Nan's Story

I’m 43. Thirty-one years ago, in 1969, at age 12, my life changed forever. What came to pass would affect every aspect of my being. Yet it would be many long years until I realized the magnitude of the scaring and mutilations.

My experiences began as a direct result of racial prejudice.

I lived in a mixed ethnic neighborhood, Armenian, Irish, Italian, Chinese and Hispanic. There were rich, middle class and poor blocks. From 1960 until about 1966, we lived on a poor block.

In school, each grade was separated into four classes. I didn’t realize then that the divisions were due to intelligence. By 5th grade, I understood. I was in the “1” classes, and had the highest IQ in the school (I found out later.)

My reports, drawings, projects, were always on the bulletin board in the common hallways. I was in most of the plays in the assembly. I was a soloist in the school choir. I was a school monitor, complete with a white and metal belt and sash. I was often a “teacher’s pet” and a very “goody-goody.”

My grandmother was very strict, in the “Old World” Middle Eastern Christian Orthodox way. That meant that even while seated, no appendages were moving. You sat at attention. I would never think of being rude or ill mannered, and find most people today horribly uncultured.

In the 1960’s, even in midtown Manhattan, most people, rich or poor, had good manners. Most, not all.

When I was in the 5th grade, the Hispanic fifth grade girls started the gang-horror treatment. (The school is still there. I have never been able to even walk by, ever since.) They began following me, calling me names, pushing me, spitting on me, taunting me, hitting me, always 10 or more to my one. I never called them names back. I kept a “stiff upper lip,” not even any tears. They would never make me cry. They never did. I acted so stoic, I didn’t even cry at home, alone. I thought that that would make me a weak, helpless female, like my mother.

I had two best friends, both tomboys with older brothers. Penny lived nearest to me, so every morning on our way to school for two years, we had to try and sidestep the Latino gang of girls. You may wonder why I didn’t go to the school authorities. I did! My mother and I went to the school nurse, who said, “You have to go to the guidance teacher.” We went to her. She called for my records. She looked them over very carefully, complimenting me on all my high marks, excellent grades, very high test scores and glowing personal character remarks from my teachers and the vice principal. Very sweetly she stated, “Nan, these girls are obviously very jealous of you. Why don’t you give them less to be jealous of, fail some tests, don’t be so smart, and they will become your friends.”

I was only 11, but I couldn’t believe my ears. An adult telling me to be dumb! Someone who was supposed to be on my side, to help me!!! To fail on purpose, to appease my torturers? It was too complicated for me to understand. I came to understand it many years later. It was because of the top three children in the school, I was the poorest, and the only Christian. That was her religious prejudice. We were horrified!

We went to the police. They said they couldn’t do anything until there was blood. I wasn’t going to stand for that. My mother went to the parents of the girls, who all pretended to not speak any English, in spite of the fact that they were often high on the street, yelling and singing in English. We only got the doors slammed in our faces.

I endured all through 5th grade, 6th grade, and into 7th grade, in a new school. I never went to school authorities there, because I no longer trusted any adults working in schools. By the end of the 7th grade, at 12 years of age in 1969, I was tired of being afraid all the time. I didn’t even know the words for racial prejudice. I had never been taught to hate people at home, because they looked different or had a different religion. On the contrary, that was how my real grandparents came to Ellis Island in 1921, with my mother as an infant, barely escaping the Turks, who had killed my grandmother’s family in front of her, savagely, in their own family compound of 800 years. Issues of hate never came up at our home. I would have been considered a sin. My mother didn’t understand anything about basic human rights. She was afraid of her own shadow. She couldn’t fight for herself. How could she fight for me?

There was a gang of boys, multi-racial, who called themselves the “Devil’s Angels.” They were patterned after the Hell’s Angels, but were young, teenaged boys with bicycles instead of motorcycles.

Robbie was an African American boy of 15, in the gang. He was nice to me. He was cute. He became my boyfriend. I thought that now the girls would leave me alone. I was right. They did. Many years later I realized it was the “race card” that made them back off. At the time, I believed it was because the boys were tougher, which of course they were. My education was to begin soon.

I was a big girl of 12 now, so I could come home a little later, 5:00 or 5:30. My mom didn’t insist on being right there, as she always was when we were playing up until that year. I later was glad that she never let us out of her sight when I was younger, unless I was with friends that she knew well and we were at their house.

One day after school, I went with Robbie to his home, which was out of our neighborhood. But my mom didn’t know. She trusted me, and I had no idea that there was real danger in the world. Danger to me was on TV or the movies. I had no imagination of any real horrors, except the Spanish girls, who were history now. They still called me names, but didn’t hit, spit, pull my hair, or follow me any longer.

Under the guise of “doing homework,” Robbie put on rock music. We had tongue kissed before, and that was nice. We had some beer. How much, I don’t know, but being 12 and perhaps 90 pounds, it didn’t need to be much. I passed out. Sometime later, when I came to, my clothes were messed up. I had culottes on, and they were off to one side, as were my underpants. I had pain between my legs. Robbie didn’t say anything, and I didn’t know to ask. I was puzzled.

The next morning, on my way to school with my best friend, Penny, I told her the strange stuff of yesterday at Robbie’s house, falling asleep, waking up, my clothes a mess and “hurting down there.” I still had no idea what was “down there,” on my own body, even though I had been menstruating for over a year. No adult had told me more than how to use a Kotex pad.

Penny said, “Nan, I think you had sex!”

“Sex?” I asked. “What do you mean, sex?”

“Don’t you remember I once told you that when a boy gets excited, he gets hard?”

“Yes,” I said, but again asked, “But what, what gets hard?” I had never seen male private parts.

She gave up trying to explain it to me, not having enough words and understanding at 11, I suppose.

Now Penny said, “I think you better ask Robbie what he did to you.” I think that she thought he would explain it to me.

The next day, I did confront Robbie. We were back at his house, and I asked him, “When I fell asleep the other day, did you do something to me?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I thought that if you were awake, you would say no.”

“You’re right, but let’s try it again. This time I want to know what it is.”

We got undressed, and for the first time in my young life, I saw a male’s private parts. He was long, large, and not circumcised (I didn’t know that at the time.). It was ugly!

I asked him, “What are you going to do with that?” pointing to him.

He said, “Put it inside of you.”

I said, “How?”

“I’ll show you.” He got on top of me and tried to penetrate me.

It hurt. It hurt a lot, and I yelled for him to stop. He stopped. I told him that I didn’t like it, and we got dressed. A few days later, he told me that he didn’t want to go out with me anymore, and we broke up. He started seeing a girl his age, 15.

Perhaps six or seven weeks later, one of the other gang members told me that Robbie wanted to get back with me. I was told to go down by the river that evening, where he would be waiting for me. Being rather innocent, I went. Robbie wasn’t there, but five of the gang were. They took me to a coal storage warehouse along the East River, and all of them raped me!

I still remember bits and pieces of that experience, as if they happened to someone else. My skin and clothes were covered with dark coal dust. I’m quite fair, so my skin looked bruised from all the black dust.

I remember going home in a fog. My mind and body were numb. A few days later, I went to the only person in the world who I thought loved me, my adopted grandfather. He had been my only father figure from the age of three. He was the only source of affection in my life. His name was Danny. We were at his house almost every day. His wife was the only real grandmother that I had loved all my life. Lisa had gone to Christian boarding school with my maternal grandmother in the old country. My real grandmother was already dead.

Danny took care of the foreign language library in his wife’s Christian Orthodox Church. The church was across from their building. I went to him there after school, perhaps one or two days later, because I needed help. I didn’t go to my mother because I hated her. She had told me nothing about boys. I knew nothing about my own body, sex, or anything. I realized that I didn’t know how to protect myself against something that I didn’t know existed. I didn’t think that she would help me. She hadn’t helped me stop the Spanish girls, and this was worse. I thought that she would throw me out on the street. I was ashamed and very afraid. I had nowhere to go.

So, I went to Danny. He was a tall, skinny, old man of 80 years. He listened. He comforted me. He told me to come back the next day. When I got there, he had hard-core pornographic articles for me to read. They were disgusting. They scared me. He told me, “This is what young men will do to you. They have diseases. They will get you pregnant. They will hurt you, like they already did. I won’t hurt you. I won’t get you pregnant. I won’t give you diseases. I am safe.” He had me sit on his lap. He started touching my body as if it was his.

“You are my queen. If Elizabeth Taylor would come to me, I would tell her to go away because I had my Nan.” (I looked like Elizabeth Taylor, except with brown eyes, before I was 30.)

This was in 1969, at the age of 12, between March and June; date rape, gang rape, and then molestation from the one person who I loved completely and trusted. Danny would continue his “love” until December 1976, when at age 20 I left home to live with my boyfriend from college.

In 1969, I started using drugs to deal with the emotional pain and confusion. I drank, I smoked cigarettes, and I ran away from home several times. I was an ‘A’ student all through school. I was popular and had lots of friends. I was invited to every party. I had sex all the time. I’d have sex at the drop of a feather, but these were “Hippie” days, so it all fit in. By age 18, I knew I had serious problems, but didn’t know what they were. I still loved Danny, even though I didn’t like the things we did together. I would leave him and run to one of the young men I liked, and would fuck all the bad feelings away.

I was 22 when Danny died in 1979. Only when my sister asked me a question one day, after his death, did I finally break my silence. It couldn’t hurt my grandmother then. I never told her. I never wanted to ruin her life. I protected her as long as she lived. She was married to him for 56 years when he died.

It wouldn’t be until I was in my late 20’s, with a child of my own, that I finally discussed these experiences with a female therapist. It was after more than one year of therapy when, quite by accident, she asked me a question. I don’t remember what. I told her that I was sexually abused for over seven years while growing up. I remember that she was so startled that she almost fell off her chair. I said it so matter of factly, so coldly, without any emotion or change in expression, as if I was giving a weather report. I often hear and do things as if someone else is saying them or doing them. It’s like I’m outside myself, watching someone else. It makes me feel strange, but I’ve gotten used to it. I’ve been like that so long.

Only at the end of 11 years of therapy, as an adult (27 through 38), would I finally realize the magnitude of the damage that was done to me. It is like having an arm and a leg, on opposite side of the body, amputated. You can have therapy, have prosthetics, to replace the missing limbs, but it is never the same as never having the real ones removed. The scaring is permanent and the handicap is forever! There is no going back to what you were before the experience. There is only trying to heal and going on with whatever you have become. Some days are good; some years are bad. If I could prevent these things from happening to everyone else, I would spend my life doing it. That’s why I’m part of this book. Knowledge is the only protection!
I would like to share my advice with the reader. I will not sugar coat this for anyone. It is too important and too deadly.

If you are not yet pregnant with your first child, read very carefully. If you are already pregnant, and/or already have children, it is never too late to get smarter, and to make your children smarter and safer. Don’t leave it to someone else to do. They might teach your babies like I was taught! Do not help anyone make your babies victims! It was way too late to take it back after it happens, way too late, and there is never any going back. It is forever. We all survive somehow, but none without horrible pain. Some of us cannot live with the pain. Some can only die with it.


1. Always arm your children with the truth. When they ask where babies come from, and they will, go to the public library and pick up some books for parents and children to help explain “the facts of life.” Please get the books with true explanations and diagrams, usually illustrated, of the two human sexes. Go over the books together, like a regular book. Do not put your hang-ups into your babies. They are worth more than that.

2. Factually and honestly answer all your children’s questions. Don’t answer their questions with fairy tales, cabbage patch nonsense, and cute words. Use the correct words, even if they make you comfortable. Use no baby language. For example, this is your penis. It belongs to you. Nobody can touch it, except you. It is for making urine and one day being a daddy. Mommy doesn’t have a penis. Mommy cannot be a daddy. Mommy has a vagina. Mommy can make babies inside her uterus. Men and boys have penises. Women and girls have vaginas and a uterus. We are different, but we are all necessary. You can have this talk any way you want, just for your kids’ sake don’t lie or tell half-truths. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

3. You have nine months before the birth of your child. That is plenty of time to think about how to raise your child. Be prepared. You have no valid excuse, not my house needs to be cleaned, not buying a new purse, and not my husband is . . . . .. Don’t wait for him to do anything or everything. He could be gone tomorrow. Plan ahead. Be reliable to yourself and for your child.

4. All babies and children are innocent. They will always need you to protect them, for many years. They cannot protect you. Do not use them to hold onto a man. Don’t have them to give you love and support. They need those things from you, first and last. One day they will love you, however, those are no reasons to have a baby. Neither is being married. Many married people should never be parents. A dog or a cat will always be like a baby, and can be cared for badly, with less dire consequences. Think long and hard before becoming pregnant.

5. Children always come first. Babies and young children cannot feed themselves. They cannot wash themselves. They cannot even talk. They cannot walk or make their own bottles. This may sound silly, but often people think of babies as dolls or “things to have”, like having their hair done. Selfish people make very rotten parents. Selfish people like to come first. Good parents realize that children are hard work. They are the best work that you can ever do. If you take it seriously, they are also fun. But the work always comes first!

6. Do not make or ask your children to touch or kiss someone. Children should never kiss anyone on the mouth, not you, daddy, grandma, the mailman or the dog. Kissing on the mouth is for adults only. Good boundaries are very important. Things can never go too far, if they don’t start at all. Children get confused easily. If they are asked to touch and kiss too many people, in too many different ways, the line between “good and bad touch” becomes blurred. That’s when trouble can happen. Don’t put your baby/child at risk to spare an adult’s feelings. Let people know, “We don’t allow Bobby to kiss anyone on the lips.” In private, you can tell them why. If they are quality people, they will understand. If not, you can be sure that they will undermine you in other ways, due to their own willfulness. That kind of person is not a good person to ever trust your young child with. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, and there are no cures for child abuse. It is forever. There is no going back. It will forever be too late.

7. You are the best! Not a babysitter, in-law, sister, brother, friend. If your baby is important to you, take care of them yourself. If you will give your child under age four to someone else, whom are you having the child for? Mommy is the best. No job is worth more. Save money, if need be, to stay home with your child until kindergarten. By then, if they are armed with the truth, they will have the words and knowledge to make them safe. Always remember, even with words, their bodies are small and weak. If any adult really wants to use them, they may be too weak to stop them. If you have armed them with the truth, hopefully, they will tell you if something unnatural has happened.

A few years ago, I heard a man say, “If someone tries to touch you in a bathing suit place, scream loudly, run away, and get help. If the person you go to for help doesn’t help, keep going to other adults that you trust until someone helps you in the right way, and makes it stop.” If I had been told that, my abuse would have stopped at 12, instead of 20. I might have had a more normal life, instead of being a person with scars that can’t be seen. I have even been discriminated against as an adult, in a trade school, because I had been in therapy for child sexual abuse. When I went to the female director of the school to complain, she said, “You are a certifiable mental case. You’ve been in therapy, who will believe you?”

Today I am 43, now disabled in my body with fibromyalgia, two other kinds of arthritis, and chronic fatigue. I am a Sagittarius with an 18-year-old son and two gerbils. I was a surrogate mother when my son was three years old, for the money to get away from my son’s father. That son is now 14. He has a normal, loving family.

My son has only me. But he has been very lucky! I armed him with the truth. At 18, he is graduating from high school. He doesn’t smoke, drink or take drugs. He is a virgin and hasn’t been sexually abused, or abused anyone else. He has never been arrested or had any trouble with the law or with police. We have watched “America’s Most Wanted” for over 10 years, and still do. I never even let my son play with toy guns, for I believe that to a child playing with guns sets a bad pattern for violence with a real gun.

My son is the single best thing in my life!

Following the advice that I have written here, I helped mold my own child into the good, caring person that he is, without putting him at risk, like I was, by a selfish, helpless, uptight, ignorant parent, who never bothered to learn how to be a good parent.

I still take care of my mother, at 79. I’ve been doing that, one way or another, for 40 years. My mother had a nervous breakdown in 1960 and never got help. She put my younger sister and myself at risk, and all the worst happened to me. Don’t let your pain or ignorance place your babies at risk. They are too beautiful!

Namu –Amida – Butsu. Nam – Myoko – Renge – Kyo. Buddhism has saved my life since 1972. Without this light to guide me, I would have been forever lost in darkness, pain and suffering.

Live well; live safe!

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

Gwen's Story

Hello, my name is Gwen and I am an incest survivor. From the age of 5-15, I was sexually abused by my father. I still cannot remember a lot of it and I may never, but when I can remember day-to-day I am 13, and for 3 years every morning I would be sexually abused before I went to school.

To me, school was my safe haven. I believed if school was fine, I was fine, and so did everyone else. By the time the abuse ended I was a sophomore in high school. I was an A/B student, yet I had low self- esteem and was very promiscuous, confusing sex with any type of affection. At fifteen I also had a miscarriage and it was my father’s child. I had no regard for my life outside of school. I felt if no one else cared about me then why should I. Needless to say I graduated from high school with honors and was accepted into the university I wanted.

Finally, I was about to leave home and start a new life. Everything that had happened to me I had buried deeply away forever or so I thought. So, I started college, no problem, and actually had a boyfriend that treated me pretty nice. Things were for once looking up for me. Then one day, my roommate Michelle, out of the blue tells me she is an incest survivor and wants to know if I would like to volunteer with her at a place called rape crisis services. At that very moment the wall I had built over the years came crashing down in a matter of seconds. Very nonchalantly, I told her I could not volunteer due to my schedule and I tried to forget what she had told me.

But as days passed, I could not study or concentrate on anything except that I too had been sexually abused. Finally I broke down and the first thing to come out of my mouth was “ I killed it, I killed it.” I told Michelle everything and for the very first time in a very long time I cried and cried and she just held me. It was the first time I had grieved for my loss, not only for the baby but also my childhood. I kept asking her why did he do this to me, why? Soon afterwards I started group therapy at the place were she had asked me to volunteer. Thus, began my journey. I began learning about myself, the different pieces of myself and how in crisis one would take over, the child who wanted to be good, the teenager who didn’t give a fuck about anybody and the adult me who worked hard not to let anyone see how screwed up I really was. Group therapy made me realize I wasn’t alone. That the miscarriage wasn’t my fault, that responding physically didn’t mean you wanted it, and it is still ok to like sex. I began slowly putting the pieces together, making myself whole.

As I continued in group therapy, I was also falling in love with that nice boyfriend I had mentioned earlier. I decided to tell him about the abuse before I got married. I was sure he was going to leave me after hearing it. Instead we ended up crying together. Now, we have been together 10 years. Also, in group therapy, I was pregnant with our first child. I was so caught up dealing with telling my mother and calling social services to make sure my brother and sister were safe, that the pregnancy seemed to take a back seat. I wasn’t connecting it with anything that was happening. My Ob/Gyn did not know I was an incest survivor and I had no problems with the pregnancy or labor. I had a boy. Sadly, my family was not involved, due to them wanting to stay in denial, but I had my husband and my group.

The first time I had issues with my abuse and raising my son was when he was five. This was the same age when I remembered my abuse beginning. I freaked out the whole entire year. I was afraid to give him a bath or touch him in anyway. I would have thoughts about abusing him. At this time, I was individual therapy, and there I learned that all this was normal as long as I did not act on it. I believe if I ever get to that point I will commit myself somewhere for help.

With the second child, I actually paid attention to the pregnancy and there were no problems with pregnancy and labor. Again, I had a boy and no one knew I was an incest survivor. He has not turned five yet so I do not how that will go. But, this time around I have noticed that I don’t know how to play with my children. It takes me a lot of effort to play and I continue to work really hard at it to overcome it. I realize I did not have a normal childhood. It was stolen from me and now I must re-learn how to be a kid and use my imagination as a kid. When I was in the 5th grade, I would imagine I had an evil twin sister, who had 2 men who would make me masturbate for them. I don’t even remember being abused during this period of my life. Finally, I stopped imagining them but then I also stopped using my imagination. With my children, I am beginning again.

Now, I am pregnant for the 3rd time. This time they tell me it is a girl. And, for the first time my nurse-midwife knows I am an incest survivor. A part of me feels this may be my greatest challenge yet. I believe I am up to the task. I will love her and give of myself. I will try to instill in her independence, self -esteem and the knowledge that she is loved: all the things that had been warped for me. I hope I continue to do that for all my children.

So here I am. I have done therapy on and off since I began dealing with my abuse. I have done group and individual. I know my journey is far from over. When I first started to recover, when I spoke about my abuse I was very nonchalant, totally disconnected from my feeling. As I grew and healed, I cried each time I talked about it. Now, I am at a place where I feel whole with all the pieces: the child, teenage, and adult together. Believe me this did not happen over night, and I am not saying the road to this point wasn’t bumpy. During this ride, my father has died, and I am building a relationship with my mother, brother and sister. Fortunately, everywhere I have lived I have had a counselor. Sometimes I just needed to talk to someone to know I was still sane. Plus, I still keep in contact with friends from my very first group, for times when I just need to know I am not alone. When I was in group therapy, I went every week. And now, the last time I did individual therapy I went once a month and this was the first time I was going and I was not in crisis. Yet this therapy session seemed the hardest and the most healing because I was not learning how to function in crisis mood but how to be me, the whole me in everyday life. Since I have moved again, I have not found a counselor nor am I looking. I know my journey has not ended. It is a never-ending spiral. When the time comes for me to go find someone I will. Until then, I will continue to grow and heal, building on my last therapy. The abuse is a part of me and it shapes who I am today, and I am very proud of who I am. I am not only an incest survivor: I am a mother, a friend, a wife, a certified nurse-midwife, and a strong, beautiful woman. I hope my story helps women to see that they are not alone and regardless of what is happening in their lives that they too are strong, beautiful, and survivors.

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

Trixie's Story

You can call me Trixie. I am a writer, born in the south, where I lived until the age of four years old. Dad was offered a better job with better wages, so off to the north we went, Michigan, so I really don’t remember those times in the south. I was told that Dad was more than happy to be moving from the south. That’s what my grandmother used to always say, it was more for me ‘cause I was born sickly and needed medical care.’

From the time of age four until the age of 13, my dad was molesting me. From the age of 15 to the age of 21, I was molested by my mother-aunt’s lovers, who were also very secretly involved in ritual abuse in the town where we lived. From the time of infancy to the time I left home, I was sexually abused, subject to tortuous ritual abuse.

I was just 12 years old and got pregnant by my dad. Being so young and not all that educated on sexuality at all, I didn’t even know that I was carrying my dad’s child, and if I did I wasn’t connected to myself. All I knew was that my stomach was growing bigger and bigger, my period ceased, and I had no one to turn to. Terrified and wanting my period to come, not wanting my mother-aunt to be angry with me, I tried very hard to give myself my own abortion. I got the idea from seeing a movie about women trying the same thing. I don’t remember the name; I just know that it made an impact on me. Not knowing that this was TV and people need to go to a doctor to have something like this done, all I knew was that I was terrified, and had to do something. I went into the bathroom with a coat hanger and stuck it up and down inside my vagina until I started to see blood. Thinking that I had gotten rid of what was growing inside of me, I felt scared, but I also felt a big relief, or so I thought. I really had not gotten rid of the baby at all. In a couple of months, I gave birth to my daughter. My mother-aunt had her delivered at home, she being a certified nurse.

I never had a chance to bond with the daughter I gave birth to. She was taken away from me right away. She was raised to believe that I was her sister. My mother-aunt raised her as if she gave birth to her. I wish she really had given birth to her because of the way she was conceived. I hated her. Raped by my dad, she had no chance of ever getting any love from me. She was born in 1967; I was only 12, just a child myself. I can say that she was a beautiful child, and I was so scared of her that every time she cried, I would disconnect from myself and it would be a new day.

By 1970, I was pregnant again. This one did not live. It was aborted by cult members, so once again there wasn’t any bonding.

Two years later, I gave birth to a son. Once again I tried to give myself my own abortion, but I failed. This baby was conceived by one of my mother-aunt’s lovers, and the baby boy was taken right away from me. To this day, I don’t know what happened to him. This pattern continued.

I did have one mishap, and that was I did have a miscarriage. To this day, I believe that was from the abortions I had. That was in 1978. I do have to say that deep in my heart I felt that I wasn’t ever to have children of my own.

My abuse started when I was four years old, and it ended the day I left home at the age of 21, carrying my mother-aunt’s lover’s baby. But this time I didn’t care. I had finally found someone who truly loved me, loved me enough to ask me to marry him. I never told anyone that I was pregnant again; for fear that they would take this baby too. I think that because I was getting married, I truly wanted to keep this baby, but my biggest fear was that I couldn’t let my husband know I was pregnant, because it wasn’t his, and I feared that he wouldn’t marry me. That is something I have carried with me for all of these years.

My daughter was born in December. My husband and I married in July, six months after she was born. He fell in love with her right away. Me, on the other hand, I was so scared. I knew not one thing about taking care of a baby. Since all of the other babies were taken away from me, I felt this one would be too. I remember in the delivery room, I watched what everyone was doing, and made sure that my baby girl was very close by, and that no harm came to her, but my doctor said that everything was just fine.

Back then, you gave birth, and the baby was cleaned, and you were cleaned. You rested in your room and the baby was put in the nursery so that the mother could get some rest. So, once again the baby was taken away until it was time to feed the child. Other than that, they did the rest. They did ask if you were going to breast feed or do the bottle. I chose the bottle.

The doctors informed me that I was carrying a tumor about the size of a grapefruit, and that they would have to do surgery right away. They did, and that meant more time in the hospital. That was a relief for me; because I had no idea how I was to care for this tiny creature that God had blessed me with.

Two weeks later, we were to go home and start our happy family. For the first week, all I could do was cry and cry. I never felt so depressed and alone, even though I wasn’t alone, at least not in the sense I was feeling. I couldn’t explain to anyone what I was feeling. One minute I wanted my baby; the next I couldn’t stand the sight of her. Or, the fear would come over me that she would be taken from me. I made a promise to myself that if I was to ever have a child, a daughter, I would never let her out of my sight, and no harm would come to her. That promise I kept. Just because I was treated so horrible and knew that I was never to be touched or love, I felt this was how I was to treat my daughter. I also knew that this couldn’t be right either.

My daughter was getting older. I was growing to love her more and more each day. What went with that love were also no boundaries and an over-protective mother who would never let her out of my sight. She would never have a spanking by me, and that would include my husband, or family members on my husband’s side.

By this time I had no contact with the family that raised me, and they had none with me. Just as I am sitting here writing this and thinking, trying so hard to forget my own childhood, and the bonding that I never had with my real mother or father. It’s been in the last year that I learned that the woman that raised me wasn’t my real mother at all, but my aunt. What I have been told is that my real mother couldn’t keep me. Being raised in the south, young girls that got pregnant had to be married so as not to bring shame on the family name, so my real mother was sent away to have me, and the old sister that was married was to raise me.

They both got more than they could handle, for I was born with a very rare disability, which I was told was a curse on my real mother, for what she had done.

So, having my baby daughter, I would have to say, was very hard, and the bonding was almost too overbearing for me to deal with. I know deep down in my heart that if I had been loved, and touched the natural way that mothers are supposed to have when they bring life into the world . . . but sometimes that can be hard when you have no one in your life to show you or tell you that this is the way it is to be done.

I am not saying that I was a bad mother, because I wasn’t. But I do feel that I could have been a much better mother if I had not had the kind of abuse that I had to experience, and someone to show me what to do. My daughter and I have somewhat of a relationship. We are not as close as I wish we could be, but one thing I can say is that I did the best that I knew how, and that’s okay.

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

Schedule of book signings for Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering, and Healing after Sexual Abuse

August 14th, 2008: 7:00pm-9:00pm
722 Brooks St., Ann Arbor, MI
“Working with Survivor Moms” This workshop will provide an overview of post traumatic stress, trauma and the evidence-based studies of the effects of sexual abuse on childbearing. The presenters will discuss issues of confidentiality and the importance of boundaries, as well as outlining how maternity and mental health professionals can collaborate to facilitate healing and post traumatic growth. Onsite sales of the presenters new book, Survivor Moms will benefit the Doulas Care Program. Presenters are Mickey Sperlich MA, CPM and Julia Seng PhD CNM.
Part of quarterly educational series called “With Women: Emerging Issues in Care for the Childbearing Year” is offered each year. This forum is open to other professionals in the community for a fee, but is free for our volunteer doulas. It is approved for 1.5 nursing and doula CEUs. Fee $10; 1.5 Nursing and Doula CEUs approved; add $20 to fee for CEU processing; free to Doulas Care Volunteers. To register, call 734-332-8070 or doulascare@center4cby.com.

September 23rd, 2008: 4:00pm
Shaman Drum Bookshop: 311-315 South State St., Ann Arbor, MI
Academic reception and book signing. More information: 734.662.7407

October 7th, 2008: 12:00 - 1:00 PM
2239 Lane Hall, 204 S. State St, Ann Arbor, MI
Mickey Sperlich and Julia Seng read from their recently published book. This talk is part of the Institute for Research on Women and Gender’s Perspectives on Healing Series. This event is co-sponsored by School of Social Work. For more information: (734)764-9537, or irwg@umich.edu.

October 17th, 2008: Mickey Sperlich will be one of the authors featured at a book signing gala event at the 2008 Midwives Alliance of North America Conference, in Traverse City, Michigan. The historic State Theatre will be the venue for the event, in conjunction with the highlight evening of the MotherBaby Film Festival. For more info, contact http://mana.org/mana2008/

October 21st, 2008: 7:30 pm
Crazy Wisdom Bookstore & Tea Room 114 S. Main St. Ann Arbor, MI Presentation and book signing. For more information: 734.665.2757 or rachel@crazywisdom.net

Ann's Story

MY GOD IS AN AWESOME GOD!
"Then I will make up to you for the years that the swarming locust has eaten...” Joel 2:25
"...you meant evil against me, BUT God meant it for good...” Genesis 50:20

I must go way back to my birth to begin my story. I was born 24 months after my parents were married. They had my sister exactly 9 months after they were married. My father was finishing a college degree and working two jobs. My mom was newly married, living away from her family, and taking care of a toddler and an infant. Finances were tight. My family followed very strict and legalistic Roman Catholic rules and doctrine both before Vatican II and after. My mother had a nervous breakdown approximately nine months after I was born. She was hospitalized for a few weeks. She readily admits that she was not able to care for me as well as she would have liked. I spent a lot of time as a baby propped up on the couch, and when feeding time came, my bottle was propped up with a pillow as well. With the emotional condition she was in, my mom did the best she could, and when my dad was home, he helped out as well. My maternal grandmother also spent some time with us to help out. Regardless, the family situation, and perhaps even my genetics, created a little girl who felt insecure, afraid, alone, and unloved.

This was the perfect set up for a little girl to be sexually abused, and I was. Beginning around age four, my best friend's father, our next door neighbor, and a close friend of my parents, began to "set me up" by telling me how beautiful I was, how much he loved me, how precious I was, etc. He really made me feel special. Then came the subtle moves. First he began by showing me pornographic pictures of himself. Then he started physically molesting me and teaching me how to please him. I knew it was wrong, I knew I shouldn't talk about it... I felt ashamed, yet I was drawn back to him again and again, because he made me feel special. I remember the romantic feeling of being in his arms as he taught me how to ice skate. I remember the infatuation feelings, conflicting with the shame and fear I felt.

I was stuck in a state of ambiguity far beyond a four year olds' ability to comprehend. In fact, this continued until I was about 11 or 12 years old, when we moved. He came over for a visit, and wanted to take some pictures of me, in a dress, in none too modest positions. I finally said no. He quickly left our home and I never saw him again until my wedding day, when he shocked me by french kissing me as he went through the receiving line!

I never considered it sexual abuse because though only a child, I felt I was a willing participant. I never talked about it because of the shame. In fact, my sister had even warned me to stay away from him. I felt weak, confused, stupid and very guilty.

As a child, I was a good little catholic girl who went to a catholic school and followed all the rules. But the God I learned about was a harsh, judgmental God, who was not safe. I had to live a perfect, sin-free life to be worthy of any kind of love from Him, or relationship with Him.

Then when I was 15, I worked on Saturdays at our local rectory for the Priest of our church. There was a missionary priest on furlough also staying there. He and I became close friends. Even though I was overweight (and always had been, which contributed to my low self-esteem), he told me I was beautiful, that I was special, and that he loved me. Again, I fell prey to a perfect set up. He would ask me to come into his office for various projects. Originally, he showered me with presents and trinkets from his home country, India. From there, he progressed to fondling my body. When I resisted, he would say, "It's ok, I love you, I just want to feel your heart and soul. I want to feel Jesus in you." He also used the excuse that he wanted to see if American girls were anatomically like Indian girls. And it was ok, because he was a Priest, he wouldn't hurt me. I resisted somewhat, but again felt confused by all the mixed messages in my head, and how my body reacted. I remember at one point standing there while he fondled me, looking at a picture of Jesus on the wall, and thinking, "What are You looking at? What are You thinking?” “ Where are You?

I finally went home one day and told my mom about it, who reassured me a Priest would never do such a thing, and I must have misunderstood his touches. One Saturday I was in his office, and the regular parish Priest came in and turned towards me with a very stern voice, and said, "What are you doing in here?" I responded by saying I was working on a project for Fr. Frances. The parish Priest said, "You work for me, not him, and I don't ever want you coming back here again." I was ashamed. I knew that he knew what was going on, and it appeared it was my fault. Eventually I got another job, and the Priest left the area, and I was left feeling even more dirty and ashamed. Again, I didn't consider this as abuse, because apparently it was my fault. Again, I felt judgment from God too.

By age 12 I had learned many things. I had seen a lot of pornography, I had been sexually used by two adult males who told me wonderful things about myself, and was raised with a fairly liberal set of guidelines, as was typical in the 60's. I learned very young what I thought men valued women for. I learned at a very young age how to please a man. And I learned at a very young age; I was dirty, disgusting, and valueless, except for my sexuality. Eventually as I entered my teenage years I also learned how much control and power my sexuality gave me. It seemed that was the only valuable or powerful (perhaps dangerous)? thing I possessed as a female.

Life went on for me. I struggled with anxiety and depression when I went away to college. I started a lifestyle of "partying" which involved drinking, smoking marijuana, and being sexually promiscuous. Not surprisingly I fell away from the Catholic Church and God. I was desperately seeking love, affirmation, feelings of worthiness and acceptance. And now, I realize, I was also seeking revenge, control, and power over the males in my life. I thought sex was the answer to feeling acceptable to a man, but deep down I knew better.

I finally "crashed" emotionally. I knew I wasn't getting what I really needed, and that I couldn't continue living life this way. But the pain of reality was too much for me. I didn't know which way to turn, what to do, where to go (I had decided I did NOT want to stay in nursing school - it was too emotionally draining). I entered a period of major depression. Fortunately God had His hand on me.

I was befriended by a Christian family who took me into their home, to get me away from an apartment that had become a party center. This family was a living example of what Christianity SHOULD be. They didn't know me well, but knew I needed help. I still got involved with an abusive relationship, but God was at work. I started going to church with them, and finally was starting to feel someone loved me, someone cared. That someone was not only the people that surrounded me from that church, but God! It seems as my relationship with people went, so did my relationship with God. At the same time, I met a Christian man who for some reason was drawn to me. Our lifestyles had been entirely different. He had been raised conservative Baptist, he didn't drink, didn't dance, etc. When I asked him if he wanted to go out and "party", he said, "No, but would you like to go to Denny's for a piece of apple pie and a cup of coffee?" This intrigued me, I had never had such an offer, I was used to a beer and a joint! I went and we developed a "friendship". We both decided we just wanted to be friends because we both were dealing with major issues in our lives. One year later he proposed to me. God's hands were definitely upon both of us.

So my life seemed to be getting on track, and God was now an important part of my life. I accepted God as Lord and Savior. I knew he forgave me for all I had done. I knew I was going to heaven, should I die. I got a taste of His love for me, by being cared for by all the Christians I was now hanging around. I got a taste of unconditional love and forgiveness from my husband.

Tom and I got married and all was well. The depression had lifted, I still struggled with anxiety, but given my family history, I just assumed it was all genetic, and I just had to grit my teeth and get through it. I found that if I could control the circumstances around me, I felt in control and did not have much anxiety. When circumstances reeled out of MY control, so did my anxiety. I prayed for God to take away the anxiety. But it didn't leave. It eased up, but left me with irritable bowel syndrome and a constant fear of having a panic attack, going crazy, and having to be hospitalized, as I had seen what had happened to my mother and constantly feared going down the same path. I had seen what happens to someone in isolation, I had seen a patient coming out of shock treatments; I had seen my share of mental hospitals and was terrified that would be my fate too.

Then we wanted to start a family. We went through 12 years of the pain of infertility. However, as an attempt to shut down my anxiety and pain, I had decided I was NOT going to let things like this affect me emotionally. I vowed I wasn't going to "feel" the ups and downs of infertility, and eventually even life! I learned to make jokes out of everything to help me stay numb. We went through testing, daily hormone shots, ultrasounds and artificial insemination. I got pregnant with twins, but ended up in the hospital for eight weeks with life-threatening symptoms, from a diagnosis of hyper-ovarian stimulation. Most of the fluid in my circulatory system went to my ovaries, which swelled up with fluid, and I looked as if I was 9 months pregnant. My fluids and electrolytes were totally erratic; my potassium levels were all over the place, which put my heart function at risk. I was in kidney failure and unable to pass any of the fluid. Finally they inserted a tube into my abdomen and drained out a majority of the fluid. Within a few days, it was back.

Finally, the Dr. said he would have to stop the hormone therapy I was getting to maintain the twins' pregnancy, but then I would certainly miscarry, but the pregnancies weren't normal any way. One fetus never developed much past fertilization, the other was underdeveloped for his/her gestational age, and was not implanted in the uterus correctly. Thus, the hormones were stopped, my abdomen was drained again, and I was sent home.

The remaining fluid started leaving my body, my kidneys started working and I miscarried the twins, about a month apart from each other, and I figured this was all the consequences of my sins when I was younger. I was well ingrained into a lifestyle of NOT FEELING, so I miscarried my two babies with no tears, head held high, and a toughness that showed my heart was surrounded by steel! You see, in my head, I was able to accept God forgave me, but not in my heart, and I could not forgive myself! I was still dealing with the consequences of a God who wasn't exactly the loving, Godly Father I needed and longed for.

The doctors said there was nothing more they could do for me, and would I consider adoption. Friends from church continued to pray for me and for the opening of my womb. But I knew it would never happen. You see during my period of promiscuousness I feared at one time I was pregnant and I went to church and prayed like crazy that my womb would be closed. Little did I realize I was in a sense, making a vow! Having learned to be emotionally numb, I never shed a tear over the trauma we had gone through, over the loss of my two children, or over the loss of the hope of ever having children. My mom was suicidal again, and as I tried to contain and control my life and my emotions, my anxiety turned into panic disorder. I was treated with medication, but I still struggled emotionally. I still felt like God had "lured me in, and then pulled the carpet out from under me, one more time, as punishment or consequences for my "sins".

I finally cracked enough that I had to stay home from work for a while, and started practicing anorexia and bulimia, until I lost around 100 pounds and started vomiting blood. I started Christian counseling as well. I thought that I was just under too much stress and had to learn how to deal with it. I never mentioned anything about sexual abuse to my counselor, because I never considered myself a victim. I considered myself the PERPETRATOR! During one session, however, I told my counselor about a phone call I had received from my mom. She called and said, "You'll never guess who got arrested for raping a four year old little girl." I said, "Oh, I bet I can. It was Mr. X." My mother was shocked, as they were still close friends. "How did you know?" she asked. I remained silent. She said, "Did he ever do anything to you?" I remained silent. "He did, didn't he? What did he do?" I said, "I don't want to talk about it." (At this time my mom was still struggling with depression, and I didn't want to add to her burden, nor was I sure she was a "safe" person to tell.) I told my counselor about this phone call from my mom, only because I felt guilty that if I had spoken up years ago, perhaps this little four-year-old NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOR to Mr. X would have been spared being raped! My counselor calmly said, "What do you mean, spoken up?" I proceeded to tell him about my past. My denial was so thick he couldn't get me to accept I had been "sexually abused" (for some reason I hated that word - it sounded so disgustingly weak - like I had been used) - my toughness was trying it's hardest to keep its' shell on. My counselor tried to convince me it wasn't my fault, that I was only a four-year-old when it started! He suggested perhaps I could attend a Christian-based sexual abuse small group ministry called SALTS (Sexual Abuse Light To Survivors). I said, "No way, I don't even want to talk to you about it, let alone go to some kind of group of sobbing, wimpy women, living their life with a victim mentality, crying over things that happened to them years ago." He didn't push me to attend the group, but we spent a lot of time talking and praying about my abusive history.

In the mean time, my friends from church continued to pray for a child for us. I also received some healing prayer at a women's retreat from the leader of the retreat and her worship leader. But as part of the healing prayer, I had to repent of being angry with God, of being angry with my mother, and blaming God. In counseling with my Pastor, I also had to repent of the "vow" I had made for God to close my womb during those wild years. Exactly one month later I conceived our daughter, Laura Elizabeth!

I stopped all eating disorders, partly because I was pregnant, and partly because I was NOW attending the SALTS group and because the Christian counseling I had been receiving was very helpful in helping me cope with all the major issues in my life. The SALTS program provided a group of very STRONG women who were Christians and were willing to bare their hearts and souls in order to help others walk through their woundedness. Learning what "loving well and being loved well" looked like was modeled well at SALTS. I started learning what boundaries were and how to establish healthy boundaries. I learned how to tell my story to others, as a testimony and encouragement of how the Lord can heal us. The women in my group prayed with me and walked alongside me as I went through nine months of pregnancy. I was very fearful the first four months of my pregnancy, afraid that once again, I would be disappointed. But God's miracle was born on January 21, 1994.

She was a beautiful newborn baby girl, perfectly healthy, and all her parts were present. She didn't like to sleep much at night or for very long at all, any time, so fatigue was a constant state. She started losing weight, but was eating constantly, and we were at the Dr.'s office every other day getting her weighed. At 3 weeks, I asked the Dr. when her yellow eyes would turn white, and he immediately held her and said something like, "She's jaundiced, we need to get some lab work done." I thought yeah, well, a lot of newborns are jaundiced, no big deal. But he told me it was a big deal, because this wasn't typical newborn jaundiced, this was "late onset" jaundiced, and could indicate a problem.

To make a very long story short, after two weeks of all kinds of testing, and phone calls and visits to a specialist, she was diagnosed with a genetic enzyme deficiency, called alpha-1 anti-trypsin deficiency. She was in liver failure. There was no treatment at her age. There was a 50% chance she would die, and a 50% chance her liver would adjust to the missing enzyme and start functioning again. All we could do was wait. I was furious at God. How could he bless us with a miracle, only to "test" me again, by taking her away! Again, I assumed some blame. I was somehow having to live out the consequences of my past sins. I constantly needed assurance from the Dr. that her condition was genetic and not caused by anything I had done during or before my pregnancy. My emotions were off the charts. The emotional deadness I had learned to practice was gone, I was alive, felt emotions, and it felt terrible! My dam broke; tears came for hours at a time. My steel heart absolutely melted while I was "in the fire". I was given anti-anxiety medication and an antidepressant to cope. Obviously my emotional healing and relationship with God was tried again. I still wasn't trusting God as I should. I was still blaming myself, and thought I was being punished again.

God provided a second miracle, I believe, and answered many, many prayers, and Laura's liver finally adjusted to not having the enzymes and started functioning normally. Although to this day, she is followed by a pediatric gastroenterologist, her liver continues to function well. I was VERY thankful to God to say the least.

Because of my dysfunctional childhood, and now seeing all the affects it had on me as an adult, I had decided I wanted (actually needed) to think I was a perfect mother. This meant, I put a lot of pressure on myself and my anxieties continued. I hadn't truly turned her over to God. I just wasn't sure I could trust Him. After all, look what He allowed to happen to me?

I became a very controlling mom. I became very protective. I was also very affectionate. I held her constantly as an infant (I was NOT going to repeat a cycle!). I actually spent the night vomiting the first night I tried to leave her. Probably the healthiest choice I made was to go back to work and put her in day care at six months. It helped me to put things into perspective. There was a world outside of my daughter and my husband. (Actually even my husband got a lot less attention at this point.)

I continued to get good Christian counseling, continued in the SALTS program for two more years, and emotional and spiritual healing continued for me. I started to learn about God's grace. At SALTS, it was embedded in my brain that I WAS abused, that I was NOT responsible for it, and that it was OK to be angry with God, but that He does and DID love me. AND, most important, recovery is possible! My biggest question was "Where was God when I was abused?" I finally got my answer when the director of the SALTS program held me in her arms as I was sobbing and said, "Ann, He was standing right next to you crying for you!"

As a result of SALTS I learned how I had become emotionally DEAD and shutdown, so I didn't have to deal with my feelings. I also learned how to come alive again! I learned how to feel. I was forced to take a look at how controlling I was, and how I didn't trust God. I learned (and am STILL learning) how to let go of control, to realize, as much as I THOUGHT I was in control I wasn't. It was a facade! I learned how to feel the pain of living in a fallen world, and not take on blame or shame. I learned that God WAS a safe God after all. That He would never hurt me. That life is hard because we live in a fallen world; with people who are evil and who sin. I learned how to release my daughter to God's protection. I learned all this through the SALTS program, as well as having friends surround me that were also walking through the recovery process and provided encouragement, prayer and could speak truth to me, through their own experiences. I learned it was OK to cry! It did not mean I was going crazy, or that I was weak. God gave us tears for a reason. It's a release. It's ok. I'm ok when I cry.

I wish I could say life is wonderful now. I wish I could say I am fully recovered, and never struggle. I can't. Recovery is a life-long process. I will always be in the recovery mode. I will always live in a fallen world where there is illness, sin, death and sadness. I still have control issues, and try to deaden my negative feelings with over eating and over spending. I am still taking medication.

My past still affects the way I parent my daughter. I still do not like to leave my daughter alone for very long. I still am very careful about who I chose to baby-sit. I still am very protective and probably overly enthusiastic about teaching her about good touches and bad touches. I check her private parts on a regular basis by watching her take baths, etc. I have to admit I spoil her. I do not like to hear her cry, or say, "I hate you". I don't follow through on discipline, as I should. I indulge her too much, and often let her have her way. I give her too many choices and too much power.

BUT, I CAN say, "GOD IS GOOD". I can say I have a healthy personal relationship with a God I can cry out to. I can say, " I was sexually abused, but I have walked through the results of that and am in the healing process!” I have my eyes opened to how I am raising my daughter and though I can admit I am not a perfect parent, I am aware there are areas I need to work on with her. I am now able to teach my daughter about having a personal relationship with God - about having Jesus in her heart and how much he loves her. I believe the cycle has been broken, and she has earned what unconditional love is, from God, my husband, and I. I have learned to repent of my sinful patterns, which are a result of having been abused. I've learned how to repent of putting up walls and controlling relationships because of my issues and fears. I'm learning how to let my husband be the leader and initiator in our marriage. I'm learning how to establish authority over my daughter. (There's that healthy boundaries issue again.)

Ironic as it is, I am now a paid employee at the Open Hearts Ministry/SALTS office! I CAN offer an ear to others that are going through what I went through. I can offer hope to those who feel they will never smile again, never trust again, never love again, never see the sun shine again. I can tell people, "God IS good, He was right there crying for you!" I cannot make sense of what I went through as a child, BUT I am using my past to minister to others. I am aware that I still have imperfections and issues, but I am also aware that I can stand in front of God with all my faults and He still loves me, accepts me, DELIGHTS in me, and even SINGS over me! I am learning that to be whole before God means to stand before Him with my imperfections and virtues and to hear Him telling me I an acceptable. I am learning I don't need to be perfect.

I can truly say to Satan and my abusers, "...you meant evil against me, BUT God meant it for good...” (Genesis 50:20), and I can hear God saying to me, "I will make up to you for the years that the swarming locust has eaten.” (Joel 2:25)

One of my favorite quotes now is from Joyce Meyers, "I am not where I want to be, but THANK GOD I am not where I was!"

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

Carrie's Story

I grew up in a suburb of St. Paul, Minnesota, a child of the ‘50’s. I am the youngest of three, with two older brothers. Being the only girl had its advantages and disadvantages, and I was always aware of being the only female child in my family. My parents are both alcoholics, and they drank throughout most of my childhood; they decided to get treatment and stop drinking during my last year in high school.

My mother was psychologically unstable and self-medicated with alcohol. She suffered from depression, was possibly bi-polar, and was hospitalized for a brief period when I was very young. It was around this period of time that she began to abuse me sexually. I was about two years old, I believe, when the sexual abuse began. It lasted until I was roughly five and started kindergarten. She mostly abused me in the bathroom: when I was on the toilet she would “wipe me,” which ended up in genital fondling, and I remember her coming up to me from behind at the sink as I washed or brushed my teeth, and she would touch or caress my bottom and reach around to handle my crotch.

More commonly, however, she would give me a bath, often getting into the tub with me. Not only did she “wash” me with her hands, she also had me “wash” her – putting my hands on her breasts, using my hands to rub her genitals. As strange and upsetting as this was, the most frightening thing was that during these episodes, she would seem to disappear, or dissociate: her eyes glazed over, her breathing changed, she was off in another world somewhere. It really seemed to me that she had fallen into a hole in her world somewhere, and as much as I hated what she made me do during these “baths,” I was even more terrified that she would disappear and never return.

My mother said that if I ever told anyone what we did the police would come and take her away, or else take me away. I didn’t like my father very much – he was unpredictable, violent, and often seemed uninterested in me – so I neither wanted to be left with him nor be shipped off to a big, unknown place. Once she even told me that if my father found out he would kill her. I had seen enough of his drunken behavior to find this plausible. So in spite of my terror of her, my love for my mother and my belief that I needed her in order to survive were paramount. In fact, at the age of 2 or 3, a child is truly dependent on her mother. Mom was indeed sick, and in her sickness she took advantage of my vulnerability and trust – as do all perpetrators.

I didn’t remember any of this until I was 30 years old. Up until that point, I just knew I continually had conflicting feelings about my mother. Because of her alcoholism, I didn’t need to look very far to see why I would have such mixed feelings, and so once I started school, I just buried the memories of the way she touched me as a preschooler. She didn’t actually ever try to touch me that way again, but there were plenty of covert and inappropriate episodes – especially as I entered puberty. She made numerous comments about my developing breasts, she showed me how to insert a tampon in a way that was extremely painful and humiliating (I didn’t want to do it and she forced me to try,) she made constant angry reference to my interest in boys, and so on. I can’t remember a time during my childhood that I didn’t feel embarrassed and disappointed in her; and yet my love for her and my hope that one day she would change never died.

The sexual abuse I always did remember, though, was inflicted on me by my brother Tom beginning at age 11. He would come into my bedroom late at night and ask to “cuddle” me. Our home was such a lonely, horrible battlefield from day to day that cuddling was a welcome change. I enjoyed and found comfort in my brother’s hugs and holding. It began as a safe refuge for me. Soon it became just another battleground as Tom started touching me, trying to kiss me, trying to get me to feel his erections (he was 13). I constantly denied him, pushed him away, said no. Eventually he would leave my bed, angry and frustrated, trying to make me feel as if there was something wrong with me for not wanting to “love” him, as he put it. I began locking my door at night, but the lock was pretty flimsy, and was easily sprung with just a toothpick, so he got in anyway. This continued off and on for about two years. I think the only reason he stopped was that he found regular sex partners and was getting his “needs” met. One of his lovers, as I later found out, was our high school music teacher. So, as one of my therapists said, my family of origin was “inappropriate all over the place.”

Since I never forgot this aspect of my history, when I began therapy many years later, it was one of the focal points. Tom and my other brother Ted both became drug addicts, and as part of Tom’s recovery process, I had the opportunity to confront him about his abuse of me. This helped me move forward, but I’m afraid the same cannot be said for my brother. Tom’s sexual addiction makes it impossible for me to have contact with him anymore. He is about to get married for the fourth time. I love him deeply, but I need to protect my family and myself.

Now, what I really want to say, the reason I’m writing this – my life has a very happy ending. My life is a series of miracles. Although I’ve been deeply wounded, I continue to experience a great deal of healing. Becoming a mother has been one of the best ways I’ve found to heal from this nightmare. My children, and the process of birthing and raising them, are the strongest, most positive gifts I’ve received. My work on earth as a mother is empowering and joyful.

Here’s how I got to that point: The initial psychotherapy I did was a good start, but there came a time when I realized how disconnected I was from my body. This was around the time I was preparing to get married – a happy but often scary time for an incest survivor. One day, while lunching with my friend Ryan, he began to tell me about taking lessons in the Alexander Technique (AT). I had heard about AT work for years, as my background is in the performing arts. I didn’t really know what it was, though it sounded fascinating and I knew it was helping Ryan with some of his vocal problems. The vague sensation that I wasn’t really in touch with my body rose up again during this conversation, and I decided to try Alexander lessons. I loved it immediately, and within the course of six months or less I began to recover my memories of what my mother had done to me. It was profoundly disturbing, but at the same time, a relief to remember – it explained so much about how I had always felt about myself and her, and the choices I had always made. I began working with a psychotherapist again, and I started attending a 12-step program called Survivors of Incest Anonymous (SIA). The combination of a good shrink, a peer support group, and most of all, my truly gifted, kind and compassionate AT teacher provided me with the resources I needed to heal. The Alexander work, in particular, was most effective, because I was working with my body – reclaiming it actually – and I learned how to let someone touch me deeply and intimately and not have it be abusive or manipulative. I learned about boundaries and self-respect.

Becoming a mother about two years into this process is what gave me the courage to confront my mother and father about what happened. There’s a kind of fierceness that only a mother possesses, and when I learned in 1991 that I was pregnant, I felt all my priorities shifting into protecting my unborn child and myself. Once my daughter was born, I could not fathom how anyone could sexually abuse his or her own child (or anyone else’s for that matter). The tenderness and trust, which my baby extended to me, made me even angrier with my own parents. It didn’t matter that my mother had been ill; she hurt me. It didn’t matter that she hid what she was doing from my father; he should have known and protected me. These basic feelings needed to resurface, and my daughter’s birth assured that they did.

My pregnancy gave me the opportunity to “call the shots” when it came to my well-being and the well being of my baby. I hired midwives instead of doctors, created a birth plan with my husband, felt some measure of control by taking childbirth preparation classes. As far as the birth experience goes, ironically, my history as an abuse survivor was helpful. I have a lot of experience “disappearing” into myself, so during contractions I did just that – I went really deep. Of course, two-plus years of AT lessons were a big help as well. But I also believe that having worked out a lot of my issues about my mother really prepared me well for the intensity of the birth experience. Compared to the intensity of re-experiencing my forgotten abuse, birthing a baby was easy!

Four years later I gave birth to another daughter. I had even more control this time, because I chose a homebirth, where I could have only friends and family with me. No impersonal hospital or strangers hovering around. My older daughter watched her baby sister come into the world, an exciting, powerful experience for her which I hope will prepare her in some way should she choose to have children.

In both birth experiences I yelled my head off – a positive antidote to years of enforced silence. It felt good to make noise, it felt like the vibrations of sound coming out of me were helping the baby to come out as well. And I think the part of me that wanted to scream when my mother or brother were molesting me was really satisfied by the sounds I made in this more positive context.

Breastfeeding was a big challenge for me, because I found it difficult to “force” my baby’s mouth onto my breast. It felt like what my mother had done to me, even though I knew there were no similarities. Once I got the hang of it, it was a nice experience, but my anxiety about it, coupled with a gross lack of information and support, led to a mastitis infection one week postpartum. The second time around, I hired a lactation consultant, who helped build my confidence. Still, this is probably the only area of motherhood that the incest affected negatively. I never enjoyed breastfeeding the way other mothers describe it; I never got that nursing “high” I’ve heard about. I appreciated being able to provide the food my babies needed, but when they weaned themselves I didn’t miss it much. I think it must have reminded me too much of the enmeshment my mother forced on me as a toddler.

Most importantly, perhaps, my children have shown me that, in spite of the damage done, I am basically okay. I learned that I have the capacity to love appropriately and sanely, unlike my parents. I had been afraid that I wouldn’t be capable, or that I would slide into some kind of dementia, but that is not the case. Of course I make mistakes – big ones, sometimes – but they are teaching me to be the best mother I can be. Their presence in my life reinforces the idea that I am good enough, that I am deserving of love. Mothering these two beautiful girls, in fact, teaches me what love is.

My experiences with healing from my childhood nightmare led me to become a teacher of the Alexander Technique myself. I now help others learn about how to live in their bodies with more ease and awareness; I use a gentle touch to guide my students in the way I was so beautifully guided. I am also completing my certification as a Childbirth Educator. I want more women to know what an empowering experience the birth process can be.

There were times when I wanted to give up; there still are, though not so many as before. What helps me go on is knowing this: even though so much was stolen from me – crucial moments of my childhood that I can never get back – I have also gained the most precious gifts of my adulthood as a result. I am a more compassionate mother, wife, teacher and human being because of what was done to me and because of my unwavering insistence upon healing it.

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

Judy's Story

My first memory of sexual abuse was when I was 6 years old and in the first grade in Missoula, Montana. My little sister and I had a baby-sitter that was a 13-year-old boy. I remember one night he told me to go upstairs to bed with my sister, wait until I was sure she was asleep and then come downstairs and he would have a surprise for me. Since he was in the position of authority, I had to obey him, right? And I didn’t know that sexual abuse even existed so I was very unprepared for what happened later that night and for many nights afterwards. I came downstairs later, after I was positive my little sister slept soundly, and Billy was sitting on the couch with his pants around his knees. Curiosity overcame my shyness at this point and I remember walking to the couch to see what he had in his hand. This was my first sight of an uncircumcised penis. I didn’t understand how he could pull the foreskin back and forth, hiding and revealing this new interesting piece of anatomy. He invited me to touch it, saying that if I did everything he told me he would give me candy and tell my mom that I had been a very good girl indeed, as opposed to disobeying him. I tentatively touched the head. He asked me to sit on his lap straddling him, after taking off my panties and pulling up my floor length little girl’s nightie. I did as he asked. I remember he scooted me up higher on his lap so the head of his penis fit snugly against my labia. After that, I remember very little. I remember crying and seeing blood on my nightgown. Billy changed my nightie and redressed me again. Next, I remember riding to the store on his bike to get the promised candy bought with money stolen out of my piggy bank, like my stolen virginity. My three-year-old sister was left behind, safely sleeping.

There were other instances such as this, which left a blur in my mind. Billy used to baby-sit a little boy a year older than I, along with my sister and me. Billy would lock us in the closet, directing us to have sex, while he watched through a peephole. He would put us unclothed in the washtub, and instruct us to have oral sex. I didn’t want to put it in my mouth and I didn’t want him to lick me “there” but what choice did I have? He was the boss, and I didn’t want to get into trouble with my mom for being a bad girl. So through my many tears and much begging, I did as I was told. And often there were candies or cookies waiting for us afterward. So, here I am at six years of age, having sexual relations with two members of the opposite sex. I watched out for my little sister, though. I hated her for escaping what I had endured, but at the same time I made sure she had no part in it. I remember my mom bringing home a new boyfriend and him giving my sister a bath. I sat there and watched his every move making sure he did no more than the essential bathing and that his touch was in no way sexual. Already, I didn’t trust men and was looking for abusers in every man. I don’t know how long this went on in terms of months or years, only that it went on through two residences and ended when I was in the second grade.

My next abuser was one of my stepfathers. I don’t want to minimize any abuse, but this abuse I suffered was more psychological than physical. There was no actual penetration, just touching through my clothes and lots of sexual innuendoes. I believe it started when I was 11, just 2 years into my mom’s new marriage. I needed a training bra and when my mom bought my first one I put it on with a shirt over it. I was taken into the living room to model it for my stepdad, turning in circles with my arms up to see if it was an improvement compared to my non-bra state. With my new bra came my period. I tried to hide it but my mom saw my bloodied panties and it became a family affair. Soon after, my stepdad was working on his truck and I was carrying out daiquiris for him, as it was warm outside. I was drinking half of what I took to him, much to his amusement and I remember the look on his face that I later realized was one of sexual interest. He would take me hunting in the woods, feel my budding breasts and make many comments about what went on between man and woman. He would come to my bed at night to kiss me awake and invite me into the other room to take off our clothes. I never took him up on his offer. When I wanted to buy Valentine’s cards to take to school he told me that I would have to give him many, many kisses and I said that I could do that. He told me that I’d have to do much more. I didn’t. This was the first time I got a taste of the sexual power a woman could have over a man. He came clean to my mother one day, telling her that he’d fathered his own niece/daughter and did not want to repeat that with me. He told my mother he had fallen in love with me. So, as a family and individually we started counseling instead of sending him to jail.

From then on things changed. He was so angry with me, and I didn’t know why. The only thing I could think of was that I hadn’t done what he had wanted me to do. I was regularly getting my ass beat, with a belt that I thought would go on and on forever. One day he kicked me so hard that I flew off the floor into another room and injured my back requiring many years of chiropractic visits and many trips to the emergency room. I still have problems relating to that injury today. He would smack me across the face for every imagined wrong, knocking me to the floor. He was a big man, 6 foot 4 inches. One night, my mother and stepfather paid me $10 to drink a bottle of Sake’. I was so drunk that my mother had to tell me what happened the rest of the night. I drank champagne and mad dog 20/20. I went to the store for my mom to try to buy a fifth, unsuccessfully. I woke up the next morning with bruises covering most of my body and 2 dents in my forehead from my stepfather “dropping” me on the edge of the waterbed. I remember almost nothing from that night, but suspect that I was as close to alcohol poisoning as a 13 year old could get, and still live. One of my teachers asked me the next day if I was beat at home, after seeing some of the bruises on my arms and face. I said no. Finally, after moving with this man to Florida from Oklahoma my mother left him for a younger man.

By age 13 I was having unprotected sex regularly. I think I even had a miscarriage at one point after an overdose of aspirin. I had been getting sick for a few days, enough so that my mother asked me if I was pregnant. I said I wasn’t with as much innocence as I could muster. Self -mutilation had become my best friend. I took half a bottle of aspirin one day, while my sister looked on, and was very sick for days after. I thought I had gotten my period but it was so heavy and so clotty that as I look back I consider miscarriage or heavy bleeding as a result of so much aspirin.

My mother moved me back to Oklahoma where she locked me up in a treatment facility for 9 months, which was awful. From there I went into a “Youth Home” where I resumed my sexual activities with multiple partners. The funny thing is that I never enjoyed sex. I had it all the time, whenever my partner would ask, but never achieved orgasm. I was afraid that if I didn’t do as I was asked or told that I would lose the only affection I had learned how to get. At least I was getting help for the abuse I had endured.

Then I met a man on the Riverwalk with his two sons, fishing. His name was Randy and he had that look that I recognized as sexual interest. I felt power. I agreed to go out with him even though he was the same age as my father. 35. I told him I was 17, almost 18. The first time he picked me up, I had a friend covering for me so I wouldn’t get caught, and we went parking. I was angry. I didn’t want to have to perform for him. I didn’t want to have sex right away. He pulled me onto his lap, straddling his hips and undid his pants. I said “No”. He said he just wanted to hold me close to him and feel my skin against his. I let him take off my panties. When he started to put himself inside of me I said No again but this time he didn’t even pretend he wasn’t going to penetrate me. I tried to resist but I couldn’t so I just let him finish. After that I told him I was only fifteen. Still he wanted to see me again. I let him. Who cares anyway? The next time he put his finger inside of me and was hurting me, scratching my delicate flesh so I was squirming trying to get away from his hand. After that he dumped me, which was fine with me. By now I had less than no self-esteem and was on medication for depression. From the group home I went to various shelters and foster homes. I had been put in the state’s custody at 15 but by 17, I wanted to go home. So I moved back in with my mother and her new husband in Florida. Her new husband was only 5 years older than I and was always telling me what a whore I was. So, I lived up to his expectations.

I met a man in the British Navy while I was working at the Navy Exchange who was 26. I was 16. I went on “holiday” with my British sailor, from Florida to the Everglades to Mexico, doing everything he wanted me to do. I performed oral sex going down the highway and made his every wish come true, because he was paying for this trip and I was having fun, seeing things and doing things I never could’ve done without him. I didn’t want to do these things but felt like I had to or I would be returned home for not obeying his every suggestion. In a hotel room in New Orleans, after a night of heavy drinking he wanted to have anal sex. I began to cry heavily, and he didn’t understand. I told him that I didn’t want to do that but if he wanted me to, I would. He was incredulous! Insulted! I didn’t have to do anything with him that I didn’t want to do! This was the first time I had heard that! He returned to England soon after with promises of marriage, that he would come back to me.

It was then that I met my husband. We married soon after I turned 18 and I was pregnant immediately. I wanted many children and didn’t see any reason to wait. Our first son was born in 1991. Suddenly, I was an overprotective mother, looking for abusers everywhere. If my son would cry in the arms of his father I demanded to know what he did to my baby. But I was safe now, and with safety came feelings and thoughts that needed to be worked out. I was heavily depressed, suicidal even. I was obsessed with my past and all the abuse. My past dominated my every waking hour. I was hospitalized many times for treatment for depression and sexual abuse. My husband remained my rock during these times; giving me the space and time I needed to work out these thoughts and feelings.

Finally, after many unsuccessful attempts to have a normal life, and many hundreds of therapy sessions later, I realized, I had to just let it go. I came to the conclusion that the abuse was never my fault, that I had no control and I was not a bad person and had not been a bad child and I deserved none of it. I made the decision not to let my past rule the life I now had with my husband and my son. It was a difficult choice to make, to keep the abuse close to me or to let it go, and even now sometimes it comes creeping back to cloud my judgement. I see abusers everywhere I go. In the mall I wonder if that man walking by is a pedophile. I get angry to see daughters sitting on the laps of their fathers. One time in a restaurant, I saw a little girl sitting on the lap of her grandfather giving him a peck on the cheek and I was angry, feeling that I knew that man was molesting his granddaughter.

A second pregnancy resulted in a second son, born by c-section. My body had failed me. I had a hard time nursing him and was angry with him for this. Even though I nursed him for almost a year, until he weaned himself, I was repulsed every time I offered him my breast. My breasts have no feeling in them, even now. To touch the skin of my breasts I can’t feel it. I can feel pressure and when my nipples cracked in the beginning I could feel the pain. So, in another way I was robbed. Where so many women have pleasure when their breasts are stimulated I feel abhorrence, I feel dirty. Does this stem from my abuse? I think so. I don’t know how to get past that. I have learned to live with it.

With my third pregnancy it was horrid from the beginning. I was told that my baby was not viable. I was spotting and had a low-grade fever so I went to the doctor on the Navy Base. Hmph! If you could call an intern with his name written on typing paper and taped to the exam room door a doctor. His exam was a painful one. I know he couldn’t have done many, or maybe he liked to hurt women. He put his fingers inside of me and pressed very hard on my fundus. So hard that I remember thinking “If I’m not miscarrying he will force the baby out of my body”. I told him he was hurting me. I told him to stop. He said he was almost done. He inserted a finger in my rectum to “check the back of my uterus” and hurt me some more. Then he wanted to do an immediate D&C. He told me my life depended on it. I told him where he could go. I was crying and shaking and he told me that if I left now I would be doing so against medical advice. I told him I was leaving anyway, that he wouldn’t touch me again. I had to sign papers just to get out of the door. Before I left, the corpsman that was present in the room during the exam told me that if I had been nicer to the doctor maybe he would’ve been gentler with me.
Weeks later, still pregnant, still spotting, my husband urged me to file a complaint against the Navy hospital because they wouldn’t give me the necessary forms for me to seek obstetrical care somewhere other than the Navy. I called the hospital and spoke to someone whom I assumed had authority over the doctors. When I tearfully explained what had happened and that I wanted to file as many grievances as I could against the hospital, the doctor and the corpsman, the man I was talking to asked if I would settle for the non-availability form to get care elsewhere. I settled and several months later had a 9.72-pound baby boy. This delivery was a bad one. I have always sought out medical care with women doctors but the doctor on call was a man. I got to the hospital less than one hour before my son was born by vacuum extraction. The hospital personnel forced me to lie down on the bed while various lines were attached to my body, both inside and out. Blood was drawn, IV’s were inserted and the whole time I was BEGGING for them to let me up, I didn’t want to lie down. The doctor came in and said he would have to perform an extraction or it was another c-section for me. I was screaming with the pain and for my loss of control of my body, at being held down and all the wires and gloved fingers being inserted into my vagina. I said stop, I said no, I said let me sit up, let me get up. I was ignored. I screamed with every contraction and finally the doctor yelled in my face, “Mrs. B, you’re going to have to be quiet! I can’t even think!” The whole room got quiet; the nurses even stopped what they were doing to look at him. But I was angry, here was another man taking my control, taking my birth away from me. I screamed some more. He did yet another exam and said I was dilated to 9 so I could go ahead and push. I said I don’t want to push yet. He gave me a huge episiotomy. He inserted the vacuum and began to pull mightily yelling at me to push hard now!

My son was born through much pain and blood. I didn’t even want to look at him. I didn’t want to hold him. Through the pushing combined with the vacuum extraction I had massive hemorrhoids, as big as my fist. My doctor said he had to check the back of my uterus now and I told him clearly, “NO”. He said it had to be done and inserted his finger in my rectum through the hemorrhoids. Here was another rape, forced upon me by his position over me as my doctor, that position of authority. I had thought, and rightfully so, that as an adult and master of my own body that I could control what was done to me, but I learned I wasn’t right. I was so full of anger and resentment; I didn’t want to hold my son for the first hour of his birth. It wasn’t his fault, I knew that even then, but with no one but the two of us I felt angry with us both. The doctor had left as soon as he stitched me up. Once I held my son and began to bond with him I was angry for him instead of at him. He was my miracle baby, the one the doctor at the Navy hospital tried to force me to abort. What a life he had led in his short time here on earth, both in my womb and in this hospital room.

How has my abuse affected me as a mother? In addition to seeing molesters at every turn, I wonder about my own boys. Will they grow up to be abusers themselves? What can I do to prevent that? Will I know if they are abusers? A year ago my middle son and a neighbor child, a little girl, came to me and told me that they had been comparing the differences in their bodies. They were completely innocent and did not realize that looking at each other was something that was not OK for them to do. I did not know what sort of punishment, if any, was appropriate. I wondered if this was a sign of things to come. I wondered if I was overreacting to something normal or if this wasn’t normal. Did I do something wrong, something to provoke this? How much of my past was ruling my thinking? I run into problems like this almost every day. I have to make a conscious effort not to let my abuse as a child influence the lives of my children. I have tried to make them comfortable with their own bodies and answer any questions about their bodies or mine that they may have. I don’t want them to find shame in their bodies, or feel that anything they have should be hidden in embarrassment. Am I successful? I don’t know. Ask my children when they are grown.

I think as I mature with age, the past and the abuse I suffered looses its importance. I am no longer a child. I am a strong woman. There is no longer any need to go back to a time when I was a victim.

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