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Trigger Warning.
This post is about memories of child sexual abuse and more that I knew were there but didn’t have access to. These memories are very detailed now and I need to get them out into the air where they can be looked at, remembered and finally removed from the depths of my psyche. I am healing. But if you’re pretty triggered, don’t read this. I don’t have many followers so there’s always that safety belt.
These are things that are so awful to me, they need to be said out loud.
Also, with this Ramsay Hunt crap, I can’t see very well so I don’t know how to fix the formatting here. But here we go. I am writing this letter to my own self:
LETTER TO DEBBIE:
Dear Debbie,
What in the hell is happening to me? I have Ramsey Hunt Syndrome. I’m in pain and the steroids are messing up my calm.Things are coming back to me, things that happened to me. Unspeakable things that I need to say out loud.
I was raised by a monster. Not just a child molester, not just a freak. An out and out psychotic monster.
I’ve seen things and I’ve buried them and now they’re popping up like moles in my garden. I don’t want them. Please I don’t want to know these things. I was doing fine, goddamit just fucking fine.
My first memory that came back: I was maybe two years old. I was wearing shorts so the weather must have been warm. He put me on his lap. He pulled out his pocket knife and ran it gently inside my thighs. No cuts, just a tickle.
Don’t tell.
Ok.
Other memories. Then he graduated. He did stuff to me. He would grab my young hand and place it over his erect penis and push my hand to pump on him. 4 years old.
Don’t tell.
Ok.
My mother’s mother was raised by Catholic nuns in the early 1900’s. I was trained from the time I could listen not to let others touch my private parts. Not even myself. It was dirty and a horrible sin and there would be nothing but shame on me if I touched myself.
But she didn’t mention my father. Or my uncle. Or my neighbor. Or the others.
I was raised to be a good girl. It was the 1950’s. Never raise a fuss, don’t complain and most of all:
Don’t tell.
Ok.
I’ve experienced things. It was my normal childhood. Because I was dirty and ashamed, I was quiet. I didn’t talk much and was painfully shy.There was no one to talk to because I was completely alone in the world, just me and my grimacing shame.
Memory: Our house had two doors to the bathroom. One in the kitchen and one through the back bedroom. Young and potty trained me in the bathroom and quietly the bedroom door would open and my uncle would come in. He showed me his greasy red penis, purple veins, pushing it into my face. He put his giant fingers inside my little girl’s body. His thick tongue on my face.
Don’t tell.
Ok.
I became afraid of the bathroom. When I had to pee, I would go find a quiet corner anywhere, squat down and squeeze with all my might until the need to urinate dissipated. I remember horrible back pain from this but it kept me out of the bathroom.
My mother was puzzled and asked if it would be better if the toilet was in the kitchen. I was so happy because I thought in my child brain that it was actually a possibility. It wasn’t.
Don’t tell.
Ok.
At night I slept on the top bunk of cheap metal bunk beds. I wet the bed constantly to the point that the saturated mattress dripped on my brother’s head sleeping below. I slept under a bare light bulb just inches from my face. But still the monsters came for me in the night. The atrocities.
And still, I was told, “Don’t tell.”
Ok.
These memories are flooding over me so quickly I am shaking. They’ve been buried for so long. I don’t want them to come out.
When I was newly married, my first husband wanted a child of his own. I had severe problems with fertility, from the years of abuse as well as a long lasting infection from an IUD. The doctor said the infection was because I wasn’t clean. Again, I’m dirty. Sinful. Except I was impulsively clean but he was a man and a doctor so I believed him.
I had one Fallopian tube, riddled with scar tissue. The surgery opened it up and a plastic tube was placed inside to keep it open in the hopes I could conceive. I was placed on bed rest for six weeks, given massive doses of steroids to slow down the healing. And because I was so obsessively busy, I was also given high doses of morphine. The combination of heavy drugs messed up my head.
I spent the majority of my time on the sofa. The drugs made me pretty goofy. I couldn’t sleep but would lie there at night in the darkness, dreaming, but being awake. I would get up and move items around the room because they would weird me out.
One night, I had an awake dream. I saw a portion of a kitchen. The old wood cabinets were painted a bright red but there were strips of paint missing, peeled away. The linoleum floor was grey and cracked. There was an aura of dirt. Sitting on the floor there was a little girl, a toddler really, maybe 18 months old, not quite two. She had dark curly hair and blue eyes. The eyes gave off an air of innocence and calm. She looked at me quietly. She was wearing a white frilly dress and it was filthy from the grime.
I realized at that moment that I was looking at myself. Goddammit! I was just a tiny little fucking innocent baby and not one thing that was done to me was my fault. This dream changed my life. It freed me from the life long guilt and shame. It wasn’t my fucking fault. It just was not my fucking fault at all. I wasn’t given a choice, I was preyed upon by malicious sick monsters. God damn it why was that so hard to understand? I was freed from the guilt that had imprisoned me for so long.
Why are victims blaming themselves? It’s because we’re groomed to feel guilty and ashamed. It’s how these perverts keep us in line. And you know what? First of all if you’ve never had this experience, you’re fucking lucky. You won the baby lotto. A victim can go through years of therapy and your brain will say, yes, I was just a child, not my fault, not my fault. But you go on and the guilt and blame just sit there, they get no more attention because your brain knows it wasn’t your fault. But it’s still there, haunting you deep inside. Until you can feel that innocence in your heart like I did, it won’t go away. It changed my life. I was proud to be a survivor.
And I don’t know if there is a drug around that can fix that shit.
Where was my mother? Why didn’t she protect me? How is it even possible that she didn’t know? All the indications were there, almost slapping her in the face. I peed the bed until I was 12, I sucked my finger until I was 12. I was unable to look at people. I was weird. I was quiet.
And my mom was busy. She had seven kids, I was number two and the first daughter so helped her with the babies.
My mother suffered from severe depression hidden by a wicked sense of humor (Robin Williams, hello). When she gave birth to me in New York, they put her in a sanitarium for six weeks and gave her shock treatments. My aunt took care of me back then. I was a very quiet baby she said. I was no trouble.
My father’s family talked them into moving to Washington where they could “get help” for her. It didn’t work out that way. These women (they weren’t even his family, he had been kidnapped) were hillbilly assholes who treated my mom with outright disdain. They made fun of her accent, her inability to cook and they made sure all of us kids followed suit.
Memory: When I was six I had to babysit my baby brother (he was an infant) while he took my mother out for the evening. The baby cried almost all night. Daylight came and he came home alone. He told me that mom had spent the night somewhere.
Later that day she came home. She was covered in blood and strange clothing. On her deathbed, she told me he had drugged her and left her in the woods, and he had done unspeakable things to her. She had no memory of what had happened except she was naked and knocked on someone’s door for help. They brought her home. But she knew things had happened to her.
No consequences.
Memories pouring out that I can’t stop: He, taking young me aside and showing me pictures of my mother, obviously drugged, in poses with animals. He showed me pictures of things that were so perverted and so bad, I immediately hid them away so I didn’t have to know them.
Don’t tell.
Ok.
So many more of these. I can’t stop them anymore and I can’t stop shaking. I’ve fought for a normal life all my life and I am a happy person. I have my soul mate husband, I have my children, my dogs, my art and some amazing friends that mean so much to me I could weep with gratitude. But fuck the perverts who robbed me of my childhood and my innocence.
How can I get this nightmare to stop? My mother died of colon cancer at 45. I took care of her. Before she died she spoke of the things that happened but I tuned her out. I told my counselor later that of course she died, what other options were left to her?
Enough for now. I’m despondent. I need these memories to stop.
But right now besides all the emotion, I am so very angry. Why do people hurt babies? I’m intelligent. I was tested in high school and my IQ scored well above average. The counselors couldn’t understand why I skipped school, hung out with the drug crowd, why I didn’t care. Why I kept punishing myself.
But what could I have been? What if I had been treated like a child instead of a sex toy for perverts?
Oh the ignorance of my parents. We had no books. My brother, one year older, was allowed to go to kindergarten. He brought home books. He didn’t learn, typical boy, but I taught myself to read his books. The family was so surprised: She’s so smart, look at her read, and they would pass a newspaper to me where I would quietly sound out the words.
But that was it. No encouragement. No books. I was just an aside kid afraid of the dark.
In first grade, Richard, my classmate sat with me, handing me crayons and telling me the colors. It was simple. Hell, my two year old grandson knows all his colors.
Ok, I’m exhausted. Maybe it’ll be enough for now. I need to grieve for the baby and young adult that was me. I’m so sad for what she had to go through.
Thanks for letting this out, Debbie. Maybe you can heal now.
Also, Don’t Tell.
Fuck you I’m telling.
Love,
Debbie
My Christmas Story
My husband’s mother Marie was a remarkable woman. Although we never met, I know she was tall and exuded class. Even as a young mother in the 50’s she had impeccable expensive taste. The phrase, “You get what you pay for” worked in the 50’s. A gift from Marie was a gift of a lifetime, something to pass down to your children and grandchildren.
Unfortunately, Marie died when my husband was very young. He doesn’t remember a lot about her and has only a few cherished possessions to remember her by. And cherished is an understatement.
When he moved in with me years ago, he arrived with an old shoe box in hand. In that shoe box were ceramic figurines wrapped in old tissue paper, each piece carefully wrapped. He quietly showed me the contents: An angel, a donkey, three wise men. Mary and Joseph, and of course the Sweet Baby Jesus in the manger. The angel still held an old birthday candle his mother had placed there in the early 60’s.
This was some reverent shit, man. The nativity scene was one of only a few memories he had of his mother. This was something. I was in awe.
Every year, I would decorate the house for Christmas, red and green gaiety in every corner and on every surface. And always always always I left a special place for his nativity scene, just in case. Every year he would leave it in the box, unwilling to take it out. Being rabidly insecure, of course that meant he didn’t feel we were a bonafide couple, or established, love-everlasting, til-death-do-us-part soul mates. We were just a temporary thing and there was no reason to plant roots.
I’m emotional that way. It was an invisible test he never knew and he failed every year.
Finally one year he did. I was breathlessly delighted. He carefully set the manger on top of the cabinet that was bare every year, a lady in waiting. He gently spread out the angel hair (original of course) and gingerly placed each piece exactly as he remembered. A lovely sight to behold! He even cut holly from Mr. Murphy’s tree to decorate the wall behind the blessed scene.
I have no words to describe my glee. YES! He loves me! Yes, we will be together forever and YES he knows we are a twosome, united forever, dammit. This is PROOF! WE ARE ONE!
On cloud nine, I was happily dusting the living room, listening to Christmas carols, no doubt silently planning my wedding vows. As I merrily whisked through the living room, I happened upon the nativity scene. Why, it hadn’t been dusted in what…40 something years? With joy, I waved my feather duster at the delicate figures. I was all puffy with ego, knowing how my long deceased mother-in-law would admire and approve of me and my impeccable housecleaning skills.
I heard a small thunk.
Oops.
Whoa! There was the Baby Jesus, lying headless and helpless in his manger. WTF? With mounting despair, I realized I had exuberantly caught the Babe’s head with the duster, cruelly severing it from its precious Blessed Baby Jesus’s Neck.
Panic arose. What the hell was I going to do now? Goddamit, I beheaded the Baby Jesus! Fuck! The one precious thing he finally shared with me and I BEHEADED THE FUCKING BABY JESUS!
You don’t get forgiven for beheading.
With guilty fingers I nervously slapped on some super glue. It holds everything, right? It held the quarter on the sidewalk years ago that my little brother put there, so it can hold anything. With a prayer and solemn vow never to swear again, I lay the Baby Jesus down in his sweet bed. Shhh! Everything’s going to be alright and no one is the wiser.
But fuck no, his stupid Blessed Ass Baby Head rolled off, lying in a surprised heap next to his stupid severed Baby Neck. The Babe looked at me accusingly. “He hates you and I do too,” I swear it said.
What to do? The humor route? A bandaid holding the head on? A teensy scarf, after all it was December! Pretend I didn’t know? Or what about those damned crazy dogs? (That one would have worked.)
I had no choice but to come clean. That was a long wait, eons later he came home from his long day of work.
With a trembling voice, I confessed. So very very sorry was I. I recklessly destroyed a precious irreplaceable memory. Selfish stupid me!
“Don’t worry,” he said calmly. “It was already broken. That’s why I haven’t been putting it out.”
Shit.
Regrets
A mother’s influence on her children is funny. You love her, of course, she’s your mother after all. She gave you life, she spent years caring for you. You were her mom-reason, her life’s work. Her devotion and love were something you took for granted. When I needed anything, there she was, my mother–eager to help, even when her help wasn’t actual help but a semi crazy idea that any sane person could see was nuts.
But every once in awhile, my mother’s ideas hit a home run and everyone quietly and grudgingly realized she was pretty fucking clever.
For example: When I was little, our dog Penny had 11 puppies. (No clue why I remember the number 11.) She birthed them in the cellar of our old home. One of the puppies, eyes not open yet, fell down the drain in the cement floor. The puppy’s plaintive cries echoed loudly through the pipe into the ears of the helpless adults. The relatives told her to fill the drain with water–drown the puppy to put it out of its misery. There were plenty of other puppies anyway. My mom, watching Penny who was whining and pacing around the drain hole, was horrified.
An idea came to her. She grabbed her prized Electrolux, shoved the long hose down the drain and hit the power switch. Up came the tiny puppy, reunited with its anxiously awaiting Penny. Mom was clever. Oh yeah, she was as loyal to her animals as she was to her children.
But more often than not, despite love, my mom could irritate the absolute shit out of me. The unwelcome advice, the constant questions, the jokes and OMG she spoke in puns. Oh and that laugh after one of her jokes. Ugh. It can make you want to pull out your eyelashes, one by excruciating one. Funnily enough though, my friends thronged around her like she was some dumb ass comedian.
All this baby love aside, I had a shit show for a childhood. Not only were we poor, we were stinking poor. The type of poor neighbors pitied all the while furtively looking away. My sister and I were surrounded by pedophiles. Father, uncle, neighbor, grandfather, everyone. There was no place safe for us. It was a cesspool of abuse for me and my sister. Something that my mother didn’t notice.
I grew up composing a semi-unwritten list of things my children would never have to experience. It grew as I did. I would not, could not, be anything like my mother. That constant laugh, the irritating puns, the practical jokes and, most importantly, the hidden depression disguised by that raucous laughter and jokes.
When my son was born, Mom had “suggestions. Lots of them. They were all so very wrong. In retrospect, they probably weren’t wrong but I was defensive. First time mom power! I didn’t need suggestions, dammit. I read Dr. Spock, by God. Cover to cover. Twice. I vehemently knew what to do. Leave me alone! But the super experienced baby making machine wouldn’t, couldn’t stop. After all, like a good Catholic girl, she made a lot of little humans. And she loved babies. So she knew this shit like the proverbial back of the hand.
But like it or not, with all her faults, she’s still there alongside me. No matter how alive she isn’t, I can still feel her voice, her laugh, and those damned hugs that kept you hugged for a long time.
She died when she was 45 from a miserable, pre-effective chemo cancer. I was 21 when she moved in with me. I took care of her. When I turned 22, she died, leaving behind her youngest for me to raise alongside my own two year old.
Most of the time it’s so subtle I’m unaware of her influence. But there it is, imprinted in my soul. She was a guilt ridden strict Catholic, hence all the damn babies. Every Sunday she would walk down to church. Late. Always at least a half hour late for a one hour service. I realize now her consistent lateness was her own subconsciousness defying the heartless cruelty that was the Catholic church.
How is this affecting me as an adult? Well, I had that list of course. I tried to follow it. Like her though, I’m fiercely loyal to my family and friends. Stupidly loyal, no matter how wrong they might be. Puns? I got ‘em. I love animals. I love love love my kids, my grandkids and my great granddaughter. I walk all the time. She used to say we were ancestors of gypsies who wandered from town to town. She walked everywhere. And crap, you should hear me laugh. Or push my advice onto my kids, their kids and my grandkids.
For all of her married life, my mother was treated like shit by the relatives as well as my father. Kids are sponges so we grew up sort of scorning her, retreating from those bear hugs. I am ashamed of how I felt about my mother. Don’t get me wrong, I loved her and treated her well, but dammit, she died so soon after my teenage years, I didn’t get a chance to tell her I was ok and thank you for trying your best even when you were constantly overwhelmed by us messed up kids.
Sometimes the regret overwhelms you. Yes, there is always the losing-her grief, but when regret comes for a visit, it’s always a surprise. It hits you like a punch in the gut.
Happy birthday, Mom. Wish I had one more day with you. Or one hour. Or one minute. Or just one of those damned bear hugs. Dammit.
Mom
It’s been a long time since I’ve written. It’s funny how much I’ve needed to write but just haven’t had the time–scratch that, I just haven’t had the opportunity. Life gets in the way.
It was my mother’s birthday. She would have been 93. She would have made it too but cancer took her away at the ripe old age of 45. And after all these years, she’s on my mind so much.
My daughter recently gave birth. I suppose that could explain why I’m remembering my own birthing experiences. Moms and daughters.
When I was in labor, my mother stayed right by my side. Back then there were no birth classes, nobody knew about breathing or stretching or how to do anything to help the process go easier. It hurt. I was shocked by how much it hurt. My mom had nine pregnancies with seven surviving. Having babies didn’t faze her. It seemed like she just grunted and out came the kid, sometimes before there was anyone to help her. “You have a body perfect for babies” she was told by our family doctor.
That same doctor didn’t say that to me when I was pregnant.
I guess I wasn’t built like her. I spent my labor walking around the hospital, most of the time bent over in pain and moaning. I’m no martyr, I was pretty noisy. It wasn’t some primal urge that kept moving. Nothing like that. It was because as soon as I had to go back to my room, I knew they were going to give me an IV. I was more terrified of that than squeezing out a 9 pounder. So I walked. My mom walked with me. At one point as I was staring at the fountain from the upper floor I must have whined too much because she looked at me and said how much she wished she could take away my pain. Then she abruptly disappeared. She was gone for over an hour. I selfishly would have given her my pain.
I was alone. Abandoned. So alone and so frightened.
It turned out that my mother had literally run from the hospital all the way down the hill and across town to St. Anthony’s. There she lit a candle for me, tossed a dime into the donation box (candles alone won’t reach Jesus apparently), said a quick prayer and ran back up the hill to the hospital. It was almost four miles each way.
I don’t remember what happened after that. Back then nobody was allowed in the delivery room. But she was there, patiently awaitng the arrival of her grandchild.
Hours later along came my son. He was a whopping 9 pounds and I’m ashamed to admit I wanted to smack him for causing so much pain.
Mom never left the hospital during this time. And I realize now, she had to walk home that night, after midnight and in the cold rain. She never said a word.
She died less than two years later. She loved that baby so much. He was her life and her joy. When she was lived with me before she died, he was the one who made her smile, who gave her hope. That night she died, her last words to me were, “Baptize the baby.”
Fuck I miss her. I’m 70 and a bit so why now? Why do I miss her so much more now? She’s been gone from my life far longer than she was in it.
Baptize your baby if you want. I didn’t. I hope he doesn’t go to hell.
Lucy Nose You Laughed 