I'd convinced myself that I could write these blogs in chornological order regarding the events as they occurred in real time. I realize now that these blogs will be snipets not in order of age, severity, or impact. These will simply come in the order that my mind allows me to purge them. While waiting for one of these "memories" to come to mind, another question arose in my thought process, so I digress.
Why did I allow myselft to be beaten, degraded, and humiliated with no resistance? I suppose the guilt comes into play often with this question. Who can I blame besides myself for enbling another human being to do those things to me? I'd imagine a shrink would have standard textbook answers; talk of childhood trauma and issues with self-esteem. For me, it still comes down to the basic desire to know why after the first strike; I did not turn and walk out of the door. Was it such a desperate need to be loved, that any punishment fit the reward of those rare moments when it felt like love? How is love defined in these types of scenarios?
Here's what I came up with, and this of course is solely in relationship to my personal universe.
Failure. Now that word evokes a strong response from me. This would, by psychiatric standards, fall into the childhood trauma arena. Looking beyond the physical and emotional abuse, I ponder the pshcological abuse. The molding of a young and impressionable mind is the most powerful tool we have, which can be a blessing and/or a curse. Perfection is my least favorite word in any language. It was the primary expectation imprinted into my brain; there was no room for "failure."
My upbringing was quite sterile. My parents did not show physical affection, or impart it on me. As time passed, I actually acquired an aversion to being touched. There was a certain discomfort with the feelings that coursed through me when there was human contact. This was not a major issue when I was younger, however, it did create a serious problem in adulthood. It was my double-edged sword, the desire to be loved, but an aversion to experiencing it through physical contact.
Don't get me wrong I had the desire to make love to my husband, at first, it was the affection he expected outside of the bedroom that I couldn't give. He would hold my hand when we were walking and I would pull away. I can't say this was the catalyst that made him angry enough to hit me, hurt me, and scare the hell out of me, but as victims do, I internalized. I justified each "incident" by convincing myself it was my fault, and I had to try harder to be "perfect."
Again, over time this became my reality. Every beating, every degrading word, plays through my mind like a flickering, black and white movie. As the reels run their course and the pictures jump by, I grasp a moment, a thought, that if love hadn't been so important to me none of those things would have happened. The logical solution to the problem was to castrate love from every part of me, including myself. It worked quite well for a few years, until recent events. I've learned that love is not always associated with pain. I've also learned that love for myself and those I treasure, creates passion, and this passion translates into every part of me, especially my psyche.
One of the largest transitions I've made, is the realization that I crave the human touch in many ways. Commonplace for most, profound for me...
Why did I allow myselft to be beaten, degraded, and humiliated with no resistance? I suppose the guilt comes into play often with this question. Who can I blame besides myself for enbling another human being to do those things to me? I'd imagine a shrink would have standard textbook answers; talk of childhood trauma and issues with self-esteem. For me, it still comes down to the basic desire to know why after the first strike; I did not turn and walk out of the door. Was it such a desperate need to be loved, that any punishment fit the reward of those rare moments when it felt like love? How is love defined in these types of scenarios?
Here's what I came up with, and this of course is solely in relationship to my personal universe.
Failure. Now that word evokes a strong response from me. This would, by psychiatric standards, fall into the childhood trauma arena. Looking beyond the physical and emotional abuse, I ponder the pshcological abuse. The molding of a young and impressionable mind is the most powerful tool we have, which can be a blessing and/or a curse. Perfection is my least favorite word in any language. It was the primary expectation imprinted into my brain; there was no room for "failure."
My upbringing was quite sterile. My parents did not show physical affection, or impart it on me. As time passed, I actually acquired an aversion to being touched. There was a certain discomfort with the feelings that coursed through me when there was human contact. This was not a major issue when I was younger, however, it did create a serious problem in adulthood. It was my double-edged sword, the desire to be loved, but an aversion to experiencing it through physical contact.
Don't get me wrong I had the desire to make love to my husband, at first, it was the affection he expected outside of the bedroom that I couldn't give. He would hold my hand when we were walking and I would pull away. I can't say this was the catalyst that made him angry enough to hit me, hurt me, and scare the hell out of me, but as victims do, I internalized. I justified each "incident" by convincing myself it was my fault, and I had to try harder to be "perfect."
Again, over time this became my reality. Every beating, every degrading word, plays through my mind like a flickering, black and white movie. As the reels run their course and the pictures jump by, I grasp a moment, a thought, that if love hadn't been so important to me none of those things would have happened. The logical solution to the problem was to castrate love from every part of me, including myself. It worked quite well for a few years, until recent events. I've learned that love is not always associated with pain. I've also learned that love for myself and those I treasure, creates passion, and this passion translates into every part of me, especially my psyche.
One of the largest transitions I've made, is the realization that I crave the human touch in many ways. Commonplace for most, profound for me...
