On the morning of Thursday, August 31, I got the nicest email from Pattie. The previous Monday, the 28th, I had made a post in tandem with another blogger. Those of you who are regular readers will most likely recall the incident - and the speculation surrounding it.

Here’s Pattie’s email:

You have been on my mind the last few days. I have been thinking about your last post so much, and I hope that you are feeling okay after publishing such a personal story. It is nice to see so many supportive comments. But, I can’t help but wonder how you feel now that it is out there. Does it help you heal? I have never been a victim of rape or molestation, but I have girlfriends who have. They do hide it like it is something to be ashamed of. It is hard for me to help, because it has never happened to me. I am always one to say that it is best to talk about things…get it out there. Hiding the pain I would think just makes it worse. That of course is my own opinion, and because it hasn’t happened to me, maybe I am not qualified to make that determination.

Anyway, something else is deeply troubling me. I read the comments on that post, and there was mention that the woman you posted with, TNT, is not who she says she is. I certainly hope this is not true. If it is, that makes me concerned to meet those out in the blogging world who are not who they portray themselves to be. Does it make one less trusting? On guard about who you chose to share private things with? If so, how does this make you feel? I am thinking of you, Moof. Please
take good care and know you are in my thoughts.

XO, Pattie

I knew that I would have to deal with both parts of Pattie’s email … but I was just beginning to realize that I would have to deal with a great part of it on my own, quietly, before I could take it into a public forum. In the first few days after we made our posts, my inbox filled with emails. By the time Pattie had written to me, and there was increasing speculation that TNT was not the Peds Resident she claimed to be, the emails had increased exponentially. I still have more than 40 emails from that period that I have to look over in order to see which require answering. If you’re one of the people still waiting for an answer, please be patient with me. I will eventually sort through all of it.

This post is all about tying up the loose ends. Pattie’s email plunged to the very core of the issues … and with her permission, I’m using her email as a launching point in my attempt to sort things out …

Let me attempt to do this …

But, I can’t help but wonder how you feel now that it is out there. Does it help you heal? […] They do hide it like it is something to be ashamed of. It is hard for me to help, because it has never happened to me. I am always one to say that it is best to talk about things…get it out there. Hiding the pain I would think just makes it worse. That of course is my own opinion, and because it hasn’t happened to me, maybe I am not qualified to make that determination.

Yes, people who’ve been raped do tend to hide it. There’s more than one reason for that. It’s difficult to deal with such subject matter, even in the best of circumstances.

There’s a cultural reluctance to bring it up with those you don’t know because of the stigma associated with the subject of rape. The question of what the woman did to “deserve” it is probably the most damaging of speculations that a woman faces. Right behind that rumination comes an entire set of similar cogitations … all queued up nicely like baby ducks in a row.

Even without having said anything, a woman feels somehow “marked.” There’s a sense that everyone who looks hard enough will see some symbol, some aura, that marks her as a “rape victim.” Her privacy has already been invaded to such an extent that even a glance is painful and intrusive.

And then - there are those you know. Somehow that’s even worse than dealing with strangers. With strangers, you can get through it … suffer it out until it’s over … and then hope you never, ever see them again. With friends, family, the look in their eye will be there - tinging every exchange you ever have with them again. Each time you see it - it will be a reminder, a painful memento, a further unwelcome intrusion into your most private places.

A close friend who was dying from breast cancer a number of years ago expressed her pain at the realization that she would never again be treated the same by her friends - there would always be this unwanted reality hanging between her and those she so badly needed to find some sort of normalcy with. She had described the sensation as being “raw all over.” That stayed with me. Emotionally “raw all over” is a very apt description of what a woman who’s been raped feels when she thinks about what happened … and when she sees the “reality” hanging wordlessly between her and those around her.

I’ve been told that I was “brave” for posting what I did. I wasn’t. Not really. A few bloggers who know me quite well know just how hard it is for me to be open in any way - with anyone. It wasn’t bravery that brought any of it out … but rather a determination to get on top of my own inability to relate anything of any real importance about myself to others. If I can admit the most horrible things about myself in a public forum … then perhaps I can also reveal those things that other people find easy to talk about when face to face, but which are nearly impossible for me. Did it succeed? Not quite - not as expected, anyway.

Which leads me into the second part of Pattie’s email …

[T]he woman you posted with, TNT, is not who she says she is. […] Does it make one less trusting? On guard about who you chose to share private things with? If so, how does this make you feel?

When the young woman who called herself TNT and I were exchanging emails, I told her that I felt as if we were two little girls, standing on a dock, holding hands to give each other courage to jump into the icy cold water together. For that “courage,” the courage of feeling as if I was stepping out into the open, naked, but not alone - I owe Jessie my thanks. I would not have done such a thing alone. That said, I would have done it … sooner or later. Someone would have sent me an email talking about rape … Peggikaye perhaps? It would have eventually happened.

At first, I was far more concerned for TNT than I was about having posted something so “raw.” In quickly exchanged emails, she appeared to panic and draw back into herself; by the time she deleted her blog, I was beside myself with concern for her. Over the next 24 hours, I really didn’t have a chance to stop and think about what I’d done, because the “TNT saga” was playing itself out in ever more confusing - and disturbing - detail.

Over the next 36 hours or so, the truth became apparent to myself, and to others who were trying to unearth the facts. Not only was TNT not who she’d had us all believing she was, she was also playing many of the parts in the drama - like a thespian changing costumes for each new role in a one man show. We were able to ascertain quite certainly who we were dealing within fairly short order once put our minds to it.

I’ve always prided myself on having decent “discernment” where people are concerned. I was truly dismayed - unsettled to my core - at having been so wrong about TNT. Toward the end of our communications, even as she was playing the role of the friend who was being a “rat,” she’d sent me a very convincing email …

I can guarantee you that the individual (AKA: “Anonymous”) is reaping enormous satisfaction watching the fire he started blaze. I love blogging, but it’s just not worth the anxiety. Too much can be jeopardized. My concern here, Moofasa, is for you - are you alright? I hope you are taking the time out for yourself that you need. I just read the post on your blog… […] …going back to an email you sent before the ruckus, I borrowed a friend’s digital camera and will have photos as soon as I figure out how to get them onto the computer (*LOL*) if you still want to see them :o) (Of course, I would fully understand if you don’t after all the commotion)

What if … what if she was being honest? If one of “ours” was being harried and harassed, not defending them - standing behind them - would, in itself, be like another rape. What if someone else were doing the same thing to me? How would I defend myself - what would I do? I hesitated in indecision. By time the IP addresses brought the truth to light in an indisputable way, I recognized that this young woman had completely bamboozled me.

Once she realized that the gig really was up, Jessie (TNT) sent me an apology. Here it is, in part:

Moof, I am so sorry. As hard as it probably is to believe, I’ve been completely consumed trying to find a way to make things right…I’m not sure there is one. It’s hard to find a way to explain to you why I did what I did without dumping out details that would only complicate things, but this is going to be my best try. First and foremost: despite what happened, I never, ever meant to hurt anyone, especially you, and it kills me that what I did brought on emotional hurt.

There was quite a bit more … but that sums it all up quite nicely. Of course I forgave her … I’ve never had a problem with unforgiveness. What I decided I couldn’t do, however, was trust myself to be able to discern if she was going off on some other tangent at a later time. This young woman has a serious problem, and without being able to count on my own acuity … trying to be a friend could just enable her to continue playing someone for effect - rather than really trying to get some help, and get on top of her problem. I decided it would be best - for both of us - if I just moved on.

Pattie asked me if it made me less trusting, or more reticent about who I would share private things with. Good questions.

Being trusting is not a problem … face to face, I’ve seldom been wrong about who to trust, and who not to trust. Online - it’s a bit different. I’ll be more aware that there are always people who are not who they say they are. But really, are any of us? We show the world the face we want it to see … those at home see a different side of us than those at work, or on a blog. I will still chose to believe that the side people are showing me is truly a facet of the real person … until they prove otherwise.

Sharing … private things. Well … when I chose to share my “private things,” I chose to do so publicly. So - at least in writing, blogging, I don’t think that will become an issue. What I’m fighting against is not being able to share even regular things with people when I’m nose to nose with them … and I don’t think that TNT affected that in any way.

What I am concerned about, however, is what the TNT experience might do to someone else. When I posted what happened to me, it had the effect of freeing me from having to continue acting as if it had never happened - even in the silence of my own mind. But that’s not all it was intended to do … I wanted to give others the courage to join us … to join me … because once you’ve said it out loud, you can’t undo it. Once it’s out in the open, you never have to hide what happened again. If someone else learns from your example, they may be able to break through the shame and the fear right away … it could start a torrent of healing.

I began to get emails in the first few days after I first posted about the rape … and then, as the TNT mystery came front and center, the focus shifted. People stopped sending me their personal experiences … and began to send condolences. I’m afraid that what’s happened has caused some people who would otherwise have opened up and reached out - not to.

So - as I look back on the entire episode, I don’t regret that I wrote about the rape … but I regret that some people were frightened into silence by one person’s duplicity, and that my efforts - beyond my own healing - were for naught. I sincerely hope that if anyone reading this feels that way … that they’ll reach out to someone. Put a stop the silence - put an end to the shame.

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!

Do children who were sexually abused grow up to become adults who marry abusive spouses?

By the time I got married, I was 23 years old, and living a thousand miles away from home in Georgia. I’m certain that I was over the abuse I had suffered as a child … it seldom entered my mind, and when it did, it didn’t arouse any negative emotions. It was a memory, a bad memory. I had thought about it often enough - long enough … it no longer had the power to overwhelm me, or cause me to become anxious and angry.

The man I married was a red headed, hot tempered, handsome Georgia boy. He could be so sweet … and he could also be very cruel. What started as insults and escalated to verbal abuse, eventually came to the point of outright physical abuse. I became a battered wife … away from my entire family … with no support system. At the time, I was not allowed to have a license or a job … and even visits from other women became a cause for harsh treatment.

In the last few months of our marriage, he moved my year and a half old daughter and I out into the boonies of Cumming, GA. Our mobile home was backed into a little niche behind a big white farm house, and it felt as if we’d hidden from the world. We had no power … the only lights were car “dashbulb” lights, powered by a car battery, which he recharged during the day by hooking it up to a lawnmower motor. There was no fridge - we lived out of a cooler. He was often hopped up on amphetamines, and seldom kept a job for very long … he was too prone to getting into fights.

Once out in the country, where no one would hear me scream … I knew … it was only a matter of time before he went into one of his rages and went too far. I would end up dying there, a victim of his abuse.

Those who are interested in seeing the the story which summarizes how the abuse finally came to an end, you’re welcome to visit my other blog. There’s a lot yet to be written there, but it does tell the story of the end of 5 years of abuse.

I’ve asked myself many times since those very difficult days — was there something within me which caused me to be attracted to a jealous, paranoid, abusive mate? If there was, it wasn’t because I married “someone just like Dad” … my Dad had never raised his voice to us, never mind his hand. All he had to do was shake his head at us, and we were hard put to not sob our little hearts out.

The only abuse I’d ever suffered, was the sexual abuse I wrote about in a previous post.

If my being drawn to someone like my ex (and now late) husband had nothing to do with the previous abuse, then I wonder if staying with him for 5 years … 4 of which were quite frightening at times … might have had something to do with it.

A commenter named Michelle left the following comment on the above mentioned post:

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.

I never could put some of the guilty feelings and the realization that I might be responsible for the abuse in words before. I know it isn’t a popular view and for some reason I don’t put it on other kids just myself at the time. Again not sure why.

Thank you for posting this. I’ve been thinking of a few of the incidents in my past these last couple of months more and more. I used to avoid talking about them and now I am forcing myself to slowly. From a song by Oh Susanna

No matter how fast you run
you end up where you started from
to face the secret that you were forced to keep

believe me when I say my friend
I love you more than anything
through the truth our lives will be released

I am hoping my life will be released with the truth

Sometimes, the years aren’t enough to wash away the damage left behind by the reality of those truths, and we have to get into there with a magnifying glass and an emotional scrub brush …

In my own mind and heart, I know that although I was a victim of child sexual abuse, that I was able to put what my abuser did behind me. I mentioned that I had a harder time forgiving myself. I’ve not only had a lot of comments on that statement, but I’ve also gotten emails. Only another child abuse victim would understand what I mean … Michelle’s comment corroborates that. We can forgive the perpetrator … we can move beyond the hurts another person inflicts on us, because those came from the outside … but our own inner choices … are something else completely. Those can be seriously damaging, especially if you have a hard time coming to terms with them.

Brushing it off does not help. Encouraging someone to “not think about it,” does not help. Telling someone that they were too young to understand, and thus have no blame … does not help. If they believe that it matters …. then for them, it does matter, and needs to be addressed, dealt with, and moved beyond.

What does this have to do with spousal abuse?

Is there a connection between not having dealt with my self image and remaining with an abusive husband for all of those years? What causes a woman to stay with a man who is cruel, abusive and dangerous? We all know, in some quiet place in the center of ourselves, that it’s wrong to treat another human being disrespectfully … and it’s just as wrong to allow ourselves to be mistreated. And yet … for some of us, it becomes a sorrowfully consumed daily fare.

Is there a place inside that whispers quietly, “You’re a bad person, and you deserved that?” Probably not that you ever become consciously aware of, but I think it’s there, all the same, waiting to be recognized, dealt with, and overcome. Hoping that the spouse will change is not enough. Hope stretches only so far when you’re in the process of being beaten. There’s got to be something hiding inside that keeps you there for the next beating, and the one after that …

Yes, I know that there is hope that the spouse will change. And yes, there’s even love for the abuser … but neither the hope, nor the love is a reason to remain in this sort of a situation. Abusive spouses are like child abusers, they’re ill … once they’re begun to hurt you, they will continue to hurt you. The first time is always the hardest … it goes downhill fast from there.

And I don’t care what anyone says, you do not feel all mushy-huggy while someone is beating you. You do not feel all soft and warm inside when you’re nursing your bruises - or worse - later. That feeling is in your gut is fear — fear of your spouse, and fear of leaving what you do know, for what you don’t know.

Taking a long hard look at the inner motives behind what we do … and what we do not do … can be a painful, revealing experience. But once we see what’s hiding in there, we can begin to empty the closets … even better, we can find the temerity to step out of the closet ourselves.

In a comment left on the first child sexual abuse post, Dr. Michael Hebert said:

[…] this post brings to mind one of my all time favorite quotes, from Eleanor Roosevelt (who is one of my personal heroes): “No one can make you feel inferior without your permission.”

How true.

So … why do we? Whose “victims” are we really?

In the last few weeks, the subject of sexual abuse has come up repeatedly. When Peggikaye wrote and told me about her fear of having given away her “secret” on her blog, I offered to write about my own experiences with abuse as a child, and gently lead her to write her own story alongside mine … because there’s strength in numbers, and healing in honest release.

So Peggikaye took a deep breath and plunged! She and I wrote about the abuse we suffered as children, and posted it for the world to see:

Now, there’s no more need to hide … in the openness of daylight and fresh air, the healing can begin.

I thought that would be the end of it, however a few days later, I got another email from a friend and fellow blogger. She had also experienced sexual abuse as a child. Her own story, however, was quite different. Like myself, she had already healed from its effects, but unlike myself - she wasn’t allowed to reap the rewards of her healing and hard work. She asked for the anonymity of posting her story on my blog. Of course, I agreed.

And so … we posted yet another perspective on child abuse and its ongoing negative effects - this time caused by a thoughtless medical professional, rather than the abuser …

Finally, in the completely unrelated venue of my college classroom, a fellow classmate mentioned his own abuse as a child. I was beginning to feel as if I was experiencing a bit of “déjà vu.” I replied to his post, giving him the address to this blog. That started yet another intensely affective conversation on abuse from still different perspectives …

This seems to bring the matter full circle, completing what Peggikaye started with her email - afraid, and still wanting to hide after all of these years … all the way to a concerned father asking how he can prevent such a thing from happening to his own son or daughter.

I have a feeling that there are yet perspectives unexplored. Child sexual abuse is abuse that doesn’t stop with the end of the actual offense. There’s a tremendous need for healing which only comes when a person is able to break out of the cycle of shame and fear.

And then, there’s the label: victim of molestation! Is there any way to not be defined by that label once the victims have picked themselves up out of the mud and filth, picked up the shattered pieces of their lives, faced the pain and anger, and through immense, almost superhuman effort, restored their self respect and reestablished their sense of self worth? Will people continue to try to steal their hard earned healing away from them with a label which is now unjust and untrue … a label that makes a mockery of their efforts and success?

No, the story isn’t fully told yet. It will continue … if not on this blog, then elsewhere - in the blistered hearts of so many people who’ve suffered in the dark silence of a seemingly endless struggle against shame and fear. And even when the victory over the waking nightmare is won, those newly healed hearts will break again when confronted by the doubters and naysayers, the arrogant patronizers who would steal away whatever good can be salvaged from the wreckage of broken lives and bitter truths.