It Wasn't Me

It was the little girl on the coloring page.

Sexual abuse doesn't end with the abuse. We carry it through our lives in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. While I have come a very long way through six years of intense therapy, I still have a long way to go to be free of all the long-reaching binds that hold me, even now, from who I am meant to be.

I am and will forever be grateful to my therapist for all she's done to guide me through the darkest parts of my past. Yesterday, we began in earnest a new phase of my healing work--working directly on my own sexuality. Even a year ago I would have been unable to do this. Even now, our talks are accompanied with averted eyes and much internal discomfort. She assures me this will get better. I believe her. She's been right so many times before.

The following is a memory that came up in our session yesterday. It will almost certainly end up in my second book, Ragdoll's Dance. 

Through the process of integration, I am more able to see the full context of memories like this. I see both the pieces I always had in awareness and the pieces I blocked out either partially or completely. While I've always remembered parts of the event in my classroom in second grade, More details and a greater understanding came to me yesterday.

This is an account of a reaction to sexual abuse and not the actual abuse. I don't think it will be triggering, but I can't guarantee it. So - read on with good self-care in mind.

I am seven years old.

Last year, my first grade teacher told me and Annie Audenbach we were on the fast track. It wasn’t really a track. We just went in a special room for part of the day so we could skip second grade.

Then I was sick for a few months. I had rheumatic fever and that changed everything. I don’t get to take gym anymore, and I have to wear little metal things on the bottoms of my shoes so I walk right. You can’t really see the metal things too much, but they clang on the floor so everybody knows they’re there. Also, there’s this gross medicine I have to take every single day, and I have to get blood tests every Saturday and I didn’t get to go to third grade with Annie Audenbach.

So I’m in second grade.

I don’t like Annie Audenbach and I don’t like second grade. Mrs. Mitchel has mealworms in the closet. They live in a box of Raisin Bran and she says they like it in there. She dumps some out and there’s lots of worms crawling all through the cereal. If our Raisin Bran at home had worms in it, I might scream, but nobody screamed here ‘cause we all knew they were coming. 

It's still gross.

I’m not a good listener. I don’t mean to be a bad listener. Sometimes I just forget to hear. I know someone was talking but when they’re done I don’t know what they said. One time Mommy said she doesn’t know where I go. I don’t know either.

Mrs. Mitchel was probably talking about the mealworms but I guess this was one of those times ‘cause I still don’t know why she keeps worms in the closet and now she’s putting them away.

She says we can take out our crayons. I open my desk and find them and when I close my desk she puts a coloring page on it. She’s giving one to everybody, and they’re all the same picture—a man and a little girl about to cross the street. The man is holding the little girl’s hand and there’s a sign that says “Don’t Walk.” A car is coming. It must be a busy street.

When Daddy crosses the street with me he doesn’t hold my hand. He holds my wrist so I won’t get loose. He holds on really tight and when he lets go, his hand-print is there.

I know the "Don't Walk" sign should be red, so I take out my red crayon. Mrs. Mitchel says to color our pictures. She’s going out for just a moment and she’ll be right back.

I watch the door close.

I feel worried.

I start coloring but I’m getting so worried I forget to color the sign and now the little girl is wearing a red dress and my crayon breaks in my hand ‘cause I’m pushing too hard.

I look at the door.

Mrs. Mitchel isn’t back yet.

I’m worried because there’s an idea in my head and it won’t go away. I don’t even think it’s my idea. I don’t know where it came from, but I swallow and put the broken crayon down ‘cause even though it’s not my idea, I know I’m gonna do it.

I get up.

My shoes clank on the floor.

I’m really gonna do it.

For some reason, when I really know I’m gonna do it, I don’t feel scared anymore. I feel kinda…strong. I walk right to the front where Mrs. Mitchel usually stands.

I turn around and face the class.

They’re all looking at me.

For just a second I think I shouldn’t do it, but then I think, no one can stop me and that makes me feel even more strong.

So I do it. I look right at Bobby and Mark in the first row and I pull my dress up. Their mouths open and their eyes get big. They see my underpants. For just a second I think I’m gonna stop there, but I don’t. I pull my underpants down as far as I can reach without dropping my dress. 

Everything seems really slow except my heart. I turn a little to the left and I see Brad  leaning around so he can see from the back row. I turn a little to the right and I see Billy standing up. 

I feel funny inside. It feels ugly and trembly and warm and throw-uppy all at the same time. I look right into poopy-pants-Perry’s face. He's in the second row, right in the center and he looks scared. 

Everyone sees me. 

The room is so quiet. 

It's such a funny feeling and I know I had it before.

They’re looking right at me... right at it... and they don’t even have a choice.

The funny feeling... the funny feeling... it's bad. I suddenly know it's bad and I can't breathe and I don’t feel strong anymore. I look around the room and I see the girls and I feel angry. I let my dress fall back down.  I walk back to my seat, pulling my underwear up right through my dress. My shoes are really loud now because everything else is so quiet.

Then Bobby goes, “Oh ho!” and everyone starts laughing and bratty Colleen says “I’m telling!” and my heart is really really fast and I feel hot all over.  

It’s so loud in here. So loud with laughing. I’m trying to remember what happened. The ugly mealworms flash through my mind and the coloring picture is still on my desk and the little girl’s dress is dark, dark red and my broken crayon is right on her face and that feeling is still inside me and I wish it would go away.

For a second, I think I’m going to cry, but I don’t.

I start laughing. We're all laughing really hard when Mrs. Mitchel opens the door.

Then everyone gets really quiet. Colleen and Perry raise their hands. Stupid poopy-pants blurts out that I took off my underpants! I know I look pretty shocked ‘cause I didn’t. I’m still wearing them.

But I still have that bad funny feeling inside and Mrs. Mitchel is looking at me.

#

Daddy has a batticle this year. That means he doesn’t go to work so he can get a PHD. You get one by reading and writing lots of stuff and if he gets one, they’ll pay him more money. It seems kinda funny since he’s not even going to work, but that’s what he said.

Mommy works in the daytime now, so it’s good Daddy’s home. When me and Marty come home from school, Daddy gives us lunch.

Marty yawns. That’s good ‘cause he has to take a nap after lunch ‘cause he’s only in kindergarten.

I don’t have to take a nap ‘cause I gotta go back to school.

Daddy makes lunch different from Mommy. He gets everything out and puts it on the table and then asks us if we want any of this and any of that. I get a big slice of liver sausage and some cheese and some celery and some crackers and then he asks if I want beets. I say no ‘cause beets are gross.

He cuts up an apple. I like apples.

The phone rings and Daddy answers it. He’s listening but I don’t know who he’s hearing. I feel scared and I don’t know why. I think maybe it’s my teacher on the phone and then I don’t know why I thought that.

‘Cept I know something’s wrong… there's something… I remember the little girl on the coloring page and then I remember Poopy-pants pointing his finger at me. There’s half-chewed apple in my mouth and I wish I could spit it out ‘cause right now my throat feels too small for it.

Then Daddy puts the phone down on the table and I know it’s Grandmother talking. I can hear her, but also I know ‘cause he usually puts the phone down when Grandmother calls so she can “go on and on like she does.” It seems kinda’ mean, but Grandmother talks a lot and she doesn’t seem to notice.

I’m really glad my teacher didn’t call. Suddenly I remember the bad idea and the bad funny feeling. I don’t know why the bad idea came in my head but I think it had soething to do with the little girl on the coloring page. Maybe she had the bad idea and the funny feeling and somehow it got in me.

I drink some milk to get the apple down my throat. Then I drink the rest so I can get up from the table. I have to keep remembering the idea because it keeps disappearing and I wish it would disappear and not come back. The more I think about it, the more it seems like it was the girl on the coloring page who pulled her dress up. It was her who had the funny feeling, not me, and I hope she doesn’t put that idea in my head again.

In the Beginning

As I begin to write my memoir in earnest, I am going back, trying to remember when I first became aware of my dissociative tendencies. There are a few, clear episodes from age nine, and this is one of them:

I am nine years old.

I’ve been summoned by my father. He holds court at the kitchen table, the remains of his lunch surrounding him on half-a-dozen dishes. I try to catch Mom’s eye as she scurries about the kitchen with exaggerated concentration. She picks up two of my father’s empty dishes and carries them to the sink before moving past me to the stove. She picks up a faded and scorched pot holder - one I made with the little loom she bought me when I was sick, a few years back – and uses it to lift the lid of a bubbling pot. Steam rises between us.

My father says, “Sit down.”

I sit, still focusing on the pot holder.

“Do you know why I called you down here?”

Mom hangs the pot holder on a hook. She comes closer, cleaning up more of my father’s lunch-mess. She replaces lids on jars, re-wraps a bit of cheese, and stacks the dishes.

“Look at me!”

I turn towards him; lift my eyes to his face which he’s moved very close to mine.

“Where are the library books?”

My shrug and the shake of my head are so slight, I wonder, in the ensuing silence, if he has even detected them.

“All right.” He presses his lips tightly together.

It is obviously not all right. Something happened yesterday, on the way home from the library, but I have no idea what. Yesterday afternoon is gone.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

He gave me a reading assignment so I could do something productive with my summer, not squander it all away. I walked to the local branch of the public library and selected two books. Somehow the books never made it home.

“Where are those books?”

Mom is washing something in the sink. The sound of running water distracts me, but I keep my eyes on my father’s face and press my useless, floating mind for the all-important answer-of-the-day.

I can almost know it... bigger kids from school…

almost…

taunting… 

It’s right there, so close, but I can’t pull it all the way to the surface.

Mom turns the water off and dries her hand on a well-worn towel. I’ve seen it a hundred times. I picture it in my mind, her soft, wet hands on the faded ivory linen.

The previously-undetected hum of the refrigerator stops. The clock ticks… ticks… ticks…

“Just tell me what you did with those books?”

I’m safe I’m safe I’m safe

He moves even closer. “What’s the matter with you?” He is red and shaking, and his breath, smelling of onions and blue cheese, is hot on my face. “They don’t just give those books away!”

Mom is fading, fading, fading away.

“They cost money.”

I have no words. I can’t look at his eyes. I don’t want to see the twist of his mouth as he waits for me to respond. I concentrate on the pores in the crease beside his nose.

He whispers, “Where is that money going to come from?”

The sudden softness of his voice is somehow more threatening. I burst through the mercifully thin membrane of reality, and fall away from the kitchen, the big white house on the corner, beyond this town and the whole known universe, and I’m free.

*****

I wake in dark confusion. Something shadowy and steamy, loud and then very quiet, sits at the edge of reality. Its several breaths before I know that I’m in my bed.

I’m safe I’m safe I’m safe

I asses my body as I wrestle with flashes of truth intermingled with dream, hanging tightly to those things I can clearly know. There is no pain. Soundless night has come to my house. The whereabouts of the library books are still a mystery to me, and I’ve lost another afternoon.

*****

A Kitten's Prayer

In a breath, I’m there. 

I’m wearing the striped jumper with the uneven hem. The teacher stands at the front of the room, her blue eye shadow raccooning her eyes. I’m too fascinated with her long, red nails to be bothered by the squeak of chalk against black board. We are to write a poem, she says. We are to write it from the perspective of an animal.

I pull my yellow pencil from between my teeth, noticing the marks of my uneven bite. The skin on my small hand is smooth except where it’s bitten to the quick, around each stubby nail. I write my name at the top of the wide-lined page.

“Try to get inside the animal’s mind,” she suggests. “What is it thinking? What is it feeling?”

My mind skips over all the most interesting animals. There are elephants and rhinos and ostriches... no, how about dinosaurs! They're extinct... but they still count. They were animals, once. 

I write a word, but immediately erase it, leaving a gray mark on the once perfect page. Suddenly, I know I don't want to write about dinosaurs. I want to write about one, very specific animal - a little kitten; all black except for one irregular spot on the side of its small face. 

To me, the little blotch was interesting, but I wonder if it was this one, tiny imperfection that kept the small being from being chosen. He stayed with his mother, in a towel-lined box beside my bed, long after his siblings had found other homes.

*****

Tabby, an experienced mother, purred proudly as the last of her litter snuggled in for a snack. “Why can’t we keep him?”

“We can’t have a male cat and a female cat in the same house.” Mom looked at me like I was crazy. 

I didn’t understand what the big deal was, but I didn’t pursue it. "I don't know who else to ask." Already, I'd carried the litter, secured in a shoe box, all over the neighborhood. "And besides, Tabby always seems so sad when her kittens are all gone."

“She’ll get over it.” 

That much was true. This was the third time my cat had managed to get outside and get pregnant. I knew that when all the kittens were gone, Tabby would comb the house, searching with a pitiful mew for a week or two, but eventually she would go back to her pre-maternal self. That part of it baffled me as much as any of the rest.


Is it really that easy for a mother to move on?

"You need to find a home for that kitten before we leave for vacation, next week." Mom turned her attention to her ironing, closing the subject for the night. 

The week passed quickly. I played kickball with my friends and watched The Brady Bunch on TV and scavenged refrigerator boxes from the new condos that were going up on the next block so we could build forts, but I did not find a home for the little kitten. Even that last night, as I tried to fall asleep with both cat and kitten in my bed, I avoided thinking about how I'd failed. In the morning, it was impossible to ignore.

It was my fault the cat was pregnant in the first place. I was responsible for making sure she didn’t get outside. I don’t know how she got out, but since I was responsible, it was all my fault, and so I was supposed to find homes for the kittens, and I had not done that either. 

I hoped the little kitten might be forgotten. My father was busy loading up the station wagon with everything he could fit inside and on top. My mother was cleaning out the refrigerator and leaving last minute instructions for my brother. He would be home, watching the house and going to summer school. He would be taking care of Tabby. He wouldn’t hardly even notice another little kitten in the house.

My father was always in a foul mood when we were getting ready to leave, and this was no exception. I stayed out of his way, hoping to avoid any trouble, and also thinking that if he didn’t see me, he might not think about the kitten.

"It's time to go!" Mom's voice rang out from the front hall, and I thought, it worked! We all headed out to the car on that hot, July day, and the kitten was still upstairs, in my room. Once we were on the road, we wouldn't stop for anything and it would be too late, by the time they remembered and maybe, by the time we got home, Mom would change her mind.

“Where’s that kitten?” My father’s impatience was clearly audible in each word.
I fidgeted.
I swallowed.
In a very soft voice, I asked, “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not going to do anything. Go get it and bring it here.”

“But… why? We can't take him with us... can we?”

“Go!”

I went.

When I returned to the silent car, Mom looked at me in the rear-view mirror, from her usual spot in the driver’s seat. I wanted a smile, but her eyes and the gear shifted simultaneously into drive. The tiny, terrified kitten dug it’s claws painfully into my arm as the car moved forward. I held it against me, tight enough to prevent it from scratching me again. Its heart tapped a staccato rhythm against mine.

We drove down the alley, then turned the corner and drove only two blocks before my father said, “Stop here.”

Mom, ever obedient, pulled to the curb next to Baker Park. This park was a little further from my house than the one I usually played in, but I’d spent many winter days here, when they flooded the field to turn it into a skating arena.

In Summer, it was like a different world.Mothers pushed toddlers in baby swings, while slightly older children scrambled up the slide and jungle gym. Bigger kids chased each other around the large field, which was covered in thick, short-mown grass, except where it had been worn away around home plate and the other three embedded, rubber bases.

“Put the cat out on that field.”

My throat went dry. “What? What do you mean?”

“You heard me. Put the cat out there, in the middle of the grass. It will be fine.”

The kitten, sensing my panic, struggled against my grip. “I can’t just leave him there...” 

“You sure can! You were supposed to find it a home. Now it will be up to one of those kids to do that for you.”

I searched for Mom’s eyes, in the mirror. I saw the glassy look which told me she was not going to be of any help. I opened the car door.

I crossed the street, the pavement hot under my flip-flops, the kitten clutched to my chest. At first, no one paid any attention to me, but then a boy looked to see what I was holding. I knew that boy. It was David Horner. He was in my class, last year.

"Hey, where'd you get the kitten?"

I blocked him out. I blocked them all out. I hurried to the very center of the field, disengaged the kitten from my shirt, and placed his tiny body in the grass.

“What are you doing?”

I turned and ran back to the car, the image of the black spiky tail sticking up from the grass, etched in my mind.

“She just left this cat here!” 

"You can't do that!"

"Hey!"

My eyes and throat and the scratches on my arm all burned as I slammed the car door.

*****

A poem. 
From an animal’s perspective.


I stare forward, as the poem forms in my mind. David Horner is in the desk in front of me. Although it might appear as if I'm looking at the back of his head, my eyes are actually out-of-focus. Do I have the same glassy-eyed look I saw on my mother's face, in the rear-view mirror? The title comes to me, first, and the rest fills in, of its own accord.

A Kitten’s Prayer

Do you hear me, God?
I want to be loved.
I’m a good little kitten.
I keep myself clean and I never scratch anyone,
Unless I’m afraid. 

Do you hear me, God?
I need a good home,
With a little girl who gives me milk
And sometimes pulls a bit of yarn
So I can play. 

Isn't she there, somewhere?
Someone as lonely as me?
If she finds me, I’ll be very good
And I’ll never ask for anything else 

Except, please, God
Don’t let my mother miss me too much
And if you would,
Please, bless all other purrers.

Writing Exercise Submissions: Earliest Memory

I got one, awesome response to Sunday's writing exercise. This week's assignment was to write about a your earliest childhood memory, and to do so in first person, present tense.

Gails entry made me want to pick her up and hold her, myself. I'm glad for the resolution:

Posted by Gail

I am so scared to get up on that wooden box. I am just three years old after all. I see the other little girls giggling at me. I feel different because I am chubby. I love my long wavy hair and rosy cheeks and blue eyes and my Mommy always tells me how pretty I am. Still, I am scared to get measured for my dance costume - a grass skirt to sing a Hawaiian song while I do my tap dance.

The sewing lady called me over, "Gail, it's your turn, c'mon now".

I am chin down and eyes down as I scuff over to the wooden box. I get up on it and I feel sick to my tummy. I feel the tape measure go around my middle and she says "I will have to sew two grass skirts together for her - I don't have one large enough"

I hear all the girls laughing and tears fall down my face. I jump off the box and run outside the dance studio.

Miss Connie, my dance teacher, comes after me. She holds me until my Mommy comes for me. I feel so sad and hurt.

Then, at the recital, I get to do the last dance with Miss Connie on stage - she says I am the best and most beautiful dancer in the class. The other girls aren't laughing at me now.

My entry is from a time when I was fifteen months old. My father left home for a year when I was three months old. He had traveled around the world by himself, leaving my mother home with me, and my two older siblings who were nine and ten when he left. My earliest memory is of his homecoming:

Mommy moved my crib into the big kids’ room. Maybe she will move it back in her room when she’s done vacuuming. I stay on the couch when she vacuums. I even jumped on the couch and she doesn’t get mad cause she so ‘cited. My brother and sister are ‘cited, too. They say Daddy is coming home. I don’t know what that means but it makes me feel ‘cited too. I sing and it sounds good with the vacuum.

Mommy says don’t take my toys out now. The ‘partment’s all clean. I run up and down the long hall in my black shiny shoes. They make a good noise on the wood floor. Mommy is cooking food and I smell it. It makes me hungry be we can't eat til Daddy comes home. That's what she said. I sing a song about Daddy coming home. 

A man comes to the door.

He doesn’t ring the bell, he just comes in.

I stop singing. 

He’s very tall.

I stand behind Mommy.

Mommy hugs the man. My sister and brother hug him, too and Mommy wants me to hug him but I stay hidden behind her. I hang tight to her leg, and look at my shiny shoes.

The man is pulling me off of Mommy’s leg. He’s very strong. I squirm to get away, but he picks me up anyway. I yell and squirm. His face is very close to mine. He is smiling but I’m afraid.

I want my Mommy.

I start to cry.

The man looks angry. He puts me down and lets go fast. 

I fall with a thump on my bottom. I reach up for Mommy to pick me up.

She is looking at the man and doesn't see me.

 *****

Thanks, Gail, for your submission!

There won't be a writing exercise this coming weekend, but I will return to it the following week (June 26th).

Off now to do Wedding errands... what an exciting week!

Invitation

In the girl’s bathroom
With the lock in place
Excitement belies the tragic

Rescued from a puddle
Smudged, stained and streaked
Damaged, but made of magic

In large, round letters
Another girl’s name
Things rarely go as planned

With eyes closed tight
Imagine the right name
Blue on white, in a careful hand

Under the sticky flap
Cartoon princess waves
A glorious pink and white dream

Icon of acceptance
You are invited!
Throat aches a private scream

One more exclamation
I hope you can come!
Inside ricochets Not you!

Shred the envelope
Deep scratches in skin
Reinventing what is true

The evidence gone
Re-pocket the prize
And unlock the bathroom door

While deceitful mirrors
Reflect a standard child
Fears and flaws stand on the tile floor

It's a part of childhood abuse and neglect that often goes unseen, or at least unmentioned. When things are so wrong at home, it's as if there is a mark left on us that everyone can see. We are different. We are separate. We are not accepted by our peers, not included in the normal rights of passage and made to feel even more alone.

The shyness and introverted behavior we exhibit labels us as different. Those we meet sense this and their reaction is to back off, at the least - or to add to the harm with further abuse in the form of teasing, mocking and bullying. In turn, this reaction from others reinforces the notion that the flaw is within us - that we are the ones who were at fault all along.

It isn't true. It was never true. I was not flawed and deserving of abuse, and neither were you.