The Honesty Conspiracy

There comes a time...

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Tue, 03 Jul 2012 22:20:00 +0000

There comes a time when enough is enough. When the way things have been, cannot be the way things will be any more. When the past can no longer define you. When your fear no longer keeps you small. When your victim self no longer condemns you to eternal suffering. And when that time comes. Step forward into the light, your light. With deep compassion for yourself. And all those who played their part. Know that you are loved. Beyond measure.

I Hit My Kids and Now Begins The Real Work To Heal

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 10:00:00 +0000

Welcome to the Spank Out Day 2012 Carnival

This post was written for inclusion in the Second Annual Spank Out Day Carnival hosted by Zoie at TouchstoneZ. Spank Out Day was created by The Center for Effective Discipline to give attention to the need to end corporal punishment of children and to promote non-violent ways of teaching children appropriate behavior. All parents, guardians, and caregivers are encouraged to refrain from hitting children on April 30th each year, and to seek alternative methods of discipline through programs available in community agencies, churches and schools. Please read to the end to find a list of links to the other carnival participants.

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As one of the moderators for The Honesty Conspiracy, I was pleased to offer this space for an anonymous writer for the Spank Out Day 2012 Carnival. I received an email from a friend who saw my invitation to participate in the carnival and felt moved to share her experience. She was afraid to tell her story publicly, even though she knew it would help her heal. We discussed how passionately she felt about the potential her story has to help another parent know they are not alone and that there is the possibility to move beyond corporal punishment, even when it feels as if there is no way out. We got together over food and drink so that I could interview her about her story, then she reviewed and revised what I wrote for her from that evening. I am honored to share her moving story here with you…

~Zoie at TouchstoneZ

For the first 5 years of my life as a parent, I used punishment as a way of curbing my children’s behavior. I used time outs, removal of privileges, and what I called swatting in an effort to control them. I was often conflicted about the roles we played in our family and I know it was due to the punitive aspect of our relationship. I was in the power position, my children were in the subservient position and we were often at odds. Too often I thought of it as a battle of wills and I had to be the winner. There was little to no room for complete connection that I had with my children when they were newborns.

The day I spanked my two oldest children was the day that changed everything for us.

It was a wakeup call for me. I was so far removed from the real relationship I longed for with my children that I didn’t back away from the painful reality that I was causing the distance between us. As the parent in the power position, I was choosing to continue to punish my children because I was afraid. I was afraid of trying something different than what I knew. I had many friends who practiced attachment parenting and I had read some of the research about how ineffective punishment is in modifying behavior in healthy ways.

I decided that I wanted better for my children than I was giving them. This wasn’t a criticism of my own parents or even my own approach to parenting. It was a new way of looking at us as a family. It was admitting that I was using fear instead of love to be with my children. And I didn’t want to teach them that fear was more powerful than love anymore.

It would have been easy to turn away from this truth. I had many reasons why I spanked my children that day. I was dealing with undiagnosed Post Partum Anxiety, my husband had been away for several months, and I was coordinating hospice care for a family member long distance. The amount of stress I was under made me quick to be angry with my children. I was doling out punishments in a way that felt like an ever-increasing spiral to keep up with what I thought were misbehaving children. Never once did I consider that my emotional state was impacting them. I was in the battle of wills mode.

So, I snapped. I threatened my two oldest children with spanking if they didn’t stop their behavior. And when they didn’t, I turned them over my knee and gave my two oldest children three spanks with my hand on their behinds. After that, with all of my children sobbing, I think I went into shock at what I had done. I remember a hollow feeling, as if I were looking at everything from afar.

It was the cries of my children for “momma” that brought me back. I had spanked my children and they needed me, the one who had hit them, for comfort. I was all they had, even though I had betrayed their trust and hurt them. They still loved me.

I wasn’t sure I could live up to that much love and trust. I wonder if my husband had been home, if I would have made the decision to change in that moment. But, he wasn’t there. There was no one else but me to care for my children. I apologized. I listened to everything they said to me about being spanked. I took all the pain that it caused me to hear their anger, humiliation, hurt, and blame. I used that pain to remind me every time I wanted to swat them or give them a time out, what I was really teaching them. It has become a source of strength for me.

I reached out to a few close friends. A few did not understand and turned away from me. A few loved me unconditionally and helped me with the basics of how to heal my family. My husband helped me find a parenting therapy group that meets twice a month. We have started going together so that we are parenting consistently.

It has been 3 years, and some days are harder than others, but we are healing together. I have never hit my children again, although the thought to do so still crosses my mind at times. Whenever I feel I am slipping into the battle of wills, I use coping strategies to gain some perspective. I will never be a perfect parent. But, I have the kind of close relationship with my kids that I longed for. And even more importantly, I think they have the same with me.

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On Carnival day, please follow along on Twitter using the handy #SpankOutCar hashtag. You can also subscribe to the Spank Out Day Carnival Twitter List and Spank Out Day Carnival Participant Feed.
Please take time to read the submissions by the other carnival participants:

What Spanking Taught Me Meg at MommyStoleTheSugar explains the spankee's perspective and how it has affected her disciplining choices as a parent.
A Memory of Spanking Wolfmother at Fabulous Mama Chronicles explores her own upbringing and how it has affected her and why she is changing the way she relates to her children.
Redirecting the Impulse to Spank Amy W. shares at Natural Parents Network about her experience redirecting the impulse to spank, and encourages all parents to respond with sensitivity and redirect anger before it becomes harmful.
Perspective is Everything Patti at Canadian Unschooler learns to heal from the trauma caused by the childhood death of her sister, and gains a deeper understanding of her own mother's love for her as a child.
Remembering and Recharging Emily at The Other Baby Blog shares how she refocuses her mindset during high-stress times.
Does spanking work? Megan at TheBehavioralChild lists the five reasons why spanking doesn't work.
Love is All There Is: A Spank Out Day Post Tree at Mom Grooves shares her thoughts about needing to find a way to discipline her 5 year old that could give her daughter the boundaries she is craving while still treating her with only love and respect.
Discipline isn't SOmething You Do; Discipline is SOmething You Have Mandy at Living Peacefully with Children questions how parents can expect their children to show self-control if they, themselves, do not exhibit self-discipline.
No Spanking, No Yelling, No Time Outs....What's Left? Sheila at A Living Family shares that though spanked as a child herself, she has made efforts towards an alternative approach to setting limits.
Forgiveness is possible; loving others in a way that works for us Kelly Hogaboom finds that if we are to raise our children in a humane fashion, we must first recognize our own humanity.
Dear Daniel, (On Discipline and Love) Amy at Anktangle writes a letter to her son about the many choices we have in life: how we treat people, how we parent, and how we use our bodies in the process.
Spanking: A Day to Consider Our Muddy Boots recognizes that some see a difference between abuse and spanking, and maybe today is a day that we can consider some other perspectives and utilize available resources to make different choices.
Mutual Respect Sithyogini at Very Nearly Hippy learns how mutual respect between parents and children leads to peaceful parenting.
What Is the Difference Between Spanking and Abuse? You know what is difficult? Trying to explain the difference between spanking and abuse to a child. Dionna at Code Name: Mama can understand the confusion.
I Hit My Kids and Now Begins The Real Work To Heal The Honesty Conspiracy hosts this powerful, anonymous story about how it's never too late to start on a different approach to spanking.
How To Talk To Parents About Gentle Alternatives To Spanking Zoie at TouchstoneZ shares some useful ways to discuss the often divisive issue of spanking.
Spank Out Day: 3 Untruths and 11 Alternatives to Spanking MudpieMama at Positive Parenting Connection breaks down 3 of the biggest myths about spanking and shares a list of effective gentler discipline alternatives.

I Took the Blame for My Own Rape

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Mon, 26 Mar 2012 11:00:00 +0000

...and I didn't even know it.

There is a blog that I thoroughly enjoy, called Blue Milk. Feminist issues are the main focus there, and a topic that comes up frequently is rape. I got caught up in the comment threads of some old posts there recently, and it has been a highly emotional experience for me. The blog's author wrote a post, entitled "Don't get raped," that sarcastically pointed out the foolishness in suggesting that a victim's behavior can ever 'lead to' rape. Not surprisingly, some debate ensued and Blue Milk wrote a follow-up post to address suggestions that victims are often partially responsible for their own assault (hint: this assertion is wrong). That post, titled, "But why shouldn't she take some responsibility too for the rape?" was later followed by "All the way - gray rape and third base," and "To the woman unconvinced."

As I read these posts and the comments that followed, I was overwhelmed by a deep sense of sadness, not only because of the awful comments made by some readers, but even more so because it finally brought me to the place of fully recognizing something: I was raped. Not once, but three times and by three different individuals. So many years have passed and I have no desire to address the individuals who were involved, but I have been going through a great deal of processing, trying to make sense of what happened, and how I came to view these incidents as completely and totally "my fault." I seem to have been enculturated with the same twisted ideas as some of the commenter's on Blue Milk's articles, ideas that sound so ignorant and anti-woman to me now. I was brought up in a culture of victim blame, a culture of excuses, but there is no excuse for any man or woman to have sex with an individual who has not willingly and openly consented to such an act. How I didn't see this before is baffling to me, but I'm glad to know it now, and hope to impart that sense on my own children.

I am so very saddened to think that I, as an intelligent and capable young woman, did not see what any of the men who took advantage of me did as all that wrong. It certainly wasn't right, but who could blame them. It's what men did, I thought. I was flirtatious, I was playful, so what did I expect? Would it have been so wrong to expect respect for my own right to choose when and how I wanted to have sex? How about to expect the men to hold themselves up to a higher standard? I really don't think so. I'm disgusted by the idea that I put all of the blame on myself for the conscious decisions these so-called men made to take advantage of me. My point of view at the time was so very twisted that I even continued to have an amicable relationship with at least one of these men, because it wasn't their fault, after all. I was stupid. I was irresponsible. I made bad decisions.

All of these years later, I can finally see that no decision I made gave another person the right to have sex with me without my consent. No decision I made "led" to unwanted sex.
As part of my processing, I have been going over and over these scenarios in my head, trying to figure out what led me to think and to do the things I did, and to completely and totally let these guys off the hook. I want to know what led me to think that what they did was okay, in large part so that I can protect my own daughter from a similar fate.

The first scenario involved my boyfriend at the time. This boyfriend, several years older than I, knew I had not had sex and that I was not ready to have sex. We had discussed this on numerous occasions. One night, he invited me to join him at a friend's house party, where I hardly knew a soul. The drinks got to me quickly, so he suggested that we should go. I got the sense that I had embarrassed him, and half expected him to take me home and go back to the party unencumbered. His and my apartments were within a four or five mile radius of one another, as was the one where the party was located, so taking me home would have been easy, really. To my surprise, he wanted to go to his place. We did, I relieved that my hip older boyfriend had not ditched me for embarrassing him. I was extremely intoxicated, sick, and out of it, but glad to he still wanted me around all the same.

Before long, I found myself in his bed and we did things we had done before, all of which were fine with me. What I didn't know at the time was that he was planning to have sex with me. It's all so clear to me now, looking back on details from the night, but I didn't see it then. I was enjoying myself, so I suppose I believed that what followed was the logical next step, and that because I had willingly participated in the lead-up to it, I had consented in some way or another. One minute things were normal, and the next I realized that he was having sex with me. I was shocked, since he had given me no warning whatsoever, but believed I had brought it upon myself and made him think that I wanted it, so I didn't speak up but merely waited for it to be over. Very few, if any words were spoken afterward. We went to sleep, and the next morning he proceeded to enter me again, with little to no warning. We never discussed what was actually happening, he never asked my permission. He really didn't seem to consider what I wanted at all.

In the days that followed, I spent a lot of time processing what had happened and ended up convincing myself that I had wanted it. I know that I know that if I had actually been asked if I were ready, if I had been consulted at all, I would have told him I wasn't ready. The fact that our entire social circle had heard the news, and was congratulating me on having lost that antiquated thing called my virginity, helped create and feed this twisted idea that it had been a good thing. But the reality is, he took advantage of me. And I didn't stop him. I'm really not sure which is more upsetting - my passivity or his complete and utter selfishness and lack of consideration. If I had asked him to stop, said no, would he have stopped? I'd like to think the answer is yes, but I don't know. It's this not knowing that caused me to blame myself. I couldn't say he acted against my will, I felt, because I failed to make my will known. I wish I had said no, sure. I could have said no, sure. But absolutely nothing gave him the right to assume a yes and move forward with something he knew that, sober, I hadn't wanted, especially without checking in with me first.

Fast forward a couple of years and I found myself in an even more disturbing scenario, for which I fully blamed myself and agonized endlessly over my poor decision. I had flirted with a coworker, not because I was the least bit interested in him, but because I was young and flirtatious. We worked in a social environment where this type of interaction was going on constantly, and it was fun, but didn't obligate anyone to follow on with anything at all.

I went out one night with two old friends who I trusted, rightly. They were kind and gentlemanly and I had known them for years. When the two of us who were not driving had consumed our fair share at the bar, they drove me home and came up to my apartment for a chat. Meanwhile, I had been texting with the coworker, who wanted to come over. Against my better judgment, I decided this sounded like fun, and invited him. I have absolutely no memory at all of his coming over. My first clue came in the morning, when I found a note apologizing for his having to leave before I awoke. I was a bit surprised, since I didn't recall going to sleep beside him anyway, and certainly had not expected to wake up to him in my bed.

A bit later, I went to the bathroom and found a piece of latex inside of me. I can actually remember thinking, "well, at least he used a condom." This was a relief to me at the time, and more pressing a concern than the issue that I had no memory of agreeing to a sex act of any kind. Again, I blamed myself. What had I been thinking!? Looking back now, I know exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking that I wanted to have fun with my good friends, who I had not seen in ages. Because I felt safe with them, and was not particularly good at rejecting others, I allowed a coworker to join us. Beyond that, I can only imagine, but I know that I was in absolutely no condition to give consent. Is it wise to drink to excess? Perhaps not, but as an adult do I have every right to make a decision to do so? Of course I do! Does another adult have a right to use the situation to their advantage and have their way with me? Abso-frickin'-lutely not.

That time in my life was a wild, spontaneous one and it involved many nights of drinking and spending time with friends. There are certainly experiences that are fuzzy, times when my wits were not entirely about me, but I always remembered at least bits and pieces from every hour I was awake, even if only half awake. The fact that I remember absolutely nothing - not a single moment from my time with this man - is very suspicious to me as well, especially since I did not drink that excessively. Either I had already entered a hard sleep, or something else occurred without my permission.

Later on that next morning, I received a call from the trustworthy friends who had been my drinking companions the night before. They called to check on me because they were worried. They had not felt comfortable leaving me with my coworker the previous night, but at the same time had to get home, so trusted that I knew him well enough to be safe. I thanked them for checking in on me, and told them everything was absolutely fine that morning. In reality, I was angry, upset, horrified - but I was also embarrassed, so my response was to pretend like nothing had happened. It was my fault anyway, right? I took one hundred percent of the blame and responsibility. A few days later, when my coworker (who fortunately wasn't working all that often, and who I asked not to be scheduled with again) started texting again and asking for a date, I made up excuses until he gave up. I didn't have the nerve to tell him I thought he was scum, or that I was furious, or horrified. I just made up excuses and waited for it all to go away. I was to blame, after all.

Just days after that incident I was enjoying a game night with close friends at their home. We were all drinking to some extent, so the plan was for everyone who didn't live in the neighborhood, to sleep on the couch or a futon. Sometime later in the night, a friend's brother joined us, someone who I knew by reputation but had interacted with very little. I actually thought he was cute, but too cool to be friends with me anyhow. This was the only person I did not know well and trust, but given that others seemed to, I felt safe enough and eventually went to sleep, with trusted friends nearby. Before long, I awoke to the friend's brother making a move. I was not all that out of it, so I woke fully and for whatever twisted reason took his advances as a compliment. There was some kissing and we agreed to go for a walk.

It was snowy and perfectly quiet in the middle of the night and my new companion was just about as charming as he could be. I enjoyed talking with him and somehow felt comfortable. The whole situation had started to feel like something out of an indie film, so when our walk took us relatively near to my house, I suggested we head there to get out of the cold. I agreed to let him sleep there, but was quite clear that I didn't want sex, especially because neither of us had protection. Still, I was enjoying myself, so kissing continued, and before I knew it he was apologizing. "Sorry, sorry, I couldn't help myself," he said. "You're just so hot, and I can't believe you're hanging out with me." I was angry, annoyed, but still somehow charmed (you can see why I'm disgusted looking back. Why did I not send him away immediately? Better yet, why did I not see and call him out for the scum that he was when he made advances toward me, someone he hardly knew, in my sleep?), so I got dressed and went to sleep, allowing him to stay. The next morning, he accompanied me out for coffee and was so outrageously sweet. I was organizing an event at my place of work that evening and he said several times that he wanted to hang out with me, and was going to come by. I actually thought this might be the beginning of something - what a destructive relationship that would have been! - but fortunately he never turned up that evening. I never saw him again.

There is a common thread I see when I look at these three stories together, and that's a lack of confidence - in both myself, and in my rights. It disgusts me that the tiny bit of flattery used in that third scenario was enough to make me excuse such a plain and simple violation. In that situation, I had said no, but the other person chose to do what they wanted anyway. In the first situation, the warm feeling of being wanted likely played a huge role in my silence. In the second scenario, I was too embarrassed to even admit that anything had happened, much less call the person involved out for his actions.

Aside from that I felt a definite lack of power as a woman. The image of rape I had been presented with growing up was one where a woman was in clear danger, and attempted to fight off an attacker to no avail. This image has been a sad reality for far too many women, but it ignores the fact that every woman has the right to choose who she will sleep with. Every woman deserves to be asked whether or not certain actions toward her are acceptable. The opportunist who does not give a woman the chance to say no may be less violent than the men I pictured when I thought of rape, but their behavior is in no way excusable. And yes, women can and do rape men, too. This is no more acceptable, and it saddens me that society paints it as though it's often some sort of privilege for the man.

The bottom line is, everyone has the right to give or deny consent for sex, and no one has the right to take it just because the moment is right. I'm not in a position to say exactly how and what at this point, but a lot of things need to change so that future generations of women and men can grow up knowing this at the very core of their being.

Photo Credit: xoder on Flickr

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A note: If you disagree with my classification of any of these incidents as rape, you're probably not alone. I never thought of them as such before either. I'm not here to have a debate over what qualifies (although if you disagree with me, you may find the posts linked above insightful, and I would also encourage you to look into "alcohol faciliated" or "incapacitated rape." Another useful tidbit would be the FBI's recently updated defintion of rape which includes: "The penetration, no matter how slight, of the vagina or anus with any body part or object, or oral penetration by a sex organ of another person, without the consent of the victim" (emphasis added), and especially not to have my decisions scrutinized. This was a difficult subject to discuss, hence my decision to do it here, anonymously. Please make comments sensitively, and refer to the Honesty Conspiracy's comment policy at right if you're unsure of whether or not your comment will be appropriate.

I'm just not interested in sex with my husband

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 17:58:00 +0000

I'm just not interested in sex. Not now, and since having kids. At first I thought I was just 'recovering' from all the associated stresses of birth and newborns and generally becoming a mother.

But it's been too long now, almost a year and a half since our second baby was born. The excuses of night waking have gone, the need to sleep whenever I get the chance, the baby is no longer constantly attached to me and not even in the same bed.

I've been over all the possibilities. For a long time I was depressed, but our lives are so much happier now. I wondered - and keep wondering - if I have somehow fallen out of love (or lust) with my husband. And I try and think what I would be like with other men, if I was to be flattered anew by someone different and exciting. For a moment the idea thrills me and then I realise that no, I'd be just as disinterested. I would just be playing a role.

I feel like half a woman. Before children, we had a rampant and intense sex life fuelled by deep rooted love for each other. We talked of having LOTS of babies. I could never have imagined feeling like this and wouldn't have believed it possible.

"What's happened", I ask myself, "What's different? Am I just too exhausted mentally and physically? AM I depressed still?"

My husband has been so patient. We have had our moments of course, but I'm struggling to hide the fact I'd rather be sleeping or just have cuddles. He has issues and insecurities which make it worse, which in turn makes me feel utterly wretched. And yet he doesn't want me to feel like I have any kind of duty or obligation! But I do. How can I not, after all this time?

I just don't know where to go from here. I don't know whether more (some!) quality time with my husband would help or not - I feel it wouldn't make a jot of difference and yet I am feeling more and more estranged from him. Our lives seem to be delineated into being carers, workers and partners in no particular order. And being a partner is just another box, another role to try and fulfil.

I wonder if what I'm feeling is normal in any way, if others have experienced this and how they overcame it. I need to hear that there is a way out of this hell.

Image credit: LaughingRoda on Flickr

Asking For Help is the Hardest Part

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 12:00:00 +0000

Image by Getty Images via @daylife

A few weeks ago I went to see my doctor. I've been so frustrated over my inability to stick to any sort of healthy eating/weight loss, I wanted to see if there as anything she could suggest or recommend to me. I don't really know why I went to see her about it, but I've tried so many different things that I thought I may as well add one more to the list, and as my doctor is a bigger lady herself, I felt a small amount of trust for her in this regard.

In tears I made my case to her - it's so embarrassing and upsetting for me to actually talk about it with anyone in person. She looked at me helplessly, halfheartedly suggesting weight watchers and 'getting involved with a group'. I explained to her that I've tried all of this and more, but she didn't really have anything else to contribute.

I needed her to understand how seriously I wanted help. I decided to take the plunge, and I mentioned the D word.

For over 15 years I've contemplated talking to a professional about my depression - something I've never had officially diagnosed, but boy do I know it's there. I have never felt able to ask for help in this. I don't know if it's shame or a feeling that it's 'not that bad' or the belief that nothing I've tried has conquered it so it's unconquerable or just plain discomfort in talking about myself in such a way or something else altogether, but something has always stopped me.

I don't know what changed that day either, but I decided to do what all the ads and recommendations tell you to do - talk to your doctor, right?

I stammered it out, "I think I have depression."

Her expression immediately became skeptical. She asked me a few questions - was I sleeping badly? Yes. Had I experienced any major recent changes? Yes. I don't remember what else but all were answered in the affirmative.

I shamefully added, "I don't even feel as attached to my daughter anymore."

This was gut-wrenching for me to admit.

She sighed. "Would you like me to prescribe you something?"

I almost laughed. "Is that the only solution?"

She went on to again recommend finding myself some sort of support, and suggested I call her in a few weeks to let her know my progress.

My husband had been with me during the visit, and in the car on the way home I cried my frustration. "I just did exactly what I was supposed to do and it was no help at all! Do you have any idea how hard that was?"

He didn't know how to handle it, and he turned on me, suggesting that maybe I just needed more 'willpower' and 'tough love'. It turned into a huge argument for which he later apologized...I think the face of my hopelessness and the response of the doctor was just too hard for him to deal with.

And so it ends. I took the step I'd been contemplating for years, and got absolutely no help at all.

I have no desire to just start taking anti-depressants without even talking to a therapist, and I don't know that I can afford an actual therapist. And while I don't doubt that group counseling is effective, it's not something that's going to happen for me - certainly not in the beginning. I've communicated to all of 2 people in my life that I feel I suffer from depression - there is no way I'm walking into a group of strangers and confessing that.

There is one possible step I see now: a friend gave me the number of a place that provides individual therapy and charges on a sliding scale. It's been on my mind for weeks now to call, but as difficult as it was asking for help the first time, it feels even harder now. I reached my hand out and got burned - badly - and my instinct now is to keep it more to myself than ever before.

At this point in time, I'm not sure. Part of writing this post is a rejection of that instinct to pull it all back. I've never written candidly of this and the anonymity of this blog is the only thing that gives me the freedom to do so - along with the high trust I have in the love and support of the readers here.

I want to call the therapy place, but I know it may not happen.

I mostly just wish it could all be fixed - or over - without me having to ask. Why does it have to be so hard?

When I Look in the Mirror Now

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 13:42:00 +0000

Photo Credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/southpaw2305/3415909302/ on Flickr.

Being thin wasn't always something I consciously cared about. But I do remember my struggle with weight began very young. My mother was an alcoholic (that's another story) and because of this, my sister and I were raised by our grandparents and our father. My grandmother was always critical of my mother, and the fact that my mom was over weight was something she mentioned a lot. I was always reminded not to eat too much. "You don't want to end up like your mother," my grandmother would say. And so I learned that my physical appearance had a lot to do with my self worth.

As a young girl I knew I wanted to be a model. I was constantly being told by family friends how beautiful I was and these comments became addictive. I was always so eager to please. I took modeling lessons and entered pageants. Both of which I did well. And being a model was all I ever talked about. During this time my father had remarried and moved out of my grandparents house. His new wife was nice, but just like my grandmother, she was constantly reminding me about my weight.

I loved barbies and playing dress up. My best friend and I would often dress in my stepmothers heels and makeup and play runway down the hall. Then at the age of twelve my father divorced again and moved away. He became depressed and started using drugs and was never home. And my sister went to live with my mom. One day I decided to go on a hunger strike just to see if he would notice.

This is how my eating disorder started. I went almost a month without eating any real food. Crackers if the hunger became too much, and only drank water. My father never noticed, but others did. Other girls would tell me how jealous they were because I was so skinny. And so I kept on not eating. I liked the attention, but I soon realized how hard it is to not eat. Sometimes I would clean or even cut my self, anything to take my mind off of food. After a couple years my dad ended up moving back in with his parents. It was a lot harder to hide around them.

I would wake up early and pretend to have already eaten. Take my food into my room and pretend to eat it there. And sometimes I would just have to eat to not raise suspicion. That's when I discovered throwing up. This was like a god send to me. I could eat whatever I wanted and just throw it up! As I got older and started dating it was always a struggle. I found myself having to throw up a lot more because of dinner dates. I would take dangerous amounts of diet pills, laxatives, and even these pills I ordered that claimed to prevent your body from absorbing fat. I felt sick all the time. I wasn't happy. Food became this sick drug to me. I remember driving to a fast food place and ordering tons of their most fattening foods. Then sitting all alone in an empty parking lot, eating it as fast as I could. Of course not long after I would have to throw it up. I hated myself. My obsession caused me to lose sight of my dreams, and I never became a professional model. I never went to rehab or therapy. I never even told anyone. To this day nobody knows just how bad life was for me.

I got pregnant at 20 and everything changed. Suddenly my body wasn't just mine anymore. I had a life inside me that needed me to take care of myself. Needed me to eat and be healthy. I decided to do the very best for my baby. Be the parent mine never were. I started to appreciate my body. It created life, it was beautiful. And now, two kids later I still love my body. I exercise when I can and try to eat healthy, but I don't care about the extra weight anymore. I am accepting of myself. My body might be soft and not nearly perfect. But when I look in the mirror now, I like what I see.

An Open Letter, and The Honesty Conspiracy's Response

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 04:34:00 +0000

Photo Credit: Joel Evelyn and Francois on Flickr

An Open Letter to the Honesty Conspiracy,

I honor the space you hold here for those of us who need to write and connect about the things that have to get out, but can’t be attached to us. The fear of repercussions is real. The repercussions can be real, as evidenced by many of the anonymous posts here. It is important that this space be available both to free the writer from issues that would fester without being voiced and for the readers to feel less alone when they read something they can’t speak about or when they encounter a new idea that they have yet to wrestle with.

I have contributed here. But, I was careful what it was I shared. There are things I will never post here because I don’t know who is actually reading my words with my identity attached.

Since I don’t know who you are, I am wary of sharing everything. It puts me in a strange space if you know something about me and you read something I wrote or hear something I say that doesn’t talk about the piece I shared here. It can color how I am seen and I won’t even be aware of it. The wondering takes away a piece of safety.

While I honor that you also wish to remain anonymous, it can potentially hold back those who might need to speak, but hesitate because of the unknown people behind the blog.

Thank you for listening.
Love,
Always a reader, sometimes a contributor

____

Photo Credit: The Advocacy Project on Flickr

The above letter was lovingly shared with us by Zoie of the blog TouchstoneZ. The three of us who started this site read, considered, and discussed it as we worked out how best to respond.

When we opened this space, we were not ready to reveal our identities because we knew that with such little material, it may be easy for people who know us well to determine what we had written. We were concerned that our own anonymity would be compromised, and we wanted a safe place to share openly ourselves.

We also thought, perhaps mistakenly, that contributors may feel safer sending things into the mysterious unknown, as opposed to wondering what the specific recipients of their post might think, knowing they had written it.

Zoie's letter provided interesting perspective, and we ultimately decided that we were ready to share our identities, if only to help those of you who choose to share with us to feel safer. The original three of us are: Kelly, Lucy, and Melissa.

As we disuccsed Zoie's letter, the three of us decided to invite her to join us, and were thrilled when she agreed. So now we are four.

As for you, dear reader, if you have feedback, questions, or concerns regarding the running of this space, you can feel free to contact us through our shared email: honestyconspiracy{at}gmail{dot}com. We have also added a contact form so that you can contact us completely anonymously if you would like.

The main goal is for us to have a space where all can share their truth openly and confidently. We hope that you feel safe here.

Kelly, Lucy, Melissa, and Zoie.

Gambling it all for love

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 10:23:00 +0000

I married my husband nearly 10 years ago. It was total love at first sight. I thought he was way out of my league and then he started to notice me. The first night I met him all cards were laid on the table and by 2am the following morning there were no skeletons lurking in any closets. Among the things we discussed was his heroine addiction. He had been clean for a number of years and I truly marvelled this amazing person for being so in touch with himself and was sure it was thanks to the intensive counselling from the drug treatment programme. Before too long we were inseparable. We married a year and a half after we met.

Two months later I discovered, totally accidentally, that he was using cocaine. And quite a lot of it. I will not go into it too much as this is all in the past but after trying to come to arrangements with banks and creditors to cover his debts, we moved counties. It was a fresh, wonderful start. Two years later our first child was born. My husband was such a proud daddy and really supportive of my home birth and breastfeeding. I think it was about 5 months later that he told me he had gambled a whole week's wages in the bookies. Needless to say, I was devastated. BUT it would be OK. It was a one-off. We were OK.

Over the next 3 years 3 more children came along, the recession hit and he lost his job. During this time there had been 'issues' with his gambling and I had always tried to approach it in a supportive - lets work together on this, sort of a way. Occasionally I got very angry but neither approach seemed to have any long term effect. Then 15 months ago, again, purely by accident, I discovered he had gambled 7 months of our mortgage money. I discovered this the day before we were due to go on holiday with my parents and the children were so so excited and were constantly talking about what they were going to do with daddy at the sea side. I decided we would all still go and I would make a decision about our marriage when we got home.

I should have left him but I find that time heals (or maybe pastes over the cracks a little) and it was easier to just keep going. He promised me he would go to gamblers anonymous, which he did a couple of times (well often enough to get the book and the DVD) and then, accidentally (again) I found he had lied and was just driving around the town. I used to sit in my car feeding the kids sweets to keep them quiet whilst I watched the door of the betting shop as I just knew, I always knew, but for some reason needed the evidence.

Then we made a dramatic decision to move countries. We packed up, shipped out and posted the house keys back to bank with no forwarding address. At the time I felt we were drowning in so much debt that we could never swim out of it. I was also drowning in fear, stress, depression and weakness. I have always been the one that has jumped in and tried to fix things, made money available, compromised on emotions, budgets, the welfare of the children, just to try and bail us out.

So ten months ago we got the amazing opportunity to move. We invested in ourselves, our children and planned a future in our new country. My husband got a job with good prospects and one he loves and is extremely good at. I have been so proud of him. I have been so caught up in helping the children settle and admiring their resilience, in being so grateful for the chance to have a marriage at last, a nice house in a wonderful location and making new friends, that I took my eye off the ball.

I knew something was up in September and my instincts were right, as they always have been, that he had been gambling again. I knew he had hidden some money from his salary and I knew he had spent the remaining money after paying the rent etc, way too quickly. His mood was very volatile and most of his anxiety came out in aggression towards the children. He didn't hit them or anything like that but he shouted and swore at them nearly all day, everyday. He spent most of his time on the sofa watching TV and didn't get involved in family life like he normally does when not a work. He didn't touch me once in the three weeks he was home before going away again for work.

I sent him an email to discuss finances. He received the email well, didn't get cross and didn't deny or admit that he had been gambling again. I knew he had, he knew he had and now he knew I knew he had...

It seemed everything was going to be OK AGAIN. We can get through this AGAIN. It was just a slip up AGAIN. And really, all was going to be just fine.

Today I discovered, totally accidentally (well OK, not totally accidentally, I was snooping), the extent of the financial situation he has created over the last 4 months whilst I have been basking in the glory of our new lives together.

I am tired, I have no more resources or cards up my sleeve to fix things, he is threatening our security again, and all of a sudden I am drowning.

Tonight I shouted at the children whilst they were brushing their teeth. They all went to bed in tears. I tried to hug them and tell them that mummy had just had a tough day but they are too young to understand. He doesn't see how his 'illness' (and I hate it when people call addiction an illness) effects me and then how that effects the children. He doesn't see the damage being done to their self esteem when he is home and shouting all of the time. He doesn't see how I can not sleep, relax, laugh, breath. He doesn't see that I am ready to wrap my 4 babies in a blanket and run and hide.

As I write this, he doesn't know that I know the extent of his gambling.

My close friend has told me in the past that I am so strong to stay and try and work it out over all these years. But the truth is you have to be stronger to leave than to stay. I don't know where to get that strength from. I don't know how to start the ball rolling. He has no idea this is on the cards. By the time he gets home next week, will time have pasted over the cracks again and will I be feeling this way in years to come? I am so fearful that it will not be amicable.

I wish I could wave a magic wand and be two years down the line, on my own with my children safely nestled under my wings.

A Story of Force, Forgiveness, and Healing: Part II

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 10:49:00 +0000

This is the second part of Monday's post, which you can read here. Part three is hosted on the author's blog, Peace 4 Parents. Many thanks to Amy for sharing such a difficult story with this community so that all can learn from it. If you have a story of your own to share, either anonymously or openly, feel free to email it to honestyconspiracy@gmail.com.

****

Photo Credit: Stephen Vance on Flickr.

Fast forward about five years and guess who was convicted of criminal sexual conduct? Good old doctor. The one my mother trusted in part because he had always been good to her and because her own father was actually an honorable doctor. Evidently, he had been massaging the clitorises of some women when he was giving gynecological exams - without their permission. This left them feeling very confused and violated.

From the moment I looked at the doctor while alone in the room with him and myself half naked, I knew that there was something other than medical expertise behind his suggestions to catheterize. I was a child so I didn't know exactly what that motivation was, but I could feel it. I didn't know how or even have the opportunity to communicate that to my mother and she was pretty steeped in her medical experience so I am not sure I could have convinced her even if I could articulate what I was feeling. I now realize that feeling came from his desire to dominate and humiliate through sexual inappropriateness (otherwise known as abuse or assault).

For many years this experience plagued my relationship with my mother. Initially, I wanted to cooperate more so that would not happen again. I actually wanted to please the doctor. As I grew into a teen and started feeling powerful sensations in my own genitalia relating to maturity and attraction, I hated my mom and the doctor for that experience. It colored me - and the colors felt anything but that of a rainbow.

Mostly, I wanted her to admit that she was wrong and that the doctor was wrong. That what was done to me was harmful, unnecessary, and ill advised. The way I often experienced her response was "I'm sorry, but..." I'm sorry, but in nursing school we held kids down for shots; I thought it would be the same and no big deal. I'm sorry, but I trusted him; he never did anything to me. I'm sorry, but you really need to deal with your anger so you don't seriously hurt someone or yourself. All of this from a woman who believed very strongly in a woman's right to say "no" and have it be respected. I felt like the experience I had was a farce - a figment of my imagination, a bad dream that I was making up in my head.

Except that it wasn't. It haunted me into my college years where I sought counseling from a women's shelter. Although I felt really ready to get through the anger I still held, and had tried to resolve through counseling as a teen, it seemed like nothing would work. I tried Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR), but would get to a certain point in the memory, break down, and not be able to go any further. I see now that I did not feel safe enough to revisit the experience fully and the "breaking down" was in part an unconscious protective mechanism.

In search of the truth, I attempted to locate the medical records from that day. In all of the hundreds of pages from my childhood medical notes there was no mention of a forced catheterization. I did read one remark the doctor made about my mom feeling frustrated that I was always sick. Other than that, he interestingly opted not to record the experience that was permanently etched in my soul. This was both disturbing and affirming.

My mom and I spoke words of apology and forgiveness many times through out the years, but it did not hold for long. Fierce anger would rear its ugly head and I would hate her all over again. This woman who I loved, I hated. That was such a confusing experience to have over and over again. It would take many years and the journey of motherhood for me to begin true healing.

As I labored with my first child through several hours of pushing I was the one to bring up catheterization. I had read it could help if a woman's bladder was distended and impeding the delivery process. A nurse prepared me and I felt like I must have come very far to be able to allow such a thing to take place. That was just the beginning.

The adjustment to parenting was not exactly easy for me. I completely loved my daughter and felt extremely protective of her. Around the time she was three months old my former husband started talking to me about having a second child to go along with her; a playmate. I remember screaming at him that I didn't even know how I was going to protect her, much less another child. The world felt eerily unreliable and unsafe.

Although I took good care of her, I was afraid to really touch her in many ways. I was so sensitive to what I had experienced as a child that I didn't want to hurt or violate her. Diaper changes were this interesting mixture of wanting to get her very clean as to respect her body and not wanting to touch her genitalia at all for fear she would internalize abuse just by being touched to get clean. I held a lot of emotional shame about the genital area of the body and every time I would see it on myself or another person, those feelings would come up and throw me off balance.

The first time I ever forced my oldest to do anything was related to the body and medical advice. It was a really simple situation, but I remember it like it was yesterday. It was the turning point at which my relationship with my daughter changed - she became afraid of me. She was a toddler and had a stuffy nose. I thought it needed to be suctioned so she could breathe and nurse better. She didn't agree. I held her down and did it. She fought me. It got done in a matter of seconds, but I felt dirty inside after it was complete. I apologized and vowed not to force her again. The only problem was I didn't know how to facilitate true, respectful cooperation or to let go of potentially harmful recommendations about how to care for the body - and how to parent children.

My second child was born when my daughter was just over two and a half. The adjustment from one to two was only a tad bit easier than becoming a parent the first time. I had no idea how to meet the needs of two kids, but as a La Leche League Leader I had the support of many like-minded mothers. I was still learning the art of loving guidance, though, and had a long way to go.

Potty training was something I thought we would just kind of flow into. I was watching her for signals so when she started having control issues, I freaked out. I was very concerned that she could have lasting health issues. The doctor recommended reward stickers or charts, my mom told me only bits and pieces of my own experience with control and toileting, and I felt saddened by the disconnect between what I wanted for my daughter and what we were facing.

I was advised by my in-laws that it was my lack of authority which caused all of her issues. They recommended a switch to the leg if she wouldn't use the toilet and my former husband agreed. It is sickening to admit that I actually tried spanking. I had turned into the exact controlling monster I hated from my childhood. I wasn't sexually abusing her, but I was punishing her to get control. To me, the two were inextricably linked.

The anger and unease led me to flying off the handle too many times - yelling, spanking, grabbing my daughter angrily. Finally, I hit a low point and realized I couldn't stay that angry forever. I had to look at what was causing the anger and deal with it - effectively.

Around this time I was going through a divorce and facing many other life changes. I began exploring spirituality, meditation, conscious breathing, and facing my own demons. I committed to a path of truth. During a time of intense introspection I was finally able to revisit the experience of my childhood without breaking down.

The first time I visited the memory in full I saw clearly that the doctor had an agenda of seeking power through abusing others; that he knew what he was doing from the moment he recommended the catheterization and I was aware of his intent through the unsure feeling I felt in my body. It was like he was wearing a dark cloak and I was a little child full of light. He was going to suck all that he could from me because he had forgotten where his own light was.

In the next visit I recalled the doctor having his thumb on my clitoris during the attempt to catheterize, which gives credence to the mix of pleasure and pain I often experienced in relation to sexuality for most of my life. That finally began to heal and allowed me to experience the truth of my body without the energetic attachment of pain.

The third time I realized that the doctor, nurse, and my mom no longer had any power over me - it was as if I was in the midst of the experience, they all released their hands from me, smiled at me, and I was free to get up. The sense of peace that flooded me in that recall was immense. I felt a sense of true forgiveness - true release of negative emotion towards others - that I had not felt before.

Still, the arguments between my mother and I finally got to a point where my dad asked us to reconsider counseling. He felt it all stemmed from the experience with the doctor. I really wanted to get through our issues. I also wanted to be respected for the way I choose to parent now; which includes no spanking or force. I found it difficult to try and parent in a manner that truly treats children as equals without her full support. I wanted a new relationship with my mom. She did also.

During our first counseling session the woman facilitated an open discussion of how I experienced the catheterization. My mom was able to listen, reflect back what she heard, and realize how that must have been for me. In that moment, she touched my hand and felt a little of what I did that fateful day. She cried some. We connected. Our relationship began to heal.

As I write this account now, the emotions are present - although no longer consuming. I have cried a few tears and felt anger rise as I breathe to acknowledge the signal. Now as a mother of four dedicated to experiencing power with children instead of over them, I gratefully share this story with others to provide information and support in relating to children in ways that respect them - mind, body, and spirit.

I have had many realizations during the continual healing process, some of which I share in A Story of Force, Forgiveness, and Healing Part 3 - Realizations to Take Forward. May they help you to be more sensitive to yourself, your body, and the children in your life. As always, the choice is up to us - moment by moment.

A Story of Force, Forgiveness, and Healing: Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 11:54:00 +0000

Notice: This story is lengthy and contains graphic descriptions about childhood abuse, anger, forgiveness, healing, parenting mistakes, and choosing how to parent in the present - written from my perspective. Please read through to the end to experience the progression from a hurt, angry child to a passionate mother of four devoted to peace.It is no coincidence that on the day I write this the daily word from Unity was forgiveness. I woke up remembering an event from my childhood that shaped me so much I wanted to jump out of my own body on a regular basis for most of my life. The only reason I can write about it in the way I do today is because I have experienced the true potential of forgiveness.

Photo Credit: D. Sharon Pruitt on Flickr.

Prepare to be uncomfortable, possibly surprised, and provided many opportunities for inner awareness...

As I walked home from school the heat was getting to me. I felt uncomfortable and noticing pressure in my lower abdomen, I asked my friend if I could use his bathroom. He didn't think his mother would approve. Feeling frustration at my inability to comfortably pee in a public bathroom, I quickened my pace so I could make it home before I peed my pants.

Approaching the back door of my home I reached to slide the heavy glass and lost it. I peed. Staring through the glass at not only my mom, but also my half brother's parents who were visiting or picking him up - I don't recall - I felt mortified. I was an eight year old child who certainly knew where the bathroom was, even though I didn't like using any that weren't in the comfort of my own home. I should have gone before I left school.

Noticing the disappointment on my mom's face and wanting to hide in a cave myself, I ran to the front of the house. My mom ushered me upstairs to the shower, took my temperature and found it to be slightly elevated, and we prepared to leave for the doctor's office on our way to go up north for the weekend. I always looked forward to going up north; it was our get away.

I didn't think anything was wrong with me. It was warm, I had just walked for about half an hour in the sunshine, it didn't hurt when I peed - I just couldn't hold it any longer. My mom was concerned. I had a history of bladder infections and the last thing she wanted was for me to have one in the middle of the woods with no trustworthy medical care. I was often sick as a child and she just wanted me to be well.

The doctor wanted a urine sample. Only an hour or less before, I had released an afternoon's worth of pee in my pants. Feeling the pressure of the doctor's office closing shortly, my parents' desire to get up north, and the uncertainty of whether or not I actually needed medical attention - I drank a cup of water and tried to squeeze out some pee. I couldn't get any out. Very powerful sphincters I had.

At one point I recall the doctor picking me up and showing me the machine he used to analyze the urine, or maybe that was at a previous visit. He hugged me regularly when I would come in for medical care. That didn't sit completely wrong with me, although looking back there was an energy present in the activity that was warm and affectionate in a way that most adult men do not share with little girls.

My father waited in the lobby as my mom and I visited with the doctor. He suggested catheterization. As a former nursing student my mom was familiar and thought it was worth a try. I, on the other hand, thought it was a nutty idea. Stick a tube where? Up my urethra? Did I even know what that part of my body was before this discussion?

Somehow I ended up disrobed from the shirt down. Maybe they were showing me where it would go in? I'm not sure. What I do remember was an energy of force building, a tension and a frustration. Almost an excitement laced with uncomfortableness. The doctor suggested my mom leave the room so he could talk to me and see if he could convince me to consent to the procedure.

As I watched him from across the small examination room I looked to him and then to my exposed genital area, several times. Something felt very wrong; stifling. As I listened to him describe the procedure, telling me it wouldn't hurt, or that he would be gentle - some ploy to get me to do it - I kept feeling this huge "NO!" come from within me. Nope. I'm not gonna do it. No way, no how.

The part that is important to include here is the fact that I had already experienced sexual abuse at least twice. Neither experience was horrific, but it was enough to warrant telling my mom. Each time she took steps to bring accountability to the situation on the part of the perpetrator and she told me no one has a right to touch me in my genital area, or ask me to touch them, or force me to do something of that nature. In her mind, though, the proposed catheterization had nothing to do with abuse - it was a medical procedure. My heart felt so sad at that; and still does today when I think of the effect it had on our relationship for so many years.

The doctor, who was trying to be so kind and convincing, turned on me. He told me that if I would not allow him to do the procedure he was going to call in my mom and the nurse to hold me down. I would not consent. He called them in.

I don't know what was going through my beloved mother's mind at that point. She probably wanted me to just be well and was blindly following the doctor's suggestion in that desire. She has said many times that children were often held down for shots and she thought it would be a similar situation. She didn't know how it would affect me, or our relationship.

What I do recall was a dreadful calm before a flurry of activity. I sat alone half naked as the doctor went out, spoke to my mom and all three of them came in. I don't remember how I allowed them to pin me down, but most likely I could not see what exactly was coming. Did they ask me to lie down? Did I do it willingly or was I pushed?

However it came about, my mother was on my left side holding my arm and leg. The nurse was on my right side holding the other arm and leg. The doctor was straight in front of me as I was pinned spread eagle for him to do what he decided was to be done. I fought like a wild animal. I screamed, kicked, and tried mightily to wrestle my way out of the torment I was being forced to experience. Or at least, that's how I remember it... from up above.

I separated from my body during part of the experience, although I was still connected to the experience. I could see the whole event taking place from the back right corner of the ceiling, above my body. Swooosh... back into the struggle I came with a vengeance that should not be in the experience of a little girl.
When it was finally "over" the doctor reported that he was unable to get any urine. Huh, really. I felt strongly vindicated in that fact. He didn't get what he wanted. Except that in all likelihood he did; it just might take me a couple of decades to realize just how.

I stood to dress behind the curtain in the corner and sullenly talked with my mom. I recall some conversation about if I would have cooperated that wouldn't have happened. I thought I remarked that he didn't even get any urine, Mom. Well, that was because you were struggling so. Maybe I was able to pee in a cup before we left - I do not recall. Either way, he prescribed an antibiotic, just in case.

As we prepared to drive away I sat in the back seat of my parents' vehicle looking out the window with an amount of anger that could fill hell. I was so mad I could feel it through every cell of my being and from what I surmised, it was all my fault.

Today's post is the first of a three part piece, a story that comes to us from Amy of Peace 4 Parents. Part two will be posted on Thursday.

Abortion

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 11:30:00 +0000

Photo Credit: karindalziel

July 2009 – I had major PMS for weeks but my period was nowhere in sight. Never imagined I might be pregnant. Had no plans for a kid. Was beyond busy as a professional who traveled all over the U.S. The husband and I planned on adopting when we were in our 40’s. A kid now would mess up our lifestyle. Plus, I hated my husband and was planning on leaving him. Marriage wasn’t really my thing but that is another post for another time.

Late July 2009 – a coworker kept insisting I was pregnant so to shut her up I peed on a stick. Damn stick read “positive” when the first drop of hormone laden urine hit it at 7:00pm. I took 13 more tests over the next 12 hours convinced they had to be wrong. They weren’t.

I crumpled in a ball in the living room and told my husband the bad news. This was on a Friday night. He shit himself. He asked what we were going to do. I told him the answer was obvious. Abortion. A kid was not what we needed right now.

The next day I high tailed it out of town and got drunker than I had even been in my life. I stayed drunk for 24 hours. My girlfriend took good care of me as I literally threw up everything I ever had inside me. I was secretly hoping I’d kill this kid with all the alcohol. It didn’t work. Instead I kicked off the start of 14 weeks of intense all day/all night morning sickness. My punishment for polluting my body in an attempt to rid myself of this child.

That Monday I showed up at Planned Parenthood too embarrassed and scared to tell my doctor I wanted an abortion. I was already in my thirties, made good money, and had no good reason to not keep this child…other than wanting to leave my husband and feeling stuck if I was carrying his kid.

I scheduled the abortion. I felt a little twinge of guilt but ignored it. Life would go on.

Because of my work schedule I was not able to have the abortion until mid-August. This was ok timing wise…I would only be 10 weeks along.

But a funny thing happened while I was waiting for that appointment…

I became a mom.

I literally woke up one morning and just lost my shit. The guilt of even considering an abortion was overwhelming. I was growing a human being in my body…a human being that was supposed to be here. And here I was trying to play God. For no good reason other than selfishness. Deep in my heart, in my soul, I was already a mother.

I told my husband I was keeping the baby. He breathed a sigh of relief. We both cried. I went into hippie, crunchy earth mama overdrive that night. I’ve stayed a hippie, crunchy earth mama ever since.

My pregnancy was pretty rough. I had numerous bizarre health issues (all pregnancy related) and my job was crushing me. My boss was pissed that I was pregnant and not only expected that I carry my client load but he offloaded many of his commitments on me. I was literally out of town for 98% of my pregnancy. I was barely able to make my doctor appointments. It was a very stressful time.

Despite being on board with my pregnancy, my husband and I were not faring well as a couple. Lord knows we tried to get our stuff together but we fought constantly. One night, we have a really nasty fight resulting in me spitting in his face and he knocking me to the ground. I was 7 months pregnant. With pneumonia. In December. I walked out the door and spent the night in my car in a parking lot. My daughter and I really bonded that night. I talked to her, apologized to her over and over again for so many things. I apologized for almost aborting her then in the same breath apologized that she was coming into a cruel world, a world where her mother and father could not stand the sight of each other. I cried and cried and cried. I was cold. I shivered all night long. I got mad. I should have had that abortion. What the hell was I thinking?

I was a mess for several weeks after that. Torn between exhilaration and dread. Torn between love and hate. Torn between guilt and letting go.

41 weeks after one sperm met one egg, my daughter was born. As with the entire process, my birth experience was as far from what I envisioned as possible. But the second I laid eyes on my daughter, my life changed. I was not longer that person who so shamefully considered abortion. I was no longer the wife who hated her husband. I was a mom. I was part of a family. And darn it, I was going to make up for all the sins of my early pregnancy.

Abortion is a very difficult topic for me now. On the one hand, I am still very much pro-choice as it is not my place in this world to decide what is best for another woman. I am not pro-abortion. I would never advocate for it. I am definitely pro-life so long as that life is a decent one. I would never advocate for a baby to be brought into a situation where their health and welfare would be continually compromised. Where every single day of their life is a struggle filled with pain and hardship.

There is a planned parenthood nearby and protestors stand outside with signs and pictures of aborted fetuses. I choke and gag as I go by. Becoming a mother, a mother who almost wasn’t, has changed how I feel about those babies…those babies who were not given a chance at life. I cannot imagine life without my daughter. I don’t remember life without my daughter. Thinking about life without her makes me physically ill. I love her with every ounce of my being. Our souls are so deeply connected. Cosmic forces have brought us together as mother and daughter and remembering how I almost destroyed this opportunity to be my daughter’s mother just kills me inside. My daughter chose me and I so casually was going to just throw away her life.

I do not think I will ever come to a resolution about abortion. I just know that I will never have one. And the chances of me supporting someone I know personally, should she decide to go that route, are slim. It would hurt me to the core.

Kreativ Community

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 13:43:00 +0000

Alicia at the blog McCrenshaw recently honored The Honesty Conspiracy by passing along the Kreativ Blogger award. Thanks, Alicia! The rules of accepting this award say that we must:

Share seven things about us. This is a bit tricky since this is a community effort, but we admins got together and came up a few things about ourselves.

Pass the award on to ten deserving bloggers. Should be easy! This will be a great opportunity for us to honor some of the great writers who have supported this effort by sharing it with their communities, and just to link you to some content we think is valuable.

Here goes!

Seven Things About Us:
1. There are currently three admins for the Honesty Conspiracy, all of us women.
2. Between us, we have five beautiful children.
3. None of us is currently living in the same country where we grew up, and all of us are currently on separate continents.
4. All of us have personal blogs, and together the titles include ever letter of the alphabet except for: F, J, K, P, Q, X, and Z.
5. We are two brunettes and a blonde.
6. We have never met in person, or spoken on the phone.
7. We are all lovers of dessert, and could eat chocolate any hour of the day or day of the week.

Looking back, this sort of reads like a riddle, but is not to be taken as an invitation to do detective work ;)

For more Kreativ Blogging, please see:
Raising My Boychick
Momma Jorje
Mom Grooves
Uniquely Normal Mom
TouchstoneZ
Hybrid Rasta Mama
Hobo Mama
The Natural Parents Network
Peace 4 Parents
Monkey Butt Junction

Losing My Virginity -- and My Self-Respect

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 09:43:00 +0000

Growing up, I considered myself a Christian and was about as devout as they come really. I had plenty of friends and was generally well liked, but everyone knew me well enough not to invite me to parties. As far as I knew, the students at my high school didn't have them, and they certainly didn't have sex. Of course the beer cans in the woods and the teen pregnancy rate proved otherwise, but I happily lived in my bubble of "good morals" right up until graduation.

The following summer, I moved out of my parents' house and began dating someone I knew through friends. I wasn't particularly interested in him, but liked that he liked me, so the relationship continued. That summer, in my first apartment, I had my first real kiss. Of course there were no fireworks, as often there aren't, but especially because I didn't really have feelings for this guy. He went off to college and I went on my way, slowly beginning to question my beliefs and moving away from organized religion.

Another summer came and I found myself dating someone I really was excited about. My religious beliefs had shifted enough that I had allowed myself to discover, and even begin to enjoy, parties, but there had not been a great deal of change beyond that. I was still a virgin, as I had always planned to remain until I married. One night I went to a party with my much older boyfriend and had far too much to drink, so he took me home. That night I lost my virginity shortly after vomiting out his car door in the parking lot outside his apartment building.

I had not planned this at all and apparently had very little respect for myself, because instead of feeling violated and upset, I figured "what the heck, it's done now, may as well do it again." I was not at all ready, but I also wasn't in tune with myself enough to realize this. In hindsight, I think he was, and that he felt guilty for taking advantage of the situation. I think it was for this reason that he immediately distanced himself from me. Before long our relationship was over, and I heartbroken and humiliated. Even years later, when he would call my place of work to ask a question, and I would happen to answer, a co-worker and mutual friend of ours would jokingly ask whether I had told him I wanted my "V-Card" back. Not funny.

Over the next two or three years, I would have half a dozen more partners, only two of whom I felt had any respect for me. Only two of whom I would sleep with because I wanted to. The others wanted me, and I wanted to be wanted. The others took advantage of post-party situations when I had let myself lose some degree of control. None of these encounters were enjoyable, and nearly all of them I regretted on some level. Rather than standing up for myself and being in control of my body, I allowed it to be controlled by men. I let them take what they wanted as I remained completely out of touch with my own desires. I never had a chance to develop new thoughts and beliefs regarding sex, as I had with faith and religion. I was too busy bouncing from one man to the next.

In the end, I found someone I truly want to be with, and someone who truly wants to be with me. We enjoy one another in nearly every sense of the word, most of the time anyway. I feel respected, I know what I want, and I am comfortable asking for it. I am thrilled to have found my husband when I did, and to have found some self-respect along the way, but I feel a deep sense of disappointment when I reflect on my past experience. I am saddened that I didn't love myself enough to be my own advocate in these situations. I hate that I allowed these men to decide what my early sexual experiences would look like. I wish I had become the somewhat sexually liberated female I am today on my own timeline, and not theirs.

I can't change my past, and really it all came together to make me the person I am today so I do my best not to live in regret. My biggest concern, now that I am raising a daughter, is that she will follow a similar path. If I have not learned to hold myself in high esteem, regardless of who is around me and what they think, how will I teach her to value and respect herself? How do I help her become a person with boundaries? A person who can respect herself? I don't know the answers to these questions, but I sincerely hope that I find them along the way.

Photo Credit: Glen Loos-Austin on Flickr

I Want to Be Free

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 11:30:00 +0000

Photo Credit: apdk

My daughter is one of the sweetest, most beautiful little girls in the world (yes, I can say that because I'm her mom ;) ). In the past few months, she's started walking. She jabbers and talks almost non-stop. She's always up for adventure, never shy or unwilling to try something new. People stop us all the time to compliment her or say hi to her.

Half a dozen times a day I just have to look at her to find my heart hurts with this insane love I never knew existed. I have been given this amazing, joyful gift...

...and it makes me very, very bitter.

Over the past few months, I find myself thinking over and over again about my own childhood. I look at my daughter, and I wonder how any parent could treat their kid the way our dad treated us. In spite of all the years of trying to forgive, I find myself feeling active hatred for him once again.

I don't like it. I don't like thinking about those days. I don't like feeling this way. I want to be free of this. I'm just not sure I know how.

In many ways, it would be easier if I could just say, "My dad was a very bad man." Of course, I can't. I do have good memories of him. I know he has regrets. I think if he had it to do over again, he would do things differently.

I can give him credit for all those things - knowing too that I am far from perfect. But I find I can't keep myself from coming back to the bad. That seems to be always where my focus lies.

I can easily justify my attitude. We grew up in a house defined by anger, violence, and uncertainty. We never knew if good dad or bad dad would be home - he was two different people really. I think in many ways that made it all the worse - that not knowing what to expect; always trying to prepare for the worst.

A few weeks ago I found myself in a flood of tears, telling my husband stories from my childhood, none of them good. By the end of my outpouring, he was in tears himself. I knew he was imagining someone doing those things to our daughter...the same as I have been.

It would take a book really to detail everything my siblings and I went through, but the ultimate result is that in our different ways, I think all three of us feel worthless.

My dad was not happy with his life. In that unhappiness, he punished his wife and children over and over and over again. We were spanked, in anger, many times. When the age came for spankings to end, the emotional abuse escalated. We were told, multiple times, that having children so young had ruined our dad's life. He put it in terms of a warning - wait until you're older to have children! But in case there was any doubt, he made sure we knew he was referring to our situation.

I know he felt worthless himself - dead end job, 3 kids, no money, angry all the time. He had his own bad childhood - divorced parents, raising his 3 brothers, a dad who did beat them. He passed that legacy on when he lectured me for hours on the ways I fell short...whether it was a constantly messy room, being overweight, or even believing in God.

There were the lectures, and the yelling. The breaking of dishes and holes punched in the walls. He even frequently wrote us letters filled with vitriol - it was like he saw it as a way of controlling his temper when he could calmly write something about whatever shortfall it was he felt the need to address. Those letters are some of my very worst memories even now...

There was much more than that. And there was the good, too of course. Over the years I've pushed it away and gone along with the current family story that nothing was ever that bad. We don't see each other more than once or twice a year and it's always been fairly easy to be civil and even enjoy his company.

But lately, I can't get it out of my mind. The past few visits home have stressed me out so much it's taken months to feel normal again. And they haven't even been bad ones. Any criticism I get or perceive from the people around me now just destroys me. It's like I'm right back in that place of feeling constantly powerless and distressed - the same place I was as a kid and teenager and thought I'd left several years ago.

The thing is...I used to be the same as my daughter. I was full of laughter and joy - completely fearless. I actually remember my very young years more than most of the years intervening, when I had the same beautiful spirit as my daughter.

I think what I can't get over right now is the powerful, suddenly in my face realization that it was my own parent who destroyed that in me. I turned into a shy, introverted, frightened, overweight girl with no confidence and little self worth - because the constant message I grew up with was, "You are not good enough."

In many ways, I've been reborn. I still struggle with my weight. I still feel like I don't measure up. But in my logical mind, I know I am an amazing person. I know I am a good wife and a good mother and intelligent and even pretty.

I think maybe I'm scared. I have the power to do what was done to me to my daughter. I have a legacy that goes back generations in my family and I think I'm scared to death that I could continue it. In spite of doing everything differently so far (than my parents did) and seeing amazing results from it, I continue to feel trapped in this cycle.

There's a saying that I've liked for a long time - it says: "Bitterness is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die."

For many years, I've wanted to forgive my dad. He's not going to ask me for forgiveness - I know that. I don't think I need that. I don't really feel like I need anything from him at this point. I don't think I need to forget about it all either - good or bad, those things shaped me to be the person I am today.

But still, I'm bitter. And until I cannot be, I won't be free. I want to be free of this. I'm just not sure I know how...

I know this was really, really rambling. Thank you for listening, whoever you are.

Waiting to come - a personal history of orgasms

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 10:47:00 +0000

My husband and I were each others first lovers thirteen years ago. We were nervous and clumsy. I hated my body and thought myself fat and ugly. I had never had an orgasm.

Image: freestockphotos.biz

It was with him that I had my first orgasm with his beautifully gentle tongue. But never through intercourse. I felt embarrassed that I couldn't - surely every one did and could. I remember talking about sex at school with friends. Before I had ever "done it" and they talked about coming together - having orgasms together. This is what you see in the movies, so that's what happens, right? When I was twelve I was called frigid by a boy who wanted to put his arm round me and I said no. He must have been right - I was frigid.

My husband-to-be kindly gifted me with my first vibrator. With that I learnt to create beautiful orgasms for myself. And then I learnt to do it for myself without any electronic aids, that was a really proud achievement. But still I "couldn't" do it with him. I did a lot of reading - according to the research a large percentage of women cannot orgasm during intercourse, it is not unusual at all.

Our sex life became tense - I felt under pressure, he felt under pressure. And then I just gave up. And almost gave up on sex all together. It wasn't how I wanted it to be. He didn't get what I needed, he couldn't hear me.

My first child's birth was orgasmic, quite unexpected. But between that birth and the next nearly three years later he just seemed to give up. His tongue never came to visit any more. Sex was boring. He did it to my body, not to me. It was perfunctory, not pleasurable or personal.

And then after the birth of my second child, I felt under pressure to perform my services very soon afterwards. Just ten days after birth. I felt cross that I was under pressure. But he was so gentle, so loving, he made love to me, the whole of me, every part of my body. And my womb, remembering the pulses of birth, began to throb, and waves of pleasure came over me. After nine years of sex with him, I orgasemed with him inside me. I sobbed with pleasure.

It didn't happen again until after the next birth. Almost two years later. Again ten days after birth. Again a ground shaking orgasm. And since then it is a regular occurrence.

I am so excited about our sex life now. After three children it is the best it has ever been. We know each other. We are closer. There is a level of trust, openness, and connection from having gone through three births together. Nothing is hidden or shameful. Through the ups and downs of parenthood and mental fragility we have found each other physically. This is not how people tell you that it is. You are "supposed" to know how to have orgasms naturally. You are supposed to have hot sex in your teens and early twenties. Your sex life is supposed to get worse over the years of marriage. It is supposed to decline after babies, stretched vaginas and saggy boobs. But this is not true, not for me. And I am so happy for that.

If this is a topic of interest for you, get your hands on a copy of The Hite Report by Shere Hite. It reports the research of thousands of women talking about their sex lives - women young and old, straight, gay, mothers and not.

Parenting a Child with a Sensory Processing Disorder SUCKS!

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 11:30:00 +0000

Photo Credit: Tostadophoto

By Lioness Mama

Yep – you read that right. And I will even say it again just so you know I am serious. Parenting a child with a sensory processing disorder sucks. It sucks hard. It sucks ass! It makes motherhood a rather unenjoyable experience a lot of the time. It makes it hard to want to get out of bed and face the day because you know it will be one challenge after another. It makes life seem like one freaking big chore.

Everyone on the planet has some sort of sensory issue. Some people dislike certain types of noises. Others cannot stand to be touched a certain ways. Others have aversions to certain textures. The majority of the population can navigate their sensory preferences quite well and it does not become an impediment to daily life. For others, sensory issues become an actual disorder affecting the quality of their life as well as those around them.

For the first year of my daughter’s life, I had no clue that she was developing (or possibly already struggling) with a sensory processing issue. I just assumed that she was ridiculously attached to me, needed comfort in the form of physical touch (including breastfeeding), and that she experienced separation anxiety more than most other babies. I chalked it up to being an attached parent and stay at home mom.

Once my cub turned one, I started to realize that she was “different” than other children. She had major eating issues, major elimination issues, and major sleep issues. In addition, she showed signs of anxiety, a strong resistance to change, and monumentous separation anxiety. She was also becoming increasingly clingy and her emotions began to go all over the map over what I considered to be regular life occurrences.

By the time my cub was 18 months old, she displayed some pretty concerning behaviors and reactions to life. At that point I knew that I was parenting a high needs child and quite frankly, I was drained beyond belief. I could not get any “alone” time. My cub was ALWAYS with me. She came to the bathroom with me, she bathed with me, she slept with me, she cooked with me, she cleaned with me, she did everything with me. She could not be away from me at all. If I moved out of her line of sight for even a nanosecond, a complete and utter nervous breakdown would occur.

Sleep became a joke. Seriously. My child could not sleep unless I was with her and she was touching me. I became a slave to HER need for sleep. Naps would not happen unless I was lying in bed with her. Night time sleep was restless at best but non-existent if I tried to sneak away.

My cub is 2 ½ now and is a very, very, very exhausting child to mother. I have become someone I do not like because of it. I am irritated all the time. I am stressed out all the time. I am overwhelmed all the time. I am resentful. I am negative. I am depressed. I feel alone and isolated. I am exhausted. I am bitchy. But most of all, I am worried beyond belief about my little cub’s future. And it doesn’t help that my mother and father are the ONLY people who believe that my daughter has a SPD. My husband says it’s a crock and that she will grow out of her issues. He also blames me for everything saying that if I had never let our daughter sleep in the same bed as us and if I would wean her from my breast, then she would completely change and become this different child. Yeah – don’t think so.

So what exactly is life like for me and my daughter (remember she is only 2 ½)? What exactly am I bitching about? Well...since you asked…

My cub has emotional hypersensitivity. When she is sad she is inconsolable. When she is scared she is inconsolable. The tears and the wailing can go on for an eternity. When she is angry or frustrated she bites objects, purposefully hurts herself (think hitting her head against a hard object of biting her arm hard enough to draw blood), or forcefully discards the object of her frustration.
She has amplified mental processing speed meaning she can take in her surroundings much quicker than the average adult. She deeply FEELS the mood and is uber aware of every minute detail going on around her. This is overwhelming her and makes it difficult for us to take her anywhere that is outside her comfort zone. It also takes a long time for her to become comfortable at places like friends’ houses, parks, or grocery stores. I pretty much have to take her to the same places over and over again. It is not worth her stress (which comes out in her sleep and in her overattachment to me) to force her into a new and unnecessary situation.
My cub has a heightened awareness to the mood, emotions, and atmosphere around her which makes it tough for my husband and I to have any sort of conversation. We have some communication issues and my daughter gets extremely stressed out and acts out whenever my husband and I engage in anything more than a casual conversation. She also has difficulties with my having a phone conversation with anyone (mostly because she is reading my emotions and not understanding what is going on with the person on the other end). She has difficulty when I display another emotion other than a positive, happy, lighthearted mood. If I speak to her in a harsh, irritated, or angry tone, all hell breaks loose. She becomes very withdrawn and then completely loses it, sobbing uncontrollably and then asking me again and again and again and again for days on end if I am mad, frustrated, or sad.
She experiences social introversion and does not enjoy playing with children she does not know. She really only has three “friends” whom she is comfortable with and it has taken a year for that to happen. My cub prefers to be an observer on the outside and away from the group.
My daughter has extreme difficulty adjusting to a temporary or permanent change in routine. She HAS to do the same thing in the same basic order every day. Now that she is 2 ½, she really knows what we typically do and it throws her completely off kilter for the rest of the day if things get altered. Visits from the in-laws, visits from friends, unavoidable errands that are NOT carried out on their typically designated day, changes in weather than affect our daily routine, and changes in my husband’s work schedule are just a few of the things that cause all hell to break loose. It not only affects my daughter on that day but she will struggle for up to a week. A week long visit from the in-laws keeps her off kilter and acting out wildly for weeks! She will also inevitably end up sick after a major change in routine.
My cub is over anxious – a worrier. After something happens that causes her distress, she will ask about it and brood over it for days on end. For instance, we gave a friend one of our dishes when we brought over some baked goods. My daughter asked about that dish every day until we got it back. She was consumed with the dish being gone. Imagine how she deals with seeing a cat get hit by a car. Oh yeah – that has happened twice now while we were walking to the park. We also saw a dog get hit. And we have seen a wide variety of dead animals including skunks, rabbits, foxes, raccoons, opossums, squirrels, moles, birds, rats, and snakes. Words cannot express how much of a struggle this is for my daughter. She understands death but nonetheless, worries over the well being of the dead animal. She will say “bunny gone” every few minutes for hours and then bring it up again the next day. And the next. And the next. Infinity.
My daughter is only soothed tactilely and she cannot self sooth at all. When she gets upset about anything or has been away from me for any period of time (minutes to an hour or two), the only way she can calm down and settle herself is through touching me. She either rubs my sides, my belly, or kneads me like cat. She has to have skin on skin contact. She breastfeeds for comfort a TON. She typically breastfeeds 16 times in a 24 hour period. Remember – she is 2 ½. 16 times per day is in line with a newborn’s needs. She has to be worn in my Beco carrier a lot or else I am holding her. If anyone (whether she knows them or not) comes within close proximately, she is asking me to nurse her or she has to be held. She needs lots of cuddling, snuggling, and hugging. I’m sure it is no surprise that I am beyond touched out. This little person is physically attached to me a good 20 hours per day. Which leads me to…
Extreme separation anxiety. Oh lordy lord. I pay dearly when my cub is not with me. My husband takes her to the park on Sunday mornings for 2 hours so I can attend to household duties that are difficult with my cub “helping.” Not only does she not want to go but she begs me to come. She has a good time with her daddy but upon return typically loses it and heads right for the boob and rubs my skin ferociously. My mother watches my daughter a total of 6 hours per week broken into two days. I use that time for my own doctor’s appointments, paying bills, running errands that are not worth bringing my daughter along on, catching up on email or phone calls, tending to my animals, etc… There is no “me time” during these breaks from my cub. I am basically running around like a chicken with my head cut off, catching up on life. I also use some of this time to sit down with my husband to have the conversations we cannot have in front of our wee one. When our cub returns it is a crisis of epic proportions. I’ll leave it at that. And again, the extreme separation anxiety leads me to…drum roll please…
Extreme sleep difficulties. My daughter cannot settle into sleep without me and cannot stay asleep without me. She has to be breastfed and rocked to sleep both for nap and for nighttime. She will not stay asleep if I am not with her in bed. She has to either hold my hand, cuddle next to me, or sleep on top of me. Yes, my 23 pound toddler sleeps on top of me a lot of the time. During nap time, I have no chance of sneaking away. She is a light sleeper if she naps at all. On days that she has been away from me, naps pretty much do not happen because she is worried that I will disappear. So I take her nap needs very seriously and lay as still as possible and let her sleep. I am not kidding when I say that if I take a deep breath she will wake up in a complete panic. Night time sleep is also an issue. She has to be breastfeed and rocked then she has to lay on top of me until she falls asleep. On days when there has been no separation, she falls asleep within an hour. On days when there has been a separation, it can take hours for her to feel safe enough to fall asleep. On those nights, I do not even try to sneak out of bed. On nights when she is in a slightly deeper sleep, I have one opportunity to sneak away for about an hour. However, I had better get back into bed and cuddle up next to her as stealth like as possible BEFORE she wakes up. If she wakes up and I am not there she becomes a freaked out screaming banshee and will not sleep the rest of the night. As it is, she wakes up every hour looking for me (even though I am right there) and then needs to nurse back to sleep.

She obsesses over my presence. Before we settle into the rocking chair she constantly asks me, “Hold hands, cuddle, on top?” “Mama stay. No go potty. In bed. Me?” She gets so anxious over my physical presence in bed with her. And she freaks out if I close my eyes. Freaks out!

She talks all night long in her sleep. That is how she processes her day. She talks about everything that happened basically.

She thrashes, tosses, and is very restless all while in physical contact with me.

She senses when I am annoyed or want to slip away, even to just go pee. And she freaks out.

I clearly do not get a lot of sleep. Which pisses me off. And makes me mean. And makes life difficult to cope with. Not many people I know could live on the 3-4 hours of sleep I get in a 24 hours period. And that sleep is interrupted sleep.

I have sought help for my cub and found some great support both online and in a wonderful naturopath pediatrician who deeply understands SPD. Because of him, my cub has actually improved just a wee bit and trust me…a wee bit is HUGE. He has steered us in the direction of several homeopathic remedies that do help take the edge off. We use Aurum Lavender Rose Oil/Cream to help my cub with overwhelm and sensitivity to environment. We use Bryophyllum Avena Tension Relief liquid to help settle and ease my daughter in general. It helps with sleep too. We also use Rescue Remedy as needed to help my cub deal with extra stressful situations as well as during times of meltdown. He has us incorporating the Wilbarger Brushing technique along with joint compressions which help with anxiety and to aid in relaxation after a meltdown. We recently incorporated a weighted blanket which helps give my daughter more security when she sleeps allowing her to be a little less restless.

We just started cranial sacral therapy but after one treatment I noticed a difference in my daughter’s general stress and anxiety level. After we got home from the session she was able to play by herself while I fixed dinner. Pretty unheard of in our house. Cranial Sacral Therapy is a non-invasive hands-on, gentle technique that evaluates and enhances the function of the craniosacral system, which includes the membranes and cerebrospinal fluid that surround and protect the brain and spinal cord. Cranial sacral therapy is especially beneficial for children with SPD in that it helps reduce stress and brings about greater relaxation. It also improves tolerance for sensory stimulation and awareness. It helps bring about sleep and eases restlessness. There are a lot of additional benefits but these are the main ones I am hoping to see.

Is anyone still reading??? I know that this post got long but apparently I have been needing to write this out for quite some time.

I would not trade my daughter for the world. I love her more than life itself. When we have fun, we have FUN. I love her snuggles. I love her generous spirit. I love her despite how difficult it can be to be her mother. Some days are better than others. Some days it is easier to be positive. Some days I am calm and easy going. But it seems like these days are few and far between. I hate that. I hate not getting enough sleep. I hate being clung too. I hate how I have to really consider the impacts everything I say and do will have on my daughter. Deciding to stay home and clean house instead of going on our obligatory trip to the park could have lasting impacts on my daughter’s emotional state for the remainder of the day. Spontaneity is out of the question. However, I carry on and do the best that I can, one day at a time. But the worry over my daughter and her future consumes me at times. And so does my need for some personal space.

And to end this post…

Websites I Value

SPD Blogger Network - http://www.spdbloggernetwork.com/
Sensory Processing Support Group - http://www.spdparentsupport.com/
Sensory Processing Disorder Foundation - http://www.sinetwork.org/
The Sensory Processing Disorder Research Center - http://www.sensory-processing-disorder.com/
The Sensory Research Center - http://www.sensoryresearchcenter.org/index.php
SPD Treatment and Resources - http://www.spdbayarea.org/
The Out of Sync Child - http://out-of-sync-child.com/
Raising a Sensory Smart Child - http://sensorysmarts.com/index.html

Thank you for reading…this felt good to write!

Black magic

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 07:11:00 +0000

Somehow when I was growing up, my friendship with my dad seemed stronger and truer than that with my mum, which was often tenuous, strained and tense. I couldn't tell you why. Maybe it was because she just seemed so uptight about life compared to him, often about really petty things. She was utterly and unhealthily obsessed with what people thought, how things looked, keeping up appearances. Which I never understood because in her heart I knew she was really a gypsy, a free spirit. From an early age I think I could sense that she just wasn't happy in her own skin somehow. She was very particular about certain things that I couldn't understand and neither, it seemed, did my Dad. He was an ally I knew I could depend on, when she took ages and ages to get ready for things we raised our eyebrows conspiratorially together and would kind of take the mickey a little behind her back. It all seemed quite harmless, and normal and reasonable - after all she really was quite unreasonable, emotionally aloof, and petty - to my girlish way of thinking.

My friendship with my dad was solid. He just seemed like a fun- loving, charismatic guy, who knew how to relax a bit and enjoy life. When I became a young woman and started having periods and so on he still just seemed like my goofball happy-go-lucky dad. Harmless and innocent. He'd never acted inappropriately with me before and I trusted him completely.

Image: emeraldace.blogspot.com

The summer of my 14 th year was spent on my grandparents smallholding overseas. It had been a very hard year on my Dad. His best friend died in a drink driving accident. His beloved older aunt who he was very close to also died. And perhaps most importantly, his brother-in-law and very good pal died of cancer which broke the whole families heart. His cousin, the daughter of the aunt who had died, came along with us that holiday.

It was a busy household during the summers at my grandparents. There would be feasting and drinking, several families staying there together at once, and parties that went late into the night. Many an evening the adults would drink too much vodka and be up half or all the night, singing downstairs, mucking about, going off for walks in the forest ( my grandfather was a forester ) and generally having a good time.

This particular summer my dad and aunt seemed to casually talk to me a lot about magic. It was normal for the whole family to gather round of an evening and play games of cards, with the adults drinking shots throughout the evening. My dad would play his cards and predict what was coming up with a spooky accuracy. He seemed to have a touch of Derren Brown kind of magic. Occasionally my mum would add credence to this, telling of how they went to a seance once and things went haywire, as well as some other paranormal little bits and bobs. My young mind was equally drawn to this magic as it was terrified.

Over that summer, my chats with my dad about these things seemed to get more frequent. He confided in me that in our family bloodline, some members had a 'gift' for magical things. He told me the aunt who had died had had this gift of clairvoyance, that he had it, that I too had it, although my sister didn't. He said that when I was 24 it would become fully activated, and continued to elaborate on his powers. He said reality was two- fold, that this reality we can see with our eyes is an illusion, that this everyday reality was in his words 'bullshit'. He claimed to be able to slip into the other reality at will, go and speak to dead people, and appear to everyone here as if he were still present. That he could astral project and see into the future.

Now I was pretty dumbstruck by this so called dual reality - until now my world had only been this one. this solid, flesh and bone earth and all the people herein. I was scared - but also wanted to know, to understand what he meant by all this.

One evening there was a bit of a party going on as some extra relations had shown up after dinner. I was really finding my mum very hard work, she seemed to be upping her control freakery on me somehow. I was really wound up by it generally. The adults were talking inside the house and I sat down on the porch outside in the dark with the porch light on. My dad came out and started chatting about something or other. I can't remember what he said exactly or how it happened but he started to tell me how lovely I had become, that I was a growing up, that I had breasts now. He asked to feel them which I thought was a bit excessive and he was marvelling at them as if I were some kind of goddess. No forcing or anything, just acting like Wow! You're amazing! And for some reason I didn't stop him.

The evening spun my head and I really don't know why I thought it would be a good idea to go for a walk with my dad, into the dark night, into the forest, knowing he had already cupped my breasts. Curiosity? Pride? Fear? The issue of the magic stuff and my supposed gift of shamanic nature had been playing heavily on my mind. I guess I wanted to know what it was all about. Plus I didn't totally fear my dad - even at this stage, I guess I still felt somehow that he was actually pretty safe, pretty harmless.

So off we walked, into the dark night. on our own. He full of Vodka.

His senses seemed to be on high alert. As he walked he would make a big thing of the noises going on in the forest, and he would freeze on the spot and kind of say shhhhh. And sneak around a bit, talking about evil spirits on the prowl, that he had to fight off. I forgot to say that a weird little circle of red dots had appeared on his head just a few days before, which he claimed always happened when he was entering a warrior phase - mentally battling against demons. So we walked. We reached a point in the woods where my dad said we should sit and rest for a while. Which we did. And a little conversation started up. He was back to talking about me again. He wanted to kiss my mound. Very weird, but alone in a forest, I let him do it, after protesting a bit and he saying don't worry he's not dangerous he is just wanting to appreciate my blooming new body. He seemed respectful and reverent of it, as opposed to some crazed sex mad rapist who was brutal in some way. Then he confided in me that he and my mum had an unhappy sex life, that he 'needed someone younger'. He asked me if I masturbated, that kind of thing. He made no more physical advances on me, nor did he force me to do anything to him, but he quite calmly said that I should save my virginity for him. that when I was 21 it should be with him, that this was a the only was to ensure I would remain pure. That he would know how to be gentle with me.

Well my head and heart we're in a total state of shock. We made our way back towards the farm, throughout the forest. More moments of stopping to fight evil energy fields that were roaming the forest. And when we got back to the front yard of my grandparents, he saved the grand finale moment - saying he was going off into the other world for a moment and to wait till he came back, and he seemed to dissappear into thin air, vanished, poof!

After that weird night I withdrew into myself, to process the very series things that had happened and been said. I absolutely was in no doubt that my dad was involved in some kind of sorcery, and pondered on the repercussions. Whenever I was alone I wondered if he could pop into the other world and just watch me whenever he felt like it. I grew very nervous thinking about this. I became especially paranoid about mirrors thinking they were like a portal perhaps. I began to feel unsettled that perhaps my dead relatives were watching me all the time, that I had no privacy, that my 'psychic' field was permanently open to whoever might fancy looking down on me. After that summer I became more and more worried about what had happened, about the prophesies that lay in store, of my dad's expectation that I should lose my virginity to him.

I felt violated mentally, I didn't feel I could share it with anyone, that it sounded ridiculous, utterly mad. That I brought it on myself, that I was stupid and vain and had courted this terrible state of affairs and that I couldn't expect any other outcome. I began to really fear my dad, even though he was not physically touchy with me outside the context of that summer holiday. But he kept hinting about the magic, kind of nudge nudge wink winking about ' our secret powers'. I felt absolutely out of my depth, lonely with the knowledge of this weird freakish experience, panicky that he was right. That it was all true. That actually he was a perfectly sane and right and as he said, it was the rest of the world who were mad fools, who were blind.

My head and my heart hurt. I couldn't bear it any more. My friends were having a normal fun teenage hood and I was feeling totally fucked up and scared. When I met a charismatic Christian at a party and he sold me the idea of salvation from all sin, from evil, of protection from a heavenly father, I grasped the sanctuary of that safe place and held on for dear life. I became a born again Christian that night, along with two friends, and felt like I finally had a barrier, something that would be strong enough to protect me from my father and his weird occult stuff. I felt like I could relax again because I now had a relationship with Jesus who would protect me, whose light and glory would glow so brightly there was no room left for anything dark or scary any more.

And that was my life for a couple of years. I was the most devout Christian you could be. I was absolutely devoted. And somehow after a while things shifted for me. I felt stronger and wiser. I started to think about some of the christain ideas that bugged me. Why would buddhists and other good, gentle folk be sent to hell for not believing in Jesus. What about tribespeople just minding their own business, living sweetly in the remote jungle - how could their lives be pointless just because they weren't Christians? What kind of god would send good people to hell? My belief in this religion started to unravel further as I saw how Christians seemed to abuse their so called protection and forgiveness agreement with god, and live mean, stingy or even cruel lives. I couldn't be part of that movement any longer. So I broke free.

Without the sanity of an organised religion to guide me, My sixth form years were a time of feeling a lost soul. I knew I was not like others, that no other person in my entire school could ever understand or be able to relate or empathise with the weird thing that had happened between me and my dad. I went off the rails a bit. Tried sleeping around to erase the sexual memory association with my dad and replace it with something else. I genuinely thought I was in love many times, with a lot of very short term boyfriends. I didn't think I was being promiscuous, simply unlucky in love....

I met my husband at university after a term of taking intense cocktails of all sorts of drugs, including LSD, speed and ecstasy, several times a week. I was a druggy mess. I hated myself. I really hated my family. I had tried to tell my mum what had happened a couple of years earlier and after a big dramatic showdown I was made to apologise, to feel like I had been a Lolita, that I was to blame and my dad was just an innocent man really, misunderstood... He denied everything and then sort of conceded then denied any guilt on his part and it was neatly swept under the family carpet and they all got on with forgetting about it and moving on. Which I don't believe for one minute - but thats the official party line.

My husband was the first man who showed me unconditional true love, forgiveness and acceptance. To thank him I was a bitch in our first couple of years together. I couldn't handle his love at all, I still hated myself. - I hated my past, I wanted to erase it, I thought he would tire of my working class fucked up self and go for a sassier, middle class, younger prettier version so why bother? I was convinced he'd only leave me anyway, or cheat on me or some other terrible thing, so I didn't look after him with the care he deserved. I had a couple of flings, and we went through a few split ups. Every time he would say to me "I love you with all my heart, I want to be with you forever, I just want it to work and to make you happy'.

And so I stopped jeapordizing everything and started to believe him when he said that I was worth loving. That I was a good person. That what had happened with my dad was not my fault. That I was an equal to him. It took a long, long time, and endless encouragement. He needed to pick me up a lot when I'd get thinking about it all again.

It has been the best, most healing decision I ever made - to stop fighting against him, and accept that I can live a normal life. Having children has also been tremendously healing - they live so much in the present - and that is a lesson for me - to try and live in the here and now, not to keep going back to that dark forest. To build up lots of happy memories and experiences, to be warmer and closer with my children than my own mother had been with me.

I may never know if my dad was mentally ill, that he just needed counselling and it was taboo for a northern working class fella to go get help. But separating the sexual element from all the supernatural stuff is difficult for me.

To this day I cannot decide whether his disappearing was some trick of the light. Whether he really did have some magic powers. Whether he even regrets what happened or is secretly unapologetic. That scares me more than anything. What if, in spite of his inappropriate sexual behaviour, he was actually right about the spiritual warfare stuff?

Where the fuck does that leave me?

His Selfishness Vs. My Dream

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 14:30:00 +0000

Photo Credit: Chicago Parent

I have always wanted a big family, so because my husband doesn't want anymore children, should I have to give up my dream? Am I selfish or is he? That's what I am faced with everyday.

I want more children, always have, always will. He has always known this about me. He knew that not having children would be a deal breaker. He had agreed that we would have children. We never decided on how many. I just figured we would see what happened.

He's a great dad, but he doesn't want any more, and he's pretty adamant about it. I am resentful towards him over this. He thinks I am on birth control but I am not. I am hoping for an oops. I know this doesn't sound like the right way to bring a child into the world, but why should I give up my dream of a big family?

I love being a mom, being pregnant, nursing, raising my child; it has been the most amazing experience of my life. I want my child to have siblings. Our marriage is obviously flawed. I love him, but I am not in love with him. I love the way he loves our child, but if I could go back and do it differently I would. I would not have married him.

I know this all sounds horrible, but it's my reality. I don't have one of those marriages where my husband is my better half or my partner in crime and that I couldn't live without. I feel like we are more like roommates.

Again, I know that bringing another child into the world with him doesn't sound like the right thing to do. But what do I do? Accept that this is my life and be ok with it; be happy with just one child and stay with my husband? Continue to hope for an oops? Leave him, start over, and hope to find someone who I am completely in love with?

I really don't know.

What I do know, is that I love being a mom and that I am pretty good at it. My husband is a great father. We made one beautiful baby, who is happy and loved beyond words. Will my husband love another child just as much? Or will he then resent me? Where do I go from here?

This is my confession. This is my life. I want more from it. How I get there I don't know. I do know that I will have more children one day. With who? Who knows...

Weighing on My Mind...

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Fri, 07 Oct 2011 12:30:00 +0000

Photo Credit: Tobyotter

Not a day goes by that I don't think about being fat. In fact, hardly an hour passes without some self-deprecating thought coming into my head regarding my weight.

You would probably never guess I feel this way. A friend once told me I was the most confident person she ever met. I appear to be cheerful, helpful, funny. I have a wonderful family and good friends and some influence in my small corner of the world.

But in spite of all of it, I continue to feel worthless.

I was 'the fat one' of my two siblings. Though the diet we grew up on (mostly entirely processed foods) was the same, though our level of activity (relatively high) was the same, they maintained 'normal' bodies while I packed on the pounds.

My mom was always going on one diet or another. As I grew into my teens, she and my dad tried different ways to 'help' me lose weight...my mom suggesting that we diet together or promising gifts if I were to lose a certain number of pounds; my dad lecturing me on how I just needed to have more willpower.

I was both shamed and mortified, especially by my dad, and my teen years were when the constant thoughts began circling through my head...worthless, ugly, fat, disgusting. Every time a boy I liked didn't like me back, I knew it was because I was fat. Every time I saw a girl wearing a crop top, I seethed with jealousy that I could never wear something like that.

After I left home at 18, I began to develop more confidence, but the self-hatred continued, a constant background noise that I accepted as normal. I occasionally shared my feelings with a friend, but never really felt anyone understood.

For the most part, I did not feel loved by anyone - not my parents, not God, and particularly not by the boys I befriended and then fantasized over...I wanted so badly to be part of a couple, and believed my body was what held me back. I didn't know if I wanted to lose weight so I could get a man, or if I wanted a man to love me as I was. It was a constant debate in my mind.

At 24, for various reasons, I finally began to value myself a bit more. I came to a point that I knew I did not need a boyfriend or husband to complete myself - I really knew and understood it and became OK with the possibility of never marrying.

Of course, it was not long after that that my husband and I started dating - a cosmic 'accident' that was in no way orchestrated by me - something that gave me a huge boost of security. My husband was the first person in my life who made me feel truly beautiful. He not only loved my personality; he loved my body. He loved my face. He made me feel beloved.

It was not long, though, before the thoughts came back. My husband has never made me feel bad about my weight, but I can't keep from doing it to myself. He has supported me in various dieting and exercise crusades. I've lost weight many times, only to gain it back.

I've come to believe it's my relationship with food that is the problem. I've always been active and never had any issues with exercising, but food - instead of being a pleasurable, healthful experience - is my nemesis.

I can eat amazingly well for weeks at a time, make everything at home, control portions...and then something clicks and I'm back to filling up on junk. I turn to food when I feel particularly stressed. I've tried to change these habits for so many years that it has started to feel impossible.

I know what I need to do. I have studied and educated myself. I know that fad diets aren't the answer; I know how to maintain a healthy, well-rounded diet.

But I just can't do it.

And in the meantime, I am OBSESSED with providing a healthy foundation of eating for my child. It's not an issue that I would care whether my child is fat or thin - I would not judge them or love them any less either way. But I want so to equip my little one with the right tools for eating well...the ones I was never given and struggle so badly now to learn.

My parents raised us on crap, fake food; we rarely ate fruits or vegetables, and it has taken me years to learn how to expand my palate. In one way, I know and trust that they really didn't know any better; in another way, I hate them for it (especially because they are the ones - outside myself - who continue to judge me the most for my weight).

I have never told anyone all of this - to this extent - before. I have been shaking throughout the writing of this entire post. In a way, it helps to get it out...but I still don't see any answers. For so many years I have tried and tried and tried to do better...it's getting to the point where it just seems hopeless.

I guess what I would like to hear is that there is one person who felt the same way as me - and who managed to pull themselves out of this cycle. That there is a way to beat this wretchedness.

I am 5'5". I weigh 260 pounds. In spite of all the good things I know and believe about myself, this is what stands out to me every day, every hour.

Will I ever do better?

A Letter I Had to Write

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 10:23:00 +0000

I recently had to write this letter to a friend who wanted me to stay silent about the sexual abuse and lack of parental protection I experienced as a child. The attempt from this friend to shame me into silence was a complete betrayal of my trust. She was the one person aside from my husband that I chose to trust with my truth and with my heart. I'm still reeling from this experience. I think it will a long time before I'm able to trust another friend again. I am choosing to share this letter because I believe that keeping silent, and being shamed into keeping silent, is hurtful. It is difficult and isolating to be truthful. Some people, even those most trusted, may turn away or react in anger. My hope is that in sharing this letter anonymously, it will not harm those involved in this situation, but could help someone else struggling with walking the path to freedom from past abuse, knowing that they walk it alone at times. It will still be alright.

Dear Friend,

It is good to have support when you have done something wrong.

I have publicly shared that I recently uncovered memories of being abused as a child. What I have not shared are the exact events. Nor have I shared the role my mother played in them. I have been struggling with walking the line of speaking the truth I need to in order to heal without causing harm.

I write this to you for the same purpose. Not to cause harm but to bring healing.

I hope you will read this essay. I wrote this last May and shared with a blogger I trust, who was kind enough to share it anonymously (there is a trigger warning on this post):
Taking the Long Way Home
http://www.raisingmyboychick.com/2011/06/naked-pictures-of-faceless-people-taking-the-long-way-home/

So now that you have that past, this is toward the present:

Five years ago, I found someone who needed me. And not because he needed someone to act as an adjunct for their will. He just needed me to be his mother. And I was no longer willing to remain wholly subsumed in my mother’s life.

Yet, I did not have awareness of what that meant. For the past five years, I have been setting up boundaries that she fights against constantly. When I was finally able to get her a professional diagnosis, it was of narcissistic personality disorder (which she has completely rejected.) I finally had some answers. I was able to come to terms with what was happening.

I have anger. I have sadness. I have many feelings. I’m not those things at her. I’m feeling those things mostly about the gap between how I wish things were and how things are in my relationship with her.

Still I continued to define boundaries and she began escalating her behaviors. The worst was her taking it out on my sons. DS1 and DS2 would come back from seeing her and say things like, “I’m a bad kid.” “I’m bad boy. I no cry.” This tore my heart out. So my partner and I agreed to limit her time with them while we worked to gently move her toward positive parenting. She still refused professional help. We sent books, articles, and recommended classes, among other things. We got our own professional support specifically for this situation. For a long time, I thought we might get there. I felt, and still feel, that a relationship with their grandmother is important-as long as they were safe.

But things with the kids grew progressively worse until I witnessed her belittle DS1 as a way of lashing out as me for saying, “no” to her. We only allowed supervised visits in our home with the children after that.

Then my partner and I witnessed her have a break from reality. We insisted on professional help and shortened, supervised time with the children. She refused and began lashing out at me. I broke off contact with her and began having flashbacks as I mention in the essay above.

Growing up with a narcissist parent makes me especially susceptible to relationships with narcissists. It’s comfortable for me because it’s familiar. To use the psychological term, I’m entrained for it. At the time of my friendship with [private], and its eventual end, I was not aware of any of the narcissist labels or identifiers. I just knew eventually that I was tired of being manipulated by her. When I refused to do as she wished, the bullying and threats began. Some of which I shared with you in trust. I believed her that it was my fault. I believed her threats and was afraid. So, I remained silent and accepted blame. Just as when I was a child, I took in the pain because I felt I deserved it.

All of this leads me to explain that when you tried to blame me for causing “drama” and that in talking about narcissists, that I was “talking about myself,” the tortured, unprotected 12 year old girl responded. She screamed in pain at you. The utter betrayal I felt in those words I know came from an uninformed, but altruistic place.

What you said was wrong.

It also came from a place of goodness, albeit misplaced. I can understand that.

I felt your anger and disappointment in my lack of ability to respond to your recent reaching out to me in the way you wished. I felt your projection from the experiences you had with such a difficult, heart-breaking family situation that clouded what you read and didn’t allow you to really see the truth in the need for healing. And that you saw rather some form of control or manipulation. Mingle those with the lack of information, and that’s not going to make for a healthy place to be.

You can google Narcissistic Personality Disorder, if you wish. It’s incredibly complex and difficult for me to really fathom how nuanced it is in one NPD person’s life. The pervasive opinion is that it's best to cut the NPD person out of your life. I’ve chosen to keep trying. It’s probably pointless, but I just can’t write her off. I can’t blame her for the protection she had to create with what she had to deal with in her own past (which respectfully is hers to keep private.)

Whatever you decide to accept about this information and whether you are able to really see it is frankly of little concern to me. I expect no response and probably wouldn’t read one from you anyway lest it be more blaming. This letter and anything else I choose to write about this in the future is for my closure.

I wish that you will find peace in the truth whenever you can see it.

Namaste

Photo from korafotomorgana on Flickr.

Used by Creative Commons License.

Learning to Keep the Silence

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Thu, 29 Sep 2011 10:35:00 +0000

I remember clearly my first attempt at breaking the silence. My parents, siblings, and I had gone to "town," for what reason I can't recall. We lived in an especially rural area, so almost anything we had to do required one of these trips. We were at the gas station preparing to make the trip home. I can't recall the exact time, but it was getting to be rather late at night and we had not yet eaten dinner. At least one of us younger kids had requested a stop for food, but we'd been told that wasn't possible. As was our custom, we also asked for snacks from inside the gas station, but were again turned down. It was winter and my father's work was dependent on decent weather, so winters were always difficult for our family financially.

Although we had not stopped for dinner, we had all waited in the car while mom and dad went in to the liquor store. While we had not been able to purchase any snacks, my mom did instruct my dad to get her a pack of cigarettes when he went inside to pay for the gas.

The stops at the liquor store were a regular occurrence, as regular as the smoking habit, but neither was ever discussed. Ditto the excessive drinking of the liquor and the yelling and violence that would sometimes follow, or the parental disappearances when liquor was consumed outside the house. None of these things were ever to be mentioned. I felt the importance of this, despite the fact that no one had ever said it aloud, but I did not understand or know the reason.

On this particular night, however, I was just frustrated, hungry, and grouchy enough to open my mouth: "Oh, so we can't afford to get something to eat, but we can afford wine and cigarettes!?" The moment I said it, I knew I would regret it, but it was too late. It was out.

Much to my surprise, all that followed was silence.

I expected to be yelled at or told how ungrateful I was. Something. For a moment, I was relieved by the quiet. Maybe I wasn't in trouble. Maybe my actually speaking up was going to change something. A few days passed, however, and the silence continued. My mother would not talk to me. When I came near she only looked at me, face filled with deep anger, but she did not speak a word. Eventually, enough time passed that the incident was forgotten and my relationship with my mother returned to what, for us, was normal, but I had learned a valuable lesson: never speak out. Never discuss the family's problems. Keep your mouth shut.

Many, many years later I broke the silence again, but this time the outcome was different. Once again, I haven't managed to change anyone else, but I have started my own journey toward healing. The conspiracy of silence has been broken. I'm finally speaking my truth, finding the empathy I desperately needed for so long, and mustering up the strength necessary to break the cycle of which I was a part.

This virtual space is designed for those among us who have been kept silent. It is for all of us bearing a heavy burden alone. It's for anyone whose truth has been stolen from them. Here, we can reclaim that truth, speak it, and be heard. If you would like to add your voice to The Honesty Conspiracy, you can email ideas and submissions to honestyconspiracy {at} gmail.com. We are committed to respecting privacy and maintaining anonymity so that all who wish to be heard can do so safely and without fear of judgment.

Photo from Imagine24 on Flickr.

Welcome

noreply@blogger.com (The Honesty Conspiracy) — Thu, 29 Sep 2011 07:03:00 +0000

As a writer you're told to “go where the juice is”. But in blogland, chances are a lot of the people who read your blog know you personally. If your mother and father, three sisters, five brothers, your best friend and her mother, your two-year-old and her friends, your social worker and his boss, your husband and your lover read your blog, there is only so much “juice” you can share without repercussions!

So this is the place where we can talk openly – about sex, love, parenting, our most private thoughts and our untold histories.

We can say what we really think, uncensored and uncut, in the hope that openness might lead to healing for ourselves and for all who read this.

We believe that through honesty we can find freedom.

This is our confessional. We come to reflect, to unburden, to share.

And who are we? Well that would be telling! With anonymity comes safety. But we are many. Scattered around the globe.Voices, telling how it really is to be human.