The weeks between Labor Day weekend and Columbus weekend are always hard for me. I'm not sure if it would be classified as post-traumatic stress or not. I've always associated that with soldiers dealing with combat situations. And as I come from a family of soldiers, on both parents' sides, who have dealt with it, I'm definitely not wanting to imply that what I've gone through is close to a grandfather surviving the Battle of the Bulge, a father spending a year in Vietnam or a brother who went through multiple deployments to Iraq. Yet, as my oldest recently reminded me, it was my father who once said, in front of my brothers and male cousins - she's the bravest and the strongest of us. Daddy wasn't one for handing out praise lavishly, beyond a clap on the shoulder and a 'well done' or 'good job.' So his words that day staggered me. I close my eyes and I can feel his hand on my shoulder, hear the emotion in his voice as his fingers squeezed gently. Daddy understood what I'd escaped, leaving with only my sons and little else.
But he didn't know all of it. I'm sure he guessed. But he never asked. I think, like most fathers, he didn't want to know all of it. Know what his little girl had gone through? What someone else had done to her? Even now, if he could, I don't think I would tell him after all these years. More than two decades and the nightmares still haunt me.
They are worse the next eight weeks. The last eight weeks before Daddy came. Before my legal separation went into effect. The last eight weeks during which my ex did everything he could think of to get me to stay. Like a pendulum, the moods swung to extremes. He pulled in his family to help. Their words only solidified my determination. Telling your daughter-in-law that no man will want to marry you and raise another man's sons? Like I want to get married again after this? Even his mother's pastor. Um, sorry. Telling a woman already in hell that she risks going to hell? Not a good persuasive argument.
People who saw me then might have thought I looked perfectly normal. I dressed up, smiled and chatted as if everything had always been fine. I felt numb and hollow inside. Even as I started to wake up, returning to college to get my bachelor's, working, focusing on my sons' activities (if you have sons, one word - soccer. Trust me) But still, inside, I wasn't settled. Returning to my parents', it took months for me to handle being in a room with a man if my father or brothers weren't there. I fled as quickly as I could. Slowly, slowly, I pulled myself somewhat back to normal.
But for years, I suppressed the memories. I don't know what to call it. Temporary amnesia? No idea. But then they came flooding back after ten years. Once back out, I couldn't shove them back in the box. I felt like I was on a constant emotional rollercoaster while trying to keep a serene facade. As long as I was constantly busy, my mind couldn't make me think about the past. That was fine during the days. But nights? I'd stay up reading, listening to music. Anything to keep from falling asleep.
The weeks from Labor Day, when I decided to leave, to Columbus Weekend, when Daddy came and picked up my sons and myself - those were the hardest. Let's just say I would stock up on boxes of wine as if I was having tailgate parties every weekend. Parties of one, but the salesclerks didn't know.
Because of recent financial difficulties, I've had to move in with my oldest son. He remembers more of those days than his brothers. He may remember the emotions more than actual actions, but he still has more memories than I would wish for him. He came up with something else - you couldn't defend yourself then. Let's make sure you can now. Maybe that will help.
A bit of background - my oldest is a former Marine. Since he was five, he has studied (when my finances allowed it) martial arts. Before Bootcamp, he had just below a black belt. So, yeah, he knows a bit about self-defense. I think teaching his mother turned out to be a bit, well, more different than he expected. He didn't want to put it off, so as soon as he suggested it, he pulled me into the living room and we started. He paused for me to go back and finish my coffee at least!
Yeah, my first self-defense lesson was as I was in my pajamas. Jab, jab, punch. Jab, jab, punch. Twist from the hip, push off with your back foot. Then he added on by having me move side-to-side. And acted as if he was aggressing and throwing punches. It took everything in me not to move. Not to flinch. This is my son and I knew damn well he would never hit me. Testament to how good he is - his fist never came within four or five inches of me even if my attempts to block failed miserably. He had me try to hit him. After a while, I started to enjoy it. Not hitting him! Lol. No, never that. But the feeling that comes with learning to protect yourself. Seeing the approval on his face as I got past his guard to reach his shoulder or ribs. Towards the end, I got sneaky and hooked a few under and made him step back. Hearing his chuckle and seeing his smile was the best feeling I'd had in a while.
Oh, his dogs (one a boxer mix, the other a Pittie mix) were outside the entire time. Those two love 'secondary', but, yeah, my son is their primary human. When they came back in, they sniffed him over to make sure he was okay, then came to check on me. Then I talked him into giving them treats. (I'm a fur grandma practicing the spoiling.)
I've been practicing the past few days. Working on tucking my thumb right, keeping my wrist straight, making the first 'jab, jab, punch' count. Side-to-side with my feet, putting my entire side from toes to knuckles into the punch. About fifteen minutes in the morning, another round in the evening.
I'm not sure if it's ever been an 'approved' therapy for victims of domestic/marital violence and abuse. But I think my son found one that works for me. Each practice gives me more confidence. Another stone in the foundation for strength. I think it helps him as well, knowing that his mother won't be as vulnerable again.
The 'Dark Days' are still ahead of me. But I will not let them beat me this time. I am not a victim. I am a survivor. And I am going to thrive.
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