Survivor Moms Speak Out

Cathleen's Story

2010-03-16T12:32:00.000-07:00

A therapist once asked me, “Why don’t you feel any anger or resentment toward your parents?” I didn’t have an answer for her except to say, “I remember so little.” What I do remember is shrouded in dreams and impressions. I do recall the self-destructive behavior I had during adolescence. I used drugs and alcohol recklessly from age 17 until I married at age 21. Sometimes I mixed very dangerous combinations. Apparently I never worried about overdosing. I don’t think I really cared. I must have been hurting, and using drugs to escape and numb my pain.

As a teenager I had always been afraid of boys and men, not really understanding why. I was very lonely and dated only occasionally, until I met Matt at age 19. I thought I was in love. Matt was also a drug abuser. When he insisted our relationship become sexual or he would leave, I gave in. I did not enjoy sex, but it was something I endured in order that my starving heart could be fed through relationship. Within weeks Matt left me and I never saw him again. I had opened my heart only to have it crushed.

I had been raised with two younger brothers in rural Michigan. One was 8 years younger, the other, Rusty, was two years apart from me. Within weeks after Matt left, Rusty, the only male person in my life I had ever been close to, died suddenly in an auto accident. I fell into a deep depression. But God knew the desperate state my heart was in, for a time of refreshing was just around the corner…Exactly six months after my brother’s death I met my future husband, Chuck. He knew how to make me laugh and he was a wonderful companion. He treated me with respect and seemed to really care. The depression lifted as our friendship grew. Most puzzling to me early in our relationship was that he never made any advances. Could it be he was really interested in me as person? I began to trust. We married shortly after my 21st birthday. I stopped abusing drugs, determined to leave the past behind.
The first seven years if our marriage we tried to conceive. I loved children and desperately wanted to have a baby. Chuck and I never saw a doctor about this because during the exam I had for the marriage license the physician told me that he didn’t think I’d be able to have children because my uterus was immature. For some reason this didn’t upset me too much. I just had a feeling that children would be a part of my life.

We moved to Florida, and two years later I found that I was in fact pregnant with our first child. We were overjoyed with the news, and immediately made plans to return to Michigan. Because of the crime and drug problem where we had been living, we did not want to raise a family there. Neither of us had jobs, and unfortunately Michigan was one of the hardest hit states in terms of the countrywide recession that was taking place. As hard as we tried neither of us could find work.

Our baby was due the first week in July. As time approached I became more and more fearful. I just couldn’t understand why.

On July 4th, as we were preparing our holiday celebration, I realized I was bleeding slightly. I knew I was having contractions that day, but I didn’t think much of it because I had been having false contractions for two months. About nine pm I realized that I was experiencing real labor. Instead of leaving to view the fireworks, Chuck and I went to the hospital. Shaun Benjamin was born at 1:25 am on July 5th.

The nurse brought me my breakfast. I ate and began a conversation with the new mom in the bed beside me. At noon I still had not asked to see my baby. Truthfully, I was frightened. I didn’t understand at the time that I was emotionally a child myself. The responsibility seemed overwhelming; I had no confidence in my ability to be a good mother. Finally a nurse brought Shaun in. She was very helpful in getting me started on breastfeeding. After getting through the first few days when I was sore, I began to really enjoy the bonding that formed between Shaun and I and the extra closeness I felt while breastfeeding my baby.

Chuck finally found a part-time job, and we moved again to be closer to his place of employment. This time we rented the lower level of an old Victorian house. I began a licensed day care to try to help out. Chuck’s unemployment had run out. We got some food stamps to help with the groceries. I loved being a mother. I believe now that my self-worth became wrapped up in being a good mom.

The economy got worse and worse. When Shaun was 18 months old, our landlord discovered we were operating a day care and shut us down. That same month Chuck lost his job. We suddenly had no income at all. Our hearts sank. This is when I really began searching spiritually. I had always believed there was a God, but I didn’t KNOW Him and I wanted to. What was the truth about God? There were so many opinions and religions. I started by praying and asking God to reveal Himself to me. Then I picked up a bible translation that I could understand and read a chapter every night in the New Testament. After I had gotten thought it I had the opportunity to go to a bible-based church service, and afterwards asked to pray with the pastor. I told him I wanted to follow Jesus, and through Him know God, and he led me in prayer. I surrendered my heart and life that night in prayer. Immediately I felt a warm spiritual presence fill me up from head to toe. God knew that I needed this tangible touch to know that He heard.

During the next month Chuck also made a commitment to the Lord in prayer. We began to feel directed to sell everything except what could fit in the back of our Ford and go back to Florida. As we were preparing to do this I discovered I was pregnant with our second child. We reached Orlando and stayed with friends. Within two weeks Chuck had three job offers to choose from. Moving back was a big step of faith for me, because I didn’t want to live there. I was learning to trust God.

Chuck and I moved into an apartment shortly after he received his first check. It was difficult for me to find an obstetrician because we were not covered by health insurance. Finally I did. I went into labor November 1st at 3:00 am. By 10:00 am I decided it was time to phone my doctor. After examining me, he sent me straight to the hospital. I was already more than halfway dilated.

Leia Lorraine was born at ten minutes past noon. Unfortunately her birth was an unpleasant experience. My doctor seemed to be in a very big hurry. Even though I had only been pushing for about 15 minutes, he impatiently “helped” by pushing on the baby’s head through my rectum to speed the process. Then he pulled the placenta out by the cord instead of waiting for it to be birthed naturally. I felt violated at the time. Now I understand much more than I did why the experience traumatized me.

Within a few weeks of giving birth to Leia I began experiencing postpartum depression. This was much more severe than the normal blues moms get. I became physically weak with it to the point that I slept almost constantly and couldn’t function well enough to properly care for my children. By the time Leia was four months old someone from our church was coming over every day to care for the kids and me. My doctor could find nothing physically wrong. Our HMO would not refer me to any specialists. I had been having a loose green stool for almost two months. I was so weak I could barely stand for more than 15 minutes at a time. In addition I felt like I was losing my mind. I was frequently gripped by panic attacks. One morning I was determined to get up and dress the kids before the helper got to the house. I succeeded in doing that, and just as I finished the helper knocked on the door. I let her in with my last bit of strength and collapsed on the couch. Suddenly I felt very strange, like every ounce of energy in my body was leaving my limbs and rushing to my vital organs. I asked the lady who had come to help to call the paramedics. When they reached me I was unable to move from the neck down. After some time in the emergency room on an IV, I was able to move again. I was admitted to the hospital and spent a whole month there.

Leia had to be weaned immediately. I was crushed by this, and the necessary separation from Shaun and Leia. I was also very frightened because no one seemed to understand what was causing my symptoms. I saw many different specialists and had many tests. The neurologist thought I was suffering from a severe postpartum episode. My HMO doctor told me that if that was the problem then I’d “get over it” by myself. I was also diagnosed with an intestinal parasite and placed on medication for that. A whole year passed before I felt like myself again. I can’t really say how much of my ordeal was due to the effects of my sexual abuse, but I wonder… I was so frightened by what happened to both my mental and physical health after Leia was born that I chose not to have any more children, even though I wanted more.

When Leia was fifteen months old we made a move back to my beloved hometown in Michigan, and both found jobs shortly thereafter. Life went on, and seemed pretty normal to me. By late summer of 1988, I had been happily married (or so I thought) for 14 years. I was raising two children, whom I dearly loved. My son, Shaun, was age seven. He was a compliant child with (for the most part) an I-want-to-please-Mommy attitude and a brightness to his countenance so much of the time that his babysitters called him “Smiley.” Shaun did lack self-confidence in his ability to learn anything new and became frustrated very easily. His favorite words in his early years were “I can’t do it!” My number one family goal was keeping the peace. So more often than not, I would do it for him, rather than listen to his arguments or complaints. Little did I understand then, that my way of coping with the situation was adding to Shaun’s low self-esteem and lack of self-confidence. We were soon to discover that part of Shaun’s problem was due to Attention Deficit Disorder, without hyperactivity, which made the problem less obvious.

My daughter Leia, age four, was definitely more of a challenge, with her strong-willed, take-charge personality. She was a beautiful child with an innocent melt-your-heart expression. She had plenty of kisses and “bear-hugs” for me to make up for the times of trial. There were many times I just could not let her have her way and the peaceful atmosphere I tried to build in our home was temporarily disrupted. Whenever possible, though, I would let her have her way, and at a very young age she learned that she could manipulate and control. Her dad reinforced this behavior, because he modeled it every day.

I had been operating a day care in our home for two years. It was a group daycare home, which allowed me to have up to twelve children, and required me to have at least one employee to help me when seven or more children were present. I was working from 5:30 am to 6:00 pm Monday through Friday, and much of my weekends were spent doing bookkeeping, cleaning, menu planning and grocery shopping for the daycare.

I had started my business so that I could be home with my own children. The irony was that I was there physically, but I had very little time or emotional energy fro them. My husband worked fulltime. Our finances were tight, but we were making ends meet.

No, I couldn’t complain about my life. We had moved three years prior back to my beloved hometown in rural Michigan from Florida. So why did I feel so fearful, depressed and exhausted? These feelings seemed to overtake me quite suddenly. I could find no obvious reason for the emotions I was experiencing.

Toward the end of that summer, I felt so stressed, I could no longer handle disciplining the children and left that up to my employee, while I did jobs like cleaning, diapers, outdoor supervision, and answering the phone.

I had always struggled with making friends. It seemed that no one outside my immediate family took an interest in getting to know me and my perception was I was not pleasant to be around or likeable. Consequently, it was very difficult to reach out to others, because I expected rejection. Deep inside I had always struggled with feelings of inferiority, shame, guilt, worthlessness, and fear. I remember feeling very lonely. I had no close friends, only acquaintances from the church we had been attending the last three years.

I did have a very strong faith. I prayed about an hour every day, just talking to God and reading scripture. In various ways He always seemed to answer my prayers. I knew God was there for me—He was, in fact, my best friend. If it weren’t for my relationship with Him I know without a doubt I would never have made it through the next six years, nor would I be here to tell my story today.

As autumn approached Shaun began first grade and Leia was starting a pre-K class three days a week. I still had plenty of daycare children to keep me busy.

Toward the end of September a lot of grief and deep emotional pain began surfacing. It felt like I had fallen off an emotional cliff. I would weep for hours at a time. This went on daily for three weeks. Then suddenly I felt numbness. Although there was an overall depression and heaviness, I couldn’t cry. I wasn’t sleeping much, either. It would take me at least an hour to fall asleep, then I would awaken about two or three hours later, unable to go back to sleep, though I would try. I’d lay awake until dawn. I was unable to nap during the day because of the daycare. My stomach began to hurt constantly. I couldn’t eat even small amounts of food without pain. My appetite became nearly non-existent.

I fasted, I prayed, and I hired more help for my daycare. But my symptoms persisted. I became withdrawn, making it only to church and back twice a week. I lost weight rapidly, returning to the weight I had been as a young teen, a mere waif. Every day I cried out to God, not understanding why I was in such pain.

I began having difficulty with my short-term memory and it became very difficult to concentrate on anything. Even comprehending what I read was hard. I would have to read a sentence several times before I understood. The things I usually enjoyed doing, such as gardening and spending special time with the kids, became joyless. The fatigue continued to the point that it was difficult to get through an ordinary day. I craved rest…and yet, I couldn’t sleep.

During all this Chuck, my husband, had never expressed concern over my depression or prayed for me. I felt hurt and rejected. One day I approached Chuck to talk. This was after many previous attempts to communicate my concerns about my emotional well-being and the poor health of our relationship. I told him I needed some time to share my thoughts and feelings. His response was one of irritation and putting me off as usual. I lost control, feeling suddenly in a rage. I picked up the phone and threw it across the room, and then stomped in the bedroom yelling, “I hate you!” I pounded my fist on the door until it hurt, and then fell into a heap on the floor, sobbing, “God, what am I going to do? There’s a monster inside of me!” I was shocked at the rage that surfaced. How could I not have known it was there? I felt fearful, and unworthy of my own husband’s time, care, and attention. I was completely unlovable and hopeless, I thought. I hated myself and I hated Chuck for not being there for me. At that moment I felt utterly alone. My mental and physical health, along with my marriage, was shattering all around me.

One morning after spending time in prayer I laid my head back down on the pillow. In less than a minute I felt totally paralyzed, unable to move or speak. Suddenly I heard voices, a lot of them talking to me all at once. I could not understand what they were saying, but one of them seemed to be shouting. During this time, I was struggling desperately to move, but could not. Then the voices stopped, and I was immediately able to sit up.

It was at this point that I realized it was critical that I get help. What ensued for the next seven years was very difficult. I was diagnosed with a bio-chemical depression and hospitalized for it for three weeks in the fall of 1989. I began regular therapy and was put on anti-depressant medication to help correct the neuro-chemical imbalance.

Chuck and I went into long-term marriage counseling to work on our relationship, which we came to realize was often emotionally abusive and controlling on his part, and co-dependant and enabling on my part.

A woman from the church I was attending reached out to me to befriend me and support me. With the help of my new friends and my pastor I made meaningful steps toward healing relationally and spiritually. For a time I began feeling better, but in 1992a torrent of emotions, hopelessness, despair, fear, worthlessness and self-hatred began surfacing. It so took over my mind, that my thinking was no longer rational. It was as if there were two wills/personalities inside of me. One was the Cathy I knew. The other was pushing for self-destruction. I was so weary from the internal battle that ensued, that three separate times a sense of giving up took hold of me. At these times I was suicidal, even going so far as making plans. However, each time God intervened to prevent me from carrying out those plans. This all led to my second hospitalization in 1992.

Through therapy, prayer, and a series of dreams, which I believe to be inspired by God, I came to an understanding of my history as a survivor of sexual abuse. The emotions and self-destructive thinking that was surfacing were the feelings I had locked up and repressed as an abused child.

My healing was strengthened and furthered by two very meaningful trips to Mexico and one to the Ukraine, all of which were made possible by God even though difficult financial times made it seem impossible.

Sexual abuse has affected every area of my life: physically through stress factors, emotionally, mentally (wrong-thinking), relationally (inability to trust or feel worthy of being loved), and spiritually. Healing had to be pursued in each area. It has been a long, painful journey. Frequently I was overwhelmed, and close to giving up. But my faith in the Lord, along with extensive counseling, has gotten me through.

I realized after piecing together my fragmented memories of my childhood that I had had several perpetrators, beginning with a babysitter in my preschool years. It seemed I was unable to protect myself throughout my life. When I was in my mid-twenties I was molested (touched inappropriately) during a job interview. I was absolutely frozen with fear. I could not move. Afterwards I couldn’t understand why I had been so completely unable to protect myself.

A very important insight discovered during counseling was that a picture I had chosen of myself to best represent my “inner child” was of me at age four and ten months old – the exact age (I was to discover later) that my daughter was when all of my symptoms of depression first surfaced in the fall of 1988. Somehow Leia reaching the age I had been when the abuse began was triggering for me.

I began to understand that the inner child, the part of me that was hurting so, was in fact my deepest inner being; the part of me that feels deeply, needs, and loves. It is not only my feelings, but in fact the creative part of me, the part where self-expression flows. As a child I had been hurting so much that I effectively cut off that part of my soul; numbing, repressing, and burying everything there. As a developing teen, I must have been so terrified of discovering memories that would have confirmed my degradation and vulnerability, that I subconsciously tried to put to death “Little Cathy,” numbing and silencing every part of my wounded heart in a desperate attempt to escape fear, to be “okay”, and to fit in. It was at this time of my life that denial and the locking-up and burying of my emotions/creative nature had been set in stone in order for me to survive the teen years and beyond. I remember reading a scripture that spoke to my heart like a command when I had been suicidal in 1992: “Guard your heart for it is the wellspring of life.” (Proverbs 4:23) Instead of guarding my heart I had been trying to destroy it.

As I healed, my creative expression emerged as a fine artist. I have always loved fine art, but never developed my talent, because of the creative block that was there. I was inspired to draw upon seeing a picture of a toddler from one of the mission trips to the Ukraine, and subsequently drew many images of the children I personally encountered while there. I was able to identify emotionally with them; the pain and need reflected in their expressions. My talent and love for fine art became unlocked through these drawings. Expressing myself in this way became an important part of my healing process.

Toward the end of therapy I had a very significant dream. I felt God was giving me a word picture of the inner-workings and influence of evil both in the world and in the hearts of men:

There was a war going on. I did not see anyone fighting or any weapons around, but I knew there were two sides battling, and one was very evil. It was not clear to me if this battle was taking place in the physical or spiritual realm – I think both. Anyway, the two sides lived among each other.

In the center of the town there was a lake. I found myself at the bottom of the lake and saw there the beautiful, innocent faces of very young children and babies. The “evil side” had anchored them there, and I realized these were the children of the side that was not evil. The children were alive, peering at me with big eyes and helpless-looking faces. I realized they would soon drown. (I could not help them – it was as if I was looking on the scene, but not actually there.) Then I saw one of them suddenly break loose from his anchor and shoot up to the surface. He gasped for air at the top, but I knew he was too young to swim and that he would soon drown.

After that I found myself on shore, gazing at a man who was in a small booth with an open window. He was the gatekeeper for the lake. Anyone wanting to use the lake or have access to it for any reason had to pay a fee. He was not evil. I approached him, perplexed, and asked, “Why are you allowing the evil ones to use this lake? Don’t you know they are using it to destroy the children of your own people?”

He responded, “If they pay the fee like everyone else, what can I do?” But I could tell he was distressed at my question.

Then a woman walked up. She was heavy-set, maybe about 40-50 years old and well dressed. She looked very harmless, but I knew she represented those who were on the side of evil. She came up to the booth’s window, wanting to pay the fee for access to the lake. The gatekeeper knew whom she was, and that she was intending to anchor more children at the bottom.

The gatekeeper decided to raise the fee to such a ridiculous price that he was sure she would not pay. He wrote the fee on his register – one million, six hundred thousand and some odd dollars. She pulled out a wad of money and began counting it out, as if to say, ‘No problem, money is no object.’

When the gatekeeper saw that she could and would pay the fee, he became very frightened and convicted to take a stand. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I can’t allow you to use the lake!”

“But you agreed to this amount,” the lady replied. “You’ve written it on the register beside my name! This is a legal contract – you can’t change the terms now!” She was very intimidating and persistent. Despite his convictions, the man gave in and allowed her to have her way with the lake and the children of his people.

The children represent the young, innocent, and vulnerable ones. We were all at this place when we first came into this world. There is evil in the world, which seeks destroy and corrupt each of us. Through exposure to evil (including abuse) we are anchored at a place (in our hearts) that will threaten to destroy each of us, if we do not seek help. As children we are helpless, but as adults WE ARE NOT, although we may still feel that way. However, we are still vulnerable, because our boundaries have been shattered by abuse. Boundaries are an individual’s gatekeeper, effectively keeping evil out, but opening up one’s life and heart to let good in, thereby allowing loving, nurturing relationships in one’s life. In this way, we “guard our hearts” without closing our hearts. We learn how to love and persevere through difficult times, but we also learn to discern evil (evil is very deceptive and persuasive, as was the lady in the dream) and protect our hearts from evil’s destruction and treachery. EVIL IS THE ENEMY, and works in the hearts of men and women. If we do not effectively battle it, we become like the gatekeeper in the dream – an enabler to evil.

How then can we help ourselves? First, admit that the damage done in our hearts by whatever abuse or evil that has impacted our lives and understand that we cannot heal without help. We have a choice; remain in the prison we have built around our hearts (which robs us of joy, love, and relationships, and finally our health and our very life), or break out of our denial and seek diligently for help and healing. Go to God, however you understand Him. See your doctor, a counselor, get involved in group therapy, all the while remain teachable (if you are prideful you will not be teachable) and seek God for direction. Above all seek a relationship with God, ask Him to purify your heart and be honest with yourself about the damage done in your heart and how it is currently affecting your life, health, and relationships.

LET YOURSELF FEEL AND GRIEVE. This is very healing. You suffered the loss of your innocence and childhood. The abuse was not your fault. Validating the cries of your heart being expressed through your grief will allow you to release the pain you have carried, in many cases since childhood. Make a choice to forgive yourself and those who’ve sinned against you, but only after you understand the scope of the damage done. Otherwise the forgiveness you offer will be cheap.
The road of healing can be very long, but persevere and you will find one day that you have become a new person, and you are free. Your relationships will change, you will be better able to love and allow yourself to be loved. Life will become an adventure of the heart, rich in growth and meaning. Draw close to God, and He will draw close to you, forever guiding you on your journey.

(Cathleen includes the following poem, written for her by her sister-in-law during a difficult time along her healing journey.)

The Little Girl

The little girl lay deep inside, hidden from all, from view.
The grown up girl that showed her face, that was the one that everyone knew.
For a long time she laid deep inside, too fearful to come out.
But through God’s healing power that change is coming about.
That change is hard – it hurts – it’s terrible.
Sometimes you think you can’t go on.
But God’s Son had given you the power.
Your victory is already won.
I see you in the future, standing straight and tall.
I see you strong and able – No longer weak and small.
I see the smile that once lay hidden, way deep down inside.
I see for you, a new awareness. A brand new sense of pride.
I see a confidence that once wasn’t there, that has banished all the old fears.
A confidence that has been fought long and hard for, at the expense of many tears.
But the victory – OH, SWEET VICTORY – will be there for you to claim.
Because the God of all Gods is reaching down to help you, as you call upon His name.
I see a time in the future when that little girl will find release.
At last she’ll know happiness – be strong – and know true peace.

May God bless you, Cathy, as you come to know and cherish the beautiful little girl that lies within.

NOTE: A limited edition of the print at the start if this post can be found on E-Bay under "Ukanian Baby" limited edition print or "Tribute to the Ukraine"
which is the title of the drawing.

Karin's Story

2010-02-16T08:00:00.000-08:00

I am a survivor of multiple traumas. I was sexually assaulted multiple times as a teenager starting at age 12. I told no one for 20 years…the healing has been slow. In college, I lived in the highlands of Guatemala and was there when an earthquake measuring 7.5 on the Richter scale occurred. Over 3,500 people in the town where I was living, including all of my neighbors died. The village only had a population of 10,000. I stayed to help reconstruct the town. Several years later I returned to find the death squads “disappearing” people from their beds as they slept and taking people off buses never to be seen again. From my Mayan friends I learned how important it is to laugh, to dance and to cry together when all seems to be dark.

Birth. I stood in the shower shaking and crying and with each contraction there was an even greater release. It was as if the earthquake were passing through my entire body. I was not fearful, it was healing. The energy was so strong it was all I could do to hold back…to wait until it was time to push. Finally, I was ready. I found a calm place deep inside and with everyone gathered around I slowly and quietly birthed my sweet baby...life not death.

Post traumatic stress disorder… it comes and it goes. It taps my shoulder and sends shivers of fear throughout my being, making me want to run, to protect myself and my children. It comes at both expected, and unexpected times. My experiences have given me strength and a deep sense of purpose. I have faced my own death and know that I am still here for a reason; I have important work to do…a reason for living. My experiences have helped me to put things in perspective. I am quite tolerant of life’s little trials and tribulations because in the bigger picture they simply are not very important.

Mothering. I think my life’s experiences have made me a patient mother. I take time to really enjoy my children, my work, and my garden. My children are still young – ages 10 and 12. I try to involve my children in our community in ways that make them feel empowered. We have adopted a creek and have joined other families to create a children’s wet meadow. I hope that being with people who care about making the world a better place will balance the pain and violence that also exists and will help them be resilient, purposeful and joyful people.

Holly’s Story

2010-02-09T07:57:00.000-08:00

My husband and I chose to have a homebirth with a midwife and a doula. The labor was progressing quickly and my midwife explained that I was almost at 10 cm. I was excited that I would begin to push soon but then the contractions changed. The contractions became shorter and fewer. My midwife checked the dilation after about one hour and I had gone from almost 10 cm back to 6 cm. I did not realize this was even possible and I was upset by this. My midwife explained that this was most likely due to some fear I was experiencing and to try to let it go. I did not feel I was consciously aware of any fears I may be experiencing and the labor continued to slow down. My midwife appeared annoyed and she became persistent that the change in dilation was due to some fear inside of me. This was troubling to me because I felt she was blaming me for the change in the dilation, and I felt she was being pushy about her belief that this was due to fears inside me.

She seemed to be getting frustrated with me and said, “This most likely is due to the abuse from your past, you need to let it go.” This statement was extremely upsetting to me. The abuse I experienced had been told to my midwife in private and she said this comment in front of a doula whom I had chosen not to tell. Breaking this confidentiality made me feel even more vulnerable than I was already feeling. I was also very angry that the abuse I experienced was being discussed during the stress of labor. The reminder of the abuse added stress to an already stressful situation. It also seemed to be taking traumatic events in my life and making it into something casual, that I could just let go of so easily.

After the birth I began to notice many symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, which I have experienced in the past. I could not eat, I was having nightmares, I was hypervigilant, and very irritable. I would think often about my labor experience and would feel angry towards my midwife. I decided I needed to confront her on how I was feeling. I explained to her exactly how I was feeling and how I felt during the labor. She was very apologetic and explained to me why she was frustrated during my labor. Confronting my midwife helped with many of the post-traumatic stress symptoms I was having. I felt that I took control of a situation that was feeling out of control.

Tina's Poems

2010-01-25T08:13:00.000-08:00

Out of Clouded Waters

Water pools
where long have
hidden my truths.
Dusty fragments of past
gather there and settle.
I keep the pond still,
ringless
until calm is lost
under storm of day to day.

She rises from the water,
thread-bare and stained
dusty.
Her child-eyes
knowing always too much
but never of herself.
Never knowing of her innocence, long stolen
irretrievable.

I stare at her through watery eyes,
Mourn our unity,
our separateness.
Touch her with arms made strong from
past submersions of her
Past drownings.

But this time I pull her to me
our wet skins touch
we lay in the warmth
of our self.
And feel the rains crash down.

burn scars
are forever in healing
even under the coolest of touches.

On starry winter nights
when your cool hand rested on my face,
our delicious fever pitched

until my eyes closed, fleeing
the intensity
of us.

did you know I had been burned
by other fires long, long ago?
sacrificed on altars
of child-lust
and
bereft of all
but to burn and bleed innocence
onto cold ground.

Your cool hands ignited me
and together we were hotter than I could stand.

burn scars are forever in healing...
but
yours were not hands to heal me
but to set me afire
all the rest of my starry nights.

I re-enter resting body
eyes open wide
and he is there.

Grinning his toothy fascination
riding as on a forbidden rollercoaster
and I am the child-ride.
Panic rises
fear of the descending
contorted brow of
Mother-rage.

His red face swallows
squinting eyes
rolling inward
rolling upward
leaving only clenched teeth.
The ride is almost over
and
I once again retreat inward
downward

Later, she shows her pinched-up
face (mad mother face)
to me. Eyes flee downward in shame.
Fear of discovery.

I anxiously await my escape into
privacy
The protection of my own silence
where anger and hatred
love and hope
Are returned to my ownership
and write themselves incomprehensibly
on my forehead.

Her lifetime was lived
while her mother lay sleeping
cradled
in Denial's arms

Girlhood whispers
and feather touches
could not wake her.
Scent of bitter-coffee
adolescence
and still her mother dreamed.

Silently, resigned
she left for other warmth

When the sleep
became forever
she held tears inside
for warmth.
Rocked back and forth
back and forth
wrapped in her mother's solaces.

I live my life while
my mother lays
sleeping.

Beginning fresh
every day
to raise them up,

She brushes golden hair
in long strokes through
earthy smelling bristles.
Dips into white water fountains
to smooth their tangles
Breathes in deep,
conjuring
the long-gone smell of
milky flannel.

She weaves her tapestry
with their sun spun hair
inserting beads of her
own soul;

a cloak of green and gold finery
in which to wrap them.

For one day, they will
walk the river’s shores alone

panning for her soul

And finding that pebble
of living green,

They will become
one with the river.

tedi’s story

2010-01-14T13:41:00.000-08:00

For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son. (John 3:16)

“You were so ugly the nurses in the hospital called you Monkey. I called you Peanut. I felt so sorry for you when you were born, you didn’t even weigh five pounds. I always felt responsible for that. I didn’t want to be pregnant. Your father and I were not getting along at the time and I was going to leave him. So much did I want to leave him that I even tried to abort you three times. Thank God it didn’t work though because as it turned out I loved you the best.”

This is how I was welcomed into the world. I do not know how old I was when I first became conscious and aware of what had been said to me all my time on this earth. I can tell you that when I figured out the meaning of those words (those words and so many others just like them) I felt pure rage for the woman who gave birth to me.

I was born in 1944 when my brother was four. I remember almost nothing of him until I was much older. My dad was in the navy and so he didn’t live with us on a regular basis until I had been alone with my mom much too long. All I can remember is being told how hard she had it, how everybody in dad’s family hated her because she was from the wrong side of the tracks. “They hate you too cause you’re a girl and girls don’t count in this family.” Dad’s brother had nine girls trying to have a boy baby because his brother did. He drank, and abused them all.

Mom would say to me over and over, “Don’t worry, I love you. Momma loves her sad unwanted little baby best. I’ll never let anybody hurt you, never! You’re mine and nobody else will ever have you or hurt you.” She told me she liked to call me her china doll. She told me my skin was so white and see-through that she could count the veins all over my body. My hair was also white and she said she used to love to wash it and keep me clean. She would keep me safe forever. She would keep me safe from men, from the world, from all things evil and bad. Nothing bad would ever happen to me, she wouldn’t let it. She kept me with her at all times after I was born and at the same time if she had had her way, I would have never been born. I can never remember being held lovingly or being loved.

As I have studied to understand what is wrong with me, I see what I am saying is true. Neither of my parents was capable of loving. As a child I had a saying in my head about my mom. It went, “Mothers eat their young.” Imagine my surprise when I grew up and learned that some species actually do!

My mom used to sit me down in a chair from time to time and tell me she hated me. She would say, “I hate you, tedi, I do all I can for you and it is still not enough. You hate me too. You must. You never want to help me. You are hateful, you are willful, and you have always been ungrateful. God, I don’t know what I am going to do with you, you never cooperate with anything, you fight everything I try to do for you. I really hate you.”

One day when she sat me in the chair, in order to stop her flow of words, as soon as she started with “I hate you tedi” I said with all my force, “Well momma I hate you too.” She never did that to me again, but it was too much for me. When I got to my room I beat and beat and beat on myself, my legs, my stomach, and then my head. I beat my head because it would not shut up. It kept saying over and over, “I hate you too momma, I hate you too momma.” Then I crawled into my closet with my pillow to be safe but instead I placed the pillow over my face and screamed and screamed while beating my head against the wall. When I was exhausted I crawled into bed and passed out.

I attempted suicide when I was ten by taking a bottle of thirty aspirins, expecting not to be able to ever wake up again. The intent to die was very definite then. The next morning I was very surprised to have to get up and get dressed to go to school. Not only was I still alive but also my ears rang for a week. It was as if my head was inside a seashell, with the sound of the sea in my ears and my head in a big barrel. I believe it was soon after I had told my mother I hated her. I could not stand having said that to her.

Once when my sister and I were much older, were doing the dishes together, dad was drunk and told us that he always liked to put his mouth on us between our legs when we were babies. He told us how he loved kissing on us there, we were so small, innocent and sweet smelling. I can tell you we were not when he finished with us.

My sister is the only other person I can remember trying to help and to love decently until I was able to have much healing in my spirit, mind, soul, and body. One time when we were kids I was told to watch her for a brief period of time between our parents coming and going. At some point I had told her to do something, and she gave me a sharp “no!” and I proceeded to chase her through the house with a hairbrush. When I rounded the corner into the kitchen chasing her, dad had her in his arms and she was clinging to him as if her life depended on it. I did not even know he was in the house. He was always there when you had no idea he was anywhere around. I remember looking at them and thinking, “Dear God, I’m just like my mother.” Nobody said anything, and I went into the bathroom and threw up. I don’t know what made me sicker, what I had wanted to do to my sister with that brush or seeing her in my dad’s arms. He was drunk and I was fearfully thinking, “Is he doing to her what he’s doing to me?”

I believe from that time on I knew I was not mother material. I began then and there asking God not to let me have any children. I meant it. Between the abuse I had taken and there never being enough of anything to go around, not food, not clothing, not things and especially not good love, I did not want to be responsible for bringing a child into this world. I didn’t think the world was a very safe place.

My dad only sexually abused me once while I was old enough to do anything about it. He treated me like his wife and my mother encouraged it. I can’t say which one of my parents I hated most. The incident was in the summer between seventh and eighth grade, the night before going back to school. The summer was over, and I had managed to stay out of trouble, but I was very lonely and could hardly wait to get back to school. After my dad molested me. What had been eagerness to return to school turned into a living nightmare. I could not break through that haziness, that heaviness, the black cloud that I had awakened to the first day of the eighth grade. I was at school, had no idea how I arrived there, stumbling around in the halls, trying to find my home room, being bumped and pushed by other kids trying to change classes and find their rooms. At school that year I just sat in class, did not even try to be there and was pretty much left alone as I recall. I went through two eighth grades, and almost two ninth grades that way, never being present.

I quit school at sixteen, halfway through the year. I really did try to keep house and be some kind of person, it didn’t work though. Dad was always there drinking, mom was never satisfied still. I couldn’t get anywhere this way, and I knew it. All I can ever remember wanting was a home of my own. I was more miserable than ever so when school started up the next year, I went back. There I was seventeen and in the ninth grade (starting school at the age I did I should have been a senior); but I couldn’t afford to care about that, at least I was out of the house. I never have finished school or gotten my GED.

About this time, my mom and I went to a Lutheran church in the neighborhood for a while. I sang in the choir and had a good time. I loved the lightness going and doing at church made in me. I loved taking communion. Mom received a letter with a red hand on it saying she needed to give more money, and she never went back. I went some more but soon ran away to get married. I had met a boy by the name of Keith while in the second ninth grade. He came over to the house a couple of times until dad forbade him to come back. I didn’t even know him, but he spoke to me a few times, I liked that. He also took me to choir practice a couple of times. It was getting close to the end of the school year and since dad had forbidden me to see him again and I wanted out, when Keith asked me to go to Georgia with him and get married I did. We certainly didn’t have to get married. I had never even been tempted to have sex with him or anybody for that matter. (My way to have sex was with myself and nobody else, that way I thought I had all my problems solved around my sexuality.) I did not know that way was a sin also. I did not know sex and sexual things were optional. After we were married I did go back to school and pick up my report card. I had passed, and that made me feel really good.

The first night Keith and I were married and together to have sex I told him, “I don’t care what you do to me, just don’t get me pregnant.” Within three months I went to the doctor for feeling sick to my stomach and he told me I was pregnant. I was honestly shocked and furious. I had never even been on a real date, and now I was going to have a baby. I remember telling the powers that be I would try to love and keep a girl, but if I had a boy, I would not even try to raise him. I would let Keith and his family raise him. I had a girl.

When I married him the uproar in the family was terrific. Finally it was decided, (by my mom, dad and brother sitting around the table discussing me as though I was not there) that they as well let the marriage stand. One of them said, “She will probably just run off and do it again if we tried to have the marriage annulled.” I sat on the couch in the front room wanting to say I didn’t really want to be married, but I didn’t know how to say this, so, I said nothing. Anyway, I had had sex, and that made me totally not any good now. When I was dismissed mom told me to get my things packed and get out, and dad told me I would never be welcomed in his house again. My brother said nothing, but I thought I saw pain in his eyes when our eyes met. I gathered my things and left. Keith was parked down the street and around the corner waiting for me. I cried all the way back to the apartment. This was the day after we had gotten married. It was a Sunday afternoon. As a parting shot that day dad had said, “I give you six months and you’ll be begging to come home.” Therefore I stayed in that marriage much longer than I would have if I had not been trying to show him I could stay married.

My pregnancy was awful. I threw up the whole nine months, couldn’t keep anything down. I even quit smoking cigarettes as they made me sick also. I finally just quit eating, and drank milk constantly. The only food I could keep down was packaged sugar food (sweet rolls, anything that was individually wrapped and didn’t cost more than a quarter.) I was using my cigarette money to buy the sweets with. I could also eat rice krispies without any sugar on them later in my pregnancy. We had a little neighborhood store right across the street from where we lived. I went there once a day. The apartment we could afford was so filthy I could not eat anything that came from that kitchen. I didn’t ever eat in that apartment, I ate outside. The apartment was $25 dollars a month, and we lived there until the baby was born. I didn’t go to a doctor again until the end of my pregnancy and then I went to a clinic someone at Keith’s job had told him about. We paid one hundred dollars to have the baby.

At first I had tried to clean the apartment, but I had never seen dirt that would not clean up. It was ground in or something, I could not get it to clean or to smell good. I finally just gave up even trying. I was too sick to care. Keith would come home from work and cook and eat out of that kitchen. I never understood how he could do that until I saw his parent’s house, where he grew up and what he had lived in. Dirt and alcohol. Both his parents were total alcoholics. They died from their alcoholism years after we divorced. One thing about my mom, she had kept a clean house. The old saying ‘you could eat off her floors,’ was true for her, you could. Even after she went to work, she had me keep her house that clean.

One weekend toward the end of my pregnancy I left the apartment, ran away really. Keith wanted sex and I said no, that I felt too sick, and he got a little pushy, so I got in the car and drove to a park in my area. It was raining. I stood at the railing; face up to the rain, it felt so good. I was very heavy with my child (although I couldn’t eat much I still gained forty pounds.) I looked down into the St. John’s River and wanted so much to fall in and sink to the bottom. It was twilight and very steamy, foggy even, as it was gently raining in the aftermath of a very hot July day. I was asking to die. I have asked for that most of my life because I didn’t know what living meant. I wasn’t violent or even angry, I was simply asking God to take me and my unborn baby to Himself. I had not officially met God at this time so I didn’t even know if he was listening. I looked to the right and out of the mist walked a man, coming toward me, dressed in khaki, even a khaki hat. At first I was frightened and then I was at peace. He smiled at me and then disappeared. When I got back in my car to drive home, many hours had passed and I was not aware of time passing at all!

My daughter was born at the end of July in St. Vincent’s hospital. I had wanted to try to nurse her although it made me feel squeamish, but unbeknownst to me my mother had told the nurses to give me the shot that makes your milk dry up. Keith had called them when he was waiting for the baby to be born. Also, when Keith was told he had a girl, he stomped his foot and left the hospital. I woke up to mom and dad. I was shocked and furious. Dad was drunk and mom would not shut up: she kept giving everybody orders, including the doctors. I did not want them there; I did not want them as part of my life again. They always brought total confusion to my life, and I did not want them in it.

The nurses would not let me go home with the baby until I had named her. I wanted out of there and away from my parents so I gave the sister standing there my mother’s name, my sister’s name, and my last name. I had not held my baby much while mom was there, which was all the time. I couldn’t wait to get home alone with her, without mom and dad’s interference. When I became pregnant I had weighed 98 pounds, and when I had the baby and left the hospital three days later I weighed 95 pounds and was so depressed I could hardly stand it. I had probably been depressed all my life, but now I was aware of it.

Now that I am supposed to be ‘of age’ I think I should have to apologize for some of the choices I have made. But I never realized I could maker choices until I was over 45 years of age, and now sometimes even at 50 I’m not sure it’s ok to make choices. People do not always believe this statement, but I assure you it’s true in the abused. They have no background for learning to make choices. They mostly copy behavior from others, hoping that something or someone will help them. Hoping desperately that they can make themselves understood, so that they can be helped, having no place to begin. Sometimes I have to remind myself why I am writing this. That was how I started being able to heal and find myself. Reading books and finding statements that were true for me, then, learning to pray about them and asking God to show me if they were indeed true for me. Nothing was ever true for me my whole life. Nothing was ever true for me. When I heard God’s word was truth, I went for it like a drowning man. It helped immediately. But I am getting ahead of myself.

For some reason, work I think, Keith was not able to take me home from the hospital, and my parents did. I saw very little of Keith in the hospital, I never knew why, and I didn’t ask. I did not want my parents to see the apartment. They took one look at it and said I could not take that baby to live in that squalor. They told me to get my things together (which was very little,) and took Lisa and me to their house. I was crazy inside but I thought they were right; I didn’t want my baby living in that apartment either. It was a long time until I got my baby to myself and by then I was afraid of the responsibility of her. Totally afraid that I would be totally responsible for her. I didn’t know about God and His help. Dad helped Keith and I to get into a house for a hundred dollars down and $97.00 a month. We stayed there until I finally left him. I was so sure that I was never going to have another baby that I wouldn’t have sex with him. He took a liking to a neighbor and I told him to do whatever he wanted. I truly knew that I would never be a part of bringing another child into this world. This world is not a safe place. I never asked what he did about his sexuality.

I probably never would have left him if he had not started correcting Lisa in a way I could not tolerate. Yelling too loud at her for something trivial, being on her about something all the time…and then one evening he hit her on her back over her right kidney and left a detailed handprint. I was in the kitchen cooking and I heard a pain-filled scream. I ran in and asked what had happened. He was sitting there drinking a beer and said, “ I told her twice to not touch the TV knobs and she did it anyway, so I spanked her.” I told him, “That is not how you spank a child, you are never to hit her on her skin, do you hear me?” By the time supper was ready her back was swelling from the blow. I said nothing more. I did not eat supper; I fed her, bathed her, and got her ready for bed. I thought all night long, “What should I do? What should I do?” The next morning right after Keith went to work I called dad and asked him if he would come and get us. I did not say why, and he didn’t ask. When Keith came home that night everything was gone accept what wasn’t paid for. We never had gotten much.

Lisa was sleeping in the same baby bed in which we had all slept. Keith drank a lot; in fact he became one of my father’s drinking buddies if we were around him at all. I had not started drinking yet. I drank on occasion, but was not an alcoholic at this time. I practically never saw Keith again, only once in court. He was told to pay child support; he never did. My dad turned him into the armed forces and he joined the Army. The government then sent alimony and child support payments to me. It was the first regular money I ever had. I was 21 years old, and Lisa was three. I tried to go to technical school at night for a while but I still could not learn anything so I quit. I was 21 years old, had a baby, had never held a job, and was living back in my parents’ house again. I did not feel divorced because I had never felt married. I did not legally divorce Keith until he was out of the Army.

Eventually I took a job at a soda fountain. That’s where my husband Joe and I met. He came in one morning for a cup of strong coffee and an alka-seltzer. I should have known right then but I didn’t know to look for the signs of being a drinker. Joe and I didn’t date for a year though we saw each other often because he boarded a horse at my family’s place. We did begin to take my daughter and a lot of the neighborhood kids to the drive-in movies in the back of his pick-up. While we always had beer around I do not think we were alcoholics yet. One statement I always say about Joe and I is, when we met we drank together, then we became full-fledged drunks together and the best part is, we sobered up together.

After about a year I moved out of mom and dad’s house and rented a place on my own. Joe asked me out, just the two of us. We started becoming more serious but he hadn’t filed for divorce although he had been away from his wife for over a year. I had been divorced for two years, away from my first husband for about five years. We had both said we never wanted to get married again when we met, so we really took our time. Finally he said we might as well marry as we were practically living together. Joe is the only man I have ever had sexual intercourse with outside of wedlock. Neither one of us thought very much of ourselves for behaving that way. I was never sober or present but I went though all the motions fairly effectively, I think. I do know I liked Joe from the first time I laid eyes on him. I had never met a man who knew how to take care of himself and his own living quarters. I was impressed. He kept his apartment spotless and cooked better than I did. We got married and we both started drinking more although I don’t know why. The disease of alcoholism I guess. Maybe we neither one knew how to do life or be adult. He worked swing shift and I was still at the drug store.

After about a year of not really getting anywhere, my brother and his wife were going to move to Denver, as she had grown up there, and they were both in their early thirties and not really getting anywhere either. They said, “Why don’t you go with us? There is nothing keeping you here.” After a lot of thought we decided to sell our mobile home and go. Joe and I had been married a little over a year.

We arrived in Denver with my daughter Lisa, about nine hundred dollars, no job, no place to stay, and thought for sure that we hated the big city. Somehow we made it but don’t ask me how. Just as the money was running out Joe got a job from an ad in the newspaper. It was cold and snowing and he had to work outside, but he didn’t care, at least he was working again. He stayed at that job nineteen years. He loves working outside. He found a little white house for rent at $110.00 a month through a guy at work. We thought that amount was outrageous but found out that for Denver that was cheap. Joe started working, I found a job in a drug store, and Lisa went to school. She was miserable, hated Denver, and was really homesick. I was scared but so relieved to really be away from my parents I could not believe my good fortune.

Later, mom and dad came out for a visit. I became very upset because they were coming out for a visit so soon. I had finally gotten away from them and here they came again. I made the bloodiest suicide attempt I have ever made. They were due in on Friday night or Saturday morning.

Friday night I drank all I could hold, and took a handful of Librium. It was late and everybody was asleep. Joe had gone to sleep on the couch in the front room (passed out from too much drink?) after complaining about having to buy Lisa some new school clothes. I filled the bathtub with hot water, cut my wrists, lay back, and hoped never to wake up. I woke up some hours later when the water turned cold. I let the water out of the tub, staggered into the bedroom with my arms throbbing, wrapped a sheet around me and passed out. My wrists started bleeding again when they warmed up. The water turning cold must’ve waked me and stopped the blood flow. In the morning Lisa found me early, she had gone to the bathroom and there was blood in the tub, blood all over the place. She woke Joe and they took me to the doctor. He cleaned my cuts, took a couple stitches, then the doctor tried to talk to me but I was having none of his talk. I told him I was going to be late for work. He did give me another prescription for Librium. I did not tell him I had taken a whole bottle to get the courage to do what I had done the night before, or that I had drunk all I could hold either.

I had called work and told them I was going to be late. I went in to work, and when I left I started drinking and stayed drunk until mom and dad left town, except for when I was at work.

The Sunday after mom and dad left Joe and Lisa were out in the garage working on Lisa’s bike. I could see them from where I stood doing the dishes, and knew I was going to try to kill myself again. I knew they would do better if I were out of the picture. I figured I had saved enough pills to do the job.

I looked to the left and on the wall above the phone there was a suicide prevention telephone number listed with the other emergency numbers. I dried my hands, and called the number. I told whoever answered the phone what I had done the week before and that I was pretty sure I was going to do it again. She said, “Hold on a minute, I’ll let you talk to a counselor.” I almost hung up, but I didn’t. A man came on the phone, sounded concerned, said he could help me, but said he also needed to get a little more information. I gave him details about what I had done to myself. He asked if I thought my husband would bring me in to see him that night and I said, “No, he’s not speaking to me.” He said, “I’ll come and get you.” I said I would walk instead, and he asked me to give him an hour to finish with the person he was seeing right then.

I finished the dishes, got dressed, told Joe I was going over to my sister’s and took my time walking there. When I got there I waited about forty-five minutes until this guy named Bob came out and asked me if I could please wait a little longer. I started to get up and go and he knelt down on one knee in front of me and begged me to wait just a little longer. “If it gets dark I’ll take you home,” he said. I was shocked that he would do such behavior, and embarrassed, but I said I would wait. Finally I saw him for about an hour. I didn’t have a lot to say since I had said most of what I had to say on the phone earlier. He said it would be good if he could see me a couple times a week to start and then we could slack off as I started to feel better. He drove me home. Joe and Lisa were sleeping. I felt honored and relieved that someone was finally going to listen to me at last. The second time I saw him, as I was leaving, he put his hand out to me. Nobody had ever done that to me before. I looked at it for quite a long time and then I took it. He said. “I’ll help you.” I did not know then what I now know about myself. I did not realize how unloved and un-loveable my life had left me, how totally outside my experiences I had learned to live.

During one of our early appointment times, Bob asked me if I wanted him to hold me at the end of a session. I jumped at the chance. I had been telling him of some of my abuse, although not crying or anything. He sat in this big wooden rocking chair, he was a big man and the idea of being held and rocked by him (by anybody) seemed wonderful. It happened a couple of times just like I had imagined, and then he touched my breast. I felt sick but I didn’t say anything. I thought, gees, even preachers do that sort of thing, is nothing sacred? I kept my appointments and now they were only once a week. Soon we graduated to the floor of his office and he started touching me between the legs, and said I could touch him too. I finally did, although I cannot say I wanted to, I felt obligated to. At first he kept telling me my touch was too hard, almost painful, so I lightened my touch. It was awful; I have almost no words for it.

I drank, and then drank some more. For years I never seemed drunk. I was never sober but never appeared drunk either. God, it was insane. After about a year of this “therapy” I told Bob, “I think my father molested me.” He said, “You probably asked for it.” I never brought the subject up again.

I eventually left Bob and the abusive relationship I was in, but the damage had been done. My daughter Lisa hated Bob and that place from the very beginning. By the time summer came Lisa was still very homesick and with all the upheaval in our lives when my parents called and asked if she could spend the summer with them, against my knowing better, and her begging to go, I said yes. I did tell her to stay away from ‘grandpa’ when he was drunk. I also told my mom to keep an eye on her and to not let dad be alone with her. Feeble, huh? I put her on the plane a fairly normal (we were none of us ever allowed to be normal, I only know that now) 10-year-old and when I picked her up three months later I did not recognize my own daughter. She had gained almost 25 pounds and had a cowered slump to her body that had never been there before. She was also very quiet, not normal for her.

A couple of weeks before her birthday in the summer I had sent her a doll. I called to wish her a happy birthday, and see if she liked her doll. At first everything sounded all right, and then she sounded strained and started crying, saying she was homesick for me. I said, “Well honey, don’t worry, that’s no problem, we’ll just get your ticket bumped up and bring you back her a little early.” She told them what I had said and got dad on the phone and then he talked it out of us, saying, “She’s just overcome hearing your voice, we’re doing just fine, she’ll be fine, she’ll be home in a couple weeks.” When we hung up Lisa was still crying. I told Joe I didn’t like the sound of that phone call. I cried myself to sleep that night knowing I should never have let her go to those people no matter what. Later, after she had been home for a while I asked her if grandpa had touched her wrong or anything while she was staying in Florida for the summer. She said “No.” She couldn’t trust me. Later when she was away from my home she told my sister some of what had happened to her. The part I can’t stand is that he had touched her before we had even moved away from Florida. He had also been sexual with her when she was a baby. I think I thought I had protected her.

Joe had gone to work for a week in Colorado Springs and Lisa and I took that week and completely repainted her bedroom, bought her new sheets, curtains, and spread to match. I still have a picture of her in her room when we were all finished with it. We both really liked it. The first night she begged me to sleep with her in her new room. I tried but couldn’t do it. For hours I cried in my room, trying to convince myself it would be ok to go into her room, lay on her bed with her and be close like that. I couldn’t do it. Finally the next night, I went into her room, lay down beside her, joked about some of the things we had done while getting the room painted, patted her, kissed her forehead, and told her I loved her. She wanted me to stay, but I couldn’t, so I went to my own room. I never did feel ok about not being able to stay with her, at least until she fell asleep.

We had moved into a better house by now with three bedrooms. One day while Joe was at work I moved him into the spare bedroom. At first he resented me for it, and then he started liking it, and we have been that way ever since. It’s like we now have the ‘rooms of our own’ that we never had. Joe and I have always needed our own space. I truly believe that is why we have managed to stay together all these years. He has really been there for me as I have been writing this down and seeing what I have really done in my life. I was afraid he might leave me after he read it. We had some adjustments to make and through the grace of God we are better than ever. He was willing to see his role in the mess of my life also. He, too, has been sexually abused and didn’t even realize that truth until later as I started coming to grips with my own abuse. We have always had trouble sharing feelings with one another, but we were so much alike we didn’t know we were not ok. We miss each other very much if we are not there but we don’t actually try to get our needs met through one another. We simply enjoy being with each other. This has taken years to happen. I realize now our way of being together is not for everyone. He has been committed to being there and taking care of me in the way a man’s role used to be. Since this has never happened before in my life it had taken me years to realize how important and valuable he is to me. At this writing we have been together over twenty-five years. If you have had trouble trying to have and maintain relationships like I have, then maybe you can appreciate this fact for the miracle it is.

Another time Joe’s ex-wife called to say his daughter had been sexually abused and could she some live with us? Joe and I had asked to have her before when we had first married and had been turned down. Her name was Lucille and she had begged to come and live with us before, and we had very much wanted her. Within two days I was on a plane on my way to go get her. At the airport, she said she had changed her mind, but I convinced her to give it a try. Well, it didn’t work out. She wanted from Joe what he didn’t have, and she kept telling me she loved me and thanking me for getting her out of Florida and all the while telling my daughter instead that she hated me. This situation broke Joe and I apart. She was sixteen when I went to get her and the day she turned eighteen she left my home. About 25 years later we learned that she killed herself when she was 35; that’s a whole other story. Joe and I had separated, Lucille stayed with Lisa and I. Joe left about three months before Lucille did. When there was only Lisa and I left she started acting out really bad, stealing my car and cigarettes, having boys in the apartment when I was at work. I gave her an ultimatum when she was fourteen and she chose to leave my home. Joe and I got back together after about a year apart, but we didn’t remarry until much later. When Lisa left my home I cannot even try to describe what I was like. One part of me knew it was best for her and another part of me died thinking about her all alone and with no protection. We had never had any, maybe she could do better alone. That’s when I started trying to learn to pray. For the first time in my life my head was quiet from time to time through learning how to pray.

I was working at a credit office, seeing Bob once a week, covering the suicide hotline nights and weekends and trying to get Lisa ready to take dance lessons, something she had always wanted to do. I had very little money but I knew it was important to try to give her something she liked to do. When she started acting out, I felt inside me a rage that my mother had always had toward me so I knew I was going to do anything I could to make her behave. Something in me knew I didn’t have the right to physically restrain her and that’s all I could think to do. I did get her to see a woman counselor a couple times, but it didn’t help. I was afraid of what I might do to her to try to get her to behave, to act right. Here I was, doing what I was doing and wanting her to act right. When Lisa left she stayed with her stepsister for a while (I did not know this at the time) and then she and another girl rode to Florida with truckers. She stayed with mom and dad for about a year. Mom had called me when she got to their house. She went to school, started losing weight and doing pretty good. After about a year she ran away from them. They called me to tell me to get the police to start looking for her from the Colorado end of the country, and to tell me that dad was looking for her from the Florida end. I said, “No.” Dad started cussing and ranting and raving, “What kind of fucking mother are you anyway?” I hung up on them. For two years I did not know where Lisa was, and all I could do was ask God to keep her safe, which I did. Then a week before Thanksgiving she called. I asked if she wanted to come over for dinner, and she did. It was strained and awful but that was the beginning of us trying to heal. It’s been incredible and IT HAS BEEN WORTH IT.

My ignorance has hurt my child. Has she paid for my sins? I believe she has. My lifestyle was all I knew but believe me it was not good enough. I am so very sorry now I did not really know who God was sooner. Satan used every trick in his book to keep me in darkness, blindness, and away from the love of my Everlasting Father and healthy, loving relationships. Although it worked for much of my life it had not really worked since I sobered up. Through His grace I have been ever walking toward the Light of His Love and His Will for me and my life. I have always been so afraid of touch that when Lisa was a baby and I had to bathe her I was terribly afraid to wash between her legs because I was afraid I would make her feel something she was not supposed to feel. MY daughter has problems today and at the same time she is healing also. I cannot ask for anything more for her or me. She has been water baptized and baptized with the Holy Spirit. She is married, second time, to a man who she is trying to love and allow herself to be loved by. I thank God for that for her. She has had a hysterectomy in the last year while trying to get pregnant. Is that a direct result of my asking that she not be able to have children when we were both as lot younger? I asked God to not let any of our offspring be able to have children because we were all so evil. Has he granted my request? I was not a “Christian” when I prayed that particular prayer. Was it more like a curse or a vow? I don’t know, I only know I asked that of God when I was very young out of a deep hatred for the ignorance and inadequacies in my family. I pray especially for the next generation now. I hope they have a chance with God in spite of who their parents are. I pray my prayers will be used to bring this about for the next generation.

I hope that my daughter and others will learn from my recovery. A few months ago Lisa asked to read my story as I am writing it. I did not know what to do, so I prayed and asked a good friend and mentor, and she thought it could be used by the Lord to help her. I don’t know yet if it will help or not. With all my relationships I’ve always known that my love was contaminated. I have always tried to have people in my life while not being part of the relationship personally because I was so contaminated. I have always been an object, even to myself. I have no way of knowing if what’s between my legs will ever be able to actually become connected to me. I know I have never shared myself sexually with another person physically; and at the same time I have probably shared myself sexually with everybody else I have ever met without even knowing it, by trying to live outside myself. I realize something very important to my healing: I DID NOT SIN BY SHARING MYSELF SEXUALLY WITH PEOPLE THAT NEVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN SEXUAL WITH ME TO BEGIN WITH. Nobody would let me say this truth of mine. Nobody!

In writing your own story you get a chance to get real to yourself. I remember when I could not even begin to see what my story or my life looked like. I could not put pen to paper when I sobered up thirteen years ago, nor did I want to. It was too overwhelming. Most of us are afraid to write our own stories; the truth is we know that nobody really wants to hear them. Write your story, see your own truth. Feeling feelings will not kill you. It’s how you will be able to claim your healing. God is the perfect gentleman; He will not flood your senses. If He does it will only be in total purity, nothing unwanted can get to you when He is being with you intimately, I promise. You can space, block, slide, checkout, disassociate, or whatever works for you as long as you need to sneak up on yourself. With each memory ask for the strength to take a little more of yourself into your own center. TO BE! I am certain, for myself, I would never have been able to exist if I had not allowed myself to become willing to look at what happened to me. Of course there is fear, please don’t let it stop you. All my life I have had to live a double life. Until I was healing and not hiding, this had been a disadvantage to me; now in healing it is the very gift that has enabled me to heal. I have been living a very simple looking life while going through the nightmare of my remembering and coming to what is true for me today. I am coming into being integrated, now. It has taken a full ten years. Little by little I have learned how to face my past, stand still, don’t run, and my Lord has stayed with me through it all.

The hook for me was because my innocence and sexuality were taken from me so early in life that it ‘set me up’ to ‘have to have it right’ in me, to be looking for that part of me all my life. I have been trying to be present and get this part of me ‘right’ ever since I can remember. I am sorry I have always been so ashamed of being a sexual being with sexual feelings. I hate that nobody could help me and at the same time knowing that many people have helped me, by being for me. I was so afraid of people I could not let anybody help me. I’m learning now I am OK. I also understand that I am a human being, and that too is OK. Being a human being today means to me that I have faults and I am able to make mistakes without having to think that the world will come to an end because of them, and more importantly I have the God-given ability for much joy and pleasure. Now I am grown-up enough and brave enough to believe it will be all right if I choose to share what I have discovered to be true about myself with others. What a miracle!

Joanna's Story

2010-01-03T11:57:00.000-08:00

When I was two, my first abuser came into my life. He was soon to become my stepfather, and by all accounts, it was to be the worst thing that could have happened to us. He was physically abusive to my mother, beating her nearly every day. He beat us as often as he could find excuses for, which meant that if we left our shoes in the living room, even out of sight under the couch, we’d get a beating. The abuse wasn’t just physical, though.

He started molesting me very quickly, inserting his fingers in my vagina while I was in the tub, and then washing my privates with soap – leaving me burning and stinging for hours afterwards. He would lie on top of me at night, although I can’t say for sure what he did; those memories are still blocked, waiting for a day when I can cope with what was done.

My older brother began raping me when I was about 6, attempting penetration even while I was crying that it hurt, and telling him to stop. My brother also “loaned me out” to his friends when he told them what he was doing. I remember one time, when I was 12 – my brother had finally succeeded in actually penetrating me long before. He was in the act of raping me out in the tent we had set up in the yard. My stepfather stuck his head in, and watched, telling my brother, “Just don’t let your mother find out.” Clearly, there was no respite in sight.

I also had 3 uncles who molested me to a lesser extent; making me sit on their laps while they had erections, groping me whenever they got a clear shot at me…things like that. Between my stepfather, my brother and my uncles, I would be molested until I was 21 years old, although the memories were blocked as rapidly as they could form. It would be a while before I remembered what had happened to me while I was growing up.

When I was 19, I got married to an abusive man. At 23, I found out I was pregnant, which was all I ever wanted. I had dreams of being a mother to lots of children, breastfeeding and nurturing them closely while they grew into adults. My husband was not kind or helpful, although he took great pride in having “knocked me up.” He berated me and made me feel very uncomfortable, and hit me as well.

When I went into labor, things moved along very well, right up until my son passed my cervix. The doctor felt that I had overdone it on the Kegel exercises, because my muscles locked up and would not release, regardless of the effort on my doctor’s part - massage, coaching…. Nothing worked. He finally had to give up and give me an episiotomy. My belief is that my body was afraid to allow my son into the world, fighting to keep him inside, where it was safe. My body knew the world as a very painful and unsafe place. I think that as much as I wanted to hold him, I wanted to keep him away from the things I knew were out here.

After the birth, I remember being completely filled with joy that I had this beautiful son. I looked forward to the days, months and years of breastfeeding him. That dream never came true, though. I only managed to nurse him for 3 months, finally giving up because he wasn’t gaining weight even though he ate constantly. I couldn’t make enough milk to sustain him, and was forced to feed him formula. That was a blow I thought I’d never survive. My body was failing me yet again…. I couldn’t even feed my son.

It was when my son was 3 weeks old that the memories started coming back. They began slowly, but cascaded faster and faster into my life. My wonderful doctor handed me a card at one of our numerous visits, telling me that he thought these people could help me. Apparently, he realized that something was going on that I couldn't talk about with him… He saw the symptoms, yet I’d never told him a thing about my history, or what I was going through. I had no idea what he meant, but decided he might be right. It turned out that “these people” ran an organization for survivors of abuse. With their help, I joined a support group, and used the book, The Courage To Heal (Bass & Davis.)

I tried therapy, but chose the wrong person. I had always believed in God, and I wanted a therapist who would include those beliefs in my “treatment.” I found a counselor who was also a minister. I remember the day I tried to tell him what had happened to me. He asked me, “Is it in the past?” I answered that it was, and he told me, “Then it’s over. You have to move on.” That was it… the entire amount of help I would receive from him. I don’t blame God for this man’s refusal to help me –I think it’s just that some people can’t believe that our past affects us in such strong ways. I wrote to him a few years ago, telling him how hard it was for me to tell him my secret, and what damage his response did to me. He denied saying what he did.

I stayed with my friends in my support group, muddling through as best I could. It was difficult, at best, but I worked hard at becoming what should have been the most natural thing in the world: a mother to my child.

When my son was 1 year old, my husband and I divorced. I was raped about 3 months later. The man I met around the same time was wonderful, supportive, and loving. He stood by me through the entire ordeal, and helped me throughout my pregnancy. When I went into labor this time, I knew it would be easier, and that I would succeed in a drug- and intervention-free delivery, and I would be able to finally win out over the problems that kept me from breastfeeding my son.

The birth went faster and easier than my first, with no episiotomy, though I couldn’t relax and enjoy the birth of my second son, either. And as it turned out, once again I couldn’t breastfeed. I had the same struggles, the same heartache, and the same result: a son who was actually losing weight, and a painful decision to feed him formula at 6 weeks.

The man who stood by me throughout this time soon became my husband. I made another go at therapy, and this time, made some progress. My therapist worked with me for almost a year, and I dealt with my memories as best I could. I started having flashbacks regularly, and that was the worst part. At one of my support group meetings, however, I was told that my therapist had moved out of state. She hadn’t told me goodbye; she hadn’t even told me that there were plans to move. She just left without a word. I was devastated, and didn’t think I could trust anyone again.

When my kids were 5 and 7, I found another therapist. I believe God brings people into our lives who will make a huge impact. The first question I asked her after we sat down on her comfy cushions was, “You aren’t planning to move out of town, are you?” She got a funny look on her face, and said, “No, we won’t ever move. We love it here. Why?” I explained what the last therapist had done. Cathy promised that wouldn’t happen with her, and we began to forge a relationship that lasted professionally for 2 years. We’re still friends all these years later. God was wonderful, bringing her into my life. She has been a gift to me.

One of Cathy’s methods of therapy included EMDR, or Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. At first, I was nervous about trying it. I didn’t want to give up control of what I experienced, and it sounded to me like I might have to. As it turned out, it was the best decision I’ve ever made. This technique was so effective for me; I really was dealing with things for the first time. EMDR was the trick, for me, in bringing those memories out and letting me take the emphasis off of them.

Simply put, I was asked to concentrate on the worst part of a memory while moving my eyes rapidly from side to side. Cathy had a “stick” with a light on the end for my eyes to follow, to make the movement easier. After each 30 second set of eye movements, I would be asked, “What came up?” Usually, an image, thought, emotion, or physical sensation, all of which are common, would have come to me. If I said, "I'm really angry," Cathy suggested concentrating on the anger in the next set. We’d do this as many times as it took to “bring me down,” and leave me feeling no more anger, or whatever it was I had to deal with. It was a little scary, at times, but it was the single, most effective thing I tried. I would recommend it highly for anyone.

After 8 years of trying to have another baby, my husband and I gave up. We’d never used birth control; in fact, in all my life, I’ve never used it. I didn’t get pregnant easily, it was obvious. I went back to school, got a job, and seemed to be settling in with my new life. My sons were 8 and 10, and things were leveling out. And then I got pregnant.

This time, I decided that I wanted a midwife. My first doctor had joined the Peace Corps, and while I was thrilled he was helping so many people, I wasn’t happy he was gone. My second doctor was a jerk, and I knew I didn’t want to go back to him. Kim, however, was just what I needed. She listened to me; she made me feel like I knew what I was doing and talking about. She never once left me feeling like I had no clue what was happening. She would even let my husband deliver our baby. We were thrilled.

I had 2 hours and twenty minutes of labor this time, and although it was the worst pain of my entire life, I was so much more relaxed and in control than the last two times. I actually was able to enjoy this birth, and the videotape shows me smiling and happy throughout. My husband did, in fact, deliver our son, and it was a joyous day for both of us. This son was not, however, destined to be entirely breastfed, either. I had to give up and use formula, once again, at 3 weeks.

I went back for more EMDR, this time focusing on my feeling of failure. The end result is that I don’t feel as though I’m a complete loss as a mother simply because I couldn’t breastfeed my children. It helped a great deal in relieving the stress surrounding that part of my life.

Each of the births was easier than the one before it, but I still couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t making milk. With lots of soul searching and effort at getting to the bottom of the problem, I am reasonably sure it is related to the abuse I suffered as a child and young adult. I don’t know why I’m so sure of that, but my heart tells me that it’s true. I think that, because my breasts were seen as sexual items, my body couldn’t stand to let my sons use them, even if it was for the original, God-intended purpose. So they shut down, refusing to let me be hurt again. I can only hope that, if I were to have another baby, I could finally overcome whatever block is left in there, and be able to truly nurture my child the way I always wanted to…. freely, completely, and with no painful decision to make. Our bonding suffered, our lives together suffered… because of the things I experienced as a child.

Having God in my life, effective therapy, and the love of a kind and gentle man has helped me come to a place where I can at least feel free to love my children, and give them what they need: safety and a place where they’re free to be themselves.
Healing is possible – there is hope.

Erica's Story

2009-12-23T08:31:00.000-08:00

My parents were ahead of their time. Though I am technically a Baby Boomer, I have always felt a greater kinship with those that are a few years younger than me. When the characteristics of Generation X are compared with the Boomers, I identify more with the former, and I never could quite figure out why until I looked at my parents’ lives. They were both artists, and the social revolution of the sixties and seventies, which blew through our culture leaving so many warped and wounded children in its wake, manifested itself just that much earlier in the art community and on the university campuses where they taught. I was acutely aware that there were quite a few behaviors and topics of discussion that were normal in my house that would shock my friends at school. It made me feel schizophrenic and frightened that I would do or say something way over the top without even realizing it. The atmosphere was wide open and sexually supercharged. I don’t remember not knowing about sex, and it seemed to be the entire goal of adult life. There was lots of alcohol and switching of partners and fighting about sex. It was overwhelming and exciting and I couldn’t wait to grow up and find out what it was that had such enormous power over the adults around me. If it could make grown-ups act so strangely, then clearly sex must be the most incredible thing in the world. Men wanted women’s bodies, and that gave women power.

Modesty was the only sin. Sexual reticence was a major character flaw, I was taught. That the vast majority of this “sexual experimentation” was indulged in by my father and various grad students and other professors’ wives didn’t strike me as imbalanced or unfair in any way, for I was also taught at home that my mother was either crazy or stupid. Looking at their marriage from my present vantage point, sixteen years married and the beneficiary of much therapy, I see that all the rhetoric about sexual freedom and finding the muse was a shabby cover-up for garden-variety adultery. Though I call it garden-variety, my feelings about this betrayal are anything but benign, because I live permanently with how it has distorted me as a woman, wife and mother. It cost me my girlhood, pleasure in my femininity, and the ability to trust my husband, among other things. And it set me up for the first sexual predator that came along.

My father was by far the most powerful person in our home, and, for survival, I adopted his view of the world. I learned to see my body as my currency. It was what I had to surrender to be wanted. My mother taught me to be careful of the tender feelings of men, but no one taught me that I had the right to say no to sexual advances, or that I might want to. When I look at the way young women are now encouraged to dress and express their sexuality, I am troubled. I’ve been there, and, rather than setting me free, it turned out to be a terrible prison that I’ve spent an enormous amount of energy freeing myself from. I want to run up to them and plead with them not to buy into the notion that their sexuality is a currency to be exchanged for a cheap and transitory power. Torn between wanting to preserve my integrity and privacy, and the desire to be valued by men, I began experimenting sexually when I was ten. My roadmap were the porno magazines my older brother gave me, and my partners were boys and girls my age or a little older, my parents’ friends’ kids.

I was twelve when I was seduced by an older man, a med student who was the son of some casual friends of my parents. Years later, he told me that it had taken him an hour to penetrate me, thought I don’t remember it. He also introduced me to oral sex and anal sex, afterwards telling me that the girls he dated wouldn’t let him do some of the things I had. It was all very antiseptic, very calculated, though I had no frame of reference to know if it should be different. I had my first pregnancy scare when I was thirteen. It took me quite a long time in therapy to see the relationship as anything other than my ‘first boyfriend’. It wasn’t until I began imagining my own children being treated this way that I began to see it differently. When I think about someone doing this to one of my kids, I think of how hard it would be to find the pieces of that guy when I got through with him.

In high school and college, I was obsessed with being wanted by men. My radar was finely tuned and always on: if a guy was attracted to me, I branded him a loser. If a guy was at all indifferent, I needed to find out why, to make him want me. And I had no protective barriers. Having a boyfriend eased the anxiety somewhat, but I was still always looking. Looking for the man who would make me feel wanted. My friendships with women were distorted, too. I saw them as dangerous competitors.

The summer after my sophomore year in college, I became pregnant. This was before single motherhood became fashionable, and I didn’t believe I had any other choice but abortion. I did not want to kill my baby, but I believed that once I had given birth I would no longer be desirable to men. After all, wasn’t that what had happened to my mother? My father had wanted her, pursued her, until she had his child, and then she was undesirable to him. Finding a man to love me (and my body was the only thing I believed I had to attract and hold him) was the overriding principle of my life. It felt like the difference between life and death. I dutifully marched myself down to Planned Parenthood and a doctor stuck a hose in me and sucked out my child.

The unexpected outcome of having an abortion was that I stopped caring so much if a man wanted me. I stopped caring about pretty much everything. A part of me that was young and hopeful died and, as winter’s darkness turned the midwestern landscape to gray, so did my interior garden fade. The ‘girl’ had been sucked out of me, too. Though I wouldn’t have told anyone at the time, I now saw human relationships almost entirely in economic terms. I had something men wanted, and I was going to parlay that into as much power as I could. I was not going to ever let myself be vulnerable again.

Given my mental state, it is not surprising that I didn’t give the next guy I met a lot of thought. Nor is it that difficult to understand why it took me years more of running to realize he was the man I wanted to marry. And it has taken me years of marriage to discover I was in love with him.

From the time I was thirteen, I wanted to be a mother. Even through the years of college and working after, when everything was supposed to be career and climbing some stupid ladder, it was what I dreamed about. Almost immediately after marrying Bill, the desire to get pregnant became overwhelming. I wanted a baby so badly, but he wasn’t ready. I bought every book I could find on pregnancy and watched Berry Brazelton’s parenting show on cable TV. When I finally did get accidentally pregnant, I was ecstatic. I thought I knew so much about pregnancy, but what I didn’t know was what was done to women in the name of modern medicine. I thought if I went into see a doctor and said I wanted natural childbirth, that’d be what I got. I wanted to deliver my own baby more than anything, to finally feel, perhaps, like I was a ‘real’ woman.

Four weeks before the end of a healthy pregnancy, my Dr. discovered that my baby had turned breech. A c-section was quickly scheduled. My protests were met with assurances that a vaginal birth would leave my baby dead or retarded and I must stop being so selfish by trying for what was, after all, window dressing. It was implied, and I believed it, that to feel bad about this would make my baby feel unloved and was proof of my selfishness. Once again, I dutifully climbed up on a table and let a Dr. cut my child out of me. I came home with this baby and a frozen heart. I couldn’t sleep, even when he did. I went through the motions, feeling raped, feeling defrauded, and feeling like I was not a real woman. Hidden deep in all this pain however, was a twinge of relief. Since I hadn’t given birth vaginally, that part of me was still unchanged. I had delayed making myself sexually undesirable to my husband, and he might still want me. In my thinking, men did not want women who were mothers. Mothers were used up. Yet, in a way, I was still “unspoiled”. My husband was completely unaware of all this, since I wouldn’t have dared to utter it to another person.

Then my father went nuts. Literally. He, at 67, had his first clinically significant psychotic episode from the undiagnosed manic depression that had shaped his whole life, unbeknownst to any of us. And it set me free. If he was nuts, then I no longer had to see the world through the lenses he’d given me. I got myself into therapy, and began the long, exhausting process of revisiting my past, of looking at my history with a sympathetic other. About this time, I also began to read about cesarean sections and the feelings women experience, and discovered that I was normal. As relief flooded through me, and I began to let the tears out, I took my first deep breath in months. And I set about planning the birth I had always dreamed of.

By the time I became pregnant with my second child, I had pretty much gotten up the courage to attempt a home birth. Actually, it was more out of fear that the hospital bureaucracy would again supercede my desires, and I’d be treated as an ”obstetrical cripple” because of my previous surgery. Twenty hours of active labor and four hours of pushing would have earned me another trip to the surgical suite under an MD’s care, but I had wonderful, caring midwives who believed in me, and I gave birth to my child. During the labor, my hidden fear about “overstretching” resurfaced. I had been pushing for so long, and I finally tried to speak about it, but all I could say was “I’m scared”. Then I looked around the room and realized that I only had two options: to throw in the towel and head to the hospital for another surgery, or forge ahead and risk losing my desirability by pushing the baby out. No one in that room was going to be able to rescue me, and I wanted so dearly to “give birth” rather than “be delivered.” A half hour later I was holding my sweet son and feeling a surge of something that I’d never felt before: true power. Power that comes from having done something difficult and important, not the false power that is conferred by some man wanting to use my body. It was the culmination of the months of uncertainty that had begun with my daring to act on the best information I could gather in deciding a home birth was a reasonable option, despite the doomsayers with advanced degrees. God used the birth of my first child and the loss of a lifetime of dreams to take away the walls of unreality I’d built to survive my childhood. He used the second to begin reconstruction. In the process He planted seeds of compassion and humility. I put off resuming sex with my husband as long as I could and did kegels like mad, but I never dared ask him if he liked sex with me less. I tried to drown out the constant, nagging fear that he would leave me because I no longer attracted him or pleased him. Even if I had, and he had reassured me, I would have believed that someday he was going to run off with someone younger.

My third labor and birth was the sort that women would forfeit body parts to experience. I had learned something from the previous two births. I had learned to relax into it, so much so that I was able to doze between contractions. I essentially woke up ready to deliver, and the midwife didn’t even get her coat off before my daughter slid into the world. I was the first to notice she was the daughter I had longed for, that I had wondered if I was too unworthy as a woman to deserve. Again, fear too deep to name dogged me, but each birth restored a damaged part of me. I sat in my rocker for a month with my daughter, so incredibly delighted I didn’t want to move.

When I was forty- two weeks pregnant with my fourth child, the midwife did a heavy-duty manual exam to see if we could get things going, and discovered that I was having another breech baby. We were living in Dallas at the time, and had no back-up doctor, and not much time to make any decisions. We decided to have another home-birth as planned, since we both thought this baby would be relatively small. I remember that labor as a time of song and being overwhelmed with a supernatural peace. While not quite as quick as the previous baby, the breech birth was in some ways less difficult. When it was all over and we weighed my “littlest” baby, she was a full pound heavier than my firstborn breech, the one who doctors said I could never have delivered myself. I laughed such a laugh of freedom, and of pleasure, and yes, of power. Each birth brought me a piece of myself that had been distorted by fear and shame. Other women are no longer competitors. I learned, in a way much deeper than just head-knowledge, that women are powerful, whether or not someone “wants” them.

Lisa's Story

2009-12-09T13:56:00.000-08:00

I am a survivor of both childhood sexual abuse and Rape as a young adult, but I am so much more than that. I am a woman, a mother, a wife, and a daughter. I am a soul. I have had many experiences in my life, some of which have been incredibly painful, some of which have been amazingly joyous. I have experienced love and hate, acceptance and rejection, protection and violation and so much more; so much that words escape me. As I write this, I ask myself, “What can I share? What can I offer?”

I can tell you that I have been on a healing journey for a longtime. Some of my healing has been specific to recovering from sexual abuse. Most of my healing has been about discovering me. My journey has been about seeking, and so, it has been a necessary and an important part of my process to move beyond the labeling of "survivor". Sure, I have had to admit and face the fact that I have been violated sexually. And in doing so I have learned that violation has many forms and presents in the subtlest of ways. Violation is self-hate, self-abuse, criticism, betrayal, deception, manipulation, judgment, cruelty, hostility, and all the places in my soul that I have separated from. I have learned that it doesn't t really matter, in the long run, what form violation takes, whether it is blatant or subtle, violation impacts the spirit regardless. It is the spirit, along with the wounded child, that needs attention and healing. It is through connection to my spirit that I have found healing.

My journey has been a journey to find myself, to become whole again, to reclaim all the parts of me that I either denied, cast aside, or was just unconscious of. It has been a journey to reclaim who I am in all my flaws and divinity and to learn to like that person. It has been a journey of self-discovery through self-responsibility - a process of looking at all the experiences I have had, both painful and joyous, and seeing the choices I have made and the intentions I have held, then seeing how I have created these experiences and finding the reasons for doing so. It has not been easy. It is not easy or pleasant to look at a painful experience and ask- "For what reason did I bring that into my life?” It is incredibly challenging to look at a person who has been cruel and unloving and ask - " What in me brings that person's hate or cruelty to me?” But these are questions that have been instrumental for me because they have been freeing. They have taken me away from being a victim and maintaining a position as a victim, and brought me back to myself.

A main part of my journey back to wholeness has been my work with a spiritual helper. Doing my healing through a spiritual path has broadened my perspective about everything and shaken up my perspective about everything. I have learned about spiritual law (self-responsibility, brotherhood/sisterhood, cause and effect), when in my life I am aligned with spiritual law, when I am disconnected, and what manifests. Some of the most intense work I have done is with a woman in Toronto, named Sagewalker.

She has offered a transformative process called, “Stages of Initiation, Divine Sexuality,” which focuses on one's expression of sexuality, to see where one is connected and disconnected from God. My personal work with Sage has been so helpful. I actually feel that I am reclaiming who I am. I actually feel that I am disconnecting more and more from those places in me that were drawn to, attached to, and connected to abuse. She has helped me to see the gifts in the challenges and helped me to honor and hold sacred the lessons that life brings to me. She has helped me to have compassion and love for myself.

When I think of myself as a mother, it is very clear that motherhood has been instrumental in my healing. The challenges and blessing that I have experienced as a mother are not only a part of my larger journey back to wholeness. They are also clearly related to my recovery from sexual abuse. When I contemplate how motherhood relates to my recovery from sexual abuse, I immediately think about the birth of my first child, my son. Before his actual birth, I still had the association of sex as violation. After he was born, I was able to see and feel the connection between sex/intercourse and life. I remember thinking to myself, " So this is what sex is meant for." It was as if the violation of rape dissolved once my son emerged from my body. It was so incredible and so freeing. It was amazing how immediate the letting go process was once I had a different association. I feel so grateful for that experience. Now that he is older, six and a half, I am aware of how important it is for me to teach him how to honor someone's boundaries and how to respect the word “NO.” I often ask myself how to teach him these important life lessons without tainting it with my own wounds or projecting my perpetrator onto him.

The issues and challenges that come up for me with my daughter are totally different than those with my son. I am acutely aware of how people respond to her. I have an overwhelming need to protect her and keep her safe physically. I want to insure that she likes her body, that she not experience shame about her sexuality or femininity. I wish for her to experience herself in a way that I did not experience as a child and that I am still seeking to experience as an adult. I also ask myself how I can bring my gifts and wisdom to her and show the world to her through the woman's eyes, rather than through the wounds.

One thing for sure about having kids, they bring up so much. Just when I thought I had it all figured out and all worked through, my kids remind me that I am still healing, and that my journey continues.

Today, as I reflect on my words to you, I have faith that I can heal and find the pleasure and self-love that I have been seeking for so long. I wish each and every one of you the best as you continue your own healing.

Sarah's Story

2009-11-20T09:52:00.000-08:00

I don’t remember how old I was when my dad started fondling me. I know I was always a very shy and withdrawn child. My dad was a heavy drinker and also read and looked at pornographic magazines.

My mom tried to instill her values in her children. I have two sisters and one brother. I went to private school for eight years. We went to church regularly (just Mom and children – Dad didn’t go), and also to prayer meetings at my grandparents’.

It seems ever since I can remember, I’ve always been very shy. I did not have a friend in school until I was in third grade. I always remember feeling inferior to my classmates.

About the abuse, my dad never had intercourse with me. He would fondle me and tell me to put his finger where it felt good. He would look at and touch my vagina under the covers at bedtime. I think I struggled so much with my abuse because a lot of times it felt good.

I remember one time carrying a blanket to the TV room, hoping my dad would fondle me underneath. One night I remember my mom had gone to bed, and we were up watching TV, my dad pulling me aside in the hallway and whispering to me to put his finger where it felt good. I did.

Sometimes I dreaded him coming to our room at night because I knew what he was going to do. I think sometimes I would turn over or pretend I was asleep if I didn’t want him touching me. Then he would go and touch my older sister. Sometimes I welcomed him touching me because it felt good, but it did make me feel shameful. He never made me touch him or have sex with him. I don’t know if he got aroused while touching me. I never saw his penis.

I guess my older sister got tired of him doing that, and she told my mom. I will never forget the day my mom called me to her room because she needed to talk with me. I just couldn’t go. She called me again, and I remember her asking me if Daddy had been touching me, and I told her yes. I remember feeling so ashamed I just wanted to disappear. I guess I felt like I was the one to blame because at times it was enjoyable.

She said to tell her if he ever did that again, and asked if I thought she should divorce him. (I don’t remember her asking me the latter question, but she told me she did.) I said yes, and my sister said no. I must have been nine years old. I guess my mom confronted him, because he never touched me again. I remember him starting to spend time with my younger sister and I wondered if he were doing that to her now. He would also tease me and try to make me jealous of my younger sister.

After my mom talked with me, it was never discussed again. I tried to forget about it and go on with life. I remember always feeling like something was wrong with me, like I was damaged somehow and not as good or worth as much as other people.

I started to act out during my teen years. It started in eighth grade. I stopped trying. I was always a good student and got good grades, but I started hanging around with another girl who had a lot of problems and we got into a lot of trouble at school. We would smoke and try to drink, disobeyed the teachers and just acted defiant. We were asked not to come back to the school.

Ninth grade was one of the worst years of my life. In addition to already being a difficult time in a girl’s life, I had to make the transition to public school after being sheltered in a small, private school. It was culture shock, and I didn’t go to school for the first two weeks. I was so scared. I would feel nauseous every morning, and got sick a lot of times. I skipped a lot of school my ninth grade year. I don’t know how I passed, but I did.

I was in a special class for kids with emotional problems. We would smoke before school, and I started smoking pot.

My tenth grade year was better, but I still skipped classes and didn’t try very hard, although I did like high school. I failed that year and was held back. I finished half a year and quit.

My parents were very disapproving and said I had to get a job. I worked part-time at K-Mart. That didn’t last too long, six months at the most. I just wanted to party, get high and drunk and hang out with my friends.

I was also becoming very promiscuous. It started in eighth grade, maybe ninth. It was like I couldn’t say no to guys. I did not have a very good reputation and I was so ashamed of it. I knew I was a good girl, and I knew better, but I couldn’t say no. So many times I remember not wanting to have sex, but just going along with it. I even slept with my best friend at the time’s boyfriend.

I was very self-destructive. I really hated myself and the things I did. I would get depressed a lot and just sit in my room and cry, and wonder what was wrong with me. I knew, though, that it was related to what my dad did to me.

I remember wanting to talk about it, and I did share it with a close friend for the first time when I was 15, maybe. She cried for me, but I just sat there thinking I should be crying too. But I was too detached from my real feelings.

My depression grew, and I was out of control. My parents could not control me and wanted to try to scare me. I ended up in juvenile detention for a few days. I think that was the most depressed I ever was or would be. I cried all the time. The whole time I was there I cried because I knew I didn’t belong there. It was very scary.

After that, I think I tried to do better, but soon fell back into my old ways. I would stay out all night, and did not listen to my parents. I ran away twice, once in ninth grade and again when I was 15 or 16. The first time I did not even want to run away, but a girl I was a friend with at the time did. So, I just went along with her. I was sick I was so scared. I just wanted to go home. Luckily a few days later a girl talked me into calling my parents.

The second time I ran away, I called my parents to let them know I was okay. So, by age 16 and 17, I didn’t have a job, and I just partied all the time, trying to escape the terrible feelings I had about myself. We drank a lot, and smoked a lot of pot.

One day I had a bad experience. I mixed pot and a prescription drug. I thought I was going to die. After that, I didn’t want to smoke anymore. I started to clean up, and that’s when I started getting anxiety attacks. I thought I was going crazy. One day, in a state of depression, I took a handful of pills and lay down to go to sleep. Thank the Lord my sister came to my room a little later, and I told her what I did. My dad rushed me to the hospital. That’s kind of a blur, but that’s when I finally started to get help. I was in the psychiatric ward for a few days, I think, and I had to talk to a therapist. I would cut myself with razors and burn myself. I had slashes on my wrist at the time (not deep). That’s also when I started dealing with my dad’s drinking. I couldn’t tell the counselor about what he did to me. I had to go see someone either every week or every other week. That’s when I learned how my dad’s drinking affected me.

That and a bad experience with pot and prescription drugs started me on my road to recovery. I smoked pot while taking a prescription drug, and I thought I was going to die. I didn’t want to smoke or drink after that. Then I started getting anxiety attacks. I thought I was going crazy. I didn’t know what was happening to me. I was starting to deal with past issues, some things I didn’t have alcohol or drugs to escape, and I couldn’t suppress my emotions any longer.

My anxiety got very bad and I didn’t want to leave my house. I would get sick after I ate because my nerves were so bad, and I was scared. I started reading about anxiety, and keeping a journal. I tried to start doing good things for myself, taking better care of myself. I didn’t want to take medication for the anxiety because I was too scared, and had stopped seeing the counselor. I would make myself do things, like go to the store or mall, or just for a walk. Gradually I got a little better and was able to get a part-time job.

My mom and I also started to become close during this time. She would pray with me, support me, just loved me, and listened to me. I tried to find another job that I liked better and found a position as a nanny, watching a nine-month-old baby. I really enjoyed this, and it also enabled me to move out with my older sister. I had just turned 18.

I was still struggling with anxiety, but found a boyfriend I really liked. One night he told me he loved me, and I got really scared and didn’t want to see him anymore. I did, but I was scared because I wouldn’t allow myself to love him. I was scared of being hurt and of falling in love. Thankfully, a few months later, we got back together and we’ve been together ever since.

At first it was very hard. We moved in together, although I didn’t feel ready for that. I started to get anxious and depressed again, and started feeling suicidal again. I still had not dealt with the sexual abuse, although I had talked to my boyfriend about it. I even confronted my dad and asked him why he did that, and asked him if that happened to him when he was younger. He said not, that he was sorry, but that it was in the past. I didn’t feel any better after talking to him. I was reading, “The Courage to Heal,” and that’s why I did it.

One night I just broke down with my boyfriend and told him I wanted to die. I knew I needed to get help. I started seeing a counselor, talking about the abuse, and reading everything I could about sexual abuse. Just talking to someone about it helped a lot. I didn’t feel like I was hiding such a shameful secret anymore. I started to accept myself, and forgive myself.

My boyfriend got a job offer in a city about an hour from where we lived at the time (my parents too). So, we moved. A few months later I found out I was pregnant. We moved back and lived with my parents and at my grandfather’s winter home until we could afford our own place.

Having a healthy baby was definitely the most wonderful experience I’ve ever had. I felt fulfillment like I never knew. I felt important and needed. I loved her so deeply and strongly it scared me. I loved staying home with her and taking care of her. Two and a half years later, I was pregnant again. We married when I was almost three months pregnant with the first baby.

We moved again and started being a real family. I’m so happy now. I never thought life could be so wonderful. I have a great relationship with both my parents. I love them deeply, and have forgiven them. My husband has been very supportive of me.

I still get anxiety from time to time, but now very rarely. Last year I started getting anxiety again, and I had to re-evaluate my life and the impact the sexual abuse had on me. It was hard. I saw a counselor for a few months. I still wonder if at times I should continue to see a therapist, as I lack self-confidence and still feel inferior to others at times. Sometimes I feel like I can’t really be myself, like I don’t really know myself.

I’m growing, and I’ve made a ton or progress. I’ll be 30 this year. Looking back, I see how God protected me and helped me. He really loved me when I was a confused and troubled teenager and I would cry out to Him for His help. It wasn’t always easy. We would sing a song at church that went, “Something beautiful, something good, all my confusion, He understood. All I had to offer Him was brokenness and strife, but He made something beautiful of my life.” I would cry singing, because He did make something beautiful of my life. To God be the Glory!

Denise's Story

2009-11-06T09:36:00.000-08:00

There is no question that my past abuse history had a major impact on my ability to handle even the thought of having children, my pregnancy, birth and adjustment to parenting.

From the moment I fell pregnant I went into a total depression – even before I knew I was pregnant. I felt exhausted, stressed, and irrational at times. It was really most unfortunate timing since my husband (then fiancé) had just organized a wonderful trip to explore Britain and Europe, and we were to marry in Edinburgh just before New Year. I completely lost energy and any kind of joy or curiosity. Everything just felt extremely tiring and difficult.

Four days after our wedding we crossed the channel to France and I was horribly sick into somebody’s coke cup on board the ferry (much to the delight of the other diners, I am sure!) We gathered together our bits of French grammar and got a pregnancy test on the Champs-Elysees. Both tests were positive. I was quite happy about the pregnancy. It wasn’t totally convenient yet, since we had intended doing a lot more traveling, but we were committed and had intended to start a family soon anyway.

I had secret fears that I possibly couldn’t get pregnant, because I had had a termination when I was twenty-four. I had an IUD inserted and the gynecologist had not put it in correctly. I hadn’t realized because he had said that one could experience some pain for a while… so when it was painful and uncomfortable, I thought it was normal. I was at the point of a nervous breakdown when I realized I was pregnant at that time. I was a dancer with the City Ballet where salaries were extremely low and I was fast realizing that my fiancé at the time was an incurable drug addict and a repeat of the “father” pattern. I became very ill and the doctor suggested the termination. All my fears of being abused and perhaps becoming an abuser or subjecting my child to someone who was an abuser came up. (My mother had also played on my fears a couple of years ago when I told her briefly about what had happened. She said that she was totally anti- abortion and that I would probably never be able to have children now. As usual it was much easier for her to make me out to be a bad person and to disempower me than to face the fact that my Father’s behavior had impacted my life so drastically. )

I was very nauseous and depressed for the rest of our tour. When I got home I knew there was no way I could stay in the same city as my parents. I just didn’t feel safe living in the same town as my father. Bruce was wonderful in that he understood, and he organized for me to move cities.

My parents were coming to the wedding and that threw me even deeper into stress and depression. On the one level, they were being very helpful, especially my mother with the making of the dress and decoration of the venue, but I had no way of feeling okay about my father who had reacted aggressively when I had first mentioned the wedding. I had fears that he wouldn’t be able to handle the jealousy and that he would go mad and stab my husband or me as he had threatened to do for so many years. There was definite underlying tension all the time and he kept going off and sulking or getting horribly drunk and high and there was major tension between him and my mother because he kept ignoring her. There was definitely an element of him behaving like the jilted lover. My mother was bitchy and sarcastic with me and made me cry in front of my friends, because of her jealousy and sense of rejection.

On the day of the wedding the tension grew partly because I refused to let my father give me away and my mother was making a big deal of it. At the reception he waited for Bruce to leave the room and then sidled over to me and in a lecherous way ran his hand across my back while I tried to edge away and then got his fingers inside the edge of my low-back wedding dress. It shocked me so much that I went completely blank for a few seconds. Then I turned around and saw that my mother had seen and that she was glaring at me like it was my fault, as usual.

That was a turning point for me. It just epitomized how it had been for all the years. I knew then that I had to get myself away from these people because nothing was ever going to change with them. No matter how much I fought not to be a victim I was just totally a victim in the family pattern and I would just have to break out completely to change anything. I gave up on the hope of normality on my family.

About a month later I went to meet my midwife, Donna and she asked if there was anything coming up for me and I told her about the abuse from my father. It is funny how people assume that abuse from a parent must be something from a long distance past. On my file she wrote that I had been abused and was still very angry about it- the implication being that I was harping on about something from the ancient past. She referred me to a clinical psychologist who works with her. The first day I went to see her what came out of that session was that it was imperative for me to have a complete break from my parents. I felt so relieved that I was finally getting support from her and from my gynecologist to protect myself and get away from these destructive people. I must say that there is almost a level of resentment that it took me getting pregnant first for anyone to take my plight seriously, so that it comes across that they were more concerned about my baby than me. It always seems that I don’t count! Even when the case went through the court again it was all aimed at the fact that I was pregnant and the baby needed protection, not necessarily me!

Anyway, during that whole thing I became so depressed that sometimes I could hardly move for three days at a time. I would just lie on my bed and fret or sleep or read and was only able to get up to go to the toilet or get food from the kitchen. I wanted to go to the gym or go for walks but I just couldn’t, and then my psychologist advised me to just go with this process since she realized that I had always avoided my feelings by being physically active. The dancing is probably what kept me sane, but it also stopped me thinking or feeling too much. Now it was affecting me so much that when my father tried to phone and I heard his voice while I was at a therapy session I spontaneously threw up. It wasn’t because of pregnancy nausea because I was well past this stage in my pregnancy- it was sheer nerves. I didn’t even speak to him, but it was enough to cause a severe physical reaction. I wrote a letter to my parents telling them not to contact me and I did as much as I could in terms of the court and protection. After that I started slowly feeling a little better but I was still chronically depressed.

I went to antenatal classes as my due date drew near…and then passed…and after a week and a half my midwife started panicking. I wasn’t worried because the baby was moving nicely and I even went to have a stress test to put my midwife’s mind at ease. I was getting ready for the imminent birth and I knew that your birth and psychological history can affect the whole birth process and I realized during therapy that the way it would probably affect me is that I would struggle to let go and lose control. I also knew that the whole nausea thing was a big issue, because for me nausea equals fear. My nerves were expressed in nausea and vomiting as a child. I thought that vomiting during the birth would be traumatic for me. So I prepared a copy of my abuse history and I gave it to my midwife Donna so that she would be aware of things that could trigger off a hold-up. She absolutely floored me by saying that other people give birth and don’t even mention abuse in their past and they get through it. I know that could be interpreted as a positive affirmation from her but it really sounded to me like she was saying that she wasn’t really interested and that I should stop being indulgent and just get on with it. We then had a fight about me having to do more tests etc. when I really felt that I just had to go home and relax so that I could go into labor naturally. She insisted on stimulating my cervix and when I said that I was nervous about the internal examination, she reacted as if I was being childish. I was stressing out as she listened to the baby’s heartbeat and when I stress I tend to hold my breath, so of course the baby’s heartbeat slowed for a few seconds. I tried to explain that I had held my breath and that it was definitely connected and we listened again and it seemed fine, but by the time I got home there was a disagreement going on between Donna (on the phone) and my husband about having to go for more tests. Donna and I got into a fight about destiny and I eventually went for another test just to shut her up, and again it was absolutely fine. By this stage Donna was definitely not my favorite person. I had found her extremely abusive, and she had threatened to withdraw from the birth if I got funny about internal examinations and said that I should get myself a “spiritual midwife” (in a derogatory tone.)

I had said that I wanted my birth to be really spiritual and my psycho-spiritual healer and counselor was going to be at the birth. So I felt that she was knocking my feelings, and spiritually disempowering me. It seemed to me, for some reason that my birth and me were bringing her “stuff” up rather dramatically. I know that she was very busy and stressed and in the process of moving etc. but I found her behavior unacceptable. I had to back down and placate her because I knew that I was about to go into labor and I didn’t have the confidence to do the birth myself, but I was tempted. The internal examinations weren’t originally such a big issue- I was just tense because it was the first one I had had, and because I had heard that cervical stimulation could be sore. As far as I am concerned, anybody gets tense for an internal examination whether they’ve been abused or not. In fact, speaking to other mothers in my antenatal group after the birth, they all said (unsolicited by me) that they found the internal examinations the worst of the whole birth – worse than the pain. I think her style is unfortunate too. She sort of closes her eyes and gets a goofy expression on her face and she kind of grunts, and breathes deeply. I don’t think she is lesbian (not that I have anything against lesbianism – lots of my friends are gay) but one gets that vibe somehow… it just doesn’t feel like a straightforward examination. Maybe it’s because she likes feeling the baby, but it feels creepy. I think midwives should be very aware of how they are doing it.

So I went into labor the next evening after typically cooking a huge pot of soup (the nesting thing.) After about two hours my contractions were getting really painful and were already about 2 minutes apart… so we phoned Donna. My husband first spoke to her because the contractions were too much for me to speak, but she seemed to want more information and then when I spoke to her I found her tone rather sarcastic (maybe because it was one in the morning?) She decided to come but from that moment my contractions slowed down and became less intense…my theory is that speaking to her and feeling the context of our very recent argument my body must have pumped some adrenaline into my system and that retarded the birth process. I was 4 cm dilated when she arrived. The contractions built up again but when I was 8cms something happened that just ground everything to a halt. Not the pain and contractions, but I stopped dilating and the labor didn’t progress – I was in transition for 6 hours!

What also affected me was the following incident: I was on my bed leaning forward on pillows, wearing my gown because it was cold and I was having some really big contractions. Next thing Donna whips up the back of my gown, exposing my bare behind and tells my husband to start massaging me. He, poor dear, had been standing by for weeks with massage oils and couldn’t wait to get started so he pounced from the back energetically …and it just totally freaked me out. I started screaming and told him to leave me alone.

The whole scene just brought up too much stuff all at once; the way my father used to humiliate me and make me pull down my pants and bend over the bath edge and made me stay like that while he looked at my exposed rear, and took his time before he whipped me with his belt…and the way he used to massage me or make me massage him, even in front of my brother as a “safe” way of molesting me in front of others and getting away with it. Waves of anger and resentment and fear filled me, and very little progressed in the labor for a long time. Donna also did an internal examination every hour or so and of course I now felt this was something I was being subjected to against my will or otherwise she would leave…so it was just like an abuse situation, “You’ll let me touch you there or else.” She kept saying things like “I’m going to give you another half an hour and then I’ll check and if nothing’s happening I want to give you drugs to increase the contractions.” So there was this time limit thing and I felt that I was supposed to be performing. She even said that my cervix was lazy! I felt like a disempowered failure…and my body was not okay and not to be trusted.

No one there realized the extent of mental trauma I was going through, because like a “good little girl” I just carried on breathing and toning – like a threatened little girl, and I tried to remain in control at all costs and not show the world what was really going on. About five hours later Donna told Joan (my counselor) that she felt that the hold up might be due to emotional issues. Joan hadn’t even realized what was going on. So Joan did some work with me to try to get me to “be real” and let go and scream if I need to. She tried to get me to use this opportunity to get in touch with the anger and to let it out. I had trained as a child not to scream, cry, or react to pain. I was threatened with another beating if I cried…so the letting go of control thing was nearly impossible, and even when I screamed it felt false.

Even though it was very hard for me, I tried, and after about an hour there seemed to be a breakthrough and things started to progress again. During that hour I lay on my side because I was totally exhausted by now. I think it was about 11 hours into this very active labor. Between contractions I would drift away into a different consciousness. I was still aware of everything but I seemed to drift into the past and into my feelings of resentment. At one stage I am sure I astral traveled…because I saw myself at my father’s work just looking at him in the passage and then drifted away and back into my body for the next contraction.

The whole pushing thing confuses me. I never felt this “overwhelming urge” to push. After a while I started experimenting with pushing gently during the contractions and I found that it helped with the pain. But Donna seemed to think that it was too soon to push, because I wasn’t displaying any urgency. Eventually for me it was just a conscious decision to push. I don’t know if this perhaps due to being a dancer and being very in control? Sarah, the second midwife, arrived during transition and she was amazed when I smiled at her and was very aware of what was going on. She remarked that it was nice to see someone still smiling at this stage. I think I cope exceptionally well with pain because of the physical abuse history as well as years of painful pointwork and physicality as a dancer, and then of course yoga/meditation techniques, as I am a yoga teacher as well.

So there was this weird misunderstanding or hold up as a result. I was waiting for permission and they were waiting for something that never happened. I just eventually said that it feels right to push. I pushed for one and a half hours before Xavier made his appearance into this world. He was a great big 4.1 kilos with a head circumference of 37cms. I was fortunate to have only a very small tear. The whole pushing process was very humiliating as well. I don’t know why midwives think that it’s comfortable to push with someone’s face staring up your fanny. They might be midwives, and to them it’s just another fanny, and they are used to seeing fecal matter and so on, but let me just say that when it’s my birth, it’s my fanny and fecal matter, and it’s all very new to me. Even my non-abused friends agree on this point. I felt very inhibited and they kept carting me around the room onto the bed with a leg up to the side…then back on my back, legs up, pushing on shoulders etc. I finally gave birth in a squat position of course because that was the only semi-private position available to me. When I give birth again I will definitely make sure I am left alone to get on with it myself.

I don’t want to seem horribly ungrateful to Donna and her efforts. At least I managed to have a home birth with no drugs and a partial water birth…I got back into the tub after the head crowned. At least I had a birth that was beautiful by comparison to most, at home, with flowers and candles and aromatherapy oils, etc. I just felt betrayed by her because she from the beginning said that she was very aware of abuse issues, and was into the natural way of birthing, and into empowering women, etc., but when “push came to shove” (if you’ll pardon the pun) we found her very conditioned by her medical background, and not very aware or empowering at all. I think a big factor is that she hasn’t given birth herself…so she doesn’t really know how it feels. No matter how much you read or see, it’s just not the same as doing it yourself.

Attached is a list of points, which my husband and I feel are critically important for any labor, whether the person is a “survivor”, or not. My husband had formulated them through extensive reading, and through our experience. He is a sociology researcher and a great promoter of the natural birth movement and stopping violent birth practices, as well as an advocate of the continuum concept/attachment parenting practices. I didn’t even know one could have a baby at home before I met him. My baby and I are lucky to have such an enlightened and aware dad around. Their bonding has been very special and unusual in this day and age.

I had no problem bonding and Xavier Angel latched on like a little trooper soon after birth. He is now six months old and we have a very good nursing relationship and he is thriving and his weight gain has stayed constant and above average. I have struggled to adjust but it hasn’t been too bad. The postpartum blues thing didn’t hit me in crying fits or anything like that. I just felt totally numb and feelingless for a few days, which was quite scary because I didn’t feel anything for Xavier.

As a mother, at first I was very much in the process of trying to show "I'm fine", "I can do this perfectly," and, “ I AM SUPERMOM!” (Which of course is also a "survivor" side effect.) But looking back now I can see the effects more clearly. One major issue for me is that I felt really watched. I had just come out about the years of abuse, and now I felt that everyone was watching me to see if I was going to abuse my child. This is because of that popular psychology theory (which is very destructive) that became very popular in the seventies, and which I actually read as a child while I was being abused. It made me even more fearful and scared of telling anyone what was happening because I felt branded or ruined for life.

Even as a child I was such a nurturing type of person that the thought that I might one day be a terrible mother was absolutely horrible... my fears regarding that were largely instrumental in my deciding to have an abortion later in life. I have met many other survivors who haven't had children for the same reason. It’s ironic that because of 20 years of my father threatening to kill me I opted to end my own child’s potential life rather than bring it into this “unsafe” planet.

Since I fall into the category of the "good little girl" or “over-achiever” type victim, I have put enormous pressure on myself to be the world's most perfect mother. I have this constant inner battle between sacrificing myself and nurturing myself too. I read and study all the right ways of doing things... just after my baby was born I started studying developmental psychology. I am also following the Jean Liedloff, Continuum Concept ideas and the Dr Sears, attachment style parenting system. It is quite sad, because the most important thing should be just to relax and be, and tune into your inner wisdom, which I also try to do... but with me there is desperation behind it... a need to prove that I'm okay.

Because my spirituality is very important I struggled to remain with my original psychologist and then went to a psycho-spiritual healer and lifeline counselor. She really helped a lot with adjusting to my new life as a parent and the birth etc. I try to read a lot on developmental psychology, child abuse, and various spiritual teachings. But I’ve learnt to not be too caught up in the spiritual stuff, because you can wind up being a bigger victim for it. For instance “respect your elders” is very biblical or part of many teachings but so many “elders” deserve no respect at all. And how can you “forgive” if the abuser just takes that as an opportunity to abuse you more? I spent years trying to be a “good person”, and forgive my father or “let go”, but he just used that to continue abusing me up until the age of 31!

The one thing that I also really struggle with is staying "in body". I often just drift off, and go to that place of "nothingness" that I went to when I was being tortured and abused. So sometimes, although I am totally there for Xavier in a physical sense, mentally and spiritually I am miles away. When I catch myself I obviously bring myself back quickly. The problem is that I think through all the years of trauma I have developed the kind of detachment that Buddhist monks spend whole lifetimes trying to achieve. I fully realize it can be a very good thing in the larger context of the meaning of life, but sometimes it worries me in terms of parenting.

I don't think it is affecting Xavier too much… He is a very happy chappie. We are very bonded and loving with each other, and he gets a lot of touch-although-that brings me to another side effect. I find that I touch him a lot less in public. My mother was very touch phobic and my father was totally touch invasive, and I lived with the whole secretive touch thing. I have an automatic reflex to give him a lot more space in public and I suppose that it ties in with the whole thing that I am scared that people will think that I am an abuser. Don't you think that it is just totally unfair? I've lived through the whole ordeal myself and now I am permanently scared that people will think that I am the perpetrator.

I find that I am also surrounded by people who just don't want to know. They have a "just get on with it" and stop delving in your “stuff” reflex. I know that it is because they are not dealing with their own stuff, and my honesty and openness bugs them. It is so weird being in this healing process, (which is one of the amazing things that children bring us!) and everyone just wants you to shut up and pretend, and wear the mask.

Key Birthing Tips

* Being relaxed and being able to maintain this is pivotal

* Also absolutely essential is the woman must learn to have self-reliance and empowerment, backed by a strong feeling of inner calm.

* Respect the woman’s intuition.

* Respect the wisdom of the woman’s body

* Those present must have a harmonious relationship with the mother. Any disruption of trust or trace of conflict can disrupt the labor badly. Be confident enough and able to have anyone you’re uncomfortable with in any way leave immediately (including your midwife or family or doctor.)

* The birth experiences of those present have a profound impact on the labor. The mother has to process it.

* The more we encourage a woman to find her voice, tell the truth, let go and be all that she is and feels during pregnancy, the less likely pathology will develop in labor.

* Patience in all aspects of labor – especially if the woman birthing is calm about the situation.

* “I had the overwhelming feeling that what we needed to do was nothing.” (Elizabeth van der Ahe, midwife)

*“My real work as a midwife has been to get out of the way and let women do their work.” (June Whitson, CNM)

Lena's Story

2009-10-27T10:37:00.000-07:00

When you remember, you remember...Sounds a bit like Yogi Berra in a TV commercial. But for me, the words ring a profound truth.

In the autumn of 1998, right after I began therapy for incest, I attended a conference for survivors. I felt so jealous of the people who had always clearly remembered their abuse.

If one recovers from an illness, this presupposes one becomes ill. I became symptomatic when my son was born; I began recovering after my mother died.

Before my husband and I conceived our son, I recalled my father being “inappropriate” with me as a baby. I also remembered a babysitter I had at the age of four whom I hated. Only after my mother’s death did I connect the two incidences.

My pregnancy was fraught with challenges. After a medical miscarriage in my mid-thirties, it took 6 more years to conceive and carry to full term. A positive AFP test resulted in an amniocentesis, which was rescheduled twice because the needle wouldn’t go in. My husband and I had a fight on the way to a party and I walked back to our apartment: 5 months pregnant at night, 48 blocks. The baby turned breech days before the window closed negating a vaginal delivery. He turned back around just in time! Finally three days and 23 hours of intermittent labor ended in a “dry birth” and my son was whisked off to ICU for 3 days.

Our baby was bright, beautiful, and high-strung. I saw his life fraught with unknown, unnamed perils lurking behind every door. Breastfeeding was easy but the infant fed every 2 hours. My family of origin was supportive but tiring- alcoholism, cancer, death, and heart disease. My husband’s finances spun out of control. I slowly dissolved.

When my mother died in 1998, I regained the courage to fight for myself. I looked up “incest” in the phone book and found a therapist who is one of the most knowledgeable, professional, generous, kind human beings I’ve ever known. With her guidance and the help of a support group, I finally recalled being orally raped when I was 4 years old. Afterwards, the babysitter (the perp’s wife) had knotted my hair into a hair-pulling braid to remind me never to tell anyone what had happened to me under her care.

So when I remembered, I remembered. The myriad, jumbled pieces of my life finally began to fit. When I remembered WHY my hair was done in a high fashion “do” that day in 1951, I could cease compulsively pulling out my body hair. When I remembered my self betrayed at a gut-wrenching level, I understood why I married a man who is emotionally unavailable. When I remembered the child sexual abuse, I knew exactly what my therapist meant by “Your life sounds so exhausting.” Yes, it’s tough running the marathon with a hole in your heart.

My greatest pain could be how erratic my parenting has been- to my pre-teen son as well as to my 30-year-old stepdaughter. So I talk with them- age appropriately- about alcoholism, compulsions, tricky people, self esteem, and so on.

A baby is a process, not a product. With the help of my therapist, husband, friends and support group I transformed myself from victim to survivor. I feel now I’m an adventurer. My life is not a scripted play. Every moment can bring surprises, challenges- the rediscovery of who I really am. It’s not easy coaxing adventure from chaos, but at least now I get to choose to do so.

Hope's Story

2009-10-09T07:44:00.000-07:00

My mother left my father, my little sister and I when I was 5 years old. It’s very hard for me to separate the damage that was caused by sexual abuse from the damage caused by my mother’s abandonment (especially when it comes to my mothering journey). Then I have to consider what damage my father’s neglect and emotional abuse following the divorce caused. I was a pretty mixed-up kid. However, I don’t think very many survivors out there are only dealing with sexual abuse. Life is never that simple. So I’ll tell my story as best I can, for this all part of who I am.

It was May 3, 1971. I was 3 ½ years old. While playing outside with a couple of older neighbor boys, I was sexually violated with a stick after being bribed with candy to remove my clothing. The pain was so intense that I was unable to pee for over 24 hours and was eventually taken to see my family doctor. After the whole story came out, my parents were shocked into silence. They didn’t speak a word to me all the way home and the incident was never referred to again.

My child’s mind knew exactly what was going on. I had done a very bad thing. Apparently there was something wrong with me and I had embarrassed my dear parents with the knowledge that their little girl had a defect. No one mentioned to me that it might not be my fault; no anger was directed toward my “playmates”. I was cast adrift in a sea of pain and silence. It was then that I internalized two very profound teachings. 1) It was OK for people to hurt me and 2) It was not OK to tell anyone about it.

I guess that was when I got the invisible “tattoo” that so many survivors talk about. The one that tells every creep and degenerate out there that I’m easy pickings. The “victim sign”. I was abused by my elders and my peers over the next 15+ years. When I finally gathered up enough courage to tell someone again I was 11 years old. I received such a long and abusive lecture from my father on how evil I was for spreading those ugly lies that I buried my secrets and went on in silence, again. I entered puberty under the impression that the sexual abuse had damaged me so badly that I would never be able to conceive. I now know that this belief is fairly common among survivors, in fact, two other survivors passed it on to me. One of them was my aunt. My mother’s little sister has accused her parents of sexually abusing her (among other things.) Her only “proof” has been that not once in her fairly promiscuous life has she ever conceived a child. My aunt and a school friend of mine both confided in me, separately, that due to early childhood sexual abuse their doctors had assured them that they would never bear children. I both believed and feared that the same fate had befallen me. Surely I was too badly damaged to become pregnant. I began field-testing this theory and proved myself wrong when I was 18.

I quickly made an appointment and got the abortion I desperately wanted. The procedure went well. I was well supported. I recovered easily. I have no regrets. The relationship I was in was turning abusive and I am grateful that I was able to leave him, no strings attached.

At 19 I met the man of my dreams. David was my only experience of love at first sight. We married quickly and decided early that we would never have children. We used to sit in restaurants watching young families and count the reasons why we did not want to be like them. It all seemed so noisy, messy and chaotic. We didn’t need the trouble.

Ben was an old friend of David’s. He was one of our roommates back when David and I first moved into student housing together. He was kind, eager to please and very attracted to me. It took quite awhile before I realized what was happening. David was absorbed in Graduate studies and a full-time job. I was a homebody who did a little theater work for “candy money” and watched too many soap operas. I didn’t want to sleep with Ben but I had no clue how to say No. He was persistent in his pursuit of my favors and, eventually, I allowed myself to be seduced. I was too ashamed of what I had done to tell my husband. I was also unable to extinguish Ben’s desire for me and unsure of my own true feelings for him. When I became pregnant with Ben’s child I was devastated.

I was willing to abort if Ben never found out. David refused to keep silent and pretend nothing had happened, so I chose to find a childless couple to adopt my baby. I spent one last highly emotional week with Ben early in my pregnancy while David was out of town and then cut off communication completely. I allowed David to convince me that Ben did not love me and that there was no hope of a future with him. I knew that if the child I were carrying were a boy, I would have no choice but to give him up. I was unable to imagine David raising Ben’s son as his own; it seemed too unpleasant for all of us. I prayed for a girl.

My pregnancy was awful and miraculous. I loved being pregnant even while I hated all the pain it caused David. I would stay awake at night holding my belly and crying. I wanted to be able to love my child without having it hurt everyone so much. Our families were dumbfounded by the idea of us giving our child away. My friends told me that I’d never forgive myself. My stepmother offered to raise the child for us as my half-sibling. I had to say something to her, something that would make her stop hounding me about my decision. I told her I’d been raped. It became my truth. It did have some truth to it and it became easier and easier to tell to people as time went on. I told it to my family, my in-laws, my doctor, our adoption worker, the couple we’d chosen to raise my child and eventually, my midwives.

I wanted to birth at home. I had attended a friend’s homebirth a couple of years back as a support person for their 2-year-old son. I had already developed an acute fear of hospital birth. I knew I would not do well under a doctor’s “control”; it still makes me queasy imagining it. I began prenatal care with a female OB while my search for a midwife began. I had already rejected one when I realized that the author of the book I was reading on birthing lived in my town. I decided that she was the one for me but she had serious misgivings about my having a homebirth when I did not intend to keep my child. Better to give birth elsewhere and not have to live with the memories of the birth in my home space. Lucky for me she happened to run a birth center not too far from my home. I decided to have my baby there instead. I met my midwife’s partner when I began going to the birth center for my prenatal care. I felt very blessed to have two such warm and loving women caring for me.

At some point in my last trimester, I told my midwives my cover story about having been raped by a friend. Probably to avoid some pointed question about my reasons for giving my child away. The effect it had was profound; it transformed our relationship. I became a special case, I suppose. I know that they really wanted to help me keep my child despite my husband’s objections. I don’t believe they had ever come up against a problem they couldn’t solve and they were determined that I would not be an exception!

I went in for my 35-week check and was given an internal exam as a matter of course. They wanted to get a sense of how my body was arranged before labor started in order to better gauge the changes I would undergo during labor. I don’t know how or why but I was found to be 50% effaced and 2 cm. dilated. Under normal circumstances this would have been a bad sign. I would have been advised to rest and try to avoid having the baby before 37 weeks. They might have begun to talk of transferring me into the care of an OB. Instead they took it as cause to rejoice. My belly was big enough for them to convince everyone (including me) that my dates had been wrong. I was told that my baby was full term and it seemed that David was most likely the baby’s father. I was told that I would have a baby by the weekend (this was a Wednesday). I went home in a fog. Deep down, I knew that my dates were right, I was keeping very close track of my cycles, but I wanted to believe them so much. I prayed and squatted and walked all week long trying to speed things up. By Sunday, I was a mess. I didn’t know what to think or who to believe anymore. David was only slightly more interested in his own child than he was in Ben’s. We did select our baby names during those days of waiting, but they were only chosen to look good on the birth certificate 18 years later when he or she found it.

Late Sunday night my backache began and we headed off to the birth center. Everyone was tense, edgy, waiting for the answer to the unspoken question, “whose baby is this?” My body fought giving birth. I didn’t want to let go. It was too soon. I’d only gotten 8 months of pregnancy and I wasn’t ready yet. I remember repeating the word “open” over and over through clenched teeth, a classic symptom of childbirthing fear. It’s a miracle that I was able to dilate at all. I stalled out at 9cm in my body’s last-ditch effort to avoid letting go of my baby. No such luck, the midwife between my legs reached in and pushed my cervix over the baby’s head. She was born with the cord wrapped around both her neck and her body. My body had done all it could to hold her back but here she was, a perfect little girl. As the midwife lifted her up onto my belly, I swear that she looked at me and said “Hi.” (I’m not the only one who heard her say it either.) She looked enormous to me and as I held her to my breast, I felt my heart burst with joy and break from pain all at once.

She was born at only 36 weeks. The midwives checked and double-checked every feature of her tiny body looking for signs of her being term. Finally they regretfully agreed on her age although the quickly added that while she was born early she was in no way premature. She weighed in at a very healthy 8lbs. 13 oz. They even sent a sample of her cord blood in to the lab to have it typed in case that could tell us anything about her true paternity. It was the same blood type as mine. No help there either. Looking back I can’t help but appreciate everything they did for me, for all of us. We called the adoption worker to come down to the birth center. That really flustered the midwives who were busy with another birthing mom at the time. They thought she was going to take her away right then and there but I wanted my baby to come home with me, and David reluctantly agreed to it.

The ride home was tense and silent. We both knew what an impossible choice we were facing. The reality of raising a child we didn’t even know if we really wanted was overwhelming but the idea of giving her away forever was like a knife in my heart.

She was born on a Monday. We brought her home Tuesday. On Thursday, we called our family to announce that we were going to keep our little girl. I knew that if I had given her away I would only want to replace her. Neither of us felt it made sense to give away the perfect child in our arms just to turn around and try again. I can’t even imagine how hard it must have been for David to agree to keep her. I hope I never have to experience such a decision myself.

All of a sudden, I was a mother. I had not prepared for it. I had read no books, gotten no advice, made no plans. All I remembered of my own mother were the traumatic events that led to her leaving and the weekend visits when I was older. I had no clue what I was doing. I did know one thing, though. I knew that I was going to protect her from sexual abuse. My mother’s family has a history of sexual abuse that goes back into obscurity. It had touched every family member I knew, but it was not going to happen to my baby. I became the ultimate “attachment parent”. I never left her with anyone I didn’t fully trust. I slept with her in my bed for years. I taught her the word “Stop” and I made sure everyone respected it when she used it. I taught her that everyone has a right to their own space. I avoided any mention of sexual abuse persay, but made certain she was safe and strong. It was a lot of work. I didn’t go out alone much. I couldn’t take a job because I was terrified of leaving her in daycare. It ticked off more than a few people who didn’t think tickling a child was a big deal, even after she said, “Stop”. It wasn’t easy for me but I knew what I had to do in order to live with myself. I was obsessed, but happy.

Then, one day last fall when my daughter was 7, we were laying on my bed talking when the topic turned on sex. I can’t remember why or how, but my daughter pressed me in to giving her information on sexual abuse. I knew it would happen eventually. I’d been involved in survivor support groups on the Internet for 6 months or more by then. She couldn’t be kept in the dark forever. Anyway, she asked me questions for awhile before I broke down and decided to give her the information she wanted as simply and gently as I could. I told her that there were adults in this world who liked to have sex with children.

She was stunned. It took her a second or two to process this new information. She looked at me incredulously and said, “Mom, that’s so gross” or some other equally sophisticated comment like that.

That’s when I felt it. This power surge, this overwhelming feeling of success, of achievement. It’s hard to find the words to express how complete I felt at that moment, how triumphant. “I did it! I won! I broke the chain of abuse, here and now. It’s over.” My little girl won’t grow up with the shame of sexual abuse in her life. Even if someone raped her now it wouldn’t be the same. She would know she could tell, she would know it’s not her fault. Sexual abuse needs silence in order to thrive; it only grows in the dark. My daughter no longer has those vulnerable dark places in her soul. She is no longer ignorant about abuse; she can no longer be shamed into silence. She will never believe that it was her fault. She now knows the truth and somehow, that truth had set us both free. My years of hard work and dedication to her safety paid off big for me. I now hope to be able to help others work through the hidden wounds of childhood sexual abuse or, even better, protect other mothers’ children from ever experiencing it at all.

If I could give only one gift to my daughter, to all daughters, it would be for her to have all the knowledge, all the strength and all the self-assurance to allow her to choose if, how and when she becomes a mother herself. I feel that childhood sexual abuse took that choice out of my hands, and, while I feel very blessed to be a mother now, I cannot help but wish that I had been able to embrace motherhood willingly. If I cannot have that experience for myself, I will do my utmost to create it for my child.

Kristy’s Story

2009-10-05T11:38:00.000-07:00

I'm only 36 now, but I have shared my story with so many groups and people that the trauma has been diluted by the years and retellings. The pain associated with the original events has been replaced by insight, understanding, and reframing. I have come to regard those aspects as more important than my story itself.

My father first approached me sexually when I was 13, the summer between seventh and eighth grade. I had been washing dishes, with my two younger sisters playing with Play-Doh at the kitchen table behind me. Without warning, my father came up to me from behind, put his arms around me, and thrust his hands down the front of my shorts. I was shocked not only because my father was touching me in a sexual way, but especially because I was mid-menstrual period and still adjusting to the teenage angst and awkwardness of wearing maxi-pads.

My first thought was to yell or to fight him off, but I didn't want to alarm my younger sisters, who were only 7 and 9. Instead, I slipped from his grasp and walked through our laundry room to the back door. He managed to stop me before I could walk out, restraining me by running one hand back down my shorts, fondling one of my breasts with the other, and kissing my neck as he rubbed his penis against my butt.

I gathered my wits, shoved open the door, and extricated myself from his grip. As I stared at him incredulously, he uttered the completely unoriginal but completely predictable line, "Don't tell your mother.” What he hadn't bargained for was my quick response of, "That's exactly what I intend to do." I brushed by him back into the house to find my mother. He made no attempt to stop me.

I found my mother in an upstairs bedroom vacuuming out a closet. She was a high school teacher who used her summer breaks to catch up on housework. Later I came to realize cleaning was part of her unconscious strategy to keep busy enough to avoid dealing with more pressing household problems.

I turned off her sweeper and told her, "Your husband just put his hands down my pants." Although he was my biological father, at that moment I couldn't seem to bring myself to call him 'dad' or 'father." It was a feeble attempt to create some distance between him, me, and the event that had just transpired. Mom's reaction brought me back to the here and now.

"Are you sure?" I was more stunned by her question than I had been by my father's inappropriate sexual behavior.

"Of course I'm sure," I responded. "Why would I make up something like that?” But the damage had been done. She had managed to wipe out 13 years of mother/daughter trust with three words. Twenty-three years later, I still have not reassigned to her the trust she lost from me that day.

To her credit, Mom did stop cleaning the closet and went to find my dad. I have no idea what she said to him, but she immediately came back into the house and called a mental health clinic in a nearby city and got them an appointment for later that day. Mom took my sisters and me to my maternal grandmother's house a mile down the road, where they spoke in hushed tones for most of the rest of the morning. Not once did she ask me how I felt or even offer a platitude, such as, "Everything will be okay."

My older sister, 15, had spent the night at a friend's house. My mother called there and told the parents to drop her off at Grandma's instead of at our home. When she arrived, my mother took her aside, whispered what had happened, and she burst into tears. It turned out my father had been violating her sexually for the past two years, but she had been scared and honored his request to not tell anyone. My reporting of Dad's incestuous behavior had forced her secret out in the open. Instead of feeling relieved, she resented me for it. "See all the trouble you've stirred up," she hissed. "You and your big mouth."

Mom and Dad went to see the counselor later that day in what was to be both their first and last visit. Dad spent the night in a trailer we had set up by the lake at the back of one of our farms. He was back at the table the next morning for breakfast, sitting in his usual chair. It must have been some therapy session, to have "cured" the problem in only one hour. Even my 13-year-old's sensibilities bristled at the notion. Nothing was said about the previous day's incident. I found this unbelievable and maddening. My father emerged unscathed; while I became the villain for reporting he had molested me. Back in 1977, awareness of and treatment for child sexual abuse was virtually non-existent. The resources simply weren't in place to handle reporting and prosecution of the perpetrators, let alone counsel the victims. I had done what I could to the best of my knowledge and ability: I had told a trusted adult. Unfortunately, I had no control over what she did or did not do with the information.

Home life grew increasingly stressful. It was awful to live with someone who had molested me and my sister, especially when he knew nothing was going to happen to him for what he had done. Why shouldn't he try it again? I started carrying a knife with me everywhere. Bathing was especially traumatic, as we had two doors on the bathroom and neither of them locked. Part of me worried he would try and touch me again, while another part dared him to so I could have the satisfaction of using the knife.

In addition to being sexually abusive, my father was physically abusive. He always had been. When his temper flared, he would cuss a blue streak, throw things, and hit people. Naturally, I was his favorite target. While I could not prevent him from striking me, I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of crying when he did. It was one of the few family power struggles I won, if you could call it winning.

Once I tried to talk to my mom about taking us away from there to live somewhere else. Okay, what I asked her was, "Why don't you divorce the son of a bitch?” She looked at me as if I were crazy and asked me what people would think if she did that to my father. "He's worked so hard to buy these farms. It wouldn't be fair to make him lose them in a divorce." The irony of the situation didn't escape me. She was more concerned with the opinions of others and my father's career than she was with the safety of her own children.

About the only thing I had control over in my life was my attitude. I threw myself into my studies at school, sports, band, piano lessons, quiz bowl, student council, and anything else that would take me out of the house. To the rest of the world, I appeared to be a healthy, fun-loving, talented child. I did what I was asked around the house and farm, but treated my parents with a barely-concealed contempt. It was my way of creating distance between them and me. For their part, when my parents grew frustrated at me or feared I might share the family's secrets with outsiders, they would threaten to send me to the local juvenile home. I think they reasoned the threat of being sidelined from my school activities would make me more compliant. In truth, my real fear was that my father would take advantage of my absence and molest one of my younger sisters. I felt as if I were walking a tightrope. I reined in my blatant contempt for them and settled into a routine of quiet distain and bitterness.

My attitude effectively kept my parents at bay and restricted my father from trying to molest me again, save a couple of occasions. Both times I let him know to leave his hands off of me. I have no idea if he continued to molest my older sister, as she has never talked about it, except in the vaguest of terms. Ironically, Dad insisted on giving us dating advice. He would make comments like, "Men are only after one thing." Never one to miss an opportunity, I replied, "You should know."
I spent several years hating men and as a teen and young adult took great malice in sexually attracting men, using them, and then dropping them once they became emotionally attached to me. My over-sexualized behavior, along with the development of anorexia and bulimia shortly after I was molested, are now regarded as textbook indicators of underlying sexual abuse. But back then, I had no idea they were compulsive coping mechanisms.

To say I developed "control issues" would be an understatement. I had learned at 13 that I could trust neither men nor women. It was a disturbing revelation that led me to be highly independent. Most of the men I met and seemed intent on hurting (before they could hurt me, of course) were actually nice guys whom I had attracted via my good qualities. Even though that registered intellectually with me, I never allowed the knowledge to penetrate the tight hold I had on my emotions. I wanted to be close to people, but feared if I let them get close they would betray me as my parents had.

This changed when I was 23, following a vicious argument I got into with my older sister, whose family lives on the farm across the street from my parents' farm. I don't even remember what we were fighting over, but she had phoned my dad and told him I had come over and caused trouble with her. When I walked back to my folks' place, he stormed out the front door, eyes blazing, and punched me in the shoulder without asking any questions. I felt so angered by his aggression that I shoved him backward and kicked him. He yelled at me to leave his property. I surprised both of us when I yelled back; "I don't have to follow orders from anybody who would molest his own children."

My words completely took the wind out of his sails. His reply was, "Whew, I can't believe you still think about that." I turned and began the litany I had unconsciously been formulating for 10 years. "I think about it every day. I think about it every time I meet a nice man and can't let myself trust him. I think about it every time I'm afraid to think about having children because someone like you might molest them. I think about it every time when I wish I'd gone away to college instead of commuting from home so I could protect my younger sisters from you. I think about it every time I can't let myself relax and enjoy life like other people seem to be able to."

Those are just a few of the comments I recall from my rant. But as I rambled, my older sister walked over from her house, sobbing, and put her arms around me. My father suggested we not talk about it any more, but I told him I had waited 10 years to say these things and he was going to start listening to me RIGHT NOW. Inside my mother's kitchen, where Dad had initially molested me, I told both him and my mother how little respect I had for them and how their behavior had negatively affected my life and limited my choices. I told them I was sick of carrying around their secrets and tired of being blamed when I had in fact been the victim. It was the first honest communication we'd had in years and all of us ended up crying. As a result, part of the family burden was lifted.

Over the next four years, I was able to rebuild my relationship with my father. I learned he had grown up in a highly dysfunctional environment and that his alcoholic father and one of his brothers had also been sexually inappropriate toward other family members. I would love to be able to say we established the kind of love and trust that usually develops between characters toward the end of Disney films, but that was not the case. I was able to care about and enjoy Dad from the perspective of a competent adult who is no longer vulnerable because she knows her strengths, weaknesses, and options. And unlike many women, I did get to hear from him the most highly coveted phrase: "I'm sorry."

A longtime smoker, my father died of lung cancer when I was 27 and he 56. I truly miss him and the relationship we had developed. Despite molesting me and my sister, he had lots of admirable qualities. At the time he died, I had not yet had children, so I was spared announcing the decision I had made long ago: Dad would not be allowed access to my children unless under my direct supervision. I might not be able to alter history, but I could prevent it from repeating itself.

My relationship with my mother hasn't improved much. On the rare occasions when I have brought up her role in my childhood drama, she still defends herself for not protecting us. Her explanations today ring as hollow as they did then. Through my adult eyes, I see her fear, helplessness, and ineffectiveness as deeply embedded character flaws that influence her behavior in most areas. As a child I took her reactions and inaction personally. As an adult, I know they say more about her than about me.

From hearing and reading other women's sexual abuse stories, I know mine is not at the severe end of the spectrum. Many women had it much worse over a much longer period of time, frequently at the hands of multiple perpetrators. But I think we are bound together by the universal feelings of fear, distrust, and betrayal that have continued to affect our outlooks and relationships long after the sexual abuse stopped. As when a nuclear bomb is detonated, the fallout/exposure is worse than the initial explosion.

I've spent money on therapy and time in support groups to deal with the effects of growing up in a sexually dysfunctional family. I stopped this guided exploration of my past in my late 20's because I found the process to be more recovery sabotaging than empowering. I found I'd researched more into sexual abuse dynamics than had most therapists and I tired of educating them at my expense.

Frankly, I can't regard my parents' behavior toward me as "victimization." I think the word "victim" implies an intent that was simply not there in my case and isn't there in most other sexual abuse incidents. I prefer the term "object of sexual abuse" because I think it more accurately reflects the objectification that must occur in order for the sexual abuser and his/her secrecy collaborators (i.e. my mother) to carry through with their selfish behaviors. I have come to view sexual abuse as an unhealthy way the abuser uses the abusee to get his/her needs met. A true victim is someone who was helpless in a situation. In my case, I did what I could to the best of my abilities to cope with what was going on. I didn't shut up and put up like my father requested and I used what options I had available.

I always wonder what a dramatic difference would be made if the first responder professionals in sexual abuse cases made it clear to the abusees that they were 'objects' versus 'victims.' They could actually tell someone, "It looks like you just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time when someone tried to use you for their own sexual gratification.” Such a reframing would arouse a natural, healthy anger at being used, rather than induce shame. Surely it's more recovery enhancing to recognize you were more pawn than prey.

I also resist describing myself as a "survivor" of sexual abuse, for that implies a nobility of behavior that simply wasn't there. I only did what I could to get my needs met under less than desirable circumstances. Such is life.

Parenting is an arena where I can see the progress I have made in processing my childhood sexual abuse experience. There was a time when I vowed never to have children, probably because I feared what might happen to them at the hands of another family member or a perverted stranger. Then I went through a phase where I wanted to become a parent to a son or two, probably because I felt sons were somehow safer than daughters from potential sexual abuse. I'm now seven months pregnant for my first child and welcome the possibility of having a daughter. While I recognize I could not possibly prevent everything bad from happening to her, I feel I would transmit to her the resiliency to handle whatever life might send her way.

I don't spend a lot of time worrying about all the bad things that might happen. My time would be better spent developing healthy self-esteem with which to deal with life's uncertainties and misfortunes.

I visualize the medieval castles and how their moats were used as a perimeter defense to protect from outside attackers. I spent years cultivating a strong perimeter defense so others could not penetrate it and harm the part of me I hid inside. It was quite the screening process and required 24-hour vigilance. As a result, I was lonely and miserable in my safety. In that way I ended up victimizing myself.

I worked six years as a probation officer and in that time handled several cases involving sexual abuse. A lot of criminal justice and corrections employees have trouble dealing rationally with this population. But I believe I was able to proceed relatively objectively and comfortably with the perpetrators on account of my experiences with my father. I also did a counseling internship with an agency that treated sex offenders and other sex addicts. That further reinforced to me that they are more than just the sum of their deviant behavior. While I don't believe sexual addiction can be cured, I do believe it can be managed. And although my view is not popular among those who believe sex offenders should be taken out and shot, it nevertheless is informed by both personal and professional experience. How many people can say that? I fail to see where a polarized view of sex offenders as "evil" serves anyone.

My own sexual abuse and the pretense that surrounded it have given me very little tolerance for other kinds of secrecy. I was especially disturbed by the "don't ask/don't tell" posture adopted by the military with regard to gays in its ranks. Either let them in or keep them out, but stop pretending that what people know is going on isn't really happening. How unfair to purposely put people into the middle.

As a stepparent and mother-to-be, I know the quality of my relationships with the other sex is a reference point for how the children develop their own relationships. While my husband and I definitely have our moments, we demonstrate love, physical affection, and respect on a daily basis. This is something I never saw in my family of origin and had to learn largely through trial and error.

I believe that when I have my baby and begin to rear him/her I will pass on the characteristics of strength and insight so the child will be able to cope effectively with whatever and whomever life sends his/her way. I plan to communicate these concepts more through my actions than through my words.

When the child is old enough, I will make available my journals and other writings that speak to important emotional issues. More importantly, I will try to actively listen to and believe the concerns my child brings to me.

In addition to love, I plan to make trust and consistency the hallmarks of our parent-child relationships. For I know their loss is far more devastating than the physical violation of sexual abuse.

Elizabeth’s Story

2009-09-24T14:15:00.000-07:00

My one recurrent prayer in high school was to live long enough to move out of my parents’ house. Every night at bedtime I had wanted to kill myself. Images of me dead, ways of dying, and an overwhelming sense of oppression invaded my nighttime thoughts. By day I was a straight “A” student in high school – someone others respected and knew well, or at least thought they knew. I was the only one who understood my double life. For as far back as I can remember, I had the sense of leading two incongruous lives: one on the outside of my family’s front door and one on the inside.

My last birthday was one of celebrating living away from my parents longer than living with my parents – a celebration of survival! It has been a year of change and struggle, the years before leaving my parents’ house seeming always to influence those after. In honor of my struggles and my survival, I dedicate this story to all those who are my friends, colleagues and family and to those souls I may have hurt in my attempt to find out who I am and to love myself. I hope that all truth will help others be free.

I am the older of two sisters born to a woman who grew up in a family where physical punishment was common and where she was sexually molested, and an immigrant father who lived through the work camps of WWII, was also physically abused as a child and probably has borderline personality disorder (a new, recent, realization for me), as well as being an alcoholic and a compulsive gambler in my childhood.

My younger sister is now one of my most cherished friends, but this was not always the case growing up, however. My father was a binge alcoholic for my entire childhood and most of my adult life, until approximately six years ago. He was a compulsive gambler who lost all of our family’s savings several times over, as well as being an inventor with many patents in his field, but who always wanted to be a physician. My mother was a teacher of emotionally disturbed and learning disabled children until an early retirement was necessary due to her disabling heart disease. Both my parents smoked one to two packs of cigarettes per day and had multiple conflicts between them while I was growing up. I remember my mother saying out loud repeatedly how she should divorce my father when I was a child, but she never did. My sister and I were overly compared to each other and were forced into an almost competitive relationship as children. She and I had almost no privacy at home, with my father and sometimes my mother not knocking on doors and trying to keep us busy most of the day. Reading was one of the few things we were allowed to do for pleasure. I was not allowed to date until after graduating from high school, when my parents had little control over me in college. This lack of basic dating constraints and forced avoidance of almost all normal social activities left me unprepared for the freedoms of college life at age 17, when I matriculated into college and left my parents’ house, never to live there again. For example, I was never allowed to attend even one football game or dance in high school, even if I asked to go with girlfriends. I was valedictorian of my high school class of 800 and received many scholarships to college, even winning my father’s company college scholarship, which included students from all over North America. No matter how “good a girl” I was, how many “A’s” I received in school or how many scholarships I won, I was not allowed to be trusted with normal teen activities.

The exception to the “No to anything I asked to do rule” was that my mother would let me and my sister participate in activities that my father would not, if we would not “get caught”. Therefore, my mother, as the only way that her children could get to do anything that was “normal” for kids, always condoned lying to my father. However, the consequences for getting caught were severe, so that we became very adept at not only lying, but also covering up the lies completely and covering for each other, so that no one would know the truth. It seemed that even our mother did not want to know the truth at times, so she could take my father’s side and say that she did not know what was going on, and subsequently, not get into trouble herself. This set up a terrible, insidious pattern of lying in my personal life that I have just recently overcome through therapy and my Christian beliefs, but still have to be constantly on guard not to replicate in small ways in daily life.

My mother seemed jealous of my doing well in school and would often put me down for doing well. I never knew if my mother had some role to play in me not getting to do certain activities, even though she let my sister and I participate in others. My sister and I somehow managed to survive, but each minute in our parents’ house seemed one of survival. We were severely physically punished as young children as well as psychologically, alternately neglected and wounded. Because my father was so volatile much of mother’s energy was spent in trying to “keep him happy”, while working full time and trying to raise two girls. Because of this particular situation, many of our needs as children were overlooked or were not as important as my father’s needs. We always served him as the king of the castle as children. We washed all the dishes and clothes, mowed the yard, polished his shoes, fed him first, and anything else that we were told to do as soon as we were old enough. About the only thing that might take precedence was schoolwork, but not generally before house chores.

As for the physical punishment, it was not restricted to my father. I was tied to chairs for long periods of time with ropes (for not keeping my shoes on as a one or two year old), beaten with belts, hair brushes, and fly swatters and had soap shoved in my mouth. Many of these memories are clear, but with others I just remember hiding, shaking, and being so afraid. I remember one incident clearly when my father was drinking heavily and my sister did something to annoy him (she was 3 or 4 at the time and I was two years older.) He started to go after her and hit her in a particular corner of the room that I remember well from having been in the same place as my sister often. She was screaming and crying, huddled in the corner. At a break point when he had moved away momentarily, I placed myself between him and her and told him not to hurt MY SISTER. This enraged him and I got the worst of the severe punishment that day. Although I remember the pain and hurt, I cannot remember if it was a belt, hairbrush, hand or something else. I am crying with a well of emotions as I write about this.

I even remember being slapped in the face while I was home visiting from college and I was dating my future husband. We were deciding to stay together or not and I was out late one night talking to him until 3 or 4am, which was typical for me as a college student when I was away from home. My father called me a prostitute and slut and was convinced that I was having sex that night, even though I was not. He could not understand the need to talk so late. It was also customary to call my sister and I those degrading names if we asked if we could use lipstick or nail polish or look feminine in any way. Even after we had both lived away at college, he could never think of us as being adult women, making our own choices. Instead he treated us as children for the longest time and therefore something ugly would always happen when we came back home.

The standard at home was that it was acceptable to lie to my father. It was in the context of meeting with friends that my mother allowed seeing my first “boyfriend”. He and I had become friendly and had a dating type of relationship, although I wasn’t allowed on any dates at all, really. We would sit together at speech meets and see each other at lunch. I told him in no uncertain terms that I did not want a full sexual relationship with him, since I wanted to wait to be married to have intercourse. I was very clear and adamant about the limits of our interactions. Nonetheless, he raped me the first time when I was 15 years old in a public park. I did not share the information with anyone at the time. I was too scared and ashamed. My fifteen year-old brain then constructed the scenario that I had to marry him, since we had had intercourse. He also said he wanted me to marry him (he was age 16 at the time). My mother actually took me to his house when he moved out of town so I could see him. I was still thinking that I had to marry him. While she and his mother were having tea inside, he raped me in the woods outside his house. My mother failed to notice my tears and the blood on my shorts as we drove home for an hour. I don’t remember how many times I was raped, but somehow it dawned on me that I did not have to continue to be hurt and marry the perpetrator. This pattern went on for about six months. I never filed charges, nor did I tell anyone for two years.

I told my sister that I had been raped when I was 17 and asked her not to tell anyone and she did not. I could not tell of her of the multiple rapes, however, because again, I was too ashamed. During those high school years, which were hell to start with much of the time because of my family, I became suicidal. I felt like a split personality - the straight “A”, innocent student by day, pleasant and successful in school and the young girl who ruminated every night about suicide and felt unclean, unworthy and hopeless. My nighttime prayer before sleep was that I would survive until I finished high school and go off to college, where I would have the possibility of a real life and happiness.
Later after I told my sister and she was confidential with the information, I got up the courage to tell my mother, asking her not to tell anyone about the rape(s.) Within 24 hours she had told my father. I felt raped again. My father became very upset, talking of killing the person, putting a curse on them, etc., but no one really seemed sympathetic towards me. No one suggested filing a police report or getting me into counseling. My father called it my fault because I acted like a prostitute and did not tell him right away. No one comforted me or said they were sorry (except my sister) and I felt more violated than ever. Obviously, telling the truth got me nowhere.

I left home at the age of 17 and finished college in three years matriculating into a prestigious medical school at age 20. I had always told other people that I completed college in three years because I was paying for college mostly myself. I had tested out of classes and by attending summer classes for two summers, it was cheaper. Recently, in my therapy with a psychologist whom I have seen for the last three years, I have come to understand that I chose to go to college year-round to not have to be with my parents as much as possible. I did not go home, nor has my sister, for more than a few days, in our adult years because of how unpleasant it always is at our family home. I have now lived in one house that I finally feel very comfortable in, especially since I’ve made it my own in the last few years. Before that I always felt as if I never really had a point of reference or permanent home. My sister has even spent up to 5 years at a time not setting foot in the house my parents live in, because of the increase in abusive incidents that continue to happen while in our parents presence, even when they visit my home. My mother enables my father’s behavior and acts like a battered woman as well as the wife of an alcoholic. She may be both.

Since I was 20, I have been married and divorced twice, with three children from my second marriage. I am a board certified obstetrician/gynecologist, a faculty member at a major teaching institution and now a single woman for the last three years. My research and teaching interests focus mainly on interpersonal violence.

In college I attempted to get help in my recovery from the rape(s) and my childhood home by seeing a psychologist, but did not get very far in therapy for some reason. Then, I was almost fatally injured in a car accident on the way to finals during my third semester at college. I took my finals a few weeks later and continued to study, barely slowing down. Being at home for two weeks over that Christmas break was nearly unbearable. Since that time I have only spent a few days in my parent’s presence at a time. I also saw a therapist at the beginning of my fourth year of residency, when I had intense suicidal ideation and almost committed suicide. I gained little insight into my situation, however.

In my current long-term therapy I came to understand my suicidal ideation as anger directed toward myself, rather than outwardly where it belonged, but where I was afraid to have it be, because of the severe consequences. My suicidal ideation has been gone for one and a half years and I have stopped hitting my children for almost as long. I would only spank them only occasionally, with one spank, but this was unacceptable to me. After noticing when I would get the most upset, I realized it was when one of the children hit me first. My spanking the children was a deep and ingrained self-defense mechanism to survive. It was as if I was the child again being hit, and I had to defend myself by lashing out. I am the adult now, not the child, so I could release the behavior as unnecessary. Now, if one of the children hurts me, I can cry or say, “Please stop, it hurts.” It is no longer necessary to fight back or be scared. What a long lesson it has been to learn. I can love my children and myself so much more fully now.

How did my experience of multiple rapes affect me? How hasn’t it affected me? How did those first violent, sexual experiences shape my births? How can I tease apart multiple aspects of my past to know? I have chosen to have three unmedicated home births with midwives present, all close to a hospital in case of emergency. I have chosen them for my sense that they would be best for each baby and for me. This approach has minimized the need for unnecessary intervention, allowed for my control of who would be present, and allowed for natural labor, unrestricted immediate breastfeeding and the inclusion of many family members. I have done this three times with three different states of mind: first, as a medical student with no professional birth experience, unmarried and poor; second, as a physician who just completed her residency, married and seemingly happy and; third, as an unhappy married woman and board certified obstetrician/gynecologist.

I have never had any physical difficulties from my abuse that I know of. I have had no problems with intercourse, pelvic exams performed by men or women, or my births, which were all fairly uncomplicated. I did have an overwhelming sense that I might die during my first labor. I had a longer first labor and hemorrhaged after the baby was born. No transfusions or transport was necessary. I wanted to be induced after 41 weeks in my second pregnancy because I was moving. I hemorrhaged again after a short third labor, but was exhausted to labor after working 10 hours that day.

As part of what I think is important in a healthcare setting, I screen for violence in the lives of my patients and try to help them make meaningful connections between their past experiences and their current physical and mental health concerns. I write, teach, and conduct research on violence, especially against women. It is at once therapeutic to be a bridge for my patients and colleagues and is exhausting always being focused on violence in some way.

Having asked about many violent histories of women, the large variation of long-term responses in women is striking. Some women in labor feel out of control – they and their baby are “dirty and polluted” having a vaginal birth, finding C-section more appealing, because of less vaginal contact. Others find that C-section recreates their violent pasts by “being paralyzed, naked, and strapped down while other people are there.” Some women completely dissociate and have no pain in labor whatsoever, while others are indistinguishable from their non-violated peers. Breastfeeding responses are similar and varied, with some women having a great aversion while others are very comfortable with the process.

One of the many possible impacts of the rapes on me were my decisions to marry who I did when I did, as well as getting pregnant, where and how to birth, breastfeed and mother. I’ve always felt that I was running through my life. I was always busy and doing, always busy and doing, ever since I can remember. I didn’t understand why I was busy and doing all the time, but I remember always being that way.

I realize now that I knew what I wanted to do when I was a teenager in a lot of ways. It is extraordinary to see my clarity as a young woman, especially as I now look back at how divided I was in other ways. Part of me always wanted to be either a midwife or go to osteopathic medical school, because I aligned myself with more natural kinds of approaches to health and illness. I also knew after considering going to these more alternative occupations that I would probably not get the full respect that I needed or wanted in order to do what I wanted to do. I knew when I was 17 that a person could say the same things, but get respected and heard very differently if she or he had standard medical training.

I just assumed that everyone was like me, being busy all the time. Just recently, through my therapy, I realized that most people are not as busy as I am. They sleep 8 hours each night. They watch television and movies. They sometimes don’t do anything at all and just “be.” I still always seem to be on a mission about something, even writing this story. My trick is to slow down even in the midst of three children and a full-time career. I now realize that part of my busi-ness was running away all the time. I was very good at school. It was a way of feeling good about myself, because I had so few other ways of feeling good because of the physical and sexual abuse in my past. It legitimized my not dealing with a lot of ugly stuff with my parents and others. Now I spend as much time as possible with my children and try to focus on them. I am trying to be less busy at work, at home, and inside. I have stopped needing to run incessantly and am trying to make each day more meaningful, slower and complete, with God’s help.

Kathleen's poems

2009-09-18T10:57:00.000-07:00

Mother’s Law

I do not know why my mother
Chose to hurt me;
How her life was twister
Or why her love so painful.

I only know that by every law
Sacred to all mothers
She betrayed her daughter.
My mother broke my heart.

Perhaps her mother also betrayed
And even back through
Ten or one hundred mothers
It is possible that trust was broken

I have inherited the Child’s
Pain from all These mothers of mine
Who with malicious hands
Did sooth and then hurt

I pull their needles One
by One out of my body
Soul freeing my self Releasing
Pain that was pushed in.

I reach back into my genetic
spiral code through my own cellular
Memory to a host of Mothers
Who kept the sacred law.

I open my Soul and spirit
To these light mothers of mine
And they reach forward in time
Touching my heart ever so gently

I know that I can mother my daughter

Sedimentary Geology

I have pushed down
In layers
The organic material
Of the Psyche
fear, anger, memory,
pain, humiliation, guilt,
love, betrayal
I have held these dead
Matters of the Give Away
Under great pressure
For Ever
They did not decompose
Change is made
In the waiting
Which is done
Carefully bringing it up
I find diamonds
Hidden in the shale
An Oil Well drilled
and tapped feeds me
I will burn
With a very bright light
For Ever

Claire's Story

2009-09-14T12:02:00.000-07:00

I’ll tell you right from the start that this is a story that has a good ending. Well, a good enough ending. “Super mom,” I’m not. But my child is eight now, and, by my standards; I’d have to say that he’s having a normal childhood. And he seems to think I’m a normal mom. Isn’t that great?

I’ll tell you the story of my childbearing year, but you have to know that understanding about the incest and other abuse and trauma came a few years after the birth. It was mostly my sinking efforts to mother a toddler that eventually made me seek help from a therapist. Only well into the process of coping with the posttraumatic aftereffects of the abuse in therapy did I have it come clear how me and my pregnant body worked out a way through the minefield of the maternity year.

We planned to get pregnant. We’d been married nearly a decade, and it seemed like it was time. The day my period should have come, the nausea started. Except for rare moments of distraction and during my sleep, it didn’t leave me until the 22nd week of gestation. It was my 24-hour companion for about four months. It is the main reason I will never be pregnant again. Carsickness or a bout of stomach flu always confirms for me that I could not tolerate another moment of that awful sensation—not by choice. I didn’t vomit except twice. I just had the sensation that swallowing my own saliva or food would make me vomit. I could drink. And anytime I got the slightest sense that I might be able to eat, I did. Often I could accept food if I was watching a good movie or eating out in a restaurant.

Things got easier in the fifth month, and they stayed that way until the seventh month. Then I started to contract. Since I was at 34 weeks, a point where the baby would be okay if my contractions became labor, my caregivers did not intervene with medications. I just took it very, very easy for a few weeks because it made me feel that I was giving the baby the best chance to be born near term. I was especially motivated to do this because I had planned to give birth with nurse-midwives in a freestanding birth center, and if I went into labor before 37 weeks, I would have to deliver in a hospital.

The contractions only made me worried, but they didn’t hurt. By this time my baby was dancing around all the time, and I felt reassured by his everyday pattern of activity that he was fine. I cried a lot during this time. The Persian Gulf War had just started, and thoughts of suffering and war seemed to fill me with grief, especially because I could not help but wonder if I would someday have to surrender my first born son to war. I just cried and cried.

The 37th week came and went. I kept contracting. I assumed that my resting was keeping that baby in there, so, wanting to get this labor business over as soon as possible, I got up and got busy. I expected my cervix to open and let him out. So you can imagine how completely beside myself I was when my due date was 10 days behind me. I’d been contracting for 7 weeks. My baby felt huge. I had gotten to the point where I refused to think about labor. All I could let myself think about was holding that baby.

When I’d discussed feeding plans with my nurse-midwife at the beginning, I’d said that I planned to ‘try’ to breastfeed. She said that I shouldn’t be tentative about it. Either do it or not do it, but sitting on the fence usually means you’re looking for an excuse to stop doing it. That made me mad, and I blurted out to her that I’d been molested and ‘breast stuff’ was complicated for me, so I meant exactly what I said when I’d said I’d try: If it didn’t go okay, that’s it. End of pressure tactics. She wrote in pencil, discreetly, on the inside cover of my chart ‘history of sexual abuse’.

Oh. Is that what that was?

I’d been molested by an adult at a camp the summer I was thirteen. I’d remembered this twelve years after it had happened when, in a conversation with my husband, we’d been reminiscing about the awful times in gym class during puberty when we’d felt so very bad about our bodies. Remembered emotional state. Zap. Remembered experience of body and soul shame. As the flashback was happening, my husband saw it for what it was, and gently drew the story out of me. So when the midwife asked me about breastfeeding, I knew about that…episode. From this vantage point, I can call it an episode. It was only the tip of the iceberg, it turns out. But knowing about that night of abuse and how it had affected my relationship with my breasts, I was able to tell my midwife to back off and let me cope according to my own needs, taking the baby’s needs into account as best I could.

Turns out that breastfeeding was a challenge in the extreme, but he and I managed it for seven months. I consider it to be one of the crowning achievements of my life. A grueling victory snatched from the hands of a child molester. And an act of sweet generosity to my child and myself, full of warmth and comfort (after the sore nipple stage). I would not trade knowing and remembering that I nursed my infant for anything. I had no idea I had that kind of fierce perseverance in me.

But I jump ahead. Had I been the first woman to remain pregnant forever, you’d have heard of me. Of course I did finally begin to labor in earnest. (Just in case any of you are pregnant and experiencing pre-term contractions now and wondering how you’ll know if they become real labor…trust me. You’ll know.). The deep achy tightening of productive contractions came –welcomed—with a deep rush of adrenaline. My hours in active labor were wonderful. Challenging, but wonderful. I was the center of a small universe: midwife, nurse, husband, sister, bedroom, and bathtub. Finally it seemed my cervix was all gone, and they said I could start to push whenever I felt like I needed to. And I lay down on the big double bed on my back, and I drew up my knees to bear down, and…the paperwork about my labor says I pushed for an hour and fifteen minutes there. My husband and sister say I pushed for a long time there. I wouldn’t know. It’s a blank. But eventually they got me up to empty my bladder, and I was present again. The baby was born minutes later as I knelt on the bed. No more of that recumbent position. No. No. And the baby was huge and happy. And I was fine.

Over the next days and weeks, I had several follow up visits. Some were routine, but a few were because I just had a lot of trouble breastfeeding. Then too, I was glad of the contact with the midwives because I just couldn’t stop crying. I felt bursting with pride at this incredible thing I’d done, and yet all I could feel when I looked at that perfect little one was grief, grief, grief. I could not understand it. The emotions were so intense that I could not sort them out or make them calm down. I thought the tears would simply never leave me. I thought I’d float away, and he would miss his mama, but he would not be able to find me because it would all have gone blank as soon as I finally wore out my ability to tolerate the intensity of the grieving pain.

Eventually I wore out. I wouldn’t say I felt peaceful. I just felt like a dry autumn leaf. Resigned. Powdery. Lightweight. Just waiting to blow away or disintegrate. And, by turns, I began to feel normal things too. Like fatigue, humor, boredom, longing for grown-ups to talk to, longing to go to work again, longing for a babysitter. Reassuringly normal feelings.

It is true that there was a sort of gap between how I’d envisioned myself mothering and how I was managing in reality. But I think this is normal. I felt normal.

Until my boy started to get on toward a year or more. There came that time when they start to have a will of their own, and they sometimes cry in anger, asserting themselves. And it terrified me. I had to get him to stop. When he out and out cried like that I’d fill with adrenaline as though my life were in danger—as though his life were in danger. It all became very confusing. I was afraid I’d hit him or shake him to get him to stop it, so I’d find myself sitting outside on the front stoop while he wailed in the safety of his crib. I prayed that the social worker who lived across the street wouldn’t turn me in for neglecting my baby. But we were safer if I got outside where the piercing cry was muffled for me.

Other things start being obviously ‘not right’ then too. I sometimes would cry uncontrollably and feel nauseated. I’d spend whole days lying on my bed the whole time he was at daycare instead of working. I felt the gap between how I wanted to be with him and how I seemed to be as a mother widening. And then came some way, way stronger than usual reactions to things that were related to memories of being molested. Adrenaline rushes and strange sensations and panic and dread. I started to feel as though I was ‘losing it’. Or worse. Maybe I was becoming mentally ill, like my mother.

No.

No. That would be intolerable for me and for my family, and I would NOT allow it.

It was time to go back to see that therapist who had helped me process the initial flashbacks of being molested at camp.

I did not know then that that decision was the first step on an odyssey of remembering and adapting and growth that has run right alongside all the other events of my life over the past several years. I understand now that when I was my baby’s age, crying like that…well, it WAS dangerous. Little by little flashbacks and body memories and emotional memories have come up to the surface enough for me to learn about my history what I need to know to heal. And what I need to know to mother my son.

The four months of pregnancy nausea makes perfect sense to me now. So do the endless contractions. I understand them as body memories and expressions of distress and anxiety, which came from a place in my knowledge of my life where there were no words. And ‘going away’ from the labor pain when I found myself in that awful position again…it was a well-practiced form of self-protective dissociating. And the ceaseless feelings of grief during the pregnancy and postpartum? That makes sense to me if I understand it as being ‘triggered’ by the feelings of bonding with my baby. I had long ago turned off all intense emotion because usually it was bad: terror, despair, and loss. So when the feelings of maternity started raging around in me, those wonderful feelings that seem to make so many other women ‘glow’… they made me wail with grief. It got all mixed up. Who is the baby/Who is the mother? Which role am I feeling? I feel motherlove, and it zaps me into feeling babyneed. Round and round. So much loss.

But the baby I mothered is a schoolboy now. He still freely expresses his needs for being occasionally babied a bit. Sometimes he curls up next to me on the couch to read. Sometimes he still holds my hand when we cross a street. Sometimes he asks if he ever had a pacifier when he was a baby. He laughs straight-out and simply when I tell him that he was never fooled by any size or shape of rubber nipple, and so, no, he’d had several given to him, but he’d never adopted any of them. This is a kid who flat out relishes having been a baby and having his mother nearby to give him tiny tastes of youngest childhood as needed during these rough and tumble days of elementary school where he is having to leave the joys of being mothered for more rare moments.

I was lucky. Mine was a wanted pregnancy. My partner was present and unquestioningly willing to carry the weight of caring for baby and mother when I was not capable of carrying my load. Many times he was able to give me the reassurance that meant the most to me, saying, “You feel like you are going crazy, but you are acting okay, and our son is fine and loves you just like any kid loves a good-enough mom.”

Being a ‘good enough’ mom is not how I ever would have described my goal for mothering. My therapist gave me that term; “No need to berate yourself for not being ‘supermom’. ‘Good enough’ parents will do just fine for most kids.” I sense this is true. And I know that all of the work that goes with being some ideal of a ‘supermom’ was not humanly possible for me. I had to spend too much time in therapy and learning to take care of myself to be able to achieve any pinnacle of maternal accomplishment. But I have kept my child safe, as far as I know. And he is not afraid of me. He has faith in me and expects that I’ll do what he needs me to do for him when it’s important. And I am strong and mostly good-humored. And I look forward to the rest of my life as his mom. I look forward.

Jennie's Story

2009-09-07T10:43:00.000-07:00

"THE FOUND TREASURE, MY VOICE"

I grew up in an alcoholic home, the second of four children (three girls and one boy). We were all one year apart in age. My father was violent and abusive, my mother extremely needy and passive. As a little girl I learned to take care of my mother; cooking, cleaning, nursing the wounds on her ulcer-filled legs caused by varicose veins, and soothing her emotionally after one of my father's tirades. Although we lived under the same roof, my parents, siblings and I lived in separate worlds. We kept many secrets; we had no voice. Needless to say, I followed the protocol of a child living in an alcoholic home where there was no connecting or bonding, only disconnection and confusion.

I can't remember my mother ever telling me "I love you." I do remember her always shouting at us "You kids are driving me crazy"! I'll never forget what she taught me about death. She said, "When you die, worms will come and eat up your entire flesh. Only your bones will remain in the coffin." We did not live far from the only funeral parlor in our neighborhood. Whenever we passed by it we would go in and she would make me kneel on the kneeler in front of the coffin and asked me to pray for the deceased stranger. Today I continue to struggle with some fear of death. I now know that my mother tried being a "good" mother according to the way I suppose she was raised. She would buy us new clothes for Easter and sacrificed a few dollars so we would have toys for Christmas. Today I know that for the most part only our custodial needs were met.

Growing up in this environment with the dynamics of my family life as a role model for living, I never questioned if we were a "normal" family. I never felt loved in my family. Love? What was that? I was too busy trying to survive. As I got older there was a part deep inside of me that said "There's something wrong with this picture." I began to tell myself that when I grew up and became a mother I would not be like her (my mother).

I was in grammar school, perhaps eleven years old, when a classmate of mine introduced me to his uncle who was thirty years old. I became enamored with him. He was charming and paid so much attention to me. I visited his apartment with a group of friends several times.

One night when everyone was gone leaving the perpetrator, his friend, and myself, he took me into the back room where he raped and abused me physically. He threatened that if I didn't let him do as he wished, he would have his friend do the same. This happened on more than one occasion.

The first time that it happened I was numb, in a daze. After it was over I went home. It haunts me to this day that I cannot remember how I got home. It was about one a.m. I had not arrived home from school because the perpetrator kept me prisoner the entire time. My parents thought I had run away so they were waiting up for me along with my aunt. They were all frantic. When I entered our apartment my father pounced on me, beating me. My aunt had to pull him off of me. In all of the screaming, beating and chaos, I don't remember what my mother was doing. Anytime there was violence and terror inflicted on us by my father, I can never remember what my mother was doing. As I see it today, I was violated by my perpetrator, then again by my father, all in one day. The next day I woke sore all over my body. I went to school as if nothing had happened. I dismissed what happened to me and buried it in the deepest part of my conscience. I never told anyone for years. Today, my mother still does not know.

During my adolescence I rebelled, skipping school, drinking, and attempting suicide twice. No one ever asked me why I no longer wanted to live. I was depressed and didn't even know it. I dreamed of the day I would meet my knight in shining armor who would take me away from the hell in which I lived. At the age of fourteen I met my husband, Roberto. He came from a family of ten children; a family who was also dysfunctional. We were the blind leading the blind. Two ships lost at sea.

At the age of eighteen I married Roberto. The one who rescued me. Although he loved me, like my father, he too was emotionally unavailable. Three months later I was pregnant with my first child. I was elated because I knew that with this child I would be the mother that my mother was not. From the time she was in my womb I whispered to her, "I love you. I love you." I was ill with this pregnancy with morning sickness and kidney infections. When I went into labor my husband dropped me off at the hospital, leaving me there and going off to work. He didn't even wait in the waiting room. Back in 1972, the fathers were not allowed in the labor and delivery rooms. I was very afraid.

When Amanda was born, my heart knew no greater love than the one I felt for her. The joys of motherhood those first few months had no measure. When Amanda was nine months old I enrolled in school to become a registered nurse, leaving her in the care of my favorite sister-in-law. Shortly after I began school I learned that I was pregnant again. The female obstetrician whom I had at the time had convinced me to try a new I.U.D. which was experimental at that time. I was not informed about this experiment. When she told me I was pregnant she was upset with me for ruining the experiment. She humiliated me, leaving me to feel used and lonely. After I got over the initial shock of the entire matter, I eagerly awaited the arrival of my new baby. When Alicia was born, I looked into her beautiful eyes and knew that this child was meant to be. She was a pure joy. At this time things were not well with Roberto and I, and I continued to suffer from depression.

In 1976 I graduated from nursing school and became employed. All was well until 1977 when I suffered a mental collapse; I was severely depressed, ridden with anxiety and in and out of hospitals for various physical ailments. That period of time was to be the beginning of a period pf psychotherapy, which included a string of therapists. I was treated with antidepressants and tranquilizers. Gradually the depression improved but I was left with the enormous task of facing many issues in my life.

I continued to battle the demons of depression and care for my two girls. I wanted to be the mother that mine was not. I used what little strength I had to drive them to school, dance classes and joined the P.T.A. in their school.

I 1979 I became pregnant again. Although I was ridden with tremendous anxiety, I wanted desperately to have a son. I was very ill with this pregnancy and spent most of the nine months in bed. On Dec. 6, 1980, God blessed me with a beautiful, healthy son. We named him Eduardo Roberto.

Several years later a scandal erupted in a day care center in our neighborhood. It was alleged that several of the workers had sexually abused many of the children there. I remember being filled with anxiety. I couldn't sleep. When my husband made love to me I felt as if he was raping me. I didn't know where the feelings were coming from. I mentioned to two of my therapists that I "thought" I might have been raped when I was eleven. They looked at me and changed the subject. Naturally, based on their reaction, I figured that the abuse was not the cause of my depression and that perhaps it was due to the fact that I was raised in an alcoholic home. For years afterwards I continued in therapy and read a lot of material on adult children of alcoholics.

In 1992, Amanda disclosed to me that she had been sexually abused when she was five by her cousin, who was age 16 at the time (my favorite sister-in-law's son.) I cannot put into words what I felt at that moment. In total shock, I felt the pain, mortification and despair that come from hearing news of immeasurable harm done to a loved one. I could only tell her how sorry I was. At that moment I wanted to lie down and die.

Amanda's disclosure slowly brought to the surface my own sexual abuse. I began to toy with the idea that perhaps what happened to me was not my fault, that I too was abused. I quickly dismissed that thought.

What ensued was an all-encompassing obsession with what happened to my child. I felt as if we were Siamese twins. I couldn’t separate myself from her pain. I grieved, mourned, cried out to God of the injustice that was inflicted upon my precious child. I declared vengeance upon the perpetrator. I wanted blood; I wanted death. My grief and my insanity was such that I pressured my husband into selling our deli business, putting our home up for sale, and moving to Florida in 1994.

Thirteen months later we returned, almost broke, as our home in N.Y. didn't sell and it was difficult paying two mortgages. In one year I buried a sister-in-law, a brother-in-law and my father-in-law. I was surrounded by the death of my loved ones and the slow death of my soul. I continued to grieve for the pain and trauma of my child.

I wanted Amanda to begin to deal with issues arising from her incest. I wanted her to heal; for I saw what a self-destructive path she had taken in life. I began inquiring about support groups for survivors. My efforts were rewarded when I received a flier announcing a conference for survivors, which was to be held in N.Y.C. in Jan. 1999, sponsored by the Incest Awareness Foundation. I immediately planned to attend with Amy.

The night before the conference I couldn’t sleep. Many questions were dancing in my head. "Should I attend the conference for myself?" "Am I a survivor?" "Can I face the pain of what was done to me?"

The first day of the conference I was there for Amanda, but by the second day the bubble of my denial burst and I came to admit the truth that I, too, was an incest survivor. By the last day of the conference I had set up a meeting with Amanda’s perpetrator’s parents, my husband's brother and wife and their daughter who was also molested by the same person. We disclosed to the parents what their son had done to our daughters. Today I do not have any contact with many relatives, who have formed a support group for the perpetrator.

With the strength and confidence that I received at the conference, I began seeing a therapist specializing in incest survivor therapy, attending a few 12-step programs, reading literature on the subject of incest and doing everything I possible could to help myself on my healing journey. Throughout this entire process my greatest source of strength came and continues to come from the higher power that I call GOD. I began to learn to separate my incest from Amanda's. I learned to detach, so that I could work on my recovery and she could work on hers. I FOUND MY VOICE, which was lost for the majority of my life. I spoke to all who would listen about what happened to Amanda. I told relatives, friends, and clergy. My two sisters have become my dearest and most loved supporters. I wrote letters. The shame surrounding this tragedy began to slip away. What a gift! The taboo of incest is being dispersed, although we have a lot of work to do as survivors. As I continue to tell my story more people are learning about incest.

Last year, due to the excessive stress of my struggle to find my voice, I became very ill and was hospitalized for almost one month. I was diagnosed with systemic lupus. Today, due to my illness, I am not driven as if I were on a treadmill to pursue justice for myself, Amanda and other survivors in a state of frenzy. Today, I peacefully work in a pro-active manner to share my strength, courage and hope with others. Healing has come from sharing my story. All of my life I have minimized the traumas of my childhood. It has taken me over forty-five years to find my voice. Because I have found my voice, I can help others do the same. I am currently working on starting a support group for mothers of survivors called "M.O.S.A.C. (Mothers of Sexually Abused Children)” and working on a newsletter, which I will call "Find Your Voice." Amanda is working hard on her recovery, attending 12-step meetings and reading literature on incest recovery. She's moving slow, but she's moving. I've learned that everyone's recovery must come on his or her own time.

Today I continue to work on my recovery with the guidance and strength I receive from God. I continue to grieve for the loss of a mother. Despite all of the pain, struggles and tragedies in my life, I rejoice today because I am becoming the person God created me to be. I've only discovered this through my healing from my abuse...what a way to discover yourself.

Because my husband has been in psychotherapy for the last two years, our marriage is becoming the union that God intended for it to be. I do love my husband very much. I rejoice and am grateful for my three wonderful and oh so different children, Amanda, Alicia and Eduardo. At times I lament about who I could have been if I had been born into a "normal" family, but I don't regret being a mother to my children. Motherhood has been the most joyful and fulfilling role in my life, a true gift from God. Despite any imperfections and mistakes I have committed, I believe I have been forgiven.

To those mothers contemplating motherhood I say, don't be afraid. Ask your higher power for strength and guidance. Much of your suffering will be rewarded with this tremendous gift. It will change your life. Your children's lives do not have to be like ours.

When I was a little girl I prayed to God, "Please let me be a good mother." Today I know that He has honored me with what I needed to fulfill this wish and continues to do so, one day at a time.

Margaret's Story

2009-08-21T09:32:00.000-07:00

A memory: I was perhaps two or three years old. My brother was born when I was four, so I know it was before then. My parents, two older sisters, and I lived on the third floor of a brownstone in a city. I could see the kitchen out of the door where I napped on my parents’ bed. It was during my naps that someone, a man, would touch me. I would feel as though I was not breathing. I slept on my stomach, and think I had my head pushed up against a pillow, or maybe the wall. To this day, I do not like it if something is against my head while sleeping or making love.

A memory: I was 12 years old. I went with a friend while she was to baby-sit. The two children were sleeping and she invited two men to come over. I don’t remember where or how she knew them. They were from another city and didn’t go to school with us. In fact, they were older than we were by several years. I watched television while she went into the parents’ bedroom with both of them. After a while, they called me in. One of the men had his hands down her pants and up her shirt. The other guy grabbed my arm, pulled me into the bathroom, pulled down my pants, pushed me onto the floor and raped me (although I didn’t know that’s what it was then). I wasn’t even sure what happened other than it was extremely painful and, somehow, I knew not to tell my parents. Once again, my head was involved in that it was shoved against the wall of the bathroom. I heard a noise out in the kitchen, and managed to push him off of me, stand up, and put myself back together. When they left, the guy said, “God, you’re ugly. You look like a Mac truck ran over you.” I went home and never said a word to anyone. I did know that something about what had happened was bad.

A memory: That same girlfriend’s father snuck up from behind me as we were walking down the narrow sidewalk between his house and the next. He grabbed my front pubic area with one hand while he grabbed my breast with the other and whispered in my ear that he could make me feel happy.

A memory: A friend of my father’s would ask me to sit on his lap. While sitting there, I always noticed that he had something hard under his zipper. I didn’t know for many years that it wasn’t a wallet. I was between the ages of seven and 12. After my friend’s friends raped me, I realized what that was in his front pockets and refused to sit on his lap any longer, even though my parents would try to insist.

A memory: I was a committee member on my high school health club. A speaker came to do an assembly on sex and condom use. I was assigned to take the speaker, in his car, down the road to the offices and back. On the way back, he drove several miles out of the way and raped me. I told no one, as he threatened to let my parents know that I’d had sex with a grown man and had asked for it.

The sexual abuse and its results or effects on my life are sometimes hard to separate from lots of other things for me. My father was a blue-collar worker with the government. He was a hard-working, hard-drinking Irishman, and very proud of his WWII veteran status. My mother was a homemaker because my father insisted on it. I can remember that some years she worked part-time in early winter to make extra money for Christmas gifts, but always worked at food counters so she could be home for us after school and in time for dinner. My father’s shift was over early and we ate dinner at 4:30.

I am the middle of five children. The fifth child was born after the first child had married and left home. My early years included many episodes of watching my parents fight, of watching my father hit my mother, and of being hit hard and often by both of them. As a young teenager, my father once pinned me against the wall with his hands around my neck. At that moment I’m pretty sure I learned that men could not be trusted, and they had the power to kill. It wasn’t long after my father began to hit my mother, and from somewhere came the strength to punch him in the stomach. He doubled over, and he never hit me again.

Twice my siblings and I were placed in a local orphanage for several days while my parents were jailed for their behavior. My cousin was a state policeman, and my first experience with the law was his what appeared to me to be enormous boots. While my father always had a job, and we had a car, we rented an apartment, partially due to my father’s outlook on what was “taking charity.” My father did not take advantage of any of the veteran’s plans for WWII returning soldiers. I always believed that because of my father’s drinking and my mother’s unskilled knowledge of money management, we never seemed to have extras. I wore hand-me-downs except at Easter. My father was paid every two weeks, and typically lunch on payday was non-existent or strange things like catsup sandwiches. We did go on a camping vacation each summer where we tented or rented a cottage for a week at nearby lakes. With all that went on, somehow my parents managed to make camping trips and Christmas time fond memories.

My childhood also included some very strange messages that I was unlikable, too smart for my own britches, a bookworm, overweight, and unattractive. I had two older sisters. It always seemed to me that I paid the consequences for their misbehavior. I was forbidden to date at all. My first date out of high school was the first man I chose to make love with, and I am still married to him today.

I had no recall of most of the memories until my father’s death in 1985. I was working as a nursery school teacher, and attending college for my BA degree at an adult off-campus program. My father died the day before my youngest child’s 7th birthday. As part of the college program in which I was enrolled, students resided at the campus for nine days of intense classroom lectures, curriculum development, etc. My father died in early November, and I went to attend a residency in early February. There, probably because of some of the people I met, and because I had so much time to be with my grief, all of these memories began to flood back. I became a friend of a man who shared with me that he had been sexually abused, and somehow that allowed me to open the dam. It didn’t stop for months, and it was frightening as hell.

Through thick and thin, as they say, stood my husband. My husband comes from a completely different background, class status, educational status, and religion. This meant he truly, no matter what he tried, could not understand, and in some cases barely believed, it was all true. But he was and still is the one of the few people in my life who loves me unconditionally. His real support of me through life is unending.

Because most of my memories returned after my children’s births, I’m a bit unclear how to fathom or pull apart how these things might relate. I feel, though, that what was most important to my ability to not have these things affect my birth experiences and mothering was that I believed, as I still do, that I could do all of that really well. Loving children, loving babies, doesn’t involve or have any relationship to my weight, my looks, and maybe even my “smarts.” I didn’t even count on books to tell me how to do it right. I knew I knew how to do it. Maybe because my mother didn’t tell me anything about sexuality or a woman’s plumbing, I could believe in myself to know I could do it. I knew when I became pregnant the first time (and I was only 21) that I could make this child’s life completely different from my own. It wouldn’t just be from overprotection, but it would be from teaching my babies that they were worth something, that they were important, wanted, and loved. It is openly stated in our family that it is the action you take that may have a consequence, not the feeling. All feelings are okay, all actions are not. Sorting out our feelings can be learned. This is another place my husband enters this picture, because he was raised in an emotionally cold home and knew that his children had to know how to recognize and experience their emotions – all of them.

During my childhood, although I lived in a city, we were near a river and a park. To be outdoors for me was my escape. To read a book outdoors in all kinds of weather was true heaven on earth. When I became pregnant, I knew that it was built into me to know what to do, as it’s built into a river to know where to flow, and that I could trust my body to know what to do. I was never afraid. I had and have a strong and clear belief in my ability to give birth and to be a mother.

As my children grew older, and I began to remember and deal with the memories of my childhood, I began to realize that this equated with power. That I, although I still didn’t think anyone but my husband thought I was pretty or smart, could change history, so to speak. That I had what it took to raise children who were loved for who they were, that I could break the cycle of violence, and that I could have children who were taught about the bad things in the world, but who didn’t have to experience them.

I honestly can’t tell you where I’ve gotten the strength to deal with what I’d been dealt. Sometimes I think it’s because I always felt someone else had it worse. I’m grateful each day for life. I call myself a survivor because I believe I lived in a war zone for the first 18 years of my life; the next 18 years of my life I spent trying to “catch up.” Fortunately, I’ve slowed down a little and realized that just appreciating what I have is really living.

Giving birth is something I’ve always wished I could have done a dozen times! My husband and I had compromised with three children, but two became a great many to afford some days. The experience of giving birth, the feelings, both physical and emotional, I completely enjoyed. And I know it isn’t just remembering the good things now – during my labors I knew nothing was more wonderful to be doing than that.

My early experiences have made me who I am. To deny the experiences is to deny the source of what makes me a strong woman now. Through my recovery I sought out books to read on alcoholism, psychology, family dynamics, and self-help books of many kinds. For a while I attended a women’s support group. I went to a counselor for about two years right after my memories began to surface. But always, somewhere inside of me, I knew I had the answer – that no one else had my answer. I would also become impatient with the other women I met who seemed to use their memories and experiences as excuses for being who they are. Sometimes there was just too much whining and making excuses for not getting on with getting stronger. During my recovery I wrote a lot. I wrote in journals, and I wrote a poetry of sorts – most of which is filled with anger and sadness.

Kathy's Story

2009-08-14T08:23:00.000-07:00

I’m not a writer, so I will just start from the beginning. I am the youngest of three children, a brother and a sister. My mother’s third husband was the man who abused me and, later I found out, my sister. He adopted the three of us while we were living in Germany. I remember he used to take pictures of my sister and me when he was dating my mother. I think I was about six.

As far as I knew, he was my father. He was in the Air Force, so we moved a lot. We had moved to California, and it was there that the abuse started. I was about eight. I don’t remember a lot, just some fondling at first. He used to have Playboy Magazines around all the time. I don’t think Mom knew about them.

When I was about 11, we got transferred to Germany. The abuse got more frequent there. Then, when I was 14, we got transferred to Texas. The abuse really became bad there. There was so much going on with my brother and other things, that some of it is blurry. There was a lot of fondling, and he used to suck on my breasts a lot.

At that time, I was feeling so bad about myself that I started to drink, and do drugs, and hang around some shady characters. My sister got married when she was 18 to get out of the house. He used to blackmail me, saying he would tell my mother about things I did if I didn’t let him do stuff to me. He used to watch me put tampons in.

I had to go to the hospital because I had a staph infection in my left breast that had burst. The doctors said I was too young to have that, and assumed I was sexually active. I never said a word. I remember I used to pick at my breasts and make sores so he would leave me alone. It didn’t work.

My mother had to go into the hospital at one time, and I was in a panic because I had to stay at home with him, by myself. It was a feeling of sheer terror. I will never forget it. He would climb into bed with me, and do things. I used to drink beer before I went to school, and some dope, and did a lot of drugs. My self-esteem was at an all-time low. I was abused every day, several times a day. I was scared when my sister got married, because I would be the only one with him.

I had sex for the first time at 15, and hated it, but I continued to have sex with a lot of men. I spent a little time in jail, a lot of time drunk and high. I hated myself and everybody else. I would hurt people on purpose.

My healing has been long and hard. My father was accused of molesting two of his other stepdaughters. I told my mother about it, and she somehow figured out he had done it to me. I had never said anything to her. I was about 23 at the time. She called the OSI of the Air Force and told them. Somehow I was convinced to testify against him, and was the only one. I was flown to a base in Kansas, and had a guard with me at all times. I had to tell eight men what he had done to me, in great detail. It was all coming back so fast; I had a breakdown. We won, but all that happened to him was he lost all eight stripes, benefits, and retirement. That was it! I was devastated!

I came back to Texas to try to get a grip on things. I saw two counselors. I was suicidal, and homicidal, at the time. I was so messed up. I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror. I used to pray to God that when I went to sleep, I wouldn’t wake up.

I slowly became better and met Russell, who is now my husband. We have two daughters, aged 10 and 11. They are my life.

But it has been difficult for me. I was afraid to have children; because I was worried I might abuse them, which has not happened. I am over-protective at times. I watch every man that comes near them.

I became a Christian a few years ago, and went through a course, Covenant Healing. It has helped me a lot. I’m over the abuse itself, but the effects are never going to go away. I’m learning things at 38 that I should have learned at 8 or 10. I have had a hard time knowing what it’s like to be 9 or 10. I can’t relate to my girls that way. They don’t know about the abuse, but I will tell them sometime. I don’t know what is normal for a family. I guess a lot. I do know I don’t want to be like my mother, so I try hard not to be.

There are things I don’t know how to deal with. On Friday afternoon, the girls wanted their cousin to stay the night, but she was busy, and so were the other friends they called. They were bored, and acted like they lost their best friend. I didn’t know what to do! My first thought was that nobody liked them, that it was my fault. I didn’t know what to do. I felt so sorry for them.

The questions I have are so stupid, I feel. Like, what do I do when they have a problem at school? How am I supposed to act? How do I play with them? How do I relate?

When my oldest daughter had a problem with a boy at school, I didn’t know what to do. I called a friend. I thought I should go to his mother and confront her! But my friend told me what I should do. The solution was so easy, but I didn’t know it. What I’m saying is, it has affected me in the way I react, act, and solve situations. I don’t know what it was like to be a normal kid, so I don’t know how to handle it. I try my best, and think I am doing a fairly good job. I try to teach my girls to love themselves, be kind, and treat everyone they way they want to be treated. I believe I have broken the cycle of abuse in my family, and I believe they have a good life.

I’m growing up with them, learning what I should have learned. I have gone on with my life, and can enjoy it. My faith in God has really helped me. The abuse doesn’t control me like it once did. I control it, and the way it affects me. It will take a lot of pain, tears, anger, more pain, tears, and anger, patience, courage, and a strong will, and a lot of hope. But if I can make it, anybody can.

Kathy's poem

2009-08-04T08:33:00.000-07:00

A Rhyme

This survivor took an axe
and gave her father forty whacks.
As he lay there on the floor
She gave the b%^$#@ forty more.

Even now, she wasn’t done
she cut his hands off one by one
Now the b%^&$# won’t be able
to fondle me under the table
or run his hands along my chest
under my shirt to touch my breasts.

It felt so good, imagining
myself really doing that awful thing
hurting him. HURTING HIM!
like he did me.
the hurt that hurts everlastingly.

Are you fussy, little one?
Are you the one that sucks her thumb?
No, that’s my other little one.
Here. Suck this and make me come.

Are you wet? Let’s change you, hon
being naked is lots of fun!
Now, you watch where I put my thumb.
I know that feels good, little one.
Take that, and that, you lousy scum!

I broke, no, smashed his hands, his arms
without them he can’t work his charms
on other babies and little girls
and ruin their innocent little worlds.

That’s where it all started, all this crap
when I was a baby- and you figure that?
The hurt has lasted thirty-nine years
filled with pain and unspent tears.
My insecurities, all my fears
all date back to those first few years.

Stacey's Story

2009-07-02T09:10:00.000-07:00

I think it was Virginia Wolfe who said, “If one woman told the truth about her life, the world would explode.” I don’t know if my writing will articulate what it is that I would like to communicate, but I will try, as I tend to ‘disassociate’ whenever I get on this subject. I spent time in therapy on issues revolving around my mother being abusive, without really delving into the actual subject and how it created the field for other ‘problems’ I had. Also, I had not remembered the actual sexual abuses at the time of my ‘formal’ therapy. Interestingly, it is only recently that I have been able to look at how the dysfunctional parts of my life correlate to coping mechanisms, not something isolated. For instance, I had always been very down on myself for having whatever shortcomings it was that made me have really long, slow labors … I didn’t put the obvious together until reading an article about it on the web.

My abuse was most overt when I was a very young infant, between six to 18 months, up to three, but before I was able to speak. My mother choked me to near death several times. I still can’t sing today, not that I can’t carry a tune, or have an unpleasant voice, but I can’t make sound come out in front of other people (except children). Also, she was obsessed with private parts, including mine, and with penetrating me with objects. She spent the rest of my life with her abusing me other ways, sort of like a hostage situation… how can I explain? I was kept in a playpen all day, with no outside activities, experienced physical abuse, a lot of slapping, restrictions for no reason, emotional ‘stuff,’ was kept in inappropriate clothes, bad haircuts, et al… things that by themselves seem ridiculous…all the way to when I was a teen, and she wouldn’t sign papers so I could take advantage of a college scholarship I had won, with no explanation. So, you could say that I did not gather information about being a good, loving person and parent from my mother.

It seems a complicated conundrum why people do not want to believe that a mother is capable of such cruelties, and that it is far more common than people think. Is it partially because people want to ‘dump’ the responsibility of childcare onto the mothers, and if they can’t do it, that means they would have to actually think of a better system, like taking a little pressure off women?

I am still not sure how I got from there to here in as good shape as I have! It’s not always easy. I believe my worst problems have to do with self-esteem, my ability to assert myself in the world, confidence in my ability to ‘do,’ difficulty trusting other people, and most of all, a skewed thinking about the nature of the world. I am looking at the world again after giving the rightful name to things, you could say.

Of course, I went through several abusive relationships. The topper was my divorce from my ex-husband (who was a lot like my mom . . . surprise!). I put him through law school, had to divorce him, and he fought me for custody of our five-year-old son, who was the center of my world. This lasted for four and one-half years. I could have had it over with sooner, but I was so devastated and dis-empowered that I could not assert myself very well.

I’ve never had sexual problems, either over or under doing it… I feel comfortable with all that. Never had menstrual problems. But, my sense of self and body image was devastated, especially as far as being seen by others goes. I was anorexic and bulimic for a while as a teen/young adult, but just stopped. When I hit puberty, I felt like a piece of meat. I always felt extremely lonely and sad, empty, and angry as a child. I felt I was not loved. I had a lot to offer, if only I had the chance. Most strongly, however, was the feeling that no one should ever have to go through what I did. I got pregnant at age 28, and was craving a child by that time. I was dating my ‘ex’ for only a few months. He was ‘wrong’ for me as a husband, but due to a personal crisis at the time (my beloved older brother had just died), he was comfortable for me, outgoing, took care of things, talked about a ‘future.’ If I had not gotten pregnant, I would never have married him, and almost didn’t.

I absolutely loved being pregnant! I was ecstatic about having a child. While pregnant, I felt ‘filled,’ not alone. I had a purpose to serve another in an honest and unconditional way. I enjoyed the ripeness and fullness of my body. I felt more ‘real.’ I was, and am, a real ‘earth mother’ type, a huge fan of Mothering magazine. I was extremely healthy during the pregnancy, had no morning sickness or other problems. My family and now husband were all happy and supportive. In fact, it was the most positive time in my life until then. Even my mother treated me well.

The 38-hour birth was different, however. I had a great medical support team. The Chicago Women’s Health Center has been here since the 70’s, completely woman-centered, into empowering women, making your own decisions. I found it after the gynecologist I was going to (a woman) seemed to be giving all her patients the very uncomfortable colposcopy procedure that she invented.

Anyway, my doctor was wonderful. My bag of waters broke at 1:00 a.m. I was sleeping on the squishy couch as I had been all month because I was so big; I couldn’t get comfortable in bed. My contractions were five minutes apart from start to finish. My labor, which started out in the hospital birthing center, ended in the delivery room with a dosage of pitocin, and five to six hours of pushing. My doctor never gave up on me; bless her a thousand times. She knew how much I didn’t want a cesarean. She even spent the night at the hospital to be near me. Staff would come into my room and say, “Oh, it’s so peaceful in here, and the lady across the hall is screaming and going crazy.” I comforted myself with the fact that my son was in such great shape, and had great Apgar scores. They told me the babies like it nice and easy.

Looking back, my other support people were a nightmare, my ‘ex’ chasing after me with a tape recorder to tape my moans for posterity, his family being there for his support and making fun of the way I cursed softly, and his brothers and sisters filing past me as I labored naked in the shower, him watching the ball game during the birth. But, I was not able to make it different. Pushing was my favorite part, because I was active and doing something. I didn’t like sitting around waiting, and in pain. The nurse that helped me during pushing was great. I was tired and she was pushing on my perineum to focus me and yelling for me to push. From what I gather about the activities of abused women, that sounds opposite from what one should do, but she was perfect. She was real and right there with me, even though it was difficult.

After extricating myself from this bad relationship, I went through a lot of growth and learning. I subsequently found a wonderful partner and mate who is a gentle, sensitive, beautiful soul. We have been together over nine years. We decided to have a child; she is now three years old.

Despite being in a great relationship, and this being my second child, I was not more successful in having a quicker birth. This one, in fact, was longer – three days. I went into labor Friday night, and gave birth Monday morning. I had a midwife this time, and tried my best to have a home birth. My main midwife, to be honest, wasn’t all that great for me. She was kind of distant, not warm. If it had been my first birth, I would have been really unhappy with her.

Again, it was a healthy pregnancy, even though I was older. I got really big again. Even though I had remembered about my mom at this time, I didn’t relate to it much. I felt very alone, not connected to anyone attending this birth, like I was not being taken care of well enough. This is actually the first time I have said this.

My mate, however wonderful, was not as comfortable with the birth in that it was so new for him, not that he wasn’t happy about it. For my ex’s credit, he was the oldest of six kids, and all the birth stuff was old hat. I had lost touch with my old friends during my long divorce, due to me not wanting to burden them, and now I was kind of alone in the friend department. I would have loved to have some of my old women friends there for support, but they had moved away.

We had some younger artist friends there, who weren’t on the same wavelength either. In fact, there was a lot of partying in the kitchen while I labored alone in the bedroom. Do you see a pattern here? I still was not able to assert my needs, even with a supportive partner. The midwife kicked the extras out immediately, thank goodness. I got stuck at nine and one-half centimeters and stayed stuck, even though some of my contractions were really long, five, six, seven minutes. The world would turn white; with a ‘tear’ pattern in the middle, the worse the pain, the bigger the hole. I threw up a few times. I still can’t drink lemonade with honey.

Again though, I hung in there, remaining calm, and for the most part, really positive. We packed up for the hospital on the coldest day of 1997, and during the bumpy ride, the baby was already in the birth canal. A few moments of pitocin and five (count them) pushes and she was out!

The hospital was great, beautiful birthing rooms, and the doctor in charge was great. He said, “I know you were trying for a home birth. I’ll let the midwife run the show.” Amazing, huh? Unfortunately, he had to run and do a cesarean, and the second in-charge doctor came on board. She was not so nice. She had a need to assert her position and intervene. She put a scalp monitor on the baby, against my wishes, even though in the canal it was useless. I sat up and told her no. She lied and said it just rested against the baby’s head. It fell off, so she did it again! There were two scabby bumps on Elizabeth’s head.

My son, age 11, got to cut the cord, and everyone got to stay the night, unlike the first birth where, because I got switched to delivery with pitocin, I lost birthing room privileges. I feel that perhaps I needed the official ‘something’ of the doctors to get my body going. Because that is against everything I believe in. I am disappointed in myself. I wish my body worked better. It seemed to mirror my inability to make things happen in my general life, despite knowing what I want to happen. Well, everyone has to struggle with something.

I have breastfed both of my children. I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else. I breastfed my son until he was two, and my daughter, at three, is still nursing before bed. I had to go out of town in order to wean my son. I practiced family bed with both of them, until they went into toddler beds, and practice non-violence. Spanking my son is one of the reasons I divorced my ‘ex.’ I try to keep to child-centered parenting, and respect the core being of these little (and now not so little) people. I obviously enjoy breastfeeding, though am ready to wean when the time comes.

I have noticed more ‘triggering’ with my daughter. I was awestruck with the natural purity of her little body and being, how free she is able to be, due to not being abused. It was, in fact, extremely painful, making me feel/see something I lacked, but joyful to see someone else have it, a sublime experience to be sure. That she can move her legs around in that 360 degree curve that babies do is amazing. I can’t relax my body like that. She has also taken her time potty training, and I noticed that I didn’t mind, that the covering of diapers made me feel safe for her. I suppose there is more of that kind of thing to come, but I will have to deal with it. I hope that my personality does not keep my daughter from anything in the world that she needs to experience. I hope I can manifest some of my dreams in the world that I want to, for her to see. I certainly have learned how a parent should not act, and because of this, the every day act of loving my children is healthy for me.

Heather's Story

2009-06-26T07:18:00.000-07:00

From the beginning it was cast –
The clan, the given name, the heart's claim: motherhood
Changing Woman, who changes four times a year.

Winter-summer-fall-spring,
The four directions
The four cardinal points
The four births from the underworld
The four breaths of life –
Changing Woman said it so.

In beauty it is done,
In harmony it is written.
In beauty and harmony it shall so be finished.
Changing Woman said it so.- Gerald Hausman, Meditations with the Navajo

I come from a family with a history of sexual and physical abuse. My mother’s parents were both abusive, one sexually, the other physically. I can only assume a trail of further abuse, leading back who knows how far. My mother hoped to stop the cycle with herself. Instead it is stopping with me.

My mother was resilient and came up with creative survival techniques, which she later had to unlearn. Her story is for her to tell, and I’d leave her out of my story, but the fact that she went through therapy and healed herself got me started healing much before I otherwise would have. My mother intended to protect us from harm. Her caution was sufficient to protect almost all of her children, and for me the healing of her hurts marked the path for the healing of my own.

While I don’t remember much of the events of being abused, I do remember enough to identify who, when, and generally what happened. I was sexually abused at one, five, and seven years old, and perhaps at other times in between. What memories I have were not assigned the meaning that one would normally expect. I remember the feel of a male hand patting my diapered bottom, and the frustrated sigh of a barely-verbal child wondering if “men would EVER get enough.” The reference was clearly sexual, yet even as a child, that memory didn’t disturb me. I have stacks of disjointed memories that should have disturbed or even terrified me, from waking to find my grandfather standing over me, watching in creepy silence, to being utterly unwilling to enter the house when he was there, even to relieve my agonizingly full bladder – I’d rather suffer physical pain than have him even look at me. I remember not finding these memories troubling … they were my life, and to me, that meant they were normal.

I also misinterpreted normal things as sexual. I hated those short little dresses they put on little girls – the ease of "access" from abusing hands upset me. It never occurred to me that other people saw those skirts as a way to allow those girls to crawl and climb without getting tangled up in their clothes.

I remember losing my seventh summer to amnesia, a loss so profound I could not remember what the toilet was for. Nor could I remember my name, or the names of my family members. I was upset by the loss of memory, and survived for days by listening and not speaking until my life started becoming familiar once again. That was the summer my great-uncle visited us. How much trauma does it take for a child to develop amnesia?

I also had disjointed emotions – reactions so out of alignment with what was happening at the moment that had I told anyone about them, they would have thought me crazy, or more likely, in serious need of some professional help. I remember, in my teens, having an intense rage attack while sleeping in my (then deceased) great-uncle’s room while visiting family. In the middle of the night, I woke with an overwhelming urge to smash everything in that room: mirrors, furniture, everything. I felt an absolute physical need to bite and strangle my mother (who was sleeping beside me), to beat her, to hurt her until she could feel the unexpressed, unbelievable grief beneath my rage. I was intensely angry with her for not stopping it, and I felt deeply disturbed, both that I could not identify the “it” I wanted her to have stopped, and because I was sure she would have stopped it if she had known. As usual, I controlled myself through sheer will, shaking violently as I clenched my fists and held my body rigid, preventing myself from actually taking action on those emotions. I felt exposed, naked to the core. As I slowly regained composure, I floundered in a sea of loneliness… I was so lonely I could no longer identify the feeling – the emotion was too big for any word. And I was ashamed of my rage, because somehow I knew that I had hidden the information that would have helped. For that, if not for the abuse itself, I blamed myself. In defense, as usual, I sent the feelings away, and returned to living without my full spectrum of emotions rather than feel too much.

And that isn't even all of it. There is simply too much to tell it all. But the memories themselves, and the details, are less important. More important is how I managed them, or how I did not. I lost some emotions entirely – fear was something I never remember feeling as an emotion, though I remember the physical sensations that normally go along with it. I remember shame, and guilt, and occasional happiness or contentment or anticipatory excitement over Christmas or birthdays, but seldom any other feelings. By the time I was eight or nine, I was dispassionate, detached, dissociated from my most powerful emotions. I had a choice – I could live in my body and feel almost nothing, or I could experience my feelings without any connection to my physical self. I could not do both at once, and being in my body was more pleasant, so there I stayed most of the time. Outside, my body reacted to what I should be feeling. Inside, the feeling just wasn't there. I felt only blankness. My sister described me as “asleep.” I was sleepwalking my way through my childhood, my complete self carefully separated into boxes inside.

My healing journey started later that summer my great-uncle visited the first time. My great-uncle was visiting again, but this time he didn't lay a hand on me, as far as I can tell. It doesn't qualify as an apology, but he spent a fair portion of his time trying to make me back into the child I had been before. His actions by no means undid the harm he had done, but he at least turned me in the right direction and pointed me toward being real and human again. I do not know if he understood that who I had become was directly because of his actions; he is dead now, so I cannot ask. I wish I had remembered more while he was still alive – I would like to know for certain if he was sorry. Remarkably, that curiosity is all I feel about him anymore. I’m no longer emotionally invested in him. I neither love him nor hate him, though at times I get angry at him again. An effective resolution, for me.

My mom did not realize that I was hurting. I freely admit that that was mostly because I did not want her to know. If she knew, she might put me back together again, and then I'd have to feel what I was desperately trying not to feel. I was pretty good at acting normal when I felt the need, so almost nobody had a clue that I needed much help anyway. Still, I subconsciously was always seeking a way back to me, back to wholeness. By the end of grade school, if I let my mind wander, my hands would spontaneously write, “help me” on any flat surface. My desks and notebooks were covered with it, but the only person who noticed was a girl who sat next to me, and she accepted my hasty explanation that the letters “just looked nice together.” I never let my hands play with letters after that.

Skip forward to adolescence… I was a bright kid, so had started school early. This didn’t help me any as a teen, since I was not only rather socially truncated, but also younger than my peers. I avoided dating, but wanted to date. When I was 14, I had finally had a few dates. One pretty mild snuggling session sent me into amazingly deep shock. I knew that wasn't a normal reaction. I had all the signs of being terrified – rigid body, sweating, dry mouth – but I felt only the physical part. And that was just from having the guy's arm around my shoulder! I began to wonder if I had been abused (as I already knew my mother had been), and began to do some research. As usual, I relied on myself alone to manage my problems. Asking for help was against the rules.

My mom had collected quite a library of resources. I began to flip through her self-help and psychology books, and started to practice self-hypnosis to overcome my "normal" phobias (swimming, in particular). I also talked to my mom about my own behaviors and how to go about changing the things I didn’t like about how I acted. There were plenty of "safe" topics to work on. She taught gladly, and I learned how to interpret my own dreams, and how to listen to my body. She taught me how to find the root of a behavior, and by identifying it, remove the power from it. She also taught me how to identify shame, and how to rid myself of guilt that didn’t belong to me. While I believed that I had been abused, it didn’t fully click, even then. I certainly never suggested to her that it was a possibility. It was peculiarly unimportant, and I often forgot completely about it, only to discover it again later. I was still too dissociated to functionally deal with it.

By the time I graduated high school, I was sexually active, and loved it. I got a lot of validation from my boyfriends about my body, my sex drive, and my rapidly growing sexual skills. I also usually picked boyfriends who didn’t help me grow or heal. I was also exploring my spirituality, and I patiently followed the threads of my mongrel heritage through a variety of spiritual practices. I went from agnostic, to Unitarian, to Druid, to Buddhist, briefly considered becoming Episcopalian, moved back through a few Native American practices, into Celtic Wicca, through Universalism, touched on Quakerism, and eventually combined what worked for me into a personal form of eclectic neo-pagan by the time I finished college. By the age of 18, I not only had taken many seminars on religion and worship and spiritual healing, but I had taught a few, too. In the process, I discovered a lot about myself and about healing.

My explorations of the spiritual paths taught me a lot. I learned that I could accept and love my body, but I could not connect to my face. I learned that I was coming to value myself primarily for sexual activity, and I hated that and began to change it immediately. I learned to use the tools of spiritual ritual and meditation to get to the source of a problem and begin to heal it. Long before I finished exploring, I had realized that I had been sexually abused as a child, but I often tagged it with “probably.” My life was still not proof enough; however, I could finally think about it without having my mind fuzz out and wander off to safer topics. That I was functioning relatively normally in the sexual arena made it safer to think about dysfunctions elsewhere. I finally began trying to heal in earnest.

The Courage to Heal set (book and workbook) was a big help in my healing journey. I also relied heavily on An Adult Child’s Guide to What’s Normal, and began to solidify my spiritual practices within a group of women. In the space of a year or two I had made huge leaps in growth and healing. I “came out” to others I considered safe and found that many of my friends had also been abused, and those who were not survivors were no less supportive. It wasn't long before I became a resource for others discovering their own abuse history. Still, I didn't tell anyone in my family for years after that.

Through journaling and dream-analysis, I discovered that my mental image of abuse as crippling me was incorrect. It was a deformity, like a misshapen bone, not a straight break or even a lost part. I had initially described myself as broken by the abuse, but I was just warped out of normal shape by it. Bad enough, certainly, but an entirely different sort of problem. I had to struggle to keep myself in the functioning norm, but it was not impossible to pass as normal. It took a lot of work to make some standard behaviors happen, but with constant vigilance I could do it most of the time. Of course, there was the difficult problem of knowing what the norm was, in the first place. I was often deeply anxious about missing the mark, making a mistake that showed that I didn't know what normal was at all. I kept myself guarded much of the time, knowing that any slip meant that “normal” people could see beneath my mask and see how bizarre my true form was. Worse, they might see how it had happened and blame me for it. I had never blamed myself very much – that much carried through from my mom's parenting style early on – but I was prone to overloading on other people's reactions, and shame attacks occurred regularly in response to the reactions of those around me. I was transforming the shame I did carry into more healthy feelings about my abusers (such as anger and grief), but it was a slow undertaking.

I went through a variety of boyfriends (increasingly mentally healthy ones, too!) and then got engaged to a man I considered one of my very best friends. Three years later (and still unmarried), I left him. We learned the hard way that for a couple to survive together, they BOTH have to grow. Still, we remained friends, and I started dating a man I had known and been attracted to for a few years. We dated for fun, and never thought we could fall in love. Of course, we did fall in love, and were married a few years later. I always thought I had been in love before, but this was miles beyond any of the others.

My husband has been a rock for me, learning alongside me, encouraging and supporting my growth. He relies on the results to measure the success, rather than dismissing any peculiar method as unscientific. He read books like "Ghosts in the Bedroom" to help him deal with living with a woman who had been molested before she could even talk, who had been lied to in destructive ways, and who was just starting to learn some fundamental things about life. This man has broken all the rules of what I was told by my abusers, even just by marrying me at all. I had been told that nobody would want to marry me if they knew. But here I was, married to a guy who knew all about my history. The fact of my marriage made the abuser's words into a lie, and that released another part of me. Even my nightmares have stopped, just because he told them to. He has a direct line to my subconscious mind, somehow. I consider myself extremely fortunate to have found someone I trust so absolutely, and with such apparent reason.

Marriage is great. We work very hard on our relationship, partly because of my emotional and psychological “deformity,” partly because we are so different in style that we’d go nuts otherwise. Marriage also pushed me toward therapy. Don’t laugh, but I actually started therapy because I was a lousy housekeeper. Ever since the first summer my great-uncle spent with us, I have literally been a mess. Before that summer, I had no trouble keeping my room tidy. After that summer, my room was often so deep in discarded clothes, papers, books, toys, trash, and miscellaneous junk that I had to leap from a spot a few feet away to get to my bed. I developed a habit of dissociating the moment I noticed something needed to be cleaned, or even if I thought about cleaning. I could walk past a trashcan overflowing onto the floor and never once consciously note that it needed to be emptied, let alone that I should do so. Not too surprisingly, this was getting in the way of my marital happiness. I realized that not only was this a problem for my husband, but it would be a problem for any child we had. Since I had genuinely tried every trick I knew to get past it, I realized I needed more help than I could give myself. More than a decade of self-help, and I was still floundering in many areas. Time to find a therapist.

Finding a therapist was interesting. I searched the Internet looking for a description of my symptoms, to see if I could find a reference to a type of disorder, and an associated therapy style or treatment. Soon enough, I found it: DDNOS (Dissociative Disorder Not Otherwise Specified). I separate my feelings from my physical experiences, separate memory from meaning. My physical self is often left to handle overwhelming sensations without any mental or emotional connection, or conversely, I have intense emotional reactions without anything concrete to base them on. When trying to make sense of my experiences, I often must dig for the parts that are missing in order to connect to an experience completely. I don’t fit in any of the specific “typical” dissociative categories, but fall within the overall disorder. Dissociative disorders include Dissociative Identity Disorder, or what used to be called Multiple Personality Disorder. Standard “talking” therapy works on these, so I asked my doctor for a referral. I trusted her, and she proved it was with good reason. When I mentioned that I was aware that I had been sexually abused, and was having problems with dissociation that I felt were big enough to seek therapy for, she found me a resource who could refer me to someone closer to where I lived.

I soon had a list of therapists who specialized in dealing with dissociation. I began interviewing them over the phone. I asked a range of questions, including eliciting their reaction to one of my favorite things, a new 64 box of Crayola crayons. Four made the cut on the phone interview. One told me frankly that I was simply not dysfunctional enough to need her services. I was privately delighted that I had already done enough work to move past the critical-care level of therapy. Another seemed awed by my coping skills and intellect. She was thoroughly impressed with me, but I wanted someone who would make me work (not laud what I had already accomplished). The art therapist was brilliant but flipped out when I described myself as a pagan … after her weird reaction, I bailed on her. The fourth one told me that she wasn’t about to let me dodge my issues by being interesting. BINGO! Soon I was in therapy with a woman who would catch me at my own tricks, and it was making some tangible differences. My housekeeping improved slightly, and my overall life and coping skills improved much more.

Therapy is great, and it works, even though it can be physically and emotionally exhausting. I connected to some childhood events for the first time. I actually felt fear completely and learned to identify it and use it as a tool. I identified fidgety behaviors that indicated when I was dissociating. As usual with therapy, I did a lot of the work, but the nudges and conversational shifts my therapist used to direct the sessions drew me further along the healing path than I had been before. She let me cry, and drew me back into the issues again and again. Eventually, my husband and I decided it was time (and past time, in my mind) to start a family. I continued therapy up until my maternity leave started.

I loved pregnancy as a concept long before I experienced it. I had learned from my mother to embrace the process, as she had. I grew up knowing how wonderful it was to carry a child inside your body, even when it wasn’t always fun. I remember my mother being incredibly beautiful when she was pregnant. Her hair glowed gold, her skin radiated, and she was so full of delight! I can still remember her joyfully and patiently showing me my little brother's foot pushing out against her skin. I have always carried in my mind the image of the perfect ripe roundness of her very pregnant belly as she stood before her mirror. I looked forward to labor, because of my mother’s descriptions of the power, wonder, passion, and beauty of birthing a child. I had always loved to listen to my birth story, how she had started labor in the morning, continued cleaning the house, called the baby-sitter, packed her bags, and THEN called my dad. She was so calm, she trusted her body so completely, and she knew what to do. I loved hearing how I was born without drugs that same evening (back when that simply wasn’t done), and how she had chocolate bars stowed in her purse so that she would have something to eat in the hungry time after the delivery (hospitals didn't seem to think women should be hungry just then!). I would glow with pride and admiration as she told me about defying the nurse to stop her when they said she wasn’t allowed to eat them. Pregnancy and birth seemed wonderful and glorious and potent, a true expression of love and womanhood. Having an actual CHILD to raise was scary, but nothing about pregnancy or birth could scare me, even when I could finally recognize and experience fear.

I got pregnant easily, but pregnancy wasn’t very easy on me. I had morning sickness, a bad case of sciatica, genetic counseling (regarding a disorder that runs in my family), and a strong, extremely active baby who even ruptured the muscles around my navel and left my ribs aching where he pushed off of them on his half-hourly wanders around his home inside me. I had all manner of ills and aches and pains. For a change, dissociation helped: it kept my physical discomfort from affecting my feelings about being pregnant. I loved pregnancy, and the discomforts were completely irrelevant to how much I loved it. I tracked the development of the child within me, greeting each new stage with passion and delight. I loved guessing if the current lump bulging from my tummy was head, or foot, or baby butt. I patted out drum rhythms on my son’s behind, and delighted in feeling his reactions to music. I wrote happy and funny emails to family and friends detailing the latest fun or interesting developments. My husband would smile with pride as he described me as having such a great attitude about being pregnant, even if my pregnancy itself wasn’t perfect.

I dissociated my experience of pregnancy from the negatives, and that was great. But I also separated my experience of pregnancy from actually having a child. It seemed so peculiar to me to have people tell me anticipatory things about babyhood and parenthood. I was pregnant, thanks, and the goal was labor and delivery, not a baby. Baby development and even my interaction with my growing child was a DIFFERENT process, happening at the same time, but not on the same track. Baby was one process, pregnancy and birth was another process. The two were related, but only vaguely. During labor, I wanted to grind my teeth every time someone said; "you'll soon have that baby in your arms." They didn't get it at all. I didn't want to be distracted from my labor by focusing on something that to my mind was fundamentally unrelated to what I was doing. I'd enjoy the baby totally when it got here, but until then, I was just in labor, thanks!

My son is totally familiar to me. He and my two other yet-to-be-born children helped me survive that terrible seventh summer. Without their kind assistance, I might not have been able to grow up to be the mother they wanted me to be. Actually, those three sweet and fun and caring boys are almost all I remember of the time that is otherwise a blank. Many times in that summer, I dreamed wonderful dreams about doing normal summertime kid stuff with three boys, one of them a bit older than me, the other two about my age. I knew in the dreams that they were my sons, and that I would have them when I grew up. We spent the dreamtime riding bikes, hanging out, splashing in creeks, and doing everyday normal kid stuff. I looked forward to going to sleep, so I could freely enjoy the summer I wasn’t enjoying at all during the day. While the dreams were very real, and have stuck with me all my life, they were just dreams. Still, the certainty of having three sons settled on my mind like the understanding of gravity. It just WAS, and nothing would change that.

Reinforcing the idea that these boys exist outside my own mind, my best friend called me when I was five weeks pregnant. I had just that morning received confirmation from my doctor that the blood test was positive. This friend asked in a very careful tone if I had something to tell her. She didn't even know we were trying to conceive, and she hadn't seen me in months. After I finally gave in and admitted I was pregnant, she told me about the powerful dream she had had the night before, in which a boy with bright blue eyes told her that I was pregnant, with himself. The dream was so loud and potent; she woke immediately after, feeling like someone had been shouting to her. She never has those kinds of dreams.

The independent-soul concept kept popping up throughout my pregnancy. Instance after instance of visions and dreams, showing me what my son would look like (accurately – and some features are total surprises!), telling me about upcoming health issues with the pregnancy (like not eating enough protein, whereupon my blood pressure went up), and so forth. When I tell these stories, many people make Twilight Zone noises. I don’t know how it happened, or why, but it happened, and those contacts are part of what gave me faith that everything would turn out well. The rest was plain survivor stubbornness.

I have always been pretty comfortable with medical practices. My doctors have been almost exclusively excellent, good at diagnosis, ethical, respectful, and supportive. I had no reason to believe that pregnancy would be any different. I wanted a natural birth, though. I wanted to be free of drugs, free of encumbrances, and able to experience what my mother had. I found an OB and visited her before I was even pregnant. She was perfect. Her attitude was that pregnancy is normal, and should not be interfered with. The same was true for birth. She was the backup, and I was in charge. Wonderful! But unfortunately she was not the only doctor in her practice. The other two OBs did not have the same attitude. One leaned toward pregnancy as a managed process, not a natural one. And the third misrepresented medical opinion as fact, and when I politely asked for confirmation she declined to provide any. And then she wrote in my chart that I was difficult and argumentative. My husband was stunned when we saw that note later. He was there, and while I can be forceful when necessary, I was just being reasonable and firm, as far as he could tell. That doctor’s attitude could easily have loaded me with shame, guilt, or self-doubt. A few years before, I would have meekly accepted her word as fact, no matter how much I privately disbelieved her.

That experience left me nervous, even without having seen the note in my file. We were looking for a house, and when we found one that was just a little too far away from that OB practice, I let out a silent sigh of relief. I really liked the one OB, but I could easily have had either of the other two attending me in labor. I started talking to my friends in that area, and began to consider a midwife. Two friends had used midwives, one with a VBAC. Their stories and reassurances relieved my initial concerns about leaving the "traditional" medical world. The local birthing center had treatment privileges at the very nearby hospital. I wouldn't even have to switch to unknown doctors in the middle of labor if I was transported. When my records were switched over from the old OB practice, I found the note about being a difficult patient. The midwives thought it was a sad comment on the doctor, and not on me. Their reaction was very reassuring.

I liked midwife care in particular because it put me in control. (Control being a major issue with anyone who was abused.) I checked my own urine protein levels and glucose, and recorded them on my chart. I weighed myself, and I was personally involved in other aspects of my care. They easily adjusted to my preference for fetoscopes rather than Doppler. My two favorite midwives slowly became something like professional friends, and I enjoyed working with them. I trusted them for quality care, with compassion, support, and empathy – and that is what I got.

Having so much unknown stuff inside my head, I found that I had a serious need to prepare for the unknown events ahead. I knew my dissociative process well enough not to trust that I would make it through labor without losing connection to the birth. (Connection to the baby was a whole different problem, and one I anticipated no trouble with.) I watched for pitfalls in my thinking, looking for flaws of logic, or of emotion. I made lists, and read a lot of books. I re-committed to having a natural birth if possible, but accepted that I could not control how my labor went. After some discussions with the midwives about pain-management, I decided which drugs I could take without risking a bad trip. Since even laughing gas makes me paranoid and brings up flashes of buried emotions, blood-stream narcotics were not an option. Besides, I couldn’t imagine that feeling mentally out-of-control would be a good idea, even without a history of abuse. I read up on the Bradley Method, knowing that focusing outside myself (as in Lamaze) would only make me more prone to dissociation, and that working with my body and keeping my visualizations based on what was happening inside me would keep me connected (as in Bradley). I also knew that I should trust my body, and Bradley Method encourages that.

I worked out a birth plan with my therapist and my husband, and then presented it to my midwives. I felt it was necessary to be honest about my abuse history. If I had a flashback during labor, I wanted to be able to deal with it appropriately, not bury it again or have my midwife think I was losing my mind. Most of the midwives in the practice dealt with the idea well. They noted that many women come up with abuse memories while in labor, and many have their very first or most intense revelations at that time. Frankly, I’d rather not have that interfere with what I expected to be a wonderful event. Unfortunately, one of the midwives was deeply uncomfortable with my history, and did not think I was a good candidate for a birth center birth. Fortunately for me, wiser (and more senior) midwives made the final decision, and that one midwife was overruled. Less fortunate for me, it made that midwife very unhappy about attending me at appointments, and she was sending out very nasty vibes. I decided I really didn’t want her to deliver my child, even though I had no idea at the time why she was being so negative.

In the course of preparing for birth, by both reading and asking questions of my friends, I realized that birth was more than just a "couple" process – it was a personal process, a generational process, and a female process. That opened me up to the possibility of having other women there with me for the birth; women who could help me, and help my husband, if needed. I decided to ask both my best friends to be my doulas (labor support people). They would provide the extra encouragement and support to help me through the birth. One of them had already been a doula for the other, and the other was training to be a Bradley Method instructor, so there was some experience there already. It felt strange and a little scary to ask for their help – that was against the rules of abuse. But it also felt right, and good.

I also invited my mother to the birth. This was a tough decision. I love my mom dearly, but I was sure she would annoy the heck out of me at some point. Not wanting to promise her anything, I invited her for the labor, and said I’d decide at the time if she could stay for the birth. I also made a list of rules of “no-no’s” – no eating when I can’t eat, no distractions, and so forth. I honestly thought there was a 75% chance I’d kick out my mom and everyone else (except my husband) for the delivery part – and I was wrong, wrong, wrong. There could have been a busload of frat boys in there and I would not have cared one whit. Yes, my mom did annoy me at one point: while I was pushing, she was grinning at me so hard I thought her face would split and the top of her head would just fall right off. I made her move to a spot where I couldn’t see her – last thing I wanted to see while I was working that hard was someone just enjoying themselves! Still, I didn’t really mind it. She was remembering the power I was experiencing at that moment, and that was okay. I just didn’t want the distraction.

Once the birth team was arranged, we began to plan. We reviewed the birth plan, the doulas’ roles, and what we expected my husband to need. I personally just planned to need everything. In the end, I didn’t use most of the things I planned for, but it was good to know that people would respond appropriately if I did flip out.

So, what did I plan? I wrote about 12 pages of birth plan, including what I wanted to eat, what procedures I did not want, what drugs were acceptable if I needed any, and what things to bring with me, including clothes, food, pillows, and a comfort item (a small stuffed bunny). I specified that if I needed a c-section, they could not bind my hands down at the wrists, since my reaction would be blind panic. They could, however, bind my arm just below the elbow if they needed to, but I preferred to have at least one hand free. I also included specific responses for emotional reactions. For example, if I appeared to be dissociating, anyone could ask me if I actually WAS dissociating, because asking me is enough for me to identify it and break away. I figured out all my probable responses to pain, fear, or feeling out of control, and what the best actions to counteract them would be. I wrote all the information down, checked it with my therapist, and then handed out the list to my doulas, my husband (for reference), and my midwives. In the end, I didn’t need any of it. But I was still glad I had worked it out so carefully.

Having a child includes so many decisions! Two of my most important ones were whether to breastfeed and whether to circumcise if I had that boy I had dreamed about. Both of these brought up serious abuse-related issues.

Breastfeeding seemed an easy choice. My mom had managed it, even with her abuse history, and even though it was not supported in general by society at the time. And I knew how good breast-milk was for babies – their perfect food, designed just for them. I guess I planned to breastfeed all along. Still, I worried that the sensations of breastfeeding would too closely mirror sexual sensations, and that somehow I would respond inappropriately.

I needn’t have worried. I generally find that the sensation of nursing is not sexual at all. For me, it is like the feeling you get when someone scratches your back and hits a place that has had an itch for so long that you have started to ignore it. A feeling of relief, and pleasure, but not sexual in nature. My comfort with it has extended as our nursing relationship has continued, and I find myself still nursing him at almost two years old, and STILL not finding it damaging or sexual. My pediatrician has been amazingly supportive, especially because both my husband and I have allergies. Starting nursing was hard – I got some bad advice at the hospital, and ended up with blisters on one nipple. But since there was no abuse pain associated with my breasts, the discomfort of the first five weeks of breastfeeding didn’t tie into any of my history. Besides, I was so tired at that time, I was functioning on brain stem – and the mommy-baby thing was taking up every available space in my head.

Circumcision was a much harder issue to deal with. My husband is circumcised, and I have never slept with a man who was left as he was born. I did a lot of research, and actually read a bunch of articles at the source, from medical journals. What I found was that there was no agreement in the medical community. The risk of injury from the surgery is about equal to the risks of problems without the surgery. The health issues seemed split pro and con. (Though by breastfeeding, I could erase the risk of urinary tract infections.) Religious issues were not a factor, either.

But, what about behavioral and social issues? Two studies caught my attention. One showed that masturbation was more frequent in boys who were circumcised, and the other showed that circumcised adult males participated in a wider range of sexual behaviors than intact men, including activities considered “outside the norm.” That rang a bell for me. Both those things are also true of people who were sexually abused in early childhood. That was too close for comfort. Combining that with my deep feeling that nature made us this way for a reason, I was strongly moved to avoid circumcision.

Still, I worried. Would being uncircumcised cause more trauma later that I was avoiding now? So again, I asked my friends and family. One of my friends put to rest another myth – that kids would torment a boy who was “different.” Her son was considered extra-cool in his peer group for having a neat-o penis (not circumcised), even at the tender age of five. Circumcision status has nothing to do with whether a guy is deemed cool or not. My sister-in-law also pointed out that there would be a mix of types anywhere you go, and that her sons were not circumcised, either. As for care and cleaning, the answer was leaving it alone until they can wash it themselves. That eased another abuse issue: I would not be handling my son’s penis more than I was comfortable with, if I treated it properly.

My husband voted to leave any son of ours as he was. While he is not upset about it himself, he argued that if it weren’t absolutely necessary, why would you even consider it? It isn’t as if it is all that hard to explain the difference between father and son, either. “They used to think it was medically necessary, and now they don’t.” Come on, my husband said, if we can’t handle saying that, how will we handle talking about sex later? The last straw was finding out (more medical journal reading) that most of the conditions that “require” circumcision in adulthood are effectively handled with minor plastic surgery. Much like we used to do full mastectomies for breast cancer, and now many cancers are handled with lumpectomies instead. Radical measures are seldom needed. Done, we were decided. If we had a son, he would be left as he was made.

I've already teased you with bits and pieces of my labor… so now I'll tell you how the whole labor and birth went. The short form is 66 hours of patient, fairly calm, and well-supported non-productive labor (no dilation), followed by an epidural so I could sleep, pitocin to keep the contractions strong, and then 14 more hours of labor. That comes to 80 hours. The pushing part was about two hours, though again, the first hour and a half was unproductive, so the “real” pushing was less than half-an-hour. My mind kindly put me in time-warp mode, and I had no idea how long my whole labor had been. I judged how long I had been in labor by how my body was doing, not by the clock, and if you asked my body, it had been 24 hours. Letting my body tell me was a good idea; time is relative when you are in labor. In part, I suspect that my labor was so long because the midwife I so strongly disliked was the one on call when I started having contractions. So even the length of the labor was a good thing – I got a different midwife!

My support system was incredibly helpful. Having so many people around me, offering support, massage, conversation, encouragement, and basically jumping to order at the smallest request was wonderful. My doulas walked with me, and put counter-pressure on my back as I leaned on my husband. My doulas and my mom cooked me soup and reminded me to drink plenty of fluids. They also rubbed my legs when I was getting numb from the epidural, and that helped stabilize my son’s heart rate the few times it got variable. My husband got help from them, too. They went out to get food for him, and they sat with me feeding me ice chips and frozen juice pops when he needed to take a nap or go to the bathroom. They even helped the midwife, sitting with me while she slept.

My body did me proud, and that was immensely healing on its own. I was a survivor once again, but of a natural process this time. I eased my way through 50 hours of labor without even thinking of drugs, and even the next six hours (before I moved up to the hospital for the epidural), which were more painful, and were hard work and very frustrating, didn’t bring up unreasonable fear or anxieties. Somehow, labor and birth were so profoundly different, so welcome, so natural and so right, that the patterns of abuse had no foothold. Here, finally, was a place that had remained untouched by the men who had hurt me so profoundly that my internal form had warped. Here I was whole, and human, and pure of self and intent. Here I was completely in contact with my body, my mind, my feelings, and my soul. For the first time since I was a very small child, I was really and truly ME.

Transition, the phase where most women experience doubt, was a point of stillness for me. I turned inward and found a vast reserve of strength, as if all the strength that had been kept from me over the years was there, waiting to be used. As I pushed, my whole being pushed, all parts working in harmony, not even a flicker of a shadow moving anywhere in the corners of my mind. Even when I finally doubted for a second that I would be able to do this … even then, I was of single purpose, single mind. All the fractured bits of my self and my life for once reflected the same image. All the separate bits snapped into place for the long moment that is birth.

I honestly could have done the entire 70 hours again within minutes of my son’s birth. I ended up with no standard birth injuries - no perineal tearing, no episiotomy. No stitches at all. I only had a few “skid marks” on my vaginal walls - basically some abrasions similar to stretch marks, probably from my son’s ears catching as he came down. The lack of physical trauma may be part of why I’d willingly do it again so fast. That, and the fact that the process was never taken from me, and where I had faith in myself, my midwife had faith in me, and my son was strong throughout. Yes, they discussed the possibility of a c-section – I was in labor for a VERY long time, after all – but it was never discussed where I could hear and be bothered by it. If it had become necessary, they would have brought it up with me, but until then, I was allowed to continue in peace. A c-section would have been different, but not bad, as long as I was a full participant. I believe there is value in intentionally sacrificing the wholeness of your body for the safety of your child. A different gift, but still a good one, as long as it is freely given, and not taken without good reason or without your consent. That is only my speculation, since my path was not that direction. I know the birth I made was a good one, and that is enough.

Nobody in the world is as strong as you are when pushing your child into the world. No athlete ever worked so hard. No conquering warrior is as triumphant. Nobody is as divine, as humble, or as whole as you are right then. I did it. Me, with this body, this mind, this will. No matter how damaged I was in the moments before labor started, this primal, potent process made me real, and whole, and finally, fully me. I welcomed my baby with my hands and heart wide open, with not even echoes of anyone else present in my mind or soul, except those welcome reflections of all the mothers who labored before me to place a new life in the world. I was given the power to birth, and where it wasn’t given, I took it for myself. I was a mother, and I was just beginning to understand what that meant. I was a Goddess incarnate, the Changing Woman of one thin but beautiful thread of my heritage. I breathed the same air, felt the rhythm of the same beating heart, and held my child to my breast with the same arms as have an eternity of mothers in both directions, before and yet to come. The connection to my foremothers was profound; an ancient river of life had poured through me in the shape of my son, and washed me clean. I grinned back at my mom as I held my messy, sweet, and perfect son, and marveled at myself. I was as new as he.

There is a reason why we say someone "gave birth." Your child’s birth is a gift. A gift not just to the child, to the father, to the grandparents, or to the world. And the gift is not even of the child itself. Your child’s birth is a gift of yourself, to yourself. It is yours. Take it.

Epilogue

My son is now 21 months old. I marvel every day at his growth and his constant changes, but mostly at his HIMness. He is a whole person, real and present. He has likes and dislikes that have nothing to do with me. When I look at him, I see how he is shaping his own internal form, free of the damage that was already warping me at that age. I am learning from my son how my own shape could have been, and the knowledge is bittersweet.

I still have warped places. Having a child did not magically heal everything. I still have bad days, but I have a lot of good ones, too. I still dissociate sometimes, and I still find my history subtly interfering in how I want to live my life, affecting the kind of woman I want to be. But the damage that was done cannot grow beyond where it was. I am slowly but surely hammering out the dents in my internal form, reshaping my daily self into the "me" I discovered during my son's birth.

Giving birth also changed me. Partly the change is from becoming a mother, and being genuinely and passionately willing to die for another person. Part of it comes from re-working my roles, my image of who I am. Part of it is from taking charge of my son's birth. Part of it comes from asking for and accepting support from my husband, midwives, friends, and family – on my own terms. And part of the change is from finally knowing that there are places in me that are pristine, untouched by the pain of my childhood. I know, to my core and in all the corners of my soul, how strong and able I truly am. That knowledge can never be taken from me.

Now, passionate emotions fill my life – I love my son passionately, I love my husband passionately. I take each dancing step on the strong and nourishing earth with deep love and humility for the gifts I have been given. I have survived and even conquered more than once. I experienced more pain than any child should know, and while I struggled for a time, I still came out of the experience a good person. I am humble, grateful, and sure of my strength. And I am still learning. I know what despair is, and so I find myself willing to embrace hope. I am becoming comfortable in my body and even with my face. Having been deadened to the meaning of my emotions, I now revel in them. Love, joy, contentment, and even anger, fear, sorrow, and grief have a depth of texture and color that satisfy me immensely.

Life does not pass me by. It is still pouring through me.

For those of you who are walking this same path, may your journey be filled with discovery of the perfect places within you, and may it end with joy and harmony. Walk in beauty.

In beauty it is done,
In harmony it is written.
In beauty and harmony it shall so be finished.
Changing Woman said it so.

Catherine's Story

2009-06-12T09:00:00.000-07:00

I grew up in what I considered to be a pretty normal family. I had a mom, a dad, and a sister who was three years older than I was. We lived in a very nice middle-class neighborhood, and my mother stayed home until I started junior high. My sister was a very high achiever, and it seemed that she excelled at everything she tried. I, however, sat on the sidelines, afraid to try much of anything for fear of failing or not measuring up.

I am not sure exactly what happened, but sometime during the 9th grade, I started having trouble getting along with my friends. I went to the guidance counselor for help. He had me meet him for lunch every day in his office. At first it was nice getting some attention. But then he isolated me from my friends. If I would have lunch with my friends, he would punish me by not being there the next day. Soon my friends excluded me totally, and I was dependent on the guidance counselor.

Then he began to sexually abuse me. At first it seemed okay. He told me he wasn’t supposed to do it, but he would close his office door and give me a hug. At first it was nice. But then he would hold me too tight, his hands would roam, and he would rub himself against me. I attempted suicide less than two weeks after the first time he abused me. He said that if I promised not to do it again, he wouldn’t tell my parents. The abuse continued, probably on a daily basis. There were times I would try to escape his office without a “hug,” and he would keep me there until I put my books down so he could give me a “hug.” If I did manage to escape, he would not be there the next day. Just recently I remembered all the times he expected me to call him, always from where I was babysitting, and rarely from home. I did attempt suicide again two months after the first time, and then again one month later.

My parents finally figured out that “my” problems were not going to just go away, and they sent me to a mental hospital for seven months. I never talked about the abuse because he told me not to tell. My psychological evaluation stated that I was troubled with sexual stimulation, and they knew of the relationship with the guidance counselor, yet no one figured it out. Since they never brought it up, I didn’t think it was a problem. Plus, there were the threats to keep me silent.

When I came back home, the family dynamics had changed. My sister was now in college and wasn’t doing very well. I was in a new high school with new friends, and was doing pretty well. I dated some, and was pretty “easy,” but I didn’t enjoy boys. I dated one guy who was a lot older than I was. He would take me to church and lead me to a personal relationship with Jesus. But he wanted me to have sex with him, so I stopped seeing him. I graduated from high school, and that summer I started dating another boy. We continued our relationship after we left for separate colleges. I lost my virginity with him. I also became pregnant. He was not terribly supportive, and I was battling depression. I lost this baby when I attempted suicide.

I kept searching for someone to make me whole. I met my husband when we were in college. We began sleeping together almost from the start. I had met a great guy, and I was determined to keep him. We married three years after we met. We were not planning on having children. However, I did become pregnant after we had been married a little over a year. It was a good pregnancy. I often thought about this little person growing inside me. He was very active, and it was fun to watch my belly jiggle. I worked a temporary job for the state, which I really enjoyed. We bought a house and moved in one month before our son was born.

We had planned on a natural labor and delivery. It turned out to be anything but natural. My water broke and then nothing really happened. I was started on a pitocin drip. This made the contractions unbearable, so I ended up needing an epidural. After 14 hours of labor, they decided that I had not made enough progress and the baby’s condition was deteriorating. I needed a c-section. The surgery wasn’t that bad, and I was able to hold the baby in the recovery room. I tried to nurse him, but wasn’t successful. I was in the hospital for three days. The nurses kept bringing him to me, putting him in my arms. I repeatedly tried to nurse him, but never had much luck. It really hurt because the nurses had shown me incorrectly. I knew that this was my son and I was supposed to love him, but it seemed that somehow I didn’t know how.

I went into postpartum depression after coming home from the hospital. I had no clue how to take care of my new baby. Breastfeeding continued to be a problem. Each time he latched on it hurt because of improper attachment. This continued for three months until I finally consulted a lactation consultant.

It was now winter, and I didn’t know anyone in our new neighborhood. My husband was working very long hours and would sometimes go several days without seeing our son.
I began babysitting another baby that spring. This was a happy season for me. The boys were almost like brothers, and we did a lot of things together. The reason I wanted to babysit an infant was to keep me from wanting another baby. It didn’t work, and that winter I was pregnant again.

It was a fairly normal pregnancy, and I kept active with my son and the boy I babysat. This baby was different from the first. He was not very active, and I had to do kick counts every day. I am convinced that before he was born, he would suck his thumb and latch onto the umbilical cord with his other hand. I was able to VBAC with him.

The labor and delivery were pretty much normal. Breastfeeding with him went much better. He was very much a thumb sucker, and a “blankey” baby. As long as he had those two things, he was happy. I took this as rejection. Also, when he was three months old, he developed severe allergies. I had to eliminate milk, soy, peanuts and eggs from my diet because they passed through my milk. I put so much energy into keeping to this diet that I didn’t seem to have the energy to love him. I also pumped for six months after he weaned.

During this time, I knew that I wasn’t the mommy I wanted to be, but I didn’t know how to change. My oldest son was a bully, knocking other kids over. Neither son would obey me. I was embarrassed to take them anywhere. I enrolled the oldest in preschool, hoping that would help. It didn’t. I became pregnant again that winter. Looking back, I am sure I got pregnant because I was suicidal. Many years before, I had vowed that I would never attempt suicide while I was pregnant.

This, too, was a fairly normal pregnancy, with the exception of morning sickness, which continued halfway into the second trimester. The labor and delivery were very quick. My labor nurse was a very seasoned midwife. She was calm about everything until she asked where it hurt during a contraction. When I said that it hurt very low in my back, she yelled out the door that she needed a doctor, any doctor, RIGHT NOW. My doctor just barely caught our third son.

Three months after this baby was born, my husband went into a deep depression. He became suicidal and asked me what it was like before I attempted suicide. Those secrets of the past weren’t gone. They were just buried away. I remained strong while my husband was in the hospital. But after he came home and became more “normal,” my world came crashing down. I started seeing a therapist and began talking about the abuse, for the first time. I went into a very deep depression. I would spend days just sitting in a chair, unable to move. The kids were basically on their own most of the day. The older two were only four and two years old. The only reason I did not attempt suicide was because of the kids – they were always around, and I would never do it in front of them. I was resisting taking medication because I was still breastfeeding. However, it became evident it was necessary, so I was put on one that was safe while breastfeeding.

Seeing me so depressed was very disturbing to the kids, and we started taking them to a psychologist to repair the damage and to help learn how to be better parents. It helped, but there was a lot of work that we had to do at home to change everyone’s behavior patterns.

This, too, seemed to be a good season for us. My depression was under control. My husband’s depression was under control. All three kids seemed to be doing pretty well. So, what the heck – let’s have another baby!

It was a fairly good pregnancy, considering the trials we went through. My husband lost his job the day after we found out I was pregnant. We had joined a new church, and I was in a very supportive women’s bible study. The only complication with this pregnancy was the baby’s position. He was footling breach. I kept telling my doctor that something was different about this baby, and that it felt like with each kick I was going to drop him. No wonder – that was a foot against my cervix, not a head! The doctor wanted to do a c-section right away, but I told her that I wanted to wait until I went into labor to see if he had turned. Everyone prayed for me and the baby, and sure enough, the baby turned. I went to the doctor the next week and told her the baby had turned, but she wanted to do an ultrasound, just to check. Just then, the baby tap-danced across my belly with little feet sticking out just below my ribs. She believed me then.

My sister came to visit my parents toward the end of the pregnancy. We had a big dilemma – have her visit us here, or travel two hours up to my parents’. I discussed this with both my therapist and my doctor. Both agreed that traveling to my parents was the best option. Two days later, our fourth son was born. I was not very happy with this doctor, because I had very bad back labor, which she told me “wasn’t that bad.” Also, she told the nurse that she would not be doing an episiotomy because she didn’t think the baby was that big. He was nine pounds, four ounces. Breast-feeding went very well with this baby.

It was while nursing this baby that I think I understood God’s love for me. I looked down at my newborn son nursing at my breast and understood that this is what God wanted me to understand about Him. My son had “molded” himself into me and was drawing nourishment from me. This is exactly what I needed from God the Father.
It has been a long and difficult journey but I think I am finally learning what “normal” and “healthy” are all about. I have been in individual and marriage counseling for about four years. I have been in several sexual abuse recovery groups. Most important has been my personal and ever deepening relationship with God.

My boys are now 8,6,4,and 2 ½. I am finally enjoying being a mom. I enjoy being with my boys. It seems that whenever I sit down and put my feet up, someone is climbing up in my lap. The older two are reading and they like to sit in my lap and read to me. The younger two like to sit in my lap for me to read to them.

I still have days when the depression seems to get the better of me. I have explained to my boys that when I was a little girl someone hurt me very badly and sometimes it still makes me very sad. They are too young to know anything more.

We have made a big deal about teaching them about their “privates.” And that no one has the right to touch them there. We have taught them that we don’t keep secrets from each other. That no one should ever tell them not to tell Mom and Dad. We have taught them to trust their instincts. If something doesn’t feel right to them, then it probably isn’t right. Most of all, we are trying to love them unconditionally and develop deep relationships with each one of them. My biggest hope is that they will not be vulnerable to an abusive relationship like I was so many years ago.

Ann's Story

2009-05-29T07:22:00.000-07:00

When I was nineteen years old, I was raped by the man I had been dating for the previous ten months. He thought that I had been unfaithful to him (he was wrong) and deliberately planned the whole thing as a punishment to me. (I found that out later.) The first time it happened was a Saturday afternoon and we were alone in his house. At first I tried to get him to stop, pounding on his chest and yelling no at him, but it had no effect. I think that his total ignorance of my pleas, my reduction to an object instead of a person, was one of the most horrifying parts of the whole thing. It was as though I, as a person, had vanished, and in my place was left simply a void to be filled. When I realized that he was not going to stop, I separated myself mentally and emotionally from the whole experience. At first I was simply in a state of shock and could not believe what he had done.

I left his house and hit my car against the garage door jam on the way out, still so overwhelmed that I could hardly function. I drove to a nearby Catholic church, (I am Roman Catholic and have been so from birth) and asked to speak to the priest. The only one available was hearing Confessions, so into the confessional I went. I told the priest what had happened. He replied that in the Catholic Church there was no such thing as date rape (those were his exact words!) and that there must be something seriously wrong with me to try to harm this young man. In short, he said I needed to have my head examined. I still cringe at the memory. I should state here that I was probably remiss in not going to a priest that I knew and trusted. I did not know this man from Adam, and obviously there was something seriously wrong with him to say such outrageous things. He is the only priest I have ever told of my rape who responded in that manner and I have told the story to each one in much the same way, if not in the exact same words.

So... I left the church and went home. I tried to put it out of my head. I took the longest, hottest shower I ever remember taking, and then lay down on my bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering what in the world was happening to me. I was disturbed from my reverie by my housemate, who came into tell me that Mark (my boyfriend) was on the phone. I answered it and he asked if I wanted to go to the mall with him in a tone that said that absolutely nothing had happened. In a daze, and beginning to feel convinced of my own psychosis, questioning whether it had happened at all, I agreed. He picked me up a short while later. We went to the Gap and a department store, and he spent a few hundred dollars on clothing for me. He even bought panties, the memory of which still repulses me. I think he was trying to make it up to me, in the same sort of way that an drunkard beats his wife and buys her flowers, but a bit worse than that.

I had been in therapy for sexual abuse as a child by a neighbor, but I discontinued my therapy sessions after the rape. I could not face seeing the therapist, feeling that I had in some way let her down. Also, I began to think that I had never been molested at all, and that, too, was a figment of my imagination.

We were together for roughly two more weeks, until Thanksgiving break. During that time he raped me one more time. I think he enjoyed it - the domination, the power, the absolute absence of me (in his mind) as a person. In my own mind, as well, I had taken a sort of leave of absence, separating myself from all that was around me and everything that happened to me. Those two weeks were utterly horrible - I was convinced that I was, indeed, insane, and was too afraid to talk to anyone else about it, for fear of what would happen to me. While I was home for Thanksgiving, my best friend took me aside and told me that she did not know what was wrong with me, but that it was obviously something quite serious, and advised me to talk to a priest, or someone else, someone whom I could trust. I had told no one what had happened up until the point, and I did not break my silence with her.

Her suggestion planted a seed within me, though, a seed of hope that perhaps I was not insane. When I drove home that Sunday night, I went immediately to his house to question him. He raped me again. It was horrible - I did not move, save for my first efforts at objection, and did not struggle much to get away. The idea that I was powerless had been planted in my head, I cannot tell you exactly when. I believed that idea, and my belief made me powerless. This is very important - even then, the power to change and overcome him lay within me, and as such was utterly out of his grasp. Even at that low and horrible moment, the ability to win, to beat him, was inside me. I was, but only because I believed it, completely powerless against him and his abuse, and this threw me into a sort of despair. Unfortunately, my despair had made me blind to the fact that I could escape him, and very easily, too. I left his room in tears, overcome by sorrow. On my way out, I ran into his housemate, who expressed concern at my tears. I do not remember the response I made to him, nor do I remember leaving the house and driving away. I do recall the conviction that something was very wrong, and it was not wrong with me, it was wrong with him. I was not crazy, he was.

It was this conviction that led me to go and talk to a priest on campus the next day. I explained to him what had happened. He was shocked and appalled by what I told him, and said that he did not know who that priest was or what he had been thinking, but the Catholic Church did acknowledge the existence of date rape, and acknowledged it as a very grave evil.

Feeling vindicated, I left the church. The seed of hope my best friend had first planted was watered and warmed by the truth that Father Brian spoke to me. I completed the last three weeks of the semester at a grueling pace, as my coursework had fallen miserably behind since the first rape. It was something of a comfort to me to have something in which to so fully immerse myself, as that meant that I could not think of what I was not ready to deal with. I refused to see or speak to Mark.

The last day Thursday I was in town he took my car (he had a spare key) to have the oil changed. After my morning's final exam was over, I went over to his house to demand the key back and finally have it out with him. He did not deny what he had done; in fact he admitted it and explained to me why he had planned it in the first place. He said that, as I had not left him after the first time, that he saw nothing wrong with doing it again. I told him that I wanted nothing more to do with him, ever. He then opened a drawer in his desk, which was full of receipts from things that he had bought me or dates that we had gone on, and demanded that I repay him in full. Trembling with rage and disgust, I refused. From the same drawer, he withdrew letters from an ex-girlfriend. From the excerpts he read me, it became obvious that he had been two-timing me at least since the summer. I was stunned. He told me that he thought I had copped onto him, that I knew he had been cheating on me. That was why he was so convinced that I had actually cheated on him; he thought I had done it to get back at him for being unfaithful. I pointed out to him that although, in fact, I never done what he accused me of, he would not have been justified in avenging it, as he had done the same thing in greater degree to me. This did not perturb him, I do not think what I said even penetrated his brain.

After I left him, I went to the local crisis pregnancy center to ask their advice. I explained it to the woman there, who was very kind. She said that there would be no physical evidence left, but suggested that I take a pregnancy test, as my period was late. I had had a little bit of brown spotting around the time I expected my period, and had put that odd occurrence down to stress. I did as she suggested and the test was positive. In the moment that she told me I felt absolutely showered with grace and mercy. It was though Heaven had opened above my head and God's love for me came flooding down. I did not what I would do, but I did know that I could never hurt the little baby who grew inside me.

That night, I went to a friend's house and told her what had happened. She was sympathetic and kind. We, as well as about eighty other students from our university (including Mark), were enrolled to take the spring semester overseas in a branch of the university there. We were to be roommates, but she urged me to reconsider. I very much wanted to go, thinking that it would by my last opportunity of that sort. I gave her no definite reply. I left for Christmas break the next day, and was sorely tempted to discuss the whole affair with the young man who rode home with me. He was the brother of a good friend, amiable and easy to talk to. I resisted, because I was determined to talk to no one until I knew what I wanted to do.

It was at this point that I decided not to try to prosecute Mark. I had no evidence other than my word against his, and knew that I was not likely to win. Plus, the average sentence for rape was only a year and a half, which hardly seemed worth it. On top of this, I was aware that by prosecuting him I would make him very angry, and I was afraid that he would retaliate by trying to take my baby from me.

Over Christmas break, I went and was tested for AIDS and other STDs, as well as pregnancy, at my doctor's office. Everything was negative except for the pregnancy test. I then went to see two midwives who were in practice together. I told them the entire story, including the rape. They were the first real adults I had talked to who knew of the pregnancy and the rape. They were very helpful and extremely kind. They were supportive of me and my desire to go overseas, and even found a midwife there whom I could go to for pre-natals. The Thursday before I was to leave I told my parents, who were horrified, shocked and convinced I should not go. I ignored them (as, unfortunately was my custom at the time) and left on Sunday.

Europe was good. I loved it and have never regretted going. I told one of the chaplains my story, and he insisted I tell the man who was in charge of the program. I did it because of the chaplain’s insistence. This man (who was in charge of the program) was very kind. He told me that he thought that any woman, who carried a problem pregnancy to term in this day and age, when abortion is so readily available, was a hero in his eyes. He and his wife went out of their way to be kind to me while I was there and even drove me to my prenatal appointments.

Mark cornered me once again while we were there. I had avoided him as much as possible, but he made such a racket in the hall one Sunday that I agreed to talk with him in the privacy of one of the common rooms. He had purchased my plane ticket to Europe on his credit card, and he wanted me to pay him back. I thought he was crazy to ask for the money in light of what he had done to me, and told him that. (My parents paid him back when I told them about owing him the money, as they couldn't stand my owing him anything.) Everyone else was at Sunday afternoon mass or travelling, and there was no one around. At the end of the argument he advanced on me again, and I knew in the pit of my stomach what he was about to do. He was angry and I was terrified. Without seeming to think of it, I went into what I think of as my survival mode. I did not cry out, just wept and whimpered, "No, no, please stop" over and over. This of course had no effect on him. I think that my response of freezing in a feeling of powerlessness stemmed from my abuse as a child, but I will never know that for certain. The memories of being molested are very hazy, and concentration on them does nothing to enlarge or clarify them. I remain unconvinced of whether or not that (the childhood molestation) ever happened at all. Because of this, I have tried to put that part of my experience out of my mind or at least on the back burner.

So...being raped that fourth and final time was the last time I ever spoke to him, and that is where I mark the real beginning of my recovery. At one point while I was overseas, the midwives and doctors found what they believed to be a severe chromosomal abnormality with my baby. The doctors (whom I had been referred to by my midwife) advised me to have an abortion, as death for the baby was certain. I went back to her. She was busy with a woman who was in labor, but I talked to her husband, who was an O.B. He said that if I felt either way that this was my baby and "don't no one hurt it" (he spoke in English, not his native language) then to leave the city and never go back to that hospital or those doctors. I did that. After praying about it, I began to believe that if my unborn baby and I were to receive the Pope's blessing, she (I knew her to be a girl) would be healed. I traveled to Rome for Easter Sunday mass. A sonogram ten days later showed that the defect was beginning to go away. Another after my return to the States showed it to be completely gone. Was baby really healed or had the doctors made a mistake? I have no medical proof, as I had refused the diagnostic tests as they carried with them a risk of miscarriage. This whole thing made me bond with my baby even more. I was as determined to protect this baby from harm as I had been unable to protect myself.

The baby was born that summer, after thirty-six hours of labor including five hours of pushing, in my parent's house. It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever done. My mother is handicapped, so my father was one of my primary labor coaches. His presence at the birth was very healing to me. He was as conscious of my identity as a person and as respectful of my every wish as Mark had been ignorant of them. I had always felt that this baby was a sort of gift of consolation to me from God, and could not give her up for adoption. In my mind, God is and always has been her biological father. Rape is an act of man, but the creation of new life is an act of God.

It was very difficult for me to birth that baby, to let go to the power of the life giving forces within me. I think that is related to being raped. I was certainly afraid to ever lose control of my body again. The comfort and assistance provided by every person at that birth was much needed by, and deeply healing to me. Everyone there was there to be a help to me; everything I needed or wished was done. No one was there who was not conscious of his or her role in assisting me. Even my sister's boyfriend made hot compresses for the five hours I was pushing. At one point, I was very low and exhausted and thought of going to the hospital to have a C-section. My midwife came in and said "Ann, if you went to the hospital now, you could not have an epidural because you're too far gone. They would not want to give you a section because the baby's head is engaged. The only way out of this pain is through it." My baby was born a half-hour later, and those words "The only way out of this pain is through it" have stayed with me on my long road to recovery.

Being totally in control of that birth situation and the two, which have followed it, has been essential to my well-being. I do not think I could have a baby in the hospital unless the baby's life was in danger. Being treated with respect and compassion during the births of the first baby and the next two was very important to me. I had to be acknowledged as a person and not merely as a body. I bonded with my baby immediately. It was she and I against everyone else, the two of us victims of that evil man. She was (and still is) exactly like me. We even have the same palm prints! I breast-fed her without considering any other option even viable, and was very content with my decision. I would like to add here that breast-feeding has been difficult for me at times, due to feeling that my body is not my own. I have had to completely control all nursing situations, and immediately put a stop to any uncomfortable sensations. For example, it is important to me that the baby not touch or twiddle with the other nipple while nursing. I need to be in control of giving of myself to my baby in that way.

I will never fully understand how my history as a survivor has impacted me as a mother, because I was never a mother without being a survivor. At times I think it has been negative, I am more angry and less trusting than I would otherwise be. At other times I think it has been positive - I always trust my gut instinct now, especially where men are concerned. My children are never alone with anyone who has not proved them self worthy of my trust. I am also more careful to respect the individuality and persons of my children than I might otherwise have been. They are always in control of who touches them, who kisses or caresses them, and are never required to submit to unwanted physical affection. As for therapy and recovery techniques, I have tried several. I have been in both individual and group therapy, as well as support groups. I am also now a member of Al-Anon. Some of these were helpful, some were not. The most unhelpful was the therapist who seemed to be pushing a homosexual agenda (She may not have been, but that was my perception.) I guess she thought maybe that I was a lesbian. I didn't agree and wasn't interested in that anyway, just in my own recovery. Needless to say, I did not go back to her. The most helpful therapies were one-on-one and Al-Anon. Finally learning to be in control of the things I should control and to leave alone what I cannot or should not control has been very good for me. I love Al-Anon - it has been a lifesaver for me. Through that group and the exercise of my faith I have forgiven Mark. I hated him for a long time, wished him in Hell or at least dead. I wish these things no longer. What he did to me must ultimately harm him most deeply, for in the end I will be healed and he will have harmed only himself. How can I deny him forgiveness when I have been forgiven so many things? Having said this, I can assure you I have no desire to see, talk to, or be associated with him ever again. I think that if he does not reform he will still be dangerous to himself and others, but that is not my problem.

Other things that have been helpful are prayer, both praying and having people pray over me, and having women friends. Good friends who can listen without saying a word to interrupt are essential to every woman, I think. I have remained Catholic in spite of that initial bad experience. I still believe that the Catholic Church possesses the fullness of truth, and that one priest has not changed my mind. There have been hundreds of things that have happened to convince me of the validity of my faith since I spoke to that first priest, and I choose to believe them instead of the voice of bitterness which at first whispered to me. I did try, at a later date, to find that priest and tell him how harmful his comments were to me, but he was transferred and I couldn’t track him down. Believing this does not make me think that everyone needs to agree with me, but to me what I believe is essential to who I am. I get the support I need now from my faith, my husband, my sisters, brothers and parents and my friends. I still go to Al-Anon, but can no longer afford therapy, as we have no health insurance to cover it.

I think I get along okay with what I have. Knowing that ultimately I am the person who controls me has been a great discovery. I believe it was Victor Frankl who said, "Everything can be taken from a person but one thing, the last of human freedoms, and that is to choose one's response in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way." I believe this to be true. No matter what else may happen to me in my life, I can still choose my response to it; I can still choose my own way. My healing is within my reach if I will have the courage to open my heart to my God and allow Him to heal me. "For nothing can separate us from the love of God, no height, nor depth, nor creature that thrives...” (Romans 8:35-39) As for other women who have experienced abuse, I can offer you no advice save to tell you to follow your own heart. In obstetrical and gynecological situations, I think it is essential that the woman be ultimately in control of her body and that nothing be done to her against her wishes. When choosing a doctor or midwife, be certain that you are seen as a person and not simply as a body or medical problem. Other than that, I can say nothing of value. In situations such as this, what is good for one person may not be good for another. I can offer you only the contents of my own heart, my own story.

Being a mother has healed me in more ways than I could ever count. Producing something good from my body, my self, which had been so violated was restorative to me. I am not evil, and nothing I did made me deserve to be treated as I was. At times I have asked myself (as I am sure many women do) if I had fought, if I had only screamed louder, perhaps if I had tried harder, I would not have been raped. These questions will probably remain unanswered until the end of my life. In some ways I regard the rape as a strange mercy - before it (and almost unbelievable to me now) I thought I would marry Mark. Being raped by him was almost worth discovering the truth about him - and the truth about my self. I am not a thing to be used, to be filled up, to be thrown away. I am no object to be admired; my worth is not determined by my appearance. I am my own self, the woman I was created to be, and I will not be changed by someone else's idea of who I should be or how I should conform. I will follow my own path and in the end, I will answer only to my God. Never again will I allow my wishes, my needs, and my self, to be so utterly trampled upon. He tried to break me, but in the end it was I who won. I have healed stronger than I was before; I will never be broken there again. I am my own now, and no one can take that from me. I believe that I have beaten him at his game, for he no longer has any power over me.

Tami's Story

2009-05-22T08:12:00.000-07:00

To outsiders and friends, I am sure our family looked like a perfectly normal, happy family. But, on the inside, it was hell. My parents were high school sweethearts, and my mother was pregnant with me when they married in 1965. I was born in August of that year, and my younger sister was born in 1968. As far back as I can remember, my father sexually abused me. Everyone thought it was great that he spent time with me, showing me how to fish, taking me hunting and camping. They didn’t know that it was all a front; it was a way to get me alone so he and his friends could abuse me.

My baby sister was born in 1975. While my mother was in the hospital with her, my father decided I needed to take on the motherly responsibilities of the household, including sleeping in his bed. I was 10 years old.

I would have girl friends spend the night at my house, and it always seemed that I got in trouble for something and was sent to bed early when I had company. My father would take my friends out for ice cream to make up for my misbehavior. In 4th grade, I was teased on the playground that my father “liked little girls.” It was then that I figured out why he always took my friends away from the house; he was molesting them too.

I tried to tell my mother, and she did not listen to me. My father would make me read ‘Hustler’ magazine with him, and my mom found them in my room just before my 11th birthday. She also found a letter I had written to a friend about the abuse. She came and took me out of school and finally listened to me. My father moved out that same day, and the divorce proceedings began shortly thereafter.

I had to go to the court and talk to the judge. When I tried to tell him what my father had done, he kept interrupting me, saying, ‘Your father wouldn’t do that,’ and ‘why are you lying to hurt your father?’ My father was granted visitation every weekend from Friday afternoon to Sunday evening. We went one time, and he raped me again. Every Friday after that, I would take my sisters and hide at a friend’s house until late at night.

I began therapy during the divorce. I was angry. I could not figure out why I had to be in therapy when he was the one who was sick. I was made to confront him in front of the therapist and my mother. After that, I totally shut down, and would not talk to anyone. I began running away, became promiscuous and tried drugs. My mother put me in psychiatric wards and girls’ homes; she had no idea what to do with me.

I still kept up on my father’s whereabouts, just to make sure he wouldn’t hurt anyone else. When I was 16, I found out he had remarried and moved to Wyoming, with two small stepdaughters. I took it upon myself to make sure he didn’t hurt those little girls. I ran away and went to his home. The first thing he said was, “No one here is to know about the past. If you tell them, I will send you to a juvenile jail.” Then he lit a joint and smoked it with me. I found that I had a 17-year-old stepbrother. The first night there, he and I took a walk in the mountains, and I told him everything. We talked to the oldest girl; she was 8. She said nothing had ever happened, and she shared a room with her 6-year-old sister. A year later, my father found out I had talked to my brother, and I was sent back to Kansas to a girl’s home. Several years later, my stepmother called my mother asking what to do when your daughters are abused. As hard as I tried, I could not save my stepsisters.

I met my future husband in high school. We dated for a while, and I became pregnant. He suddenly wanted nothing to do with me, and I moved back home to my mother. My mom decided that adoption would be the best for my baby, and for me. That was the hardest thing I ever had to do. Somehow, I knew from the minute I found out I was pregnant, that I would have a daughter. I was scared. I didn’t know how I could protect a little girl from all the abuse in the world. After many weeks of crying, and talking to my unborn child, I decided my mother was right. I could not keep my child.

My doctor induced labor when my baby was 2 weeks overdue. My mother was going out of town, and my boyfriend had deserted me, moving to Texas. It was as if the baby knew once she was born that I would lose her, so she refused to come out. After several hours of labor, with my mom by my side, I finally held my beautiful 7 pound, 9 ounce daughter in my arms. My mother held her and cried. I stayed in the hospital for 5 days, with the doctor’s help. He put in the medical record that my stitches were infected, so I had five wonderful days with Kari Dawn. She was born February 8, 1984. I had long talks with her, and never let her out of my sight. She slept in the bed with me the entire five days. I took several pictures, and tried to make sure we would remember each other.

On February 13, I had to leave my firstborn in the hospital. The only time my daughter cried was as I was leaving. For two weeks after I left her, I picked up the phone hundreds of times to call the adoption agency and change my mind. But, I never completed the call. I knew my child would have a much better life with other parents.

My favorite grandmother had died one month before my daughter was born. When I was released from the hospital, I stayed at my mother’s house. My father happened to call one day, saying he would dance on my grandmother’s grave when he came to Kansas City. I totally blew up. I told him that it was his fault that I was home mourning the loss of my daughter. He just laughed and hung up.

When my daughter was a few months old, her father called me and we re-established our relationship. I moved to Texas to be with him. Looking back, I don’t think it was as much to be with him, as it was to escape the memories of our child. I wrote the adoption agency every few weeks, wanting information, and getting very little.

My boyfriend and I ended up moving back to Kansas City, and had a son in July of
1988. I knew I was pregnant almost immediately, and I was so scared to tell him. Before I told him, we were fighting terribly. He had given me 30 days to move out of his mother’s house, where we were living. When I did finally tell him we were having a baby, we made up and decided to get married.

When my labor started, I was so scared. I knew I could handle the labor and delivery, but I was frightened that I would not be able to bring this baby home either. I did not let him out of my sight for one second. I really wanted a girl, I guess to make up for my daughter. I had a boy, and he was beautiful too, he looked very much like his sister. We were married when Daniel was 8 weeks old.

After Daniel was born, my husband would stay out all night with his friends, leaving us to fend for ourselves. I was very unhappy. During one very bad fight, he got physical. He choked me while I was holding the baby, and threw a plastic table at me. I was pregnant with our third child. I moved into a Safehome, and received counseling. I was told all the horror stories, which if it happens once, the violence will come back.

My father had me so conditioned to do what it took to please a man that I went back to my husband. He never did hurt me physically again, although the emotional hurt never stopped. He would choose his friends over our family and me; he did drugs regularly, and spent many nights away from home.

I went into labor with my third child two months early, when Daniel was 17 months old. I was alone with Daniel, and had to call all of my husband’s friends to find him. Labor lasted 18 hours, and Christopher was born very ill. He stayed in the neonatal intensive care unit on the brink of death for 14 days. Again, I left the hospital without my baby. It was devastating. In my head, I knew that I would bring him home, that no one was taking him from me, but my heart and arms felt so empty.

My husband had told me to get over Kari, to get on with my life. I couldn’t. I also did not understand why he was so cold and heartless, this was his child too, his daughter. She and our sons are full siblings. I had my tubes tied after Chris was born, and knew I had no more chances of having a daughter. With Christopher so sick, and not wanting to be held, along with the knowledge that I would never have a daughter, it was hard for me to love Chris. I knew he was an innocent child, and I was his mother. But he wasn’t the child I had dreamed of. Now, I feel terrible about ever feeling that way. He is 10 years old and the love of my life. He is affectionate, sensitive, and so funny.

In 1995, I decided that I really needed help dealing with my daughter’s adoption, and the sexual abuse. I convinced my husband to buy a computer, and I signed up with America Online. I found a wonderful adoption community. There was a board to talk to other birthmothers, and a mailing list. I jumped in with both feet. I also found my father’s new address. He had been divorced again, and remarried. I found him in Utah, doing foster care. I called the social services in Utah, and sent them court transcripts of the divorce from my mother. I was telling my aunt about it, and she told me he had raped her when she was 17. We told Utah that also. Shortly after receiving all the papers from us, my father was unable to do foster care anymore. That made me feel better, knowing I had saved some children from him.

I also found some support for my sexual abuse. I put myself in counseling. I finally came to believe that it was not my fault, my father was very sick, and I was an innocent little girl. Knowing that made me finally put the abuse behind me. Yet it still affects my life everyday. I am suspicious of men that are around any child. I am very protective of my sons, and talked to them very early about bad touching. I told them over and over that they can tell me anything, and I will not blame them, but I would help them. They do ask about my father. I have only told them that my father is a very bad man, and they will never know him. They accept that. One day I will tell them everything.

Cassandra's Story

2009-05-14T07:23:00.000-07:00

My healing story begins when I was in the third grade. My older brother (who is my half-brother) began to abuse me for his own curiosity’s sake. I was so young and didn’t really think anything of it. For some reason, I don’t think I ever realized that what we were doing was not normal, until I started abusing my younger brother. I would feel guilty after it was over and knew it was something I was doing that was bad, but couldn’t help myself to stop. Finally, five years later, I managed to stop myself from abusing my brother. I don’t think my brother ever thought it wasn’t normal because he told everyone he knew. Even with all the people who knew, no one ever intervened and tried to stop it and get us help. One night, my mother even caught us, and she just sent us to bed.

Many years later, I met my husband. We were together for one year, when the problems of what happened began to emerge. It was like someone opened an attic door and bats came flying out. One day, after having intercourse, all the emotions just burst out and I began to cry hysterically. At that point, I told him what had happened, but he didn’t know what to do or say. After that, I began to have severe mood swings, especially during pre-menstrual times. That went on for about a year. Finally, I began to have trouble controlling my anger and I sought help.

With the help of a very special counselor, I began the healing process. The first year, it was all I could think about. HEALING. Surely, none of my problems could have stemmed from the abuse. I had put that all behind me and out of my mind. But, it turns out that the more I explored the past, the more I realized it affected my present life.

After about eight months in therapy, I brought up the fact that I was in counseling to my abuser (who himself was going through a painful separation and divorce). I told him that I needed help to deal with what he did to me. His response was that it was just childish curiosity and he didn’t think he was really hurting me. I then told him that it hurt me so much that I abused our younger brother to help ease that pain. He said he was sorry for what he did. But I’m sure he doesn’t realize the full degree to which he hurt me since, to him, it wasn’t anything more than kids being kids.

I am not close to my family. My mother, father and brothers are closer-knit. I always wanted to be different from them. I always thought I was different from them, because I didn’t have any special situations that needed addressing. This makes the healing more lonesome because it’s apparent that my problems are not as great as my brothers’. So, I am grateful that I have a husband who, though he doesn’t understand, still loves me.

After nearly six years of therapy, on and off (mostly off, since the first year), my husband and I decided we were ready to start a family. How did we decide? I don’t know. He had never imagined himself being married, much less, having children. And after everything I had gone through, he was concerned for our children’s safety. Was I healed enough to be a good mother? I felt I was, but somehow, I think my husband needed higher authority to prove that to him. So, we posed the question to my therapist, who said that she, too, felt comfortable with the idea of me becoming a mother.

That did it, and the next fall, I became pregnant. We were both excited. As the expected birth drew closer, though, I became nervous. I had heard stories about how women “lose it” during childbirth and say things that perhaps aren’t meant to fall on stranger’s ears.

Another visit to my counselor…who said that that may or may not happen. She said that giving birth is the peeling back of the layers of the self until there is nothing left but your core. If that layer must be peeled back and “examined” during delivery, then that is what must happen.

Well, my fears were unfounded. Childbirth took a long time, but it was very empowering. I was in the best physical shape of my life prior to giving birth, so I knew what my body could handle, and that meant that mentally, I could handle it. After 40+ hours of labor, I gave birth to the most precious little boy in the world (to me, at least). We began our nursing relationship immediately, and have been together ever since. I believe that this was the best way to start his life and still love the cuddle time and being able to hold him, even at 18 months.

I can’t believe that with all that happened to me, I chose to breastfeed. And now, I’m allowing him to self-wean. The scariest part of nursing, though, is when he wants to nurse naked. All of me and all of him. I’m not lying when I tell you that nursing can insight some sexual feelings. Then you have this naked little person who also becomes aroused…. this to me was scary. But I was so aware of everything that was happening BECAUSE of the healing that I knew I wouldn’t hurt him. This has enhanced the bond that we share because it allows us to be free with one another. I sure hope this freedom of “communication” continues….

I know I’ve been able to be the kind of mom I want to be so far because I was able to break a chain of behavior that had started early in my life. I learned to be confident in my own ways, and have found new patterns of behavior that I may not have found without help. I haven’t heard myself say anything yet that reminds me of my mother. I’m sure there will be times, but I feel so good about myself in this role, that I am confident I will do this my way and that my way will be much different than how I was raised. I know that the abuse happened partly because we were usually left to amuse ourselves and our mother wasn’t very involved with us (even though she was a stay-at-home mother). I feel totally comfortable with the idea of doing things with my kids. It is a value I hold dear, not because I WANT to be different from my mother, but because I AM different from my mother. (Obviously, there was more hurt that happened besides the sexual abuse.)

I still need help with some of the leftover symptoms that I have. My counselor labels them as PTSD symptoms and they mirror many of the symptoms of Attention Deficit Disorder. These symptoms are what I am trying to find help with now. I’ve had to change counselors due to insurance plan changes and this is difficult. These symptoms range from rage reactions to lack of self-discipline to forgetfulness. (I’m not just talking about little forgetfuls; I’m saying that I can forget what someone told me five seconds after it was said.) I can’t seem to get the clutter out of my head and that’s been there since the abuse. I think I used it as a mask to hide the parts that hurt. Now it’s time to get the mask out of the way and just be me. For myself, and for my baby! He deserves a mom who is stable and healthy. I’m almost there…I know I can make it. I’ve come this far, and with the push of someone else needing that from me, I’ll get to where I’m going!!!!

Ruth's Story

2009-05-01T07:42:00.000-07:00

The unfolding of my story began when my first daughter was seven years old. My sister-in-law came to me very troubled one day because my husband, her brother, had come to her to confide that he was sexually molesting our daughter. He knew what he was doing was harmful, but he couldn’t stop himself and he didn’t know what to do. He told her in confidence, but she was left struggling between her loyalty to him and her duty and love of her niece, so she told me. I seemed to receive the information calmly, but when my husband came home I went berserk. I will never forget the look on his face. He was like a frightened rabbit, and he ran from the house.

The days that followed were like a nightmare to me. I felt out of control and on the edge of insanity. I went to the preacher of the religion into which I had been born and told him. He was very kindly, but he said to me, “Go home and stand by your husband. Children soon forget these things.” I was in a state of deep shock as I drove home. I only knew she could not forget.

That night I sat up in the chair, staring out of the patio doors. The night was wild, with black clouds racing across the sky hour after hour. Finally, in desperation, I called the suicide hotline and told them. They made an appointment for me that morning, and I went straight to see them. They told me that it was very unusual for the man to come forward as my husband had done, and that was a good thing. I went for a series of sessions with them, and they helped me get clear on what to do. In going to them, I ostracized myself from my spiritual leader, which was a very scary thing for me to do. He told the group that I had turned my back on God and therefore he could not help me.

My in-laws’ story came to the fore as we began to piece together that my husband had not been abused, but had been traumatized when he was four years old through witnessing his father abusing his sister. This remained hidden and unresolved, and he perpetuated it through abusing his own daughter. We called a family meeting with his parents, and everything was brought out into the open. It was very painful, especially to watch his mother go through what I went through as she was faced with the revelations. In my Gestalt group at college, I tried to alleviate my distress, crying over and over, “My little girl, they hurt my little girl.” The tutor asked, “Whose little girl are we talking about?” Once more I was catapulted into a state of deep shock. There was something going on in me that was beyond this specific event. He suggested that I might like to consider doing a primal integration weekend away from my college peers so that I could have the safety I needed to explore what was coming up.

In the very first deep session I did on the weekend, I found myself choking and gagging on something too big in my mouth and with a horrible taste. I threw up and lay trembling and terrified, unable to move. Later I did my first sand play. I put it together very fast, without hesitation, but when it was done I could hardly bear to look at it. It was a nightmare scene with penises and a baby feeding bottle in all the wrong orifices. The sand plays are always photographed, and I remember feeling a measure of relief that at last I had proof. I kept it in my journal, still horrified by the images, but somewhat comforted at my secret ‘evidence.’

My husband and I both read Alice Miller’s, For Your Own Good – The Hidden Cruelty of Child Rearing Practices. He went into therapy also. I arranged for both our daughters to see a play therapist, and they saw her weekly for almost a year. I also wanted us to go all together to a family therapist and I searched around for this.

Eventually we went to a hospital clinic. This experience was awful. When we were shown into the room, we found ourselves in a viewing room with a huge one-way window through which, we were told, a group of specialists were going to be observing the whole session. Our daughters promptly crawled underneath the table where they couldn’t be seen by anyone, and no amount of coaxing by the therapist would bring them out. The session ensued. The therapist went next door to consult with his colleagues, came back and informed us that they had decided to inform Social Services about the situation. My husband leapt up yelling, “They’ll send me to prison!” and he ran from the room. The children were crying and pulling on me, picking up on the desperate energy. “Why are they sending Daddy to prison?” they kept saying. I was beside myself again. It felt like a huge betrayal. I turned on the therapist. “How could you? Do you know the statistics? Do you know how many fathers abuse their children and never tell anyone? How can anyone come for help if you do this to them?” In the end the therapist was close to tears and pleading with me to understand. “I have no choice,” he said. The decision had been made.

I took my daughters out onto the street, wondering where their dad had gone. We waited at the car and eventually he came. He was very frightened and we all hugged. We had a long discussion in the car going home, and I said you have to pack your things and leave as soon as we get home. We have a better chance of handling this if you’re out of the house. We agreed to this, and he moved out the same day.

A week later I was summoned for a meeting with the director of Social Services. I was sick to the pit of my stomach as I sat there and he spoke. He was very kindly, but I had the image of an iron fist in kid gloves. He had the power to take my children away from me, and I was terrified of that. Still, I engaged with him as best I could, and he finished by saying that he was of the opinion that I had done everything I could to protect my children. He went on to say that he was assigning us a social worker, not because I was a bad mother, but because he felt I needed the support.

We were dreading her first visit, but when she came we actually liked her, and it felt like something we could live with okay. She visited us for a year. We shared a lot with her and trusted her. Then one day she told us she felt she had been privileged to share our lives with us for a little while, that she was going to put in a formal request that we be removed from the records, because our healing process had been fundamental and profound, and she saw no reason to monitor us further. This request was granted, and it felt like a miracle to me.

It is almost impossible for me to describe the profound healing that took place between my daughter and her father. It culminated one day in the three of us sitting together, feeling better in each other’s company than we had in a long time. My husband asked our daughter, “Is there anything else you need to say to me?” She replied, “I love you, Dad, but I don’t love your little boy (which was who she felt was there each time she had been abused).” He responded, “It’s not your place to take care of my little boy. That’s my job, and I never should have put it on you.” She began to cry, and then to sob, and he took her in his arms like a baby and rocked her while she cried. The tears were rolling down his face, and he was a real father at last.

I did not think I could ever really convey what went down and why I knew he was now a trustworthy male. A couple of years later, my daughters had the option to live with their father and his new wife, and they wanted to. His wife was aware of all that had transpired and I needed no convincing that it was safe. Some members of the family questioned my trust in him, but I knew the level of healing that had taken place, and I knew how my daughters felt toward him. I had a dream in which he was mortally wounded and I had the cure. I awoke crying and understood immediately that the cure was for him to have the opportunity to father his daughters before they were fully-grown, together with his new partner who had been told what had transpired. They had two years under his roof, into which they crammed special times, wonderful birthdays, and shared Christmases. All that had been blocked and thwarted in their early childhood with him.

The most precious parts of this story I have been virtually unable to share, except with my most dear and trusted friends, because we live in a society that needs to punish the offenders, and will never concede that there are good people who have bad experiences, which lead them to do bad things. When there is no safe place to take these wounds, they remain hidden, as Alice Miller described, and the story is told, must be told, in convoluted and twisted ways, i.e., perpetuating the abuse pattern. I am convinced that an incensed public, calling for the blood of these ‘monsters,’ calling for ‘justice,’ has more to do with what is still unconscious than what is revealed. In my deepest distress over my own daughter’s sexual abuse, my father wrote to me and told me that he was molested as a boy by a boy older than him. “Not that it did me any harm that I can tell,” he said, but he wanted to let me know that he felt for me in my grief. He finished by saying you had better destroy this letter. I didn’t and, later, after he had died and I was raising these issues in my family, I was accused of being a liar and I at least had my father’s letter as proof.

Margaret's Story

2009-03-20T06:54:00.000-07:00

I will soon be 59 years old. As I reflect on my life, I have come to realize the effects of the abuse by my uncle.

I was in my early teen years when I had the encounters with my mother’s brother. Though I was not raped, the incidents involved fondling and digital penetration. My uncle is much younger than my mother. He was living with us, as my parents were attempting to give him a chance at “a better life.”

We had several of my mother’s half-siblings living with us at one time or another during my childhood. My grandfather died at age 85 when I was 12 years old. His wife was 40 years his junior, and was left with several children. They lived in a tar-paper shack in Indiana and struggled to make ends meet. Though my parents were far from rich, they both had good jobs and shared what they had.

My children can remember a great deal from their childhood. I cannot. I have come to realize that I have blocked out a great deal. Though I can’t attribute it all to the abuse, it certainly played a large role.

My parents divorced when I was five, and remarried each other when I was in the 5th grade. During the time they were apart, my sister and I lived with my mother’s aunt and uncle. We were separated from both parents during those years, and I believe it took a serious toll.

I had my first child about six weeks short of my 20th birthday. It was a long, painful labor, resulting in nerve damage involving bladder control, etc. When my second child was born four years later, labor was much easier, but the doctor told me I shouldn’t have any more children. I miscarried between the birth of my daughters, but it was early in the pregnancy and wasn’t as traumatic as it might have been later on.

I’ve never been a patient person. My children are intelligent, both with a terrific sense of humor. I feel I did a good job providing them with a moral upbringing, and they have always known they are loved. They are well-behaved, and they tell me it was because anything else wasn’t an option. I’d like to think that I always allowed them to “be children.” I’m not certain that is the case. I think I expected more of them than was fair, because of my impatience.

I can remember being at the doctor’s office with my eldest daughter when she was just a few months old, and she was crying because she had just had a shot. I felt helpless. I remember the doctor telling me that holding her was enough, that she would be okay. I didn’t believe him then, and I don’t believe him now. I never felt I had enough of what it took to be a good mother. I’m so glad my girls do have what it takes.

My girls are the adults I aspired to be. My daughter who has children of her own is the mother I always wished to be. My unmarried daughter has a way with children that is a delight to watch. Both girls are not afraid to let loose their “inner child.”

I’m not sure I have an “inner child.” I think my uncle stole that from me.

I never told my parents about the abuse when it was happening. I thought it was my fault somehow, and my uncle threatened me with harm if I “squealed.” My father went to his grave without knowing. I finally told my mother because she was adamant I go to a family reunion, to be held at my uncle’s home. She wouldn’t accept my excuses, so I told her the truth. She cannot understand why I can’t just “forgive and forget. After all, it happened a long time ago.”

I have forgiven ex-husbands, co-workers, supervisors, etc., but I cannot forgive my uncle. For this I feel no guilt. He doesn’t deserve forgiveness. Unfortunately, I have missed out on family gatherings, and have pretty much distanced myself from most of the relatives from that side of the family. I cannot chance running into him. I remember when my grandmother died, and he attempted to hug me at the funeral. I nearly vomited when he touched me. I have made certain I have not seen him since.

Until recently, I hadn’t reflected on the effects of my abuse. It was always in the back of my mind, but not something I talked about. Now I realize that it has had a large impact on my life. I have an issue with trust, and the main person I cannot trust is myself. I have not made good choices, and I know I would have been a much better mother had I not been afraid to trust myself. I lay responsibility at my uncle’s feet.

Susan's Story

2009-03-09T17:37:00.000-07:00

I am going to be 44 years old this June. I am a single mom raising 7 of my own children, who all live with me. The oldest is 20 years, a son, and the youngest is 5years, a girl. I have had a very complicated and sad life, yet in my belief in Jesus Christ and his mercy, He has led me to be able to find the true source of my troubles, and has led me to learn to not be afraid to love and raise my children.

What I knew…was that I always wanted to please everyone. What I didn’t know… was why. What I knew...was that many things made me so afraid I didn’t know that I was afraid. What I didn’t know…was that all my fears existed, and then later, that they weren’t the average fears of a young girl. What I knew ... was that I loved men and wanted to please them. What I didn’t know...was why...

I grew up in Anchorage Alaska. I never remembered any childhood. It was always just a blackness in my mind. Yes, there were pieces of here and there but they seemed not to be a part of me. I was very independent. I would let no one in my room or on my bed. They might mess it up and that was awful. I had one brother. We survived the Alaskan earthquake. I was very upset with him. Nothing in his room was messed up because it was already on the floor; whereas my room was perfect and after the quake settled it was a mess.

This may seem strange to you that I mention this but within its message is the key to my life. I had to be clean and I had to be in control. Otherwise my whole existence was threatened.

I thought I had a normal childhood. Everyone believes this. No one realizes until they leave home and gain new experiences and start to compare existences that what they lived may not have been the norm. In our current society normal doesn’t exist, but extremes of my existence are still somewhat unknown. You could call it “The Life of Secrets.”

I never lacked for any physical needs, only emotional ones. There were many children in our neighborhood. I didn’t like any of them as they only had one desire - to play sexual games. I now know that this was because of the unknown activities of our parents at the time. It also is another clue to the secrets of my life.

My mom never had to spank me. I couldn’t tolerate it, for one. Anyone who ever even showed any displeasure with my actions devastated me. I had to have all the people around me smiling and not silent or I was propitiating to them. I would make them gifts, and try to please them constantly. I think this drove my mother nuts at times as in her denial of things it made her feel guilt whereas she could only disassociate from her own pain and actions involved with me to exist.

I was in my thirties when I discovered what alcoholism meant. I never knew that my mom was one until after she died and my brother told me. He became an alcoholic too. She wasn’t physically abusive to me, but allowed others to be so. She labeled me many things. Labeling is discussed in therapy programs if you desire to learn about it.

We left Anchorage when I was in the 5th grade and moved to Portland, Oregon. I could make no friends with girls and chose to conquer the young boy next door. After 7 years of a relationship I finally let him go. His father was alcoholic and abusive and my relationship with him was abusive, but I didn’t know that until I was much older.

As a teenager I became involved with a cult. They showed what I thought was caring for me. I was involved with it for 6 years. They only wanted money.
While in the cult I had many relationships with men. Two relationships ended up with me having abortions. I had no conscious knowledge I was taking a life. And I had no one around me who cared enough to stop me.

My oldest child was born in between. I had met a man and was so down in my heart I wanted to have someone to love me. I met him and asked him 2 weeks later if I could get pregnant. I wanted someone to love me. That was the reason I got pregnant. We never married and had lots of experiences together. The father had his own problems but was never abusive to me. We are currently friends and he lives close by. And my son is my friend. What a miracle God sent me!

I was also blessed while pregnant with this child to meet a couple who taught the Bradley Method natural childbirth classes. They had both been blinded by the incubators they were placed in when born. They taught me to never trust hospitals, doctors, about meditation, taking vitamins, drinking pure water etc… a whole world of knowledge. I gave birth naturally with a male doctor in a "new" birthing clinic. I delivered without any drugs for pain, and I had lots and lots of pain, and no episiotomy. I was allowed to take my baby home just a few hours later. I have always been terrified to leave my children with anyone until they were old enough to talk for themselves. Now I know it’s because of my real childhood, “A Life Of Secrets.”

We did well for a while, and then I experienced postpartum depression but didn’t know that was what I was feeling until years later. I separated from the father and went my own way. I had many journeyings and we moved 20 times in 10 years.
I ended up back home when leaving the cult. It was awful. The cult members were very emotionally abusive. Details aren’t important. I was so shaken I went home to my mom, which I hated to do. I was totally incapable of doing anything except reading. My mom had to potty train my son. I was so afraid of people I didn’t leave the house for 3 months. The father moved to Oregon and I went to stay with him. I decided to overcome my fear of people and went to look for work. Well, I met a man who gave me marijuana again, and I followed him. Within two weeks I was his and he wanted a child. I couldn’t say no to a man. We stayed together. He went to another state to work, leaving me pregnant and alone with my son. We had a conflict of religious views and he threatened to throw me out onto the street. Well that’s when and how I found Jesus Christ. That was 17 years ago. We are friends now too. We had a daughter. She is very beautiful. The father was emotionally abusive and a drug dealer at the time and I didn’t know. In deciding to be “Christ-like” I decided I had to marry him and that he had to stop dealing in drugs. Neither were good ideas. After we divorced I learned that he had an alcoholic mother, who was also suicidal, and that he had been a dealer of crack at age 12. All of these were secrets until after our divorce. He is much better now but can’t even see how the drugs destroyed his mind. He is lucky to be alive.

My journey then went to another man, and another. I was compelled by fear to not be alone. I still have that problem. The daughter we had was born at home with a midwife. It was wonderful. I nursed all my children until I couldn’t, i.e. they needed solid food or my milk ran out. This gave me a sense of not neglecting them, which I feared greatly.

I never could understand why I couldn’t let my kids cry. It destroyed me. My Aunt told me a story a couple of years ago about how my mom, when I wasn’t even 6 months old, had come to visit them in New York. I was crying in my crib. I was soiled. My Aunt told me my mom just left me to cry and refused to change my diapers. As I think about it now, why didn’t my Aunt help either?

I always felt very close to my babies until they could walk. Then inside myself I changed totally towards them and was almost afraid of them. It’s a form of disassociation from my own pain. I know that now.

I was terrified to leave my babies. I slept with them in my bed. I never let them cry for any reason. I was trying to protect them, not realizing at the time I felt I was protecting my life as well.

Well, I found another man willing to marry me. We ended up together for 10 years, having 4 children. We are friends now. In order to heal from this break-up I attended a 12-week course on Mental Illness. So many people had treated me like I was crazy since I was a child (at birth the doctor told my mom that I would be mentally retarded. I always thought I was until about 8 years ago. We remember everything, scary, huh?!) that I decided to go get the help everyone said I needed. In simply attending the class, and listening to other families talk about their ill members, I learned first that I wasn’t crazy, and second that my husband of 10 years was manic-depressive or bi-polar. To this day he won’t get medical assistance of any kind.

In my attempt to flee my husband of 10 years I had an interlude with the Division of Family Services in the state we resided in. I had left there and went on a trip, and met an old boyfriend who later tried to kill a daughter of mine. This whole experience forced me into counseling in order to regain custody of her. It was horrendous. At the hospital she was at, a Nun had to come to me, as I was in shock, and tell me that someone had tried to hurt my daughter. My whole life changed from that moment on.

I regained my daughter and eventually divorced the father. In doing that I ran to another man, who turned out to be worse in many ways than the man I was with. The story of my life. We had a child as well. I had a compulsion to get pregnant, in order to keep the man happy so he wouldn’t hurt me or leave me. Had no idea how strong it was. It was only last month I finally got custody of this child. The father was sexually abused by his parents and allowed his children of a former marriage to have incest with no understanding how to cope with it. Yes, sad. Yes, true. Now I am free of them all, except to be friends at my choosing. All of my husbands were emotionally controlling, and at times physically abusive, except the first one.

I had given birth 6 times at home with midwives. I never had drugs. Was very good about keeping my body healthy (except emotional stress) and never smoked. I do again now. It’s too hard to quit for just myself. All the midwives were very supportive.

Each father had different reactions to my pregnancies. The last 3 fathers became violent during the pregnancy, which I learned is normal when they are sick themselves. It is called the cycle of abuse. I realized their own fears of increased responsibility brought on their anger. The father of the four, with the birth of our first child, did this during the time I was in labor. He went upstairs and got his gun, which I didn’t know he had. He was delirious. He said he was going to kill himself. I called the local church for help. They calmed him down. He had a fever of 106 degrees. After they came he changed completely. He waited on me hand and foot for 3 days with no problems. With the birth of the second child by him he did a similar thing. He contracted strep throat and wouldn’t get medical help. When our third daughter was in foster care he refused to help. I had to beg him for gas money to go see her. I think he is better now. He finally moved close enough to be able to come see his kids after 4 years of absence. Yes, it was awful.

Well, lets skip ahead. I left all my ex-husbands and moved to a place for a new start. I had been here one year and started working again after 20 years of isolation and abuse. I did well. I recover well. My kids were all in school and getting medical attention. I was trying to rebuild my life. I knew my natural father had sexually abused me, as it was confirmed in a very private way. I knew being the daughter of an alcoholic made me feel guilty for being alive, as that is a part of their disease you inherit even if you don’t drink. I can’t drink. It makes me sick. I have my own home, my own car, and my own money and have started to find out who I am, that I am not just a husband’s shadow. My kids started to calm down and not be excessively afraid of being put into foster care if I didn’t do just the right thing. They made friends. I got credit cards (too many!!) I stayed in the same town and same house. It’s a miracle I ever got this far. People in the community helped me with my ex-husband who accused me of child abuse. After 2 years he was proved a liar and an idiot after 7 hours in court with no proof. I can’t even tell my kids no, and would never hurt them physically. I attended many parenting classes to try to learn what a parent is supposed to do and how children learn naturally and what they need to feel loved. So, now I was ready to rejoin my local church.

I decided to pray for forgiveness and ask the Heavenly Father to reveal to me what I need to repent of. I prayed, and He forgave. No one in my church understood except my pastor. He accepted me completely and never looks down on me even though I can’t live up to his expectations. He doesn’t understand how much Christ-like love he has given me. It saved my life in a way.

What I write next is abhorrent to most. I received 24 hours of Satanic Ritual Abuse Memories as an answer to my prayer. It took me a whole year to come out of shock. Knowledge has been my friend, so I started to research things on the Internet. Every memory I received was unique to myself. Sometimes after a memory came I would find a similar kind of act being talked about from others, but I knew mine were mine. I found in my memories reasons for many of my fears and could re-evaluate my choices in my current life.

In learning about SRA (satanic ritual abuse) I discovered most don’t believe it. It’s too scary and means man is really evil if they choose to be. It’s hard to look at society that way. It hurts too much. It’s commonly called Denial…
Until these memories came I always feared my death and that of my children. I never believed in any future. It’s still far away from me. Time was always my enemy. I had no knowledge that anyone I loved would be there the next day. When my journey of healing is done, the future will be my best friend for in it is hope of a new world for my children and me.

When I am stressed watch out. I learned to give myself “time outs” years ago. I never beat my kids but I did yell a lot. As more memories come I am calmer in many ways. I can even envision playing with my children someday.

Because I have chosen to learn from my experiences I can help almost anyone in stress. If they are willing to listen I can help at least a little bit. I can have compassion where many can’t. I do have pride though; it’s hard for me to tolerate those who chose to not grow. I need to work on that one. Learning and being analytical was my escape from my emotions. Emotions are very painful for me, thinking isn’t.

I have been in counseling off and on for 7 years, the last 3 more so than before. I chose my counselors and usually the course of the discussions. I can’t be hypnotized, and I have never taken any anti depressant drugs, they scare me to no end. I have never been institutionalized or hospitalized. I learned my way out of my pain.

Whenever one has a therapist who goes on and on about themselves or tells you they believe you but are lying, even if they think it’s in your best interest to do so, it’s very damaging. Trust is more important than anything. Anyone who truly cares can help you. Truth will set you free.

My support now comes from myself, in that I have to keep remembering all the wonderful things I have gained, as in the ability to forgive my mother, which took me several years to do. Secondly it comes from my oldest son, simultaneously with my therapist, and some on-line friends, who are all in similar situations as mine. I also get support in that when I learn something directly related to my healing, if I share that with someone else and they are benefited by it, its very validating to the whole experience.

Motherhood is the greatest gift, the most intricate way of learning about yourself, past, present and future. The only individuals I would tell to not have children are those who are following in the footsteps of generational abuse and have no desire to heal from it. Their offspring would surely want for love. If you can see your children as a mirror of yourself, both good and bad, and in that forgive yourself and your parents, you will come to enjoy the healing experience of it. Sometimes the pain you re-experience sets you in fear of continuing on in getting better. But remember, what you will learn today can set you free of tomorrow. If as a parent you find you are out of control there are many in your community who will help you if you have the right desire in your heart. Sometimes it takes patience even with those who do help you if they understand not the struggles you experience inside to control your emotions and feelings. If you feel bridled by society’s standards and that weighs you down, don’t feel alone. There are many new and old philosophies that would tell us that because we are not perfect we are not worthy to be parents. Just remember, most of those people themselves may not have ever had children or never experienced their own childhoods with joy. Joy and love and trust beget the same. Where it does not exist in the adult you will also find it lacking in their childhood. When one learns hatred as a child it is excruciatingly painful to unlearn that the love you knew was actually pain. It is very hard to retrain the mind, heart, muscles, emotions; the whole nervous system of a human being is geared to accept that which it experienced as a child. It takes tremendous effort for me to accept peace as love, when silence and “peace” meant I didn’t know what was coming next.

I survived because I was blessed to live within my mind and heart. I was given the courage somehow to never go against my own internal principals. This has brought me to where I am now.

Another thing I would advise is to allow others to help you raise, love, nurture and discipline your children, as long as you can agree with what they say the believe and actually do. A friend of mine taught me in these last two years that it takes a community to raise a child. This is true. Don’t get it confused with "group parenting" or believing that the biological parent is not necessary, as many are promoting around the world. It’s just a way to spread yourself a little bit better, as you are only one person.

To give you an example so there is no confusion, there is a college program in my town called Project Pals. For single parents, each child of the family, age 6 years or older, is assigned a college student to take them somewhere once a week for about an hour. With myself being single and having 5 little ones, this program has really helped all of us. It has taught my children much.

One last thing that I never learned and have great difficulty in accepting. First, a child’s self esteem comes from the love seen and expressed between his parents. If a child has a parent with abandonment issues that is almost impossible. Even if there is separation or divorce, never saying anything negative or fighting about personal issues regarding the other parent will greatly enhance your child’s self esteem. Then, it took many years for this next idea to come forth and many may disagree with me. If the parents take time for themselves, despite a lifestyle so busy they can't keep up, and show by this and other ways that they know that they are important; the children will grow up knowing that as well. When you are recovering from years of abuse, there are many times that you are so frustrated with your own behavior it feels really awkward to reward yourself.

Health care providers can help or hurt depending on their personal backgrounds and the view from which they enter your lives. Only truly compassionate people in whatever field will be able to understand what you are going through. It behooves one to learn how to kindly teach others about abuse and its effects. I had many help me and many hate me. I would ask them to be more open to not following standard, rote procedures and really be there for the individual at hand. Listening with the actual intent to hear can be a great kindness.

My children have learned much that only they know. They know very much so what insecurity is. They bonded together unusually strong for children. They know men are not supposed to hit and they know if they are scared to go to the police. I have tried to teach them to respect each other but haven't done that very well, as I did not know what it felt like myself. I guess I learned that how I allow my children to treat each other is how they will in turn treat their spouses and children. I hope I have given them a better start in life than what I had.

I want to mention boundaries. If you are a therapist reading this you will see that I had no boundaries. I was never safe. For a child, as I have learned, boundaries bring security. It’s what keeps them calm. I never had any, and the ones I did have were of my own choosing, as I had decided that the pain was too great to continue on in pursuit of that course of action. I learned in every instance that I was able to carry it out, that saying something, doing it, making it stick was the greatest gift I could give to my children. It is my greatest weakness. Every time I try to set a boundary, my past kicks in and fear and death and I usually give in to my kids’ desires. In my own way I am continuing the abuse here, yet I am not strong enough to overcome it. I must forgive myself this several times a day. I just can’t take away anything or deny my kids anything when it’s not a life and death situation. That is all I grew up with. Anything less is simply unimportant in my subconscious mind. So, if you have the strength in your heart to make boundaries and keep them, your children will grow up being able to function well within society’s bounds.

I would like to say that I have much yet to learn. That patience with yourself, forgiveness of yourself and your imperfections, that forgiveness of your abusers and hope they can change, in others words...
Forgiveness without Charity is nothing.

Millennium
Wow! I am free to begin a whole new life.
An existence free from pain. Joy radiates within me.
Pain, I can no longer see. Yet, I am alone. Where can
You be? Oh! There you are; right beside me. Hello.
This is me. Will you come and share this new
Millennium with me? Wow! Let's Go!!!

To learn more, order Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering and Healing after Sexual Abuse

Katrina's Story

2009-02-27T07:32:00.000-08:00

There was something wrong with me, I was sure. Simple things, like going alone into a new place, terrified me. I was afraid of men. I had an overactive caution meter that made certain situations unbearable, everything within me screaming, "GET OUT NOW!" I cried at the drop of a hat with people I trusted. I was seldom happy and never contented, never safe, even at home. After a disastrous dating relationship with an abusive guy, I married a wonderful man with whom making love was uncomfortable at best and at worst, I wasn’t even there for it. I had this uncanny ability to disappear, leave my body and come back at a later point. Sometimes I went into the wallpaper, sometimes into the rest of my day and sometimes into nowhere. This wasn’t normal, was it?

Then, one evening, sitting with my legs drawn up on the floor in a friend’s living room with the lamp light behind my left shoulder, I remembered. I remembered episodes of "special games" that a 17-year-old male babysitter would play with 6 year old me. I went home that evening and told everything to my husband, and it felt as though I had never forgotten. I felt relieved, at some level, to understand that I was wounded; I wasn’t "normal." Then I slid into deep depression.

Mercifully, love and support surrounded me. At this point in our lives, my husband was in graduate school and there was a counselor on staff whom I could see free of charge. She was experienced in dealing with abuse survivors and we worked together for two full years on a weekly basis. There is no way that I can ever repay the gift that she gave to me of her time, her energy, her love. She mothered me toward health and healing and was the midwife to my most difficult birth. My husband was a rock, staunchly loyal, protective and patient. He even sought counseling himself as he tried to deal with my depression. He held me or didn’t as I needed, coached me, comforted me, cooked for me and prayed for me. And I had a doula too, a brave survivor herself, further along her healing path, who held my hand, raged with me, wept with me and believed in me.

After two years, my counselor moved on and I continued for one year with someone new. Two months into that time, I discovered that I was pregnant with our first child. We had stopped using birth control four months earlier and I had wept through each of my periods since then, sure that despite all my work, the abuse was going to interfere with my life one more time and prevent my pregnancy. But here I was, pregnant. What a miracle! I had an easy pregnancy and slid into prenatal care by the OB group who had a female nurse practitioner whom I had found for well woman care.

Part of the work of my healing involved exploring "normality." What did it mean to be "normal"? I confused health and wholeness with "normality." I so badly wanted to have a normal pregnancy and a normal birth and a normal baby, having felt so abnormal all of my life. I have no sisters and none of my women friends were pregnant at the time that I was. The only stories that I had to go on were of the women in the office where I worked and they were all at least 15 years older than I was. I knew I wanted a natural birth, though. My mother had two natural births and taught Lamaze when I was young. She talked all of my life about the beauty of her births and her joy at the end of pain. My friend, my doula, also steered me in the direction of childbirth classes as a way to prepare for a natural birth.

In my sixth month I read a book that said that for survivors of abuse, birth in a hospital into the hands of doctors could entail elements of re-victimization. I toyed with the idea of a home birth but only knew about lay midwives locally and knew that where I live the practice of lay midwifery is illegal. I did not have the resources to break the law. I was trying to be normal.

Three weeks before my due date, I lost my mucous plug and began having contractions. For three days, I labored off and on, mostly at home, punctuated by trips to the hospital to be checked, and made no "progress." I began to doubt that labor led to birth; it only led to more labor. On my final trip to the hospital they surmised that I had a urinary tract infection (a phone diagnosis by the doctor) they put me on antibiotics and sent me home. So hard. I felt supported by my husband and doula but not by my doctors. For several more days I had contractions off and on, which I knew were more intense than Braxton-Hicks. Meanwhile, the baby grew.

At my weekly appointment a few days before my due date, the doctor expressed concern at the size of the baby. I already measured 44cm. She suggested that we schedule an induction after the weekend or (as I hesitated) I could come in for a non-stress test. No patience, no sympathy, no trust in my body. We went in for the induction on Monday. And thus followed a cascade of interventions: amniotomy, pitocin, premature pushing (I pushed before I had an urge to) and CPD. After 20 hours of labor I had an epidural and a c-section. Bruce was 10 lbs, 5 oz.

As I look back, I marvel at my capacity for pain: enduring a Pit induced labor with no medication and no bag of waters cushion. I had terrific support from both my husband and doula and the nurse assigned to us. She said later that she had never seen a couple work together so well. I am also amazed that I stayed present for all of my labor. At no point did I disappear into the wood- work even as the male OB tried to turn an already stuck baby. Still, I felt that my body and I had not worked together. I had not trusted.

Immediately following my surgery I was given medication to make me sleep. I was not consulted about this. I was out of it for many hours and Bruce and I nursed for the first time six hours after his birth. In the meantime they had given him a bottle of glucose water because his glucose level dropped. Thus ensued a troubled and trying nursing relationship. Bruce lost weight and then gained only slowly. I finally was convinced to supplement with formula and wore a supplemental nursing system for the next year. My consultation with lactation consultants and La Leche League leaders has suggested that the Pitocin (which artificially swells breast tissue causing poor latch on), the delay in our nursing and the initial bottle were all causes of my low milk supply.

During the next weeks and months I held and nursed and wore a high need Bruce and struggled with depression. When Bruce was 9 months old I began studying to be a natural childbirth educator. The process of learning unleashed my anger and I agonized over feeling unsupported and voiceless and re-victimized. This anger gave me energy to study, to begin teaching and to promise myself to make different choices the next time.

I became pregnant again when Bruce was 16 months old. By then I had more knowledge of the birth community locally due to my association with other childbirth teachers and midwives. I explored the possibility of a home birth with a Certified Nurse Midwife and birth at the most natural childbirth friendly hospital. I found a wonderful midwife who wanted a record of my surgical incision but otherwise treated me as a healthy pregnant woman.

Mary’s office was in the back of an old Bed and Breakfast almost 25 miles from my home. Behind the building there was a farmyard with horses, a stream, and a beautiful weeping willow tree. Each of my prenatal visits was profoundly healing for me. Mary spent at least an hour each visit with me, talking about me, my hopes, fears, my previous birth, and my dreams. She was attentive to two-year-old Bruce. She had me check my own urine and weigh myself and gave me copies of all of my records. I felt empowered and cared for and strong. Then after our check ups, Bruce and I would go to the local general store, buy peanuts and juice and sit under the willow tree watching the stream.

I decided early on that I wanted to labor in water this time and rented a birthing tub from another local childbirth educator. We picked it up three weeks before my due date and set it up in a back bedroom of our house. We filled it once to be sure it didn’t leak and my husband, Peter, and I tried it out for fun.

What a different birth this was! My husband called the midwife at 5:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning and said that we thought this was it. He asked me how far dilated I thought I was, "Six,” I said. He told her not to hurry that we would be fine until she got there. At 6:00 a.m. Bruce woke up and I instinctively went in to him to put him back to sleep. He dozed until I had to move onto my hands and knees for a contraction. That upset him, "Mommy no have contraptions," he cried. My mother said she would take him to the other grandparent’s house and Peter put him in the car screaming. I cried. After they left, I looked at my belly and said, "Ok baby, time for you to come. I need to take care of my other baby." Then I went into transition. I got in the shower and moaned and moaned. I felt the moment the contractions begin to change and felt the powerful pushing at the peaks begin. “ I feel pushy,” I called to Peter outside the curtain. "Don’t push,” he said. “ Mary isn’t here yet." He ran back and forth to the door looking for her.

Mary arrived just as I was getting out of the shower and wondering why the next contraction wasn’t there yet. She checked me and I was complete with a bulging bag. So we called all the friends we’d invited to be at the birth, sent my father off with the car so my mother could come back and settled down to wait. I had an hour break during which I had three contractions. We listened to music; I ate banana bread and a popsicle and smiled at my friends as they came through the door. They were amazed to see me up and smiling and completely dilated. Then I began to feel pressure: all these lovely people here are waiting for me to produce the baby. I told Peter I needed to be alone with him in the bathroom. Mary said to call her if I felt the baby move. Fifteen minutes later I was squatting and pushing and I felt the baby slip under the pubic bone. Mary came in and with the next contraction I soaked her by popping the amniotic sac. This was all new now and I began to panic. “The baby is too big,” I thought. “No way is something that feels that big getting out.” I called for honey and I clung to Peter saying, "I can’t do it." “You are doing it,” he replied. Then I said I wanted to get back in the water.

A few contractions later the head emerged and then a good push or two and out came the shoulders and Peter yelled, "You did it, Katrina!" There he was, wet, wiggly and precious and I held him just moments after he was born. I was a queen!

I look back on Nate’s birth as both the result of and a vehicle for healing from the abuse. Choosing to birth at home with a midwife who trusted the process of birth and the ability of my body to birth were crucial. By choosing to be at home I put myself at the center of the birthing process: I took responsibility for the possible risks of being at home and gave myself permission to say and do what I needed and wanted. I gave myself a voice. I also declared myself valuable enough to have friends around me to support me and share in the miracle. In choosing Mary to be my midwife I learned what "normal" pregnancy and birth is all about. I drew on her trust of birth and my body to learn to do the same for myself. I not only stayed in my body during Nate’s birth; I also learned to trust.

Since beginning to write this narrative, I have become pregnant with our third child. We are planning another homebirth, with the midwife who served as Mary’s assistant at Nate’s birth. This pregnancy has been one of joy and celebration for me. I feel the freedom to speak as I need to about my needs and wishes. I trust my body’s ability to grow a baby and to birth it. My dreams for this birth are the healing of two more shards still broken from the abuse. I would like this to be a sexy birth, a birth that highlights the intimacy of the creation of the baby and my connection to Peter even as I push the baby out. I want to rewrite the synapses in my neural net that prevent me from fully surrendering to sexual pleasure even as I surrender to the powerful forces of birth. We have talked about Peter catching the baby so that I can look at him as I push the baby out, face-to-face, eye-to-eye, wonder-to-wonder. I also want to experience greater healing in breastfeeding. Nate, like Bruce, lost weight and put it back on slowly. I grew anxious before the doctor did and wore the SNS for several months. I would like to not have to do that again. I would like to trust my body to nourish the baby outside the womb as it did so beautifully inside.

To learn more, order Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering and Healing after Sexual Abuse

Deborah's Story

2009-02-13T08:49:00.000-08:00

I was born in the early 1950’s into a conservative, Christian home. I was well cared for and felt secure. I don’t believe my mother knew how to bond very well with her children, and didn’t know how to relate very personally with her friends either. I did not feel close to my older brother, or even my only (older) sister, although we were only 15 months apart. I played with my two younger brothers and tried to give them the attention I felt was lacking from my mother. My dad was better at relations, and tried to spend time with us children, but was very busy with work and organizations. I was a good, compliant and reserved child. I took a very responsible view of life, including commitments to God.

When I was 13 and starting to mature, my older brother (by three years) started interacting more with me. He asked personal questions about the developing bodies of my girlfriend and I when she spent the night. Another time he wanted to demonstrate wrestling moves on me, and gained sexual arousal, as he had planned, I’m sure. I did not like any of this; was shocked and unassertive. However, I never participated again. I had not had any sex education besides the fifth grade health film at school.

One night my sister had a friend overnight, so I slept in my brother’s room. He slept in the family room, separated by sliding glass doors. He came over several times to touch my breasts and bottom, even making comments. I was scared stiff, literally, wanting to escape, yet frozen. Finally I managed to say stop, when his hands reached my vaginal area. He left. Again I waited in suspense, and he did not return. My mind and emotions were buzzing. In the morning I acted as normal as I could. I don’t remember even thinking of telling my parents or sister. It was just too unbelievable and shameful.

A few weeks later, I told my girlfriend. I don’t remember her response, other than it was short. A month or so later, my girlfriend and I spent the night with another girl. My friend threatened to tell her the story if I didn’t. So I felt forced to tell it myself, to keep it short and quick. I felt I had been betrayed and that I had betrayed myself. I always felt like that betrayal affected my life more than the abuse itself. It cut me off from deeper friendships that could have allowed me to share inner thoughts and feelings, perhaps even the pain of my abuse. I decided women couldn’t be trusted, and only my husband would be worthy of that trust. I don’t remember thinking about it again and, in fact, treated my brother with love and respect.

In high school, I was more quiet and withdrawn, and sometimes sensitive to the point of tears, without knowing why. Since I could not share or even articulate my problem (I didn’t connect it to my brother), I couldn’t get help, and had some depression.

I went away to a small college, and decided it was my big chance to change. I was more outgoing and friendly, especially toward those I thought needed a friend. I had an easier time making friends with guys, and actually had some fun and happiness. I enjoyed these platonic friendships. I did date, but did not enjoy the kissing, and never allowed anything further. The dating relationships were short. I got depressed and restless, wondering what was wrong with me. I just couldn’t relate closely with girls, and felt different from them, left out but not wanting to be “like them” (foolish and too talkative). I was rigid about eating only healthy foods. When I strayed I would regurgitate, although I never binged. I avoided going home by volunteering at a mental hospital for the summer. I was very depressed, thought of asking for help, but did not.

My second year at college, I dated a guy my intuition told me to beware of. I was so “nice” I thought I should give him a chance. Outdoors on one date, he leaned against me and made me feel his erection. I believe I spaced out after that. I remember being naked on my bed, digital penetration, and his saying I was beautiful as he walked out the door. I don’t know what I did immediately afterward. I told no one. I saw him once more when he told me he was leaving campus for good. (He wasn’t a student.)

I told God I’d quit dating until I got help, but I didn’t know where to get help. Soon after, I met a guy who was different. He talked about God and didn’t make a lot of physical moves toward me. He seemed to really care about me. I knew he was the one I’d marry. I told him very brief accounts about my brother and the date incident, releasing some emotion. We had a lot of fun together. We married and were part of a close-knit home church. I still did not connect with women in a deep way. I was quiet, yet nice. I still felt something was wrong with me, and sometimes felt depressed. I never thought about the abuse. Our sex life was fine. I didn’t initiate, but could go along and even receive some pleasure.

At first I did not want children because I knew childhood as a time of pain and isolation; being in the midst of a family, yet unable to connect and share. Marriage created a desire for children, and I had no career to distract me. I thought I’d be better at parenting boys, since I didn’t feel very feminine and could not connect with girls.

Once I was pregnant, I only wanted a healthy baby. Perhaps God has a sense of humor. We have five girls and one boy. Maybe he wanted me to learn that girls are all innately different, some more “feminine” than others, yet all normal. We had a home birth with a midwife to help. I’d never felt so close to another human being. I was a natural at birthing and nursing. I was able to do what my mother had been unable to do for me. Mothering has been a nurturing experience for me and, therefore, a healing experience. I finally felt more connected, not only to my babies but also to a group of women called mothers.

Sexual abuse affected me as a mother. A side effect has been a desire to be in control or at least know what to expect of situations and people. So when I wanted children, I did a lot of reading and chose to give birth in my own home with my husband and a midwife. I like to raise my children following my own instincts. I nursed with baby-led weaning and natural family planning. I avoided the need for routine doctor visits by obtaining exemptions from immunization, which I also researched. I learned about natural remedies, nutrition, homeopathy, and herbs. I also did some home schooling. I really enjoyed the children as infants and toddlers, and missed being as close as they grew older.

Mothering adolescent girls was especially hard for me. I read some books to them about the physical and emotional changes of puberty. I did not add personal comments. I’d often think of things to share about love and sex and how wonderful it could be, but could never say them. I knew the right words but I feared my feelings would betray my ambivalence. I relied on church youth group leaders to cover it for me. I very briefly told them of my abuse after I wrote this account.

In general, I was a good mother, but I know I lacked some emotional dimensions and spontaneity. I also suffered from migraines, so the older girls learned to help care for the younger ones as needed. After my fifth child, the only boy, I was really run down and began the slow descent into a major depression (three years later). I could not relax, and he was fussy for a year. Initially, he lost weight, but slowly regained it. I was home-schooling two children, we were under financial strain, the oldest girl reached puberty, and I could tolerate sex less than ever. I was just doing what I had to do, but I was dying inside.

I met a loving couple, and she shared about her childhood sexual abuse. I obsessed and agonized about whether to tell my story for months. When I told it, they assured me that I needed to get help. With their love and support and that of my husband, and with no more babies needing me, I let myself get help from a Christian psychotherapist. This actually made life harder, as I had to deal with emerging emotions. I didn’t have much patience with my kids, or time. I was gone biking, walking, and to therapy. As therapy progressed, a lot of anger and pain came up, but I didn’t know how to express it. It was very hard to pull myself together and return to my responsibilities at home. I’d often cut myself to shut down the bad emotions and anxiety. There was too much to handle all at once.

I signed myself into a Christian mental hospital for 22 days. This was very hard for me to do. I had rarely left my children, and it was especially hard for some of them. Although they came to see me a few times, when they left it was “out of sight, out of mind.” I couldn’t bear to think of the pain of separation. I was still very depressed, in therapy, and on medication for the next year.

All of my children were neglected, at least emotionally, during this time. My last child was born in the midst of it all, but was probably not neglected as much, because I was good at and enjoyed meeting a baby’s needs. She was a ray of sunshine in the storm. At first she had considerable weight loss, probably due to my depression and stress. Mother’s Milk Herbal Tea solved the problem. I took about a six-month break from therapy after the birth, and then resumed it for about two years.

I’m not sure why therapy took so long for me. I was distracted with so many responsibilities. I had such a block in my emotions. I took so long to trust, to accept love and acceptance. I thought too much, intellectualizing myself out of feeling emotions. It’s hard for a nice, good girl to feel such bad emotions.

I also have a biochemical imbalance of the brain. I still take a low dose of medication. Now I feel pretty stable. My family sees a fuller range of emotions and hears more laughter. Laughter is the easiest way to gauge how I’m doing. When I get down about my failures as a mother, especially when they imitate my own childhood, I remind myself that I have improved on it. I do the best I can with what was given me, my motive is love, and I’m human. I hope my children will improve on what I’ve given them.

I have shared my story with two women who were also abused, and have formed the closest friendships I’ve ever had. The more I talk or journal, getting it out of my head, the more healing and proper perspective takes place. God’s word and scripture songs help replace my own negative thoughts. I hope to pass on God’s love and truth by co-leading a support group at my church and sharing one-on-one. Only by sharing the story with a loving and accepting person can the shame be lifted and love be felt. God can bring good out of evil, as we accept His healing love and extend it to other hurting people.

When I was two and one-half, my mother noticed vaginal bleeding and took me to our doctor. He wrote on my chart, “vaginal bleeding secondary to trauma.” I found this on my chart when my mom gave it to me as part of my health records. I asked her if she knew what had happened. She has a bad memory, and could offer no plausible explanation. I was in therapy at this time, and I shared this with my therapist, whose immediate gut reaction was that this was probably sexual trauma and explained what he had seen as “developmental problems originating at age 2-3, especially the issue of trust.”

I also asked my medical doctor what these words would mean to a doctor. He said quite definitely something was pushed with some force against the vagina, and today would have been reported as possible abuse.

This incident is frustrating to me. If it were sexual abuse, it certainly would explain my difficulty in therapy, especially with trust and sexual issues. I could say, “See, this is why I have such a hard time.” It would explain why I froze with my brother and spaced out with the date in college. I wasn’t weak and stupid, but previously traumatized, and “split off” for safety. Thankfully, I don’t have to know. I can still deal with symptoms, poor ways of relating, negative thoughts, and automatic reactions to certain stimuli.

Abuse effects how I relate to others with trust and vulnerability, and how I see myself. I can always look to Christ and loving friends, and risk relating in a new way. Healing comes through relationships, not new intellectual knowledge alone.

To learn more, order Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering and Healing after Sexual Abuse

Laura's Story

2009-02-03T07:29:00.000-08:00

I was raised in a family of ten children, eight girls in the middle and brothers on each end. Many people have romantic notions about what it would be like to grow up in a large family, but our household was full of chaos. My mother suffered from depression, and was largely unavailable to us. Both of my parents were consumed with caring for my older sister, who was hospitalized for a large portion of her childhood and died at the age of 12 from cystic fibrosis. Often they would put my oldest teenage brother in charge of the rest of the children while they went to the hospital. He was resentful and angry about this responsibility and took his anger out on us, first by physically abusing us and later sexually abusing us. I did not know till I was older that 3 of my other sisters had also endured his abuse over the years. The abuse began around the time I was 5 and ended when he moved out of the house around the time I was 7. When I tried to tell my mother about the abuse, she said I was dreaming.

I am not sure I would have ever dealt with the emotional scars of my abuse had I not had children. I never would have expected the changes in me that occurred after the birth of my first child, a boy. His birth was difficult and long and I was extremely tense as soon as we arrived at the hospital. Though I liked the midwives who helped deliver him there, I did not feel as if I had any control over the birth process and it brought a lot of emotions to surface. Nursing my son was incredibly difficult and painful for me, and without much support at home, I gave up after a few weeks and began bottle-feeding. I still regret this lost opportunity to bond with my son. He became a very colicky baby and it seemed that I could not comfort him in any way, and because of my frustration and feelings of inadequacy, I pulled away emotionally. I slipped in to a deep depression that went undiagnosed for a year and a half, because I was too exhausted and overwhelmed to seek help. I reluctantly began therapy, and through the help of the therapist, was able to finally make some connections between my childhood and what I was experiencing as a young mother.

I continued therapy through the pregnancy and birth of my second child, a girl. The circumstances around her birth were very different, as I chose to have a homebirth with 2 incredible midwives, whom I spent many hours with in the months leading up to her birth. When I envisioned a water birth as the most soothing and peaceful way for me to give birth, they supported my instincts. Her birth was gentler and easier than my first, and I felt in control and supported during the whole process. Nursing my daughter was again very painful and difficult for me at first, but I had a lot of support this time around to help me stick with it. I ended up nursing her for 2 years and having no problems with depression after her birth.

When my third child, a girl, was born 3 years later, we had moved to a new city, and since a homebirth was not possible, I birthed at a local hospital. Though I prepared myself as best I could, my fear and anxiety returned with this birth and I had my longest labor yet. I nursed my daughter through the painful period, but weaned her after a year, when my depression became so severe that I needed to begin taking medication. I also began therapy again and in conjunction with the medication, I was able to make a lot of progress in dealing with the ongoing pain of my abuse. I had many dreams during this time that were incredibly insightful, and I also did a breath-work session, which I would highly recommend to other survivors. It allowed me to reach a part of myself that I never could through regular therapy.

I don't think that I could have anticipated the enormous changes that came about for me after the birth of my first child. But in retrospect, the journey would have been a much healthier one if I had been sure to surround myself with nurturing, familiar caregivers in a non-stressful environment during his birth. I also wish that I had been better prepared for the difficulties I would encounter through breastfeeding, perhaps by having a familiar support system set up beforehand, rather than talking to strangers about my difficulties when my frustration level was so high.

But most importantly, I believe it has been a strong faith that has carried me through these difficult years. Prayer and meditation give me calm and a sense of peace that I can find nowhere else. My belief in God has helped me see that in spite of what has happened, I can love and I can forgive and I can grow from my past experiences. As difficult as the journey has been, I am thankful that the pain has not been buried but has been freed, for it allows me to open myself up and be free as well.

To learn more, order Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering and Healing after Sexual Abuse

Kate's Story

2009-01-23T07:07:00.000-08:00

“One or two things I know for sure; and one of them is what it means to have no loved version of your life but the one you make.” Dorothy Allison

The day I read the above quote was the day I decided that being a victim no longer had to be my primary identity. I was a survivor and I could embrace that. I may not be able to change my history, but I could write my future.

My life was one of fear and hate. My father was filled with the hatred of one who was wronged in life and would continue to perpetrate the chain of abuse. My mother was filled with the hatred of one who had no idea how to escape her situation or how to protect her children. She hated life and she was very afraid.

My first memory of my father was at the age of three. I was tied, bound around my wrists, to the bed my parents slept in. My mother wasn’t there. I remember the wood grain of their closet door as I tried to lose myself in the patterns of the wood. I remember my father standing next to the bed. I remember nothing else.

This was the pattern of my childhood. Later, when I was recovering in an incest survivor’s support group, I learned that I had disassociated. This survival technique served me well during my childhood, but robbed me of years of time.

When we moved year after year to different apartments as I grew up, my memories would differ depending on the room and floor plan of each apartment. When I had my own bedroom, I have full memories of my brother and mother, very few of my father. When the apartment space demanded that I sleep on the couch, I have far more memories of my father, along with a sense of dread and dis-ease. Often, few memories of my mother and no memories of my brother existed. It was as though I was putting far more energy into my father’s presence. Still, even in these situations when I have memories of my father, specific memories of nighttime elude me. I do not remember going to bed when I slept on the couches.

By far, the most disturbing memories evolve around a neighborhood in Cincinnati in the 1950’s called Mt. Auburn. I was five years old and attended kindergarten in the year of 1955. It was a racially mixed neighborhood and, except for my father, I was very happy there. My best friend was African-American. We held hands going to and from school. Her family was what I considered a real family; loving and caring. There was joy in their house. When I would get home from school (I would walk my friend home and them come home afterward . . . my father would have never allowed me to go into their home and I would have been beaten if he knew I stepped through their door), my father would say terrible things about her, simply because of her skin color. It was at that age that I decided that my father was wrong. I could sense his intense hatred and knew that my friend loved me and he could not, since me made me do terrible things at home and at the bar down the street.

It was called the Flatiron Bar. It was a funny building. Built on a corner, at the top of the hill, the front of the building was very narrow and, as the streets expanded on each side of the bar, so did the building that housed the bar. It looked like a flat iron. My father would walk me down the street at night to go to the bar with him. I would always have a dress on. I remember having to dance on the bar tops while the men watched and cheered. I would be given shot glasses of beer to drink. For many years, I never remembered getting down off the bar or ever going home. Later, in my adult years, I would remember lying down and the men’s faces being close to me; the stench of stale beer, and then blanking it all out. That year, my attendance in kindergarten was terrible. I missed two-thirds of the school year. I remember day after day of lying in my parents’ bed, with my mother there, trying to calm my upset stomach with glasses of ginger ale. I was still passed that year to the first grade and, thankfully, we moved.

The next three years were happier ones. The apartment we had provided me with my own bedroom. I could shut the door and escape into my own little world. I have few memories of my father during those years (except for occasional beatings with a wooden paddle), but well remember my mother and brother. I remember how my brother (10 years my senior) would practice his rock and roll on me. I was delighted to be his jitterbug partner and developed a life-long love of music and dancing. If my father was abusing me, the memories are totally buried still. I only remember the happiness. We then belonged to a Baptist church and I had friends there too, and have many fond memories.

The years following, however, are murky and vague and continued that way until I entered junior high. My father moved me to an all-white neighborhood in 1962, and we had the third floor of an old home. I have one clear memory of the two years I spent in that apartment. I would come home to an empty apartment because my mother had a job then. I would sit at the front window and look for her each day. I remember the feelings I had . . . a jumbled mix of terror and dread. I never felt like I could breathe in that place. I have no memory of my father and do not even remember where I slept. I only remember the living room and that window.

The last year of junior high and my high school years were spent in the home my parents finally bought. I had my own bedroom again and I believe this is the first time that the physical, sexual abuse ended. My memories of this home are complete. As my body began changing, so did the method of abuse my father used. He would continuously say inappropriate comments about my body and, simultaneously, insult my mother’s body in front of me. (My mother stopped speaking to me, for the most part, during these years. She must have been so hurt and felt so helpless.)

My father had a factory job that required he leave at 5:00 each morning. With my mother standing there, he would open my bedroom door and kiss me on the lips before he went to work. I would rarely fall back to sleep afterward, and bought a transistor radio. I would listen to the Detroit station, CKLW, which played all the popular music. I learned to love the Motown sound. Once again, music was the lifesaver I could grab when I couldn’t bear to think about what was happening. My father also subscribed to a filthy adult magazine that had multiple pictures of people performing various sex acts. My father would open to one of the pages in this magazine and leave it on the living room coffee table.

At 16 years of age, I turned a corner in my life. I felt that I couldn’t cope any longer. I was experiencing many body memories at that time. Of course, I had no idea what was happening. I just knew that I couldn’t stand being in my own skin. One hot summer night, my parents were visiting a neighbor across the street. I had a bottle of pain reliever pills and took all that was in the bottle (maybe a little over half full). (One of the other habits of my father was to not allow proper medical care for my mother and I, so I knew he wouldn’t do anything to help if I got very sick.) I remember taking the pills and can still see myself crawling into my bed that night. I was calm and prepared to not wake up again. Our home was small and, to get to the bathroom, I had to walk through their bedroom. The bathroom was part of their bedroom. Later that evening, as I began vomiting violently for hours, neither my mother nor my father asked me if I was okay. The next day, nothing was mentioned.

The next day I was drained and sick. But, for the first time, I found a will to live. I knew that if my parents did not care if I lived or died, then I had to. As I grew older, and had more freedom to be away from the house, I would be gone as often as possible spending time with my friends.

My father tried many manipulative tactics. He basically ruled through fear. He would tell me that, for example, if I made him angry, he could be killed in a car accident the next night and it would be my fault. Of course, he frightened my mother as well. Every night she stood at the front door, wrenching her hands, frightened he would not come home. He was her survival. She was not allowed to drive, handle her own money or speak her mind. She found the control to be her safety.

On night, shortly after my suicide attempt, my father was angry at me about something and, the evening afterwards, was late getting home from work. My mother was frantic, but admitted to me that he was going to be deliberately late to “teach me a lesson.” She insisted I go to my room, get on my knees and pray for his safety. I went into my room, got on my knees and prayed that he was killed on the highway and would never, ever step foot into that house again. If felt SO good. But, come home he did, drunk and disgusting.

About that time, as his drinking problem increased, he would either bring out his loaded gun, or at least threaten to kill my mother and I if he was angered. My mother would just sit quietly during these threats, as if she was just waiting her turn to die. I learned to be an expert arbitrator. Regardless of whether I was telling him the truth or lying, I was always able to defuse the situation. I have the negotiation skills of a SWAT team.

I married when I was barely 20. He was in college to become an engineer. As soon as he finished his degree at the University of Cincinnati, we moved out of the city. My children came and with them a fear that somehow, something would happen to them. The underlying tension I felt was endless and draining. I was as protective as a bear, and would watch them like a hawk. If I couldn’t find one of my daughters playing outside after a few minutes, the panic and terror would nearly overwhelm me.

Back home when we would visit our families, my father seemed turned-on to the fact that I was a married woman. As in high school, he continuously told crude, dirty jokes and the content and frequency worsened as I grew older. They were senselessly dirty. He never tried anything but, when I got pregnant, he would look at me in a way that would cause such terror in my body. I made the decision to not nurse my babies. Even though we lived five hours away, I didn’t want him to think of me in that way. I knew that when we visited them, I could never go to another room and nurse my children. I couldn’t bear him knowing.

The body memories worsened during pregnancy, and visited me frequently until I began extensive therapy at the age of 35. I didn’t understand them; I just knew that I felt dirty, like I was on fire, and couldn’t get away or breathe.

In 1983, my husband and I were at a Wednesday night church potluck dinner. The kitchen phone range and my friend, Ted, picked it up. It was my brother. My father had been ill with throat cancer (a combination of decades of alcohol abuse and cigarette smoking). My father had been on the telephone the hour before with his doctor. My mother was upstairs on the extension. As the doctor explained to my father that his cancer had spread to his brain and lungs, my father took his handgun, placed it to his temple and pulled the trigger.

As my brother told me the details over the church phone, I felt a weird calmness come over me. I hung up the phone and sat down next to my husband. He asked me what was the matter. The first words I said were, “I don’t have to be afraid any longer.”

Within the next two years, my marriage ended. I joined the work force after staying home for eight years caring for my daughters, and I began therapy. Between my therapist and my survivor’s support group, I retrieved some memories, but most importantly I created a life for myself. I stopped thinking that I was a victim who had to fear life, and found that I could make the choice to embrace the life I would make for myself.

March 9th of this year marked the 16th anniversary of my father’s death. It doesn’t feel like it was that long ago. Sometimes I still feel afraid and raw. It could be an old song I hear on the radio that triggers it, or someone who looks like my father that walks by on the street. The body memories are much less frequent now. I have the skills to handle them now, and they control me no longer.

I have learned to love myself. In learning to love myself, I give myself the nurturing and support that was not available when I was little. The version I’ve made of this life continues to evolve, and I feel certain that it’s going to unfold in a way where inner-peace is a primary focus. I’ve earned it.

To learn more, order Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering and Healing after Sexual Abuse