Trying to get help from my mother was completely hopeless. By this time she was hearing voices almost all the time and could barely bathe herself. I knew that my mother had no right to demand my complicity—she was the adult, the parent—and yet it was crystal clear that she was incapable of protecting me.
My mother told me that I could handle the molestations because I was an “old soul.” She said I was a soul who had lived many lives in many places, endured many things, and would continue on. I almost felt as if people would be able to see it when they looked at me, all that pain, all that time, all those centuries of living and dying locked behind my child’s eyes.
But no one seemed to notice.
And all the while I was sleeping at night with a knife under my pillow, scared to death that that disgusting old man would rape me again, I kept winning academic and sports awards at school. Talk about a split reality.
Starting when I was really young, I had these secret little worlds that I would escape to. I would imagine myself as different people with complex personalities. I saw myself as a warrior, protected by the wind and the sky.
Even when I was little and curled up under the covers and would hear him come in and smell the cigarettes and beer on his breath and in his dirty, smelly clothes, and know what was coming next, I would retreat to my little world of cleanness and perfection and keep myself safe.
I would pretend to be asleep—he didn’t care—and would invent a new fantasy world each time. By the time he finished with me, I could fall asleep peacefully because I was no longer a scared little girl in a rundown trailer; I was a princess on an island, a warrior queen, a waif turned into a strong beauty. I was in control.
I would transport myself to beautiful places. I had a friend who lived in a beautiful house and when I’d go over there, I would pore over the magazines and catalogs I found lying around in the living room. That’s why my fantasy houses were always so beautiful. They would have sparkling clean floors and windows, beautiful curtains swaying in the breeze, fresh flowers, clean rugs.
Sometimes I would imagine myself in a garden full of lilacs, honeysuckle, mimosas, peonies, orchids, roses, magnolias. I’d never actually seen magnolias, but I loved the word and would roll it around in my mind. I imagined how magnolias looked and smelled. What I thought about didn’t matter. As long as it kept my brain engaged.
I would also transport myself to the places I read about in books, changing them if I didn’t like certain parts, adding extra bits to keep my mind engaged. I loved reading about horses, and I liked to imagine myself on an island with no one else around, no cars or streets or stores or schools, just a big house full of white things, and open windows and horses outside on the grass. Or I would be in a cozy cabin in the woods having to fend for myself. Of course, I had built the cabin myself. I’d have Herculean powers, and I would be able to chop down trees too. I’d pick wild strawberries and catch fish in a stream for food. I made up fairylands and mythical landscapes.
When my brain ran out of fantasy material, or just refused to go that far away, I would picture words in my head: L-I-L-A-C B-U-S-H-E-S. Then I’d count the letters and spaces in the words and picture them being slammed out by a typewriter’s keys. Any time I had an empty moment that could be filled with something painful, I would take words, phrases from television ads, and entire sentences, and count, count, count, count.
After I would hear his footsteps leave my room, I would keep counting until I fell asleep. Even now, at twenty-seven, I can retreat to some better, safer place in my mind if I need to. And sometimes my fantasy has me going back to that scared little girl huddled in the night and putting my arms around her and holding her and telling her she’ll be all right.
My fantasy worlds saved me, there is no doubt in my mind. I was the angel keeping myself alive.
MY THOUGHTS
It is clear that Zinnia kept herself alive spiritually and physically by using her brain and her imagination. When she moved out and went off to college, everything fell apart—and everything came together. She suddenly had clarity about the abuse. It took moving away and being on her own for that to happen. That’s when she could afford to feel. And, once she was no longer on autopilot, once she didn’t have to keep it all together just to make it through the day, she realized how truly horrendous her experience had been. And that is when and why she made a suicide attempt.
This is so common—that girls have some sort of breakdown or shatter emotionally after they leave the abusive home. While they’re still living under the same roof with their abuser, they simply can’t afford to fully feel or to process what’s happening. But after they leave and can let down their guard, they fall apart.
This is also often the time when girls come to see me, when they are out of imminent danger and can begin to process their abuse.
LILY
When I met Lily, she was eighteen, living on her own, and working full time. Lily is a beautiful Afro-Trinidadian woman from a culture where being gay was not readily accepted. She said she was in love with her partner, a young woman of twenty. They had a good sexual connection that was not at all threatening to Lily, but she was not able to be intimate with her partner emotionally and wanted to get to the bottom of this problem. She was in a loving, supportive relationship, but she was terrified. Lily survived abuse from the age of seven through fifteen at the hands of her biological uncle and cousin.
Lily talked about being certain that she was gay but still going out to bars and cruising guys. She wanted closeness in her relationship, but she kept pulling away. Lily had never shared with anyone that she was molested throughout her childhood and young adolescence. She guarded her secret fiercely, until one day she broke down and confided in a good friend. This good friend happened to be one of my clients, so she brought Lily in to see me.
During the years of abuse, Lily often inhabited an elaborate fantasy world with very specific details. She could spend hours upon hours in this world. In Lily’s world she was the most wonderful, interesting, diversified superhero you could ever imagine. In the “real” world, of course, she was a frightened little girl with no power. When I met Lily, she knew that her fantasy world had saved her, but she also knew it was time to join the “real” world.
I have worked with Lily for two years now. She still retreats to her fantasy world when she needs to, and she has done some amazing healing, too. She is a member in good standing of our world, and our world is better for having young women like Lily in it.
LILY’S STORY
A Superhero Beyond Superheroes
Ever since I can remember, I have loved my imagination. As a child I loved to spend hours alone in my room, where I could escape into my own little world of dolls and books and colors and safety. I would make little dollhouses out of shoeboxes and streets out of colored paper.
I remember the first time I was molested. I was about ten years old and was alone in my room working on one of my creations. My teenage cousin came in to say good night before he went home for the evening. He came over to me and kissed me, and then he put his hand down my shirt and squeezed and grinned at me. It felt weird, but I liked this cousin and I just let it go.
My mom was working two jobs. My parents had divorced when I was two, and I don’t really remember my father. He left the country and went back to Trinidad, where we were all from. There were always relatives in and out of our house, and lots of different people were left in charge of my care. This particular male cousin used to have me sit on his lap while we watched TV. At some point he started putting his hands down my shirt and pants. I would try to wiggle away, but he would tell me that this is what cousins did. He told me it was my fault he was doing it and that my mother would only get mad if I told her.
I’m not sure why I didn’t tell my mom—probably because I didn’t see her much. She was usually sleeping when I left for school and gone when I returned home. I also believed she would blame me. My mother was also a really devout Christian and always sa
id that sex was dirty and I’d better stay away from it. At the same time, she was very subservient to the priests and to any man, my uncle being one of them. So, whenever relatives were looking after me, I would just try to spend as much time as possible alone in my room.
When I was around twelve, my cousin’s dad, my uncle, forced oral sex on me. That began the abuse I suffered at the hands of my uncle and cousin.
My uncle would instruct my cousin to do things to me while he watched, then my uncle took his turn all the while making it clear that I had no options. They told me that they would tell my mother that I was coming onto them, that I was wearing sexy clothes when my mother was out of the house. They also threatened violence against me if I did not comply, and they would send me back to Trinidad. I was terrified. My uncle and cousin went right on abusing me until I was fifteen and had the physical strength and the guts to get them to stop. I snapped, I started beating up my uncle, and I was stronger than I knew, stronger than they knew. Until then, their threats that I would be sent back to Trinidad were enough to keep me silent. But I felt like a used rag doll, and I was also feeling suicidal, so I felt that I had to stop them. Turns out that when I did, they actually left me alone.
During the abuse I created a world where I was strong and brave and could fight off anyone. I made up different names for myself. Sometimes I was Truth, sometimes I was Victory, but I always killed the bad guys.
In this world of mine, I did all sorts of things that a real person couldn’t possibly do. In my fantasy world people liked and respected me for my character, not my looks. I was skinny, not too tall, attractive but not beautiful. I was attractive in a way that people wouldn’t necessarily notice at first, but I would become more beautiful as they got to know me.
In “real life,” I was serious, well behaved, and quiet—but a strong kind of quiet. The fantasy me could be really funny, the kind of funny that everyone loves to be around. I had a very sharp tongue. I was also very mysterious. I loved that there were many things about me that people didn’t know. For example, in my fantasies I was this amazing singer. I could sing opera, blues, and jazz. I could sing like Bessie Smith and Billie Holiday and Aretha Franklin. I knew everything there was to know about music. People would come to me from all over the world with questions about music, and I would gladly give them the answers.
I could also fight very well. I was an expert boxer, and I had the highest belt in the martial arts. I knew how to use a gun and had incredible aim. I think I got this from cowboy movies such as Rio Bravo, which I loved. I had a great love for animals, and I could communicate with them. I could speak dog language, kitty language, bird language, monkey language. I knew what these animals needed from me. And naturally that was almost always to save them from some cruel human who wanted to hurt them in some way. Of course, I always succeeded.
In my world, I could predict the weather. I knew what people were thinking before they did. I was all powerful. I was able to take care of myself and anyone else who needed my help.
I also created this school in my mind, and that’s where most of the fantasies took place. I worked in the school and ran it behind the scenes. There were other teachers and students, all of whom had names and personalities. There were classrooms and assemblies in the auditorium and everything. Whenever a child needed help, if they were hurt or hungry, they were sent to me. I helped them, I brought them back to health; I entertained them and made them happy.
As I got older, the stories I made up became more elaborate; my powers grew. Sometimes I would be called away from the school because I would be needed somewhere in the world. If there were cornfields on fire in Mexico, I would be called there. I would fly off and put out the fires. I would put up tents for the people who were displaced and arrange for airplanes to drop food and water. I would rebuild their fire-ravaged towns and cities. And then I would go on to my next adventure. People were always thanking me and telling me how much they loved me and appreciated me. That really made me feel good inside.
I would get ideas from places I had seen on TV or that I had been to. For instance, the school had a large wooden spiral staircase with ornate carvings of cherubs, just like the one I had seen at a mansion we once visited on a field trip. The wood was maple and smelled like the outdoors. The floors were shiny marble with hairline designs of deep black. I could imagine the sound of the children’s footsteps on the marble. There were paintings on the ceiling. The paintings were like Michelangelo’s, and were of beautiful, muscular bodies.
Sometimes I would memorize the bone structure of one of the figures in the paintings on the ceiling. Sometimes I would imagine how some of the people in my world walked or ran. I would imagine them running in slow motion. I would see the hair on their heads move with the breeze, I would picture the minute details of their expressions.
I lived in this fantasy world much of the time, though I could always bring myself back to “reality” if I had to. When I graduated from high school and moved out and began to support myself, I was able to be in the “real” world more and more. But even now when I have bad memories of my cousin or uncle, I find myself becoming Victory swooping down and catching a falling baby in midair, bringing her to safety. I know my fantasy world saved me, and it also made me strong enough in “real” life.
MY THOUGHTS
Like so many girls, Lily and Zinnia both figured out ways to stay whole while their molesters were raping them. They know that their fantasy worlds saved them. They see their characters as their saviors. They know that they saved themselves, perhaps not in body but in spirit.
Because Lily could not save herself from her cousin or her uncle, she saved hundreds of children and villages. Because she could not have a voice during her rapes, she imagined herself singing as well as any blues singer. Because she could not get away, she could fly and scoop up falling children. I learned through Lily that all girls are superheroes during and after their molestations. You are the superhero—saving yourself. And you deserve credit for getting through however you can.
Because Zinnia lived in a dirty, rundown trailer, she was able to build a beautiful home in the woods that was clean and fresh and beautiful. You see, that’s what girls do. They find places to go to, worlds to discover, plants to count, lyrics to memorize, mathematical problems to solve, people to save, because they are resourceful and resilient and courageous.
Don’t let anyone ever tell you that you were crazy for leaving your body. Just know that you were taking care of yourself. Don’t let anyone tell you this is denial. It is survival. When we’re so unsafe, we have to create our own safety. Lily told me that sometimes at night she can’t sleep and the memories come back. When that happens, she just puts on her superhero cloak and saves a hurting child, and soon she is asleep and dreaming sweet dreams.
PART THREE
OPENING PANDORA’S BOX: GIRLS TELL THEIR STORIES
CHAPTER 7
THE DEEPEST WOUND
Father-Daughter Incest (Coral’s Story, Garnet’s Story)
The little girl in me died
the moment he forced himself inside.
—an eighteen-year-old survivor of incest
As Coral spoke, her eyes were dead, her voice was monotone. It was as if she were telling me of some far-off experience that she had watched from the sidelines rather than the experience of being sexually molested by her father from the time she was twelve until she turned eighteen. Twenty-two years old, Coral sat in my office and told me about the time when she was fifteen and her father brought her into his office library before dinner, opened his pants, and pushed her head to him. After he climaxed and wiped himself off, Coral washed her face, and they went around the block to their home and sat down to dinner with Coral’s mother. What was so chilling was not just that her father was abusing her but that the abuse was so thoroughly integrated into Coral’s family life.
Coral is one of the many courageous young women who have come to my private practice through an underground netw
ork of sexual-abuse survivors. What Coral experienced—for a period of six years—was incest.
WHAT IS INCEST?
What, exactly, is incest? Incest is forced sexual contact with a family member. As with all sexual abuse, incest is a sexualized relationship between two people where one has the power to coerce and the other does not. Some incestuous behavior involves touch, some does not; it can be a one-time experience or go on for many years. Being forced to engage in unwanted genital touching or fondling, being made to look at a relative’s private parts or to show yours, being asked to pose nude for photos, or being penetrated—all these acts violate the boundary between adult and child, or child and child.
Father, stepfather, brother, stepbrother, uncle, cousin, foster father, even a mother—all can be perpetrators of incest. Even a sexual experience with a close family friend can have some of the same effects as incest. Whenever someone you trust as “family” violates you in this way, it’s incest. Zinnia and Lily both found ways to mentally escape their incest. You will read many examples of girls mentally escaping incest through dissociation.
One sixteen-year-old incest survivor described her experience like this: “I see him walk toward me and try to think of an escape, but there is no safe place and now it is too late. As he reaches out for me I simply fall to the floor, which is no longer strong enough to hold me up.”
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