Nightmares again

I woke up at 4am screaming. Lucky hotel walls tend to be thick. I haven’t had such a lucid nightmare in about a month (which is a long time, as these things go), so it did shake me. I called down to reception and asked them to restock the minibar – with chocolate, not with alcohol. I was thinking this was the opportune time to try and break my chocolate/nightmare habit, but I just didn’t have the energy. The nightmare took it all from me.

My mum was driving me home. I was begging her not to, as I knew Robert was angry and that he was going to get violent. I was crying in the car, and she was just ignoring me (she did a lot of that in real life too). As we got out of the car I managed to escape to my cousin Andie’s house. This would be the place that I would try to escape to in real life, also. Although it always ended with my mother marching me back to the car and screaming abuse at me all the way home. Andie is younger than me, so I knew she couldn’t do anything to help me, but I was clutching at straws.

A feature of these nightmares is that I am stuck living with my parents. So when I got to Andie’s house I asked if I could live with her. She said No. I asked if I could stay two weeks, and she said yes, so at least I had a reprieve. Then a few dream like things happened, (which often repeat themselves in my dreams) – getting lost in the house that has so many bedrooms, ending up at the beach (water features a lot in my dreams), and then the two weeks were up and I had to go home.

My parents, in real life, never let me have a key to the house. Even though I was always the first to get home, I would often pick up my little sister from after school care and I’d use her key (which had pretty elephants on it). On the days that I didn’t pick her up I had to wade through the garden and under the house to find the hidden spare key. In this nightmare the spare key wasn’t there. I was desperate to get into the house before my stepfather got home so I could hide in my room. Hoping maybe that he would leave me alone. But I had to wait for him to come home to let me into the house.

In the dream I don’t know what happened next. I know I just woke screaming.

The witches

They stood surrounding the bed screaming; their anger turning their faces a witch’s red. She cowered against the wall, sobbing. If she could have said anything, she would have said Sorry, and she certainly learnt to say that a lot afterwards. Though it took her a long time to realise she had nothing to be sorry for.

One of them; the head witch, slapped her. “You murderer!” the witch screeched. The girl sobbed even harder.

The facts were thus; the girl’s mother had been pregnant. Due to iron deficiencies she miscarried; it was certainly not the first time. Unfortunately it was during the time that the girl had first spoken of the sexual abuse by her step-father.

For fifteen years that girl believed she was a murderer.

That girl was me.

Nightmares again

Note: sexual abuse content below

I’ve come down with a cold and am sleeping most of the day. Unfortunately that gives my subconscious plenty of opportunity to attack me with nightmares, and I’ve had some doozies.

The worst one so far has been my step-father fellating me while I scream at my mother “Watch!!”. Others have been normal in comparison; stuck living with them, stuck in a holiday house with them. And my step-father always making an appearance, either as a lead role or cameo.

My psychologist says I should try and write about them, but I don’t see the point. I don’t have anything to say. They are horrific. It takes me hours, and sometimes the whole day to recover from them. And I know I’ll just have another one when I go to sleep again.

Hating sleep

Note: sexual abuse content below

I hate going to sleep.

I thought being in the hotel room would improve things but it doesn’t. I lie awake so anxious that I won’t get to sleep. I just want to be asleep as fast as possible.

It’s not like insomnia – which I have had before. With insomnia you’re not afraid of not being able to get to sleep, you’re afraid of not getting enough sleep. It doesn’t matter if I go to bed at 9.30pm or 12.30pm, my anxiety is still the same. I can’t stand lying in bed waiting to fall asleep.

I have been leaving the TV on, so I go to sleep listening to the news, but even then I am anxious about how long I will have to lie there going to sleep. The other strange thing is that this anxiety is quite new too – it only started about a month or two ago (when the flashback occurred).

My step-father would come into my room while I was in bed reading or trying to get to sleep, and that is when he raped me. So I understand the psychology behind it. He always did this on a Monday because that was the night my mother was at gym. I was always terrified that he would come in (once I specifically went up to his bedroom to say goodnight so he wouldn’t have a reason to come to my room, and he was lying on the bed naked and asked me to give him a kiss, then told me that he and mum enjoyed sex and that I should too). I was ten at the time. I didn’t know what he was doing, but I know I didn’t like it.

So now, at the age of thirty, I abhor lying in bed trying to get to sleep. I wish I could just click my fingers and be out like a light. Even with the sleeping tablets I take, it takes ten to fifteen minutes for me to fall asleep and they are the worst ten to fifteen minutes of my day (except when the PTSD has been triggered – then my whole day is really bad).

I don’t know what else to do. I sleep with both my cat and dog, who would wake me up if anything happened. But I’m not afraid of being asleep. I’m afraid of getting to sleep.

Of course I have no problems with sleeping during the daytime. I can fall asleep at the drop of a hat in the most crowded place you could think of (I’ve fallen asleep at a rave). I fall asleep in cafes, bars, clubs, movie theatres, lectures, training sessions, meetings, telephone calls, you name it.

I have no problem with the daytime nap, and for awhile there I was sleeping from 5- 8pm every day. No problem with getting to sleep.

But I can’t (and don’t want to) live my life at night. I used to be a night owl, but I don’t really like night any more.

Not so miserable

Last night I forced myself to go out and ended up at a friend’s house at midnight crying at how down I had spiralled in such a short period of time. They didn’t know what to say, but then not many people do. Anyway, them sitting there saying nothing was better than patting my hand and going “it will all be alright”. That’s one of the most unhelpful things anyone can say. Obviously it’s not going to be alright. I’m depressed, not dumb.

Anyway last night I decided to put myself back on Dexamethasone (which was confirmed today as the correct decision by my psychiatrist) and I am feeling better. I had a migraine most of today, and there’s nothing like physical pain to kill mental pain. I even did quite a bit of work. Other than my continual eating I am almost back to normal – I even tidied the lounge room (all the other rooms are a mess – tomorrow I plan to tidy the kitchen).

It’s now 2.30am and I am watching Rage – all the video clips to all the angry songs I used to listen to when I was in my early twenties. Tool, Rage against the machine, Marilyn Manson, Smashing Pumpkins, Soundgarden, Live etc. Maybe it’s just me, but there seem to be a few videos with child abuse themes. Or maybe that’s not right, it’s just I identify with these songs so very much (despite not listening to them for five odd years), and I identified with them back then, but back then I didn’t know why. It was all so obvious yet I couldn’t see what was right in front of me.

Still miserable

Have resorted to listening to Marilyn Manson and trying to convince myself that going out tonight will be better than a kick in the head. God my step-father used to say that all the time. It had real meaning back then, because both options were equally possible.

I had another nightmare last night. I dreamt my mother put up posters all around town saying “For managers: come to this seminar or you’ll end up as fat as [my name]”. Andie also made an appearance. She was angry in my dream. Well at least that is mirroring real life.

I am afraid that my mother will rubbish me around town – we work in the same industry. Part of me knows she wouldn’t because of course it would reflect badly on her (even saying “my daughter is insane” tends to reflect badly on parents), but then I know part of her is desperate to prove my insanity in this situation, even to innocent bystanders.

I feel miserable

I don’t know why I feel miserable, but I do. I think maybe I’m lonely. I miss my cousin, Andie. I just got back from a week with my Dad and his family and am now alone (with a cat and a dog). Everyone at work is on leave so I’ve been in a cubicle all by myself for three days now. And will be again tomorrow.

I’m bored. I have work to do but I just can’t seem to do it. I want to go home, but I know when I do I won’t clean the house or do the dishes (which desperately need doing). Instead I’ll sit in bed and watch whatever is on TV. And I’ll still be miserable.

I’ve gone and talked to people – still miserable. I’ve eaten chocolate – still miserable. I’ve gone for a walk – still miserable. I’ve played with my pets – still miserable. I’ve talked to my Dad – still miserable. Read a book – still miserable. Wrote a story – still miserable. Writing a blog post – I am still miserable.

I was about to type “I don’t know what’s wrong with me”, but of course I do. I miss my family (both of them, my Dad’s family and The Family). I feel alone. Sometimes I think it’s the most miserable feeling in the world – to feel alone.

When I feel like this I can’t seem to do anything. I can’t work. I can’t read. I can’t watch TV. I can’t talk to friends. I can’t walk. I can’t write. I can’t work. And I really should be working. I’ve been sitting here for two days not working because I feel so miserable. And I have so much work to do.

I don’t understand how one week I can be so busy and full of life, writing a novel, getting photos in an exhibition, writing a non-fiction book, going to book clubs, knitting clubs, parties, and then I can fall into this great big hole sign-posted MISERABLE, and hardly get out of bed.

I cannot think of one thing that I actually wanted to do – even if money/time/physics was no object.

Yes I can. I want to climb out of this hole and be how I was a week ago.

I miss you

Dear Andie,

I miss you. I accidentally found your blog today and the sound of you almost made me cry. Your wit, your spark, your anger, they are so much part of your family, that family that used to be mine. I see that you are even calling yourself the eldest grandchild now. It was like I never existed.

I think it would be easier for you if I never existed. Yet I do.

You told me that you would never hurt the family like I have. You put the family ahead of me – that I expected – but the real tragedy is that you put the family ahead of yourself. You say in your blog that you’re the person everyone calls when they are in trouble, but you have no one to call. I know I was supposed to be that person. I could have been that person that you could have called at 3am in the morning, if this family hadn’t tried to destroy me. I am sorry that the only way I could protect myself was to remove myself from them, and therefore you.

This doesn’t mean that I don’t love you. And I know this is melodramatic, but it is also true – I love myself more. And yes, also melodramatic and also true, that family was killing me.

But I still miss you. I still wish I was in your life and you were in mine.

Tarot

I was wandering the campus and saw a Tarot dealer waiting for customers. So for a bit of fun I sat down and the first thing she asked me was about my mother (whom I have no contact with seeing as she is still married to the man who sexually, physically and emotionally abused me. Oh and she doesn’t believe me, even though she witnessed some of the abuse. No I’m not angry AT ALL).

Anyway, apparently I am working too hard (true). Apparently I am financially secure (true). Apparently my grandmother is about to pass away (will let you know), and I’ll find a man in the next three months (will also let you know). Then she talked about auras and how I had an angel over my shoulder that was protecting me. And then I drew six cards and two of them were about divine protection.

So I’m willing to take all this with a grain of salt, but what amazed me is how happy I was to know that I was protected. I am obviously still very scared of my step-father and mother and my mother’s family. I still dream about them every night. I feel like I can’t escape them. But at least (according to the tarot) I am protected from them.

FOI is a waste of time

I made a statement of sexual abuse against my step-father at the age of ten years old. I told my father – who lived in a different state (both physically and mentally) to my mother. I told him on an access visit. So there are four different types of FOI documents I was chasing up – the police document for state 1 (let’s call it Victoria), the child services document for state 1, and both the above for state 2 (let’s call it QLD).

I requested access to my FOI documents around eight months ago. It is supposed to take 45 days. Four months later I was told there was no Victorian police FOI document – it had been lost. A month later I received the child services document from Victoria – 120 odd pages. Very interesting reading. I’ll add some quotes to this blog at some point.

Three months down the track I get a letter saying that there are no QLD police documents, even though that was the state in which I made my first statement. A month later I receive the child services document. It was 15 pages long – a lot of it redacted, and contained absolutely nothing of use.

When I had the recent flashback of oral rape I made another statement to the police (on top of the four statements I made in May and June 2008). The police officer on my case rang all grumpy, wanting to know why I hadn’t made the statement before. I tried to explain about flashbacks but gave up and gave him my psychologist’s and psychiatrist’s details. He ended up taking a statement from my psychologist (which was a first for her!) and c0onfided that it was difficult to prosecute because the Victorian police files from when I was ten had been lost.