Sister of Silence (25 page)

I had been a mother for ten years yet in all that time I never looked below the surface, where I was finally seeing myself in my children. It brought a wistful smile to my lips. It took having daughters of my own to make me realize I had been a child, too, and there had been little or nothing I could have done to prevent what he did to me. As a mother, I saw the innocence in their faces, in their voices and in the actions of my own little girls. At that moment, I knew I had been just as innocent.

Even though Mileah was almost ten, I needed to see older girls, just in case something changed dramatically in three years. So I watched thirteen-year-olds, to learn how I might have behaved when I was their age. What I saw was so different from what I had always believed about myself at thirteen. While some of the girls would flirt with the guys, more often than not, I noticed a shy hesitation in how they handled themselves when around boys. Many girls weren’t even around boys. They were too busy riding bikes, or sitting in their yards talking about girl stuff. Watching a neighbor girl named Shelly gave me a huge sense of loss as she got down on her hands and knees and played with my children, or sat and read them stories. I told Trudy about her during our next session.

“You know, while I was doing my housework, I watched a neighbor girl who comes over sometimes. She played with my kids like she was their age. I don’t remember ever being like that. In fact, I don’t remember being much of a child at all. Why is that?”

“It’s probably because you weren’t. Children of alcoholics are so busy taking care of their family members that they forget to have fun, or else they don’t have time,” Trudy explained.

“I see,” I said, and I really could
. That was exactly what happened to me.

“I remember you telling me once that you began handling the bulk of the household chores at an early age
.” Trudy’s pen was again moving across the page.

“Yes, when we moved to Martinsburg and Mom was pregnant, I did some of the chores. I helped out in the café we ran, too. But I also made candy and sold it at school, and I babysat on the weekends. Oh, and I had a paper route before that.”

“What a big responsibility. How were your grades then?” Trudy asked.

“Oh, A’s and B’s, but mostly A’s. I usually got good grades, and never had to work very hard at it—until high school. Something happened then.” I looked away, lost in my memories.

“Daleen, what’s happening to you now? Where are you?” Trudy’s voice carried me back into the room.

I shook my head. “I don’t know. I guess I was just thinking about how I lost interest in school after—after what happened.”

“No, not after what happened. After what he did to you. See if you can say it.”

After what he did to
me. After what he did to me. After what Eddie did to me.
I tried to grasp the concept.

“I lost interest in school after what Eddie did to me.” As the words came tumbling out, I heard how monotonous they sounded, and wondered if I had always felt so numb.

“That’s good. Now, what about telling anyone? Did you ever try to tell anyone at all?”

I quickly shook my head, aghast at the idea. “No, I was too afraid of what they would think of me. I was afraid Eddie would stop loving me, too.” I looked at Trudy, full of shame.

She recognized the look. “It’s all right. You have nothing to be ashamed of. What happened was not your fault. Now, do you remember what you saw while doing your homework?”

I smiled, thinking about everything I had witnessed. “I saw how immature they were. How much they need to be protected. How much they want to be loved. They would do anything for that love.”

Trudy sat across from me, shaking her head in agreement.

“You know, watching Shelly was amazing. If anyone would try to tell me that it was her fault for being in a sexual relationship, I would say they’re crazy. That girl has no more desire for sex than the man in the moon.”

Trudy looked relieved, as if she was worried I might not have seen that. “Exactly! And you were just like her. You didn’t want sex, you wanted love. But you did not want to be involved sexually. I bet your body wasn’t even ready for sex,” she said.

I looked past her shoulder, staring into the past. “No, I hadn’t even started having my period yet. It was awful. I still feel like I could die of embarrassment and shame. I just can’t get over those feelings.”

“I know. But some day you will. You may not realize it, but you’ve already come a long way and I think you’re doing great!” Trudy’s smile was so bright it allowed me to hope she was right.

We ended the session a few minutes later, and I left less confused than before, but with so much more to think about.

But I didn’t want to think—thinking was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted nothing more than to put it all behind me and get on with my life. But Trudy warned me that my life, my feelings, had been on hold for far too long. As I walked down the street to my car, I knew there was no turning back. I was going to have to see it through to the end. Even in the blinding spring sunshine, I knew it would be painful. What I didn’t know was just how painful.

Because I wanted to make progress, I began looking back over all the journals I had—the ones I’d begun keeping since the fire. If I had had any doubts about the truth of my life, reading those pages late into the night set me straight. I saw exactly what had happened within my marriage, and that triggered memories of what had really happened prior to it. My earliest journals went up in smoke during the trailer fire, but the mere act of having recorded what had happened helped me to recall those memories more easily. I realized I had gone from blaming myself, after the first time Eddie raped me, to gradually growing more and more confused, about the role I had played. By the time we had been married for several years, I was openly writing about how bad the violence was—instead of continuing to gloss over the facts with a form of varnish that would fill in the crevices and smooth out the rough spots. In a way, those notebooks seemed to act as a conduit between my waking, conscious state, and the unconscious one that had been trying to break free of its mental prison for years.

So it was no surprise when our marriage kept crumbling. Either Eddie couldn’t understand what I was dealing with, or he didn’t care (despite his firm assertion otherwise, the day at Trudy’s office when the dam burst). Whichever the case, Eddie worked more overtime, came home after I was already asleep, and rarely spoke to me.

I knew he was angry, and while it bothered me at first, the more my therapy progressed, the less I cared. Finally, the day came when the tables turned, and my anger was directed at him.

It was one of the rare occasions we were both in bed together and still awake. I saw how bitter my revelation had made him. “I suppose we’ll never have sex again, will we?” Eddie asked sarcastically.

I was nonchalant about it. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe one of these days we will.”

“You don’t even care, do you? But then, you’ve always been frigid!”

I glared at him. “How dare you call me that? If I’ve been frigid, it’s your fault. Why aren’t you more concerned about how I’m doing than your own sexual satisfaction? Is that all you can think about? What about me?”

“You seem to be doing just fine. You and Trudy probably say all kinds of terrible things about me behind my back. Every time I see you, you won’t say a word to me
,” he whined, full of self-pity.

“Did you ever consider that I don’t want to talk to you? I’ve been trying very hard, and considering everything, I think I’ve done really well. I mean, hey, I haven’t even kicked you out of bed yet.” I heard the sarcasm in my own voice.

“I guess that means you plan to. Hell, you might as well just divorce me now and get it over with,” Eddie sneered.

I turned over and stared at the wall, unwilling to answer. Long gone were the days when I would rise to that bait, or feel compelled to comfort him.

Instead, I focused on my feelings.

“The only problem is, I can’t feel any anger. I know I am angry, but I can’t express it like I should,” I told Trudy during our next session.

“That will come, in time. Actually, depression can often be a form of buried anger.”

“You mean that could be why I’ve been depressed all these years?”

“Yes, it could very well be. You have a hard time getting angry, don’t you?” Trudy asked, pen in hand.

I thought about her question. “I guess so. I know my mother never got angry. At least, we rarely saw it, if she did.”

Trudy had that look in her eyes, the one she got whenever she was making a connection.

“You think I got that from her, don’t you?” I smiled, knowing she was right.

“Maybe. You said she took a lot from your father. And you say she rarely got angry with him. Was anger something that wasn’t allowed in your household? I mean, did your religious beliefs say it was wrong?”

I had to stop and consider her questions. “No, it wasn’t that it wasn’t allowed—in our religion, that is. It’s just that it was always suggested there were better ways to deal with things. But I can remember going over Bible verses that talked about how God gets angry, for righteous reasons—such as when widows and orphans are mistreated—so I know we weren’t taught it was wrong. Maybe just that it could lead to wrong behavior, though—like when Eddie used to punch holes in the wall.”

“I see. So you don’t get angry, either.”

“I do, but not often. Eddie is the screamer in our family. Sometimes, I’ll yell back, but mostly, I hate fighting, so I just don’t respond. I would rather keep peace.” I shrugged.

“Old habits die hard, huh?” We both laughed.

“But you know, anger can be productive, when used in a healthy way,” Trudy added, “and if it doesn’t get out, you can turn it on yourself, like ulcers, or—”

“Depression?” I asked.

“Yes, exactly. Now, I want to change the topic for just a minute. If you can, I want you to think back to some of the times when Eddie forced you to have sex. Do you recall how you felt at the time?”

I thought back, trying to remember my feelings, but I kept drawing a blank. “No, I just remember hoping he would get it over with.”

“Okay.” Trudy was taking notes. “Did you ever leave? By that I mean, in your mind?”

“I think I must have, sometimes. But I don’t remember clearly. I do remember how much I tuned in, to whatever he said when it happened. When I did that, I didn’t have to think about what was going on.”

Trudy nodded, and I could tell she understood. “That’s called disassociation. It’s a common tool used by incest and rape victims. It’s a coping technique, and it helps you get through the trauma you’re experiencing. You disassociate—separate from what’s happening to you physically—by leaving the scene emotionally. By going to, or thinking about, anything that feels safe.”

I absorbed everything, as a dawning awareness occurred to me. “That explains why I was always tracing the ceiling tiles.”

“Exactly,” Trudy said. “Now do you remember what kinds of things he would tell you?”

“Usually he told me how good it felt, and that if I wasn’t so pretty
…”

“Which just reinforced your own belief that you were to blame?” Trudy asked.

I nodded, finding it hard to look at her.

“I want you to write a letter, telling him how you feel about what he did to you. He won’t see it and it will help release some of your feelings. And while you’re at it, write one to your mom and tell her how you feel about her not doing anything to stop the abuse. Can you do that?”

I sat there pondering Trudy’s suggestion. It was going to be very hard. “I don’t know. But I’ll try.”

Trudy smiled. “Great. Then bring them in next week when you come back. Now, what are you going to do for the weekend? Something for yourself, I hope?”

“Actually, I’m taking the kids to visit some friends we haven’t seen in awhile. Eddie was supposed to join us, but with the tension level being what it is, he opted not to go, and that’s fine by me.”

“It sounds like fun, and you certainly deserve it
.” Trudy patted my shoulder fondly.

The kids and I pulled out of the driveway the next evening an hour later than scheduled. I called Martha, telling her we would be late. She told me not to worry, because she was still a night owl. As we started out, the usual nitpicking was missing. In fact, everyone was getting along admirably. Gabby was reading a story out loud, Slade was working a little handheld game, and Mileah and Trista were playing with their Barbie dolls. It felt so good to get away from everything for a couple of days. But mostly, it felt good to be leaving Eddie. I couldn’t understand, but no matter how hard I tried, now I couldn’t make myself love him—either physically or emotionally. Our sex life had ended the day of my big announcement in Trudy’s office, and soon after I realized my love for him had died long ago.

It was something that had gradually taken place over time, when the wounds were being inflicted at a greater pace then they were being allowed to heal—a compilation of verbal stabs and physical assaults in our bedroom—until finally, any feelings for Eddie were gone.

That’s why I was considering another separation. I knew it would be hard on the kids, but it would give me some time to pull myself together. I just didn’t know if it was the right thing to do. I hoped the weekend reprieve would help to clear my mind, and perhaps provide an answer.