Tag Archives: molestation

Happy Birthday Baby Girl

September 15, 1979 at 1:17am, my baby girl was born. After 25 hours of labor, she was pulled into the world with a pair of forceps. Back then, hospitals didn’t kick you out the door 24 hours after giving birth, so I spent 3 days with my girl before leaving without her.

At the time, I had been a resident at a home for unwed mothers. Back in the late 70’s being a pregnant teenager was a disgrace. Being single and pregnant was a disgrace. Being a very young, pregnant teenager who was impregnated by molestation was the most disgraceful thing to be.

During those 3 days at the hospital, I got to hold my baby and to bottle feed her. Being just six days past my 15th birthday, the whole thing was quite surreal. Because I never entertained the notion that I could actually bring my baby home and keep her, I didn’t bond with her particularly. And being so young, I was very clueless in general. But I loved her nevertheless.

Initially after her birth, I was placed in a room with 3 other mothers whose new babies spent a lot of time with them. When the mothers needed to sleep, the babies were taken back to the nursery, where nurses looked after them.

I remember sitting, eating a bowl of cereal for breakfast one day, talking with one of the other girls from the home for unwed mothers that had delivered a day after I had. Something she said brought me to tears. I bawled at the thought of leaving my daughter. When I couldn’t stop crying, a nurse came in and asked me what was wrong. She figured out that I would be better off in a single room. Why no one thought of this in the first place baffles me.

I can still remember the day I walked out that hospital without my daughter. It was a cool fall day, with dry air after a very hot, humid summer. The sky was deep blue. Such a juxtaposition between the physically comfortable weather (and not having a baby sitting on my bladder and pushing up into my lungs), and the pain in my heart. Six weeks later I got to visit briefly with my daughter before signing away my rights to her.

The irony is, 23 years later when I walked out of a hospital without my son, it was oddly familiar and didn’t seem weird. But this time, he was in another hospital, needing to grow and mature for a few weeks before I brought him home.

Happy 36th Birthday baby girl. I love you.


What’s Eating Me: Abortion Rights

From time to time, I will write about a subject that is a real trigger for me. Something that I have absolutely no middle ground on. Today that subject is the legal right for a woman to receive an abortion.

My mother grew up during the times when a woman could not get a legal abortion. Did abortions happen? Of course they did. As long as there have been unwanted pregnancies, and as long as women have figured out how to end these unwanted pregnancies, there have been abortions. And there will continue to be. Many illegal abortions ended up with the women getting infections, injuring their uteruses, and in some case, dying. And all because a bunch of politicians have decided that a woman’s right to control her body in the case of an unwanted pregnancy is the purview of the law. Bullshit.

The biggest hypocrisy I see with regard to politics and abortion, is limiting a woman’s right to control her fertility and her body, while at the same time, actively training people for, and promoting murder of men, women, and children. Yup. Every time a member of our armed forces are trained to shoot or bomb, the government is promoting murder. It’s not ok to end an unwanted pregnancy, but it’s ok to kill people in the name of war? Bullshit. Such hypocrites.

The church has also decided that they need to stick their nose in, as well. It’s bad enough they tell us that if we don’t believe this or that, we will be damned and will go to hell. They tell us that if we end an unwanted pregnancy, it’s murder. Bullshit. It’s not. If the fetus is sufficiently developed that it can survive outside the womb, I do have a problem with ending the pregnancy. But at the early stages of pregnancy, when the fetus has no chance at all of surviving outside the womb, the woman who owns the womb is responsible for the pregnancy and calls the shots. It’s her body.

Further, for those misinformed religious leaders who insist that a fetus is equivalent to a living baby, I say bullshit. Realistically, when a fetus is going to be aborted, the soul doesn’t merge with the physical. [A soul can merge with the physical at any time during the pregnancy, and sometimes, waits until after the baby has been delivered.] If a fetus is aborted, the same soul can come in to a later pregnancy, when the mother is ready to be a mother. The video is a conversation between Dr. Norm Shealy and Dr. Gladys McGeary,

Or the soul may come in as a grandchild or the child of a friend. And sometimes the soul chooses to stay in the non-physical realm. The same things can happen to a soul in the case of miscarriage. The soul is immortal: it has always existed and will always exist, regardless of the state of the physical body. Abortion before the fetus could possibly survive outside of the womb is not murder. Period. And to try to convince people that it is, makes me sick.

If my pregnancy, when I was 14 and had been routinely molested, had been discovered earlier, I most certainly would have had an abortion. But I hid it until it was much too late. Abortion was not an option. However, when I was about 20, I had a moment of stupidity with my boyfriend at the time, and had unprotected sex. Most of the time we used protection, but not always. We were stupid. I got pregnant. And because I knew at the time that there was no way in hell that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with this guy, that we were absolutely in no position to be parents, and I had already been through the heartache of giving up a child for adoption, I had an abortion. Did I ever have regrets about it? No.

As I was trying to figure out just why this is such a hot button issue for me, I realized that politicians and church leaders trying to control my fertility is much like my brother taking my power by repeatedly molesting me and controlling me throughout our childhood. They are trying to usurp power that is not theirs to take. And I will not stand for it.

As a final thought, having the legal right to have an abortion does not automatically mean that right will be exercised. But it’s my body and my legal right.

A Healing In Hypnosis: Giving It To Jesus

For the past few years, I have been using alternative methods of healing to deal with being molested and verbally abused when I was young. I have found a few methods to bring real healing to me: to my spiritual body, to my emotional body, and hopefully soon, to my physical body. One of my favorites is hypnosis. It lets me get to the root of things, and make real change.

For those, who don’t understand, when we get sick, we become sick at levels that are outside of our physical bodies. It is only after time, when we don’t deal with or clear out things like stuck negative emotions such as fear, that the disease finally manifests in our physical bodies. Disease can also carry over from other lifetimes. I’ve seen this particularly with irrational fears.

So, what am I working on healing? I am working on healing my thyroid, my stomach, joint pain, and carrying a lot of extra weight. I am working on releasing a lot of fear that has been trapped in my body for years. I am working on forgiveness towards my mother and my older brother.

How’s it going? Actually, in the past 2 plus years, I have been fast tracked, and have done a lot of amazing healing. And a big chunk of this has been with the help of hypnosis and some talented hypnotherapists. This past spring, I made a commitment to myself to invest time, money, and energy on my healing work, using a hypnotherapist. The first few sessions, are what I see as a settling in period. She got to know me; I got to know her. And in late May and early June, we had a few sessions in particular that found some energy that was ready to move out. Some old, stuck, yucky, crap.

A more recent session began with my hypnotherapist and I talking about how I was feeling very down and depressed and self sabotaging for the past week or more, so we looked at what’s going on. She took me through her induction phase that got me all comfy and relaxed. In fact, sometimes I would get so relaxed that I’d almost fall asleep. But pretty soon, she was asking me questions, and I came back up enough to answer.

She started with a question and I tuned into myself to find the answer. As soon as I turned inward and tuned in, my stomach got very tight and hurt, and my heart was racing. There was fear and black tar like stuff in my stomach. It was awful. When we looked deeper, I saw that I was afraid of the boogie man: my older brother. I was about 5 and he wouldn’t leave me alone. Then she had me put a barrier between us. Next, she asked for a strong mother figure to step in and help me. I imagined my mother as she was when I was little, but not mentally ill. In my scenario, Mom protected me from my brother and looked at him, asking what’s wrong with that boy, for him to act the way he was acting. She decided that he needed a psychiatrist and eventually got my brother into counseling, where the counselor declared that yes, he was defective (this part was almost a bit cartoonish). As soon as that hit me- that my brother was defective, the waterfall of tears hit.

In hypnosis, I can begin to create scenarios in my mind, and then something will take over and connect dots, or create breakthroughs. It’s like an Aha Moment will happen. That’s what happened when I realized that when we were young, it was my brother that was defective and not me. It was my mother who was mentally ill, not me. It was the shit swirling around me, and the craziness I grew up in that was all fucked up. Not me.

As is so very common, when a child grows up in a dysfunctional home, they often (if not always) take on beliefs that they are somehow at fault. They are not enough. They are less than. They are defective. And even though I know, as an adult, that things were NOT my fault, to experience this epiphany at the subconscious level, in hypnosis, is a whole different ball of wax.

As soon as I had the intense realization, I was surrounded by my angels, guides, and family. I could sense this wonderful crowd of support surrounding me. Then black, yucky, horrible stuff started flying out of my stomach and my stomach began to fill with gold sparkly energy that was partly mine and partly from Jesus. Jesus stepped forward and held out his hands, telling me to hand him all my burdens, that he would take them all. (I bawled harder). He told me to leave nothing behind; that he would take it all. The black energy just flowed to him as I filled up with good stuff. This went on for a while, and I got the message that it would continue on for the rest of the day, until the process was complete.

The big message that came through loud and clear, other than the fact that I was not defective, was that I am a child of God. And as such, I am perfect. Yes, I have imperfections, but that’s just because I’m human, and people do stuff that isn’t perfect. It’s the message that the “I” that is “me” (I guess I’m talking about the I AM) is perfect. And that I don’t have to stuff “I am defective”, down my throat into my stomach any longer.

I know that a huge layer of healing happened that day. It affected my emotional eating in a positive way. And I have a feeling that my stomach got a big healing as well. Now I wait to see when this affects my physical body. In some instances, the effects of this sort of healing can move into the body immediately. (That’s when people say that a miracle has happened). But more often, it takes time. How much time? Who knows? A few weeks? A few months? At this point, it’s not mine to say, and I’m not even going to begin to guess. This is the part where I’ve done my work, and I give the rest to the universe, to God.

And in order to assist in and assure my resting, I recently broke my foot and had reparative surgery on it just a few days ago. I am required to sit with my foot elevated. And as I sit and rest, the healing energies are doing their thing. The universe works in mysterious ways!

An Angelic Healing

Almost a decade and a half ago, I decided that I wanted to try using hypnosis to lose weight. You see, in an effort to protect myself from verbal and sexual abuse, and as a way to cope, I have used food for probably all of my life. As a child, I vividly remember being a sugar fiend. If I had any candy, it was gone in minutes. Ice cream, cookies, sweet, sticky candy; these were what I craved. I was never satisfied.

As a child I really wasn’t overweight. I look back at photos and see a normal looking, pretty girl. But I also remember having the belief that I was overweight, as early as 9 years old. My mother was always dieting, and by the time I was 12 or 13, I remember buying my first diet pills. Truly, I wasn’t overweight until college, when I gained about 20 lbs. Afterwards, I dieted and worked out, and dropped about 15 of those pounds. Going back to school in my mid 20’s, I gained another 20 lbs. or so, and then lost a bunch of it within a year of graduating. So, even though I might have been at most 15 lbs. overweight by about 30, I always felt fat, defective, and like I was used goods (from having been molested).

By my mid 30’s, I had gained a lot of weight, and I joined one of those national weight loss groups, lost almost 50 pounds, and then life brought me a string of years of major stresses. These included my bipolar mother being diagnosed with breast cancer, and then becoming very manic. When my mother was manic, that’s when she became vicious. Any time my opinion differed from hers, or she felt threatened in any way, she would verbally lash out at me. I would eat even more. She shared little about her cancer, other than letting me know that she was going to have a lumpectomy and some radiation; after which she was cancer free to the day she died. Her mania made my wedding planning and my wedding itself a small nightmare. The weight started to come back on.

Less than six months after being married, I was over the moon excited to find out that I was pregnant, having waited decades since giving up my daughter for adoption, to have a baby that I would keep and raise. Within a few weeks, I had intense food cravings, and ate. About two months into the pregnancy, I miscarried, throwing me into the pits of depression. For months after that, we couldn’t conceive. By the time we conceived another baby, my weight had ballooned to my pre-dieting weight, plus more, putting me to almost 250 lbs. With every uncomfortable emotion, I would eat. With every celebration, I would eat. And it wouldn’t be terribly huge meals. But adding a few extra pieces of toast here, and a bowl of ice cream there, a half a bag of candy, and snacking every night after dinner, before bed, on top of a fairly sedentary life, packs on the pounds before you know it.

Finally, fairly late in life, I had a baby that was mine to keep. But his birth came unexpectedly early, and he had to be flown to a hospital in the big city, where he could receive the support he required. For the second time in my life, I checked out of the hospital, having had a baby, with no baby in my arms. It was eerily familiar. But three weeks later, a month before his due date, our bundle of joy came home. From the start, I was more than sleep deprived. The baby didn’t nurse well, then he had some other issues. He didn’t sleep well, fussed a lot, and soon had a lot of meltdowns due to neurological issues. My hormones were out of whack. My thyroid was too. I was trashed.

And I was depressed for the first five years of my son’s life. I hadn’t realized that I was depressed until I read some things and wondered if my total exhaustion was in fact depression. When I brought it up to my doctor, she blew it off as having a busy young child. But I knew this was more than that. It took getting a glimpse of the world through non-depressed eyes to realize that I was, indeed, quite depressed. Switching doctors, getting hormonal and thyroid support, as well as having some healing work done, made a huge difference.

One day, I discovered a weight loss program where I could pay one (large) fee and see one of their hypnotherapists as many times as I needed, to lose weight. Unfortunately, the nearest hypnotherapist with this program was about 110 miles from me. But I really thought this was the way to go. I had long since realized that dieting was not going to help me. So, I made an appointment and saw this woman. We had a few sessions, and one day when I was deeply relaxed in hypnosis, something unexpected happened.

We were trying to work through some old hurts, when my hypnotherapist asked me to go to my “peaceful place.” I had previously established a peaceful place, and she asked if I wanted to go there or to a new place. This is when things got interesting.

Instead of my imagining a lovely green meadow or a tranquil tropical lagoon type of setting, I immediately found myself on the snowy slope of a mountainside. I had no conscious part in this- I was just there. Everything was covered with snow, with it falling so hard that there was a white-out. All that I saw was white and pure. Then, out of nowhere, I saw a big white angel for just a moment, off to my right, and then it disappeared. A moment later, the angel was behind me, enveloping me with its wings. The wings were huge and white. I remember that it stood a bit taller than me, and I sensed that it was most definitely an “it.” Neither a woman, nor a man. I have read that angels are an entity unto themselves, and have no specific sex- although they tend to have either a male or female energy about them.

It totally surrounded me and began to heal me. As I looked down at my body, it was now translucent, like a clear plastic, and snow was swirling around inside me. The snow was cleaning and purifying me. I felt my spirit becoming clean and pure. I was reminded that I am a child of God. And because God’s creations are perfect, I am also. The feeling was more than intense, and it left me thanking God over and over again.

What the angel did that day, was help me release the old label of “Used Goods” that I had carried for three decades. At that time, I didn’t know that we all have a guardian angel with us, as well as other angels that come in to help us whenever we ask. But I have since learned that we do. This was not the last amazing experience I would have in hypnosis. There would be more, and each time, they seemed to be of a spiritual nature.

Did the hypnosis magically cure me of being overweight? No. My subconscious reasons for eating are many; but I’ve been chipping away at them for the past several years, releasing old negative beliefs and emotions, and reclaiming the true light that is me, bit by bit. Do I still use hypnosis as a healing modality? Yes, for sure. It’s one of my favorite ways to discover the unconscious beliefs that motivate me every day. I have also discovered other “alternative” healing therapies that have worked for me, and I’ll write about them as well.

First Step Toward Healing

As soon as my “little secret” was discovered: that I was pregnant, I was committed to keeping it forever. Even from siblings and closest friends. No one had to tell me that I couldn’t tell. The wreath of shame that I wore, was a shackle of silence. My mother cried. My father was sad that his baby girl had been violated, and mortified that his son was the perpetrator.

The fear of the secret coming out, was palpable. If people found out, my father’s business could suffer. And then how could he support his family? What would people think if they knew that my parents not only had a pregnant young teenage daughter, but also a son who was a molester? That basically, as parents, they had failed? Remember, this was back in the late 70’s, when it was very shameful to be pregnant and unwed. And being young, unwed, and pregnant, was the worst shame you could bring upon your family… even if you were raped.

The only people who got to learn that I was pregnant were the people at the home for unwed mothers, where I lived for about 3 months. And even they never knew about the true identity of the father. I was told to concoct another lie about that.

After giving birth, recovering physically enough to go home, I spent a week at home before returning to high school. I was able to get caught up on the 3 weeks I missed, and resume life as if nothing had ever happened. But it had. And I wore the physical scars as wide stretch marks on either side of my abdomen. No need to get skinny now. I can never wear a bikini again. What I didn’t fully realize, was how I wore the emotional scars on my heart. I was full of anger, shame, fear, and resentment.

Once life settled into a routine, my parents saw to it that I saw a psychiatrist. All I remember of meeting with this woman, was my rambling on and on about stuff for about 45 minutes at a whack. I don’t remember her asking many questions or helping me make any sense of the whole situation. Frankly, other than having someone outside of my family to spill my guts to, I think she was basically worthless in terms of making real healing progress.

After that, I didn’t even consider doing any sort of therapy around all of this, until I was in my late 30’s. By this time, I had grown up, moved around a bit, had a few jobs and a career, got married, and was trying to have a family. I found a social worker who was a therapist, and began seeing her. What I appreciated about her, was that she didn’t just sit there and have me talk at her. She made observations, asked me questions, and helped me see how dysfunctional my entire family had been. I had been raped. Instead of being treated as a victim of a horrible tragedy, I wore a chunk of the blame when it was demanded of me that I had to keep the secret.

She began the process of my liberation by showing me the umbrella of shame that my entire family had become wrapped in. And that the situation was handled badly. The shift in perception brought about new realizations that were very healing.

I was able to look back at events with different eyes. Not only was the actual pregnancy situation handled badly, but during the early days of my being molested, my mother began to really ramp up in mania. This was before she was medicated for her bipolar condition. Her psychiatrist, at the time, thought he could cure her with talk therapy. (He was later sued in a class action lawsuit). My father couldn’t handle her and they separated. He left me with a mother who was crazy (and who was committed to a mental hospital about 2 years later), and a brother who was routinely raping me. THAT was messed up.

Finally being able to see how absolutely dysfunctional things were in the household, I truly began to understand that it really wasn’t my fault. They say that victims of rape and molestation often carry blame, and that they shouldn’t because it wasn’t their fault. I finally began to let go of some of that blame and shame. For the first time in years, I wasn’t totally pissed off at my brother. It felt good to let go of the burden of a big chunk of that anger.

Anatomy of Being a Victim

This is my experience of being a victim. It may look familiar to you, or not. Everyone’s experience is different. However, some things do ring true for many people.

I came into this life a victim. It was part of my life’s plan. One of the lessons I chose to experience in this lifetime, was to experience pain and a host of other unpleasant things, with the goal of learning compassion and forgiveness. How did I discover this? With the help of some amazing alternative healing modalities and people. I have used hypnosis to uncover information that is deep in my unconscious mind. And psychics have assisted in my being able to see both my past and the dynamics that were going on between me and various family members. At this point you might think I’m nuts, and if I read this 5 years ago, I would think I was nuts. But today, I know better.

So, my childhood, from the outside, looked like any other upper middle class experience. I went to a good school and did well academically. I had opportunities to learn musical instruments, play sports, go to summer camp, and spend vacations at a small family cottage near water and go boating. People equate money and means with a good life.

But what they didn’t see was a painfully shy little girl, for whom new experiences were very nerve-wracking. I had exactly one best friend. My older brother routinely put me to the test, seeing what things he could make me do that I didn’t want to do. He knew that I would keep any and all secrets he asked of me. And my mother would swing from being unavailable, as a mother, when she was depressed; to verbally assaulting me when she would swing up to being manic. It wasn’t until I was 16 that she was diagnosed as bipolar. Dad worked Monday through Friday and would come home to belt down two stiff martinis, no doubt to make living with my mother more palatable.

If you live with the threat of being verbally attacked when you least expect it, whenever you exert your opinion or any shred of self-advocacy, you learn to stuff everything down inside. You learn to read the moods of your attacker so incredibly keenly that you know just from the energy waves in the air if you need to run, duck and cover, or if it’s safe to exist in the same space as her. Most people who experience this type of childhood are extremely empathic, having honed their gift from years of living on the edge.

When you live with an adult who is often at the edge of sanity, and they tell you you’re wrong about things, as a child you learn to not trust yourself, or that little voice in the back of your head. You don’t trust your intuition, and you give away all your power. You have no boundaries. You become a doormat. Because of feeling powerless, everything that is wrong in your life is because of everything outside of you. They did that to me. He did that to me. She did that to me. It’s all their fault. I’m just the victim here. There is nothing I can do about anything, because yada, yada, yada (still giving all my power away). You get my drift.

My childhood was perfectly set up to mold me into a victim. To strip away any self-esteem. To fill me with shame. To make sure that any time I tried to have any power, I’d be sliced and diced with a Ginsu knife tongue, so I wouldn’t try that again. At least not until I grew up a bit. This is how I became the victim.

Bittersweet Mother’s Day

I was raped over and over and over again. It started before I was old enough to have my period. So I was 11 or 12. I got my period when I was 13. Got pregnant at 14. Delivered a beautiful, healthy, perfect, baby girl 6 days after my 15th birthday. And signed away my rights to her six weeks later so she could be adopted. I spent four days with her: the time I was in the hospital.

At the time, I was hidden away in a home for unwed mothers. Becoming pregnant was a huge shame in the family. Because I was molested by my brother, the shame was ten-fold. I kept the secret as long as I could, but my body betrayed me. My nipples began to leak at five months along. I denied being pregnant to myself and to the world as long as I could.

When it was found out, there was only about a month left of school until summer break. I hid it well. As soon as school let out, I “went away for the summer to camp.” When school started up in the fall, I “had gotten sick and was in a hospital in a neighboring state. And no one could visit me.” I was only three weeks late returning back to school in the fall. I was a mother and I could tell no one. Not even my best friend. To this day I have siblings that still don’t know.

I have been a mother for over thirty years now. But I’ve only been able to celebrate it openly since I had a child that I had in a socially acceptable way. A child that I have been able to celebrate being pregnant with, celebrate the birth of, and celebrate being a mother to. So, even though most of the world thinks I celebrate Mother’s Day as a mother of one beautiful child, I will always know that I have two children in my heart.