Thriving On the Other Side continues with therapy to gain insight into the childhood abuse she suffered and begins to ask why her mother turned away from the truth. This story contains images which may be upsetting to some people.
Why I spent week after week replaying my childhood, searching for clues about my mom. I have no real memories of her other than as a little kid, and then after I turned 14 or so. A few memories linger as images — her watching me with pride in the Christmas pageant when I was 7, piano and ballet recitals. But I have no day-do-day just plain life memories. Such is the way with buried memories – you lose chunks of your life. I lost my childhood.
But I needed to know the answer to that so important question. Why didn’t my Mommy protect me? The story finally fell together over time. It just took a while for all of the pieces to fall into place.
My first insight came with the memory of my grandmother punishing me when I was around 13 years old. I don’t remember why I was being punished, but the memory of the punishment itself is clear. I’m dragged face first down the old rickety stairs into the darkness of the cellar where I’m tied over a rail. I stay in the dark, damp cellar pondering what’s to come for who knows how long, sobbing with terror until I can’t sob anymore. By the time the punishment comes, I’m already checked out thanks to the terror. My grandmother takes a tobacco stick and pushes it inside me over and over again until I am bleeding. All the while she’s telling me how worthless I am, how I will never have the power to be free, how she will always control me and keep me in my place.
When she finishes, she leaves me there and goes upstairs to the kitchen. I can hear her on the phone as she calls my mom and tells her to come get me – that I have started my first period. Covering her tracks with an excuse for the blood. Then she comes down, releases my hands and tells me to clean up and put on my pretty face – my mom is coming.
On the way home, I try to tell my Mommy the truth. I hurt so badly, I’m so terrified of them but I’m numb from the torture and terror. I can’t take it anymore, I just can’t. I don’t care anymore if they kill me for telling. I just want the horror to stop.
As we round the corner leaving the farmhouse, I tell my mom what’s just happened. She flinches, looks away out the car window. Then she makes up a pretty story to cover for the truth. Laughs at me and tells me I’ve been watching too much television. Reminds me how much I love the farm and my horses, what a lucky little girl I am to be so loved. Tells me how much she loves me. Somehow, she paints a fantasy world around my horror – and at that moment, I learned to bury my truth and paint a pretty Leave it to Beaver story of my childhood – for all of the world to believe.
My mom was from a different age and place than my modern world. Her world was filled with grace and southern charm. She couldn’t see the truth about my dad and his mother – it was so far removed from who she was. She just couldn’t face it, for herself or for me.
And so, my loving, saintly mom taught me to bury my childhood behind false memories and forgotten horrors.
Photo Credit
“Visual Psychology” h.koppdelaney @ Flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.
Recent Bel Brown, Thriving On The Other Side Articles:
- The Power of a Pause
- The Power to Change Our Story
- The Power to Co-Create
- Of Faith and Fear
- What’s in a Secret?
Ya know Dan its interesting, by this point in my life all of this story has become, well, dull. It’s a reality now in my mind and world – so I don’t see it as the horror it was when the memories first began to emerge. That’s the BEAUTY of EMDR – the pain and horror are released and on the Other Side – I’m free!
I still adore my mom, even though she’s passed on. Wait til the end of the story – don’t give up on her yet!
Thriving….
I hear you Thriving! I’ve heard it said that I’ve worked through an issue when I yawn when I talk about it! I’ve gotten bored with it! Same for me with the violence with my Dad – like I’m now talking about events that happened to someone else. Not denying it, but I’ve just worked through the rage, the fear, the terror, the pain, the loss, and it doesn’t impact me the same way! I know what you’re saying!
Dan
Wow, the most stunning betrayal yet! The abuse was horrific, like something out of a concentration camp! But your Mom’s denial of it was equally shocking. All safety disappeared in your world, as you were taught “don’t talk!”
Oh my. The courage of this takes my breath away.
Hello Michael
Thanks so much for stopping by and offering your support. Sitting here on the other side I can’t imagine being any other place than, well, on the other side of my childhood and the impact it had on my life. So the courageous part of my journey has kinda faded for me – I’m happy and healing and living my life as the real me – and I can’t imagine it any other way. That’s the blessing that came with the courage.
We can all thrive on the other side of horror – that’s why I’m writing this blog – to show that surviving is not the only way to move through horror. We can choose to face our experiences, accept and move through them – and Thrive!
Thanks for your support – means the world to me!
Thiriving…