Answer Addiction

Tag: violence

  • Post-Incarceration Syndrome: Adjusting to Reality After Spending 15 Years in Prison

    Post-Incarceration Syndrome: Adjusting to Reality After Spending 15 Years in Prison

    Life inside the penitentiary is extremely hard. The violence and deprivation warp your whole view; you see a total disregard for basic human life firsthand. But the after-effects can be even worse.

    The day you get out of prison, especially after serving almost two decades behind the walls of the most dangerous penitentiaries in the United States, you honestly believe that you’re free; the healing road from all the horrors endured throughout your stay in the belly of the beast is about to begin. But, as you step foot back into society — especially your government reintegration center — you quickly realize that a whole new level of institutional hell awaits.

    I was released July 31st, 2017 after serving 15 years behind the walls of four extremely violent federal penitentiaries. This sentence was incurred for a bank robbery I committed at a young age to feed my addiction to heroin. 

    Assaults, Riots, and “The Hole”

    The atrocities experienced and observed while inside are enough to break any man. My body is healed from the eight stab wounds I survived during a riot, and from the multiple assaults received not only from other inmates, but from the officers who were hired to oversee my “rehabilitation.” Physically my legs still work after “laying it down” for three years in administrative segregation (“the hole”). 

    But I’m still in pain as my brain tries to process the trauma of it all. 

    “You come to prison by yourself, and you leave prison by yourself,” says Ryan, a convict who just completed almost a decade of his life behind bars. These words of wisdom have been passed down for years from the old heads who have lived it to the young bucks who are just coming into an unforgiving system. But the fact that 95 percent of prisoners with multiple years in segregation come out suffering from some type of psychological disorder undermines the saying. PTSD, severe anxiety, and paranoia of law enforcement are just a few of the friends riding shotgun with you back into society.

    There isn’t really a class to prepare you for your release from incarceration. The Bureau of Prisons technically has “pre-release” programs, but these programs mostly consist of returning your linen, giving your DNA, and getting a physical to prove you’re healthy enough to walk out from under the gun towers that have been your babysitters for most of your life. Until the day you walk out of prison, psychologically and physically, it doesn’t seem like it’s really going to happen.

    When you walk out those gates, there’s so many things you want to do, places you’ve been dreaming about over the years of isolation; seeing your old house (or new house, for that matter, because you’re unlikely to return to the only place you knew before prison). You want to see your family, finally free after the years of phone calls and visits behind glass. You dream of walking through a park with your shoes off and getting to just…breathe. 

    Disbelief at Being Out of Prison

    After my release from Big Sandy Kentucky, I wanted to eat breakfast with my family. I wanted to see the fountain that welcomes you to downtown Pittsburgh, and I wanted to see my girlfriend for the first time in years, actually hold her in my arms and kiss her (something that will immediately send you to segregation while incarcerated).

    “My mother and cousin showed up at the prison when I was released. Luckily, the CO’s that released me let me ride with [my family] to the bus stop an hour away,” says Tim Tyler. Tim was granted clemency from president Obama after 26 years of incarceration.

    The bus ride from his prison in Jessup, Georgia to Las Vegas took over three days with multiple stops across the country. “When I got off at my first stop in Savannah, Georgia, Wes Bruer of CNN and NBC took me to the beach. I sat there and stared at the curve of the earth with the sand on my feet. I went swimming, and cried my eyes out. I was just in disbelief I made it out.”

    Tim was able to start healing in those few hours at the bus stop in Savannah. He got a chance to see there’s still beauty in this world. When you’re used to nothing but walls, gun towers, and extreme violence, something as simple as this is life changing. 

    The only problem was that Tim technically had broken the law as soon as he was released. The law states that an assigned inmate must drive you to the bus station. No one else is allowed to ride with you or take you anywhere once you’ve arrived.

    “The inmate was fighting with the COs that let me ride with my mother to the bus stop. He didn’t want to let them do it. I didn’t know what to do, I was just lucky I was well known in the prison and they all knew what was happening with me.” Most of us aren’t that lucky.

    Finally Free…Sort of

    The name of the halfway house that you’re heading to has been decided long before you leave prison. You’re aware of its location, the things you can and can’t have, and the amount of actual time that you’ll be spending in what is still considered Federal Bureau of Prisons (BOP) custody. Everything else is left for you to discover on your own. 

    A packet is issued the day you leave, or sometimes a few days ahead of your release. This file contains all the information about the life you’re about to embark upon in your new world.

    You receive a bus ticket, along with an itinerary which states the amount of stops and what time you’re expected to report to the halfway house that’s been assigned. If you’re lucky enough to have clothes sent and actually given to you, the unforgettable prison stench almost separates from your body. If you’re like me, released from administrative segregation, a fresh pair of state-issue skinny jeans, white t-shirt, and pair of leftover shoes are provided, and 50 dollars. This is the cash payment for the debt paid with your entire youth, and this will be the very first trip taken without the luxury of shackles and handcuffs for the better part of your life.

    Soul Murder

    Soul murder is a term that Dr. James Gilligan, professor of psychology and law at NYU, uses to describe long-term incarceration. This “destroying of someone’s personality, the sense of their own aliveness,” is a condition most of the 2.3 million people in prison will bring with them after their release as they attempt to reintegrate back into some semblance of a normal life. 

    But what all the previously incarcerated will find out is exactly how hard it will be to get those few hours towards your healing journey.

    “The day I got out of the penitentiary was like a dream,” Ryan said. “My family picked me up outside the prison in Virginia and I had three days to get back to Chicago for my probation. That was the best three days of my life after ten years in that hell hole.” Ryan had fulfilled his entire sentence and wasn’t going to a halfway house. He was no longer in the custody of the BOP.

    Unlike Ryan, the day I was released was more like a nightmare. The moment I was dropped off at the bus station in the middle of nowhere, I was greeted with the best and worst sight I could possibly see: my family.

    I was in sheer horror as they introduced themselves to the inmate driver who is 100 percent going to tell as soon as he gets back that your family was there at the station to meet you. Whether you get on the bus or not, you’re guilty. Just ask the formerly incarcerated rapper T.I. who was sent back to his prison after getting his own bus to meet him. 

    I gave my family hugs and bummed a cigarette from my father. Leaning back against the hood of my mother’s car, I lit up the most bittersweet cigarette of my life. I’d quit smoking for years on the inside but I needed something to simmer down the level of stress I felt at that exact moment. It was the first time I realized the obstacles that came with readjusting to civilization. 

    We went to the local IHOP where I sat down at a table for the first time in 15 years. Just looking at the menu and knowing I could order anything was completely mind bending. The feeling of having a real plate, real cup, real silverware after 15 years of sporks and plastic trays was insane. All the people around me, the fast movements — it became overwhelming. I kept scanning the room for trouble, all the while processing the fact that I was not going back to segregation after this, I wasn’t even going back to the penitentiary. This was my first “normal” life experience.

    While absorbing the whole life change around me, I’m also seeing a smartphone for the first time. I saw Facebook, YouTube, and texting for the first time, and truly saw how far life had gone ahead while I was buried deep inside the prison system.

    Instead of waiting for the bus in banjo country, which would then whisk me away to the ghetto of every major city between podunk Kentucky and the city that held so many beautifully heartbreaking memories, Pittsburgh PA, I rode with my family. Luckily, the inmate who drove me didn’t end up telling on me.

    Post-Incarcaration Syndrome

    Life inside the penitentiary is extremely hard. The violence and deprivation warp your whole view about having any hope in humanity. You see the total disregard for basic human life firsthand. The years spent literally staring at walls teach you to detach yourself from all the horrors, and you shut out “life on the street” as a survival mechanism. You dream of walking with your shoes off on the beach and listening to the ocean. You envision a meal that doesn’t include someone getting beaten to a pulp while shoveling down whatever garbage given that day. But no matter how difficult and degrading the 15 years was that I spent just trying to survive multiple warzones, the after-effects are the most lasting.

    Post-Incarceration Syndrome (PICS) is a mental condition that affects people who have recently been released from prison, and the longer someone is incarcerated, the worse it becomes. Institutionalized personality traits, social sensory deprivation syndrome, and reactive substance use disorders are just a few of the main symptoms of what a returning convict will suffer. Just riding a bus or subway can cause panic. Flashbacks of being herded across the country in chains then released into a new warzone with absolutely nothing race through your mind. The simple act of walking into a grocery store or shopping mall can be so overwhelming you immediately need to leave.

    I struggle greatly with the demons and horrors I experienced while incarcerated. I drink before going out in public to numb the hypervigilance that never leaves me. The fear of going back is crippling. Simple things like having a smart phone, contact with a convicted felon (which is basically everyone you know at this point in your life) on Facebook, or not making it on time for work can end your healing journey before it even begins.

    About 650,000 men and woman are released from incarceration each year with some form of PTSD. The U.S. represents 4.4 percent of the world’s population yet houses around 22 percent of the world’s prisoners, according to U.S. Bureau of Justice statistics. Nationwide, 45 percent of admissions to state prisons are the result of probation or parole violations at a cost of $9.3 billion each year. Close to a third of that, $2.8 billion, is spent reincarcerating people for technical violations.

    Those technical violations include offenses like going to the ocean for the first time in 26 years, or enjoying a family breakfast after almost two decades behind bars.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Mother Interrupted

    Mother Interrupted

    We would go to Disneyland, attend little league games, and participate in the school bake sales. What set us apart from other parents? We were smoking copious amounts of methamphetamine.

    The following is excerpted with permission from Mother Load: A Memoir of Addiction, Gun Violence and Finding a Life of Purpose, from Rothco Press. Copyright 2019 by Wendy Adamson. All rights reserved.

    A mother’s body against a child’s body makes a place. It says you are here…. Without this body against you, there is no place. The absence of a body against my body created a gap, a hole, a hunger. That hunger determined my life. -Eve Ensler

    When I looked out the peephole of my front door, Kim, a twenty-four-year-old tweaker, was standing in a cropped t-shirt and skintight jeans, her blond hair covering one eye, peek-a-boo style. She had scored earlier that day and was back for more. It was obvious that she was doing a shit load of meth. But who was I to judge? It was the early nineties and my husband Max and I were living the so-called American Dream. We had two boys and managed apartment complexes with a swimming pool in a quiet suburb outside of Los Angeles. We would go to Disneyland, attend little league games, participate in the school bake sales and enjoy an occasional Sunday Bar-B-Q. What set us apart from other parents? We were smoking copious amounts of methamphetamine.

    Opening the door a crack, I looked over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t being followed. “Come on in,” I said, quickly shutting the door behind her. Our nine-year-old son Rikki had fallen asleep in his room, while my sixteen-year-old, Jerry, was staying at his friend’s house a few blocks away. I hadn’t gotten any real sleep in days and I was exhausted. I was just about to call it a night when she knocked.

    A fringed leather purse bounced off her hip as she sashayed to the couch.
    “I like your purse,” I said. “Very sixties.”
    Kim sat down and fondled it like it was a puppy, “Oh this thing? I got it for ten bucks.” “Ten bucks?” I was struck with envy.
    “Yes ma’am.”

    Why does this bimbo refer to me as a ma’am? Is she trying to imply I’m old? How about I smack you upside the head with your puppy purse, you blond dimwit? I flashed her a phony smile.

    Just then, Max walked in, shirtless, rubbing his jet-black curly hair with a towel. “Yo, what’s happening Kim?”

    “Hi Max,” she giggled. “I came by to see if it’s too late to score a gram?”
    The dealer, wanting to cut down on foot traffic, had assigned Max as the middle man and for his efforts he’d get a cut of whatever he bought.

    “Giiirrrrlll, you know speed freaks don’t sleep,” he wagged his finger. “It’s never too late to score from a meth connection.”

    Kim laughed, while I blankly stared off in space. I had heard the recycled-speed-freak jokes before, just like I had heard all of Max’s jokes. I figured that’s just what happens when you’re married to someone for twenty years. Everything ends up being old recycled news.

    Within minutes Max and Kim headed out the front door to the connections across town. When I was sure the coast was clear, I rushed to the master bedroom and pulled out a stash I had tucked away earlier that day. Due to my increasing paranoia, I had convinced myself Max was doing speed behind my back. So, why not beat him at his own game?

    I poured a generous line of the white, glassy powder onto the crease of six-inch-squared- off tinfoil. With a straw gripped in my teeth, I held a flame a few inches underneath. The powder began to smolder and a metallic smoke spiraled upward. I sucked it in like a human vacuum cleaner, determined not to let any of it get away. I held the smoke in my lungs until they felt they might explode.

    As I set the foil down my heart was pounding like a drum. I gripped the edge of the mattress, riding the rush of adrenaline like a racecar driver hugging the wall of a sharp turn. The ceiling fan spun overhead. A dog barked somewhere in the neighborhood. The neurons fired in my brain like it was the Fourth of July.

    I was as jumpy as a lab rat and wanted to direct the frenetic energy in a constructive manner so, I went to the kitchen, sat on the sticky linoleum floor and started emptying the cabinets of all its pots and pans around me. I was trying to scale back because I had way too much ‘stuff’. I mean who needs three cheese graters when I barely use one?

    I looked down at the soles of my feet. They were filthy! Deep cracks ran along the edges of my heels. I made a mental note to take a shower but quickly dismissed the idea. The meth always made the water feel like tiny needles shooting all over my body. I shoved a nostril in my arm pit. It smelled like old meat. Maybe I’d take a bath later on?

    It was hard for me to stay focused on meth. One minute I would want to attend to house- wifey chores and the next I would feel a creative impulse come on. When inspiration hit me there was just no stopping it. I pushed myself up and rushed to the hallway cabinet where I kept my craft supplies. I had everything from dried flowers, beads and embroidery thread to ceramics, paintbrushes, and crayons. When I opened the cabinet a roll of gold ribbon fell to the floor and spun down the hall.

    As I stood my brain released an enormous cascade of creative ideas. I felt like such a visionary who could craft anything with my nimble hands. Eventually, I decided to make a colorful Easter bonnet, even though I had an aversion to anything churchy since being kicked out of Catholic school in the ninth grade. I grabbed my trusty glue gun, a batch of yellow silk flowers and a wide brimmed straw hat. With my arms full of supplies I went to the living room to set up a work station.

    I spread everything out on the floor when it occurred to me that the Johnny Carson Show was on. Geez. Was it that late already? Looking at the clock I saw it was now past midnight. Holy shit, Max had been gone for over two hours. Drug dealers may not have the best customer service skills, but normally it wouldn’t take so long. Worried, I began flipping through worst- case scenarios in my head. What if he had gotten in a car wreck and he’s in the emergency room somewhere? Or what if they got busted, and he was sitting in the back of a police car? What then? I didn’t have the money to bail him out.

    Then it hit me. Call it a hunch, women’s intuition or instinct, but I knew down to the marrow of my tweaking bones that Max was cheating on me. In a flash everything slotted into place and made perfect sense. The way Kim giggled at his stupid jokes, the countless trips to the dealer they made, and the way she looked at him when he walked into the room. Why hadn’t I seen it sooner? How could I have been so fucking stupid!

    A tightness gripped my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to throw something, hit something with my fist. I wanted to scream at him, “You can’t do this to me you fucking asshole!” Instead, I went to the bedroom and smoked more speed. My hands shook as I sucked the spiraling metallic smoke into my lungs. My jaw clenched so hard it was a wonder my molars didn’t turn to dust. How could he do this me? Hadn’t I given him children as well as the best years of my life? In this moment it never occurred to me that I could leave him or kick him out of the house. Instead, I thought, maybe if I scared the shit out of him he’d think twice about ever cheating on me again. So, I had a plan as I slipped into the closet and stood on my tippy-toes, reaching around until I found the gun at the back of the shelf. My fingers gripped the hard steel of the .38 Smith & Wesson as I pulled it out. Max and I bought the gun a while back from a tweaker who was in need of cash. We somehow convinced ourselves it was a good idea to have around for protection in case anyone tried to break into our home.

    I went to the living room and placed the .38 on top of the armoire. Waiting, I paced back and forth like a feral cat. Images of Max and Kim fucking in the back of her El Camino played inside my brain like bad porno. Mother fucker! my head screamed, you can’t do this to me. I cooked your food. I washed your dirty drawers. For what? To be discarded like some old coat you don’t want anymore? No fucking way. I won’t have it!

    I pushed the screen door, stepped onto the front porch but there was still no sign of them. My thoughts were coming at me like the rapid fire of an AK-47. He said he would always be there for me. He said he would never leave me. We made a promise to each other twenty years before that we’d grow old together. He can’t do this to me.

    My heart hammered against my chest. Sweat dripped down my back. I had managed to work myself up into an eyeball-boiling rage when I looked out the door again, I saw them. Max was driving Kim’s white El Camino, looking for a parking space. I grabbed the .38, barreled through the screen door and ran into the middle of the street. Taking a military stance, behind them, I extended both my arms, with the gun in a two-fisted grip, I aimed above the car and pulled the trigger.

    POW!

    The sound felt like it reverberated through my chest. The noise was so piercing it’s a wonder I didn’t give myself permanent hearing damage. The car didn’t stop so I ran after it with both my knees and arms pumping away. I distinctly remember seeing my neighbor, Mrs. Brown, peering out her large bay window with her head bobbing back and forth.

    Mind your own business you nosy bitch. This is a domestic affair.

    When they turned the corner I darted in between two parked vehicles and caught my foot on the curb. I fell onto the wet grass but popped back up like one of those blow up dolls that won’t stay down. When I turned the corner I was shocked to find the El Camino sitting in the middle of the street. I rushed over like a deranged special ops commando and hurled my torso across the still warm hood. My chest heaved. I was panting like a dog in heat. Kim was sitting shot gun with her jaw unhinged. I pointed the gun directly at Max’s face. His big brown eyes were filled with terror. It was a look I’d never seen before. Those were the same soulful eyes I’d fallen in love with at sixteen years old. He was the love of my life. My best friend. The father of my children.

    In an instant it felt like I slipped out of my body and was staring down at myself sprawled out across the hood of the car. I heard a voice reason inside my head say, “You know, Wendy, if someone were to see you right now they might think you were crazy.” And they would have been absolutely right. I was in the middle of a drug-induced psychotic break. Sleep deprived and smoking way too much methamphetamine for any human being to consume, I had snapped. I had lost my mind just like my mother had years before.

    Then Max must have come to his senses because he stepped on the gas. As the car moved forward I slid off the hood and landed solidly on my feet. Pointing the gun downward so I wouldn’t hit anybody, I fired another round. As I did Kim’s face contorted before they drove off. Oh shit! Did I hit her? No way! The gun was pointed down.

    I stood there out of breath and watched as the taillights disappeared with the weapon dangling by my side. That was not the result I had in mind when I picked up the gun. In some strange way I thought he wouldn’t leave me if I showed him I meant business. My next thought was to change my clothes so no one could identify me in a lineup if the cops happened to show up.

    I ran back to the house but before I went inside, I shoved the gun under a pile of dead leaves by the back porch.

    Once inside I checked on Rikki, who was still asleep. As I stood watching him breath one would think his pure innocence might penetrate my drug-induced state but that was not the case. It was as if the meth, a diuretic, had not only leached my sanity, but drained my maternal instincts as well.

    I headed for the bedroom where I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. My breath nearly jackknifed. My brown hair was disheveled, the bones in my face were all sharp edges and I was hunched over. My eyes were like two dead, vacant pools and my skin was a sallow gray. It was jarring how much I looked like my mother had when she had gone insane.

    A familiar darkness grabbed me like fingers around my throat. I wanted to stop the madness but had no idea how.

    I flinched when I heard something outside the window. I opened the front door and when I stepped onto the porch I was blinded by a dozen spotlights, pointing at me like fingers of accusation. “Hands in the air!” a disembodied voice yelled from beyond the glare.

    The Catholic girl still inside me did exactly what she was told as a stampede of Lomita sheriffs surrounded me. It all happened fast after that. One of them cuffed my hands while another patted me down and others rushed inside the apartment.

    My legs shook like a high-strung Chihuahua. A scruffy-looking cop slipped plastic baggies over my hands and manila envelopes over that.

    “What’s going on? What, what what are you doing?” I asked, feigning innocence.

    A young cop, who looked barely out of high school wrapped duct tape around the envelopes secured the envelopes at my wrists.

    “My son is asleep in there…”
    A cop yelled inches from my face. “SHUT UP!”
    I flinched. I felt like I might pass out.
    When they were done, it looked like I had two flippers where my hands were supposed to be.

    A young sheriff led me by my arm, shoved me into the back seat of his squad car and slammed the door. I leaned my forehead against the window and watched as cops scurried in and out of my apartment. Where was Max? Why hadn’t he come back to see what was going on? What was going to happen to me? I needed a cigarette so fucking bad.

    I looked down at the strange appendages resting on my lap. I realized the cops were trying to keep the gunpowder intact on my hands as evidence. I gripped the corner of the envelope with my teeth and began ripping, tearing, spitting the scraps of paper on the floor. Ripping, tearing, biting, and spitting like a trapped animal determined to get free. Finally, I broke through the plastic baggies and started licking my hand and fingers. I was no dummy. I knew how to outsmart those cops. I was in a frenzy when the front door of the squad car flew open. A good-looking cop peered through the thick mesh screen.

    “Look, Wendy.” He paused. “Why don’t you just tell me where you put the gun? It will be easier for you if you cooperate with us.”

    “Under the leaves by the back porch.” The words just rolled right off my tongue. You clearly wouldn’t want to drop me behind enemy lines. He ran off like a school kid picked for the winning team. When I thought about Jerry and Rikki my heart sank to my feet.

    Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God oh shit shit shit. My poor, poor boys. What the fuck have I done? What have I done?


    Want to read more? Buy Mother Load on Amazon.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Dear Daddy, Why Didn't You Protect Me?

    Dear Daddy, Why Didn't You Protect Me?

    Instead of worrying about being attacked by some random person on the street, I lived with my attacker 365 days a year.

    My stepmom couldn’t remember if he whipped out a knife or a pipe of a similar size, but she recalled the moment the perp appeared over her left shoulder. She was leaning against my dad’s car, parked in front of the apartment building he owned on George Street in Norristown, Pennsylvania. They were there that night cleaning up after the first-floor tenant who’d recently moved out after dodging his rent for months. My dad was still inside when my stepmom stepped out for a cigarette. That’s when she says she was attacked. But just as the man who appeared over her left shoulder was winding up to bash or stab her, my dad popped out from the darkness and swatted him away. The details at that point get fuzzy because as my stepmom recalled, she was in shock, her body trembling as she collapsed into my dad’s chest like a wet noodle.

    “Your father saved me,” she’d lament whenever she told the story. “He’s such a good man…such a good man.”

    My dad began dating my stepmom before my parents divorced when I was four years old. As part of my parents’ agreement, my two older brothers, practically residents at the local juvenile hall, stayed with my dad while I moved with my mom to East Falls, Philadelphia. With the three of us kids figuratively gone, my dad was free to court my stepmom, and he did so with fervor. Newly divorced herself, and emotionally impaired by her allegedly abusive ex-husband, my stepmom basked in my dad’s undivided attention and unsolicited protection. It was through her stories about my dad’s acts of chivalry — rescuing her when her car broke down in a blinding blizzard or refusing to let her enter her apartment before he inspected every room and closet — that greatly influenced my perception of my dad. As a little girl, my father was more than a good man; he was my superhero. Until I realized he wasn’t.

    The disparity between my dad’s willingness to protect my stepmom and his inability to express even the slightest concern over my wellbeing became painfully clear while I was living with my mom and the man who eventually became my stepdad. They were both alcoholics with ravenous appetites for violence and our home was a war zone. Instead of worrying about being attacked by some random person on the street, I lived with my attacker 365 days a year. I spent many school nights and weekends watching my stepdad choke my mom on the living room floor. I scrubbed her blood off the sofa when my stepdad split my mom’s lips open, and when she turned her rage in my direction, I dodged the knives she thrust at my back and hid the patches of hair she ripped off my head.

    Literally and figuratively, I wore the scars of an abused kid. But unlike the thick coat of protection my dad offered my stepmom, he couldn’t be bothered to do anything about the hell I was experiencing. And it wasn’t because he didn’t know. My mom and stepdad didn’t keep their lifestyle a secret; on many occasions, amid a drunken fit, my mom called my dad.

    “I’m gonna kill your fuckin’ daughter,” she threatened. There would be a short pause while my dad responded.

    “Come and get your little bitch,” my mom screamed into the receiver while looking right at me.

    “You hear that?” she said. “Your dad’s not comin’, he doesn’t fuckin’ want you.”

    Despite the many things my mom got wrong when she was drunk, she wasn’t lying about my dad. He only lived a quick 30-minute drive away, but she was right. He wasn’t coming.

    When I was eight years old, my mom effectively kicked me out of her house. Oddly, it was the idea of me being homeless and not my mom’s drunken threats to kill me that motivated my dad to act. And although I was relieved to be moving away from the chaos, living with my dad and stepmom became a nightmare of a different kind.

    Slowly I realized it wasn’t only boogeymen lurking in the dark or tales of abusive ex-husbands that my dad protected my stepmom from. He was also willing to shield her from me if she felt she needed it, no questions asked. Once at a family gathering, my stepmom grew increasingly annoyed when I wouldn’t get off the couch and play with the other children. At ten years old, I was painfully shy and didn’t know how to approach a group of kids I’d never met before. When I wouldn’t budge, my stepmom stormed out of the house and my dad and I followed. On the front lawn, she turned to me and said, “Great, now everyone is going to think you’re retarded.” As I started to cry, my dad wrapped his arms around my stepmom and looked away.

    To this day, my dad has yet to acknowledge the life I lived with my mom and stepdad. He never asked me what it was like to watch my stepdad bash my mom’s face into a mirror or how sick it made me feel to have to tell my stepdad I loved him when there wasn’t a cell in my body that did. No, he never once inquired, but on several occasions he brought up my stepmom’s childhood. He shared how her father died when she was young and how her mother was never around. And while my stepmom’s upbringing may have been less than ideal and could have affected her behavior in certain ways, I’ve never understood how my dad could compare my experience to hers. I don’t know how he could look me in the eyes and say, “You know, your stepmom had it bad too.”

    A few months before my 18th birthday, my dad was hit by a car. One of his hips was nearly shattered, and after being released from the hospital, he spent weeks laid up in bed. One night we got in an argument over something trivial. As our exchange escalated, my stepmom burst into the room, grabbed me from behind and shoved me towards the bedroom door. Although she had occasionally spanked me for misbehaving when I was younger, this was the first time she put her hands on me as an adult. As I regained my balance, I turned towards my stepmom and paused. Although my body was still, in my mind I’d already lurched forward and pinned her against the wall.

    What happened next snapped me out of my fantasy. Off to my left, I watched my dad, who’d been bedridden for weeks, thrust himself out of bed. Although he barely had the strength or the balance to stand, I knew if I caused any harm my dad would call the police and I’d be the one leaving in handcuffs. Given my lack of options, I did the only thing I had the power to do. I walked away. I knew who my dad would choose to protect and defend.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • When My “Give a F**k” Broke

    When My “Give a F**k” Broke

    I stood on the edge of this abyss and began my free fall to find healthy. I had nothing left to lose.

    “I am fine,” was my go to response for years. When anyone would ask, I would answer with that canned response, and if the typical follow up question was “Really?”, I was prepared. I would look them square in the eye and state firmly, “There is no other option.”

    During my almost three-year sexual assault investigation and prosecution, this was my warrior’s response. If someone was brave enough to follow up with that second question and meet my eyes for the response, typically they took a step back or walked away. Even my therapists tried to break through that façade, but my walls were thick, my stilettos were high, and my eyes were piercing. I was not for the faint of heart and no one was getting in.

    I was a mom first, a single mom. A single mom operating as both Mom and Dad to two beautiful girls. That man was so disengaged, he moved to Dubai but continued to send—not child support—but rather criticizing emails on how I should raise our children. Thank God for email filters – his crap went straight to a file I almost never opened.

    I was a sexual assault survivor who learned a life lesson that I could rely on no one and safety did not exist. Life taught me how to use my presence and my voice to keep people at bay, and also how to motivate people to act. Safety was not real, so I had to make it so. But my triggers were substantial and regular, and the constant awareness that what happened to me could happen to my daughters often paralyzed me.

    Those two daughters were my everything. I became a warrior on their behalf. When the school administration failed to protect my daughter from bullies, I fought them, and then finally moved. When my daughter was struck in a hit and run that was so severe it totaled my new car, I allowed my mother bear instinct to come out but limited my rage so I would not be put in prison.

    I carried a mortgage, student loan debt, and at one time allowed a homeless family of four to live with us in our home until the pregnant mother could give birth and they could get on their feet. Meanwhile, professionally, I endured a passive-aggressive boss who enjoyed playing head games for sport. I supervised (and truly enjoyed) over 60 adjunct professors who taught amazing students at a graduate school. With what little personal time I had, any attempts at dating were laughable; the caliber of men available was lower than I could settle for and the unavailable men who attempted to gain my affection repulsed me. I was hard, I was strong, and I was lonely – but it worked. I didn’t have a choice. I did not have the luxury of time to handle hurt or to feel more than what was necessary to be functional. I was safe if I exposed myself to nothing and no one. I was this way unintentionally most of the time, but knew how to call upon it when necessary. Still, I was absolutely perplexed when I was given feedback that I was intimidating. I just wanted to survive and I was doing it the only way I knew how.

    When my daughter was committed to a mental health facility twice for attempting suicide and given the diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder with PTSD, I finally broke. The realization that I really could not protect my children from all the unknowns absolutely unraveled me. I sat in the emergency room, sobbing. All my deepest fears and suppressed anguish came to the surface. The reality that I could not keep my children from hurt translated into absolute failure as their mother. When the emergency room doctor came over for my statement, I was crying so hard that I could not talk. She asked me that dreaded question, “Are you okay?” I finally answered honestly, and it was the only word I could get out, “No.” That simple and honest answer broke through years of protective walls and it was devastating.

    During the months that followed, my newfound vulnerability did not settle well. I needed back in the driver’s seat; it was a non-stop internal battle. I hustled myself back into therapy, where, at one point, I told my amazing therapist that I could not talk to him unless I laid flat on the floor of his office. I was convinced I was losing my mind. He assured me I was not but I did not believe him.

    I was broken. My “Give A F**k” was now in a constant state of zero and my moral compass was constantly spinning. I felt exposed and vulnerable and very, very confused. The belief system I had created to make sense of the violence that had happened to me and to generate an environment of safety for my daughters was an illusion that had been destroyed. I had perfected this for years and it was gone in an instant. I was drowning. I could not breathe.

    What I didn’t realize at the time was that this was a gift. The dam wall had broken and all of the harbored pain was released and it forced me to process it. A healthy, accepting mindset was as foreign to me as Egyptian hieroglyphics and I had to change. My mental health and my ability to be a good mother and human depended on it. I stood on the edge of this abyss and began my free fall to find healthy. I had nothing left to lose.

    Fresh eyes saw the world for all its flaws and beauty. I learned to address flaws as a simple ingredient of life and not as a threat; I began to accept people and situations for who they were, and it was freeing. Another key step to my freedom was learning to listen to my gut and unapologetically responding as such. If I did not feel comfortable in the presence of someone, I simply removed myself gracefully and did not look back. My gut owed no one an explanation, and that was empowering. Kindness was no longer seen as weakness and connecting with people was no longer dangerous. The world was not a field of landmines but rather an adventure with twists and turns.

    I felt like I was breathing fresh air for the first time. I laughed freely without hesitation, I smiled boldly without fear, and I slept so well. I loved with all of me and I loved ME. Everything in me relaxed for the first time in over a dozen years and my mental health was good, for REAL. I was no longer simply “fine,” I was “good,” teetering on great.

    Unhealthy people in my life were not so supportive of my new healthy lifestyle, but healthy people supported me with fervor. My manipulative boss was the least supportive because she would no longer get the intended response. She was a daily practice for me though, providing regular situations that allowed me to implement healthy responses. She eventually began ignoring me. Unhealthy friendships fell to the wayside. My youngest daughter, who was working on her own demons, did not understand my choices and decided to go live with her father overseas. I mourned her decision, but the friends and loved ones who accepted me, even when I went into my Xena: Warrior Princess mode, kept me grounded.

    Shortly after reconnecting with my emotions and releasing my fear, I met a man who changed my life. He was so healthy and good, kind and unconditionally accepting. Jumping into the abyss landed me in the arms of someone who did not see me as broken and on the mend. I was also able to connect with my oldest daughter on a level that I cannot explain other than she is one of my best friends. She accepts my flaws as I accept hers, and we connect almost every day.

    I left my stressful position in that unhealthy working environment and began working as an independent contractor, providing trainings to first responders on how to communicate with victims of trauma. I began writing educational materials and speaking at conferences, utilizing my rape and prosecution experience as an educational opportunity for those who work within the criminal justice, mental health and medical professions. This work is sometimes emotional and tiring, but highly rewarding. It gives me purpose and satisfaction to know that I can make a difference.

    My “Give a F**k” may have broken, but I didn’t, and it was the best thing that ever happened to me.

    View the original article at thefix.com