Pink Frosting

I was planning on a green cake and using purple sugar with a dinosaur stencil. N had other ideas. She usually does. She has a mind of her own, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. She is brave and strong, and knows her own mind. She’s turning three tomorrow, so maybe I just dream that those are the things that she will be. I hope she always knows how much faith I have in her.

About two years back, I sat across the dinner table from my mother, nursing N, working hard to come out of Postpartum Depression. My mother told me that she had always been depressed, she would always be depressed, that life would never be easier, and I’d better get used to it, because I was going to be depressed my whole life, too. She was deep down black, and couldn’t see her way out or remember that there were days when life was easier. I drove home that night and swore to myself that I would never, ever say that to my daughter.

My mother baked me cakes from scratch growing up. She made us oatmeal every morning, and muffins so good that my elementary school teachers begged for the recipes. She made bread with us, and taught us how to peel carrots and use a knife safely. We were paid a penny a potato bug or Japanese beetle, and spent summers with mouths covered in the red-blue juice of blackberries and wild strawberries. She was an amazing mom in so many ways. She still is. But, there have been days, seasons, and years when she has had to swim hard to keep her head above water. I believe she always does the best she can, and I am stronger and better because she loves me.

I watch my friends confronting their own demons: hospitalized for bipolar with little ones at home; a mother in law learning a diagnosis and calling child protective services. I watch them hospitalize their children and hear them praying for the ability to keep their teenage daughters safe. I fight so hard to make it through this hell that is clinical depression, and I wonder how long I will really be able to keep it from my girls. I see my therapist regularly, I keep up on my ‘insulin’, the Wellbutrin and Lexapro that make the day to day possible. I try to ensure that flashbacks do not touch my face while I care for my daughters, that even on my worst days their needs are met. But, how much longer do I have that they don’t know?

What it will be like for my daughters? When will it become their burden, too? They have the same loaded genetic make up, coupled with bipolar and anxiety disorders from my husband’s side. I hear my friends talk about helping their children through heartaches and hospitals. I am awestruck by their strength, even as I doubt my own. I am afraid of the day when it will be our turn. I think about it in those terms: not if, when.

In the meantime, I bake my daughters cakes and teach them they are loved. I hold them tight and pray I am giving them better tools than my mother was able to give me, she who still believes that depression is a moral flaw deep within her, that she would have been fine if she had just been a stronger person. When our time comes, I pray that I have the strength to tell them it will get better. I will tell my beautiful daughters, “Look at us. This is the life you can build for yourself even after you have hit the ground. Here are the friends and family that will stand by you through the thick and the thin, who will laugh with you on your joyful days, who will celebrate the bitter and the sweet that is this life. You are not alone.”

I am so proud of my daughters. I am so proud of my mother and all she has fought through. I pray that they will all always know themselves to be the beautiful, strong women that they are.

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No Jabs, Please

Neither of my children have received any vaccinations. I am making this blog post anonymously because I am wary of the backlash I might receive just for saying I don’t vaccinate my kids.

My husband and I did not make this decision based on a belief that vaccines cause autism. I believe, and always have done, that the evidence for that is flimsy at best. We made the decision out of a distrust of the additives in vaccines, of large pharmaceutical companies and their ethics (rather, lack there of), of one size fits all healthcare and many other reasons.

We are just parents who care about our children and are trying to make the best decisions we can. We looked at the information we could find and made our own informed decision. Which is, ultimately, what most people do when deciding things for themselves and/or their children. We understand that some vaccines may be worth the risks depending on the situation and are open to the idea of selectively vaccinating the children in the future. At the same time, we don’t believe that every vaccine on the schedule is worth the risk. We believe in tailoring our healthcare decisions to our particular situation and lifestyle.

We (non-vaxxers in general) often get treated like we’re wearing tinfoil hats, worse even. Granted, some of us are alarmist and extreme. But then, so are some of the vehemently pro-vaccination camp. I have friends who once meant very much to me spouting the most vile vitriol against anyone and everyone who chooses not to vaccinate. They post things on Facebook accompanied by paragraphs long rants about how evil, stupid and not worth the air they breathe non-vaxxers are. They claim they have science behind them … well, last I checked, science was impartial and not so overtly hateful or hurtful. These things hurt. They hurt a lot.

My husband and I are both intelligent and educated. We can make our own informed decisions, and to attack our intelligence and/or our right to exist as human beings just because we make a different healthcare decision from you is both exceedingly arrogant and downright wrong. Not everyone who chooses not to vaccinate their children are extremists as not everyone who chooses to vaccinate are extremists.

My husband and I acknowledge that we may not have the right answer and that there likely isn’t one right answer. We only do what we feel is best for our children, ourselves and our family based on the circumstances and the information we have at the time. We have friends who fully vaccinate their children. We have friends who don’t vaccinate at all. We even have friends who partially vaccinate to a delayed schedule. Some of those friends (in all three groups) are even from a healthcare or medical background. We don’t judge any of them because we know that they all are doing the same as us: gathering information and trying to make the best decision they can for their situation. So, why do so many in the pro-vaccination camp feel they have the right to denigrate, ridicule and generally treat as dirt on their shoe those of us who simply made a different choice?

People need to step back, take a deep breath and do what is right for them without expecting everyone to come to the same conclusion. Alarmist propaganda is never ok and neither is demonizing an entire group of people for a personal decision. We trust parents to drive their children around in cars, to make other healthcare decisions, to guide their children’s dietary choices. This is no different.

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NOTE: This is not a place to debate, defend, or attack vaccines, and this is definitely not a place to attack this naked and faceless poster for hir choices. Vaccines, and the decision to vaccinate fully or selectively or not at all, have public health consequences; this is not an excuse for incivility. PLEASE keep the focus on the subjective experience of making an unpopular decision.

Relapse

I woke up this morning ready to receive clients for my work day only to find chip dip strewn across the living room hardwood floor because you left off the lid and the cat got into it, an opened bottle of vodka sitting in your shoe, cigarettes and your lighter next to the fireplace and a half drunk can of beer. I had five minutes to clean it up. Luckily it was enough time to remove the evidence of your relapse, but I didn’t end up doing what I should have done to prepare to receive my clients. My clients who are all under the age of five.

One morning, not too long ago, the children arrived and an hour later I found your opened bottle of vodka sitting next to where they were playing. You hadn’t drank in months. I didn’t feel the need to look. I had learned to stop looking for evidence. There were no accidents that day, but everything I had learned to do to “let go and let God” went up in smoke. For awhile. Then you stopped again and it has been another month or so of sobriety. Luckily not long enough that I have stopped looking for evidence to keep the children safe. Already I have grown used to looking for the cigarettes and lighter by the fireplace. Although we’ve spoken fifty times about how much I hate that you smoke up the chimney at night when we are all in bed, you will not stop. You will not respect me. You do not respect yourself.

I’m so pissed off. I went to AlAnon for four months solid while you struggled to get better. I stopped going because I’ve seen so much progress and things have been so good between us. Yesterday you told me your doctor and counselor said you hit a turning point, a pinnacle in your recovery. I agreed. I congratulated you. Now I wish we hadn’t said that. As much as it made you feel good to be praised for all your hard work, I see now that it also made you afraid. You are scared of success. You don’t know how to maintain it. I don’t know how to maintain this relationship if you can’t stop.

But my fear in leaving you is not being here for the children. Not being around in the morning to pick up the bottle of vodka you forgot to close and put away because you were too wasted to remember you have small children who get up earlier than you. Not being around to put away the cigarettes and lighter. Worse, not being around to help them in the night when they wake from a nightmare and need help going back to sleep. YOU can’t do it. I’ve seen you “try.” Turning on their light and yelling at a child for crying and keeping you awake is not conducive to helping them settle again. And those were the nights you were still awake and able to hear them. Once you’ve passed out nothing wakes you.

I remember the early days of our relationship, when we were dating and keeping separate residences. I remember letting myself into your apartment one morning to find you passed out on your living room floor. Your eight year old son was thankfully still sleeping in his room. I woke you up and put you to bed. I should have known what I was getting into. Sometimes I wish I’d just left the key on your table, turned around and never looked back.

I would love for everyone to know about your addiction, if only to propel you to stop out of humiliation. But I have a business to run and a shred of dignity that I’m trying to maintain. Plus, I respect your desire for privacy from our family. Anyway, no one would ever say anything to you if they knew. And those of our friends who know never say anything. Because you don’t fit the alcoholic stereotype. (Damn those!) You’re a nice guy. You don’t hit me. You have a job. As an addictions counselor no less! You don’t drink socially or publicly. You drink late at night after everyone has gone to bed. Then I erase the evidence in the morning. I would not be a co-dependent wife if I did not work from home. This is not who I am, but I have to make my workplace and my children’s home safe.

Tonight there is an AlAnon meeting. I had planned to hang out with friends, but tonight I think I might make an excuse.

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Regression

Her name isn’t Jessica, but that’s what we’ll call her. She is two and a half years old. She like dolls and trucks and puzzles and trains. She like riding bikes, playing peek-a-boo and playing chase. Jessica was in my care from 7:30am until 4:30pm, five days a week.

I had been toilet training Jessica at the request of her mother. There were many, many accidents. So many accidents. But then one day, it was as if a light went on and it all made sense. Accidents became few and far between. She got it, finally, and I praised her for it.

But then she regressed. Her poo accidents, once a rare occurrence, became a daily thing. At first I didn’t worry; after all, it was common for children to regress, and I was dealing with another toilet-trainer going through the same thing. But then I noticed a change in her attitude.

She became quiet and withdrawn. She didn’t take me up on my offer of hugs. She wouldn’t high-five me anymore. And every time she had a poo accident she would deny it, hide in a corner. While I changed her, she refused to meet my eye. It worried me greatly, and no amount of saying “It’s ok” seemed to make a difference.

One day, while in the room, I could smell poo. Knowing that it was about the time of her poo accidents, I asked “Have you pooped Jessica?”

“No,” she said, looking down.

“Can I check?” She didn’t say anything, but allowed me to check the back of her pants. Sure enough, there was the beginnings of a poo.

“You’ve pooped, Jessica. Let’s go to the bathroom and change your underwear.” I gave her a smile and stood up.

She looked at me, then at the doll she had in her hands.

“Baby pooped,” she said. “Bad baby!” She looked at the dolly sternly, wagging a finger at it. Suddenly it all made sense. Someone was telling her off for having poo accidents. I tried to keep from crying.

“Baby isn’t bad. Everybody poops,” I said.

She didn’t look like she believed me, but followed me to the bathroom and let me change her.

“Does mommy poop?” I asked.

“No…”

“Yes she does. Mommy poops! Does daddy poop?”

“No?”

“Daddy poops too! And you know what?” I got a look, a smile. “I poop as well!”

“Really?”

“Yup! I poop! Lots of people do!” Another smile. I finished changing her and left her with the other carer.

I then went to talk to my supervisor. I told her what Jessica had said. I tried to be careful not to inflict my own biases upon the story. She nodded. She had her concerns too. We agreed to keep an eye on her, and to also monitor our behavior, to make sure we weren’t contributing to her distress.

Two days later, Jessica was taken out of care.

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TRIGGER WARNING There is a strong trigger warning on this post for descriptions of child sexual abuse and incest. Please do not read if doing so would put your own health or sanity in jeopardy.

I was three

I was three when it began. It was our own little game, you said. No one but us could know because they wouldn’t understand. On that one count you were right, they would never have understood. You were fifteen or sixteen, my uncle. In the beginning it wasn’t so horrible. Your touch was gentle and you said you loved me. I wanted so desperately to be loved. At three I already felt alone in the world.

You held me close when we played hide and seek in the snow with all of the other cousins that winter; I was terrified that we would be found. You whispered to me, “It will be okay, I’m here. They won’t find us.” That thought was strangely calming. You frequently gave me treats; that day we shared hot cocoa wrapped in a blanket on the swinging bench at Grandma’s house.

By the time I was five, gentle touching had turned to rape. I remember the first time, how could I not? That day has been indelibly etched in my mind. Your room was filthy, as always. Your bed not made, dishes from days before stacked around the room gathering ants and flies, clothes strewn all over the floor. The sheets on the bed were foul smelling and scratchy, the pillow lacking a pillowcase and showcasing a prominent yellow stain. I had no idea what was happening; even for all of the touching that had gone on I was quite ill-prepared for what came next. That is the first time I remember trying to get away from you. I earned a swat on the butt for that and then was thrown into the wall. You picked me up from the floor and pushed me on the bed. You stood there naked, expectant and high with excitement. Your weight was crushing, your breath stinky and your body sweaty. I had never before experienced pain on that level. I felt I would break in half, thought of Humpty Dumpty and wondered if I’d be able to be put back together again. There was no way for me to comprehend that the part of me that would not be fixed, could not be fixed, was my mind.

Your bedroom was upstairs in the converted attic. I remember so many times standing at your gabled window; the serenity of the street below in direct contrast with my emotions. Our relationship no longer felt safe, I no longer felt loved by you. I wanted out; I wanted nothing to do with you. I never felt dirtier than I did when I was with you. And yet you had the perfect way to keep me quiet: the winter before I turned six my little sister was born. You never thought twice about using the image of her little body with yours to coerce me into doing whatever your sick mind wanted. The fear that you would get to her like you’d been able to get to me haunted me to the point that many times when we arrived at Grandma’s house I sought you out in order to keep you away from her.

I was six years old and I was following every order of yours to the T. I knew it was wrong; one of the first things we learned in school was that no one should touch me in the multitude of ways I was being touched by you. And yet. And yet there were the many threats you offered up to keep me compliant. You would tell everyone I was lying and I’d be taken away from my family for being such a Bad Person. You would take my little sister next. You would cut me into little pieces. My fear of you and what you would do if I ever told anyone kept me quiet.

For the last seventeen years I’ve done everything I could to avoid seeing you. This year Grandma called me and invited me to dinner at her house. When I asked who would be there your name was on the list of attendees. I wondered if I was strong enough to confront you. I wondered what I would say when I came face to face with you for the first time in more than half my lifetime. I fantasized about bringing our secret out in the open and what would happen to you when I did. I thought long and hard about going to dinner. In the end I called my sister and gave her the bare bones account of what had happened years ago. I asked her if she’d be willing to come to dinner with me. I needed to face you, but I needed help watching my four year old son. I wanted to make sure that he would never be in a room with you.

When we walked into the house we greeted Grandma with hugs and kisses, sat down at the dining room table with her and then looked around to see who else was there. The fear came back immediately when I saw you in the doorway; I was once again three, five, eight, eleven, fourteen, fifteen. Those seconds lasted a lifetime. Then all at once your gaze switched from me to my son, my four year old baby. I was no longer three, five, eight, eleven, fourteen, fifteen. I was thirty-two and I was a mother. I stood up and set my boy child back on the chair the two of us had been sharing. I stood between you and my loved ones, my little sister and my child. I stood for all those times that I couldn’t say or do anything except exactly what you said. Although my heart felt as if it would beat through my chest, I stayed there. And you, you sick man, you looked from me to my sister to my child again and again. You waited to see if I’d say anything or what I’d do. And still I stood tall. I stayed there, breathing, taking strength in the time that had passed, in the stories I’d recently shared with a trusted friend, in the knowledge that I no longer had to bear this horror alone. I stood, knowing the truth and hoping that you remembered all of it too. And when you finally turned away and walked out the front door to leave, I drew in a fresh breath and gave thanks.

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TRIGGER WARNING There is a trigger warning on this post for descriptions of domestic abuse. Please do not read if doing so would put your own health or sanity in jeopardy.

It happens to us, too

People who know me would probably find it difficult to believe that, for a year during my late teens, I was in an abusive relationship. They’d probably be surprised for a few couple of reasons. Firstly, because I was so young and abusive relationships only happen to married women, right? And secondly, because I’m a feminist activist. I’ve been bundled into the back of a police van for protesting a beauty pageant, and dragged out of government buildings by security for demanding better rape crisis funding. A lot of people probably assume I’m pretty confident, that there’s no way anybody would get away with abusing or degrading me.

Things were very different when I was seventeen though. I had a large group of girl friends who were all hooking up with different guys at the weekends when we went out. I was always the one holding their drinks, ignored by the boys who followed them round the dance floor all night. My parents had broken up rather spectacularly over the previous few years. I would say that my always shaky confidence and self-esteem was at an all time low. I was working at my local pub a couple of nights a week while I was finishing high school, and that’s where I met “J”.

He was tall, good looking, three years older and, most importantly, seemed to have a crush on me. We got together at my eighteenth birthday party which I was pretty pleased about. I wasn’t the ugly duckling anymore and my friends seemed pretty impressed, which meant a lot at the time.

I think the first real sign that things might not be all they seemed was when he told me he was in love with me after about a month. On the one hand, I was a bit unsettled that things had moved so quickly and were so serious, on the other, I was flattered. He wanted to spend every minute with me. I was lying to my mom about why I was late back — it was usually because he refused to drive me home in time, getting upset when I said I had to leave.

Over the next few months, the inevitable happened. It became all too clear that he was incredibly jealous. I have always had a lot of close male friends, especially when I was in my teens. He would steal my phone and read my messages to check that they weren’t from other boys. Over a romantic dinner, he declared that all girls were sluts, so I must be too. He got into my emails after finding out my password and read through pages of emails I had exchanged with various people during my teens, and he deleted an online account of mine so specific people couldn’t contact me anymore.

The first incidence of violence took place about six months in. We had been listening to a CD in the car when he “accused” me of having a crush on the bass player after I mentioned how impressive he was live. He pulled over and threatened to throw my CD out of the window. When we got back to the house I said I was going to call my mom to come and get me. He responded by dragging me up the stairs by my neck and throwing me against the wall in his room. Looking back, everything had been leading to this. He’d yell at me about nothing and slam doors in my house when my mom wasn’t there. He purposefully tried to intimidate me when we were arguing, using his relative size to threaten me.

This was the first incidence of many. He would shove and slap me regularly, and even bit me once. During this time, I had moved away to start my degree. He would come two weekends running and I would go home on the third. Things had escalated pretty rapidly once I left our home town. He would call for hours every night, getting angry if I told him that I was going out. I can’t count the number of times I left my new friends at the club or the bar while I went home in tears because he wouldn’t leave me alone.

The final straw came after about 14 months. “J” had come to visit for a weekend, and we had gone out with my best friends. Once of them accidentally upset him and he slapped me so hard on the back that I almost fell. We went back to my flat and he left shortly afterwards. It was by no means the worst thing that had happened, but it was a wake-up call. I invited my friends to stay the next weekend, to boost my confidence before I broke up with him.

When they left, I called him to tell him it was over. But it wasn’t. After that, he subjected me to weeks of death threats and abuse. He told me that nobody else would ever want me, that he’d tell people terrible things about me. He even told me he had cancer and was dying. After a while it died down and eventually I met somebody new, with whom I now live and co-parent our pets.

I feel like I’ve only recently reclaimed most of my identity. Before I met him I went to gigs every week and went out with friends. I was political, and interested in fashion and alternative culture. When we were together, he even regulated my clothes and haircut. (After I left him, I cut all of my hair off and got my nose pierced. I bicycle partly because I know it would piss him off.) He called me a “groupie” for wanting to go to see bands, and he was horribly racist, but I was too ground down to rail against any of it. I wanted to leave him but I was too scared of what he’d do. Our family homes are so close that I was sure I’d see him every time I visited my home.

There are still so many things about it that make me angry. For one thing, my mom knew what was going on. He was so horrible to her and my sister, trying to drive a wedge between me and them. He even told mom that I didn’t love her. More than that, he tipped a beer over my head during the intermission of a concert I was performing in and she saw and said nothing. His mom and friends also witnessed more obviously violent incidents and didn’t step in. And I was told by the police that he was “just heartbroken”.

People always say that battered women stay with their husbands because of the children, or for financial reasons. I think this is only half the story. I think that most women stay, at least partly, because they have no self-esteem left. They have been ground down to the point where they don’t believe that they deserve better anymore. But people don’t understand this, and so they don’t understand stories like mine, or the stories of countless other women my age who have been through a shockingly similar thing. Our cases are trivialized by the police. I reported assault and death threats to them, and they did nothing. I know he has gone on to treat other women this way (one got in touch with me). Nothing is being done about men like “J” because young childless women are not being believed. This has to change.

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TRIGGER WARNING There is a trigger warning on this post for descriptions of rape and near-rape situations. Please do not read if doing so would put your own health or sanity in jeopardy.

This Is Rape Culture

Twelve years ago, I almost raped someone.

We’d had a fun date. I brought him home. We kissed, started making out. I was twenty years old, self-centered, horny. I thought “whee! sex!” I started flinging off clothes and happily pouncing. I had no idea anything was wrong until he pushed away, saying “no, no, I can’t do this,” hastily grabbed his things and left.

I was so confused. I absolutely could not conceive of a man who, confronted with a naked and willing woman, would not want sex. Even as I rejected the cultural idea of the chaste woman who must be seduced, I had internalized the idea of the man who will never say no.

For those of you who are saying, as I said to myself for many years, “but nothing bad happened. He said no, he left. Nothing happened after he said no.” Consider what might have happened had he not felt safe enough to say no, or not been able to process his uncomfortable feelings into the word “no.” Would I have noticed that anything was wrong? For how long had he been projecting “no” in his body language before he vocalized it, but I’d chosen not to see, or convinced myself that he didn’t mean it?

A dear friend recently told me how he had been raped, many years ago. They had started playing, it seemed okay, but then it wasn’t. He thought he said no, but she held him down and…. afterwards, he thought about walking in front of a bus.

The difference between my friend’s story and mine might only be the ending.

I had pressured my first boyfriend into sex after he clearly said “I don’t want to have sex until marriage” and I heard “I’m thinking about sex and marriage! I’m serious about our relationship!” That time, I was seventeen. Again, I had no context to comprehend the concept of a man who didn’t want sex.

Another friend tells me with frustration of the women who have told him “I know I said no, but I didn’t mean it. I thought you would keep pushing if you were really interested.” What happens when a man who has been socialized by women who think like this meets a woman who really doesn’t want his attention? Does it even occur to him that she could mean it when she says no, unlike every other woman he has been with?

I realize all this sounds like rape apologism, but it’s not. This is not to minimize rape or its effects. Neither is it to classify all rapes as ethically murky, or to classify only some as “real” rapes. Rape is a matter of violating the consent of the person being raped. End of story. But in anti-rape culture, the rapist is constructed as a morally bankrupt monster intentionally perpetrating this worst of abuses, and I don’t believe that’s always true, because of how rape culture has constructed us.

This is not rape apologism. An explanation is not an excuse. This is to demonstrate how horrific and pervasive rape culture is. It not only condones rape, it makes otherwise good people into rapists. By internalizing gender stereotypes that script sexual interaction and don’t allow for deviation. By making explicit conversations about consent “uncool”. By encouraging universal values that we assume not only for ourselves but for the whole world (“I like sex; sex is good; sex is good for you, too, and you’ll see if I push you hard enough.”).

When I was a teenager, like most teenagers, I was neither a depraved monster nor a model of decorum. I had a solid ethical core, but had not fully figured out how to manifest those ethics in my behavior. I figured, when I bothered to think about it, that if there was a problem someone would tell me. I’m not that person anymore. But I don’t think I was all that unusual.

Rape culture almost made me a rapist. That it didn’t is more a matter of luck than my moral character.

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The Lioness and Shades of Grey

My mother-in-law caused a scene at the hospital when my daughter was born. She wanted to be the one to see her first. She said she felt unwelcome at the hospital. I still have no idea why. The newborn stage was peppered with fights between her and my husband. I tried not to get involved, so I don’t really know what they were arguing about, except her lack of boundaries and he doesn’t cope with frustrations that well. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt at first, she had problems of her own, after all and suffered from depression.

My daughter never took to her. This was a deep violation of all her hopes and dreams of having a granddaughter. She was passive aggressive and would talk to me through our baby. I hated that. I didn’t want her to help me out around the house because anything she did she would throw back in my face. She hated that. And my daughter couldn’t abide even being too close to her.

It all changed one day — and not for the better. My daughter was not quite 6 months old. She was crying, and my mother in law was speaking to her in an aggressive tone and shaking her, vigorously. I made sure my daughter was safe and then talked to her about it, as gently as I could. Things continued for a time in awkward semi-civility and then it unravelled rather dramatically in a nasty confrontation. I was still in shock. I don’t know if I’ll ever really understand it.

My husband supported me. But I think in a way he’s in denial and never really came to terms with the seriousness of it. After all, it’s his mother and he loves her. Eventually, we returned to being civil, even friendly, although I still feel the strain. We don’t talk about it. I don’t know how to move past such a violation of trust. I don’t know how to feel comfortable with her ever being alone with any of my children (it hasn’t happened yet). I think it may be on the cards in the future. In my heart I don’t want her to be alone with my children. Ever. But I’m afraid that if I never compromise, this may damage my relationship with my husband in the long run.

I feel myself being hyper-vigilant now when she visits. I’m sensitive to every word, every harsh tone of voice. I feel myself becoming angered by things that wouldn’t bother me if they were done by others. My daughter now loves playing with her and is always excited when she comes to visit, which is not that often. I’m sure it’s because my mother-in-law doesn’t feel comfortable either. She always denied the shaking incident and feels injured by my unjust accusation. But here we are. I know that we will have a relationship with her for a long time and I wish there was a way through this and a way that I could include her in my daughter’s life without feeling like I was putting her in harm’s way. I want to protect my daughter, forever. I can only hope that I will have the strength to do so.

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When “Gifted” Isn’t a Gift

I was a gifted child.

It’s something I don’t say often because it’s interpreted as a boast. Being smart is good, but being “too smart” isn’t allowed. It’s a shameful, dirty secret. It’s funny, really; kids can be talented at basketball, piano or painting without anyone accusing them of showing off, but if a child learns quickly and is excited about learning it’s viewed as a put down against everyone else.

One of the things you learn along the way as a gifted child is that you aren’t allowed to be yourself. No one likes you if you can answer all the questions, so you stop answering so many, then they say “Don’t you know the answer? I thought you were supposed to be gifted?” If you’re work is so-so, the teacher gets on your case about not working up to your potential. If your work is great, the teacher holds it up as a shining example for the rest of the class to live up to. That doesn’t help much socially, either.

You try to fit in with the other kids, but your interests are different. You crave deeper conversations or more complex activities and you find yourself alone because no one around you is like you. When you finish your work early, the teacher just gives you more of the same kind of work, even though it’s boring and you would prefer to do something more challenging. When you’re taken out of class for “enrichment activities” the regular teacher gets mad that you’re behind in the work that happened when you were gone. It’s like there’s no way to win.

Once I got to high school I met more kids like me and it helped. Sadly, a lot of them had problems, too. They were misunderstood by their peers and teachers, or they were pressured by their parents to be perfect. Some of them dropped out of school, some of them became addicted to drugs, and some of them went on to do ok. Despite what a lot of people think, gifted doesn’t equal guaranteed success.

My younger brother is one who was really messed up by the system; he taught himself to read before he was 3 years old. When he started kindergarten, he was reading several grade levels ahead and he knew his multiplication tables. They decided to skip him ahead by 2 grades, which stalled his development for years. We figure he was only 12 years old socially and emotionally until he was 25, despite continuing to grow academically.

Things haven’t changed that much since I was a kid. I’ve taught gifted kids for several years and I hear the same kinds of judgments from other teachers that were around 20 years ago.

• You should behave better than this because you’re gifted.
• You should be more mature because you’re gifted.
• You should have done better on that assignment.
• You think you’re better than everyone else.

I married a guy who was identified as gifted as a kid, too. His social history follows the same general path of isolation that so many gifted kids have. And we have a beautiful, brilliant 3 year old daughter who seems to be on that same path, too. Every time I see that excitement in her eyes from learning something new, part of me is thrilled with her and part of me cringes inside. I don’t want her to feel suicidal at 11 like I did. I don’t want her to feel misunderstood like I did. I’m afraid for her because I know what’s coming and I don’t know how to change it.

It’s especially hard for bright girls, I think. Right now she’s not self-conscious about her love of learning, but she probably will be some day soon. Even if she never brags or boasts, people will hold it against her that she “gets it”, as if her mere existence is an insult to everyone else. Her weaknesses will be pointed out again and again to take her down. She’ll stop being herself so enthusiastically and this big part of who she is will become her dirty, little secret that she can’t ever talk about because if she ever mentions it, everyone will think she’s showing off instead of reaching out.

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TRIGGER WARNING There is a trigger warning on this post for descriptions of child sexual abuse. Please do not read if doing so would put your own health or sanity in jeopardy.

I didn’t have the words

I am so passionate about speaking to children openly about sexuality. On my watch, my child will never be slut-shamed or otherwise silenced. We must offer our kids our listening skills and trustworthiness, and we must speak a language they are comfortable with. I wish all kids were taught at a young age about their anatomy and the proper terms and most of all about consent.

This is why.

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When I was nine years old my father asked me if I had a boyfriend. I was mortified: at my school, to ‘have a boyfriend’ simply meant to have a crush on a specific boy. We weren’t up to juvenile dating yet – it was all schoolyard giggles. Of course, my father wasn’t to know this: his interpretation of boyfriend was much more adult.

It was too mortifying to admit that there was a boy I had a crush on, so I told my father that no, I didn’t have a boyfriend. He pressed me once or twice more for a different answer, he told me I had to wait until sixteen before I was allowed to have a boyfriend, and then he let it go.

I have played that conversation over in my head thousands of times in the last couple of decades. I know now, as an adult, that this was my father asking me if I was sexually active. This was my father asking me about abuse. This was a parent’s woefully inadequate response to his daughter’s suffering.

At school I was being groomed by an older boy (not the one I had a crush on). He was no more than 11 years old but he was already a bully and a predator. He would contrive to give our teacher a reason for us both to be kept in at lunchtime. At first I thought it was because he liked me. It was a tiny school with composite classes, a huge yard, and inadequate supervision. If we had detention we were alone. This boy (I’ll call him S) would say things like ‘you can have my Garfield sticker’, sweet-talk to an innocent nine year old. And then he would touch me. At first, it was ‘tickling’, over my clothing – first my feet or armpits, and then sometimes my crotch. It was not an unpleasant sensation, I’d giggle and squirm. It felt illicit and wrong and I’d protest but eventually allow it. And then afterwards, he’d tell me if I ‘tattled’ something bad would happen: my parents would find out and they would punish me, he would tell the other boys I picked my nose and ate it, that type of thing. S was big for his age and he had an older brother who was popular and powerful. I, on the other hand, was the school’s punching bag and perpetual nerd. Even the five-year-olds felt safe teasing me. It goes without saying that when S made a threat I had reason to fear him.

I’m fairly sure that a teacher caught S touching me one day by looking through the window into the classroom. He came right in and sent us outside. On my way out, the teacher told me I was a ‘disgusting girl.’ I don’t recall if he said anything to S.

In hindsight, I realize that this roughly coincided with the boyfriend talk my father had with me. The story had gone home, and my parents obviously promised to talk to me about it. But when my father asked me those questions, I had no idea he meant S. I had no idea that a boy who frightened me and manipulated me (and yes, in some ways perhaps flattered and thrilled me) could be a ‘boyfriend.’ I had no thought that what was happening to me was in any way my fault or my choice but clearly it was in the eyes of my teachers and parents. And because of their own awkwardness or prejudices, they failed to protect me.

Inevitably, it escalated.

S and his older brother would regale us with descriptions of pornography on the school bus: I think their parents often passed out drunk in front of the TV and the kids would simply sneak into the lounge then and watch the rest of whatever porn movie they’d had on. Ours was a quiet and isolated school: their descriptions were disgusting and bizarre, titillating and terrifying. I have a dim memory of one involving what seems now, to my adult mind, to be a gang rape of a ‘secretary’ character by men wielding staplers and letter openers.

Our schoolyard offered plenty of opportunities for seclusion. Once S abandoned the grooming phase he moved on to physical coercion. I think there were only a few incidents, but since I never wrote or spoke about them and actively disassociated myself, I can’t really be sure of the details. It was a horrible time. I was desperately ashamed and almost welcomed the bullying I got from other kids because I hated myself so much for allowing this to happen to me. He kneed me in the chest. He said unspeakable things to me. He hurt me. He wasn’t quite bold or strong or something enough to rape me other than digitally or orally and for that I am thankful. I can’t believe I just typed that. Thankful.

This was a boy who, at 11 years old, was doing these things. This was a boy who at 11 years old was already telling me about the abuse I should inflict on my own siblings so that I could tell him about it. (I never did such a thing, I hasten to add. But imagine if I had? It’s not something I can think about for too long.) And already, at that age, he was skilled at making me believe that I had ‘asked for it’ and that everyone around me would blame me for being a slut.

Blessedly, his family moved out of the area and I never saw any of them again. By the time I went to highschool, I never heard his name any more. I haven’t spoken it aloud for two decades.

Sometimes, I feel guilty for never telling anyone. I feel as though I should have been stronger than the shame, and should be now. I wonder if there are other women or children he has hurt. I wonder what was being done to him that made him that way. I wonder if speaking up could have helped other women and girls. Or him. Or me.

S’s father and uncle were truck drivers, and he and his brother often talked of how they wanted to carry on the family business. One day I was sitting in my car and I looked over to see the side of a big truck, with [S’s surname] Brothers Transport emblazoned on the side.

I didn’t see the driver’s face. It could have been him.

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