Pink Pajamas

I don’t know if I ever finished this.  As best as I can tell I was about 7.  For Christmas Eve I got a pair of footed pajamas.

I woke up in the middle of the night, freezing.  My dad was in there.  He had undressed me.  He was really aroused.  I think because that style of pajamas is for babies.  All of a sudden he had a baby to “play” with again.

I didn’t let him know I was awake.  I tried not to shiver too much.

Christmas morning, my mother comes in to wake me up and I was totally naked.  I don’t remember what she said to me but I remember the yelling.  I had no explanation for being out of my pajamas.  I learned long ago not to tell her.



2012 is a year for overcoming one phobia.  Dentists.  Nothing bad happened in the chair.  I think it stems from my father putting things in places they don’t belong on a child.

It’s taken me almost 20 years to do this.  I got nice drugs from Dr. P.  I was almost crying in his office yesterday.  Actually I was nearly in panic mode, but I tried my best to hide it.  No IVs for me just to get a dose of Valium.  He gave me Propropanolol.  It’s a BP med, but helps anxiety.

Most places open at 9.  I showed up at 9.  He didn’t open until 10.  At least the door was open.  I basically sat there crying silently for an hour.

But I made it through.  I’m having a dead tooth pulled next week and a temporary crown put on.  Then I’ll get a bridge for the four front teeth to get ride of the gaps.  I have the option of IV sedation, but given nurses’ success in inserting IVs lately, I think I’ll pass.  And he said if it was his wife, he would still recommend the local.  Good drugs Dr. P.  I’m going to need them.

I feel a huge sense of relief.  I’m still very anxious about going next week, but I think it’ll be easier to step in the door.  And I know it’s OK to cry.  Some doctors get all upset.  This guy (missed his name) just tried to talk me down from the ledge.

Part of it is feeling trapped.  Being in the chair is vulnerable.  You’re on your back, the table is over you.  Some guy has hands in your mouth.

But I did it.  And I have a feeling I’m going to need constant reminding of that.


I’ve been described as courageous.  Somehow I never associated that word with myself.  But, you know, maybe I am.  It takes a lot of guts to move to the other side of the globe where you don’t speak the language.

People have said it’s courage to live through what I’ve lived through.  No, I don’t think so.  That was pure survival.  I distinctly remember wanting to kill myself at 5.  That’s not courage, that’s just trying to stay alive in madness.  When asked about why I didn’t tell anyone, I didn’t know.  And I felt super guilty that I didn’t tell.  But I can see now it’s survival.  The abuse would have gotten worse and I can only imagine the punishment.

So now I have a life of my own.  My Christmas tree (small it may be) is up and so are the light.  I’m still in the tunnel, but closer to the other side.


You know, the river in Egypt.

This pink pajama stuff is really throwing me for a loop.  Fun flashbacks, panic attacks and all.  I can’t write it down.  I don’t know if it is because it was a part of a Christmas when I was still pretty young.  I just don’t know.

I’ve tried to go back and do some art, but it just makes me panic more.  Sadly, reading murder mysteries seems to calm me down.  Maybe next weekend I’ll get up to Seoul.  I can have them shipped, but there’s nothing like browsing in a bookstore.

Pink Pajamas

Woke up to my mother yelling “You little slut.  Why are you naked?  You’re going to get it tonight.”

Nice dream to wake up to after an early morning bout of insomnia.

Nearly 11 hours at work today.  I hope I can get out of bed in time to get to PT tomorrow.  I need to talk to Dr. K about something stronger for the pain, at least for the next couple days so I can get some decent rest.  I can’t get comfortable in my bed (and sharing a twin bed with two cats doesn’t make it any easier).

Pink Pajamas

Yes, again.  It’s in my dreams.  It’s in the back of my mind during the day.  I can feel what is being done, but I can see who.  It’s like I have blinders on.  I don’t think I literally had a blindfold on, that wasn’t any of my abusers’ MO.  I don’t know why I have this thing about knowing who it was.

It’s like hovering over my body, but I can’t see the surroundings.  I have no sense of scale.  I can’t tell how old I am.

This is eating at me.  I’ve tried the old trick of putting it in a box, but that’s never worked for me.

My panic levels are going up.  I’m going to take my  night meds and read some Patricia Cornwell.  Nothing like a good murder mystery to help you relax.


Sometimes I wish I had scars to show the abuse I went through.  I know that must sound like a horrible thing to say.  So much of the damage my parents (and grandparents and uncles) did was inside of me.  On the outside, I appear to be a normal functioning adult.  I get up, go to work, have friends.  All those things normal (whatever that is) people do.  But on the inside I’m crying out and bleeding.  Nobody can see it.  I can’t let anyone see it.  My closest friends know, but my coworkers don’t.  That’s not something you share with every Tom, Dick or Harry you meet.  Hi.  My name is KatM and I was abused.  Yes, that’s a lovely way to start a conversation.

There’s so much I’d like to say about this, but the words just won’t come.  I hope I haven’t offended anyone.  I realize there are so many people out there who do bear real physical scars of their abuse.  And it’s not my intention to offend.

*tries to extract foot from mouth now*

Not Pleasant

Part of the reason I hate going to the doctors is I hate having my personal space invaded.  I realize it’s a necessary part of it.  But I really hate going to the ENT.  Back story.  Last Tuesday I woke up with my uvula swollen up like a cherry.  In retrospect, it was kinda funny.  At the time, not so much.  So I went to my idiot GP who told me I had tonsillitis (funny seeing I had mine taken out as a teenager), gave me a bunch of pills, a shot and told me to drink warm water.  Korean doctors are obsessed with warm water, not just water, warm water.  I drank cold.  It felt better on my sore throat.  I also went out and bought a humidifier which definitely has helped with thing.

Friday,not being all that much better, I went to an ENT.  He’s a strange goose in his own regard.  I hate his chair and the damn head rest..  I hate how close he has to get to see.  Today really sucked.  He’s decided I have an acute sinus infection with really sticky mucus and post nasal drip.  Well, duh.  I could have told him that.  So he numbs up my throat and literally takes a little vacuum cleaner to it.  I get he wanted to get the junk out, but I eventually (like after 90 seconds) of this, pushed him away.  I couldn’t take it anymore.  I couldn’t breathe and I felt on the verge of panic.  Then to make things more fun, he took the same vacuum to my nose.  That wasn’t so bad.

I have really big issues with people doing stuff in my mouth.  Hence, my phobia of dentists.  Although it wasn’t one of my father’s favorite things to do, he did like oral sex.  I didn’t know what I was doing, but I know I hated it.  Just the thought of it makes me sick.

I have to go back to the ENT in 3 days.  I will definitely be taking some Valium beforehand.  Hopefully it will make it easier to deal with everything.


Have you ever found yourself obsessively listening to a song?  Why do I do this?  I was minding my own business listening to Martina McBride’s Greatest Hits album when Concrete Angel started playing.   I know this song gets to me.  I don’t know how it wouldn’t get to anyone, especially abuse surviors.  The story behind the song is heart breaking.  I think that’s what gets me the most.  Abuse by a drunken mother.  Nobody really trying to figure out what’s going on.  Hiding the pain.  And I realize that I could have ended up like the little girl in the story.

As I sit her typing this (and listening to the song for probably the 15th time) I’m crying.  I know in a way this is good.  I’m letting out the emotions I’ve been stuffing for so long.  But it hurts too.  I miss the days when I could just stuff it all.  I know it wasn’t healthy, but it worked.

Even though I made it out alive, the words “But her dreams give her wings and she flies to a place where she’s loved…” still apply.  I won’t say that my dreams involved living in Asia.  But I dreamed of getting a good education and getting out of that hell hole.  And I did.  Sometime I think the “geographic cure” isn’t the best way to cope with my life.  But it’s working for me for the moment.  And maybe that’s all that really matters.


Maybe I should quit listening to this sound.  It’s getting a little OCD now.

A Letter

April 26, 2008


I’m tired of stuffing my feelings. I’m tired of pretending that I don’t hate what you did to me. I’m tired of ignoring the insanity of my childhood.

Never was my life a bed of roses. I worked hard to get where I am today. And as sure as I am that I am a huge disappointment to you and Mom, that isn’t necessarily a reality. I’m trying harder to accept that there are people who think I’m good at my job. And it warms my heart when one of my students say “I love you, Teacher!”

It’s taken me a very long time to figure out that life is wroth living. I now realize I spent way too much time contemplating how to end my life. And it’s a miracle that I never tried to end it. When things got really bad, I was lucky to have people to turn to. I was extremely lucky to have J, P, J, R, L and Dr. M in college. I was just as lucky to have L and Dr. D in grad school.

I’m angry. I’m very angry. That’s a hard thing for me to say. All those years you taught me that being angry wasn’t okay. It was fine for you to be pissed off at the entire universe. But for me, I had to be the perfect little lady. I could never let my emotions show.

To this day, I’m never really sure what to do with my emotions. I’m trying, slowly but surely, to learn how to express my emotions safely and in a healthy way. It has been a huge challenge for me.

I don’t know how I feel about you. I know I hate your actions. But I don’t know if I hate you. I know I don’t love you. I don’t feel any sort of emotional attachment to you.

I don’t know whether to hate you or pity you. I’m quite certain horrible things were done to you when you were a child. But that isn’t an excuse for what you did to me. That isn’t a reason. You made the choices you made. No one made you follow the path you did. And now, I have to live with those choices.

The good thing that has come out of this is that I’ve made different choices than you made. I have broken the cycle abuse. My method may not be the healthiest, but it is effective. I have chosen to not have a family of my own. And even though that’s unthinkable for you, I know it’s the right choice for me.

It’s taken me a long time to finish this letter. At times, the emotions were just too much. I had to put them, and this letter, away for awhile. And even though it’s been slow, it’s been a huge step forward. I didn’t run away as I would have in the past. I persevered. Progress is progress, no matter how slowly it may be made.

And even though this has been hard, it’s taught me one thing. I am a stronger person than I give myself credit for.