Tears, Fears, and the Transforming Years

Let me start by making it clear that I am not an expert on child abuse or its long-term effects.  My experience is simply  . . . well . . . my experience.  Any opinions or conclusions that I express are derived from several different things: the abuse itself, my surrounding environment, the duration, and the few steps I have taken towards healing.  I was four years old when child abuse became a violation of the law.  Like many others then, and many now, the law was unable to do much to protect me.  Despite the laws in place, child abuse was (and still is) a very taboo subject and, in 1974, it was still too easy to look the other way.  As an adult, I am relieved to see society move from looking away from the abused to pointing out the perpetrators and exposing their horrific crimes.  Talk shows frequent survivors of abuse as well as experts; and, news programs, such as Dateline, have declared war on child predators.  As a survivor of abuse, I am thrilled to see these changes within our culture.  As a survivor of abuse, I am compelled to share my story in the hope that it may somehow strengthen the forces that are making child abuse an issue that can no longer be ignored or swept under the rug.

Much of my early adulthood was spent with my head in self help books written by experts on child abuse issues.  Much of my energy was focused on trying to prove them wrong.  I aimed to rise above my abuse, to put it behind me and move on with my life. It was over and I refused to look at again.  I was healed, or at least as healed as I thought I could be.  I was now in my mid-thirties, married to a wonderful man, and had two beautiful boys.  I had a successful nursing career and found much peace in being able to comfort others.  So what if I had sleep issues or the occasional cycles of unintentional, self-harming behavior?  I was still happy, my husband was happy, my children were happy.  I used this happiness to strengthen my belief that I had proven the experts wrong.

My world was turned inside out in March of 2007 when my youngest sister, after several years of fighting drug addiction, committed suicide. She was twenty one years old. The shock and raw emotion was unbearable.  My thoughts were beyond constant racing.  “This could not be happening,” spiraled viciously around my mind.  We did not grow up together and she was not abused.  She was raised by my father and her mother and had a relatively normal and certainly happy upbringing.  I could not understand how in my own efforts to survive, my sister had so easily given up.  I became obsessed with trying to make sense out of this horrible event.  My self-talk was abusive and tormenting.  Flashbacks from my own childhood began flooding my mind and my nightmares significantly increased.  I was eating just enough for my body to survive and avoiding everyone who loved and cared about me.  I had descended back into emotional hell and the only thing I wanted was to feel nothing at all.  Six months after my sister’s suicide, I was near exhaustion from insomnia and had dropped eighteen pounds.  My husband and friends finally persuaded me to seek counseling.



The idea of needing therapy made me angry.  Inner conversations with myself about it were often like dealing with a logical adult and a stubborn, sometimes unruly, teenager.  The conversation on the way to my first appointment was something like this: 

“ You’re family and friends are right. You’re not taking care of yourself and they don’t know what to do,” my adult said.                                                                                                                                                             

“ I’m fine and I don’t need any help. I can handle this on my own,” the kid barked back.  “Everyone needs some help at some time,” my logic replied. 

“ Bullshit!” she shouted.  “ I’ve always been okay! What is this lady going to tell me?  That I need to cry? That I need to ‘let it out’?  Forget it! I will be okay if everyone would just leave me alone!” and the radio volume went up full blast.



I thought how unyielding I was being.  I thought about my family and friends and how disappointed they might be if I didn’t do this.  Finally, I bartered with my teenager.



“Look, you’re going to do this or you’re not going home.  You cannot disappointment all of people who care about you.  Just stay calm, breathe, and you will be okay.  She’s not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

“ Fine,” she reluctantly replied, “but stay on guard.”  I clenched my teeth, placed my defenses on red alert, and walked in determined to maintain every façade of normalcy I could muster.

The office was located on the third floor of old, Victorian style home in the the historic downtown area. The architecture was beautifully simple and the antique style décor was visually comforting.  She introduced herself, gave me some paperwork, and told me to take my time filling it out. For a moment, I was a bit taken aback.  My mind had envisioned a stout woman with a robotic tone and harsh smile. On the contrary, she was petite, spoke with a soft tone, and had a warm smile.  I suddenly heard my teenager shouting, “NO! DO NOT drop your defenses! Stay strong!  You cannot trust her, so stay alert!” I sucked up my anxiety and began the extensive paperwork.  Initially, I was going to lie in the family history section that asked if there was any abuse.  I fought with myself for several minutes, and decided to be honest.  I reasoned my honesty by convincing myself that I was not there about the abuse.  I was there because my sister had died.

My first session was not as bad as I thought it would be. I admitted to being abused and was adamant that I was not willing for it to be an issue in therapy.  I survived and was doing quite well until the death of my sister.  I was there for help in trying to find some meaning or purpose in my sister’s desperate act.  My therapist (Dr. A) respected my demand to keep the abuse off of the table, but admitted that she also believed that there was a correlation between my coping with a sibling suicide and my childhood history.  I refused to entertain that possibility and she did not push.  I continued to see her and eventually began to find some peace regarding my sister.  I am certain that had she been thinking clearly, my sister never would have ended her life.  My acceptance of her death lies in my belief that drugs are what killed her.  This belief provides me with comfort as I continue to work through my loss . . .my pain, my anger.  I suspect this will be a life-long process, but it is no longer as "consuming", and I believe that there will always be moments when thinking of it still takes my breath away.