Erase and Start Over

The resurfacing memories of a woman with PTSD.

Category Archives: Memories


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My Pandora’s Box

Engraving, based on a painting by F.S. Church.

Engraving, based on a painting by F.S. Church.

Spring, 1986 Kansas City, MO

It was a rainy Saturday afternoon. Demi was about 18 months old, and napping soundly in her room. I was trying to find some space in our bedroom closet for extra storage. I ignored the top of the closet, where Dell kept his revolver. I never saw the need for such a thing and was just thankful he kept it out of Demi’s reach. The floor of the closet was a different story. Surely some of those boxes could be emptied or thrown out. Most were filled with books that I’ve had forever, but one of the boxes was filled with paper, kind of like a filing cabinet. I rummaged through it and discovered that it was our financial records, beginning from when we were married in March ’84.

Curious, I pulled out the tax return that Dell had just finished a month ago. He took care of all the bills, the checkbook, and such. I had never done a tax return before, but the form didn’t seem all that complicated. I had no trouble understanding what was on each line, but I was certainly troubled by what I read there.

My husband’s salary was nearly twice mine.

I sat back on my sneakered heels, staring at the paper as if it were a claim that unicorns were real. It couldn’t be true. We were broke. We got our clothes from the Salvation Army. He only gave me $20 a week to spend at the grocery store. We didn’t go to the movies, we didn’t exchange birthday presents with friends or family, our last Christmas was just one present each, and we certainly didn’t go out as a family on a vacation or really anywhere that wasn’t free.

I let my hand fall in my lap, still holding the tax return. It said we would be receiving a $300 refund. My shoulders dropped, and I tilted my head, thinking about new towels. Fluffy, big bath towels to wrap my little curly-top girl in. And clothes. Demi was growing so fast. How great it would be to get her a couple cute summer dresses. I pushed aside the thought that Dell should have told me about his raise, because I was young and optimistic and more than willing to believe in unicorns.

Smiling, I stood up to go look for Dell. He was coming out of the garage, covered in dirt and grease, just as I got to the kitchen.

“Whatcha got there?” he asked, wiping his hands on an old rag.

“The tax return. Dell, I’m so glad we’re getting a refund! Demi needs some clothes, and can we get some new towels?”

He went still, and I sensed he was upset. His eyes narrowed, and he said warily, “We can think about it.”

This was not the reaction I was expecting. That niggling feeling that he should have told me the truth came back in full force. His shuttered face was watching me in the brightness of that small kitchen. There was no sound except for the light pink-pinks of drizzling rain at the windows, but there could have been a tornado roaring outside and I wouldn’t have heard it. I stood there, struggling to get past the idea that he’d never intended I should ever know how much money was coming in the house. He never lied to me, but he purposely led me to believe that he was making about $15,000 a year just like me. He’d even apologized to me for not being able to take me out for my 21st birthday last month because we were so broke. He had brought home a bottle of whiskey and a pack of Coca-Colas for us to share. I didn’t like it much, but with enough Coke in the glass, it wasn’t bad. I had thanked him for trying to be thoughtful. My fingers curled tightly around the tax return. I had actually thanked him for remembering my birthday with his favorite drink.

Still unmoving, he waited, watching the realization growing in my face. I thought about his beat-up old MG on the side of the house. He drove a silver Toyota minivan, and dropped me off at work every day. That was our car, but the unpainted shell of an MG was his alone. Every weekend, he kept rummaging in junkyards for parts, sure that he could rebuild it. He was a bill collector, sitting on a phone behind a desk all day, not an auto mechanic, but that MG was his baby. In that moment, I was sure all our money was being poured into that old thing, with nothing left to take his wife out for her 21st birthday. With nothing to make sure his wife and child could eat something that didn’t come out of a can. Except for hamburger, even our meat came out of a can. Tuna. Spam. Once, our church pastor had invited us to his home for dinner one Friday night, and I remembered asking his wife if she’d cut the corn fresh from the cob to serve. I had never tasted anything so fresh and delicious since the corn-on-the-cob my mom always made. She looked at me funny and said no, that it just came out of a bag of frozen corn. We never bought frozen foods because canned was cheaper.

I could feel my own eyes narrowing as I looked at Dell, wondering how he could prefer car parts over frozen corn. “When did you start making $30,000 a year?”

“That’s none of your business.” I felt his words like a slap.

“I give you my paycheck every month, and I don’t see hardly any of it being spent on this family. If your money is your business, then my money is my business. Where’s my money going, Dell?”

He snorted and folded his arms across his chest. “Your money is my money. That’s how marriage works, babe. Everything here is mine. Your clothes, that dining room table, that highchair, this whole house and everything in it. Mine.” He gave me that familiar blue wink and grin. “As long as you keep it clean, you’re welcome to stay.”

I was speechless, torn between wanting to wipe that smirk off his face and wanting to stomp out of the room. This was not the man I married. This was not the vulnerable, nobody-understands-me guy who winked at me when I ironed his jeans just the way he liked them. Who ate my bad cooking without complaining, and had no problem leaving the dishes to me.

This man stood there exuding confidence and control as if he’d had it all along. I felt manipulated. Betrayed. And very angry. “Well,” I spluttered, my hands now on my hips and the tax return fluttering to the floor, “well, if I leave, I’m taking my paycheck with me. And for that matter, you’re the one who’ll have to leave, because my name is on the mortgage, and you can’t sell this house without me. So, you are the one who’s welcome to stay, if you can learn to start spending money on your family and not those stupid car parts.”

I had succeeded in wiping the smirk off his face, but I immediately wished it was back. I had never seen a look like that on anyone before, not even my mother at her worst. His face was like marble, a menacing stone gargoyle that only had to take a very slight step toward me to make me stumble and back into the fridge. He stared me down for a moment, then turned purposefully toward the garage.

Frightened, I followed him, unsure of what he was going to do, but very sure that I had to stop him, whatever it was. I stood in the kitchen doorway leading to the garage as he silently reached for something hanging on the wall above the worktable. “Dell, I’m sorry,” I whispered. I cleared my throat and spoke louder. “Dell. Dell, I’m sorry.”

He took the sledgehammer down and cradled it for a minute, looking at me. I backed up.

“Dell, Demi is in the house. Let me just get Demi and we’ll go. Okay?”

He took a step toward me. I took another step back. He stepped, and I stepped, a slow, torturous dance that I knew was not going to end well. I couldn’t read his face – it was completely frozen in that cold stare. I didn’t know who this man was, but I was terrified right down to my bones. I turned and ran across the kitchen, could hear his footsteps pounding behind me, and made it across the house into Demi’s bedroom. I quickly shut the door and leaned my body against it, my eyes running hurriedly over Demi’s room, looking for a way to grab her out of the crib and escape, but there was no time and nowhere to go.

His footsteps stopped on the other side of the door. I could feel the pressure under the wood of his body leaning on the other side of it. My heart was in my throat. I didn’t have the strength to keep him from opening that door. “This is my house,” he growled through the thin wood. The pressure was suddenly gone and I suddenly remembered the gun. What if he was going to get his gun?! The panic tasted like rust in my mouth, and I strained to hear his movements. It sounded like he was in the dining room.

“Don’t believe me?” he called loudly from there. “I’ll prove it.”

The next thing I heard was a loud crack followed by a crash of splintering wood. He had taken the sledgehammer to one of the walls. There was a squeak of metal dragging on wood, as if he had to pull the thing back out of the wall, and the crash repeated. It repeated three more times before he was  back, panting at the door.

“Talk back again, and next time it’ll be you.” Then he walked away.

My body was trembling against that door. I looked at Demi, still asleep on her belly, her little back softly rising up and down with each baby’s breath. What kind of father had I given her? My knees couldn’t support me anymore, and I slid to the floor, keeping my back against the door just in case. My fingernails dug into the hardwood floor, and I took in great gulps of air. My face was burning hot, and my eyes felt heavy and wet. That stupid box. I should have just left that stupid box alone.

I could hear the Toyota fire up. I held my breath. Yes, the tires were crunching in the wet gravel. He was leaving. I glanced around the room again. We were going to leave now, too.


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Losing Bill Cosby

November 20, 2014

Bill Cosby is all over news and social media for alleged sexual assaults. Alan Chartock asked this morning, on WAMC, what is the thing that draws people to this story, making it go viral?

I don’t know about anyone else, but for me, he was an icon that represented the good in my childhood. My mom had his Wonderfulness album, and we listened to that record over and over until we knew the stories by heart. We would laugh together, as a family, and it was – well – wonderfulness.

I saved my pennies and when he came to Albany, NY, I bought a ticket and went to see him at the Palace Theatre as a birthday present to myself. It felt great to sit in the same room with this man who could make my mother laugh, who unknowingly brought motherly hugs and kisses and tickles to girls who were desperate for their beautiful mother’s love, this woman whose smile could light the Empire State Building.

Even today, just thinking about Tonsils or the Chicken Heart, I feel that happy warmth of those very rare, loving hugs from Mom. But if the news about Bill Cosby is true, then a part of me will know I’m listening to the work of a rapist. My heart and prayers go out to his family and his victim(s).

I know, I know. Whatever he may have done, it doesn’t change the fact that those happy childhood moments did happen; they were real. I’ll probably get over this feeling that those memories are now tainted. But today, my visceral reaction is to wish I could punch this man in the nose for being unable to control his baser instincts. He’s a national family-man icon. He has a responsibility to behave like one, and if he can’t do that, to at least not do anything criminal.

My answer to Chartock’s question is that I’m drawn to the story because I feel betrayed by a public figure I trusted, that the little girl inside of me trusted. It is very hard to lose a childhood hero.


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Meeting My Birth Father

I always cringe a little when I think of my behavior in Kansas City. I was not the person I am today. Add my unhealthy behavior to culture shock, and the result is that this poor man never received the reunion he hoped for when meeting his long-lost children. Mom not only took me from that side of my family, but she took me from our cultural heritage. My father will never have the Puerto Rican father-daughter relationship he imagined, and I’ll never know what it is to grow up Puerto Rican. It’s a real loss.

November 1986, I was 21

The organza was so slippery, and all I was doing was trying to make a neat hem. I stopped the machine and cut the thread, thinking I’d have better luck on the serger, when the overhead announced I had a call on line 2. I sighed and left the sewing room for the laundry area, where the phone was, expecting another pre-booking for a Santa costume. “Jo speaking, may I help you?”

“Your name is not Dumont, it is Bautista and your father is looking for you,” said a heavily Spanish-accented frantic voice.

“Um, what?”

“Your name! You’ve been lied to. Your real name is Bautista and your father is trying to find you!”

I didn’t appreciate the dramatic tone in her voice and began to suspect a prank. “Well, I’m married now, so it’s neither. Who is this?”

Something in my own tone must have tipped her off that she wasn’t handling herself professionally. With more calm she said, “This is the Red Cross. The man you think is your father is not your father. You are a missing child. We’ve been helping your father look for you for 18 years. He is anxious to meet you.”

Well, I had already found my real birth certificate years ago, and knew my birth father’s last name was Bautista, but I was married with a toddler and another light blinking on line 3. There was nothing life-or-death in this call and my boss frowned on personal use of the phone. And not for a minute did I believe I was a missing child. I was right here in Kansas City for over a decade. It was a bit of a surprise to learn my real father was alive, but why he was bothering to look me up now, after all these years, was beyond me. Whatever, I thought, it’d be nice to know the family medical history.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll meet him. Can you call me at home tonight? I really have to get back to work.”

She took my number, clearly disappointed with my anti-climatic reaction, but what did she expect? She was practically hysterical, unlike any Red Cross person I had ever heard of, she had nothing much new to say and I had work to do. She said she was calling from New York, so maybe that’s just how they talk out there. I picked up line 3.

“Jo, it’s Meg. Did you get a call from the Red Cross?”

Good grief, that crazy woman called my sister, too. We talked about how frantic she sounded, and how we both agreed that she was very unprofessional. If the whole missing-child story was real, why weren’t the police calling us? Or why not our real father? If I had a missing child and knew where she was, I’d be on that phone lickety-split myself, not leave it to some crazy person. Meg said that mom had called her yesterday, warning her that she might get this call. Astonished, I asked how mom got the heads-up, and why Meg hadn’t called to tell me. She said that somehow mom’s brother had found out, and told mom, and Meg wasn’t sure whether it would be fair to call me and possibly prejudice me. Mom had told her not to listen to anything he had to say. But Meg had a son, and I had Demi, so we both agreed that a medical history was an important enough reason to meet this guy. It’s not like mom was able to give us any decent information about her side of the family. The biggest drawback of meeting him, though, was that neither of us felt any need for a parent at our age. We’d had enough of those.

A few days later, I was sitting in a Waffle House facing the man who claimed to be my father. He had dark hair, worn a little on the short side. His skin was smooth and a darker olive than mine. He had a neat mustache. Other than his coloring, he didn’t look like me at all. He was – well – compact. Taller than me, but average height for a man. He appeared muscular but lean, an average build but well-shaped and probably stronger than he looked. I felt overblown and blousy next to him. His face and features were smaller than mine. I had big, brown eyes, unlike either of my parents. He was clearly fastidious, also unlike me. I was willing to just accept the diner’s dirt with a shrug and surreptitiously wipe my silverware on a paper napkin. Not he. In a Spanish accent with an educated and well-modulated tone, he politely asked for a clean fork, charming the waitress as if it were his fault that the fork wasn’t cleaned properly.

I didn’t know what to think. He told me this fantastic story about my mother taking me and Meg out for ice cream when one of my uncles was babysitting us, and never coming back. That he called the police, went to the courts, and even reported us to the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children. Surprised, I asked him if our pictures were on milk cartons, and he said no, that by that time we were too old and he only had baby pictures of us. Then the pictures came out.

He was the oldest of eight boys. My grandparents were still living. I was the first girl in the family, and my grandfather had my baby picture on his nightstand this whole time, waiting for me to come home. I listened to Papa Bautista tell me about how his whole family missed me and my sister, how delighted and surprised he was to learn about Amy and how he wanted to bring the three of us home to New York. Apparently, mom was pregnant with Amy when she abducted us. I stared at the baby pictures, all younger than the ones mom had, and tried to see myself in them. There were pictures of him with mom, whom I had no trouble recognizing despite how young she looked. It must be true – but how did I turn out so big and curvy compared to everyone else on his side of the family?

He reached his hand across the table to stroke mine, and I pulled it away. He was 20 years older than me, but he looked young for his age, and I have had way too many older men put their hands on me. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it, but I didn’t know who this guy was. His story rang true, but he was so different from anyone I had ever known. There was a restrained passion about him that made me a bit nervous, and I didn’t know what he wanted from me. I tried to bring a little coolness to the conversation, and asked him about our medical history.

He sat back, easily able to sense that he needed to back off, and said I came from a very healthy family. I had a great uncle who had lived to 115 years old. My grandparents were as healthy as could be. No heart disease, no cancer, no arthritis – nothing for me to worry about.

He apologized for not finding us sooner. He explained that the courts all felt that girls belonged with a mother, and flat refused to help him. That he had broken his leg at one point, and was in long months of physical rehabilitation. That as soon as he got word from the Kansas City sheriff’s office as to where we were, he hopped into a car and drove through a Pennsylvanian snow storm to get here. He wanted to know everything about me, and was surprised that I wasn’t in college. He said I come from a very intelligent family and must know that I’m very smart. He was certainly charming.

After about an hour of talking, I felt comfortable enough to invite him to my home the next evening to meet Dell and Demi. He took care of the bill, just as charming as ever to the waitress, and we paused outside before separating to our cars. He reached both his hands toward my face, respectfully asking if he could touch me. I nodded and felt his two warm, dry hands resting on each of my cheeks. His face was very close, and he pulled my head down and gently kissed my forehead. As he pulled away, there were tears in his eyes, but he was smiling and said he looked forward to meeting my family tomorrow. Then he quickly stepped away.

Embarrassed, I went quickly to my own car, but hesitated with the key in the ignition. There was something so sad about him. Almost as if he were disappointed that I was too old to call him daddy, to sit on his lap and play patty-cake. I turned the key. I had plenty of problems of my own. Eighteen years were a long time, and there was nothing I could do about that. I couldn’t be his child, but perhaps we could be friends. Right now, I had to figure out how I was going to tell my husband that I had agreed to bring this man into our home without his permission.


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Being Revealing

I was interviewed yesterday by a small local magazine about the missing-child part of my story. We met at the gala Friday night in Saratoga Springs, NY to benefit the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children. She and my dad (my real father) got to talking, but I was busy helping the gala chair make sure everything went smoothly, so she took my number and called me yesterday.

After I gave her the Reader’s Digest version of my story, the reporter asked what it’s like, sharing a story that’s so personal and revealing. I’ve been getting that question here about my blog, too.

Well, frankly, it’s like stripping. I remember that first time I got up on that stage at the Pink Garter. The lights were not strong like the stage lights in my high school plays, so I could see the audience as clearly as they could see me. I remember trying to simultaneously smile at them and not look at them. I was nervous as hell, and couldn’t believe I was seriously going to stand up in front of these strange men and take my clothes off down to pasties and a g-string. I glanced nervously at my friend, Gigi, by the jukebox who had talked me into this, and she nodded and smiled and clapped, encouraging the audience to give a welcoming clap, too, as the music started.

Africa. I was dancing to Africa by Toto. I picked it because that was the song that a different friend and I stripped to at the after-party among the cast and crew of Camelot, our last play before we graduated. We were a bunch of drama club high-schoolers gathered at my new apartment with that older friend of mine who took me in after I ran away from home. Yep, there was alcohol, and yep, we all got silly, and before we knew it, me and Sandy were giggling in our bras and underwear, running screeching from the room when the song ended to put our clothes back on. I had just turned 18 a couple weeks earlier.

Well, Gigi, my future maid of honor (who knew that I would be married less than a year from that night? Certainly not me!) was an exotic dancer part time, and she knew I was struggling to make money at Taco Via and pay rent while going to school, so she convinced me that if I was brave enough to strip in front of my friends, I could certainly do it at the Garter. She told me that some girls made over $1,000 a week. Back in ’83, that was a whole lotta money.

On that postage-stamp-sized stage, though, it seemed like a very bad idea. The room was dark, dingy and smokey. The audience was dressed in thrift shop clothes for the most part, although there were a couple of suits. Lots of unkempt hair and beards out there beyond the lights. Some looked like they hadn’t bathed in a while. Not the people I was used to seeing in suburbia, where I had just graduated two weeks earlier. I definitely didn’t feel safe, but that I was used to. I had long since given up looking for safety. There was no such thing.

So I stayed right on that stage, without the false courage of a Fuzzy Navel, but with the real courage that survival gives to desperate young women. My roommate didn’t take me in out of the goodness of her heart. She expected to be paid my share of the rent or she would sell my stuff and throw me out. How can an inexperienced 18-year old high school graduate make enough money to pay for rent, food, and car insurance? Taco Via and Pizza Hut were the extent of my skills, unless you count the Star Wars fan fiction I had written. Much as my friends liked it, no one offered to pay me for it. I could thread a needle, too, but everyone could do that. I couldn’t waitress because the only places that paid decent money (what I now know to be a living wage) sold alcohol, and I had to be 21 to serve it. Until then, all I had was a pretty face and a Bunny figure, plus my friends told me I was a good dancer, so how bad could this be?

Grown men liked me. They would chuck my chin and “accidently” brush a hand across my chest or bottom. They’d laugh and call me “jailbait”. I took it as a compliment. I was a powerless girl, suddenly getting a feeling of power. And now I was told my adult curves would also bring me money. My mother didn’t teach me about morals or values, but she sure taught me about men and opportunity. It didn’t matter that some of my friends and family would judge me if they found out. This was an opportunity to support myself, to become independent and maybe make enough money to get an apartment on my own, one that I could share with my sisters, freeing them from my mom’s metal cooking spoon. So what if I had to expose myself to do it? There were bouncers to make sure there would be no touching, so what’s the big deal if foolish men wanted to pay good money just to look? No skin off my nose.

So, yes, I stayed right there, dancing like I was in one of those new MTV videos, and revealing more of myself than I ever thought I would to strangers who just sat there, watching, without the laughing cheers or teasing catcalls of my friends at school. I avoided those silent, cool, assessing eyes and pretended I was surrounded by choreographers and make-up artists and an adoring audience, maybe even a talent scout, all clapping just for me.

Then I went into the dressing room and met the other dancers. One was hooked on drugs, sporting a bad bruise on her upper arm that make-up couldn’t quite hide. Another was a very petite 31-year-old woman who was supporting both a child and a sick mother, and scared to death that her height wasn’t going to make her seem young enough to keep this job for much longer. There was a former Las Vegas showgirl who had long since aged out, but she was a friend of the owner and had glamourous outfits, so she had job security. And then there was Star, who was just as cool and assessing as the men in the bar. She said she was 22, and that was the most personal information she ever gave me. Looking back, it wouldn’t surprise me if she were an undercover cop. I’ll never forget the desperation and showy bravado of that tiny back room. Just a handful of women who had each other’s backs because they all knew nobody else would.

I made fifty bucks in tips that night. I went home, gave it to my roommate, showered, crawled into bed, and cried. The world was just as bad as my mother always said it would be. My heart shrunk a size smaller that day.

It’s now 31 years later, and a reporter wants to know what it’s like to be writing and sharing my very personal story with the public. I told her it’s like stripping. Revealing way more than most people ever would, knowing I’ll be criticized for it, knowing I’ll hate myself at times for saying too much, and knowing I’ll have to wrap a tight band around my heart to get through it. But in spite of all that, there’s no question that this is an opportunity to reach other young women, somewhere out there, who think survival is up to each of them alone. They’re not alone. I never did go back to rescue my sisters, but there are many more out there still silently desperate for help. In the end, we’re all sisters. My story is not rare to happen, it’s just rare to be revealed.


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How? How could I not remember this?

SERIOUS TRIGGER WARNING

Do not read this post if there is any chance that you can be negatively affected by reading about sexual assault.

Friday July 11, 2014 around 8:50 a.m.

I was on 787, driving to work, half-listening to Marketplace on NPR. Traffic was busy but steady, and I anticipated a light day at the office. I was thinking about the therapy session I had the evening before – EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing), which I was told is a psychotherapy that enables people to heal from the distress of disturbing life experiences faster than traditional therapies. Try anything once, is my usual motto.

The therapist had me put on a set of earphones connected to something that looked like a Walkman. It played a series of beeps, first in one ear and then in the other. Then she had me recount one of my memories. I told her about the time my first husband tried to strangle me.

It may seem odd, but I’ve had the memory so often and it’s appeared in nightmares so regularly that I’m really not bothered by the story anymore. It was a long time ago, and it’s only useful for advocacy purposes now. I told her the story just as easily as I’ve shared it at speaking engagements in front of women’s groups over the years.

Nothing happened. I pondered that now, as I was driving. I had felt a little silly, wearing the headphones and hearing those beeps while talking about a serious topic. It felt a little like it was minimizing what happened to me, making light of it. Maybe that was part of the point. I remember thinking that I would be uncomfortable listening to those beeps while recounting my most recent memories – and then there it was.

Just like that, in the middle of the highway, I remembered. The memory I had been fighting against, ever since my sister told me about her memory six weeks ago, was suddenly right there. I saw his face, I knew I was on the couch in our house in California, and I knew what was about to happen.

I shut down my mental white walls quickly, glancing in all my mirrors at the traffic, grounding myself in the present. My heart was pounding, and I was shivering to the point that my teeth were chattering. I started counting the cars I could see in the traffic, carefully noting where they were and any shifts in speed and lanes. I listened carefully to everything being said on the radio, as if I would have to recite it later. I could smell the cold in the air from the air conditioner. Part of the DBT training we had in the hospital taught us that noticing every little thing around us can help keep us in the present.

It all happened so fast, and my reflexes kicked in the same way they do if I sneeze while driving and involuntarily close my eyes. Just like a sneeze, the glimpse of the memory appeared and shut down, and I was driving as if nothing had happened. I couldn’t stop shivering, but the steering wheel was solid under my grip, I was breathing normally, seeing normally, driving normally, and I made it to the parking garage without incident.

Once the ignition was off, I leaned my head on the steering wheel, gripping it as if it were a lifeline. DBT be damned – I was safe now, and by God I needed to know what happened.

TRIGGER WARNING

I was on the brown sofa in the living room on Cass Avenue. I know I was 10 years old because that was my age in that house. There was music playing. A record dropped with its soft plunk, and music played. He was in front of me, smiling and stroking my hair. I kept trying to turn my head to look around the room, but he placed a hand on my cheek to keep my head from turning. He told me I was a good girl, a sweet, pretty, good girl. He asked me if I liked him, and I nodded.

With one hand on my cheek, keeping me still, his other hand traveled all over me. He asked if I liked how that felt. He slipped a hand inside my panties, then pulled them down, all the while whispering what a good girl I was.

I remember I was trembling, uncomfortable and confused. This was mommy’s friend and I knew she would be mad if I wasn’t nice to him. I didn’t understand why his hands were on me, but it didn’t hurt, and he was very nice to me, so I didn’t do anything. Then he put a finger inside me, and asked me how that felt.

I was so surprised, I couldn’t say anything. I didn’t know there was an empty spot there to put something in. He moved slightly, and I felt this strange warm glow down there. I could feel my eyes were very wide, and I looked down at what he was doing. He was naked. I don’t remember him taking his clothes off. I saw his pee-pee, and quickly looked up away from it. He laughed softly, as if he were trying to stay quiet.

He took his hand from my cheek and slowly pushed me back on the couch. His face was inches from the top of my hair and I thought for a minute he was going to kiss my forehead. I could almost feel the short, scratchy hairs from his chin. Then he took his hand away from below, and I could feel something bigger pressing there.

Then there was a blinding pain, like I was being ripped open, and I opened my mouth to scream. He quickly put a hand over my mouth, and the pressure and my thrashing made my head turn to what he didn’t want me to see.

My mom was asleep on the big, round papasan chair. Her hair was messy, all over her face. She was in her long, furry robe. That’s right, it was cold outside. I could see part of the fireplace hearth, and there was some silver tinsel leftover from Christmas laying there. The tree-table was between me and mom. She didn’t hear me. She didn’t know I needed her. The table was between us, that big slice of a tree trunk, polished and glossed, where I had spent many lazy afternoons counting the rings. The table was littered with beer bottles and filled ashtrays, but one spot was cleared off and only had some uneven lines of white powder. There was music playing.

National Sexual Assault Hotline
1-800-656-4673 [24/7 hotline]

That was it. The memory abruptly ended, leaving me hanging like the flipping of broken film at the end of a movie reel. I slowly left 1975 and realized my hands were hurting from gripping the steering wheel so tight. I threw back my head and gulped huge mouthfuls of air.

I felt a dozen emotions crowding in on me, all clamoring for attention. I was frightened. No, I was remembering feeling frightened. I was in disbelief. How could I possibly not remember that happening? How could I go forty years, and be unwaveringly positive in all that time that I had never been sexually assaulted as a child?

And no way were there drugs in the house. I never remembered such a thing. There were no hints of it in any of my regular memories – except that time I flew back to California to visit friends when I was in seventh grade in Kansas City. My old friends from California took me to a party where there was a bong being passed around. I didn’t touch it – I was too nervous and we thankfully left quickly. I guess it was more prevalent there than it was in Kansas City. Whatever. This memory was wrong. It had to be wrong. It wasn’t real.

And I was angry. Over everything else, I was incredibly angry. I grabbed the steering wheel again, lowering my head and screamed at it, forgetting for a moment that I was in a public parking garage. The sound snapped me out of it, and I remembered I was supposed to be walking to the office. I gathered my things and got out of the car, automatically being the good girl, going to work and doing what I was supposed to do, but I saw every detail of his face the whole way.

I made it to the bench outside the Assembly side elevators in the Capitol building, and sat there, trying to slow down my heart and breathing and do my DBT drill. I dug out my phone and called my therapist. No answer. I left her a lengthy voicemail. I sat wondering who else I could call. Then I remembered a friend of mine had been a child advocate in the court system. I called her, and she knew exactly what to say. She made me get a peppermint out of my purse. She made me touch the floor and describe what I felt. She walked me through my DBT until I felt silly for getting all worked up over something that happened forty years ago. I set my head straight, got up, got on the elevator, and went to work, being the responsible person I was supposed to be. But I was still quietly angry.

National Hotlines and Helpful Links


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Checking In

TRIGGER WARNING

Monday morning, June 2, 2014

albanybuilding

I was on automatic. I showered, dressed, had coffee, drove my youngest to school. My responsibilities were completed in numb automation, but there was a silent struggle going on in my mind and body. I wanted to stop and scream – she was raped and I was there! I was trembling with anger. I wanted to call the police. I wanted to hop in the car and drive to North Carolina and look that woman in the face and demand her apology, demand she get on her knees and beg forgiveness from all of us sisters. I wanted to throw her in a rehab facility and swallow the key, then smash every bottle she has in the house into the kitchen sink.

I parked and hung my employee tag on the rear view. Gathered my things, locked the car and walked to the elevator. I let my eyes follow the trees through the elevator glass, idly pretending I was climbing up them, like I always imagine when riding those elevators. I stepped out and walked past Congress park, as usual, and idly wondered for the umpteenth time what the city was doing with that old fountain, now surrounded by signs of construction. I paused at the traffic signal, waiting, staring up at the walls of the New York State Capitol building.

The powerful structure rose several stories above my head, unashamedly representative of a monarch’s seat, with red-orange turrets and intricate carvings. The building usually centered me, its carefully crafted beauty inside and out reminding me that someone, somewhere, cared deeply about a good job well done. Just a few weeks ago, I was among a handful of people negotiating a $22 billion budget for 700 school districts, in a small room on the first floor of that beautiful building. Not a good job well done.

I didn’t want to walk in there. The halls echoed with the powerlessness of good people trying to do the right thing. Politics too often trumps proven research, and about a quarter of the decisions made are to support a re-election campaign rather than the needs of the people. Much as I loved the building, I couldn’t stand facing another impotent day of work. Fighters don’t belong on hamster wheels.

But there was nothing I could do about it. A single mom doesn’t just quit her job. Policy analysts are a dime a dozen in Albany. There was nowhere else to go.

The beeping of the crosswalk signal brought me out of my reverie. I walked across the street, pulling my security pass out of my purse. My eyes were wet with helplessness. I couldn’t quit. I couldn’t call the police. I couldn’t stop in the middle of the street and scream. I couldn’t protect my sister. I ran. I ran and left her there.

I made it to the policy pit on the fourth floor mezzanine, dropping my bag on my desk. One of my co-workers got up to hug me, saying she was sorry for my loss. With her arms around my shoulders, I realized I had almost forgotten about my step-father, whose ashes sat before us at the wake just four days ago. I felt ashamed anew, and couldn’t hold it back anymore. I clung to her, sobbing my heart out, much to the surprise of everyone in the room. The story just spilled out – I told her that I had just found out that my sister had been raped at 9 years old, that Mom just watched.

I backed away, realizing I shouldn’t have said that out loud, and saw the shock and concern on my coworkers’ faces. I gulped and pulled it all back together. Grabbing a tissue off my desk and drying my face, I apologized and waved everyone off, telling them I was fine and just needed to focus on work.

I sat down to sort through my missed emails from the last week, but focus was not coming to me. Impatiently, I opened my snail mail instead, and automatically began sorting. Then I sorted all the files that were scattered untidily all over my desk. Then I got some paper towels and cleanser from the bathroom and started cleaning my desk. I scrubbed the phone, my keyboard, even my chair. And when there was nothing left to clean, not a single paper out of place, I stared back at the computer and realized there was no way I could understand a single piece of legislation today. I emailed my supervisor that I was going home, shut off my computer, told my coworkers that I’m sorry, I’m just not feeling well, and left. I didn’t even make it to noon.

I drove two blocks before I realized I had no idea where I was going. I pulled into an empty parking spot on the street and called a therapist I had seen the year before. She could see me in a couple weeks. I googled more therapists on my phone. Three, four, six weeks before anyone could see me. One of them told me that if it were an emergency, I could go to the Capital District Psychiatric Center, and check myself in. I googled it and drove there, figuring I’d talk with someone for a few hours, feel better, and be back to work the next day.

I didn’t realize that it would be a month before I saw the Capitol building again.


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New Memory #4 – That’s Him

Sunday, June 1, 2014 

I remember a man standing next to our swimming pool that night. From my angle, I must have been in the pool because I was looking up at him. Not too close – I think I was standing in the middle of the pool, at the edge of the shallow end before it got too deep for me to stand. I was facing kitty-corner to the diving board, which was out of my field of vision on my right. His back was to the diving board. I had a good profile view. I think he was talking to someone on my left, but my memory was narrowing only on him. I could see him smile, laugh, shake his long, brown hair out of his face and turn toward me to take a draw off the cigarette in his left hand before turning back to whomever he was talking to.

Odd, but in my mind’s eye I could only see him waist-up or knee-down. I have no idea what his swim suit looked like. He had hairy legs, and hairy toes in dark flip-flops. His skin was very tanned, but I could tell it was naturally a little dark, like he was Mexican. I know there are many Hispanic nationalities, but for some reason when I look at him in my memory, the word “Mexican” keeps popping into my ten-year-old head. Makes sense, we were in southern California, but my present-day mind doesn’t think he was Hispanic at all. He didn’t have the square features that hint at the Native American blood found in many Mexicans. He was thinner, almost European, perhaps Greek? Maybe his name sounded a little like the word Mexican? Not that I remember a name. It’s hard to separate my ten-year-old memory from my 49-year-old experience, making me doubt that any of my memories are real.

The arm I could see was muscular. There was a tattoo on his shoulder. The ink looked like a dark green-blue. I don’t remember the pattern, but it wasn’t colored in. It was about the size of a side-ways playing card. I don’t remember any hair on his shoulder, but his forearm and back of his hand had dark hair, just like his legs. He was holding a lit cigarette.

He was good-looking. I don’t remember him looking at me, but he glanced around the pool area while he was talking. He had dark eyes with long eyelashes and crinkles at the edges. An aquiline nose. High cheek bones. Shoulder-length dark brown hair with bangs that parted in the middle and fell past his ears. A dark-brown full mustache, and an unshaven look. I don’t remember what color his eyes were. It was night, and the backyard lights were on (there was a pair of small flood lights attached to the back of the house behind me, near the roof), but his eyes just looked dark. I keep thinking they were dark blue instead of brown, but I can tell that it’s my 2014 mind thinking that, not a memory, and I’m trying to keep this limited to just what I remember. Looking back, I’d guess he was about 30-35 years old.

The thought came to me that his eyes were always smiling, and although I am sitting at the edge of my bed in 2014, my breath just caught and something tightened in my chest. My whole body is tense. I don’t want to remember any more right now. Time to do something else.


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Knock, Knock, Knocking on …

TRIGGER WARNING

Looking back on that Sunday, June 1st, I don’t remember much, but I know the overwhelm took me. I didn’t give in to it – I know what giving in feels like. Giving in is when you come home with drive-thru nachos and microwavable kettle corn, turn on Netflix and binge watch for eight hours. Giving in is my mother with red wine swirling in her morning orange juice. Giving in to overwhelm is a conscious decision to put the world on hold and self-medicate for awhile. It’s a miracle that I prefer salt over alcohol in my worst state. I tell myself that whenever I take my blood pressure medicine. It could be worse.

No, on that particular Sunday the overwhelm took me, without my permission.

My girls say it seemed as though I had the flu pretty bad that day. My walk was unsteady whenever I got up for the bathroom or water, I had no appetite, I was alternating freezing cold and sweating hot, and I mostly slept.

I remember there were nightmares. I think I cycled through just about every recurring nightmare I’ve ever had and then some. My first husband’s fingers around my throat. My sisters screaming. Running and running but not able to get anywhere.

My waking moments were all memories:

Me, falling out of bed and getting my lip split on the corner of the nightstand. Getting stitches. I was 3.

Mom, sitting dejectedly on the end of the couch, cigarette smoke making rings around her tousled hair, her make-up-smeared eyes red and bleary. I had stayed home from school to make sure she didn’t carry out her threat to kill herself that day. I was 16.

Walking stiffly for a drink at the water fountain in the police station, my uniformed escort asking me why I was so formal, and me telling him I was not going to cry. I was 25.

Being slammed into the bathroom wall of the Pink Garter, a stranger’s lips forcibly taking mine. She had followed me in and had me pinned, her whole big, muscular body crushing me against the wall. I struggled and fought and was thankfully released to run when someone else walked in. I never thought a woman would ever do such a thing. I was 18.

Mom, kicking me as I lay curled up in a sleeping bag on the floor in my room. Kicking me again and again, screaming horrible insults at me. I was 15.

A door being slammed in my face. More stitches. I was 7.

Carrying a ringed pillow from class to class in junior high, telling everyone I had chipped my tailbone from a fall off my roller skates. I was 13.

Daddy #3’s finger in my face, threatening me literally into a corner, and Mom behind him telling me to just say yes, daddy. I was 17.

The videographer who offered to drive me home from an evening SCA event, pulling into the back of a grocery store and telling me he was in pain and only I could help him. He unzipped his pants. I convinced him that I was on my period. He said that’s okay, I could still help him and I wasn’t going home until I did. It was him or face a metal cooking spoon for missing my curfew. I was 14.

Walking six miles in the middle of the night, jumping into shadows any time a car came by, not knowing if my parents were after me. I carried a small bag of clothes and was headed to an older friend’s apartment. I didn’t know where I would go from there, but I was never, ever, going home again, not until I had made enough money to rescue my sisters. I was 17.

My sisters and I, all neatly dressed and sitting on the couch facing the CPS investigator. We told her we were fine, happy, that there was nothing wrong. No way were we going to let this stranger separate us girls from each other. I was 15.

Being slammed into the coat closet door and then rocked onto the living room carpet. Being straddled with his hips on my thighs and his knees on my hands and his hands around my throat, squeezing and squeezing until the black cloud came and I knew I was dying, knew I would never see my little girl or my sisters again. I was 25.

That’s but a handful of the memories I cycled through that day. And now I had four new memories:

1. Me in the pool, looking up at my naked, nine-year-old sister on the diving board.

2. Me, ten, running from the pool, tripping, hearing men’s laughter.

3. Mom, sitting in a pale pink wrap in the patio set by the pool, smoking and saying “just say yes daddy” over and over.

4. A man standing by the pool, between the diving board and the patio set. But that’s for tomorrow’s post.

One night, when I was 15, I knelt before my bedroom window, looking up at a full moon. The house was quiet. My youngest sister, Beth, silent in the next room. They had beat her hard that night. Her screams and sobs still rang in my ears today, but all was quiet and the house was dark at that moment in my memory. I remember kneeling there with my hands folded in prayer, appealing to the distant, peaceful orb that hung in the night as if that were God’s face, blurred by my powerless tears, and not the man in the moon.

Please, God. Please don’t let me wake up tomorrow. Please, take me to heaven tonight. Please. I can’t do this anymore.

That’s how I felt on June 1st, 2014. But in my despair that overwhelming Sunday, I knew then what I didn’t know for sure at 15. The morning was coming, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was going to wake up.


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1975

Saturday, May 31, 2014 5:00 p.m.

I could hear one of the girls in the shower across the hall from my room. The rhythm of the running water pattered me into a slightly wakeful state. I was aware of my bedroom, aware that I had been sleeping soundly, aware of the weight of my body on my stiff twin bed.

Someone was laughing. A few someones. Male. My mind was drifting back to 1975, and I was scrambling out of the pool. I tripped and fell, splat, on the concrete. They were laughing. Don’t look back, I thought. Run. I clambered up and ran, bare feet making wet splats toward the side of the house.

I opened my eyes. My bookshelf swam into view. It was dusty. I need to dust my bookshelf, I thought, shivering with cold as if I had just gotten out of a pool and walked into air conditioning. I didn’t move from my side, tightly curled and shivering, staring at that bookshelf.

I was there. I couldn’t deny it anymore. My sister, nine-year-old Meg, was naked on the diving board. It was night. I was in the pool. I’ve been remembering being in the pool. And now …there’s more: I climbed out of the pool. I was running. I was afraid. I tripped. Men were laughing.

I squeezed my eyes shut, blocking out the sound of the running shower, trying to return to that lucid state, to 1975. I could remember the pool. Liver-shaped. Small. It was night. I could see the pool light from under the water. I pushed up from the bottom, enjoying the buoyant feel as I broke the surface, blinking back the chlorine and taking a deep breath of fresh, cool night air.

Who was there?

Meg was on the diving board at the far end of the pool. I was on the right, by the house. I tried to turn the eyes in my memory to the left, but like a scratched DVD, the scene skipped to me tripping on the concrete. I remember picking myself up. Run. But I did turn at the sound of the laughter. My back was to the pool, and I turned slightly right. Not far enough to view all around that side of the pool and to the diving board, but just a little. My wet bangs hung in my eyes, but I could see her. Sitting in one of the black wrought-iron chairs, a wine bottle sitting on the matching round, black patio table.

It was Mom.

There was a knock on my door. No, I thought. I’m almost there.

The door opened and my firstborn peeked in. “Mom? You okay?”

Mom. My mom was wearing her faded pink terrycloth robe. I remember it had a pattern in the fabric, little raised square bumps. It was knee-length. She sat there with her legs crossed, bare legs under a short, pink wrap. She was smoking. She was saying something. I strained to hear it.

“Mom?”

My daughter’s voice pulled me reluctantly into the present. I nodded, accepting that the memory was gone, and started to sit up. My mouth was so dry, and my eyes were burning from the chlorine. No, wait – what was real? I shook my head as if to clear it. My daughter sat on the end of my bed, looking concerned. I tried to speak, but could only clear my throat.

“It’s okay,” I finally managed. “I think the road trip just took a lot out of me. I am so beat.”

She offered to drive her sister to her friend’s house. I had forgotten. That’s why she was in the shower. I accepted and we talked about dinner for the girls and how she had done her sister’s laundry so I could sleep. I assured her I’d be back to normal tomorrow, and smiled as she left, shutting the door behind her.

I sat looking ruefully at the door. The whole day was wasted. I failed my girls today. My stomach tightened. Then my throat. My eyes grew hot and misty. The room blurred, and I was back in 1975.

I was there. Meg was naked on the diving board. It was night. I was in the pool. I climbed out of the pool. I was running. I was afraid. I tripped. Men were laughing. And Mom was smoking a cigarette. She was saying, “Just say yes, daddy.” Whispering it, over and over.

Faintly, I heard the front door shut. I think the girls called out goodbyes and feel betters before the door shut. But the blood was pounding in my ears. I was there. Meg was there. Men were there. Mom was there. I was afraid.

The room was dark and I felt stiff and cold, sitting still so long. I reached tiredly for my phone. 11:02 p.m. I had just lost six hours.


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White Walls

Saturday, May 31, 2014  11:30 a.m.

“Mom?”

I snapped out of my reverie and looked up to see my youngest standing in my bedroom door.

“Hm? You need something? What time is it? You must be hungry.”

“No, I had cereal – I just wanted to know if you’re doing laundry today. I need jeans.”

I reached for my cell and was surprised to see the morning had flown by. My Kindle was in sleep mode. I must have spaced off after the show. I rubbed a hand tiredly over my face.

“Yes, of course. Give me a minute. Can you put your laundry by the front door and I’ll take it down? I just need another minute.”

She left the door standing open, and I could see my firstborn peeking in from down the hall. I smiled and called out a good morning, and she good-morninged me back and disappeared, apparently satisfied that I was fine.

Of course I was fine. Just tired. It was a long, cramped drive home yesterday. Anyone would be bone-weary tired after that. I sighed and looked around the room absently, running over the checklist in my head. I had forgotten to take my blood pressure medicine, so I washed it down with the cold dregs of my coffee, and got up to change into old clothes, my housecleaning day wear.

The girls had done a great job in the kitchen. I was afraid I’d come home to a sink full of dishes and piles of trash bags waiting to be taken out, but all was neat enough. There was leftover pizza in the fridge. A few days of junk food was to be expected. I added grocery-shopping to my list for the day, and then just froze, one hand on the closed door of the fridge, staring at the shopping list held up by a magnet, but not seeing it.

I couldn’t do it. I just knew, I could not leave the house that day. I couldn’t picture myself able to get into the car, much less drive it. I gripped the refrigerator door handle tighter, my nails digging into my skin. My heart starting pounding. My breath was shorter and quicker. I felt suddenly cold all over. I couldn’t do it. I almost wanted to whimper out loud, please don’t make me do it, but felt ridiculous in this unreasonable fear. What was wrong with me? It’s just grocery shopping.

I scolded myself into letting go of the door handle, but as I walked out of the kitchen, I turned back down the hall to my room instead of toward the laundry in the living room. I paused in my doorway, both hands on the frame, holding myself up. I called out to the girls that I was more tired than I thought, and would do laundry in a couple hours. I just need to nap a bit more.

I crawled into bed, shaking like a leaf, and eyes brimming over onto hot cheeks, pleading silently to the empty air – please don’t make me. Make me what? The walls slammed down on all sides, and I went limp, like a puppet with cut strings. My heart called for my sisters, and a welcome memory appeared of me and my sisters as adults all hugging each other and grieving together, one big huddle of sisters. Breathing easier, I fell asleep.