De A à C, passez par-dessus B

28 novembre 2007

so I went to my meeting this morning. I had a meeting with a nice woman from an organization that helps victims of crimes and I thought I was taking way too much of her time, it lasted two hours. I took the day off to go there and have the day to myself so I could go through my emotions alone if I needed to. But we didn’t really go into details…yeah even in two hours. I got phone numbers, documents, references for places to go to and meet people about this. It’s good, I wanted that.

I guess that’s why I need help. I just circle the subject, don’t really say the words, hint at things, I have trouble really talking about what I lived through. There is just sooo much ! I just can’t get it out and I’m alone with it so I do what I always do when I’m really stressed. I forget. It’s unconscious but my body just finds a way for me to forget or skip over stuff, block out emotions. I can’t talk about it with anyone around me so I have to find ways to cope by myself. Therapy is useful but I’m there once a week and sometimes I should be there every day !

You see, I talked about one of the firsts sexual attacks I had and since then I ate at restaurants more than three times a week, started eating chocolate again, slept more than ten hours once and feel like sleeping more every morning. That’s the way my body and mind works when all my post-trauma wakes up. I eat and sleep. Yoga is good for relaxing but it doesn’t help me spend my energy so I’ll have to go to toning again so I can just grunt the pain away.

I also bought a bra today. Impulse buying. Very big when stressed out. But I really needed a new bra. I keep pushing this aside because shopping for underwear is like going to the dentist. I hate it. So I finally bought a new bra and the lady says I’m a C cup. I can’t beee !!!! Last time I was a C was when I weighed 160. So I have to check what I eat and drink and exercise cause there is no way I’m going back up to 160. NO f*** WAY. (Au moment où je vous copie ça de mon ancien blog, j’ai dépassé le 160 parce que je vais au gym plusieurs fois par semaine alors je suis moins ronde qu’avant). No wonder that guy said I had a nice rack last time…I still thought I was an A. I also wear 38 instead of 34 and 36. Am I blowing up or something ? is it all that unspent sexual energy that goes to my boobs to attract males and populate the planet ? Am I going to look like a pidgeon soon ? I should test if I can put a glass between my breasts or a plate on them as if it was a shelf.

You’re wondering why I’m freaking out at having bigger boobs. AH. Have you tried girl’s clothes lately ? It’s like trying on kiddy clothes. Everything is made for twigs. You can’t have a butt, breasts, round arms or thighs. You can’t be a woman. You have to be anorexic or twelve to fit in what is in stores. OH GOOOD will I have to go shopping in Plus sizes now that my boobs are ten times the size I thought they were ?!

Pfft. It’s good to have some drama in non-existential places of my life. It gets things in perspective. Let’s forget about death threats, police arrests, rapes, harassment, my supposed future and my budget and let’s focus on my weight and boobs size !

I don’t have to complain. Last time I measured, in the last two weeks, I still was pretty okay. But phew…C cup.

Ah les bonnes idées !

Février 2005

Je m’en retourne à Montréal après une fin de semaine mouvementée. Le wagon est empli d’ados de retour d’un weekend en ville et d’étudiants de McGill. Je suis assise avec quatre beaux étudiants mâles, d’ailleurs.

J’ai donné son cadeau à L. Je regrette un peu de ne pas avoir eu plus de temps pour jaser avec les femmes hyperactives, joyeuses et dédiées de l’organisme envers lequel je suis engagée. J’ai encore pris trop de responsabilités avec beaucoup de joie, évidemment. I am very pleased to be doing all of this. Je veux et je vais faire encore plus. Et, ce qu’il y a de bien c’est que j’ai rencontré encore plus de gens extraordinaires dont celle qui s’occupera de la Newsletter et du site web. On a connecté, elle est gentille et je lui ai dit que lorsqu’elle viendrait à Montréal, elle devrait m’appeler !

Je ne sais pas comment je fais pour vivre toute l’année sans ces filles-là. Je retiens mon souffle en attendant de les revoir. C’est ça que je fais. Thank God for emails.

Bien que je n’ai rien écrit hier à ce sujet, j’ai pensé à Patrick 1er toute la fin de semaine. Je suis tellement heureuse de l’avoir re-rencontré. Hier, j’en pleurais, seule dans mon lit, sur mes oreillers doux comme des nuages. Il y a une telle chose qu’un bonheur trop grand pour être contenu à l’intérieur de soi.

Je me sens libérée du poids que je portais pendant toutes les années où j’ai cru que j’avais rendu mes anciens amoureux tous très malheureux. Si Patrick 1er a pris la peine de me téléphoner et de me revoir, de me considérer comme une amie, c’est que je n’étais pas si terrible que je le croyais. J’ai hâte de le revoir.

J’espère ne pas avoir tout inventé et fabulé : son sourire et son rire quand on était ensemble. Et si je n’avais pas vu des signes d’irritation ? Des signes que les gars ont qui veulent dire le contraire de « je te rappelle »? Et si le fait qu’il veuille que je le rappelle est une façon de se désengager?

Je ne pense pas que je serai capable de perdre Patrick 1er en plus de ce que j’ai vécu cette année. Puis, il y a « ce que j’ai vécu cette année ». C’est lourd. Je ne veux pas qu’il ait à porter ça, mon passé récent dont il ne sait rien. J’ai juste envie d’être avec lui. S’il pose des questions, je répondrai. Sinon, on verra au fur et à mesure, je crois. Je ne veux pas qu’il fuie. Comme les autres qui se sont sentis responsables de mon bonheur. Personne ne peut me rendre heureuse sauf moi. Mais, je ne peux pas changer comment les hommes se sentent. Ni les moyens qu’ils prennent pour fuir.

Dix ans se sont passés depuis notre rencontre. Dans mes fantasmes les plus fous, je rêvais que quelque chose comme ça se produise. Comment se fait-il que mes rêves se réalisent ? Est-ce que je suis récompensée parce que je suis une bonne personne ? Qu’est-ce que j’ai fait de bien ? Je le referais. Je suis tellement chanceuse. Ça m’a pris du temps, mais, j’ai fini par comprendre que j’ai une bonne famille (Maudit que c’est beau et puissant le déni, petit ajout de la rédaction quelque temps après ce billet) et que les amis c’est plus important que le reste. P2 et Val sont mes plus vieux amis et j’estime au plus haut point ma correspondance avec mes deux amies d’Australie et de Nouvelle-Écosse. De plus, je n’irais nulle part sans pouvoir me confier à une de mes collègues au bureau.

Après tout, les amis restent, l’amour passe et repasse et s’en va. Où sont les amants quand les problèmes sont là ? Nowhere in sight. Mes amis ne me jugent pas et m’écoutent et me donnent des bons conseils.

15 juin 2007 As it turned out, I had to live with rule number 4 and then 12. And then 16 : je parle des règles d’Olivia Joules.

Je ne parle plus à Patrick 1er-le nombriliste-fumeur-de-hasch. Eh oui, à ce moment, je ne le savais pas, mais j’ai appris quelques semaines après que c’est un grand consommateur de substances illicites. C’était également une des personnes les plus narcissiques que je connaisse. Finalement, j’ai sacré mon camp ! Mais pas avant d’avoir dormi avec lui (sublime) et d’avoir retesté la marchandise (quelle déception, quelle amère déception !).

En fait, j’ai été tellement triste de sa façon de faire que j’ai préférer « oublier ». Puis, j’ai développé l’idée qu’un gars trop beau, trop centré sur lui-même ne donne du bon service qu’à lui-même. Dommage, il était bien meilleur à 19 ans, avant la drogue, la grosse tête. « Pis, est-ce que t’as aimé ça ? » Euh…la vérité ou… Et voilà une autre preuve que quand je suis très enthousiasmée par quelqu’un ou vice versa, il y a quelque chose de croche. J’ai décroché seulement quand j’ai été capable d’effacer son numéro de téléphone.

Il faut dire qu’un gars qui veut coucher avec toi, après avoir prétendu des dizaines de fois qu’il ne ressent que de l’amitié, après que tu lui ait dit que non, toi, tu ne veux pas parce que (remplir ici avec une histoire d’agression qui resurface) et qui insiste et insiste et cela malgré que TU insistes pour dire que ça va tout changer…Il m’a dit « non, rien ne va changer ». Il n’a rien écouté de ce que j’ai dit. Étrangement, c’est ici que « Oupsydasy », pouf pouf dans la mitte. Je lui ai dit et je me suis dit « Ah ouin, ça va rien changer ? ». On va voir.

Ça a changé que j’ai sacré mon camp et je ne l’ai plus rappelé. Lui, il s’est fait une blonde la semaine d’après et c’est pourquoi ça a pris plusieurs semaines avant qu’il rappelle. Quand il l’a fait, je lui ai dit :

-Tu vois, ça change quelque chose. Parce qu’on n’est plus amis : t’as pas appelé cette semaine-là. Franchement, t’appelles n’importe quand et là, on couche ensemble et pouf, tu disparais ?

-Hein ? Ben non, ça change rien. J’ai une blonde. Silence.

-Ah. Eh bien. Depuis quand ?

-Je l’ai rencontrée la fin de semaine après. Et là, il commence…son nom, son âge (genre vingt ans comme les autres), elle travaille dans un magasin de lingerie et en plein ses tiroirs, il l’a rencontrée sur internet, ça a cliqué tout de suite…blablabla

-As-tu dit à ta blonde que j’existe ? Que je suis ton ex ou qu’on a couché ensemble récemment ?

-Elle a pas besoin de savoir ça.

-Hm. Bon, bien, je pense pas que c’est une bonne idée de continuer à se voir.

Il n’a pas compris ça comme je l’ai dit. Personne ne comprend le concept « Ce n’est pas une bonne idée ». Pour moi, un gars qui parle pas de moi à sa blonde est un gars qui se cache, c’est un gars malhonnête. Patrick 1er est devenu malhonnête dès que c’est lui qui a voulu coucher avec moi, quand je ne voulais plus coucher avec lui. J’avais ENFIN accepté qu’on ne serait jamais rien sauf des amis.

Je l’ai laissé parler, comme je fais avec ma mère. J’ai raccroché. Lorsqu’il a rappelé, il planifiait emménager avec elle. Ça faisait cinq mois qu’ils se connaissaient. Est-ce que j’ai mentionné qu’il a 31 ans et elle, 26 ans max, qu’il travaille de nuit et elle de jour ? Ah, à 26 ans, elle a encore le temps de réaliser qu’elle est sa maîtresse et que sa femme c’est le pot, le hasch, le speed, l’ecstacy, les sorties…

Dire que les gens pensent que je n’ai jamais été naïve. On a qu’à regarder l’année 2005 pour voir combien je l’étais.

Autre note de la rédaction…y’a pas que l’année 2005, ma grande !

Vrai…ou pas

16 mai 2008

Have you ever thought something to be true to discover it was not ? And then discover you may have been right all along ? If there is a time to eat chips, it’s now and lots of it. Instead I eat butter pecans. Not the same at all…

I have felt like there was something wrong about me for the major part of my life. Not as bipolar wrong. Sexually wrong. There were signs that pointed to sexual abuse from before I was 16 and I always thought « something » had happened but I never had any proof.

Then I learned that my mom had lived something incestuous but she wouldn’t tell what and my therapist said that maybe she had transmitted this to me psychogenealogically. I felt relieved. I have no souvenir of anything happening to me that would explain my feelings and fears. So a psychogenealogical explanation kind of popped the balloon of questions I had over my head.

But tonight, in therapy, I talked about what I lived through and what I felt about my different rapes and abuses and the therapist said that it felt like I was transposing another event onto the events that were happening to me at the time. I was talking about what I wrote about in a previous story, last week I think. This paralyzing fear of angering the man, of being hurt and of dying when I wasn’t yelled at, tied down or I didn’t have a gun or knife pointed at me. She asked when did I fear for my life. I had nothing to say. But I asked if babies could fear for their lives and she said yes. Then maybe being shaken and yelled at by my dad when I was a few months old could explain it.

Then I continued talking about my stuff. And I told her about my outer body experiences while having sex. I say it’s outer body because I feel disconnected, not there. I talked about the pain I feel when I have sex, the doctors that say it’s psychological, the sexologist I saw. The pain went away but is now present each time I try having sex. Not the same pain.

Refoulement et inondation

23 novembre 2007

When I was 15 turning on 16, I started my first job. It was okay, it paid school expenses and it kept my parents off my back. I worked with one of my best friends, the place belonged to her parents.

I wasn’t the most brilliant and efficient worker. I was a bit slow, kept to myself. I liked working mornings because it was not busy, I could do my things and read or write.

I remember it was winter because I was cold, winter coats were hung in the back store and there was snow piled around work. My boss had hired this man to shuffle snow. He was around 60, slim, white hair. He would hang around the store, looking outside, asking me questions. I did feel uneasy but didn’t want to be impolite. I couldn’t wait for him to go, I just wanted to go back to my reading and I didn’t like letting him alone inside while I answered customers. But he was hired by my boss, he was older than me and I had never learned how to ask someone to leave without sounding really not nice. Plus, he must be okay, right, if my boss had hired him ? So I endured. And boy did he talk. I didn’t even know his name but I knew he had kids.

I don’t remember what he was talking about because I was the kind of person to space out once in a while. But when he asked me what was back there, I went near the door to the back store and told him what was there. Then, he came behind me, put his arms around me, lift me up. He then put me down but put his hands on my breasts and told me I had nice breasts.

All this while, I was paralyzed with fear. Nothing had EVER prepared me for this. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t say a word, I was feeling blind and deaf. It was like big heavy white sound had entered me and had taken everything conscious with it except that when he put me down I had landed on one of his feet and I was sorry.

It was all my fault. I shouldn’t have, I should, if I had…

He just moved away and got out of the store while my eyes welled up, I was choking up and it is really the right word, choking. I shouldn’t have, what had I done to make this happen, if I hadn’t, if I had…

A customer arrived and I did what I had to do even if my eyes were full of tears. That customer probably saved me from worse. I hadn’t realized it then but it resurfaced this year, a car had arrived when all of this was happening. If he hadn’t heard the bell signaling a car was waiting, he would’ve raped me. We were right in front of the back store, the door was open, the light was off.

I felt small. Vulnerable. Empty, used. Numb.

This numbness would take a very long time to go away. No having bruises doesn’t matter when someone tramples you. He had taken my space, my body.

It was the first time this happened to me, it was the first thing of many that made me the person I am. Untrusting, afraid of being in a relationship, afraid of meeting people, and it took me until not so long ago to be able to talk at all.

I did tell what happened to my boss after telling my friend. She asked me if it was an accident. NO it was not, how could she ask me that ? If it was I wouldn’t have told her what happened. I felt angry, even more dirty and vulnerable. I wasn’t believed by an adult. When I told another friend she told me it meant I had nice breasts. It was like being beaten with an open hand, again and again. No one was reacting like they were supposed to. Hadn’t I always heard that you are supposed to tell ? And I wasn’t taken seriously, I wasn’t believed.

I didn’t tell my parents and they didn’t think anything was wrong.

I stopped telling what was happening to me after I was raped when I was 19 and my boyfriend didn’t believe me. I stopped telling. What was the point ? I never had any bruises, nothing showed. No one believed that these things happened to me. But they did and I still have nightmares every spring when it’s time to let doors and windows opened because I was threatened by someone. Nightmares, words, silent threats and fear don’t make proofs that things happened. The police don’t believe me.

So I developed a neat way to cope with all the violence. I would forget, numb my mind and body until I exploded. I wouldn’t cry, I wouldn’t tell, I wouldn’t think about it and if thoughts of it sneaked up on me, I shut them out. I kept having boyfriends and to have sex. I had all kinds of problems and I couldn’t figure why.

Now I’m in therapy and I remember. And thinking of a smell makes me almost faint. So I cried. because I have no hope, really. I don’t see the end of feeling untrusting, being afraid. I can’t have sex without feeling claustrophobic and panicked if I see the person. When things are over I cry. Sometimes it hurts. I only have sex when I can’t see the guy and I feel so helpless about everything. Some touches make me nauseous, being tickled makes me hyperventilate, pain takes me out of my body.

But the fear…I fear everything all the time. I want to be invisible. I am envied by a lot of girls around me. Long neck, long shiny hair, nice face, thin, nice looking. Makes me grind my teeth, envy. It’s like getting blasted and getting blame dumped on me again. All I’ve wanted for years is to be invisible so men would look away and not at me. I don’t want them to notice me, to follow me, to get ideas when I’m nice, to love me.

And I do feel unlovable. Why would someone want me ? I’m rotten.

So, yesterday, thinking about the smell of this workplace, I saw it, and I felt the heaviness, the fear, the despair, and I cried.

Will things ever be different now that I remember all of it ?