The way I dealt with my trauma was by focusing solely on one thing; don’t let anyone know, or see what I am going through. That was literally the sole focus of my life for all the years my ex abused me. And yes, he was my ex when the abuse started.
I think that pinpoint focus is one of the major reasons why four years after it all ended, four years after he passed away, and I accepted that I’m happy that he’s dead, I’m still plagued by memories, flashbacks, nightmares and other effects which I’m not sure I even fully understand.
I used to be a dancer. I used to be sporty. I used to be active. Now I’m seriously lazy. No one who knew me when I was younger would ever imagine that I’d be the couch potato I am today. So how did I reach here? How did I lose interest in everything I used to love, how did I lose the desire to try anything and everything fun, active and exciting? Well, the answer, in many ways is simple. I was abused. Brutally. And that has consequences beyond the mental and emotional.
I remember the first time I felt my back hurt in a way which I knew wasn’t normal. He used to love making me stand and then would hit me, and my aim was to not fall. I would hold myself rigid, all muscles tight and he’d punch, hit, kick. Of course, he was smart enough to only choose places which would never arouse suspicion. Is there an abuser’s handbook which teaches men how to abuse and not have anyone know? Because he was not even 18 when this started. Which means he wasn’t an adult when he started abusing me.
But let me get back to my point… I remember the first time my back hurt in a way which I knew wasn’t normal. I was a dancer, you see. I could differentiate between normal and abnormal aches and pains. I was standing there, all my muscles tense and he said something… I don’t remember exactly what, but it distracted me from the goal of the evening – keep standing, don’t fall. And I fell. I absorbed the full impact of the punch, twisted and fell. But I was still rigid also… so the twist was awkward. It didn’t even hurt, but a sharp twinge shot up my back, and I think part of me knew that I should be worried about it. But I had different concerns back then.
So I did nothing. I continued dancing like nothing had ever happened, I continued playing the fucking games he had me trapped in. And I damaged my back more and more, till finally, I couldn’t dance properly anymore and finally got yelled at by my dance teacher to go to the doctor. A series of consultations later, I was on bed rest which lasted a good few weeks. I was told to take it easy, because though I had injured it too bad this time, my back was weaker, and if I had any more similar injuries, there was a chance (though I think it was a small one) of ending up in a wheelchair.
I did physiotherapy and other back strengthening exercises, and I was able to dance. But I had a weak back. I wasn’t even an adult yet, and I had a weak back. Slowly, I gave up the sports I used to play, lessening the load on my damn back. I chose to dance.
Now when I think back, I think a part of me died when I started giving up the other sports and activities I was involved in. I think that’s when my excitement for trying everything started weaning. I may not have been focused on it, but that’s when my mind started realising that I would be living with the consequences of what he put me through for the rest of my life. I developed a fear I never had before… how far would I be able to push myself, before my body would give up on me, and I’d be able to do nothing?
I know that depression causes lethargy, and drains energy and interest. But I think that giving up all that I did… I think that aggravated my depression. Cause and effect, and more cause and more effect; a circle with no beginning, no end.
I think I’m doing better now. I’m not solely focused on no one knowing. I’m kind of getting to know the traumatised, damaged, broken parts of me, and knowing that they are just parts. And my whole is greater than the sum of my parts. But sometimes when my back hurts more, or I notice other scars or old injuries start twinging and aching again, I find myself wondering how much happened naturally, and how much he helped along. I danced for most of my life till a certain point. Dancers have injuries. But how much of it was dance, and other sports, and how much was him? And how am I supposed to live with the constant consequences of HIS actions? How do I not let those consequences break me more and more and more?
There are consequences to trauma, which go beyond the physical, they go beyond the mental and emotional. Some consequences are just lifelong. Does that mean, to some extent, small or big as it may be, he won?