This post is part of a series in which I am providing an overview of my healing process from child abuse. The story begins here.
When I entered into therapy, I thought that the mother-daughter sexual abuse was the only form of abuse that I had suffered. It was very difficult to come to terms with having suffered from this form of abuse, but I took solace in “knowing” that at least I had never been abused by, much less penetrated by, a man.
After I had completed a lot of healing work on the mother-daughter sexual abuse, I had another flashback. This one was of other women sexually abusing me. This threw me into a tailspin. I thought that only my mother had abused me, and I thought that this tied into her mental illness. (My therapist is convinced that she is schizophrenic based upon the symptoms I told him about.) What did it mean that other women hurt me, too? Did my mother know about it? Did she enable it? Was the fact that I was the common denominator proof that this was somehow my fault?
As I came to terms with having been abused by more than just my mother, I started recovering memories of being abused by S & L, my most sadistic abusers. They were a married couple, and our family spent lots of time at their house. Those memories at first only involved S (the wife). None of them involved her sexually abusing me directly, but there was a lot of sadistic torture, including being forced to kill a kitten.
Next came the memories of S forcing me to do sexual things with my younger sister. The first memory just about broke me. I wanted to die right then and there because I believed this meant that I was one of my sister’s abusers. Fortunately, the memories also revealed that my sister was forced to do things to me, too, and I certainly did not hold her responsible for those actions.
Then came the ritual abuse memories. I did not know exactly what to do with them. They were so “out there” that I feared that nobody would believe me. Heck, compared to them, even the mother-daughter sexual abuse sounded more believable. Those memories were very hard to wrap my mind around.
Finally, I recovered the memories of being sexually abused by men. The only thing I had held onto throughout 18 months of therapy was that I had been spared vaginal rape. My first sickening awareness that even that had not been spared threw me into such a deep depression that I did not know if I could survive it. Accepting this truth was the last piece I needed in order to integrate from dissociative identity disorder (DID). I have written about that experience extensively here.
I do not know why I recovered the memories in the order that I did. I recovered more after this, but those were the big pieces. For the most part, I seemed to recover them roughly chronologically, while I know other people who recovered the least traumatizing memories first and saved the most traumatizing for last. I guess we recover our memories in the way that seems best for our own healing.
Photo credit: Lynda Bernhardt
Hi again. Yet again the simialritys are there. The first thing i became aware of was the abuse i suffered at the hands of my mum. Then i became aware of couples abusing me. Lastley the worse memories are of me been put into a cage with adults, and adults putting gimp masks on etc etc.
At first i thought it was ‘just’ my mum that had abused me. That itself was MASSIVE – as im sure you know, unfortunatley. Im still recovering ( this weekend had been my worst so far by a mile) memories, but im hoping that there isnt too much left.
Maybe the mother abuse is the first one that comes up because its the biggest because of the trust issues involved? No idea.
Keep strong , simon
i wish i didnt remember anything.
I used poetry as a tool of catharsis while dealing with abuse. Here’s an excerpt from my journal:
——————————————————
Who knows which words will stick with a child and which words won’t? Who knows at which point the child will break down and cry, unable to regain the joy that they’ve lost? Who knows what gives one child the courage to move on when another is forced to give in.
Who knows?
The child knows. Ask her.
I’ve been sitting in my room the whole day, fearful. Reluctant to even quench my thirst or release the strain being placed on my bladder. I don’t want to run into my father – the epitome of a monster in my dysfunctional little world. His cold eyes always cut straight through to my soul – severing my emotions, holding at bay my joy. Creating all at once a shiver in the base of my throat. When he speaks I can do no more than stand motionless, unable to speak. His mere presence fills me with fear. His hands are like tennis rackets, round and huge. My face like the little green ball being smacked dead against them. My body dropping instantly to the floor, rolling fast until a still object stops my motion.
“How can this be?” some may ask. It may be unimaginable to some but not to us. No to the children who face it. Daily we live with the fear, the unrest, the belittling – the abuse!
Not today! Today, I’ll stay in my room. Today, I will figure out for myself and for the others, how to evade fear, how to be strong and make still the animosity that seeks to ruin our childhood. I won’t even go out to see my mother. After all, why should I? She says she loves me, yet she has never once caught the hand that has been raised and dropped upon my fragile body so many times. She’s never corrected the words that have caused me to wither in shame, questioning my self-worth.
I stare at the ceiling, thinking about my friends at school. Our days are filled with constant laughter. We hold our heads up high, making plans for our futures. They come to me with their little problems – that to them seem so big. “Give me advice,” they say. Do any of them know about the pain I endure? Can they look beyond the brightness that I emit outwardly to see the darkness that encases my soul? Do they see the shadow of suicide that follows me, beckoning me to join his parishioners? – we remain at constant battle. Do they know that I’m a black house, painted white?. . . . .
Wow, that was powerful!! Thank you for sharing your journal entry.
- Faith
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