My mother couldn't deal with the truth. She had to dissociate too, compartmentalizing what she knew to be true from what she wanted to believe was true. She could not believe both at once, so she chose to believe her husband, the man on whom she was dependent financially, who joked when she had to ask
for money, "What did you do with the dollar I gave you last week?" The one with the power because he was a man (I do not say this as a feminist; I'm not) and because he could out-yell and out-lie her. She chose the man who told her, time after time, "I did not have an affair with that woman,""I did not touch that child." Or even, "I'll never do it again."
The man she--naively--loved.
As for me, I saw how threatening truth was. It threatened the trust between my parents. It threatened their marriage. And I learned how ineffective it was to deliver me. Neither Mommy nor I could stop a predator with truth. I had to add layers of new denial and put them in newly-constructed secret places. I had to view what happened that morning as a "safe, father-bonding" thing, G says.
If she had asked me, even in private, if I had had a stomach-ache, would I have said no--or, with hesitation, "Yes, I guess so."? Would I have told her the truth if it meant breaking oneness with him?
If she had talked to me directly at the time, offered her hand, and said gently, "Let's go downstairs," would I have gone? What if he had ordered me not to?
We'll never know whether she could have stopped it right there. And if she hadn't been able to, would she have turned him in? What if I had spent my childhood feeling guilty that my father was in prison because of me, instead of spending it sailing around the world with my family in a boat that same man, whom I idolized, had built? Four years living with him as a safe, fun, courageous father, bonding with my family, the best years of our lives?
How many others out there are, right now, enslaved without shackles, bonded to their abusers by a loyalty superseding truth and common sense--the Stockholm Syndrome.
Like me, they are learning the only place they can hide is in their own mind.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
The confrontation
I want Mommy to know (so she will stop it).
Mommy mustn't know (because she's good and what we're doing is bad, because she'd be horrified and it would hurt her. I don't want to hurt or disappoint Mommy. Because Mommy is good.) That was my dilemma.
Daddy has me in bed with him. We are both naked and he is doing things to me. Suddenly Mommy is in the room, too and she is leaning over her side of the bed, shouting at Daddy. He is on the other side, raising himself to one elbow to face her, then sitting up to defend himself more effectively. I must be between them, shrinking into the bed. I am (also) watching all of us from the end of the bed.
I feel exposed, scared, guilty. Mommy wasn't supposed to know! Daddy told me that over and over and I knew it even without his telling me. Still, this is what I have been longing for--to have Mommy find out and take me away from him, make him stop. I am crucified where the two mutually exclusive needs conflict.
Now I see the two of them arguing and though I cannot hear their words, I know what they are saying.
Earle, what are you doing?
What do you mean?
You know what I mean! What are you doing to her?
What? I was just rubbing her back. She likes it.
No, you weren't! That's not what I saw! She was lying on her back. You were touching her!
Barbara, you have a dirty mind! She had a stomach ache. I was rubbing her stomach.
Listening, I knew that what Mommy had caught us doing was wrong. Because Daddy was lying about it--I hadn't had a stomach ache--I thought it must have been my fault and he was protecting me. He was protecting me from her knowing and protecting her from being hurt.
She lashed out one last time: I can't leave you alone with her anymore!
First, he had pretended innocence, casting doubt on the evidence of her own senses: What do you mean? (There's nothing's wrong.) Then he contradicted the evidence of her senses: I was just rubbing her back. She likes it. (I wasn't hurting her. It was mutual.) Then he re-interpreted what her senses told her: She had a stomach ache. I was rubbing her stomach. (Not only wasn't I doing anything bad, I was doing something good. I was making her feel better.) And turned the attack on her: You have a dirty mind!
Now deliberately, icily, he demanded, "DON'T YOU TRUST ME?"
The question hangs in the air unanswered to this day, though both of them are long gone. It was the fatal, winning thrust. She pursed her lips to keep back the angry retort. Then her shoulders slumped and she shut down, smouldering inside, as she did whenever her attempts to reason with his bullying just made it worse. She recognized her defeat. She couldn't say she didn't trust him, although she didn't trust him. She could not pick me up and take me out of the room with her. That would imply she didn't trust him. He had just--masterfully--guaranteed that he would have continued access to me into the indefinite future.
He was so cunning. Just as cunning as he was with Eve in the garden at the dawn of time.
I'll bet they knew
My brother's instant, furious response to my account of being molested by Daddy as a toddler took me aback: Why
did you send this out? What possible good can it do for us? I'm
angry, not at [Dad], I dealt with that long ago, but with you. Are you
punishing us because you can't reach him? Skimming it made me sick, I
couldn't read it. Sorry, but this is my first reaction. I love you, but really . . .
This was the first time I knew my brother had ever been mad at Dad for molesting me. (I had told him about the time it happened when I was 13. For most of my life that was the only time I remembered it happening. It was the time I based my book New Every Morning on.) Knowing that my brother had been angry at Dad on my behalf was briefly comforting before I realized he was now angry at me.
I was stunned. I thought, He's a father of a just-past 13-year old daughter himself! Would this be his reaction if she e-mailed him that she had been raped as a tiny, defenseless child? I'm angry with you. . . Are you punishing us?. . . made me sick. . . couldn't read it. . . I love you, but. . . "
Where had all that rage come from? I wondered. He almost sounds as if I am accusing him of something. Complicity maybe. His response sounded guilty, couched as it was in such violent denial. It almost sounds as if he knew it happened.
The more I thought about it, the more it confirmed something deep inside me. He knew. Mum sent him upstairs to tell us breakfast was ready and he saw or heard something. The bedroom door was open and Daddy had me in bed with him and was doing something to me. I'll bet Ted knew.
And he wasn't the only one. My mother knew, too.
This was the first time I knew my brother had ever been mad at Dad for molesting me. (I had told him about the time it happened when I was 13. For most of my life that was the only time I remembered it happening. It was the time I based my book New Every Morning on.) Knowing that my brother had been angry at Dad on my behalf was briefly comforting before I realized he was now angry at me.
I was stunned. I thought, He's a father of a just-past 13-year old daughter himself! Would this be his reaction if she e-mailed him that she had been raped as a tiny, defenseless child? I'm angry with you. . . Are you punishing us?. . . made me sick. . . couldn't read it. . . I love you, but. . . "
Where had all that rage come from? I wondered. He almost sounds as if I am accusing him of something. Complicity maybe. His response sounded guilty, couched as it was in such violent denial. It almost sounds as if he knew it happened.
The more I thought about it, the more it confirmed something deep inside me. He knew. Mum sent him upstairs to tell us breakfast was ready and he saw or heard something. The bedroom door was open and Daddy had me in bed with him and was doing something to me. I'll bet Ted knew.
And he wasn't the only one. My mother knew, too.
Sarah Bernhardt
That's not the only inner actress, apparently. I outgrew Pucky and wanted to be called by my real name, which I could only pronounce "Dedika." As I entered the tears and torment of puberty, my mother gently ridiculed my weepiness and depression, calling me Sarah Bernhardt.
Pucky
From the time I was three, they called me Pucky. My brothers acted in plays, some of which Dad wrote, at the local playhouse. I got in on the last one or two, as one of the fairies in A Midsummer Night's Dream--all I remember is the thrill, to applause, of multiple group curtain calls--and maybe it was because of Puck's puckish personality. Or maybe it was because whenever Tim was leaning over my crib and I started to cry, he'd call out in panic, "Mommy, come get her. She's puckering!"
Anyway, it was Pucky my brothers remember during those years, when they remember me at all. Pucky was the one Ted describes in "Am I missing? (June 10) as "cute and irritating and funny and teasable."
G asked me about Pucky when we met on June 28. I dismissed her immediately as having nothing to do with my trauma. "Pucky was fine. Pucky was--what did Ted say?--'cute and irritating and funny and--' something else. It was when Pucky tried to be cute and funny and this time they were irritated and annoyed that someone else came out and ran into the shoe closet and hid.
"I wasn't good enough. I was bland. I had no personality, I was nothing. It was not enough to be. I had to perform, entertain, be on stage. I was quiet and withdrawn. Nobody wanted me. So Pucky came out. They turned me on and off like a light switch.
"Pucky was my on-stage self. Pucky was desperate for acceptance, 'programmed to please.' She tried hard, so hard! Like Dick Van Dyke, sometimes she overdid it, and was irritating. She couldn't understand why her timing was always off."
"I'm angry at Pucky--but she did the best she could. I feel sorry for her. I feel angry that's what it took.
G: "Jealous because she got the attention?"
I ignored him, wondering instead, "Is Pucky real or just a facade?" Then, "It's just her stage name. I created a stage presence. I created Pucky so I would really exist. At times she would be funny and cute and they'd laugh and affirm her so I'd try to build on that. She'd do it again and it would bore them. They named her Pucky. She was an extension of me, a face I held out for them to interact with. A mask."
G: "We're created for unconditional love, for whole squiggle--" (I'm just copying from my cold, very incomplete notes. It looks like it says "for whol[e] an" Or "am." Or "arm." But none of those can be right.) "When we're only accepted for a false self we know it's not authentic."
"And they wouldn't let me be smart. I was the kid, the little sister, a girl. I learned to throw any game I played with a male. When I grew up and tried to be part of intellectual discussions, they'd wave my ideas aside as irrevelant interruptions. And these were 'modern, liberated' liberals, proud of their tolerance and freedom from prejudice. No, I had to be cute, the comic relief, the clown. Years later I sent one brother an essay I wrote for my Master's degree and he wrote back, 'You really do have a brain!' Ouch!"
I sighed, bitter. "I guess I, the one telling you this, am the Original Self," I said. Then, "I'm NOT boring!"
G: "You can be giddy and fun or thoughtful and reflective."
"Is Pucky shallow?"
G: "She can be wisdom-finding and embracing. . . Brooding doesn't win acceptance. . . The culture of acceptance in this family was difficult." That's the understatement of my life!
"Pucky was me trying to be loved, accepted--and noticed!" I said. "Pucky was me acting."
Maybe Pucky was a good name for the who played a part, albeit pathetically.
Anyway, it was Pucky my brothers remember during those years, when they remember me at all. Pucky was the one Ted describes in "Am I missing? (June 10) as "cute and irritating and funny and teasable."
G asked me about Pucky when we met on June 28. I dismissed her immediately as having nothing to do with my trauma. "Pucky was fine. Pucky was--what did Ted say?--'cute and irritating and funny and--' something else. It was when Pucky tried to be cute and funny and this time they were irritated and annoyed that someone else came out and ran into the shoe closet and hid.
"I wasn't good enough. I was bland. I had no personality, I was nothing. It was not enough to be. I had to perform, entertain, be on stage. I was quiet and withdrawn. Nobody wanted me. So Pucky came out. They turned me on and off like a light switch.
"Pucky was my on-stage self. Pucky was desperate for acceptance, 'programmed to please.' She tried hard, so hard! Like Dick Van Dyke, sometimes she overdid it, and was irritating. She couldn't understand why her timing was always off."
"I'm angry at Pucky--but she did the best she could. I feel sorry for her. I feel angry that's what it took.
G: "Jealous because she got the attention?"
I ignored him, wondering instead, "Is Pucky real or just a facade?" Then, "It's just her stage name. I created a stage presence. I created Pucky so I would really exist. At times she would be funny and cute and they'd laugh and affirm her so I'd try to build on that. She'd do it again and it would bore them. They named her Pucky. She was an extension of me, a face I held out for them to interact with. A mask."
G: "We're created for unconditional love, for whole squiggle--" (I'm just copying from my cold, very incomplete notes. It looks like it says "for whol[e] an" Or "am." Or "arm." But none of those can be right.) "When we're only accepted for a false self we know it's not authentic."
"And they wouldn't let me be smart. I was the kid, the little sister, a girl. I learned to throw any game I played with a male. When I grew up and tried to be part of intellectual discussions, they'd wave my ideas aside as irrevelant interruptions. And these were 'modern, liberated' liberals, proud of their tolerance and freedom from prejudice. No, I had to be cute, the comic relief, the clown. Years later I sent one brother an essay I wrote for my Master's degree and he wrote back, 'You really do have a brain!' Ouch!"
I sighed, bitter. "I guess I, the one telling you this, am the Original Self," I said. Then, "I'm NOT boring!"
G: "You can be giddy and fun or thoughtful and reflective."
"Is Pucky shallow?"
G: "She can be wisdom-finding and embracing. . . Brooding doesn't win acceptance. . . The culture of acceptance in this family was difficult." That's the understatement of my life!
"Pucky was me trying to be loved, accepted--and noticed!" I said. "Pucky was me acting."
Maybe Pucky was a good name for the who played a part, albeit pathetically.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
A beautiful thing happened. That which threatened the reality of my memories of incest in early childhood turned into the greatest proof so far that my memories are real.
So I did not make that up. I am not crazy!
And I do exist. :o)
The day I posted, "Am I missing?" Ted wrote me, "I think it went something like this. When you were born, Tim and I had already been sleeping in the upstairs room for several years. We continued sleeping there for more years, while you were in a crib, then a cot, with Mum or Mum&Dad, in the Davis [Street]-side room. [Then] you and Mum and/or Dad moved to the middle room. . .
So Tim and I have a solid feel for it being our room till I was 9/10 and he was 11/12; you have a solid feel for it beng your room. . . from the age of three or four on [till we moved to Japan]."
Yes! I shared that room with my parents from the age of 3 until we left that house!
So I did not make that up. I am not crazy!
And I do exist. :o)
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Am I missing?
My brother Tim shared with Jerry and me a (true) anecdote his rabbi told him: Paul Newman was visiting one of the Jewish summer camps for children he had funded with the profits from his food products. He and the kids were having lunch together, with jars of his signature spaghetti sauce and salad dressings on the table. One little girl kept looking from the pictures of Paul Newman on the jars to the real Paul Newman and back again. Puzzled, she finally asked him, "Are you missing?"
I think I am missing. I have memories of being molested by my father in my childhood home in Yellow Springs, Ohio. I remember having a twin bed against the wall in their room, the large middle room upstairs, and the incest--more than once--took place in my parents' big bed.
But I just double-checked with my brothers, one eight years older than I am and one six years older. Both of them said (independently) that they slept in the middle room the whole time we lived in that house. They had bunk beds in there. They said Mom and Dad slept in the room on the other side of the stairs. That shook me up. If I'd remembered the venue wrong, had my memories of incest being wrong, too?
On top of that, neither of them have any memories of where I did sleep. We lived in that house together for seven years. Yet Tim can't place what bedroom I slept in. And Ted says, "You were very much around, Jessica. You were cute and irritating and funny and teasable. But all my memories are of you outside the house . . . swinging on the swing or trashing the flowers or heading off to Joan's house or riding a tricycle . . . and I remember you driving with us places in the car . . . but I just can't place you inside that house, except when it's a photograph that I'm remembering.
"I haven't the slightest idea where you slept at any time; are you sure you ever actually lived in our house, not at Joanie Clark's?"
This morning I lay awake mentally reviewing every room in the house, including all four bedrooms. I remember each of them but I can't remember where I slept, if I didn't sleep in the middle room with Mommy and Daddy.
If I wasn't there, do I exist?
I think I am missing. I have memories of being molested by my father in my childhood home in Yellow Springs, Ohio. I remember having a twin bed against the wall in their room, the large middle room upstairs, and the incest--more than once--took place in my parents' big bed.
But I just double-checked with my brothers, one eight years older than I am and one six years older. Both of them said (independently) that they slept in the middle room the whole time we lived in that house. They had bunk beds in there. They said Mom and Dad slept in the room on the other side of the stairs. That shook me up. If I'd remembered the venue wrong, had my memories of incest being wrong, too?
On top of that, neither of them have any memories of where I did sleep. We lived in that house together for seven years. Yet Tim can't place what bedroom I slept in. And Ted says, "You were very much around, Jessica. You were cute and irritating and funny and teasable. But all my memories are of you outside the house . . . swinging on the swing or trashing the flowers or heading off to Joan's house or riding a tricycle . . . and I remember you driving with us places in the car . . . but I just can't place you inside that house, except when it's a photograph that I'm remembering.
"I haven't the slightest idea where you slept at any time; are you sure you ever actually lived in our house, not at Joanie Clark's?"
This morning I lay awake mentally reviewing every room in the house, including all four bedrooms. I remember each of them but I can't remember where I slept, if I didn't sleep in the middle room with Mommy and Daddy.
If I wasn't there, do I exist?
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