… she must reverence that woman in her which struggles for expression.
- Margaret Sanger
The timeline of what memories came to me and when is not very clear. I do know that certain events in 1997 combined to bring me to a place that made it possible for them to emerge. The deaths of my best friend’s parents and the death of a child I never knew brought painful, long-buried memories to the surface. A supportive loving relationship with the man in my life and a supportive loving group of women who had survived such experiences themselves made it possible for me to endure – and eventually accept – the memories of my own past.
The connection of the memories to sexual intimacy is a reality I cannot deny. But I do not believe they are connected for the reason one might assume. I believe it is because extremes of emotion – whether positive or negative – are actually quite close to one another in the mind. This is not any scientific knowledge that I have, only an assessment based on experience. It is similar in my mind to the concept that links tears to joy and sadness, madness to flashes of genius and pleasure to pain. It may have absolutely no basis in fact but it makes sense to me.
I believe my memories came to me during sex because the intensity of the current moment – a positive one - conjured images of an equally intense, yet negative, event. I believe it has far less to do with the sex act itself, although that must, logically, be a part of it as well. Why it is important for me to make these distinctions I am not sure. It may be because I do not want to believe that the horrible experiences of the past will influence future sexual experiences with someone I love. So far, since those revelations in 1997, that has not been the case.
As I write this, I must note, as much for myself as any potential reader, that these are all very personal, intensely private revelations that have never been shared with another person, even in my women’s group. If I thought too long about who might read this, I would never include them. But oddly enough, though I must express them, they may also bring comfort to that woman suffering from her own flashbacks. To put it bluntly, the knowledge that flashbacks of sexual assault do not guarantee a screwed-up sex life could be one small piece of comfort to her. It has been to me.
My flashbacks were less recollections than reenactments. When they arrived, they carried me on a physical and mental roller coaster ride that was terrible to endure – and I’ve been told – horrible to witness. The powerlessness and complete lack of control is terrifying. You have no idea whatsoever what is happening to you. You are not in the present moment. You are physically and mentally transported to another time and place. Any attempts from another to stifle or stop the attack, for lack of a better word, are violently pushed aside. The moment must be allowed to run its course.
What came to me in these re-creations was this: I was pushed and held down, restrained in some way - violently, perhaps even tied at the wrists, though this is not completely clear. I was unable to breathe. I could not move. I had a heavy, almost unbearable pressure on my chest. Something was being forced in my throat, choking me. I know what this appears to be. However, I have no mental recollection of what I as an adult know this must have been. I believe that is because I was too young to have any idea at all what specifically was being done to me, only that it was as bizarre as it was painful. The memories were far more in my body than my mind. I did see a face, horrible and ugly to me, sneering, perhaps laughing at me. The identity of this face is simply not known to me today, though I have occasionally thought I knew. I believe this was more my desperate desire to put a name to the face, rather than any solid indication of the truth.
In some re-creations, I would try to scream but could not. No words at all came to my mind. I have wondered if this was because I could not yet talk. I know I was very, very small, though I have no idea my age. Other memories had words: “no, no, no, no’’ or “stop, stop, stop; please, please.’’ Though there were several different episodes, I have no idea how many different attacks actually occurred or over what time period. I have learned that they all could be from one actual event – or memories of longer-term abuse. I may never know.
Tom later told me these episodes, as we began calling them, lasted anywhere from two minutes to 20. When they were over, I would collapse on the bed, curl into a ball and sob. I did not want to be comforted or held. My agony was mine and no one else could possibly enter until I was ready to emerge. In the morning, sometimes I remembered; more often I did not. But once I was told something had occurred, the memory rushed back as a movie reel, in full color and detail. A mini-version of the prior night’s epic, if you will. I don’t want to overstate what I went through. As I’ve said before, it is certainly not the worst reality any child ever suffered. It is simply mine.
This is all the ground I can cover for today. It is time for more coffee, some quiet reflection and the beginning of a new day.