The Great Stockholm Syndrome Call-Out of 2013
***If my previous blog posts weren't warning enough, THIS POST MIGHT TRIGGER ABUSE RESPONSES. Here is where I examine the stuff that I couldn't talk about last Thursday. Of course, it might also help you heal. Healing is rarely comfortable. Or done at an appropriate pace, at least for me. Enjoy. Or skip. It's up to you, and you are loved either way you choose.***
I have been called out on having Stockholm Syndrome, thanks to my astoundingly astute, tough, and supportive therapist. After some preliminary research, and some serious soul-searching, this really isn't a huge surprise. My abysmal opinion of myself, combined with my self-delusion of "saving" everyone who I care about, and how terrible I am at actually taking any time for myself lead straight into this week's painful and freeing discoveries, originally written in my newly acquired Journal of All the Hard Things, which I hope to carry with me everywhere.
I found little that I didn't know [about Stockholm Syndrome] in my preliminary research. I found one book that I felt applied to my situation, metric fuck-tons of smut (no, literally...look up Stockholm Syndrome on Amazon or Google), and the same single-page summary posted on site after site.
After letting the name roll around in my head, and processing the feelings, and considering my stories, it has occurred to me that I have always started them at the wrong end. I have always told my story, "He was the only man that I trusted, and he betrayed me;" and I have found that, in actuality, the story should start, "He was the only man that I trusted, despite his betrayals before the sexual abuse."
I have realized that Dad never acted as if I had a body, until I started developing. Physical pain, metabolism complications, dehydration, hernia, overexertion -- these weren't important to notice until I started getting tits. Time and time again, I had to prove that I understood my body better than full grown adults who should have had my best interests at heart.
My mom enabled through ignorance, self-imposed blinders, or both. And I'm done making excuses for her. At least some of it was willing -- she couldn't turn a blind eye to so much by sheer incident. Habit and self-loathing try to remind me that I didn't see what he was doing my sister, that I could have done something. But, I deny that allegation, I can't live that lie anymore. I was a child. An abused child who idolized the man who at once fostered her independent thought and denied her her body. Even when he validated that I had a physical form, it was only to remind me, to teach me, that it belonged to someone else. Unless it was being a secret, shameful sex object, my body's only purpose was as a vessel for my brain.
I am...no, was, my father's monster -- strong, independent reasoning; extreme self-loathing; a sex object who pretended to have agency; emotionally stunted; and confined by the very stories that I thought were setting me free. I was Belle.
My sexuality, my body, is no longer his. I wonder if I ever realized that, even after putting the whole situation under a blazing light for my mother to see, even after sending him to jail, even after nearly 10 fucking years of being terrified that he would show up to Vampire and steal away any agency (sexual or otherwise) that I had developed up to that point. But, I'm no longer the 16 year old girl who cried to her mom that she just wanted her daddy back. Because, fuck that. I don't want my daddy back. I would say that I want the man that I thought he was, but that man was a two-dimensional idolized piece of garbage, as only a child could make her hero.
I want my lovers to appreciate me for who I am (sexually, physically, intellectually -- you know, as a whole person), I want my friends to keep a realistic view of me in their heads, I want those who look up to me to recognize my faults over my strengths. I, ultimately, want to feel like the beautiful, strong, brave, intelligent, fascinating, truly caring woman that all of the people that I love continue to describe as me.
I think that the Great Stockholm Syndrome Call-Out of 2013 definitely started that process.
I have been called out on having Stockholm Syndrome, thanks to my astoundingly astute, tough, and supportive therapist. After some preliminary research, and some serious soul-searching, this really isn't a huge surprise. My abysmal opinion of myself, combined with my self-delusion of "saving" everyone who I care about, and how terrible I am at actually taking any time for myself lead straight into this week's painful and freeing discoveries, originally written in my newly acquired Journal of All the Hard Things, which I hope to carry with me everywhere.
I found little that I didn't know [about Stockholm Syndrome] in my preliminary research. I found one book that I felt applied to my situation, metric fuck-tons of smut (no, literally...look up Stockholm Syndrome on Amazon or Google), and the same single-page summary posted on site after site.
After letting the name roll around in my head, and processing the feelings, and considering my stories, it has occurred to me that I have always started them at the wrong end. I have always told my story, "He was the only man that I trusted, and he betrayed me;" and I have found that, in actuality, the story should start, "He was the only man that I trusted, despite his betrayals before the sexual abuse."
I have realized that Dad never acted as if I had a body, until I started developing. Physical pain, metabolism complications, dehydration, hernia, overexertion -- these weren't important to notice until I started getting tits. Time and time again, I had to prove that I understood my body better than full grown adults who should have had my best interests at heart.
My mom enabled through ignorance, self-imposed blinders, or both. And I'm done making excuses for her. At least some of it was willing -- she couldn't turn a blind eye to so much by sheer incident. Habit and self-loathing try to remind me that I didn't see what he was doing my sister, that I could have done something. But, I deny that allegation, I can't live that lie anymore. I was a child. An abused child who idolized the man who at once fostered her independent thought and denied her her body. Even when he validated that I had a physical form, it was only to remind me, to teach me, that it belonged to someone else. Unless it was being a secret, shameful sex object, my body's only purpose was as a vessel for my brain.
I am...no, was, my father's monster -- strong, independent reasoning; extreme self-loathing; a sex object who pretended to have agency; emotionally stunted; and confined by the very stories that I thought were setting me free. I was Belle.
My sexuality, my body, is no longer his. I wonder if I ever realized that, even after putting the whole situation under a blazing light for my mother to see, even after sending him to jail, even after nearly 10 fucking years of being terrified that he would show up to Vampire and steal away any agency (sexual or otherwise) that I had developed up to that point. But, I'm no longer the 16 year old girl who cried to her mom that she just wanted her daddy back. Because, fuck that. I don't want my daddy back. I would say that I want the man that I thought he was, but that man was a two-dimensional idolized piece of garbage, as only a child could make her hero.
I want my lovers to appreciate me for who I am (sexually, physically, intellectually -- you know, as a whole person), I want my friends to keep a realistic view of me in their heads, I want those who look up to me to recognize my faults over my strengths. I, ultimately, want to feel like the beautiful, strong, brave, intelligent, fascinating, truly caring woman that all of the people that I love continue to describe as me.
I think that the Great Stockholm Syndrome Call-Out of 2013 definitely started that process.
Thank you again for sharing these things, and I know you can persevere through all that life has and is throwing at you.
ReplyDeleteMany of the things you've shared are things about which I was previously aware, but it hurts to know that these things were going on when I knew you as a teenager and I didn't see it for myself.
ReplyDeleteI think, painful though it may be, it's important for you to keep reminding yourself as you mentioned already that you were a child, and it was not your responsibility to protect anyone. It wasn't your responsibility to be the adult, or to excuse the behavior of adults. The people who should have protected you, failed you, even if unintentionally. Hopefully that hurt that I feel for having failed you is something they carry, too, if only to give them a sharper awareness of the world around them.
All that said, I'm so proud of you for seeking help. People say, and I agree, that the hardest step is making the first appointment, and you did it. You're so strong just for that. I'm so proud of you for recognizing that you deserve to be appreciated and loved, and you deserve to feel good and whole.
And whether you know it or not now, you are all of those things people describe - and much, much more.