Margaret's Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kathy's Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kathy's poem

A Rhyme

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stacey's Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heather's Story

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Epilogue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Catherine's Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ann's Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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