Praise for
Raising Myself: A Memoir of Neglect, Shame, and Growing Up Too Soon
“Beverly Engel saved my life by showing me, and millions of others, how to recover from the aftermath of abuse. Now, we get to discover the woman behind the recovery movement. Through her personal story, Beverly illuminates how quickly our innocence can be destroyed by the subtle choices those who are supposed to love us make, and, more important, teaches us how to have hope for a better future.”
—Rhonda Britten, Emmy Award winner, best-selling author of Fearless Living, and founder of Fearless Living
“Beverly writes with poignancy and insight about a horrific childhood that could have broken her spirit. Raising Myself is the remarkable journey of a lost child becoming an empowered young woman. We follow Beverly as she journeys from one mishap to another, searching for herself, searching for love, searching for meaning. The fact that she was successful at maneuvering through the minefield of her childhood is a testament to her courage, strength, and resilience. There is brutal honesty here, but there is also a great deal of hope.”
—Susan Forward, PhD, author of Mothers Who Can’t Love and Toxic Parents
“When we write a coming-of-age memoir, we become the witness to the life of the child we once were, someone who did not have the larger perspective of the writer/narrator. Raising Myself asks the reader to join Beverly Engel as an abused and neglected child, and to see the world through her eyes. The reader is comforted by the knowledge that she will survive and heal, and the book gives hope to those who have been lost.”
—Linda Joy Myers, president of the National Association of Memoir Writers and author of Don’t Call Me Mother, Song of the Plains, and The Power of Memoir
Copyright © 2017 Beverly Engel
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published 2017
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-63152-367-0 pbk
e-ISBN: 978-1-63152-368-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017957726
For information, address:
She Writes Press
1563 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707
She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.
I dedicate this memoir to all my clients, past and present. Your courage and determination have often been my inspiration. Continue to struggle, continue to allow yourself to feel your feelings, and continue to believe that there is a better life ahead for you.
Related Books by Beverly Engel
The Right to Innocence: Healing the Trauma of Childhood Sexual Abuse
Divorcing a Parent
The Emotionally Abused Woman
The Emotionally Abusive Relationship
The Power of Apology: Healing Steps to Transform All Your Relationships
Honor Your Anger: How Transforming your Anger Style Can Change Your Life
Breaking the Cycle of Abuse: How to Move beyond Your Past to Create an Abuse-Free Future
Healing Your Emotional Self: A Powerful Program to Help You Raise Your Self-Esteem, Quiet Your Inner Critic, and Overcome Your Shame
The Nice Girl Syndrome: Stop Being Manipulated and Abused—and Start Standing Up for Yourself
It Wasn’t Your Fault: Freeing Yourself from the Shame of Childhood Abuse with the Power of Self-Compassion
“Shame eats away at the core of who we are.”
—Christine Caine
Beverly at six months
foreword
I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel shame. But I have evidence that there was once a time when I was, in fact, shame free. I have a photograph of me as a little baby, about six months old. In this picture I am happy and smiling, with a twinkle in my eye. In fact, I don’t just look happy; I look radiant and filled with joy.
I have another photo of me at four years old. In this picture I am frowning and I look defiant and lost. The twinkle in my eye has been replaced with a dark, empty look.
What happened to me in those three and a half years? What occurred that had taken away the twinkle in my eyes and the joyous smile on my face and replaced them with darkness, emptiness, and hatred?
The answer: shame. Shame had replaced my innocence, my joy, my exuberance for life. Shame had caused me to build up a wall—a wall of protection and defiance.
The person I was defending myself against? My mother, a woman who was so full of shame herself that she couldn’t help but project it onto me, her unwanted child and the constant reminder of her own shame.
This is the story of how I made my way in the world in spite of my mother’s neglect, unreasonable expectations, and constant criticism; in spite of being sexually abused, first at four years old and then at nine; and in spite of being raped at twelve. It is the story of how I came dangerously close to the edge of becoming a child molester, a criminal, a patient in a mental hospital, and suicide. And it is the story of how I battled my inner demons and struggled to keep my heart open and hold on to my humanity.
In Raising Myself you will see an open, compassionate, and loving child gradually begin to lose her humanity. You will watch as a child who cried and prayed to God to help the person in need each time she heard the siren of an ambulance or fire engine, a child who loved everyone and never saw race or economic status, gradually hardens her heart and builds up a wall around herself.
Most experts tell us that no one survives the devastation of severe childhood trauma unscathed. And many people understand that few, if any, victims of child abuse or neglect escape their trauma without experiencing some kind of addiction— whether it be alcohol or drug abuse, an eating disorder, sexual addiction, or a gambling or shopping addiction. But few know that most victims end up going down one or more of what I call the “six paths of trauma”: 1) addiction (alcohol or drug addiction or an eating disorder) 2) sexual acting out (including promiscuity, prostitution, and/or sexual addiction), 3) mental illness, 4) suicidal ideation, 5) criminal or antisocial behavior, or 6) becoming an abuser or perpetual victim. In Raising Myself, I tell the story of how I ended up starting down all six paths—and pulled myself away from the edge each time.
Specifically, in this memoir I illuminate a problem that is seldom addressed: how and why some victims of child abuse act out against society or become abusive toward others, while others become self-abusive or perpetual victims. As they experience my life through my eyes, readers will be able to observe how the drip, drip, drip of abuse, neglect, and constant shaming wore away at my humanity, gradually causing me to become numb, stop having empathy for others, and think only of my own needs. The insights I offer here will be beneficial to those who went down a similar path, as well as those trying to understand a loved one who took the path of acting out sexually, becoming a criminal, or becoming abusive toward others as a result of childhood trauma.
The overarching issue addressed in the book is shame—how it is created, the damage it does to one’s self-concept and self-esteem. After being neglected and emotionally abused by my mother, branded a liar and a troublemaker, and then sexually abused and raped, I found myself riddled with shame and a basic belief that I was bad, unlovable, and rotten inside. The only way I knew how to survive in the world was to build up a defensive wall to keep myself from being further shamed. In order to stop other kids from bullying me I created a false bra
vado and acted like I didn’t care what they thought. After being sexually abused and raped, I turned my shame into rage and began acting out— against my mother and against society in general.
Instead of becoming a perpetual victim, as many people do with a history such as mine, I did what is called “identifying with the aggressor,” meaning that I denied my victimizations by blaming myself, making excuses for my abusers, and taking on those abusers’ personalities and tendencies. I reenacted my sexual abuse with other children in my neighborhood and almost molested a six-month-old baby I was babysitting. Although I didn’t act on this dark impulse, this was my lowest point. I came to believe that I was as bad as the man who had molested me— that I was the lowest of the low.
After being raped at twelve years old, I began to shoplift. I was angry at my mother. I was angry at all the men who had abused me and at all authority figures. I wanted to lash out—to get back at everyone who had taken advantage of me. After I was finally caught and brought home in a cop car, my mother gave up on me. She wanted nothing more to do with me.
Fortunately, I didn’t give up on myself. I knew there was goodness in me and I struggled to find it, to return to that compassionate child I had once been. I determined to turn my life around, even though I had no guidance from anyone, including my mother. Through solitude and introspection I began to find pieces of myself I had discarded in my attempts to shield myself from further harm.
Even though I often felt like giving up, there was something inside me that kept pushing me forward. I knew there was more to life than the hellhole I found myself in and that there were better people to be found in the world than the degenerate ones I found myself surrounded by. And I knew I needed to keep myself together long enough to escape. I wasn’t going to let that town or its people get me down.
I learned many lessons along the way, and I share them openly with my readers. I hope these “takeaways” will help those of you who have struggled as I did to recover from the debilitating shame that comes with childhood neglect and abuse.
part one
looking for mother
“You don’t know what it’s like to grow up with a mother who never said a positive thing in her life, not about her children or the world, who was always suspicious, always tearing you down and splitting your dreams straight down the seams.”
—Junot Diaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao
chapter 1
When I was three and a half years old, I went looking for my mother. I’d been waiting for her in the babysitter’s backyard, along with about five other kids. I looked up each time the back door opened, as one by one parents came to fetch their children. But she didn’t come.
As time went by, I became more and more anxious. The sun was beginning to set and the afternoon shadows were growing larger and more ominous. Soon I was the last child left playing in the yard. Still my mother didn’t come and didn’t come.
Finally, I decided to ride my tricycle home. I opened the back gate, let myself out, and headed home. I knew it wasn’t too far, and I also knew my way. I had to cross a highway and some railroad tracks to get there, but I was determined.
When I reached the highway, I looked both ways like my mother had taught me and patiently waited for the cars to pass. Then I rode as fast as my legs could pedal to the other side of the highway. Feeling triumphant, I continued on my path.
A few blocks farther on I reached the railroad tracks. I had to push and tug my tricycle over each track, struggling so hard that I fell down several times on the gravel that lined the tracks. But nothing was going to stop me from getting home to my mother.
When I finally made it home, I burst into the house—only to find it hauntingly empty. My mother wasn’t there. Where was she? I’d never been all alone in our little cottage before, and I didn’t like how it felt. It seemed strange and scary. I imagined boogeymen hiding in dark corners and lurking behind the curtains. I went outside and sat in my sandbox, letting the still-warm sand cradle me.
Later, when my mother told others about this incident she told them how she arrived home scared out of her mind to find me nonchalantly playing in my sandbox, as if nothing was wrong. She was infuriated. Here she had been worried sick, and I was oblivious to it all. She saw me as a selfish child who didn’t care about her. She later told me how she beat the daylights out of me for worrying her so much. I don’t remember that part.
It seems we’d just missed each other. She’d been inside the babysitter’s house all along, talking—as she often did—with the women in her life. When she finally decided it was time to come get me, I wasn’t there.
My mother and I would repeat this type of scenario all our lives, me looking for her even though she was physically there, her misunderstanding my behavior and reactions and assuming the worst about me.
Oh, how I loved my mother in those days. I thought she was the grandest lady of them all. With her delicate features and creamy complexion, she looked like the beautiful china dolls I had seen in shop windows. She was a regal woman with silver-highlighted hair piled on top of her head and swept away from her face. She walked with her head held high and her shoulders back, conveying an air of dignity and fine breeding.
Everyone else loved her too. She was quick and articulate, always impressing people with her knowledge and wit. As far back as I can remember, I noticed how people warmed to my mother immediately upon meeting her. Their faces softened, their eyes showed a keen interest, and they smiled broadly—far different from the reactions I seemed to elicit in people. And my mother’s face, in turn, was transformed in the presence of others, her typically tight-lipped mouth softening and turning into a knockout smile. Her eyes sparkled, sometimes with mischief, as she told one funny story after another or laughed contagiously over someone else’s tale.
It always took someone else to bring out the best in my mother. When it was just the two of us she seemed to always be sad, worried, anxious, or tired. I was horribly jealous of the people who made her laugh, and always, always I carried with me the feeling that there was something wrong with me because she never laughed that way around me.
Of all the places on this lush, beautiful earth to grow up in, I ended up being raised in Bakersfield, California, located in the middle of the San Joaquin Valley, two hours north of Los Angeles but millions of miles away, and considered by many to be a “hick town.” It is sizzling hot in the summer, with temperatures as high as 115 degrees, and freezing cold in the winter—not cold enough to produce beautiful, white snow, just enough to freeze the ground into a dirty, slushy mess and numb your nose, lips, hands, and feet if you had to be out in the air for very long.
Bakersfield has a dry, desert-like climate, so the summers aren’t hot and muggy like they are in the South. Instead it’s an intense heat, the kind that takes your breath away when you open the door to leave your air-conditioned house or car, the kind of heat that makes the asphalt soft and the land hard.
As far back as I can remember, I always felt like I didn’t belong in that God-forsaken town. Mostly it was because my mother was so out of place, so different from the people we knew there. The majority of our neighbors were from states like Oklahoma and Arkansas, many having settled in Bakersfield after escaping, like the Joads in The Grapes of Wrath, from the dust storms of the 1930s.
My mother was born and raised in Missouri, and somehow that was supposed to be better than being an “Okie” or “Arkie.” Even though my mother and I were actually poorer than our neighbors—she was a single parent, after all, raising me without a husband to help her—she felt superior to them. On hot summer evenings we’d sit on our little front stoop, trying to cool off from the heat of the day, and she’d look around at our neighborhood and sigh. “Those Okies and Arkies don’t have any manners or pride in themselves,” she’d say. “Look at the way they park their cars on their front lawns. It ruins the whole neighborhood. They act like country bumpkins, walking around bare-footed. And who wants to see some man
’s hairy chest and beer belly all the time?”
My mother hardly ever spoke of her own childhood or her life before I was born, but she often spoke of Missouri: “Poplar Bluff was a beautiful town, full of the loveliest trees you ever saw,” she’d tell me. “In the fall all their leaves turned red and gold and it was the most wondrous sight . . .” Then she’d look around at our little court with its dry lawns and scrawny little trees, and once again she’d sigh.
I spent most of my childhood twisting myself around in order to please my mother, take care of her feelings, or at the very least not upset her. Then I would act out my misery and loneliness when I was away from her. In some ways, she never knew me because I was two different people: the Beverly I was with her and the Beverly I was without her. It seemed I had to be away from her in order to find myself.
When I was around my mother all I could see or feel or hear or smell was her. It was only when I was away from her that I could finally breathe. My eyes would clear and I would see that there was a whole world out there, separate from her. But my relationships with other people were uncomfortable and strained, because I didn’t really know how to interact with them. I only knew how to act in order to get along with my mother.
One of the first significant connections I made in Bakersfield that spring of 1951 was with a woman named Ruby, our landlord. Ruby’s court consisted of four little attached apartments lined up in a row, each with its own small porch, walkway, and yard. At the far end of the court, facing the street, was a larger apartment meant for the caretaker or owner. That’s where Ruby lived with her dog, Muffet, a black cocker spaniel that spent most of its time curled up in the shade of a large oleander bush just outside Ruby’s front door.
Ruby was a bountiful woman in her fifties with wild red hair and an equally wild spirit. Even her name seemed romantic to me. She was what I would later come to think of as a “free spirit.”
Raising Myself Page 1