The price of a secret
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| Mom, on the left |
Sobbing, she went to her mother the same night after dinner, and standing by the kitchen sink in the old house on Whitehall Street, my grandmother quickly placed her hand on my mother’s mouth and said, “Shhhh. For God’s sake, don’t let your father hear it. He will go and kill him.” (My grandparents were both Sicilian, by the way, so I don’t doubt this may have been true.)
For thirty-plus years, my mother kept this secret, even after discovering that she wasn’t the only female in the family this relative had accosted, some more seriously than others. At some point, she decided she was finished with this family secret. My grandfather had passed away many years before, and my grandmother supported her when she wrote a letter to this piece of dirt and told him exactly how he had made her feel that day when she was 14.
The family parted like the Red Sea. My mother’s sister cut the family off completely and would never speak to us again. Not my mom, not my dad, not my sister, and not me. I sent her letters. I called. I cried. She wanted this dirty laundry kept in the deep, dark cellar of family secrets, never to see the light of day. Now, I wonder if perhaps she was a victim too but was too scared to talk about it.
If we’ve learned anything from Steubenville and the Sandusky events, it’s to speak up. Speak out.
We still have a long way to go to get the message across.
A friend of mine asked me to publish her story, in the spirit of speaking out. Her own mother is a secret survivor of repeated sexual abuse, and burying her secret has cost her a better relationship with her daughter. My friend has a little girl, and I know she will teach her to speak up.
It’s not as easy as it sounds, though, and I know both from my mother’s experiences as well as my own. It took me twenty-two years to say the word “rape” out loud and I buried my secrets in bulimia in college and a destructive relationship that lasted for ten years. Speaking the names of both domestic abuse and rape has given me freedom from the oppressive weight that a secret carries. It has freed me from much, but not all, of the shame and the fault I was assigning myself. It’s the only way to move forward.
Even as I pray that nothing like this happens to him, I will teach my son: never keep secrets that hurt. Someday, I will carefully share the secrets I kept with him and teach him to break the cycle of silence.
Here’s my friend’s B’s story.
“Mom? Do you think I’m pretty?” I would find myself asking these questions time and again during those awkward preteen moments of self doubt. What I would hear in return was silence; and over time I finally stopped asking. I never understood her passive-aggressive behavior, her victim mentality, or her complete denial that I was growing up and wanted to talk about personal things. She. Just. Could. Not. Do. It.
It got harder the older I became. The once free-spirited mom I could relate to before I hit fifth or sixth grade suddenly became an empty shell of real feelings and emotions that you crave as you get older, and I could not understand. I buried any emotions deep inside and wondered why I was such an unlovable freak with a mom who couldn’t tell me I was pretty or good at anything. I thought she hated me.
I spent my high school years as far from as home as possible, finding solace in friends and boyfriends, most of them not worthy of my time. I did not feel worthy of anyone’s time in those years. One day at the end of my high school career, when I was particularly angry about her aloof and destructive behavior, I shouted, “What happened to you? Why do you hate me?” To my shock, she answered.
To this day, I still can’t remember her exact words; maybe I don’t want to. I learned my mom was a victim of repeat sexual abuse. She said it so matter of fact, with no tears and no depth of feeling. It was shocking and made sense to me at the same time.
She never sought help and never told anyone of her abuse. She hadn’t healed and she never got to really grow up. She was like a Peter Pan of a parent and I felt a release from anger and guilt. To this day, she has not sought help and hasn’t improved, but I finally understood. I think she still hates that she blurted out her secret to me but will not deny it. I’ve mentioned now and again that she should talk to someone about her past but will stop when she gets mad and silent. As a mom now, I still find it difficult that I can’t talk to her about most things, but I love her and she is a fun grandma in the limited time we see her.
My wounds have healed, somewhat, but hers never will if she won’t let them. I had to make peace with that without ever closing that bridge for help. I will make mistakes as a parent, but I am determined to always be emotionally available and open to my children even when it is painful. I actually learned that by knowing my mom.
Moms are human and we learn from their mistakes as much as their successes. I love and forgive my mom because I want my children to do the same for me. I will most certainly parent with the best intentions and despite the realities of my past home life, I do realize my mom tried her best to do the same. I love you, mom, and I will always be patiently waiting and encouraging you to recover. It is never too late.
If you are scared, it’s OK. If you are angry, it’s understandable.
If you are ashamed, you deserve better.
Think about what keeping secrets is costing you.
Speak UP. Speak OUT. Don’t carry your secrets by yourself.
Thank you to my brave mom, who has given me her blessing to tell her story, along with my friend B.
Love,
Sexual Abuse Survivors: Seek Help!
The RAINN National Network for Help: http://www.rainn.org/get-help
National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1.800.656.HOPE
How to Help a Loved One who has been a Victim: http://www.rainn.org/get-help/help-a-loved-one