Bird in the Invisible Cage
As I watched my 68-year-old father hug my 16-year-old daughter at the airport, my stomach tightened around the bag of worms, renewing that old, buried feeling. My son waited patiently for his grandfather to notice him, but I knew he never would. They had lied to me. Father hadn’t changed. He’d just gotten old. And once again it was my fault. I bought the plane tickets that brought my mother and father to my safe haven, 1,500 miles away from where I grew up.
Northern Wisconsin had always been my home, until I was old enough to run away. It wasn’t graduating from high school and moving on with my life as it appeared. And now the monster was back in my life, invading the new life I had created because my sisters told me he had changed. And I so desperately wanted to have a normal life, have my children meet their grandparents. I thought I was living a normal life.
From the moment he walked in the door, I was catapulted into a life I thought I had overcome by sheer willpower. My artwork wasn’t as good as my sisters. My sister’s home was nicer than mine. My son’s name had become “the kid” and my daughter the object of his affection. Mom turned a blind eye and smiled her angelic smile that kept me alive for so many years. A blanket of warmth in an otherwise cold world. Did she know? Had she ever known?
I knew what was happening. He made no secret of it and flaunted the dare for me to try and stop him. He knew just as much as I that I was powerless against him. I was still that helpless child and could not touch him. Twenty years later, and I still could not defend myself or my daughter.
After he left, after surviving my fantasies of pushing him down the stairs, I continued to see his presence throughout my home. He was everywhere and everything was stained with his malice. It was during this time that I also found out the person who had helped me create this safe environment had betrayed me – many times over. My world was gone. The person I had created was gone. All safety and trust was nothing but a shadow that grew darker and more powerful than it ever had before. It was then that I knew I could not survive without help.
As I’ve learned throughout the process, not every psychologist or psychiatrist is the same. My first set was not a good fit for me and did not recognize all of the packages I had created for myself over the years. And then one day, after having left therapy for almost a year, I found him. We’ll call him Max. My first session with him, I don’t even remember – how could I be talking about this stuff with a man? Men can’t be trusted! My father and husband proved that to me. But he was a trauma specialist, and the one approved by my insurance company as being certified in EMDR. Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing – the therapy technique I had researched that would help me get past those horrid memories. My last hope.
Working with Max, I discovered many things about myself and the strategies I had created to survive. Everyday, more techniques are uncovered. Some quite painful to remember, some okay to keep using, some are what they are. Baby steps. Every day, baby steps. I had no idea that the sexual abuse I underwent as a child and teen could create so many effects. I created an entire life around a belief system that was tainted with memories from the heinous crimes, disguised under a premise of love.
I thought I was the unloving daughter who, one day, would not submit – Pandora’s Box opened after that. Then I became the outcast, the undeserving child, the child who was no good at anything and useless. The child of everyone’s jibe and ridicule. This began a new belief system. I thought everyone was the same as my family, experienced the same things and that I was the one who was strange. Until Max, gentle, over time, showed me that it wasn’t my fault. That I wasn’t strange and my childhood was not the norm.