The Weird Thing About PTSD

I was raped, sodomized, and beaten for six hours back in January 1987.  Twenty-eight years ago.  Initially, I knew what I “should” feel like, but didn’t really register much.  But that wasn’t really anything new- I’d been pretty good about not registering specific feelings for a long time.  As I’ve gotten older, and had more life experiences, the specific emotions have become much more identifiable.  And unpleasant.  I’ve been through enough therapy to recognize specific feelings, as well as have a greater understanding of what others go through who have been in similar situations.  And sometimes, not so similar situations.  Those can be triggers as well.

I had never been much of a crier.  I’d boo hoo once in a while, but for the most part, I could suck things up and move on.  That has changed.  Some of that is from a good thing: I’ve been able to understand how other people feel with both good and bad events.   That has been a huge ‘plus’ in so many ways, but it also makes my own memories and reactions that much more intense.  I’m a regular faucet now whenever there’s anything that remotely sets off my own memories.  Doesn’t even have to be all that similar.  Just has to trigger a feeling of some sort.

With another parole protest going on, I’m even more on edge.  For the most part, my daily functioning is ‘normal’.  Movies and TV shows can be really tough.  The news stories can be absolutely grueling.  I feel SO badly for those who are violated and/or lose a significant part of their life.   I have to ‘pace’ my exposure to the news.  With TV and movies, I generally have seen most of the episodes before from several series, so know to ‘brace’ myself during specific scenes… but sometimes even that doesn’t work so well.   In one episode of “Law & Order: SVU”, ‘Olivia’ walks out into the squad room after having been held hostage by a serial rapist/stalker who takes her out of the city to a seasonal house (that doesn’t belong to him).  She beats the snot out of him, and has to make a statement.  When she walks out into the squad room, it brings up all sorts of feelings of when I had to walk out of the apartment of my neighbor, after being raped.  There were news stations/cameras and people lining the sidewalk, and looking at me.  One of them lowered her camera, and looked down- giving me the first bit of dignity after that life-changing event.  When ‘Olivia’ walks through that group of people, it stirs up so much.

Some would argue that watching such shows as “Law & Order: SVU” and “Criminal Minds” are poor choices given my background, but I disagree.   In those shows, they show as much as they can about the impact that crime has on the survivors (I hate the term ‘victim’) and, they get the bad guy in 48 minutes.  The good guys win.  There are characters that include the ‘collateral damage’ of crimes against individuals.  And sometimes, the shows are hard to watch.  But it was much harder to live through an event that would be a plausible story line for those shows.

I’ve been much more ‘tender’ this time around with the parole protest.  I’m getting so tired of them, but at the same time, I feel responsible to keep fighting to keep him locked up.   He doesn’t deserve to be out. He agreed to a 60 year sentence in a plea bargain.    He offends EVERY time he’s on parole. Since he was 18 years old, parole is just another opportunity to rack up more ‘victims’.  I’m angry that the woman he attacked prior to attacking me just blew off sentencing.  Had she made sure he got as much time as possible, I wouldn’t have been raped.   I don’t want that same burden on my shoulders.  I may not be able to control the decisions of the parole board, but I am involved.  If they let him out, it’s on them.

In the meantime, I have to talk myself down now and then.  And sometimes, I have to just let myself cry and feel whatever is going on.  On good days, I write.  And every day, I have to remember how much I have to be thankful for.   PTSD isn’t something that gradually resolves in a predictable manner.  It comes and goes when the triggers set something off that is associated with some memory or feeling.  It doesn’t have to make sense.  It just is.

 

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When I Wasn’t Me

For the most part, I’ve dealt with the rape (January 10, 1987- Austin, TX) relatively well. Initially, there was a lot to deal with to prepare for the trial, and after that I just tried to get back to ‘normal’ (nothing is ever the same after being raped).  I coasted. For two decades.  I knew that Numbnuts (what I call  the ‘being’ who raped me) would be coming up for parole review in 2006 (? I’d have to dig up the files I’ve got for the exact date).  I had been seeing a therapist to help deal with being on disability, and she and I agreed that seeing someone who dealt with rape and sexual assault issues would also be helpful.  So I did.

During this time, I was also on some medications for the chronic medical issues I’ve got, and had some interactions that took a long time to get figured out. Between the weird physical stuff going on (medications and diagnoses) and the stress from the parole review, I got really batty. It was frightening and confusing, and made me a horrible client/patient to have to deal with for any therapist.  I had been in therapy before, and seldom called a therapist after office hours. During the ‘crazy year’  or however long it was, I wore those two therapists o.u.t.  I feel horrible about that; they were both very kind and compassionate. I was a mess.  I didn’t know that the medications (particularly a muscle relaxant combined with my other meds) were having some of  the effects that were going on, and part of that included increased ‘panic’.  I’d actually have mini-strokes from my blood pressure dropping too low, and was constantly in the ER (and very disliked by the nurses and MDs there- they didn’t figure out the medication thing either).  I’d lose the ability to swallow normally, and my balance was shot, which also stirred up the intense anxiety. It wasn’t unusual for my blood pressure to be in the 50s/30s….at home alone.  I’d freak out- thinking it was from all of the chaos going on with being on disability, and the loss of my life as a working RN, as well as the stress of the parole review.  I thought it was all in my head…and it wasn’t.  There were times the therapists called 911 to come to my apartment and get me.  Sometimes, I’d be passed out when they got there (I don’t remember what all was going on- or how they got me to unlock the front door…..?). I woke up in the ER many times, trying to remember why I was there.

I actually figured out the problem with tizanidine (muscle relaxant) and the other medications myself, and once I talked to my primary doc and changed to a different muscle relaxant (for fibromyalgia), the weird TIAs (mini-strokes/transient ischemic attacks) and many of the blood pressure plunges just plain stopped (with the dysautonomia, blood pressure issues are just part of life). I already had some scarring in my brain from the TIAs.  By then, those two therapists had turfed me to someone else.  And not long after that,  I had multiple severe blood clots in my right lung, and had to deal with that… but the memories of those many, many months of being so ‘not me’ aren’t good.  It’s all very detached and just weird.

I’d wake up (or never get to sleep) and be in a bizarre unprovoked panic that I couldn’t deal with, and I’d call one of those poor therapists either late at night or extremely early in the morning, to help talk me down from wherever I was.  I’d be so spaced out, but still absolutely unglued and removed from the fact that I was safe where I was- nothing was actually happening to me.  The years of shoving the rape to the side and the new crazy anxiety were life altering if I hadn’t already been on disability for physical disorders (including seizures and dysautonomia that caused problems with losing consciousness and being very foggy -sometimes when I’d be on the phone with one of the therapists). Other times, the seizures and/or dysautonomia happened first (there were times when I didn’t know which was which- I’d just wake up exhausted and more spacey), and I guess  I’d call in the middle of the episodes.  I don’t remember now exactly what was going on that I called, other than remembering months of weird panicky episodes that were very uncharacteristic of me.  And being a therapy client from hell.

Prior to the parole protest/review period, I’d spent a fair amount of time becoming a rape survivor and ditching the rape ‘victim’ title. I hate the ‘victim’ role in myself and others.  But I sunk way back into the victim role. I couldn’t stand that regression.  It reminded me of earlier times after the rape, and I wanted distance from that.  Some of the emotional upheaval was somewhat expected, I think. For twenty years, Numbnuts had been contained, and the possibility of him getting turned loose was terrifying (even though I knew consciously that it was a remote chance he’d ever find me).  I knew that there would come a time when the TX Department of Criminal Justice would have to turn him loose, because of mandatory release times…but I wanted it prolonged. After many letters and copying the many old newspaper articles to send to the parole board, the initial parole review/release was denied.  By then, the medication changes had been made, and life settled down.  But so much was still a fog during those bad months.

I was a really ratty therapy patient.  The medications were a big part of the physical reasons for the amplified anxiety.  The reminders of what Numbnuts had done to me were oppressively  vivid.  The way my life changed after the rape (and how differently it all turned out from my dreams and ‘expectations’ of a family of my own) was also in my face.  A  lot was going on.  But I’m not sure I really accept that those reasons are what caused so much to fall apart, and drastically change my ‘normal’ life (on disability) to one of childlike neediness (I’m repulsed writing that).

In the years since then, Numbnuts has been back in prison, after more protest letters. I’ve survived a very aggressive form of leukemia and 19 months of continuous chemotherapy of some form.  I’m dealing with significant diabetic issues and blood sugar control problems post-chemo.  And I’ve done it without therapy, and no freaking out in the middle of the night.  I still have seizures. I still have dysautonomia, that actually seems to be getting worse from the standpoint of heat intolerance (I had to shave my hair off; I can’t tolerate having heat from hair) and activity intolerance.  I can’t leave home without an ice vest to prevent overheating.  Other physical issues aren’t good.  And yet, I keep going on my own.  Blogging helps. It’s some sort of contact with someone, somewhere.  It’s ‘open’ 24/7, and only ‘bothers’ those who choose to read it. 🙂

Mourning the Old Me

Disability of any kind is a thief.  It takes away being considered as valuable as other humans. It steals identities (my existence WAS being a nurse). It robs people of a sense of purpose and value.  It is a constant reminder of what was.  And, no matter how hard I try to figure out some way to still be that younger, healthier (though the health stuff started decades before my body finally pooped out), and active person, my body says ‘nope- can’t do it’.  I’ve had to adjust to a new normal- and I haven’t been that good at it. I have days when just getting from morning to bedtime is a struggle emotionally and physically.  I miss my old life.

I do realize that I’ve got a lot to be thankful for. My body is essentially intact (I’ve got all four limbs, and they operate moderately well). I can still think, though I do get a bit foggy at times. My sense of humor is intact. I have a decent home (apartment). I love my dog- crazy as she is ❤  I have my doll collection, gemstones, and books.  I’ve got a great computer, and a lot of cable TV channels.  But I’m not ‘whole’ when my body is broken down and examined.

I look relatively intact, which is great- but it also gives the impression that I’m ‘fine’.  What people don’t see are the endless days of chronic pain from fibromyalgia, degenerative disc disease (most of spine), bone spurs on my spine, osteoarthritis, and chronic headaches.  Methadone and Norco don’t give much relief.  I had a neck injection today (steroids and numbing medicine); it lasted an hour.  People don’t see the dysautonomia symptoms (though they might see my ice vest that I have to wear to avoid passing out in public when I get overheated- which happens in any environment over 55-60 degrees).  Indoors with the heat on is horrible- I can’t go to appointments or to anybody’s house without being packed in ice.  Nobody sees the nocturnal temporal lobe epilepsy, or the chewed up cheeks  and funky ‘hit by a truck’ feeling I get when I wake up after them.

Nobody sees the  struggle to just get basic chores done.  Going to the grocery store is agonizing, and I’m slow, so I go in the middle of the night. It’s cooler (still wear the ice vest), and fewer nasty people are there to sigh loudly, in what sounds like disgust, as they try to get around me. I stay over to the side as much as I can- but at night, I don’t have to deal with them.  Getting things in from the car to the kitchen is very painful. I’m done for the day after that.  I get paper goods and cleaning supplies mailed from Walmart.

People don’t see that getting dressed is a careful dance of getting the clothes on and not losing my balance.  I don’t ‘bend’ well.  Socks are a major problem.  Now, with this crazy thing going on with one of my neck discs, using my left arm is getting harder. And I can’t use it for moving or carrying things as well.

My apartment needs to be thoroughly cleaned, but it hurts way too much for me to get after it with any sort of real productivity. I can get a small area done here and there, but not what I ‘approve of’, and not like I used to get done.  My kitchen floor is disgusting by the baseboards.  I’ve decided I will do six inches of it at a time with a Mr. Clean Eraser.  I have things I’d like to get donated to charity, but I can’t move the boxes.  I need help, and am hoping that the people from a church who agreed to help will pan out.  I’m hoping.  A lot.

Looking at me, I look ‘abled’.  If I move, it doesn’t take long for someone to see that I’m definitely limited, and some things are just not possible anymore. It bothers me every day.  I want to be more useful. I want to be of value somewhere. I want to be missed if I don’t show up.  I want to have something someone else can benefit from (nursing skills).  I want my old life. It wasn’t perfect, but I was functioning at a level that kept me employed.  Knowing that the last place I worked at found me more of a liability than an asset  hurts (they had to call an ambulance at least 10 times in about 2 months at the end). They had nothing I could do within my limitations.  Being unconscious isn’t good for a resume’.  I had a good reputation as a nurse when I was in Texas.  When I moved back here, the dysautonomia and seizures got too bad.  I wasn’t worth anything as a nurse.  But I’ll always identify myself as being  a nurse. I keep my license current.  I got that license 27 years ago.  It’s still mine.

And yet, I try to look at what I have. I’m not homeless (which I probably would be if I had to rely on Social Security alone).  I pay around $500/month (MONTH) in Medicare premiums and co-pays- but that’s better than nothing. (Medicare is not free by a long shot).  But, I don’t have much leftover for much ‘fun’ stuff.  This month, I got some good bread- and I’m so happy to have it.  I’d love to get more fresh produce on a regular basis, but it’s not possible. But I get by.  I’m not eligible for the $133.00/MONTH that food stamp recipients get… how are people supposed to eat ‘lean’ foods  on that?  Healthy stuff is expensive. I’m trying to get blood sugars straightened out after what chemo for leukemia did… So I do the best I can.

I miss what was.  I have days when accepting this ‘new’ normal is really hard, and I don’t do it well.  But, it’s what I have to accept- and I’ve got to figure out how to be of value in some other way.   I believe that God has a plan for all of this- I won’t pretend I ‘get it’ yet. But I do have faith that for some reason, my life is what it is- and that I can be used to help others. Or it would be in vain.  I won’t go there.  I’ve survived too much to just be some joke. I want to be able to help people who have been through or have similar stories. I want what I write about the rape I survived to be of some value to someone else who has been too scared to talk about what happened to her.

I have to really accept that I can’t do what I used to do, and just figure out ways to do what I can to continue living independently, and with relative quality of life.  I’ve got the dog- she helps a lot.  And I do have people who care about me. I really don’t have social contacts- though I’m rarely ‘ok’ enough to meet someone somewhere.  I do have much more to be thankful for than the ‘disasters’ that have come to be no big news when they occur.  I watch the news, and realize that I’m fortunate.  While it’s not a competition, my life is worth living, even though I’m not ‘intact’…my challenges are still valid reasons for frustration- but in the long run, I could be doing a lot worse.  Some days  I remember that more than others. ❤

 

Christians, Rape, and Abortion

Periodically,  I see something about adoption being the ‘best’ option with pregnancies from rape, usually by someone who has never been in that situation.   I got pregnant from a 6 hour violent rape in 1987, and was tormented about what to do.  As a Christian, abortion was something that was too painful to even think about, but I did think about it (and felt guilt and shame for just that).  And I understand why other women do as well.  I’m in no way condoning abortion, but I understand the pain behind it.   Being adopted, and knowing how much that had consumed my life with wanting to have contact with my biological family, giving away the baby would have been incredibly difficult as well.  Now that I’ve had contact with my biological family, I understand how that changed my bio-mom’s life forever.  She wasn’t given a choice about what to do with me… she was shamed  (or totally ignored about that pregnancy after returning back near her childhood home) because of getting pregnant with me when she was 17.  Nobody really thought about HER during that time.  Just get rid of that baby (me).  In terms of emotional outcome, a forced adoption leaves lasting, intense scars; so does an abortion resulting from painful circumstances, even if the latter involves more relief as well. The situations  are very different- but it would still have been very difficult to give away something that was %50 ‘mine’.  And a disaster to raise it.

It was a horrendous 10-12 weeks from the time of the rape and the actual miscarriage that started  one morning before work.  God saved me from the decision. I had horrible morning sickness all day long starting very early in the pregnancy.  Whenever something was in my mouth, I dry heaved.  I lost 30 pounds in the first month, and agonized over what to do with ‘it’. The ‘dismissal’ by other Christians that I see in various articles/posts about other people  is really hurtful.  “Just pray.”  Prayer is so important, but sometimes God could use another Christian to actually DO something tangible to be of some support to a woman going through a pregnancy from rape, without judging (something Christians are so good at).  The shame gets dumped back on the rape survivor.  I was VERY thankful that God took the decision out of my hands.  That miscarriage in my situation was a huge blessing. I still have the image of it in the toilet.  It took years to tell anybody about what had happened.  Ironically, it was a nun who happened to be the nurse practitioner doing my annual female exam who validated what I’d known for years.  I’d been pregnant.

Normal Christian response to a rape pregnancy:  “Just buck up and give birth to the kid”.  THEN get rid of it through adoption.  It’s not that easy!   But that’s what most Christians want done with babies from rape, mostly in situations they have no personal connection to… makes their judging so much easier.  No consideration for how difficult the decisions really are for the one who was raped, impregnated, and then basically disregarded by the Christians she grew up with, or even didn’t know (why turn to a church who shows disdain towards someone who is hurting).   The platitudes are incredibly painful.  God can do  anything- I truly believe that.  But He doesn’t keep those who love Him from making some thoughtlessly  painful comments.  Those who knew me before the rape know just how much I loved babies.  I spent eleven years in the church nursery taking care of little ones during church services. By the time I moved to another state, that was half of my life.

I need to clarify a few things. I am not pro-abortion.   I’m not even moderately pro-choice. But I ‘get it’.  I couldn’t go through with it.  I also don’t believe that it should be a legal/political matter; legal or not abortion will happen regardless.  People don’t want government in their business, but they’re all too eager to crawl up in a woman’s womb and tell her exactly what she should, or can do.  Having been through the experience of needing to make decisions, I ‘get it’.  It is excruciating It’s not done with some flip sense of apathy- at least in my situation. I was a virgin, and was raped for 6 hours to the extent that uterine ligaments were torn from the ‘impact’ of his penis, fists, and a wine cooler bottle he used repeatedly to  impale me- for six hours.  I still couldn’t choose abortion.  But I definitely understand the mindset for many who do…. they’re not hateful women who don’t care.  They’re traumatized women facing more trauma.  This wasn’t some flash of consideration of an abortion as some sort of cheapened birth control from a mistake the woman made…I’m absolutely opposed to  lack of accountability for actions.  But getting pregnant in the case of rape isn’t by consent… the woman who is raped is forced into accountability for a criminal action and situation that  she didn’t initiate.  Or deserve.

I’m also adopted. That wasn’t a choice I was comfortable making, and not so much because of the adoption itself. I believe adoption is  a very viable solution to unwanted children in many situations.  I’m thankful my birthmother didn’t get rid of me (I was born before Roe v. Wade) and I was even more thankful to know I wasn’t conceived in violence, or even indifference.  There was love behind my existence. That was hugely helpful in feeling like I did belong on the face of the earth after all !   I was the product of monogamous teenage love (who ended up staying in contact until my biological father’s death in 1994, though they’d gone different ways to have their own families, primarily because of my biological maternal grandmother’s absolute refusal to have a bastard child in her family).  I wasn’t the product of deceit, violence, and pain.

I  don’t think I would have made it emotionally if I’d had to carry a baby to term, and then give it away, even though I didn’t want anything around me that reminded me of the man who raped me (he got a 60 year sentence after being shot in my bedroom by police, and is in and out on parole; he’s a career criminal, each more violent offense committed while on parole, including my rape- not fodder for genetic material).  I feared that my ability to parent without prejudice towards the kid wouldn’t be good for the kid- and yet ‘giving away’ a baby also hurt, though would have been the only option when it came down to it.  But, I felt backed into a corner, and my 23-year old brain wasn’t doing well. I wasn’t equipped to cope with any of it.  My faith in God was strong.  I think people don’t think it was, since I don’t tow the  pulpit line of ‘no clue’ when it comes to actually being in an inflicted  felonious situation with ongoing complications.    God got me out of that rape alive (the ‘plan’ , as the rapist spoke to me during the rape,  was to dismember me alive, then leave with my car; I was still on workman’s comp for a back injury, so nobody would have missed me for a while).   God  gave me the opportunity to escape after six hours- as soon as it was as safe as it was going to be, I got out.  God  allowed me to meet my downstairs neighbors (where I ran to, in a towel and barefoot) just days before the rape, after moving to a new apartment complex.   And I talked to God a lot during that morning.   God is the reason I survived.  And I’ve known that as far back as when the rape was still going on.  My faith has been intact when it comes to God.  My ‘faith’ in many of His followers?  Not so much.  I know of a man from my childhood church who survived a brutal attack, much worse than the beating I survived .  Nobody questions anything he had to deal with afterwards.  Of course, no unwanted child involved there.

What would I tell the child when it came looking for me 18 + years later?  How could I ever make it “right” that the child was fathered without my consent by a career criminal?  How could I ever tell that kid that it was never wanted by the woman who carried it to term, even if indirectly just by saying the word ‘rape’ ?   I know all of the Christian platitudes by people who have never been in the situation.  I know of some stories about Christian women who have carried the rape-baby to term and given it up for adoption, and how they all ran towards each other in lavender fields one day, to live happily ever after. That’s great that it happened to be such a blessing  for them to get raped (you know what I mean).  I was just flat out violated and tormented.  My miracle was surviving.  I could never have moved forward with any sort of intact mental functioning with a rape-child returning as an adult.  As it was, when the parole protests started I was a mess. A lot of stuff I’d managed to bury for 20 years blew like Vesuvius ( 20 years is 1/3 of the mandatory part of the 60 years he agreed to in a weird plea bargain).  Twenty years after the rape, it was like I was back being threatened again.   My faith was strong (still is).   That doesn’t make dealing with ongoing reminders of Jan. 10, 1987 easy.  Nobody forgets that kind of attack.Miscarriage for someone who is actively trying to have a baby, or who would welcome a baby at any time during their life, is a kind of pain I can’t even imagine.  I’m not saying I’m thankful for the miscarriage itself;  I was SO glad that the situation was ‘fixed’.  It’s never over, but I had no decisions to make about a child.   My heart goes out to anyone who has suffered the loss of a child through miscarriage (or any other reason).  That has to leave a huge hole in someone’s heart. My mom (adoptive- one I grew up with from the time I was 10 days old- so who I consider to be my mom) lost two newborns a couple of years apart in a time when it was just sort of explained as what was ‘best’ (babies were too sickly).  She wasn’t even allowed to see either baby, who lived two and six days (now they would have had more than a %90 survival rate).  Her derailed grief process went on to impact her intensely, as she was unable to really acknowledge any bond with me. She was terrified of another loss. I truly believe she wanted me and loved me – but she wasn’t able to convey any sort of warmth in a way that a child understands.  Looking back, I see all sorts of examples of her love.  But a kid needs things that are much more tangible- hugs, patience, etc.  That isn’t the same as what I went through at all.  I understand that.   I recognize her losses as the losses of wanted babies.  I hope that one day in Heaven I’ll see that unwanted baby that I lost, in a place where pain is erased.  But for here on earth,  God saved me from the agony of deciding what to do, and the aftermath.  Giving up a baby isn’t ‘simple’, regardless of its conception.

What saddens me so much is that the people who claim to be all about love and God are the ones who judge and shame  the most.  I’m a  born again Christian, and have been for more than 45 years.  I’m far from perfect, but I know where my spiritual foundation is. I love God deeply, and am so thankful for what Christ did on the cross for me. And yet, I’m afraid of having any sort of deep relationship with Christians because of the level of judgement.  I never get that shame from non-believers.  With most Christians, finding out that someone they know from church has been raped is met with silence, not support.  It’s as if I somehow deserved it- even if the silence is just out of ignorance. Ya can’t talk to a Christian about rape !   I wonder how many Christians suffer in silence over rapes they feel shame about, when they have nothing to be ashamed of.   I’ve had things edited and censored when I’ve tried to reach out to an age group ready to head out into the world on their own.   How I got raped was all about ‘helping my neighbor’, without thinking about myself, and that almost got me killed.

I’d never been taught at church that assessing my personal safety, or listening to that funny little voice that says  something isn’t right, is OK  (and in fact Biblical- Proverbs 27: 12 “The prudent see danger and take refuge, but the simple keep going and suffer for it.”).  I didn’t deserve it. Nobody does. Rape is about violence and defects in the rapist.  I was wearing a sweatshirt from the Christian  camp I went to as a kid  (and worked at during 2 1/2 summers in my late teens)  when he started to violate me. I was answering a call for help (turned out to be a lie, but I took it at face value, and felt obligated to ‘help my neighbor’).  And yet, Christians are the ones who have been the most critical of me (or anybody who is raped) and the things I have felt about the pregnancy.  I’d love to speak to church high school groups (and their parents if they wanted to come) about making smart decisions when going out into the world/college.  Being a Christian isn’t a safeguard from non-Christians who have evil intentions.  Evil comes disguised as a beautiful creature, remember.   We’re in the world, even if we’re not of it. 

I also thought about what I’d do if I’d had the baby, given it up for adoption, and it later came to me asking about its father. I would not have lied to that child.  To have a child come back in 18+ years and ask about its biological family, only to hear that it wasn’t wanted from the get go (no matter WHO wanted to adopt it) would have been heartbreaking for the child… and there’s no way to tell a kid they were conceived during a rape, and make it out to be a desired conception.  I know what sort of things ran through my head as a kid long before I met my biological family.  Even if “God has  a plan for you” would be pretty hard to take after “You were conceived during a 6 hour rape, where your father was shot by police shortly after I got away.”  How can that come out as something less than devastating?   I found out I WAS wanted (even if unplanned), conceived by teenagers who had been monogamous for several years, and who loved each other.  I couldn’t give that to the child of rape.  I couldn’t sugar coat it, nor would I; a child seeking birthparents deserves the truth.  Finding a biological father’s primary address over decades is the Texas Department of Corrections would have been a nightmare for the product of a rape. The child would deserve answers, delivered with compassion.  But the truth no matter what.

Some may view me as ‘ a bad Christian’ for my views-  and that’s fine; they’re only human beings.  It hurts immensely, but judgement from  people is essentially meaningless in the long run.  God knows my heart. He knows the struggles I had with being pregnant, and trying to figure out what to do. He knew I wasn’t emotionally strong enough to handle what was going on. That is why the miscarriage was a blessing. That is why I can understand why some people consider abortion after rape.  That is why I couldn’t just give a baby away, though I wanted nothing to do with it.  It’s NOT simple.  It’s horrifically painful, and continues to be a very tender subject.  And I know that I can’t depend on the majority of Christians I know for any sort of support when I’m having a hard time (every three years there is another parole protest).  Christian love goes out the window when abortion, rape, and rape pregnancies come up.  Forgive the church member having an affair, but get that pregnant woman out of town if she’s not married, or was raped.   Regardless of the lifelong pain of being raped, and it not being my fault, there is judgement because I understand why someone would consider abortion.  Not because I had one.  That gets forgotten.  Just because I am honest enough to say I wanted nothing to do with that baby, I’m considered “less than” acceptable to include with the people they know.   Again, God knows my heart.

Here’s an idea to those who make abortion a political issue…. it’s going to happen no matter what the laws are.  It’s a choice that is between that woman, possibly the sperm donor,  and God.  HE is the one who will make the ultimate law when that woman stands before Him, and He sees her heart.  If Christians don’t like doctors who perform abortions, don’t go to them, and pray for them !  Don’t like an organization that deals with abortion?  Don’t support them, and pray for their management folks.  We have bigger issues in this country right now (like getting Congress to work?). Why is so much time blown on making abortion a political issue, when it has nothing to do with government?  Don’t like funding issues?  Then vote for a special referendum. And pray for the folks doling out the cash.   Maybe put more effort into realizing that an unwanted pregnancy deserves some compassion (for the baby, if not the mother), so the woman feels that there is some support out there to get the baby to term, and into a loving home.   Fussy, fussy humans trying to control the choices of someone else, who (in the situation besides rape/incest) made a bad decision, wasn’t on birth control to prevent more consequences from random/unprotected sex, and got “in trouble”.   God will forgive.  Why won’t His followers? Forgiveness isn’t condoning.  It’s leaving it to God, and is a mandate BY God (Matthew 6 and 7 ), and has little to do with the “offender”, but in the relationship one has with God themselves.   Even self-righteous Christians aren’t in charge of judgement.

Try timing the contractions of a 12 year old in labor with her father’s baby, and not thinking about appropriate times for abortion.  I had to do that when I worked adolescent psych.   Talk about heart wrenching .  Her child (a baby girl) was put up for adoption, and the 12 year old and her three younger sisters were put in foster care. The twelve year old was appropriately terrified (not even sure if she knew how she GOT pregnant).   All she knew was that daddy diddled her.  That was her ‘normal’.   Christians don’t like to think about the real world.  It happens if they think about it or not.  And the real world could use a LOT more Christian love, and kick the judgement to the curb.

The rape is how I ended up never letting anybody get close enough to end up in a marriage, with my own family of kids.  I always thought I’d have at least four kids.   And, church is how I never thought it was OK to protect myself if I was asked for help.   The ‘two wrongs don’t make a right’ argument can also end up in one rape plus one pregnancy/abortion = one suicide.  Is that better?   I’m thankful God got me past that and took that baby away to a safe and beautiful place.  He definitely was in control.  And I’m eternally thankful.

EDIT: After seeing a comment on one of the searches for my blog, and seeing  “I was raped, am now a Christian, and can’t get over it”, I MUST let anybody who is raped know that it is NEVER your fault. Rape isn’t about anything you did or didn’t do, or what you wear, or anything else- it is an act of violence committed ON you- you aren’t the one who did anything wrong.  God isn’t going to judge you for being raped. ❤  Please, please… know that you are NOT damaged goods, and you are still a precious child of God.  I wish I knew the folks who are in pain who end up reading this- I’d want so badly to let you know that you’re not the one who is defective- it is the one who raped you who is accountable for what he did TO you.  Please know that God cares about you and wants you to feel His love for you.

Numbnuts’ Revocation Information

I recently sent for and received the packet of information surrounding the parole revocation of the man who raped me in 1987.  I knew it had to involve some sort of assault/battery, or at least some sort of ‘physical’ crime.  I ended up getting more information than I thought I would.  It’s taken a couple of days to be able to write about it.  Even 25 years after the rape, I still have physical reactions to most things that involve him, and at the same time, I need to be informed of what is going on so I can do the best I can to protest any and all future parole eligibility reviews.  No matter where he happens to be (in or out of prison), he will be serving the sentence for raping me until the year 2047.  Thirty-five more years.

The first thing that hit me when I read the information about why he is back in custody is that a woman actually married this guy while he was in prison for a rape conviction. I knew about that when he was first released on parole, but it still blows my mind. Granted, he can lie very well; it’s how he got to me.  But what makes a woman even consider marrying someone who has a criminal history, is STILL in prison, and will be in prison or on parole until 2047?  That’s not a  good background check.  How can someone trust a man who has only known her from the other side of bars?

Numbnuts is 53 years old now, and his first adult conviction in December 1976 was when he was 18 years old, for forgery. He was given a 5 year sentence, and at some point was put on parole- which was revoked when he was convicted of burglary (while on parole).  He then got a 12 year sentence for kidnapping, and was released on parole in 1985. In April of 1986, he was convicted of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. He was released on parole in December of 1986; on January 10, 1987, he raped, sodomized, and beat me for six hours- and changed his plea to guilty part way through the trial. He got a 60 year sentence (in a plea bargain) for aggravated sexual assault with a deadly weapon. During the arrest for my rape, he was also shot by police, and had assaulted one of the officers who was first on the scene.  Then, he gets out in January 2010, on parole again. In the summer of 2011 he assaulted a man (a misdemeanor in Texas; a felony if against a woman), but was able to stay out of prison. In January of 2012, he was being considered for a lesser degree of supervision…within days of being notified about this (and protesting the idea), he had a warrant issued for what I now know was a domestic violence charge against his wife (I was initially told it was a ‘parole violation’).  He plead no contest.  He didn’t try to stay out of prison.  At least three times, he’s committed crimes while ON parole.  Twice, he did not fight the charges.

I had originally been introduced to Numbnuts by his sister, whose baby I took care of 5-6 days a week while she worked.  The introduction was brief, and very generic. I’d gone to see her about cleaning my apartment as I’d just been released from the hospital where I’d been for 10 days for a back injury.  I’d been moved to a new apartment by coworkers while I was in the hospital  ( the move had been planned before the hospitalization, and I was ‘stuck’ with needing to move out), and needed help getting the ‘old’ place cleaned.  She agreed, and Numbnuts first got a look at me. During the time right after the rape, and during the trial, his sister helped the prosecution.  In the packet of information, it says that he was again living with her, and was actually arrested in her home in January 2012.  While she hasn’t been a part of my life since 1987, it still stung that she’d house this monster.  She knew what he’d done to me. She was a part of the trial, testifying against her brother. I nearly lost my life going to get her son (part of the lie he told me needed me to go get the baby because of an emergency). Blood is thick, blah, blah, blah… Career criminal is a deal breaker in my book, even with family.

He also has step-grandsons. As a registered sex offender, I’m not sure how he’s able to have contact with those kids, unless the restrictions depend on the age of the victim he’s convicted of assaulting.  Maybe he’s not a risk to kids; I wouldn’t let my kids near a convicted sex offender, regardless of the age of the victim.  Would. Not. Happen.  But his brilliant wife, with her outstanding judgement and decision making, allowed the relationship with the kids. The two grandsons wrote notes to the Pardons and Paroles Board asking for their ‘grandpa’ to be allowed to come home because he was a ‘good man’…(where they could witness more domestic violence against their grandmother; no word on how often they’re with her- or where their parents are). The notes were very ‘scripted’, and I’d doubt the kids came up with the content…even if the notes were in their writing.

Mrs. Numbnuts also has a letter in the packet of information, saying that the neighbors must have called and they’ve got it out for Numbnuts.  It’s all someone else’s fault.  I wonder about her police record.  I have no information that she even has any record whatsoever, but the lack of personal responsibility sounds pretty sociopathic to me. Just sayin’.

The next time Numbnuts is eligible for a parole review is in three years.  There is no ‘mandatory’ release date for about 18 more years. He’d be 71 years old. He won’t be off of parole (or out of prison – whichever happens) until he’s 88 years old.  And I still don’t think he could make it. If he’s too gimpy to hurt someone else, he’d be a suicide candidate.  He gets ‘good time’ shaved off of his sentences- he is successful as a prisoner. He craps out in society. He’s a danger, and I would be horribly saddened, but not shocked, to hear that he murdered someone. That was the ‘end’  planned the day I was raped, but I got away after 6 hours when he passed out in my bed.  I’ve blogged more about the details, so will leave it at that for now.  But it was life-altering hell.

I’m still mulling all of this around in my head.  The level of dysfunction that results in a  Numbnuts ( or a  Mrs. Numbnuts, for that matter) is incomprehensible.  What horrible chain of events and circumstances makes someone like Numbnuts?  Nothing takes away his responsibility for his actions, but the reasons for why he’s like he is just don’t come together in my head.  I’ve worked with adolescent psych patients, and adults with trauma issues, and while they had dysfunctional coping skills,  they weren’t a risk to anybody.  I guess that’s good I don’t ‘get it’, and I really don’t spend a lot of time thinking about why he’s a violent sociopath, but when I get stuff regarding parole issues, I do think about it.  What makes a monster?   I remember his sister as being sweet and young (she was 19 when I babysat her son). I’d heard she had some minor drug busts with minimal amounts of pot, but nothing dangerous, and I never saw her wasted.  She was a hard worker as a department store housekeeper. She did the best she could for the baby.  She and Numbnuts were raised in the same house.  She did say that he’d always been the ‘black sheep’ of the family, and I got the idea that he had a sizable juvenile record before hitting the adult prison system. As an adult, his crimes got more ‘personal’ and more violent; I’m glad that his wife- bizarre as she is for marrying him- didn’t get visibly damaged (sounds like her psyche is already trashed). Or worse.  He was picked up before he left a body behind.

He may have gotten a 60-year sentence for raping and beating me…but I also got a life sentence that day he assaulted me.  It’s not over after the courts get done. It goes on and on, and every time something comes up about parole, or a violation of parole (arrest warrants issued), I am notified.  That’s how I want it for my own protection. But it does take a toll.  I’m reminded of everything he did to me during those six hours.  Speaking out helps me, and I hope in some way it helps others.  I survived that day for a reason.  I believe that things happen for a reason (Romans 8:28).  Maybe I can at least let someone else know they’re not alone.