Last week, Peggikaye sent me an email … and it broke my heart. Here’s what she wrote:

“I almost admitted on my pearlsanddream blog that I was a victim of sexual abuse. I know I’ve come close to it a couple of times. But boy, if someone reads between the lines, I think they’d probably see it between todays’, and some of my April postings. gulp.”

I could see how badly she needed to stop trying to pretend that everything was OK … stop hiding. She needed to not let it rule her anymore … to get rid of it.

Easier said … than done.

I wrote back and I asked her: “would it help you if we both blogged about having been sexually abused on the same day, and referred to each other?”

And so … here we are — both Peggikaye and I, and were going to come out of hiding and share some difficult truths with you. Once you’ve blogged about it … there’s no going back. No more hiding. No more sidestepping important issues. No more being afraid of reaching out to help another person who’s hurting in a way that you understand only too well …

Peggikaye and I wrote this post together, and we’re going to crosspost it on both of our blogs.

Moof speaks:

We were three little girls who enjoyed each others’ company almost every Sunday afternoon. We weren’t related, we weren’t neighbors or schoolmates. We had all met through “Uncle Orvie.” And Sunday afternoons was when we all got to play at Uncle Orvie’s house until supper time, when we would get to go to any restaurant we wanted … and order anything we wanted. It was a kid’s paradise!

There were a few uncomfortable things about our playtime though … stuff that I knew I would never have the courage to tell my mother about. But Uncle Orvie said that there was nothing wrong with three little girls sitting on his lap naked. And there was nothing wrong with “tickling babies.” Well, that had always insulted me a bit … I wasn’t a baby. I was older than Donna and Leah, although I had to admit that it wasn’t by much.

With passing time, the three of us girls began to be more uncomfortable with the things that Uncle Orvie regularly did to us. One Sunday afternoon, feeling as if we were doing something wrong, we hid in a back room, and for the first time, began to express how uneasy we were all becoming with our little routine.

Donna scrunched up her face, and finally said: “I’m going to tell Mum.”

“No!” hissed Leah. “We won’t get to come play over any more.”

I imagined myself saying something to my own mother … it would be a while coming.

Not long afterward, Donna and Leah did, indeed, stop coming. I knew there was something wrong as soon as I walked into the apartment. Uncle Orvie was alone, and he was sobbing. I never knew what happened to the girls, but he took me onto his lap, fully clothed, and cried, and cried … apologizing to me over and over. My child’s mind understood … and I also understood that Donna must have told her Mum after all …

Uncle Orvie promised to respect me, and begged me to not leave him completely alone. I wasn’t quite old enough yet to understand how serious what he’d been doing to us was, and I didn’t hate him - and I don’t now. I’d never seen an old man cry before, and it made me cry, too. And so the two of us sat there together, crying. My little hand patted his almost bald head as I tried to comfort him, and he tried to reassure me.

Some time went by, and he began to break his promise. By then, I was somewhat older, and he had to use different means to approach me. I was getting a little old for an offer of all the onion rings I could eat to make me comply with something I now knew full well was wrong. Feeling guilty because I was leaving him alone for longer and longer stretches, I began to try to put him out of my mind - and life. Lonely, he began to pay more frequent visits to my home.

My poor sainted mother would feed him cookies and tea, sit and visit with him … struggle with her broken English to speak to this fellow who was inexplicably so kind to her. Her biggest worry where Uncle Orvie was concerned was that he didn’t understand any French, and that he would think she was “ignorant” because of her English.

I would come home from school and hear him in the kitchen with my Mother, and I would leave, and go hide in the woods behind the house until I saw him climb into his old Chevy and drive out of the yard.

One day in the late summer of the year I was 13, I noticed that my mother was very agitated when I entered the house. Someone had called - Uncle Orvie had been rushed to the hospital. He was very sick, and needed an emergency operation. He could even die! To this day, I hope I never again feel what I felt when what she was saying to me began to sink in. It was as if a weight had lifted from me … and to my horror, I realized that I was happy that he was sick - relieved that he might die. A rush of shame and guilt flooded over me … I was so stunned by my own reaction that any hope of maintaining some semblance of composure fragmented … and so did I. My mother had expected me to be upset … but she hadn’t expected me to have a complete meltdown.

Haltingly, so ashamed, I told her what had happened … all those years. The color drained from her face, and all she could do was ask: “Pourquoi que tu m’las pas dis?” “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I went away to school not long after that … my choice. Ironically, it was through a fund that Uncle Orvie had given my mother for me. I don’t remember seeing him again.

My mother taught me a lot about love and forgiveness after that time. Uncle Orvie survived the surgery, and lived for a short while longer. He still visited my mother, and she was still kind to him. Knowing what she knew, she still served him tea and cookies … and when he’d leave, she’d sit on the rocking chair in the kitchen and say her beads over and over. My mother was a good woman.

I did eventually forgive Uncle Orvie completely … not sure I ever completely forgave myself, though. There has remained with me the realization that even young children who deliberately continue to place themselves in situations of abuse - are complicit in some ways. Not a popular thought pattern in these litigious times, but self-honesty forces me to admit it. I may have started out innocent as a fawn, but when I chose to stay once I realized that what he was doing was wrong … I was wrong also.

And now, Peggikaye … it’s your turn …

Peggikaye speaks:

“Have you ever been molested?”

I was angry that the question had been asked, again. It was the third part of the evaluation in the eating disorder clinic.
“NO! Not molested, not touched, not raped! I am not one of those people who’s disorder developed because of that! Mine started because my step dad committed suicide and I missed him.”

I was 36 years old. I was angry that they kept asking the question, wasn’t one no enough?

A couple years into therapy, the question would get asked again.
“Peggi, are you SURE you’ve never been molested, a victim of incest or otherwise raped? You fit the profile to a T. Your body image, your issues with touch, your type of eating disorder … you just do. Are you sure?”
“No, and I didn’t forget either, I have clear memories of childhood!”

This conversation played probably 4 or 5 times through the years.
Then last August, I took a class in my church “Love them by their fruits, know them by their roots” seemed to be the theme of the class ..but it was about trusting others.

Everyone shared …and everyone had some connection with molestation. Either they had been …or were related to someone. Easy, my uncle. But, God wouldn’t let the subject go … and I became angry with God as he brought it to my attention over and over and over again. Finally, one rainy Saturday afternoon … I yelled at God …”FINE! THIS IS NOT MY ISSUE! Either tell me what you’re telling me, or leave me alone!”

Immediately, memories I had clearly had, but had discounted as not mattering came flooding to my mind. I started to cry as I yelled to God that it wasn’t fair. “It’s not my issue! Those didn’t count! It is not my issue!”

For 2 hours I sat in a bathtub and cried as I came to the realization, my nightmares that I’d refused to tell anyone about … were not just bad times …but they did in deed ‘count’. They may not have been a family member, but they counted. Childhood molestation was, in fact, my issue.

My first time of being a victim was as far from the normal as I could imagine. It wasn’t a family member. It wasn’t even an adult. It wasn’t even a male. It was one of my ‘best friends’. On a 6th grade trip, in an unsupervised hotel room …violently and ruthlessly … she did to me, what had probably been done to her by who knows who.

My life changed and who I had been was left in San Francisco. My trust for others, my ability to be touched and feel safe ..was forever gone. This is from something that I’d written on it.

“She continued to pull my hair and to threaten me if I make a noise, kissing me when I’d start to gag … she finally said “pretend we’re married, I’m the husband you’re the wife” I started to cry and she got mad and pulled my hair again.
“we ARE GOING TO DO THIS!” she hissed at me …
“if you wake up L and M, I will tell them you are doing it to me! Tomorrow, I will tell the whole school what you did!”

I was terrified. She wound up, putting her hands everywhere … she called it ‘girl sex’ …

When she finally was done, she’d put her hands in herself too …and she let go of me and called me a baby. I went into the bathroom and threw up all over the bathroom floor. That woke up L and M. C then acted as if she was woken up too. Because I’d been crying, they thought I was crying from throwing up.

They sent C after the adult in the next room. She helped me get into a shower, and changed. Then put me back to bed …with C … who quietly in ear shot of the adult …”it’s ok, it’s all going to be ok” When the teacher left she re iterated her threat that I had better not tell anyone, or she’d tell them it had been me doing it to her.

The next day C bought me every souvenir in San Francisco you could imagine … as she begged me to not tell … please don’t tell. Please, please don’t tell …she was sorry … please don’t tell …

I didn’t … until October of 2005. I’ve only talked about it a little with my psychiatrist and therapist, and about the details … I haven’t verbalized it out loud…they only know what happened because I wrote it out for them. I still can’t verbally tell.

The second time was a friends father who ’simply’ groped me. It was so much more, and it lasted for quite a while. But, he wasn’t my father, or relative …and it was never rape or sex. The fact that it was blatant, sometimes came with threats or begging … I didn’t think it ‘counted’ either. I found out when I was 18 that his daughter was not as ‘lucky’ as I was, she didn’t get off with only being groped. He, was a pastor of a church … so how could it count?

The third event was as an adult, so I didn’t think that one counted either. I was 22 ..and I knew the man. I was dating him. The violence aside … it couldn’t have mattered ..or counted …because I knew him.

I am trying to find my voice to get these things out. I know now that they mattered, that they counted. I know now that they forever changed who I am. I know now, that there are things about me that would have soared had they not been violently squashed out. Those things are fighting so hard to come back to the surface and if I don’t voice the pain… it will continue to be kept down.

I keep trying to tell myself that when I am healed, I will give it a voice … that’s what I tend to do … write about things after I get some handle on it, some healing …but I think, the pain is demanding a voice to bring healing.

Dr. Schwimmer of Kidney Notes is hosting Grand Rounds this week, and he’s done a superb job of putting it all together. The list of included posts seems to go on forever! The fellows who do Grand Rounds must not get much sleep on the Monday night before they put it up for our perusal.

Go over and take a look at this week’s offerings. He even accepted one from little ol’ me! :o)

Next week’s Grand Rounds will be hosted by Health Voices. If you’re thinking of submitting a post to next week’s Grand Rounds, I suggest you read this first.

And Dr. Flea says: “I saw these two guys get out of a car, covered in tatoos, and I wondered, could that be Moof and Pattie?”

What I never told Dr. Flea or Pattie is that I’m really a guy, and work as a bouncer in a Vegas nightclub …

Earlier this month, when Pattie told me that she and Dave were moving to North Carolina, I told her that I was happy for her, but that I wish we’d been able to meet while she was still so close by. She told me that there was still time to do so … and then echoed my own thoughts by mentioning Dr. Flea …

After a slew of email exchanges … we finally settled on a nice little seafood restaurant in Newburyport. With what I’m sure was major anticipation on all of our parts, we finally made it happen on Sunday afternoon. Dr. Flea and Ms. Flea, the Terminator and Terminator 2, Pattie and Dave, my son Doug and I, all enjoyed a delicious meal out in the bright sunshine (I have a pink nose to prove it!) … and got to actually put faces and voices to what we’d already learned of each other through our blogs.

We gave Ms. Flea and Pattie’s husband Dave a hard time because they haven’t yet joined the elite rank of the BAA (Blog Addicts Anonymous) … of which Dr. Flea, Pattie and myself are charter members … ;o)

When you set out to meet people you only know over the internet, it’s always a bit of a nervous thing. You have no idea what the quantity and quality of the person you’re meeting is really going to be. I have to say that meeting Flea and Pattie was all - and more - than the best of what I could ever have expected.

Flea is a devoted husband and father, who obviously cares very deeply for his family, and lives his medical practice. He’s a man of passion who seems as if he can’t give enough of himself to his greatest loves. Ms. Flea is an amazing lady … she singlehandedly takes care of everything. She’s a lady of many gifts and talents … not the least of which is appearing to be able to be able to juggle a hundred things at once without batting an eyelash. I’m impressed, and hope to get to know her better … :o)

Pattie is a humorous, sensitive, attractive lady - intelligent, well spoken, well presented. She and her husband reminded me of newlyweds! Dave is articulate and extremely interesting … he’s going to make a great addition to any hospital team. That hospital in Charlotte will be lucky to have him. I just wish we could have done this a lot sooner … the Carolinas are looooooooooong ways off … it’s going to be a while before we get to enjoy each others’ company again.

I’m more convinced than ever about something I’ve always thought regarding blogging and other electronic means of communication … when you get to know someone through what they write, you know them without the trappings of age, physical appearance, race, size, shape … any of the external trappings that can distract from who the person really is on the inside. When you meet after knowing a person through writing … you’ve already known each other more deeply than you ever could have by casually rubbing elbows together. Seeing each other in person adds temporal detail to what you already know.

Blogging has been a gift. It’s been an effective form of therapy … of speaking messages that would otherwise not be heard … and of meeting people that you would otherwise never get to know. It’s been worth every moment!

In 1975, I was blessed with my first baby. A tiny little lady - all of 5 pounds, 7 ounces - with eyelashes so long that they touched her eyebrows.

For such a cute little rascal, she sure gave her mother some pretty rough moments as she was growing up. It became apparent that if there was something she could get into, hurt herself with - she zeroed in on it with unerring accuracy.

We were visiting friends in Alabama when she was about 2. We had found a wonderful Chinese restaurant, and I was looking forward to digging into one of my favorites: a Pu Pu Platter. The little waitress brought the condiments out, and set them on the table within everyone’s easy reach: sweet and sour sauce, duck sauce, hot mustard …

With mischief in her eye, my tiny daughter’s pudgy hand darted out, and before any of us could react, had grabbed the spoon from the hot mustard, and stuffed it into her unwary rosebud mouth. Within seconds her little eyes looked like wide blue marbles, as she sank back into the seat, gasping for breath! We were sure she was goner!

Her uncanny proclivity for getting herself into “situations” only became more pronounced as she aged.

By the age of 6, she was a skinny little kid - in constant motion. She was a blur of endless activity and sound. I used to threaten to duct tape her to the ceiling … but we both knew she was safe: she could outrun me! ;o)

One summer evening, my heart slid down to my toes when a horrendous screaming began in the farmyard. Deneen. Screaming. Again. What this time? I strode to the door, realizing as I went that the screaming was approaching the door from the other side. It opened before I could reach the threshold, and there was Dena - looking terrified. Her grandfather had her in his arms, and a quick glance made me realize that he looked pretty scared, too. He quickly made his way over to a chair, and set her down so that we could look at her. As he did, he explained that she had tried to “belly up” onto the loaded hay wagon, slipped, and fallen underneath; the several ton wagon had gone over her leg before anyone knew what had happened. The poor kid had very badly broken femur - up near the hip.

This one was not going to be as easy to recover from as the mustard had been …

But through all of this, I had always been able to tell her that things would be OK. The doctors would fix her, the nurses would take care of her … everything was going to be OK. It looked pretty bad, but even this time, everything was going to be OK.

I worried that this would not always be the case, however. With my everpresent fear in mind, and much anguish and wringing of hands, we tried - uselessly - to impress on her that she needed to be careful, and to think before acting! We would frown direly, and predict in solemn tones that there could come a day when she would do something so awful to herself, that the doctors wouldn’t be able to fix her anymore.

I don’t think she ever really believed me. I don’t think I ever really believed me.

She somehow survived into adulthood … had a lot of problems getting there, but she made it. She got married, started a family … and now has two little boys who are an awful lot like she was. Although she has her hands full with her two little monkeys, she’s decided to go back to school for a degree. At the age of 30, her life is finally coming together …

Or it was …

Last fall, she went to the emergency room with severe abdominal pain. There was a lot of back and forth, and no one really knew what was wrong for a while, but her pain was so intense that she persisted in trying to find someone to help. About a week before Thanksgiving, they diagnosed her with Crohn’s Disease. She spent the week in the hospital, and was only discharged on Thanksgiving Day - at which time, she marched right over here, had Thanksgiving Dinner, and tried to go on with her life.

Easier said than done.

Now, she’s struggling with two very active toddlers, managing somehow to maintain a 4.0 at college … and the entire time, she’s in relentless pain. Close to discouraged tears, she called me and said, “Moof, the doctor sent me to the emergency room, and when I got there, they were rude, and harsh, and acted as if I was lying to them! They didn’t believe that I was in pain - even when I told them that Dr. ________ had sent me there!”

Well, here it is. It’s finally happened. The time that I told her could come - when the doctors couldn’t “fix” her anymore. But this time, she’d done nothing to deserve what was happening … the Crohn’s, the pain, the doctors who don’t know her, and think she’s a “seeker” …

Trying to speak calmly and quietly, I explained that they couldn’t keep giving her the pills that actually took the pain away … because they’re addictive. I squeezed my eyes shut tightly against the look that I knew must be slowly crossing her face as I went on to explain that the doctors who don’t know her - think she just wants narcotics …

Silence echoed across the phone lines as the awful realizations sank in. In those long helpless moments, I waited for some word of encouragement to creep up from that big empty place inside, some little offering I could give her to at least ease the emotional part of the pain which had to be washing over her …

… I thought of my little girl with the broken leg, crying from pain, and my telling her to hang on, someone would help soon! Hang on! It was going to be OK!

Finally, in a soft voice, she broke the silence, “Moof! But - what am I going to do? I can’t go through the rest of my life in pain like this. What’s going to happen to me?”

What … what do I tell my little daughter now?

I wrote to my daughter, asking for her permission to post this. Here is her reply:

Boof

Dr. Scan Man has mooooooved! He’s got his own domain, and has just put up a real work of love! Scoot on over there and take a look! It’s really great! :o)