The unfolding of my story began when my first daughter was seven years old. My sister-in-law came to me very troubled one day because my husband, her brother, had come to her to confide that he was sexually molesting our daughter. He knew what he was doing was harmful, but he couldn’t stop himself and he didn’t know what to do. He told her in confidence, but she was left struggling between her loyalty to him and her duty and love of her niece, so she told me. I seemed to receive the information calmly, but when my husband came home I went berserk. I will never forget the look on his face. He was like a frightened rabbit, and he ran from the house.
The days that followed were like a nightmare to me. I felt out of control and on the edge of insanity. I went to the preacher of the religion into which I had been born and told him. He was very kindly, but he said to me, “Go home and stand by your husband. Children soon forget these things.” I was in a state of deep shock as I drove home. I only knew she could not forget.
That night I sat up in the chair, staring out of the patio doors. The night was wild, with black clouds racing across the sky hour after hour. Finally, in desperation, I called the suicide hotline and told them. They made an appointment for me that morning, and I went straight to see them. They told me that it was very unusual for the man to come forward as my husband had done, and that was a good thing. I went for a series of sessions with them, and they helped me get clear on what to do. In going to them, I ostracized myself from my spiritual leader, which was a very scary thing for me to do. He told the group that I had turned my back on God and therefore he could not help me.
My in-laws’ story came to the fore as we began to piece together that my husband had not been abused, but had been traumatized when he was four years old through witnessing his father abusing his sister. This remained hidden and unresolved, and he perpetuated it through abusing his own daughter. We called a family meeting with his parents, and everything was brought out into the open. It was very painful, especially to watch his mother go through what I went through as she was faced with the revelations. In my Gestalt group at college, I tried to alleviate my distress, crying over and over, “My little girl, they hurt my little girl.” The tutor asked, “Whose little girl are we talking about?” Once more I was catapulted into a state of deep shock. There was something going on in me that was beyond this specific event. He suggested that I might like to consider doing a primal integration weekend away from my college peers so that I could have the safety I needed to explore what was coming up.
In the very first deep session I did on the weekend, I found myself choking and gagging on something too big in my mouth and with a horrible taste. I threw up and lay trembling and terrified, unable to move. Later I did my first sand play. I put it together very fast, without hesitation, but when it was done I could hardly bear to look at it. It was a nightmare scene with penises and a baby feeding bottle in all the wrong orifices. The sand plays are always photographed, and I remember feeling a measure of relief that at last I had proof. I kept it in my journal, still horrified by the images, but somewhat comforted at my secret ‘evidence.’
My husband and I both read Alice Miller’s, For Your Own Good – The Hidden Cruelty of Child Rearing Practices. He went into therapy also. I arranged for both our daughters to see a play therapist, and they saw her weekly for almost a year. I also wanted us to go all together to a family therapist and I searched around for this.
Eventually we went to a hospital clinic. This experience was awful. When we were shown into the room, we found ourselves in a viewing room with a huge one-way window through which, we were told, a group of specialists were going to be observing the whole session. Our daughters promptly crawled underneath the table where they couldn’t be seen by anyone, and no amount of coaxing by the therapist would bring them out. The session ensued. The therapist went next door to consult with his colleagues, came back and informed us that they had decided to inform Social Services about the situation. My husband leapt up yelling, “They’ll send me to prison!” and he ran from the room. The children were crying and pulling on me, picking up on the desperate energy. “Why are they sending Daddy to prison?” they kept saying. I was beside myself again. It felt like a huge betrayal. I turned on the therapist. “How could you? Do you know the statistics? Do you know how many fathers abuse their children and never tell anyone? How can anyone come for help if you do this to them?” In the end the therapist was close to tears and pleading with me to understand. “I have no choice,” he said. The decision had been made.
I took my daughters out onto the street, wondering where their dad had gone. We waited at the car and eventually he came. He was very frightened and we all hugged. We had a long discussion in the car going home, and I said you have to pack your things and leave as soon as we get home. We have a better chance of handling this if you’re out of the house. We agreed to this, and he moved out the same day.
A week later I was summoned for a meeting with the director of Social Services. I was sick to the pit of my stomach as I sat there and he spoke. He was very kindly, but I had the image of an iron fist in kid gloves. He had the power to take my children away from me, and I was terrified of that. Still, I engaged with him as best I could, and he finished by saying that he was of the opinion that I had done everything I could to protect my children. He went on to say that he was assigning us a social worker, not because I was a bad mother, but because he felt I needed the support.
We were dreading her first visit, but when she came we actually liked her, and it felt like something we could live with okay. She visited us for a year. We shared a lot with her and trusted her. Then one day she told us she felt she had been privileged to share our lives with us for a little while, that she was going to put in a formal request that we be removed from the records, because our healing process had been fundamental and profound, and she saw no reason to monitor us further. This request was granted, and it felt like a miracle to me.
It is almost impossible for me to describe the profound healing that took place between my daughter and her father. It culminated one day in the three of us sitting together, feeling better in each other’s company than we had in a long time. My husband asked our daughter, “Is there anything else you need to say to me?” She replied, “I love you, Dad, but I don’t love your little boy (which was who she felt was there each time she had been abused).” He responded, “It’s not your place to take care of my little boy. That’s my job, and I never should have put it on you.” She began to cry, and then to sob, and he took her in his arms like a baby and rocked her while she cried. The tears were rolling down his face, and he was a real father at last.
I did not think I could ever really convey what went down and why I knew he was now a trustworthy male. A couple of years later, my daughters had the option to live with their father and his new wife, and they wanted to. His wife was aware of all that had transpired and I needed no convincing that it was safe. Some members of the family questioned my trust in him, but I knew the level of healing that had taken place, and I knew how my daughters felt toward him. I had a dream in which he was mortally wounded and I had the cure. I awoke crying and understood immediately that the cure was for him to have the opportunity to father his daughters before they were fully-grown, together with his new partner who had been told what had transpired. They had two years under his roof, into which they crammed special times, wonderful birthdays, and shared Christmases. All that had been blocked and thwarted in their early childhood with him.
The most precious parts of this story I have been virtually unable to share, except with my most dear and trusted friends, because we live in a society that needs to punish the offenders, and will never concede that there are good people who have bad experiences, which lead them to do bad things. When there is no safe place to take these wounds, they remain hidden, as Alice Miller described, and the story is told, must be told, in convoluted and twisted ways, i.e., perpetuating the abuse pattern. I am convinced that an incensed public, calling for the blood of these ‘monsters,’ calling for ‘justice,’ has more to do with what is still unconscious than what is revealed. In my deepest distress over my own daughter’s sexual abuse, my father wrote to me and told me that he was molested as a boy by a boy older than him. “Not that it did me any harm that I can tell,” he said, but he wanted to let me know that he felt for me in my grief. He finished by saying you had better destroy this letter. I didn’t and, later, after he had died and I was raising these issues in my family, I was accused of being a liar and I at least had my father’s letter as proof.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Margaret's Story
I will soon be 59 years old. As I reflect on my life, I have come to realize the effects of the abuse by my uncle.
I was in my early teen years when I had the encounters with my mother’s brother. Though I was not raped, the incidents involved fondling and digital penetration. My uncle is much younger than my mother. He was living with us, as my parents were attempting to give him a chance at “a better life.”
We had several of my mother’s half-siblings living with us at one time or another during my childhood. My grandfather died at age 85 when I was 12 years old. His wife was 40 years his junior, and was left with several children. They lived in a tar-paper shack in Indiana and struggled to make ends meet. Though my parents were far from rich, they both had good jobs and shared what they had.
My children can remember a great deal from their childhood. I cannot. I have come to realize that I have blocked out a great deal. Though I can’t attribute it all to the abuse, it certainly played a large role.
My parents divorced when I was five, and remarried each other when I was in the 5th grade. During the time they were apart, my sister and I lived with my mother’s aunt and uncle. We were separated from both parents during those years, and I believe it took a serious toll.
I had my first child about six weeks short of my 20th birthday. It was a long, painful labor, resulting in nerve damage involving bladder control, etc. When my second child was born four years later, labor was much easier, but the doctor told me I shouldn’t have any more children. I miscarried between the birth of my daughters, but it was early in the pregnancy and wasn’t as traumatic as it might have been later on.
I’ve never been a patient person. My children are intelligent, both with a terrific sense of humor. I feel I did a good job providing them with a moral upbringing, and they have always known they are loved. They are well-behaved, and they tell me it was because anything else wasn’t an option. I’d like to think that I always allowed them to “be children.” I’m not certain that is the case. I think I expected more of them than was fair, because of my impatience.
I can remember being at the doctor’s office with my eldest daughter when she was just a few months old, and she was crying because she had just had a shot. I felt helpless. I remember the doctor telling me that holding her was enough, that she would be okay. I didn’t believe him then, and I don’t believe him now. I never felt I had enough of what it took to be a good mother. I’m so glad my girls do have what it takes.
My girls are the adults I aspired to be. My daughter who has children of her own is the mother I always wished to be. My unmarried daughter has a way with children that is a delight to watch. Both girls are not afraid to let loose their “inner child.”
I’m not sure I have an “inner child.” I think my uncle stole that from me.
I never told my parents about the abuse when it was happening. I thought it was my fault somehow, and my uncle threatened me with harm if I “squealed.” My father went to his grave without knowing. I finally told my mother because she was adamant I go to a family reunion, to be held at my uncle’s home. She wouldn’t accept my excuses, so I told her the truth. She cannot understand why I can’t just “forgive and forget. After all, it happened a long time ago.”
I have forgiven ex-husbands, co-workers, supervisors, etc., but I cannot forgive my uncle. For this I feel no guilt. He doesn’t deserve forgiveness. Unfortunately, I have missed out on family gatherings, and have pretty much distanced myself from most of the relatives from that side of the family. I cannot chance running into him. I remember when my grandmother died, and he attempted to hug me at the funeral. I nearly vomited when he touched me. I have made certain I have not seen him since.
Until recently, I hadn’t reflected on the effects of my abuse. It was always in the back of my mind, but not something I talked about. Now I realize that it has had a large impact on my life. I have an issue with trust, and the main person I cannot trust is myself. I have not made good choices, and I know I would have been a much better mother had I not been afraid to trust myself. I lay responsibility at my uncle’s feet.
I was in my early teen years when I had the encounters with my mother’s brother. Though I was not raped, the incidents involved fondling and digital penetration. My uncle is much younger than my mother. He was living with us, as my parents were attempting to give him a chance at “a better life.”
We had several of my mother’s half-siblings living with us at one time or another during my childhood. My grandfather died at age 85 when I was 12 years old. His wife was 40 years his junior, and was left with several children. They lived in a tar-paper shack in Indiana and struggled to make ends meet. Though my parents were far from rich, they both had good jobs and shared what they had.
My children can remember a great deal from their childhood. I cannot. I have come to realize that I have blocked out a great deal. Though I can’t attribute it all to the abuse, it certainly played a large role.
My parents divorced when I was five, and remarried each other when I was in the 5th grade. During the time they were apart, my sister and I lived with my mother’s aunt and uncle. We were separated from both parents during those years, and I believe it took a serious toll.
I had my first child about six weeks short of my 20th birthday. It was a long, painful labor, resulting in nerve damage involving bladder control, etc. When my second child was born four years later, labor was much easier, but the doctor told me I shouldn’t have any more children. I miscarried between the birth of my daughters, but it was early in the pregnancy and wasn’t as traumatic as it might have been later on.
I’ve never been a patient person. My children are intelligent, both with a terrific sense of humor. I feel I did a good job providing them with a moral upbringing, and they have always known they are loved. They are well-behaved, and they tell me it was because anything else wasn’t an option. I’d like to think that I always allowed them to “be children.” I’m not certain that is the case. I think I expected more of them than was fair, because of my impatience.
I can remember being at the doctor’s office with my eldest daughter when she was just a few months old, and she was crying because she had just had a shot. I felt helpless. I remember the doctor telling me that holding her was enough, that she would be okay. I didn’t believe him then, and I don’t believe him now. I never felt I had enough of what it took to be a good mother. I’m so glad my girls do have what it takes.
My girls are the adults I aspired to be. My daughter who has children of her own is the mother I always wished to be. My unmarried daughter has a way with children that is a delight to watch. Both girls are not afraid to let loose their “inner child.”
I’m not sure I have an “inner child.” I think my uncle stole that from me.
I never told my parents about the abuse when it was happening. I thought it was my fault somehow, and my uncle threatened me with harm if I “squealed.” My father went to his grave without knowing. I finally told my mother because she was adamant I go to a family reunion, to be held at my uncle’s home. She wouldn’t accept my excuses, so I told her the truth. She cannot understand why I can’t just “forgive and forget. After all, it happened a long time ago.”
I have forgiven ex-husbands, co-workers, supervisors, etc., but I cannot forgive my uncle. For this I feel no guilt. He doesn’t deserve forgiveness. Unfortunately, I have missed out on family gatherings, and have pretty much distanced myself from most of the relatives from that side of the family. I cannot chance running into him. I remember when my grandmother died, and he attempted to hug me at the funeral. I nearly vomited when he touched me. I have made certain I have not seen him since.
Until recently, I hadn’t reflected on the effects of my abuse. It was always in the back of my mind, but not something I talked about. Now I realize that it has had a large impact on my life. I have an issue with trust, and the main person I cannot trust is myself. I have not made good choices, and I know I would have been a much better mother had I not been afraid to trust myself. I lay responsibility at my uncle’s feet.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Susan's Story
I am going to be 44 years old this June. I am a single mom raising 7 of my own children, who all live with me. The oldest is 20 years, a son, and the youngest is 5years, a girl. I have had a very complicated and sad life, yet in my belief in Jesus Christ and his mercy, He has led me to be able to find the true source of my troubles, and has led me to learn to not be afraid to love and raise my children.
What I knew…was that I always wanted to please everyone. What I didn’t know… was why. What I knew...was that many things made me so afraid I didn’t know that I was afraid. What I didn’t know…was that all my fears existed, and then later, that they weren’t the average fears of a young girl. What I knew ... was that I loved men and wanted to please them. What I didn’t know...was why...
I grew up in Anchorage Alaska. I never remembered any childhood. It was always just a blackness in my mind. Yes, there were pieces of here and there but they seemed not to be a part of me. I was very independent. I would let no one in my room or on my bed. They might mess it up and that was awful. I had one brother. We survived the Alaskan earthquake. I was very upset with him. Nothing in his room was messed up because it was already on the floor; whereas my room was perfect and after the quake settled it was a mess.
This may seem strange to you that I mention this but within its message is the key to my life. I had to be clean and I had to be in control. Otherwise my whole existence was threatened.
I thought I had a normal childhood. Everyone believes this. No one realizes until they leave home and gain new experiences and start to compare existences that what they lived may not have been the norm. In our current society normal doesn’t exist, but extremes of my existence are still somewhat unknown. You could call it “The Life of Secrets.”
I never lacked for any physical needs, only emotional ones. There were many children in our neighborhood. I didn’t like any of them as they only had one desire - to play sexual games. I now know that this was because of the unknown activities of our parents at the time. It also is another clue to the secrets of my life.
My mom never had to spank me. I couldn’t tolerate it, for one. Anyone who ever even showed any displeasure with my actions devastated me. I had to have all the people around me smiling and not silent or I was propitiating to them. I would make them gifts, and try to please them constantly. I think this drove my mother nuts at times as in her denial of things it made her feel guilt whereas she could only disassociate from her own pain and actions involved with me to exist.
I was in my thirties when I discovered what alcoholism meant. I never knew that my mom was one until after she died and my brother told me. He became an alcoholic too. She wasn’t physically abusive to me, but allowed others to be so. She labeled me many things. Labeling is discussed in therapy programs if you desire to learn about it.
We left Anchorage when I was in the 5th grade and moved to Portland, Oregon. I could make no friends with girls and chose to conquer the young boy next door. After 7 years of a relationship I finally let him go. His father was alcoholic and abusive and my relationship with him was abusive, but I didn’t know that until I was much older.
As a teenager I became involved with a cult. They showed what I thought was caring for me. I was involved with it for 6 years. They only wanted money.
While in the cult I had many relationships with men. Two relationships ended up with me having abortions. I had no conscious knowledge I was taking a life. And I had no one around me who cared enough to stop me.
My oldest child was born in between. I had met a man and was so down in my heart I wanted to have someone to love me. I met him and asked him 2 weeks later if I could get pregnant. I wanted someone to love me. That was the reason I got pregnant. We never married and had lots of experiences together. The father had his own problems but was never abusive to me. We are currently friends and he lives close by. And my son is my friend. What a miracle God sent me!
I was also blessed while pregnant with this child to meet a couple who taught the Bradley Method natural childbirth classes. They had both been blinded by the incubators they were placed in when born. They taught me to never trust hospitals, doctors, about meditation, taking vitamins, drinking pure water etc… a whole world of knowledge. I gave birth naturally with a male doctor in a "new" birthing clinic. I delivered without any drugs for pain, and I had lots and lots of pain, and no episiotomy. I was allowed to take my baby home just a few hours later. I have always been terrified to leave my children with anyone until they were old enough to talk for themselves. Now I know it’s because of my real childhood, “A Life Of Secrets.”
We did well for a while, and then I experienced postpartum depression but didn’t know that was what I was feeling until years later. I separated from the father and went my own way. I had many journeyings and we moved 20 times in 10 years.
I ended up back home when leaving the cult. It was awful. The cult members were very emotionally abusive. Details aren’t important. I was so shaken I went home to my mom, which I hated to do. I was totally incapable of doing anything except reading. My mom had to potty train my son. I was so afraid of people I didn’t leave the house for 3 months. The father moved to Oregon and I went to stay with him. I decided to overcome my fear of people and went to look for work. Well, I met a man who gave me marijuana again, and I followed him. Within two weeks I was his and he wanted a child. I couldn’t say no to a man. We stayed together. He went to another state to work, leaving me pregnant and alone with my son. We had a conflict of religious views and he threatened to throw me out onto the street. Well that’s when and how I found Jesus Christ. That was 17 years ago. We are friends now too. We had a daughter. She is very beautiful. The father was emotionally abusive and a drug dealer at the time and I didn’t know. In deciding to be “Christ-like” I decided I had to marry him and that he had to stop dealing in drugs. Neither were good ideas. After we divorced I learned that he had an alcoholic mother, who was also suicidal, and that he had been a dealer of crack at age 12. All of these were secrets until after our divorce. He is much better now but can’t even see how the drugs destroyed his mind. He is lucky to be alive.
My journey then went to another man, and another. I was compelled by fear to not be alone. I still have that problem. The daughter we had was born at home with a midwife. It was wonderful. I nursed all my children until I couldn’t, i.e. they needed solid food or my milk ran out. This gave me a sense of not neglecting them, which I feared greatly.
I never could understand why I couldn’t let my kids cry. It destroyed me. My Aunt told me a story a couple of years ago about how my mom, when I wasn’t even 6 months old, had come to visit them in New York. I was crying in my crib. I was soiled. My Aunt told me my mom just left me to cry and refused to change my diapers. As I think about it now, why didn’t my Aunt help either?
I always felt very close to my babies until they could walk. Then inside myself I changed totally towards them and was almost afraid of them. It’s a form of disassociation from my own pain. I know that now.
I was terrified to leave my babies. I slept with them in my bed. I never let them cry for any reason. I was trying to protect them, not realizing at the time I felt I was protecting my life as well.
Well, I found another man willing to marry me. We ended up together for 10 years, having 4 children. We are friends now. In order to heal from this break-up I attended a 12-week course on Mental Illness. So many people had treated me like I was crazy since I was a child (at birth the doctor told my mom that I would be mentally retarded. I always thought I was until about 8 years ago. We remember everything, scary, huh?!) that I decided to go get the help everyone said I needed. In simply attending the class, and listening to other families talk about their ill members, I learned first that I wasn’t crazy, and second that my husband of 10 years was manic-depressive or bi-polar. To this day he won’t get medical assistance of any kind.
In my attempt to flee my husband of 10 years I had an interlude with the Division of Family Services in the state we resided in. I had left there and went on a trip, and met an old boyfriend who later tried to kill a daughter of mine. This whole experience forced me into counseling in order to regain custody of her. It was horrendous. At the hospital she was at, a Nun had to come to me, as I was in shock, and tell me that someone had tried to hurt my daughter. My whole life changed from that moment on.
I regained my daughter and eventually divorced the father. In doing that I ran to another man, who turned out to be worse in many ways than the man I was with. The story of my life. We had a child as well. I had a compulsion to get pregnant, in order to keep the man happy so he wouldn’t hurt me or leave me. Had no idea how strong it was. It was only last month I finally got custody of this child. The father was sexually abused by his parents and allowed his children of a former marriage to have incest with no understanding how to cope with it. Yes, sad. Yes, true. Now I am free of them all, except to be friends at my choosing. All of my husbands were emotionally controlling, and at times physically abusive, except the first one.
I had given birth 6 times at home with midwives. I never had drugs. Was very good about keeping my body healthy (except emotional stress) and never smoked. I do again now. It’s too hard to quit for just myself. All the midwives were very supportive.
Each father had different reactions to my pregnancies. The last 3 fathers became violent during the pregnancy, which I learned is normal when they are sick themselves. It is called the cycle of abuse. I realized their own fears of increased responsibility brought on their anger. The father of the four, with the birth of our first child, did this during the time I was in labor. He went upstairs and got his gun, which I didn’t know he had. He was delirious. He said he was going to kill himself. I called the local church for help. They calmed him down. He had a fever of 106 degrees. After they came he changed completely. He waited on me hand and foot for 3 days with no problems. With the birth of the second child by him he did a similar thing. He contracted strep throat and wouldn’t get medical help. When our third daughter was in foster care he refused to help. I had to beg him for gas money to go see her. I think he is better now. He finally moved close enough to be able to come see his kids after 4 years of absence. Yes, it was awful.
Well, lets skip ahead. I left all my ex-husbands and moved to a place for a new start. I had been here one year and started working again after 20 years of isolation and abuse. I did well. I recover well. My kids were all in school and getting medical attention. I was trying to rebuild my life. I knew my natural father had sexually abused me, as it was confirmed in a very private way. I knew being the daughter of an alcoholic made me feel guilty for being alive, as that is a part of their disease you inherit even if you don’t drink. I can’t drink. It makes me sick. I have my own home, my own car, and my own money and have started to find out who I am, that I am not just a husband’s shadow. My kids started to calm down and not be excessively afraid of being put into foster care if I didn’t do just the right thing. They made friends. I got credit cards (too many!!) I stayed in the same town and same house. It’s a miracle I ever got this far. People in the community helped me with my ex-husband who accused me of child abuse. After 2 years he was proved a liar and an idiot after 7 hours in court with no proof. I can’t even tell my kids no, and would never hurt them physically. I attended many parenting classes to try to learn what a parent is supposed to do and how children learn naturally and what they need to feel loved. So, now I was ready to rejoin my local church.
I decided to pray for forgiveness and ask the Heavenly Father to reveal to me what I need to repent of. I prayed, and He forgave. No one in my church understood except my pastor. He accepted me completely and never looks down on me even though I can’t live up to his expectations. He doesn’t understand how much Christ-like love he has given me. It saved my life in a way.
What I write next is abhorrent to most. I received 24 hours of Satanic Ritual Abuse Memories as an answer to my prayer. It took me a whole year to come out of shock. Knowledge has been my friend, so I started to research things on the Internet. Every memory I received was unique to myself. Sometimes after a memory came I would find a similar kind of act being talked about from others, but I knew mine were mine. I found in my memories reasons for many of my fears and could re-evaluate my choices in my current life.
In learning about SRA (satanic ritual abuse) I discovered most don’t believe it. It’s too scary and means man is really evil if they choose to be. It’s hard to look at society that way. It hurts too much. It’s commonly called Denial…
Until these memories came I always feared my death and that of my children. I never believed in any future. It’s still far away from me. Time was always my enemy. I had no knowledge that anyone I loved would be there the next day. When my journey of healing is done, the future will be my best friend for in it is hope of a new world for my children and me.
When I am stressed watch out. I learned to give myself “time outs” years ago. I never beat my kids but I did yell a lot. As more memories come I am calmer in many ways. I can even envision playing with my children someday.
Because I have chosen to learn from my experiences I can help almost anyone in stress. If they are willing to listen I can help at least a little bit. I can have compassion where many can’t. I do have pride though; it’s hard for me to tolerate those who chose to not grow. I need to work on that one. Learning and being analytical was my escape from my emotions. Emotions are very painful for me, thinking isn’t.
I have been in counseling off and on for 7 years, the last 3 more so than before. I chose my counselors and usually the course of the discussions. I can’t be hypnotized, and I have never taken any anti depressant drugs, they scare me to no end. I have never been institutionalized or hospitalized. I learned my way out of my pain.
Whenever one has a therapist who goes on and on about themselves or tells you they believe you but are lying, even if they think it’s in your best interest to do so, it’s very damaging. Trust is more important than anything. Anyone who truly cares can help you. Truth will set you free.
My support now comes from myself, in that I have to keep remembering all the wonderful things I have gained, as in the ability to forgive my mother, which took me several years to do. Secondly it comes from my oldest son, simultaneously with my therapist, and some on-line friends, who are all in similar situations as mine. I also get support in that when I learn something directly related to my healing, if I share that with someone else and they are benefited by it, its very validating to the whole experience.
Motherhood is the greatest gift, the most intricate way of learning about yourself, past, present and future. The only individuals I would tell to not have children are those who are following in the footsteps of generational abuse and have no desire to heal from it. Their offspring would surely want for love. If you can see your children as a mirror of yourself, both good and bad, and in that forgive yourself and your parents, you will come to enjoy the healing experience of it. Sometimes the pain you re-experience sets you in fear of continuing on in getting better. But remember, what you will learn today can set you free of tomorrow. If as a parent you find you are out of control there are many in your community who will help you if you have the right desire in your heart. Sometimes it takes patience even with those who do help you if they understand not the struggles you experience inside to control your emotions and feelings. If you feel bridled by society’s standards and that weighs you down, don’t feel alone. There are many new and old philosophies that would tell us that because we are not perfect we are not worthy to be parents. Just remember, most of those people themselves may not have ever had children or never experienced their own childhoods with joy. Joy and love and trust beget the same. Where it does not exist in the adult you will also find it lacking in their childhood. When one learns hatred as a child it is excruciatingly painful to unlearn that the love you knew was actually pain. It is very hard to retrain the mind, heart, muscles, emotions; the whole nervous system of a human being is geared to accept that which it experienced as a child. It takes tremendous effort for me to accept peace as love, when silence and “peace” meant I didn’t know what was coming next.
I survived because I was blessed to live within my mind and heart. I was given the courage somehow to never go against my own internal principals. This has brought me to where I am now.
Another thing I would advise is to allow others to help you raise, love, nurture and discipline your children, as long as you can agree with what they say the believe and actually do. A friend of mine taught me in these last two years that it takes a community to raise a child. This is true. Don’t get it confused with "group parenting" or believing that the biological parent is not necessary, as many are promoting around the world. It’s just a way to spread yourself a little bit better, as you are only one person.
To give you an example so there is no confusion, there is a college program in my town called Project Pals. For single parents, each child of the family, age 6 years or older, is assigned a college student to take them somewhere once a week for about an hour. With myself being single and having 5 little ones, this program has really helped all of us. It has taught my children much.
One last thing that I never learned and have great difficulty in accepting. First, a child’s self esteem comes from the love seen and expressed between his parents. If a child has a parent with abandonment issues that is almost impossible. Even if there is separation or divorce, never saying anything negative or fighting about personal issues regarding the other parent will greatly enhance your child’s self esteem. Then, it took many years for this next idea to come forth and many may disagree with me. If the parents take time for themselves, despite a lifestyle so busy they can't keep up, and show by this and other ways that they know that they are important; the children will grow up knowing that as well. When you are recovering from years of abuse, there are many times that you are so frustrated with your own behavior it feels really awkward to reward yourself.
Health care providers can help or hurt depending on their personal backgrounds and the view from which they enter your lives. Only truly compassionate people in whatever field will be able to understand what you are going through. It behooves one to learn how to kindly teach others about abuse and its effects. I had many help me and many hate me. I would ask them to be more open to not following standard, rote procedures and really be there for the individual at hand. Listening with the actual intent to hear can be a great kindness.
My children have learned much that only they know. They know very much so what insecurity is. They bonded together unusually strong for children. They know men are not supposed to hit and they know if they are scared to go to the police. I have tried to teach them to respect each other but haven't done that very well, as I did not know what it felt like myself. I guess I learned that how I allow my children to treat each other is how they will in turn treat their spouses and children. I hope I have given them a better start in life than what I had.
I want to mention boundaries. If you are a therapist reading this you will see that I had no boundaries. I was never safe. For a child, as I have learned, boundaries bring security. It’s what keeps them calm. I never had any, and the ones I did have were of my own choosing, as I had decided that the pain was too great to continue on in pursuit of that course of action. I learned in every instance that I was able to carry it out, that saying something, doing it, making it stick was the greatest gift I could give to my children. It is my greatest weakness. Every time I try to set a boundary, my past kicks in and fear and death and I usually give in to my kids’ desires. In my own way I am continuing the abuse here, yet I am not strong enough to overcome it. I must forgive myself this several times a day. I just can’t take away anything or deny my kids anything when it’s not a life and death situation. That is all I grew up with. Anything less is simply unimportant in my subconscious mind. So, if you have the strength in your heart to make boundaries and keep them, your children will grow up being able to function well within society’s bounds.
I would like to say that I have much yet to learn. That patience with yourself, forgiveness of yourself and your imperfections, that forgiveness of your abusers and hope they can change, in others words...
Forgiveness without Charity is nothing.
Millennium
Wow! I am free to begin a whole new life.
An existence free from pain. Joy radiates within me.
Pain, I can no longer see. Yet, I am alone. Where can
You be? Oh! There you are; right beside me. Hello.
This is me. Will you come and share this new
Millennium with me? Wow! Let's Go!!!
To learn more, order Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering and Healing after Sexual Abuse
What I knew…was that I always wanted to please everyone. What I didn’t know… was why. What I knew...was that many things made me so afraid I didn’t know that I was afraid. What I didn’t know…was that all my fears existed, and then later, that they weren’t the average fears of a young girl. What I knew ... was that I loved men and wanted to please them. What I didn’t know...was why...
I grew up in Anchorage Alaska. I never remembered any childhood. It was always just a blackness in my mind. Yes, there were pieces of here and there but they seemed not to be a part of me. I was very independent. I would let no one in my room or on my bed. They might mess it up and that was awful. I had one brother. We survived the Alaskan earthquake. I was very upset with him. Nothing in his room was messed up because it was already on the floor; whereas my room was perfect and after the quake settled it was a mess.
This may seem strange to you that I mention this but within its message is the key to my life. I had to be clean and I had to be in control. Otherwise my whole existence was threatened.
I thought I had a normal childhood. Everyone believes this. No one realizes until they leave home and gain new experiences and start to compare existences that what they lived may not have been the norm. In our current society normal doesn’t exist, but extremes of my existence are still somewhat unknown. You could call it “The Life of Secrets.”
I never lacked for any physical needs, only emotional ones. There were many children in our neighborhood. I didn’t like any of them as they only had one desire - to play sexual games. I now know that this was because of the unknown activities of our parents at the time. It also is another clue to the secrets of my life.
My mom never had to spank me. I couldn’t tolerate it, for one. Anyone who ever even showed any displeasure with my actions devastated me. I had to have all the people around me smiling and not silent or I was propitiating to them. I would make them gifts, and try to please them constantly. I think this drove my mother nuts at times as in her denial of things it made her feel guilt whereas she could only disassociate from her own pain and actions involved with me to exist.
I was in my thirties when I discovered what alcoholism meant. I never knew that my mom was one until after she died and my brother told me. He became an alcoholic too. She wasn’t physically abusive to me, but allowed others to be so. She labeled me many things. Labeling is discussed in therapy programs if you desire to learn about it.
We left Anchorage when I was in the 5th grade and moved to Portland, Oregon. I could make no friends with girls and chose to conquer the young boy next door. After 7 years of a relationship I finally let him go. His father was alcoholic and abusive and my relationship with him was abusive, but I didn’t know that until I was much older.
As a teenager I became involved with a cult. They showed what I thought was caring for me. I was involved with it for 6 years. They only wanted money.
While in the cult I had many relationships with men. Two relationships ended up with me having abortions. I had no conscious knowledge I was taking a life. And I had no one around me who cared enough to stop me.
My oldest child was born in between. I had met a man and was so down in my heart I wanted to have someone to love me. I met him and asked him 2 weeks later if I could get pregnant. I wanted someone to love me. That was the reason I got pregnant. We never married and had lots of experiences together. The father had his own problems but was never abusive to me. We are currently friends and he lives close by. And my son is my friend. What a miracle God sent me!
I was also blessed while pregnant with this child to meet a couple who taught the Bradley Method natural childbirth classes. They had both been blinded by the incubators they were placed in when born. They taught me to never trust hospitals, doctors, about meditation, taking vitamins, drinking pure water etc… a whole world of knowledge. I gave birth naturally with a male doctor in a "new" birthing clinic. I delivered without any drugs for pain, and I had lots and lots of pain, and no episiotomy. I was allowed to take my baby home just a few hours later. I have always been terrified to leave my children with anyone until they were old enough to talk for themselves. Now I know it’s because of my real childhood, “A Life Of Secrets.”
We did well for a while, and then I experienced postpartum depression but didn’t know that was what I was feeling until years later. I separated from the father and went my own way. I had many journeyings and we moved 20 times in 10 years.
I ended up back home when leaving the cult. It was awful. The cult members were very emotionally abusive. Details aren’t important. I was so shaken I went home to my mom, which I hated to do. I was totally incapable of doing anything except reading. My mom had to potty train my son. I was so afraid of people I didn’t leave the house for 3 months. The father moved to Oregon and I went to stay with him. I decided to overcome my fear of people and went to look for work. Well, I met a man who gave me marijuana again, and I followed him. Within two weeks I was his and he wanted a child. I couldn’t say no to a man. We stayed together. He went to another state to work, leaving me pregnant and alone with my son. We had a conflict of religious views and he threatened to throw me out onto the street. Well that’s when and how I found Jesus Christ. That was 17 years ago. We are friends now too. We had a daughter. She is very beautiful. The father was emotionally abusive and a drug dealer at the time and I didn’t know. In deciding to be “Christ-like” I decided I had to marry him and that he had to stop dealing in drugs. Neither were good ideas. After we divorced I learned that he had an alcoholic mother, who was also suicidal, and that he had been a dealer of crack at age 12. All of these were secrets until after our divorce. He is much better now but can’t even see how the drugs destroyed his mind. He is lucky to be alive.
My journey then went to another man, and another. I was compelled by fear to not be alone. I still have that problem. The daughter we had was born at home with a midwife. It was wonderful. I nursed all my children until I couldn’t, i.e. they needed solid food or my milk ran out. This gave me a sense of not neglecting them, which I feared greatly.
I never could understand why I couldn’t let my kids cry. It destroyed me. My Aunt told me a story a couple of years ago about how my mom, when I wasn’t even 6 months old, had come to visit them in New York. I was crying in my crib. I was soiled. My Aunt told me my mom just left me to cry and refused to change my diapers. As I think about it now, why didn’t my Aunt help either?
I always felt very close to my babies until they could walk. Then inside myself I changed totally towards them and was almost afraid of them. It’s a form of disassociation from my own pain. I know that now.
I was terrified to leave my babies. I slept with them in my bed. I never let them cry for any reason. I was trying to protect them, not realizing at the time I felt I was protecting my life as well.
Well, I found another man willing to marry me. We ended up together for 10 years, having 4 children. We are friends now. In order to heal from this break-up I attended a 12-week course on Mental Illness. So many people had treated me like I was crazy since I was a child (at birth the doctor told my mom that I would be mentally retarded. I always thought I was until about 8 years ago. We remember everything, scary, huh?!) that I decided to go get the help everyone said I needed. In simply attending the class, and listening to other families talk about their ill members, I learned first that I wasn’t crazy, and second that my husband of 10 years was manic-depressive or bi-polar. To this day he won’t get medical assistance of any kind.
In my attempt to flee my husband of 10 years I had an interlude with the Division of Family Services in the state we resided in. I had left there and went on a trip, and met an old boyfriend who later tried to kill a daughter of mine. This whole experience forced me into counseling in order to regain custody of her. It was horrendous. At the hospital she was at, a Nun had to come to me, as I was in shock, and tell me that someone had tried to hurt my daughter. My whole life changed from that moment on.
I regained my daughter and eventually divorced the father. In doing that I ran to another man, who turned out to be worse in many ways than the man I was with. The story of my life. We had a child as well. I had a compulsion to get pregnant, in order to keep the man happy so he wouldn’t hurt me or leave me. Had no idea how strong it was. It was only last month I finally got custody of this child. The father was sexually abused by his parents and allowed his children of a former marriage to have incest with no understanding how to cope with it. Yes, sad. Yes, true. Now I am free of them all, except to be friends at my choosing. All of my husbands were emotionally controlling, and at times physically abusive, except the first one.
I had given birth 6 times at home with midwives. I never had drugs. Was very good about keeping my body healthy (except emotional stress) and never smoked. I do again now. It’s too hard to quit for just myself. All the midwives were very supportive.
Each father had different reactions to my pregnancies. The last 3 fathers became violent during the pregnancy, which I learned is normal when they are sick themselves. It is called the cycle of abuse. I realized their own fears of increased responsibility brought on their anger. The father of the four, with the birth of our first child, did this during the time I was in labor. He went upstairs and got his gun, which I didn’t know he had. He was delirious. He said he was going to kill himself. I called the local church for help. They calmed him down. He had a fever of 106 degrees. After they came he changed completely. He waited on me hand and foot for 3 days with no problems. With the birth of the second child by him he did a similar thing. He contracted strep throat and wouldn’t get medical help. When our third daughter was in foster care he refused to help. I had to beg him for gas money to go see her. I think he is better now. He finally moved close enough to be able to come see his kids after 4 years of absence. Yes, it was awful.
Well, lets skip ahead. I left all my ex-husbands and moved to a place for a new start. I had been here one year and started working again after 20 years of isolation and abuse. I did well. I recover well. My kids were all in school and getting medical attention. I was trying to rebuild my life. I knew my natural father had sexually abused me, as it was confirmed in a very private way. I knew being the daughter of an alcoholic made me feel guilty for being alive, as that is a part of their disease you inherit even if you don’t drink. I can’t drink. It makes me sick. I have my own home, my own car, and my own money and have started to find out who I am, that I am not just a husband’s shadow. My kids started to calm down and not be excessively afraid of being put into foster care if I didn’t do just the right thing. They made friends. I got credit cards (too many!!) I stayed in the same town and same house. It’s a miracle I ever got this far. People in the community helped me with my ex-husband who accused me of child abuse. After 2 years he was proved a liar and an idiot after 7 hours in court with no proof. I can’t even tell my kids no, and would never hurt them physically. I attended many parenting classes to try to learn what a parent is supposed to do and how children learn naturally and what they need to feel loved. So, now I was ready to rejoin my local church.
I decided to pray for forgiveness and ask the Heavenly Father to reveal to me what I need to repent of. I prayed, and He forgave. No one in my church understood except my pastor. He accepted me completely and never looks down on me even though I can’t live up to his expectations. He doesn’t understand how much Christ-like love he has given me. It saved my life in a way.
What I write next is abhorrent to most. I received 24 hours of Satanic Ritual Abuse Memories as an answer to my prayer. It took me a whole year to come out of shock. Knowledge has been my friend, so I started to research things on the Internet. Every memory I received was unique to myself. Sometimes after a memory came I would find a similar kind of act being talked about from others, but I knew mine were mine. I found in my memories reasons for many of my fears and could re-evaluate my choices in my current life.
In learning about SRA (satanic ritual abuse) I discovered most don’t believe it. It’s too scary and means man is really evil if they choose to be. It’s hard to look at society that way. It hurts too much. It’s commonly called Denial…
Until these memories came I always feared my death and that of my children. I never believed in any future. It’s still far away from me. Time was always my enemy. I had no knowledge that anyone I loved would be there the next day. When my journey of healing is done, the future will be my best friend for in it is hope of a new world for my children and me.
When I am stressed watch out. I learned to give myself “time outs” years ago. I never beat my kids but I did yell a lot. As more memories come I am calmer in many ways. I can even envision playing with my children someday.
Because I have chosen to learn from my experiences I can help almost anyone in stress. If they are willing to listen I can help at least a little bit. I can have compassion where many can’t. I do have pride though; it’s hard for me to tolerate those who chose to not grow. I need to work on that one. Learning and being analytical was my escape from my emotions. Emotions are very painful for me, thinking isn’t.
I have been in counseling off and on for 7 years, the last 3 more so than before. I chose my counselors and usually the course of the discussions. I can’t be hypnotized, and I have never taken any anti depressant drugs, they scare me to no end. I have never been institutionalized or hospitalized. I learned my way out of my pain.
Whenever one has a therapist who goes on and on about themselves or tells you they believe you but are lying, even if they think it’s in your best interest to do so, it’s very damaging. Trust is more important than anything. Anyone who truly cares can help you. Truth will set you free.
My support now comes from myself, in that I have to keep remembering all the wonderful things I have gained, as in the ability to forgive my mother, which took me several years to do. Secondly it comes from my oldest son, simultaneously with my therapist, and some on-line friends, who are all in similar situations as mine. I also get support in that when I learn something directly related to my healing, if I share that with someone else and they are benefited by it, its very validating to the whole experience.
Motherhood is the greatest gift, the most intricate way of learning about yourself, past, present and future. The only individuals I would tell to not have children are those who are following in the footsteps of generational abuse and have no desire to heal from it. Their offspring would surely want for love. If you can see your children as a mirror of yourself, both good and bad, and in that forgive yourself and your parents, you will come to enjoy the healing experience of it. Sometimes the pain you re-experience sets you in fear of continuing on in getting better. But remember, what you will learn today can set you free of tomorrow. If as a parent you find you are out of control there are many in your community who will help you if you have the right desire in your heart. Sometimes it takes patience even with those who do help you if they understand not the struggles you experience inside to control your emotions and feelings. If you feel bridled by society’s standards and that weighs you down, don’t feel alone. There are many new and old philosophies that would tell us that because we are not perfect we are not worthy to be parents. Just remember, most of those people themselves may not have ever had children or never experienced their own childhoods with joy. Joy and love and trust beget the same. Where it does not exist in the adult you will also find it lacking in their childhood. When one learns hatred as a child it is excruciatingly painful to unlearn that the love you knew was actually pain. It is very hard to retrain the mind, heart, muscles, emotions; the whole nervous system of a human being is geared to accept that which it experienced as a child. It takes tremendous effort for me to accept peace as love, when silence and “peace” meant I didn’t know what was coming next.
I survived because I was blessed to live within my mind and heart. I was given the courage somehow to never go against my own internal principals. This has brought me to where I am now.
Another thing I would advise is to allow others to help you raise, love, nurture and discipline your children, as long as you can agree with what they say the believe and actually do. A friend of mine taught me in these last two years that it takes a community to raise a child. This is true. Don’t get it confused with "group parenting" or believing that the biological parent is not necessary, as many are promoting around the world. It’s just a way to spread yourself a little bit better, as you are only one person.
To give you an example so there is no confusion, there is a college program in my town called Project Pals. For single parents, each child of the family, age 6 years or older, is assigned a college student to take them somewhere once a week for about an hour. With myself being single and having 5 little ones, this program has really helped all of us. It has taught my children much.
One last thing that I never learned and have great difficulty in accepting. First, a child’s self esteem comes from the love seen and expressed between his parents. If a child has a parent with abandonment issues that is almost impossible. Even if there is separation or divorce, never saying anything negative or fighting about personal issues regarding the other parent will greatly enhance your child’s self esteem. Then, it took many years for this next idea to come forth and many may disagree with me. If the parents take time for themselves, despite a lifestyle so busy they can't keep up, and show by this and other ways that they know that they are important; the children will grow up knowing that as well. When you are recovering from years of abuse, there are many times that you are so frustrated with your own behavior it feels really awkward to reward yourself.
Health care providers can help or hurt depending on their personal backgrounds and the view from which they enter your lives. Only truly compassionate people in whatever field will be able to understand what you are going through. It behooves one to learn how to kindly teach others about abuse and its effects. I had many help me and many hate me. I would ask them to be more open to not following standard, rote procedures and really be there for the individual at hand. Listening with the actual intent to hear can be a great kindness.
My children have learned much that only they know. They know very much so what insecurity is. They bonded together unusually strong for children. They know men are not supposed to hit and they know if they are scared to go to the police. I have tried to teach them to respect each other but haven't done that very well, as I did not know what it felt like myself. I guess I learned that how I allow my children to treat each other is how they will in turn treat their spouses and children. I hope I have given them a better start in life than what I had.
I want to mention boundaries. If you are a therapist reading this you will see that I had no boundaries. I was never safe. For a child, as I have learned, boundaries bring security. It’s what keeps them calm. I never had any, and the ones I did have were of my own choosing, as I had decided that the pain was too great to continue on in pursuit of that course of action. I learned in every instance that I was able to carry it out, that saying something, doing it, making it stick was the greatest gift I could give to my children. It is my greatest weakness. Every time I try to set a boundary, my past kicks in and fear and death and I usually give in to my kids’ desires. In my own way I am continuing the abuse here, yet I am not strong enough to overcome it. I must forgive myself this several times a day. I just can’t take away anything or deny my kids anything when it’s not a life and death situation. That is all I grew up with. Anything less is simply unimportant in my subconscious mind. So, if you have the strength in your heart to make boundaries and keep them, your children will grow up being able to function well within society’s bounds.
I would like to say that I have much yet to learn. That patience with yourself, forgiveness of yourself and your imperfections, that forgiveness of your abusers and hope they can change, in others words...
Forgiveness without Charity is nothing.
Millennium
Wow! I am free to begin a whole new life.
An existence free from pain. Joy radiates within me.
Pain, I can no longer see. Yet, I am alone. Where can
You be? Oh! There you are; right beside me. Hello.
This is me. Will you come and share this new
Millennium with me? Wow! Let's Go!!!
To learn more, order Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering and Healing after Sexual Abuse
Friday, February 27, 2009
Katrina's Story
There was something wrong with me, I was sure. Simple things, like going alone into a new place, terrified me. I was afraid of men. I had an overactive caution meter that made certain situations unbearable, everything within me screaming, "GET OUT NOW!" I cried at the drop of a hat with people I trusted. I was seldom happy and never contented, never safe, even at home. After a disastrous dating relationship with an abusive guy, I married a wonderful man with whom making love was uncomfortable at best and at worst, I wasn’t even there for it. I had this uncanny ability to disappear, leave my body and come back at a later point. Sometimes I went into the wallpaper, sometimes into the rest of my day and sometimes into nowhere. This wasn’t normal, was it?
Then, one evening, sitting with my legs drawn up on the floor in a friend’s living room with the lamp light behind my left shoulder, I remembered. I remembered episodes of "special games" that a 17-year-old male babysitter would play with 6 year old me. I went home that evening and told everything to my husband, and it felt as though I had never forgotten. I felt relieved, at some level, to understand that I was wounded; I wasn’t "normal." Then I slid into deep depression.
Mercifully, love and support surrounded me. At this point in our lives, my husband was in graduate school and there was a counselor on staff whom I could see free of charge. She was experienced in dealing with abuse survivors and we worked together for two full years on a weekly basis. There is no way that I can ever repay the gift that she gave to me of her time, her energy, her love. She mothered me toward health and healing and was the midwife to my most difficult birth. My husband was a rock, staunchly loyal, protective and patient. He even sought counseling himself as he tried to deal with my depression. He held me or didn’t as I needed, coached me, comforted me, cooked for me and prayed for me. And I had a doula too, a brave survivor herself, further along her healing path, who held my hand, raged with me, wept with me and believed in me.
After two years, my counselor moved on and I continued for one year with someone new. Two months into that time, I discovered that I was pregnant with our first child. We had stopped using birth control four months earlier and I had wept through each of my periods since then, sure that despite all my work, the abuse was going to interfere with my life one more time and prevent my pregnancy. But here I was, pregnant. What a miracle! I had an easy pregnancy and slid into prenatal care by the OB group who had a female nurse practitioner whom I had found for well woman care.
Part of the work of my healing involved exploring "normality." What did it mean to be "normal"? I confused health and wholeness with "normality." I so badly wanted to have a normal pregnancy and a normal birth and a normal baby, having felt so abnormal all of my life. I have no sisters and none of my women friends were pregnant at the time that I was. The only stories that I had to go on were of the women in the office where I worked and they were all at least 15 years older than I was. I knew I wanted a natural birth, though. My mother had two natural births and taught Lamaze when I was young. She talked all of my life about the beauty of her births and her joy at the end of pain. My friend, my doula, also steered me in the direction of childbirth classes as a way to prepare for a natural birth.
In my sixth month I read a book that said that for survivors of abuse, birth in a hospital into the hands of doctors could entail elements of re-victimization. I toyed with the idea of a home birth but only knew about lay midwives locally and knew that where I live the practice of lay midwifery is illegal. I did not have the resources to break the law. I was trying to be normal.
Three weeks before my due date, I lost my mucous plug and began having contractions. For three days, I labored off and on, mostly at home, punctuated by trips to the hospital to be checked, and made no "progress." I began to doubt that labor led to birth; it only led to more labor. On my final trip to the hospital they surmised that I had a urinary tract infection (a phone diagnosis by the doctor) they put me on antibiotics and sent me home. So hard. I felt supported by my husband and doula but not by my doctors. For several more days I had contractions off and on, which I knew were more intense than Braxton-Hicks. Meanwhile, the baby grew.
At my weekly appointment a few days before my due date, the doctor expressed concern at the size of the baby. I already measured 44cm. She suggested that we schedule an induction after the weekend or (as I hesitated) I could come in for a non-stress test. No patience, no sympathy, no trust in my body. We went in for the induction on Monday. And thus followed a cascade of interventions: amniotomy, pitocin, premature pushing (I pushed before I had an urge to) and CPD. After 20 hours of labor I had an epidural and a c-section. Bruce was 10 lbs, 5 oz.
As I look back, I marvel at my capacity for pain: enduring a Pit induced labor with no medication and no bag of waters cushion. I had terrific support from both my husband and doula and the nurse assigned to us. She said later that she had never seen a couple work together so well. I am also amazed that I stayed present for all of my labor. At no point did I disappear into the wood- work even as the male OB tried to turn an already stuck baby. Still, I felt that my body and I had not worked together. I had not trusted.
Immediately following my surgery I was given medication to make me sleep. I was not consulted about this. I was out of it for many hours and Bruce and I nursed for the first time six hours after his birth. In the meantime they had given him a bottle of glucose water because his glucose level dropped. Thus ensued a troubled and trying nursing relationship. Bruce lost weight and then gained only slowly. I finally was convinced to supplement with formula and wore a supplemental nursing system for the next year. My consultation with lactation consultants and La Leche League leaders has suggested that the Pitocin (which artificially swells breast tissue causing poor latch on), the delay in our nursing and the initial bottle were all causes of my low milk supply.
During the next weeks and months I held and nursed and wore a high need Bruce and struggled with depression. When Bruce was 9 months old I began studying to be a natural childbirth educator. The process of learning unleashed my anger and I agonized over feeling unsupported and voiceless and re-victimized. This anger gave me energy to study, to begin teaching and to promise myself to make different choices the next time.
I became pregnant again when Bruce was 16 months old. By then I had more knowledge of the birth community locally due to my association with other childbirth teachers and midwives. I explored the possibility of a home birth with a Certified Nurse Midwife and birth at the most natural childbirth friendly hospital. I found a wonderful midwife who wanted a record of my surgical incision but otherwise treated me as a healthy pregnant woman.
Mary’s office was in the back of an old Bed and Breakfast almost 25 miles from my home. Behind the building there was a farmyard with horses, a stream, and a beautiful weeping willow tree. Each of my prenatal visits was profoundly healing for me. Mary spent at least an hour each visit with me, talking about me, my hopes, fears, my previous birth, and my dreams. She was attentive to two-year-old Bruce. She had me check my own urine and weigh myself and gave me copies of all of my records. I felt empowered and cared for and strong. Then after our check ups, Bruce and I would go to the local general store, buy peanuts and juice and sit under the willow tree watching the stream.
I decided early on that I wanted to labor in water this time and rented a birthing tub from another local childbirth educator. We picked it up three weeks before my due date and set it up in a back bedroom of our house. We filled it once to be sure it didn’t leak and my husband, Peter, and I tried it out for fun.
What a different birth this was! My husband called the midwife at 5:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning and said that we thought this was it. He asked me how far dilated I thought I was, "Six,” I said. He told her not to hurry that we would be fine until she got there. At 6:00 a.m. Bruce woke up and I instinctively went in to him to put him back to sleep. He dozed until I had to move onto my hands and knees for a contraction. That upset him, "Mommy no have contraptions," he cried. My mother said she would take him to the other grandparent’s house and Peter put him in the car screaming. I cried. After they left, I looked at my belly and said, "Ok baby, time for you to come. I need to take care of my other baby." Then I went into transition. I got in the shower and moaned and moaned. I felt the moment the contractions begin to change and felt the powerful pushing at the peaks begin. “ I feel pushy,” I called to Peter outside the curtain. "Don’t push,” he said. “ Mary isn’t here yet." He ran back and forth to the door looking for her.
Mary arrived just as I was getting out of the shower and wondering why the next contraction wasn’t there yet. She checked me and I was complete with a bulging bag. So we called all the friends we’d invited to be at the birth, sent my father off with the car so my mother could come back and settled down to wait. I had an hour break during which I had three contractions. We listened to music; I ate banana bread and a popsicle and smiled at my friends as they came through the door. They were amazed to see me up and smiling and completely dilated. Then I began to feel pressure: all these lovely people here are waiting for me to produce the baby. I told Peter I needed to be alone with him in the bathroom. Mary said to call her if I felt the baby move. Fifteen minutes later I was squatting and pushing and I felt the baby slip under the pubic bone. Mary came in and with the next contraction I soaked her by popping the amniotic sac. This was all new now and I began to panic. “The baby is too big,” I thought. “No way is something that feels that big getting out.” I called for honey and I clung to Peter saying, "I can’t do it." “You are doing it,” he replied. Then I said I wanted to get back in the water.
A few contractions later the head emerged and then a good push or two and out came the shoulders and Peter yelled, "You did it, Katrina!" There he was, wet, wiggly and precious and I held him just moments after he was born. I was a queen!
I look back on Nate’s birth as both the result of and a vehicle for healing from the abuse. Choosing to birth at home with a midwife who trusted the process of birth and the ability of my body to birth were crucial. By choosing to be at home I put myself at the center of the birthing process: I took responsibility for the possible risks of being at home and gave myself permission to say and do what I needed and wanted. I gave myself a voice. I also declared myself valuable enough to have friends around me to support me and share in the miracle. In choosing Mary to be my midwife I learned what "normal" pregnancy and birth is all about. I drew on her trust of birth and my body to learn to do the same for myself. I not only stayed in my body during Nate’s birth; I also learned to trust.
Since beginning to write this narrative, I have become pregnant with our third child. We are planning another homebirth, with the midwife who served as Mary’s assistant at Nate’s birth. This pregnancy has been one of joy and celebration for me. I feel the freedom to speak as I need to about my needs and wishes. I trust my body’s ability to grow a baby and to birth it. My dreams for this birth are the healing of two more shards still broken from the abuse. I would like this to be a sexy birth, a birth that highlights the intimacy of the creation of the baby and my connection to Peter even as I push the baby out. I want to rewrite the synapses in my neural net that prevent me from fully surrendering to sexual pleasure even as I surrender to the powerful forces of birth. We have talked about Peter catching the baby so that I can look at him as I push the baby out, face-to-face, eye-to-eye, wonder-to-wonder. I also want to experience greater healing in breastfeeding. Nate, like Bruce, lost weight and put it back on slowly. I grew anxious before the doctor did and wore the SNS for several months. I would like to not have to do that again. I would like to trust my body to nourish the baby outside the womb as it did so beautifully inside.
To learn more, order Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering and Healing after Sexual Abuse
Then, one evening, sitting with my legs drawn up on the floor in a friend’s living room with the lamp light behind my left shoulder, I remembered. I remembered episodes of "special games" that a 17-year-old male babysitter would play with 6 year old me. I went home that evening and told everything to my husband, and it felt as though I had never forgotten. I felt relieved, at some level, to understand that I was wounded; I wasn’t "normal." Then I slid into deep depression.
Mercifully, love and support surrounded me. At this point in our lives, my husband was in graduate school and there was a counselor on staff whom I could see free of charge. She was experienced in dealing with abuse survivors and we worked together for two full years on a weekly basis. There is no way that I can ever repay the gift that she gave to me of her time, her energy, her love. She mothered me toward health and healing and was the midwife to my most difficult birth. My husband was a rock, staunchly loyal, protective and patient. He even sought counseling himself as he tried to deal with my depression. He held me or didn’t as I needed, coached me, comforted me, cooked for me and prayed for me. And I had a doula too, a brave survivor herself, further along her healing path, who held my hand, raged with me, wept with me and believed in me.
After two years, my counselor moved on and I continued for one year with someone new. Two months into that time, I discovered that I was pregnant with our first child. We had stopped using birth control four months earlier and I had wept through each of my periods since then, sure that despite all my work, the abuse was going to interfere with my life one more time and prevent my pregnancy. But here I was, pregnant. What a miracle! I had an easy pregnancy and slid into prenatal care by the OB group who had a female nurse practitioner whom I had found for well woman care.
Part of the work of my healing involved exploring "normality." What did it mean to be "normal"? I confused health and wholeness with "normality." I so badly wanted to have a normal pregnancy and a normal birth and a normal baby, having felt so abnormal all of my life. I have no sisters and none of my women friends were pregnant at the time that I was. The only stories that I had to go on were of the women in the office where I worked and they were all at least 15 years older than I was. I knew I wanted a natural birth, though. My mother had two natural births and taught Lamaze when I was young. She talked all of my life about the beauty of her births and her joy at the end of pain. My friend, my doula, also steered me in the direction of childbirth classes as a way to prepare for a natural birth.
In my sixth month I read a book that said that for survivors of abuse, birth in a hospital into the hands of doctors could entail elements of re-victimization. I toyed with the idea of a home birth but only knew about lay midwives locally and knew that where I live the practice of lay midwifery is illegal. I did not have the resources to break the law. I was trying to be normal.
Three weeks before my due date, I lost my mucous plug and began having contractions. For three days, I labored off and on, mostly at home, punctuated by trips to the hospital to be checked, and made no "progress." I began to doubt that labor led to birth; it only led to more labor. On my final trip to the hospital they surmised that I had a urinary tract infection (a phone diagnosis by the doctor) they put me on antibiotics and sent me home. So hard. I felt supported by my husband and doula but not by my doctors. For several more days I had contractions off and on, which I knew were more intense than Braxton-Hicks. Meanwhile, the baby grew.
At my weekly appointment a few days before my due date, the doctor expressed concern at the size of the baby. I already measured 44cm. She suggested that we schedule an induction after the weekend or (as I hesitated) I could come in for a non-stress test. No patience, no sympathy, no trust in my body. We went in for the induction on Monday. And thus followed a cascade of interventions: amniotomy, pitocin, premature pushing (I pushed before I had an urge to) and CPD. After 20 hours of labor I had an epidural and a c-section. Bruce was 10 lbs, 5 oz.
As I look back, I marvel at my capacity for pain: enduring a Pit induced labor with no medication and no bag of waters cushion. I had terrific support from both my husband and doula and the nurse assigned to us. She said later that she had never seen a couple work together so well. I am also amazed that I stayed present for all of my labor. At no point did I disappear into the wood- work even as the male OB tried to turn an already stuck baby. Still, I felt that my body and I had not worked together. I had not trusted.
Immediately following my surgery I was given medication to make me sleep. I was not consulted about this. I was out of it for many hours and Bruce and I nursed for the first time six hours after his birth. In the meantime they had given him a bottle of glucose water because his glucose level dropped. Thus ensued a troubled and trying nursing relationship. Bruce lost weight and then gained only slowly. I finally was convinced to supplement with formula and wore a supplemental nursing system for the next year. My consultation with lactation consultants and La Leche League leaders has suggested that the Pitocin (which artificially swells breast tissue causing poor latch on), the delay in our nursing and the initial bottle were all causes of my low milk supply.
During the next weeks and months I held and nursed and wore a high need Bruce and struggled with depression. When Bruce was 9 months old I began studying to be a natural childbirth educator. The process of learning unleashed my anger and I agonized over feeling unsupported and voiceless and re-victimized. This anger gave me energy to study, to begin teaching and to promise myself to make different choices the next time.
I became pregnant again when Bruce was 16 months old. By then I had more knowledge of the birth community locally due to my association with other childbirth teachers and midwives. I explored the possibility of a home birth with a Certified Nurse Midwife and birth at the most natural childbirth friendly hospital. I found a wonderful midwife who wanted a record of my surgical incision but otherwise treated me as a healthy pregnant woman.
Mary’s office was in the back of an old Bed and Breakfast almost 25 miles from my home. Behind the building there was a farmyard with horses, a stream, and a beautiful weeping willow tree. Each of my prenatal visits was profoundly healing for me. Mary spent at least an hour each visit with me, talking about me, my hopes, fears, my previous birth, and my dreams. She was attentive to two-year-old Bruce. She had me check my own urine and weigh myself and gave me copies of all of my records. I felt empowered and cared for and strong. Then after our check ups, Bruce and I would go to the local general store, buy peanuts and juice and sit under the willow tree watching the stream.
I decided early on that I wanted to labor in water this time and rented a birthing tub from another local childbirth educator. We picked it up three weeks before my due date and set it up in a back bedroom of our house. We filled it once to be sure it didn’t leak and my husband, Peter, and I tried it out for fun.
What a different birth this was! My husband called the midwife at 5:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning and said that we thought this was it. He asked me how far dilated I thought I was, "Six,” I said. He told her not to hurry that we would be fine until she got there. At 6:00 a.m. Bruce woke up and I instinctively went in to him to put him back to sleep. He dozed until I had to move onto my hands and knees for a contraction. That upset him, "Mommy no have contraptions," he cried. My mother said she would take him to the other grandparent’s house and Peter put him in the car screaming. I cried. After they left, I looked at my belly and said, "Ok baby, time for you to come. I need to take care of my other baby." Then I went into transition. I got in the shower and moaned and moaned. I felt the moment the contractions begin to change and felt the powerful pushing at the peaks begin. “ I feel pushy,” I called to Peter outside the curtain. "Don’t push,” he said. “ Mary isn’t here yet." He ran back and forth to the door looking for her.
Mary arrived just as I was getting out of the shower and wondering why the next contraction wasn’t there yet. She checked me and I was complete with a bulging bag. So we called all the friends we’d invited to be at the birth, sent my father off with the car so my mother could come back and settled down to wait. I had an hour break during which I had three contractions. We listened to music; I ate banana bread and a popsicle and smiled at my friends as they came through the door. They were amazed to see me up and smiling and completely dilated. Then I began to feel pressure: all these lovely people here are waiting for me to produce the baby. I told Peter I needed to be alone with him in the bathroom. Mary said to call her if I felt the baby move. Fifteen minutes later I was squatting and pushing and I felt the baby slip under the pubic bone. Mary came in and with the next contraction I soaked her by popping the amniotic sac. This was all new now and I began to panic. “The baby is too big,” I thought. “No way is something that feels that big getting out.” I called for honey and I clung to Peter saying, "I can’t do it." “You are doing it,” he replied. Then I said I wanted to get back in the water.
A few contractions later the head emerged and then a good push or two and out came the shoulders and Peter yelled, "You did it, Katrina!" There he was, wet, wiggly and precious and I held him just moments after he was born. I was a queen!
I look back on Nate’s birth as both the result of and a vehicle for healing from the abuse. Choosing to birth at home with a midwife who trusted the process of birth and the ability of my body to birth were crucial. By choosing to be at home I put myself at the center of the birthing process: I took responsibility for the possible risks of being at home and gave myself permission to say and do what I needed and wanted. I gave myself a voice. I also declared myself valuable enough to have friends around me to support me and share in the miracle. In choosing Mary to be my midwife I learned what "normal" pregnancy and birth is all about. I drew on her trust of birth and my body to learn to do the same for myself. I not only stayed in my body during Nate’s birth; I also learned to trust.
Since beginning to write this narrative, I have become pregnant with our third child. We are planning another homebirth, with the midwife who served as Mary’s assistant at Nate’s birth. This pregnancy has been one of joy and celebration for me. I feel the freedom to speak as I need to about my needs and wishes. I trust my body’s ability to grow a baby and to birth it. My dreams for this birth are the healing of two more shards still broken from the abuse. I would like this to be a sexy birth, a birth that highlights the intimacy of the creation of the baby and my connection to Peter even as I push the baby out. I want to rewrite the synapses in my neural net that prevent me from fully surrendering to sexual pleasure even as I surrender to the powerful forces of birth. We have talked about Peter catching the baby so that I can look at him as I push the baby out, face-to-face, eye-to-eye, wonder-to-wonder. I also want to experience greater healing in breastfeeding. Nate, like Bruce, lost weight and put it back on slowly. I grew anxious before the doctor did and wore the SNS for several months. I would like to not have to do that again. I would like to trust my body to nourish the baby outside the womb as it did so beautifully inside.
To learn more, order Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering and Healing after Sexual Abuse
Friday, February 13, 2009
Deborah's Story
I was born in the early 1950’s into a conservative, Christian home. I was well cared for and felt secure. I don’t believe my mother knew how to bond very well with her children, and didn’t know how to relate very personally with her friends either. I did not feel close to my older brother, or even my only (older) sister, although we were only 15 months apart. I played with my two younger brothers and tried to give them the attention I felt was lacking from my mother. My dad was better at relations, and tried to spend time with us children, but was very busy with work and organizations. I was a good, compliant and reserved child. I took a very responsible view of life, including commitments to God.
When I was 13 and starting to mature, my older brother (by three years) started interacting more with me. He asked personal questions about the developing bodies of my girlfriend and I when she spent the night. Another time he wanted to demonstrate wrestling moves on me, and gained sexual arousal, as he had planned, I’m sure. I did not like any of this; was shocked and unassertive. However, I never participated again. I had not had any sex education besides the fifth grade health film at school.
One night my sister had a friend overnight, so I slept in my brother’s room. He slept in the family room, separated by sliding glass doors. He came over several times to touch my breasts and bottom, even making comments. I was scared stiff, literally, wanting to escape, yet frozen. Finally I managed to say stop, when his hands reached my vaginal area. He left. Again I waited in suspense, and he did not return. My mind and emotions were buzzing. In the morning I acted as normal as I could. I don’t remember even thinking of telling my parents or sister. It was just too unbelievable and shameful.
A few weeks later, I told my girlfriend. I don’t remember her response, other than it was short. A month or so later, my girlfriend and I spent the night with another girl. My friend threatened to tell her the story if I didn’t. So I felt forced to tell it myself, to keep it short and quick. I felt I had been betrayed and that I had betrayed myself. I always felt like that betrayal affected my life more than the abuse itself. It cut me off from deeper friendships that could have allowed me to share inner thoughts and feelings, perhaps even the pain of my abuse. I decided women couldn’t be trusted, and only my husband would be worthy of that trust. I don’t remember thinking about it again and, in fact, treated my brother with love and respect.
In high school, I was more quiet and withdrawn, and sometimes sensitive to the point of tears, without knowing why. Since I could not share or even articulate my problem (I didn’t connect it to my brother), I couldn’t get help, and had some depression.
I went away to a small college, and decided it was my big chance to change. I was more outgoing and friendly, especially toward those I thought needed a friend. I had an easier time making friends with guys, and actually had some fun and happiness. I enjoyed these platonic friendships. I did date, but did not enjoy the kissing, and never allowed anything further. The dating relationships were short. I got depressed and restless, wondering what was wrong with me. I just couldn’t relate closely with girls, and felt different from them, left out but not wanting to be “like them” (foolish and too talkative). I was rigid about eating only healthy foods. When I strayed I would regurgitate, although I never binged. I avoided going home by volunteering at a mental hospital for the summer. I was very depressed, thought of asking for help, but did not.
My second year at college, I dated a guy my intuition told me to beware of. I was so “nice” I thought I should give him a chance. Outdoors on one date, he leaned against me and made me feel his erection. I believe I spaced out after that. I remember being naked on my bed, digital penetration, and his saying I was beautiful as he walked out the door. I don’t know what I did immediately afterward. I told no one. I saw him once more when he told me he was leaving campus for good. (He wasn’t a student.)
I told God I’d quit dating until I got help, but I didn’t know where to get help. Soon after, I met a guy who was different. He talked about God and didn’t make a lot of physical moves toward me. He seemed to really care about me. I knew he was the one I’d marry. I told him very brief accounts about my brother and the date incident, releasing some emotion. We had a lot of fun together. We married and were part of a close-knit home church. I still did not connect with women in a deep way. I was quiet, yet nice. I still felt something was wrong with me, and sometimes felt depressed. I never thought about the abuse. Our sex life was fine. I didn’t initiate, but could go along and even receive some pleasure.
At first I did not want children because I knew childhood as a time of pain and isolation; being in the midst of a family, yet unable to connect and share. Marriage created a desire for children, and I had no career to distract me. I thought I’d be better at parenting boys, since I didn’t feel very feminine and could not connect with girls.
Once I was pregnant, I only wanted a healthy baby. Perhaps God has a sense of humor. We have five girls and one boy. Maybe he wanted me to learn that girls are all innately different, some more “feminine” than others, yet all normal. We had a home birth with a midwife to help. I’d never felt so close to another human being. I was a natural at birthing and nursing. I was able to do what my mother had been unable to do for me. Mothering has been a nurturing experience for me and, therefore, a healing experience. I finally felt more connected, not only to my babies but also to a group of women called mothers.
Sexual abuse affected me as a mother. A side effect has been a desire to be in control or at least know what to expect of situations and people. So when I wanted children, I did a lot of reading and chose to give birth in my own home with my husband and a midwife. I like to raise my children following my own instincts. I nursed with baby-led weaning and natural family planning. I avoided the need for routine doctor visits by obtaining exemptions from immunization, which I also researched. I learned about natural remedies, nutrition, homeopathy, and herbs. I also did some home schooling. I really enjoyed the children as infants and toddlers, and missed being as close as they grew older.
Mothering adolescent girls was especially hard for me. I read some books to them about the physical and emotional changes of puberty. I did not add personal comments. I’d often think of things to share about love and sex and how wonderful it could be, but could never say them. I knew the right words but I feared my feelings would betray my ambivalence. I relied on church youth group leaders to cover it for me. I very briefly told them of my abuse after I wrote this account.
In general, I was a good mother, but I know I lacked some emotional dimensions and spontaneity. I also suffered from migraines, so the older girls learned to help care for the younger ones as needed. After my fifth child, the only boy, I was really run down and began the slow descent into a major depression (three years later). I could not relax, and he was fussy for a year. Initially, he lost weight, but slowly regained it. I was home-schooling two children, we were under financial strain, the oldest girl reached puberty, and I could tolerate sex less than ever. I was just doing what I had to do, but I was dying inside.
I met a loving couple, and she shared about her childhood sexual abuse. I obsessed and agonized about whether to tell my story for months. When I told it, they assured me that I needed to get help. With their love and support and that of my husband, and with no more babies needing me, I let myself get help from a Christian psychotherapist. This actually made life harder, as I had to deal with emerging emotions. I didn’t have much patience with my kids, or time. I was gone biking, walking, and to therapy. As therapy progressed, a lot of anger and pain came up, but I didn’t know how to express it. It was very hard to pull myself together and return to my responsibilities at home. I’d often cut myself to shut down the bad emotions and anxiety. There was too much to handle all at once.
I signed myself into a Christian mental hospital for 22 days. This was very hard for me to do. I had rarely left my children, and it was especially hard for some of them. Although they came to see me a few times, when they left it was “out of sight, out of mind.” I couldn’t bear to think of the pain of separation. I was still very depressed, in therapy, and on medication for the next year.
All of my children were neglected, at least emotionally, during this time. My last child was born in the midst of it all, but was probably not neglected as much, because I was good at and enjoyed meeting a baby’s needs. She was a ray of sunshine in the storm. At first she had considerable weight loss, probably due to my depression and stress. Mother’s Milk Herbal Tea solved the problem. I took about a six-month break from therapy after the birth, and then resumed it for about two years.
I’m not sure why therapy took so long for me. I was distracted with so many responsibilities. I had such a block in my emotions. I took so long to trust, to accept love and acceptance. I thought too much, intellectualizing myself out of feeling emotions. It’s hard for a nice, good girl to feel such bad emotions.
I also have a biochemical imbalance of the brain. I still take a low dose of medication. Now I feel pretty stable. My family sees a fuller range of emotions and hears more laughter. Laughter is the easiest way to gauge how I’m doing. When I get down about my failures as a mother, especially when they imitate my own childhood, I remind myself that I have improved on it. I do the best I can with what was given me, my motive is love, and I’m human. I hope my children will improve on what I’ve given them.
I have shared my story with two women who were also abused, and have formed the closest friendships I’ve ever had. The more I talk or journal, getting it out of my head, the more healing and proper perspective takes place. God’s word and scripture songs help replace my own negative thoughts. I hope to pass on God’s love and truth by co-leading a support group at my church and sharing one-on-one. Only by sharing the story with a loving and accepting person can the shame be lifted and love be felt. God can bring good out of evil, as we accept His healing love and extend it to other hurting people.
When I was two and one-half, my mother noticed vaginal bleeding and took me to our doctor. He wrote on my chart, “vaginal bleeding secondary to trauma.” I found this on my chart when my mom gave it to me as part of my health records. I asked her if she knew what had happened. She has a bad memory, and could offer no plausible explanation. I was in therapy at this time, and I shared this with my therapist, whose immediate gut reaction was that this was probably sexual trauma and explained what he had seen as “developmental problems originating at age 2-3, especially the issue of trust.”
I also asked my medical doctor what these words would mean to a doctor. He said quite definitely something was pushed with some force against the vagina, and today would have been reported as possible abuse.
This incident is frustrating to me. If it were sexual abuse, it certainly would explain my difficulty in therapy, especially with trust and sexual issues. I could say, “See, this is why I have such a hard time.” It would explain why I froze with my brother and spaced out with the date in college. I wasn’t weak and stupid, but previously traumatized, and “split off” for safety. Thankfully, I don’t have to know. I can still deal with symptoms, poor ways of relating, negative thoughts, and automatic reactions to certain stimuli.
Abuse effects how I relate to others with trust and vulnerability, and how I see myself. I can always look to Christ and loving friends, and risk relating in a new way. Healing comes through relationships, not new intellectual knowledge alone.
To learn more, order Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering and Healing after Sexual Abuse
When I was 13 and starting to mature, my older brother (by three years) started interacting more with me. He asked personal questions about the developing bodies of my girlfriend and I when she spent the night. Another time he wanted to demonstrate wrestling moves on me, and gained sexual arousal, as he had planned, I’m sure. I did not like any of this; was shocked and unassertive. However, I never participated again. I had not had any sex education besides the fifth grade health film at school.
One night my sister had a friend overnight, so I slept in my brother’s room. He slept in the family room, separated by sliding glass doors. He came over several times to touch my breasts and bottom, even making comments. I was scared stiff, literally, wanting to escape, yet frozen. Finally I managed to say stop, when his hands reached my vaginal area. He left. Again I waited in suspense, and he did not return. My mind and emotions were buzzing. In the morning I acted as normal as I could. I don’t remember even thinking of telling my parents or sister. It was just too unbelievable and shameful.
A few weeks later, I told my girlfriend. I don’t remember her response, other than it was short. A month or so later, my girlfriend and I spent the night with another girl. My friend threatened to tell her the story if I didn’t. So I felt forced to tell it myself, to keep it short and quick. I felt I had been betrayed and that I had betrayed myself. I always felt like that betrayal affected my life more than the abuse itself. It cut me off from deeper friendships that could have allowed me to share inner thoughts and feelings, perhaps even the pain of my abuse. I decided women couldn’t be trusted, and only my husband would be worthy of that trust. I don’t remember thinking about it again and, in fact, treated my brother with love and respect.
In high school, I was more quiet and withdrawn, and sometimes sensitive to the point of tears, without knowing why. Since I could not share or even articulate my problem (I didn’t connect it to my brother), I couldn’t get help, and had some depression.
I went away to a small college, and decided it was my big chance to change. I was more outgoing and friendly, especially toward those I thought needed a friend. I had an easier time making friends with guys, and actually had some fun and happiness. I enjoyed these platonic friendships. I did date, but did not enjoy the kissing, and never allowed anything further. The dating relationships were short. I got depressed and restless, wondering what was wrong with me. I just couldn’t relate closely with girls, and felt different from them, left out but not wanting to be “like them” (foolish and too talkative). I was rigid about eating only healthy foods. When I strayed I would regurgitate, although I never binged. I avoided going home by volunteering at a mental hospital for the summer. I was very depressed, thought of asking for help, but did not.
My second year at college, I dated a guy my intuition told me to beware of. I was so “nice” I thought I should give him a chance. Outdoors on one date, he leaned against me and made me feel his erection. I believe I spaced out after that. I remember being naked on my bed, digital penetration, and his saying I was beautiful as he walked out the door. I don’t know what I did immediately afterward. I told no one. I saw him once more when he told me he was leaving campus for good. (He wasn’t a student.)
I told God I’d quit dating until I got help, but I didn’t know where to get help. Soon after, I met a guy who was different. He talked about God and didn’t make a lot of physical moves toward me. He seemed to really care about me. I knew he was the one I’d marry. I told him very brief accounts about my brother and the date incident, releasing some emotion. We had a lot of fun together. We married and were part of a close-knit home church. I still did not connect with women in a deep way. I was quiet, yet nice. I still felt something was wrong with me, and sometimes felt depressed. I never thought about the abuse. Our sex life was fine. I didn’t initiate, but could go along and even receive some pleasure.
At first I did not want children because I knew childhood as a time of pain and isolation; being in the midst of a family, yet unable to connect and share. Marriage created a desire for children, and I had no career to distract me. I thought I’d be better at parenting boys, since I didn’t feel very feminine and could not connect with girls.
Once I was pregnant, I only wanted a healthy baby. Perhaps God has a sense of humor. We have five girls and one boy. Maybe he wanted me to learn that girls are all innately different, some more “feminine” than others, yet all normal. We had a home birth with a midwife to help. I’d never felt so close to another human being. I was a natural at birthing and nursing. I was able to do what my mother had been unable to do for me. Mothering has been a nurturing experience for me and, therefore, a healing experience. I finally felt more connected, not only to my babies but also to a group of women called mothers.
Sexual abuse affected me as a mother. A side effect has been a desire to be in control or at least know what to expect of situations and people. So when I wanted children, I did a lot of reading and chose to give birth in my own home with my husband and a midwife. I like to raise my children following my own instincts. I nursed with baby-led weaning and natural family planning. I avoided the need for routine doctor visits by obtaining exemptions from immunization, which I also researched. I learned about natural remedies, nutrition, homeopathy, and herbs. I also did some home schooling. I really enjoyed the children as infants and toddlers, and missed being as close as they grew older.
Mothering adolescent girls was especially hard for me. I read some books to them about the physical and emotional changes of puberty. I did not add personal comments. I’d often think of things to share about love and sex and how wonderful it could be, but could never say them. I knew the right words but I feared my feelings would betray my ambivalence. I relied on church youth group leaders to cover it for me. I very briefly told them of my abuse after I wrote this account.
In general, I was a good mother, but I know I lacked some emotional dimensions and spontaneity. I also suffered from migraines, so the older girls learned to help care for the younger ones as needed. After my fifth child, the only boy, I was really run down and began the slow descent into a major depression (three years later). I could not relax, and he was fussy for a year. Initially, he lost weight, but slowly regained it. I was home-schooling two children, we were under financial strain, the oldest girl reached puberty, and I could tolerate sex less than ever. I was just doing what I had to do, but I was dying inside.
I met a loving couple, and she shared about her childhood sexual abuse. I obsessed and agonized about whether to tell my story for months. When I told it, they assured me that I needed to get help. With their love and support and that of my husband, and with no more babies needing me, I let myself get help from a Christian psychotherapist. This actually made life harder, as I had to deal with emerging emotions. I didn’t have much patience with my kids, or time. I was gone biking, walking, and to therapy. As therapy progressed, a lot of anger and pain came up, but I didn’t know how to express it. It was very hard to pull myself together and return to my responsibilities at home. I’d often cut myself to shut down the bad emotions and anxiety. There was too much to handle all at once.
I signed myself into a Christian mental hospital for 22 days. This was very hard for me to do. I had rarely left my children, and it was especially hard for some of them. Although they came to see me a few times, when they left it was “out of sight, out of mind.” I couldn’t bear to think of the pain of separation. I was still very depressed, in therapy, and on medication for the next year.
All of my children were neglected, at least emotionally, during this time. My last child was born in the midst of it all, but was probably not neglected as much, because I was good at and enjoyed meeting a baby’s needs. She was a ray of sunshine in the storm. At first she had considerable weight loss, probably due to my depression and stress. Mother’s Milk Herbal Tea solved the problem. I took about a six-month break from therapy after the birth, and then resumed it for about two years.
I’m not sure why therapy took so long for me. I was distracted with so many responsibilities. I had such a block in my emotions. I took so long to trust, to accept love and acceptance. I thought too much, intellectualizing myself out of feeling emotions. It’s hard for a nice, good girl to feel such bad emotions.
I also have a biochemical imbalance of the brain. I still take a low dose of medication. Now I feel pretty stable. My family sees a fuller range of emotions and hears more laughter. Laughter is the easiest way to gauge how I’m doing. When I get down about my failures as a mother, especially when they imitate my own childhood, I remind myself that I have improved on it. I do the best I can with what was given me, my motive is love, and I’m human. I hope my children will improve on what I’ve given them.
I have shared my story with two women who were also abused, and have formed the closest friendships I’ve ever had. The more I talk or journal, getting it out of my head, the more healing and proper perspective takes place. God’s word and scripture songs help replace my own negative thoughts. I hope to pass on God’s love and truth by co-leading a support group at my church and sharing one-on-one. Only by sharing the story with a loving and accepting person can the shame be lifted and love be felt. God can bring good out of evil, as we accept His healing love and extend it to other hurting people.
When I was two and one-half, my mother noticed vaginal bleeding and took me to our doctor. He wrote on my chart, “vaginal bleeding secondary to trauma.” I found this on my chart when my mom gave it to me as part of my health records. I asked her if she knew what had happened. She has a bad memory, and could offer no plausible explanation. I was in therapy at this time, and I shared this with my therapist, whose immediate gut reaction was that this was probably sexual trauma and explained what he had seen as “developmental problems originating at age 2-3, especially the issue of trust.”
I also asked my medical doctor what these words would mean to a doctor. He said quite definitely something was pushed with some force against the vagina, and today would have been reported as possible abuse.
This incident is frustrating to me. If it were sexual abuse, it certainly would explain my difficulty in therapy, especially with trust and sexual issues. I could say, “See, this is why I have such a hard time.” It would explain why I froze with my brother and spaced out with the date in college. I wasn’t weak and stupid, but previously traumatized, and “split off” for safety. Thankfully, I don’t have to know. I can still deal with symptoms, poor ways of relating, negative thoughts, and automatic reactions to certain stimuli.
Abuse effects how I relate to others with trust and vulnerability, and how I see myself. I can always look to Christ and loving friends, and risk relating in a new way. Healing comes through relationships, not new intellectual knowledge alone.
To learn more, order Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering and Healing after Sexual Abuse
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Laura's Story
I was raised in a family of ten children, eight girls in the middle and brothers on each end. Many people have romantic notions about what it would be like to grow up in a large family, but our household was full of chaos. My mother suffered from depression, and was largely unavailable to us. Both of my parents were consumed with caring for my older sister, who was hospitalized for a large portion of her childhood and died at the age of 12 from cystic fibrosis. Often they would put my oldest teenage brother in charge of the rest of the children while they went to the hospital. He was resentful and angry about this responsibility and took his anger out on us, first by physically abusing us and later sexually abusing us. I did not know till I was older that 3 of my other sisters had also endured his abuse over the years. The abuse began around the time I was 5 and ended when he moved out of the house around the time I was 7. When I tried to tell my mother about the abuse, she said I was dreaming.
I am not sure I would have ever dealt with the emotional scars of my abuse had I not had children. I never would have expected the changes in me that occurred after the birth of my first child, a boy. His birth was difficult and long and I was extremely tense as soon as we arrived at the hospital. Though I liked the midwives who helped deliver him there, I did not feel as if I had any control over the birth process and it brought a lot of emotions to surface. Nursing my son was incredibly difficult and painful for me, and without much support at home, I gave up after a few weeks and began bottle-feeding. I still regret this lost opportunity to bond with my son. He became a very colicky baby and it seemed that I could not comfort him in any way, and because of my frustration and feelings of inadequacy, I pulled away emotionally. I slipped in to a deep depression that went undiagnosed for a year and a half, because I was too exhausted and overwhelmed to seek help. I reluctantly began therapy, and through the help of the therapist, was able to finally make some connections between my childhood and what I was experiencing as a young mother.
I continued therapy through the pregnancy and birth of my second child, a girl. The circumstances around her birth were very different, as I chose to have a homebirth with 2 incredible midwives, whom I spent many hours with in the months leading up to her birth. When I envisioned a water birth as the most soothing and peaceful way for me to give birth, they supported my instincts. Her birth was gentler and easier than my first, and I felt in control and supported during the whole process. Nursing my daughter was again very painful and difficult for me at first, but I had a lot of support this time around to help me stick with it. I ended up nursing her for 2 years and having no problems with depression after her birth.
When my third child, a girl, was born 3 years later, we had moved to a new city, and since a homebirth was not possible, I birthed at a local hospital. Though I prepared myself as best I could, my fear and anxiety returned with this birth and I had my longest labor yet. I nursed my daughter through the painful period, but weaned her after a year, when my depression became so severe that I needed to begin taking medication. I also began therapy again and in conjunction with the medication, I was able to make a lot of progress in dealing with the ongoing pain of my abuse. I had many dreams during this time that were incredibly insightful, and I also did a breath-work session, which I would highly recommend to other survivors. It allowed me to reach a part of myself that I never could through regular therapy.
I don't think that I could have anticipated the enormous changes that came about for me after the birth of my first child. But in retrospect, the journey would have been a much healthier one if I had been sure to surround myself with nurturing, familiar caregivers in a non-stressful environment during his birth. I also wish that I had been better prepared for the difficulties I would encounter through breastfeeding, perhaps by having a familiar support system set up beforehand, rather than talking to strangers about my difficulties when my frustration level was so high.
But most importantly, I believe it has been a strong faith that has carried me through these difficult years. Prayer and meditation give me calm and a sense of peace that I can find nowhere else. My belief in God has helped me see that in spite of what has happened, I can love and I can forgive and I can grow from my past experiences. As difficult as the journey has been, I am thankful that the pain has not been buried but has been freed, for it allows me to open myself up and be free as well.
To learn more, order Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering and Healing after Sexual Abuse
I am not sure I would have ever dealt with the emotional scars of my abuse had I not had children. I never would have expected the changes in me that occurred after the birth of my first child, a boy. His birth was difficult and long and I was extremely tense as soon as we arrived at the hospital. Though I liked the midwives who helped deliver him there, I did not feel as if I had any control over the birth process and it brought a lot of emotions to surface. Nursing my son was incredibly difficult and painful for me, and without much support at home, I gave up after a few weeks and began bottle-feeding. I still regret this lost opportunity to bond with my son. He became a very colicky baby and it seemed that I could not comfort him in any way, and because of my frustration and feelings of inadequacy, I pulled away emotionally. I slipped in to a deep depression that went undiagnosed for a year and a half, because I was too exhausted and overwhelmed to seek help. I reluctantly began therapy, and through the help of the therapist, was able to finally make some connections between my childhood and what I was experiencing as a young mother.
I continued therapy through the pregnancy and birth of my second child, a girl. The circumstances around her birth were very different, as I chose to have a homebirth with 2 incredible midwives, whom I spent many hours with in the months leading up to her birth. When I envisioned a water birth as the most soothing and peaceful way for me to give birth, they supported my instincts. Her birth was gentler and easier than my first, and I felt in control and supported during the whole process. Nursing my daughter was again very painful and difficult for me at first, but I had a lot of support this time around to help me stick with it. I ended up nursing her for 2 years and having no problems with depression after her birth.
When my third child, a girl, was born 3 years later, we had moved to a new city, and since a homebirth was not possible, I birthed at a local hospital. Though I prepared myself as best I could, my fear and anxiety returned with this birth and I had my longest labor yet. I nursed my daughter through the painful period, but weaned her after a year, when my depression became so severe that I needed to begin taking medication. I also began therapy again and in conjunction with the medication, I was able to make a lot of progress in dealing with the ongoing pain of my abuse. I had many dreams during this time that were incredibly insightful, and I also did a breath-work session, which I would highly recommend to other survivors. It allowed me to reach a part of myself that I never could through regular therapy.
I don't think that I could have anticipated the enormous changes that came about for me after the birth of my first child. But in retrospect, the journey would have been a much healthier one if I had been sure to surround myself with nurturing, familiar caregivers in a non-stressful environment during his birth. I also wish that I had been better prepared for the difficulties I would encounter through breastfeeding, perhaps by having a familiar support system set up beforehand, rather than talking to strangers about my difficulties when my frustration level was so high.
But most importantly, I believe it has been a strong faith that has carried me through these difficult years. Prayer and meditation give me calm and a sense of peace that I can find nowhere else. My belief in God has helped me see that in spite of what has happened, I can love and I can forgive and I can grow from my past experiences. As difficult as the journey has been, I am thankful that the pain has not been buried but has been freed, for it allows me to open myself up and be free as well.
To learn more, order Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering and Healing after Sexual Abuse
Friday, January 23, 2009
Kate's Story
“One or two things I know for sure; and one of them is what it means to have no loved version of your life but the one you make.” Dorothy Allison
The day I read the above quote was the day I decided that being a victim no longer had to be my primary identity. I was a survivor and I could embrace that. I may not be able to change my history, but I could write my future.
My life was one of fear and hate. My father was filled with the hatred of one who was wronged in life and would continue to perpetrate the chain of abuse. My mother was filled with the hatred of one who had no idea how to escape her situation or how to protect her children. She hated life and she was very afraid.
My first memory of my father was at the age of three. I was tied, bound around my wrists, to the bed my parents slept in. My mother wasn’t there. I remember the wood grain of their closet door as I tried to lose myself in the patterns of the wood. I remember my father standing next to the bed. I remember nothing else.
This was the pattern of my childhood. Later, when I was recovering in an incest survivor’s support group, I learned that I had disassociated. This survival technique served me well during my childhood, but robbed me of years of time.
When we moved year after year to different apartments as I grew up, my memories would differ depending on the room and floor plan of each apartment. When I had my own bedroom, I have full memories of my brother and mother, very few of my father. When the apartment space demanded that I sleep on the couch, I have far more memories of my father, along with a sense of dread and dis-ease. Often, few memories of my mother and no memories of my brother existed. It was as though I was putting far more energy into my father’s presence. Still, even in these situations when I have memories of my father, specific memories of nighttime elude me. I do not remember going to bed when I slept on the couches.
By far, the most disturbing memories evolve around a neighborhood in Cincinnati in the 1950’s called Mt. Auburn. I was five years old and attended kindergarten in the year of 1955. It was a racially mixed neighborhood and, except for my father, I was very happy there. My best friend was African-American. We held hands going to and from school. Her family was what I considered a real family; loving and caring. There was joy in their house. When I would get home from school (I would walk my friend home and them come home afterward . . . my father would have never allowed me to go into their home and I would have been beaten if he knew I stepped through their door), my father would say terrible things about her, simply because of her skin color. It was at that age that I decided that my father was wrong. I could sense his intense hatred and knew that my friend loved me and he could not, since me made me do terrible things at home and at the bar down the street.
It was called the Flatiron Bar. It was a funny building. Built on a corner, at the top of the hill, the front of the building was very narrow and, as the streets expanded on each side of the bar, so did the building that housed the bar. It looked like a flat iron. My father would walk me down the street at night to go to the bar with him. I would always have a dress on. I remember having to dance on the bar tops while the men watched and cheered. I would be given shot glasses of beer to drink. For many years, I never remembered getting down off the bar or ever going home. Later, in my adult years, I would remember lying down and the men’s faces being close to me; the stench of stale beer, and then blanking it all out. That year, my attendance in kindergarten was terrible. I missed two-thirds of the school year. I remember day after day of lying in my parents’ bed, with my mother there, trying to calm my upset stomach with glasses of ginger ale. I was still passed that year to the first grade and, thankfully, we moved.
The next three years were happier ones. The apartment we had provided me with my own bedroom. I could shut the door and escape into my own little world. I have few memories of my father during those years (except for occasional beatings with a wooden paddle), but well remember my mother and brother. I remember how my brother (10 years my senior) would practice his rock and roll on me. I was delighted to be his jitterbug partner and developed a life-long love of music and dancing. If my father was abusing me, the memories are totally buried still. I only remember the happiness. We then belonged to a Baptist church and I had friends there too, and have many fond memories.
The years following, however, are murky and vague and continued that way until I entered junior high. My father moved me to an all-white neighborhood in 1962, and we had the third floor of an old home. I have one clear memory of the two years I spent in that apartment. I would come home to an empty apartment because my mother had a job then. I would sit at the front window and look for her each day. I remember the feelings I had . . . a jumbled mix of terror and dread. I never felt like I could breathe in that place. I have no memory of my father and do not even remember where I slept. I only remember the living room and that window.
The last year of junior high and my high school years were spent in the home my parents finally bought. I had my own bedroom again and I believe this is the first time that the physical, sexual abuse ended. My memories of this home are complete. As my body began changing, so did the method of abuse my father used. He would continuously say inappropriate comments about my body and, simultaneously, insult my mother’s body in front of me. (My mother stopped speaking to me, for the most part, during these years. She must have been so hurt and felt so helpless.)
My father had a factory job that required he leave at 5:00 each morning. With my mother standing there, he would open my bedroom door and kiss me on the lips before he went to work. I would rarely fall back to sleep afterward, and bought a transistor radio. I would listen to the Detroit station, CKLW, which played all the popular music. I learned to love the Motown sound. Once again, music was the lifesaver I could grab when I couldn’t bear to think about what was happening. My father also subscribed to a filthy adult magazine that had multiple pictures of people performing various sex acts. My father would open to one of the pages in this magazine and leave it on the living room coffee table.
At 16 years of age, I turned a corner in my life. I felt that I couldn’t cope any longer. I was experiencing many body memories at that time. Of course, I had no idea what was happening. I just knew that I couldn’t stand being in my own skin. One hot summer night, my parents were visiting a neighbor across the street. I had a bottle of pain reliever pills and took all that was in the bottle (maybe a little over half full). (One of the other habits of my father was to not allow proper medical care for my mother and I, so I knew he wouldn’t do anything to help if I got very sick.) I remember taking the pills and can still see myself crawling into my bed that night. I was calm and prepared to not wake up again. Our home was small and, to get to the bathroom, I had to walk through their bedroom. The bathroom was part of their bedroom. Later that evening, as I began vomiting violently for hours, neither my mother nor my father asked me if I was okay. The next day, nothing was mentioned.
The next day I was drained and sick. But, for the first time, I found a will to live. I knew that if my parents did not care if I lived or died, then I had to. As I grew older, and had more freedom to be away from the house, I would be gone as often as possible spending time with my friends.
My father tried many manipulative tactics. He basically ruled through fear. He would tell me that, for example, if I made him angry, he could be killed in a car accident the next night and it would be my fault. Of course, he frightened my mother as well. Every night she stood at the front door, wrenching her hands, frightened he would not come home. He was her survival. She was not allowed to drive, handle her own money or speak her mind. She found the control to be her safety.
On night, shortly after my suicide attempt, my father was angry at me about something and, the evening afterwards, was late getting home from work. My mother was frantic, but admitted to me that he was going to be deliberately late to “teach me a lesson.” She insisted I go to my room, get on my knees and pray for his safety. I went into my room, got on my knees and prayed that he was killed on the highway and would never, ever step foot into that house again. If felt SO good. But, come home he did, drunk and disgusting.
About that time, as his drinking problem increased, he would either bring out his loaded gun, or at least threaten to kill my mother and I if he was angered. My mother would just sit quietly during these threats, as if she was just waiting her turn to die. I learned to be an expert arbitrator. Regardless of whether I was telling him the truth or lying, I was always able to defuse the situation. I have the negotiation skills of a SWAT team.
I married when I was barely 20. He was in college to become an engineer. As soon as he finished his degree at the University of Cincinnati, we moved out of the city. My children came and with them a fear that somehow, something would happen to them. The underlying tension I felt was endless and draining. I was as protective as a bear, and would watch them like a hawk. If I couldn’t find one of my daughters playing outside after a few minutes, the panic and terror would nearly overwhelm me.
Back home when we would visit our families, my father seemed turned-on to the fact that I was a married woman. As in high school, he continuously told crude, dirty jokes and the content and frequency worsened as I grew older. They were senselessly dirty. He never tried anything but, when I got pregnant, he would look at me in a way that would cause such terror in my body. I made the decision to not nurse my babies. Even though we lived five hours away, I didn’t want him to think of me in that way. I knew that when we visited them, I could never go to another room and nurse my children. I couldn’t bear him knowing.
The body memories worsened during pregnancy, and visited me frequently until I began extensive therapy at the age of 35. I didn’t understand them; I just knew that I felt dirty, like I was on fire, and couldn’t get away or breathe.
In 1983, my husband and I were at a Wednesday night church potluck dinner. The kitchen phone range and my friend, Ted, picked it up. It was my brother. My father had been ill with throat cancer (a combination of decades of alcohol abuse and cigarette smoking). My father had been on the telephone the hour before with his doctor. My mother was upstairs on the extension. As the doctor explained to my father that his cancer had spread to his brain and lungs, my father took his handgun, placed it to his temple and pulled the trigger.
As my brother told me the details over the church phone, I felt a weird calmness come over me. I hung up the phone and sat down next to my husband. He asked me what was the matter. The first words I said were, “I don’t have to be afraid any longer.”
Within the next two years, my marriage ended. I joined the work force after staying home for eight years caring for my daughters, and I began therapy. Between my therapist and my survivor’s support group, I retrieved some memories, but most importantly I created a life for myself. I stopped thinking that I was a victim who had to fear life, and found that I could make the choice to embrace the life I would make for myself.
March 9th of this year marked the 16th anniversary of my father’s death. It doesn’t feel like it was that long ago. Sometimes I still feel afraid and raw. It could be an old song I hear on the radio that triggers it, or someone who looks like my father that walks by on the street. The body memories are much less frequent now. I have the skills to handle them now, and they control me no longer.
I have learned to love myself. In learning to love myself, I give myself the nurturing and support that was not available when I was little. The version I’ve made of this life continues to evolve, and I feel certain that it’s going to unfold in a way where inner-peace is a primary focus. I’ve earned it.
To learn more, order Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering and Healing after Sexual Abuse
The day I read the above quote was the day I decided that being a victim no longer had to be my primary identity. I was a survivor and I could embrace that. I may not be able to change my history, but I could write my future.
My life was one of fear and hate. My father was filled with the hatred of one who was wronged in life and would continue to perpetrate the chain of abuse. My mother was filled with the hatred of one who had no idea how to escape her situation or how to protect her children. She hated life and she was very afraid.
My first memory of my father was at the age of three. I was tied, bound around my wrists, to the bed my parents slept in. My mother wasn’t there. I remember the wood grain of their closet door as I tried to lose myself in the patterns of the wood. I remember my father standing next to the bed. I remember nothing else.
This was the pattern of my childhood. Later, when I was recovering in an incest survivor’s support group, I learned that I had disassociated. This survival technique served me well during my childhood, but robbed me of years of time.
When we moved year after year to different apartments as I grew up, my memories would differ depending on the room and floor plan of each apartment. When I had my own bedroom, I have full memories of my brother and mother, very few of my father. When the apartment space demanded that I sleep on the couch, I have far more memories of my father, along with a sense of dread and dis-ease. Often, few memories of my mother and no memories of my brother existed. It was as though I was putting far more energy into my father’s presence. Still, even in these situations when I have memories of my father, specific memories of nighttime elude me. I do not remember going to bed when I slept on the couches.
By far, the most disturbing memories evolve around a neighborhood in Cincinnati in the 1950’s called Mt. Auburn. I was five years old and attended kindergarten in the year of 1955. It was a racially mixed neighborhood and, except for my father, I was very happy there. My best friend was African-American. We held hands going to and from school. Her family was what I considered a real family; loving and caring. There was joy in their house. When I would get home from school (I would walk my friend home and them come home afterward . . . my father would have never allowed me to go into their home and I would have been beaten if he knew I stepped through their door), my father would say terrible things about her, simply because of her skin color. It was at that age that I decided that my father was wrong. I could sense his intense hatred and knew that my friend loved me and he could not, since me made me do terrible things at home and at the bar down the street.
It was called the Flatiron Bar. It was a funny building. Built on a corner, at the top of the hill, the front of the building was very narrow and, as the streets expanded on each side of the bar, so did the building that housed the bar. It looked like a flat iron. My father would walk me down the street at night to go to the bar with him. I would always have a dress on. I remember having to dance on the bar tops while the men watched and cheered. I would be given shot glasses of beer to drink. For many years, I never remembered getting down off the bar or ever going home. Later, in my adult years, I would remember lying down and the men’s faces being close to me; the stench of stale beer, and then blanking it all out. That year, my attendance in kindergarten was terrible. I missed two-thirds of the school year. I remember day after day of lying in my parents’ bed, with my mother there, trying to calm my upset stomach with glasses of ginger ale. I was still passed that year to the first grade and, thankfully, we moved.
The next three years were happier ones. The apartment we had provided me with my own bedroom. I could shut the door and escape into my own little world. I have few memories of my father during those years (except for occasional beatings with a wooden paddle), but well remember my mother and brother. I remember how my brother (10 years my senior) would practice his rock and roll on me. I was delighted to be his jitterbug partner and developed a life-long love of music and dancing. If my father was abusing me, the memories are totally buried still. I only remember the happiness. We then belonged to a Baptist church and I had friends there too, and have many fond memories.
The years following, however, are murky and vague and continued that way until I entered junior high. My father moved me to an all-white neighborhood in 1962, and we had the third floor of an old home. I have one clear memory of the two years I spent in that apartment. I would come home to an empty apartment because my mother had a job then. I would sit at the front window and look for her each day. I remember the feelings I had . . . a jumbled mix of terror and dread. I never felt like I could breathe in that place. I have no memory of my father and do not even remember where I slept. I only remember the living room and that window.
The last year of junior high and my high school years were spent in the home my parents finally bought. I had my own bedroom again and I believe this is the first time that the physical, sexual abuse ended. My memories of this home are complete. As my body began changing, so did the method of abuse my father used. He would continuously say inappropriate comments about my body and, simultaneously, insult my mother’s body in front of me. (My mother stopped speaking to me, for the most part, during these years. She must have been so hurt and felt so helpless.)
My father had a factory job that required he leave at 5:00 each morning. With my mother standing there, he would open my bedroom door and kiss me on the lips before he went to work. I would rarely fall back to sleep afterward, and bought a transistor radio. I would listen to the Detroit station, CKLW, which played all the popular music. I learned to love the Motown sound. Once again, music was the lifesaver I could grab when I couldn’t bear to think about what was happening. My father also subscribed to a filthy adult magazine that had multiple pictures of people performing various sex acts. My father would open to one of the pages in this magazine and leave it on the living room coffee table.
At 16 years of age, I turned a corner in my life. I felt that I couldn’t cope any longer. I was experiencing many body memories at that time. Of course, I had no idea what was happening. I just knew that I couldn’t stand being in my own skin. One hot summer night, my parents were visiting a neighbor across the street. I had a bottle of pain reliever pills and took all that was in the bottle (maybe a little over half full). (One of the other habits of my father was to not allow proper medical care for my mother and I, so I knew he wouldn’t do anything to help if I got very sick.) I remember taking the pills and can still see myself crawling into my bed that night. I was calm and prepared to not wake up again. Our home was small and, to get to the bathroom, I had to walk through their bedroom. The bathroom was part of their bedroom. Later that evening, as I began vomiting violently for hours, neither my mother nor my father asked me if I was okay. The next day, nothing was mentioned.
The next day I was drained and sick. But, for the first time, I found a will to live. I knew that if my parents did not care if I lived or died, then I had to. As I grew older, and had more freedom to be away from the house, I would be gone as often as possible spending time with my friends.
My father tried many manipulative tactics. He basically ruled through fear. He would tell me that, for example, if I made him angry, he could be killed in a car accident the next night and it would be my fault. Of course, he frightened my mother as well. Every night she stood at the front door, wrenching her hands, frightened he would not come home. He was her survival. She was not allowed to drive, handle her own money or speak her mind. She found the control to be her safety.
On night, shortly after my suicide attempt, my father was angry at me about something and, the evening afterwards, was late getting home from work. My mother was frantic, but admitted to me that he was going to be deliberately late to “teach me a lesson.” She insisted I go to my room, get on my knees and pray for his safety. I went into my room, got on my knees and prayed that he was killed on the highway and would never, ever step foot into that house again. If felt SO good. But, come home he did, drunk and disgusting.
About that time, as his drinking problem increased, he would either bring out his loaded gun, or at least threaten to kill my mother and I if he was angered. My mother would just sit quietly during these threats, as if she was just waiting her turn to die. I learned to be an expert arbitrator. Regardless of whether I was telling him the truth or lying, I was always able to defuse the situation. I have the negotiation skills of a SWAT team.
I married when I was barely 20. He was in college to become an engineer. As soon as he finished his degree at the University of Cincinnati, we moved out of the city. My children came and with them a fear that somehow, something would happen to them. The underlying tension I felt was endless and draining. I was as protective as a bear, and would watch them like a hawk. If I couldn’t find one of my daughters playing outside after a few minutes, the panic and terror would nearly overwhelm me.
Back home when we would visit our families, my father seemed turned-on to the fact that I was a married woman. As in high school, he continuously told crude, dirty jokes and the content and frequency worsened as I grew older. They were senselessly dirty. He never tried anything but, when I got pregnant, he would look at me in a way that would cause such terror in my body. I made the decision to not nurse my babies. Even though we lived five hours away, I didn’t want him to think of me in that way. I knew that when we visited them, I could never go to another room and nurse my children. I couldn’t bear him knowing.
The body memories worsened during pregnancy, and visited me frequently until I began extensive therapy at the age of 35. I didn’t understand them; I just knew that I felt dirty, like I was on fire, and couldn’t get away or breathe.
In 1983, my husband and I were at a Wednesday night church potluck dinner. The kitchen phone range and my friend, Ted, picked it up. It was my brother. My father had been ill with throat cancer (a combination of decades of alcohol abuse and cigarette smoking). My father had been on the telephone the hour before with his doctor. My mother was upstairs on the extension. As the doctor explained to my father that his cancer had spread to his brain and lungs, my father took his handgun, placed it to his temple and pulled the trigger.
As my brother told me the details over the church phone, I felt a weird calmness come over me. I hung up the phone and sat down next to my husband. He asked me what was the matter. The first words I said were, “I don’t have to be afraid any longer.”
Within the next two years, my marriage ended. I joined the work force after staying home for eight years caring for my daughters, and I began therapy. Between my therapist and my survivor’s support group, I retrieved some memories, but most importantly I created a life for myself. I stopped thinking that I was a victim who had to fear life, and found that I could make the choice to embrace the life I would make for myself.
March 9th of this year marked the 16th anniversary of my father’s death. It doesn’t feel like it was that long ago. Sometimes I still feel afraid and raw. It could be an old song I hear on the radio that triggers it, or someone who looks like my father that walks by on the street. The body memories are much less frequent now. I have the skills to handle them now, and they control me no longer.
I have learned to love myself. In learning to love myself, I give myself the nurturing and support that was not available when I was little. The version I’ve made of this life continues to evolve, and I feel certain that it’s going to unfold in a way where inner-peace is a primary focus. I’ve earned it.
To learn more, order Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering and Healing after Sexual Abuse
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