A few days ago, Ripple of Hope sent me an email. She included some links to posts that she wanted me to take a look at over at the “Angry Professor’s” Blog. The two posts related to a student who has Asperger Syndrome, and while I was rather put off by the professor’s tone, what really caught my attention was one of the comments on the second post:

I’m sorry, but you might consider not sending a person like this to college at all. Nothing wrong with his intelligence, but his strengths might lie in the path of a skilled trade. Those jobs can’t be outsourced, and may be a source of more concrete (pun intended) satisfaction in the long haul.

As I read that comment, I felt my mercurial blood pressure rising to dangerous levels. I actually had to fold my lap top, get up, and walk away for a few minutes. That’s not something that happens to me very often.

In her email, Ripple of Hope had this to say: “I thought this was pretty ignorant, but rather than start some stupid argument in the comment section, I thought I might change my post on Aspergers to something more educational regarding what Aspies really look like and how they are as different from one another as any other individual. Perhaps we could take a shot at this together? Let me know what you think . . . “

Her request was a bit of an “Oh oh!” moment for me. Although I’ve dealt with difficult subjects before, Asperger Syndrome is just not something I write about in my public blog. My husband and both of my youngest sons have Asperger Syndrome, and it’s had a profound effect on all of us.

However, as difficult as it is for me to write about AS from my own perspective, I knew that it would be wrong to not stand up and correct the record.

OASIS describes Asperger Syndrome in the following way:

Asperger Syndrome or (Asperger’s Disorder) is a neurobiological disorder named for a Viennese physician, Hans Asperger, who in 1944 published a paper which described a pattern of behaviors in several young boys who had normal intelligence and language development, but who also exhibited autistic-like behaviors and marked deficiencies in social and communication skills. In spite of the publication of his paper in the 1940’s, it wasn’t until 1994 that Asperger Syndrome was added to the DSM IV and only in the past few years has AS been recognized by professionals and parents.

Individuals with AS can exhibit a variety of characteristics and the disorder can range from mild to severe. Persons with AS show marked deficiencies in social skills, have difficulties with transitions or changes and prefer sameness. They often have obsessive routines and may be preoccupied with a particular subject of interest. They have a great deal of difficulty reading nonverbal cues (body language) and very often the individual with AS has difficulty determining proper body space. Often overly sensitive to sounds, tastes, smells, and sights, the person with AS may prefer soft clothing, certain foods, and be bothered by sounds or lights no one else seems to hear or see. It’s important to remember that the person with AS perceives the world very differently. Therefore, many behaviors that seem odd or unusual are due to those neurological differences and not the result of intentional rudeness or bad behavior, and most certainly not the result of “improper parenting”.

By definition, those with AS have a normal IQ and many individuals (although not all), exhibit exceptional skill or talent in a specific area. Because of their high degree of functionality and their naiveté, those with AS are often viewed as eccentric or odd and can easily become victims of teasing and bullying. While language development seems, on the surface, normal, individuals with AS often have deficits in pragmatics and prosody. Vocabularies may be extraordinarily rich and some children sound like “little professors.” However, persons with AS can be extremely literal and have difficulty using language in a social context.

My three “Aspies” fit that description in more or less classic ways. First of all, the three of them are exceptionally intelligent individuals. My husband graduated at the top of his company of 300 when he was in the service, and I have yet to find a subject, obscure or otherwise, that he’s not knowledgeable about. His oldest natural son is a computer wizard, artist, chef, who graduated summa cum laude from college. Although computer science isn’t what he learned in college, he’s teaching me more about the Linux Command Line and computer components than my CIS course is. Our youngest son, also an artist, (he was recently tapped by the Discovery Channel for the use of his terraforming graphics for a mars documentary) scored in the 97^th percentile for the Social Sciences, and 95^th percentile for the Biological Sciences for the entire US when he took his HS graduation test. He’s now a molecular biologist, working for an international company. These men are all three college material.

As far as behavior, the two oldest children from my first marriage were a real handful. They were difficult students, sometimes disruptive, often in hot water, making all of the wrong associations, and paying far too little attention to the scholastic aspect of school … they were the reason I took them all out of school, and homeschooled them. I was trying to do a “course correction,” because they were definitely heading down the wrong path. The younger two, both AS, were quiet and studious - and still are. There were never the “party animals” that their half siblings were. My “course correction” didn’t do much for my rebellious older children, but it polished my younger two into real gentlemen. Both of them joined the Knights of Columbus as soon as they were old enough, and the oldest one serves as an acting deacon at church.

People who have Asperger Syndrome are regular people. They get married, they hold jobs, they have likes and dislikes … and they are individuals. You will find some who are patient, and some who aren’t … some who like attention, and some who don’t … some who are good students, and some who aren’t … some who are disruptive, and others who are quiet and studious. You’ve probably met hundreds of them, and not been aware that they had AS - and I’m including those of you who are in medicine in that statement. I believe that the high level functioning autistic spectrum disorders are drastically under-diagnosed here in the states.

To take one disruptive individual who is unfortunate enough to have AS, and hold him up as an example of the Syndrome itself is not only unkind, it’s absurd - and misleading.

It’s not right to categorize people - not by race, sex, age, religion - or illness. Let individuals categorize themselves by their behavior - and be smart enough to learn from the experience of dealing with them, but put the blame where it belongs: on an individual person’s behavior.

Yes, there are conditions that intrinsically cause behavior problems - BPD, for example. But even then - you almost can’t blame the individual, considering that they’re sick, and most likely are not in full control of their behavior.

The “Angry Professor” redeems herself a bit in the second post when she says:

I no longer view Hans as a huge pain in my ass. I can see a big, goofy sweetheart in there. I am happy now; I feel like a real shit when I dislike a student.

I’m glad she’s happy, and no longer sees the student as a pain in the derrière … the unfortunate thing is that the tone of the first post provided the conditions for ignorant and unkind comments like the one I quoted above.

There’s a trite saying which holds a great deal of truth, well worth recalling, when preparing to make disparaging comments about people with illnesses or conditions they did not choose …

“But for the grace of God - there go I.”

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More information on Asperger Syndrome:

Please see Ripple of Hope’s cross post on Asperger Syndrome.
Also, Liz from “I Speak of Dreams” has written about the same issue: Asperger’s From the Other Side

Asperger’s Syndrome on Answers.com
Aspen
Asperger Marriage Web Site
DSM IV Diagnostic Criteria
FAAAS
N.I.N.D.S.

For more links, see ~ Asperger Syndrome ~ in my right side bar.

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Defend your blog from theft!

Cathy organized this little endeavor, and has asked a number of us to write a post that has the same ending.

Cathy said:

I came up with a sentence that we could all write our story around and the only similarity needed to be that all stories would end with the line…”An Innocent Victim Of A Lie Told In Silence.”

The stories could be long, multiple parts, short or in poetry form….I think we will be blessed with some of all of those things.

Following are those who should be posting their offerings some time today - Friday, October 6.

Cathy - Cathy’s Rants and Ramblings Mary Anne - “Life in Qualicum Beach” Dr. Jordan - In My Humble Opinion Wolfbaby - “Dreaming and Believing” Kim - “Emergiblog” KT - “Kt Living” Ripple - “Ripple of Hope “ Amy - Badge Bunny ? Jasmin f- Shadow Writer PK - Pearls and Dreams	The Laundress - Dirty Laundry Wandering Author - The Unending Journey Amin - Write-Now Who Wouda Thunk It - Another Day In Paradise Brian - Truth is Freedon At Your Cervix - At Your Cervix Dr. Anon - Dr. Anonymous Ipanema - Irish Cornwall May - About A Nurse Empress Bee (Of the High sea)
Dr. Rob Lamberts - Musings of a Distractible Mind

When I agreed to participate I had no way of foreseeing how busy this particular time would be for me. I’m going to post my offering, and then I intend to do Ripple’s tag … and then I’m not going to do any crossposting or tags again until I’m caught up on my blogruns. I haven’t done a full blogrun in over two weeks, and I’m very behind on all of my friend’s blogs.

I will be closing up the camp and moving shortly, all the while still dealing with my college studies - with a final project due next week, and finals two weeks later, so please forgive me if I seem a bit quiet for a while. Hopefully things will settle down soon, and I’ll be able to resume my normal blogging schedule.

I know that most people will participate in Cathy’s crossposting endeavor by writing something serious … I hope you’ll all forgive me, but I simply was unable to do that at this time. For what it’s worth - know that my own offering is an effort at a bit of comic relief …

After reading everyone else’s … I’m a little nervous about posting mine. I feel as if I’m at a party wearing a bathing suit while everyone else is in a gown or a tux! *blink*

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Willy Nilly

They say that what you don’t know - won’t hurt you …

While that might be true in some situations, there are instances that it is, indeed, very much not the case!

The morning dawned bright and early, as mornings have a tendency of doing. Willy blinked hard against the sunlight pouring in through the window, overwhelming his vision … and pulled the covers over his head. As he lay there in the stifling closeness, his brain began the slow process of waking up. The first coherent thought to enter his mind was - “Whoa! Where’s the hot camel hidden under these sheets?”

The thought served as a goad, and he quickly stuck his disheveled head back into the punishing daylight, gasping for air - breathing had suddenly taken precedence over seeing.

The other side of the bed was still warm. and a soft fuzzy feeling of love washed over Willy as he realized that Joe was already downstairs, making his breakfast. Now … before you get any ideas, Joe is short for Josephine … naughty you! What were you thinking about poor Willy? Willy and Joe Nilly had been happily married for over a decade. Although they discovered early on that Joe couldn’t have children, Willy had done the “right thing” and stayed with his lovely wife.

Thoughts of yummy warm oatmeal - with lots of cinnamon and brown sugar - filled his brain, making his mouth water. Just about then, a basso voice boomed up the stairs and rolled into Willy’s room, the reverberations almost causing him to retreat under the covers to take refuge there with the camel …

“WILBERT!”

“Yes dear!” he squeaked. She sounded angry! A quick glance at his clock confirmed the worst: he was late! No time for a shower this morning. He scrambled for his clothes! As he quickly hauled on his pants, he realized that there was no way he could could skip out on brushing his teeth … the camel under the sheets seemed to have brought friends - there were several baby elephants playing hide and seek in his mouth.

Running into the bathroom, he grabbed his toothbrush from the cup, and blinking bleary-eyed, tried to decide which tube of toothpaste to use. Right then, another love call assaulted his eardrums …

“WILBERT! Get your worthless skinny excuse for an (expletive) down here!”

Willy latched onto the tube closest to his hand, smeared it onto his brush, and began to scrub away at his teeth; he was immediately relieved that he hadn’t eaten yet, or he would have unceremoniously emptied the contents of his stomach! That was the worst tasting toothpaste he’d ever tried! Forcing himself to continue brushing in spite of the upheaval now actively taking place in his gut, he squinted to read the name on the tube, determining to never use that brand again …

“What an awful name for toothpaste,” he thought, as he broke the long words down into syllables: mi-co-na-zo-le ni-tra-te … with relief, he finally rinsed the offensive taste out of his mouth. He wondered why his beloved Joe had bought something with such an awful name … and an even worse flavor …

Quickly patting into place the few hairs left on the top of his bald, shiny head, he scooted down the stairs and into his seat at the table just as Joe was about to holler for him again. He noticed how clearly the latest tattoo showed through the long, dark, curly hairs on her arms as she all but slammed the plate down in front of him. He had been just about to complain about the toothpaste when he looked down into his plate, and found two big yellow eyes staring back up at him … they were beginning to glaze over, as the grease on the limp bacon next to them began to congeal.

“Um, sweetie?” he began tentatively, “I don’t like eggs and bacon for … ”

“Shaddup! It’s what you’re getting, you son of a (expletive.)”

“Yes, Honey-poo. Of course, dear. I wasn’t going to … ”

His words turned into an incomprehensible mumble as his wife began to squint her one good eye at him in warning. Willy dug into his breakfast in self-defense … and cringed as he gagged down the cold, half cooked bacon. From the vantage point of the fly which had been watching the entire scene from its primo spot on the half empty package of bacon, which was still rotting away on the counter, a 6 foot 5, 475 pound gorilla was fattening up a 95 pound chihuahua for reasons best left to the imagination - or maybe not.

As the eggs and bacon vied for position in his stomach, Willy scooted down the street, as fast as his size sixes could carry him, and just made it onto the bus. To his chagrin, he realized that all of the seats were taken; he sighed heavily as he resigned himself to standing in the aisle, and being jostled and bumped to within an inch of his miserable life by fellow riders - all of whom were at least a foot taller than he was. The bus lurched forward, and he reflexively reached up to grab a strap. An odor began to fill his senses.

Willy had always been one of those unfortunate people who are so badly lacking in self confidence that he would wait until someone else noticed and mentioned it first if his pants caught fire … so he was relieved to see that everyone around him was also reacting to the odor. He wasn’t imagining things after all! To his delight and amazement, the space around him cleared completely, and all of the nearby seats were quickly being vacated! What luck! Seizing the moment, he took the nearest seat … although he did begin to wonder why everyone was pressing toward the back of the bus, sending malevolent glances in his direction. As he sat there, he wondered if one of them had forgotten their lunch under the seat … what was that smell? Limburger?

He didn’t get to sit very long, because his office building was the very next stop. As he got off the bus, he noticed that the battle between the bacon and eggs he’d had for breakfast was really picking up. This did not bode well at all! He couldn’t miss work today! The new boss was going to be there! He was going to have to try to tough it out …

Things only went downhill from there. Once safely in his cubicle, he decided that the bacon had won the battle, and he was certain that it was going to fight its way back up his esophagus to freedom. He wove an uncertain path to the men’s room, hoping that he could keep himself from doing something terribly embarrassing as he walked through the secretarial pool. He managed to make it all the way past the desks, down the hall, and to the men’s room - only to find a sign blocking the door: “Out of service.”

He looked longingly at the ladies’ room across the hall … took deep slow breaths … and shakily made his way back to his cubicle. The numbers swam around on his computer screen as he tried to concentrate on his work. He began to worry that he wouldn’t be able to last the day, but he knew that it would be disastrous to go home sick the day the new boss was coming in.

Willy gathered his courage, and stood on his chair to peek over the cubicle wall. The tanned, muscled fellow sitting at the computer jerked in surprise as Willy’s round shiny head poked over the partition.

“How many times have I told you not to do that? Am I gonna need a restraining order against you, you little (expletive)?”

Willy giggled nervously, and tried to keep from falling off from his chair. He liked Bruce, although sometimes he seemed to be a bit gruff. He became a little uncomfortable as he realized that Bruce reminded him a bit of Joe. Maybe it was all the hair and tattoos …

Uncertainly, Willy asked “Do you know when the new boss is supposed to get here?”

Bruce just glared at Willy silently …

He cleared his throat, and tried again, thinking that Bruce mustn’t have heard him … “Corporate said that the new boss was supposed to arrive at about lunch time, right?”

Bruce shook his head as he rolled his eyes. Pointedly ignoring Willy, he turned back to his work.

Taking the head shake as a denial, he wondered how late the boss and his entourage would actually arrive, and if he should try to hang around for that long.

Ah … the misleading things our silences sometimes say …

As lunch time approached, the squirming in his stomach seemed to be oozing its way down into his tummy. Soon, Vesuvius was again rumbling dangerously, but this time from the other end of his anatomy.

Willy began to sweat profusely as the gastronomic disturbance worked its way down the twisty turns of his gut. When the rumbling got too loud and insistent, he headed back past all of the secretaries’ desks, down the hallway, and to the restrooms. The sign was still there - blocking his entry to the men’s room. The closed “women’s room” door beckoned silently. Sweat beaded on his nearly bald pate as he waffled in indecision in the hallway … looking back and forth between the “out of order” sign, and the women’s room door.

The pressure in his gut had become deadly. He knew that he had to make his move - immediately - before a movement of another sort made the decision moot. He gently tapped on the lady’s room door and barely whispered:

“Is anyone in there?”

No answer. Silence.

His hope rising, and feeling a little bolder, he knocked more loudly, and in a slightly more self confident tone, with his voice only shaking a little, he asked “Is this room empty?”

Was that a snicker he heard? No! He was sure it had to be the roiling sound his gut was making …

One last try - just to be sure … Willy rapped on the door with a sharpness that surprised him, and in a voice made uncharacteristically harsh by the urgency he was experiencing, he called out: “Anyone in there?”

Silence was the only reply … and it was certainly speaking very loudly today.

Gratefully, urgently, Willy pushed the door open, even as he began to work at undoing his belt with his free hand. He knew that he was barely going to make it …

Pandemonium broke out as soon as the bevy of babes who had been powdering their noses saw him come through the door with his pants unbuckled. Willy was so surprised that there was someone in there that his concentration broke … and so did the tight seal which had been keeping his greasy bacon problems inside of his gut. Realizing that he was now in deep doo, he flew backward out of the room, quickly closing the door.

He could feel a disconcerting warmth … wet and sticky … beginning to slide down his leg … and he realized that couldn’t go back through the secretarial pool to his cubicle. The limberger cheese smell, which seemed to have followed him when he’d gotten off the bus, was now being overpowered by an even stronger stench …

Where would he go!? The sound of screaming was now getting louder, and he realized that the once deceptively silent women had turned into a lynch mob, and were heading for the door. Making a snap decision - he lunged into the nearest room, closing the door quickly behind himself. He pressed his ear to the heavy, well polished oak, and listened with relief as the cacophony made its way toward the secretarial pool. He knew they’d find him eventually, but this would give him a chance to pull himself together a bit.

First he assessed his surroundings, and realized that he’d caught his first real break of the day … he was in the new boss’ office … which should not only be a safe place, it should be empty for a while yet since it was only noon! Secondly he assessed his own condition, and had a new realization … he wasn’t going anywhere until he cleaned up.

He looked around the room for something - anything - he could use to make himself presentable. There were some fancy books on the shelves lining the walls, but he had a feeling that using the pages for cleaning purposes might not be such a good idea. After a bit of exploring, he realized that the bar in the far corner of the room was a wet bar! It had a small sink - with running water! Feeling as if his luck was truly changing, he decided that it was time to undertake another, um, change …

He carefully removed the offending britches, and began to rinse them in the little sink, wondering how he was going to explain his wet pants to Joe when he got home. That led him to envision the trip home on the bus … which led to a vision of something even more urgently pressing - trying to get out of the office building unseen.

The very thought of a dozen angry secretaries, now certainly combing the building for him with the intention of tarring and feathering him, made his gut clench, and he could feel another attack coming on. Frantically, he looked around the room for an adequate receptacle … and found - the trash can!

He abandoned the pants in the little sink, pulled the fancy little trash can away from the desk, and parked his bare bottom on it gratefully. He wondered how he was going to clean things up before the new boss showed up … and heaved a sigh of relief as he looked at his watch … only noon! He would have plenty of time to worry about that … !

From his makeshift throne, he could see that the pants must have been blocking the drain of the little sink, because the water had begun to puddle onto the hardwood floor, and was beginning to snake its way toward him. At about the same time, it dawned on him that he was hearing voices and footsteps coming down the hall, and that he’d forgotten to lock the door.

Willy wanted to run and hide behind something, but his gut simply would not cooperate. He decided that he would try to hide behind the bar, if he could slide to the more concealed position without getting up. Holding the can firmly to his bottom, he began to try to slide over to the bar …

… and that was when his foot hit the puddle of water running across the floor from the sink, causing it to slip and pitch him forward onto his face … with the now rather dented trash can spreading its contents across a surprisingly wide area as it popped off from his posterior, and made a graceful arc before landing squarely on his bald little head. In some corner of his awareness, Willy was relieved that the cheeks which were showing were not the ones which were burning with embarrassment …

And thus did Willy greet his new boss for the first — and last — time …

… an innocent victim of a lie told in silence …

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 …

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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.

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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!

We need to put an end to the deafening silence of shame!!!

Previous posts on Abuse and Violence:

A Time to Heal …
Another Need for Healing
And the Healing Continues …
The Many Faces of Sexual Abuse
Love Shouldn’t Ever Leave Bruises

TNT’s post on rape: One in Three
Peggikaye’s post on rape: Hard Posting Again

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.

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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 …

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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.

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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.

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