I can’t give any advice on how to deal with triggers. It’s one of the few things I have no answer for. One of the few things I’m never prepared for.
My reaction to triggers whether it be an emotional reaction or a physical reaction is involuntary. I’m sure there are coping skills to fight off a bad trigger reaction but I can’t seem to bring myself to work on it. When they happen I just wait it out. It almost feels easier than acknowledging them.
It’s weird. Feeling dirty when I just got out if the shower. Having to put clothes on my still wet body. Wrapping myself in a blanket or pushing my face into Andy’s chest while I try to take deep breaths and let it pass.
It’s weird to be around my immediate family and feel this wave of disgust wash over every inch of me. I’m disgusting and everyone can see it.
It’s weird to watch a Dr. Phil episode and be able to relate with girls who’s family didn’t believe that they were abused by other family members.
But this isn’t about my family. This is about the aftermath.
I remember getting interviewed in this office. It had a window where my mom and a doctor could watch me. Judge me. I felt like I had done something bad by confiding in my school’s social worker with a problem I had had for two years.
A problem named Jesus Gonzalez.
A problem with a name that I haven’t said out loud in years.
Even writing it feels weird.
When I think of him my mind feels 9 again. I feel like that helpless defenseless little girl who just wanted someone to care about her.
The one who listened to music in her room at a very low volume and cried at a very low volume.
The one who wore a pair of shorts and a pair of sweatpants to bed along with a long sleeve shirt, a t shirt and a nightgown on top.
The one who would wedge a chair against her doorknob at night until he said she wasn’t allowed to do that anymore.
The one who knows what the blood in her lips tastes like.
The one who was touched, but not badly enough apparently.
You see, when they interrogated me and asked me what he used and if he put what he used inside me and I said no they assumed I had lied about the whole thing.
But why would a fifth grader lie? A fifth grade girl doesn’t usually know what that grown up stuff is about, much less how to accuse someone of doing said stuff to her.
“No, I was home sick and he was rubbing lotion on me while I pretended to be asleep. I always pretend to be asleep because I hate talking to him. He hurts me and makes me feel scared. He touched only the outside and before he could do more I told him to stop. He has hit me before, too.”
Two days later I had to apologize to him when he came back home. I had to apologize to him.
Im not mad at my mom anymore. We all do stupid things. And to be mad at her now would be pointless. I’d be mad at a ghost. Because my mom is a completely different person now.
Im mad at the people who said through their actions that my abuser wasn’t abusive enough for them to care.
About two years ago I found myself in a psychiatric hospital. I remember meeting with a psychologist. Dr Dimwitty. And no, that’s not a fake name. It was the perfect name.
He asked me where my depression stems from.
“childhood trauma. ”
” What kind.”
“Mental, physical, sexual.”
“What kind of sexual trauma?”
“My stepfather molested me.”
“did he rape you?”
“oh okay, so it wasn’t that bad.”
It’s that kind of language that is absolutely damaging to a person. Luckily for me I am very used to checking in with myself and my situation and it didn’t worsen my depression.
If anything… It made me stronger.
But for a while there I started thinking that my abuse wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t so bad. Eventually I started to feel like I had never really been abused.
Then I saw this Dr Phil episode. One woman had been molested and raped, and the other had been molested.
She was just like me. She was traumatized by these occurrences. I was traumatized by those occurrences.
I was diagnosed with depression in 2013. And if my step dad didn’t take part in creating that perfect storm for me then I don’t know what did.
It’s not okay that he would constantly walk in on me while I was changing.
It’s not okay that he would call me sexy, and a whore, and a bitch, and a sinner, and a woman.
It’s not okay that he pressured my boyfriend and I into having sex when I was sixteen.
It’s not okay that he watched us having sex through a window and his excuses were not valid when we caught him.
It is not okay that he struck me in the face.
It’s not okay that he touched me at all.
It’s. not. okay.
And honestly… I find comfort in that.
So no cps, you don’t get to go home and feel like you did a good job with me. And no Dr. Dimwitty, you don’t get to tell me what degree of abuse is bad enough for you.
And no, Jesus Gonzalez, you do not get to live the rest of your life thinking what you did…
…. was okay.