I was strangled until I was quiet
Monday, July 5, 2010 at 6:32PM 
Today at our camping site my son fell on the edge of the asphalt road and scraped his elbow and right side of his stomach. A few seconds it was quiet, then he cried in loud uncontrollable sobs. My first reaction was to run. I made myself stay. My second reaction was to hit him and yell "Shut up!". I made myself still and mum. My third reaction was to lift him off his feet, call 911, and/or rush him to the hospital. I reached out and hugged him. Each of these reactions were extreme. In fact, any time my kids have hurt themselves and cried, I would experience these 3 conflicting reactions - ignorance, violence, overwhelming compassion. Every time I got upset at my reactions and I didn't know what to do for comfort, I'd usually resort to concentrating on doing a proper first aid procedure, always cold and distant emotionally. I cried today after I've finally remembered why - I wish I remembered it before I became a mother. I wish I could be a perfect nurturing mother, always.
When I was raped for the first time, when the pain was so sudden and sharp that I cried out, I was threatened to keep quiet, I was slapped, a hand was put over my mouth, and when none of this helped, I was strangled. I fell quiet. I had hick ups and choked on my tears, but I was silent. I understood that it is better to be silent than be dead. I did not make a peep ever since, over multiple future rapes and episodes of other types of sexual abuse. This is what makes me so upset when my kids cry - I think and react with my toddler mind - I want to tell them: "If I could be quiet over THAT type of pain, how come you have to cry over a mere elbow scrape?" I also feel that it's not fair: "Why did I have to endure this pain and you don't? It's not fair!" I also want to inflict more pain, because it is one of the ways for my pain to get out. I have suppressed it for so long that the only way for me to get rid of it is to experience it again, to process it and understand it for what it is. That, in turn, is only possible if I remember it. That, in turn, is possible if seen on my own face. My son looks much more like me than my daughter. This explains why I react stronger to his emotions. I'm guessing that is why perpetrators inflict pain on their victims - so that in those brief momenta, they are pain free. My guess is that all perpetrators have been heavily abused as children. My guess is I had a chance to turn out as one. Why I didn't, I don't know. Why abused kids do and some don't, I am still researching. But I do know that that is why I flee - I want to run so that I cant touch my son, so that I can't hurt him.
At the opposite end of two negative reactions - ignorance and violence - I have intense compassion. Way too intense for an elbow scrap. To me my son's crying indicated that he must be in pain much worse than if he was stabbed with a knife - because the only way I cries out was if it was absolutely unbearable. I wanted to rush him to the hospital. I wanted to hover over him, kiss him, cradle him like a baby. Being a seven year old boy, he pushed me away - it was too much. I didn't understand why he pushed me away. So after my first attempt to cradle him, I stood over, paralyzed by three conflicting reactions, I cried, unable to move, until my husband came to the rescue. Somehow everything he did was just right. And I wanted to disappear from the guilt of not being able to function like a proper parent, from feeling disabled by my past.
I always wondered how it is possible to rape a child without anyone noticing. The cries. The blood. The pain after. Surely somebody would notice? Nobody does because of "normalization" of the symptoms in typical abusive families. Everyone in my family was severely abused as a child, so the symptoms were "normal". Nothing out of the ordinary. Even mild - by their standards. I wasn't beaten till my head was bloody (my grandma and my mom was), I wasn't molested and raped by a grandfather EVERY NIGHT for 12 years (my mom was), so what's the fuss? A little blood in my panties - so what. Bloody diarrhea - so what. Constant crying, not eating, not sleeping, not talking - so what, they had it worse. My crying was as irritating to my family as it is to me today - the crying of my kids. This is why my mother fled - she preferred not to see me violated - because it reminded her too much of her own pain, because it rendered her non-functional in life. To live she had to forget, to suppress. This episode with my son crying - it rendered me non-functional for several hours. My husband would say something, and I would ask him three times to repeat it - my braid would literally not hold any information. Until I had time to write it out, to make sense of it.
The question is - what do I do next time my son cries? I will comfort him, I don't know exactly how yet, but I do know now where my feelings are coming from, and this knowledge will allow me to act and not be paralyzed into robotically administering band-aids. My past will be what it is - past. It will be a collection of facts - painful facts, but facts nonetheless. They won't be controlling my NOW.
Photo by Jon Nicholls.
Reader Comments (2)
Found your blog today.
First of all I want to say that I applaud you for your incredible courage to write and speak out about such horrific experiences. I have only read a few posts but this one made me cry out loud. How truly brave and remarkable you are to confront your past - this is why you are different from others who have been abused and then in turn become abusers. Your awareness and your incredible courage to face the truth has enabled you to break the chain. You should be proud of who you and what you have chosen to leave behind. Misha
Misha, thank you so much - I am still puzzled as to how and why this happens - and how or why I didn't turn out as one. But I'm happy I didn't, and I'm happy I can talk about it publicly - to hopefully help others. And thank you so much for reading my blog.