 2000-year-old philosophy called Stoicism. And that ancient philosophy couldn’t be more relevant for extracting meaning in every moment, today.
People often hear the word “stoic” and mistake it for taking on the world with no emotions and a hard, outer shell. It is the opposite. In some ways, it mirrors many teachings of Buddhism, Taoism, and many other ancient paths to wisdom. It is about living as fully as possible in the present moment; about knowing what is in your power to do or control and doing it without procrastination. And it is also about knowing what you can’t control, and letting that go.
But most of all, its most valuable message can be summed up in two Latin words, two words that say it all:
So. About tools. There are several I am going to share. And I need to start with maybe the most important one, at least for me. If I had this one, I could hang in long enough to use all the other tools that would come.
Attitude
“The girl in the navy sweatshirt…softly asked, ‘How did you not give up?’” “By realizing that giving up would mean giving in to the narrative that was written for me by my circumstances, by other people’s choices and mistakes.” Daria Burke, Of My Own Making
If I were forced to pick just one quality in me that helped save me in that house, and continues to fuel my healing now, I think I would choose “Attitude.”
The true and full answer for how I survived is a whole lot more complex. In reality, it was a swirling mix of so many individual happenings over my life that came together in just the right way, at just the right moment. And without that, I wouldn’t be here. I consider it just as miraculous as how the dense, hot, swirling chaos of dust and rock from the Big Bang gave us a nurturing, life-sustaining Earth. A long shot.
But that one quality, “attitude,” is the closest word I can think of, because in the end, that is what often gets someone through — how they view something, what drives them, what gives them a lifeline to hang on to.
The word salad of survival
For sure, my attitude is built from so many more words, each one contributing to my long-shot survival and eventual thriving.
There were people – from my husband, therapists, my wonderful high school teacher, family friends, and even strangers who, in a momentary crossing of paths, gave me the sustenance I needed to keep going.
There was God, even during the times I hated Him or Her. All during those daily Masses, that young me was deeply listening to the Gospel stories of how God takes care of everyone, even the lilies of the field and birds of the sky. I absorbed those words and held on for dear life.
There was even just plain blind ignorance. And I don’t mean that as a put-down. It’s just the reality of childhood.
When you’re a kid, you don’t know what you don’t know. You have no clue that your life isn’t the norm. You assume what you are living in is how everyone lives — some nice things, some not so nice things that you just have to survive. So you don’t even think to question it. Daria Burke said as much in her book about her own life:
“…we are hardwired to seek out and trust the familiar, even when the familiar isn’t safe or good for us…When you grow up surrounded by poverty, abuse, and violence…it’s not uncommon to accept your circumstances as commonplace, even expected…stressful forces that become so ordinary, they fail to register as traumatic events.”
In one way, then, blind ignorance was a blessing, at least at the time for me. By not knowing the reality of how abusive it was, I could retain an attitude that anything was possible if you worked hard enough and waited long enough, even in the midst of chaos.
I had hope and optimism that one magical day, I would be an adult and things would all “just work out.”
Hope and tenacity – your name is “resilience”
Actor Jane Fonda, in a Fresh Air interview, spoke of her life, her own sorrows at losing her mother to suicide at a young age. Of her wound of growing up without that love. And of the deep sorrow of learning years later that her mother’s suicide was rooted in being sexually abused and raised in an abusive household.
When asked why she kept striving in life despite her personal pain, Fonda talked about resilience, which to me incorporates the attitudes of hope and tenacity:
“Resilience is such an interesting thing…I think people are born with it…resilience is when a young child who is not getting love at home, kind of — there’s a radar that’s scanning the horizon. If there’s a warm body that maybe could love her or teach her something, you go there. You find love where you can. You find support where you can. That’s a resilient child. That was me.”
And that was me, too. I might not have always chosen wisely, but I really tried to find and take in love as best as I could in any moment.
One of my therapists along the way pointed out how amazing it was that, despite what I lived through, I stayed open to the hope of love. And that I did take it in whenever I could find it, from whoever offered it along the way. Yes, I made mistakes, but still, I kept the hope of love.
Now, for sure, I was hugely naive as to both my reality at home and what that life would cost me. And of course, that way of thinking would eventually implode when I realized the truth. But maybe it was best, then, that I could assume my life was “normal,” even if it was the opposite.
The other thing that ignorance gave me in childhood was what Viktor Frankl talked about in his book, Man’s Search for Meaning. He spoke of people surviving concentration camps because they found a “why” to keep going.
My “why” might have been totally wrong, warped by my father’s brainwashing, but still, I thought I had a why to go on. He drilled in that I was helping him and keeping the family together. And he kept demanding I not grow up to “be a stupid woman.”
So when you are told those things a million times from early childhood on, in your young mind, you think you have both a reason for your existence that gives you worth, and a goal for your future. And so you have hope. Of all the qualities I possessed that made up my attitude, I would say hope was the largest element. I will write more later about “hope” through life.
Of course, there’s the reality that those rules slowly poison you and prevent you from becoming your own person. And there is also devastation that comes when you get older and feel that you were played for a fool, so you hate yourself.
The mixed bag that was me
Aside from all of the above things, there was that mix of who I was at my core. I was a dreamer. So in any given moment, I was Nancy Drew, Ivanhoe, Robin Hood, a World War II Australian coastwatcher spying for the Allies in the South Pacific, and so many other personas all wrapped up in one. From those stories and biographies, I learned that true heroes were brave, unrelenting, and determined to stand up for what was right, no matter the risk.
I loved to learn and was creative enough to use that for Moments of Respite to feed my soul, especially during the bad times. I trusted the people I loved, was loyal to a fault, and had a good heart. And I was a highly competitive kid who never wanted to let anyone, especially the boys, beat me out at anything. If a boy could do it, so could I…and better!
That might have been foolish at times, like when I dared to out-race my neighborhood friend on my bike while he tried to nail the football in front of my bike tire. I was just a split-second too slow, flipped up in the air, and tore up my shoulder as I skidded across the pavement while just missing the curb with my head. This was, of course, the era before bike helmets. Yes, foolish. But NO ONE could say I didn’t try.
Painting by author
Also, there were the influences and examples of the old Slovaks in my life. They lived through poverty, loss, war, and the Depression. Their rules were to work hard, get an education, stick by family, tough your way through anything life throws at you, and don’t whine, be weak, or give up.
So I was the mixed bag of tough, loving, loyal, determined, stubborn, gentle, trusting…and hopeful. I thought I was living in a house that, while not perfect, was truly loving, and would someday, somehow, be better. I had hope. I will write more about the nature of this quality in my life later.
When I escaped that house, I did finally realize the extent of all the lies I had been living with. And that destabilized me for some time. But once I started to pick myself up, I was angry. And anger fueled a level of rebellious determination that, for a while, bordered on spiteful. I was going to survive and come back and fully reclaim my life, fast, just to spite him.
While that works for the short-term to get one started from despair, eventually, I would come to realize it wasn’t going to be fast, or ever completely healed. And I would eventually release the spite and instead, tap into self-determination — reclaiming what I deserved for my own good, for the love of my family, and for the goal of breaking that intergenerational cycle of abuse handed down by my family of origin.
So, now? Throw the damned football
So now, decades later, who am I?
No matter what, I am still that dreamer. That person who uses Moments of Respite to feed me. I still hold all those values I read about or saw in others.
I am also that determined, feisty person who refuses to give up or be held back by anyone. Tell me I can’t do something, and I will do my best to prove you wrong. I may be more judicious in picking my battles now, but still, I yield my power to no one.
So, somehow, despite all my father’s bludgeoning, I managed to keep that spark alive. I got just enough nurturance along the way that he could never completely snuff out my spirit.
For sure, I almost didn’t make it…several times. For sure, I have almost given up many times. And so often, I have crashed in despair.
Even now as I write these entries, I feel weary, sad, and angry. But somehow, I still have inside me that kid on the bike daring life to throw the football.
She has an attitude that screams – “I WILL take back as much of my life as I can…and I REFUSE to let him rob me of my future! He took my past. He will NOT get my future!”
Child-like
I have learned that it’s good to keep my “young inner child” alive and close by. I don’t mean to be childish, but “child-like.” That is the part that always had hope. And while no longer naive, I am still “hopeful.” I BELIEVE I can make my life a gift to me and to others.
And again, I can follow the example in Fonda, who is older than me, but who also refuses to give up on healing her life:
“…you’re never too old. You know, I’ve gone back into therapy now at 87 because I want to figure out why I’m not a better person and why I wasn’t a better parent. And I’m figuring it out…At 60, I thought a lot about, ‘OK, this is my last act.’ This is it…My last 30 years…What do I wanna get out of it? I wanna end with no regrets, or at least as few regrets as possible.”
No regrets. So, my first tool for sustaining in this work: Attitude.
And maybe the biggest ingredient in attitude for me is hope.
Note:
I am seeking financial support to complete my memoir, work with an editor, and return home for fact-checking. Your help would mean the world to me as I take this step toward healing and giving voice to my journey.
Please like, comment, and share this post to help spread the word. The link for my fundraiser is on GoFundMe. Thank you for your support.
The short answer is that no one can answer that ahead of time. It will take what it will take. It depends on the nature of each person and what they have lived through.
For me, given the long duration of my abuse, the deeply ingrained messages, and the amount of trauma stored in my body tissues, it’s not surprising that it was going to take a long time. And still does at times. So the amount of EMDR and Cognitive Behavioral Therapy work from 2018 to the present has been the most intense and continuous of my life.
I went back through my journals and calendars for those years and discovered that the number of EMDR sessions alone numbered twenty-four to date. The heaviest load fell into the first two years – thirteen sessions by the end of 2019.
Photo by author
Particularly during those two years, I needed the constant repetition to slowly and carefully crack open some of those huge and painful topics. Many of those sessions were recurring themes: rage, grief, loss, terror, shame, mothering, women’s friendships, family systems, and such.
“Whatever it was that he saw in me that made him choose me – I was determined that part of me would NOT survive!” My journal, July 22, 2018
If ever there was a statement that captured the self-hatred, blaming, and disgust that I felt toward me all through life, this was it.
I assumed it was me. I was wrong, somehow to blame, somehow responsible, contaminated with some trait that he couldn’t resist. I must have brought something to the table that caused this…and thus…it was my fault.
Or, even if I cut me some “slack” because, at least in the beginning, I was an infant, still, I was disgusted with myself. He had chosen me for this hell. So whatever it was that I possessed that drew him to me, I was going to PURGE it as soon as I could identify it.
Looking back, it’s a ridiculous idea…it wasn’t me at all. But given that he abused me right from infancy, it is a logical one. When bad things happen to young children, they assume they caused it and are to blame. They are still at that stage of thinking that everything is about them. So good or bad, it’s their fault. And on some deep and early emotional level within me, I carried that same message.
It was only now, in my late sixties, that a germ of a realization was dawning upon me and creeping into my consciousness…an idea I could finally FEEL, not just tell myself and try to believe it: Was it possible…that I was NEVER to blame? For any of it? That maybe it was about whatever he carried WITHIN HIM all along…
It takes more courage to remove one’s armour, than to assemble it.”
J. Střelou
The racehorse in the gate
The digital clock to my right read 4:01.
I settled onto the couch, a pillow on my side in case I needed to pull it to my chest. My therapist moved quietly about the room, pulling the window shutters closed and turning off lamps.
She settled into her desk chair, a clipboard and pen handy so she could take notes. The only light in the room now was from her small desk lamp.
I appreciated the darkness of the room. It walled out the world and helped me reinforce that we were about to journey to another place and time.
Before me at eye level was a tripod about 4 feet high holding a 3-4 foot long horizontal LED light bar. It was narrow, about two inches high, with a black background.
My therapist clicked the remote for the light bar to ensure it was working properly. Immediately, a small green light zipped across the bar. She adjusted the light beam’s speed and reminded me that she could adjust it to whatever my comfort level needed.
Despite trying to relax into the sofa cushion, every muscle in my body was a taut rope. I wondered how I would react this time…what thoughts might come up…and would this do anything. I felt like a cliff diver perched high atop a rocky peak, arms stretched out before me, and leg muscles tensed as I leaned out over the expanse to drop into the surf below. Would I clear the rocks or land on them?
My therapist’s voice brought me back to the room. “How are you doing?”
“I feel like exploding…I can’t wait to get on with this.”
“Where in your body are you feeling tension?”
“My muscles are all tight…but especially my throat..like I am being choked. And a heavy pressure on my upper chest.”
“Do you still want to continue?”
She barely asked the question before I cut her off.
“Oh my God, YES! I can’t stand this any longer.”
She confirmed that my husband drove me to the appointment and was in the waiting room so that I didn’t have to drive myself home. Then she began the process.
“You are in control and can stop this at any time. Follow the light beam back and forth with your eyes as you think about the image we have settled on. We’ll stop periodically to give you a rest and see what comes up for you as we do this.“
I shifted on the couch and stared hard at the dark light bar. I was a racehorse in the gate, ready for the sound of the gun.
“On a scale of zero to ten, with zero being no discomfort and ten being the highest level of discomfort, where are you now?”
Again, she barely finished her question, and I blurted out, “Nine…almost ten.”
“On a scale of one to seven, with one being totally false and seven being totally true, how true is the statement ‘I feel powerful?’”
“One.”
“Okay. Let’s start. Just focus on being there in your house on Sunday afternoons with your father coming down the hall and yelling at you.”
The last two weeks have been extra stressful with some medical things going on with my husband. While all remains “stable,” ever since he nearly died in the early 2000s after a “routine one-day surgery,” I never take those for granted.
Given the trauma from his medical emergency back then, on top of all the abuse trauma I carry, it is not a surprise that I don’t handle new “possible stressors” with ease.
It is also true that writing these memoir entries now about the deep emotional pain I felt in the EMDR sessions is hard. I re-live those emotions. It is necessary to write about those times and to extract new meaning from them. But it is also necessary when things get too intense to just take a breath and resort to one of the tools I used to survive all those years of abuse: Moments of Respite.
I have mentioned them briefly earlier, and I will talk more soon about them — what they are, and why I love them as a coping mechanism. But for right now, given that I needed to resort to that tool with current goings-on, I will share a sample of my newest one – a little “break in the action” for all of us.
The chaotic mess of mammalian breathing
So, we all breathe. Big deal. Inhale — diaphragm pulls the thoracic cavity down, the lungs expand, oxygen-rich fresh air flows in. Then the diaphragm snaps back up, forcing air out of the lungs. In the middle, red cells get rid of CO2 and take in fresh oxygen. Sounds simple enough. But in reality, it’s a pretty chaotic process.
Before I relate the session experience, I need to take a moment to consider the question – Why rage?
Why did I carry white-hot rage toward my father? And why did that need to be the first thing we tackled?
I will let the images do most of the talking here.
Who was he?
Probably best answered by the stories he shared with me on our weekend car rides, all of them disgusting or upsetting. Such as the one about abusing cats when he was a kid.
When we started planning for the upcoming EMDR session, I had no idea what to expect this time. Would it trigger another panic reaction like in 2009? Would it fix ANYTHING? I only knew I wanted to try because my psyche was demanding it.
For sure, I wasn’t even thinking about whether this would need multiple sessions. I wasn’t trying for any specific goal other than some relief. The pressure on my chest and the choking sensation in my throat were immense. And I so wanted to cry. But I couldn’t.
It was an understatement to say that with all the rage, fear, and pain building up, I felt like a loaded cannon. In fact, the better description was that I was a cannon barrel that had been OVERloaded with SEVERAL shells rammed tightly against a triple charge of gunpowder…and that lit fuse was dwindling closer to the gunpowder by the second.
No small challenge
In our final preparation meetings, we went over my rage and emotions again and again, trying to narrow down the list of issues and memories to one main event. As my therapist explained, EMDR can work better if we clearly define one issue, along with a specific associated memory or event, and the statements I held about that episode — Things like: What did I currently believe and feel about that event…and about me? And what would I prefer to believe in the future?
She explained our approach and why we would handle things that way. In cases where the trauma was a single, more recent event, improvement might come fairly quickly. On the other hand, with complex trauma like mine, it would take more work and time.
Soul Mosaic 