Sister of Silence (33 page)

Bruce smiled. “You’re right, you know. That’s exactly what people say. Pretty sad, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it sure is.”

By September, things were much calmer and I was feeling stronger every day. A picture of me holding a writing-related award plaque I had received appeared on the front page of the newspaper. It was exactly what I needed to validate my writing abilities.

“Congratulations! You both won awards in the West
Virginia Press Association’s competition,” Linda had told us a few days earlier. Brad and I looked at each other, breaking out in matching grins.

“No kidding,” Brad said, surprised.

“That’s incredible.” I finally found my voice. “Which story?”

I knew Lind
a was entering our work in the competition, because she had asked us to choose our best pieces. “Your series on health care. It took first place in the investigative reporting division,” she said.

Brad gave me another big smile. “Congratulations!”

“You, too!” I laughed.

At home, the kids were ecstatic when they say my photo. “We need to have a party for you, Mommy!” Mileah said.

Trista and Gabby quickly chimed in, suggesting cake, cookies, ice cream and all the usual stuff we ate at our parties. The excitement was palpable, and I was happy my children wanted to celebrate my award. I had always tried to throw a small party for their achievements: first day of school, a good report card, winning a school competition, or just to lift someone’s spirits, when they were down in the dumps. So that night, we sat down and had a party for me—and as I looked around at my lively, laughing children, the moment felt bittersweet, because I knew what I was going to do. I prayed their happiness would hold out, giving them something to hold onto, in the days to come.

Later, after everyone was asleep, I stood looking at the plaque for a long time. Then I looked at the newspaper clipping of my picture. It felt so good to receive such an award. New and exciting things were happening and I was elated, because it confirmed what I already knew. Deep inside, I knew I was a good reporter. But because I had been questioning so many things about myself for many years, I still had doubts about many of my abilities. Looking at the plaque, I felt pride that it was mine. Winning a first-place award for investigative journalism didn’t just mean I was a good writer
, it also meant I knew how to research the facts, dig and sift through them, and then analyze all the data to come up with an objective, accurate article.

My thoughts turned to Wanda, and how her short life had ended. We had never even met, but we shared a bond stronger than most people who lived—and loved—together. A shared sisterhood of silence, brought about by years of being abused while living in a war zone within the four walls of our own homes. Wanda might have lost her battle, but it wasn’t for nothing, since her death had helped give me the fortitude to continue on my own path to peace and contentment, where my children and I would be free from fear and violence.

Eddie wouldn’t stop trying to convince me to come back to him, saying he was sorry, that he would change, and he still loved me. I didn’t care what he wanted, and I told him as much every time he tried to sway me with words. But his refusal to give up left me dubious, fearful and sick, that I would never be entirely free. What would it take?

I knew I had work to do, with far more memories of abuse to process than I could possibly do on my own. I had known that for some time.

So my next step was to check myself into Chestnut Ridge Hospital in nearby Morgantown. Trudy had helped arrange for me to be admitted since I didn’t have any medical insurance. Given my reduced income, single-mom status and having four mouths to feed, the hospital took me in as a charity case.

“I can’t thank you enough,” I said, close to tears because of her kindness and all her help. “You’re a godsend, Trudy.”

“It’s nothing. I think it’s an excellent idea, given all you’ve been through,” Trudy said. “And honestly, you may have some deeper issues they could help you address better than I can. They have a doctor who’s supposed to be great with rape victims.”

It was a breezy day when Mom, of all people, dropped me off. I had been protecting her from the truth for years but after Eddie broke into the house and I felt more threatened than ever before, I told her the truth.

“I knew he had a bad temper, but I didn’t know it was that bad,” she said as matter-of-factly as if we were talking about the weather. I had never noticed how little emotion she expressed, when it came to life-changing topics. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing you took the kids and left.”

I felt an inner lightness, because of opening up to her. But I still hadn’t told her about the sexual abuse that began when I was thirteen. I really didn’t think she could handle it. Maybe, in a way, I still needed to protect her. That would come in time, I felt certain.

I’ll tell her someday
.

When Mom had gone and I was left alone in my hospital room, I began feeling weepy and missed my children. It was the first time we had ever been apart like that; visitation with their father was sporadic, and when it did occur, it rarely lasted longer than two nights.

“Mrs. Leigh?” I turned from the window to see a thin woman in a nurse’s uniform standing there. “I’m Susie and I’ll help you get settled in. We have to go through this checklist, to make sure you don’t have anything that could be used to hurt yourself,” she said with a cheery smile. “Now, do you have any nail clippers in your suitcase?”

“Really?” I asked in disbelief.

“Yes, they’re contraband. You’d be surprised what people can do with them,” she said.

Susie ran through her list, inspected my suitcase and confiscated my purse: “We’ll keep this in a locked area for safekeeping,” she explained. “If you need anything from it, just ask someone and they’ll help you. Now I’ll be right back with your meds.”

I went into the bathroom and stood looking in the mirror above the sink; my face looked distorted, like it did with carnival mirrors, only worse. I could barely see my reflection. Placing my hand on it, I knew what was wrong. It wasn’t even glass.

It sobered me to realize that people who came here
might try to kill themselves while they were patients. I thought they came to get better. That’s why I was there. I’d been having problems with depression, and at times the old hopelessness and thoughts of suicide tried to creep back in—but I refused to let it.

That’s why I’m here. To get better. To leave all that garbage behind. In the past. Where it belongs.

Susie brought me a hospital gown to change into, then led me into a small room. A male doctor came in soon after, and I was surprised when the nurse didn’t return. I sat there on the table, suddenly feeling small and vulnerable while he conducted a short exam.

What if he rapes me?

I had to resist the urge to jump down and run out screaming. I was terrified at being alone, partially undressed, in a room with a man.

Stop it. He’s not going to hurt you. He’s here to help.

If only I believed that.

I was in the hospital for two weeks, and went from feeling like an outsider to taking the lead during group therapy. I didn’t care if other people knew what had happened to me, because I knew I was a good person, and the sexual abuse from all those years wasn’t my fault. It was just like the poster above my bed said: “I know I’m good because God doesn’t make junk.” I wanted to get better, and the only way to do that was to open up, to be honest and candid. I had to make sense of my past, and talking about it was the best way to do that.

In art and relaxation therapy, though, I didn’t have to say a word. The art therapist gave us all kinds of things to work with: colored stones, watercolors, wood, varnish, and glue. My first piece was a picture of a bird flying free in the sky.

“You know, many people who feel imprisoned draw birds,” he told me.

Putting the final touches of blue paint on the sky, I smiled. “Yes, that’s me, flying free.”

Relaxation therapy was my favorite, because it taught me how to relax every single muscle in my body. Using soft, soothing music, the therapist told us to close our eyes and block out everything but our breathing. She taught us to breathe slowly and deeply, and then to gradually allow each muscle to relax. By the time I left an hour later, I was so relaxed I felt like I had taken a long, luxurious nap.

But it was Dr. Williams who helped me to release my inner pain. Using similar
relaxation techniques, she helped me remember the rapes: how helpless and frightened I had felt, and how I had wanted Eddie to stop.

Dr. Williams
explained it was common for the trauma was buried, so I had to work through it by essentially reliving it. For hours afterward, I felt emotionally raw and vulnerable, just as I had all those years ago. But by the next day I felt a little better and by the day after that, I could feel myself getting stronger.

Dr. Williams said she was certain I had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and offered to see me on an outpatient basis. But I needed to think about it, because going back into such pain was, by far, the hardest thing I had done during my stay.

The day I was discharged, everyone wished me the best and I felt like I was leaving family behind. As I left the hospital, I took a deep breath and stepped out into the bright sunshine. The warmth touched my face and infus
ed me with hope for whatever was ahead, and I felt a sense of freedom I had never experienced before.

On the way home, I thought of the big old house where we had once lived together as a sad, broken family, and wondered what was next. Whatever it was, it was going to be better. I knew that. I didn’t know how, but I knew that much, at least. I was convinced it would be better. Our future was going to be nothing like our past. I had gone from being a passive victim of abuse and rape, to facing death that day I fell apart on the bathroom floor, to recognizing I have an abundance to give to the world around me. Yes, our life as a family was going to be very different.

I went toward the house, my children, and our future…certain it would be a life full of promise and possibilities.

Finally.

Later that night, I began tucking the kids into bed. I loved that time of the day, when they had toothpaste breath and warm cheeks waiting to be kissed. “Good night, I love you. Sweet dreams.”

As I was leaving, Slade called out, “Don’t let the
bug bites bite you.”

I smiled
at his childish rendition of the saying as I walked down the stairs.

They’re the reason my life is meaningful
.

And I knew i
t was a real smile, one that came from within, unlike those I once pasted there while playing out my masquerade.

The kids had not left me alone for a minute the entire day. We celebrated with a party. A welcome home party for mom, they had said, complete with cake and ice cream.

I went into the bathroom—the same small room where I had planned to end all our lives—and looked into the mirror. The woman standing before me wasn’t a stranger exactly, but we were definitely getting to know each other better. And I liked her, I really did!

But if I peered a little deeper, I could see signs of someone else who had once stood there, looking at her reflection. In many ways, that woman had been afraid of her own shadow. In other ways, she had been more courageous than many women are, or can be. That woman—the one who used to be me—was slowly becoming a distant memory.

A few minutes later, I walked into the living room and curled up on the sofa, a cup of tea in one hand and my discharge papers in the other. Looking into the mirror and thinking about my hospital stay had reminded me of that day in Dr. Towson’s office in 1986.

At the tender age of twenty-two, with four small children in my care
, part of me had desperately wanted my family doctor to give me something for my depression. But I didn’t really advocate for myself. I had been too afraid of being locked away in a place with people wearing starched uniforms and dispensing purple pills, to tell him the truth about just how depressed I was. If I had known how much good would come from my two-week hospital stay, I would have been admitted years ago.

It was amazing that I felt better, that I
was
better.

I wanted to read the words, one more time, just so I could see them for myself.

I took a deep breath and started reading aloud: “The patient denies any further suicidal ideation or feelings of hopelessness/helplessness. In fact she has actively engaged in treatment and has demonstrated leadership qualities on the unit…depressive symptoms have resolved.”

I smiled as I sipped my tea
.

I’m a leader

I had never seen that in myself before, but if so, maybe I could help other women whose lives were as chaotic and confused as my own had been.

But how? Even before the thought was formed, I knew
. I would write about it, for my column. What better way to help people realize being ill—or seeking help—is nothing to be ashamed of? That it’s only a stigma as long as they allow it to be.