SAVE Yourself

A good friend recently told me that what he liked best about my writing was that it was not just about surviving sexual abuse, but about a sexual abuse survivor living life.  I remember my only thought at the time was, “Like I have a CHOICE?”

We survive, or we die.  There are many ways to die.  There are also many ways to live.

A little over four years ago, near the end of my chemotherapy, I was rushed to the Emergency Room with what had been an undetected pulmonary embola.  It was a big one, and it was just sitting there at the top of my pulmonary artery, waiting to head straight into my heart and kill me.   I woke up with doctors and equipment all around me, beeping and scurrying, not knowing what would happen next.  The nurse asked me what I wanted done if my heart stopped beating.  She assured me the question was just a formality, that they were going to take good care of me and I would live through this.  I might have even believed her, except that she asked me the question again a little later.  I remember saying, “Bring me back.  I still have so much to do.”

I had a DNR and a living will in place, but I wasn’t ready to go.  And it wasn’t my time, since the blood thinners worked and there was no need for any invasive surgery.

I have written in many places about the similarities between surviving sexual abuse and surviving cancer.  How both leave you wondering who you are.  I can remember when I first understood, in my early 40’s, that I had been sexually abused by a family member. It made me doubt my entire existence to that point.  Who am I, if this has happened to me, and I’ve been unaware of it?  How could I possibly be the person I thought I was?  And even if I still were that person, what do I do with this new information?

I have been surviving, and bleeding, and hanging in there, for over seventy years now.  How much time do I have left to continue the work I do?  Cancer could always come back.  And while my mother stayed mentally sharp and active into her 90’s, I can’t be positive that will be my story.  Most days I figure I have ten good working years left and that’s it.  Besides, I’m tired.  The world has been ignoring me, and the work I keep trying to do, for a lot of years now. 

Currently, I’m trying to cope with the disillusionment I’m feeling as I recognize that the podcasts, and the social media I worked so hard on these past few years, cannot continue unless I pour more and more resources into them.  Resources I don’t have.  I’m not talking about money here, because that I have.  I’m talking about time, energy, and optimism.  All of which I feel I’ve left behind.

So many times, whenever I started a new project, I convinced myself that somehow, someway, it would work out.  In fairy tales, rescues happen every day.  The hero rides in on a white horse and saves the damsel, princess, kingdom, whatever.  As a proud feminist woman, I rejected this notion some time ago.  I don’t buy lottery tickets.  I’ve never been to Vegas.  And I NEVER buy Disney princess merchandise for any of the little girls I send presents to.

But I can’t ignore the fact that the idea of being rescued still plays out in my life.  Is it an inevitable part of being a survivor?  Do we keep looking for a rescuer?  Wondering over and over again, is the night that someone in another room, or down the hall, will come in and make it stop?

What will it take to continue to survive my life?  What more can I learn, at this point, that will help me deal with the issues I face over and over again?

SHAME

ANGER

VOICELESSNESS

EXHAUSTION

Oh my God, that spells SAVE.  SAVE YOURSELF.  Because no one is going to do it for you.

Apparently I still have a lot to say.   Which I’ll “save” for my next posts.