I thought I should get in here and post something, because I can see that a lot of people are checking repeatedly, hoping for a word of some sort. I wish I had one … on many levels.

TNT has come to mean a tremendous amount to me in the last week. Her ebullience and exuberance have taken my mind captive, and my heart by storm …

This sweet, bubbly, humorous, intelligent, irrepressible little lady had become the front and center of my everything over this last week … adopted daughter, worry focus – because she’d been sick since the 22^nd, and I was so worried for her health, and center of my courage … a position in which we should probably never put another human being. I’m sorry that I was so selfish.

TNT, whether you’re who you say you are or not doesn’t matter nearly as much as what we shared over this last week. I thank you for giving me laughs that I wouldn’t otherwise have had … worry for another person, that would have otherwise been spent on useless worry for myself … and courage – ohmygodcourage – to do something I would never have been able to do without you. Dear heart … if you vanish from my life, how will I ever be able to thank you?

To everyone who’s been speculating – please, stop! Either TNT is, indeed, who she says she is … and is yet again being raped by someone who is trying to steal her identity, and destroy her memory among us … or she’s the most brilliant little 18 year old lady I’ve ever had the joy of knowing. Either way … she’s a hurting puppy, and needs our help.

TNT … please, if you are the person we’ve come to know, take your courage by the b*lls and contact one of us … with a way that we can verify what you’re saying. No one will give your identity – or location – away. You’ll still be safe. We will close around you in a protective circle – and protect you from the harm that “anonymous” wants to drench you in. All the person you contact will do is proclaim that you are, indeed, TNT. That’s all we need. Don’t cause us to believe that you are not really who you’ve shown us … by mere default, through silence – or through fear. Together, we can conquer this.

If you’re not TNT … (or rather, you really are, since it takes a lot of moxie to pull off what you did so darn well,) then we still would love you where you are, and as who you are. Do you think you have to be an Irish doctor who’s been raped before you can be loved? Dear Heart … you are already loved – unconditionally, no matter who you are. Just please, please don’t vanish … since you are who I grew so fond of … and not your persona …

And this is a lesson for all of us … and it’s multi-pronged …

We don’t know who we’re dealing with … when you love someone in a blog, online, you love an idea, and not a person. That’s fine – as long as you’re aware of it.

When we reveal too much of ourselves, we risk standing in the middle of a silent circle of watchers, baring what and who we are to a world that may or may not care. Our trust and courage may find love, affirmation, encouragement, empathy … or it may find indifference … or it may even uncover antipathy. It will probably do all of the above, in one individual or another. As long as we’re aware of that, ready for that – it’s OK.

This fits in a bit with what Borneo Breezes and I exchanged earlier in the week … we need to be ready and willing to accept whatever our words evoke in those who stumble upon our tiny home in the blogosphere. It can be warm and positive … negative and hurtful … or downright frightening … for example, if TNT is really who she says she is.

Dialogue, growth … the expansion of our own boundaries … only happens when we open ourselves in spite of the fear and the dangers inherent to the unknown. The greatest effort reaps the greatest reward, because what you get out of it all is completely dependent on you.

Back in May and June, I wrote a series of posts on abuse. They covered everything from child abuse, through spousal abuse. Then I stopped … but it wasn’t because I was out of things to say. It was because I really didn’t have the courage to write the final nightmare tucked away in the nether regions of my already too sordid list.

On Wednesday night (August 23,) I got one of those emails that leaves you feeling warm all over, and makes all the effort you’ve put into blogging worthwhile. It came from a blogger I’d only recently met – “Naked Tomato” over at Medical Pathetical. Early in our exchange of emails, I re-monikered “Naked Tomato” … she became “THE Naked Tomato,” TNT for short. If you go over and read her archives, you’ll understand that this not only fits, it’s a foregone conclusion! Henceforth, I’ll refer to her as TNT. Here’s the email she sent me, in part:

I’m slowly but surely making my way through the archives, and in my browsing I came upon a post entitled “A Time to Heal” (I believe it was dated May 2006) and a few more on the subject of sexual abuse. I was very touched by these posts as I have survived rape and sexual assault, albeit as an adult. I just wanted to send you a note to thank you for bringing such an important and “unspeakable” subject up in such a candid, human, non-threatening way. If more people were exposed to articles like the ones you’ve written, we could make such strides in breaking the taboo.

When someone sends me that sort of compliment, I always feel as if I really don’t deserve to hear it, because anyone can do the same thing … all it takes is the decision to do so. After all, there’s no virtue in having a reason to be able to post such unpleasant personal experiences. I couldn’t help but wonder why she had sent it to me as an email, rather than as a comment … I wondered if this is what I’d been waiting for to go ahead and post the next part of my “abuse” series …

I replied:

Regarding “A Time To Heal” … I have at least one more post along those lines coming … and the subject will be rape, as an adult. I’m still trying to get up the courage … it may take a minute, since I haven’t been upfront with my adult children about it all. It needs to be written though – perhaps as much for others, as for myself. The way I see it is if I can get people speaking about it, it pulls the teeth right out the jowls of shame. Without shame – there’s room for healing.

[...]

Seriously though, I’m not doing anything anyone with a blog can’t do … if you are willing to blog with me on this one, let me know. Perhaps we could give each other courage.

It took almost no time at all for her reply to find its way into my inbox:

And I will absolutely blog with you on this subject. In fact, I’d be honored to. I agree, it’s going to be tough, but these are stories that need to be told if society is to be stripped of our “blame and silence the victim” mentality. I think blogging together and shooting some courage at each other is a brilliant idea :o)

What followed were plans on how to approach the task, how we would help each other along by sharing the posts in advance. There was a bit of panic on TNT’s part when I mentioned submitting the finished products to Grand Rounds … she was afraid that her writing wasn’t up to par with the other medical bloggers … and get this: she was afraid to be seen as a whiner! Every time I think of her saying that, it makes me want to cry. She’s not only a wonderful writer – with humor that touches you deep down in all of the right goosey places, but her story is absolutely riveting. My own experience pales to nothing by comparison. This little lady has the fortitude of an entire army, and the more I know her, the deeper my respect runs.

Imagining ourselves as two little girls standing on the dock of an ice cold lake … we held hands, gave each other courage … and jumped in unison.

Here’s the link her post: One in Three

Even so, it took me a while to get started. For my part, I spent a bit of time warming to my subject by writing to my dear friend, Dr. Engel. He gave me the affirmation I needed to even set my foot on the path … and so … here it is – the story I never told anyone before this past week. Not my husband, not my kids … not my closest confidants. I never even allowed myself to think about it before the last few months, when I was writing the other abuse posts. I knew there was one more to write … one I had shoved out of my mind for 28 years …

I’d been away from my abusive husband long enough to no longer worry about his finding me, and the son I’d been five months pregnant for when I left him was having his first birthday in just a few days. I was living in a small apartment in Winthrop Village, Maine, and had been for the better part of a year … with no car, no adult companionship. I found that I was beginning to scare myself … I knew that I couldn’t be alone like that for much longer. A simple knock on the door would bring my heart to my throat … people would visit and I didn’t know how to act anymore — I had nothing to say to them. I remember wondering if I were losing my mind. Entire weeks would pass without seeing a soul other than my two babies … and I spent a great deal of time snowed in, unable to step outside at all. My parents would drive up every few weeks to take me grocery shopping. They were the only people I saw.

When they invited me to come home for my baby’s first birthday, I leapt at the chance. Although his birthday was on a Monday, we would celebrate it on Sunday … I would spend Saturday night there, and return to Winthrop on Sunday night.

And so, on September 26, 1978, I found myself in a unique position. It was a Saturday, I had access to a car … and my children were asleep in my parents’ home. I had built in babysitters – for the first time ever. Filled with an excitement that I almost couldn’t contain — and also fear, because I’d begun to feel as if I no longer belonged in public anymore — I went to a club for a drink. Yes, I know I could perhaps have made a better choice, but I was just desperate to be with other people. There would be music, laughter … people smiling and talking. Even if no one talked to me, I would bask in the warmth of friendly faces. And if someone did talk to me, I could spend a few hours remembering what it’s like to be in the company of other people again …

I found myself an out of the way spot – at a small round table near the wall by the exit. It was a lot quieter in there than I had hoped. I ordered a drink, and tried to not be too obvious about studying the people scattered across the lounge. Mostly young couples … very few singles. It didn’t matter. It just felt good to be there.

To my surprise, it took very little time for a fellow I hadn’t seen to come out of the shadows and startle me, asking if he could join me at my table. He was an ordinary looking man, seemed mild mannered enough, soft spoken … he asked if he could buy me a drink. I took a long final pull on my straw, and smiled in agreement. As we waited for the waitress to bring the drinks, I began to panic, because I didn’t know what to say – so far I’d done nothing but stare at him. I shouldn’t have worried — the fellow began to fill the void with a monologue …

He was waiting for his trial date. My heart sank. He had murdered his wife’s lover. My heart sank even further. I don’t remember the waitress coming back, I don’t remember if I had my drink or not … I just remember trying to find a way to leave without making him angry. He talked endlessly … I heard all of the details … how he had gone to get his gun, the look on his wife’s face when she saw her lover dead beside her on the bed … how close he had come to killing her too … what he was going to do to himself if they sent him to prison …

After a while he wound down, and I found the courage to excuse myself. To my relief – he never batted an eye. I nearly ran from the club – relieved to make my escape. What I didn’t realize was that I had perhaps been safer in the club having a drink with an avowed killer than I was about to be … outside of the club.

As I made my way out of the door into the night chill, my relief began to be replaced by a sharp disappointment. My only chance to get out and relax with people, and I had to end up with a murderer! Something laying on the ground just outside of the doors caught my attention, and snapped me out of my morose reverie. It looked like a rolled up piece of paper … with a telltale bulge in the middle that identified it as a homerolled marijuana joint … interesting! I stopped and picked it up … examined it … sniffed it carefully — there was no mistaking that odor. It was definitely a joint.

A little aside at this time … for those of you who don’t know me, it’s no secret that I was a hippy in the early 70’s. I’m saving the scoop on that for a different post … in which I intend to hand you all, in graphic detail, my experiences with drugs – both personal, and where others were concerned. There are a lot of lessons to be gleaned from my youthful stupidity, and I don’t intend to waste them, although it will probably alter how many of you see me. That part of my life was over by the time I got pregnant for my first baby, and what little nostalgia remained for my old life style died on the night that I’m sharing with you now, as you will see.

For the second time that night, I was startled as someone came out of the shadows and spoke to me.

“I think that’s mine. I must have dropped it when I was leaving the club.”

He was tall, handsome … older. Clean cut, dark haired, shaved … well dressed. For a second I wondered why he’d come out of the bushes instead of from the path, but brought myself back to moment, and I reluctantly handed the joint to him. He didn’t say anything for a few moments … as he thoughtfully rolled the joint between his fingers as if he was trying to work the lump in the middle out of it.

“Look, if you want, I’ll share it with you. But not out here. Let’s go up to my room.”

I tried to not look too eager, but I have a feeling that I wasn’t very successful. I willingly followed him up to his room. This sort of thing wasn’t so unusual among those in the drug culture. Smoking “pot” was a social thing … you engaged in it with your friends. If you ran into strangers who smoked, there was an immediate bond. It wasn’t unheard of to be invited into someone’s private domain to take a few hits from a joint … someplace safe and out of the way where the smell would be somewhat contained.

He waved me in ahead of him, and I momentarily felt cold in the pit of my stomach as I entered his room. I turned around and watched him come in, and quietly close the door – leaving it unlocked. Good sign. I began to relax. His room had two double beds. Very typical looking hotel room – even for today. He walked over to the window, pulled the curtains closed, and stuck the joint between his lips and lit it. He handed it over to me.

I took a huge drag. It had been over a year … well over a year. No cigarettes … no pot … and this toke went down like a cat being dragged backwards by it’s tail – claws out – hissing and spitting. It was really, really harsh. I didn’t notice any strange flavors … or odors … but weed is so strong smelling and tasting that it can easily mask any additives. I tried to catch my breath … I couldn’t … I just kept coughing. He took the joint from me, and without saying a word, he pointed at the foot of the bed which was closest to the window … I gratefully sat down … gasping for air.

He took a toke – or appeared to – and handed the joint back to me. I remember looking at him like “You’ve got to be kidding!” … and he briefly mentioned that the first drag was rough, but that the next ones were much smoother. I noted that he wasn’t coughing – at all, but then again, I’d had a rather long hiatus from any and all smoke …

Okay … I took another drag, cautiously, inhaling as deeply as possible from past habit. As dear as the stuff was, you learned not to waste it. Still horribly harsh. I shook my head, and felt tears begin to burn their way down my cheeks as I fought another coughing spasm. That was when it hit me … at first, just a hint of nausea, which swelled quickly. This in itself was not new to me, and I still hadn’t begun to panic. I can’t take anything that depresses the central nervous system without having that sort of problem … no pain medications, no anesthesia, no tranquilizers … nothing. It’s a real pain (no pun intended) because I also can’t take NSAIDs because of the kidney failure. Although I had experienced that sort of thing with really strong marijuana in the past, it wasn’t normally strong enough to bother me like that; it also tended to have the opposite effect, by getting rid of nausea and actually giving me a case of the munchies. This time … I realized I was into something stronger than what I was used to, and I’d already had far more than I could deal with … I just hoped I could keep from humiliating myself by barfing before I got outside of the building and out of sight …

I began to apologize, telling him that his joint was a bit strong for me, and that I needed to leave before I embarrassed myself. I tried to stand, and I couldn’t. By this time, I knew that something was seriously wrong. My arms and legs weighed tons … I tried to move them, but nothing happened. In confusion, I realized that instead of standing up, I was laying down … my legs bent at the knees, hanging down at the end of the bed … completely helpless. I was stupid enough, and unsuspecting enough, to feel humiliated at being seen in such a vulnerable position by what I still thought was a fellow who had simply been generous enough to share his joint with me.

Here – time began to do something strange, and all I’m going to be able to give you is impressions rather than clear memories. I felt him touch my face, and turn my head to the side. I realized, to my shame, that I was vomiting all over myself … and now that he’d turned my head, all over his bed. I kept thinking that I needed to pull myself together, and get out of his room. I needed to go home. I couldn’t remember being that sick in a long time.

I would try to move … and nothing happened. Nothing. I couldn’t even turn my own head to look at him when he began to unbutton my blouse. I wanted to tell him not to do that … that I would change and clean up when I got home … and how sorry I was that I’d made a mess in his hotel room … but I couldn’t move. I could see the windows, dappled shadows made by street lamps shining through the trees onto the drapes … and I wondered why I couldn’t move.

He pulled one limp arm out of its sleeve, and then the other. I felt him raise my bra and touch my breasts … and that was the moment that morning dawned on Marblehead: he’s “taking advantage” of me! I had a confused sense that what he was doing was wrong, but that I had done something wrong too. I couldn’t remember what it was, though. He forced his hands underneath my back, unsnapped my bra, and removed it. I think I started to cry … at least, I did on the inside. In my fogged up brain, I knew what he was going to do … and I was helpless to stop him. I couldn’t move … I wasn’t even sure that I could try to move anymore.

The idea crossed my mind that he might kill me when he was done, but it didn’t spark any tangible fear. It was a thought that came, and went, and came again … and went again. He removed my pants … and then my panties … and I wondered if he had also taken off my shoes and socks, because I couldn’t feel my feet, and I didn’t remember him doing it. On some level, I was watching all of this happening – in a rage – but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t react. And if I was raging on some level … I was aware that my conscious emotions were completely flatlined.

He ran his hands all over me, inside and out … gently at first, and then rougher and rougher. After what seemed like an eternity of having his hands prying, pinching, pressing … he positioned me the way he wanted me … and did what I knew he was going to do. I remember thinking that it was never going to end. Rough doesn’t even begin to describe it. I hurt for a long time afterward in places I didn’t even know I had.

I don’t remember him getting done … or getting dressed … or leaving … or how long I lay there, naked, in my vomit, unable to move. Somehow, partway through whatever he was doing, I must have lost consciousness completely.

Afterward, the first thing I noticed was the drapes … the shadows on the drapes, and the smell of vomit … and then fear. Sharp, keen. I didn’t feel or hear him, and I tried to turn my head to see where he was … and realized that I could move again. The sudden movement made the room spin and I felt my stomach clench, and I was sick again, this time on the other side of the bed. I realized that my head felt as if it were being stabbed with hot spikes, and my eyes hurt. All of the other aches and pains asserted themselves as I pushed myself into a sitting position. The worst, at that time, was my head. I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to pull myself together.

The room was dark … and I didn’t know if I was alone. I tasted metal in my mouth – I don’t know if it was an aftertaste, or if it was fear. It took me a while to begin to feel assured that there was no one in the room with me … hoping I was right, I slid up the side of the bed, and turned on a lamp – bracing myself in case I’d been wrong. He really was gone.

My first reaction was to run out of the room – and just keep running, but I made myself go into the bathroom and clean up, and put my clothes my on. I wasn’t able to clean all of the vomit from my blouse, and it was wet and cold against my skin when I put it on. I was bleeding pretty freely … and couldn’t find anything in the hotel bath room to protect my clothing with. I took a handful of tissues, hoping it would be enough.

I drove myself home … let myself in … relieved to see that my mother had not waited up, and went to bed. By that time, the sky was lightening up … my babies would be waking soon.

As I lay there, I ran what had happened over in my mind, and determined that I would never be able to tell anyone about it. I imagined myself telling my mother: “Ma … I got raped last night.” No. That wasn’t going to happen.

I spent the next several days fighting nausea, and what eventually became a dull headache that just wouldn’t quit … and a few other problems that I wasn’t about to admit to anyone.

Eventually, I got over my compulsive need to bathe every few hours … long after the aches and pains went away … and the other damages healed over. I turned my back on what had happened – as surely as if it had just been a bad dream. I never acknowledged it … never allowed the memory to come completely to the surface … never looked at it again – until I finished the earlier posts about abuse. I knew … I knew I’d have to face it and deal with it, eventually. But not yet … not now …

Since I’ve stopped shoving the idea away, I’ve had a few realizations. I have a very disconcerting panic problem when dealing with my physicians … I’ve mentioned it in earlier posts. It keeps me from being particularly communicative. Earlier this year, I thought I had figured out where that problem came from … and couldn’t understand why I couldn’t get on top it. I figured that understanding why was a huge part of the battle, and that I should be able to put it behind me once I understood the source. I guess that I only understood part of the source … now I believe I know the rest of the reason. One physician hit the nail right on the head a few years ago when he told me: ” … and you don’t like being in other people’s control.” I guess not. And now, I understand why.

When TNT wrote to me, there was a feeling of certainty – I knew it was time. It’s been far harder to write than I thought it would be, though. I can just imagine how hard it’s been for TNT – she went through an even more horrible experience. When I read what happened to her, I cried. It was easy to cry for what she went through … I just can’t help but wonder why I’ve never cried for what I went through.

You’ve heard of prayer calls? This is a healing call …

Are you hiding a deep secret? Do you have something inside, hidden from view, poisoning your every thought, action?

Yes, this was the most difficult post I’ve ever written … but I expect it to reap the greatest benefit. The healing and release you get from letting the hurt out – and others in to listen, understand, love and help – are directly proportional the difficulty in opening up to begin with. The harder it is to write … the less you want to admit openly what happened … the greater the benefit you’ll reap by doing so.

Only 37% of all rapes are reported …. so the silence is 63% deep! That means that only 1 of every 3 women who are raped say anything.

Did you know: Victims of rape often manifest long-term symptoms of chronic headaches, fatigue, sleep disturbance, recurrent nausea, decreased appetite, eating disorders, menstrual pain, sexual dysfunction, and suicide attempts. In a longitudinal study, sexual assault was found to increase the odds of substance abuse by a factor of 2.5

Did you know: in the US, a woman is raped every two minutes? If it took you 10 minutes to read this post, during that time, 5 women across the US suffered what I wrote about – or worse.

Don’t be a silent victim. There’s no reason to remain silent. There’s no shame in having been the target of someone else’s violence. Please – speak up! Reach out!

If you haven ‘t met Robert Lamberts over at Musings of a Districtable Mind yet … please take a stroll over there and gobble up the goodies. Bring a tissue box! You’ll laugh hard enough to need it! >;o)

Borneo Breezes has written a very interesting post … and has completely captured my imagination.

I don’t want to say too much about it here, because it needs to be ingested in its entirety, and slowly digested, to gather a real sense of the concepts. I will only hint at it with a few quotes …

I have noticed that medical bloggers who by their own admission say frank, critical or sarcastic things seem surprised, [...] that some readers react negatively. [...] So one gets the impression, intended or not, that one is not supposed to make anything less than laudatory comments at all.

Yes, I’ve noticed that too. If all we’re doing is scratching each other’s back, then what are we achieving, really? I admit that I’m guilty of either not commenting when I disagree, or of leaving a comment couched in the form of polite suggestions. I don’t believe rudeness is ever necessary, much less name calling or ad hominem attacks … but some of the subjects we post really are invitations to dialogue, and as such, we should be willing to embrace the discussions they engender.

For people to change, we need to cultivate a diversity of opinion. [...] the discussion that blogs sometimes generate through their comments is perhaps as important as the piece. This in fact makes it better than newspapers

I couldn’t have said it better myself … and I agree. The comments are everything – they’re more than the post. They stretch us – make us aware that there’s more going on beyond our own little parochial dot on the blogosphere. There are other opinions, other ideas … other cultures … we can learn from each other.

In my own posts, I’ve tried to generate discussion in the comments. Yes, I insist on civility … and I don’t allow personal attacks. I also don’t allow extremism to hijack a thread, since I feel that it’s not intended to spark a feeding frenzy … but rather to stimulate the sharing of views in a discussion. As Borneo Breezes wrote: “Obviously there need to be some ground rules, indeed it looks to me like some have already started.” There’s nothing that can’t be discussed with civility … and none of us have all the answers. We’re wasting quite an opportunity when we don’t cultivate the comments of our readers.

And finally – she says that the Medical Blogosphere is in need of a “Medical Meta-Blog.” The very idea makes my heart skip a beat! I wish we were already doing all of this …

Please – go over and take a look at what she has to say. Think about it … mull it over. Blog about it. Let’s make this one happen!

I think that I’ve figured out how to keep more than one poll active at a time. I’ve replaced earlier polls, and am allowing people to continue voting on them. I’m aware that some would have liked to vote on some of the issues, but the polls disappeared too quickly.

If there’s a problem with the polls, please let me know. The ones you’ve voted on will remember you, and those that you’ve missed should allow you to vote.

Please let me know if it works right, since I won’t be able to tell without your input!

Thankee!