Laurapenpusher’s Weblog

When we discovered the existence of my sister in 1990 (after Mom had given her up to adoption almost 40 years prior), it didn’t take a mathematician to determine that she was the product of my mother’s relationship with my abuser. My mother had been in a home for unwed mothers during the last trimester of the pregnancy. With the calendar, I also realized I was only five when the abuse occurred. My memory is vivid but only goes so far; after that, my mind took off. “I” disappeared for up to three months or longer.

In 1990, I was still under the impression I was okay; I could handle this new addition to the family. However, we actually found her in 1992, and our scheduled meeting was only a couple of months away. I went into a complete spiral. Panic struck with a vengeance. Would she look like her father? Would I end up re-living the experience every time she and I came into contact? Would I be able to BE a sister? Or will I come back as the ranting Bitch? Realizing I needed help, I called the local rape counseling center. When I got the call back from a volunteer, I couldn’t say any more than “Please don’t hang up.” With that, I sat in the fetal position, tightly clutching a pillow, squeezed into a corner of the living room, and cried in silence, unable to get anything else out of my mouth. Logically, I knew I wasn’t to blame for the abuse, but it had taken all those years for me to come face-to-face with the shame. I was too ashamed to get the words out. The volunteer stayed with me for over an hour, hearing nothing more than my pleading with her not to leave me. I did finally thank her and hung up the phone never having told her what was happening. I got through that night and buried it again.

I have to thank my brother during that time. He did the math, too, and when he came to the same realization I did, he called me just to see how I was handling it. I don’t remember what I told him but having gone through the domestic violence and some level of abuse himself (he also has limited memories), he’s the only one in the family I’ve ever been able to really talk to about it. As a writer, I’ve always felt that if I could get all this garbage out of me, I might be able to open myself up to being more creative. I started a book and am into the 15^th chapter. My brother has been helpful with that as well. We’ve compared memories, from his perspective four years younger, and dates. Adults often think the memories go away, but they’re wrong. My brother was only 1 or 2 years old and there’s a great deal he remembers about that ugly time. Logic and emotion are at odds with each other; emotionally, I’ve always felt guilty because I couldn’t protect my little brother. Logically, I know I couldn’t have prevented his abuse any more than I could my own. I’m so very thankful for having a brother so sensitive to what was happening; I couldn’t have made it this far without his love and his help.

I’ve come to love my sister, and am thankful she wasn’t subjected to the same life we were. She’s an intelligent woman and has the education and degree that should allow me to be open with her as well, maybe even more so. But I can’t talk to her about it. Part of me didn’t ever want her to know at all – she had a good life with her adoptive parents and she needn’t be subjected to the garbage. There’s another part of me – the shame and the blame – that doesn’t want her thinking any less of me. Logically I know she wouldn’t feel that way, and she’s never appeared to be judgmental, but emotionally, I don’t want to take the chance. I don’t think I could stand it if she backed off, thinking I’m totally off my rocker!

When my son was born, I was determined he would never be subjected to that kind of life. I would have literally killed anyone attempting to harm him in any way. I may have done him a disservice by not getting remarried while he was still young though. But domestic violence runs in cycles, as abuse does. I simply didn’t trust my own judgment when it came to relationships with the opposite sex and decided not to allow another man into my life after he was born. Even with casual dating, which was rare, I quit having my date pick me up at home. My son was enamored of any man walking in the door. Then, when my Bitch came out and ripped the man to shreds, leaving him to bleed (figuratively, mind you, deserved or not), my son would be the one hurt by his absence. Instead, I depended on friends’ husbands and family to fill in the male gender role. Now, my son is a grown man, a productive member of society, strong and confident. He’s very good looking, has no problem when it comes to dating and the opposite sex, although he’s pretty reluctant when it comes down to a commitment. I often wonder if that isn’t the side effect of my earlier decisions. I’ve come to the conclusion, maybe in self defense, I don’t know – if he’s slow in commitment, that’s a good thing. I’ll miss being Grandma, but I’d rather he take his time now than to have taken a chance on a husband when he was a child.