July 12, 2010

Redemption

Text by Eleanore D. Sanchez

Writing this essay would be professional suicide, I am told, especially as I send this without the benefit of a nom de guerre. But I am no stranger to suicide, but I am getting ahead of myself.

I always thought I would pay for the mistake of being charming and easy on the eyes at age five for the rest of my life. Why is it such a mistake? Because at age five I attracted the roving eye of a wealthy pedophile who paid my guardian a princely sum to bed me. I wish I could say I benefited from the transaction. But sadly, no toys or new clothes were purchased on my behalf with the money.

I thought I would live for the rest of my life with the resonating sense of betrayal and guilt that experience left me. To say it changed me would be a freaking understatement. I went from an outgoing, easygoing preschooler to an introverted, brooding rape victim.

It left me so scarred I was suicidal by the time I was ten. My failure at my first attempt didn’t stop me from trying and trying and trying, until I hoped, I died. But I was meant to live and I survived each attempt with a firmer resolve to end it all, leave it all behind, take that risk—the fifty-fifty chance of meeting my Maker or Satan, which ever belief system held sway in the after life. I took that chance more times than I care to count and luckily (maybe unlucky for some, you know who you are) I am still alive.

A close friend, who knows what I have been through, pointed out to me: maybe it was time to stop looking over my shoulder and start looking forward. The monsters are in your head, he said. And whatever it is you think you are, look how far you’ve gone. He said, most rape survivors never get enough gumption to finish school. You finished college, earned your preferred degree within the top ranks of your class. You never spoke about your demons, but from where I am standing, I see you never let them define you. In spite of what you have been through, you are living your life on your terms. Look forward, he said.

But, I ask. How can you look forward when every night for the years that followed your rape, that horrible movie replays in your dreams without fail? How do you shake off the feeling of worthlessness? How do you redeem yourself from the moments of guilt? How do you not second-guess your thoughts and actions at every turn, because you are afraid that another misstep could land you in the pickle of the past? How do you trust that voice inside your head that tells you, you’re alright when things that happen around you say otherwise?

Thanks to firm friendships cultivated during college, I did learn to trust myself and love myself, if only to a miniscule degree. I guess the bigger lessons lay ahead.

I got jobs after graduation, functioned well in the workplace and turned out competent work. But I had problems saying ‘no.’ Because with each acquiescence to each request I thought I could purchase approval that I did not need. With each ‘yes’ I hoped people would like me, as I did not like myself. Because even then, as I dedicated myself to the profession I love, journalism, I could feel no fulfillment. Nothing could fill the vacuum in my heart, the hole that could only be filled by self-love and self-worth.

I worked myself to the ground, until work held no meaning anymore. I suffered a breakdown. I stopped eating and sleeping and had to be hospitalized.

That first episode led to a series of consultations with various psychiatrists. I was diagnosed with manic-depressive disorder. I suspect I suffered from it long before the doctors told me what was wrong with me. I was prescribed medication and was told to stay away from anything that would cause me stress.

This is the part where I learned the lessons, but they did not come easy. And it took a special psychiatrist to get me to do that. Her friends call her Bennette, she is a very hip grandma and a kick ass therapist.

Prior to coming to her, I suffered from long bouts of depression; they were so protracted and intense that there were times when I contemplated suicide, even with therapy and medication.

How was she different from all the other doctors who treated me? My psychiatrist understood what it was I needed, what it was that would lift me from the doldrums: a sense of purpose, something I could be passionate about.

Thus I was invited to join her foundation, one that advocates for the equal treatment of recovering mental patients in society and promotes this goal through educational seminars.

I didn’t get paid for months, and even now I draw an allowance that would be the object of ridicule by high school students for its paltriness. But more than the money, it was here while working for this organization that I got the courage to face myself full on and appreciate what is there and work on the bits that need improvement.

Here, I met people whom I hope will be lifelong friends. I met Lucille (not her real name) whose kind demeanor encouraged me to pour my heart out to her and taught me to gripe about the people in my household who caused me much distress. I learned to cry. I am a girl, but I am the macho type. I used to never cry in front of anyone. I always believed that crying should be done in private because experience taught me that showing your weakness would only give your opponents the edge over you. I felt no shame in showing my vulnerabilities here and it made me free.

Here, I can be everything I wish to be. Prior to my most recent confinement (more than one year ago), I took up interests that I would otherwise have had no time to pursue had I still been working as a journalist. I am now into bead jewelry design, photo art, creative writing, and watercolor and oil pastel painting. I am able to pursue these hobbies because the pace of work in the foundation is relaxed and our boss (my psychiatrist), encourages such endeavors. I even joke that I am a fellow of the foundation, I have written so many poems and stories since I joined. My therapist encourages me to get published and listens to my plans and dreams for the future, no matter how insane (pun intended) they may seem.

“I would like to think my days of suicide are behind me. I have stopped hurting myself and everyday I wake up looking forward to the next 24 hours.”

Here, I have people who believe in me. Foremost of whom is my psychiatrist. She just doesn’t believe in me, she also believes me. She is the first person I told about my rape, I wrote about it through poetry at first, but after a while I got to talk to her about it in therapy and she was very supportive. And during the times when the situation at home was enough to drive me crazy, she gave me respite and a sanctuary. The hospital I used to look upon as a prison became my home (it provides staff housing). I can feel her faith in me like it was a tangible thing. It is palpable and it propels me, gives me strength to try and if I fail the first few times, to never give up trying be it in looking for a job, or getting my crap published. She’s the only person I’ve ever given my painting to because, well, I don’t think much of my art but I know she’ll appreciate it.

As I took the path of recovery, I learned a lot about myself. Therapy helps, medication helps stabilize the biological aspect of my illness, but I realized recovery is a choice one makes for oneself. Like happiness, it isn’t something that happens to you, it is a choice you make when faced with certain situations. It is the single most important lesson my therapist taught me: not to let anybody else make my decisions for me.

So now, I choose life. I respect it, I respect the possibilities it holds, the dreams that could come true in it, its power over us. I would like to think my days of suicide are behind me. I have stopped hurting myself and everyday I wake up looking forward to the next 24 hours.

I guard my sleep with a jealousy that would rival that of a secret service agent, because regular sleep is necessary for my mental stability.

I stopped resenting the fact that I have to take medication to be stable because now I have accepted that my illness is caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain that may have had to do with my preschool rape, but could also be genetic and environmental.

But above all, I rediscovered my faith, the one that had me second-guessing each of my attempts at my life and asking for forgiveness for what I was going to do. I stopped believing for a while but the love I feel when I am here with people who understand me; it is material proof to me that there is a Benevolent Force at work in my life.

The views expressed are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of HerWord or BusinessWorld.

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