Denial is a fairly common reaction among women who have been sexually abused. I was no different. Despite what my body was telling me, I alternated between horror at what might have happened and complete refusal to acknowledge any such possibility.
I sank into a deep depression, also not uncommon. Though I had struggled with depression in varying degrees since college, this was unlike anything I had experienced before. It was depression of the most debilitating kind. I awoke each morning full of fear at the prospect of another day. I forced myself to go through the motions for weeks before finally succumbing to the reality that I simply was not coping.
My therapist suggested some time off from work, perhaps even hospitalization because I had been having thoughts of suicide. I had good insurance so I applied for and was granted a medical leave of six weeks. Explaining the reason to my editors was not as hard as I expected. I wanted them to know the truth. Of the two editors I reported to directly, one was empathetic, encouraged me to do what I needed to do and assured me the paper would continue to publish without me.
The other editor wanted details. He questioned how I knew for certain anything had happened, asked about the future of a story I had been working on for months. The other editor looked at him disapprovingly and said I would finish it when I returned. Ironically, the piece was about a young girl who had suffered years of physical, mental and sexual abuse and was now in serious trouble with the law, to the surprise of no one. She came from a family of 10 children, all “in the system” in one way or another. Her father was a shrimper and crack addict who was rarely at home; her mother was in and out of prison for petty crimes most of the girl’s life. She and her siblings stole to feed themselves. As I said, my story is certainly not the worst. Terrible things happen to many children.
I took my leave of absence and voluntarily checked myself into a hospital for what they call “stabilization.’’ I was certainly not stable. What I did not realize is that hospitalization is often no more than a crisis intervention. The doctors are there to keep you from killing yourself or someone else, not to help you make progress with whatever problem you are having. The first doctor I met with actually admitted as much and was ready to discharge me because I “seemed fine.” That was until I made the mistake of revealing that I had had thoughts of suicide. He quickly reversed course and said I would be kept for observation for 72 hours. I was horrified and asked him about what he had just told me – that no one seriously gets any help from hospitalization. He would not be swayed and even my desperate pleas to my therapist to intervene on my behalf were of no use. I was “in the system” and no one but a judge could reverse the course of events. As it was a weekend, it would be nearly 72 hours before I could even file any appeal. I was stuck.
As it turned out, my immersion into the hospital’s unreal world of protection and safety did help somewhat and I have heard this is often one of the few benefits of hospitalization. If nothing else, you are safe, your most basic needs are met and you have no obligations or responsibilities whatsoever. More than anything the doctors or counselors provided, however, was the support and encouragement of the group of women I met. We shared, laughed and cried over our similar circumstances and episodes of “acting out.” Most had been abused in some way. All had suffered breakdowns of some kind. Over the course of three days, we became friends. I would not trade those experiences for anything. I kept a journal and despite my original desire to leave, tried to make the best of my time there. I came to the stunning realization that if I could survive hospitalization I could most likely survive anything.
While my mind wavered between denial and certainty, the reaction of those around me was just as varied. Of course the women in my group never doubted me. The facilitator, a rape crisis counselor who could be both tough and tender, said simply that it was clear something had happened. What it was or who was involved was far less important than what I was going to do about it today. I keep that statement in mind to this day when I have doubts.
Having witnessed dozens of flashbacks, Tom had no doubt of what had happened to me. He said all the right things – that I had survived, I was safe, I was not to blame, that “he” – whoever he was - could hurt me no longer. Inside, he struggled terribly, as many men do, with the realization that there was absolutely nothing he could do to “fix” the situation.
He did want answers, however. He insisted we contact my mother and tell her everything that was happening to me. I had not been in contact with most friends or any family since the latest round of flashbacks had begun. Tom believed we might uncover the truth. I warned him but he was determined.
My mother’s reaction was almost precisely what I expected. Faced with descriptions of my flashbacks from Tom – I was unable to tell her myself - and my questions about who had been alone with me as a child, my mother told me it was completely impossible that any such thing had happened. She would not ask my father about it, said it would hurt him too much to know I had even remotely thought he could be responsible. (I no longer believe my father was responsible for what I suffered.) She did not deny something had happened. She just refused to believe it had been on her watch. She suggested that something must have happened to me after I left home, perhaps in college.
I was not crushed by her denial. It was what I had come to expect from a family filled with secrets.