Episode 9 Abandoned The Long Walk Home....Addicted..

My Healing Journey Is Torturous.  

Admitting to Being A Victim of Domestic Violence...

The Most Painful Thing I Have Ever Gone through...

Addicted To Self Loathing..

Mourning The Death of My Former Self..

I Would Absolutely Love to Hear From You..

email me sleeplessingranada@yahoo.com

Transcript

SPEAKER_00: 0:00

A huge big Scottish welcome. This is my podcast, episode 9. It's another glorious, sunshiny, happy day here in magical Granada. The sky is the deepest turquoise blue and there isn't a cloud to be seen. I've just gulped down a glass of icy cool water. Ah, that's better. I'm sitting here on my terrace and I'm reminiscing. I used to earn foreclosure and now I know... I am all the closure I'll ever need. It's not about him saying sorry or getting the answers to why did you torture and abuse me? Why? Why? Why me? His punishing silences, the choices he made, the humiliation and his trying to break me, his lack of respect, accountability, love, empathy, his lack of understanding for my needs. This is all the closure I need. Once my eyes opened to this, that was it. I stopped looking for it anywhere else. I was the closure. I realised that closure isn't something that he could give me. It's when I finally woke up and saw that he was lacking in all areas of my world. This screamed to me louder than any of his words ever could. By moving on and removing all access to me, that was empowering in itself. This incredible peace of mind that I now feel after my breakup, I think it's just my nervous system resting And it's now saying thank you, thank you so very much for finally having the strength to look after me. The power of silence. My silence protects my dignity, my energy, my body and soul. This is my invisible shield and it changed the dynamics in our breakup. I noticed that when I healed my boundaries and non-negotiables were endless. Protecting my heart, body, mind and soul as I've already said. This was my response. and I had neglected me for the longest time. Now I was awake. I mean, really awake. When I think of all the years I spent trying to explain how I felt, my energy levels were floored. When he sliced through my soul with the precision of a surgeon's cold knife, I still came back for more. Again, again, and yet again. Perhaps this is what you deserve, whispered the dark voice in my head that taunted my being. As a child, I was I was left alone to figure out and deal with my emotions self-isolation became my friend when struggling or when I was sad solitude wrapped her arms around me this was my way of protecting myself the way I coped with pain and fear it's all learned behavior we don't even know that we're doing it I carried it about on my hunched shoulders never feeling there was any safe place to actually put it down it's a horrific burden for a child to carry for goodness sake I was only a little girl a beautiful little girl my load is now light my shoulders no longer hunched over I embrace and welcome my new life my new world it's never too late to start over and I'll tell you it's bloody well painful unbelievably so at times but I learnt patience with myself I learnt to sit in my pain honestly it doesn't last forever Was it Rumi that said, Today I'm wise, so today I'm going to change myself. Something along those lines. This is what trauma bond is. When trauma took over my mind, I couldn't function, I couldn't think straight. Now that I'm healing, I've learned to lean into my trauma. I learned to listen to my body. I let it consume me, wash over me, envelop me. I let it be. Peace will come. The voices in your head that torture you and tell you lies, those voices will quieten down. You'll no longer feel tongue-tied and trapped in your own voice. It's a process, a long process, but honestly it is worth it. Saying no and setting boundaries protects you emotionally, physically and mentally. I no longer have to explain my every word, thought or action. No is a complete sentence. Somehow my tremendous Winter didn't hear it. Why didn't he listen? Ah, was it because I always said yes, yes, yes, when inside every fibre of my brain screamed no, no? It's scary the first time you do it. Life after healing from trauma is painful, so fucking raw. I had to learn to sit with all the grief and that was often very overwhelming. I grieved the beautiful, intelligent little girl who so often was dismissed unheard and unseen. I grieved the teenager and the young woman so full of hope and optimism. I grieved the mother and I grieved the life I didn't have. I grieved the terrible way I behaved towards myself. I didn't deserve it. All that pain I'd daily dumped onto myself, it was just downright awful. But I knew I had to go through it all. I was an addict, addicted to self-loathing and all that went with it. And like all other addicts, I had to get with the program. I learned to sit with my feelings. Slowly at first, I just held my own hand. After more than five decades of avoiding suppressing and disassociating At times I felt completely numb, frozen in grief. This showed up in my sadness, my deep, deep sadness. Although I didn't realise this at the time, it's the most difficult emotional thing I have ever worked on. But believe me, believe me, it's worth it. It's the only way you can heal. I couldn't grieve without feeling. Grief without feeling is simply living in survival mode and this I had done for decades. Slowly at first, I learned to let it go. I put happy positives notes all over my house and I bought two huge chalkboards and pinned them to my kitchen wall. I wrote all my ugly thoughts on one and all my beautiful thoughts on the other. At first the ugly intrusive thoughts covered the board and the lovely positive thoughts were scarce. When I changed my mindset and began questioning all my toxic thoughts incredibly my thought pattern changed. The toxic board to the This day only has two words written on it, and you might have guessed. It's fuck you. My happy board is so full, I now have post-it notes covering every inch of it. This has helped me in so many ways. My trauma was a stubborn bitch. She didn't want to go. She didn't want to leave me. But in the end, I had to serve her her eviction notice. The poisonous lies, the voice in my head whispered, that fucked up my mind, body and soul went with her. And just like that, I began to breathe again. And whenever toxic thoughts came a knocking at the door, I learned to take deep breaths. I began to feel again. My soul began to zing. I began to feel again. actually feel. I was no longer numb. I had energy. My zest for life and my raucous laughter hardly ever left my side. These new friends were amazing. Soon the black thoughts and feelings were only brief visitors. I never invited them in and they never stayed long. I had all of these new positive pals all around me now, buoying me up and encouraging me. But like everything else we do in life, the more we practice the more we generally improve. Apart from my singing, that is, I have to confess, I still sound like a strangled cat, but I don't care. I love singing. When he was my favourite human, I told him all my secrets, but he used them and wielded them like the sharpest axe. One of his favourite put-me-downs was, oh, tubby bear seconds again. I'll explain. I had told him when my dad had been brutally murdered, I couldn't cope. and I went into a dark, dark place. I developed an eating disorder. It was the only thing that I felt I had any control over. When we were eating, he would say over and over again, is that tubby beer seconds you're having? Although I told him repeatedly that I didn't like this, he laughed and said, can't you take a fucking joke? We both knew it was no joke. It took me years to have a love affair with food again. Being left-handed, I was always very clumsy and every task I do looks awkward. For fuck's sake, can't you even sweep up My God, that's not the knife you use to cut bread. Goodness sake. Onions you're cutting, flippin' heck. Can't you do anything properly? Oh my God, give it here. I used to swallow down all the blame. My throat would constrict as though I had a hard-boiled sweetie stuck in my airways. Why was I so fucking stupid? When things were good between us, when he love-bombed me, I used to tell the voice in my head, things aren't so bad. When things are good, they're really good. They're great. Feeling very low, I calmly replied, I am brave, I have courage, I am strong and I am resilient. I refuse to be silent anymore. Self-loathing isn't unlearned by isolating and cutting yourself off. I faced this demon with such bravery, such courage and I often thought afterwards, was it love? Was it lust or was it just anxiety disguised as passion? The answer remains a mystery to me. Becoming the best version of me was sore, very sore. There were days when I had to force myself to get out of bed, to brush my hair, brush my teeth. I had to force myself to eat and shower. It felt as if I was dying. The pain was so incredibly sore. It's a breakdown. It's the death of the old me, the death of my marriage, the realisation that my relationship I mourned. Not him. but the thought of all the things that would now never happen. I questioned everything. The pain was unbearable. At times I missed him. I wanted to call him, but something, something deep, deep down stopped me. Just when I thought I was getting there, bam! Just like that out of the blue, I'm spiraling backwards, backwards, backwards. Fuck! And then I pick myself up off the floor and it's baby steps again. Three forward, four back. Four forward, two back. I got there. I'm Free! I'm at peace and it's so fucking fantastic. I feel so very, very proud of myself. And do you know something? I never did break the no contact vow I made to myself. I stopped worrying about what family and friends thought of me. The breakdown of my marriage didn't define me, nor the torment and horrific abuse that I had suffered for over a decade. That didn't define me either. I began focusing on me and what made me happy. And slowly my heart began to sing again And my soul felt at peace. I embraced my flaws and my weaknesses. I welcomed my weirdness. And now I look at my vulnerability as power and strength. I simply became me again. And it felt amazing. And now, a chapter from my memoir, Abandoned, The Long Walk Home. It was just another glorious, sunlit Saturday afternoon. Quintessential Spanish weather. The sun beamed down, casting... her welcoming glow over the lush rolling local countryside. The sky was turquoise blue, cloudless and still. The birds sang cheerful songs in harmony. I never grew bored of my spectacular Andalusian mountain views. I felt excitement brewing. We were going on an adventure. We were turning a corner. Could this save our relationship? I was ever hopeful. Showering quickly, humming to myself as I put on my prettiest hot pink floral summer dress, I felt sexy and feminine. I applied my lipstick and doused myself in my favourite perfume. Today was going to be just great, I repeated again and again and again. The woman in the mirror stared back at me. I chose to ignore her sad eyes. Today I just told her, shut up. I ran down the spiral staircase. I hugged my dog's bye-bye. I can hear him getting impatient. The tap, tap, tap of his car keys on the glass table. A familiar as he cleared his throat was a sign that I must hurry. Nothing, not even his irritation, would spoil this fabulous day. And then we were off. I reached for his hand and gave it a tight squeeze and said, I feel really happy and optimistic today. I ignored the way he brushed my hand away. I need to concentrate on the road, he snarled. We drove to one of our favourite spots and grabbed a table in a quaint little restaurant that the locals favoured. It was in the middle of nowhere, undulating terrain and the vibrant olive trees all planted in straight, neat rows stretched as far as the eye could see. It was breathtakingly beautiful, so peaceful and quiet. We settled into a quiet corner and ordered the speciality, arroy negro, black rice, and two ice cold beers to go along with it. No menu was required in this place. Long trestle tables, covered with white paper filled the floor space. The restaurant was filling up fast. I have always loved people watching. The waiters brought jugs of Tinto Verano. That's red wine, ice and lemonade. Ice cold, fresh water, freshly made bread and olives adorn every surface. The aroma of fresh fish coming from the open kitchen was delectable. Plate after plate of paella and assorted tapas flew out of the kitchen. the fresh and delicious dishes reflected the region's scrumptious, wholesome, bountiful produce. The atmosphere was passionate, exciting, and happy. The beer, wine, and animated conversations flowed. Its rustic charm and vibrant atmosphere enhanced my feelings of optimism for the day. Lunch in Spain is a great event. Entire families, including the grandparents, have now descended, and the tables are full of excited squads Spanish locals, all gathered to enjoy their weekend ritual, the simple pleasure of sharing food and being together. Salud! Salud! is heard above the clinking glasses and the raucous laughter. A few elderly gentlemen wearing battered Panama hats to shield their weather-beaten faces hid from the sun under the giant oak tree at the end of the open terrace. They shared stories of times gone by as they sip beer and smoke heartily from their unfiltered cigarettes. Their gravelly, hoarse voices and guffaws of laughter fill the air. Children of all ages dart between and under the white plastic tables playing tag as parents and adults catch up on the week's events and gossip. Grandmother's clucking tongue of disapproval soon quietened the few unruly children who sheepishly returned baby octopus, gracias I thanked him people travelled from all around the region to sample the simple but tantalising dishes suddenly I felt very hungry and my stomach growled in protest I'd only had my ritual morning coffee I devoured the tapas and the rustic fresh bread relishing the heavenly sensations now the main event was here the rice dish nom nom nom nom what a perfect way to spend our Saturday I gushed I continued chattering on surrounded by the undulating rough, unspoiled countryside. Our secret little haven encapsulated the true heart of southern Spain. Suddenly I was aware that I must have said something to annoy him. The atmosphere changed instantly. The silence between us was thick and heavy. I tried to deflect it. I tried to make small talk. I racked my brain, trying to pinpoint the exact minute it all shifted. What has I said? What had I done? Had I misunderstood one of his jokes? Was my Tone of voice wrong? I hadn't realised I had crossed the line. What's wrong? Are you okay? I croaked. The warmth of the afternoon sun seemed to fade. I shivered involuntarily. I tried reaching for his hand, but he pushed me away. Hatred shone from his dark hooded eyes. Somehow they mirrored his black, cold soul. He looked like a giant kestrel about to swoop. My shoulders hunched, I bunched my hands into fists as if my body went into lockdown. I swallowed down hard, my mouth now dry like sandpaper. It was as if a black mist had ascended. What's wrong? I stuttered again. I had been in this situation way, way too many times before. I readied myself for the tsunami that was about to begin. The tension was building. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stood to attention. Please God, I implored silently, please God, let this pass. My entire being stiffened. I quickly looked up at him, trying to make eye contact. I saw contempt. It was so real that it took me aback and I gasped. I tried to smile and silently pleaded with him, please stop. He rolled his dead eyes, clenched his heavyset jaw and pursed his thin chapped lips. Then Then the throat clearing began, a sound I had come to dread. We're leaving now, he snarled. It was clear that I had only fuelled his fury in my need for clarification. I was terrified, paralysed with fear, and what was to come? He summoned over the startled waiter, waving his arms about alarmingly. His aggression and arrogance made my heart beat faster still. The bill, please. He unceremoniously threw some euros down on the table, stood up and muttered something illegible. Move it, move it, move it now, he roared. People at nearby tables stopped their conversations mid-flow, mouth-scaping. Wait for me, I'm not ready yet, I begged. He had already stormed out of the restaurant. I clambered into my lightweight cardigan, face crimson with humiliation as I struggled to gather all my things together. The weight of shame bore down on me, intensifying the stares from the other patrons, their gasps a mixture of surprise and pity. Their glances felt like piercing daggers. My hands trembled as I stuffed my sunglasses and phone into my bag. Each move Or was it compassion? Tears prickled at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them away fiercely, refusing to let this moment break me even further. I felt every pair of eyes burn into my back as I did the walk of shame. Everyone around me blurred as I focused on the situation and the task ahead. My heart raced as I tried to catch up and not be left behind. I was so embarrassed, I wished I could die. I wanted to scream and lash out. The pain was physical, heart-hammering, throat constricting, stomach in knots. I wanted him to understand the mental torture he put me through. All I wanted was love and kindness, empathy and affection. I wanted my mum. I was five years old again. I wanted my mum so badly. I remain silent because throughout our fractious relationship, my thoughts and opinions never received any validation. When I tried to express how I felt, my words stuck in my throat like a hard-boiled sweet as he hurdled humiliation and cruelty in my direction. Stop your whining, baby talk. Yeah, yeah, yeah, poor you, always about you. Yeah, yeah, yeah, poor, poor girl. Shut the fuck up and get out of my sight, you Fucking cunt! Why were my feelings so insignificant? Did he not understand the turmoil swimming around inside me? Of course he knew! My inner voice screamed. And at no time were my opinions worthy. I was the invisible housemate. I had no voice. My presence irked him. I was an irritant, a problem. I was never his equal. I was never enough. When I attempted to express myself, his impenetrable walls of defence were so thick that I could never reach him. I pined for understanding, attention and love. I fucking hate you, I screamed at him, but only in my head. He terrified me. I felt the tears of indignation start to form. He was now approximately 100 metres ahead of me, striding angrily towards the car. I could tell from his demeanour that he hadn't calmed down I quickened my pace I had to try and appease him somehow wait up wait up I yelled his name over and over he didn't turn round nor did he slow down he focused on getting into the car fear made me shake uncontrollably I trotted along silently I was numb you'd think that I would have gotten used to this sheer and utter humility by now I never did. The humiliation and shame washed over me. Each time it happened my scabbed over wounds burst open wide, leaving me exposed and emotionally wounded. I had no self-respect and no dignity. I felt the silent scream form in my throat. I wanted to lash out. He was still barking orders at me. Fucking move it, move it, move it now or I swear to fuck I'll leave you here. Our eyes held for just a second. There was no empathy, love or kindness in them. He reached the car, jumped in, secured his seatbelt. The engine roared again and again. He was revving again and again. I could tell he was still livid. Surely he'll not leave me here. Surely he won't. He knows I've no money. The car engine roared one more time. Blind panic crushed my chest. The fear of abandonment bubbled up inside me. Please don't leave me here. Please don't leave me. I whispered it to the wind. He'd sped off, screeching along the open dirt road. All I saw was dust and he was gone. Would he see the error of his ways, I asked myself in hope. His conscience would surely speak to him, and he'd come back and get me. Surely he would, right? Then that sinking feeling in my soul deepened. I knew, I knew he wasn't coming back. Yet I waited, hoping against all hope that I was wrong. I really was when it came to him. The perfect surroundings only highlighted my terror and torture and still I sat on a nearby wall, heart pumping out of my chest, not quite believing that he had driven off and abandoned me. He knew I had no money. Disbelief and denial coursed through my veins and the sun continued to beat down on my fair Celtic skin. At least I've got Factor 50 in my bag, I told myself. I looked long and hard at the dusty dirt track that would lead me to home. Malicious intent is intolerable. In the middle of nowhere, 20 kilometres from my home, it was baking hot and I had no choice but to begin the long journey back. Thankfully that day I had decided to wear my sturdy walking boots. I would undoubtedly need them now and still the sun continued to beat down relentlessly. I grudgingly set off on my long journey. I was still ever grateful that he would turn around, come back and get me. The heat haze danced before me. With no pavements or safe spots to walk I had to manoeuvre around the uneven pitted dry dirt track. Cars and scooters zipped past me dangerously close at times. I felt very exposed and vulnerable. I could die here I shouted and my body would never be discovered. I began to have very dark thoughts and on and on I trudged. With every step my heart sunk further. I tried to remain positive focusing on my boots rhythm as as they pounded the dirt road. My tears felt like saltines crystals. I wiped them away angrily. No more, I whispered to the hazy horizon. The breaking of me was so gentle at first that I didn't even notice. A simple quiet undoing, pulling at tiny fragments of my soul. He stole all the colors from my rainbow. The realization that there was no pot of gold, only black days and darker cold nights. This fact hit me so hard, it was like a runaway train. He shattered the very core of my being. Would I ever be able to put all the fragmented shards back together? I was alone. Me, myself, and I. And on and on I plodded. The sweltering heat was oppressive. I felt so for long. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, laughter gurgled in my throat. Was this an unconscious reaction to the preposterous situation I was in? It was a tense, nervous laugh, a rugged sound that didn't quite harmonise with the stillness all around me. I had no need to stifle it. No one could hear me. My guffaw had caught me off guard. Was this sheer insanity? Had he finally succeeded in breaking my spirit? Had I become a bystander in my own life? And my strange laughter only accentuated my loneliness. How bizarre. How fucking bizarre. There was no sign of life in me. An empty shell. I was barely human. Robotic. An automaton. I was bereft and utterly alone. Sweat had formed on my upper lip, amplifying my panic. I was absolutely terrified. On and on I walked. The crunch of gravel underfoot was the only sound. The weight of my dire situation pressed down hard. I no longer desired this miserable existence. I was living with a very dangerous, volatile man. I needed to escape his clutches. I forced myself to concentrate. I had to think clearly and regain control of my life. First of all, I needed a plan. The idea of contacting the professional bodies who understood my situation now made sense. My mind went into overdrive. When I got home, I would find the list of organisations that help people like me. This was a step in the right direction. I deserve support. I deserve a life. This is not your fault, my inner voice screamed. I am a victim of domestic violence. Oh, I fucking hate that word victim. As soon as the words formed in my lips, I was overcome with such shame that my eyes filled with unwanted tears. I angrily pushed them away. This is not your fault. You have nothing to be ashamed of, the voice in my head continued. I had to confront the reality of my life. Asking for help was brave. It's a sign of strength, not weakness. Guide me to a clearer mindset, I begged. My strides were now more confident. And I had a quiet determination about me. Positive thoughts exploded like atoms in my brain. I'm leaving him. I'm leaving him, I told the road ahead. I scanned the horizon and I looked into the future without him. A tiny smile started across my sad face. Conviction was setting in. I would no longer be a prisoner of his abusive, unstable and cruel mood swings. Enough is enough. I just won't tolerate it. I simply won't. I've had enough. Oh, that old chestnut, one of the voices laughed. Haven't I just heard that one before? Oh, shut up, shut up, I said. I removed my invisible blindfold. and I could see clearly for the first time in a long time. My chains of sadness and sorrow no longer chained me. Unbound and unafraid, my spirit soared. In my mind, I once again made plans to leave him. I'm really leaving him this time. A kaleidoscope of assorted emotions coursed through my aching body. I imagined scenarios and future confrontations, and on and on I walked. Butterflies were swarming in my tummy. The warm summer wind whipped at my fine wispy wet hair. I felt moisture drip down my spine. My throat was dry. I was parched and I desperately needed to quench my thirst. And now I was on the final leg of this long journey. I'd been walking for over two hours with little or no shade in the blazing sun. I was exhausted. Up and up the long and winding road I trudged. As I put my key in the door, the dog squealed delightfully at my return. As I walked through into the kitchen there he was already seated at the table beer in hand. Where have you been? Can I get you a drink? Shut up and sit down I ordered him. but this was only in my head. My emotions were all over the place. Just when I'd been on the brink of breaking the shackles, freeing myself from his control and manipulation, my determination and resolve waned yet again. I felt trapped within the confines of my gilded prison. The thought of backing down into his systematic routine again felt terrifying. My reality resembled a barren desert. No oasis existed and no love and kindness grew here. Memories blazed through my mind like reels of a long-forgotten film playing on repeat, repeat. My poor, tormented heart was an overfilled balloon. teetering on the brink of bursting with unexpressed emotions. Anger and sadness, longing and hope collided within me. I felt lost and overwhelmed yet again. I understood that it was okay to feel this way, that these emotions, wild, tangled and fiercely overwhelming. I realised I was in mourning. I was mourning the death of our relationship. I was mourning the fact that he did not love me or even like me. I was mourning the love that was mostly in my head. I was mourning the tomorrows, the adventures and the memories that never would be. Thank you for listening to this episode of Sleepless in Granada. Please email me at sleeplessingranada at yahoo.com I would absolutely love to hear from you.