We talked on the telephone last night. My mother and I talk on the phone two or three times a week. I find that she reminisces more and more. She talks about her cousins and aunts, her grandmother, her sisters and adopted brothers, and invariably the conversation turns to her father, my grandfather.
The things she mentions are horrendous, yet she is very matter-of-fact and there is no emotion. It is a sort of wistful remembering of the good and the bad thrown in together, but mostly it is about when she was in her teens, and from there we usually end up with my grandfather.
Three times in the past two years she has mentioned coming home one day when she was fourteen or so, and finding him sexually assault-ing her old grandmother. The first time, she said: “I walked in and there they were engaged in oral sex. It seemed to me that this was consensual sex on the part of my grandmother.”
I asked if she thought that, at eighty-seven, her grandmother could possibly be acquiescing to this kind of activity. She answered that she was not sure. Another time she had said, “I came in from grocery shopping and there they were — so I went right back out for an hour and came back later, and it was as if nothing had happened.” Then last night, she merely said, “I walked into the house and saw something and just went out again.”
She doesn’t remember that, a long time ago, when she was in her late forties and drinking heavily, she had mentioned coming home to find her father raping her poor old grandmother. She had said: “There he was thumping her violently, as she sat in the chair with her tiny, skinny old body jerking up and down, her face horribly contorted with pain.” Then she had burst into tears. She was terribly drunk, and I said nothing. Not that I didn’t believe her, it was simply that I was emotionally dead. This wasn’t the first time she had said such things to me when she was in that state. There was the time she’d told me I was illegitimate.
As I had done over and over again, I didn’t say a word of this to her when she was sober. It seemed to me she wouldn’t remember, so why bother?
Now things are different. She is seventy-nine years old; she is sober. She stopped drinking eight years ago. And I guess one could say that her journey is almost over. So it is that she reminisces about the past, and because I have been on a long healing journey of my own, I seem to be able to respond to what she says, to react in a more loving manner. I ask questions. I make a comment here or there. Gentle questions. Gentle comments. I am very careful, I do not wish to hurt her. I love her very dearly.
Yesterday, she was the one who phoned, maybe out of a need to talk about these things, because it didn’t take long for the conversation to turn to Grandfather. She mentioned that her cousin who worked in a brothel downtown had told her that she had seen him there many times. She told me, and not for the first time, that very late at night she often saw him sneak out of the house to go visit the widow next door. He would use a window that opened onto the porch that connected with their neighbour’s. She mentioned that her sisters had slept with him. She talked about a cousin who had reported to her mother that when she’d been babysat at his house, he had taken her on his lap and had played with her genitals.
In a soft voice, and still with no emotion, she said that, in those days, men who did such things to their children did not go to jail.
They were not arrested. No charges were laid against them. Nothing was done — because nothing was ever said. No one ever talked about these things. She said your father was supposed to be the head of the family. Someone who would set a good example, who would watch over you and protect you, but if your father was like hers was, you didn’t talk about it. Never had she ever told anyone what she knew, what she saw. She talked about the mornings her mother wouldn’t get up to make breakfast, and she had to make breakfast for him. He would force himself on her, kissing her, touching her. She would slap him hard. But always he would do this, morning after morning. She said she told no one. I asked if he had raped her. She said she didn’t remember.
Then she asked the question, point blank, “I’ve been thinking. I was so young then; I didn’t think that he might do these things to his own granddaughter. I left you so often with your grandmother and grandfather. Did he ever touch you? Do you remember him touching you, doing things like that to you?
So there it was, the million dollar question. I was silent for a moment. What was I going to answer?
I thought of one instance that I do remember very clearly. For some reason, I was next door, sleeping at the neighbour’s place. My grandfather had moved in with her after my grandmother passed away. I heard my grandfather coming into the room where I was lying in bed in the dark, but not sleeping. I was maybe eight or nine. I could see him in the doorway. Then I heard Mrs. McConnell say, “Anatole, leave the girl alone and come to bed!” That is the only true memory that I have. As far as I am concerned, everything else is a false memory. I invented everything else.
“Do you remember?”
“Sorry, Mom. I was searching my memory but I don’t remember if he ever did things like that.”
There it was. I’d had my chance, but when it came down to the crunch, I could say nothing. How could I tell her anything when the only memories I have are those I get from Network or from EMDR?
To me they’re not real memories. I don’t wake up every morning with memories of abuse. I don’t have dreams. What could I tell her?
It’s one thing to say that Anatole molested me when I was a small child, but to tell my mother that he believed I deserved punishment because I was illegitimate, that I was fair play because I was born in sin? And the story of torture and sexual abuse? What could I possibly tell her? And I don’t know that this really happened! I don’t believe it could have. I believe I invented the whole story. To hell with Network and EMDR!
Besides, she’s so frail now, and so vulnerable. In the past two years my feelings towards her have gone from anger and resentment to realizing that she, too, has suffered tremendously at Anatole’s hands and she made the best of it. She did the best she could with me and my brother. And, most of all, I have come to see her as a woman of courage, in spite of her alcoholism and irresponsibility. She has earned
my understanding, and she has the right to have a little peace before she, too, passes on.
The conversation continued. I mentioned that maybe she should talk with Aunt Sophie. Sophie is two years older than she, and since Aunt Josephine and Aunt Pauline have passed on, and I thought that maybe if she talked to Aunt Sophie she might find that she, too, had things to say about Anatole. Maybe she, too, had had to fight him off in the morning or at night, or maybe she, too, saw him sneak out at night or do things to their grandmother. Mom shrugged the suggestion off and said she doubted it. We are both very good at hiding our feelings, so we went on to talk about other things for a while, then I told her I loved her very dearly, and we hung up, and then I cried.
I cried for a long time; not just for me, but for her too. I prayed. I prayed, not just for me, but for her too. As for Anatole, he’s long gone.
There’s nothing to say; it is simply not worth it.
I went for an adjustment today. The clearing took me back into that room. Downstairs at the healing centre, the Club was testing some speakers and the loud resonance and vibrations reminded me of the circular saw in the workshop. I saw my hands tied and Anatole pushing my hands towards the saw (which was making a similar loud noise), telling me he would cut off my hands if I said anything to anyone. This time, I couldn’t stop the crying. Terry, the assistant, bless her heart, tried to console me but I simply could not stop crying.
I felt so stupid. I am such a crybaby. What must the others think of me? I hate Network! I hate EMDR! Why am I bothering with either one? I thought there might be healing there, but tonight I think not.
The first time I had asked my mom if Anatole had raped her, she answered, “It happened so long ago. It simply does not matter anymore.” She’s right.
And so I cry some more. I cry for her, I cry for me. I cry for all little children who cry in the night.
April 10, 2001 (NSA Journal after adjustment) Today I felt…I know how to open up. Or to let go. I know I’ve hit this wall of fear and that’s what’s stopping me. I know what is on the other side, but I am very afraid of the pain. Today, I managed to tell
myself that I am safe now. That it is okay. That it was a long time ago.
What I ask is that I don’t just think that I have forgiven my mom, but that I really have. But how does anyone know for sure? If I get over to the other side of that pain, then maybe I will know for sure if I really have forgiven. Today leaves me with the same kind of pain in my neck and in my back, yet that new doc says I did well. Did I?
April 17, 2001 (NSA Journal after adjustment) Today, I felt a little easier, not scared anymore, not worried where it will lead. Much more relaxed. I think I have let go of a lot of anguish and confusion. Things are better concerning Micha. I am okay with the whole thing now and I no longer feel angry or hurt. I am well on the road to being entirely myself. Whatever part of me seemed to be missing has been found. The wounds are healing and the scars are less deep. Feels good. My back still hurts and so does my head. Yet I feel lighter.
May 11, 2001 (NSA Journal after adjustment) Today I felt…I don’t know what I was feeling today, but I know what I was not feeling. No fear. No resistance. No running away.
When the panic comes, now I can breathe into it. I don’t worry whether or not there will be images. I don’t even think of it anymore.
The breathing is easier. I get slightly dizzy, but it is not unpleasant.
Would love to just go to sleep.
May 25, 2001 (NSA Journal after adjustment) Today I felt…Mostly, each adjustment to the neck makes me nauseous. Not terribly, but enough. Surprised that there is still stuff from Micha. I feel relaxed but tired, and my neck hurts some.