Abuser

I wished I had the statistics to quote for you on how many women have suffered childhood sexual abuse in Canada, the United States, and the world. I don’t. I do know there are many; it is hushed up even to ourselves and it affects those abused to the deepest levels of their femininity, for a lifetime.

I am a survivor of child sexual abuse and the abuser was my mother. It is still even today, so hard to say, so hard to admit. It cannot be true, but I have the scars to show for it, as do my sisters. It has left me with a mental illness that cost a heavy price for me through the years, including almost losing my firstborn.

This is Rebecca’s story of birth and part of the healing process I need to experience for giving birth to our second child, expected in four weeks.

Each of my sisters and I are 11 months apart, so the abuse would start when we were about two months old. I strongly suspect my mother was sexually abused by her father, although I will probably never know for sure, as secrecy is so important in our family and hers. I also suspect that this abuse, together with my father’s character and the barbarism of hospital births in the 50’s, contributed to my mother’s manifestation of her illness.

She was pregnant when it started with me and imagined herself to be a doctor with the powers of a doctor. I learned quickly that crying was dangerous to my health and secrecy was paramount.

There had been a child before me, who died in-utero at five months but was not detected until my mother became very ill. What procedures must she have had to go through. In her confused mind, sometimes I was it, sometimes I was me, but I was black inside, stinking and dirty and she was going to show me how much I had hurt her by doing to me whatever was done to her. There began my terror of hospitals, the medical profession, of women, especially pregnant, and of my own body.

When I first realized I was pregnant, a coldness and terror gripped my heart. I had spent years trying to get back on my feet, from teacher burnout and a few major breakdowns, and finally feeling hopeful about my life. Raised a staunch Catholic, abortion was not even a consideration in my mind. I was convinced I could never be a parent and the thought and sight of babies almost made me vomit. My only route at the time, was adoption of the child to be, but oh this was not bureaucratically easy. The doctor said it had to be done through an obstetrician. The obstetrician would not even sit and talk with me until she examined me first. In a blur, I became hysterical when she touched me, with her screaming back, “I’m the doctor and you’ll do what I tell you. You got yourself into this mess, now you have to start acting responsibly.” A psychiatrist tried to convince me of the need for prenatal health, finally with the ultimatum of another committal. I tried again but it also was disastrous. I left town that night.

During that time, I had functioned well at my job teaching. I looked incredibly together. I continued studying part-time on my Masters and no one suspected a thing, except my spouse, who knew and whom I had left in extreme anger.

I felt nothing inside me, no connection, no twitch, nothing, but I agreed with myself on two things: I would eating properly and I wanted a say on the adoptive parents. I had taught and studied for 17 years and knew what makes a happy, healthy child. I had seen many who weren’t. Eating was extremely difficult, as I felt extreme anger towards food, so I supple­mented with lots of vitamins.

I moved to another province, the very end of Canada, and was now convinced my mother was inhabiting my body. I lived every day tolerating her hurting me inside, knowing she was growing like a cancer. I would periodically cut myself all over and if there was blood, I knew I was still there, but over the months I was losing ground. What made me me was in my head and when I started getting more and more confused around 71/2 months, I knew the end of me was near. I planned my suicide, so she would not get final control. It was to be when I went into labour and on the steps of the Emergency door of the hospital, so they could take the baby alive. My intellect told me there would be a baby, but my body and psyche told me there was nothing there but my mother. So I operated on these two planes. The police located me from a wanted list in my eighth month and I was committed again. The designated mental hospital was six hours away, so I was ordered into an ambulance. First the fight – that I had to be carried in and strapped in – I was not sick and I could walk, but no. Then a nurse to sit by me the whole trip asking, “Are you in labour dear?” fretfully smoking by me all the way.

There was no place in the institution for someone who was pregnant, so I was placed in Geriatrics with a gown that, of course, did not fit. I was used to walking about 6 km a day and was now confined to a bed. I peered at plates of fried bologna with french fries and lots of sugary, gooey desserts; they especially ordered milk for me, for the betterment of my health and the baby’s. I was put on an antipsychotic drug, which I must now admit did help. It took away my mother and slowly thoughts of keeping the baby and my capabilities came to the forefront of my brain. A friend flew to visit me and encouraged me to call my spouse, who caught the next plane and stayed with me the next six weeks. We agreed we could make a go of raising a baby (this was Peter’s 4th) and he was positive, kind and supportive. He is a terrific father.

Suddenly now, when we wanted to keep the baby, social services reversed their opinion. I was no longer intelligent, educated or worthy – I was crazy. In fact, I was now looked on as quite the monster, incapable of holding a baby, now that I was talking sense, so to speak. There ensued a legal battle with a large debt for us and even our friends chipped in against social services. To prove my sanity, I had to agree to undergo ultrasounds and amniocentesis. I got through these ordeals because of a technique I developed as a child – I would leave my body. I split myself off, so anything can be done and I am not there.

I was taking care of this baby, but I couldn’t breastfeed. Under no circumstances, the head of the ward arbitrarily decided. He was sure the medication would make it impossible but refused to check. I couldn’t go through a natural delivery because I was mentally unfit and couldn’t possibly be trusted with knowing when I conceived. A cesarean was scheduled and if I was a good girl, I could request a block instead of general anaesthetic.

The highest insult and injury was yet to come. My psychiatrist sheepishly came to me to sign a form that required only my mother’s permission to operate for the cesarean. I was not valid because I was committed and my common law spouse did not have the legal qualifications. Only my mother could give permission to redo her tortures – that way the hospital was legally protected. I am still not over this.

We spent the entire day hanging around the hospital, because emergencies kept cropping up in the O.R. My emotions were numb. No food or water from the night before and I was so damn thirsty. Peter also did not eat or drink, in solidarity. Sometime late in the afternoon an intern came along to ask how I was. Was there anything he could do for us? Our nurse had left to go to the bathroom and I pounced. I told him what medication I was on and how much and asked him to look it up in the texts if I could breastfeed. He came back ten minutes later, saying it was no problem. I thanked him and asked him to write it on my chart.

I got through the cesarean – no feeling in pregnancy and none in birth. I almost lost it when they put in a catheter, but Peter stayed close to my face saying, “Don’t let your mother in here, Wendy. She has no right to be here.” That helped a lot. I was shocked when they said it was a girl. Where did she come from? She was given to Peter, who was beside himself with joy and couldn’t stop talking. My psychiatric nurse, who was with us, kissed, cried and hugged me. She said she was so proud of me that I held it together and that we were a fine couple and she would write the head of the ward commending us. She had not agreed with any of his decisions about me.

I stayed in the maternity hospital five days before having to move back to the mental institution. Rebecca was brought to me very little, even though I did breastfeed. Social services in the hospital would not allow it because they wanted to protect themselves. The head was a bitch, who never smiled and would not listen to us asking for our baby more. We had to have a nurse and two constants present, watching us. The room was somber. Peter and I were exhausted from the stress. When I walked down the hall with the constant, I would see the other women with their babies, balloons, smiles and friends. I had had a baby too but still didn’t fit in with women. My solitary room was quiet and stressful. Peter spent a great deal of time in the nursery. He was always changing Rebecca’s diapers and rocking her in their rocking chair and singing her lullabies. The nurses loved this, but social services was on our case about it. A fly in the ointment – messy.

I was transferred back to the insti­tution and now Rebecca was with me and Peter all day. I could nurse her at will through the day, although between the stress and inconsistency of the days previous my flow fretted me. The head of the ward was furious that I had outwitted his authority and others were constantly talking of supplementing with formula. I knew somehow so instinctively and deeply that I needed to nurse this child in order to bond to her. Peter, Rebecca and I were confined to a small room that only held a chair, dresser and single bed. It was next to the padded room, where the screaming woke Rebecca often. Hospital policy said no babies overnight, so I expressed milk. Peter would leave at 11 pm with the last feeding I could give, go to an elderly friend’s apartment, walk her all night so she wouldn’t cry and come back at 6 am. The staff disapproved of Peter and me lying together on the single bed with Rebecca. We were exhausted from the stress.

This nightmare ended a month after she was born.

We flew home and once I was in the space of my own home. I unwrapped this little girl and looked at her truly for the first time. My milk finally flowed well and the ecstasy of holding, cuddling and nursing this dear infant was with me. We both relaxed and life became simple and delightful! I was not a monster. I was not incapable and I felt a love I had never before experienced. Rebecca is three and a half now and is pure delight. We are amazed at the grace of this child, considering what she went through. I have done a lot of healing in these last years. It is like going through life a second time and this time it is fun.

Our next baby is due within a month. We employed a midwife and will have this baby at home. A truly hard part was when Rebecca asked, as she was looking me over, how she came out of my vagina and I had to explain a cesarean. She was solemn, then sad, and I cried. It was so unfair, but this one will be different and meanwhile Rebecca is a most precious gift. I refuse to let the cycle of abuse continue. I am healing and celebrating my 40th birthday today. I have a hard time reaching out to women but I know I must start.

~ This story first appeared in the Spring 1992 issue of The Compleat Mother.