Betrayal

 

“Betrayal”

“Stab the body and it heals, but injure the heart and the wound lasts a lifetime.”

― Mineko Iwasaki

Years ago, I watched a movie with John Travolta. It was called “The General’s Daughter,” and it wasn’t all that great.  Basically, Travolta is an undercover army detective tasked with solving the murder of a general’s daughter on an army base.  During the course of the movie, it is revealed that she had been raped years earlier, and her mentor tells Travolta that there is something worse than rape. Travolta asks what could possibly be worse than rape, and by the end of the movie, he understands that the betrayal of her father, who covers up the rape, is worse.  I remember watching this movie and feeling punched in the gut as I understood this on a molecular level.

On February 6th of this year, the alarm went off in our bedroom to let us know we needed to get ready for work.  But instead of getting up for work, I turned to Tony and told him I had relapsed and had been drinking for a while.  I then told him he needed to take me to the psych ward because I was suicidal and I had a plan.  He drove me to the hospital, and I stayed on the psych ward for ten days before transferring to rehab for a further thirty.  I make no excuses for drinking again, but I had begun to remember things; horrific things.  I will tell you that even as a therapist, I wasn’t sure about repressed memories until I experienced them for myself.  I always knew I was molested and by whom, but the details were fuzzy.  When I spoke at meetings and told my story, I would say that there was a lot about my childhood I did not remember, and I considered that a blessing.  But now it seems the memories are surfacing, and I cannot stop them.

I talked to a trauma therapist at the rehab and asked her why I pick up drinking when it is the last thing that I want to do.  She told me that because the memories are returning, she believes the little girl inside is seeking oblivion and doesn’t know of a better way to cope.  I don’t know how I feel about that, but I am exploring it.  What she said next has impacted me greatly.  She told me to stop chasing forgiveness.  She said, “Fuck forgiveness.  You can’t forgive an unforgivable act.”  She talked about allowing myself to get angry at my abuser, and then she said, “And now we have to talk about your parents”.  She told me they were supposed to protect me, and they didn’t.  They were supposed to defend me and, at the very least, help me after I told them, and they failed at every turn.  She told me not to let them off the hook with excuses like, “they were from a different time”, or, “they did the best they could”, or, “it was an impossible situation”.

I had never really looked at it that way before.  I had always been told by other therapists that I would never heal unless I could forgive.  Well, I don’t think I have ever truly been able to forgive.  Not him, and especially not them.

When I broke down and finally told them, my mother’s first words were, “Well, at least he never hit you”.  Let.  That.  Sink.  In.

We travelled extensively as a family living overseas.  They continued to put us in the same room in hotels.  Once, the hotel made a mistake with the reservation and gave us a room with a queen bed instead of two twins.  My dad’s solution to this was to put pillows down the middle of the bed as a vain attempt to separate us for the night.  Looking back at these examples now, I cannot fathom what they were thinking.  There was no humanity in these actions at all.  I was just a sacrificial lamb.  Did they care about me at all?

Ask anyone who knows me, and they will tell you that I am very emotional.  I am a crier.  I cry in empathy.  I cry when I am happy, when I am sad, I cry when I am frustrated, I cry when I am watching commercials, and sometimes just because it is Thursday.  When my father died, I went to his funeral and sat through the whole thing dry-eyed.  When my mother died, I did not shed a tear.  There is a lot of anger there.  I just don’t know how to access it yet, but I am working on it.  I no longer want to misdirect it at myself.  I deserve better than that.

The Scratching on the Wall

“The Scratching on the Wall”

"There is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it." — Alfred Hitchcock

I am so tired.  I am tired all the time.  I tried to lock the door to my room earlier tonight

but my mother caught me and yelled at me again.  She shrieks every time she catches

me.  I don’t fully understand why it angers her when I lock my bedroom door but it isn’t

allowed.  On the nights when I can manage it I get uninterrupted sleep and it is so

glorious.  I worry that tonight will be one of those nights.

I am about to fall asleep when I hear it.  We share a wall.  His bedroom is next to mine. 

He scratches on the wall with his fingernails.  He does this on the nights that he comes. 

I don’t know why, but it is a forewarning of sorts.  It’s his way of telling me to get ready. 

“I’m on my way” it says.  The scratching is almost worse than what comes after.  My

gut clenches and I begin to go numb because I know what this will entail.  It means I

will suffer and my mind begins to blessedly drift and my body starts to shut down.

There have been countless nights like this one.  Countless nights of terror.  Countless

nights of no sleep.  Countless nights of being an object of perversion.  Countless nights

being left feeling empty and disgusted.  Countless nights being left to feel dirty and

unloved.  Countless nights to build up walls and tear down my self-esteem.  I already

feel I have no worth and at fourteen I no longer feel I have the right to dream of a future

that has any light.

On this night, when it is over, I have had enough.  I am angry and disgusted and

exhausted.  I wait until I am sure he is asleep and the house is quiet.  I am fueled by

rage.  I leave my room and go to the kitchen.  I stand in the light of the moon and search

for the largest knife I can find.  I creep to his room and up to his bed.  I stand over his

sleeping form.  My face is twitching with rage - murderous rage.  I hold the knife above

my head for ten seconds, twenty, thirty - I lose count.  It feels like an eternity.  He sleeps

on unknowing.  No one is aware of what I am doing but me and God.  And maybe it is

God who stops me, I don’t know.  I have a moment of clarity.  If I do this, this suffering

will stop, but a different suffering will follow.  My life will change forever and it won’t

be for good.  

I bring the knife back down to my side.  I stand there for a long time watching him

breathe and I cry silently.  Eventually I walk back to the kitchen and, with hands

shaking I return the knife to where I found it.  I stand there asking myself in disbelief

what I was thinking.  I am horrified by myself.  I could have killed someone.  I was fully

capable and had every intention of doing so.  The rage I felt was oceanic and I am

petrified.  I go back to bed disgusted by myself on a whole new level.

This is the night that I shut the door on anger.  I turn it in on myself rather than risk

hurting others.  This leads to stuffing my feelings with food.  It leads to drinking and

other forms of self-harm.  I often have suicidal thoughts and I begin to actively hate

myself.  I hurt myself over and over throughout the years, denying myself the grace I

so freely give to others.  This marks the beginning of most of the problems I cause

myself.

The abuse will continue for two more years.

Through the Blue Glass

“Through the Blue Glass”

“We've been shattered and reconstructed, told to make an effort every single day to pretend we

still function the way we're supposed to. But it's a lie, it's all a lie; every person, place, thing

and idea is a lie. I do not function properly. I am nothing more than the consequence of

catastrophe.”

― Tahereh Mafi, Unravel Me

    I lay on the couch in the front room.  On the couch, we are not allowed to sit on -

in the front room, which we are not allowed to use.  It’s the middle of the night, and

I am watching the cars that occasionally drive by our house.  I’m catching the

reflection of the headlights through the blue Yemeni glass bottles in the front windows.

    My mother has been collecting these glass bottles for years, and the light that reflects

from the headlights calms me.  I do this on the nights he comes to my room and cuts

away at my innocence over and over again.  He then leaves me there, goes to his room,

and falls asleep as though nothing has happened, as though I don’t matter, have no

consequence, and my existence is just an extension of his perverted desires.  

    I am left to pick up my pieces.  I lay there on the forbidden couch, catching the pretty

blue rays, trying desperately to lull myself back into my own body.  I am trying to put

my pieces back together like a jigsaw puzzle.  Over time, though, more and more pieces

go missing, and the puzzle looks less and less like me.  

    On the forbidden couch in the room we aren’t allowed to use through the blue glass.