River of Time

by Naomi Judd

  I only escaped when he went into the kitchen to shoot up another vial of heroin. He overdid the dosage and passed out. I ran to Nancy’s apartment and pounded on the door. She saw my bruised and battered face and torn clothing and wouldn’t let me stay. She was afraid he had followed me there and would pick up where he left off, beating her, too. I knew she felt badly about it, but truthfully, she had warned me about him from the start. I should have listened.

  I gathered up my two sleepy little girls and drove to a nearby motel in West Hollywood. I had no money or identification with me. The kind night clerk could see that I was in bad shape and afraid for my life and gave me a key to one of the smaller rooms, where the girls and I huddled together in one full-sized bed. They had no idea what I had been through or why I couldn’t stop trembling. After the girls were asleep, I walked the two blocks to the West Hollywood sheriff’s station. A kind sheriff named Al, who had become a friend to my girls and me after I met him earlier in the year, was there. I reported the rape and assault. He looked up my attacker in his files, made a few phone calls, and found out he had a long police record and convictions in Oklahoma. Al offered to take me to a hospital, but I had to go back to be with my daughters. Other policemen went to my home, but found it empty.

  The next day, I had no choice but to go to my job as a receptionist. I couldn’t afford to lose a day of pay. I was barely getting by. I dropped the girls off at their schools and drove by the house to see if it was still safe to go in for clean clothes. His car wasn’t anywhere to be seen, so I dashed inside to wash my face and put foundation powder over the bruise near my left eye. I didn’t have time to pick up the mess left behind, including my destroyed sense of safety, which I would carry with me after the rape no matter where I went. I had to put my actions on automatic pilot. I had to go to work. I had to make enough money for my daughters to have food, clothing, and health care. My own physical and mental well-being was not even on the list of priorities.

  I couldn’t take the time to get myself much-needed help; that had become the story of my life. There were no mental health services or shelters for battered women that I knew of. I was alone and voiceless, once again.

  I couldn’t tell anyone about this brutal rape, so I pushed the horrible event out of my mind as I devised the plan to get my girls and myself out of Los Angeles. Al was concerned and warned me that my attacker, who I sensed was stalking me daily, might try to kill me if I didn’t leave town. I knew he was right.

  As soon as I could, and though I had very little money and no family support, I escaped with my daughters to live in a remote hunting and fishing cabin at the end of Daniel Boone road outside of Lexington, Kentucky, and enrolled in my first year of nursing school. The harassment didn’t stop, as he continued to send threatening letters to my mother’s house for years after, trying to locate me.

  But now, forty-five years later, while going through EMDR therapy, it all came back to life in vivid and horrifying high definition.

  Every unresolved and unexpressed emotion of that trauma remained buried in my nervous system. I thought I had covered it well with denial, but it was all still there. More than the physical damage and pain of the rape, I had been carrying the shame and self-blame of this crisis for my entire adult life. Because I had no one to turn to when it happened, it became a dark secret and a source of gut-wrenching amount of guilt that I had exposed my children to a criminal. It was the 1970s and if a woman was sexually assaulted there was a high chance of her being judged, stigmatized, and blamed. In addition, police apathy toward women who reported rape was at an all-time high. Even today, 6 percent of women who don’t report being raped say it was from fear of having the police not believe them.

  During my time at PCS, with the help of the therapists, I gained an understanding of how past emotional and physical traumas can go relatively unnoticed for years, especially when you are completely involved with your work, your kids, and staying safe and healthy. When I was in my twenties and thirties, I would drop from exhaustion into bed and sleep, without even dreaming, through the four or five hours I had before the alarm went off. I was exhausted in mind and body from working long hours, attending nursing school, trying to keep up whatever meager living arrangements we had, taking care of the girls, and squeezing in one or two hours to study. There was no time for self-reflection. I had no idea there was such a thing as therapy.

  When things slow down a bit and you have time to yourself, the disturbing symptoms of past traumas arise from the subconscious. As uncomfortable as it is, there is great healing value in looking at every possible source of traumatic experience in your past. I can testify that it’s not subtle or easy. I had learned to run the obstacle course of my psyche over the years, never slowing down to remove the obstacles instead of jumping over or going around them.

  The most healing benefit of doing intensive therapy in the program at PCS was having my personal feelings finally validated by their therapists and staff. It’s so important to be able to verbalize feelings and memories to someone who is neutral and trained in dealing with trauma. I felt I was in a safe environment where I could speak freely without censoring myself to protect the feelings of family or friends. It was a relief to talk to a therapist who could guide me, and who truly understood how seriously frightening it is to be encased in depression and anxiety that you can’t control.

  I was a creative and expressive child born into a family that couldn’t acknowledge and accept any show of vulnerability. I was shut down every time I had even the smallest expression of longing for family warmth. As a child, I always longed to celebrate special occasions or family traditions, anything to make our very routine home life more interesting or special. Mother owned one decorative tablecloth that we would use only on holidays. The tablecloth made our everyday dinnerware seem a bit more special.

  One Thanksgiving, when I was about twelve years old, I offered up this suggestion as we gathered for dinner: “Why don’t we go around the table and say what we are each grateful for.” My idea met with blank stares from both my parents and my siblings. Then Daddy blandly wondered out loud, “Why would we do that?” He put a forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth and everyone else followed his lead, eating in silence. I understood that matters of the heart were not to be discussed. It was a message I never forgot.

  When I was first at PCS and the therapists were describing the Trauma Egg and how to recall specific childhood traumas, the initial thought that went through my head was, Why in the world would I do that? It was a question permanently burned into the part of me that feels I have very few people to trust. If, at age twelve, I couldn’t share what I was grateful for with the people who supposedly loved me, how could I possibly share my hurts and sorrows with strangers? I would have to learn to trust again. It would be a bridge I needed to cross for my own self-awareness and peace of mind. The alternative was finding a bridge to jump from.

  None of it was easy. At the end of each week I would want to go home to Tennessee. I was tired of delving into my past, even though I had only processed the first few decades of my life. The therapists at PCS pleaded with me to stay, reminding me: “How do you think you got here? Panic disorder is destroying your life and you’re really not out of the woods yet.”

  At the end of the fourth week, I convinced myself that I was stable enough to get back to real life. I will process the rest of the trauma and emotions on my own, I promised the caring staff. I guess that’s like saying to a surgeon, when you’re the patient under anesthesia, “Thanks, I’ll stitch myself closed.” It doesn’t work that way. All wounds must heal from the inside out. Wounds that haven’t been completely cleaned out are prone to infection, more pain guaranteed.

  Chapter 12

  The Last Dirty Secret

  There is no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face,” author Ben Williams once said, a line often quoted by dog lovers around the world. If only the joy my dogs expressed at my homecoming and the happiness I had
at reuniting with them after two months away could have continued endlessly, I would have been healed forever. I had missed them so much.

  Dogs display an unconditional love that has no boundaries. Our pets can sense the energy depletion when you’re struggling with physical or emotional issues and they try with their natural empathy to help us heal ourselves. That’s why therapy dogs are so popular in hospitals, rehabs, and even hospice as a source of deep comfort. My rescue dog, Maudie, will lie on top of me if I’m upset or scared.

  I’d longed for the privacy and peace of my own home. I didn’t want to attend any more group therapy sessions or dredge up more experiences of my past. I ached to return to my cozy kitchen couch and be mentally consumed in true crime TV shows or more reruns of Law & Order. I successfully ignored my intuition, which whispered persistently, “You can’t escape the repressed emotion buried deep within your core. It will erupt sooner or later.”

  But I was going to try like hell to escape it all. I steeled myself to win against this debilitating foe, determined to drive my depression and anxiety out of my mind.

  The peace at Peaceful Valley was temporary. One morning, not long after I came home, we received a phone call from our financial auditors and our law firm. My lawyer regretted to inform me that it was obvious that a previous business associate we had worked with had managed to pilfer $3 million from our income in royalties and fees over the course of a number of years. I had always made the decisions on how to handle the Judds’ career income. Wynonna never asked about finances and if I tried to include her in the process she would say that all she wanted to do was sing. She was young, but that’s the time when it’s good to get into the habit of knowing what’s going on in your money world.

  It’s an age-old story about performers and slick business partners who take them to the cleaners; I never thought it would happen to me. Usually, when this kind of story breaks in public, people shake their heads and wonder, How did they let that happen?

  When you’re a performing artist, you have to trust other people to help you manage all the elements of your career because your income is from many different sources. Unfortunately, I trusted the wrong guy. Going from abject poverty in the 1970s to making lots and lots of money in the 1980s was an unbelievable dream come true. I appreciated every fan who bought a concert ticket and every record sold. I took nothing for granted.

  I almost collapsed on the floor after hearing that I had been scammed so badly. Larry had to manage the rest of the call, during which the lawyer wanted to know if I would press charges. He said I could have this immoral cheat imprisoned for eight to ten years. We told him we would get back to him soon.

  Once it was known among those who work with me, people came out of the woodwork to tell me of their suspicions all along. Even Larry admitted that he had a “bad feeling” about him. As I understand it, I didn’t pick up on the clues because he put on such a good show of professionalism when I was around.

  Larry and I had an intense talk about how to proceed with this disastrous new information. I was devastated and probably should have been furious, but in my depression I could barely stand to think about the effort it would take to prosecute him. I couldn’t face what it would mean to have to dig up so many facts and round up witnesses. The lawyers said that the court system could take years. I had never used a lawyer for anything other than to look over my entertainment deals. I had never been to court, even for a traffic ticket, because I’ve never had one.

  Larry understood my position completely. We decided to let it go. However, I did have the message delivered to the perpetrator, loud and clear, that I knew of his thievery and could put him away for ten years. I wanted him to be constantly looking over his shoulder.

  After being punched in the gut by this news, my panic attacks came raging back in full. I couldn’t lie flat in bed because it felt like a suffocating coffin. At first I propped my head and shoulders up with many pillows, but then Larry decided to order one of those reclining beds that can be adjusted to elevate your head or feet, but it only brought a little relief. When my exhausted brain finally relaxed enough to doze off I would suddenly gasp as if I couldn’t catch my breath. The fright of feeling as though I couldn’t take a deep, natural breath would bring on a panic attack in full. I began to spend three or four hours pacing the hallways once more. I cleaned out and organized every drawer in the house. I took everything out of the kitchen cabinets and cleaned the shelves.

  I also found myself a prisoner to a new bothersome phobia: fear of the dark, nyctophobia. I had to have the bathroom light left on all night so I could see everything in the bedroom. I didn’t want to be left alone at night, ever.

  Each panic attack would crash over me, bringing increasing shortness of breath, tingling and numb arms and sometimes legs, flushed skin, cold sweat, a feeling of being physically choked, and surge after surge of adrenaline through my veins. The despair of feeling that this level of anxiety could be with me for the rest of my life was profound, even beyond tears. Anxiety at that level impairs your judgment of what is reality and what is not. I couldn’t think clearly, sometimes for hours and hours on end.

  It was during a particularly harsh night of internal terror when I remembered that I had stashed Klonopin in secret places around the house before I was hospitalized in the psych unit at Vanderbilt. It suddenly seemed like a lifeline as I was being pulled under by my panic disorder. I found a packet, hidden out of Larry’s sight, and took one. My body and mind became more relaxed, as if I had spent the day in physical exertion and could now sit down on a sandy beach and watch the waves come in. My blood pressure became consistent and my throat relaxed enough for me to be able to breathe deeply. I didn’t even care what extremes I had been through to get the drugs out of my system. I only wanted relief. Klonopin gave me a feeling of mindless calm, and I questioned why I ever needed to be off of it.

  As fall rapidly approached, bringing shorter days and gray skies, I had a harder time rallying the enthusiasm I had had about recovering on my own when I left Scottsdale. Larry made sure my “Happy Lights” were turned on in the kitchen before I had a cup of coffee every morning. I had already owned one Happy Light for a few years, since I had already been diagnosed with seasonal affective disorder, or “wintertime blues.”

  Happy Lights are full-spectrum light boards that replicate the effects of daylight and are supposed to recalibrate the body’s natural cycles. People who use the lamps have reported an increase in energy and focus and an improved mood. Larry ordered two more lamps to add to the kitchen counter, hoping that the light would improve my emotional state. I don’t know how I would have managed without them as the fall turned into a foggy swamp of thick, gray days where the sun retreated for weeks on end. I have recommended them to all of my friends who live in overcast parts of the country.

  Ashley would come by to see me almost every afternoon that she was in town. She would find me, in my usual spot, under a blanket, with my dogs, on the kitchen couch. I could see that my long-running depression and anxiety were having an effect on my daughter. She had never experienced a panic attack and tried hard to understand what I was going through. I knew Ashley would never be someone who would tell me to “get over it,” because she has walked her own path through a long-standing depression she has been able to rise above. She gives me hope for my own ability to overcome the family illness.

  In 2006 she underwent almost six weeks of treatment for depression. As Ashley told Matt Lauer on the Today show, “I’m very happy to talk about it because, for me, when I talk about it, it helps me to reduce my own shame. I’ve been so blessed with finding a solution that how dare I not share that solution with others that face challenges? There’s still a lot of stigma and taboo around something that’s perceived as a mental illness.”

  I was now feeling the “shame” my daughter had revealed years before and had talked about on TV shows and in print media. I wanted to be able to function as myself again, but I had lost trust in my o
wn reactions and was concerned about being in public, where I might embarrass myself. My reputation of being a person who gives comfort and hope to anyone struggling with an illness was at stake. When a person has a visible physical disability, such as a missing limb, cerebral palsy, or blindness, people react in ways that accommodate the person, making certain she is taken care of and not left to fend for herself. No one can “see” your depression or anxiety, so people expect you to function normally, when the reality is that normal functioning is not possible.

  Ashley knew that going to a restaurant or being in a social situation would be hard on me, but she was still on a daily mission to get me off the kitchen couch. She would bundle me into my long coat and make me go outside for fresh air. After we had walked around the meadow a couple of times we would sit under the giant oak tree while she held my hand. Ashley has always found a sense of God in nature and appreciates any opportunity to combine physical exercise with a beautiful natural setting. She would regale me with tales of her experiences hiking in the Smoky Mountains or an intensive yoga retreat in the piney coastal mountains of Big Sur, California, anything to connect me to real-life moments.

  I would listen intently, but I couldn’t imagine how I would be able to enjoy life that much ever again.

  I’m grateful Ashley is such a free spirit and open to new experiences. From the time she could understand my words, I’ve told her she’s special and can do anything. She believed me, and I like to think that has helped shape her life. Ashley recently got her master’s degree in global economics from Harvard and is now at the University of California, Berkeley, studying for her PhD.

  I wasn’t sure if Wynonna was aware that I hadn’t been home for two months. Ashley never let her know. Through therapy, Ashley has developed and maintains excellent boundaries. She chooses to not get involved in my relationship with Wy, and I respect her for that. I didn’t tell Wy about being hospitalized because I felt in my bones that if she knew the extent of my depression and panic disorder and the treatments I was undergoing it would affect her, too. She’s as impressionable and emotional as I am. I didn’t want her to start feeling a symbiotic panic or depression.