ONCE UPON OPENING PANDORA'S BOX

"…[from the box, sent by the gods to Pandora, which she was forbidden to open and which loosed a swarm of evils upon mankind when she opened it out of curiosity] (1579): a prolific source of troubles" - Merriam Webster's Collegiate Dictionary.

Whereas many little girls my own age were captivated by stories such as Snow White, I was listening intently to the Greek myth pertaining to Pandora. My grandmother frequently cautioned me about this enigmatic box since the time that I was very young. However, my mother's favorite words of wisdom to me were, "people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones". I wasn't quite certain in what way I was supposed to benefit from such abstruse advice, although I suspected what they were saying to me was somehow extremely pertinent. Time has proved me correct about that intuition, albeit I'd been completely deceived about numerous other matters for nearly my entire lifetime.

I was approaching my 30th birthday, had recently filed for divorce, and was primarily responsible for the care of our 4-year-old son. I thought I was an extremely introspective individual, and had reached a fairly thorough understanding of myself. I had already acknowledged the facts that: my mother was criminally abusive; I privately abhorred my depraved grandfather (who had an indecent habit of exposing himself, amidst other heinous offenses); and one of my pediatricians had cruelly molested me when I was a child. I previously believed that was an adequate explanation for the recurrent turbulence I'd experienced throughout my life, especially prior to adulthood, yet some crucial understanding still seemed to be eluding me. Once again, I found myself involved in an adverse situation, and had unintentionally exposed my son to emotional turmoil as well. My worst fear was the possibility I might inadvertently burden my child with the same type of nightmares my mother had subjected me to when I was young, particularly around the time of her first divorce. I felt it was urgently necessary to recollect and evaluate those disturbing memories in order to prevent a similar scenario from developing. I inevitably discovered myself focusing on the events in my life I never could fully fathom.

I'd always understood I was hospitalized 4 times by the time I was 4 years old, although I never comprehended exactly why. Hospitals are frightening to most children, yet, even as an adult, when I entered a hospital I had to exert a conscious effort to refrain from passing out. I never questioned my intense primal fear of doctors and hospitals or deliberately attempted to remember all the details of those confusing experiences. Those were my most traumatic memories, and I couldn't predict how recalling them might affect my analysis. Nevertheless, I was determined to make a sincere effort, as I had recently been reminded that repressed memories could be vitally significant. It was emotionally and physically painful to mentally regress and relive those events. The psychosomatic symptoms I experienced were indubitably the most difficult obstacles to overcome. It was contrary to all my survival instincts to persist in spite of that intensely real pain.

My first hospitalization was frightening enough when I merely had my tonsils and adenoids removed at the age of 2. There were two women present who attempted to comfort me. They each held a strainer over their nose and mouth as they handed another one to me. I was aware the one passed to me was wet and smelled funny, but I reluctantly imitated their example. When I awoke it was all over and, after I returned home, I was permitted to eat some of my younger sister's jarred baby fruits and lots of Popsicles.

When the second hospitalization occurred I was 3 years old - after my parents separated and my sister, my mother and I lived with my mother's parents. My mother said I had a high fever, and later told me I received emergency care because I had blood in my urine from a bladder infection. It burned when I urinated, so I would refrain until I started to lose control and my suffering became interwoven with embarrassment. At some point I was temporarily returned to diapers, which magnified my self-consciousness. After my emergency care, my pediatrician "examined" me intimately in his office on several different occasions while my mother was present. Eventually (after the "examinations" became slightly less agonizing) I was left overnight at a hospital for observation of my bladder.

This third hospitalization was the most utterly terrifying experience. My doctor did many excruciatingly painful things to me, some of which he demonstrated for the benefit of a group of younger doctors (or interns). I was even more frightened by having an audience of strangers while he exposed my bare bottom. During one lengthy and torturous procedure he pumped fluid into my bladder (a cystometry?). At another time there were several men restraining me on an X-ray table, keeping me immobile during an intravenous introduction of a dye (an IVP?), and one man was even holding my head to the side while my doctor made 4 or 5 aborted attempts before he finally succeeded. I was too intimidated to resist, and I kept crying "please let go of me, I promise I won't move," but they refused to allow me even that opportunity to ease my fears. My doctor later apologized for puncturing me so many times, but he seemed more embarrassed than contrite. I experienced countless indignities, including a crotch full of stitches, before I was eventually returned home. My mother told me I had developed scar tissue from being diapered too tight as a baby, and the doctor had to remove the tissue. She was extremely reluctant to discuss my distressing experiences. I was seriously ill for a long time, and endured constant bladder problems through the first few years of elementary school.

My last hospitalization was to repair an abdominal hernia, and I don't recall seeing my regular doctor. I was approximately 4 years old and, although I was extremely scared, everyone was courteous to me. I was sedated before they wheeled me down the hall on a gurney to the operating room. They put a mask over my face, instructing me to breathe deeply, and everything started spinning. The hospital was over-crowded so they placed my bed in a small room with a noisy ice machine after my surgery, and later brought in a girl about my age who had broken her arm by falling off a slide. We were allowed to eat all the ice cream and Jell-O we wanted. My throat was hurting because when I awoke in the recovery room I was asked to be quiet so I wouldn't wake the other patients and… …I stood up in bed and started screaming as loud as I could, shaking the rail and bouncing up and down. I wouldn't stop until they moved me out into the hall. My doctor had told me during my last visit that I would get in trouble if I woke the other patients. He did things to me he'd never exactly done before, and some of them even felt good. Then he gave me a pill to help me sleep. He came back later and woke me during the night when everyone else was sleeping. He told me there was something he had to do which would only take a couple minutes, and it would just hurt a little bit. He let the side rail down and turned me so my head was by the other rail. He put towels under me, pinned me on my right side with my arm cramped underneath me, and his hand was pressed on my left ear so hard my head hurt. He did something to me so I couldn't move, then he "did surgery" in my hospital bed. The bed was shaking and squeaking, and I couldn't even scream. He was speaking quietly to me - telling me I was O.K., I was a good girl, he would be done in just a minute, everything would be all right, just relax. When the bed stopped squeaking, I heard a crinkling noise like I had heard his rubber gloves make before. I felt sharp pain, then he rolled me on my back after he stitched me up, and I was shaking all over. I was lying in a puddle of blood, but he told me I had just bled a little bit. He cleaned me up, put a diaper on me and changed the sheets on the bed. He threw the bloody towels and sheets into the bottom of his cart. When he opened the curtain from around my bed, I saw another man in a white coat waiting for him just inside the door to the room. They left together, pushing their carts down the hall. Later, a priest came to see me during the day. He prayed for me, and I was afraid I was going to die…

When this deeply repressed memory surfaced, it flooded over me in full color combined with accompanying sounds, smells and extremely agonizing physical sensations. Afterward, I felt like I had been plunged into freezing water. I started trembling violently, my heart was racing, I was panting for breath, and my knees threatened to buckle out from under me. I was close to my bed, so I wrapped myself in blankets before sliding into a compelling, dark abyss for several hours. When I regained consciousness, I gradually began to realize what truly transpired between me and my pediatrician 27 years previously.

My mother admitted she had never noticed any scar tissue, yet she apparently accepted my doctor's alleged explanation for my stitches without question. I have a small, dimpled scar at the base of my spine where he evidently used a needle to paralyze me. The crinkling noise I heard was most likely a condom, so he didn't leave any incriminating evidence behind. I was hospitalized for countless days, and I would lie awake every night until one sympathetic young nurse would sneak in to untie my restraining straps so I could sleep. I felt that she was my only friend there, and I promised her that if someone found out, I wouldn't tell that person who had untied me. My mother was with me when my doctor removed my stitches later in a private room, and he had me lie in the same position I was in when he toyed with me before the "surgery". When he smiled strangely at me, I remembered we had a secret and I was terrified of him. It's difficult to believe my mother is such an imbecile she didn't know his intention to rape me before she left me there. If those tests were necessary, I definitely didn't need to be left overnight since there were hospitals close to where we lived, and any tests could've been performed during the day. In fact, we utilized one of the hospital labs regularly for my frequent blood smears.

I was in my early 20's when my mother and I began to establish a tentative friendship, despite our past. We discussed some of the family problems we encountered, and she admitted to being abusive to me in a manner that was similar to her father's abuse of her. We shared a couple bawdy "woman to woman" conversations which touched my heart with their honesty and left us both laughing, and I even stayed with and cared for her after her hysterectomy. She called the day her married lover died, although I never approved of the relationship, and she sobbed on my shoulder. I expected her to be astonished when I told her what I'd discovered about my doctor, and I was seeking some motherly concern and support, so I requested that she take a brief walk with me. I was speaking in a quiet, albeit strained, voice and I was puzzled by her obscure expression of fear. Her eyes reminded me of a trapped animal, although I hadn't made any accusations about her at that time. We walked briskly around the block, and never even broke stride until she stepped back into the house - acting as if our conversation had never occurred.

When I spoke with my grandmother about it several days later she said, "You could be opening Pandora's box. Maybe it's better not to remember. Maybe you'd better find something else to do. I think you should forget it. The sooner you forget it, the better off you'll be." She also said, "What if he's changed? What if he has a family? It happened a long time ago and you couldn't prove it now. Curiosity killed the cat." I didn't understand why she should be concerned about whether or not my pediatrician had a family, and it certainly wouldn't absolve his behavior if he'd changed. Now I realize that she was involved in their conspiracy of silence, and knew what tragedy led to that episode. Evidently, in her opinion, ignorance is bliss and consequently, denial is the next best thing.

During the following couple weeks I underwent a series of vivid flashbacks recalling additional relevant events from my early childhood. One of my earliest perplexing memories was that my grandpa hurt me wrestling. I was taking a nap, and I woke up screaming and struggling in my grandparent's bedroom. My grandpa was on top of me, sickly grinning. My grandma and my mom pulled him off me. I saw blood and woke up in a hospital. The factual explanation for my emergency care, the second hospitalization, was that I had been raped. Afterward, my mother stated I was simply having fever dreams. She inquired if I knew how my grandfather might have hurt me wrestling, and when I said I didn't know, she commanded me to stop saying that. "Who do you think bought you the pretty new dress you're wearing? How could you say such horrible things about your grandpa? Don't you love him?" she asked me. A couple times I overheard my mother and my grandmother clandestinely discussing "grandpa's accident", but when I asked them what they were talking about they evaded answering by changing the subject.

My emergency care paved the way for my third hospitalization "for observation", and eventually the fourth hospitalization to repair my hernia. I recall having symptoms of urethral syndrome, then cystitis. The blood that appeared in my urine probably resulted from retention caused by trauma to my urethra. Sometime after my "observation" the pain was so excruciating during urination I would scream - which indicates urethritus. I found some minor relief by gently pressing a warm, wet washcloth against myself and urinating through it, which was grossly distressing. I'm absolutely positive my pediatrician was responsible for inflicting the most substantial damages, including the hernia, when I was sacrificed to unwittingly reward him for remaining silent about my previous defilement.

When I persisted in complaining about my grandfather, my mother would smack me in the face until my nose started bleeding. The sight of blood was extremely alarming to me. When my grandfather returned home from work, he would lie on top of me on the floor and press all the air out of my lungs. He would laugh as I frantically gasped for air. He wouldn't let me up until I cried "uncle", and I was unable to comply. When he finally released me anyway I would run to my grandmother, although I didn't understand why she would just stand there and let him do that to me. She would hug me, giggle, and tell me about the 3 little monkeys - See No Evil, Hear No Evil, & Speak No Evil - covering my eyes, my ears, then my mouth with her hands. I wondered if monkeys wrestled or what? She and my mother would tell me, "See, your grandpa didn't hurt you wrestling. He's just playing with you." My grandfather would insist I go into my grandparents' bedroom (where it happened) and he would sneer at me as he showed me his guns while I cried. I finally learned to stop saying anything about him so it wouldn't all happen again.

Shortly after my second hospitalization, my mother told me there was some creepy guy wandering around the neighborhood, bothering little children. I couldn't go outside to play anymore, and I wasn't allowed to visit with my best friend even though I was told something bad had happened to her. One day I snuck over to her house, and I wasn't sure if her parents would allow me to play with her, since my family had forbidden me, but they did let me come in. I wasn't missing very long before my grandmother figured out where to find me. The adults acted like they weren't friends anymore, and I got in trouble for sneaking out. We moved along with my mother's parents soon afterward, and even though I never saw my friend again I'm fairly sure I know who hurt her, too.

One of my reoccurring nightmares I still vividly remember. Several wolves were tied up on leashes to my grandparents' interior staircase, and I was really scared of them. I carefully crept past them to the backyard and was playing a miniature red piano when a baker and a cop started arguing loudly. The baker would hit the cop on the head with his rolling pin, and the cop would hit the baker on the head with his club. A little brown mouse was hiding in a hole watching. My grandmother made me go inside to put on my socks and shoes, and I had to walk past the wolves to get to my bedroom. I called out to her to please wait for me because she was walking too fast. As she turned the corner out of sight, one of the wolves jumped up and grabbed me. He was licking his chops and grinning wickedly. I would awake sobbing.

In fact, a bakery employed my grandfather. Once the police came to our house, and the commotion and flashing lights woke me. I snuck out of bed and hid behind a large chair in the living room. I saw a gun, and I was so frightened I wet my pants. This is the most incomplete event I can recall, but it unquestionably left an impression on me. I had recently awakened, my vision was limited, and I was only out of bed for a few minutes. My mother often told me later that she had my father arrested that night for assaulting her, yet when I contacted the Detroit police 10 years ago I discovered this was another one of her fairy tales. I don't believe she could have had anyone arrested without incriminating herself as well. Perhaps she was guilty of neglecting her two young daughters while drinking heavily and behaving promiscuously, in addition to similar offenses. ("People who live in glass houses…?") I don't expect to ever ascertain precisely what happened.

After the third hospitalization I wanted to look where my stitches were so that maybe I could figure out why I hurt so badly. I would go into the bathroom and squat over a mirror, but my mother usually caught me and told me I was dirty. I had to wash my hands, and she told me nice girls didn't do that. Later, I wondered if other kids had stitches in their crotch like my cloth Raggedy-Ann doll and me. I got in lots of trouble trying to find out. My doctor taught me some fascinating things about my body before he "did surgery", but I wasn't allowed to play doctor with my friends, either. It seemed to me like my mother certainly enjoyed playing doctor with us kids, but she insisted what she did was different. She always had a good excuse for doing it, and she was an adult.

Before I became enrolled in kindergarten I had to attend a day care for awhile. My grandmother took me, even though it wasn't necessary for her to work outside her home, and I detested it because of nap time. The adults would have the children lie down quietly in a room furnished with cots. The wall of the room along the hallway consisted of large panes of glass. It reminded me of sharing a room with many beds and large windows in the hospital ward, and I dreaded it. I refused to close my eyes and I didn't rest at all. Later, in kindergarten, we were also required to take a nap, and each child had its own little rug from home that was laid on the floor of the classroom. Although it wasn't very comfortable and I naturally had no fondness for nap time, at least it was less unpleasant.

The first time I saw a dog in heat I started crying because I thought the dog was injured like I had been. When I started menstruating I was overwhelmed and, even though I was intellectually prepared, I couldn't cope with it emotionally. I still felt extreme agitation whenever I saw blood - especially my own originating between my thighs. Eventually it became a predictable monthly occurrence that evoked a sense of relief, as it indicated I wasn't pregnant, and I learned to accept it. I have retained a strong aversion to significant quantities of blood and I avoid gory, violent movies and television programs since they upset me immensely. It disconcerts me to consider how anyone could be entertained by witnessing an innocent person's agony. I've often been advised I'm overly sensitive, but I know firsthand precisely how it feels to have others feast on your pain.

If my mother hadn't remarried when I was almost 5 years old, there's an excellent chance the remainder of my childhood would have been even less stable than it became. Her second husband adopted my sister and me, and they had two additional children. My mother adroitly convinced him that she was a very protective parent, and sometimes appeared to be protecting us from him in some vague manner. In reality, he never was a threat to the children, he was exclusively a menace to her in that he might intervene and compromise her absolute control over the situation. She had already developed a carefully groomed facade in order to disguise her private agenda. She made it exceedingly difficult for him to have an active role in raising us, unless he was in total agreement with her. I know they had many heated arguments regarding my mother's methods of discipline, and I believe this caused her to restrain herself lest she estrange her primary source of income. He did experience difficulty expressing his love and concern for us, and I've been told that his parents had never been demonstrative. This inability appeared to represent a lack of interest to us so I, for one, didn't confide in him. He must have often felt helpless against my mother's manipulations and, due to his limited understanding and conspicuous boundaries, was apparently so frustrated he started leaving when a major confrontation erupted. The most severe abuse occurred when he was at work, out of town, or simply not at home. As a teenager I was intensely angry with him for not protecting me more effectively from my mother, so I would tell him, "You are not my dad!" because it was obvious to me it unerringly hurt him. I eventually began to realize he did love us and hadn't deserted us - although he seemed miserable, too. Regretfully, he wasn't involved enough to know the extent of our problems, but I'm grateful that we're much closer now.

Our mother also gravely abused our brother. She broke several rulers across his backside before she started using large wooden spoons instead. He began lighting fires in wastebaskets when he was very young, which I believe was a desperate attempt to attract attention. Her response was to pinion him to her side while she held a match to his finger until it blistered severely. He was screaming frantically and I just stood there horrified, crying helplessly. She claimed she did it to protect all of us from his potentially dangerous predilection, but if she had ceased abusing him, he probably wouldn't have felt compelled to ignite any more fires. When I was 9 or 10 years old I began to intervene whenever I saw her abusing him, which only redirected her hostility toward me temporarily. He was labeled hyperactive with extreme behavioral problems in 2nd grade, and was prescribed medication. As the eldest, I had already moved out by the time that he was 12½ years old. I understand his actions became progressively more malevolent over the years, and he subsequently terrorized my youngest sister to the point of inflicting serious emotional damage which she, as a practicing psychiatrist, is still attempting to ameliorate.

I was as enthralled by sex as most young men my age were, and I very willingly engaged in intercourse with my boyfriend on my 14th birthday. I told him I was a virgin and, although we were both rather clumsy, I'm positive we did not do any damage. He asked me if I was sure it was my first time since I didn't bleed, and I was deeply offended by the implication that I might have lied about it. I had heard some girls "lost it" while horseback riding or during some other strenuous physical activity, and I thought that maybe it applied to me. I also remembered when I was about 5 years old and my crotch started bleeding when I slipped while walking along the edge of a raised sandbox. My mother doesn't even recall this incident but my younger sister does, probably because I was screaming hysterically over the blood, and I believe I merely re-injured myself. I'm sure my boyfriend never considered asking if my grandfather had "hurt me wrestling", or if I had "surgery" when I was 3 years old - and I didn't realize there was any correlation.

When I was 16 years old and started working part-time, I paid for my own medical and dental bills, most of my clothing and (upon demand) some rent as well. My mother's sister had requested permission for me to live with her, but I wasn't allowed to move so I ran away from home. During that time I was raped, but it was not an experience which triggered memories of my "surgery". Although it was profoundly disgusting, I did not require any medical attention and I wasn't bleeding. I didn't report it to the police since I would rather take my chances than be returned to my mother's loving care (where she would undoubtedly grab me by the hair and slam my head against the wall again). I was apprehended by the Highway Patrol and returned to my mother's custody regardless of the situation or my juvenile delinquent wishes. I was informed that my only alternative to juvenile hall was to attend counseling. My confidante, Jeannette, recalls discussing several serious problems with me regarding my mother, my grandfather, and my pediatrician although I didn't realize as a teenager that I had repressed any childhood memories.

When I originally grasped why I had been hospitalized as a youth, I scheduled an appointment at a clinic for women. The doctor's diagnosis was that I had previously torn vaginal mucosa, and she agreed I had a faint line resembling an episiotomy scar where I recall having stitches. She directed my attention to the perforated muscle beneath the membrane on my upper right, which leads directly to my hernia. I also uncovered some medical records from my first gynecologist that basically described those same damages, although he never discussed them with me at any time. A nurse practitioner I saw as a young adult had a copy of his records, and she asked me once if I'd been abused as a child. When I gave her a blank, slightly annoyed look, she changed the subject. I thought she was playing amateur psychoanalyst but she was the only professional, out of the several which had examined me, who attempted to speak candidly and address my injuries. I hadn't generally experienced any discomfort during sex except in a specific position if I was on my right side, and I thought it was because of my hernia repair. When I was a youth I slept with a pillow pressed against my abdomen, yet as I developed it didn't annoy me as much. I'm grateful I invested a lot of time in sports such as swimming, skiing, and especially my 3-hour dance classes as these activities developed muscles that were greatly advantageous when I was pregnant. My son was delivered by cesarean section since I never fully dilated and my pelvic outlet is too small to allow for a natural birth. My vaginal muscles were not torn (or perforated), nor did I require an episiomoty so this would clearly not account for the damages done to my reproductive system. My labor did strain my abdominal repair however, and I started sleeping with a pillow again.

When I spoke to a couple of my ex-boyfriends about what had happened to me as a child they were shocked and appalled, as they had never noticed anything abnormal about my anatomy. The sound of a clamborously squeaking bed has always been a major "turn-off" to me however and now I realize, on a subconscious level, it reminds me of my "surgery". Beyond that, I've always had a very strong sex drive, and held the rather liberal opinion that consenting adults' sexual preferences are their own concern. Intimacy among teenagers is a highly debatable topic, but adults who molest and/or abuse children are the scourge of the earth. Most violent criminals were abused as children, and I feel the abuser/s should accordingly be held vicariously liable for these subsequent repercussions.

The hospital in Detroit where my pediatrician violated me refused to voluntarily release my records despite several documented requests on my part. My attorney had asked one of her clients, an anesthesiologist, if he would request them for me but he refused to get involved. The only early records I was able to obtain are from another hospital regarding my tonsils, and I'm positive that date has been altered to coincide with my emergency care. For instance, if had been 3 years 4½ months old when my tonsils were removed, my sister would have been over 2 years old and would not have still been eating baby food. I wasn't able to obtain any records for my hernia repair either, so it's most likely they are buried at the same hospital as my "overnight observation" records.

My mother had initially projected an attitude that although I was sick and crazy, she was kindhearted enough to love me anyway. As an adolescent, she confidentially told me I was an ungrateful, rebellious, sleazy tramp with a distorted sense of reality that was destined to fail. However, the public schools I attended were a major source of positive influence. I was an excellent student, especially before my teens, and I developed special relationships with many of my teachers. I was often told I was gifted with a quick mind and a strong sensitivity to other peoples needs, and was frequently placed in positions of leadership. I never felt worthy of any praise (despite receiving outstanding marks on the national achievement tests), and I earnestly strove to satisfy their expectations of me. I was encouraged to develop a sense of self-esteem, although it evaporated in the presence of my mother and some other relatives. In 10th grade I was elected to be a peer counselor. I was a teacher's aid for a couple classes, and I also did well in independent study courses.

After I had run away, I was granted the privilege of attending junior college if I stayed enrolled in high school through the work experience program. I graduated a semester early, and by the end of my senior year had acquired 1½ years worth of college credit. Yet, since I waived my opportunity to return for the ceremonies, most of my family refused to acknowledge that I had met (let alone exceeded) the high school requirements. I often regret not continuing my education but after accumulating a few more credits, I started working full-time as a full-charge bookkeeper. At age 19, I worked in the Transamerica handling trust accounts for a prominent law firm. By the time I was 22 years old, after rejecting another company's offer for a position as an internal auditor, I became the accounting manager of a wholesale jewelry outlet in San Francisco. I wish I had been as successful in accounting for my own personal early childhood experiences.

I was furious with my mother for deliberately deceiving me all those years, and mortified I hadn't figured it out sooner. As a child I had been too embarrassed to discuss my bladder problem and my stitches with another adult, and too frightened of the consequences if I ignored my family's warnings and attempted to talk about it, especially outside the house. The adults involved had ostensibly felt it was relatively safe to assume I was too naïve and confused to explain it coherently to anyone, and too young and traumatized to remember any of it once I was mature enough to comprehend what had actually occurred. Furthermore, it is a commonly accepted theory that a child's testimony is unreliable. I cried for days, especially over the knowledge of my grandmother's involvement since she had otherwise been very kind to me. As for my mother, she had the perfect opportunity to unburden herself and attempt to make amends - except morality is a foreign policy to her, so she clings to the security of her familiar nefarious ways.

According to my attorney, although I couldn't easily substantiate most charges, I did have solid evidence I was severely injured as a child. My grandfather died, but I could have sued my mother for criminal negligence. My mother's innocent claim that she wasn't aware anything unusual had happened to me is obviously a preposterous denial. She's not a genius, but she isn't severely retarded, either. My mother clearly knew the risk she was subjecting me and my sister to when we moved in with her parents as her father had already proved his incestuous inclinations with her personally, along with his physically abusive tendencies. According to her recent belated admissions, she was first molested as a 6-year-old child by one of her uncles. Her father didn't have intercourse with her until she was a teenager. She never suffered the corporeal injuries I did, yet she has my deepest sympathy when I consider the damages inflicted on her when she was young. Still, that did not bestow upon her the right to abuse and molest children. Many of the inept decisions she made in her early 20's were based on anxiety over her own personal security. She had abundant opportunities to escape her father's influence, yet she followed the path of least resistance. I have absolutely no respect for any adults who would willingly subject a child to extreme danger in order to spare their own self from a potential threat. Rather than accepting responsibility for her actions as an adult, she has lamely attempted to justify her behavior when her lubricious prevarications haven't provided an adequate stratagem.

I didn't attempt to sue her primarily as I had nothing meaningful to gain by doing so and I lacked the tenacity to bear the intense degradation associated with the process. The individuals who remained in denial would not have been persuaded to believe otherwise by a court decision. I didn't intend to provide her an opportunity to become convinced that she had compensated me for what she'd done, or had been appropriately punished for her crimes. I haven't discovered adequate means to eradicate the hurt and anger induced by my mother's efforts to cover her own ass with a shield of subterfuge at my expense. It's taken me a decade to recover sufficient emotional stability to undertake this somewhat cathartic narrative. There are times when I still feel like a 3-year-old child, as I mutely cry out for love while silently screaming. If my mother has any conscience at all, I emphatically hope it hasn't been mollified by her copious supply of excuses. Her judgment day still awaits her, and if there is no God, I suppose I'll have to rely on karma.

I suffered an extensive period of severe depression, and was almost devastated by despair. I spoke with Jeannette again for the first time in about 12 years. I most likely should have been prescribed some type of medication at that time. I was incapable of sleeping without nightmares again and, at 5'2", my weight dropped to 85 pounds. My involuntary experimentation as to the consequences of sleep depravation and anorexia produced disorientation and an inability to concentrate, which exceedingly augmented my stressed situation. Since early childhood I had been conditioned to distrust my perception of reality, and I questioned my own sanity once again. I considered that perhaps my son would have a better life without me. The denial of many of my closest family members, particularly in relation to my mother's involvement, added acutely to my emotional agony. Aside from the support I received from a few overwhelmed friends and family members, it was my infinite love and concern for my son that prevented me from abandoning all hope and endeavoring to end my pain, shame, and humiliation. I finally joined a support group for survivors of incest and childhood sexual abuse for a brief interval. It allowed me the freedom to discuss my experiences in a safe, non-judgemental and supportive environment. Eventually I began to function more efficiently, despite my ongoing divorce proceedings.

I survived that crisis also, and have acquired a more integral understanding of my relatives and myself. It's a source of pride to know I'm no longer ignorantly keeping the family skeletons safe. I hope that at least the youngest and future generations of our lineage will profit from any changes this awareness may accomplish. It's difficult to just accept my past, as it still affects the current relationships my son and I have with our family. My inability to tolerate my mother's company has effectively excluded my son and me from local gatherings, which is exceptionally depressing during the holidays and special occasions. My mother had habitually ostracized me previously, so I am not unaccustomed to existing on the outskirts of their family unit, whereas it's very troublesome for my son. I deeply regret not being able to participate in those notable events, yet I'm considerably more content now. I don't believe my son would benefit in any manner by maintaining a relationship with my mother, especially as her fundamental lack of scruples allows her to exploit anyone if her personal interests are at stake. He has expressed absolutely no desire to communicate with her, particularly since he is aware that she disputed my right to retain custody of him. In spite of my abundant faults, my son and I have been extremely close.

My mother's sister has always been supportive of me, and is presently studying for her doctorate in psychology. I believe she desires to effect a positive impact against all forms of abuse, along with continuing to remedy her own brutal emotional injuries. My mother's brother and I have developed a much healthier relationship than we shared when we were younger. Lamentably, our primary role models never portrayed how to express consanguine affection in an appropriate manner. We would often flirt and tease and, although he never pressed his explicit advantage, we became angry and frustrated with each other and didn't communicate for many years. He is aware of the accusations I've made, and he subsequently inquired if I hated him, too. My uncle never molested me regardless of the "rules of manly conquest" impressed on him by certain male members of his father's family. We don't have as many opportunities to spend time together anymore, but now we're more capable of conferring wholesome affection. I respect and admire both my aunt and my uncle for their apparent capacity to surmount our licentious heritage.

I've been hiding my heart somewhat for most of my life, but especially so over the last decade. Although people often seek my friendship, I have difficulty trusting anyone besides select family members and some outstanding friends (including a few excellent doctors). I still enjoy meeting new people and socializing, but I'm not confident I'll ever consider accepting the emotional risk involved in marriage again despite my intense desire for a partner. I haven't felt I've had much to contribute to another significant relationship since I've been focusing all my resources on attempting to be a good parent. I have spent considerable time assisting at my son's schools, which was tremendously satisfying. Besides being able to support my son, it also allowed me to return to an environment in which I had always felt valuable and productive. Children tend to instinctively trust me, as if they sense my protective impulses. I believe it is indisputably more important to nurture and safeguard the children rather than concern ourselves with sparing criminally negligent or abusive adults from the prevalently insufficient consequences which await them.

My son is more important to me than life itself, and I would attempt to protect him at any cost whatsoever. Unfortunately, my son and I definitely encountered a prolific source of troubles. I did not, however, loose a swarm of evils upon mankind. Those evils had already been running amuck for entirely too long. I trust that the truth has served as an apology to some of my family members for my occasionally exasperating behavior, as well as an explanation of my self-abusive tendencies. I optimistically desired another chance to establish better relationships with relatives that had previously been partially alienated due to my mother's cunning exploitation of my non-conformist disposition. Some favorable changes have arisen, yet I have also regretfully been reminded of how influential See No Evil, Hear No Evil and Speak No Evil are to the same people who persist in remaining blissfully ignorant of certain truths. In spite of various familial complications, I've been exerting a wholehearted effort to raise a healthy and happy child. I'm exceedingly proud of my son, and I wish to equip him with every tool he needs in order to manage any given predicament - including the opening of Pandora's box.

Provided there's value in nebulous council, beware of Greek gods bearing gifts - unless you're a curious cat living in a glass house with cruel liars, monkeys, and wolves. Actually, my advice to my son is that he should treat other people with the same respect he would like to receive, being especially considerate to people less fortunate than himself. Also, the most important investment in life is a good education, as knowledge grants you the power required to make beneficial changes. According to another version of the myth concerning Pandora, Hope alone remained inside the box, since the lid was shut before she could escape. I would sincerely like to believe that I have ultimately liberated Hope.

– 2/98 by Wendy

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