Born A Woman

“Tears are tears, suffering is suffering, and our feelings are to be trusted.” 

~Gloria Steinem~

Was I Four

Or Was I Three

Was it the 

Wee Bear

Or Was it just

Them Two

I know.

I remember.

I’ve always known.

I’ve always remembered.

I saw the 

Fear in their eyes

When they asked,

Do you Remember 

The Wee Bear?

Yes, haha.

Laughing instead of Crying 

The silent tears still

Falling

Innocence Destroyed

Trust Annihilated

Growth Stunted

Entire Future Changed

Irreversibly Irrevocably Inevitability 

Ancestral Demons

Handed down

Generation after Generation 

The only one who could have

Saved me

Then, and Then again

And Again 

Blinded in her Childish Allegiance 

To Them

And not to Me

Her Body housed me,

Grew me

Gifted me, Life.

Her soul stayed closed to me,

Never let me in

Her heart an Iron Door

Forever Locked

Apologies Amends Acknowledgement 

Accountability!

 

Never to come.

They gave me their Demons,

All Three of Them

Through Misdeeds and Misactions

Now my battle concludes.

Eradication Exorcism Ejection 

Rejecting Shame.

The Shame

Was never mine 

To own

Never belonging to me

Placed on Me

Placed on Woman 

With open hands

I give back

The shame that

You Earned

the body keeps score*

My dad was 22 years old when he met my mother. She was 15 years old. My dad and his older brother Joe, who was 23, said that they went to the playground to look for “dates”. First Joe asked my mother out and she said yes but he didn’t show up for the date. So then my dad asked her out. A year later my mother’s parents drove them to Reno to get married and my mom dropped out of school in the 9th grade. A year after that, when my mother was 17 and my father was 24, they had me.

To My Parents:

I already know how this conversation will go. You’ll ask why I’m so serious, so angry, why I can’t let go of the past. You’ll ask if I have a therapist, why I blame everything on you, and when I’ll take responsibility for my own life. Then you’ll insist you did nothing wrong but also say you’ve learned from your mistakes—contradictory, but I’m the only one who notices. 

You’ll say you’re too old to discuss this, that Joe is dead, and that we shouldn’t speak ill of him. You’ll minimize my childhood, compare it to yours  and say that yours was worse but not actually tell me about it. You’ll demand that I respect and honor my parents like; you do yours. 

You’ll tell me that I am making it up, for attention.

Or perhaps, even though you have told the story a hundred times including in the company of my husband, because it is such a “fun” story, you will actually deny it. It wouldn’t be the first time that you have denied something that at one time or another was common knowledge and a funny joke to tell people about. But here is the deal; it is not funny. It has never been funny. It will never be funny. People who were not a part of our messed up family drama only laughed because they were uncomfortable. They only laughed because they didn’t want to make anyone feel bad. Or they laughed because they thought it should be funny to them even though they never felt that it was funny. That is how it was for me. Every time I heard the story told or was asked if I had any memory of the actual event I would feel sick to my stomach. My heart would sink and shrink inside of me. And my mind would go numb. It still does.

 But I would laugh for you. 

I was somewhere between the ages of three and five years old and we were living in that little apartment. Mom was around 20 years old and working at Kmart. Dad and Joe were 27-29 years old and neither of them were employed, other than side hustles of breaking and entering, stealing prescription pads from doctors, and petty theft from local businesses. They were both heroine addicts and taking pain meds and whatever other drugs they could get their hands on. All three of you drank and you all smoked tobacco and weed. Yes, that is the environment that I spent my precious toddler years. There was no daycare or safe space, Mom left for work and Joe and Dad were charged with “babysitting” me. 

A question comes up here, when Mom kicked Dad and Joe out, because they wouldn’t quit using heroine and actually stuck the needle in Mom’s arm when she demanded that they showed her what the big deal was. (she didn't like it, she said)

And Mom kept working but as she put it “became very depressed” who watched me then? Did anyone watch me? Or was I simply left alone to fend for myself? I do remember being alone. Alone in my room. Alone in the stairwell (and eating cups of sugar). Alone and running around outside. Alone and going into the neighbors houses while they were at work (and eating cake).

But to the point, the question! The story that has spawned yet another attempt on my part for clarity and answers. I’ll tell it from Mom’s perspective, since that is the way that I remember and hear it in my head, the hilarious story to be told at family get-togethers and when I would bring a boyfriend home to meet the parents.  

“I was headed to bed and Wes was still in the living room watching t.v. when I walked by Tanya’s room and the door was open a crack so I looked in and their was Joe peeing all over her, the bed, and her stuffed animals! He got so drunk he thought it was the bathroom (insert laughter here). Well I went right out and got Wes so that he could go in there and get his brother.” 

(end story) (laugh again)

How could you, Dear Mother, seeing a man peeing on your small child in her bed, then walk away to get someone else to stop him? How could you, Dear Father, not get angry at your brother for peeing on your child? Who cleaned up the mess? Who washed my sheets and bedding? When did you wash it? In the morning or did you stay up late and wash them right then? Who washed me? Was I given a shower or a bath? (or neither) Did you wash my stuffed animals or did you throw them away. Did you talk to me about it afterwards? Did you tell me what happened? (It’s ok sweetie your Uncle just peed all over you while you were sleeping.) Was I awake while he was peeing on me or did you have to wake me up to clean the mess. Or if I didn’t wake up did you just let me sleep in his pee until morning? Why did you think it was funny? 

And, here we go...

Why does this story get brought up along with the “Wee Wee” Bear? Why was my stuffed animal named “Wee Wee”? Why did Dad and Joe call me “MaMa”? Why did they talk to me with in that voice. Why did they move that bear up my body? Why did they have me lift my shirt up? Why did they do this at night while I went to sleep. Why do you think that I remember the tones of your voice being sexual and “naughty”? Just like boobs on t.v. were “naughty”. Why do you think that all this bothers me so much? Why do you think it keeps me up at night? Why do you think I can’t help but wonder what happened? Why do you think that it makes me nauseous? Why do you think that it makes my heart ache? Why do you think that it makes my jaw ache? Why do you think that it scares me? Why do you think that it makes me sad? Why do you think that I can’t let it go?

And why was my damn stuffed bear called “Wee Wee” Bear?

“Kiss the Wee Wee Bear!”

(sounds like a good cover story, she said she kissed a Wee Wee or that was just her stuffed animal)

I have memories of the Wee Wee bear and them touching me with it and wiggling it up my body and saying the word “MaMa" as if it were a dirty word. Of them getting me to lift my shirt and show my dad and uncle my chest while I was in the bed and they were both there. 

Throughout my teenage and adult years both Dad and Joe both asked me so many times, with weird looks on their faces, “Do you remember the Wee Wee bear?” Yes, I would say and fake laugh. Then I would end the conversation by changing it or leaving the room. I never wanted to talk to them about it and I always felt a huge surge of anger when they would ask. And, hurt.

1995:  

I had asked my mom but I was very vague in what I was asking and she just sort of quickly laughed it off and left the room, I clearly remember it as we were in her bedroom standing by her dresser and she just walked out. I was 18 at the time and had been having panic attacks after having an abusive boyfriend. The panic attacks made me think about the bear. But after she left the room I remember I just stood and stared at the floor. 

2002:

I never told anyone about my memories until I met E, my first husband. We were standing on his front porch and it was very late and he’d been drinking and he told me about how his older cousin had molested him when he was 12 years old. He told me that he had started drinking shortly after that. I shared my memories with him and it felt safe. He believed me. He cared. After E and I got married we both decided to work on our issues so I participated in a 12 week support group for incest survivors. I went to every single session but one and grew deeply during the experience, but I did not go to the last group meeting. We were all supposed to share our story and then we would say good-bye. I neither wanted to share my story nor say good-bye so I just didn’t go. However at the end of it I decided that I would confront both of my parents at the same time and finally get the answers to my questions.

2003: 

I planned to confront both of you, but the morning I was going to, Joe died. I drove to Bend and stayed at my in-law’s house on Friday night and was going to ask my parents on Saturday afternoon. On Saturday morning my mom called and said that my uncle had died during the night. He had gone out drinking for his 50th birthday, drank too much, went home and passed out, threw up in his mouth, and choked to death on it. My grandma was there and was the one who found him and performed CPR until the paramedics arrived. We were all devastated.

2006:

I finally worked up the courage to ask, again. My mom showed up at the house that night and I started to change my mind about asking her. She had trained me well to be fearful of her. Her rage and insults are unrelenting when she doesn't like something that I have said or done. But I was sitting on the couch and she was starting towards the door to leave and I asked her: Mom? Did Dad and Joe touch me when we lived in the apartments? She replied, “What?”. And I said, “I have these memories about the two of them touching me and I’m just trying to figure things out. And I was wondering what you remember?”

BOOM! I literally felt the earth shake.

“YOU DIRTLY LITTLE SLUT! MAKING UP SEX FANTASIES ABOUT YOUR DAD AND YOUR UNCLE! AND YOUR UNCLE IS DEAD! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU WOULD SAY ANYTHING BAD ABOUT HIM, HE’S DEAD! AND YOUR DAD! YOU FUCKING LITTLE WHORE! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU! YOU’RE CRAZY! YOU NEED TO GET THERAPY TO FIGURE OUT WHAT FUCKED UP THING IS GOING ON IN YOUR HEAD! YOU’VE SEEN TOO MANY FUCKING MOVIES! YOU DISGUST ME! YOUR DAD IS GOING TO BE SO DISAPPOINTED WHEN I TELL HIM! YOU’RE SICK! SICK IN THE HEAD!”

All that I could say in return was, “please don’t tell dad that I asked.”

She walked out the door and slammed it hard. About an hour later she called to let me know that she had told my dad and that they were both very disappointed in me and that I need help.