(11/2/20)
(This post could contain some triggers for some people)
I’ll be honest with you, writing about what happened with my mother (blog dated 10/19/20) during Little Pearl’s era was difficult. Trying to make myself write about this post’s subject and what’ll be coming up over the next several weeks kinda makes me wanna vomit. Throw a temper tantrum. Maybe add a 40 day nap.
From the various types of memories that have surfaced over the years and comments made by my mother and others, I know the sexual abuse began while I was still a toddler. I also know who the perpetrator was (“He was such a good man, he loved to change your diapers . . .”). In hindsight and without the denial I clung so tightly to for so many years, I can also see it in how he treated me throughout my life. He frequently called me stupid or dummy, and if I cried for any reason he’d call me ‘big baby’ and tell anyone who was listening that I ‘cried crocodile tears as big as horse turds’. If I mentioned anything about how I was feeling he’d say it was ‘all in my head’, meaning there was no reason to feel like I did. There were also comments about what would happen to anyone who was sent to prison for abusing children, meaning if I did speak up it would be my fault if he or any of the others had to pay for what they did. He was trying to make me doubt my own reality because he didn’t want me telling his dirty little secrets. He was someone I share d.n.a. with, I loved him so I believed everything he said. I took it all to heart and blamed myself, just like he wanted.
The incident that led me to realize how early the abuse started occurred a few years ago. I had been in deep emotional distress but couldn’t figure out why on a conscious level. The sense of desolation kept getting stronger over the course of several days. I knew there helplessness and emotional pain, but couldn’t feel it or cry. All I could feel was anger vented it by screaming while driving. I couldn’t express what was going on with words. It kept building until one night when I couldn’t handle it anymore I called my therapist. As we were talking I felt compelled to lay down, then completely independent of conscious thought, my legs and arms started moving. I began to feel phantom physical pain and started sobbing. My therapist kept trying to ask questions to get me to express what was happening, but I could not think of any words to describe the God awful, gut wrenching physical and emotional pain. He kept talking me through the experience, keeping some part of my brain in the present moment. I don’t know how long the episode lasted, probably just a few minutes, when my body quit moving. I was still sobbing but was able to speak coherent words, describe what had been happening. The movements I had been making and inability to verbally express myself were consistent of how a toddler would react to the type of pain/hell I was reliving.
Now when I think of the damage the perpetrator’s done I have a hard time forgiving him. I loved him and should’ve been able to trust him and he should’ve protected me. He used what was, is, so right about my heart and soul and twisted it for his own perverted, selfish pleasure. There are times it still hurts so damn much because I do love him even though i’m glad he’s dead. But I choose to forgive him (it’s an ongoing process) because he’s hijacked too much of my life between what he did then, and how it’s effected me since.
Thank you Charlie, my therapist at the time, for getting me through that (and other) episodes of reliving hell.
On Wednesday’s post I’ll remind us of who we are in truth – and it’s all good, I promise.
Today’s song is co-written and performed by Pat Benatar. Ms. Benatar’s outrage is so clearly expressed not only in the words she wrote, but also in the way she sang “Hell Is For Children”. She empathetically described how I (and many others) have felt as a ‘wounded chiId’ . I love this song (and her) because of that. Thank you, Ms. Benatar.
Hell Is for Children They cry in the dark, so you can’t see their tears They hide in the light, so you can’t see their fears Forgive and forget, all the while Love and pain become one and the same in the eyes of a wounded child Because hell, hell is for children And you know that their little lives can become such a mess Hell, hell is for children And you shouldn’t have to pay for your love With your bones and your flesh. It’s all so confusing, this brutal abusing They blacken your eyes and then apologize Be daddy’s good girl, don’t tell mommy a thing Be a good little boy, and you’ll get a new toy Tell grandma you fell off the swing Because hell hell is for children And you know that their little lives can become such a mess Hell, hell is for children And you shouldn’t have to pay for your love With your bones and your flesh No, hell is for children Hell, hell is for hell, Hell, is for hell, hell is for children (3x) c. Patricia Benatar, Roger Capps, Neil Giraldo
