Chapter One - Marie Ruth
A Peak Behind the Curtain
Relatively Present Day
“I don’t understand,” I replied, my face flat as I stared at the psychiatrist.
He set his notebook on the side table and turned to face me directly. We were sitting in his office high in the tall tower of the hospital. I could see the distant bridge of the city as the grey sky rained on another winter day.
“Your mind protects itself. Some events, memories, can be too traumatic to remember.”
I nodded. “So that is why I have so few memories of my childhood,” I extrapolated, “Or why it can be difficult to remember the time raising the kids. And so on.”
“Yes. As you work through the trauma though, process it, there is a chance those memories will return. With time. With your nervous system adjusting and feeling safe,” he expanded, “But they may not all come back.”
Slumping a bit in my seat, I watched my fingers trace the edge of the upholstery. “But you told me to look in all the corners. We talked about the rape in college. You said that is how I would heal.”
“True. Memories are tricky. Not wholly reliable,” he said, “Not that I don’t believe you because I do know that you have experienced trauma. I am not sure that the shirt you remember wearing was blue or pink for example. And we are not in a court of law here.”
Inside my mind, I could feel the wall come down hard as I tried to poke and pry it. I felt the anxiety rise within me. I felt the tightness in my chest and I closed my eyes to breathe. 1, 2, 3, 4. I counted my breaths. With each breath I visualized a ..
It wasn’t working. I leaned forward clutching my stomach. “I can’t breathe.” I muttered.
He quickly dropped to his knees and placed his hands on the arms of the chair, careful not to touch me.
“Marie Ruth, what do you hear?”
“What?” I muttered.
“What do you hear?”
Slowly, I raised my head as the panic eased. “Your voice,” I answered in a small utterance.
“What else do you hear?”
I shifted my attention and brushed back my hair. “The air conditioner. A door closing.”
So it goes. He asked me what I tasted, saw, touched and smelled. By the end, the panic was gone.
“Maybe I’m not ready to go all the way back,” I admitted. “Maybe, I need to leave it where it is. The OB said the treatment given to me then was proven to be invalid and today those issues would automatically trigger an investigation into sex abuse of a minor.”
The words felt like vinegar in my mouth. Sour and foul.
“I do have some memory fragments that, well,” I stammered. “They are memories. I can’t pinpoint the exact age - just the bottom of the ceramic water fountain was over my shoulder. And it was the holidays.”
He returned to his chair with his face impassive - just waiting for me to continue.
“I have in the past woken up from a nightmare and that is the image I remember. It lingers.” I spread my hands out in defeat.
“I asked my family for help in pinpointing who and when but they were clueless. My parents are gone. It’s been more than fifty years. I doubt anyone is still alive from then.”
We sat quietly for a few moments as the emotions of the moment ebbed away. He picked up his notebook and made a few notations. “There are people I can refer you to that work with children. They may have more tools than I do. You can also just let this sit. Until you are ready to look. Your choice.”
I nodded, turning to look at him. “I think that it would be best to let my mind protect me.” As I said it, my anxiety quickly stopped. As if the deal was struck and the memory quietly locked the door. No one admitted. Shut it down.
I have not looked back and there is no one really to talk to. All I have is fragments of memories of sheer terror and two older male faces leering at me. I remember a hand on my backside as I pee my pants. Again.
I have come to accept that this part of my life is sealed. I do not know if I am strong enough to open that door. Or ever will be. But I do know that just sitting here as I write these current events, I can imagine a calmness in my center. My inner four-year-old self is feeling better. My body is relaxed and accepting that something happened. I don’t need to know the specifics.
Healing is messy and not linear.