What’s your image of a child who’s living with sexual abuse? When you can’t run and you can’t flee, you freeze. It’s what all mammals do. Would you have recognized my frozen state?
My parents thought I was a very calm child.
“Mary Kay’s not afraid of anything,” they would boast.
Little did they realize that at the slightest hint of danger I jumped inside myself where nothing could get to me and where I wouldn’t even know what was happening. Of course I didn’t squeal or tremble. I was frozen. Somehow their parental eyes did not recognize the signs of trauma.
I still have a photograph of myself at about seven years of age, shopping in Toronto with my mother and sister. In the forties when not everyone owned a camera, street photographers made a living snapping pictures of passersby. Once they developed the pictures they mailed them to their subjects. My mother must have agreed to pay because there we are, my mother, my sister and I walking along Bloor Street. In the picture my mother and sister are striding along, oblivious to the photographer’s presence. My mother is wearing a tall hat that no doubt is meant to add stature to her five feet. Two fox skins, complete with little heads, hang around her neck to her waist, their glassy eyes staring at the sidewalk.
As for me I am the poster child of post traumatic stress disorder. My neck is pulled down into my torso. My left hand is making its way to my frightened face. My eyes are wide with terror, expecting something awful to happen. The photographer has caught me at the very moment I am disappearing inside myself.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Less than one week until book launch
As we get close to the launch of my book Confessions of a Trauma Therapist, I can hardly believe what an interesting and stimulating evening it’s going to be. The universe is certainly cooperating! Imagine having Judy Steed as MC (Judy Steed published Our Little Secret about sexual abuse in Canada), Michele Landsberg telling us some of her journey as a journalist and Sylvia Fraser speaking about her history as one of the first to write about her own incest.
Michele Landsberg wrote for The Toronto Star in the days when she was a lone voice exposing sexual violence against women and children.
Sylvia Fraser is another amazing pioneer. Imagine publishing her book My Father’s House in 1987 when society was still in total denial about the sexual abuse of children.
My husband Dr. Harvey Armstrong recognized and began treating child sexual abuse when he was a psychiatric resident at The Hincks Treatment Centre long before anyone was aware that child sexual abuse was endemic in our society.
The great irony is that even though Harvey was an expert, he didn’t recognize that his own wife suffered a dissociative disorder and post traumatic stress disorder. Harvey will speak about his experience.
It’s going to be quite a celebration of how far we’ve come in stemming the flood of child abuse.
Michele Landsberg wrote for The Toronto Star in the days when she was a lone voice exposing sexual violence against women and children.
Sylvia Fraser is another amazing pioneer. Imagine publishing her book My Father’s House in 1987 when society was still in total denial about the sexual abuse of children.
My husband Dr. Harvey Armstrong recognized and began treating child sexual abuse when he was a psychiatric resident at The Hincks Treatment Centre long before anyone was aware that child sexual abuse was endemic in our society.
The great irony is that even though Harvey was an expert, he didn’t recognize that his own wife suffered a dissociative disorder and post traumatic stress disorder. Harvey will speak about his experience.
It’s going to be quite a celebration of how far we’ve come in stemming the flood of child abuse.
Three days until launch day
It’s three days until my book launch for Confessions of a Trauma Therapist: A Memoir of Healing and Transformation.
Talk about telling the world! In it, I tell everything about how I recovered my lost childhood memories of incest.
Let me tell you, it’s much easier to tell the world than to tell one’s own family.
Of course, I had to alert my family to the fact that I was publishing a book about having been sexually abused by my father and his father, our dignified old grandfather.
I sent the letter to my sister, her children and their children, the youngest of whom is 19. In it, I tried to explain why I was revealing such unsavory family secrets.
I said: “I have written the book with the goal of encouraging other survivors of child sexual abuse. I want to help professionals and anyone else wanting to understand the victim’s struggles with trauma-based shame and betrayal.”
“This letter will stir some strong feelings in you. I want to hear from you when you’re ready.”
More in the next post about the fallout from my letter.
Talk about telling the world! In it, I tell everything about how I recovered my lost childhood memories of incest.
Let me tell you, it’s much easier to tell the world than to tell one’s own family.
Of course, I had to alert my family to the fact that I was publishing a book about having been sexually abused by my father and his father, our dignified old grandfather.
I sent the letter to my sister, her children and their children, the youngest of whom is 19. In it, I tried to explain why I was revealing such unsavory family secrets.
I said: “I have written the book with the goal of encouraging other survivors of child sexual abuse. I want to help professionals and anyone else wanting to understand the victim’s struggles with trauma-based shame and betrayal.”
“This letter will stir some strong feelings in you. I want to hear from you when you’re ready.”
More in the next post about the fallout from my letter.
Anticipation of April 28 Confessions book launch
The book launch for my memoir Confessions of a Trauma Therapist is coming soon. It’s strange that I don’t feel anxious. I’m excited and happy, but not nervous. In fact, as I told a friend it’s like the wonderful feeling of falling in love and having a baby all at the same time. It’s as if I’m riding a huge cosmic wave. I’m just the conduit, or something. I’m fortunate enough to be bringing to all those who want to hear about child abuse my knowledge and experience. I know I have an abundance of information about healing and transforming the invisible wounds of childhood trauma into strength and positive energy.
Today I went to Women’s College Hospital to check out the auditorium. Judy Steed, my good friend and the master of ceremonies at the book launch, went with me. There are many, many details to sort out.
Where do the refreshments go and when do we have them set out? Where is the best place for the books to be sold? What’s the best place for our guest speakers, Michele Landsberg and Sylvia Fraser to sit? Where should Judy and I sit?
It’s a winding route from the front door to the auditorium, so we’ll need signs along the way. The Women Recovering From Abuse Programme will be celebrated for their amazing work with women recovering from trauma. We’ll ask participants to donate as they feel able to this worthy programme.
$5 of each book sold will also go to support WRAP.
The evening is truly a celebration of how far we have come in exposing and healing child abuse.
Today I went to Women’s College Hospital to check out the auditorium. Judy Steed, my good friend and the master of ceremonies at the book launch, went with me. There are many, many details to sort out.
Where do the refreshments go and when do we have them set out? Where is the best place for the books to be sold? What’s the best place for our guest speakers, Michele Landsberg and Sylvia Fraser to sit? Where should Judy and I sit?
It’s a winding route from the front door to the auditorium, so we’ll need signs along the way. The Women Recovering From Abuse Programme will be celebrated for their amazing work with women recovering from trauma. We’ll ask participants to donate as they feel able to this worthy programme.
$5 of each book sold will also go to support WRAP.
The evening is truly a celebration of how far we have come in exposing and healing child abuse.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Daydreaming and dissociating to survive childhood incest
Victims of child sexual abuse often survive through daydreaming and dissociating. The second chapter of Confessions of a Trauma Therapist is titled “My Life Goes On Without Me.”
It starts like this:
I daydreamed my way through grade two, the year my father came home from war for good. Most of the time I imagined being the queen of the fairies. The plots varied, but had one prevailing theme. I was the beautiful, dearly loved queen who had the power to find answers to everyone’s pain. (Does that sound like the origins of a psychotherapist?)
At home I played a game over and over. I lined up my huge collection of dolls and stuffed animals. They became my pupils. I was the teacher, scolding and punishing them for being so stupid. I yelled at them and shook them as hard as I could. Nobody clued into my rage, although my mother did find my behaviour puzzling since I was never strapped or yelled at in school.
………………
“Mary Kay’s always daydreaming,” my mother often mused. It was just something I did – part of my personality – and it wasn’t a good character trait. It was something I needed to change. But I couldn’t.
I had no idea why my head fogged over and my body went numb every time I needed to think. I just knew I couldn’t shake my head clear to focus on long division or memorizing verses from the Bible.
It starts like this:
I daydreamed my way through grade two, the year my father came home from war for good. Most of the time I imagined being the queen of the fairies. The plots varied, but had one prevailing theme. I was the beautiful, dearly loved queen who had the power to find answers to everyone’s pain. (Does that sound like the origins of a psychotherapist?)
At home I played a game over and over. I lined up my huge collection of dolls and stuffed animals. They became my pupils. I was the teacher, scolding and punishing them for being so stupid. I yelled at them and shook them as hard as I could. Nobody clued into my rage, although my mother did find my behaviour puzzling since I was never strapped or yelled at in school.
………………
“Mary Kay’s always daydreaming,” my mother often mused. It was just something I did – part of my personality – and it wasn’t a good character trait. It was something I needed to change. But I couldn’t.
I had no idea why my head fogged over and my body went numb every time I needed to think. I just knew I couldn’t shake my head clear to focus on long division or memorizing verses from the Bible.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
The hidden signs of abuse – excerpt 1
How can you tell a child is being sexually abused? Child abuse takes place in secret. Are there signs? Can we, as adults, spot these children?
Here’s a quote from the beginning of my book, Confessions of a Trauma Therapist:
Looking at me during my childhood years you would have seen a spoiled rich kid always smiling and never causing any trouble. On the inside, life was different. Under a placid exterior I existed in a wet grey fog, never quite sure of what was happening around me.
Would you have realized I was dissociated? After all, unlike Precious I didn’t live in a slum. My family was affluent. They were respectable, professional people. My grandfather who sexually abused me was a proper, distinguished lawyer.
Anyone seeing Grandpa and me together in his downstairs library where leather-bound books lined the walls, would have found the scene charming. As a little girl I spent many hours a day with Grandpa while he was reading or playing Solitaire on his pedestal table. In my attempt to join him, although I had not yet learned to read, I would haul a huge tome off the shelf and pretend to be studying it.
Every once in a while I would ask him the meaning of some nonsense word of many syllables. Grandpa would observe me in all seriousness.
“How do you spell it, Mary Kay?”
I would list off a string of my favourite alphabet letters, and a serious discussion would ensue before Grandpa returned to reading his books.
Once a week, Grandpa and I took a slow walk to the library – the old man with his fedora, walking cane and an armful of books, and the little girl with the long blonde curly hair and a big bow tied at the back of her short dress. It must have been a touching sight. Grandpa always took out four new books a week.
Certainly in those days there was no one to tell because back then nobody “knew” that child sexual abuse even existed.
Here’s a quote from the beginning of my book, Confessions of a Trauma Therapist:
Looking at me during my childhood years you would have seen a spoiled rich kid always smiling and never causing any trouble. On the inside, life was different. Under a placid exterior I existed in a wet grey fog, never quite sure of what was happening around me.
Would you have realized I was dissociated? After all, unlike Precious I didn’t live in a slum. My family was affluent. They were respectable, professional people. My grandfather who sexually abused me was a proper, distinguished lawyer.
Anyone seeing Grandpa and me together in his downstairs library where leather-bound books lined the walls, would have found the scene charming. As a little girl I spent many hours a day with Grandpa while he was reading or playing Solitaire on his pedestal table. In my attempt to join him, although I had not yet learned to read, I would haul a huge tome off the shelf and pretend to be studying it.
Every once in a while I would ask him the meaning of some nonsense word of many syllables. Grandpa would observe me in all seriousness.
“How do you spell it, Mary Kay?”
I would list off a string of my favourite alphabet letters, and a serious discussion would ensue before Grandpa returned to reading his books.
Once a week, Grandpa and I took a slow walk to the library – the old man with his fedora, walking cane and an armful of books, and the little girl with the long blonde curly hair and a big bow tied at the back of her short dress. It must have been a touching sight. Grandpa always took out four new books a week.
Certainly in those days there was no one to tell because back then nobody “knew” that child sexual abuse even existed.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
The terror of telling
When I knew Confessions of a Trauma Therapist, my story of suffering from incest, was about to be published, I had to alert my family members.
Most of them had no idea I’d been sexually abused as a child by my father and grandfather.
It’s always hard to tell these terrible secrets, and it’s hardest to tell your own family because you’re telling them about their family too. I screwed up my courage and wrote them all a letter.
Waiting to hear from them after I mailed the letter was agony.
First to respond was my sister who had known – and dismissed - my questionable memories of child sexual abuse. She was kind and expressed sadness for my suffering. (which I interpreted as feeling sorry for my suffering, whether or not anything had actually happened.)
Next came a really loving response from a nephew and his wife. Their concern was for me. Of course it had never occurred to them that I had spent much of my life fearful and depressed as a result of childhood trauma. Survivors are so good at looking good!
The next nephew also expressed his surprise that his strong, competent aunt could ever have suffered. He promised to get back to me when he had time to absorb this new view of Aunt Mary. I’ve not heard from him since.
One of his two daughters sent me a loving and compassionate email. I was touched by her sincerity and caring for her great aunt.
Another nephew can’t bear to talk with me about it. It’s too painful. Maybe it touches on some of his own childhood wounds.
My own son has known about my history of incest for over twenty years. He’s been a sympathetic, intelligent companion in my healing.
I wonder – can anyone but a person who suffered the betrayal of child abuse – ever understand how scary it is to tell?
Most of them had no idea I’d been sexually abused as a child by my father and grandfather.
It’s always hard to tell these terrible secrets, and it’s hardest to tell your own family because you’re telling them about their family too. I screwed up my courage and wrote them all a letter.
Waiting to hear from them after I mailed the letter was agony.
First to respond was my sister who had known – and dismissed - my questionable memories of child sexual abuse. She was kind and expressed sadness for my suffering. (which I interpreted as feeling sorry for my suffering, whether or not anything had actually happened.)
Next came a really loving response from a nephew and his wife. Their concern was for me. Of course it had never occurred to them that I had spent much of my life fearful and depressed as a result of childhood trauma. Survivors are so good at looking good!
The next nephew also expressed his surprise that his strong, competent aunt could ever have suffered. He promised to get back to me when he had time to absorb this new view of Aunt Mary. I’ve not heard from him since.
One of his two daughters sent me a loving and compassionate email. I was touched by her sincerity and caring for her great aunt.
Another nephew can’t bear to talk with me about it. It’s too painful. Maybe it touches on some of his own childhood wounds.
My own son has known about my history of incest for over twenty years. He’s been a sympathetic, intelligent companion in my healing.
I wonder – can anyone but a person who suffered the betrayal of child abuse – ever understand how scary it is to tell?
Ten days till launch day
It’s less than two weeks until my book launch for Confessions of a Trauma Therapist: A Memoir of Healing and Transformation.
Talk about telling the world! In it, I tell everything about how I recovered my lost childhood memories of incest.
Let me tell you, it’s much easier to tell the world than to tell one’s own family.
Of course, I had to alert my family to the fact that I was publishing a book about having been sexually abused by my father and his father, our dignified old grandfather.
I sent the letter to my sister, her children and their children, the youngest of whom is 19. In it, I tried to explain why I was revealing such unsavory family secrets.
I said, “I have written the book with the goal of encouraging other survivors of child sexual abuse. I want to help professionals and anyone else wanting to understand the victim’s struggles with trauma-based shame and betrayal.”
“This letter will stir some strong feelings in you. I want to hear from you when you’re ready.”
Why would I inflict such painful news on innocent family members? After all, they are not the perpetrators. The adults who betrayed me are long dead.
Here’s the reason: I believe the truth sets us free. For the rest of the world, I believe my story is a healing one, one I need to tell.
Talk about telling the world! In it, I tell everything about how I recovered my lost childhood memories of incest.
Let me tell you, it’s much easier to tell the world than to tell one’s own family.
Of course, I had to alert my family to the fact that I was publishing a book about having been sexually abused by my father and his father, our dignified old grandfather.
I sent the letter to my sister, her children and their children, the youngest of whom is 19. In it, I tried to explain why I was revealing such unsavory family secrets.
I said, “I have written the book with the goal of encouraging other survivors of child sexual abuse. I want to help professionals and anyone else wanting to understand the victim’s struggles with trauma-based shame and betrayal.”
“This letter will stir some strong feelings in you. I want to hear from you when you’re ready.”
Why would I inflict such painful news on innocent family members? After all, they are not the perpetrators. The adults who betrayed me are long dead.
Here’s the reason: I believe the truth sets us free. For the rest of the world, I believe my story is a healing one, one I need to tell.
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