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Released for good behavior (MAJOR TRIGGER)
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lovely_lemon_tree posted:
So, um...
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GRAAAAAHHHHHGGGHHHHHH

BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBLLLLLLAAAAAHHHHHHHHH

I hope that is enough trigger space.

So, yeah, I was in IOP yesterday (and for Misty's question that I never answered, IOP is intensive outpatient treatment -- and let me tell you, it is intensive -- we are there for a minimum of 9 hours of groups plus at least a half an hour with our clinicians a week). What should happen, but one of the girls walks out mid-group -- highly uncharacteristic for her -- clearly upset. Come to find out that she had gone out to the (very small) parking lot and downed her bottle of Klonopin and overdosed. One of the very obnoxious individuals in the IOP program, who has ZERO verbal filter, said that she had taken17 mg of Klonopin and I thought to myself ... hm...

Stir up my garbage and history.

I had, in the past, taken a heck of a lot of Ativan. It was very dark.

I was very, very triggered. Very triggered. I, trying to be the "good" client, talked to my clinician and naturally, with me thinking all this stuff, earned myself an emergency evaluation. They even said to me the words "involuntary commitment." (In this state, because the papers are blue, it has earned the nickname "blue paper"-ing/ed/ etc.) This is the fourth emergency eval in the last 8 weeks. This is also the fourth time that I have escaped.

To be continued tomorrow...
We must be the change we wish to see in the world. -- Mahatma Ghandi
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lovely_lemon_tree responded:
TRIGGER SPACE
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Today is the anniversary of this day... Thirteen years ago, my family and I .. and him.. were going to New Mexico to sign the lease for an apartment. He decided to go along at the last moment. I wore a long, form-fitting, Hawaiian-print sundress. It was incredibly flattering on me and I attracted a lot of attention in it. I wore it on purpose -- I wanted to rub in his face what he was throwing away. That night, after we'd arrived in the hotel, he gave me a long letter. He wrote about how I'd changed; I laughed inside. If he hadn't noticed I'd changed and I had been for over a year, then he wasn't paying attention. He was sharing a room with my brother, but he took me outside to speak with a bit of privacy. We sat on a boulder under a tree on the side of the parking lot. "What now?" I asked.

He didn't know. He didn't want to know me nor did he have any desire to see and understand how I'd changed. I still didn't know specifically what had gone on with Melva. I cried for the death of my only relationship. It started to drizzle. "Let's go inside," he said, "it's cold." I shrugged it off: "I'm fine." "Well, I'm cold," he said. So we went inside.



As we walked by the front desk and people checking into the hotel, my face was streaked with tears. People looked -- but I was too upset to care. He took me back to his room, and my brother was asleep on one of the beds, the one closest to the door. I sat on the edge of the bathtub, crying silently. He tried to hold me, and I hissed "Don't hold me unless you mean it," trying furiously to break away. He only held me tighter. He pulled me to his bed, and I resisted, but he was just too strong. He kissed me and I fought him. He pulled me back onto the bed and the harder I struggled, the more he pinned me down. Finally, he put me in a headlock. I stopped fighting. He began to lift my skirt, and I tried to squirm away and he whispered "Just let it happen." He'd packed a towel in his suitcase and pulled it out and put it underneath me.


I was on the pill so we didn't use condoms, though we hadn't had sex since the day in early June when he raped me yet again. He'd put towels underneath me to catch the semen that spilled out of me after he ejaculated. I knew, as he put the towel underneath my pelvis, what was going to happen. He pulled off my underwear. He pushed my legs apart. He rammed into me, roughly, clearly aimed at orgasm. I looked to the side to avoid looking at him -- and there was my brother, sleeping soundly on the other bed. I thought about screaming and waking him up. But I couldn't. I was frozen.

I waited until he'd finished, and I pushed every bit of semen out of me -- as much as I possibly could. He held me firmly and dozed. I waited until he was asleep, and then I lifted his arm and slipped silently out the door and went back to my room. The first thing I did was take my birth control pill, knowing I would never have sexual intercourse with him again, and knowing that I wouldn't need the pill anymore, and I would finish up that month's dosage and go off it. I remember the size and shape of it, and the pale blue color as I put it in my mouth. I went into the bathroom, changed into my nightgown, and scratched myself, hard. I tried to pretend that nothing was wrong. [br>
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Continued...[br>
We must be the change we wish to see in the world. -- Mahatma Ghandi
 
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lovely_lemon_tree replied to lovely_lemon_tree's response:
The day I started to decide what happened to me was defined as "rape," it was a day in March 2003, the week after I had detailed that night in Santa Fe to Tim, my first therapist. He looked at me and said, "Last time, you told me about what happened to you — the assault; the rape." I mentally recoiled as if I had been burned. Me? Raped? Is that what it's called? My definition of "rape" — perhaps it is a bit romantic — involves the victim actively resisting, instead of merely shutting his/her mouth and enduring it. That night in Santa Fe was the only time I actively attempted to resist the advances, even though at the end, I gave in. That element doesn't fit the case in a prima face definition. It makes me wonder if I even qualify for the classification of "victim." I just don't feel as valid or like I belong in that category because my experience(s) were different. I still choke on the words: "I was raped. I was sexually abused." Was I, really? Is that what happened? Or am I simply sitting in a therapist's office, wasting their time, occupying a space that could be filled by someone else; someone with a more justifiable claim than I?
The analysis becomes more and more disgusting. I've been sifting through my mental file titled "criminal law" — there are some things I didn't even know I remembered — and what seems to be a common thread in all of the different areas of the penal code is the element of intent. I could be wrong about this, but I think that also extends to rape. So was it rape if he didn't really intend to do it? I'm troubled by this thought. If he didn't intend to rape me, then I was not raped, and I do not become a "rape victim." Therefore, if that's what happened, I don't fit in with rape clientele, correct?
To further muddy the waters, there is the physiological aspect to contend with. A lot of what happened felt good. He knew it. I learned long ago that the only way to get Slime to stop doing "026 it "026 was to cite my own pain. Somehow, he could really tell if I was in physical pain. I assume I tensed up and became rigid. If I lied, he could tell, and continued anyway, regardless of what I said. I also learned how to produce my own physical pain. That involved taking the good physical feelings to the extreme as quickly as possible. Rape victims do not enjoy what happens to them. The simple fact that there were good feelings at all admits that there was an aspect I enjoyed. The pieces don't fit together.
If I was not raped or abused, then, logically, I should shut my mouth and stop crying about it. The elements are not all present and there are even signs that I consented — and took pleasure in — in some form to what happened. How would he know that I did not want something to happen if there were signs pointing to my acquiescence and approval thereof?
(As I read this over I realize I must sound like the defense attorney in a case in which I was simultaneously the injured party.)
Be that as it may, I have also come to another conclusion: I am feeling very unworthy of the services I receive, mostly because of the above analysis. I ask myself where these feelings come from and my answer is that they are probably a major effort (conscious or otherwise) aimed at keeping the status quo. The Slime stuff is a huge weight on my mind and yet, to ward of the pain, I prefer it be the unmentioned Biblical log in my own eye.
We must be the change we wish to see in the world. -- Mahatma Ghandi
 
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tnmist replied to lovely_lemon_tree's response:
((((((((((LLT)))))))))), I'm no lawyer or even a therapist, but to me it sounds like you did NOT consent, and that means it was rape. Period. Maybe I'm being simplistic? You are trying to deal/heal from PTSD and surviving trauma. I'm glad you have a therapist to help you with this.

In the book, "Courage to Heal," it even addresses recovery when we don't have ANY memories, but we have a lot of symptoms of PTSD. You have a lot of symptoms AND you have memories.

Worthy? If someone came along on this board and posted what you just posted, what would you tell that person? Would you tell that person you are not worthy, you were not raped, you don't deserve therapy? We are so good at beating ourselves up and treating ourselves worse than we would treat anyone else. I don't really understand why, but I do it, too. Well, in my case, I think it was because I had it drilled into my head my whole childhood that I was good for nothing, etc.

I'm so sorry you have all this on your shoulders. I hope you continue with therapy. You ARE worthy. You ARE worth healing and being loved and cherished and protected.
Every day begins with an act of courage and hope: Getting out of bed. - Mason Cooley

Misty
 
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DOGDANCING_TCOS replied to lovely_lemon_tree's response:
.*listening quietly* lap available if you need to curl up in it.
I'm not really a psychopath, I just play one on the internet.
 
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bluerose90 responded:
(((hugs if okay)))

I'm sorry that you are going through all of this, LLT. Like Misty said we are really good at beating ourselves up over what happened but we would tell the complete opposite to someone else who had a similar experience. Do you know why that is? Because deep down we know the truth, that it's not the our/victims fault, it wasn't something they/we wanted, and that it was wrong. The blame falls on the shoulders of the perp.

You are worthy of getting help. You are worthy of therapy. (((hugs))) *Drapes the fluffy pink blanket over your shoulders and sits with you. Offering you a hot chocolate and my monkey to cuddle with.*
Where there is shadow, there is light.
 
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lovely_lemon_tree replied to bluerose90's response:
As I keep going over this in my head, the only thing that comes to mind is the experience of being hospitalized about a year ago.

I spent hours -- literally hours -- retching over a garbage can because I was so anxious and worked up. I thought it was because I got an 45-mile ambulance ride over very bad roads and got carsick. But as the minutes turned to an hour and the hour turned to more hours, my nurse came into the room several times. She asked, "Is this something I need to worry about catching or are you severely anxious?" After four hours, I was finally given a hefty dose of Ativan, but that doesn't cure the problem.

When I was little, I used to become so worked up over things I would give myself a fever and make myself nauseous.

I could well see myself doing that over all of this.

I just started seeing a new therapist. My IOP therapist is on vacation. I feel very much as if I'm ice skating -- fine one moment, but so easy to slip and fall and disaster lurking underneath my feet, ready to happen in a split second and without notice.
We must be the change we wish to see in the world. -- Mahatma Ghandi
 
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tnmist replied to lovely_lemon_tree's response:
(((Gentle Hugs)))

I feel that way, too, a lot of times - skating is a good analogy - it doesn't take much to send me slipping and sliding.

I hope you are keeping yourself safe and you continue the healing journey.
Every day begins with an act of courage and hope: Getting out of bed. - Mason Cooley

Misty


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