I haven’t even started my master’s program and I am already looking at Ph.D. programs. A year ago I wasn’t that bold. Two years ago, that would have been unthinkable. Three years ago I might have laughed and completely dismissed the idea with a statement like, “you’re crazy.” (Keeping in mind that the “c” word is not ideal because it perpetuates stereotypes and false societal perception of mental illness, as well as trivializes the experience of those suffering from mental illness.) A lot has changed in the last few years. I also never would have thought of myself as being a responsible dog owner and the fact that I just passed my two-year anniversary at my job is almost unheard of. Yet, it’s possible and it’s real.
I possess so much more stability that I used to. (Positive self-talk: “Yes! Own it, girl!”) The medications I am on not only “seem” to be working, they are working. I have certainly have had moments of extreme instability earlier this year including several bouts of suicidal ideation. But the frequency of those instances is decreasing and the buffer of my resilience is increasing. Just shy of a year ago I began seeing my therapist twice weekly instead of once, and it has served me well. I wanted and needed the extra support. When grad school begins in a month, I may even, at least sometimes at first, only see him once a week. A month ago I didn’t like the idea of not seeing him twice a week anymore, but I am getting myself used to the idea.
I have also been seeing my psychiatrist for almost a year. It took a long time and was harrowing trying to find a psychiatrist whom I liked, who was nonjudgmental (i.e. didn’t make me cry), less critical, and simply, accepting of me. A lot can be conveyed without words. Since I left my inpatient and outpatient psychiatrists in 2015, I spent a year and a half seeing people I didn’t like seeing. But I was too ill to fight for myself, that is, to expend the sumptuous effort it would have taken to find a new psychiatrist. My outpatient psychiatrist refused to see me unless I paid cash up front, rather than going through my insurance, because one of her bills was included in my bankruptcy. I was angry at her and I felt bad at the same time. I didn’t want to blame myself, but I did.
I have been taking a course called Psychology of Lifespan development. We have our final exam in four days and I haven’t really sat down to study yet. This was not a required course for my graduate program and I am glad I took it. I have learned a lot. I also finally started my new volunteer job a few weeks ago at a large county-funded organization that works with at-risk youth including those who are homeless. As a volunteer I am allowed to attend treatment team meetings. I will also be working with their adoption support services program and after attending my third movie night next week so that they can see how I interact with the children (or “kiddos” as they call them) I will be assigned a child to mentor on a weekly basis. I don’t know what age the child will be but I am figuring that it will be a younger child because in the movie night groups I have been assigned to the group with the youngest of children, starting at age two. My previous volunteer experience in the church nursery also lends toward this age range. The minimum time commitment is a strict six-month rule but I hope to continue with the child for much longer. I will simply need to see how my life and availability plays out. I want to be the best positive role model I can be, accepting, patient, and understanding.
My Fall classes include Introduction to Clinical Practice: Basic Skills, Theories of Psychotherapy, and Psychopathology. I am a proud new owner of the DSM-5, and each course has at least three required books. A few of those books I have purchased on Kindle, but there is something about physically holding a book under a reading light and being able to underline passages with pencil which isn’t the same as reading a book on the computer and highlighting passages with the click of the keypad (or whatever that area on the keyboard is called where I drag my fingers and click, since using a mouse with a laptop is so uncommon these days).
I have begun working on Saturdays to make time up missed at work during the week because of my volunteer job. It wasn’t easy getting approval to miss hours during the week for the volunteer job and then I had to be authorized to work on Saturdays. Once grad school begins I am going to have to tell them that I can no longer work on the weekend because of my school commitments. I also want to work part-time. I received more loan offers than I was expecting to receive, because of my bankruptcy, and I accepted most of them so that I would be able to afford spending more time on my school work and less time at a job. Only, I am afraid they won’t let me reduce my hours by very much. In the long-run, if I had to work 30 hours down from 40 a week, that would mean less student debt. However, I want to work only 20 hours so that my real full-time job can be studying. I feel that I need and want it. I am willing to train another sales assistant of they choose to hire one. The previous assistant resigned not too long ago because she needed full-time work in order to be able to pay her bills. I was sad to see her go because we had become friends. We are still in touch, only, I don’t get to see her any more.
I really do have a good life. I have a blessed life. I am grateful for my resilience at overcoming the most difficult of obstacles. I fought every day for my mental health, even on the days when I couldn’t (or “chose not to” as my therapist would correct me) get out of bed. When I was in bed, I was protecting myself from harm, even if those stimuli of the world outside of my bedroom were merely perceived threats, and I was preserving my well-being. It was mostly for protection so that I wouldn’t have to deal with “the world.”
Today is Saturday and I slept for eight hours the night before. I indulged in a lazy afternoon nap after work which ended up being a three-hour nap. Luckily I woke up while the sun was still out so that I could go for a nice ten-minute walk with my sweet dog, who napped alongside me on the bed (as usual). The weather is hot and I have the air conditioning on. Where I lived in 2015 there was no air conditioning. That was a miserable place to live, so I won’t think about it any more. I don’t have to focus on the bad things that happened to me in the past any longer. I can go into a bad memory, and experience sadness, but then I am able to bring myself out of it. Those dips into bad memories are less frequent and they do happen often in the realm of my therapy hour, which is a safe place to experience those feelings associated with the memories. Yes, I was raped, and that was the least of my worries in my old life. But no one needs to know that. Not any more. I don’t need to keep telling everyone I meet my story. I have managed to only tell two people at work whom I trust about my past, and almost none of my coworkers other than those two know anything about my past, the fact that I was suicidal for many years, that I hadn’t worked for a period of five years due to mental illness. I am okay now and I am resilient as shit and I am a fucking warrior.
To my therapist,
I could spend the next twenty minutes studying. I have been wanting to catch up on the reading I missed out on during my intensively-paced introduction to child development course. I read tonight’s chapter about substance abuse while on my patio at home and at the pool laying in the sun over the warm weekend. I wasn’t able to get all of the reading done for tonight, however. I am lacking on one chapter. I am choosing to do something, rather, to ease my mind, because studying takes concentration, and there’s only so much concentration in a day a person can take. I didn’t get as much done at work today as I could have and I don’t mind. No one is looking over my shoulder. There are days where I strive to be my best, and there are days where I just “am”. I give myself a bit of a break. I cannot imagine, however, doing anything but my best when I am a therapist.
I’ve been told that I am preppy, that I have a hard time giving up control, that I like to tell people what to do. What else comes to mind? I know I have high standards for myself. I’m not so sure I like the word “preppy” because it seems to have a negative connotation. I have a month left in my abnormal psychology course and I am getting about 100% in the class thanks to some extra credit points which were offered. My 92% in the 8-week course was kind of abysmal. My 4-week 3-unit intensive course netted me about a 96% which is decent. If I get 98% I’m not satisfied because I think, “I could have done better.” But of course, I have to remind myself that I cannot be perfect. Perfectionist. That’s another one I’ve been called.
These are all new traits that I’ve developed in the last year. I didn’t know I liked to teach and that I enjoy being the “boss”. Maybe those qualities were within me, but they were hidden, undernourished, and dormant for all of my 20s. Age nineteen was the last year I had of freedom before the darkness really started to creep into my life. Now I’m 33 and applying to graduate school. It’s something I have always wanted to do, at least for about half of my life. Five years ago I could not have foreseen myself being in the place where I am today.
Gratitude. Maybe this is a journal of gratitude. Can I list all of the things which are great about my life? I certainly don’t need to remind myself because I am living it every day. But then again, my moods shift and at times they plummet, and the reality is that I do need the reminders. I have a nice home. It is quaint and affordable and I have some nice possessions like my wall mirror, my L-shaped light green couch and my teak wooden lounge chair on the patio. I have my first and my own dining room table. I’ve never had my own dining room table before. Not since my marriage ended.
I have a life. I have a life that is worth living. I have my therapist and a few friends and my immediate family members which comprise the entirety of my social support. Although now I am my mother’s supporter, and it’s as it should be. The roles have shifted and she needs my support now, and I am strong enough to be able to be there for her.
Although I am extremely attached to my couch, the first piece of expensive furniture I bought after my divorce, I would actually give it up in an instant. I would give it up if it meant helping someone I love. I would give it up in an instant if the decision seemed imminent. But, I am not in that position right now. I just have to recognize that my possessions don’t own me. I own them. I gave away all of my nice ceramic painted planter pots when I had to downsize. No problem! I have simply bought new ones. Things, physical things, can be replaced. People and experiences cannot be replaced. I need to keep this in mind. I own so many things which I treasure: my paintings, my tea cups, my piano keyboard which rarely sees the sight of my fingers, some of my shoes even. As much as I enjoy having those things and using them, I need to remind myself that things, physical things, are replaceable. I keep repeating this because things, physical things, are what define my mother. The things she owns own her. She has not dealt with the traumas of her past and she cannot get rid of anything. She hoards and she will be moving out of her three bedroom home which is completely full of possessions, everywhere, on every surface, and they will be put in storage. I am not sure she will ever be able to afford a home big enough again which will fit all of her things. All I can do is be there for her, visit her, talk to her, accept her for who she is. I can pray for her healing, but that has to come with a willingness which is not currently there. Not yet. I can always hope.
I have been doing a lot of thinking lately. I always do a lot of thinking. Yet processing the events of yesterday have required a concerted effort on my part. The events occurred over a period of just over an hour. To be exact, we started at just around 2:00 and when I walked out it was 3:13. The number 13 has been significant in my life for a long time. I think in general, it is an unusual and unique number. It is a prime number and an odd number.
“Everything happens for a reason.” Alejandra kept repeating this phrase during the beginning of our session. I had an appointment scheduled to see my psychotherapist at 2:00 on Saturday. When my friend, who is also my assistant at work, told me about her experience about her “reading” I was really intrigued. I’m really not into this sort of thing. It has interested me but not to the extent to where I have really done anything other than a cursory Internet search on the topic. I have never looked into it before. My upstairs neighbour got some tarot cards a while ago and said he wanted to start learning how to read the cards. He had downloaded an app on his phone to help him. There are so many cards in a pack, and all of them and their meanings have to be committed to memory.
“God said to me, I gave you a gift and you need to use it.” Alejandra was talking about the time when she was homeless and living out of her car on H Street in her neighbourhood, which isn’t in the best area of town. “How did you get food?” I asked. “I went to 7-Eleven on the corner of the street,” she replied.
Thirteen years ago her father had died on a Monday. That same week, her mother died the following Saturday. She was relating to me in that she was in a deep depression. She had gone to a psychiatrist and he prescribed pills to her. Antidepressants, presumably. She said to him, “That’s it?” “Yes, that’s it,” he replied. She walked out with the prescription. No talk therapy. That’s all that was offered to her. She took a pill on the first day and by the time the second day came around, she took one look at the bottle and poured the contents down the toilet and flushed. “I am not going to take pills when have the power to heal myself,” she said to me. “What if there is a chemical imbalance, like I have?” I asked. I had already told her that I take three different kinds of medication daily for depression and that I really, really need them to stay balanced and okay. She told me that I can do it. That slowly, very slowly, I can come off of the medications. It’s called titration but I didn’t tell her that. I knew what she meant. She was very kind to me especially while relaying this information to me.
While she was homeless she was giving readings with her tarot cards to her friends. She didn’t charge them. If they asked her if she wanted payment she sort of just shrugged her shoulders. They would give her five dollars, here and there. “Nobody helped me out when I was homeless,” she told me. No one gave her money. She was down on her knees and praying and that’s when God told her she needed to use her gift. He told her that she needed to always be honest, because the day that she isn’t honest in using her gift, he will take that gift away from her.
She doesn’t do this for the money. I know she is telling the truth. She only charges $50 for a reading, whereas others around town charge $100 or more. My roommate cleansed our home a few weeks ago by burning sage and we both said prayers throughout our home. We cleansed the entrances and our rooms of nightmares and bad dreams, and any bad energies that might have been there. She suggested I do a cleansing with a healer, i.e. a psychic medium. From a quick Google search she sent me a few links and each cleansing was advertised at $150. No way am I going to spend that kind of money when I can spend that on seeing my psychotherapist instead.
So when my assistant started talking to me about her reading, even before knowing the cost, I was very intrigued. Alejandra had told her to not wear black on Fridays because it is bad luck. She didn’t tell me that. She also told my friend that the man she is with is not for her, and that she sees her doing something in the medical field. Funny you mention that, said my friend to this lady, I just signed up for nursing school. There is no way that Alejandra could have known that previously. She told my friend to stay single for a while and to focus on herself. It sounded like such a positive experience that I wanted to have the same thing done to me. I wanted to get my reading done.
When I first arrived at Alejandra’s home, I was very nervous. She lives in a very modest one-bedroom apartment on the first floor of a gated community in a decent but not the best of neighbourhoods. The main room smelled delicious and the air was filled with a type of incense. There was a curio cabinet full of interesting items that were all similar. There were several shelves of what looked like glass bells, with all sorts of designs on them. I asked to use the restroom. She directed me to her bathroom, to which I walked through the bedroom to get to. Her bedroom is modest and small. There was a hair pin under the stopper in the sink and I was tempted to take it out because it looked out of place, until I realized that the pin was keeping the stopper up, so that water could run through it underneath. It had a purpose. There was a digital scale under a cabinet which I tried to briefly use but I couldn’t figure out how to get it to work and I didn’t want too much time to pass, else she might wonder what I was doing in her bathroom. She has a lot of perfumes on display.
There is a small, brown leather couch with three seats in it in the living room. I believe there was a carpet but now I’m not so sure. There was a fold-out card table just barely big enough to put cards on, and a foldout chair on the other side of the card table opposite the couch. I placed my purse and an extra bag I had brought on the floor and sat on the couch immediately. She then asked me to sit in the small chair. My back was to the front door and to my right up against the wall was her altar, which consisted of about five large porcelain glass figurines of different angels. There was a smaller box, very small, with what looked like a dollar bill stuffed into it. I surmise, as an offering to the angels. There were a couple other smaller items on the altar, which was a flat surface on top of a small wooden cabinet, which looked like it also served as a space heater because there was a knob or dial to turn on heat and an electronic furnace on the bottom of it.
She was about to sit down to start our session when she said, “now I have to use the restroom.” Several minutes later she came out of her bedroom very animated and said, “my phone fell in the toilet, I hope it still works.” She got out some Lysol sanitizing wipes and started wiping down her phone. She kept repeating, “I hope it works” and then, “It’s not working, it’s not working.” She used a kitchen towel to wipe down the sanitizing moisture and continued to swipe her phone. The screen was on, and nothing was working. Suddenly she asked me, “you must be very nervous?” I said, “yes.” That’s when she said, “that’s why. Everything happens for a reason.” I was tempted to ask her to clarify what she meant, in that I understood it was because I was nervous that her phone fell into the toilet. I held back and didn’t ask her because I had already understood that. I was also tempted to apologize and say, “I’m sorry” but I held back because I knew it wasn’t my “fault.” It was just something that had happened. She came back to the couch while continuing to make comments about her phone and trying to get it to work.
“Do you mind if I move this?” she asked, referring to my purse. Before I could answer verbally, having already nodded my head in consent, she moved my purse to the couch. “It is bad luck to put your purse on the floor.” Taking that information in, I noted how I literally always have my purse on the floor. When I sleep at night my purse is on my bedroom floor. At work, my purse is on the floor. Now I am going to start placing my purse on my hope chest in my bedroom and locking my purse in a drawer during the daytime at work. I never knew this.
First, she said she needed to cleanse the energy of the previous person off of the cards. She took the incense burner which was to her side and placed it on the card table. Fanning about five to seven cards at a time she waved them over the smoke of the incense until she got through the whole pack. Then she asked me to shuffle the stack in any way, three times. After that I was to separate the stack of cards in three ways, the first pile laying face down horizontally, then the next vertically, then the next horizontally, simply indicating the break in the pile which I had chosen. I didn’t pay much attention to how she dealt out the cards and ordered them; it happened too quickly for me to catch on. While dealing out the cards and looking at them, she read them out loud to me. “You have been hurt very badly in the past,” she said. I didn’t have to tell her that it had been in a relationship; she already knew that. She said that his energy is still with me and that I need to forgive him and to forgive myself. She said the first time he hurt me, it was his fault. The second time… I stopped her. I knew what she was going to say and I told her that. “You’re going to tell me that it was my responsibility.” “Yes, you could have said no,” she said. “I did say no. I said no so many times. He wore me down.” I, of course, didn’t want to take responsibility. But in a kind way, she said that I need to forgive myself, and pray for God to enter his life. “Yes, he said that he was Jesus sometimes,” I told her. “He does not have God in his life.” She said I need to imagine him visually before me and to pray for him and to forgive him.
Later in the session she told me he is not going to live long. That had been after I asked her if my mom will live a long life, which she affirmed with a “yes.” I was allowed to ask her absolutely anything, but by the end of the session she had told me so much about myself and my future, I could barely think of anything else to ask. She told me that I need to forgive the person in my past relationship before he passes away. I told her that he likes to do dangerous things like flying airplanes. He is a pilot. He also likes to drive at extremely fast speeds on any roads, even if they say 15 miles per hour. She repeated that he is not going to live long and that I need to forgive him. I told her that he had gotten remarried last year and that he is probably doing the same thing to the new woman he is with. “That is not your problem now,” she told me.
She told me that I need to get closer to my family. Without me having to tell her, she knew that I am in this city alone and that my family is not around me, for whatever reason. I did not fill in the blank but said, “my friends are my family here.” She told me that me and my brother are my mother’s entire life, that my mom lives for us. She said that my mom loves me and that I mean much more to her than my brother means to her. She told me that I need to go visit her as soon as possible. “What if my mom comes to me? I could buy her a ticket and she can come visit.” “That is fine,” said Alejandra, “as long as you see her soon.” I told her that my mom is moving and that she will be even further away from me. “Just visit her as soon as possible.” “Okay,” I said.
“I see you sitting at your desk all day long. What do you do for work?” she asked. She was right. I am glued to my desk. I explained to her that I work for financial advisors in the field of finance and that I schedule appointments for them, and that I am on the phone all day long with my headset on. She nodded in understanding. Before that she had told me that I am looking to get a better job. She was also right. I told her I am looking to change my career. Before I had even told her that I am going to school, she said that I am fine financially right now, but that I will struggle a bit in the future. She was right, because when I start school, I am planning to take out loans. When she had learned that I am in school, she said, “you are studying something like psychology.” There is no way, no prior indication, which would have let her know that information. “Yes,” I said, “and I am applying to grad school to become a marriage and family therapist.”
She was looking at five cards spread out with one in the middle and four at each corner. She told me that my dreams will come true and that I will be successful in my career. “You want to have children,” she told me. “Yes,” I replied enthusiastically.” She told me that I will have two children. I told her how I am thinking of freezing my eggs this year because after 35 I will be considered advanced maternal age, and that the risk of birth defects including down syndrome increases significantly. I told her that freezing my eggs is expensive. “You can afford it?” she asked me. “Yes, right now I can. Should I do it?” She didn’t answer me but took out her other phone, her personal phone which had not fallen into the toilet, and showed me a photograph of a woman who, at two years older than Alejandra, is 49, and was surrounded in the photograph by three people. Two of those children were older girls, one looked like she is a teenager, the other in her middle to late childhood. There was a third child. This child was a boy and looked about five years old. “He is healthy,” she told me. Meaning that her friend had had him in her early to mid-40s and he turned out fine. “There is nothing wrong with him. He is perfect,” she said. “Your children will be fine.” “So I don’t need to freeze my eggs?” I asked. “It’s up to you,” she replied.
I am the maker of my destiny. Those are powerful words. It means that I am in charge of my life now. It is assuming responsibility for the actions that I take within my life. There’s no more acting from the perspective of fear or hurt. Sound decisions based upon a balanced soul and rational mind control my life. Some things don’t always go as planned and there are setbacks. But those are part of the normal ebb and flow of ups and downs which comprise the human consciousness.
I have not been accepted into the two graduate programs I applied to. I had high hopes for both and both times I was disappointed to the point of being temporarily devastated. But I have recovered. Had I written about those incidents at the time those musings would have been infused with strong emotions. I am now in the process of applying to more graduate programs whose deadlines have been extended and others who simply have later deadlines for a Fall start.
I discovered the LPCC Masters of Science program in Early Childhood Mental Health. I hadn’t looked into it before, but the university which did not accept me for the MFT program said they could transfer my application to that department. I accepted. Ironically, my therapist teaches in that program as part of the faculty. If I get accepted into the program I will not be able to see him for therapy because dual relationships are not allowed. And if I go to see him for office hours as my professor our conversation must be limited to class material. I’m not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, I do not like the idea of not seeing him for therapy. My idea is that I will always see him, for the rest of my life.
On the other hand, the idea of him becoming my professional mentor is quite appealing. When I am in need of supervision during my practicum and internship, he might be available to guide me. Maybe it is time to graduate from his service as my psychotherapist. I would want to continue psychotherapy, and he does know colleagues to whom he would recommend me. However, the new therapist would know nothing about my past. I might not be able to be fully myself and fully open with her (yes, I am assuming it will be a female whom I would choose). I am often childlike in my expressions of joy, anger, and disappointment, and I might force myself to act in a more reserved and mature fashion. It doesn’t mean that I have to be less emotionally expressive.
Either way, I think my therapist is proud of me and will continue to be proud of me no matter what I choose to do. I can imagine my therapist teaching me about reflective practice, and guiding me to follow the beliefs and method and theory of psychotherapy toward which he leans. If I had to put my finger on a theoretical orientation which I might ascribe to him, it would have to be eclectic and nonspecific. Attachment work is a large part of our therapy together. He incorporates therapeutic techniques and interventions which he has refined and developed over the last 20 plus years. Whatever he does, it has worked. He always seems to know the right way to respond to me, and say the right thing. I always feel better after seeing him. I want to give this gift of calming peace and safety to other people.
I am going to keep living my life. I am going to keep on inspiring others by continuing on with my life no matter what obstacles come in my way. I don’t care if I inspire one or a hundred people. One person can make a difference. If I touch one person, just one person, then my mission, my goal, my heart will be complete. Every day is a battle in it’s own right. Every day I face challenges that have to do with my mental health. It’s just like everyone else in the world! It’s called being human.
My struggle on the grand scale of life may not be monumentous, but it has been for me. In trying to end my life, I have begun my new life. I have formed a new identity and a new way of thinking, feeling, and living. I have something called self-esteem, and it’s not based on my looks and my sexuality like it used to be. In fact, I am celibate, and sex does not enter my life at all. It’s by choice and it’s for a good reason. I want to have a child some day, and I’m planning on going to a sperm bank to make it happen because I never want to have sex with a man again. That might change one day, but this is where it stands now.
Next month it will have been five years since the day I left my abuser. I literally packed my car with everything that would fit in it, mostly clothes, and drove for nine hours straight to the other side of the state to get away from him. I wish that would have been the last time I saw him, but unfortunately I ran into him once soon thereafter. He was mocking me by asking if I had children now, when he saw that I had a child’s car seat in the back of my car because I was helping my friend take care of her child. And yet, I was still unhealthily emotionally tied to him, attached to him. Even though it was I who left, it was not I who had filed for divorce, and I was emotionally not even close to being ready to leave him. It was the physical urge, the sexual abuse, the fear, the act of self-preservation, which had led me into action by packing up my car and leaving.
And so, before he left me that one time, he asked to have one last kiss. And that kiss was deadly because it was tender and gentle. The years of psychological manipulation came to a front and messed with me for months thereafter. I was torn at being in the process of divorce yet still believing I loved him. It was because of the love that I had stayed so long. It was because of that unhealthy bond and extreme level of attachment and forced dependency which made me allow him to abuse me.
I had been vulnerable when he started dating me: I grew up without a male role model or model of how a healthy relationship should be. I was angry with my mother for a life of inconsistency and unhealthy boundaries between mother and child, and having suffered the wrath of her keen temper. I was a teenager and not yet fully mature. And his manipulation started from the get-go, only I did not notice it. I thought we were Romeo and Juliet, forbidden to be together, yet violently in love. The passion was dangerous and that’s what drew me to him. And he said he loved me. He said he loved me so that he could get sex. It started before I wanted it to start and I would have had no way of knowing that his sexual fantasies were so deviant, that he would become addicted to sex to an extreme extent, that I would allow us to each have multiple sexual partners which were forced upon me by mental manipulation and minutely planned and persistently relentless brainwashing tactics.
I am sober now. I am sober from having been addicted to a violent passion which ultimately destroyed the entirety of me: my self-esteem, my self-worth, my view of myself, my mental stability, my connection with my family and healthy friends. He gave my vagina as a commodity to every single one of his friends except for his equally narcissistic gay friend. The only difference between his friends taking me, without moral regard to the fact that they were married and whose partners assumed they were in a monogamous relationship, was that his friends didn’t pay him to do with my body what they pleased. I went along with it and by then I was completely brainwashed. There’s no other way to put it. No sane person would ever let this happen to them unless under extreme circumstances.
Everything about my life was extreme. In fact, he was a daredevil flying fighter jets and often driving 100 miles per hour on a 65 mile-an-hour road limit or even on 35 mile per hour roads. I hated it and he knew that I hated it, but he was too self-centered and too narcissistic to care about how it affected me, because he kept on doing the things which I hated. And although it was obvious that I disliked those things, I mostly kept my mouth shut. I didn’t speak back. No, that’s not true. I was a normal, self-preserving human driven by the instinct for survival. Of course I talked back. Of course I said “no”. I said no in many ways: verbally and physically. I used to push him away and say “no” and “stop it” and “I don’t like it”. I used to clasp my hands over the naked entrance to my vagina to stop him from penetrating me with his violent hands. To no avail. He always won, and he wore me down with daily persistence over the period of years. I was with him because we were attached by the invisible, cultural and moral code of marriage, and I naively believed in the phrase “until death do us part” because my father had died when I was three and a half. I took the fact that we were married very seriously.
He peeled my hands away forcefully from the entrance of my vagina. He forced me to wear scant clothing which barely covered me, so that I would be vulnerable and sexually attractive to him, but mostly to others. He was addicted to watching other men take me. There was no sense of protection and everything about my life was reckless and unsafe. He adamantly denied me the use of condoms. He pimped me out to hundreds of men over the years and it is only to God’s grace that I do not have HIV. I do have HPV but my doctor told me that it is supposed to go away over time. I was shocked when I found out, although I shouldn’t have been surprised. No one wants to hear such news. I understand that HPV can cause cancer. I don’t want to develop cancer. I want to live and I want to become a marriage and family therapist and I want to help other people who have been victims of abuse, terror and neglect. Humans can be the most despicable of beings when they cause harm to others, to children of all people. They cause indelible suffering. But in helping, in becoming a therapist, I can be a part of the healing. My therapist pointed that out to me. Even though humans can be so horrible, there are others who have the power to cause positive change and to elicit healing. I want to not only inspire; I want to heal. I want to have the healing power that my therapist has passed on to me. I want to employ that power for my own personal gain, which is the feeling of pride, of having made a contribution, of feeling good for having helped another person.
I know I don’t have to become a therapist to do those things. I can let a pedestrian cross the road even if there is no crosswalk. I can let a car on the freeway into my lane before me. I can smile at a stranger in the grocery store thereby sharing with them that there is kindness and gentleness in the world. I can be a big sister through the Big Brothers Big Sisters organization. I can love another woman’s child by being a dedicated friend and consistent positive presence in their lives. I can listen to a friend when she needs to be listened to. I can sit with silence and share compassion and be non-judgemental. I can make another person laugh. I can make daily human connections. There are so many ways that I can make a difference in the world. I choose to study to become a therapist because I believe from my own personal experience that it is the most effective way to enhance the quality of another person’s life on an emotional and spiritual level. One person can make a difference, and I want to be that person for many people. I care about myself and I love my life and I now have respect for myself. I have standards that I live up to. I want others to love their life as much as I love my own. I cannot force that to happen, but I can show them the way. I can guide them to self-actualization. I can be the enabler of positive change.
Change is difficult. To change one’s thinking takes years of training in therapy. It is challenging. There’s no other way to put it. It has been one of my greatest accomplishments to date. I know now that I can make things in my life happen. I have the confidence to be able to envision what I want, and to cause things in my life to go in that direction. I have the power to make my dreams come true. I have the power to respect myself. As my best friend, who is my sister from another mother, put it: self sacrifice is one of the greatest acts of self love. Knowing that has slowly changed my life.
When I spent five months studying for the GRE, four months into it, when I was really struggling with the maths quantitative portion in particular, she gave me this gift of insight. I didn’t believe it at first. I didn’t want to. But the way to show your child your love is to make sacrifices. And she told me to be my own mother, a mother to myself, and to love me by making sacrifices for me. The emotional energy, the strenuous commitment, the time spent studying: that was and is one of the greatest acts of self love because it is getting me towards where I want to be. I will do anything it takes to become a licensed marriage and family therapist. It is a long road of study, practice and training ahead and I am not daunted by the looming challenge of these years upcoming years of struggle because I know they will get me to where I want to be. I am me, I know I can be fully me now, and I have nothing to be ashamed of in wanting to be the best me that I can muster.
To my readers,
Other than the number “five” added in below in not-so-surreptitious places, everything else is correct. The number of years of recovery and the number of years to get my MFT license are also correct. Ironically, this could have been a fictional story, but it’s not. This was one of the easiest scholarship essays I have written. I’m sure no one else will have a story like mine. The only thing I worry about is whether the essay judges will be concerned about not putting something so “serious” on their website and whether the judges’ views are affected by the stigma of mental illness. To some degree, all of us are affected by the stigma, no matter what side of it we stand on.
“May is the fifth month of the year. Write a letter to the number five explaining why five is important. Be serious or be funny. Either way, here’s a high five to you for being original.” (250 words or less)
On the fifteenth of May, five years ago, was the day I packed my car. I packed my car with all of the essentials: five pairs of underwear, five pairs of socks. I put in five shirts and five of my favorite shoes, just for sentiment. I drove to the other side of the state and it took five times two hours to get to my mom’s house.
Five hours was amount of time it took for him to get home to an empty house and a note written in blood. The next day he changed the locks of my former home and five days later I was served with divorce papers.
Five was the number of times I was hospitalized from my suicide attempts, trying to undo all of the hurt and the trauma which had existed during those five years of my life.
Five times ten is the number of years that I wish he would get sent to prison for having raped me repeatedly and abused the innocence of the first five years of my adult life. Five women of the court were present when I gave my testimony and five days later they told me the case couldn’t go forward because I didn’t have enough evidence to prove “beyond a reasonable doubt” that it happened. Five years is how long it will take for me to become a trained marriage and family therapist so that I can help other women just like me.